You didn’t pay the rent

zused paddle otk bare chair domestic straightladsspanked (1)

You are confused. Bemused. Tongue-tied. You can’t understand what’s happening. Mr Blenkinsop glares at you. “I want you to take down your trousers and get across my lap,” he says. Your eyes blink frantically. You are sure your face is burning scarlet. Your heart races. Your mouth opens and closes but you can’t make words form.

Mr Blenkinsop has no patience with you. “What part of that didn’t you understand?” he growls. You stare at him blankly. He sits on a small plastic chair. You are the only two in the kitchen. The house is otherwise empty. It is Saturday morning. You can’t take your eyes off Mr Blenkinsop. In his hand he brandishes a piece of wood. You have never seen anything like it before. It looks a bit like a spatula, or some other implement Mrs Blenkinsop might use in her cooking. But not quite; it is too big for that.

Mr Blenkinsop is losing his patience. You have never seen him like this before. He repeats his instruction. Slowly. Deliberately as if you are a foreigner who doesn’t understand English. “Take. Down. Your. Trousers.” He sounds more menacing with each word. “Bend. Over. My. Knee.” You are still dumbstruck. Uncomprehending. Your eyes stand out on stalks as Mr Blenkinsop thwacks the spatula-thing against his thigh. Suddenly you see his face brighten. It is as if he has suddenly remembered something important. “So you thought I was joking when I put in the agreement you would be spanked if you didn’t pay the rent on time.”

Your face crumples, still you don’t get it. “Ha!” Mr Blenkinsop’s laugh cracks the tension. “You didn’t read it before you signed.” Silence envelopes the room while your brain tries to catch up. You signed something when you became Mr Blenkinsop’s lodger. You didn’t read it.

“I didn’t read it,” you tell Mr Blenkinsop and as the words come out you remember something important. “I didn’t read it. My dad did,” you tell him. Now it’s Mr Blenkinsop’s turn to look puzzled. But not for long. “Your father read it,” he says to you. He smiles. He has a fleshy face and fat rolls when he does this. Then he chuckles, “He read it, but didn’t tell you what it said.” You watch his shoulders roll as he enjoys the joke. “Well, that’s something you’ll have to take up with him.” Then he laughs again.

You stand still, embarrassed. What can you say? What can you do? Should you run upstairs to your room and hide? It’s a plan, but not much of one. You can run but you can’t hide. Where is there to go? Mr Blenkinsop speaks again. “You have nobody to blame but yourself. You’ve been spending your money at that students’ union bar. Clubbing ….” He lets the sentence trail off, he can’t think of more things you could have spent money on. You know he is right. Certainly, you haven’t been buying books. You’ve hardly done a stroke of studying since you started at the university last September and here it is nearly Christmas.

Mr Blenkinsop speaks again. “You kids, you think you’re adults but your not. Life is hard. The first lesson you have to learn is always pay the rent on time. Keep a roof over your head. Nothing else matters.” You watch him tighten his grip on the spatula-thing. “You’re not the first student I’ve had here,” he tells you. He grins broadly, “That’s why I bought this paddle. To encourage you to pay the rent.”

Now, you understand what’s going on. Your landlord wants to spank you because you haven’t paid the rent. You still don’t believe it. You’ll be nineteen years old next month. Nineteen, not nine. Far too old to be spanked. Instinctively, you realise it would not be a good idea to share this thought with your landlord.

“So.” You hear Mr Blenkinsop’s command as a question. So? You think he is offering you a way out. Some way to avoid the spanking. “Well,” you tell him, “I could call my dad and ask him to send me the money.” You are irritated by his response. He does that grin again. “I don’t think so. I spoke to your father at length before I accepted you into my home. I told him my rules. He fully supports me. That’s why I made sure he read the agreement.”

Your face falls at this news. You remember his parting shot before he drove away and left you. “Make sure you work hard. Nose to the grindstone. It’s costing me a fortune to put you through uni.”

Mr Blenkinsop wriggles his buttocks on the hard plastic chair. You see he is irritated. It is Saturday; he has other things to do today. He waves the paddle at you. “Trousers down. Please don’t make me have to do it for you.” You feel your eyes well up. You might cry. You still can’t comprehend this. A spanking. Who gets spanked these days? You think of the pub last night. You know none of your mates are being told to go over their landlord’s knee this morning.

You gawp some more at Mr Blenkinsop. He is not as old as your dad and you suspect he thinks he is still young. He wears designer jeans (you couldn’t afford them) and a baggy T-shirt that hides some of his soft belly. You don’t think he looks the type to have old fashioned values. “Take down your trousers,” he says once more.

From the first time you met Mr Blenkinsop you thought there was something about him. You still can’t put your finger on it. Charisma isn’t quite it. He is a commanding presence and you’d bet he is used to people doing what he tells them. You feel that now. You can’t explain why but you know you are going to do as he says. You just need to psyche yourself up to it.

“Unbuckle your belt.” Mr Blenkinsop speaks to you in a soft but authoritative tone. You swallow hard. Your pulse is quickening. You can’t look at him. He repeats his words, “Unbuckle your belt.” It feels like your hands are no longer under your control. Some cosmic power has them. You easily undo the belt. You look down at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“Take them down,” a voice from somewhere (it seems very far away) says. You find the button at the waistband of your Primark chinos and pop it open. The zipper glides easily and now the front of your trousers is wide open. The weight of the material makes them slip down your thighs. They snag at the knees. “All the way,” that voice says. You stoop and with both hands push the chinos down until they puddle on top of your socks. You stand self-consciously in your boxer shorts.

But not for long. “Bend over my knee.” That voice again. You have never had an out-of-body experience before. You think this might be one. You are standing close to Mr Blenkinsop and looking down at his knees. You don’t know what to do. How is this done? You have never been spanked. You have never seen anyone spanked. Mr Blenkinsop parts his legs slightly. This creates a sort of platform with his thighs. You understand the basic idea, but you don’t know how to execute it.

“Doh!” Mr Blenkinsop is exasperated. He reaches for the wrist of your left arm and forcefully pulls you forward. In the same movement he makes you topple over so that the floor appears to hurtle towards you. You put out your hands to break the fall. Now, you are face down over your landlord’s knee with a close-up view of the vinyl flooring. The room is small and your head is only centimetres away from the fridge. You can hear the motor humming.

You lose balance as Mr Blenkinsop takes you by the middle, picks you up and reorganises your body. Now, your bottom is strategically placed over his right thigh. In a very real physical sense you are too big to be taken over his knee and you don’t know what to do with your long legs. Intuitively, you tuck them in at the knees which offers Mr Blenkinsop a terrific target.

All you can see is the floor (or the fridge and nearby washing machine if you lift your head) but you know that the two of you must make a ridiculous picture: a hunky lad like you bent submissively over the knees of a flabby older man. Who could imagine such a thing? You can’t see but you can feel Mr Blenkinsop as he rests the paddle in the small of your back and with his free hands gently caresses your bottom. He is smoothing out the wrinkles in your boxers. They are large and baggy and it is an impossible task. Satisfied that he has done the best he can, he rests his arm across your back.

