The Morning After the Night Before

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Steve stood shivering in his vest and underpants. It was the cold. And the anger. Mostly it was his anger. “I cannot believe the way he behaved,” he fumed. “I’ll never hear the end of this.”

He pulled on his trousers and a shirt and shuffled into the bathroom. The shower was warm. It dealt with his cold. But not his anger.

Soon, he was in the kitchen opening and banging shut cupboard doors. He slammed a bowl onto the table and sent an avalanche of cornflakes into it. A handful missed and sprayed onto the floor. He left them there. The brat Tony could deal with them later.

Steve opened the fridge, picked up a carton and sniffed it. He drenched the cereal with milk and bounded into the living room. He switched on the gas fire. The chill soon disappeared. But not his fury. He sat back in an armchair and gulped his breakfast. Needles were falling off the Christmas tree. Why did they have to get a real tree, he wondered. They were more trouble than they were worth. He’d be picking needles out of his feet for days.

Christmas was nearly over for another year. Thank the Lord. Why did they bother? He had spent the day with his parents and family. He and Tony. That’s what you were supposed to do at Christmas. It was a time for families. Everybody knew that. It was in all the TV commercials. Happy, smiling faces.

Bah! Humbug!

Drunkenness. Rows, recriminations. Words said that could never be unsaid. There had very nearly been a fist-fight. Tony was in the middle of it all.

Steve returned to the kitchen. Ran his bowl under the tap. Switched on the kettle. Sat. Waited. Upstairs floorboards creaked. Tony was up. Steve’s heart raced. There would have to be a confrontation. It couldn’t be avoided. Tony couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

Kettle boiled. Coffee made. Steve was back in the front room. He switched on the television and ran through three hundred and ten channels. Then he switched it off. Nothing worth watching. Went to the window. Cold grey skies. December. Why did it never snow at Christmas? Wasn’t it supposed to be a tradition?

The door opened. Tony stood on the threshold. Not sure whether to enter the room. Steve’s glare sent him scuttling to the kitchen.

“Don’t you run away from me!” Steve yelled after him.

“What do you want?” Tony stood sheepishly. Hopping from foot to foot. Hands to his front. Fingers entwined. A very naughty boy.

“You know damn well.”

Tony stared at the carpet. Silent.

“I have never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“What’s it to do with you, anyway?”

Steve flushed. “How dare ….”

Tony cut him off. “You need to remember you’re my kid brother.”

“That’s it. That’s it.” Steve rose from his chair and advanced on Tony. His brother dodged into the kitchen. “Get back here. I’m going to do what Dad should have done yesterday.”

“Oh do shut up!”

“Get back in here now!”

Tony returned, coffee mug in hand.

“Put that down. Get over here.” Steve pulled a hard-seated dining room chair into the middle of the room.

“Piss off. You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“You behave like a brat; I’ll treat you like one.”

Tony gulped on his coffee. He gasped. Too hot.

“Get over here.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses. No way.”

Steve sat down. Spread his legs wide. “I won’t tell you again.”

Tony’s face was crimson; his heart pounded.

“No, c’mon Steve. I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not. You enjoy it. You go out of your way to wind them up. You spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day.”

“Come off it. They didn’t need me. Aunt Edna could do that on her own. And, Mum’s not much better.”

“You started it.”

“No I didn’t. Edna did. Going on about me having no job. And you having to put me up to keep me off the streets.” Tony bristled. He was having a hard time of it. He didn’t need his family to rub it in.

Steve seized his chance. “If you don’t want to go back on the streets, you’d better do what I say.”

A flash of anger. Controlled just in time. “C’mon Steve.” Pleading in his voice. This was just too embarrassing.

“Let’s have those trousers down. Pants too.”

“C …” Tony cut his own sentence. What could he say? What could he do? His own kid brother had him by the short and curlies. Would he really throw him out the house? He just might. Tony couldn’t take the chance.

“Quickly. Or do you want me to do it for you.” Steve rose from the chair.

“Leave me alone.”

“Shall we go upstairs and pack your bag?” Steve was reasonableness itself. As if his elder brother had any choice.

“No, I didn’t think so. Come here.” He reached for Tony’s left arm and dragged him along. He sat on the chair and tugged his brother by the waist. No resistance. The belt unbuckled easily. The front of the trousers opened. They slid to his knees. Baggy, ill-fitting Boxer shorts followed.

“Get over my knee,” Steve growled and he guided his brother face-down.

“Just like Dad used to do it.” Steve’s palm smacked into Tony’s ample arse. Up and down; up and down. He was surprised how quickly the image of his hand was imprinted time and again in the pink wobbly flesh.

Tony gasped. Surprised how much it hurt. Steve smacked on. Hard. Rapid. Continuous. Soon, every square inch of his big round bum was a dark pink. Satisfied with his work so far, he started on the back of the thighs.

“Ooohh.” That hurt. Tony wriggled. Kicked his legs about.

“No you don’t.” Steve lay his arm across his brother’s back. He was going nowhere.

It seemed like an hour to Tony, but it was probably only a couple of minutes.

“Are you learning your lesson?”

Silence.

Smack! Smack!

“Do I need to go fetch the bath-brush!”

“No. No. I’m learning … I’ve learnt my lesson.”

“I’m not so sure.”

Another minute or so. Another hundred rapid spanks. Steve’s palm was raw. But, he knew darn well, not as sore as his brother’s buttocks. The flesh shook as each successive slap sank home.

“Enough. Stand up.”

Tony struggled to his feet. Couldn’t look his brother in the eye. Bent and retrieved his Boxers. Then, his trousers. His bum was hot. Throbbing. Had his Dad’s spankings ever hurt so much?

Steve rose. Put the chair back where it belonged.

“Why don’t you piss off back to your room. Keep out of my sight for the rest of the day.”

Tony took the stairs two at a time. Crashed through the door. Whipped his trousers and pants down. Poked his bum at the mirror. What a sight. Could a hand really do so much damage?

Fell face down on the bed. Rubbed his sore bum. Tears welled in his eyes. Forty years old and spanked by his kid brother. Who would ever believe it?

Picture credit: C of Sweden

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Snowballs

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Dr Henderson-Smith the headmaster was at his most self-important. Five hundred schoolboys sat in rapt attention.

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, berated his boys. He was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. His grey moustache bristled and his knitted brows frowned.

The headmaster had centre stage and the old ham actor was enjoying his moment. The topic of his sermon was snowballs; and the throwing thereof. The dangers of eyes poked out by shards of ice. Damp clothes and influenza.

He wrapped his academic gown around his body giving the appearance of a crow about to take flight. “I do not have to spell out the consequences to any boy found throwing snow.”

Undeniably he did not. St Francis Independent Grammar was a traditional school. It had traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. An errant boy could expect a very sore backside indeed.

It was proving to be one of the worst winters on record. Brocklehurst had been carpeted with snow for most of December. It had stopped snowing for a while, but forecasters predicted more to come. It might even be a white Christmas.

That evening George Baker, sixth-form pupil and prefect at St Francis, stared from his bedroom window. The snow was falling once more. He tucked a hot water bottle beneath his sheets and dived under the blankets. Shivering in bed, he went through a plan in his head. He had been thinking about it for months. Maybe, he thought, one day, he would put the plan into operation.

