His eldest brother

“What did you say?” Ritchie stared at his eldest brother in wide-eyed bewilderment.

“You heard. Bend over that settee, I’m going to cane your backside.” And to emphasise the point he wobbled the whippy rattan in front of the eighteen-year-old’s face.

What the … Where did that come from? Richie had never seen a school cane before, did people still make them? It was dark yellow and shiny; exactly like ones that schoolmasters had used on generations of unruly boys.

John swished the rod through the air a couple of times and then flexed it between both of his hands, menacingly. It was more than three-feet long and as thick as a pencil, but it was so supple he could make the business end almost touch the curved handle.

“You disgust me. Poor mum will be turning in her grave. Stealing from your boss.”

Ritchie averted his eyes from the cane and turned his attention to the carpet beneath his feet. John was right; he had been caught stealing magazines from the newsagent and general store where he worked.

“Stealing from nice Mr. Weaver. What were you thinking?”

Ritchie was unsure if he was expected to answer, but shrugged his shoulders just in case.

“Bah!” His brother expelled air through clenched teeth. “I told Mr. Weaver I would thrash the living daylights out of you if he didn’t call the police. Lucky for you he said yes.”

He swished the cane again.

“So, you bend over the settee and you take a caning. If you don’t, you’ll end up in the magistrates’ court. And, if that happens you can pack your bags and clear out. I’m not having a convicted thief living here.”

Ritchie knew his brother meant it too. He was in charge. His word was law. Ritchie and his two other brothers owed everything to John. He had kept the family together after his widowed mother had died suddenly five years ago. Ritchie was the youngest and the only one living at home now.

Swish, swish went the cane. John was certainly intimidating his kid brother.

Ritchie had no remorse. Not for Mr. Weaver anyway. He had a rubbish job in a crappy shop. The wages were lousy; why shouldn’t he steal stuff? He’d been doing it for years, it was a wonder he hadn’t been caught sooner.

Swish, swish.

Ritchie knew he had no choice. It had to be a sore arse or he would lose his job and his home. A life in a cardboard box beckoned.

Swish, swish.

His brother’s impatience was showing. Ritchie stared at the young man. He was a bit of a star at the local gym and his bulging torso tapered to a slim, muscular waist. He could pack a punch in the boxing ring and Ritchie had no doubt he would land a cane with some energy.

“Come on buster. Bend over the settee. Let’s get on with it.”

Swish, swish.

Ritchie’s brain was resigned to the beating, but his body had other ideas. He could not get his feet to walk the four or five paces across the living room it would take to reach the settee. A caning? How painful would it be? Could he take it? Would he humiliate himself in front of his brother by howling the house down?

Ritchie’s thoughts were interrupted by John’s strong hand as it gripped the teenager’s arm and tugged him across the room, his feet scrapping the carpet as he went. Then, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, John propelled his brother face down across the arm of the settee.

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Ritchie put up no struggle. He stared impassively at the dusty dark blue patterned ‘throw’ that covered the cushions.

John pulled the boy’s shirt out of his jeans, and then pulled them up snugly, ensuring a tightly presented seat.

“Head lower, legs further apart. Stick your bottom out more.” John knew exactly how he wanted his younger brother positioned so he could whack his cane into his proffered backside with maximum effect. For a twenty-two-year-old man in the year 2017, John had a surprising amount of experience in such matters.

John took up position a cane’s length to the left of his younger brother and then tapped the rod one… two… three… times on the same spot and watched captivated as the firm but fleshy bottom cheeks wobbled with each tap.

The tension in the room was unbelievable. Ritchie’s buttocks clenched and unclenched involuntarily. He closed his eyes tight in anticipation of the searing agony about to come.

“Relax, it’s better if you relax,” John’s words were kind, but his younger brother was not in control of his backside and still the cheeks twitched.

John let a few seconds pass before he asked, “Ready?” There was a slight nod of Ritchie’s head, but it was enough. John laid the cane right across the centre of his brother’s rounded bottom then brought it up into the air. Ritchie flinched at the first touch of the rattan, knowing it to be only seconds away from causing him extreme pain.

Then John paused. Then there was the whistle as the cane swiped through the air and bit deep into stretched trousers. Ritchie released his breath with a “harrr.” It wasn’t a cry, just a sound. The teenager winced and his buttocks squirmed as it absorbed the first fiery stripe.

For a second time the cane was curled across the crown of Ritchie’s buttocks, which rose up simultaneously in angry response. A long cry of dismay erupted through the boy’s throat, and his legs tangled with each other as he tried to kill the burning pain which was taking over this entire backside.

John progressed slowly down his kid brother’s buttocks, making sure that each lash was delivered lower than the previous one. He knew exactly how long to wait between strokes to cause the maximum sting.

There were three or four loud intakes of breath that became sobs and Ritchie’s whole body shivered in shock. The pain raged through his backside. He longed to leap up, clasp his bum and run out of the room. By lash number six he was yelping and frantically writhing and twisting. He began to move his hand back towards his scorching bottom then thought better of it. Some long-dormant schoolboy instinct told him that if he obstructed his brother’s progress he would get extra strokes.

Instead, he gripped firmly onto the cushion of the settee, screwed up his eyes tightly and waited for the next agonising cut.

John stared impassively at his brother’s prostrate body. He felt the sense of power he had over his brother. He had delivered six-of-the-best strokes across Ritchie’s stretched buttocks. The teenager was quietly sobbing into the cushion of the settee. He seemed contrite. But, his crime had been serious. He had brought disgrace to the whole family and not only to himself. The punishment had to be exemplary. The boy must never be tempted to steal again. A thrashing of the utmost severity must be delivered.

He took up his position once more, found his aim, raised the cane high and like taking a swing with a golf club he brought it crashing down with force across the very centre of Ritchie’s buttocks. He yelled. It was a lusty cry and the boy’s sobs became great gulps. The cane rose again and John aimed it at an imaginary spot five or six inches beneath the surface of his brother’s buttock. The cane lashed through the soft and now very sore buttocks and bit deep into the flesh.

Ritchie released a blood-curdling scream, his feet drummed up and down on the carpet as if he were a soldier on sentry duty. The boy’s face was deep puce and tears flowed freely down his face. Huge sweat patches had formed under his armpits and the hair on his head was so wet it looked like he had just stepped out of a shower.

John was sweating buckets too. His breathing was heavy and his heart pounded with his exertions. He was a fit young man, but rarely, even on the hardest machine at the gym, had he felt such physical strain.

Whop! Whop!  Whop! He landed three scorchers one after another. His aim was perfect and they all landed within a centimetre of one another. Blood must surely be seeping from wounds beneath his brother’s tight jeans and snug cotton underpants.

Ritchie buried his head in his hands and held on grimly.

