Seasonal spankings – compilation

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Picture credit: Joe Phillips

Tis the season of goodwill to all men, but not necessarily all boys. Santa has his list of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. Expect a few sore bottoms before the holiday is over. Here are a selection of my stories from Christmases past for you to enjoy for the first time or rediscover. Click on the links.

Enjoy the festive season, play safe and I’ll see you all in the New Year

Shopping for toys

Herbert goes shopping for Christmas toys at the local department store and has an unexpected encounter with Santa

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Picture credit: CP4Men dot net

 

Better believe in Santa Claus

Lucas Lomas is a stroppy teenager and the magic of Christmas means nothing to him. There is no such person as Santa Claus he tells his kid brother — but is he right?

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Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

Approved-School Santas

Inmates at a school for young offenders are forced to show Christmas spirit to a group of orphans, but greed gets the better of them.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

The Morning After the Night Before

Tony’s bad behaviour spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day. His friend Tony knows how to deal with that …

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Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

Ben McKenzie works at a supermarket where he decides to steal bottles of booze to give as Christmas presents, but then his boss finds out …

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

When Santa Claus was caned

Three old men play Santa at a school’s Christmas party. All is well until silver trophies go missing.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

The School Dance

The Christmas school dance always gets out of hand. More so when two horny virgin boys are enticed by the girls from St. Winnie’s.

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Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

The Night Before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed. But had Joe been a good boy? What do you think? And we all know what Santa does to naughty boys.

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

Fake News at Christmas

Santa Claus Irked at Unexpected Productivity Hike … Santa Claus is reportedly mad at a new directive forcing him to extend his naughty boys’ list to include guys up to the age of 21.

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Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Snowballs

When the headmaster bans all snowball fights at the school it gives George Baker, a Sixth-former and prefect a bright idea. But will he get away with his curious plan?

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Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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 very British spanking

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“I don’t care if it is the holidays, Martha, I will not put up with it,” Charles Snapdragon paced the carpet. “Call me old fashioned, I don’t care.” He paused by the radiogram and thrust his hands into his pockets. “I have standards. Always have. Always will.”

His wife pursed her lips but remained silent. She knew better than to argue. Charles Snapdragon was a man of decision. He liked to think, even a man of destiny.

“Rules. We need rules,” Charles Snapdragon was waving his hands around. “Without rules where would we be?” he spoke as if addressing a street corner meeting. “Nowhere. Nowhere. That’s where.” He nodded vigorously, agreeing wholeheartedly with himself.

“Rules must be obeyed. That’s why we have them,” Chares Snapdragon raised his chin and stared into the middle distance. Which considering the smallness of his sitting room meant to the farthest wall. He focused his attention on the three plaster ducks flying across the rose-patterned wallpaper. “And,” Charles Snapdragon straightened his back and imagined himself to be dressed in the uniform of a high military commander, “And if they are not,” his voice rose to a crescendo, “there must be consequences.” He paused and then repeated for effect, “Consequences.”

His twenty-year-old son Henry lay upstairs on the bed in the room that had once been his. He stared hard at the Union Jack flag on the wall. Across the room a framed portrait of Queen Elizabeth II stared intently at him. He shivered. It was like being spied on. What on earth had possessed his father to decorate his old bedroom like that?

He smiled to himself, closed his eyes and brought to mind the girl from last night. Blond, bright blue eyes, big breasts. Firm. His cock twitched. Those wet luscious lips. High cheekbones. He unzipped his jeans and slipped his fingers inside taking hold of his growing member. Oh what he would have done with that girl given half the chance. His cock expanded with his imagination. He unbuckled his belt and wriggled his jeans over his hips and buttocks. His dick tented his underpants. With more wriggling they were soon bunched up over his thighs. He kicked his jeans to the floor, gobbed spit into the palm of his right hand and rubbed himself slowly.

Charles Snapdragon still paced the carpet. “He knows my rules,” he glared at the ducks. “I made it perfectly clear. If he came back to my house,” he made great emphasis on the words my house, “that  he would have to obey my rules. An Englishman’s house is his castle.”

His wife nodded. She knew that was expected of her. The wife always supported her husband: it was a known fact.

“So he rolls in here in the middle of the night. Way after curfew.” Charles Snapdragon spoke mechanically as if he were reading from a charge sheet. “Been drinking. Smoking. No consideration for us. The neighbours. Only himself.” he paused and rested both hands on the dining room table. “He knows the rules.” He stared hard at his wife and repeated, “He knows the rules.”

Martha spoke for the first time, “Yes, dear,” she said softly. She knew her husband’s mind was made up, there was no need for her to say more.

“Right then.” Charles Snapdragon tugged on the cuffs of his shirt, straightening the sleeves. “Let’s get on with it.”

Upstairs Henry eyes were still closed as he imagined the girl from last night. He made light stroking movements on his cock, each rub moving a tiny bit further upwards. A gasp hissed through his teeth as the tips of his fingers made fleeting contact with the top of his dick. He lightly rubbed along the length of his penis, making it stand to attention as it filled out, flopping onto his stomach. His fingers lightly enclosed the shaft down near the base and then slid slowly up the length of the twitching member. Reaching the top, Henry’s fingers gently tweaked the sensitive edges of his foreskin, making him gasp with pleasure.

His grip tightened and his hand made a couple of slow, firm strokes along the full length of the fully erect cock. His other hand cupped his balls, gently kneading them between his fingers. His eyes opened and he watched with rapt concentration the aroused organ he held in his fist.

His hand was slowly massaging his swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. Henry shifted his hips, torn between wanting to go faster and wanting this feeling to last as long as possible.

A groan of pure pleasure escaped from Henry’s throat. “Fuck, take it all,” he gasped, and his wrist flew. “Huff-huff-huff,” Henry gasped. He writhed on the bed as his orgasm seemed to go on and on as white juice splashed across his stomach.

Breathless, he reached to the bedside table and grabbed a fistful of paper tissues. His breathing was returning to normal. He cleaned the goo from his belly, screwed the tissue into a ball and casually threw it across the room.

That was the moment the bedroom door flew open and his father stood stern-faced on the threshold. Henry tugged his underpants up to their rightful place. He knew his face was blazing scarlet. There was nothing he could do about that.

Charles Snapdragon was a man of few words. “Last night,” he said in staccato, “missed curfew. Drinking. Smoking. Won’t do. Against the rules. You know that.”

Henry wriggled his buttocks on the bed until he sat upright. He sucked on his bottom lip. There was nothing he could say. Everything his father had said was true. He hadn’t really meant to be late. It was that damned girl.

“It’s been a while,” his father spoke slowly and carefully without emotion, “since you were last here. I do not believe that you have forgotten my rules.” He paused and when Henry realised he expected an answer he replied, “No, sir.”

Charles Snapdragon nodded his approval. “Good,” he said and added enigmatically, “It’s been a while.” He fell into silence and looked hard at his twenty-year-old son. Was he getting taller? He had definitely thickened out a bit. He was no longer the scrawny kid he had been at school.

“You are not too old for this.” Charles Snapdragon walked into the room and stood over the bed. Henry looked at his father’s midriff.

“No, sir,” he agreed meekly.

“The last time I spanked you was just before you left home,” Charles Snapdragon frowned. “You couldn’t keep a job. No self-discipline. That’s why I had to impose discipline. My duty too.”

Henry pulled himself up further and leaned with his back against the wall. “They worked,” he said simply. “All those spankings,” he gave a rueful smile. “I’ve got a good job. I share a flat.”

“Things are looking good for you,” his father interrupted. “I’m glad.”

“Yes, sir.” Henry hesitated. Should he confide in his father?

Charles Snapdragon cut him short. “I knew it would in the end. Once you learned discipline.”

Henry couldn’t hold it in. He had to speak. He had to confess to his father. He blurted, “I’m not sure that I have.”

His father’s brow creased, “I don’t understand.”

Henry spoke in a rush, words tumbling without him thinking. “I’m not sure I have learned discipline. Sometimes I am late to work. I never help around the flat. I’m running up debts,” he broke off with a croak.

His father took a step forward so he now towered over his son.

Henry rediscovered his voice, “I need discipline. Your discipline. Just to keep me on track. Stop me going over the edge.”

His father sucked down a lung full of air, “I fully intend to spank you for last night.” He paused and when his son made no response, he continued, “So I should also punish you for other offences, also?”

“Yes sir,” Henry gasped, his heart thumping through his chest. “I deserve it. I deserve to be spanked. Hard. Really hard.”

A smile flickered across Charles Snapdragon’s face. Here was proof if any were needed that his method of child rearing had worked. “I see,” he spoke almost with a whisper. “But first things first,” he reached forward and took his son by the wrist and guided him to his feet. “First we must deal with last night. He released his hold on Henry and sat down on the edge of the narrow bed. “You know what you must do. Bend over my knee.”

Without hesitation the twenty-year-old moved to stand to the right of his father, then slowly he lowered himself forward so that his stomach was across his father’s knee. His arms rested ahead of him on the mattress. His bottom jutted out at an angle. The bed was low so Henry had to bend his own knees so they hovered above the ground.

