Max of the ‘Champion’ 6. His Lordship

The spanking adventures of a junior newspaper reporter. The series starts here

Max stood in the corner surveying the large room. Glittering chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Carpets from Persia adorned the walls. Delicate ornate tables were laden with food, the like he had never himself tasted. The room was filling up quickly. He reckoned Friday afternoon tea at the hotel attracted most of the upper class Nancy Boys in London. They had not come for the Earl Grey and fancy cakes. They had other appetites.

He shuffled uneasily. The ‘best’ suit he was wearing was not nearly good enough for the present company. All those around him wore Savile Row’s finest. His blue serge had been run up by a Jewish tailor in Leeds.

The room was crowding. He craned his neck, searching for others like him. It seemed he had the party to himself. He was by far the youngest. He was twenty-two years old, but with his lean fit body and fresh open looks and if he dressed up in school uniform he would easily pass for eighteen. Possibly even younger if he wore short trousers and knee socks.

He surveyed his cheap shoes to avoid the eyes of others. It was not yet time for that. He must let the chaps do their work first. It was surprisingly well organised, yet discreet. They all understood one another. It came from attending the same kind of schools. There was a code. One needed to understand it.

Of the thirty or so men in the room, about a third carried furled umbrellas. It was not raining. It hadn’t rained for days and would not do so for a week to come. That was not the point of the umbrella. It was a sign. It said the holder was the punisher. Max supposed the umbrella represented the school cane. Perhaps it was something to do with the curved handle. The rest of the party were to be the punished. All that was needed was for a naughty boy to team up with the headmaster. Rooms on the seventh floor had already been prepared for the fun and games.

A waiter, about Max’s age, passed carrying a silver tray with tea and cakes. Their eyes met. What contempt he showed. Max supressed a smile. The waiter was no rival. No fairy would look at him twice.

There were many regulars. Across the room stuffing his face with sweet cake was someone Max recognised. He had called himself ‘Mr Smith’ (didn’t they all!), but Max had seen the man’s photograph in the Sunday Pictorial. He was a middle-ranking aristocrat. Max trawled the newspapers and the Tatler searching for faces. He had identified quite a number. Mr Smith indeed, he scoffed.

They were beginning to pair off. An older man with another five years his junior sauntered by Max. Soapy Shenfield and his one-time fag Oscar headed for the lift. They had met at St Tom’s school twenty-five years previously when Soapy had been a prefect and Oscar his servant. The swish and thwack of the rattan cane still sent their heartbeats racing.

A face stared intently at Max. It was fleshy with an unkempt walrus moustache. The eyes were hollow and the balding dome lined. The man scowled. He looked distracted as if he were trying to make up his mind about something. Max waited, his breath sucked in. He must not react. That would spoil it all.

The man approached. Stood by Max’s side. He didn’t want to be seen talking to the boy. “Room seven-twelve. Five minutes. Don’t be late.” It was the voice of a man used to giving orders. Used to being obeyed. It took him five seconds to deliver the message. Then he was gone. A broad smile split Max’s face. A result. He waited for Lord M __________ to waddle from the room. Once the door of the lift was pulled closed, Max slowly followed.

It wasn’t a room; it was a suite as befitting a member of the House of Lords. Lord M. was waiting behind the door to open it at the first knock. Max glanced uneasily around the room. It was dominated by a heavy oak table and three comfortable easy chairs. Two doors led from the room. Max would only see the inside of one of them.

Lord M. delved his hand into the pocket of his jacket. Max averted his eyes. Commerce. He knew that despite what happened next and whatever perversions followed this would always be the most embarrassing part of the transaction for the client.

Lord M. pulled out a beaten leather wallet and extracted a five pound note. Silently he placed it on the table. Five pounds! Max hoped he wasn’t gaping. Five pounds. Ten shillings, or a pound from a particularly generous customer, was the standard tariff. Five pounds. What did the fat old Lord want in return for that?

Lord M. opened a small leather case and pulled out a pair of blue-and-white striped pyjamas. “Go in there,” he nodded at one of the doors. “Wash. Make sure you clean your bum hole. Then put on these.” He handed the silk pyjamas to Max. The young man hesitated. Fearful. What did the Lord expect him to do for his fiver?

“Hurry. We don’t have all day.” Lord M. slurred, his mouth suddenly awash with saliva.

The pyjamas were a poor fit. They were meant for somebody much taller. Max would trip over the ends of the legs if he didn’t roll up the hem several times. The sleeves of the jacket came down to his fingertips. There was nothing much he could do about that. He pulled the drawstring tight around his waist, relieved the pyjama bottoms were held in place. He didn’t want them hurtling to his feet like clowns’ trousers.

Lord M. had taken off his jacket and tie by the time Max returned to the main room, but his waistcoat clung tightly to his body. Rolls of fat threatened to pop the buttons. The old man’s eyes watered at the sight of the young man before him, dwarfed in his pyjamas. He really did look a delicious fellow, the Lord told himself. He gulped down a mouthful of spit.

“Stand there. By the table.” The commands were short. Instructions to the point. Lord M. had not come to the hotel for conversation. Max shuffled into position and stood, hands clenched behind his back. His heart raced and his own mouth dried. He watched intently as Lord M. reached for a tall thin canvas bag. His hands trembled as he tried to undo the string tie at its top. A knot had fastened too tightly. Sweat poured from the old man’s brow, although the room was quite chilly.

He wheezed. At last the string was loose. Max was transfixed. A sack that size probably contained one or more whippy rattan canes. That was to be expected. He thought of himself bent across the table, or one of the easy chairs, probably with his pyjama bottoms bunched at his feet, while Lord M. took his arse off with a crook-handled school cane. His cock twitched.

A twisted smile cracked across Lord M’s. ugly face as with loving care he pulled a short rhino hide whip from the bag. It was no longer than a school cane, but thicker. One end was heavy and served as a handle and the whip tapered off along its entire length until it was no thinner than a shoe lace.

Max’s face flushed. He could feel himself heating up. He had never seen such a weapon before. Five pounds. Now he understood. That little beauty could do him serious damage. Lord M. flexed the whip between his hands, just like schoolmasters for generations had with their canes. Max’s eyes watered. Was this what he had signed up for? Now, surely, was the time to make his excuses and leave.

Swipe! The whip even sounded a little like a rattan cane as it flew through the air. Lord M. sucked the saliva from his mouth. His breathing had become irregular.

He tapped the whip against the heavy oak table top. “Loosen the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms and lay face down.” He cracked the whip in case there was any doubt of his intentions. Max hesitated. He had been caned countless times, sometimes quite severely indeed. He knew what blooded buttocks felt like. Would this rhino whip be much worse?

Max was no philosopher. He didn’t know much about the world. He didn’t understand his own feelings. But he knew one thing. He wanted this. He wanted to submit to Lord M. He wanted the pain. The humiliation. He wanted it all.

With surprisingly steady fingers he unpicked the drawstring on his pyjamas and careful to make sure they didn’t fall he climbed onto the table. It was a solid construction and took his weight without fuss. It was hard and uncomfortable. Max had bent across desks many times to present his buttocks for beating, but always he had his feet planted firmly on the ground. Then he would stretch his arms ahead of him and grip the far edge for dear life. It was a rather comfortable position, although, of course, what happened to him next was far from comfortable.

But, lying face down was tricky. His bottom was not raised and he was unsure where his arms should go. “Give me these,” Lord M. barked, gripping the young man’s left wrist. Within seconds it was fastened by rope to the table leg. Lord M. was an expert. Soon Max was securely tied, hands and feet. He was going nowhere.

Max closed his eyes tight waiting for the first lash. He opened them almost immediately as he felt Lord M. take hold of the waistband of his pyjamas. “These serve no useful purpose,” he sighed and gently he pulled them over Max’s buttocks. The skin was smooth and the mounds perfectly presented. Lord M. did not try to resist the temptation to rub the palm of his hand across both cheeks and into the crevice between them. He was delighted at their firmness. They were not rock solid, there was some ‘give’ in them, but they were meaty rather than fat. Lord M. would get his five-pounds’ worth.

Lord M. stood a pace or two alongside Max so that he was directly over the body. He raised the whip and gently found his aim. There was a certain skill to using a rhino whip, he had to be certain the tip did not whip around Max’s body and cut into the flesh. If the young man tossed and turned, the whip might slice his balls.




Lord M. aimed at an imaginary spot about six inches below the surface of Max’s buttocks. Slash. The whip hit the meat and stayed in contact for some seconds. Max shrieked. A blood-curdling yell. He wriggled and writhed to no avail. Lord M. had learnt to tie effective knots when he was in the Cub Scouts. His akela could never have imagined how that skill would be used in later life.

A very ugly weal throbbed across the centre of Max’s bum. Lord M. raised the whip once more and sliced another cut three inches below the first. Max’s screech was easily heard in the adjoining hotel room. Lord M. did not care. Percy Ponsonbury of the Foreign Office was next door, enjoying his own boy.

The third and the fourth cut fell rhythmically. The agony was searing. Max had been beaten with canes, often on the bared buttocks, often. He had an unusually high pain threshold, but his whole arse felt like it had sat in boiling water. Jets of pain flew up and down his legs. His head ached almost as much as his backside.

Lord M. paused. In his mind he was back in Rhodesia. Oh, how he had loved those days. If only he could find a black boy in London in need of a five pound note. Suddenly, he gasped for breath, he couldn’t suck air into his lungs.  He bent double. It was no mean feat for one as fat as he.  Sweat soaked his back. Desperately, he clutched at the buttons of his waistcoat. The room spun. His head buzzed. His arms tingled. Pain shot across his chest. He sank to his knees. Thud. Then, he fell face down into the deep pile of the carpet.

Max saw none of this. His cock was rigid. It hurt so much. He wriggled this way and that masturbating the tip of his dick against the solid oak table top. He heard a dull thud as Lord M’s. knees hit the floor.

Three hours later a chambermaid who had come to turn down the beds found them. The body of Lord M. was quietly removed from the room and transported from the hotel via the laundry room. Max was untied and the hotel manager allowed him to make his escape. His backside was badly cut, the bruises would last weeks and for now his buttocks were tender. Gingerly, he walked the mile and a half to his new office at The News of the World, composing in his head the story he would write about the former Lord Chancellor’s demise.


Other stories you might like

Mr Hennessey’s boys

The smiling boy

 The sling-shot



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Max of ‘The Champion’ 5. The town boss

Max, a nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, exposed a rural policeman who unlawfully spanked young men. (Read story here). Max did this by tricking the policeman into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. But, the experience opened up a part of the teenager he never knew existed and later that day he found himself across the back of a chair for a dose of the taws from his boss, the newspaper’s deputy editor. (Read story here).

Other episodes of Max of ‘The Champion’

  1. The headmaster
  2. The clergyman



“While you are a lodger in my home you will obey my rules,” Mr Shults glared stonily at the nineteen-year-old boy standing before him. “You will always be punctual to breakfast. You will obey your curfew. That means 10.30 p.m. No later.”

Max, shuffled miserably from foot to foot, his eyes cast down at the ugly brown carpet beneath his feet.

“You will not bring friends back and you will not play loud music in your room. The front room is entirely out of bounds to you. You are permitted to use the back room, but you must never take food or drink in there.

“You will address me as ‘Mr Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.

“If you still have not come to your senses I have an exceedingly whippy rattan school cane that I keep in the cupboard under the stairs and I am not afraid to use it.

“Do I make myself entirely clear?”

Max lay on his back with his trousers at his ankles and his pants at the knee. Gently he stroked his semi-erect cock. Of course, his new landlord hadn’t spoken to him like that; Max just wished that he had.

The very sight of Mr Shults turned him on. He was somewhere in his fifties with thinning hair and thickening waist. He topped six feet, had broad shoulders and a ruddy complexion. He looked as if he worked outdoors, but actually his job was at the local council offices. Around the house he wore old brown corduroy trousers with shiny knees. His huge feet were encased in old-fashioned bedroom slippers, with the traditional check-patterned tops. Every time Max saw them, his cock twitched a little. They were the kind of slippers that generations of fathers had used to spank their delinquent sons.

Already he had devised two fantasies. In one he is in the front room; the one he isn’t ordinarily allowed to inhabit. He is held firmly across Mr Shults’s knee; but is kicking his legs so wildly that his trousers dangle at his feet. Mr Shults is hammering his bedroom slipper into the seat of Max’s blue-and-white-checked briefs. Max has an alternate version of this: he is in his bedroom and Mr Shults is spanking him on his red-and-white-striped pyjamas. Max doesn’t own any pyjamas in real life, but has seen some cheap ones in Woolworth’s he is considering buying. It will make his fantasy a little more real.

In the second dream he is in the back room. “Lower your trousers. Bend over Touch your toes. Stay there until I return,” Mr Shults commands before he leaves the room. He is going to fetch his thick, whippy rattan school cane. Max stares at the scuffed toes of his bumper boots. Waiting calmly. Soon his landlord returns and without ceremony he slashes six hard stingers across the middle of Max’s arse. It is six of Mr Shults’s very best.

