Unexpected demonstration of affection

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Nigel Wallace, a long-since retired professor at Brocklehurst University, was at home doing nothing when the phone rang. He didn’t recognise the voice at the other end and was a little alarmed when the man said he was a lawyer and asked Wallace to confirm his identity. Was he being accused of something? Lawyers always spelled trouble.

The lawyer detected the uneasiness in the professor’s reply and sought to reassure him. “I am dealing with the estate of Mr Eric Stanhope.” That didn’t help. “I know no one of that name,” he replied, anxious to put the phone down and continue staring at the fading wallpaper in his front room.

“He was a student of yours in the early nineteen-seventies,” the lawyer continued, “I am sorry to say he has passed away. Lung cancer. I should like to invite you to a reading of the will.”

Prof Wallace wanted to retort, “Reading of the will. Is there really such a thing? I thought they only happened in crime novels. Agatha Christie. A group of strangers get called to the reading of a will at a creepy mansion and one by one they get bumped off.” He wasn’t given time to speak as the lawyer was anxious to conclude business. He gave a date, a time and a venue for the event.

“No thanks,” Prof Wallace was adamant. He had no wish to travel half way across the country on a fool’s errand. What interest was a former student of forty years ago to him? The lawyer did not press the case. He was used to such refusals. He could inform the professor of the details of his legacy at a later date. “But,” he added, “He has left a letter for you, may I forward it on to you?”

“Bah!” Prof Wallace croaked. Despite being a cantankerous old man (indeed, he had always been cantankerous) he did not add “What should I care?” The lawyer wished him good day and ended the conversation.

So it was that the next day a registered letter arrived at Prof Wallace’s home. He had to admit (to himself, since he was alone in the world) that he had become intrigued. Who was this Mr Eric Stanhope and why did he want to remember him after so many years? He pulled out a printed transcript from the envelope and settled back in his armchair. This is what he read.

“Dear Professor,

“You probably don’t remember me since so many young men have passed through your hands over the years but I have never forgotten you. There is no doubt in my mind that I owe my life to you. Please don’t think I am being over-dramatic. I don’t mean that you once dragged me from a burning building or conducted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after I had been pulled from a river. I mean that it was the help and guidance you gave to me as a young student that made me the man I became.

“It was the sense of discipline that you instilled in me back at Brocklehurst that set me on the path to success. You almost certainly won’t know that I went on to build a great financial empire. This brought me great wealth and happiness. Believe me when I say without you I would not have a wonderful wife and three fantastic daughters.

“What I have just said probably puzzles you. You have never met my family and in all probability you think you don’t know me from Adam. Let me explain. When I arrived at Brocklehurst I was a bumptious eighteen-year-old. I was smug and conceited. I had come from humble origins. I had not studied hard at school but I had a knack for passing exams with minimal effort. I had no intention of working hard and expected to cruise through university. In the early weeks of my first term I hardly attended lectures, I spent my time in the bars of Brocklehurst and introduced myself to many young ladies of the town. I did not know it but I was heading for failure. It seemed that at Christmas time I would be put on the train to my home never to return. You saved me.

“I remember the first time you summoned me to your study as if it were only yesterday. You were not only a professor at the university, you held the post of head of department. I didn’t have the sense I was born with. I was self-satisfied and arrogant. What could you, an old man teach me? (Old man. Ha! Now I look back I see you were probably still in your thirties). Well, you soon showed me. As my memories flood back, my bottom tingles as I write this.

“Your speech was word perfect. You listed my faults and there were many. You were never a tall man, nor especially large. But you had a presence about you. Much to my surprise I found myself cowered. I clenched my hands behind my back. My feet wriggled with embarrassment. I showed an intense interest in the carpet beneath my feet. I had never experienced this before.

“What you did next was also a novelty for me. It was a shock. I had no expectation. I had never been called to your study before. I had heard no other student speak of their visits. I was completely unprepared. Your study wasn’t too big and along one wall were a series of shelves and cupboards. I forced my gaze away from my feet and my eyes followed you as you took the stately walk across the room. You stopped at a cupboard. Did you feel my eyes burning into your back as I stared? You fumbled in the pocket of your trousers and found a small key. This you used to unlock a cupboard door. You reached in.

“Your back obscured my view, but when you straightened up and turned back towards me I saw you were carrying what looked like a block of wood. No, not carrying; brandishing. You were flaunting it. It was a rectangle of wood with a handle and you were waving it at me. How naïve was I? I didn’t have the slightest idea what it was. It looked like a miniature cricket bat. I had never seen a spanking paddle. They weren’t so common in England. Schools might use a whippy rattan cane or a rubber-soled gym plimsoll, but not a paddle. I now know they were more favoured by our American cousins. I had never seen a cane close up, nor seen a plimsoll smacked across a boy’s stretched backside, my school did not use corporal punishment.

“I think you might have guessed I was a novice to this sort of thing. My behaviour might have given you a big clue that I was unpunished (as well as undisciplined) as a child. You approached me still brandishing the paddle and I had no doubt about your intention. You had me in your spell. I was rooted to the spot. My heart raced and my mouth dried. I am not much of a writer, but ‘like the Sahara Dessert’ springs to mind. Even today, I remember what you did.

“With one hand you picked up the straight-backed chair that usually stood in front of your desk and you plonked it down in the middle of the room. You gave me one of your steely glares. I blanched. I looked away. I could not compete with you in a staring contest. You nodded towards the chair. You spoke no words, but your message was clear. You tapped the paddle into the palm of your hand with menace. ‘Bend over the chair,’ was your unspoken command. I was bemused. You wanted to spank me. Could this be true? Was I dreaming? Me, an eighteen-year-old adult. I didn’t say any of this, of course. I daren’t. At that moment all my bluster and arrogance had melted. I was timid. You were my master. I would not say that I was your ‘slave’, but I was your subordinate. You were in charge. Your word was law. What could I do but obey?

“I wanted to obey. I intended to obey, but again my innocence let me down. I had never been spanked. I had never seen a boy spanked. Bend over. But, how exactly was this done? Bend over the back of the chair? Lay my stomach on the seat of the chair with my arms ahead of me and my legs dangling behind?

“You read my mind. ‘Stand to the front. Bend over, place your hands on the seat of the chair,’ you commanded. Of course. It was that simple. I did not stop to think that now was my last chance to flee the room, to run helter-skelter back to my digs and lock the door behind me. I did not contemplate what the consequences might be if I refused to obey. Refusal was not an option. I stepped up to the chair, then hesitated for a moment before leaning forward as you had instructed.

“It felt mighty strange, bent over a chair, offering up my backside to an older man to spank with a wooden paddle. I don’t suppose I had ever felt so vulnerable. I didn’t know it at the time, but realised later that you took account of my lack of experience in such matters. I wore heavy jeans. They fitted snugly and showed my buttocks. But, denim is a thick material and offers quite a protection against any spanking. You allowed me to keep my jeans on. I am thankful. I think on that first time a spanking on my underpants – or God forbid, on the bare! – would have been an embarrassment (no, a humiliation too far).

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“You delivered six, very hard swats across the lower part of my buttocks. I suppose that’s what was known as six-of-the-best back in those days. Each one landed on top of the previous swipe. My bum was on fire. You got me right on the ‘sit-spot’ and I couldn’t sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Only later, was I to realise what an expert spanker you were.

“My bottom wriggled and writhed as the paddle hammered across the seat of my jeans. Your strong left arm pushed into my shoulders and forced me to remain bent over. Otherwise, I would have been jumping up and down, rubbing my bum, hopping about like some demented Red Indian.

“I don’t think I cried, but my eyes would have been pretty moist by the time you finished. You let me stand and then you lectured me some more about my future behaviour and the consequences I faced should I be summoned back to your study.

“It took the better part of a week for the bruises to clear completely. Each time I went to the shower I was reminded of the penalty for bad behaviour. I resented you. I could go so far as to say I hated you. How dare you treat me like a little kid. I was eighteen, legally an adult. I fumed a lot, but I didn’t miss any of your lectures for the rest of the term. But, I was young and stupid and I liked my beer. And, the girls. Although I was afraid to upset you again I had less concerns about my other lecturers. That’s what got me in trouble again.

“Looking back, Mr Lowry had every right to report me when I failed to complete his essay, even after he had granted an extension on submission. I didn’t think so at the time. How I hated you when I received that second summons to your study. I knew what to expect. You had made it clear enough. Of course, I only had myself to blame. I was going to wear my football shorts and swimming trunks and a couple of pairs of underpants under my jeans. My jeans were always tight and when I tried it was a battle to get the zipper to close. When I looked in the mirror my bum was massive. Just as well I abandoned that ruse, considering what you made me do in your study.

