Not like at school

David Busby eyed himself in the mirror, took hold of his necktie and unstraightened it so it didn’t have quite such a perfect knot. He was nearly ready. He climbed into a red-and-white-blazer. Proper wool: the real-deal, he was fond of telling people. He licked his lips; they usually dried out at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his tailored light-grey shorts. Up to the knees. He liked to keep the short trousers until last. His cock tingled. It always did. He hopped to his feet and carefully pulled the flannel shorts over his sparkling white Y-front underpants. The new short trousers fitted perfectly. They ought to, it had cost him a fortune to have them made. The button-fly made all the difference.

He admired his view in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. David Busby, aged forty-two, going on what? Eight? Nine? An insurance salesman transformed into a prep. school boy. Jennings and Derbyshire eat your hearts out.

He wiped the sleeve of his blazer across his brow. He was sweating badly, but the room was quite cool. It had nothing to do with the temperature, David Busby (or, more formally, “Busby” from here on in) couldn’t stop his pulse racing. Blood rushed through his body, his face flushed scarlet. His cock swelled inside his tight underpants. Any moment now he would leave the room, walk two or three steps across the landing and rap his knuckles on the door. What a thrill.

Busby had never been to prep. school. They were for the sons of the rich. His dad was a milkman, Busby had to make do with a back-street primary school and a bog-standard comprehensive. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was pretty sure he had never worn short trousers as a kid. Not proper smart grey shorts. Definitely, not to school. They had a uniform at the comp. Just an ordinary black blazer, nothing as fanciful as the one he wore now.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his short trousers, gulped down a lung-full of air and reached for the door handle. He shuffled across the landing and stalled at his final destination. It was a plain door, eggshell in colour. He paused, hesitating, wishing that his heart would behave itself. His mouth drained of what little saliva he had left. He raised his hand and with a confidence belying his supposed age he firmly rapped three times.

Five second passed. Then an imperious command bellowed from the other side of the door. “Come!”

Busby’s hand trembled as he reached for the handle. Absurdly, considering his predicament, he noted dark finger marks on the door. Someone needs to take a J-cloth to that, he thought as he turned the handle down and pushed against the door.

It was a small room. It had once housed a bed, wardrobe and dressing table, but now it was almost empty. A small, rickety wooden desk dominated. A grey, metallic armless chair and a hat-stand were the only other furniture.

Busby stood in the open doorway. He had entered this room many times in the past. Yet, he still took a moment to sniff the atmosphere. Dr. ELT Mastertone, headmaster of this parish, sat behind the desk, his facial features gravely set. He was not an elderly man (he would be about forty-five) but he liked to act much older. Mr. Chips might have been his role model. The tattered academic gown around his shoulders and the mortar-board cap perched precariously on his head, certainly placed him in the 1930s.

He pursed his lips and sneered, “Come in boy, don’t dawdle. Close the door.” He watched the boy fumble with the door and satisfied that he had, at last, managed to close it, he snapped his fingers. “Stand there!” He pointed to the grey tiles in front of his desk.

Busby shuffled to position. His eyes flickered. He couldn’t stop blinking. His hands shook so much he clasped them behind his back. He stared down at his scuffed black shoes.

“Look at me boy when I’m talking to you!” Dr. Mastertone barked. He lived to intimidate small boys. Unenthusiastically, Busby raised his head. Ah!, the headmaster sighed with satisfaction, the boy’s dark-brown eyes were glistening. He was already half way to his goal. He wanted nothing less than tears: real tears, before he would allow the wretch to depart the study.

“Well, Busby, I have a report here from your housemaster,” Dr. Mastertone waved a single sheet of paper above his head. “It is not good boy, it is not good.”

Busby shuffled his feet. He knew what was written in the report. He took a deep breath and stared ahead of him, determined to take what was coming to him bravely.

“Bah!” the headmaster peered closely at the paper in his hand. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Shameful. Shocking.”

The boy before him nodded his head sagely. It was all true. Every word of it. He twisted his fingers, prepared for more of Dr. Mastertone’s outpourings.

“This is criminal, Busby. Actually, criminal,” the headmaster thrust the paper at the boy standing before him. Busby winced, falling back a half-step. For this was no childish misdemeanour; this was an honest-to-goodness real adult crime.

“Drunk-driving!” spittle flew from Dr. Mastertone’s mouth. “You darn fool! You could have killed someone. You could have lost your licence. Your job!”

