The Executive Assistant

new story 2

z used cane longs desk office or school sting adult (71)

Kingsley Brocas-Burrows stared down glumly at the desk. His buttocks ached on the hard chair. He spent most of his working day at a desk such as this. It was empty at the moment. The sun was rapidly disappearing and soon the office would be so gloomy he would need to switch the lights on. He sat, almost motionless. He didn’t care. Let it go dark.

Kinglsey was not a young man who spent much time in reflection; and certainly not self-reflection. But on this day he might make an exception. Why did he do this? Why was he wasting his life at this job?

He sighed inwardly, shuffled his buttocks some more before standing. The office was empty, everyone had left. The working day was over. People had gone home – to their real lives. He stretched his arms, wriggled his shoulders, snaked his hips. Slowly – simply to kill some time – he ambled to the window. He was on the second floor, there was not much of a view. The High Street below; Robinson’s Department Store opposite. He let out a long weary sigh. How had it come to this?

Executive Assistant at a marketing company. What was marketing anyhow? Damned if he knew. Executive Assistant: general dogsbody more like. Office boy really. His housemaster had warned him this would happen. “Slacking again Brocas-Burrows,” the old coot would intone as Kingsley submitted himself patiently; stretched across an ancient cracked leather armchair in the study. His trousers at the ankles, underwear at the knees. Head low, bottom high, while old Mr Plumptre lashed six stripes across his naked buttocks.

Plum had warned him he would fail his examinations. Kingsley duly did. In spectacular fashion. If there were prizes for failure he would have taken all the silver cups that year. “If you fail your examinations, you cannot go up to the university,” Plum had berated him. “Then where will you be?” Where indeed?

The eccentric “crammer” college his father then arranged for him to attend so Kingsley might resit his exams was useless. He and a further ten bone-idle duffers spent four months cooped up at some backwater called Brocklehurst. The college principal made them dress in school uniform with neat grey short trousers and knee socks. Eighteen-year-old men dressed as preparatory school boys. Kingsley idleness never abated. Mr Burlington, the principal, would often order Kingsley across his knee. The size twelve gym plimsoll he crashed into the seat of the teenager’s short trousers made no impact on his studies.

So now. Kingsley peered through the dirty window pane at people in the street below. Rain was spitting. Umbrellas were raised, shop girls wrapped their coats around themselves and dashed toward bus stops. How he wished he could join them. He glanced at his wrist watch. Almost time for his appointment with Mr Wilson-Smith.

Wilson-Smith was a contemporary of his father. Like Kingsley they were all old boys of St. Tom’s. The old school tie. It was that informal network that had landed him the job. All boys together. Wilson-Smith had “found him a position” at his company. It was the least a chap could do for a fellow from St. Tom’s. Anyhow, Wilson-Smith needed a skivvy, and it might as well be somebody with a bit of breeding. God forbid he should take a lout from a council estate.

The seconds hand on Kingsley’s watch moved too quickly. Any moment now he must face Mr Wilson-Smith. “Damn and blast it!” Kingsley’s inner voice cried. “When will this ever end?” Nineteen years old, getting on for twenty and still going through this.

Across the office a door opened. Miss Winchester, a lady of at least fifty years and two hundred and fifty pounds, waddled through, clutching her handbag tightly to her bosom. “Mr. Wilson-Smith will see you now,” she said to no one in particular as she headed for the stairs and her own real life. Kingsley looked once more at his watch, willing it to allow him one more minute before the appointment. No such luck.

He stretched his arms and back once more, as if limbering up for a track event. His one success at school had been in sports. He still retained his athleticism. He sighed (yet again) and slowly moved toward Mr Wilson-Smith’s office. He paused outside. Momentarily, he had a vision of Mr Plumptre’s worn study door. He shook his head with bewilderment, balled his fingers into a fist and rapped his knuckles against a pine panel.

“Come!” Mr Wilson-Smith even sounded like Plum. Haughty, pompous; in charge. Kingsley fumbled with the door handle, it stuck in his grip. At first it would not turn. He tried once more. Still it would not budge . With his hand shaking he gripped harder, put his shoulder to the door and stumbled into the office.

Mr Wilson-Smith gaped then a frown crossed his florid, flabby face. “Stupid boy,” he muttered, almost to himself. Kingsley straightened himself, conscious of the heat in his own face. Without waiting for instruction, he turned and without difficulty closed the door.

Mr Wilson-Smith was seated behind his desk, his jacket behind him on the chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow; the top button was undone, his necktie was loosened. He looked every inch the “marketing” man that he was.

Kingsley stood some distance away. The office had not changed since his last visit. It was furnished in the modern style. Whereas his housemaster’s study had been constructed of dark wood panels and oak furniture, Mr Wilson-Smith’s room consisted of light-coloured walls and pine. His message to the world, “I am the future.”

Kingsley waited. He knew the part he had to play in this little drama. Mr Wilson-Smith was in charge. He would commence when he was good and ready. Wilson-Smith picked a folder from his desk, opened it and leafed through the sheaf of papers inside. He pretended to read the top two and then threw the folder down. In his “real life” he very much enjoyed amateur theatricals.

He breathed a sigh that said, “Why must I take the burdens of all the world on my shoulders?” He glanced down at the folder and then peered across the room at Kingsley. “Well, Brocas-Burrows,” he said. A very pregnant pause followed. Kingsley blanched, his redden face draining. The silence deafened him. Was he supposed to say something? Had his boss asked him a question? He sucked on his bottom lip, playing for time.

If it had been a contest, then Mr Wilson-Smith blinked first. “Your quarterly report,” he growled, again nodding at the folder. You know what it says?” Again, Kingsley was dumbfounded. Was it a rhetorical question? Was he expected to answer? Should he say truthfully, “Actually no sir I haven’t read it myself, but I have a jolly good idea what it contains.”

Would that reply be a bit too bumptious; cocky even? Indeed, the nineteen-year-old had not seen the report but he knew darn well it was not good news. “Poor timekeeping, bad attitude to authority, generally an idle sort,” would be the gist of it.

He closed his ears while Mr Wilson-Smith berated him. Kingsley had been spot on about the report, but he had left out the bit about his uselessness at adding up a column of figures. After some length Kingsley heard the words, “I gave you a position at this company because of your father. You have let him down; you have let me down and most of all you have let yourself down.” The resemblance to one of Plum’s sermons in the housemaster’s study was uncanny. Kingsley found himself murmuring, “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “In other circumstances you should be dismissed. I have spoken to your father on the telephone and I must tell you he is not best pleased.” Kingsley confined his response to, “Oh.” There would be a price to pay the next time he returned to the family pile for the weekend.

“He and I are in complete agreement,” Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “On the action that I should take.” Kingsley’s eyes sparkled. He bit his lip once more. With no further word, Mr Wilson-Smith hauled himself to his feet and wheezing slightly he trundled across the office. Kingsley stood, hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn to watch as Mr Wilson-Smith disappeared from his sight. He heard his boss open a drawer (it stuck at first just as the door had done). Kingsley heard his wheezing increase in volume and then there was a distinct rattle from within the drawer. The teenager’s heart thumped. He knew that sound; he whirled around in time to see Mr Wilson-Smith straighten himself. His boss stared malevolently across the office; he stood aggressively and took the whippy rattan school cane between his hands and flexed it so that it made a perfect bow.

Kingsley’s eyes widened. It was just like the weapons the masters at St. Tom’s had used. It was a little under three feet long with a notch every four inches or so along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and had the authentic crook handle at one end.

