The glorious summer


It was the most beautiful summer Crispin and Alfie had ever experienced. Eighteen years old with their whole lives ahead. School was over; soon they would go up to the varsity together. Life was bliss.

Crispin usually took the lead; in life as well as in the punt. Alfie was very content to follow in his chum’s wake. This day was to be no exception. Slowly, lugubriously, for they had all the time in the world, they floated away from the river bank. It would take maybe half an hour to reach the island. They would be safe there. Not alone, but with people like themselves. Nobody would bother them there.

Parson Scorn paced his sitting room. It was too hot to be inside, but he wasn’t yet ready to venture out. He would wait for the noon day sun. He could be sure of success at that hour. His quarry were not notorious early risers.

Crispin manoeuvred through the weeds. He was becoming expert at this. His lithe arm muscles flexed as he strained on the punt pole. Alfie lay back admiring Crispin’s taut buttocks encased in white linen trousers. The exertions made his pal perspire. Soaking his unruly fair hair. The sun appeared from behind a white cloud; temperatures were rising all round.

“We should be safe here,” Crispin gasped, jumping from the punt onto solid ground. The little boat rocked leaving Alfie clinging it its side.

“Careful, you’ll have me in the water,” he snapped.

“Then, we’d have to take off all your wet clothes,” Crispin grinned. Alfie scowled, but he didn’t really mean it.

Crispin reached out his hand and helped his chum from the punt. Then, still fingers entwined, they walked away from the water’s edge. They knew a spot. They had used it often enough. They wouldn’t be seen from there.

Parson Scorn checked his watch. Now would be a good time to leave. He climbed into his black coat and reached for his hat. At the umbrella stand, he collected a canvas bag, testing its weight. It was never very heavy. It didn’t need to be.

Parson Scorn was a large man; people said he ate well. They meant he ate plenty, not healthily. Folds of fat flopped over his belt; a third chin dragged down his jowls so his facial features were as indistinct as a bowl of blancmange. Sweat soaked his back. The sun was hot and his coat heavy. He walked slowly, pacing himself. He needed his strength. There would be many exertions before the afternoon was over.

Crispin tested the grass. It was dry, it hadn’t rained for days. His brilliant white trousers would remain unstained. He pulled Alfie to his side.

“Why do you still wear the old school cap? I should have thought we were both glad to be away from St. Tom’s.” He pulled at the cap and threw it to the ground, releasing Alfie’s shiny black wavy hair. Crispin ran his fingers through it. It was strong hair and a little greasy. The two teenagers’ eyes met. No words were spoken. There was no need. Their lips met. Tongues entwined.

Parson Scorn kept a small rowing boat. It was meant for one person. He scrambled in, his fat buttocks overhanging the wooden slat that passed for a seat. Carefully, he rested his canvas bag between his knees; it wouldn’t do for that to fall in the river. He clutched the oars and slowly inched his way towards the island.

Crispin and Alfie lay naked. Alfie was on his back, Crispin straddled him, working his lips down his pal’s strong chest. Alfie gasped with pleasure. Crispin was doing that thing with his tongue. It made his manhood throb like crazy. He closed his eyes and tried to think of dull things. It would stop him exploding too early.

“No, not yet,” Crispin climbed off his chum and lay by his side. “You mustn’t come too soon.” He stretched his arm around Alfie’s shoulders and pulled him close for an intimate, loving embrace. The sun beat own fiercely. Both boys had nut-brown skin; all over. There was a stretch of the river where men sunbathed naked. Wags called the place ‘Parsons’ Pleasure.’ Crispin and Alfie loved to show their bodies. Their devotees could not hide their admiration. Ah, the beauty of youth, they all agreed.

Parson Scorn disembarked and tugged the tiny boat out of the river. He was sweating profusely, but he would not remove his hat and coat. They were his credential. They indicated he was a parson. They were his symbols of power. He sat and caught his breath. He was unsure what to do next. Last time he patrolled the island he had turned to the left; perhaps this time he would go to the right.

He picked up his canvas bag, and headed inland. He had trod this path before. There was a small clearing maybe fifty yards ahead.

Alfie nibbled Crispin’s ear. It was a simple gesture, but it always made his chum’s heart race and his penis stiffen.

“We shall have so much fun at Oxford,” Crispin beamed. “Together. Always. We shall take rooms together. Undisturbed. Forever,” he babbled.

Alfie kissed Crispin deeply. His tongue washing around the teenager’s mouth, right inside, reaching the throat.

“Warr…?” Crispin broke free, gasping for air. “What’s that noise?” He hauled himself to a sitting position. “There’s somebody there.”

“Just another couple courting, I suppose.” Alfie peered into the undergrowth. “We wouldn’t be alone on this island.”

“No…” Crispin started, but further words were impossible. Alfie’s tongue was back inside his mouth. They stretched out and Alfie straddled his body.

“Monstrous! Ungodly! Disgraceful!” Parson Scorn had a lexicon of words for such occasions. He pushed through the undergrowth and stood towering over the boys, his shadow blocking out the sun. He stared intently at Alfie’s naked buttocks.

“Shameful! Shocking! Outrageous!” Parson Scorn was not yet ready to speak in full sentences.

Alfie climbed off his chum. Crispin lay on his back, his penis pointing to the sky.

Parson Scorn stood, scowling, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He had perfected this stance. It put terror into the hearts of his victims. Sometimes, even before he revealed his plan, young men would be in floods of tears. Once, some darn fool had begged on his knees for mercy. Mercy, indeed, Parson Scorn had thought. Retribution was the order of the day.

He had a speech prepared. He rarely had to deviate from the script. It started with a tirade from the Bible. Then there was a passage about Hell. That always made an impact. Most of the young men he pursued had been brought up as strict Christians of one sort of another.

But, the words that really struck terror into their hearts were about the law. This perversion was a crime, punishable by imprisonment. With hard labour. Prison would destroy them. Just think about that fellow Oscar Wilde. They would live their lives in disgrace. Living and dying penniless.

But, kindly person that Parson Scorn was, he had an alternative.

Crispin and Alfie listened with mounting dread. The dreadful parson was right. The law could destroy them, but only if the law was invoked. There were many men like themselves leading quiet lives, not harming anyone. Many of them, especially from Crispin and Alfie’s social class, were ignored by the police.

“I am prepared, in the name of God, to give you a second chance,” Parson Scorn’s beady eyes burned into Crispin. He really was the most delightfully looking fellow. The sun highlighted the colour of his yellow hair which contrasted with his deep suntan.

“It will not be pleasant,” Parson Scorn’s voice broke. He coughed nervously. “But, I am prepared to do my duty.”

Crispin stared at the Parson. He had seen the way the old men looked at him at Parson’s Pleasure. Suddenly, he realised the significance of it name.

Parson Scorn reached for the canvas bag at his feet. Inside seconds, it was open. Crispin’s eyes widened. It had been years since he had seen such a thing. Furtively, he exchanged glances with Alfie. Now, they understood the vile clergyman’s game.

Parson Scorn picked up the birch rods in his hands and held them up to the eighteen year olds, as if making a religious offering. As birch rods went, this was on the smaller side. From where Crispin stood it looked like there were about a dozen branches, tied together at one end by string.

The headmaster at St. Tom’s had preferred a much heavier birch rod. Crispin had seen the damage that could inflict on naked buttocks. But, the birch was rarely used at his old school, the whippy ashplant was the preferred instrument of punishment among the schoolmasters.

“I shall flog you,” Parson Scorn rolled the word “flog” around his tongue, relishing the sound it made and the reaction it caused in the two teenagers sprawled before him. He swished the birch rod through the air for emphasis, delighting in the way their eyes followed it on its travels.

Parson Scorn knew his place in the world. He was a man of God; an authority figure. The boys he was about to beat were products of an English public school. They had been raised to know their place, also. They would obey his every word; however unusual and indeed perverse it might be. They always did. Not once had Parson Scorn’s victim refused to comply with his instruction. Nor, he was certain, would these two boys.

“You should stand up,” he spoke quietly. Without hesitation Crispin and Alfie rose to their feet. Parson Scorn flushed. For the first time, he had seen Alfie’s long, thick penis. Even flaccid, it was a terrific sight. Parson Scorn’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Stand together,” Parson Scorn swished his birch rod, “About two or three feet apart,” he directed. Satisfied with their distance, he continued. “You should bend over and grip your shins.” Meekly, the two teenagers bent forward. Alfie shut his eyes tight. Crispin looked down at the mud and mould beneath his feet.

