An early morning call

It started with a knock on the front door at six in the morning. John Aldermaster had already been up for an hour, seventy-five year olds didn’t need much sleep. He shuffled towards the door. His hip was bad and giving much pain.

Another knock, more urgent this time. “Police. Open up please.”

His arthritic fingers fumbled with the security chain, but soon the door was open. Two men stood on the doorstep; one old, one much younger. The old one showed him an ID card; said he was a detective sergeant. The other one was a detective constable. John Aldermaster didn’t hear their names too well.

The old detective spoke, “Are you John Albert Aldermaster, former geography teacher at St Dominic’s school?”

John Aldermaster heard that clear enough. “Yes, what’s this about?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions, may we come in?” He crossed the threshold before John Aldermaster could answer.

They settled in the kitchen. The former schoolmaster peered at his two visitors through half-seeing eyes. The old detective was balding, running to fat. He hadn’t shaved properly that morning. His face was pock-marked and lined. His clothes were crumpled. He looked very tired.

The young detective, some kind of trainee John Aldermaster assumed, had spiky fair hair; gelled. His hazel eyes sparkled, even at such an early hour. His open face shone, courtesy of copious amounts of “product.” His ruby lips turned up at the corners; he was a young man who loved to smile. His designer trousers fitted snugly at the waist and buttocks. Cute, John Aldermaster thought; in a boy-next-door kind of way.

The old detective started the questioning. “Do you know a Malcolm Driver, from nineteen-seventy-five. He was eighteen years old at the time. In the sixth-form?”

Nineteen-seventy-five, that was more than forty years ago. Of course, John Aldermaster didn’t remember. Sometimes he couldn’t even remember if he had eaten breakfast that day.

“No, what’s he supposed to have done?”

“It’s not what he has done, sir. It’s what he says you did,” the old detective sounded disinterested. Like he was just going through the motions. Routine questioning.

John Aldermaster said nothing, so the old detective filled the silence.

“Did you use corporal punishment at St Dominic’s?”

“Did I personally use corporal punishment, or was corporal punishment itself used at the school, sergeant?” John Aldermaster still retained a schoolmaster’s pedantry.

“Both, sir,” the old detective would not allow himself to be irritated.

John Aldermaster pondered. Yes, the cane had been used liberally, until the government banned it. That’s when the country started to go downhill. Look at the young men today running wild.

John Aldermaster would not disguise his irritation, “What is the purpose of this questioning?”

“Just answer the question, sir.” The old detective hated himself for saying that. It made him sound like one of those policemen off the television. It was a line straight out of Midsommer Murders.

It was a clichéd response, but it worked.

“The school used the cane, but only the headmaster and a few senior colleagues were permitted to administer corporal punishment.”

The old detective wriggled his buttocks on the hard kitchen chair. A memory of his own schooldays was stirring.

“Including, yourself, sir?”

“No, alas.”

“Alas.” The young detective made a mental note. Aloud, he said, “I’ll make some tea,” and he tested the kettle for water and lit the gas on the stove.

John Aldermaster watched the young detective as he rinsed out a brown teapot and opened the refrigerator in search of milk. Muscles in the young detective’s buttocks tightened as he stretched down for the milk carton.

The old detective ignored his colleague. He still had questions to ask. “Did you ever give corporal punishment unofficially. Off the books, as it were?”

“No, not at all.” He wanted to add, “What has Malcolm Driver been saying?” but he knew that question would take them to a dark corner.

The kettle whistled. The young detective made tea and placed three mugs on the kitchen table.

“Do you live here alone, Mr Aldermaster?” the young detective asked as if he really wanted to know. Like a new neighbour in the area might ask.

“No.” It was a curt reply.



“Ever married?”

“What business is it of yours?” John Aldermaster barked. He had been notorious at St Dominic’s for his short temper. The boys lived in fear of him. He did not suffer fools gladly.

The young detective made another mental note and blew into his mug of tea.

The old detective stretched his arms and yawned. Like he really couldn’t see the point of being there. This was a waste of everybody’s time. That’s what his body language said.

“Malcom says you would use a bedroom slipper on the boys,” the old detective said, almost in a monotone.

John Aldermaster stared. In former days his glare could quell a class of boisterous schoolboys at a dozen paces. Now, his eyes were dim, uncomprehending.


“He says you would use the geography department storeroom. He says you took him in there one day. He was eighteen and in the sixth-form. He says you took down his trousers and underpants and made him bend across your knee. He says you fondled his buttocks and his thighs and put your finger between his cheeks. He says you spanked him on his bare bottom with your slipper a dozen times. He says he had big red marks all over his buttocks.”

John Aldermaster’s face contorted with fury. His cheeks darkened. He struggled to contain his rage. “That seems a remarkably detailed account of something that supposedly happened more than forty years ago,” John Aldermaster dripped sarcasm.

“I should think I would remember if I was fondled and spanked on my bare bottom by a schoolmaster,” the young detective blurted. He blushed under his superior officer’s scowl.

“Can I use your toilet please Mr Aldermaster?” the young detective was already half way out the kitchen. John Aldermaster nodded weakly. If he had watched police shows on television, he would know the young detective was about to search the house.

John Aldermaster breathed deeply. Who was Malcolm Diver? Why couldn’t he remember him? What had he down to the boy in the past that he would make up these stories after so many years?

“I know what this is,” he said. “It’s that ‘historic sex abuse.’ I’ve seen it on the television. People making accusations of things that happened thirty or forty years ago. How can a person, how can I, defend myself against such allegations? It is just the word of one crazed or embittered individual.”

John Aldermaster gulped a mouthful of tea. There. That was that. The police would surely see sense now.

“We are following up a number of other allegations from boys at the school. Right the way through the nineteen-seventies, into the eighties,” the old detective sounded world-weary.

“Do you have a computer, sir?” the old detective was also seeking evidence.

“Computer? No, why should I have a computer?”

“No reason, sir,” the old detective sighed.

The young detective hurried into the kitchen with a huge grin on his face. The boy could really light up a room, John Aldermaster thought.

The young detective had a video case in his hand. He held it high so the old detective could see its cover. It was an all-male spanking video, The Sixth-Form at St Tucker’s.

The old detective rose from his seat. “I think we should continue this interview down at the station.”

Moments later, the young detective helped John Aldermaster struggle into his overcoat. Which one was Malcolm Diver, John Aldermaster wondered. He wished he could remember.


Other stories you might like


The drunken neighbour

The padded armchair

Bug on the wall



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

The boy in the tree

Ricky was the perfect teen. He had just graduated high school top of his class and was waiting to go on to an Ivy League university. He was an avid church attender and believed everything the elders said. He was helpful around the house and to neighbours. He wasn’t into “digging” Elvis Presley like his classmates. He preferred Frank Sinatra and the other records his parents played at home. He didn’t dress in tight, dirty jeans, nor grease his hair. He was always neat and tidy, preferring cotton slacks and sensible sweaters.

But, Ricky had a problem he couldn’t understand and there was nobody he could talk to about it. It was Mr Peters, a man who had moved into the street a couple of months previously. Mr Peters was about the same age as Ricky’s dad. A year or two younger, maybe. Ricky didn’t know too much about Mr Peters – he attended a different church and kept himself to himself in the neighbourhood.

