Fake News #8

joe phillips party

The Party’s Over for Rowdy University Students

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

The party is over for rowdy students whose unruly behaviour disturbs neighbours. A new “Punishment Patrol” taskforce has been launched by Brocklehurst University.

For years residents have complained about students making noise late at night by partying, or simply playing loud music. But University authorities were powerless to act.

Until now.

A taskforce nicknamed the “Punishment Patrol” will be on hand 24/7 to respond to complaints.

Dr. Christine Thussu of the University’s Civic Service Unit, told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The idea is to inflict instant punishment on troublemakers. New government legislation makes it possible for us to spank the backsides of students who step out of line.”

She said officers, specially-trained in the art of inflicting corporal punishment, are available to respond to complaints.

“They visit students and assess the severity of the offence. Then, they act immediately,” she said. “They are equipped with a variety of spanking implements including slippers, straps, brushes and canes.”

Dr. Thussu said in the recent past, students who range in ages from 18 to 23, had been “dealt with” by the Punishment Patrol. She added, “This could be a simple over-the-knee spanking on the seat of their trousers to a more severe whacking with a whippy rattan cane. They can also make the boy take down his trousers – and even his underpants – if they think fit.”

Mrs. Amelia Worthington, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, who called in the Punishment Patrol to deal with a rowdy party last month, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “There were about a dozen youngsters singing and dancing in the garden. It was well past nine o’clock, they should have been in bed.” She said she called the university and a vanload of men dressed like security guards pulled up outside the student house.

“They were carrying all sorts of things, but mostly canes.”

Mrs. Worthington added, “The guards soon got to work. My husband and I could hear the whackings from our bedroom. A lot of the students were hollering by the time they were done.”

Mr. Gerry Wiseman, President of the Brocklehurst University Students’ Union, said many students had complained about their treatment, citing violations of human rights.

However, he said, “Many students said they welcomed the new rules. It has made them spend less time partying and more studying in the library. They might even graduate with better degrees as a result.”

If you have a complaint against a student contact the Punishment Patrol at _____________

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

More Fake News stories here

 

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That Connor boy!

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My First Time

z used drawing cane hold women look on

I had just turned twenty and was a few weeks into my first “proper” job – as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper. I couldn’t believe my luck when a colleague at work told me there was a room for rent in a large detached house in one of the town’s leafiest suburbs.

I was gobsmacked the first time I saw The Avenue; what palaces! I had been brought up in a tiny council flat in inner London; what did I know about big bedrooms, conservatories and gardens? My landlord was some kind of accountant and he lived in a five bedroom house with his wife and her sister. Everything about the place said “Money”. I didn’t stop to wonder why they needed to take in a lodger. None of my business, I suppose.

I got my second shock of the day when I met my landlord for the first time. He was in his mid-forties and had thick black, greased-back hair. But his most notable feature was a black, neatly-trimmed beard. I thought he was Gerry Adams, at that time a suspected IRA terrorist. The sight of him put the fear of God into me. This fear somewhat diminished the moment he opened his mouth. For instead of ranting with a heavy Irish brogue, he spoke quietly in a very upper class English accent, as befitting a chap who had attended one of England’s more exclusive public schools.

I was far from the perfect tenant. I came and went at all hours and was often late down for breakfast. I was untidy, inconsiderate of others and frequently came home drunk. But worse than all this; I rarely paid my rent on time. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to pay – although cub reporters are not paid much – it was because I couldn’t be bothered. It didn’t occur to me that the money I paid helped to keep “Mr. Adams” and his family afloat.

Things came to a head one morning. In his usual softly-spoken manner Mr. Adams told me I must pay my overdue rent by the end of the day. Did I promise to do so? I genuinely don’t remember, I really wasn’t bothered what he wanted.

I would pay later for that lack of attention because what I missed him saying was, “If you don’t pay tonight I am going to cane your backside very hard indeed.”

I was late home that day, I had covered a meeting of the local council and gone onto the pub after. I had been drinking, but I was far from drunk. I let myself into the house as I always did and was surprised when Mr. Adams glided from his magnificent lounge and stood in front of me, blocking my path to the stairs and my bedroom.

“Do you have my rent?” he whispered. I had to crane my neck forward to catch his words. He repeated himself believing that I had not heard. His face fell when I confessed I had not. I had totally forgotten his request. He sighed deeply and wrung his hands together as if he carried all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

“Do you remember what I said would happen?” he murmured. I think I shrugged my shoulders or crinkled my face, because I simply had no idea what he was talking about. His eyes flamed behind his round spectacles, his eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Well,” he spoke slowly and calmly. “You know what I shall do.”

I didn’t. I started to say I would go to the bank first thing in the morning and sort out his rent.

“Too late, you have made promises before,” his crisply-enunciated words made me shiver. “You need a life-lesson young man.”

I had no idea what a “life lesson” was, but I was about to find out. He glided across the passageway to a tall thin cupboard. It looked like a grandfather clock but without the dial. He opened a door and reached inside. I thought our conversation was over and started towards the stairs.

“Wait where you are,” he spoke more sternly now and I swirled around to face him. My heart skipped a beat. In his right hand he held a long, thin, crook-handled cane. I was transfixed. I had never seen anything like it before. Canes were still legal in schools but I had been to a progressive comprehensive and corporal punishment was unheard off. Parents around my way tended not to spank their children, so I was now entering uncharted territory.

Mr. Adams wobbled the cane in front of him and then sliced it through the air. It was thin and whippy but made a terrific whoosh! as it went. He waved the cane toward the lounge room. “Go in there,” he said quietly. I stood my ground, my heart was thumping. Of course, now I understood Mr. Adams’ intention. He wanted to beat me with his cane. I couldn’t understand my emotions. I seemed to be equally frightened and excited at the same time.

Up to that moment I had never given corporal punishment a thought. There was a campaign running at the time to have the cane banned from schools. I had no opinion one way or the other. I had never thought about being caned nor did I wish to cane another person.

“I said, go into the lounge room,” Mr. Adams repeated himself softly.

I suppose I could have refused to obey. It would mean leaving the house and finding other lodgings. That wouldn’t be so bad. A colleague at work knew guys who were looking for someone to join them in a house share.  I wouldn’t have to live in a cardboard box.

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

Mr. Adams followed me into the room. He had the cane tucked under his arm, looking something like a sergeant-major. I stood in the middle of the room. It was about the size of a five-a-side football pitch. One end was dominated by a dining table and chairs. The other end had a huge glass-fronted cabinet with china ornaments. As well as the sofa there was a heavy leather Chesterfield couch, two padded armchairs, what we used to call a pouffe (but probably don’t today) and a coffee table.

Mr. Adams looked around the room as if he had never seen it before. He seemed to be searching for something. At last his gaze settled on one of the padded armchairs. He slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and gripped it just below the crook handle. He pointed with it to the chair. “Stand over there.”

I hesitated. There was still time to flee. Mrs. Adams and her sister moved across the room and settled by the table. Clearly, they were going to stay to watch the fun. I wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my trousers and walked forward and stopped a couple of paces from the chair.

“Closer, boy, closer,” Mr. Adams sounded exasperated. I shook my head silently admonishing myself, of course I wouldn’t be able to bend over the back of the chair from this distance. I shuffled forward. For the first  time that evening Mr. Adams noticed I was wearing a light-grey suit. “Take off your jacket, hand it to Mrs. Adams.”

She hurried over to me with alacrity, holding out her hand to receive my jacket. She had to wait. I couldn’t get my fingers to work. My brain told me I wanted to do this – to take off my jacket and hand it over – but my body seemed incapable of obeying. At last the task was completed. I looked down at the black leather armchair. Only then did I wonder how this was done. How did you present yourself for a caning? Where did the hands go? What about the head?

One question took my breath away. Was this done trousers up or trousers down? I would soon know.

“You need to lower your trousers,” Mr. Adams whispered, “But you may keep your underpants on,” he added, kindly. My head was buzzing as (again with fumbling fingers) I unbuckled my belt. I screwed my eyes tightly, I couldn’t believe this was happening. Me, a twenty-year-old man was about to take down my trousers, bend over a chair and offer up my backside to my forty-something landlord for a caning as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I unzipped and the handful of coins I had in my pocket from the pub plus gravity sent my trousers hurtling to my feet. I wore white underpants “tighty-whities” which were very fashionable at the time. The fitted me snugly and I was very conscious of the bulge in the front, which was a little larger than it had been five minutes ago. I had on a smart dress shirt with a tail that covered my buttocks and the backs of my thighs.

