Drama in the Housemaster’s study

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z used study (48)A theatre play

The scene is set in the housemaster’s study at an elite public boarding school. It can be set anytime between the 1930s and the early 1960s but it has to be ‘old fashioned.’ If theatre resources allow the room should have wooden panels. At the very least it must have an old wooden desk with a chair for the housemaster. In one corner there is a hat / coat / umbrella stand. Hanging from it are at least three traditional whippy punishment canes. There can be more but however many are available, the canes must be of different lengths and thicknesses.

There are two characters the HOUSEMASTER who is aged fifty-plus. Ideally, he will be dressed in an academic gown. His mortar-board cap can hang alongside the canes. If the gown is not available, he should be dressed in a formal suit. He may leave the jacket hanging also.

The second character is REYNOLDS, a senior boy. He is eighteen years old and soon to be leaving the school. He is dressed in traditional school uniform of pale-grey trousers, grey socks and black shoes. He also wears a white shirt with a striped tie. He should also wear a school blazer with a crest. Since this is an elite school it is preferable that his blazer is not just a simple black one. Ideally it should have some colour (red, blue or green are typical) or it can be in different colour stripes. There is no need for him to be wearing a school cap.

Throughout the scene the HOUSEMASTER adopts a stern visage and tone of voice.

 

THE SCENE

HOUSEMASTER (H.M.) is seated behind his desk. There is a whisky bottle (almost empty) on the desk. He holds a glass in his hand and is staring blankly into the middle distance. There is a knock on the study door that wakes him from his apparent stupor. Suddenly realising that the bottle and glass are visible, he hurriedly opens a drawer to his desk and hides them there.

H.M. Come!

The door opens slowly and REYNOLDS stands half in and half out of the doorway.

H.M. Don’t dawdle boy. Come in.

REYNOLDS reluctantly enters the study. He stands uncertain what to do next.

H.M. Close the door boy.

REYNOLDS closes the door.

H.M. Stand and face the wall boy.

H.M. waves his arms about and vaguely indicates a spot against the wall. REYNOLDS shuffles into position. He slouches.

H.M. Stand up straight boy. Hands on head.

REYNOLDS does this. H.M. sits still at his desk. It is obvious that he has no pressing business to attend to. He merely wants to make Reynolds wait; to let him stew. After a few moments H.M. rises from his chair and slowly paces the study. REYNOLDS can hear his footsteps and turns his head slightly to see what is going on.

H.M. Face to the wall boy!

H.M. paces some more staring intently at REYNOLDS all the while. After about one minute of pacing H.M. returns to sit at his desk.

H.M. Turn around Reynolds. Stand there

H.M. indicates a spot in front of his desk. REYNOLDS tries to look unconcerned (although he is). He slouches.

H.M. Straighten yourself up boy. How dare you present yourself to your housemaster in such a fashion.

REYNOLDS straightens himself up with his hands by his side. Thinking this makes him look too much like a soldier, he clasps his hand behind his back. He looks directly at the H.M.

H.M. Well Reynolds you know why I have summoned you.

H.M. pauses expecting an answer and when none comes he continues.

H.M. I have it on good authority that you have been frequenting The Three Fishers public house.

H.M. pauses once more. REYNOLDS looks ahead blankly. He starts at a spot somewhere over the H.M.’s shoulder.

H.M. Well boy what have you got to say for yourself.

REYNOLDS shrugs his shoulder but does not answer.

H.M. Pah! Don’t add dumb insolence to your crime boy. Were you or were you not in The Three Fishers?

REYNOLDS. [Almost inaudibly] Yes sir.

H.M. Speak up boy. Were you in The Three Fishers?

REYNOLDS [Louder] Yes sir.

H.M. leans forward in his chair and steeples his fingers. He glares at REYNOLDS.

H.M. You are aware that The Three Fishers is out of bounds. To all boys. Seniors as well.

REYNOLDS. Yes, sir.

H.M. You are aware that earlier this term the headmaster himself announced that fact.

REYNOLDS. Yes, sir.

H.M. And yet Reynolds you took it upon yourself to ignore the headmaster’s instruction.

REYNOLDS stares down at the floor and wrings his hands behind his back.

H.M. Well Reynolds. Do you believe the headmaster’s instruction does not apply to you.

REYNOLDS continues to look at the floor.

H.M. Well boy! Answer me Reynolds!

REYNOLDS. No sir.

H.M. No sir. That is correct Reynolds. The rules apply to you and to the other boys equally. You have deliberately flouted the headmaster’s instruction and for that you must be punished.

H.M. hauls himself from the chair and paces the study once more. He stops at the hat stand. REYNOLDS follows his progress with his eyes. H.M. looks intently at the canes dangling. He chooses one and flexes it between his hand. He acts as if he had never seen the cane before. He puts it back and takes a second cane. He flexes this as before. He swishes it through the air. He puts that back and selects a third. He flexes and swishes it. Then he turns to face REYNOLDS.

H.M. I shall cane you Reynolds.

REYNOLDS looks alarmed. He waves his arms.

REYNOLDS. You can’t do that sir. Cane me. I’m in the Sixth. A senior. Seniors aren’t caned sir.

H.M. glowers at REYNOLDS. He flexes the cane menacingly.

H.M. How dare you Reynolds! Such impertinence. I shall cane whomsoever I wish.

REYNOLDS. But sir. I’m a senior. Eighteen. I’m too old to be caned.

H.M. leans into REYNOLDS. He is so close the boy can smell the whisky on the H.M.’s breath.

H.M. As long as you remain a pupil at this school REYNOLDS you are never too old to be caned.

REYNOLDS. But sir. It’s not done sir.

H.M. Not done! Not done. It might not have been done before in recent history but never have I been faced with a wretch such as you Reynolds.

H.M. wobbles the cane and points to his desk.

H.M. Take off your blazer. Leave it on my desk.

REYNOLDS rubs sweat from his face.

REYNOLDS. Sir you can’t cane me. Really you can’t.

H.M. Outrageous! Truly outrageous. If you do not comply with my instruction immediately, I shall take you to your headmaster. Rest assured he will flog you before putting you on the next train away from here. Expelled Reynolds. Never to return.

REYNOLDS is sweating. He stares anxiously at the cane in the H.M.’s hand. He looks across at the desk. Slowly, he unbuttons his blazer, slips it from his shoulders and carefully places it on the desk.

H.M. wobbles the cane and points to a spot in the centre of the study.

H.M. Stand there boy.

Reluctantly, REYNOLDS shuffles to the spot. H.M. swishes the cane through the air.

H.M. As you were quick to remind me Reynolds you are a senior boy, I shall deliver a senior boy’s beating. [He pauses for dramatic effect] Take down your trousers.

REYNOLDS looks shocked. His mouth gapes. He thinks about making a further protest. The words “But sir” form on his lips, but he says nothing. There is a long pause before, his hands shake as he struggles to get his belt undone and the fly buttons of his trousers open. The trousers are open but he holds on to them so they don’t fall.

H.M. Drop the trousers Reynolds.

REYNOLDS lets go and the trousers fall to his feet. He is wearing traditional white cotton Y-front underpants.

H.M. Bend over boy.

REYNOLDS glares at the H.M. before he bends down and places his hands on his knees.

H.M. All the way REYNOLDS.

REYNOLDS grabs his shins.

H.M. Pah! Right down boy. Touch those toes. Knees straight.