Ricky couldn’t get Mr Peters out of his mind. It got so that Ricky would wait at his bedroom window to watch Mr Peters leave his house in the morning to walk to the railroad station. Then, Ricky would be back at the window in the evening to see him return.

Most people who passed Mr Peters in the street probably wouldn’t give him a second glance. He was average height. Average build. He had no “distinguishing marks” as the police might say. He dressed in sober grey suits. A different one each day, Ricky had noticed. Each one subtly changed from the next. One with a thin blue stripe; another with an almost unnoticeable check.

It was the way Mr Peters walked that impressed Ricky. Shoulders back. Straight spine. He took lengthy strides as though he had to be somewhere in a hurry. Ricky had no idea what employment Mr Peters had, but he would bet it was important. He looked like a man who gave orders. He was so different to Ricky’s dad. The eighteen-year-old labelled him a wimp.

Ricky had no way of talking to Mr Peters. Kids didn’t just walk up to adults and start conversations. It drove him crazy. He wanted to get close. He had dreams. Weird things happened in them. In one, Ricky lived with Mr Peters. He was some kind of houseboy. Mr Peters would order him about. Do this. Clean that. Sweep the yard. Ricky was a bit scared by it. The people at church had taught that boys his age would have dreams about girls and that they ought to control their thoughts. Ricky didn’t think he had ever dreamt about girls.

He started behaving badly. Ricky wasn’t proud of it, but he was getting desperate. After dark he would sneak out of the house and walk down the street and stand near Mr Peters’ home. Just standing. Watching. Frightened that Mr Peters might see him. What would Ricky say if he got caught?

As far as Ricky could see Mr Peters came home each night and spent the time alone. He had no family. No friends dropped by. Not even the neighbours. Ricky was a bit worried that they might spot him. Accuse him of spying. Or “casing the joint” as lurid detective shows on TV that he wasn’t allowed to watch would have it.

The street backed onto another street and Ricky took to standing against the fence of Mr Peters’ backyard. It was too high to see over, but sometimes he heard the sound of voices. It must be the television. Or the radio, he supposed. Ricky was a bright boy, but not always very observant. It took a couple of days before he noticed the tree.

It was a few yards back. But he realised at once that it looked into the yard and if Ricky could climb high enough he might just be able to see into the house. Ricky had never climbed a tree before. It couldn’t be that difficult could it? His younger brother Al was always going up them and he was a dumbass.

It was harder than it looked. He hugged the tree and pulled himself up. He lost his footing now and again, but got himself on a branch. He sat terrified that he might fall. Suddenly, a light went on behind an upstairs window. All fear evaporated. Ricky had a perfect view into the room. It looked like some kind of study. There was a big wooden desk and a bookcase. He couldn’t see the whole room. But, yep, Ricky thought it looked like a study.


The teen got the first surprise of the night. The figure he saw walking across the room wasn’t Mr Peters. It was someone he had never seen before. A young man. Not much more than a boy really. No older than Ricky probably.

He watched perched precariously on the branch. The boy walked to the desk. Without hesitating, he bent down and tugged open a drawer. His rear end obscured Ricky’s view. It was quite a narrow butt, the teenager in the tree observed. His jeans fitted tightly, across the cheeks and all the way down his legs. He wore a faded leather jacket and when he stood up Ricky saw he had thick black hair greased into a quiff. The boy pulled something from the drawer, closed it, and left the room leaving the light on as he went.

Ricky’s pulse quickened. Who was that boy? How come he had never seen him before? In all the days Ricky had snooped on Mr Peters he had never had a sniff of a visitor. He thoughts were broken by a movement in the room below. It was some kind of living room. Ricky saw only half of it. There was a large leather couch, a dining room table and two wooden chairs. Mr Peters rose from the couch as the boy entered. Words were exchanged. The boy looked discomforted.

Ricky stared open-mouthed. Astonished. He would never have guessed what would happen next. Not in a million years. This could not be happening. Things would never be the same after this.

The boy handed Mr Peters a wooden paddle. From where he clung onto the tree, it looked like an ordinary paddle to Ricky, the kind that you could find in any school. Mr Peters grasped it in his right hand as if testing its weight. His fist gripped it tightly as he swung it through the air. The boy looked on apprehensively.

More words were spoken. Mr Peters did all the talking. The boy, the listening. And the obeying. Mr Peters stood with a ram-rod back, swiping the paddle menacingly through the air as he gave his orders.

Meekly, the boy unzipped his jacket and pulled it from his shoulders. He hesitated, as if unsure what to do next, before he let it drop onto the table. Mr Peters sat on the couch. He wriggled his hips and legs until his back rested against the solid leather. Then came another instruction.

Salvia drained from Ricky’s mouth. His breathing quickened. He watched as the boy reached to his own belt and unbuckled it. Ricky’s eyes transfixed as the boy unbuttoned his blue jeans and let them fall down his thighs to his knees. Then, the boy parted his legs and gravity took the jeans down until they rested on his sneakers.

The boy moved into the room and out of Ricky’s view. Ricky cursed silently and shifted his buttocks along the branch. He was as close to the end as he could get. Then, the boy came back into view. He stood in front of Mr Peters, hesitated a mere moment, and then hitched his thumbs into the waist of his shorts. With minimal effort he had the shorts on top of his Levi’s. In one continuous athletic movement, he lowered himself over Mr Peters’ lap and adjusted his position until his head rested on the couch seat cushion and his legs spread out behind him. In this way, he was prone across the couch with his buttocks raised over the old man’s thigh.

The boy folded his arms and buried his head in them. He was perfectly positioned to receive the first swat of the paddle. But, Mr Peters was not ready. Ricky felt an unusual stirring in his underwear as he watched Mr Peters grip the boy’s white tee-shirt and pull it up his back towards the shoulders. Now, the boy was almost completely naked. Mr Peters seemed satisfied. He wrapped his left arm around the boy’s waist and held him tightly. The paddle rose, hovered in the air for a moment and came crashing down across the middle of both cheeks. From his distance, Ricky could not hear the smack! the wood made as it connected with force against the boy’s hard naked buttocks. But, he saw the boy raise his head and shake it around before, as if shamed by his action, he settled his face back into his arms.

The paddle hammered the buttocks rat-a-tat-tat. Rapidly. Like machinegun fire. The boy wriggled and writhed. He bucked. He kicked. Mr Peters held him forcibly across the waist. The boy bit deep into his bare arms as his tormentor toasted his naked buttocks. Ricky lost count after twenty swats. They came so quickly it was impossible to keep a tally. On and on the spanking continued.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. Mr Peters rested the paddle on the couch cushion. The boy wheezed. Ricky had no experience of these things, but he knew the boy was in considerable pain. The boy lay still, regaining his composure.  Mr Peters caressed the boy’s roasted flesh. Small, circular motions. Lovingly. He raised his hand high and slapped his palm into the blistered butt just as hard as he had with the wooden paddle.

Ricky’s dick pressed against his slacks. It had never throbbed so much. The bulge dug into the tree branch. He needed to move position. Just then, the spanking finished. This time for real. Mr Peters released his grip and the boy slowly rose from his prone position. He stood in front of Mr Peters with his back to Ricky and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping from one foot to the other. The boy turned his body slightly and Ricky saw it. Never before had he seen anything like it. It was huge. Even from such a distance. The boy’s boner would have graced a stallion.

