Origin: Maintenance Spanking

I’m sharing with you how I came up with ideas for some of my stories. I suspect many of you will recognise the scenario in ‘Maintenance Spanking.’

I used to visit a ‘professional master’ and this story is very loosely based on that. I was much older than Theo who is twenty in the story but I certainly behaved as he did when I was that age and deserved a damn good hiding for real. In this story Theo is severely punished because he has been driving while intoxicated. I shudder to remember but we did this all the time in the 1970s and 1980s. I lived in a rural area and there was no other way to get about than by car.

In reality, I should have been spreadeagled over a desk with trousers at the ankles and underpants at the knees at least twice a week for a beating after drink-driving. I wasn’t, but for what it’s worth I don’t do it any more (I haven’t got a car LOL).

I used the same ‘master’ in a story called ‘Winker Wilson’s Visit’ (here). This involves a man who was regularly caned both by masters and prefects at his boarding school and consequently developed a life-long passion.

I think I was enjoying myself too much when I wrote this story because I included an accurate description of how to walk from the London Underground station to the house in question. Please don’t follow it as the master passed on maybe a decade ago.

As a historical footnote, ‘Winker Wilson’s Schooldays’ was the first story I ever published online. It was a tribute to all the Billy Bunter-type stories with much swishing of canes and touching of toes.

It is not on this blogsite but is still available here, with a follow-up story here.

Maintenance Spanking

I am sitting at home waiting for Theo to arrive. He visits me on the last Friday of every month and is never late. He comes for what he calls his “maintenance spanking.”

Theo, I don’t know if that’s his real name, is twenty-years-old. He’s one of the bosses at a double-glazing firm. A ‘boss’ at twenty, how can anyone be a ‘boss’ at that age?

Theo has problems with his behaviour and he relies on me to help him sort them out.

…..

I first heard about Mr Tucker on the Internet. He has a website and offers corporal punishment services. He has one of the rooms at his house decked out like a headmaster’s study. Adult schoolboys pretend they have been naughty and get six-of-the-best or whatever for their pains.

I don’t have to pretend to be a bad boy, I am. The people who visit the headmasters’ study want to be punished. It turns them on, I suppose. But, not me: I hate being punished by Mr Tucker; it’s humiliating and terribly painful. Even an over-the-knee bare-bottomed spanking is too much for me. But, I need it. It does me good and helps me to be a better person.

I had wanted corporal punishment therapy. I’d read about it online. They have it in America, where you visit a counsellor and discuss where your life is going wrong. For some people it can be reasonably simple like trying to give up smoking or drink. You set objectives with the counsellor and if you fail to meet them you get spanked. This goes on until the fear of being walloped motivates you to meet your objectives.

Mr Tucker is not my counsellor, he isn’t qualified for that, but until I find someone who is he serves as my motivator.

….

Theo isn’t like my other visitors; you never know what you are going to be asked to do when he is here. The others are quite straightforward. You just set up a reason why they should be caned: “Smoking again Thompson” … “Three detentions Wilkins” … that sort of thing. Many of them dress up as schoolboys in full uniform with short trousers. Does it take them back to their childhoods? I don’t know. Most of them are middle aged and older: quite a number are retired gentlemen.

Theo comes in and tells me all the bad things he has done since the last visit. Then it’s my job to assess what his punishment should be and deliver it accordingly. Last time, he had been disrespectful to his mother (that’s on the list most months) and he had lost his temper with some of the people at work (also a regular occurrence).

For Theo, that was a mild month, so I decided a less severe punishment was called for. I believe that if boys give their mothers a hard time it is the duty of father to take them across their knee for a bare-bottomed spanking.

So, that’s what I did. Boys hate being spanked, which is why it’s so effective.

I also believe a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over your knee leaves him in no doubt about who’s in charge. Consider what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across the knee. He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, he knows that his bottom will be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any ill-disciplined child.

I sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair and pulled Theo before me and unfastened his trousers which immediately fell off his hips down to his feet. He was panicking and nervous, fully realizing what I intended to do, and not liking the idea one little bit. I quickly pulled his boxer shorts down to his knees.

