We first met quite by accident in a crowded coffeeshop in town. I was seated at a table deep into my Guardian, he was at the other end of the room, searching with his eyes. Do you ever get that feeling someone’s watching you, even if you can’t see them? That’s how it was. I raised my head from the newspaper and caught him staring. Obviously at me. I allowed myself a little smile. I knew what his game was. I’d seen it before.
Our eyes met. That confirmed it to me. I’ve been doing this for years. I can spot a fellow enthusiast a mile away. He was definitely weighing me up. Our eyes only met for a heartbeat or two but I liked what I saw. I gestured subtly for him to join me. He pushed his way through the crowd and sat opposite me. He was easily half my age, I reckoned. His hair was fair, thick and made messy by the wind and his face was pinched by cold. He wore a heavy woollen pullover and a long scarf. If he had been five years younger he might have been a student. He grinned warmly at me. That was all the encouragement I needed.
“I saw you staring at me,” I said, “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to stare?” It wasn’t much of an opening gambit but it worked. “Had to stare. Couldn’t believe it the first time,” he replied. He said it in the voice of an eight-year-old. I liked him for that. I gave an exaggerated gesture of shock, making my eyebrows shoot to the top of my head. “How dare you,” I said in my most authoritarian voice, “talk to an adult like that.”
He shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t say a word but the gesture spoke volumes. I don’t care! I leaned forward so I was in his face. “What you need young man,” I looked deep into his eyes, “is a jolly good spanking.”
And, that’s how it started. We arranged to meet that evening in a pub in town. It makes sense to be on neutral territory the first time. But there was nothing to worry about. Novices to the scene rarely realise just how many men there are out there who are into spanking. I’ve met all sorts over the past twenty years and not all of them gay. Would it surprise you to learn that “real” men, straight guys, adore to be spanked by other men. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.
He told me his name was Snuffy. I’d never heard that one before and supposed it to be a nickname, but it turned out that was his actual name: Tony Snuffy. I think I fell in love at that moment. Of course, from then on I only called him by his surname. “Stand there Snuffy. Take down your trousers Snuffy. Bend over my desk Snuffy.” I couldn’t say it often enough. We had a drink and got to know one another. We had a lot going for us. He got into spanking when he was at university and so did I (albeit twenty-five years apart). He liked different kinds of roleplay (ditto me). He was a bottom. I was a top. Within the hour we were in a taxi heading for my house.
He stays over some nights, but we don’t live together. He works in a bank and has a room in a converted house near where he works. He treats my place a bit like a hotel. One Saturday I caught him doing his laundry without asking my permission. “What a cheek!” I scolded him before ripping down his trousers and underpants and turning him over my knee right there in the utility room. He has a lovely bum and in my humble opinion it is shown at its best when upturned across my knee. His legs are thin but muscular, his waist narrow and stomach flat and combined they emphasise his buttocks. The cheeks are a bit flat when he’s standing but they round out and become as hard as a rubber ball when he’s draped at a forty-five-degree angle over my knee.
On that particular occasion because I hadn’t prepared in advance it had to be a summary spanking. That is, I scolded him, readied him and spanked him with the flat of my hand (it was all I had). It was great fun. It made me realise that sometimes you can overprepare things. I slapped his bare arse until it shone bright pink. I think my hand probably hurt more than his bum by the time I finished but I was delighted to see the pattern of my fingers embossed into his bottom over and over again.
I have a large house and I’ve made one of the bedrooms into a kind of headmaster’s study. I haven’t overdone it. There’s no carpet, instead I’ve put in shiny floorboards and I bought a worn rug at a car boot sale. The desk is dark wood and heavy and there’s a couple of straight-backed chairs. My pride and joy is an old leather armchair that is exactly the right height. There are some bookshelves and I spent a wonderful afternoon years ago in a second-hand bookshop in a small seaside town buying lots of school textbooks from way back when. The room looks quite authentic, especially when you consider the umbrella stand I keep in one corner. My mortar-board cap and academic gown hangs there. As do five crook-handled canes of assorted lengths and thicknesses.
