The hotel room

z used hotel rent boy

The room is stale, airless, but we don’t open the window. Mr. Brown doesn’t want people in the street below to hear us. He has something special planned.

He closes and then locks the door. His privacy is valuable to him. We are at The Three Fishers Hotel. It is easy to get the room. Nobody asks questions. We are regulars here. Once, twice a month usually. We first met at the park nearby where the boys hang out. It’s not much of a park, just open ground really. I knew from the moment I saw Mr. Brown I had scored a winner; it was the stench of desperation about him.

He pulls a small bottle of whiskey from his jacket pocket, unscrews the top and raises it to his lips. I see his Adam’s Apple rise and fall as he takes a great swig. He screws the top and puts the bottle back in his pocket. I wait patiently. I have all day. I’m on the clock.

He snaps his fingers. This is my cue. He is ready. I stand, hands behind my back, head bowed. It is stuffy in the room and sweat is seeping through my white shirt. My striped tie is knotted too tightly. My pale grey trousers cling to the contours of my body. Mr. Brown likes to see the shape of my buttocks. The outline of my underpants is visible.

I have to tell him all the bad things I have done since we last met. They’re not really bad bad, just naughty. I tell him I didn’t do my Latin prep and that I was caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike shed. He knows I am lying. I am nineteen years old and it’s five years since I set foot in a school. And, we never did Latin at Gumshoe Lane.

Mr. Brown tells lies too, I think. What are the chances that his name really is Mr. Brown? He says he works in some office in the City. He offered me a job, but I already have a job. This is my job.

Mr. Brown’s features are like granite. He isn’t impressed by my levels of naughtiness. So, I tell him I have stolen a Mars Bar from a corner shop near my home. His eyes shine. Bingo! Victory.

Mr. Brown pulls the only chair in the room away from the wall and rests it in a tiny space between the bed and the door. Then, carefully, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it off his shoulders. He folds it neatly in half down the spine and puts it on the bed. Then, he sits on the chair, spreads his legs and shuffles his buttocks until he is comfortable. He snaps his fingers once more.

I slouch forward and stand a little to his right. His legs are strong and he has created a good platform for me. I avoid looking at his crotch. I take hold of my belt buckle and loosen it. The trousers fit snugly and I don’t need a belt to keep them up, but this is part of the ritual of preparation. I unbutton my waistband and then each of the four fly buttons. Mr. Brown’s stare burns my skin. The trousers slip to my hips and rest there. I take hold of the belt loops and help them on the way to my knees. Gravity takes over and they plop in a puddle at my feet.

In my head, I slowly count to five. Then, I lower myself across Mr. Brown’s lap. I place my palms into the dirty lino. It had a pattern once, but after years of wear it is now dirty grey. Behind me, I bend my knees a little. The tips of my toes hover above the ground. My stomach presses against Mr. Brown’s solid cock and my bum is resting against his thigh at a forty-five-degree angle. I feel Mr. Brown grip the elastic in my pants and pull so that the cotton of my white Y-fronts digs into my crack. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently caresses first my left and then my right buttock. He is so gentle I hardly feel it.

Then, the hand lifts away from my cheeks and a second later it smacks with terrific force into the underside of my bum. A dozen spanks land in quick succession. I gasp a little. Then, my gasps grow to groans and little yelps. He is not really hurting me. A hand spanking can’t do too much damage to a nineteen-year-old and not to a pro like myself. An Italian once gave me a difficult time when he was spanking me. I was quite and took my punishment like the Englishman I am. “Make show! Make Show!” he demanded and ever since then I’ve made sure to give my gentlemen a show.

After some minutes of this, Mr. Brown pauses.  He grips the waist of my pants and starts to tug them over my buttocks. He can’t get them all the way down so I lift my body off his lap by an inch or so to let him pull the Y-fronts to my knees. Hs rigid penis sticks into me when I rest my body once more on his lap.

He pats and preens my now naked buttocks, slipping his fingers into my crack. I tense, but he leaves my hole clear. He whacks his palm into my bum at rapid speed. Not one square inch of flesh is untouched. He goes from the top of the globe near the spine, over the mounds themselves and into the sensitive sit-spots under the buttocks. Then he turns his attention to the backs of my thighs. Then he does it all over again.

After five minutes of this the palm of his hand must be as sore as my bum. He stops. “Stand up,” he commands. I slide off his knees and hop up and down rubbing my buttocks in the spanking dance. I make show. My soft cock bounces up and down. I give Mr. Brown a good look. What little colour he has in his face drains to pale.

“Strip off.” Mr. Brown is in no mood for conversation this afternoon. I sit on the bed and remove my shoes and socks. Then, my trousers and pants join them on the floor. In moments, the shirt and tie are off. Mr. Brown’s eyes are on stalks. He has seen me naked many times, but he always gapes like it’s the first time. My body is deeply suntanned except for a white area around my arse and privates; the result of touting my wares in the park.

Mr. Brown loosens and then removes his tie before slowing rolling up his right shit sleeve. He is preparing himself for round two. “Stealing from shops is a very serious crime. You could go to jail,” he tells me, almost absent-mindedly. He is trying to make an excuse for the thrashing he is about to deliver. I wonder what he has in store; it will certainly be more severe than the hand spanking.

He bends down to retrieve my trousers and grips my belt buckle. In one expertly-crafted move he has the belt through all the loops and doubled up in his hand. He swishes it at me to add to the drama and tells me to put two pillows in the middle of the narrow bed.

“Lay on the pillows. Bottom up.”

I do as I am told. My stomach is on the crest of the pillows and my bottom is as high as I can get it. I spread my legs, separating the buttocks, giving Mr. Brown a terrific view of my crack and hole. We lads call this the “money shot.” It comes extra on the bill.