“This is a spanking you so richly deserve,” his father intoned as he gripped the waistband of his son’s underpants and tugged them hard. He couldn’t get them down so Henry obliged by raising his body so his father could pull the pants over his buttocks and leave them bunched over his thighs. Then Henry lowered himself once more across his father’s lap not realising he was leaving a sticky patch on his father’s trousers.

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Charles Snapdragon took hold of Henry’s shirt and moved it a little up his back so it was away from the target area. He cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly caressed his son’s right buttock. Then he did the same with the left. Henry had a little more padding than the last time he was spanked, but he was far from fat. Charles Snapdragon raised his hand and brought it crashing down with a resounding SMACK!

It had been more than a year but he hadn’t lost the knack. He was an expert spanker and soon had both cheeks glowing bright pink. Henry gasped as tingles mingled together and became a dull throb. The palm of Charles Snapdragon’s hand was as hard as any hairbrush. Henry wondered if the Old Man soaked it in vinegar, the way kids did with conkers to make them tougher.

“You only have your self to blame for this,”’ his father scolded as slap after slap pounded into Henry’s fleshy bum. “Only yourself.”

The pain was building. Henry was no stranger to spanking. He had taken a few in his days. But it had been some time since his last one and he was finding the going rather hard. His heart raced and blood rushed to his head so that his temples throbbed almost as much as his bottom. He gasped and sucked back the yaps and yelps he so desperately wanted to make.

“You deserve this. You deserve this,” he told himself silently. “You are a very naughty boy. You need to have your bare bottom spanked. Hard. Very hard.”

He winced as his father’s hand slapped into the back of his naked thigh. That was when Henry yelped. He couldn’t help it. His hips wriggled and his knees buckled.

“Keep still,” his father admonished. “You deserve this. You know you do. So, take it like a man,” he growled and he slapped the thighs harder still.

Five minutes later Charles Snapdragon hammered six final slaps into the undercurves of Henry’s cheeks – right on the sensitive sit-spot. The bum glistened with sweat and glowed a rosy red. Charles Snapdragon’s hand hurt but not as much as Henry’s bottom.

“Stand up,” he ordered and his son, not needing to be told twice, jumped to his feet. He performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot while at the same time rubbing away at his sore bum. He bent down and tugged his pants up and stood respectfully before his father.

“Good boy. I know you will try to behave better in future.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied humbly.

“I’m glad to hear it. Now get shaved, have a shower and then come downstairs. Mother has Christmas dinner prepared. After lunch you and I shall repair to the back room. I still have those two canes hanging in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Yes, sir. Thank you sir,” Henry gasped as he moved aside to allow his father to leave the room.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

For your own good

We need to talk about Jake

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

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

 

Step-son home for the holiday

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“No, I’m not having him here again for Christmas, not after last year. I don’t want an argument about it.” Martin’s face coloured. It did this when he was angry. Diana knew he meant it. It would take a lot to get him to change his mind.

“But he’s my son,” she said. “We can’t exclude him from Christmas.”

Martin paced the room. He was trying to control his temper. The disaster of last Christmas was fresh in his mind. That brat of a step-son was not welcome here. He shook his head, “No, love. No. I think he resents me. He’s never made an effort to get on. Look how rude and surly he was last time. He was so drunk on Boxing Day he insulted Bob and Martha from next door. I could have died from embarrassment.”

Diana took a deep breath. Martin was right. Joey had been outrageous. He stayed in bed on Christmas Day and didn’t come down until dinner was served. Then he was miserable all afternoon, he quite spoiled the day for Martin’s two young children.

“I know Marty, but he’s family. Christmas is about family.” She trailed off. What a rubbish excuse. Yes, Christmas was about family. People getting together for once every year. Of course, there was a reason why they didn’t meet more often – they hated the sight of one another. Most families were a bit like that. Even so, she pressed on, “Where’s he supposed to go instead?”

Martin stopped pacing. He stopped at the cocktail cabinet and grabbed a bottle of gin. “He can stay in his own bed all day,.” He unscrewed the cap. “It’ll save him the train fare getting here.” He gave a short snort of laughter and poured a glass of gin.

“Want one?” he smiled. Diana shook her head. She wasn’t letting him off just yet. He took a gulp of neat gin and grimaced as it hit the spot. “First of the day,” he said for no reason except to break the silence in the room. He knew he was about to be defeated.

He sat in a deep armchair and surveyed the room. Diana stood and watched him. She knew her man. It was only a matter of time. Martin took a cautious sip of the gin. “Well, alright, he can come, but there have to be conditions. He has to be told.”

“Yes dear,” Diana grinned. She had won again.

“I’m serious. A list of rules. Nothing unusual. He can’t lay in bed all day. He can’t be rude to you. And definitely not me. No heavy drinking. He has to play with the boys. He has to be cheerful.”

Diana nodded her head with mock enthusiasm. “Anything else Mein Fuhrer. You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

“Well, it is to me, love. It is to me,” Martin drained his glass. “You have to tell him. He has to know he has got to behave.”

Diana kept her counsel. Joey wasn’t a bad lad, but he could be headstrong at times. When he was in one of his darker moods he didn’t mind what he said or who he upset. It might prove difficult to rein him in over the holidays.

“I mean it, Di, he has to know. You have to tell him.”

Diana sighed. “Alright, I’ll do it. But what if he breaks your rules?”

“Tell him I’ll spank him.”

“Ha!” Diana roared with laughter. She couldn’t stop herself. How absurd!

“I’m serious. Make sure he knows it. I’m not afraid to take him across my knee and batter his backside.”

“Don’t be daft. He’s twenty years old.”

“Well he should have learned to behave by now shouldn’t he.”

“What does that mean?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you saying I didn’t bring him up right.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake …” Martin paused. Actually, that was exactly what he was saying but he knew better than to tell his new wife that.

“Just tell him will you. I’ll write down the rules, so there’s no mistake. And, he’ll get the thick end of my belt if he causes trouble again this year. I’ll put that in writing as well if you like.”

And he did too. When he printed it out it covered a full side of A4 paper. Fifteen different rules. All to be obeyed. None of them unreasonable. And in the final sentence, printed in red were the words. “Failure to comply with any of these rules will result in a spanking.” There, Martin thought as he read through the final draft, it couldn’t be clearer.

“You’re off your head,” Diana said, not unkindly, when her husband handed her the rules.

“What’s the worry. All he has to do is behave himself. We’ll get through the holiday, he’ll go back to his home and we can get on with our lives.” He nodded at the sheet of paper, “And I won’t have to see him again until next year. What could be simpler?”

“I’ll email him a copy,” Diana said.

“Good. Let him know if he doesn’t like it he’s welcome to stay at his own home for Christmas.”

Joey received the email on his phone while sitting up in his bed. He read it. Twice. He didn’t believe it either time. He turned to his boyfriend Spencer and told him about Martin’s threat. “Spanking!” Spencer chortled, “Oh yes please! Can I come.”

Joey bristled, it wasn’t funny. But Spencer hadn’t finished. “What a wicked step-father you have. It’s just like a fairy story.” He paused long enough to realise Joey hadn’t got the joke. “Well,” he continued, “It is a bit kinky don’t you think?”

Kinky? Joey didn’t know that, but it was madness. The twenty-year-old was in no doubt, Martin – or his mother’s latest husband, as he preferred to call him – was deadly serious.

Spencer pulled the duvet off his naked body and climbed out of bed. He trilled, “Be sure to tell me all about it when you get back. Don’t forget to take a selfie, you naughty little boy.” He smacked his own bottom playfully and sashayed around the room. Joey groaned and read through the list of rules one more time.

“Your step-papa is right. You are a pain in the arse sometimes,” Spencer would not let it go. “You never tidy up. You leave your scuzzy pants on the floor for me to pick up. When did you last wash up a mug?” He sat down on the bed, heart racing, “Yes, what a good idea.” He paused waiting a little breathlessly for his boyfriend’s response. When none came, he rolled over on the mattress and faced Joey. “Spanking.” He let the word hang in the air. Joey’s clean, bright face cracked into a smile when he realised what his boyfriend meant. “Dream on lover boy.”

Spencer nodded with mock solemnity. “Spanking. Yes, the naughty little boy needs his bottom slapped.” He rose so he now knelt beside Joey. Joey, still smiling told him, “You can try.”

It was the hint Spencer needed. He rolled from the mattress and ran around to Joey’s side of the bed. He gripped his wrist and tried to pull him up. “No, no,” Joey shrieked with laughter, “I was joking, I was joking.” He struggled as Spencer demonstrated his superior strength. Within seconds Spencer had Joey to his feet. Then Spencer sat on the end of the bed. He pulled Joey forward across his lap. Now his boyfriend was face-down. In the perfect position to have his bare bottom spanked.

