The housebreaker

z used drawing cane hold (1)

He had spied on the large detached house for some time and was certain it was unoccupied; and rich for the pickings.

Making sure he wasn’t seen by anyone in The Avenue he hurried across the road and dodged behind the hedge. Now, hidden from the view of passers-by, he made a beeline for the front door and knocked loudly.

The man, let’s call him Salter, had a plan. If nobody answered it meant the house was empty and he could attempt a break-in. He waited two or three minutes: no answer, he reckoned the coast was clear.

He was pretty certain that large as the house was there was only one man who lived there, and he was probably a wealthy old git, by the looks of the place. Salter hoped he’d be able to break in and steal something valuable; he didn’t want much, cash would be preferable, just enough to pay for some booze and drugs. If there was no cash, he’d steal an ornament (these kinds of people always had ornaments) and he’d sell it.

Satisfied that no one was at home, Salter darted round the back of the house. A result: he lifted up the mat at the back door and picked up the key. Why are people so stupid? And, thank the Lord that they are.

Stealthily, just in case there was someone at home, he opened the door and entered the kitchen. It was a bright room, far too modern for a house this old. Quickly his eyes scanned around; where’s the tea-caddy; old people always hid their money in the tea-caddy. He searched through the cupboards, trying not to leave too many traces, but found no caddy, only a box of tag-less tea bags.

He opened and closed all the drawers, no money and nothing of value.

Adrenalin pumped through Salter’s veins. Out into the passageway.  Coats hanging on hooks. Search the pockets. Nothing.

This might not be as easy as he thought.

Four doors off the hallway; try this one. The lounge. There’s a huge flat-screen television; that’d be worth a few bob. No, far too conspicuous carrying it under his arm away down The Avenue. Bookshelves.  Drawers. He opened them all; just DVDs. What’s this? The Boys of St Marty’s. A picture of schoolboys on the front. They look a bit old to still be at school. The Boys of St Marty’s? Wasn’t that the one with Bing Crosby? Nobody would want to buy that. He put it back.

Salter took a deep breath; he was calming down a little. He tried another room. What’s this? This is strange. The room was gloomy, heavy curtains were drawn keeping the light out so it was like dusk even in the middle of the afternoon. Oak panelling on the four walls absorbed much of the remaining light. There was a hat stand and dangling from it was Batman’s cape.

A large old fashioned wooden desk dominated the room. Maybe this was an office or something. There must be something of value in one of the drawers. He sat in the capacious chair and opened the drawers one by one. He tried three and they were all totally empty; but not the fourth and last. Inside was a fountain pen and a hard-backed lined exercise book. Not worth a thing. Punishment Book? What’s a Punishment Book? Salter opened it and flicked through the pages. Half the book was full; he read the last two entries, which were in immaculate handwriting:

17 May. Keynes. 6. Smoking.

20 May. Keynes. 12. Insubordination.

Suddenly, he heard a faint sound. Oh, no. he knew immediately what it was. The front door was opening. There was no escape. He put the book back and closed the drawer.

“Hello. Is somebody there? Is anyone there?” It must be the owner of the house.

Salter shrank into the room, where could he hide? Nowhere; only under the desk or behind a large armchair, but that was no use. He was trapped.

The door opened cautiously. “Who the Hell are you? What are you doing here? In my house?”

Salter backed against a far wall. What choices did he have? Conceivably, he could have made a run for it. He was almost certainly quicker than the man, but he would have to get past him first. The only way out was to attack the man and leave him sprawling and then leg it.

The man, let’s call him Springer, did not seem the least bit nervous. Was he ex-military? He had a stature suggesting he would take no nonsense from anyone. Especially from Salter.

Salter knew a fight was out of the question; Springer would probably beat him to a pulp.

“I assume you are a burglar,” it seemed a stupid thing to say, but that’s all Springer could think of.

Salter said nothing.

“How did you get in?”

“Key. Back door,” Salter was unable to speak in sentences, but it was enough.

“So, I should phone for the police,” Springer put his hand in his jacket pocket to find his phone.

“Please mister. No, not the police.”

“Who are you calling ‘Mister?’” Springer’s tone put the burglar in his place. Unprompted, he said, “Sorry, Sir,”

“That’s better. Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

“I didn’t mean no harm.”

“No harm? You broke into my house. What were you after?”

Silence from Salter.

“Are you a drug addict?”

Silence from Salter for a while, and then, “Can we do this some other way?”

Springer snorted, “Be careful what you wish for.”

Salter was puzzled and he showed it.

“Look around you. You’ve broken into the wrong house, don’t you know what this room is?”

Rather theatrically, Salter slowly looked around: the oak panels, the desk, armchair, a tall thin cupboard in the corner, the hat stand and the cape. He did not quite shrug his shoulders, but the effect was the same.

Springer scowled, “It’s a headmaster’s study. And, do you know what takes place in headmasters’ studies?”

Salter gulped, again rather melodramatically.

“Come here,” and taking Salter by the arm, Springer led him to the cupboard.

“Stay there, there is no escape for you.”  He opened the door to reveal an array of punishment canes. “Do you know what these are? Look at them boy.”

Salter’s eyes widened. There were about a dozen rattan canes: some long, some short: some thick, others thin. Most had curved handles.

Springer extracted one at random and flexed it intimidatingly between his hands, then, dramatically he swished it through the air. It had the desired effect and Salter stood back in horror.

“Here’s what I am going to do. I am going to beat you with one of these canes, just as if you were a schoolboy. If you take your thrashing well, I will not involve the police.”

Nodding at the cupboard, he continued, “Which one do you want me to whip you with?”

Salter played dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say.

“Is it to be the cane?” Springer asked.

“No, Sir.”

“Then it is to be the police?”

“No, Sir,”

Springer was becoming impatient, “It is one or the other for you my lad.”

Salter knew this without being told. He was being given a choice, but in truth, he had no choice.

“The cane, Sir.”

“Good choice lad,” Springer was visibly excited now. “Come to the cupboard, chose one of the canes.”

He walked to the hat stand and took down the headmaster’s gown and put it on while Salter took his time handling cane after cane. He could tell they were all subtly different; but without doubt they would all pack a punch.

Now, suitably attired, the headmaster took hold of the armchair and swirled it round so that its back faced the room.

“Have you decided?”

Salter had. He picked out a crook-handled, medium strength ‘senior’ cane, more than three-foot long and as thick as a pencil.

“Hand it here, lad.”

Salter stared at the armchair. It was obvious why it had been positioned in such a way, but he still was unsure what he was supposed to do next.

The headmaster was practising his swing with the cane, as if he were trying to get its measure. In reality though, he was very familiar with all his little toys.

“Right lad. I want you to stand behind the chair.”

Salter was rooted to the spot.

“Now!” It was a command he could not refuse.

Salter shuffled from one foot to another, showing his nerves. He seemed to be breathing heavily in anticipation of the pain that would soon consume him.

The headmaster made sure he was in the lad’s eye line before delivering the crushing order, “Take down your trousers and underwear.”

Had Salter expected this development? Who knows? But he acted as if he had not.

“Oh, Sir. Please, Sir. Not on the bare.”

Swish! Swish! went the cane through the air.

“Is it to be the police then?”

“But, Sir.”

“Then you will do as I instructed,” The headmaster knew how to appear stern; he had been doing this long enough.

Reluctantly, Salter unbuckled his belt, then he stopped, as if still considering his alternative. With a deep intake of breath, he undid the top button; pulled down the zip and let his jeans fall to his knees.

The headmaster was captivated by the sight the lad’s bright green briefs and the bulge within them, but silently professed not to be interested.

Salter had made his mind up. Come what may, no matter how great the humiliation; or the agony he would suffer; he must go through with this. With a flick of the wrists, he sent his briefs southwards to rest on top of his Levis.

The headmaster took a moment to admire the lad’s manhood before barking the order every schoolboy across history has dreaded, “Bend over that chair!”

In one athletic movement, he stepped forward and dived across the chair.

“Head low, bottom high, legs apart.”

Salter positioned his bare bottom as high as he could, affording the headmaster the perfect opportunity to inflict maximum pain into his buttocks.

The headmaster waited a full minute to let the lad stew a little. Then, Swish! he lashed down twelve hard cuts deep into Salter’s backside.

It only took thirty seconds to turn the lad’s creamy-smooth buttocks into raw meat. Springer was a master headmaster; he laid parallel stokes from the top of the backside near the spine, across the fleshy globes, into the sit-spot where the bum meets the thighs and then into the thighs themselves. For good measure, he laid the final stroke diagonally across the others so it smashed through rapidly-forming welts, making them bleed at the points of intersection.

Salter took his twelve strokes impeccably; it was as if he had been doing this all his life.

The headmaster left the lad over the back of the chair; he was not yet ready to allow him to go. He admired his handiwork; the lad’s backside was clearly on fire; it was covered in welts as thick as his finger. The throbbing pain would be excruciating, the headmaster hoped.

“You may get up, now.”

Salter eased himself off the chair; his face was almost as red as his backside.

“Get dressed,” the headmaster walked over to his desk, opened the drawer and extracted the pen and Punishment Book. While still standing, he wrote an entry in his immaculate handwriting:

3 June. Keynes. 12. Attempted theft.

He replaced the book and turned round to see Keynes, grinning wildly, bouncing up and down rubbing his buttocks exaggeratedly.

“Wow! That was a humdinger! No a bum-stinger!”

The headmaster beamed back as the lad fell to his knees, unzipped Springer’s trousers and plunged inside.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

new story 2

Henry Pottinger let the suitcase fall onto the bed. It was lighter than he had remembered. The accumulated dust of years – no, decades – was undisturbed. It was small and battered and made of stiff carboard. They didn’t make suitcases like that anymore. Utility, they had called it. Cheap, no frills. Like so many things manufactured at the end of the war.

