Only a glass of wine

z used pants wine glass Endymion Hill

C’mon Uncle Jack it was only a glass of wine

It wasn’t only a glass of wine, it was my wine. Wine I told you not to touch.

B…

And judging by the state of you when I came in last night you had drunk a lot more than one glass of wine.

B…

I told you when I took you in you had to obey my rules. I’m not a soft touch like your dad.

No, but.

But nothing. I’m gonna spank you, like I told you I would.

But Uncle, I’m nineteen.

Yeah, you are nineteen. That’s plenty old enough to be making your own way in the world. Maybe you should just pack your bags and go.

No, Uncle, no.

Then you must accept discipline.

Oh, but Uncle.

Here, look at this. Have you seen it?

What’s that?

I bought it at Aldi. They call it a serving board, but look at it, it’s exactly the same size and weight as a spanking paddle. Like the Americans use.

You’re gonna spank me with a bread board?

Thank your lucky stars I don’t use a cane on you. You can get authentic school canes on eBay. If you don’t learn to behave, I’m going online for next time.

No, Uncle, no.

Stand there, by the table. Quickly. Now take down your jeans.

No Uncle, not my jeans.

Too right. They’re so thick you’d hardly feel a thing. Now, get on with it.

No, Uncle, please.

Do you want me to come over there and do it?

Oh, Uncle.

OK have it your way. Go pack your bags, I want you out of here before ten o’clock.

No, sorry Uncle. Here.

That’s right. Get them right down to your ankles . . . Jeez those pants look lived in. When did you last change them?

Huh?

Disgusting. Now, lift up your shirt and bend over the table . . . Not like that. Lay flat on the table top. Stick your bum out.

Oh, Uncle.

Right. Now don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.

Ouch! Owww!

Oh don’t be such a baby. I’ve hardly started.

Oww! Oww! Oww!

Keep still. Hold on to the edge of the table.

Owwwwwww!

Stop that! Keep your hands out of the way.

No, Uncle. OOOHHHHHHH!

Get back down. Now! I shan’t tell you again. Do you want extra swats?

Oh Uncle.

So much fuss. And you such a big boy.

Owwww!

Just be thankful I don’t take down your pants and give you a few on your bare buttocks.

No Uncle, No!

Well, behave yourself. Take your punishment like a man.

Owww! Sniff, sniff

Are you crying?

No, Uncle. Owwwwwwww!

 

Picture Credit: Endymion Hill

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

z used taws on kitchen table CS (2)

I saw a remarkable programme on cable television last week. It was a short film made in the nineteen-forties about the leather industry in Scotland. Did it bring back memories! Me, aged eighteen, prone across Mr MacTaggart’s kitchen table, my trousers and pants at my knees. He leathering my naked buttocks with a three-tailed strap.

Where do I begin this story?

In Scotland the preferred method of scholastic punishment was the leather strap, known locally as a tawse. It was often about eighteen inches long and cut at one end into two or three tails. The tawses made in the small town of Lochgelly were world famous. I was no stranger to corporal punishment. I had attended a very traditional independent grammar school called St Francis at the time when Dr Henderson-Smith, a notorious flogger, was headmaster. Many years after I had left he was forced into retirement after a scandal involving a public thrashing.

We learned from a very early age to obey the rules and not to make waves. We turned up to lessons on time, spoke only when the schoolmaster instructed, worked hard and handed in our homework on time. We knew the consequences if we didn’t conform. It’s a pity schools aren’t like that today. A whippy rattan cane was kept handy to encourage the slackers. Do-gooders can say what they like but it got me through my examinations and secured me a place at a prestigious university in Scotland that proved to be even more traditional than St. Francis.

The problems started almost immediately I arrived. University was not like school. We were expected to study a lot without supervision. We might be sent off to the library with an essay title and told to turn in six pages the following week. I soon discovered I had no self-discipline. I was eighteen years old and away from parental supervision for the first time and I took full advantage. In those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one. The professors at university were our guardians. It would be going too far to say they were surrogate fathers, but some did perhaps see themselves as stern uncles.

I was a flop. I failed my end-of-year examinations and quite rightly should have been “sent down”, expelled back to Brocklehurst. But someone (I never found out who) saw some promise in me. If I agreed to reside with Mr and Mrs MacTaggart I would get a second chance. It was made abundantly clear to me there would be no third.

The MacTaggart’s had a small rooming house and at any one time there might be six boys from the university staying. We were all slackers of one sort or another, sent by the university to be knocked into shape. We jokingly called ourselves inmates at the MacTaggart Home for Naughty Boys. I think Mr and Mrs MacTaggart had military backgrounds; they certainly believed in rules, discipline and punishment.

I arrived on a Monday morning to be greeted at the door by Mrs MacTaggart. “You are to go right away to see Mr MacTaggart.” She nodded her head across the gloomy hallway to a dark brown door. “Leave your bag here.” She strode off to the kitchen, leaving me dumbfounded. Not much of a friendly welcome, I thought. It would not get better. I stood outside the door, it was made of heavy wood and had clearly seen better days; how on earth had it become so scratched?

I had an out-of-body experience. It was as if I were hovering at the ceiling looking down on myself, except I am no longer in Scotland. I am standing outside the headmaster’s study at St Francis and that could mean only one thing. Tentatively, I knocked on the door. “Enter!” Mr MacTaggart’s voice boomed from within. In my months at the house I never heard him speak below foghorn volume. I pushed the door and entered.

Mr MacTaggart was a tall, thick set man. Although he was in his fifties and broadening at the waist he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His slicked back greying hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hamilton,” he growled, his stare burning into my soul. I shuddered, “Yes, Sir,” in reply. I had only just met the man and already I was terrified of him.

He stood from a leather chair that was as scratched as the door. If I had expected a friendly welcoming handshake I was to be sorely disappointed. “You know why you have been sent here.” It sounded like a statement, not a question, so I remained silent. “Pah!” he exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, laddie.”