REYNOLDS struggles to get into the right position.  H.M. watches him thoughtfully flexing the cane in his hands. At this point the theatre group must decide how to proceed with the caning. It might be possible if REYNOLDS keeps his back to the audience for some protective padding to be hidden inside his pants. Or he may be required to bend at such an angle that it looks like he is being caned, but the cane actually misses – it would prove difficult to do this in such a way that all members of the audience wherever they are seated are deceived. It is also possible that the young actor playing REYNOLDS is sufficiently dedicated to his craft that he is prepared to take an authentic caning. This would be the author’s preferred course of action but it is recognised that if the play has a long run at a theatre the actor will have to endure a corrugated bum for the entire duration.

H.M. tucks the cane under his arm and then takes hold of the elasticated waistband of the underpants and pulls so that they hug the contours of the buttocks. There should be no creases in the cotton. He then gently rubs the palm of his hand across first the left buttock and then the right. He gives one cheek a playful slap. Then he slips the cane from his arm into his hand. He steps back and stands to the boy’s side and gently taps the point of the cane across the very centre of the buttocks. REYNOLDS visibly flinches. H.M. “saws” the cane from side to side across the tensed buttocks. He raises the cane and swipes it across the buttocks with tremendous strength.

REYNOLDS. Ouch! Oww!

REYNOLDS shakes his hips. Almost raises from the touch-toes position. Steadies himself.

H.M. Tucks the cane behind his back and slowly paces the study. He reaches the far end and from a distance he admires the figure of the submissive boy. He does this pacing after delivering each stroke. H.M. knows that the boy’s buttocks are blazing and it will take a few seconds for the intense agony to ease before he can lay on the next stroke. He paces back to the boy and takes aim again. A little lower this time. REYNOLDS visibly tenses. H.M. swipes the second. H.M. tucks the cane behind his back and paces again. Then he repeats the tapping and sawing and delivers the third stroke.

H.M. I trust I am getting through to you Reynolds.

REYNOLDS [Gulps and gasps] Yes sir.

H.M. Will you be visiting The Three Fishers again?

REYNOLDS. No sir.

H.M. I’m very glad to hear it.

H.M. tucks the cane under his arm and with both hands he takes hold of and pulls at the elasticated waistband of the underpants.

REYNOLDS. Oh no sir. Please no sir.

H.M. Snorts. He peers under the cotton at Reynold’s backside. He is only checking to see how accurately his cuts have landed. He lets go of the waistband, tugs again and with the palm of his hand he smooths creases from the cotton.

H.M. A fine set of marks so far Reynolds.

REYNOLDS shuffles his feet slightly. He is finding it hard to take this severe caning.

H.M. [Barks] Keep still boy. Steady. Let me get on with my job.

H.M. taps and saws and whacks down stroke number four into the underside of the cheeks. REYNOLDS yelps and starts to stand. He just about manages to steady himself and bends over again so that he brushes the toes of his shoes with his fingers.

H.M. Yes Reynolds. Stay in position. If you do that again I shall administer extra strokes. And we’ll see how you like it with your underpants at your ankles.

H.M. taps and saws and strikes across the centre of REYNOLDS’ bum. REYNOLDS’ body shakes. His head rises and shakes. It takes a monumental effort for him to stay bent over touching toes.

H.M. Nearly over Reynolds. Two more to go.

H.M. taps and saws and lands a terrific swipe. REYNOLDS goes through a litany of wriggles and shakes while yapping and yelping. H.M. presses his hand into Reynolds’ back to stop him jumping up. When he is satisfied the boy is steady H.M. paces the study. He returns, taps and saws.

H.M. Last one boy. Brace yourself.

H.M. swipes the hardest cut yet.

REYNOLDS yells. His knees buckle, he almost topples onto his face.

H.M. You may stand Reynolds. Get dressed.

REYNOLDS jumps to his feet and hops from foot to foot doing the spanking dance. Both hands grasp his buttocks and he rubs furiously. H.M. stares at him with undisguised contempt. After much jumping about REYNOLDS reaches for his trousers and pulls them up. He flinches as the trousers touch against his roasted bottom.

H.M. Take your blazer and leave.

REYNOLDS grabs the jacket from the desk and not waiting to put it on he rushes from the study. H.M. watches him go. Then, slowly H.M. walks across the study and returns the cane to the hat stand alongside the others hanging there. He is breathing heavily. Unsteadily he slumps in his chair at the desk and he tugs open the drawer. He grabs the whisky bottle and holds it up to the light. It is almost empty. A look of fear crosses his face. He doesn’t bother to pour it into the glass but raises the bottle to his lips and drains the last of the whisky.

Light fades to dark

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

At the Ambassador’s residence.

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z used otk high jeans bed bbfc (2a)

 

“Timmy, you really do have the most beautifully spankable bottom.”

“Thank you Ambassador.”

“It is so pert. Look I can fit one cheek in the palm of my hand.”

“Yes, Ambassador.”

“Your bottom is so solid. Buns, of steel I think people call them?”

“Yes, Ambassador.”

“These jeans show you off perfectly. Each cheek lifted and separated, like they used to say in that television commercial.”

“Ambassador?”

“Of course, with these jeans on, you don’t really feel a thing when I spank you.”

[Slap]

“I’m talking to you, Timmy.”

“Sorry, Ambassador.”

“I said you don’t feel much with these jeans on.”

“No, Ambassador, not much, sir.”

“Perfect. That means I could spank you all night long, and I must just possibly do that.”

“Oh, Ambassador.”

The man dressed in black clicked the pause button and the video stopped. He turned to his companion who spoke, “Who exactly is that?”

“The Ambassador from England, sir.”

“England. That figures. They’re all into that kind of thing over there.”

“Sir?”

“Spanking, whipping, canes and chains.”

“Yes sir, so I believe.”

“Who’s the boy? This Timmy?”

“We think “Timmy” is a codename sir. We have no record of a Timmy working at the embassy.”

“Could be an outsider? A rent boy?”

“No sir, we believe he works at the Embassy. It’s just not his real name. A clerk, we think. In Communications.”

“Where did you get this video?”

“We’d rather not say sir.”

“But it’s inside the Ambassador’s residence. You got it bugged?”

“Really, we’d rather not say sir.”

“Ha, the Department must keep it’s little secrets.”

“There’s more, if you want to see it; from other times.”

“Oh, what you got?”

“Let me run it on a bit. Here. Here he is with a kid called “Carstairs” – another codename. We recognise him, he definitely works for the Embassy. In Immigration.”

“What the heck’s going on here. What’s he wearing?”

“We think it’s a kind of historical re-enactment.”

“Child porn, that’s what it is. That kid’s dressed in school uniform. Short trousers, for chrissake.”

“And the Ambassador is dressed as an old-fashioned schoolmaster. In a cap and gown.”

“What’s that he’s holding?”

“It’s a cane, sir. It’s what they used to punish naughty schoolboys with.”

“Well, I can see this time the spanking, or whatever y’call it, is for real. Did they really beat them on the bare?”

z used school cane bare armchair (5)

“I believe it was quite common, back in the day, sir.”

“Well, you live and learn. Those yelps sound pretty authentic.”

“Yes sir, we have other videos, the Ambassador really gets off on this.”

“Huh. What does he do when it’s over? Do we have other video?”

“Do you mean sex, sir?”