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Both boys were naked. In the two months since they first met Spencer had seen his boyfriend naked many times before. His skin was smooth and hairless. There wasn’t enough spare fat on him to sizzle a sausage. His bum was pert and firm.

Slap. Slap. Spencer’s smacks were love taps. Joey didn’t feel a thing. He lay still. Submissive. Spencer had never acted like this before. So manfully. “What a nice, little spankable bottom you have,” Spencer pinched the hard cheeks. He cupped his hands and caressed each globe. His hands were large and Joey’s buttocks quite small. The palm covered about half of one cheek. He tapped Joey’s bottom again. Going through the motions. Pretending to spank him. Not really trying. His hand shook. He had never felt like this before. He didn’t understand it. What was happening to him?

Joey twisted his body so he could look behind him and face Spencer. “Do it properly. Like you mean it,” he said simply. He turned back, face down in the mattress and raised his bottom higher. Spencer’s cock twitched. Sweat soaked the palm of his hand. He rubbed it dry on the bed. He bit his bottom lip with nervousness. He raised his right hand. He paused. Joey’s bum flinched with the tension. Crack! Spencer’s hand walloped Joey’s left buttock with force. The outline of Spencer’s palm appeared in pink across his boyfriend’s creamy-white skin. He slapped again this time on the left cheek.

Joey moaned gently and buried his face in the duvet. Spencer slapped him again. And again. And again. Joey’s bum warmed. Each slap stung his tight arse. It hurt. Joey couldn’t understand. It hurt, but it wasn’t really pain. His bottom tingled. He liked it. The more Spencer spanked him, the more his bum glowed. The tingles mingled and merged, growing into a dull throb.

“More, more,” he groaned softly. Joey was across Spencer’s lap. Both were naked. Their cocks pressed together. Joey’s hard-on raged. That excitement encouraged Spencer in his task. He slapped harder. Not one spot on Joey’s gorgeous bum was unmarked. The imprint of Spencer’s palm and fingers was stamped all over the boy’s cheeks. Spencer turned to the more sensitive thighs. Joey squealed with pleasure. His cock pulsated against Spencer’s. He wriggled and writhed to build momentum. It was like having sex. But then again, Joey knew, not like any sex he had ever had. His head spun. His body tingled with excitement. His bottom and thighs throbbed. Ecstasy!

Martin had a miserable Christmas Eve. His step-son was murder from the moment he arrived. He was more surly, more rude, even than the previous year. Joey had already upset the boys with his bullying, overbearing manner. Martin cornered the boy in the kitchen. “You haven’t forgotten the rules I set have you?” he growled. “What I warned I would do?”

Joey replied calmly, “No. I haven’t forgotten a thing.”

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The Morning After the Night Before

Warren’s awakening

Called in for a Caning

 

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

 

Party time!

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z used christmas drunk school college boy (1)

I don’t believe it. I just DO NOT believe it. The state you were in. I have never been so humiliated in all my life. I’ll never be able to face the neighbours. It’ll be all round the street. All over town. I’ll never live it down. You’ll never live it down. I Just CANNOT believe it.

I said go have fun. Why not? It’s Christmas. The end of term. It’s time to party. But I never for one moment expected this. Why should I? I haven’t – we haven’t, your mother and me – we haven’t brought you up like this. You have disgraced us both. I just DON’T believe it.

I’m just glad your mother didn’t see you in that state. That’s all I can say […] Be quiet! You speak when I say you can speak. You have no excuse. None at all. A school party. There shouldn’t have been any booze. Where did that come from then? Who snuck it in. You? Those crazy mates of yours in the rugby team. I know for sure none of the teachers had any idea. You’re seniors. Eighteen years old, they thought they could trust you. I thought I could trust you. Well I’ve learnt my lesson there.

You were absolutely out of your skull. Dressed up in girls’ shoes. What else? What else don’t I know? Drag? Were you dressed in women’s clothes? School skirt? Blouse? Navy blue knickers? Ha! That sounds like the rugby team to me.

I have no idea what your headmaster’s going to say when he finds out. God help us. Back in my day you’d be hauled into his study. “Bend over that desk.” Yes. A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. […] Don’t look at me like that. That’s exactly what you deserve. But he can’t. It’s against the law […] God help us, I hope he doesn’t expel you. What then? We’d never find another school to take you. So close to the exams. You’ll have to go to that shitty sixth-form college. Bang goes your career in the Foreign Office.

I’ll have to see the headmaster. Try to iron it over. Another humiliation. Begging him to keep you on. I just hope to God you weren’t the only one. Were you the leader? Did you take in the beer? It wasn’t just beer was it? The state you were in. What else. Whisky? Vodka? Isn’t vodka the trendy drink? I wouldn’t know of course […] Oh my God. It was booze wasn’t it? Don’t tell me it was drugs. Are you on drugs? My God if you’ve doing drugs […]

You deny it? Drugs. Well. I’ll tell you something. If anything like this happens again, I’m taking you down the doctors. Blood test. We’ll see what’s in your blood. Blood test, just like the athletes have […]

Don’t pout at me lad. I will not have it. I will not STAND for it […] Be quiet. You are in a lot of trouble, I’d keep quiet if I were you.

I have never been so humiliated. Called out at midnight to collect you. To take you home. Incapable of getting home alone. I don’t know what happened to your so-called friends. Abandoned you. Or were they so smashed they just disappeared.

Well lad, I will not put up with it. I will not stand for it. You’re sober now so get out of that bed […] NOW! I’m not wasting my entire morning on you. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate your behaviour. Humiliating me like this.

Don’t look at me like that. Get out of bed NOW […] I know you haven’t got any clothes on. I put you to bed last night remember. No! Of course you don’t remember. I don’t suppose you remember chucking up all over the bathroom floor. Who cleared up that mess? Not you for sure. Now get out of bed. […] Do you want me to pull you out? […]

Right. Now, lad. I will not put up with this. I will not tolerate it. No you come here. Over my knee. The headmaster might not be able to do anything, but that doesn’t stop me […] Don’t you dare fight me. You come here. That’s better. Right over. You take it like a man […] Too old for this! Too old! I’ll be the one to judge when you’re too old for a spanking. You need to learn a lesson lad. And it’s my job to teach it […] Keep still […] Get those hands out the way. Right away […] Put them in front of you. Lay still […] Keep that bottom high.

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[…] It hurts! Of course it hurts. That’s the whole point young man. Your backside will be glowing red hot by the time I’ve finished. Keep still […] Do you want me to fetch your mother’s hairbrush? […] No, I didn’t think so. Take your punishment with some dignity […] I hope to God I’m not the only father doing this this morning. Discipline. You kids DO NOT get enough discipline these days. Well, not in this house brother. This drunken behaviour has got to stop. It WILL stop. I’ll make sure of that […]

Huh, you’re feeling that. Good. I hope you’re learning your lesson young man […] Will I have to do this again?  […] No? […] You’re sorry. I’ll give you sorry. You’ll be sorry by the time I’ve finished. You won’t be sitting down for the rest of the day. You can have your breakfast standing up […]

I told you to stop wriggling […] Don’t fight me […] DO NOT FIGHT ME. Keep still. Damn you. Well, don’t say I haven’t warned you. WENDY. CAN YOU FETCH YOUR HAIRBRUSH!! [……]

Thanks love. Now, can you hold his shoulders down while I tackle his rear end […]

 

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

An unexpected recollection

John’s jam jar

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 banker and the three wretches

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z used suit walking stick office by L Fellows (36)

Charlie’s jaw dropped slack with astonishment as the whirlwind flew through the door. He watched the colossus stride through the banking hall, his walking cane held at his shoulder like an infantryman’s rifle. All around, cashiers and customers alike, stopped work to stare as the man – all six feet six inches of him – hurtled towards the elevators. His immaculate checked suit appeared to glow in the electric light. The clop-clop-clop his handmade leather shoes made as he marched onwards echoed around the silent hall.

Charlie gaped across at Miss Allison, who momentarily had deserted her typewriter. “Who is that?” he whispered watching the back of the figure as it departed through the concertina barrier into the lift.

“That,” Miss Allision trilled with admiration, “That is not the bank manager. That is not even the bank director,” her voice rose to a crescendo. “That is Mr Manwaring-Robertson the owner of our bank,” she swooned back to her seat and set a fresh sheet of paper in her typewriter.

“He seems to be on a mighty important mission,” Charlie nodded at the space where Mr Manwaring-Robertson had so recently been. “Someone upstairs is in for a mighty shock.” He resumed his sentry duty at the door to the bank, shaking his head vaguely.

Upstairs three young men sat together at a marble-topped table. Their cups of coffee stood untasted before them. Reddy flicked nervously at the ash of his cigarette and looked across the table at the other two, first Morris with his scowling brow and hair horrid with grease and then Oldroyd, with his face wrinkled with confusion.

“He knows about it all right then,” Morris wheezed bitterly.

“Certain of it,” said Reddy.

