The vicar delivers

Darren’s mouth gaped open when the vicar strode to a cupboard and took from it a whippy school cane which he swished through the air a couple of times before intoning, “Bend over that chair.”

“B.. b.. but,”  he stammered.

“Do it now, I don’t have all day,” the vicar swished the cane once more.

Darren stood his ground, unsure what he should do.

Swish! Swish! the cane flew through the air. The vicar was a powerful man, as befitted someone who once played prop forward at rugby. His steel grey searching eyes fixed on Darren, his jaw locked in a scowl. People said of the vicar that he had ‘presence,’ and when he fixed you with his glare, you were powerless to resist.

The vicar was not about to take any nonsense from Darren. The vicar had complete authority and he would use it. At the moment his rattan crook-handled cane was the symbol of that authority. Darren would submit to it and to the vicar before he was set free.

They were in the study at the vicar’s home. It was a large room in a huge house. The Church spared no expense on the comforts of its vicars. Book-laden shelves ran along three walls. There were hundreds, possibly thousands, of books, enough to stock a small-town library. The scholastic atmosphere they generated might impress visitors, but most had lain unread for many years. The only time they felt a human hand was when Mrs Grey the cleaning woman wiped the dust from them.

Cupboards and a large picture window took up the fourth wall. Darren looked beyond the vicar into the sumptuous garden as he ran over the vicar’s demand in his mind.

The chair the vicar wanted him to lower himself across was made of expensive soft leather. It would be very comfortable to bend over, but once Darren had done this he knew what followed would be far from comfortable.

Swish! Swish! the vicar was growing impatient.

The vicar was no stranger to corporal punishment. He was from God-fearing folk and genuinely believed in the Bible: all of it. He lived by the adage, “spare the rod and spoil the child” and he had not spared his own son Adam from the lash.

His preferred method with his nineteen-year-old son was a heavy thick leather strap, applied with great vigour to Adam’s quivering naked buttocks. The vicar had a ritual. First he would list in the minutest detail the boy’s faults followed by admonishments. Then, on bended knees they would pray together for forgiveness. The prayers were always answered, but atonement had to come before forgiveness.

The lashings were brutal. They always took place in the vicar’s bedroom. Without awaiting instruction, Adam would pile pillows four deep in the centre of the bed. Then he stripped completely naked. While he disrobed, his father took the razor strop from its moorings, a hook on the inside door of the wardrobe.

The boy climbed on the pillows, his face buried in the eiderdown, his buttocks pointing at the ceiling. There was always a pause; it felt like hours to Adam, but it was only a minute. His father was praying to God again, this time to give him the extra strength to whip the boy good and hard.

Adam clenched his teeth shut. No matter how hard his father flogged him, he never cried out. Over the years his ability to resist pain had reached truly remarkable levels.

z used drawing strap hold (8)

The strap rose and fell twenty-four times; his father swiped so ferociously he might have thought he was beating a carpet. No dust was raised on Adam’s buttocks, only ugly red wheals as over and over the leather thundered into his cheeks.

Then it was over. Adam’s eyes shone as he crawled off the bed and shakily stood beside his father, who was still holding the razor strop. His backside was blistered and the agony would be shooting through his body. Quite often by the end of these punishment sessions Adam was utterly disoriented, unsure of his whereabouts, and his father had to guide him back to his own bedroom.

But before he was allowed to leave, there was one more prayer to be said: to thank God for his mercy.

Swish! “You are wasting my time and your own!”

Darren shuddered in terror. The vicar’s stare held him transfixed.

“B.. b.. b.. but can’t we talk about this? Do we …” Darren trailed off. The position he found himself in was so utterly unexpected. How could he reason with the vicar?

“I … I…,” but words would not come for Darren. His senses had deserted him. He wanted to say he was sorry, but his ‘crime’ did not merit a thrashing with a whippy cane. That is what he wanted to say, but he could not find the words.

The vicar stalked him, cane in hand, his piercing grey eyes burning holes in Darren’s brain.

“Over the chair!” he barked. Blood seemed to drain from Darren’s body and his face was ghostly pale.

“NOW!”

That was when Darren lost his mind. Thinking about it later he realised he should have pushed his way past the vicar and fled from the house. Nobody would have blamed him. It would have been the sensible thing to do.

But, by now ‘sense’ had nothing to do with it.

Instead of running to freedom, Darren took a huge deep breath filling his lungs with air. Then, he stepped forward and like a swimmer diving into an icy pool, he hurled himself over the back of the chair.

The weight of his body sank into the plush padded chair. His face was so close to the seat cushion, the aroma of luxurious expensive leather made him gag.

Darren closed his eyes in anticipation of the whacking he was about to receive, so he did not see, but he could hear, the vicar in prayer. The huge man was muttering something about penitence and forgiveness.

Moments later he felt the vicar tug at the elasticated waist of his trousers, pulling them and his underpants to his knees in one complete movement. Darren’s naked buttocks made a perfect target for the vicar’s cane.

It was over in seconds. Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The vicar flogged the cane into Darren’s cheeks. Never before had the vicar whipped a boy so hard. His entire heart and his soul went into the effort.

Then a further three swipes followed one after another, rapidly like pistol shots.

Darren howled as the first cut took his arse off and he did not stop screaming until long after the sixth and final whop! lashed into him.

The yells echoed round the study and throughout the house. It was convenient that the study was at the back of the house, so Darren’s cries did not reach the ears of pedestrians in the street outside, for surely one of them would have phoned the police, believing a murder was taking place.

Darren clung on to the soft seat cushion for his dear life and stamped his feet up and down, like a soldier on sentry duty. The six-of-the-best was delivered without pause and it was over before he could even think of hauling himself from the chair to run screaming from the room.

His once pale face had turned a deadly puce colour. Tears and snot cascaded down his face and he gulped in air in an effort to fill his lungs and stop himself collapsing.

Without waiting for permission he pulled himself to his feet. The agony in his buttocks was terrific and he could hardly stay upright. Gingerly he touched his cheeks with the tips of his fingers, thinking it might relieve some of the pain, but just the slightest contact with his throbbing flesh sent new shockwaves of agony coursing through his body.

The vicar sank to his knees to once again converse with God. Darren saw his chance and still wracked with pain, he pulled his trousers and pants up and staggered from the room. Then, bouncing once or twice off the walls in the hallway, he opened the front door and escaped.

He breathed in deeply, filling his lungs with fresh air and this helped to calm him, but his escape was not yet complete. Standing where he had left it, only five minutes previously, was his motor scooter. Wincing with each step he walked to it and grabbed the handlebars.

This was useless, he realised. There was no way he could ride it away. The ache in his arse was as bad as ever. He would find it difficult to walk for some considerable time to come, never mind sit down.

He looked behind him, expecting at any moment to see the vicar dashing from the house to chase after him. He must act quickly. Having no choice, he released the foot stand and with some difficulty started to push the bike towards the road.

He paused, unsure where he should go. He looked to the left and to the right. He really wanted to turn right, to go home, so he could explore and then treat his wounds.

But he really needed to keep his job. So, instead of going home he tuned left and headed back to Stafford’s Pizza House. His buttocks blazed with every step he took: a reminder of what can happen if you deliver a customer’s order twenty minutes late.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

A kiss too far

Late up in the morning

The Tyrant Headmaster 7: The field trip

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News # 14

new story 2

New Neighbourhood Watch scheme a roaring success

z used belt jeans down twosome over car outdoors (1)

Brocklehurst Bugle

A group of Brocklehurst residents are claiming a rip-roaring success with their new neighbourhood watch scheme.

It came after people in The Avenue, a select street close to Widdicombe Wood, spotted ‘undesirables’ loitering around their houses.

“They were mostly older teenaged boys,” Mr Ernie Flynn, 52, tells the Brocklehurst Bugle. “We decided right away we didn’t want them here.”

So, Mr Flynn and a group of like-minded residents set up Neighbourhood Watch. They take turns to patrol the area in groups at night and weekends. “When we find strangers we deal with them. We don’t take prisoners,” Mr Flynn chuckles.