The next day Dr Henderson-Smith sat in his study. The school day was completed. The open fire roared, but there was still a chill in the air. He busied himself preparing a composition to inflict on his Upper VI Latin class. His concentration was disturbed by a dull thudding noise. He paused from his labours, uncertain what it was that he had heard.

Then, there it was again. Thud. Something had connected with the outside of the study window.

“What the Dickens?” the headmaster said aloud, even though he was alone in the room. When a third thud followed, he was certain he had solved the mystery.

A handful of snow was slithering down the outside of the window.

He rushed over and peered through the now-misty glass.

“What the …?” This time he failed to complete the sentence. Below his study window, in his clear view was a boy throwing snow. Dr Henderson-Smith watched dumbfounded as the boy crouched down, scooped snow into his hand, fashioned it into a ball, and then threw it, seemingly at random at passing pupils.

The boy was clearing disobeying the headmaster’s instruction. No snowballs. Dr Henderson-Smith stared with radioactive eyes. Then he threw open the window and roared, “Baker, my study. This instance!”

The boy dropped the snow he was fashioning for another missile and turned to face the noise.

“Yes, Sir,” he said meekly and moved to enter the building.

The headmaster closed the window and sat at his desk, dumbfounded. He had caught George Baker throwing snowballs in clear violation of the headmaster’s expressed instructions.

George Baker? Sixth-former and prefect. The boy was in the headmaster’s Latin class. He was among the brightest boys in the school and was destined to go up to one of the country’s top universities.

There was a timid knock on the heavy oak door of the study. Baker had arrived.

“Enter!” Dr Henderson-Smith bellowed. Slowly, the door inched open and a head appeared. It was a small head topped with short curly black hair. The face was flushed; possibly caused by freezing cold air; or possibly because its owner, one George Baker, knew he was in serious trouble. Very serious trouble indeed.

“Don’t dawdle boy!” Dr Henderson-Smith was incapable of speaking at a normal volume. “Close the door, you are letting the warmth escape.”

Baker edged his way into the room, closed the door behind him and halted, unsure what to do next.

He eyed the headmaster resplendent in his academic gown, seated behind a huge oak desk. The boy had never been in this room before. There had been no reason for him to visit. Particularly not for the purpose that had brought him today. Baker found the dense oak panelling intimidating. The room was gloomy even during bright sunny days, but now, in the bleak mid-winter, it felt like the inside of a cave.

“Stand there boy!” the headmaster pointed very deliberately to a point on a worn rug in front of his desk. Generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet on this spot. It was the first phase of a ritual played out over possibly hundreds of years at St Francis. This was where every sorrowful boy stopped and stood, head bowed, to await his fate.

The second phase was the “jawing.” The headmaster berated the woeful boy for his misbehaviours. Dr Henderson-Smith had perfected his own style: pomposity. He aimed his steely eyes at Baker like a weapon.

“Were you not in att-end-ance at morn-ing ass-emb-er-ley yes-ter-day morn-er-ing?” the headmaster strung out every syllable for dramatic effect. This way, he believed, he struck terror into his boys.

Baker listened confused. When Dr Henderson-Smith spoke this way it could be difficult to follow what he was saying.

“Well, Baker?”

The eighteen-year-old sixth-former took a stab at a reply.

“Yes, Sir.” It was not a detailed response, but the boy hoped it would do in the circumstances.

“Pah!” It was an explosion. Air rushed through the headmaster’s lips. His snowy white moustache bristled; his eyebrows knotted. The outrage he felt was intense.

“And, yet!” Dr Henderson-Smith was barely in control. “And yet, you saw fit to disobey my clear instructions on the throwing of snowballs!”  The headmaster was speaking more clearly now, but Baker was unsure if this was a rhetorical question. Was he supposed to answer?

He chose silence. He stared down at his feet and let his headmaster continue his denunciation.

“Never in my whole life as a headmaster,” he lied, “have I ever come across such wilful disobedience as this Baker. Never.”

Dr Henderson-Smith slapped the palm of his right hand on the desktop, startling young Baker who was intently studying the pattern on the rug.

“What do you have to say for yourself boy?”

Baker’s heart pounded. What could he say? He wished the headmaster would just get on with it.

“Well!” the headmaster screeched. He genuinely could not understand what Baker had been thinking.

“Sorry, Sir.” It was all he could think to say. He certainly couldn’t tell the truth.

“Pah!” It was another explosion of indignation. Sorry, the headmaster thought to himself. You soon will be.

“You leave me no choice, Baker.”

The boy raised his head. His grey-blue eyes shone as he watched the headmaster heave himself from his chair and pace the study. His destination was a corner cupboard. It was unlocked and within seconds the headmaster was rummaging round inside. His body blocked the teenager’s view, but he could hear a distinct rattling within.

Seconds later, Dr Henderson-Smith withdrew a curve-handled cane. Baker had seen many of these in the past; St Francis was that kind of school. But he had never before been on the receiving end of one. The headmaster looked attentively at the cane in his hands; as if seeing it for the first time. He murmured to himself and thoughtfully he flexed it between both hands. It was a little over three feet long and no thicker than a pencil.

Baker gawked from a distance. As school canes went it did not look especially vicious, he thought. He had seen longer and thicker ones. But, what this caning novice did not know was that in expert hands even a short thin cane could be made to deliver an excruciating sting. Dr Henderson-Smith was such an expert.

The headmaster turned to face the boy. He swished the cane through the air. If the swoosh! that it made was intended to intimidate the sixth-former it worked. For the first time that afternoon Baker wondered if disobedience had been such a good idea.

“Take you blazer off and hang it on the hook on the door.”

Baker wanted to comply with the order, but his fingers didn’t want to work. Was it the cold or his nerves, he wasn’t quite sure.

Eventually, the jacket was in place.

The headmaster swished the cane once more. “Stand in front of my desk.”

Baker had never been caned in his life, but he had heard enough tales from school friends to know that in a moment he would be bent across the desk, with his bum in the air to allow the headmaster to thwack six-of-the-best across the seat of his trousers. It would hurt like blazes. He expected that. That was after all the point of it all.

“Lower your trousers.”

Baker had not expected that and the pleading look in his eyes betrayed his feeling. He stood rooted.

“Lower your trousers boy!” the headmaster repeated, a little louder this time.

Still Baker could not move.

“If you do not submit yourself to corporal punishment, I shall contact your father and tell him you are suspended from school. Do you wish me to do that?” The headmaster spoke slowly and deliberately.

He hoped it would not come to that. What on Earth would Mr Baker make of the situation? His eighteen-year-old son in the headmaster’s study refusing to take a beating. His son who had never given a moment’s trouble before. He had never needed caning before; never been given detention; never been set lines. He had probably never been admonished for bad behaviour in his life.

“One last time Baker. Lower your trousers.”

Sweat from the boy’s palms transferred to the belt as with shaking hands he struggled to loosen it. He could feel blood racing through his body at great speed as he pulled the buttons of his trousers loose, exposing the white Y-front underpants beneath.

