When Santa Claus was caned

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Once upon a time there were three Santas. How can this be? I hear you cry. For everybody knows there is but one Santa and he lives on the North Pole. All year round he works tirelessly with his elves making toys. One day a year – on Christmas Eve – he loads up his sleigh and reindeer fly him all over the world. He delivers toys to the nice and spanks the bottoms of the naughty.

Gentle reader, if you believe that you are either five years old or you reside in one of our more discreet sanatoriums.

The three Santas – to make our story easier to follow let’s think of them as Saint Nick, Father Christmas and Chris Crimble – worked six weeks of the year for Jamley’s department store. Their job was to make sure the cash registers kept jing-jing-jingling throughout the festive season. The three Santas were idle for most of the year, but Mr Crimble sometimes gave his services at an obscure gentlemen’s club and Nick would wrap himself in bandages and stand on a street corner selling matches.

St Tom’s was a school for the sons of the wealthier classes. The boys were boarders and at Christmas time they went home to their families. Alas, some of them were unloved. They had parents so rich they did not have to pretend. So, seventeen boys were left to spend Christmas at St Tom’s. Mr Bugg, a housemaster, was unloved too. He was also unloveable. His salary was so miserable he could not afford to rent rooms for the holidays, so he too stayed behind.

This made him a curmudgeon. He knew no joy. Even on the eve of Christmas he prowled the passageways, his whippy cane under his arm, seeking out misbehaving boys. Merrick was a senior boy. He was eighteen years of age. He thought of himself as an adult. “Pish!” Mr Bugg exclaimed when he found the prefect in Study Seven puffing away on a cigarette. “You are no adult, bend over that chair.”

The cane slipped into Mr Bugg’s hand and he landed six top-rated stingers across Merrick’s backside. And Merry Christmas to you too, the boy growled.

Hank the Yank was an American. His father lived in New York. It was too far for the boy to travel home for Christmas, he said. It was too. For this was in the day before ordinary folk could fly the Atlantic. Only Santa and his reindeer could do that. Hank’s pop was extremely rich and had more money than cents. (Ho! Ho! Ho!) He loved to make expensive gestures. It showed people just how wealthy he was.

He arranged with Jamley’s to send their Santa Claus to the school on Christmas Eve. The news was treated with indifference. Even fake Santas were busy on Christmas Eve. The pubs stayed open beyond midnight. No Santa wanted the job.

Mr Blenkinsop, the department store’s assistant to the assistant floor manager, was at his wit’s end. Alas, Nick, Mr Crimble and Father Christmas were all as one. “Sod off,” they told him. “Do it yourself!”

Mr Blenkinsop was hurt. Where was the spirit of Christmas? Those boys were a long way from home, without their families. Alone. His sob story fell on deaf ears. The three Santas were anxious to leave. Mr Crimble had a bottle of dark rum hidden in his coat. It wouldn’t drink itself.

“Oh well,” Mr Blenkinsop sighed. He drew a ten shilling note from his wallet. “There. That’s for whoever does the job.” Three hands shot forward. “To be paid when you return.” Mr Blenkinsop was no fool.

Satisfied that one or other of the old duffers would deliver, Mr Blenkinsop wrapped his scarf around his neck and stepped out into the cool, damp night. This was England. It rarely snowed at Christmas, despite what Dickens would have us believe.

It was nine o’clock in the St Tom’s dining hall. Seventeen boys and one grumpy master tucked into steak and kidney pudding. It might be Christmas Eve but the fare at an English public school never changed. Mr Bugg was more miserable than usual. He had been warned there would be a visitor. Mr Bugg was not a jovial type and he discouraged joviality in others. Two fags engaged in a hilarious game of “slaps” were at that moment irritating him to distraction.

Whoosh! The door sprung open. Eighteen pairs of eyes stared in wonder. It was Santa. Dressed in his big red suit. “Ho, ho, ho …” Chris Crimble slurred as he staggered through the door. Merrick, who until that moment had been in a sulk, dodged as Santa lurched forward and fell headlong across the table. An empty bottle fell from his pocket.

“Ho, ho, ho, and a bottle of rum!” Merrick cheered, delighted at his feeble joke.

“Merry Christmas,” Crimble croaked. The smell of the meat pudding reminded him he had not eaten for hours. He scooped a handful and fed it through his askew whiskers.