“You should lift up your shirt please and then bend over the back of the chair, thank you,” Mr. Adams sounded almost apologetic. I gathered up the cotton shirt and pulled it chest-high so that my flat, hairless stomach and lower back was uncovered. I hesitated for a second time. I needed to gear myself up for this. It would take some bravery on my part to go through with it. I saw the two ladies move behind me (for a better view presumably) as I fell forward over the chair. The leather was cold against my naked flesh and I shivered.

The issue about where to place hands and head resolved itself. I reached forward and gripped the far end of the soft seat cushion. My face stared down at a throw coloured in browns and yellows. I waited with anticipation for the first stroke to hit. But was it eagerness or fear?

Mr. Adams was not quite ready. He tapped the end of the cane across the centre of my bum. I could feel the cotton underpants had pulled tightly over my submissive bottom. I was presenting my landlord with a terrific target. The pants lifted and separated my cheeks creating a deep ravine between the two. In those days I was still fit and healthy, this was before years of pubbing with journalists and contacts took their toll. I had a thirty-inch waist and firm round buttocks.

Mr. Adams had found his aim; he lifted the cane away from my bottom. I gripped the cushion hard and concentrated on the autumnal pattern on the throw. My bum quivered. “Relax, relax,” Mr. Adams cooed. Then came the most excruciating pain I had ever felt. The whippy rattan whistled through the air before landing on the soft underside of my rear end. Air hissed through my clenched mouth, a strip of pain throbbed across both cheeks. My shoulders shuddered in sympathy.

That was my first-ever stroke of the cane. Mr. Adams gave me five more cuts. I was due six-of-the-best. My bum wriggled and writhed. My feet stomped into the plush deep-piled carpet. I hissed and yelped. Sweat soaked the back of my neck. My ears popped as blood thundered through my body.

Then it was over. “You may stand now,” Mr. Adams had replaced the cane under his arm by the time I stood and turned to face him. My head was light and spinning. Is it adrenalin? I had taken drugs before (and many since) but nothing compares to the high I get from a good thrashing. “You should get dressed,” Mr. Adams was kindness personified. I suppose he must have seen the erect cock pushing against the front of my tight pants. Before gingerly I pulled my trousers up I explored my sore seat with my two thumbs; my bum was corrugated. When I explored the damage later in my bedroom I found six dark welts running almost parallel across both buttocks. I had to conclude that Mr. Adams was an experienced and expert caner.

I lodged with Mr. Adams for another six months and you will not be surprised to hear I was often late with the rent. It nearly broke my heart when my work sent me to a newspaper 100 miles away to further my training and experience. But, I soon discovered The Whacko! Club, and that is a story (or stories) for another day.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

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Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Better believe in Santa Claus

used drawing santa otk brush (2)

Little Jimmy Lomas, six years old and a sweet as he could be, sucked the top of his red crayon.

Writing to Santa Claus was harder than he thought. He knew what toys he wanted Father Christmas to bring. Mummy had told him to write down a list. Later they would burn it on the open fire in the living room and it would go up the chimney. Then, at midnight Santa would come down that very chimney.

How did you spell “astronaut”? He would have to ask mummy. Just then the door opened and his older half-brother Lucas slouched in.

“What are you doing?” he sneered. “What’s this carrot and glass of milk?”

“It’s for Rudolph the reindeer and Santa,” Jimmy grinned. “You have to leave them or you don’t get any presents.”

Lucas snatched the paper from Jimmy’s hand. “Writing to Santa Claus. Don’t you know there’s no such thing as Santa Claus?”

Jimmy looked puzzled. Of course, there was a Santa Claus; he brought you presents. But only if you were a good boy. And, there was Rudolph and elves.

“It’s all made up, you moron,” Lucas sneered.

Jimmy’s eyes moistened. Tears trickled down his dimpled cheeks. “There is!! There is!”

Lucas smirked, “It’s my dad; he’s the one who gives you your presents.”

“Not true! Not true!” Jimmy fled from the room. “Mummy! Mummy!”

Lucas Lomas, twenty years old and as bitter as Kentucky sour mash. He hated Christmas. He hated his dad for divorcing and getting married again to a much younger woman. He hated his mother for throwing him out of her home days after he turned eighteen. He hated the way his copper-coloured hair curled and couldn’t be combed. His face was square and his nose too big. No girl would look at him twice.

He hated the sweaty room he lived in. He hated his job at the supermarket. He hated being forced to spend Christmas with his “family.”

His dad barged into the room, his face purple with fury. “What did you have to go and do that for? What’s Jimmy ever done to you?”

Lucas snarled, “Father Christmas. What a load of crap. There are at least five Santas in the High Street. How do you explain that to him?”

“I hope you’re not going to be like this all over Christmas?”

“Don’t worry, I’m going out with my mates.”

“Where you going?”

“None of your business.”

“Well don’t come back pissed and wake the house.”

“Don’t worry, and I promise not to disturb Santa and his reindeer.” He slumped on the couch and grabbed the television remote. “Fuck me, Morecambe and Wise again. They died before I was even born.”

“Ah! Christmas. Don’t you just love it,” his father reached to the sideboard and unscrewed the lid from the Eat Me Dates.

“Oh, I’m out of here.”

Two hours later Lucas and his pals were leaning against the bar of the Shaggy Dormouse, the place-to-be-seen when you were twenty and the-place-to-avoid at twenty-three. He slurped on his snakebite. The place was steaming and so were most of the customers, packed in cheek by jowl, an ocean of pasty-pale faces, except for the ones flushed deep pink with alcohol. There was no space to move, it was too loud to hear friends speak. It was people having fun on Christmas Eve.

After six pints at the Dormouse, Lucas and four pals bounced through the High Street. It might be Christmas Eve but they were dressed only in jeans and tee-shirts, the typical attire of the macho male.

“Shit. I need a piss,” Lucas hopped from one foot to another. “Over here,” he ran towards a doorway.

“You can’t. That’s someone’s flat.”

“Fuck that!” Lucas unzipped his jeans and a steaming stream of urine soaked the doorway.

“Let’s go to The Cock and do over some queers.”

“Nah, not tonight, The Beaver’s open. C’mon.”

It was nearly two in the morning. The walk home hadn’t done much to sober him up. Lucas tried once, he tried twice and only on the third attempt, and after closing one eye to gauge his distance, he poked the key into the slot and opened the door. A blast of icy cold air ripped his bare arms.

“What the …?”

It seemed to come from the living room. Lucas stood almost literally frozen. A pink radiance seeped from the room, the glow dazzled him. Suddenly sober, he edged closer to the light, shielding his eyes. He heard the sound. Rustling activity. Someone was in the room. A burglar.

“Who’s there?” he called, feeling foolish the moment the words left his lips. The rustling continued. Cautiously, attempting bravery he didn’t truly feel, Lucas inched further to the door.

The room glowed pink, like the cheapest club dancefloor. Lucas peered through hooded eyelids. A shadowy figure was under the Christmas tree, holding a tiny spacesuit.

“He’s thieving our presents,” Lucas thought. He said aloud, “Stop that, leave them alone.”

Lucas’s eyes burned, all he saw were blurs.

“Ho-ho-ho, young man,” the figure raised what looked like an empty glass in his hand in salute. “Don’t you know who I am? I’m Santa Claus.”

“Dad is that you? Stop pissing about.”

“Now, now Lucas, m’boy, watch your language. You’re in enough trouble as it is.”

Lucas paused. This wasn’t his dad. He wasn’t a burglar either. Not dressed in a Santa suit.

“Stop p…” he corrected himself just in time, “… playing around, who are you?”

“You know who I am Lucas. I am Santa Claus. And, you know why I am here. I give out presents to the nice children; but what do I do to the naughty ones, Lucas.”

The twenty-year-old gaped. How did this odd man know his name?

“Well, Lucas, what happens to the naughty boys?”

“I haven’t been naughty, Santa,” Lucas felt his cheeks flush. How absurd he felt, who was this weirdo?

“Come Lucas, I know you went to the toilet in the doorway of poor Mrs. Hetherington. Think how she’ll feel on Christmas morning when she has to clear up your mess.”

Lucas’s mouth opened and closed, but he couldn’t get words to form.

“I know what you said to Jimmy today,” Santa screwed up his face with distain, “That I don’t exist. Well we’ll see about that.”