The mid-grey trousers slipped down to his knees. He waited for the next instruction. Dr Henderson-Smith had developed a cruel streak in his years as a headmaster. The youngster standing in front of him was terrified. Dear God, the boy would be thinking, please don’t make me take down my underpants. The headmaster waited a moment and then waited some more.

“Lift your pullover and shirt clear of your bottom and bend over the desk.” He tapped the cane gently across the hard oak desktop in case there was any doubt.

Even though blood coursed through his body, it drained from Baker’s face, making him look ghoulish.

The boy adjusted his clothing exposing a flat hairless stomach and stretched his arms out ahead of him, gripping the desk top with both hands and thrusting his bottom out.

“Not like that,” the headmaster was easily irritated when a boy did not present himself properly for a caning. “Right over. Flat on your stomach.”

Baker eased forward. It was a huge desk and it was a stretch for him to reach the far edge with his hands. Unsure what to do with his arms, he folded them and tried to bury his head.

“Put your hands on your head and keep them there,” the headmaster barked. “Do not move them and at no point try to protect yourself with your hands.”

Baker did as instructed. Hands on head worked. It was a surprisingly comfortable stance to take. Comfortable for now, but what happened next would be far from that.

Thinking about it later, Baker tried to imagine the scene. He was stretched across a huge oak desk; his trousers now at his ankles, revealing long, slim, slightly hairy legs. His shirt and pullover was pushed up and his midriff was bare. It was a cold room but he could feel the heat from the roaring open fire against his naked flesh. His white cotton underpants fitted snugly once the headmaster had tugged them tight against his buttocks.

His face was pressed down into the old oak desk. There was a faint aroma that he couldn’t identify; probably some kind of polish.

He waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr Henderson Smith a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baker imagined, the headmaster preparing himself, flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the headmaster laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

Baker’s mouth opened and closed. “Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being exhaled. The boy tightened his grip on his entwined fingers and pressed down on the top of his head.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. That got Baker yelping. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baker had expected. How could anyone take six strokes like this? Then, he panicked. Six? It was to be six wasn’t it? The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff. Would it be more? Please God, no.

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. Dr Henderson-Smith was giving it some beef. Each stroke had been an almighty swipe; he could have been beating a carpet. This one had the boy’s feet marching up and down on the spot. His bum felt swollen. He desperately wanted to jump up and rub away.

“Oh, no!” Baker thought it but did not say it aloud. Dr Henderson-Smith had taken hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. “Please, no, don’t pull them down.”

He bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to beg for mercy. But, he need not worry. The headmaster pulled the waistband of the Y-fronts away from the boy’s back to get a full view of his bare buttocks. He was inspecting the damage done so far.

What he saw were three deep red marks, across both cheeks, almost parallel to one another. A thick welt had formed where two of the strokes had landed nearly in the same place. If he struck that area again, it would surely bleed, he thought.

The headmaster was not a sadist. He believed in corporal punishment; not in torture. A caning should be well laid on, especially if the body on the receiving end was a senior boy, or a recidivist, a repeat offender. Intense pain should be inflicted and there should be marks that would stay for days, a reminder of the penalty for bad behaviour.

Dr Henderson-Smith did not wish to leave Baker’s buttocks bloodied, so for number four he took aim lower down, away from the danger area. It struck at the sensitive “sit spot,” where the cheeks met the thighs. That one had Baker hollering. Tears flowed. He head-butted the desk; he marched his feet up and down and twisted his hips and bottom; but none of it helped. The agony was intense and it was not going away any time soon.

Four strokes had been delivered in a carefully timed sequence. Sufficient time was allowed to elapse so the full force of a stroke could be felt before the next was sent crashing home. The final two were delivered in quick succession, and at intense speed. Whack-whack. The whippy rattan bounced off the tight cotton-covered buttocks. It sounded like two pistol shots echoing around the ancient study.

George Baker thought he might faint. His scorched bottom felt like the headmaster had forced him to sit in the open fire. When the headmaster delivered the final cut to the boy he rested the cane on the desktop and waited for the final throaty scream to recede. For what seemed an age neither the headmaster nor the thrashed boy spoke or moved.

The only noise in the room was the continued quiet sobbing of George Baker, still bent across the desk.

Dr Henderson-Smith brushed his hand across the boy’s shoulder. “You may get up now,” he said softly.

Unsteadily, Baker lifted himself off the desk. His backside felt twice its normal size. He rubbed gently and even through the cotton underpants he could feel at least two distinct deep weals. The surface of his bum felt hard, like leather.

Tears still trickled from his eyes, but he was in control of himself now. Gingerly, he pulled up his trousers and tucked in his shirt. He could not bear to look at the headmaster. He wanted to get out of the study without delay.

While Baker struggled into his blazer, Dr Henderson-Smith reached into the drawer of his desk, extracted the punishment book and entered the details.

“Sign,” he pushed the book and a ball-point pen across the desk. The headmaster wanted this to end swiftly too.

“You are dismissed.”

Dr Henderson-Smith stood at the study window perplexed and watched Baker walk through the quadrangle and out of the school gates.

Twenty minutes later at home in his cold bedroom George Baker inspected the damage. The pain had gone, but his bottom was tender to touch. It might be a bit uncomfortable sitting on a hard dining room chair at tea time.

So, he thought, that’s what it felt like to get the cane. It would have been a pity to have gone through his whole school career at St FIGS without knowing. He picked up the Football Monthly, eased himself down on the bed and flicked through its pages.

Picture Credit: The Magnet

 

This story comes from a free-to-download collection of stories about St. Francis Independent Grammar School (St. FIGS). For more details click here.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The School Dance

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Jay Collins’ cock pulsated against his snug cotton underpants. Just the thought of the girls he would meet that night gave him a terrific hard-on. He stared at the tentpole in his pants. It was no good he would have to polish one off.

Quietly, he edged a straight-backed wooden chair towards his bedroom door. Then tipping it on its hind legs he wedged the top under the door handle. That would stop his mum coming in unexpectedly.

He lay on his bed and dragged the white Y-fronts over his throbbing muscle. Jay Collins, eighteen years old and a virgin. He had no control over his prick. He only had to be within ten yards of a girl and it saluted. He spat into the palm of his right hand and worked it up his rigid shaft. He closed his eyes and imagined himself rubbing his face between the breasts of a sixth-form schoolgirl.

It was the annual Christmas dance. The boys from St. Septimus against the girls of St. Winnie’s. His cock would never hold out.

Dr. Fortescue, the new headmaster of St. Septimus Independent Grammar School, had been clear. He was not a man who enjoyed life and he did not see why others should either. His rules for the dance were simple. No alcohol. No cigarettes. No jiving. Full school uniform. He did not say, “No petting between boys and girls.” He assumed that was already taken as read. “I shall be on hand to ensure there is no misbehaviour,” he growled at the boys. They all knew what that meant.

Jay had been at an all-boys’ school since he was eleven years old. He had hardly ever met a girl. Certainly, he had never been alone with one. Not even the sister of a friend. Now, tonight, he desperately hoped, he would be able to get close to one. Maybe, even to touch.

A stream of cum shot over his belly.

. . .