Mrs. Amelia Worthington, who lives alone at her house, says, “It is a great comfort that we have big, strong men here who are prepared to defend their own homes.”

Mr Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, describes the action they take once they have apprehended a stranger.

“We are very determined that they should not get away unpunished. There’s no point informing the police. I know they want to help but they are under resourced. Some people might say we are a bit old-fashioned.”

Mr Sloop says the residents dish out corporal punishment. “A short, sharp shock,” he calls it.

“We usually strip them of their shirts and then bare their backsides,” he adds. “We do it in the middle of the street so everyone can see.

“We the take turns in beating their unclothed bottoms. Very hard indeed.

“They don’t like it, of course. You can hear their howls from one end of the street to the other. Believe me, they don’t come back for more.”

Residents use a range of punishment instruments. Most such as leather belts, hairbrushes and slippers are readily found in peoples’ homes.

“Widdicombe Wood is close by so we do have the option of making up birch rods, if we wish,” Mr Sloop says ominously.

Sgt. George Nixon at Brocklehurst Police says he is told by residents that the scheme is a “rip-roaring” success. He tells the Bugle, “I take my helmet off to them. They are keeping the streets clean of filth and are saving the police a lot of trouble. We really don’t need the paperwork dealing with these youth. I would encourage more residents to set up their own schemes.”

The final word goes to Mr Flynn. “This has brought the community closer together. It is the thrill of the chase. And then delivering a well-spanked bare backside that makes it all so worthwhile.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

More Fake News stories here

Other stories you might like

The military kid

The Young Conservative

Skipping school to watch football

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Yellow Pages spanking

z used after jeans down (1)

Gerry opened his eyes wearily. His head pounded and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His shoulder ached from sleeping on the floor all night.

Across the living room, blinking back at him was a boy about his own age.

“Who are you?”

The boy rose to a sitting position, “Who are you?”

Gerry gaped at the boy, dressed in snug-fitting blue jeans and an ordinary white shirt open to the navel. It was the kind you would wear for school or the office. Gerry wanted to slip his hand inside the shirt and caress his hairless chest.

The boy beamed, “Great party!”

“Yeah, great party.”

Gerry’s head throbbed as he hauled himself to a sitting position. He could not stop staring at the stranger. The boy’s dark brown eyes lit up the room. Absurdly, the song “Brown-eyed Handsome Man” played in his head. It was in the hit parade and they had danced to the record a lot last night.

“I’m Pauley,” the boy grinned.

“Gerry.”

“Hi, Gerry!” the boy coyly waved at him across the room.

Gerry flushed and giggled, “Hi, Pauley!” he waved back.

They lapsed into silence.

Then, “Gee! Look at this mess.” Gerry spread his arm to emphasise the point, as if it was not patently obvious that a party had gotten out of hand.

“Yes, Sir!” Pauley grinned. Gerry loved the way the boy’s white teeth shone, the sparkle contrasting with his the deep suntanned face.

“Yes, Sir! That is one heck of a mess.”

Gerry’s face flushed again. His embarrassment was obvious.

“My parents are due at six; we’ve got to clear this mess up.”

Pauley flashed that smile. “What will happen if they find out?”

Gerry did not speak, but shot Pauley a look that said, “You know darn well what will happen if my parents find out!”

And, Pauley did. He knew what his own dad would do if it had been his party. A worn heavy razor strop was kept in the kitchen drawer for just such contingencies. Pauley would have his nose in the kitchen table, his jeans and shorts at his knees, while his dad lashed sunset stripes across his naked buttocks.

“Cheer up! I’ll help you clean up.”

Gerry had a cracking hangover and could barely move himself, but Pauley was full of energy. Soon empty beer bottles and cigarette ends were in the trash can. Gerry stood in admiration while Pauley waltzed around the rooms with a vacuum cleaner. Did he imagine it or was Pauley wriggling his slender hips and pert buttocks provocatively? His blue jeans clung to the contours of his body.

“Nearly finished,” Pauley cooed, “Just the hallway to do now.”

With that he disappeared from Gerry’s view.

“Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.” Pauley in the hallway was a little over-dramatic.

“What is it?”

“Come see.”

Gerry’s head was crashing; he was in no mood for this.

“Oh, heck!”

“Yes. A problem don’t you think.”

The game was up now. Gerry would be found out and he was going to get one fine whipping.

There was a scratch about an inch long in the hallway table. It was no ordinary table, but a family heirloom, that had been handed down from Gerry’s grandmother after she passed on a few months previously.

Pauley ran his finger along the line in the dark shiny wood. “It’s not very deep. Maybe you can get it fixed.”

“Get it fixed!” Gerry was in despair and losing his temper. “How can I get it fixed? Who can fix it?”

Gerry’s eyes moistened and Pauley thought his new-found friend was about to break down sobbing.

“I know!” Pauley’s face lit up and he clicked his fingers in an exaggerated fashion. “Yellow Pages!” he grinned, his white teeth once again shining.

“Yellow Pages?” Gerry did not understand.

“Yes, Yellow Pages,” it seemed that Pauley was always smiling, “Let your fingers do the walking,” he sang the jingle from the commercial that constantly aired on radio.

“We have a copy in the other room.”

Gerry watched Pauley’s buttocks disappear into the kitchen. The boy emerged moments later with the big yellow phone book in his hands. He was already turning through the pages.

“Here. Furniture restorers.” He ran his finger down the page. “There are quite a lot, actually.”

He handed the directory over. “Here call one of these. You should be OK.”

While Gerry made his calls, Pauley disappeared into the bathroom. By the time he emerged, Gerry had arranged for a Mr Fisher to attend urgently. Gerry’s hide might yet be saved.

“Good luck then,” Pauley opened the front door, but paused before leaving. For what felt to Gerry like an hour, but was only a few seconds, the pair stood not quite looking at each other.

Once again, Gerry coloured-up unable to hide his embarrassment. Who was this new friend? He knew nothing about him, not where he lived or how he came to be at the party. Did one of his friends bring him?

He wanted to rip the boy’s shirt off right now. But, then what? Gerry had no idea, but he knew he would regret it forever if he did not make a move. He should at least arrange another meeting. They could go to a ball game or something.

Pauley beamed, “See you then!” but his grin faded a little when he saw a flicker of regret in Gerry’s eyes.

“I’m Katie’s brother,” Pauley winked and sashayed his tight ass out the door.

Katie’s brother? Katie Albright from school! Gerry skipped to his room and unzipping his jeans he lay on his bed. There were twenty minutes before Mr Fisher was due to call, plenty of time to dream of Pauley and Gerry.

He was brought back to real life by the insistent ringing of the doorbell. Gerry had never met a furniture restorer before, but he imagined they probably all looked like Mr Fisher. He was aged somewhere between thirty-five and fifty and wore faded brown corduroy pants and a buttoned up beige cardigan. He had a florid face from being in the sun, but the skin had not tanned. A pair of round glasses gave his fleshy face the appearance of an owl.

He carried a black leather bag, rather like the ones family doctors were seen with in the movies.

“Good afternoon, I am Mr Fisher,” he spoke in soft tones.

“Thank you for coming sat such short notice,” Gerry hoped he did not sound as desperate as he felt.

“Here is the table, can you fix it?”

It took no more than a five-second appraisal. “Yes, of course I can.” Mr Fisher was a little irritated by this youth, who doubted his expertise.

“Thank you, thank you so much.”

Gerry’s tone intrigued Mr Fisher. The youth was far too anxious about a little scratch on a table. There was something he had not been told.

“So,” Mr Fisher said, as he opened and delved into his bag, “How did this happen?”

Gerry blustered, he did not want to tell. It was none of this stranger’s business.

“If you could hurry up please, I have to go out soon.” It was already past four in the afternoon. His parents would be calling him from the airport at about six for him to collect them; there was no time to lose.

Mr Fisher was not to be deterred. He was a professional and he had agreed to do this emergency job, even though it was his day off. He had a successful business and did not need the fee the work would bring. But, he had been intrigued by the youth’s call and his desperation.

Mr Fisher sized up the situation. “Are your parents here?”

Gerry blushed yet again. “Eh, no, they …” the sentence trailed off.