Max the junior newspaper reporter had been sent to The Champion’s district office at Neverton. It would give him more experience; the editor had said. Max was missing his deputy editor Mr Arkwright.  Max had a raving fetish. He loved to be spanked by older men. Mr Arkwright was old enough to be Max’s granddad and he delighted in taking the teenager across his knee for bare-arsed slipperings and tawsings. It was a match made in heaven.

Neverton was a small town and like such places across the country, it was ruled by one man. Ellis Etheridge was that man. He was chief magistrate, a one-time mayor and now a county councillor. He owned farms and factories across the region. It seemed just about everyone in the town worked for him, or if they didn’t they had a family member who did.

Etheridge loved the power this gave him. He was conceited and cruel in equal measure and he was a bully as Max was soon to discover.

Max had made a new friend. Bobby was the same age as Max and a rookie policeman. It was an unfortunate name for a policeman, but he couldn’t help being called Bobby. He had lived in Neverton all his life and had always been known as Bobby. It was too late now to start calling himself Robert. Bobby had a crush on Max. At night in the lonely police lodgings Bobby would dream he was stroking Max’s fine hair and caressing his hard body. Sometimes he masturbated himself to sleep imagining Max was lying across the bed while Bobby smacked his hand down into his naked firm buttock cheeks.

It was Bobby who told Max about the theft at the rugby club. Vince and Cedric were two eighteen year olds. When they could they worked for Mr Etheridge at Big Farm. Mr Etheridge paid by the day. If there was work to do, they worked. Otherwise they lay idle. Mr Etheridge cared nothing about workers’ welfare. Recently they had been stone picking. It was back-breaking work. They and a gang of other youths walked across vast fields picking up stones. Only when they were cleared could the tractor come in and plough. It was slave work for slave wages.

It was Friday and the two lads were in the bar at the Neverton Rugby Club. They were stony broke and trying to make a Guinness last all night. It was Cedric’s idea, but Vince readily agreed. It was doomed to failure; anyone could see that, but they couldn’t blame it on the drink. It was one in the morning, the rugby club was locked up, the caretaker had long ago gone home. The building wasn’t very secure. It didn’t have to be; nobody would dare break into the Neverton Rugby Club. Ellis Etheridge was Club President. It would be a suicide mission.

A window at the back easily opened. They were in. Cedric had stolen a hammer from his dad. Whack! Whack! The padlock on the cigarette machine was smashed. It wasn’t much of a haul; a couple of handfuls of coins and two dozen packs of cigarettes. They escaped the way they had entered. The street was deserted; or so they thought.

Mr Higginbottom had struck lucky that evening. A lady had allowed him into her bed. He would boast to his pals that he had “got his end away.” And so he had. But the lady was in control. She thanked him kindly for his effort and then showed him the door. The buses had stopped running hours ago. He was walking home.

It was a small town. Everyone knew everyone else. Mr Higginbottom certainly knew Cedric Albiston. He knew all the family. He didn’t know the lad he was with, though. He’d never seen him before in his life. He would tell all this to the police later that day, as soon as word spread across town that someone had done over the ciggy machine at the rugby club.

Bobby and Sgt Albright went to pick Cedric up at his home. He denied everything, but they took him anyway. In the car Bobby realised something was wrong.

“Aren’t we taking him to the station?” he asked innocently.

“No,” the Sergeant whispered, “Our instructions are to take him to Mr Etheridge.”

Etheridge owned the police as well. Many family members of the Chief Inspector – the top cop in town – worked for Etheridge. He wasn’t about to rock the boat.

The journey took five minutes – Neverton was a small town. A security guy at Etheridge’s head office was waiting for them in the car park. He took the teenager. The police drove off; their job completed.


Cedric’s heart thumped so loud he was sure Mr Etheridge could hear it. He watched as the older man closed the door firmly and locked it. Then he walked to a chest of drawers at the far end of the room. He tugged open a drawer and delved around inside. Cedric could hear a distinct rattling noise. Shortly, Mr Etheridge took out a smooth cane with a dark-brown leather handgrip, the business end of which tapered away to a fine point. It looked like an army swagger-stick with knotted rings. He bent the cane between his hands and swished it a couple times through the air, and satisfied with its suitability, he tucked it under his arm.

Cedric stared with mounting anguish as the old man moved towards the low leather armchair at the furthest end of the room. Mr Etheridge leant forward and swivelled it round so that its back faced into the middle of the room.

Mr Etheridge turned to Cedric; his contempt for the teenager was profound. “Come here. Stand by the chair!” he barked. Cedric moved as if in a trance. The vile man was going to thrash him and there was nothing – absolutely nothing – the teenager could do to prevent it. He stood three feet from the chair. His palms were sweating and he couldn’t get his eyes to stop blinking fast.

“Closer boy!” it was another scornful bark from Mr Etheridge. “Trousers and underpants down.”

Cedric’s heart nearly burst. He thought he was going to collapse in a heap on the floor. Trousers and pants down. A caning on the bare arse. How the teenager hated that despicable man. He despised him and all his kind. Bosses. Bullies all of them. If he had a gun he would gladly have shot Etheridge in the head.

He might have entertained such thoughts, but they were fantasies. Etheridge was in control and always would be. Cedric had no choice. If his mother, father and the rest of his family were to keep their jobs, he had to give Etheridge his arse. His bare arse.

He started to unbutton his fly, flushing up to the roots of his hair. A shudder rattled down his spine and his stomach muscles clenched with such violence he thought he would vomit. Etheridge wagged his swagger stick up and down intending to intimidate the teenager standing before him. It worked. Etheridge bent the stick across his chest demonstrating its flexibility and the power it had to inflict severe damage to Cedric’s naked bum.

Cedric finished unbuttoning his fly and pushed both his trousers and pants down in a single movement. Etheridge smiled in a superior manner. His eyes shone brightly when he demanded, “Bend over.”

Cedric closed his eyes, took a huge deep breath and lowered himself over the back of the chair and rested his forearms along its arms.

Once he was in position, Etheridge moved closer and folded the tail of the eighteen-year-old’s shirt up his back. Then he pushed his left hand into the small of Cedric’s back, telling him that he wanted to see the boy’s buttocks pushed further up. Then he tapped his cane between Cedric’s thighs making sure the legs were parted.

Etheridge was almost ready. He took up position to Cedic’s left and he “sawed” the cane across a segment of his bottom and then withdrew it before delivering a hefty blow into taut flesh. Etheridge was an experienced and expert caner. He knew not to hit naked flesh with full force, that could draw blood. Hard, firm strokes were all that were needed to reduce a disobedient young man to tears. He aimed at the left buttock with the cane, knowing that the natural extension of is arm as he delivered the stroke would make it hit both cheeks. He whacked Cedric high on his mounds, then in the centre and then low. Then he did it all over again.

Cedric scrunched up his eyes and sucked his top lip over the bottom lip. In his mind he recited a chant. “I will not cry. I will not cry.” He would not give the bastard the satisfaction. The first swipe hit with great force and his eyes smarted. He blinked back the tears, angry for being weak.

Another sharp burning pain shot across his backside. He gripped the arm of the chair as hard as he could, determined not to let go. Another thwack, and then another crack fell and he yelped. The pain was indescribable; Cedric thought his bare bum was being slashed open. His backside gyrated of its own accord. It was a reflex action. The sting was terrific and kept getting worse as Etheridge worked his way down from the top to the under-curves of his buttocks. The sixth stroke was by far the hardest and landed right on the sit spot causing him to shout out and wriggle his sore burning bottom like crazy. Nothing existed in his world beyond the scalding band of pain across his backside.

That was six-of-the-best, but it wasn’t over. Etheridge returned his cane to the crown of Cedric’s bottom and started all over again, until twelve stingers had marked the teenager’s arse. His bottom was wriggling in pain and what had been a pure white bum was now stained with a dozen dark red lines. The last six had Cedric bouncing around, yowling with pain. Tears poured down his face. Through the haze of unbearable agony, he wondered what state his bottom was in; it must be cut to ribbons; it certainly felt like it. The caning had hurt more than he could have imagined. It was raw and painful and the fire was raging fiercely. He lay across the chair panting and squirming.

He whimpered like a little whipped puppy. Any pride or attempt to show toughness had fled; his bottom was in flames. He was spent; a truly beaten man.

Etheridge swished the cane fiercely through empty air. “That is your beating completed.” Cedric’s heart raced. At last it was over. He just wanted to run screaming from the room. Never again would he steal. Never.

Etheridge swiped the cane once more. “That was your punishment,” he growled, his face contorted with contempt. “Now, you must take a thrashing for your absent partner in crime.” He raised the cane and swiped the first of an extra dozen strokes across the middle of Cedric’s buttocks.

Max was at his desk in the newsroom office rewriting reports from the Women’s Institute when the message came. Attend at the editor’s office. Immediately. Max rarely saw the editor. He was a dour man who kept himself locked away in his office on the top floor. A summon to “attend” the old man was rare. The nineteen-year-old trudged up four flights of stairs. With every step he took he imagined himself a senior schoolboy on his way to visit the headmaster. His encounter with Mr Draper at his former school was vivid in his mind. His cock twitched against his tight underpants.

Mr Larcombe, the editor, was a man of few words. “You have been making inquiries about Mr Etheridge and the rugby club theft” It was a statement, not a question. “This is not to Mr Etheridge’s satisfaction.” Larcombe peered over the top of his half-moon spectacles at the teenager standing before him. Max’s mouth opened and closed. What had he done wrong? “You are to report to his office at four-thirty. Sharp.”

Larcombe reached across his desk and with shaking hands raised a tea cup to his lips. “Don’t dawdle boy. Go. You are dismissed.”

“B …” Max started a protest, but he was stopped short by Larcombe’s flailing arms. “No argument. Go.” The editor sipped his tea relieved that the newspaper’s largest advertising account had been saved.

Etheridge owned the town, and half the county around it. As far as he was concerned he also owned the people in it. Larcombe had not argued. The editor knew that if his paper lost Etheridge’s custom it could go out of business. At the very least many people would lose their jobs. Max, as the newest recruit to the office, would be the first to go. The boy couldn’t complain. He would have to bow to Etheridge’s demands. Or, almost certainly, he felt, bend to them.

It was a short walk to Etheridge’s office. It was late summer and Max could sniff thunder in the air. His trepidation was mixed with excitement. He dearly missed his spanking sessions back home with Mr Arkwright the deputy editor. Fantasying about his landlord was no substitute.

Etheridge’s office was surprisingly dingy. There was very little natural light and it was lit by neon. The boss’s desk was huge, as befitting a man with such a sizeable ego. It looked antique, or, Max supposed, it might be brand new but had been ‘distressed’ by a carpenter as was becoming the fashion with furniture. The teenager stood, head bowed, hands clasped behind his back, heart thumping. In his mind he was back at the headmaster’s study. He had received one heck of a whacking. Old Draper had been much displeased about the ‘alternative’ school magazine he had contributed to. The cane marks took days to fade.

Etheridge had very little to say. If Max had to summarise it for one of his news reports he would have written that the message was, “Mind your own business.” The junior reporter knew little of Etheridge’s financial hold over the paper, but he was not naïve. He knew where the power was. Etheridge was in charge and there was nothing Max could do about it.

There was nothing Max wanted to do about it. He imagined himself stretched across the mighty desk, his trousers at his ankles and pants at the knees. Humbled. Humiliated. The pain, he hoped, would be awesome. His daydream was interrupted. Etheridge had stopped speaking. He expected Max to answer.

The teenager’s blank stare infuriated Etheridge. “I said take off your jacket,” he barked. The town boss was already off his chair and moving towards the front of his desk. Max’s heart raced as he slid the suit jacket over his shoulders and down his arms.

“Put it there,” Etheridge nodded towards his desk as he busied himself manoeuvring a heavy straight-backed chair to the centre of the room. Max watched patiently, too aware that his cock was twitching. Soon, it would be standing at half-mast.

“There!” Etheridge clicked his fingers at a spot close to the chair. Max shuffled into position. Etheridge was still busy. He opened and closed cupboard doors. Searching. Then he pulled the drawers of his desk. Max’s eyes followed him as he went about the task. What was he looking for, the boy wondered?

A sigh of satisfaction escaped Etheridge’s lips. He held up a small square of wood. It had a blade no bigger than a paperback book and a handle. Max blinked. It looked a little like a chopping block his mother had in her kitchen. Only much smaller. Etheridge gripped the handle with his right hand and slapped the wooden blade gently into the palm of his left, as if testing the paddle’s suitability for the task he had for it.

Satisfied, he sat in the chair, spread his legs, and clicked his fingers once more. “Trousers down. Pants too.” It was a clear command. He expected to be obeyed. Max’s cock went from half to full mast. Etheridge misread the blush on the teenager’s face. “A spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s done on the bare,” he delivered his philosophy.

Max couldn’t have agreed more. With trembling hands, he unbuttoned his flies and let the trousers drop. The bulge in the front of his tight white Y-fronts could not be disguised. Etheridge pursed his lips. A band of moisture formed below his nose, forming a damp moustache.  “Pants too,” he gasped.

