The rental agreement

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I sat alone in silence in my small rented room listening carefully for the sound of my landlord’s car. He had told me he would come around to see me about the rent I had failed to pay.

It was true I had missed my monthly payment. It was the holiday season and there were more important things to pay for then the rent. He frowned when I told him I didn’t have the money. “You did sign the rental agreement didn’t you?” he asked me sharply.

Yes I had. “Did you actually read it?” he sneered. Had I? I didn’t think I had. I remembered checking on the amount of the rent and that was about all.

“You should have read it all the way to the end,” he told me. “To the part about what happens if you don’t pay the rent on time.”

I shrugged my shoulders. That annoyed him. He rasped, “The bit about being subjected to corporal punishment.”

“Corporal punishment?” I asked, genuinely not understanding.

“Corporal punishment,” he replied as if speaking to a person of limited intelligence, “You know. Spanking.”

“Spanking!” I was incredulous. “How? I don’t understand.”

He leaned into me and we were almost nose to nose. “You signed. You agreed. I have it in all my rental agreements. I’ve had lots of people like you. You kids, you think the world owes you a living. You don’t want to pay your way.”

That wasn’t true. I wasn’t like that. I did pay my way. And I wasn’t a kid. I was nineteen years old and I’d been out in the world since I left school and home three years previously. I had a steady job at a supermarket. It didn’t pay much, but I managed to get by. It was just, as I said, the holiday season can be very expensive.

My landlord shook his head, “It’s there in black and white. Signed and agreed by you. Corporal punishment. A spanking.” Then he told me he would come by next day and I must be sure to be at home.

I waited as instructed. I checked the agreement and Mr Rachlin was not lying, I had agreed to the clause. The room I rented was in a converted house and there were ten of us in all. Most of us were in our late teens and early twenties and I suppose we were all signed up in the same way. I was a bit too embarrassed to go knocking on doors to find out.

Anyway, I had agreed to the spanking clause and I am a man of my word. I had to submit myself to him. I could’ve said I wanted to leave and find somewhere else but that would have been madness. Small cheap rooms like mine were impossible to find, especially in a town like Brocklehurst.

Right on time I heard the purr of Mr Rachlin’s car. It was a Merc; he wasn’t short of a few bob. He himself lived in a grand house in a select street called The Avenue, a million miles from my tiny bed-sit. I heard the car door slam and I waited. My heart was running fast now. I had never been spanked in my life. I had no idea what to expect. It couldn’t hurt too much – could it?

My landlord rapped on my door and I stumbled over and opened it. He stood in the doorway looking into my room. He turned his nose up in the air, “What a mess. It looks like a rubbish tip in here.”

It wasn’t that bad. It’s difficult to keep such a small room tidy. Once you put the bed, a couch, a table and a rail for hanging clothes in it there wasn’t much space for anything else.

Mr Rachlin came in and closed the door behind him. He stood for a while with his feet spread. He was about fifty years old, I guess and like men of that age he had gone to seed a bit. He made a big figure and was perhaps ten centimetres taller than me. He wore no jacket and his belly ballooned over the waistband of his trousers. He carried a plastic bag from the same supermarket where I worked.

I mumbled a greeting. I wasn’t sure how this was going to play out. Was I supposed to offer him tea or coffee like this was some social visit? I stood awkwardly waiting for him to make the first move.

“Do you have the rent?” he asked casually. He knew darned well that I hadn’t – otherwise he wouldn’t be here. I confirmed what he already knew. That was when I saw the slight smile about his lips. It was late in the day and his face was covered with stubble which made his double chins bristle menacingly. It sent a shudder through my body.

His brown eyes shone. “Let’s get on with this shall we?” He smiled broadly. That was when I began to wonder if he might be enjoying this. Without moving, he surveyed the small room. His eye rested on the small couch, he had made up his mind.

“Come over here,” he said as he walked towards the two-seater settee. “Let’s get on with this. I don’t have all night,” and he added ominously, “I have other tenants to visit.”

He delved into the plastic bag and brought out what looked to me like a block of wood. It was almost square at one end and had a small handle. It reminded me of a smaller version of the blocks people use when cutting bread. Mr Rachlin must have seen my confusion. “It’s called a paddle. It’s what our American cousins use for spanking naughty boys’ butts – bottoms that is to me and you.” He brandished it in my face so I got a closer look. It was about a half-centimetre thick and from where I stood it looked very heavy. To demonstrate this point my landlord gripped the handle with one hand and smacked the blade end into the palm of the other. “Look,” he said showing me the red mark he had made on his hand. “That’ll be your backside in a minute.”

He let that sink in for a moment and then he sat down. He beckoned me to stand in front of him. “Put your hands on your head.” It was at this point that I forcefully reminded myself that I was the one who had decided not to pay the rent and instead had used the money on fun and partying. I had to face the consequences of my action. I should do whatever my landlord asked of me. I was surprised how wet my hair was. I had not realised I was sweating profusely, even though the room was quite cool.

“I always do this part myself,” he said evenly. I flinched as with both hands he took hold of my belt and began to unbuckle it. Instinctively I wriggled my hips. “Do not resist,” he said sternly. “Your job is to take your spanking calmly. Next time you’ll pay the rent on time.”

