The troublesome lodger

Bill Robinson lay flat on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling. His Morning Glory was straining against the front of his tight yellow briefs. It was a girl he had met last night. He never got anywhere with her, but he could dream. He turned on his side, reached into the bedside cabinet and pulled out a fistful of Kleenex. Then, after rolling onto his back he eased down his pants and set to work on his todger.

It had been one hell of a night. He and the lads had hit the bars, met some girls, got nowhere. Came home. He was steaming drunk. He couldn’t remember too much about it. Had he been sick?

Downstairs, his landlord Mr Thomas was in despair. What could he do about the lout. He sat at his kitchen table and peered at the pool of cold sick in the middle of the floor. It wasn’t the first time. It probably wouldn’t be the last time unless he did something about it.

Mr Thomas was unhappy. Things had not been going well lately. He had been made redundant from the council and at his time of life he wasn’t going to get another job. He lived on social security. It wasn’t much so he took in a lodger. It helped make ends meet.

At first Bill seemed like a nice lad. Nineteen years old and some kind of trainee at the bank. He was in town on secondment. It meant he would be here for about six months, then move onto another branch. The personnel department at the bank had fixed it. One of Mr Thomas’s neighbours had helped out.

The problem was Bill was nineteen. Mr Thomas had forgotten what nineteen year old’s were like. They thought the world revolved around them. They were moody and selfish. You couldn’t tell them anything. They were disrespectful of their elders. They came and went as they pleased and they thought nothing of coming back in the early hours and puking up all over the floor.

The doorbell interrupted Mr Thomas’s thoughts. He pulled himself out of his chair. It would be his son Ken, just checking that everything was all right.

Well, everything was not all right.

Ken stared at the mess on the floor. “Is he in bed? You should get him down here to clear it up.”

“I don’t like to,” his dad whimpered, as he opened a cupboard door and pulled out a mop and bucket.

“Jesus dad. No. Make the little brat do it.”

Mr Thomas ran the hot water tap. The truth was he was a little scared of Bill. He was a fine strapping lad, easily five-ten tall. He towered over Mr Thomas. No, the old man had decided, he shouldn’t make a fuss.

Ken watched incredulously as his dad soaked the floor with suds. “You’re going to let him get away with it.”

His dad shrugged his shoulders, grimaced, and got to work with the mop.

Ken filled the kettle and searched the cupboards for the tea things. “Jesus Dad, you’ve got a short memory.”

Mr Thomas frowned. What did his son mean?

“Don’t you remember what you did that time I came home pissed and puked up in the bathroom?”

Mr Thomas looked none the wiser.

“Have you really forgotten Dad? I haven’t.”

Ken had been a little over eighteen. Not long after his birthday he and his pals had got wrecked. There was no particular reason, they were just kids out on the town. But Ken had been giving his dad grief for a long time. Eighteen meant he was legally an adult and, he decided, his dad would have to start treating him like one.

Some hope. The puking incident had been the final straw.

“Don’t you remember. You took the skin off my arse. Do you still have that clothes brush?”

Upstairs, Bill cleaned himself down and screwed up the soiled tissues. He would flush them down the toilet later. He turned over, snuggled under the duvet, hugged a pillow to his chest and tried to get back to sleep.

Ken poured boiling water into the teapot. It had happened half his lifetime ago but he remembered that spanking as if it were yesterday. It hurt like crazy. Made him feel like a complete idiot as well. But, it taught him a lesson too. He stopped putting his weight about. It made him respect his dad a lot more too.

Ken and his dad sat at the table sipping their tea. “Maybe you should go upstairs right now. Take your clothes brush, put the brat across your knee and spank the living daylights out of him.”

Mr Thomas smiled. What a splendid idea, he thought. But, a fantasy of course. There was no way he had the strength to force a nineteen-year-old lad across his knee and no way was the kid going to submissively bend over and offer up his backside.

No, Ken agreed. Dad was too old and weak, but he wasn’t.

They finished their tea in silence.

Ken collected up the dirty cups and took them to the sink. “Do you want me to?” He didn’t have to explain; his dad knew what he meant.

Wouldn’t it be grand if Bill learned how to behave himself, Mr Thomas thought, his own life would be so much happier.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Go on.”

The clothes brush had been in the family for generations. It had been eighteen years since it had bruised Ken’s backside. It still resided in a cupboard in the sideboard. Ken held it in his hand. It was made of some dark wood and heavier than the brushes you saw today. The oval head was about five inches at its longest point, and maybe three inches at its widest. He held it in his right hand and smacked it gently into the palm of his left. His heart raced as he relived that day eighteen years ago. He could have sworn his backside was tingling at the memory.

USED brush (4)

“Well; no time like the present,” he muttered. Then; louder, he said, “You stay here dad.”

Upstairs, Bill dozed; not quite awake, but not quite asleep either. Unaware that his landlord’s son was stomping up the stairs, clothes brush in hand.

Ken had surprise on his side. Bill never saw it coming. The bedroom door flew open. Bill started. A huge man framed the doorway. Tall and broad and muscled. A sour expression on his face. A huge heavy wooden brush in his hand.

“You brat. It’s time you were taught a lesson.”

Ken rushed forward, tugged the duvet onto the floor. Bill lay naked, except for a pair of tight yellow briefs. Ken grabbed the boy’s arm, forced him over. Face down. The way to do this was to keep Bill pinned to the mattress. Ken had two choices. Kneel in the teenager’s back or sit astride his shoulders.

He chose to sit. Ken’s weight pushing down on his shoulders and back knocked the wind out of Bill. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move. He was face down at the mercy of the landlord’s son and his heavy brush.

Ken wasn’t quite ready yet. Satisfied that his victim was going nowhere, he reached forward, grabbed the waistband of the briefs and tugged them down the buttocks and left them hanging at Bill’s thighs. The nineteen-year-old could not protest. He had no breath.

Ken raised the brush high and with as much force as he could muster brought it crashing down into Bill’s left cheek. Another fell on the right Then another. And another. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was faster than machinegun fire. Deep red oval-shaped marks covered every square inch of the buttocks. Then, Ken started on the back of the thighs.

Bill kicked his legs up and down. Ken didn’t mind; the teenager was going nowhere. Bill’s mouth opened and closed. He wanted to yell. He had no breath. He looked like a goldfish out of water gasping for life.

Whack! Whack! On and on Ken bashed the wood into Bill’s tight bottom.

“That’s for puking on the kitchen floor!” Whack! Whack! Whack!

“That’s for disrespecting my dad,” Ken listed all Bill’s faults while simultaneously beating his backside and thighs black and blue.

Bill’s mouth was so close to the mattress he could taste the bedsheet. Saliva dribbled out of his mouth, creating a little pool. He was choking. Choking with the exertion of breathing. Choking at the intense pain that started at his battered bum and was extending to every nerve end in his body.

Sweat poured off Ken’s back. His armpits were drenched. He was not a very fit man; the effort he was putting into toasting Bill’s arse was taking its toll. He would have to stop soon.

Bill banged his head up and down, his forehead crashing into the mattress. Tears ran down his cheeks. His chin was covered in snot. He was spent. He was a truly beaten boy.

Ken slid off the boy’s shoulders. Steadied himself and stood. Bill wriggled and writhed, desperately trying to breathe. He reminded Ken of a beached dolphin.

Right, the landlord’s son thought. We haven’t finished yet. He grabbed a handful of Bill’s hair and tugged him to his feet. The boy still had his pants at his knees as Ken pulled him through the bedroom doorway and down the stairs.

“You are going to apologise to my dad, you little brat.”

Mr Thomas had heard the commotion. You could probably have heard it half way down the street. He was not a vindictive man; he liked a quiet life. Live and let live, that was his philosophy. But, he was mightily pleased that Bill Robinson was being taught some manners.

Bill’s face was as scarlet as his bottom when Ken dragged him into the kitchen. The boy’s pants had been left behind, somewhere on the stairs. Mr Thomas couldn’t help himself. He admired Bill’s long, thin, uncut cock.

“Say Sorry, Mr Thomas,” Ken pulled the teenager’s hair fiercely. If he were not careful, he would end up with clumps of it in his hand.

“Sorry, Mr Thomas,” the boy gulped. Tears still coursing down his cheeks.

“Right any more trouble from you matey and you know what will happen.” Ken didn’t wait for a response, he released his grip and Bill fled the room and scampered up the stairs.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The students next door

Mr Richardson looked idly through his bedroom window. From there he could see into next door’s back garden. Laid face down, stretched out on a beach towel was one of the brats who lived there. He wore only skimpy tight swimming trucks. Even from a distance Mr Richardson could see the teenager had plump round buttocks. It was a bum crying out for a spanking, he thought. And God only knew the owner of that backside was in need of a jolly good hiding.

They had been nothing but trouble since they moved in. The Avenue was a quiet residential road with semi-detached houses lived in by families and older folk. It was no place for students. There were four of them, all about eighteen or nineteen as far as Mr Richardson could tell.

The word was that one of the student’s fathers had bought him the house as a gift. Surely that couldn’t be true. Mr Richardson thought it more likely that the boy’s father had bought the house and was renting it out to his son and other students while they were at the town’s university. Later, when the boy was safely graduated the father could sell the house, hopefully at a profit.

It was a good move for the father, but a bad one for the people who lived in the street. The students were typical young people. They were loud, rude and arrogant. They thought only of themselves and their own needs. They were entirely without discipline.

They disrupted the whole street. Their noise was the worse. They would play devices at full volume in the garden; it was like being at a rock concert sometimes. Mrs Tiddlesworth, a frail old lady in her seventies who lived in the house next to them on the other side, once asked one of the young men to turn the noise down a bit. Instead, he turned the volume up a notch and went inside the house leaving the music blaring.

He deserved a bloody good hiding for that alone. Many of the neighbours agreed. Sore backsides all round; that should do the trick. There was some hope of that of course, Mr Richardson knew that. What eighteen-year-old is going to submissively bend over an older man’s knee and permit him to whack his backside?

It wasn’t always like that. Mr Richardson knew that for sure. His own dad had given him a dose of the slipper when he was nineteen. He gently rubbed his bottom at the memory. He and a pal had been in town and threw stones at a disused shop. They smashed a lot of windows and then legged it. It was a small town and his father soon heard of his exploits.

“You are a disgrace to the family,” he said. He was genuinely appalled at his son’s behaviour, he wasn’t faking it. Next thing a straight-backed chair was placed in the middle of the room; off came one of his dad’s slippers and Mr Richardson was ordered to drop his jeans. This he did without question. He never argued with his father. He knew he would cop it much worse if he dared.

Dad sat on the chair and ordered his son across his knee. Nineteen years old or not, he did as he was told. Mr Richardson remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, not thirty years previously. He felt a right fool with his head low staring at the carpet, with his legs stretched behind him and his bum high over dad’s lap.

Foolishness turned to humiliation, when the old man tugged the boy’s pants down. Then he went to work with his slipper across his son’s bare backside. It was some whopping, as befitting a nineteen-year-old. Dad was not messing about.

Mr Richardson smiled ruefully at the memory. It had hurt like crazy. The pain and the humiliation of that bare-bottomed spanking never really left him. He didn’t vandalised property again. In fact, he never stepped out of line until the day he moved out of home for good, aged twenty-two.

The boys next door needed to be taught a lesson, that was for sure. But Mr Richardson knew it was never going to happen.

Three days later, the stupid brats nearly burnt the house down. And half the street with it. Luckily, the fire brigade arrived promptly and only one bedroom was badly damaged.

“They were all high as kites,” Mrs Trustworthy from across the street said. “A fireman said they lit fireworks in the bedroom. Can you believe it?”

Mr Richardson wasn’t sure that he did. What he certainly knew was the fire was a result of irresponsible behaviour. The louts were a danger to themselves and to everyone around them. Something had to be done.