Audrey and Susan were rather mellow; courtesy of the miniature bottles of whisky they had smuggled into the dance in the pockets of their blazers. The school hall was full now. Somebody had taken great care with the decorations. “It actually feels like Christmas,” Susan shouted in her friend’s ear.

Audrey grinned, almost demonically. “Yes, and it’s time to hand out the presents.” Both eighteen year olds giggled conspiratorially.

They might be sixth-formers of St. Winnie’s, a somewhat demur school for girls, but they were worldly-wise. Like so many young women they found boys of their age own immature. Audrey and Susan preferred the undergraduates at the local university, and the students liked them very much indeed. There was something about a girl’s school gymslip and navy blue knickers that sent the boys wild. Audrey and Susan had long since ceased to be “maidens.”

Susan shrieked theatrically as yet another St. SIGS boy held a sprig of mistletoe above her head and demanded a kiss. She obliged and pursed her lips against a spotty cheek. Blushing profusely, the teenager ran away.

“He’s going back to his mother,” Audrey said, satisfied with her own superiority.

“We need to get moving. We’ll run out of time,” Susan cautioned her friend. She nodded an agreement.

The girls had a plan. It was fiendishly simple. It would work easily. They knew so; they loved it that they had so much power.

“Cock virgins. They’re all cock virgins,” Susan had told her friend earlier. “We can have anyone we choose.”

“Let’s find the most desperate two we can and give them the time of their life,” Audrey swung her long auburn hair around her face.

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Susan giggled. The word “hard” had set her off. She knew the allure her breasts had on young males.

Susan chose her victim quickly. A nerdy prefect. “He’s not bad looking either,” she told Audrey. “But, the look of desperation in his eyes …” she turned her own eyes heavenwards.

Audrey couldn’t make up her mind. There were so many to choose from. She rather supposed it would be a fair-haired lad who had danced ineptly with her. “It was obvious he had a hard on,” she reported, then howled, “Actually, he was hung like a donkey.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Susan led her friend back to the boys.

Jay Collins thought he was dreaming. A girl was asking him to go into one of the darkened classrooms with her. His cock thrust through the fly of his pants as she led him by the arm into the passageway. Audrey suppressed a sneer, he was like a dog slavering over a raw steak.

Dr. Fortescue, the headmaster, had abandoned his study. It was too far from the school hall; he would never be able to supervise the dance from there. He wrapped himself in his overcoat and set up a listening post in the geography classroom. Oh, why, he castigated himself, had he allowed this infernal dance to go ahead. He could be in his nice warm house, drooling over a favourite magazine.

The classroom was freezing. He slipped his hand inside his coat and withdrew a bottle of Teachers whisky. “Just for the cold,” he told himself unconvincingly. Furtively, he switched off the light.

The cold and the alcohol befuddled Fortescue. He couldn’t get the image of Peter Rodriquez out of his mind. The eighteen-year-old had troubled him since the first time he saw the olive-skinned beauty in the bar of the George Hotel. The boy’s jet black, almost blue, wavy hair was cut short exposing a longish slim neck. His mid-grey school trousers clung to the outline of his legs which went all the way up to tight muscular buttocks.

The headmaster had thrashed the teenager in front of the whole sixth-form on his unprotected naked buttocks. It was to the first of many beatings. Fortescue was known throughout the school as “The Tyrant Headmaster” and he had earned the title. No excuse was too small to have Rodriquez bent over a chair or the large desk in the headmaster’s study. Earlier that day Fortescue had lashed six stingers with his special dense Malacca cane into the boy’s stretched buttocks. The pale-grey trousers fitted like a second skin; the outline of the boy’s Y-front underpants clearly visible. That would teach him not to throw snowballs.

Fortescue took another sip at the bottle. The stirring in his pants was troublesome. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Stealthily, even though no one else was there to see, he slipped his hand under his overcoat. The tip of his cock was raw. He gasped in cold air.

Suddenly, the door flew open and the light came on. Four teenagers, two girls and two boys, stood in the doorway. It took a second or two for the full horror to sink in.

“Wha …?” Dr. Fortescue blustered hurriedly removing his hand.

“Oh lor!” Keith Green gasped.

All four backtracked, jostling one another in their urgency to leave.

“Wait. Stop where you are!” The headmaster roared. He was a commanding figure. He expected to be obeyed.

“You girl, what do you have there?”

Too late. Audrey had tried to slip the miniature bottles of whisky back into her blazer pocket. She blushed. Confused. The whisky had already gone to her head.

Dr. Fortescue rose from his seat. Standing, he made a tall, grim man. He looked as strong as an ox. The truth of this was soon to be demonstrated.

“All of you. Go to my study. Now. This instance. I shall follow you later.”

Without question, the four shuffled down the passageway. Their fate inevitable. Even for Susan and Audrey and they weren’t pupils at St. SIGS.

The headmaster’s study was set in the clock tower. The doleful teenagers had to slip and slide across the school quadrangle. The cold was intense, but none felt it. They had other concerns.

They manoeuvred the narrow stone steps leading to the study in silence and paused outside the heavy oak door. Without thinking, Green and Collins faced the wall and placed their hands on their heads. Audrey and Susan glanced at each other. They were familiar with these rituals. Things were much the same at St. Winnie’s. They joined their companions in submission. No one spoke. Each was left to contemplate what would happen next.

Minutes later, they heard footsteps. Two people. Voices. Dr. Fortescue had fetched Mrs. Witherington, the senior mistress at St. Winnie’s.

“Ah,” she cried, “I should have known. Henley and Stritch.” Mrs. Witherington, married for twenty years, but still a spinster, gurned her face like a gargoyle.

Dr. Fortescue lead the way into the study. “Wait here until you are called,” he growled over his shoulder as he closed the door. The room was still warm. Embers glowed in the large open fireplace. Satisfied that his manhood was no longer raging, the headmaster removed his overcoat and made about stoking the fire.

Mrs. Witherington admired the study. The huge desk, topped with green leather was magnificent. So was the mullioned window that overlooked the school grounds with its ivy-covered walls.

The study was panelled in oak. The fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there were also two straight-backed chairs leaning against one wall. She rather wished her own study at St. Winnie’s was so splendid.

Fortescue straightened himself from the fire, turned and faced his companion. “Corp-oreal punishment,” he ran the words over his tongue. It was a statement, not a question. They should be beaten, he had decided. His boys would be caned, but he would defer to the senior mistress on the girls.

“Most definitely, headmaster. Most definitely.” The headmaster was taken aback by Mrs. Witherington’s eagerness. She blushed when she noticed his quizzical stare.

Fortescue strode across the study to the tall thin cabinet. He found a key in his trouser pocket and rather like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he opened it with a flourish, suddenly realising how absurdly proud he was of his array of punishment instruments. He stood back offering his companion a view of its contents.

The doctor only used the cane himself; it was the only instrument that a headmaster should use. A thrashing by the Beak had to be awesome, something to be feared by the boys. But, his predecessor was a man of diverse tastes. That was why the cabinet also stored a leather taws, a white rubber-soled gym shoe and a wooden paddle.

The senior mistress’s eyes widened. A wooden paddle. She had never seen such a thing before. She reached in and picked it up, caressing it lovingly. “From America, I suppose,” she whispered softly.

