The interview

new story 2

There were four boys sitting on individual cheap wooden, fold-up chairs. They stared down at the heavily scuffed plastic floor tiles beneath their feet. That was when they were not training their eyes at the door with its peeling white paint two metres in front of them. They pretended to one another they were unconcerned by the muffled voices and the unmistakable sounds on the other side of that door.

The boys did not speak. They had hardly acknowledged each other’s presence from the moment they arrived. Leon who sat at one end of the row could scarcely believe he was there at all. Sneakily, he observed his companions. He recognised one of them. He was one year ahead of him at the university. You couldn’t miss the fellow. When he stood he towered over six feet four. He was thin and wiry but it was his bright blue Mohican haircut that distinguished him. A twenty-something punk rocker born thirty years too late.

The other two had little about them worthy of comment. Leon supposed it was their very ordinariness that made them valuable. They could have been the boy next door. Young, dressed smart-casual. The junior in the accounts department at work on his night off. Clean. Mohican Boy was restless. He rolled from one skinny buttock to the other, unable to get comfortable on the chair. A sound like a pistol crack from behind the door froze Mohican Boy. Leon watched him closely, trying to read his mind. It wasn’t difficult. Second thoughts. Mohican Boy was having doubts. Why was he here? Did he need this?

The white door with the peeling paint edged open. Mohican Boy’s eyes widened. The horror. He stumbled from his chair, knocking it over on to its back in his haste to get to the stairs and escape. Leon watched him go. The other two boys stared down at their feet. Another young man emerged from the room. If Leon had to give him a score, he would place him half way between the Boys Next Door and Mohican Boy. He wore his ripped blue jeans a little too snugly. The t-shirt was tight, leaving nothing to the imagination; it made him look like a rent boy.

The new boy smiled weakly in the general direction of his three companions, but did not speak before he too headed for the stairs. The door remained open. Seconds later the greying head of a middle-aged man looked out. “Leon Brown?” He said it like he was asking a question, not stating a fact. Leon’s mouth dried suddenly so he could only croak “Here” by way of response. He felt like a small boy answering the class register at school. The man smiled. It was a genuine, warm smile. “You’re next. Please come in,” then addressing the Boys Next Door, he added, equally as warmly, “We won’t keep you waiting much longer. I promise.”

The smell of sour beer hit Leon when he entered the room. He could see beat-up tables stacked against one wall. Wooden chairs were piled against another. At the far end there was a bar with crates of empty bottles on its top. It was the club room of the Three Fishers pub. The man took a chair behind a trestle table alongside a slightly older man. It was that man who spoke. “Sit down, please. Thank you for coming.” Leon had been told it would be a formal interview. The sort you would have for any job. Afterall, he had been told, that’s what this was really. Just a job like any other.

Leon sat, but the fold-up chair was not comfortable. He wriggled a little. The man waited until Leon was settled and then spoke. “My name’s Mr Hennessey.” Leon could hear the inverted commas being inserted around the name. “Is your name really Leon Brown?” he asked and before Leon had a chance to answer, he went on, “People use aliases all the time. That’s fine. In fact many of our clients like to give the boys names. You’ll be surprised how popular that kid from The Dudes pop group is.”

Leon blustered, confirmed his name. Mr Hennessey smiled, it seemed a genuine smile too. It put Leon at ease. “We run a legitimate business here, we need national insurance numbers. Good?”

Mr Hennessey didn’t wait for an answer. “You were recommended by one of my boys.” He stated.  Leon knew this. It was Timothy, his friend at the university. He had been remarkably candid. The money was fantastic, he said. It took a month at the pizza house to earn what Mr Hennessey paid in a night. What if the job was a bit unusual. Hadn’t he gone to university so he could have new experiences? There’s nothing to be ashamed about. But, best not brag about it. Not everyone will understand.

Mr Hennessey had a business to run. There were other boys besides Leon to interview. He pressed on with his questions. “Have you ever done anything like this before?” Timothy had prepped Leon well. He knew how to answer. Be honest. Leon cleared his throat and replied, “No.” Mr Hennessey listened carefully to each of Leon’s answers but at no point did he write down a note. “Have you ever been spanked?” Again the answer was negative. “Not even in fun: by a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.” Timothy had already told him that most of Mr Hennessey’s boys were straight. This wasn’t a “gay thing.” This was strictly business. Timothy had giggled over the word “strictly”. None of the boys, he knew did this for kicks.

Mr Hennessey didn’t have many questions. He reckoned he was a good judge of boys. He wanted sensible, reliable types. That’s why he took so many from Brocklehurst University. They were kids with futures, they weren’t trying to finance drug habits.

“Well, Leon,” Mr Hennessey’s bright blue eyes transfixed on Leon. There’s only one last thing we need to do.” He stood up from the table, took hold of his chair and carried it forward. He put it down in the middle of the room and sat on it. “I can’t employ time-wasters, you do understand that, don’t you Leon?” Leon felt his face flush. He was a boy who easily embarrassed. His face was glowing scarlet.

“I have to be certain that you can deliver the goods,” Mr Hennessey spoke calmly. He was a professional, he had done this dozens of times before. “I can’t send you to a client and have you let them down at the last moment. Now can I?” he smiled. “So, Let me test you out. I need you to come over here, take down your trousers and bend yourself across my knee.” He slapped his hand across his own thigh to emphasise the point.

Leon’s heart thumped against his rib cage. Timothy had told him this would happen. He had to pass an audition before he was good to go. Leon rose unsteadily from his chair. Mr Hennessey spread his legs a little, creating a platform for Leon to bend across. Leon paused, for a second the absurdity of the situation hit him. Here he was an eighteen-year-old university student about to take down his trousers and offer up his bum to a middle-aged stranger so that he could spank it. And, if Leon performed his part of the bargain well, he would be doing something similar – and much more besides – every week of the year probably until he graduated from university. Madness, he admonished himself gently. You couldn’t make it up.

He stood a short distance from Mr Hennessey’s right thigh. He daren’t catch his eye, he was terrified he might burst out laughing. Leon fumbled with his belt and the waistband of his trousers. His brain was good to go, but it didn’t seem able to persuade his fingers to get with the plan. At last the trousers were at his shins.

Leon hadn’t told Mr Hennessey the strict truth earlier. He had been spanked before. Timothy had taken him through a trial run. A kind of mock examination ahead of the real thing. Leon sucked on his bottom lip, counted to five silently in his head and fell forward across Mr Hennessey’s knee. He placed the palms of his hands into scratched plastic floor tiles with his nose centimetres from the ground. Behind him his knees were bent and his toes hovered in mid-air. He couldn’t see but his bottom was presented at an angle over Mr Hennessey’s right thigh. Leon tried without success to stem his beating heart.

Mr Hennessey was a businessman, he knew boys’ bums came in all shapes and sizes. Beauty was in the eye of the beholder. Fat-bottomed boys could make him as much money as the thin, pert guys. He cupped his left hand and gently caressed Leon’s right cheek. It fitted perfectly into his palm. This was something special. “Keep perfectly still,” he whispered. Leon tensed. It was a natural reaction by his body; there was nothing he could do about it. “Relax, son,” Mr Hennessey cooed as he continued patting and preening Leon’s cheeks.