The next day Mr Richardson was walking down The Avenue when a large sedan car with blacked out windows passed him. He had never seen anything quite like it. The occupants must be famous celebrities of members of the Mafia, he reckoned. Who else would have such a car.

He was surprised when it came to a halt outside the students’ house. Surprise turned to amazement when Mr Richardson saw a middle-aged man emerge from the driver’s seat. He was tall and powerfully built. He wasn’t wearing dark glasses, as Mr Richardson might have suspected. He did wear a frown on his face. Even from half way down The Avenue, Mr Richardson saw he was a very angry man.

But, that wasn’t what amazed him. It was that in his hand the man held a long thick rattan cane. It was like the ones that were used in schools when Mr Richardson was a lad. It had a curved handle and looked fearsomely whippy. The man held it by the curved handle and let it dangle by his side; it was as if he were trying to hide it from public gaze. He walked up the pathway to the house and let himself in.

Mr Richardson stood and stared. Then, when there was no more to see, he went into his own house. He put a teabag in a cup and while he waited for the kettle to boil, he explored the possibilities of what he had just seen.  A rattan school cane. It only had one use really. It’s only purpose in life was to inflict pain. Who was that man? What did he intend to do?

Next door, the man closed the front door and called the name of his son. “Tristram, get down here!”

He waited a few moments and when nothing happened he called again. “Tristram, don’t make me have to come up there!”

Upstairs, Tristram sat bolt upright at the unexpected sound of his father’s voice. He dropped his iPad on the bed and let go of his stiff cock.

“I’m coming upstairs, Tristram!”

“No dad, don’t!” Tristram was terrified. It was bad enough that his dad was here, it would be mortifying to be caught shorts and pants down tossing himself off to pornography. “I’m coming! I’m coming!”

He scrambled off the bed, pulling his pants and cotton football shorts up as he stumbled towards the door. Within seconds, he was on the landing. Just in time. His father was halfway up the stairs.

“Hi dad,” Tristram tried to fake sincerity. He had never much liked his father. He was strict and demanding. But, he had bought the house the boy lived in. He did seem to care about his well-being.

“What are you doing …?” Tristram was halfway through his sentence, when he stopped, startled. He had seen the cane in his dad’s hand. “Wor…?” he blustered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

“You and I need a little chat,” his father grimaced. “Come down to the sitting room.” He turned and descended the stairs.

A little “chat,” Tristram feared he knew what that meant. He had endured one of his father’s “chats” before. Sorrowfully, he followed him into the sitting room. It was a large space. The whole house was huge. Tristram and his three housemates were very lucky to live in such splendour, many of his university pals survived packed together like sardines in student pods.

The eighteen-year-old stood head bowed, shuffling his feet. He was in deep doo-doo and he knew it. This meeting with his father would not turn out well.

“The fire,” his father got straight to the point.

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it,” Tristram wailed. “It was Nathan. It was his fault.” Young people today knew nothing about honour. He would turn his friend in if it would save his own skin.

“Nathan, eh,” his father barked. “Well call him down and I’ll thrash him as well.”

Tristram flushed bright red. Please God, let him not be serious. It was embarrassing enough to be caned by his dad, without the other lads knowing about it. And, now dad also expected them to show him their arses for a tanning.

“You are to blame.” Tristram’s dad was a no-nonsense businessman. He was a great success because he didn’t beat about the bush. He sized up a situation and then he acted. “I put you in charge of the house and it almost burnt down,” he intoned. “On your watch.”

Tristram looked blankly at the carpet beneath his feet. His father was right, there was no arguing with that. He wondered what else his father knew. Did he know about the booze and the drugs and the girls? The house was a babe-magnet. Which girl would want to go with a boy back to a cell-like pod, when they could enjoy the luxuries of the house?

Next door Mr Richardson had finished his tea. He was restless and intrigued. Who was that man? Mr Richardson was a naturally curious person – some said he was a nosey parker – so he opened his front door to check if the man had left. The large mysterious car was still parked. Looking to left and right and satisfying himself that no one was on The Avenue to see him, he sneaked across the front garden and peered through the sitting room window.

He arrived in time to see Tristram’s father flex the springy cane between his two hands. It made a perfect bow. He swished it through the air three times, as if he were weighing up the rod’s capability.

A lump formed in Mr Richardson’s throat. Could this really be happening? He reached into his trouser pocket.

“I want you to bend across the table. Place your elbows on it and spread your feet wide.” Tristram’s father gave precise instructions. He was that kind of man.

Mr Richardson expected dissent. Tristram surely would refuse; he would argue with his father. He would throw a tantrum. Instead, the teenager meekly took the two or three steps necessary to reach the table. He hesitated for a moment and then leaned forward. With his elbows resting on the table he had a close-up view of the dark wooden top. He stared at it intently. It was covered in rings left by countless mugs and glasses. Suddenly, he remembered that one of his housemates had reputedly leant across this very table, possibly even at this very spot, while a lad he had just picked up in a bar took him up the arse.

He heard the swish of the cane as it travelled at speed through the air. His father was preparing himself. The old man gripped the waistband of the royal blue football shorts. Tristram froze. Was dad about to rip them down? Was this to be a bare-arsed caning? His relief was intense when he felt the cotton hug his buttocks. Dad had pulled the shorts drum tight. He had almost given his son a wedgy. The material now stretched across his bum like a second skin. Or possible a third skin, as the outline of the teenager’s fashionable bikini briefs were clearly visible.

Ready at last, his father stood a little to the boy’s left and tapped the tip of the cane against the near buttock. Then, he raised it high and swivelled his body so that he was able to put the full force of his right arm into the stroke. A resounding crack echoed around the room, followed immediately by a yelp so loud from Tristram that it was clearly audible where Mr Richardson stood.

The boy wriggled his hips, buckled his knees and clenched his buttocks.

“Steady boy. Steady,” his father was rather pleased with the first stroke. “Push your bottom out further please.”

USED drawing cane hold (7)

Tristram settled himself, closed his eyes tightly shut and took a deep breath and held it. The second swipe sank deep into the fleshiest part of his bum. His father couldn’t beat a carpet much harder. Tristram’s face creased, he mouthed a noiseless “ouch,” and hunched his shoulders. Sweat was soaking his hair. Suddenly, it felt like he had stepped into a shower.

Two distinct lines decorated the seat of the shorts. His father knew there would be two deep welts throbbing under his son’s pants.

He aimed once more; higher this time near the top of the globes. The cane swished into the boy’s wobbly bum and sank down deep. It was as if he were trying to enter the rattan at the rear end and exit it somewhere near Tristram’s penis. That stroke hurt terrifically. The silent “ouch” became a definite loud, “owwww!”

The agonizing slices cut in wickedly, fiercely stingy, making Tristram squeal and rock and writhe violently. At first he thought he could stand it. It wasn’t quite terrible yet. But as the strokes slashed into his upturned bottom the pain built. Football shorts and bikini briefs were no protection. Sickening pain overwhelmed him. It was pure agony. It felt like the cane was cutting him in half, right across the centre of his bum. Tears coursed down his face. His shoulders heaved.

The swipes came like clockwork — a steady descent of vicious stings, all concentrated onto the same general area of his bottom. There were twelve in all.

Every crack of the cane across Tristram’s bum sent a chill down Mr Richardson’s spine. The force of the caning was unusually hard. The teenager’s buttocks must be like raw meat, streaked with thick deep red welts, he reckoned.

“Stand up.”

Tristram jumped up and his hands raced to his bottom. He rubbed, he massaged and he kneaded. It did him no good. He could feel a series of ridges throbbing beneath his shorts. His bottom was corrugated.

The pain was intense, but Tristram knew that soon it would subside into a warm afterglow. But, the marks would probably last for days, a week even. There would be no more sunbathing in skimpy swimming trunks for him.

He stood contrite in front of his father, his eyes pleading to be released. He needed to go to his room, to lay face down on the bed and sob into his pillows. But his father was not done yet. Tristram’s jaw literally dropped when his dad said, “Now go fetch Nathan.”

Outside the window, Mr Richardson checked the video on his phone. Yes, he had captured it all. How he would enjoy showing it later to Mrs Tiddlesworth.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The thieving window cleaner

Denzil carefully rested the ladder against the windowsill, taking care not to hit the pane of glass. He was getting quite skilled at this now. He tested the ladder to make sure it was steady, then he gripped the bucket of water and ever so carefully he climbed.

Denzil hated his job. Well, it wasn’t a proper job really; he was standing in for his granddad. The window cleaning business was his. It wasn’t much of a business; it was something the old man did to earn a bit more cash. His pension didn’t go that far.

Granddad and gran were away for a month on a special holiday. Denzil had been press-ganged into taking on the work. He was what his dad called “bone idle”. He had left school three years previously at the earliest legal opportunity. He had been truanting on and off for years before. He had no qualifications and had hardly worked more than a couple of weeks at a time since.

He was so unlike his granddad. The old man had also left school with no qualifications. At first there was work, but times changed and then there was none. Instead of taking welfare, he taught himself painting and decorating and started a little business. Granddad’s wasn’t a rags-to-riches story. He didn’t go on to create an empire of painters and decorators. He worked for himself the rest of his life, except for times when he would team up with one or two pals if the job was a big one.

He didn’t make a fortune but he got married and raised a family by hard work. When eventually he retired, he started the window cleaning round. It kept him busy and paid for the luxuries, like holidays.

Denzil resented having to clean windows. He resented any work, really. It was the height of summer and he was always hot and sweaty. He washed the windows of the posh people. They had large detached houses, often set alongside large gardens. It was such a contrast to the poky social-housing flat he lived in with his mum and dad. Oh, how he hated these people with their big houses and flash cars and all their possessions.

Denzil had found one compensation. It was quite a good one actually, he reckoned. He thieved from the houses. It started by accident. He hadn’t planned anything. It wasn’t like he was “casing the joints” seeking out things to steal or ways to break into the houses.

At one house he was cleaning, the owner had left the large sliding windows to the garden unlocked. Denzil washed away with his usual low level of enthusiasm and high level of resentment. Then he spotted a lady’s purse. It was resting on a chair within a few feet of the window.

The nineteen-year-old didn’t even try to resist temptation. Checking that nobody was in the garden, he stealthily slid the door open, stepped inside and reached for the purse. It was stuffed full of banknotes. There must have been some hundreds of pounds. With racing heart and trembling hands, he picked out a twenty pound note and stuffed it into the waistband of the football shorts he was wearing. She’ll never miss a twenty, he reckoned.

Then he slipped back into the garden. Denzil’s first theft had taken about thirty seconds. Twenty pounds for thirty seconds of work; it was more profitable than window cleaning any day.

He felt no guilt. He was of the something-for-nothing generation. What did he care? She had more than he did. Why shouldn’t he take some for himself? He didn’t even blush when later she paid him for the job and gave him an extra five pounds as a tip. He was too naïve to know the lonely housewife admired his tanned legs, nice tight bum and the firm body encased inside his red replica Liverpool Football Club kit.

Thieving became a habit. It was no surprise that people left their doors and windows open during the hot afternoons. Opportunities were plenty.

One day he was at an especially opulent house. One of the bedrooms even had a balcony. It was almost as large as the one the Royal Family waved from at Buckingham Palace during special occasions. Denzil could see an expensive ipod he rather liked the look of. His confidence as a thief was soaring. Soon he would need to carry a bag marked “swag” with him to stash away all his loot.

He inched open the door, hurried inside, picked up the ipod and slipped it in his shorts. Another easy snatch. He polished off the window and carefully climbed down the ladder. Damn! He hadn’t tucked the ipod away well enough. It slipped down his shorts and through his leg to fall with a plop on the lawn below.

“Hey, you! What are you doing!” It was a middle-aged man emerging through the French windows of the lounge. He reached down and picked up the ipod. “I recognise this. This is mine.” The man’s face reddened.