Busby’s knees buckled. This was the bit he loved the most; even more than the sound thrashing that was sure to follow. Being told off like a little child.

“You’re a very naughty boy!” Music to Busby’s ears.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy!”

There was nothing to say. It was Friday night, too many drinks with the lads after work, a curry; then the drive home. There was no accident, no police pulled him over. He got to his flat and crawled into bed. He would probably do it all over again next week.

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t do it again, Sir. Promise, Sir.”

“Pah!” Dr. Mastertone glared across the desk. “Sorry. Sorry. You soon will be boy!” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and hauled himself to his feet. “Stand there boy,” he nodded across the room. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”

Busby shambled across the study, his sore cock made it uncomfortable to walk. He stuck his nose as close to the wall as it would go, interlocked his fingers and put his hands on his head in the classic naughty-boy pose. His hair gel made his hot, sweaty hands even stickier. The headmaster watched with mounting pleasure as his pupil submitted himself to his will. Soon, pleasure would turn to ecstasy.

Dr. Mastertone took the grey kitchen chair from its place in the corner of the room and lifted it with one hand. He plonked it down with an echoing smack in the middle of the room. Busby flinched. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was being prepared. Satisfied that the chair was in its rightful place, the headmaster sauntered to the opposite corner and the hat-stand. It had no hats, nor coats. It never did have. Its sole purpose was to support the stout but whippy curve-handled rattan school cane that presently dangled from it.

The headmaster reached up and snatched it from its mooring. Eagerly, he flexed it between his hands. He had thrashed countless backsides with this stick, but even so every time he picked it up he liked to reacquaint himself with its supple power by first flexing it between his hands and then swishing it with tremendous force through the air. The terrific swooshing! noise it made as it went sent a shudder up Busby’s back. He barked a dry cough as he contemplated the agony he would endure when that awesome rod flogged across his buttocks.

“Turn around boy,” Dr. Mastertone was ready. Slowly, the pupil turned on his heels. “Bend over the chair,” the headmaster tapped the tip of the rattan against the chair’s grey cloth seat. Busby’s tongue darted in and out through not-quite closed lips, making him look a little like a lizard.

At a snail’s pace, he edged forward, making every second count.

“Bend over boy. You know the drill!” Dr. Mastertone was eager to get on.

Busby did indeed know the drill; he had presented his backside to the headmaster for punishment on times too numerous to remember. He stood behind the chair, took a deep breath, rubbed his sticky palms together and like a diver going into an icy pond, he threw himself forward. He was the perfect height for the chair, his stomach rested comfortably over the metal back. In that position he was able to grip each side of the chair’s seat with his face about nine inches above the stained cloth seat.

“Legs further apart boy,” Dr. Mastertone said this every time, even though on this occasion there was no need as Busby’s bottom was perfectly poised to receive the headmaster’s cane.

The headmaster took up position to the boys left and slowly “sawed” his cane across the centre of his buttocks. He stopped and tucked the cane under his arm. Something was not quite right. A white lining was visible under the short trousers. He leant forward towards Busby, cupped his right hand and rubbed it across both buttocks.

“Ha!” he cried. “Well I never. Who would have thought it, eh boy!” He rubbed Busby’s bum some more, just to be certain he was not mistaken. “Who needs a book down the back of the trousers when you’ve got these!”

The short trousers were made of thick flannel and beneath that the entire insides were covered with a double lining. They were beautifully-tailored short trousers. Elegant and hard-wearing, but entirely useless for corporal punishment. Any boy wearing these for a caning wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Stand up boy!” Dr. Mastertone suppressed a smile. “This won’t do Busby. Won’t do at all. Do you take me for a fool?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “Take down these shorts. It’ll be twelve on the underpants,” he swished his cane in anticipation of the fun to come, “Followed by another twelve on the bare, for thinking you could get away with this ruse.”

But Sir! Busby mouthed the words, but no sound came. He straightened his back and stood and hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“C’mon boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Busby’s once scarlet complexion was now puce.

“Quickly boy,” the headmaster flexed the cane and steadily paced the room. Busby eyed him on his travels and when his back was turned, he hurriedly unbuttoned his flies, let his heavy short trousers tumble to his feet and once more bent across the chair, this time presenting an expanse of gleaming white cotton to his master.