Mr Wilson-Smith swiped the whippy cane through the air. The swoosh! as it flew was terrific. Then, Mr Wilson-Smith let it dangle in his hand before gently tap-tap-tapping it against his right leg. “I was head boy in my time at St. Tom’s,” he said, as if this was a perfect explanation.

It was good enough for Kingsley. Prefects at the school were permitted to beat other pupils. Mr Wilson-Smith’s present intention was obvious.

“I beat many slackers,” Mr Wilson-Smith said, almost wistfully. “There was no more serious crime. Chaps who would not play the game.” He leaned forward, craning his neck like a toad. “I good thrashing …..” he let the sentence tail off. His meaning was clear.

Kingsley sniffed. It was a reflect action; he meant nothing by it; Mr Wilson-Smith thought otherwise. “How dare you!” he bellowed, furious at the teenager’s insolence, “Get yourself across that desk.” He waved the cane towards his own desk as if there was any doubt about his instruction, “NOW!”

“B .. .” Kingsley cut short his protest. His boss’s eyes burned into him. The older man swished the cane aggressively. “Get on with it. I don’t have all night.” He tapped the cane across the edge of the desk.

Kingsley hesitated. He would comply, he would do as he was ordered. His upbringing had taught him enough to know one thing: he had no choice. None at all. But how to do it? At school the housemaster always made a chap go over an armchair. It was the right size. Little ones spread themselves across one of the padded arms; the older boys reached across the back. In either case they made the perfect fit.

But the desk? Even from a step or two’s distance Kingsley could see it was low. Should he lay with his stomach flat across the top and hang on to the far edge for dear life? Was he supposed to simply lean forward and grip the desk’s side? Where exactly did Mr Wilson-Smith want his bum to be?

“Pah!” Mr Wilson-Smith was a man on a short fuse. He swiped the cane hard against the pine desk’s top. “Stand there, feet apart, bend forward. Stick your bottom out.” The instruction was clear. Careful not to make another visible sigh that would annoy his master, Kingsley took two steps forward and in one athletic movement he positioned himself to Mr Wilson-Smith’s satisfaction. He gazed down at the pine desk, his necktie dangled in front of his face. He concentrated hard on its intricate pattern. He had never before really noticed it.

Kingsley heard his boss wheezing as he shuffled himself into position. The old man paused momentarily, admiring the full buttocks submitted before him. They were firm and meaty and stretched the material of Kingsley’s suit trousers. Each cheek was lifted and separated. They made a terrific target.

He stood about three feet to the teenager’s left – a cane’s length – and slowly took aim. Caning a boy’s backside was a bit like riding a bike, he thought. Once one had learned the technique, it was never forgotten. He laid the tip of the cane so that it reached to the furthest cheek, aiming for the crest of Kingsley’s mounds. Satisfied that he had his eye, he brought the cane away in a perfect arc until it was about his shoulder’s height. Then he returned the cane with tremendous force so that it whacked into the meat sending a resounding sound echoing off the walls of the office. A thin white line immediately appeared across the stretched grey trousers.

Kingsley gasped, his head rose slightly and his hips swayed. He held on to the edge of the desk with all his might. A sharp pain scorched across his bum. Already a hard line was forming where the cane bit deep.

Mr Wilson-Smith paused, admiring his own prowess with the cane. The stroke had landed precisely where he intended. He awarded himself ten marks out of ten. He aimed the cane lower next time, into that part where Kingsley’s beautifully round bottom nearly met the back of his thighs. Swipe! Crack! Another perfect shot. Kingsley’s knees buckled, but he stopped his feet from marching up and down on the spot. His heart pounded and blood crashed through his arteries; his temples throbbed.

Mr Wilson-Smith’s own heart was in overdrive. He was not a fit man and his doctor had warned him he needed to take more exercise. Well, what better way than this? He tapped the cane across the top of Kingsley’s buttocks, so that he could deliver a downward swipe just below the boy’s spine. It was a difficult stroke to get right. If his aim was out he might even miss the backside entirely. Swish! Swipe! Crack! Bullseye.

Kingsley just about stifled the yelp his body demanded he make. It would be a natural reaction to the searing agony he was feeling. His bum felt like Mr Wilson-Smith had taken a white-hot poker and pressed it into his flesh. There was a strip of burning fire about four inches wide running from left to right across his bum.

Now, Mr Wilson-Smith set himself another challenge. The next stroke should connect in the space between the line at the top and the one across the mound. If he got it wrong, if he was just a fraction of an inch out in his aim, the heavy, whippy cane might land right on top of one of the three welts already throbbing across Kingsley’s rear end. Mr Wilson-Smith was not a man to duck a challenge; and heck if he got it wrong, it was no skin off his backside.

Crack!. Bingo! Mr Wilson-Smith was on fire! And so too was Kingsley’s lazy arse. The stroke whipped in right on target. Sweat poured through the nineteen-year-old’s hair. It ran from his neck in a rivulet down his spine. His body was fighting back against the pain. Kingsley shut his teeth hard, he had long ago ceased studying the pattern on his necktie; now his eyes were tightly shut.

Mr Wilson-Smith aimed low; there was still the gap between the cuts on the mounds and the thighs to find. “Hold still boy,” he said by way of encouragement, as with a little difficultly for his heart was so loud and his blood pressure so high he feared he might have a different type of stroke before the evening was out, he took his measure.

Of course, it was a perfect hit. When later, Kingsley inspected the damage in the mirror of the bathroom at his rooming house he would see five parallel lines perfectly placed. By that time the agony would have dissolved through a mere pain and then an irritating throbbing. It would then have disappeared altogether, except for when he sat on a hard surface. The cut on the under cheek was perfectly placed and could be reignited for days to come.

In the mirror Kingsley would see five stripes, but that was not all. Mr Wilson-Smith had a special finale. In some schools a “headmaster’s caning” was deemed especially awesome; a boy would be summoned to the beak for only the most serious offence (or perhaps the constant repeating of more minor infractions) and the visit to his study had to be momentous.

Mr Wilson-Smith had himself been on the receiving end of such a beating. Now, for the first time in his (extensive) history as a caner he would administer a headmaster’s caning. He bent his legs slightly so as to get proper aim. He tapped the tip of the cane at the top of Kingsley’s right buttock, then he laid it so that the other end reached the bottom of the left. It was a perfect diagonal. Kingsley froze. Oh no! he realised at once Mr Wilson-Smith’s little game. His entire body tensed, his shoulders braced, his knees locked, the knuckles on his hands turned white so hard was his grip on the desk.

Thwip! It wasn’t an especially savage cut. It didn’t need to be. Mr Wilson-Smith whipped the cane hard so that it thudded across Kingsley’s bum. He leapt to his feet, both hands clutching his savaged buttocks. The cane had bitten into each of the previous five cuts, making all blaze with such a ferocity that it felt that Kingsley had been forced to sit in a bath of boiling hot water.

He yelled fit to wake the dead. For the first time that evening Mr Wilson-Smith realised how fortuitous it was that all the staff had gone home. Kingsley howled as he danced; tears flooding down his face. It made not a jot of difference to that pain. He bent double, huffing and puffing as he did so. He gasped for air, somewhere in the back of his throat vomit was forming; desperately he swallowed the bile back.

Mr Wilson-Smith stepped back, perching his ample buttocks on the desk that had moments earlier been Kingsley’s punishment block. He watched intently as the boy rubbed the seat of his trousers so hard the boss wondered if he might leave a permanent shine on his behind.

At last Kingsley regained a semblance of control. The tears had not completely stopped, his eyes were drenched, his face flooded. He could not bring himself to look at his tormentor. Not so Mr Wilson-Smith; his self-satisfaction was undisguised. Later he would telephone his school pal “Bronco” Brocas-Burrows and share with him his triumph. But, now he must dismiss the distressed teenager.