Denzil stood at the foot of his ladder.

“What else have you stolen. Come show me.” The man reached over to Denzil and roughly lifted the teenager’s football shirt. It concealed nothing except the boy’s suntanned chest. Unabashed, the man tugged at Denzil’s shorts.

“Gerrofff!” the teenager struggled, fearing the man would pull his shorts down. The man let go. There was no room to hide contraband there. The boy was clean.

“You just stole this from my bedroom,” the man waved the ipod in Denzil’s face. The boy stood, blushing scarlet to his roots. There was nothing to say. He was caught bang to rights.

“Your granddad would die of shame if he knew you had been stealing from his customers.” The man waved the ipod again to emphasise the point.

Granddad would be ashamed but his Denzil’s dad would be furious. He rowed all the time with his dad. About not having a job mostly. Dad was always saying there was work to be had in the supermarkets and bars around town. He had threatened to chuck him out the house if he didn’t shape up. Getting caught thieving would be the final straw.

Denzil stood sweating; intimidated by the man. He was easily six-feet-four tall and although running to fat he was still a powerful presence.

“Do you know who I am?” the man growled, his own face now scarlet.

Denzil peered at him, unsure. Was he one of the actors on Brookside?

“I’m Peters, the chief superintendent of police! You have stolen from the chief superintendent of police!” he yelled. Then, calming a little, he added, “You damn fool.”

Peters resented the young pup, now cowering before him. If he dragged the yob down to the police station, nothing would happen. The police were under resourced; they had no time to deal with these kind of crimes. They called them “petty”.Well, Peters knew, the victims didn’t think they were petty.

He wasn’t going to let the kid get away with it. He had probably stolen from other customers. Peters was old school. In his book young delinquents should feel the lash of the birch across their naked arses. That would make them think twice about stealing from their betters.

Denzil was shivering with fright. He was not a brave boy. Very soon tears would be streaming down his face. Peters knew he had the brat where he wanted.

“I’m going to do you a favour,” Peters grimaced. “But you might not think it’s much of a favour. I’m not going to tell your granddad. I’m not going to haul your arse down the police station,” he laughed; suddenly he was amused. “No. I’m going to deal with your arse right here and now.”

Peters smiled wickedly.

Denzil stood frozen. Uncomprehending.

“You steal from me. I’ll deal with you in my own way.”

Denzil could not stop his hands shaking. He clasped them together; rather like children do when they pray. What was the old man talking about?

He would soon find out. Peters grabbed a clump of the teenager’s hair and dragged him forward. “Come inside the house.” He pulled the boy behind him as he re-entered the lounge. He released him while he ransacked drawers in the sideboard. Denzil was too terrified to flee.

Meekly, he watched Peters withdraw two pairs of handcuffs. Then, the police chief lifted a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the room. Within the blink of an eye, one cuff was closed over Denzil’s right wrist. Peters strength easily overpowered the boy as he pushed him face down over the back of the chair. Then he connected the cuff to the chair’s leg.

Denzil found his voice. He hollered and yelled. Peters didn’t care. The boy could shout all he wanted. His neighbours’ houses were far away and nobody was at home in the afternoon. With one arm of the boy securely cuffed to the chair it was no problem to secure his left arm. The teenager was now bent across the chair with his backside raised in the air. He struggled, of course, but he was going nowhere.

Peters stood back to admire his handiwork. Yes, the lout was in the perfect position to receive what was coming to him. He was securely tied down. He was going nowhere. Peters did not have to rush things.

He went to the garage, found a sharp knife and went into the garden. There were many suitable trees. Birch rods come in many shapes and sizes. The largest and heaviest might have about twenty-four rods; smaller and lighter ones considerably less.

Peters cut away at the branches of his trees. Soon he had a dozen rods, each about eighteen inches long. He whittled off buds and bark and took some heavy adhesive tape and wrapped it around one end. It would hold the birch together and serve as a handle for him to grip.

used birch (1)

He swished the completed birch through the air. It wasn’t as whippy as he had hoped. He had read that in the good old days when juveniles were birched the rods were left soaking overnight in brine. That made them exceptionally supple.

Alas, he thought, there was no time for that. He would have to go with what he had.

He returned to the lounge. Denzil was still face down across the chair. He had tired of trying to pull his wrists free. Perhaps, now he was resigned that he was about to be thrashed. In his position, staring at the pink satin seat cover, he was unable to see his tormentor Peters re-enter the room.

The police chief was not quite ready. He went into the kitchen grabbed a handful of paper towels and returned to the lounge. He gave Denzil no time to protest, he forced open the boy’s mouth and stuffed the towels between his teeth.

Only then did Peters show the thief the birch he had made. Denzil spluttered a protest, but only succeeded in choking himself a little. The teenager’s eyes blazed with terror, his face turned at first a ghostly white and then almost immediately, puce. Sweat poured down his face. He yanked his wrists making one last fruitless attempt at escape.

Peters was nearly ready, but not quite. There was one important matter still to deal with. He walked behind Denzil, put his fingers under the elasticated waist of the boy’s football shorts and simultaneously pulled both shorts and pants to Denzil’s knees. A furious session of kicking and writhing sent the garments sliding to Denzil’s ankles.

Peters despised the boy, now prostrate before him. He loathed young people and all their legal privileges.  He hated the fact the law could never touch them. He wanted to see all of them pay for their crimes.

For once, he could do this. He would make the brat who stole from him suffer. Peters had never birched anyone before but had read that the pain from such a punishment could be less than that from a traditional caning and therefore he must ensure he lashed the birch rods into the buttocks with tremendous force.

He swished the birch rod through the air. It made quite a whistle as it went, making a petrified Denzil crane his neck to see what was going on behind him.

“Face the front lad,” Peters barked. He took a moment to take his aim; he admired the muscle tone of the lad and his almost completely hairless bum. Denzil’s buttocks trembled with fear in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home.

Peters took a deep breath, lifted the birch, then lashed down the first stroke.

Denzil would have screeched. He wanted to, but the paper towels in his mouth stopped him. Twelve small scars immediately formed across the centre of his buttocks.

Number two hurt the boy even more, he twisted and pulled but the cuffs held him tightly.  Lash number three was directed to the lower part of the cheeks where they met the thighs and the pain was excruciating. Denzil gagged and vomit rose to his throat.

Sweat poured from his body, down his back and into the crack between his buttocks. There were dozens of lines across his bum, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the globes where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred.

The pain turned to agony and the boy’s face was as white as a sheet. The next swipe had him again trying to tear the cuffs from their moorings. Tears and snot streamed down his face. He was a broken man.

The police chief laid the next strokes on with renewed vigour. Blood splattered across Denzil’s bum. His buttocks were as red as the Liverpool football shorts at his feet. The agony was intense and the pain had travelled from his blooded buttocks throughout his whole body. His shoulders ached with the effort of gripping the chair and his finger nails had cut deep trenches in the palms of his hands. His head pounded as his blood pressure went through the roof and tried to burst through his ears.

Then, cut number six thrashed into his flesh, Denzil’s head rose and he bit deep into the paper towels so hard it reached his tongue. It would be damaged and he would have as much trouble speaking over the coming days as he would in sitting down.

“Punishment over,” Peters intoned. He placed the now broken birch rods on the table. Denzil lay across the chair, a spent man. He could barely breathe and might be in urgent need of medical attention for all Peters cared.

Peters left the teenager, face down over the chair, his buttocks bleeding while he went and made himself a cup of tea. It would give the lad a little time to recover. Ten minutes later, Peters, carrying a plastic bowl of warm water and a towel, returned to the lad. In silence, he wiped the now dried blood from the boy’s scarred flesh. The backside was a mass of small scars. Denzil would not sit in comfort for some time.

Still without speaking, Peters uncuffed the boy and allowed him to stand. Denzil’s eyes blazed almost as much as his bum, but he had stopped crying and had regained most of his composure. He took the towels which were drenched with saliva from his mouth and let them drop to the carpet. He winced with pain as the flesh across his backside stretched when he reached down to pull up his shorts and pants.

“Go.” It was a curt command. Denzil looked at the police chief, the boy’s eyes dark with resentment. Gingerly, since every step reignited the pain in his bum, Denzil waddled to the front door and was gone.

Only hours later as he lay face down on his bed at home sobbing into the pillows did he remember he had left the ladder and bucket behind. He sobbed even harder when he realised that tomorrow he would have to visit the police chief once more.


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The sneak thief

The drunken neighbour

That Connor boy!


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

My father’s legacy

When my father died suddenly I inherited his large house in the English countryside. I also inherited the four young men who lived there as “paying guests.”

I was never close to my father. I was conceived as a “mistake” and in those days couples paid for their mistakes with forced weddings. It didn’t last of course and by the time I was seven years old my mother had taken herself off to the United States, never to be seen again. Father packed me off to boarding school and I spent most of my teen years at a school on the other side of the planet in South Africa. We hardly had contact in my adult years.

I was a little surprised to be included in his will, but maybe blood is thicker than water. I travelled up to the house in the Cotswolds and expected to spend a day or two tidying things up, before putting the house on the market and returning to my own home and family in London.

That was my plan, but in those few days my life was to change completely.

The four young men were all students at the nearby agricultural college. I didn’t know anything about their studies but judging by their ruddy complexions and strong sturdy bodies, much of the work they did was quite literally, “in the field.”

They were politeness personified when I arrived at the house and after offering condolences they left me alone to clear my father’s effects. It was more complicated than I had anticipated. Sudden deaths are by their nature unplanned. A person with a terminal illness or of advanced age can plan for their pending death. They can tidy their affairs and leave things orderly. My father died instantly in a motor accident. He went off in the morning, fully expecting to return home that afternoon. His “affairs” were untouched.

My father was a successful author, but you would never know his name. He wrote under a succession of pen names. His best-known creation was a rather simple police detective. The character had been taken up by a television company and was now in its thirteenth series. My father never wrote a word of the TV scripts, but each year he received an enormous cheque for doing nothing. That sounded like my kind of job.

I sat in the room he called his study and where I presume he wrote the three novels a year that he bashed out. They were the kind of books you bought in airport departure lounges, intending to read on the flight, but never bothered to finish. The drawers to his desk and most of the cupboards in the room were locked. I couldn’t find a key anywhere. I suppose he had it on him when he went for his drive. I would be able to get it eventually.

I was dozing in a chair when suddenly I was aware of a presence in the room. A rather stout old man, about my father’s age, had entered. He coughed politely to wake me from my slumbers. He was dishevelled and looked in need of a wash and shave. I was certain that I recognised him, but couldn’t summon up his name or recall where I had seen him.

He introduced himself as “the maid.” He paused for effect. I think he wanted me to laugh as if he had made a joke. I still couldn’t place him. It was beginning to irritate me. He said his name was Tony and he told me his job was to come to the house each day and cook an evening meal for my father and the four students.

I grunted a response. What had he expected me to say? He mumbled some sympathies about my father’s death and said he had better get on with his work. I could stand the suspense no longer and asked him where I had seen him before. He blushed like a virgin and replied that he had once had a major part in a long-running television crime drama. Oh, I thought, a washed-up actor, reduced to working as a domestic maid.

I went to my father’s bedroom. The bed had been made. I later learned that the lodgers each had domestic chores to perform. They were paying next to nothing in rent. It was one of the unusual features of their relationship with my father. And, I was soon to find out, it was not the only one.

There was nothing unusual about the room. Wardrobes and drawers were full of new, expensive clothes. He seemed to favour heavy tweed suits. Perhaps, he had a role in the community as a country squire. He must also have ridden to hounds; I saw a couple of leather riding crops tucked away on a shelf.

I would need to get Oxfam in to clear away his possessions, but there was no hurry. I had to first speak to the students and give them notice to quit. Once they were on their way, I could close up the house.