Parson Scorn stepped back to assess his targets. Crispin was smooth skinned, but Alfie’s buttocks and legs were covered with thick, black hair. The Parson tried not to look into their cracks, but there was no way he could avoid the sight of penises and ball sacks dangling between their legs.

Parson Scorn sucked in air. He lay the birch rod against Crispin’s naked left buttock. Once the rod swung it would contact across the centre of both cheeks. He raised his arm a yard or so away from the naked flesh and brought it down. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from the eighteen-year-old and an array of small welts across the backside.

The Parson turned his attention to Alfie. The hair on the boy’s backside hid the marks of the birch, but the Parson knew well enough that both teenagers would have throbbing rear ends.

Parson Scorn had no wish to cut the boys backsides to ribbons. A heavier birch rod, applied with maximum force would do that. Instead, the clergyman whipped his rod across the naked haunches with just enough power to scar the flesh. The boys would be raw. They would feel intense agony as the dozen birch twigs connected. But, soon that agony would give way to a deep throb, which in turn would become a warm glow. After an hour or so the pain would have gone, except for when they sat on a hard surface. Then, one or two of the welts would reignite. It would be a week or so before the scars cleared fully.

Parson Scorn tapped the birch rod against Crispin’s bottom once more; a little lower than the previous cut. Swish! The birch rod made an eerie sound in the open air. Crispin hacked a dry cough. That one had hurt so much more than the first. Alfie, failed to suppress a yelp as his second stroke connected.

Ex-public schoolboys are stout fellows. It comes from spending many years holed up with manic masters who carried an ashplant under their arms to slip into their hands at a second’s notice before applying it with some vigour against the backside of an errant schoolboy. Crispin and Alfie took their whipping stoically.

Parson Scorn laid on six-of-the-best. That was sufficient. Not one square inch of the naked backsides pointing at him was left unblemished. Each cheek was a deep cherry red. Bruises were forming on the outer side of Crispin’s bum. The Parson assumed that under all that dark hair, similar bruises adorned Alfie’s buttocks.

“That will do,” Parson Scorn, replaced the birch rod in the canvas bag, alongside two more he had there. “I hope I never catch you behaving in such a monstrous manner again,” he said, untruthfully, before taking his leave. Crispin and Alfie rubbed their sore bums and watched him fight his way through the undergrowth toward the centre of the island.

“You know, he enjoyed doing that, don’t you?” Crispin kneaded his pert inflamed buttocks.

“Yes,” Alfie grinned. His penis was rock hard. “Come my chum, deal with this, there’s a fine fellow.” Crispin sank to his knees, formed a perfect “O” with his lips and prepared to take the member in his mouth.

Three hours later, they sat contented outside the Three Fishers Hotel. It had been a wonderful day in a glorious summer. Despite the Parson’s threat there had been no danger of involving the law. There would be no prison. A life of bliss lay ahead for Crispin and Alfie.

“Do you know what?” Alfie sipped on his warm beer, “I can see us as two old codgers, living in harmony. In our dotage.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely. I look forward to it.”

Suddenly, a boy rushed through the gate. “Read all about it. Read all about it,” he yelled waving a newspaper.

“What is it,” Crispin sighed wearily.

“Germany invades Belgium! War to be declared!”


Other stories you might like

The missed curfew

Caught in their underpants

The shoplifter


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Paying the rent


Rik hid behind the curtain and gazed into the garden below. His neighbour Ste lifted his shirt over his head; he was about to lay in the sun. Rik’s cock stiffened at the sight. What a body, a six-pack to die for. Not a spare gram of fat anywhere.

Ste was now nearly naked; only a tiny pair of shorts covered his manhood. Rik peered; were they shorts or were they Boxers, he wondered? Ste was probably the type to parade in public in his underwear. God only knew he had the body to carry it off. If they were Boxers, the floral pattern told Rik they hadn’t been bought in Tesco.

Rik unzipped his own shorts and let them full to his ankles, his cock strained against his tight underpants. He tugged them down. His dick was long and hard, a deep blue vein throbbed along its entire length. He had already jerked himself dry once that morning, dreaming he had the gorgeous Ste in his arms. He pulled open the drawer to his dressing table. Damn. He had used the last of the lube. He gobbed spit into the palm of his hand and stretched out on the bed.

Rik had moved into the room a week previously. It was a good set up. A large house converted into four self-contained rooms and there were a couple of communal rooms too. It was like having a house share, but with more privacy. Ste had spotted an ad on the Internet. The landlord didn’t seem much older than Rik. A bit of a hunk too. He took care of himself. The rent was pretty cheap, especially for your own front door. Rik was sure he had landed on his feet, a great room and a sexy neighbour, who wasn’t afraid to let you know.

Ste wasn’t gay, more’s the pity, Rik thought. In the week since he moved in Rik had seen Ste with two different women. A blonde girl with legs up to her chin on Monday morning, and a petite redhead with freckles on Wednesday. Ste could have anyone he wanted, Rik reckoned, and who could blame him?

Rik was no gargoyle. He had piercing blue eyes and fair hair. His boyish grin and tight bottom got him a long way at the clubs. But Rik was cute in a boy-next-door kind of way. Ste was sexy, as in hot-hot-hot, fuck-my-brains-out.

Rik shot a load over his stomach and lay staring at the ceiling. Oh Ste, Ste, why couldn’t you be gay?

Rik cleaned himself down. He should hurry, he was already more than an hour late for his shift at the supermarket. His boss was already on his case; he’d been told one more time and he would lose his job.

“Why so glum, Rik?” It was Ste, naked except for those shorts, standing in the communal hallway. Rik paused, how he wanted to kiss those nipples and then run his tongue all over that hard chest and stomach. Then, he would rip down those shorts – they were Boxers; up close Rik could see the fly. He’d take his balls in his mouth before sucking Ste’s shaft and then …


Rik woke with a start. “Sorry Ste, my mind was somewhere else.”

“Why you so miserable?”

I’ve been sacked.”

“Hard luck. Where’d you work?”


“Oh, not much of a job then.”

“No, but it paid the rent.”

Ste’s dark brown eyes sparkled. He grinned, “There’s more than one way to pay the rent,” and he sashayed his delightfully tight little arse up the stairs to his room.

Rik stared, his cock throbbing once more. Pay the rent. There was no way he could pay the rent. He had no savings, no job prospect. He couldn’t go home, his parents more or less disowned him the moment they found he was gay. He’d be on the streets by the end of the month. Despondently, he trudged up the stairs, his hard-on still raging.

It was four days later when they next met on the stairs. Rik’s mouth gaped, his cock roared, he had never seen anything like it before. Even the boys at the clubs never dressed like this. Ste’s cock and arse was barely covered by the shortest, tightest white cotton shorts imaginable. Rik tried not to stare. He failed. Now, he knew his neighbour had been circumcised. What a pity, he thought. Rik’s chest and torso glistened with lotion.

Ste grinned, “Down boy,” and glanced down at the bulge, now tenting the front of Rik’s shorts. Rik’s mouth opened and closed. What was it he wanted to say.

“Can’t stop to chat, the landlord’s here. I’ve got to pay the rent.” Ste flashed that cheeky grin again and eased past Rik, wriggling his buttocks in an exaggerated walk as he went. Rik watched him enter the communal sitting room. His cock throbbed, he needed a wank. He headed up the stairs but stopped before he reached the top. Masturbation must wait. Something mysterious was going on.

He tiptoed down the stairs and through the hallway. The door to the sitting room was wide open. All was silent. Rik paused. It was an instinct. Something was happening in the room. He couldn’t hear a thing, but he was certain Ste and Mr Cresswell, the landlord, were there. Something immense was happening. Rik had two choices; to creep forward and spy on the pair or flee back to his room. If he left now he might regret never knowing the truth.