I probably blushed to my roots, unable (too scared) to form a coherent sentence. “Pah!” he said again, expelling air through nearly closed teeth. He then listed all my faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” he clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.” I stood rooted as he made his way across the room. It was sizeable and crammed with old furniture in dark woods. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom. He paused when he reached the far wall. I gasped and swallowed hard. Only now had I noticed the long heavy brown leather tawse hanging from a nail. Mr MacTaggart reached up and in one athletic movement fetched it down and spread it between his two hands. He showed it to me as if he were making a religious offering. It was cut into two ten-inch tails and had a handle of about six inches at the other.

“You must atone for your misbehaviour last year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he barked. I did not know at the time that in Scottish schools the taws was traditionally administered across the palms of the hands. “Put up your left hand,” Mr MacTaggart ordered. My puzzled expression angered him. “Pah!” he set the tawse down on a chair and raised his own hands as a demonstration. I was to hold my hands out in front of my body laying one (palm upward) on top of the other. In this way the lower hand supported the upper and kept it in place once the strap impacted into the flesh. I was to discover soon that this did not work in practice.

At school we were always caned on the backside. Being punished this way has distinct advantages. A chap is bent across a chair or a desk, or is perhaps touching toes of gripping ankles. In any case he has something to hold on to absorb the force of the stroke. There is the added advantage of not being able to see the master as he prepares the punishment. A chap just closes his eyes and waits for the pain to begin.

Not so with the hands. I raised my hands as instructed and watched half-fascinated, half-terrified, as Mr MacTaggart rested the tails of the tawse across my palm. My heart missed a beat when I felt the weight of the leather. Mr MacTaggart adjusted his position by shuffling backwards an inch or two. He raised the strap over his own shoulder so that it rested against the small of his back. His eyes blazed. Then whoosh! The strap arced forward at tremendous speed and crashed down into the palm of my hand. The crack of leather on flesh echoed around the room. At first I didn’t feel a thing and then, POW! I yelped. The blow was awesome; the pain shot through my hand and the force of the blow made me drop both hands to my side, blow on them, rub them together and wiggle them about as if I were dementedly waving to a crowd.

Mr MacTaggart was unimpressed. “Pah. Up laddie – get those hands up,” he growled. I come from a long line of schoolboys steeped in tradition. We took our punishment like men. I was a little flustered that I had not been able to take just one stroke of the strap. With determination I resumed the position; hands held up. I closed my eyes tight, took a deep breath and steeled myself. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one I repeated the hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other. I was not taking this well.

Mr MacTaggart did not hide his impatience. He ordered me to swap hands. Slowly and painfully I did so, noticing my right palm was crimson from the belting so far and my hand was numb.

Mr MacTaggart gave me three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. It was excruciatingly painful, and my body was shivering as I doubled up with my hands under my armpits. This was my first tawsing on the hand. I was soon to discover that with a strapping the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in. Later in my room, I poured cold water into a basin and soaked my hands. It didn’t help. The palms of both hands were blistered and I had considerable difficulty holding anything in them for the rest of the day. MacDonald, another inmate at the house for naughty boys, and himself a Scot, told me that at school a master would ask a boy which hand he used to write with and then strap him on the other one, making sure he could continue writing.

The rules of the house were not exceptional. There were mealtimes that could not be missed, a curfew at night, no smoking or alcohol. It was, I imagine, not so different from being at a boarding school. I knuckled down and got on with studying. I knew I had screwed up the previous year and was determined not to do so again. I was quite a pious young man and felt that I had let people down.

I kept my nose clean until one night I missed curfew. It was a girl of course. I thought we were getting on very well and I might get a kiss before the night was over. We were very innocent in those days. I succeeded and walked on air all the way back to the house. The last bus had gone so I was about an hour late. I was not surprised to find Mr MacTaggart fuming. I knew what was coming. There were rules, I had broken them, the consequence was clear. I would have to be punished.

I let Mr MacTaggart berate me for my lateness. I told him I had missed the bus. That was true, but I didn’t want him to know the reason why. “Pah! Laddie, you know what must happen.” I did, my palms would be blistered. “Damn!” I thought, an essay was due in the next day and I had not finished it. There was no way it would get written if I couldn’t hold a pen.

“Please, Mr. MacTaggart, I know I have done wrong and I deserve punishment,” I can hardly believe I spoke like that. I explained my predicament with the essay. “Please could you beat me on my backside.” Crazy. What eighteen-year-old today would say that? “Pah!” Mr MacTaggart snarled. “Come into the kitchen.” He led the way across the passageway and we entered a small room. Without speaking he opened a drawer to a dresser and delved inside. Seconds later he withdrew a leather strap. It was longer and heavier than the one he had used on me before. This one had three tails. As a novice I thought this thing could cause extreme damage.

Mr MacTaggart glared at me, he did not try to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on a small table. “There, that’ll do.” I immediately understood his intention. He would expect me to bend across the table to receive the strap across my backside. It was a relief. I was on familiar territory. A whacking from that strap would hurt like billy-o but I knew I could survive it.

Perhaps he sensed my indifference. “Pah!” He snarled. “Take down your trousers. Underwear too.” Any nonchalance I might have had evaporated. Pants down. On the bare. Even the despicable Henderson-Smith at school never caned me like this. “And bend over the table,” Mr MacTaggart completed his instruction.

This was uncharted territory. That three-tailed strap would take the skin off my backside, I had no doubt about that. “Pah! Hurry along laddie. It’s late we both need our beds.” I sucked on my bottom lip gearing myself for the ordeal ahead. I don’t think I was especially concerned about taking my trousers and pants down in front of the old man. My generation was used to undressing in public. I shared a bedroom with my older brother for years. At school the boys often ran around naked in the showers and no one even noticed.

“Pah!” Mr MacTaggart’s impatience was showing again. I resolved to get on with it. With steady hands I unbuckled my belt and opened the front of my trousers. The weight of the belt made them slip over my thighs and sag at the knees. I left them there and quickly pushed my underpants in the same direction. I shuffled closer to the table, took a deep breath, and lent forward. At school we were expected to lay flat on the desk top with our bottoms raised over the edge, so I took up that position. The kitchen table was considerably smaller than my housemaster’s desk and my arms dangled over the far side.

