In the Dead of the Night

Clint Chapman woke up with a start and an aching bladder. If he did not get to a toilet very soon he would have an embarrassing accident.

Geoff Dawson lay beside him; breathing heavily; in a deep sleep. This would be tricky, Clint was pinned against the wall; Geoff blocked his way. It was a single bed; no more than a child’s size really. There was no alternative; he would have to climb over the sleeping boy.

“War… war … what’s up,” Geoff woke with a start.

“Sorry, I’ve got to have a whiz,” Clint was already climbing over the boy’s body.

Geoff switched on the table lamp. It was three in the morning.

Clint was out of the bed. “Where are my pants?” He was stark naked.

Geoff ducked under the bedclothes to search for them.

“Don’t worry. Too late, no time,” and without a stitch of clothing on his body, Clint dashed through the door to the bathroom.

With his bladder emptied and his penis dutiful rinsed, Clint felt much calmer. Now, he could return to the fifteen-year-old schoolboy tucked up in bed. Clint’s penis perked at the prospect of another round of hot sex with the blond boy who waited for him.

He opened the bathroom door.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” There was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff-backed, wrapped in a woollen dressing gown, standing on the landing.

Clint blinked in the poor light at the man who was now blocking his pathway. The man’s moustache bristled as his steely-grey eyes burned into Clint’s body.

Clint’s face brightened to the colour of beetroot and he placed his hands strategically in front of his dangling privates.

“Are you a burglar?”

Clint’s grinned sardonically and shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “A burglar? Naked like this?”

“I’m a friend of Geoff’s, from school,” he said unconvincingly. He was no schoolboy.

The man in the dressing gown, realising his own urgent need to answer a call of nature, pushed his way into the bathroom.

Moments later, Clint back in the bedroom, recounted his chance meeting in the hallway.

“Shit! That’s my father. What did you say?”

“I told him I was a school friend.”

“Do you think he believed you?”

Clint wanted to ask: “Would you?” but knew this would upset the boy.

There was no chance of more sex that night; Clint was certain of that. He delved under the bedclothes, retrieved his mauve bikini briefs and wriggled into them.

“It’s freezing!” He shuddered to emphasise the point, as if Geoff would not believe him. Then he climbed over the boy and resumed his place in the narrow bed, squashed up between the eighteen-year-old and the wall.

The light was off and they were both snuggling under the blankets, when the door swung open. The man in the dressing table, his jaw set in a fierce scowl, thundered into the room.

He switched on the light. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?” his purple face betraying the fury he felt.

Clint smiled wanly and waved hello.

“Who is this?” the furious father stormed across the small room to stand by the bed. It looked like at any moment he might drag Clint from beneath the blankets.

Geoff was breathlessly trying to remain calm. His whizzing heartbeat was sending blood coursing through his veins. He desperately hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt.

“This is Clint, he’s a friend from school,” even as the words escaped his lips, he knew his lie would not be believed.

Geoff’s father knew how to intimidate a boy. He had many years of practice as the headmaster of King Egbert’s Grammar School. If he chose to do so he could reduce the most unruly teenager to jelly. He leaned into the bed, “Get out now! You are going home!”

Terrified by this imposing man, Clint pulled the blankets tight across his chest and tried to hide behind the slender body of his companion.

“But father,” Geoff had never called him dad, “it’s the middle of the night, the buses have stopped running.”

“Pah!” Mr Dawson’s explosion sent shudders through both boys.

“Get out of bed now. At once. This instance,” he directed his anger at Clint.

Relieved that he was now wearing his underpants and his penis was once again soft, Clint rose from the bed, climbed across Geoff, and stood alongside Dawson.

“Here put this on,” he scooped up a shirt discarded earlier in haste on the carpet and thrust it at Clint. “Come here!”

Geoff was transfixed with terror. His father was a strong man and there was no telling what he might do.

Taking Clint by the hair he marched him from the room on to the landing, and still holding a tight grip on the hapless intruder, Mr Dawson opened an airing cupboard and took out two blankets.

Then he trudged Clint down the stairs to the lounge.

“Here take these,” he stabbed the blankets into Clint’s chest. “You are sleeping on the sofa. And don’t you dare leave this house until I have dealt with you in the morning!”

Clint, shivering with more than the cold of the early winter’s morning, watched eyes blazing as the man in the dressing gown, stormed from the room and ascended the stairs two at a time in his determination to sort out his son.

Geoff, who had been standing on the top landing while his father berated his lover, dashed back into bed at the sound of his father’s furious footsteps.

The door burst open once again. Geoff fully expected his father to be brandishing one of his school canes.

“Now tell me what’s going on!” he thundered.

Geoff, although relieved that his backside was spared imminent assault, sat terrified on the bed.

“He … he … he’s a friend from school,” he could hardly get the words out. He was not a dishonest boy by nature and the deception he was playing was tearing him apart.

“He missed his last bus, so he was staying the night,” he trailed off, before adding as an afterthought, “That’s all. Really.”

Then, feeling an urgent need not to lapse into silence, he said, “We were sleeping top to tail.”

His father exploded. “Don’t you dare lie to me! I know what’s going on.” Mr Dawson was as terrified as his son, but for entirely different reasons.

“I’m not lying. Honestly, I’m not,” tears were welling up in Geoff’s eyes.

His father’s eyes blazed. He was barely in control.

“Do you want me to come over there and inspect the sheets for stains!”

Even as the words left his lips, Mr Dawson despised his own crudity.

Geoff’s breathing hardened. That would be a humiliation too far. He manoeuvred his bottom slightly to move it away from a damp patch.

Mr Dawson, realising he was losing control, stormed towards the door, but he saw Clint’s jeans on the floor, so scooped them up: that would prevent any escape during the night, he thought.

From the door he thundered back at Geoff. “It’s late; I’ll deal with you in the morning!”

Tears flowed freely. “Deal with” him. His father was a headmaster; Geoff knew exactly what “deal with” him meant. King Egbert’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional sports and traditional discipline.

The next morning Dawson’s anger had not lessened. He followed his usual morning routine and by seven o’clock, showered and shaved and unannounced, he burst through the lounge room door to confront Clint.

The young man had not slept, his mind in turmoil imagining the ordeal that awaited him. He played out every possible scenario and before breakfast time was over he expected to be locked away in a police cell.

“Tell me: who are you?” Dawson barked.

“A friend of Geoff’s. From school.”

“Nonsense,” Dawson had expected the lie. “I saw your ID in your jeans.”

Clint blanched. The truth was out. He could already feel the handcuffs on his wrists.

“You are a civil servant. You’re twenty-six. Nearly twenty-seven,” Dawson’s eyes darkened.

“My son is eighteen years old …” he let the sentence trail off, unable to finish it. But the meaning was clear enough. Clint the older man had seduced his child and had his wicked way with him. The age of consent for homosexuals was twenty-one and Clint was in deep trouble.

The room fell silent. Clint knew it was useless to argue. Dawson would never believe that Geoff had been a more than willing partner. He would not want to know that Geoff had come on to him outside Barnaby’s, a well-known gay haunt in town. And, he certainly would not want to hear that his sweet innocent son Geoffrey was gaining a reputation around Hazeldene as a great lay. He loved to suck cock and he was very good at it.

All of this was left unsaid. Clint had no choice. When the police heard what had happened, he would be the perpetrator, the sex-fiend, the older man who had sexually assaulted a child. He vaguely knew it was statutory rape or something. He was on his way to jail and for a very long time.

“I should call the police!” Dawson still found it impossible to speak at a normal volume. But he made no movement towards the telephone.

Clint stared impassively from beneath his blankets.

It was a bluff. Dawson had no intention of calling the police. He hated this handsome man who had slept with his son, but if the police were involved the events of last night would become a public scandal. It would ruin Geoff’s life and the headmaster would become a laughing stock among the boys at school.

Another course of action was required, and Dawson knew exactly what he wanted to do.

“I should call the police, but I am not entirely sure that is the best solution,” Dawson was starting to sound like the headmaster that he was.