In this position my nose is pressed into the blanket. I can taste the dust. Does anyone ever sleep at the Three Fishers, I wonder? I feel the cold, wide, thick leather belt kissing my buttocks. Mr. Brown is nearly ready. I interlock my fingers and place my hands on my head in classic naughty boy pose. My arse tenses into a hard leather ball. Crack! the sound of leather whipping into muscular buttocks echoes around the small room. I don’t feel a thing for a second or two and then Wham! A line of scorching pain spreads across the centre of my cheeks. It’s like he pressed a hot poker into my flesh. My yelp is genuine this time. As are the ones I reward Mr. Brown with as another three whip home in quick succession. My heart pounds and I can feel blood whooshing through my arteries from the seat of the pain, through my back and into my head. My temples are throbbing just as much as my bum.

Mr. Brown pauses. I hear a rustle of movement and turn my head slightly to see him reach into his jacket pocket. He drains the last of the whiskey. Fortified, his fist grips the belt once more. His knuckles are turning white as he raises the leather as high as it will go and swipes it into my hard arse. He is trying to cut me in half. The leather strikes the top of my bum, but with such force that it then continues into the flesh and the meat. Mr. Brown is trying to enter my body at the bum and exit through my front. I don’t like the strap. This one is big and heavy and every swipe leaves ugly welts across my skin. They’ll swell up, all puffy and tender.

My head bounces up and down into the grey blanket. For the first time, I see a number of stains. The mattress beneath is old and lumpy. This bed has seen some action in its time.

He gives me twenty-four slashes. My arse and my head ache in equal measure. Mr. Brown is bent double, hands on knees and wheezing. His face and neck are as scarlet as I suppose my own bum to be. He draws in great gasps of breath. Slowly, he regains his composure. We shall soon be finished.

But, there is still one last act of this drama to perform. I am still face down on the bed. Mr. Brown’s fingers tremble as he unbuttons his trousers and lets them slip to his knees. I close my eyes tight; I know what is coming. I feel the mattress shift as Mr. Brown climbs on the bed beside me. I open my eyes and turn on my side. His eyes are now tightly shut. They always are at this point.

His cock is small but stiff. A dark mauve vein throbs along its whole length. I spit into both of my hands. With one, I cup his stringy balls. The other works its way up the shaft. He sucks in breath and holds it there. After three strokes the tip of his cock glistens. With two more tugs, cum splodges down his shaft. We lay beside each other in silence. I have no idea what thoughts go through Mr. Brown’s head at these times. Me, I only want this to finish. People, don’t believe me when I say the worst part of my job isn’t the pain and humiliation, it’s the sadness you see in the gentlemen.

After a while, Mr. Brown shuffles over to the sink in the corner of the room and cleans himself down. He sits by the bed watching me. He is fully dressed by now. I’m still stark naked, wearing only a cheeky smile.

I know we have to be careful. If we get caught it will be big trouble for him. It will be the end of his life. Complete ruin.

“This has to be the last time,” he says with more confidence than he really feels. I might be half his age, but I can read him like a cheap novel. He’ll want more. It won’t be the last time. He stands to leave. He can’t bear to look at me. He takes a roll of banknotes from his pocket, peels off several and without looking at me he drops them on the mattress near my feet.

Without a word, he unlocks and opens the door. He hesitates. “Wait at least half an hour before you leave.” Quietly, he closes the door and is gone.

I roll onto my stomach and run my fingers across the red welts on my buttocks. The belt has ripped me. The pain has long gone, but the marks will stay for some time. Maybe even until we meet again. And meet again we will. He won’t be able to say no to me. I love having power over someone. It’s better than taking drugs.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The debut

z used shower after a spanking sport club ivory soap

Lars clutched his savaged buttocks. The warm water of the shower turned crimson as it washed over his throbbing arse. He knew the other guys were watching him to see how he would react. He hopped from one foot to the other, rubbing his bum. He gave them a show. They couldn’t see his smile. He was happy. He was now one of the team.

It had been a boyhood dream for the eighteen-year-old. A player for C­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________ Soccer Club. The biggest and best in the whole country. And, now it had become reality. His first senior match was over. A victory. Not that Lars had much to do with that. Truth be told, he had been overcome with nerves. His game was off. An undistinguished debut. Except for what followed.

The team sprinted off the field into the locker room. “Well, young Lars,” it was the Club Captain Sven speaking. A broad smile creased his face. Team members gathered around. Nobody wanted to miss out on the fun.

Lars stood, waiting. At eighteen, he was the youngest in the team. His captain was not much older – just enough to be an elder brother.

“Happy Debut Day.” The team had a special song. It was like Happy Birthday. Tradition. Lars grinned. He knew what was coming. They all went through it.

Indridi, the kit man, arrived just then. A raucous cheer echoed through the locker room. The tubby man gave an audacious bow. “Thank you gentlemen; thank you.”

“Get on with it Indridi!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted. The kit man smiled, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Patience gentlemen. Patience. These things cannot be hurried,” he grinned. He set his bag on a bench and with a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit, he ostentatiously unzipped it. He paused. He knew all eyes were on him. In his head, he counted to five. The drama was intense.

“Voila!” he reached into the bag. “And, Hey Presto!” To wild cheering, he drew out a birch rod. He held it in both palms lovingly. High. Sven stepped forward. Referentially, as if it were a religious offering, Indridi bent one knee, bowed his head, and allowed the Club Captain to take it.

Lars watched transfixed. The birch was maybe fourteen inches long. It was a tight bundle of twigs, held together at one end by gaffer tape. It looked pretty heavy from where he was standing. Sven clutched it in both hands and held it high above his head. Just as he had done last season with the national soccer championship trophy. His teammates cheered as loudly as they had done that day.

Satisfied that they were ready, Sven sat on a bench. Unbidden, the team formed a semi-circle around him. Everyone would have a front row view.