As he said this he had opened the front of my jeans and was calmly guiding them down my legs so they bunched at my shins. He leaned forward and I could smell sour tobacco smoke mingling with some greasy hair oil. It almost made me gag.

I had never been undressed by a man before; and not often by a woman either. My face blazed with embarrassment, but that wasn’t half my problem. Without warning Mr Rachlin took a firm grip on the waistband of my boxer shorts and with a flourish like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat he tugged them down my buttocks. I only wore a short t-shirt so my cock flapped up and down in front of his face. I was mortified. I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this was not happening.

It couldn’t be true. Here I was a nineteen-year-old shopworker standing in his rented room in front of his landlord with his jeans and his underwear at his shins with his arse bared to the wind. Waiting to be spanked on that naked bottom with a heavy wooden paddle. You couldn’t make it up.

Because he carried so much weight in the belly department, Mr Rachlin had sank back into the cushions of the couch and had a problem getting back on his feet. He wheezed with the effort but I had no intention of helping him up. At last he stood beside me. He leaned down again and picked up the paddle. He was good to go.

Without a further word he placed a cushion on top of one arm of the couch. It wobbled and nearly toppled to the floor. He waved his paddle at it and sternly said, “Bend over the couch.” Ice ran down my back.

I looked down at the couch. It seemed very low. It wouldn’t be that easy. I was a virgin to spanking but even I could see bending across the back of the couch would have been a better proposition. I said nothing. Instead I stumbled forward and did my best to lay across the arm. I rested my stomach on it and had to bend my legs behind me so that my feet could rest on the floor. To my front I leaned on my elbows and this meant I had the choice of staring down at the dusty cushion only centimetres from my face or to stare into the distance at the far wall. My back was arched and like this I awaited Mr Rachlin’s next move.

What I couldn’t know because I couldn’t see was that my bottom was raised high at an angle and offered my landlord a terrific target. I’m a long way from being fat – not like Mr Rachlin – but my bum is well covered. I had no idea whether this was a good or a bad thing. Does the more padding a fellow has offer more protection from the paddle? Or does it mean the bum is bigger and there are therefore more nerve ends to set on fire? I didn’t know then and I still don’t.

The floorboards creaked when my landlord took up his position behind me and to my left. I could smell him. Had he showered that day? I shut my eyes tight and my bottom tightened. I braced myself for the pain I expected to start at any moment. I felt Mr Rachlin’s hand press hard into my shoulder blades. There was a pause. I felt a movement in his body. Then, CRACK! the paddle connected with my left buttock cheek. I gasped and the impact was so great my arms collapsed so that my head sank into the cushion. My lips formed a perfect “O” shape and I let out a silent “ouch.”

There was no time to do more before the paddle pounded into my other cheek. My bum was ablaze. Suddenly two more swats hammered into the underside of my cheeks. The pain was indescribable. Was this how it felt if you stood too close to an open roaring coal fire? My back bucked and my legs kicked out.

“Stay in position,” my landlord barked and paddle slammed into my bare bum again. The noise was horrific. The room echoed as though a bomb had gone off. I wondered if the young Asian guy in the next room could hear.

The paddle slammed again and again. I was really feeling it. I writhed and moaned, kicking my feet. I still had enough dignity not to beg Mr Rachlin to stop. Besides, looking back on it I know he had the right to spank me. I had not paid the rent and I had signed the contract.

My bum was hot and sweaty and the paddle was warm. My backside was roasted.

Bent over the arm of the couch like that I was uncomfortably conscious of my bare arse pointing to the ceiling. It seemed like a huge target, completely vulnerable to the big wooden paddle.

Only then did I panic: could Mr Rachlin see up my crack? The embarrassment of offering my bared-buttocks to the older man to spank was intense, but what a humiliation if he was gazing down at my hole?

My landlord couldn’t have been bothered by that because he didn’t slow down with the paddling, in fact he accelerated the assault. Every smack felt like a hot frying pan pressing against my flesh. Steamy tears ran down my face. There was a plump scatter cushion within reach, I grabbed it and buried my head, choking on the dust it held.

Other blows pushed me against the arm, crushing my penis against the couch, adding to the flow of my tears.

I lost all sense of time. Was it a minute, was it an hour? I really don’t know. The sound of the paddle connecting with naked flesh continued to travel around the room. My bum was numb. The pain had reached a plateau. It didn’t matter how many more times he swatted me I wouldn’t feel a thing.

Mr Rachlin might have known this; suddenly he stopped. “That’s it,” he wheezed, “Get up. Get dressed.”

I stumbled to my feet and ran up and down on the spot, like footballers do when they get a kick and try to run-off the pain. It didn’t work. I clutched my bare bum horrified that the flesh felt like leather. I didn’t care that my cock and balls were bouncing in front of my landlord’s face.

“Get dressed,” he repeated. I bent down to retrieve my boxers, my bum burnt some more as I stretched down. The effort of bending made me gasp for breath, I hadn’t realised how shot my body was. At last I had my jeans in place. My backside throbbed like crazy.

Mr Rachlin was ready to go. Before he opened the door he turned to me and snorted, “Don’t forget you still owe me the rent. If I have to come back again next month and you haven’t paid me up, you’ll get double.”