“You gave me a right telling off, but – and I’ll never forget this – you said you thought I was bright and intelligent and could make something of myself. But I had to pull my finger out (my words, you were too eloquent to speak like that) and concentrate on my work. Nobody had ever said that to me before. No one at school, and certainly not my parents. It gave me something to think about.

“Naturally, you didn’t leave it there. You made a return visit to that cupboard. This time the paddle you choose was larger and heavier. It was some kind of dark wood and it was so highly polished it reflected the light from the ceiling. I can still see the way you held it in your hand, demonstrating its power. How many holes were drilled into it: six or eight? I can’t quite remember.

“Then, you had me take down my jeans and spread-eagle myself across your desk. Oh boy! Luckily, I was only wearing one pair of pants. We wore tiny briefs in those days and they hardly covered my buttocks. Most of the underside of the cheeks were bare to the wind. You exploited that. I don’t suppose you could have left me in any greater pain if you’d made me take my briefs down.

“Twelve swats with that paddle across the half-naked bum. Oh how I howled. I just about absorbed the first two, but by the third I was gripping the edge of the desk for dear life. My head butted the desktop. My legs kicked. My hips swivelled and swerved. I almost bit through my bottom lip in my failed attempts to stop myself yowling. They must have heard me down in the street below. I’m surprised someone didn’t burst into the study to see who was being murdered.

“By the time you let me climb back into my jeans my bum was throbbing raw. It felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I have never sat down on top of a blazing coal fire, but if I ever did it would not hurt as much as that paddling.

“You gave me time to calm down and before you sent me on my way you told me again how talented I was. That you had confidence in me. That you wanted me to achieve. That night as I lay on my side in my bed, trying not let my savaged buttocks brush against the mattress, I thought about what you had said. As I said nobody had shown such faith. I realised then that you were not a bully. You had power over me, but you didn’t exploit it. You spanked me for my own good.

“I worked hard that term and passed the exams and was doing well. It looked like the paddling had worked. Then, I fell off the wagon. It was a girl, of course. Or more truthfully, girls. I was a good looking lad back then with an easy charm and a sexual appetite. I spent too much time in bed (but not alone) and not enough in the library. I failed a couple of mock exams.

“I remember how you shook your head with disappointment. I can’t explain how that stabbed at my heart. You told me how proud you had been when I bucked up my ideas and passed my exams the previous term. You said you had hoped I had turned a corner. I was on the straight-and-narrow path to success. Alas, no! I had veered to the side of the road and broken down. I needed maintenance. A maintenance spanking!

“You were no longer my professor. Is it too fanciful to say you were a father figure? You certainly showed you cared more than my real dad. What you did next confirmed this. You were back at that goddam cupboard and this time you brandished a small block of wood that was no bigger than a paperback book. I blinked in disbelief. Compared to the whopping paddle you used to take my backside off last time, this was puny. I almost smiled with relief. This one wouldn’t do much damage. I had forgotten what an expert you were.

“You had finished lecturing me and without a further word you took that chair I had been ordered to bend across on my first visit and once more you placed it in the centre of the room. I was waiting for your command ‘Bend over’, but you had other ideas. You sat on the chair and made yourself comfortable before with an imperious click of the finger you instructed that I should come and stand beside you. I did so. You peered at my feet and then ran your eyes up my legs, stopping when you reached the fly of my jeans. ‘Take them down,’ you said. My heart skipped. Only then did your intention become clear to me.

“This was not to be a professor-student spanking, something delivered at arm’s length. At a distance. Dare I say this was to be more personal, more intimate? It was to be like a loving father with his erring son.  My hands shook so much I fumbled with the clasp at the top of my jeans and I couldn’t get a grip on the zipper. At last the front of my jeans were open. They fitted so tightly that they would not easily fall to my feet and I had to roll them down my legs. I was now standing by you wearing only a shirt and underpants. I did not feel shame, nor embarrassment and certainly not humiliation. I felt respect. My respect for you – and dare I say it, your respect for me? You had my best interest at heart. I deserved this spanking. It would pull me up sharp. As you had already told me, it would put me back on the straight-and-narrow path to success.

“I had never been across the knee of an older man. It is a more submissive position than being across a chair or spread across a desk. My body was close you yours. I could feel your breathing. My stomach dug into your thigh and my chest rested against your legs. I didn’t have a view of myself but I sensed that our bodies fitted together perfectly. I spread my arms ahead of me and rested my palms in the harsh carpet. My nose was inches from the ground. My bottom was raised at an angle of about forty-five degrees which allowed my legs to dangle behind me with my toes hovering above the floor. When I moved my head I could see under the chair and look at my own feet encased in denim.

“I felt your body move. You had taken hold of my shirt and gently pushed it up my back until it was scrunched at my shoulders. By now you must have had a perfect target. I braced myself for the heat of the paddle. But, you were not quite ready. You rested the paddle on the small of my back. With both hands you gripped the elasticated waist of my underpants. Ha! I’ve read in books where a character was said to have ‘gasped with surprise’. I had always thought that was a stupid expression. Not anymore. I gasped. I inhaled a great mouthful of air and I held it there. What were you doing? Of course, I knew full well what you were doing; that was what made me wheeze so!

“Slowly, with some ceremony, you peeled down my underpants. My stomach was resting on your thigh and you struggled to get them over my buttocks. I lifted myself slightly and soon they were on their way to rest at my knees. ‘Ha!’ you said, ‘You weren’t expecting that! I hope you realise how seriously I take this.’ I did not reply. I think my body tensed. Did my buttocks clench? Did they harden like two rubber balls? You picked up the paddle and I felt you tap it against the highest point of my bum cheeks. You took your aim and you let fly.

“You had to take a firm grip of my waist to keep me in place. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why I was being spanked. I deserved it. I needed it. I was prepared to submit to you, but my body had other ideas. My head was low and my bottom high and you had positioned me so that I couldn’t get my hands behind me to protect my poor, exposed bottom. There was nothing I could do but wriggle and kick. It did me no good. Did my protests spur to on to greater deeds? Did you spank me harder and longer because of it?

“That was the last time you spanked me. There was no further need. You had transformed me. I worked hard for you. It wasn’t that I feared further paddlings. I certainly did not welcome them. But, the spankings were incidental. What drove me was that you had faith in me. You cared. You wanted me to do well. The spankings were supplementary.”

At this point Prof Wallace let the letter drop onto a nearby coffee table. He hauled himself from his chair and edged his way into the kitchen where he flipped a switch and waited for the kettle to boil. He busied himself finding tea bags and sugar. He opened the fridge and carefully tested the milk for freshness. Then, with his tea he returned to the front room and picked up the letter once more. He stared at it intently as if it could answer the question on his mind. Who was this Eric Stanhope? Which one had he been? The professor didn’t have the least recollection of these events.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The Dean’s list

 First day at St CIGS

Late home from a date

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

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When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

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  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.

‘“Mmmm”

‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

“The Reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the Reverend desired.’

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

“Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.”

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

“Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

“He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

“The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

‘“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.”

 

Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

“He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A scene once seen every day

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z used retro waiting to go over dad's knee 1950s

Scenes like the one I am about to describe to you took place all over the country, every day of the year. This story takes place in a small, rather nondescript town called Brocklehurst. I don’t need to spend time describing it to you because you will certainly know somewhere very much like it yourself. You might quite possibly live in such a place.

The time is just after six o’clock in the evening. The men are returning from work to be greeted by their loving wives who have been busying themselves all day cleaning the house, doing the laundry, looking after the younger children and preparing the evening meal. There is about thirty minutes before the family eats together during which the men relax with a reviving gin-and-tonic while they examine the pages of the evening newspaper.

Very often this ritual is disturbed. The man is required to fulfil a duty as a father. The man believes in duty; duty to the King; duty to the country; duty to the Church and duty to his family. Every man accepts this; and he never shirks it. Mr Ordinary-Fellow, the hero of my story, is one such man.

On this particular evening Mr Ordinary-Fellow has arrived home and as he slips into his carpet slippers and settles himself down with a glass in one hand and that newspaper in the other, his wife relates a most distressing tale. Mr Ordinary-Fellow listens to his wife kindly. He allows her to speak without interruption.  She tells her story well. It is full of detail and when she has finished Mr Ordinary-Fellow sees no inclination to seek further information for clarification. He has the complete picture. He sighs, empties what is left in his glass in one swig and gently puts down the newspaper. He shakes his head and frowns.