It was a weighty piece of hardwood. It looked like a smaller version of a bread board she had at home. It was probably four inches by nine and had a firm handle attached. It had been lovingly created. All the edges had been sanded smooth and it been painted with several coats of varnish. Six small holes had been drilled into it. She could see it was a little worn, it had seen action in its time.

“Perfect,” she wheezed, as if to herself. “This will do the job.” She held the handle tightly and swished the wood through the air, taking its weight.

“Let’s get them in here,” Dr. Fortescue was taking control.

Four teenagers shuffled into the study. Eyes downcast, they stood hands clasped behind their backs in front of the headmaster’s enormous desk.

Jay Collins raised his eyes from the floor to look at the headmaster. The elderly man was stone-faced; his icy-blue eyes burned into the boy.

Dr. Fortescue was a man of few words, but this time he jawed and he jawed. He addressed the two abject boys. Letting the school down. Girls. Alcohol. He leaned back in his chair, so they could not smell the whisky on his own breath.

Susan and Audrey stared impassively at the worn rug beneath their feet. At least, the headmaster had not discovered the cigarettes. Nor, the condoms.

The lecture over, Dr. Fortescue pronounced sentence. Green and Collins drew in breath. The cane. Six. The boys’ hearts raced. “But,” the headmaster continued, “Mrs. Witherington will attend to the girls.”

The relief was etched on the boys’ faces. The cane. They had expected that. But, no mention of trousers down. Maybe, the Beak was in a festive mood. Goodwill and all that. The last time Keith had been in the study – with two other prefects for defying the Beak’s orders –  it had been six swipes; on the bare. He cut their arses to ribbons. Keith could not sit in comfort for days. It was weeks before the marks cleared completely.

The senior mistress took her cue. “Henley. You first.” She eyed the leather-topped desk she so admired. She nodded to it. “If I may headmaster?” His eyes gave assent. “Bend over that desk.”

Audrey was impassive. She was no stranger to corporal punishment. She stepped forward to the desk’s edge, estimated its size and where she should put her arms and leaned forward.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Witherington barked. “Lift up your skirt. This is to be on the knickers.”

Keith Green’s heart thumped. Instinctively, he glanced at his classmate. Collins face was puce. Sweat was soaking his scalp, even though the study was rather cold. Both boys stared intently as, her own face now scarlet, Audrey hauled herself to her feet. She shot a pleading look at her senior mistress. If it was mercy she sought, her luck was out. All she saw was Witherington holding the paddle in her right hand and stroking it gently with her left.

Audrey had never seen such a weapon before. She had been spanked many time at school and at home with a slipper or a leather strap. They could sting like billyo, but this wooden board was in a different league. Her stomach twisted in knots and she resolved herself to be brave. She couldn’t let herself down in front of the boys. She grinned at them impudently to show she wasn’t afraid.

“Quickly, now,” the senior mistress patience was sorely tested.

Audrey hitched her skirt, uncovering her navy-blue knickers. She caught sight of Jay and remembered how hard he had been during the dance. Hung like a donkey, she had said. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the desktop, gritted her teeth and waited.

Witherington lined up the paddle with the cheeks, patting them gently in warning, then drew back. Whack! Suddenly there was an explosion and Audrey felt pressure against her backside pushing her forward. The paddle bounced off the firm bottom as if it was made of rubber. It was raw pain. The stinging was intense. It was nothing like the slipper or the strap. Her whole bum was alight.

Audrey jumped away from the desk, clutching her knicker-covered rear and danced furiously. Her face was bright red, her eyes bloodshot and watery.

“Stay in position,” the senior mistress growled. Contrite, Audrey lent over the desk once more.

“Green,” Dr. Fortescue had his own work to do. “Over to the chair boy.” He waved a curve-handled rattan cane. Green was startled. He was so fascinated by the girl’s arse; he had quite forgotten his own plight.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Take down your trousers,” the good doctor grinned. “Well as the ladies are being punished on their underwear, so must you,” he said in answer to a question etched on the sixth-former’s face.

Hands trembling, Green released the catch of his belt, conscious of Susan’s eyes burning into him. His trousers slowly slithered down his thighs. His bum was round and firm. He was outgrowing his underpants and they clung tightly to his buttocks and crotch. Unintentionally, Susan licked her top lip as she watched the eighteen-year-old lean forward over the chair, submitting his backside to the lash of the cane.

Jay had no interest in his pal’s predicament. He could not pull away from Mrs. Witherington. She raised the hefty wooden paddle to her shoulder height and slammed it forward. It landed with crushing force against the knicker-covered bottom.

“Ooooh! Ouch!” Audrey roared, half-rising up from the desk.

“Stay in position,” Mrs. Witherington slammed the wood into Audrey’s backside again.

Across the study, the headmaster “sawed” his cane across the top most part of Green’s round bottom. The boy’s body tensed, expecting an explosion of agony. It was not long in coming. Dr. Fortescue spun his body, rather like a golfer, and landed a stinger. He was rewarded by a clear line across the top of the sparkling white underpants. He knew a red raw welt would be instantly forming across the teenager’s taut flesh. Air rushed through Green’s clenched teeth. His knees buckled and his bum rose an inch or two over the back of the armchair. He steadied himself and waited for slash number two, conscious of the paddle raising and falling and the yelps of Audrey from across the study.

The paddle smacked again and again. Audrey soon lost count. Her buttocks quivered and throbbed. Spasms of pain ran across the blistered flesh. By the time the twelfth and final whap! had crashed into her, Audrey’s eyes were wet. Her bum was incredibly sore. She hastily wiped the tears off her face, hoping her friends had not seen. When instructed, she stood, smoothed her skirt down and stood against the wall, allowing her friend Susan to take her place.

Susan was taller than Audrey. Jay, who was no expert on these things, thought her posterior was a little fleshier than her friend’s. It could probably absorb the awesome wood much better. He watched her take hold of the hem of her skirt, raise it high, exposing bottom and long, slim legs and lean forward offering herself to her tormentor.

The headmaster had completed his Six. Keith rose unsteadily and hopped from foot to foot. Even with his pants up, it had been a terrific whacking. He wanted to massage away at the pain, but didn’t want the Beak to know he was hurt.

Audrey, looked on transfixed. She rather wished he had giving himself a rub. She wouldn’t mind feeling that arse for herself.

“Collins, you next.” Dr. Fortescue tucked the cane under his arm and glared at the boy. Jay’s face paled. He could not move. “But, Sir …” he blubbered. His hands wrung in front of him, his shoulders hunched. He couldn’t face the Beak. “Please …. I can’t, Sir. Please, no. Don’t make me.”

The headmaster slipped the cane into is hand and swished it menacingly. “Pah! Come on lad. We haven’t got all night,” he growled. He walked forward, intent on gripping the teenager and hauling him to the chair. Jay Collins swerved to avoid the clutch and ran to the door.

“Stop him! Stop him!” Fortescue roared at an astonished Green. Too late. The door swung open and Jay had made his escape.

