The Colonel and Tyler

WARNING: This  tale that is a little darker than the ones I usually tell – Charles


Tyler lay face down on the bed: stark naked. His bottom was raised by two pillows, pressed against his balls and he buried his face into the duvet and kept his arms, as instructed, stretched above his shoulders with his fingertips pointing at the headboard.

His body ached, not from a whipping, because that was yet to start. The pain was caused by the copious amounts of alcohol topped off with street drugs he had devoured the night before (or was it earlier that morning? He had no idea of the time and only the merest recollection of the place he was at). His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and he was certain sweat oozed from every pore.

He felt a slight tap of a swishy rod against his upturned buttocks: the Colonel was about to start.

The Colonel brushed the thin whippy cane across Tyler’s cheeks. The boy was very thin; unnaturally so. He had once been fit, both in the athletic sense and in the sexy way. Now, the Colonel supposed, the thinness was caused by under nourishment: drugs had a way of killing the appetite.

Nevertheless, the Colonel desired the hairless body before him. Tyler was naturally fair skinned had recently been shaved top to toe. The Colonel looked forward to creating distinctive mark on that flesh. But he was in no hurry: for now he owned Tyler.

The Colonel continued with his slow preparation. The cane in his hand was hardly two feet long. Some people would call it a nursery cane: if it had ever been used in the Real World, it would probably have been found swishing down into the outstretched hand of an eight-year-old miscreant. Or in days long gone, maybe a Nanny would use it to smack the bare bum of a particularly tiresome young gentleman as she held him face down across her lap.

The Colonel had a vast collection of canes. Today, he had two of his favourites laid out in readiness. His plan had been well thought out. No script had been written but he knew exactly how this was going to play out.

Tyler moaned softly when the Colonel brushed the cane once more across his cheeks, raised it no more than three inches and with the merest flick of the wrist smacked it into his bum.

This was what the Colonel liked to call “preparation”. He was delivering the entrée, before the main course began. Smack, smack, smack, the Colonel reddened Tyler’s buttocks; he was marking nicely, for this was indeed a rather wonderful cane.

The boy gasped as each successive swish travelled the length of his buttocks, but he kept perfectly still, allowing the Colonel to go through his paces. The rattan bounced into Tyler’s backside for the hundredth time before the Colonel paused for breath.

Tyler’s blood pressure was rising, but that was probably due the punishment he had inflicted on his own body earlier, rather than the caning he was undergoing now. Phlegm was rising in his throat and he worried he might sick up into the duvet.

The Colonel put down his cane on the bed beside Tyler. Without speaking, he walked across the room to the dressing table, opened a drawer and thrust his hand inside, extracting two neck ties. He turned and faced Tyler, admiring from this distance his own handiwork. The boy’s bum was raw with distinctive marks from his caning, and the Colonel knew from experience the lad would be in some pain. Some times by this point a boy would be sobbing gently into the mattress, but Tyler was made of sterner stuff, he was stoical and it took a lot before he would express his pain.

The Colonel was unperturbed. When round two was underway the boy would be hollering fit to wake the neighbours.

Tyler’s breathing was shallow and he really did not feel too well. He hardly noticed when the Colonel took first his right wrist and then his left and tied them securely to the bed post.

The Colonel’s own breathing was quickening a pace as he picked up his second cane: where the first had been benign, this was vicious: three feet six inches long and as thick as a man’s thumb, but with a suppleness to satisfy any disciplinarian. Whereas the first cane might be used with gentleness on a small child, this rod was meant to deliver a vicious thrashing to the most hardened juvenile delinquent or adult criminal.

In his feverish state Tyler would not see what was coming, but he would surely feel it. The Colonel repeated his brushing of the buttocks, gently rubbing the new cane over the boy’s mounds. Then without warning, it was raised high, flashed down, bit deep, lingered, and was removed, leaving a long, thick swelling welt.

There is a stunned moment of silence, followed by a long, loud, and anguished wail from Tyler. Restrained as he was, he could do little but bounce his bottom up and down as if he was having sex with the pillows beneath him. Once he had settled again, the Colonel lay on number two, which produced a deep throated roar, and then a third, which caused a piercing scream.