With that he was gone. I heard footsteps as he crossed the hall and then the sound of his knuckles rapping on another door.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

My landlord’s slipper

Step-dad’s little trick

The military camp

 

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

 

Strictly no alcohol

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Trent and Alex were in the students’ union bar finishing their second pint of the evening. “I’m going to make this the last one,” Trent said. “Then I have to be off home.”

His friend wrinkled his nose, “But it’s early yet, it’s not even nine.”

“I know, but I’ve got to go,” he sipped his beer ruefully. Colour drained from his face.

His close pal noticed this at once. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”

Trent wriggled in his chair as if the memory discomforted him. “You’ll never believe me if I told you. I can’t even believe it myself.”

Alex laughed. “Oh come on. You can’t leave it like that. You’ve got to tell me now.”

Trent laughed too. “Okay, but promise you won’t tell anyone else.”

“Scout’s honour.”

This is the story he told.

“You know I’ve just moved into digs with that weird fellow, the one with all the tattoos. Well, it turns out that he’s a born-again teetotaller. He used to be a wino, an alcoholic. Turns out he’s really against booze. The first day I got there he says I’m not to bring any alcohol into the house. He says I’m not to drink outside either.

“I didn’t take any notice of him. I was desperate for somewhere to stay after that trouble at my last place, so I just said ‘okay’ and left it at that. I think he must have been in a right state back in the day. Did I tell you he’s got tattoos all the way up his neck and over some of his face? I couldn’t take him seriously to be honest.

“Things were fine for a day or two. Turns out he’s quite an artist – and not only a piss artist either – he’s got an exhibition of paintings and ceramics coming up. I knew he had a bob or two in the bank, those houses in The Avenue don’t come cheap.

“Like I say, things were all right and then last Saturday I went to the gig with The Dudes – did you go? – and afterwards there was a party so I didn’t get back until gone two in the morning. I didn’t think much of it. I’ve got my own key obviously and I was going to just let myself in and go to bed. I was a bit drunk actually. I just about managed to get the key in the lock and I was on my way up the stairs when he came flying out of the living room.

“He was livid. He had stayed up until I came home. ‘What time do you call this this,’ he roared. He was really angry. I couldn’t work it out. I was drunk like I said and so I said back to him, ‘Two o’clock what’s it to you?’ He had never said anything about curfew, y’know like some landlords do.

“It just made things worse. He storms up to me and his face is like this; y’know we’re practically nose to nose. Then he smells the beer on my breath. He hits the effing roof. I can’t tell you. I’ve never seen anyone so angry before. His face goes scarlet and that made me scared. His face is pretty scary anyway. He’s jabbering away at me so fast that I can’t get what he’s saying. I’m pissed, of course, so that doesn’t help.

“Then he screams, ‘I told you! I told you!’ and I thought he was going to explode. Then you’ll never guess what happens. You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone else, remember. Then he grabs hold of me by the back of my jumper and he drags me across the floor. I’m still on my feet but they’re slipping on the polished floor of the hallway. He takes me into the sitting room. Of course, I’m hollering and calling him all the names under the sun, but he’s too far gone. He’s somewhere with the fairies.

“So we’re in the sitting room now and I see his eyes are blazing, they’re like something out of a cheap horror movie. I’ve never seen anyone with red eyes before. Red. Have you? Well, I’m thinking this guy is well out of control now and I wonder how I’m going to get away.

“He has enormous strength, like some wild animal. I can’t think of one now, a bear or something like that. He’s so strong that I can’t get away from him. He’s jabbering his gibberish again and I know he’s trying to tell me something, to explain maybe, but I haven’t a clue what he’s going on about. Then, it happened.

“I swear to God I’m not making this up. He’s still got me by the scruff of the neck and he pulls me across the sitting room. It’s quite a big room and there’s a large couch at one end. He’s still got hold of me and he sits himself down and then he pulls me down on top of him. He puts me across his knee. Honestly. He’s got me across his knee like I’m nine years old, not nineteen. I’m face down and he picks me up like I’m a rag doll and he pulls me about out so my chest and arms are flat on one side of him and my legs are stretched behind me on the couch on the other. And he’s got my bum high over his lap. He leans his arm across my body and nearly breaks my back as he pins me down. I cannot move!

“Of course, I’m yelling blue murder, but he don’t care. I still cannot move. He’s got me exactly where he wants me: face down, bum high. I feel him take hold of the waist of my jeans and he pulls them really hard. It’s like he’s giving me a wedgie. I can feel the jeans digging into my crack. I couldn’t believe it!

“Then, he spanks me. He slaps his horrible old tattooed hand all over my arse. Of course, I’m wriggling and kicking and trying to escape. It must have looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. It didn’t stop him. He’s jabbering on still, while his spanks me all over my bum. He even went on the back of my thighs. I was drunk, of course, and by now I’m feeling a bit sick and I’m thinking I’m going to throw up all over the couch any minute now. I don’t but because I was thinking that I wasn’t doing much else, so I just sort of lay there and let him spank me. Over and over again.

“Have you ever been spanked? No, of course you haven’t, who has? It’s supposed to hurt isn’t it? That’s the whole point of it surely. ‘Come her you naughty boy, get across my knee’, smack, smack, smack. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! But I didn’t feel a thing. Nothing. I could feel his hand landing on the seat of my jeans but that’s all. Of course, the jeans are thick aren’t they. And, of course, I’m wearing pants. Boxers, actually. Never felt a thing.