“Come back. This instance!” Never in his entire life as a schoolmaster had such a thing happened. Of course, boys were sometimes reluctant to bend over and take their punishment like men. If need be the headmaster would have a senior boy pinion an offender across a desk or chair. But like the Canadian Mounties, Dr. Fortescue always got his man.

Not this time. At least, not yet. Collins was now slipping and sliding across the school quadrangle towards the school gates and his home. A large hot sticky patch of goo spreading through the front of his trousers.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is one in a series of stories called The Tyrant Headmaster. To read episode one, click here

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News at Christmas

z used santa otk paddle bbfc (7a)

Santa Claus Irked at Unexpected Productivity Hike

Special to Lapland Ledger

Santa Claus is reportedly mad at a new directive forcing him to extend his naughty boys’ list to include guys up to the age of 21.

‘It’s outrageous, how can a man his age cope with all that work?’ a spokesperson for Santa told the Lapland Ledger.

By tradition Santa takes two lists with him when he travels across the world on Christmas Eve. Those on the ‘Nice’ list get presents because they have been good boys throughout the year. But guys whose names are on the ‘Naughty’ list can expect Santa to deliver a bare-bottom spanking using his special leather paddle.

The spokesperson said: ‘People don’t realise just how many more guys Santa will have to spank. There isn’t a college sports team in the Western World where players haven’t mooned their bare butts out the back window of the bus.’

The spokesperson said Santa would also have to deal with all those who have drunk alcohol or smoked weed illegally. The numbers could soar into the tens of thousands.

The spankings usually take place in the privacy of the bedroom or in the main living room in front of the seasonally-decorated tree. Naughty young men are expected to submit themselves willingly for the spanking. They would take down their own pants and underwear or pajama bottoms, depending upon how they are dressed. They are then expected to put themselves across Santa’s knee and take what’s coming.

The Lapland Ledger estimated it might take up to five minutes for Santa to complete just one spanking raising questions about whether there are enough hours on Christmas Eve for him to do the job.

Santa’s spokesperson declined to comment but did say: ‘Remember, Santa has mystical powers; he is not like other men.’

The news that late teens could be spanked at Christmas was dismissed by patrons of the Three Fishers bar. One 19-year-old youth who would only be identified as Chris said: ‘’Who cares? Everyone knows that there is no Santa Claus.’

Looks like someone’s in for a shock on Christmas Eve.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

You can never escape from Dad

The thieving nephew

Be careful what you wish for

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

After the party

The parent-teacher association Christmas party was in full swing in the school hall. Wine was being glugged and cheese snacks nibbled. Adam and Steve, senior prefects and bastions of St Simon’s Independent Grammar School, their hosting duties nearly at an end, hurried away from the festivities.

“Quick, in here,” Adam opened a classroom door and ushered his pal into the darkened room. He removed a torch from the pocket of his fancy green and red school blazer and directed its beam into the far corner. “Look what I’ve got.” He leaned forward and picked up a wine bottle. “Goldener Oktober, Liebfraumilch,” he beamed. “Classy stuff. There’s another bottle there,” he nodded into the shadows. “They’ll never miss a couple.”

He pulled out his Swiss Army knife, cut the metal fastening on the bottle and dug out the cork. Then he raised the bottle to his lips and drank heartily before handing it to Steve. The wine was warm, even though the room was not. Steve shivered as the alcohol hit his stomach. Within seconds the bottle was half empty.

The two eighteen year olds perched their buttocks on the edge of a desk, their thighs touching. Their eyes met. Steve tilted his head. Opened his mouth a little. Leant towards Adam’s welcoming lips. Tongues entwined. Fingers ran through hair. The taste of wine intermingled with tobacco from cigarettes smoked earlier.

Adam pulled away. Couldn’t breathe. Needed air. Lungs once again full, he plunged forward. Cocks ached. Steve tugged at Adam’s belt buckle. Undid it. “No, not here,” Adam pushed his pal’s hands away. Not too vigorously. “Someone might come.”

“C’mon, there all at the party. It won’t finish for half hour at least.”

“Okay.” Adam had no willpower. He loved it when Steve tossed him off. Flies were soon undone and trouser fronts opened wide. Aching dicks strained against white cotton Y-fronts.

“Here, let me.” Steve tugged at the elastic waistband pulling the pants over his pal’s smooth buttocks and liberating the erect penis. Steve’s drowned his tongue with spit, leant forward, made a perfect “O” with his lips and took the swelling member in his mouth.

Mr Doughty, the housemaster of Queen’s, needed to pee. He had drunk too much wine and it was going straight through him. The boys’ bogs were close at hand. He would go there. He lurched down the passageway. It was too dark. He reached for the walls to guide him on his way. What was that noise? It sounded like a screeching cat.

He saw a faint light through the window of a classroom and went to investigate. He peered into the gloom and saw two sixth formers; one lying back across a desk, the other leaning into him with the boy’s cock in his mouth.

Doughty’s bladder was about to burst. He rushed on to the lavatories. He knew the boys. He taught one of them. White. What a delightful boy. His cobalt blue eyes could light up a classroom. His crooked smile melted the heart. Often Doughty dreamed of running his fingers through the teenager’s unruly fair hair.

The housemaster rested his head against cold wall tiles as he directed piss into the urinal, his cock stiffening in his hand.

Moments later he was back at the classroom. He shoved open the door and switched on the lights. “What the … ?” Two terrified pupils, trousers and underpants at their knees, gaped.

“I have never in my life … Words fail me …” the housemaster stared at Steve White’s steel-hard cock. Then, quickly averted his gaze.

“We have guests. Parents. School governors …” Doughty’s brain could not communicate with his mouth. His stomach churned. “My study. Tomorrow morning. Both of you.” He closed the door and unsteadily returned to the party, leaving behind two bewildered schoolboys.

The next day dawned brightly and sunbeams hit Steve in the face as he lay in bed. He had barely slept. His life was about to end. He and Adam had talked about it. Expulsion from school was the least of their worries. Would Doughty tell the police? Steve was too scared to go to prison. Everyone would know. His friends would desert him. God! What would his father say? Or do? Steve might be homeless before the day ended.

Doughty had a bad night too. His wife assumed he was drunk, as he often was. The schoolmaster’s mind was filled with the hugeness of Steve’s throbbing cock. When Doughty reached for it the teenager thrust his hips forward. The hot throbbing prick felt like a velvet covered steel rod in his hand; and, when Doughty started stroking it, Steve inhaled deeply, moaning softly.

Doughty’s own dick stood rock hard and his wife took full advantage.

Hours later, Adam and Steve stood fretfully outside the housemaster’s study. Steve could see his reflection in the shiny brass plate. He knocked nervously, waited for the call, “Enter”, turned the heavy handle and pushed open the door.

It was a large room with a desk in front of a bay window looking out onto the quadrangle. To one side was a two-seater sofa; on the other, a wall of books. There were a couple of straight-back wooden chairs in front of the desk, but the sixth formers knew they wouldn’t be invited to sit. The chairs would have a different function that morning.

Doughty sat in a leather swing chair glaring. The two teenagers stood meekly in front of the desk, eyes downcast at the patterned rug beneath their feet. Neither boy dared look straight ahead. They did not want to meet the icy stare of the housemaster. But worse than that, behind Doughty’s shoulders, screwed to the wall, was an ornate rack containing four yellow crook-handled rattan canes.

