Thwack! The cane bit deep into Dunmore’s bared buttocks. Hisssss! That hurt. A lot. Swipe! A second cut fell. “Ouch!” Mr. Pritchard might look like a wizened old man, but he could certainly pack a punch. Dunmore clenched his teeth, clutched the seat cushion of the sofa and braced himself for number three.
Twenty four hours earlier
Mr. Pritchard sat idly at the Brocklehurst bus station. A coach from London had just pulled in and he watched the passengers disembark. There weren’t many. A boy holding a plastic bin bag stood still, uncertain, scanning the numbers on the bus stops. Satisfied, that he had found the right one, he shuffled across and stood in the eye line of Mr. Pritchard.
He was an unusual looking boy. Mr. Pritchard thought of him as a boy, but he was easily in his mid-twenties. But, when you were Mr. Pritchard’s age a twenty-something was a “boy.” It was a mid-summer’s afternoon and the boy was dressed for winter, in long thick corduroy trousers and a hoodie top. All the other boys were in tee-shirts and cotton shorts.
His face was pale; he hadn’t seen much sun that summer and his hair was cropped short. It didn’t suit him, Mr. Pritchard thought. It should be much longer. Cropped hair emphasised the boy’s angular face and made him look sad.
Mr. Pritchard noted his broad chest and shoulders; he probably worked out a lot. He had great legs and when the boy turned slightly Mr. Pritchard admired his round firm bum.
Suddenly, the boy blushed. Mr. Pritchard looked away sharply. It was too late, he had spotted the old man checking him out.
“Mr. Pritchard?” It was a statement, posed as a question. The old man looked blank.
“Mr. Pritchard. I’m Dunmore, Michael Dunmore, I was in your maths class at St Francis.” The boy spoke from a distance, making no effort to move closer, to share intimacy.
Dunmore, yes Mr. Pritchard remembered Dunmore. He had been expelled after he was involved in a break-in at the school. There followed a period of unemployment and dead-end jobs. Petty crime led to the inevitable. It had been reported in the local newspaper and it was the talk of the masters’ common room at the time. Dunmore had been sent to prison. That would explain the boy’s pallor.
Just then, a number seven bus pulled up, sparing Mr. Pritchard’s embarrassment. He rose from his seat.
“Do you still live in The Avenue, Mr. Pritchard?”
Mr. Pritchard smiled weakly and boarded his bus.
It was seven-fifteen precisely. Mr. Prichard knew because the theme tune of The Archers was playing. The knock on the door was unexpected. Mr. Pritchard lived alone and he didn’t get visitors. It was probably somebody selling dusters.
Without checking his security spy-hole, he opened the door. It was Dunmore standing on the doorstep. He still wore the corduroys and hoodie and carried his bin bag. He hopped from foot to foot like a naughty schoolboy in front of his housemaster.
“Hello, Mr. Pritchard.” He seemed embarrassed, as if unsure how to say what he had come to say. Mr. Pritchard pursed his lips. He hoped there wasn’t going to be a scene.
“You see Mr. Pritchard,” the boy began. He smiled and his grey-blue eyes sparkled. “It’s hard to explain.” It wasn’t that difficult, he had rehearsed his lines. He had a plan.
“My mum won’t let me stay with her. I’ve got nowhere to stay, Mr. Pritchard.”
Mr. Pritchard gazed into the boy’s pale face, noting the smooth skin and kissable lips. Dunmore gazed back.
“Can I stay with you Mr. Pritchard?” And then he added, untruthfully, “Only for tonight.”
Mr. Pritchard’s heart skipped a beat. Without thinking of the consequences, he stood aside and let the boy enter.
“Do you want something to drink, have you eaten?” They were in the kitchen and Mr. Pritchard twittered like a schoolgirl.
Then the overpowering stink caught him. Stale body odour. It was so strong, he thought he might gag.
He cleared his throat. “Would you like to take a shower? Do you have clean clothes?”
The boy was right out of clean clothes.
“Don’t worry, I’ll try to find you something. Top of the stairs. Go along.”
Mr. Pritchard’s eyes followed the boy’s buttocks snug inside tight corduroy as they slowly ascended the stairs. The boy entered the bathroom and there was a click as the door was locked. Mr. Pritchard sighed inwardly, imagining the boy naked under the warm water, rubbing soap over his buttocks and crotch.
Ten minutes later, Dunmore sashayed into the kitchen, a bath towel tied loosely at his waist. Mr. Pritchard’s eyes moistened. The boy’s upper body was clear and mostly hairless, save for a small mat in the centre of the well-defined chest. It took an effort for the old man not to reach out to tickle it.
Young men learn a lot in prison and pretty boys learn more than most. Dunmore figured if he gave Mr. Pritchard a little he would get a lot back in return. He had already made a reccee of the upstairs room. One was locked but the others proved Mr. Pritchard was not short of a pound or two. He could do very well here.