“Go,” he growled, “That was for your own good,” he mouthed a platitude spoken by generations of schoolmasters. “Don’t make me have to do that again. If you do we’ll see how you like it with your trousers at your ankles.”

Kingsley ran from the room, glad that the door had opened first time. He flew through the outer office and down the stairs, not stopping until he was at street level. The rain was heavy and he was glad that nobody would see his tears as he hurried to his digs back to his real life.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two cousins in need of spanking

new story 2

z used twosome pants cheeky boys (21a)

“Doh! Pah! Bah!” Bill Briggs was exasperated, “They’re like a couple of little kids,” he sipped on his hot coffee and flapped his hand at his brother Ben. “What they need is a damn good spanking. Mine is definitely going over my knee.”

Ben flushed, unable to hide his embarrassment. He sipped thoughtfully at his own Nescafe.

By “mine” Bill meant his son William; it was up to Ben what he did about his own boy, John. “A bloody good hiding’s coming his way.”

“Well …” Ben was doubtful and said so. “But they’re both eighteen, ain’t they a bit old for that sort of thing.”

“Pah!” Bill was no to be dissuaded, “They’ve shown they are not adults. I ask you. Climbing up onto the roof of your house and firing catapults in the air; someone could have been killed!” He paused, catching himself in a exaggeration, “Well, injured anyway,” he trailed off, taking another swig from his mug.

Ben shrugged, this was a conversation he did not want to have. Bill was determined, “They’ve been arsing around all summer. I mean they set the hosepipe off during the barbecue, you can’t say that wasn’t deliberate.” Ben nodded sagely; his brother was right on that one. Ben was one of those who got soaked.

“And,” Bill was on a roll now, “They were chasing Old Mrs Willow’s cat with that damn slingshot thing,” he paused for effect. “That deserved a spanking on its own.”

Ben was unsure. His brother had always dominated him, ever since they were kids. He didn’t want to be railroaded into something now. “But,” he peered into his now empty mug, “A spanking, that’s a bit severe isn’t it?”

“Ha!” Bill roared, incredulously. His brother was such a wimp. “I’m no talking about tying him up to an A-frame and flogging his bare arse until the blood runs down his legs.” He stared at his brother wild-eyed. “Just a spanking. I’ve got a heavy hairbrush. I’ll take him over my knee, pull down his pants and wallop him until he’s so rosy, he’ll glow in the dark.”

“But …” Ben couldn’t find the words he needed. Bill filled in the gaps. “Don’t worry, it won’t be the first time he’s been over my knee.” He grinned, “Probably won’t be the last either.”

Ben stood up and walked over to a sideboard and opened a drawer. He pulled out a large, wooden clothes brush. The head was about nine inches by four and oval-shaped. “The very thing,” he said holding it in his right fist and patting it menacingly into his left palm. He looked across at his brother, now glowing pink with embarrassment.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to batter him. It won’t be brutal. Just a tanning so he gets the point. Bring him up sharp. Put him back on the straight and narrow. A couple of dozen on his bare bum should do the trick.” He whacked the brush into his palm with some force, savouring the burning sensation. “What do you think? I’ll do yours if you want.”

He left the offer hanging in the air and moved to the door, he put his head into the hallway and shouted up the stairs. “William! Get yourself down here!” After ten seconds there was no sound of movement. “Now! Don’t make me have to come up there!” He waved the brush in the empty hallway. Upstairs a door opened, a head appeared over the banister of the landing. “Wor?” William halted the protest he had started when he saw the brush in his Dad’s hand.

“Down here now.”

“But Dad, I’m not dressed.” William stood in his white Y-front underpants and singlet. “Pah! Don’t mind that,” his dad growled, knowing his lack of clothing made his intended task that much easier. He was greeted by the sound of stockinged feet pattering down the stairs. “Get in here!” Dad gripped his eighteen-year-old son by the arm and pulled him into the lounge. William blushed scarlet, he was a fit, athletic boy, easily as tall, but a lot thinner, than his dad. He could have broken free of his grip, told his dad where to get off and returned to his room. It never occurred to him to do that.

William was not an evil person; but he was a rascal. A scamp. He was on the cusp of adulthood, but often (too often if truth be told) he was immature and unthinking; a child. He still needed a father’s hand to guide him on the rocky road to maturity. And, sometimes that hand had to be applied with great force across his pert bottom.

Bill released his grip on his son, who stood, face reddening, staring at the carpet. He knew why he had been summoned downstairs. He didn’t need it spelled out; but Bill listed his many misdeeds anyway. William bit on his lower lip; this could end only one way. Soon, his dad confirmed that. He pulled a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the room, and without ceremony sat down on it and spread his legs. He waved the brush in his right hand. “Come here, son. Bend over my knee.”

William had been here before; he knew the drill. There was a certain ritual to his father’s spankings. He would not resist. But, this time it was different. Dad always spanked him in private, not even his mum was present, not even when he was tanned for his rudeness and inconsideration towards her. Uncle Ben was standing in the corner of the room watching. He would have a perfect view.

Ben stood uneasily, hopping from foot to foot, unable to mask his discomfort. Should he stay or should he go? Why couldn’t he make up his mind? “Come on son, over my knee,” Bill’s command put an end to the indecision. William shuffled a pace forward, stood about a yard to the right of his father and paused. He sucked in a lung full of air and in one continuous movement he leaned forward. In a moment he was perfectly positioned for the spanking he richly deserved. His arms were stretched forward so that his fingertips brushed against the carpet. His toes hovered an inch or so above the ground. His groin rested on his dad’s right thigh so that his cotton-covered bottom was raised and presented at an angle of forty-five degrees.

From his vantage point, Ben had a perfect side view. William waited patiently for his dad to begin. His face was scarlet (as it should be since blood was rushing to his head). The boy’s fair hair was short and remained undisturbed, a testimony to the properties of Brylcreem. His eyes were open and he stared down at the patterned carpet inches away. No further word was spoken. Bill rested the brush on his son’s back and with both hands now free he gripped the elasticated waist of the white cotton Y-fronts. Without instruction, William lifted his body slightly so his dad could slip the pants over his buttocks and down his thighs. He left them in a bunch at his knees. Then, for no practical purpose because it was already clear of the target area, Bill pushed the vest half way up his son’s back.

Ben surprised himself by noticing how clear and smooth William’s skin was. His lower legs displayed tufts of fine, fair hair, but the lad’s bottom and back were completely hairless. He watched his brother grip the handle of the heavy wooden brush tightly, then he tapped it gently across the very centre of his son’s left buttock cheek. It was round and firm and there was no “give” in the flesh, not even at its meatiest peak. Bill raised the brush as high as his arm would allow and brought it cracking down into his son’s bum. A dark pink imprint of the oval head was instantly embossed in the creamy-white skin.

Ben saw William’s eyes close tight as the brush impacted his bottom, then they opened wide. He blinked furiously, but otherwise gave no sign that his bum was blazing. The brushed tapped the right cheek before Dad set that one on fire too.

Ben had no idea what a spanking should look like. He had never touched his own boys and had no personal experience of being draped over an older man’s knee. Instinctively, he knew his brother was an expert. It took about six swats to cover the whole buttocks area. It didn’t take much doing; the brush was large and William’s bum relatively small. The pattern of the oval head was reproduced on the undercurves, the peak of the mounds and across the tops.

Determined than no square inch of bum should remain untoasted,  Bill went around the circuit again. And again, and for good measure one more time. I’ll take him over my knee, pull down his pants and wallop him until he’s so rosy, he’ll glow in the dark – Ben recalled what his brother had said earlier. He was a man of his word; William’s bum was shining.