“Anyway, eventually he stops spanking me and lets me go. I didn’t hang around. I stumbled up the stairs and bounced into my bedroom. I had a little look. Y’now at my bum like and it wasn’t even red. It was like nothing happened. It might have been a dream.

“So, that’s what happened. My landlord spanked me for being out drinking. It didn’t hurt a bit and – obviously, since we are in the bar – it hasn’t stopped me drinking. What was the point of it all?”

Trent had stopped speaking. There was silence before Alex realised his pal had asked him a genuine question. “What was the point of it?” he mused, “None at all. Unless, of course, we come to the inevitable conclusion that he got a great deal of pleasure spanking your gorgeous arse. Come on, have another drink, what’s the worst that could happen?”

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Picture credits: Bad-lads dot com

Other stories you might like

 

The French student

The rent collector

Bend over my knee for a birching

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

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When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

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  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.

‘“Mmmm”

‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

“The Reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the Reverend desired.’

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

“Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.”

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

“Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

“He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

“The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

‘“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.”

 

Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

“He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The French student

new 5

z used otk head bare

Back in the day I was a great defender of the English way of life. This was long before we got mixed up in the European Union and lost our national identity.

Every summer for years I took into my home students from France who were in town to learn English. Also, the college that paid me asked me teach them something about our ‘culture’. A pleasure, I said. I meant it too.

The kids were eighteen or nineteen. They’d finished school and were often waiting to go off to university back home. In those days you didn’t become a legal adult until you turned twenty-one, so my houseguests were still children in my mind. That meant I was responsible for them, a bit like I was their father.

I took my responsibilities seriously. With the help of the college I drew up a contract of behaviour that I insisted all students who stayed with me signed. It wasn’t complicated. There was something about night time curfews (they were here to learn, they were not on vacation); meal times and so on. I have a huge house with three different ‘reception’ rooms and I told them which were out of bounds.

The college praised me for my foresight in having such a contract. I beamed with pleasure when they said that. Only later did I add the paragraph about the use of corporal punishment.

Being an Englishman that meant the whippy, rattan cane. There was a sixpenny bazaar in the High Street that sold traditional ‘school-type’ canes. They came in a variety of lengths and thicknesses and I stocked up with half a dozen (“Six of the best,” I joked to the young salesman who served me). Some came with crook handles and others had twine wrapped around one end to make a handle.

I cleared out a cupboard in one of my lounge rooms and deposited the canes inside. I also collected together some other items from around the house that might come in useful. I still had a heavy rubber-soled gym shoe from when I was at school. That went in the cupboard. Also, a heavy ebony hairbrush that I once bought at a junk shop in the Portobello Road in London. I added to that an ancient leather razor strop that had been in my family for generations. A shaving razor had not been near it in decades.

By the time I was finished I had quite a collection. I was ready for any eventuality.

The students were all surprisingly similar. Mostly they came from small towns or villages and had been kept on tight reins by their parents and schoolmasters. Now, as they saw it, out in the free world they thought they could run wild. I have to say that our town of Brocklehurst is hardly a den of iniquity but we can boast a sizeable university so even in those days there were clubs and bars to entice them.

My guests were only too willing to be tested, hence the need for that contract. I was a stickler for curfew. Home by ten every night. In bed, lights out by eleven on a college night. I let them stay up until eleven-thirty at other times. I always believed in the old adage “early to bed, early to rise …” I didn’t see why my routine should be disturbed by a noisy teenager.

I think the kids signed my contract without reading it too closely (English wasn’t their first language after all). They didn’t always take note of the section headed: Corporal punishment (administration of). Not, until it was too late.

Pierre was one of the first kids who boarded with me. He was eighteen and was on some kind of ‘gap year’ between finishing school and going on to university. I was to learn he was a typical boy let loose away from his parents. Brocklehurst in those days was a staid place but some people knew they could make a few quid out of the students so they set up places like coffee bars and dance halls where they could relieve them of their money. Pierre was only too willing to go anywhere that offered the chance of ‘fun’, especially if that included the chance to meet girls.

Need I say that the possibility to meet girls far outweighed his obligation to return to my home before curfew. I am not a hard man, but I believe in rules. I believe in order. I believe in being in charge. I warned Pierre of the consequences if he stayed out late. I showed him the contents of my cupboard. He was left in no doubts. He could only blame himself.

So I lectured him on responsibility, self-discipline, consideration for others. It was quite a speech. He looked bemused half the time. I suppose his English wasn’t up to it. He might not have understood all I was saying but he got it when I said, “Now I am going to spank you.” His face blanched, despite the deep suntan. He blustered. Now it was my turn not to understand. I suppose for some things there’s a universal language. His tone of voice told me he was saying, “No, but, you can’t,” and so on. He might even have said, “I’m too old to be spanked.” Certainly, that was something many of them told me over the years. Too old Bah! Eighteen and nineteen is not too old to be spanked.