Stealthily, he crept forward. He was three metres from the room but through the open door he had a clear view. Mr Cresswell sat on a heavy wooden straight-backed chair. He was a fit man in his early thirties, he had his legs wide apart, army boots planted firmly in the carpet. He wore military camouflaged trousers and a white sleeveless singlet that held in place his gym-honed muscles. His biceps bulged. Ste lay entirely naked face-down across the wide platform that were Cresswell’s legs. The nineteen-year-old’s arms dangled in mid-air to the landlord’s left and his legs and feet to the right. Cresswell sucked his index finger making sure it was covered in spit and then gently he traced it along the length of Ste’s spine from the neck to his arse crack. Rik shivered and his trooper stood to attention once more.

Ste lay motionless, staring blankly at the beige carpet in front of his face. His breathing was regular. His buttocks twitched slightly when Cresswell’s finger reached the top of his crack. Then the landlord cupped the palm of his right hand and make soft circular motions across the tiny hills that were Ste’s buttock cheeks. From his vantage point, Rik could not see his neighbour’s face or his neighbour’s shining eyes.

Cresswell caressed Ste’s arse for a minute or two before directing his palm down the teenager’s thighs. When he was satisfied with that he returned his attention to his tenant’s muscular back. Rik’s cock throbbed raw. Any moment now, without the least encouragement from his right fist it would explode in his pants. He should get away now to the bathroom while he still had a chance.

His willpower was weak. He gaped, the saliva draining from his mouth as Cresswell raised his right palm about a metre from Ste’s naked bum and slapped it down with some force. It made little impact; Ste had buns of steel. Rik wouldn’t be surprised if Cresswell’s hand hurt much more than Ste’s bum. The landlord spanked again and again. They were unhurried spanks. It was no frenzied punishment session. It was an act of devotion. Ste stared down at the carpet, his body still and inviting, as his landlord spanked his bottom to the colour of a good claret wine. Creswell paused his spanking and once again cupped his palm and caressed the submissive buttocks bent across his knees and pointing at the ceiling. The flesh felt hot. Hand spankings often do more damage and cause more pain than the uninitiated might suspect.

He cracked three dozen hand swats at power and speed into the underside of Ste’s bum. The boy felt those alright, his body quivered and squirmed. It was a reflex action as much as anything. His body was being assaulted and this was its way of coping.  Then it was over. Creswell panted and wheezed. Ste opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish. Both needed to get their breath back.

“Stand up.” It was a command. Cresswell expected to be obeyed. The only way Ste could get off his landlord’s lap was to roll sideways and fall onto the carpet. He lay face down for a moment and then dragged himself to a kneeling position. Cresswell rose from the chair. Rik stared transfixed. He saw his new landlord unbuckled the wide heavy leather belt from his trousers. Then he released the clasp of his fatigues and tugged the zipper. The weight of the military camouflages sent them slithering to his ankles.

No words were spoken. Ste reached forward and gently took hold of the waist of Creswell’s navy-blue Boxers. It took three tugs to get them to rest on top of the trousers. Creswell’s cock was long thick, uncut ad as hard as steel. Ste’s mouth soon got sore from keeping it wide open for so long. Rik watched as his own cock oozed cum into his pants. Ste held Creswell’s dick by the base and swirled his tongue around it.

Creswell moaned, his eyes tightly closed. He was close to coming. “Slowly, slowly,” he commanded. Ste took the cock from his mouth and gasped for air. He took the throbbing muscle in his right hand and slowly massaged it, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again.

“That’s it. That’s it. Slowly,” Creswell panted. He opened his eyes. Two metres ahead of him stood Rik, blushing profusely, the front of his shorts covered in sticky goo.

“Hello young man,” the landlord gasped. “Have you come to pay your rent as well?”


Other stories you might like

The headmaster and Hutchins

Illicit drinking

My drunken nephew



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 The landlord Kevin saw me heaving my shoulder against the heavy saloon bar door. “You’re barred!” he shouted from across the empty room before I even stepped across the threshold. He meant it too.

I stood bemused. The bar was deserted apart from we two. “After the other night,” Kevin began to explain. “I don’t need the grief. Just go. Find some other pub to smash up.”

Then, I knew what he meant.

“Three chairs. Broken. Beyond repair.” Kevin was an elderly man, running to fat. Even across the dimly-lit bar I could see sweat was streaming down his face. He was not enjoying this. He hated confrontation.

The Royal pub was my favourite place to hang out. Me and a group of pals were well out of order a few nights earlier. You might have been there yourself. Or you’ve had your evening spoiled by people who were. I don’t remember much of the detail. Too much to drink. Certainly. Too loud. Beer splashed about. Was there a fight? Like I said, I really don’t remember.

Just then, Albert, his partner, or husband, or whatever you call it, appeared from a trap door behind the bar. He wiped his hands on an old rag and looked across the room at me. I felt his eyes burn into me with distain. “If I had my way …” he started and then trailed off. He threw the rag on the bar counter and busied himself stacking glasses.

“B … b …” I tried to speak, but I could not find the words. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t too sure what it was that I was sorry about. We must have been well out of order. I approached the bar and sat on a stool.

“I said you’re barred,” Kevin tried to growl at me. He wasn’t very good at aggression.

“Piss off. We don’t want your sort here,” Albert was much better at it. He leaned across the bar and put his face close to mine. I could smell his toothpaste. “If I had my way ….” He said it again. His way? I thought he meant he would call the police or something. Perhaps he had wanted to, but Kevin had talked him out of it.

“I’m sorry. Really sorry.” I managed to get the words out this time. I was too. I wasn’t just saying this. I am not the kind of guy who goes around wrecking pubs. I’m twenty-two and a bank clerk for pity’s sake. I spend my days sedately counting other people’s money. I’ve got a girlfriend. I hope we’ll get married one day. Settle down. Have a family. I am Mr Normal. Not a pub fighter.

Kevin peered at me through owl-like glasses, as if seeing me for the very first time. “Whatever possessed you, Simon?” I blushed with shame. He sounded a bit like my mum. What on earth would mum say if she ever found out?

“Let me pay for the damage,” I stuttered.

“You should pay all right,” Albert sneered. “If I had my way …”

“No,” a smile forced its way across Kevin’s flabby face. “You didn’t do the damage.”

It was a relief to hear that. Perhaps, I wasn’t such a bad lad after all.

“But you did encourage them on. You are equally to blame,” Albert was not letting me off the hook so easily. I stared down at the drip cloth on the counter. It advertised Carlsberg. I could murder a pint, I thought.

“If I had my way …” Albert said again. He was beginning to annoy me.

“What would you do if you had your way?” I snapped. I always had a quick temper. It sometimes got me into trouble.

Albert’s face creased in anger. I saw him clench his right hand into a fist. He was trying to control his own temper. “I’d give you a damn good hiding,” he blurted.

What? I didn’t say anything but my face or my body language must have spoken for me. It said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Spanking.” Albert unclenched his fist and pointed his index finger in my face. “A jolly good spanking.”

I sat and gaped. Spanking? He meant it too.

“That would teach you a lesson. You little shit.” Albert definitely had it in for me. “Now piss off. You’re barred.”

I sat as if glued to the stool. Spanking? What an idea. Was it a gay thing? Did he get off on spanking younger guys? I looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I had seen myself plenty of times before. I knew what I looked like. I was a little over five-eight, which made me average height. My hair was cut short; if I let it grow it would curl and make me look like a scarecrow. This was Sunday, so I needed a shave, but my stubble didn’t detract from my otherwise boyish looks. I was a bit on the thin side. I liked the pub, but I also ran the streets two or three times a week. That kept the beer belly at bay and contributed to my flat stomach. From what I had seen of it in the past, my bum was round and firm. I was sitting on it as I checked myself out in the mirror, but Albert would have had plenty of opportunities in the past to admire it.

“Go,” Albert snarled. I slipped my arse off the stool and headed for the door. Five minutes later I was gulping down a pint of lager at The Mitre, a horrible pub that was usually full of miserable old geezers who spent their whole time moaning about their wives. I had no choice. There were only two pubs in the village.

I was close to the bottom of the glass, when Tony breezed in. “You barred too?” he grinned. I smiled. I suppose we were all banned. We deserved it, too. Why the hell did we do it?

Tony put a fresh pint in front of me.

“Did Albert say anything to you?” Tony sipped on his best bitter. He looked quizzically at me, as if he was pondering something.

I gulped my lager. “About spanking us, you mean?”