The teenager himself was taking it rather well. His face was bursting bright red and his head nodded up and down and from side to side as he absorbed the pain that travelled from his raised backside down through his legs. His heart pounded and his head throbbed, but he showed little outward sign of his distress. Ben wondered if his own son John would be so impassive.

Bang-bang-bang. Three final swats pounded into the crown of William’s buttocks. “That’s it,” his dad said, unemotionally. “Get up.” Ben watched the teenager spring to his feet, his hands rubbing away at the sting in his bottom. The boy’s cock bounced. Then he bent down, gathered his pants from his feet and returned them to their rightful place. His dad waved the brush in William’s face. “Will I have to do this again?” he asked, all hints of rancour gone from his voice. “No, Dad,” his son replied with a confidence he didn’t really feel. He could not be sure if Mr Hargreaves from down the street had yet reported his broken window.

“Alright,” his dad smiled and patted his son on his bottom. “Go upstairs and ask John to come down.” He waited for William to leave before turning to his astonished brother and handing him the brush. “Your turn, I think.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Coffee morning

new story 2

z used after corner (13)

“Welcome, Christine, how are you?,” Madge Axford opened the front door wider allowing her neighbour into the house. “So glad you could come at short notice.” She beamed and turned towards the back room. Christine Blanderford stopped in her tracks, her face flushed, her hand raised automatically to cover it. “Oh my,” she gasped.

Madge smiled, “Yes, he’s why I called you all together,” she said primly. Christine stared, mouth gaping, through the open door to the lounge. She knew she was blushing (probably profusely) but she couldn’t divert her attention away. Facing the window by the corner, his hands firmly placed on his head, was Christine’s 22-year-old son Michael. His trousers and underpants were at his knees; his t-shirt was ridden up his back. His bare bottom glowed red. “What a big round bottom,” Christine kept her thoughts to herself. “And, so soundly spanked!”

They bustled into the back room, Christine somewhat reluctantly. “I’ve got the kettle on, but let’s wait for the others to arrive before we have tea,” Madge pointed to a chair, “Please, sit down.”

Christine spluttered, “Is it because of …?” she couldn’t quite frame her question. Madge was unabashed. “Yes, I assume all the world and his wife knows about it?” she said mildly.

“Well, I read about it in the Brocklehurst Bugle.”

Madge nodded vigorously. “Yes, that’s the first we knew too. He didn’t warn us,” she shook her head, determined not to be defeated by her son. “In court. For drunkenness and using insulting words. Of course, the moment we saw it Norm was on the phone, ordering him back home. We are not putting up with that kind of behaviour.” She sighed deeply, “He got here this morning.”

Christine nodded with approval. She had no children of her own and believed that young people were a menace to society. She blamed the parents. No discipline. Well, it seemed that didn’t apply to Madge Axford.

“So …?” Christine said, anxious to hear the details.

“I think you can see the answer to that,” she nodded in the vague direction of the front room. “Norm was having none of it. It’s a public disgrace of course. I said we would never be able to hold our heads up again in The Avenue. Well, he said, we should let people know we won’t stand for this behaviour from Michael.”

Christine nodded sagely. “So,” she said again, to encourage Madge in her tale.

“Well,” she said eager to share the experience. “Norm tears him off a right strip. ‘No son of mine can behave like this,’ he tells him.” Her face flushed, her admiration for her husband knew no bounds. “So it had to be a spanking, didn’t it?”

“Oh,” Christine felt her own face redden. She remembered Michael’s meaty buttocks on public display in the next room.

“I have this very old hairbrush. It’s made of ebony or some such. Really heavy. The head is about this size.”  She steepled her fingers and made a large oval shape with her hands. “Very effective in the spanking department, if you get my meaning.”

Christine’s throat was suddenly dry. She hoped tea would be served soon. Madge continued. “Norm is the head of this family. He says to Michael he might not live at home any more but he still comes under Norm’s jurisdiction. His rules, you know?”

Christine leaned forward in her chair. Madge continued, “Norm says, ‘It’s a spanking for you my lad. One that you won’t forget in a hurry. I’ll make sure of that.’ Next thing I see Norm has one of the dining room chairs in the middle of the room and he sits down and says to Michael. ‘Trousers and pants down. Right down. To the ankles,’ he says. Michael just stares at him, his mouth gaping like a goldfish. But Norm waves the brush about and tells him to get on with it. So down they come. Quick as you like.”

Christine’s imagination raced. She had witnessed the young man naked from the rear, what was he like from the front? Her thoughts were interrupted by Madge, “So he goes over Norm’s knee, just like a naughty little boy. Michael’s quite a size and you know Norm’s really a bit small, but that didn’t matter. He just put his head down to the carpet, raised his behind high and so Norm could spank his bare little bottom. Well,” Madge gabbled in her over-excitement, “he fair pounded him. He was right, he won’t forget it in a hurry.”

She stopped for breath. Christine was a little short of wind too. The vision of Michael (whose bottom was far from little as his mother described it) over his father’s knee being soundly spanked with a heavy ebony hairbrush would stay with her for a long time. “Where’s Norm now?” she said to break the growing silence.

“He told Michael there’d be one spanking for the drunkenness and another for the swearing. He’s gone to Harris’s in the High Street to buy a cane. You know the whippy ones with the curved handle they use in schools. They’ve become quite in demand now they’ve changed all those laws. Seems like everyone’s buying them,” Madge said.

Christine nodded, she had heard that. Even young adults were getting their backsides tanned. Good job too, she thought.

“I’ve invited a few of the gang from the Conservative Women’s Alliance over,” Madge looked at her watch, “they should be here any moment. Norm said we shouldn’t hide away. He wanted people to know how angry we are with Michael and we won’t let him get away with such behaviour. He’s going to give him a right good caning and you’re all invited to witness it.”

The doorbell rang and Madge shuffled through the passageway to answer it, leaving a very flushed neighbour spluttering into her handkerchief.

 

Picture credit: unknown

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Brocklehurst Crammer

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The cigarette box

new story 2

z used boy 16

Sanderson bounced down the narrow passageway, feet slipping, shoulders hitting first one wall and then the next. He had to get away. Nobody must see him. Not in the state he was. If he rushed he could get to his study in time. Undetected.

Victory. He gripped the handle of the heavy door, it stuck a little so he gave it a kick with the sole of his foot. It flew open. He tumbled inside. Thank God his study mate was elsewhere. This was a private matter. He stood unsteady, catching his breath, desperately holding back the tears. His face burned, almost as much as his backside. He could barely contain his fury.

The humiliation. Sanderson, eighteen years old and a senior at St. Tom’s, whipped on the arse by a prefect. Bags down. Underpants down. Six of the best. Bare. He could strangle Tomkinson, the head boy, with his bare hands.

His head throbbed almost as much as his bum. Carefully, he loosened his bags and let them slip a little. Then, oh so gingerly, he eased his cotton undershorts, away from his savaged buttocks. He grimaced, they had stuck against a weeping welt. Six thick dark red stripes decorated his rear end. Each about a quarter of an inch thick, running in perfect parallel from left to right. An objective observer would say Tomkinson was an expert; the boy knew his business.

Sanderson fastened up his bags and gripped the edge of the study table, suddenly, unexpectedly, choked-up tears washed down his face as the events of that afternoon flashed through his mind.