Clint’s sense of relief was pictured in the young man’s bright open face. He was to be spared the law, but he knew this was not yet over.

“Stand up!” It was a command.

Without question, Clint pushed the blankets to one side and rose from the sofa. Dawson eyed the young man up and down. In his time he had seen many naughty boys stand before him, but none were dressed only in a yellow t-shirt and mauve bikini briefs.

“Fold up those blankets. Neatly!” Clint had started to bunch them up but stopped and took care to fold them into four quarters of equal length.

Satisfied at Clint’s obedience, Dawson was ready to move on.

“Stand there, boy!” he pointed to a spot on the carpet in the middle of the room.

Clint did as instructed.

Dawson lectured the twenty-six-year-old. He was a headmaster of many years’ experience and he had many sermons prepared, suitable for any occasion.

Clint stood motionless, like generations of naughty schoolboys before him staring down at the floor, unwilling to meet the eye of his persecutor.

On and on, Dawson preached. He talked about responsibility, cleanliness and manliness. He told Clint he was irresponsible. He needed to control himself. He needed to set an example.

It was a new sensation for Clint, who sometimes believed he had been around the block a few times. He felt his cock stir as the dressing-down from the powerful, commanding, older man went on and on.

Still staring at his feet, Clint swiftly moved his hands in front of his crotch, hoping the headmaster had not seen his stirrings. The bikini briefs fitted so snuggly nothing could be hidden.

Dawson had not noticed. He did not have the slightest interest in this young man’s private parts; he had a different part of Clint’s anatomy in his sights.

At last, the sermon was over.

Clint had not been expecting what happened next.

Dawson walked through the door and returned within seconds. In his hand was a large school cane. He swished it through the air to demonstrate its whippiness and then he wobbled it in front of Clint’s face.

z used cane holding sting (3)

The teenager had never seen a school cane before. This one was more than three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Close up he could see how the yellow colour deepened at one end. If he had a mind to, he could have counted the ridges along the length of the rattan rod. For some reason that he could not understand, he was transfixed by the cane’s crook handle.

The front of his bikini briefs tightened further.

Dawson had beaten many backsides over the years. He had his own rituals for such occasions. Usually, once he had completed the sermon, he went straight to the action. The boy was ordered to bend over and the thrashing commenced.

That morning was to be no different. Dawson had the arrogance of all headmasters. It did not occur to him that there might be something unusual about the situation he had engineered. He had decided to beat the boy’s backside and the boy’s backside would be beaten.

Clint’s heart was racing. It was obvious where this was leading. The headmaster was going to cane his bottom as if he were one of his thirteen-year-old grammar schoolboys: and Clint wanted him to.

The young man had never been interested in corporal punishment. He knew it turned on some of his friends and he had heard that Geoff was not averse to taking money to go across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking. But not Clint. Yet, now, at the point that this older, dominant man was wobbling a cane in his face, he could not wait to show him his arse. He was, quite literally, bursting for it to happen.

Dawson knew none of this. In his world a boy about to be caned awaited his fate with trepidation. Even the boys who made regular trips across the back of his study armchair or desk feared the sting of the rod. No matter how stoical they tried to appear on the outside, inside they were in turmoil.

That was how he imagined Clint was at the moment he barked his order, “Bend over that sofa boy!”

Unnecessarily, since there was only one in the room, he swished the cane in the direction of the sofa.

Clint blushed deep red. Did this middle-aged man really intend to whip him with a school cane?

“Quickly, I have other things to attend to this morning!”

Yes, he did indeed intend to beat his backside, Clint concluded. And, as he walked forward and placed himself face down over the back of the sofa, he conceded, he wanted to let him do it.

This was a new experience for the headmaster. Usually, his target was contained within smart grey flannels: short trousers for the younger boys and long ones for the seniors. Very occasionally the trousers would be bunched at the boy’s ankles and he was offered buttocks enclosed in tight white underpants.

This was the first time Dawson had whipped his cane into mauve bikini briefs.

“Legs further apart, boy. Keep your head low down in the cushion!”

Dawson noticed for the first time that Clint’s body was muscular and gym-honed. Stretched as they were across the sofa, his buttocks appeared to be completely devoid of fat: they were buns of steel. The briefs hardly covered the young man’s cheeks and Dawson could see they were completely hairless, as were his legs.

Dawson saw all this, but was not interested in the boy’s beauty. Dawson had a duty to perform and he was going to do it.

A cane had never been close to Clint’s buttocks before and nor had any other instrument of corporal punishment. Now, his buttocks were offered up to this older, powerful man to do with as he wished. Clint had offered his arse up before, sometimes to a complete stranger, but Dawson had no desire to part Clint’s cheeks and enter him. He wanted to rip them to shreds. And he did.

He had never thrashed a boy so savagely in his entire career in school-mastering. The bikini briefs were useless. Within seconds twelve deep red lines criss-crossed his arse cheeks. Clint howled as the first cut bit deep into his muscular arse and he did not stop yelling and screaming until long after the headmaster laid down his cane.

Upstairs, in his bedroom Geoff buried his head under the bedclothes, unsuccessfully trying to hide away from the events taking place in the lounge. Clint was being put through it. And in a few moments, it would be Geoff’s turn.

At school, once a thrashing was over, another of the rituals took place. Ceremoniously, an entry would be written in the punishment book, the beaten boy would sign his name, and with that done, he would be dismissed, often still in great distress, from the study.

There was no punishment book to be signed this time, but the headmaster wanted the boy out of his sight and out of his house quickly.

Leaving Clint still jumping up and down on the spot trying fruitlessly to rub away the agony from his throbbing bottom, Dawson went to his own bedroom to fetch the man’s jeans. Then he burst into Geoff’s room (he was incapable ever of entering his son’s room quietly) and gathered up the rest of Clint’s clothes.

“I want you dressed and in my study in five minutes,” it was a stern command.

When Dawson reappeared downstairs, Clint had regained some of his composure. His face glistened with tears, but he had wiped most of the snot from his face. His was breathing more evenly and his heart rate had reduced nearly to normal.

“Get dressed,” Dawson threw the clothes on the floor. “Get out of my house!”

Clint did not need to be told a second time. He was through the front door inside a minute. The ache in his arse was intense as he hobbled down the street towards the bus stop. He was grateful the bus driver did not ask why he was standing when so many empty seats were available.

Mr Dawson’s study at home was nothing like the one at St Edgar’s Grammar School. That was wood panelled with a huge oak desk and padded armchairs. His study at home was more modest; it was a spare bedroom with a modern metal desk and a low-backed bucket chair. It was a small room, but quite large enough for Mr Dawson to swing his cane.

Geoff was quick out of bed on his father’s order. He was in enough trouble over last night he did not want to compound that by disobeying his father.

Although it was Saturday, Geoff still had to be at school. He did not attend the grammar school where his father was headmaster. He had won a scholarship to the much grander The Academy, a private school. He was a “day boy” although most of the pupils were boarders. Geoff resented that he had to return home to his parents at the end of each day: the opportunities for sex at night with the boarders must be awesome, he imagined.

In readiness for the classes he would attend later, Geoff began to dress himself in his school uniform. He was buttoning up his grey shirt when he was struck by an idea. Until two years previously when he entered the sixth-form at The Academy he was obliged to wear short trousers. He still had them tucked away in a drawer. If he presented himself to his father dressed in them it might convince him that Geoff was a sweet innocent child who was led astray by an older man.

He stepped into the grey flannel short trousers and pulled them up. He had to wriggle a little to get the waistband button to fasten, but they still fitted him, if a little snugly. He admired his reflection in the mirror: he saw a shortish, blond-haired boy with an arse to die for. He should wear these short trousers one night at The Village, the old queens would blow their fuses, he thought.

Minutes later he was stood contrite in his father’s study. The headmaster was well into his prepared sermon; but it was not the same one he had inflicted on Clint.

“How long have you had these feelings?” he intoned.

Geoff blushed and kept his eyes downcast at the carpet. “Dunno.”