Bile was spilling from Tyler’s mouth, and pausing only for a second to make sure he was not actually choking to death, the Colonel raised and thrashed down the cane with his fullest force three more times. Tyler’s screams were subdued by a mouthful of vomit and he heaved hopelessly at the restraints on his wrists. Blood was seeping from six deep cuts across his buttocks.

Up and down came the cane another three times. Tyler’s whole body juddered with agony, his face was a deep scarlet and his bum cheeks a dark bloodied red.

From somewhere close by the Colonel could hear a door open; someone from a neighbouring bed sitting room must have heard the screams and was on the way to investigate.

Hurriedly the Colonel searched the room with his eyes; ah that would do nicely. Abandoned close by was a pair of his underpants, put aside for the weekly trip to the laundry. He scooped to the floor, grabbed them, balled them up and stuffed them into Tyler’s mouth. Then, believing he had only seconds before his pleasure would be interrupted by the neighbour, he thrashed down another six cuts into poor Tyler.

As predicted fists hammered against the door and a man’s angry voice could be heard. Too late; the Colonel was beyond control, sweat poured from his back as he let fly with another half dozen slices. Tyler cries turned to splutterings as in vain he tried to spit out the underpants. His mouth was full of vomit and he couldn’t breathe. The hammering at the door got louder and more frenzied.

The Colonel sent two more cuts crashing into Tyler; the pain seared through him; his body convulsed and he went limp.

“That’s it! I’m calling the police!” and the hammering stopped.

The Colonel stood cane in hand, staring at Tyler’s lifeless body.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

A whopping for Warminster

USED caned sixth former (90)

We stood aghast. This was not for real. It could not be happening. Nothing like it had occurred in the whole history of the school. None of us would believe it if we had not witnessed it.

A sixth-form man was to get a whopping. There in the study in front of us all.

Mr Japes was the new form master of the Sixth. He had been recently employed by the headmaster. We fellows did not know it, but he had been instructed to shake us up a bit. And, he certainly intended to do just that.

The Beak thought we were slackers; we needed a jolt. The reputation of the school for getting folk into universities might be at stake.

Ours was a prestigious “public” school; not perhaps the finest, but we were famous enough. Three former Prime Ministers and a clutch of Cabinet members had been boys here. As at public schools up and down the land sixth-formers were not caned. Sixth-formers did the caning.

The most senior boys, the prefects, all had their own ashplants. They would patrol the school building and grounds, cane tucked under their arms, ready to slip it into their hands at the sight of a miscreant schoolboy.

Now, Mr Japes wanted to turn the world on its head. He wanted to cane a sixth-former. It had started typically enough; Warminster had been throwing his weight around. And he had considerable weight to throw. More truthfully, he had considerable height. He stood at least six-feet-three-inches tall and was broad at the shoulders. He was a considerable presence on the rugby field.

Warminster was eighteen years old, going on nineteen. Nothing, apart from the school uniform of black blazer and pale-grey trousers we were all forced to wear, suggested he was anything but an adult. He even had to shave twice a day to conform to the school rule about facial hair.

Mr Japes in contrast stood five-feet-four if he were an inch. He was well into his fiftieth years and had a large rotund belly. In a fair fight, Mr Japes was no contest for Warminster. The sixth-former would be able to take him out with a single punch.

But, this was not a fair fight. This was a schoolmaster and a pupil.

Mr Japes swished his crook-handled cane and pointed to an old wooden straight-backed chair. “Bend over that chair, Warminster,” he thundered.

Warminster stood his ground, set his jaw tight and glowered at his tormentor.

I and my fellows stared on at the incongruous sight. Warminster stood inches from the schoolmaster, towering over Mr Japes. He was still silent. Apparently speechless.

“Bend over that chair, Warminster,” Mr Japes was puce with rage. He was not a man to be intimidated by a schoolboy, however senior he might be. He waved his cane at the sixth-former and with his other hand once more pointed to the chair, as if his instruction needed further clarity.