Tony flushed and hurriedly looked around the bar, “Keep your voice down.”

I took another gulp.

“Well?” Tony seemed agitated.

“Well what?”

Tony leaned close to me. His breath stank of booze and cigarettes. He whispered, “The spanking.”

My puzzled look must have spurred him on.

“Are we going to let him?” Tony was earnest.

I spluttered my beer. It dribbled down my chin as I coughed up a lungful of air.

“War ….?” I mouthed the word. I wasn’t recovered enough to speak properly.

“We can’t be barred from the Royal. I’m in the snooker team. And the darts.”

I got my wind back. “You cannot be serious.” I sounded like John McEnroe on a bad day.

He shrugged. Just then Bill walked through the door. He beamed and rubbed the palms of his hands against his buttocks.

“Yeah, I know!” I said. He didn’t need to explain himself.

He sat down and sipped from a bottle of designer beer.

“We’ve got no choice, of course,” he said thoughtfully. I looked blank.

He sighed at my ignorance, “The new law.”

I was still uncomprehending.

“Don’t you ever follow the news? The new law. Juvenile delinquents. If Albert reports us to the police and we’re convicted of vandalism. Or affray, even. We’ll get the birch. No question.”

I saw the blood drain from Tony’s face. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I forgot about that.” He gulped at his beer, sweat soaking his temples.

“So,” Bill, sighed, “We either let Albert smack our little botties or some prison officer will rip our arses to shreds.” He drew on his bottle. “It’s a no-brainer.”

We lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Each of us alone with our fears. Pain. Humiliation. Disgrace. Would I lose my job at the bank?

Tony broke the silence. “You know Albert’s a bit …” He flapped his wrist and threw his head back.

“Ha!” Bill sneered. “He’s not at all limp-wristed.” He sipped his beer. “I wish he were.” He was thinking of the pain that was undoubtedly to come.

“Would he … you know …?” I daren’t say the words out loud.

My pals did know. None of us wanted to think about it.

“Bare, you mean?” Bill spoke at last. I nodded.

“But, won’t he enjoy it? You know? Being gay?” Tony blushed.

“Maybe,” Bill smiled, “But not as much as the prison officer who birches the skin off juvies.”

I nodded agreement. Why? What did I know about anything?

“I bet they cream their pants,” Bill sneered.

We fell back into silence. The bar was filling up. We needed to make a decision. Soon.

“So,” Bill was a natural leader. He had led us in the mayhem that caused the damage. He was about to lead us again. “We’re going to let him do it.” It was a statement, not a question.

I shrugged my shoulders. It meant, “Yes,” not, “I dunno.”

Tony gave a twisted smile. His face paled. It was his way of assenting.

Bill went to the bar. One more drink and then we would go face the music.

The Royal was busy when we got there half an hour later. Albert spotted us as soon as the big heavy saloon bar door edged its way back to a closed position. His jaw opened. He was about to tell us we were barred. He stopped short. One look at our hunched shoulders and embarrassed faces told him he had won.

He lifted the flap in the bar. “Come through lads,” he said pleasantly. It was as if we were old, valued friends and he was pleased we were visiting. He probably was delighted. I certainly was not.

“Go up the stairs, lads.” It irritated me that he called us “lads”, I don’t recall him ever doing that before. We did as we were told and were taken into Albert’s private quarters. It was a smallish sitting room. It was not much different from the one at my mum’s house. There was a small dining table, a double-sized couch, a television. The usual things.

We stood shuffling our feet, not sure what we were supposed to do. Or, say. There had been almost total embarrassed silence on the way over. None of us wanted to share our feelings. I’m not certain about the others, but I had never been spanked in my life. I had left school before the cane was brought back and as far as I knew the junior bank clerks and whatnot at the bank were immune from corporal punishment. Or, if not “immune” exactly, at least no one misbehaved enough to warrant a thrashing. I was entering unchartered territory.

Albert perched his buttocks on the edge of the table. His disdain for us was obvious. I clasped my hands behind my back and took an unusually keen interest in the pattern in the carpet beneath my feet. My heart was pounding and my ears popped as blood coursed at maximum speed through my arteries. I don’t remember a single word he said. And, he said an awful lot. At last, satisfied that he had lectured us enough, he pronounced sentence. I heard that alright.

“Stand there.” He pointed to the far wall. “Take off your clothes.”

The shock on Tony’s face scared me. I thought he was going to cry and faint, all at the same time.

“Now, come on,” Bill started a protest. Albert’s face flashed crimson anger. That stopped Bill.

“Or would you prefer I called the police?” Albert knew he had us over a barrel. Or wherever he intended us to bend over to receive our thrashing.

I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.

But, not yet totally humiliated. “I said take off all your clothes.” Albert’s tongue darted through his lips, like a lizard. I could see he had a moustache of sweat.

Tears welled behind my eyes. I wanted to plead for mercy. Had I been on my own, I might have. Bill once more took the lead. He stood on his right foot and unsteadily pulled the sock off his left. Then he reversed the process. Now, he was in only his bright blue briefs. His tubby stomach hung over the waistband. He glared at Albert, a last gesture of defiance. He pinched the elasticated waist at his hips and with an exaggerated twist of his wrists he sent the pants down to his ankles. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen an uncut cock before.

Tony was not so flamboyant. He eased his boxer shorts over his hips and slowly – a snail would have been faster – he exposed his buttocks and his hairy dick and ball sack. I had known Tony for years, he had always been shy with women. I couldn’t see why; if they realised what he had to offer they would flock to him. He was long and thin. When erect, he could have competed with a stallion.

I took hold of my own waistband. I hesitated. Absurdly, I remembered I had not changed my pants for a couple of days. Would there be skid marks? I closed my eyes and stepped out of them.

We stood, our hands cupping our balls. I dared not look at Albert. What if he was checking me out? What if he fancied me? We had known for years that Kevin and Albert were gay. They were married for pity’s sake, but I had never thought of them as sexual beings. They were older than my mum and dad! What if he wanted to stick his dick up my bum?

“Stay there. I’ll be back in a second.” Albert left the room and true to his word, he returned almost immediately. He was holding a piece of wood. Do you call it a four by two? I’m not sure. I’m no carpenter. I didn’t even do woodwork at school. It was a piece of pale-brown wood about two feet in length and maybe two inches wide and a quarter-inch thick. He held it in his right hand and smacked it into the palm of his left. His eyes glazed and he winced.

He looked around the sitting room as if he were taking an inventory, his face impassive. Table. Dining chairs. Couch. Coffee table. He pondered each item of furniture in turn, weighing up its properties for the task in hand.

His eyes sparkled. A decision had been made.

“You, Simon,” he waved his wood at me. “Lay face down across the table.” He pointed at the coffee table. A shot of bile heaved from who-knew-where and stuck in the back of my throat. For an awful moment, I thought I would vomit on the carpet. My knees buckled. I steadied myself in time, just before I collapsed in a heap.

Albert waved the wood once more. I felt the gazes of my two pals burning into the back of my head as I waddled towards the table. This could not be happening. Any moment I would wake up. In bed, at my girlfriend’s home.

“C’mon, I haven’t got all day. I’ve got customers.” Albert took a pace backwards to give me space to approach the low coffee table. “Lay on it.”

I hesitated. I genuinely did not know what he meant. Was I to lay flat, my stomach and chest on the table and my legs waving behind me? Where did my arms go?

“Lay down. Put your bum on the edge. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Hold the far end. Keep your arse still.”

I manoeuvred into position. My cock dug into the hard table edge. I wriggled trying to find comfort. I stretched my arms ahead of me and looked down at the table top. I concentrated on the pattern of three rings that had been left by mugs. A draught wafted across my naked body. I shivered as much from fear as the cool air.

Albert wheezed. I heard him gulp in a lung-full of air. I tapped my head against the table top. My ears popped, I feared blood would pour through them any second now. I felt sick. Albert could see right into my crack. Up the hole probably. Was his dick throbbing against his zipper fly? Did he want to rip down his own trousers and pants and take me up the arse?

I never heard it coming. Albert gave no warning. There was no command, “Brace yourself.” There was just a dull thud as the wood whopped against the centre of my buttocks. Then four or five beats later an intense pain spread across my tight bum. It started in the very centre and travelled in waves across both cheeks and up and down my legs. Startled, a rush of air whistled through my teeth.