“There are some things you might not quite understand. This friendship you have with Clint,” he said. “It is not, it cannot be a good thing. Do you understand?”

Geoff’s embarrassment was mounting. What was his father talking about?

“Yes, father,” he mumbled, realising that the question had not been rhetorical.

“Feelings such as these are often a by-product of growing up. That is not to say they are not wrong. You are going through a phase, but this is a serious matter and it must be nipped in the bud. Six strokes of the cane, I think should sort you out. You understand don’t you Geoffrey?”

Geoff clenched his jaws tight to stop them gaping. His father’s naivety left him gasping. Did he really believe what he was saying? Perhaps his father was not after all the font of all knowledge, Geoff had supposed him to be.

When instructed, Geoff bent himself over the low bucket chair. He could feel the seat of his short trousers tighten further; his buttocks making the perfect target for his father’s cane.

The eighteen-year-old scrunched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and clenched his cheeks in anticipation of the terrible pain to come.

His father was not quite ready. Many headmasters are drama queens and he was no exception. To heighten the tension, Dawson took the tail of the boy’s grey shirt and tugged at it until it was clear of the trousers and part way up the boy’s back. It was a freezing morning and Geoff shuddered as cold air connected with his bare skin.

He heard the swish, swish, of the cane as his father took up his position and found his aim.

Six strokes of the cane fell, hard, one after another.  Every one was a hefty lash; but no sound came from Geoff.  He rose from the chair, his face pale, and his eyes glinting. His father pointed to the door.

“You may go!” he said harshly.

And in silence, Geoff went.

That evening Clint lay on his bed. Downstairs his mother and father were engrossed in a soap opera on the television. In his mind, Clint played out his own drama. He was in the headmaster’s study at St Edgars’s School. In front of him stood Mr Dawson, dressed in a formal academic gown with a mortar-board cap on his head. In his hand he flexed a stout, but very supple, crook-handled cane.

He is fifteen years old, he thinks. He has been caught wanking with other boys behind the bike sheds. The headmaster berates him for his wickedness. He is a dirty, dirty, little boy, Dawson scolds wobbling his cane in Clint’s face.

And, we all know what happens to dirty little boys who cannot keep their hands to themselves, the headmaster preaches.

Clint is wearing a distinctive green and yellow school blazer and his even more distinctive grey short trousers are in a puddle at his feet. On the headmaster’s command, Clint bends over and touches his toes.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

The headmaster lays on the cane with all the strength of his arm, which is considerable. Six terrible swipes bring a succession of fearful yells from Clint.

At about the same time Clint reached for a fistful of tissues, Geoff was also at home, on his own bed.

Certain that the coast was clear and he would not be disturbed, he flicked with some melancholy through a porn magazine. He wanted to be in The Village, parading outside of Barnaby’s in his short trousers. For now, it would have to remain a fantasy. He needed to be careful for a while, now his father knew his secrets.

He wriggled a little. The six deep welts across his buttocks were still tender to the touch. He made himself comfortable and unzipped the front of his jeans.

Downstairs in the kitchen his father stared forlornly through the window into the darkened garden beyond.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Transformation

new story 2

z used adult schoolboy shorts cane touch toes (1)

Mr Williams was known to his neighbours as a man of habits. He left the house sharp at 08.30 hrs each morning (Monday to Friday inclusive) and walked the short distance to the railway station where he caught the 08.47 hrs to his workplace, returning home on the 17.17 hrs and depending on the efficiency of the train service he was back in his house in time for the 18.00 hrs news on the wireless.

He spent Saturday mornings in Brocklehurst town centre purchasing provisions, ensuring his tasks were completed no later than 13.00 hrs. In summer he spent Saturday afternoons working in his garden. On Sundays, whatever the season, he took his place on the end of the third pew from the back at St. Andrew’s Church.

He spoke to no one at the church and rarely to his neighbours. The best they might get from him was a mumbled “Good morning,” if severely pressed. He liked it like that and so did his neighbours; The Avenue was that kind of street.

On Sunday afternoon, like this particular day, he would retire to his back bedroom. There he would divest himself of his overly-formal custom-tailored dark-grey three-piece suit before carefully placing it upon a hanger, which he would then equally as carefully place at the back of a single-sized wardrobe, alongside the shop-bought business suits he wore during the week.

He would stand quite naked, apart from a pair of cream-coloured long johns, and for a moment or two contemplate his sagging frame in the mirror. Before opening a second much larger wardrobe. Flicking through the clothes hanging on the bar, each in a dust proof bag, he would make his selection. Then with the care that was his watchword he would remove each dust bag and lay the garments over the back of a small upholstered armchair.

First, he slipped into the heavy cotton collarless white shirt before unsteadily perching on one leg he pulled on a pair of heavy black twill trousers. He struggled to get a thick dark grey waistcoat to fully button across his rotund stomach. It had been many moons since he had managed to fasten the lower most button. Then, he took hold of a black jacket. This he pulled over his waistcoat. He stretched his arms wide and circled them like windmills; testing that there was sufficient ‘give’ in his clothes.

Almost fully dressed, he wobbled across the room to an ancient battered chest of drawers. He opened the first one and extracted a cardboard wing collar and stud. It was but a moment’s work to get each attached. He was very nearly done. A black tie, no wider than a bootlace, completed the ensemble. In the second drawer down he found a black hat. It was he admitted to himself his pride and joy. It was the authentic thing. Decades old. He had bought it from a retired schoolmaster from the local St. Francis School; a mortar-board cap, a little battered by decades of use. The tassel hanging from one corner was classic. Although both his hands were unsteady he fixed it squarely on his head. His heart thumped hard.

“Nearly there,” he told himself silently. Only one more thing to do before he could get started. He stooped low and tugged at the bottom drawer. It was often a bugger to get open. It stuck as usual. “Damn and blast! What is wrong with the damned thing!” he cursed openly although no one was there to hear. Suddenly, the drawer sprang loose, almost sending him tumbling to the floor and onto his backside.

He breathed deeply and his eyes shone. Almost reverentially he leaned forward, putting both hands into the drawer. He smacked his lips and withdrew his pride and joy. He held it high like an offering at the altar. He beamed as he held in his hands three-and-a-bit feet of whippy rattan cane. He had probably handled the school cane more times than he would like to relate, but that never diminished the thrill he experienced each time he pulled it from the drawer. At first he held it beneath the crook-handle. It was as thick as a pencil and as light as a feather.

He returned to the wardrobe and carefully, for this garment could best be described as delicate (‘tatty’ might be more honest), extracted an authentic schoolmaster’s academic gown. He eased it across his shoulder. He turned and faced the mirror. He flexed the cane between his hands; then he swished it through the open air. In the silence of the room it made a terrific swish as it flew! “Bend over boy! Touch your toes!” he scowled. He swiped the cane once more. His transformation to Dr Selwyn Gerard, Headmaster of Albion School, was complete.

….

 

Jessop stood in his bright white Y-front underpants. They were brand new and he delighted in rubbing the palm of his hands across his meaty buttocks to luxuriate in the touch of the soft cotton. He picked up his vest. It smelt as fresh as a daisy. He wriggled it over his head. It fitted well if Jessop ignored his growing tummy. He paused, looked round the room and realised there was no mirror. A trifle disheartened, he carried on and reaching over to the table once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. The shirt was laundered to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar.

Once dressed he picked up his short trousers. They were mid-grey and properly short. Collywobbles fluttered in his stomach when he athletically stepped first into the left leg and then the right. He pulled them tight and buttoned up. He could not see himself but he knew his face was glowing; blood coursed through his arteries and his fingertips tingled.

He and found his school tie. It was black-and-white diagonal stripes, the Albion School colours. Without a mirror, Jessop had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Gerard. Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

He cursed that there was no mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, then with alacrity dodged back into the room when he saw a man in the street walking a dog. Disappointed, he fell into a sumptuous leather armchair 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 short trousers. He folded over the black-and-white tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees.

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. He picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. It was a black blazer with white braiding; simple elegance, he thought. Finally, he took hold of the black-quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head.