Max slipped his fingers in the waistband and pulled at the elastic. It was a stretch to get them around his erect cock. Max stared ahead. He didn’t want to see his penis pointing at the ceiling. Etheridge spread his knees further. He clicked his fingers. “Over.”

Max leaned forward. The old man shifted his own buttocks and legs so Max’s cock and balls dangled in the space between his legs. The nineteen-year-old’s face was close to the carpet, his legs, bent at the knees hovered an inch above the floor. His naked bottom rested at an angle against Etheridge’s thigh. He was perfectly positioned for a spanking.

Etheridge was not quite ready. He rested the paddle on the small of the teenager’s back and with his right palm he slowly caressed first the right buttock and then the left. They were gentle, circular motions. The firm flesh was cool to touch. It was the most hairless bottom Etheridge had ever encountered.

He felt the boy’s heavy breathing. Between Etheridge’s knees the boy’s cock was throbbing. Deep purple veins ran the length of the shaft.

Now ready, the boss gripped the paddle, raised it about three inches from the curved surface of Max’s bottom and crashed it down into the tight flesh with some vigour. Max gasped but had no time to react further as the paddle crashed down again and again into his naked bum. The boy’s head rose from the carpet and he screeched like a banshee. In the adjoining office Etheridge’s secretary stopped her typing, shuddered, and rose from her seat to distract herself by making tea.

Within seconds every square inch of Max’s once creamy-white buttocks was scarlet. The blade of the small paddle was imprinted across both cheeks. Max wriggled and squirmed. It was an involuntary reflex action. He was out of control. His howls and yells echoed around the room. Tears flooded his cheeks. Snot dribbled over his top lip.

Ten, twenty, thirty swats crashed down. It was a frenzied attack. On and on Etheridge spanked. He was a demon. Never before had he beaten a young man like this. Up and down; up and down, the paddle struck. Suddenly, as if shaken from a trance, he stopped. The telephone was ringing. Etheridge’s glazed eyes focused. First on his desk and then on the half-naked teenager across his knees.

“You’d better get off,” he whispered gently, pushing Max to the floor. Max lay curled in the foetal position, gasping for air like a beached dolphin. Etheridge stumbled to his telephone unaware of the spreading cum stain on his trousers.


Other stories you might like.

The casting couch

Hotel duty manager

The sneak thief



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second



Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Previously on Max of the ‘Champion’

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

Max of the ‘Champion’ 3. The headmaster


Max, the nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, stood and stared. His heart raced and he felt sweat dripping down his back. His breath came in short bursts. He stared at his boss, the deputy editor, who sat in a straight-backed, armless chair with his feet plonked a yard apart firmly on the ground. In his hands he twisted an old worn bedroom slipper.

Max couldn’t keep his eyes off the slipper. It looked very old. Probably as old as his boss. He was old enough to be Max’s grandfather. The slipper had probably seen a lot of action; had spanked quite a few backsides in its time.

“Take down your trousers. Underpants too. Bend over my knee.” It was a curt command and an order Mr Arkwright expected to be obeyed.

Saliva drained from Max’s mouth. He held his hands behind his back to stop them shaking. Mr Arkwright tapped the slipper against his right thigh, trying to encourage the frowning teenager to take his medicine.

“You need to be taught a lesson, young man. A lesson that all young reporters must learn.” He gripped the slipper tightly.

Max gulped. Mr Arkwright was right, he knew that. Max had screwed up a story for the newspaper. He had spelt the name of Mrs Flora Chombleigh-Heckerston, the chairman of Little Todgeworth Village Flower Show Committee, incorrectly. He had failed to check it. The first rule of newspaper reporting: check everything. He might have got away with it but the self-important biddy complained to the editor. He complained to his deputy and now Max was to be taught a lesson.

“Well if you won’t,” the deputy editor frowned, “I shall.” He leaned across and caught hold of the waistband of Max’s trousers. The boy did not resist as Mr Arkwright pulled him forward. He let the slipper rest on his ample thighs while he swiftly unbuckled Max’s belt. It took but a moment to unfasten the trousers and tug them to the boy’s feet. He admired the teenager’s package, encased tightly behind snug-fitting cotton underpants. He freed Max’s cock and balls by gripping the underpants tightly before sending them south to join the junior reporter’s trousers at his feet.

Max let the old man take his right wrist and gently guide him across his lap. He put his hands ahead of him to break his fall. Then submissively he wriggled his body a little so that his head stared down a couple of inches from the beige-coloured carpet. Behind him, he bent his knees slightly and raised his bottom so that it rested at an angle against his boss’s right leg. In this position his toes just about brushed the floor.

Mr Arkwright gently caressed Max’s buttocks with the palm of his right hand. He let his finger slip into the boy’s crack. Max had a terrific arse. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection. Mr Arkwright already knew Max had buns of steel.

The deputy editor took hold of the tail of Max’s gleaming white shirt and carefully moved it up his back, away from the buttocks. He could feel Max’s body pressing against his lap. The boy’s breathing was even, but shallow. He appeared to be waiting submissively for the spanking he knew he deserved.

Mr Arkwright tightened his fist around the slipper, he didn’t want it to fly out of his hand after he swiped it into Max’s bare flesh. He tapped it lightly against the very centre of Max’s left cheek, raised it high, and then brought it crashing down with a resounding smack! He was delighted to see a dark pink imprint immediately form. Max’s bottom quivered; it was the only movement he made to show the old man that he had felt the sting of the slipper.

Slowly, for he was in no hurry, he raised the slipper once more. Arkwright knew he and Max would be the only people in the newspaper office. It was past six in the evening; everybody would have gone home an hour since. He had all the time in the world.

He grasped the slipper more firmly than before, and raised it high. He slammed the slipper into Max’s right cheek. The boy’s legs trembled; he had certainly felt that one. He opened and closed his mouth, pursing his lips.

Mr Arkwright picked up the pace, spanking his old worn slipper up and down, up and down, into Max’s rock-hard buttocks. Soon every square inch of his flesh was dark pink. The imprint of the slipper’s sole was reproduced dozens of times across the teenager’s once creamy-white bottom.

His gasps became groans as Mr Arkwright polished up his backside. He kicked his legs wildly and tried to reach back with his hand to intercept the old man’s blows. But, his boss was wise to that little trick. He grabbed Max’s wrist and held it firmly in the small of the boy’s back. He would not be going anywhere until Mr Arkwright had decided his backside had been sufficiently toasted.

Sweat ran down the boy’s face; his hair felt as if he had just stepped out of a shower.

He clenched and unclenched his cheeks with each scorching embrace of the slipper. To his annoyance hot tears scalded his eyes. He fought to hold them back. Two bare legs, their ankles and feet trapped in the tangle of trousers and underpants, jerked and bent and tried to cross over each other. The noise of Mr Arkwright’s slippering echoed around the room and out into the corridor.

Then, he paused and rested the slipper on Max’s back. He gently rubbed his palm against the boy’s raw flesh, delighted at the heat rising from the boy’s bum. He bent his fingers slightly to form the makings of a claw and rapidly spanked his hand across Max’s buttocks. He followed the entire circuit; from the top of the globes near his spine, across the fleshiest part of the mounds and into the under-curves where the buttocks meet the thighs. Then, for good measure he smacked the back of the teenager’s thighs. Very hard indeed. Max wriggled and writhed, he gasped and he groaned. The boy had much more strength than the old man. Soon, he would break free.

Now, Mr Arkwright concluded it was the time to stop. He had been spanked enough. For now. He released his grip on the teenager who immediately jumped to his feet. Mr Arkwright gaped in awe. Max’s cock was pointing to the ceiling; throbbing. Two deep purple veins looked like beams holding his member erect. Oh, to be nineteen years old again!

Mr Arkwright reached forward, put both of his hands behind Max’s buttocks and roughly pulled the teenager forward. Then the old man took the teenager’s throbbing member in his mouth and washed it with his tongue up and down the shaft and over the glistening tip. Almost immediately, Max shot a load of hot steaming cum. The old man coughed and spluttered and frantically reached into his trouser pocket for a handkerchief.

Max lay on the floor panting. He had only recently discovered he loved to be spanked; especially by older men. And, what joy it was to find out that his boss was an enthusiastic spanker. Only last week the deputy editor had spanked him with a heavy wooden clothes brush; in this very office. They had very nearly been discovered by some journalists returning unexpectedly from their lunch break.

“I need to get some water,” Arkwright spluttered and rushed from the room. Max wiped himself down and adjusted his clothes. He knew Arkwright would be in the lavatory for some considerable time, pleasuring himself.

He picked up his jacket and left the building to walk the short distance to The Goat where he hoped to meet his old school friend, Alan.

“Hi Max!” Alan called across the almost deserted bar. When Max joined him at his table, Alan beamed, “Wow, you’re glowing. You look like the cat who got the cream!”

How could Max tell his friend he had just been given a blowjob by a man old enough to be his grandfather? And that his boss had given him one heck of a spanking and Max enjoyed ever slap of it? How could he explain that to Alan? He couldn’t even explain it to himself.

When Max had bought a round of drinks, Alan said, “Did you get anywhere with the pervy headmaster?” He meant Mr Draper the headmaster of their old school, Alderman James Grammar. The story was he had spanked two sixth-form boys on their bare arses. He made the eighteen-year-old boys visit his study separately and bend over his knee.

Alan had tipped Max off with the story. The junior reporter couldn’t tell his great pal that he had visited the headmaster at the school and had himself been made to lower his trousers and bend over and take six-of-the-best from a whippy school cane. It was unfinished business from when Max was a pupil at the school and wrote an article in an underground school magazine.

Max had loved it so much he creamed his underpants.

The two teenagers sipped their beers in companionable silence. Then Max piped up. “I wonder if Tony will be in tonight?” Tony was a new trainee solicitor in town. Max had met the young lawyer at the magistrates’ court when Tony was defending a pensioner accused of riding his bike without lights.

“Tony is having an awkward interview with Sir Royston Calderdale,” Alan beamed. He would enjoy telling Max his story. “It’s his performance review.”

Sir Royston was the head of a group of solicitors’ offices across the region. They had been in his family for generations. Tony was the latest in a long line of “pupils” to undertake their initial training with Sir Royston.

Many considered Sir Royston to be an eccentric. He was stuck in aspic, about thirty years in the past. He was the sort of lawyer who might ask a defendant, “Who are The Beatles?”

Alan grinned, “Sir Royston is said to have an unorthodox approach to the master-pupil relationship. Even as we speak Tony will be admiring the pattern in the carpet in Sir Royston’s office at very close quarters.”

Max laughed. “You’re wicked.” But his cock stiffened as the image of Tony and Sir Royston came into his head. Tony is stretched face-down across the back of Sir Royston’s luxurious leather chair. The young man’s trousers are at his feet, his underpants at his knees. Sir Royston flexes, then swishes and then whips a school cane at great force into Tony’s upturned flabby buttocks.

Max took a great gulp of beer. In his imagination Sir Royston tapped the cane against Tony’s bum and let fly with another fierce cut.

Just as Max pictured stroke number three being lined up, the saloon door opened and Tony entered.

“Let’s see if he winces when he sits down,” Alan grinned and winked.

The young lawyer showed no discomfort when he joined the pair with his beer. He could not understand the amused glances being shared between his two friends. He ignored them, he loved to gossip and this evening he had a juicy tale he was eager to share.

“Did you hear about the curate in Wrigglesbury?”

“Curate?” Max was puzzled.

“Y’now, like a trainee vicar.”

Max knew very little about organised religion. He never went to church, not even as a child. His father was a lecturer in sociology at the local university. He said religion was the opiate of the masses.

“What about this curate?”

“He’s only been spanking his parishioners.”

“Give over,” Max roared with laughter, thinking, “How many illicit spankers are there in this neighbourhood.”

“It’s true,” Tony giggled, “Cross my heart and all that.”

“What’s he doing, spanking the kids at Sunday School?”

“No, adults. Naughty grown-ups,” Tony laughed some more. “I think he’s in the same club as that policeman you wrote about.” He meant a rural policeman called Snodgrass who unlawfully spanked young men. Max exposed him by tricking the constable into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. He had kept that bit out of the news report he wrote for The Champion.

“You should go check him out. He’s name’s Crick. He’s at the parish church in Wrigglesbury.”

A week later, Max had it all planned. He put on a shirt and jeans and ran two miles during the hottest part of the day. Once the sweat dried his clothes would smell to high heaven. For good measure, he stole some whisky from his father. Later, he would rinse his mouth with it and sprinkle some on his clothes. His disguise as a vagrant would be complete.

Wrigglesbury was a small village. The north of England was full of them. It was the sort of place where everyone knew each other. The folk were brought up to respect their betters: policemen, doctors, schoolmasters and above all else, clergymen.

It was easy to get into the church. It was not locked. Why would it be? Max scoured the cold, empty, echoing building. There was one more part of the plan to put in place. He discovered a vase of half-dead flowers and threw them over the ground. Then, he took hymn books and scattered them far and wide.

Then, he sat and waited. Waited to be discovered.