“Ah! That’s better.” Dr. Mastertone admired the beefy buttocks on offer. They were nowhere near pert and nobody would claim they were “buns of steel” but they were far from flabby. He tapped his cane across the fleshiest part, then paused once more. It took a second to tug the waistband of the pants so that the cotton hugged Busby’s bum like a second skin.

He took a pace back, raised the cane high and like a golfer taking a swing he thudded it across the very centre of the backside. Busby shuddered and air hissed through his lips. He mouthed a silent “ouch!” A burning pain. Like someone had rested a hot poker on his bum.

Swipe! Lower this time. Swipe! Now higher. A throbbing strip of flesh two or three inches wide. Whack! One on the underside of the cheek. Nearly on the bare thigh. Busby wriggled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s natural reaction to the assault taking place. Twelve hard cuts. Dr. Mastertone admired his own handiwork. Each stroke expertly delivered.

“Keep still boy!” The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm and gripped the waist of Busby’s white Y-fronts. The boy shut his eyes tight. The pants snagged on their journey south. Busby’s rock-hard cock throbbed even more than his raw arse.

Back in position the headmaster did the sawing thing again. There wasn’t a quarter inch of the naked bum offered up submissively unmarked by the cane. Dr. Mastertone ran the tip of his tongue around his cracked lips. It is what it is, he thought. He had no alternative; slice the cane across already battered flesh.

So, that’s what he did. Thwip-twip-twhip! The springy rattan cane sank into the meaty mounds before bouncing off again. The agony was ecstasy.

The final slice fell. Two men sweating. Huffing for breath. Blood pressure off the scale.

“Stand up boy,” Dr. Mastertone croaked. Busby hauled himself up, stood erect before his master. Cock pointing at the ceiling.

“Bend over the desk boy.”

Shuffling like a penguin, short trousers at the ankles, pants at the knees. Busby stands by the edge of the desk. Lifts his red-and-white blazer half way up his back. Slowly, carefully manoeuvres himself across the bashed-up wooden desk. Puts his weight against the aching cock. Closes his eyes. Hears Dr. Mastertone open the desk drawer. Doesn’t see this, but he knows what is happening. Hears the ripping of a condom packet, a jar of Vaseline is opened. Busby buries his head in his arms. Ready. Willing. Thinking, Schooldays were never like this.

z used shorts self

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The pillow fight

z used drawing pyjamas pillow fight Mag (1)

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sat slumped in the comfortable leather armchair in his study, trying to read the evening newspaper. It was deuced hard work. The noise coming from the senior boys’ dormitory on the landing above was disturbing his concentration.

Typical first night of term, the doctor mused. Let them get on with it. It was still early, they would eventually run out of steam and settle down to sleep.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood turned the pages of his newspaper. The American election was in full swing. Who really cared? he sighed.

Judging by the way the floorboards were shaking some kind of fight was in progress. With pillows, no doubt, the housemaster smiled. Boys will be boys. What tales they would have to tell, when they left the school. Thump! Something heavy crashing to the floor made the ceiling shake. Oh dear, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned. If it went on like this much longer, he would be forced to investigate.

A piercing screech rent the air. It sounded like a boy was being murdered. The housemaster folded his newspaper carefully and placed it on a nearby table. He listened intently. Silence. Whatever had happened, it seemed to be over.

Alas, no. Another equally spine-chilling shriek echoed across his study, followed by wild cheering. What on earth were they up to? Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood was very used to having boisterous schoolboys in the house, but this was too much.

Another scream. Foot stomping. The light fitting on the ceiling swayed. “Oh, this is really the limit,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned inwardly. “If they persisted in behaving like junior boys, they should not be surprised to be treated that way.”

He hauled himself from his chair and stretched. His academic gown hung from a nearby umbrella stand. Wearily, he climbed into it. He placed his mortar-board cap on his head, fixing it so the tassel fell in just the right place. He glanced in the mirror; he rather liked his look.

Then, he took four steps across the study and stopped in front of a tall, thin cupboard. The door was closed but not locked. It opened with a flick of the wrist. Inside were several whippy rattan canes, of varying lengths and thicknesses. Any one of them could in the right hands deliver a stinging beating, he thought, but these were senior boys, they deserved something special.

He reached in and took hold of a dark-yellow curved-handled cane. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed it between his hands. He had used this particular rod many times in the past. He could attest to its effectiveness, as could the dozens of boys he had thrashed in the past three months alone. The housemaster was well-known, and justifiably proud, of his reputation among the fellows for his expertise.