I went down to the kitchen at six o’clock, attracted by the smell of cooking beef. Tony was wrapped in a wrap-round pinafore. He looked like a nineteen-fifties’ housewife. But, it wasn’t his appearance that pulled me up. The four students were each dressed in grey shirts and closely knotted ties with green and red diagonal stripes. At first I thought it might be a uniform of their agricultural college. Then I noticed they were all wearing grey short trousers and grey knee socks with red bands at the top. The shorts were proper tailored trousers that reached to an inch or so above the knee. They weren’t the kind of leisure shorts people wore in hot weather, they were trousers that were short.

They were dressed in school uniform. Eighteen and nineteen-year-old men dressed as schoolboys. I supposed there was a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. Were they dressed for a party? Was the Young Farmers’ Club holding a school disco later that evening? Such events had become very poplar, but I thought the point was that the men dressed as schoolgirls in gym slips and the girls dressed as boys.

The sight of the boys reminded me of my own schooldays. I had boarded in South Africa during the dying days of Apartheid. My school was in the middle of nowhere in the hottest part of the country’s interior. Boys wore English-style school uniforms, but were permitted to wear short trousers up until the day they left school, aged eighteen or nineteen. It was perfectly sensible. The temperatures could be intense, who would want to wear long trousers?

I must have stared a little too long at the agricultural students because Tony piped up, “They are wearing them in remembrance of your father.” As if that was any explanation at all.

I decided not to stay the night at the house. I could have slept in my father’s bed, but felt uneasy. I know he hadn’t actually died in that bed, but in some way that I didn’t really understand, I thought his spirit was still there.

Next day after collecting the missing keys from the police station, I returned to the house. It was deserted. I supposed the boys were at college and Tony the maid was not due until late in the afternoon.

There were many keys. Each drawer and each cupboard had its own unique lock. The drawers contained business correspondence and private documents. His passport said he was born in 1951. That puzzled me. I was born in 1968. Had he been that young when I was conceived?

I had to try three different keys before I could get a tall cupboard attached to rows of bookshelves to open. The door was stiff and I had to pull it vigorously before it would yield. As I did this I could hear a faint rattling inside the cupboard, as if something had been disturbed from its mooring.

I think my mouth quite literally gaped open when I saw the cupboard’s contents. It was empty except for three crook-handled rattan canes. My heart pounded. Suddenly I was transported in my mind back to 1986. Me and eleven other school prefects, lined up outside the headmaster’s study. He was a new headmaster; he did not like what he called “slack attitudes” in behaviour. He felt the prefects were not setting an example. So each boy was called in to the study. I could remember it as if it were only yesterday. Me, aged eighteen, standing in front of the headmaster. It was as always a sweltering hot day, but the old rogue was dressed in a heavy tweed suit. Across his back and shoulders was draped an academic gown. On his head he wore a mortar-board cap. He looked every inch like a headmaster from an English elite public school from sixty years previously.

I had not been the first of the prefects to enter the study that day. I thought I knew perfectly well what was going to happen. Trubshaw Major had been first in. All we boys standing in the passageway heard the swish and the crack of the cane. We heard the Trubshaw’s yelps and a little later we saw the tearful boy hobble from the study. It had been “six canes” as we called it. Six-of-the-best, to an English schoolboy.

cane holding (14)

I saw the headmaster flex his cane between his hand and point it to a low backed leather armchair. “Oh well, this is it, over the top,” I thought to myself, imagining I was a soldier in the trenches about to go into battle. “It couldn’t be that bad …”

But it was. “Take down your trousers and place yourself over the chair,” the headmaster barked. A slight smile played around his lips, as my father might have written in one of his cheap novels. The old bastard of a headmaster was enjoying himself a little too much.

In the chill of my father’s study, I still remembered how with trembling hands I snapped open my elasticated snake belt and fumbled with the two buttons on the waistband of my short trousers. I released the zipper and the short trousers slipped down my thighs, over my knees and fell in a puddle over my sandals. I was extremely conscious of my cock and balls encased in the soft cotton of my white underpants.

I had a sizeable “manhood.” I had plenty of opportunity to compare it with my fellows.  We were an enclosed all-male community and by the age of eighteen extremely sex-starved. As far as I knew there was no sodomy at the school, but we all masturbated like troopers. We would have contests to see who could come the quickest and the highest. The boys would have competitions between the various nationalities at the school. Dear reader, I wanked for England.

The headmaster was now amusing himself by swishing the cane through the air. I eyed the cane apprehensively. It was a little more than three feet in length, dark yellow in colour and springy as hell. It was as thick as a pencil and I could see ridges every three or four inches along its length. It was an awesome weapon. It could take my arse off.

And it did. I stretched myself across the low-backed chair. The smooth soles of my sandals slipped on the carpet and I was forced to readjust myself. Soon, I was positioned head down, back arched, feet firmly apart. My stomach hovered a few inches above the chair back and my bottom was perfectly positioned to receive the slashes of the headmaster’s cane.

I felt his rough hand push the tail of my shirt away from his target area. Then he rubbed his palm across both of my buttocks. He probably told himself that he was smoothing the creases out of my cotton underpants so that they fitted like a second skin and thereby increased the pain of the cane. He might have believed that, but to me it felt like he was touching me up.

It went quiet for a second, then there was an almighty swooshing sound followed by a crack when the cane bit deep into my backside. I could feel a deep line of pain across the very centre of my cheeks and a welt immediately formed. He had hit me with such power I think he was trying to enter the cane into my body through my buttocks and exit it through my groin.

He slashed six cuts into my bottom. Never before had I felt such pain. I gripped the seat of the leather chair so tightly my knuckles turned white. I howled and I howled. Tears flooded down my face. Vomit rose in my throat and I had to choke it back down. My entire body shook, wracked with agony.

The cane marks lasted several weeks. Thompson, a keen amateur photographer, kept a pictorial record of the colour changes day after day. I wonder what ever happened to those pictures. They would be an Internet sensation if they were uploaded now.

I closed the door and unlocked the others in the room. I was not surprised to see a schoolmaster’s academic gown and cap in one. An image was beginning to form in my mind. I had seen four students dressed in short trousers and school uniform; one master’s gown and three whippy rattan school canes. I was not a one of my father’s fictional detectives, but even I could see a pattern emerging here.


I had to return to my family and job in London for a few days. I worked as a liberal studies lecturer in a community college. I hated it. It was full of students too stupid or lazy to get A-levels and go to university. They were just treading water until they ran out of options and had to join the unemployment line. Now my father was dead, I stood to inherit a lot of money. Perhaps, I could ditch the lousy job once and for all.

Father had left a will, I got the house and my two daughters got a trust fund. There was a legacy for a school / academy that I’d never heard of in Herefordshire, plus small amounts for people I supposed were friends. It wasn’t clear who would get the future royalties on the television show and his books. I hoped it would be me.

I returned to the house unannounced on the following Sunday afternoon. My wife had pestered me all week for details of the garden. The house was in an acre or so of land and somebody put a great deal of work into its upkeep. What I knew about plants and shrubs could be written on the head of a pin, so I was unable to answer her questions. To keep the peace, I agreed to take some photographs for her. I could feel a late summer storm arriving, so I decided to take the snapshots before entering the house and announcing my arrival to the four lodgers.

I can report that there were a lot of pinkish shrubs and some dark blue and purple flowers. There was also a sizeable piece of manicured lawn. It was while standing on the grass that I realised I had a perfect view into my father’s study. Inside I could see Tony the maid and one of the agricultural students. To preserve discretion, I shall call him “Tom.” Tom was dressed in a rather splendid green school blazer with red edging around the pockets and cuff. He was wearing his short trousers and knee socks. Tony appeared to be very cross with the boy. From my distance I could not hear what they were saying, but Tony did look rather vexed. Tom for his part shuffled uneasily from one foot to the other, clearly embarrassed by the encounter.

The conversation, which had been rather one-sided, appeared to be over and Tony walked to the cupboard, dug deep into his trouser pocket, and extracted a key. Meanwhile, Tom stared intently at the carpet beneath his feet.

Tony extracted one of my father’s rattan canes, peered at it closely as if seeing it for the first time and replaced it in the cupboard. He took out a second cane, which seemed to satisfy his needs, since he closed the cupboard then turned to Tom and gave the rattan rod an almighty swish.

I could feel a slight tightening in the front of my underpants. I had been unable to get that memory of my trip to the headmaster’s study out of my mind. I confess that the previous day while in the shower I polished one off while visualising my eighteen-year-old self, my short-trousers at the ankles, my tighty-whitey underpants snug against my raised pert bum, submissively welcoming the lash of the headmaster’s cane.

In my father’s study, Tony tapped the cane against the leather-topped desk. Tom evidentially had been in this position before. Without further instruction, he took a step forward, reached his arms ahead of him to grip the far end of the desk and slowly lowered his body across it, so that his chest was flat against the leather and his stomach rested on its shiny wooden edge.

I had the perfect view of his terrific buttocks. Tom was close to six feet tall. He was stocky without being fat. His thighs were bulky; I wondered if he played much rugby. His short trousers which normally fell to an inch above his knees had risen up, displaying a large area of naked flesh.

I half expected Tony to open the other cupboard and dress himself up in the headmaster’s academic gown. But, he was content in the rather staid dark grey “Sunday suit” he was wearing.

He tapped his swishy cane across the centre of Tom’s bottom. I saw it all. I saw how Tony found his aim, then raised the cane away from the tightly-fitting grey short trousers. Then I saw him whip the cane down with a kind of forearm smash. A nanosecond before the rod connected with the grey polyester / wool material Tony produced the merest flick of the wrist to send the cane whipping into the teenager’s meaty backside.

Tom gasped. He might have yelped a little, I could not tell. The window of the study was closed and I was later to discover the room had been expertly sound-proofed. The cane rose and fell again. Tom wriggled his body and kicked his legs. He had most certainly felt that stroke.

Tony delivered an exemplary six-of-the-best. I could not compare it to the caning my headmaster administered to me, since I had only witnessed Tony in action, I had yet to feel the full force of his strength.

Tom rose from the desk when instructed. He looked crestfallen. He had not enjoyed the experience one little bit, but he remained stoical throughout. I could not see any evidence of tears. Tony lectured him some more and then dismissed him from the study. Almost immediately his companion “Dick” entered. He too was dressed in a smart green and red blazer.

He’s misbehaviour must have been more shameful than his partner. Tony was tearing the student off a strip. The nineteen-year-old had no response. Whatever was his crime, he was guilty as charged. He offered nothing in mitigation.

cane holding (10)

The cane swished through empty air, but this time Tony instructed Dick to remove his blazer and lay it on the desk. Tony pointed his cane at a rather expensive looking light brown armchair. Its leather glistened in the afternoon sunlight. Dick approached the back of the chair. He was perhaps a little shorter than Tom, but I could see he would fit rather well across the chair’s back, with his hands resting on the soft seat cushion.

But Dick was not quite ready to assume the position. I gasped and my cock stood to full attention when Dick unfastened his short trousers and allowed them to fall to his feet. Because the teenager was dressed in old-fashioned school uniform, I had expected that he would be wearing traditional white Y-front cotton underpants. Nothing could be further than the truth; he sported a rather garish pair of red-patterned Calvin Klein briefs, which did little to cover his large penis. Dick by name …. I suppose.

He dived over the back of the chair. His briefs were useless as protection. At least half of each buttock cheek was bare. Had the stupid boy not been expecting to be beaten that afternoon? If he had any sense he would have worn his loosest Boxer shorts.

Again, I had a superb view as Tony went about his work. He was some kind of expert. He laid a stroke at full force across the centre line of the buttocks and then each successive cut fell below that line. The last two strokes bit into bare flesh. It was slow, accurate and hard. He must have inflicted maximum pain. Dick’s back and shoulders heaved and his legs stamped up and down.

