Bible College

z used paddle twosome bible college

“Each of you take down your jeans and your underwear and bend yourselves across my desk.” Rev. Paisley tapped the wooden paddle into the palm of his hand and watched intently as Jackson and Manning fumbled with belt buckles. Avoiding each other’s’ eyes, the two students slipped the jeans to their thighs. Gravity took the heavy denim to the floor. Jackson pushed his white briefs to his knees, leant forward and rested his elbows on the small wooden desk. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend this was not happening. In seconds he felt his classmate Manning take up his position by his side. Two twenty-one-year-olds, buttocks bared. Ready, waiting for the sting of the paddle.

Rev. Paisley loved the end of term at Todd Carter Bible College, it gave him the opportunity to perform God’s will and guide more young men on the path to righteousness. The College had a simple rule. It was an incentive, the school principal declared. It made the young men study harder. After all, he had said, who would want their butt toasted? So, in every class, after the exams were finished the two students with the lowest test score showed Rev. Paisley their bared buttocks.

They didn’t have to fail the test – just come last. So it was that in theory (at least) they might all be A-students, but arithmetically someone had to be at the end of the line.

Rev. Paisley swiped the paddle through the air. He was nearly ready. They had said prayers together. Sought God’s guidance. Ten swats each. It was God’s will. Rev. Paisley gripped the handle tightly. As paddles went it was no monster. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide. In the right hands it would pack a punch. And, Rev. Paisley was an expert. It came with practice. Jackson and Manning owned the third pair of buttocks he had beaten that afternoon.

Jackson and Manning were typical students at Todd Carter’s; neither tall nor short. Not fat, not thin. You might say they were standard. Typical. Average. Normal, even. Rev. Paisley felt Jackson’s body tense as he rubbed the wood across the centre of the young man’s buttocks. The flesh wobbled when he pressed the paddle in. He raised it shoulder high and with a rush crashed it home. He was rewarded by a bright pink mark on the buttock and a slow hiss as Jackson emptied his lungs.

Satisfied with his work so far, Rev. Paisley reached across to Manning, placed his hand on the student’s back to steady himself and let fly. Manning’ head shot up and shook violently from left to right. That hurt. A lot.

The tip of the good reverend’s tongue wetted his top lip.  He raised the paddle once more.

 

Other stories you might like

The milk bottle thief

The glorious summer

The imp next door

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The Brocklehurst crammer

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Terry, Damien and Harry stood nonchalantly in front of the principal’s desk. The eighteen year olds had never met each other before, but they all had one important thing in common. They had all failed their school A-level exams and their irate fathers were paying a large fee to send them to Brocklehurst College.

The college was a “crammer.” Its job was to coach its students to pass the re-sit examinations. That meant three months of intense study; no mean feat for lazy teenagers. But Principal Tucker had one method at his disposal. It was a proven aid to learning.

Tucker eyed his new recruits with distain. Louts, he thought, that’s what they were; uncouth yobs. He’d soon lick them into shape.

“Stand up straight, all of you!” he barked. “You boy,” he nodded at Terry, “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Reluctantly, each boy shuffled a little. They stood straighter, but it was hardly parade-ground excellence.

“You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

“It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

“Here we use corporal punishment.”

The stunned look on the boys’ faces betrayed their apparent lack of comprehension.

“Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.”

“But …” Damien started to protest but the principal’s icy glare silenced him.

“You will all have signed a consent form.” Doubtless under the duress of your fathers, he thought to himself. Principal Tucker had run the crammer for seven years. He knew that fathers sent their sons to his college as a last resort. The boys would not respond to reason. They were often wilfully lazy. Well Brocklehurst College would soon put a stop to that.

“Yes,” he addressed the three crestfallen teenagers, “We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

Damien blushed to his roots. Yes, he knew all about the corporal punishment regime. He had had a tremendous row with his father. Dad said he must get his A-levels and go on to university. If he did not do that he would be thrown out of the family home. Dad was not a man to carry passengers. Failure for Damien might mean a life flipping burgers.

The principal had not finished his welcoming speech. “Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

“When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey-and-blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.”

All three mouthed protests. Short trousers! Even kids at primary school no longer wore short trousers.

“Silence!” Tucker feigned anger, but he expected protests from his students. Of course, eighteen year old boys would object to being forced back into short trousers. But, as a disciplinary tool it worked wonders. It reminded the louts that they were not yet truly adults. Adulthood came with responsibility. By failing their exams these boys had demonstrated their lack of responsibility. The short trousers would be a constant reminder of their status in the eyes of the college.

Short trousers were also a practical way to keep control. No boy would willingly want to be seen in public wearing grey short trousers and a school uniform. So, they wouldn’t truant from class or sneak out in the evening.

“You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

“You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?”

Principal Tucker was not sure if the boys’ silence was a demonstration of insolence.

“Is that clear!” he barked.

Their murmurs confirmed it was.

“Good.”

Of the three teenagers standing before him, two had neat short-back-and-sides haircuts. The third sported a mop of shaggy fair hair. The principal doubted it had seen a comb let alone a barber in some considerable time.

“You boy,” he gestured at the shaggy-haired boy, “What’s your name?”

“Damien,” the teen responded sullenly.

“We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir. What’s your surname?”

“Wendersley,” he sneered, but noticing that Tucker’s complexion was reddening, he quickly added, “Sir.”

“Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?”