After the third whack, I was humping the table’s edge. I had no bodily control. Spasms of pain made my body rise and fall; rise and fall. My blistered bum was going up and down, it must have looked like I was screwing a girl.

Hot tears flowed down my cheeks, like a young river cascading through mountains. Snot dribbled from my nose. My head banged the table top.

I lost count of the times that piece of wood bounced across my backside. It could have been dozens. What I do know was that later, when we inspected the damage, none of us had a square inch of flesh on the buttocks or the back of the thighs that did not glow red. My bum was hot to touch. You could have fried an egg back there.

I clenched my teeth and waited for the onslaught to continue. Albert was into his stride. He pop-pop-popped the wood against my bum, finding virgin areas to inflame. He was some expert. I’m not about to share my shame with other customers, but I’d dearly love to know how many others Albert had spanked before me.

At last it was over. “Up!” It was a curt command. I lay gasping for breath. The cliché people use is gasping, “like a beached whale.” I don’t know about that, but I couldn’t breath and my head ached like made. The agony in my whole body was intense. I had never felt anything like it before. My arse was on fire. Had Albert just poured a kettle of boiling water over it?

“Come. Up.” Albert was anxious to move on to the next lad. I was calming a little. My ordeal was over. I supposed I had taken it as well as could be expected. I had not disgraced myself in front of my pals. I felt self-satisfied. Smug even.

I eased myself off the table and waited a second on my knees. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bill moving toward me, ready to take my place. I flashed him what I thought was a comradely smile. “Go get it boy!” it was meant to say.

I’m not sure if his look back at me was terror or horror. He turned away. He could not bear to face me.

I hauled myself to my feet. Only then did I see my seven-inch cock standing proud, pointing at the ceiling. It kinked a little to the right. I had never seen it so stiff. It throbbed even as much as my arse. The top glistened with pre-cum. It pulsated, even without my hand to stimulate it. I covered it with my palms. Tony, ashen faced, looked away. I saw he too had his cock covered.

I heard the smack of wood against flabby flesh. I turned to see a red stripe a couple of inches wide spreading across Bill’s bum. My palms filled with sticky, hot cum.


Other stories you might like

First day of term

Trouble at the mall

Put back into short trousers


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

The Chamber pot incident

The headmaster sat back in his plush leather chair contemplating the boy standing on the other side of his huge walnut desk.

Perry Dexter, aged eighteen, nearly six-feet tall, a senior sixth-former, captain of cricket, a prefect. And a thoroughly silly boy.

Dexter wore a white shirt, green-and-black striped tie and mid-grey short trousers. He had on leather sandals, but no socks. Eighteen years old and wearing short trousers. And they were real trousers. Properly tailored trousers that were short. Not the kind of shorts people wore to the beach. The headmaster knew that back in his homeland no self-respecting eighteen-year-old would wear short trousers to school. But here under the harsh African summer sun it made perfect sense. All the boys from the youngest to the most senior wore short trousers.

Dexter’s shorts were short and Dexter was tall, so they hardly covered much more than his buttocks and an inch or so of his thighs. The boy didn’t seem to mind. He wasn’t the only pupil at the school dressed like that.

Dexter posed the headmaster a problem. He needed to be punished, there was no doubt about that. But, he was a senior sixth-former, eighteen years old, an adult. How did one punish somebody like that?

The stupid boy had climbed on the roof of the clock tower and then shimmied up its steeple and deposited a chamber pot on the very top. It was dangerous, the fool could have easily fallen and broken his neck. It was a terrible example to set the younger boys.

It had all been so public. Everybody knew what he had done. The headmaster could not ignore it. It could not be brushed under the carpet. So, how could the boy be punished? It had never been much of a problem in the past. Sixth-formers were by and large well behaved. They were left to their own devices. No master would interfere with their lives.

But now? The headmaster had contemplated expelling the boy, or at least suspending him for a term. But, examinations were looming. If the boy missed classes, he would certainly fail them. Then what? No place at university. No lucrative career. And all because of a childish prank.

No. The headmaster had decided. Dexter would not be suspended or expelled. That left only one recourse to action. If the boy behaved like a child, he should be punished like a child. No matter how disagreeable it might be, it had to be done.

The headmaster had finished jawing the boy. It was now time to take action. He hauled himself out from his chair and walked in front of his desk. Dexter’s eyes followed him intently. The headmaster took hold of a low-backed armchair and swivelled it until its back faced into the centre of the room.

Then, to dispel any doubts about his intentions, he strode to a tall thin cupboard in one corner of the study. He opened the door. Dexter averted his eyes. He knew what was kept inside. He could hear a distinct rattle as several whippy rattan canes rolled around as the headmaster searched for just the right weapon.

Dexter was a sixth-former. This was a unique situation. It deserved something special to meet the occasion. The headmaster withdrew a long, stout Malacca cane. He held it between his hands and studied it closely, as if seeing it for the very first time.

It truly was the first time Dexter had seen the beast. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a boy’s finger. It had notches every three or four inches along its length. That was what made the cane so awesome. It would bruise a boy’s backside worse than any other of the canes in the headmaster’s considerable collection. When administered with vigour across bared buttocks it would tear the flesh to ribbons.

The headmaster turned to face Dexter and swiped the monstrous cane through empty air. It made a terrific swish as it travelled.

The headmaster pointed with his cane. “Please stand behind that chair.” A look of bewilderment spread across Dexter’s face. It was a handsome face with dark piercing brown eyes and elegant full lips. He was blessed with a gorgeous smile and when he grinned his whole face lit up. But, he was not smiling now. The cane? He, a sixth-former was to be caned? Had a sixth-former ever been caned by the headmaster in the whole history of the school?

He stood rooted to the spot. Unsure what to do. The headmaster’s clear icy blue eyes fixed a penetrating gaze on the boy. He was unaccustomed to this. A boy always obeyed the headmaster’s command. Without question.

“Dexter!” The headmaster’s craggy face scowled. He swished the cane once more. “To the chair boy.”

Hesitantly, Dexter shuffled the three or four paces needed to reach the chair. He stood behind it as instructed. It was an ordinary “easy” chair, modern in design. The kind you might see in an office or a home. Dexter was a tall boy and the apex of the chair was several inches lower than his waist. It had foam cushions, one on the back and another on the seat, covered in a heavy coarse bottle-green material. Its arms and legs were made of a light wood.

The headmaster swished the cane once more. “Let’s have those trousers down, Dexter.”

The eighteen-year-old turned his head towards his tormentor and opened his mouth to voice a protest. He caught sight of the awesome cane now tucked under the headmaster’s right arm and shut up. He did not want to antagonise the man. Besides, Dexter knew the reality. The headmaster was in charge and he, Dexter, had no choice but to obey. That was just how it was. That was how the universe was organised. The boy submitted to the master’s command.

He drew in a deep breath. Matters had to take their course. A caning on the underpants. It couldn’t hurt that much, surely? His short trousers had a half-elasticated waistband so he needed no belt. He unclasped the metal fastener at the top of his zipper, unzipped and let the trousers slither over his buttocks and down his thighs where gravity took them to rest on top of his brown sandals.

His white Y-front underpants fitted a little too snugly. It was clear to any observer that Dexter was no longer a small boy; he was a fully-grown man.


The headmaster slid the cane from his arm into his hand and tapped its tip across the back of the chair. “Bend over the chair, Dexter. Bend over.”

The boy shuffled a few inches forward. Took a deep breath and laid himself across the chair.  He was so tall and the chair so small that his stomach cleared the top of the chair by several inches. He held tightly to the wooden arms.

The headmaster took up his position to the left and slightly behind the boy. He laid his cane across the middle of the boy’s underpants. But something was not quite right. No, the headmaster thought, this would not do.

“Lean further forward, Dexter. Take hold of the front of the seat cushion.”

The sixth-former manoeuvred himself forward. Now, his back was arched and his buttocks were presented more tightly. But the headmaster was still not satisfied. He took hold of the tail of the boy’s gleaming white shirt and gently folded it, once and then twice. Now, several inches of Dexter’s hairless back were displayed and the shirt was well away from the target area.