It had started some days earlier. Tomkinson was newly appointed as Head Boy of St. Tom’s and eager to ingratiate himself with the headmaster who had himself recently been elevated to the position. Some stand had to be taken. Tomkinson needed to exert his authority. Old Bean (as the head was affectionately known by the boys) had a strong aversion to cigarette smoking. His loathing was not for him a personal matter. Smoking was (naturally) banned among the boys; he would have stopped masters puffing as well is he had been able, but that would be an imposition too far.

So, behold the word came from on high: a boy caught smoking (or indeed merely in possession of cigarettes) could expect the severest punishment. Now, there was not much new about Old Bean’s instruction. Schoolboys had been beaten since time immemorial for the offence. Tomkinson, in his eagerness to please, went a stage further. The rule would apply to any boy – junior, or senior. The Sixth-Form had been warned.

In later life Tomkinson would become a fine administrator in a far-flung British colony. He learned some of the techniques of using power at St. Tom’s. A squad of spies, of squealers if you will, fed him titbits of information.

So it was on the afternoon in question that Tomkinson raided Sanderson’s study. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air for the tell-tale aroma. None; the study was clear. Driven by a determination that someone must suffer, he shrieked, “Open the cupboards, Sanderson. All of them.”

“Oh for the love of God! Tomkinson,” Sanderson leaned back in his armchair. “What’s this all about?”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain Sanderson. You know very well. Smoking.”

The eighteen-year-old blanched.

“If you do not open these cupboards, drawers too, I shall do it myself.” Not waiting for a response, he strode to an old worn cabinet and tugged open the door. Inside was a small wooden box of cigarettes, just as his spy had reported.

“If smoking is going on in this study, there’s going to be a whopping!  Sanderson, are these cigarettes yours?”

“Certainly not!” answered Sanderson coolly. “I have no idea how they got there.”

“Very well!” said Tomkinson.  “You deny it.  The matter will have to go before the headmaster then!  It’s between you two, and the Head will sift it out.”

He turned to the door.

“Hold on, Tomkinson!’? muttered Sanderson.  His sallow face was pale.  Sanderson of the Sixth did not want to go before the Head.  Sanderson had too many shady secrets to keep, for that.  Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than smoking in the study.  A fellow who continually, and with cynical indifference broke all the rules of the school, had to be careful.

Tomkinson looked round. “Hold on? he said. “What for?”

Sanderson gasped a little. “Look here, suppose a fellow had a box of cigarettes in his study?, he muttered. “No need to make a song and a dance about it.  I daresay you could scare up a few in the Sixth, if you looked.”

“Possibly!” said Tomkinson.  “If I find any in the Sixth, there will be trouble, same as if I find them in the Fifth!  I’ve got certain duties to do, as a prefect, and I’m going to get them done. Were the cigarettes yours; yes or no?”

“Yes,” muttered Sanderson.

“That’s enough then!  I’ve whopped a junior for smoking, if I let a senior off, I should be a rotter!  Let’s cut along to my study, Sanderson.”

Stephen Sanderson stood facing him, his hands clenched.  Sanderson was a senior, a Sixth-Form man, and it was unheard of for a senior to be told to bend over like a junior! The humiliation of it was almost more than Sanderson could bear.

“You can’t whop me, Tomkinson!’, he muttered thickly.  “You know you can’t!  A Sixth-Form man …”

Tomkinson curved the cane in his hands menacingly. “Will you bend over the chair?”

“You can call a Prefects’ Meeting and have me up!” muttered Sanderson.  “I’ll stand for that!  But …”

“You’ll bend over that chair, and take six just as if you were a sneaking smoky little tick in the Second Form!” said Tomkinson coolly.  “And if you don’t do it, this instant, I’ll take you to the Head, and leave it to him.  If you’d rather be sacked, you’ve got the choice.”

Sanderson gave him a long look. “But, darn it Tomkinson, this isn’t right!”

“Enough. Stop right there. I have given you every opportunity. Now, lower your bags and underwear.”

White as a sheet with rage and humiliation, Sanderson’s mouth gaped open.

“You have only yourself to blame, for this,” Tomkinson swiped the heavy crook-handled cane and pointed it at the dusty armchair.

Sanderson winced. The brute! Tomkinson was drunk with power.

“Tomkinson,” he muttered.

“Nothing for you to say.” interrupted the Head Boy as he swished the cane through the air.

A gasp came from Sanderson.  In a fury he ripped down his own bags, leaving them in a heap at his feet. The ferocity of his anger blinded him as he sent his drawers in the same direction.

He dived over the back of the armchair.

Tomkinson stood his ground, waiting patiently for his fellow eighteen-year-old senior schoolboy to prepare himself. The boy’s buttocks were small and round and perfectly white. A tusk of dark hair crawled along his crack.

Tomkinson swiped the ashplant in the air.  It came down with a loud whack on Stephen Sanderson’s naked haunches. A groan came from Sanderson. A dark red line furrowed both cheeks.

z used cane prefect Mag (95)

Sanderson set his face for the second stroke. Six strokes fell; six of the best.  Sanderson remained motionless, bent over the chair, his face colourless with fury.  He tried his hardest to keep back a sound; it was too bitterly humiliating to yell like a junior under the cane!  But hard as he was by nature, he was not tough physically, and he could not bear pain. In spite of himself, he gave a yell at the fourth swipe, and a ringing howl at the fifth.

The study door opened, and Jackson, Tomkinson’s deputy, looked in. “What’s this howling row about?” asked Jackson staring.

“Why-what-what.”

“Get out!” snapped Tomkinson.

“Oh, my only hat!” gasped Jackson and he got out and went back to his study in a state of dazed amazement, to tell Potter and Greene that Tomkinson was whopping a Sixth Form man.

Whack!  The last swipe fell followed by a howl from Sanderson. Tomkinson tucked the cane under his arm.  “That’s a tip!” he said grimly.  “I’ve had my eye on you a long time, Sanderson. You’ve got off with a whopping this time – next time you’ll go before the Head, and you know what that means.”

Sanderson stood and stared at him.  Where it had once been ghostly white, his face now blazed scarlet. He dressed. He was hurt, and he wriggled painfully.  But that was not the worst.

He had been “whopped”  like a junior – he, a Sixth Form man, a senior! Jackson – that ass, Jackson – had actually witnessed the whopping, and would be talking of it up and down the passages and studies. All St. Tom’s would know about it in under an hour.

Sanderson clenched his hands with fury.  He had not dared to resist. The penalty for punching Tomkinson would be the sack, short and sharp.  Neither would it have helped him, for the stalwart Head Boy of St. Tom’s could have handled the weedy slacker almost like an infant. He dared not even think of standing up to Tomkinson in the gym with the gloves on; he could not have hoped to get the better in a scrap, and he hated getting hurt.

There was nothing he could do – nothing – but swallow his rage and humiliation, and “mind his step” in the future.

 

Picture credits: The Magnet

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Memories of Uncle Edgar

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

A startling conversation

new story 2

Tom peered across at his roommate stretched out on the bed opposite. “Have you ever been spanked?”

Jake stared up at the swirling ceiling, “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean? Spanked.”

“What like …” he trailed off, unable to think of an example.

“Like, come here you naughty boy, bend over my knee. Smack. Smack. Smack.”

“Oh.” A long pause. “No, I don’t think so.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it something you’d remember? Pushed over the back of the chair. Trousers taken down. Walloped with a belt.”

“Oh, I see.” Jake closed his eyes to stop the room moving around.”

A long pause.

“Of course, they can’t cane you at school. Not anymore. Not for years, actually.”

“No?”

“They used to do it all the time. Six-of-the-best on the arse, y’know.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” A very long pause. “Years ago,” Tom sighed wistfully.

Jake risked opening his eyes again. The room seemed a little steadier now. He turned and rested on his elbow. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Why not?” A very pregnant pause. “I want to spank you.”