Henry turned the case on its side so he could get at the catches. They flicked open easily. The case had laid in the attic room since his youth. When he had first lived there; the family home. When his mother and father were still alive.

Henry’s heart beat faster. It had been fifty years at least since he had last rummaged through the contents of the case. Part of his life was there. He paused, but only barely, since the case held no fears. It contained no hidden secrets.

He opened the lid and without looking inside he lifted the suitcase and turned it over so that its contents fell with a satisfying plop onto the heavy mattress. Carefully, almost reverentially, he placed the case on the bedroom floor. He peered at the litter on the bed with some disappointment. He had remembered it differently. This pile represented his youth. He had expected so much more. He hoped this would not turn out to be a wasted effort.

He leaned forward and carefully smoothed the jumble. He hadn’t seen this junk in more than fifty years but immediately so much looked familiar. His souvenirs. Why had he collected them? He supposed it had been the arrogance of youth. Had he believed that one day he would be famous and revered; that these pathetic artefacts would be sought out by scholars and historians. A professor at an Oxbridge college would use them as source material for his third or maybe fourth book about the importance of Henry Pottinger.

Ha! To be young again. Henry, now fast approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, often spoke about the arrogance of youth. He knew the best way to deal with that. The old-fashioned ways were still the best.

Henry had achieved some degree of fame in his life, but no scholar had wanted to write about him. Ironically perhaps, his fame (and quite a small fortune) had been made as the author of a series of history textbooks. For more than thirty years he had been required reading for every schoolchild in Britain and the Commonwealth. That was a lot of books and a great deal of royalties. That income and a legacy from his parents meant Henry had never done a day’s proper work since the age of thirty.

Henry had used the time that money bought him industriously. Henry Pottinger had constructed for himself a second life. An alternative existence. Henry Pottinger was not in fact Henry Pottinger. Henry Pottinger was an assumed name; a cipher. Henry Pottinger would never have been allowed to write and publish a textbook for schoolboys. Henry Pottinger would never have allowed near a schoolboy. Not in a million years. So, the name that adorned the history textbooks was not Henry Pottinger.

Henry Pottinger enjoyed his life. And he intended to go on enjoying it for many more years to come. He had made a great number of friends and his home, tucked away in a leafy suburb of the non-descript town of Brocklehurst, was famous among men who shared Henry’s (non-history) interests. Indeed, it was on account of these friends that Henry Pottinger was now rummaging through his souvenirs.

A seventy-fifth birthday celebration was being planned for Henry Pottinger and, as is often the case at such milestone anniversaries, his chums thought it would be a cracking wheeze to surround him with memories of his life. That had sent Henry Pottinger climbing into the far recesses of the attic.

He surveyed his early adult life spread before him. Time plays tricks on a person and had it really been about fifty years since he had last seen all this? So much of it looked familiar. The edge of a small pink-coloured box peeked between a dozen envelopes. Ha! Henry Pottinger knew what that was. He gripped it eagerly in his hand. The box had a clear transparent plastic lid. Henry Pottinger did not have to open the box, its content was clearly visible. It was a plastic key, silver in colour, attached to the numerals two and one. A twenty-first birthday memento from his parents, deliberately chosen for its tackiness.

He tossed it back onto the bed and retrieved one of the envelopes. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it contained a birthday card. Eagerly, Henry Pottinger pulled back the flap and tugged out the card. “Happy 21st birthday,” he read. “Now we are legal. Love Uncle Ricky.” Henry Pottinger chewed down on is bottom lip, an affectation that indicated his intense pleasure. “Ha! Ha! God almighty!” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Now we are legal. How much had changed since he had turned twenty-one. And “Uncle” Ricky – he was no blood relation. Gosh! Henry Pottinger giggled at how much Uncle Ricky had taught him.

Gently, he placed the card on the bedside table. It would raise a smile at his birthday party.  He returned to the bed; a formal brown envelope lay askew on top of a copy of Football Monthly. Henry Pottinger didn’t need to look at that – he knew already, it celebrated England’s victory in the World  Cup. He just as easily recognised the envelope. He couldn’t supress his excitement. With trembling hands he eased out the one sheet of flimsy paper it contained. “Ha!” He boomed and dissolved into chuckles. His final school report. He licked his lips and started to read. Even after so many decades he found he could recite the contents of the report by heart.

He is “headstrong,” his housemaster had written. “Will find it difficult to make his way in life if he continues to be unable to accept authority.” His chuckles rose to roars of laughter. “Oh, yes,” Henry Pottinger said, “I must frame this. It will take pride of place.”

Henry Pottinger (as he was not called while at school) had joined the sixth-form at St Francis Independent Grammar School when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a senior post at the local municipal council. Unable to accept authority. The eighteen-year-old Henry Pottinger had been a frequent visitor to Mr Durrant’s study. Henry Pottinger held the school report, his eyes misting. He saw himself lowering his body across the low back of the housemaster’s old leather armchair. His head low, bottom high. His pale-grey trousers pulling snugly into his stretched buttocks. The aroma of stale sweat that permeated the chair’s seat clogged his throat. Once again, Henry Pottinger felt the gentle tap-tap-tap of the thick, but whippy, rattan cane as it found its aim across the fleshiest part of his round buttock cheeks.

Henry Pottinger could never see this (of course, since his gaze was committed to the seat cushion) but he imagined Mr Durrant then flexing the cane between both hands before swishing it through the air. Henry Pottinger could feel the cane return to its target. Then the cane lifted away before returning with tremendous force to strike deep into his meaty bum before rebounding. The cane rose and fell six times. Six-of-the-best. St Francis was a traditional school after all.

Henry Pottinger read the words again: unable to accept authority. He had been beaten like that on three separate occasions in his final term. Three times! Aged eighteen. Had Durrant been a complete imbecile? Had he not realised what was going on? How Henry Pottinger had lusted for those sessions in the housemaster’s study. How he fantasied about one day being ordered by the cane-swishing Mr Durrant, “Lower your trousers. Bend over that chair.” Oh, how Henry Pottinger had wanted to take a full-six across the seat of his white cotton Y-fronts. Henry Pottinger laughed at the memory. It would not happen at his school but it did not take too long after he arrived at Oxford before he experienced that exquisite pleasure.

Oxford. University. Suddenly Henry Pottinger remembered. The photograph. Did he still have it? He delved into the pile on the eiderdown. Yes! Yes! He pulled at a yellowing envelope, hands trembling. “This is it! Oh My God!” he trilled. “I haven’t seen this since ….” His eyes misted. A young man (himself) in pyjamas standing in the corner of  room, hands on head in the traditional naughty boy pose. The pyjama bottoms are at his feet and bottom bare to the wind and red raw after a sound spanking. Henry Pottinger licked his lips. “Oh Lor!” he exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten.”

z used after corner pyjamas down study or domestic

That bonkers weekend at Brocklehurst he had spent with his pal, Gregor. That mad man (what the dickens was his name?) who turned half of his house into a replica public school, complete with classroom and headmaster’s study. The photograph showed Henry Pottinger in that study. His heart raced and his throat dried simultaneously as it all flooded back.

“You boy, stand there,” the headmaster glowered as he pointed to a place on the carpet in front of his desk. “Why have you been sent to me at this ungodly hour?” Henry Pottinger stands nervously, feeling a little conspicuous in his heavy striped pyjamas. They were made for a taller, stouter boy. Even with the drawstring tightly knotted he feared the pyjamas bottoms would slip down his thighs at any moment.

“Maitland, the head boy sent me. I was out of the dormitory after lights out.”

“Ha!” the headmaster ejaculated. “Up to no good, of course. No good comes from being out of the dormitory after lights out.”

Henry Pottinger nods his agreement. It is unsure what else he is expected to say. There is an uncomfortable silence. The headmaster breaks it with a bark, “Well, boy what have you got to say for yourself!” Henry Pottinger stares down at his bare feet. What is he supposed to say? His head is in a whirl. Frankly, he wishes the headmaster would stop all the jawing and move onto the action.

“Pah!” he headmaster rises from his chair. “So, you want to add dumb insolence to the charge list, eh?” Henry Pottinger shrugs, realising he is not very good at this. “Bah! Pah!” the headmaster is hamming it up  bit. “Well, m’lad,” he says, suddenly adopting a cod Scottish accent, “Och! w’ll see abah tat.” He opens the drawer to his desk and reaches in. Henry Pottinger’s eyes follow the headmaster’s movement closely. His heart is racing and he feels a slight clenching in his buttocks. The headmaster withdraws a leather strap. It has a handle at one end and the business end is split into three tails.

The headmaster holds the tawse high in both hands so that Henry Pottinger gets a good look. It is as if the headmaster is making a religious offering. “Och,” the headmaster says, “yer know what to expect.” Henry Pottinger honestly does not. He knows he is to receive corporal punishment as that is the whole point of the weekend. But, he had never been beaten with a leather tawse before. His bottom has been battered with canes, slippers and hairbrushes. On one memorable occasion he received six cuts of a heavy birch rod; but a leather tawse, no.

The headmaster is now on the move. He stands in front of his desk alongside Henry Pottinger. The headmaster swipes the heavy strap through the air. Sweat trickles down Henry Pottinger’s spine. At close quarters he can see the strap is awesome. It is about a foot or fourteen inches long and maybe a quarter to half inch thick. It will pack a wallop, Henry Pottinger has no doubt about that. Especially in the hands of the headmaster who has already demonstrated his expertise with a swishy rattan cane.

“Take down your pyjama trousers and bend across my desk,” the headmaster says swiftly. In his excitement he has forgotten to speak in the Scottish accent. Henry Pottinger fumbles with the drawstring of his pyjamas, he will be glad to let them down before they fall under their own steam. His buttocks and legs are now bare and for the first time Henry Pottinger feels how cold it is in the study. There is an open fire but it hasn’t been made up.

The headmaster moves away from the desk, he places his hands behind his back and strolls purposefully across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he turns and retraces his steps. Henry Pottinger thinks he looks a lot like Groucho Marx and stifles a giggle.