I had no intention of flogging him into a pulp, but he needed a wakeup call, that was for sure. I had a choice: a cane, a heavy strap, a plimsoll, hairbrush, you name it. But no, what Pierre needed was a good old-fashioned spanking. Do they say fessee in France? Trousers and pants down and over my knee. Bare bottomed. Spanked until his cheeks burnt red hot. Spanked until they glowed in the dark.

Back in the day I hadn’t yet run to fat. I was no athlete, but I still had some strength. Pierre, was probably an inch or so taller than myself and as thin as most kids were in those days. Despite his constant rule-breaking he was a pretty conventional kid. I have no idea if his father ever spanked him, or an uncle or some other adult in his life. Certainly, he understood the concept of  the instruction, “bend over my knee.”

We were in the room I called my lounge. There were a couple of armchairs and a sofa. Against the wall stood a straight-backed chair. I pulled it into the centre of the room. Pierre’s eyes popped. If he hadn’t believed it before, he did now: I was deadly serious. I sat down and spread my legs. I wriggled my buttocks to get comfortable. Pierre gaped, the tip of his tongue poked through his lips. He was silent but the apprehension was clear in his face. He was standing some distance from me. “Come here,” I ordered. He flinched and started to turn his back on me.

“Pah!” I exclaimed and reached forward, took him by the forearm and pulled him towards me. He may have been too astonished to resist. I was done lecturing, now was the time for action. He wore fashionable loon pants trousers that had no waistband. They were held up with a single button. It took two seconds to release it and tug his zipper down. The loons slid down his bony thighs. I took hold of his wrist and pulled him so that unbalanced he toppled face down across my knee.

I suppose I had the element of surprise because Pierre did not struggle. He waved his arms about but that was so he could keep his balance and not tumble to the floor. He wore tight maroon-coloured briefs. They fitted his tight cheeks perfectly; like a second skin almost. I did not hesitate. “These serve little purpose at a time like this,” I told him as I dug my fingers under the elasticated waistband and with three tugs I had them clear of his bottom.

That’s when he began to struggle. But he was too late. His head was low and his bottom high. At this angle it was impossible for him to reach back with his hands to protect his bottom. I pressed my left arm hard against his shoulders. He was pinned down, going nowhere until I said so. He called out in French, obviously protesting about the indignity of his position.

I peeled up the end of his t-shirt so it was well clear of his bottom. I took a second to observe my target. Two small, round unblemished cheeks rested against my thigh, perfectly positioned for the task I had to perform. I curved the palm of my hand and slapped him hard. Again, and again and again. The sound of my palm against his rock-hard bottom resounded around the small room. The rapid spanks sounded like machinegun fire; I landed eighty or more slaps in the first minute. I was rewarded with an extended hissing from Pierre as he exhaled all the air from his lungs. His head rose and fell. Then he shook it from left to right. His arms flailed about, and his hips swerved. It was like he was trying to swim off my lap. Fat chance.

I was spanking him too quickly to be able to count how many slaps I delivered. I was delighted to see the outline of my palm reproduced in red all across his buttocks; from the peaks of his mounds, over the crests and into the soft spot where the crease meets the thighs. Satisfied that every square inch of his bum was now red hot, I went for the back of his thighs.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I didn’t need a translator to understand that. Pierre was in pain. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the back of his neck was as scarlet as his backside. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. The eighteen-year-old foreign language student was feeling this spanking.

By now my hand was smarting almost as much as Pierre’s bum. I didn’t care. It was a small price to pay. It was my duty to punish Pierre. And to teach him; teach him a little about the English way of life. I would happily have kept up the bare-bottomed spanking for half an hour or more, but suddenly I was aware of an urgent tapping on the window. Without pausing my onslaught on Pierre’s writhing bum, I looked up. Peering through the window was a man in uniform and wearing a peaked cap. He was holding up a parcel at the window for me to see. Startled, I momentarily relaxed my grip on Pierre and taking his chance he wriggled off my lap and fell to the floor where in one athletic movement he rolled over, leapt to his feet and while still tugging up his pants and trousers, fled from the room.

I went to the front door. The postman handed me a long, thin parcel and walked back down the path without a word. I glanced at the postmark: Lochgelly. Eagerly, I took it into the kitchen. I lit the gas under the kettle before ripping open the brown paper. A lovely two-tailed leather taws slipped into my hands. I caressed it and lovingly lifted it to my face to savour the aroma of fresh leather. A new toy for my collection. The kettle whistled and I made myself tea which I sipped slowly wondering how long I would have to wait before I had Pierre across the kitchen table.

Picture credit: Franco

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The TV repairman

A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A spanking before bedtime

new 5

z used slipper pyjamas bare chair sting (2)

Go to your room, get changed into you pyjamas and meet me in the lounge. You’re getting a spanking before bedtime.

…….

Come in, stand there. Don’t slouch. Look at me when I’m talking to you. When I took you out of that half-way house for young offenders and gave you a room in my own house, you made certain promises to me. You agreed to abide by my rules. They are not onerous, but a lad like yourself needs guidelines. You need boundaries. You cannot be relied upon to always know the difference between right and wrong. That’s why we have rules. You even signed a contract with me about your behaviour.