“Yes. I mean sex.”

“No sir. At least they don’t do anything in that room, sir.”

“You don’t have the bedroom bugged?”

“Oh no sir, we do have some standards.”

“Ha! Your little joke. You mean you haven’t found a way to get in there yet?”

“What would you like me to do with this video sir?”

“You mean how are we going to use it?”

“Well … sir? Blackmail is a dirty word.”

“Indeed. But we do have some sensitive trade talks coming up. And we do need to upgrade our military.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Leave it with me. I’ll have someone get back to you.”

“Sir.”

The man dressed in black waited until he was alone. He took a half-empty bottle of whisky from the drawer of his desk and poured himself a generous slug. He took it back to the laptop and started the video again. He sipped slowly on his whisky. “Yes,” he thought, “Timmy does have the most beautifully spankable bottom.”

 

Picture credits: British Boys Fetish Club / Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

For your own good

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When Aunt Sharon told Marcus to get up and go down to the sitting room because Uncle Phil wanted “a little word” he grunted, turned over and pulled the duvet over his head. It had been a late night (early morning actually) and his stomach hurt. Kababs on top of all that beer did that to you.

Aunt Sharon returned five minutes later and hammered on his bedroom door. “Now!” she yelled. “Don’t make me have to tell you again.”

But, Marcus was not convinced. Why all the hurry? It was Saturday. He had all day.

“Do you want me to come in there and drag you out of bed?” Aunt Sharon refused to be fobbed off.

“Wor.. awlrite,” Marcus groaned, “I’m getting up.”

“You better be.”

“Hold your horses, I’m coming. What’s the fuss?” Marcus slipped the duvet off his bed and was a little surprised to see he still wore his shirt, underpants and socks. “Just how drunk were you last night?” a voice inside his head asked.

“Come on. Chop chop,” Aunt Sharon chivvied him. “We haven’t got all day.”

“Why not,” Marcus called rudely, not realising of how much trouble he was in.

At last, five minutes later he sauntered into the sitting room, his stomach still rumbling and his head fuzzy. The back of his throat was raw from too many cigarettes and shouting to be heard in a crowded bar.

“Morning Uncle Phil,” he croaked, failing to notice the older man’s face was like thunder.

“Afternoon, more like,” his uncle retorted. “What time did you get in last night?”

Marcus shrugged, not only because of insolence, but he genuinely had no idea.

Uncle Phil frowned, “What are we going to do with you Marcus?”

The nineteen-year-old frowned himself. He didn’t understand the question. The silence in the room was intense. Uncle Phil stared sadly at his nephew. Marcus, now embarrassed by his confusion looked down at his feet. What was he supposed to say?

“We were happy to take you in Marcus. When you won a place at the university. We were so proud do you. Your mum and dad. Me. Aunt Sharon.” Uncle Phil sighed. His own throat was drying. “But look at you son …” he wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “It’s all going wrong.”

Marcus still looked at his feet. His head was aching hard now. He wished he had swallowed a couple of aspirin before coming down.

“Do you have nothing to say for yourself Marcus?” Uncle Phil got up from the couch and paced the room, finally stopping so he and Marcus were eye to eye. “Nothing?” Uncle Phil sighed again. “Really? You’ve been nothing but trouble since you arrived. You stay in your room all day and go out – goodness knows where – all night. You’ve been skipping college and don’t try to deny it. Your results are going to be woeful. You’ll probably fail.”

He paused to let that sink in. Then he went on, “You come home drunk. I’ve told you about it before. You know I have. I told you you were grounded. Not to go out last night. But look. You went out anyway.”

Marcus sucked on his bottom lip. His pale face coloured red. He felt like a small boy being told off. Uncle Phil hadn’t finished. “So not only did you come back drunk, you disobeyed me. My direct order. What are we going to do with you Marcus?”

Silence fell again. Uncle Phil’s own face reddened. He had expected an answer from his nephew, not this dumb insolence.

“Well,” Uncle Phil, retorted. “If you don’t know. I do,” he growled ominously. I’ve spoken to your dad about this. He agrees.”

Marcus grimaced. He still could not follow what was being said. “Wor…?” he said, confused.

Uncle Phil paced the room, he found it hard to catch his breath. His heart raced. He shook his head rapidly from side to side. “We’ve tried everything with you Marcus. Everything. Nothing works. You are getting worse. You’re on a slippery slope, son. If we don’t do something about it now, where will it end?” Now he shook his head wearily.

Silence fell yet again. Marcus stood feet apart, hands behind his back, feet splayed. He just wanted this to end. His head was killing him.

Uncle Phil paced some more. Marcus’s eyes followed him as he went. “You leave me no choice, Marcus. None at all. It is entirely your fault.” Uncle Phil stopped by the dining table. For the first time since entering the room Marcus saw the large, oval headed hairbrush resting there. His eyes blinked furiously. Uncle Phil picked it up and gripping it in his right hand he brandished it at Marcus.

“No choice,” Uncle Phil said miserably, “You leave me no choice son. I don’t want to do this. It’s for your own good.”

Marcus coughed with surprise. “Wor…?” he tried to form a sentence of protest, but the words would not come.

“A spanking. A jolly good spanking, that’s what you need. What you deserve,” Uncle Phil waved the brush once more. Marcus’s face reddened. He coughed again. Now he had found his voice. “A spanking,” he snapped incredulously. “You can’t,” he added with little confidence. “You can’t. I’m too old for a spanking.”

Uncle Phil looked closely at the heavy wooden brush in his hand and then turned his attention to his nephew, now standing very embarrassed before him. “Ordinarily, I’d agree,” he said reasonably, “But we’ve tried everything else with you and nothing has worked. You leave us no option. I don’t want to do this. But maybe it’s just what you need. A short, sharp shock to bring you to your senses. To get you back on the straight and narrow.”

Marcus’s jaw dropped. He left his mouth gaping. He couldn’t think of an answer, except to beg, “Please Uncle, don’t spank me, I will be a good boy. I promise,” like he was eight years old. He wouldn’t do that. He had too much pride. But, a spanking. How humiliating. Nineteen years old and getting his bottom blistered with Aunt Sharon’s hairbrush.

“Come on then Marcus,” Uncle Phil picked up a heavy plastic chair and moved it into the middle of the room. He sat down, wriggled his bottom to get comfortable and leaned against the back of the chair. Then, he spread his legs. He gripped the brush and as his eyes moistened, he said, “We love you to bits Marcus. Like our own son. I don’t want to do this. But you’ve left me no alternative. A damn good spanking might just work. Perhaps, next time you want to skip college or go get drunk, you’ll remember this and think again.”

Marcus shook his head, like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly. He could not believe it. Uncle Phil wanted to spank him. He stared disbelievingly at his uncle. He was strong, fit man but Marcus knew that in a fair fight he, Marcus, the younger man by far would win. He could push Uncle Phil off his chair and storm from the room. He could tell him, “Shove your spanking!” He could, but what then?

Marcus had no time to think it over, but an obvious conclusion would be Aunt Sharon and Uncle Phil would kick him out the house. Mum and Dad would go mental. Marcus would never hear the end of it. Where would he live? Would Mum and Dad stop sending him money so he could continue at college?