“Come young lad.” It was a pleasant command. Lars knew he was blushing. He desperately wanted to be part of the team. He would do anything to make that happen.

“Take off your shorts. This has to be on the bare.” Another, kindly instruction. Lars had been naked in front of team mates many times in the past. Stripping held no terror for him. He was rather proud of his muscular body – he was an athlete after all.

The rhythmic sound of clapping echoed around the locker room.  Lars hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. He stepped out of them. Then, his white briefs hit the floor. Thinking ahead of this day, Lars had imagined that he might take hold of the underwear and like one of the strippers in the “gentlemen’s club” across the street, he would provocatively twirl his pants around his head, before teasingly throwing them for a team mate to catch.

In the event, he stood motionless. Waiting for events to take their course.

“Bend over my knee.” The roof might have risen; the cheering was now so intense.

Lars stepped forward. He was a tall teenager, easily six feet and more. He paused for a moment, looking down at the bare knees of his Captain, wondering how this was done. Sven sat on a long bench; Lars supposed the best thing to do was to lower himself across the older man’s knees and lay his chest along the wooden slats. He could stretch his arms ahead of him. His legs would have to dangle in mid-air.

Before he could decide, Sven gripped him by his left wrist and propelled him forward and face-down across his lap. Lars could not see, but he was perfectly positioned, buttocks nicely angled, to receive the lashes of the birch rod.

His Club Captain gripped the birch rod in his right hand and gently rubbed the tips of the twigs across the lower half of the eighteen-year-old’s bottom, just where the under-curves met the thighs.

“One. Two. Three!” the teammates counted. Sven took his cue and brought the birch down with tremendous force. He was rewarded by wild cheering and clapping from the team and a low sorrowful hissing from the boy across his knees. Lars’ eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wouldn’t allow a sound to pass his lips.

Swish! A second cut hit higher. Already, the whole of his smooth, white bum was criss-crossed with thin stripes. Lars heaved his bottom high, but Sven was an expert at this. He wrapped his left arm across the boy’s middle and pressed down hard. Lars was going nowhere.

The boy’s face was now as scarlet as his backside. He shut his eyes, silently vowing he could take this. He must take this. Not to do so meant shame and ignominy. Slices three and four tore into him. Never in his whole life had he felt such pain. He had been injured many times on the playing field, but nothing before had prepared him for this.

Six hard strokes ripped his arse to shreds and then it was over. Blood wept from dozens and dozens of small cuts. Lars’ buttocks resembled raw hamburger meat. The agony had numbed his bum. To frantic clapping and cheering, the boy hauled himself to his feet. Teammates crowded him, each extended a hand for him to shake. Many clapped him on the shoulders. One or two went in for a full hug.

His face glowed with pride. Teammates formed a guard of honour for him to walk through on his way to the shower.

“He took it well,” Sven beamed with pride. “I wonder if Stig will be so stoical when it’s his turn next week?”


Picture credit: Ivory Soap


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Boss’s Son

z used art office otk ruler chair (8)

I had to stand there in the office and listen when dad told Mr. Furlong, “If he’s any trouble. Any trouble at all. I want you to take him across your knee and spank his backside for him. Hard.” Mr. Furlong’s face lit up and he cracked a broad smile. “I’m not joking, man,” my dad barked. “I mean it. I’ll be checking. If he doesn’t buck his ideas up and make some improvements with himself, I’ll know who to blame.” His eyes darkened. He was a hard taskmaster. Mr. Furlong knew exactly what dad meant – his job was on the line.

Extract from The Boss’s Son, a new exclusive story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded to The Canery website. Click here to read it


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Charles Hamilton the Second


The boy in the street

used drawing modern (8)


I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.

The first time was in the street near my house. He was walking toward me oblivious to the world around him. He had those things in his ears that all kids have. Did I gape open-mouthed? I rather think I might. He had an aura. I can’t explain it. His shock of uncombed hair, the regal nose. Thin lips that looked like he had been drinking raspberryade. The front of my underpants bulged.

I stared intently at the pavement as we passed. I tried hard; honestly I did. The urge to turn around to get a look at his bum consumed me. What if he caught me admiring his buttocks? How could I stand the humiliation? But I did look. What a disappointment. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a twenty-something boy. It’s what they are like. He wore those trousers that are so baggy you can’t see any shape inside. I don’t want lads to wear skin tight jeans or what-not; but I do enjoy seeing how round their buttocks are.

It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees, of course, and I am hammering away with my heavy bath brush. He is rocking and rolling his hips and legs but by and large he is taking it like a trooper.

I came to spanking quite late in life. I’ve always been “gay”, but in my day we never knew much about it. We just got on with life. Where I came from if a girl was still unmarried at twenty-one, she was “on the shelf”; so, we all got hitched young.

Doris was my wife for nearly forty years. She was undemanding after I gave her three girls. Is it a wicked thing to say that when she passed on I was relieved? It was as if a huge weight had been taken from me. I pretty much lived in my head until then.

I had a mild interest in corporal punishment of young men. I remember a scene from an old black-and-white film that played on TV quite often. Goodbye Mr Chips. The old doddery headmaster is in his study with a schoolboy. Ha! The actor playing the sixth-former must have been about thirty-five. Chips picks up a sturdy crook-handled cane. “Bend over that chair!” he thunders. The boy is understandably reluctant. “Bend over that chair!” he roars once more. The boy lowers himself over the arm of a large chair. The film goes to silhouette as Chips swipes six of the best across the boy’s stretched trousers.

I would lay alone on my bed replaying that scene in my head; uncertain whether I wanted to be the headmaster whipping his cane into the boy’s bottom, or to be the one on the receiving end.

After Doris left us the days seemed endless. My daughter Cathy urged me to get out and meet people. She signed me up for an evening class at the local school. Beginners DIY. Do-it-yourself home maintenance. Me? It showed how little she really knew about my interests.

