A kiss too far

z used drawing face posh by Leyendecker (6)

The heat in the room was stifling. The windows couldn’t be opened because there was a danger insects would get in, although a daddy-long-legs was pummelling from wall to wall. John stared down at the battered leather strap lying across the equally beaten oak table. It had been in the family for generations hadn’t it? His father had used it on John often enough and he was damned sure grandfather had beaten father. Had grandfather’s father whipped him? Almost certainly, John thought. Flogging was a family tradition.

He was to be thrashed now. No doubt about it. His father paced the room; six steps one way, turnabout, six paces back. All the time he lectured. “Damn bad show. Shouldn’t be allowed.”

It was no such thing, but John couldn’t argue. It wasn’t his place. His place was to do what his father said. Without argument. And, John knew for certain that was exactly what he would do.

It was all Elinor’s father’s fault. He man was a monster. Well, not a monster perhaps, but at least unreasonable. Her skin had felt cool, John’s hands hot and heavy. When he lowered his mouth to hers it tasted of salt. She looked at him nervously. He shut his eyes. Her tongue threshed against his. Suddenly, he felt her neck muscles go rigid as she tried to push away.

“Whoaaaa!” Her father was suddenly on the scene His cry, a mixture of shock and rage, sent Elinor scurrying from the room. John thought Mr Rankling would flog him there and then. He was probably fortunate no horsewhip lay close to hand. Instead, John’s father was summoned and a tale told. To hear Elinor’s father tell it the eighteen-year-old was found writhing naked on his daughter; caught in the act of deflowering her. It was not like that at all; but if only, John wished.

Two adults kissing. What was the harm in that? Elinor was a year older than John; did she not have some say in how she behaved? Adults? Not in John’s father’s eyes. You attained the age of majority at twenty-one. That’s when you were legally an adult. But adulthood was not defined by age. Adulthood meant achieving maturity; only once that state was reached could a boy be called an adult. John’s father had no doubt – none at all – that his middle son was still very much a child.

Sweat soaked John’s shirt. The room was unbearable. His father’s constant pacing didn’t help. What was about to take place was routine, the teenager’s flesh would be scarred, but, oh how he wished father would just get on with it. At last the old man came to a halt and stood behind the table, leaning forward, palms of his hands pressing into the ancient wood. He was nearly six feet when standing; he had long ago ceased to be the powerful rugby scrum-half he had once been. His jowls wobbled, his waist (such as could be detected) hung over his trousers. His face, poorly shaven that morning, reddened with every word he spoke.

John was slightly shorter than his father, slim, high cheekbones, red lips,  greased hair – what woman could resist such. His grey eyes dulled. He heard his father’s words, but he wasn’t listening. What was the point? His father would not allow a response. This was not a court of law. John had already been tried and convicted; all that was to be determined was the sentence.

At last it came. “Trousers, drawers down. Present yourself across the table.” His father snatched the leather strap from the table and resumed his pacing. He paused at the far end of the room and stood, feet apart, like a soldier at ease, and studied his son. The boy unfastened his trousers and allowed the weight of the silver cigarette case in the pocket to send them tumbling to his feet. The woollen drawers were of the fashionable type; designed for easy removal. One assumed the manufacturers had not envisaged the wearer would need a speedy exit to facilitate a spanking from father. John undid the buttons at the waist and pushed them down his thighs. They snagged at his knees.

Even from a distance, his father could see his son’s manhood was well developed. How fortunate it was that Elinor’s father had intervened in time to spare his daughter. Unselfconsciously, for John had been semi-naked in front of his father many times, he lifted the tail of his crisp white shirt half way up his back so that his buttocks were properly bared.

The crazed daddy-long-legs hammered into his head. John swatted it away with his right hand while clinging on to his shirt with the left. Then, he lowered himself down. In the intolerably hot room, the wood felt cool against his naked stomach. He reached ahead of him and held the table’s edge. He shuffled his feet a little and wriggled his hips until his stomach rested at a perfect angle for his bared buttocks to receive his father’s administrations. The cheeks were full, chubby even, unlike the rest of John’s lean body.

John’s father shuffled the length of the room and stood to his son’s left. The daddy-long-legs crashed into his face. With fury he lashed the strap through the air. For two pins he could hunt the bugger down and crush it into a pulp. But, there were more important things to concern him.

The strap was about eighteen inches long and four wide. It was a heavy beast and when he laid it across the centre of John’s naked haunches it easily covered half the area. There had been a time (had John’s father been in the mood for remembrances) that he would have recalled the days when the strap could cover both of his son’s cheeks with room to spare.

John’s buttocks clenched as the worn leather touched his vulnerable flesh. It always did this. It was a reflex action; John had no control of the matter. Was it his body’s natural reaction? A way to protect itself from the hurt that was about to be unleashed?

From his vantage point standing over the eighteen-year-old, his father had a clear view of the teenager’s crack. The hole seemed a little larger than the last time he had seen it. Some filthy things had taken place in the school dormitory, he supposed.

Determined not to be side-tracked by these thoughts, the old man lifted the strap high above his head, twirled it in a full circle and brought it whizzing down with great speed and tremendous force into the very centre of his son’s bum. He was rewarded by the sight of a dark-pink stripe immediately forming across the defenceless flesh and the sound of John’s gasp as he tried with considerable success to stifle the yell he most assuredly wanted to make.

John gripped the table edge and waited, heart thumping for the second crack to land. It came thirty seconds after the first. Exactly: for his father was counting the time in his head. This one landed a little above the first, on the top of the mounds, near the boy’s back. The agony was searing, pain travelled up and down his legs and he could not control himself; his legs stamped up and down like a soldier on sentry duty.

Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty. The third swipe caught him on the soft, sensitive sit-spot, at the point where the bum meets the thighs. That one hurt. John’s mouth opened and closed, he clamped his top lip over the lower and dug his teeth in. It stopped the yell, but at some cost; an acrid taste of blood. By the time his father was through with him, John would be in no state for kissing.

His father admired his handiwork. Not a single square inch of his son’s buttocks had escaped the strap. They glowed pink. He swiped the fourth so that it connected across two of the previous marks. Mauve bruises were already forming as he lifted the strap high once more and brought it down again. The skin broke and blood rose to the surface; soon John’s bottom would resemble raw minced-meat.

John’s forehead bounced up and down and he head-butted the solid oak table top. He was losing control. There was a haze before his eyes as he waited for the next blow. It’s never been as bad as this, he thought as the strap cut him once more. It’s that damn girl! At that moment he began to hate her. But, that thought would pass.

A dozen lashes ripped John’s buttocks to shreds. Then it was over. “Up. Get dressed. Go.” His father never had much to say once a thrashing was completed. He had done his duty. Offence committed. Punishment delivered. Time to move on. That was his principle.

John sucked in lung-fulls of air. His heart raced; his temples throbbed, even as much as his buttocks. He pushed himself up from the table and not able to look his punisher in the face, he turned his back on his father and bent down to retrieve his woollen drawers. It gave the old man a last chance to admire his own prowess with the strap. He glowed with self-satisfaction.

With his trousers now fastened, John faced his father and offered him his right hand. It was a family tradition after a whipping. Shake hands. Behave like English gentlemen. Formalities observed, John shuffled from the room.

He scarcely noticed Elinor hovering in the hallway. He trudged through the hallway to the wide staircase that led to the upper floors and his room. He took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door. Within seconds his trousers and drawers were once more at his feet. He poked his bottom towards a full-length mirror. “God, what a mess,” he said out loud, although he was all alone in the room.

But not for long. Suddenly, the door burst open. John turned, startled to see Elinor standing there. Her eyes bulged and her lips poked in and out of her mouth like a lizard. John’s cock trembled. Elinor blushed. John turned his back, hiding his cock and balls but offering the girl a terrific view of his mashed backside.