Your bottom twitches. It knows he is locked to go. The paddle is lifted from your back. You brace yourself. You hear the cracking sound of the wooden paddle smacking into your bum before you feel anything. When you do, it is not much. Mr Blenkinsop whacks it across both cheeks without let or hindrance. Your buttocks are warming. You have no idea what a spanking ought to be like. Should it be more painful? Isn’t that the whole point?

In no time at all you have felt the paddle strike every square centimetre of your bum. You lay submissively, head low bottom high, while the landlord spanks you. You feel a bit of a tit to be over his knee with your trousers at your ankles, but even the embarrassment is waning. You reckon you could stay like this all morning if need be. Mr Blenkinsop must have read your mind. Without warning he grips the elasticated waistband of your shorts and tugs. You panic. Your hand shoots back to protect your bottom. “No you don’t,” your landlord wheezes as he grabs you by the wrist and forces your arm forward. “Keep that out of the way,” he growls while simultaneously pulling down your underwear. It takes three tugs to get them down to your feet.

You are naked from the waist down and you feel it. A cold breeze is coming from somewhere and chills your flesh. The paddle soon warms you up. Mr Blenkinsop whacks you with the same speed and ferocity as before but without the boxers for protection it hurts much more. You groan and gasp as the pain increases.

You clench your teeth and wriggle and writhe when he smacks the wooden paddle into the backs of your thighs. You have never experienced such pain before. You can’t see but your bum and thighs are now a deep pink. Bruises are coming out on the crests of your mounds (the point where there is the least padding of fat to protect you.)

Mr Blenkinsop sees he is hurting you and whacks on with renewed vigour. Now it hurts. Now you know what a proper spanking feels like. You suck down “ouches” and “aahhs” but an innate instinct stops you from howling. Your bum bounces over Mr Blenkinsop’s knee. This is not you trying to escape, it is the reflex action of your body protecting itself.

“Ha! Ha! You haven’t paid the rent!” It is your fellow lodger. He has just returned to the house and stands in the doorway. Your head pounds up and down with frustration. It is embarrassing to be spanked by an older man but to have a witness is beyond humiliating. Mr Blenkinsop is unfazed by the new arrival. Maybe he sees it as a chance to teach both his lodgers a salient lesson about paying the rent because he pounds the paddle into your rear end as if his very life depended on it.

Your backside is roasted. No flesh is left unscorched. It is a spanking to remember. At last he stops pounding away. He releases his grip and you stumble to your feet, hurriedly dragging boxers and chinos back to their rightful places. Your fellow lodger has already made his exit. You massage your bum hoping it will relieve the sting. It doesn’t. You have yet to discover it never does.

Mr Blenkinsop gets up from his chair, opens a cupboard and puts the paddle away. “Ready and waiting for another day,” he says breathlessly. You don’t know what you are supposed to reply to that so remain silent. You want to run to your room but know you cannot go until you are formally dismissed. Mr Blenkinsop knows this too. “The spanking is over,” he says stating the obvious. You are pleased it is done. A tanning for not paying the rent. Inside you are rather pleased you took it well. You are beginning to think it was worth it.

“Don’t forget you still owe me the rent money,” are the words that follow you as you ascend the stairs.

Picture credit: straight lads spanked dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

z used otk jeans brush chair (122b)

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

In another free-of-charge book offering, the cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The book runs for more than 17,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

all-in-the-family-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

Another book to download

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A family firm

new story 2

z used otk white pants down chair office sting

Parker’s is a family business. Always has been and if I have any say in the matter it always will be. I inherited it from my father, and I’ve built it up a lot since then. There must be a hundred-and-fifty-people employed here now. Family. Every last one of them.

We have a lot of youngsters here. Mostly young men, just out of school a lot of them. We have girls too, but not so many. They tend to get married and, of course, they leave to take care of their husbands. Just as a wife should. That’s what family means.

At Parker’s we are just one big happy family and I’m at the head. I’m in loco parentis or is it pater familias? The one that says the firm is a family and as its head I can treat everyone here as if they were my children. And I do. I love and nurture them all. That is my duty. I am, if you will, a loving father.

Being a father has its responsibilities. It is especially my job to make sure the youngsters in my care grow up into fine, responsible, obedient adults. Many of the boys and girls here have yet to attain the age of twenty-one and so legally they remain children. That is the way of the world and children need a firm hand to guide them along the rocky path to adulthood. At Parker’s I am that hand. It is a tough job but somebody has to do it.

Every successful business must set targets. These may be many and varied. There are production deadlines and sales targets. Our salesmen are given incentives to do their best. The diligent and hardworking succeed and are richly rewarded with bulging pay packets. The indolent, the idle do not succeed, but they too are rewarded in a manner of speaking.

A father knows that his lazy son requires inducements for him to succeed. The encouragement may take many forms. In a truly loving home father gives carrots to spur the boy on. If that fails there is always the stick to fall back on. So it is at Parker’s. The carrot I have already spoken about. Currency notes make fine carrots. But what about the stick?

I am not a bully. I believe in rules and I believe they must be obeyed. Disobedience results in punishment. So, to make an example, each of my salesman is given his own monthly target to meet. This will vary depending upon a number of factors that I won’t bore you with. But you must know that the target is fair and it is achievable. If it is not met, the salesman has some explaining to do.

So at the end of each month I am inevitably called upon to do my familial duty. Is it a task I enjoy? Certainly not. But like all employers I understand my responsibility. If a worker does not learn at a tender age what is required of him, he never will. And then where should we all be?  Parker’s can say “goodbye” to its profits and a hundred-and-fifty people will join the millions starving in hovels across the nation.

Yes, it is an unpleasant task, but as I say it is my duty. It is a duty I shall not shirk. This very afternoon I was required to take Robinson to task. Robinson has been with me for nearly three years and after a successful spell as an office clerk he was promoted to salesman. He was highly delighted (as indeed was his mother who relies almost entirely on his salary to feed her growing family) and set about fulfilling his new obligations with great enthusiasm. Alas, this did not last. His sales returns slipped and his targets were missed.

Like a good father I have put my finger on the problem. I have analysed the personality of the boy and I have made my conclusion. He lacks self-discipline. When he worked in the office he was constantly under the eye of his supervisor. His work was monitored. He had no opportunity to deviate from a set path.

But now he is “on the road” so to speak that supervision is no more. He has to motivate himself to perform and to work hard. This he is failing to do. It is a great shame. I genuinely believe Robinson has great talent. He will make Parker’s a lot of money. But before he can do that he needs a guiding hand.

So the carrot has not entirely worked, so now it had to be the stick. I use the word stick figuratively. I am not an ogre, nor am I a bully. I am a loving father. I did not wish to see young Robinson flayed until the skin on his buttocks bled. That is cruel and unnecessary. But he had to be punished and I was not adverse to that being of the physical variety. No loving father would take a whip to his son and I would not do that to Robinson.