“Sixth-formers can’t be caned,” Warminster had found his voice at last. Mr Japes’ eyes widened with fury. Hastily, Warminster added an almost contrite, “Sir.”

We all nodded and murmured in agreement. Indeed, it was so.

“A sixth-former might not have been caned; that does not mean he cannot be caned!” Mr Japes thundered.

A shudder travelled around the room. I was not the only fellow to see the seriousness of this matter. If a precedent were to be set today, all of our backsides would be at risk in the future.

“Bend over Warminster, I am going to cane you for your insolence. I have suffered enough of your disrespect and impudence. You shall be taught a lesson,” Mr Japes was barely in control of his temper. Then, he turned and swished his cane menacingly at we onlookers. “And that goes for you all.”

I was close enough to Mr Japes to see a little spittle dribble from the corner of his mouth.

Warminster was a bully and a cad. Even his best friend, if such a person actually existed, would agree to that. He had indeed given Mr Japes a terrible time since the schoolmaster arrived as the new Head of Sixth-form. Fellows always ragged a new master; it was a tradition. The boys tested how far they could go to ascertain what the master would let them get away with.

Warminster and the rest of us were about to discover the answer.

“I shall not tell you again Warminster. Present yourself for a caning this instance. If you delay further I shall give you twelve strokes,” Mr Japes stared up into Warminster’s face. He was not intimidated by the lofty figure towering over him.

When we fellows discussed it later, and Warminster’s run-in with Mr Japes was the conversation of the week, we could not decide what our companion could have done.

“He should have refused to be beaten. He should have gone to the headmaster; he would never allow a Sixth-form man to be caned,” Thomas Maj. opined.

“Don’t be wet; it was the Beak who brought Japsey here. He wants him to sort us out,” Allerton-Smythe rejoined.

“I should have smacked Japes on the jaw. He needs to be told his place,” Bakker retorted.

We all laughed at that.

Warminster made his own choice. A school is not the real world. Different rules apply. The schoolmaster is the law. The pupil whatever his age is subjugated. Had Warminster refused to be caned, he would have been sent to the headmaster. Whatever a headmaster’s personal opinion on a matter he must always support his masters against the boys. Not to do so would be to create anarchy. Soon after the entire structure of the school would collapse.

No, if the headmaster became involved the punishment awarded would be most severe. It would be a public thrashing at the very least; most likely a bare-arsed birching. Then, Warminster would be rusticated, expelled from the school.

The power was most certainly with the schoolmaster. If Mr Japes were determined that Warminster should bend over for him; then over the sixth-former most certainly must bend. And, Mr Japes was an exceptionally determined man.

Sullen and with deep resentment, and not looking to his right or his left thereby ensuring he would catch none of our eyes, Warminster brushed past his tormentor, almost knocking him to the ground.

There was a black and bitter expression on his face when he stood in front of the old wooden chair. He hesitated a moment, as if taking time to convince himself this was the right thing to do, then slowly, very slowly, and with a crimson face he leant forward and grasped each side of the seat. He was ready to submit to Mr Japes’ cane.

We fellows stood aghast. We had never witnessed anything remotely like this before. We had seen boys caned before, we had ourselves often been caned. Indeed, many of us had caned younger boys – it was that kind of school. But, never before had we seen a hulking six-feet-three-inches sixth-former offer up his backside to a schoolmaster standing at five-feet-four.

From my personal vantage point, I saw Mr Japes approach Warminster; the look of contempt on the schoolmaster’s face was clear for all to see. At that moment he despised the eighteen-year-old stooped before him. Mr Japes took hold of Warminster’s blazer and folded it an inch or so up his back until it was clear of his target area.

“Legs further apart boy. Backside out further, please.”

These tiny final instructions increased Warminster’s humiliation.

Warminster complied. I had never had cause to notice it before, but Warminster’s bum was round and meaty. His back was arched and his buttocks jutted out filling the seat of his now-tight trousers.

Warminster’s face set. He shut his teeth and gripped the hard wooden chair seat firmly. He breathed hard and deep.  We eyed him anxiously.  We understood his feelings and shared them. 