Yes, he had. He hated this college. He hated Principal Tucker and he hated his father for sending him here. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

“Well boy?” Tucker’s fingers were beginning to itch. This meeting could end in only one way.

“Yeah,” Damien Wendersley breathed.

“Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears. So, why have you not followed the instruction?”

“Why do we have to have short hair?”

Veins stood out on Tucker’s neck.

“How dare you! Don’t be insolent.”

Wendersley blushed. The other two lads stood silently. Harry, for one, was rather enjoying this. He hoped the principal would give Wendersley what-for.  If Harry had to have his hair cropped like a convict, why should Wendersley get away with it?

“So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.”

Damien Wendersley stared at the plush carpet beneath his feet.

“Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.”

All three gasped. “But,” Wendersley tried to protest.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The three teenagers quietened. It was a shock. The boy was to be caned. For not having his haircut. The cane. When they had seen the clause about corporal punishment in the contract none of the boys had taken it seriously. The cane. It was unheard of. This was 2016.

But, there was a greater shock to come.

The principal rose from his desk. “Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.”

That set the boys off again. This time each one protested.

“Be quiet!” Tucker roared. “Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.”

“But, Sir,” Terry Reilly piped up, “That’s not fair.”

“I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

“I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?”

Yes, it was clear, but none of the teenagers replied. Surely it had been a rhetorical question.

“Right. You two boys go to the dormitory and change. You Wendersley. Stay behind.”

Terry and Harry sped from the room.

Principal Tucker sauntered across his office. It was a large modern space, designed mostly in walnut. Along one wall were shelves and a tall thin cabinet.

“Right let me deal with you Wendersley,” he said as he opened the cabinet door and searched inside.

Damien’s eyes widened. They almost stood out on stalks.

“Ah,” the principal smiled malevolently, “It would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.”

He flexed the rod between his two hands. It was just over three feet in length and as thick as the man’s little finger. It was supple and easily curved into a bow.

Damien visibly paled.

“I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.”

He swiped the cane through the air, delighted at the look of real fear spread across the teenager’s face.

“Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.”

“Please stand behind the chair,” Tucker wobbled his cane in the direction of a wooden Ikea armchair with a bright red cushion.

“No, please, no…” Damien wailed. He wanted to beg for mercy but his vocal chords refused to work.

“Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.”

The teenager stood rooted. He was gripped with such fright he literally could not move.

“Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college. Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?”

The true reality of his circumstances dawned on the wretched boy. He had no choice but to submit to this horrible man. He had to work hard at his studies and pass those A-levels. His father would throw him out of the house otherwise.

“No,” he mumbled.

“I thought not. Stand by the chair.”

Damien shuffled across the room.

“I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down,” Principal Tucker was enjoying himself. This oafish lout had displeased him from the moment he had set his eyes on him.

“Nooo, please, nooo,” it was incoherent wailing. Already tears were welling up in the boy’s eyes.

“Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.”

The boy’s now bright red face pleaded silently with his master. But it was to no avail.

“I am waiting Wendersley.”

Somehow he unbuttoned his belt, popped the buttons on his jeans and let them fall over his thighs to his knees.

“Ha!” Tucker roared with scorn. “Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.”

He swished the cane. “Now, bend over the chair.”

Damien had never been caned before; he had never seen anyone caned, not even in a movie. How exactly was it done?

He leaned over the back of the chair and stretched his arms in front of him, so that the lay along the hard wooden arms.

“Grip the front of the cushion boy. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

Damien wriggled into position and stared down at the red cushion. There was a small grey stain. Someone must have spilled coffee, he thought. He concentrated on the mark. It was about three inches long. If he thought about how the stain had been made it might take his mind off the ordeal he was facing.

Principal Tucker rubbed the palm of his right hand across both of Damien’s buttocks, smoothing the cotton underpants. Satisfied that all creases had been removed, he stood back three paces, raised his cane and let fly. It flogged down right across the centre of both cheeks.

Damien roared and he flew to his feet, furiously rubbing away at his backside.

“Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.”

Damien stood his ground. The pain was so great. How could he be expected to take six strokes like that?

“Back over,” Principal Tucker readied himself to force the teenager face down over the back of the chair, but the boy found a reserve of courage and offered up his backside.

Swish number two hit an inch or so lower than the first. Damien howled. He stamped his feet up and down and he wriggled his hips to the left and to the right. But this time he remained bent over.

“Doh! Keep still.” The cane rose and fell again. Damien repeated his march, thrust his backside out and waved it about. Principal Tucker despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on six.

Stroke number four was met with another spasm of physical jerks, accompanied by wailing that echoed around the bright office. A less experienced master might have taken pity on poor Damien Wendersley. Clearly, the boy was unable to take such a thrashing.

But Tucker was made of stern stuff. He knew as a matter of conviction that this beating, harsh though it might seem, was being administered for the teenager’s own good. This was the first step on the young man’s redemption. After this afternoon, Damien’s life would never be quite the same again. In time, once he had passed his examinations, succeeded at university, and enjoyed a fine career he might even look back on this caning with gratitude.

“Stop your blubbing, take it like a man,” he intoned and bought swipe number five down across the lad’s underpants; low, just where the cheeks meet the thighs. Damien’s throat was full of bile. At any moment he might vomit up the contents of his stomach. He gasped in great gulps of air like a beached whale.

Slash. The sixth and last stroke lashed down diagonally across all of the other five. The pain was searing. The red coloured underpants disguised the blood stain that was slowly creeping across the seat.

