Face the Music

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z used pants bathroom window domestic by MCicconneT

Anthony stared anxiously out of the bathroom window. How much longer could he hide here, he wondered. Soon Dad would want to know why he wasn’t at the breakfast table. There could be a problem if he was late down. He didn’t need that, he was in enough trouble as it was.

“Anthony, where the hell are you?” It was Dad calling from the landing. The bathroom door handle rattled. “Are you in there! Come out now. I haven’t got all day.”

Anthony blanched. Damn. It was time to face the music. He flushed the lavatory hoping his Dad would think he had been going to the toilet and not hiding. Hiding from the consequences of last night.

He shuffled to the door, flicked the lock, turned the handle and opened it. Dad loomed in the doorway. He was a huge man, thick set and more than a little on the heavy side. He towered over his son, casting a shadow. “At last,” he growled, “You know I have to get off to work.”

Anthony stood, head bowed, hoping he wouldn’t catch Dad’s eye. He was embarrassed as hell, standing on the landing in just his tight briefs. A shiver ran through him, although it wasn’t especially cold. It was the heavy wooden clothes brush in Dad’s hand. If there had been any doubt about what was about to happen, that put an end to it.

“Get into your room,” Dad prodded his shoulders towards a half-open door. Anthony did not resist. He would have loved to. He wanted to jump down the stairs two at a time and flee the house. But, what would be the point? He could hardly run down the road wearing only his underpants. Besides, he would have to come back home sometime and there would be hell to pay. No, better to face the music now.

He tumbled into his room. His bed took up most of the space. Piles of dirty clothes and discarded magazines covered the floor. A tiny wardrobe sat in one corner. A mirror was screwed to the wall.

“Jeez! Look at the mess in here,” his Dad growled.  “And what is that smell?” he screwed his nose. Anthony went scarlet. He had left a wodge of tissue soaked in cum under the duvet.

Dad gripped the wooden brush tightly in his hand as if noticing for the first time it was there. “Well?” he snarled. Silence engulfed the room. Anthony fidgeted from foot to foot. Was it a question? Did Dad want an answer?

“Well,” actually was Dad’s shorthand. It was his way of saying: we both know that you rolled home last night at gone midnight and by the smell of your breath you’d been drinking beer.

They didn’t need to fill in the details. Curfew was at eleven and Dad didn’t care a hoot if Anthony was eighteen and he didn’t want to know that his son was legally allowed to drink alcohol. Not on Dad’s watch. His house, his rules. My way or the highway. Say it how you like. Stick to the rules or else. And in this case “else” meant a very sore backside indeed.

Dad knew this. Anthony knew this. There was little room for discussion. Dad waved the brush towards his son’s face. “You know what to do.”

Indeed, Anthony did. He was eighteen years old after all; he had been here before. He waited patiently as Dad settled his vast backside on the edge of the bed, leaving a huge indent in the mattress. Dad’s thighs were huge, great mounds of fat. They made a perfect platform to receive Anthony’s body.

“Bend over my knee,” Dad barked and slapped his leg with the brush in case there was any doubt about his meaning. Anthony grimaced. He wanted to protest. “Dad I’m eighteen. None of the guys I was with last night will be getting spanked this morning.” He could have reminded Dad this was 2018 and, well, kids just don’t get taken over their Dad’s knees anymore. And definitely not when they’re eighteen.

But, what would be the point? My way or the highway. Pack your bags and go. There was no choice. Anthony took a deep breath and stepped forward. He was about a metre from Dad when he leaned forward and glided over his knee. His bottom rested at an angle against Dad’s right thigh and his naked torso stretched over the mattress. Although he couldn’t himself see, Anthony knew his bottom was at  the perfect angle to receive the attention of the brush.

Dad was no showman. He believed in getting on with the job. Time waited for no man. He pushed the palm of is right hand into the small of Anthony’s back, pinning him firmly. He was ready. He raised the brush high and with a resounding swipe brought it crashing down into the centre oh his son’s right cheek. Two seconds later it bounced off the left. Then the right again. Dad hammered the heavy oval-shaped head of the brush into Anthony’s backside. Bam! Bam! Bam! It sounded like machinegun fire as the noise echoed around the tiny room.

Anthony’s hips swayed from left to right. His stomach rose and fell over Dad’s knees. His arms flailed. If he hadn’t been pinned down he would have swam right away. Instead he was locked face down, bottom high while Dad delivered his just punishment.

Who was counting? But Dad probably walloped the brush across Anthony’s rear end fifty or more times. It hurt like crazy. The first whacks warmed up his bottom and it became increasingly sore as the punishment went on. Anthony was a veteran. He had been here before, but he couldn’t help wriggling and writhing; that was his body’s natural defence mechanism. It wanted the hurt to stop.

Dad rested. Anthony caught his breath. He lay still, his mouth and nose close to the rancid duvet. The eighteen-year-old knew better than to try to stand. His punishment wasn’t over yet. He felt a movement in his Dad’s body. He was gripping the elasticated waist of Anthony’s underpants. They fitted snugly and there wasn’t much room for movement. It took Dad four tugs to get them fully over his buttocks so they snagged around his thighs. His son’s bum was completely bare. Dad paused a second or two to admire his handiwork. Anthony’s buttocks glowed bright pink. Not a square centimetre was left un-bashed; from the undercurves near the thighs, over the fleshy mounds themselves and even the tops were scorched.

Dad gripped the brush with renewed energy and brought it whacking down, across the back of Anthony’s naked thighs. The boy’s head rose in shock and he shut his teeth firmly to hold back the yell he truly wanted to scream. Dad knew the thighs were the most sensitive spot to spank. That’s why he left them to the last.

Up and down, up and down, the brush hammered its message. Rules are rules. Obey them. If you don’t – well you only have yourself to blame for the consequences. Dad was not a cruel man. He didn’t believe in torture, but he wanted to make his point. If a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. He tanned Anthony’s backside and thighs good and proper.

“Dan!” It was his wife calling from the landing. “Quickly, you’ll miss your bus.”

“Coming, Lil!” He stopped spanking and released his grip on Anthony. The teenager rolled off Dad’s legs and jumped up, dancing from one foot to the other, while simultaneously rubbing at his bare bum for all he was worth. He didn’t care that his cock and balls were bouncing in front of Dad’s eyes.

“Enough!” Dad pushed past his son and left the room, hurrying down the stairs. Anthony collapsed face down on the bed, still furiously massaging his naked buttocks.

The agony soon subsided into a nagging pain before transmuting into a dull ache. The worst was over. Some bruises might stay for a day, but he had survived. He lay naked, uncertain why his dick was standing to attention. Never one to miss an opportunity, he gobbed spit into the palm of his hand. He was working his way up and down the shaft when his phone pinged. It was a message from his mate Charlie. “See you at the pub at ten.”

Picture Credit: MCicconneT

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Father deals with idle student

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Gaffer of The Academy 1: Beginnings

z used gaffer use this logo

All we schoolboys despised The Gaffer: from the very first time he joined The Academy to take over as Head of Sixth Form.

And, the loathing quickly turned to hatred when he demonstrated he could beat our backsides black and blue whenever he felt the need.

He was an ugly squat man and some of the boys joked he was as wide as he was tall. We hated him especially the first time he opened his mouth and revealed to us that he was from the northeast of England. When I look back now I realise we were odious snobs, but I blame the school for that: The Academy catered for the sons of the high professional classes, and even some from the minor aristocracy, and we were taught we were superior to the lower orders.

We knew The Gaffer was definitely not “one of us” the moment we heard him speak. To us boys the northeast accent, or ‘Geordie’ as it was known, belonged to coalminers and shipbuilders. We immediately nicknamed him ‘The Gaffer’ which we supposed was what working class people called their boss.

The Gaffer joined The Academy with what today would be called ‘an agenda.’ The headmaster had told him the boys of the sixth form were slacking and that we were disregarding rules and forgetting we were schoolchildren.

He was right up to a point, we were aged eighteen and even though in those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one, we considered we had already reached that status and should be treated accordingly.

The headmaster and The Gaffer saw it differently: whatever our ages, we were schoolboys and we were expected to behave like that. More so, we were senior pupils and it was up to us to set an example to the juniors.

The Gaffer knew he had to stamp down on our behaviour and do it quickly if he were to make any impact. So, right from the start he had the school rules printed out and posted on the noticeboard in the sixth form common room. In a lecture, he told us we were expected to follow the rules to the letter and any deviation from them would result in punishment: corporal punishment.

He let that last statement hang it he air a bit. None of us were surprised by this: corporal punishment was used frequently at The Academy. There couldn’t have been a boy in the whole school who hadn’t been slippered, tawsed, paddled or caned at least once in his career. The boys who were borders, that is they slept at the school at nights and weekends, were the most vulnerable: there were so many rules that could be broken.