“Bend over boy!” the headmaster shouts the instruction. Henry Pottinger wonders if the neighbours will hear. Then he remembers the houses in this part of The Avenue are large and detached from one another. The headmaster could commit murder and no one would hear.

Henry Pottinger is a short distance from the desk so he shuffles like a penguin until he is close enough so he can bend across. The headmaster has cleared the desk top and all that is left is a large blotter. The lower button of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket is undone and his bare flesh touches the cold walnut desk. Its coldness and the excitement of presenting his bared bottom for chastisement sends a shiver through his body.

The headmaster has stopped his pacing and from the other end of the study he admires the sight presented for him. He has become intimately acquainted with Henry Pottinger’s bottom over the past twenty-four hours. The fading lines from a swift six of the best delivered across the seat of the trousers earlier in the day bare testimony to this fact.

The headmaster stands behind Henry Pottinger and admires once more his fine round buttock cheeks. They firm up when he is stretched across the desk, but when standing they are a little more fleshy. The headmaster runs the tip of his tongue across his dry, almost chapped lips. He rests the tawse on the desk so as to free-up both hands. With those, he carefully takes hold of the end of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket and ever so carefully he folds it once, then once again so that it is quite clear of his target area. He cracks a smile, cups his right palm and then gently he caresses Henry Pottinger’s left buttock. The headmaster is delighted that Henry Pottinger shivers when he does this. The headmaster pats the left buttock and rubs the back of Henry Pottinger’s thighs. Then he gives the boy a playful smack across the fleshiest part of his right cheek.

The headmaster stands back and gently lays the three tails of the worn leather tawse across the centre of Henry Pottinger’s bottom. He licks his lips one more time, grips the handle tightly, raises the strap so it rests on his shoulder and then with all the force he is able to muster he whips it down so that it sinks into the flesh. He is rewarded with the sight of a glowing red stripe. Henry Pottinger’s hips wriggle and he grips the far edge of the desk. A second stroke whistles through the air before connecting an inch below the first. Henry Pottinger turns his head, a long drawn out whistle escapes from his half-closed mouth.

Back in the bedroom Henry Pottinger the soon-to-be seventy-five-year-old carefully replaces the photograph in the yellowing envelope. What a day this is turning out to be, he tells himself as once again he burrows among the debris in search of more memories.

Picture credit, CP Services, London

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Snuffy

new story 2

z used face cravat helen upton

We first met quite by accident in a crowded coffeeshop in town. I was seated at a table deep into my Guardian, he was at the other end of the room, searching with his eyes. Do you ever get that feeling someone’s watching you, even if you can’t see them? That’s how it was. I raised my head from the newspaper and caught him staring. Obviously at me. I allowed myself a little smile. I knew what his game was. I’d seen it before.

Our eyes met. That confirmed it to me. I’ve been doing this for years. I can spot a fellow enthusiast a mile away. He was definitely weighing me up. Our eyes only met for a heartbeat or two but I liked what I saw. I gestured subtly for him to join me. He pushed his way through the crowd and sat opposite me. He was easily half my age, I reckoned. His hair was fair, thick and made messy by the wind and his face was pinched by cold. He wore a heavy woollen pullover and a long scarf. If he had been five years younger he might have been a student. He grinned warmly at me. That was all the encouragement I needed.

“I saw you staring at me,” I said, “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to stare?” It wasn’t much of an opening gambit but it worked. “Had to stare. Couldn’t believe it the first time,” he replied. He said it in the voice of an eight-year-old. I liked him for that. I gave an exaggerated gesture of shock, making my eyebrows shoot to the top of my head. “How dare you,” I said in my most authoritarian voice, “talk to an adult like that.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t say a word but the gesture spoke volumes. I don’t care! I leaned forward so I was in his face. “What you need young man,” I looked deep into his eyes, “is a jolly good spanking.”

And, that’s how it started. We arranged to meet that evening in a pub in town. It makes sense to be on neutral territory the first time. But there was nothing to worry about. Novices to the scene rarely realise just how many men there are out there who are into spanking. I’ve met all sorts over the past twenty years and not all of them gay. Would it surprise you to learn that “real” men, straight guys, adore to be spanked by other men. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.

He told me his name was Snuffy. I’d never heard that one before and supposed it to be a nickname, but it turned out that was his actual name: Tony Snuffy. I think I fell in love at that moment. Of course, from then on I only called him by his surname. “Stand there Snuffy. Take down your trousers Snuffy. Bend over my desk Snuffy.” I couldn’t say it often enough. We had a drink and got to know one another. We had a lot going for us. He got into spanking when he was at university and so did I (albeit twenty-five years apart). He liked different kinds of roleplay (ditto me). He was a bottom. I was a top. Within the hour we were in a taxi heading for my house.

He stays over some nights, but we don’t live together. He works in a bank and has a room in a converted house near where he works. He treats my place a bit like a hotel. One Saturday I caught him doing his laundry without asking my permission. “What a cheek!” I scolded him before ripping down his trousers and underpants and turning him over my knee right there in the utility room. He has a lovely bum and in my humble opinion it is shown at its best when upturned across my knee. His legs are thin but muscular, his waist narrow and stomach flat and combined they emphasise his buttocks. The cheeks are a bit flat when he’s standing but they round out and become as hard as a rubber ball when he’s draped at a forty-five-degree angle over my knee.

On that particular occasion because I hadn’t prepared in advance it had to be a summary spanking. That is, I scolded him, readied him and spanked him with the flat of my hand (it was all I had). It was  great fun. It made me realise that sometimes you can overprepare things. I slapped his bare arse until it shone bright pink. I think my hand probably hurt more than his bum by the time I finished but I was delighted to see the pattern of my fingers embossed into his bottom over and over again.

I have a large house and I’ve made one of the bedrooms into a kind of headmaster’s study. I haven’t overdone it. There’s no carpet, instead I’ve put in shiny floorboards and I bought a worn rug at a car boot sale. The desk is dark wood and heavy and there’s a couple of straight-backed chairs. My pride and joy is an old leather armchair that is exactly the right height. There are some bookshelves and I spent a wonderful afternoon years ago in a second-hand bookshop in a small seaside town buying lots of school textbooks from way back when. The room looks quite authentic, especially when you consider the umbrella stand I keep in one corner. My mortar-board cap and academic gown hangs there. As do five crook-handled canes of assorted lengths and thicknesses.

Snuffy loves to be a naughty schoolboy. I don’t know where he gets it from. The cane was abolished before he was born and in “real life” he has never seen a teacher in a cap and gown, but he craves to be summoned to the study. Sometimes we watch videos together before we get down to the action. You’ve probably seen some of these yourself, there’s plenty to choose from. The plots are usually the same. The boy is in the headmaster’s study. “Bend over that chair” and so on. I think Snuffy probably bases a lot of his private fantasies on these videos.

I have a collection of authentic school uniforms. I prefer Snuffy to wear long trousers, but often he likes to parade around in short trousers and knee socks. I admit he looks terrific, especially with those legs I told you about.  I like to see Snuffy as an obstreperous sixth-former; eighteen years old and well in need of a caning. Of course, whether he wears long or short trousers becomes somewhat irrelevant when I order, “Lower your trousers Snuffy. Bend over that chair Snuffy!” Snuffy bulging in tight, sparkling white Y-fronts is a sight to behold.

The strangest thing happened last week. Snuffy was stopped by police in his car. He was over the drink-drive limit. Not by much, but that’s not the point. I was livid when he told me. “You could’ve had an accident. Killed a child.” I work in Brocklehurst General Hospital and I’ve seen things I don’t want to tell you about. Snuffy will have to go to court; he’ll get a fine and a driving ban, because that’s what everyone gets.

“It’s not enough,” I told him genuinely shocked at his behaviour. “What kind of punishment is that?” He stood before me a little abashed. Then, he smiled. He thought he knew where I was headed. “A flogging,” I said calmly. “A proper flogging.” His smile faded a little into puzzlement. It was the word I used that confused him. Flogging. It’s not one we use in our games. Spanking, yes. Beating, slippering, belting, caning; even thrashing. But not flogging. Flogging is something else. It’s not really a “corporal punishment” word. It’s more S&M.

I had read recently that back in the nineteen-hundreds in England magistrates ordered offenders to be birched. What had exercised the mind of the historian who wrote the book was that this penalty was for quite minor crimes and the usual tariff handed down was twenty-four strokes. I told Snuffy about this. “Of course,” I said, “they didn’t have drink-driving back then, but if they had …” I left the sentence unfinished, it was clear where I was going.

“I am truly disappointed in you,” I told Snuffy (and I was, this was no act). “You deserve more than a fine.” Snuffy was by now shuffling from one foot to another, it was one of the poses he adopted during our games. I had no idea if he was acting now or not. He knew what I was going to say before I got the words out. “I am going to birch you. Twenty-four strokes.” And then I added, in case Snuffy hadn’t got the point, “For real.”

Unlike the summary over-the-knee hand spanking a birching requires a lot of preparation. A birch rod has to be made to measure (you can’t simply buy one off the shelf.) I told Snuffy to return to my house at eight that evening. It would give me the time I needed. He did as he was told. I watched from the window as he climbed into his battered Mini and drove away. I wondered if he would ever return. We were entering uncharted territory. This was no longer a game. This was for real. Twenty-four strokes of the birch and without a safe-word that could make me stop.

I had work to do. I had to construct a birch. At the end of the street where I live is Widdicombe Wood and I could get what I needed there. Birches aren’t necessarily made from birch twigs; oftentimes hazel makes a better rod. There were plenty of hazel trees at Widdicombe. I didn’t care one jot if I was seen cutting branches. Let the neighbours say what they want about me. I was a man on a mission and within the hour I was back home. A birch rod is simple to make. I took eight twigs and whittled them to remove buds, then I trimmed so the longest was about three-feet long. Then I tied them with twine at one end making a fine handle. A birch rod is apt to splinter when thrashed against a rock-hard backside and might not survive twenty-four strokes, so I made a second to be on the safe side.

