Never Too Old

z used cane holding (14)

“Stand up straight boy.”

“Take your hands out of your pocket.”

“Take that look off your face.”

I wasn’t used to this. Usually, when a boy stood on the carpet facing my desk, he was contrite. “Yes sir. No sir. Three bags full sir.”

But, not this boy Rawlinson; he was as cocky as they come. He needed taking down a peg or two. And, I knew the best way to do that: a flogging with my cane.

Reluctantly, he stood straight. At first he held his arms limply at his sides and then, perhaps not quite knowing what to do with them, he clasped them behind his back.

He was an older lad. He was dressed in a shiny red blazer, long charcoal-grey trousers, with an immaculate crease down each leg, a grey shirt and tightly knotted red and silver striped tie. He resembled just about any of the schoolboys who had ever stood in my study to receive a lecture as a prelude to a thorough thrashing from me.

“You were seen drinking beer in the Goat’s Head. What have you to say for yourself?”

The Goat’s Head was a pub in town, frequented by under-aged drinkers. One of my colleagues had spied Rawlinson in the bar last evening.

There wasn’t actually a school rule that said pupils could not go into pubs, but I think you would agree with me that we can take it as read that they should not do so.

“Well boy?”

I swear he snorted his reply. “No I wasn’t.”

My blood pressure rose slightly.

“How dare you argue with me boy! You were seen.”

He stared straight at me. “I wasn’t there.”

This was outrageous! I don’t think I had ever in my entire career encountered such insolence from a boy.

“Don’t lie to me boy. You were seen by one of the masters.”

“Who was it? Which one?” he snapped back at me.

I struggled to retain my temper.

“I do not intend to bandy words with you about this matter. Accept that you were caught red-handed and take your punishment.”

“No. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it.” There was not a trace of fear or contrition in his voice. Usually, by now a boy would be close to tears, confessing all and begging for mercy.

“You were there.” I thought I might be sounding a little foolish. We were beginning to behave like two squabbling children. “You did. I didn’t.”

I was sure how to conclude this. It was my intention to beat him black and blue with my heaviest cane.

But he was not yet ready to submit.

“Let there be an end to this!” I roared as I reached over to a wicker basket containing an array of swishy canes. I selected the heaviest and turned to face Rawlinson. It was a crook-handled senior cane that I used on the older boys when I wished to ensure that the message was clearly understood. This particular model had more spring than flexibility and this meant a significant degree of bite.

Still there was no look of fear in his eyes. He did not even pretend to be nervous or scared.

I swished the cane a few times so he could see I meant business. His eyes followed, fascinated by the arc of the cane as it moved through the air.

“I am going to beat you and I am going to beat you severely. Not only have you been drinking in the pub, you have shown no remorse. Further, you have shown disrespect to your headmaster. I shall give you twelve strokes for each of those offences.

Rawlinson looked at me unabashed. Did I feel more anxious than he? I had never delivered thirty-six strokes at the one time before. Surely his backside would be a mess by the time I laid down my cane.

“But, Sir. I’m too old to be caned, Sir.”

Too old? Good God, they were never too old to be caned.

“Stop that nonsense at once, Rawlinson. You will take a beating, or I will arrange for you to be expelled from this school. What is it to be?”

I swear he smirked. I was dumbfounded, now. I had never been treated with so much disrespect by a boy.

“Hang your blazer on the door boy and stand in front of the desk.

Without hesitation he did as he was told. He faced my desk, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Rawlinson, bend over the desk.”

Rather eagerly, I thought, he stretched his arms out and dived across the desk. He wriggled into position, his stomach flat on the desk and his arms folded in front of him.

His bottom was raised slightly on the near edge of the desk. I moved forward and grabbing the tail end of his grey jersey I pulled the garment up his back. He now offered a superb target, his trousers stretched across his plump buttocks.

“I want you to count as each stroke is delivered. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” delivered in a clear, strong voice.

“Spread your legs wider.”

He did so without fuss.

My first stroke was a beauty. It landed dead centre and fully covered both buttocks.

“One sir, thank you, sir,” he responded without hesitation. Other than that there was no reaction to the searing pain that must at that moment have been travelling from his buttocks all through his body.

And, this was repeated three more times. I was caning hard and he was taking it like a man. I could see clear deep lines had formed across the trouser seat where the cane had struck home. Again, he counted in a clear, resolute voice.

I don’t think I have ever caned a boy as hard as I did Rawlinson that afternoon.  All twelve cuts were superb stingers, delivered with all the power I could muster. Any other boy would have been howling with the pain and dancing over the desktop. I shouldn’t be surprised if they begged for mercy.

But not Rawlinson. I knew he must be in agony. How could he not be after a thrashing like that? His buttocks must be throbbing like mad.

“Stand up Rawlinson. Those twelve strokes were for being in the pub. The next twelve are for not showing remorse. Take down your trousers and bend back over the desk.”

The trousers were down in a jiffy, revealing that he was wearing tight white briefs. I suspected they were a size or two too small for him. This was confirmed when he went back over the desk. I could see a set of welts had formed under the pants. My thrashing had indeed hit the mark so to speak.

“Twelve more Rawlinson. You know the rules. Count after each stroke.”

Again, I laid twelve humdingers into his backside. He counted them off without faltering once. I could see that under the tight cotton some of the welts were beginning to seep blood.

“Stand up Rawlinson.” He sprang to his feet.

“Now for showing disrespect to me, twelve on the bare. Take your pants down.”

He slid his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them tumbling to his knees. He parted his knees slightly and they fell all the way to his feet.

“Back over the desk.”

I had a perfect view of his by now scarified buttocks. There was some blood, but they there were not, as yet, open wounds. But, soon there would be. I didn’t mind about this at all. I had my job to do.

I lashed into him twelve more times. Not once did he cry out. His body stayed in place hardly moving during the entire thrashing, but as the final six cuts whooshed into his already raw flesh he let out an almost silent cough as each one slashed into him.

It was over. I looked down at the boy prostrated across my desk. He appeared to be breathing evenly, unperturbed by the whipping I had delivered to him. I think maybe it had been more of a physical ordeal for me than for him. I had put my all into the 36 strokes. I was the one breathing heavily.

“Get up boy.” He did so and stood before me. He at least had the good grace to shuffle his feet a little, as if to admit that, yes, he was in some pain.

“Get dressed.”

He pulled up his pants and trousers and buckled his belt, as if he did not have a care in the world.

“You are dismissed.”

Jauntily, he grabbed his blazer from the hook, turned the handle on the door, and was gone.

Five minutes later, more composed myself, I exited my study. Crossing the hall, I knocked on the door of the room opposite.

“Yeah, come in.”

I found Rawlinson, trousers and pants at his knees, admiring my handiwork in a mirror.

“So, how was it?” I asked.

“Brilliant. Fantastic. Wonderful,” he replied a broad smile across his face.

“So, what now?” I inquired.

“Let me put my short trousers on. Then you can take me across your knee and spank me as hard as you like.”

“Okay. I’ll go back to the study. You come along when you’re ready.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

 

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Missed Opportunities

The drunken neighbour

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

University Student Late for class

z used otk pants chair sting (2)

“If you are late for class again, I shall take down your trousers, put you across my knee and spank you on your underpants.”

“Excuse me?” the twenty-three-year old university student, blushed to his roots. Around him his classmates tried to suppress giggles.

“You heard, me,” Dr Anderson snarled, “I shall take you across my knee and spank you.”

Tony Walburton stood silent: dumbfounded.

“You know the rules, Walburton. Students are required to attend classes, to work hard and to pass examinations. If you do not do these things you will be expelled from the university.”

Tony did know this. He had benefited when the government had shaken up education thoroughly. Not only did it bring back the cane in schools, it allowed for the first time colleges and universities to use corporal punishment on students up to the age of twenty-five. The decision was broadly welcomed, even by students, when it was also announced that student loans would be abolished and each youngster would be paid a grant that did not have to be paid back to continue their education.

But, under the new rules fewer people would go to university and those that did would be expected to work hard. There was to be no more lazing around in bed all morning. Students would attend classes, study hard and behave themselves. If they failed classes they would be expelled.

It was not quite as harsh as it sounded. Students would get at least one chance to redeem themselves; they would be taught a painful lesson and if that did not mend their ways they only had themselves to blame.

Tony accepted this new law and knew Dr Anderson was well within his rights to do as he threatened.

“See here, all of you,” the tutor turned to look at the other fifteen students in the seminar room, “You have got to learn that the university is serious. You will be chucked out if you do not work hard. I want you to do well, and if you are unable to be self-disciplined enough to meet the new rules, I will help you along. It is for your own good. You are all new to the university, but you should know that if you are late, miss a class, don’t hand work in on time or perform badly in assignments, you will be spanked.

He glared at his students, “Is that clear?”

The silence in the room was deafening. Yes, it was clear, crystal clear, but it was not necessary for any of the students to say it out loud: they got the message.

“Good, now find a seat Walburton; let’s get on.”

Tony Walburton was a first-year student, despite his age. Since joining the university a week earlier he had enjoyed himself thoroughly. There was so much going on at university and most of it had nothing to do with the subject he was supposed to be studying. Despite the new legal clampdown on students, they still found time to party; but unlike generations before them they could only do so once studying was completed: or else.

Tony thought he might find the university a bit intimidating, since he was so much older than most of his classmates; but there was an unexpected bonus: girls. The girls did not much like the eighteen-year-old boys of their own age: they thought them far too immature. But, Tony had experience, he knew how to charm a woman into bed and give them (and himself) a good time when they got there. He had never had it so good: with a different girl nearly every night.

And, a girl was to be Tony’s downfall this time. He had the best of intentions; he had to complete an essay for Professor Tottenham that was due to be handed in next day. He had started it (well, he had thought about starting it) and would finish it that night. There was time for a quick beer in the university bar. He had never seen the girl before; but she had noticed him around the campus. She clocked his clean-cut features, broad shoulders, narrow hips, cute bottom. If she ever had the chance, she would very happily strip him naked and have her way.

Tony was not a naïve virgin, the moment she made her first move he knew they would end up rolling around on the bed. And after a few drinks that’s exactly what happened. With both their sexual appetites sated, Tony was kicked out of bed at 3am and happily made his way home.

And then it was 9.45am, and Dr Anderson’s class was due to start at ten. Tony had two choices to arrive late and get his bottom spanked, or not go to class at all. It wasn’t much of a choice: the consequences of cutting the seminar altogether would be much more painful.

Breathless, Tony turned the door handle to the seminar room, as he inched open the door, he could hear Dr Anderson’s voice; the class was in full flow.

The tutor stopped in mid-sentence as he spied the door open. “Ah, Warburton, so nice of you to join us,” he said with dripping sarcasm.

“Sorry, Sir,” Tony mumbled as he hurried to a vacant seat, hoping the doctor would not carry through with his threat.

“Not so fast boy.” Any optimism Tony had was shattered. “Come here. Stand out in the front of the class.”

When he saw Dr Anderson pull out the chair from behind his desk and sit down, Tony knew at once what was intended. Slowly, he started to back away.

“Well class, I hope you all remember what I said last time about late arrivals,” Dr Anderson said to nobody in particular. But, he was expecting an answer.

“Can anybody tell me what I said about time-keeping?” He was met by an embarrassed silence. “Jones?” he pointed to a spotty-faced youth in the back row.

“Well Jones?” The teenager sweated, mortified to have been asked such a question.

“I’m waiting Jones.”

“Spanking, Dr Anderson,” his muffled response almost inaudible.

“What I told Walburton was if any of you were late for class, I’d take down your trousers, put you across my knee and spank you on your underpants.”

Turning to Tony, he continued, ‘Do you remember me saying that Walburton?” Tony’s silence was answer enough for the tutor.