“Let’s try some of this,” she said, and only then did John notice the white glass jar of cream she was holding. “Lie down,” she smiled sweetly. “On the bed,” she added unnecessarily. John licked his own lips and did as requested, slyly manoeuvring his body so that his did not put weight on his now raging erection.  Elinor scooped out a handful of the smooth white cream and gently laid it on John’s right buttock. It felt like ice on a burning desert. Tenderly she spread it carefully around the delightful curved forms, bringing some comfort to the savaged flesh and hard ridges.

John lay passive, gladly accepting the gentle massaging palms and the fragrant sticky cream. Elinor gently patted the chubby curves of John’s bottom. Poor John, she thought and was about to lean down and plant a gentle kiss on the raw, tormented flesh when the door suddenly opened and her father stormed into the room.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

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The military camp

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A fine young man

z used a fine young man

Luke was a fine young man, all the neighbours agreed. He was polite and respectful to his elders. He did as he was told without question. The wooden paddle his father kept hanging from a nail in the den saw to that.

He was a regular at church. He read the Bible each day and believed every word of it. He didn’t hang around the new shopping mall with other youth. He didn’t wear jeans and tee-shirts, nor grease his hair. He didn’t listen to rock’n’roll records. He never spoke with negroes.

He didn’t do too well at school, but he could write and count some and that was good enough for Mr. Kennedy. Mr. Kennedy and his wife had a “mom and pop” hardware store. It wasn’t big, but it did alright and they hired Luke as a store assistant. Kennedy admired Luke. His fair, almost blond hair. The eighteen-year-old’s sparkling grey eyes and clear skin. Luke’s snake hips and the way his grey pants clung to them. Yes, Mr. Kennedy agreed with his community; Luke was a fine young man indeed.

It got so Mr. Kennedy thought of Luke as the son he never had. Sure, he had daughters and they were the prettiest girls a father could wish for. But they weren’t sons. A man had to have a boy. Everyone at his church agreed with that.

It darn near broke Mr. Kennedy’s heart (or so he told Luke) the day he was forced to act as a father. Fathers had duties. To their children. Their community. And, to God above. Mr. Kennedy knew that and Luke had learned it also at his father’s knee. There were small things. Mr. Kennedy noticed how Luke was tardy when he arrived at work and took too long getting into his brown store coat. He didn’t pounce from his chair with sufficient vigour the very moment a customer walked through the shop door. Once, he gave someone the wrong change. It cost Mr. Kennedy a dollar. That was the final straw.

“It breaks my heart to do this son,” he told Luke dolefully, “But I am going to have to spank you.” Then he added hastily, “It is for your own good, you do understand that?”

Luke didn’t really understand. Grown-ups confused him. He always obeyed them, no matter what. His father had taught him that. But sometimes, he just didn’t get it. Only two weeks previously he was in trouble with Mr. Andrews, a neighbour. Luke had taken to counting the knotholes on the trees in the street. He had done seven when Mr. Andrews strode out angrily to confront him.

“What are you doing outside my house? Spying?” he berated the boy. Luke mumbled an apology, but he wasn’t sure what he had done wrong.

“Get in here you!” Mr. Andrews grabbed the teenager by the ear and frogmarched him into the garage. The old man sat on a stool, pulled the boy towards him and without a word, unbuttoned Luke’s slacks and pulled them to his knees. His underwear swiftly followed. Then, Luke was face down over the neighbour’s knees, while Mr. Andrews warmed up his naked buttocks with the palm of his hand. Nope, Luke couldn’t figure out grown-ups.

The shop was closed now. Mrs. Kennedy had gone to their home to make a start on supper. Kennedy would not be disturbed. His hardware shop sold many items, but among the biggest sellers were the wooden punishment paddles he displayed on the far wall. “Boards of Education” or “Attitude Adjusters”, came in various sizes. The smallest had blades no bigger than a paperback book. The largest was a monster, a feller would need both hands to swing it.

The back room was small and airless. It was used to store goods before they went in the shop, but it was empty now, except for a couple of wooden crates waiting to be sent back to a supplier. Kennedy had thought about it. One of them would be high enough for the teenager to bend across.

“Come along Luke,” he gripped a paddle in his fist. “Let’s have those pants down,” he motioned the blade up and down as if guiding the boy. The tan slacks fitted Luke well and he had no need for a belt. Calmly, for this was how his own father did the business, he unbuttoned the waistband and the fly. A wriggle of his snake hips sent the pants slithering down his thighs.

Luke hitched his thumbs under the elastic waist of his underwear and sent it south. His father always paddled him on the bare; he supposed it would be the same with Mr. Kennedy. He stood and waited. He couldn’t figure why Mr. Kennedy was sweating so much, while Luke himself was shivering.

Kennedy wiped the back of his hand across his face and ran his fingers through his hair, then wiped them on the leg of his pants. “Bend over the chest,” he croaked. Luke’s dick flopped up and down as he took three steps towards the crate. He paused as if sizing up how best to do this. Then, he leaned forward, resting the palms of his hand on the stone floor. His toes rested on the ground behind him. He had snagged the end of his necktie under his body and it choked him, so he lifted himself up an inch and pulled it clear.

All the while Kennedy stood gripping his paddle, watching. The skin on Luke’s buttocks and legs was as smooth as the teenager’s face. The blondness of his hair made him seem hairless. Only when Kennedy stood right up to the prone body could he see tiny hairs, standing erect.

Luke rested patiently. He had been in similar situations before. The wood would sting. Horribly, possibly. He could not be sure. He had the measure of his father’s spankings, but this was to be his first from Mr. Kennedy. He was entering unknown territory.

It served no practical purpose, but Mr. Kennedy took hold of the tail of Luke’s gleaming white shirt and folded it once and then twice until it rested against the eighteen-year-old’s shoulders. The teenager was now naked from there to his ankles.

Mr. Kennedy steadied his shaking hand and rested the foot-long blade across the centre of Luke’s buttocks, noticing for the first time a wisp of hair in the boy’s crack. Mr. Kennedy breathed deeply, raised the paddle and brought it down with an almighty Crack!. He was rewarded with a dark pink rectangle. Luke sucked on his bottom lip and shut his eyes tightly. That one wasn’t so bad.

Mr. Kennedy smelt the sweat under his own armpit when he raised the paddle a second time before whacking it just under the rectangle. Now, most of Luke’s rear end glowed. The boy screwed his face like a gargoyle. His heart raced so fast it made him cough.

Luke’s buttocks were solid. The room echoed with a “thuncking” sound as the paddle connected again and again with naked meat. Luke’s tight bottom turned from hot pulsating pink to a brilliant shade of scarlet that excited and terrified Mr. Kennedy in equal measure.

Luke’s legs shuddered and kicked. It was a reflex action; his body’s way of coping with the terrific attack being made on it. The buttocks throbbed and even though he was face-down with his eyes inches from the grey stone, Luke knew his raw bottom was covered in welts where the edge of the paddle connected again and again with his naked vulnerable flesh.

He had not been counting, but he knew Mr. Kennedy had far exceeded the dozen licks his father usually delivered. On and on the paddle smacked into Luke’s upturned rear, punishing the smooth flesh until it gleamed like a red-hot ember in a dying fire.

Mr. Kennedy’s gasps far exceeded anything that escaped the teenager’s lips. His heart pounded and his temples pulsated, possibly more than Luke’s backside throbbed. Suddenly, almost absurdly, Mr. Kennedy remembered the instructions of his doctor. “Take it easy. Don’t strain your heart.”

It was over. Mr. Kennedy bent double resting his hands on his knees, the paddle at his feet. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. At last, he was able to speak. “Get up Luke. Get dressed.”

The teenager pulled himself off the chest. Instinctively, his hands shot to his buttocks. He twisted his body and saw his round cheeks were deep crimson, with the plumpest, lower part of each globe a dark purplish-red. The skin had grown hard and crusty; places were cracked and blistering.