There was still an hour before Snuffy’s deadline to return. I paced the lounge like a caged animal constructing in my mind the scene that was soon to play out. Where should the punishment take place? I had no birching block for him to kneel on and no time to build one. There was no vaulting horse available (the preferred method of so many video birchings). Should I tie Snuffy down so that he couldn’t resist? What about a gag? If he screamed would the neighbours think a murder was taking place and call the cops?

I had read somewhere that back in the days when magistrates ordered the birch sentence was carried out in the local police station. I supposed they might simply get their victim to bend over a table. Or, to lay face down on the table top. I went to my study and tested the desk for strength by myself laying across it. If it could take my weight it would have no trouble with Snuffy. My problem was solved.

I retuned to the lounge and paced some more. I wondered if Snuffy would tun up. I had proposed a drastic punishment and intended to carry it out despite any protests he might make. This was for real. What happened next rested on Snuffy. If he returned, he would be flogged. If he chose not to come back that would be the end of our relationship. It was up to him.

Just before eight I heard the chugging noise from the clapped-out engine of Snuffy’s car. He had retuned. I watched furtively from the window as he climbed out of the tiny car offering me a delightful view of his tight, pert bum as he did so. He was dressed in dark brown corduroys and a t-shirt. My heart skipped and blood rushed to my cock at the sight.

We met in the lounge. After short pleasantries I reminded him of the fate that awaited. “I am sorry for drink-driving. It was wrong. I want to repent,” he said. Snuffy had obviously rehearsed this little speech. Repent! What kind of word was that. Usually, when I played the headmaster and he the schoolboy apology was good enough. Repent! I hoped he wasn’t showing me some hidden religious side of himself.

“Snuffy,” I almost growled. “It is time we went upstairs together.” His eyes glazed and his face paled a little, but he made no objection and he led the way. I had another delightful view of his arse as slowly he climbed the stairs with me only inches behind. In different circumstances I might have leant forward to sink my teeth into the firm flesh.

We went into my study. I had taken the precaution of removing the cap and gown and canes, I did not want this to look like a school scenario. This was to be a serious judicial flogging. I had left the two birch rods soaking in a metal bucket in the middle of the room and this was the first thing Snuffy saw as he entered. I saw his shoulders stiffen but he couldn’t stop staring at the two bundles of twigs that would soon take the skin off his backside.

I didn’t have much more to say. Having no police or prison officers’ uniform I had dressed myself in dark blue trousers and white shirt with a plain tie. It looked vaguely “authoritarian” and would have to do. I lectured him a little and reminded him of his crime. “Your sentence is twenty-four strokes of the birch,” I intoned. “Take down your trousers and underwear and climb on top of the desk.” It was a straightforward instruction that I expected to be obeyed.

Snuffy is a sensible boy, he knows when his fate is sealed. With what I thought  were remarkably steady hands he unbuckled the belt to his corduroy trousers and then released the button on his waistband. It was a simple task from there to pull the metal zipper. The front of his trousers flapped open offering me the delightful vision of his semi-erect cock bulging against very tight bright-blue briefs. The weight of the corduroy and the belt and I suppose keys or whatnot in his pockets had the trousers slipping down his thighs. They snagged at the knees but Snuffy, who appeared entirely at ease, stooped and pushed them down so they fell onto his feet.

I had not ordered that Snuffy should take the trousers off completely but he took it upon himself to kick off his shoes to facilitate the smooth passage of his trousers onto the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up and tidy them away. Instead, in one complete vigorous movement, he then hitched his thumbs inside the waist of those tight underpants and dragged them down his legs. He gave an almost contemptuous kick to send them flying across the floor. His penis was by now rock-hard. It gave him no embarrassment to see it straining upwards towards the ceiling. I had seen him erect many times before of course. Even so, saliva drained from my mouth at the sight.

Snuffy had by now taken complete control. He reached to the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, the muscles on his stomach and chest rippled. Now he stood before me completely naked. You don’t need me to tell you that my own cock was bursting against my underpants. Snuffy threw the shirt to the ground and without even a glance in my direction, he climbed onto the desk. As he lay flat he used his left hand to maneuver his stiff cock so that it was fattened under his body. All the time I swished the birch rod gently through the air. What water drops that had clung to the twigs had by now dispersed.

Snuffy stretched his arms forward and took hold of the far side of the desk. This made the muscles in his back tense. He turned his feet so that they were splayed which in turn tightened the sinews in his legs. His bottom was flat (in the same way it was when he stood). Like this the milk-white, tight buttocks were tiny; no more than two pimples.

While Snuffy appeared calm and collected, I was not. My fists whitened as I gripped the handle of the birch rod. I could feel the sweat on my palms sticking. My heartrate was off the scale and I could not get rid of an annoying buzzing noise in my ears. I knew if I didn’t get on with this I might conceivably fall to the floor in a dead faint; or worse suffer a stroke. I positioned myself close to the table alongside Snuffy’s prostrate body. I gently brushed the birch across the highest point of his bum. I knew of course that a birch laid on with power could rip an arse to shreds. If I gave Snuffy twenty-four strokes like that his bottom would become raw, blooded meat. That was not my intention, nor, I believed, could it have been the intention of the magistrates back in the Edwardian era. There was a difference between punishment and torture.

I tapped the birch across Snuffy’s bottom. The muscles in his back tensed and his bottom quivered. He was preparing himself for the shock of the first stroke. I raised the rod about three feet above his rear end and swished it down. Snuffy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. I saw him clamp his jaws shut. I can’t be sure if this was to stifle a yell. I thwacked down a second stroke and he made a noise like the air released from a balloon, his fists bunched tightly, and he gasped loudly.

Snuffy was not tied down so he could (had he wanted to) have jumped from the desk and danced round the room howling. He did not. Instead, after a second or two had passed, he bravely clutched hold of the desk’s edge. He was telling me he was ready for the next stroke. I very much admired his fortitude.

“Feeling this, aren’t you lad?” It was a stupid thing for me to say but it did elicit the reply, “Yes, Sir. Yes I am,” which was an equally obvious statement. I continued birching and Snuffy flailed about and moaned impotently. He twitched, sniffed and quivered as I flayed his tight bottom with much slashing and swooping.

By now the floor around me was covered in scraps of hazel twigs. I tossed it to one side and reached for the substitute. I violently shook the water from it. I could hear air rushing out of Snuffy. He was grinding his molars and his jaw probably ached, but not half as much as his arse. He wriggled and writhed but nonetheless maintained his self-discipline. Not one square inch of his buttock area was unblemished. My birch was not excessively heavy and I did not want to draw blood if I could possibly avoid it. Whiteish welts had risen and grazes and bruises covered the whole area. It was red raw as boiling blood raced beneath the skin.

Twenty-four strokes of the birch even moderately laid on can do tremendous damage. Snuffy’s rear-end was corrugated and glowered bright red. In places it looked like raw hamburger meat. I had never beaten him so severely this before. I don’t suppose anyone had. He lay gasping, twitching, still clutching the edge of the desk. His eyes glowed brightly, tears soaked his face but he was not sobbing. I suppose the tears were a natural reaction to the agony he must be feeling. A person might shed tears if he accidentally hit his thumb with a hammer.

“Sentence delivered,” I said, unsure what I was supposed to say at a time like this. He continued to twitch. “Stand up, Snuffy.” He was obviously in great pain as he slid his body off the desk and tried, and failed, to stand steadily. He gripped the desk for support and arched his back as if that somehow eased the pain. His bum, usually so beautiful, looked as if had swollen to twice its normal size. It had the appearance of rotten orange peel.

Eventually, he regained some composure and stood to face me. I fished a tube of antiseptic cream from the desk drawer but before I treated his wounds, I slumped to my knees and took his raging cock into the back of my throat.

 

Picture credit: Helen Upton

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Late Home From School

z used uniform short shorts (46)

I walk the streets slowly. It is nearly six o’clock and I am late home from school. Dad told me if that happened again he would take me over his knee with my trousers at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. I believe him.

It was detention. A few of us were mucking about in class. It was nothing really: but it was enough. After detention some of us hung out and smoked cigarettes. Now, I wish I hadn’t. If dad smells it on me I’ll get extra for sure.

Sometimes when I walk these streets people look at me hard. Who can blame them? I have a really distinctive school uniform. A bright blue blazer with yellow and white verticals stripes running through it. Dad says they don’t make blazers like that any longer. I have light grey short trousers; very smart with creases down the front and back so sharp you could cut your finger on them. My long grey socks with red toppings come up to my knees, but the short trousers are properly short and there are inches of bare leg on show. This is November and almost winter so it’s not really the weather to be out at night in short trousers. My legs could turn blue if I’m not careful. My bright scarlet school cap sits tightly on my head: at least that’s warm.

I turn the corner into The Avenue. The lights are on at Number sixteen. Dad is at home: waiting.

Dad has never spanked me on the bare. I wonder what it will be like. It was bad enough last time, just on the underpants. Dad has this leather paddle that he uses. It’s not much bigger than a hairbrush really and it’s really bendy. To look at it you wouldn’t think it could do much damage; but Wow! it ripped my buttocks to shreds, I can tell you.

It could be worse. My pal Wayne has a dad who uses a thick whippy cane on him. Bare arsed. Last time he got it he showed me the damage. Thick dark red cuts right across both cheeks. It took a week for them to clear and even longer for the bruises to go.

The Avenue is deserted. It’s too cold for people to be on the streets and it’s probably tea time for the kids in most of the houses. The Mickey Mouse watch on my wrist bleeps six o’clock as I raise my hand to the doorbell. I catch a glimpse of the old biddy across the road in number forty-two peering behind lace curtains, minding everybody’s business but her own.