“Let me guess,” Mr Fisher was stern. “They are away and you had a party without permission and this valuable table was damaged by one of your houseguests.”

Mr Fisher had got it in one. Gerry remained silent. If Mr Fisher had been a cop the boy would be invoking the Fifth Amendment: say nothing and do not incriminate yourself.

“Yes, I thought so,” Mr Fisher sounded like Gerry’s father. Gerry knew he would get a stern lecturer from dad if he found out about the party. Then the lecture would be followed by a damn good hiding.

“What would your father do if he found out about this?” Mr Fisher was sure he already knew the answer.

“Sorry?”

“You heard me young man. What would your father do?”

Gerry’s heart raced. There was no way he was going to tell Mr Fisher the truth.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know! Then why have you called me in at such short notice?”

Gerry stared down at the polished floor tiles. He did not like the way this conversation was going.

Mr Fisher was determined to get an answer. “What would your father do?”

“He would be very angry,” Gerry mumbled, his eyes still cast downwards.

“What would he do!” Mr Fisher’s anger was apparent.

Gerry croaked, “I don’t know.”

“Yes you do, young man,” Mr Fisher’s tone of voice alarmed Gerry. The furniture restorer was not going to let up on this and he was not about to give him an answer.

Mr Fisher broke the silence. “What you need is a damn good spanking and I am sure that is what your father will give you when he finds out.”

When he finds out, was Mr Fisher going to tell him?

“But ..” Gerry started, but did not know what to say.

“Do I have this right? Your parents are away on a trip and they left you at home alone. They told you to behave and that you must look after the house and that there must be no parties while they are gone. You disobeyed your parents and last night you had a party at which alcohol was drunk and cigarettes smoked. This morning you discovered this table had been scratched and now desperate to keep the party secret from your parents, you want me to repair it and to cover up your disobedience.”

Gerry stared at the floor.

Mr Fisher concluded, “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Gerry, head bowed, mumbled into his chest.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“Yes Sir!” Mr Fisher barked.

“Sorry, Yes, Sir,” Gerry was scared. Mr Fisher had been correct in every particular. His father had been very strict: no parties. Gerry had clearly and deliberately disobeyed him.

“What are you going to do?” Gerry asked mournfully, and then hurriedly added, ‘sir.”

“What do you wish me to do?”

Gerry had not expected this. “Please don’t tell my parents.”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Gerry had no answer for this, but he tried. “They will be very disappointed in me.”

“That’s no answer. They should be disappointed in you, you have abused their trust.”

“I’m sorry,” Gerry was miserable. There was no way to escape a whacking, now. It had been a great party and he would be popular at school for a while because of it. He did not feel guilty about disobeying his parents; he did it all the time, but rarely got found out. Now that he had been discovered he would have to suffer the consequences. It was the pain and humiliation of a spanking that worried him, not his guilt.

“Pah!” Mr Fisher exhaled. “Sorry. Yes, you should be sorry. You deserve a sound spanking, young man!”

“I’m nineteen; I’m too old to be spanked.”

“You are not too old. You do not become an adult until you are twenty-one. And if you so deliberately disobey your parents you should be spanked.”

Gerry had not expected to get away with it. His father had said much the same thing last month when the boy had been caught drinking beer with friends. One of them had a fake ID and they had bought a few six-packs. Gerry was soon across his dad’s knee for a bare-arsed paddling. His friends’ dads took similar action. They all got it; they lived in that kind of community.

Mr Fisher had a plan. “I shall spank you, but I will not tell your parents.”

Gerry had not expected this; his head still ached from drinking too much beer and he could not think quickly enough. So he said nothing.

“What does your father use when he spanks you?”

“He doesn’t spank me.”

“Come, come. Please don’t tell lies.”

Confused and unsure where this would all end, Gerry muttered something about “a paddle.”

“Where does he keep the paddle?”

“Don’t know.”

“Come, come, you are lying to me. Where does he keep the paddle?”

“In there,” Gerry nodded towards the cupboard under the stairs.

“Please fetch it for me.”

Miserably, Gerry moved the few feet to the cupboard, opened the door and extracted the wood.

“Hand it to me please.” It was a typical paddle, the kind used in schools up and down the state. Mr Fisher held it in his right hand and read the inscription written on the blade: ‘Board of Education.’ Did anyone ever find that funny? he wondered to himself.

Gerry was no stranger to the paddle. His father believed in both discipline and punishment. If Gerry behaved and did as he was told, he would be fine. But, if he disobeyed the rules, or disrespected his parents or any other adult, the board would be fetched. Gerry knew what paddle pain was like and he did not relish having to suffer a dose from Mr Fisher.

He had no choice, he reckoned. Whatever happened he would get a hard spanking. If he let Mr Fisher take the paddle to his butt, that would be the end of it. If his father found out, not only would his buttocks be blistered, he would never be allowed to stay alone in the house again.

“Come let us go into the next room,” Mr Fisher spoke quietly as he caressed the paddle, almost reverentially.

Despondently, Gerry followed the furniture restorer into the lounge room. It was the first time Mr Fisher had been in the room but he quickly appraised the situation. It was a large space with a dining table and chairs, all of which would be good for the boy to lean across to offer up his butt for a whipping. But better, was the leather couch. It was the perfect height to take Gerry’s lithe body.

“There,” Mr Fisher pointed with his paddle to the dark brown couch. “Stand behind there.”

Gerry was resigned to his fate. He had to let matters take their course.

“Take down your jeans. You may keep your underwear on.”

It was a result of sorts. Gerry’s father would have insisted on a bare-assed spanking and this way Gerry was not forced to show his crack and hole to a stranger. Gerry’s jeans were so tight he had to wiggle to get them down. His butt went this way, then that, and back again. Slowly, inch by inch, the jeans descended to his knees.

“Bend over.”

Gerry took a deep breath, fell forward and curved himself across the back of the couch. Despite his many spankings, he had never been in this position before; his father preferred to take his son across his knees. Gerry felt the thin cotton of his briefs ride up a little and a cool breeze brushed against his naked thighs. He gripped the cushion of the couch as if his life depended on it.

Mr Fisher did not say a word until it was all over. Gerry heard him approach from behind and then felt his strong hand grip at the waistband of the underwear. He tugged and smoothed at the cotton until the briefs fitted Gerry’s butt like a second skin. Gerry’s ass was ready: ready for chastisement, but not necessarily for contrition.

Then, Mr Fisher took a pace back, raised the wood to above his shoulder and brought it smacking down across the centre of both cheeks.

It knocked all the wind out of the boy. He panted to catch his breath. The pain was incredible; Mr Fisher had whacked him ten times harder than his father ever had. Of course, Gerry who had always been spanked across the knee, did not yet appreciate how much more power could be put into a swat if the punisher was standing up, and whacking it in from some distance away.

Ten hard swats landed one after another, rhythmically. Swat! He felt the force of the blow reverberating through the flesh, sending waves of pain cascading through his buttocks. Crack! Both cheeks shook with the impact. Snap! He felt another stripe of pure agony appear, this one farther down than ever before.

Mr Fisher paid no heed to Gerry’s gasps as they turned to yelps and then yells, until finally as the last two swipes crashed into his cheeks, he screamed. Real tears streamed down the boy’s face and his body heaved, gasping for air. His throat, full of phlegm made him gag and he feared he might choke.

Each lick of the paddle seemed to set his entire buttocks aflame, pain pouring across the skin and coursing through each cheek. He stamped his feet up and down like a soldier on ceremonial sentry duty and his jeans fell and bunched at his feet. If he had not been wearing baseball boots, he would have kicked the denims across the room as he thrashed about.

“That’s over,” Mr Fisher was himself a little breathless with his exertions. “I shall leave you now and go and get on with my work.”

Gerry was still across the back of the couch, gasping for breath and shaking, like a goldfish that had been taken out of its bowl.