Imagine, you were, say, a sixteen-year-old boy in the boarding school; you were expected to be in your ‘house’ by 9pm and start preparing for bed. Failure to comply with this rule would get you three strokes on the seat of the trousers from the housemaster. How different to the ‘day boy’ who would go home to his family at the end of the afternoon. How many parents did you know who would order their teenaged son to bend over the armchair for the cane, if he wasn’t in bed at nine?

We sixth formers knew all about corporal punishment and The Academy but we supposed that by the time we reached the age of eighteen our backsides would be safe from the cane.

The Gaffer wanted to make an example: he didn’t mind who the victim was, but one of us would have bend over in front of the whole sixth form and be punished severely – to encourage the others.

We were on our very best behaviour: we arrived at school on time and stayed all day (lessons weren’t timetabled for the whole day so the day boys usually drifted off home early). We stayed in school during ‘play time’ and avoided the back of the gymnasium; an area which the whole school knew was reserved for sixth former smokers.

The Gaffer became quite frustrated: based on our recent performances he supposed he could catch one or other of us out and deliver the public thrashing as planned without delay.

Eventually, he went seeking his victim and picked one of the ‘teenager poets.’ Most schools have teenager poets; they are the older pupils who think they are intellectuals and spend most of their days sneering at everyone else. They grow their hair a little too long and don’t knot up their neckties correctly. And, they criticise the ‘petty rules’ of the school, while (usually) ensuring that they themselves abide by them.

McCain was such a teenager poet. I don’t know if he literally wrote verse, but he was a ‘sneerer’ and had spoken out (but not in the earshot of the man himself) against The Gaffer and his new regime.

Most of the boys in the sixth form disliked McCain: he was just too full of himself. We were after all the people he spent most of the time sneering at: especially those of us who declared an admiration of sport or the popular music of the time.

So, when The Gaffer announced all the sixth formers must meet in classroom 21at the end of the school day, we might have been delighted to hear McCain was up for a public beating: but, in the pecking order of school life, we hated The Gaffer more than we did McCain.

We entered the classroom in hushed tones, like we were at church for a funeral. In other circumstances we schoolboys would have been delighted to see one of our own beaten, observing and later criticising how well he took his whipping. A boy who showed any sign that his beating had hurt, or worse he cried, would be teased mercilessly for the rest of the term.

The room filled quickly and we waited for the stars of the show, McCain and The Gaffer to arrive. The classroom was one of the largest in the school with room for about thirty boys. We sat at light brown wooden desks; some were connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on benches. Other desks were single-seaters. All of the desks sloped and could open upwards so we could stash away our schoolbooks, or any contraband we didn’t want the schoolmaster to see. Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

I knew from experience (my own painful experience) that a teenaged boy could bend himself across the desk, down the slope, to present his backside at a perfect angle to receive the lash of the master’s cane. Some of the desks had thin wooden legs and the pupil could grab onto these for dear life during the beating, which is what I did when Thompson, the maths master, had beaten me when I was in the fifth.

All the pupils’ desks in the front of the room were occupied so The Gaffer would have to make McCain lay across the master’s desk for his caning. It was quite small and McCain was tall for his age, so he should be able to reach across it with his stomach flat on the wooden top and his arms outstretched ahead and his hands gripping the far edge.

The door opened and The Gaffer entered, with McCain, head bowed, shuffling a couple of paces behind. We all stood to attention as the master entered, as was the custom at The Academy.

Even with his head lowered, McCain towered over the schoolmaster. He was quite a thin, wiry boy and already he had grown to at least six feet tall. Otherwise, he looked like a typical schoolboy, dressed in white shirt and grey trousers. His green and yellow stripped school tie had never been knotted so tightly in his life. McCain might have declared himself to be a ‘Bohemian,’ but his appearance belied this. He was always dressed immaculately; his mother took a great deal of pride in her son’s clothes. His shirt sparkled and a person could cut their finger on the sharp creases in his trousers and shirt. Only his scuffed black shoes gave any indication that he might not wish to be the model The Academy schoolboy.

The Gaffer stood in front of the blackboard and easel to start a prepared sermon. He recounted the rules of the school, why they were there, why they should not be broken, and the special responsibilities sixth formers had to the school. He spoke without notes, but was word perfect: he had spent a lot of time rehearsing this scene.

The sermon, nearly over, he moved on to the main event of the afternoon: the punishment. All we boys had talked about nothing else that afternoon and we expected to hear the instruction: “Bend over that desk.” McCain would do as he were ordered, The Gaffer would (with some ceremony no doubt) lash six-of-the-best into McCain’s bum. The boy would be dismissed and we could all go home.

It was only then that I realised The Gaffer did not possess a cane; surely he hadn’t forgotten to bring one with him. I scanned the room to see if one had been left out for his use. In some classrooms a demonic master might have his whippy cane on display, perhaps hanging by its curved handle from the blackboard easel, where every boy would be able to see the consequence of his bad behaviour.

One master who taught me in my first year even had a selection of canes standing in a basket in the corner of the room.

I couldn’t see a cane anywhere: but I didn’t realise The Gaffer had other ideas.

Having warned us all that corporal punishment was his preferred method of correction and that any one of us could expect such treatment in future, he stepped behind the master’s desk, picked up a large straight-backed wooden chair and manoeuvred it into the space between the pupils’ desks and the blackboard.

Then he sat down. The Gaffer was squat when he was standing and even smaller seated. He had to manipulate his academic gown so that he didn’t tread on its hem. To accomplish this he moved his buttocks from left to right and pulled his robe up his shins. Eventually, he was satisfied so he spread his feet about three feet apart and turned to look at McCain whose eyes had not left the floor from the moment he entered the classroom.

“Take down your trousers and bend over my knee,” The Gaffer said, as if it had been the most reasonable request that any schoolmaster might make of his eighteen-year-old pupil.

There was an astonished intake of breath from the class. Then you could’ve heard a pin drop. McCain’s was startled. His eyes shot from the ground to look at The Gaffer. His face was full of contempt. He was as astounded as his classmates. I could read his face as easily as any book. He was thinking: have I heard correctly? Take down your trousers. Bend over my knee.

Yes, he had heard him all right. That’s what The Gaffer had said. I could see McCain was thinking it over: should he do as instructed? What would be the consequences if he did not obey? Of course, today, if a schoolmaster tried to spank a pupil in this way the police would be called, but in those days the schoolmaster was the law and he could get away with anything – short of actually flogging a boy to death.

The Gaffer slapped his left thigh to emphasis his point. “Bend over boy.”

McCain avoided eye contact with the rest of us. He had made his decision: he had no choice: like any schoolboy he was required to do as his master dictated – without question. He was as embarrassed as hell as he unbuckled his belt and released the top button at his waistband. In no time the fly zipper was undone and he pushed his grey school trousers down to his knees, to reveal the tightly fitting gleaming white Y-front underpants he was wearing underneath; the front bulging. I wouldn’t have been the only boy in the room to have admired McCain’s package in the showers after a gym class. There was no doubting he was a young adult and not a little boy.

His face was scarlet as he turned side on to The Gaffer and obediently lowered himself across the man’s knees, placing the palms of his hands flat down into the dirty floor tiles. He kept his head high so that he could see straight ahead, but all the while avoiding eye contact with the rest of us. He seemed to be thinking: this can’t really be happening to me. I am not really bent across The Gaffer’s knee with my trousers at my knees waiting for him to spank me on the seat of my underpants.

McCain was far too tall to fit comfortably across The Gaffer’s knees, a sight that emphasised to me the absurdity of the situation. The lanky eighteen-year-old schoolboy was about to be spanked as if he were a seven year old.

The Gaffer could have chosen a more suitable target, I thought as I caught sight of Trinder sitting in the second row of the classroom. Trinder was as undersized for his age as McCain was over. Trinder had a medical condition (was it something to do with hormones?) and he looked about fourteen years old. I knew he could get away with paying the child fare on the trolleybuses. His short-back-and-sides haircut, bright brown eyes and almost completely hairless body stressed his child-like qualities.

The Gaffer should have taken Trinder across his knee: at least he would have slotted into place and the spectacle in front of me would be more visually pleasing. Perhaps, Trinder even deserved a spanking for dodging his fares.

While I was imagining that it was the delicious Trinder across the Gaffer’s knee, McCain did something I thought was extraordinary. Realising he was too tall for this spanking position he bent his knees in towards The Gaffer’s body. This had the effect of raising his bottom higher on the man’s right leg so that his buttocks pointed right up at him. He was saying: here you are, I am submissive, you can do with me what you want.