Jake snorted. “Spank me! Why what have I done?” he rolled on his back in fits of giggles.

“You don’t have to have done anything, but it’s better if you have.”

“Better?”

“Yes, if you had been naughty,” he gagged a little.

“Oh ….”

“Have you?”

“Have I what?”

“Been a bad lad?” A long pause. “Missing lectures. Drunk. You pissed in that shop doorway the other night.”

Jake couldn’t control the giggles, “I’ve been a wery norky likkle boy.”

“Good, then you should be spanked.”

“No thank you!”

“Go on, it’ll be fun.”

“Fun! You’re blasted. No way!”

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”

“Yeah right! You try it.”

“Alright, come here.” Tom hauled himself from the bed and lurched across the room.

“No, no, I was joking,” more giggling.

“You should be spanked.” Tom gripped Jake by the arm and forced him to his feet. Tom stumbled back onto the bed, his buttocks bouncing on the heavy mattress. He pulled his roommate face down across his knees and slapped the palm of his hand hard into the seat of his heavy cotton shorts.

“Geroff!” Jake wriggled and writhed, his piercing giggles rebounding around the tiny dorm room.

Tom spanked on and on. “Nah, this is useless. You can’t feel a thing.”

“I can! I can!” Still giggling. “Ouch, ouch, ouch.”

“Get up.” Tom helped Jake to his feet. Satisfied that he wasn’t himself about to topple to the floor, he reached across to a shelf and grabbed the clothes brush there. Then, in a single movement he pulled Jake back over his knees and dragged him so his legs were spread out across the mattress.

“That’s more like it,” Tom sang. “Now let’s get these shorts down.” Jake gave no resistance as Tom bared his bottom.

“It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.” He bounced the wooden brush into Jake’s chubby buttocks.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” the cries were genuine this time.

In the room next door, Ted’s ears pricked up at the sound. And shortly after, so did his dick.

z used youngsters skaterspankdotcom (4)

Picture credit: Skaterspank dot com

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Changed Times 4. Global Petroleum

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

You reap what you sow

new story 2

z used drawing belt hold (14)

In my younger and more vulnerable days my Dad would tell me you reap what you sow. Oftentimes he said this as he unbuckled his heavy wide leather belt from his trousers. I was nineteen years old the last time he tanned my bare behind with that strap. Soon after that I finally moved out of home. The national grocery chain I worked at offered me a job at a new store out West and I was off like a shot.

Things were different back then. We were forced to know our place. Your dad was the boss; his word was law. If you broke the law, you paid the price. Dad worked as a moulder at a foundry. I suppose he was under the thumb of a boss (or at least a foreman) all day. He must do as he was told. He knew his place. But when he got home …. Well they used to say a man’s home was his castle. He ruled.

Corporal punishment was common. At school we were tamed by thirty inches of whippy rattan; delivered with some strength by a broad-shouldered master across the seat of our trousers. I well remember struggling to stretch down to touch toes while at the same time keeping knees straight (it’s more difficult than it sounds). Six swipes of the thick but supple cane fair burnt our backsides. The welts stayed for a week. As I wrote these words just now I involuntarily shuffled my buttocks on the hard seat of my chair. One never forgets. There were rumours that the boys at the Catholic school got it trousers down, but that might just have been propaganda. My own Church, an independent evangelical fundamentalist sect, lived by the Bible so I don’t have to spell out the importance the adage “spare the rod, spoil the child” had in my life.

Dad married late in life to a woman twenty years his junior. I was the last of four sons and by the time I was in my teens he was well into his sixties. I learned a lot from the experiences of my brothers. I learnt that Dad’s word was law, that there were rules to be obeyed and actions had consequences.

Dad taught us how to behave, to obey our elders and betters. To speak only when spoken to. To know our place. My brothers and I were quick learners. That’s the point of corporal punishment isn’t it? It makes people behave. One beating should be sufficient. Do it properly and the boy won’t come back for more. Well, maybe not just one beating. Dad believed in what I think psychologists today call “reinforcement”. Others might call them “maintenance spankings”; a little topping up now and again to remind us of our manners.

Nineteen is too old to be living with your parents. A young man should be out in the world, making his way, sowing his wild oats (but our Church had a great deal to say about that, of course). I was spreading my wings. I look back over many decades and see little wrong with my behaviour. My gosh! think what teenagers get up to today. I started to stay out late, I discovered beer (my fellow shop workers can take credit for that), I was not always scrupulously polite to Mum.

It was not quite autumn; summer was refusing to give up for another year. It was late in the day; Dad had been on the middle shift at work. Business boomed and the foundry worked what today we would call 24/7. Dad was in his element, a full pay packet always renewed his confidence at home. I don’t remember much of what he said to me that day. I think I knew I had broken his rules, as I say we knew that actions had consequences. He decided I needed punishment.

He was wearing a plaid shirt and a pair of old blue trousers; he so often did. A cigarette would generally be hanging from his lower lip, but not this time. The old man’s face had been burned red from the foundry ceilings and his big features always seemed to be sweating even on cold days. His hands were huge and shapeless, the skin calloused to the texture of cheap leather, the fingers criss-crossed with deep cuts that never seemed to heal. They hung from his arms like shovels, massive and swollen.

“Go to your room,” how many times has a boy heard this instruction from his dad? In some homes it would mean go and be quiet for a while: there’s no television for you. With Dad it meant, “Go to your room, I’ll be up in a minute.” And, rest assured he would not come up for “a quiet word”. Corporal punishment was imminent.

I had no fear. Fear is often bred by uncertainty of the unknown. I was entirely certain about what would happen next. Nineteen years old or not, I was to get my backside tanned.  I would have to meekly submit myself to Dad’s leather belt. These days I don’t often talk about my punishments as a lad; times have changed and people would be appalled. If it happened today, social workers would be called. Dad always did what he thought was right. I will not have a word said against him. It was, I am certain he believed, his duty to chastise me. It would (in his mind) make a better adult of me, when eventually I had that status confirmed. In those days we were not legally adults until we were twenty-one; although I heard tell that some of my contemporaries still felt the lash of their dad’s leather belt well into their twenties.

I waited in my room. We lived in a house no bigger than a rabbit hutch. There was hardly space to swing a belt. I heard Dad’s heavy footfall on the linoleum outside my room. The handle twisted and the door burst open; Dad would never think of knocking. What! In his own house? His face was ruddy as usual, it was impossible ever to gauge what he was thinking. This time there was no need for guessing. He was a man of few words and he summed up my misdeeds in a sentence, concluding, “You know what to do.”

Yes, I did. His house, his rules. His way or the highway (as we say today). He wriggled his hips and his belly wobbled as he tugged at his belt buckle and slipped it out of the loops of his heavy trousers. In one continuous movement he folded it in two. It was a long belt (to fit around a big waist) and even like this it must have been about two feet long. He weighed it in his hand. It was wide and thick. It would pack an incredible punch.

I knew what was expected of me, but even so Dad talked me through the process. I suppose it was his way of demonstrating he was in charge. He nodded towards my small, narrow bed. “Straighten the blanket.” It was a thin, grey ex-Army thing; a lot of us had these cheap blankets, surplus stock from the War. I leaned forward and smoothed the creases down, a chambermaid at a posh hotel would be proud of the look I created.

At no time was I nervous. I knew the drill. I really didn’t need instruction. “Now take the pillow and put it down across the middle,” Dad waved his massive hands (they looked like sides of beef).  He was calm, and so was I.