Santa stretched his arms and glared at the shivering figure before him. “So, Lucas, what does Santa do to naughty boys?”

“Piss off.”

“Wrong answer, Lucas,” Santa stepped forward menacingly. Instinctively, Lucas turned to run. His legs wouldn’t work. He was rooted to the spot; unable to move.

“Not so fast, buster. We have unfinished business.”

Lucas’s heart pounded, he could only stand and watch. First, Santa picked up a small wooden chair and carefully placed in under the Christmas tree. “Ho-ho-ho,” he hummed to himself. Then, he turned to face the quivering young man. “Look at this Lucas,” he snapped his fingers and a heavy wooden clothes brush appeared in his gloved hand. “Look what Santa’s brought for you Lucas.”

Lucas stared transfixed. What had he just witnessed?

Santa sat on the small chair, spread his legs a little and wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable. “Lucas, I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants and come and bend across Santa’s knee.”

“Piss off.”

“Tut-tut,” Santa shook his head, “You haven’t quite understood, have you?” Santa gave an exaggerated blink and he sat back in his chair.

Lucas tried to fight it; he couldn’t. It was like an out-of-body experience. His hands reached for his own belt buckle. There was nothing he could do. He had no control over his movements. In seconds the belt was loosened and his fingers fumbled with his zipper. Santa tapped the clothes brush into the palm of his left hand; watching. Waiting.

With the jeans at his feet, Lucas pinched the waistband of his Boxer shorts and with a deft flick of the wrist, he sent them south to join his jeans. The merest flicker of a smile was hidden by Santa’s untidy whiskers. It was not often he got to see such a package. Santa would never understand why Lucas couldn’t get himself a girl.

“Come, bend across my knee, Lucas,” Santa’s instruction was gentle. He knew it would be obeyed. When he thought about it later, and for the many times he would recall this night for the rest of his life, Lucas would never be able to explain what happened next. Meekly, he shuffled across the floor. He stood a foot or so to Santa’s left, staring down at the legs clad in bright red trousers. Then, and Lucas was almost certain of this, then of his own accord, he lowered himself forward. The palms of his hands rested on the carpet, his legs bent at the knees and the toecaps of his trainers hovered an inch above the ground. The smooth red material of Santa’s trousers felt warm against Lucas’s naked skin.

In the moments before the heavy wooden brush fell for the first time, Lucas’s conscience clicked in. “I deserve this. It is what I have always needed,” it told him.

Santa’s smooth gloved hand took hold of the tail of Lucas’s tee-shirt and moved it away from the target area. Then, he gently caressed first the right cheek and then the left. The young man’s bottom was fleshy. It had a lot of bounce. If Lucas didn’t change his lifestyle and cut down on the booze and hamburgers, he would soon run to fat.

Lucas stared down at the carpet, waiting patiently. His breathing was even, his heartbeat steady. He was calm.

But not for long. The first smack caught him in the centre of the left cheek; the brush sank into the fleshiest part of the buttock. Santa was satisfied with the deep pink outline the brush left behind. He was delighted with the eleven more he crashed into Lucas’s backside; all more or less on the same spot. Rat-a-tat-tat. It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the room. Then, without a pause, Santa walloped a dozen into the right cheek.

The first stinging smack made Lucas’s mouth open, but no sound came out until the third one. It was a choked cry. By the time the brush bounced off his bum for the sixth time, he was squirming and wriggling. By a dozen his bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue.

The stinging, burning agony was kept alive by each whack from the heavy wooden brush. His bottom was blood-red and swollen, but Santa slammed the brush into his buttocks again and again and again. Lucas’s sobs became yelps and soon they were full-throated yells as he twisted and turned his body as if he was trying to swim off Santa’s lap.

It felt like hours to Lucas, but it was only minutes. Not one part of his buttocks and the back of his thighs was left unmarked. Santa spanked on and on. Lucas had an arse that cried out to be spanked and Santa never shirked his duty.

Father Christmas had seen many spanked bottoms in the hundreds of years he had been in the job, but nothing quite matched Lucas Lomas’s rear end. The mass of scarlet flesh was outstanding. It was like he was wearing a pair of red cycling shorts. Lucas lay slumped across Santa’s lap – literally a beaten man.

Santa raised his right hand to his mouth and with his teeth he loosened each finger until he was able to remove his woollen glove. Gently, he patted Lucas’s burning bum. Then, softly Santa made circular motions with his palm across both mounds. The flesh was hot to the touch. Lucas wheezed, Santa’s hand felt smooth against his roaring rear.

He was still face down and couldn’t see the broad grin splitting Santa’s face. “Well Lucas,” he beamed, ‘Do you believe in Santa Claus now?”

“Oh yes, Santa,” Lucas gasped. “”Yes, I do.”

Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Night Before Christmas

z used drawing santa brush hold (1)

It as the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed.

It was late, almost midnight, and he knew he should be in bed, but he couldn’t pass up the chance of meeting Santa.

The house had no chimney and Joe was worried. How could Santa get in? Don’t worry, dada had said, he doesn’t have to use the chimney, he can get in by magic.

Satisfied, with dada’s explanation, Joe set out his store: a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. It was a cold frosty night, but the central heating was on high, so Joe sat in the living room dressed only in his pyjamas and waited. His pyjamas were bright yellow with pictures of racing cars all over them. How he hated those pyjamas; he longed for a pair like the big boys wore with blue-and-white stripes and a drawstring around the waist to pull them together.

He was sleepy and dozing a little. Because it was Christmas Eve dada had prepared a big meal and there had been lots to drink. He had even eaten some Smarties. It was too much; his tummy was beginning to ache and he felt a little sick.

He checked over his list. A Playstation, an iPhone, a Tablet. Then there were what dada called the “stocking filers”; a table tennis bat, cricket stumps and a pair of bedroom slippers.

What a wonderful time he would have playing with all his new gifts. Yes, it would be a very merry Christmas indeed for Joe.

Suddenly, he heard a sound. It was soft and seemed a long distance off. What could it be, Joe wondered. Then he remembered the poem about the mouse and he was scared. You must be brave, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid off. A little mouse. But, he curled his legs up under him and sat back on the couch. A mouse couldn’t run up his pyjama trousers leg if he kept his feet off the floor.

But, it wasn’t a mouse. Slowly, the door opened. Joe’s tummy churned once more; the room was spinning a little; was he about to be sick?

“Ho-ho-ho!” He knew that sound. It was no mouse: it was Santa Claus and he had the reddest-red suit and the whitest-white beard and the roundest-round belly.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa roared. He really was the jolliest fellow, Joe thought; no wonder children all over the world loved him so much.

But, something was not quite right. Santa was not carrying a sack. Where were all the presents?

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa’s record seemed to be stuck. Joe was panicking – where were his presents?

Joe was not always the politest little boy, especially when he wasn’t getting his way.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa was irritating Joe now. Where were his presents?

“Ho-ho-ho! little boy. Are you Joe?” Santa cheeks flushed bright red. It must have been the cold frosty air. The journey from Lapland had been a long one.

“Yes, Santa,” an excited Joe confirmed who he was. His face brightened, but he was still puzzled for he could see no presents.

“Ho-ho-ho,” uninvited Santa rested his big fat body down on the couch, forcing Joe to uncurl his legs and make room. He was a very irritated little boy.

“Where are my presents?” he snapped.

“Presents?” Santa looked at him quizzically. “Presents? Which presents are they?”

Joe pursed his lips. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. “The Playstation, iphone, the ….” He recited his long list of demands. “I sent you the letter weeks ago,” he finished, as if this somehow proved his point.

Santa’s face clouded. He enjoyed his job most of the time. Who wouldn’t like being Santa; you only worked one night of the year and you brought joy and happiness to children. Yes, it was a lovely job. But, there was a downside.

“Only good boys get presents,” Santa was feeling grumpy, he wanted to get on with this. “Have you been a good boy Joe?”

“Yes, I have!” he huffed and only just stopped himself adding, “Now, give me my presents.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” there he went again. “No, Joe. I have you down on the naughty boys list.” And as if to prove a point he pulled a large sheet of writing paper from his pocket.

Joe’s eyes widened. What nonsense was this? He had stayed awake until nearly midnight waiting for this magical fat man to appear and now what? No presents.

“No, Santa, I’ve been a good boy,” and then he flashed his cutest “little boy” smile, the one that broke the hearts of so many, and said, “Honest, Santa. I’m a good boy.”