He tugged up his underwear, wincing as the smooth cotton nuzzled against raw flesh. Soon, his slacks were in place. He tucked the tail of his shirt in. The agony in his rear end was easing into a hard throbbing. He knew, that soon it would be a warm glow. It would hurt to sit down. He hoped his father didn’t notice. If he heard Mr. Kennedy had had to spank him, he would get it again at home.

“You should go now,” Mr. Kennedy nodded at the door and watched intently as Luke’s buttocks sashayed out the room.

Slowly, Mr. Kennedy returned to the store and replaced the paddle on its hook with the others. Absent-mindedly, he picked up a larger, heavier “Attitude Adjuster” and tested it against the palm of his hand. This would do perfectly for next time, he told himself, before locking the store for the night.

 

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The spanking I thoroughly deserved

Milo, the grad student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

z used drawing athlete

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

I can remember it as if it were yesterday: 1985. I was eighteen years old. A senior sixth-former at St. Jack’s Grammar. A prefect, no less. He was Mr. Braithwaite, head of the History Department. A lay priest as well. And, Head of Discipline for the entire school.

I don’t suppose we thought much of it at the time. School was school. Nobody was supposed to enjoy it. You went to classes, kept your mouth closed (unless you were asked a direct question by a master and then woe betide you if you didn’t know the answer.) You did as you were told. And if you didn’t you got a sore arse. That just about sums up my schooldays.

Even in the sixth form. Even if you were a prefect.

Braithwaite had a collection of torture instruments. I don’t know how many whippy crook-handled canes he had. Long ones; short ones. Thick ones; thin ones. A rattan cane for every occasion. Every occasion, except for when he decided to use the leather taws. Two-tailed. Three-tailed, he had plenty of those too. Nearly two feet of heavy leather; delivered with vigour across the palm of the hands. Scorching! He always asked which hand you wrote with. Then he’d whip the other one until it was red raw.

A gym slipper – the old-fashioned plimsoll with springy rubber soles, not the trainers we have today. Sized eleven. Big. Hard. It covered the whole of one buttock cheek. Whap! Ouch! The pain was intense. Even across trousers and pants. Think how bad it was with only thin cotton gym shorts to protect you.

“Bend over. Touch your toes.” I wonder how many times Mr. Braithwaite said that in all the years he was at the school. Mister Braithwaite. Even after so long, I still can’t help thinking of him as Mister Braithwaite.

He had a special room that he used for punishment sessions. Each lunchtime and often at four-fifteen after school had ended for the day there would be two or three boys lined up outside. Trembling. Waiting for the call, “Enter.” It didn’t matter how many visits a boy made to Mr. Braithwaite, he could never get used to it. The fear. What would Mr. Braithwaite do to you today? What implement would he use? How many strokes? Dear God! Trousers up or trousers down?

Or, as with me: in your PE kit. This one time. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Braithwaite had dealt with me, and even though there were only six weeks to go before I left school forever, it wasn’t the last. But never before like this.

I hated Wednesday afternoons. Compulsory sports. Even for the sixth-formers. I was bookish, a nerd if you like, I would have been very happy to spend the afternoons in the library. Reading. Swotting up for my forthcoming English Literature exam. Doing something useful.

Instead, Trubshaw the PE master, sent us on a road run. The lazy good-for-nothing couldn’t even be bothered to organise some actual games. So, a couple of dozen eighteen year olds set off on a three-mile run around town. Trebilcock and Howerstone were the only ones to take it seriously. The rest of us ran for a while, jogged for a bit more and walked the rest. Who cared?

“Don’t care was made to care.” There’s some nursery saying like that isn’t there? I’ll Google it later to find out. Nobody had told us we were being timed. “Be back at school by three-fifty-five or you’ll cop it.” That’s what bone-idle Trubshaw should have told us. He should have; but he couldn’t be bothered.

I don’t have long to tell this story, so I’ll cut to the chase. Eight of us. Eight! One in three of the group ended up in a line outside the punishment room. With me at its head. When the punishment queue is in alphabetical order it doesn’t pay to have a name like Albertson.

Braithwaite was a rangy, thin-haired man with a buzzard’s-beak nose. He must have been still quite young at the time. Even today, after so many years, I remember those steely-blue eyes. Cold as ice. His nostrils seemed to flare when he prepared to deliver a beating.

Me? I was eighteen years old and despite my distain for physical activity, I was in pretty good shape. The beer belly and the jowls arrived during my thirties. I had a twenty-seven-inch waist and a thirty-three-inch chest. Why do I remember that?

I expected a caning. Six very hard slashes across the seat of my PE shorts. They were thin cotton and because I was growing out of them, they were a bit tight across the buttocks. We weren’t allowed to wear pants under our shorts, so six-of-the-best would take my arse off. I knew that and resolved to take my caning with fortitude. I suppose by this time in my school career I had developed a very high pain threshold.

I stood there waiting. In my white shorts and white sleeveless singlet. It was late spring or early summer, but I still shivered. The punishment room was dark and dank. There was only one small opaque window. It didn’t let much light in.

Mr. Braithwaite admonished me. His tone was imperious. You would have thought I had been caught robbing the school safe, not dawdling on a town run. He didn’t say much. He assumed, as he always did, that he was in the right. The mournful schoolboy before him was never allowed to speak in mitigation.

Then, it happened. It was so unexpected it left me speechless. Rooted to the spot.

Mr. Braithwaite opened a cupboard door and took out his size-eleven plimsoll. It was dirty white. Us boys would never have gotten away wearing these for gym class. Three whacks, touching toes, crash, crash, crash. That was the penalty for wearing unclean PE kit. Mr. Braithwaite flexed the plimsoll between both hands. I could see it was a mighty springy shoe. The sole was worn to a sheen. It had seen a lot of action and probably not all of it on the running track.

I stood transfixed as Mr. Braithwaite gripped the back of an upright wooden chair and placed it in the very centre of the room. He sat down and spread his legs wide. Then he growled at me. “Albertson, take down your shorts and bend over my knee.”

My jaw probably quite literally dropped. Had I heard him correctly? Shorts down? Bend over his knee?

I blabbered. “B… b… b…”  I wanted to say but I was wearing no pants. If I took my shorts down I would be bare arsed. Hadn’t he realized that? Surely, once he knew that he would change his mind and give me a whacking with the plimsoll on my shorts.

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee, or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

The headmaster. That was no option. I’d probably get a heck of a caning from the Beak. Then, because I refused to accept punishment, he would suspend me from school. With exams coming up I couldn’t afford to miss classes. I had ambitions. I needed those A-levels.

I stared down at Mr. Braithwaite’s legs. He had parted them so far, I had a perfect view of his crotch, encased in the cotton of his trousers. I didn’t look at his cock, I concentrated on his thighs that presented an ideal platform for me to bend over and present my bottom for punishment.

But, first I had to remove my shorts. Despite my lack of sexual experience, I had been naked in public many times before. We boys were not shy in the showers after games. Even now, I can recall the size of Thompson’s donger.

But, I had never before offered up my bared buttocks for inspection at such close quarters. Bending over to accept a caning was an act of submission; every schoolboy and schoolmaster knew that. But, the cane was delivered at arm’s length and across a clothed bottom. There was distance between the punisher and the punished. There was no intimacy involved. And none was intended. It was a business process. Something that had to be got through. Then everybody could move on with their lives.

A bare-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was something altogether different. It was something that a father might administer to a deserving son. It was intimate. It was meant to be. The father was saying, “I am doing this because I love you.”

I just knew I had to let him do it to me. I had no choice. He was the master. I was the schoolboy. Eighteen years old, maybe, but a schoolboy nonetheless.

“Quickly,” Mr. Braithwaite was anxious to get going. After all, I was only the first in a long line of sixth-formers he wanted to spank bare-bottomed that afternoon.

