The private tutor: 4

Previously in The Private Tutor

The Private Tutor, episode 1

The Private Tutor, episode 2

The Private Tutor, episode 3

 

When I was in the final year of the sixth-form at school my attention started to wander. I neglected my studies and spent too much time with my rock band and girlfriend (but not necessarily at the same time). Dad had the perfect antidote for this: The Private Tutor. Was it the Romans who said, “A boy’s ears are in his backside”? The Private Tutor certainly thought so. He bruised my buttocks more than a few times and gave me the incentive to get back to the books.

Because of The Private Tutor I passed my A-level exams and moved away to university. But, things went downhill after that.

The university put me in digs with an elderly widower, whose sons had grown up and flown the coop a long time since. I think I was supposed to be company for him but I was hardly ever there. I was one of hundreds of eighteen-year-old students who were away from their parents’ influence for the first time in their lives. Well, what would you expect? There was a party nearly every night and cheap beer available in the student union bar. I don’t suppose I visited the library more than twice the whole of the first semester.

It all started to unravel at the mid-terms. I’m not one for too much self-reflection, but I have to admit I lack self-discipline. I hadn’t done much studying and, no surprise here, I failed. No, I didn’t just fail, I bombed.

University s not like school so there was no report to take home, but dad was clued-up enough to know there would be a computer-generated transcript of my mid-term results. The telephone handset nearly melted in my hand when I took the call from him. Why was I so lazy? Why wouldn’t I study? Why was I wasting his money?

He gave me one hell of an ear roasting. And, I knew from painful experience it would be the prelude to a buttock bashing of the highest order.

Two days later, The Private Tutor stood in the sitting room of my digs. He was on the chubby side and wore an old fashioned suit; it was made of tweed or some thick itchy material like that. He was probably in his forties, but he dressed a lot older than that.

My landlord, Mr Salmon, sat in a padded armchair and watched the fun. I didn’t know at the time that Salmon, my dad and The Private Tutor had worked it all out between them.

The Private Tutor opened a small suitcase he had brought with him and extracted a pair of grey tailored school short trousers. I had half expected this; after all he had made all his eighteen-year-old pupils wear them when he tutored us as sixth-formers.

“You will wear these short trousers at all times when not at the university,” his voice was a little hoarse. I think he might have been coming down with a cold. “You will wear them in the evening and at weekends. Mr Salmon will lock away all your long trousers and jeans.”

This was news to me. In the past he had only made us wear short trousers during his lessons. I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued. “That way you will not feel able to go out drinking in the evenings or gallivanting at the weekend.”

He was correct there. It was winter time and not the weather for shorts. Besides these weren’t the kind of shorts you wore in the summer. They were proper grey short trousers; the sort that were worn with school uniforms by young boys. There was no way I could kid my friends they were anything but.

Mr Salmon spoke up, “He should be made to wear them at all times. Even at the university.” He had a huge smile across his craggy face. I could see he was enjoying this hugely.

The Private Tutor’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “No, Mr Salmon,” he croaked, “That might draw the wrong sort of attention.”

He placed the short trousers on the dining room table. “I want you to put these on now.”

I blanched and again Mr Salmon cracked his evil smile. “I have a white shirt and a green striped tie that you must wear as well.”

I mouthed a “What …?” but Mr Salmon had not finished. “Upstairs in the attic I have my Ken’s school blazer. He was a big lad; it would certainly fit you.”

So, not only was I to be forced back into short trousers, I would be expected to wear the whole school uniform.

Ten minutes later I was transformed. No longer did I look like a typical undergraduate student in jeans, grubby shirt, baggy jumper and bumper boots. Instead, I was dressed as a ten-year-old prep school boy. The short trousers fitted me well at the waist and fell to an inch above the knee. The Private Tutor had supplied long grey socks that when folded at the top reached to just below the knee. I had about three inches of bare flesh exposed to the winter elements.

Mr Salmon had been right; the green blazer with gold edgings around the lapels, cuffs and breast pocket fitted me very well. The shirt was probably one of Mr Salmon’s own and it was a loose fit, but that did not show under the blazer. I knotted the tie as tightly as I could; all that I was missing to complete the picture was a school cap for my head.

I stood to attention and allowed The Private Tutor and my landlord to admire my smart new uniform. Both men were silent. So was I. I knew what was soon to come and I was in no mood to hurry things along.

Suddenly, Mr Salmon walked across the room and opened the drawer of the sideboard. My eyes followed him. My heartbeat increased. I expected him to extract a school-type cane or some other spanking instrument, but instead his hand emerged clutching a camera. Within seconds a flashlight popped and he had captured a Kodak Moment. I blushed deeply: why did he want a photograph of me in this humiliating costume?