Principal Tucker had finished. Another student punished. It was all in a day’s work.

“You may stand up Wendersley.”

Gingerly, the teenager regained a standing position. He ran up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. It was an instinctive reaction; he had no idea if it would really relieve his pain. For now, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Stop rubbing your bottom,” Principal Tucker’s distain for the boy before him was evident.

“Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.”

Damien’s face was awash with tears and snot. He was in no fit state to leave the office just yet.

“Here, take this and wipe your eyes,” Tucker passed the boy a fistful of tissues.

“I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

“Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut.  For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

“You are dismissed.”

 

Other college-themed stories you might like.

The student’s first caning

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Toby’s father visits

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Caned at college

It made perfect sense to introduce corporal punishment into Britain’s sixth-form colleges. The cane had been brought back into schools two years earlier and many sixth-formers had been ordered to present their backsides for a traditional six-of-the-best in the time since.

Parents and the public generally welcomed the new disciplinary regime. There was talk that soon courts would be allowed to sentence young criminals to thrashings. An on-line petition collected hundreds of thousands of signatures for the beatings to be broadcast on television.

Sixth-form colleges catered for youngsters up to the age of nineteen who had attended schools that did not have their own sixth forms. The students were no different from their counterparts who still attended school.

Downside College took the opportunity of the new spirit in the air to introduce a dress code for students. The senior staff had wanted to have formal uniforms, with blazers and ties, but parents baulked at the cost of this. Instead jeans and tee-shirts were banned and male students had to wear proper trousers, shirts with collars, ties, jackets and smart shoes. Some of the dandies among them took to wearing sharp mohair suits, imitating the look of the Mods from the nineteen-sixties.

Not all the students obeyed the new rules.

Ian Stranger stood head bowed. He stared intently at the beige carpet beneath his feet. His heart raced and he was finding it hard to catch his breath.

Mr Troughton, the college principal, sat behind his desk. He was a youngish man, with a florid fleshy face and receding sandy hair. Fat rolled over the waistband of his trousers. His crisp white shirt was wet under the armpits, even though the room itself was quite cold.

“You know the rules about dress, Stranger.” It was a statement rather than a question. The principal pursed his lips and pressed the fingers of his hands together as if in prayer.

Ian continued staring. Blood was pumping so fast through his body he feared his ears would pop.

“You were all told that if you came to college improperly dressed you would be sent home to change. If you did it again you would get a caning.” He spoke quietly. He had not expected a student to disobey this rule. Why on earth would they, he thought. The dress code was hardly onerous. Every student would have the correct clothes in their wardrobe at home. It was no trouble to wear them.

No, Mr Troughton pondered silently, this was not about the dress code. Stranger was deliberately flouting the rules. He thought they shouldn’t apply to him. It was rebellion of sorts. That could not be tolerated. He must be beaten severely. For his own good and to deter others.

Ian was eighteen years old. Soon he would pass his A-level exams with flying colours and go on to university. He was a good, able student. But, he was distracted.

He spent much of his time on-line seeking out videos and stories about corporal punishment in schools. His favourites were the stories about St FIGS – St Francis Independent Grammar School. They were set in the nineteen-sixties. St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional uniforms and traditional discipline.

He loved to read them and fantasise that he was one of the sixth-formers in the headmaster’s study, bent over the armchair, his trousers at his ankles, his pants at his knees, while Dr Henderson-Smith swiped a dragon cane with considerable force across his bared buttocks.

Ian had gone so far as to get himself a pair of school short trousers on the Internet. They were the real deal with sharp creases and they came to just above his knees. He got long socks, a grey shirt and old-fashioned white Y-front underpants from Marks & Spencer. He was too scared to wear his school uniform in public, but when the rest of his family were out of the flat he loved to dress up and play the naughty schoolboy, bending over the back of an armchair pretending it was a headmaster’s study.

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It was one of the St FIGS’ stories that gave him the idea. The headmaster had banned snowball fighting. The penalty for disobedience: the cane. One eighteen-year-old chucked some snow. He was caught.

It turned out the boy had never been caned before and this was his way of finding out what it was like.

The dress code was Ian Stranger’s snowball. Now, he too would get his first-ever caning.

Downside was not as grand as St FIGS. Where the grammar school had oak panelling, the college had chipboard and pine. Principal Troughton had no academic gown or mortar-board cap. But, he had one crucial prop: an authentic crook-handled school cane.

Principal Troughton sighed deeply as if he were single-handedly carrying all the troubles of the rapidly changing world on his shoulders.

“You cannot say that you were not warned, Stranger,” he looked at the slim dark-haired boy standing before him. The teenager’s face was scarlet and perspiration dampened his forehead. The boy must be terrified of the beating he was about to get, Troughton thought.

The principal hauled himself from his chair and waddled to the opposite end of the room. Ian Stranger watched in anticipation as Troughton pulled open the drawer of a table. Ian could not see inside, but he heard the distinctive rattle of several whippy canes as they rolled around.

Troughton was an enthusiastic supporter of the new law on caning. He had known for years that youngsters did not know right from wrong. Boundaries were no longer set. They were allowed to get away with anything. They got high on drugs, vandalised the town, terrorised ordinary descent people on the streets.

He believed in corporal punishment. He always had done. But in the past he had remained silent. To advocate the cane would have been career suicide. Now, public opinion had changed and Principal Troughton was on the winning side.