What happened next is as clear as a bell in my memory. I pulled down my shorts and placed myself over his knees. It was memorable as it was the first and last time I was spanked in this way. I remember I fitted quite snugly. My arms were stretched ahead of me and the palms of my hands rested comfortably against the vinyl floor covering. My head was so low I could see under the chair behind me. My white cotton shorts were bunched at my feet. My toes hardly brushed the floor.

My own cock was pressed deeply into Mr. Braithwaite’s body. I suppose I must have been quite a weight against him. Even so he pressed his left hand down hard across my shoulders, pinning me against his crotch. My buttocks must have been high above his right thigh. This would have given him a terrific view of my crack and hole.

My bum cheeks twitched in anticipation. How much would the plimsoll hurt against my bare flesh? I had been spanked previously with a similar slipper across the shorts and that had hurt like hell.

I would have to wait before I found out. Mr. Braithwaite wasn’t quite ready. I felt his hand – and it was surprisingly soft – caress my cheeks. With circular motions, he gently followed the contours of my right globe from the top near the spine, across the mound and into the under-curves. Then he travelled further south down my thigh and almost to my knee. Then he did it all over again on my left side.

Then, he spanked me. With his hand. Whack-whack-whack. He kept up quite a rhythm. First my right cheek, then my left. I gasped. It didn’t hurt, but I was taken by surprise. I had expected the searing pain as the springy rubber-soled plimsoll struck home. Instead, he was giving me love-taps.

This went on for some time. I lay face down, staring at the vinyl floor. How absurd that I still remember that a ball of fluff breezed past my nose. Mr. Braithwaite stopped his spanking. I couldn’t see for myself, but by this time my bottom would have been a rosy-pink colour.

I felt a movement in his body. He gripped hold of the slipper and brought it crashing down across the very centre of my left cheek, then the right. A dozen slaps fell rapidly, like machinegun fire. Bang. Bang. Bang.

That hurt all right. My legs kicked out behind me and my body twisted and turned across Mr. Braithwaite’s lap. More spanks rained down. The pain intensified. I had been on the receiving end of corporal punishment many times before. Mr. Braithwaite was that kind of man. It was that kind of school. But, always I had been able to control my body movements. But, not this time.

In the past I had always had something to hold on to. My shins, a chair, a desk. But, while draped over the lap of Mr. Braithwaite I just dangled: in midair. I tried to wriggle my arms to clutch hold of the chair leg, but it was out of my grasp. I swivelled my body a little and reached back behind me, intent on preventing further blows. Mr. Braithwaite was wise to this. He gripped my wrist tightly and pushed my arm up my back as far as my shoulders. I wasn’t going anywhere; Mr. Braithwaite made certain of that.

I carried on kicking and squirming as wave after wave of slipper spanks toasted my backside. Sweat soaked my white PE vest. My breath came in short bursts. My heartrate must have been off the scale.

I gritted my teeth so hard I almost bit into my tongue. On and on he went. My buttocks throbbed. I could feel bumps forming on my bum where the slipper repeatedly connected. I writhed and wriggled, like I was trying to swim away off his lap.

Then, he stopped. I shot off his lap and pulled my shorts up. I was breathless, but Mr. Braithwaite also seemed unable to draw air into his lungs. I hopped from foot to foot, desperate to rub away at my raw buttocks; but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he had really hurt me.

“Go,” he croaked. “Send in the next boy.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I flung open the door and rushed out. “You’re next,” I nodded at Collins, the next boy in the alphabet. I didn’t hang around to wait for the others. I went to the changing rooms and inspected the damage. My bum was dark pink all over and there were small patches of purple in the very centre of the cheeks. On the outer edges were several imprints of the size-eleven slipper.

I got dressed and walked the mile or so to my home. I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs. I needed to walk off the pain. The throbbing had gone by the time I reached my house, but there were tender spots that reignited when I put pressure on them. The backs of my thighs were raw and it was pretty difficult to sit at the tea table in comfort.

Why am I telling you all this after more than thirty-five years? This morning as I travelled on the Tube from my home in Leytonstone to my work at Liverpool Street, I noticed a newspaper that had been discarded by a passenger. It was open and I saw the headline, “Sex pervert schoolmaster jailed.” One George Albert Higginbottom had been sent to prison for six years after being found guilty of “the inappropriate use of corporal punishment”. The newspaper said he had assaulted dozens of pupils that police knew of over a twenty-year period.

I read the story slowly, taking in every detail. Then, the train thundered into the station. I threw the newspaper to the ground and pushed my way through the crowds to the exit. Well, I thought to myself, I was glad I hadn’t been to that school.

 

 

Other stories you might like

Peeping Tom

The hotel room

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Oh my papa

z used cane shorts chair (72)

Ian stretched his arms and legs and turned on his side to get a look at the bedside clock. Just gone eleven. He rolled onto his back and pulled the sheet up under his chin. He would leave it a little longer. The pubs didn’t open until twelve.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a huge figure blocked the frame. Mr. Hector was six-feet-four in his stockinged feet, broad at the shoulders and thick at the waist.

“C’mon, Ian. Get up. It’s time for your maintenance spanking.”

Ian pouted and pulled the bedsheet over his head. “Oh Papa, I don’t want to.”

Mr. Hector folded his arms across his chest and smiled. The naughty little boy was going to be difficult. Well, we shall see about that, he thought.

“C’mon son, you know how much I enjoy Sunday mornings.”

“Oh, Papa,” the nineteen-year-old sulked.

“Well, have it your own way,” Mr. Hector strode to the bed, took a handful of sheeting and wrenched it clean away from the teenager’s body. He licked his lips (an involuntary movement) at the sight of the gym-honed figure on the bed, wearing just blue-and-white-striped boxer briefs.

“Up you get young man,” Mr. Hector gripped Ian’s right wrist and pulled him to his feet. The boy was six inches shorter than Papa and several pounds lighter. He gave no resistance as Mr. Hector guided him from the room and down the stairs of the modern semi-detached house. The door to the sitting room was open. Mr. Hector had already made his preparations. A straight-backed, armless chair had pride of place in the centre of the room.

Mr. Hector guided Ian to the chair, then momentarily released his wrist while he sat in it, spread his legs a little and wriggled his bum until he was comfortable. Ian watched silently, noticing how Papa’s legs were thick and well-padded.

“Over you go,” Mr. Hector took Ian’s wrist and pulled him forward so that the teenager fell face downwards across his knees. Ian put his arms forward to break his fall and settled with the palms of his hands flat against the expensive Axminister carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air, his toes hovering an inch or so above the ground.

“These serve no useful purpose at a time like this,” Mr. Hector grinned as he took hold of the waist of the underwear and tugged them down the boy’s buttocks until they bunched up at his knees. Mr. Hector’s tongue ran around his lips.

Ian’s bum was well buffed. He shaved it himself every day. It was always completely hairless. His boyfriend Neville did Ian’s ball-sack once a week; on a Saturday, so Papa always got to see him at his very best.

Mr. Hector caressed the buttocks; first the right cheek, then the left. The teenager’s body seemed completely bald. It wasn’t; soft downy hair covered his legs. It was so fair in colour it was almost impossible to see. Papa rubbed the palm of his hand gently down the teenager’s legs, enjoying the slight tickling feel.

Then, with his left hand he caressed Ian’s naked back. He felt the blood surge into his own crotch. It was time to get started.

“You have the most beautiful bum,” he gasped. “Quite the best I’ve ever spanked.”

Ian’s face cracked into a smile, “I bet you say that to all the boys. Ouch!” Papa had landed a stinging smack across the centre of his right cheek. “That hurt.”

Papa watched a dark pink mark form on the boy’s bottom. “That’s the point, young man. That’s the point.”

He raised his right hand a foot or so away from the surface of the left buttock and brought it down with a mild slap. Then, he did the same to the right cheek. Then, he did it all over again. Slowly, every square inch of Ian’s buttocks turned a dark pink. Then, he started on the back of his thighs.

