Strict landlords- the compilation

Many years ago when I was a student I lived in lodgings with a family who rented out three rooms in their large house. The man of the house was retired and although quite old (to my youth he may have seemed ancient) he was very distinguished. There was a small armchair in my room and many nights I would fantasise that he had me across its back while he lashed a whippy-school-type cane into my pyjama-clad bottom.

I had no idea then that decades later I would use this fantasy as the basis of a series of my stories. One of the first that I ever wrote and published was called Paul and His Landlord. In real life, one night I got back to the house so late that the front door was locked and I had to ring the bell hard and waken the household to get in. I must have inconvenienced many people that night, but nothing was ever said about it.

Not so in my story where I end up receiving a well-deserved caning.

I wrote two episodes of Paul and his Landlord and you can read them by clicking the links below. Remember, they are stories although inspired by real life.

I have written other stories about landlords that were similarly inspired by other real places that I lodged. Links to those are also below.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed fantasising and writing about them.

Charles

 Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

Picture credit: Kernled

 Where it all began. That late night home. —- It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg. Paul was mesmerised.

Paul and his landlord 2

Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.

His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.

“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

My First Time

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

My house. My rules

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.”

The broken window

Mr. Epson strode into the lounge brandishing his cane. Jerome stared, confused, unsure what he should do.

“Bend over. I’m going to beat you with this cane. With your trousers and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.” Mr. Epson thought this, but did not say it out loud.

Instead, he did say, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

Picture credit: Unknown

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

Kevin’s landlord

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

 

The stories Paul and His Landlord with others about troublesome tenants is also available as a free-to-download book (PDF file).  You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Other stories involving landlords you might like:

 

The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief

 

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 cunning plan

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z used cane (94a)

I made a fist with my right hand, rapped on the dark-oak door and strained to listen for the imperious command from within. It came immediately for I was expected. “Ent-ter!” the headmaster boomed. I surprised myself by my own calmness. I was entering unchartered territory. I took hold of the handle and pushed. The door was heavier than I anticipated and I had to put my shoulder against it. When it gave way unexpectedly I half tumbled into the study

The headmaster glared from behind his desk. Meekly, I pushed the door shut behind me.

“There!” he bellowed, snapping his fingers to indicate I should stand on the rug before him. I obliged without question. Humbly, I held my hands behind my back. My gaze did not leave the old man.

Dr Butterworth was dressed in a dark suit over which he wore a formal black academic gown. He was nearing sixty years of age. He was over six foot tall and as bald as a badger. When the weather was hot and he did not wear his mortar-board cap his head was often sunburned, which caused a lot of amusement among we boys. Round rimless glasses perched on his hooked nose and his moustache gave the impression that a small bat had landed on his top lip.

I had never been summoned to the headmaster’s study before so I was entering new terrain. This was more than fifty years ago and mine was an old-fashioned Grammar. They said they could trace its history back hundreds of years. I doubt much had changed in that time. The buildings had ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows. The schoolrooms were large and draughty. This was in the days before they built the science block and multi-purpose sports hall.

The study was imposing befitting the status of the headmaster. To the rear of the desk was a mantelpiece on which stood a number of cups and trophies. Framed photos of rugby teams lined the panelled walls. It was spring and the large open fire was unlit even though there was a definite chill in the study. In one corner was a hat-stand and dangling from it ready for action was a stout crook-handled cane. It is a cliché but my heart really did skip a beat when I noticed this weapon of punishment. I had never been caned, but there was no doubt that was about to change.

Dr Butterworth did not speak, He held a sheaf of papers in his hand and affected to study them intently. He tore his attention away from the papers and glared at me. A lump formed in my throat.

His eyes returned to the file. I waited submissively. I looked what I was, a typical boy from the professional classes. We were an elite school and it showed in our uniform which was a blue blazer with gold stripes, pale-grey long trousers, black lace-up shoes, a gleaming white shirt and a striped tie. On my head was the blue-and-gold hooped cap they forced us to wear.

The headmaster examined more papers and then, very abruptly, he slapped them down on his desk. The glistening spectacles were removed, meticulously folded and placed beside the papers. His claw-like hands met and clasped each other on the polished surface of the desk, and the clear icy blue eyes fixed their penetrating gaze on me. I swallowed hard. The headmaster breathed deeply and clearly irate he moaned, “Three detentions this term.”

There was a pregnant pause. I twisted my fingers behind my back. Was that a question? Indeed I knew it to be a fact. “Yes sir,” I mumbled.

“Pah! Twice found smoking cigar-rettes.” He rolled the word cigarettes around his mouth with relish. “Twice!” he exploded. “And once for disrespecting Mr Albertson the maths master. What was all that about boy!”

I explained I had been cheeky to him when he caught me reading the Football Monthly at the start of his class. The headmaster gurgled. I couldn’t be sure if he was upset that I had been reading, or that my choice of magazine was the Football Monthly. I didn’t feel able to question him on the point, so still I do not know.

The headmaster grimaced as if he had accidentally sucked on a lemon. “Three detentions,” he grunted. “You know the rules.” I did but he was about to confirm them to me anyway. “A caning. Six strokes.” He hauled himself from his padded chair. I watched as he smoothed down his academic gown before slowly traversing the study to the hat-stand. He reached up and grabbed the cane, like plucking an apple from a tree. He turned to me and flexed it between his hands. Even from a distance I knew this was an awesome rod. It was dark yellow and as thick as a pencil. I guessed it to be more than three feet long, not counting the handle.

Dr Butterworth swished the cane gently through the air as if getting its measure. I saw then how worn and warped it was. This cane had seen some action. I imagined generations of boys before me. All standing on the same spot. All waiting for the headmaster’s command.

His command to me came quickly enough. “Stand in the middle of the room. Face the window. Bend over and touch your toes,” he hissed. “And toes, means toes,” he snarled. I took a deep breath. The middle of the study was devoid of furniture so there was plenty of space for me to bend and for the headmaster to swish his whippy cane through the air. I noticed at that moment how high the ceiling was.

I walked to the spot and reached for my toes. My cap hurtled to the floor. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten to take it off my head. “Leave it be,” scolded the headmaster. He took up position to my left and began to saw his cane across the centre of my buttocks.

I was fifteen years old when that happened. I think I had realised I was entranced by corporal punishment a couple of years earlier. I would dream of visits to the headmaster’s study or of being taken across the knee by my Uncle Reginald and having my pyjama bottoms taken down. For some reason I cannot explain I never imagined being spanked by my father.

Corporal punishment was not used in my family, even when my brothers and I drove mother and father to distraction. It took me a while to work out that I could engineer a visit to the headmaster’s study at school. There were so many rules it was impossible for any boy to keep to them all. There was an elaborate series of available punishments ranging from the mildest awarding of demerits through writing lines and attending detentions. At the apex of all this was corporal punishment.

Some bright spark had ordained that there would be an automatic caning for three detentions. That made my task all the much easier. After that first time I treated myself to a visit to the headmaster’s study once every term. Dr Butterworth never suspected. Or at least I assume not. If the cane was supposed to be a deterrent against bad behaviour it obviously wasn’t working in my case. Who knows? Perhaps he knew more than he let on. I’m sure I wasn’t the only boy in the school who was a repeat visitor. Did they share my interests? I wish there had been some way available back then for me to find out.

Dr Butterworth retired by the same time I was in the sixth-form and his replacement a Dr Bludginton was an equally enthusiastic caner. He also believed in what today we call ‘equal opportunities,’ by that I mean he was not averse to caning senior boys as well as juniors.