Snuffy loves to be a naughty schoolboy. I don’t know where he gets it from. The cane was abolished before he was born and in “real life” he has never seen a teacher in a cap and gown, but he craves to be summoned to the study. Sometimes we watch videos together before we get down to the action. You’ve probably seen some of these yourself, there’s plenty to choose from. The plots are usually the same. The boy is in the headmaster’s study. “Bend over that chair” and so on. I think Snuffy probably bases a lot of his private fantasies on these videos.
I have a collection of authentic school uniforms. I prefer Snuffy to wear long trousers, but often he likes to parade around in short trousers and knee socks. I admit he looks terrific, especially with those legs I told you about. I like to see Snuffy as an obstreperous sixth-former; eighteen years old and well in need of a caning. Of course, whether he wears long or short trousers becomes somewhat irrelevant when I order, “Lower your trousers Snuffy. Bend over that chair Snuffy!” Snuffy bulging in tight, sparkling white Y-fronts is a sight to behold.
The strangest thing happened last week. Snuffy was stopped by police in his car. He was over the drink-drive limit. Not by much, but that’s not the point. I was livid when he told me. “You could’ve had an accident. Killed a child.” I work in Brocklehurst General Hospital and I’ve seen things I don’t want to tell you about. Snuffy will have to go to court; he’ll get a fine and a driving ban, because that’s what everyone gets.
“It’s not enough,” I told him genuinely shocked at his behaviour. “What kind of punishment is that?” He stood before me a little abashed. Then, he smiled. He thought he knew where I was headed. “A flogging,” I said calmly. “A proper flogging.” His smile faded a little into puzzlement. It was the word I used that confused him. Flogging. It’s not one we use in our games. Spanking, yes. Beating, slippering, belting, caning; even thrashing. But not flogging. Flogging is something else. It’s not really a “corporal punishment” word. It’s more S&M.
I had read recently that back in the nineteen-hundreds in England magistrates ordered offenders to be birched. What had exercised the mind of the historian who wrote the book was that this penalty was for quite minor crimes and the usual tariff handed down was twenty-four strokes. I told Snuffy about this. “Of course,” I said, “they didn’t have drink-driving back then, but if they had …” I left the sentence unfinished, it was clear where I was going.
“I am truly disappointed in you,” I told Snuffy (and I was, this was no act). “You deserve more than a fine.” Snuffy was by now shuffling from one foot to another, it was one of the poses he adopted during our games. I had no idea if he was acting now or not. He knew what I was going to say before I got the words out. “I am going to birch you. Twenty-four strokes.” And then I added, in case Snuffy hadn’t got the point, “For real.”
Unlike the summary over-the-knee hand spanking a birching requires a lot of preparation. A birch rod has to be made to measure (you can’t simply buy one off the shelf.) I told Snuffy to return to my house at eight that evening. It would give me the time I needed. He did as he was told. I watched from the window as he climbed into his battered Mini and drove away. I wondered if he would ever return. We were entering uncharted territory. This was no longer a game. This was for real. Twenty-four strokes of the birch and without a safe-word that could make me stop.
I had work to do. I had to construct a birch. At the end of the street where I live is Widdicombe Wood and I could get what I needed there. Birches aren’t necessarily made from birch twigs; oftentimes hazel makes a better rod. There were plenty of hazel trees at Widdicombe. I didn’t care one jot if I was seen cutting branches. Let the neighbours say what they want about me. I was a man on a mission and within the hour I was back home. A birch rod is simple to make. I took eight twigs and whittled them to remove buds, then I trimmed so the longest was about three-feet long. Then I tied them with twine at one end making a fine handle. A birch rod is apt to splinter when thrashed against a rock-hard backside and might not survive twenty-four strokes, so I made a second to be on the safe side.