Next, the headmaster gripped the waistband of the Y-fronts. Dexter drew in breath sharply. “Dear God,” he thought, “the Beak’s pulling my pants down. He’s going to cane me on the bare.”

But he was not. Instead, the headmaster pulled the underpants tightly. It had the effect of lifting and separating each buttock. The boy’s crack showed as a deep ridge down the centre of the underpants. Now, they fitted like a second skin. They would afford him no protection. As far as pain was concerned, he might as well be presenting himself bare-arsed for his thrashing.

The headmaster had been a keen cricketer all his life and he swiped the first stroke into Dexter’s backside with the same ferocity he would use sending a ball to the boundary. The impact surprised the boy and he rocked backwards and forwards while simultaneously gripping the chair cushion for dear life and screwing up his eyes in a futile attempt to absorb the pain.

If the first stroke was a “four” to the boundary, the second was a “six.” The headmaster used an uppercut to enter the boy’s buttocks in the fleshy underside and tried to exit somewhere near the top of the globes. Dexter rose on his toes, hunched his shoulders, closed his eyes and gurned his face by closing his top lip over his lower.

The headmaster waited patiently for Dexter to settle. Already, he could see two clear lines running parallel across the boy’s tight white underpants. Beneath the cotton, there would be a strip of raw flesh at least an inch wide throbbing like crazy.

Dexter thumped the chair’s cushion with a clenched fist and howled when the third swipe struck him. It was low, right where the bum cheeks met the thigh. The cane had bypassed the underpants altogether and struck bare flesh. A vivid red mark instantly appeared. Sweat drenched the boy’s shirt. His heart was thumping like he had just won a one-hundred-yards race at an Olympic record. He wriggled his hips, pushed his bottom further out. Hopped on one foot, then the other.

“Steady boy. Steady.” It was a curt command and one that the headmaster expected to be obeyed. He did not take kindly to boys who did not accept a thrashing stoically.

Dexter summoned up all his powers of concentration. He would take this caning like a man. He simply would.

Number four landed higher, but with no less ferocity. The headmaster beat carpets with less force. Dexter smashed his head from side to side, as a horse might when avoiding being bridled. The pain which had started in every nerve end of his posterior now travelled up and down his legs. His knees buckled, the soles of his sandals slipped against the carpet beneath his feet.

The headmaster believed that a “headmaster’s caning” should be awesome. A boy would never wish to return to the headmaster’s study. It would be an experience he would not forget for the rest of his life.

He moved his position slightly and placed the cane across Dexter’s buttocks so that it lay diagonally from the bottom left corner to the top right. Then with a powerful forearm jab he brought it swishing down across the four cuts already aching across the boy’s bum. It brought each of them to life once more and added its own bite to his ferociously burning bottom.

Dexter gripped his head in his hands; his face contorted like a gargoyle. His hips swayed. His mouth opened and closed silently, like a goldfish.

The headmaster laid the cane for the final time across the boy’s buttocks. This time from bottom right to top left. Swipe! There was now a perfect “X” across Dexter’s rear end. He repeated his military dance, stamping his feet up and down. His buttocks sashayed. His back arched. He gulped in draughts of air. He couldn’t breathe, the furnish blazing across his buttocks had quite literally taken his breath away.

The headmaster paused, watching the boy carefully. Dexter’s bottom appeared swollen. There were clear cane marks across the seat of his underpants. It looked like welts had already risen. Yes, the headmaster told himself, it was a job well done.

“You may rise, Dexter,” it was a pompous, haughty command.

Slowly, the boy released his grip on the chair and straightened his back. His short trousers remained at his feet. Even without touching his behind, the boy knew it had the texture of leather. Never in his life had he experienced such agony before, not even when he was nine years old and fell off his bicycle and fractured his wrist.

His beautiful brown eyes shone. They were washed with tears, but he was not actually, technically, crying. He would be able to make that claim later when recounting his ordeal to the other chaps.

He bent down and retrieved his trousers. He hissed slightly as the pain reignited as he pulled them across his buttocks.

The headmaster completed an entry in the punishment book and passed it across his desk for the boy to sign. Dexter flashed him one of his most impish grins. He did not resent the beating he had just endured. He had been a damn fool, he knew that. The headmaster had no choice but to thrash him severely. It was what he deserved.

In any case, he thought, as he exited the study. He would be a hero twice over with his chums when they inspected his wounds. First, for climbing the clock tower and leaving the chamber pot and second for being the first sixth-former in history to take a headmaster’s whopping.


Other stories you might like


The old boys

The boys in the mailroom

Professor Paddle


 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


A group of them were talking in the pub. The beer was flowing. There was only one topic of conversation. Those bloody kids. The ones who congregated around the bus stop at night. Giving innocent folk grief.

“Have you seen the graffiti? The swear words?”

“They drink strong cider, then piss it up all over the bus shelter.”

Everyone spoke at once. They all had horror tales.

“They make racist comments to the Muslims.”

“Did you hear what they called young Garry?” Garry had cerebral palsy. He dribbled a lot. “It was so upsetting for his mum.”

“We should do something about those hooligans.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Whose round is it?”

More beer was drunk.

It had been the beer talking. When they first came up with the idea it was conceived in drink. But, later, in the cold light of sobriety, it still sounded a good idea.

So, they made a plan. It was pretty simple. It would work. If everybody played their part and didn’t bottle out at the last minute.

They chose Thursday night. They needed access to the community hall. It was used most evenings. But not Thursday. So, Thursday it was.

They needed tools. That was a bit more difficult. The thing they needed most wasn’t made anymore. It had gone out of fashion. Time was you’d find them in every school. In many homes too. But, not now.

Old Joe thought he could find a decent alternative, so he was set loose in the nearby woods to see what he could come up with.

The others scoured their homes to see what they could contribute.

It was Thursday night; nearly nine o’clock. It had threatened to rain, but it was clear now. Stars were out. The louts at the bus shelter were swigging cider; smoking dope. There were five of them. A gang of mates. All unemployed and living off the state. All over eighteen, all strong, all able to work. Just bone idle, that’s all.

They didn’t know what hit them. Five family cars pulled up together. Passenger doors opened. Podgy middle-aged men got out. Not the fighting kind. The louts would have made mincemeat of them in a fight. A half-fair fight. But this was no fair fight. They had surprise on their side.

In the blink of an eye plastic shopping bags were over heads and five louts were bundled into backseats. Plastic ties bound their wrists. Cars sped off. Round one had been a success.

Trestle tables had been put out at the community hall. One was covered in fresh switches. Old Joe had done a good job whittling. They really wanted good solid school canes. The whippy rattan kind. With curved handles. But the switches would make a good substitute.

There were also belts and brushes. Someone had found a pair of old-fashioned bedroom slippers. Ones with checked uppers and flexible leather soles. A heavy razor strop took pride of place. Did anyone still use cutthroat razors?

A dozen strong and some not-so-strong men awaited the arrival of the cars. They were psyched up. Waiting. Ready to give the louts the thrashings they thought they so richly deserved.

It was such a simple plan. Each car in turn pulled up outside the hall. Then, the unwilling passenger was hauled inside. A dozen men helped to tie each hooligan over the trestle tables. Face down, backsides high. The perfect position. Legs were tied together with rope. Nobody was going anywhere. Not until punishment had been effected.

They shouted, hollered and shrieked. And that was before a single lash had connected.

Gerry Aldermaston decided he was the residents’ leader. He made a speech. It wasn’t Churchillian; nobody would have followed Aldermaston into gunfire. But he spoke from the heart. The five young men with their jeans-covered arses on show had destroyed the peace of the community. They vandalised common property. Good, honest, decent, people were afraid to walk the streets.

“It has to stop and it must stop right now!” he roared.

Five young men muttered curses. None spoke out loud. The enormity of their plight was clear. They were at the mercy of Aldermaston and his cronies.

“Gentlemen,” Aldermaston spoke to his colleagues as if they were an army platoon. “Down with their jeans. Underwear too.”

That set the five hooligans off again. Whining and cursing and kicking their legs. It was to no avail. Five pairs of naked buttocks were soon on display.

“Come to order, please gentlemen,” Aldermaston was marshalling his troops.

Each resident picked his weapon of choice.

“What a pity we don’t have a proper school cane,” Mr Winstanley sighed aloud. “They don’t make them any longer,” he added. His colleagues muttered their sympathies, all ignorant of the existence of eBay.