McCain closed his eyes tight and waited for the spanking to begin. But The Gaffer kept us waiting. He smoothed out the boy’s white cotton pants so they fitted across his globes like a second skin. (McCain’s mother would be so pleased at their cleanliness. In those days people would say you should change your underpants every day in case you were involved in a traffic accident. Now, at The Academy we would have to say: change every day in case you have to go over The Gaffer’s knee for a spanking.)

Then, daintily with both hands he took the tail of the boy’s crisp white shirt and moved it half way up his back. Then, without warning he slapped his hand down into the right cheek. And, then again into the left cheek.

McCain filled out his underpants very well. As each slap smacked into him I could see the fleshy globe absorb the impact. The Gaffer kept up a steady rhythm: one cheek then the other. McCain gasped a little, but I don’t suppose the spanking was hurting much. At worst he would feel a glowing tingle. A spanking by hand on the pants was never going to be too painful for an eighteen-year-old boy; not like it would be with a hairbrush, or a slipper or, say, a belt.

The Gaffer continued smacking alternate cheeks: slap, slap, slap, slap. Red marks were forming below McCain’s buttocks where some of the whacks missed his underpants and connected with bare flesh. They certainly looked raw.

The Gaffer gripped the elasticated waist of the underpants. McCain’s closed eyes popped open as he realised what was about to happen. The class held its collective breath: no that would be an indignity too far. Surely, he wouldn’t.

The Gaffer must have had second thoughts and released his grip and continued smacking into the cotton-covered buttocks. McCain seemed visibly to relax. I saw him bend his head lower so that he could see under the chair to look at his own feet as if he was trying to be both the recipient of the spanking, but also a spectator.

The Gaffer increased the strength of his spanks and the speed, until they were raining into his cheeks rapidly like machine gun fire. McCain gasped a little: he was feeling this. Soon, though The Gaffer realised his hand was hurting more than the teenager’s buttocks (probably a lot more).

He stopped, but still held on tightly to the boy at the waist: he was going nowhere. The Gaffer looked at the classroom full of boys; this was the first time he had done this since McCain went over his knee.

The Gaffer had a plan. He spotted Fanshaw, one of the day boys sitting at the front of the class. “Do you have a plimsoll in that gym bag?” He nodded to a cloth bag resting close to the boy’s feet. Did I see a slight smile cross Fanshaw’s lips as he understood the importance of the question?

Fanshaw had been observing McCain’s predicament at close range. From his vantage point in the front row he had a perfect view of the boy’s upturned bottom and sturdy legs.

A little too eagerly, I thought, Fanshaw untied the drawstring and delved into his gym bag and brought out a white rubber-soled gym plimsoll. He had the triumphant air of a diver who had just brought up treasure from the bottom of the sea.

“Bring it up to me boy.” The Gaffer had not released his grip on McCain, but the teenager managed to turn his head enough to witness his schoolfriend leave his chair and hand over the heavy slipper that would, surely, now, be used to take off his backside.

The Gaffer held the slipper tightly at the heel end and squeezed the slipper hard. His grip was so forceful his knuckles were turning white. McCain squeezed his eyes tightly shut once again and clenched his buttocks in readiness for the onslaught. I suppose McCain hoped the clamping of his cheeks would somehow lessen the pain he was about to feel, but as every naughty boy who has ever been spanked or beaten knows as a ploy this does not work.

“Relax boy,” The Gaffer meant McCain should offer up his bum as before. Instead, McCain’s whole body seemed to stiffen as the first of a dozen quick slaps of the slipper crashed without stopping into his underpants.

McCain growled audibly. Until now he had taken his smacking in silence, occasionally gasping or wheezing. There had not been too much pain: his bottom tingled a little and the hurt such as it was had turned quickly into a warm glow that was actually quite pleasant.

The blows from the plimsoll were altogether different. The pain was instant from the very first smack. By the time the first dozen had spread across his cheeks and the top of his thighs, he was wriggling his body and kicking his legs in a desperate unsuccessful attempt to dodge the slipper.

He was breathing heavily now and his face was as scarlet as I supposed his bum must be. Then came another dozen: delivered as hard and as rapidly as the others. Half way through McCain gave up all attempts at self-control and he yelped like a little puppy.

Sweat poured off The Gaffer. He might have wished he had taken off his heavy waistcoat before ordering the boy across his knee.

The schoolmaster held McCain firmly around the middle cutting off any possibility of escape and then launched into the third dozen. Pinned as he was securely facedown over his tormentor’s knees, the boy could do nothing except try to soak up the considerable pain. He pounded his hands into the floor tiles but this did not stop The Gaffer ripping up his backside.

McCain’s humiliation was completed when tears flowed down his cheeks and his little yelps turned to huge swallows and gulps. My classmates and I looked on mesmerized. When would this end?

Only The Gaffer knew that and he slapped down another dozen across the fleshiest parts of McCain’s cheeks. From where I sat it looked like his underpants had stuck to his bum. This severe over-the-knee little boy’s spanking had made his buttocks sweat.

Now, The Gaffer was gasping almost as much as his victim; the schoolmaster was not a very fit man and could not maintain such physical effort.

The final twelve slaps whacked into the underpants and it was over. Both The Gaffer and McCain were spent.

“Up boy,” The Gaffer wheezed.

McCain did not need telling a second time. He leapt to his feet and facing away from us the eighteen-year-old’s fingers probed first the uncovered portions of bare bottom and then under the thin cotton material of the white briefs, eventually he bent down to pull up his trousers, affording me a marvellous opportunity to see his tight bottom. The thighs were red raw and McCain would have difficulty sitting comfortably for some hours to come.

The show finished quickly. The Gaffer dismissed McCain and he shot from the room and ran from the school. In silence the rest of us left the room and went our different ways.

The next morning at gym class we all admired McCain’s bruised buttocks. In the past I had seen a few bottoms after they had been caned, but nothing looked this bad. The red marks I had seen as he pulled up his trousers were now a blueish-black and the whole of his rear end from the top of the buttocks beneath the spine, across the fleshy globes and into the thighs had the texture of leather. It would take more than a week before the bruises cleared completely.

We told him he had taken the spanking well (although he had howled the classroom down and I shouldn’t be surprised if he could be heard all over the school) and we called The Gaffer “a Geordie bastard” and so on.

It was the first and last time The Gaffer demonstrated his power and authority by administering a public beating, but it wasn’t the last time he beat a sixth-form boy, as I can personally testify. But that’s another story.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015. For the full series of The Gaffer of The Academy, click here

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Letter of Gratitude

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z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

Today I leave to travel to Newcastle to start my new job and new career. I will be living 200 miles away from you and I know our lives will never quite be the same again. How can I express my gratitude for all you have done for me and the love you show me?

I am shamed when I look back at how much I resented it when you took me in to your home and gave me a roof over my head when I was eighteen. I now shudder when I think how different things might have been. I would probably today be sleeping in a shop doorway or at best I’d be in some homeless men’s hostel maybe with a job sweeping floors somewhere. Now the world is my oyster. I owe it all to you.

When you persuaded me (Ha! Ha! Persuaded, let’s be honest forced me kicking and screaming) to take up that college course I resented the hell out of you. Going back to school at nineteen. I didn’t know then how much you wanted the best for me and you were prepared to make sacrifices. You were the first – and probably still the only – person ever to do such a thing. I didn’t know at the time just how much you loved me. You said you would do what it takes to get me on track: on the straight and narrow.

I didn’t believe you. I do now. I remember the first time you took your belt to me and leathered my backside. Do you remember the fight? You grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me face down over the back of the sofa and setting my rear end on fire. Nobody but you would ever have done such a thing. Such a kindness. My own parents all but abandoned me. Was it any surprise I dropped out of school and wandered through life aimlessly. I know it’s a cliché but you were my guiding light in a storm.

I spent much on the next few months appreciating the pattern on the carpet in your lounge. Me across your knee; you pounding a paddle across the seat of my underpants. Ha! Ha! I can laugh about it now; but then, not so. It took a while for me to appreciate you had my best interest at heart. That ‘contract of objectives’ we drew up was a masterstroke. I set my goals in life, we worked out how to measure my achievements and if (indeed often it was when) I fell short you were there to catch me; with that goddamn  paddle, or that heavy leather taws. Where did you get that?

I owe it to you and your efforts and yes your love that I passed my examinations and won a place at the university. Me, at university! No one in our family – not even you dear uncle – had ever achieved such a distinction.

We thought I was ready for the challenge. We thought I was mature enough to set sail on my own, so I signed up at a university away from home. From your home, from the place that I call home and with your permission would like to think of my home always. I was now absent from your day-to-day influence but I carried in my heart the lessons you had taught me.

Uncle, you know what happened next. I was nearly twenty-one years old, but I regressed to being sixteen again. My studies started well, but the cheap beer in the student guild bar and the women – oh there were so many women available. How was I to know I was such a handsome chap (Ha! Ha!). Uncle, the women came to me. Of course, the inevitable happened. By the second semester I was in danger of failing my courses. Disaster. But once more you rode to my rescue.