He swished the cane a few times, delighting in the swooshing sound it made as it travelled through the air. Satisfied with the rod’s competence to deliver, he tucked it under his arm and exited his study.

There was no great distance between the study and the senior boys’ dormitory. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood walked maybe ten yards down the passageway before ascending one flight of stairs to the landing above. The dormitory was almost exactly above the study. The housemaster made stately progress. He knew he should not be in a great hurry. There was a certain understanding in such matters. Boys who were ragging would have one of their own on sentry duty to call “cave” on the approach of a master. That would give the chaps a chance to affect an air of total innocence when the beak arrived.

But, there was no lookout and no abatement in the noise. Well, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood concluded, fingering the end of his cane, they only had themselves to blame. He waited outside the dormitory door, listening to the mayhem from within. He counted to ten in his head, gripped the handle and dramatically flew open the door.

There was chaos. A dozen senior boys, all dressed in identical red-and-white-striped pyjamas, attacked one another with pillows. There appeared to be no sides. It was a free-for-all. Everyone was fair game.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood made an imposing figure, framed in the doorway. He was about six-feet-four-inches tall and built like a rugby prop forward, although he had never played the game. He wrapped his gown around his body and glared into the room. He looked like a hawk about to take flight. Impressive indeed. But, not one boy present took notice of him, too intent were they on their own private battles.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sucked in a lung-full of air. “Boys!” he boomed. “Desist this instance.” A few paused their combat; many did not.

“I said, desist!” he roared.

Sheepishly, all in the room turned to face their housemaster. One or two hurriedly dropped pillows, staring at them as if they had never seen the things before, as they fell on beds.

“Such disgraceful behaviour,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood spoke in a natural voice. He had the complete attention of every boy in the room. “What were you thinking?” He turned to the boy nearest to him, “Carruthers?” and when he received no reply, he tried another senior, “Carstairs?”

The silence of the replies irritated him. “Carruthers, you are the dormitory monitor, explain to me what is going on.”

Carruthers blushed. Suddenly, he had an intense interest in the bare floorboards beneath his feet, but he did not reply. Carstairs could not stop looking at the fierce-looking cane tucked under the housemaster’s arm.

“Would some boy explain what is going on,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood’s beaky stare intimidated one boy after the other. “Dunno, Sir,” said one. “Sorry, Sir,”” another ventured.

“Sorry, yes you will be sorry,” the housemaster barked, “All of you.”

A dozen pairs of eyes burned into him as slowly and deliberately Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He paused for dramatic effect, then flexed it between his hands until it made a perfect arc. Then, he swished it in the direction of the far wall. “Line up there all of you. Face me. Hands on head.”

Sorrowfully, the seniors shuffled across the dormitory. Not a sound could be heard, not even the thumping of the boys’ hearts. Corporal punishment was imminent. Soon, each stood as instructed, hands on head. Some tried to stand to attention as if on a military parade ground; most slouched, their backs arched and knees bent.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood glared at each boy in turn. He said nothing, his face said it all. He had practiced his intimating stare over many years. No boy dared meet his gaze. Some looked blankly into the distance, others at their bare feet. The housemaster swished his cane. All the boys would be beaten. Hard. They would expect, no demand, nothing less. Rules had been clearly expressed. Lights out and silence at nine-thirty. Just as clearly, rules had been disobeyed. There was a certain etiquette in such things. Matters had to take their course.

“I shall not tolerate such behaviour, and from senior men too,” he intoned. “You will each be beaten on the bared buttocks.” The housemaster delighted at his reception. Faces flushed as red as buttocks soon would be. He tapped the tip of his cane against a wrought-iron bedstead and pressed against it so his thick, dense cane curved.

“Step forward Carruthers. You are dormitory captain, it is your duty to maintain order,” he growled. “And discipline.” He rolled the word “discipline” around his mouth. The wretched senior before him would not – could not – look his master in the eye. “Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled.

“Carruthers, you will take Six; you other boys will get three,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed the cane once more. “Lower your pyjama bottoms and bend over the bed.” It was a clear command, softly spoken. It was an instruction from a housemaster, no boy at the school would dare disobey.