Jessop was ready.

….

Dr Selwyn Gerard, admired his vision in the mirror. His heart beat thirteen to the dozen. He tucked his whippy rattan cane under his arm and turned to a small cupboard in the corner of the room. His secret stash! He poured himself a small measure of whisky from a chunky decanter, downed it in one, and proceeded from the room.

Moments later he was across the passageway and in his study. The room had been designed as a bedroom in a family house but Dr Gerard had no need for family. Long ago he had converted the room to a study. It was sparsely furnished. There was an ancient desk, a glass-fronted bookcase (complete with school textbooks long ago purchased from a charity shop), an umbrella stand, two hardback chairs and a splendid leather armchair.

He sat himself down behind his desk. The top was empty, save for a blotting pad and an inkwell. He rested his cane down, and waited. Moments later there was a timid knock on the door. Dr Gerard took a deep breath, his palms were sweaty so he rubbed them against his academic gown. He cleared his throat and with an authoritative air, called, “Come!” He watched as the handle twitched, the door slowly inched open, and the top of a school cap appeared, then halted.

“Come on boy!” Dr Gerard roared, “I don’t have all afternoon!” Jessop tumbled into the study, pink-faced.

“There boy!” Dr Gerard snapped, clicking his fingers and pointing to a spot on the carpet in front of his desk. Jessop shuffled forward and stood placing his hands behind his back while hopping from foot to foot. His eyes were downcast. Dr Gerard surveyed the scene before him and growled, “Stand up straight boy! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Jessop straightened a little. He was no star of the Officers’ Training Corp and he could no more stand to attention with thumbs in line with the seam of his trousers as fly. He stared at a photograph of the school rugby team an inch or so above the headmaster’s head.

“Jessop, Jessop, Jessop,” Dr Gerard sighed as if the boy before him represented all the troubles in the world, “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” the boy sniffled. Dr Gerrard’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. Didn’t the boy know a rhetorical question when he heard one?

“I have reports from your housemaster. You have absconded from school twice. The first time you were punished by Mr Corlett. Now, you have absented yourself again and this time you were found at the travelling fair!” He paused for effect. “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” Jessop replied again.

“Don’t you,” Dr Gerard scowled, looking down at the cane on his desk, “Don’t you really?” Jessop paled. He entwined his fingers behind his back and looked down at the desk. “Oh sir,” he whimpered.

“Oh sir, indeed!” Dr Gerard was in his element. “You leave me very little choice Jessop.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and glared at the boy. “None at all.” He wiped his sweaty palms once more. “Come on boy, let’s get on with it. You know what is expected.”

Jessop bit his bottom lip, his feet were rooted to the floor but he twisted his body so he could scan across the room. The headmaster read his mind. “I think we’ll have you by the door Jessop.”

“Oh sir.” Jessop was a boy of few words. He stood miserably as the headmaster hauled himself from his chair. “Stand there!” he commanded, pointing to the door. Jessop grimaced. There wasn’t anything he could say. What was the point? He had been caught bang to rights. Dr Gerard was the headmaster and he, Jessop, was the pupil. Matters must take their course.

Dr Gerard picked up the cane and delighted when colour drained from Jessop’s face. He swiped the cane through the air. “Bend over, touch your toes.” Jessop’s mouth opened and closed as if he were about to protest. “Something to say about the matter, Jessop?” the headmaster snarled.

“No sir. Sorry sir.” Jessop turned his back on his tormentor and in one athletic movement he spread his legs, bent forward and pressed his fingertips against the toes of his shoes. He knew from experience with Dr Gerard that “ touch your toes” meant just that; not shins or knees. Jessop looked down at the dark grey carpet. He breathed deeply. This would hurt. This would hurt a lot.

He felt his short trousers and Y-front underpants stretch across his buttocks; he was presenting the headmaster with a terrific target. He felt the stout whippy cane tap against the underside of his cheeks. “Let’s say twelve shall we Jessop,” Dr Gerard said calmly. There was a pause and for a moment Jessop wondered if he were expected to reply. Perhaps he was being asked to bargain, “Oh no sir,” he could say, “I think six would be quite sufficient.” Or, he might even be expected to say, “Oh for a second offence I should get eighteen. Would you prefer it if I also lowered my trousers and underpants?”

The headmaster did not expect a reply. He took his aim, lifted the cane away from the stretched buttocks so that it made an arc and brought it bouncing down with much vigour do that it bit deep into Jessop’s bottom. The boy shut his teeth and screwed his eyes tightly shut, but beyond that he made no movement.

Dr Gerard watched thoughtfully.  He admired a boy who could take a beating stoically. It made his job so much easier. He set cut number two thwacking into the very centre of both cheeks so that a dark welt immediately rose across the fleshiest part of Jessop’s bum. His knees buckled slightly with the fierce impact, but still the boy could take it. In truth, Jessop was no novice to the cane. His bottom was beaten on a regular basis. Rarely had the marks disappeared after a thrashing than he was presenting his bottom for punishment once again.

The echo of thwacks three and four delivered in quick succession echoed around the study. The headmaster paused to admire his handiwork. The marks of the cane were clearly visible embedded into the tight cloth of the short trousers. “Good aiming!” he silently congratulated himself.

Dr Gerard positioned his feet. When he had judged that the hurt was ebbing away from Jessop’s bottom: Swipe! The next cut struck home, maybe a half inch below the others; but there was still plenty of room on the boy’s bottom for lots more strokes. By the time he had finished the whole of Jessop’s bottom, from the top of the mounds, across the very apex of the cheeks and into the fleshiest underside where the bum nearly meets the thighs would be covered with perfectly parallel lines. That was only if the boy was able to maintain his position manfully under the onslaught.

Jessop rocked on the balls of his feet; his mouth opened and closed, but he made no sound. A sharp pain attacked his rear, but very quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Jessop had a high pain threshold. He could take a beating stoically. But Dr Gerard knew how to lay on a caning with some vim. The pain in Jessop’s backside mounted as each successive stroke connected with his jutting backside. His heart raced, blood coursed through his arteries, he found it difficult to catch his breath.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Dr Gerard’s heart raced, perspiration ran down his spine; he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Jessop wriggled his hips, his bum was on fire. This was one heck of a caning. He tensed, hoping he could withstand this onslaught. The cane tapped once more across his bottom. He took a deep breath.

Suddenly, the chimes of a doorbell rang out. Dr Gerard stopped mid-stoke. He harrumphed! Through his outstretched legs, Jessop watched as the headmaster shuffled to the window and ensuring he could not be seen from outside, he peered through. A man was standing at the front door, looking rather irate.

Mr Williams winced and turned to the boy who was still obediently touching his toes. “Did you park your car in front of number twenty-six again?” he groaned.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Sting In The Tail

Federico Hernandez shuffled slowly from the elevator, took a left turn, waited for the automatic doors to slide open and headed at a snail’s pace to the professor’s office.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He had thought it through. It would be painful, for sure. Humiliating definitively. But, if the professor agreed, it would solve all the student’s problems. And, it would all be over in five minutes.

Professor Luckhurst was tired. It was late in the day and he wanted to get away. The semester was over, the papers had been graded. All he had to do before he could take off on vacation was to wait for the faculty to clear them.

Luckhurst could have retired years ago. He had a good pension, but he kept coming back to teach classes semester after semester. The university was the only life he had.

Luckhurst almost did not hear the faint knock at the door. Later, he would reflect bitterly, it would have been best if that had been the case.

“Come in,” the professor’s irritation was evident.

Slowly, the door inched open, but nobody appeared.

“Well, come in if you’re coming!” the professor’s patience was exhausted.

Hernandez took a deep breath and forced himself over the threshold.

“Come in boy! Close the door behind you,” Luckhurst tucked his empty lunchbox into his briefcase and fumbled with the lock. “What do you want!”

Fernandez lost his nerve. For two bits he would turn and flee. That would be the sensible thing to do, he reckoned. It was a crazy scheme. Why had he thought it might work?