Who but my loving Uncle would take the time and the effort to take me in hand. You explained that women were all right in their place. A young man has needs. But there has to be a balance in life. We drew up one of those contracts. Time for study, time for women. Once the assignments were written, I could allow myself a treat.

Your insistence on what you called “reinforcement” was a master stroke (or strokes, Ha! Ha!). I appreciate greatly your sensitivity. You knew I lived in the student halls of residence where the walls of the rooms were paper thin. I needed to be “dealt with” but this was a relationship best kept between us two. The rest of the student population need not know of our arrangement. The Motel With a View, on the A-287 trunk road was perfectly discreet. It was the first (but by no means the last) time I felt that intense sting that can be delivered only by a stout but whippy rattan cane used in such a determined manner. I remember you piled three pillows on the bed. I removed my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear to lie face down on the bed. I chewed the fourth pillow. My what strength you have. I have never been forced to sit on an electric fire but if I were ever made to do so it could not possible hurt less than one of your canings. That time it was twelve stripes. Ouch! Each searing into my flesh. As you know (you’ve seen it at close quarters often enough, Ha! Ha!) my bottom is really quite small. There is no meat back there to speak of so your lashes sank deep and left behind terrific welts. My bum felt like corrugated cardboard at the end. Oh how I needed that pillow.

Yes, Uncle I owe everything to you. Without you I should never have graduated university. And, now look at me, a young professional man with a future ahead of me. I don’t know however I shall be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But dear Uncle I have a request. Please don’t abandon me now. Newcastle is so far away and the temptations in my new life will be so great. You have taught me well, but I fear for the future, please reassure me that you will be there for me, ready to whip me in to shape when the occasion demands.

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Old Boys

z used drawing master cane jonathon (2)

The headmaster always enjoyed the annual Old Boy’s Reunion; especially the canings he dished out.

It had become a ritual; two of the most revered Old Boys would not leave until they had each received ‘a proper’ six-of-the-best from the headmaster. When some years ago it had first been put to him that he should order them to his study, lecture them on their misdeeds and then command each to, “bend over that chair,” he thought he was having his leg pulled.

It was the school’s Bursar who raised it. He was one of the most venerable members of staff and had even been at the school when the Old Boys were pupils. The headmaster thought it was a bizarre idea, a bit kinky even, but had to respect the Bursar and hear him out.

“It goes on in schools across the land, you’ll be surprised,” the Bursar said. And the headmaster was.

“What harm can it do?”

Corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal at least fifteen years previously and the headmaster had never beaten a boy in anger. The two Old Boys were at least ten years older than he; it was absurd. One was a High Court Judge and the other a member of the House of Lords for pity’s sake.

“Headmaster, if you humour them I am sure we can get a new chemistry lab out of this,” the Bursar told him.

The headmaster laughed out loud at the suggestion; he had forgotten that each of the Old Boys were great benefactors of the school and had donated substantial amounts of money in the past and the Bursar was probably right; if he indulged them now they would give even more in the future. He agreed to go through with it.

The headmaster’s study needed surprisingly few alterations; it hadn’t changed much in the years since the Old Boys were pupils. The oak-panelled walls remained and the desk was surely as old as the hills; but the computer had to go.

The headmaster was embarrassed about having to go through this charade and wanted as few people as possible to know, but he had to rope in Mr Higgins, the school historian. He had set up a small school museum with mementos such as photographs of past headmasters and school rugby teams; but it also contained memorabilia including an old school desk, a blackboard and easel and, oh glory!, the tall thin cupboard that once stood in the corner of the headmaster’s study; including its contents: a dozen whippy rattan canes.

Higgins was alarmingly eager to supply the headmaster with everything he needed. He had indeed been an enthusiastic beater of boys’ bottoms when the law still allowed and he fervently hoped the legislators might someday reverse the decision. Perhaps, Lord Barnaby might be prevailed upon to raise the issue in Parliament.

Higgins had also kept the punishment books, where records of canings were kept. They dated back nearly a hundred years. He took great delight in reading them and recollecting the Good Old Days when boys showed their masters proper respect. And if they didn’t, they would soon be signing their names in the punishment book and nursing throbbing backsides.

Higgins’ name appeared many times in the book. On one day he had caned six boys for six different offences. One was Rodgers T. E.; he was in the sixth-form and thought he was immune to the rules. Higgins soon disabused him of that idea. He had been found in possession of a bottle of beer, despite the strict no-alcohol rules. Higgins confiscated the Watneys Pale Ale and took Rodgers to a classroom where he ordered him to bend across a school desk.

Try doing that today, Higgins thought, it’s all lawyers and childrens’ rights. But, back then, Rodgers knew he had no choice and despite being eighteen years old he went over the desk without complaint to show Higgins his arse for six top notch stingers from the master’s favourite ‘senior’ cane. He still had that cane. Rodgers was in some distress, the beating had been that severe, but he took it like a man and Higgins respected him for that. Later, alone in his digs, reminiscing the day’s events, Higgins enjoyed the boy’s beer.

The headmaster now had all that he needed, but he knew he had a problem. His two Old Boys were presumably very experienced receivers of the cane, but he had never even seen one, never mind used one. They would expect a proper thrashing, not just a tap on the bottom for old time’s sake.

Once more, Higgins had the solution. He was an expert caner and although it had been many years since he last lashed a rattan into a boy’s stretched trousers, it was surely like riding a bike; something you never forgot how to do. Let him be the one to administer the Old Boys beatings, he suggested, fervently hoping the headmaster would agree.

“No, I fear it has to be me, they seem to insist it is a headmaster’s caning.”

“Oh,” Higgins replied trying to hide his disappointment. But, he explained a “headmaster’s caning” did not only mean a caning from the headmaster; to schoolboys throughout history and all over the British Empire, a “headmaster’s caning” meant an exemplary severe thrashing; something to be dreaded.

The headmaster did not like the sound of this. What could he do?

“I can teach you how to use the cane to inflict maximum pain.”

The headmaster was grateful, but how could this be done? Would it be enough simply to whack the cane down into a cushion? Didn’t they need a real person to be on the receiving end?

Yes, Higgins agreed, they did, and he knew exactly the right person for the job, but it would be tricky to explain this to the headmaster.

“I have an acquaintance who might be willing to act as your guinea pig, so to speak,” Higgins did not want to say too much about Timothy Hutchins, a young man who hired out his backside to clients willing to pay for the pleasure of beating it black and blue.

The headmaster considered discretion in the matter to be paramount and was unwilling to bring a total stranger to the school for the headmaster to practice his caning technique. That’s how the headmaster met with Timothy one evening at Higgins’ dismal apartment in town.

It took the headmaster no more than an hour to progress from novice to expert caner. Timothy was a trooper, he did not object when asked to remove his trousers and underpants so the headmaster could see exactly where his cane stokes landed. At first, he was way off target, but soon he was landing them exactly where he wanted.

With accuracy sorted, the headmaster practiced severity. He was alarmed at the damage a single lash of the cane could inflict on flesh and began to doubt the wisdom of the whole enterprise. Could he really do this to the two Old Boys, even if they wanted him to?

“Don’t worry, headmaster. The bottom will not mark if the boys are wearing trousers.” Higgins knew he was telling a lie, but it was the only way to make sure the headmaster went through with it.

So, suitably prepared, the headmaster awaited the Old Boys’ Reunion.

The plan was surprisingly simple. The Old Boys wanted to be punished for committing real offences. What could be easier than to catch them smoking cigarettes? In the old days that would get them a caning from their housemaster, not the head. But, repeat offenders would find them on the list for a headmaster’s special caning. And, truly, both had been caned at school for smoking at least once.

Higgins had the pleasure of saying, “Barnaby, Bennett, report to the headmaster’s study. At once.”

The two boys walked in silence through the school quadrangle, into North Building and up the narrow staircase to the corridor leading to the headmaster’s study. They were reliving times in the past when they had last made this journey. Time can be deceptive. This wasn’t today, for them, this was thirty-five years ago.

They reached the study door and halted. As if in a dream each checked that their appearance was immaculate; shoes cleaned, ties straightened. Each was wearing the blue and yellow striped school blazer of their youth. Many of the Old Boys had these blazers and liked to dress up for the reunion day. Some secretly wished they could complete the outfit with their grey flannel short trousers, long grey knee socks and school cap, but these were not clothes that could easily be worn in public.

The two boys shuffled their feet, seemingly unwilling to take the next step.

“You knock.”

“No, you.”

“Oh come on,” Lord Barnaby, or now, plain Barnaby, C. T. E. knocked.

“Enter!”

They held their breath. Then Bennett took the handle, turned it and opened the door.