Carruthers stepped forward; his fingers fumbled at the drawstring of his pyjamas, but soon the red-and-white-striped bottoms slithered down his thighs before snagging at the knees. He parted them slightly and they continued the journey to his feet. The senior hesitated, unsure if he should step out of the trousers bunched at his feet and present himself totally naked from the waist down. When no further instruction was forthcoming from the housemaster, he elected to leave them in place and bend forward.

The bedstead was cold and hard. It stuck into his stomach and hurt. He would have much preferred if the housemaster had placed a pillow for him, but, he knew, the good doctor had no concern that the boys he was about to punish should be comfortable. That was hardly the point of the exercise.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood stretched forward and took the tail of the pyjama jacket and with some ceremony folded it once, and then twice, up Carruthers’ back, exposing several inches of flesh covered in dark brown hair. He stood back to take his aim. He pressed the cane into Carruthers’ naked buttocks. There was a lot of “give”. The housemaster beat many boys and most had well upholstered bottoms. He could not recall the last time he had been presented with a pair of taut, pert buttocks.

He “sawed” the cane across the centre of the senior’s backside, enjoying how it twitched with anticipation. The housemaster made two practice swipes, raised the cane high and swiped it with terrific force into the naked flesh. The buttocks wobbled with the impact, a dark pink line appeared, and Carruthers threw back his head and silently gulped in draughts of air.

Unseen by the housemaster other boys craned their necks forward, lest they should miss any of the excitement. One boy, who had never been beaten, nor witnessed such a thing, felt his cock stiffen. He wondered if he dared remove his hands from his head to cover the obvious erection that was growing.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood took his aim once more. Carruthers’ body stiffened. The stroke made him tingle with agony from head to foot. His eyes shone, and his face went white, but he uttered no cry. He had been thrashed before, often. He knew the form; no matter how much a master hurt you, you must never show it. Four more cuts hammered into his naked haunches, each as hard and stinging as the first, but not a sound escaped his lips. But for the drawn, strained look about his lips, and the blaze in his eyes, he might have been a statuesque bust when he rose and joined his fellows, hands on head.

“Carstairs, you’re next. Step forward boy.” Carstairs was a little taller than Carruthers, but no less padded. Nonchalantly, he let his pyjama bottoms fall. He stood facing his tormentor affording the housemaster a perfect view of his flaccid cock and ball sack. It was, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood observed silently, quiet the longest member he had seen in a considerable time.

Without fuss, Carstairs lifted his jacket to his chest exposing an almost hairless stomach. He paused to a silent count of three and satisfied that his fellow miscreants had admired his manhood, he dived across the bedstead. He spread his arms wide and opened his legs. His cock and balls dangled provocatively. But, the housemaster would not be distracted.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

Three deep welts were already forming as Carstairs hobbled back in line. The pain was intense. It had only been three cuts, but the housemaster was a recognised expert with the cane. It had been “three” like the senior had seldom received before.

“Next boy,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slashed his cane through the air. He was in his stride now.

So, it was that twelve boys settled down to sleep, each nursing deep cuts on their backsides. No words were exchanged until First Bell next morning. Then, each would display his trophy stripes. By then, deep pink would be turning to mauve. They would change to many colours of the rainbow before finally disappearing several days later.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood returned to his study. He replaced the cane in the tall, thin cupboard and opened his cocktail cabinet and poured two glasses of gin. Soon, the study door burst open. His visitor owned the establishment; he was not one to knock on doors.

“How did it go?” he inquired eagerly before gulping his drink.

“Very well. Very well indeed. I think they all thoroughly enjoyed themselves,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood nodded approvingly. “It should be one of our best weekends ever.”

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

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.

 

used-drawing-whip-hold-4

 

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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The boy in the scarlet blazer book

used-school-longs-chair-2

Timothy Hutchins is a young man with a wicked spanking fetish. There is little he can do about it until Billy, the boss of the burger bar where he works, takes him under his wing. Or more truthfully across his knee

In this latest free-to-download book, Timothy enters the world of the boy for hire and soon becomes a spanking-movie star. Everybody wants a piece of his backside.

 

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

the-boy-in-the-scarlet-blazer-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Another book available to download free-of-charge.

ALL IN THE FAMILY. TALES OF DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

used master

Previously in Mr Hennessey’s Boys

Episode 1, Howard’s story

Episode 2, Noah’s story

Episode 3, Ethan’s story

 

 

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Timothy goes back to the classroom …

 

“Boys like you need to be punished or you’ll never learn. Stand up Kennedy. This will be a lesson you’ll never forget.”