My last visit to the headmaster’s study occurred when I was eighteen and on the cusp of taking my examinations and leaving. We had a small number of formal classes and a lot of so-called study periods. I took to escaping school during these times which was strictly against the rules. Well, boo-hoo. What are you going to do? Cane me? Please!

Bludginton took the bait. The fact that I had all but given up performing my duties as a prefect would have helped his decision to beat me. He was a much younger man than Butterworth, and it was common knowledge among the boys that his right arm was somewhat stronger than his predecessor’s. I looked forward to the new experience.

Where Dr Butterworth was a touch-your-toes man, Bludginton preferred to order a chap to drape himself across an armchair. There was a marvellous padded leather effort in the study. Its arms were high enough to accommodate the junior boys while we taller seniors were ordered across its back.

I wondered whether the new headmaster would allow that the sixth-form boys were seniors and accordingly treat them more harshly. I would gladly lower my trousers and offer him my bottom clad in tight, white cotton Y-front underpants. And, if I could plot a repeat performance before it was time to leave school I’d happily take Six across the bared buttocks.

I plotted a cunning plan. After Dr Bludginton had jawed me about my rule breaking, he announced the inevitable. I was to be caned. He moved over to the low armchair at the furthest end of the study, swung it round and pushed it into the centre of the room. He picked up his cane – the same one old Butterworth had used for many years – and whacked it across the back of the leather chair. “Bend over,” he intoned.

In one smooth movement, I walked to the chair, halted about two feet from its back and swiftly took hold of the buckle of my belt. It was loosened in moments. I popped the button at the waist of my pale-grey trousers and undid the fly. The weight of the belt and some coins in a pocket helped the trousers slip swiftly to my knees. I spread my legs and they continued to my shoes. I gripped the tail of my gleaming white shirt which hung over my privates and buttocks and lifted it clear of my Y-fronts, then I dived over the back of the chair, took hold of the cushion and spread my legs.

Dr Bludginton had a perfect target. I was growing out of the pants so they clung snugly to the contours of my buttocks. At home earlier I had set up mirrors so I could observe myself bend over the armchair in the living room. If I say so myself I looked terrific.

In the study I looked down at the cushion waiting patiently for the first swipe across the underpants. Nothing happened. I heard floorboards creak, Dr Bludginton was pacing the study. Perhaps he was admiring my young, lithe body submissive in underpants. I supposed I would do something similar in his position.

He was breathing heavily, like an asthmatic without his inhaler. “No, no, no,” he gasped. “This will not do. No. Stand up boy.”

I stood my ground. I was not ready to give up quite so readily.

“Stand up, stand up,” he spluttered.

Still I did not move. If this was a contest of wills I intended to be the victor.

“Stand up!” he almost shrieked. Unnerved, I pulled myself to my feet and stood, trousers still at my feet. Dr Bludginton’s face was as scarlet as I’d hoped my bottom would be.

“No, no, no,” he was dumbfounded.

A sudden thought struck me, “But sir,” I purred, “This is how Dr Butterworth did it,” I grimaced, “Trousers down, sir.”

Dr Bludginton’s eyes popped. He suspected it was a lie. He blustered, “No. No, I don’t believe it.” His head shook violently, “That’s not true. It’s simply not true,” he protested. “Get dressed, get dressed,” he was becoming hysterical. “Now. Get those trousers up boy.”

Reluctantly, I reached down and pulled the trousers up. At a snail’s pace I tucked in my shirt and rebuttoned the fly. I still hoped he might relent and whip my backside on the pants.

Dr Bludginton watched me with fear in his eyes. I didn’t think it then, but looking back I wonder if he thought I was setting him up for blackmail. Caning a senior boy on his underpants was irregular. A schoolmaster might end up in the law court for less.

The new headmaster relaxed visibly when I was again fully dressed. I waited head bowed a little embarrassed that my trick had been uncovered. I waited for him to order me back over the chair. Maybe, I thought he would award me extra strokes for my hoax.

Dr Bludginton smiled, a broad, open grin. At that moment I knew I had been rumbled. He chortled quietly and walked across the study to return the cane to the hat-stand. When that task was completed, he turned to me. “No caning,” he said. “Not now. Not ever. Not for you.” I felt my face hot with embarrassment. My mouth opened, but I bit back the plea I wanted to make.

“Instead,” the new headmaster had not finished, “You will write me a four-page essay entitled, ‘The pitfalls of corporal punishment.’ By next Monday. You are dismissed.”

“No,” I wanted to beg. “Please don’t do this to me.”

“Go lad, now.” Dr Bludginton held open the study door. Crestfallen, my legs like lead, I shuffled from the room, never to return.

In videos these days I have seen many scenes where headmasters cane their naughty boys with trousers and pants down. Alas, that never happened in real life – or at least not at my school (worse luck!).

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

Rock ’n’ roll truants

You, called home

Two cousins in need of spanking

 

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

Still spanked in short trousers

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z used otk school white pants taking down chair sting

Fred and Jim were in the Three Fishers bored out of their skulls and not talking about much when Jim suddenly piped up: You still keeping your lad in short trousers?

Which one? Fred inquired.

The eldest, Gavin.

Yeah, he’s left school now, nearly nineteen.

So it works then?

Oh yeah. He got through his exams and everything.

I thought you might have given up now.

No. It keeps him out trouble. Off the streets. He’s not going to want to go out at night dressed up like a little schoolboy. His mates would crucify him.

No, I see that.

You should try it with your Kevin. I hear he’s been seen drinking down here.

I know. But …

It’s easy. You can buy the short trousers on the internet. Proper ones, just like the boys wear at school. Even in Kevin’s size. I think it’s because even small kids today are really fat.

Well, I suppose I need to do something about Kevin.

A good hiding wouldn’t come amiss.

But he’s eighteen.

So what. I still spank Gavin.

Get away.

Yeah, why not? When he deserves it. Which is quite often, actually. D’you know what, I saw they were selling those old fashioned whippy canes on eBay like they used to use in schools back in the day. I’m thinking of getting one for Gavin if he doesn’t buck up his ideas.

I wouldn’t have the nerve.

Well … Start as you mean to go on. I still use the rubber-soled plimsoll. The one Gavin had for PE at school. A big heavy one. Works a treat. Packs a right punch.

What he lets you spank him?

Lets me? He doesn’t have much choice. My house. My rules. He knows that. It always has been, always will. He’s working now. He can leave home if he wants to. But even then, when he comes back to my place he has to behave himself.

Sounds fair enough. So you say you spanked Gavin. What, recently?

Last week. Sunday,

What’d he do?

Usual stuff. That was why I had to take him across my knee. He needed a reminder.

Reminder?

Yeah, like a wake-up call. He needs to come home for his meals. Liz cooks and he doesn’t turn up and it all gets wasted. Then, he never lifts a finger around the house. I told him it was his job to take the Hoover around the carpets every Saturday. Did he do it? Did he hell. Then last Saturday night – well Sunday morning actually – he rolls home drunk as a skunk. Couldn’t get his key in the door. Rings the bell wakes the whole house up. Well, after that what did he expect?

So what? You spanked him.

Too right. I waited until he had sobered up and I sent him off for a shit, shower and shave and I said, Get into those short trousers and then come down to the living room.

And he did?

Course, he did. No question about it.

So he comes down and he’s in the full togs. Neat grey short trousers, grey shirt, tie. The lot. He’s quite a big lad as you know, but when he’s dressed up like this it’s like he’s ten years old. That’s why I make him dress like that – he’ll never dare go out like it. What would people say?

And then what happened?

Well, I told him why he’d been a bad boy. Never doing the Hoovering, not even keeping his own room tidy. The drinking. He went red as a beetroot when I told him Liz had found a stinky wodge of tissue under the bed where he’d been wanking.