He pointed to a spot to the right of where he was sitting. “Stand there, Walburton,” he ordered. Tony looked at his classmates hoping for support, but found them staring back at him with disbelief.

“Jeans down, Walburton,” the tutor commanded, and Tony, his face chartreuse, obeyed. He fumbled with the button fly, but finally managed. In half a minute, the jeans were being shoved down his hips and sliding to his knees. He blushed, standing in front of the classmates with just his thin pants covering his bottom.

His classmates watched, nervous and astounded. Graham, an eighteen-year-old psych-major, was blushing even redder than the young man with his jeans at his knees. Graham’s erection was so hard and, he feared, prominent, pushing against the cotton of his tight underwear, he was certain every one of his classmates could see his predicament. Any moment now his throbbing cock would spout a pint of jizz into his pants.

Breathless, he tried to look away, to distract himself from the spectacle he very much wanted to witness, as Dr Anderson took hold of Tony’s left arm and pulled the twenty-three-year-old forward. Tony responded by glancing briefly at the other students as he was pulled slowly and deliberately across Dr Anderson’s lap. The student’s hands avoided contact with the doctor’s trousers and instead reached down for the floor beyond, causing him to fall onto the grey tiles. Tony wriggled, and felt Dr Anderson tugging him, until he felt comfortable across the older man’s lap.

Tony shuddered, feeling the cheeks of his bottom exposed to the tutor’s gaze. The underpants he was wearing were tight against his rock-hard buttocks; they were certainly not going to offer any protection in a spanking.

His arm was then taken and folded up his back, thus securing him and preventing any possible escape. He felt his shirt being neatly folded up, exposing his lower back to the cool air of the room and the gaze of his classmates. When Dr Anderson took hold of the top of his pants, Tony felt instant panic even though he was reasonably confident they would not be pulled down. Even so, when his underwear was pulled up Tony felt his bottom was being all but bared anyway. He blushed deeply.

Dr Anderson let the student lie still for a while over his knee, waiting, nearly bare and exposed, submissively accepting his punishment.

He rested his hand lightly on the boy’s backside, and then began a slow, steady, methodical succession of moderate whacks delivered to alternate buttocks. His student responded only with tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if he were relaxing and making himself comfortable. If this was actually hurting, he gave no sign of it.

Dr Anderson was not an expert at spanking and took his time to get the measure of Tony. He increased the pace to deliver a good, hard, old-fashioned hand spanking; not holding back this time.

He hardly noticed the door open and slam shut again as one of his students rushed from the room.

The shock of the new impact jolted Tony. A grunt of surprise escaped his lips, and only his tutor’s tight grip stopped his right hand flying up to protect his smarting bottom. The smacks had landed more on flesh than on underpants which were very brief and had virtually shrunk into his crack and now provided minimal covering for his up-turned buttocks.

He was furious to be locked in place over the tutor’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Yet, he found himself powerless to stop it or evade it. He had been warned what would happen if he came to class late again. He might not want to admit it but he only had himself to blame for this humiliation. For about twenty-five more spanks, he fought furiously, trying to kick his feet and legs (without real ability to do so), and squirming and wriggling around on the tutor’s knees on which he was impaled. But he could not escape or halt the volley of hand-spanks heating up his behind.

Dr Anderson may not have been an expert spanker, but he was learning fast. The palm of his hand was sore, but possibly not as painful as Tony’s buttock cheeks, judging by their colour.

Next time he was forced to spank a student, he would use something like a slipper or a brush, he thought: that would save his hand.

Tony had stopped wriggling and was taking each new spank stoically; the spanking was hurting, but it he was not in any real pain. Dr Anderson was not sure what he had expected; had he supposed a student would bawl his eyes out, like an eight-year-old might? Probably not.

They were young adults (and Tony was not so young) and pretty tough. The pain caused by the hand spanking would have little effect on them, but the humiliation of being forced to take down their trousers, bend over the older man’s knee to get spanked on the pants, or in Tony’s case, very nearly bare-bottomed, would be a huge humiliation. That embarrassment alone ought to be enough to ensure they obeyed the rules in future.

Dr Anderson looked down at Tony, red faced and red arsed. It was time to come to a finish. He slapped down another dozen smacks just for good measure, spanked harshly into the young man’s buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh. A perfect spot to end a spanking, he thought.

Tony was breathless as he lay over his tutor’s lap. It was over. Now, he thought, would you please let me get up?

But, his tutor, and now master, was not quite ready. “Will you be late for class again, Walburton?”

“No, Doctor Anderson,” his reply was met by a harsh slap in the centre of his left buttock.

“No, Sir! Walburton.”

“No, Sir,”

“Good, and do you apologise to all your classmates for wasting their valuable learning time, while I had to spank you?”

This was going too far, Tony thought. Dr Anderson had won, why did he insist on humiliating him further?

Another resounding Whack! hit his buttock.

“Yes, Sir! I’m sorry to everyone for wasting their time.”

“Good boy,” his tutor rubbed Tony’s buttocks gently, feeling their warmth. “Now, you may get up.”

Tony put both hands on the tiled floor and rolled off the doctor’s knees, stood and immediately reached for his jeans.

“Oh, no. Keep them down,” Dr Anderson was himself surprised by the severity of the command. He realised he was enjoying dominating this young man very much indeed.

“Now face the wall, hands on your head!” he snapped. “You can stay there for the rest of class so everyone can admire your smacked bum and be fully aware of the penalty for coming late to class.”

His humiliation completed, Tony shuffled his feet, dragging his jeans across the dirty floor with him and stood where directed. The fifteen pairs of eyes of his fellow students stared intently, inspecting his dark red cheeks; Dr Anderson’s handprints clearly visible in the marked flesh.

Tony rested his head against the wall mortified, while Dr Anderson picked up his lecture notes and was about to begin his class when slowly the door opened and a teenager’s head gingerly peered around.

“Ah, Jenkins. What time do you call this? Late for class, again.”

Picture credit; Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

The university major

Making the grade

Toby’s father visits

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The First Day of Term

z used adult schoolboy shorts cane desk (35)

Andrew picked up his short trousers from the shelf in the changing room. They were properly short shorts, the kind that just about covered his underpants with at best only two inches of leg.

They were grey flannel and immaculately laundered and pressed so that he could have cut his finger on the crease down the front if he had a mind to. School was starting again and here in front of him was the school uniform he loved to wear.

Matron was very fussy and had laid out his togs with orderly care. Everything was prepared to perfection. He was late for class and he knew he would draw the fury of Dr Bulstrode, the form master, when he eventually put in his appearance in the schoolroom, but he did not care, he wanted to savour every moment of his transformation to prep school boy at Lyncroft Court.

Carefully he scanned the room to make sure nobody could see him. Then, confident his nudity would remain undetected, he quickly stripped off down to his birthday suit.

Then, he picked up the gleaming white Aertex white briefs with interlocking fronts and wide elasticated waist band. He stepped into them, noticing at once how the thickness of the material clung to his buttocks. He wriggled a little to ease them on comfortably. It was still early in the morning and the temperature was cold, it might warm a little later, but this was the end of winter and he did not expect it to get much warmer all day.

Next, he pulled the Invicta singlet over his head; the snugness of the cotton against his flesh defined his body. In the correct fashion, he tucked the singlet into the waistband of his underpants. He wished there was a mirror close by so he could admire himself. He loved to be in traditional vest and pants but it was only at Lyncroft Court that he had the opportunity; even his mother would consider them to be a bit old fashioned.

Andrew reached over to the shelf once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. Matron was so very good to the boys. The shirt was ironed to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar. The creases down the sleeves might have been even sharper than those in his short trousers.

He buttoned the shirt and found his school tie. It was of light blue and dark blue diagonal stripes, the Lyncroft Court colours. Without a mirror, Andrew had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Bulstrode. He could swear his fingers were turning blue with the cold as they struggled to make the required ‘windsor knot.’ Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

The doctor was a stickler for the uniform and constantly berated the boys. He insisted they be proud of the school and that meant their uniform had to be perfect. He punished all uniform infringements and sometimes the punishment was severe.

The tie eventually tied, he hoped to the doctor’s satisfaction, Andrew fingered the short trousers. A shiver ran through his body, but it was not the cold weather. He unfastened the button at the waist, and the three on the fly, opened the top of the trousers and stepped in. Within seconds he had pulled them up and was tucking in the shirt and vest. The short trousers were especially tailored and fitted him snuggly. Even though it was unnecessary, he took down the elasticated snake-belt that Matron had left on a hook and threaded it through the belt loops.

He so wanted there to be a mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, but the light was not good enough. Disappointed, he sat on a rickety wooden chair to pull up his woollen stockings. They were so very long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and trousers. This would be ideal protection from the cold on a winter’s day such as this, but that was not how the boys wore their uniform. Andrew folded over the dark and light blue tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees. He flinched slightly as he accidentally touched a cut he had made earlier shaving.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up Clarke’s shoes. Now, he was almost ready: only two more items to put on and he would be fully dressed. The school blazer was draped over a heavy wooden coat-hanger. Andrew caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb; Lyncroft Court had done a magnificent job once again. Lovingly, he picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. ‘Beautiful,’ he didn’t say the word aloud since there was nobody there to hear, but ‘beautiful’ it was. The light-and-dark blue-striped blazer had been made especially for him and fitted, if one is allowed to use an awkward simile, ‘like a glove.’ He stood to attention, once again trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the window and once again to his intense disappointment, he failed.

Finally, he took hold of the blue quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head. It completely covered his recently cut short-back-and-sides haircut, as it was intended to.

Andrew was ready to go to the schoolroom. Only, now in his delightful school uniform, did he remember that he was at least ten minutes late for class and he should expect anger (and possibly much more besides) from Dr Bulstrode.

The schoolroom was situated one floor below where Andrew now stood, so it was a matter of seconds before he found himself outside, wondering how he should proceed. Through the door’s window pane, he could see Dr Bulstrode in full flight, lecturing the five pupils in the schoolroom. Should he wait for the doctor to finish; or should he enter now; or should he knock on the door first and see what transpired?

The idea of the knock won. Rat-a-tat-tat! Andrew always had a heavy knock. Nobody could ever say they had not answered his call because they had not heard it.

Dr Bulstrode certainly heard the knock. He stopped in mid-sentence and positively growled. ‘Come in! Who is it?’ He knew of course who it was. Andrew’s absence had been noticed immediately form-room registration had been taken. When interrogated, none of the other boys professed to know Andrew’s whereabouts (Dr Bulstrode doubted the truthfulness of this, but what could he prove?).  Lowther would turn up eventually, the doctor supposed, and when he did he would give him what for.

Six pairs of eyes turned on the door as slowly it eased open and Andrew’s school cap appeared, followed shortly by his head and then the rest of his body.

‘Don’t dawdle boy,’ Dr Bulstrode thundered, ‘Come in at once!’

Sheepishly, Andrew walked a few steps into the schoolroom and then paused, not sure what to do next. The five boys had a jolly good idea what would happen next and perked up at the prospect of the entertainment to come.

Dr Bulstrode was a tall man in his fifties. He had once been a sportsman; it was rumoured he had played rugby for England Juniors, a long time ago in his youth. Now, he was losing his shape, and a small paunch at his belly was developing into a gut. He was dressed in the traditional schoolmaster’s gown and even inside the schoolroom he donned a mortar-board cap, under which untidy grey hairs emerged. His eyes were very searching and he had a jaw like a steel trap. His nose upon which he perched prinz nez spectacles was shaped like an eagle’s beak.

“The first thing you can do is to close the door behind you!” Dr Bulstrode said everything at the highest possible volume. He had practised for many years a character that could bring even the most rebellious schoolroom full of boys to heel. When the doctor spoke he was listened to.

Now, crimson from ear to ear, Andrew turned on his heels, and closed the door.