The professor slumped into his chair and eyed the student in front of him. Federico Hernandez, one of his Eng. Lit. students. He failed the course, if he remembered correctly.

Hernandez had a little speech prepared. He had rehearsed it in front of the bedroom mirror; last night and again that morning. He was word perfect; that was until the time came for him to deliver it.

“Well, eh, professor,” he stumbled. Luckhurst’s lined face, permanently gray despite the almost ever-present sunshine, betrayed his annoyance. Hernandez took a deep breath and launched into it. The story was simple: the student had failed the professor’s course, it was the only one he failed, his grade point average was good enough for him to graduate, but that was impossible unless the professor passed him on the course.

“So, what do you expect me to do about it?” Luckhurst growled. He already knew the answer to that.

“Could you find a way to give me a passing grade,” he hesitated, before stammering the next words. “Perhaps, there’s something you’d like me to do…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Doh!” the professor snorted, confirming to Hernandez this was not going to be easy.

The student stared down at the heavy-duty carpet beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the professor, but he must. If this plan was to work, he had to turn on his charm.

“Please, professor,” he forced a smile. Luckhurst too was suitably embarrassed.

Hernandez’s eyelids fluttered a little. He had researched the professor; he had no family, never been married. He was almost certainly a faggot, the boy deduced. Not that that was supposed to matter anymore. This was 2015; they had same-sex marriages and all that. But, if the professor did go for handsome young men that would play to Hernandez’s advantage.

“Please, professor,” he started again. “Is there anything you would like me to do?”

Luckhurst’s ire rose. Do? Like him to do? What was the boy saying? Yes, there was something he would like the boy to do for him. Get out of his office and let him go home.

The silence was overwhelming. It was the professor’s turn to speak, but he continued to fumble with the lock of his briefcase, pretending he had difficulty with it.

Hernandez had one last chance. He took a deep breath and spluttered it out. This was not how he had planned it, but unless he spoke now, his opportunity would be missed. He would be stuck with an F-grade and a ruined future. “I thought you could spank me as a punishment and then ….” But he couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

Prof Luckhurst’s deathly gray face for once blushed scarlet. He could feel sweat sticking to the collar of his shirt. “What the ….?” he began, but was genuinely lost for words.

Hernandez had regained some confidence. When he had said the words to himself in front of the bedroom mirror, they sounded convincing. Now, he had to put that to the test.

“Well professor, the truth is…” The student confessed his laziness to the professor; he told him that he had not worked hard; he had not respected the course; he thought it would be easy. It was entirely his own fault he had failed.

“So, you see professor. I think I should be spanked. But, please don’t fail me. I won’t be able to graduate.” Then, he added for good measure in what he imagined to be a pitiful voice, “Sir.”

Luckhurst’s blood pressure was on the rise. Spank the boy. He wants me to spank him. He snorted. There had been many students over the years who would have benefitted from a darn good spanking; that was for sure. And, he often thought about personally swatting a paddle across their asses. But, all that was the stuff of fantasy. This was the real world: well, California at least.

“Spank you?” Prof Luckhurst left the question hanging in the air.

Hernandez picked it up and ran with it. “Yes, Professor Luckhurst. It’s what I deserve.”

Luckhurst had never come across anything like it before. The boy said he deserved to be spanked. He was twenty-two years old at least. Who had heard of young adults being spanked? Was this a cultural thing?

He regained some composure. “Spanking. Is this a Spanish-American thing? Do fathers still spank their sons in your community?”

Spanish-American! What year did this man live in? But, Hernandez made no protest. The tide was turning his way.

“Oh yes Sir,” he lied. “If my father knew of my failure, he would beat me.”

“Then let him spank you. You can atone for your failure that way.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hernandez seized the advantage. “He would spank me and hard, but he couldn’t give me the grade. Only you can do that.” He looked the professor straight in the eye, his own confidence growing by the second. “You, do see that don’t you?”

The professor returned the gaze. Often, he had dreamt of spanking his students, especially the Spanish-Americans. They were so short and cute with their slim hips and tight asses.

He looked over at Hernandez, struck by his dark brown eyes, boyish face and short jet black hair gelled up. The open face: that did it for him every time.

Luckhurst leant back in his chair. He was tempted, sorely tempted. He had been puzzled by the student’s failure. He had taught him several classes in the past and he had passed with high grades. His overall GPA showed he was a very bright student; he would go far. But, something strange had happened in Eng. Lit. Without the professor’s grade Hernandez would not make it to graduate school. His entire career could be hurt. Perhaps, Hernandez was correct; he had let his own arrogance get the better of him and imagined he could ace the professor’s course without working. Perhaps a spanking would sort out the boy’s arrogance.

Hernandez watched on as the professor sat at his desk, obviously in deep thought. If he had known any thought-transference tricks, he would have willed Luckhurst to do it. Go on, professor, spank my tight ass. What have you got to lose?

“Please, professor,” Hernandez spoke gently, “Please professor, spank me. I deserve it.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Professor Luckhurst hauled himself from his chair and walked across the room. Reaching the door, he turned the catch. A loud click confirmed the two men were locked together inside the office.

He turned to face Hernandez. He towered over the young man, easily eight inches taller than the student.

“If I do this, you must promise never to tell anybody what happened.”

“Oh, no Sir; of course not Sir,” Hernandez’s heart raced.

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, with more confidence than he actually possessed, the professor said, “Good boy. Come then, let’s do it.”

Luckhurst pulled a straight-backed chair from in front of his desk and placed it in the center of the office. Then, he sat down.

Hernandez stood his ground. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“Come, boy, take down those shorts. Get across my lap.”

“But…” Not for the first time that day Hernandez was lost for words. He had asked to be spanked, but he expected swats across his ass. Maybe he would be leaning over the desk, or bent over “assuming the position,” hands on his shins. No way had he expected to be over the professor’s knee, showing him his underwear.

Professor Luckhurst sat patiently. He had longed for such a moment his entire career. A cute naughty student submissively bent across his knee, offering up his butt for punishment. Sweat poured from his body and the underarms of his shirt was drenched. His breathing was heavy and his blood pressure was reaching record levels.

“Come on Hernandez, it is what you wanted.” Professor Luckhurst watched quietly as with trembling hands the boy undid his cloth belt and popped the button at the top of his bottle-green cargo shorts. The weight of the shorts took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees to rest at his shins. The boy’s legs were covered in thick black hair, to the professor’s evident disappointment. In his fantasies, the students had always been hairless: virginal.

Clearly distressed, Hernandez waddled a few steps so that he stood to the right of the professor. No, he couldn’t do this. He had changed his mind. Never mind the plan; forget how this little episode would insure the boy a bright trouble-free future. At the final moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Doh!” Professor Luckhurst was not about to miss his opportunity of a lifetime. He reached out and took the boy’s right arm and gently pulled him forward, so that he tumbled face down across the professor’s knees.

Hernandez screwed his eyes tight. The contact of his own body against the professor’s repulsed him. This was not how it was meant to be. Now, he had two choices; he could fight his way to his feet and flee the office. It would be easy, he was much smaller than his punisher, but he was forty-five years his junior; he had the superior strength.

He could do that, or he could stick with the original plan; albeit modified. He could take the spanking, graduate the university and get on with his new life.

Professor Luckhurst looked down at Federico, now across his lap. He might be twenty-two, but with his short trim body he could have passed for fifteen. Tight yellow briefs clung to his buttocks, so firmly they separated each one, so that the cotton dug deep into his crack creating a ravine. The boy’s red and white shirt had already risen away from the target area, but the professor helped it on its way by carefully folding it up once and then twice until the whole of his back beneath the shoulder blades was exposed.

Intrigued, the professor gently brushed his hand across the hairs on the boy’s back, feeling a slight tickle against his palm, but he took care not to connect with the flesh.

Federico’s anger was rising. What was the professor up to? The fury turned to rage when the professor moved his hand lower to caress the smooth cotton briefs. This time he let his palm explore the boy’s tight flesh. Each buttock was small enough to fit into the palm of the professor’s hand. Gently and very slowly the cupped hand explored the contours of the buttocks. The underpants were so tight and so small they left the lower half of each cheek exposed. The professor stroked his hand in a circular motion across the bared flesh, rather like he was polishing a window.