Oh my God! If it’d been me I’d have died of shame.

Ha! Ha! Well after I told him that he was putty in my hand. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He would’ve done anything I asked.

So what did you ask?

Same as always. Not asked, exactly. Told. I said, right let’s have them shorts down.

Shorts down!

Oh yeah. Those short trousers are pretty thick. They’re made to last ain’t they. Extra thick on the seat. Great for sitting down. Not so good for spanking. So down they have to come.

And he did?

Did what?

He took them down. Did as he was told?

He had to. He knew full well if he didn’t take them down, then I’d do it for him. And, he bloody well knew if I took his shorts down I’d take his pants down as well and he could get it on the bare bum.

Blimey!

Exactly. He didn’t want that did he?

No, he did not.

So, he does as he is told. Undoes the thing at the waist. Pulls the zipper and the trousers fall down.

I can’t believe this.

What’s not to believe? He’s done wrong. He has to be punished.  He knows that. If he doesn’t want to be spanked he just has to do as he’s told. So, now he’s standing their wearing old-fashioned Y-fronts.

What the white ones?

The very same. Like I say, just like a little boy. So I sit on a chair and I tell him bend over my knee.

And he does.

Without a murmur. Let’s be honest, he’s been here before. It’s not the first time. He knows what to expect. And over he goes. And I get to work with the slipper.

What is it six of the best?

Six! Nah, six wallops won’t make much impression. Six is only getting started. You wouldn’t cover all his backside with six. Not both cheeks. Takes a lot more than six.

Oh. How many then?

I’m not sure to be honest. I’ve never counted.  I start right in the middle of each bum cheek and then kind of work my way out. The middle, the top, the bottom – as it were – you know under the cheek. That sit-spot. That’s where my dad used to spank me. Hurt like mad every time I sat down for the rest of the day, know what I mean?

No, not really.

What you never spanked? Never spanked Kevin, neither?

No.

Explains a lot. Why your Kevin’s a bit of a tearaway.

Well …

Give him a good hiding. Like I do with Gavin. I roasted his backside with that slipper. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hurt like the fires of hell. Even with a big lad like Gavin. His big old bum was bucking up and down and his legs were kicking. Ha! I had to hold him really tight round the waist to stop him running away. He kicked so hard his short trousers went flying across the carpet. I hammered that slipper all over his BTM.

BTM?

BTM. His bottom. Bum. Posterior. Call it what you like.

His arse.

Well there’s no need to be crude.

Sorry.

And he’s still struggling. Kicking. Hollering the lot. He brings his hand back to try to stop me. That’s pretty hard to do because I’ve got him right over my knee. You know his face is nearly in the carpet and his bottom is pointing at the ceiling so it’s not easy to get your hand back there. But he keeps doing it and I warn him not to, but it makes no difference.

No it won’t. I suppose it’s hurting him a lot.

Yeah, of course. That’s the whole point ain’t it. A spanking is supposed to hurt, otherwise why bother.

Yeah, sorry.

So I warned him but he just kept on trying.

What did you do?

I’m coming to that. I took hold of the waist of his pants. Ha! You should have seen the way his body froze. He knew right away what I was going to go. No, no, please, not that, he yells.

Too late lad.

You took the words right out of my mouth. So I pulls them over his big butt-tocks and drag them down to his knees. Of course, he struggles all the more now.

He would. Who wouldn’t?

And that just encourages me. I grip that plimsol and I put all my effort into it. Whack!-Whack!-Whack! Fantastic! I could see the imprint of the sole glowing bright pink on his bare backside. What a sight! I toasted those butt-tocks good and proper. The spanking of a lifetime it was.

Sounds like it.

I’d still be there now, hammering away, but Liz heard all Gavin’s hollerings and she came in and made me stop. Still I made my point. He won’t want to go over my knee again anytime soon.

I don’t blame him.

Yeah, spanking works. Mark my words.

Okay, I believe you.

Oh look. There’s your Kevin just came in the bar. I thought he was supposed to be revising for his exams.

He is. Bloody hell.

Want a borrow of my plimsoll?

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Father deals with idle student

The fire-raiser

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

 

 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

Rhys, 21, and the bath brush

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Rhys Foster had just finished his cup of tea and was about to get up from the table when his father walked into the breakfast room and calmly said, “Rhys, go upstairs, fetch the bath brush and then wait for me in the sitting room.”

The short, stocky fair-haired twenty-one-year-old gasped, put his hand to his mouth, and glowed scarlet. “But, F-f-f-father why? What have I done?” Seeing his father’s stern eyes, the young man turned even redder.

“Rhys,” he said patiently, “Mrs Thompson from across the road has just telephoned to tell me of your exploits yesterday evening. Do you need me to say more?”

Rhys burned scarlet. What had she seen him do? He had been out with friends, just idling around the bus stop mainly. There had been a bit of skylarking, nothing more. Suddenly he remembered Ginger had brought that cheap cider. Had she seen him drinking that?

Rhys shook his head sorrowfully, he didn’t want to know the finer details. He was in trouble, that was all he needed to know. And, it was abundantly clear what his father intended to do. He trembled, his lips quivered and his sky-blue eyes began to moisten.

“Very well. I see that you realize your faults and understand why you have to be punished. Now go and do as you are told,” his father chided.

“Y-yes, F-father,” Rhys whispered and he hurried from the room.

Sorrowfully, he trudged up the stairs. Spanked. At his age. It was absurd. But, Rhys knew very well, this was his father’s way. It always had been and always would be. At least until the day Rhys packed his bags and left to make his own way in the world. Not that there was much chance of that, for he was an extremely lazy young man. His mother fetched and carried for him, cooked his meals, washed his laundry. He was never going to give that up. Not until he found a wife to do all those things.

He was in no hurry but eventually he reached his parents’ bathroom. He knew where to find the bath brush. This was not the first time he had been sent to fetch it. It was not one of the light plastic ones they sell today. This was at least twenty-five centimetres long and the head was a good fifteen. His heart skipped when he tested its weight in his hands. A recent memory prompted him to cautiously caress his own backside.

By the time Rhys reached the sitting room his father had prepared himself on the couch. His intentions were clear. Rhys’s hands were at his sides, his fists clenched in apprehension. Awkwardly he shifted from foot to foot.

Father looked up at the unhappy young man. “I’m sorry I have to do this but you just won’t learn after all the talks we’ve had about the company you keep and hanging around street corners. What do you think the neighbours say?

“I-I’m sorry, F-father,” Rhys stammered, his eyes cast down because he dared not look at him.

“Your mother tells me that she might have a job for you next week. Is that so?”

“Y-yes, F-father. She says a Mr. Haroldson would like to interview me next week.”

“Good! I think a job is just what you need, young man. But for the moment, you’re still behaving like a naughty, thoughtless child, and I still have to punish you. It will help you remember that you are supposed to be a grownup. Do you admit that you were drinking cider at the bus stop?”

“Y-Yes, F-father. But …..” he couldn’t find the words. There was no “but” he had done all the things his father said. He was guilty as charged.

His father commanded, “Hand me the bath brush, young man!” Meekly, Rhys extended his hand and his father took it.

“You may prepare!” his father ordered. Rhys was no stranger to his father’s spankings. He knew the rituals. He sucked on his bottom lip as if this would aid his concentration and he slowly unbuckled his belt. Gradually, he undid his trousers and tugged the zip fly. The front of the trousers flapped open. Rhys knew his face was burning brightly but there was nothing he could do. Events must take their course. He pushed the trousers down over his thighs and they tricked down his legs and bunched at his shins.

His father noticed that the brief white underpants pants hardly covered his son’s private parts. He reached forward. Rhys’s body stiffened.