“Stand there Lowther!” Dr Bulstrode pointed to a spot in front of his desk. Andrew stood and surveyed the schoolroom. It had not changed since last term, and he had not expected it to. There were the same low wooden desks with sloping tops, some were paired and others stood singularly on their own. Each desk had an inkwell and a groove where the boy kept his nibbed pen. The schoolroom was decorated with a map of the world (most of the countries coloured pink), a large clock and several pictures of groups of schoolboys, all formally staring straight ahead.

To Andrew’s left was the schoolmaster’s desk, a cupboard for books and a blackboard and easel. And hanging from the easel on clear display was a crook-handled swishy cane.

Andrew had seen that cane many times before, but his heart still beat a little faster now. There was a very real prospect that it would be connecting with his stretched backside at any moment.

“Late again Lowther! I thought we had dealt with your time-keeping problem last term! Face the wall! Place your hands on your head! I shall deal with you later!”

With the sniggers of the others boys clearly audible, Andrew moved and stood facing the map with his nose almost touching Canada.

Behind him Dr Bulstrode was in full stride. In fact, Dr Bulstrode was no more a ‘doctor’ than Andrew’s Aunt Fanny; it just added to the supposed authenticity of Lyncroft Court to give him such a title. Nobody questioned his academic credentials and why would they? It was universally acknowledged by those who paid the school fees that he gave ‘satisfaction.’

Dr Bulstrode lectured his charges about the rules of the school. Andrew had noticed that everyone in the group except one were new boys. The one boy he knew from last term was called Harry Wharton (at least at the school) and he had developed a reputation as a ‘prankster.’ He had received lots of corporal punishment for his troubles, but it did not seem to do him much good. He should be good fun, Andrew hoped.

Dr Bulstrode was extremely agitated about his rules and the consequences for any boy who deliberately broke them. He reached a climax when he spoke of “contraband.”

“No boy is to bring contraband onto the school premises,” he shrieked. “And any boy found with contraband will suffer the severest punishment! Do I make myself clear?”

He was met with silence. In part because the boys were stunned by the ferocity of his oration, but also because they were unsure what he meant by “contraband.”

Andrew, who had heard it all last term, and had suffered the direst consequences for breaking rules, knew the doctor mostly meant cigarettes and sweets. The punishment would be severe: the only matter in question would be whether the boy’s short trousers would be snugly fitted across the buttocks as he bent over or down at his ankles.

The doctor’s lecture now completed, he turned his attention to Andrew. “Turn around Lowther, face me!”

Andrew turned on his heels, still with his hands firmly on the top of his blue-quartered school cap.

“Late again, I think you know by now that I will not stand for this kind of behaviour!” Dr Bulstrode strode to the blackboard as he was speaking and reached up for the whippy rattan cane. Behind him, five boys sat up to attention.

“Bend over that desk, Lowther!” The doctor pointed to one of the single-seat wooden desks. It had been left unoccupied at the front of the schoolroom, especially to be used for such contingencies.

“But it wasn’t my fault, Sir,” Andrew started, with no expectation of winning this argument.

“Bend over that desk!” Dr Bulstrode’s impatience was clear for all to see.

“But, it wasn’t my fault the train was late.” And, then just in time he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

The doctor swished the cane fiercely. If Andrew did not obey his order immediately the consequences could be insufferable.

Swish! “Bend over!” Swish! Swish!

“But it wasn’t my fault, Sir,” Andrew continued to protest, even as he stepped forward and lent over the desk. The desk sloped forward and was the correct height and shape to take a boy’s body so that his bottom was raised at a perfect position to receive a whopping. Andrew clutched tightly onto two wooden legs and felt his Aertex briefs ride up his buttocks. He remembered how thick the material was, but he knew from painful experience the pants would be no protection from the caning he was about to get.

All the boys had a perfect view of Andrew’s bottom and legs as he stretched across the wooden desk awaiting the onslaught on his bum. No doubt, the positioning was deliberate. Dr Bulstrode liked his boys to witness corporal punishment sessions. It was a notice of what would certainly happen to them if they decided to step out of line.

He might have intended it as a deterrent, but boys can be evil creatures and at this moment they were more excited about seeing their fellow pupil thrashed than for the future safety of their own backsides.

The doctor took hold of Andrew’s blazer and moved it away from the target area. Then, he ceremonially pulled first the boy’s shirt and then his vest out from the waistband of his grey short trousers. Finally, he tugged the top of the trousers so that they fitted snuggly against the boy’s buttocks. When he could clearly see the outline of Andrew’s underwear under the material of the shorts, he was ready to go.

He swished six cuts into the boy’s buttocks, one whop after the other with no pause. As school canings went it was not a severe thrashing. It was delivered with enough force to make Andrew gasp a little after each stroke and to leave a tingle in his buttocks, but when Andrew was allowed to stand up his face was redder from the embarrassment of the public chastisement than his buttock cheeks must have been from the caning itself.

“Take your seat, Lowther and next time get an earlier train,” Bulstrode barked, unable to disguise a slight smile.

The distraction of Andrew’s caning over, the boys quickly settled down for the first lesson of the day: Sums.

“Boys!” Bulstrode intoned, “I trust you have all done your prep and you are ready for the test I am about to deliver.”

Some of the boys actually groaned aloud at these words, while others silently grumbled. None of the six boys looked forward to this. They had been instructed to prep for this test and, because the good doctor considered that eight-year-old boys at a Council school should pass it with flying colours, his own pupils were expected to obtain maximum marks.

“Any boy who fails to get at least seven out of ten in this test, will feel my leather taws across the palms of his hands!”

The news did not come as a surprise; they had been warned beforehand. Dr Bulstrode was quite right about the simplicity of the task he had set the boys: any boy who failed only had himself to blame.

The test papers duly distributed, Bulstrode gave instructions to. “turn the page over and begin.”

Andrew did so and picked up his pencil and began. The boy was a whiz at long division and multiplication, and he knew it. His pencil flew across the paper as he filled in the answers. He stopped for a second when confronted by “vulgar fractions.” Ah, vulgar fractions, how rude. He chortled to himself at the little joke.

“Is something amusing you, Lowther!” Bulstrode’s beaky eye had caught him. Andrew flushed a little and stared down at this test paper.

Within minutes Andrew had completed the test. In triumph, for he was certain none of the others in the class would have finished so soon, he plonked his pencil down on the desk and sat back in his uncomfortable wooden chair.

He glanced around the room. The intensity of concentration on the faces of the boys amused him: surely they weren’t struggling with this silly test. One boy chewed on his pencil thoughtfully, but the taste of the wood and graphite did nothing for his memory; he still did not know how to multiply fractions.

The test was over; papers collected and in no time at all Bulstrode had marked them. “Lowther, come here, distribute the papers!” Andrew rose from his desk and took the sheaf from the schoolmaster’s hand. As he handed them back to each boy, he sneaked a look at the marks: nobody had scored more than himself.

But, oh dear! one boy was for it. Five out of ten. Only five out of ten, Andrew thought scornfully, he deserves all he gets.

“Wharton, stand up! Come out to the front!” The boy was expecting this. He made no protest as he climbed out of his desk, barking his shin as he did so.

“Stand there boy. Face the class!” Bulstrode ordered as he opened his desk drawer and took out a two-tailed leather taws.

Most of the boys had never seen such an instrument before. It was made of heavy tanned leather with each tail about nine inches long and less than an inch wide. Bulstrode held it by a short wooden handle and tapped the business end against his thigh as he berated Wharton.

“You are a lazy boy, Wharton, what are you!”

The boy agreed that he was indeed a lazy boy.

“And you are very, very stupid! What are you boy!” One boy Andrew could not see towards the back of the schoolroom, suppressed a giggle. Yes, Andrew agreed silently, old Bulstrode was laying it on a bit thick.

Again, Wharton was forced to say he agreed with his master’s assessment, but he did not really agree. He was not stupid, just lazy. He had not prepared for the test and had failed it. It was his own fault that he found himself in this predicament.

Bulstrode instructed Wharton to hold out his right hand. Reluctantly, the boy did as he was told, unsure that he would be able to keep his hand in place for the beating he deserved. He had never received corporal punishment on the hand before. He had been spanked, slippered and caned many times before; but all his punishments had been delivered to his bottom. Getting it on the bum was easy; all a boy had to do was bend over in the required position (over the knee, chair, desk or what not) and let his tormentor get on with it. If the pain was too great the boy could cling on tightly until it was all over.

Getting it on the hand was altogether a different experience. A boy had to face the schoolmaster eye-to-eye and he was obliged to look on as the punisher brought down the strap or cane into his outstretched palm. The temptation to withdraw the hand at the last moment to avoid the agony of the lash would be difficult for Wharton to resist.

“Put your left hand underneath your right hand!”

Wharton’s hands trembled as he raised them into position.

Bulstrode lifted the strap straight up and behind his shoulder. Wharton screwed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to see it.

“You shall receive two licks, one on each hand!” And with sentence pronounced, the schoolmaster smacked the taws so that it landed squarely on Wharton’s palm and fingers. He let out a yelp and bounced around a bit but stayed in position. Then, Bulstrode made him switch hands and followed with another equally hard whack.

Wharton’s hand was crimson and burning. Bulstrode never did a thing by halves. If punishment was earned it was given, as Wharton and the other pupils found that out many, many times.

By the time Bulstrode had finished, Wharton was rubbing his hands up and down against his outer thighs but it was of little comfort.

The schoolmaster returned the leather taws to the desk and moved to a cupboard from which he removed a cardboard hat in the shape of a cone. Across the front in tidy black letters was the word ‘DUNCE.’

A wave of giggles travelled around the schoolroom: the boys had never seen anything quite like this before.

Dr Bulstrode, evidently pleased with the response, handed the Dunce’s cap to Wharton.

“Take this and stand in the corner and stay there until play time! If you are going to behave like a dunce in my class, you might as well be treated like one.”

Miserably, the boy stood in the corner, still evidently in much pain from his leathering.

The cold sleet lashed against the schoolroom window; another winter’s day had set in. Even hardy schoolboys could not be expected to play out in such conditions, so Bulstrode declared a ‘wet play time.’

This meant the boys could go to the junior common room for play time. Andrew was delighted; it meant he could read comics. But, first he had to endure the free school milk. This was a ritual in schools across the nation. Every morning junior-school children were forced to drink a small bottle of milk. Joe Lane was that day’s milk monitor and he took his duties very seriously indeed. He had been allowed to carry the tiny knife that was needed to slice a hole in the metal top of the bottle so a drinking straw could be poked through. Lane was so proud of the responsibility he had been given.

With no grace at all, Andrew accepted the proffered bottle of milk and dramatically holding his nose to show his distain, he sucked up the whole third of a pint of milk in two almighty gulps. Yuck! He cried loudly and went off in search of his favourite comic.

….

Playtime was soon over but Bulstrode was nowhere to be seen and the schoolroom was getting restless. Any schoolmaster knows that you cannot leave a group of boys with the presumed age of eight alone; they cannot resist getting into mischief. So it was that morning. No one boy started it; there were no ring-leaders, but within minutes chaos ensued. Alfie Cook tore a sheet of paper from his exercise book, scrunched it up into a tight ball and using his wooden ruler flicked it across the desk. It landed squarely in the eye of Dick Durrance, who did not take the disturbance kindly. With the precision usually associated with a surgeon, he tore a corner from his blotting paper and dipped it in his inkwell. It flew across the room, but mercifully, for the matron, who would have had to spend hours trying to remove ink from the boy’s blazer, it missed Cook, its intended target.

Paper darts whistled across the form room. Joe Lane produced a catapult (how had he smuggled that into the schoolroom?) and was searching the desks for suitable projectiles to launch around the room.   Not a single boy was where he should be; sitting quietly at his desk waiting for class to begin.

The door burst open and the from-master surged in. “What!!” That was all that is was necessary for Bulstrode to bark before the boys to come to order.