Slowly, painfully, he rose. His butt was so raw it felt like he had been forced to sit on a lighted coal fire. Gingerly, he rubbed at the seat of his briefs. Then, he tugged at the elasticated waist so he could observe the state of his flesh. Both buttocks were bright red and there were clear outlines of the paddle where it had sank into his flesh. Bruises were forming on the far edges of his globes. The pain, once agonizing, was subsiding now. Gerry knew from past experience that soon it would change from agony to become a warm glow. His buttocks would be tender to the touch for some considerable time and the bruises would probably last for many days; but the worst was now over.

Carefully, he pulled his jeans up. He regretted they were so fashionable and fitted tightly across the buttocks. He left the room and went into the hallway. Gerry passed Mr Fisher who was hard at work and did not say a word as the teen ascended the stairs to the bathroom to wipe his face and to change into looser fitting pants.

Fifteen minutes later, Mr Fisher’s work completed and his bill paid (it took most of Gerry’s savings from his job at the grocery store) the telephone rang.

“Hi mom, no everything’s fine here. No problems. Your plane’s in? OK, I’ll come and pick you up.”

Gerry put the phone down and went into the den to collect his dad’s car keys.

Then he saw it. How had he and Pauley not noticed it before? Darn! That was it; he was done for now. He would get the severest thrashing of his life, much worse than the one Mr Fisher had just delivered. His already tender bottom throbbed in anticipation of the whipping to come.

On the far wall, in its pride of place, was a formal portrait photograph of his recently-passed grandmother and some fool had drawn glasses, a moustache and Dr Spock ears on her face with an indelible marker pen.

Picture credit: Unknown

Author’s note. This story was inspired by a Yellow Pages TV commercial.

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

Their new house

My house. My rules

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The housebreaker

z used drawing cane hold (1)

He had spied on the large detached house for some time and was certain it was unoccupied; and rich for the pickings.

Making sure he wasn’t seen by anyone in The Avenue he hurried across the road and dodged behind the hedge. Now, hidden from the view of passers-by, he made a beeline for the front door and knocked loudly.

The man, let’s call him Salter, had a plan. If nobody answered it meant the house was empty and he could attempt a break-in. He waited two or three minutes: no answer, he reckoned the coast was clear.

He was pretty certain that large as the house was there was only one man who lived there, and he was probably a wealthy old git, by the looks of the place. Salter hoped he’d be able to break in and steal something valuable; he didn’t want much, cash would be preferable, just enough to pay for some booze and drugs. If there was no cash, he’d steal an ornament (these kinds of people always had ornaments) and he’d sell it.

Satisfied that no one was at home, Salter darted round the back of the house. A result: he lifted up the mat at the back door and picked up the key. Why are people so stupid? And, thank the Lord that they are.

Stealthily, just in case there was someone at home, he opened the door and entered the kitchen. It was a bright room, far too modern for a house this old. Quickly his eyes scanned around; where’s the tea-caddy; old people always hid their money in the tea-caddy. He searched through the cupboards, trying not to leave too many traces, but found no caddy, only a box of tag-less tea bags.

He opened and closed all the drawers, no money and nothing of value.

Adrenalin pumped through Salter’s veins. Out into the passageway.  Coats hanging on hooks. Search the pockets. Nothing.

This might not be as easy as he thought.

Four doors off the hallway; try this one. The lounge. There’s a huge flat-screen television; that’d be worth a few bob. No, far too conspicuous carrying it under his arm away down The Avenue. Bookshelves.  Drawers. He opened them all; just DVDs. What’s this? The Boys of St Marty’s. A picture of schoolboys on the front. They look a bit old to still be at school. The Boys of St Marty’s? Wasn’t that the one with Bing Crosby? Nobody would want to buy that. He put it back.

Salter took a deep breath; he was calming down a little. He tried another room. What’s this? This is strange. The room was gloomy, heavy curtains were drawn keeping the light out so it was like dusk even in the middle of the afternoon. Oak panelling on the four walls absorbed much of the remaining light. There was a hat stand and dangling from it was Batman’s cape.

A large old fashioned wooden desk dominated the room. Maybe this was an office or something. There must be something of value in one of the drawers. He sat in the capacious chair and opened the drawers one by one. He tried three and they were all totally empty; but not the fourth and last. Inside was a fountain pen and a hard-backed lined exercise book. Not worth a thing. Punishment Book? What’s a Punishment Book? Salter opened it and flicked through the pages. Half the book was full; he read the last two entries, which were in immaculate handwriting:

17 May. Keynes. 6. Smoking.

20 May. Keynes. 12. Insubordination.

Suddenly, he heard a faint sound. Oh, no. he knew immediately what it was. The front door was opening. There was no escape. He put the book back and closed the drawer.

“Hello. Is somebody there? Is anyone there?” It must be the owner of the house.

Salter shrank into the room, where could he hide? Nowhere; only under the desk or behind a large armchair, but that was no use. He was trapped.

The door opened cautiously. “Who the Hell are you? What are you doing here? In my house?”

Salter backed against a far wall. What choices did he have? Conceivably, he could have made a run for it. He was almost certainly quicker than the man, but he would have to get past him first. The only way out was to attack the man and leave him sprawling and then leg it.

The man, let’s call him Springer, did not seem the least bit nervous. Was he ex-military? He had a stature suggesting he would take no nonsense from anyone. Especially from Salter.

Salter knew a fight was out of the question; Springer would probably beat him to a pulp.

“I assume you are a burglar,” it seemed a stupid thing to say, but that’s all Springer could think of.

Salter said nothing.

“How did you get in?”

“Key. Back door,” Salter was unable to speak in sentences, but it was enough.

“So, I should phone for the police,” Springer put his hand in his jacket pocket to find his phone.

“Please mister. No, not the police.”

“Who are you calling ‘Mister?’” Springer’s tone put the burglar in his place. Unprompted, he said, “Sorry, Sir,”

“That’s better. Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

“I didn’t mean no harm.”

“No harm? You broke into my house. What were you after?”

Silence from Salter.

“Are you a drug addict?”

Silence from Salter for a while, and then, “Can we do this some other way?”

Springer snorted, “Be careful what you wish for.”

Salter was puzzled and he showed it.

“Look around you. You’ve broken into the wrong house, don’t you know what this room is?”

Rather theatrically, Salter slowly looked around: the oak panels, the desk, armchair, a tall thin cupboard in the corner, the hat stand and the cape. He did not quite shrug his shoulders, but the effect was the same.

Springer scowled, “It’s a headmaster’s study. And, do you know what takes place in headmasters’ studies?”

Salter gulped, again rather melodramatically.

“Come here,” and taking Salter by the arm, Springer led him to the cupboard.

“Stay there, there is no escape for you.”  He opened the door to reveal an array of punishment canes. “Do you know what these are? Look at them boy.”

Salter’s eyes widened. There were about a dozen rattan canes: some long, some short: some thick, others thin. Most had curved handles.

Springer extracted one at random and flexed it intimidatingly between his hands, then, dramatically he swished it through the air. It had the desired effect and Salter stood back in horror.

“Here’s what I am going to do. I am going to beat you with one of these canes, just as if you were a schoolboy. If you take your thrashing well, I will not involve the police.”

Nodding at the cupboard, he continued, “Which one do you want me to whip you with?”

Salter played dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say.

“Is it to be the cane?” Springer asked.

“No, Sir.”

“Then it is to be the police?”

“No, Sir,”

Springer was becoming impatient, “It is one or the other for you my lad.”

Salter knew this without being told. He was being given a choice, but in truth, he had no choice.

“The cane, Sir.”

“Good choice lad,” Springer was visibly excited now. “Come to the cupboard, chose one of the canes.”

He walked to the hat stand and took down the headmaster’s gown and put it on while Salter took his time handling cane after cane. He could tell they were all subtly different; but without doubt they would all pack a punch.

Now, suitably attired, the headmaster took hold of the armchair and swirled it round so that its back faced the room.

“Have you decided?”

Salter had. He picked out a crook-handled, medium strength ‘senior’ cane, more than three-foot long and as thick as a pencil.

“Hand it here, lad.”

Salter stared at the armchair. It was obvious why it had been positioned in such a way, but he still was unsure what he was supposed to do next.

The headmaster was practising his swing with the cane, as if he were trying to get its measure. In reality though, he was very familiar with all his little toys.