The scene that followed was painful – very painful. Mr Japes was clearly angry. The cane rose and fell; the schoolmaster apparently under the impression that he was beating a carpet.

Warminster had been whopped before: often, though not so often as he had deserved. But he had never had it like this before. Mr Japes put his beef into it. He was determined that it was his duty to be severe in this flagrant case: and Mr Japes was a giant on duty. He was running no risk of spoiling Warminster by sparing the rod.

It was six-of-the-best: the very best. We had seen floggings at the school, some of them severe; but we had never witnessed such a thrashing as this.

Warminster fairly howled.

Mr Japes tucked the cane under his arm.

“That will do,” he said. “Take that as a warning, Warminster. You will be flogged again if you are disrespectful or disobedient.”

Warminster did not speak; his face was white and his lips quivering, and if he had spoken he would have burst into a torrent of tears.


“Go!  Leave the room, sir!” Mr Japes had lost none of his anger.


Warminster left the study without a word.



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The padded armchair

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 The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

used master

Previously in Mr Hennessey’s Boys

Episode 1, Howard’s story

Episode 2, Noah’s story

Episode 3, Ethan’s story



Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Timothy goes back to the classroom …


“Boys like you need to be punished or you’ll never learn. Stand up Kennedy. This will be a lesson you’ll never forget.”

Mr Higgins waved his cane threateningly at me, almost in my face.

I scrapped back my chair and rose from my school desk and prepared for the order, “Bend over and touch your toes.”

I was in an actual classroom and Mr Higgins was a genuine schoolmaster and I’m pretty darn certain ‘Kennedy’ was a real schoolboy too.

Mr Higgins had put me in the detention class at [name redacted] an actual boarding school. The real pupils were on holiday and we seemed to have the building to ourselves. Higgins was a schoolmaster at the school. Either that or this was the most spectacularly blatant guerrilla movement ever. A stranger just moved into the classroom as if he had every legitimate right to be there.

I think Higgins had a beef against three pupils in particular. Maybe they gave him a hard time in his classroom and he couldn’t do a thing about it: corporal punishment having been abolished.

That evening I kicked off as ‘Turner’, found guilty of cheating in his history class test.

“Turner you will write out fifty times in your neatest handwriting, ‘I must not copy out the work of other boys in a test and then pass it off as my own.’”

It was incredibly tiring and by the end my wrist was as sore as it’s ever been; even after one of my marathon wanking sessions.

The classroom was a mixture of the old and the new. The lighting and air conditioning was definitely of ‘today’, but the school desks were from a time long gone by; those individual ones they had that opened from the front and had a hinge. As I was soon to discover the slope from the back to the front made an ideal platform for a schoolboy to bend across and offer his bum up for the kiss of the cane. Kiss? Who am I kidding? The SWOOSH! THWACK! OUCH!! of the cane I mean.

I was wearing an authentic blazer from the school, a rather natty royal blue number with yellow braiding. I rather admired it to be honest.

Mr Higgins had a traditional academic gown and again I’m pretty certain that it was the authentic one he probably wore in his daily life. The whippy rattan cane he was brandishing was the real deal too (I can give personal testimony to that), but I suspect it had to be taken out of mothballs for that evening, since caning in schools had been abolished a generation ago.

He looked through my lines and was dissatisfied.  “Pah! You call this neat handwriting, Turner?”

“Stand up and bring your chair with you.”

He took my straight backed wooden chair and put it against the back of another.

I climbed on one chair and bent over the combined backs and placed my hands palms down on the seat of the other. I’d never seen this position before, but it turned out it was all the fashion eighty or more years ago. It certainly placed my bum at the perfect angle for him to slash his cane into the seat of my trousers. Which he then proceeded to do.

They were six real stingers and I could feel the cane had made welts across my buttocks, but I’m pretty resilient and took it like a champion.

“Stand in the corner, Turner. Hands on head.”

That was end of part one.

There was no commercial break; I was just left standing, until Mr Higgins rearranged the furniture.

“Probert,” he called to me. “Sit in that desk.”