Ricky heard a snap, the tree branch wobbled. He stretched his arms out for balance. He saw Mr Peters take hold of the boy’s cock and pull him roughly toward him.

There was an almighty crack and Ricky tumbled to the ground. Winded. He stared up at the broken branch. His back hurt. He panicked. Was it busted?. Gingerly, he wriggled his toes. They worked. He did the same with his fingers.

A door in the fence opened. Ricky saw a pair of house shoes and beige pants. Mr Peters towered above him. The old man frowned. “You’re the Draper kid aren’t you?”

Ricky gasped. The man knew his name. How? Why?

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you spying on my house,” Mr Peters smiled faintly. Ricky blushed. Unsure what to do next. Should he run? Mr Peter’s reached down and offered him an arm. “Come on you. We have business.”

Ricky halted. Business?

“You. Come with me.” The voice was authoritarian. Just as Ricky had dreamt. Mr Peters released his grip on Ricky’s arm and transferred it to his left ear. That way, he dragged the teen through the back yard and into the house. The boy in the jeans was dressed once more. He stood, a sneer splitting his face. He examined Ricky from the top of his clean short cut hair, down his red old-man’s sweater to his brown slacks.

“Who’s the mommy’s boy?”

“He’s a spy. That’s who he is.” Mr Peters released his grip on Ricky’s ear. “Don’t move,” he barked. Ricky stood transfixed. Mr Peters reached to the table and picked up the paddle he had earlier used to blister the boy’s butt.

“You know what must happen now, don’t you?” It was a statement disguised as a question. Ricky stared in awe at the paddle in the grip of his masterful neighbour; the man he had dreamt of so many times.

There was still time to run. He could be out the room and through the front door in seconds. Mr Peters would never chase him into the street. He couldn’t afford for his neighbours to know what went on in his home.

“Bend over the table.” It was a clear command. One that Mr Peters expected to be obeyed. Ricky’s cock twitched. His temples pulsed. Blood rushed north, south, east and west through his arteries. His mouth dried.

In his mind, he counted to three. One. Two. Three. Then, he turned and lowered himself across the table.


Other stories you might like

 The house across the street

The sting in the tail

Brocklehurst Crammer



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second



Running in their pants


“Oh, the young scamps. They deserve to have their bottoms spanked.”

“Colonel, they are nineteen years old. They are too old to be considered ‘scamps.’”

“Oh, you take it too seriously vicar. It was just a bit of boyish fun. Take their trousers down, put them across your knee and redden their bums with your slipper.”

“Too seriously! They ran around the churchyard naked. In broad daylight!”

“Yes, as I say: boyish fun. Besides they were not naked. As I understand it they were wearing underpants.”

“Well, as good as naked.”

“Not really. Was it really very different than wearing swimming trunks?”

“Well it is public indecency.”

“Is it man? Is it really?”

“Pah! So you condone their behaviour?”

“No, I’ve already said they deserve to have their bottoms spanked. What would you have me do? Do you want the police informed?”

“Well, no perhaps not.”

“Your slipper vicar, your slipper.”

“But they’re your son and your nephew …”

“You have my permission vicar. Spank the blighters’ bottoms.”

In a room close by Sid and Colin were in conversation.

“What do you think they’re saying?”

“Well you know the guv’nor, he hates the Church.”

“So, he’s on our side?”

“Shouldn’t think so for a minute.”

The boys sat back in plush leather armchairs and lapsed into companionable silence.

It had been because of girls, of course. That and the weed they had all been smoking. There wasn’t much else for young people to do in the village, except to drink and take drugs. And, have sex. The boys had been desperate to get into the knickers of Alice and Mary. Either one would do. Sid could have Alice and Colin, Mary. Or the other way around, it really didn’t matter. A cop off was a cop off. Any girl would do. The boys were desperate to have sex; preferably, as Colin liked to joke, with another person present.

They reckoned the girls were up for it, especially once the cannabis had kicked in. Colin couldn’t remember the details, but he thought the girls had dared them. Run naked around the churchyard. Totally in the buff. The boys hadn’t been that high. They wimped out. They stripped to their briefs instead. Just their luck: the vicar emerged from the church in time to see two teenaged boys “streaking” down the drive.

The rest was history.

“D’you think he’ll beat us?”

“Certain to. The guv’nor still keeps that cane in the drawer in the library.”

“Esssshh … He’ll take our arses off with that thing. I couldn’t sit down properly for days last time.”

Rev Jones walked towards the front door of the manor. He hoped he hid his disappointment. The Colonel’s views on corporal punishment were well known in the county. If he had his way, the juvenile delinquents who regularly appeared before him at the magistrates’ court would be sentenced to a bare-arsed birching. He fervently believed in the liberal use of the whippy rattan cane in both the school and home. The vicar had expected the Colonel to thrash Sid and Colin. It was no more than they deserved. But no. The Colonel must be getting soft in his old age.

The vicar also liked the idea of corporal punishment. He would have gladly been a witness to the two nineteen year olds bent over a leather armchair, trousers and underpants at their feet, while the Colonel thrashed their naked buttocks with a stout, but whippy, cane. He was getting quite breathless at the thought of it.

He had never himself inflicted corporal punishment on a boy. He was unmarried and naturally childless. There were one or two of his choirboys who, he fervently believed, would benefit from a soundly spanked backside, but it would not be wise for him to make good on his belief. Now, he had a choice. He could allow the two sinners to escape punishment, or, as the Colonel instructed, he could spank their bottoms red. What should he do?

Houghton, the manservant held the door open. The vicar thanked him and started to descend the stone steps. He stopped. His mind was made up. “Houghton, please tell master Sid and master Colin that the colonel has instructed they visit me at the vicarage at one o’clock sharp.” With that, he skipped down the steps.

The vicarage was a large house, far too big for one person, so he rented out three bedrooms to students at the nearby agricultural college. His lodgers should be at classes, so he would not be disturbed. He went to his bedroom to collect his slippers and took them down to the kitchen where he made himself a pot of tea. He drank three cups to settle his nerves.

He would do the deed in his private sitting room, he thought. There was a good solid wooden armless chair in there. He could instruct the miscreants to bend across its back. Or, should he put them across his knee, as the Colonel suggested? What if they refused to be punished? They were nineteen years old, after all. They were young men, not children. Oh, the vicar sighed, it would be too humiliating if they told him where to get off and then walked out of the vicarage.

Sid and Colin guessed their fate the moment Houghton delivered the vicar’s message. With heavy hearts they trudged through the village. They arrived early, so they sat on gravestones and smoked cigarettes.

“Shame we haven’t got any weed.”

“Yep, it would help dull the pain.”

“I wonder how hard the vicar canes?”

“Can’t be as bad as the guv’nor.”

“No, nothing’s as bad as that.”

At one o’clock sharp, Colin rang the ornate doorbell. He was surprised that the door opened immediately. Rev Jones had been waiting anxiously for their arrival. The vicar was a little over six feet tall and rectangular in build. He peered at Sid and Colin through half moon  glasses. His face was flabby and florid. His dome was nearly completely bald. He was perspiring freely, although it wasn’t a particularly warm afternoon.