When his ordeal was over, he hopped from foot to foot like a Red Indian in a terrible B-movie Western. I noticed that like Tom, he had successfully held back tears. If it had been me I should be crying rivers.

Painfully, he reached down for his short trousers and with obvious discomfort pulled them over his scorching buttocks. He was summarily dismissed from the study. I waited, still watching. I knew there were four paying guests in the house. I fully expected that “Harry” would be the next boy through the door.

But nobody came. Instead, Tony walked to the cupboard intending to replace the cane. I do not know what attracted his attention, but he suddenly looked out of the study window. He saw a startled me looking back at him. I do not know why I looked and felt so guilty. I was like a small boy found trespassing in the garden. A village urchin intent on stealing apples from a tree.

Tony saw the camera in my hand and jumped to the wrong conclusion. He rushed from the study and seconds later confronted me on the lawn. He waved his cane in my face menacingly. He accused me of taking photographs of the canings in the study. He calmed down a little when I showed him the back of the camera and scrolled though the images I had taken. They were all entirely innocent. There were no trousers-down beatings, merely flowers and shrubs.

Suddenly, there was a rumble of thunder and heavy rain fell. He ushered me inside the house. We sat in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. He still had the cane and rested it on a work surface. I could not keep my eyes off it. I was out of sorts. My cock had softened, but I knew that before I left for home I should have to use the bathroom – and not to go to the toilet.

We sat sipping coffee. It was some instant muck and tasted bitter. I put the mug down, pretending I was waiting for it to cool. I wanted – no I needed to know. What was it that I had just witnessed in the study? An elderly man had severely caned two young students. Why? What had they done to deserve it? Why had they let him do it?

The way Tony explained it made it all seem perfectly natural. Why wouldn’t they submit to a caning? They knew the rules of the house.

I had surmised correctly earlier; this had not been the first time either of them had been dealt with by Tony. Every Sunday after church they would have what Tony described as “The Reckoning.” This was an occasion for each of the lodgers to atone for their bad behaviour during the week. There might be quite a list: curfews missed, household chores unattended, bad language spoken. Each boy was expected to reveal the grades they received in college essays and projects. Woe betides the student whose grade had slipped.

I was transfixed. What a wonderful idea. I tried to conceal my feelings but Tony had a gift as a mind reader.

“So tell me, what must you atone for?” He spoke softly. I lost some control. I told him about my work, how I hated it so much, I did as little lesson preparation as possible. I never took trouble with my students. I constantly rowed with my wife and scolded the children for trivial reasons. I had a stand-up row with the guy in the newsagents because he had sold the last copy of the Daily Mail before I arrived.

As I spewed out my litany of misdeeds, I saw in my mind’s eye Tom and Dick in the study, each accepting a thrashing. I knew I wanted to be horizontal across that leather-topped desk. Showing my arse to Tony. I wanted it. No, more than that; I needed it.

Tony said very little. I looked closely into his eyes, trying to figure out his thoughts. He must have concluded, “Like father, like son,” because he turned his head slightly and nodded towards the cane near the draining board.

My affirmation was unspoken. He stood up from his chair and reached for the cane, grasping it close to its crook handle. I cannot fully remember my feeling at that moment. It might have been dread. It might have been excitement. Possibly, it was confusion. I think I wanted him to beat me, I wanted to submit to his authority, but I am not sure I wanted to experience intense pain.

I was soon to find out.

Tony held the cane in his right hand and wobbled it in my face. My head remained steady but my eyes moved up and down as they followed the rod’s progress. Then he gently flexed the rattan rod between both hands. He tucked the cane under his armpit and I watched as he removed the coffee mugs from a small wooden kitchen table and put them in the sink. Then he took hold of a small chair that was tucked under the table and moved it into the centre of the room.

He slipped the cane into his hand and said, “Bend over the table.” It was a quiet and calm command and it set my heart racing. I could feel the blood rush to my face. My fingertips tingled, a sure sign of blood pressure problems.

Ridiculously, I hesitated. I had spotted a small spot of liquid coffee on the table. I thought it might stain my shirt if I leaned across it.

“Pah!” Tony snorted and smeared a tea towel across the table’s surface.

“Over!” It was a sterner command this time. I took a deep breath and slowly lowered myself. It was a small table and my nose rested on the far edge leaving me staring down at the worn grey-patterned floor tiles. My legs were spread apart by about twelve inches and my groin was pressing into the near side.

The absurdity of this situation was lost on me. I was a forty-something married man spread across a kitchen table waiting for my father’s male maid to beat my backside with a whippy school cane. I felt Tony tap the cane across the right cheek of my stretched chinos. He must have been taking his aim. I shut my eyes tightly and gripped the far edge of the table. Memories of the headmaster’s flogging were fresh in my mind.

Tony smacked the cane across both my buttocks. It tingled a little, but I could not say it hurt. He thwiped a second stroke a little lower. Again, I felt it connect with my bum, but I was not in pain. Oh no! I didn’t say anything, but I realised the awful truth. He was not treating me like the lodgers. Tom and Dick had suffered butt-blistering canings. I craved for the same. My disappointment was passionate.

He put six strokes across my backside, but never in anyone’s wildest imaginations could they be described as “six-of-the-best.” He instructed me to rise. I hauled myself off the table. I wanted to complain, to tell him I had been short-changed. I wanted him to go again. To give me another caning. Only this time to do it properly.

I had no time to protest. Tony got the first word in. “Now, you understand the rules of the house. There will be no excuses for your future behaviour.”

I drew in breath. I looked at the cane in Tony’s hand; the one that had failed to satisfy my desires. I began to understand how the man’s mind worked.

“We hold The Reckoning every Sunday afternoon,” he looked down at the cane in his hand as he spoke. “I shall expect to see you next week.”

He walked from the room and as I watched him go, I saw through the kitchen window Tom and Dick standing. Each sported the widest grins I had ever seen.

I drove back to London with one thought on my mind. Where could I buy authentic school short trousers that would fit me?


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Dad’s despair

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

First day at St CIGS

used drawing master quelch (15)

Richard Rae was petrified by his new school, everything about it scared him senseless. It was a living nightmare. Sometimes he thought he must have died and gone to hell.

Richard was eighteen and in the sixth form. His family had just moved to town after dad was promoted to bank manager. Richard knew nobody in town and had no friends at St Cecelia Independent Grammar School.

He couldn’t understand St CIGS. Nothing about it made sense. It started with the short trousers. Eighteen year olds forced to wear grey short trousers. In England. In February. In winter. Madness. The short trousers fell an inch or so above his knees. The knee socks that went with them were no use either. It was freezing and his legs threatened to turn the same colours as the blue-and-white striped blazer he wore.

His mother had roared with laughter when she read the school regulations. “Short trousers must be purchased from the designated school supplier,” she read. Well of course they would, Richard fumed. Where else could you buy short trousers to fit eighteen-year-old boys? St CIGS must be the only school in the country to force eighteen-year-olds into short trousers. Eighteen-year-olds! Richard couldn’t get over it. His friends back home would shriek with laughter if they ever found out.

“Oh darling,” his mother had said, “A blue hooped school cap, how delightful.” She was enjoying herself immensely. “And white Y-front underpants,” she giggled.

“Oh, and look,” her eyes widened with mirth. “Corporal punishment. Ha! Ha! Ha! It’s six-of-the-best for you young man,” she whooped with joy, safe in the knowledge that her little darling was a good boy and could never behave in a way that warranted a thrashing with the cane.

“Never mind, dear,” she consoled her distraught son. “It says the school has a fine academic tradition. You’ll only be there a few months. Pass your A-levels and then you can go up to the university.”

St CIGS was indeed a “traditional” school. Traditional curriculum, traditional (if eccentric) uniform, traditional discipline and traditional games. Just about the first thing Richard learned was games were compulsory. Even for sixth-formers. St CIGS was a “rugby school.” Richard had never played rugby in his life; he didn’t even know the rules. They didn’t play “association football” at St CIGS. “Association” football? Richard was aghast. It was “football.” Who on earth still called it “association football”? It was bad enough that modernists insisted on calling it “soccer.” He blamed the Americans for that.

What St CIGS called “traditional,” Richard called, “old fashioned.” His previous school Taylor’s had been very liberal. There was no school uniform and everyone was called by their first names – in the sixth form the “students” even called teachers by first names. It was also co-ed; girls and boys learnt together. Sixth formers were allowed to smoke and there was a designated area for them to do so. They were treated like adults.

Not so at St CIGS. Forced to wear short trousers at eighteen. Richard just couldn’t get over it. Short trousers. Everything about St CIGS was alien to him. The teachers, or “masters” as he had better get used to calling them, wore black flowing academic gowns. Richard rocked on his heels the first time he saw the masters parading at school assembly. They all looked like Bat Man. And the weird flat mortar-board caps with tassels that they wore on their heads … words simply failed Richard.

All the boys were called by their surnames – there were no girls. Nor, were there female “masters,” which in a rare light moment Richard thought was just as well since they would have to be called “mistresses.”

Smoking was banned, which would cause a problem. With the liberal regime at Taylor’s the eighteen-year-old had quite a nicotine habit.

Richard knew nobody in town and couldn’t make friends at school. He arrived in February, five months after the start of the school year. His fellow classmates had been at St CIGS for six years; they had their cliques and weren’t about to let a stranger into their groups. Richard was alone. In a totally strange world that he did not understand. Without the help of friends, he would never learn the rules.

One of the rules, Richard failed to learn was to keep his mouth shut. At Taylor’s students were encouraged to voice opinions; it helped to grow into confident adults. Not so at St CIGS. Here pupils, like children, were seen and not heard. They only spoke when they were spoken to. And then only to confirm the prejudices of their masters. To express an opinion was to express “insolence.”

On his third day at the wretched school, Richard leaned the penalty for insolence. A master, whom Richard had never met approached him at the beginning of the lunch break. “You boy. Are you Rae; Upper Sixth?” the capped and gowned elderly man peered through round eye glasses. Richard gaped, unsure what question he was being asked.

“Rae!” the master barked. “Speak up boy!” he glowered. “Rae. R. C. Rae,” he spat out the words. Oh, Richard, understood. His name. He was asking him his name. Why didn’t the old duffer say so in the first place.

“Yes,” Richard replied. Then frozen by the master’s icy stare, he hastily added the obligatory (for St CIGS), “Sir.”

The master’s long thin, ugly, face was puce. “You are to attend Dr Thumpington’s study!” he snarled. “Without delay.”

Richard’s bemused face betrayed his ignorance.

“Pah!” the master was beside himself with irritation. “The headmaster boy! The headmaster. At once. Go.” With that he swirled his gown around his body and flew off down the passageway.

The headmaster’s study? Why? What had he done? Nothing. That’s what, Richard thought. There was nothing to worry about. He was the new boy in the Sixth Form, the headmaster probably just wanted to say “hello, welcome to the school.” Yes, Richard told himself, unconvincingly, that was all. He would soon find out. But first he needed to find the head’s study. He didn’t have the slightest idea where it was.

At last, after being deliberately misdirected twice by mean schoolboys, Richard finally stood outside the heavy oak-panelled door of Dr Thumpinton’s study. The teenager’s heart thumped so hard he could feel it trying to exit his body through his chest. Why was he so scared? He wasn’t in trouble. He hadn’t done anything wrong. Not that he knew of, anyway.

He balled his trembling hand into a fist and tapped lightly on the door. He hoped the headmaster might not hear. That would give Richard a legitimate reason to flee. When, later questioned about his non-appearance he would say in all honesty that he had knocked, but nobody replied.

“Come!” It was an imperious command, clearly given. Damn! Richard grimaced, there was to be no escape. His hand still refused to obey his brain and with some difficulty he turned the brass handle and inched open the door. He stood at the threshold of the room and halted. Petrified.