We need not be detained by the details of the story, suffice is to say it relates to Mr Ordinary-Fellow’s youngest son John. The boy – I shall refer to him as a ‘boy’ even though he is in fact nineteen years of age because a boy does not automatically become a man when he reaches a certain age. He becomes a man after developing a maturity of character and until he achieves that state (if indeed he ever does) he remains steadfastly a child.

John had demonstrated that day that he still had a long way to travel before he could be treated like a man. Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs once more and speaks to his wife in a clear, steady voice, “Please inform John he is to report to me in the loungeroom.” Mrs Ordinary-Fellow scurries off and her footsteps are just audible to him as she pads her way upstairs to the boy’s bedroom.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow hauls himself from his chair. He walks across the room. It is not such a large room. It is dominated by an over-sized, heavy leather Chesterfield couch. There are two armchairs and a small table. Along one wall runs shelves. They are designed for books, but there are few of these in the home of Mr Ordinary-Fellow so these shelves house an assortment of plaster figures, some of a gaudy religious nature. Others are mementoes of past holidays enjoyed at seaside resorts. Below the shelves there is a dark wooden sideboard constructed of three drawers and a cupboard.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs theatrically as he tugs open the top drawer. He behaves as if he is carrying the weight of all the world’s troubles on his shoulders. And, so he is. A father’s duty is burdensome. He has an unpleasant task to perform this evening. But perform it he will. It is his duty. Discipline must be maintained. His son must learn this. Mr Ordinary-Fellow reaches into the drawer. There is only one object inside. He grips it in his right hand and with his left he closes the drawer.

He looks closely at the object in his hand. He sighs once more. He takes up the leather strap in both hands. It is about a foot-and-a-half long and two or three inches wide. It is remarkably heavy. A big steel handle at one end makes it so. It is an ancient razor strop. It has been in the family for generations. It has not been used for its intended purpose for thirty or more years. Even so, it is not a redundant object. It has a secondary use. It makes a mightily effective punishment tool.

Sighing yet again, Mr Ordinary-Fellow returns to his chair. Just as his buttocks are sinking into the soft cushion, John appears at the open door to the room. He is a small fellow and usually he is of a sunny disposition. But not at this moment. He knows why he has been summoned by his father. He knows he must face consequences for his behaviour. The razor strop in his father’s hand confirms this to him.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow is a man of few words. With a signal of his hand he beckons the boy to come forward and stand before him. Mr Ordinary-Fellow has prepared a little speech. He pokes his finger at the boy to emphasise the main points. He grips John by the wrist. There is no reason for this. The boy will not attempt to escape. Where is there to escape to? He is a child of his times. He knows events must take their course. He might not like what is about to happen, but he will not object. His father has decreed that he should be punished and John will not protest. That is the way of the world.

His father finishes his reprimands. He releases his grip on the boy’s wrist. John stands submissively, his eyes following his father’s movements as he takes up the leather strop and doubles it. He grips it at the metal end. He stares earnestly at John.

The boy gulps down a long breath. “Trousers up or down?” he asks, with an even voice.

His father frowns, annoyed. The boy seems a little too relaxed. “Down,” he growls. And then in an attempt to reassert his undoubted superiority at this moment, he adds, “Underwear too!” John does not expect this, but his solemn face does not betray this fact. On the bare! A voice inside him urges that he plead with his father. The indignation. The humiliation. A nineteen-year-old boy forced to lower his trousers and underwear and so bare his bottom to receive punishment (however justly deserved).

John silences the voice in his head. Not daring to look at his father who is sitting only inches in front of him, he makes great play at releasing the buckle of his belt. He thanks the heavens that today his trousers are not held aloft by braces. The belt undone, he fumbles with the fly buttons, betraying his nervousness at the situation. The heavy woollen trousers hurtle down his legs and puddle at his feet. John wears ‘modern’ underwear. That is to say his drawers and his singlet are two separate garments. Were he wearing one piece ‘combinations’ he would have to strip off his clothes completely in order to comply with father’s instruction for a bared bottom.

As it is all he must do is unfasten the two buttons at the waist of the drawers and then roll them down his thighs. They snag at his knees. His father emits a long, drawn-out sigh. He sounds like a steam engine settling down. “Bend over my knee,” he intones. “You know what is required.”

Indeed, the boy does. He has lost count of how many times in his life he has taken up this position. His father spreads his own knees thus providing a platform for his son. The boy now simply has to lower himself forward. Before he can do this he must waddle a step or two so that he is positioned to the right side of his father. Then, still not looking at the Old Man, the boy falls gently. He rests the balls of his hands on his father’s knees and this steadies him so that within only a second or two he is lying face down, his stomach resting against father’s right knee and his torso prostrate over his lap. The boy plants the palms of his hands firmly into the hard wooden floorboards. He stares down noticing the gleaming shine, a tribute to the hard work of his mother.

He feels his father take hold of the tail of his shirt and roughly pushes it up his back. John cannot see this for he is still intent on admiring the floorboards but he knows that his body is now naked from his knees up to about his shoulder blades. He feels his buttocks clench. He has not asked them to do this, they do it on their own initiative. It is a natural reaction. John has little meat on his buttocks and clenched they are as hard as a rubber ball.

Father sighs. He rubs the palm of his right hand across the boy’s bare buttocks, gently caressing the curves. He lingers at the highest peaks of the mounds. He sighs once more. Perhaps he is reminiscing that in days gone by his palm could cover an entire buttock. How much the boy had grown. Enough of this! Mr Ordinary-Fellow tells himself silently. He takes up the razor strop once more, feels the weight in his hand, raises his arm high and with as much force as he can muster he whips the heavy leather down across the very centre of the submitted buttocks. He is rewarded by a wide stripe, glowering red hot. The buttocks clench and unclench, but otherwise the boy shows no reaction. Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs gently, raises the leather again and hammers it down across the lower back of the buttocks. The boy’s legs kick out and his hips wriggle. That hurt and there is no disguising the fact.

Two more swipes pound across the naked flesh which by now is taking on the colour of a fine fresh salmon. The boy’s head rises and falls and he shakes it from side to side. His thick black hair is damp with sweat. The heat in his backside rises. His bottom stings and the pain begins to travel up and down his legs. He presses his palms firmer into the ground and shuts his eyes tight. This is gong to be a long ride.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow has a ritual for times such as this. It has been developed over many years with five sons. John is by no means the eldest, nor the youngest of these. He takes up a steady rhythm making sure the leather lands on every part of ‘the circuit’. So it lashes the fleshiest part of the mounds and also the very sensitive ‘sit-spot’ where cheeks meet with thighs. The top of the hills, just below the lower back are not neglected. Nor are the sides of the cheeks. In this way no square inch of the boy’s posterior is left untoasted. Everywhere glows bright pink. Darker bruises already form where the edge of the strop cuts into flesh. The entire effect is as if the boy has been forced to sit in a bath of scalding water.

As the bottom throbs like crazy, so does the boy’s temples. Blood rushes through his arteries and his heart races fit to burst. His eyes blaze, his throat dries. He emits the faintest yelps, but he has the fortitude to suck back the yelps and, yes, the screams, his body demands he makes.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow is no monster. He believes in duty. He is performing his. A thrashing should hurt, but it need do no lasting damage. He is, after all, a loving father. One hundred times the leather strop rises and falls and then, satisfied that his duty is down, Mr Ordinary-Fellow ceases. “You may stand,” he intones. “I trust the lesson has been learned,” he adds. He does not reflect that this is far from the first time he has punished his son in this fashion. What lesson precisely might have been learned?

John lifts himself from his father’s lap. His hands clutch at the raw flesh. He is astonished at how hot it feels. His once smooth bottom feels as hard as leather. He hops from one foot to the other and then ashamedly aware that his private parts are bouncing in front of his father’s face, he bends down and retrieves his clothing. He winches as the rough woollen drawers touch against his throbbing rear. He gulps down a lung-full of air and takes up his trousers. Quickly he fastens the belt but leaves the button fly undone. He cannot wait to leave the room.

Mr Ordinary-Fellow sighs heavily and nods his head towards the door. He speaks no words but the action is enough to communicate to his son that he should depart. Mrs Ordinary-Fellow enters the room immediately. She has been a witness from the passageway. She picks up the razor strop and places it carefully in the sideboard ready for the next time. With that task completed she opens a cupboard and withdraws the whisky bottle and a glass. She pours a generous measure and takes it to her husband.

He takes a sip, sighs deeply and leans back into his comfortable chair. Everything is once more in its place.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

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Tompkins stared down at the dirty grey carpet. From his position he had an excellent, close-up view. It wasn’t the first time he had been in this position with his knotted striped tie dangling in front of his face and his fingertips brushing the toes of his black, shiny shoes. It probably wouldn’t be the last time either, St. Tom’s was that kind of school.