I didn’t show up at class. I went to the school, just to keep her quiet, but in the hallway I saw a poster for something that genuinely, truly, changed my life. The Internet for Beginners. A class aimed at fossils like myself who didn’t know their Web from their wi-fi.

I don’t have to tell you what I found online. Jesus. If I were forty years younger! It took a while to pluck up the courage before I contacted a guy who gave corporal punishment services. For a fee, of course. He had a room at his house decked out like a headmaster’s study. It wasn’t as grand as Mr Chip’s, but it felt authentic enough. I dressed in pale-grey trousers, white shirt and striped tie. It made a very passable school uniform. There was a chair, not unlike the one in my own sitting room.

Swish! He swiped a thin curve-handled rattan cane through the air. “Bend over that chair!” he thundered. Had he developed his technique from watching Mr Chips? In time, I came to doubt it. He proved to be a very experienced “master”.

I licked my tongue across my top lip. Saliva drained from my mouth. I stared down over the back of the chair at the faded blue cushion. Savouring every moment. I had never come close to being summoned to the headmaster’s study as a child. This was unchartered territory.

“Bend over!” the headmaster tapped his cane on the apex of the chair. I drew in breath and lowered myself into position. I felt the fabric of my trousers stretch across my buttocks. I must have been an awesome target. My bum is round and meaty. I might be old, but I am not fat. I stared intently at the back of my hands as I gripped the seat cushion tightly.

He tap-tap-tapped the cane across the centre of my buttocks, then withdrew it. I tensed. Crack! The cane landed squarely across my cheeks. Nothing happened for a second or two and then an intense shockwave roared across my bum. My first stroke of the cane. I was on my way.

Back home, I took to skulking close to my sitting room window hoping to catch sight of the boy. I didn’t know if he lived in The Avenue. It is long and full of upscale houses, many of them hidden behind walls and fences, so it is not easy to know your neighbours. Several days passed and sadly I concluded he must have been a visitor. Somebody’s nephew, perhaps. Or a boyfriend.

I had given up hope of ever seeing him again when one afternoon I was shuffling down the street in search of an evening newspaper and there he was. My cock flipped. He was wearing a military camouflage tee-shirt and this time his chino trousers fitted snugly. He carried across his shoulder a bag that looked light and almost empty. He smiled nonchalantly as he passed and nodded a greeting. My heart skipped. He had noticed me. The boy knew I existed. I stopped dead and careless as to who might see, I turned to admire his buttocks as they sashayed down the street.

All thoughts of evening papers abandoned, I let him get fifty or so yards ahead of me and I followed. He turned a bend in the road and crossed over and pushed open the gate of one of the smaller houses. I stood maybe ten yards away. I have no idea if there were others in the street, I only had eyes for the boy. He hopped from one foot to another as if he were desperate to go to the toilet. Suddenly the door flew open and a youngster about the same age as the boy stepped out. He wrapped his arm around the back of the boy’s head and pulled him toward him. They kissed unselfconsciously. It was real snogging. Then the youngster dragged him into the house, slamming the door shut.

I put my head down and as far as a man in my condition could, I ran back towards my house. My fury could not be controlled. That boy; my boy. Even now, as I hurried home, I knew they would be having wild passionate sex. On the sitting room carpet quite likely.

At home, I headed straight to the cocktail cabinet. Drat! I was out of tonic. My hands could not stop shaking as I splashed gin into a tumbler. Urggh! It tasted foul. Too strong. My head buzzed. My rage subsided. I stood by the window looking into the empty street. Then, I had an epiphany. It wasn’t rage I felt. It was envy. Envy that my boy was now enjoying unrestrained sex with an equally beautiful guy. And envy too, of all the boys their age and the freedom they enjoyed to be themselves. My own barren life, fifty-something wasted years, disgusted me.

It might have been the gin. God knows it might have been hormones or something, I don’t know. I rushed from the house and trundled down the street. I had to see my boy again. The house seemed quiet when I arrived. They were probably rolling around on the bed, I thought. Indifferent for who might see me, I crossed the small, neat lawn and tip-toed toward the window of what I supposed to be a living room. The curtain was open. I could see inside, but equally anyone in the room would be able to see me. I would take the risk.

Risk-takers are the ones who reap the rewards. My boy was completely naked, lying prone across the knees of the other boy. The other boy made small circular motions with the palm of his hand, patting each buttock in turn and caressing the backs of his thighs. Then, having taken his measure, he smacked the open palm of his hand again and again into the firm bum. From my vantage point and with my imperfect eyesight it seemed my boy was completely hairless. He would have had to shave to achieve such smoothness.

My boy’s face shone serenely. The other boy was just as calm. He smacked my boy a dozen or so times; you couldn’t call them “spanks”, there was no intent to cause harm. Then he stopped and fondled him some more. This time he stroked the naked back and shoulders before inserting his fingers under my boy’s body and twitching his nipples. I could hear the gasp of ecstasy.

The other boy ruffled my boy’s hair some and then returned his attention to his cute, pert bum. I stood; back arched, hands on my knees and breathless for some time. They were so engrossed in their sex play they would never notice me. Who knows how much time elapsed? Eventually, the other boy whispered a love call. My boy pulled himself from the lap, at first resting on his knees and then stretching himself to his feet. His rock-solid uncut cock pointed towards his young lover.

The other boy rose from his chair and sank to his knees. Inside a second he had the throbbing muscle between his lips. His tongue darted up and down along my boy’s shaft. I thought my boy’s eyes would pop. Instead, he leaned forward and gripped the other boy’s dick. It was as rigid as my boy’s. A thick vein crossed the entire length of the cut member. The cock shuddered as soon as my boy’s fingers made contact. Any moment now, he would shoot a load.