A father expresses love for his son in many and varied ways. I would be doing Robinson no kindness if I did not punish him severely. He had to learn his lesson. Be in no doubt about that. And, I firmly believe, this should be learned through his backside. But oh no not a whipping. A spanking. When a father takes his son across his knee for correction he is saying, “I love you. I love you so much that I have to discipline this way. Our bodies entwine as if in a loving caress.” I did not use these words to Robinson. He is intelligent enough to understand how I feel. Parker’s is a family firm. I am the father, he is the son.

He arrived at my office at the appointed time. My secretary made the arrangements and I do not know if she spelled out exactly why he had been summoned. Robinson has been at the firm long enough, he surely knew his fate. My office is really rather cosy considering I am the head of an important company. I take business meetings in the board room and leave my office for more day-to-day administration. That is why the desk is rather small and most of the space is taken up with armchairs and such like. Some of my employees likened the experience of visiting my office to that of a summons to the headmaster’s study. Nothing could be further from the truth. There are no solid bookcases, no hat stand with crook-handled canes dangling from it. No cap and gown hanging on hooks.

Even so, when Robinson appeared before me it was difficult not to see him as some kind of naughty schoolboy. He is only eighteen years old and so (I suppose) had he enjoyed the privilege of an upper-class upbringing he might conceivably still be attending some minor public school somewhere. Certainly, in his white shirt and pale-grey trousers he had the air of a sixth-former about him. He shuffled his feet on the rug in front of my desk and bowed his head in shame (or possibly embarrassment).

I don’t see myself as a headmaster, but nonetheless I had to explain to him in forthright terms why he was before me. Of course, he knew that already. I reminded him of his obligations and the consequences of not meeting them. He was mostly silent throughout offering up half-whispered “Yes sirs” and “No sirs” at appropriate moments. I had no wish to prolong the interview so I hurried to the conclusion. “You will have to be spanked. You understand that don’t you?” His response was the merest nod of the head.

I pulled myself to my feet and stepped into the middle of the office. Robinson’s eyes rose from the floor and followed my every move. He had never been spanked (at least not by me) and he must have been uncertain of the procedure. I lifted a straight-backed wooden chair from against a wall and set it down where I would have enough room to perform my task. I sat and wriggled about a bit to get comfortable. I indicated to Robinson that he should stand in front of me.

As a loving father I see it as my task to prepare the boys. A headmaster would bark something like, “Bend over that chair!” or “Lower your trousers,” and so on. That would mean the punishment was at some remove. The headmaster or borstal governor or whosoever was administering the punishment would give clear commands and the boy would obey and prepare himself accordingly. Where is the love in that? That is a contest, the boy sets himself against the master. It can only lead to resentment, not redemption.

No, that was not my way. With Robinson now in front of me I asked him in a very civil tone to place his hands on his head. He understood immediately my instruction, it is the kind of thing a lady nursery school teacher might require of her naughty pupil. With his hands out of the way I proceeded to unbuckle and then loosen Robinson’s belt. His body tensed and I noticed he deliberately moved his head so that he stared past my shoulder at a photograph on the far wall. It did not distract me. I soon had his trousers open. It took the merest movement for me to have them at his feet. He had on white cotton briefs which were somewhat worn and baggy.

I looked at his face which by now was scarlet. I smiled inwardly. Soon, I intended to ensure that his buttocks were of a similar hue. “Give me your arm,” I said, still coolly. I took hold of his left wrist and guided him over and down across my knees. He offered no resistance. As Robinson fell into position he instinctively reached his hands forward and placed them into the rug. He was small enough that his legs hovered above the floor with his toes barely brushing it. His bottom was perfectly position over my right thigh.

When I spank one of my family of employees I prefer not to keep up a running commentary. The boy knows why he is there and what is to happen. It is best to just get on with it. So, I took hold of the tail of his shirt and pushed it a little away from the target area. I gripped him by the waist at the same time pushing my elbow into his lower back. He was pinned down and I was ready to go.

An over-the-knee spanking must be the most “nursery” style of corporal punishment and should be the form most often used in the home. That is why I prefer it. What could be more appropriate than a spanking from Father’s own hand, stiffened into a flexible punishing surface, and applied again and again to a naughty little bottom? I set about Robinson with sound and fury. The noise as my hand cracked against his stretched flesh resounded around the small office. Robinson gasped and he gulped as his rear-end began to glow but he gave no fight. It is true his bottom heaved up and down as my palm made its way around the circuit of his buttocks. I have seen many boys do this, it is a natural physical reaction to the assault on his body. It does not necessarily mean he is trying to evade just punishment.

I made sure I had connected with every part of the target moving my way down from below the spine and across the fine hills that constitute the bulk of his buttocks. I gave extra attention to the crease where the bum and the thighs connect for this is the most tender part of the bottom. It is also the part that connects with a chair when a boy sits down and will remind him for some time to come of the penalties to be paid for missing targets.

I satisfied myself that no inch of his posterior had been left unspanked before I moved on to phase two. This is the most unbearable moment for my boys for it is delicately humiliating. I ceased my assault on his bottom and for a moment I rested my hand against his right cheek and removed my elbow from his back. I felt a movement in his body; he was trying to lift himself off my lap. The poor boy thought his spanking was at an end. Ha! What a novice Robinson was. I took both my hands and pinched the cotton at the waistband of his underpants. He gasped. He wriggled. Now, he understood my intention. He lifted his arms from the floor and cradled his head in them. He stopped wriggling and waited submissively.

Slowly and deliberately I pinched the elasticated waist of his underpants and with both hands I tugged them down enough to expose his very pink buttocks. “Oh,” I said, “You weren’t expecting that! A bare bottom! I hope you are learning your lesson.” I didn’t expect an answer and received none. I resumed my spanking, possibly a little faster and harder than before. With the buttocks no longer encased in baggy cotton I got a clearer view of Robinson’s shape. He bum was a little rounder and meatier than I had previously realised. It made a kind of squelching noise as my hand connected over and over with his naked flesh.

As loving fathers know a hand spanking is a very effective punishment but after a time your hand begins to hurt just as much (if not more) than the boy’s buttocks. That is to be expected. A loving father must expect such. He is after all performing a painful duty.

I slapped Robinson’s rear end and the back of his thighs until all was a rosy-pink glow. By now he was breathing heavily and I was certain his rear end was aflame. As I said I am not a brute, it was time to complete the punishment. I went round the circuit two more times at high speed and sent two dozen slaps into the backs of his thighs for good measure. That was it. It was over. Duty done.

I released my grip but this time Robinson lay motionless, face down, perhaps unable to believe I really had finished. “Stand up,” I said quietly and I helped him off my knee. He nearly tripped over the trousers at his feet and pants at the knees, but kept his balance. Without waiting for my permission, he dressed himself.

I am a loving father. I saw he was in some distress. His face was scarlet and his breath came in gulps. His bottom was sore, but he would not be in agony. He shuffled from foot to foot, eyes once more studying the pattern in the rug. I spoke warmly. I reminded him that he was fine young man who had simply lost his way. I wished to guide him on to success. He whispered a “Thank you, sir.” I reached forward, gently pulled him towards me and kissed him on the cheek.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Portrait of an artist

new story 2

z used drawing quelch study boy (4) (2)

Oh Lor! Oh Crikey! Chris ‘Corker’ Corcoran was a schoolboy in trouble; but dashed if he knew why.