From the corner of my eye I saw Mr MacTaggart approach the desk, he leaned in so close I could smell the stink of his breath. He took hold of my shirt and tugged the tail so that it rode up my back. I was now naked from my shoulders to my knees. I folded my arms and buried my face in them. I was as ready as I ever would be. I felt the heavy weight of the tawse resting against my bare flesh. Mr MacTaggart took aim, raised the leather and walloped it with terrific force into my left buttock. It hurt. A lot. My bum, although not fat, was very meaty and the leather sank into my mound and I felt a burning sensation. He flogged another three cuts into my bum so both buttocks were scorched.

The shock made me raise my head from my arms. I didn’t yell out, I think my movement was probably just a reflex action. I had never been strapped on the bottom before (bared or otherwise) but I had taken my share of canings. If I had to make a judgement I would say the cane is much worst. A thin whippy rattan rod if swiped into the backside will cut into the flesh and leave a welt that potentially can throb for several hours. The strap (even delivered across naked flesh) does not cut, rather it slaps or slashes. The leather tails cover a greater surface than the cane but the pain is altogether less sharp. It is akin to a dull ache.

Mr MacTaggart gave me twelve stokes. Upon his command I rose from the table and although I was in pain I felt far from battered. I rubbed my buttocks contritely (I thought Mr MacTaggart would expect some such show) before replacing my pants and trousers in their proper places. Later in bed I recalled that kiss. The spanking I got was well worth it. It didn’t deter me seeing the girl again and in the fullness of time we married; however I must confess each time we met I made certain we finished our courting before the last bus left.

Picture Credit: C of Sweden

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #11

used drawing cane hold (6)

Sen. Magistrates Welcome New Judicial Caning Law

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Senior Magistrate Col. CET Thumpington-Smythe of the Brocklehurst Bench has welcomed the new law allowing male offenders up to the age of 40 to be caned on the bare buttocks.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe (pictured above) said young men especially needed a severe dose of discipline.

He told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “There is too much juvenile delinquency in this town. Most young men are ill-mannered and rude. They need to be taken down a peg or two. A good dose of the cane will soon put them straight.”

He said there was a particular problem with cannabis smoking among students.

“I should gladly go myself to Brocklehurst University and personally cane every student who has ever taken drugs. A sound six-of-the-best on the bared buttocks is what they need.”

The new law allows magistrates to impose caning sentences for a range of offenses that previously only carried fines or community service.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I and my colleagues will not hesitate to impose caning sentences. This will be in addition to the other sentence options open to us.”

It is not clear who will carry out the canings. Brocklehurst Police Superintendent Mr. Harry Hardnose told the Brocklehurst Bugle the courts would need to make that decision. “I suppose we can train up police officers to do this. Perhaps one of the lads with big muscles in our rugby team could do it. We need someone who is strong and can leave his mark on the offenders.”

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I should be glad to undertake the thrashings myself. We don’t want some namby-pamby liberal wet in charge. The boys must suffer. They must bleed for their crimes.”

Residents of Brocklehurst also welcomed the new law. Mr. Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, told the Bugle, “I can think of a few louts who hang around Widdicombe Woods drinking and whatnot who would benefit from a trousers-down, bare-bottomed spanking.”

Mr. Ernie Flynn, aged 52, also of The Avenue, has circulated a petition asking the courts to make the canings open to public viewing. He said, “I think it is proper that residents see how their council taxes are being used.”

He said he had already collected nearly 50 signatures from residents of The Avenue alone. Others who would like to sign the petition can contact him on ______________

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Father Must Be Obeyed

z used uniform short shorts (56)

“Trousers down. Bend over my knee.” The command from his Father was crystal clear. And totally expected. John shivered with cold. The short grey school trousers and knee socks he wore were totally inappropriate for the middle of winter. But that was Father for you. “You are still a child and you will be treated like a child,” was almost a holy mantra with Father.

So, it was that at eighteen years old, John was still dressing in grey school short trousers, and as often as not a white shirt and striped tie. If Father could have his way his son would wear the short trousers to school as well, but he was worldly-wise enough to know that would bring a gang of do-gooding teachers down on his head.

They were a good God-fearing family. John knew the meaning of obedience. Obedience to God, to his Father, to adults, to schoolteachers. To just about anyone really. It was all in the Bible; so was that bit about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Father had all kinds of rules that must be obeyed. When to get up in the morning, a curfew at night. Bible studies, school work, chores about the house. No alcohol, no drugs (without question). No girls. Boundaries were set.

The lounge was cold and gloomy, a small table lamp failed to illuminate much of the room. Father sat with his back rigid in a wooden chair, his feet planted firmly on the carpet about eighteen inches apart. This was part of the ritual. In his hand he gripped a small wooden paddle. It had been especially made thirty years previously. It was a kind of family heirloom. It had been made with one purpose only one purpose: to inflict a terrific sting across a boy’s buttocks. The paddle’s blade was about the size of a DVD cover and a little thicker. Holes had been drilled in it; that made it speed faster through the air as it went on its mission.

Father held the paddle in his right hand and tapped it gently into the palm of his left. He watched his son make his preparations. This ritual had been played out countless times in the past. There would undoubtedly be many more reruns in the future. John would not legally be an adult until he reached the age of twenty-one. Even then if he stayed under Father’s roof, he would continue to be subjected to Father’s rules.

John knew what was expected. Father had made clear his displeasure and now John must pay the price. There was no argument. Pleas for clemency were out of the question. Actions had consequences. He looked at his Father impassively; the old man never changed. He was in his early fifties with grey, thinning hair. He was still remarkably thin, a lifetime’s abstinence from alcohol probably contributed to this. He wore dark grey trousers, a white shirt and tie. He was always dressed as if for the office, even though he actually worked on the bins at the local council.

John’s grey short trousers had an elasticated waist and needed no belt. He undid the metal clasp and pushed them to his knees. Gravity did the rest.  His Father ceased tapping the paddle in his hand and spread his arms wide creating space for his son. The end of John’s shirt covered his crotch and buttocks, so he took a hold and lifted it to expose his flat, hairless stomach. Then, he leaned forward stretching out his arms before him to break his fall. He put his hands palm down and pressed them into the worn wooden floor. Behind him his toes hardly touched the ground. His stomach rested at an angle against his Father’s thigh so that his bottom was presented at a perfect angle for the paddle.