The headmaster sat behind his huge oak desk, resplendent in an old fashioned academic gown.

“Stand there, both of you,” he pointed to the carpet. The headmaster was used to hectoring misbehaved boys and his stern lectures were well rehearsed. He had giving tongue-lashings to many of them across the years. They did very little good. The truth was that it was impossible to punish a boy beyond giving impositions or lines. This was a boarding school and the pupils had very little liberty, so being placed in detention meant very little to them.

Since being introduced to the cane, and encouraged by Higgins, the headmaster had begun to believe that corporal punishment might be beneficial to his school. He could easily think of six or seven repeat offenders among his present boys who would profit from a sore backside. A cane laid on with force would soon buck their ideas up a bit. All it would need was one visit to the headmaster’s study for a ‘proper’ caning while bent across the desk, or over the back of the armchair. Six strokes whacked into their trouser seats; they wouldn’t be back in a hurry after that.

The headmaster eyed the two grown men standing before him: Barnaby and Bennett. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of it.

He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and read from it. “Smoking again. You have both been caned by your housemaster for this before. Is that true?”

Mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” from both of them.

“Barnaby, you have been caned twice before.”

“Sir,” said with real misery from his Lordship.

The headmaster gave his “cigarettes are bad for you,” lecture.

Only yesterday he had delivered a different lecture to two fifteen-year-old fifth-formers; their rudeness and arrogance to their masters had resulted in a visit to the headmaster. But, they had seemed unmoved by his words. He was certain they would be back on his carpet before too long. Oh, how he now wished it was them in front of him and he could whack some manners into them through their backsides.

Oddly, in his imagination, Barnaby became Probert and Bennett became Turner. No longer were they fifty-something middle-aged men, they really were two snotty fifteen-year-old schoolboys, deserving of a thrashing.

Yes, he would certainly give these boys the thrashing they so richly deserved.

Probert, you first, he thought, but said out loud, “Bennett you stand at the back of the chair. Barnaby, face the wall; hands on head.”

Meekly, both boys did as instructed.

The headmaster picked up a crook-handled rattan cane and thoughtfully bent it between his two hands.

“We shall see how you like the feel of this, Bennett,” without intention, the headmaster was speaking in an old-fashioned, upper class accent; like something out of a 1930s film: he had suddenly become Mr Chips.

“Bend over boy.” Bennett, expertly positioned himself; head down, bottom high, legs apart. As with Higgins, a caned boy never forgets how to present his backside to the satisfaction of the headmaster and his cane. Could it really be thirty-five years since his last headmaster’s caning?

Right Probert, you have been asking for this for a very long time. The headmaster raised the cane and brought it crashing down across Bennett’s trouser seat with great force. The boy gasped, but stayed in position.

“One Sir, thank you, Sir,” Bennett was reciting a ritual from days long past.

He thanked the headmaster for each of the five stingers that followed. The headmaster knew he had done a good job, his cane had left marks across the seat of the boy’s trousers and it was clear that the cuts had fallen neatly in a half-inch group across the centre of his buttocks. The headmaster would not know but the cane had bitten into the fleshy cheeks so deeply that welts had already risen.

It was with an extremely throbbing backside that Bennett rose from the chair and stood by his friend, hands on head, facing the wall. He desperately wanted to rub away the agony in his aching bottom, but the ancient schoolboy ritual did not allow this. Only when he was dismissed from the study would he be able to show that he was in any pain. Until then, he had to tough it out.

Turner, your turn, the headmaster thought, “Barnaby, your turn,” he said aloud.

The boy took up his position behind the chair.

The headmaster was enjoying himself. He swished the cane through the air a couple of times, before intoning the words all schoolboys once dreaded. “Bend over that chair.”

Barnaby was across the chair in an instant, eager to feel the lash of the cane. The headmaster eyed his target; he saw the backside of fifteen-year-old Geoffrey Turner, raised his cane high and let fly.

“One Sir, Thank you Sir,” his Lordship intoned.

He took his six-of-the-best like the man he was. The headmaster put all his effort into cracking his whippy rattan into the proffered buttocks.

“Phew!!!!” Barnaby thought, but could not say. This was the best thrashing he had ever had in his entire life; at school or after.

“Get up boy. Both of you stand in front of my desk.” The two punished schoolboys shuffled on the carpet, hands behind their backs, sneakily patting their raw buttocks with their thumbs.

The headmaster scolded them some more and dismissed them.

They sauntered from the study, as if they had no cares in the world. Once the door closed behind them, each boy jumped up and down on the spot, rubbing furiously at his buttocks.

“Crikey! What a whacking!” Bennett said.

“Quick let’s find the bogs. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” his friend responded.

And, that’s how it started. Every year they return to his study for six-of-the-best and each time the headmaster chooses from among the present crop, the boys he would dearly love to thrash with his cane.

Picture credit: Jonathon

This story was first uploaded in September 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Called in for a Caning

new story 2

In February 2006 Mr R. A. F. Brightlington-Pugh, a former housemaster at the Ridgeway private boarding school in the west of England, passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-seven. Some years later, his great-great-great-great nephew found a leather-bound travelling chest containing diaries he had written during the 1930s and 1940s. This present story Called in for a Caning was inspired by the diary entry for 14th July 1939.

Other diary stories here

z used pyjamas up contrite armchair london

One supposes that Wilkins thought it was a spiffing good idea at the time. It must have seemed like a jolly good jape. He must have expected the other fellows in the sixth-form to think of him as a hero. I expect he changed his mind after I called him in for a caning.

Can there ever have been another schoolboy in all the land in all of history who visited his housemaster’s study on the very last evening of his school career for a farewell six of the best? That was Wilkins. Tomorrow he and his fellow senior boys will for the last time take the up train away from Ridgeway never to return. Their days as schoolboys ended forever.

Wilkins is a darned fool and he deserved everything he received.

As far as I can tell it started three days ago when Wilkins, who considers himself both an artist and a clown, chose to combine both attributes. He drew a caricature of a schoolmaster resplendent in academic cap and gown that had a very passable likeness to myself. The figure was brandishing a crook-handled cane with (I must relate) a rather demented expression on his face. If that had been the be all and end all of the matter I might have let it rest. I am not a man lacking humour. I could have passed the drawing off as a piece of end of term ragging. One is allowed to let one’s hair down (as I believe the current vulgarism has it) just before the hols.

Alas, there was more to the drawing than simply an over-excited schoolmaster. For, included in the picture was another figure. This one – a boy, clearly a sixth-former, and I believe intended to be a likeness of Dewhurst one of the top scholars in his set ­– was shown bending across the back of a rather worn armchair. It was clearly intended to represent a scene in my study. There can hardly be a boy in my House who has not had close contact with that particular piece of furniture at some time. Indeed, one or two of the senior boys have more than a passing acquaintance with that chair.

One might have left it there. Visits to the housemaster’s study for a beating are part of a schoolboy’s life. I know such experiences stay with many ‘old boys’ long after they have departed school and made their way in the world. Indeed, on Founder’s Day when many of them return to Ridgeway I have on occasion been approached with the request to administer to them six-of-the-best for old time’s sake.

But I digress. It is true that Wilkins’s caricature showed myself beating a boy. But that alone was not the reason why I summoned the boy to my study. His depiction went a little further. For in Wilkin’s imagination Dewhurst was bent across the chair his trousers at his ankles and underwear at the knees and I was flogging his bared buttocks with my cane. The result of my endeavour was clearly visible across the cheeks of the submissive boy.

And the expression on my face was not meant to be ambiguous: I was enjoying myself thoroughly.

I have no idea if Wilkins expected to get away with this outrage. I understand the drawing circulated freely among the sixth-form boys and I have no doubt to other forms beyond. It would be only a matter of time before the identity of the artist became widely known. It is possible that Wilkins intended to be found out; why would such a talented artist hide his light under a bushel? There is no glory in anonymity.

It was my junior colleague Mr Mainwaring who drew my attention to the outrage. He had intercepted the caricature’s circulation among the cricket First XI. It was then but a matter of time before the full story emerged. It was entirely correct of Mainwaring to report the matter to myself, but did I detect a certain curling of his lip as he handed it to me? I have seen that look of insolence with the boys many times. Is Mainwaring himself in need of a trip across my armchair?

Wilkins was the culprit. He knew that I knew, but I resolved to keep my powder dry. I would not immediately call him in for a caning. Let him wait; he could stew a while. He might even start to believe that no retribution was coming. Poor fool.

I am not generally a vindictive man. Generally when a boy is discovered misbehaving I deal with the matter promptly. “Bend over that chair. Head low, bottom high, feet apart.” Then swipe, swipe, swipe – six stingers across the stretched backside. Then, “Stand up boy. Now get out.” It is over in a trice. Crime committed; punishment accepted and we both get on with our lives.