“May I help you?” The voice came from a million miles away. “I said, can I help you?” It had a dreamlike quality.

I turned my head slightly. A man in a business suit, with a laptop bag across his back, approached me across the lawn.

“I say are you alright?”

I sank to my knees, rolled over onto my side and bawled like a baby.


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Charles Hamilton the Second


The Brocklehurst crammer

used drawing cane hold (52)

Terry, Damien and Harry stood nonchalantly in front of the principal’s desk. The eighteen year olds had never met each other before, but they all had one important thing in common. They had all failed their school A-level exams and their irate fathers were paying a large fee to send them to Brocklehurst College.

The college was a “crammer.” Its job was to coach its students to pass the re-sit examinations. That meant three months of intense study; no mean feat for lazy teenagers. But Principal Tucker had one method at his disposal. It was a proven aid to learning.

Tucker eyed his new recruits with distain. Louts, he thought, that’s what they were; uncouth yobs. He’d soon lick them into shape.

“Stand up straight, all of you!” he barked. “You boy,” he nodded at Terry, “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Reluctantly, each boy shuffled a little. They stood straighter, but it was hardly parade-ground excellence.

“You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

“It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

“Here we use corporal punishment.”

The stunned look on the boys’ faces betrayed their apparent lack of comprehension.

“Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.”

“But …” Damien started to protest but the principal’s icy glare silenced him.

“You will all have signed a consent form.” Doubtless under the duress of your fathers, he thought to himself. Principal Tucker had run the crammer for seven years. He knew that fathers sent their sons to his college as a last resort. The boys would not respond to reason. They were often wilfully lazy. Well Brocklehurst College would soon put a stop to that.

“Yes,” he addressed the three crestfallen teenagers, “We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

Damien blushed to his roots. Yes, he knew all about the corporal punishment regime. He had had a tremendous row with his father. Dad said he must get his A-levels and go on to university. If he did not do that he would be thrown out of the family home. Dad was not a man to carry passengers. Failure for Damien might mean a life flipping burgers.

The principal had not finished his welcoming speech. “Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

“When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey-and-blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.”

All three mouthed protests. Short trousers! Even kids at primary school no longer wore short trousers.

“Silence!” Tucker feigned anger, but he expected protests from his students. Of course, eighteen year old boys would object to being forced back into short trousers. But, as a disciplinary tool it worked wonders. It reminded the louts that they were not yet truly adults. Adulthood came with responsibility. By failing their exams these boys had demonstrated their lack of responsibility. The short trousers would be a constant reminder of their status in the eyes of the college.

Short trousers were also a practical way to keep control. No boy would willingly want to be seen in public wearing grey short trousers and a school uniform. So, they wouldn’t truant from class or sneak out in the evening.

“You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

“You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?”

Principal Tucker was not sure if the boys’ silence was a demonstration of insolence.

“Is that clear!” he barked.

Their murmurs confirmed it was.


Of the three teenagers standing before him, two had neat short-back-and-sides haircuts. The third sported a mop of shaggy fair hair. The principal doubted it had seen a comb let alone a barber in some considerable time.

“You boy,” he gestured at the shaggy-haired boy, “What’s your name?”

“Damien,” the teen responded sullenly.

“We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir. What’s your surname?”

“Wendersley,” he sneered, but noticing that Tucker’s complexion was reddening, he quickly added, “Sir.”

“Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?”

Yes, he had. He hated this college. He hated Principal Tucker and he hated his father for sending him here. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

“Well boy?” Tucker’s fingers were beginning to itch. This meeting could end in only one way.

“Yeah,” Damien Wendersley breathed.

“Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears. So, why have you not followed the instruction?”

“Why do we have to have short hair?”

Veins stood out on Tucker’s neck.

“How dare you! Don’t be insolent.”

Wendersley blushed. The other two lads stood silently. Harry, for one, was rather enjoying this. He hoped the principal would give Wendersley what-for.  If Harry had to have his hair cropped like a convict, why should Wendersley get away with it?

“So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.”

Damien Wendersley stared at the plush carpet beneath his feet.

“Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.”

All three gasped. “But,” Wendersley tried to protest.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The three teenagers quietened. It was a shock. The boy was to be caned. For not having his haircut. The cane. When they had seen the clause about corporal punishment in the contract none of the boys had taken it seriously. The cane. It was unheard of. This was 2016.

But, there was a greater shock to come.

The principal rose from his desk. “Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.”

That set the boys off again. This time each one protested.

“Be quiet!” Tucker roared. “Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.”

“But, Sir,” Terry Reilly piped up, “That’s not fair.”

“I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

“I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?”

Yes, it was clear, but none of the teenagers replied. Surely it had been a rhetorical question.

“Right. You two boys go to the dormitory and change. You Wendersley. Stay behind.”

Terry and Harry sped from the room.

Principal Tucker sauntered across his office. It was a large modern space, designed mostly in walnut. Along one wall were shelves and a tall thin cabinet.

“Right let me deal with you Wendersley,” he said as he opened the cabinet door and searched inside.

Damien’s eyes widened. They almost stood out on stalks.

“Ah,” the principal smiled malevolently, “It would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.”

He flexed the rod between his two hands. It was just over three feet in length and as thick as the man’s little finger. It was supple and easily curved into a bow.

Damien visibly paled.

“I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.”

He swiped the cane through the air, delighted at the look of real fear spread across the teenager’s face.

“Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.”

“Please stand behind the chair,” Tucker wobbled his cane in the direction of a wooden Ikea armchair with a bright red cushion.

“No, please, no…” Damien wailed. He wanted to beg for mercy but his vocal chords refused to work.

“Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.”

The teenager stood rooted. He was gripped with such fright he literally could not move.

“Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college. Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?”

The true reality of his circumstances dawned on the wretched boy. He had no choice but to submit to this horrible man. He had to work hard at his studies and pass those A-levels. His father would throw him out of the house otherwise.