The boys shifted uneasily. Behind them an open fire blazed away. The heat was intense.

Doughty’s tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. He wanted to rip into the boys and tell them they were “disgusting perverts” but the tongue wouldn’t cooperate, except to make sputtering noises.

Eventually, he formed coherent words. “Revolting,” “Repulsive,” “Disgusting,” “Nauseating.”

Adam and Steve stood in silence, guts churning.

“I have the honour of the school to protect,” Doughty was in full flow now. “If I report you to the police, as indeed I could, it would do irreparable harm to the reputation of St Simon’s.” He watched carefully the boys’ reactions. Both were simultaneously deathly pale and sweating profusely.

“So, I will deal with the matter myself. Here. Now,” he growled.

Steve’s face flushed with relief. Adam stared impassively at his shoes.

“It will be a flogging,” Doughty croaked, suddenly his mouth drained of saliva.

He cleared his throat. “Stand facing the wall. Hands on head.” He watched intently as the two teenagers shuffled meekly into position. With hands on head, the tails of their blazers rose up their backs uncovering their backsides. Steve’s pale-grey trousers clung to his buttocks, so that each cheek was defined, the crack sharply divided by the seam of his trousers. Adam was quite different. His trousers appeared to be a size or two too large. Grey material folded across his backside and it was impossible to see where one buttock cheek ended and the other started.

Doughty heaved himself from his chair and walked to the front of the desk. He lifted the two straight-backed chairs closer to the middle of the room and arranged them so they were back to back. Then, he returned to his desk and reached up to the cane rack. All four canes were roughly the same length, a little over three feet, not counting the curved handles. They were of differing thicknesses and densities. He chose the cane at the top of the rack; it was a dark yellow and a little warped from age and use.

He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. His mouth dried once more. He wished he had had the foresight to bring a glass of water from the staff common room.

“White. You first. Turn around.” Doughty swished the whippy cane through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing! sound as it went. Every nerve in Steve’s body seemed to him to jangle. Pins and needles shot up and down his arms. Slowly he turned. He saw the wicked rod in Doughty’s hands and the boy’s entire body succumbed to uncontrolled shaking and trembling.

“Stand there,” Doughty pointed the tip of his cane at a spot by the chair. Steve stumbled across the study, unable to fully control his legs.

“Hands on head.” Steve’s cobalt blue eyes dimmed. He couldn’t stop them blinking fast. Doughty stared into the teenager’s open face. The schoolmaster hadn’t before noticed how clear the boy’s skin was. In his present predicament, it was almost translucent. The wretched boy’s long curling eyelashes beat up and down. His usually smiling lips were downturned into a deep frown.

Doughty hesitated for a second, then he reached forward and unfastened Steve’s belt. He sensed the teenager’s shock as he fumbled with his zip and the front of his trousers fell open. Once done, Doughty gripped their back and lowered them to Steve’s ankles. Steve’s eyes closed. Doughy hesitated for another second before he gripped the back of Steve’s gleaming white Y-front underpants, inserted his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down exposing the boy’s limp cock and balls.

Steve opened his eyes in shock. They moistened immediately.

“Kneel on the chair,” Doughy tapped the wooden seat of one, “and stretch yourself across the back and hold on to the other chair.”

Steve stood rooted. He couldn’t move. His legs shook so violently he feared he would faint to the floor. “Get on with it,” Doughty couldn’t stop looking at Steve’s long, thin, cut, cock. Steve didn’t know how he willed himself to move. Soon he was in position, kneeling on one hard wooden seat and stretching across two chair backs to stare down at a different worn wooden seat. His knees hurt terribly.

Doughty walked slowly around the prostrate boy. With his back arched and his legs apart the housemaster had a perfect view into Steve’s hairless crack. The boy’s buttocks were as smooth as a baby’s and his ball sack and cock dangled.

The buttocks trembled and Steve’s hole winked open and shut with nervousness. Doughty gripped the boy’s blazer and tugged it up his back. Now there were several inches of bared back. It was as hairless as the boy’s bottom. Doughty gave the naked bottom a preliminary smack with his open palm. There was a sound of flesh meeting flesh. The bottom wobbled at the contact. Steve, his face in close proximity to the chair seat, gave a sharp gasp. This was mortifying.

used drawing cane hold (28)

Doughty raised his cane. Bent across two chairs, Steve was in the perfect position for his punisher to whip the cane at force into the fleshiest part of the backside. Doughty placed the cane just below the apex of the mounds and rubbed it backwards and forwards. He felt Steve’s body tense. The buttocks clenched. Steve gripped the wooden chair so hard his knuckles began to whiten.

He felt the cane move away from his bared bottom, there was a second or so pause and then an almighty whooshing noise resounded around the study. Steve felt the intense agony a split-second later. It felt like the housemaster had pressed a red-hot wire into his rear. Saliva washed his mouth. He choked. For a moment he feared he would gag and send a stream of vomit across the room. Instead, a deadly howl screeched from his throat. His body shuddered, his hips juddered and his head bounced up and down.

Doughty observed with great satisfaction as a dark red welt formed across the very centre of Steve’s previously snow-white bottom. Suddenly and without warning a tremendous rage engulfed Doughty. How he hated the pretty boy whose arse was now wobbling in agony across the hard wooden chairs. The same boy he had caressed in his dreams.

He raised his right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again and again in mighty strokes. Deep red welts crisscrossed the firm young buttocks and Steve yelled out his torment uncontrollably, tears pouring down his pale cheeks. Lumpy red welts blossomed under persistent lashes from the raging housemaster. Steve yelled in torment, his body flailing as each new cane stroke whipped into his agonised buttocks, now red raw from the relentless bombardment. His crimson bottom humped up and down frenziedly.

Doughty gave him twelve strokes in total. When he had finished a tense silence fell in the study as Doughty’s eyes focused intently on the Steve’s flogged buttocks, the deep dividing cleft, the glimpse of fair curling hair at the confluence with the thighs. Steve silently gulped in great draughts of air, filling his lungs. Tears flowed like a river going downhill. His chin was covered in snot.

Adam stared in wonder. He had witnessed each frenzied stroke of the cane as it cut his lover’s bare arse to shreds. His own head popped as blood thrashed through his body. He could hardly catch his breath. Adam gaped as he watched Steve’s body wriggle and writhe as the teenager fought to come to terms with the agony travelling through his entire body from his savaged buttocks.

Doughty swished the cane though the air and wobbled it in Adam’s face. “Your turn,” the master growled. “Trousers, pants down.”

Adam stood fixed to the spot. Rooted. No way could he take down his trousers. The humiliation would be too great. Doughty flexed the cane between his two hands and stared intently at the school prefect standing before him. Sweat poured down the teenager’s brow, his face was deathly pale. Doughty’s lips curled. He lay down the cane on his desk and silently reached for Adam’s belt buckle. Within seconds, the trousers and pants were at the eighteen-year-old’s knees revealing his rock-hard erection glistening with pre-cum.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in December 2016.