“Now, take down your trousers and pants and lay across the pillow.” I stared at him, if ever there was a time to plead, or to say “C’mon, Dad. I’m too old for this,” this was that moment. I was silenced by his look of sheer determination. There was no anger and certainly no spite or pleasure. If I saw anything it was a look of love. Is that too strong a word for it? Even now,  so any years later, I don’t think so. He was doing this for me. It was his duty as a dad to correct me. He had been doing this with his sons all his life. His own dad had done it to him. Dad was doing his duty.

These wore the days before we wore jeans or fancy “leisure pants”. These were heavy cotton trousers (there would be no point spanking me with these on, I wouldn’t feel a thing). I unbuckled my belt and with steady hands unbuttoned the fly. Gravity helped the trousers slip down my thighs. I wore cotton shorts underneath. It was simple to slip my thumbs under the waistband and with not much more than a flick of the wrist to send them south. They bunched just below the buttocks.

Then, I knelt on the bed and lowered myself down until my stomach rested on the pillow. It was another Army-surplus item and hard but thin. I wriggled around a little, knowing that the point of it all was to have my bare bum raised at an angle so Dad could get a decent swipe at me.

It took a little manoeuvring until my naked buttocks were positioned to his satisfaction. I was a small and lean lad but my bum jutted out away from my body. One of my first girlfriends told me it poked out so much it made me look like a bird when I walked. It was round and the meat was springy. There was a lot of “give” if you pushed a finger into it.

It was uncomfortable laying on the bed. It is hard to breathe if you go face down and you are liable to get a mouthful of dust from the blanket. So, I turned my head to the left in time to see my Dad testing the belt by holding it over his shoulder so that the two tails of leather tapped against his shoulders. Then he swung it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when he was ready to lash it into my bare buttocks. It cleared with a couple of inches to spare.

He loomed over me. He was a huge man when he simply stood in front of me, imagine what a giant he was when he towered over my prostrate body. I was at his mercy. And, he wasn’t in the mood to show any of that.

I watched him find his distance. He was three feet, then two feet from the edge of my bed. He was taking his aim. He wanted to see that the belt lashed me across the very centre of my two globes. It look a little practice, but soon he was ready. I closed my eyes tightly and sucked my upper lip over the lower.

I couldn’t see but I felt him tap the belt across my bum and then raise it way. He must have taken it over his shoulder and then he brought it snapping down into me. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the tiny room. My body buckled under the lash and I bit harder into my lip. It was a crazy thing to do as trickles of spit dribbled from my mouth.

The second lash curled itself viciously over my exposed buttocks and unfurled. My meaty backside must have quivered with the force. My body jolted and I clenched the fingers of both hands together to help absorb the pain.

My throat tightened; this was hurting a lot, but I could take it. A spanking is supposed to hurt, otherwise what I the point? Dad would spank me with the belt until my whole bum glowed red hot. It would sting like Billy-o, but I would live. It was punishment, not abuse.

It only took three or four lashes of the heavy, wide, thick belt to cover all my buttocks, from the soft undercurve where the globes meet the back of the thighs, over the meaty mounds themselves and across the tops of the globes. It seemed to me he had toasted every square inch. But, he was not done. Sunset stripes soon warmed my bum. He snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of my buttocks. One after the other in rapid succession.

By now my legs would have been flapping and my hips swaying. It didn’t matter how stoical I was during a thrashing, I tried to be impassive, to be a good boy and let Dad do his duty unhindered. That was my genuine intention, but my body had other ideas. I think it goes into “auto-pilot” and tries to protect itself any way it can. My bum buckled up and down over the pillow. It was like I was trying to hump it (sorry, to be so crude).

My eyes were still tightly closed and I could not see my Dad. He paused – perhaps to catch his breath. I might have hoped that this signaled the end of my spanking. No such luck. He rested his belt on the peak of my buttocks, lingering long enough to give me some respite, then he curled it back over his shoulder. I automatically braced myself for the further onslaught of controlled and accurate lashes.

Dad found his rhythm as the stripes implanted themselves harder and harder into bare flesh. He snapped the leather down again as hard as he could. He still had the energy to apply the leather with as much strength as he could muster, lashing hard across the now red-raw welted cheeks.

“That’s it,” he almost whispered. It was over. I opened my eyes, they were moist, but (honestly) I wasn’t crying. I was wheezing, but so was my Dad. I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was heavy, but it was nowhere as bad as Dad’s. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air: he reminded me of a goldfish out of water.

His face was almost as red as my backside as he struggled to retain control of himself. That was his signal to leave. I rolled off the bed and gingerly pulled up my shorts and trousers, wincing as the heavy clothes kissed my scorching rear end. I picked up the latest Football Monthly from on top of the chest of drawers and laying on my side I flicked through the pages and waited for  Mum to call me down to tea.

z used after belt white pantz down (1)

Picture credits: Unknown / Arkham Insanity

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Skipping school to watch football

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The students next door

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

This is for your own good

new story 2

z used drawing cane master darrien (7)

I stood feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind my back and watched morosely as the headmaster shuffled across his study. He paused at a hat stand. It contained no hats, nor coats. Instead a single curve-handled whippy rattan school cane dangled. He coughed slightly before stretching up his right arm to unhook it.

I took a deep breath. I knew how this scene was about to play out. He grasped the cane in his fist and turned to face me. He swiped the cane through the empty air; it made a terrific swooshing sound as it flew.

He scrunched up his face and peered across the room at me. In my mind’s eye I can still see him clearly, fifty-five years after the event.

He swished the cane once more and then craning his neck forward towards me he gripped the cane between his two hands. It was a standard pose, a cliché almost. He flexed the cane. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. Even at a distance I could see many notches along its length. In the right hands this would be a terrible weapon. And, the headmaster had those hands.

His penetrating stare never left me. His receding hairline reminded me of Dracula, but without the fangs. His pasty jowls and heavy bags under the eyes gave him the air of one who carried the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. Perhaps, he felt he did. He flexed the cane thoughtfully. Then he spoke.

“This is for your own good,” he rasped. Later in my own adulthood I would recognise the cigarettes and whiskey in such a voice. He waved the cane in my direction in case I hadn’t understood the import of his words. I begged to differ, but kept my counsel and heard him out.

“You have been spoken to before,” he wobbled the cane some more. “You are lazy and do not work hard.”

He was wrong, I was not lazy I was bored; it wasn’t the same thing. I was eighteen; too old for school. I should have been somewhere else. I knew many men who remained schoolboys most of their lives, they never grappled with adulthood. I was not one of them.

“Unless you buckle down to your studies,” the headmaster intoned, “You will not pass your examinations.” He laid great stress on the word examinations, stringing it out as if it consisted of six syllables. I remained silent, I knew he didn’t want to hear what I had to say. “You will not get a university place and then where shall you be?”

University place! Nobody had asked if I wanted to go to university. Everyone, the masters at school, my parents, my brothers my pals, they all assumed I wanted to go to university. Looking back, I can’t say I can blame them. It was that kind of school, it existed to get boys to university. It had no other function. If a boy did not go “up” as we called it in those days, he was a failure. Irredeemable. Hopeless. Without worth.

“This is for your own good,” he said once more. Still I was unconvinced. Perhaps, it was for his good. I can see him now, his shoulders hunched, his sad grey eyes often with a distant, wistful look. Dandruff flaked the shoulders of his tatty academic gown. Buttons of his waistcoat strained against his paunch. His tweed trousers strained at his stomach. Today we might call his look “seedy.”

He swished that goddam cane once more. “You will thank me for this one day,” he said with no hint of irony. “This might be the saviour of you.”