“No,” he mumbled.

“I thought not. Stand by the chair.”

Damien shuffled across the room.

“I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down,” Principal Tucker was enjoying himself. This oafish lout had displeased him from the moment he had set his eyes on him.

“Nooo, please, nooo,” it was incoherent wailing. Already tears were welling up in the boy’s eyes.

“Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.”

The boy’s now bright red face pleaded silently with his master. But it was to no avail.

“I am waiting Wendersley.”

Somehow he unbuttoned his belt, popped the buttons on his jeans and let them fall over his thighs to his knees.

“Ha!” Tucker roared with scorn. “Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.”

He swished the cane. “Now, bend over the chair.”

Damien had never been caned before; he had never seen anyone caned, not even in a movie. How exactly was it done?

He leaned over the back of the chair and stretched his arms in front of him, so that the lay along the hard wooden arms.

“Grip the front of the cushion boy. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

Damien wriggled into position and stared down at the red cushion. There was a small grey stain. Someone must have spilled coffee, he thought. He concentrated on the mark. It was about three inches long. If he thought about how the stain had been made it might take his mind off the ordeal he was facing.

Principal Tucker rubbed the palm of his right hand across both of Damien’s buttocks, smoothing the cotton underpants. Satisfied that all creases had been removed, he stood back three paces, raised his cane and let fly. It flogged down right across the centre of both cheeks.

Damien roared and he flew to his feet, furiously rubbing away at his backside.

“Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.”

Damien stood his ground. The pain was so great. How could he be expected to take six strokes like that?

“Back over,” Principal Tucker readied himself to force the teenager face down over the back of the chair, but the boy found a reserve of courage and offered up his backside.

Swish number two hit an inch or so lower than the first. Damien howled. He stamped his feet up and down and he wriggled his hips to the left and to the right. But this time he remained bent over.

“Doh! Keep still.” The cane rose and fell again. Damien repeated his march, thrust his backside out and waved it about. Principal Tucker despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on six.

Stroke number four was met with another spasm of physical jerks, accompanied by wailing that echoed around the bright office. A less experienced master might have taken pity on poor Damien Wendersley. Clearly, the boy was unable to take such a thrashing.

But Tucker was made of stern stuff. He knew as a matter of conviction that this beating, harsh though it might seem, was being administered for the teenager’s own good. This was the first step on the young man’s redemption. After this afternoon, Damien’s life would never be quite the same again. In time, once he had passed his examinations, succeeded at university, and enjoyed a fine career he might even look back on this caning with gratitude.

“Stop your blubbing, take it like a man,” he intoned and bought swipe number five down across the lad’s underpants; low, just where the cheeks meet the thighs. Damien’s throat was full of bile. At any moment he might vomit up the contents of his stomach. He gasped in great gulps of air like a beached whale.

Slash. The sixth and last stroke lashed down diagonally across all of the other five. The pain was searing. The red coloured underpants disguised the blood stain that was slowly creeping across the seat.

Principal Tucker had finished. Another student punished. It was all in a day’s work.

“You may stand up Wendersley.”

Gingerly, the teenager regained a standing position. He ran up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. It was an instinctive reaction; he had no idea if it would really relieve his pain. For now, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Stop rubbing your bottom,” Principal Tucker’s distain for the boy before him was evident.

“Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.”

Damien’s face was awash with tears and snot. He was in no fit state to leave the office just yet.

“Here, take this and wipe your eyes,” Tucker passed the boy a fistful of tissues.

“I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

“Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut.  For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

“You are dismissed.”


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

The bully

Burley the sixth-former towered over the cowering junior, a cricket stump raised at shoulder height. “Lick ’em; lick ’em clean,” he sneered. The small, trembling boy knelt forward. Tears welled as he poked out his tongue and started to wash the bully’s shoes.

“You have got to do something about Burley. The way he treats the fags is disgraceful.” Carstairs leaned forward in his chair, “You should take him to task.”

Alsop sighed. His chum was right of course. But what could he do?

“He is giving us all a bad name. He’s nothing short of a bully,” Carstairs was not about to let the School Captain off the hook.

“And what do you propose I do?” Alsop’s face flushed.

“Beat him. Six. That’ll soon put a stop to it.”

Alsop stared across the study. His crook-handled ashplant cane hung from a hook on the far wall. “How can I do that, man? He’s a sixth-former. The Sixth can’t be caned.”

“Nonsense,” Carstairs sneered. “The Sixth don’t get caned. It doesn’t mean they can’t.” He pulled himself out of his armchair and stood over the School Captain. “If it were a junior doing the bullying, you’d soon have him bent over that chair.”

“Well …” Alsop seemed to be thinking about it. Burley certainly deserved a whopping. “But he’d never stand for it,” his face brightened. “Or should I say bend for it.” He laughed at his own poor joke.

“I’d wager any number of the fags would hold him down while you laid the ashplant across his arse.”

Carstairs was probably right, Alsop concede silently. But, it was pie in the sky. It would never happen.

Burley strode the passageway toward dormitory two. The juniors were preparing for bed. He could always catch someone out. He paused at the door and peered through the window. Good, he smiled to himself, one boy was out of bed. He’d soon cop it.

Burley knew sixth-formers were not allowed to beat the juniors. The juniors knew it also. Only the prefects could. That didn’t stop Charles Alfred Burley. Every evening without fail he managed to get one poor boy or the other across his knee. Pyjamas down.

“He’s spanking the juniors,” Carstairs was back in Alsop’s study. “Over his knee. Trousers down.”

Alsop furrowed his brow. “His trousers?”

Carstairs giggled, “No you ass. The poor junior.” He crinkled his nose as if suddenly a bad smell had wafted in the room. “It’s immoral. You know it is.”

It turned Alsop’s stomach. A bully was bad enough, but a bully with a fetish was too much.