He reached into the drawer and extracted a thin yellow cane. He peered at it as if he had never seen it before, even though the weapon in question had seen action only an hour earlier. But, this time, he thought, it would not be up to the job. He slid it back in the drawer and fished around until he found what he was looking for.

It was dark brown, more than three feet long and as thick as a little finger. There were notches every three or four inches along its length. These would cause considerable bruising to a boy’s backside and bleeding if delivered across bared buttocks.

Principal Troughton flexed the cane between his two hands. Despite its thickness it curved easily. Yes, he thought, he would dearly love to put this little beauty across the teenager’s naked haunches, but (as yet anyway) this was not allowed.

Ian Stranger watched in wonder. He had seen many school canes in the CP videos he loved to watch, but this was the first time he had seen one in real life. It looked awesome.

Principal Troughton swished the rod through the air with some force. It made a tremendous whooshing sound as it went.

Ian Stranger gaped. This could take his arse off. He had seen enough videos to know the damage a cane could do to a pair of buttocks. But, he was not naïve; he knew the headmasters in the vids went easy and camera angles made the canings look more severe than they really were.

Here, today, with Principal Troughton, he would experience the real thing.

Swish! The cane flew once more across empty air.

“Stand there,” Principal Troughton pointed to a space in the centre of the office.

Obediently, Ian moved into position.

“Face the other way. Bend over. Place the palms of our hands on your shins. Feet apart. Knees straight.”

Principal Troughton had thrashed many students, but none before had assumed the position so readily. Ian gripped the cotton of his cream chino trousers and thrust his bottom out. In this position he had a perfect view of his own crotch. It was beginning to bulge. It was not yet erect, but he felt it was on the move.

The principal eyed the teenager’s backside. His wide leather belt was so long and the boy’s hips so narrow, that it wrapped one-and-a-half times around his waist. The chino trousers were quite thick and would give the student some protection against the onslaught of the cane. Troughton dearly wished he could order the rebellious teenager to lower them to his ankles.

But he could not. So, he would have to make sure each of the six strokes (the maximum allowed) was a humdinger.

Troughton gripped Stranger’s tee-shirt and pushed it up his back to expose several inches of bare, hairless flesh. It was not strictly necessary to do this as the shirt was not covering the teen’s buttocks but the principal believed it added to the drama of the occasion.

Stranger stared down at his grubby Nike trainers. It was not like that in the St FIGS stories he loved so much. He tried to imagine himself dressed in immaculate school uniform, draped across Dr Henderson-Smith’s armchair, as the headmaster readied himself to deliver an exemplary six-of-the-best. He felt the rattan cane being tapped across the very centre of both buttocks.

What Stranger did not see was the tubby, sweaty principal lift the cane high and then with a swing of his hips, rather like a golfer teeing off, he brought it down with tremendous energy into the seat of the chinos.

Stranger heard the crack as the cane connected with his backside a split-second or so before he felt it. The pain was searing. It felt like someone had rubbed a red-hot poker across his bum. Air rushed from his body and through his pursed lips. He did not yell, but he wheezed: again and again and again as the agony seemed to squeeze all the breath out of his body.

He gripped the fabric of his trousers tightly to prevent himself from standing and jumping up and down.

“Keep perfectly still.” Principal Troughton tapped the cane once more across Stranger’s buttocks. This time a fraction of an inch lower than the first. Stranger screwed his eyes tight and clenched his teeth. Troughton sucked a great gasp of air right down into his lungs, raised the cane once more and repeated the golf swing.

Despite all his fantasising, Stranger could not have anticipated the pain. It was a hundred times worse than anything he had felt before. His eyes blazed and his body began to vibrate. His cock was limp. Blood was rushing north-south, east-west, throughout his body; but none wanted to travel to his groin.

Then the third stroke whipped hard into his battered bottom. The pain was intense, burning: unendurable.

The final three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep into his tight buttocks; just where the cheeks met the thighs. Stranger could not help it; he yelled fit to bring the walls of the office crashing down. He clung onto his calves, fingernails biting so deep they would leave scars that would take hours to clear.

Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, he tried to catch his breath. His heartbeat pulsated and phlegm rose in his throat. Any second now he feared he would spew a stream of vomit.

The intense agony which started in his buttocks travelled through his whole body. His face and neck were as scarlet as his backside probably was.

Principal Troughton admired his handiwork. Six tramlines were clearly visible across the seat of the chinos, all delivered in a tight group. He was proud of his expertise. He was gaining a deserved reputation among the students as an awesome caner.

He could see Stranger was in some distress. Troughton could not see the teenager’s face, but he appeared to be crying. The lad’s shoulders were certainly heaving.

Quietly, he returned the cane to its resting place in the drawer. Then turning to Stranger he said quietly, “That’s it. It’s over. You can stand up now.”

Slowly the student straightened. The pain was easing a little now, but he could feel welts had risen low down across both buttocks. They would be tender for some time to come. Sitting down might be a little uncomfortable.

He was in control of himself now. His eyes were wet, but no tears flowed.

He waited silently while Principal Troughton busied himself writing details in the punishment book. He was startled at how his own hand shook as he tried to write his signature.

Moments later he was in the street making his way to his home. The agony had subsided into a warm throbbing and would clear completely before he reached his council estate.

His first real-life experience of corporal punishment was over. It had been intense, awesome, breath-taking, amazing, wonderful, incredible. And, he could not wait to repeat it.