He waited, stoically. He was in no hurry to have his backside blistered one more time by the housemaster. His heart raced as he felt the tail of his shirt being raised and folded up his back.

He tried to ignore the sight of his pale-grey trousers bunched at his ankles. His back was arched, it ached a little. Touching toes was more difficult than it looked.

He could feel his white Y-front underpants stretched across his firm bottom. They fitted a bit too snugly and rode up into his crack. Not that it made much different, this was to be a bared-bottom caning. Not that the thin cotton pants could offer any protection against the housemaster’s thick, but whippy rattan cane.

Tompkins felt the housemaster’s warm hands on his flesh as he took hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. Then they were fluttering down his legs to land on top of his trousers. Now, he was ready for a stinging Six.

The housemaster wasn’t quite ready. He had a ritual and it included preparing a boy by uncovering his bottom and then going to fetch the crook-handled cane that dangled from the hat stand in the corner of the study. From the corner of his eye Tompkins watched the headmaster’s feet as he made his journey. A cool breeze from an open window tickled Tompkins’ naked legs.

z used cane pants down touch toes school London

He could hear, but not see, the cane being lifted from the stand. It made a slight rattle. There was a pause, followed by a tremendous whooshing noise as the headmaster swished the cane through the air. Tompkins’ heart skipped a beat. It usually did at this moment, even though he was eighteen years old and no stranger to the sting of the rattan across his stretched bottom.

The housemaster’s creaking footsteps announced he was nearly ready for action. He stood to Tompkins’ left and slightly behind him. Again, the boy could see him from the corner of his eye. The feet swayed slightly. Tompkins knew that the cane was high in the air. Any moment now!

Swipe! Crack!

Tompkins grunted as the cane landed in the centre of his naked cheeks. It was a real stinger. The housemaster put all his beef into it. He could lay it on when he wanted to. Tompkins knew he was really going to take his backside off. He expected nothing less. The housemaster was a renowned caner, one of the best (or the worst, depending on your point of view) in the entire school and he had many rivals for that honour.

The housemaster waited, counting slowly to twenty in his head; waiting for the pain in Tompkins’ bottom to ebb away. Then he lashed the second stroke, landing it an inch below the first. The pain rose sharply to a new peak. He was rewarded with a sharp exhalation of breath. Tompkins screwed his eyes tightly and shut his teeth. Before the housemaster was finished Tompkins’ rear end would be a raging fire.

The third cut made him yelp and he rocked on the balls of his feet. His fingers shot up off his toes but he quickly grabbed his ankles and this stopped him jumping to his feet. He must avoid that at all costs: he didn’t want extra strokes. His bottom roared like mad, he knew three deep welts were throbbing across the middle of his bum, expertly delivered in a strip no more than two inches wide and perfectly parallel. There was still plenty of space on Tompkins’ quivering bottom for more strokes.

Crack!

“Yarooh!”

It was a full-throated cry. Tompkins couldn’t help it. He shook his head from side to side as the excruciating agony coursed north-south; east-west throughout his body. His bottom wriggled.

“Steady, boy,” the housemaster intoned. Tompkins watched the housemaster’s feet, whenever he raised the cane, he dug his heels into the carpet.

Tompkins clenched his buttocks as he waited for the next stinger. It was a natural reaction. His bottom tried to compressed itself into something approaching a hard, rubber ball. It was supposed to be a protection from the stick. It didn’t work.

Slash! Slash!

Two in quick succession. Tompkins’ bottom felt like it had been cut open with a razor. His knees buckled and he let out a shrill scream. He was fighting back the tears. The housemaster’s shiny shoes disappeared. Tompkins knew then that he was returning the cane to its resting place.

Tompkins waited, head low, bottom high, fingers now back on toes. The punishment wasn’t yet over. The housemaster had one final ritual to perform. With the cane now safely stashed away until the next time, he sauntered over to Tompkins. The boy held his breath. This was the worst part. The housemaster patted Tompkins naked rear and gently caressed the corrugated flesh. Then, the hand rose and slapped down hard first on the left buttock and then the right. They were painful blows, reigniting the cuts on Tompkins’ roasted rear. He wriggled from side to side.

“Up you get!” the housemaster ordered brightly.

Tompkins sucked down a lung-full of air and slowly straightened up. The housemaster stood directly in front of him, gazing at Tompkins’ cock as it bounced up and down while the boy struggled into his Y-fronts. Soon, his trousers were back in their rightful position
Now, fully dressed again, Tompkins gingerly rubbed the seat of his trousers. “Thank you, sir,” he croaked and he hobbled towards the study door.

“My pleasure, Tompkins,” the headmaster replied graciously.

Picture credit: CP Services, London

 

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If you dress like a little boy …

Dad, spank me please

An old English custom

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

More in sorrow …

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z used skateboard jeans cut offs shorts contrite

Roger Eastern’s wife Sally was in some distress. She had managed to stop the tears flowing, but nothing, it seemed, could calm her. “I’m just so frightened,” she wept, allowing a damp, crumpled tissue to fall on the cushion beside her. “I have this dream that our Wayne’s in hospital connected to all those wires With his head bashed in. And he’ll be a vegetable for the rest of his life.”

Wayne was their eighteen-year-old son and he was turning his parents’ life upside down.

Roger wriggled uncomfortably in his armchair. He wanted to comfort his wife, but he knew kind words would not heal her wounds. He had tried that and it didn’t work. Some kind of action was needed.

“It’s that skateboard,” she plucked another Kleenex from a box on the coffee table. “He’s out on it at all hours. Doing all kinds of tricks. Flying through the air. One day he’s going to have a terrible accident. I’ve told him. How many times have I told him?”

Roger nodded sagely. Yes, Sally had told Wayne. He, Roger, had told Wayne. But, Wayne refused to listen. He needed saving from himself.

The problem was – and it had been an argument in the house for a very long while – Wayne simply refused to take any safety precautions. Sensible skateboarders wore special crash helmets on their heads and pads on their knees and elbows so if they took a tumble they were not hurt. But not Wayne. No. He would wear only a shirt and shorts. Sally wondered how he managed not to scrape all the skin off his bones.

“I tell him he mustn’t go skateboarding without protection,” Sally sobbed. “He just ignores me. He disobeys me Roger.”

“Me too,” Roger thought, but didn’t care to admit it out loud. His teenage son was out of control.

“You’ve got to do something Roger,” Sally crumpled another tissue. Her tears had started again.

Damn, Roger thought, why was he the one who always had to do something? “Like what?” he asked petulantly.

“Well, like you used to do. In the old days,” Sally stood up and moved from the room into the kitchen. Roger called after her as she went, “Like what?”

She stopped and over her shoulder replied, “You know Roger. A spanking. Give him a damn good spanking.”

Roger frowned, “A spanking? Isn’t he too old to be spanked?”

“Isn’t he too old to be playing on skateboards?” and having decided that was the last word on the matter, Sally set about making tea.

Ten minutes later they sat together at the kitchen table. Both were calm now – a cup of tea has that effect in a crisis. “It would be for his own good, wouldn’t it?” Roger needed reassurance. A crooked smile cut across Sally’s face, “A sore bottom would be preferable to a bashed-in brain,” she said. Roger frowned at the inevitable, “I’ll speak to him when he comes home.”

Sally sneered, “Make sure you do more than just speak to him! I can’t take much more of this.”

Roger nodded, his wife was correct. Wayne needed to be pulled up. A short, sharp shock might knock some sense into him. It was for his own good. It was Roger’s job – no, his duty – as a father to sort this problem out. He was resolute. “Do you still have that hairbrush? Y’know the big one with the heavy wooden head? That one of your grandmother’s?”

“You know I do. It’s still on the top of the wardrobe, where you left it after the last time.”

That had been nearly three years ago. It hadn’t been the first time Roger had put the hairbrush across Wayne’s rear end, but now the boy was at college it should have been the last.

Without a further word Sally shuffled up the stairs to the bedroom. She returned to the kitchen just as the door opened. Wayne stood there, skateboard tucked under his arm. As usual, he ignored his parents and was about to run up the stairs when he noticed the heavy wooden brush in his mother’s hand. He startled, it brought back bad memories.

“You father wants to speak to you,” she intoned and when Wayne disregarded her, she added forcefully, “Now.”