He ran his hand through his thick wavy hair. “Would Burley take it? If I ordered him to take a punishment, would he?”

Carstairs face lightened. At last, the bully would get his comeuppance. “He’d jolly well have to. Any boy who refuses a whopping from a prefect would have to go to the head. It’d be a public flogging, for sure. The sack, even. Even if he were a senior boy.”

Alsop supposed it were true. No boy had ever refused a prefect’s caning, as far as he knew. But, then no eighteen-year-old had been ordered to bend over for Six, either.

Burley lounged back in the armchair in the School Captain’s study while Alsop jawed him. He wasn’t about to stand on the carpet, hands behind back, head bowed, like some junior while Alsop berated him. Alsop gave it all to him. Both barrels. The Bulley’s cold grey eyes bore into his accuser. Such hatred.

At last the School Captain had finished. He ran his hand through his hair and waited. Waited for Burley to respond. He scowled, “What do you want to do? Cane me? You know you can’t cane a sixth-form man.”

“Not so.” He interlocked his fingers. He looked down at the carpet, avoiding Burley’s stare. “The headmaster supports my actions.” It was a lie the Beak knew nothing about it. Burley’s grey eyes shone. He narrowed them, preparing to offer a retort. His smart mouth let him down. Silence engulfed the room.

At last Alsop broke it. “I want you to stand up.” He stood and waited for Burley to do the same. He did not. His puzzlement was writ large on his round open face.

Alsop was surprised his hands were shaking. He grasped them behind his back. He took a deep breath. “Stand up please,” he said with over-stressed politeness. “Or shall we visit the headmaster?”

Burley blew out his cheeks and hauled himself to his feet. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He hoped it was a stance of defiance. He eyed the whippy ashplant dangling from its hook.

“I rather thought not.” Alsop paced the study, but he did not reach for the cane. Instead, he gripped the handle of the door and opened it. “Follow me,” he ordered, looking back over his shoulder.

“Where we going?” Burley growled.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

The School Captain led the way down the dimly lit passageway. Burley shuffled two paces behind him. Where were they going? If Alsop was going to whop him, why hadn’t he done so in the study? What was he going to do? He had left his cane behind.

Alsop halted at the top of the large spiral staircase. It was the central thoroughfare of the school. Every boy and master passed through it several times during the day. It was as busy as any provincial railway station.

“Wait here.” Alsop had a plan. He had discussed it with Carstairs. His chum thought it an excellent idea. It would be historic. Boys will talk about it for generations to come, he had said.

Six junior boys heading off to the football pitch, halted. Something was up, they sensed it. But what, they didn’t yet know.

Alsop pointed to a large wooden bench. “I want you to bend over.”

“War …?” Burley took his hands from his pocket and stood to his full six-feet-one-inch. He pushed back his shoulders. He all but clenched his fist, ready to punch the School Captain on the nose.

“I want you to place your hands on the seat and stick your backside out. I’m going to spank you.”

“No you’re jolly well not!” Burley roared, his face colouring with anger. He turned his back and made to leave.

“Or would you have me take you to the junior study and put you across my knee and spank you on your bare bottom?” He glared at the bully. “Just as you do each night in the dorms?”

Burley felt his heart beat faster. He wasn’t usually a nervous boy. He was big and strong and always got his way.

Not now. “Bend over, I said.” Alsop grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him so he faced the bench. Then, he pushed him forward. Taken by surprise, Burley slipped and fell so that his stomach rested on the wooden bench. Alsop took advantage of his position and pressed his hand into the boy’s back. For some moments he was pinned; helpless.

Alsop rained down slaps into the bully’s backside. Burley wriggled and cursed. In equal measure. A crowd of boys gathered on the stairs. What a lark. Burley the bully being spanked on his bottom by the School Captain. “What ho! Alsop!” they cried.

Alsop couldn’t keep it up. Spanking with one hand and holding his victim still with the other was a near impossible feat. Burley broke free and red-faced with humiliation, he pushed his way through the throng.

That evening Burley sat in a poorly-lit corner of the public bar at the Three Fishers Hotel. His companion fidgeted with the cuffs of his heavy woollen coat.

“Tomorrow at midday, I’ll give you a signal. Then you do the deed,” Burley’s grey stared burned into the man.

“Yussir!” The man gulped down beer.

Burley walked from the bar, leaving five shillings on the table.

Next day at noon in the village Burley strode across the green in search of Alsop.

“Alsop old man,” Burley held out his hand. “No hard feelings about yesterday, what-ho.” He shook the hand of the School Captain heartily and darted on his way, leaving Alsop both startled and puzzled.

Five minutes later a sock full of stones crashed into his face, breaking his nose and three teeth.

z used Sixth former gives another a spanking Mag

Picture credit: The Magnet


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High school reunion


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Tyrone misses curfew

z used after (7)

Tyrone knew what he was required to do. He walked across the living room and picked up the slipper from the shelf under the television set. He turned and handed it to his dad.

Dad had taken one of the chairs tucked under the dining table and plonked it in the very centre of the room. Now, with the carpet slipper clutched in his right hand, he settled his flabby backside on the wooden seat. He parted his legs and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable.

“Come here,” dad snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot to his right side. Tyrone blushed deeply. “I’m nineteen years old, but dad insists on treating me as if I was nine,” he thought to himself. He knew better not to argue the point with dad. The only time he had, he got an extra-hard spanking, bare-arsed. He didn’t want to go through that again.

Tyrone took up position and waited, heart pounding, for the next part of the instruction. No matter how many times in the past he had done this, he always found this totally humiliating. Dad snapped his fingers again. “Take ’em down,” he ordered.

Tyrone’s sweatpants had elastic at the waist. All he had to do was to take hold of their top, pull the waistband away from his hips and let them slide down his thighs. They snagged a bit at the knees, so Tyrone bent his back and with his thumbs pushed them until they bunched at his shins.