“It means the sack,” said Oldroyd. “It does that.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” said Morris, his voice cracking. “He’s most likely already here in the building. We’ll get called up to his office any minute now.” Morris cleared his throat, phlegm filled his mouth and it made him feel sick. He swallowed hard and took a final pull at the cigarette before slamming the end into his saucer.

“We’ll be looking for a new job, I know what it’s like. I’ve been out before,” said Oldroyd.

“Know what it’s like! Do you think I don’t know too,” sneered Morris. “What kind of testimonial is M.R. going to give us. Sacked for taking bribes for loans. We’ll be starving on the streets in weeks.” He glowered around at the other two, accusingly.  Why had they been so stupid? So greedy. Morris had a wife and two children, they’d all be thrown out onto the streets once he could no longer pay the rent.

“What damned fools we’ve been,” Oldroyd’s voice broke. He was close to tears. Reddy nodded, his head fell into his hands. There was a deathly hush as all three silently contemplated their fate. The workhouse beckoned.

They were so occupied with their own grief they failed to hear Miss Stewart approach. She stood, silently appraising the three wretched bank employees. Her lips pursed as if she had sucked on a particularly bitter lemon. She clicked her tongue, then announced her presence. Oldroyd was the first to react, his body froze in fear.  This was Manwaring-Robertson’s secretary, come to summon them forward to meet their fate. A life of penury. Oh, he silently reproached himself, why had he been so stupid.

“You are to come with me,” Miss Stewart pronounced. She had the air of the prison wardress about her. Now in her late middle-age, Miss Stewart had to find her little pleasures wherever she could. She would make the most of her present opportunity.

The three culprits sat rigid as statues. They had every wish to delay the inevitable ignominy. The sack. The bullet. Fired. Or, the infinitely more polite, ‘let go.’ It mattered little what word was used, the result would be the same. Themselves and their families starving on the streets.

“Now!” Miss Stewart barked. She hoped her tone and attitude appeared stern, she had no wish to display the inner delight she felt at that moment. She derived immense pleasure from other people’s misfortune.

Slowly, reluctantly and with some distress each man hauled himself to his feet. They slouched forwards as if already they had balls and chains around their ankles. Debtors’ prison was but a short journey away.

“Come this way,” Miss Stewart intoned. She led the way down a dark passageway. Each of the men had worked at the bank for several years but none had seen this part of the building before. It was forbidden territory to them, the lowly worker-ants of the bank. Miss Stewart rumbled ahead, leading them slowly towards their downfall.

They reached a huge oak door, the brass nameplate shone brightly, despite the gloom in the passageway. This was indeed the office of a mightily important man. A mightily rich man. Miss Stewart abandoned them while she knocked on the door before entering.

Morris looked at Reddy and Reddy looked at Oldroyd, but none could catch the eye. None dared to speak. The sound of fearful breathing broke the silence. It seemed to the men an eternity, but it was but thirty seconds later that the secretary reappeared.

“You’re to go in,” her voice betrayed a certain disappointment. She clicked her tongue and scurried back down the passageway, leaving the door to the office ajar. The three men stood petrified. Each waiting for another to take a lead and enter the lion’s den.

“Well!” a boom sounded within the office, “What are you waiting for!”

The ferocity of the voice woke Morris, Reddy and Oldroyd and like a scene form the Keystone Cops they bundled into one another in their eagerness to be first through the door.

It was an opulent office, as might be expected of a man who owned a bank. Mr Manwaring-Robertson sat behind a huge mahogany desk, the size of a municipal swimming pool. He glared. His snow-white moustache emphasised the deep suntanned face. It bristled as he spoke, “Stand there,” he pointed to a spot in front of his desk. “There, there,” he repeated irritably, as if his three workers might be too stupid to understand his instruction. They shuffled forward; their humiliation far from hidden. Morris felt his knees buckle, he was close to fainting to the floor. Oldroyd and Reddy steadied themselves by firmly grasping their hands behind their backs. They looked to all the world like naughty schoolboys summoned before the headmaster.

Mr Manwaring-Robertson steepled his fingers and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Well, what have you got to say for yourselves?” He was a man of few words. Action was his watchword. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.

Morris fell to his knees, it was not a plan. He had not written a script. He acted out of sheer terror. “Please, sir, please sir. Don’t fire us. I have a wife. Children. They will starve. Please. I am sorry. Sorry,” he wailed, “In the name of God Almighty have mercy on us all.”

Mr Manwaring-Robertson sat unmoved. His fierce hazel eyes shone, but otherwise they betrayed none of his thoughts.

Oldroyd stood aghast. How could Morris humiliate himself so? Begging for mercy. He had no more time for further thoughts. Reddy was falling to his knees, clasping his hands together as if in prayer. “Please master in the name of all that is holy. I repent.  I repent. Never again, shall I dishonour you. Please as a good Christian gentleman have mercy.” Tears flowed down his cheeks.

Mr Manwaring-Robertson shuffled his buttocks in his large padded chair. He looked from Morris to Reddy, from one to the other and then from the other to the one. His face remained impassive, seemingly unmoved by the spectacle. His cold eyes turned towards Oldroyd, the only employee still standing. His gaze pierced Oldroyd. The proud young man, with bitterness festering in his heart, slowly bent one knee, as if he were discussing inside his own head whether he should humiliate himself so. What good would it do. This flint-hearted bank owner cared nothing for Oldroyd and his young colleagues. It would give the old man immense satisfaction to see them beg for mercy, beg for their wives, their children. Beg to be saved from the workhouse.

Oldroyd surprised himself. He was down on two knees reciting his sorrow. His promises to become a good, honest, slaving worker. If only the good, kind, charitable Mr Manwaring-Robertson would bestow mercy upon his unfortunate children.

The speeches were over. Three men knelt before him, heads bowed in supplication. Mr Manwaring-Robertson sat in smug, satisfied silence, pierced only by the heavy ticking of a clock. He watched impassively as the minute hand dragged itself across the clockface from five to ten. Two of the men before him were dissolved in tears. The third was ghostly white as if he might expire unto death at any second.

At last Mr Manwaring-Robertson spoke, “Thank you gentlemen,” he said smugly. “I have heard your speeches. I have witnessed you tell me that you are contrite. I have heard your pleas for clemency.” He paused, as a pompous judge might before donning his black cap and pronouncing a sentence of death. “I have to say that all three of you have behaved in the most wretched manner. To steal from your employer is despicable,” he shook his head as if he were carrying all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. “Despicable.”

He paused and delved into a pocket of his waistcoat. He found a handkerchief and slowly and deliberately mopped perspiration from his brow. “Look at me,” he growled and three heads immediately twitched in his direction. “I am indeed a Christian gentleman and I do believe in mercy and redemption.” He paused while he mopped the back of his neck. “It might surprise you to hear me say that, but it is true.” He slowly folded the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. “Indeed, indeed. But, my God is a vengeful God. I believe in retribution.”

He waited as the import of his words hung in the air and while the significance of their meaning sank into the heads of the three men kneeling supplicated before him. He cleared his throat, “I have made arrangements,” he intoned. “You are to be whipped.” He paused, he always did at this point in such speeches. It gave him the chance to savour the horrified reaction of his victims.

“Were you to appear before the magistrates bench on charges of stealing, you would be sentenced to the birch and prison with hard labour,” he peered at Morris who appeared to be murmuring to himself, and then continued, “I do not propose hard labour. You will pay to me the money you took from clients.” He paused lest anyone should think of him as a profiteer, “I shall ensure that it is passed on to a good cause.”

He shook his head sorrowfully, “Stand up you three. I have arranged for Mr Burgess to deal with you. He is waiting in an adjoining room. You are dismissed. Go. Miss Stewart is waiting for you in the passageway.”

So it was that three worthless men were escorted along the passageway, each quiet, alone with his own thoughts. Reprieved. Saved from penury and the workhouse. Oh, Mr Manwaring-Robertson was a fine Christian gentlemen. If their thoughts were of joy and relief, they were surely dashed when Miss Stewart halted them outside a dark, sombre door. It connected a room at the furthest end of the passageway, in a wing of the building as far away from the street and the bank’s main business area as it could possibly be.

Miss Stewart paused, perhaps enjoying the drama of the moment. Certainly her heart beat fast. Like her employer she considered herself to be of good Christian stock. She prayed each night and attended church twice on Sunday. What a merciful soul she was. She rapped her knuckles on the door. No sound of footsteps within the room could be heard but suddenly the heavy mahogany door inched open.

“Go in. All of you,” Miss Stewart’s voice broke. She hacked a cough to clear her throat and added ominously, Mr Burgess is expecting you. She stepped back and looked contemptuously as each man halted, trying to encourage an other to be first across the threshold.

“Come in,” a voice from within rasped. “Do not keep me waiting. I am not a man renowned for his patience. It will be the worst for you to keep me waiting.”

Morris took the initiative. He led the way inside. It was a large simple room. The only light came from a small casement window at the far end. The floorboards were bare. They creaked whenever a person moved.