Mr Higgins waved his cane threateningly at me, almost in my face.

I scrapped back my chair and rose from my school desk and prepared for the order, “Bend over and touch your toes.”

I was in an actual classroom and Mr Higgins was a genuine schoolmaster and I’m pretty darn certain ‘Kennedy’ was a real schoolboy too.

Mr Higgins had put me in the detention class at [name redacted] an actual boarding school. The real pupils were on holiday and we seemed to have the building to ourselves. Higgins was a schoolmaster at the school. Either that or this was the most spectacularly blatant guerrilla movement ever. A stranger just moved into the classroom as if he had every legitimate right to be there.

I think Higgins had a beef against three pupils in particular. Maybe they gave him a hard time in his classroom and he couldn’t do a thing about it: corporal punishment having been abolished.

That evening I kicked off as ‘Turner’, found guilty of cheating in his history class test.

“Turner you will write out fifty times in your neatest handwriting, ‘I must not copy out the work of other boys in a test and then pass it off as my own.’”

It was incredibly tiring and by the end my wrist was as sore as it’s ever been; even after one of my marathon wanking sessions.

The classroom was a mixture of the old and the new. The lighting and air conditioning was definitely of ‘today’, but the school desks were from a time long gone by; those individual ones they had that opened from the front and had a hinge. As I was soon to discover the slope from the back to the front made an ideal platform for a schoolboy to bend across and offer his bum up for the kiss of the cane. Kiss? Who am I kidding? The SWOOSH! THWACK! OUCH!! of the cane I mean.

I was wearing an authentic blazer from the school, a rather natty royal blue number with yellow braiding. I rather admired it to be honest.

Mr Higgins had a traditional academic gown and again I’m pretty certain that it was the authentic one he probably wore in his daily life. The whippy rattan cane he was brandishing was the real deal too (I can give personal testimony to that), but I suspect it had to be taken out of mothballs for that evening, since caning in schools had been abolished a generation ago.

He looked through my lines and was dissatisfied.  “Pah! You call this neat handwriting, Turner?”

“Stand up and bring your chair with you.”

He took my straight backed wooden chair and put it against the back of another.

I climbed on one chair and bent over the combined backs and placed my hands palms down on the seat of the other. I’d never seen this position before, but it turned out it was all the fashion eighty or more years ago. It certainly placed my bum at the perfect angle for him to slash his cane into the seat of my trousers. Which he then proceeded to do.

They were six real stingers and I could feel the cane had made welts across my buttocks, but I’m pretty resilient and took it like a champion.

“Stand in the corner, Turner. Hands on head.”

That was end of part one.

There was no commercial break; I was just left standing, until Mr Higgins rearranged the furniture.

“Probert,” he called to me. “Sit in that desk.”

He then gave me a stern lecture about my misbehaviour in the history lesson. I was always playing the class fool.

“Take fifty lines. ‘I must always remember that nobody in the class is the least bit interested in my attempts at comedy.’”

It took me nearly an hour and by the end I was ready to soak my wrist in a bowl of cold water. Soon I’d be happy to bathe my arse there as well.

“Probert, you think you can make a fool of me, but you can’t. I am going to demonstrate that now. I am going to beat you like you have never been beaten before.” He said it with such conviction, I really felt sorry for the real Probert, whoever he was.

“Take down your trousers and bend over the desk.”

I hesitated. I figured that was expected of me. Trousers down? We were moving away from reality, here.

“Now, Probert. Do as you are told or I’ll double the number of strokes.”

I stood in front of the desk, let my trousers fall and leant across the desk. The sloping lid made a wonderful platform, presenting my bum as the highest part of my body. Mr Higgins pulled the waistband of my white underpants tight. I winced as the cotton rubbed against the raw welts left on my buttocks, courtesy of Turner.

He laid six strokes into me, at intervals of thirty seconds. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew he was relishing every cut of it. It genuinely hurt and by slash number four I was groaning, but I kept in position.

He left me hanging over the desk for what seemed like an age, while he admired my tight buttocks. I don’t know what was going through his mind; was he lusting after the genuine Probert, or me? To be honest, I’d rather not know; sometimes with the gentlemen it’s best not to.