A cool breeze from an open window brushed against his bare legs, making him conscious of the tiny, snug briefs he wore. Anyone who chose to look would see the bulge of his cock and balls. At the back, the underwear hardly covered his buttock cheeks. When, as soon he would be, he was across his dad’s knees, the lower curves would be bare.

Another snap of the fingers from dad. Tyrone mouthed a silent, “Oh, man,” sucked in a lung full of air and learned forward. He was a tall teenager and his hands could rest on the dusty carpet ahead of him and his toes touch the floor behind. His dad’s fat thighs provided a platform for the nineteen-year-old to rest his body. Tyrone’s barely-covered bottom rested at an angle against his dad’s right leg.

Tyrone knew what would happen next. It was always the same routine. His dad took the end of Tyrone’s tee-shirt and tugged it up his son’s back as far as he could take it. There was no practical reason to do this as the shirt was already nowhere close to the target area. But, it added to the drama of the occasion. Dad was not the kind of father to punish a son by wildly lashing out, perhaps with a belt, and striking the teenager all over the body; the back, the shoulders and the legs. Dad thought the point of the spanking was for Tyrone to exhibit self-control and submit to the authority of his parents. That more than any pain involved was the point of the exercise. Tyrone might be nineteen, but nineteen year olds were not yet adults. They still had a long way to go on that journey. So, Tyrone would have to obey his parents, abide by their rules, and if he could not – or would not – do so he would be punished.

Tyrone knew the curfew was eleven o’clock and when he rolled home last night (or more accurately, this morning) at gone midnight, he could be in no doubt about the consequences. At least, Tyrone was relieved to know dad hadn’t discovered his son had shared a bottle of beer with his friend. That would have led to two spankings. One today for the curfew and another tomorrow for the illicit alcohol.

Now satisfied that his son was properly positioned for punishment, Dad wrapped his left arm around Tyrone’s waist. Another of the routines. Tyrone was no virgin to a spanking. He would not become hysterical and wriggle and writhe; nor shout and scream. He would remain as stoical as it was possible to be in such circumstances and take his punishment, but he would never let his dad know how foolish and humiliated he felt.

As his dad made his final preparations, Tyrone pressed the palms of his hands into the harsh carpet. During the first few times that he had been spanked, Tyron couldn’t work out where he was supposed to put his head. He could try to rest it on the ground, or he could look straight ahead to the far wall. One time, he wrapped his arms around his head. Now, he preferred to let his head hang at an angle so that he could look underneath the chair his dad sat on and see his own legs. It was a weird sensation to stare at the sweatpants at his own ankles and then to watch to see if his feet kicked about as the slipper came whacking down across his bum. It was as if the legs belonged to some other teenager being spanked by his dad; a kind of “out-of-body” experience.

When dad gripped him around the waist, Tyrone knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, for it was a reflex action, his buttocks tensed. His bum was pretty hard anyway, but in this state they tightened up to resemble a hard rubber ball. It was none of Tyrone’s doing, it was his body’s natural way of protecting itself from the onslaught.

Dad had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of Tyrone’s left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it whacked into the right one. Dad would put six into each buttock and then take breath. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all. So, although dad believed his son must submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.

The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed him up nicely. Then dad upped the ante. He increased the pace and walloped home a couple of dozen without let up. Bang-bang-bang. It was as rapid as machinegun fire. At about this time, Tyrone would see his knees bend and his feet kick about. His buttocks were sore and Tyrone knew from past experience that most of his bottom would already be a deep pink colour. Before dad was over, it would be cherry red.

After another pause, dad went for the bare spot under the curves. He was immediately rewarded with an imprint of the slipper’s flexible sole emblazoned across his son’s naked flesh. Tyrone sucked in gulps of air. That hurt. That really hurt. His legs kicked again. Tyrone had been spanked many times in the past and he was nineteen years old after all, so he had a high pain threshold. Even so, the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had him squirming. He scrunched up his face, clenched his teeth and shut his eyes; determined not to let a yelp escape his lips.

Nobody was keeping count, but dad probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps across that most tender part of Tyrone’s body. The teenager would find it very uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for many hours to come.

It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating for Tyrone. Dad rested the slipper on the small of his son’s back and with both hands free he rolled Tyrone’s tight briefs over the mounds of his now-toasted buttocks until they snagged on his thighs. The bum was now completely bared. Tyrone hated this; his dad could see right into his crack and up his hole. If dad had been more of a “man-of-the-world”, he might wonder about the size of the circumference of the hole. He might also make the connection between it and his son’s missed curfew.

But, dad had no interest in cracks and holes; buttocks were his concern. No square inch of Tyrone’s bum had missed the attention of the slipper. Unblemished, it was hairless and creamy-white. After the attentions of dad’s slipper, it had a rosy sheen. He picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks. Those feet and legs waved about again; Tyrone did the scrunching thing with his face, but by the time dad had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” Tyrone had remained silent.

The nineteen-year-old eased himself up and using dad’s legs as support he got to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, rather like footballers do when they try to “run off” an injury. Conscious that his dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of his dad’s face, Tyrone reached down and slipped up his briefs. Then, he bent down and pulled up his sweats.

His buttocks throbbed, but even now most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. He would be tender for a while; if Tyrone touched the lower half of his cheeks he would reignite some of the pain. Sitting down would be awkward for a while. His bum was red and bruises would quickly form. If past experience taught him anything, they would hang around for days turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing. There could be no rolling on the bed with Wayne for a while.

Dad’s curt dismissal sent Tyrone to his bedroom where he whipped down his sweats and briefs and pointed his bare arse at the mirror. It looked awesome. Definitely one for the record books, he thought, so he picked up his phone from the bedside table and snapped a selfie.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second