Marcus could not take his eyes off the brush in Uncle Phil’s grip. Uncle Phil’s stare burned into him. We love you to bits Marcus. Like our own son. I don’t want to do this. But you’ve left me no alternative. Uncle Phil was not a tyrant. He and Aunt Sharon had always been kind to Marcus. Now, look how he had repaid them. Marcus chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“Come Marcus,” Uncle Phil spoke softly. “I think you should take down your jeans. They’re thick. I don’t think you’d feel much of this,” he slapped the brush into the palm of his own hand, “with them up.”

When later that day Marcus looked back on this moment, he couldn’t remember a thing. He must have been on autopilot. His face shone bright red as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. At last it was open. He popped the button on the waistband and tugged at the zipper fly. The baggy jeans tumbled down his thighs and snagged at the knees. Marcus pushed them down until the bunched at his feet.

“Good boy,” Uncle Phil spoke gently, “Now come, bend across my knee. There’s a good boy.” He tapped his right thigh gently with the brush in case Marcus did not understand the instruction. Marcus sucked his lip again. He looked carefully at Uncle Phil’s lap. As if weighing up the best option for getting his body into the required position. He leaned forward, rested his palms on Uncle Phil’s right leg and gently eased himself down. He had never been across an older man’s knee before, and nor had he seen anyone else do it, but instinctively he knew what to do. He stretched his arms ahead of him and rested his palms into the floorboards. Behind him he bent his knees slightly so that the tips of his socks hovered above the ground. Positioned like this, his bottom rested across Uncle Phil’s knee. Marcus did not know, but he had presented his bottom submissively at a perfect angle for the spanking he so richly deserved.

Uncle Phil looked down at the boy. He was mightily relived Marcus had not put up a fight. He was a good boy. He would grow to become a fine man. He just needed guidance. He would get that now. Uncle Phil did not relish the task he had to perform. It was unpleasant. But necessary. He owed it to Marcus to discipline him. He would not let him off lightly. He needed to be spanked. And it had to be a proper spanking. One he would never forget. They would both be wasting their time if he did not lay it on thick.

“You deserve this spanking Marcus and you know you do,” he said as he smoothed the cotton shorts so that they fitted the nineteen-year-old’s bottom snugly. The cheeks had some meat in them, but Marcus was nowhere near a fat boy.

“This is for your own good, Marcus,” Uncle Phil wheezed as he crashed the heavy, wooden hairbrush into the very centre of the left cheek. He didn’t give Marcus time to react before hammering it across the right buttock. Marcus sucked in air. His stomach and head already ached, now his bottom did too.

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Marcus shut his eyes tightly. This cannot be happening, he told himself. I cannot be across Uncle Phil’s knee having my backside blistered with a brush. The increasing pain in his bum told him otherwise. Uncle Phil put all his energy into it. He was a man on a mission. He was no zealot. He was doing this for his nephew. One day, Uncle Phil hoped, once he had safely graduated from university, Marcus would thank him for it.

For now, he had a task to perform. He whacked the brush across the peaks of Marcus’s mounds. He spanked the undercurves (the part that connected with the chair whenever Marcus sat down) and he went high into the flesh just under the boy’s back. Then he went around the circuit again. And again.

Marcus wriggled his hips and kicked his legs. He couldn’t help it. He was out of control. It was his body’s natural reaction to all that pain. But stoically, he stayed in position; head low bottom high and allowed Uncle Phil to spank the living daylights out of him.

His bum was hot, then it burned. Marcus had never sat in a bathtub of boiling water, but he reckoned that wouldn’t hurt as much as this spanking.

“I hope you’re learning your lesson, young man,” Uncle Phil preached as he aimed the brush across the backs of Marcus’s thighs. A series of grunts was the only response he got.

Uncle Phil didn’t keep count, but he probably landed close to two hundred swats across his nephew’s rear end. That was enough. Besides, his own heartrate was off the scale and the back of his shirt was soaked with the sweat of his exertion. It was time to stop.

Marcus lay across his Uncle’s lap, gasping for breath. His bum was on fire. He had never felt such pain before. He wheezed. He felt sick. His stomach had been bad enough, but after being turned upside down over Uncle’s knee he was close to vomiting. He struggled to his feet, nearly tripping over his jeans. He pulled them up to their correct place and zipped up. The burn in his bottom was easing. The intense agony had calmed into an intense throbbing. Soon that would become a dull ache.

Uncle Phil stared at the brush in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. “Will I have to do that again, Marcus?” he asked, almost kindly. “No, Uncle,” Marcus gasped. His stomach rumbled. He needed to get to the bathroom fast.

“Good boy. Now let that be an end to it. You had better go to your room. And remember Marcus: We love you.”

“Thank you uncle,” Marcus gulped as, with his hand clutched to his mouth, he sped through the door.

Aunt Sharon entered the room. “Well done, Phil. You did the right thing.”

“I know,” he replied, handing her the brush. “Now, what about a cup of tea?”

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

His first time

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z used cane father bare bed darrien (1a)

SWISH!! The cane fell in a blurred arc on the firm, pert naked cheeks raised high over the edge of the bed. It only took a second for a thin white stripe to change to a vivid scarlet welt.

Air escaped through Michael’s clenched teeth; it sounded like a steam engine settling down. It was followed by a long, piercing banshee-like wail. This was the first time in all his twenty-one years Michael had felt the firm rod of discipline. He screwed his eyes tightly shut against the intensity of the pain.

Unremittingly, the second stroke swiped into his quivering cheeks, landing an inch below the first. Michael’s cheeks clenched together; it was a reflex action, their way of protecting themselves from the assault. Now, Michael gave a loud and pleading yell.

“Yoewwwww! No please stop. No! No! No! Oh please Seymour, No more! No! I can’t take it!” But Seymour was in no mood for mercy. He waited for the cheeks to relax again before he lifted the yellow, whippy rattan cane high above his head, paused a moment and brought it flogging down across the naked buttocks. It fell just below the previous two, in perfect parallel.

This time Michael’s slim, athletic legs kicked up, and he tried to rise from his shameful position, but a firm hand in the centre of his back held him face down against the mattress.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! No more, no more!” he pleaded.

“You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party, flirting with everyone. You showed yourself up. You humiliated me,” Seymour replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long cane.

“But I love you Seymour, how can you hurt me so much?” Michael’s head bounced up and down. To demonstrate just how much, Seymour laid an even firmer stroke across the lower curves of the boy’s bare bottom. Michael screeched in agony; tears shot out of his eyes, soaking the bedcover. Seymour was unmoved. The cane rose and fell rhythmically delivering the stinging correction.

Michael twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting, fiery rod. His feet stomped up and down. His legs flailed.

But then something unexpected happened. Michael’s yells softened into deep groans; then they became more relaxed. His frantic breathing was more regular and even. His bottom rose to meet the challenge of the cane. Seymour saw what was happening. He changed his strokes; now they fell more rapidly, but were gentler and directed low down at the centre of Michael’s firm bottom.

“Oh Seymour,” Michael wheezed huskily, “don’t stop now, it’s such a wonderful feeling. What’s happening to me?”

“Oh Seymour. I’m coming. Oh. I’m coming. oh! oh! oh! ohhh!”

 

Picture credit: Darrien

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Late home from school

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Act your age

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Ted and his brother Derek were sipping pints in The Three Fishers. Ted was downcast, he was having trouble with his eighteen-year-old son.

“He acts like a little kid. I can’t believe it. He has this catapult. You know like one of those kids in the Beano comic. He smashed a window in Mrs Whittington’s greenhouse. She came to complain. I nearly died of embarrassment.”