Without pausing, I took hold of Theo’s right arm and upper back and firmly pulled him forward and downward, dragging him across my lap so that he was practically kissing the carpet.

I am masterful with the hairbrush and bounced it all over Theo’s buttocks, upper thighs, and the sensitive sit spots. Of course, he kicked out his legs trying to escape the stinging spanks. He twisted and turned all over my knees, but I held him tight with my arm wrapped around his middle.

After more than fifty whacks, his red, tear-soaked face registered a look of total dread, desperation, and pain, but I carried on spanking. He thrust out with each whack of the brush on his red-raw buttocks. He wailed for mercy and his bawling and sobbing turned to screams. The tears flowed and sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched.

I continued the punishment with Theo squirming and wriggling around on my lap, his bottom dancing and bucking around, his legs kicking out. It was not long before he was pleading and apologizing for his misbehaviour.

Finally, I stopped spanking, and Theo laid sobbing and heaving convulsively across my knee for several minutes before I released him and sent him on his way.

….

I am walking up the street where Mr Tucker lives. It’s just an ordinary street of quite run-down terraces; nobody would suspect what goes on behind the curtains of No. 128. My heart is beating fast as I approach the door. I know I have been particularly bad this month and am in for the hiding of my life.

….

The doorbell rings. Theo is here: 6.30 on the dot. At least poor time-keeping isn’t one of his problems.

I open the door to see a pleasant looking young man, dressed in an immaculate city-style blue stripped suit. His shirt is pale blue with a gaily-patterned tie, tightly knotted. He looks every inch the young businessman, which, after all, is what he is.

There are no preliminaries when Theo visits.

“Go wait outside my study.”

Even though he is not a schoolboy, I treat him as if he is. It’s the only way I know how. He stands in the hallway, waiting for me to make my next move.

I open the study door and he follows me in. It’s a small room, it is meant to be a living room or lounge, but I have converted it. There is room enough for a desk, some wooden chairs and bookshelves. There is an armchair that is the centrepiece of the room. In the corner by the window is a hat stand. There are no hats; only six or seven canes of assorted lengths and thickness. I keep other punishment implements; a slipper, taws, hairbrush in the drawer of the desk.

Theo stands on the worn rug in front of the desk and I take the chair behind it. The routine of these visits is that he begins by recounting to me his misdeeds of the month. It is a familiar list: the impertinence to mother, impatience and anger to work colleagues, temper tantrums. But, this month there are worse crimes to confess. And, I do mean ‘crimes.’

He has been drinking too much which is not unusual for men of his age, but worse than that he has been driving under the influence. Not once, but three times. Once, he was so drunk he hit the curb of the road and punctured a tyre. Being too drunk to think clearly, he proceeded to drive home anyway, thereby buckling the wheel.

I was genuinely angry when he told me this. Drink-driving is dangerous not only to the driver and passengers but also to other entirely innocent road users and pedestrians. I knew from my days as a hospital porter the deaths and injuries drunks caused.

Theo was clearly distressed when he recounted this. He was genuinely upset and ashamed of his actions. Remorse is welcome, but it is not enough. There must also be punishment and in this case it must be exemplary.

I wished I had been informed in advance of Theo’s crimes so I could prepare a birch. He deserved the severest kind of punishment possible. In this case I would not hesitate to rip his bare buttocks to pieces. I didn’t care if he was unable to sit for a month. It would, at least stop him driving his car.

But with no birch available, it would have to be a cane. I have a wide selection from a small reed-like nursery cane that I sometimes use across the palm of the hand through to Malacca rods that are whippy, but dense, and pack a punch to suit even the most hardened masochist.

So, the Malacca it would have to be. I gave Theo a short lecture about the foolishness of his behaviour. I didn’t say much, I’m not a psychiatrist; I couldn’t help him with whatever his underlying problem was. I’m a ‘master.’ My job is to beat the living daylights out of him and that was what I intended to do.

Theo’s face was pale and his eyes moistened as he told me of his drunken antics. He was genuinely upset by his actions and – I knew from experience – dreading what I was going to do to him.

I did not immediately pronounce sentence.