Henry Crick, the curate, was restless. He need to smoke a cigarette, but his boss the Rev Timkins hated the stink of tobacco. Crick was banished from the vicarage. Rain fell. He had two choices, stand in the cemetery and get soaked or seek the sanctuary of the church. He eased open the huge creaking oak door and stepped inside. He had never found that church inviting; it was too damp and gloomy. He pulled out a pack of Players Weights from his trouser pocket and rested on a pew. He sucked in the smoke, drawing it deep into his lungs. He was only truly relaxed when he had nicotine in his system.

He swirled the smoke around inside his mouth, filling his cheeks before blowing a perfect ring. He was greatly self-satisfied. He closed his eyes, picturing Timothy the nineteen-year-old farm hand who lodged as a paying guest at the vicarage. The boy stood six-feet-two in his stockinged feet. His broad shoulders and tight waist were testimony to the physical benefits of hard labour. His thighs were huge and his buttocks beefy and firm.

He opened his eyes to delve into his pocket for a second cigarette. Then, he noticed the two hymn books on the ground, close to his feet. He peered into the gloom and in the interior of the church he saw another. Then another. A few feet ahead of him was the overturned flower vase.

He peered through his round “National Health” spectacles. He heard a rustle of movement. Somebody else was in the church. He rose from his seated positon, leaning forward, scrutinizing. Then he saw the vision.

It wasn’t a religious experience. It was earthly. It stirred the curate. A young man, trim, fit, healthy, sat on the cold stone floor of the church staring back at him. His smooth open face smiling. It was warm and inviting.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?” Crick spoke in a hoarse whisper. The boy had taken his breath away.

Max pushed his hands against the cold stone and rose. As he did so he offered Crick the perfect view of his pert tight buttocks, swathed in light blue denim. The curate pulled on his cigarette. The boy’s shirt had ridden away from his waist and he lifted it slightly revealing a firm flat stomach. Then, he pulled at his shirt so that it fell over the top of his jeans. The top two shirt buttons were unfastened. His chest was as firm and as hairless as his belly.

Crick gasped and then coughed. He blamed the cheap cigarette in his mouth.

All thoughts of Timothy and the buttocks Crick desperately wanted to spank were deleted from his mind. He had new urgent business to attend to.

There was not much of a conversation. Crick could smell the sweat and the whisky from a distance. The young Adonis was a drunk. Crick knew everyone in the village; he didn’t know Max. He must also be a vagrant.

“I should call the police,” Crick stood erect, trying to intimidate. He had a jutting jaw line, but his angular bone structure was sheaved in fat. Perspiration soaked from beneath his receding hairline. By appearance he could have been in his twenties; possibly in his thirties.

Max grinned. The police, he thought. Perhaps the local constable and the curate were in it together; the spanking duo.

Crick misread the grin that split Max’s face. The curate’s heart fluttered when he caught sight of white, even teeth.

“No, please, Sir, not the police,” Max had rehearsed his lines. “I’ll do anything. Please Sir, don’t tell the police.” Max had learned his acting style from the Little Mulsbury Amateur Dramatic Society.

If Crick had thought with his brain and not his cock, he might have sensed this was all too easy. Within moments, the teenager was leading the way to the vicarage. Crick held back a pace or two behind, transfixed by Max’s buttocks gently moving up and down. The boy wore his jeans well, Crick concluded. He would look delightful wearing anything. He would look ravishing wearing nothing at all.

Timothy saw the pair enter the vicarage. He did not need a second guess to assess the situation. How did Crick get away with it? Timothy paused on his way up the stairs to his room. That boy? Where had he seen him before? He pulled a picture from under his mattress. It was of a Manchester United footballer player with his shirt off, torn from the pages of Football Monthly. Timothy unfastened his trousers and lay back on the bed.

Downstairs, Crick was in a fix. He wanted to get on with it, but the smell drifting of the luscious boy’s body was overwhelming him. If he stank like this with his clothes on, what would be like naked?

“Come!” he led the way from the room and holding Max firmly by the arm, he took him to the bathroom.

“Strip off, have a bath. Be quick about it.” His jaw dropped when Max darted into the room and locked the door.

Ten minutes later, Crick paced the landing, a woollen dressing gown under his arm. How much longer would the boy be? At last the door opened and Max reappeared fully dressed in his stinky shirt and jeans.

“No, no, you disgusting boy,” Crick berated him. He desperately needed a cigarette to calm his nerves. “Strip off and put this on.” He hoped he had not over-emphasised the words “Strip off.” In his world young men did not “strip off,” they took down their trousers and underpants.

Max took the gown and returned to the bathroom.

Moments later they were in the vicar’s study. At last, Crick mused, he could deal with the young man. It was an old fashioned room, unchanged since the nineteen-thirties. A battered old desk stood in front of large ‘French’ windows, overlooking a neat garden. Bookshelves and cupboards filled two walls, an open, unlit fire, the third.

A long padded leather couch dominated the centre of the room. Four people could sit on it at once in comfort. Max surveyed the room. It reminded him of something out of an Agatha Christie film. Where Miss Marple gathered all the household staff before revealing that the butler had done the crime.

Perspiration soaked Crick’s back and underarms, even though the room was quite cool. The fit young man in the dressing gown stood before him impassively. Submissively. Max hoped the curate would get on with it. If Max was going to get a scoop for his newspaper, the clergyman would have to make the running. If Max asked to be spanked it would be entrapment.

At last Crick made a move. He gathered together two cushions and placed them in the very centre of the couch. Then, he walked slowly to the desk, bent down and with some difficulty because it was old, he opened a drawer. He did not need to look inside. He knew perfectly well what was contained within. His hand emerged holding a worn leather taws.

Max watched impassively, but he could feel his heartbeat increase. The taws looked magnificent. It was about two feet long, with the handle, and the ‘business end’ was split into three tails. Crick held it in his right hand and allowed it to dangle at his side. Without thinking, Crick tap, tap, tapped it gently against his knee. Max was spellbound.

Crick might be a relatively young man, but he was of the cloth. He expected his commands to be obeyed.

“Take off the dressing gown,” Crick hoped his tone of voice did not reveal the excitement he felt. “Then lie face down over those cushions.”

Max fumbled for the cord of his dressing gown, hoping that he could control his cock. If it crowed, he would not be able to pretend that he was a helpless victim of some kinky vicar.

He turned his back to Crick, let the dressing gown slip over his shoulders and fall to the floor. The curate could not see the teenager’s penis. But, he had a perfect view of the boys, muscular back and behind.

Silently, Max knelt on the couch before resting his stomach on the cushions and spreading his body the full length of the sofa. He folded his arms to take the weight of his body and held his head high.

Crick gasped. It was an audible exhalation of air. The boy’s beautiful hazel eyes transfixed him. He seemed to be saying, “Spank me. Please spank me. I deserve to be spanked.”

“Stretch your arms ahead of you; lie face down.” Crick’s command was quiet. Clear. He was in charge. He watched transfixed as the teenager’s muscles flexed as he manoeuvred his body into the position demanded.

Crick desperately needed a cigarette. Oh, how he needed a smoke. The boy stretched submissively before him was too much. Crick had never seen such a stunning naked youth before. Max had a deep suntan all over his body; well, nearly all over, his buttocks remained white. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection.

His back and bottom were hairless. His legs had the merest trace of down-like hair. His bum was pert and hard. That’s what so much cycling did for you.

Crick took up his position about two feet to Max’s side. The vicarage was Victorian and the study ceiling was high. The curate could lash his taws into the boy’s backside at full force and not have to worry about hitting a lampshade.

He gripped the handle of the taws, gently touched the leather across the very centre of Max’s bottom. Then, he raised it in an arc high so that the tails touched the small of his own back and then slashed it forward with such speed and energy that he jumped an inch or so off the floor at the moment the taws impacted across Max’s bum.

Max’s stomach rose off the cushion, his legs kicked out and his fists pounded into the seat of the couch. A shockwave of pain coursed through his body. He opened and closed his mouth silently, rather like a goldfish might, but he successfully suppressed the yelp his body wanted him to make.

Three very distinct dark pink lines ran left and right across the boy’s creamy-white buttocks.

The leather rose and fell. Another three stripes. Already Max’s bum was beginning to resemble a map of the Clapham Junction railway.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Timothy sent a stream of cum eight inches in the air. He laid back satisfied, catching his breath. He strained his ears, listening for Crick. Had he finished with that boy? Timothy conjured up the image of Max and his delightful jeans. Soon his cock would stir again. But, who was that boy and where had he seen him before?

“Oh Holy Jesus!” Timothy zipped himself up and rushed to the door. “Crick! Crick!” he yelled. He remembered who the boy was. He had seen him at a Young Farmers’ Club meeting. He was a reporter from The Champion. He was the one who wrote the story about the spanking policeman that Timothy had loved so much.

He took the stairs two at a time. “Crick! Crick!”

Too late. The distinctive sound of leather connecting at speed against bare flesh echoed around the passageway. Timothy could also hear muffled cries. Crick was giving the teenager a terrific tanning.

“Oh dear,” Timothy sat on the bottom step of the staircase. There was nothing he could do. What would happen now? It would all end in tears, that was for sure.

Two days later Henry Crick sat in a third class carriage as the steam train slowly chugged its was south. The Church looked after its own. It would ride out the newspaper scandal. Crick had been quietly moved on. He would soon be forgotten in Wrigglesbury. He would start a new life, a long way away. In his pocket he had the address of his new home. The Vicarage, Aston Budleigh.


Other stories you might like

The Spanking Vicar Part 1

The vicar delivers

Theft of petty cash

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Max of the ‘Champion’ 3. The headmaster

cane (18)

Max, a nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, exposed a rural policeman who unlawfully spanked young men. (Read story here). Max did this by tricking the policeman into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. But, the experience opened up a part of the teenager he never knew existed and later that day he found himself across the back of a chair for a dose of the taws from his boss, the newspaper’s deputy editor. (Read story here).

Now read on …

Max was troubled and he had been since his boss the deputy editor Mr Arkwright took a taws to his backside. Every time Max was in the newspaper office he wanted to tell everyone about that Saturday evening. “He put me across a chair and spanked me,” he would say, “And I want him to do it again. Here. Right now. In front of you all.”

Max knew he couldn’t tell a soul. Arkwright would get the sack. He might get arrested. Max was only nineteen; Arkwright was probably old enough to be his granddad. They had had sex (of sorts). Was it even legal?

Max sat alone in the saloon bar of The Goat, nursing a half pint of mild and studying the Morning Bulletin. They had followed up on his spanking policeman story. Court charges were imminent.

“Hey, Max,” it was Alan, a friend from school. He waltzed over uninvited (there was no need for such formalities) and sat down.

“Did you hear about Old Man Draper?” Alan asked. Max had not, but he could tell by the huge grin on his friend’s face, there was juicy gossip on offer.

Draper was the headmaster at their old school, Alderman James Grammar.

Max took a sip of his beer. Alan gulped down half of his pint to wet his whistle. It was a long story and would take some time to tell.

“He’s only been spanking sixth-formers. Boys. On the bare arse.”

Max’s eyes gleamed; he hoped his friend didn’t notice. He wanted to urge more details from Alan. He didn’t have to bother; Alan was perfectly prepared to tell all.

“They found four sixth-formers snogging behind the bicycle shed after school one day,” he chortled. “Two boys and two girls,” he added hastily, in case Max thought it a better story than it already was.

“So the two boys ended up in the headmaster’s study and he said to them they were a disgrace and they should be hauled up before the school in morning assembly.”

Max felt his heart beat faster. A public caning?

“But, then he said if he did that then everyone would know how bad they were. It would reflect badly on the school. It’d be all over town. You know what this place is like, we don’t need your newspaper most of the time to know what’s going on,” Alan continued.

“So, and this is where it gets interesting, he said if they agreed to be spanked by him that would be the end of it. Spanked mind, not caned. They’re eighteen years old for God’s sake.”

“Spanked,” Max interjected, “like over the knee, spanked.” He made an exaggerated gesture of a hand travelling through the air connecting with a bum.

“Better. On the bare bum. He made them write letters of apology and to say that if he spanked them they wouldn’t tell a soul.” Alan giggled. He was enjoying this story very much.

“Rubbish. It’s not true. Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a pervert, that’s why.”

“So what happened?”

“He took them separately to his study and made them take down their trousers and underpants and bend over his knee. Then he spanked them. Bare arsed.”

Max’s cock swelled. He so wanted to be one of those boys. He pictured the headmaster’s study. Mr Draper in his tattered academic gown sat in a straight-backed wooden chair. Max is back in the sixth-form wearing his blue-and-black school blazer and mid-grey trousers. The headmaster spreads his legs wide. His own greasy black stripped trousers offering a perfect platform for Max to present himself.

Max unbuckles his belt and then pops the button at the top of his trousers. His Terylene slacks slip down his legs before snagging to a halt at the knees. Then, he slips his thumbs in the waistband of his shiny-white Y-fronts and sends then south to join the trousers.