“Shall we get on with this?” The Private Tutor reopened his suitcase and fished out a smooth wooden paddle. I recognised it immediately. It was the same one he had toasted my arse with the very first time he visited my home. Someone had printed the words “Board of Education” across one of its flat sides. It was about two feet long and four inches wide and worn down by much use. The Private Tutor held it by its handle and smacked it thoughtfully into the palm of his left hand.

“I think you know where we go from here?” He was still struggling with his voice and his rasping made him sound very sinister.

Yes, I knew what was to happen next. Involuntarily, my buttocks quivered in anticipation. I thought this odd, I had become quite accustomed to receiving corporal punishment and knew I didn’t usually react like this until I was bent over in position and the whacking was about to commence.

“Take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the dining room table,” he spoke in a whisper and pointed his paddle at the table in case I hadn’t understood his instruction.

I looked across at Mr Salmon, still standing by the sideboard. The Private Tutor must have read my thoughts. “Yes, Mr Salmon will remain.” Then he added something that truly made my blood chill. “He will be in charge of your future discipline.” The old man cracked that goddam grin again.

I was resolved to my fate. I had been spanked before by The Private Tutor but I wouldn’t want people to think I enjoyed the experience in any way. I didn’t. Being spanked is painful and humiliating: even more so when the spanking is on the bare buttocks. I had been publicly beaten by The Private Tutor before; including in front of a whole class of schoolboys, but I was not relishing Mr Salmon seeing my cock and balls as he witnessed my latest punishment.

“Quickly please.” He tap, tap, tapped the wood into the palm of his hand in a slow rhythmic motion.

I breathed deeply. I just wanted to get this over with. I unhitched the waistband of my short trousers and they fell to my feet under their own weight. Underneath I was wearing honeycomb-coloured bikini briefs. They were all the rage and helped to show off the contours of my buttocks perfectly. All the girls said my bum was my greatest feature.

“You will in future wear white cotton Y-front underpants.” The Private Tutor intoned as best he could with his croaky voice. For some reason Mr Salmon thought this funny and he could not contain a snort of laughter.

I turned to face the table and took a step forward so that I stood only a foot from its edge. Then, I put my thumbs in the waist of the briefs and simultaneously tugged them down to my knees and fell forward over the table top, hoping that my landlord had not seen my privates.

The table was quite small and I could easily stretch my arm ahead of me and grasp the far edge with my hands. I parted my legs a little hoping that not too much of my crack was displayed and kept my knees bent. That way my bottom rested at an angle against the near edge of the table.

I shut my eyes tight and waited for the onslaught on my bare buttocks to begin. I was still wearing the school blazer and I felt The Private Tutor take hold of its end and tug it a few inches up my back, ensuring that his target area was uncovered.

I felt the cold wood of the paddle press against both buttocks as The Private Tutor prepared his aim. It sank a little into what meat I have back there and then was suddenly removed only to return a split second later at great speed and ferocity.

I gasped and my eyes shot open just in time to see a flash of light from Mr Salmon’s camera. I gripped the table tightly as the pain of the first swat sank into my buttocks and started to spread down to my thighs. A second slap splatted into my backside, landing an inch of so lower than the first. I was no expert in spanking but I did know that swats with a paddle landed more accurately than whacks with just about any other instrument, except perhaps a slipper. This was because the punisher stood at close quarters to the punished boy and need do no more than lift the paddle a foot or two from the target area before landing it with vigour. The paddle would land exactly where intended; something that could not be said for three feet or more of whippy school cane that had to be administered some distance away from a boy’s prone body.

Numbers three and four fell in quick succession and the pain started to build. My eyes popped and I gripped the table even tighter. The next Whack! landed higher and the next lower so the whole of my buttocks were stinging red.

I gasped and groaned as the pain mounted across my globes, but I was determined not to let himself down, especially in front of my despised landlord.

My breathing was getting heavier and I could feel blood rushing through my arteries. I raised my head in agony and let out a silent cry as the next swat connected. The cry became a yell as numbers twelve and thirteen did their worse. My legs danced up and down in a futile attempt to ease the fiery agony coursing through my body.

This only seemed to spur The Private Tutor on in his task of disciplining me. Twelve more swats bounced off my backside at about three-second intervals. The pain was astonishing. I banged my head up and down on the tables and clung on for dear life. Never before in my life had I endured such a spanking. My bum must have been red raw; surely there would be blood trickling down my buttock cheeks.