He then gave me a stern lecture about my misbehaviour in the history lesson. I was always playing the class fool.

“Take fifty lines. ‘I must always remember that nobody in the class is the least bit interested in my attempts at comedy.’”

It took me nearly an hour and by the end I was ready to soak my wrist in a bowl of cold water. Soon I’d be happy to bathe my arse there as well.

“Probert, you think you can make a fool of me, but you can’t. I am going to demonstrate that now. I am going to beat you like you have never been beaten before.” He said it with such conviction, I really felt sorry for the real Probert, whoever he was.

“Take down your trousers and bend over the desk.”

I hesitated. I figured that was expected of me. Trousers down? We were moving away from reality, here.

“Now, Probert. Do as you are told or I’ll double the number of strokes.”

I stood in front of the desk, let my trousers fall and leant across the desk. The sloping lid made a wonderful platform, presenting my bum as the highest part of my body. Mr Higgins pulled the waistband of my white underpants tight. I winced as the cotton rubbed against the raw welts left on my buttocks, courtesy of Turner.

He laid six strokes into me, at intervals of thirty seconds. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was relishing every cut of it. It genuinely hurt and by slash number four I was groaning, but I kept in position.

He left me hanging over the desk for what seemed like an age, while he admired my tight buttocks. I don’t know what was going through his mind; was he lusting after the genuine Probert, or me? To be honest, I’d rather not know; sometimes with the gentlemen it’s best not to.

After a session in the corner, Probert morphed into Kennedy. I never had the opportunity to meet the boy, but I rather wish I had. He must have really pissed Higgins off. The lecture went on for ever; his rudeness, insolence, impudence and disrespect of authority. Yep, Kennedy did not like Mr Higgins. I wonder what he would think about this crazy game being played out in his name?

We didn’t do lines this time but went straight to the action. “Stand up Kennedy. This will be a lesson you’ll never forget.”

I walked as instructed to the front of the room. “Boys,” Mr Higgins intoned to an imaginary class, “I want you all to witness this. I will not tolerate insolence and any one of you who has the audacity to take me on, will befall a similar fate.”

There was a glassy faraway look in his eye as he swished the cane through the air. I think he was beginning to lose it.

“Trousers and pants down, Kennedy. Bend over and touch your toes.”

As anyone who has ever heard that dreaded command knows, the bending over and touching toes isn’t the hard part. The hard part is staying down after the slash of the rattan has taken half your arse off. If you are bending over a chair or a desk, you have something to grab hold onto for dear life. But, when you are touching your toes, you are on your own.

My bum was still throbbing and quite scarred from my previous two canings, so when Mr Higgins flogged the first cut, and I do mean ‘flogged’ it into my bare buttocks, I yelped like a dog and shot up to clutch at my roasting cheeks.

“Over Kennedy. Don’t be a coward. Take it like a man,” he stressed the word “coward” in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. This guy truly hated Kennedy and wanted the real boy to be there that evening, but that was impossible, so I was to be his whipping boy instead.

I bent down again, grabbing hold of the trousers that were crumbled at my ankles. Slash two whipped against my arse, it came with such force I’m sure he was trying to cut my body in two.

Number three was worse. I was howling like a wolf. If there had been anyone else in the building surely they would be running to the classroom to see who had been killed.

Was Mr Higgins still in control of himself? How could I be sure? I had never called off a session mid-way, but that evening I came pretty close.

I took the full six and was in some distress; so, it seemed, was Mr Higgins. His breathing was erratic and his eyes were rolling in the back of his head. I’d never seen anything like it before or since. Was he in ecstasy? Like those religious fellers who speak in tongues?

In extreme agony, I dressed myself and waited for him to come back to planet Earth, but he was in lunar orbit and wouldn’t be coming home for a long time yet. I felt the used bank notes in my pocket and realised there was nothing to keep me there. I collected my bag and left, still wearing the rather nice royal blue blazer.

My backside was twice its natural size and when I admired it in the mirror at home, there were eighteen very distinct welts; six of them were as thick as my finger. It wasn’t too bloody and after I gently massaged ointment into the wounds the agony slowly turned to a glowing throbbing.