On the command, “Over!” he eases his body across Mr Draper’s lap. His arms stretch out ahead of him and he places the palms of his hands firmly on the wooden floor. A dust ball blows in front of his face. Behind him, his knees bend slightly and the toes of his shoes rest on the floor. His bared bottom rests at an angle against the headmaster’s right knee.

Carefully, Mr Draper takes hold of Max’s immaculately-pressed grey shirt and bunches its tail up his back so it is well away from the target area. Then, the old man runs a fingertip along Max’s spine, tracing from where he left the shirt near the shoulders down to the nineteen-year-old’s crack.

He doesn’t enter. Instead, the headmaster cups his hands and gently traces the outline of Max’s firm buttocks; over the curves and down into the boy’s thighs.

Then, he lifts his hand about twelve inches above Max’s bum and smacks it down with some force into the hard flesh.

Suddenly, Max realised his friend Alan was staring at him quizzically.

“Don’t believe you. How do you know?” Max spat out the question. It sounded more of an accusation than he intended.

“My brother knows one of them. Alf Truman. He was in a right state; couldn’t stop crying for days, apparently.”

“So, what happened next?”

“Nothing. I think.”

“What did their parents say? Has there been a complaint?”

Alan took a thoughtful sip on his beer. “No, he’ll get away with it. Headmaster’s they’re a law unto themselves.”

Max’s glass was empty. He wanted a refill but the swelling in the front of his pants was so huge he feared every customer in the pub would spot it if he made his way to the bar.

Twenty minutes later and still horny as hell, Max returned to the offices of the Evening Champion. It was deserted except for Mr Arkwright, his boss.

“Where have you been?”


“The Goat more likely. You’re late back from lunch. I’ve told you before about time-keeping.”

Max stopped in his tracks. Was he serious?

“So what …”

“So what, is that you need a darn good spanking, young man. That’s so what.”

Max’s face beamed. “Oh, yes please!”

“Come on then,” Arkwright gripped the teenager by the elbow and guided him towards his office.

“I was joking,” Max giggled, pulling himself away.

“I wasn’t,” Arkwright regained his grip on Max.

“Someone will see,” Max shrieked with laughter.

“So what. You are an indentured apprentice and I am your boss. I am merely exerting my right to discipline you.”

Max flashed a broad grin, his white teeth shone against his nut-brown suntanned face.

Arkwright was dead pan. “I shall be in pater familias. You are under the age of twenty-one and I will act in the place of your father.”

He opened the door to his office and pushed the teenager through.

“Bend over that chair.” He was serious. He indicated a low-backed easy chair with wooden arms.

With heart pounding, Max bent over the back of the chair. His heavy cock pressed into the apex of the chair. He heard a drawer open and close and before he could catch breath a heavy wooden object crashed into his left buttock.

He was a beautiful target. Arkwright aimed the clothes brush at the firm pert right buttock and let fly. The trousers hugged the contours of Max’s bum tightly and the outline of his underpants was clearly visible.

Thwack, thwack. Two stingers landed, both on the underside of the right cheek. Then another two on the left.

Arkwright wheezed. It was the heat of the afternoon and sexual excitement combined. The tail of Max’s shirt had risen away from his waist. Arkwright grabbed it and pushed it further up the boy’s sweat-drenched back, exposing an area of hairless suntanned skin.

Smack, smack. Two more whacks of the brush landed. The brush was small and the firm buttocks were protected by trousers and underpants. All Max felt was a mild sting. But it wasn’t the pain that mattered to him. The thrill was presenting himself submissively to the older man, allowing him to do as he pleased.

His cock throbbed much more than his bottom. It pressed into the back of the small armchair and any moment now, the teenager felt sure, he wouldn’t be able to hold back.

“Huff, huff,” he groaned as another couple of smacks hit him.

Suddenly there were voices. The main office door had opened. Journalists had returned from a liquid lunch.

Max made to escape from his prone position over the back of the chair.

“No, you don’t,” Arkwright wheezed and pushed the boy’s shoulders hard so that his face was smothered by the cushion. Then, the deputy editor continued to rain down smacks into the tight seat of Max’s trousers.

The voices quietened. Oh my God they could hear everything. Max’s prick throbbed harder. Any second now he would cream his underpants.

“Enough, Mr Arkwright.” This time Max succeeded in standing. His face was beetroot and his torso drenched in perspiration. His penis stood like a tent pole inside his tight trousers.

Arkwright’s face glistened with sweat. He wheezed with excitement. His own cock was rigid, but it had been many years since he had been able to erect as stiffly as Max’s. Oh, to be nineteen again, he thought.

“I’ve got to go.” Max hurried from the office and brushing by his astonished colleagues took the stairs two at a time and bundled into the gents’ toilet.


Two hours later Max sat in the garden of Alf Truman’s home. People who passed Alf Truman in the street never gave him a second glance; he was truly non-descript. His hair was a little longer than his mother would have wished, but in every other respect he was extremely conventional. Even the green cotton shorts and chocolate brown shirt he wore were mass produced and cheap. He probably bought them at the Co-op store, Max thought. The eighteen-year-old was thin and lanky. Max couldn’t see the boy’s behind as he was sitting on it, but the reporter assumed it was nothing to write home about.

Obviously, Max surmised, the headmaster had not targeted Alf for special treatment; he had probably just taken his chance when it offered itself.

Alan hadn’t got the story exactly right. It had happened two months previously in May. The headmaster’s “blackmail” wasn’t humiliating public exposure. Why would the boys be embarrassed if people knew they had been kissing girls behind the bike shed? They would have been proud of it.

No, the headmaster had threatened to suspend them from school. They wouldn’t be able to take their exams. No exam passes meant no university places. Careers could be ruined. The boys had no option.

“Why didn’t he just cane you?” Max asked, but he knew the answer already.

Alf’s eyes misted. His words sounded like they were coming from a long distance away. “He made me take down my trousers and bend over his knee. Then, he pulled down my pants and spanked me.”

His voice was hoarse. “You know, on the bare bum.”

Max shuffled uncomfortably in his garden chair. The thought of the boy over the headmaster’s knee was stirring him.

“How long did he spank you for?” Max asked, hoping he didn’t sound overly interested.

“I don’t know. Ages. My bum was a mass of bruises by the time he finished.”

Max gulped. He wished he had been offered something to drink. He blushed red. He had to ask the next question.

“Did he, you know … get excited?”

Alf blushed cherry red. Max realised it had never occurred to the boy that there was anything sexual in the encounter.

“No,” Alf whispered.

They talked some more. Alf had taken his exams, the school term ended next week and he would leave the school for good. There was nothing Mr Draper, the headmaster, could do to harm him now.

Max metaphorically rubbed his hands together. He had another spanking story for the newspaper. It was another scoop to go alongside the perverted policeman.

Max padlocked his bicycle. This must have been the scene of the “crime,” he thought, where the illicit kissing had taken place. He was at the school to question the headmaster and he was nervous as hell.

Slowly, he trudged through the quadrangle and into the building. He felt like a naughty schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study. Why? He had done no wrong. The headmaster was the guilty one.

Max had been a pupil at Alderman James Grammar. He had no special memories of the place. He had studied hard, played rugby and cricket, taken his exams and left. He had been no trouble to anyone.

Slowly, Max made his way along the passageway to the headmaster’s study on the first floor. Beyond the door of the room at the far end of the corridor came a distinct sound. Swish! Thud. Swish! Thud.

His heart beat faster. Was that what he thought it was? He stopped, stood still, unsure what to do next. Suddenly the door of the study eased open and a boy, bulkier and taller than Max, emerged. He was a senior boy, a prefect no less, judging from the lapel badge he wore on his blazer. Max’s attempt to avoid eye contact was a failure. The boy glared at him: his expression a mixture of pain and resentment.

The pain was born of being forced to bend over a chair to allow Mr Draper to swipe his cane across his stretched backside and the resentment was forged when this stranger witnessed that humiliation.

Max paused, intimidated by the boy’s demeanour and a little excited by the thought of what had taken place behind the heavy oak door.

He gave himself a few moments to calm himself and tapped gently on the study door.

“Enter!” Mr Draper called from within.

Max turned the handle and opened the door slightly as if he was trying not to be a nuisance and squeezed through the small gap he had created between door and door jam.

Max looked around the study. It was a large corner room with windows in the two outside walls, with Mr Draper’s desk situated so that he could see out of all of the windows, one of which was open to admit some fresh air. Standing against the wall was a bookcase and a padded leather armchair. Max’s eyes, however, were drawn to the object laid across the desk, a thin yellow stick with a curved handle: the cane.

“Ah, Maxwell Hall.” Mr Draper gave him a frosty glare making Max feel like even more a naughty schoolboy. The fact that the cane was resting on the desk did little to modify that. In his mind’s eye he could see that resentful eighteen-year-old sixth-former stretched across the desk, bottom high.

Draper beckoned Max with a crook of his finger to go and stand in front of his desk.

“Well Hall, we meet at last.” The headmaster aimed his steely grey eyes at Max like a weapon. Max blanched. This wasn’t going to plan.

“So,” the headmaster barked, “You thought you had managed to avoid detection.”

Max stood rooted. Puzzled. What as the headmaster talking about? Had he mistaken the newspaper reporter for someone else?

Alderman James Uncovered.” The headmaster’s stare bore into Max.

Suddenly, the nineteen-year-old understood. Alderman James Uncovered. It was an “underground magazine.” An alternative to the official school magazine. The pupils had published it last year. It was nothing; just a bit of sixth-form fun.

Mr Draper’s glare burnt into Max. “Don’t pretend that you were not one of those behind that disgraceful rag.”

Max remained silent. It would do no good to tell the headmaster that far from being a leading light in the amateur publication; he had merely contributed one article.

Mr Draper continued, with scarcely concealed anger. “Any pupil connected with that rag,” he couldn’t bring himself to mention its name again, “has brought great shame to the school.”

Max watched perspiration run down Mr Draper’s face.

“Had I discovered those responsible at the time I should have punished them very severely indeed.”

The headmaster peered at the cane on his desk, as if seeing it for the first time.

“A sound thrashing …” he let the sentence trail off. He had been struck by an idea.

Apprehensively, Max eyed the crook-handled cane on the headmaster’s desk. Would the headmaster? Wouldn’t he? Did Max want it? Did he not want it?

Now, Max felt sweat under his own armpits. It was July and the height of summer, so he had left his jacket at the office and wore a long-sleeved white shirt and tie. With his black trousers, he could easily be mistaken for a sixth-form pupil at Alderman James.

Mr Draper hardly knew Maxwell Hall. He vaguely remembered that he had taught him Latin in the lower forms. He studied the young man standing before him. He had a fit, toned body; as befitted someone who cycled everywhere, ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning.

Had he caught the culprits at the time, it had been Mr Draper’s intention to beat them publicly. A special school assembly would have been convened. The thrashing would have been exemplary.

Hall was no longer a pupil at the school. But that would not stop the vengeful headmaster. He picked up the cane from the desk and remaining seated, he flexed it between his hands and then he wobbled it at Max.

The teenager was transfixed. It looked an awesome specimen. Saliva drained from his mouth. He hoped the headmaster could not read his excitement.

“Hall, had I discovered your involvement in that rag at the time, I surely would have caned you.”

He paused. Max shuffled from one foot to another, uncertain what was expected of him. Did the headmaster expect a reply?

If he had, he did not get one. Undeterred, the headmaster continued, “I see no reason why your punishment cannot be delivered here, today. You let down me, the masters, all the pupils here. You held the school up to ridicule.”

Perhaps in different circumstances Max might have argued the point. Yes, the magazine was tomfoolery; adolescent horseplay; but nobody was expected to take it seriously.

Instead, he remained silent, his heart pounding with excitement.

“So,” the headmaster rose from his chair. “I am going to thrash you.”

He replaced the cane on the desk and moved to the leather armchair. In one continuous movement he swivelled it so that its back faced the centre of the study.

“Stand there,” he snapped his fingers at a spot a foot or so behind the chair.

Still unable to look the headmaster in the eye, Max shuffled forward a few paces.

“Lower your trousers.”

Max had not expected this. The cane, trousers down. The headmaster caught his startled expression.

“Yes, boy,” he snarled, “what do you say to that?”

Max opened and closed his mouth but no words came. What could he say? He wanted to say, “Yes, please!” but that would sound absurd.

Max was on a roller-coaster ride of discovery. Before last week he had never encountered corporal punishment in his life. Then in the past days he had been spanked over-the-knee by a policeman; and spanked and then tawsed by his boss, Mr Arkwright. Only yesterday, his boss had smacked his bum with a hairbrush.

Now, a real-life headmaster was demanding he lower his trousers and bend over for an authentic school caning.

Not daring to catch Mr Draper’s eyes less he read the teenager’s true feelings, Max undid the belt holding up his Terylene trousers. Although his hands shook, he soon had buttons and zipper released. The slacks fell to the floor under the force of gravity.

“You will bend over the back of the chair and grip the armrests. Do not get up or move out of position. Do you understand?”

It was a rhetorical question, but nonetheless Max gabbled “Yes, Sir,” in reply.

Furtively, Max rearranged the tip of his cock under the elastic waistband of his underpants, hoping Mr Draper wouldn’t see it. It was a long way from being fully erect, but it was on the march.