Two more strokes to go. John had a plan, he knew how excruciatingly painful it would be to land the final cuts diagonally across the boy’s arse. That way they would cut across the existing welts reigniting the pain. The result would be an unendurable agony.

He moved position slightly and whipped the cane down. Ritchie’s yell would not have shamed a banshee. “No!!!!!”

He did not scream for mercy. That was as well, since John would show his brother none. The final lash struck making a second diagonal so that the wretched boy’s buttocks now had a perfect X across them.

It was over. There was the slightest rattling sound as John laid the cane down on the dining room table. His brother’s yells had subsided to loud gulps as the poor lad tried desperately to suck air into his lungs. The agony in his arse had travelled north, south, east and west across his whole body, but now it was subsiding into a glowing throb.

“Get up, it’s over.” John could barely get the words out; his own metabolism was severely disturbed.

Unsteadily, Ritchie hauled himself up. Quickly he grabbed hold of the settee as he realised he did not have the strength to stand on his own two feet. Tears and snot covered his face and his shoulders heaved as more sobs evacuated his body.

John wanted to get this over with. “If you cause this family shame again, I’ll flog you on your bare buttocks. Now go to your room.”

Ritchie did not need telling twice. Holding on to the wall for support he eased his way up the stairs, crashed open the door of his room and dived onto his bed, burying his sobs into the pillow.

John meandered into the kitchen, picked up a coffee mug and filled it from the cold water tap. He stared through the window as he took great gulps. Oh, mum I miss you so very much.

 

Other stories you might like

Be careful what you wish for

Put back into short trousers

The man across the hall

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

New boy at Albion

used-drawing-cane-prefect-mag-81

Keith was stunned by what the Head Boy held in his hand. He could feel sweat moistening his brow, he bit his lower lip nervously as four pairs of eyes stared at him.

“B… b… but …” Keith wanted to say that he didn’t think he’d done anything wrong, but the eighteen-year-old newcomer to Albion School couldn’t get a sentence to form.

“Smoking is a serious offence here,” snapped Roland Winstanley, the Head Boy. His blue eyes sparkled and his pale skin coloured. The other three sixth-formers in the room, all senior prefects, nodded in agreement.

“But I hadn’t even started here,” Keith had found his voice. His dark brown eyes looked appealingly at his four accusers.

Roland swooshed the thick shiny yellow cane through the air. Keith flinched. It looked a terrifically awesome weapon. He had been on the receiving end of a rattan cane many times in the past; he didn’t want a repeat performance on his first day at a new school.

Roland flexed the crook-handled cane thoughtfully between his hands. “You were wearing school uniform on the train. You gave other passengers a bad impression of the school, even before you set foot in the quadrangle.”

Keith blushed. They were right of course; he should have known smoking was against the rules. It had been in the seven schools he had attended since the age of eight. Why would Albion be any different?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. He wasn’t especially, but he knew that’s what the pompous prefects would want to hear. He was eighteen years old. An adult. He was legally allowed to smoke, he thought. He wasn’t at school. What did it have to do with them? It was the uniform that gave him away, of course. The magenta and yellow blazer was unique. There wasn’t another school in the whole of the kingdom with a uniform like it. Anyone spotting him in public could be in no doubt where he was from. He was lucky he was a sixth-former, every other boy at Albion up to the age of sixteen was forced to wear tailored grey short trousers.

Keith looked at the Head Boy flexing and swishing the cane. He was enjoying himself too much, he thought. And the three senior prefects were not much better with their supercilious grins. How he hated them.

But, as every boy knows the prefects run the school. It was the natural order of things. The Head Boy, supported by the prefects, was in control. They were the same age as Keith but he must submit to their wills. There was nothing he could do, except face the inevitable consequences of his actions.

But, he tried to appeal to their good nature. “Can’t you overlook it this time – first offence and all that?”

Roland Winstanley had no good nature. He was a bully. “I won’t be responsible for lowering standards at Albion,” he snorted. “Make your mind up – either accept our punishment here and now, and that will be the end of the matter or else you will be reported to the headmaster.” He looked at his fellow prefects. “And we know what will happen to you then, don’t we?”

The three prefects pursed their lips and nodded sagely.

Keith sighed despondently. He didn’t want the headmaster involved. What if he told Keith’s father, the thrashing he would deliver would far outweigh anything Roland Winstanley, the Head Boy could manage.

Keith took a deep breath. “If you promise it won’t go any further, then I’ll take a punishment from you.” He sounded more confident than he felt. The beating would hurt, that was for certain, but he suspected his four tormentors might have sadistic tendencies. They would get a kick out of caning him.

“Agreed,” replied the Head Boy curtly. Smiles flickered across the faces of the other three.

“Please remove your blazer and place it on the desk,” Roland swished the cane towards a large leather-topped oak desk, unless there was any doubt. Keith pursed his lips and fumbled at the buttons. Soon he had slipped it from his shoulders. Sweat patches discoloured the armpits of his grey shirt even though it wasn’t a particularly warm day. His torso and arms were firm; he had the strength of a fine batsman.

One of the prefects lifted a straight-backed wooden chair and took it to the centre of the study. “You should stand there,” he pointed to the front of the chair. Keith knew the procedure. He had stood in many studies of headmasters and housemasters. Many required a boy to bend over a chair by facing it and griping the shiny seat, back arched and legs spread. One headmaster he knew expected him to approach the chair from the back. This was fine if you were tall and your body cleared the top.

Keith took up his position and waited for the inevitable and time-honoured instruction, “Bend over.”

But he was in for a shock.

“Lower your bags and drawers and bend over the chair.”

Keith’s startled look made Roland smile.

“We take our beatings on the bare at Albion School,” he intoned pompously.

Keith felt his face flush hot. It would be bad enough letting a boy his own age cane his backside, but to allow him to do it on the bare was intolerable.

Roland swished the cane through empty air, the other three prefects looked on, waiting to see how the little drama would unfold.

“There is still time to change your mind. The headmaster would, of course, also beat you on the bare,” Roland paused for effect, “In all likelihood with a twenty-four branch birch.”

Keith heard one of the watching prefects snort.

With rising anger, Keith felt for the buckle of his belt. His mind said he should go through with the bare-arsed beating. Get it over with quickly, it told him, but his fingers refused to cooperate.

“Would you like me to take them down for you,” the Head Boy could not suppress a sneer.

Keith bit his tongue. It would do him no good to argue. Roland Winstanley was in total control. He could, if he so wished, inflict severe damage to Keith’s backside. As it was six (and he hoped it would only be six) on the bare would be almost intolerable. If the Head Boy awarded him extra strokes or if he swiped the cane into the proffered backside with the swing of a golfer, Keith might not be able to sit in comfort for many days to come.

At last the belt was unbuckled and the five buttons on his fly undone. The heavy pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“All the way,” Roland barked.