Then it was over. My eyes were moist, but I had successfully forced myself not to shed tears. The battering stopped. I lay face down gasping for breath like a beached whale. The agony in my bottom quickly turned to mere pain and in no time to just a severe throbbing.

“Stand up,” The Private Tutor spluttered as he gave the instruction. He was breathing hard himself. The force he had used to deliver the spanking had drained him of what little energy he had.

Silently, he packed the paddle away in his suitcase. I hopped from one foot to the other in the traditional spanking dance. My bum was too hot and sore for me to clasp it with both hands to rub out the pain, but I did gingerly explore the damage with my thumbs. The entire surface of my backside felt like it was made of leather.

Suddenly, conscious that my cock and balls were on display for my landlord, I bent down and retrieved my briefs and short trousers from my ankles. I was surprised I hadn’t kicked them across the room at the height of the spanking.

Once again dressed, I stood and awaited instructions. The Private Tutor was clearly eager to leave and without more than a cursory nod at Mr Salmon and offering no words to me he silently left the house.

Mr Salmon contorted that horrible grin again. “So you understand that your father has decreed that I should be responsible for your moral upbringing in future.”

It was a strange term to use, “Moral upbringing.” I doubted if they were dad’s exact words, but I got the gist. If I didn’t knuckle down and get some serious studying done and pass the exams, my backside would be at the mercy of Mr Salmon. And I was damn certain that he didn’t intend to show me any mercy.

As if to confirm that thought, my landlord went to a cupboard and extracted a large bedroom slipper. “I bought it especially,” he grinned at me as he flexed it between his hands. “Size ten. Very big and very springy.”

I could see even from a distance that it would make a terrific spanking instrument. Its upper part was made of the traditional checked cloth and the sole appeared to be heavy leather. It would pack a punch as hard as any paddle, of that I was sure.

He grinned again as he placed it in pride of place on top of the sideboard.

“There,” he growled. “It can stay there on permanent display. A constant reminder of what lays in store for you.”

 

One Saturday I was so desperate for sex I had to try to escape my landlord’s house. One of the reasons I had been distracted from my studies was my girlfriend Wendy. Yes, I know I had a girlfriend Sharon back home, but while the cat’s away the mice do play.

In truth I never loved Sharon. It was purely sex. She was a willing giver and I was a willing taker. As any eighteen-year-old male will tell you when it comes to sex anything is good to practice on. And Sharon and me got some practice. At university I met Wendy who is nearly two years older than me and Sharon therefore two years more experienced, if you get my drift.

The sex was hot; that was why I spent so much of the weekend away from Mr Salmon’s house. I had been a prisoner for two weekends and was finding it hard to make up excuses to Wendy for not visiting; if I wasn’t careful she’d find someone else for passionate Saturdays.

The irony of it all was that since the visit of The Personal Tutor and his paddle I had knuckled down to work and was up to date with it all. There was no reason why I couldn’t go out and enjoy myself.

Mr Salmon had not said I wasn’t allowed to leave the house; it was just that I had to wear those short trousers when I did. My need for sex (and believe me my almost constant masturbation was no substitute for the real thing) outweighed my fear of humiliation at being seen in public dressed like a little kid.

I waited for my landlord to leave the house to complete his usual Saturday shopping chores and took my chance. I ditched the white school shirt, tie and blazer and replaced them with a causal top and baggy jumper. I had no choice with the short trousers, but believe me I searched the house high and low to see where Mr Salmon had hidden my jeans, but they must have been locked away somewhere good and tight.

I wore my three-quarter length raincoat, but it could not disguise the fact that I was wearing school short trousers. The weather was so bitterly cold that I kept the long socks and even so my legs nearly turned blue in the biting December wind.

I needed to walk for about five minutes to the bus stop and take a ten-minute ride to a stop right outside Wendy’s house.  I turned the collar of the raincoat up high, stared down at the ground and headed off at a brisk walking pace that was almost running to the bus stop. I dared not look people in the eye. What would they think of me, a grown man, walking the streets in short trousers?

Worst: what if someone I knew from the university spotted me. I would be a laughing stock. I’d never hear the end of it.

It was freezing cold and about to rain at any moment. It seemed to me that just about everybody on the street was rushing head down. I could have been naked on the street and nobody would have noticed.

I had a stroke of luck at the bus stop; a number fourteen came straight away. I ran upstairs hoping I could get a front seat and be away from other passengers. My luck ran out. The top deck was mostly full and I had no choice but to sidle down beside a rather thin gentleman who was carrying a plastic bag full of groceries.