Slap!. Leon didn’t expect the intensity of the sting. Within seconds Mr Hennessey had covered the whole of his bottom with sharp, biting spanks. Then he went for Leon’s naked thighs. Timothy had never spanked him like this. Leon’s legs kicked and his shoulders heaved. It was like he was trying to swim off Mr Hennessey’s lap. He wriggled his waist this way and that, but Mr Hennessey wrapped his arm around Leon’s waist and gripped him tightly. The eighteen-year-old was going nowhere – not until his master said so.

z used otk pants chair domestic sting (2a) (2)

Mr Hennessey toasted every square centimetre of Leon’s bum. It felt like he had pressed a facecloth of boiling water into the cheeks. At last Mr Hennessey halted his assault. Leon lay face down gasping, taking deep gulps of air. He was like a beached dolphin. He felt Mr Hennessey release his grip around his waist. “Thank God! That’s over,” Leon thought silently.

Suddenly, Mr Hennessey gripped the elasticated waistband of Leon’s pants. The boy wriggled in defiance. It did him no good. With three tugs Mr Hennessey had bared the buttocks and left the pants snagged around Leon’s knees. “NO!!!” Leon wailed, kicking his legs ferociously. Seconds passed. Leon stopped kicking and Mr Hennessey once more caressed the boy’s (now naked) bottom. “Are you certain you want me to stop Leon?” Mr Hennessey spoke gently. It was Leon’s call. Mr Hennessey knew that with his beautiful bum Leon would be a star. Clients would pay a premium for him. But, if Leon could not deliver the goods, he was no good to Mr Hennessey. There was nothing to be gained by forcing him.

“Let me up. Please,” Leon pleaded. Mr Hennessey immediately released his grip and Leon staggered to his feet. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” he wailed, as he pulled his pants up. “Sorry.” It was all he could think to say. He had let Mr Hennessey down. He could not deliver. He thought he could, but he couldn’t.

“That’s quite all right, Leon,” Mr Hennessey picked up the chair and replaced it behind the table. “This type of work doesn’t suit everybody. Thank you so much for coming.” The other man rose and led Leon to the door.

As he passed the Boys Next Door Leon whispered, “Good luck,” and headed down the stairs. What a day it had been. His humiliation was total. What a wimp. Eighteen years old and couldn’t even take a bare-bottomed spanking. How could he ever face Timothy again?

 

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories with Mr Hennessey’s Boys are here

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Meet the Greenes

new story 2

z used Geene Cassell's Sat Jour

My story today takes place in a typical English village, not far from London. The year is 1926, it is early summer and therefore the sun shines constantly. The Greenes are a typical middle-class family of the time. Mr Greene is a middling stockbroker and commutes to town on the 8.35 train each morning. Mrs Greene does not work. Their eldest son Roger is aged eighteen and recently completed an undistinguished career at St. Tom’s, an elite boarding school situated at the other end of the country. Their only daughter Emily is sixteen and soon to attend a secretarial college so she may be gainfully employed until her marriage. Their youngest Billy is eight years old. His unexpected arrival in the Greene family relatively late in her life is considered by Mrs Greene to be a gift from God. The family are served by a housekeeper, assisted by a maid.

There was disharmony this morning in the Greene household. Mr Greene as usual sat at the breakfast table hiding from his family behind the Morning Post newspaper. He was enjoying his second round of toast when he was disturbed by Roger.

“Father, you must do something about him! It cannot go on like this,” Roger stood in the doorway a towel hanging limply around his shoulders. There was a smear of white cream on his face. “Look what he’s done now!” the boy positively wailed.

Mr Greene ignored his son’s histrionics. Such behaviour often worked, but it would seem not this day. Roger was determined, “He swapped my shaving cream with tennis shoe polish. Look!” He thrust his chin forward and theatrically pointed to it.

His father’s silence encouraged Roger to continue. “It’s not the first time he’s played stupid pranks,” he started confidently and then trailed off. At that precise moment he couldn’t recall any actual pranks Billy had committed, but he felt sure there must be many. Thankfully for him he remembered some of Billy’s other misdeeds. “He smashed the conservatory window with a tomahawk. Did you hear what he did to Mrs Mulholland’s cat. He dressed it up as a pirate.”

Mr Greene had heard enough. “Enough!” he snapped. He did not like his early morning rituals to be disturbed. Roger was not to be silenced. “You know what you should do,” Roger wiped the cream from his face with his towel, “You should give him a jolly good spanking, that’s what you should do.”

Mr Greene’s face darkened. He sighed and carefully folded his newspaper and dramatically threw it down on the table. Roger hesitated. He knew better than to incur his father’s wrath. “This cannot go on father, it just can’t. Look at me,” Roger sniffled as he turned on his heels and stormed off back to his room.

The maid appeared and began clearing away the breakfast things. Mr Greene took the newspaper under his arm and went into the hall in search of his hat. He was relieved to find it where he had left it the previous evening. This time Billy had not used it in a game of pirates. Quietly, Mr Greene left the house for the five minute stroll to the station, pleased to be away from the madhouse for a few hours.

It was two days later that Roger discovered his favourite tennis racquet was missing. William had taken it without permission to use in some confounded game involving an attack on an imaginary castle somewhere (of all places) in the Scottish Highlands. When Roger eventually reclaimed the racquet two of its strings were broken.

Roger was a boy whose character had been forged by his social class. His father had spent a small fortune for him to receive an education suited to the son of an English gentleman. If he had learned one thing at St. Tom’s it was that senior boys ruled the juniors. It might be said that they dominated them if not with a rod of iron than at least a rod of rattan. If Billy behaved that way at St. Tom’s he should soon find himself in the prefect’s room, aesthetically bent over a hard wooden chair while a senior boy twice his size lashed six strokes into his stretched bottom. He’d be jolly lucky if his short trousers were not bunched at his ankles while this went on.

One day, like father and brother, Billy would be sent away to St. Tom’s. They would teach him some manners, Roger knew. In fact, he decided it would benefit his little brother if he learnt today that actions had consequences. Roger’s father kept no cane in the house (unlike many in the village who did) but his mother had a rather fine hairbrush with a heavy head made of ebony. Roger put this to good use.

Billy was his mummy’s little boy and Roger’s action was soon reported. Later that evening upon his return from the tennis club the maid delivered a message. “Report to your father in the drawing room.”

They say an Englishman’s home is his castle.  The English man might deceive himself of this. As any family man knows it is the English woman who rules. Mrs Greene’s outrage was palpable. “How could he?” she intoned, “To little Billy.” Since Mr Greene had no newspaper handy to hide behind he was required to take the fall force of his wife’s anger. “What are you going to do about it?”

Mr Greene knew what he would like to do, but he did not share his thoughts with Mrs Greene. Billy was a terror and his wife allowed him to run wild. Even so, it was not Roger’s place to punish the boy. Indeed, something would have to be done. Even if justice was not particularly served well by it.

So it was that Roger attended his father’s summons in the drawing room. The room was mostly considered out-of-bounds to the Greene children. It was a sanctuary for the adults. It was a well furnished room with plump armchairs and a traditional leather Chesterfield couch. A fire (lit despite the warm weather) dominated one wall and french windows led into the garden. There was a glass-fronted bookcase hiding dusty volumes by Dickens and Thackeray. Mr Greene sat in one of the armchairs, his pipe rested on a small table nearby. A copy of the Evening Star was on his knee.

“You wanted to see me father,” Roger spoke nervously. He had never been summoned before. His father looked imperious in these surroundings and Roger felt underdressed in his tennis shorts and white jumper. Carefully, Mr Greene folded his newspaper, he was obsessed with neatness.

“Your mother tells me,” he began and recounted the conversation with Mrs Greene. He spoke quietly and calmly although inside he struggled to control his anger. “Damn stupid boy,” he thought, “Why can’t he leave well alone?”

Roger stood a little embarrassed. It felt like he was in his housemaster’s study getting a wigging for some misdemeanour committed during prep. Once his father had finished jawing him, Roger said, “I thought he deserved it.”