Not so with Wilkins. There were still two days to go before his final night at Ridgeway. I would bide my time. At last as the boys were changing into pyjamas minutes before lights out, I sent an emissary to the senior boys’ dorm. “Wilkins attend Mr Brightlington-Pugh’s study.” Naturally, I was not present when the message was delivered, but I expect it was received with dismay. So, it was not to be, Wilkins had not been excused. “Hard luck, Wilkey,” his fellows would have commiserated with him, while quietly relishing that one of their own was about to receive a severe bowing. Boys can be cruel creatures.

“Attend at once,” the message was clear, “In your pyjamas.”

It was an early summer evening and most of the boys’ clothes were already packed away in trunks ahead of tomorrow’s journeys home. Wilkin had no dressing gown so appeared at my door dressed only in his regulation grey-and-white-striped pyjamas and house shoes. His rat-a-tat knock was confident, defiant even. He knew why he had been called in, there was no doubt in his mind that this was not a social visit. I had not asked him to drop by so that I could bid him farewell and offer my felicitations for a successful future.

“Enter!” I growled. The door sprung open and Wilkins appeared. He is a tall athletically built eighteen-year-old boy, who stands an inch or so taller than myself. Like his fellows, his hair is cut very short. His face is a little scarred by spots and there are signs around his upper lip that he might soon need to start shaving. Despite these outward appearances that he is a man he is decidedly nothing of the thing. He is a boy. Legally he becomes a man when he attains twenty-one and even then I have my doubts that many boys are truly ready for manhood even at that age.

Here at Ridgewood we insist that all pupils wear smart short trousers as part of their school uniform until they attain the age of sixteen and enter the sixth-form. Personally, I should be very content if they continued to wear short trousers until the day they left school in their nineteenth year. A Ridgeway boy is instantly recognisable in the locale. In additional to the dark-grey short trousers that reach to an inch above the knee, he wears a bright red woollen blazer with white edging; a red-and-white-hooped cap and grey knee socks with red tops.

I beckoned Wilkins into the study. I waved the offending caricature at him, rather as Mr Chamberlain did with his famous piece of paper declaring peace in our time. I had no message of peace for Wilkins; far from it. I accused him of being its architect and he immediately confessed his crime. I will say this for a Ridgeway boy, he is an honourable chap. It is undoubtedly true that he will try to break each and every rule we set for him and many times they escape undetected. However, if they are caught, they make no complaint and accept their punishment.

I had rehearsed a little something to express my displeasure with the boy’s insolence.  Disrespect; Impudence; Impertinence; were some of the words I threw at him. I acknowledge I had consulted a thesaurus earlier in the day. I make my own confession now; I have when occasion dictates a little of the ham actor in me.

Wilkins took it all on the chin. He stood on the worn rug feet slightly apart, hands behind his back, his head a little bowed and brow furrowed. His temples shone with perspiration. I jawed him for a while and then the case for the prosecution completed, I allowed him to speak in defence. He had nothing to say in mitigation and in a rather half-hearted way, he said he was sorry.

“Bah!” I ejaculated. “Sorry! Yes, Wilkins. Sorry! You soon shall be.” I hauled myself from my chair and conscious that the boy’s eyes were following me nervously I ambled across my study towards a hat stand in the corner. I always have two crook-handled canes dangling from it, so that I am constantly ready for action as it were. Earlier, I had hung my special Malacca cane there. This cane although no longer or thicker than my others is a rod of great density. It will pack a punch like no other. To be beaten with this is an awesome experience, even for the most battle-hardened senior boy such as Wilkins.

I reached up and took down the Malacca. I tuned to face Wilkins, his hazel eyes sparkled, his face paled. I flexed the cane between my hands thereby demonstrating its extreme flexibility. Then I swished it through empty air. It made a terrific whoosh! as it flew. This little pantomime served no practical purpose, I was already acutely aware of the rod’s properties. As I say, I do have a bit of the ham actor about me.

I swished the cane once more and pointed it at one of the two armchairs in my study. This one was the older of the two, the upholstery was worn across the back and so was the cushion; generations of schoolboys had leaned over that chair and gripped the seat for all they were worth. Now it was the turn of Wilkins to uphold that tradition.

The eighteen-year-old was no stranger to my study, nor my rituals. Without further instruction, he took the four paces necessary to reach the chair, I watched him take a deep breath, then he rubbed the palms of his hands together before leaning forward. He placed his head low and his bottom high then he spread his feet thereby offering his pyjama-covered backside at a perfect angle to receive the attention of my cane. I had to admire his fortitude. He was ready to accept just punishment. I took a moment to admire the tableau. Wilkins is a star of both our rugby and cricket teams, he is quite the athlete. His body is firm and his limbs are loose. In this position, his firm buttocks stretched against the cotton pyjama bottoms seemingly lifting and separating each cheek. The muscles in his thighs emphasised the roundness of his bottom. He stared down at the seat cushion, breathing evenly, waiting patiently for me to do my duty.

I fingered the cane and once more flexed it into a bow. I was ready to go. I took up a position about three feet to his left (a cane’s length) and gently tapped the Malacca across the very centre of his bottom, a half inch or so below the highest point of his mounds. I tapped some more, perfecting my aim. I was about to raise the cane to then bring it swiping down with maximum force when I stopped myself short. An idea had taken me.

“Stand up Wilkins!” I could see the look of astonishment in the boy’s still sparkling eyes. He pulled himself to his feet, his puzzlement evident on all his features. I swiped the cane through the air. I confess that my heart was thumping and my throat was more than a little dry. I croaked at Wilkins, “I think the seriousness of your offence is such that an exemplary punishment is called for.” I saw the boy’s face fall. I do believe he was one step ahead of me and had guessed my intention.

“Lower your pyjama bottoms Wilkins and step out of them.” I swear the sound of his gulp could be heard in the quadrangle outside of my study. His mind raced. I believe I could read some of what he was thinking. A bare-bottomed thrashing! On his final evening at school. For a second he contemplated a refusal. If he had said No! what would I have then done? He is undoubtedly bigger and stronger than I. He would win a brawl with ease. I would be left humiliated; my only recourse would be to ask the headmaster to expel him. What a humiliation that would be (for me)! Wilkins is due to leave Ridgeway tomorrow, he has already taken his examinations, expulsion would have no consequences for him.

I swiped the cane down hard across the apex of the chair. “Pyjama bottoms down. Step out of them. Bend over!” I made the command with more confidence that I actually felt. Wilkins bit down into his bottom lip, then not looking at me, he fumbled with the drawstring of his pyjamas. It took longer than one might expect for him to complete the task. The pyjamas tumbled to his feet and without hesitation he stepped out of them. He turned and dived across the back of the chair with alacrity. He wriggled into position, head low, bottom high, feet apart. I took three deep breathes. I was back in control.

Writing this diary less than an hour later I can reflect almost soberly (well, I have had a glass of whisky) that all is well with the world order. Wilkins, a schoolboy, understands his place. That is to obey his superiors (his “betters” as the lower classes like to say) without question.

Wilkins presented his bared bottom to me for punishment. Slowly and methodically I placed six cuts across the quivering meat. I started in the very centre of his cheeks across the highest peaks, then I struck slightly below and then slightly above that first marker. By the time I was finished he had six deep stripes running in parallel across his posterior in a group about two inches wide. If I may say so myself it was an expertly administered thrashing. Of course, Wilkins played his part; his stoicism and ability to stay in position, bottom raised even under such terrible fire, made my task that much easier.

With the six-of-the-best duly delivered, I ordered him to stand, he quickly retrieved his pyjama bottoms, put them on and tied himself up. I believe I detected a hint of admiration behind his by now very watery hazel eyes. I offered him my hand to shake. I think he deserved that. He had taken his beating like a man. I rather think I shall miss Wilkins.

I will keep his caricature with my other treasured memories of Ridgeway.

 

Picture credit: CP Services London

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Coach and the Schoolmaster

z used gym sport shorts horse waiting sting (31)

Coach Needham missed being able to spank the backsides of his rugby players: it had very nearly won them the league.

He hadn’t started it; there was already a tradition at Barnaby Rugby Football Club where the guys would whack the arses of newcomers with a heavy clothes brush. He supposed it was following some American frat house initiation, but it turned out it was something South African Springbok rugby players used to do: they might still be doing it for all he knew.

The coach wasn’t involved; it was one of those “secret” rituals that everyone knew about.  Nobody complained, not even when some of the lads were over-eager and beat one new boy black and blue, leaving him in tears.

The lads at Barnaby were mostly in their late teens and early twenties; the club was professional, but in one of the minor leagues, a long way from the Springboks. The guys were well used to corporal punishment, the cane was widely used in schools and the Coach doubted if there was a backside in the team that hadn’t felt the sting of a schoolmaster’s rattan at least once or twice.