Within seconds the door opens. “Where have you been, do you know what time it is,” dad says and clips me around the back of the head. “Get in here,” he walks into the front room and since I know how this is going to play out, I follow him.

When dad deals with me there is a set routine. He spends ever such a long time berating me for my misdeeds. I am “irresponsible,” “undependable,” “foolish,” “thoughtless” and much else besides. He tells me he warned me before what would happen if I am late home again.

Everything he tells me is true. This is not the first time I have been late and it will not be the first time he has spanked me because of it. I tell him about the detention and he goes ballistic. I decide not to fess up to the smoking as well.

“Stand there,” he points to a corner of the room. “Put your hands on your head and think about how naughty you have been.”

I shuffle across the room and stand a couple of feet away from the wall.

“Closer,” dad barks, “Get your nose right into the corner.”

It is not easy to stand right in the corner with your nose against it and at the same time have your hands on your head; there’s nowhere for your elbows to go.

“Alright,” dad concedes, “Put your nose in the corner and your hands behind your back.”

Comfortable, at last, I stand with my nose pressed against the wallpaper. I do not think about how naughty I have been as dad instructed. I can’t help thinking about how sore I am going to be when dad spanks me bare-arsed for the first time.

I cannot see him, but I am pretty sure dad is sitting in his favourite armchair, just staring at me. I suppose it is his way of making me stew. When you are a naughty boy standing in the corner waiting to be spanked you lose track of time. I don’t know if I was there for thirty seconds or ten minutes.

Eventually, I hear a movement. It is dad getting ready. He picks up a dining room chair and I hear him put it in the centre of the carpet.

“Turn round and face me,” it is a curt command. I obey instantly. “Put your hands on your head.”

I face him and watch as he makes further preparations. In his hand he already has the leather paddle he intends to use on my bare bottom. Carefully, he sits himself on the chair and spreads his knees by two feet or so. He is not a pretty sight. He is running to fat and because of this he sweats a lot, even in the cold weather. He would be almost completely bald, except he grows what little hair he has in long strands so that he can comb it over. His face is ruddy and in need of a decent shave. I suppose he has been at work all day because he really needs a shower.

Without a further word, he reaches forward and with his right hand takes hold of the waistband of my short trousers and pulls me forward. I am off balance and stumble until I am standing close by his right leg. Then with both hands he undoes my top button and the other four that make up the flies of my short trousers. I still have my hands on my head and submissively I let him do this.

With the top of my trousers open it is easy for him to guide them over my thighs and past my knees so they make a puddle at my feet. I feel myself blushing. I know the next stage will be the removal of my white Y-front underpants. Suddenly, I panic; I do not want dad to see my private parts. But I have no choice. Unless, I am going to grab my short trousers, pull them up and flee from the room I have no choice but to let him have his way.

Slowly, ever so slowly (he appears to be enjoying himself very much), he puts his hands either side of my pants, pinches the cloth and gently guides them down over my hips until they rest at my knees. I see he pretends not to notice my privates, but he is having a good look.

I stand there still in my school blazer, but now naked from my waist to my knees. My hands remain on my head. Dad is wheezing a little and for the first time tonight I pick up the faint odour of beer on his breath.

“Right!” he slaps his right thigh, “Bend over my knee.”

The first ever time he ordered me to do this I didn’t know how to do it. It might seem simple enough, but there are many different ways to achieve this position. You can dive across both knees and land on the far side without actually touching your dad. Or, you can rest your hands on his knees and lower yourself over and then once you are staring at the carpet you adjust your bum so that it where it needs to be. Or, there are many ways between these two options.

I find it easier to stretch across dad’s knees and then lower myself down. That’s what I do now. Within seconds, I am over his lap with both of my palms pressed into the carpet, my knees bent a little and my toes an inch or so off the ground. My bum is high over his right thigh and although I have never been able to actually see what I look like in this position I do know that it gives dad all the room he needs to bring his leather paddle crashing down into my arse.

Dad doesn’t like me to make a fuss. He wants me to lie over his knee and take what he thinks I deserve. Of course, it’s not always possible to take a spanking quietly.  I have been known to gasp and yelp a little and last time, when I got it on the pants, my eyes were moist and my nose was running by the time he finished toasting me.

He tugs at my blazer and pushes it up my back by a few inches while I wait patiently for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking from dad to begin. I can feel his rough hand tracing the contours of my globes. He rests it for a while on the undercurve of my right cheek, just where it meets with the back of the leg. Then I feel him lift his hand away and immediately bring it crashing down at some force across the centre of my buttock. Then he slaps the left cheek, then the right. He is spanking me with the palm of his hand, rapidly and with some force. It hurts much more than I expected. There is no let-up, smack, smack, smack: on and on he goes, all over both buttocks and across the back of my legs.

It hurts; in fact it hurts a great deal, but it is not agony. I have had worse. I stare down at the orange-and-yellow-patterned carpet and wonder how much longer this will go on for. Outside the window I hear a car draw up. It is the next door neighbour coming home from work. For the first time since going over dad’s knee I feel acute embarrassment: what if the neighbour can hear me being spanked.

If dad had heard the neighbour he didn’t let it deter him from his mission. The hand spanks rain down harder and faster.

Suddenly they stop. I feel a movement in his body and the pain starts again. This time it is more intense. He is whacking his leather paddle into my buttocks: over and over again on the same spot, right in the middle of the left cheek. I can’t count them all, they are coming too fast, but there must be dozens of them. Then he pauses before repeating it again, this time in the centre of my right cheek.

I am wriggling. I can’t help it. The pain is too much and my body is instinctively trying to get away from it. I thrash my legs about and turn my body from left to right as if I am trying to swim away off his lap. Dad grips me tightly around the waist with his left arm and pounds away, with even harder whacks. Will he ever tire of this?

I am gulping and although I know I am not supposed to I let out a series of “ouchs” and yelps. My lungs gulp in air and my breathing is harsh. Soon I am coughing my guts up.

On and on dad spanks me. He has not said a word since he took me over his knee and began pounding away. His breathing seems a little laboured now; perhaps we are getting near the end.

Or perhaps not. He pauses to regain his composure and then raises the leather paddle high and whacks my arse harder than he has done so far. My legs kick out behind me and without warning he smacks the paddle across the back of each leg. I scream. A real blood-curdling scream. If dad thought these slaps would stop me kicking about he was wrong. I have no control, I couldn’t stop kicking even if I wanted to.

My watch beeps six-thirty and as if on cue, dad stops spanking me. He releases his grip and I roll off his lap onto the carpet.

“Stand in the corner.” This time I don’t have to put my nose right in it. I stand panting for breath with my hands on my head and my back to dad.

I can hear him wheezing behind me. My buttocks are hot. I want to give them a rub, but I dare not do it; I don’t want to give dad the excuse to start all over again.

I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. Now the spanking is over I want to be out of there and quick.

Dad’s wheezing intensifies. I don’t know what he was doing behind me and instinctively reckon I don’t want to know either.

After maybe a minute the wheezing climaxes and I hear the door open and dad leave the room.

Gingerly I rub my bottom, there is no mirror in the room, but by twisting my body I get some view of my heavily bruised bottom. Both cheeks have a hard leathery coating. The back of my legs are red raw. I pull up my underpants and button up my short trousers. To my great distress I see the shorts do not cover all my injuries and everyone will see my legs have been spanked.

I hear dad run up the stairs, presumably to the bathroom. I wait a few moments before I go into the passageway and pick up the envelope he has left for me near the telephone. After checking its contents, I let myself out the front door.

It is freezing and about to rain. I must hurry back to my bedsitting room, change out of this school uniform and put on something warmer.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Transformation

new story 2

z used adult schoolboy shorts cane touch toes (1)

Mr Williams was known to his neighbours as a man of habits. He left the house sharp at 08.30 hrs each morning (Monday to Friday inclusive) and walked the short distance to the railway station where he caught the 08.47 hrs to his workplace, returning home on the 17.17 hrs and depending on the efficiency of the train service he was back in his house in time for the 18.00 hrs news on the wireless.

He spent Saturday mornings in Brocklehurst town centre purchasing provisions, ensuring his tasks were completed no later than 13.00 hrs. In summer he spent Saturday afternoons working in his garden. On Sundays, whatever the season, he took his place on the end of the third pew from the back at St. Andrew’s Church.

He spoke to no one at the church and rarely to his neighbours. The best they might get from him was a mumbled “Good morning,” if severely pressed. He liked it like that and so did his neighbours; The Avenue was that kind of street.

On Sunday afternoon, like this particular day, he would retire to his back bedroom. There he would divest himself of his overly-formal custom-tailored dark-grey three-piece suit before carefully placing it upon a hanger, which he would then equally as carefully place at the back of a single-sized wardrobe, alongside the shop-bought business suits he wore during the week.

He would stand quite naked, apart from a pair of cream-coloured long johns, and for a moment or two contemplate his sagging frame in the mirror. Before opening a second much larger wardrobe. Flicking through the clothes hanging on the bar, each in a dust proof bag, he would make his selection. Then with the care that was his watchword he would remove each dust bag and lay the garments over the back of a small upholstered armchair.

First, he slipped into the heavy cotton collarless white shirt before unsteadily perching on one leg he pulled on a pair of heavy black twill trousers. He struggled to get a thick dark grey waistcoat to fully button across his rotund stomach. It had been many moons since he had managed to fasten the lower most button. Then, he took hold of a black jacket. This he pulled over his waistcoat. He stretched his arms wide and circled them like windmills; testing that there was sufficient ‘give’ in his clothes.

Almost fully dressed, he wobbled across the room to an ancient battered chest of drawers. He opened the first one and extracted a cardboard wing collar and stud. It was but a moment’s work to get each attached. He was very nearly done. A black tie, no wider than a bootlace, completed the ensemble. In the second drawer down he found a black hat. It was he admitted to himself his pride and joy. It was the authentic thing. Decades old. He had bought it from a retired schoolmaster from the local St. Francis School; a mortar-board cap, a little battered by decades of use. The tassel hanging from one corner was classic. Although both his hands were unsteady he fixed it squarely on his head. His heart thumped hard.