Federico stared straight ahead, trying to control his disgust. His arms were stretched out ahead of him and his own palms were pressed into the heavy material of the carpet, scratching them slightly. The crucifix he wore on a chain around his neck had slipped and dangled in front of his eyes. Behind him, he kept his knees straight and his toes floated an inch or so off the ground. His buttocks, now receiving so much loving attention from the professor, rested high over the old man’s right thigh.

On and on the professor caressed Federico’s buttocks in a circular motion; he was pimping and preening them. Never before had he held such a beautiful boy close to his own flesh. He was adorable; too wonderful to hurt. The professor would be entirely satisfied simply to hold and stroke the boy all night long. Was it too late to renegotiate with the boy? Let there be no spanking, instead give me a blow-job. No, better still; let me take you up the ass.

But it was too late. Better to make the most of the moment. The professor raised his hand two or three inches away from Federico’s left cheek and tapped it down. Then he did the same to the right cheek. Then again and again.

Federico had never been spanked in his life. He was no expert, but he knew one thing about it: it was supposed to hurt. That surely was the whole point. The professor wasn’t spanking him, he was coming on to him. This wasn’t a punishment, this was foreplay: a prelude to full-on sex.

On and on, the professor tapped and smacked his way across the boy’s glorious trim buttocks. No part of the cheeks escaped his attention. Smack, smack. smack.

Federico was losing his breath, not from the pain of his spanking since there wasn’t any, but from his increasing disgust. The professor was using him for his own sexual gratification. That wasn’t the idea. The plan was to get a spanking. It was meant to be four or five swats on the shorts and then, “Thank you Sir” and goodbye.

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Right that’s it. He wriggled his body and tried to force himself off the professor’s lap. Enough already. He was out of here.

The movement might have woken Luckhurst out of a trance. It was as if he suddenly realised why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

“No you don’t buster,” he pushed the boy forward so that his nose could smell the dusty carpet. Then he grabbed Federico’s right arm and twisted it up his back. The boy was going nowhere until the professor said so.

Then, in one swift continuous action, he grabbed the waistband of Federico’s tight yellow briefs and tugged them over his buttocks and left them at his thighs. The student wriggled and writhed, rather like he was swimming out of water, but the professor was his master; he was pinned down powerless to resist.

The professor once again caressed the buttocks. Unlike the boy’s back and legs, they were completely hairless, even the crack and butt hole. Did the boy shave himself, the professor wondered. Or did he have a special friend who did it for him?

But this was no time for speculation. In a frenzy the professor rained down spank after spank across the student’s pert naked butt. Federico felt that alright. The professor’s hand was as large and hard as Federico’s ass cheeks were small and soft. Sweat poured from the professor’s chest as the ache in the palm of his hand increased from a tingle to real pain. He had never spanked anyone in his whole sixty-seven years and was startled at how the boy’s tanned skin turned a deeper shade of brown as his own hand connected again and again with the flesh. The outline of the professor’s open palm was embedded time and time again on the boy’s rear end.

Federico kicked and thrashed his legs about, but he could not disturb the professor. The old man had an uninterrupted access to the buttocks. He realized he rather enjoyed swiping his hand hard into Federico’s naked cheeks and watching the instant reaction of the boy as he exhaled breath and wriggled across the older man’s lap. Yes, there was a direct connection between cause and effect in this spanking motion.

Federico gasped and gaped as each smack came down harder than the one before. He shook his head so violently in his attempt to escape what had become a severe bare-butt hand spanking that his crucifix slipped over his ears and fell on the ground. He stared down at it as his ass got hotter and hotter.

The professor was an old man. He didn’t have the strength he had twenty or thirty years past. He was spent. In his younger days he might have been able to spank the cute boy across his lap all night long. But not now. Not these days. He was choking for breath and blood rushed through his arteries at jet speed. If he didn’t slow down, he might have a stroke. No, worse than that: a heart attack.

“So young man,” he wheezed. “Do you regret not working hard in my class?”

Federico was astounded. He had long ago forgotten the reason he was bent over, naked butt raised high, receiving the attention of the pervert professor.

“Well?” the professor slapped his hand down the hardest yet.

“Yes,” the student gasped. His own breathing was as difficult as that of the professor. “Oh, yes,” he whimpered.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

The student was puzzled. What was he supposed to say?

Slap! “Beg for forgiveness.”

Beg?

Slap! “Say it. I beg you for forgiveness.”

That was it. When, I get up from here, I’m going to smash your fucking head in. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but the intent was real.

Slap! “Say it!”

The boy could not have been more humiliated. He had no choice. He had to remember that once he was released, his future was safe.

He wheezed, “I beg you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” Then for good measure, he added, “Sir.”

The professor stopped spanking. Federico lay across the old man, still staring at the crucifix. His head was spinning; he desperately needed to be standing on his own feet. So much blood had rushed to his brain; he feared he might pass out at any moment.

“Up.” It was a cold command. Despite his ordeal, Federico was still an athletic young man and he was off the man’s lap in seconds. Without waiting for permission, he pulled his underwear and shorts up. He was distressed that his hands would not obey him fully as he tried to button up and then buckle his belt. His ass was hot, but the agony was already dissipating into pain and would soon be only a throbbing.

The professor rose from his chair more slowly and turned to face the boy. He hoped Federico would not notice the bulge in front of his own pants. For several seconds the professor and the student stood facing one another in silence. Neither knew what to do next. Federico’s earlier rage had calmed. He would not beat up the professor. There was no cause to do that.

Eventually, the professor regained some of his own composure. “Nobody will hear about this, will they?”

“No,” Federico’s response was sullen.

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Federico assured him as he bent down to retrieve the fallen crucifix. Then without another word between the two men he walked to the door, unlocked it and left. With a wry smile cracking his lips he ran through the automatic doors toward the elevator.

….

Six months later Federico sat in the bar of a luxury hotel in the Caribbean, a beautiful woman by his side. In his hand he held a copy of the International New York Times. He smiled with satisfaction as for the third time today he read the story headlined: University settles $1.5 million lawsuit in student spanking case. A smaller headline ran: Professor’s career in ruins.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Scotch Whisky Mystery

new story 2

In February 2006 Mr R. A. F. Brightlington-Pugh, a former housemaster at the Ridgeway private boarding school in the west of England, passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-seven. Some years later, his great-great-great-great nephew found a leather-bound travelling chest containing diaries he had written during the 1930s and 1940s. This present story The Scotch whisky mystery was inspired by the diary entry for 11th November 1932.

Other diary stories here

 

The mystery of where the sixth form boys obtained their whisky has been solved at long last. It had been troubling me for many months. They thought I did not know they were taking nips after lights out. There is nothing that goes on in this house that I do not know about. Nothing. Sometimes, I believe it is better not to show one’s hand too early.

Whisky and all alcohol is naturally banned at Ridgeway, but the senior boys had a supply from somewhere. We are an isolated community and the boys are very conspicuous in the locale. The boys wear grey short trousers until they enter the sixth-form; no purveyor of alcoholic beverages could mistake them for anything other than schoolboys. Even the sixth formers dress in bright red blazers with white trimming and red-and-white-hooped school caps.

I was certain that nobody locally would knowingly supply my boys with firewater. I was, however, quite wrong. There was one person and he was I confess very adept at deceiving the school authorities.

I discovered it quite by accident. I had been to the senior common room and found I had forgotten my pen which I needed to correct some compositions. As I hurried down the passageway to my study I espied Tom Nedley, the baker’s boy. He had secreted under his jacket an empty Scotch whisky bottle. His stock in trade was loaves of bread and sticky buns; not booze. Something was afoot.

One need not be Sherlock Holmes to work it out. The idiot boy confessed under the mildest interrogation. He was the supplier to the sixth form. He brought to the school full bottles and later collected the empties. That way no evidence of illicit drinking would fall into the hands of we schoolmasters.