Derek sipped on his beer and said philosophically, “Eighteen can be a very difficult age. They can act very mature and grown up and then suddenly they regress and behave like they’re eight again.”

Ted snorted, “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well for now, treat him like he was eight.”

“What you mean dress him up in short trousers and a striped jersey like Dennis the Menace?” Ted chortled.

“Something like that,” Derek nodded sagely. “Remember what happened to Dennis the Menace?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know. What happened to Dennis in the last picture of the story? Almost every week.”

Ted’s brow furrowed. He had no idea what his brother was talking about and told him so.

Derek’s face brightened, “He got the slipper. His dad took him across his knee and spanked his backside. Remember.” He gulped beer triumphantly.

Ted couldn’t work it out. He sipped more beer to hide his confusion. “You mean I should spank Gavin?” his face wrinkled with disbelief, “With a slipper?”

Derek took another sip. “Not necessarily with a slipper.”

The two drank on in companionable silence, then Derek went to the bar for refills. By the time he returned Ted had gathered his thoughts. “I can’t spank him. He’s eighteen. He’s too old to be spanked.”

Derek set the glasses on the table. “It didn’t stop Dad. Remember that time I got caught stealing magazines from Clark’s newsagents? I was nineteen. He whacked my backside with Mum’s hairbrush. Remember?”

Ted nodded, he did. He hadn’t thought about that in nearly thirty years. “Yes, but did it do any good?”

“Well, I never stole again.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Did it hurt then? Was that it?”

“Not really. It hurt a bit, but it was more ….” Derek blushed at the memory, “I just felt a right fool that’s all. Dad taking me across his knee and spanking me like a little kid. That was the  worst part.”

Ted stared into his glass. Would it work with Gavin? Would it stop him acting like a child? Would it stop him showing Ted up in front of the neighbours? He drank more beer. “But, he’d never let me,” he sighed, “He’s hardly going to bend across my knee when I tell him to,” he paused, hoping he was wrong, before adding, “Would he?”

Derek remembered that day all those years ago. He hadn’t been expecting it. There was no warning. One minute his dad was standing in the sitting room telling him off and the next thing he knew Dad was sitting on the settee and pulling Derek down and across his knees. Dad had total surprise on his side. Then whack-whack-whack. He pounded the seat of Derek’s football shorts with that goddam hairbrush.

Derek told his brother this. “Get your Laura’s hairbrush. Have everything ready. Wait for Gavin to come home. Tell him what a fool he’s been and then … Bob’s your uncle.

Ted listened carefully. It sounded easy. “Didn’t you struggle. Fight with Dad. I would have done.”

“Ha!” Derek sneered. “No you wouldn’t. Not you. You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.”

Ted smiled, he knew his brother was joshing. “Still can’t. If Gavin wants to he stop me doing it …”

Derek shook his head, “Not if you work it out. The first thing he’ll know something’s up is when he’s over your knee and staring down at the carpet. Then, you hammer that hairbrush into his backside for as long as you can.”

Ted drained his glass. “You’re bloody mad you are. Crackers. It’ll never happen. Do you want another?”

An hour later, not too much the worst for beer, Ted arrived home. Laura, his wife, was waiting with bad news. “I’ve had another complaint. Gavin’s put a cricket ball through Old Thommo’s window. He wants you to go and see him. He wants you to pay for the damage.”

“Oh bloody Nora, Laura!” Ted bellowed. “What is wrong with that kid? He ain’t retarded. He’s got those qualifications from school. He’s off to the tech. college in September.”

“I don’t know,” Laura’s chin wobbled. “He’s driving me to distraction. What on earth can we do?” She rose from her chair and ambled towards the kitchen, “Cup of tea, love?”

Ted sank into the settee. What could he do? Ha! His brother’s words came back to him. Dad was sitting on the settee and pulling me down and across his knees. Dad had total surprise on his side. Ted shook his head. No, he told himself, it would never work.

Laura returned with a tray and cups. “He’s up in his room now, sulking,” she said as she set the  tray down on the table. “Laura,” Ted began uneasily, “I was talking to Derek just now and he says …” They sipped their tea as Ted shared Derek’s plan. “What do you think? Should we?” he asked at the end.

He was alarmed by the eagerness of his wife’s reply, “Yes!” she said emphatically. “If it worked with your Derek, why wouldn’t it work with our Gavin?”

Ted’s mouth opened and closed. He tried but failed to find a reasonable objection. Both Derek and Laura thought it was a splendid idea. Ted was in a minority of one. “It’s all right for them,” he thought, but did not say aloud, “They’re not the ones who have to do it. What if Gavin laughs in my face. Or pushes me away. Or punches me in the face.”

Laura collected the cups, “I’ll put these in the sink, then I’ll go fetch my hairbrush.” She bustled from the room, leaving Ted alone to make his silent protest.

The brush was some kind of family heirloom. It had been Laura’s grandmother’s and possibly her grandmother’s mother’s. Nobody could be sure. What was certain was it had an oval-shaped head that was at least six inches at its longest point. It was made of ebony wood and was extremely heavy. “Here,” Laura said calmly, as she handed it to her husband. “I’ll go call him. It’s best if I keep out of the way.”

Again, she left before Ted could share his doubts. He swore under his breath. What had he got himself into? Was it too late to back out? Suddenly, his son loomed over him, “Wossup Dad?” he moaned, “I was in the middle of something.”

Ted noticed the zipper of the teenager’s jeans was half open. He just managed not to say, “Yes, and I know what it was.”

Gavin stood irritably. His huffing and puffing pushed Ted’s buttons. “I’ve had complaints,” Ted babbled. He hadn’t planned what he was going to say. He felt awkward. He wished Derek was there to help him along. “Catapult,” he blurted, “Cricket ball. Broken windows. Neighbours are complaining. Who’s going to pay for it?” It all come out in a rush.

Gavin’s long, angular face creased into a sneer.

“That’s just like you,” Ted tried to keep his temper. He had to stay calm, be in control. “You don’t care. It’s about time you started acting your age. You’re not a kid any more. A catapult. I ask you.”

Gavin stared at his dad, not hiding his scorn. Blah, blah, blah. Here he goes again.

“It can’t go on like this. It can’t,” Ted felt himself babbling. He needed to act fast. The element of surprise was vital. “You need to be taught a lesson. How to act responsibly. It’s for your own good,” he chided as he took hold of a dining room chair and placed it gently in front of the settee.

Gavin watched impassively. Then, his dad sat himself down on the chair. He reached out his arm. “Come here, son. This is long overdue.” Gavin was at least two inches taller but that didn’t stop Ted tugging him forward. The boy stumbled as he went flying face down over his dad’s lap. He had no control, his arms fell ahead of him and he had to rest his palms in the carpet to steady himself. His knees bent and his toes brushed the ground. Gavin couldn’t see it himself, but could feel his bottom was raised high over his dad’s knee.

Ted gripped the boy around the waist. He was going nowhere. He had never noticed it before but his son was thin and wiry. His jeans fitted him tightly and stretched across his buttocks so that each cheek was clearly outlined. Ted took a deep breath and smacked the palm of his hand against the meatiest part of Gavin’s left cheek. Then he did the same with the right.