It is a cliché of spanking stories that the punished boy is in so much pain that he has to sleep on his stomach at night and he can’t bear being touched by his bed clothes. It isn’t like that in real life in my experience, but that night for me it came mighty close.

That night I couldn’t sleep too well, not because of the pain in my buttocks, real though that was. I was tossing and turning trying to work out Mr Higgins. I was certain he really was a schoolmaster at that boarding school and Turner, Probert and Kennedy were real boys, either his current pupils or from his past. Had his session with me been some kind of exorcism for him?

I was intrigued by the man and I longed for him to contact me for another session. Months passed, the memory faded and I had to accept that I would never meet the man again.

Then, one summer’s day I got a call from my agent Hennessy. Mr Higgins asked did I mind letting him teach a friend the art of caning using my backside as his prop.

The man is bonkers, absolutely bonkers. I told Hennessey, Yes, I replied and arranged to meet Mr Higgins at his apartment.

But that’s another story.


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Charles Hamilton the Second


A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Uncle Roy pulled open the ramshackle drawer of the table. It took both hands because it kept sticking. He reached inside and pulled out a cane. There were three but he didn’t have to choose; they were all the same length and thickness.

John’s eyes followed his Uncle’s movements as first he swished it through the air and seemingly satisfied with that, he then tested its flexibility in his hands. It was a standard “senior” cane. Similar ones had peppered the backsides of older schoolboys since time immemorial.

“Let’s get on with this shall we?” It was an instruction disguised as a question. John gulped loudly. He had never been caned before; nor even spanked. It wasn’t that he was a goody-doody, since clearly he was not. It was just that no one had been around to give him a good hiding when he deserved it.

“Jeans and pants down. Bend over the table.”


“A visit to Uncle Roy’s”, a new, previously unpublished story by Charles Hamilton II. Now available on Cane me, Spank me, The Canery website here


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Duncan and Uncle Henry

My first spanking — aged 18!

My belligerent nephew

My drunken nephew

Damien’s mid-term results

Damien sat waiting at the dining room table nursing an empty coffee mug in his hands. Waiting. Waiting for dad. Dad said he wanted “A little word.” He thought he knew what that word was. Damien was off to university for the first time that weekend. He hoped dad didn’t want to tell him about “the birds and the bees.”

Damien had lost his virginity when he was fifteen. He knew all about the bird and the bees thank you very much. He was good looking in a boy-next-door kind of way. He had an air of arrogance which made him very popular with a certain type of girl. He had no trouble getting some. He had no worries there.

Except that one time, last year. Sharon, a girl who lived two streets away had to have a termination. That suited Damien fine. He sure as hell wasn’t going to marry her and what nineteen-year-old wanted to be paying maintenance for a kid?

Dad brushed into the room, holding a steaming mug. He sat down opposite his son. He had a little speech prepared. He blew into his tea, trying to cool it, and then started. It wasn’t about sex; it was about “discipline.” Self-discipline and imposed discipline.

Damien must work hard when he got to university. Pass his exams. Do well. Graduate with a good degree. Make a success of himself. His parents were paying a small fortune to send him to university; he had better not let them down.

Damien listened quietly. His dad had a point. Damien had failed all his A-levels at school. It was his own fault, he gave up studying and spent too much time in bars and clubs. Dad paid a huge fee to send him to Brocklehurst College, a “crammer” where they coached layabouts like Damien how to pass exams. It was an extraordinary place. They made the boys wear school uniforms with short trousers. They said it would stop them absconding to the pub in the evenings. And they used corporal punishment. The cane had been abolished in schools thirty years ago, but dad made him sign a form to say he agreed to be subjected to corporal punishment. He got six-of-the-best on the first day (they said it was for all his past laziness) and had his buttocks toasted regularly for the next three months.

He would never say this to his dad, but it worked. The regime made him knuckle down to his studies. A sore bum concentrated his mind wonderfully. He passed his resit A-levels with grades good enough to get him into a half-decent university.

“So,” his dad said menacingly, “Remember I’ll be keeping an eye on you. Don’t make me have to pay you a visit.”