“Come in boys,” the vicar croaked. He led the way to the sitting room. He had never punished a boy before, nor even reprimanded one for poor behaviour.  He supposed a lecture was in order. He was used to giving sermons, so launched into a homily about nakedness. Sid and Colin stood awkwardly as he prattled on. They didn’t mind the diversion. Neither was in much of a hurry to be thrashed with the vicar’s cane.

At last he got to the point. “So you must be punished.” Both boys held their breath. Just how much was this going to hurt? Rev Jones reached down and gripped a bedroom slipper in his hand. “I am going to spank you with this slipper.”

The boys exchanged glances, each trying not to break into a broad smile. A slippering. They had expected to have their arses ripped to shreds by the Colonel’s cane. Now, all they had to endure was a soft bedroom slipper. A spanking with that would hardly tingle their bums.

The vicar’s already florid complexion deepened. He sat on the large wooden chair and spread his legs. He was finding it hard to catch his breath. The room seemed oppressively hot. “You first Colin,” he waved his slipper at the nineteen-year-old, who obediently stepped forward and stood patiently a yard to the right of the vicar’s lap, staring down at his dowdy grey flannel trousers. But, the instruction he expected did not come.

“Should I take down my jeans, vicar?” he asked brightly. Rev Jones’ face burned scarlet. “Oh, well, yes, of course, indeed,” he babbled. With ease, Colin unbuckled his belt and released the catch at the top of his Levis. With the zipper down, they slipped to his knees. He parted his legs a little to help them complete their journey to his feet. He waited again for an instruction and when again it was not forthcoming, he nevertheless lowered himself across the vicar’s lap.

The vicar’s heart raced at the sight. A fit nineteen-year-old man was laid face down across his lap. He wasn’t as heavy as the vicar imagined he might be. Calmly, Colin stretched his arms ahead of him and placed the palms of his hands flat against the carpet. He wasn’t a tall boy and behind him the toes of his trainers barely touched the ground. His bottom, covered in navy blue trunks, rested on the vicar’s right leg; he could feel the boy’s cock pressing down into him. Colin’s pullover and shirt had risen up a little, exposing an area of bare back.

Colin’s bottom was a bit wobbly when he stood, but in this over-the-knee position it tightened. The vicar noticed the boy’s pants were a little tight. The cotton fitted like a second skin and sank into the crack between his two cheeks.

Colin waited patiently for the spanking to begin. What was keeping the vicar? At last he felt a movement in the Reverend’s body and the slipper hit him in the centre of his left cheek. He hardly felt a thing. Nor did he when the slipper connected with his right buttock. Then, there was a pause. He looked down at the grey carpet, puzzled. What was the vicar doing? Reverend Jones pushed the boy an inch or two further over his knee and closed his own legs. Then, he resumed the spanking.

Twelve times the slipper smacked into Colin’s bum. The vicar found a rhythm and smacked the slipper into his rear with some force. But, it was only a soft bedroom slipper and Colin was a nineteen-year-old boy with a considerably corporal punishment track record. The vicar’s slipper was no match for him.

Eventually, he climbed off Rev Jones’s lap. His bum hurt a little, but it wasn’t much more than a tingle. Even so, he clasped his buttocks with his two hands and rubbed. He thought he owed it to the vicar to at least pretend that he had been punished sufficiently. And, he certainly didn’t want word to get back to the guv’nor that the spanking had been inadequate.

Colin was doing up his belt when the vicar rose hurriedly from his chair and dashed from the room. The two boys watched in confusion as he took the stairs two at a time and rushed into the bathroom.

“That didn’t hurt did it?”

“No, but I bet my bottom’s red.”

Colin lowered his trousers and pants and together they inspected the damage. Both bum cheeks were a darker pink and the outline of the slipper was clearly visible in two places, but the tingling had already vanished and in a few minutes there would be no evidence that he had been spanked.

It was at least fifteen minutes before the vicar returned. He had changed his trousers and now wore chocolate brown corduroys. He seemed very ill at ease. He gave no explanation for his absence, sat down on the chair, and summoned Sid across his knee.


Other stories you might like

The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

A preacher teaches humility

The vicar delivers



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Secret in the loft

Blake and Nigel stood at the entrance to the garage and peered inside. The light was not good but they could see clear enough that everything was neat and tidy.

Mr Mandelson was eighty-two. He had recently been taken to Brocklehurst Nursing Home: he wouldn’t be coming back. His granddaughter had asked them to look in the garage and the loft. If there was anything worth selling it could go to the Red Cross. The rest would go on the town dump.

Blake and Nigel were eighteen years old and had been best friends all their lives. They were both only children; Nigel had no father to speak of. He had run away just after Nigel was born. Blake and Nigel were like brothers.

Something had been troubling Nigel for some time. He had probably known it for years but only now could he admit it to himself. He was gay. He was sure of it and more than a little scared. He couldn’t tell his best pal; it would be the end of the friendship for sure. Blake often made jokes about “faggots” of the “backs to the walls, guys!” variety.

There had been one kid at school when they were thirteen. They treated him unmercifully because they thought he was a fruit. The kid moved home and they never heard of him again. He probably wasn’t gay, Nigel now realised, but he was wet.

Nigel often dreamt about Blake. In the dreams they weren’t doing much, just lying in bed cuddling. But it was always enough to make sure Nigel woke in the morning with sticky bedsheets. Sometimes there was more to his fantasies. Only the previous night Nigel had dreamt he and Blake were at Blake’s home. Blake’s dad had his son across his knee. Blake’s soccer shorts were at his ankles and his briefs at the knees. Blake couldn’t remember what crime the two teens had committed; probably drinking beer, that was frowned upon in their community.

Nigel watched as Blake’s dad spanked his son with the flat of his hand. Hard and rapidly. Nigel was transfixed by his friend’s naked backside and how the flesh wobbled with the impact of each slap. Blake wasn’t fat; far from it, but his buttocks had a lot of meat.

Nigel didn’t get the chance to go over Blake’s dad’s knee for his turn – he had already shot his load and the dream ended.

The two boys stepped inside the garage. At the far end there was an old chest freezer. It was empty. On the wall were neatly hung DIY tools and in a corner, garden equipment. And that was it. They could probably send it all to the Red Cross.

They went inside the house. Nigel held the ladder steady as his pal climbed into the loft. It wasn’t really necessary but it gave Nigel an excuse to look at his friend’s bum close up as he climbed the rungs. It was a meaty bum and it looked all the better in the tight soccer shorts Blake wore – just like the ones in Nigel’s dreams.

Nigel was also dressed in sport shorts and a tee-shirt. They expected it would be hot and dirty in the loft. Soon they were both safely inside. Blake found a switch and the room was brightly illuminated. It was as neat and tidy as the garage. In one corner under a dust sheet were a pile of boxes and in the centre of the room was a large heavy wooden trunk, the kind posh people used to use in the olden days when they travelled.

Blake carefully removed the dust sheet and opened the first box. “Old films,” he said holding up a reel of 8-mm film. He unravelled the end, drew out a yard of celluloid and held it to the light. “Looks like a school.”

Nigel shrugged his shoulders. “They might be home movies. We should give them to his granddaughter.”

Blake opened the other boxes. There was not much to interest him. There were a lot of ancient school text books. One had a map of the world.

“Not much here, what’s in the trunk?”

“It’s locked,” Nigel replied. “I’ll go get something from the garage, we can break it open.” With that he climbed out the loft.