Anxiously, he made his way through school hall and out of the building. Turner Minor, one of the junior boys, had delivered the message. Well, it was not so much message as a summons. Attend at the headmaster’s study. At once. Brook no delay.

It could only mean one thing for the senior boy. The headmaster was not inclined to invite pupils to his study to partake in afternoon tea. There was no hot buttered toast awaiting Master Corcoran. But, undoubtedly the wretched boy would catch it hot when he finally arrived at Dr Wentworth’s oak-panelled study.

A sentimental onlooker might have misjudged the scene. Here was a boy dressed in his smart blue blazer with its red braiding around the collar, cuffs and pockets and dark grey flannel baggy trousers. He was extremely dapper in his grey waistcoat, orange and blue diagonally striped tie and a blue-and-white hooped school cap.

What could be more quintessentially English? The sun shines as Corker dawdles through the ivy-covered quadrangle and past the mullioned-windows of the library. Many a young boy might wish he were in Master Corcoran’s shoes. What a magnificent school! The privileged boys who attend here must have a wonderful time.

Crumbs! What was up? Corker was no angel. Indeed, at times he could be incorrigible and like most schoolboys he accepted the unwritten rule: if you are found out take your punishment like a man.

But, the boy was certain he had done nothing to warrant a summons from the head and the inevitable swishing that awaited him at Dr Wentworth’s study.

Was it the smoking? He and some of the other chaps had discovered cigarettes. Not that there was much that needed to be ‘discovered.’ All the chaps smoked even though it was strictly against the rules. The school playing field was the place to go. Corker and his chums had found a way into the old storage hut. It was the ideal venue to light up a Woodbine and share it with his fellow conspirators.

Corker did not much like cigarettes. It took only one puff to make him feel sick. Two or three draws on the obnoxious weed would make him choke. He tried to keep this secret from the other fellows and hoped in time he would get used to Woodbines.

But, he reasoned, as he continued his crawl to the execution block, this could not be about smoking. To be caught smoking was indeed a swishing offence. The tariff upon conviction was six on the bags, the boys accepted that: rules were rules and St Tom’s was a no-smoking zone for the schoolboys, even the seniors. He was guilty, but the whopping would be delivered by a chap’s form master, not the head. The head did not whop, he flogged. It was an awesome punishment and reserved for the most heinous of crimes.

Corker’s knowledge of such things was more in the abstract. He had been whopped many times, but not by his headmaster.  Dr Wentworth was not a tyrant, but boys at his school knew that the old man believed he had a duty to perform and when he was required to flog a boy, flog a boy he did.

Corker entered Founder’s Building, took the stairs at a pace that would be bettered by a snail, and reached the study door. Here he paused, took a deep breath and tapped his knuckles softly against an oak panel, so lightly that he hoped Dr Wentworth would not hear him.

“Enter.”

What dashed bad luck, he had.

Corker fumbled with the knob, and meekly pushed open the door.

“You sent for me sir,” his voice faltered a little.

Dr Wentworth, sitting at his study table, turned his keen grey eyes on Corcoran as the sixth-former entered.

“Yes, Corcoran, I most certainly did.”

Dr Wentworth’s study was huge. Corker took up position in front of the old man’s desk. It was a modest size, but expensively made, with a dark green leather top. Dr Wentworth had a separate writing table with a small wooden chair with a red-and-white patterned seat cushion where he sat to prepare his Latin classes. It rested beneath a stained glass widow alongside a fireplace, still unlit for that day but with the traces of burnt wood from the night before. A dark wooden bookcase with open shelves stacked high with musty volumes in Latin and Greek ran alongside it.

The other wall had a number of cupboards, one of which was rather taller and narrower than the others: many visitors to Dr Wentworth’s study knew from painful experience what was contained within.

The room was large enough to house a number of chairs: two of them modest wooden numbers with curved backs and armrests, just the right height for junior boys in need of correction.

But, Corker would soon become more acquainted with one of the two expensively upholstered ‘comfortable’ armchairs that faced each other in front of a small table close to the bookcase.

Dr Wentworth had a red face with a heavy frown on his brow and his thin lips were set tightly. The boys could never be sure of the headmaster’s age; but to them he was as ancient as the mariner they were forced to learn about in English classes.

Dr Wentworth was an angular man with grey hair, balding on top with great tufts sticking out to left and right from his temples. He wore a traditional academic gown on top of a very heavy tweed jacket and a dark brown cardigan. His trousers were shiny, with black and grey stripes, and exceedingly crumpled.

He read out the case for the prosecution.

“I have here,” he waved a piece of paper torn from a school notebook, “a drawing.”

Oh, scissors! Corker didn’t need to be told, he knew exactly what it was:  a figure in a cap and gown brandishing a cane and the figure of a schoolboy bending bare-bottomed over a desk. He knew, because he had drawn it. And, the wretched boy knew also it had the words OLD DONKEY WENTWORTH GOES ABOUT HIS WORK written in his own hand upon it.

“What have you to say?” Wentworth thundered. Corker did as generations of schoolboys before him have done: he stared at his feet and mumbled.

“Pah! Speak up you impertinent boy!” Dr Wentworth’s face was puce with rage. He could hardly contain his anger. Never before in his thirty-five years as a schoolmaster had he encountered such insolence.

Corker knew the game was up. He had, as the boys in his form would say, been caught bang to rights. The thrashing of a lifetime was imminent. But, even in this moment of great travail, Corker wondered how the good doctor had discovered the drawing. Had one of his fellows snitched on him? Corker could not think such a thing possible. The boys at St Tom’s had a code of honour and at its head was, do not split to a master.

The eighteen-year-old had been very proud of his artwork and he was delighted to see it passed surreptitiously from fellow to fellow. Oh, how every one of them had enjoyed the little joke! They admired its great likeness to Wentworth. And the schoolboy: the boy bare-arsed awaiting the swish of the ashplant was a stroke of genius.

Dr Wentworth was the headmaster of a fine English public school and as such he did not possess a sense of humour. Nor, did he encourage such a trait in his boys. Schooling was a serious matter. Europe was heading for war; there was no place for satire.

What little patience Dr Wentworth had was exhausted. “Well boy, what have you to say for yourself?”

There was nothing much Corker could say. So he coughed to it. Yes, he agreed he had drawn it. It seemed like a good idea at the time, but now it did not. In honesty, the fellows in the class had appreciated it highly.

Dr Wentworth respected the confession but was in no mood to hear how much the boys had relished the headmaster’s humiliation. Dr Wentworth’s voice was not loud, but it had gravitas. His face was inflamed with rage. Corker stood in front of him staring resolutely at the rug beneath his feet as the headmaster jawed and jawed him. He was “insolent,” “wretched,” a “cad” and “ugly.”

Dr Wentworth was in full flow, and Corker allowed his mind to wander a little so that he almost missed the command, “Bend over that chair.”

Corker hesitated, not sure he had heard what had been said.

“Bend over that chair!” Dr Wentworth rapped out the words. Oh lor! There was no mistaking his intentions. He pointed to the armchairs. He had not yet selected the cane he was going to use to whop the deviant artist, but waited to see that the boy had indeed taken up position before approaching the tall cupboard.