The explosion of anger frightened him. Mr Greene could contain himself no longer. “You thought! You thought!” he roared. “It wasn’t your place to think!” He half raised from the chair, Roger retreated, fearing his father was about to strike him with his fist. Mr Greene slumped back. “I make the decisions in this house,” he wheezed, gasping to catch his breath, “And don’t you forget that.” He pointed his index finger threateningly.

Roger hovered a safe distance from his father. His own heart was racing and he felt certain his face blushed scarlet. He had never seen his father so angry. He hopped from foot to foot uncertain what he was supposed to say or do. He soon discovered his father was in charge.

“I won’t have it Roger. Not in my house. I decide the rules. I decide the punishments.” As he spoke he slowly raised himself from the armchair so that he now stood face to face with his son. The eighteen-year-old was an inch or two shorter than Mr Greene. The boy had a clear complexion, fair (almost blond) hair and bright hazel eyes. He took after his mother. Mr Greene in contrast was stocky with dark hair, greying at the temples. It was slicked down with oil. As befitting a moderately successful stockbroker his waist had thickened in recent years and his number of chins had doubled. He was an imposing figure and Roger recoiled.

“Won’t have it,” Mr Greene repeated softly, as if speaking to himself. He moved slowly across the room and Roger nervously watched him. He halted by a small occasional table. Roger caught his breath, then bit down on his bottom lip. His father picked up the heavy wooden hairbrush, the very same that Roger had borrowed from his mother.

People who knew him would not immediately call Roger a bright boy; indeed he could be exceedingly dim-witted at times. That said, he understood immediately his father’s intentions. Mr Greene gripped the hairbrush in his right fist and brandished it at Roger. “Won’t have it,” he said again and shook his head making his chins and jowls wobble. He squinted around the room as if noticing it for the first time. His eyes alighted on a wooden chair. It was part of a set that belonged with a dining room table. It was ornately carved and had a plush padded seat but no arms. It was ideal for his purposes.

It was lighter than it looked and Mr Greene had no difficulty picking it up and placing it in the middle of the room. All the time Roger stared impassively. In his mind he was transported to St. Tom’s where boys, even senior sixth-formers, routinely bent across chairs to offer up their bottoms to the ravages of the whippy cane. He fully expected that at any moment he would be assuming a similar position for his father.

The old man sat on the chair and wriggled around until he was comfortable. “Come here, Roger.” He spoke softly and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him. Roger had been well educated, he was a little puzzled but he did as instructed. He stood in front of his father, so close he could smell the tobacco smoke on his clothes and the remains of steak-and-kidney pudding on his breath. “A little to the right please,” Mr Greene took his son’s arm and shoved him. Roger was now standing by his father’s side.

“Take down your tennis shorts and underwear and bend over my knee.” He gripped the hairbrush tightly as if there was any doubt about his intentions. An audible gasp escaped Roger’s lips. His jaw dropped. He thought about a protest, but what could he say? “Take down my shorts. And drawers. Bend over your knee. For a spanking. On the bare bottom. Like a little boy. I’m eighteen, not eight.” In truth, there was nothing Roger could say. His father was in control. It was his castle. He could require Roger to do anything he pleased and the boy had no choice (none at all) but to obey.

His face burned scarlet as with trembling hands he loosened the waist of his white, cotton tennis shorts. He hesitated before letting them fall to his knees; suddenly conscious that in a moment he would be standing in front of his father naked from the waist down with his Manhood on full display. An irritated “Bah!” exploded from his father and now fearful of further retribution for disobedience Roger unbuttoned his woollen drawers and pushed them down.

He stood, his long, thin Manhood dangling. Roger cupped his hands over it. His father looked at it with disinterest. If it embarrassed him to see his son like this he hid it well. Roger could not be so stoic. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt, his temples throbbed; he had never suffered such humiliation. “Get over,” his father gripped Roger’s left elbow and forcefully guided him so that he fell face-down over his lap. Roger who was no stranger to corporal punishment (what boy at St. Tom’s could be?) nevertheless had never been in this position. Across the knee of an older man, submissively waiting to be spanked. He spread his arms out in front of him to keep himself balanced across his father’s lap and instinctively pressed the palms of his hands into the expensive carpet. His knees were crooked and his legs dangled in the air. His head was so low he could smell the dust in the Axminster. He could not see this himself, but in such a position his bottom was now resting at an angle against his father’s right thigh, perfectly placed to be spanked with father’s hairbrush.

Mr Greene was a man of few words. Many at the stockbroker’s office in town might say he was a man of action. He didn’t talk much; he just got on with it. So it was that evening. Satisfied that the boy was submissive, Mr Greene took hold of Roger’s tennis shirt and pushed it further up his back and away from the target area. He wrapped his own left arm around Roger’s waist to make sure he wouldn’t topple. Then, he raised the heavy ebony hairbrush and tanned the boy’s backside. Good and hard.

The head of the brush was oval shaped and relatively large, especially when compared to Roger’s small, tight cheeks. He played a lot of tennis and his buttock and leg muscles were athletically honed. Many of the girls (and one or two of the men also) at the club greatly admired Roger’s bottom. Mr Greene’s hairbrush quickly turned the creamy-white, hairless cheeks a delightful shade of rosy pink. They glowed after the first dozen or so spanks. They glistened with perspiration. Roger who had developed a high threshold of pain at school remained mostly silent. Audible gasps were heard when Mr Greene pounded the brush into the backs of Roger’s naked thighs. The boys legs whirled and flailed: it was the body’s natural reaction to all the pain.

The dark pink was complemented by blotches of purple. There was little flesh on Roger’s backside to absorb the constant battering. Mr Greene was encouraged in his efforts by the patterns of the brush’s oval head that were repeated over and over across his bottom. They were particularly visible across the thighs.

Mr Greene had not set a stopwatch; he did not know for how long he spanked his irritating son. Nor did he count the number of wallops he delivered. He only stopped when it was clear that not a single square inch of the boy’s bum and thighs had been left un-scorched. He had to stop then; he simply had nowhere else to go. He hammered home another six whacks for good luck and released his arm from the boy’s waist. Roger lay face down gulping for air, his legs had stopped kicking. He resembled a beached dolphin. He stared down at the carpet waiting for his heart to calm down. His bum felt like his father had forced him to sit in the open fire.

“Stand up.” As soon as Roger was on his feet his father walked across the room to return the brush to the table. He deliberately kept his back turned to his son; he was not a cruel man, he suspected the boy would want to rub away at his aching cheeks. When he turned back Roger was once again dressed in his shorts.

“You should go now,” he told his son. Roger nodded his agreement. He was a thoroughly beaten young man. The pain in his backside was excruciating. And more than that, he had been totally humiliated. He shuffled toward the door. When he reached it, he tuned to face his father again. He had forgotten his manners. “Thank you father,” he croaked. His father nodded, embarrassed. Roger was about the depart when over his father’s shoulder and through the french windows he spotted young Billy wearing a pirate’s hat and carrying a wooden cutlass. Billy stared at Roger. Never in the history of the whole world could a boy have sported such a broad, cheeky grin.

 

Picture credit: Cassell’s Saturday Journal

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A memory in the attic

new story 2

z used retro twosome one pyjamas domestic - A Weber Brams (2a)

“Granddad! Granddad!” It was Christine calling from the other room, “Look what I’ve found. It’s you I know it is!”

My heart sank. What now! Why couldn’t she just leave me alone. She hurried into the room clutching a small photograph in her hand. Another piece of treasure, or so she thought. She had taken upon herself to clear out the attic space in my house. Clutter, she called it. All the stuff I had accumulated over a lifetime. Stuff I hadn’t seen in years – decades, maybe – and frankly, had no desire ever to see again.