Alerted by voices Roger appeared. “Come in here, Wayne,” he spoke gently and when the teenager stood his ground, Roger took him by the elbow and led him into the sitting room. The boy did not resist. Something was up, but he wasn’t quite sure what. The reappearance of the heavy, wooden hairbrush after some years did not bode well.

“Put that down,” Roger nodded at the skateboard. His tone was severe. Wayne looked around the room for a safe place and decided to let the board rest on the couch. “Stand there,” his father pointed to a space in the middle of the small, crowded room. “I want a word with you.”

Wayne blinked hard. A word. His father wanted a word. That phrase had unpleasant connotations. His suspicions were confirmed when his mother appeared and with barely a glance at her son, she handed the hairbrush to her husband. Wayne’s mouth dried. He wondered should he protest? He stayed quiet. Silence might be the best tactic for now.

Roger had had no time to prepare a speech. He fumbled and mumbled his words but Wayne understood the gist of them. Skateboarding. No helmet. No pads. Dangerous. Hospital. Head bashed in. Live like a vegetable. How many times must you be told? Roger said all this while holding the brush threateningly in his right hand. Wayne’s grey eyes glazed, his face paled under his sun-tan. He chewed his bottom lip and looked down at his feet.

“This is more in sorrow than anger,” Roger said as he smacked the head of the brush into his left palm. Wayne remained silent, although his mind whirled. Could this really be happening? Eighteen years old and about to be spanked by his dad? What should he do about it? What could he do? He could storm off to his room. He could wrestle with his father, he was younger, fitter and stronger; Dad wouldn’t stand a chance. But then what? What would happen next? Today, tomorrow. Things could never be the same again. What if they said, “If you won’t accept our discipline, you must leave home, find a place of your own. See how you like that.”

While he pondered this Wayne’s father had picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down in front of the boy. Roger sat down, wriggled his bottom to get comfortable and rested with his spine hard against the back of the chair. He knew the boy would be some weight; he didn’t want the pair of them toppling to the floor.

Roger reached forward and took hold of his son’s left wrist and tugged him a pace forward. It was a warm day, but not hot, and the boy wore a light sweater over a t-shirt. His shorts were roughly cut-off jeans. Roger saw a scab on Wayne’s right knee, proof, he reckoned, of the need for protective pads. What happened next, Roger and Sally later told each other, was an act of parental love. The boy needed guidance. It was for his own good. His own safety. Wayne was not yet a mature adult. What were parents for?

Roger rested the brush on his lap and with his two free hands he lifted the sweater and shirt so he had an unimpeded access to the waistband of the boy’s shorts. Wayne was motionless. It felt like he was in a dream, was this what an out-of-body experience felt like? It could have been some other teenager standing there, not Wayne.

The shorts fitted snugly and needed no belt. Roger had the top button open and the zipper down in two seconds. The jeans clung to Wayne’s hips so his father tugged them down his thighs, over his knees and let them fall onto the top of his dirty gym shoes. Still Wayne did not move. Roger hesitated before making his next move. He had not expected to be spanking his son this evening. He had no plan. Wayne wore multi-coloured briefs, they were so tight they emphasised the contours of his manhood. In the spur of the moment, Roger decided to leave them where they were. He retrieved the brush from his lap, gripped the boy’s left arm and in one smooth, continuous movement he guided Wayne across his knee. Still, uncomplaining, the boy flopped forward.

Roger had been wise to sit well back in the chair. Wayne was a tall lad and his constant skateboarding had developed his muscles. He was quite a weight. He lay submissively. Wayne had been in this position before, he understood the rules. He stretched his arms ahead of him and placed the palms of his hands flat into the carpet. Behind him, with his knees bent, the tips of his toes brushed the floor. His body was at such an angle across his dad’s thigh that the buttocks jutted out  affording Roger a perfect target.

It had been three years since Roger last spanked his son. The boy had grown considerably since then. As he pushed the sweater and shirt up Wayne’s back and away from the action area, he noticed rippling muscles in his back and arms. He pulled the waist of the pants and saw Wayne’s bottom was larger than before. When he cupped his hand and gently ran his palm across the contours of his son’s bum, the buttocks clenched and hardened. The phrase “buns of steel” might have been made for him.

Wayne closed his eyes and sucked his bottom lip. His father gently rubbed the heavy wooden hairbrush across the peaks of his buttocks. Then, he caressed the underside of the cheeks where they met the thighs. Lastly, he tapped the head gently on the crest of the mounds. Then he let fly! The resounding whack of heavy brush against hard meat echoed around the small room. Once, twice, three times the brush struck home. Rat-a-tat-tat. Wayne’s knees stiffened and his legs raised from the floor. After another three whacks he was twisting his left foot over his right ankle in a not-too-successful effort to stop his legs flailing.

By the time his dad had spanked him a dozen times, his bottom was on fire. How it hurt. Had his other spankings been so painful? Roger spanked and spanked. He kept up a steady rhythm. Not one square centimetre of the bottom was unblistered. Wayne lifted his hands from the floor and waved them in a fruitless attempt to cover his bottom. His head was too low and bottom too high and he couldn’t reach so he wrapped his arms around his father’s legs. This served no useful purpose, but Wayne was not thinking straight. The heat under his pants was intense. It was as if he had accidentally sat in a bath tub full of boiling water.

At first he gasped as the pain mounted, then he yapped like a little whipped puppy. Yaps grew to yelps and became full-throated yells. Wayne could not help himself, it was his body’s way of dealing with the agony. Roger put a half dozen whacks across the backs of his son’s thighs and immediately regretted it; Wayne’s shrieks would have outshouted a banshee and Roger feared his nosey neighbours might hear him and think a murder was taking place.

The back of Roger’s shirt was soaked with sweat. Wayne’s hair was wet and perspiration trickled down his spine. His neck was scarlet and Roger supposed so were his buttocks under those pants. The backs of Wayne’s legs had dark-pink blotches shaped like the head of the hairbrush. Roger was exhausted. Blood rushed through Wayne’s arteries and his temples throbbed. His bottom was raw and the pain travelled up and down his legs. His eyes stung and were moist, but no tears flowed.

And, that’s nearly the end of the story. Wayne was a thoroughly spanked teenager. His father released the boy who then did the spanking dance, hopping from foot to foot while rubbing his sore buttocks. Roger stood, smiled and opened his arms. “Come here, son,” his own eyes were moist. “I hope you understand why I had to do that. I hated it, but it might even save your life. Promise me, you won’t go skateboarding again without a helmet and pads.”

Wayne picked up his shorts. “Yes, Dad,” he blubbed, and gave the Old Man a hug.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Untidy housemates get a shock

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When John returned to the house he shared with three other fellows from Robinson’s department store he was in for a surprise. He noticed it the moment he entered the kitchen where he went to make a cup of tea. He couldn’t miss it. The kitchen was quite small and it would be difficult to hide anything there. But this was not hidden. Whoever had left it wanted it to be found.

John pursed his lips and his eyebrows knotted. He stopped in his tracks and stared at it for a while. He knew what it was at once, although he had never seen such a thing. Not in real life. He had seen many drawings and once or twice they had popped up on television, in old films from the black-and-white days. Where on earth had it come from?

He lit a match under the kettle and while it boiled he took a closer look. For a reason he couldn’t explain to himself it made him a little nervous. He inched closer to the edge of the table and stood over it. His nervousness was seeping into embarrassment. Why was it here? Who had left it out for all to see?

He looked around the room, he had left the door open. One of his housemates might appear at any moment. He had not checked but he felt sure that for now he was alone. Just to be sure he tip-toed from the room and crossed the passageway. The lounge room was empty. He stood at the foot of the stairs and craned his neck, seeking to hear tale-tale signs of life upstairs. All was silence. Satisfied, but with heart fluttering, he returned to the kitchen. The kettle whistled and he turned off the gas but left his tea unmade. He had other things on his mind.

He closed the kitchen door and checking that he could not be overseen from the garden he cautiously approached the table. It was still there, where he had left it. The tip of his tongue darted through a nearly-closed mouth. His lips were dry so he ran his tongue over them. There was a lump in his throat. He knew what he wanted to do. He needed to find some courage. Suddenly his palms sweated. He reproached himself silently. What was wrong with him! Why did this thing make him so nervous?

He rubbed his hands across the legs of his trousers and cautiously he leaned forward to pick it up. He moved slowly, as if the thing were white-hot, or was radioactive, or was threatening to explode at any moment. Gingerly, he picked it up between finger and thumb of his right hand. It surprised him. It was laughingly light. He licked his lips again and held it in his hands with as the reverence usually afforded a religious relic.