He didn’t know how it happened because it wasn’t planned, but the clothes brush soon became a regular motivator at training sessions or after matches. Say, a guy hadn’t been pulling his weight in a game, if his team mates complained later the lazy player would be made to bend over a vaulting horse and Coach Needham would set his buttocks on fire.

All the players seemed to accept it, it did wonders for team spirit, and the Coach firmly believed it did motivate the guys to do better in future; these were severe spankings, they weren’t blowing smoke here.

The team were having a great season and Needham was convinced his little motivation sessions had a lot to do with it; they might even win the league the way things were going. Then, it all collapsed. It wasn’t his fault, the Coach told anyone who would listen; it was that pillock Trump.

Trump was one of their wingers and he had a dreadful game, he fumbled the ball just about every time he got it and he was easily tackled when he tried to race down the pitch.

The whole team was moaning at the end of the match and some of the lads even reckoned he had been drinking before the game. If that were true, Coach Needham would have thrown him off the team, but there was no proof so he had to let it go.

What he couldn’t let go was his captain’s demand that they put Trump over the horse and warm up his backside. The Coach was up for it, but he didn’t know about Trump, he was a bit of a wimp and might not go through with it.

He was wrong, he hadn’t accounted for peer pressure: if Trump refused to take his punishment the other lads would have ostracised him and a player couldn’t survive at the club like that.

“Right, lads,” Coach Needham announced, “Let’s give Trump his spanking.” That was the cue for the whole team to gather round the horse to get a prime view of the boy’s bottom.

Everyone could see Trump was petrified; he did not want to be doing this. The lads weren’t bothered about that; three or four of the onlookers had themselves been over the horse this season, they had felt the agony of the brush but they had let their friends down and knew they had deserved what they got.

“Come on Trump, bend over.”

Very reluctantly the boy stepped up, leaned his stomach on the top of the horse and lowered himself across; he grabbed on to the legs and closed his eyes. He was as ready as he ever would be for his spanking.

There was no great ceremony; Coach Needham picked up the brush and approached the boy. All he could see was Trump’s backside, his head was blocked from view. His shorts were clinging tightly to his cheeks and everyone in the audience could see the outline of Trump’s jockstrap: there wasn’t much there to protect him.

The Coach pulled at the waistband to make the shorts even tighter, took a step back, raised his arm high and brought down six crackers into Trump’s arse, so quickly a sound like machinegun bullets echoed round the room.

Trump let out a squeal that started when the first whack ignited a fire on his left cheek and continued long after the last blow assaulted his right. It felt like his entire arse had been set alight; he couldn’t help himself from bawling his eyes.

His team mates, embarrassed by the spectacle, melted away to get changed, leaving Trump running up and down on the spot in a useless attempt to stop the agony.

Trump’s mother complained to the club two days later. Coach Needham was incredulous when the chairman called him in. “He’s twenty-two years old for Christ sake; don’t tell me he went running to his mummy and said, ‘Look what the nasty man’s done to my bot-bot.’”

But he had; and now she was going to sue the club; she was also talking about calling the police to charge Needham for assault.

The club wanted Needham to resign, go quickly and the club would smooth it over with Trump, maybe offer him some money as an out-of-court settlement.

Needham was furious; they were making him a scapegoat. Lots of people knew about the spanking games at the club, nobody had complained. They were all adults after all; he wasn’t like that coach who was in the news for spanking thirteen-year-olds in the back of his van.

He had no choice but to leave that day. He was out of work for a long time and had to move to the other side of the country before he could get his present job, coaching a bunch of lousy part-timers.

They were a badly motivated crew; some of them skipped training when they felt like it; others treated the team as a social club; just a place to meet their friends, they weren’t bothered about the rugby.

Coach Needham itched to put that clothes brush across one or two (no, more like eight or nine) backsides: he knew from experience at Barnaby’s it would work. It would literally lick them into shape.

One day after a particularly unproductive training session, he was alarmed to see a dapper middle-aged man waiting for him outside the changing room.  The man looked so like a lawyer, he thought his past at Barnaby’s was about to catch up with him.

He tried to dodge the man, but there was nowhere to run.

“Excuse me, are you Coach Needham?” he even sounded like a lawyer. “My names Peterson; I’m Roy Peterson’s father.”

Roy was one of the team’s more promising players; one of those who took his training and the game seriously. Or more truthfully; he used to. Recently, he had become distracted and had even missed a training session last week with no excuse.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

They drove to a pub, wanting to avoid ones nearby where the players might be drinking.

Mr Peterson talked about his son. He believed he could have a future in rugby and play professionally and wanted advice on the best way to make this happen. The coach agreed this was a possibility, but he needed to buck his ideas up and knuckle down to training.

“He’s been missing training and he’s not putting the effort in.” He didn’t say that a damned good spanking would soon put him back on track, but it would.

Mr Peterson was angry, he had been subsidising his son for two years; allowing the boy to work part-time so he could concentrate on his rugby and he even lived with his parents rent free. And, this was how they were repaid. He would deal with his son later.

What Coach Needham didn’t know was that Mr Peterson was a schoolmaster at the local grammar school. He had seen the boys around town in their smart green blazers; the younger boys even wore grey short trousers. Needham had thought they went out of fashion years ago; but St Francis was a traditional school; traditional religion; traditional games; traditional teaching methods; and traditional discipline.

Peterson, as did Coach Needham, believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment: it really worked on the young and helped them to learn discipline. If a boy did not have self-discipline it could be imposed on him: with a whippy cane across the backside.

Peterson caned boys at St Francis and in the past he had also caned his son at home.

He believed in rules and obedience to them and he ran Roy’s life at home rather like a boarding school. There were set times to get up, to go to bed, to eat meals and there was a curfew for coming home at night. Roy knew the rules and he knew the punishment for breaking them.

The rules had been relaxed after Roy left school two years ago, but, after hearing about the boy’s absences from training, Peterson could see he would need to reimpose them.

Roy was not entirely surprised when his father announced he would cane him for missing training. He had been beaten often when he was much younger; St Francis was a “caning school” and the rattan was used very liberally, but he was about fifteen years old the last time he felt its sting on his bum.

Even at home his father caned his backside when he broke the rules; the last time was for defiance when he was eighteen. Roy had wanted to go to a concert with friends, but it would mean travelling out of town and missing his curfew deadline. His father refused to allow him home late, but Roy defied him and went anyway.

He knew the consequences would be a caning; he had received a few in the past, he knew how much it would hurt, you never get used to the pain of the cane, but he thought he could take it.

But, he wasn’t prepared for his father’s fury. It wasn’t the broken curfew that enraged him, it was the defiance of his clear instruction that he could not go to the concert. It had been a test of wills between the pair of them and there must only be one winner.

It was the first (and he hoped, the last) time Roy was caned on the bare buttocks; twelve lashes of the biggest and thickest cane his father could find at the school.

Now, he was facing his father once more. He had no excuses to offer for his behaviour; he was guilty of letting his mother and father down. He knew, but didn’t say out loud, he was struggling in the adult world. As a boy growing up there were rules and painful consequences for breaking them. He knew if he skipped school, or didn’t do his homework; he would be beaten; first at school, and then probably, again by his father at home.

In the adult world there were no consequences; if he skipped training nobody did anything about it and he wished they would. He wanted someone to take control of him; he was glad his father loved him enough to do so.

The caning was efficient, Mr Peterson was very experienced. First he placed a wooden chair in the middle of the dining room.

“Take down your trousers and underpants and bend over the chair, elbows flat on the seat in front.”

Roy blanched as he remembered how much agony he was left in after his last bare-bottomed caning. But, without a murmur, he did as instructed.

His father swished the cane through the air a couple of times and then tapped it on his son’s bottom to get his range, before slashing it hard onto the waiting target.

At about ten second intervals, he worked the cane down Roy’s quaking backside. The boy gasped as the first stroke flooded his brain with a sharp burning pain that had ignited his backside, then the second stroke lashed hard producing double the soreness, three, four and five went lower really stinging Roy’s bottom before number six lashed hard across the top of his thighs, making him scream in pain.

Mr Peterson had skilfully raised six angry weals across his buttocks. Roy would be unable to sit down in comfort for a day after.

The punishment over, Roy thanked his father. This was their customary ending to a caning; it was usually no more than a ritual, but, this time Roy really meant it; he hoped with his father’s encouragement he could improve as a rugby player and one day become a proper professional.

The next day at the club, Coach Needham noticed Roy wince as he sat on a hard wooden bench. He knew from the past what caused a boy to do this and was pleased; at least one of his rugby players would be playing to his full potential in future.

Picture credit: Sting pictures

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Fragment of a Memory

new story 2

Fortescue unscrewed the cap of a new whisky bottle. More of the amber liquid splashed onto the table as into the glass. He raised it and gulped. It had been years since he had actually tasted the stuff. Somewhere in the room a wireless played inane disc jockey chatter.