 

Other stories you might like

Snowballs

Warren’s awakening

The coach and the schoolmaster

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Brocklehurst Crammer

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“We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

 

Brocklehurst Crammer, a new story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded to The Canery website. Click here to read it

 

Other college-themed stories you might like.

The student’s first caning

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Toby’s father visits

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Changed times 1: A glimpse into the near future

Kenny Hawkins slipped on his new blazer and admired his reflection in the mirror. Pale-grey trousers, gleaming white shirt, striped tie, shiny black shoes. It looked exactly like his old school uniform. But, not quite. Only the badge on the blazer pocket was different. It showed the logo of Global Petroleum, the company that would change his life.

Kenny was a new apprentice at GP. He was delighted to get the job. Times were hard. If he kept his nose clean, worked hard and served his time, he thought he was made. Which was more than could be said for most people his age.

The country was still going through a difficult patch. It had started ten years in the past, in 2016. Britain had voted to leave the European Union. There was a political crisis. The government split, opposition parties – such as there were – had no idea. Immigrants fled back to their home countries. British Muslims hid out in their mosques. Everything was chaos.

Then a new group calling itself The New Democrats emerged from the shadows. Many people said it was the saviour of the nation. The New Democrats were poorly named, since the things they believed in; discipline, respect for order, deference to the Church, schools, and so on, were not new. They harked back to an imagined past when the country was at ease. Nor, were they particularly democratic. A wave of authoritarianism hit the country. Trade unions were suppressed; women were forced back into the home and sexual minorities were attacked.

The hardest hit were young people. Corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools to great acclaim from teachers and parents. So, it made perfect sense to extend it to colleges and universities. Soon, young apprentices at businesses were added to the list. In no time the law courts were sentencing young criminals to the birch.

People fell into line quickly. Order of a kind was restored. Young people were placed on curfews. Old people could walk the streets at night in safety.

A turning point came with a television soap opera called Northern Lights. It had been running for decades, long before the troubles started. It featured a cheeky-chappie character called Robbie. Robbie was in his twenties and lived his life close to the edge of the law. In one episode he gets caught stealing motor parts. He goes to court and the magistrate sentences him to eight stokes of the birch. Bare buttocks.

Then, they showed it. A birching. In all its glory. A huge bunch of twenty-four twigs sits soaking in brine in a metal bucket. Robbie is marched into the punishment room. Actors in soaps are usually not very good, but Robbie looks terrified. Then, viewers see a close up as the trousers and underpants come down and he is tied over a specially-made birching bench.

The prison guard is built like a brick out-house. He takes the heavy bundle of birch twigs, swishes it so droplets of brine fly all over the room. Then, he hauls the beast high above his head, twists his body as if he is teeing off at golf and flogs it down into Robbie’s naked haunches.

Robbie screams fit to shake the walls. The flogging continues. Whip-whip-whip!

At the end his buttocks are a bloodied mess. Torn to shreds. Robbie cannot walk and he is seen being dragged from the room by two uniformed officers.

And, all shown on television at eight o’clock in the evening.

In the past all the bleeding-heart liberals would have been on every news outlet denouncing the scene. Instead, a snap opinion poll showed nearly eighty percent of those questioned approved of real criminals being flogged. Half of those said they’d like to see it put out on live TV.

Television shows played a crucial part changing attitudes. Uni, a comedy-drama set in a fictional Midlands town, featured everyday students in typical situations. In one episode Jack is giving his parents a hard time. He is lazy, won’t get out of bed and misses lectures at university. His dad berates him about it and is rewarded by extensive pouting and sulking. Dad has had enough. One morning he calls his son down for breakfast, but the boy is too busy in bed playing with himself. Dad goes to the bathroom, collects a heavy wooden brush and bursts into the boy’s bedroom. Lots of laughs because Jack has been caught with his willie in his hand.

The laughs quickly turn to tears when dad hauls the duvet off the bed, grabs Jack by the hair, forces him face down on the bed and hammers away at the seat of his underpants with the brush. Jack’s howls echo around the room. In the street the camera catches a neighbour wondering where all the yelling is coming from.

The next scene is the following day. Jack is up early, polite to his parents, and heads off to university on time.

The show hit a nerve with parents. It seemed to give fathers permission to tackle their own idle sons. News programmes later reported an increase in sales of heavy bath brushes.

Kenny was nearly ready for his first day at the GP college. He would do a six-month full-time course, before returning to his office, based in London. GP had set him up with a place to stay. His landlord Mr Hart was a retired bank manager. Like so many other pensioners, even those from the professional classes, he had found it hard to make ends meet. Inflation ripped away at pensions and savings.

Hart was forced to take in a lodger. It helped put food on the table. The first thing the old man did was to spell out the rules. A curfew, no drinking, smoking or girls. Household chores to be done every day. He delighted in showing his new nineteen-year-old lodger the stout whippy rattan cane he kept hanging on a hook in the cupboard under the stairs.

“And, I won’t be backward in using it,” he told Kenny. The teenager believed him. He had met enough old people who despised the young.

It wasn’t legal for landlords to beat their tenants – not yet, at least. But Kenny would have no choice but to bend over for Mr Hart’s cane when the time came. If his landlord reported him to GP, that would be curtains for Kenny. No job. No future.