Blake unfurled the map. Most of the countries were coloured pink. Idly, he rummaged through the books. They were geography mostly, from the nineteen-thirties. Had Mr Mandelson been a schoolteacher, he wondered.

Nigel soon returned with a hammer and chisel. It took a couple of whacks to smash the padlock. He wiped dust from the top of the heavy chest. “Perhaps it’s full of pirate treasure. Gold and jewels, Jim lad,” Blake joked, mimicking Long John Silver.

Both boys stood over the trunk in eager anticipation as Nigel eased it open. “Hmm,” he wheezed thoughtfully. “School uniform.” He reached in and carefully lifted a green blazer with gold trimmings. “St Francis Grammar,” he read the name on the badge on the pocket. He unfolded it and held it in his two hands.

“It’s a bit big,” Blake took the blazer from his friend and slipped his arms into it. It hung from his shoulders and the sleeves came half way down his palm. “Boys must have been pretty big in his days,” he said. Nigel frowned silently. Surely, he thought, people in the old days were smaller, not larger. He had learnt it in school. It was something to do with diets.

Blake took off the blazer and carefully placed it on the dustsheet. Nigel removed another blazer from the trunk. This one was red and white and had the letters PGS on the blazer pocket. It was equally as large as the green one. He placed it on the dustsheet. A third blazer was navy blue. Its pocket badge had an image of two curved handled school canes crossed into an “X” over the words “Brocklehurst Grange.”

He held it up for Blake to see. He got a quizzical look from his pal in return. “What the buggery!” Nigel exclaimed. He had just seen a pair of mid-grey short trousers in the trunk. He reached inside and realised there were three pairs, all short and each in a different style.

“Wah-hoo!” Blake yelled. His face lit up and without a second’s hesitation he pulled down his soccer shorts and took the grey school short trousers from Nigel. He stepped into them and pulled them up. They had a half elastic waist and fitted him rather loosely. He put one hand on his hip and sashayed around the loft, rather as he imagined models would do on a cat walk.

Nigel watched him cautiously. His pal looked gorgeous in the grey short trousers. They came down to just above his knees and his bum was hidden in folds of cloth, but he was still sex on a stick. Nigel felt his cock tighten. He placed his hands in front of his crotch. The soccer shorts he was wearing were tight, it would be impossible to hide it if his soldier went on the march.

Nigel pulled out a Boy Scout uniform, pairs of knee socks that matched the colours of the blazers, a couple of school caps and an assortment of ties. Silently, he piled them on the dustsheet. He had seen some other things in the trunk. Things that he didn’t want to think about.

Blake took the initiative. His heart thumped so loudly he was sure Nigel would hear it echoing around the small loft. First he took out an old worn white gym plimsoll. Then a small block of wood with a handle on it. This was followed by a leather strap cut into two tails at one end. Finally, two whippy rattan canes emerged.

The boys looked at each other dumbfounded. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years before they were born and despite Nigel’s dream dads did not spank their sons these days, no matter how much they might deserve it. Even so, they immediately knew what all these implements were for. They stared at them in silence for some moments.

Then, Blake cracked. He picked up a rattan cane just below its crooked handle and swished it viciously through the air. “Bend over Thompson. Touch your toes,” he growled as schoolmasters across the generations were wont to do. Nigel giggled uneasily. His cock was twitching again. Blake swiped the cane again. “I said ‘Bend over Thompson’ it’s six-of-the-best for you.” He set his face into a scowl.

“God, yes please!” Nigel didn’t say it aloud, but at that moment he would willingly submit to his masterful pal. Blake was no taller or stronger than Nigel, but when he wanted to, he had a presence. You wouldn’t want to get on Blake’s bad side.

The cane flew through empty space once more. “Bend over Thompson.”

Nigel could not meet his friend’s eye. Was he serious? Would he really hit him with that stick? It was a little over three feet long and as thick as a pencil. When Blake swished it about it looked awesome. A caning would hurt terrifically.

Nigel lent forward and stretched his fingers so they rested on the toes of his trainers. He could feel the cotton of his shorts tighten across his buttocks. He closed his eyes tight, this was going to hurt awfully, but he wanted it. He wanted his best pal, and the subject of his wet dreams, to punish him.

He felt Blake “saw” the cane across the centre of his buttocks. He was taking his aim. Any moment now, Nigel shuddered in delightful anticipation. The cane lifted away from his bum and returned a second later and tapped into his backside. That was it? That was supposed to be a stroke of the cane? Nigel was bitterly disappointed. He stayed in position waiting for stroke number two.

When he realised it wasn’t coming, he stood up. He couldn’t control his dismay. “Do it properly. Give me a proper caning. Like you meant it.” He couldn’t believe he had said it out loud. He had asked his best friend to thrash his arse. Properly. Like the headmaster of St Francis Grammar, or whoever pretended to be him, beat Mr Mandelson and his pals.

Without waiting for a response, Nigel turned away from Blake and resumed his position, back arched, legs apart, tips of fingers on toes.

Blake had never seen a boy caned before, he didn’t know how it should be done. He let instinct take over. He stared down at Nigel’s bum. The white soccer shorts were so tight he could see the outline of his underpants beneath them. In his touching toes position, there was a small area to aim at. If a caning was to be “proper” it had to be delivered with some force. The caner had to put some beef into it. So, that’s what Blake did. He whacked a cut across the middle of both buttocks and was rewarded with a yelp from Nigel. Then he struck five more times.

Nigel was gasping and yelping and wriggling and writhing. The caning hurt like crazy. His bum was throbbing like mad. He wanted to jump up and rub the pain away. But, he couldn’t. He couldn’t because he didn’t want Blake to see. He didn’t want Blake to see he couldn’t take an old-fashioned schoolboy caning. More than that, he didn’t want Blake to see the tent-pole-like erection at the front of his shorts.

The six-of-the-best was over, but Nigel remained bent over touching toes. Blake was wheezing a bit himself. “No that’s enough,” Blake said, supposing his best friend wanted him to continue thrashing him. “For now, at least …” he trailed off.

Reluctantly, Nigel stood, trying to keep his back to Blake as he rubbed his aching bum.

“C’mon, shorts down, let me see,” Blake grinned. He reached over to grab the waist of Nigel’s shorts. Then he saw the massive bulge. He roared with laughter. His own cock was also standing on end, but hidden by his loose-fitting school short trousers.


He pulled Nigel’s shorts and pants down, releasing the throbbing cock. Then, in a single movement, he had his own short trousers and tighty-whitey pants at his ankles. The two eighteen-year-olds stared at each other’s aching members. Blake was still working on instinct. He fell to his knees and took the end of Nigel’s cock into his mouth. He ran his tongue around the tip and up and down an inch of the shaft. Nigel yelped, when Blake gripped his buttocks, reigniting the pain from the caning. He thrust his hips backward and forward as if he were trying to fuck Blake’s mouth. His pal gagged and let the cock slip from his lips.

Nigel grabbed Blake’s dick and inexpertly ran his fist up and down the shaft. “Careful, careful,” Blake winced. “Do it just as if you were tossing yourself off. Gently.” His pal resumed. Slowly.