Miss Stewart hesitated in the doorway. “You may leave us now, Miss Stewart,” the voice still rasped. The secretary did not hide her disappointment. Excluded once again. Unable to witness God’s wrath.  She puckered her lips. She backed out of the room, slowly closing the door behind her. She stood alone in the passageway. She peered down the gloomy passageway. No other person was there, nor was one likely to appear at this hour of the day. She leaned forward and pressed her ear against the door.

Morris, Oldroyd and Reddy knew none of this. If they had they would have cared little. Their eyes were now a little more accustomed to the gloom. The room had no furniture save for one piece. It could not truthfully be described as furniture. It had no function associated with comfort. It was not a chair where one could sit. It was not a table where one could eat a meal. It was not a cupboard that one could store the little luxuries of life.

Morris stared bleakly at the one piece. He had never seen such a thing before. He was a man of little imagination but even he could detect its purpose. His heart fell to his boots.

Reddy had seen such a thing before. At the courthouse in the small town where he had been born. There was nothing unusual about this thing. There were replicas of it across the land. Many were still used, possibly even daily. But, Reddy had never expected to see such a thing in a room hidden along a dark passageway on the upper floor of the town’s most successful commercial bank.

To the ignorant it looked like a large step. One might have such a thing in a library to help the reader choose a book from a top shelf. On closer inspection, it was a little too cumbersome, two large, too heavy for such a task.

No, in all reality this thing, this wooden lump could serve only one purpose. It could only have one use. If there was any doubt in any mind that was dispelled by the only other objects in the room. Reddy could not tear his eyes away from them. There were five. Lined one beside another by the far wall. What colour that he had drained from his face, no bedsheet from the most luxurious of homes could have been whiter. Five enormous enamel pails. Each chocked full of what looked like the branches from a bush, or small tree.

Burgess stood quietly. He was a small, undistinguished man. He would walk the streets day or night unnoticed. He had no baring to speak off. He was neither particularly tall, nor particularly small. He had no distinguishing facial marks. His beard was conventional, cut neat and tidy. His clothes were those of a businessman. When he walked through the banking hall to his room people would think him to be just another clerk.

All the above was true. But here, in this room. He was more than the sum of his parts. He was man with authority. No, more than that, he was a man of power. His was total control. He had no reason to demonstrate that, beyond the obvious. He had a duty to perform. He would carry out that duty to his master’s word. The three wretches standing awkwardly before him would acquiesce to him. They might do so with some honour, presenting themselves submissively. They might not. Such had happened in the past. It trouble Burgess not at all. He had assistants that he could summon. They waited but two doors away.

Burgess was a philosopher. He was an expert. His craft had been perfected over many years in the bank’s employ. Oh how he could whisk a birch rod about so that the trembling victim could hear it hissing through the air.

He had once confirmed to Mr Manwaring-Robertson, who showed great interest in the matter, “The real art of birching consists in inflicting the greatest amount of humiliation and suffering, but without in reality doing serious damage.”

 

The bank owner had nodded sagely. That was wise, he had thought. If too much injury was inflicted might not the intervention of a doctor become necessary. That might leave to any number of complications. No, Mr Manwaring-Robertson, concluded, it was best not to proceed in such a way that the Authorities might become involved.

 

Burgess had continued, “We have to consider how so to apply the rod as to effect some radical

moral good in the disposition and mind of the culprit ; how to make them feel the very dregs as it were of humiliation, degradation, and every kind of mortification.” He might have wetted his lips as he spoke, such was his commitment to the task.

 

He shared his past experience with his employer, speaking as with the authority of a learned professor on the subject of birching, “It is a curious fact,” Burgess had said, “that it sends the blood

of a sensitive modest man in impulsive rushes (especially to the face and neck) in the form of scarlet blushes, which pass over those parts in continuous waves, corresponding to each stroke of the rod ; this is a curious psychological fact, which is puzzling even to anatomists.”

Mr Manwaring-Robertson continued to nod his head, as he fought to keep from betraying his lack of understanding.

“You should proceed as you see fit,” he intoned. There the matter rested. The master had given his instruction, it was for the servant to carry it out in the most efficient way possible.

The problem with the birch, Burgess knew, and he could write a book on the matter, was that it had a very short useful life. They had originally been crafted from the twigs of the birch tree, hence its name. But experience had taught that these proved to be too fragile. Hazel twigs were then used before a variety of twiggy shoots from other species were tried. When available, Burgess would constructed his birch rods from springy young maple shoots which would be bound together at one end into handle. The birches he had prepared for the three wretches were of such construction, each consisting of between eighteen and twenty shoots.

Burgess spoke quietly. “Twelve strokes of the birch for each of you, Kindly brace yourselves and keep perfectly still and take your punishment. This is going to be the most painful experience of your lives to date.” He made no attempt to gauge the feelings of the three bank clerks. He would not look them in the eye. Each in their turn preferred to stare down at the bare floorboards beneath their feet. In time, Burgess closed his eyes completely and appeared, to all the world to be silently praying.

Burgess continued, “I have to tell you that whole purpose of the exercise is to teach you through pain to be better men. It has been my experience to note that a well beaten bottom does wonders to improve the to improve a man’s character.

“You will each now, remove your lower garments.”

It must have been the thought of a future life of penury in the workhouse that encouraged the three wretches to comply. They were utterly defeated. Not one uttered a complaint. Morris was instructed to go first. It is remarkably cumbersome for a man to strip his lower half naked. It took several moments to get the shoes unfastened and off his feet. The trousers were hoisted aloft by braces and required the removal of jacket and waistcoat.

At last – and to the man about to be flogged it must have felt like half a lifetime – he was ready.

“Kneel down with your upper body over the top,” Burgess indicated the birching block. It was a simply-designed apparatus. As described earlier it was like two steps. A man faced forward, knelt on the lower step and leaned forward so that his stomach and upper body was across the top step. Morris, determined not to display weakness in front of his partners-in-crime, steadied himself. He was soon in position. Once over, he was able to see the two leather wrist straps bolted onto the reverse side of the block. Their design was clear – to tie a man in position should he not have the fortitude to present himself humbly.

Morris determined that he would not disgrace himself so. He would, as the saying goes, take it like a man.

Burgess watched with what seemed a disinterested eye as Morris made his preparations. The block had been well designed. Morris’s naked haunches were lifted high at a very good angle to receive the lashing from the birch rod. The buttocks so presented were pale and boney. There was very little meat for the birch rods to flail.

Burgess choose his first rod. All birch rods whatever their construction are almost as delicate as flowers in a vase. They fade quickly. Pieces of broken twig would gather around Burgess’s feet. He might need two or possibly three birch rods to deal with each man. He had prepared for that possibility.

Without ceremony or fanfare, he took a rod from the first bucket. He shook it vigorously. It had been soaking in water and vinegar. It was supposed that the vinegar would make the cut of the rods sting the more. Burgess had heard this to be the true case but he could not swear to its voracity. Even so, he saw no reason not to soak them in such a way. The water, he knew for certain, made the twigs supple and helped in no small way to stop them from breaking too soon.

He gripped the handle firmly and as was his wont he swished it with great ferocity through the air. It had his desired effect. Morris’s buttocks quavered in anticipation. Burgess was not afraid to allow a smile to cross his own lips. Humiliation and suffering.

Now it was time to get on with the job in hand. He stood to the left side of Morris. He allowed the birch to rest gently across the centre of both cheeks. It was of such a size that its head spread and covered almost the entire area of the wretched man’s rump.

Burgess raised the birch into the air, let it rest there and with a twist of his body he let fly. The birch rods separated into a broad fan as they connected with the pale skin. The crack of birch against naked flesh echoed around the empty room. Reddy thought he might faint.

Morris, despite his resolve to be brave in front of his fellows let out a almighty gasp. He could not help it, his body demanded such a response to the intense pain he now felt.

Burgess intended to humiliate his victims. He waited about thirty seconds for the pain to ease and Morris’s anticipation to increase before delivering the second cut. In this way he systematically and methodically covered the whole of Morris’s buttocks.

Morris gripped the leather wrist straps as if his very life depended on not letting go. His gasps grew to yaps and those yaps to yelps. At stroke six Burgess paused, the rod in his hand reduced to strands. He tossed it to the floor and slowly and dramatically crossed the empty room to the enamel pails. He gripped a substitute rod and with equal drama resumed his position to Morris’s left. The wretch was whimpering, but still valiantly gripping the wrist straps. Burgess quietly admired the man’s tenacity. Many another victim before him had broken down and was then tied firmly down to receive the residue of the whipping.

Morris did not know how he had refrained himself from begging for mercy. His protests were unspoken as stroke followed cut. He sobbed quietly.

Then it was over. Twelve slashes of the birch.

“Stand. When you are able to get dressed. Do not leave the room until I instruct you,” Burgess spoke quietly but with immense authority.

With no great dexterity, Morris found his feet. He stumbled but stopped himself falling in a faint to the floor. His companion Reddy choked back the bile in the back of his throat. He observed his colleague hobble away from the block. The poor man’s backside was a glowing expanse of small welts. Many oozed minute amounts of blood. The skin had broken as each strand of the birch had cut into his naked flesh.