The armchairs had high backs, far too high for even the tallest, lankiest, schoolboy to put himself over and stretch out his arms to clutch the seat cushion for dear life.

Corker knew the routine in such cases was for a boy to drape himself over one of the upholstered arms, tuck his knees into the side of the chair and thereby raise his bottom high to meet the thwack of the ashplant.

The sixth-former took several deep breaths and then after one continuing movement he had his face in the seat cushion. It was dusty with a faint smell of sweat where visitors had previously sat in comfort to enjoy conversation, and who knows tea, with Dr Wentworth.

Corker could be assured that after what he was about to receive he would not be able to enjoy a comfortable sit-down for some time to come. That night he would be taking supper standing up, it was for certain.

With his face in the cushion he could not be sure of Dr Wentworth’s movements, but he heard the cupboard door open and the shuffle of canes being sorted as he selected the weapon to attack him with.

Evidently he had a prospect. Corker heard the sound of a cane being swished through the air. Was he testing it out? The boy moved his back slightly, intending to look round to see what was going on.

Dr Wentworth seldom flogged, but he had a sure and a strong hand when he did. He would make the young scoundrel wriggle for this.

“Keep perfectly still.” That’s all he said, but it was enough. Corker burrowed my head in the cushion and clenched his teeth shut.

Up went the cane with a whiz and down it came with a fearful slash.

“Ouch!”

Swipe! “Yow!”

Dr Wentworth’s ashplant cane came down across the seat of Corker’s bags as if he were beating a carpet. He might be an elderly man but he could still put a lot of beef into thrashing a boy.

Swipe! “Yarooooooh!”

This time the savage cane rang across his backside like a crack from a pistol. Corker compressed his lips to keep back a cry of pain.

Swipe! “Yow-ow-ow!”

He wriggled. He squirmed. Dr Wentworth did not care. He had a duty to perform and would have gladly cut the boy to pieces.

Swipe! “Hisssssssssssss!”

The cane bounced across Corker’s seat and dust blew off his trousers.

Swipe! “Yarooooooh!!”

He was breathing heavily, but he was taking it. A boy was allowed to howl during a whopping. How could he not do so, when the ashplant was laid on with such enthusiasm by a master. A boy could yell as much as he needed to, but he must not blub. That was out of the question. A boy must not weep tears. To do so would be a disgrace, a chap must never let the master see him cry. And if he did blub and the other chaps found out, he would never hear the end of it.

The execution was over. Corker hoped so at least. Nobody he knew had ever got more than six cuts.

Then, Dr Wentworth delivered two more fearful slashes.

Swipe! Swipe! “Oooooh!” Double crikey.

Dr Wentworth’s knuckles grew white with the hard grip he was putting on the cane.

Swipe! Swipe!

Corker let out howls of pain as the cane rose and fell without mercy.

Swipe! Swipe!

They were blows such as no master ought to ever have dealt, but Dr Wentworth was too furious to care how much he hurt the boy.

That was a dozen cuts. Corker lay limp and suffering trying his best not to blub, waiting for the headmaster to give the command to get up. He seemed to be taking an eternity.

“You may remove yourself.”

It was not merely six.  It was as thorough a licking as Corcoran had ever experienced before. He rose a little unsteadily; eyes shining, face pale and breathless, rubbing his bottom furiously. His bum was in shreds.

Dr Wentworth laid down the cane at last.  He looked quite tired with his exertions.  Corker was more than tired.

“Go!” he snapped.

And Corker went. He wriggled his way down the passage.  He squirmed out into the quad.

 

Picture credit: C H (Charles) Chapman – The Magnet

Other stories you might like

The Poker School

The Visitor

A Fragment of a Memory

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Neighbourhood Watch Vigilantes

new story 2

z used belt bare twosome over car (1)

The houses in The Avenue were big, many were sedate Edwardian monstrosities with attics occupied by teenagers or au pairs. Limed oak or pastel-sponged kitchens extended into pretty conservatories, and garages had been converted into home offices or games rooms. Front gardens were well tended, with not an ugly spotted laurel or dull privet to be seen. The houses didn’t lack in burglar proofing, large metal alarm bells hung warningly over the ornate front doors and powerful lights flickered on and off all night.

The Avenue bordered Widdicombe Woods giving the inhabitants a feeling of almost rural isolation. But across the main road at one end the council estate loomed high and huge. It was the mysterious hinterland from which the residents assumed all crime and chaos originated. Righteous people in The Avenue lived in fear of being mugged, threatened or harassed by ruffians from the estate. On dark evenings, mindful of terrifying newspaper reports of no-go areas and escalating violence, they made sure to only carry small amounts of change as they shuffled off to the local liquor store. At night they carefully took their in-car radios into their homes with them.

A couple of miles away at the Brocklehurst South police station Sgt Astley peered over the top of his glasses at the young police cadet standing before him. “Bloody kids,” he wanted to say, “They never know when to leave well alone.” Instead his jowls wobbled as he shook his head in disbelief and listened to the tale.

Cadet Noble was flustered. “You’ll never believe it Serge, they had the two boys, well young men really, bent over the car. And they had no clothes on. Well, they had shirts but their jeans and pants were pulled down,” he gabbled.

“Steady on, calm down, son,” Sgt Astley could indeed believe it. There were stranger things going on in Brocklehurst every day of the year.

Cadet Noble gushed on, “And they were whacking their bottoms … their bare bottoms with leather belts.”

Ah, a broad smile split Sgt Astley’s chubby face. Now he understood. “Was it the Neighbourhood Watch?” he grinned.

“Well, I don’t know,” the cadet replied uneasily, suddenly realising that he should have more details. He should have interviewed people and taken notes, like a proper copper. He frowned, vaguely aware that his face was colouring. “It was down at The Avenue.”

The tubby sergeant spread his arms wide. “I should have known,” he wiped a hand across his brow. “Were they lads from the council estate?”

Cadet Noble shrugged his shoulders confirming his inadequacy.

“They’re right posh at The Avenue, they don’t take kindly to riff-raff hanging around stamping on their dahlias.”

“But, Serge they were taking the law into their own hands, that’s not right,” Cadet Noble was flustered. That wasn’t why he joined the police force.

Sgt Astley frowned, “A bloody good hiding never did any harm,” he didn’t say it out loud. There was one young lad standing in front of him who would benefit from a belt across the backside; it might knock some sense into him.

What he did say was, “We don’t have the officers to deal with these type of cases. It’s best all round if we just leave it to the residents.”

“Oh Serge,” Cadet Noble’s face flushed red with indignation. “It’s not fair,” he pouted.

Tucker was on the prowl. He had risen from his pit of a bed just after midday. The afternoon was the best time to do his business. The houses were empty. People had jobs to go to. Suckers! It was mid-summer. Blisteringly hot. He showered, pulled on his jeans, picked up shirts from a pile on the floor, sniffed each of them to find the cleanest and tugged it over his head. He tipped cornflakes from a packet into a not-quite clean bowl and soaked them with milk. He was ready for his day.