There was still an hour before Snuffy’s deadline to return. I paced the lounge like a caged animal constructing in my mind the scene that was soon to play out. Where should the punishment take place? I had no birching block for him to kneel on and no time to build one. There was no vaulting horse available (the preferred method of so many video birchings). Should I tie Snuffy down so that he couldn’t resist? What about a gag? If he screamed would the neighbours think a murder was taking place and call the cops?
I had read somewhere that back in the days when magistrates ordered the birch sentence was carried out in the local police station. I supposed they might simply get their victim to bend over a table. Or, to lay face down on the table top. I went to my study and tested the desk for strength by myself laying across it. If it could take my weight it would have no trouble with Snuffy. My problem was solved.
I retuned to the lounge and paced some more. I wondered if Snuffy would tun up. I had proposed a drastic punishment and intended to carry it out despite any protests he might make. This was for real. What happened next rested on Snuffy. If he returned, he would be flogged. If he chose not to come back that would be the end of our relationship. It was up to him.
Just before eight I heard the chugging noise from the clapped-out engine of Snuffy’s car. He had retuned. I watched furtively from the window as he climbed out of the tiny car offering me a delightful view of his tight, pert bum as he did so. He was dressed in dark brown corduroys and a t-shirt. My heart skipped and blood rushed to my cock at the sight.
We met in the lounge. After short pleasantries I reminded him of the fate that awaited. “I am sorry for drink-driving. It was wrong. I want to repent,” he said. Snuffy had obviously rehearsed this little speech. Repent! What kind of word was that. Usually, when I played the headmaster and he the schoolboy apology was good enough. Repent! I hoped he wasn’t showing me some hidden religious side of himself.
“Snuffy,” I almost growled. “It is time we went upstairs together.” His eyes glazed and his face paled a little, but he made no objection and he led the way. I had another delightful view of his arse as slowly he climbed the stairs with me only inches behind. In different circumstances I might have leant forward to sink my teeth into the firm flesh.
We went into my study. I had taken the precaution of removing the cap and gown and canes, I did not want this to look like a school scenario. This was to be a serious judicial flogging. I had left the two birch rods soaking in a metal bucket in the middle of the room and this was the first thing Snuffy saw as he entered. I saw his shoulders stiffen but he couldn’t stop staring at the two bundles of twigs that would soon take the skin off his backside.
I didn’t have much more to say. Having no police or prison officers’ uniform I had dressed myself in dark blue trousers and white shirt with a plain tie. It looked vaguely “authoritarian” and would have to do. I lectured him a little and reminded him of his crime. “Your sentence is twenty-four strokes of the birch,” I intoned. “Take down your trousers and underwear and climb on top of the desk.” It was a straightforward instruction that I expected to be obeyed.
Snuffy is a sensible boy, he knows when his fate is sealed. With what I thought were remarkably steady hands he unbuckled the belt to his corduroy trousers and then released the button on his waistband. It was a simple task from there to pull the metal zipper. The front of his trousers flapped open offering me the delightful vision of his semi-erect cock bulging against very tight bright-blue briefs. The weight of the corduroy and the belt and I suppose keys or whatnot in his pockets had the trousers slipping down his thighs. They snagged at the knees but Snuffy, who appeared entirely at ease, stooped and pushed them down so they fell onto his feet.
I had not ordered that Snuffy should take the trousers off completely but he took it upon himself to kick off his shoes to facilitate the smooth passage of his trousers onto the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up and tidy them away. Instead, in one complete vigorous movement, he then hitched his thumbs inside the waist of those tight underpants and dragged them down his legs. He gave an almost contemptuous kick to send them flying across the floor. His penis was by now rock-hard. It gave him no embarrassment to see it straining upwards towards the ceiling. I had seen him erect many times before of course. Even so, saliva drained from my mouth at the sight.