“Right lad. I want you to stand behind the chair.”

Salter was rooted to the spot.

“Now!” It was a command he could not refuse.

Salter shuffled from one foot to another, showing his nerves. He seemed to be breathing heavily in anticipation of the pain that would soon consume him.

The headmaster made sure he was in the lad’s eye line before delivering the crushing order, “Take down your trousers and underwear.”

Had Salter expected this development? Who knows? But he acted as if he had not.

“Oh, Sir. Please, Sir. Not on the bare.”

Swish! Swish! went the cane through the air.

“Is it to be the police then?”

“But, Sir.”

“Then you will do as I instructed,” The headmaster knew how to appear stern; he had been doing this long enough.

Reluctantly, Salter unbuckled his belt, then he stopped, as if still considering his alternative. With a deep intake of breath, he undid the top button; pulled down the zip and let his jeans fall to his knees.

The headmaster was captivated by the sight the lad’s bright green briefs and the bulge within them, but silently professed not to be interested.

Salter had made his mind up. Come what may, no matter how great the humiliation; or the agony he would suffer; he must go through with this. With a flick of the wrists, he sent his briefs southwards to rest on top of his Levis.

The headmaster took a moment to admire the lad’s manhood before barking the order every schoolboy across history has dreaded, “Bend over that chair!”

In one athletic movement, he stepped forward and dived across the chair.

“Head low, bottom high, legs apart.”

Salter positioned his bare bottom as high as he could, affording the headmaster the perfect opportunity to inflict maximum pain into his buttocks.

The headmaster waited a full minute to let the lad stew a little. Then, Swish! he lashed down twelve hard cuts deep into Salter’s backside.

It only took thirty seconds to turn the lad’s creamy-smooth buttocks into raw meat. Springer was a master headmaster; he laid parallel stokes from the top of the backside near the spine, across the fleshy globes, into the sit-spot where the bum meets the thighs and then into the thighs themselves. For good measure, he laid the final stroke diagonally across the others so it smashed through rapidly-forming welts, making them bleed at the points of intersection.

Salter took his twelve strokes impeccably; it was as if he had been doing this all his life.

The headmaster left the lad over the back of the chair; he was not yet ready to allow him to go. He admired his handiwork; the lad’s backside was clearly on fire; it was covered in welts as thick as his finger. The throbbing pain would be excruciating, the headmaster hoped.

“You may get up, now.”

Salter eased himself off the chair; his face was almost as red as his backside.

“Get dressed,” the headmaster walked over to his desk, opened the drawer and extracted the pen and Punishment Book. While still standing, he wrote an entry in his immaculate handwriting:

3 June. Keynes. 12. Attempted theft.

He replaced the book and turned round to see Keynes, grinning wildly, bouncing up and down rubbing his buttocks exaggeratedly.

“Wow! That was a humdinger! No a bum-stinger!”

The headmaster beamed back as the lad fell to his knees, unzipped Springer’s trousers and plunged inside.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Jackson

new story 2

z used otk slipper pyjamas (8)

“Right lad. Let’s get you spanked and sent to bed.” Jackson looked at me from the vantage point of his chair. He was trying to grimace, to look grim. His moon face gave him away. He couldn’t hide the smirk, he was enjoying this too much. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. And be quick about it.” Jackson gripped one of his own bedroom slippers in his right fist.

He knew I would obey his order. I had done so in the past and would do it again many times in the future. I took hold of the drawstring of my pyjamas and untied it. The bottoms slipped down to my thighs. I held on to them so they didn’t hurtle to my feet. I shuffled over to Jackson’s side. He spread his legs to offer me a platform. He was in his own pyjamas but wearing a dressing gown. He always did this. I suppose it stopped his tackle dangling out.

I reached forward so that my body fell across his lap. My bare bottom was perfectly placed. Moments later I felt the familiar sting and rush of adrenaline as the slipper connected for the first time with my right buttock cheek.

I had met Jackson at the beginning of my second year at university. Me and two pals rented a furnished flat in the High Street over a chiropodist’s office. A chiropodist is a foot doctor – did you know that? I didn’t. Jackson was that chiropodist and also our landlord. There was nowhere for the postman to leave letters at our flat so I would collect the mail from the receptionist at the chiropodist’s office every day. Sometimes Jackson was around and he would stop for a little chat. Inconsequential stuff; I can’t for the life of me remember anything that we talked about.

In the winter there was an emergency at the flat and the entire plumbing needed fixing. It meant we had to vacate. My two mates found people to put them up for the few days it would take before we could move back in. But, I was stuck. Jackson said he had a spare room at his house; so I went to stay.

Jackson was old enough to be my father and I don’t suppose we had too much in the way of common interests. I am gay and have never hidden it but to look at me you might not know. I look pretty ordinary and it’s not easy to tell. I don’t want to say I look “normal”, but I think you know where I’m coming from.

Jackson spotted I was gay straight away. It takes one to know one, I suppose. He didn’t make a pass at me or anything, but we did share a bottle of wine one evening while we chatted and got to know each other a little bit.

The first Friday I was staying with Jackson I went out and got bladdered. I was a student after all; it’s what students do. I got back to the house in the early hours three sheets to the wind. I was so drunk I couldn’t get my key into the front door. I guess I made quite a racket trying and failing to get into the house because Jackson had to come down and let me in. Even in my state I could see he was pretty pissed off with me, but he didn’t say anything.

Not until the next day. On Saturday afternoon, he called me into the room we laughingly called “the library”. It was just a standard living room really, but Jackson had put shelves around the walls and he kept all his books in there so they didn’t clutter up the rest of the house. There were a couple of low easy chairs and a table. I used the room myself for studying because I had no table in my bedroom.

Jackson gave me a good talking to. A right telling off. He told me he was angry about being dragged out of bed to let me in. I apologised. He had a right to be upset, I said. I’m sorry. “Good,” he said and he stared fiercely at me, “Because if it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. Now, clear off. Don’t you have studying to do?”

I stumbled out of the library in a daze. “Spanking?” He was joking right? Of course he was, I assured myself. Spanking indeed. What did he take me for – a little kid? I didn’t think any more about Jackson’s threat until hours later when once again I was drunk as a skunk. I staggered down The Avenue, the upscale suburban street where Jackson lived (foot doctoring clearly pays well). I held on to the gatepost at the end of the drive that went up to the house. I searched my pockets to find my key. I gripped it tightly and taking small pigeon steps I scrunched up the gravel path. I reached the door and hesitated. I had to make a decision. I closed one eye and carefully lined up my key with the lock. After two unsuccessful attempts I got it in. I could enter the house quietly and go to bed. Or, I could make an almighty clatter and wake up Jackson. If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I hesitated some more, trying to clear my head. I turned the key quietly, entered the house and tip-toed across the hallway. I thought I was doing pretty well until, I tripped over a wellington boot Jackson had carelessly left at the foot of the stairs. As I fell arse over tit I took the hat stand with me. The row it made would have woken the dead, let alone Jackson. But as it happens he was already awake. As I stumbled from my knees to my feet the door to the library opened and Jackson stood there, hands on hips. He pursed his lips so it looked like he had sucked on a lemon.

“Bed now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he growled. Holding tightly to the banisters I crawled up the stairs. I crashed out on the bed and slept the sleep of the unjust for about nine hours. My head was pretty clear when I woke. I had the typical recovery powers of a nineteen-year-old. I only had a vague recollection of the previous night, but the words, “I’ll speak to you tomorrow” were clear in my mind.

As were If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I did the three S’s – shit, shower and shave – and then went downstairs. I found Jackson in the kitchen surrounded by the Sunday Times. He peered over the top of the gardening section, his face stern. “Ah, good morning. Or should I say afternoon,” he dripped sarcasm. I nodded a perfunctory greeting and grabbed a bowl from the draining board and filled it with cornflakes. Jackson rose from his chair. “When you’ve eaten that come to the library. Don’t be long.”

I dragged it out as long as I could like it was a condemned man’s final meal. Spanking. Did he really intend to spank me? Absurd though it may sound to you, I thought he actually might. I had never been spanked in my life and I don’t remember that any of my friends growing up were either. They had the cane at school, but I never got it. You could say that I was a virgin to corporal punishment. No, I said to myself as I made my way to the library; all he’s going to do it give me a bollocking. Which, I would readily admit, I deserved.