“I hope this lesson will be effective,” his father said dryly as he reached for Rhys’s pants, inserted his fingers under the waistband and slowly began to work them down. Rhys’s penis flopped. His father left the pants at his son’s knees. Then suddenly with both his hands he grasped Rhys’s upper waist.

“Stretch out on the couch over my lap, now,” he admonished.

He had put the bath brush over to his right side and behind him and he saw that Rhys’s tear-blurred big blue eyes were anxiously fixed on the menacing weapon of chastisement.

Rhys at once pillowed his head in his arms and closed his eyes. He kept his long legs clenched tightly together. Calmly his father shoved Rhys’s shirt almost up to his armpits, then twisted the tight pants so that they would act as an effective restraint when Rhys began to kick, as he certainly was going to do very shortly, once the brush began its work.

Then, his left arm tucking Rhys’s waist, he reached for the brush with his right hand and began the spanking. As he usually did, he started with about twenty light taps, alternating on the cheeks from the tops of Rhys’s hips to the base of his upturned, creamy-white bottom.

Apart from a few groans and gasps, Rhys took this part of the spanking very well, not lifting his head. Only an occasional squirming and shivering reaction, and sometimes a stifled “Ohh!” escaped as the flat back of the brush made impact with the bouncy, resilient bare flesh.

Pausing now, his father readjusted his grip around the slim waist, and then resumed the spanking. Now the crisp “Smack!” and “Thwack!” became more audible, and so were Rhys’s gasps and sobs. His body began to jerk and stiffen each time the bath brush landed, decorating his squirming naked bottom with a brighter pink than before.

Now his father paused again, contemplating his handiwork. Once again he shifted his arm which curved round the culprit’s waist, and Rhys groaned, now looking back, his elbows pressed hard against the couch and his fists clenched and his wide eyes blurred.

“Oh please, F-father, I’ll be good, I promise I will, please don’t spank so hard!” he begged.

“You big crybaby, you know perfectly well I haven’t given you half your spanking yet. Now stay still and keep in position, young man.”

Then the bath brush came down with a hard “Thwack!” and at once both Rhys’s legs kicked up, though they were hampered by his twisted, clinging pants. His feet waved in the air, and now he glanced back almost every time as the brush fell, producing a wail of “Ahrrr, I’ll be good, oh don’t spank so hard, I’ll be good, please, Father”. But his father continued relentlessly.

After about twenty of these vigorously hard spanks, Rhys was twisting and struggling frantically. His bottom was a flaming red from the top of the mounds, over the peaks and into the undercurves. His father hadn’t touched the thighs yet.

Now pausing, pressing the flat back of the brush over the crease of those plump cheeks, his father demanded, “Are you going to be hanging round street corners drinking cider again?”

“Oh no Father. No. I won’t really. Truthfully.”

His father stopped spanking. “Very well, young man. That is the first part of your punishment. But just stay where you are, because I have something else to discuss with you. Now then, I want the truth!” His father raised the bath brush and brought it down with a quick little smack on the upper right thigh.

“Oww! That hurts! Oh please, no more, please no more!” Rhys wailed.

His father could see that the young man’s hands were just dying to reach back and protect his pink cheeks, but he also knew that Rhys, understood perfectly well that if he tried such a trick he would get a good deal of extras.

z used otk brush pants down couch bbfc (1)

“Now pay attention and tell me the truth. Yesterday morning, when your mother made up your bed, she noticed that there was a wet spot. Also, you had a wad of tissues stuffed under your pillow. Now I want to know what’s going on?”

“Ohhh!” Rhys’s face was a furious scarlet. Then he buried his face in his hands and began to sob with humiliation.

“I want an explanation, young man, and quickly! Did you hear me? Did you —  did you?” Each time, the bath brush punctuated the question with a stinging whack which made poor Rhys’s bottom bound and twist and squirm frantically. Now he couldn’t control himself and he plunged his hands back to cover up his burning bottom.

“The very idea!” his father scolded. “Take those hands away at once. Now I want the truth, or I’m going to start all over again, and I’ll use the bristled side if I have to!”

“Oh please, F-father, I’m so ashamed, please-please try to understand — I didn’t — oh Father, please!” Rhys blubbered.

Smack — Thwack — Crack — the bath brush fell three stinging, noisy times, right over the crease and pinching the inner edges of the buttocks.

Rhys screamed and kicked his legs, once again he tried to put his hands back, but this time, his father caught the struggling wrists in his left hand and pinned them at the small of the young man’s back.

“That’s no answer! Are you going to tell or do I have to use the bristles on your bottom, young man?” This time, reversing the brush, he gave a light little tap with the bristled side of the bath brush right down the sensitive buttock crease, and Rhys gave up.

“Owwahrrr!! Oh don’t, not there, not with the bristles, Father! Oh please, please, I’m so ashamed, I want to die! Please don’t sp-sp-spank anymore, I’ll tell, F-father!” Rhys wailed.

During this part of the spanking, he had wriggled and twisted herself so frantically over his father’s lap that his father had to pull his body back, abandoning Rhys’s wrists and, his left arm around the bare waist, forcing Rhys’s trembling body back closer to his. “Tell, then!” he warned as he added another light smack with the bristled side in the very same place.

“Owweeeyeoww!! I’ll tell, I’m going to tell, only please let up, Father, oh you’re killing me!” Rhys wailed.

“I-I was thinking about D-Doreen, and I guess I couldn’t help it, honest I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad you told me the truth. Then you did play with yourself, Rhys?”

In a dying voice, his shoulders heaving with sobs, the culprit faintly confessed his sin of masturbation.

“All right. I’m not going to blame you too much for that, young man, because I understand what your needs probably are. Only don’t you do it again from now on, do you understand? The next time I find any Kleenex or wet spots on the couch, you’ll get your entire spanking with the bristled side of this brush, is that clearly understood?”

“Y-yes, Father,” Rhys sobbed.

“You may get off now, and I’ll pull your pants up first. And don’t forget to thank me for the spanking!” his father said sarcastically as he began to tug up the twisted little white pants till they covered the flaming backside.

Slowly Rhys slipped down to the floor, and then at once plunged his hands back to his burning behind and rubbed, the tears streaming down his face.

“Th-thank- thank you for sp-sp-spanking m-me, F-father,” he blubbered, head hanging, his shoulders heaving with his sobs.

“Not at all,” his father replied, “After all, I am only a loving father who is doing his duty.”

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Other stories you might like:

Back on the straight-and-narrow

Hotel duty manager

Bring back the cane

 

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

 

Hey neighbour! – the compilation

One of my favourite story themes is the ‘neighbour’ – the fellow next door or along the street who is only too willing to lend a hand (or some suitable implement) to put across the backside of some wayward young man.

Some years back I wrote  three-part series called The Helpful Neighbour. If you missed it first time around or want to read it again follow the links.

Further down this page there are some other stories involving neighbours. I hope you find something you like.

Charles

The helpful neighbour, part 1

z used cane holding (5)

My neighbour Peggy was distraught. Tears flowed steadily down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tried to raise the teacup to her lips. She was at her wits end. What could she do?

I knew some of the story already. Along with most people in the street probably I had been kept up until the small hours by the noise.

Poor Peggy. Between great gulps, she filled me in on the details.

It was Oliver, her eighteen-year-old son. He was off the rails. He had stopped attending college ages ago and was sure to fail all his exams. Then what? A life of unemployment – or at best dead-end jobs.

The helpful neighbour, part 2

A lot had happened since I first thrashed Oliver with my cane after I had caught him trying to steal from my garden shed. It turned out that he was a serial thief. He was completely off the rails. He had stopped attending sixth-form college; he stayed out half the night and his mother could no longer control him.

