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.


Other stories you might like

The dope smoker

Foreign language student

Warren’s awakening



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

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