It was a huge dark room, in the middle of the room was the head’s huge mahogany desk, clean and tidy, and gleaming with shine. To the side was a stuffed leather armchair with a large bookshelf full of books to the left of a table. But, Richard’s eyes immediately landed on a prominent display behind the desk. Attached to the wall was a large wooden gun case with a glass door. Through the glass he could see three crook-handled canes. They were light brown, slender, and slightly warped from years of use. His mouth went dry as he stared at them.

The shortest one was at the bottom. It was perhaps two-and-a-half feet long and very thin. The other two were the same length, more than three feet, but the top one was much thicker and knobbed in places.

“Come in boy, don’t dawdle,” The headmaster sat behind the desk. When standing he was a tall man and imperious. He was in his late fifties and his lined face showed his age. His greying hair was thin and he combed it across his balding dome in a vain attempt to disguise the fact.

Richard stood rooted to the spot; he couldn’t take his eyes off the canes. “Stand there, boy,” the headmaster snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot in front of his desk. Any hope that this was to be a pleasant “welcoming” meeting was dispelled with those words. In a daze, Richard shuffled forward towards the desk.

“Close the door boy. Were you born in a barn!” Dr Thumpington appeared incapable of communicating in a normal speaking voice. Richard turned on his heels and faced the door. For a moment he contemplated running. He could be home within minutes. The frightful headmaster and the dreadful school wouldn’t be able to touch him there. But, instead, on some kind of auto-pilot, he closed the door, and once more faced the headmaster.

“Where is your cap boy! Why aren’t you wearing your cap?” Dr Thumpinton thundered.

Richard’s whole body shook. It was as if he had been hit by a bullet. “B … b.. b ..” he blubbered, digging his hand into his blazer pocket and retrieving the cap. With quaking hands, he placed it on his head.

“There!” Once more the headmaster clicked his fingers. Richard stood as indicated in front of the desk. From this position he had a perfect view of the three canes in the glass case behind Dr Thumpington’s shoulder. Richard had never seen a school cane before; the closest he had come was on television, where comical headmasters were sometimes seen swishing crook-handled rattan rods through the air, threatening naughty schoolboys with six-of-the-best.

There was nothing to laugh at here. Richard still had no idea why he had been summoned before the headmaster, but as he stood in the gloomy oak-panelled study, he was certain of one thing: this visit would not be pleasant.

Unable to stomach looking at the canes, Richard turned his attention to the headmaster. The old man glared at him. It was a terrifying stare; one that had made the blood of generations of schoolboys freeze. Swiftly, Richard averted his eyes and took an excessive interest in the pattern of the red rug beneath his feet.

The silence that followed was deafening. Richard was convinced the vile headmaster could hear the teenager’s heart thumping. Richard heard a rustle coming from behind the headmaster’s desk, but he dared not look up.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dr Thumpington, rise from his chair and begin to pace his study. He clasped his hands behind his back, rather like members of the Royal Family habitually did. The headmaster reached the far end of his study, paused and then like a soldier on parade, he swivelled and retraced his steps until he stood beside the trembling sixth-former.

“Look at me boy!” he roared. Richard smelt the headmaster’s sour breath as reluctantly he raised his head. Dr Thumpington towered above the boy. Whereas Richard was hardly five-feet-seven; the headmaster was close to six-four. The boy was dwarfed and intimidated by the master.

“Insolence!” The headmaster let the word hang in the air. It was sufficient. That was all that needed to be said. “Insolence!” The new boy was guilty of “insolence.” He had not yet learnt his place in the scheme of things. He was a pupil at St CIGS. His duty was to obey his masters. Unquestionably.

“I have had reports,” the headmaster intoned, “Of your insolence.” There it was again. That word. “Insolence.” The greatest crime a boy at St CIGS could commit.

Richard blushed. He felt sweat soaking his shirt, even though it was a cold day and the open fire in the study was not lit.

“Your history master. Your geography master. Your games master.” The headmaster paused, as if those words alone were sufficient explanation. Richard’s mind whirled as he recalled events over the past days. He had disagreed with Mr Struthers, the history master, about an incident in World War One. It was a discussion, not “insolence.” Mr Jones, of geography was entirely wrong about the formation of glaciers, and of course, Richard had commented to Mr Alladyce, the sports master about “association” football.

“You are new to this school and you have a lot to learn about discipline,” the headmaster moaned. “I don’t know what was acceptable at your previous school, but be aware, we will not tolerate such behaviour at St Cecilia’s. Is that understood.”

Richard stood speechless. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His silence was interpreted as further insolence.

“Pah! Answer me boy!” the headmaster’s face was scarlet. Never before, in his decades as a schoolmaster, had he encountered such impudence.

“Eh, eh,” Richard was an intelligent and articulate boy. Taylor’s School had taught him well, but now, standing in the headmaster’s study, overlooked by a glass case containing three awesome whippy school canes, he was dumbfounded. What was he expected to say? Any word of protest, explanation or mitigation, would be construed as “insolence.” Richard knew he could not win.

He knew he was obliged to say something. “Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled. It was all he could think of. He hated himself. “Sorry,” was an admission that he had done something wrong. He hadn’t. He was certain of that, but he was equally certain that to argue the point would be disastrous. Hadn’t the Prime Minister Harold Wilson recently said. “When you’re in a hole, stop digging.” Yes, Richard thought, “Sorry” was the only word.

“Bah!” The headmaster paced the study once more. “He leaves me no choice,” he spoke as if the teenager was not in the room. Richard’s moist eyes watched as the headmaster reached for a heavy straight-backed wooden chair, picked it up and placed it in the centre of the room. Richard’s heartbeat rose, blood raced through his arteries.

“There can be only one remedy,” the headmaster still seemed to be talking to himself. Richard watched the headmaster walk behind his desk. He expected him to reach up to the glass cabinet to select a cane. “Jesus!” Richard thought. “He really is going to do this. He’s going to cane my arse.”

He watched puzzled, as Dr Thumpington leaned forward to his desk, opened the bottom drawer, reached inside and extracted a large plimsoll. Even from a distance, Richard saw the gym shoe was huge. It had once been white, but had greyed with age. The rubber sole was worn with use and he could see daylight through a hole in the instep. This slipper had seen a lot of action in its time; and not all of it in the gymnasium.

The headmaster gripped the plimsoll in his right hand and smacked it thoughtfully in the palm of his left. Suddenly, he seemed to realise that he was not alone in the study. He peered across the room at Richard as if seeing him for the first time.

“Yes,” he growled. “The punishment should be exemplary.” He moved to the wooden chair, sat down, adjusted his buttocks so that he was firmly on the seat, spread his legs, and gathered the end of his gown around his legs.

“There!” he snapped his fingers to indicate Richard should take up position to the headmaster’s right. The teenager was a virgin to corporal punishment, but instinctively he read the situation. He would have to bend over the headmaster’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. This could not be happening. It was a nightmare.

But it was about to get worse. Much worse. “Lower your trousers.”

Richard thought he might faint. The room swam. The red rug spun under his feet. His headmaster’s voice was coming from far away. “Quickly boy. I haven’t got all day. Take down your trousers.”

Richard’s chin quivered. He swayed.

“Do you want me to take them down for you?” Richard hardly heard the words spoken, before he felt the headmaster take hold of the waistband of his short trousers and force him to step a pace forward. The short trousers had a half-elasticated waist and so needed no belt. It was easy for the headmaster to unfasten the metal clip at the top and pull the zip fly down. The grey school short trousers slipped down Richard’s pale legs and bundled at his feet. Richard didn’t protest; he was shocked speechless.

The headmaster gripped the eighteen-year-old sixth-former by the wrist and propelled him forward so that he fell face-down across his knees. Richard’s cap fell from his head and landed so that he had a perfect view of the label: Rawcliffes, the official school outfitter.

He was relatively small compared to the six-feet-four-inches headmaster and his face rested a little above the rug, while behind him his legs dangled in mid-air. His bottom, clad in tight white Y-front underpants rested across the headmaster’s knees. Dr Thumpington had spread his thighs wide, making a perfect platform to receive the teenager’s body. He studied the bottom in front of him with a professional discipline.

Instinctively, Richard’s body protested. He struggled to wriggle off the headmaster’s lap, but he had been placed so far forward there was little he could do. He tried to reach back with his right arm, but the headmaster was wise to his manoeuvring and gripped his wrist and shoved the boy’s arm up his back so that the hand was close to his shoulder. Richard was going nowhere. He was pinned face-down across the headmaster’s knees. There was nothing he could do except allow his master to spank his backside with the huge worn plimsoll. If he attempted to wiggle off the devil’s lap, he would simply drag him back into place. If he tried to rear upwards, the headmaster’s elbow would press down and prevent it.

Dr Thumpington wasn’t quite ready. He rested his slipper on Richard’s shoulder while he took the end of the boy’s smart school blazer and the tail of his shirt and pushed them up his back so that they were away from the target area. Then, he gripped the waistband of the underpants. Richard gasped in terror. “Oh my God, he’s going to pull down my pants!” Once more he wriggled and writhed, twisting his body as if he were trying to swim off the master’s lap. But, the grip on his body was too tight.

The headmaster pulled the pants upwards. He was not about to bear the boy’s bum; instead he smoothed the white cotton so that all creases in the cloth were removed and the Y-fronts now fitted Richard’s buttocks like a second skin. The eighteen-year-old’s bum was firm, but there was a little “give” in the under-curves where the globes met the thighs. The pants were pulled so tightly that Richard’s cheeks were lifted and separated and the cotton dug a canyon into the crack in between.

Richard waited in an agony of tension for the inevitable onslaught to begin. Was it taking a long time or was he just imagining it? he was too distraught to be able to tell. The boy felt many emotions as the springy slipper connected again and again and again across his buttocks: humiliation, mortification, indignation, resentment, bitterness; but most of all pain. Dr Thumpington was an expert spanker; he laid the worn plimsoll across ever available square inch of Richard’s buttocks until within a minute they were toasted. Then, the headmaster increased the tempo and roasted them some more.

The teenager “ouched” and “aggghed”; he hammered his head up and down. By looking under the chair, he had a great view of his own legs thrashing about. Soon he had kicked the hated short trousers clear of his feet. He wriggled and squirmed.

“Keep still Rae, or I’ll not be afraid to put you across this chair and cane you on your bare buttocks boy!” the headmaster growled. Richard had just met the man, but he knew he meant it too.

But, his twisting and turning were entirely involuntary. They were instinctive, reflex actions, it was his brain’s way of trying to protect his body from the relentless onslaught the rubber-soled slipper made across his bum. He fidgeted so much he failed to notice the packet of Players Weights cigarettes slip from his blazer pocket and plop to the ground, right at the headmaster’s feet.

Richard’s eyes blazed almost as much as his backside. They were wet with tears, but he was not crying openly. Satisfied, there was no more buttock area un-torched by his worn plimsoll, the headmaster crashed it down across Richard’s naked thighs.

Then, at last the plimsoll rested still on his swollen, searing buttocks. His chastised posterior humbly presented to this mighty master and tormentor. His bum was numb but his thighs were burning. His body collapsed with utter fatigue. He lay there for some time half dazed, sobbing quietly.

“You may rise,” the headmaster’s command was pompous. The punishment was at an end. It was time to dismiss the wretched boy from the study. The headmaster had work to do and Richard had afternoon lessons to attend.

Richard hauled himself from the headmaster’s lap. Horror-struck, he saw the cigarette pack at his feet, he snatched it and stuffed it into the pocket of his blazer. “Too late,” Dr Thumpington growled as he walked around to the other side of his desk. Richard went to retrieve his short trousers, which he had kicked across the room.