Snuffy had by now taken complete control. He reached to the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, the muscles on his stomach and chest rippled. Now he stood before me completely naked. You don’t need me to tell you that my own cock was bursting against my underpants. Snuffy threw the shirt to the ground and without even a glance in my direction, he climbed onto the desk. As he lay flat he used his left hand to maneuver his stiff cock so that it was fattened under his body. All the time I swished the birch rod gently through the air. What water drops that had clung to the twigs had by now dispersed.
Snuffy stretched his arms forward and took hold of the far side of the desk. This made the muscles in his back tense. He turned his feet so that they were splayed which in turn tightened the sinews in his legs. His bottom was flat (in the same way it was when he stood). Like this the milk-white, tight buttocks were tiny; no more than two pimples.
While Snuffy appeared calm and collected, I was not. My fists whitened as I gripped the handle of the birch rod. I could feel the sweat on my palms sticking. My heartrate was off the scale and I could not get rid of an annoying buzzing noise in my ears. I knew if I didn’t get on with this I might conceivably fall to the floor in a dead faint; or worse suffer a stroke. I positioned myself close to the table alongside Snuffy’s prostrate body. I gently brushed the birch across the highest point of his bum. I knew of course that a birch laid on with power could rip an arse to shreds. If I gave Snuffy twenty-four strokes like that his bottom would become raw, blooded meat. That was not my intention, nor, I believed, could it have been the intention of the magistrates back in the Edwardian era. There was a difference between punishment and torture.
I tapped the birch across Snuffy’s bottom. The muscles in his back tensed and his bottom quivered. He was preparing himself for the shock of the first stroke. I raised the rod about three feet above his rear end and swished it down. Snuffy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. I saw him clamp his jaws shut. I can’t be sure if this was to stifle a yell. I thwacked down a second stroke and he made a noise like the air released from a balloon, his fists bunched tightly, and he gasped loudly.
Snuffy was not tied down so he could (had he wanted to) have jumped from the desk and danced round the room howling. He did not. Instead, after a second or two had passed, he bravely clutched hold of the desk’s edge. He was telling me he was ready for the next stroke. I very much admired his fortitude.
“Feeling this, aren’t you lad?” It was a stupid thing for me to say but it did elicit the reply, “Yes, Sir. Yes I am,” which was an equally obvious statement. I continued birching and Snuffy flailed about and moaned impotently. He twitched, sniffed and quivered as I flayed his tight bottom with much slashing and swooping.
By now the floor around me was covered in scraps of hazel twigs. I tossed it to one side and reached for the substitute. I violently shook the water from it. I could hear air rushing out of Snuffy. He was grinding his molars and his jaw probably ached, but not half as much as his arse. He wriggled and writhed but nonetheless maintained his self-discipline. Not one square inch of his buttock area was unblemished. My birch was not excessively heavy and I did not want to draw blood if I could possibly avoid it. Whiteish welts had risen and grazes and bruises covered the whole area. It was red raw as boiling blood raced beneath the skin.
Twenty-four strokes of the birch even moderately laid on can do tremendous damage. Snuffy’s rear-end was corrugated and glowered bright red. In places it looked like raw hamburger meat. I had never beaten him so severely this before. I don’t suppose anyone had. He lay gasping, twitching, still clutching the edge of the desk. His eyes glowed brightly, tears soaked his face but he was not sobbing. I suppose the tears were a natural reaction to the agony he must be feeling. A person might shed tears if he accidentally hit his thumb with a hammer.
“Sentence delivered,” I said, unsure what I was supposed to say at a time like this. He continued to twitch. “Stand up, Snuffy.” He was obviously in great pain as he slid his body off the desk and tried, and failed, to stand steadily. He gripped the desk for support and arched his back as if that somehow eased the pain. His bum, usually so beautiful, looked as if had swollen to twice its normal size. It had the appearance of rotten orange peel.
Eventually, he regained some composure and stood to face me. I fished a tube of antiseptic cream from the desk drawer but before I treated his wounds, I slumped to my knees and took his raging cock into the back of my throat.
Picture credit: Helen Upton
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second