John stared down at the floor. Although worn by age it was spotlessly clean. It always was. That was his Mother’s doing. John waited patiently. There was more ritual to perform. Slowly, Father grasped the waist of John’s white cotton underpants and pulled them gently over the curves of his buttocks. John raised his body slightly above his Father’s lap to allow him the drag the pants down his thighs, past his shins before depositing them above his short trousers at his feet.

“There,” his Father sighed, “I hope you feel ashamed.” He never pulled down John’s pants in silence. He always had something to say. Oftentimes he would make his little joke, “These serve very little purpose at a time like this,” he would say as he bared John’s bottom.

A cold draught brushed against John’s naked flesh. His cheeks clenched. They always did. He had no control over this, it was just a natural reaction. He didn’t feel ashamed, his Father had seen John’s bare bottom (and much more besides) many times. His Father gripped the paddle tightly; he was ready to go. Father did not believe himself to be a cruel man. He was doing his duty: to God and to his son. The boy had to learn obedience. He must obey without question. How else would he get into the Kingdom of Heaven?

Father knew it was his responsibility to spank John’s bottom. Good and hard. It must hurt a lot, otherwise what was the point of it all? He rubbed the paddle across John’s left buttock, pressing it into the flesh as it went. John was a lean teenager with hardly enough fat on his body to sizzle a sausage; unlike so many of the obese teenagers Father saw hanging around the shopping centre. Father raised the paddle high and with a sharp downwards swipe sent it crashing down across John’s bare bum. The imprint of the paddle blade burned into the naked flesh. John’s legged bucked (another reflex action) and silently he expelled air through pursed lips.

Father made a second imprint on his son’s bottom. The paddle was so large and John’s bum so small that by now most of the cheeks were glowing bright pink. Already it looked like John’s buttocks were severely sun-burned. Six slaps hit John squarely across his bum, hitting both cheeks equally. He let out a quiet groan as each whack! struck the target. He wanted to take his punishment without fuss; that was what Father expected. Even so with each blow he wriggled his hips and his bum writhed. Father gripped him around the waist, steadying him.

Father carried on whacking the eighteen-year-old with a steady rhythm with the strikes.. Whack! Whack! One every three seconds or so. Whack! Whack! Whack!

John wasn’t in tears (it had been years since he blubbed during a spanking) but the pain was getting to him. He kept his palms flat on the floor, but my shoulders and back continued to writhe with the blows.

“Keep still.” Whack! Whack! Whack!

“You’re getting what you deserve.”

Father was right, John knew this. He deserved his spanking. Father did not enjoy beating him. He did it because he loved him.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

“I’m sorry,” John said. Another part of the ritual was being played out: repentance.

Father was impressed but carried on with the pulsating blows. John was breathless, losing more wind as each successive wallop bounced off his taut bottom.

The next dozen or so whacks were a little harder. The pain was growing, travelling down John’s legs. Whack! Whack!

No square inch of John’s buttocks or the back of his thighs was left untouched. Red blotches were already turning purple. His undercurves were tender and blood was rising under the skin, it looked a little like raw hamburger meat. Sweat soaked John’s back, despite the chill air in the room. The back of the teenager’s neck was almost as scarlet as his beaten bottom. Father was not an ogre, he was not a cruel man, it was time to stop.

John lay face down gulping in breath. Father continued to hold him tightly at the waist. He examined his handiwork. John’s bottom was swelling and would be tender for some considerable time to come. He would be reminded of the need to show obedience every time he sat on a hard surface for the rest of the day. The bruises might take a week or more to clear. Father congratulated himself on a job well done.

He let his son stand and watched impassively as John retrieved his grey short trousers from the middle of the room where he had kicked them during the worst of the spanking. Within seconds they were securely buckled at their rightful place.

John had regained his composure. “Sorry Father,” he said quietly and he meant it. He did so want to please God and his Father.

“Go to your room. Once you are settled I’ll come up and we shall read the Bible together.”

John flashed a smile of gratitude and gently rubbing the seat of his short trousers he left the room. His Father sat in the gloom lightly polishing his paddle.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Room 414

z used otk white pants prefect youngsters sting (2)

Well Winchester, the Head Boy said to me, we can do this one of two ways. Either you can do a detention and miss going to the cup semi-final this evening or you can go across my knee for a jolly good spanking.

My heart raced and my face burned. Had I heard correctly? Taylor the Head Boy and Captain of just about every sport we played at the school was offering to take me over his knee for a spanking.

I was eighteen years old at the time and I couldn’t remember the first time I dreamed of being taken over the knee for a spanking. Mostly I fantasied about my Uncle Roy. He was married to my Mother’s sister and often visited our council flat when his lorry driving took him to our district. He was a massive man, probably six-and-a-half-feet tall. I was a dwarf beside him. He towered more than head and shoulders above me. He was thickly built with powerful arms. I would masturbate at night imagining I was in my bedroom in my pyjamas and suddenly Uncle Roy would burst into the room. I never cared what naughtiness I was supposed to have displayed. I just saw Uncle Roy rip the bedclothes off my body and then gripping me by one wrist he hauled me to my feet before sitting down on the bed and dragging me face down over his lap. I was powerless.

Then Uncle Roy would take hold of the elasticated waistband of my pyjama bottoms and quite slowly tug them down over my buttocks and leave them bunched at the thighs. Now, with my arse suitably bared and in position he would slap me with the palm of his hand. It was as big and as heavy as a shovel and in no time I was bucking across his knee. It was at about this time that in real life I would ejaculate at speed into a wodge of lavatory paper.

I was stunned when Taylor made his offer. Here was someone else who was into spanking. Had I been so naïve to think I was the only one? I blustered with embarrassment, so Taylor put his proposition to me again. He would have known how much I wanted to go to the football match. This was the first time our local team had reached the semi-final of anything. Tickets were as rare as hens’ teeth – and I had one. How could I not go to the match. No, doing a detention was out of the question.