“Ow, ouch, oooh,” Ian wriggled his bum as smack after smack connected with his tight arse. It didn’t hurt so much, but he wanted to please Papa.

Mr. Hector increased the pace and the strength of the spanks. “Nearly finished,” he panted, “You know what to do.”

He smacked his hand across Ian’s bum. “One, Papa. Thank you, Papa.” He smacked again. “Two, Papa. Thank you, Papa.”

After a hundred spanks, Mr. Hector’s palm hurt more than Ian’s backside. His cock was pretty sore too. It was time to finish.

“Okay, up you get.” He leaned back to give the teenager space to lift himself to his feet. Ian stood in front of his punisher and hopped from foot to foot while rubbing his not very sore backside. His hairless cock and balls bounced in front of Papa’s face.

Mr. Hector sucked on his bottom lip. “You’d better go back to your room now.”

Ian bent down to pull up his underwear, making sure the old man got a good view of his glory hole.

“Thank you, Papa,” he grinned and headed for the stairs.

Twenty minutes later he was in the bar of the Three Fishers Hotel with his boyfriend Neville, slurping on a bottle of Mexican lager.

Neville snuggled up close. “Did you have to toss off Papa?”

Ian playfully poked his tongue out. “No, not this time. He had one hell of a boner, I could feel it.” He gulped his beer and looked Neville in the eye, “I guess he’s probably wanking himself, right now.”

Neville convulsed with giggles.

“Hi guys,” Toby, the barman, sauntered over.

All three nodded their welcomes.

“Did your Papa deal with you yet?” Ian glanced across the bar at the hotel manager.

“No, not yet. He’ll do it this afternoon, once the bar’s closed.”

Ian grinned. Toby was about his own age, but thin as a rake. His pale-grey trousers clung to his hips and when he stood up it looked like he had no buttocks at all. But, when he bent forward, he had the cutest little bum imaginable. All the customers would gape when Toby reached down to a bottom shelf to fetch a packet of crisps.

Neville knew that later, when the customers had all gone away for their Sunday lunches, Toby would drape himself across one of the high bar stools and clutch onto the wooden legs. He could visualise it now. Toby’s Papa, a short stocky man with a beer gut befitting someone who had worked in bars all his life, would flex and swish an authentic whippy school cane. There would be much tap-tap-taping and then whoosh, Papa would smack the cane across Toby’s stretched bum. Ouch! Yarroo!

Neville’s daydreams were interrupted by Jonathon, a pal who had just arrived. “Hi, Neville,” he waved a greeting, his dark curly hair flopping into his eyes. He came across and uninvited sat next to Ian.

“Hey, Neville,” he leaned across the table, “Do you have a Papa?”

Neville crinkled his nose, “Don’t need one,” he grinned at Ian and took hold of his hand, “Not with lover boy here. Why?”

“Hugh, asked me if I could find him someone.”

“Hugh?”

“Yeah, you know him. Big fat guy. Welsh.”

Neville nodded vigorously. Yes, he knew him. He had been across his knee. Once. Never again. He could still taste the stench of stale beer and body odour.

Ian interjected. “What about little Davy, wasn’t he looking for a Papa?” Little Davy was probably pushing twenty, but he was only five-feet-three and with his tiny body and fresh face, he could pass for fourteen. People said he still travelled half-fare on the buses.

Jonathon frowned. “No, he’s found someone. A schoolmaster.”

“Schoolmaster?” Neville didn’t know of any schoolmaster Papa.

“Well, retired schoolmaster, I think. Lives in those posh houses on The Avenue.”

The boys nodded sagely. They had heard all sorts of stories about the goings-on in The Avenue.

Jonathon sipped a pint of bitter. “He makes him wear short trousers all the time. A green jumper too. I think he’s got a blazer too. A proper one, like they wear at St. Francis.”

“Oh God, no!” Neville guffawed. He had hated wearing that uniform when he was a pupil at St. FIGS. St. Francis Independent Grammar School, with the emphasis on Independent. It was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports and traditional discipline. That meant a swishy rattan cane.

Suddenly, a thought came to him. “The schoolmaster, what’s his name? Did he teach at St. FIGS?”

Jonathon shrugged his shoulders, “Dunno. Could be. They all liked to whack boys’ bums,” he spluttered on his beer as he failed to stifle a laugh.

“Davy’s coming over later, you can ask him.” Jonathon said, composing himself.

Neville giggled, “I hope he wears his short trousers and jumper; all the old queens here will blow a fuse.”

Just then the pub manager ambled over. “Good day lads,” he breezed. “Anyone up for an adventure?”

The three youngsters paused their conversation.

“That gentlemen at the bar,” he nodded over his shoulder at a dapper man in an expensive three-piece suit.

Neville grinned, “Not your average customer in here. Must be slumming. What’s he want?”

“To go upstairs,” the manager’s eyes shone, “With company,” he gave what he fondly believed to be a discreet cough.

“Nah, not today,” Neville sucked on his beer bottle.

The pub manager was undeterred. He leaned in so close to Neville he could smell the boy’s cologne and whispered in his ear.

“How much? He’ll pay that much,” Neville reeled. The man must be a millionaire. Or very desperate. “Does he want afters?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the pub manager straightened himself, confident he had made a sale. Money always talked in places like the Three Fishers. “But, you could always negotiate.”

Neville glanced across the table at Ian, his boyfriend. The merest blink conveyed his consent.

“Tell him I’ll be up in five minutes,” Neville said as he settled back to finish his beer. It never did to appear too keen.

@

 

The room was dingy, no concession had been made for comfort. People rarely actually slept in a bedroom at the Three Fishers. Neville sniffed the dust in the air, there was only one small skylight window in the roof and there was no way to reach to open it. Already sweat was starting to run down his back.

The man had not introduced himself. He was about forty, Neville reckoned. Up close he oozed wealth. His suit was hand-tailored of the finest cloth that the young man had ever seen. His shoes shone almost as much as the man’s complexion. That skin was the product of more than a healthy diet. Neville had knocked on the door respectfully. He had not been briefed on his role in this little play acting. Was he to be the naughty pupil sent to the headmaster for a traditional six-of-the-best? Perhaps, it was Uncle & Nephew and he was to feel the full force of a slipper across his bum. Or maybe it was Magistrate & Poacher and he would bear the brunt of a birch rod across naked haunches.

The man’s instruction to “Enter” was so softly spoken Neville almost had not heard it. He gingerly opened the door to see the man seated in a rickety straight-backed wooden chair. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of greeting. Neville shuffled into the room and stood, hands clasped behind his back unsure what was expected of him.

The man rose from the chair and took two or three steps across the room to the wrought-iron bed. On it, he had left a long narrow carpet bag. Without acknowledging Neville’s presence further, he unclasped the bag and reached inside. Neville watched intently. What instrument of punishment would the stranger withdraw from it? The shape of the bag probably had given the answer to that already.

Instead of withdrawing a long thin whippy cane, the man produced a tiny pair of leather shorts. “Please put these on,” he murmured softly. Neville took them in his hands. At once he felt their weight. If the stranger’s intention was to whip him in these he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Neville unbuttoned his trousers and sat down on the bed and then tugged them over his shoes. His yellow briefs fitted a little too snugly and one of his balls was exposed to the gaze of the stranger. He didn’t seem to notice. He was once more inside the carpet bag and this time he did withdraw a long, sturdy dragon cane. He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands while he waited for Neville to get ready.

The shorts were precisely that: short. They hardly covered the teenager’s briefs. He was relived he had not worn boxers, they would have probably poked out under the hem of the shorts. Neville wriggled into them. They fitted so well they might have been made especially for him. The man swished his cane through the air and Neville watched it fly. He was no stranger to the cane and from what he saw this was a breath-taking specimen. It was a little under four-feet in length, and about as thick as a pencil. It was dark yellow in colour and both dense and extremely whippy. This kind of rod could take any boy’s arse off.