Did he really believe what he said? Could he hear himself? Imagine it was today. A headmaster, a man probably well into his fifties; older possibly. Instructing an eighteen-year-old boy to prepare himself to bend over so that the headmaster might lash him across the backside with a cane. You could see the social workers, the law courts, the newspaper headlines.

But this is now; that was then. Nobody much thought it odd. I certainly didn’t. It was simply the way things were. Schoolmasters, doctors, priests, you name them, they could do what they liked. The deference to our betters was boundless.

The headmaster shuffled closer to me, I watched him conscious that my heart was racing faster than I should have liked. I wanted this over with. I was determined to make minimum fuss. To let him have his way.

“Hang up you blazer,” it was a curt command. I was annoyed that my fingers fumbled over such a simple task. At last I had it where moments before the cane had been hanging. “Lower your trousers.” It was a curt command, one the headmaster expected to be obeyed – without question.

It was not unexpected. Senior boys were always swished trousers down. I know what you’re thinking. Today, we would cry “pervert” or even worse. In those days it was to be expected. We never got it bare-arsed, like at some schools. There had been a court case around that time of a housemaster at an expensive, elite “public” school who had been up before the magistrate after he gave one of his charges a stiff six across the naked buttocks. He was cleared of all charges. “He must be acquitted,” the Beak had said, “Else we should have half the housemasters in England up before the bench.”

I was to be spared the ultimate indignity of showing the headmaster my manhood. Pants, I suppose, afforded a certain amount of modesty. I don’t suppose a caning with my Y-fronts at my ankles would have been any more painful.

I struggled with my belt, those darned fumbling fingers again. At last I had it loosened with the top button of my trousers. They were made of some heavy wool mixture (I think) which may have been why the headmaster made us remove them. Once I had undone the top two buttons of my fly, they slipped down my thighs and snagged at my knees. I spread my legs slightly and they slithered down and fell into a puddle at my feet.

“Bend over. Touch your toes,” again a bit of a cliché. I wonder how many schoolboys of my era heard those dreaded words uttered by his head or some other school master. “Head low, bottom high.” That last instruction seems to me superfluous. Surely, it is impossible for a chap to bend over and touch toes without the bottom being high. That, after all, is the object of the exercise.

I knew from painful experience that “toes” meant toes, and not knees or shins. I was quite an athlete in those days and my body was supple. I bent forward and with my knees straight, I stretched my fingers so they brushed the toecaps of my black lace-up shoes. In this position I had a perfect view of the worn rug beneath my feet. I suppose it had once contained a blue pattern; but by this time, after generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet into position, it was a grimy grey.

It was only now with my legs bare that I felt how cool it was in the study. It would have been March or April and spring had not quite sprung. I shut my teeth firmly together and closed my eyes and waited. The floorboards in the study were as worn as the rug and they creaked loudly as the headmaster circled my body. Once he had examined my submissive body from every conceivable angle, he paused almost directly behind me. I heard him wheeze heavily and once again clear his throat. It sounded like he might be clearing phlegm from the back of his throat.

I shuddered, from the cold or nervousness I do not know, when the headmaster took hold of the tail of my white shirt. In those days shirts had proper tails and this one would have been covering my buttocks and the backs of my thighs. He gripped the cotton hard and dragged the material up my back and left it resting against my shoulders. I shuddered again when the headmaster took hold of the elasticated waist of my underpants. He did not (as I feared he would) drag them to my knees, thus exposing my bare bottom. Instead, he tugged hard so that my pants dug up into my crack and so that the white Y-fronts fitted snuggly like a second skin.

To test this was so, the headmaster circled the palm of his hand firmly around my right buttock cheek. Satisfied there were no creases there, he repeated the manoeuvre on the left. Finally, he landed the open palm of his hand across each cheek, as if to give me encouragement for my ordeal ahead.

The floorboard creaked again and now the headmaster had taken up his position a little to my left. The tip of his cane tapped against my stretched buttocks. He laid it across the centre of both cheeks and tapped some more. He was getting his aim. I closed my eyes tighter and took a deep breath and held it. The cane lifted away from my bum, there was an almighty swishing of air and a loud crack as rattan cane hit flesh. I heard it before I felt it. A split-second passed before a searing, burning sensation lit up my bum. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, my body rocked forward, my feet slipped on the worn rug. The agony was sensational. The headmaster was indeed a “master” with the cane. With many years of experience he had developed the knack of inflicting maximum pain to a boy with seemingly minimum effort.

He hacked out a cough and took his aim once more. The cane sought out the underside of my buttocks, at that most sensitive spot where the buttocks meet the thigh. It was also what we called “the sit-upon spot”, that part that connected with the chair you sat down. If the cane lashed there you would feel it for hours (at least) later, whenever you tried to sit down.

The headmaster caught me a beauty and before I had time to feel it he landed a second right next to it. I now had a throbbing strip of agony about an inch wide running the entire length of my bum. I could feel the welts rising. The floorboards creaked. The headmaster was taking a walk. I was too concerned with the agony in my arse that was throbbing out in all directions through my body to pay him much attention. My hair was soaked with sweat, my heart pounded and my temples pulsated just as intensely as my backside.

It seemed an eternity before I felt the headmaster place his whippy rattan cane across my bum once more. This time, he went higher; to the top of the globs, closer to the spine. He was determined that no square inch of my rear end would escape his administrations.

Swish! Crack! Ouch!

I had been determined not to make a fuss but stroke number four knocked the wind out of me, my mouth gaped open and then closed and repeated the movement until I resembled a goldfish out of water. Air hissed through my (now no longer shut) teeth and I let out an immense groan of pain. I couldn’t help myself; it was a reflex action, my body’s natural way of coping with the pain.

Miraculously, I held my position, back arched, fingertips on toes, knees straight. Two more strokes to go.

I heard him move his position and felt the cane explore my buttocks from a different angle. Oh My God! Sweet Jesus! Before he had aimed across my cheeks from left to right, delivering four parallel lines of pain. Now he was going from the lower part of my left cheek across to the top of the right. A diagonal. The Brute! Crack, it was the hardest stroke yet. It went at a speed of a million miles a second and landed across the four throbbing welts. I shrieked and jumped to my feet, hands gripping my ripped bum. I bounded from foot to foot while simultaneously howling. I must have looked like I was doing some Red Indian (sorry, Native American) dance. I bent double, knees buckled, puffing for breath. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

The headmaster watched me from a distance, a half smile of satisfaction, cracking his heavy jowls. He flexed his cane and pointed it towards the spot where until a moment ago I had been bending. “We have not finished. Resume the position.”

If looks could kill I am certain he would have died on the spot. My bum was red raw, it felt like I had sat in a bathtub of scalding water. I couldn’t take any more. The headmaster glowered. “Bend over.”

With a superhuman determination I first straightened myself and then limped back to my position on the rug. Despite my trembling I parted my legs and bent forward. I could not believe how red the backs of my hands were. My blood pressure must have been off the scale.

I waited for the final stroke. Of course, the bastard laid his cane across the opposite diagonal, lifted it high and completed the perfect “X” across my bum. I don’t know how I managed it but I stayed down, touching toes, until the headmaster intoned, “Stand!”

I jumped to my feet. I couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. My bum was beyond painful. The agony was so intense I could no longer feel it. I suppose that’s what athletes mean when they say they went beyond the “pain barrier.”

Without waiting for further instructions I hauled up my trousers and as best I could in the circumstances, I buttoned up.

The headmaster laid his cane down on his large walnut desk. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet. His face was deathly white when he turned to me and said, “That was for your own good. You will thank me for this one day.”

It wasn’t and I didn’t. I failed my exams and never went up to the varsity.

 

Picture credit: Darrien

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com