Yes, you might look sheepish. They weren’t that strict. Ordinary, decent people wouldn’t think twice about keeping them. I asked that you were polite and respectful at all times to myself and Mrs Burlington. My wife informs me that you are often abrupt and surly with her. You agreed to hold down a job and I am pleased that you have secured a position at Robinson’s store, but I have received reports that you are often late back from lunch and there is a cloud over you and two other employees regarding the disappearance of a bottle of whisky from the off-licence department.

I asked that you attend all meals on time and that you do not stay out later than ten-thirty in the evenings. Last Saturday, you may remember you did not return until close to midnight. My wife informs me that you appear to have been inebriated at the time. I gave you strict instructions that the front room of the house was Mrs Burlington’s private domain and it was out of bounds to you. Mary, our maid, tells me that she saw you sneaking out – her words – of the room one morning last week.

I don’t consider you a wicked or evil lad. I am aware that you had an unfortunate upbringing and at an early age you ceased to be under the control of your parents. You have paid the price for your crimes. They were in the great scheme of things relatively petty, but I don’t suppose the people you stole from think the same.

When I took you into my house I was sure you were a reformed character. I still have great faith in you. If I did not we would not be here this evening. You know that under the terms of the licence that brought you here you can be returned to the half-way house at my discretion. I do not want to do that. I believe in giving people a chance, especially those less fortunate than myself. I want to help you. I believe you can make something of yourself. I have great hopes for you.

That is why I am going to give you a dose of my slipper. I know you are nineteen, going on twenty, and you might think you are too old for such punishment. I don’t agree. You need to be pulled up sharp lad. A short-sharp-shock. Many might say a slippering is a very childish punishment and a lad as big and strong as you deserves something far more severe. They have a case. If your behaviour does not improve after this evening I might have to resort to administering a flogging. Certainly, I am in possession of a very stout, Malacca cane, the type, so I am told, that was once used on unruly boys at borstal institutions. Please don’t make me have to use it on you.

Let’s get on with it. Stand over there, in front of that chair. No, please don’t try to argue. My mind is made up. You deserve a jolly good spanking and that’s just what you are going to get. This is for your own good. You might not believe me now, but one day you will almost certainly thank me for nights like this. I have your best interests at heart.

Right, now take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over. Rest your hands on the seat of the chair. Yes! The slipper on your bare bottom. I hope you feel ashamed. I want you to think very carefully about your behaviour. I want to see a very marked improvement from you. Now, please do as I ask; don’t make me have to come over there and take them down for you.

Good. Now, keep those knees straight. Arch your back. Please stick out your bottom a little more. Let’s get this pyjama jacket out of the way. Hold still, don’t wriggle about. You must learn to take your spankings with some dignity.

Right, remember lad, I’m doing this for your own good ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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The paying guest

 The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

Portrait of an artist

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The rent collector

z used new story 2

z used solo defiant look pants by Bleuboyz (5)

The first thing you need to do is drop the attitude. You are in deep trouble, and you know it. You must have thought I was joking when I said I’d spank you if you didn’t come up with the rent. Well, you owe four weeks now, so you’d better start handing it over.

Haven’t got it? Well, why am I not surprised? Look at you. It’s nearly midday and you were still in bed when I called. Why don’t you get a job. There are plenty about, one’s that pay enough for the rent on this room. You’re just plain lazy and that’s the truth. Young people today think they’re owed a living. You are about to learn a painful lesson in life.

Do you see this? It’s a paddle. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen one close up before. Never felt one across your ass, that’s for sure. See that blade. Those holes cut in it, they’re to make it fly quicker through the air. They leave blisters on your butt. By the time I’m through with you that creamy-white ass of yours will be covered in big red sores. You ain’t gonna be sitting down for some time buddy.

So? Do you have the money? No? How come, you must be getting it from somewhere. Look at all the empty beer cans here. I bet you’re on drugs too. All kids your age are. How old are you anyhow: twenty, twenty-one? You really ought to be earning your living by now. Out in the world, paying your way.

So, no rent gets you a spanking. Don’t look so smug. You’re getting a tanning. Ah! Who’s that at the door? Come in Mr Pritchard, thank you for joining us. Have you met Mr Pritchard? You might have seen him working the doors on one of the landlord’s many business enterprises in town. He’s here to assist me in my work. See, I reckon you ain’t about to meekly give me your little hiney to spank, so Mr Pritchard here is going to make sure I don’t go away disappointed. Isn’t that right Mr Pritchard?

So, are you going to come quietly? No, I didn’t think so. Mr Pritchard  grab him and hold him down across the table please.

Don’t fight him. You can’t win. Do you want two broken arms as well as a blistered butt? No, I didn’t think so. Stop struggling.

Thank you Mr Pritchard. Hold him face down. That’s right. Sit on his shoulders if you have to. Good. Right sonny, let me get your underwear down. Don’t fight me. You don’t want me to rip them, they look mighty expensive. Is that why you can’t pay the rent, you’re spending all your money on designer shorts? Or do you have a boyfriend buys them for you. I bet that’s it, a pretty boy like you. Does he pay for the beer and the drugs? You ought to get him to set you up in an apartment someplace.

Stop shouting. D’you want to disturb the neighbours? Look, if you don’t keep quite I’m going to put a sock in your mouth. Do you want that? No, I didn’t think so.