He peered down at it. He had never seen one before. He studied it. It didn’t look much close up. In his imagination he had always thought of this thing as awesome. But now he wondered, what was all the fuss about. He gripped it at one end, it was no heavier than a feather. He ran his hand over it. It was long and thin; about three feet he estimated, and no thicker than a pencil. It was dark yellow in colour with notches at every six inches or so. It was curved into a handle at one end and the other was a little frayed. He flexed it between his hands, surprised by its whippiness.

It was a school cane. He suddenly recalled that they had recently been in the news. The government had just banned corporal punishment in schools, there had been a terrific row about it in parliament. Teachers, parents and even the kids themselves were against the ban. John was unsure but he thought the decision had something to do with “Europe.”

He swished the cane through the air, impressed by the swooshing sound it made as it flew. Now, more relaxed, he flexed it to see how far it would bend. He couldn’t make both ends meet but he nearly got there. He swished the cane once more, conjuring up in his mind the image of a headmaster resplendent in academic gown and mortar-board cap. He swiped the cane across an imaginary schoolboy’s backside.

That was when the kitchen door opened. Ralph, one of his housemates, stood in the threshold. John blushed cherry red and in his confusion he let the cane fall onto the table. “I was making tea,” he croaked as he hurried back to the kettle.

Ralph surveyed the scene. His eye looked at the whippy, rattan cane and then across the room at John who was fumbling with tea caddy, pot and cups. “I bought it at Orwell’s Bazaar,” he said evenly. “I thought we needed more discipline in the house. Keith leaves the kitchen in such a mess. Albert’s not much better. I don’t know how many times I’ve spoken to them. Yes, I’ll have tea thank you.”

He took the proffered cup and saucer and blew across the top encouraging the tea to cool. He nodded at the cane on the table. “I hope not to have to use it, but it might be a deterrent, what do you think?”

John felt his face flush again. He mumbled a response that was no response at all. He had difficulty comprehending. The four housemates had shared the house for six months since Christmas. Ralph was three or four years older than the others and had lived there longest, he had chosen the others as companions and considered himself to be the landlord’s representative. He had once been School Captain at St. Tom’s an upscale public (that is elite) boarding school. He had never abandoned the role and continued his attitude into adult life, often treating the others as if they were juniors in the third form.

Ralph finished his tea and making his excuses he went to his room, leaving John to do the washing up. John was about to leave the crockery soaking in the sink until later when from the corner of his eye he saw the cane. Ralph’s words rang in his ears, I thought we needed more discipline in the house. Keith leaves the kitchen in such a mess. Albert’s not much better. He washed the cups and put them away before retreating to his own room.

Five minutes later Keith and Albert arrived together. “Blooming heck!” Keith chortled when he saw the cane, “Look at this!” He grasped it enthusiastically and with great delight he swished it through the air. “Whacko!” he roared with glee. Albert was keen to join in the fun. He gripped his knees and jutted out his backside in jocular fashion. “O’ive been a norky, likkle boy,” he gurgled, while wriggling his buttocks. Keith narrowed his eyes like a pantomime villain. “Pah! It’s six-of-the-best for you me lad,” he frowned jokingly. He skipped across the room, stopping close to Albert’s outstretched posterior. He raised the cane about shoulder height, wobbled it until it sang and then swiped it with force across the very centre of Albert’s seat. “Ouch! Yaroooo! Crikey!” Albert jumped to his feet while simultaneously rubbing away at his bottom in an exaggerated style, “You’ve hurt my botty-wotty.”

Keith flexed the cane between his hands and tried to effect a menacing stance. “Bend over boy. It’s six. There’s five more to go.” Albert was still rubbing the seat of his trousers, “No, thank you very much,” he gasped before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

It was much later that evening that Ralph convened what he chose to call a “house meeting.” The other three agreed Ralph could be a pompous ass at times. Ralph waved a piece of paper. On it, in his neat handwriting, was a list of household chores. “I’ve drawn up a rota. You’re all on it.” He did not emphasise that his own name was not. “You’ve all seen the cane in the kitchen. It will hang on the back of the door. Please don’t make me have to use it,” he said menacingly.

Over the next week or so the house was kept if not spotless, then at least tidy. The cane rattled each time the door was opened. It was a constant reminder of the penalty for domestic failure. None of the housemates took it down to play with it. It hung threateningly. None were in any doubt that Ralph was entirely serious.

One Saturday morning Keith and Albert were reclining in the lounge room. Keith was far from happy. “Somehow my father has learned about our trouble at The Three Fishers last weekend,” he said sorrowfully. He meant the time the two of them and another group of youngsters, tanked up on bitter beer, had cavorted down the High Street. Someone, not Keith or Albert, had urinated in the doorway of Orwell’s. The police were called, but what could they do? The yobs were sent on their way with the smallest flea in their ears.

“He’s coming to visit me here, later,” Keith sighed.

“What will he do?” Albert stretched his legs across the couch.

“Not much he can do really, I’m not a little kid anymore,” Keith brightened up. “Just give me a jawing, I suppose.”

Keith’s father, Mr Parkinson,  arrived with little ceremony. He was a big man in many senses. Not only was he tall and broad, he was a man of importance. He employed upward of one hundred people and made deals worth hundreds of thousands. He was not a man to be trifled with. When he spoke, people listened. Keith was right when he told Albert his father would give him a “jawing”. He feared the lecture might go on all day. Oh, how Keith wished his father would just shut up and go home. He already knew he had been an idiot to get drunk and go tearing down the High Street. He knew he had made a damned fool of himself, but his father wasn’t right when he said Keith had embarrassed the family. He hadn’t, Keith reckoned, but dared not say so to his father. He hadn’t appeared in court and nothing had been in the newspapers. Nothing had become public and he wondered how his father had found out.

At last Mr Parkinson had run out of words. There wasn’t any more he could say. He had made himself clear. “Bah!” he concluded. “Damn it boy. Go make me a cup of tea.” Keith was grateful to get off the couch and be out of the room. Mr Parkinson watched him go, his own heart beating fast, set off by the anger he felt. “The damn boy is getting away scott-free,” he thought silently.

As the kitchen door opened, he heard an unusual rattling noise. “Damn,” his son muttered, as he bent over to pick something off the floor. “What was that?” his father asked intrigued. His son blanched, “Oh, nothing Dad. Don’t worry. Let me get that tea.” His father recognised that tone of voice. Something was up. What was he hiding? He followed Keith into the kitchen.

“What the dickens,” his father’s face lit up while Keith’s darkened. The boy held the school cane in his hand. He fumbled his effort to hide it behind his back. “Give it here,” his father’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. Shamefacedly, Keith passed the long, thin, supple cane over. His father did what everyone seems to do when holding a cane. He flexed it between his hands to see how far it would bend. He wobbled it in front of his face before swishing it viciously through the air. He said nothing, but the changed expression on his face told that an idea had come to him.

“Where did this come from?” he inquired. Keith’s cheeks burned and his palms moistened as he told his father the story. Mr Parkinson roared with laughter. It was a genuine outburst. He had not heard anything so funny, so preposterous, in ages. He recovered some control of himself and asked “And, has he used it on you yet?” He took perverse pleasure at his son’s discomfort. “No, no, of course not, no,” the boy blustered. Mr Parkinson’s eyebrows knitted, he flexed the cane thoughtfully. He was debating with himself. “Ha! It’s only a matter of time.” Keith stepped backward, away from his father, he had an almost overwhelming desire to flee from the room. The cane swishing continued.

To Keith it seemed like an eternity, but in fact it only took Mr Parkinson seconds to make up his mind. “Perfect,” he said absent-mindedly, “absolutely perfect.” His son’s eyes shone, his throat suddenly dried, his heart beat twenty to the dozen. “No, Dad, no. Please. No. You can’t. Dad, no!” he almost wailed.

“Let’s go into the next room,” his father tucked the cane under his armpit, like some sergeant-major on parade. And, when Keith remained rooted to the spot, he thundered, “Now, lad!” Keith was twenty years old. He had a job and he lived away from his parents’ home, but in that moment he learned that he would never truly escape his father. He would always be in charge. His word would remain law until; until when? Well, until the day one of them died, Keith would later reflect. Keith, sorrowfully and at funeral-pace, led the way.

It was a small lounge, but nonetheless big enough for Mr Parkinson’s purposes. He had never been in the room before but it took mere seconds to appraise his possibilities. An armchair was pushed against the far wall. It had the perfect proportions. “Move that around,” he nodded towards it, “so the back faces into the room.” It was a clear command, given without histrionics. He expected to be obeyed; and he was. Meekly, his son shuffled the few paces necessary to cross the room. The chair was not heavy, but it was hard to get a hold because of the soft, shiny cloth that covered it. It slipped several times in his hand as he manoeuvred it. At last it was in place. He stood straight uncertain what he was supposed to do next.