“Look,” she beamed handing me the picture. “It is you isn’t it.” I took it in an unsteady hand and peered intently. It showed two young men, one formally dressed in a collar and tie seated at an expensive upholstered chair. The other stood over him, dressed in pyjamas. They both were staring at something that was not in the picture but at the other end of the room.

“Is it you? It is!” Why was Christine so damned pleased to have found this picture? I wasn’t. I think it sent a shudder through my body, I can’t be certain because I get all kinds of aches and pains at my age; it could have been anything.

I recognised the setting immediately. It was a rooming house I lived in while at university. Christine was correct, it was me; but the more I stared at the picture the less certain I was which of the two young men I was: they (we) almost looked identical. We might have been brothers; twins even. We had our hair cut in a way that was fashionable among young men of our type at the time; it was smeared away from the forehead with brilliantine. The grease made our hair seem more blond than it actually was. We both had high cheekbones with clear open and healthy-looking faces. We looked (as we were) like a couple who had never had to do a day’s hard work in their lives.

At my age I can’t always remember what I ate for breakfast that morning but my memories from sixty-plus years ago are as clear as a bell. The closer I studied the photograph the clearer my memory became. I was the fellow in the pyjamas. My companion seated on the chair was Harcourt Llewelyn (how could one forget a name like that?). In the photograph we seem to look older than we were; we couldn’t have been quite twenty when it was taken.

“Who is he? Where was it taken?” Christine was full of questions. I shivered again and playing for time since I had no intention of satisfying her infernal curiosity I took the picture and first held it to the sunlight streaming from the nearby french windows then I screwed up my eyes tight and squinted at it. “No idea. Never seen it before,” I said and then to deflect attention I asked, “Where did you find it?”

I knew Christine would give me the most detailed account of the circumstances of her find: which box it was in, where the box had been stored and on and on. She duly obliged and as her piercing, and frankly extremely irritating voice whined on, my thoughts travelled back sixty or so years.

The boarding house was run by a Mrs Greening who had a long-standing relationship with the university. All her “guests” as she insisted on calling the lodgers were students. Perhaps I should explain to any readers who have been students at university at any time in the past forty years or so that these were very different times. We might have been twenty years old but we were certainly not considered adults. The college was for males only and the same of course went for the rooming house. We lived to very strict rules and were required to live lives of the utmost propriety. Chaps who frequented public houses or were known to consort with young ladies of a certain repute soon found themselves “sent down” from the university.

Mrs Greening’s husband Freeman took it upon himself to be our moral compass. He would say that since we were not yet legally adults he would act in loco parentis – which in his mind meant he took the place of our fathers. In the event, since all his guests were former public school men who had spent their formative years at elite boarding schools and away from their homes, he might better have described himself as our housemaster.

Harcourt and I became firm friends and neither of us had much interest in our studies and spent much of our time idling around town. Of course, you can only get away with this for so long. Soon, my tutor hauled me into his study for a wigging. As I recall he was an unworldly kind of a man who would never be interested in the delights of town; not even one so lacking in immorality as Brocklehurst. He cared little about my needs and desires, his only concern was that I should complete my essays and pass through the university without blemishing his own record as a teacher. He was (I think now) also a bit of a coward. Certainly, he disliked any kind of confrontation. I think that is why, rather than deal with my idleness himself, he reported my behaviour to Freeman Greening.

Greening had a high opinion of himself and his place as a leader in God’s university. This was undoubtedly encouraged by the House of the Sacred Light, a church (of sorts) that demanded the utmost obedience to its teachings. He also enjoyed the authority of the university and once my tutor referred my case to him he undoubtedly had carte blanche to deal with the matter as he saw fit.

Should I have been surprised by the course of action he took? Not really. As I have said these were different times, we lived by different standards. As I look at the photograph now I remember that it had once been larger, that is using the technical term it has been “cropped” to edit out other unwanted detail. I don’t remember if other persons have been cut out but I do know that if you follow the eyeline of Harcourt and myself we are looking towards a large glass-fronted mahogany bookcase and shelves. Chief in my memory is the cupboard with double-doors next to that. It was always kept locked and as far as I knew the only key to it resided at all times upon Mr Greening’s person.

It was one evening in March that I discovered what was kept inside. We had dined and the guests were sent to their rooms to study. As I moved away from the table to join them Mrs Greening caught my attention. “Mr Greening wishes to see you,” she said not even trying to hide the pleasure speaking the words gave her, “in the library.” Then she bustled away to give the cook and housemaid a hard time over nothing at all. The library. That was one of the couple’s many pretensions. In other houses it would be a lounge or (at a pinch) a drawing room. The only books in this library were leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare and a dictionary, the only human hands that touched them were the maids’ who dusted them.

Mr Greening stood with his back to the open, roaring fire warming his bottom. As I entered the room he placed his hands behind his back and took a stance that he imagined made him look magisterial. “Come in Hamilton,” he droned. He waggled his head and his jowls wobbled. “Stand there boy.” I had not been warned by my tutor that he would report me but at that moment as I shuffled to the spot on the rug indicated to me I knew my fate.

Mr Greening confirmed it with a short lecture about my behaviour. I nodded in places that I thought appropriate. I had no intention of arguing with him. I was guilty of the crimes he outlined. I knew he had the authority of the university on his side. Mr Greening liked the sound of his own voice and extracted all that he could from my visit. He enjoyed his sense of moral superiority. I determined not to give him additional satisfaction and when the time came for me to speak I apologised. “It won’t happen again,” I added knowing that these were empty words and that Harcourt and I would be on the town the very next day.

Mr Greening grunted, “Won’t happen again.” His flabby, florid face turned a darker shade of red. “We shall most certainly ensure that it won’t happen again.” He shook his head again, his jowls trembled and his many chins wobbled. Then, unsteadily on his feet, he shambled across the room. He paused and extracting every last ounce of performance from the occasion he thrust his hand in his pocket and I saw his fist clenching and quivering. At last he found a small key on a ring and with a trembling hand he made several attempts before finally getting it into the lock. He hesitated (I believe for dramatic effect) before swinging the door open. He stood to one side ensuring that I could get an uninterrupted view of the cupboard’s contents.

Had I been thirteen years old and new to the rigours of an English public school education I might have gasped with horror at the sight. My heart might pound with fear. Tears might flood from my eyes.  Had I been thirteen that might have happened. However, I was probably twenty years old at this time; I felt I had seen it all before. In fact, Mr Greening proved to me that I hadn’t. Even at St. Tom’s where the infliction of corporal punishment was a daily routine no master had a collection of implements quite like Mr Greening. There were several straps of differing lengths, widths and thicknesses. A taws with two fingers worn with age and use hung from a hook alongside a couple of wooden paddles. A white plimsoll lay on a shelf. But, what impressed me most was the impressive range of whippy canes; many undoubtedly made of rattan, but some (even from a distance) I discerned were the denser Malacca kind.

Mr Greening wheezed heavily when he leaned into the cupboard to inspect his toys more closely. Did saliva drip from his chin as he took up one cane after another and tested it lovingly between his hands? Surely there was no reason to do this; he would have been very well acquainted with the properties of every instrument in that cupboard. He was a connoisseur, of that I could have no doubt.

At last he decided on a traditional school-type cane. It was a little longer and maybe thicker, but with the typical crook handle, than the one my housemaster used on me as he drove me in my studies. Sweat moistened his forehead and his complexion was now puce as he turned to face me with the thing in his hand. He swiped it through the air and it travelled with menace. It would without doubt deliver a tremendous flogging. I stood my heart pounding (you have no control of it in such circumstances) but outwardly I was calm. Mr Greening would have his way with me. There was nothing I could do, not if I wished to stay at the university. Even though I cared little for my studies I knew my father expected me to come down with a degree. He already had a career lined up for me. I would not let him down.