Downstairs, the front door opened and closed. Mr Mandelson’s granddaughter had arrived to see how well the boys were doing.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The thieving nephew


Zachary’s uncle sat in a straight-backed chair, a belt hanging limply from his hand. His aunt stood by his side, arms folded across her bosom. The old man’s face was set firm. Determined. His intention was clear. He was going to spank Zachary’s backside. Zachary blinked, bewildered. He was twenty-two years old.

The young man’s faced glowed. He had never been spanked before. Never. Nobody he knew ever had been. This was 2016, that sort of thing ended in the fifties. Surely that was so, Zachary thought. He felt his aunt’s glare burning into him. Unnerved, he stared down at the beige carpet beneath his feet. This could not be happening. It just couldn’t. Nothing in his whole life’s experience had prepared him for this.

Through the corner of his eye he saw his uncle shift his buttocks on the chair. He spread his knees, preparing a platform for Zachary to bend across. Uncle’s impatience was showing. He wanted to get this over with. He would truck no nonsense from his nephew. He must submit himself to discipline. It was uncle’s house. His rules. His way or the highway.

Zachary didn’t need telling that. He had been staying with Uncle Frank and Aunt Marie for more than three months. He had no choice. He had graduated with a first-class honours degree in film production from one of the top schools in the country. Now, desperate to become a director, he was working as an unpaid intern at Global Pictures, a world leader. That was where the trouble with Uncle Frank started. Unpaid. No money.

It was typical of the business these days. Youngsters eager to make their way had to work without pay; for months. Years sometimes.

Zachary could afford no rent, so his uncle and aunt opened up their home to him. He thought it extraordinarily generous. How naïve. He didn’t know it; his mum and dad were paying for his keep. Zachary supposed he had no choice. Obey Uncle Frank’s demands or leave. Leave the home. The internship. Give up his dreams.

A young man cannot live on fresh air. He needed money. Without a way to earn an income, he took to pilfering. At first Aunt Marie didn’t notice the small amounts of cash missing from her purse. Zachary felt no remorse. Like so many of his generation he thought the world owed him a living. Damn it, he thought, he was working for nothing, wasn’t that enough. His aunt was no pauper. She owned a hair salon. She wasn’t short of a few bob.

The recriminations were long-drawn out. How could you? We brought you into our home. We trusted you. Blah, blah, blah. Zachary wasn’t impressed. That was then. This was now.

“Look at me, Zachary,” his uncle was firm. In charge. He knew what was required. This might be his nephew’s first spanking, but the old man was something of an expert. Just ask his own sons. Fine young men. Disciplined. Making their way in the world. At least Uncle Frank assumed so. He hadn’t seen or heard from either of them in years.

Reluctantly, Zachary drew his eyes away from the carpet. Aunt Marie pursed her lips, like she was sucking sherbet. Her clear hazel eyes shone, her contempt evident. Uncle Frank straightened his back, took the belt in two hands and carefully folded it into two. It was now a wide leather strap about a foot long. It would make a mighty effective weapon. Zachary stared at it.

“Take down those jeans. Underpants too.”

Zachary’s heart thumped. He couldn’t catch his breath. His temples throbbed. The back of his eyes dampened.

“B …” bewildered, he started a protest. Words would not form. What could he say? He was a thief. Caught red-handed. Convicted. And, now sentenced. Within moments the punishment would be delivered.

“Quickly.” Another firm order from Uncle Frank. “I don’t have all day.”

“But.” This time a word did escape his lips. Zachary nodded at Aunt Marie. His face blushed deeper. He wanted to plead. No. No please don’t spank me. Not in front of Aunt Marie.

Rooted. He couldn’t move. Tears wetted his eyes. In time they would be cascading down his cheeks.

“Doh!” Uncle Frank leaned across and pulled Zachary forward by the waistband. Within seconds he had his nephew’s belt unbuckled. A tug at the zip fly and the front of his jeans were open. It seemed to Zachary like an out of body experience. This was happening to somebody else. His denims and briefs were at his knees. His cock and balls dangled in front of Aunt Marie. A flicker of a smile creased her puckered lips.

Zachary had inherited his mother’s genes. Everyone noticed his piercing blue eyes and dark hair. His cheekbones were high and a boyish dimple formed when he smiled. His athletic build was natural. Aunt Marie had long admired his strong defined chest and narrow waist. His legs were strong, slender and hairy. His appendage was exactly as she had imagined.

Uncle Frank grabbed his twenty-two-year-old nephew by the arm and pulled him over his knees so that he was dangling, feet and head both off the ground. Zachary threw his hand behind him, desperately trying to cover his naked buttocks. He heard his uncle sigh as the old man gripped his wrist and held it tightly in the small of his back.

Zachary sensed his aunt move a pace. Oh, my God, she can see right into my crack. For a moment, his naked humiliation filled his thoughts. But not for long. He felt his uncle move, the belt hovered over Zachary’s bum. Seconds later he heard an explosion. After a moment, he felt the fire ignite across his bared bottom. There was another explosion, then another.

The first crack of leather on skin was deafening, but Zachary had no chance to appreciate it, since that it was immediately followed by another, and then another. His uncle was beating out a rhythm on his backside. Zachary made no sound at all. He stayed fairly still, except for reflex jerking from the force of impact of belt against buttock.

The young man wasn’t keeping time. It felt like an age. Staring down at the carpet; pinned across his uncle’s knee while a leather belt rose and crashed, then rose and crashed again into his firm naked flesh. For about two minutes there was no noise except for the continuous thwack, smack, of the leather. Then Zachary started to twitch. Then hiss, a low noise, through his teeth. He was trying to keep his breathing steady.

A minute later, he started to groan. Then, “Ow, ow, ow.” At five minutes it became more vocal. Louder. Low-pitched yelping. It took a full seven minutes for Zachary to start crying. From way down deep. The hand behind his back was still pinned up near his shoulders. With his other hand he gripped his uncle’s trouser leg. It did nothing to relieve the pain.

Zachary was bawling his eyes out, crying harder than he had ever done in his life. Crying not only because of the pain his uncle was inflicting with every lick but also crying for getting himself in this situation. He would never, ever steal again.

Then it was over. Zachary lay sobbing, trying to catch his breath. His uncle dropped the belt to the floor beside him and rubbed his nephew’s scorched cheeks. The once creamy-white buttocks were deep crimson. Dozens of stripes covered the bum and the backs of Zachary’s legs. The young man now able to lie without squirming, brought his face to touch his uncle’s legs and bawled like a whipped puppy.

Aunt Marie, her face as flushed as Zachary’s, quietly left the room. Moments later she was locked in the bathroom.

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Old Dud and the wrought iron gate


Mr Dudley glowered at the schoolroom full of sixth-form pupils. Somebody was whispering. He could hear but he could not see. The sound appeared to be coming from somewhere near the back.

He peered through rounded eye glasses; his side whiskers bristled. Important examinations were due, the boys should be studying hard, not engaging in tomfoolery.

“Buchan, what are you doing?” Mr Dudley’s voice rasped sharply, jarring the generally studious atmosphere in the small, airless schoolroom.

“What were you doing, Buchan?” repeated Mr Dudley sternly.

Ronald Alan Francis Buchan glanced up, somewhat startled and confused. Now, all eyes in the room had turned from text-books toward RAF Buchan.

“I was whispering, sir,” Ronald confessed.

“Oh, was that all?” Mr Dudley, commonly known by his pupils as “Old Dud,” demanded sarcastically.