“Leave your trouser where they are Rae,” the headmaster reached into his glass cabinet and gripped the thickest of the three canes. With his back still to the boy he intoned, “Smoking is strictly forbidden at St Celia’s. Bend over my desk.” He turned to face Richard, flexing the wickedly whippy cane in his hands.

“Right over.”


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Late home from a date

Glyn pressed his foot on the accelerator and glanced anxiously at the clock on the dashboard. It said 11.45 p.m. Surely, it must be fast. Where had the time gone? He had promised Mary’s father they would be home by 10.30. They were in trouble; big trouble.

It was worth it, Glyn thought. The front of his underpants were still sticky, he could feel his prick start to grow again. He would have a tremendous wank later remembering that night.

It had started well. Glyn picked Mary up at 7.30 and they went to a movie. Then they went for coffee. So far, so good. Then they took a drive out to Widecombe Wood. They both wanted to do it; although Glyn was surprised she would be up for it.

They had met at college where he was studying business and she domestic science. Mary stood out from many of the girls – and there weren’t many at the college – because of the plain way she dressed. She was most demure. But, wow, Glyn remembered the first time he set eyes on her: what tremendous tits! When she turned round he saw her arse wasn’t half bad as well.

Glyn was a shy guy and at nineteen he was still a virgin. Most of the guys he knew were; despite the boasts some of them made. The girls Glyn knew were not the kind to put out. There was a lot of religion about.

They parked at the Wood and necked for a bit. It was going well, Glyn thought, but it was about to get a whole lot better. He took her hand and placed it against his crotch. Even through trousers and pants it was clear he had a boner. Mary made the next move. She unzipped him and rummaged around inside. Her breathing was as hard and rapid as his as she roughly gripped his cock. Glyn had tossed himself off many times, but this was the first time anyone had done it to him. Not counting that one time he and his pal Richard had got hold of a “girlie” magazine and pleasured one another.

Maybe, Mary had been reading some erotic literature herself, because he took the stiff tip of Glyn’s cock in her hand and rotated her palm as if she were trying to squeeze a lemon in a juicer. In the confined space of his still fastened trousers she didn’t get far. But it was far enough for Glyn: he shot a load.

It was messy, but Mary had a dainty fake-lace handkerchief and wiped him down. Satisfied, Glyn started the drive home. He was sure they would go much further next time. Some of the guys said their girlfriends went all the way with them. He wasn’t sure he believed them. Anyway there wasn’t much room to do anything like that in his tiny Minicar. The best he could hope for was a blow-job. He should start saving the money he earned at weekends at the store for a motel room.

It was past midnight when Glyn parked the car in front of Mary’s house. He sat with the engine running. He hoped she would get out and go into the house and let him drive off. He had met her father for the first time that evening and was a bit scared by what he saw. He had wild staring clear blue eyes and his thinning brown hair stuck out at all angles: it looked like he had just come in from the wind.

“See me to the door, Glyn.” The nineteen-year-old could hear the tease in her voice. He didn’t fall for it, there was no promise of more sex. Not with her father in the house. But, with one thought on next time, Glyn decided to be gallant. He got out of the car, travelled the short distance to the other side of the Mini and opened the passenger door. Mary climbed out, cussing under her breath when she snagged her nylons in the confined space.

Glyn escorted Mary up the path. Before they reached the door it swung open. Standing there looking as manic as earlier was her father. His face was puce with fury and his eyes glared frenziedly. Glyn took a step back in fear.

“What time do you call this!” he roared, and then fearful that a neighbour might see his daughter returning home with a boy after midnight, he said much more quietly, “Get inside both of you.” Glyn made a move to retrace his steps to the car but Mary’s father gripped him by the arm and pulled him inside.

“Curfew is ten-thirty. You know that.”

Mary’s complexion darkened. She knew when curfew time was. She also knew the penalty for breaking it.

“Sorry Mr Golding,” Glyn shuffled from foot to foot, “The car broke down.”

Mary’s father’s eyes widened, “Don’t add lying to your sin!” he bellowed.

Sin? Glyn was puzzled; what was the old duffer talking about?

“In there, the two of you.” Mr Golding pushed Glyn in the shoulder and sent him on his way. If the teenager thought he would be allowed to go home he had another thought coming. Mary stood in the middle of the sitting room, she hopped from foot to foot with embarrassment. She couldn’t meet her father’s eye. She thought she would die of shame with Glyn present to witness her father’s next action.

He strode to a set of drawers, opened the top one, and pulled out a stout wooden clothes brush. He gripped it in one hand, rather like a pistol, and waved it frantically about. Glyn stood transfixed. He had never seen such a spectacle. His heart sped and he felt blood rush to his penis. He had a shrewd idea of Mr Golding’s intention. No, he thought, this wasn’t really happening. He glanced at Mary, her face was scarlet and beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. She couldn’t return his look.

Her father busied himself carrying a wooden chair into the centre of the room. His own face was covered in perspiration and his hair was as wild as before. He sat down on the chair and waved the brush at Mary. “You know what to do. Come here. Lift up your skirt. Bend over my knee.”

Before he had finished the sentence, Glyn’s cock stood at full attention. He felt it staining against his still damp underpants. Hurriedly, he cupped his hands together and placed them in front of his groin. Mary was close to tears. “Oh daddy, no daddy,” she whimpered. But even as the words choked from her throat she stepped forward, took the seams of her skirt in her hands and lifted it clear of her navy-blue knickers. Then, she leaned forward and put herself across her dad’s lap.

Glyn stepped sideways. Now he had a perfect view of Mary’s terrific bum, stretching against the tight cotton of her panties. Instinctively, he clasped his hands tighter to his throbbing cock, making it tingle. Mr Golding adjusted her position until she had her hands on the floor and her feet just touching the ground. Mary’s bottom felt suddenly cold and exposed and she knew Glyn would see her knicker-covered bottom. It excited her a little but she also felt shame. She had disobeyed her father intentionally. She deserved to be punished with a hot stinging spanking on her bottom.

Not many girls have a bottom like Mary’s, Glyn thought.  There was plenty of acreage and a generous amount of padding for her father to spread the blows. The brush came down. Mary whined and moaned, kicked her legs and fidgeted. Soon the dull warmth of the spanks became a mild burn, and then a sizzle. The nineteen-year-old rotated her bottom trying to ensure the spanks never landed in the same spot twice in a row. Her father intensified the tempo to a rapid bam-bam-bam. Tears stung her eyes and she shook her head furiously.

Then it was over. Her father stopped spanking. “Up,” he growled. Mary leapt to her feet and rushed from the room. Glyn saw her rushing up the stairs two at a time. He stood unsure, what he should say or do. Silence gripped the room. Mr Golding broke it, “Now, it’s your turn.” He walked across the room, Glyn followed with his eyes and he gasped; dumbfounded.

He hadn’t noticed it before. Hanging from a picture hook on the wall was a long, thin, curved-handled rattan cane. It was the kind of thing they stopped using in schools thirty years ago. “I use this on my boys,” Mr Golding said, by way of explanation.

Boys? Glyn was fairly certain Mary had no younger brothers; that meant Mr Golding’s sons must be in their twenties, at least. Mr Golding took the cane from its resting place and tested it by swishing it through the air. He seemed satisfied that it was up to the job in hand. He gripped the wooden chair and spun it round so that its back now faced Glyn. The teenager looked at Mr Golding. He looked at the cane in his hand. He looked at the chair in front of him. His dick ached fit to burst. He desperately wanted to rip down his trousers and pants and pound away at his soldier until it spurt its load.

USED drawing cane hold (1a)

Mr Golding pointed his cane at the high-backed wooden chair. “Take down your trousers.” Those words set Glyn’s heart racing. He had never been caned in his life, nor spanked, but in that moment he knew there was nothing more in his life that he wanted. He had witnessed his sexy girlfriend spanked with a brush on her panties while draped over her father’s knee. Now, he himself was going to get a ferocious arse-tanning.

He hesitated, knowing that when he lowered his trousers Mr Goulding would see his intense boner. Mary’s father misunderstood his reluctance. “Just the trousers,” he said, “You may keep your underpants on. Nakedness is immodest.”

He might just get away with it, he thought. If he whipped his trousers down and quickly bent over the back of the chair, Mr Golding might not see the tent pole in his pants. It was worth a try. Luckily at that moment Mr Golding took an intense interest in the cane he was holding. He turned his back on Glyn and flexed the rod between his hands. He didn’t turn round until the teenager was safely in position; his hands gripping the seat of the chair, his back arched, his buttocks jutted out and his feet splayed. He was in the perfect position to receive chastisement.

Glyn wore bright red briefs; they fitted so snugly they had the effect of lifting and separating each buttock. The cotton dug into his crack and the strain made by his erect penis at the front pulled them even tighter. Mr Golding took his aim across the centre of Glyn’s buttocks and let fly. It was a burning sensation that Glyn had never experienced before. He could feel a line forming under his pants where the cane had struck home.

He huffed and puffed when the second cut fell. This was a little harder and it landed just below the first. Glyn now had a line of pain about an inch wide across both cheeks. The pain increased with the third and fourth strokes. It started in the centre of his bum and shot up and down his legs. His heart raced and blood pumped across his body, but, it seemed to him, most of it was heading for his groin.

It couldn’t take much more of this. It wasn’t the pain; the caning hurt, but he could stand it. It was the intense throbbing in the front of his pants. Deliberately he rubbed his crotch against the hard wooden back of the chair. The tingling sensation in his cock increased. His heart pounded and he couldn’t breathe properly. His eyes moistened, but they were not tears of pain; it was ecstasy. Another cut swished into the lower part of his bum. “Huff, huff, huff,” he panted and then let fly with a full-throated scream.

He let go of the chair seat and jumped bolt upright. Mr Golding stared wide-eyed as the teenager before him doubled up and then sprang once again to his feet. His face was flushed, his body drenched in perspiration, but much more than this the front of his underpants was drenched with cum.

Glyn settled. His breathing was becoming more even, but his face was still as scarlet as his whipped bottom. He daren’t look at Mr Golding. The humiliation was too great. What could he say? What would Mr Golding do?

One thing was certain: Mary’s father would never let him date his daughter again.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Rory and Alistair 4: Young Ferguson

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life with its countless rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. The two eighteen-year-olds were more suited to the life of the boys in town.

They were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.

They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school.

They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Previously in Rory and Alistair

Episode one

Episode two

Episode three

 Rory lay stark naked on his bed; his stiff cock in his fist. It was another scorching day. The heatwave was breaking all records. The weight of his body pressed his corrugated buttocks into the mattress. Six ugly red welts stood up on his otherwise creamy-white bum. Two were still very tender when he put any pressure on them.

It had been Six. Short trousers at the floor, white underpants at the knees. The eighteen-year-old had been bent over a hard wooden chair; palms down on the shiny seat. The new master Mr Macaulay was showing off. He was showing Rory and the other boys at Willadong Academy that he could. If he wanted to he could put a heavy whippy rattan cane across their bare arses and there was nothing – absolutely zilch – they could do about it. Such was the power of a schoolmaster.

Rory was no fool. He saw right through Mr Macaulay. The young master had said Rory was cheeky, insubordinate, rebellious, defiant and “sassy” – whatever that meant. It was as if Mr Macaulay had swallowed Roget’s Thesaurus. Mr Macaulay had made most of it up. He often didn’t obey the rules, it was true, but Rory had done nothing special to upset Mr Macaulay.

So six-of-the-best it had been. The young master was a fine cricketer. He knew how to slog a ball to the boundary. He used that strength to whip his cane into Rory’s bared bottom so fiercely it was as if he were trying to enter at one end of the buttocks and slice through them like a hot knife and butter, before exiting at the front. It had been one heck of a thrashing.