His council flat was on the edge of the town centre, conveniently situated between the necessary amenities of life (burger bars, pubs, the social security office) and the rich, leafy suburbs. It wasn’t his day to ‘sign-on’ and his pockets were empty, so he would give the centre a miss today. Time to get to work.

The suburbs of Brocklehurst were green and flourishing and no street more so than The Avenue. Big, opulent houses with large gardens owned by rich folk. He’d pick his pal Higgins up on his way.

Eric Sloop and his two chums were on their second glass of gin. They spread themselves out comfortably in the spacious lounge room, in companionable silence. The sun was shining, the gin was splendid. They dozed a little.

Tucker and Higgins had seen the large detached house on a previous visit. It looked unoccupied; and rich for the pickings. Making sure they weren’t seen by anyone they hurried across the road and dodged behind the wall. Tucker was pretty certain that large as the house was there was only one man who lived there, and he was probably a wealthy old git, by the looks of the place. Tucker hoped they’d be able to break in and steal something valuable; he didn’t want much, cash would be preferable, just enough to pay for some booze and drugs. If there was no cash, he’d steal an ornament (these kinds of people always had ornaments) and he’d sell it.

The pair darted round the back of the house. He tried the door. Ha-ha!, it was unlocked. Why were people so stupid? And, thank the Lord that they were.

“Keep a look out,” he mouthed instructions to Higgins, a dull half-wit of a youth. Cautiously, he eased open the door. It led directly into a kitchen. It was a bright, modern room. Quickly his eyes scanned around; where’s the tea-caddy; old people always hid their money in the tea-caddy. He searched through the cupboards, trying not to leave too many traces, but found no caddy, only a box of tag-less tea bags.

He opened and closed all the drawers, no money and nothing of value. Adrenalin pumped through Tucker’s arteries. He was out in the hallway. There was a jacket hanging on a hook. He searched the pockets but found nothing.

There were four doors leading onto the hallway. The house was airless, the heat and the excitement was making him sweat. One of them must lead to a living room, he supposed. Which one? Did it matter? The house was empty, he had all the time in the world. He reached for a door handle, twisted it. It opened easily.

“What the …..!” Eric Sloop shouted, “Who the fuck are you?” He and his two pals lurched to their feet. Tucker stood frozen, trying to survey the scene. At last, too late, his addled brain told him it was time to flee.

“Grab him,” there was no need for Eric to give instruction, his friend Paul already had hold of the youth’s arm. Toby, the third man in the room gripped him by the neck.

“Wor’s going on?” the dim-witted Higgins stood in the hallway, trying to comprehend the situation.

“There’s another one, quick get him.” Inside seconds two intruders had been captured by three less-than-sober residents.

“Housebreakers.”

“Thieves.”

“I bet they’re from the estate.”

They all spoke at once, as they began to understand what was going on.

“Fuck off, leggo!” Tucker had his arms pinned behind his back. Higgins was in a head lock. They were going nowhere.

“Call the police,” Toby said.

“Yeah, right!” Eric sneered. “Fat lot of good that’ll do.” He twisted Tucker’s arm and then pulled his long, greasy hair. He put his mouth close to the lout’s ear. “Do you know if we were in America and you broke into my house, I’d be allowed to shoot you.”

“Yeah,” Paul added his two-penny worth. “Dead, you bastard.”

Tucker struggled, but the strength of his captor was too much.

“The police won’t do anything,” Eric was taking command. “Not even a slap on the wrist,” he mocked. “Total waste of time.”

Paul smiled sardonically, “We know what to do with these two, don’t we Eric.” He slapped Higgins on the back of the head. “Same as we did with the other two.”

“Wor? Wor did you do?” Higgins feared the worst.

“It’s a pity word hasn’t got round your estate. You don’t come and mess with the folks of The Avenue,” Eric sneered, “We know how to deal with hoodlums like you.” He looked across at his companions. “Let’s take them out the front. Make sure the neighbours can see.”

Eric and Paul took an arm each and pulled Tucker across the floor, the lout’s feet skidded across the plush carpet. Tucker’s fear gave him strength, but he tumbled and the two men dragged him into the hallway and towards the door. Toby grabbed Higgin by the arm, unlike his partner-in-crime he gave no resistance, too dumbfounded to fight.

They were soon outside in The Avenue, the street was deserted, Eric toyed with the idea of running from door to door to scrape up an audience. The residents were fed up with living in constant fear of the council estate thugs; they would delight in the spectacle. Before he moved the door of the house at number twenty-seven opened and Ernie Flynn appeared.

“Thieves,” Eric said by way of explanation. “We’re going to whip their arses,” he said calmly as if what he intended to do was the most natural thing in the world. Ernie took the initiative and started working his way from house to house.

“Get them over the car,” Eric had taken control; his friends happy to follow his lead. “No!!!” Tucker wailed and struggled fiercely, but the two men held him forcibly down. He was going nowhere until they said so. Eric gripped Higgins by the arm; the lout came quietly and within seconds was alongside his pal.

“Geroff!!” Tucker was off again. Toby grabbed the lout’s sweatpants and underwear and in one smooth movement pulled both down until they rested at Tucker’s shins. The young man kicked out in fury but missed his intended target.

A crowd was beginning to gather. They saw two men, each aged about twenty, bent side by side over the front of a car, trousers and pants at their shins, bottomed bared. “If I let you go,” Paul told Higgins, I want you to stay there and take it. If you struggle, we’ll tie you to a tree and flog you until you bleed.”

He couldn’t believe he had just said that. Where had those words come from? Paul felt sheepish as he released his grip and was mightily relived when the lout stayed still, submissively offering up his naked buttocks.

Eric unbuckled his own belt and with one continuous movement had it free of his trousers and doubled up in his hand. It was wide and thick and he knew from experience it could do some damage to a naked behind. Paul followed suit.

Eric was the first to go: after all it had been his idea. The belt was about twelve or thirteen inches long, he took up position behind Tucker and found his aim. The lout liked his beer and this was obvious from his flabby waist and loose buttocks. His legs were hairy but his bottom was creamy-pale. That was until the first three lashes of the leather belt struck home. While Eric thrashed Tucker’s rear end, Paul made his own preparations.

He approached Higgins from the right hand side. It was a difficult angle for Paul would have preferred to be on the left. He gripped the belt in his right fist and moved behind the thief to get a better aim. It was more difficult than he realised.

The first lash missed Higgins’ bum completely and landed on the top of his thighs. The lout let out a piercing yelp, his legs buckled and his hips swayed, but he stayed in position.  Not discouraged Paul repositioned. This time the belt landed right across the very centre of both cheeks: a result. The belt lashed again and again into the increasingly reddening cheeks.

Meanwhile, Tucker felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his bottom.

The crack of leather on two sets of stretched buttocks disturbed the still afternoon. The small crowd of onlookers stared in silence; it had been a long time since many of them had had so much fun.

Tucker shut his teeth. His bum hurt. Then there was a short respite as Toby took off his own belt. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the thief’s  buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Toby made certain the strap toasted every square of the target which was by now blazing.