“Hey, worr-you-doing? Gerroff! Hey! Stop it!” Gavin kicked his legs against open air. He tried to wriggle off Dad’s knees but the Old Man held him firmly down. Gavin waved his arms about, trying to reach back to protect his bottom, but his head was too low he couldn’t do it.

z used otk jeans chair (52a)

Ted spanked all across Gavin’s buttocks. The cheeks were solid; was this what “buns of steel” were? Soon the palm of Ted’s hand stung. In all the excitement he had forgotten the brush. It lay on the table within easy reach. He gripped it. The heavy weight felt good in his hand. Whap! He pounded it into the underside of Gavin’s left cheek. The boy gasped, wriggled and continued his protests.

To no avail. Ted had the boy where he wanted him. Face down, across his knee. Pinned in position. He could yell and holler all he wanted to, but that would not stop Ted. His confidence grew with each successive whack.

“Are you learning your lesson, son,” he wheezed. It wasn’t really a question. “I hope you’ll start acting your age now.” He spanked the hairbrush into the peaks of the cheeks. “This is for your own good.” Now, he went higher. The jeans had two thick pockets sewn into the seat, Ted tried to avoid them – they gave too much protection. Gavin’s hips wriggled and his bottom rose and fell. He was feeling this all right. Ted remembered Derek said his spanking hadn’t hurt so much. The thought encouraged Ted to spank right into the undercurve (away from the pockets) with renewed energy. “Ahhhh! Arrgggh,” Gavin cold not stop himself crying out.

“No more catapults. Be careful where you play cricket,” Ted was wheezing. He was not an energetic  man at the best of times, and now with five pints of beer inside him, he was slowing down. Gavin’s energy levels were higher. He wriggled his hips, and waved his arms like his life depended on it. His fury was unbounded. Put across his Dad’s knee for a spanking with a hairbrush like a little kid. Jesus, what if his friends found out.

At last, Ted admitted defeat. He was spent. If he carried on one minute more he might collapse in a heap. He released his grip on Gavin and the teenager bounded to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, trying hard to keep his temper. Why, for two bob he’d smack the bastard in the chops.

Ted stayed seated. He was getting his breath back. He watched his son moving around the room. The boy’s face was scarlet, his eyes shone. “Will I have to do that again,” Ted asked reasonably.

Gavin gaped. To his own astonishment he heard himself reply, “No Dad. Sorry Dad.” His could not meet his father’s eyes. He stood, hands behind his back overcome with embarrassment.

“Good lad,” Ted rose from the chair and, also self-conscious, returned the chair to its rightful place. “You’d better go back to your room,” he whispered.

Laura came in, carrying more tea. “That’s the first good idea your Derek has had in his life,” she giggled as he handed over a cup.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

Late for breakfast

Clubbing

The smoking schoolboy

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A drama in one scene

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A theatre play

The drama takes place sometime in the late 1960s / early 1970s. It is the sitting room / lounge / front room / parlour with typical furniture of the time, which could a settee, arm chairs, dining table, sideboard and television set. It must include at least one straight-backed chair.

Characters

UNCLE who can be aged anywhere between 40 and 55. He is a working-class man and should dress appropriately, such as dark trousers and a plain shirt. He could be dressed with no shirt but a discoloured singlet. He might be in work clothes, such as jeans or overalls.

NEPHEW aged 18. Ideally he should be slim and shorter in height than UNCLE. He can be dressed in basic jeans and shirt but if the theatre resources allow let him wear more “fashionable” clothes of the time such as baggy trousers, floral-print shirt and striped “tank top” pullover.

 

SCENE

Curtain opens onto the sitting room. After about five seconds UNCLE enters the room. He is guiding (not dragging) NEPHEW by the wrist. UNCLE takes NEPHEW to the centre of the room. Both stand while the dialogue takes place.

UNCLE [Not angry] I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve spoken to you.

NEPHEW shakes his wrist free and stares shamefaced at the floor.

UNCLE. Ever since you came to stay with me and Aunt Jane you’ve been nothing but trouble. [Waves his arms about.] You treat this place like a hotel. You stay out til all hours. Last night you came home drunk.

NEPHEW looks at his Uncle opens his mouth as if to protest but thinks better of it.

UNCLE. I’ve spoken to you about this before. Haven’t I?

NEPHEW shrugs shoulder and looks down at the floor.

UNCLE. Doh! Is that all you can do? Shrug your shoulder. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself.

NEPHEW gives a half smile, showing indifference.

UNCLE. Nothing I seem to say gets through to you lad. Nothing. Well, you leave me no alternative. You’re getting a spanking. That’s all.

NEPHEW. [Gapes] A spanking? But …

UNCLE. No buts. You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I said you had to be home by ten-thirty every night but you ignored me. You’re always rude to Aunt Jane. I told you about that. You don’t do yourself any favours.

NEPHEW. But uncle, I’m too old for a spanking.

UNCLE. Ha! You are not too old. If you don’t know how to behave, I’ll have to teach you. A spanking will soon bring you to your senses.

UNCLE picks up a straight-backed chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room.  NEPHEW stares uncle wide-eyed.

NEPHEW. But uncle  . ..

UNCLE sits on the chair.

UNCLE. Stand there.

UNCLE snaps fingers and points to the floor by his side. NEPHEW stares at his uncle. Twists his fingers with embarrassment.

NEPHEW. But uncle ….

UNCLE. Don’t “But uncle” me. Do as you’re told. Right now!

NEPHEW shuffles to the spot.

UNCLE. Right. Take down your trousers.

NEPHEW. [Gaping. Panicking] No uncle! No. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

UNCLE. I know you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve spanked you. You’ll remember it next time you want to be rude to your aunt or stay out late. Now get em down.

NEPHEW takes a step back, looks around him as if he is thinking about running away.

UNCLE. Are you going to take those trousers down or do you want me to do it for you?

UNCLE reaches forward and takes hold of the waist of NEPHEW’S trousers and pulls him forward. Tries to unbuckle his belt. NEPHEW tries to retreat but UNCLE has grip on his belt.

NEPHEW. No, no uncle. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Really.

UNCLE. I’ve given you lots of chances. You threw them all back in my face. This is what you deserve. I don’t want to spank you. You don’t give me any choice. You need to learn to behave. You’ll thank me for this one day.

NEPHEW. But uncle. I’m eighteen. I’m too old to be spanked like a little kid. I’m an adult.

UNCLE. You are not an adult until you’re twenty-one. That doesn’t make you an adult anyway. You have to act like an adult. Take responsibility. You don’t do that. I’ve tried with you. God alone I’ve tried. We even thought about telling you you had to leave. We couldn’t stand it anymore. Do you want that? Do you want to go live in some stinking bedsit somewhere?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Right then. Take down them trousers.

UNCLE waves his hands up and down in front of NEPHEW

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle.

NEPHEW’s hands shake as he fumbles with the buckle of his belt. At last it is open. He pauses and looks at UNCLE seeking pity, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. UNCLE watches him impassively. NEPHEW unbuttons the waist of his trousers and then pulls the zip fly. He looks at UNCLE who is wriggling his bottom to get comfortable on the chair. NEPHEW lets the trousers fall down his legs to his feet.

UNCLE. Good lad. Now, come bend over my knee.

NEPHEW has a look of horror on his face. He stares at UNCLE who parts his legs to make a platform for NEPHEW to bend across.

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle … please.

UNCLE slaps his own thigh to encourage NEPHEW to bend over.