The man’s tongue darted in and out of his not quite closed mouth, making him look a little like a lizard. He seemed about ready. “Please bend over the back of the chair,” he lightly tapped the cane against the wooden seat as if there might be some doubt what he meant.

Neville blinked. Was this all the stranger wanted? Wasn’t there to be some ritual dropping of the shorts to be followed by a baring of the bottom? The cane tapped again. “Please do as you are asked?” the man’s tone was reasonableness itself.

Neville took a deep breath; the room was hot and airless and he wished he could open the window. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leant forward. He was taller than average and the chair was quite low. He had been across this particular chair before, so unbidden he stretched himself right over and gripped the bottom of the legs. Ordinarily, a boy would place his hands on the seat and stick his bottom out in readiness for the swipe of the cane. Neville knew how to serve up his bum as a special treat. He stretched down and grasped the bottom of the legs. His muscular legs were straight and his buttocks were beautifully presented over the top of the chair’s back.

He closed his eyes and waited patiently. He heard, but could not see, the stranger pace across the bare floorboards. His fancy shoes creaked against the worn wood. Eventually, the stranger settled. He took up a position to Neville’s left and with his own legs slightly bent he took his aim. Whack!!! The sound of rattan against leather echoed round the small room as the man let fly with every ounce of strength that he possessed. A clear white mark where the cane connected immediately spread across the taut leather. Beneath the shorts, Neville felt nothing.

Within seconds another swipe struck with tremendous force a little lower this time. The sound reverberated across the room. and the leather cracked. The noise could be heard across the landing where two labourers were playing horses. Again, Neville felt nothing.

The stranger whipped the cane into Neville’s leather-covered arse over and over and over again. The boy felt the stick connect at force across his stretched buttocks. He knew from painful experience that if he were getting such strokes on his cloth trousers – or God forbid – on his underpants or the bare he would be hollering the house down by now. Blood would be running from the wounds.

Only then did Neville think of the money he was being paid. Now, he realised why it was so generous. Once the stranger had satisfied himself whipping into the leather shorts, he would want a repeat performance with them down at Neville’s ankles.

A beaten boy always thinks the ordeal went on longer than it did. But, this time it really did last for ten minutes. The stranger dripped perspiration. His silky skin was drenched. Large damp patches soaked his armpits. Even his own buttocks were damp. It was as if he has stepped in from a thunder storm.

His heart raced and his temples throbbed. Breath was hard to catch. He stopped. “Stand up boy,” he croaked. A terrified Neville hauled himself to his feet. Still the caning had not registered against his fleshy bum. He quite literally had not felt a thing. Now, he knew the ordeal was really about to start. His hands shook uncontrollably as he waited for the instruction, “Drop ’em.”

The man threw the cane on the bed, reached down to the flies of his own trousers and in a frenzy yanked them down to his knees. Already Neville could see the huge bulge pressing against the man’s underwear. Within seconds his penis was released. Neville gasped. He had never seen one so long, thick and stiff. Had the man stolen it from a stallion?

The stranger’s eyes glazed, tears were already streaming down his cheeks. Plaintively, he implored Neville, “Please take me.”

The teenager couldn’t believe his luck. With his own cock fighting against the front of the tight leather shorts, he dived forward mouth open, hoping that he could get it wide enough to gorge the stranger’s manhood.

 

Other stories you might like

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

Their new house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Late up in the morning

late up in the morning

When Grandpa said if I continued to lay in bed in the morning and be late for work, he would come up to my room and toast my buns with a slipper, I didn’t believe him. Well, would you?

The thing is I have this problem and I know I’m not alone. I always wake up with a massive hard on in my pants. I can never remember what I’ve been dreaming about but I know the only way I can get rid of the thing is to give my cock a good tug. That’s not something you want to hurry, so I’m always downstairs late for grandma’s breakfast.

Yesterday, I’d just come in a handful of tissues when the door bursts open and there’s grandpa. True to his word he’s got one of those old-fashioned plimsoll / gym shoes stuck in his fist. Man, is he angry. “Your gran’s had breakfast on the table for hours,” he shouts all the while waving the plimsol about.

Just because he’s my grandpa don’t go thinking he’s a wizened old man. I’m twenty myself and grandpa had my dad when he was about my age, so what does that make grandpa; forty-something? He works out every week and runs most days. He would put people half his age to shame.

So he comes into my room growling, “I told you.  I warned you,” and grabs hold of the duvet and rips it off the bed. I open my mouth to protest, but he tugs a fistful of my hair and somehow – I don’t know how – he has me face down on the mattress and I’m biting on the pillow. I’m “effing and blinding” but he doesn’t stop. Actually, thinking about it later I think my swearing just encourages him in his efforts.

He kneels on my back, knocking the stuffing out of me. I wriggle like a fish but I can’t get free. He weighs a ton. Then, Jesus H. you’ll never believe this, he grips the waistband of my pants and he pulls them down and leaves them at my knees. I am bare-arsed to the wind. I don’t have time to be frightened because just as I realise what his game is, he hammers the slipper into my bum. I turn my head to swear some more, so with his strong left arm he make me suck on the pillow.

With that and his knee in my back I am pinned down. I am going nowhere. I’m totally at his mercy; and he isn’t about to show any of that. I guess my arse is quite small and the plimsol is quite big so it only takes a few whacks before every inch of my bum is glowering red-hot. I can’t see it (not yet anyway) but my cheeks are quickly turning a deep pink and then a scorching red. I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked with a slipper, but believe me when I say this; it smarts.

“This’ll teach you,” grandpa says and starts to whack me on the back of the thighs. Oh, my god! If my bum was smarting, this was agony. I’ve stopped swearing and now I’m yelling. Blue murder. If the neighbours are at home they’ll be phoning the police by now to report a murder taking place next door.

On and on he whacks me. It feels like hours, but I suppose it’s only a couple of minutes. Then he stops, and gets off my back. I cough my guts up trying to breathe properly. I’m gasping in air like a goldfish out of water. Grandpa growls at me from the open bedroom door. “Downstairs. Breakfast. Now!”

I check out my arse in the mirror. I’ve always liked my bum, it’s nice and round. There’s a bit of meat there, but no fat. Solid. It’s dark red, the colour of a good claret wine. I can see the outline of the slipper embossed all over my buttocks.

So, that was yesterday. The pain went away quite quickly and by bedtime even the marks had gone. I spent a lot of the night playing it all over again in my head. Me, completely helpless. Grandpa spanking the living daylights out of me. The pain. The humiliation.

I’ve got a stiffy now just thinking about it. I’m late for work again. Is that grandpa I hear coming up the stairs? I sure hope so.

 

Picture credit: Craig Esposito

 

Other stories you might like

The padded armchair

Don’t bully our mum

What a jolly jape

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Father does his duty

z used adult schoolboy in corner (1)

I am doing as my father instructed, standing with my nose pressed against the wall, hands on head; waiting. Waiting until father is ready to deal with me. I am wearing my school uniform. Or most of it. When I get home each evening he makes me change out of my long grey trousers and put on shorts. They’re not leisure shorts, the kind we wear during warm weather; they are real properly-tailored short trousers. I’m eighteen years old, God only knows where he manged to buy a pair that fitted me.

It’s father’s idea of keeping me under control. He says I spend too much time mucking around with my mates. He seems to think I hang out at bus stops drinking cheap cider and smoking dope when I should be at home hitting the school books. It’s not true, he doesn’t know the half of it.

He reckons if he confiscates all my jeans and whatnot and puts me in short trousers I won’t want to go out at night dressed like an overgrown eight-year-old. He’s right there.

Instead of going out I spend hours online playing games and looking at porn. Father thought his little wheeze would make me study harder. Well, today he’s found out the truth. We’ve just had the results of our project work for A-levels. It looks like I’m heading for a big fat fail in the exams.

I can hear him bustling around in the sitting room. He hasn’t told me what he’s up to but when he said he would “deal with me,” I was pretty sure. It’s not looking good.