Damien had no time to mumble a suitable reply. His task completed, his dad picked up his mug and went to the kitchen to report his conversation to his wife.

The autumn turned to winter. First came the mid-term exams; then the grades were released; then came the text message from dad.

“I’m coming up at five this afternoon. Be in.”

Damien could blame no one but himself. Free from the constraints of home life, Damien lived the life of an undergraduate to the full. Cheap beer, parties, easy sex. He enjoyed them all. He hardly set foot in a lecture theatre.

At five o’clock on the dot, Damien heard a slight tap on the door of his room. Dad was always punctual. He pushed the porn mag he was reading under the mattress, zipped up, and opened the door. Dad was an imposing figure. He was six-two and stockily built. He towered over his son who took after his diminutive mother. In his hand he carried a Tesco plastic carrier bag.

Dad had no time for pleasantries. He was no good a small talk; never had been. He got right to the point. Five exams taken; four Fs and one D. He said it spoke of Damien’s indolence, his laziness, his idleness. Damien stood silently, listening. It was as if his dad had swallowed a thesaurus.

“Don’t tell me you don’t know what happens next.” He reached into the bag and pulled out a long black leather taws. It was a magnificent specimen, twenty-one inches long. The business end was a foot long and split into two tails. It had been lovingly crafted. Two strips of leather had been expertly joined so that is was a quarter inch thick.

Damien’s eyes saucered. He had never seen it before. It looked brand new. Dad read his son’s mind. “I bought it on e-bay,” he sneered and then as if Damien cared, he added, “It cost forty-five pounds.”

Dad held the taws by its supple handle and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. He surveyed the room, working out how he was going to do this.

The room was tiny; prison cells were built larger. A single bed took up much of the space. Dirty clothes were strewn around the floor. A wardrobe, small table and a plastic chair comprised the rest of the furniture.

“This is no good,” dad muttered. And, it wasn’t. There wasn’t enough room to swing a cat, let alone a twenty-one-inch taws.

“Is there somewhere else we can go? With more space? What about the kitchen?”

Damien’s eyes blazed. “No! Dad No!” he blurted. It had gone five, his fellow students would be finishing lectures and returning to the halls of residence. They would want cups of coffee. He didn’t want them to find him spread-eagled across the kitchen table and bare-arsed while his dad leathered the skin off his backside.

Dad’s eyes lit up. He had an idea. “I know, the television lounge. That’ll do perfectly.” He stared across at Damien who was rooted t the spot. “Come on!” dad barked and grabbed his son by the arm and pulled him through the door.

Moments later, still dragging his unwilling son, dad shouldered open the door of the television lounge. It was a big room with a large-screen plasma television in one corner and an array of mismatched chairs scattered around.

“Take that chair,” dad nodded to a straight-backed dining room chair. “Put it in the middle of the room.”

Damien was resigned to his fate. He had screwed up. Big time. Dad had warned him. He couldn’t have been clearer. Matters had to take their course.

He picked up the chair. It was heavier than it looked. He placed it to his dad’s satisfaction then stood awaiting the inevitable command.

“Take down those jeans. Pants too. Bend over the back of the chair.” Dad gently tapped the supple leather taws in his palm. Then he flexed the strap between both hands as he watched his son slowly unbuckle his belt, pop the rivet of his jeans, lower the zipper and wriggle his hips to encourage the jeans to fall his feet.

Damien paused, looked imploringly at his dad. The look said, “Please no, not the pants too,” but the nineteen-year-old idle student did not utter a word.

“Pants too, c’mon, I haven’t got all day.” Dad watched stony-faced as his son hitched his thumbs behind the elasticated waist of his bright green Calvin’s and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them down to join his jeans. He cupped his hands to cover his cock and balls.

“Don’t worry,” dad laughed. “I’ve seen them before.”

Damien flushed. His dad might have seen him naked before, but not since his tackle had arrived.

“Bend over the chair.”

Damien turned away from his father, shuffled two steps so that he was immediately behind the chair. Its back wasn’t high and he was easily able to lean forward and grasp the chair’s wooden seat.