His father might be considered an ‘old-fashioned’ man, even for the times in which he lived. He believed in order; he believed everything should be in its rightful place. He believed in hierarchy; some led while others followed. He believed in duty.  He believed it was his duty as a father to punish his son. Keith’s behaviour had been outrageous. The boy had been drunk and out of control. What kind of life could Keith expect if he had no self-discipline?

Mr Parkinson slipped the cane from under his arm and into his hand. He wobbled it in empty air while gazing at his son. Only for the first time since his arrival had he looked properly at the boy. Already he showed signs of degeneration. His face was pudgy, his waist thick. Too much beer and not enough exercise, his father concluded. Keith could not return his father’s stare, he found great interest in the complicated pattern in the carpet beneath his feet.

Mr Parkinson swished the cane at his son and waved it up and down, “Let’s have those trousers down. Underpants too.” Keith’s jaw fell and for a few moments his mouth remained open. His mouth wanted to voice a protest but his brain was numb, he couldn’t think of a word to say. His body would not move.

“Pah!” His father did not hide his exasperation. “Now, lad. Or do you want extra strokes?” He spoke imperiously, and to Keith his voice seemed to be coming from a long distance away. “Well lad?” the almighty swipe his father made with the cane brought Keith to his senses. He shook his head vigorously, “No, no … Please.”

He father suppressed a sneer, at that moment he disliked his son very much indeed. “Well, let’s get on with it shall we.” The trousers were loose-fitting and once Keith put his mind to the task they were soon open at the front and slipping over his flabby thighs. He let them rest at his knees. He took a deep breath and hesitated. He had been spanked by his father on his underpants as a kid, but never on the bare. “Pants too!” Mr Parkinson blurted. The boy closed his eyes, put his thumbs in the waistband of his dark-blue briefs and slowly guided them down. For a moment he stood like a rabbit in car headlights, afraid to move, aware that he was standing half naked in front of an older man. His cock dangled, demonstrating (if this was needed) to his father that he was no longer a boy.

Swipe! The cane flew through the air, then Mr Parkinson thwacked it with some force against the back of the chair, “Bend over.” Keith was resigned. There was no way to avoid this. His father was in control. Keith lived by his rules. No question. He shuffled his feet and turned on his heels. Now he faced the chair, he rubbed the palms of his hands together, tried to calm his beating heart and slowly leaned forward.

The chair was the perfect height to receive Keith. His cock dug into the apex of the chair and his stomach cleared it by an inch or so. His bottom was raised at a good angle to receive the beating. He reached forward and gripped the front of the seat cushion. His knees were slightly bent and his feet parted. The trousers and underpants stayed at his knees which meant he would be unable to kick his legs about too much once the cane began to bite.

Mr Parkinson waited for Keith to settle, “Head low, bottom high,” he intoned and he tapped the cane gently across his buttocks to encourage the boy further over the chair. “Good,” he said when Keith was positioned to his satisfaction. “Now, try not to move about too much. And don’t stand or try to impeded me. If you do, we’ll start all over again. Is that clear?” A muffled response spoken into the dusty seat cushion affirmed that it was.

Mr Parkinson stood a yard or so to his son’s left side (a cane’s length) and gently sawed the whippy rod across the centre of his buttocks. The cheeks were plump and he pressed the cane in hard, noticing how it left a line imprinted in the flesh. Satisfied of his aim, he moved the cane away, raised it so that it was above the height of his shoulder and with a twist of his body he brought it crashing down, using all the power in his forearm. Mr Parkinson was a keen golfer so had a great deal of upper body strength. A thin red line immediately appeared across Keith’s buttocks. The whole of his bottom wobbled, then his hips wriggled, his head moved from left to right like a horse trying to shake off a fly. He gasped, but swallowed down the yelp his body demanded he bark.

z used cane longz down cane armchair (1)

The second stroke hit lower, the third higher. Mr Parkinson had a large target and he made sure his whippy cane struck from the top of the mounds, over the crest of the hills and into the sensitive under-cheeks. It was a mightily-effective thrashing. Keith played his part. The pain was excruciating and it felt like his father was pressing a white-hot wire into his rear, but with some effort the boy stayed in position. True, his buttocks, wobbled, his hips swayed and his back arched, but at no time did he move from his submissive position. His father, quietly admired him for his fortitude.

There was no need for “extra strokes” – a dozen had been Mr Parkinson’s unannounced tariff and once the twelfth stroke had cut deep into the underside of his bottom (that one would reignite every time Keith sat down in the hours to come) he said quietly, “Okay. That’s over. You may stand. Get dressed.”

It took a moment for the boy to get his breath back. His body was wracked with pain and blood travelled through his arteries at the speed of light. His heartrate was off the scale, his temples throbbed as much as his bum, his eyes were blinded, he had no saliva in his mouth. He paused, still prostrate across the chair, waiting for his body to calm and recover. The pain in his bottom was powerful, but already it was dissipating. His scorched flesh cooled a little and the pain turned to an intense throbbing. As he stood and gingerly examined the damage with the tips of his fingers the surface of his corrugated bottom felt like leather. He sucked in air, still urging his blood pressure to fall. He reached down to his knees and in one movement he tugged up both his trousers and pants together and in great discomfort he wriggled them over his buttocks. He straightened himself and turned to face his father.

Only then, over Mr Parkinson’s shoulder, did he see Ralph standing half in and half out of the doorway. He was failing to suppress a grin. Mr Parkinson, alerted by his son’s stare, turned and for the first time realised that he had an audience. “Well done, Sir,” Ralph beamed, “A very fine job if you don’t mind me saying so.” Mr Parkinson flushed and looked down at the cane still in his hand. He had never been good at receiving compliments and he blushed profusely.

“Thank you, Ralph,” he glowed. “And, thank you for informing me about this little …” He nodded towards Keith, for once lost for words.

“A pleasure, Sir,” Ralph bowed his head as a courtier might to a king, “Indeed a pleasure.”

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like:

The housemates

Housemate pays the rent

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy from the Accounts department

new 5

Scenes we’d like to see: or wishful thinking

 

Ted filled his mouth with a forkful of meat pie, then leaned across the table at his workmate. He chewed vigorously and taking great care not to spit bits of food at his companion he waved his hand and pointed across the canteen.

“Look at that,” he grumbled. His mate Harry had his back to the action, “Wor?” he spluttered tea down his chin as he spoke.

“There,” Ted nodded vigorously. His evident unhappiness prompted Harry to swivel in his seat to try to see what all the fuss was about. “There,” Harry repeated, “It’s that boy from Accounts, just look at him.” Ted’s face was slowly turning scarlet, he was an angry old man.

The boy from Accounts was giving the woman behind the counter a hard time. She was trying to serve the boy his dinner, but he found much to complain about. And, he didn’t mind venting his anger on the small, cowering woman in front of him.

“What a bully,” Ted raged with disgust. “Why doesn’t he pick on someone his own size?”

Harry straightened up in his chair and returned to eating his suet pudding and custard. “I know him,” he stated, meaning the boy from Accounts. “His an arrogant sod. Goes round like he owns the place,” he forced a spoonful of dough into his mouth and chewed energetically.

Ted grabbed a slice of bread, folded it in two and mopped gravy from his plate. Before he stuffed it into his mouth, he said, “He’s upset a lot of people. Too full of himself. He’s only been here five minutes.” He chewed on his bread and washed it down with a gulp of tea. “University graduate,” he sneered. “They’re all the same. Think they’re better than the rest of us.”

“Pah!” Harry accidentally spat pudding onto the Formica-topped table. “He needs taking down a peg or two.” He wiped pudding from his chin with the back of his hand, “I know what I’d like to do and no mistake!”

“What’s that?” Ted asked, genuinely puzzled. Harry grinned, showing Harry the contents of his mouth. It was not a pretty sight. “You know, damn well, what I’d do. If he were one of my own. I wouldn’t stand for it. He needs to know his place. Learn to respect his elders. That’s what I think.”

“Ha!” Ted laughed. “What like you did with your boy, d’ya mean? When he gave your Gloria all that grief.”

“Too right,” Harry laughed too. “He didn’t try it on with his mother again after that. I damn good spanking, and I didn’t care that he was nineteen years old.”

“Ha!” Ted’s shoulders heaved. “If only!” He paused, thinking hard, “I don’t suppose his dad cares, he’s probably just as arrogant. Probably where he gets it from.”