Jackson was seated in one of the easy chairs. He peered at me as I entered the room as if I were a stranger and he was sizing me up for the first time. I stood, embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I hoped he would start talking soon. He did, but he had few words for me.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said and then without further warning he leaned forwards and with his left hand he grabbed my right wrist. He pulled me towards him and then downwards so hard that I almost flew across his knees. I hollered a protest and kicked my legs about but it didn’t stop Jackson slapping his hand onto my backside. He went at a rush and struck me with some force. He put his whole effort into spanking my rear end. He gripped me tight at the waist and despite my kicking and flailing I was stuck face down, bottom up across Jackson’s knee. I stared down at the carpet incredulously: I was having my backside spanked. Me, nineteen years old, across the knees of a much older man getting whacked. Could you imagine such a thing?

I was pinned into position, I was going nowhere. I was at Jackson’s mercy. I couldn’t believe it. And, here’s something else I couldn’t believe: I was loving every moment of it. I think it must have been a submissive thing. Of course, with my jeans and pants on I didn’t feel a thing. Poor Jackson’s hand was hurting much more than my backside. He must have known that, but it didn’t stop him pounding my bum. He must have had a beautiful target. My buttocks were firm and pert in those days and my jeans were shrunk to fit. They left nothing to the imagination. Jackson spanked every square inch of my bum at least three times over and then he turned his attention to the back of my thighs.

I could have stayed there all day. Jackson on the other hand was running out of steam. At last, almost exhausted, he released his grip on my body and pushed me so that I rolled off his lap and onto the floor. My own heart was racing and my temples throbbed. The room was blurred (when it wasn’t spinning). I had taken all kinds of drugs in the past but none of them had done this to me.

I stumbled to my knees. I was only inches from Jackson’s crotch. He might have been an “old” man but his tackle seemed to be in good working order. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Jackson’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. It echoed like we were in a canyon not a small room in a suburban house. I blinked to clear my head a little. He repeated himself, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

I heard him more clearly the second time. I grinned. My eyebrows shot heavenwards. I said nothing. I didn’t have the words. Jackson’s moon face shone. He grinned, “Oh, It’s like that is it, young man.” He gripped my wrist once more and hauled me to my feet. In one swift expert movement he had my jeans at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. He threw me back across his knee and this time I felt every one of those vicious slaps as Jackson almost literally took my arse off.

At the end of the academic year me and my friends decided to give up the flat above the chiropodist’s. They went back to their families for the long vacation. I could have gone to mine, but I was twenty years old now and being with my Mum and Dad held no attractions. I mentioned it to Jackson when I went to give him notice to quit. “Come and stay with me,” he said quietly. “If you want to, of course,” he added with a wink. I moved in at the end of the month.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Meet the Greenes

The Country Club

Paying the rent

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Encounter with the vicar

z used otk chair head sting (1)

When the vicar spanked me on my bare bottom I don’t know who enjoyed it more, me or him.

My friend Lenny and I were in our early twenties and secretly used his churchyard for our couplings. I don’t know if we were in “love” or it was simply “lust”, but our relationship gave both of us great comfort in an otherwise unkind world.

The church was secluded behind locked gates at night and people from the town kept well away after dark. There was a well-believed story that the churchyard was haunted and that its statue of King some-one-or-other had been known to walk at night.

We thought we were safe, as we’d used the churchyard before without trouble. But, one day our luck ran out.

It was autumn and we climbed the fence at eight o’clock and ran through the shadows to a spot we by now considered our own. We didn’t waste time and were soon locked in each other’s arms and kissing passionately as a prelude to removing our clothes for love-making.

We had never been disturbed before and had become too complacent. That was our downfall. We never saw him until it was too late; he was upon us before we had a chance to run.

“What the …. Who are you? What are you doing?” It was a vicar scowling over us. He knew very well what we were doing, but, I suppose, he was genuinely at a loss for words.

I don’t have the words to describe the fear we felt. It happened such a long time ago. It was in the Dark Ages, when people like us were not called “homosexuals” or “gays”; we were “queers” and “perverts” and if our true nature was discovered we would lose our jobs, our families and our friends. We could even be sent to prison.

I suppose the vicar knew this and that’s why he took advantage.

He blocked our escape route, towering above the two of us standing at 6ft 2in and weighing nearly sixteen stone he was not someone to trifle with. He was big bear of a man, much older than us, with grey hair and a grey beard, but physically fit and imposing.

I had never seen the vicar in my life, but it was clear he knew Lenny. He called him words like “disgusting” “filthy”, “sordid”, “revolting” and “repulsive”, as if he had swallowed a thesaurus.

I knew that even if we did try to make a run for it there was no escape: the vicar would be able to track us down and bring the full force of the unjust law down on our trembling bodies.

He pulled both of us by our shirt collars and dragged us into his vicarage that was tucked away behind the church. I was startled; I had never realised he lived in the churchyard and could have discovered us on any one of the many times we had made love here.

His strength was so great I had no option but to submit to his will and scurry behind him.

He deposited us in a huge room that was a cross between a library, a study and a living room.  Menacingly, he turned the key in the door, removed it and theatrically put it in his trouser pocket. He was telling us we were his prisoners.

“Stand there, both of you.” He pointed to a patterned rug in front of a large desk. He sat down behind it and I swear addressed us like we were naughty children. I didn’t realise it immediately, but that was precisely what he thought we were and he was going to treat us accordingly.

He thundered at us some more calling us “repellent”, “sickening”, “nauseating”, “horrendous” and “awful” and other words that he had forgotten earlier. In my state of terror, I didn’t see that this rage was faked. He was “putting on the style”, the way vicars do when they’re giving the brimstone and hellfire stuff on a Sunday. He didn’t really believe in any of it.

Then out of nowhere he told us, “What you need is a nice warm whipping.” And, it was clear from the self-righteous look on his face that this time he did mean it.

“You need to have the evil thrashed out of you,” he continued. Then he fumed some more. He must have been quite a literary gent because in the next few sentences he managed to get in “spank”, “whack”, “tan” and “slap”. If I hadn’t been so petrified of him and the situation I was in, I would have seen him to be the sanctimonious pervert that he really was.

Eventually, he regained a semblance of composure and pronounced the predictable: he was going to spank us. There was no negotiation, but it was immediately clear that if we took our punishment that would be the end of the matter; no police, no prison, no hurtful revelations to our employers, family and friends. The vicar’s power over us was total.

After all his fulminations I expected at the very least he intended to flog us until the skin peeled off our backs and was genuinely astonished when he picked up a bedroom slipper from near the fireplace and announced he was going to spank us with that.

So, it was almost with a sense of relief and joy that we went through our preparations to satisfy our jailer.

The vicar turned a large armless chair away from a dining table so it faced inwards to the room. He sat down, took some time to make himself comfortable, spread his huge legs wide, and pronounced, “Larry, take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.”

Larry and I exchanged glances. We knew we were cornered and had no choice but to submit to this pervert. If we were obedient and allowed him his pleasure, we would be free to leave. If we did not, our lives would be totally ruined.

Faking nonchalance, Larry took off his pullover to gain access to the braces that were holding up his trousers, then released them over his shoulders. They did not fit well at the waist and of their own accord his trousers slipped over his hips down his thighs towards his knees. I could see the look in his eyes was meant to convey to the vicar Larry’s utter contempt for him.

The vicar didn’t care. He was enjoying this too much. He screwed the bedroom slipper in his fist as he scrutinised my friend, “Underwear down. Now!”

With distain Larry undid his woollen drawers revealing his uncut penis to the vicar, who studied it closely. He couldn’t help himself; he had never seen anything like it before. He was sweating a little when he instructed Larry, “Come bend across my knee.” He patted his thigh to encourage my friend, whose contempt for the vicar couldn’t have been greater.