After a session in the corner, Probert morphed into Kennedy. I never had the opportunity to meet the boy, but I rather wish I had. He must have really pissed Higgins off. The lecture went on for ever; his rudeness, insolence, impudence and disrespect of authority. Yep, Kennedy did not like Mr Higgins. I wonder what he would think about this crazy game being played out in his name?

We didn’t do lines this time but went straight to the action. “Stand up Kennedy. This will be a lesson you’ll never forget.”

I walked as instructed to the front of the room. “Boys,” Mr Higgins intoned to an imaginary class, “I want you all to witness this. I will not tolerate insolence and any one of you who has the audacity to take me on, will befall a similar fate.”

There was a glassy faraway look in his eye as he swished the cane through the air. I think he was beginning to lose it.

“Trousers and pants down, Kennedy. Bend over and touch your toes.”

As anyone who has ever heard that dreaded command knows, the bending over and touching toes isn’t the hard part. The hard part is staying down after the slash of the rattan has taken half your arse off. If you are bending over a chair or a desk, you have something to grab hold onto for dear life. But, when you are touching your toes, you are on your own.

My bum was still throbbing and quite scarred from my previous two canings, so when Mr Higgins flogged the first cut, and I do mean ‘flogged’ it into my bare buttocks, I yelped like a dog and shot up to clutch at my roasting cheeks.

“Over Kennedy. Don’t be a coward. Take it like a man,” he stressed the word “coward” in a way that sent a shiver down my spine. This guy truly hated Kennedy and wanted the real boy to be there that evening, but that was impossible, so I was to be his whipping boy instead.

I bent down again, grabbing hold of the trousers that were crumbled at my ankles. Slash two whipped against my arse, it came with such force I’m sure he was trying to cut my body in two.

Number three was worse. I was howling like a wolf. If there had been anyone else in the building surely they would be running to the classroom to see who had been killed.

Was Mr Higgins still in control of himself? How could I be sure? I had never called off a session mid-way, but that evening I came pretty close.

I took the full six and was in some distress; so, it seemed, was Mr Higgins. His breathing was erratic and his eyes were rolling in the back of his head. I’d never seen anything like it before or since. Was he in ecstasy? Like those religious fellers who speak in tongues?

In extreme agony, I dressed myself and waited for him to come back to planet Earth, but he was in lunar orbit and wouldn’t be coming home for a long time yet. I felt the used bank notes in my pocket and realised there was nothing to keep me there. I collected my bag and left, still wearing the rather nice royal blue blazer.

My backside was twice its natural size and when I admired it in the mirror at home, there were eighteen very distinct welts; six of them were as thick as my finger. It wasn’t too bloody and after I gently massaged ointment into the wounds the agony slowly turned to a glowing throbbing.

It is a cliché of spanking stories that the punished boy is in so much pain that he has to sleep on his stomach at night and he can’t bear being touched by his bed clothes. It isn’t like that in real life in my experience, but that night for me it came mighty close.

That night I couldn’t sleep too well, not because of the pain in my buttocks, real though that was. I was tossing and turning trying to work out Mr Higgins. I was certain he really was a schoolmaster at that boarding school and Turner, Probert and Kennedy were real boys, either his current pupils or from his past. Had his session with me been some kind of exorcism for him?

I was intrigued by the man and I longed for him to contact me for another session. Months passed, the memory faded and I had to accept that I would never meet the man again.

Then, one summer’s day I got a call from my agent Hennessy. Mr Higgins asked did I mind letting him teach a friend the art of caning using my backside as his prop.

The man is bonkers, absolutely bonkers. I told Hennessey, Yes, I replied and arranged to meet Mr Higgins at his apartment.

But that’s another story.

 

Other stories you might like

Trouble at the mall

The Gafffer of The Academy 2. In the chill of the night

The coach and the schoolmaster

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

New stories, three times a week

Hi Guys,

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

Charles Hamilton II

 

Vicars, priests, the church

 College boys

 Fathers, sons, uncles, nephews

 Landlords and their tenants

 Adults and role-playing

 University students and their professors

 Spanking in the workplace

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 3. Ethan’s story

Previously in Mr Hennessey’s Boys

Episode 1, Howard’s story

Episode 2, Noah’s story

 

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Ethan encounters a sweet gentleman

 

Mr Wilkins was probably the weirdest of my gentlemen, but also one of the nicest. He treated me like a son, almost literally.