Twenty-five residents formed an orderly line.

Aldermaston was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “Take your marks. Let punishment commence.”

Then each man stepped forward and slashed his instrument of punishment into the naked haunches of the erstwhile terrorists. One after another they whipped switches, belts, a razor strop, a slipper and assorted brushes across the bared cheeks of the hooligans. Then they resumed their original positions and went around the circuit again. And again. And again.


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Lazy students home for the hols

The military camp

A maintenance spanking


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)



A version of this story from the housemaster’s point of view is here

James “Tommy” Tomkins stepped into his pyjama bottoms, pulled the drawstring tightly and then tied a double bow. With some resentment he leaned over the bed and picked up the striped jacket. He found the arm holes and climbed in. He was nearly ready.

What a swizz, he thought. Summoned to his housemaster’s study. Just before lights out. It would be a whopping for sure. And on the pyjama bottoms at that.

Tomkins was eighteen years old, a member of the upper-sixth. He thought he was an adult damn it. But, eighteen or not, he had broken the school rules and now he would pay the price. How had smoking cigarettes suddenly become a crime? Until the new headmaster arrived sixth-formers were left to themselves. They were expected to study hard and ensure that the younger boys kept in line; but they were pretty much left to their own devices.

Not anymore. Dr Tredlow the new headmaster was a man on a mission. Unluckily for the senior boys, his mission was to tame them. He was evangelical in his belief that sixth-formers were schoolboys just like anyone else. They were not adults; they were children. And they would be expected to obey the rules just like any junior boy.

So, out went drinking whisky. The poker games were abandoned. And any sixth-former caught smoking could expect to find himself over the housemaster’s desk with his bum pointing to the ceiling. That was exactly what had happened to Tomkins, three weeks previously. Six-of-the-best. In fact, six of the very best. His housemaster Mr Teddington was no slouch when he had a cane in his hand.

Tomkins had a problem and he wasn’t the only eighteen-year-old at the school who suffered. He had smoked so many cigarettes in the past years that he had become addicted to tobacco. He could not give it up. And, like all addicts he had become skilful at hiding it from those around him. But not skilful enough. Mr Heath, a junior maths master, had spied him in a nearby copse puffing away on a Woodbine. What Mr Heath was himself doing in the copse has gone unrecorded. But, the junior master, perhaps anxious to curry favour with his elders and betters, reported Tomkins to his housemaster.

Tomkins looked across the dormitory at his dressing-gown hanging on a hook. It was a warm evening; he would leave it where it was. Besides, he would only have to remove it once he was inside old Teddy’s study.

Still full of resentment, Tomkins left the dorm and made his way along the gloomy passageway to meet his maker. He paused at the heavy oak door, raised his fist and tapped lightly. There was a pause and then he heard the stout command of his housemaster, “Come.”

Tomkins was in no hurry. He knew he was due a beating. He turned the handle slowly and very reluctantly pushed the door open and stepped cautiously into the study.

Mr Teddington was sat in a luxurious leather chair, reading a newspaper with a pipe in his mouth. A fug of smoke surrounded him. Tomkins glared at the injustice. He intends to beat me for smoking, he thought, look at him puffing away. What an example he sets, the boy thought bitterly.

“Come in boy! Don’t dawdle! Close the door!” the housemaster snapped.

Tomkins closed the door as instructed and stood only a couple of paces inside the room, unsure what to do next.

The silence was deafening. Tomkins hopped from one bare foot to the other. “You wanted to see me sir.”

The housemaster peered at him over the top of his reading glasses, dripping distain. “I’m not yet ready for you! Face the wall and wait for me.”

Tomkins looked around the study unsure where he was meant to go. It was a large room; one side was dominated by an as-yet unlit open fireplace. Mahogany bookshelves behind glass doors ran the length of the room alongside it.

The other main wall had closed cupboards, for teaching materials and so-forth. One cupboard that was taller and narrower than the others contained implements of an especial educational nature.

“There boy,” Mr Teddington pointed with his pipe to the corner nearest the door. Tomkins could hardly disguise his irritation. The housemaster was enjoying this too much. The sixth-former turned around to face away from his tormentor.

“Closer boy! I want to see your nose touch the wall.” Tomkins shuffled into position.

“Hands on head!” The housemaster was determined to treat Tomkins like a junior boy, as if he were one of the fags.  Tomkins puckered his lips; he could not argue with the housemaster, but he could express his irritation with the man.

He interlocked his fingers and placed them on his head. His nose was so close to the wall he could smell the dust on the wallpaper. Behind him, he heard the sound of newspaper rustling in Mr Teddington’s hands. The stink of his pipe wafted across the study.

He was kept waiting for probably only a few minutes, but to the boy awaiting a thrashing it was an eternity. The housemaster was truly a sadist.

“Turn around Tomkins,” the housemaster ordered. At last, Tomkins thought. Let’s get this over with. He swivelled on the balls of his feet and faced the housemaster. His hands were still firmly on his head.

The housemaster growled. “Come forward and stand in front of me.” Tomkins did. At such a close range it was noticeable that the schoolboy was easily two or three inches taller than the master. Tomkins was thin and wiry, while the housemaster was portly. In a fair fight, Tomkins could have knocked the man to the ground with a single blow. But this was not to be a fair fight. The schoolmaster was in complete control. The boy, eighteen years old or not, had no choice but to obey the orders of his persecutor.

“Take your hands off your head and stand up straight.”

Tomkins exhaled an inaudible sigh and did as he was told. His attention wandered as the housemaster jawed him. Smoking cigarettes was a disgusting habit, he said. It was bad for the health. But, more than that, it was against the rules. Tomkins knew that; he had been beaten once already this term.

“So, you deserve a sound thrashing and that is what you will receive. I’m giving you twelve cuts on the bare.”

Tomkins’ eyes blazed. Twelve. On the bare. That was twice the usual punishment and nobody, as far as he knew, was ever beaten bare. The colour drained from his already pasty-coloured face, but he remained standing, silent, waiting for further instructions.

His eyes followed the housemaster as he went to the tall, narrow cupboard and took out the cane he had already decided to use. It was dark yellow in colour, quiet thin, but made of very dense rattan. It would leave its marks on Tomkins’ behind for many days to come.

Mr Teddington flexed the cane thoughtfully between his hands, then swished it through the air. It looked an awesome weapon, much more threatening than the stick the housemaster had used to beat him last time, Tomkins reckoned.

“Stand by the desk,” Mr Teddington pointed with the cane. Tomkins hesitated. Damn it, he thought. I’m eighteen years old, a prefect. I’m too old to be caned. He breathed deeply, debating with himself whether he should voice a protest.

What would be the point? Tomkins and the other fellows in the Sixth knew the new discipline regime was instigated by the headmaster. If he argued, or worse still refused to be caned, he would find himself up before Dr Tredlow. The brute would probably birch him in front of the entire school. No, Tomkins knew, he had to let matters take their course. He had to offer Teddy his bare arse.

He moved towards the desk, but stopped short by two or three feet.

“Right up to the desk, boy.”

He moved forward a little more.

“Get those pyjamas down boy.” Tomkins blushed. It was not that he had never taken his trousers off in public, he had. Each night he changed into his pyjamas in a dormitory full of boys. He had seen the “privates” of many young men and they had seen his. But, he resented having to strip for the pleasure of the old brute standing before him. To strip and then offer up his bared buttocks to the master to whip with his swishy cane.

After some moments, Tomkins looked down at his waist, pulled at the drawstring holding his pyjama bottoms up and allowed them to fall to his ankles.

Mr Teddington stood within Tomkins’ eye line, but the boy studiously ignored him. Then, the housemaster swished his cane through the air two or three more times. Then he tapped it against the desk.

“Bend over.”

Without question, Tomkins leaned forward, resting his stomach on the desk top with his arms stretched to his front and overhanging the end of the desk. His pyjama jacket was covering his bottom. Mr Teddington pushed it further up his back.

“Underpants Tomkins. You don’t wear underpants with pyjamas. Stand up. Did you think underpants would give you extra protection?”

Tomkins rose, sullenly. Protection? Did the wretched housemaster think he was a coward, he thought? Tomkins always wore pants; it was the only way to keep his erect cock from poking out the pyjama flies.