The master did not have to ask; it was perfectly obvious to him and anybody else within a hundred yards of the schoolroom what had been happening.

The boys sheepishly stood still and Lane hurriedly stuffed the catapult into the pocket of his trousers, hoping he had been quick enough to escape Bulstrode’s eagle eye.

The schoolmaster hesitated for a moment; weighing up the situation. He spied the swishy rattan cane hanging from the blackboard easel. Who could doubt that each of the boys deserved a sound caning? But, the schoolmaster had a better idea.

“Stand alongside that wall, all of you.” The boys were still frisky and pushed and shoved one another until they were in some semblance of a line.

“Stand up straight! Keep still! Be quiet!” One command followed another, until eventually Bulstrode had the boys calmed to his satisfaction.

He honoured each one of them with his most steely scowl. No schoolboy could hope to return such a glare and they stared down at their own shoes.

Corporal punishment was imminent, but none of the boys could have guessed what was to happen next.

Imperiously, Bulstrode marched towards his desk, but instead of taking the cane from the blackboard easel, he reached over and picked up a wooden chair. Even though it was small and had no arms it was remarkably heavy. Six pairs of eyes watched in wonder as the schoolmaster manoeuvred the chair from behind the desk and laid it down with a heavy crash in the very centre of the schoolroom.

Then turning to the boys, he confirmed to them the actions he was about to take.

“If you insist on behaving like kindergarten children that is precisely how I will treat you!”

With that, he sat down in the chair, straightened his back and set his legs apart by about three feet.

He clicked his fingers angrily.  “You first, Durrance! Step forward!”

Dick Durrance knew they were all going to get it, but why did he have to be the first? Maybe if he was second, he would know what it was that was in store for him.

Even, if he did not know the details, the basic premise was clear for all. The doctor intended to take each of the boys across his knees for a traditional spanking.

Bulstrode had not taken himself a weapon. Boys knew from past history that the schoolmaster delivered corporal punishment enthusiastically and he had a number of instruments of persuasion (as he liked to call them) to choose from. That day the boys had already witnessed the cane and the taws in use, but had he a mind to, Bulstrode could call upon a large rubber-soled plimsoll, a selection of light- and heavyweight spanking paddles and a heavy ebony-backed hairbrush that had once belonged to his mother and he could recall (not altogether fondly) being used across his own bared bottom when he was the age of the boys now standing in front of him.

None of these instruments of torture (as the boys called them) were evident.

Durrance had been spanked many times before, corporal punishment played a large part in his life, but that did not mean that he did not have butterflies in his tummy as he stepped forward as instructed.

Bulstrode clicked his fingers again to indicate the boy should stand directly in front of him.

“Hands on head, Durrance.”

The boy was unable to meet the master’s eye, so when he clasped his fingers together and placed them on his head he intently looked over Bulstrode’s shoulder to the window beyond, in a vain attempt to imagine that this might not really be happening.

But it was. Bulstrode undid the snake belt that held up the boy’s short trousers and let them slide into a puddle around his feet. Alfie Cook blushed to his roots as it dawned on him what was about to happen to his pal Dick and what would shortly to happen to him.

Bulstrode placed his thumbs inside the wide waistband of the boy’s Aertex briefs and lowered them first over his buttocks, then down his thighs until the rested at the boy’s knees. Dick still stared out of the window at the falling sleet.  He shuffled a little as a cold breeze brushed against his naked skin and the underpants continued their journey south until they rested on top of his shorts. He blushed profusely. He had been spanked many times in the past, but this was the first time he had travelled across the lap in full public view.

Soon he was across Bulstrode’s knee, affording his witnesses a perfect view of his chubby pink buttocks as they pointed towards the ceiling. Anxious not to let himself down in front of his fellow form-mates, Dick Durrance raised his bottom high, as if to say to his punisher, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, I deserve to be punished and I will take my spanking like a man.”

Dick placed the palms of both hands flat on the dusty wooden floorboards and looked directly ahead: he was ready for anything the good doctor had in store for him.

There were no hidden weapons. Bulstrode smacked his hand into the boy’s buttocks with some force and at rapid speed. In seconds he had covered the whole area from the top near the base of the spine, across the fleshy globes, down to the very sensitive spot where the bum meets the thighs. Then he covered the area again and again. Durrance gasped as the heat of his bare-bottomed spanking intensified. It started as nothing more than a warm glow, but it grew to a scorching pain as Dr Bulstrode spanked on and on. He had never known an over-the-knee hand spanking hurt so much.

His bottom and thighs were the colour of a good Burgundy by the time Bulstrode released him and ordered him back into line.

“Don’t you dare rub that bottom, or I’ll put you back over my knee!” Durrance’s hands had started to drift toward his very sore backside.

“Keep those shorts and pants at your feet, until I tell you that you may take them up!”

Durrance shuffled back in line. He was a little proud that he had withstood the severe spanking in front of his pals without too much fuss, but he was not at all comfortable standing in line naked from the waist down. He slipped his hands in front of his private parts.

Dr Bulstrode noticed the boy’s discomfort and demonstrated his mean streak. “Hands on head, Durrance!”

Miserably, his face blushing even redder than his bottom, the wretched boy obeyed the command.

‘You next Lowther!’ Bulstrode snapped his fingers again and Andrew walked forward to the point of execution.

And so, one after another, the boys went across Bulstrode’s knees for a forceful bare-bottomed spanking. A disinterested observer would have admired the schoolmaster for his strength and determination as his palms hammered into the fleshy globes of his charges. He spanked at such pace and with such force that surely by the time that Harry Wharton, the sixth and final boy, had been dealt with Bulstode’s palms must have been throbbing with more pain than any of his charge’s backsides.

But, even as Wharton rose from Bulstrode’s knees, that was not the end of the punishment session. Joe Lane might have succeeded in hiding his catapult when the form-master had entered the room earlier, but it was detected in the boy’s pocket the moment the good doctor started to unbutton his short trousers.

Lane was spanked like the rest of the class for his unruly behaviour, but he now must endure an additional six-of-the-best for bringing a prohibited item into school.

His form-master pointed with the cane to the chair he had just sat on.
“Bend over that chair, Lane!”

 

The boy’s short trousers and underpants were still at his feet, but silently, doggedly, he bent over. He shut his teeth hard as the swipes came down. Bulstrode handed out six of the very best, and though Lane went through it in silence, he had to keep his teeth clamped to keep back yells of anguish.

Bulstrode put beef into every swipe! Lane’s face was deathly pale when he had finished, but his bottom was scarlet and crossed with six deep crimson lines.

His eyes shone as he pulled up his clothes, dressed and limped back to his desk.

Despite his physical exertions, Bulstrode was calmness personified. Beating boys’ backsides was all in a day’s work.

Once the boys were settled at their desks, all except Lane, who wriggled like an eel, Bulstrode arranged himself in front of the class.

“Boys I was delayed returning to the class after playtime because I had to go to the headmaster’s study!”

Andrew suppressed a chortle at the image of Bulstrode bent over touching his toes while Dr Manners, the headmaster, delivered six stinging swipes into the seat of his trousers.

“I have a message for Herries! Stand up Herries!”

Andrew swivelled at his desk as a boy behind him slowly raised himself from his seat. He was a tall, gangly boy, with an unusually long neck. He reminded Andrew of a giraffe.

“Herries, during the first period this morning a search was made of the changing rooms and in the pocket of your outer coat there was found a packet of five Player’s Weights cigarettes!” Bulstrode intoned this in the way a hanging judge might pass sentence of the noose.

All eyes were on Herries. He was for it, now. Breaking the cardinal rule about ‘contraband.’

“And,” the good doctor had not finished, “two of the cigarettes were missing.” Then he added further, rather unnecessarily, “Presumably they had been smoked.”

“But, S..s..sir,” Tom Herries stuttered.

“Silence, boy! Leave your excuses for the headmaster. You are to attend his study immediately after this class has completed.”

Then, Bulstrode launched into a geography lesson.

Andrew sat puzzled. If the headmaster had discovered cigarettes in Herries’s pockets, why had be not found the packet of cigarettes in his own coat?

Tom Herries spent the next hour in fevered anticipation. Summoned to the headmaster’s study; there could be only one outcome.

….

The door of the headmaster’s study was made of heavy oak. Shaking a little in nervous anticipation, Tom Herries balled a fist and rapped his knuckles against the dense wood.

“Enter!” It was a loud, clear command. Tom took a deep breath, turned the handle and opened the door.

The study was larger than he expected it to be and more antique in style. Facing him was a large oak desk with two chairs in front.  The headmaster Dr Manners was standing stiff-backed behind his desk, dressed in a schoolmaster’s black gown over tweed jacket and striped trousers, with a mortar-board on his head.

Dr Manners stared at the boy. He was more than six feet tall and looked a little absurd in his school uniform. He had long ago grown too tall to be wearing short trousers.

Manners knew his boys very well; their present-day characters and their past histories of conduct. He knew Tom was one of those in-between boys as far as behaviour was concerned; not bad, though far from being a goodie-goodie. He had racked up a few detentions and had been spanked on his bare bottom only that morning, but until that day he had never felt the cane.

Tom stood and watched as the headmaster went to the corner of the room. The wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling shelving from the door right across to the window. The centre section of this opened when he touched something at the edge, to reveal a cupboard, in which Tom could see a selection of canes. Most had curved handles, and were lying on shelves, though the headmaster selected one that was straight. This was about four feet long, maybe a quarter of an inch thick, and had ridges every four inches or so along its length.

Tom watched him as he put it back and took out another cane and flexed the wicked looking rod and swished it down before placing it back and selecting another cane. He flexed that cane three times and swished it down twice.

Waiting for his punishment, Tom had a mixture of fear and excitement as the headmaster selected yet another cane which he could almost bend tip to crook handle. He repeated the procedure with the cane before putting it back and taking out another cane and flexing it, he put that cane back and seemingly took out the cane he had selected before.

Apparently at last satisfied with his selection, Dr Manners turned to the boy and delivered a sermon. “Corporal punishment is painful, but if you want to improve your life, I’m afraid it is a necessity. Believe me young man, nothing will help you learn to obey the rules than the burning memory of the last good caning you got and the realization that another one is coming if you don’t shape up.”

Tom stood hands behind his back and feet about a foot apart as the headmaster swivelled an armchair round so that its back faced into the room. Tom could not help but look at the cane on his desk.

“Your punishment will be six of the best strokes of the cane,” he informed Tom.  “Take your blazer off and put it on my desk and then bend over the chair in front of you and place your hands on the seat.” Tom’s stomach churned as he barely managed to stutter, “Yes, Sir,” before removing his blazer and resting It on the leather top of the headmaster’s desk. Then, with a deep breath he launched himself across the back of the chair and manoeuvred into place. He was very tall and thin and his stomach easy cleared the chair’s back.

In his bent-over position Tom’s pants had sank between each buttock, clinging to the soft curves. The boy was entering for him unchartered territory: his first-ever caning. The muscles in his thighs and calves tightened in anticipation of the imminent cascade of pain. He screwed his eyes shut, held tightly on to the seat cushion and braced himself.

He could hear the headmaster breathing, then the rustle of his gown as he took up position behind him.

The first stroke was a beauty. The cane slid over the crown of the tightened buttocks, moved away, and with a rush of demonic enthusiasm, struck on the precise spot it had selected. Tom’s teeth ground together in a determined effort to control any audible or physical reaction.

The headmaster lifted the cane high into the air a second time before bringing it down again with a will. The boy heard the swish then felt the line of fire, the pain was ten times worse than he expected it to be. Tom jumped and only just managed to hold his position, as the third stroke landed just below the first right in the lower part of his buttocks.

The cane tapped across his bottom again, and then cut in slightly lower. Whack! Although his buttocks jerked, this time the pain was stingy but not agonisingly so.