“Yes, sir.”

“To whom were you whispering?”

“To Johnstone, Sir”

Old Dud stood from his uncomfortable wooden chair and pulled his worn black academic gown tightly around his body. He glared at Ronald. The other boys sat silently, ready to enjoy the sideshow that was unfolding before them.

“If I am intruding on no confidences, what were you whispering about?” Old Dud sneered.

“I …” began Ronald, and then his face turned scarlet under the curious gaze of his fellow sixth-formers. “I was telling Johnstone a funny story.”

“Do you think it was very funny?” inquired Old Dud.

Ronald felt his hands shake. He was not a boy who dealt well with confrontation. He wished he had kept his mouth shut. “The story? Yes, Sir.”

The broad grin that promptly spread over “Johnny” Johnstone’s face seemed to confirm Ronald’s claim. It had been a funny story.

Old Dud stared wildly. His eyes could resemble saucers when his ire was raised. Before him sat fifteen eighteen-year-old boys. Many would consider them young adults, but legally they did not become that until there reached the age of twenty-one. Even so, they should behave maturely, Old Dud considered. Instead RAF Buchan was behaving like the most junior boy in the school. Well, Old Dud decided, if that’s the way he wanted it.

“Buchan, you may rise in your seat and tell the story to the whole class, myself included. On this dull, rainy day I feel certain that we all need a good laugh.”

A smile that grew to a titter in some quarters of the room greeted Ronald as he struggled half-shamefacedly to his feet.

“Go on with the story,” encouraged Old Dud. “Or, rather, begin at the beginning. That’s the right way to serve up a story.”

“I… I’d rather not tell the story, Sir,” Ronald protested.

“Why not?” demanded the schoolmaster sharply.

“Well, because, Sir … I’d rather not. That’s all.”

Old Dud often employed a grilling way of questioning to make his young charges squirm before the class. Whispering, in itself, was not a criminal offence, yet it often had a bad effect on the discipline of a schoolroom, and of late Old Dud had been much annoyed by whisperers.

“So you won’t tell us all that choice story, eh, Buchan?” insisted the schoolmaster as a hint of a smile played at his lips.

“On account of its being such a very personal one I’d rather not, Sir,” Ronald stared at the bare wooden floorboard beneath his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back; he could not get them to stop shaking. “I might hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Too bad!” murmured Old Dud. “And just after we had all been enlivened by the hope of hearing something really funny! I know your rare quality of humour, Buchan, and I had promised myself a treat,” Old Dud dripped sarcasm. “My own disappointment in the matter may be cured, but what about the boys of this class? I know that they are all still eager to hear a really funny story.”

Old Dud paused, glancing impressively about the room. Ronald shifted first to one foot and then to the other. His cheeks, temples and forehead were aflame.

“Buchan,” the schoolmaster glowered, “the class shall not be deprived of its expected treat. I will tell a story, and I think you will find some of the elements of humour in it. Will you kindly step this way?”

Ronald went forward. He failed miserably to look defiant. He held his head up and threw out his chest as a titter ran around the room.

“Stand right here beside me,” coaxed Old Dud. He moved his chair so that it stood between his desk and his pupils. Then, he turned to the desk, leant forward and opened a drawer. The silence in the schoolroom was intense. Every boy present knew what was kept in that drawer. Old Dud withdrew a long, narrow leather strap. It was old and worn and had seen much action. He held it between his hands as if seeing it for the first time. It was about eighteen inches long and the “business” end was divided into two tails. It was extremely heavy and it stung his palm when experimentally he smacked it into his hand.

He sat on the straight-backed armless chair. Ronald stood crestfallen by his side. “Now, let me see if I can remember the story. Yes; I believe I can. It runs something like this.”

It was a very ordinary story that had to do with a boy’s disobedience of his father’s commands. “So,” continued Old Dud, “Mr Shepherd took his boy into the parlour. There, with a sigh as though his heart were breaking, the old man seated himself on the chair. He gathered his son across his knee – about like this.”

Here, Old Dud suddenly caught Ronald by the arm and directed the eighteen-year-old across his own knee. The expectant class now snickered loudly.

“I can’t tell this story unless I have quiet,” announced Old Dud, glancing up and around the room with a reproachful look. Then, after clearing his throat, the schoolmaster resumed, ‘“Ronny,’ said the old man huskily, ‘I know what my duty in the matter really is. I ought to give you a good spanking, like this (whack!). But I haven’t the heart to give you such a blow as you deserve. (Whack!) But the next time (whack!), I’m going to give you (whack!) just such a good one (whack! whack!) as you deserve. (Whack! whack!) So, remember, Ronny (whack!), and don’t let me catch you (whack!) disobeying me again. (Whack! whack!).”

Old Dud emphasised each “whack” by bringing down the heavy strap across Ronald’s meaty backside. There were a few flashing eyes in the young audience, and a few sympathetic glances from Ronald’s pals, but, for the most part, the class was now in a loud roar of laughter.

“That’s the story,” announced Old Dud, gently restoring Ronald to his feet. “I think you all see the point to it. Perhaps there’s a moral to it, also. I really don’t know.”

Pallor due to a sense of outraged dignity now struggled for a place in the red that covered Ronald Buchan’s face.

“You may go to your seat, Buchan.”

Ronald marched there, without a glance backward.

“Now, that we’ve had our little indulgence in humour,” announced Old Dud dryly, “we shall all return to our studies.”

There was silence again in the room, during which the rain outside began to come down in a flood.

“Old Dud’s getting rather too fresh these days,” growled Johnny Johnstone to his chum Ronald later that day. “We’ll get even with him tonight. Some of us will go around to his house and wreck his flower gardens.”

He stopped in his tracks. He had an even better idea. “I know, we’ll switch Old Dud’s new gate off and dump it in the river.”

So, it was that close to midnight, Ronald, Johnny and their chum Donald, were at Old Dud’s house. The gate was wrought iron. It was ornately decorated. It would have cost the schoolmaster a tidy sum. It was also unexpectedly heavy.

“This won’t do,” Donald gasped. They had hardly raised the gate a couple of inches off the hinges. They would need a block and tackle to do the job properly.

“Let’s just trample his flower beds,” Johnny said.

“Good idea. Let’s.”

But before the three teenagers could move, a light appeared on the porch. Old Dud stood there in his dressing-gown. “Who’s there! I know somebody is there.” The schoolmaster peered into the gloom. “Is that you, Buchan? Johnstone? McAllister?”

Old Dud was no fool. He knew the calibre of the boys he taught. He expected to be “ragged” by them following the public spanking he had given Ronald. The boys and masters were constantly at war. Now, he had caught them red-handed intent on causing damage to his gate. He had watched studiously from his bedroom window as the young fools tried to carry off his prized possession.

“My study. Morning break,” he barked. There was no need to say further. His instruction was understood. There would be an awesome price to pay for their escapade.

Next day three miserable sixth-former stood in the passageway outside Old Dud’s oak-panelled study door, waiting. Old Dud was not at home. They faced the wall, nose pressed close, hands clasped on the tops of their school caps. No one had ordered them to do this, but they knew from painful past experience, this was the way a boy presented himself while awaiting a master’s return.

Minutes that felt like hours passed. None of the boys spoke; they were alone with their thoughts. There was no doubting what would happen after Old Dud arrived. All that was in question was how many strokes.