Larry moved forward, put his hands on the vicar’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He was a small boy, we all were in those days; it was poor diet mostly. The tininess of Larry’s body contrasted with the ample frame of the vicar. Larry was so small neither his hands nor his feet reached the ground; his pert bottom rested over the thick knees of his punisher.

The vicar wrapped his arm around Larry’s middle and lifted him up, moving him further forward so that his bottom was positioned even higher to receive the attention of his slipper. He pinned Larry’s feet down with his own right leg and restrained his back with his left arm. The boy could not move and was entirely at the mercy of the vicar.

He might have been twenty-one or twenty-two at the time, I can’t remember exactly, but in this situation, Larry looked just like a small boy about to be punished by an adult. He could have been eight years old.

Content that his victim could not escape; the vicar lifted the slipper towards the ceiling and brought it crashing down across the centre of Larry’s buttocks with such force a bright red mark immediately appeared and the young man gasped in shock.

Several more blows rained down in rapid succession, echoing around the room like the rattle of machine gun fire. Larry tried to wriggle free, but the vicar seemed to be an expert spanker; he was in absolute control of the situation. He was going to spank Larry as hard and for as long as he wished and there was nothing the boy could do about it.

The slipper spanked into Larry’s buttocks, covering every part of his tight flesh, from the base of the spine through the fleshiest part of the globes to the sit-spot where the bum and the thighs meet. Sadistically, the vicar also smacked down his slipper onto the thighs themselves, causing, if Larry’s reaction was anything to go by, intense pain.

I watched from a distance unable to help my friend, conscious of the agony he was suffering, but also aware of the strange feelings in my loins. I was sure I wasn’t turned on by the pain he was suffering, but there was something about his submissiveness that made my pulse race.

I knew that Larry would not want to give his tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting him, but after what must have been one hundred or more spanks, his resolve was broken. His cries were hardly audible at first, but they became louder as the whacking intensified, until he was openly weeping as each successive slap of the slipper fell on his raw bottom, opening up new waves of pain.

Eventually, after who knows how much time, even this heartless vicar had satisfied himself. He stopped spanking, but held Larry trapped across his knees, while with the palm of his hand he gently patted the scorching buttocks.

“My, look how pink your bottom is,” and rubbing gently some more, “And how hot it is.”

Larry’s humiliation now total, the vicar released his grip and my friend jumped up, hopping from one foot to the other, rubbing at his scorched flesh while performing a kind of dance.

It was soon to be my turn to go over the vicar’s knees. My heart beat quickened with excitement and my mouth was drying up. I took deep breaths to calm my nerves. I knew this was going to be extremely painful and humiliating, but I wanted it to happen so much.

The vicar beckoned me across his knees and meekly I offered him my bared bottom. If I could have done so, I would have happily stripped myself totally naked: no better; I would have allowed the vicar to do it for me, before throwing myself across his legs in complete submission to his slipper.

The vicar pinned me down in exactly the same way he had Larry. Somehow, my realisation that this strong older man was mastering me made me feel secure. I can’t explain it. I knew by now that he was exploiting me to satisfy his own desires, but I didn’t care. I needed someone like the vicar to control me; to bring out that side of my nature that craved to be dominated.

He slippered me for as long and as hard as he had Larry, leaving my backside blistered. It would throb for hours after the spanking had finished. But, I still needed more.

I never met the vicar again. Larry and I steered clear of the churchyard and a few months later, he joined the army and I never saw him again. But, I still think about that night a lot. How it ignited appetites in me that I never knew existed. But, those passions could never be gratified; how could they, we lived our entire lives in the darkness.

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

new story 2

Henry Pottinger let the suitcase fall onto the bed. It was lighter than he had remembered. The accumulated dust of years – no, decades – was undisturbed. It was small and battered and made of stiff carboard. They didn’t make suitcases like that anymore. Utility, they had called it. Cheap, no frills. Like so many things manufactured at the end of the war.

Henry turned the case on its side so he could get at the catches. They flicked open easily. The case had laid in the attic room since his youth. When he had first lived there; the family home. When his mother and father were still alive.

Henry’s heart beat faster. It had been fifty years at least since he had last rummaged through the contents of the case. Part of his life was there. He paused, but only barely, since the case held no fears. It contained no hidden secrets.

He opened the lid and without looking inside he lifted the suitcase and turned it over so that its contents fell with a satisfying plop onto the heavy mattress. Carefully, almost reverentially, he placed the case on the bedroom floor. He peered at the litter on the bed with some disappointment. He had remembered it differently. This pile represented his youth. He had expected so much more. He hoped this would not turn out to be a wasted effort.

He leaned forward and carefully smoothed the jumble. He hadn’t seen this junk in more than fifty years but immediately so much looked familiar. His souvenirs. Why had he collected them? He supposed it had been the arrogance of youth. Had he believed that one day he would be famous and revered; that these pathetic artefacts would be sought out by scholars and historians. A professor at an Oxbridge college would use them as source material for his third or maybe fourth book about the importance of Henry Pottinger.

Ha! To be young again. Henry, now fast approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, often spoke about the arrogance of youth. He knew the best way to deal with that. The old-fashioned ways were still the best.

Henry had achieved some degree of fame in his life, but no scholar had wanted to write about him. Ironically perhaps, his fame (and quite a small fortune) had been made as the author of a series of history textbooks. For more than thirty years he had been required reading for every schoolchild in Britain and the Commonwealth. That was a lot of books and a great deal of royalties. That income and a legacy from his parents meant Henry had never done a day’s proper work since the age of thirty.

Henry had used the time that money bought him industriously. Henry Pottinger had constructed for himself a second life. An alternative existence. Henry Pottinger was not in fact Henry Pottinger. Henry Pottinger was an assumed name; a cipher. Henry Pottinger would never have been allowed to write and publish a textbook for schoolboys. Henry Pottinger would never have allowed near a schoolboy. Not in a million years. So, the name that adorned the history textbooks was not Henry Pottinger.

Henry Pottinger enjoyed his life. And he intended to go on enjoying it for many more years to come. He had made a great number of friends and his home, tucked away in a leafy suburb of the non-descript town of Brocklehurst, was famous among men who shared Henry’s (non-history) interests. Indeed, it was on account of these friends that Henry Pottinger was now rummaging through his souvenirs.

A seventy-fifth birthday celebration was being planned for Henry Pottinger and, as is often the case at such milestone anniversaries, his chums thought it would be a cracking wheeze to surround him with memories of his life. That had sent Henry Pottinger climbing into the far recesses of the attic.

He surveyed his early adult life spread before him. Time plays tricks on a person and had it really been about fifty years since he had last seen all this? So much of it looked familiar. The edge of a small pink-coloured box peeked between a dozen envelopes. Ha! Henry Pottinger knew what that was. He gripped it eagerly in his hand. The box had a clear transparent plastic lid. Henry Pottinger did not have to open the box, its content was clearly visible. It was a plastic key, silver in colour, attached to the numerals two and one. A twenty-first birthday memento from his parents, deliberately chosen for its tackiness.

He tossed it back onto the bed and retrieved one of the envelopes. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it contained a birthday card. Eagerly, Henry Pottinger pulled back the flap and tugged out the card. “Happy 21st birthday,” he read. “Now we are legal. Love Uncle Ricky.” Henry Pottinger chewed down on is bottom lip, an affectation that indicated his intense pleasure. “Ha! Ha! God almighty!” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Now we are legal. How much had changed since he had turned twenty-one. And “Uncle” Ricky – he was no blood relation. Gosh! Henry Pottinger giggled at how much Uncle Ricky had taught him.

Gently, he placed the card on the bedside table. It would raise a smile at his birthday party.  He returned to the bed; a formal brown envelope lay askew on top of a copy of Football Monthly. Henry Pottinger didn’t need to look at that – he knew already, it celebrated England’s victory in the World  Cup. He just as easily recognised the envelope. He couldn’t supress his excitement. With trembling hands he eased out the one sheet of flimsy paper it contained. “Ha!” He boomed and dissolved into chuckles. His final school report. He licked his lips and started to read. Even after so many decades he found he could recite the contents of the report by heart.