Dr Manners raised the cane high, had second thoughts and raised it higher and then had third thoughts and raised it higher again. Tom’s bottom tautened. The cane stayed up. Tom’s bottom relaxed. The cane came down.

After a few seconds wait, the headmaster raised the cane for the final time and placed the last searing stroke across the centre of Tom’s bottom. The effect was as expected, with Tom’s head lurching backwards when the cane impacted and the pain exploded across his bottom like a red hot poker had been placed on it.  Tom, gasping for breath, fought to remain bent over the chair.

It was over. Tom had taken his first caning and it had been quite a “six-of-the-best.”

“Stand up Herries,” Dr Manners ordered imperiously. Clearly in some pain, the boy hauled himself to an upright position. Instinctively his hands shot to rub at his tenderized buttocks. Tom’s face was scarlet and his eyes moist.

“I can see that you didn’t enjoy that,” the headmaster remarked matter-of-factly, for he had no sympathy for the boy.

Tom could only sniff his response.

“Well that’s good. I think I woke you up and I believe you will be obeying instructions in future. Am I right?”

“Yes, Sir!” it was a muffled reply.

“Well, just keep in mind that this cane is here waiting for you if you don’t. And next time it will be six strokes with your trousers down.”

And with that Dr Manners dismissed Tom from his study and the boy shuffled off in great discomfort to join the other fellows for school dinners.

….

It was five-thirty; school had ended more than an hour ago and six “boys” and their “schoolmaster” relaxed in the bar of the George Hotel. Most were on their second gin-and-tonics.

Tom Herries wriggled a little in his hard leather chair. Harry Wharton was surprised that the palm of his hand tingled as he held onto his glass. And, Andrew Lowther wondered what chance he had of getting Dick Durrance into one of hotel’s bedrooms and taking him up his chubby arse.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

Late home from school

Trouble at the mall

Damien’s mid-term results

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Lazy Students Home for the Hols.

z used corner boy in corner from student story (8)

Mr Howard wasn’t prepared for what he saw through the lounge window of his friend and neighbour.

Nineteen-year-old Tristian Miller stood facing the corner of the room, his hands on his head in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position. His jeans were at his ankles and his multi-coloured briefs were bunched up just below his buttocks. His T-shirt had ridden up his back clearly exposing his bared cheeks. They were lowing red hot. Mr Howard could see even at some distance that Tristian had been on the receiving end of a severe bare-bottomed spanking.

Suddenly, the front door opened and Tristian’s father George greeted his dinner guests. The Howards and the Millers were old friends; they went back twenty years at least.

“Come in, come in,” George launched into the traditional pleasantries, but immediately he saw his guests were distracted.

“Oh, that!” he nodded in Tristian’s direction. “He’s just back from university. Come in, I’ll tell you all about it.”

The Howards knew Tristian very well; he was a close pal with their own son Wayne. They had grown up together, played in the same parks, gone to the same school, and now as teenagers they had gone off to the same university together. They even had rooms in the same university dorm.

Mr Miller mixed drinks and when everyone was settled he told his story.

“He got back from university today. It hasn’t been a great success, I’m afraid. I found out he has been wasting his time and my money,” he sighed.

“He spends too much time in the bar or on the sports field, I think. Failed some of his courses, as well. He has to do resits during the summer and if he doesn’t pass them, he won’t be allowed to return to the university.”

Mrs Howard made suitable noises in sympathy.

Mr Miller took a swig of his whisky and carried on, “So, I didn’t have much choice really did I? I’ve given him a damn good spanking. Hairbrush. Over my knee. Pants down.”

He took another swig. “So how did your Wayne get on?”

Neither Mr Howard nor his wife could answer that question. They realised they had no idea what grades their son had achieved in his exams. When they had questioned him about it, he simply mumbled, “Fine” and swiftly changed the subject.

Mr Howard knew how close his son and Tristian were and resolved to interrogate Wayne further on the subject as soon as possible.

“Isn’t Tristian a bit old to be spanked?” Mrs Howard asked. She was not opposed to corporal punishment and her husband at various times in the past had spanked Wayne, but had not for some years. The boy must have been fifteen, the last time he was hauled over his father’s knee for a taste of his bedroom slipper. Actually, now she thought about it, it was when Wayne and Tristian had been caught by a local farmer stealing apples from his orchard. Both lads got stinging backsides that day.

“No,” Mr Miller was certain about this. “He is not too old. The boy must learn self-discipline and if he cannot, and clearly he has demonstrated that he cannot, then I must impose that discipline upon him. It is for his own good.”

Mr Miller loved his son dearly and knew that the blistered backside he was at this moment nursing in the lounge would act as an incentive for him to work harder. Tristian would not want to go through a repeat performance during the Christmas holidays. Eventually, he would graduate from the university and enjoy a successful career. It would be days like this that would ensure his future would be as rosy as his backside currently was.

Twenty minutes later, Tristian, now fully dressed, put his head round the door to speak to his father. His bottom was still sore to touch but he showed no resentment about the humiliating spanking he had been subjected to. He knew he had done wrong and also that his father loved him dearly. It was his own fault; he had let himself and his parents down badly. He had already resolved to pass his resit exams and work harder next term.

“Can I please go out to visit Wayne?”

His father assented, “Yes, but don’t forget your curfew.”

With that the teenager departed and domestic harmony continued at the Miller’s home.

Tristian and Wayne were great friends and they told each other everything. So, only minutes later the nineteen-year-old whipped his jeans and pants down and bent over to show off the damage to his buttocks. Gingerly, his friend traced with his fingers the contours of the brush. The cheeks were a mass of bruises and an oval outline could be clearly seen imprinted in the flesh dozens of times. His entire bottom was swollen and starting to turn black.

“At least it’s not bleeding,” Wayne offered a crumb of comfort.

“Yeah, but it still stings like blazes. At first it felt like I was being whacked with my mother’s steam iron.”

They both laughed out loud. Poor Tristian: nineteen years old and spanked on his bare bottom by his father like he was nine. But Wayne knew Tristian was not alone. Soon his father would discover the truth about his own slacking and there could be only one consequence.

Tristan lay face down on the bed, waiting for his pal to locate the antiseptic cream in the bathroom cabinet. Soon Wayne’s fingers would gently massage the ointment into his firm buttocks.

….

When Mr Miller confronted him about his university studies, Wayne confessed. He wasn’t an especially virtuous teenager but he knew his father would demand to see the written transcript of his exam results and this would confirm his failure.

His father’s lecture was short and to the point. The nineteen year old’s failures were catalogued. His excuses (or lack of them) were heard in mitigation: but to no avail. Wayne knew, and accepted, there could be only one outcome. He had resolved to submit to his father’s will, however humiliating it would be.

His father pronounced sentence: the slipper, over the knee, bare bottom. He looked across at his son and for the first time the absurdity of the situation struck him. The boy was at least six-feet tall, broad shouldered and trim waisted. His white blond hair was longer than most would expect, lush, shiny, brushed back and flowing. Wayne wasn’t a little boy, he was clearly an adult.

Mr Miller pulled a straight-backed chair into the middle of the room and sat down, placing his feet about three feet apart. He would need a large platform for his lanky son to drape himself across to present his bottom to him for the spanking.

It had been one of the hottest days of the summer so far and Wayne wore only the shortest of bright green sports shorts and a garish yellow T-shirt that was a size too large.

“Come here,” his father spoke softly, “Take down your shorts and pants and bend over my knee.”

Despite his resolve to present himself submissively, Wayne hesitated. He stared down at the corduroy-covered thin legs of his father. Why did the spanking have to be over his knee? There was no way he could fit comfortably in that position. It would make more sense to bend over the back of the settee. That way he could point his bum at his father and he would have plenty of space to whack his slipper into his bared buttocks.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

Wayne put his thumbs under the elasticated waistbands of his shorts and pants and with a single movement, pushed both of them down to his knees. Then, in one athletic move he dived across his father’s legs. He was so tall that both his hands at the front and his feet at the back touched the carpet. He had to bend his knees slightly so that his bared bottom was raised sufficiently high above his father’s right thigh to receive the stinging slaps from the slipper.

With Wayne’s shorts and pants at his knees, his father gripped the teenager’s shirt into a ball and yanked it over his back. He was now naked from the shoulders to the knees, revealing a pair of peachy white buttocks that were twitching as they contemplated their fate. Wayne was a swimmer, and his bottom was muscular, without being large. It was pert, and joined smoothly with strong, broad thighs and long legs. He had very sparse, fine blond leg hair, with none on his behind. As his father pushed the shirt up towards the broad shoulders, the tapered torso was revealed, lightly toasted from exposure to the sun.

Mr Miller took a deep breath, raised the slipper and brought it down hard in the centre of Wayne’s bum. The boy let out a yelp and tightened his bottom. His father whacked the slipper down again, this time on the lower part of the cheeks.

The slipper being quite large and the teenager’s bottom quite small in comparison, his father had already achieved good coverage of what he could see. Anxious to avoid spanking in the same place twice if he could, father tipped Wayne towards him and slippered the left side of his bottom and quickly moved him the other way and slippered the right side.

The spanking accelerated, the slipper slapped into the naked flesh harder and faster, somehow always catching Wayne by surprise, finding fresh flesh to sting. His bottom rose and fell and rolled like waves at sea and despite Wayne’s age and size he could feel the rubber-soled slipper toasting his backside. Big red imprints of the slipper covered the whole of his bottom.

Despite his resolve Wayne yelped and struggled but his father held him tight and continued with a steady pattern of spanks.

Wayne felt the downpour of smacks to his bare bottom; they were harder, hotter, faster, and more rapidly biting into his buttocks and thighs. He twisted his head and neck, and leaned back upwards trying to figure out what was branding his bottom. It was his dad’s slipper, slapping blistering smacks onto and into his bum cheeks and inner and outer thighs.

The teenager shrieked, higher and higher in volume and in pitch and his right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his butt, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back, and held between his shoulder blades for the rest of the onslaught.

Wayne’s eyes alternately squinted and widened with shock and pain.  Worse still were his behind and his pride. He was nineteen years old, yet now found himself overturned, sprawled across his father’s lap. His face was pushed into the carpet, his right arm held up against his shoulders and his feet and legs thrashing and kicking into the air.

Mr Miller continued to pound the slipper across his son’s backside, and despite his protests and wriggling he held him down and continued. After about another three minutes of continuous swats he stopped and rested the slipper across his now frying buttocks.

Wayne was still lying there quivering, sobbing and shaking. His father reached under his chest and gently, but firmly, lifted him up to stand in front of him. The boy stumbled on trembling, wobbly legs, unable to stand still for shaking and shuddering, and jumping and bouncing up and down. He was doubled over and his hands flew to clasp and rub his fiery buttocks and upper legs. He was a grown man, crying like a five year old.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Wayne immediately inspected the damage. His buttocks and thighs were covered in dark blue bruises where every square inch of flesh had been assaulted by the slipper. After a short, fast shower he hobbled back to his room, where he gingerly slid onto the bed on his tummy to avoid any pressure on his tender bottom and rested his tear stained face on the pillow. He ran his hands over his stinging, burning bottom and to his astonishment his soldier saluted. Wayne reached under his stomach and took it in his right hand. With his left he reached over to the bedside table and took a handful of tissue.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rules of the House

z used otk pants down bed straightladsspankeddot com (2)

Joe Winterbottom was a middle-aged divorced man and he enjoyed a comfortable life in the suburbs; until his idle, disobedient, waste of space son, came to live with him.

Joe was happy to be divorced and even happier when his son Martin went to live with his mother. She could keep him, as far as Joe was concerned. The lazy good-for-nothing.

As Joe had predicted Martin left school as soon as legally possible when he was sixteen and was out of work more often than he was in. When he did work they were dead-end jobs; mostly labouring or factory jobs. Now, he was out of work again.