Santa snorted. There was no ho-ho-ho this time. “No, Joe. That’s not true now is it? Listen to this list. You don’t do your chores at home; you are disrespectful to your dada; you sometimes go out to play and stay out late.”

“No, Santa, no, it’s not true,” Joe wailed. This was not going to plan at all. But, the naughty little boy could deny it all he liked – he, and Santa, knew it was true.

“Do you know what Santa does to naughty boys, Joe?”

“No, Santa,” he spoke as if he genuinely did not.

“Santa takes them across his knee, Joe, and Santa spanks their naughty bottoms, that’s what Santa does Joe.” Then, he added, making Joe’s blood curdle, “Ho-ho-ho.”

“No, Santa, no! I’m a good boy. I am. Really!” But Joe was only adding the crime of lying to Santa to all the others on the list.

Santa hauled himself off the couch. Joe stared wide-eyed as Santa rummaged in a deep pocket and with his own eyes gleaming, he pulled out a heavy wooden clothes brush.

“Ho-ho-ho. Look Joe, look what Santa’s got for you!”

“No, Santa!” Alarmed, Joe tried to make a run for the door, but fat old Santa was too quick for him. He gripped the terrified little boy by his arm and pulled him forward. It took only a moment for Santa to retain his seat on the couch and drag the kicking and wailing naughty little boy face down across his knees.

“No, Santa, no. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good boy. Please. You can keep the presents. I don’t want them.”

Ha! Santa beamed. That’s what all the boys say. They will plead and promise him anything – as long as he didn’t spank them.

But, Santa had his job to do. Joe must have his bottom spanked. He had to stick to the rules. It was only the threat of a spanking from Santa at Christmas that kept many naughty boys on the straight and narrow.

Joe was in no position to argue. Santa had him pinned across his legs, so that his head and chest rested along the couch on one side and his legs stretched out behind him on the other. His naughty little spankable bottom rested vulnerably over Santa’s crotch. Joe wriggled to the left and the right, but Santa’s grip was tight and he was going nowhere.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa gripped the waist of Joe’s pyjama bottoms and tugged them down.

“No, Santa, no,” Joe gasped, but by now he realised he had no choice. Santa was in charge. He could do anything he wanted to and there was nothing the naughty little boy could do to stop it.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa admired the sight across his lap. It was a smooth pert bottom, and completely hairless, as were the boy’s thin legs.

Santa wasn’t quite ready to go. He pulled off his thick woollen gloves and with the palm of his right hand he gently caressed Joe’s buttocks; making circular motions, first on the right cheek and then the left. The buttocks clenched and rose off Santa’s lap in protest.

“You have a lovely bottom, Joe. Very boyish. I shall enjoy spanking it. It feels very soft. Very soft and very small, but nicely rounded,” Santa kept his thoughts to himself.

Instead, he said. “Relax Joe. It is better if you relax. You know that.” Santa’s words were kind. He did not despise the boy across his laps. He had been naughty and like all naughty boys, he deserved to have his bare bottom spanked. And it would happen. But, then it would be over. Joe would have atoned for his naughtiness and everyone could get on with their lives.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa chuckled as he raised the heavy wooden clothes brush about three inches above the boy’s right buttock and whacked it down into the fleshiest part of the cheek. Joe winced, but had no time to do anything else before the next blow fell, this time across the left buttock.

The boy gasped a little. It hurt, but not much. Santa slapped the brush down for a quick dozen whacks. Santa could see Joe’s bottom was warming up nicely. Yes, it was a lovely shade of pink.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa was enjoying himself now.

Joe’s bottom was beginning to throb with the pain and he tried to move his right hand to protect his cheeks but Santa was having none of it. He leaned across the boy making it impossible for him to reach back to his increasingly reddening bottom. But Joe continued to writhe and squirm uselessly while kicking his legs up and down against the soft cushion of the couch. Santa dominated him completely.

“Stop it Joe, I am going to spank you until I think you’ve been properly punished, and until I reach that point, I’m just going to keep stinging that bare bottom of yours hard and fast,” and Santa whacked the brush again and again into Joe’s bouncing bottom, concentrating  on the very tender spot where the cheeks join the thighs.

In the distance, church bells were calling out for Midnight Mass. It was getting late, Santa wanted to move on. He had other things to do tonight before he could fall into his bed.

Satisfied that he had delivered a classic old-fashioned bottom warming with all the trimmings, Santa finally stopped. He released his grip on the naughty little boy across his lap and Joe sprang to his feet, clasping his sore bottom with both hands.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa beamed. Joe’s cock was pointing at him at a forty-five degree angle, rigid and inviting. Its uncut tip glistened.

Santa ripped off his fat suit and stood in his boxers and vest. His own member throbbed to escape the confines of the tight cotton shorts. He wouldn’t be able to control it for too much longer.

Joe’s grin was so wide it seemed his face might split in two. This was what he really loved about Christmas. Tradition. He and Jamie had played this game every year since they first met.

Joe sank to his knees and took Jamie’s cock sideways in his mouth, running his tongue along the shaft from the ball sack to the moist tip.

Jamie reeled back in ecstasy. “Ho-ho-ho! Here cums Santa Claus!” he shrieked.

First published Christmas 2015

Picture Credit: Unknown

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

When Santa Claus was caned

used-when-santa-was-caned-title-4

Once upon a time there were three Santas. How can this be? I hear you cry. For everybody knows there is but one Santa and he lives on the North Pole. All year round he works tirelessly with his elves making toys. One day a year – on Christmas Eve – he loads up his sleigh and reindeer fly him all over the world. He delivers toys to the nice and spanks the bottoms of the naughty.

Gentle reader, if you believe that you are either five years old or you reside in one of our more discreet sanatoriums.

The three Santas – to make our story easier to follow let’s think of them as Saint Nick, Father Christmas and Chris Crimble – worked six weeks of the year for Jamley’s department store. Their job was to make sure the cash registers kept jing-jing-jingling throughout the festive season. The three Santas were idle for most of the year, but Mr Crimble sometimes gave his services at an obscure gentlemen’s club and Nick would wrap himself in bandages and stand on a street corner selling matches.

St Tom’s was a school for the sons of the wealthier classes. The boys were boarders and at Christmas time they went home to their families. Alas, some of them were unloved. They had parents so rich they did not have to pretend. So, seventeen boys were left to spend Christmas at St Tom’s. Mr Bugg, a housemaster, was unloved too. He was also unloveable. His salary was so miserable he could not afford to rent rooms for the holidays, so he too stayed behind.

This made him a curmudgeon. He knew no joy. Even on the eve of Christmas he prowled the passageways, his whippy cane under his arm, seeking out misbehaving boys. Merrick was a senior boy. He was eighteen years of age. He thought of himself as an adult. “Pish!” Mr Bugg exclaimed when he found the prefect in Study Seven puffing away on a cigarette. “You are no adult, bend over that chair.”

The cane slipped into Mr Bugg’s hand and he landed six top-rated stingers across Merrick’s backside. And Merry Christmas to you too, the boy growled.

Hank the Yank was an American. His father lived in New York. It was too far for the boy to travel home for Christmas, he said. It was too. For this was in the day before ordinary folk could fly the Atlantic. Only Santa and his reindeer could do that. Hank’s pop was extremely rich and had more money than cents. (Ho! Ho! Ho!) He loved to make expensive gestures. It showed people just how wealthy he was.

He arranged with Jamley’s to send their Santa Claus to the school on Christmas Eve. The news was treated with indifference. Even fake Santas were busy on Christmas Eve. The pubs stayed open beyond midnight. No Santa wanted the job.

Mr Blenkinsop, the department store’s assistant to the assistant floor manager, was at his wit’s end. Alas, Nick, Mr Crimble and Father Christmas were all as one. “Sod off,” they told him. “Do it yourself!”

Mr Blenkinsop was hurt. Where was the spirit of Christmas? Those boys were a long way from home, without their families. Alone. His sob story fell on deaf ears. The three Santas were anxious to leave. Mr Crimble had a bottle of dark rum hidden in his coat. It wouldn’t drink itself.

“Oh well,” Mr Blenkinsop sighed. He drew a ten shilling note from his wallet. “There. That’s for whoever does the job.” Three hands shot forward. “To be paid when you return.” Mr Blenkinsop was no fool.