Kenny left his digs and took a bus to the college. It was full of older schoolchildren. All in smart uniforms. All wearing short trousers. Judging by the prefect badges many of them wore, they must have been at least eighteen. All of them put back into short trousers. It was happening all over the country. It was as if schools were saying, “We know we can humiliate you and there’s nothing you can do about it. So we shall.”

How could the boys complain? One word spoken out of place and it would be a six-of-the-best from the headmaster. On the bared bottom. Eighteen years old or not.

The college was a large modern Community College. GP had its own wing of one of the buildings that it sponsored. There were twenty new recruits settling in for their first day of classes. All the young men seemed apprehensive. Not sure how they were expected to behave – to one another and to the lecturers they would encounter.

One young man was more apprehensive than the others. He entered the classroom following a tall man in a dark suit. His round open face was ghostly. Without instruction, he took himself to the far corner of the room and stood with his nose close to the wall. Then, he put his hands on the top of his head in the classic naughty-boy stance.

The low murmur of voices in the room petered out to silence. All eyes were on the boy in the corner. He was dressed in the GP uniform, was about five-eight tall, with jet black hair closely cut around his neck and ears. His blazer had risen up his back, uncovering the seat of his trousers which covered two round chubby buttocks.

The man in the black suit, who introduced himself simply as “Fraser,” welcomed the new boys and went through a series of pleasantries. Kenny was not the only one not paying attention. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the lad in the corner.  Who was he? Why was he here?

Fraser droned on some more. He was just a buzz in the room, to Kenny. Like a bee, he could hear his presence, but he didn’t pay him any attention.

“Corporal punishment.” Those two words pulled Kenny up sharp. What was Fraser talking about?

“Corporal punishment is in use here as you probably know. We believe you boys are an elite group and we expect you to work hard and obey the rules. If you do not our first recourse is to corporal punishment.”

Fraser let the sentence hang in the air a little. For dramatic effect. Like so many college lecturers he was a bit of a ham actor.

“You will be beaten for indiscretions and misdemeanours.”

Twenty nineteen year olds shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. This was not news to them; young people were subjected to corporal punishment all over the country, but the realisation that its use was so close, made them shiver.

It was to get closer still.

“I want to be aware from the very beginning of the consequences of poor behaviour. That is why I have brought Sterling here this morning.”

The boy in the corner shuddered at the mention of his name.

“Sterling is a second-year apprentice who should know better.” Fraser fixed the class with a beady eye. It felt like he was staring into the very soul of everyone present.

“Yet, he insists on breaking the rules. He missed curfew last week and now he must be punished.”

Kenny stared across at Sterling in the corner who buckled a little at the knees and shuffled his feet. It was tiring standing for so long with hands on head.

Fraser walked across the classroom to a pine-effect cupboard, took out a ring of keys from his pocket, searched for the correct one, and inserted it in a lock. He slid the door across. It was empty, except for one thing. Fraser picked it up and withdrew it.

He turned to the class full of new recruits and held up a stout wooden paddle. It looked a lot like a long thin chopping board Kenny’s mother had in her kitchen. It was about a eighteen inches long and maybe three inches wide.

used paddle holding (9)
There was a collective intake of breath when Frasier slapped the board  into the palm of his hand

There was a collective intake of breath when Fraser slapped the board with some force into the palm of his hand.

Fraser failed to suppress a smirk when he called across the room. “OK, Sterling. You know the drill.”

Sterling removed his hands from his head and reluctantly turned on his heels to face into the classroom.

“Stand by that desk,” Fraser waved the paddle at a teacher’s desk in front of the class. With eyes glued to the floor, the wretched young man waddled across the room.

“Take off your jacket.” It was a quiet order, spoken in a calm voice. But it was an order that Fraser expected to be obeyed.

Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

“Lower your trousers and underpants.”

Kenny saw the lad sitting to his right cross his legs. The boy’s face was scarlet. He seemed to be perspiring a lot too.

Sterling unbuttoned the top of his trousers and pulled at the zipper. Then, he placed both thumbs inside the waistband and pulled down the trousers and his underpants together. He let them bunch up against his shins.

Twenty pairs of eyes were glued to the young man’s buttocks. Sterling was not a fat boy, but his bum was wobbly. Sterling stood with his hands cupped across his cock and balls. It was an unnecessary gesture; none of those present in the room had a view.

Unseen by the class, Sterling chewed on his lower lip, waiting with dread for the final instruction.

It came. “Bend over the desk, Sterling.”

Kenny did not know if Sterling had been in this position before or if he had witnessed others, but he reckoned that Sterling knew exactly what was expected of him. He lay flat on the desk, with his stomach resting on the near edge. He stretched his arms ahead of him and gripped the two far legs of the desk. One in each hand. In this spread-eagled position his legs were parted, offering his audience a tremendous sight into his crack.

The boy next to Kenny looked fit to burst.

Fraser held the paddle in his right hand and approached the submissive Sterling. Twenty boys leaned forward together.

Fraser rubbed the paddle across the centre of Sterling’s bum. In this prone position, the buttocks had tightened considerably. He raised the wood about two feet from the target, brought it down with a resounding crack, and lifted it away again. A dark red rectangle appeared immediately. Sterling groaned weakly. His knees buckled and he gripped the legs of the desk a little more tightly.

Whack-whack! Two swats landed. One on each cheek. Sterling’s stomach lifted from the desktop. His head thrashed from side to side, the way a horse’s sometimes did when it was troubled by a fly.