“Nearly there,” he told himself silently. Only one more thing to do before he could get started. He stooped low and tugged at the bottom drawer. It was often a bugger to get open. It stuck as usual. “Damn and blast! What is wrong with the damned thing!” he cursed openly although no one was there to hear. Suddenly, the drawer sprang loose, almost sending him tumbling to the floor and onto his backside.

He breathed deeply and his eyes shone. Almost reverentially he leaned forward, putting both hands into the drawer. He smacked his lips and withdrew his pride and joy. He held it high like an offering at the altar. He beamed as he held in his hands three-and-a-bit feet of whippy rattan cane. He had probably handled the school cane more times than he would like to relate, but that never diminished the thrill he experienced each time he pulled it from the drawer. At first he held it beneath the crook-handle. It was as thick as a pencil and as light as a feather.

He returned to the wardrobe and carefully, for this garment could best be described as delicate (‘tatty’ might be more honest), extracted an authentic schoolmaster’s academic gown. He eased it across his shoulder. He turned and faced the mirror. He flexed the cane between his hands; then he swished it through the open air. In the silence of the room it made a terrific swish as it flew! “Bend over boy! Touch your toes!” he scowled. He swiped the cane once more. His transformation to Dr Selwyn Gerard, Headmaster of Albion School, was complete.

….

 

Jessop stood in his bright white Y-front underpants. They were brand new and he delighted in rubbing the palm of his hands across his meaty buttocks to luxuriate in the touch of the soft cotton. He picked up his vest. It smelt as fresh as a daisy. He wriggled it over his head. It fitted well if Jessop ignored his growing tummy. He paused, looked round the room and realised there was no mirror. A trifle disheartened, he carried on and reaching over to the table once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. The shirt was laundered to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar.

Once dressed he picked up his short trousers. They were mid-grey and properly short. Collywobbles fluttered in his stomach when he athletically stepped first into the left leg and then the right. He pulled them tight and buttoned up. He could not see himself but he knew his face was glowing; blood coursed through his arteries and his fingertips tingled.

He and found his school tie. It was black-and-white diagonal stripes, the Albion School colours. Without a mirror, Jessop had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Gerard. Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

He cursed that there was no mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, then with alacrity dodged back into the room when he saw a man in the street walking a dog. Disappointed, he fell into a sumptuous leather armchair to pull up his woollen stockings. They were so very long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and short trousers. He folded over the black-and-white tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up Clarke’s shoes. Now, he was almost ready: only two more items to put on and he would be fully dressed. The school blazer was draped over a heavy wooden coat-hanger. Andrew caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb. He picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. It was a black blazer with white braiding; simple elegance, he thought. Finally, he took hold of the black-quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head.

Jessop was ready.

….

Dr Selwyn Gerard, admired his vision in the mirror. His heart beat thirteen to the dozen. He tucked his whippy rattan cane under his arm and turned to a small cupboard in the corner of the room. His secret stash! He poured himself a small measure of whisky from a chunky decanter, downed it in one, and proceeded from the room.

Moments later he was across the passageway and in his study. The room had been designed as a bedroom in a family house but Dr Gerard had no need for family. Long ago he had converted the room to a study. It was sparsely furnished. There was an ancient desk, a glass-fronted bookcase (complete with school textbooks long ago purchased from a charity shop), an umbrella stand, two hardback chairs and a splendid leather armchair.

He sat himself down behind his desk. The top was empty, save for a blotting pad and an inkwell. He rested his cane down, and waited. Moments later there was a timid knock on the door. Dr Gerard took a deep breath, his palms were sweaty so he rubbed them against his academic gown. He cleared his throat and with an authoritative air, called, “Come!” He watched as the handle twitched, the door slowly inched open, and the top of a school cap appeared, then halted.

“Come on boy!” Dr Gerard roared, “I don’t have all afternoon!” Jessop tumbled into the study, pink-faced.

“There boy!” Dr Gerard snapped, clicking his fingers and pointing to a spot on the carpet in front of his desk. Jessop shuffled forward and stood placing his hands behind his back while hopping from foot to foot. His eyes were downcast. Dr Gerard surveyed the scene before him and growled, “Stand up straight boy! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Jessop straightened a little. He was no star of the Officers’ Training Corp and he could no more stand to attention with thumbs in line with the seam of his trousers as fly. He stared at a photograph of the school rugby team an inch or so above the headmaster’s head.

“Jessop, Jessop, Jessop,” Dr Gerard sighed as if the boy before him represented all the troubles in the world, “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” the boy sniffled. Dr Gerrard’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. Didn’t the boy know a rhetorical question when he heard one?

“I have reports from your housemaster. You have absconded from school twice. The first time you were punished by Mr Corlett. Now, you have absented yourself again and this time you were found at the travelling fair!” He paused for effect. “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” Jessop replied again.

“Don’t you,” Dr Gerard scowled, looking down at the cane on his desk, “Don’t you really?” Jessop paled. He entwined his fingers behind his back and looked down at the desk. “Oh sir,” he whimpered.

“Oh sir, indeed!” Dr Gerard was in his element. “You leave me very little choice Jessop.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and glared at the boy. “None at all.” He wiped his sweaty palms once more. “Come on boy, let’s get on with it. You know what is expected.”

Jessop bit his bottom lip, his feet were rooted to the floor but he twisted his body so he could scan across the room. The headmaster read his mind. “I think we’ll have you by the door Jessop.”

“Oh sir.” Jessop was a boy of few words. He stood miserably as the headmaster hauled himself from his chair. “Stand there!” he commanded, pointing to the door. Jessop grimaced. There wasn’t anything he could say. What was the point? He had been caught bang to rights. Dr Gerard was the headmaster and he, Jessop, was the pupil. Matters must take their course.

Dr Gerard picked up the cane and delighted when colour drained from Jessop’s face. He swiped the cane through the air. “Bend over, touch your toes.” Jessop’s mouth opened and closed as if he were about to protest. “Something to say about the matter, Jessop?” the headmaster snarled.

“No sir. Sorry sir.” Jessop turned his back on his tormentor and in one athletic movement he spread his legs, bent forward and pressed his fingertips against the toes of his shoes. He knew from experience with Dr Gerard that “ touch your toes” meant just that; not shins or knees. Jessop looked down at the dark grey carpet. He breathed deeply. This would hurt. This would hurt a lot.

He felt his short trousers and Y-front underpants stretch across his buttocks; he was presenting the headmaster with a terrific target. He felt the stout whippy cane tap against the underside of his cheeks. “Let’s say twelve shall we Jessop,” Dr Gerard said calmly. There was a pause and for a moment Jessop wondered if he were expected to reply. Perhaps he was being asked to bargain, “Oh no sir,” he could say, “I think six would be quite sufficient.” Or, he might even be expected to say, “Oh for a second offence I should get eighteen. Would you prefer it if I also lowered my trousers and underpants?”

The headmaster did not expect a reply. He took his aim, lifted the cane away from the stretched buttocks so that it made an arc and brought it bouncing down with much vigour do that it bit deep into Jessop’s bottom. The boy shut his teeth and screwed his eyes tightly shut, but beyond that he made no movement.

Dr Gerard watched thoughtfully.  He admired a boy who could take a beating stoically. It made his job so much easier. He set cut number two thwacking into the very centre of both cheeks so that a dark welt immediately rose across the fleshiest part of Jessop’s bum. His knees buckled slightly with the fierce impact, but still the boy could take it. In truth, Jessop was no novice to the cane. His bottom was beaten on a regular basis. Rarely had the marks disappeared after a thrashing than he was presenting his bottom for punishment once again.

The echo of thwacks three and four delivered in quick succession echoed around the study. The headmaster paused to admire his handiwork. The marks of the cane were clearly visible embedded into the tight cloth of the short trousers. “Good aiming!” he silently congratulated himself.

Dr Gerard positioned his feet. When he had judged that the hurt was ebbing away from Jessop’s bottom: Swipe! The next cut struck home, maybe a half inch below the others; but there was still plenty of room on the boy’s bottom for lots more strokes. By the time he had finished the whole of Jessop’s bottom, from the top of the mounds, across the very apex of the cheeks and into the fleshiest underside where the bum nearly meets the thighs would be covered with perfectly parallel lines. That was only if the boy was able to maintain his position manfully under the onslaught.

Jessop rocked on the balls of his feet; his mouth opened and closed, but he made no sound. A sharp pain attacked his rear, but very quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Jessop had a high pain threshold. He could take a beating stoically. But Dr Gerard knew how to lay on a caning with some vim. The pain in Jessop’s backside mounted as each successive stroke connected with his jutting backside. His heart raced, blood coursed through his arteries, he found it difficult to catch his breath.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Dr Gerard’s heart raced, perspiration ran down his spine; he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Jessop wriggled his hips, his bum was on fire. This was one heck of a caning. He tensed, hoping he could withstand this onslaught. The cane tapped once more across his bottom. He took a deep breath.

Suddenly, the chimes of a doorbell rang out. Dr Gerard stopped mid-stoke. He harrumphed! Through his outstretched legs, Jessop watched as the headmaster shuffled to the window and ensuring he could not be seen from outside, he peered through. A man was standing at the front door, looking rather irate.

Mr Williams winced and turned to the boy who was still obediently touching his toes. “Did you park your car in front of number twenty-six again?” he groaned.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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Every Wednesday afternoon

Trouble at the mall

When Dad got home

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Trouble at the Mall

z used drawing paddle hold (6)

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Bernie always called Jeff “young man” even though he was two years his junior.

Jeff had been anticipating this since he acted up in the mall.  The shopping trip had not been a success. Bernie had wanted to buy a new suit and couldn’t find one he liked. Jeff, who hated shopping, became more and more irritated at each store, until eventually he stormed off.