“Here, these boxer shorts might fit,” Mr. Pritchard handed them to the boy. “They’re clean.”
They belonged to Terrence, he wouldn’t mind. Terrence was also an ex-pupil at St Francis. He had enjoyed his visits to the housemaster’s study a little too much. After he left school he searched out ways to relive the experience. He stayed with Mr. Pritchard some weekends. They had rigged up one of the bedrooms as a headmaster’s study. It was small but there was enough room to swing a cane.
“Thanks,” Dunmore reached for the shorts and studied the label. Thirty inch waist. They might be a bit tight. Then, making sure that Mr. Pritchard had a full view, he let the towel slip to the floor. Good, the old man’s tongue was almost hanging out. Look at that cock old man, do you want some?
Slowly, he turned his back on the old man, stepped into the shorts and wriggled his buttocks provocatively as he pulled them up.
They sat watching television and talking. Dunmore wore only snug-fitting white boxers. He stretched and flexed his muscles, sneakily teasing the old man. Mr. Pritchard was captivated. He hadn’t been so close to youthful flesh since he was himself young; and then only rarely. Terrence only liked to dress in school uniform to have his backside blistered. He was not interested in sitting around in his underwear.
Michael Dunmore was honest. He told Mr. Pritchard all about his thieving and its consequences. He reckoned the old man probably knew already. Brocklehurst was a small town.
“Well, you’ll have to behave yourself in my house,” Dunmore’s beauty had made Mr. Pritchard skittish.
“And, if I don’t?” the boy beamed, egging him on.
“Then, you’ll have to be spanked.” Mr. Pritchard blushed. It had just slipped out. He hadn’t meant to admit it. He wanted that boy’s bum across his knee.
Dunmore giggled, “Well, you can try.” His eyes flashed with merriment.
Mr. Pritchard stood from the sofa, lent across and took hold of the boy’s arm.
“I was joking,” he shrieked with laughter. “I was joking.”
Dunmore allowed Mr. Pritchard to pull him across to the sofa, where the old man sat and pushed the boy face down across his knee.
Mr. Pritchard wasn’t playing. He smacked the palm of his hand hard across the seat of the tight boxer shorts. The cheeky sod needed a damn good spanking and that’s exactly what he would get.
Dunmore stared down at the sofa cushion and let Mr. Pritchard get on with it. The boy could break free at any moment and if he wished he could punch the old man’s lights out. He didn’t want to. Okay, so this was Mr. Pritchard’s thing. Who would have thought it, a schoolmaster got his rocks off by spanking naughty boys.
Slaps rained down across Dunmore’s hard bum. It was a proper spanking. But, a twenty-five-year-old wasn’t going to feel much. Before long, Mr. Pritchard realised his own hand was hurting a lot more than the boy’s bum.
He stopped and released Dunmore, who jumped up and down rubbing his bottom exaggeratingly. “Ow, ow, ow, that hurt,” he pouted, acting out like a small boy.
Mr. Pritchard flew from the room. He needed the bathroom and quickly.
When he looked back on it later Mr. Pritchard could see he had been a damn fool. What did he expect would happen? He had taken a convicted thief into his house. A jailbird. It was inevitable.
It was only five pounds, Mr. Pritchard could afford it. If the boy had asked him for it, he would have given it to him, he was that infatuated by the boy. But, Dunmore had stolen it; from his wallet. That hurt. Mr. Pritchard knew he was being taken for a chump.
There was a confrontation from Mr. Pritchard. An admission from Dunmore.
“You know I could tell the police. You’ll go back to jail, probably,” Mr. Pritchard didn’t know that for sure. Maybe not. Not for five pounds. But the boy would be in big trouble.
“But, I could deal with it myself,” Mr. Pritchard glared at the boy.
Dunmore smiled. He was pretty sure what the old man would say next.
“I have a cane upstairs. I’ll put it across your backside.”
Well, Dunmore thought, there was no surprise there. The old man got his kicks beating boys’ bums after all. But five pounds was a cheap price for “six-of-the-best.” Rent boys probably charged their clients much more. He should have stolen twenty.
“And then you will have to leave my house.”
That wiped the smile off the boy’s face.
“But …” he began a protest, but was cut short.
“I don’t care if you have nowhere to go. Sleep in the street.”
He wasn’t in a mood to argue. “Wait in the living room, I’ll only be a minute.”
Mr. Pritchard calmly ascended the stairs. He unlocked the headmaster’s study and entered. He knew exactly what he wanted. Dangling from a hat stand in the corner of the room by their curved handles were two rattan canes. They were authentic school canes; he had pinched them from St Francis. One was thicker and denser than the other. It was an awesome specimen. It would scar the boy’s backside terribly; especially when applied across bared buttocks.