The boy sitting next to Kenny seemed to be in as much distress as Sterling. Kenny wondered if this public paddling had brought back unpleasant personal memories for him.

The next swat hit lower. It was a large paddle and a single swipe covered a lot of flesh. The tops of Sterling’s thighs were raw.

“Ouch, oww, yeowl,” any resolve Sterling might have not to show himself up in front of the new recruits was broken. That one hurt! Like crazy. It felt as if the backs of his legs were on fire.

“Steady boy. Steady.” Fraser waited while Sterling marched his feet up and down, trying, unsuccessfully, to ease the throbbing pain in his bottom and legs.

Crack-crack! Two terrific shots landed in the fleshiest part of the globes, right in the curves. More marching from Sterling. He banged his head up and down on the desk. Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath.

Fraser stepped back away from Sterling. “Have a good look boys. That’s how your backsides will be if you step out of line.”

Sterling’s rear end was bright red. No part of his bum was untouched. Bruises had already started forming in the very centre of the cheeks. The imprint of the paddle was clearly visible at the outer edges of the buttocks.

“Stand up Sterling. Get dressed.”

Sterling hauled himself from the desk. His arse burnt like the flames of hell. It took monumental self-control not to shoot both hands to his buttocks and rub furiously. He did not want to give Fraser the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him. Besides, past experience told him that rubbing never eased the pain. Sometimes it made it worse.

Careful not to show his audience his manhood, Sterling bent down and retrieved his trousers and pants. This movement gave the boys a final chance to witness the damage. They would all agree later it they were really toasted buns.

Fraser waited for Sterling to get fully dressed and sent him on his way. He was not a cruel man, Sterling had been humiliated enough.

Fraser himself exited shortly after and the boys waited for the arrival of a lecturer for their first class.

The boy next to Kenny sat mortified. His underpants were full of spunk.

Changed Times 2. Neighbourhood Watch is here

Other stories you might like.

University student late for class

The junior salesman

When Dad got home

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

New stories, three times a week

Hi Guys,

More new visitors than ever before are visiting this site – welcome to you all. If the newcomers haven’t noticed three new stories are uploaded every week – on Monday, Wednesday and Friday.

There are now about 160 stories here and it can be a bit tricky to find your way around at first to find a tale that is to your taste.

To help you, below are some story categories. Click on the link that interests you.

All stories involve people who are aged eighteen or over – that’s part of the deal with WordPress.

Enjoy!

Charles Hamilton II

 

Vicars, priests, the church

 College boys

 Fathers, sons, uncles, nephews

 Landlords and their tenants

 Adults and role-playing

 University students and their professors

 Spanking in the workplace

Making the grade

“Look at these grades. I’ve failed psychology.” Randy Caulfield was despondent.

He pushed the printed transcript across the table to his friend Seth. The nineteen-year-old student studied the paper carefully, as if a careful examination might change the ‘F’ into a pass.

He took a long pull on his iced cola, “What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? I had a place lined up at school and now look at this.” Randy waved the transcript in the air dramatically.

“I’ve got A’s in just about everything else. But, this goddam fail means I can’t go,” Randy felt like weeping. His life was over. Ahead lay forty-five years of dead-end jobs.

“It was the only elective I could get. All the others were full. What good is psychology anyway?” Randy’s bitterness spilled over.

“But it’s only an elective course, does it count?” Seth was trying to be supportive, but he knew it did matter.

At John F. Kennedy Community College you had to pass all your courses, even when your overall grade point average was a pass.

“Do you know,” Randy said, “If I got a bare pass in the psychology, my GPA would still be good enough to take me to university.”

“Who teaches the course?” Seth had the germ of an idea.

“Drake, d’you know him?”

“Yes, I think so. Youngish man, only been here a couple of years,” Seth replied, trying not to let on that he knew more than he was saying.

“Yes, that’s him. A goddam awful teacher, no wonder I never learned anything,” Randy said, and then as an afterthought, “I wonder how many others failed.” He was wondering if he would win an appeal against the grading.

“You should talk to him, this Drake. Tell him what’s happened. Ask him to pass you,” Seth knew he had to tread carefully.

“Would that work? Would he do it?” Randy doubted it.

“Make an appointment. Go see him. What is there to lose?” Seth drained his cola and stood up to leave.

If the rumours Seth had heard were true, Randy would get his pass; but he would have to pay a price for it.

….

Randy got his appointment to see Drake, but he had to wait until six in the evening. The semester was over and John F. Kennedy Community College was nearly deserted as he made his way to Drake’s office, hidden away at the end of a corridor on the eighth floor of the main building.

As he exited the elevator he saw Mark Cheyne, a fellow psychology student, hurrying down the corridor. He was ashen faced and his eyes shone like hot coals. Randy growled “Watch it!” as Mark pushed him out of the way before disappearing into the elevator.

It was late and the support staff had all gone home. There did not seem to be anyone around, so he walked down the corridor reading name plates until he found: T. E. Drake. Suddenly, overtaken by nerves, Randy hesitated. Something was not quite right, but he could not put his finger on it. Checking that nobody else was in the corridor, the teenager put his ear to the door. He had no clue why he did that, or what he expected to hear. In fact, he heard nothing; there was nothing to hear.

Shaking his head (what a fool he was), he tapped on the door and was greeted by a firm “Come in!”