He leaned against the window and peered out, seeing nothing. Dark clouds blocked the sun. Another dull, grey day. He drained the glass, sucked in breath and hacked phlegm into his throat. He reached for the bottle and rattled another drink.

Three paces away was his chair. If he concentrated very hard, he could make the distance. One pigeon step at a time. Concentrate man.  It wasn’t much of a chair. Not like the sumptuous leather one he once had his study. This was cheap wood, with a foam cushion. It made his back hurt.

Fortescue slumped. His chest hurt. He leaned forward trying to get his head between his knees. Damn! More whisky spilled.

He slumped back into the chair, head flopping. Soon he would be asleep.

A door opened and closed nearby. He could just make out excited voices of young men. His head dropped onto his chest.

It is a summer’s afternoon. About four o’clock. School has ended for the day. Most of the boys have returned to their homes. Some are at cricket practice. Fortescue can hear their merry voices drifting on the breeze. One young man is not so merry. Chippindale stands in trepidation, hands on head, facing the wood-panelled wall. The study is stuffy, smelling of old man’s sweat and cigarette smoke.

Fortescue sits behind his huge walnut desk. He leans back in his chair and places his hands behind his head. He stretches. He stares intently at the prefect. His pale-grey trousers fit snugly, displaying two chunky buttock cheeks: lifted and separated. The muscles in his back are taut. His gleaming-white cotton shirt clings to the contours of his torso. Even across the length of the study Fortescue can see the damp patch at his shoulder blades.

Fortescue hauls himself to his feet. Slowly, for he is in no hurry and wishes to savour every moment. He crosses the study to the tall, thin cabinet. His hands shake slightly as he tugs open the door. The array of canes is impressive. He doesn’t have to count them, he knows exactly the extent of his arsenal. There are seven assorted rods, some with the traditional crook-handle; most made of rattan and two are dragon canes. The dragons are ideal for thrashing older boys; but today Fortescue has another idea.

The Malacca cane. It is no bigger or thicker than any of the other canes; but it is denser. This Malacca has notches every three inches or so along its length. These cut into the flesh and leave severe bruises and welts; even when applied to a boy’s bottom covered with trousers and underpants. When applied “trousers down,” even on the underpants, it rips at the meat of the buttocks. A boy carries the marks of such a thrashing for at least a couple of weeks and sitting down is a painful business for many days following. As Chippindale is about to discover.

Fortescue flexes the rod between his hands. Perfect. Dense, but whippy. He relishes the sound it makes as he swipes it through empty air. He turns towards the prefect. “Turn. Stand there.” He points the cane at a rather worn rug in front of his desk. He swipes the cane once more, studying Chippindale’s clear, open face, now clouded with concern.

The prefect shuffles into the required position. Fortescue stands, cane tucked under his arm. “Trousers down,” he barks. Without hesitation Chippindale reaches for his belt buckle. Fortescue allows himself a smile. It is all right, he tells himself, the boy cannot see you. It would not do to show his pleasure.

The belt now undone, Chippindale starts on the trousers. He has some trouble with the fly buttons. Fortescue watches intently as the front of the eighteen-year-old’s trousers open, revealing the white briefs beneath. “Down boy. All the way.” It is an unnecessary command. Chippindale is well trained. He knows the headmaster must be obeyed: without question.

The pale-grey trousers slip down Chippindale’s thighs but snag at his knees. He opens his legs a little and they continue their journey south and rest in a puddle at his feet. “Bend over. Touch your toes.” Another barked order.

Chippindale has been here before. He knows toes means toes. Right down. There is to be no resting hands on knees or gripping shins or ankles. He sucks in a lung-full of air and stretches forward. The tips of his fingers brush the toecaps of his shoes. Fortescue’s tongue darts in and out of his mouth, rather like a lizard. The prefect’s knees are slightly bent which thrusts his buttocks out, making his smooth cotton white underpants hug him.

z used school white pants touch toes sting (1)

Fortescue flexes his cane once more, seduced by it springiness and power. He looks at the prefect now submissive before him, the muscles on Chippindale’s legs are tense, the buttocks firm and inviting, the back arched. Fortescue advances, now eager to get on with the job. He stands beside the boy, grips the tail of his shirt and pulls it away from the target area, exposing an area of bare, hairless back. He cannot help himself; gently he caresses the proffered buttocks, running his right palm across each mound, discovering that a single cheek fits the size of his hand perfectly.

Fortescue positions himself a pace or two to Chippindale’s left; a cane’s length. He takes his aim, tapping the tip of the dense Malacca cane in the centre of the far buttock. He can scarcely disguise his pleasure when Chippindale’s body tenses and his buttocks clench in anticipation of the pain about to be unleashed.

Any moment now.

Swish! The cane swipes through the air and lands with a resounding Thwack! across the centre of Chippindale’s bum. A thick line forms across the tight, thin cotton pants. A perfect shot. Chippindale hisses, sounding like a steam engine settling down. It is a reflex action, he can’t help it. It’s a natural reaction, his body has to do something to cope with the pain.

Fortescue waits. In his head he is counting to twenty, giving enough time for the prefect’s body to register the stroke, for the burning sensation to travel across the stretched buttocks. Then, just as the agony is easing to mere pain – Swipe! The second cut lands; again dead centre of the backside, but this time a little lower. Now, Chippindale has a line of fire about an inch wide across his stretched flesh.

The headmaster is an expert with the cane. The boys say his beatings are awesome. They should be too – Fortescue gets plenty of practice. Chippindale’s hair is soaked with sweat; his face is as scarlet as his buttocks must be.

The cane flies and lands higher this time. Three perfectly parallel lines. The boy will have something to show his pals later. Fortescue takes pride in his own prowess.  Chippindale wriggles his hips left and right. His fingers leave the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumps to his feet, but stops himself just in time. He doesn’t want extra strokes.

“Keep still boy!” Fortescue’s voice echoes around the study. He is incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice.

The headmaster pauses. He lets Chippindale settle, then takes careful aim. The fourth goes high. Chippindale rewards this with his first clear yelp. The prefect breathes hard, drawing gulps of air into his lungs. Fortescue takes a step back, the better to see the four distinct welts that are throbbing beneath Chippindale’s skin-tight underpants. A job well done, the headmaster congratulates himself.

He puts swipe number five lower, into the fleshiest part of Chippindale’s buttocks. Where there is most padding. The cane sinks deep into the meat before springing back, leaving another clearly-defined weal. Chippindale stifles a yell, Fortescue hacks out a dry cough.

The final stroke. Chippindale braces himself, Fortescue smiles broadly. All the boys at the school know about a headmaster’s caning and that last stroke. He adjusts his position, places the cane at a diagonal across both cheeks so it goes bottom left to top right. He taps it so Chippindale has no doubts about his intention. Fortescue likes the way the prefect’s body tenses, his shoulders heave. Here goes, he thinks to himself as he raises the cane high and with the effort a golfer might give when teeing off, he lets fly.

Whop! The cane goes at the speed of sound before crashing into Chippindale’s bum. It falls across the previous cuts and sets each one of them on fire again. Chippindale grips his ankles, determined not to show the intense pain. He wants to jump up and dance around clutching at the scorching flesh. But, he doesn’t. It takes a super-human effort to stay down, bent over, fingertips on toes. He is a beaten boy, he wants to scream and holler but he won’t. He wouldn’t give the tyrant headmaster the satisfaction.

Fortescue knows this. Of course, he is aware of the schoolboy code of honour. He would never tell the boy but he is rather impressed with his fortitude. He loves nothing more than a senior boy who can take a proper thrashing. Fortescue catches his breath and slowly paces the study and opens the door to his cupboard. He replaces the cane and turns to look at Chippindale still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively. A master and his pupil.

The headmaster returns to his desk, opens a drawer and finds the book he is looking for. He writes the details of the beating, omitting the fact it was administered trousers down.

“You may stand Chippindale.”

Hot, sweaty and very sore, the prefect straightens. Fortescue knows he is desperate to rub away at his backside. He is in no hurry. Let him suffer, he thinks. “Sign.” The headmaster slides the punishment book across the desk. Chippindale hesitates, he has no pen.

“Bah!” Fortescue has no patience, he delves back into the desk drawer, rummages around and finds a pen. He rolls it across the desk.

Chippindale signs his name.

“You are dismissed. Send in the next boy.”

Fortescue’s chin slips, he slumps from the chair, catching himself just in time before he tumbles to the floor. He tries to shake the dullness from his head and stumbles towards the bottle. From somewhere he hears a voice faking jollity, “And, now for the ten o’clock news.”

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This was a story abut The Tyrant Headmaster, for more click here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com