Tom is I suppose at least eighteen years old. I cannot be sure, but he stands at close to six foot and has a build that suggests he has worked manual labour for some time. He looks much older than that age. I know very little about him, except that he works in his father’s bakery and the family has been supplying the school since Noah was a lad.

What would his father say if the school cancelled its order and found a new baker for its needs?

“You have let your father down very badly,” I told him.

His ruddy face paled significantly. Some horror had struck him. “No, please don’t tell my dad,” he said. Then he positively wailed, “Ple-ase!”

Within minutes we were in my study and I was on the telephone to Mr Nedley. I could hear the alarm in his voice after I threatened to cancel the school’s order.

“Keep the boy there. I’ll be right over.”

Mr Nedley was true to his word. Within a quarter of an hour he stood in my study. Mr Nedley was his son’s father. Nobody who saw the two together could doubt it. They were like two peas in a pod, except that one was somewhat older than the other.

Tom quaked as his father entered the study. There is no other word for it. There was genuine fear.

I had no prior knowledge of Mr Nedley’s intentions. He was both young Tom’s employer and his father and legal guardian. I sat in my armchair and watched as events unfolded before me.

Mr Nedley’s face contorted with anger as his son confessed his misdeeds. He had supplied illicit alcohol to a variety of sixth-formers over the past months. He had received a generous “tip” with each delivery for his troubles. Yes, he confessed to his father, he knew he was breaking the school rules and the laws of Olde England itself.

That was enough for Mr Nedley. His son had erred and he had a father’s duty to punish him.

His eyes searched the room; until he found what he needed. He carried a straight-backed wooden chair from against the wall and placed it in the very centre of the study. Then, without saying a word to his son, he unbuckled his wide heavy leather belt and in one swift continuous movement pulled it through the loops on his thick serge trousers.

z used drawing belt hold (1b).jpg

He sat himself down on the wooden chair. Tom stood horror struck. Clearly he knew where this episode would end.

“Take down yer trousers and drawers and get across me knee.”

Tom shot a look across at me and then at his irate father. He said nothing, but the panic in his eyes said, “No, please, not in public.”

“Quickly, or I’ll do it fer yer.”

I watched impassively as the boy complied with his father’s instruction. First his thick grey worsted trousers fell to the ground. He hesitated significantly before sending his grimy grey woollen drawers in the same direction.

For a few moments he stood; his private parts on full display. His ruddy face was now scarlet.

“Over.” His father slapped his own thigh as if there were any doubt what he meant.

Tom lowered his vast frame across his father’s lap. At six-feet tall he made an imperfect fit. An over-the-knee spanking is best administered to a small child; not to a strapping eighteen-year-old. His knees were bent and his toes rested on the fairly worn rug. He placed the palms of his hands flat on the floor. His meaty bottom was raised at an angle against his father’s right knee.

In the time waiting for Mr Nedley to arrive I had contemplated what punishment young Tom should receive. I fully intended that the sixth-form boys would receive a severe beating with my special Malacca cane. It seemed only fair and appropriate that young Tom should receive similar treatment.

I had been prepared to offer one of the two crook-handled rattan canes that dangled from the hat stand in the corner of my study to Tom’s father. Indeed, I should have been prepared to administer the thrashing myself had Mr Nedley felt he did not have sufficient expertise to wield a cane effectively.

I watched as Mr Nedley trebled up his thick heavy leather belt. I am an exponent of corporal punishment. As a schoolmaster it is my duty to instil discipline in the young. I am the representative of authority; of law and order. As such it is entirely appropriate that I should deliver a beating at (quite literally) arm’s length. A boy prepares himself for a beating and I lash the cane into his backside. Our respective roles in this little ritual are clearly defined.

Corporal punishment delivered by a father to his son is altogether different. The spanking is part of a loving relationship and as such more intimacy is assuredly required. If I were to order a pupil (even the most junior) across my knee eyebrows would be raised. The relationship between schoolmaster and pupil is not at all intimate. The boy most of all would resent the imposition.

I once had a colleague who told me that when he was a schoolboy a certain master would always punish his charges with an over-the-knee spanking. He was last dealt with in such a way when he was aged eighteen. He had been required to lower his trousers and underwear and lay across the master’s lap to allow him to slap the palm of his hand into his naked bottom.

A realist would say that a hand spanking could never hurt nearly as much as a swishing with a rattan cane and therefore the boys should have been grateful to receive a lesser punishment. The boys did not see it this way. Their dignity suffered. A caning was a “manly” punishment; a spanking should be confined to the nursery.

I had never before witnessed a spanking, but it was clear this was not new territory for Tom and his father. The boy lay submissively, his head held so low that he was able to look underneath the chair and observe the trousers and underwear bunched at his own feet. Mr Nedley took hold of the tail of his son’s shirt and tucked it up his back so it was away from the buttocks. Then slowly and deliberately he rolled up the shirtsleeve on his own right arm so that any swing he might make with the leather belt would be unhindered.

Then, without warning he lashed the thick leather belt into Tom’s naked haunches. A sunset stripe appeared immediately; followed by another and then another as Mr Nedley set about covering every square inch of his son’s bottom.

The boy scrunched up his face to absorb the pain. His mouth opened and closed silently, rather like that of a goldfish. But, he made no sound. His father set about his task at a rhythmic pace and soon two meaty cheeks were the colour of a good Burgundy. From my vantage point on the armchair I could tell Tom must be in considerable pain. The flesh on his buttocks looked scorched.

Sweat soaked Mr Nedley’s grubby cotton shirt as he continued to pound his leather strap up and down; up and down. Satisfied that there was no part of the boy’s bottom unbranded he turned his attention to the back of the teenager’s thighs. That part of the anatomy is especially sensitive and the boy wriggled and squirmed a little in response to the sting of the strap.

At no point did Tom move the palms of his hands from the floor. He made no attempt to resist the ministrations of his father. He was as submissive as any one of my schoolboys when required to present themselves to me for a thrashing. I admired the boy’s fortitude.

In no time Tom’s face was as red as his backside. The leathering was having its desired effect. But Mr Nedley was not yet ready to conclude the spanking. With renewed vigour he took his belt once more around the circuit; smacking it into every part of the boy’s bottom; from the top of the curves, across the fleshiest part of the buttocks and into the crease at the under-cheeks where the rear end meets the thighs.

Then and only then was Mr Nedley satisfied.

There was no lecture. All he said was the single word, “Up.” The boy sprang to his feet and without waiting for permission he whipped up his underwear and trousers. Within seconds he was once again fully dressed.

Since we were in my study I felt the need to say something that might conclude the matter. I assured Mr Nedley that I had no intention of stopping further bakery orders. As far as I was concerned the boy had transgressed and he had accepted his just punishment. We could all move on now.

I did however warn young Tom that if he ever dared to supply my boys with whisky or any other alcohol I would personally see to it that he received a severe swishing with one of my special Malacca canes.

He murmured something that might have been, “Sorry, Sir,” and the pair of them went on their way.

All that was now left for me to do was to decide whether or not when the sixth formers attended my study later that day I would require them to lower their trousers and underwear.

 

Picture credit: Endart

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Trouble at the Mall

z used drawing paddle hold (6)

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Bernie always called Jeff “young man” even though he was two years his junior.

Jeff had been anticipating this since he acted up in the mall.  The shopping trip had not been a success. Bernie had wanted to buy a new suit and couldn’t find one he liked. Jeff, who hated shopping, became more and more irritated at each store, until eventually he stormed off.

“You can find me at the coffee shop when you’re ready.”

Bernie exploded with anger and to the embarrassment of some on-lookers called after Jeff’s disappearing body, “You wait till I get you home, young man!”

Back home Jeff was immediately ordered to his room to change his clothes. Sulkily, he removed his sweater, shirt and pants and dropped them onto the bed. He opened up his closet and took out a freshly-laundered gray shirt; a striped necktie was hanging nearby. He took his time putting them on making sure the tie was knotted perfectly.