Mr Greening wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The open fire roared but the room was always draughty and it wasn’t that warm. I saw him lick his lips and then he coughed to clear his throat. “Please bare your backside and put yourself across the back of that chair.”

So it was to be bare-arsed. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not with Mr Greening and his moral posturing. I should expect nothing less. I was (I am) an old St. Tom’s man and if there was anything I learned at school it was to take your punishment. No fuss. You get caught, the master jaws you for a bit, he orders you to bend over, over you go, he beats you, you stand up, you shake hands, you leave and the world carries on as before.

I had learned well. Students in those days dressed as Harcourt had in the photograph, we could have been young businessmen. I lowered my flannels and as I sported fashionable woollen drawers (rather than the one-piece combinations our fathers wore) I was able to bare my buttocks with ease. The chair he indicated was the very one in the photograph and its back was a very good height for a young man of my size to bend across. I took hold of my neck tie and hooked it over my shoulder before diving over. Once back at school I had almost choked myself when my tie caught between my body and the chair in such a position.

The chair was constructed mainly of soft cushions and my weight sank into them. Without awaiting instructions from Mr Greening I pushed my head low, parted my feet and raised my bottom high. This way I ensured he had a terrific target to aim at. The floorboards creaked when Mr Greening positioned himself behind me. I felt his hot breath against my naked buttocks as he leant in to take hold of my shirt tail and drag it halfway up my back and out of the way. Once that was done he gently laid the cane just below the centre of my bum where the cheeks fold into the thighs. His wheezing reached a crescendo when he sawed the rod across my bum.

The sound of the crack of cane against my taut flesh resounded off the walls. At first I felt nothing and then excruciating agony. My head rose with the shock and I had to grip hard the soft cushion to stop myself leaping from the chair and dancing across the floor. I had been caned before many (many) times but nothing had prepared me for Mr Greening’s cruelty.

He cracked the cane down so hard I thought my backside would come off. He made true the ancient schoolboy saying, “He took my arse off.” He was intense.

A second lash quickly followed and although it was stinging it was just about bearable. The third stroke changed that and it was like he had forced me sit on the open fire. The next three were the most excruciating strokes I had ever felt. I was contorting about like a cat on heat, gasping for breath as the inferno built up.

He gave me a dozen in all. The last five just had me bouncing around, screaming in pain. Tears were pouring down my face. I felt as if I was being cut to ribbons. The cane had caught me on my thigh and one had come close to catching my balls. At last I was allowed to get up. My hands flew round and I went into a panic as I felt my backside was full of crisscross welts. The flogging had hurt more than I could have imagined. My bum was raw and painful and the fire was raging fiercely.

I hopped around, stomped my feet like a soldier on sentry duty, my body doubled like a hairgrip. I couldn’t get my breath. I wanted to vomit, I hawked but nothing came up. Mr Greening smiled thinly, he was having breathing problems of his own.

I cannot remember exactly what happened next, but moments later I was back in my room. I do remember that. Had Harcourt carried me up from the library? I was face down on the bed, my trousers and underwear nowhere to be seen. Harcourt treated my wounds. I remember much blood on his silk handkerchief. And then? Which of us instigated it? Had I made the first move? Surely I was too exhausted so it would have been Harcourt. Our bodies entwined, tongues flailed.

“Granddad!” it was Christine again. “Are you even listening to me,” she chided affectionately. “Tell me, who is it in the picture with you?”

“Sorry love,” I sighed, “I really can’t remember. How about making a nice cup of tea?”

 

Picture credit: A Weber Brams

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It is what it is

new story 2

zused solo short shorts pensive Nick Backes

I hear you’re twenty-four-years-old and back living with your parents. How did that happen?

It is what it is. I went away to university like you do and then got a job but the company went belly up and I couldn’t afford my rent. I’ve got a job flipping burgers but you can’t get a place on those wages so I came back home.

How’s it working out?

Ha! Well, Dad still thinks I’m a kid. There are rules. Do this, don’t do that. It’s his house. It is what it is.

I hear he spanks you when you break the rules.

[Blushing, weak laughter]. It’s not like he’s just discovered the slipper. He always disciplined us when we were kids. It is what it is.

You were in trouble this morning. What happened?

Well, a week last Saturday I rolled home high as a kite. Dad assumed I was drunk. If he knew I was smoking dope he’d go mental! He’d probably throw me out the house. He tells me I’m not allowed to come home in that state and gives me a curfew. Tells me if I break it, then it’s a spanking for me.

So what happened?

Well, what good’s a curfew to me. Of course, I was out with the lads chasing lasses. Didn’t get far. This time I was drunk. Six, seven, eight pints of lager, I don’t remember. Came home. Dad caught me. Tells me to get to bed, he’ll deal with me in the morning.

So he spanked you?

Slipper. It’s always the slipper with Dad. He’s got one of those old fashioned plimsolls. You know the white ones they wore in gym class at school back in the day. A Dunlop. Springy rubber sole. Not like those cheap flimsy plastic ones you get at Primark.

And he spanked you? You’re twenty-four.

It is what it is. They’re his rules. He told me what he’d do if I broke curfew.

And what did he do exactly.

Well, he always does it the same way. He’s in charge. There’s no point trying to get out of it.

It is what it is.

Exactly. I’ve no one to blame but myself. His house, his rules. He sits on the bed and I take down my shorts and bend over his knee. I stretch across the mattress with my bum in the air and let him get on with it.

You don’t try to stop him. Don’t you tell him you’re too old to be spanked?

Ha! You must be joking. That’d just encourage him to whack me all the harder. No, it’s best just to submit. Let him get on with it.

Don’t you mind? Isn’t it embarrassing?

It is what it is. Best just to get it over with.

So, what is it? Six of the best; something like that?

Six! I wish. No, he gives me a right tanning. I don’t count the whacks. Never timed it really. Feels like it goes on forever.

Does it hurt?

Well, it would be a waste of time if it didn’t. What would be the point? He slippers me bum all over. Mostly, he goes for the fleshy bit under the cheeks. And on the back of the thighs. That really hurts.

Do you cry?

No. I’m used to it by now. It is what it is. He whacks me till there’s not a bit of flesh that isn’t glowing red hot.

Then he stops. What then?

Stops! I wish. He’s only half way through. Once my bum is scarlet, then he takes down my pants and starts all over again.

On the bare buttocks?

It is what it is. Dad always says it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.

Wow! I wouldn’t want to show my Dad my arse like that.

It is what it is. There’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

But, by now you must be on fire.

Well it’s scorching. Well sore. And it’s worse because he’s whacking me on places that he’s already hit so the pain just builds up. You could fry an egg back there by the time he stops.

I bet. Can you sit down after?

The pain is awesome. Real agony. But once he stops walloping it dies down pretty quickly. It turns to an ache and then quickly its gone. Unless you press against it, so yes, sitting down can be a bit awkward. Especially on the back of the thighs.

What about bruises?

That’s the worst of it. The image of the slipper is imprinted on my bum. Over and over again. It looks all the colours of the rainbow. Here [drops his shorts and pants and juts out his bare bum] see what I mean.

Blimey! But, don’t you resent it. A spanking. From your Dad. You’re twenty-four.

No mate. It’s life. It is what it is.

Picture credit: Nick Backes

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two naughty boys

new story 2

z used shorts playing (17)

To Mr Naughton it seemed like a good idea – and it was for a time. His friend and neighbour came up with it. The problem started with Mr Naughton’s eighteen-year-old son, Benji; he was off the rails. He truanted from school, stayed away from home until all hours of the night and was rude and surly when he was there. Something had to be done before the lad failed his examinations and was put on the scrapheap.