I looked Taylor in the face as in my mind I formulated my response. I didn’t want to sound too eager. He had a bright, open face and although he was the same age as me I don’t believe he had started shaving. The term “baby-faced” fitted him perfectly. He stood stony-eyed, I couldn’t read his mind. Did he know of my inclinations? Was there something about my overall demeanour that gave me away? How had he plucked up the courage to expose his own desires?

Perhaps I should explain that corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal some years before. Mine was not one of those schools from ancient history where prefects had the power to cane or whatnot younger boys. I doubt if any dads spanked their sons at home. Corporal punishment was simply unheard of.

Taylor shuffled his feet impatiently. I couldn’t tell how desperately (or not) he wanted me to choose to go over his knee. We were standing in the corridor not far from the sixth-form common room, I swivelled on my heels to make sure we were perfectly alone and no one could hear us. I sucked in air, run my tongue over my bottom lip and croaked my reply. I’ll go for the spanking.

Taylor seemed unfazed by my answer. I’ll see you after school at three-thirty. In the common room, he said before he sauntered away. I stood rooted. My hear beat so fast I thought I might be sick. Two hours to wait. My first-ever spanking. A bell rang in the distance. Heck, how would I get through double Geography?

Don’t ask me what the lesson was about, I don’t have the slightest idea. I was excellent at geography and ended up with an A-star at A-level but my enthusiasm for the subject paled beside my fervour to be spanked. My how the hands crawled on the clock that afternoon. At last the bell rang; the school day was over. I couldn’t get to the common room fast enough. It was crowded, of course, with boys and girls emptying their lockers. I hung back, waiting eagerly for them to leave.

But where was Taylor? Usually, he was as enthusiastic to get away as the rest of us. Why wasn’t he here. My heart skipped. Had he changed his mind? Had the enormity of what he proposed sank in? Did he regret opening himself up to me in this way? Was he scared we might get caught?

After about ten minutes I was the only one left in the room. I slouched in a chair and flicked through the pages of the Brocklehurst Bugle (could there be a more boring local rag than that?) I was about to give up and leave. I still needed to go home and change before catching the train for the match. Dejected, I packed my books in my locker and made for the door.

Outside a few yards down the corridor was Taylor. Where do you think you’re going? He frowned. I gabbled in reply that I thought he had changed his mind. He grunted, no way. A deal was a deal, he said. He held up a key he was carrying. It was for Room 414, he said. I knew this to be a classroom on the top floor of the building. Nobody would see us there.

He led the way. I truly felt like a naughty boy and kept two paces behind Taylor. This happened twenty-five years ago and I don’t remember what was going through my mind as we took the stairs. The school was deserted, that I can recall. I suppose it must have felt very unreal. We reached the classroom and Taylor unlocked the door. It was a typical classroom of its time. There were tables that seated up to six pupils and at the front was a whiteboard and a desk for the teacher. The walls were covered with brightly-coloured pictures and posters.

I stood uneasily. How was this meant to play out? I didn’t have the slightest idea. I need not have worried, Taylor took control. He fetched one of the straight-backed chairs and put it down in a space close to one wall. Without looking at me, he sat himself down. I hovered close by. In my fantasises I was sometimes beaten by a headmaster. The scenario was that I was a pupil in a posh public school some long time back in history. The headmaster wore a black academic gown and a mortar-board cap. He swished a whippy curve-handled rattan cane.

In those dreams, I would be told to take off my blazer and stand behind a large leather chair. Or sometimes it would be by the headmaster’s desk. On his curt command I would fumble with my belt and undo my trousers. I would let them down to my knees. Then on further instruction I would bend over and offer up my bottom to the cane. In those dreams I always wore white cotton Y-front pants. I wore similar underpants in real life, although they were deeply unfashionable by this time.

Taylor had settled himself and seemed ready to go. He said very little. I was still incapable of reading that beautiful face of his. Taking the initiative, I slipped off my jacket and put it on a table nearby. I stood maybe two feet to Taylor’s left waiting for his instruction. I could see that he had not brought any implement with him. It would be impossible for him to find an whippy cane, of course, but he might have been able to come up with a rubber-soled plimsoll, that other staple of schoolboy punishment from days gone by. At a pinch he might have borrowed a hairbrush from one of the girls, or, who knows?, there was always his belt.

It seemed none of these were to be used. My spanking would be by the palm of his hand alone. Clearly, he did not possess the build or the strength on my Uncle Roy, so I did not expect my punishment to be very painful. He spoke almost for the first time since we entered the classroom. Bend over my knee, he said. Oh, those words. How many times in the years since then has my heart sped at that command? To be instructed to present my backside to a dominant male, to submit to discipline.

I hesitated a moment. How was this done precisely? In my dream Uncle Roy dragged me from bed and manhandled me over his knee. With Taylor, I would have to present myself submissively. It was as if I were saying yes I have been a naughty boy and I deserve to be punished, please Taylor spank my bottom for me. I moved forward closer to his parted legs, then paused. I don’t think I had planned what happened next. It came to me on the spur of the moment. With trembling hands I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned at the waist and pulled my zipper. The weight of my leather belt sent my pale-grey trousers hurtling to my feet. I leaned forward, stretched out my arms in front of me to break my fall and bent over Taylor’s knee.

We were much the same height and build and I fitted into his body rather well. I placed my palms flat against the floor and with my knees slightly bent the toes of my shoes reached the ground behind me. This way my bottom was positioned over his knee at a good angle for spanking. I couldn’t see Taylor’s expression. He hadn’t expected this turn of events. Me, in my underwear submissively waiting for him to spank me. I am sure his breathing got heavier the moment my trousers hit my feet.

I stared at the parquet flooring. It was scratched and worn and it hadn’t felt the sweep of a broom for some considerable time. Taylor was composing himself. I felt him take hold of the tail of my shirt and push it away from my bum, leaving an area of naked flesh on my lower back. I knew that my underpants fitted me well, but that did not deter Taylor from taking hold of the elasticated waist and pulling so that the cotton was now like a second skin. I felt the pants dig deep into my crack so that each cheek was nicely separated.