Keith spread his knees and the trousers slithered down to rest on top of his shoes. Then, he unbuttoned his woollen drawers and pushed them down. Keith had been naked in front of his fellows many times in the past, boarding schools were not for the modest, but he shielded his cock and balls with his hands nonetheless.

The prefect snorted again.

“Bend over the chair,” Roland tapped the wooden seat for emphasis.

His heart now racing, Keith waddled the three steps needed to reach the chair, then in one continuous movement he lent forward, placed his hands either side of the seat, arched his back and spread his feet as far as the trousers and drawers would allow.

It was silent in the study. Four pairs of eyes stared intently at the pale round bottom presented before them. It was twitching in anticipation of the hurt that was about to be inflicted upon it.

The prefects watched smugly as Roland raised the thick swishy cane as high as his arm would take it. It hovered there above the fleshy target area. Keith’s strong legs were straddled and taut.

Suddenly the cane slashed through the air and landed like a razor on Keith’s naked buttocks. The teenager sucked in air sharply. Roland grimaced, obviously disappointed that the new boy had not cried out. He raised his right arm again and slashed the cane down harder this time. That got the desired reaction.

Keith yelped and his hips swivelled. His knees buckled. He stomped his feet up and down. A dark red line appeared across the centre of both cheeks. He steadied himself, determined not to let himself down in front of the Head Boy and senior prefects on the first day at his new school.

Roland’s face beamed. He handed the cane to his fellow prefect. A squat ugly boy with pock-marked skin. He seized the rod with eagerness. He wasted no time and measured the rattan across Keith’s cheeks. He tapped it once or twice across the crown making the flesh ripple. Then he raised it high into the air before bringing it down with all his power. It sounded like a pistol shot. Keith let out a shrill “Owww!”

The squat ugly prefect passed the cane on to his companion. He was captain at cricket and had the upper body strength to slog cricket balls to the boundary. He whacked Keith’s arse with such power the rattan sank deep into the meat. Keith’s knuckles were white with the force of his grip on the chair. His scream could probably be heard up and down the corridor.

The cricket captain handed the cane on. The third prefect “sawed” the cane across Keith’s buttocks trying to find an area as yet untouched by the cane. He aimed low, close to where the cheeks meet the thighs, and let rip. He swiped so hard it was as if he was beating a carpet. He was rewarded by another ear-splitting howl from Keith.

He handed the cane back to Roland to deliver the final cut. It had been an awesome beating so far. No boy, however experienced a “taker”, could have survived it without crying out. But the worst was yet to come. Roland aimed the cane so that it ran from the lower have of the left cheek to the upper half of the right, then he drew back his arm and brought the cane crashing down. The diagonal stroke landed across the previous five throbbing lines, reigniting the pain in all of them and adding some considerable agony itself.

Keith lifted the chair off its four legs as his body shot bolt upright. Then he released his grip and let the chair crash to the floor while simultaneously gripping his burning buttocks with both hands and dancing up and down on the spot like some crazy Red Indian in a bad Western movie. His cock bounced up and down and tears flooded down his face. He bent double in a desperate attempt to catch his breath. He was shattered by the ordeal.

“Get dressed. Go.” Roland Winstanley had had his bit of fun. Now, he wanted the wretched new boy out of his sight. Keith stumbled and fell as too quickly he tried to pull up first his drawers and then his bags. He was still fastening his belt as the ugly prefect passed him his blazer. The captain of cricket held open the study door and Keith stumbled through it and rushed down the passageway.

The door now safely closed, Roland delved into the pocket of his own blazer and extracted a silver cigarette case. He flicked it open. “American on the left. Russian on the right,” he grinned.

 

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

The Gafffer of The Academy 2. In the chill of the night

The sneak thief

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Bend over. Touch your toes

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Mickey Reilly stared down at the toecaps of his shoes. His fingers stretched to touch the highly-polished uppers. He had been instructed, “Bend over. Touch your toes.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. It put a terrible strain on your calf muscles.

Reilly knew how to do it. He had been in this position before. Probably would be again. Spread the feet a little. That was the answer. Keep the head low and the bottom high.

Michael Reilly, aged 18, member of the Upper Sixth. He had never been made a prefect. Definitely wasn’t prefect material. In the headmaster’s study. Again. Waiting patiently for six-of-the-best.

Reilly was the kind of lad who went looking for trouble. When he couldn’t find any, trouble came looking for him. It had found him that morning. Just off the bus, minding his own business. Talking to his pal Joey about last night’s football. A bunch of oiks from Gum Shoe Lane Secondary Modern. Had things to say about the grammar school. It’s fancy green-and-red blazers. The “Nancy” school caps the boys had to wear.

Who threw the first punch? Nobody will ever know. Fists flew, eyes were blacked.

The headmaster jawed and jawed Reilly. “Disgraceful behaviour … Brawling in the street … Letting the school down …”

No use telling the headmaster he had fought the yobs to defend the honour of the school. He wouldn’t understand it at all.

Reilly had a close-up view of the polished boards beneath his feet. The headmaster flexed his cane. Three feet of rattan with a crook handle. Just like in schools up and down the country. He looked across at Reilly. A senior boy. Eighteen years old. Bent submissively, offering up his backside for chastisement. A little bit of tradition being played out in his study. It made him proud to be English.

Reilly felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers. The headmaster was finding his aim. Any moment now. Reilly knew it would hurt. A great deal. That was the point of it. No point in caning a boy’s backside unless it hurt. He understood that. A boy had to learn the error of his ways. A sore backside would make him stop and think a little.

The headmaster took hold of the tail of Reilly’s blazer and pushed it up his back. Away from the target area. Any moment now.

Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with great force across the middle of Reilly’s bum. He hissed. Air escaped through his clenched teeth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. Nothing he could do about it. He would probably grunt and groan a bit as the next five cuts whopped into his beefy bum. That was all right. It was allowed. “Ouch-ing” and “Ooo-ing” was permitted. But a boy mustn’t blub. If it got out that he had cried while getting the cane, he’d never hear the end of it from his schoolmates.

The second landed. Whop! Just below the first slice. Reilly’s buttocks were blazing. The headmaster was an expert with the cane. His beatings were awesome. Talked about by every boy in the school. Nobody wanted to show him his arse.

Reilly concentrated on the floorboards. Whose job was it to keep them do shiny? he wondered, as swipe number three connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. Stopped himself just in time.

That was low. Too low. The headmaster wasn’t playing fair. Reilly would have a deep purple mark there. Wouldn’t clear up for days. More than a week even. He wouldn’t be able to sit down properly for some considerable time.

“Keep still boy. Fingers on toes please.”

The pain was searing. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much. He could feel perspiration running down his back. His woollen blazer was a bit tight and it made him sweat.

This was becoming one of the nastiest beatings of his life. Could be worse though. He thought of that sixth-former who was caned by his headmaster. Trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees. Bare arsed. It had been in the newspapers that week. A law court in the North Country was deciding if the headmaster were a pervert.