The thrashing had touched a nerve in Oliver. So to speak. Of course, the pain I inflicted on him ignited many nerves in his backside. But, I what I mean is that somewhere deep inside of himself Oliver realised that he deserved the twelve stokes I had administered across his underpants. His life was out of control. Maybe, just maybe, I could get it back on track.

The helpful Neighbour, part 3

Oliver had been at university for nearly eight months and was living in a house he shared with other students. His mother came to me distraught. Late the previous night she had received an unwanted telephone call. It was the police. Oliver had been arrested with some fellow student. He was being charged with being a passenger in a stolen car. What should she do? She asked the question as if she didn’t already know the answer. But, I obliged none the less. She should call the boy home and if she wished I would fetch my rattan cane from upstairs and put it across his backside with some vigour.

OTHER STORIES

 

The kid across the hall

Arnold opened the front door to his apartment and gestured his friend Tony to come in. “What’s all that bloody noise?” Tony winced as he closed the door behind him. “You can even hear it in here.”
“It’s the kid across the hall. He’s always playing that music too loud.”
Well, what can you do? Tony certainly knew ….

 

Brian’s redemption

z used jeans chair (1)

Picture credit: Unlnown

When Mr. Bell told Brian to bend over his chair for a caning he never dreamt in a million years he would do it. But, he learnt that boys know when they have overstepped the mark and need to be punished. Brian was the boy from across the street. “Boy?” he must be nineteen or twenty years old. He’d been working for at least a couple of years to Mr. Bell’s certain knowledge.

Like so many youngsters his age Brian thought the world revolved around him. He was rude, inconsiderate and full of himself. He took no notice of his parents and came and went as he pleased. He also drank too much and was high on drugs half the time. It was the drink that pushed Mr. Bell over the edge.

 

The boy in the street

z used solo boy in the street

Picture credit: Unknown

I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.

It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees …

The boy in the tree

Ricky was the perfect teen. He had just graduated high school top of his class and was waiting to go on to an Ivy League university. He was an avid church attender and believed everything the elders said. But, Ricky had a problem he couldn’t understand and there was nobody he could talk to about it. It was Mr Peters, a man who had moved into the street a couple of months previously…

 

Other neighbour stories you might like:

 

The drunken neighbour

Back on the straight-and-narrow

Noisy neighbour

That Connor Kid

The sling-shot

The Dope Smoker

The Man Across the Hall

The Boy From Across The Street

Letter of Regret

The imp next door

The new neighbour

The paper boy and Candy

Changed times 2: Neighbourhood watch

The students next door

The military kid

 

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

Road Trip

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z used twosome hats car by Mayser Hute

Looking back on it Bradley realised that he ought to have smelt a rat right from the start. If he hadn’t been as vain as he was, he should have wondered what ever possessed his employer Mr MacDonald to take him on that business trip across Europe, when he had so many older and abler men at his disposal. Bradley’s driving was all right, but certainly no better than Smith’s or Davidson’s.

Conceit had something to do with it. Bradley thought he was the blue eyed boy. He might be only nineteen, but so many older, established men at the company had perished in the war. Others had returned with their brains so addled they could never work again.

Bradley and Mr MacDonald travelled to France, but their destination was Germany. The war had ended two years previously and millions of American dollars were flooding in now that continent of Europe had been carved up among the super-powers.  The future was West Germany and Bradley  had his sights on being the company’s top dog. The railways were still shot to pieces and the only way was to travel by car; just the two of them.

Bradley and his boss were St. Tom’s men. That was they had both attended St. Tom’s, an elite public boarding school. But not at the same time. Mr MacDonald was just about old enough to be Bradley’s father. That’s how he got the job in the first place – the old school tie. They all look after one another. The truth was that Bradley hadn’t done so well at school. He was inattentive and selfish. Despite the best efforts of the schoolmasters and their whippy canes, he never quite accepted that rules were to be obeyed by all, including Bradley. He was lucky to get his job he was helped by his father, also an old St Tom’s man.

Bradley and his boss had little in common so conversation during the hours of driving was limited. They were able to share experiences of school. As is the way when old school fellows such as these meet they reminisced about masters they knew. And, the liberal corporal punishment regime they both endured.

The journey was slow as the roads were bad. They were closing in on Munich and the rain fell in torrents. Bradley never saw the five-inch nail. He first knew he had a flat tyre when he lost control of the steering. Cursing his luck and the rain with considerable effort he changed the wheel. His boss stayed in the car which made the task that more difficult. Bradley did not complain. It wasn’t his place to do so and he did not want to get on the bad side of Mr MacDonald. If he played his cards right and impressed the old man he, Bradley, could advance quickly in the company. If he upset him, that could put an end to his future prospects.

At last the car was back on the road. The rain eased but didn’t stop. It was dark and there were no road lamps. This was Germany; electricity was unknown outside of the cities. The darkness was Bradley’s excuse for not seeing the broken glass. Another flat tyre, and the spare already used. Cursing his luck one more time, Bradley kicked the tyre aggressively.

“You need a garage,” Mr MacDonald said. That was true, but Bradley still thought it an unhelpful statement. Where in the middle of this Godforsaken land could he find a garage? “We passed a hotel, or guesthouse, or something back there,” Mr MacDonald waved his hand as if that would clarify his statement. “Go find it and see if they can send someone to help us. We can stay the night there.”

Bradley trudged off into the dark, cussing his boss and the whole world at large. His clothes were soaked and his shoes leaked by the time he found the hotel. It was run-down and creepy. A withered old woman peered at him as he trekked up a pathway, overgrown with weeds. She received him tersely. Bradley did not understand a word she said. She spoke in German and sounded hostile; but then all German sounded hostile to an Englishman. Bradley spoke in English, clearly enunciating each word as if speaking to an idiot. Then he tried speaking loudly. This did not improve matters. He could not get through to her.

Then, a young man, no older than Bradley himself, appeared from down the hall. “Can I be of assistance, Sir,” he spoke good English, but with a heavy German accent. Bradley explain his position and within minutes the boy, who Bradley now knew was called Gerhard, was hitching up a battered old pony to an equally dilapidated cart. “Take me to your master,” he called cheerfully to Bradley and together they set off to rescue Mr MacDonald.

They were the only guests at the hotel but their hosts were helpful and gracious. It took much effort but they ran hot baths and prepared the best meal that they could under their straightened circumstances. Bradley fought to hide his annoyance that his boss was taking a great deal of interest in Gerhard. Gerhard was blond (well, he was a German after all) and fit with muscles honed through manual work. He had a wide open face and surprisingly white teeth considering the state of the country. He liked to laugh and to Bradley’s further annoyance Mr MacDonald joined in. Bradley’s jealousy bit deep. How, he wondered, had Gerhard survived the war? Hadn’t all young men sacrificed themselves for Hitler?

Bradley affected not to notice when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard left the room together whispering as if in some conspiracy. His only consolation was they would be back on the road tomorrow never to return.

He waited for an hour, uncertain what he was supposed to do. Was he to wait for his employer to return? Would Mr MacDonald need his services again that evening? Was it safe for him to go off to his bed? He paced the residents’ lounge and had at last determined he would turn in for the night when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard made an unannounced entrance. The blond German boy grinned from ear-to-ear, adding to Gerhard’s suspicious jealousy. It was compounded when the German smiled even more broadly at Bradley as if he was holding a secret. The German turned to Mr MacDonald and in accented English wished him a very pleasant rest of the evening.