“You can find me at the coffee shop when you’re ready.”

Bernie exploded with anger and to the embarrassment of some on-lookers called after Jeff’s disappearing body, “You wait till I get you home, young man!”

Back home Jeff was immediately ordered to his room to change his clothes. Sulkily, he removed his sweater, shirt and pants and dropped them onto the bed. He opened up his closet and took out a freshly-laundered gray shirt; a striped necktie was hanging nearby. He took his time putting them on making sure the tie was knotted perfectly.

He pushed aside a row of slacks on the closet rail and found what he was looking for: gray short pants. He sighed as he stepped into them, first the left leg, then the right. He pulled them on and buttoned up. He took a pair of socks from a drawer, sat on the bed and pulled them on; they were so long they came way above the knee, so he turned down the tops an inch or so.

From the back of the drawer, he fished out an English-style schoolboy’s cap and put it on top of his head. He was ready to return downstairs to face Bernie and whatever it was he had in store for him today.

Bernie always said if Jeff was determined to behave like an eight-year-old boy, he would be treated like one and that meant dressing like one and getting plenty of spankings.

Jeff had put on one of Bernie’s favourite outfits: the English school uniform. Bernie had gotten the idea from a photograph of Princess Diana and her two sons, the Princes William and Harry. The kids were about six or seven and on their way to their up-scale preparatory school. They were dressed entirely in gray: short trousers, knee socks; jacket and best of all an English school cap.

Bernie loved that school uniform and after some searching on the Internet, he found a place in England where they sold identical clothes in Jeff’s size.

Bernie often forced Jeff into children’s clothes; sometimes for days on end. The deal would be as soon as he got home from work he changed and stayed like that until it was time to go back to work next day. If he wanted to leave the house, he would have to go out in his school uniform.

One weekend, Bernie threatened to make Jeff wear his school uniform to the mall if he didn’t stop acting up. Although he didn’t let on to Bernie, Jeff quite liked the idea of parading around in public dressed as an eight-year-old English schoolboy. He had read on the Internet of some middle-aged guy in England who travelled on the London Underground all day dressed in short trousers, school blazer and cap and no passenger batted an eyelid.

“Stand in the corner, hands on head,” Jeff was told when he entered the lounge room. Bernie was seated on a couch, flicking over the pages of the newspaper. He was in no hurry; Bernie knew Jeff hated waiting for spankings: sometimes Jeff thought waiting was the worst part. Good, thought Bernie, he would let Jeff stew for a while.

After about five minutes, Bernie said, “Turn around young man and face me.” Jeff, still with his hands on his heads, obeyed immediately.

“You behaved like a brat at the mall, what have you got to say for yourself young man?”

Jeff stared at his feet in embarrassment, but said nothing.

“Speak up young man. You embarrassed me in public this afternoon. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” mumbled at the carpet.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man. What did you say?”

Jeff looked up but couldn’t meet Bernie’s eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You will be young man. Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

Jeff shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

“Doh! Stand back in the corner and wait till I return.”

Jeff knew Bernie was off to find a paddle to spank him with. Bernie had quite a collection, which one would he use this time? One paddle he had recently bought was made of clear plastic and had holes drilled in it: that one hurt like hell, especially if it were applied with his pants down.

Moments later Bernie returned, not with a paddle, but with a sheaf of writing paper and a pencil.

“Turn round, young man.”

Jeff was puzzled when he saw Bernie did not have a paddle. What was happening? Was he only going to get a hand spanking?

Bernie placed the writing paper and pencil on a table.

“I want you to write out fifty times, ‘I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.’ Make sure it is in your neatest handwriting, young man, or else.”

Bernie did not need to spell out what “or else” meant Jeff could imagine the pain he was going to be in by the end of the afternoon. It was a cruel trick, Bernie knew Jeff’s handwriting was almost illegible, even when he tried his hardest and wrote very slowly indeed, it was nearly always impossible to read what he had written.

“Sit down and get started. I’ll be back in half an hour to see how you are getting on. Remember, neatest handwriting, young man. Or else.”

Jeff did try, he really tried, to write his lines neatly. He held the pencil tightly in his hand and slowly began to write, “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.” After he had written the sentence five times, his hand ached terribly. He wasn’t used to writing by hand. His keyboard skills were magnificent, his fingers flew across the letters and he could input forty words a minute. But, he was hopeless with a pen or pencil and that was just a fact and here was nothing he could do about it.

Resigned to the bottom blistering that would inevitably follow, Jeff scrawled “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall,” forty-five more times.

“Completely illegible. I can’t decipher a word. If I didn’t already know what this said, I would never be able to understand it. Well, young man, you know what’s coming.”

Yes, Jeff knew what was coming and he wished Bernie would just get on with it.

“Back in the corner, young man. Hands on head.”

Jeff obliged and Bernie left the room. This time when he returned he was carrying a paddle and to Jeff’s dismay it was the heavy plastic Lexan.

“Turn and face me. Keep those hands on the head. Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man.”

Bernie recapped all Jeff’s failings that day, especially the misbehaviour at the mall and the storming off in a temper. He added the poorly-written lines for good measure.

He picked up a chair that was tucked neatly under the dining room table, turned it round, and sat down. Bernie kept his back straight and planted his legs apart to create a platform that would soon receive Jeff’s body.

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Jeff kept his hands on his head and stepped forward so he stood immediately in front of Bernie.

“Don’t think you’re keeping these on, young man,” he said, as he unbuttoned the short pants and let them fall to the ground.

“Bend over my knee.”

Jeff hesitated.

“Doh! Come here,” Bernie took Jeff’s arm and with an expertise borne from practice, he pulled him face down across his knee.

“This is going to hurt me just as much as it hurts you, young man,” Bernie said that every time he spanked Jeff, but Jeff knew for sure it wasn’t true.

Bernie raised the paddle and brought it smacking down into the seat of Jeff’s tight underpants.

The first spanks were always mild; Bernie was just warming Jeff up for the real onslaught that was to follow.

Jeff gasped a little as the paddle landed on his left cheek, then the right, then across the middle of both at once, but he made no other sound. He knew from experience that the real spanking began the moment Bernie gripped the elasticated waist of his underwear and tugged them down over his thighs. An intense bare-bottomed blistering would always follow.

Neither of them was keeping time, but it must have been at least five minutes before Bernie bared Jeff’s buttocks. They were a deep red by this time and Bernie reckoned they must be pretty sore by now.

Undeterred, he raised his arm high and brought the paddle down hard into the naked flesh. Jeff felt that one, most definitely. He felt the next dozen as well, each one spanking into his fleshy ass with force. Jeff wanted to be a brave boy and not cry out – at least try not to cry out too soon.

His resolve broke after about twenty-five swats. The pain was intense and Jeff knew his buttocks would be turning from scarlet to mauve about now. The bruising would be intense and last for days, or even a week.

Bernie spanked on … and on. He hadn’t made up his mind how many whacks to deliver. It had to be a lot, there were two crimes here that that to be paid for: the bad behaviour at the mall and the crapily-written lines.

Jeff was sobbing by now, crying genuine tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“That’s the point young man. That’s the point,” and Bernie kept raising the paddle and crashing it down into Jeff’s naked cheeks.

“Please, I will be a good boy, I will behave. I’m sorry,” it sounded like genuine repentance, but Bernie had heard it all before. This wasn’t the first time they had problems at the mall, but, he reckoned, if he did his job well today, it should be the last.

Bernie spanked on oblivious to Jeff’s pleadings.

Suddenly, the sound of plastic on bare flesh and a man’s cries was broken by the distinctive ring-tone of a cell phone. Bernie stopped spanking.

“It’s the Bat Phone,” Bernie said, using the joke name they had for the emergency cell phone.

He let Jeff up from his lap and, he crossed the room, trying to rub the soreness out of his buttocks. He picked up the phone and said his name. The person at the other end had a curt message and Jeff turned off the phone.

Turning to Bernie, he said, “That was the hospital there’s been an incident and I have to give emergency surgery. I have to go.”

Not waiting to pick up his short pants from the floor where they had fallen, he rushed upstairs, changed into his outdoor clothes and was in the car on his way to the hospital inside two minutes. Sitting was extremely painful and he was grateful that he would be performing surgery standing up.

Through the window Bernie watched him go and then cleaned up. He didn’t put the paddle back with the others, instead he left it on the dining room table, thinking, “We’ll continue with this when you return, young man.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

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The fire-raiser

My father’s legacy

The freshman class

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Memorable Night in the Theatre

It had not been planned, but it turned out to be one of my most memorable nights in the theatre.

I had a leading role in the rival of The Schoolboys that was touring some of the smaller towns in England and Wales. The play was a revival of a dreary play that had not seen the light of day in 75 years. The director said it was rediscovered classic; being as it was an exploration of English upper class life in the 1930s and showed how the degrading treatment of privileged boys by their public school masters turned them into communists. Hogwash!

But, as I had missed out on Pantomime this year (I usually was cast as a wicked step-father), the offer of ‘a tour’ was most welcomed, even though it was the middle of one of the worst winters in the nation’s history.

I played the ‘Housemaster’ (the character had no name which according to the director represented the anonymity of oppression).

As it was a play set in a school, a number of the characters were boys aged sixteen and seventeen. This is always a difficult age to cast, since directors prefer to work with adults (for reasons of employment law) and with actors with at least some experience. Many of the ‘boys’ in The Schoolboys were, not to be too unkind about it, a little too old for the part.

However, once the director dressed them up in their school uniforms and used creative make-up and lighting, they looked the part. The theatre is, after all, the art of illusion; and thankfully, in the theatre one does not have to be concerned with the close-up.