Joe could not care less. He did not like his son and the feeling was mutual. They rarely met these days, the boy was twenty years old and an adult, he could take care of himself, Joe thought.

Except that he couldn’t. Martin still lived with this mother, who did everything for him. It wasn’t that she doted on him, because she didn’t, but she had just got into a routine of cleaning, cooking and waiting on him hand and foot; the way mother’s did.

But, her life was about to change, she was going to remarry and move home; and Martin was decidedly not invited.

Joe said, “No way. Definitely not. Over my dead body,” when his wife suggested that Martin moved in with him.

But, the reality was different. For Martin it was either move in with his dad or sleep on the streets and against his better judgement, Joe agreed he could stay with him temporarily until he found another place to live.

It was a disaster from the start. Martin wasn’t going to change; he expected everything to be done for him; he rarely got out of bed before the afternoon and he messed up the house with unwashed cups and plates. And, if that wasn’t bad enough, he didn’t mind helping himself to Joe’s whiskey: the good stuff.

Joe reckoned he needed a plan to get his son on his feet and out of the house for good. First, he needed to find the boy a job where he could earn enough money to rent a room of his own; then he had to make Martin clear out.

The job was easier than he imagined. A colleague at work told him about a burger bar in town, they were always hiring; his own son worked there for a while. His boy had learned a lot of discipline at the bar, he reported rather enigmatically.

Joe wasn’t so sure, working at a burger bar was a dead-end, it wouldn’t lead anywhere; it was the place students worked for extra cash while they were studying, it wasn’t a real job.

But, another night of unwashed cups and Martin lazing around the house while he was still wearing yesterday’s shirt changed Joe’s mind.

Joe knew he would have to take the initiative and went to the burger bar himself. The manager said he would be happy to try the boy out and that was how Martin joined the world of the employed.

His first shift started at 9am on Tuesday, but no way was he going to make it. It was already 8.15 and he was still under the bed clothes stroking his penis.

Joe burst into the room. “Come on Martin. Up, you’ll be late for work!”

Martin didn’t care; he ignored his dad, rolled over and faced the wall, “Fuck off it’s too early.”

When he thought about it later, Joe could not understand what came over him. It wasn’t planned and it wasn’t something he had ever done before.

In a fury, he ripped the bedclothes off his son’s back, and grabbed the boy’s arm. Martin was too startled to realise what was happening, or to resist.

Before he knew it Martin was on his feet and his dad was sitting on the bed, then without a word, Joe pulled his son face down on top of him, ripped down the boy’s underpants, and spanked his bare bottom like he was eight years old.

Joe had the advantage of surprise and held his son firmly around the waist while he pummelled away at his buttocks. It was a furious barrage of slaps all over both of the boy’s cheeks. Martin cursed his dad and tried to struggle free, but Joe had him across his knees so high that his upper body was face down on the bed; he could wriggle left and right over his dad’s lap but he couldn’t lift himself free.

Joe put all his effort into the spanking; this was for all the slovenly behaviour, that’s for the laziness, the rudeness, stealing his malt whiskey and most of all for disrupting his quiet life.

Eventually, he released his grip and Martin sprang to his knees. Humiliated that his dad could see his genitals he stooped down to pick up his underpants and covered himself up. His bottom was bright red and stung like mad.

“Quickly, get washed and I’ll give you a lift into work,” Joe said, and meekly his son obeyed.

Martin avoided his father at home that evening; and that suited Joe very well. He hoped it meant the spanking had worked and his son would be better behaved in future. The next morning Martin was up in good time to take himself to work and Joe was very pleased, but the boy soon slipped back into his old ways.

Maybe I should give him another spanking, Joe thought. He probably couldn’t though; last time he had the element of surprise, if he tried again, Martin would be ready and put up a struggle. He was a fit lad and could do his dad some serious damage in a fair fight.

The only way it would work was if Martin was submissive and agreed to be spanked.

Martin went out clubbing on Friday and missed work completely on Saturday. That’s it, Joe decided, he will have to accept discipline, or go.

When Martin eventually got out of bed, Joe called him into the living room and put it to him simply. He had rehearsed it once or twice, until it didn’t sound so silly; he was asking a grown man of twenty to accept a spanking from him and to agree that unless his behaviour and attitude improved there would be more like that to come.

“So, that’s my decision, Martin,” he said. “I am going to spank you for staying out late and for missing work.”

“No, you’re not,” it was simple defiance. Joe had expected it and knew he couldn’t force the issue, but he tried one more time.

“Either, you take a spanking, or you can pack your bags and go.”

“Yeah, right,” and with that Martin stormed off to his room.

It was the easiest thing in the world to get a locksmith and when Martin arrived at the house from work on Monday he discovered he was homeless.

Joe let him scream and holler on the doorstep; who cared what the neighbours thought. He opened a new bottle of whiskey, turned up the volume on his music centre and waited. Eventually, Martin went away and Joe really didn’t care where to.

The phone rang and he knew it would be his ex-wife, so he didn’t answer. A little drunk – that’s what you get for drinking whiskey on an empty stomach – he went to bed.

He couldn’t ignore his wife’s calls forever. She wasn’t going to take Martin back, it was Joe’s turn to look after him.

No it wasn’t, he was twenty years old and he could look after himself. Their argument went nowhere and eventually Joe hung up on his wife.

Martin was stuck, his mother’s new husband was adamant the boy could not stay with them, and since it was his house and he paid the bills, his word was law.

Martin asked around at work but no one could help; they mostly still lived with their parents. The boss, Billy, said he had a spare room; he lived in a council flat on a run-down estate, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounded.

Martin was about to jump at the chance; but one of the lads took him to one side. Billy had a reputation. There was this story about the student who worked there one summer and messed up once too often. The boy was made to stay after the burger bar was closed. Billy thought everyone had gone home but he was wrong. That’s how people knew he made the eighteen-year-old take down his jeans and bend across his knee. By all accounts he gave him one heck of a spanking.

Martin blanched, “No, you’re kidding; you’re winding me up.” No way, he spanked that kid. No way. It was just one of those stories people made up about their boss.

But, Martin decided to pass on Billy’s offer.

Joe was still getting grief from his ex-wife. She was scared for Martin; was he sleeping in a shop doorway at night? To get her off his back, Joe agreed to go visit his son at the burger bar to see what was going on.

Martin was feeling desperate; he was scared witless for the future, he had no real friends, no money and now nowhere to live. He was very pleased when his dad turned up, but wasn’t about to let him know.

Joe felt forced by his wife into taking Martin back, but no way was he going to retreat. The boy had to accept his discipline.

Then there was an unexpected turn of events. They had shared a drink in a nearby pub and suddenly Joe mellowed to his son; but not by much.

He heard himself saying, “The offer is still open. You take a spanking.”

A man at the next table pretended not to hear, but listened intently.

“Dad!” Martin was embarrassed to be talking about this at all; but he didn’t want to discuss it in the middle of a crowded pub.

“Let me know your decision,” Joe drained his glass and went home.

Martin was very drunk by the time he rang the bell of his dad’s house. Joe let him in anyway.

The next day Joe stopped off at little shop he knew, tucked away off the town centre. He had bought magazines there in the past and noticed they also sold “adult toys.” The paddle he purchased seemed authentic enough. It was about eighteen inches long by three wide and about a quarter-inch thick. Some joker had painted “The Board of Education” on one side.

Joe thought he would be more embarrassed than he was, but the shop assistant knew how to wrap a toy discreetly.

Martin knew what was waiting for him when he got home, but he didn’t delay his return. He knew it would hurt, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been punished by the teachers at school many times. Yes, Martin hated his dad for it and he knew the spanking from him would hurt, but he had no choice, his father was in control. If Martin wanted to stay living under his dad’s roof, he had to obey his rules.

Joe couldn’t work out why exactly, but he seemed to be looking forward to this. If only he had given the boy a dose of the paddle years ago, they wouldn’t be in this mess now. He needed to make up for lost time and Martin’s bum would have to suffer – a lot.

It happened in the front room; there was a large couch, ideal for a boy of Martin’s size to bend over in comfort, but what would happen next would be far from comfortable, Joe would make damn sure of that. Apart from last week, when he did it in a blind fury, Joe had never spanked a person before. Surely there can’t be that much to it; the objective was to cause the maximum pain possible and to do that he would whack the paddle into the buttocks. Simple. So long as Martin was submissive and didn’t put up a fight and try to get out of it.

Joe needn’t have worried; Martin had made up his mind. To be twenty years old and spanked was humiliating enough, he wouldn’t make matters worse by yelling and screaming.

“Martin, stand there,” Mr Winterbottom pointed to the back of the couch and Martin took up position a couple of feet behind it. Joe had prepared a little speech, to make clear to his son why he was being beaten. He recounted all of Martin’s faults: it was a long list.

The boy remained silent, there wasn’t much to say. Everything his father said was true, but he didn’t feel remorse; he despised his dad and this beating would just make him loathe him more.

Joe picked up the paddle and tested it for weight. Let’s get on with it, he thought.

“Pants down.”

If looks could kill. Martin silently unbuckled his belt, unzipped, and his pants fell to his knees, revealing he was wearing a pair of baggy shorts.

“Underwear too.”

This was too much.

“Dad! No, not on the bare.”

Joe’s withering stare was enough of an answer and turning his back on his father so he wouldn’t see his cock and balls, Martin whipped down the shorts.

“Bend over.”

Martin swooped over the back of the couch, grabbed the seat cushions tightly, and presented his bare bum perfectly for the attention of his father and his paddle.

Joe hadn’t seen many men’s bums in his life, but he reckoned Martin’s baby smooth, creamy, buttocks must be exceptional.

Exceptional, they might be, but they didn’t remain smooth and creamy for long. Joe brought the paddle down with some force across the centre of both cheeks.

Martin’s eyes popped and he gripped the cushions even tighter. He had been beaten a few times in the past, but never on the bare bottom and nothing before had hurt so much.

Whack! number two landed higher and Whack! number three, lower so the whole of the buttocks was stinging red.

Martin gasped and then groaned as the pain mounted across his fleshy globes. He was determined not to let himself down, so clung desperately to the cushions.

His breathing was heavier as Whack! Whack! four and five bit home. He raised his head in agony and let out a silent cry.

The cry became a yell as six and seven did their worse. Martin’s legs danced up and down in a futile attempt to ease the fiery agony coursing through his buttocks and thighs.

Joe could clearly see the image of the paddle tattooed in red marks across his son’s backside. He knew Martin was in torment, but instead of causing him sorrow or regret, the sight of the raw buttocks spurred him on in his mission.

Whack! number eight crashed into the crease where the ass and the thighs meet. Martin raised himself ready to jump up and down, clutching his throbbing buttocks, but at the last second he regained control enough to remain in position. He would not give his dad the satisfaction of witnessing his defeat.

Whacks!! nine and ten walloped down across the centre of the bum, reigniting all the existing wounds. The swats were so hard Martin lost his control. His legs stomped up and down on the spot as he wailed like a little boy. Tears cascaded down his face and he choked for breath. Mr Winterbottom could see snot rolling down his son’s mouth. His whole body was heaving with convulsions.

Joe took a step back to admire his handiwork. Martin’s buttocks were red and raw; blood was beginning to seep from some of the bruises. It reminded him of the hamburger meat at the burger bar.

“Stand up,” Joe commanded. He felt an unaccustomed sense of authority. Things would never be the same again.

Slowly and in agony, Martin climbed off the back of the couch. He was too distressed even to worry that his father could see his manhood. Gingerly, he put his hands on his throbbing buttocks, but removed them instantly; the pain was like sitting on a hotplate.

“Go to your room.”

Without waiting to put on his trousers and shorts (an impossible task in his state of agony) he rushed from the room, took the stairs two at a time and crashed through his bedroom door and hurled himself onto his bed, burying his face deep into the pillow, sobbing his guts up.