“Get them down,” Mr Teddington barked.

Sorrowfully, Tomkins took hold of the waistband of his underwear and pulled them down to his ankles, where they rested on top of his pyjamas.

“Bend over boy.”

Tomkins repeated the manoeuvre. The housemaster pushed his pyjama jacket up, this time revealing a pair of smooth and hairless buttocks.

“You are about to learn a very painful lesson young man.”

Tomkins closed his eyes and shut his mouth tightly. He felt the tap of the tip of the cane exploring his buttocks. The housemaster seemed to be taking an excessive amount of time. A wicked thought struck Tomkins, “He’s admiring my bum.” And then he had a more horrifying thought, “He can see right up my crack and into my hole.”

What he could not see was Mr Teddington standing to his side a full cane length from him and bending his knees a little. The housemaster drew his arm back several feet and crashed the cane across both buttocks. Tomkins whelped and a thick red line immediately appeared where the cane had bitten into flesh.

A second stroke immediately fell, landing an inch of so lower than the first. Tomkins gasped and jerked his head.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied, even though it had been a rhetorical question.

Pain started at the buttocks and travelled at speed up and down the boy’s legs. He could feel two thick welts rising, running across both his buttocks.

The third and fourth cuts landed across the previous two. The agony was searing. It felt like the cruel housemaster had laid a white hot wire across the sixth-former’s cheeks. Tomkins jerked his body from left to right. He buried his head in his folded arms.

Mr Teddington lashed down strokes five and six. The agonizing slices cut in wickedly, stinging fiercely, making Tomkins squeal, rock and writhe violently.

The housemaster swiped a couple of strokes high and a couple low. The sickening pain quickly overwhelmed Tomkins’ senses

“Arrrggghhhh.” The boy bit into his own arm after the next cut slashed into his quivering buttocks.

The final stroke was whipped in diagonally across both of Tomkins’ buttocks, hitting many of the previously delivered cuts as possible. Tomkins’ face was almost as red as his backside. His eyes were damp and he was trying hard not to cry.

The housemaster tapped the cane once more across the lacerated bottom. Tomkins braced himself, expecting another slash. But, there were to be no more. Mr Teddington tapped the cane on his left buttock one more time.

“Don’t let me catch you smoking again.”

“No sir.”

Tomkins lay face down across the desk, breathing heavily. His bottom was a furnace. Never before had he felt such pain. His smooth, hairless, previously white, bottom was a mass of red welts. Some were turning blue and would change to purple before too long. Blood was forming at some of the intersections where the final diagonal cut had crossed the others.

“Stand up Tomkins. Get dressed.”

Tomkins shot up from the desk. The pain was great; the humiliation even greater.  He wanted to get out of that study. Tears of pain and shame welled. But he determined he would not cry in front of the brute. He would not. He would not give him the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him badly. In one swift movement he bent down to grab his underpants, but it was with great difficulty that he pulled them up to his waist. He winced in agony as he tugged the Y-fronts over his buttocks and they connected with his wounds.

He bent down to his ankles again to retrieve his pyjama bottoms, flinching as he stretched the flesh of his buttocks against his pants. He pulled at the drawstring of his pyjama bottoms and with trembling fingers made an imperfect double-bow. That would have to do for now.

“Back to your dormitory. No more trouble,” Mr Teddington snarled.

He was through the door in a heartbeat.



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 Charles Hamilton the Second

My boy Dixon


I am more than three times as old as Dixon. I was thinking this the other night as we lay in bed. He had given me the most exquisite blow-job. It made my eyes pop. I had slippered his bare bottom so long and so hard it had the consistency of leather.

We meet up two or three times a month. I can’t take him on my arm to show him off to my friends. We can’t go to the finest restaurants or the best shows in town. We meet at a discrete apartment I keep, close to where I work at the Ministry of Stealth and Total Obscurity. I am aged sixty-one, Dixon is twenty. People would assume he’s a rent boy.

He isn’t. Not a penny has changed hand since we started this. Nor, has there been payment “in kind.” I have bought no fancy phones or leather jackets, or whatever it is that kids want these days. We do this because we want to. We enjoy it. We think it natural. Long may it continue.

We met up online. It seems everybody does it. Everybody under the age of about thirty that is. You should try it. Dixon wanted an older man to discipline him. I wanted young flesh. On our third “date” Dixon told me he had been looking for an uncle-type. Instead, he got a granddad. I have never given him cause to complain.

When we meet, he tells me all the naughty things he has been up to. He’s twenty, so that usually means taking drugs or getting wildly drunk. They call it getting “caned.” Well, you can imagine that once I hear about his misdeeds, he gets a more literal caning from me. I have several swishy curve-handled rattan rods tucked away in a wardrobe in the spare bedroom. They are exactly like the ones they used at St Tom’s. I like to be as authentic as possible.

I attended a mid-ranking public school until the early seventies. In England, a “public school” is in fact an upscale fee-paying private establishment. It was very traditional. Traditional Latin, traditional rugby, traditional religion, traditional discipline. I was eighteen-and-a-half the last time I was dealt with. Six-of-the-best across the seat of my tight pale-grey trousers. Not that I complained of course. My housemaster said I had been “slacking;” not paying attention to my studies. If he only knew. I went on to Cambridge University and took a double-first. Slacking indeed.

I don’t know which school Dixon attended. I suspect he left it as soon as he could. He takes no interest in the world. He has no idea of “Brexit” and I doubt he has even heard the name Donald Trump. I am a senior civil servant at a government ministry, Dixon works at a call centre, when he can be bothered to turn up. I have taken the skin off his backside more than once for that.

Dixon has a terrific arse. It is really rather squishy. Do you know what I mean? I love to press my fingers into his flesh and see his bum wobble. He’s not what you would call fat. When he bends over, perhaps to put his hands on his knees for a few swats of the paddle, his rear end tightens up and he presents a very solid target. I think maybe he has what our American cousins call a “bubble butt,” but I am not sure.

Dixon is due to visit this evening. I hope it is as much fun as last time. The boy had been especially naughty. Smoking weed (of course) and missing work. He had also been rude to his mother. Well, isn’t it a father’s duty (or, indeed a grandfather’s) to punish a boy who disrespects his mother? I soon had the little terror stripped to his bright-green underpants. They were a little too tight for him and the smooth cotton rode right up into the crack between his cheeks. His buttocks were perfectly parted for the spanking he so richly deserved.

I took him to the master bedroom (it would save time later) sat down and pulled him across my knee. Dixon is a natural submissive. He rested his bottom on my thigh and stretched his naked torso across the mattress. This gave me the opportunity to caress the palm of my hand across his smooth, hairless back. I have never enquired of him, but I am pretty certain he has his body professionally shaved. He is not entirely hairless, there are tufts around his cock and balls, but even that is trimmed back neatly.

I cupped my hands taking each buttock in turn. I pressed my fingers into the stretched cotton delighting in the “give” in his bottom. I took hold of the waistband and pulled the pants taut, emphasising the depth of his crack. He sighed contentedly.

I raised my hand and smacked it with some force across his left buttock. I spanked the same spot six or seven times and then moved to the left cheek, where I repeated my endeavours. I was rewarded with a deep sigh from naughty Dixon. His cock pressed against my thigh. I spanked him some more and his member expanded to its full length. It felt like an iron bar digging into me. I knew that before long I would have to pull down the boy’s pants and release his throbbing penis.

However, I was not yet finished with the preliminaries. I reached across Dixon’s prone body and seized the medium-sized wooden hairbrush I had strategically placed on the nightstand. It made a terrific crack as it thudded into the tightly-stretched cotton. I was rewarded with a series of breathless gasps and Dixon’s bottom rose and fell so that he was humping my leg. It could be any second before he shot a load into his pants.

I rolled him onto his back and with some difficulty, for his cock was huge and stiff and the pants were a little tight, I pulled them to his thighs. Dixon nearly ripped them in his efforts to get them down and off his feet. I rolled him back so he was face-down once more and with every ounce of my strength I hammered the hairbrush into his already dark-pink cheeks.

Oh dear, please excuse me, I hear my phone ringing. It’s my wife. Sorry, but I have to take this.

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Charles Hamilton the Second