Taylor placed the palm of his hand on my left buttock, holding it there for longer than strictly necessary for him to find his aim. He put his other hand in the small of my back to prevent me moving. Then he spanked me. People say the first time is always special. The first kiss, the first sex, the first marriage. So it was with my first spanking. Taylor had some strength in his arm, he was after all one of the school’s most accomplished sportsmen. He spanked me at speed, as my bum absorbed the hurt of one slap another spank immediately followed. It was like machinegun fire.

The pain, such as it was, was not intense; a hand-spanking on an eighteen-yea-old’s bottom covered with cotton underpants could never be severe. But, Taylor warmed up my arse good and proper. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples throbbed like crazy. On and on he slapped his hand into my tight buttocks. My cock first twitched and then stood at fall attention, like a soldier on guard duty. Taylor must have felt it digging into his thigh and this encouraged him in his efforts. He spanked harder and faster than before.

I feared at any moment I would shoot a load into my underpants. Taylor’s own pale-grey school trousers would be stained. Let him explain that to his mother at home. My breathing was strained: huff-huff-huff. Any time now.

We were both too involved in ourselves to hear the classroom door open. We did catch the strangulated gasp of the school janitor and the clang as the metal bucket fell from his grasp. Taylor released his grip on me and I shot to my feet, the tentpole in the front of my pants pointing at the janitor. He turned on his feet and leaving behind his bucket the janitor rushed down the corridor.

I pulled up my trousers. My head was remarkably clear, it felt as if I were looking down on the room from some height. Taylor remained seated. It was clear to me that his cock was raging as much as mine. The silence in the room was deafening. We could not describe to one another the pleasure we had experienced together. Nor, could we share our fear about what the janitor might say or do.

At last Taylor spoke. He told me to hurry home or I would miss the football match. I left him alone. As I made my way down a deserted corridor, I saw Alderton, a fellow sixth-former, walking toward me. He gave me a cheeky wink but said nothing as he passed. I stood and watched him enter room 414.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Meter Reader

z used paddle jeans chair domestic

The first time I visited the house I failed to notice the large green-and-gold school blazer hanging on a hook in the hallway, but I couldn’t miss the wooden paddle in the cupboard under the stairs.

My heart skipped a beat and my face flushed. It took a super human effort not to pick it up and caress it. It was about two feet long and four inches wide with a handle at one end. It looked all the world like a cricket bat designed for an eight-year-old.

“Ahh, you’ve found my little toy, I see.” An elderly man stood behind me, blocking the light. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I’m pretty sure I came across as a complete idiot. I shone my torch at the gas meter’s dial, recorded some numbers in my book and made a swift exit, face burning and (frankly) my dick twitching.

I stopped outside the front gate to regain my breath. My head was dizzy and my heart racing. I sucked in a lung full of air and hurried down The Avenue to the next house.

My Uncle Clive used to paddle my backside. Good and hard. I was a difficult kid. I never liked school because I couldn’t see the point. I looked around me and saw my Mum and Dad and the neighbours all had good, steady jobs. The men mostly worked in construction, the women in shops or beauty parlours. We rented a council flat, had a family car and took holidays abroad each year. And I don’t suppose any one of them had a qualification. School, who needed it?

Of course, with an attitude like that I was uncooperative and disruptive. The school couldn’t do much about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished years before and if a teacher put me in detention, I didn’t bother to go, Really, what could they do? They suspended me from school once. Yes please, I said. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to go to school. Losers.

Uncle Clive was the exception. Where everyone else had no qualifications, he had a shedload. He had at least two college degrees and some piece of paper that made him an accountant. He believed he had bettered himself. He said I should have more ambition. There won’t always be a construction industry, he said.

I made a vital mistake. I treated him like he was a schoolteacher. I told him where to get off. Leave me alone, I said, I know best.  So I left school as soon as I was legally allowed at sixteen. Big mistake. Banks went bust and the unemployment lines grew. I was out of work for two years. To cut a long story short I went off the rails: I drank, took drugs, got involved in a little thieving. Mum and Dad despaired. After the police turned up at our house to arrest me for the third time they said “Enough”, I would have to go.

I spent a month living on the streets. I was one of those bundles in a shop doorway people hurry by through fear or embarrassment. I was cold, hungry, alone and scared. I don’t know how Uncle Clive discovered where I was living rough. Late one night as I shivered outside Tesco, I looked up wearily to see a tall, strong man towering over me.

He gave me a choice. Stay living on the streets until I die of exposure or go live with him at his nice warm bungalow. A no-brainer really. “My house. My rules.” Uncle Clive was clear from the start. “No booze, no weed. Get a job. Make something of yourself.”

Now, the thing about Uncle Clive was that somewhere along the road he had found religion. Big time. There’s a bit somewhere in the Bible about spare the rod and spoil the child. Except in Uncle’s case the “rod” was a heavy wooden paddle, identical to the one in that cupboard under the stairs. I was eighteen at this time, but as far as Uncle Clive was concerned I was still a little kid. He sat me down and drew up what he called my “Objectives.” I had to get up by eight in the morning, I had a curfew at night, chores to do around the house and I had to go looking for work. Or else.

I had never been threatened with a spanking before. Corporal punishment had been confined to the dustbin of history years since. One day when I was on my own I took Uncle’s paddle from the sideboard drawer and studied it. It looked professionally made. The “blade” end was about two feet long. It must have been a quarter inch thick. I gripped it by the handle and swished it through the air, imagining there was a backside bent across the back of the armchair. It look my breath away. What would it feel like to have this monster crashing into my backside? I held the handle tightly, leaned forward a little and smacked the wood into the seat of my jeans. Ouch! It hurt. Quite a bit actually. I couldn’t get a decent swing into my own backside. I supposed it would hurt a lot more if Uncle Clive was doing it.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out. I had been mooching around the house for too long. I was getting nowhere finding a job. “Just work at a burger bar for now,” Uncle Clive berated me. “Get something to start you off. Don’t worry about the crap pay, you can stay here with me.” He really wanted to help me and I suppose my lack of energy must have frustrated the hell out of him.