Burgess selected a fresh birch, swiped it through the air and intoned, “Reddy. You should take his place.”

That was the last word Reddy heard as the lights around him dimmed and he fell with a crash to the floor.

At about that moment Mr Manwaring-Robertson retraced his journey through the banking hall. He acknowledged the many genuflections of his staff as he strode on his way. Charlie opened the front door and the bank owner was on his way. Miss Allison swooned behind her typewriter. Customers made their deposits or cashed their cheques. Life continued as usual.

 

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

Other stories you might like

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A ritual played out

My boy Dixon

 

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

Back on the straight-and-narrow

new 5

When I was in my mid- to late-teens my head was so messed up I was in danger of going right off the rails. I carried so much guilt around with me it’s a wonder my head didn’t explode. In my view of myself I could never do anything right. It was building up inside me like a pressure cooker.

Guilt can be a terrible thing. It wasn’t like I was particularly religious. I went to church but only because my mum and dad dragged me there. It was just a habit with me. It’s not as if I was a Believer. If I had told my parents I didn’t want to go any more that would’ve added to my guilty feelings.

I have Mr Thoroughgood to thank for saving my sanity. He was an expert on boys and he knew just what I needed. And he was prepared to go that extra mile for me.

I look back after twenty years or so and I don’t recognise the teenager I was. I probably wasn’t so bad; not much different from any other teenager. Mr Thoroughgood saw that. That’s why he knew how to treat me. He had the experience. He was the expert.

I don’t want you to go away with the idea that I was some great villain, I wasn’t. My problem wasn’t drug-taking or knife crime. My big problem was my temper. I would shoot my big mouth off and my words hurt. No one was immune. Certainly not Mum, or my Nan. Even Dad felt the rough end of my tongue. He was too gentle a man to deal with me. He just sucked it up. That made it worst for me. I instinctively knew what I was doing was wrong and that was when the remorse kicked in.

I was also a lazy old sod. I never worked at school to the best of my ability. I was guilty about that. I didn’t have the sense to study and get some exams behind me. I might have got to university. Then what? How different my life might have been. I needed someone to mentor me. The teachers at my school were alright, I suppose, but they never took me by the scruff f the neck and gave me a good shaking.

I was heavily into self-abuse. Of course, I later learnt that everybody was at it – girls as well as boys. I used to get home from school and when the house was empty I’d get my stash of porn mags out and bash my meat until I was raw. I never was caught, but oh my how the sorrow ate away at me.

One Saturday I travelled from my home into Brocklehurst on the train. There was no one at the barrier so I waltzed by without buying a ticket. I was never caught. Now, that I’ve remembered that perhaps I’ll write the train company a cheque and post it to them anonymously.

There is no doubt that I was in serious trouble. I was being eaten away by guilt. There was no escaping it. It seemed like every day there was another thing to add to the guilt trip.

What would have happened without Mr Thoroughgood? Might it have got so bad that I ended up jumping in front of that train to Brocklehurst?

Mr Thoroughgood was a teacher at my school. I never had him for any lessons and to me he was only a mysterious figure seen occasionally walking through the corridors. You would easily spot him. He always wore a dark suit with a pressed white shirt and sober tie. This was in the days when at my school most of the men teachers wore jeans and jumpers with holes in them.

I was eighteen and had left school a few months when I saw Mr Thoroughgood in a café by the bus station. It was a Saturday, but he still wore a formal suit. I couldn’t miss him among all the down-trodden riff-raff that were most of the customers. He noticed my eye linger on him and since the café was busy he gestured that I should join him at his table.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said with great manners and an accent that might have belonged to a minor member of the English Royal Family, “I know you were a pupil at the Academy, but I don’t think I know your name.”

I told him and before I had finished my coffee and sandwich I had told him my career history since leaving school. He was a great listener and so very easy to talk to. He made his excuses and left leaving me bereft. There’s no other way to describe it. In the few minutes we had talked I felt a bond form between us.

I could not get the schoolteacher out of my brain. What was it about him that had mesmerised me? I had to meet him again. I had no idea where he lived. I went back to the café the following Saturday and waited for hours. He did not come. I tried the week after. Still no success. I had to see him again. He could help me, I convinced myself. I had no clue how he would do this. But he was to be my saviour.

I had no choice, I went to the Academy late one afternoon and waited at the gate.  My guardian angel was looking out for me. After no more than ten minutes I spied him coming through the main entrance. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me. It looked like he was debating with himself whether he could make a run for it and escape me. I called across to him. His natural good manners made him stop and chat.

I burbled some nonsense about just happening to be passing. What a coincidence we should meet. He didn’t fall for it. He was a tall, middle-aged man and he towered above me, he seemed to be eyeing me up and down. He was making a judgement. What was he looking for? What did he want to know?

He read me like a book. “Let’s go back inside, find an empty classroom. We should have a talk.”

And, that was it. We talked – correction I talked – for about half an hour. I told him everything. The temper, the guilt. I told him I had been drinking too much alcohol.  I told him of the cruel things I had said to Mum and Nan. I drew the line at the masturbation.

When I had finished he spoke softly. The words he said would change my life forever. “It is not your fault,” he said. “Not your fault at all,” he repeated. It was manna from heaven. He was going to absolve me of my sins.

What he then said went something like this, “I blame society. It (we) have let you down. You, your fellows. All of you. There was a time, in my youth for example, when rules were clearly laid out. You knew how you were expected to behave and you knew how you were expected not to behave.

“If you broke the rules you were punished. Call it retribution, if you will. You were called to account. Call it restitution, if you will. You had behaved badly, you were punished. You had paid the price. You, we, all of us, were able to go on with our lives.

“Alas, for you the rules are not laid down. You do not know where the boundaries are. You are made to find them yourselves. And then what? Who is there to guide you? To punish you? To allow you to pay for your crimes – your sins, if you will?”

It was a long speech and it all made perfect sense to me. Mr Thoroughgood had hit the nail on the head. I had been left to find my own boundaries. When I found I had transgressed them there was nothing I could do except bottle up the guilt.

I needed more information on this. When he said “punished” what did he mean exactly? He let out a throaty chuckle. “Well, back in the day, for example, a boy of your undoubted talent who wilfully refused to study hard would find himself up before the headmaster,” he said. He let the import of that statement hang in the air for a while, before continuing. “A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. We called it a ‘short, sharp, shock’. Something to pull you together. To buck your ideas up. To get you back on the straight and narrow.”

Corporal punishment had been outlawed in schools about ten years previously. The most severe punishment we ever had was an hour’s detention after school. Hardly, a life-changing experience.

“It is such a pity,” Mr Thoroughgood spoke so softly I had to lean in towards him to hear, “that corporal punishment was not an option available in your case.” Again he let his statement float in the air. “You would have benefited greatly.”

The moment he said the words I knew he was right. I needed to pay restitution. I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to make amends. Merely saying “Sorry” to Mum and Nan would not be enough. I had to show remorse. I had to suffer.

Mr Thoroughgood was an astute man. “It may not be too late.” My confused expression spurred him on to elaborate. “There are ways,” he said, “Things that can be done. A boy of your age still has so much to learn.”

He was right and I told him so. “I can help,” he said. “I’ll be happy to help.”

Two nights later I was walking down a street of terraced houses, searching for number 17. It was a small, run-down place with paint peeling from window frames and door. Not the sort of place I imagined a schoolteacher like Mr Thoroughgood living. I checked my watch, it was the expected time. I did not hesitate. I pushed the bell and held my finger there.

Mr Thoroughgood still wore his suit. He nodded a wordless greeting and opened the door slightly. I slid my body through the narrow gap and he slammed the door shut. He led me across the hallway to a room at the back of the house. It was tiny and dominated by a two-seater couch and a small table. A single dining room chair was against the far wall.

Mr Thoroughgood wasted no time. “Did you do as I asked?” he said and on cue I pulled a sheet of paper from my jeans pocket. I offered it to him. He refused and instead of taking it he said, “Read it to me. All of it.”

It was an account of all my crimes and misdemeanours. All of the faults that had weighed so heavily on my mind. The reasons for my guilt. Mr Thoroughgood listened thoughtfully. “So many,” he said with a frown. “I don’t think we may expunge them all in one evening.” He was a schoolteacher and he realised at once I had no idea what “expunge” meant. “To remove them,” he said helpfully.

I nodded my agreement. Yes, the list of my sins was long, I could not expunge them all in one go.

“Let us deal with the insolence towards your parents and grandparent,” he said. It was a statement, not a question so I gave no reply. He cleared his throat with a raucous cough and left the room. When he returned a few moments later he had removed his jacket and tie. In his hand he clutched a miniature cricket bat.

That’s what it looked like to me. It was a block of wood about ten inches long and maybe three wide. It had a handle at one end. Again, Mr Thoroughgood immediately detected my ignorance. “It’s called a paddle. It is the preferred instrument of punishment used by our American cousins,” he told me. To demonstrate, he slapped the blade end into the palm of his left hand. “Very effective,” he said as if speaking to himself.