He pushed aside a row of slacks on the closet rail and found what he was looking for: gray short pants. He sighed as he stepped into them, first the left leg, then the right. He pulled them on and buttoned up. He took a pair of socks from a drawer, sat on the bed and pulled them on; they were so long they came way above the knee, so he turned down the tops an inch or so.

From the back of the drawer, he fished out an English-style schoolboy’s cap and put it on top of his head. He was ready to return downstairs to face Bernie and whatever it was he had in store for him today.

Bernie always said if Jeff was determined to behave like an eight-year-old boy, he would be treated like one and that meant dressing like one and getting plenty of spankings.

Jeff had put on one of Bernie’s favourite outfits: the English school uniform. Bernie had gotten the idea from a photograph of Princess Diana and her two sons, the Princes William and Harry. The kids were about six or seven and on their way to their up-scale preparatory school. They were dressed entirely in gray: short trousers, knee socks; jacket and best of all an English school cap.

Bernie loved that school uniform and after some searching on the Internet, he found a place in England where they sold identical clothes in Jeff’s size.

Bernie often forced Jeff into children’s clothes; sometimes for days on end. The deal would be as soon as he got home from work he changed and stayed like that until it was time to go back to work next day. If he wanted to leave the house, he would have to go out in his school uniform.

One weekend, Bernie threatened to make Jeff wear his school uniform to the mall if he didn’t stop acting up. Although he didn’t let on to Bernie, Jeff quite liked the idea of parading around in public dressed as an eight-year-old English schoolboy. He had read on the Internet of some middle-aged guy in England who travelled on the London Underground all day dressed in short trousers, school blazer and cap and no passenger batted an eyelid.

“Stand in the corner, hands on head,” Jeff was told when he entered the lounge room. Bernie was seated on a couch, flicking over the pages of the newspaper. He was in no hurry; Bernie knew Jeff hated waiting for spankings: sometimes Jeff thought waiting was the worst part. Good, thought Bernie, he would let Jeff stew for a while.

After about five minutes, Bernie said, “Turn around young man and face me.” Jeff, still with his hands on his heads, obeyed immediately.

“You behaved like a brat at the mall, what have you got to say for yourself young man?”

Jeff stared at his feet in embarrassment, but said nothing.

“Speak up young man. You embarrassed me in public this afternoon. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” mumbled at the carpet.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man. What did you say?”

Jeff looked up but couldn’t meet Bernie’s eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You will be young man. Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

Jeff shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

“Doh! Stand back in the corner and wait till I return.”

Jeff knew Bernie was off to find a paddle to spank him with. Bernie had quite a collection, which one would he use this time? One paddle he had recently bought was made of clear plastic and had holes drilled in it: that one hurt like hell, especially if it were applied with his pants down.

Moments later Bernie returned, not with a paddle, but with a sheaf of writing paper and a pencil.

“Turn round, young man.”

Jeff was puzzled when he saw Bernie did not have a paddle. What was happening? Was he only going to get a hand spanking?

Bernie placed the writing paper and pencil on a table.

“I want you to write out fifty times, ‘I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.’ Make sure it is in your neatest handwriting, young man, or else.”

Bernie did not need to spell out what “or else” meant Jeff could imagine the pain he was going to be in by the end of the afternoon. It was a cruel trick, Bernie knew Jeff’s handwriting was almost illegible, even when he tried his hardest and wrote very slowly indeed, it was nearly always impossible to read what he had written.

“Sit down and get started. I’ll be back in half an hour to see how you are getting on. Remember, neatest handwriting, young man. Or else.”

Jeff did try, he really tried, to write his lines neatly. He held the pencil tightly in his hand and slowly began to write, “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.” After he had written the sentence five times, his hand ached terribly. He wasn’t used to writing by hand. His keyboard skills were magnificent, his fingers flew across the letters and he could input forty words a minute. But, he was hopeless with a pen or pencil and that was just a fact and here was nothing he could do about it.

Resigned to the bottom blistering that would inevitably follow, Jeff scrawled “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall,” forty-five more times.

“Completely illegible. I can’t decipher a word. If I didn’t already know what this said, I would never be able to understand it. Well, young man, you know what’s coming.”

Yes, Jeff knew what was coming and he wished Bernie would just get on with it.

“Back in the corner, young man. Hands on head.”

Jeff obliged and Bernie left the room. This time when he returned he was carrying a paddle and to Jeff’s dismay it was the heavy plastic Lexan.

“Turn and face me. Keep those hands on the head. Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man.”

Bernie recapped all Jeff’s failings that day, especially the misbehaviour at the mall and the storming off in a temper. He added the poorly-written lines for good measure.

He picked up a chair that was tucked neatly under the dining room table, turned it round, and sat down. Bernie kept his back straight and planted his legs apart to create a platform that would soon receive Jeff’s body.

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Jeff kept his hands on his head and stepped forward so he stood immediately in front of Bernie.

“Don’t think you’re keeping these on, young man,” he said, as he unbuttoned the short pants and let them fall to the ground.

“Bend over my knee.”

Jeff hesitated.

“Doh! Come here,” Bernie took Jeff’s arm and with an expertise borne from practice, he pulled him face down across his knee.

“This is going to hurt me just as much as it hurts you, young man,” Bernie said that every time he spanked Jeff, but Jeff knew for sure it wasn’t true.

Bernie raised the paddle and brought it smacking down into the seat of Jeff’s tight underpants.

The first spanks were always mild; Bernie was just warming Jeff up for the real onslaught that was to follow.

Jeff gasped a little as the paddle landed on his left cheek, then the right, then across the middle of both at once, but he made no other sound. He knew from experience that the real spanking began the moment Bernie gripped the elasticated waist of his underwear and tugged them down over his thighs. An intense bare-bottomed blistering would always follow.

Neither of them was keeping time, but it must have been at least five minutes before Bernie bared Jeff’s buttocks. They were a deep red by this time and Bernie reckoned they must be pretty sore by now.

Undeterred, he raised his arm high and brought the paddle down hard into the naked flesh. Jeff felt that one, most definitely. He felt the next dozen as well, each one spanking into his fleshy ass with force. Jeff wanted to be a brave boy and not cry out – at least try not to cry out too soon.

His resolve broke after about twenty-five swats. The pain was intense and Jeff knew his buttocks would be turning from scarlet to mauve about now. The bruising would be intense and last for days, or even a week.

Bernie spanked on … and on. He hadn’t made up his mind how many whacks to deliver. It had to be a lot, there were two crimes here that that to be paid for: the bad behaviour at the mall and the crapily-written lines.

Jeff was sobbing by now, crying genuine tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“That’s the point young man. That’s the point,” and Bernie kept raising the paddle and crashing it down into Jeff’s naked cheeks.

“Please, I will be a good boy, I will behave. I’m sorry,” it sounded like genuine repentance, but Bernie had heard it all before. This wasn’t the first time they had problems at the mall, but, he reckoned, if he did his job well today, it should be the last.

Bernie spanked on oblivious to Jeff’s pleadings.

Suddenly, the sound of plastic on bare flesh and a man’s cries was broken by the distinctive ring-tone of a cell phone. Bernie stopped spanking.

“It’s the Bat Phone,” Bernie said, using the joke name they had for the emergency cell phone.

He let Jeff up from his lap and, he crossed the room, trying to rub the soreness out of his buttocks. He picked up the phone and said his name. The person at the other end had a curt message and Jeff turned off the phone.

Turning to Bernie, he said, “That was the hospital there’s been an incident and I have to give emergency surgery. I have to go.”

Not waiting to pick up his short pants from the floor where they had fallen, he rushed upstairs, changed into his outdoor clothes and was in the car on his way to the hospital inside two minutes. Sitting was extremely painful and he was grateful that he would be performing surgery standing up.

Through the window Bernie watched him go and then cleaned up. He didn’t put the paddle back with the others, instead he left it on the dining room table, thinking, “We’ll continue with this when you return, young man.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

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The fire-raiser

My father’s legacy

The freshman class

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com