“What the devil,” Mr Bugg was on his feet. At that moment. Whoosh! The door opened once more. It was Santa Claus. “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.” Father Christmas was at least sober. “Hello, boys look what Santa has brought for you.”

“What is it Santa!” the boys cried in unison, for they knew the part they had to play in this little story.

“Here,” Santa delved into his sack and brought out a thin rectangular box. He handed it to Merrick. “Merry Christmas, young man,” Santa grinned. “Why thank you Santa,” Merrick replied grudgingly. For he thought he was too old to be given gifts by Santa Claus. The teenager fingered the box. “Oh my, thank you Santa,” he said again. This time he meant it. For in his hands he held a special gift box of two hundred Player’s cigarettes.

“What the hell!” Mr Buggs fumed. “What is going on here?”

There was no time for Father Christmas to answer. Whoosh! The door opened once more. It was Santa Claus number three. The boys stared in wonder. Could this be true? Three Santa Clauses in one evening. But, what was this? Santa number three was not alone. For Periwinkle, the school porter, clutched Saint Nick by the arm.

“I caught him by the school gate, Sir,” Periwinkle exclaimed. Puzzlement furrowed the brow of Mr Buggs. What on earth?

“He was escaping, Sir. Look.” Periwinkle picked up Santa’s sack and turned it upside down. Five silver trophies cluttered to the ground. Mr Buggs immediately recognised the school’s inter-house rugby cup.

“He was stealing the school silver, Sir,” Periwinkle said, to be certain that everyone understood what was going on.

“Call the police.” It was Merrick, determined to show everyone he was an adult. “At once,” he ordered Periwinkle.

“But Sir, I am but a poor man,” Saint Nick held the palms of his hands together as if in prayer. “A war hero, Sir, a man down on his luck.”

“Oh, per-lease!” Merrick retorted, for his father was the Lord of the Manor and a magistrate to boot. He knew how to deal with the working classes. “Call the police Periwinkle. At once.”

Periwinkle was a man who knew his place. “Will you guard him Sir while I go to the telephone?” he asked Merrick.

“Hang on, one damned moment,” Mr Buggs fumed. “I am in charge here. I will say what is to happen.”

Merrick glowered. How he despised the master who stood before him. “He must go to trial. The law must take its course.” He was a very pompous young man.

“No,” Mr Buggs had a plan. The night had been ruined. Not only by the thieving Saint Nick, but by all three of the Santas. Mr Buggs knew what was needed. He had not been a schoolmaster for thirty years for nothing.

“I shall deal with this. There is no cause to involve the police.”

Saint Nick wrung his hands in gratitude. “Thank ye Sir, thank ye,” he said in poor imitation of a rural peasant.

“Well see about how thankful you are in a moment,” Mr Buggs growled. “Wilson,” he called to a fag. A junior boy stood up. “Yes, Sir.”

“Go to my study and fetch my stoutest cane. Be quick about it.”

Saint Nick’s ruddy complexion paled. A broad smile split Father Christmas’s face. What sport this would be. Chris Crimble stared on, hardly comprehending what was happening.

Moments later Winker Wilson returned, cane in hand. It was a beauty. It was more than three feet long, not including the traditional crook handle. It was as thick as a pencil and a little warped. It was a piece of ashplant and had notches every three or four inches along its length.

Mr Buggs swished the cane through the air. It made a terrific swoosh as it flew. Saint Nick’s eyes watered. He was going to be beaten. In front of the boys. In front of the other Santas. This could not be happening.

“All three of you, stand by that bench.” Mr Buggs swiped the ashplant once more. Nobody moved, for it was not clear what the schoolmaster was talking about. “The three Santas. Stand by that bench,” he pointed with his cane. “I am going to thrash all three of you,” he said. Now, everyone understood the plot.

The three aged men shuffled across the room, for Mr Buggs was a schoolmaster at an exclusive fee-paying school. They knew their place. Such was merry England. He was in charge. There was nothing they could do. Unless, of course, they wanted to spend Christmas in the police cells.

“Bend over.” It was an imperious command. They bent.

Boys’ eyes looked on in astonishment as the cane flogged across three backsides. Dust rose from trouser seats. Merrick’s buttocks itched. The humiliation and pain of his own earlier caning rekindled. He took his chance. He bundled up boxes of cigarettes and took them to his study.