I would visit him at his house, always at the same time: 3.45pm; just as the schools turned out. His thing was for me to come home from school and behave like his little boy. He liked me to dress in a scarlet school blazer and would have me dress in really short, short trousers.

Then I would have to play with my toys for a while and then he would find an excuse to pick up a slipper and spank me.

I have done a few “domestic” scenes for my gentlemen; but mostly they aren’t father-and-son stories. People seem to prefer to play as “uncle and nephew”. Strange that: I don’t know why, it might be having me play their “son” is a bit too close for comfort, especially if they have real-life sons of their own.

Mr Wilkins treated me like his son. I never asked him if he had any real sons, I thought that was too dangerous. But, he had lots of toys for me to play with, so where did they come from?

Usually, as soon as I got home from school I would get the toy box out and find something to play with, just like an ordinary boy might. One afternoon he fed me fish fingers and chips before play-time. That really freaked me out.

He made me a bit nervous another time I visited. I was crawling round on the floor playing with miniature “Matchbox” toy cars. He had quite a collection from about fifteen years ago, with some models of cars that you never see on the roads today. I was on the carpet, going VROOOM! VROOOM! pretending to rev up a car’s engine when Mr Wilkins got on the floor with me, took one of the cars, and whooshed it across the carpet.

“Come on let’s have a race.” He wanted to play together just like we were eight-year-olds. So, we did.

I didn’t want to think what the heck was going through his mind. Despite the number of hours we spent together me and Mr Wilkins never had much of a conversation, so I couldn’t tell if he was a bit simple.

We played like that for twenty minutes or so before he stopped suddenly, lifted his head theatrically, and said, “Oh, is that the telephone?”

It wasn’t of course. It was pretend. But it was a pretence that would bring us both back to the real purpose of my visit.

He left the room for about five minutes, before returning with a stern look on his face.

“Well, Peter,” he said. Who was Peter? That’s not my name, but he always called me Peter.

“Well Peter that was Mr Knight on the phone.”

I took my cue and gave him a suitably alarmed look.

“Do you know what he wanted?”

No, actually, but I was sure Mr Wilkins would soon get around to telling me.

“Well, Peter?”

I gave him my best abashed eight-year-old child’s look as if to say, “I’ve been a very naughty little boy” and let him get on with the story.

“You’ve been firing your catapult at his cat, again. What have I told you about that?”

So we went through the story. I was a bad boy who had been warned more than once about annoying the neighbours. What had I to say for myself? (Not much) And so on.

Mr Wilkins strung it out for quite some time. He always seemed to enjoy this part of the evening even more than what was to follow.

Eventually, he said, “Peter, go fetch my slipper.”

I picked up his bedroom slipper from next to the fireplace where it had been left to warm and handed it to him.

“You have been a very naughty boy, haven’t you, Peter?”

I agreed that I had.

“I am going to spank your bottom with my slipper, Peter.”

I tried to look suitably alarmed.

“Go and stand by the arm of the settee.”

I did as I was told, while he smacked the slipper into the palm of his hand.

“Peter, this is going to hurt me more than it does you.”

Oh, per-lease…

“Take down your shorts and bend over the arm of the settee.

They were down in a jiffy and I was in position.

Mr Wilkins came and moved my blazer away so that my white underpants were fully exposed.

Then, he spanked me. Six whacks with the slipper. I hardly felt a thing. I never did when Mr Wilkins did it.

He made me lay across the settee for about twenty seconds, before he said, “I’m sorry to have to do that Peter, but you are a very naughty boy. You can stand up now.”

My face was red (from being over the arm of the settee) but I knew if I inspected it later my bottom would be unblemished.

“Sorry,” I sniffed, although I was nowhere close to wanting to sob.

“Get dressed. It’s over now.”

And, it was. Mr Wilkins looked genuinely upset that he had been forced to spank me. He ruffled my hair a little and with a weak smile, said, “Go to your room now.”

I changed my clothes in the hallway and picked up the bag of Liquorice Allsorts he had left for me on the telephone stand. I didn’t need to check, I knew there would be five used bank notes hidden among the sweets.

I opened the front door and closed it gently behind me.

Yes, Mr Wilkins was very nice to me the few times I saw him. It was a pleasure to be his son Peter, if only for an hour at a time

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys episode 4, Timothy’s story is here

 

 

Other stories you might like

 

The housebreaker

Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

 

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com