Satisfied that one or other of the old duffers would deliver, Mr Blenkinsop wrapped his scarf around his neck and stepped out into the cool, damp night. This was England. It rarely snowed at Christmas, despite what Dickens would have us believe.

It was nine o’clock in the St Tom’s dining hall. Seventeen boys and one grumpy master tucked into steak and kidney pudding. It might be Christmas Eve but the fare at an English public school never changed. Mr Bugg was more miserable than usual. He had been warned there would be a visitor. Mr Bugg was not a jovial type and he discouraged joviality in others. Two fags engaged in a hilarious game of “slaps” were at that moment irritating him to distraction.

Whoosh! The door sprung open. Eighteen pairs of eyes stared in wonder. It was Santa. Dressed in his big red suit. “Ho, ho, ho …” Chris Crimble slurred as he staggered through the door. Merrick, who until that moment had been in a sulk, dodged as Santa lurched forward and fell headlong across the table. An empty bottle fell from his pocket.

“Ho, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum!” Merrick cheered, delighted at his feeble joke.

“Merry Christmas,” Crimble croaked. The smell of the meat pudding reminded him he had not eaten for hours. He scooped a handful and fed it through his askew whiskers.

“What the devil,” Mr Bugg was on his feet. At that moment. Whoosh! The door opened once more. It was Santa Claus. “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.” Father Christmas was at least sober. “Hello, boys look what Santa has brought for you.”

“What is it Santa!” the boys cried in unison, for they knew the part they had to play in this little story.

“Here,” Santa delved into his sack and brought out a thin rectangular box. He handed it to Merrick. “Merry Christmas, young man,” Santa grinned. “Why thank you Santa,” Merrick replied grudgingly. For he thought he was too old to be given gifts by Santa Claus. The teenager fingered the box. “Oh my, thank you Santa,” he said again. This time he meant it. For in his hands he held a special gift box of two hundred Player’s cigarettes.

“What the hell!” Mr Buggs fumed. “What is going on here?”

There was no time for Father Christmas to answer. Whoosh! The door opened once more. It was Santa Claus number three. The boys stared in wonder. Could this be true? Three Santa Clauses in one evening. But, what was this? Santa number three was not alone. For Periwinkle, the school porter, clutched Saint Nick by the arm.

“I caught him by the school gate, Sir,” Periwinkle exclaimed. Puzzlement furrowed the brow of Mr Buggs. What on earth?

“He was escaping, Sir. Look.” Periwinkle picked up Santa’s sack and turned it upside down. Five silver trophies cluttered to the ground. Mr Buggs immediately recognised the school’s inter-house rugby cup.

“He was stealing the school silver, Sir,” Periwinkle said, to be certain that everyone understood what was going on.

“Call the police.” It was Merrick, determined to show everyone he was an adult. “At once,” he ordered Periwinkle.

“But Sir, I am but a poor man,” Saint Nick held the palms of his hands together as if in prayer. “A war hero, Sir, a man down on his luck.”

“Oh, per-lease!” Merrick retorted, for his father was the Lord of the Manor and a magistrate to boot. He knew how to deal with the working classes. “Call the police Periwinkle. At once.”

Periwinkle was a man who knew his place. “Will you guard him Sir while I go to the telephone?” he asked Merrick.

“Hang on, one damned moment,” Mr Buggs fumed. “I am in charge here. I will say what is to happen.”

Merrick glowered. How he despised the master who stood before him. “He must go to trial. The law must take its course.” He was a very pompous young man.

“No,” Mr Buggs had a plan. The night had been ruined. Not only by the thieving Saint Nick, but by all three of the Santas. Mr Buggs knew what was needed. He had not been a schoolmaster for thirty years for nothing.

“I shall deal with this. There is no cause to involve the police.”

Saint Nick wrung his hands in gratitude. “Thank ye Sir, thank ye,” he said in poor imitation of a rural peasant.

“Well see about how thankful you are in a moment,” Mr Buggs growled. “Wilson,” he called to a fag. A junior boy stood up. “Yes, Sir.”

“Go to my study and fetch my stoutest cane. Be quick about it.”

Saint Nick’s ruddy complexion paled. A broad smile split Father Christmas’s face. What sport this would be. Chris Crimble stared on, hardly comprehending what was happening.

Moments later Winker Wilson returned, cane in hand. It was a beauty. It was more than three feet long, not including the traditional crook handle. It was as thick as a pencil and a little warped. It was a piece of ashplant and had notches every three or four inches along its length.

Mr Buggs swished the cane through the air. It made a terrific swoosh as it flew. Saint Nick’s eyes watered. He was going to be beaten. In front of the boys. In front of the other Santas. This could not be happening.

“All three of you, stand by that bench.” Mr Buggs swiped the ashplant once more. Nobody moved, for it was not clear what the schoolmaster was talking about. “The three Santas. Stand by that bench,” he pointed with his cane. “I am going to thrash all three of you,” he said. Now, everyone understood the plot.

The three aged men shuffled across the room, for Mr Buggs was a schoolmaster at an exclusive fee-paying school. They knew their place. Such was merry England. He was in charge. There was nothing they could do. Unless, of course, they wanted to spend Christmas in the police cells.

“Bend over.” It was an imperious command. They bent.

Boys’ eyes looked on in astonishment as the cane flogged across three backsides. Dust rose from trouser seats. Merrick’s buttocks itched. The humiliation and pain of his own earlier caning rekindled. He took his chance. He bundled up boxes of cigarettes and took them to his study.

Father Christmas scowled as the pain increased in intensity. Saint Nick shut his teeth tightly, he wouldn’t embarrass himself by showing it hurt. Chris Crimble breathed heavily. Just wait until he told the fellows at his gentlemen’s club what had happened. How they would envy him.

 

Charles’s note. The drawing at the top of this story is from The Hotspur, an English boy’s story paper dated 23 December 1933. It is an evocative image but the story it introduced had no scene in it that related to the picture. It was what boys of the time would have probably called “a swizz”.

First published Christmas 2016

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Approved School Santas

used drawing santa claus squad cane

Mr. Jossop, the headmaster of Lansbury Approved School for young offenders, peered through his rimless glasses. Mr. Kochinhand, his senior housemaster, was a kindly man, but this was a hare-brained scheme. It was fraught with danger. It was sure to be a disaster.

“The Rotary Club are one-hundred-percent behind it, headmaster,” Kochinhand beamed.

They would be, Jossop grimaced.

“What could possibly go wrong, headmaster?” Kochinhand was not to be deterred.

Jossop’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. Everything, he thought. Everything.

The Rotary had organised it all, Kochinhand had explained. Young children all over town would get a visit from Santa Claus. The orphanage, the children’s hospital, the many charities that gave meals to the children of destitute families.

“And they want our lads to be the Santas,” Kochinhand could not stop beaming. “It’s an excellent idea, don’t you think, headmaster? It would give our boys a chance to show responsibility,” Kochinhand wrung his hands together. “What could possibly go wrong?” he asked again.

Lansbury was a school for young criminals. Four hundred boys, up to the age of nineteen, crammed the dormitories and classrooms. Thieves, robbers, repeat offenders. They shouldn’t be let loose on poor defenceless children, Jessop thought.

What could possibly go wrong? They could abscond. That’s what. It was by far the biggest headache approved schools faced. They weren’t prisons; they were just boarding schools. Slightly more secure than the most expensive fee-paying schools in the land, but boarding schools nonetheless.

Absconding. That was why the boys were forced to wear ridiculous uniforms. Brown short trousers and beige knee socks. Up to the age of nineteen. Any boy on the run from approved school would be immediately spotted by the public. Especially in the depths of winter.

They always came back. Then, they would be up before Jessop. Bent across his desk, resting on their elbows (his preferred position), while he lashed his stout but whippy cane across the seat of their short trousers. Eight strokes for the sixteens and overs. Six of the best for the rest.

“So, headmaster,” Kochinhand was not letting this go, “Do you approve?”

No, Jessop was sure, he decidedly did not approve. If he had his way, the boys would be locked in their rooms over the so-called “festive season.” They were nothing but trouble. Keep them there until New Year had come and gone.

But, life was never so simple. Many important people, those with influence, belonged to Rotary. They would not take kindly if he and his school turned down their offer.

“Go ahead, Mr. Kochinhand,” he sighed. “But, you take responsibility for it mind.”

Beaming from ear-to-ear, Kochinhand left the headmaster’s office. Jessop leaned back in his chair and groaned.