Alan Thomas from across the street had the perfect solution. It was a brainwave – and so simple to put into place. He said he had tried it with his son Alfie – Benji’s classmate – and it was working a treat. He would certainly recommend it.

So Mr Naughton did. It was a stroke of generous. What he did was he bought Benji a new school uniform. It wasn’t too different from the one he wore for the comprehensive school (when he could be bothered to attend). But – and here was the stroke of genius – instead of the typical mid-grey long trousers he substituted a smart pair of short trousers. He added socks that came up to the knee and  the outfit was complete.

Then he said Benji had to wear the new school uniform, especially the short trousers and knee socks, at all times when he wasn’t at school. Given his way he would have demanded he wore them there as well, but he knew that would be going too far. For it to work, he confiscated all Benji’s long trousers, jeans, sweats and so on and locked them away in a cupboard. The eighteen-year-old had no choice.

Mr Thomas had told his friend that the benefit of doing this was at least twofold. First, it reminded his son that he wasn’t really grown-up. He might be eighteen, but it took more than that to become an adult. He needed to realise he was still a child and living under his parents’ rules and supervision. The second benefit was it stopped the kid going out at night. How could he dare be seen in public wearing school uniform with short trousers? It meant he stayed home and although he was still quiet and surly at least his parents could keep an eye on him and make sure he did his homework. Mr Thomas swore by the new regime and said his son’s grades at school had improved immeasurably. Putting the boy back into short trousers was the best move he had ever made.

So, Mr Naughton had a go. He was quietly surprised at how easily he found an outlet on the Internet that sold school short trousers large enough to fit an eighteen-year-old. Of course, Benji rejected the idea (as Mr Thomas had warned he would). But once all his clothes had been confiscated he had no choice, unless he wanted to go around in his underwear all the time.

Things went really well until about three months before the final exams were due. As part of the coursework in Geography pupils had to work in pairs on a project. What better, Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas thought, than put Alfie and Benji together. No. It went downhill from there. What did they expect? If you put two eighteen year olds together and dress them up as if they were eight they were going to revert to type.

They would meet at Benji’s house but instead of working on the project they had pretend wrestling matches all the time. Benji had an old book on origami and learnt how to make water bombs out of paper. Then, one day Alfie arrived with a new toy he had bought online. An old-fashioned catapult. It wasn’t one of those industrial-sized slingshots you can get to go hunting with. It was a silly wooden thing with a rubber band; like kids in comics used to have. Oh my, they encouraged one another, what mischief they could make with these.

The postman didn’t know what hit him when he strolled up the drive to deliver his letters. Benji and Alfie were hidden behind the chimney stack on the roof. Benji lobbed his water bomb. “Perfect hit,” he squealed with delight as the poor man’s neck was soaked.

The two naughty boys completely forgot about their schoolwork, they were having far too much fun. The catapult was put to good use terrorising the cats in the neighbourhood. The houses in The Avenue were mostly hidden behind walls and hedges and had large gardens. It was a paradise for cats. Or it had been until the deadly duo set about stalking them. One large brown moggy got a stone smack on the side of the head. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Alfie was beside himself with glee.

But they hadn’t reckoned on one nosey neighbour. Alfie had never liked the man, he thought he was creepy and always looked at him oddly. He would like him even less now. For the man stood at his window camera phone in hand, gathering evidence.

Mr Thomas was furious when he was shown the video. “Grrr,” he said, shaking his fist. “You know what I think?” he asked Mr Naughton.

“No, what?” he replied because he really had no idea.

“I think they need to be spanked, that’s what I think,” he said, shaking his head this time.

“But they’re eighteen years old.”

“Well it’s about time they started acting like it, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Mr Naughton replied. “Yes, I really do.”

“Shall we, then?” Mr Thomas was pacing the room.

“Yes, let’s,” Mr Naughton’s mind was easily made up. “Call the scamps in.”

The boys had been playing catch with a small rubber ball in the lounge room when they heard their names called. Innocently, they followed the sound and found their fathers both stern faced in the room Mr Naughton liked to call his study.

“So,” Mr Thomas said gravely after he had related the boys’ mischievous behaviour, “You will both be spanked.” Benji and Alfie exchanged furtive glances but before either of them had time to say, “You cannot be serious,” their fathers had already arranged two chairs close together in the centre of the room. Within seconds they were seated.

“Come on you,” Mr Thomas scowled at Alfie, “If you insist on behaving like an eight-year-old that’s how you’ll be treated. Bend over my knee.” He slapped his hand on his right thigh to make his command crystal clear. Alfie caught Benji’s eye and suppressed a giggle. He shrugged his shoulders and took two paces across the room. He stood to the right of his seated father and looked down at the old man’s knees. He was still dressed in his business suit and for one stupid moment Alfie worried that he might spoil the sharp creases in his father’s trousers with his weight.

“I’m waiting,” Mr Thomas growled. This was Alfie’s cue to lean forward, place his hands on his father’s lap and gently to lower himself so he was face down and looking at the rug. Benjie stared transfixed and  watched as his pal wriggled his body until his head was as low as he could get it and his bottom pointed up at the ceiling over his father’s right thigh.

“You too,” Mr Naughton growled at Benji. The boy, almost on autopilot, followed his friend’s example. Now there were two eighteen year olds dressed in their school uniforms with grey short trousers and long socks submissively bent across the knees of their fathers waiting to receive their first-ever spankings.

They didn’t wait long. Mr Thomas struck the first blow and Mr Naughton soon followed. Within seconds and without speaking a word the two fathers were spanking in unison, each man slapping the left buttock of his son and then the right as they went about synchronised spanking. Benji and Alfie let them do it. They put up no resistance as slap after slap connected with the seat of their short trousers.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

To be fair, they were not being brave soldiers. Wearing thick trousers with underpants beneath meant they hardly felt a thing. Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas were not experienced spankers. They didn’t realise the palms of their hands were hurting much more than the boys’ bums. After about a hundred smacks had been delivered, Mr Thomas once again took the lead. He ordered Alfie to stand. Then Mr Naughton did the same with his son.

“Right now then, act your age in future,” Mr Thomas growled. “Now get back to your schoolwork.”

The two boys rushed from the room. When they were safely out of sight of their fathers they collapsed into fits of giggles. “Didn’t feel a thing,” said Alfie as he loosened his short trousers and pulled them down to show his friend his bare bottom, “Not a mark. Look. What about you?” Without a blush Benji did the same. “Nope,” he grinned, “Not even red.”

The boys wrestled each other to the ground and rolled around on the carpet. It was their way of saying they rather liked being naughty boys and had no intention of changing any time soon.

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

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Wishful thinking

new story 2

z used otk pants chair student sting

Dr Duncan Rawlinson, Senior Lecturer in Liberal Studies at Brocklehurst University, sits at his desk, head in hands. His temples throb, his throat is raw. Blood rushes through his arteries, he cannot catch his breath. Oh my God! he gasps, I’m having a stroke. He puts his head between his knees, breathes deeply. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out.

He can’t go on, not like this. Life is not worth living. This is not why he became a teacher. Those effing students. They treat him like he was a joke. They turn up to seminars when they feel like it and then with not a stroke of preparation done. They don’t meet deadlines for coursework. When they do, their essays are plagiarised from the Internet. They don’t want to work. They think just because they pay fees they should be given a degree. Lazy, lazy bastards!