The headmaster paused. Allowed Reilly to settle. Took careful aim. He hadn’t intended to slash the boy across the back of his thighs. Missed his aim a little. No excuse, really. He should do better. He had been caning boys’ backsides for nigh on thirty years. But maybe, not for much longer. The Government was talking about abolishing corporal punishment in schools. A Conservative Government, Ye Gods! Banning the cane. What was the world coming to? What was England coming to? He blamed the European Community. He always blamed the European Community.

He struck the fourth high. On the top of the curves, well away from the thighs. Was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp from Reilly. The headmaster was administering the strokes with some vim. He had beaten carpets with less force.

Reilly breathed hard. In. Out. In. Out. Four clearly defined welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants. In neat parallel lines. A strip about two inches wide blazed across his buttocks. Felt like someone had pressed hot metal into his flesh.

Number five went lower. Hit the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Where there was most padding. Sank deep into the meat before springing back. Left one heck of a line. Reilly stifled a yell. Choked a little. Felt like he might vomit. He hacked out a cough.

Last one to come. Reilly braced himself. Been here before. He knew all about the headmaster’s canings and that last stroke. Screwed his eyes up tight. Clenched his teeth. Ready and waiting.

The headmaster adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both Reilly’s cheeks. Bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Reilly tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound. Crashed into the boy’s bum. Connected with the welts oozing under the boy’s pants. Set each one of them on fire again. Reilly gripped his shins. Wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about. March up and down like a sentry guard. Rub his hands into his blazing bum.

He managed to stay down. Was proud of himself. It was over. His arse felt like he had sat on a barbecue. But, he had survived. Another six-of-the-best was over. Waited. Waited for the headmaster’s permission to rise.

The headmaster slowly paced his study. Opened a door to his cupboard. Replaced the cane alongside half a dozen others. Turned, looked across at Reilly, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively. A master and his pupil.

The headmaster returned to his desk. The sixth-former heard the drawer open and a book being removed. He still stared down at the floor. The headmaster found his page, wrote a few details.

“You may stand Reilly.”

Hot. Sweaty. Sore. The teenager wanted to rub away at his backside. Another reflex action. He knew from experience it did no good. Just had to wait for the pain to go away on its own. Already the agony had turned to a resounding throbbing. Soon, it would be a warm glow. That cut on the back of his thighs would hurt for quite some time though.

“Sign.” The headmaster slid the punishment book across the desk. Reilly hesitated. Went through his pockets. Pretended to be looking for a pen. He knew he didn’t have one.

“Pah!” The headmaster’s patience was thin. He had other things to do. He delved back into the desk drawer, rummaged around. Found a half-chewed ballpoint pen. Rolled it across the desk.

Reilly signed his name.

“You are dismissed Reilly. Send in the next boy.”

Reilly slowly opened the heavy oak door. Outside was Joey, his pal from the fight. “Six,” he mouthed silently before shuffling down the passageway towards the lavatories.

 

Other stories you might like

 

Housemaster’s double caning

Kevin revisits his old school

Foreign language student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over the headmaster’s knee

I was draped across the lap of the headmaster, my trousers around my ankles, my white pants yanked down, and my bare bottom exposed and waiting for pain. I was eighteen years old and until a few moments earlier had been a senior prefect. That privilege had been taken away – along with my dignity.

I didn’t resist when Dr. Foster took my arm and pulled me forward. If he had been putting my head into a guillotine, I wouldn’t have struggled any more or less. I was like a rag doll, limp and pliable. I felt myself being drawn forward and down. I went along helplessly. My face passed closely over Dr. Foster’s lap. I could see the bulge of his crotch.

I silently and submissively laid across his lap, placing my naked pelvis directly over his slightly parted legs.  Dropping my head, I was very aware of my hands and feet touching the ground, and of my naked flesh resting against the soft cotton trousers that covered his legs.  I was even more aware – frighteningly so – of my naked, unhappy bottom, quivering freely in the air as the highest point of my body, under the headmaster’s direct gaze. 

I was staring at the floor on the other side of him, my heart pounding so loudly it hurt. My face burned with shame. This was impossibly humiliating. I moaned, wiggling as best I could. I could see under the chair to my own feet and to my right, I could see Dr. Foster’s legs in brogue shoes and dark socks and his hand-tailored suit-trousers.

An over the knee spanking was the punishment of choice for the headmaster. Not for we boys the sting of the whippy rattan cane across the seat of our stretched trousers. Dr. Foster was well practiced in delivering some very scalding spankings, leaving a boy’s bare buttocks as rosy and glowing as the setting sun. Sometimes it was a slipper, the smooth worn sole of which, my pals told me, created a wide-spreading smarting sting, which lingered long after the underpants and the trousers had been restored to the proper places.

Other times it was a heavy wooden brush. Its first purpose in life had been as a clothes brush, but boys at the school suspected Dr. Foster had purchased it for its weight and effectiveness as an instrument of punishment. My fate was to be the brush.

He lifted his hand and I tautened with anticipation. The first contact of brush with my bare bottom was a total shock. I’d never felt such pain before. He delivered the first blow with extraordinary energy. I had little time to think about this slap, since he landed another one to exactly the same spot immediately. I gasped; truly, I had no idea how painful it would be. I ground my teeth in mental rage and Dr. Foster moved his hand across to my other buttock and repeated a sharp application of two hard whacks. All the force of the headmaster’s powerful arm was concentrated into that little wooden surface. It felt cold when the brush first struck, then quickly it started to burn. The second stroke was worse, and the pain just kept building.

Before I could begin to absorb the stinging pain of one blow another landed on the same spot, then another and another in rapid succession. My right leg kicked up involuntarily as the stinging brush smacked home across my throbbing bum. Dr. Foster’s brow knitted in concentration as he rained down one powerful blow after another across the stinging, reddening target.

It took him somewhere between five and ten minutes of spanking to turn my bare bottom a colour that matched that of my embarrassed face. The burn spread over my whole bottom, even places he hadn’t swatted in a while. I squirmed across his knee now, alternating between clutching at his trouser leg and pushing myself up on the side of the chair. I needed to make it stop, somehow.

I would never forget how humiliating it was that first time: the hard wooden brush stinging my bare behind again and again, his left hand gripping my right wrist firmly, holding it away from the burning target so he could spank uninterrupted.

After dozens of whacks, my red, tear-soaked face registered a look of total dread, desperation, and pain, while the spanking still continued. I heard my voice howling and shrieking throughout the smarting, stinging, biting session over the headmaster’s lap. I lunged, thrusting out with each consecutive strike of the brush on my flaming under-curves, wailing pleas for mercy.