“Hang your jacket on the door.”

I picked out a cane from the hat stand and swished it through the air a couple of times and then held the two ends and flexed it gently testing it for whippiness. It curved nicely in my hands.

Theo turned to face me once again, eyeing with dread both the cane in my hands and the armchair.

“Theo when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving you a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live. You will not return for another beating and will learn from this experience.”

He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite hear and before I even ordered him to take down his trousers and underpants, tears were trickling down his face.

…..

Mr Tucker stood flexing his cane thoughtfully between his hands as I began to unbuckle my belt. I unzipped and let my trousers fall to my ankles. Putting my fingers in the waist band, I peeled my underpants down letting them fall on top of my trousers.

Mr Tucker swished the cane through the air. If his intention was to intimidate me, he had succeeded.

“Bend over the chair,” he touched the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis.

In terror I bent forward; my bottom, a little wobbly when I was standing, tightened into a smooth curve. My bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair, my trousers and underpants bunched around my ankles.

“Head nice and low please Theo.”

My thigh muscles and bottom tensed as I stretched my arms out grasping the armchair’s cushion at the front. I felt Mr Tucker lift my shirt from my backside, exposing me, both to his eyes and to the air of the room. My body was naked from the middle of my back to my ankles. This made me shiver slightly; not with cold so much as fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.”

I pushed myself further down into the chair, raising my bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, Theo, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” my reply was muffled as my head was buried in the chair cushion.

Seconds seem to pass. I was feeling very vulnerable as I imagined him eying up his target and I fidgeted my legs. Suddenly there was an enormous noise. The sound of the cane landing on my backside echoed round the empty room. I hardly had time to recover from the shock when there was another crack which this time was immediately followed by an intense burning pain. I held my breath as the next stroke landed causing the pain to increase in a sickening wave.

Number four stuck and I let out a whine. Mr Tucker continued, determined to make me pay for my drunkenness. Three more strokes landed each one lower than the previous, yet all in a one inch band on the lower half of my bum.

As the next stroke cracked across my poor sore seat I let out a roar, any restraint I may have had was gone. I could no longer see the chair for the tears filling my eyes.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and hung on to the chair. I was aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in my bottom.

Raising his arm high Mr Tucker brought the cane down with a full swing, landing in the middle of my bottom. I cried out and tossed my head, swaying for a few moments.

The next three strokes seemed to merge together. I was concentrating on staying bent over, in so much pain, and trying without success to stop the tears that were by now flowing down my cheeks.

I desperately wanted to but I did not stand up. Instead I remained bent over the caning chair offering my bottom for the next stroke. I was completely at the mercy of Mr Tucker, who could make each stroke as severe as he wished and I would have to accept it and then wait for the next.

He swished in yet another stroke across the very centre of my bottom. Though I still stayed over the chair, my feet beat a frenzied dance, and my hips twisted and squirmed. I resolved never to drink and drive again.

The caning seemed to go on forever, but finally I heard Mr Tucker walk over to the hat stand and replace the cane. I felt a terrific sense of relief that it was over but I remained across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

Mr Tucker gave me time to recover a little. “It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

I slowly pushed myself back on my elbows as I got unsteadily up. My legs felt weak and I had to lean on the desk before I really got my balance. Tentatively at first, I touched then carefully clasped my raw buttocks and began kneading them, as though I could somehow squeeze the pain out.

Slowly, painfully, I pulled up my underpants and trousers. I was more or less in control of my feelings now, and was massaging my injured rump as vigorously as I could, still trying to rub away the pain.

Mr Tucker slipped his arm around my shoulder for an instant, before propelling me towards the door, and out into the hallway. My eyes were still wet and blurry, but I found my way to the toilet where I stayed for a few minutes until I’d regained some composure. I cried a bit more; my bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing me.

I limped out of the house and walked through the streets in a trance. I walked three miles home that night, knowing that I would not be able to sit down if I caught a cab.

 

Picture credit: CP Services London

For more in the ‘Origin’ series, click here.

 

Other stories you might like

Never too old

A Short, Sharp Lesson

Quarterly performance review

 

 

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