He lowered himself over the soft leather back of the armchair. The crown of the chair was a little sticky. Had other teenagers felt similar urges to Max?

He pushed his arms out over the armrests. He sensed the headmaster behind him as his shirttail was carefully tidied back, almost up to his shoulder blades. Then he felt Mr Drapers’ rough palm rubbing across his bottom. He seemed to be smoothing down the cotton of Max’s bright red underpants, but he was also caressing the outline of the teenager’s firm buttocks. His bum was pert and hard. That’s what so much cycling did for you.

The headmaster smacked his hand into Max’s bum, indicating that he wanted the boy to part his legs further to increase the area of the target.

Satisfied that Max was now perfectly positioned, the headmaster picked up the thin cane. Max heard it rattle tantalisingly against the desk top. Mr Draper flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air.

Enticed by the swishing noise as the cane flew through empty air, Max lifted his head from the dusty seat cushion.

“Keep your head down and to the front, Hall.”

The headmaster ran the cane several times over Max’s drum-tight buttocks; finding his aim. Max gasped and screwed his eyes tight. He shuddered when he felt for the first time in his life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of his underpants. Why couldn’t Draper just get on with it? He could feel his cock swelling. He wriggled his body a little to press his penis into the soft leather.

“Keep still boy. Head low. Legs straight.”

Max settled. Then, swoosh! the cane landed across the very centre of both buttocks. It was a terrific cut, slicing both cheeks equally. The boy gasped; all the wind seemed to be knocked out of him.

“Hhhh, hhhh, hhhh,” he wheezed. His lips formed a perfect circle but he suppressed the yelp he wanted to cry.

Max heard Mr Draper hack a nervous cough, then shuffle his feet. Outside the study window birds were chirping.

Then he felt the tip of the cane touching him gently across the seat of his bright-red underpants. He gritted his teeth.

As if in a daze, Mr Draper measured his cane against the pants. He let it rest briefly on the chosen target and watched the teenager’s stiffening reaction of anticipation. He lifted the cane away, paused and leant forward to propel the cane forcibly into the cotton-covered flesh.

Then a third stroke sliced the untouched upper part of Max’s buttocks. Now he had three savage burning lines of agony. Max banged his held up and down against the cushion; his legs marched up and down and he buried his crotch into the soft black leather. The pain was building and it felt like his bum had swollen to twice its natural size.

The strokes came at about fifteen second intervals and before each one the boy held up his head and stared at the headmaster’s large study window.

Concentration on anything other than his sore bottom was uppermost in his mind. If he could absorb the details of the expensive curtains or the window frame, just perhaps, he could ignore the stinging pain in his backside and the throbbing in his groin.

Max still held on to the chair’s arms and waited for the next line of fire to scold his behind.

The headmaster glided the cane across max’s delightful mounds; from the top near the spine, across the centre of the rock-hard globes and into the crease between buttocks and thighs. He waited to hear the increased tension in the boy’s breathing before lifting the cane away, raising it to shoulder level and landing it with awesome accuracy across the very centre of the bum. Three times it swiped in rapid succession. It was like machinegun fire echoing around the study.

Max howled. There was no other way to describe it. It was a completely uncontrolled outpouring of pain. “Ooooooooh!” He gripped the arms for dear life and flung his head backwards and forwards, while his life’s breath was forced from him. He twisted his left foot behind his right and then his right behind his left. His knees buckled.

In the midst of all that suffering, his cock went limp. Had he creamed his underpants? He didn’t think so. He hadn’t felt an orgasm. Unless the agony in his backside had drowned out the ecstasy in his groin.

“You may stand up, boy,” Mr Draper moved across the study and placed the cane in a cupboard alongside six or seven others.

When he turned once more to face Max the boy had pulled up his trousers and was tucking in his shirt. His eyes shone. He had shed tears, but he was once more fully in control of his emotions. He had not had time to inspect his underpants. His todger was limp, but he couldn’t be certain the front of the pants wasn’t damp.

His backside throbbed like mad. He desperately wanted to leave the headmaster’s study and find a private place where he might explore the damage done to his backside.

That would have to wait.

“Well, Hall,” the headmaster sneered, “What was it that you came here to discuss with me today?”


Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The clergyman is here

Other school stories you might like

Murph in the headmaster’s study

The old boys

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Max of the ‘Champion’ 2. The deputy editor

Max, a nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter, has exposed a rural policeman who unlawfully spanked young men. (see story here). Max did this by tricking the policeman into spanking him on the bare bottom with a hairbrush. Now read on …

The pain of the spanking had gone hours ago, but the journey on the train on hard unpadded seats had been uncomfortable. Max was in a dream. Something that he hardly recognized had been stirred inside him.

Now, back in his bedroom he couldn’t wait to inspect the damage and Max fumbled with the bib of his shorts. It was a glorious sunny day and he wore the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. The bib at the front fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug-fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath.

They weren’t the easiest shorts to get out of. At last they were at his feet and his briefs were at his knees. Wow! Max didn’t say it aloud; there was nobody with him to say it to. But Wow! Both buttocks and the back of his thighs were a mass of blue and purplish bruises. Not one spot on his previously creamy-white buttocks had been spared. Gingerly, he ran the tip of his index finger across the curves, wincing as he touched particularly tender spots.

He rested his hands on his knees and pointed his bottom out behind him. He turned away from the mirror and peered over his shoulder affording himself the best view yet of his glorious, but battered, arse.

It was a magnificent specimen. It was better without the bruises; but even as it stood the nineteen-year-old junior newspaper reporter knew it was something special. He was a fit lad in two senses of the word: he did press-ups and sit-ups every morning before breakfast and cycled everywhere. There wasn’t enough spare fat on his whole body to sizzle a sausage.

He rubbed the palm of his hand across both buttocks to give himself the thrill of reignited pain and without warning his cock started to swell. It wasn’t really an erection, but his penis was thinking about it.

Max could not get the events of the afternoon out of his mind. The journey out to Harkensbury in the middle of nowhere to find the pervert policeman had been a complete success. Max’s trip across PC Snodgrass’s knee and his whacking with the hairbrush had been caught on tape. He had, as newspapermen like to say, “a scoop.”

Max picked up the tape recorder, plugged in the earphone and set it to play.

“I can spank your backside for you.” It was the voice of PC Snodgrass and the prelude to Max’s first-ever spanking. The boy lay back on his bed, closed his eyes, and relived every whack and yelp of it.

“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom.” It was Snodgrass’s voice again. In his mind Max could see the dirty carpet in the policeman’s house and he could feel his own bottom raised as high as it would go. The tape picked up every slap of the wooden hairbrush as it crashed at speed into Max’s pert muscular bottom.

Suddenly, without warning, his cock grew so strong Max thought it was going to fly off his body. Breathless, he laid his head back in the pillow and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Only now and for the first time could he admit something to himself. It wasn’t a secret as such, but he knew he wouldn’t want people to know. He had a “thing” about spanking. Max couldn’t explain it; he didn’t understand it; but he knew it was true.

He had been having these dreams; about his eighteen-year-old brother mostly. The boy had been taking things from Max’s room without permission. So, over Max’s knee he went for a hard bare-bottomed spanking. Jesus! Max knew there was something weird about this and he should never tell anyone about it. What would Kenny say if he knew his brother dreamt of spanking him?

Max closed his eyes and conjured up the vision of Kenny naked except for his tight underpants bent submissively across Max’s lap as a springy bedroom slipper popped up and down into his buttocks. Max’s cock rose and instinctively the boy started rubbing.

Next door, in his own bedroom, his brother Kenny was also on his bed, shorts and underwear long since discarded, working his Vaseline-smeared palm up and down his member. In his head Kenny and Max are in the living room of their family home, bent across the back of the sofa. Their shorts are at their feet and pants bunched just below the buttocks. Kenny is humiliated; not only is he being spanked in front of his brother, he is getting it with his brother.

Their mother, a large matronly woman, whips a switch she has cut from the garden especially for the purpose; first into Kenny’s left cheek, then into his right. Then Max’s left; then his right. Then again and again and again. The boys are howling fit to bring the ceiling down, but their mother is on a mission.


Something was seriously wrong. Max could not get his todger to behave. It was permanently erect. He soaped another one off in the bath and hoping it might be a good boy now, he set off, as arranged, to meet Mr Arbuckle, the deputy editor of the newspaper.

It was a warm summer’s evening and Saturday, so they had agreed to meet at Arbuckle’s home; a cottage in its own grounds on the outskirts of town. Max had never visited the aging bachelor before; he had no reason to. Arbuckle was older than his dad, what would they have in common?

Arbuckle sat at the window, whisky glass in hand waiting for the boy. He was late; they had said seven-thirty; it was close to a quarter-to-eight. He hated people who could not be punctual. Newspaper reporters should always be on time; it was a golden rule.

He was ready to heave himself out of his comfortable armchair to replenish his glass when he spotted the bicycle. His heart skipped a beat; he had never seen Max like this. Gone were the formal jacket and dark grey trousers, collar and tie, that Max wore to the office. Here was a sun-tanned Adonis. The boy wore white sport shorts with a red trim and a matching sleeveless vest. And what shorts they were: Arkwright had underpants that covered more of his body. The boy’s muscles rippled as his legs rose and fell turning the pedals, mesmerising the old man.

Within seconds Max was at the door dismounting his bike. For the first time Arkwright glimpsed the firm pert buttocks, bursting against the tight white cotton of the shorts. He couldn’t be sure: was the boy not wearing underpants?

“Here have a drink,” without waiting for a reply Arkwright thrust a large glass of whisky into Max’s hand. The teenager wasn’t much of a drinker and would have preferred a glass of water; the cycle ride had been hot and dusty. But, drinking with his boss made him feel grown-up, so he took it.

Arkwright took a long gulp from his own glass. “So give me all the gory details. Was he the ‘spanking policeman’ after all?”

Max sipped hesitantly at the whisky. Suddenly with all the excitement of the day he realised he hadn’t eaten since lunchtime and the alcohol was already going to his head.

Arkwright drew on his glass as Max recounted the details of the day. The teenager sipped at his whisky and hoped his trooper would behave. Wearing his cycling shorts might not have been such a good idea.

Arkwright’s eyes were blazing. “Tell me again, do we have everything on tape? Can you clearly hear the hairbrush spanking into your bare bottom?”

“Oh, yes!” Max was proud of his work; he had exposed a perverted policeman and had paid with his own arse to do it. “Every last sound.” His eagerness to recount every last detail to the elderly man was obvious.

Arkwright drained his glass, stood and crossed the room to refill it. “Do you have the tape with you now?”

“No, it’s at home.” Max could feel Arkwright’s sense of disappointment. And his own; he would have loved to have played the tape to his boss and to relive the whole experience one more time.

“Here, drink up. Let me freshen you up.” Arkwright waited for the boy to gulp down the whisky and splashed a triple measure in the glass.

Max shouldn’t have drunk so quickly; the alcohol went straight to his head and he could feel the room spinning a little.

“So, you’ll be claiming from the paper for industrial injury will you?”

Max knew it was meant as a joke and joined in. “Oh yes, sir, and I’ll claim for the cushions I had to use to sit on.”

He really was a delightful boy, Arkwright hadn’t noticed before. He had a fresh open face and rather infectious grin. Max’s skimpy clothes showed off his muscle-tone to perfection. He was making the old man rather horny.

“Show us the damage then!” It was said with a grin. Arkwright was still joking. A little.

Max beamed. “Give us a bob and I’ll show you my bum.” He giggled as the words come out his mouth. It was something the girls used to say when they were kids; why had he suddenly remembered that?

Yes, such a delightful boy. Arkwright put down his glass, delved into his trouser pocket and found a coin. He tossed it across the room and Max caught it.

“What’s this,” the boy’s grin widened. It slashed his face from ear to ear. He knew very well what this was.

“It’s a shilling. Show us your bum.”

In devilment, Max stood up, turned his back on Arkwright, bent a little at the waist, pointed his bum at the man and pulled his shorts and pants down to below his buttocks. Then, he did a little dance, wobbling his bare cheeks from side to side. Then he covered up.

Arkwright gaped. “Oh my yes, it is a bottom crying out to be spanked. Come here.”

Their eyes met. No words were spoken. There was no need.

Max flashed a smile. That grin again. “You reckon?” he giggled.

Arkwright reached out for the boy, who shrieked with laughter and dodged the old man’s advances. It was a small room and there was nowhere to hide. Soon Arkwright had him by the arm. Still shrieking with laughter Max tried to break free, but within seconds his boss had him draped over his lap.

“No, no,” Max was still chuckling as his shorts and pants were tugged below his buttocks.

It was a game; they both knew that. Arkwright’s spanks were just love-taps. What a pity the buttocks were already so bruised; what a pleasure it would be to turn Max’s creamy-white cheeks to a dark shade of pink.

Max stopped struggling. It felt good to feel Arkwright’s hard hand fondle his pert cheeks. Max’s todger was waking up. And although his was hidden below two layers of cloth, so too was Arkwright’s.