Dr Rawlinson’s head slumps onto the desk. The room is spinning, furniture appears to be swirling through the air. He thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s going dark. A fierce wind blows through the office. There is a bang and he looks up. Jake Worthington, surely one of the laziest of his students, is standing there. He looks anxious and so he should.

“I have had enough of this, Jake,” Dr Worthington says, “I won’t stand for it any more. Do you understand me?”

Jake stands contrite, head bowed, staring down at the floor. His bottom lip trembles. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbles. Dr Rawlinson glowers. He has heard this all before. They all say “Sorry”, but only because they think it might get them off a spanking. No way. He hasn’t just fallen from a tree. The boy is to be punished. It is only right and proper.

“You know you must be disciplined don’t you Jake,” he says, leaning back in his chair and peering at the lazy student through half-rimmed spectacles.

“Yes, sir,” Jake struggles to keep composure. He wants to cry. Just like a little boy. A little naughty boy.

“Say it, then,” Dr Rawlinson does not intend to let the boy off lightly. He wants his pound of flesh.

Jake blushes. His face is usually bright and open and his skin clear; he doesn’t grow enough beard to need to take a daily shave. His hair is cut short and neat. Now, his usually smiling face is set firm; grim. He blushes profusely, enough warmth comes off him to heat a room.

“I am a lazy boy,” he begins. “I have not done my homework and I have not been attending classes.” There is quite a long list like this. He does not hand assignment in on time. He never goes to the library. He cuts-and-pastes from Wikipedia. He is as good as a cheat.

“And what else?” Dr Rawlinson is relaxing. Perhaps the boys is not so evil after all.  He is just young. Not quite nineteen years old; still a child really. Jake is losing his way. He needs adult guidance. He needs a helping hand. And, Dr Rawlinson knows precisely where that hand needs to go.

“I have been disrespectful of my tutors,” Jake goes on. “And of you, sir,” Jake cannot stop twisting his fingers behind his back. He hops from one foot to the other, his embarrassment consumes him.

“And …” Dr Rawlinson is not satisfied. He won’t be. Not until Jake reaches the logical conclusion.

Jake’s eyes glisten, he fights back tears. “And?” he gulps.

“Bah!” Dr Rawlinson snorts, “And, what do you think I should do about it, Jake?”

Colour drains from Jake’s face. “Please, no!” he thinks, “No! Don’t make me have to say it. Not out loud.”

“Well Jake,” Dr Rawlinson stretches his arms, his back is aching, “Neither of us has all day. Get on with it.”

Involuntarily Jake’s hands reach behind his back, his thumbs caress the seat of his jeans. They fit across his buttocks snugly; he is meaty, but by no means fat. He is a long way from being obese, unlike many of his fellow students. Jakes sucks in a great draught of air. His mouth is parched, he wriggles his tongue around trying to create some spit. Then, he croaks, “Please Dr Rawlinson, I deserve to be punished,” he trails off thinking his humiliation is complete.

But it isn’t, “And tell me Jake how should I punish you?”

The teenager’s voice breaks, he is almost in tears now. “But sir,” he pleads. It does no good.

“Well Jake?”

“Sir, I deserve to be spanked.”

“How so?”

“You should take down my trousers and put me across you knee,” Jake is scarcely whispering now. There is a long pause. Dr Rawlinson waits for Jake to continue and when he doesn’t the lecturer nods his head vigorously to encourage the boy to say more.

“Then, you should spank me, sir. Hard. I deserve it. I am a bad boy.”

Dr Rawlinson allows a hint of a smile to crack his lips. He hauls himself to his feet and a little unsteadily because there is not much room in the office he makes his way to the front of the desk. He feels Jake’s moist eyes burning into him; watching every move he makes. His fear growing.

Dr Rawlinson picks up a lightweight, plastic straight-backed chair and places in the small space between his desk and the door. He sits down and with a contemptuous click of his fingers he indicates that the student should stand in front of him. Jake, now as miserable as he has ever been in his life, obeys. He can’t look at Dr Rawlinson. Instead, he gazes across the office. There is a calendar on the wall produced by a publishing company and he concentrates on the list of forthcoming titles it advertises. Jake doesn’t see, but he certainly feels, Dr Rawlinson take a grip on Jake’s belt. Dr Rawlinson needs two hands to get it unbuckled. It doesn’t take long for him to lower the zipper and open the front of Jake’s jeans. When he lets go the jeans slip down and bunch at Jake’s thighs.

The student tries to concentrate on the calendar. There’s a book due out this month on cultural studies. That’s the last Jake sees because Dr Rawlinson grips him by the arm and with more strength than the boy expects he pulls him down and over his lap. Jake pushes his palms out towards the floor to break his fall. His legs dangle behind him and his bottom rests high over the lecturer’s right thigh.

Dr Rawlinson shifts his own buttocks on the hard wooden chair and slowly repositions Jake. Not much, but enough for him to adjust the boy’s bottom. Now it is a terrific target. His underwear is stretched across his bum, lifting and separating the cheeks. His legs are virtually hairless.

Jake knows his face is flushing. Could he be more embarrassed? He closes his eyes as if this will block out reality. Even like this, he still feels his master take hold of his shirt and move it up his back. A cool breeze from the window brushes against his naked flesh. Dr Rawlinson is almost ready. At this point Jake could struggle free, maybe smack his tormentor in the mouth and then make his escape.

But he doesn’t. Jake knows he deserves punishment and Dr Rawlinson is in charge. He will submit himself in any way he is instructed. His stomach digs into Dr Rawlinson’s leg, it is surprisingly bony. Jake wriggles slightly trying to get comfortable. The lecturer misinterprets this, thinking he is resisting punishment. Dr Rawlinson grips him tightly around the waist and presses his elbows into the small of Jake’s back. He is pinned down, going nowhere. Not until his master has spanked his bottom good and hard.

Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready to start. He smooths Jake’s grey-striped briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hug the contours of the young man’s buttocks, he is good to go.

Jake’s breathing is heavy, he clenches his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat. “Relax, Jake,” Dr Rawlinson is kind and caring. “Don’t squeeze up your bottom.”

Jake tries, he wants to present himself submissively, but for some reason he cannot understand he does not have control of his body. He shudders, feeling the cheeks of his bottom exposed to the lecturer’s gaze. The underpants are tight against his full buttocks; they are certainly not going to offer any protection in a spanking.

Dr Rawlinson lets the student lie still for a while over his knee, waiting. He rests his hand lightly on the boy’s backside and then began a slow, steady methodical succession of moderate whacks delivered to alternate buttocks. Jake responds only with tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if he is relaxing and making himself comfortable. If this is hurting, he gives no sign of it.

Dr Rawlinson takes his time to get the measure of Jake. He increases the pace to deliver a good, hard, old-fashioned hand spanking; not holding back. Jake jolts at the shock of the new impact. Gasps of surprise hiss through his not-quite-clenched lips, and only his master’s tight grip stops his right hand flying up to protect his now-smarting bottom. Some smacks land on the back of his bare thighs.

He is embarrassed to be locked in place over the lecturer’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Yet he is powerless to stop it or evade it. He has broken the rules, been disrespectful to Dr Rawlinson. He only has himself to blame for this. For about fifty or so spanks he wriggles and writhes, kicking his feet, squirming around on the master’s knees. But there is no escape and he can’t stop the volley of hand-spanks heating up his rear end.

Jake stops wriggling and tries to take each new whack stoically; the spanking is hurting, but he is not in any real pain. He is a young adult and his bum is pretty tough. The pain of the hand spanking has little effect on him, but the humiliation of having an older man take down his jeans and force him across his knee for a spanking should be enough to ensure his future obedience.