Despite his cheery demeanour, Kochinhand was not confident the boys would sign up for Santa. Never volunteer, was the mantra of the approved-school inmate. Why should they help the bosses?

“It’s for charity,” he told the surly senior boys. “Helping poor children.” He hoped that would strike a chord, for every one of the lads he cajoled was from a deprived family. His reward was silence and indifference. In despair, he slouched off to his study.

He was close to astonished when an hour later Tomkinson, a nineteen-year-old house breaker, knocked confidently on his door. He had six names. All ready to be Santa. “Just give us the sacks and point us in the right direction!” he grinned.

Kochinhand was overjoyed. Jessop suspicious. Why had they volunteered? It could only be they intended to run away. Who wouldn’t prefer to spend Christmas at home than at Lansbury? “I don’t trust them an inch,” he growled. “They’re up to something.”

Jessop had a plan. Next day dressed in his own Santa suit he lined up six Father Christmases. Despite their youth and general thinness, they quite looked the part. Even sour Jessop had to admit that. Jessop paced the ground before them. Tucked under his arm ready to slip into his hand at a moment’s notice was a stout cane. He was rarely seen throughout the school without an ashplant.

He had the air of a sergeant-major as he strode up and down. “Surveillance!” He said the word three times. For emphasis. “You will all be under surveillance. Do not for one moment think of absconding!” The false whiskers covering each boy’s face hid their smirks remarkably well.

Jessop growled his suspicion. There wasn’t a backside in front of him that he hadn’t thrashed in the past few months. Why would the lads want to help the school?

“We’ll be watching you. Like hawks.”

“Ho-ho-ho!” they chanted in unison as they shuffled off to waiting cars, heavy sacks on their shoulders.

 

 

Terry O’Kane, nearly nineteen, habitual shoplifter and house breaker and Santa for the afternoon, stood impatiently. No amount of cheap coloured paper decorations could brighten the dour mission hall.  He knew that green and grey paint. They were the only colours destitute people ever saw.

About thirty ragged children, not a decent meal inside any of them for weeks, sat listless in front of a geezer performing conjuring tricks. By their sides, already abandoned to indifference, were wooden fire engines for the boys and rag dolls for the girls.

O’Kane had performed his duty well. Now, he waited for his chance. There was one more thing to do before he could return to his sleigh and fly off into the night. He inched toward a table, furtively. Watching all the time for movement from the children or their Guardian-appointed overseers. There was no time to lose. There never was in these situations.

O’Kane loved the thrill of it. In a split second he could be away. Job done. Home and dry. Elated. Or, his collar could be felt. A figure of authority gripping him hard. Dragging him to the police station. The Magistrates Court. Approved School. He had seen it all before.

They all watched the conjurer. He was quite good, O’Kane had to admit; although he hated himself for thinking it. The Guardians had moved outside, into the frost, to be away from the stinking children. To smoke a cigarette in peace.

It was now or never. O’Kane slowly backed towards the table. He had already cased the joint. He knew what he wanted. All the usual Christmas fare was there. Turkey. Brussel Sprouts (the kids would love them, O’Kane sneered silently). Cake.

And, in the centre of the groaning trestle table; a plum duff. A Christmas pudding. Satisfied, he was not overseen, the teenager expertly scooped it up with one hand and into his Santa sack. He was through the door to freedom in seconds.

Three streets away at the Baptist Church Hall, Sandy Cockburn (pronounced Co-burn) had given away his presents. Baptists were not renowned for their jollity. These children had clearly leaned the trait young. Cockburn did not much care. He had never liked Christmas. Grownups got drunk, fought with one another and beat their kids. No, as far as Sandy Cockburn cared you could stuff Christmas along with your turkey.

But, he reckoned, this Christmas might be good fun. If the plan worked. It was dangerous; but not reckless. The lads at Lansbury might have the best holiday yet. Some old dame was organising games. The nineteen-year-old scrutinised the room. It was some kind of treasure hunt. They were following clues. Trying to find something. The key was in the Bible.

Cockburn stamped his feet on the ground. The afternoon was getting late, the air chilled quickly. He was glad of the Santa suit; his legs would be turning blue if he was wearing the short trousers of his approved school uniform.

Even so, he wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself for warmth. How much longer would he have to wait? Suddenly, a movement from outside. A car drew up. Cockburn groaned. Jessop, the headmaster, had returned to take him away.

There was no time to lose. It was now or never. He couldn’t disappoint the other lads. They would never let him forget it. He scoured the room. Nobody was looking at him. The Bible was too interesting. Overexcited, overweight children yelled with glee. They had found the clue.

Cockburn shrugged his incomprehension. Two plates of jam tarts disappeared into his sack.

“Hello, Mr. Jessop,” he said cheerfully, as the headmaster lumbered through the door. “Look how excited they are.” He hoped his tormentor couldn’t hear his thumping heart. “I’m so glad you let me be Santa, Sir.”

Jessop growled. “Go wait in the car.”

“Oh yes, Sir,” Cockburn grinned and made his escape.

 

….

 

“Whatever possessed you to think you would get away with this,” the headmaster was at his most pompous. Even, for Jessop. Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, had made himself scarce. He couldn’t face his boss’s smugness.

Before him, bared-kneed, hands behind backs, eyes downcast slightly, stood six approved school lads. They had eaten the Christmas feast of a lifetime. Pies, cakes, pudding; the works. Fine food that tasted much better for being illicit. Stolen. From under the nose of the hated Jessop and his “schoolmaster” wardens.

Jessop rose from his chair and strode purposefully across his study. He stopped at the far end, near a row of cupboards. All present knew what was contained inside. He stopped, sniffed the air a little, and returned more sedately to his desk.

“I could send you all to the Magistrates Court,” he leaned into them, eyes blazing. The boys shuffled uneasily. They didn’t need it spelt out. Repeat offenders. Already approved-school boys. The consequences were dire. The birch. Bared buttocks. No question about it.

Jessop straightened. For two pennies, he would have them carted away. Let some bulky prison officer flog the skin off their backsides. But, he couldn’t. The full story would be told. Jessop, had sanctioned the Santa trip. He had personally supervised it. It would get into the newspapers. The national ones, not just the local rag. It would cost him his job.

Oh, he vowed, silently, he would make Kochinhand pay for this.

“But,” Jessop continued. He tried a warm smile. He wasn’t very good at it. He lacked practice. “This is the season of goodwill,” his stare burnt a hole in O’Kane’s forehead. “So, I shall be lenient.”

The teenager relaxed.

“But, not that lenient,” he scowled. “There shall be no magistrate. We shall deal with this here.”

Cockburn stiffened. This was expected. Jessop was fearsome with the cane. Cockburn had been beaten often – who at the school hadn’t? – but he could never quite get used to it. Other lads appeared to shrug it off. Six, eight strokes were as nothing. Cockburn always suffered. The pain of a beating. The resentment of having to bend over in ridiculous short trousers and offer up his arse to the bullying headmaster to whip. He hated it all.

Jessop retraced his steps across the study. This time, he paused at the far end, delved into his pocket, found a key and inserted it into the lock of a tall thin cupboard. Six lads, pulses racing, feigned indifference, at the rattle of punishment canes. They heard, but could not see, Jessop select one from his vast collection and then swish it. It made a terrific swoosh! as it cut through air.

There was a pause and another rattle. The headmaster was not quite satisfied. Somewhere tucked away at the back of the closet was the rod he wanted. “Ah!” he sighed loudly. Found it. He held it between his hands, flexing it almost lovingly. What a beauty. A Malacca cane, a little over three feet in length. Yellow-brown in colour. Straight, not crook-handled like traditional school canes. Quite thin but dense, with notches along it every four inches or so.

Oh, he wished fervently, if only he were permitted to flog them trousers and pants down. The Malacca was designed to take a bare arse off. Blood would ooze and welts would rise. They would stay for a week or more. A constant reminder to the louts before him of just who was in charge. Who was boss. He was. And, they were the scum of the earth. How dare they steal from the poor. How dare they humiliate him so.

Satisfied with his choice, Jessop pushed the door closed. “Face me,” he barked. There was no need for further words. “You know the drill.”

Indeed, they did. As one man, they shuffled across the study carpet and faced the wall. Unbidden, they placed their hands on their heads, waiting submissively. They heard the almighty swish of Malacca cane hurtling through empty air. Once. Twice. Then, three times.

“Right, O’Kane. You first.”