Paul twisted his flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Higgins’ buttocks. With the upturned bottom in front of him, Paul could choose his target with great accuracy. Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping.

From a safe distance and unobserved Police Cadet Nobel recorded the proceedings, shielding the screen of his tablet from the sunshine.

 

Other stories you might like

Vigilantes

A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Approved School Santas

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Private Tutor

school shorts touch toes (1)

I recently uploaded my 500th story to this website – thanks to everyone for your support.  I know it can sometimes be difficult to navigate your way around to find stories on the topics that interest you. To help you a little, back in 2016 I started to collect together stories on the same theme and upload them as free-of-charge e-books.

Here is one of the earliest: The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

 Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

 The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

Click the link below for the book in a PDF file

 The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

 

Picture credit: Unknown

A further episode involving The Private Tutor is here

The private tutor: 4

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Shopping for toys

new story 2

z used christmas spanking implements on tree (1)

Herbert made his way through the front entrance to Tomkinson’s department store. He paused; dismayed. There were frantic shoppers as far as his eye could see. Only four days to Christmas, he hoped he hadn’t left it too late. Nearby a store security guard, dressed like a marketing man’s idea of an American traffic cop, tried without success to hide his boredom. Herbert pushed his way through the elderly and infirm and nodded at the guard.

“Yes, mate?” the guard leaned his head forward, the hullabaloo of voices echoing around the vast emporium was deafening. Herbert whispered his question and got a blank stare for his trouble. The guard could not hear. Herbert repeated the question again, still with no understanding. “Speak up!” the guard’s voice was hoarse, he had been shouting all day.

“Can you direct me to the adult toy department, please,” Herbert yelled. He was heard that time. By the guard and by a hundred people standing nearby. “Third floor, mate.” The guard extended his arm to give directions, “It’s at the far end. Behind the green baize door.” Herbert thanked him and set off, head down, to do battle with the crowds.

The adult toys department was a relative oasis of calm. Herbert entered timidly and stood, hoping his mouth was not literally gaping open. They had nothing like this back home in Brocklehurst.  Well, he thought, that’s the Emerald City for you. A display of traditional school-type canes was in his eyeline. To the left was a stand with a dozen paddles of all shapes and sizes. Leather tawes, some with two tails others with three, hung from a rack. He blushed to his roots. A smartly dressed man approached; his immaculate silver-grey hair appeared to be made of plastic. He was easily sixty years old, Herbert reckoned. His black suit was tailored to perfection (clearly, he hadn’t purchased it at Tomkinson’s). “May I be of assistance, sir,” the man purred.

Herbert gulped. Why was he so nervous, he wondered? The man observed Herbert’s obvious interest in the canes. “May I interest you in one of these, sir?” The man looked and sounded like he had escaped from the menswear department from the nineteen-forties. There was a faint aroma of coal tar soap and pipe tobacco about him. “These are among our most popular sellers,” he spoke quietly and confidentially as he took one from the rack. It was about three feet long and as thick as a ballpoint pen. The man flexed it between his hands in the traditional manner.

Herbert was no stranger to the cane. He had half a dozen of various lengths and thicknesses hanging in the wardrobe in the spare bedroom back home. No, a cane would not interest him: not today. “What else do you have?” Herbert had already drawn up a list of Christmas presents he wanted – it wasn’t the kind you sent to Santa Claus.

“Well,” the man smiled, “we have a selection of specially-made birches,” he waved a hand to a display in the corner of the room. “Very seasonal,” he added and when he realised Herbert had not caught his drift, he said, “Traditionally Santa gives toys to the nice boys and a dose of the birch to the naughty ones,” his mouth inched into the ghost of a smile

Herbert grinned back. He was relaxing now, the elderly salesman was not threatening. “Do you have anything,” Herbert hesitated, unsure how to frame his question. He was looking for something out of the ordinary as gifts for his companions back home. He settled on the word, “Unusual.”

“Well sir, we have a full range of implements. And, then, of course, there’s the furniture.” He gestured toward an antique-looking birching bench. The salesman noticed the tremor in Herbert’s body. “Or maybe,” he hurried on to save further embarrassment, “Sir was thinking more in the line of tools.”

At that moment a young man appeared through a door marked “Staff Only”. Herbert couldn’t stop himself leering. He was dressed in an spotless red school blazer trimmed in white. But, the thing that had Herbert ogling were the immaculately-pressed grey short trousers he wore. Knee-high socks emphasised the young man’s slender legs and firm hard body.

The salesman nodded, “That is our junior assistant Mark. As you can see we are dressing him in the holiday spirit. Today he is a peach of a schoolboy,” he leaned closer to Herbert as if to share a secret, “Tomorrow, I believe, he appears as Santa’s elf.”

Herbert involuntarily licked his lips. The lad, who must have been at least eighteen (he supposed) and in his schoolboy’s uniform might have passed for sixteen, acknowledged his presence with a cheeky grin. The salesman spoke, “Mark is available to assist customers in their choice of purchase. Should you a require a demonstration or to try out something yourself. One of our excellently whippy cane perhaps.” He added, the soul of discretion, “He is available for a small consideration.”

Herbert tensed with excitement. A lump choked his throat and a smaller swell troubled him lower down on his body. He watched crestfallen as Mark walked slowly across the shop floor to attend to an elderly, stout gentleman who looked remarkably like a vicar Herbert knew when a boy in Aston Budleigh. The pair disappeared together through a door marked “Private”.

The salesman continued on his verbal tour. Herbert heard none of it; he was imagining the luscious Mark, right now in the room marked Private. Submissively, he was lowering his beautiful short trousers before reaching down so that his fingertips merely brushed the toecaps of his highly-polished black leather shoes. His tiny pert buttocks like two acorns stretched his gleamingly-white Y-front underpants until the thin cotton fitted like a second skin.

Rev Crick (if it was indeed the vicar Herbert remembered the from Aston) flexed the cane thoughtfully. He was in no hurry, he would take his time. He would extract maximum enjoyment. Mark, his knees straight, back arched, feet apart, head low, bottom high and teeth clenched waited nervously. His tight bottom quivered slightly beneath the underpants. Rev Crick stood to Mark’s left, tapped the whippy cane across the lower half of the lad’s magnificent curves. He took his aim, sucked in his breath, held the cane steady, then brought it up in a perfect arc until it was about shoulder high. Then in one continuous movement he cracked it down into the solid flesh. He was rewarded by a thin line embossed into the cotton; beneath it an angry, red welt was forming. To confirm this, about five seconds after the cane had fallen, the pain hit home. Mark’s clenched teeth could not stop a long, stream of air escaping; it sounded like a steam engine.

“Sir, I was saying we also have a full range of clothing.” Herbert was forced back to the here-and-now. The salesman led him across the shop floor. “School uniforms, of course. The short trousers are a favourite,” the salesman’s eyes twinkled, “As indeed are the girls’ gymslips. You see we have them sizes to suit all tastes.”

Herbert made a cursory inspection. He had no need of uniforms. He and his pals already had an excellent supplier who ran what was literally a cottage industry from his home. “We also have a wide range of leatherwear,” the salesman would not let up. He must have been on commission.