My mistake had been not believing the headmaster when he said he would spank me. I was a senior sixth-former, it was April, I only had two more months before I left school for good. I was eighteen-years-old and legally an adult, for pity’s sake. None of that mattered. I had forgotten that in a school the headmaster was the law. He could do pretty much what he wished, short of actually killing a pupil.

In some schools, punishments were unbelievably harsh. Boys were routinely flogged with heavy birch rods across their naked haunches. I had heard rumours of boys hospitalised. Compared to that a bared-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was of little significance. Unless, of course, you were the teenager giving the headmaster a bird’s eye view of your crack and hole.

I had defied Dr. Foster’s direct instruction. Our town football team had made it to the semi-finals of the FA Cup. For us that was a very big deal. Every fan wanted a ticket. The only way you could get one was to queue up at the football ground. But, it would mean skipping school. Dr. Foster, who must have been a rugby man, spoke at school assembly. There would be the direst consequences if a boy “hopped the wag,” as we called truanting. Any boy who did so could expect to be peering at the red-and-black patterned rug in the headmaster’s study with his bared-bottom raised high. He didn’t say it quite so elegantly, but the message was clear.

The message was indeed clear and I clearly disregarded it. There was nothing I could say in mitigation. Over the knee I must go. Such was the life of a schoolboy. But I had two tickets safely tucked away in my sock drawer in my bedroom. A schoolboy’s life wasn’t all pain.

At last, my spanking was over. I hauled myself off Dr. Foster’s lap. My raw, scorched, buttocks were hot to the touch. I did the traditional “spanking dance,” hopping from foot to foot, while simultaneously rubbing my flaming bottom. My cock and balls bounced in front of me.

The agony quickly turned to throbbing and then to a warm glow. My tears dried immediately. I bent to retrieve my trousers and Y-fronts from my ankles. Soon I was respectfully dressed in long mid-grey trousers, grey shirt and blue and yellow blazer. I waited patiently while Dr. Foster completed details in the punishment book. I think I grinned like a Cheshire Cat when he handed it to me and demanded I initial the entry.

My head was light. I was elated. I had never felt so good before. If I said I had an “out of body experience” you would probably laugh at me. But, I swear I was looking down on the scene; me and the headmaster in his study.

Once dismissed, I rushed to the bogs and thankful that they were empty I whipped down my trousers and pants and pointed my bare bum at the mirror. The whole of my arse was a dark pink and there were some mauve bruises forming. Gently, I rubbed my fingertips across the contours of my buttocks, caressing them lovingly. My cock stood to attention. Within seconds, it throbbed almost as much as my bum had after my spanking.

I nipped into a cubicle. Ours was a posh school, we even had toilet paper. I banged the door shut behind me, unravelled a yard of tissue and wanked my brains out.

That happened to me more than forty years ago and I have been spanked, caned – and yes, birched – hundreds of times since. I have enjoyed terrific times and met wonderful people in the CP community – but nothing has ever compared to that first genuine spanking across the headmaster’s knee.

Other stories you might like.

Peeping Tom

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

The Tyrant Headmaster 5: Back in short trousers

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Waiting for Robert

used-drawing-cane-hold-12

I am certain that the severe caning I am shortly to give my eighteen-year-old son Robert will do him nothing but good.

I know the constant use of corporal punishment is the only way to ensure a boy will properly grow into manhood, knowing the value of respect and obedience.

Robert will detest the thrashing, but that is the point. When instructed he will take down his trousers and expose his tight white underpants. And, they will be white. He does not wear any other kind of underwear. I don’t care what so-called ‘modern’ boys do. In this house we are traditional: traditional school uniform; traditional underpants; traditional values; traditional punishment.

So, with his pale grey trousers crumpled over his black shiny laced up shoes; he will shuffle to the armchair I have already positioned in the centre of the lounge room and bend over its back. Head down low: bottom raised high.

Of course, it is Robert’s headmaster who should be delivering this six-of-the-best. Robert has been misbehaving at school, but the head is powerless. This country is going to the dogs. Corporal punishment is banned in schools and there’s nothing the teachers can do with the brats they teach, except give them detentions. And what’s the good of that? They don’t turn up.

In fact, corporal punishment is banned in the home as well. Could you believe such a thing? But the law doesn’t worry me, who is going to turn me in? Certainly not Robert; he accepts he has misbehaved and he knows he deserves all he is getting.

The neighbours might hear Robert’s howls of agony as his buttocks roast under the lash, but they won’t do anything, even though I know they don’t believe in corporal punishment. You can tell that by the way their own boy behaves.

Thomas is twenty-years-old and if he were mine, long ago he would have been across my knees, trousers and pants down (his, not mine), as my thick, black leather belt welted his cheeks.

So, nobody but me will ensure Robert grows up to be a fine man. I have a collection of long, whippy rattan canes laid out in a drawer of the kitchen table ready to do the job. I have already selected a fine specimen. It is probably three feet long and as thick as a pencil. I oil my canes regularly and they are always in pristine condition.

When Robert’s bottom is perfectly presented to me, I will take my time before delivering the first slash into the white cotton. I don’t believe in half-measures. A beating should be severe, leaving the boy in agony from the very first stroke to the last.

I will take up position a full cane’s length to the left of Robert’s bottom. Then, a few gentle taps on the left buttock I get my range and aim. Then I withdraw the cane and with a swing back as far as it will go I return it to the backside with all the force I can muster. I don’t swipe the skin; I force the cane through the meat as far as it will go.

Robert will probably stifle a scream on the first stroke, but as number two and three slowly follow (between fifteen- and thirty-second intervals are best) any attempt at decorum is lost. He is howling.

He grips the seat cushion of the armchair for dear life, his fingernails digging deep into the foam. Robert knows he cannot resist. He might want to stand up and clutching his bum, flee from the room, but his own male pride tells him he must not do this. But, he also knows if he tries to resist, it will be even worse. I will call in his older brother Kevin and down will come Robert’s underpants and Kevin will hold him across the dining room table as I whip twelve vicious stripes into his now naked buttocks.

But, it will not come to this.  Robert will take it like a man. That’s my boy.

Here he is now, hovering on the other side of the lounge room door, reluctant to come any further.

“Ah, Robert my boy. Come in. You know why you are here ….”

 

Other stories you might like

Father deals with idle student

Still spanked by dad, aged 25

When Dad got home

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Don’t borrow Dad’s car – encore

z-used-dont-borrow-dads-car-encore

Joe smashed his way through the front door, leaving it swinging on its hinges. His fury was real. Just wait until he got hold of his kid brother.

“Al! Al!” I know you’re in here!” He raced through the hallway and took the stairs two at a time. “Where are you! Come out where I can see you!” Al’s bedroom door was wide open. It looked like a tornado had hit. Clothes, shoes, magazines everywhere. But his kid brother wasn’t there.

Then, Al heard the tell-tale tinkling of water. The bathroom. Joe put his shoulder to the door. It wasn’t necessary. It was unlocked. But Joe was a Marine and Marines never did things quietly.