So, Uncle Clive said one night the choice was simple. Back to the cardboard box or swats from the paddle. I couldn’t understand why my heart beat so quickly when he said this. You would think it would be through fear. Perhaps it was, but wasn’t there also something exciting about his?

Uncle Clive held the paddle and whacked it into the palm of his hand. I watched transfixed, remembering how much it hurt when I tried it on myself. “Let’s not have any fuss here,” Uncle Clive’s steely-blue eyes pierced through me. “I want you to go over to that chair,” he waved the wood at a straight-backed dining room chair, “And bend over.”

My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. Looking back what was it that I wanted to say? “No way?” Or quite possibly, “Yes, please.” I shuddered. Again, fear or excitement? I couldn’t look at Uncle Clive, I shuffled towards the chair and stopped halfway. Sweat soaked the palms of my hands and I wiped them on the leg of my jeans. My mouth was suddenly dry and I ran my tongue across my lips.

“Bend over,” Uncle Clive was calm, but he did want to get a move on. I stood closer to the chair. “Turn it around so the back faces you.” I did as instructed. I remember the chair was much heavier than I expected. “Bend over,” Uncle Clive said again as he gently tapped the paddle into his palm. I leaned forward and gripped hold of the seat of the chair. My stomach cleared the top of the chair by some distance. Without thinking I spread my legs and kept my knees straight. My jeans fitted tightly and I could feel them tug against my buttocks.

Uncle Clive rested the heavy wooden paddle across the lower part of my cheeks. I felt it move away and then return with an almighty Crack! The sound of wood connecting with my tight denim-clad arse echoed around the room. My knees buckled, my hips swayed and I gripped the chair seat tightly. Ouch! That hurt. If the time I whacked myself scored two out of ten, Uncle Clive’s first attempt was way off the top of the scale.

Uncle Clive swung hard, with all of his strength which was considerable as he was a big man. Every blow hit like the kick of a horse knocking me forward over the back of the chair. At first there was a fierce stinging all the way across my bum. Then the pain increased and it seemed like my entire body ached. Then the next swat landed and the next until Uncle Clive was beating a rhythm on my poor defenceless bottom.

When it was over I performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot and clutching the seat of my jeans. My buttocks glowed red hot but very soon the pain turned to a warm glow. Uncle Clive sent me to my room where I lowered my jeans and pants and stared in astonishment at the reflection of my battered bum in the mirror. My cock was semi-erect and my head buzzed. I can’t quite describe that feeling after my first spanking, but it was better than any drug I was taking at the time.

That was about six years ago. Eventually I got a job with the Gas Board. Uncle Clive encouraged me to find a room of my own and gradually we stopped seeing each other. I hadn’t thought much about  that paddling until my visit to the house in The Avenue. Now, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Why was that paddle in the cupboard? What did that old man do with it? I obsessed. I lay awake at night imagining I was at that house, bent across the back of a leather armchair, my jeans at my ankles while he took my backside off with the paddle.

This could not go on. I had to go back to The Avenue. But, I couldn’t just knock on his door and ask to be spanked. Even so I took a bus and walked up and down the street. It’s a long road with lots of upscale, expensive houses. I felt very conspicuous. How would I explain myself if someone called the police? I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I would bump into the man as he left home to go to the shops.

Nothing happened, of course. Nor did it on the next three times I walked up and down The Avenue. Then it was Saturday. I passed by his house for the third time that morning when the front door opened. I blushed profusely at the sight of the man standing in his doorway. He was about sixty I suppose and showing his age. His waist had long ago disappeared as had most of his hair. His face was fleshy but he still managed to flash me the most beguiling smile.

“Are you spying on me?” he called cheerfully. Oh how I wished the pavement could swallow me up right there. He called me over to him. I could hardly dare to look as I shuffled up his garden path. “I’ve seen you several times, walking past my house,” he still smiled. “Did you want me for something?”

How could I tell him? What could I say? “Yes, please, I want you to spank me,” would sum up my thought succinctly, but I was too bashful to say it out loud. At that point he recognised me. “You’re the chap who came to read my meter,” he paused as if trying to compute. “The one who liked my toy so much!” At this he burst into cackling laughter.

The glint in my eye probably gave him his answer because I certainly did not confirm his supposition with words. “Do come in dear boy,” he moved away from the door to make room for me to enter. I stood uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot. Then I noticed the green-and-gold blazer on the coat hook. Alongside it was a matching school cap and – oh glory – on the hook next door dangled two curve-handled whippy rattan school canes. My eyes darted away from them, fearful that the man would register my interest.

He had. “I have many toys. Come inside, I’ll show you some if you wish.” His smile was so warm I had no fear as he led me into a large living room. It was dominated by a leather Chesterfield couch and two enormous armchairs. At the far end covering almost an entire wall was a glass-fronted display case containing a collection of expensive-looking china ornaments. “You are a very naughty boy, spying on my house like that,” the man said. The smile had vanished, but his words held no fear for me. “And you know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you?”

My head ached. The room was hot and stuffy and I couldn’t breathe properly. I think I shrugged my shoulders in reply to his statement. “What’s up boy, the cat got your tongue?” The man spoke more sternly now. He paced the room in front of me. I stood, hands behind my back, eyes cast down at the expensive wooden flooring beneath my feet.

“I know what you need boy,” the man folded his arms across his chest. My soldier stirred but it was not yet on the march. The man grunted and we lapsed into an oppressive silence. I knew I needed to say something as he needed only the slightest encouragement. I couldn’t find the words. I shrugged my shoulders. “Pah!” The man expelled air through pursed lips. “Such insolence.” He rocked back on his heels and unfolded his arms. He glared at me down a long, angular nose. “Well boy, I know how to deal with that.”

He waved his hand in the general direction of the Chesterfield couch. “Stand there. Put your hands on your head.” My mouth drained of saliva and my hands trembled, but I did as he commanded. With my fingers interlocked I placed my hands on my head in the classic naughty-boy pose. My hair was soaked with sweat. From the corner of my eye I saw the man stride from the room. He returned seconds later. Under his right arm was a thick, whippy school cane. My eyes saucered. I had never seen a school cane before.