I hear him call. “Come here, Selwyn!” I know better than to keep him waiting. I go across the hall to the sitting room. I can see the preparations he has made. The dining room table is pushed against one wall. This gives more space in the small room. He has set one of the dining room chairs opposite with its back pressed up against the wall. He is standing, feet apart, like a soldier at ease.

Father is probably in his forties, but he looks much older. He is medium height and lean with a short-back-and-sides haircut that went out of fashion in about 1952. It is slicked back with the greasy hair oil Brylcreem. He has a short, well-groomed moustache, but it’s not as dark as his hair. It hides the top lip of his pasty-white face. He is wearing the same beige cardigan that he always wears when not in his work suit. The buttons are done up from bottom to top, over a white shirt pulled down to the wrists and a tightly knotted neck tie. His trousers are old and dark – part of a suit relegated from workday use to become his antiquated version of “leisure wear.” Grey socks and bedroom slippers complete his outfit.

One of the slippers remains on his left foot; the other he grips in his right hand. He gestures with it that I should stand close to him. I shuffle forward a pace or two into position.

“Take down your trousers, please,” he says. There is no emotion. I can detect no anger in his voice. Perhaps there is a trace of world-weariness. Once more he is compelled to spank his son’s bottom. When will Selwyn ever learn?

I do not plead for clemency, for experience tells me that nothing I can say will deter my father from his mission. I know he loves me and he wants the best for me. It is his duty to discipline me. Only by doing so can I hope to grow into a responsible adult. I have heard him tell me this all my life. There is nothing unique about today.

My hands tremble more than I think they should as I grasp the metal fastener. The short trousers have an elasticated waist, so I need no belt.  Once the front is open they tumble down my thighs and rest at my shins. I am wearing dark-blue underpants. I am a growing boy and they are getting a little too small for me. They fit tightly across my cock and balls and snugly so that at the back they lift and separate my buttock cheeks.

Father adjusts himself on his chair. He moves his bottom a bit, making sure his spine is firmly resting against the back of the chair. He separates his legs by a foot or so to provide a platform where my stomach and chest will soon rest.

“Bend over my knee, please.” Again, his instruction is softly spoken. There is no need for anger. He knows I will obey his instruction without question.

I am across him in one movement. I stretch my hands in front of me and keep my knees straight, leaving my toes resting an inch above the floor. I wait patiently. I have a close-up view of the dark- and-light-blue patterned carpet. I feel father grip the lower half of my school blazer and push it up my back. Then he takes the tail of my shirt and pulls that away from my buttocks.  He smooths my pants out: first across one buttock and then across the other, eliminating all wrinkles.

I take a deep breath.

Suddenly, there’s a loud crack echoing round the room as my bum gets a mighty whack that stings me across both my pert round buttocks.

“Ah!” I suck in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper I can feel my bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurts and stings. With just two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly develops into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacts forcefully with my once pale creamy white bottom, I grimace and screw my face up in some pain.

Father’s large slipper thumps heavily down on my bottom time and time again. My bum is really very sore now. One whack hits me squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Father isn’t a sadist, when he gives spankings he intends for me to get the message and mend my ways, but he doesn’t want to brutalise me

I gasp a little as some wallops hit right on a spot where others have landed. He quickens the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stops after about two minutes. My bum hurts and I am sore, but I am not about to burst into sobs or anything.

Father has finished spanking, but he continues to hold me down over his knees. He still has things to do.

“Have you learned you lesson?”

“Yes father.”

“And what lesson is that?”

“I should study harder.”

“Good boy.”

“Will I have to do this again?”

“No father.”

“Good, because if I do it will be a lot worse for you. Understand?”

“Yes father.”

“Good, get up son.”

I struggle to my feet, pull up my short trousers and do them up.

“Go stand by the wall again. Hands on head. Think about how naughty you have been and what you must do to mend your ways,” he says.

I return to the wall. Minutes later the telephone rings. I hear my mother answer it. I hear her side of the conversation. She is being given news that shocks her. Oh dear. I bet it’s Mr. Grainger from Number 42 telling her he saw me and Christopher Elliot tossing each other off on the recreation ground at lunchtime.

 

Other stories you might like

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

When Dad got home

Donald knows his place

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A family business

z used office posh by Leyendecker (1)

Richard Bullivant loved his job; most of the time. This was not one of them. Mr. Greaves, the company’s owner, peered at him over the top of his spectacles. The boss was seated and in his hands he clutched a hand-written report. Bullivant stood to his front, meekly, hands behind his back, holding on to his hat.

“This will not do, boy,” Mr. Greaves sucked air through his teeth. Bullivant shuffled from foot to foot. “No, boy, certainly not.”

Bullivant resented being called ‘Boy.” He was thirty-five years old and deputy head of the accounts department. He deserved more respect than this.

Mr. Greaves waved the report provocatively in Bullivant’s face. The boss’s thinning grey hair swirled around his mostly-bald dome. Bullivant grimaced as specks of spittle flew towards him. Mr. Greaves was certainly angry.

He had good cause to be, Bullivant would be first to admit. There had been an error. Figures miscalculated, a profit reported as a loss. It could do the company damage. But, it hadn’t. It was spotted in time and corrected. But, not until word had reached the ears of Mr. Greaves. A junior man in the accounts department had made a mistake, but Bullivant would have to carry the can.

Greaves’s was a family firm. Mr. Greaves always said so. He had inherited most of it from his father and he had built on it. Now, in his seventies he expected his own son to soon take the reins. Mr. Greaves believed everyone who worked for him was one of the family. They were all his children. He was the Pater familias. He was responsible for them all; just like he was their father.

Bullivant knew all about Mr. Greaves’s attitude to his workers, that was why he couldn’t stop his heart thumping through his chest. His palms were sticky and his mouth dry as a desert. “We can’t have this, boy. You know we can’t have this,” Mr. Greaves seemed to be talking to himself. Bullivant stood waiting for his boss to get to the point, but the old man appeared to have dried up.

The silence startled him. Then his boss spluttered, “Well boy, well boy, what do you say for yourself?” Bullivant blanched. The moment he had dreaded since the mistake had come to light. It wasn’t Bullivant’s fault. Truly, it wasn’t, but that was not what Mr. Greaves expected to hear. The mistake was made by one of his underlings; Bullivant must take responsibility.

“Could have cost us dear,” Mr. Greaves coughed. “Very dear indeed, eh boy?”

But it hadn’t. Bullivant had spotted the mistake in time. He had been doing his job. A job he loved, and if he said so himself, a job he did very well indeed. It was no good telling Mr. Greaves that. He was old school and “school” was the appropriate metaphor here. He expected a man to take responsibility for those he managed. The buck, as their American cousins might say, stopped here.

Bullivant sucked in air and began the little speech he had prepared. It lasted less than a minute and ended with the words, “I take full responsibility, Sir.”

Mr. Greaves glowered. A smile split his face. “Indeed you should, boy. Indeed you should.”

Bullivant relaxed a little. Perhaps, this interview wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He forced a smile himself. It looked more like a scowl from where his boss was seated.  Mr. Greaves eyes narrowed. “All right Bullivant. It mustn’t happen again.”

“Oh no, Sir,” Bullivant had brightened already. He tried the smile again, without evident success. He wouldn’t be able to smile properly until he was safely dismissed from the office and back on the second floor with his minions. He waited for Mr. Greaves to let him go.

“Bullivant, we can’t leave it at this,” Mr. Greaves shifted his buttocks and started to rise from his armchair, “You do appreciate that, don’t you?”

Oh no! The thought flashed through Bullivant’s mind. This was not over yet. Unsure if the question had been rhetorical, he merely nodded sagely.

“Speak up, boy,” Mr. Greaves’s famed irritability showed.

Now, red in the face, Bullivant, mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” and hoped that would suffice as an answer.