His brother grinned. Totally naked. Wearing nothing. He let his balls swing as he worked a towel across his shoulders.

“What are you doing in the shower? In the afternoon?”

Al flashed him an inane grin. He loved winding his brother up.

“I’m hot and sticky,” he grinned again. Trying to make like he was telling a dirty joke. “I needed a rub down.”

Joe was no great intellectual. Al despised him for it. Thought he was as thick as shit. That’s why he was never able to get a proper job. The Marines would take anyone as long as they had brawn, Al reckoned. Muscle was what counted. Brains weren’t much use to a Marine.

Al had just graduated with honors from college. If he could get his Dad to pay, he was going to grad school. His future would be assured. Secure. Not, like his dumb-ass brother.

Joe frowned.

“I’ve just come in. There’s a heatwave going on. It’s humid as hell,” Al spoke softly. Slowly. As if he were talking to an imbecile.

Joe wasn’t that thick. He knew when someone was disrespecting him. He reached out and grabbed his kid brother by the arm.

“Hey gerrooff!” Joe struggled.

“You’ve been out in Dad’s car.” It was a statement, not a question.

Al flushed. A not-too-distant memory overtook him. He knew where this conversation was going.

“So, what if I have? What’s it to you?” Al pulled himself free from his brother’s grip.

“What happened last time you took the car?” Joe glared.

“Fuck off!” Al knew exactly what Joe meant. “What’s it matter to you? Dad will never find out.”

“That’s not the point. He put me in charge. He said we weren’t to use his car. It’s not insured for us to drive.”

Al continued towelling over his gym-honed body. He was especially proud of his pecs. He was lost for words, but the supercilious smirk on his face spoke volumes.

Joe snapped. “You need another spanking. You know that.”

He reached over to a bath brush hanging by the shower. He had used it to toast Al’s buttocks before. The last time he drove off in Dad’s car. Three years previously. The brat had promised faithfully he wouldn’t do it again. But, didn’t all freshly spanked kids say that? They probably meant it too. At the time.

Joe waved the brush in his brother’s face. “I should take you into your bedroom and put this across your naked ass.”

Al blinked. Was this really happening to him? He remembered an old video he had watched on-line. A Marine came home on leave and heard his kid brother had been giving their mom a hard time. So, the Marine takes own the boy’s pants and underwear and pushes him face-down on the bed. Then, he hammers a heavy wooden paddle into the boy’s naked cheeks. If Joe did that, would it be life imitating art? Al wondered.

“OK, Buster! March!” Joe pushed Al toward the bathroom door.

“Fuck off.” He struggled, it was true Al spent a lot of time in the gym, but his brother was a trained fighter. In a straight tussle, Joe would win every time. The towel slipped to the floor. Al was naked as his brother pulled him along into the bedroom.

For a moment, they stood silent. Unsure what to do next.

“You should assume the position,” Joe gripped the long, heavy bath brush in his fist.

Suddenly aware of his nakedness, Al clasped his hands in front of his balls. He was hot and sticky. It was a terribly humid afternoon. The room was airless. It was difficult to breathe.

“No way. No,” Al knew tears were forming behind his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Joe’s face split in a smile. “No you’re not. That’s what you said last time I spanked you. You jumped up and down with your dick flopping and said ‘Wah! Wah! I’ll never do it again.’” He was enjoying his brother’s embarrassment.

“So buster. What’s it to be? You know if I tell Dad, he’ll whip your ass with a switch until blood runs down your legs.” He grinned. “Then, he’ll do it some more when I tell him you took his car twice.”

Al looked daggers. How he hated his imbecile brother. The thick shit was enjoying this way too much.

“And, you can kiss goodbye to grad school. Dad’ll never pay when he finds out.”

Suddenly bile shot into the back of Al’s throat. He swallowed it down. His heart raced. Why hadn’t he thought of that. Joe was right. He looked across at his unmade bed. “Assume the position,” Joe had said. What did that mean exactly?

“Here,” sensing victory, Joe grabbed two pillows and set them down one on top of the other in the centre of the narrow bed. He nodded at them. “Lay face down. With your ass raised.”

Al’s eyes blazed. “And, you promise you won’t tell Dad?”

Joe stared back, puzzled. This was a sudden turn of events. His kid brother wasn’t so full of himself now.

“Just get on with it,” he waved the bath brush menacingly at the pillows. Al took a deep breath. Held it for some seconds, as if he were psyching himself up for a terrible ordeal. Then, he took two steps across the room, hesitated at the foot of the bed and then carefully lowered himself forward. His weight pressed into the two feather-filled pillows. His buttocks were hardly raised at all.

Joe ran his tongue around his lips. They felt cracked. He had no saliva in his mouth. He wished he could go to the kitchen for some iced lemonade. He knew he couldn’t do that. There was some drama taking place here. A refreshment break would kill the atmosphere stone dead.

It had been some time since he had seen his brother naked. Joe was used to seeing guys without their clothes on. He was a Marine, after all. But, it seemed wrong somehow, to see someone he was so close to naked. It was just too darned intimate.

His kid brother lay face down. He reached ahead of him and gripped the top edge of the mattress. His face was so close to the bedsheet he tasted cotton in his mouth. The muscles in his back rippled. His legs were well-defined. His buttocks were solid. There wasn’t enough fat there to cook a sausage.

Joe saw a tuft of blond hair in his brother’s crack. He swiftly averted his eyes. He was looking up his brother’s hole. What kind of guy did that make him? That was a place he didn’t want to go.

Al closed his eyes tight, took another deep breath and clenched his buttocks tight.

“Relax buddy. Relax.” Joe was soothing. As if his kid brother had just had a scare and needed succour. Then, he leaned forward, knelt his left knee on the bed and pushed his arm into the small of Al’s back. Raised the brush as high as it would go. Brought a crashing swipe down at full force across the centre of both cheeks. A raw stripe spread instantly. Al tried to haul his body off the bed. He couldn’t. His brother’s strength was too great for him.

The brush rose and crashed. Once. Twice. And, then once more. The muscular ass was on fire. Already, every square inch of flesh blazed. Al expelled wind at speed through pursed lips. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. Once more, vomit filled the back of his throat.

Joe paused. He was admiring his handiwork. Then, he was ready to start over. He was quickly into a stride. One, two, three, the next strokes whistled down, right on target, across the centre of his brother’s buttocks. He was almost delirious.

Al chewed at the bedsheet as further swipes of the brush burned into his cheeks. Joe laid it into his brother with gusto, tanning stripe after fiery stripe across his bare butt cheeks until they glowed scarlet.

This beating was greater agony than the spanking Al had gotten last time.

Then, through his tears and pain, Al realized that it was over. His brother stood leaving Al gasping. The bitter taste of vomit choked him. Part of him wanted to jump up and run screaming from the room; back to the shower where cold water wash against his torn, burnt flesh. But, he couldn’t make himself move. The agony in his rear end was overwhelming, even now that the blows had ended.