Arkwright let the boy stand and hurriedly Max replaced his clothing. But, there was no hiding his erection.

Arkwright’s own member was also on the march.

“I have a taws in the drawer.”

Without waiting or a response Arkwright walked to the sideboard and removed a thick black leather strap.

Max was still chortling as Arkwright handed it to him. It was about two feet in length, with a long thin handle and the “business end” was fourteen inches. Max felt its weight. It was a fine specimen; craftsmen had melded together two strips of leather to create tails about a half inch thick. The taws had seen some action. Arkwight used it regularly on a young farmhand who was always most obliging at fifteen shillings a time.

Arkwright had been a secret spanker for nearly twenty years; in that time he had learnt that so many young men craved to be spanked by their elders. He could smell the desire on them. And, this delightful summer’s evening, he smelt it on Max.

“Come on lad, bend over the armchair.” He pointed the leather towards a low-backed chair. He had surmised Max correctly. The boy’s cock swelled and the front of his snugly-fitting white cotton shorts could barely contain it.

“Quickly, don’t dawdle.”

Max beautiful hazel eyes glazed. His heartbeat raced and the room spun a little. But, after stumbling at first and then regaining his balance, he took a few pigeon steps towards the armchair and after adjusting the bulge in his shorts he fell across its back, so that his cock throbbed against the crown of the chair.

Arkwright whistled at the gorgeous sight. The muscles in Max’s legs and arse were tight. The red edgings of the boy’s snug shorts enclosed his buttocks and presented them to his punisher with perfection.

Arkwight’s own member was also on the march and although he could feel it tightening inside his loose-fitting underpants, he knew it would not be as long or as rigid as the cock struggling inside Max’s shorts. Oh, to be a nineteen-year-old again, he thought.

Arkwright caressed the leather taws in both hands, then gripping the handle in his right fist, he tapped the two tails into the palm of his left hand. It was a heavy beast and even a relatively light tap stung him. He would have loved to raise the taws to the ceiling and bring it crashing down with all his strength into the tight arse that was presented submissively before him. That’s what he would do with Freddy, the farmhand. But Freddy was an expert receiver of punishment.

If Arkwright lashed just one stroke at full force into Max’s waiting bum, the boy would jump a mile and run screaming from the house clutching his buttocks, never to return. No, Arkwright had learnt with Freddy that you had to groom a boy. Start softly; smack just hard enough to make him gasp. Leave the boy with a tingling bottom; nothing more. Then the next time increase the strength of the stroke a little. In time the boy would be able and willing to have his arse leathered off.

“Are you ready boy?” Arkwright swished the taws through the air and rested it on the very centre of Max’s quivering arse cheeks.

“Yes, sir,” it was no more than a whisper, but the old man sensed the teenager’s willingness. Yes, sir, he was really saying, I am ready. I really, really want you to do this.

He pulled back the taws and let it smack into Max’s cheeks. The boy wheezed, but showed no sign that he was in much pain. A further three swats bounced into Max’s arse. He felt those alright. His back arched and his legs marched up and down on the spot; just like a soldier on sentry duty.

Again, the leather rose and fell into the tight cotton shorts. Arkwright was enjoying himself, but he knew that he was only using about ten percent of the strength that he used on Freddy.

Twelve strokes and it was over. It was hardly “twelve-of-the-best,” but to Max it was the most severe spanking he had ever received; even worse than the copper’s hairbrush spanking. He remained face down; head pressing into the armchair seat cushion; unsure what was to happen next. He could feel his cock was close to exploding.

“You may get up, lad,” it was a gentle instruction. Arkwright was a little short of breath; but not because of the energy he used in the beating. He wanted Max. He wanted to take the boy up his gorgeous arse and fuck the teenager’s brains out.

Gingerly, Max rose from the chair. The room was spinning so he bent double, placing his hands on his knees until he recovered a little. The sight of that stunning backside pointing in his direction was too much. Arkwright grabbed the boy’s arm and in one continuous movement he guided him to the couch, pushed the lad down on his back, ripped down his shorts and underwear, took his throbbing member in his mouth and gorged himself.

Max was not quite a virgin, but he was as good as. He had no experience in controlling his cock to give himself maximum pleasure. Within seconds his member exploded in Arkwright’s mouth. Coughing and spluttering, the old man fell backwards as cum splashed on his face.

Later, thinking about it in bed at home; at first Max tried to blame it on the whisky. But he was an intelligent lad; he knew in his heart that wasn’t true. Max wanted to do it. He wanted all of it. Everything that happened that evening: he wanted it. And, given the chance he would do it all again.

Episode 3, Max and the headmaster is here.

Other stories you might like.

The missed curfew

 The shoplifter

Bug on the wall

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman


Neighbours peered from behind lace curtains as the policeman propped his cycle near the front gate and carefully untied the string holding the school cane in place on the frame. It was a hot afternoon during one of those glorious summers we used to have years ago.

Twenty miles away, the editor of a newspaper in the far north of England was in his office talking to his deputy and Max, a junior reporter.

“I heard there’s a policeman in Harkensbury who’s taking the law into his own hands.”

“You mean gun fights in the street, people hanging from trees?”

“Where’s Harkensbury …?”

“About twenty miles north of here, on the edge of the moors. A few villages. Farms. Moors.”

“What’s going on?”

“Some copper dispensing his own justice.”

“How do you mean?”

“He catches people but he doesn’t take them to court.”

“What’s he do?”



“Yeah, spanking.”

“You mean children.”

“No, adults too I think.”


“I don’t understand.”

“He spanks people if they break the law.”

“But surely not adults. You mean if you went up there and got drunk and later wee’d up the cemetery wall, he’d take you over his knee and smack your bottom?”

“No, not people my age, I suppose. Young adults I think. People like you Max. In the late teens. Twenties.”

“How likely is this?”

“You’d be surprised.”

“But why would he do it?”

“Old fashioned justice. Didn’t coppers in the past used to give kids a clip round the ear? Take a belt to their arses?”

“Sounds a bit kinky to me.”

“Why would they let it happen?”


“The people. The villagers.”

“Maybe they think it works. Keeps crime down.”

“What crime? It’s in the middle of nowhere.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it keeps the teenagers quiet. I don’t know.”

“But they wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Who? The kids?”

“The ‘young adults,’ the parents. The kids. None of them.”

“Not necessarily. What if they think it works. Or it’s better than going to court.”

“I heard a lot of it is motoring. The kids get stopped on their bikes. Speeding. Riding without insurance and the like. They don’t want to pay fines and have their licences endorsed. So, you know …”

“Some of it’s probably bravado.”

“How do you mean?”

“Like at school. You’re not one of the gang unless you’ve had a spanking off the policeman. They show off to their friends that they can take it.”

“No, I don’t believe it, it doesn’t ring true.”

“Why not?”

“Well, let’s say a load of yobs on their motorbikes are up at the moors and they stop at a café or a pub or something and they cause trouble. Then along comes Plod and he says, “You’re very naughty boys. Now, take down your trousers and bend over my knee.” Do you think they’re going to do it? Or course they’re not.”

“Maybe only locals.”


“Only locals. He only does it to locals. If there are outsiders they go to court in the usual way. I suppose he needs to make some arrests. For appearances sake. You know.”

“Well, let’s find out.”


“Max, I want you to find out.”

“Me? Why me?”

“Because you are the perfect person. How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”


“Nineteen, see, you’d be perfect.”

“Perfect? Perfect for what?”

“To go to Harkensbury and find out what’s going on.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t just go in and say, ‘Excuse me officer, but I hear you illegally spank boys’ backsides. Boys’ bare backsides.’ Come on.”

“You could go and suss him out a bit. Go to the police station. Have a look; see if he’s got a cane hanging from the umbrella stand. You know one of those jobs with the curved handle.”


“Look, Max. You can go up there and have a look round. Use your charms. Talk to some locals. Chat up the girls.”

“Girls? Is he spanking the girls too?”

“I don’t know. Find out. He might be.”

“No, their parents wouldn’t let him do that surely.”

“I don’t know, but the girls will know what’s going on. Maybe their brothers have been done. Or their boyfriends.”

“Maybe he does them both together.”

“You what?”

“You know, spanks the boys and girls together. He finds them canoodling behind a hay stack and they both get it. Over the knee, knickers down …”

“You’ve been reading too many porno stories [Laughter].”

“Seriously Max. I want you to go and find out.”

“But… What can I do? What will I be able to find out?”

“Use your initiative lad. What do we know? We know he spanks teenagers like yourself if they commit a nuisance or a crime or what have you.”


“So, test it out. Like an old-time reporter.”


“Before your time, Max. You know Harry when the ‘News of the Screws’ turned over massage parlours that were really brothels. The reporter would have his massage and then when the girl offered him the extras, you know the sex, he made an excuse and left.”

“You’re mad.”

“So in time-honoured fashion you go up there and cause some bother. I know, you get yourself caught stealing something from the village store. Then the policeman is called and you go back to the station and you know.”

“So, when he’s unbuckled my belt and is pulling my jeans down, I make an excuse and leave! And I end up with a criminal record.”

“Mmmmm. Looks like you’ll have to take the spanking then.”

“Very funny. Anyway, I can’t. Harkensbury is twenty miles away. I don’t have transport.”

“You’ve got your bike.”

“I can’t cycle twenty miles there and twenty miles back.”

“What a fit lad like you. Look at you, you’re always cycling …. Running ….”

“There’s a train station at Falney.”


“Yes, it’s three miles from Harkensbury. On a local line. Get the train up there and cycle the rest.”

“You can cycle around the villages, find out what you can.”

“Get a ticket for speeding.”

“Ha, ha, ha. Very funny.”

“If it’s true, it’s a cracking story.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Crime committed. No court hearing. He takes boys across his knee for bare bum spankings. He loves it. It’s called perverting the course of justice.”


The widow Graveney had been expecting PC Snodgrass and had the front door open to welcome him before he had liberated the cane from his bicycle.

Upstairs, her eighteen-year-old son Albert sneaked a peak from behind the bedroom curtain. The moment he had been dreading had arrived. He had spent the past half hour testing the thickness of each pair of trousers he possessed to decide which would offer the maximum protection during the ordeal he faced. He did not know his effort was wasted: PC Snodgrass had no intention of letting trousers get in the way of his duty. Nor, for that matter, underpants. The policeman had no wish to return to the house; he would make today’s thrashing so awesome, young Albert would never, ever, want to have to bare his backside for Snodgrass again.

Downstairs, PC Snodgrass and the Widow Graveney exchanged embarrassed pleasantries. Albert had not committed a crime, but he had started to get out of his mother’s control: he was surly, rude and constantly disobedient. He needed discipline and if his father had been alive he would have long ago tanned the youngster’s behind good and proper.

Snodgrass offered a private service to a number of women on his patch; there were many widows on account of the mining disaster and a number of young men who were going undisciplined. Mrs Graveney had received a recommendation from Mrs Wheeler; her Thomas had turned over a new leaf after the policeman caned his backside raw and, she was sure, Albert would benefit from the same treatment.

Snodgrass was the only policeman for miles around and on his patch he was the law. Nobody wanted to cross him; this was a law-abiding community of hard-working folk. They believed in right and wrong and if they did wrong, they expected to be punished. That extended to the young folk and the children as well; corporal punishment was as natural in their lives as the sun and the rain.

“Shall we get on with it, Mrs Graveney,” PC Snodgrass had another punishment visit to make later that morning and was keen to get things moving, “Why not call Albert down. Then I find the mothers usually prefer not to be present for the …” he hesitated, “well you know what.”

Snodgrass found that sometimes mothers lost their nerve at the crucial moment and didn’t want him to go through with it. No wonder their children were so ill behaved, if their mothers mollycoddled them like that.

Moments later Albert appeared in the front room. Snodgrass permitted himself a smile when he saw the teenager had dressed in trousers made from a heavy twill material.

Snodgrass had prepared a short sermon, nothing much, just a catalogue of Albert’s misdeeds followed by a homily on the blessedness of mothers and why they should be obeyed. Then he pronounced sentence.

Albert had listened, or at least pretended to listen, without expression to Snodgrass’s lecture. But then: “Twelve strokes, bare bottomed.” the boy’s deep suntan couldn’t disguise that his face had drained of natural colour.

Albert’s mouth opened and closed, like a goldfish. He wanted to protest, but no words came from his throat. But, what could he say; there was no doubt, none at all, that he was guilty as charged. He had been horrible to his mother for a very long time; and now the time had come to pay for his bad behaviour.

But, twelve and on the bare. He had been caned at school (who hadn’t been?) but that was never more than six strokes, sometimes it was less, and always on the seat of his trousers. It hurt a boy like crazy when the Head of Year lashed his heavy cane across his bum and the last time he got it, a month or so ago, the marks stayed with him for a week. That was awful, but twelve strokes trousers and pants down would be beyond his endurance.

Snodgrass swished the cane menacingly through the air; his intention was to intimidate the boy in front of him and he succeeded magnificently. Already tears were forming behind Albert’s eyes and he wanted to beg the policeman not to thrash him.