Downstairs, Mr Winterbottom poured himself another whiskey, then took a pen and paper from his briefcase and began to write.

Rules of the house.

Number 1. Curfew …….

Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

High School Reunion

When I first heard about the 10th anniversary reunion at my old High School I wasn’t interested, until I remembered Mr Sorensen and his goddam paddle.

Things went well for me after I graduated. I went to college and qualified as a plumber and worked at that for a couple of years until I got bored. Then I went in to the Military: that was good, I travelled to places I’d never have seen and made some good buddies.

I found it hard after the Army and I’ve drifted from job to job since. I don’t seem to be able to settle down much. I had a good relationship, but that broke up because I was told I was no good at “commitment.”

I was drinking in a bar when I saw a story about the reunion in the local newspaper. It didn’t make much impression on me; I just assumed I wouldn’t go. What was the point? I’d drifted away from most of my High School graduation classmates; people do, don’t they. I kept in touch until I went to the Army and after that I hadn’t bothered.

I had a few more beers and went back to my rented room. I found it hard to get to sleep and it wasn’t only because of the beer. In my mind I kept going over my schooldays, and particularly I couldn’t get a certain Mr Sorensen, the English Lit teacher, out of my head.

My High School was a tough place to be. We were blue-collar kids, from mostly poor families. Nobody at home was much interested in education, and certainly not English Lit, and everyone – students and their parents – were just itching for the day they could leave school and get a job.

We were a restless bunch, especially as we got older and reckoned school had nothing to offer.

Mr Sorensen was one of a kind. You stepped out of line with him and you got your butt blistered with the paddle: period. I guess he must have paddled four or five of us every day. If you didn’t do your assignments it would be over the desk for three swats. Inattention in class; two swats: late for class; two swats. There seemed to be swats for everything. He was particularly hard on kids he thought were “punks.” To him a punk was the loud-mouthed, disobedient student who wouldn’t be told anything.

He was always willing to help out the women teachers; they had the worst time with the punks. But, the punks calmed down once they realised that the ladies would send them to Mr Sorensen to kiss the top of his desk.

He would often paddle a boy in front of the class. It was more humiliating for the student to have his classmates looking on during the punishment and it also encouraged the others in good behaviour: you knew if you stepped out of line and it would be your turn next.

A typical class would start with collection of or handing back of assignments. That was a dangerous time; kids who didn’t hand in or who had done badly were asked to stand. There would always be at least one boy, and usually more than one, on his feet. If you hadn’t handed in and didn’t have a legitimate excuse you were done for. If you had scored less than a C+ your butt belonged to Mr Sorensen.

The guys were lined up against the wall, facing the class. Then Mr Sorensen would get the “Attitude Adjuster” board from his desk. It was a typical paddle, just like all the others used in schools, I guess. It was maybe twelve or fourteen inches long, by three wide; shaped in an oblong. It had smoothed down sides and a handle to grip it by.

Each boy in turn was ordered to stand forward to be told, “Assume the position.” To a lot of kids from other schools, “Assume the position” meant bend down and grab your ankles, but in Mr Sorensen’s class it mean go to the teacher’s desk and lay across it, so that your chest and stomach connected with the desk top.

We called it “kissing the desk” but no one literally did that. Once they bent over, kids were never sure where to put their arms. The solution depended on how tall you were, I think. Shorter kids folded their arms and buried their faces in them. The taller ones could reach out and hold on to the legs of the desk.

If we were wearing a jacket, Mr Sorensen would take the tail end and fold it up our back, then he’d grab the waistband of our pants and tug it hard so there was nothing much between the pants and our asses for protection. If we had no jacket, he would go straight to the pants yanking. Then, without a word, pop, pop, pop, he’d whack the paddle into the seat of your pants.

“Stand up,” he would command. “Next boy.”

Then, as the first boy rose from the desk, desperately wanting to rub the agony out of his butt cheeks, but not daring to admit to the teacher or his classmates he was hurting, the next boy in line would assume the position.

This went on until all the boys had blistered butts and then the lesson would begin.

Mr Sorensen swung the paddle a mighty lot, but I don’t remember anyone getting swats who didn’t deserve it. We knew the rules; if we kept to them our butts were safe. But if we broke the rules, then what did we expect?

I got swats so many times, I can’t remember them all. But, I have to admit, without the threat of an ass whipping, I would never have done any work. The fact I graduated at all was down to the Attitude Adjuster.

The worst paddling I got from Mr Sorensen had nothing to do with the quality of my schoolwork. By the time I was eighteen, I was getting out of control. My mom and dad couldn’t handle me and I was spending a lot of time on the streets with friends. Sometimes I wouldn’t get home until the early hours and oftentimes, I’d be drunk.

One day the strangest thing happened. I was staggering home drunk early one Sunday morning and I was so far gone I stepped into the road in front of an oncoming car. Thank the Lord the driver wasn’t as drunk as I was and he swerved to avoid hitting me. There was no traffic, so no damage was done, at least not to the car, but the driver’s nerves were shattered.

I swore at the driver, as if it was the poor man’s fault. As I staggered on I heard the distinct voice of Mr Sorensen. Blearily, I turned round, to see his head poking through the open driver’s window. Boy, was he mad.

He drove me safely home. On Monday after school I found myself facing him in the classroom. I’d expected him to be mad, to tell me I was a punk and then to paddle my ass raw. In fact, only one of these things happened.

I knew this was not going to go as expected when he invited me to sit down. This wasn’t going to be a lecture; this was going to be a conversation. He asked me about my life, what I did in my spare time and who my friends were. Nobody had ever asked me these questions before. Mom and dad always complained about my friends and what I got up to, but they never asked me “why” I did things.

Looking back, I think I was just waiting for someone to ask: I told him everything. To be honest, my life wasn’t very different to those of my classmates; but some of them were coping a lot better than I was.

We talked a lot and Mr Sorensen said I needed help to identify my “priorities” and to set myself “objectives.” At first, it sounded like bullshit, but as he detailed the kinds of things I should think about; such as what job I wanted to do when I left school; what I needed to do to qualify for it and so on, he began to make a lot of sense.

He also said I needed “encouragement” to meet these objectives. I needed praise when I achieved something, but also punishment when I failed. The way he put it, it seemed so clear cut. He told me to go away and make a list of priorities and objectives and take them to him and he would guide me in the appropriate way.

I readily agreed.

But, before our meeting was over, we still had to deal with my drunken misbehaviour. I had expected this and was ready to take my paddling. I had screwed up, I could have been killed, and heck, if there had been more traffic on the road, I might have killed Mr Sorensen too.

I assumed the position submissively: Mr Sorensen was entitled to do whatever he felt fit with my ass.

I hadn’t expected the ferocity of the attack; Mr Sorensen was like a demon possessed. This wasn’t just a pop, pop, pop, paddling; this was a full scale attack on my butt. The agony was so great I lost control of my senses: how many swats did I survive? I think it was ten, it might have been more.

I howled, like I had never screamed before. I was glad my classmates were not there to see me, but my yells were so loud, anyone still anywhere in the school building would have heard my pitiful shrieks.

At the finish I was breathless, and so was Mr Sorensen. His commitment to spanking me with that paddle was total. Still face down across the desk, I buried my head in my arms and sobbed and sobbed. After a few minutes, I was calming down a little, but my ass was burning, the pain was searing, I had never felt such agony in my life. Had he attacked me with a paddle or a hot iron?

I remember he stroked my hair, before giving me permission to stand up. I got to my feet and stumbled, but Mr Sorensen caught me before I fell.

Once I had composed myself I was allowed to leave. Later at home I pulled my pants down and looked in the mirror at my ass. Each bun was scarlet with a spot of purple in the middle. He really had blistered me. There were lines where the edge of the paddle had hit and I could tell I had had my ass properly paddled. It was the next day before I could sit down easily. My whole rump turned a lovely shade of black and blue and it was more than a week before the bruises slowly faded.

Thinking about Mr Sorensen and those days made me want to go to the reunion after all. There was quite a good attendance, and I had been mingling with some of my former classmates for some time, but there was no sign of Mr Sorensen.

I was hugely disappointed. I had simply assumed he would be there. I didn’t actually know if he still taught at the school; or had moved someplace else, or, please I hope not, he had passed on. I wanted to see him again and tell him what I thought about him and his treatment of me all those years ago.

I knew Mr Sorensen was not popular among my classmates so I didn’t want to let people know I was anxious to meet him again. Even these days I wanted to be one of the guys.

Eventually, I could stand it no more and asked my friend Tommy. “Yes, he’s here,” he said with a wry smile, “He’s doing one-on-ones in his classroom.”

One-on-ones? Meeting people one at a time for private conversations and who knew what else?

I made my way to the classroom, passing a guy in the corridor. It was Ricky; he had been the class genius, always acing tests. My mom told me he went to university out West somewhere. He didn’t look too happy; I couldn’t be certain, but there appeared to be tears behind his eyes.

I reached the classroom. From the outside it looked the same as I remember it, except for tonight at least the glass windows in the door had been covered up, so you couldn’t see inside. I guess it was to give him privacy with his one-on-ones.

I raised my fist to knock on the door and hesitated. For the first time since I hatched this plan, I had my doubts. This was stupid. It was all a long time ago, I’m an adult now. We should forget the past and the paddlings and all that pain.

I knocked anyway and a confident voice responded. Apprehensively, I entered. Mr Sorensen had changed, but not much. His hair was a little thinner and grayer and his waist a little thicker, but he was the same Mr Sorensen.

He called me by my name; I was ridiculously delighted he had remembered me. “Hello, Sir,” I responded.

He smiled at me. It was a genuinely welcoming smile. “Come in, how are you? Tell me everything.”

Tell me everything. He had asked me, so I did. I told him about the mess my life had become in the past three or four years; how I had no structure to my life, no priorities and no objectives.

He listened passively, apparently taking in every word that I said.

“I have this list,” I said, pulling paper from my pocket. He took it from me and read it carefully.

“And, I still have this,” he reached over, opened the drawer in his desk and pulled out the Attitude Adjuster.

Our eyes met, we understood each other very well. There was no need for either of us to speak, except for him to say, “Assume the position.”

used paddle holding (5)

 

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Housemaster’s Double Caning

z used drawing cane master (3)

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

 

“Da Silva in here now,” I heard the order barked out knowing my time had come, so I opened the door and entered the lion’s den.

I had been summoned to this room many times before. Nothing had changed since my last visit: a large bookcase stretched across the wall in front of me. To my left was a small couch where guests would sit, large stuffed chairs on either side. To my right was the housemaster’s huge mahogany desk, clean and tidy, and polished to perfection.

But, despite the abundance of furniture, all I could focus on was the prominent display behind the desk. Attached to the wall was a large wooden cabinet with a glass door. Through the glass I could see three crook-handled canes. They were light brown, slender, and slightly warped from years of use.

Mr Hill, my housemaster, was seated at his desk, dressed in his formal gown, with a dark suit under it.

“Stand there,” he pointed to a spot on the worn rug directly in front of his desk. I cannot ever remember in my seven years at the school having seen Mr Hill smile. This day was to be no exception. His steely grey-blue eyes glinted and he had a face like thunder. He was a man of few words. I was not entirely sure why I had been called to the study (I had broken a number of the school’s petty rules in recent weeks and any one of them might have resulted in a thrashing) but in no time my housemaster enlightened me.

“Well I know, even if you do not, boy. I know that you have not been concentrating on your work as an A-level student should. I know that you have been larking about with your pal Roehampton, whose work is almost as inadequate and unacceptable as yours.

“So I am going to make an example of you and give you a wake-up call. I am going to give you six of the very best – possibly the best you have ever had! Take off your blazer and hang it up over there.”