“Good boy,” Mr. Greaves was now on his feet and walking across his capacious office. It had shelves and cupboards along two of its walls. Another had a large window and the fourth an unlit fire. A huge desk dominated the room. Towards one corner were four comfortable armchairs, encircling a glass-topped table. Mr. Greaves stopped when he reached a set of cupboards. One was narrow and tall. He delved into his pocket and found a key which he used to open its door. Bullivant had never noticed the cupboard before, but now instinctively he knew what it contained.

He wrung his hat in his hands and watched intently as his boss reached inside. There was a slight rattling sound before Mr. Greaves’s hand emerged clutching a long, thin, yellow-coloured cane. It had the traditional crooked handle. Bullivant had seen many of these before. Every schoolboy in the land knew what a rattan cane looked like and many of them could attest to the intense pain one could inflict.

Mr. Greaves turned and faced his employee. He held the cane in his hands and looked down at it as though he had never seen such a thing before. It was a little over three feet long and had notches every three or four inches along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and formed a perfect arc when Mr. Greaves tested its flexibility. He swished it through the air. Swoosh! It made a terrific noise as it went.

He pointed the cane at Bullivant. “Hang your hat and jacket over there,” he nodded at the coat-stand in the far corner of the office. Bullivant’s mouth opened and silently closed. Should he make a protest? What would be the point? Mr. Greaves was in control. Bullivant loved his job, he was very good at it and he was well paid for his efforts. The drama presently unfolding was surely a small price to pay. He convinced himself this was so, but his hands did not seem to agree since they shook almost uncontrollably as he placed his hat on the stand and set about trying to get his coat off his back. It took some considerable time. Mr. Greaves peered over his eye glasses and entertained himself by swiping the cane through the air.

At last Bullivant was ready. “Stand by the desk, boy,” Mr. Greaves pointed the cane, in case there was any doubt what he meant,

In a trance Bullivant made the short journey across the office. In his head it was twenty years previously and he was in the housemaster’s study at St. Tom’s. That was the only way he would be able to deal with the absurdity of the situation he now faced.

“Stand up straight,” Mr. Greaves barked.  Bullivant had not been slouching but nonetheless, moved his legs and shoulders to demonstrate total obedience to his master. Mr. Greaves stared at Bullivant. He was a little taller than himself and powerfully built. Perhaps, Mr. Greaves wondered, he partook in sports: boxing maybe. Bullivant’s white shirt looked starched and his detachable collar was held in place by a gold stud. His trousers were held aloft by red braces. He wore them a little tightly and they pulled the fabric of his trousers into his buttocks so each cheek was clearly separated from the other. They were round and plump.

Mr. Greaves stood close to his minion. He sucked on his bottom lip as he leaned forward to get a closer look at the man he was about to thrash. “No, no, this will never do,” he mused absent-mindedly. “Won’t do at all.” He tapped his cane across Bullivant’s buttocks. “They’re too thick. Take them down.”

Bullivant’s flushed face blanched. “Wor…?” he started to protest, but thankfully stopped himself in time. It never did to protest. A chap never did that. He was an Englishman of a certain social class and he knew the honour code. A chap would always take his punishment, even when it was unjustly meted out by those in authority.

He pulled the braces from his shoulders and let them dangle at his sides. His trousers were now loose and once he unfastened the button at the waist the weight of the keys in his pocket sent them hurtling to form a puddle on top of his shoes. Mr. Greaves’s eyes widened. Bullivant wore the new-fangled undershorts. The covered his buttocks and hung an inch or two down his legs. Mr. Greaves touched the desktop with his cane. “Bend over, boy.” It was a sharp command and one he expected to be obeyed without question. It was.

Bullivant had last been caned at school by his housemaster. It was the final week before he had left for good. It was unheard of for eighteen year olds to be thrashed, but he and a pal had made some tomfool pact together to climb the clocktower and deposit a pair of matron’s bloomers on the weathervane. They had done it too – in the dead of night. But what was the point of doing something so splendid if nobody knew who the culprit was? It was worth owning up. They were heroes and talked about with admiration by boys for years to follow. What bare-arsed beating could top that?

The memory of that caning was suddenly fresh in Bullivant’s mind. He stretched across Mr. Greaves’s desk just as he had done in the headmaster’s study nearly two decades previously. He held on to the far edge and rested his right cheek against the cool wood. He had a close-up view of the grain in the walnut. His legs were parted by about eighteen inches and his stomach rested at an angle so that his buttocks were correctly raised to receive the whipping from the cane. It was a bit like riding a bike. Once you had learned the right way to present your backside for a thrashing, you never forgot.

Mr. Greaves took a moment to admire the scene. He had caned many of his employees’ bottoms over forty or so years. Mostly, he beat them across the stretched fabric of trousers. Sometimes recalcitrant junior staff were required to lower their bags and he whipped them on the seat of their woollen “combinations”. Never before had been presented with a set of buttocks encased in snug shorts. Bullivant made a terrific target.

Mr. Greaves’s heart raced as he took up his position to Bullivant’s left. He “sawed” the cane across the plumpest part of his target, raised it to above shoulder height and swiped it down. He was greeted by a resounding “twack!” as the supple rattan sank into the soft flesh. Bullivant shut his eyes tight. It hurt. A lot. Memories of past canings flooded his mind. Yes, it stung tremendously, but he could take it.

Mr. Greaves landed the second low down, where the buttocks meet the thighs. That had Bullivant gasping. The thirty-five-year-old wriggled his bottom, this way and that. He couldn’t help it. He felt a little ashamed. Had he ever reacted like that at school? He steadied himself. Closed his eyes, shut his teeth and waited for the next.

Wow! It was some stinger. It landed across the top of the globes. A hot stripe seared into his bum. Now he had three parallel cuts across his cheeks. Bullivant had to admit it, his boss was an expert with the cane.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

The voice sounded as if it were hundreds of miles away. There was no reasonable answer a boy undergoing punishment could give to such a question, so Bullivant stayed quiet. Mr. Greaves took silence for impertinence and sliced number four so hard it was as if he were beating a carpet. Despite his determination to take his beating “like an Englishman” Bullivant yelped at that one. He could not see the smile curl around Mr. Greaves’s lips.

The boss adjusted his stance. He was nearing the finishing line. He lay the cane so that it lay from the bottom left to the top right of his target and let fly. The stroke cut across all four that had previous landed, reigniting the pain of them all. Bullivant’s bum throbbed. He held on to the desk for dear life, his fingernails digging deep into the wood. He felt Mr. Greaves move behind him.

God no! He knew what the sadist planned. The cane tapped across the buttocks from bottom right to top left. Whack!

“Ohmygod” Bullivant yelled out loud as a perfect “X” was scorched into his bum. Blood oozed from the intersections of the cuts. The agony was awesome. It was as if someone had poured a pail of boiling water over his flesh. His heartrate sped and his temples throbbed, almost as much as his rear end.

He heard a rattle as Mr. Greaves replaced the cane in his cabinet. Then the words, “You may stand.” Bullivant did not need telling twice. He leapt to his feet and without waiting for permission he pulled his trousers up. It gave him the cover to surreptitiously rub his thumbs across his savaged backside. It didn’t ease the pain.

Mr. Greaves sniffed the air as if a sudden bad odour had permeated the office. “You should take your hat and coat and leave.” He watched his minion pick up the clothes and without waiting to put them on, rush from the room.

Outside, Bullivant paused. The office was full of people busy at their desks. Had they heard his thrashing? His head was light. He rather hoped they had. He had never experienced such a sense of euphoria. He was on top of the world. He walked through the office to the lift. But, instead of taking it to the second floor to return to his office, he went to down to the ground floor. He had something to do first.

He put his hat on his head and joined the throngs of people in the city centre. He was walking on air in search of the right shop. He wanted to purchase a whippy school cane. Brian Clark, the accounts department junior, was in for a shock.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

Other stories you might like

His big brother is not amused

The housemates

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com