“No, suppose not,” Harry had become reflective. “But give me half a chance and I’d march over there right now and take him across my knee.”

Ted nodded his agreement. “If only. Back in the day a young whippersnapper like him wouldn’t have dared cheek his boss. Not today. They get away with murder.”

Harry shook his head sadly. “The world’s going to hell in a handcart. No respect young people. They know no discipline. Who is there to correct them.?”

They each sipped their tea sharing a moment of reflection. Then Harry saw a figure, an older man in a crumpled suit, enter the canteen. “Here,” he smiled, “Now there’s a man I bet who wouldn’t mind doing his duty. Mr Gregory, the office manager. He looks the type.”

Mr Gregory smiled and nodded to the lady behind the counter and was politeness itself as she shovelled peas onto his plate. He peered across the room, noticed an empty table and shuffled across the room toward it, unaware of two pairs of eyes watching him go. As he sat and settled himself he became aware of three youngsters at a table nearby. One, the boy from Accounts, was criticising his fellows over something Mr Gregory could not hear. He sighed and attacked his breaded cod with his knife. That kid Richardson, he mused, he’s been nothing but trouble since he arrived. He wouldn’t mind but he wasn’t even an especially talented worker. Always making mistakes.

Damn, Mr Gregory, winced. If only things were different. His mind wandered as he tucked into his fish and chips. He is back in his office, it is that afternoon. He shifts through a document, shaking his head sorrowfully. So many mistakes. It will have to be redone. He summons Richardson from Accounts. The boy stands in front of him, hands meekly held behind his back, his head slightly bowed. Mr Gregory leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers. He peers at the boy. “Not good enough,” he growls, “Not good at all.”

Richardson blushes. He knows his boss is correct. Mr Gregory shifts his buttocks on his hard chair and leans forward over his desk, “It’s not the first time, is it?” It sounds like a question but is really a statement. Mr Gregory gives no time for a response. “What did I say last time? What did I say would happen?” He pauses this time for an answer but the boy can only blush. “A spanking!” Mr Gregory answers his own question. “Oh, but Sir …” Richard wails. “Please.”

Mr Gregory hauls himself from his chair. “Not good enough. Not good enough.” He is lost for words. What more is there he can say? “You know the rules, Richardson.” The boy’s mouth opens and closes but no sound comes. He mouths the words, “Oh Sir,” seeking pity.

“Right lad,” Mr Gregory is in no mood for mercy. “Stand over here,” he takes three paces across the office towards the table where the printer is. He sweeps it aside with his arm to give him the space he needs. Sorrowfully, Richardson follows. His face is scarlet and his eyes begin to moisten. “Right lad, take those trousers down.” Richardson’s mouth gapes, his face contorts, he wants to protest. He wants to exclaim, “I’m twenty-two years old!” He wants to run from the office. He does none of these things. The world is not like that. Mr Gregory is the boss. Mr Gregory is an old man. Mr Gregory is in charge. He, Richardson, must submit. He must obey. He has no choice, it is the order of things.

Richardson pouts. His mind is befuddled. He is not thinking clearly. What he does know is that he does not want to show his boss his underpants. It is bad enough being spanked by an older man, but trousers down! Even so, he makes no protest. He takes hold of the buckle of his belt and struggles to get it open. His neat, pin-striped business trousers fit snugly. He often admires the reflection of his own bottom in mirrors. It is his best asset. He undoes the clasp at the waistband and pulls the zipper. The weight of keys and a wallet in his pocket sends the trousers hurtling to his feet. He pauses. His temples throb, this cannot be happening.

“Bend over the table,” Mr Gregory walks across the office back to his desk. There, he finds a heavy ruler. He picks it up and weighs it in his hand. It is 30-cemtimetres long and made of stout plastic and will make an excellent spanking paddle.

“I said bend over, we haven’t got all afternoon. There’s work to be done,” Mr Gregory slaps the ruler into the palm of his left hand, enjoying the Smack! noise it creates. Richardson closes his eyes tightly and then opens them, as if he is hoping this is all a dream and if he blinks enough it will all go away. Of course, nothing happens.

“Bend over,” Mr Gregory orders once more. Richardson takes a deep breath and turns to face the table. He is a tall boy and the table is low. It was not designed for spanking. Unsure how to do this, Richardson leans forward and places his elbows on the table, he arches his back and parts his legs a little. Like this his bottom sticks out behind him. Mr Gregory is still at the other side of the office watching. The boy’s position isn’t how he imagined it would be. He had in mind the lad bent across the back of a huge leather armchair, his head low and his bottom raised high. But they are not in some old-fashioned headmaster’s study, this is a modern office. He must adapt to the furniture that is available.

Mr Gregory approaches the table. Now that he is standing right behind Richardson he realises that he is in a perfect position to be spanked. The bottom is presented at a good height, the buttocks are taut. He has very little meat back there. His blue cotton underpants cover the buttocks almost like a second skin. There are some wrinkles in the material so Mr Gregory tugs at the elasticated waistband so the pants ride up into Richardson’s crack at the same time lifting and separating each cheek.

The boy breaths heavily. The buttocks tighten. Richardson is wearing a formal shirt and the tail is long, so Mr Gregory takes hold of it and with great ceremony he lifts and folds it up the boy’s back until it rests at the shoulders. He sees the back is smooth and hairless.

Mr Gregory takes up position to Richardson’s left hand side. He can hear his heavy breathing. The aroma of deodorant, or possibly hair product, wafts into Mr Gregory’s nostrils. It makes him a little giddy. He hasn’t planned to do this, but anyway he cups his right hand and with it he gently caresses first Richardson’s right cheek and then the left. The buttocks tense. Mr Gregory enjoys the feel of the hard flesh and is reminded of two rubber balls. He slaps each cheek in turn then transfers the ruler into his right hand and lightly taps it across the highest point on the left cheek. Richardson’s shoulders tense, he sucks down on his bottom lip. As he does this Mr Gregory raises the ruler high and rather like a golfer he swings it back with speed so that it connects with Richardson’s bum making a resounding whack!

Mr Gregory is relieved that the ruler hasn’t broken. He swipes it again with just as much energy. Richardson closes his eyes tight. He is hurting but he doesn’t want his boss to see. Mr Gregory stands closer and pushes his left hand into the small of Richardson’s back, pinning him into position. He lets fly with a dozen or more rapid whacks; rat-a-tat-tat. The pain quickly accumulates and the heat in the boy’s backside rises. He wriggles but the boss has his gripped tightly. The slaps rain down.

z used ruler pants table office magic spanking factory

Richardson’s buttocks are small and pert and Mr Gregory quickly covers every square centimetre of them. He concentrates on the crests of the mounds where there is most flesh. He gets an urge to grip the waistband and tug the pants to the boy’s knee to continue the spanking on the bare bum. Some sense of propriety stops him. It wouldn’t be right to have an employee naked in his office.

That doesn’t stop him from slapping the ruler into the back of Richardson’s naked thighs. Very quickly the flesh turns rosy pink and then a darker red. The boy’s knees buckle and he lets out a series of gasps that quickly grow to groans. That hurt. That really hurt. Good, Mr Gregory thinks, he’s feeling it now. Perhaps, he will work harder and stop being such a pain in the arse to his colleagues in future. He smiles at the phrase pain in the arse.

“Are you learning your lesson Richardson,” he asks as the ruler flies. His arm is aching, soon he will be forced to stop. “Yes, Sir,” the boy gasps. “Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir. Yes, Sir.” Mr Gregory is not so sure so he lands another dozen whacks into the underside of the left cheek and another twelve on the right. He gets the sensitive “sit-spot” and he knows the pain Richardson feels right now will reignite every time he sits down for hours to come.

Unexpectedly, Mr Gregory hears a voice from a distance. His name is being called. It must be his secretary. Somebody probably wants to speak to him. He takes that as his cue to finish. “Stand up Richardson,” he wheezes. The boy jumps to his feet, bends down and tugs up his trousers. Only after they are safely zipped up and the belt is fastened does he gently rub his buttocks.

Mr Gregory has no more to say. He picks up the document he was previously reading and thrusts it at Richardson. “Do it again and bring it to me at five o’clock and woe betide you if there are any errors.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir,” Richardson whines as he takes it and hurries from the office.

Suddenly, Mr Gregory is brought to by a voice, “Mr Gregory, Mr Gregory.” It is the lady from the counter, “I said have you finished? Can I take your plate.” The office manager looks sheepish, “Yes thanks, Laura. I’ve finished.”

Picture Credit: Magic Spanking Factory

 

Other stories you might like

The office manager

Late at the office

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com