I stared straight ahead and tried to ignore him. I felt a movement beside me. The man was trying to manoeuvre his body so that he could get a better look at me. He wanted to confirm his suspicion: yes, there was a young man sitting beside him dressed in short trousers.

I knew my face was colouring up; I desperately did not want to engage in conversation with this man. I felt him move again; this time it was to place his plastic bag squarely on his lap. Sweat was dripping down my back, despite the cold weather. Was he trying to hide a full-blown erection?

Looking back, I can’t be sure if what happened next really happened or it was just my over-active imagination. I am sure I felt his hand wander across to my half of the seat and rest on top of my thigh to begin an exploration of my short-trouser-covered leg.

Not looking at the man. I elbowed him in the ribs and fled from my seat and I didn’t stop running until I had bounced down on the platform on the lower deck. The bus conductor gave me a startled look and readied himself to make a protest at my behaviour. Then he saw my long grey socks beneath the raincoat and perhaps allowed himself to guess the rest. There was no way he was going to get involved in an argument with some poofter, he thought. He turned his back on me and with more gusto than was strictly necessary, cried out, “Any more fares, please. Any more fares!”

He kept his distance and was as relieved as I was when I stepped off the bus at my destination.

Wendy wasn’t startled by the ferocity with which I pressed her door bell; she knew I would be as horny as Hell. She was pretty much at boiling point herself.

I took off my coat, revealing my short trousers. She gave out a gasping noise of sheer pleasure. “Great arse!” she screeched and grabbed my buttocks with both hands. Then she cupped my balls and because she had the experience in such things she had the short trousers unbuttoned and at my feet with one continuous move.

My soldier was at attention poking its nose over the waistband of my bikini briefs. Wendy had it released with another expert move. My cock was stiff and stretching out as if trying to reach the ceiling. She took it in her mouth and gorged herself.

I can’t remember how many times I came that Saturday. We did it in the hallway; in the living room and more decorously in her bed. The hours flew by. I was only dimly aware that I had missed my evening meal with Mr Salmon. That alone would ensure me a bruised backside on my eventual return.

At about nine in the evening Wendy suddenly remembered her sister Alison and the date they had made for supper. Despite the prolonged lovemaking we had shared, she kicked me out of the bed and minutes later out the front door.

I walked all the way to my lodgings, head down against the pouring rain; oblivious to whether passers-by were staring. By the time I reached home, Mr Salmon had taken himself off to bed. I would have to wait until the following morning to discover how the old man’s new size-ten leather-soled slipper felt when struck with some force across a bared backside.

I went up to my bedroom and with all the excitement of the day I could not control my todger. I polished it off a couple of times before eventually falling asleep. I woke up next morning with a tent pole in my pants. It was nearly time for breakfast and I knew I should have a shit, shower and shave before Mr Salmon called me to the kitchen. But I had to deal with my aching cock.

Although I do it all the time, I’ve never really learnt how to masturbate. I mean I never know how to keep it going for maximum pleasure before releasing it for the ultimate sensation. Instead, I go at it like a bull at a gate and after two or three strokes I come all over my belly.

Even though that’s what happened that Sunday morning, I still didn’t have time to get in the bathroom before I heard the landlord calling me from the bottom of the stairs. I quickly climbed into my short trousers and pulled on my jumper and headed for breakfast.

Mr Salmon was in a bad mood. “Where were you yesterday?” he barked at me.

“There’s no rule I can’t go out; only that I have to wear short trousers. I wore the trousers,” I replied equalling the old man’s bark.

“Don’t talk back to me,” he growled. “You missed dinner, you know the rules about mealtimes.”

I did and there was no point arguing the matter.

“Finish your breakfast then go take a shower and shave. Then come back downstairs in your pyjamas,” he snarled.

We ate the rest of our breakfast in silence.

My soldier went on the march again the moment I set foot in the bathroom. I could not get the previous day’s hot sex out of my mind. I gave it a couple of tugs and came in the hand basin.

Fifteen minutes later, sparkling clean and clad in my blue-and-white-striped pyjamas, I padded downstairs to the sitting room to meet Mr Salmon and his slipper.

I had no choice but to submit to his authority. If I didn’t it would take only one telephone call to my father and I would be taken away from the university. It was dad’s money that was keeping me there. Without a university degree all I could look forward to was a lifetime of dead-end jobs. I really wanted to study and to do well, but I knew that without the motivation provided by The Private Tutor and now Mr Salmon I stood little chance of success.

My landlord stood in the centre of the room; twisting his brand new leather-soled slipper in his hands. He had already placed a straight-backed dining room chair in the middle of the room. It was terribly cold, the gas fire remained unlit.