At last, Old Dud trundled down the passageway, a cup and saucer in his hand. He affected a nonchalant air; he had no troubles to speak of. It was the three sixth-formers who had the worries. “Wait five minutes and then knock,” he growled at none of the boys in particular. He opened the study door, went in, closed the door and sat at his plush chair behind his enormous desk. Quietly, he sipped his tea. Let the boys stew, he thought.

The knock on the door duly came. “Enter!” he called imperiously. The heavy door inched open. Roland led the way, his face grim, his shoulders stooped. Johnny and Donald traipsed behind.

“There!” Old Dud pointed a long bony finger at a spot in front of his desk. The teenagers shuffled into position. The schoolmaster peered through his round eye glasses. Each boy seemed suitably discomforted. Neither could look at the aging schoolmaster. Each found his own spot on the faded rug to interrogate.

Old Dud sneered, “Which of you fine young specimens would care to explain your presence at my house at midnight?” He watched as each in turn coloured beetroot. None seemed willing to provide an explanation.

“Buchan!” Old Dud barked. “Explain yourself. At once.” Old Dud was a bit of a ham actor; he knew how to strike fear into the hearts of small boys. The three sixth-formers carpeted before him were far from small boys, but his terror tactics were working.

Still none dared answer.

“Let me fill in the details,” Old Dud leaned back in his chair, drew his academic gown around his body and fixed them with a steely gaze. “You thought you would play a trick on me. You wanted to get back at me for taking Buchan across my knee and spanking his naughty backside. You decided to steal my gate. Is that not the long and the short of it?”

Still silence.

“Well Buchan! Answer me!” he roared.

“Yes, Sir,” came the slightest whisper.

“I had deduced correctly. This will not do Buchan, Johnstone, McAllister,” he sighed, “This will not do at all.”

McAllister’s eyes were already watering. He nearly burst into tears when Old Dud proclaimed theatrically, but with no malice, “I am going to beat each of you and I am going to beat you most severely.”

The three boys blanched.

“First, take off your blazers and set them down on my desk.” Old Dud watched closely as with fumbling fingers the three eighteen-year-old sixth-formers struggled to comply with his demands. At last three blue-and-black-stripped blazers were off.

He rose from his desk and paced to the far side of the study. He could feel the heat of three pairs of eyes burning into his back as he drew a key from his trouser pocket and slowly unlocked the door to a tall thin cabinet. He reached inside. There was a large selection of punishment canes; some long, some short. Many were thin; others thicker. Some were ashplants; others were made of whippy rattan. He was searching for a special cane. One that he reserved for older pupils. One that would leave the three miscreants in severe pain.

It was a stout dense Malacca, more than three feet in length. Unlike his other canes this did not have a crooked handle. It was straight, although a little warped from use. Twine had been wrapped around one end to form a grip. It had notches every four or five inches along its length. It was these that would cause the most damage to the boys’ backsides.

He closed the cabinet door and turned to face the three boys. He swiped the Malacca through the air to demonstrate its effectiveness and was delighted to be rewarded by almost audible gasps from the three sixth-formers.

“Right all three of you stand in a line.” The boys eyed one another apprehensively, not only were they to be thrashed severely they were going to get it in front of their friends. Their pals would see how well (or not) they could take it.

“Buchan you stand there,” Old Dud steered the boy by this shoulders into place. “Johnstone, you here,” he manoeuvred the teenager a yard or two to the right and a pace forward of his companion. “McAllister, you here.”

The boys were lined up alongside each other, but arranged in steps so Old Dud could move freely between each of them to deliver his caning.

“‘It will be six for each of you.” It was the maximum school regulations allowed him to deliver, but he would have dearly loved to give Buchan more: he was developing into a rebel of the first order.

“Now lower your trousers. Bend over, touch your toes.” Old Dud paused for effect. He knew the boys expected to be caned, but not with their trousers down. He delighted in the look of abject horror that flashed across McAllister’s face. The other two were also suitably shocked.

“B. b. b.” Johnstone wanted to protest, but words literally failed him.

“Sir?” Buchan implored. But protestations were futile. The schoolmaster was in charge. He had made up his mind and as every schoolboy that ever suffered a caning knew, the master was always in control.

They had shown difficulty removing their blazers. Lowering the trousers was more so. At last all fly buttons were unfastened and grey flannel trousers slipped down thighs. Three boys stood; nervousness etched in their faces.

“Bend down and touch your toes.” It was a calm instruction, but one Old Dud expected to be obeyed. The three miserable teenagers reached for their toes.

“Keep those knees straight, McAllister. Legs further apart. Johnstone move further forward.”

Once the boys were in position to his satisfaction, Old Dud went over to each of them and raised the tail of their shirts up their backs, away from their stretched posteriors. Buchan felt a chill run across his naked flesh. He could not be certain if it was fear or a genuine coldness in the room.

All three boys were stoic at first. They had all been beaten before; it was that kind of school.

But, Johnstone had not been thrashed by Old Dud previously. He had heard from other boys that a tanning from him was awesome; the agony in the arse was like nothing else you could experience.

He was soon to find out the truth of the matter. Old Dud set about his task with vigour. He was not dealing with a seemingly trivial matter; this was personal. The teenagers bent before him and offering up their backsides for a schoolmaster’s caning had attacked his home. He would not stand for this and order must be restored.

One by one he lashed the boys with his fierce Malacca cane. First Buchan received a stoke; then McAllister; then Johnstone, and then back to Buchan again. Until all three boys felt six stingers across their buttocks.

They tried to be brave. In Old Dud’s experience all boys tried to be while they were being caned: they did not want to give their punisher the satisfaction of knowing they were in agony. The schoolmaster approved of that: it was about strong character, acknowledging you had done wrong and accepting the consequences without fuss.

This time the three punished boys also had to prove to their chums that they could take it. And, maybe they also wanted to show they could take it better than their fellows.

Even so, by the time the third stroke had bounced off Johnstone’s backside, all three were in tears. Somehow, despite the agonising heat under their underpants, all the boys managed to stay in position (but only just in the case of Johnstone).

The three were deathly pale when Old Dud at last allowed them to stand. Each wanted to desperately rub at the seat of his underpants to try to drive away the pain, but they dared not: none wanted to lose face in front of their friends.

And, that was it. Old Dud returned the cane to the cupboard and lectured them some more about the need for obedience. The boys were not listening; they desperately wanted to get out of there so they could cool their burning bum cheeks.

At last, three throbbing sets of buttocks were released into the autumnal sunshine.


Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Housemaster’s double caning

The office manager



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Love Our Lurkers


Hi Guys

There are now getting on for a quarter of a million views on the blog since it started fifteen months ago. And I love you all. Even though I’ve never (knowingly) met any of you and hardly any of you leaves me messages.

I’m flattered by your interest. I must be doing something right because the number of views is increasing month on month.

Now, as part of the eleventh annual Love Our Lurkers Day, I’m asking that you leave me a comment. Just say hello or give some constructive feedback. More than 100 spanking blog sites are expected to take part in the day where we ask our readers to get in touch.

What’s a lurker? They’re anonymous readers, who never leave comments. Is that you? It doesn’t make you a bad person. But, I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks to Bonnie and Hermione for organising this special day.

Waiting to hear from you.