“Take off your coat and stand there,” he pointed to the straight-backed chair. I left the coat on the settee and without hesitation stood where ordered. Mr Thoroughgood sat himself down on the chair and once more slapped his palm with the wood. I could see close up that it was indeed a powerful punishment tool.

“Now Sturgess,” he said, “This is going to hurt. It is supposed to. That is the entire point of it. Now, since this is your first time I will be a little lenient.” He hesitated and it took a moment before I realised I was supposed to thank him. When at last I did so, he continued, “I want you to take your punishment, stoically – without fuss. Now, bend across my knee. There’s a good boy.”

I hadn’t expected this. After Mr Thoroughgood’s talk in the classroom I had expected to find myself over the back of a chair or possibly bending over and touching my toes. Six-of-the-best, Mr Thoroughgood had said. That meant a whippy school cane.

Mr Thoroughgood misinterpreted my hesitation. “I do hope you are not going to prove difficult. Bend over my knee.”

I hadn’t done anything remotely like this in my life – eighteen years old and never been spanked. Using only instinct to guide me I rested my hands on his right thigh and eased myself forward. He had parted his legs to make a platform for my stomach and chest. This meant I could spread my arms ahead of me and rest my palms on the carpet. My legs dangled behind me. At first I kept my head high and this way I was able to look behind me and see my backside was presented to Mr Thoroughgood at a perfect angle.

My jeans fitted snugly and in those days my stomach was still flat and my bottom round and firm. There was plenty of meat back there to absorb that paddle. I felt Mr Thoroughgood grip me around the waist with his left hand and slowly and gently he began tapping the paddle across my buttocks. He was taking an aim low down so he would hit the part of the cheek that connected with the chair when I sat.

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The patting was gentle, but what happened next was anything but. He lifted the paddle away, my whole body tensed, he held it high for a moment and then brought it crashing down. My eyes closed (they did it themselves, I had no control) and I sucked hard on my bottom lip. Before I had absorbed the pain of my first-ever swat Mr Thoroughgood pounded my backside with all the energy he could find. Rapidly. Bang-bang-bang. Like machinegun fire. My legs kicked, my hips writhed, my head shook from side to side.

I gasped. Desperately, I tried to suck in air. I could not breath. “Huff-huff-huff,” I wheezed. At last enough air got to my lungs to let me holler blue murder. It hurt! Oh my, how it hurt! Mr Thoroughgood kept hammering my backside with that cricket-bat-thing.

“I hope this is getting through to you,” he said, not for a moment letting up beating my backside black and blue. “You will learn not to be disrespectful to your parents and grandparent,” he was himself breathless. “This will teach you a valuable lesson.”

Have you ever stood too close to an open coal fire that your flesh felt singed? That’s how my bum felt. Mr Thoroughgood covered every square-inch of my bum. Then, for good measure, he turned to the backs of my thighs. When I later inspected the damage red blotches covered both buttocks, with the under-cheeks a deep mauve. The surface of the skin felt like leather.

I think he spanked me methodically for about ten minutes that night. My head throbbed so much I thought I was losing all sense of where I was. Could it really be Jimmy Sturgess, aged 18, across the knee of an elderly schoolmaster, getting his meaty arse spanked with a paddle? Well, the answer was: Yes!

At last he let me go. I stumbled to my feet and without hesitation rubbed the seat of my jeans vigorously. Mr Thoroughgood spoke gently, “That is for your misbehaviour to your parents and grandparents. We need say no more about it. You have paid the price.” I nodded heartily, “Yes sir, thank you sir,” I said and I meant it. But, Mr Thoroughgood had not finished, “Unless of course, you repeat the offence, in which case I shall deal with you very severely indeed.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” I repeated. My heartrate was off the scale and I had to bend forward with my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

Mr Thoroughgood rose from his chair. He put the paddle down and picked up my list of crimes. He placed his hand on my shoulder, “Good boy. You took your punishment well. There is hope for you yet.” He read the list silently. “You should go home now. Return on Saturday at 7 p.m. and we can deal with your laziness and lack of drive.”

I found my coat and was leaving the room when he called, “Of course, next time, we’ll have those jeans at your ankles,” he opened the front door for me and patted me gently on the bottom as I squeezed past him.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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The boy on the train

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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

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys: The hotel suite

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It was all very simple. There was never anything complicated about it. Everything was organised well. All we had to do was turn up at the right place at the appointed time and let him do it.

I did it four times, then I suppose he got bored with me and he got someone else. He probably had more than one of us on the go at any one time, anyway.

I have no regrets. I’m not telling you this story because I feel outraged or injured. I’m not. I wasn’t. Well, ha! ha! I supposed I was ‘injured’ a little. If you get my meaning. I mean it’s supposed to hurt, isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of it all?

I wasn’t the only one. By the end there was quite a gang of us from Brocklehurst Sixth Form College. If you don’t know, a sixth-form college is where kids go if they leave school at sixteen. You can do A-level exams or vocational courses. It’s a lot less formal than school. There are no uniforms and you call teachers lecturers. You are students, not pupils. In some colleges lecturers let you call them by their first names. Students’ ages range from sixteen up to nineteen.

The people involved in my story were all eighteen at least. You had to be. So it was legal. A man called Mr Hennessey arranged it all. It was mostly by word of mouth. It was only boys. No girls required. I think ‘Mr Hennessey’ was his real name. Nobody thought to question him. Why bother? He seemed pretty legit.

At first he got one or two boys working for him and then they kind of recommended others. It was done very quietly. When I was dropped, I suggested a couple of other lads. I got what they called a ‘finder’s fee’ for that.

We were well paid for our trouble. Very well paid. One evening’s work was worth about a month’s pay flipping burgers or filling supermarket shelves. When I say  ‘evening’ I mostly mean a couple of hours.

We all said we did it for the money. That’s all. We said it’s a ‘gay thing’ isn’t it? None of us were gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay etc etc. But I’m not gay and that’s just a fact. So, we said, we didn’t do it for pleasure. It was just the money. And, I think, the excitement. It felt dangerous. Something you wouldn’t want your mum and dad to find out about.

Mr Hennessey arranged everything. He was most particular about your age. Eighteen and above only. I had trouble convincing him. I look a little younger than I am. To be honest I was getting away with paying the under-sixteen fare on the buses. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t have a passport or driving licence. He said the birth certificate I showed him could have been for anybody. In the end I signed up for a provisional driving licence and away I went.

He was happy then. He said I would be very welcome. “Cheeky grin. Fabulous arse,” he said. Those were the requirements. If you didn’t have the grin, you might get away with just the fabulous arse. But I had both.

Mr Hennessey wanted me for a particular client. Mr Bradshaw. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t suppose he’s name’s really Mr Bradshaw. He looked like he was made of money. He used a suite at the Excelsior Hotel. Do you know it? It’s that new luxury hotel that stands where the library and civic centre used to be.

I had to sign some legal document. It said I was doing this of my own free will. Which I was. I was up for it alright. I did have my doubts at first, of course I did. My pal Ryan had been a few times and he was the one who passed my name on. He told me what happened. What you had to do. How you earned your money.

I’d never done anything like this before. Who had? I had concerns: would it hurt (much)? Did I have to take my clothes off? Did Mr Bradshaw do anything else, like … well you know? Ryan told me it all. It helped me. “Tell you what,” he said, “Why don’t we have a run-through, a kind of rehearsal?”

It seemed a good idea. So we met up at his house after college finished and before his folks got home from work. Have you ever been spanked? No, me neither. People don’t these days do they. I must say I felt a bit of a twit when Ryan took me into his living room. He sat himself down on a dining chair, spread his legs, patted his thigh and said, “Right lad, bend over.”

I gaped a bit. I know I coloured up (in a manner of speaking). I felt my face burn. I just stopped myself from laughing. “Come on,” Ryan said, kindly, “This is the whole point. It’s what you have to do. It’s what you get paid for.” He smiled broadly and added, “A lot of money.” I still looked dubious. “Come on,” Ryan encouraged, “Bend over my knee, like a good naughty boy.”

I’d never done this before and wasn’t sure how it was done. I looked down at Ryan’s knees. He was a slim guy and they were very bony. He parted his legs a little to make a platform for me to lean across. I went on autopilot and proceeded on instinct. I leaned down and rested the palms of my hand on his right leg, bent my legs and eased myself down. “Stretch your arms out and rest your hands on the carpet,” Ryan said helpfully.

I did this and my back arched. My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my shoes just about brushed the floor. My bum was raised at an angle over his thigh. “Purr-fect, just purr-fect,” he laughed. “What a lovely little botty-wotty you have.” He started to caress, first my right buttock and then my left. He was feeling me up.

“Oi!” I exclaimed. It was an instinctive cry, I wasn’t thinking.