“Step back a little. Stick your bottom out more. Keep your head down.”

There were so many instructions and Damien obeyed them all. Soon his naked posterior was perfectly positioned to receive lashes from his dad’s shiny black leather taws.

He waited. His buttocks twitched in readiness for the first painful impact. He wished dad would get on with it; people would be wanting to use the room.

Dad rested the leather strap across Damien’s left buttock. Instead of going across the boy’s buttocks from left to right and lashing each mound equally, he stood slightly in front of his son and aimed the leather across one buttock only so that it fell north to south. A thick bright red mark immediately was emblazoned across the left cheek. Then dad turned to the right cheek and repeated his stroke.

Left cheek, right cheek, left cheek right cheek. Soon both buttocks were bright red. Damien puffed air through his mouth, contorted his face, screwed up his eyes; all to help him contain the pain. He would not yelp. He was nineteen years old, probably too old to be spanked, he thought, and he wasn’t going to behave like a kid.

As dad continued leathering his son’s backside, Mo, a final-year Political Science undergraduate, scooped up his books from the library desk. He was in a hurry. He wanted to catch CNN on television. He was doing a project on Syria for extra credit and wanted to catch the latest news. He swiped his ID card at the library turnstile and hurried toward the halls of residence.

The colour of Damien’s backside had turned from red to cherry. Not one square millimetre was untouched. He held onto the wooden seat as if his life depended on it. One hand on each corner. The searing agony had numbed a little. It was as if he had reached a pain barrier. No further lash could increase his suffering.

Mo was walking at pace toward the halls. He stopped short, startled at the sight. Through the window of the television lounge he saw a young man bent across the back of an old wooden chair. His jeans were at his feet and his bright green underpants were bunched up at the shins. He couldn’t see the student’s face. But he could see his backside was deep red. Even from a distance he could see welts and blisters.

A middle-age man, sweating profusely, lashed a leather taws at incredible force into the stretched buttocks.

Confused and embarrassed, Mo hurried through the entrance of the residences. He went straight to his room. He would wait until later to watch television.

Damien’s dad wasn’t counting. Perhaps he had slashed his son fifty times, maybe it was more. Eventually, he stopped.

Damien’s eyes shone, but no tears flowed. He had allowed his father to beat him. He deserved it, there was no question of that. He didn’t like it, but he did not resent it. His father had promised him a whipping if he didn’t study hard and he had delivered on his promise.

Damien pulled his underpants up. He would inspect the damage more closely later, but his buttock cheeks felt rough, almost like leather. He zipped up his jeans. No word was spoken between father and son.

Damien shuffled back to his room, while his dad found his car and started his journey home.

Back in his room, his jeans and pants once more at his ankles, Damien pointed his bum at the mirror. His bottom looked like raw hamburger meat; it was various shades of red, with tiny cuts, some starting to seep blood. It would take some time to heal, he thought. That would put a halt to his love-making for a week or so. He didn’t want a girl to see him in this state. Mind you, he giggled to himself, with some of the girls he knew it might give them ideas.

Back in his own room Mo looked at his watch. Ten minutes had elapsed. Surely, it would be safe to return to the television lounge. He smiled as he pictured the fellow student bent over the chair getting a severe bare-arsed spanking. And, he told himself, he had thought his own father was the only one who visited campus to spank his misbehaving son.


Other stories you might like

Professor Paddle

The Senior Tutor

The sting in the tail



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

New stories, three times a week

Hi Guys,

More new visitors than ever before are visiting this site – welcome to you all. If the newcomers haven’t noticed three new stories are uploaded every week – on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

There are now about 160 stories here and it can be a bit tricky to find your way around at first to find a tale that is to your taste.

To help you, below are some story categories. Click on the link that interests you.

All stories involve people who are aged eighteen or over – that’s part of the deal with WordPress.


Charles Hamilton II


Vicars, priests, the church

 College boys

 Fathers, sons, uncles, nephews

 Landlords and their tenants

 Adults and role-playing

 University students and their professors

 Spanking in the workplace