UNCLE. C’mon lad. Let’s get this over with.

NEPHEW hugely embarrassed, chews on his bottom lip. He moves forward, rests his hands on UNCLE’S thigh and gently lowers himself across.

NEPHEW must be over UNCLE’s knee with his arms stretched ahead of him and palms flat on the ground. His bottom must be at an angle over UNCLE’s thigh. NEPHEW legs will dangle in the air behind him. He must be positioned submissively. He has decided he must take his spanking.

UNCLE takes his time to observe NEPHEW’s position over his lap. UNCLE is impassive. Slowly he takes hold of the elasticated waist of NEPHEW’s underpants. NEPHEW tenses visibly. Slowly UNCLE starts to pull the underpants down over NEPHEW’S buttocks.

UNCLE. It’s not a proper spanking if it’s not on the bare.

NEPHEW. [Panicking] No, uncle, no!

NEPHEW tries to reach his hand back to protect his bottom. UNCLE slaps it. Then grabs the arm and pushes it back towards the floor.

UNCLE. None of that. Keep that away. Don’t be a coward. Take your spanking. You deserve it. You know you do.

UNCLE continues to pull the pants down until they are at NEPHEW’S knees. NEPHEW closes his eyes tight. Covers his face with his hands.

UNCLE pats NEPHEW on the fleshiest part of his bottom. He presses gently into the flesh judging how much meat there is in the boy’s buttocks. He wraps his left arm around NEPHEW’s middle to make sure he isn’t going anywhere. Then, he raises his hand to a height of a foot or two and slaps hard across the middle of the bum. He spanks hard and fast. Within seconds the bottom is pink.

NEPHEW gasps. He uncovers his face and slumps forward. As the spanking intensifies he presses his hands into the ground and his body goes up and down. It is like he is doing press-ups.

UNCLE spanks rapidly. About sixty whacks per minute. He makes sure he goes round the entire circuit. He starts in the fleshiest part of the buttocks and systematically goes higher and then lower. He sees the overline of his own hand imprinted time and again across the buttocks.

NEPHEW gasps. He shakes his head from side to side and up and down like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly.

z used otk chair bare (41)

UNCLE. I hope you’re feeling this. I hope it’s doing you some good.

NEPHEW opens his mouth as if to reply but cannot get the words out because he is too busy gasping.

UNCLE slaps his hand hard into the back of the legs where it is more sensitive. NEPHEW yaps with the shock and the pain.

UNCLE. Are you learning a lesson from this?

NEPHEW. Gasping. Yes, uncle yes. Please stop.

UNCLE. I’m not so sure. [Spanks the back of the legs harder] Maybe I should call Aunt Jane to bring down her hairbrush.

NEPHEW. No uncle, please. No. I’m sorry. I will be good. I will. I promise.

UNCLE. [Still spanking] I know you’ll behave. Because if you don’t I’ll have you back over my knee and it will be the hairbrush. How do you feel about that.

NEPHEW. [Pleading] No uncle. Please no.

UNCLE. [Spanking harder] Are you going to be rude again to your aunt?

NEPHEW. No uncle. No.

UNCLE. Are you going to stay out late at night?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Promise?

NEPHEW. Yes, uncle. Please stop spanking me. You’re hurting me.

UNCLE. That’s the point son. That’s the point. It’s the only way you’ll learn.

NEPHEW covers his head with his hand.

NEPHEW. Oh uncle.

UNCLE spanks for another minute or so. He is not a brutal tyrant he is a caring uncle. He wants NEPHEW to learn to behave. NEPHEW is sore. His bottom feels like he has been made to sit in a bathtub of very hot water. It hurts like hell now, but once uncle stops slapping his bare bottom the pain will soon become a throbbing ache and within no time at all it will be only a tingle.

UNCLE [Stops spanking] OK. Get up.

NEPHEW jumps up. His trousers are still at his feet and the underpants at his knees. He rubs away at his toasted buttocks vigorously and screws his face up to emphasise the pain he feels. UNCLE stays seated watching impassively.

UNCLE. Get dressed.

NEPHEW tugs up his underpants and winces as the soft cotton connects with his raw bum. Then, slowly, he bends down to retrieve his trousers and pull them up. He is breathless.

UNCLE stands close to NEPHEW.

UNCLE. Will I have to do that again.

NEPHEW pats the seat of his trousers

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. I hope not. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

NEPHEW. Yes, I have uncle. Sorry uncle.

UNCLE. Good lad. Get off to your room.

NEPHEW walks gingerly from the room. UNCLE goes to the television, switches it on and sits in the armchair.

Lights fade to dark.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

The TV repairman

 

 

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

 

Movie time

new 5

z used bed pants laptop

Trent was holding on as if his very life depended on it. He worked his fist up and down the full length. It was as thick as a broomstick. But not as long. And not as stiff. His heels beat against the mattress every time he kicked his legs. His heartrate was off the scale. Slowly, he eased his fist up and down. He groaned when he took his balls in his hand. The tip of his tongue darted through clenched lips as he cupped the sticky shaft. Slowly. Slowly. It was a battle. He had to slow down. But the sheer joy he felt as the fingers caressed his sensitive stick compelled him to go faster. Huff. Huff. Huff.

No! He told himself not now. Hold it back. Make it last longer. Not  now! Not now! His fist slowed. Too late. He arched his back, only his shoulders and feet remained on the mattress. He swivelled his hips. Fell back; crossed his ankles. Too late! With a whoosh of energy it spurted through his shaft. He closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t see that it flew so high it almost hit the ceiling. Hot, sticky goo splashed across his bare chest and stomach.

Huff. Huff. Huff. Oh, the joy, The ecstasy. He opened his eyes and peered down at the mess, rapidly cooling. His breathing eased. His heartrate slowed close to normal. Without turning his body, so none would drip onto the bedsheet, he reached his left arm across the bed to the length of toilet paper he knew was there. He scrunched it up and quickly wiped himself off. He tossed the crumpled tissue onto the floor.

Trent was spent, but the movie continued. He turned onto his side and pulled the laptop closer. It was one of his favourites. It always made him cum. Schoolboys in the headmaster’s study. They were supposed to be sixth-formers but the actors were obviously older than that. Not by much: nineteen or twenty  maybe. This one had one of the best of the lot. A fresh faced lad with a cheeky smile. His flat stomach and cute bum were very boyish.

The Swish! movies were the best. They were so professionally done. Real experts. The stories never changed though. Trent didn’t mind. Oh, how he wished he had gone to a school like that. The movie started with a boy they called Jimmy arriving at the headmaster’s study. He is in school uniform. Black blazer, white shirt, striped tie and pale-grey trousers. This time he’s wearing long trousers but often the movies have him in nice tailored short trousers that fall to just above the knee. Trent prefers the boys in ‘longs’ – just like he wore at school.

Jimmy has been caught smoking behind the gymnasium. Smoking tobacco that is. Smoking is the greatest crime imaginable in the world of Swish! movies. Well Jimmy knows what’s going to happen next. The headmaster, who is dressed in traditional academic gown, sometimes with and sometimes without the old-fashioned mortar-board cap on his head, goes to a hat-stand or a cupboard or over to a radiator. In any case he is going to choose a cane. He has a selection, but they are all about the same. They are about a metre long, no thicker than a pencil and all have the traditional – and sexy – curved handle. It is this that makes them authentic school canes, otherwise all the headmaster has is a stick that anyone could to hold up plants in the garden.