Mr Macaulay enjoyed every moment of it, Rory was quite certain of that. The master was probably at that very moment lying on his own bed wanking himself dry at the memory. Rory himself was close to orgasm. He wasn’t thinking of his caning, he had other pleasures on his mind. In a perfect world he would be fantasying about his boyfriend Alistair; the two eighteen year olds shared the same room and had sex at least once every day. But, despite Rory’s great affection for Alistair he never used his friend as wanking material.

Rory didn’t know the name of the star of his dream. It was a guy he had seen at Banjo’s record shop. Banjo’s was the closest the town of Willadong had to a “counter-culture” – it was where the young people – and some not so young – went to hang out and listen to the latest records from America. Recently they had spent a lot of time listening to some new guy called improbably Little Richard.

The young man Rory dreamed of always looked so sad; he had a permanent frown painted on his face. But his legs and oh that cute little bum encased in the tiniest pale green cotton shorts. How Rory would like to get inside those. Whoosh! He shot a load over his belly.

Only later as he cleaned himself up with a rag did he notice the time. It was past lock-up; where was his friend Alistair? Had something happened to him?

At that moment Alistair was trudging his way back to the school. His backside throbbed. The short trousers he was forced to wear as a “junior” boy chaffed against his raw buttocks. He was late for lock-up; the chances were he’d get a sound spanking from Pendleton, the Head of Wilson’s House. It wouldn’t be the first time he was forced to bend across the house captain’s knee for a dose of his hard wooden hairbrush across the bare arse. Pendleton wouldn’t care that Alistair’s bum was already on fire.

The eighteen-year-old grinned. What an afternoon it had been. Who would ever have predicted it? It had happened in Ferguson’s bottle shop. Old man Ferguson was typical of small shopkeepers – he had very few scruples. If a boy had cash, he would sell him liquor. No awkward questions about age were asked. Not all the seniors at Willadong Academy were angels. Many of them frequented Ferguson’s. Even Rory and Alistair – short trousers or no – were served there. So, that afternoon Alistair made his regular visit in search of a quarter bottle of whisky.

But the old man was not there. Instead, a younger version stood behind the counter. Alistair had never seen him before, but it didn’t take a genius to see he was Ferguson’s son – or, for he couldn’t have been older than about twenty, his grandson.

“Bells, please,” Alistair did not anticipate trouble; he was a cash-paying customer. He might not have expected trouble, but trouble he most certainly got. “You must be joking,” Young Ferguson rejoined, and then he positively sneered the next word, “sonny.”

Undeterred, Alistair repeated his liquor order. “Quarter bottle. Thanks.”

Young Ferguson looked Alistair up and down. From his thong encased feet to the top of his tousled hair. He saw an obvious schoolboy, dressed only in grey short trousers and an open-necked white shirt.

“I know you,” Young Ferguson leaned forward across the counter menacingly. “You’re from the Academy.” Alistair flushed. This wasn’t going to plan. “I’m getting on the phone right now. I’m calling your headmaster.”

The eighteen-year-old reeled. Headmaster! The stupid man meant it too. “B.. b.. but,” he blustered. “Yeah,” young Ferguson grinned. “It’ll be a right caning for you. Bare arsed, I shouldn’t wonder.” He was enjoying himself enormously.

A caning. Yes, Alistair thought, almost certainly. But there could be much worse to come, if the headmaster heard about his regular visits to the bottle shop. Alistair had been in so much trouble at school over the years, this might be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. This might be the time Dr Bruce, the headmaster, sent him packing. Expelled. Sent home in disgrace. No school examinations sat. No place at university. No good career to look forward to. All because of this idiot shopkeeper’s son.

Young Ferguson peered perceptively at the schoolboy standing before him. No boy wanted a flogging from the headmaster. He would do almost anything to avoid that. Young Ferguson had learnt as much in the weeks he had been standing in for his father.

“Of course,” he stretched his arms wide and then steepled his fingers, “I could deal with the matter myself.” He left the words hanging in the air. The silence in the small shop was deafening. Young Ferguson let the words sink in. He assumed Alistair was no fool. They were supposed to be a brainy bunch at Willadong Academy.

“Well?” Young Ferguson’s tongue shot out his mouth like a lizard’s. Then he ran the tip around both his lips, all the time staring intently at the youth in front of him. “What’s it to be? Me or the headmaster?”

Alistair couldn’t stop is eyelids blinking. What kind of choice was this? It had to be either a flogging and possible expulsion at the hands of Dr Bruce or some as yet unspecified treatment from the vile Young Ferguson. The heat in the small shop was oppressive; sweat poured down Alistair’s back. He could hardly breathe. Any moment now he might collapse on the floor in a faint.

His mouth was impossibly dry. There was not a single drop of saliva. Alistair could barely form the words he needed to say. “You,” was all he could croak.

“Is the right answer,” Young Ferguson shouted over-enthusiastically, like a game show host on the radio. He sprang towards the shop door, locked it and turned the “Open” sign at the window to face the other way.

“Follow me,” he said as he breezed through the shop and entered a storeroom.  Miserably, Alistair followed behind. He stopped at the entrance of the room, astounded at what he saw. It was in most ways a typical storeroom for a small shop. There were some cases of booze and others with cigarettes. But dominating the room, right in the centre, were two crates stacked one on top of the other. And on the top of that was an old grey blanket. It was neatly rolled and laid out to make a cushion. It was a makeshift punishment block. It was the right height for a boy of Alistair’s size to bend across and offer up his backside for beating.

On the far wall, hanging from a large nail was a dark brown paddle. Alistair had never seen one before. Willadong Academy was a “caning school” – although some heads of house used a rubber-soled gym shoe. And, Pendleton, of course used his nanny’s hairbrush. This paddle was twenty inches long, about three-quarters of an inch thick and four inches wide. It had holes drilled in the blade end.

used paddle holes (5)

“Oh I see you’ve seen the paddle. It’s a real beauty, I can tell you.” Young Ferguson spoke as if he were showing his prisoner his new car. “Very effective. Stings like hell,” he grinned. “As you are about to find out.”

Alistair blanched. Even his deeply suntanned face could not disguise his concern.

“Yes,” Young Ferguson positively beamed, “I’ve taken the arses off a few of your school chums.” He swirled the words “school chums” around his mouth as if enjoying a fine wine. “You won’t sit down for a week,” he chuckled to himself. “Come on in, don’t stand at the door. I haven’t got all day. I’ve had to lock up the shop.”

Alistair shuffled forward. He was no stranger to corporal punishment. Sometimes it seemed his arse was permanently bruised. Just as the effects of one caning were wearing off; he was bent across a chair for another bowing. Such was his life at Willadong Academy.

“Come now,” Young Ferguson was enjoying himself immensely. “Stand by the block,” he said as he reached up to the wall and retrieved the paddle. It looked an awesome weapon in his small hands. He held it by the handle in his right fist and gently tap, tap, tapped it into the palm of his left hand. Alistair’s eyes followed it as it moved.

“C’mon, let’s have those trousers down. Pants too.”

Alistair couldn’t believe it. What would he tell Rory? That he tried to buy whisky as usual, but instead of old man Ferguson, he found his pervert son. And said perve demanded Alistair show him his bare arse so he could whack it black and blue with a heavy wooden paddle. Rory would never believe him. Until, he showed him the battered backside and the outline of the paddle reproduced dozens of times across his cheeks.

“Come on!” Young Ferguson raised his voice considerably. “Do you want me to come over there and take them down for you?” He would do. He had done precisely that with one lanky prefect only yesterday. The stupid boy had frozen to the spot with both terror and humiliation. He had howled the house down after only a couple of swats.

Alistair shot Young Ferguson a glance. It was one, he hoped, that showed his contempt for the pervert, tinged with just a little defiance.

“Watch your attitude, sonny,” Young Ferguson sneered. “Just remember I’m the one with the paddle in his hand and you’re the one about to show me your bare arse.”

Alistair, undid the button at the top of his short trousers. They had a half-elasticated waist so needed no belt. The shorts slipped down his thighs and gravity took them past his knees and to the floor. Young Ferguson gazed at the eighteen-year-old’s underpants. Alistair’s cock was not erect, but it still made a terrific bulge against the snug cotton.

He hitched his thumbs under the waistband and sent them to meet his short trousers in the puddle at his feet.

“Bend over.”

Alistair slipped his feet out of his thongs and stepped out of his shorts and pants. He was naked from the waist down. The top four buttons of his white short-sleeved shirt were unbuttoned, revealing his clearly-defined chest. It was as nut brown as the teenager’s face. He moved forward a couple of paces and positioned himself over the block. He had to stand on tiptoe so the palms of his hands could rest on the cold stone floor. His naked and vulnerable buttocks rested along the edge of the chest at a perfect angle to receive swats from the paddle.

It wasn’t necessary, because Alistair’s shirt tail had risen up his back, but Young Ferguson took hold of it and dragged it so that the shirt was now at the teenager’s shoulders. He was almost totally naked. Alistair was deeply suntanned across his whole body, except for a small area where swimming trunks had covered his buttocks, which was creamy-white. Ferguson ran his hand over Alistair’s cheeks, making gentle circular motions across the apex of each mound. The cheeks were tighter than some Young Ferguson had encountered in the past few days.

At last, he was ready to go. He lay the paddle across Alistair’s left cheek, raised it about two feet away from the flesh and brought it crashing down. It was all in the wrist action. Young Ferguson admired the red rectangle that instantly appeared. Alistair’s mouth opened and his lips formed an “owww,” but he uttered no sound.

By the fourth whack of the paddle, Alistair was starting to feel it. His bottom tingled. As the fifth and sixth blows landed he was surprised to find that the paddling was really hurting. The heat built into a terrific ache and each stinging new blow inflicted fresh torment. Involuntarily, his bottom wriggled and quivered.

Young Ferguson nailed Alistair’s bottom from one side to the other, up and down and down and up, taking the paddle under his cheeks and onto his thighs. That burned like the fires of hell. Young Ferguson whacked at ten second intervals. Suddenly, he stopped. Alistair lay across the chest unsure what to do next. At school the master would give a command. “Up,” or would say something like, “That’s it. It’s over,” but Young Ferguson remained silent. Then, Alistair felt his punisher’s hand caressing his backside. It reignited the pain in parts of his throbbing bum. Welts had risen and blood was trying to weep through where the paddle had repeatedly landed on the same spot.

At last Young Ferguson spoke; or rather, he croaked, “Okay. You’d better stand up.” Alistair hauled himself to a standing position. His bum ached like crazy. It had probably been one of the worst beatings he had ever endured. It had gone on and one. This had been no simple six-of-the-best. Six severe cuts and it was over. He hadn’t been counting, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the pervert had given him a hundred or more swats.

He retrieved his trousers and pants and very gingerly he dressed. Young Ferguson stood and watched him do it. He was wheezing, his body bent double. Alistair tried to see the front of his tormentor’s trousers, but Young Ferguson kept it hidden.

Without a word, Alistair left the storeroom. He knew Young Ferguson would not follow him. He wouldn’t return to the shop until he had masturbated. Alistair went behind the shop counter, found two quarter bottles of whisky and slid them into the pockets of his short trousers. He unlocked the door and left it wide open as he hurried down the street in the direction of school.

The prefects had given up waiting for latecomers. It was a lucky break. Alistair would not have been able to endure another spanking. He returned to his room to find his lover Rory naked on the bed, the cuts across his backside still raw.

“Macaulay,” he said in answer to a question Alistair had not asked. He rolled onto his stomach so his pal could have a better view. Alistair licked a finger and traced it across the six welts. “Pretty impressive,” he said cheerfully. “But, not a patch on this.”

He grinned hugely as he whipped down his short trousers and underpants to show Rory his savaged arse. His efforts were greeted by Rory’s swelling cock. Alistair’s dick saluted in solidarity. “I’ll tell you about it later,” he wheezed as he knelt by the side of the bed and put his lips around the tip of Rory’s magnificent spear.

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

The Spanking Vicar Part 1

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second