The young German breezed from the room. Bradley stood, somewhat irritated and waited for his employer’s instructions. Mr MacDonald spoke seriously, “I have been very disappointed with you today,” he said gravely. “Your incompetence with the motor car has caused me serious delays. My business may not recover as a result.”

Bradley’s jaw dropped. How unfair! It wasn’t his fault the roads in Germany were so bad. How could he be blamed for the tyre bursts? Had he put the nails and the broken glass on the road? No, of course not! He felt all of this but knew better than to say a word of protest. Mr MacDonald was his employer and held the key to Bradley’s future in his hands. Bradley had no choice but to accept his employer’s rebukes. “Sorry, sir,”’ he said meekly, “I’ll try to do better tomorrow.”

Mr MacDonald’s bright blue eyes flashed. “I sincerely expect so, young man,” he said gruffly. “You cannot continue in this way.” His eyes narrowed and he frowned, “You need to be brought to book.”

Bradley had no idea what his employer could mean. Again, he knew better than to answer back. Mr MacDonald continued uninterrupted, “Follow me, upstairs,” he said mysteriously, “we need to deal with this.”

Not allowing a reply, Mr MacDonald immediately led the way from the room. In deep confusion, Bradley trotted behind him. Outside in the dank passageway Mr MacDonald stopped by a large mahogany table. Bradley peered into the gloom. He blinked furiously. He couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Silently and without explanation Mr MacDonald took hold of a bunch of freshly cut switches. He lifted and carried them as if they were the most delicate flowers on earth. Bradley gasped in realisation: Mr MacDonald and Gerhard must have been out cutting switches from the nearby bushes. What did Mr MacDonald intend to do?

“Follow me this way,” the older man headed to the large, dilapidated staircase that would lead to his bedroom. Bradley, his head spinning, trudged behind.

The room was small and sparsely furnished. An ancient bed with a wrought-iron bedstead took up most of the space. Mr MacDonald carefully lay the switches on the mattress. Bradley stared at them as slowly his employer’s intention dawned on him. Mr MacDonald lost no time getting to the point. “A thrashing should bring you to your senses.” He let the words drift in the air. Bradley blinked back his disbelief. A beating? He might expect something like this at St Tom’s, but he wasn’t at school anymore. He was a grown man – well eighteen years old – and worked for his living.

Instinctively he knew he must not argue. Mr MacDonald was his employer, he held all the power. Bradley was but his servant. Mr MacDonald could be Bradley’s meal ticket, the teenager needed to keep the old man sweet. “Yes sir, sorry sir,” he whispered.

Mr MacDonald drew himself to his full height and pushed back his shoulders. His eyes were rheumy with reminiscence. “Back at the grand old school,” he spoke slowly and softly, “you know what would have happened at a time such as this?”

Bradley remained silent while in his mind he recalled his much loved housemaster Mr Coddington. Oh, the times they had spent in his master’s study. Mr MacDonald cut short his nostalgia, “Get those trousers off. Underwear too.” He picked up a heavy pillow and carefully placed it on the edge of the bedstead. It would provide much needed additional height for what he had in mind.

Bradley lightened. It was to be just like with Mr Coddington. He stooped down and tackled the laces on his shoes. He worked with mild enthusiasm on the braces that held his trousers aloft. It was a cumbersome business stripping off his clothes. Mr MacDonald watched patiently, toying with a switch in his hands. At last the teenager was prepared.

“Bend over the pillow, across the bed,” Mr MacDonald ordered curtly. Without a murmur of protest, Bradley stepped forward, judged his distance from the bedstead and slowly fell forward. His stomach sank into the pillow and he folded his arms and rested his face in them. The floor was polished wood and his feet slipped when he parted them to produce a more rounded bottom for his employer to thrash.

Mr MacDonald would take his time.  He preferred it that way. It added to the drama and the excitement. Bradley’s shirttail covered part of his naked haunches so his employer took hold of it and pushed it out of the way. Bradley’s buttocks trembled with anticipation.

The switch was about fourteen inches long and thinner than a pencil. It would leave a fine mark, but it was delicate. Mr MacDonald would have preferred a whippy rattan cane, but such things were the province of English schools (and perhaps some in the colonies) but were unobtainable in Germany. He would have to do the best he could. Gerhard had cut him many specimens so as one switch broke with use there were others to take its place.

Mr MacDonald positioned the switch across Bradley’s bare bottom. The touch of the stick sent shivers of sensuous pleasure up his spine. He began to shake all over. MacDonald patted his stick keenly across all segments of the eighteen-year-old’s rump, calculating where to place his first blow.

The first stroke roared over the buttocks, landing, more or less, over the fleshiest part of the boy’s meaty posterior. Surely Bradley’s gasp of amazement could be heard all over the building. He wondered if the blond-haired German boy Gerhard was listening behind the floor.

The heat and sting was tremendous. Bradley gritted his teeth. The switch returned; it tapped, it patted, and it explored all locations particularly the tender under curves of his bottom, tickling him suggestively in those sensitive areas.

The next stroke fizzed a burning stripe lower across his buttocks and made his head swim. He was dizzy, almost sick. His body went rigid with pain. Bradley let out something that was halfway between a gasp and a wail, but it ended in an undignified gurgle.

Mr MacDonald sighed. The switch had broken in his hand. He tossed the remnants to the floor and reached for a substitute. He tested it between his hands. It was a little longer, but thicker than its companion. He swished it through the air, enjoying the powerful swish! as it flew. Bradley was aroused by the terrific noise. He knew he would need to summon wonderful resources of doggedness to carry himself through the ordeal of this caning session without wailing.

There was a breathless silence in the room apart from the crisp sound of MacDonald’s switch tapping on his sore bottom. His employer whacked a third stroke and Bradley lost all control, unleashing a loud, hollow groan. The pain was very nearly unbearable. He gulped loudly and shuddered. Mr MacDonald remained utterly silent. Bradley wriggled his throbbing buttocks restlessly and clenched both cheeks, but MacDonald’s stick returned and worried itself against the hottest spots on his bottom. There was no escape from the switch; it lashed once more. Bradley’s head swam; he had been prostrate for too long. It seemed as if every drop of blood in his body was travelling through his veins at twice the normal speed.

“What an ugly looking row of welts.” Mr MacDonald’s voice was tinged with glee. “You should get up now,” he said softly. “Undress completely and get into my bed.”

And so, Bradley passed the first milestone on his road trip to becoming one of Mr MacDonald’s most trustworthy employees.

Picture credit: Mayser Hute

Other stories you might like

 

The boys in the mailroom

Professor and the fresher student

The boy in the kitchen

 

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

Sgt Trueform takes charge

new 5

z used plimsoll in drawer sting (2)

“Freeman. Hardy. Willis. Come here lads. Now. All three of you!” Sgt Trueform barked as he strode through the playground. Three hapless sixth-formers trailed in his wake. The sergeant was a typhoon. He never stopped. He had energy to burn. He may have been discharged from the Army at the end of the war but he never gave up military discipline. Even now since his appointment as senior sports master at St Francis Independent Grammar School.

The school suited him well. Tradition. What was the Army about if it wasn’t about Tradition? St FIGS, as the school was affectionately known, was no different. It believed in tradition: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional religion and, of course, traditional discipline.

“Follow me!” Sgt Trueform led the way into the changing room adjacent to the gymnasium. The three fellows straggled after him. None was anxious to arrive at their final destination. A cold wind blew across the open, asphalt playground. Ancient buildings stood on three sides, the fourth led onto a grass playing fields where at the far end stood the school’s latest proud possession, the gymnasium.