The policeman had never in his life had a boy refuse to prostrate himself before him to receive a beating. Once or twice they hesitated before taking up the required position, but they always did as instructed eventually. He knew Albert would not want to humiliate himself by being too cowardly to submit for his punishment.

Albert was shaking like the proverbial leaf as he unfastened his heavy trousers and let them fall to his feet, followed by his Aertex underpants. Instinctively, he cupped his hands over his manhood and blushed deeply at the shame of being naked before Snodgrass.

“Don’t be foolish boy. You have nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Albert blushed all the deeper.

“Bend over the table,” Snodgrass swished the cane at the dining room table.

As if in a trance Albert shuffled the few feet to the table and then, not being quite sure what to do, he leant down on his elbows. The white linen tablecloth slipped under him and he slithered forward.

“Not like that boy,” Snodgrass sneered, “flat on your stomach.”

Albert regained control and lay belly down on the table. It was circular so there was no far edge for the teenager to grip. So, instinctively he folded his arms in front of him and buried his face in them.

Snodgrass was faced with a pair of quivering buttocks. He lined the cane up across the fleshiest part of the cheeks, tapped once or twice to get his aim and then lashed into Albert. This was no love-tap, or token stroke, the policeman wanted the cane to enter the boy through his rear end with so much force that it could possibly exit through his front.

An ugly thick mark grew and redness deepened across the very centre of Albert’s bum. The first stroke seemed to take him by surprise, but the horror of the pain quickly kicked in. This was going to be no schoolboy caning.

Then an even harder stroke cut into the sit spot, making the boy wail. His bottom was now paying the consequences of his impertinence and rudeness to his mother.

Snodgrass was an expert. He calculated the strength of the next three blows to perfection and watched Albert’s squirming bottom for a few seconds before slashing home another three.

Albert was flogged until he sobbed and pleaded and finally fell silent – beaten and ashamed.

Then it was over. Like a zombie, the boy rose from the table and pulled up his pants and trousers. He could feel each and every stroke throbbing.

Snodgrass called up the stairs as he left the house, to let Mrs Graveney know his task was completed. As he retied the cane to the frame of his bicycle, the policemen was pleased to note that the neighbours were still at their windows.

Max is at home. It is night time and he is in his bedroom. His eighteen-year-old brother, naked except for his snugly-fitting bottle-green briefs, is across his knees. Max is pounding down slaps into his brother’s bottom: rapidly and very hard. Max thinks his brother has been taking things from his bedroom without permission: magazines, records and so on. He thinks he might even be stealing cash.

His brother knows he has been a naughty boy and deserves this spanking. He keeps his bottom raised high to give Max the maximum area to aim at. Max lays into him with enthusiasm, but his brother’s bottom is pert and seems to be made of steel. His own hand might be hurting much more than his brother’s buttocks.

Max has had variations of this dream over the past few days. Last night his brother was totally naked, his bottle green briefs at his ankles, but he still remained stoically across Max’s knees. Max caresses his brother’s buttocks, thighs, legs and back. His body is all over suntanned, except for the buttocks which are a creamy, hairless, white: they have been protected from the sun by the skimpiest of swimming trunks.

Again, his brother lies submissively across Max’s lap as he slaps the palm of his hand into his cheeks.

Max recalled his dreams as the train chugged its way to Falney. It was Saturday and he was off to Harkensbury in search of the spanking policeman.

Corporal punishment had been a topic much discussed in the office over the past week. There was an odd story in the journalists’ weekly trade newspaper. It seems an editor in Japan would spank his reporters with a wooden paddle when they made mistakes. This encouraged Arkwright, the aging bachelor chief sub-editor, to declare that he would bring a carpet slipper into the office to encourage the junior reporters (he meant Max, who was the only junior on the newspaper) to spell correctly. Everyone agreed what a good idea this was.

It was another glorious sunny day and Max decided to make the most of it. He would be cycling a lot so he chose to wear the shortest shorts he owned. They were beige cords and hardly covered his buttocks. They had a bib at the front that fastened to the back of the waistband by two straps across his shoulders; making the snug fitting shorts hug his buttocks so smoothly you could see the outline of the very briefest briefs beneath . A loose fitting yellow t-shirt was the only other clothing he wore.

Max admired his reflection in the train’s window. He had a deep suntan all over his body; well, nearly all over; as with his brother his buttocks remained white. He was a fit youngster; he cycled and ran and did press-up and sit-up exercises each morning, which toned his body to perfection. He knew the girls admired him when he walked around town, but he was too naïve to realise that so too did a few of the men.

Max’s editor was happy to encourage him in his choice of clothes for this trip, believing that the police constable’s spanking exploits were almost certainly a sexual fetish. When he took one look at Max, the tasty teenager in his skimpy shorts, he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off him.

Harkensbury turned out to be a one-horse town; well one-shop anyway. The general stores was about one hundred yards from the police station, so Max thought if he did have to resort to shoplifting they wouldn’t have far to drag him for his spanking. There were one or two cottages dotted about and he could see a church down a lane, but there didn’t seem to be a pub.

Max dismounted his cycle near the police station. It was a basic brick building and even from a distance he could see it was one office with a house attached. This must be where the constable lived. There was no vehicle outside and everything looked locked up; he hoped he hadn’t wasted his journey.

The teenager picked up his canvas shoulder bag, the one he used for carrying the newspaper’s camera and other things like a bottle of water and sometimes a sandwich. The camera was compact, but good enough for his purposes. He took a couple of snaps of the outside of the building and then checking to make sure nobody was about he crossed the road to the police station and peered through the windows. Did his editor really expect there would be a school cane hanging from a hat stand?

Max put the camera to the window and took a picture, before quickly dashing from window to window, imagining he was a spy collecting information about a foreign enemy.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?”

Max didn’t have to turn around to see who was speaking. He knew: the police constable must have just popped out to the store. He turned slowly to see a short squat man in a sweat-stained blue shirt, confirming his suspicions.

“Why are you taking photos through my window? Who the hell are you?”

Max remained silent. Should he lie, or should he tell the truth, “I’m a newspaper reporter and I’m here to expose you as a kinky spanker.”

Before Max could say anything Snodgrass grabbed the camera from his hands and opening the back pulled the roll of film from it – destroying all his pictures.

“Were you intending to rob the police station?”

Still Max stayed silent.

“Get in there you,” Snodgrass grabbed Max by the scruff of the neck and propelled him inside the building. The room was hot and airless. The police constable was sweating profusely, but it wasn’t entirely due to the heat.

“Can I have my camera back please?” The policeman meekly handed it back to Max, who opened up his canvas shoulder bag and took his time returning the camera.

Snodgrass’s breathing was laboured. What a glorious sight. Those legs. Those crazy shorts.

“You know I can do you for attempted burglary don’t you?”

“Oh, Sir, please don’t do that.” It seemed to Max the appropriate thing to say.

“I’m going to have you put in the cells until Monday and then you can go before the magistrate,” Snodgrass couldn’t take his eyes off the boy: that flat stomach; those thighs.

Max remained silent. It was Snodgrass who must do the talking.

“Or, we can deal with it another way.”

“Another way Sir, what would that be,” Max spoke clearly now.

“I can spank your backside for you.”

“You want to give me a spanking, did you say?”

Snodgrass had been clear enough the first time, but he repeated himself nonetheless.

“Yes, I can spank you and the magistrate doesn’t have to be bothered.”

“Spank me, isn’t that against the law?”

“Around here,” Snodgrass sneered, “I am the law.”

The police constable took Max’s silence to mean he agreed to his suggestion so he pulled a straight backed chair to the centre of the room.

“What are you doing with that chair?” Max asked, as if he really didn’t know.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Snodgrass spluttered as he delved into a drawer to find a large oval wooden-backed hair brush.

“Are you going to spank me with that hairbrush?” Snodgrass had only just met this delicious boy, but already he had concluded he was a bit dim-witted.

“Yes, that’s the general idea. Now come over here.”

Max put down the shoulder bag on the floor close to Snodgrass’s chair.

“So if I let you spank me, you will drop all charges against me,” Max asked for confirmation.

“I’ve already said that. Now, how do you get out of those shorts?”

“What you want me to take off my shorts?”

“Oh yes, a spanking’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom. Now,” Snodgrass reached over to Max, “tell me how I take these shorts down.”

The shorts might have been the height of fashion, but they weren’t very practical if you wanted to evacuate them in a hurry. Eventually, Max had the bib undone and the shorts at his ankles.

Snodgrass nearly had a heart seizure at the sight of the teenager’s pert bottom inside the smooth cotton of his briefs. The legs and the thighs were the best he had ever seen. The policeman would remember this spanking for a long time to come.

He tugged at Max’s pants and directed them to the boy’s feet.

“Now come here,” he took Max by the arm and guided him across his knees. Max made no attempt to resist and placed the palms of his hands squarely on the carpet in front of himself. He had never been spanked before, nor had he seen anyone spanked and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so re-enacting his dream, he held his bottom as high as he comfortably could and waited for the hairbrush to strike.

“So you’re going to spank me on my bare bottom with that hairbrush,” Max asked, as if he needed confirmation.

“You bet, pal,” Snodgrass said and crashed the wood into Max’s rock hard left buttock.

Max didn’t know how much a spanking was supposed to hurt, but he reckoned the one he was getting now, was pretty painful. Actually, the nineteen-year-old would have been in more agony if his bottom contained more fat and less muscle.

Snodgrass loved every whack and spank of it. He raised the hairbrush high and brought it smacking down over and over and over again.

“Ouch, oooh, ouch, that hurts. Stop it please. I can’t take much more of this bare-bottomed spanking.”

Snodgrass had spanked countless boys, but he never encountered one who reacted quite like Max. Usually, they wriggled and squirmed and often they cried, but they never spoke like Max did.

The constable didn’t think much about it, he was enjoying himself too much. He spanked on for five minutes or more, completely toasting the small buttocks and Max’s thighs. The policeman’s breathing was uneven and the heat of the room and the excitement sent his blood pressure sky high. Max was in pain, but he was a very fit young man and he was taking the exertions in his very athletic stride.

Finally, Snodgrass had to admit it; if he carried on any longer he might have a heart attack or even die. It was time to stop.

Once released, Max jumped to his feet. He didn’t want to give Snodgrass the satisfaction of seeing him naked so hurriedly he pulled up his pants and climbed back into his shorts and bib.

Snodgrass was in a bad state, Max could see. Should he call an ambulance? He didn’t want the man to die on him.

“No, I’ll be alright”, Snodgrass wheezed, when Max asked.

“So, it’s over then. You have spanked me and I won’t have to go to the magistrates’ court?” Max asked.

“Yes, it’s over,” Snodgrass gasped.

“Thank you Sir, may I go now?”

“Yes, go.”

Carefully, Max picked up the shoulder bag that had lain on the floor during his spanking and left.

His buttocks were raw, but the pain was already turning into a warm glow. There would be bruises for few days, he supposed, but no lasting harm had been done.

He climbed onto his bicycle and rode away, but the hard seat against his buttocks reignited the pain of the bare-bottomed spanking. After a hundred yards, he pulled over to the side of the lane, as he had always intended doing. Dismounting the bike, he opened the shoulder bag and peered inside. The small tape recorder was still running. He stopped it, rewound a bit and then he pressed play. Bingo, loud and clear: his spanking.

He remounted the bike and despite the discomfort rode at full pelt to the train station with a huge grin on his face. What a scoop!

Episode 2, Max and the deputy editor is here.

Other judicial punishment stories you might like.

The sneak thief

Footballer’s judicial caning


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

COMING SOON: Max of The ‘Champion’

PC Snodgrass nearly had a heart seizure at the sight of the teenager’s pert bottom inside the smooth cotton of his briefs. The legs and the thighs were the best he had ever seen. The policeman would remember this spanking for a long time to come.

He tugged at Max’s pants and directed them to the boy’s feet.

“Now come here,” he took Max by the arm and guided him across his knees. Max made no attempt to resist and placed the palms of his hands squarely on the carpet in front of himself. He had never been spanked before, nor had he seen anyone spanked and he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do, so re-enacting his dream, he held his bottom as high as he comfortably could and waited for the hairbrush to strike.


Meet Max, a nineteen-year-old junior reporter on The Champion newspaper. One day he sets out to expose a rural policeman who has been perverting the course of justice by spanking young men. How does he do it? He poses as a criminal and soon ends up over PC Snodgrass’s knee.

The adventure doesn’t end there. Young Max discovers he rather likes having his backside beaten.

Max of the Champion starts on Monday 28 March 2016 and continues on Wednesday 30 March and concludes on Friday 1 April.


The headmaster ran the cane several times over Max’s drum-tight buttocks; finding his aim. Max gasped and screwed his eyes tight. He shuddered when he felt for the first time in his life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of his underpants. Why couldn’t Draper just get on with it? He could feel his cock swelling. He wriggled his body a little to press his penis into the soft leather.

“Keep still boy. Head low. Legs straight.”

Max settled. Then, swoosh! the cane landed across the very centre of both buttocks. It was a terrific cut, slicing both cheeks equally. The boy gasped; all the wind seemed to be knocked out of him.


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