“Never seen a school cane before,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question. “Well boy, today will also be the first time you feel a school cane.” He placed great emphasis on the word “feel”. I felt my cock press into the front of my pants. The man walked to the front of me and slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He wobbled it in front of my face. My eyes followed it as it travelled through the air. My heart was already racing but sped more when the man flexed the cane between two hands so that effortlessly it made an arc. Then he swiped the cane across the back of the Chesterfield couch, leaving a thin indentation in the rich black leather.

“In a moment that will be your backside boy.” The man’s smile was now malevolent. I closed my eyes tight. “Now,” the man spoke calmly and evenly. “I want you to lower your trousers and bend over the couch.” The blood was rushing so quickly through my body and pounding my ears that I didn’t fully catch his words. I stood trembling but made no other movement.

“Pah!” The man exhaled. “Take down your trousers.” The command was sterner. This was a man who expected to be obeyed. I felt his eyes burn into my soul as I fumbled with the button of my chino trousers. It took an inordinate length of time. I wanted to do this very much but I could not persuade my fingers to obey me. At last the waistband was loose. I had less trouble with the zipper but was alarmed to see the bulge in the front of my green underpants. They fitted tightly in ordinary circumstances and my tentpole was straining the cotton. The man professed not to notice.

The chinos slid down my highs and bunched at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued their journey to my feet. I think I could feel pre-cum oozing from my cock but it might have been my imagination. I eased myself forward over the back of the couch. It was an expensive piece of furniture and judging by the aroma of rich leather that assaulted my nostrils it was almost brand new.

I was tall enough that my body cleared the apex of the couch. Just as well as I am sure the friction of my body on the back of the Chesterfield would have made me shoot my load. My eyes were closed so I could not see the man but I felt him take hold of my shirt and roughly move it further up my back. Very daintily, he smoothed the cotton underpants so they fitted my stretched buttocks so well that I felt them dig into my crack. My buttock cheeks must have been beautifully separated.

The man sawed the cane across the underside of my bum, taking his aim. A second later I heard a swoosh and there was a tremendous crack as the cane swiped deep into my flesh. It was another second before the pain registered. It was as if the man had pressed a white-hot wire into me. My legs stamped up and down and my hips swirled. I bit down deeply on my bottom lip to silence the wail my body desperately wanted me to make. I was certain my bum had been sliced open. Surely it was bleeding? A thin weal, puffy and swelling rose.

The speed at which the cane swished through the air both fascinated and terrified me. Swish-crack! It was all I could do not to scream. The line of fire bored into my bum and I wiggled frantically.

“Keep still!” the man scolded. I tried to stay calm. My eyes stung with tears but they had not yet started to flow down my face. Swish-crack! Swish-crack! Swish-crack! The agony was too much. I jumped to my feet and clutched my burning backside, hopping around the room. The tears flowed freely now. I had no control whatsoever of my body. My lungs were empty and desperately I tried to suck in air.

The man stood impassively, cane once more tucked under his arm as I humiliated myself before him. Once I had stopped my dancing, he ordered me back over the couch. I obeyed without question. The man was in charge. It was his duty to beat me. It was my role to offer up my bottom for discipline. Only when my master was satisfied I had been punished enough would the caning end.

He was not a cruel man. He knew I was a novice at this. He gave me six hard swipes. Six-of-the-best they used to call it back in the day. He left me there prostrate across the couch for a full minute while I regained my breathing. “Stand up,” the man’s tone was gentle. My bum was on fire, my cock throbbed like crazy but my head was as clear as a bell. It was the euphoria you can only get with a severe beating. Without waiting for permission, I tugged up my trousers and with great difficulty zipped them up over my pulsating penis. I wasn’t the least embarrassed that the man could see my predicament.

“Do you need the lavatory?” the man asked, his face once more cracked by a smile. Of course I did.

Picture credit: Unknown

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #10

z used fake news ama (18)

Back in Short Trousers at Brocklehurst High

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

(Photograph posed by models)

 

Boys up to the age of eighteen and beyond at Brocklehurst High will be made to wear short trousers as part of their school uniform from next term.

It is part of a new disciplinary regime that also sees the return of the whippy crook-handled rattan cane.

New headmaster Dr. GOF Powell made the announcement this week in a letter to parents of the 750 boys-only school.

Dr. Powell told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The boys need to know that they are not yet adults. They are children and they should be treated as such. Wearing short trousers will be a constant reminder of that.

“They should also respect adults at all times and obey instructions.”

Dr. Powell became headmaster in January with the remit from school governors to “tighten up discipline”.

He said that after the government announced it would allow schools to reintroduce corporal punishment, Brocklehurst High wrote a new code of conduct.

“Boys will be left in no doubt about the consequences if they do not adhere to the rules,” he said.

Dr. Powell is on record as a strong supporter of the cane. He was one of a number of educationalists who lobbied for its reintroduction.

He told the Brocklehurst Bugle the cane could be used on boys of all ages, but he intended to target the eldest pupils in the sixth-form first.

“We have pupils who are eighteen years old and they have no idea how they are supposed to behave. There are only a few months before they leave school so we do not have time to waste. They must know that I will not hesitate to deliver a sound six-of-the-best across the backside of any sixth-former – including the prefects – if I deem they deserve such punishment.”

The new rulings have largely been welcomed by parents. Mrs. Alison Golightly, the chairwoman of the school’s Parent Teacher Association, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “I think many parents will welcome the reintroduction of the cane. My own son is completely out of control at home. I have no husband and I hope the headmaster will beat some manners into him.”

Boys at the school had mixed reactions to the introduction of short trousers. Oliver Bateman-Manning, aged 18, the head boy of the school, said it might be good to wear short trousers in the hot summer months, but “they will freeze our knees off in winter”.

Another sixth-former who did not wish to be named said, “Short trousers can be very sexy. Of course, it depends on a boy’s legs and bum.”

Senior boys welcomed news of the reintroduction of the cane. John Herbert, aged 18, said, “Discipline has been poor for many years. A sore backside is a small price to pay if we get good A-level grades and get to a top university.”

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com