He is “headstrong,” his housemaster had written. “Will find it difficult to make his way in life if he continues to be unable to accept authority.” His chuckles rose to roars of laughter. “Oh, yes,” Henry Pottinger said, “I must frame this. It will take pride of place.”

Henry Pottinger (as he was not called while at school) had joined the sixth-form at St Francis Independent Grammar School when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a senior post at the local municipal council. Unable to accept authority. The eighteen-year-old Henry Pottinger had been a frequent visitor to Mr Durrant’s study. Henry Pottinger held the school report, his eyes misting. He saw himself lowering his body across the low back of the housemaster’s old leather armchair. His head low, bottom high. His pale-grey trousers pulling snugly into his stretched buttocks. The aroma of stale sweat that permeated the chair’s seat clogged his throat. Once again, Henry Pottinger felt the gentle tap-tap-tap of the thick, but whippy, rattan cane as it found its aim across the fleshiest part of his round buttock cheeks.

Henry Pottinger could never see this (of course, since his gaze was committed to the seat cushion) but he imagined Mr Durrant then flexing the cane between both hands before swishing it through the air. Henry Pottinger could feel the cane return to its target. Then the cane lifted away before returning with tremendous force to strike deep into his meaty bum before rebounding. The cane rose and fell six times. Six-of-the-best. St Francis was a traditional school after all.

Henry Pottinger read the words again: unable to accept authority. He had been beaten like that on three separate occasions in his final term. Three times! Aged eighteen. Had Durrant been a complete imbecile? Had he not realised what was going on? How Henry Pottinger had lusted for those sessions in the housemaster’s study. How he fantasied about one day being ordered by the cane-swishing Mr Durrant, “Lower your trousers. Bend over that chair.” Oh, how Henry Pottinger had wanted to take a full-six across the seat of his white cotton Y-fronts. Henry Pottinger laughed at the memory. It would not happen at his school but it did not take too long after he arrived at Oxford before he experienced that exquisite pleasure.

Oxford. University. Suddenly Henry Pottinger remembered. The photograph. Did he still have it? He delved into the pile on the eiderdown. Yes! Yes! He pulled at a yellowing envelope, hands trembling. “This is it! Oh My God!” he trilled. “I haven’t seen this since ….” His eyes misted. A young man (himself) in pyjamas standing in the corner of  room, hands on head in the traditional naughty boy pose. The pyjama bottoms are at his feet and bottom bare to the wind and red raw after a sound spanking. Henry Pottinger licked his lips. “Oh Lor!” he exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten.”

z used after corner pyjamas down study or domestic

That bonkers weekend at Brocklehurst he had spent with his pal, Gregor. That mad man (what the dickens was his name?) who turned half of his house into a replica public school, complete with classroom and headmaster’s study. The photograph showed Henry Pottinger in that study. His heart raced and his throat dried simultaneously as it all flooded back.

“You boy, stand there,” the headmaster glowered as he pointed to a place on the carpet in front of his desk. “Why have you been sent to me at this ungodly hour?” Henry Pottinger stands nervously, feeling a little conspicuous in his heavy striped pyjamas. They were made for a taller, stouter boy. Even with the drawstring tightly knotted he feared the pyjamas bottoms would slip down his thighs at any moment.

“Maitland, the head boy sent me. I was out of the dormitory after lights out.”

“Ha!” the headmaster ejaculated. “Up to no good, of course. No good comes from being out of the dormitory after lights out.”

Henry Pottinger nods his agreement. It is unsure what else he is expected to say. There is an uncomfortable silence. The headmaster breaks it with a bark, “Well, boy what have you got to say for yourself!” Henry Pottinger stares down at his bare feet. What is he supposed to say? His head is in a whirl. Frankly, he wishes the headmaster would stop all the jawing and move onto the action.

“Pah!” he headmaster rises from his chair. “So, you want to add dumb insolence to the charge list, eh?” Henry Pottinger shrugs, realising he is not very good at this. “Bah! Pah!” the headmaster is hamming it up  bit. “Well, m’lad,” he says, suddenly adopting a cod Scottish accent, “Och! w’ll see abah tat.” He opens the drawer to his desk and reaches in. Henry Pottinger’s eyes follow the headmaster’s movement closely. His heart is racing and he feels a slight clenching in his buttocks. The headmaster withdraws a leather strap. It has a handle at one end and the business end is split into three tails.

The headmaster holds the tawse high in both hands so that Henry Pottinger gets a good look. It is as if the headmaster is making a religious offering. “Och,” the headmaster says, “yer know what to expect.” Henry Pottinger honestly does not. He knows he is to receive corporal punishment as that is the whole point of the weekend. But, he had never been beaten with a leather tawse before. His bottom has been battered with canes, slippers and hairbrushes. On one memorable occasion he received six cuts of a heavy birch rod; but a leather tawse, no.

The headmaster is now on the move. He stands in front of his desk alongside Henry Pottinger. The headmaster swipes the heavy strap through the air. Sweat trickles down Henry Pottinger’s spine. At close quarters he can see the strap is awesome. It is about a foot or fourteen inches long and maybe a quarter to half inch thick. It will pack a wallop, Henry Pottinger has no doubt about that. Especially in the hands of the headmaster who has already demonstrated his expertise with a swishy rattan cane.

“Take down your pyjama trousers and bend across my desk,” the headmaster says swiftly. In his excitement he has forgotten to speak in the Scottish accent. Henry Pottinger fumbles with the drawstring of his pyjamas, he will be glad to let them down before they fall under their own steam. His buttocks and legs are now bare and for the first time Henry Pottinger feels how cold it is in the study. There is an open fire but it hasn’t been made up.

The headmaster moves away from the desk, he places his hands behind his back and strolls purposefully across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he turns and retraces his steps. Henry Pottinger thinks he looks a lot like Groucho Marx and stifles a giggle.

“Bend over boy!” the headmaster shouts the instruction. Henry Pottinger wonders if the neighbours will hear. Then he remembers the houses in this part of The Avenue are large and detached from one another. The headmaster could commit murder and no one would hear.

Henry Pottinger is a short distance from the desk so he shuffles like a penguin until he is close enough so he can bend across. The headmaster has cleared the desk top and all that is left is a large blotter. The lower button of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket is undone and his bare flesh touches the cold walnut desk. Its coldness and the excitement of presenting his bared bottom for chastisement sends a shiver through his body.

The headmaster has stopped his pacing and from the other end of the study he admires the sight presented for him. He has become intimately acquainted with Henry Pottinger’s bottom over the past twenty-four hours. The fading lines from a swift six of the best delivered across the seat of the trousers earlier in the day bare testimony to this fact.

The headmaster stands behind Henry Pottinger and admires once more his fine round buttock cheeks. They firm up when he is stretched across the desk, but when standing they are a little more fleshy. The headmaster runs the tip of his tongue across his dry, almost chapped lips. He rests the tawse on the desk so as to free-up both hands. With those, he carefully takes hold of the end of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket and ever so carefully he folds it once, then once again so that it is quite clear of his target area. He cracks a smile, cups his right palm and then gently he caresses Henry Pottinger’s left buttock. The headmaster is delighted that Henry Pottinger shivers when he does this. The headmaster pats the left buttock and rubs the back of Henry Pottinger’s thighs. Then he gives the boy a playful smack across the fleshiest part of his right cheek.

The headmaster stands back and gently lays the three tails of the worn leather tawse across the centre of Henry Pottinger’s bottom. He licks his lips one more time, grips the handle tightly, raises the strap so it rests on his shoulder and then with all the force he is able to muster he whips it down so that it sinks into the flesh. He is rewarded with the sight of a glowing red stripe. Henry Pottinger’s hips wriggle and he grips the far edge of the desk. A second stroke whistles through the air before connecting an inch below the first. Henry Pottinger turns his head, a long drawn out whistle escapes from his half-closed mouth.

Back in the bedroom Henry Pottinger the soon-to-be seventy-five-year-old carefully replaces the photograph in the yellowing envelope. What a day this is turning out to be, he tells himself as once again he burrows among the debris in search of more memories.

Picture credit, CP Services, London

Other stories you might like

It is what it is

The Clumsy Waiter

The Chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com