Ryan was calm, “It’s what he’ll do,” he told me. “Give you a good rub.” He patted the fleshiest part of my bottom. “You’ve still got your jeans on. Just wait until you’re bare-arsed over his knee.” He could see my discomfort. He laughed, “Don’t worry, you soon get used to it.”

He slapped his hand into the seat of my jeans. He hit me hard, but with the denim and my underpants I hardly felt a thing. He spanked me like this for a minute or so and then stopped. I lay face-down, unsure what I was supposed to do. Was that it? Was there nothing more? Really? It was money for jam.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. “Stand up. Take down your jeans. Back over.” He pushed me in my midriff to encourage me to stand. Once upright my embarrassment returned. Jeans down! I hesitated a little too long. Ryan grimaced, “It’s the deal. Jeans. Pants. Bare-arsed. If you’re not up to it, you need to tell Mr Hennessey. You can’t chicken out on a client.”

My pride was hurt. I knew Ryan had been through this and one or two of my other mates at college. If they could do it, well so would I. Odd though it may seem to you, it was an honour thing. Like being in a gang, but without the drugs and knives. I steadied my nerves and reached for my belt buckle.

Ryan put me through my paces. He spanked me with his hand as hard as he could. It hurt, but not much. I was a fit eighteen-year-old with buns of steel. He was never going to do me much damage. The wooden clothes brush he then used on me was something else. It was heavy and had a large oval-shaped dead. Just a couple of whacks with that had me squirming across his knees. Ryan had to grip me hard around the waist to stop me falling to the floor. I squirmed and I hollered. “Good boy,” Ryan encouraged me, “That’s the way to do it. Make a show.” He thought I was play-acting. Believe me I was not.

When he let off and I was hopping from foot to foot and rubbing away at the sting in my backside I didn’t appreciate how grateful I would later be to Ryan.  He taught me the ropes. Not that ropes were involved, there was none of that monkey business, just honest to goodness spanking (oh, and the whippy rattan cane, of course).

Despite my training I was very nervous the first time I visited Mr Bradshaw. Mr Hennessey had set it up and he told me exactly what was expected. What the limits were. I went in with my eyes wide open. No complaints. No regrets.

I was given the number of Mr Bradshaw’s suite and told to go straight there without stopping off at reception. Easier said than done. An eighteen-year-old black kid sticks out like a sore thumb in a posh hotel. The security man pounced. If he had been wearing a side arm, he would have drawn it and plugged me. But this was Brocklehurst, not Chicago. He just verbally assaulted me. I mentioned Mr Bradshaw by name. The security guard’s nose twisted like he was getting the stink of shit from off my shoe. He waved me on. It hurt him to do it, but Mr Bradshaw was a rich guest and hotels in Brocklehurst could not afford to be too choosy.

I studied my reflection in the mirror in the lift. My skin shone. Maybe I’d overdone the body lotion. Smooth skin, I had been told. That’s what Mr Bradshaw most desired. And no tattoos. I was sweating like a pig even though it was a cool evening. The lift pinged and I had reached the correct floor. The door opened. I stood rooted. I could not move. My nerve had gone. The door closed. The lift stood motionless. My heart was trying to escape through my chest. My head spun. I closed my eyes tight. I had come this far. I couldn’t back down now. I couldn’t chicken out. Ryan and the guys would never let me hear the end of it. With a hand shaking like I had a palsy, I stabbed the door-open button and hauled myself out of the lift.

Mr Bradshaw’s suite was opposite. I took two deep breaths, strode purposefully towards the door and with more strength than I intended I hammered on it. Mr Bradshaw might have thought I was the police about to raid the joint. He took some time before he opened up. Maybe he was hiding the incriminating evidence from view. Eventually the door inched open.

Mr Bradshaw was a man in his fifties. He had lost much of his hair and his face betrayed the easy life he had led. I was later to discover that his hands were as soft as a baby’s. He looked at me, failing to hide his surprise. Had Mr Hennessey not told him I was black? He recovered himself quickly and flew open the door. As I entered, Mr Bradshaw stepped into the corridor, before following me into the room.

I’d never been inside a hotel suite before, so I had nothing to compare it to. It seemed opulent. There were at least two rooms and a bathroom. The main living area seemed as big as the council flat I lived in. Mr Bradshaw stood and watched as I lay down my backpack. His tongue darted out of closed lips, “Have you brought everything?” he almost drooled. I had been given a list of requirements. Mr Hennessey was a very thorough man.

Mr Bradshaw proved to be a man of few words. In all the times I visited he never engaged in small talk. It was right down to business. “You can change in there.” He nodded towards the bedroom. I picked up my bag and hurried away. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I caught myself staring back at me. I couldn’t stop myself laughing. What a lark! I shook my head as if to say, “Who would believe this if I ever told them?”

I opened the backpack. I tugged out a pair of pyjamas. They were brand new, I never wore jim-jams in real life? Did anybody over the age of eight? I lay them on the bed. Then I took out the school blazer. I shook it to get rid of creases and held it up to the light. This was the real deal. Green-and-gold, just like the ones they wore at St Francis Academy. I took a hanger from the wardrobe and hung it up. Then I retrieved the grey-short trousers from the bag and the knee-length socks. I was nearly ready. But something was missing. I cursed myself. I had left it behind. A very important item. Damn and Blast! Mr Bradshaw would be annoyed. In my anger I took hold of the backpack and tipped it up and shook. To my relief the green-and-gold striped school tie slithered onto the bed.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled the t-shirt over my head and slipped down my jeans. I admired my physique in the mirror. I was quite a sight – a dish, even if I say so myself. Even though I was wearing old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband and with a flick of the wrists sent them to my feet. I stepped out of them and hesitated. Should I keep the socks on? I actually laughed out loud at myself. I sat on the bed and tugged them off. I was now as naked as the day I was born.

I stood and admired my taut, hairless, smooth – and shining – body. My soft, uncut cock hung between my thighs.  “Come and get it girls,” I grinned. Time was passing and Mr Bradshaw was probably raring to go next door. I picked up the pyjama bottoms, stepped into them, pulled them up and tied the drawstring. I climbed into the jacket and rippled the muscles in my stomach before I buttoned up. I took another look in the mirror. Yes, I told myself, I’m good to go.

Mr Hennessey had given me instructions. There wasn’t much of what he called a “scenario”. I wasn’t expected to do much, except let Mr Bradshaw get on with it. I was expected to knock on the door and wait until told to enter. I took a final look in that mirror. God, I was tasty. I rubbed sweat from my palms, took a deep breath, counted slowly from one to five and knocked. My head buzzed, the room began to spin.

It seemed like an eternity. At last he called, “Come in!” I pushed open the door. Mr Bradshaw was sat on a straight-backed armless chair. He was formally dressed but had no jacket. He could have been your boss at work. “Come in Alexander,” he called. I had no idea who “Alexander” was, it’s certainly not my name. That wasn’t me. It made what happened next seem more surreal. “You know why you’re here,” he said. I didn’t, but it wasn’t my place to tell him.

I hesitated in the doorway. My head was light. I didn’t feel as if I was in the room. I was somewhere else. A long way off. Looking down on this scene. Like I was in a helicopter, or some such. Is this what they mean by an out-of-body experience?

Mr Bradshaw snapped his fingers. “Stand there, Alexander.” He pointed to a spot by the chair. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got my body to stand where commanded. My heart thumped so loud I was sure Mr Bradshaw could hear it. He slowly examined me with his eyes, travelling from the soles of my bare feet to the top of my shaved head. Then he lowered his eyes and lingered over the waistband of my pyjamas.

“Take down your pyjama bottoms, Alexander.”

The room was spinning. What was going on with me? I got hold of the drawstring and pulled. Rather than loosen my waistband I tightened it. My PJ’s were not coming down. Mr Bradshaw frowned; then he tut-tutted. He was loosing patience. I tugged and tugged. Did anyone have a knife? That would do it. Cut the drawstring. All kinds of absurd ideas swirled through my mind. Suddenly with a lurch, the drawstring gave. The front of my pyjama bottoms gaped open. They slid over my buttocks and held. Mr Bradshaw did that thing with his tongue poking through his mouth again as he ogled my long, thin soft cock.

I wriggled my hips and the pyjamas slithered down my thighs and bunched at my shins. Mr Bradshaw still gazed at my cock. I caught a faint aroma of some expensive aftershave or deodorant. He cleared his throat raucously, then said, “Bend over my knee, Alexander.”

Who the hell was Alexander! It worried me. Had he got the wrong boy? Was he expecting someone else? Had Mr Hennessey got his arrangements wrong? My head was in a whirl. I hesitated.

“Now, lad!” Mr Bradshaw barked. I came to. In one swift athletic move (I had practiced this with Ryan) I was across his knees. My head was low, my bottom high. My face was close to the carpet. Mr Bradshaw cupped the palm of his hand and with it gently traced the curve of my rock-hard left buttock. He was so gentle, it sent a shiver through my body. He did the same with the other cheek, making sure he traced the entire curves, across the peaks, up to the tops and into the undercurves. He lingered around my crack.

z used otk black sting

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