The housemaster had a reputation as a very fair but firm man and I knew better than to argue a point and anyway there was something about Mr Hill when he used that tone of voice that meant you gave him total obedience.

“Oh God! Another caning.” The thought raced through my mind as with my heart pounding in anticipation of the ordeal to come I slipped the blazer off my back and hanged it as instructed on a hook on the study door. The task completed I turned to once again face my punisher.

He had left his desk and placed the caning chair in the middle of the room. No one ever sat on this chair and there was no wear on the seat. However the varnish on the back, and on top of the front legs, was worn away by generations of boys bending over and holding on to the chair while they were caned.

“You know what to do,” he said. Yes, I remembered the procedure, even as I tried to forget what would come next. I had been in a similar position many times before. Without fuss I bent my athletic body prostrate across the chair presenting my eighteen-year-old buttocks tightly stretched inside snug fitting trousers to the housemaster.

Mr Hill rolled his sleeve up and took a springy cane from the selection in the glass-fronted cabinet. I could see him rubbing a piece of chalk up and down his cane as I waited for the first slash to cut into the taut grey trousers that were now spread over my small squatting bum.

Mr Hill flexed the cane a little and scythed it through the air. It made a fearsome noise. It reminded me of the many unhappy times I had spent in this study over the years.

I flinched as I felt him pull the end of my shirt out from under the waist-band of my trousers and all too soon the cane was tapping the middle of my buttocks. I kept telling myself that it was not going to be too bad, right up until I heard the crack then felt the fire sweep across my bum, Jesus he was going to rip my backside open.

He measured the rod out again, lower, pressing into the tight material of my trousers, before flogging it against me just as hard as the first, the retort of wood against cotton filling the air.

Even with all my experience, I could not have anticipated the pain, it was a hundred times worse than anything I had felt before. My eyes filled with tears, but I tried to remain calm, forcing myself to breathe while gripping tightly to the chair.

Then the third stroke thrashed hard into my poor bottom, I actually screamed and my body began to vibrate. The pain was intense, burning: unendurable.

“Control yourself boy. You have only had three strokes. I do not expect that racket,” Mr Hill admonished me as he raised the cane high into the air again and delivered Crack! the fourth cut. I screamed but held on as the agony built up. Then further pain as another crack announced the arrival of the fifth stroke. I was blubbering, pleading and screaming.

Despite my tormented state I could still feel the pressure of the cane pushing into the bottom of my buttocks as he lined up the sixth and last stroke. I know I was crying “No, please. No.” as the cane whistled into the allotted landing site with all the force that Mr Hill could put into it. As soon as it was done I stood up and my hands went to my bottom. I was in utter agony, tears were running everywhere, mainly due to the pain, but also as I was so ashamed that I could not have controlled myself better.

Mr Hill placed the cane back in the cabinet while I tried to check myself from giving my arse a rub, but my rear was burning and although I didn’t want to show it had hurt I knew I had failed miserably.

The housemaster was now sat at the desk filling in the punishment book, through my tears he passed the book and told me to initial it.

With no further ado he dismissed me from the study. Miserably, I hobbled towards the door, unhooked my blazer, and without waiting to get dressed properly, I left.

Mr Hill was so clinical in the way he had delivered the punishment I felt he had no heart, my backside was blazing and I could feel the welts raising on my skin but he was dismissing me as though he had just given me nothing more than directions to the railway station.

Once outside I clamped my hands onto my burning bottom and began to massage the sting. Never again I thought to myself as I headed off to my classroom. Never again; after nearly seven years at this school and countless canings I vowed it would be the last time.

I watched, as Da Silva, in obvious agony but determined not to show it, hobbled from my study. This boy was a problem. I fervently believe in corporal punishment. Beat a boy hard enough on his backside when he steps out of line and he won’t come back for more. The cane works, I know it. But, I suppose Da Silva is the exception that proves the rule: he is a recidivist, a repeat offender, and it is difficult to deal with a boy like that. The only option you have is to thrash him a little bit harder each time he bends over in front of you.

Or of course, repeat offenders can be ordered to take down their trousers to receive six across the underpants: or sometimes even across the bared buttocks. Here at St Francis Independent Grammar School, the governors only allow the headmaster to thrash a boy in such a manner, more’s the pity.

Some people say it was wrong to beat teenaged boys on their bared buttocks; some even suggest schoolmasters are “pederasts.”  Today there are “Progressives” who say we should abolish corporal punishment altogether.  What tommyrot: asking a schoolmaster to give up his cane! Where should we be then? If the cane were abolished the country should be in a state of anarchy within five years.

I was beaten on the bare myself at school. Yes, I admit it, I was a repeat offender. It did me no harm: it made me the man I am today. I was a smoker and had been given the standard Six on the trousers by my housemaster. It taught me a lesson, I can tell you, but a few weeks later I was caught puffing on a Woodbine behind the gymnasium and this time I was up in front of the Beak (as we called the headmaster, affectionately I’m sure, at my school).

I can remember it as if it had happened only this morning. It did not matter that I was a senior boy and at eighteen was due to leave the school in a matter of weeks. There was no big sermon; he and I both knew why I had been summoned to his study. It was confirmed that I had been beaten for a similar offence only weeks previously. In no time I was bent over a wing-backed armchair, my trousers and white cotton underpants at my thighs. The Beak folded back my shirt and grey short-sleeved pullover away from my buttocks until they rested on my shoulders. Then without further fuss he laid six stingers across the centre of my bare cheeks.

It hurt like hell, but schoolboys have a code of conduct and we resolved never to show our punisher that we were in pain. I tried my best, my level best, to be stoical, but after slash number two ripped my bum to shreds I was pounding my fists against the back of the armchair in agony. The heartless headmaster was not deterred and whipped the rattan cane down with great severity into my now bleeding rump.

I lost control and tears washed down my cheeks. My bum felt like I had sat in a coal fire and I left the study with the Beak’s words stinging in my ears, “If you are caught smoking again, it will be twelve strokes on the bare bottom.”

Twelve strokes? On the bare? Was he really permitted to give such a punishment, or was it just a tale he told to naughty schoolboys to stop them from re-offending?

Later as I sat in a lavatory pan of cold water, I vowed never to smoke again: and I never did. Well, not cigarettes: I took up my present tobacco habit (the gentleman’s pipe) five years later when I was up at the university.

I rose from behind my desk and replaced the caning chair to its resting place. I knew Roehampton, Da Silva’s partner in crime as it were, was even now waiting outside my study and the chair could have remained where it was for his thrashing, but I preferred to treat each boy before me equally: the ritual of placing the chair in position was part of the total caning experience (as marketing men might call it) for each boy.

I have a number of options for placing a boy when I cane him. I personally don’t favour the “traditional” position of boy bent down touching toes. It has the obvious advantage that you don’t need props (apart from the cane itself), but if you are properly to beat a boy you should always intend to cause the maximum pain possible, and in such circumstances it is only Christian to give him something to hold on to as he attempts to deal with his agony.

Usually, I have boys bend over the back of a large green leather armchair; the small ones can bend over an arm; while the taller, over the back. The seat cushion removes to reveal stout bars that the victims hold on to. It is both comfortable and very supportive, which means that they cannot move about and escape their just deserts.

Roehampton, my next client is eighteen years old, but, this will be his first caning. He only joined the school at the beginning of the third form (he is some kind of scholarship boy, I believe) and hitherto has managed to avoid corporal punishment. I cannot say whether this is because he is an exceptionally well-behaved boy, or he has just escaped detection for his misbehaviour.

This time he is well deserving of a caning. His academic work has been deteriorating and his subject masters inform me that he will almost certainly do badly in his examinations. In my experience I find this kind of thing happens at this time every year, so I have a purge. Boys in danger of failing are sent to me and I deal with them in the time-honoured fashion.

Was it the Romans who said that a boy’s ears are in his backside? If you want them to study and they will not, then you must force the issue. I don’t suppose any of the boys thank me for it (although some of them do literally say “Thank you, sir” as they hobble from my study) but I have no doubt it was my cane that got many schoolboys through their examinations and on to a half-decent university and beyond.

“Come in Roehampton!” I called from behind my desk. The door of the study inched open, but at first nobody entered. Then, Roehampton’s head appeared around the frame, followed at a snail’s pace by the rest of his body. His face was deathly white and he appeared on the verge of tears. Obviously, he had heard the ferocity of the caning his friend Da Silva had received and I had allowed ample time for the boy to pass on a blow-by-blow account of his thrashing. Roehampton would be expecting no less an ordeal for himself.

“Stand there boy,” I indicated the spot in front of my desk. I was surprised the carpet wasn’t more worn than it was by the scuff marks made by the shuffling feet of generations of naughty schoolboys.

He stood to attention so stiffly I wondered if he were a leading light in the school’s Officer Training Corps.

I never lectured boys if I could possibly avoid it, they came in bent over and took the required strokes then they quickly got up and left leaving the next boy to enter and so on till they had all been dealt with. But, I had to make it clear to Roehampton the gravity of his offence so I began my ritual sermon about unacceptable, disgraceful behaviour – totally unexpected of sixth-form boys who had examinations forthcoming and who needed good grades to secure a place at university.

Then I pronounced sentence: Six-of-the-best. Roehampton’s face had gone rather pale and his lips were trembling as if tears were not far away. “I really am sorry Sir. Please could you let me off this time?”

I suppressed a snort. By way of reply I walked in front of my desk and moved the caning chair into position. I have caned many boys in my time and almost without exception had to position a boy for his first caning. “Right boy, take your blazer off hang it up on the door and then come and stand behind this chair.” I pointed to the green leather chair as if there could be any doubt which one I meant. “Right, now bend over the chair, holding the bars with your hands,” I ordered sternly.

Resigned to his fate and clearly not prepared to beg further for mercy, Roehampton struggled to get into the requested position, while I went to the glass-fronted cabinet and selected a long brown dragon cane. I returned, bending it and whistling it through the air in practice strokes intending to send chills through the teenage boy.

I found him looking at me as he half leaned over the back of the chair as though checking this was how it was to be done. “Head nice and low please Roehampton,” I confirmed.

He grimaced and bent right down over the back of the chair. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point I was careful to observe as I positioned myself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, boy, hollow your back, legs slightly apart.”

I knew this was the boy’s first caning and I intended it to be memorable. “Roehampton when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to flow freely before I had even cracked the first stroke against his tight backside. He was gripping the bars of the chair so tightly his knuckles must have ached.

I could see the outline of the lad’s buttocks under the trousers and his pants across the bottom nestling deep into the crack of his cheeks. I gripped the cane and took a few steps away. To calm down I took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to his left such that with my arm outstretched the cane tip lay half way across the cheek of his further buttock.

I watched him flinch slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his buttocks. I raised it slowly then, setting my face, brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the middle of his bottom.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Roehampton yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. I drew the cane back for another stroke. The teenager arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his red raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Roehampton had resolved to take the caning bravely and silently and did manage to hold in the scream for the first blow, and indeed the second, but when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet started to beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed.

He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the rails of the chair to grip on to even though his hands were now grasping them so tightly his fingernails dug deeply into his palms.

The fourth branding was met with another scream and Roehampton was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” I stood back took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Roehampton’s waiting backside with venom.

Bawling continuously, he waited for the final crack which I put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for him to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” I sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Roehampton. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Roehampton remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bottom. Nothing his pal Da Silva had said about being caned had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up boy!” I commanded. Eventually his hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing as I wrote the relevant entry in the punishment book. As I said previously I prefer a boy to take his caning and leave the study without fuss.

He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. I knew beneath them there would be six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters which would be felt every time the boy sat down for days serving as a constant reminder to study hard in future.

I offered him the punishment book to initial, which he did with great difficulty; his tears were still flowing freely.

“That will do for now,” I said quietly and correctly he took this as his cue to leave my study.

 

This story was first uploaded in August 2015

Picture credit: Unknown

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com