Right. My, what a magnificent butt. I bet you like to show that around The Village. Do you sell it? What a great piece of ass. I bet it fetches a premium. Okay, Mr Pritchard, hold him steady please. Let’s take the skin off his hiney. How may swats do you think? How about one swat for every dollar rent he owes. Does that sound fair?

One …

Two …

Three …

Hold him steady Mr Pritchard ….

Picture credit: Bleuboyz

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My First Time

The bully

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The tenants and the headmaster

It was a big disadvantage if the landlord of your apartment was also a headmaster at a local school, as Dick and his pal Sam were to discover.

Mr Dunn was a kind-hearted and charitable man; he let out the apartment through a charity called Helping Hand which looked after kids once they became too old to stay at orphanages. Youngsters often found it difficult to get jobs or find places to live and were in danger of getting into trouble, so the charity helped them. Mr Dunn knew he could get more rent if he let out the apartment to a professional couple, but that didn’t bother him. He truly believed he was making a difference in Dick and Sam’s lives.

And, he was. The two guys had left the same orphanage a year ago when they were eighteen and drifted aimlessly for a while. Then, Helping Hand found them sleeping rough in the local park and stepped in.

Within weeks Dick and Sam had jobs and this apartment. The jobs were a bit crappy: Dick was at a burger bar and Sam filled shelves in a supermarket. Mr Dunn knew things weren’t easy for the boys so he let the charity charge an uneconomic rent.

Unfortunately, things had not worked out well in the six months since the boys moved in. Neighbours complained about the noise they made and there were nights when gangs of their “friends” stayed over, drinking booze and smoking dope.

Mr Dunn knew the organisers of Helping Hand and through them he arranged to meet the boys to discuss the problems.

Mr Dunn was a headmaster and he understood boys, he knew that even though they were now nineteen years old, Dick and Sam were pretty immature. They had lived most of their lives in institutions and were not used to taking responsibility for themselves. He reckoned they probably had the maturity level of a “normal” thirteen or fourteen-year-old schoolboy and Mr Dunn certainly had experience of dealing with those.

At his school, boys of that age would be subject to clear rules. If they broke the rules, especially if they did so wilfully, they would be punished. There was a hierarchy of punishments, ranging from rebuke and “telling off,” through to writing lines and detentions.

Only last week he had been forced to thrash an eighteen-year-old boy called Scanlon who had been making a nice little earner selling single cigarettes to junior boys to smoke behind the cricket pavilion. In a way, Mr Dunn admired the boy’s entrepreneurial spirit, but once discovered, there was no alternative but to beat his buttocks black and blue.

Scanlon was resigned to his fate. He probably knew that if he didn’t accept the caning, Mr Dunn would be forced to expel him from the school.

The headmaster did not stand on ceremony. Once Scanlon had confessed his crime, he was ordered to turn an armchair round so its back faced the room. On instruction, he bent over, offering his backside up for Mr Dunn’s attention. The headmaster obliged with six swift stingers that landed across the centre of Scanlon’s stretched buttocks. The boy gasped audibly as each one struck home. His face was pale and his eyes moist, when he was eventually allowed to stand and he left the headmaster’s study with a throbbing behind, scarred with six red welts.

Scanlon did not resent his thrashing. He knew he had deliberately broken the rules and he knew what the consequences would be if he were caught. That, Mr Dunn believed, was entirely as it should be.

When he met with Dick and Sam, Mr Dunn made it clear that their behaviour had become unacceptable, it was anti-social and they needed to be more considerate to their neighbours. The boys accepted that they had been thoughtless and promised to mend their ways.

Mr Dunn left it at that: he didn’t really have any choice. What could he do if the boys continued to misbehave, except throw them out of the apartment and if he did that they would probably end up back in the park and Mr Dunn genuinely did not want that to happen.

As far as Mr Dunn knew, the boys behaved themselves for a week or two, but then he heard they fell back into their old habits. The final straw came when they boys failed to pay their rent. A worker at the charity told him they had been skipping work, so, of course, they didn’t have rent money.

Mr Dunn was furious. It was bad enough they treated their neighbours badly, but now they were doing it free-of-charge. He seriously considered throwing them out on their ears. So what if they ended up sleeping rough, he knew there were many other youngsters just out of orphanages who would give their right arms for the chance to take over the apartment.

But, he decided to give them a final chance. Mr Dunn had many years of experience beating backsides and he knew that the cane, or the threat of it, worked.

He was certain Dick and Sam would respond to corporal punishment. Mr Dunn thought Dick and Sam already deserved a good hiding for skiving off work and not paying the rent, but in fairness he knew he should warn them first of the consequences of their misbehaviour.

He visited the boys and explained his plan. They took it surprisingly well, he thought, and the three of them discussed what poor conduct would merit corporal punishment. High on the list of transgressions was playing loud music, having unauthorised guests, missing work, and above all, not paying the rent.

I was shocked when Dunn said he would beat us if we broke any of his rules. I thought I had left the cane behind at the orphanage. When he explained to us that our behaviour upset the neighbours and how important it was that we went to work and made something of ourselves, I felt sorry. I would behave in future, I told him, and I meant it.

But, I couldn’t keep it up. Work was really boring, making burgers all day:  day after day after day. Most people working there were students or real no-hopers and the boss, Billy, was a bit creepy, if you ask me.