The lead boy was what we in the business call a ‘new-comer.’ He had not toured a production before and his only experience to date was in small walk-on parts. He was called Hugo Ponsonby-Smythe. Now, what kind of name is that? Obviously, his father was not a dockworker. He does not use the name professionally: he calls himself Hugo Smith, which, I suppose might serve to identify him as a member of any number of classes in the prevailing English social system. The name Hugo might put him among the emerging knowledge-creating class and the Smith making him appear to be an ‘everyman.’

Hugo was aged about twenty and with his fresh face and lithe body he could easily pass as a senior schoolboy, especially over the distance between the stage and audience.

There was a very tricky scene near the start of the final act that caused us many difficulties in rehearsal. It was a caning scene, where I as his housemaster had to deliver six-of-the-best with a rattan cane to Hugo’s character, across his bare bottom.

I would have thought it impossible to find a school cane today, corporal punishment had been abolished in schools a generation past. But, by the time we were ready for rehearsal a number of fine school canes had been acquired. The prop master was rather coy when we asked where he obtained them. He told us he found them on e-bay, but really we suspected they were from his own personal collection.

When the play was originally run the theatre censor would not allow the caning scene to be shown on stage. Instead, the boys talked about it to one another and the injured party, as it were, described being caned on the bare bottom and how this made him feel.

But, today we have modern theatre and nothing must be hidden from the audience.

So how would we do it? To begin with two wooden chairs were placed back-to-back so that the boy could kneel on the seat of one and bend his body over the two backs before gripping the seat of the other. If the chairs were positioned correctly it would be possible for the audience to only see the boy’s front and the reactions on his face and not his rear end.

A major problem was the bare bottom. Understandably, Hugo was unhappy since it meant that each night and twice on Wednesdays and Saturdays he would have to bend over and show me his bare arse. I was not too excited by the prospect either. I am not in the least interested in boys’ arses. Which I think was more than might be said for some of the people round the production. The director had been buzzing around Hugo like a bee around jam ever since he met him

Hugo asked if would be possible to play the scene with his trousers up, but the director said this was the most pivotal scene in the whole play. This was the provocation that turned the boy irreversibly against his own social class (do not for heaven’s sake expect me to explain why).

There were issues of modesty to be considered. We could not have a member of cast exposing his genitals on stage and we supposed that audiences would not want to see a bare bottom either. At rehearsal we experimented with ways of getting his trousers and pants down while he was kneeling on the chair. We found that if I unbuckled his belt and buttons I could get the trousers and pants down over his thighs and expose enough buttock to then administer the cane to the housemaster’s satisfaction.

This, the director thought, was “marvellous,” apparently the taking down of the trousers by the housemaster was deeply symbolic of class oppression.

But, how would we deal with the actual caning? The whole point was that the boy was thrashed, not that he got a smack on the bot.

The director told us that in movies when they show someone being whipped, in a ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’ or a slave picture, say, they stick padding on the back of the person being whipped and with a camera at the correct angle, the audience does not realise.

With the victim suitable protected, the whipmaster can flog as hard as he wants into the padding. Later the sound of the lash is edited on and makeup puts the whip marks into his back.

But, it is not so easy on stage, where everything is live. We experimented with padding which might have worked if Hugo were to be allowed to keep his trousers – wardrobe could make a pair of underpants from leather and he would not feel a thing. But, if he had to take it on the bare, where would the padding go?

I had to admire the props and wardrobe people who tried everything. One idea was that Hugo would have his trousers and pants taken down, but there would be some padding strapped to the bum as happened with the backs of whipped slaves.

But, for it to work, the padding would have to be under Hugo’s trousers for the whole scene and would be noticed by the audience, especially since many girls in the audience believed Hugo’s bottom was his prize asset.

So padding was not going to work. Eventually, we turned to sound effects. A recording of a cane whacking into a bare arse was made. (I do not know how it was done and the sound engineer was not about to say.)

The scene then went like this: Hugo bends over the two chairs, I take down his trousers and pants. Then I have some lines of dialogue (revealing myself to be an oppressor, the director says) and then I raise the cane and bring it down on his bare bottom. The timing has to be perfect so that my swishes into the bared flesh coincided exactly with the sound effect.

It took a lot of rehearsal and eventually we achieved it, although I still thought the audience knew I was not really cutting into Hugo’s bum, despite his grimaces and attempts to portray agony.

So, the play fully rehearsed, we took it on the road. We had toured for three weeks, when we arrived at a small town in the industrial North of England, where we were to play for three nights. That was where the trouble started.

Before the tour set off, Hugo had been granted a role in a television drama series called North of the Line! that enjoyed much popularity among the viewing public when televised. He had recorded his part before we began to tread the boards in The Schoolboys. None of us among his fellow actors were aware of this until the episodes began to be televised. Suddenly, we had a ‘star’ in the company. It does not matter how good an actor is, if one is on television, then one is a ‘star’. So it was with Hugo.

In North of the Line! Hugo played a rogue who was disrespectful of his parents and of his schoolteachers and who had an eye for the girls, who were only too willing to accept it. Girls, and also young women, of a certain disposition, took to the character immediately and Hugo began to get noticed by the newspapers.

Our theatre management was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and capitalised. Posters for The Schoolboys were re-done and Hugo’s name replaced mine above the title. A photograph of Hugo, sporting a nauseatingly cheeky grin, stared out under the words Star of North of the Line!

The result was a sold-out box office, but alas the theatre was full of adolescent girls. They were what I believe are these days called ‘chavs:’ they cheered and called out his TV name when Hugo first appeared on stage; that was how crass they were.

The sudden popularity of a junior member of the cast caused some anxiety back stage, where it is considered important to keep up traditions. Senior members of the cast are deferred to in all matters, by other cast members and by those working back stage. This deference extends even to the director himself, who would never consider calling me by my Christian name.

Hugo came from a different stock. He had no experience in the theatre worth the mention and had not learned the importance of tradition and ‘knowing your place.’ As a television ‘star’ he believed himself to be the most important person in the cast. But, we older hands believed he knew nothing and should be treated as the junior cast member that he assuredly was.

This inevitably led to arguments back stage. A colleague berated Hugo for his unprofessionalism and complained bitterly about the screaming girls in the audience. Perhaps, it was as well that at this point none of us knew about the girls who waited for Hugo at the stage door after a show, willing to offer him a performance of their own.

Hugo exhibited an arrogance that took my breath away. Quite calmly he told those within hearing distance that he considered himself to be the star of this show and that he was the one the audience were coming to see. “Not you,” he said, pointing at me, or the other “dreary dinosaurs” in the cast.

I was livid with anger but controlled myself. He was a guttersnipe, a whippersnapper and I would not rise to his bait. I was more of a star than this pretty boy would ever be. I have worked with the best: Larry, Dickie, Bertie, Johnny, and, of course, dear old Hammy.

It happened in the very next performance after the row with Hugo. I had not planned it. The final act was underway and the housemaster and Hugo were in the study. Hugo placed himself across the two chairs and I took down his trousers and underpants.

I collected the cane from the cupboard, swished it about a couple of times and then lined it up across Hugo’s bared cheeks. We had performed this scene many times before and I had perfected the timing of my cane strokes to coincide with the swishes in the sound effects.

I lined up the cane and saw Hugo’s buttocks, raised submissively to receive his punishment. I say ‘submissively’ but that night I saw defiance. He was pointing his cheeks at me as if to say, “Go on old man, do your worst, there’s nothing you can do to me. Your time has passed. I am the future.”

I hated him. The cane rose and instead of brushing it against his cheeks, I let fly with a real whopper. A thick red stripe appeared across both cheeks. As it bit home, Hugo let out a roar of agony. There was a collective intake of breath among the audience.

I hated him for his youth. Number two came down swiftly, and Hugo gripped onto the chair for dear life. The torture was searing through his bum and legs. He wanted to get up and shout “What the Hell’s going on?” but he was in the middle of a live performance.

By now he realised what was happening and he braced himself for what he knew would be four more searing, painful stingers.

I hated him for his good looks. Slash number three drew gasps from Hugo and from the audience, but Hugo was the only one in the theatre with tears streaming down his face.

I hated him for his fame. Number four sliced open a wound across the top of his buttocks and the shock and pain was so much his body bucked and he lifted the front legs of the front chair off the ground.

I hated him for the money he would earn. Slash number five replicated number four, but this time it whipped across the bottom of his globes, at the point where the buttocks meet the thighs.

I hated him because I hated myself. Number six went across the middle of both buttocks, accidently (honestly!) crossing two or three of the welts that were already standing up from Hugo’s flesh. He was choking for breath and in genuine distress.

I was sweating and breathing very hard. I must give up smoking cigars. I replaced the cane in the cupboard.

Only now did the enormity of my crime hit home. Yes, I had thrashed Hugo, and yes, it gave me tremendous pleasure to do so, but I am a professional actor and it is a sin to deviate from the script and place your fellow actors in jeopardy.

I walked upstage (this was not in the script) to give myself thinking time and turned to face Hugo. He was still breathing heavily, but he was gaining control of his sobbing.

“All right. That’s over, you may remove yourself,” I said. I was back on the script. I did not know how Hugo would react.

Clearly, still in agony, Hugo pulled up his trousers and pants, while still kneeling on the chair, as was required by the script. He stood and buttoned himself up.  Then, he shook my hand and I dismissed him from my study and he exited stage left.

Hugo completed the play tormented by pain.  His next scene was where he talked with this study mates about his caning ordeal and was required to wince a little as he sat down, but he was to remain seated. This time, he sat on the chair and jumped straight up in pain; the audience loved it, unaware that he was not acting.

Hugo finished the play word perfect. We all received curtain calls and standing ovations and Hugo was cheered. The cast members knew this was because he was a famous face ‘off the telly,’ and not because of his acting abilities.

I still think he is a poor actor, but after the caning ordeal I cannot say he is not a true professional.

 z used housemaster play (1)

Story inspired by the Housemaster play by Ian Hay

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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The exam results are out

His eldest brother

Brad, the spanking-movie star

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com