Herbert’s attention was distracted once more. He spotted another sign, this one at the far end of the shop. “Ha!” he couldn’t contain his delight. “Santa’s Grotto!” His grin was irrepressible. “What’s Santa doing here!” his eyes shone. He burst out laughing. “What kind of presents does he dish out to the boys and girls here?”

The salesman shared Herbert’s delight. His face cracked open into a wide smile. “Ha! Sir doesn’t quite understand.” Once more it was clear Herbert was out of his depth; he had no idea what the salesman meant. So, the elderly man explained, “Santa has two tasks to perform at Yuletide. First he must ensure that all the good boys get their presents, Then, there are …”

His explanation was cut short by a snort of laughter, “The naughty boys!” Herbert shrieked. “The naughty boys ….” He was so excited he was unable to finish his sentence.

“Indeed, sir,” the salesman returned to his story, “The naughty boys get spanked.”

“This I have got to see!” Not noticing if the salesman was following, he dashed across the store. The grotto looked like any other Santa’s grotto you might encounter in a shopping mall the world over so I won’t over elaborate its description. It is enough to say that once customers paid their fee they entered a wonderland that would not be recognisable at Macey’s.

The area was divided into three rooms and no one tried to hide the fact that three Santas were working at the same time. Heck, it didn’t matter, none of the customers was under any illusion here. Which room you entered depended upon how naughty you had been.

“How does this work exactly?” Herbert asked a cherubic young man who was dressed as an elf. If such a thing was humanly possibly he was even cuter than Mark. On a scale of one to ten, he registered twelve.

The elf, who was probably asked the same question several times an hour, had his answer honed. “It depends how naughty you have been. You might have to go over Santa’s knee for a spanking. Or you might be in need of a dose of the cane, paddle or strap. For the truly evil,” he giggled when he said those two words, “Well, there’s the birch for them!”

Herbert’s blank expression did not deter the elf. “People usually think of some naughtiness they’ve really done.” Then, helpfully, he added, “You’ll be surprised how many people there are out there who ride the tram without a ticket.”

A lightbulb glowed inside Herbert’s head. Golly! He did that all the time! “And,” blood was flowing to Herbert’s crotch, “What punishment do they get?” he croaked. “Oh,” the elf, who in real life was a theatre student at the local polytechnic, acted as if he was deep in thought. He even stroked his chin for effect, “If it’s the first time, he should go across Santa’s knee.” And when the elf noticed Herbert’s eyes shine, he added, with fake malice, “For a spanking on the bare bottom.”

“I’ll take it,” Herbert, his palms now sweating, reached inside his coat for his wallet.

Santa’s Grotto was intended as a communal experience. Herbert was led into a room and found himself one of four people there.  A different elf, just slightly less cute than the first (he was a little taller that’s all), explained they would each witness one another’s punishments. “Much more fun,” he finished his explanation. “Who’s first?”

Within the blink of an eye a young man stepped forward. “Me Santa! Me!” He’s a little too keen, Herbert thought, wasn’t this supposed to be a punishment. Santa, it has to be mentioned did not look entirely the part of the traditional, fat jolly benefactor. For a start, he wasn’t very fat. He didn’t even have a pillow shoved up his jumper for disguise. His false beard was only par for the course, but it would do. The strangest part of the get-up was the Santa suit. Herbert was no expert on such matters but wasn’t it supposed to be made from wool or some soft cloth? The suit on this Santa sparkled under the fairy lights. It reminded him of the jackets compares wore at second-rate working men’s clubs. It was (frankly) as camp as arseholes.

None of this mattered, the moment Santa opened his mouth. This was no benevolent old uncle. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he growled. “Naughty little boy. Come to Santa. What’s your name?” The young man said: Sebastian. It was an obvious lie, Herbert decided. Who on earth was ever called Sebastian?

“And what have you been up to Sebastian?”

The young man decided he was eight years old and gave all the “Oi’ve been a vewy nawty likkle boy,” shtick. Henry hated it when his chums back in Brocklehurst did this. Santa must have heard this nonsense ten times a day, but he let it pass.

“What did you do, naughty little boy?” Santa spoke gruffly; he was playing to the audience. He didn’t bat an eyelid when Sebastian told him about riding the trams.

“Well, Sebastian,” Santa was ready to go, he probably had a timetable to keep to, “You know what Santa does to naughty boys.”

Herbert shuffled from one foot to another, it was quite tiring standing. He perked up quickly. “Come stand by Santa, Sebastian.” The young man couldn’t get there fast enough. “Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.”

Sebastian wasn’t dressed for winter. He only wore jeans and a red-and-black t-shirt. There was a collective holding of breath when Sebastian slipped his jeans down to his ankles. Sebastian, whom Herbert reckoned had to be somewhere in his twenties, wore tight-fitting white trunks. He made no attempt to disguise the bulge.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Santa who was beaming now, turned to his audience, “Sebastian is very happy to meet Santa.” That got a laugh and while the audience were enjoying the joke, Santa gripped Sebastian by the wrist of his left arm and demonstrating a great deal of strength, he pulled the young man across his knee.

z used Santa otk white pants CP 4 Men dot net (2)

Sebastian, of course, gave no resistance. He lay face down over Santa’s lap. Herbert moved slightly to his left to get a terrific view of the lad’s firm round bottom. It was quite the best he had seen in some considerable time. His chums in Brocklehurst tended to be older and subsequently carried a little more padding about their bodies.

Santa held Sebastian steady by placing his left arm across his back. The bottom was slightly raised across Santa’s knee. It was the classic spanking position. Santa wasted no time and began smacking his rough palm across the solid mounds. He beat a solid rhythm. Sebastian played to the gallery. He “ouched!” and he “arghhed!” as if he was in agony. Herbert knew Sebastian was in no great pain. A hand spanking across the underpants, no matter how hard it was delivered, would do little harm to a grown man.

The bum was truly gorgeous. It was worth the price of admission alone. But, Herbert’s value-for-money quotient was about the rise considerably. Without a word of warning, Santa gripped the waistband of the trunks. There was a mild cheer of encouragement from the audience as slowly the underwear was lowered. Sebastian’s hairless buttocks were coloured deep pink. This darkened to a red as Santa set about spanking every square inch of the young man’s flesh. He got the top of the hills, the mounds themselves and the undercurves where the cheeks meet the thighs. Then, he started on the thighs. This time Sebastian’s gasps and yelps were genuine. He kicked his legs and wriggled over Santa’s knee. It was like he was trying to swim away.

Then it was over. Sebastian’s time was up. He jumped from Santa’s lap and far from self-consciously he jumped up and down while rubbing away at his glowing buttocks. His stiff cock pointed to the ceiling. Santa made a great play at modestly covering his eyes. The audience laughed.

“And which of you naughty boys is next?” Santa was once again gruff and disapproving. A man of about the same age as Herbert stepped forward. He removed his anorak and handed it to an elf. He fumbled with the belt on his trousers . . .

Picture credits: Unknown / CP4Men dot net

Other stories you might like

The Night Before Christmas

Fake News at Christmas

Six of the best seasonal stories

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com