“Ok. That’s it. It’s over.” Joe said. Unsure what to do next, he slouched from the room, leaving Al to sob and wheeze.

Slowly, Al rolled off the bed and stood. His ass was ablaze; he had never experienced such agony. From his standing position, he could see the reflection of his naked in the mirror. His torso was drenched in sweat. Both cheeks and the top of his thighs were crimson and the outline of the brush were all over the outer edges of his buttocks.

He didn’t try to dress. Instead, he carefully lowered himself face down on the bed and waited for the suffering to ease.

 

Other stories you might like

Don’t borrow dad’s car

Don’t bully our mum

Two brothers

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy band

“They’re certainly a good-looking bunch of lads,” the concert promotor beamed. “They should go far. I love the short trousers; what’s all that about?”

The band’s manager relaxed in his padded chair and raised a half-full beer glass to his lips, drank deeply, and settled back to tell his story.

The Dudes were an up-and-coming five-piece Boy Band. None was younger than twenty, but they had been picked for their youthful good looks to appeal to teenaged girls. They came up with the gimmick themselves: grey short trousers. They weren’t leisure shorts, the kind people wore in hot weather, they were authentic short trousers like kids had with their school uniform.

But, nobody much over the age of eleven wore short trousers anymore and not wanting to be called paedos, The Dudes didn’t wear school uniforms. They went for brightly coloured shirts and sometimes sleeveless pullovers. They had a unique look and it was getting noticed.

“I thought it looked a bit ‘gay’”, the manager said, sipping on his lager, “But the girls go wild for it. They reckon short trousers look really sexy on a young guy.” He grinned and licked his lips, “But I suppose you have to have the figure for it,” he rubbed his huge beer belly and laughed loudly. “One day, if all goes well every teenager will be wearing short trousers. We’ll have our own line of clothing. We’ll make a fortune.”

The concert promotor finished his own drink. “Are they any good?”

The manager looked puzzled. He hadn’t understood the question, so the promotor rephrased it, “Can they sing?”

A huge grin split the manager’s flabby face. “Who cares? Music producers take care of that. As long as they look good on stage and TV, that’s all that matters. They’re a bloody Boy Band, not The Beatles.”

Within three months The Dudes were top of the music charts and appearing on every important (and not so important) music show on the seven hundred satellite television channels beamed into the country every day.

The short trousers had taken off. A heatwave and a crusty headmaster helped a lot. Two eighteen-year-old sixth-formers were caned after they defied an order not to wear short trousers to school. The story ran for days on twenty-four-hour-news and The Dudes’ gimmick was the centre of attention.

The manager rubbed his hands with glee. Ker-ching! The cash would surely roll in now.

But there was one hitch. Gaz Matthews.

Every boy band that ever was had a Gaz Matthews. The Dudes were manufactured. They never existed until their manager searched the country for good looking boys. He found his five band members surprisingly easily. There’s a formula with such things: get a drop-dead gorgeous one; an is-he-or-isn’t-he-gay one; a black (but not too dark) one; a slightly nerdy-looking bookish one; and a chippy one who the girls would love and their parents hate.

Gaz Matthews was the chippy one. And, he was becoming a pain in the arse.

Toby, the “gay”, and Alain, the black, Dudes’ members were losing patience. They weren’t stupid, they knew the band had a short shelf-life and they should make hay while the sun shone. As long as their management didn’t rip them off too much, they would be set up for life.

They sat in a hotel room waiting while Gaz was next door arguing with the manager about “artistic control”.

“Jeez,” Alain sneered, “When I behaved like that my dad gave me a good hiding.”

Toby was startled, he hadn’t really been listening to Alain. “Hiding? You mean spanking? But you’re twenty, twenty-one, aren’t you?”

Alain smiled ruefully, “Tell my dad that.”

Alain had been at home during a break in the endless round of TV appearances. When his mother asked him to run the vacuum cleaner around the lounge carpet, Alain played the “Big I Am.” He was too important to do household chores.

It was over in about a minute. His dad scooped up a clothes brush from the sideboard, grabbed his son by the scruff of the neck and heaved him face-down over the back of an armchair. The heavy brush connected at full force several dozen times across the seat of Alain’s trousers. A lesson was learned and a carpet was Hoovered.

“Does he often spank you?” Toby couldn’t imagine his own dad doing such a thing.

“No, first time. It’s these new laws where they can use the cane at school and universities and workplaces and the like. I think it’s encouraged a few fathers to whack their sons at home.”

Toby flushed. The cane in the workplace. He hadn’t thought about it before. “Can they cane us? What does our contract say?”

Alain shrugged his shoulders. “I never really looked. But, I hope they can. A damn good caning would do Gaz the world of good.”

Just then the door opened and Sid and Ant (who was known as Prof because he occasionally read a book) came in.

“Gaz and The Boss are having a right ding-dong,” Sid said.

“Oh, not again. There’ll be more trouble,” Alain sighed. He was remembering the day a few weeks back when Gaz had a petulant tantrum. They missed three important TV dates when Gaz had a strop and went MIA.

“We should sack him and get a replacement,” Sid said with great confidence. “We can, you know. I asked The Boss.”

“Damn good idea,” Alain had never liked Gaz. He was hired for his “chippiness”, but Alain knew lots of guys like him. If Gaz wasn’t in The Dudes, he’d probably be in gang terrorising blacks and gays.

“Sack him? No, that’s not fair. We should at least warn him. Give him a chance.” Toby didn’t much like Gaz either, but he was a fair-minded lad. One warning and then he’s out.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Prof chipped in. “It’s a bit unconventional, but it might work.”

Two days later, Prof ran the idea past The Boss. All the band members had agreed, but it was up to him really. He was the manager after all.

It was an uncomfortable meeting. The Boss and Gaz alone.

“You’re sacked. The other guys have agreed. Sorry Gaz.” The Boss wasn’t the least bit sorry. He wanted a stable band. Stable and happy. That was the only way to maximise profits.

“But, they will give you one last chance,” The Boss added quickly, before Gaz opened his mouth and went on another of his rants. “They have a plan. If you do what they say, you get another chance. If not, you pack your bags today and we move on without you.”

Gaz paled significantly, “You can’t …”

“But,” the Boss interrupted. He wasn’t in the mood for an argument from this truculent piece of garbage. “I can. Read you contract. And, I can do much more beside.”

He waved his arm dismissively. He could invoke the corporal punishment clause. He didn’t want to; he wanted Gaz gone. But, his bandmates insisted on one last chance. Only that stood between Gaz and the unemployment line.

It was an uncomfortable meeting that evening in the hotel room. Prof took the lead; it had been his idea after all.