“C’mon in here,” Mr Salmon said calmly. He was an elderly man, I don’t know how old he was, but I think he was a pensioner, although he might have retired early. He was a wiry man and only had the slightest paunch of a belly. I was soon to discover that despite his age and his look he was surprisingly strong; it might have come through a lifetime’s work in a warehouse.

His face was lined and some liver spots had formed on his bald head.

He sat down in the chair and straightened his own back. He wriggled his buttocks to get himself comfortable. Then, he flashed me the grin that sliced his face in two. “Come here and bend over my knee.”

I hesitated a moment, I was expecting him to order me to take down my pyjama bottoms and bare myself for the spanking he was about to administer.

Thankful for small mercies I stepped forward and approaching him from his right side I eased myself over his lap. The first thing I noticed was how bony he legs were. There seemed to be no meat only bones and they stuck into me as I manoeuvred myself into position with my hands flat against the carpet in front and my knees slightly bent behind me. This way my stomach rested across his lap and my bottom was raised slightly to receive the slaps from his slipper.

He had no sermon prepared. He knew why I was lying face down over his knee and so did I. All that was necessary was for him to deliver the spanking and for me to endure it.

He gripped me with his right arm across the waist to make sure I didn’t slide off his lap and then rested the slipper on my buttocks. I felt the gentlest of touches, a caress almost, before he raised the slipper and brought it down with a terrific slap into the centre of my right cheek. A second later it crashed down into the left one. Over the next few seconds the slipper connected eight or nine times, covering the whole of both cheeks.

It was a surprisingly heavy slipper and he used it expertly. My whole bum was sore as Hell and he had hardly begun. My body shook and then stiffened as he worked away with that slipper and I felt real pain. I couldn’t see it myself but both buttocks were tattooed with red ovals; the pattern of the slipper’s sole.

The slipper splattered its vengeance across the apex of both cheeks and then stopped. It was over. It hurt like crazy, but in the annuls of spankings it had not been so bad. Who was I fooling? It wasn’t over. This was but a pit stop. I felt him grab the elasticated waist of my PJ bottoms and cold air connected with my red, hot bottom as he pulled them down as far as my thighs.

Then he started all over again, with renewed energy.

Suddenly, I heard the rattling of the mailbox and a heavy thump as something hit the floor. Instinctively, I turned my head towards the sound and was rewarded by the startled stare of the newspaper delivery boy peering through the window. What he saw was an eighteen-year-old young man face down across the lap of an older man with his pyjama bottoms down getting his bare bottom blistered with a slipper.

The newspaper delivery boy decided he was going nowhere until this little sporting spectacle had been completed. Mr Salmon seemed encouraged by the presence of a spectator and slapped on considerably harder than before. It was the hottest, hardest spanking I had ever had. I didn’t think it would ever stop. He just spanked and spanked, fast and hard, then slow and hard. It stung like mad. He practically wore my backside out that morning. It was roasted good and proper.

On and on he spanked me. I would never have believed that a man as old as Mr Salmon could have the energy. Who was counting, but surely he had hit me with that slipper one hundred times or more. He covered every square inch of both buttocks and most of the back of my thighs. When, later, I inspected the damage the whole area was covered in purple and yellowish bruises.

Sweat was pouring off my body despite the coldness of the room. My blood pressure was off the scale and I was certain my ears were about to pop. Then, suddenly, without a word, he stopped. I laid across his lap wheezing, desperately trying to catch my breath. I couldn’t be sure my spanking was over. It might be that he was just drawing his own breath.

But then he said, “Off,” and he pushed me off his lap and onto the floor. I stood up and without pulling my PJ bottoms up I bent down and put my hands on my knees to catch my breath. In so doing I gave the paper boy the perfect view of my battered bum. He took that as his cue to continue on his delivery round.

Very soon the intense pain faded into a severe throbbing and I risked pulling my trousers up. I stood unsure what to do next. I was too embarrassed to catch Mr Salmon’s eye and he seemed reluctant to engage me in conversation.

Instead, he placed the slipper back in the centre of the top of the sideboard. “It stays there until the next time it is needed,” he said before lapsing into silence. There seemed to be a misty look in his eyes.

I shuffled out of the room conscious that every step I took made my buttocks rub against my pyjamas thereby irritating the pain in my bum. Slowly I ascended the stairs and made my way into my room.

I laid face down on the bed for a while but this became uncomfortable when my cock decided it had work to do. I turned on my back, recalled the image of Wendy’s terrific tits, and polished one off.

 

Other stories you might like

 

Expelled from school

Warren’s awakening

Foreign language student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

2 thoughts on “The private tutor: 4

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