I cut work a few times and so I couldn’t make the rent again. Sam moaned at me, he had been to his job like a good little boy and he had the money. He didn’t see why he should get a whacking because of me.

I got word from the worker at Helping Hand that Dunn would be around to see me about the rent. Sam had paid his share and was in the clear. At least he was good enough to slope off to the pub when Dunn was due.

Not a minute too early, nor a minute too late, Dunn arrived. He rang the doorbell, even though he had a key and could’ve let himself in.

Nervously, I answered. He was carrying a snooker cue case.

“I didn’t know you played, Mr Dunn,” I said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. He just smirked and said nothing.

Dunn was the headmaster of one of the local schools and had an air of authority about him. I supposed he had a lot of practice telling kids they were naughty and putting them in their place, which I assumed, soon meant me over his knee or somewhere.

“Let’s go in the lounge.” I followed him in. He whistled through his teeth as he saw the mess. Dirty cups and saucers were on the table and the couch was covered in old magazines. I stared at the pile, hoping I hadn’t left my wank mags there.

“Don’t you boys ever tidy up?”

I made a move to tidy up the magazines.

“Leave them alone. Leave them alone.”

He pulled a dining room chair from its place by the table, put it in the middle of the room, and sat down.

“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot a few feet in front of him.

I did as I was directed. I had already decided I would do exactly as I was told. I didn’t want to get thrown out of the apartment, especially not if Sam was going to stay. I couldn’t face being out there on my own.

Very quietly and very carefully, Dunn explained what I had done wrong, what I needed to do in future to improve myself and why, now, he was going to cane my backside.

I had expected this, but, still it came as a shock. My legs turned a little to jelly, but I stayed upright. I assumed Dunn would expect me to present myself humbly for the beating. Would that be even more humiliating than the beating itself?

Dunn stood up and walked to the table where he had left his snooker cue. He opened the case and took out a straight cane, about three feet long and as thick as a pencil.

I felt such a fool, no wonder Dunn had sneered at me.

“Stand behind the chair.” I did as I was told. He held the cane between his two hands and flexed it backwards and forwards. It was very springy for a cane that thick.

I couldn’t take my eyes of it as he made a few practice swipes through the air.

“Bend over the chair boy and put your hands flat on the seat.” I almost smiled with relief. I was expecting to be told to take my trousers and pants down to take the caning on the bare bum.

Surely, it wouldn’t hurt too much with my trousers up. I wished I had known; I would’ve worn my new thick Levis.

I got into position. The chair was quite high and I had to stand on tip-toe and rest my stomach on the back to be able to lay my palms flat. I could tell my arse was really high and would make a tremendous target for Dunn’s cane.

He said nothing, but I could hear him getting ready. He swished the cane about some more making sure there was enough room for him to get a good swing and bring the cane thwacking down into the seat of my trousers.

z used cane hold (2)

I felt the cane go tap, tap, against my stretched bum and then Whooosh! I heard the crack of the cane hit my bum and then a split-second later I felt a terrifying pain across both cheeks. I moved my hands from the top of the seat and hung to the chair’s edge for dear life.

The second slice had me yowling! with agony. The pain shot from my backside through my entire body. I couldn’t take any more of this, but I knew I had to try to be brave. I realised Dunn had not told me how many strokes I was getting. I assumed six, as in six-of-the-best, but my God, maybe there would be more.

I cried bitterly as number three whacked into me. How could that little stick hurt so much? I could feel a welt forming across the lower end of my cheeks and the throbbing made my buttocks feel they were twice their normal size.

I danced up and down after the fourth stroke hit low and took me at the top of my thighs. I gripped on to the wooden seat of the chair to stop me jumping up and clutching my burning buttocks in both hands. The pain was searing and I had never before experienced anything like this.

I howled and howled as the fifth whack cut diagonally across the other four, sending renewed waves of pain through my buttocks. Tears and snot were running down my face

The sixth stroke landed on the top of my thigh like a white-hot poker.  I yelled some more, and my sobs came in heaves.

I heard Dunn return his cane to the snooker cue case. It was over.

“Stand up boy.” I got up and my hands shot straight to my roasting buttocks, rubbing away in a fruitless attempt to ease the pain.

“Stop that at once,” Dunn commanded. “Put your hands by your side.”

Reluctantly, I did as I was told, hopping from one foot to the other, still trying to deaden the pain. My poor arse felt like it had sat on a coal fire. Every part from the top of my globes to my thighs was raw flesh. How much more time would it take for the throbbing and the welts from this severe thrashing to go away?

I was regaining some composure, tears continued to flow, but I had stopped heaving.

I was so pleased Sam had gone to the pub so as not to witness my humiliation. Then, I heard the sound of footsteps above the ceiling. My neighbours, the ones who always complained about our loud music, must have heard me wailing. Had Dunn told them what he intended to do?

“Please understand, I have thrashed you for your own good. It is to emphasise that your behaviour until now has been unacceptable. I want you to know that you have been punished for your wrong-doing and the slate is now clean. However, be under no illusion, that if you continue to break my rules the consequences will be very severe indeed. Do you understand me?”

Yes, I told him, I understood.

And, I did, I never missed paying my rent again. Never, in my entire life.

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit Unknown

 

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Dad’s despair

The vicar delivers

The man across the hall

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com