Gaz stood before his four bandmates; his jaw literally dropped. He glared at each of them, but none could meet his eye. Were they serious?

“You want to spank me, Prof? I thought Toby was the faggot in this band!” he roared.

“Jesus, Gaz!”

“Fuckinell!”

“Well that’s it then. You’re gone.”

“No Gaz,” Prof sucked in air in an attempt to control his temper. “I do not want to spank you. We all do. You get it from each of us.”

They had discussed it at some length. Gaz had to show each of them humility. He would have to let each one in turn whip his arse. Only when his great sense of superiority was tamed could he stay.

“No fucking way!” Gaz stormed from the room and down the hall to the elevator. He stabbed at the call button. Nothing happened. He seethed and smashed the palm of his hand against the elevator door.

“Come back Gaz. Let’s get this over with.” Prof lounged in the doorway of the hotel suite. “You know you have no choice.” He stretched out his hand and beckoned his bandmate back.

“Shit,” Gaz gasped. There really was no way out.

Sid rose from his chair, paced the room and picked up a cardboard-bound parcel. Four pairs of eyes stared intently as he unwrapped a medium-sized wooden paddle. It shone in the artificial light in the room. “I got it on eBay,” he replied to a question that actually hadn’t been voiced.

It was rectangular with rounded edges. With the handle, it was about twenty-four inches long and four wide. Sid held it tightly and swished it through the air. Gaz’s eyes followed it on its travels.

“C’mon then,” Alain could wait for the fun to start. “Bend over.”

“Yes, bend over,” Toby was raring to go too.

Gaz snarled. In that moment he hated them all. Each and every one. Everybody knew he was the star of the Dudes. Without him they would be nothing. But they had him over a barrel. He had no choice. It was an arse whipping or the sack. He couldn’t face unemployment. Not in the brave new world they inhabited. If a lad didn’t find a job (and there weren’t many around) he would be sent off to a work-camp. No Thank You. Gaz definitely did not want that.

He gave Alain the evil eye. Then slowly he twisted his body so his back was to his tormentor. Then, slowly, he bent from the waist, putting his hands on his knees. He looked over his shoulder in time to see Alain smack the heavy wooden paddle into the palm of his right hand.

“This is useless,” Prof snapped. He picked up a heavy armless chair and manoeuvred it into the centre of the room. “Bend over the chair,” he commanded. Gaz hesitated, unsure how this was done. The back of the chair was high and wide; he wouldn’t be able to get his body over that.

“Put your hands on the seat cushion. One either side. Stick your backside out.” Prof had it worked out.

Snarling, Gaz positioned himself. Instinctively, he closed his eyes tight, anticipating the pain to come. Whatever happened, no matter how much agony they inflicted, he would not let them see he was hurt, he promised himself.

Alain tapped the paddle against Gaz’s left cheek. Toby noticed how tight and round Gaz’s bum was. He had never noticed before. In this “naughty boy” position the boy’s bum simply cried out to be spanked. The grey short trousers hugged the contours of the cheeks. Toby’s cock twitched.

Whack! The paddle sank into Gaz’s buttock. He winced. It hurt, but not so much he couldn’t stand it.

“That’s no good,” Prof wailed. “Hit him on both cheeks. Down the middle.”

Alain gripped the paddle tightly. He didn’t like his bandmate’s criticism. Trust Prof to think he knew best. Crack! Alain put all his energy into it. It smacked with great force across the centre of Gaz’s bum. The twenty-one-year-old clutched the seat and sprang up on his toes. That one hurt. Definitely. A warm glow spread over his bum.

Alain put ten stingers across Gaz’s buttocks, from the top where they meet the spine, across the fleshiest part of the globes and into the under curves. Gaz’s bum throbbed like crazy.

“Stand up,” Prof was in control. Gingerly, Gaz rose. His pale blue eyes watered.

“Right. My turn.” Sid grinned. He picked a wooden clothes brush from the table. Gaz stared. It didn’t look like it could do him much damage. It was smaller and lighter than the paddle that had just taken his arse off.

He watched uncertain as Sid moved the chair a foot or two and then sat in it. “Take down those trousers.”

“No fucking way!” That’s what Gaz wanted to say. He wanted to tell Sid to go stuff himself. He wanted to punch them all on their stupid noses. He wanted to hi-tail it out of that hotel room. He wanted to abandon them all. He wanted a solo career. Let’s see how long they’d last without him.

He wanted all those things. But it was not to be. For now, at least. All he could do was obey. Their every command.

“Quickly.”

Gaz stared into the middle distance. There was a cheap, ugly picture of elephants on the far wall. He took in every detail of the water hole where they drank. His mind was in Africa while he unbuckled his belt, unclipped the fastener at the waistband of his short trousers and let them slip down his thighs.

z-used-shorts-uniform-unbuckle-belt-1

“Bend over my knee,” Sid hoped his bandmates couldn’t tell how much he was enjoying this. He spread his legs wide, the hem of his own short trousers rose, revealing an expanse of bare flesh. Gaz took a deep breath and lowered himself.

Gaz was easily three inches taller than Sid, but it didn’t matter much. He stretched his hands in front of him and placed his palms into the deep-pile carpet. He had to bend his knees so that his toes could rest on the floor behind him. This position thrust his bum high over Sid’s thigh. The buttocks were must harder than they had been across the chair.

Sid had never spanked someone before. Never even seen it done. Not even in a porno video. Instinctively, he took hold of the waist of Gaz’s bright orange briefs and pulled. The cotton wedged into his crack. Each buttock was perfectly presented.

Sid pushed Gaz’s shoulder’s forward so that his nose was closer to the carpet. He gripped the polished brush and whapped him good and hard, adding more fire to the places that Alain had already set ablaze.

Gaz yelped. It was involuntary. It felt like Sid had pressed a lighted cigarette into his flesh. Before his shocked vocal cords could recover, the brush hit him again on the other cheek, setting an oval patch of skin ablaze. Two spanks later his voice recovered, but made only random sounds of surprise and dismay. Ten spanks later Sid stopped, and released him to sputter and grab his blazing behind with both hands, rubbing the smarting skin as his eyes filled with tears.

He bent double desperately trying to catch his breath. He couldn’t take any more of this. They had won. He had lost.

“Please,” he whimpered at the floor.

“My turn.”

Gaz lifted his head to see Prof doubling up a heavy, thick studded leather belt.

“Pants down. Bend over the table.”

Epilogue

The Dudes hit the heights for a couple of years and then imploded. Gaz set off on a solo career. It flopped. Now, he is hustling to get a spot on a celebrity reality show. Toby married the concert promotor who gave them an early break. He was old enough to be his father. The tabloids were bitterly frustrated when the marriage failed to fail. Prof put his money into online male-on-male spanking porno. His proviso for support was that he got to audition the “models”. Young men still wear smart grey short trousers. It is true; the girls do love them.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com