He slipped the cane under his arm and returned downstairs. He had half expected to find the house deserted. There had been plenty of time for Dunmore to make an escape. But, the boy had not. He took the old man at his word; he didn’t want to explain himself to the police.
Mr. Pritchard had been a schoolmaster for more than forty years. He knew how to “jaw” a naughty boy. He itemised Dunmore’s faults, expressed “deep disappointment” at the boy’s dishonesty and threatened the direst consequences if ever the boy erred again.
Then, he got on with it.
“Trousers and pants down. Bend over that sofa.” He swished the cane for emphasis. The forlorn look on Dunmore’s handsome face delighted him.
The boy had a bum that cried out to be beaten and Mr. Pritchard would enjoy doing just that. It would be both punishment and pleasure.
“I am sorry, really I am,” Dunmore cracked a smile. He knew from the moment the old man had spotted him at the bus station that he fancied him rotten. He had let the old man smack his bottom the previous night and Mr. Pritchard had popped wood strongly. The caning would probably make him cream his pants. If Dunmore played his cards right the old man would let him stay; he would not want to miss the promise of future action.
“I am sorry Mr. Pritchard. I have let you down and I deserve a sound caning.” Dunmore gazed at Mr. Pritchard, sparkling his beautiful blue-grey eyes as he spoke.
Without waiting for a response, he tugged at his belt, loosened it and set about pulling down his heavy corduroy trousers. All the time watching Mr. Pritchard’s reaction. The old schoolmaster avoided the boy’s stare.
“Underpants too,” he growled.
They followed the cords to Dunmore’s feet.
Dunmore faced his punisher and wriggled his hips a little so that his cock shook. Then, he turned on his heels and without missing a beat lowered himself over the back of the sofa. He parted his legs a little so that his crack was open and presented his buttocks for beating.
It was one of the cutest arses Mr. Pritchard had ever seen; round and firm. Terrance had a bottom to die for, but this surpassed even that.
Dunmore closed his eyes. This would hurt terribly, of that he had no doubt. But, if he was going to save the situation, he must let Mr. Pritchard have his way.
Slash! The cane slashed into his buttocks. Hisssss, that hurt.
Mr. Pritchard admired his handiwork. A stipe across the crown of both buttocks was already turning deep red. It was a scorcher of a cut. Swipe number two fell a little lower and at an angle. The boy groaned. He felt that all right. Mr. Pritchard raised the cane high and thwacked it down on the under-curve of the buttocks. It was a beauty. Dunmore clung onto the seat cushion and marched his feet up and down in a futile attempt to stamp away the pain that now shot from his bottom and up and down his legs.
Two strokes bang-bang without respite had the boy’s buttocks quivering. His stomach rose from the back of the sofa and only with a super human effort of will did he stop himself jumping up to rub furiously at his ripped bum.
Then came another two. Mr. Pritchard put strength into his stokes, but not accuracy. The boy’s bum was criss-crossed with red lines; it resembled a railway map of Clapham Junction. Bang-bang: two more. Then, another two.
Michael Dunmore was a tough nut to crack. He had endured many things in jail (that was the curse of the pretty boy) but he had experienced nothing like this. The agony in his arse was searing. It felt as if someone had run a hot smoothing iron across it. Every part of his bum throbbed; it felt as if it had swollen to twice its normal size.
Mr. Pritchard was relentless. Six more fell in quick succession. Dunmore’s resolve to take this thrashing quietly broke down. Gentle sobs became gulps; yelps turned to yells and then to shrieks. He was literally a beaten boy.
Then six more. Dunmore wriggled and he stamped and he twisted this way and that. He banged his head up and down against the back of the sofa.
Then it was over.
He laid face down, his bum ripped to shreds. He swallowed down great gasps of air, desperately trying to fill his lungs. His blood pressure was off the scale and his temples pulsated.
Mr. Pritchard was disappointed. The thrashing was a job well done. The evidence for that was before his eyes. But he hadn’t enjoyed it. Dunmore’s gorgeous bum was just a piece of meat. It gave him no thrill.
“Stand up,” Mr. Prichard hoped his voice didn’t betray his disappointment.
Dunmore was quickly regaining composure. His breathing was more normal and his heartrate steadier. The boy’s beautiful face was scarlet and his grey-blue eyes shone. Tears stained his cheeks and snot dribbled from his nose.
He stood in front of Mr. Pritchard, affording him the opportunity to admire his long thick cock and balls. The old man looked away; no longer interested in the boy’s beauty.
“Get dressed,” he barked. He wanted Dunmore out of his house.
Two minutes later the boy stood on the doorstep, his black plastic bin bag in his hand.
Inside the house the phone rang. It was Terrance.
“Yes, of course, you naughty boy, report to my study on Saturday.”
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second