Pale-faced, the eighteen-year-old slowly turned to face his punisher. The headmaster had a lined face. He would say he had earned those lines. A lifetime fighting with young offenders would do that to you. His expression was mean, but so was his character. When had he stopped beating his boys to help them improve their behaviour and grow to fine adults? Now, he did it for vengeance. Revenge that these boys and countless more before him had destroyed his life. There was no helping the likes of them.

“Bend over the desk.”

O’Kane breathed deeply. He stepped forward and leaned headfirst. Soon his forearms were flat on the desktop. His back was arched and his legs spread. His tight shorts rode up into his crack. His buttocks were meaty, but firm. They stretched tightly. Jessop could see the outline of the teenager’s underpants.

There was nothing to be said, only a deed to perform. Jessop took up position a little to O’Kane’s left, placed the Malacca across the underside of the boy’s bum, and bent his own knees. Then, the cane rose towards the high ceiling of the study. Jessop twisted his body as the rod fell and sliced at full force into O’Kane’s arse.

The boy eyes shut tightly. His teeth bit deep into his lip. His head shook like a neighing horse. It hurt. The pain was incredible. Had Jessop seared him with a red-hot poker?

The second and third cuts swiped into the beefiest area of his rear. Again, O’Kane did the eyes shutting and the lip biting. His bum wriggled from left to right. He hated himself for showing it hurt, but he was not in control. This was a reflex action; his body was protesting against the agony being inflicted on it.

Outside the study door, Kochinhand, the senior housemaster, paced the passageway. How he needed to smoke a cigarette. His nerves were shattered. The message from his colleague Mr. Taser had been curt, brusque even. “Attend, the headmaster’s study. Immediately.”

He had heard of the boys’ trickery. The day would not end well for Kochinhand. The distinct sound of cane thwacking against stretched backside confirmed this. He waited, throat dry. Why couldn’t he get his hands to stop shaking?

He had not been told, but he knew Jessop’s mind. Kochinhand must wait until all six lads had been dealt with. Only once they had been punished and sent on their way, could Kochinhand enter the lion’s den and suffer his own painful fate.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

used drawing cane hold (13)

“So here it is Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun / Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.”

Ben McKenzie hated that song. You heard it everywhere in the run-up to Christmas. It was a tradition. They played it all the time at the supermarket where he worked. He couldn’t get the damn tune out of his head. It had been released more than forty years previously. Long before he was born. Before his mum and dad had been born too, probably.

Ben was pushing twenty years old. He was what he dad called “bone idle.” He meant he was lazy. It was true. Ben hadn’t had a proper job since he dropped out of school four years previously. There was work out there, even for unqualified kids. Ben preferred to spend his time playing games on his computer or staying in bed masturbating.

Then a couple of his pals told him about the supermarket where they had started working. It was a “cushy” job, especially in the goods-received department. The money wasn’t bad, and it was easy to skive off and hide from the bosses. There were lots of girls working at the supermarket and they weren’t too particular about who they went out with.

And, Toby his best friend told him there was one other big perk. Thieving.

It seemed too good to be true.

But Toby didn’t tell him about Mr Wolf. Ben had to find out for himself.

The supermarket wasn’t too choosy about who it employed. Workers came and went. Many were sixth-form school pupils or students. Others took jobs while they waited for something better to come along.

It turned out his pals were right. The work was easy; and so were the girls. Ben was a good-looking guy, in a pretty-boy kind of way. He was “cute”, rather than “hot”. In his first week, Tracey, gave him a hand job. They sneaked away and used a disused office at the back of the store. All the kids did it, but it was Ben’s first sexual encounter that involved another person in nearly a year.

It was the week before Christmas. A very expensive time of the year. Presents had to be bought and parties attended. It all cost money. Ben was on wages, but they didn’t go far. Not after his mum took her share for his keep at home.

No problem, Toby told him. Steal the presents from the supermarket. Everybody did it. It was a perk of the job. The bosses didn’t mind within reason. They called it “breakages.” They put an extra penny on the shoppers’ bills to pay for it.

When they first started in the 1950s supermarkets were a place where you went to buy fruit and vegetables and a packet of tea. But by 2015 they had become a one-stop shop for everything you might ever need. They were a thief’s paradise.

“Keep it simple,” Toby advised. “Take things you can hide in your pocket or under your coat.”

That was the first time that Ben noticed a lot of the lads at supermarket came to work in old-fashioned parka coats or beat-up Barbours. They had lots of hidden pockets.

At home one night Ben wrote his Christmas present list. Keep it simple, Toby had said. So he did. A bottle of tequila or some other expensive booze would do for each of his friends. He didn’t know at first what to get his dad, so he settled on cigars. His mum would get posh perfume.

There were only three shopping days left until Christmas. Or three thieving days in Ben’s case. The guys at the supermarket had it down to a fine art. (But, you’ll have to go somewhere else to find the details, this is a moral story you are reading.) Mum and dad’s presents were sorted first. It’s not too difficult to stuff a small bottle of Chanel into your pocket. Especially when your fellow workers pretended not to see you do it.

“Hello, Ben,” the teenager was startled. He hadn’t heard Mr Wolf his boss creep up on him. Mr Wolf wasn’t his proper name. His real name started with “Wolf,” but was long and had a “C” and a “Z” and a “H” in it somewhere. He was Polish or possibly Lithuanian, Ben wasn’t too sure. He wouldn’t know the difference. It was somewhere in eastern Europe, he did know that.

Mr Wolf spoke with a bit of an accent. So did Ben, of course. But they were different accents. English wasn’t Mr Wolf’s first language, but he made himself clear.

“This is your last chance. Don’t do it again.”

And, with that he was gone.

“Don’t worry,” Toby advised him later. “He’s the supervisor, he has to say that. It’s his job”

“So, I can still get the booze? I wanted to take it today when I go home.”

“Yes, you’ll be fine,” Toby smiled reassuringly. But, he knew from his own painful experience that he might be lying.

Mr Wolf thought he was a kind man. Live and let live was his motto. But, when he was at the supermarket, he had his job to do. He was a proud man. He had left his family behind and travelled half way across Europe to find work. He was honest too. He would never steal. God was his witness.

But England was not like home. The young people here were lazy and selfish. They wanted everything handed to them on a plate. They thought they were owed a living. They didn’t expect to work for it.

Mr Wolf didn’t know much about Ben. He was just another typical English teenager. He was one among the hundreds, possibly thousands, who had worked at the supermarket in the two years since he arrived. If the boy stole again, he would treat him exactly the same way he did the others.

It was nearly eight in the evening and Ben’s shift was coming to an end. That bloody song was oozing out of the loudspeakers. “Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.” For two pins Ben would have drowned the whole lot of the Slade pop group at birth, starting with Noddy Holder, the lead singer.

Glancing to left and right to make sure the bosses weren’t around, he skipped into the alcohol hold, grabbed a bottle of tequila and tucked it under his coat. He didn’t break sweat. Nobody cared.

He swiped his ID card at the exit. Home and free.

Not quite.

“Ben,” it was Mr Wolf, “Come into the office.”

He was an angry man. He had given the teenager fair warning. The brat had taken no notice. He had insulted him. Tried to make him look a fool. He showed no respect.

Ben stood impassively in the office as Mr Wolf told him all these things.

“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.” He didn’t say it out loud.

But he did say, “Who cares? It’s just company property. Everyone does it.”

“Not on my watch,” it was an American idiom, Mr Wolf had learned from the movies. It meant he had standards.

A frown spread across Ben’s bright open pretty-boy face. He didn’t understand what Mr Wolf was saying.

So, his boss spelled it out. He had been warned not to thieve, but he had ignored it. Not only was he a thief, he deliberately disobeyed an order. He had tied to make a fool of him.

“But… “ Ben blustered, not sure what to say.

Mr Wolf cut him short. “I am going to call Security and they will inform the police. You will spend Christmas in jail.”

The teenager felt tears welling up in his eyes. Police. Jail. This wasn’t how Toby said it would be.

“But…” Ben tried again, but still he couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

Mr Wolf glared at the boy, his face like thunder. He had no intention of involving the police. He hated the police. They had been so cruel in his homeland.

Mr Wolf had a plan. He had used it before on young thieves. He would use it again. Back home if a boy stole, his father would thrash him. Even young men in their twenties could expect a sound caning. Of course, such action was seldom necessary. The thought of a whipping was enough to deter them from crime.