Other stories you might like

The pubbing sixth-formers

A whopping for Warminster

By order of the court

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Home for the Holiday

z used drawing man in armchair with slipper (1)

I stared into the room and dad was seated in an armchair apparently reading a book. There could be no doubt about my fate. He had already removed one of his slippers from his foot. I know what you’re thinking; this is the twenty-first century; nobody gets spanked any more. But, I think dad’s head is in the nineteen-thirties somewhere. You only have to look at the way he dresses.

It started three months previously. I was on my way to university. He gave me the lecture. The whole nine yards. Study hard. Keep out of the pubs. This is costing us a fortune. Blah, blah, blah.

There was blah, blah, from mum too. Eat properly. Fruit. Vegetables. But most of it was from dad. Pass those exams. He didn’t actually say, or else, but I knew him well enough to add that part myself.

Did I do as I as told? I’m eighteen. What do you think? It was my first time away from home. There was beer to be drunk and parties to go to. Then there were the girls, but none of the lads got as much as they claimed. At least, I hope not. Please don’t let me be the only virgin at uni.

I was on nodding terms with the lecture halls and at a stretch I might be able to name one or two of my lecturers. But mostly I was missing in action.

When the exam results came out this morning, I had four Fs and a D-minus. Four fails and a scraped pass. Dad might have old-fashioned attitudes, but he knows his way around a modern computer. He knew my grades before I did.

It was my elder brother Harley who gave me the news. I was under the duvet having a four-finger shuffle when he burst in my room. “Dad wants to see you,” he couldn’t keep the joy out of his voice. “Now.”

He must have seen the puzzled look on my face. What had I done? He can’t have heard already that last night I was caught stealing a bottle of tequila from the supermarket where I work.

“Uni results,” Harley’s face brightened. He swished his arm through the air imitating dad and his slipper. “Ouch,” he laughed, clasping his hands on his buttocks. “You’d better get a shift on. He’s pretty mad.”

I rolled out of bed. I was wearing my underpants and a tee-shirt. I stepped into my jeans. They were heavy denim. I pulled them up and buckled the belt. The thick material stretched across my buttocks. I ran my hands across them. Yep, they would be some protection against dad’s slipper.

Who was I kidding? The jeans would be at my ankles and my pants at the knees.

I shuffled down the stairs. It was only a few days before Christmas and there was a frost on the back lawn. The house was chilly but I couldn’t feel it. I was burning up. I couldn’t get my heart to stop racing.

Dad was waiting. He had already taken one of his slippers off his foot. I stood at the open doorway, not wanting to enter. My eyes transfixed on that slipper. It wasn’t as big as bedroom slippers usually are. It was a slip-on affair. You’d have thought it couldn’t do much damage; even on the bare. You’d be wrong. The sole was supple leather. That slipper packed a punch harder than a leather paddle and in dad’s experienced hand it would scorch my bum.

There was more blah, blah, blah from dad. What had I told you? Why didn’t you study? Do you think we’re made of money? What could I say? I stood, every inch a naughty boy. Everything dad said was true. I had royally screwed up.

I mumbled an apology. I’ll try harder next semester. He growled back. There won’t be a next semester for you. He had read it on the university website. I had failed so many courses I wouldn’t be allowed back for at least a semester, then I’d have to start all over again. Shit. I genuinely did not know that. If I did, I would’ve put in a bit of effort.

So, I was excluded from university. For many, that would be punishment enough. Not for dad. He wanted his pound of flesh. Or more accurately he wanted to pound my flesh. My bared backside. He was a man of few words. He knew what he was going to do and he knew that I knew too. He didn’t have to spell it out.

He nodded towards the dining room table. “Jeans. Pants. Down. Bend over.” He picked up the slipper from the floor and waved it at me as if there was any doubt about what he intended to do next.

So, there I was, just about to turn nineteen preparing myself to be spanked by my dad. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only kid who failed at university, but it was a fair bet I’d be the only one showing his father his bared buttocks for a taste of the slipper.

I know from painful experience I had to submit myself willingly to my dad. He would not hear any argument. There was to be no pleading. I must make no attempt to evade punishment. My job was to take the jeans and pants down, lift my shirt half way up my back and bend forward across the table. Dad’s preferred method was for me to lie flat on the table. It puts my bum at a perfect angle for him to catch the fleshiest part of the buttocks, the underside of the curves. That’s the most painful spot to aim for.

I closed my eyes and fumbled for the buckle of my belt. I popped the button on the waistband and pulled the zipper. The heavy jeans slithered down my thighs and bunched at my knees. I opened my legs slightly and they continued their journey to my ankles. Then, I gripped the elastic in my pants and tugged them over my bum and let them stay at my thighs. A cold draught caught my cock and balls.

I opened my eyes long enough to waddle across the floor to the table. I paused for a moment. I could hear my dad breathing heavily behind me and the slap, slap, slap he made as he smacked the slipper into the palm of his hand. I pulled my shirt up, took a deep breath and fell forward across the table.

I parted my legs offering my dad a larger target. I did this even though I knew he would be able to see into my crack. I was pretty sure it was clean. I hadn’t taken a crap since I showered yesterday morning.

I couldn’t see what happened next, but dad walked to the far end of the room, removed his jacket, then took a short run towards me and landed the first swat. A loud splat filled the room. I gasped. It hurt like crazy. I could feel the heat in my left buttock rising. Dad walked back to his starting position. My bum throbbed like mad. He ran again and whacked my right bum cheek. Air escaped with a long hiss through my clenched lips. That hurt more than the first.

But he wasn’t finished yet. My bum felt like it was on fire and each new hard spank seemed to fan the flames. I was astonished by the fantastic heat. My bum was sizzling. Sweat poured down my face. I wasn’t crying – I never do – but my face was drenched. I couldn’t catch my breath. Each time I sucked in air, dad would land his leather slipper and I would gasp it all out again.

It doesn’t matter how many times you get slippered, it hurts like holy fuck. I knew by the time dad was ready to let me go both buttocks and the back of my thighs would be glowing red hot. When I inspected the damage in my bedroom mirror bruises would have formed. They would turn all colours of the rainbow for many days before finally fading away.

Dad stopped his run-ups. He was standing over me now, crashing the slipper hard and fast into my buttocks from a distance of only inches. The pain was intense. Burning. Scolding. It felt like I’d sat in a bath of boiling water.

Suddenly, the door opened. Mum stood embarrassed. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I thought you had finished.”

“Nearly finished,” dad said as he pounded another dozen into my stretched flesh. Then he finished. “Was there something?” he asked as if it was perfectly natural to have a half-naked eighteen-year-old boy draped across the dining room table.

“Yes,” my mother replied softly. “Mr. Blenkinsop from Harry’s supermarket is on the phone. He’s asking to speak to you.”

I screwed my eyes tight. When dad heard about my thieving my bottom would glow all over again. Like a tequila sunset.

Picture Credit: Unknown

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Charles’ photo album

z used short shorts outdoors (12a)

Before you can start to write a story, you must have an idea. Oftentimes, I get my ideas by looking at pictures I have found on the Internet. Where possible, I like to find an image that has no obvious connection with discipline and try to create a scene. This book is a collection of stories that started that way. I hope you enjoy reading them.

 

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Picture credit: unknown

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