It was an ordinary office and very modern. The furniture, such of it that there was, was made from light pine. A desk and computer table dominated the small room and there were two ‘bucket type’ chairs for guests. The walls were lined with shelving upon which Drake piled high books and journals. It was about as untidy as any other lecturer’s office Randy had ever visited.

Behind the desk, working at the computer was Drake. Seth had described him well; he was a young man, hardly out of university himself. His wide open face and floppy fair hair gave him the appearance of a much younger person.

He looked up, removed his glasses, and peered at Randy.

“And you are?” Drake feigned not to know the nineteen-year-old student he had failed to teach all semester, but he knew very well who he was. And, he knew why he was here.

“I’m Randy Caulfield,” he began, before adding ‘Sir,” as if he were back at Junior High.

Drake liked that. “Sir!” Yes, he thought, this boy had the correct attitude.

“And why are you here?”

Randy launched into a prepared speech about his grade, it being an elective course, how he was an A-student and how his future would be ruined if he could not take his place at the university.

Drake listened impassively. He had already made up his mind, but he wanted a little fun first.

“Why should I give students grades they do not deserve?”

Randy had no coherent answer to that, so just mumbled about his lost university place.

Drake stood up from his computer and walked around his desk so that he was next to Randy.

“It is important that I treat all my students in the same way, he intoned pompously, recalling in his mind Mark Cheyne’s visit to his office not ten minutes previously.

“Yes, sir … I know … but …” Randy tailed off.

There he went again: “Sir.”

Drake paced his office. “You are a lazy student Caulfield and you cannot be allowed to get away with it!” He was firm and determined to make the teenager suffer.

Randy did not think himself lazy, his A-grades in other course proved that. He was a chemist and one day would distinguish himself in the science. He was a good student, but he was just was not cut out for psychology.

He should tell Drake this, he thought, but he could not find the words. Disheartened by his wasted journey, he prepared to leave.

Startled that he might lose a golden opportunity, Drake said, “No, don’t go yet. There might be something I can do for you.”

Puzzled, Randy swung round to face the lecturer.

“You are lazy and you must be taught a lesson. But, I do not want to destroy what might prove to be a promising career. You can be punished in some other way.”

Drake’s words came easily. He had said the same, or something very similar, to many students already that day. He had rehearsed them well and in his own mind what he was about to propose was reasonableness itself.

“If you behaved like this in High School, you would be sent to the principal’s office, would you not.”

Randy was not so sure. “Maybe. I guess,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no ‘maybe’ about it,” Drake’s certainty was not to be questioned.

Randy stood silent. What exactly was happening here?

“And the principal would more than likely give you swats with one of these,” and Drake opened a cupboard door, reached in and took out a spanking paddle.

Randy’s face glowed red with embarrassment. Drake wanted to paddle him.

“So what do you say? If you take a licking and atone for your laziness, I will raise your grade to a pass.” Drake smacked the paddle down into the palm of his hand and stared intently at the teenager as he waited for Randy to respond.

Randy could not take his eyes off the wood Drake wanted to use to beat his ass. It was a typical school paddle, about fifteen inches long and five wide. It was maybe a half an inch thick. Some joker had written ‘Board of Education’ on one side of the blade.

Randy was breathless. Was the man serious? Could he actually do this? Was it even legal?

The boy said none of this aloud, but Drake could read his thoughts.

“It is the solution. You know it is Randy.” This was the first time the man had ever called him by his first name.

“Come. Let’s get this over with,” Drake said as he moved one of the bucket chairs into the centre of the room.

Randy was in a trance. Later when he recounted his story to Seth (who knew all about Drake’s little game) there were many parts of the action he could not remember.

“Bend over the chair, Randy.”

He meekly did as he was told and bent down. It was a small chair with a low back. Drake had Randy move back a bit, using the paddle against his legs and inner thighs to guide him to spread his legs until they were about shoulder-width apart. Then Drake tugged at Randy’s jeans until they stretched across his buttocks like a second skin.

Then, Swat! The first one landed in the center of his backside. Randy let out a loud yelp and hung on for dear life as he furiously stamped his feet trying to get the sting out of his poor butt.

Drake did not mind if Randy kicked about, as long as he stayed in position.

Randy was gasping for breath as if he would never end off gasping, then he clenched his teeth to try to stop yelling again as swat number two connected. The paddle stung like fire and he was surprised how loud a sound it made when it landed across his bent-over behind. All he could say was Ow, ow, ow!!! again and again.

After two dozen swats had connected it was over. Randy let go of the chair and jumped up and down, hollering in pain, his hands frantically trying to soothe the unquenchable heat burning every square inch of his poor butt. His eyes were welled up with tears but he did not care. He was way past the point of being embarrassed about tears or about the show he was putting on as he tried to stop the burn. After a minute or so of carrying on, he stopped dancing up and down and just stood still and rubbed.

Drake stood there paddle in hand just watching Randy with a look of satisfaction on his face that seemed to say: job well done.

And, it was a job well done. Drake had satisfied himself. He could with a clear conscience delete Randy’s failed grade and replace it with a pass.

Randy heard the news in silence. He had regained control of his breathing and the red heat in his throbbing buttocks was cooling.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he tramped out of the office; his place at the university saved.

At the end of the corridor the elevator opened and out stepped Phil King, another psychology student.

“Good luck!” Randy said to the puzzled classmate before pressing the button for the lobby.

 

Other stories you might like.

Don’t borrow dad’s car

The coach and the schoolmaster

The sneak thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com