Mr Wolf leaned over to a table and opened a drawer that ran along its length. Ben’s eyes followed him as he put his hand inside the drawer and rummaged around. Seconds later he withdrew a straight yellow stick.

Ben had never seen such a thing before. It was a dark yellow and more than three feet long. Black tape had been wound around one end to form a simple handle. It was not quite straight. Constant use had warped it slightly.

The teenager’s jaw fell slightly when Mr Wolf flexed the stick between his hands. It was as thick as a man’s little finger, but it easily curved into a bow. Mr Wolf swished the cane though the air, missing Ben’s face by inches. The boy felt a breeze against his cheek as it whistled by.

“Ha, so you have never seen a cane before.” Mr Wolf was not surprised. None of the young men he had dealt with previously at the supermarket had either. That explained a lot, Mr Wolf thought. They were totally lacking in discipline. The schools had abandoned corporal punishment decades ago. Look what good that had done.

He swished the cane once more, delighted at how much it intimidated the young thief.

“The choice is yours,” Mr Wolf tapped the cane against his own right leg. “The police … or this.”

“But …” Ben had not regained his power of speech. He choked back tears.

“You cannot go unpunished,” Mr Wolf growled. He swiped the cane through the air, terrifying the teenager.

“It’s my way or the highway.” That was another phrase he had learned from the television. It meant he was in charge.

“You should take off your coat.” Mr Wolf spoke gently. He knew that young men about to be thrashed for the first time needed to be guided through the process. He would take it one step at a time.

In the days that followed Ben tried without success to remember exactly what happened in that office. Somehow, unconsciously he had erased it from his memory. What he did know for certain was that his backside had been cut to ribbons. The welts from the cane were so deep and thick it would take more than a week for them to clear. Even then, when he was in the shower and he let hot water pour across his buttocks, thin cane marks reappeared.

Obediently, Ben slipped off his coat and placed it on an old wooden chair.

“Stand by the table.” It was a cheap, topped with Formica and hardly three feet wide.

Mr Wolf studied the boy before him. He was nearly six-feet tall and lanky. His arms fell awkwardly at his side.  The teenager’s eyes shone, glistened by the tears trying to force their way through. He had a blank far-away look.

“Trousers down.” Ben was wearing dirty cream-coloured cotton chinos, held at the waist by a wide leather belt. He made no attempt to move.

“Trousers down.” It was a sterner command this time. Still Ben did not move. It was as if he had not heard.

“Pah!” Mr Wolf exhaled air through his half-clenched teeth. He stepped forward and grabbed the boy at the waist. Ben did not resist. In seconds Mr Wolf had the belt buckle loose and the chinos were at Ben’s knees.

“Bend over the table.” This time Ben did hear. As if in a trance, he gently lowered himself forward. He made no protest.

Ben was so tall and the table so narrow that his body easily fitted across the Formica top. Instinctively, for Mr Wolf gave no further instruction, the teenager reached forward and grabbed the two table legs ahead of him. One in each hand.

Mr Wolf had thrashed many of the boys at the supermarket. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were short and squat, others tall and gangly. Many had too much body fat. The flab on their stomachs spread out beneath their body. Their buttocks were so plump they would wobble like jelly each time the cane made contact with the mounds of flesh.

Ben was leaner. He took no exercise, but was naturally thin. His bodily metabolism dealt with the hamburgers and copious amounts of beer he consumed most days.

Mr Wolf took hold of the tail of Ben’s shirt and tugged it up the small of his back. Just far enough to leave the target area clear. He was wearing loose-fitting boxer shorts, so Mr Wolf spent a moment smoothing them out. He wanted all the creases removed. It hurt a boy much more if the underwear fitted snuggly against the buttocks. It should be like a second skin.

By now, Ben had closed his eyes tightly shut. It seemed to Mr Wolf that the boy was determined to take his just punishment without a fuss. He hoped so.

He was distressed when a young man couldn’t take his beating passively. Sometimes one would refuse to bend over and there would be an unseemly fight with Mr Wolf, The boss was somewhere in his forties, but he had worked hard all his life. Youngsters were astounded when he was able to force them face-down over the table. He kept some small pieces of rope in the drawer. They could be used to tie the wrists of the boy to the table legs.

Ben’s breathing was shallow. He had remained almost entirely silent from the moment the two men had entered the office.

Mr Wolf tapped the cane across Ben’s buttocks, just to get his aim. The bum cheeks responded by tightening, as if preparing themselves to ward off an almighty battering.

Thwip! It was a wicked slash. Mr Wolf might have been beating a carpet. The cane broke through the surface of the boy’s cheeks and through the sheer force of the slash continued onwards into the meat of Ben’s bum. A thick white line appeared across the centre of Ben’s boxers where the cotton had been disturbed. Mr Wolf knew from experience that a thick red line would already have formed in the flesh.

Ben’s yelp confirmed that the cut had bitten deep. It was agony. The teenager kicked his legs back as the pain seared through his backside. He stamped his feet up and down and gripped the table legs as if his very life depended on it.

Mr Wolf was not a cruel man. He delivered punishments, not torture. But, a beating had to hurt otherwise what was the point of it all?

Ben received the second cut surprisingly well, Mr Wolf thought. It was slightly harder than the first and landed a half inch or so lower. Ben repeated his military dance and his hips wriggled from left to right. His yelp was more intense and his shallow breathing was heavier now.

Mr Wolf heard footsteps approach from outside the office. Then they stopped. The door was closed, but not locked. The visitor had hesitated. Mr Wolf’s reputation was well-known among his fellow supervisors. Rather like the shop-floor workers, they preferred to turn a blind eye.

Slashes number three and four cut the lower part of Ben’s buttocks to shreds. The yellow-coloured boxer shorts had turned orange in places. Blood was seeping from the wounds inflicted by the mightily-effective cane.

Ben bounced his forehead up and down on the table top. It was a natural reaction to the intense suffering he felt. Tears flowed freely and his throat was full of bile. He choked the vomit back down, provoking a fitting cough.

Yes, the boy was taking his thrashing rather well, Mr Wolf thought. When he had dealt with Ben’s friend Toby last month the boy howled the office down after only two strokes.

Mr Wolf gave Ben a few moments to settle. His throat was now clear and he was ready for number five.

Although the thief prostrated before him was a tall young man, his buttocks were quite small and tight. Unlike with the fat, almost obese, youngsters Mr Wolf often caned there was not much to aim at. It was inevitable that at least one cut would land on a weal, extending the already deep cut and intensifying the agony.

Mr Wolf had not meant to do it. It was a hazard of the job. Ben positively screamed. Instinctively he jumped to his feet jumping up and down on the spot while rubbing away furiously at his behind. It did nothing to relive the pain. Instead by pressing down on open wounds it intensified the soreness.

Then, Mr Wolf watched in astonishment as Ben did something that no other youngster had ever done before. Unbidden, the nineteen-year-old thief lifted his shirt clear of his underwear, before leaning forward across the desk and submissively offering himself for the sixth and final stroke.

Mr Wolf had not intended to land the fifth stoke across an existing welt. Not so the sixth.  This was what Mr Wolf thought of as his “trademark.” He repositioned his cane so that it aimed from the lower half of the left buttock across to the top half of the right. Then he let fly. The swipe landed diagonally across all previous five cuts.

Ben was on his feet again. Howling and howling. He ran on the spot, doubled up like a pocket-knife and then ran again. Nothing could extinguish the intense agony in his bankside.

There was no reason for him to compose himself and go back over the Formica top. It was over. He had taken his punishment. It was, Mr Wolf believed, what the English used to call “six-of-the-best.” That was in the days when schools still believed in discipline.

Kindly, Mr Wolf handed the punished boy a fistful of paper handkerchiefs. Ben was composing himself. The tears had eased to sobs and would quickly dry altogether. The agony in his buttocks had turned to an intense throb. He did not yet realise how scarred his buttocks were. He would find out soon enough when he returned to his home.

Mr Wolf gave Ben a few minutes to recover and sent him on his way, clearly understanding the consequences of any future thieving.

Ben had barely left the office before Mr Wolf picked up the telephone and called Ben’s dad to tell him what he had done to his son. Mr McKenzie listened impassively, thanked his caller and waited for his son to arrive home.

Ben hobbled through the goods-received section towards the exit. That flaming Christmas song was still coming through the loudspeakers.

“Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.

“Merry Christmas everybody!”

 

First published Christmas 2015

Picture credit: Unknown

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com