Trent is hooked at this point. Blood gorges to his cock when the headmaster takes a cane in his hand and thoughtfully flexes it between his hands to see how far it will bend. He replaces it and takes another. He flexes that one too and swishes it through the air. It is a mighty rod. It will leave marks across poor Jimmy’s bottom for sure.

“Take off your jacket. Take that chair and put it there,” the headmaster intones and Jimmy has to put his blazer on a hook on the door and move the furniture around the study and prepare his own seat of execution. This chair is made of leather with wooden arms. It has a low back and Jimmy will fit across it perfectly as he demonstrates when the headmaster swishes the cane sharply and orders, “Bend over.”

We get a shot of Jimmy’s rascally face as he recognises the gravity of his situation. He does not argue. He does not point out that he is an eighteen-year-old senior boy. He is legally an adult. He is too old for this. Instead, meekly he approaches the chair. He looks at it for a moment while the camera lingers on his back and legs. Then slowly he eases forward. He rests his stomach on the apex of the chair and grips the front of the seat cushion. The material of his pale-grey trousers caresses the curves of his cheeks. They are round and firm. Trent sees this in close up. “Oh,” Trent thinks to himself sadly, “I wish I went to a school like this.”

The headmaster swishes his cane and then taps it across the firmest part of Jimmy’s bottom. “Legs apart. Up over,” he says quietly. Jimmy adjusts his buttocks so that more meat is exposed to the cane. The headmaster steps back. He saws the cane across the centre of both cheeks. The cane rises. It falls, striking Jimmy’s bottom firmly. A line appears in the seat of the pale-grey trousers where the rod fell. Jimmy’s lips purse. His eyes shine. He felt that.

The headmaster delivers six-of-the-best in close up. Jimmy’s face is a picture. Each successive stroke hurts more than the last one. His face glows. He bites his lip. He grimaces. This is an authentic caning. It hurts, but he lives. The headmaster stands back and admires his handiwork. A true schoolboy beating. But he has not finished. “Stand up,” the headmaster intones. “Take down your trousers, then back over.”

The headmaster tucks the cane under his arm and watches as Jimmy hauls himself to his feet. Without looking to left or right, nor even down at his waist, the boy unbuckles his leather belt. Then he pops the clasp of his trousers, pulls the zipper and pushes his trousers down. They bunch at his shins. Then, with no further ado, he goes back over the chair. Trent loves this bit.

Corporal punishment had been outlawed at schools long before Trent was born. He knows that boys regularly faced the threat of the cane across the seat of their trousers. Nobody got it on the underpants. Did they? Who cares? Swish! do not make documentaries. Whoever tossed off to Panorama? Jimmy is wearing white cotton Y-fronts (as much a part of school uniform as blazer and tie). Once he is over the chair they stretch across his buttocks so that they fit like a second skin. The headmaster, still with the cane under his arm, approaches. He hesitates for a moment as if admiring the sights and then with both hands gently takes hold of the tail of Jimmy’s crisp white shirt. The headmaster lifts it and pulls it up Jimmy’s back until it is away from the target area. He reveals an area of smooth, hairless back.

Not yet ready to resume caning, the headmaster now takes hold of the waistband of the underpants. He plays a little game. He acts as though he is going to rip them down over Jimmy’s buttocks and haul them down to his knees so the teenager’s bum is bare. Instead, he tugs the waistband so that the already smooth underpants are even tighter. This way the cotton digs right up the crack and each cheek is lifted and separated. Jimmy has a gorgeous bum. It is (naturally) his prize asset.

The headmaster steps back, slips the cane from armpit to hand and takes aim. Trent sees that the Y-fronts do not fully cover the bum and there are red marks on naked flesh where the cane previously struck. Jimmy’s bottom quivers when the headmaster taps the cane into the underpart of his cheeks, where the bum and thighs meet. The cane is lifted. It strikes. Jimmy’s face contorts. His mouth opens wide. Those beautiful blue-grey eyes sparkle. “Ouch!” he mouths the word.

Jimmy takes another six-of-the-best. Trent sees headmaster. Trent sees cane rise. Trent see tighty-whitey cotton underpants. Trent sees cane fall. Trent sees Jimmy’s startled reaction. Trent’s cock throbs. He reaches for the lube.

“Stand up boy,” the headmaster pompously paces the study. He rests and watches Jimmy sorrowfully get to his feet. Will he ever smoke cigarettes again? Who knows? Trent has long ago forgotten the reason for the punishment. “Underpants down,” the headmaster growls as if it is the most natural thing in the world for him to say.

Trent is in a parallel universe. Usual rules do not apply here. The eighteen-year-old does not tell the headmaster where to get off. He does not stride across the study and punch the headmaster in the mouth and then pummel him into jam as he falls to the floor, before kicking him in the kidneys and leaving. Instead, Jimmy hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tight, cotton Y-fronts and with no more than a flick of the wrist he sends them south to join his trousers. He turns back to the chair and as he bends forward Trent is given a marvellous close-up shot of Jimmy’s savaged buttocks. Thick wheals run across both cheeks. They are genuinely raw.

Jimmy takes up position again. Head low, bottom high, feet apart. The headmaster does the sawing thing again with his cane and then lets fly. By now, Trent has his eyes closed tight. He concentrates on the job in hand. He can still hear the sound from the movie. The swish. The crack! The arrghhs and ouches from Jimmy, but Trent is now in his own world. How he wants to be that boy bent over the back of the chair. He remembers Mr Watney, the aging headmaster at his inner-city comprehensive school. If only Mr Watney had caned him like that. Trent would gladly have smoked ten cigarettes a day.

In the movie the caning is over. Jimmy is sent to stand to face the wall where he rubs his marked cheeks vigorously. He smiles, a little more ruefully than cheekily. The headmaster sits in the chair. He gestures to Jimmy who at first looks bemused. His confusion does not last long. “Come, stand there,” the headmaster points to a spot beside him. Jimmy understands. He has lived in this unnatural world long enough. Still rubbing his throbbing backside he slowly makes his way across the study. He stands where indicated. “Bend over,” again the headmaster’s command is obeyed without question.

Jimmy is face down across the headmaster’s knee. Trent watches with half an eye. Sometimes in these movies the headmaster makes the boy strip off all his clothes and bend across his knee totally naked. Trent has a movie where Jimmy does this. He looks terrific naked; he is slender, yet muscular. His legs go all the way up to his terrific bum. He doesn’t seem to have a single hair anywhere on his body – not even around his cock.

Sexy though Jimmy is naked, he prefers the boys to be at least partly dressed. It makes the scene more authentic. Trent lets the movie move to its conclusion. He glances at the time in the corner of the screen. It is time to go. Carefully, so none of the cum drips onto the bed, he climbs off the mattress. He picks up the soggy Kleenex from the floor and walks across the room. He drops it into the lavatory pan, has a piss and then turns on the shower.

Minutes later, towelled dry, he opens a drawer and selects the clothes he will wear that night. He has tight-white Y-fronts, a grey shirt and grey trousers. He doesn’t have a blazer, but he doesn’t think he needs one. He slips a striped tie into his trouser pocket. He is off to The Three Fishers where he is certain to meet Fat Steven. He is always there on a Friday night. Fat Steven will bring the cane.

 

Picture credit: unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com