The wind bit through the boys’ thin singlets and white cotton physical training shorts. Hardy’s legs were already turning blue. Willis could feel a cold coming on. My how all three hated sports classes. Especially in the depth of winter, when the pitches froze and the old martinet Sgt Trueform sent the boys out on a cross country run, through the town and into Widdicombe Wood.

“Get a move on lads!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. He was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice. He had reached the changing room and by the time the wretched threesome arrived he was unlocking the door. The sergeant stood to one side, “Get in there now,” he barked. Freeman and Hardy ducked but the sergeant caught Willis with a hefty clip on the back of his head. He rubbed it ruefully as they stood in the large, empty changing room.

“Stand there. In a row,” Sgt Trueform roared. “Stand up straight Hardy. Don’t slump Freeman.” Sgt Trueform imagined he was back on the Army parade ground. In his mind he had never left it. For him the school was merely an extension of his military days.

“So,” he paced up and down in front of the three lads. “You thought you could skive off Games did you?” He paused as if he genuinely expected a reply. When none came he blustered on. “Not in my school you don’t. Freeman,” he leaned into the eighteen-year-old, “It’s not your first time,” he glared ominously. “I suppose you were the ring leader here. You led the others on,” he narrowed his eyes and leaned into the boy so that Freeman could smell his sour tobacco breath.

“Oh no Sergeant,” Freeman moaned, “That’s not fair. It wasn’t me. They did …”

Before he could finish his sentence, Sgt Trueform growled, “I should keep quiet of I were you lad, you are in enough trouble as it.” Freeman’s jaw dropped and his face sulked.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I don’t care if you are sixth-formers. You think you’re so grown up. Well, let me tell you, you obey the rules just like everyone else. Or else,” he threatened. All three boys stared at their own feet. Willis’s spine shook but it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver.

“Why if this happened back in the Army …” Sgt Trueform let the thought drift in the icy air. He marched across the room to an old, rickety table. Three pairs of eyes followed him. Each boy had a jolly good idea what he was up to. The sergeant tugged open the drawer on the table and reached in. There was only one object inside. His face split into a grin as he picked it up and turned towards the boys. In his hand he brandished a size twelve rubber-soled plimsoll. It was old and well used, but had not seen the inside of a gymnasium or a sports field in many years.

Sgt Trueform gripped it by the heel in his right fist. Then, with his left hand he took hold of the toe end. Menacingly, he flexed the slipper between his hands. Three pairs of eyes turned away. Sgt Trueform grinned maniacally and thwacked the rubber sole against the palm of his hand, savouring the sting it made.

“Step forward Freeman,” he barked, wringing the plimsoll between his hands. Colour drained from Harry Freeman’s face. He had been here before. He knew exactly what to expect. There was nothing he could do about it. It was that kind of school. Sgt Trueform was the master; he was in charge. The boy took a pace forward.

“Stand in the middle of the room, lad,” Sgt Trueform waved the slipper in case Freeman did not understand the instruction. Sorrowfully, the boy shuffled forward. “Since you are a recidivist, Freeman,” Sgt Trueform sneered and then stopped. The blank look on Freeman’s face told him he did not understand, “Since this is not your first time,” the sergeant scoffed, “And since I believe you were the ringleader, we’ll have those shorts down.”

Freeman’s face fell, he could not disguise his shock. “No, sergeant, no,” he protested, “I wasn’t the ring leader, honest, serge.”

Sgt Trueform’s eyes narrowed. He was a fair man (although the boys at the school might not agree) and he had no evidence for his accusation. He dismissed the case immediately, “This is your second time, Freeman. Take down those shorts.”

There was no arguing with that. It was true. It was a verifiable fact. Freeman had been done before. This was his second time. “Oh, serge,” he said piteously.

“Don’t, ‘Oh serge’ me lad. Get those shorts down,” Sgt Trueform glared, twisted the slipper in his hand and then with an almighty whack slammed it down into the palm of his hand, “Now lad!”

There was no more to be said. Nothing more to do. Freeman had skived off the cross-country run. Freeman had been caught red handed. Sgt Trueform had the authority to punish him. “But, serge,” Freeman tried to reason with the man. “We are seniors, serge. Seniors don’t get the slipper.” He started his plea with some confidence but the glare in Sgt Trueform’s eye silenced him.

“Ha!” the sergeant cackled. “What you expect a detention instead,” he sneered. “You think I’m going to sit with you lot in a room for an hour one evening watching you write out lines?” It wasn’t a question, for he carried on, “Shorts down. Bend over.”

Freeman sucked on his bottom lip. He had no choice. He had to do it. With no enthusiasm he took hold of the elasticated waist of his white cotton shorts. He wore no underpants. He would be naked from the waist down. He dismissed the thought of a further protest from his mind. He just had to get on with it.

He turned his back slightly so Sgt Trueform would not have a clear view of his cock and balls, put his thumbs inside the waistband and slowly pushed the tight shorts down until they had cleared his buttocks. He left them bunched up over his thighs.

“All the way Freeman. Let them fall to the floor,” Sgt Trueform slapped the slipper across his palm once more. He watched intently as, red-faced, the eighteen-year-old shoved them to his knees and let them slip down to his feet.

Sgt Trueform pretended not to notice Freeman’s long, thin cock, nestling in a hairy bush.

“Bend over, lad,” he snapped. “Touch toes lad. Not knees lad. Toes. All the way.”

It is not easy to take up the “touch toes” position, especially if like Freeman you were a dough boy, running to fat.

“Spread your legs, lad. Now touch toes.”

Freeman could not do it. He huffed and he puffed. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. He could only get down as far as his knees. “Stay like that,” Sgt Trueform barked with exasperation. Freeman’s buttocks wobbled like jelly. If any boy would benefit from regular exercise it was him.

He was a tall boy when standing and bent like this he presented his bum at a perfect height to receive Sgt Trueform’s slipper. Freeman’s cock dangled in front of his upturned face emphasising to him his nakedness. Cold air wafted across his bare cheeks and suddenly he realised the sergeant and his two pals had a perfect view into his crack and hole. He shut his eyes tight.

Whap!!! The sergeant was delighted to see the sole of his size twelve plimsoll imprinted on Freeman’s left cheek. A deep pink pattern quickly emerged. The boy’s hands rose from his knees and in a panic he stopped himself just in time from jumping to his feet to rub away the sting.

“Steady lad. Stay down,” Sgt Trueform growled. He waited for Freeman to resume the position. Head down, bottom jutting out. Whap!! The rubber sole pounded into the right buttock. Now he had two identical footprints across his bum.

The next whack went higher on the left cheek. Then lower on the right. After twelve swats no square inch of Freeman’s buttocks were un-toasted. The pink was turning to red, and even mauve in some places. Sgt Trueform grinned. He rubbed the palm of his hand across Freeman’s left cheek. “I could warm my cold hands,” he said enigmatically. “Stand up lad.”

Freeman rose. He had never sat down on an open coal fire, but he imagined if he ever did, it would feel like this. His bum was blistered. “Shorts up. Stand by the wall,” Sgt Trueform ordered. As Freeman ruefully tugged up his shorts and gave his bum a couple of furtive rubs, the sergeant barked, “Hardy. Take his place.”

All colour had drained from Joe Hardy. He watched awestruck as Freeman shuffled across the room and stood by the wall. Hardy had been given a perfect view of his pal’s torment. His own legs shook as he tried to move forward. He didn’t think he could take such a slippering.

Sgt Trueform read the eighteen-year-old’s mind. “Bend over. You can keep your shorts up. But if you ever come back here again, you’ll know what to expect.” Hardy almost gasped with relief. He took a deep breath and stretched down. He was slimmer than Freeman and had little difficulty touching his toes.