Dr Rawlinson looks down at Jake, prone across his knees, his face is red (and so probably is his backside). It is time to end. He hammers down another dozen smacks for good measure, spanked harshly into the young man’s buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh. A perfect spot to end a spanking, he thinks.

Jake is breathless as he lays over the lap. It is over. Now, he thinks, would you please let me get up? But, Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready. “Will you behave in future Jake?”

“Yes, Dr Rawlinson,” his reply is met by a harsh slap in the centre of his left buttock.

“Yes, sir!.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” he rubs Jakes’s buttocks gently, feeling their warmth. “Now, you may get up.”

Jake puts both hands on the floor and rolls off the doctor’s knees, stands and immediately reaches for his jeans.

“Oh, no. Keep them down,” Dr Rawlinson is enjoying dominating this young man very much indeed. “Now face the wall, hands on your head!” he snaps. “Stand there and think about your behaviour.” His humiliation now complete, Jake shuffles his feet, dragging his jeans across the dirty floor with him and stands where directed. He rests his forehead against the wall mortified, while Dr Rawlinson resumes his position behind his desk, leans back in his chair and in his imagination admires his handiwork before falling sobbing to the floor in a heap.

 

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

Coffee shop memory

new story 2

z used twosome coffeeshop

I was in town the other day and it was freezing so I went into a coffeeshop to warm myself up with a hot chocolate. It’s not one of those horrible chain shops, this one’s just off the High Street and is a bit run down to be honest. It attracts a lot of young people, which I like. Some of them are quite sexy-looking and at my age unless you’re willing to pay for it looking is all you can do. Friends tell me its popular because they deal drugs there but I don’t know if that’s true.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday and it wasn’t that busy. When I was settled at a table I noticed two lads who seemed to be having an argument in whispers. I don’t know them but I’d seen them in the shop a few times before. They were maybe twenty, perhaps a year younger. One, had a face on him like flint and the other who from where I sat looked a bit girly to tell the truth hid behind a long scarf that he kept wrapping around his mouth.

“I warned you. You know what will happen when we get back to the house,” the flint-faced one said. The other one buried his head in the scarf and the look in his eyes while not of terror was certainly of fear. Instinctively, I leaned forward to try to hear more of their conversation but no more was said. After a minute or so they left.

I knew exactly what would happen when they got home. The girly one would be across flint-faced’s knee with his jeans at the ankles and underwear at the knees getting his bare bum blistered with his boyfriend’s hairbrush. The look on girly’s face told me he was not looking forward to this.

I perused the front page of the Brocklehurst Bugle (and read that another train strike is looming) and finished my drink. As I walked home I thought about a time some decades ago when I was about the same age as those two. I was eighteen and had just left school. My mother who was divorced had remarried and I was no longer welcome at home. I wasn’t chucked out and there was no big row it was just that they wanted to be together. Naturally, I had no money and no way of getting the rent together for a place of my own so my brother let me stay with him.

His name is Jonathon but everybody calls him James for reasons I don’t recall (if indeed I ever knew). James was twenty-three at the time and had been to university and was doing well in his chosen career in a bank. I don’t know if he really wanted a kid like me under his feet at home, but the say blood is thicker than water, so perhaps he felt obliged.

Things got off to a bad start. Like all eighteen year olds across time I was lazy, self-centred, untidy and a lot of the time uncommunicative. I would spend hours sleeping late and when I was awake more often than not I’d stay in bed playing with myself. We didn’t have the Internet back then and a group of us would swop porno magazines. One called Whitehouse was very popular. I remember once by the time I got my turn it had several pages stuck together.

James did his best with me, but he had standards and I couldn’t meet them. One evening he brought a girl back and the place was like a pigsty with unwashed dishes all over the place and dirty clothes hanging on the furniture. All of them mine. The mess put the girl off and she left pretty quickly. That was the final straw for James; now it was my fault he wasn’t getting his leg over.

That brought things to a head. He laid down the law: do this; don’t do that. Get out find a job, start paying some rent. Have some self-respect. All I gave him in return was a pout, a sneer and a slammed door as I stormed off to my pit of a bed.

I don’t know how much thought James put into it but what he did later changed our relationship forever. The next day was Saturday, so there was no work for James. I could hear the Hoover going as he cleaned the house. I buried my head under the blankets and tried to get back to sleep. Some time later James burst into the room unannounced (thank god I wasn’t having a wank!) and told me to get up. My reply to him suggested sex and travel. “I’m warning you,” he threatened “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

I went back under the blankets. I didn’t keep time but before I knew about it the door flew open again and James loomed over me. He was about three inchers taller than me and broad at the shoulders. He was a keen rugby player and often turned out for a team at the bank. “What did I tell you?” he roared and without waiting for my answer he ripped the blankets and sheet off my body. I was stark naked and had no time to cover up my cock (which almost certainly was standing at half-mast) before James grabbed me by the hair and hauled me from the bed. Then, he dragged me across the room. My feet slipped on the old, thin carpet as he towed me with great force out of the bedroom, through the hallway and into the lounge.

I was effing and jeffing at him but he took no notice. He was a man on a mission; nothing was going to stop him now. The lounge was a small room dominated by a dining table. James had left one of its wooden chairs in the centre of the room. Before I even realised what was happening and still tugging my hair he sat himself down. He let go of my hair only long enough for him to take my wrist and heave me so I fell face down across his lap. I didn’t know then but I was to enjoy many close-up views of the loungeroom carpet before that summer was over.

I was no match for James’ strength. He held me tightly around the waist, reached over to the table where he had strategically left the brush that usually hung in the shower, and blistered my backside with it. I had a round, hard bottom in those days (photographs of me at the time don’t do it justice.) James took that brush which must have been twice the size of a hairbrush and three times as heavy and pounded it into my bum. He was like a man possessed (maybe it was not having sex with that girl that spurred him on). I hollered the flat down and called him all the names under the sun but he would not let up.

Have you ever been spanked with a bath brush? No, I don’t suppose you have: why should you? Let me tell you, the size of it and the weight and the speed with which James attacked my buttocks turned my cheeks at first red, then mauve and before he had finished the underside had started to turn blue.

The pain was awesome; I’d never experienced anything like it before. It started as a sharp sting when the first half dozen or so swats landed on different parts of my arse. Once James had covered the full circuit (as it were) he landed that brush on parts that were already smarting. They set off a new wave of throbbing and by now I was twisting and turning over James’ lap. My legs must have been flailing around as well. The ache in my bum travelled up and down my legs and then north-south, east-west across my entire body. I howled so loudly my mouth drained of spit.

I was shrieking with indignation. It is true the spanking hurt like billy-oh, but I was an eighteen-year-old adult and quite tough. I was wailing at the indignity of being completely naked and across the knees off my elder brother while he spanked my bare bottom with a bath brush like I was eight or something.

At last he let off; he had nowhere else to go, every square inch of flesh was scorched. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I wrapped my buttocks with the palms of my hands and the heat I felt could have warmed a small room. My cock bounced up and down in front of James’ face as I tried to rub away the pain. My humiliation was complete and I ran from the room.

James spanked me a number of times that summer. I hated it each and every time. I don’t think it improved my behaviour. I didn’t really grow up and develop self-respect until my mid-twenties when, like James, I had embarked on a successful career. I have no interest in spanking as a fetish and nor I believe does James. He genuinely thought it would improve my behaviour. I dimly remember when we were kids James went off the rails a bit and he was spanked once or twice by an uncle (a real one, my mother’s brother) and maybe that taught him a lesson. I never spanked any of my own children (or nephews for that matter) and It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do so.

Perhaps spanking works for some people. I wonder about the two in the coffeeshop. I’ll have to drop in again tomorrow to see if girly’s attitude has improved.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The morning after

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com