Sgt Trueform watched him go. The cotton shorts were truly short – not much longer than undershorts older men wore – they clung to the contours of Hardy’s bottom. The white shorts gleamed. Evidence, if any were needed, that Hardy had not been on a muddy cross-country run that afternoon.

z used plimsoll gym white pants sting (3)

Hardy clenched his buttocks tightly, now his bum was as hard as a rubber ball, it was protecting itself from the expected onslaught. Hardy sucked down a mouthful of saliva, his heart pounded through his thin vest. He felt a slight tap-tap of the rubber sole across his stretched bottom, the sergeant was finding his aim. Hardy’s shoulders tensed. The slipper was lifted away, Hardy bit down on his lower lip. There was a pause, but not much of one and then WHACK! the sound of plimsoll against tight flesh resounded around the room. The shock pushed the teenager forward, his fingers flew from his toes, his knees buckled and he almost toppled over.

Sgt Trueform hadn’t said but Hardy knew instinctively the punishment for standing up would be extra whacks. With something akin to a superhuman effort he forced his fingers back to the toecaps of his own plimsolls. His bum burned, his head throbbed and blood raced through his arteries.

Sgt Trueform was taking no prisoners that afternoon. He laid the second whack harder and tried not to show the enthusiasm he felt. The victim bent over submissively before him gasped with the shock of the impact. The lad’s hips twisted and his knees creased. The sergeant took aim for the third stroke.

Joe Hardy felt a certain pride after the twelfth stroke landed on the underside of his left cheek. It missed most of the thin cotton shorts and fell on naked flesh. The pain was excruciating; he would have difficulties sitting for the rest of the day, his bum was roaring hot, but it was over now. He had survived. His head was close to exploding, his face and neck were as scarlet as his backside. The back of his singlet was drenched with perspiration. His throat was parched and his temples pulsated. He was a wreck, but he had come through. His grey eyes blazed but no tear had trickled down his face.

“Stand up!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. “Back to the wall. Willis, take his place.” Hardy stretched his back and staggered to the upright position, he shocked himself when he stumbled with his first step and almost went tumbling to the ground. He was so concerned about getting himself safely to the edge of the room that he didn’t notice his pal John Willis was rooted. Tears washed all colour from his face.

“Willis!” Sgt Trueform jeered, “I’m waiting lad! Get yourself over here!”

“No sergeant, no sergeant, no. Please,” Willis begged. “No, please.”

“Now boy!” the master snorted.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman exchanged glances. Willis was a funk. He couldn’t take it. He was pleading to be let off.

“Couldn’t I do lines sir. Detention. Anything,” panic was rising in his voice and Willis wrung his hands pleading.

“Bend over lad!” Sgt Trueform squeezed the size twelve plimsoll in his hands. His muscles tensed and his face snarled. “Don’t test me boy!”

John Willis had lost it. Tears flowed down his face and his shoulders heaved. “No. No. No,” was all he could sob.

“Lads,” Sgt Trueform addressed Freeman and Hardy. “Grab him. Hold him down over the bench.” He nodded across the room to a low wooden structure.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman did not utter a word to each other. But they communicated nonetheless. Both were nursing sore backsides. They had taken their whackings. Freeman’s was on the bare. They had all skived the cross-country run, they had all been caught, they all deserved punishment, why should John Willis get away with it?HardyH

Without hesitation, Hardy moved forward and gripped Willis by the left elbow. Freeman took his cue from his pal and grabbed the right. Together they dragged a howling Willis across the floor. The boy’s feet slipped against the cold ground as he failed to get traction to resist.

Within seconds they were at the bench.

“Face down,” Sgt Trueform ordered. “Hold him steady.”

Two boys were always going to be stronger than one. John Willis had no chance. He was upended and dumped unceremoniously along the bench. It was about ten feet long and two wide, there was ample room to take the eighteen-year-old schoolboy.

“Shorts down?” Freeman asked a little too eagerly.

Sgt Trueform glared at the writhing Willis. What a coward the lad was. Couldn’t even take a spanking. His two pals had followed his orders and accepted their punishment. They were fine men. Fine English men. But what about this other snivelling wretch? He had known men like Willis in the Army. Weaklings, quitters, defeatists, deserters. How he hated them all. They would always let you down.

“Shorts down, serge?” Hardy was ready to rip them from the teenager’s backside. Sgt Trueform’s heart sped. Bare-arsed. Yes, he would love to whip the boy bare-arsed. That would show him. Show him who was the boss. Who was the master and who was the subordinate.

Willis wriggled and writhed, he hollered and screamed. The yells were so intense the sergeant feared he would be heard all across the playing fields and back in the main school buildings. Any moment someone might burst into the changing room attracted by the racket wondering whether a murder was being committed.

Sgt Trueform wanted dearly to beat Willis’s bare bum black and blue but he was a realist. The school allowed him a great freedom when dealing with the boys. It was a traditional school, health sports and healthy discipline were high in its priorities, but even St FIGS might baulk at the sight of two senior boys holding a third over  a bench while the sports master spanked his naked buttocks with a heavy plimsoll.

“Better leave them up lads,” he sighed and then with more gusto, he added, “This time.”

Freeman took the shoulders and Hardy the legs. That way they were clear of Willis’s torso and bottom. The sergeant had clear access to his prey. He stood towering over the prostrate boy. Willis was a smallish lad with narrow shoulders and slender hips but his bottom was round and ample. When he stood it jutted out behind him and some people said it looked like the tail of a bird. Now, with Willis flat on his stomach, the buttocks were presented as two hillocks, full and fleshy.

The sergeant took a deep breath, tensed the muscles in his forearm, laid the slipper across Willis’s left cheek, then he raised the rubber-soled plimsoll high and hammered it home. The boy’s wail outperformed a banshee. It sent a cold shiver up Harry Freeman’s spine but he pressed down harder onto Willis’s shoulder; he wasn’t letting the coward free.

“Keep him pinned down,” Sgt Trueform encouraged. Harry Freeman was so strong and Willis so weak there was no chance of escape. Harry felt the bones in the shoulder of the boy beneath him. From his vantage point he had a perfect bird’s-eye view of Willis’s buttocks.

Harry’s eyes swivelled from sports master to prostrate boy; from the hand holding the slipper, to the plump backside about to receive it. The next whack cut across the boy’s bottom raising dust from the stretched cotton of his shorts. Willis tried to kick his legs up and down and to summon the strength to lift himself free of the bench, but Hardy had a firm grip of his ankles.

Harry Freeman swallowed hard as he caught sight of the stern, impassive look on Sgt Trueform’s face, and the icy coldness of his blue eyes, as the sports master assessed the impact of each whack and took time to determine which part of Willis’s bottom would be the target of the next smack.

Willis’s entire body was quaking; his backside was quivering and wobbling; even spasmodically jerking.

The twelve whacks that Sgt Trueform pounded across Willis’s backside were no more severe that those Freeman and Hardy had received, but by the eighth stroke the boy was hollering to be let off. Screaming, and writhing and twisting as much as Harry Freeman’s heavy hands would allow.

Then, the beating over John Willis gradually ceased his screaming. Freeman and Hardy released their grips and embarrassed shuffled across to the other side of the room. They stood unsure what to do next. Had they been dismissed? Should they get dressed and go home?

Willis was crying. Quietly. Tears rolling down his cheeks. Trying to suppress any sound and unable to stop the sobbing.  Neither could he stop the sniffing nor the noise in the back of his throat as his body tried to gulp in the air his lungs needed between sobs. He was trying to keep as quiet as possible but the noise was deafening.

Picture credits: Both Sting Pictures

More stories from St FIG’s are here

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Uncle Martin lends a hand

Memories of Dad’s slipper

 

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