Father Christmas scowled as the pain increased in intensity. Saint Nick shut his teeth tightly, he wouldn’t embarrass himself by showing it hurt. Chris Crimble breathed heavily. Just wait until he told the fellows at his gentlemen’s club what had happened. How they would envy him.

Charles’s note. The drawing at the top of this story is from The Hotspur, an English boy’s story paper dated 23 December 1933. It is an evocative image but the story it introduced had no scene in it that related to the picture. It was what boys of the time would have probably called “a swizz”.

This story is also available in the free-to-download compendium Seasonal Spanking Stories. Click here

 

 

Other Christmas stories you might like

The night before Christmas

Only three thieving days to Christmas

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The night before Christmas

It as the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed.

It was late, almost midnight, and he knew he should be in bed, but he couldn’t pass up the chance of meeting Santa.

The house had no chimney and Joe was worried. How could Santa get in? Don’t worry, dada had said, he doesn’t have to use the chimney, he can get in by magic.

Satisfied, with dada’s explanation, Joe set out his store: a glass of milk for Santa and a carrot for the reindeer. It was a cold frosty night, but the central heating was on high, so Joe sat in the living room dressed only in his pyjamas and waited. His pyjamas were bright yellow with pictures of racing cars all over them. How he hated those pyjamas; he longed for a pair like the big boys wore with blue-and-white stripes and a drawstring around the waist to pull them together.

He was sleepy and dozing a little. Because it was Christmas Eve dada had prepared a big meal and there had been lots to drink. He had even eaten some Smarties. It was too much; his tummy was beginning to ache and he felt a little sick.

He checked over his list. A Playstation, an iPhone, a Tablet. Then there were what dada called the “stocking filers”; a table tennis bat, cricket stumps and a pair of bedroom slippers.

What a wonderful time he would have playing with all his new gifts. Yes, it would be a very merry Christmas indeed for Joe.

Suddenly, he heard a sound. It was soft and seemed a long distance off. What could it be, Joe wondered. Then he remembered the poem about the mouse and he was scared. You must be brave, he told himself. There’s nothing to be afraid off. A little mouse. But, he curled his legs up under him and sat back on the couch. A mouse couldn’t run up his pyjama trousers leg if he kept his feet off the floor.

But, it wasn’t a mouse. Slowly, the door opened. Joe’s tummy churned once more; the room was spinning a little; was he about to be sick?

“Ho-ho-ho!” He knew that sound. It was no mouse: it was Santa Claus and he had the reddest-red suit and the whitest-white beard and the roundest-round belly.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa roared. He really was the jolliest fellow, Joe thought; no wonder children all over the world loved him so much.

But, something was not quite right. Santa was not carrying a sack. Where were all the presents?

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa’s record seemed to be stuck. Joe was panicking – where were his presents?

Joe was not always the politest little boy, especially when he wasn’t getting his way.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa was irritating Joe now. Where were his presents?

“Ho-ho-ho! little boy. Are you Joe?” Santa cheeks flushed bright red. It must have been the cold frosty air. The journey from Lapland had been a long one.

“Yes, Santa,” an excited Joe confirmed who he was. His face brightened, but he was still puzzled for he could see no presents.

“Ho-ho-ho,” uninvited Santa rested his big fat body down on the couch, forcing Joe to uncurl his legs and make room. He was a very irritated little boy.

“Where are my presents?” he snapped.

“Presents?” Santa looked at him quizzically. “Presents? Which presents are they?”

Joe pursed his lips. This wasn’t how it was meant to be. “The Playstation, iphone, the ….” He recited his long list of demands. “I sent you the letter weeks ago,” he finished, as if this somehow proved his point.

Santa’s face clouded. He enjoyed his job most of the time. Who wouldn’t like being Santa; you only worked one night of the year and you brought joy and happiness to children. Yes, it was a lovely job. But, there was a downside.

“Only good boys get presents,” Santa was feeling grumpy, he wanted to get on with this. “Have you been a good boy Joe?”

“Yes, I have!” he huffed and only just stopped himself adding, “Now, give me my presents.”

“Ho-ho-ho,” there he went again. “No, Joe. I have you down on the naughty boys list.” And as if to prove a point he pulled a large sheet of writing paper from his pocket.

Joe’s eyes widened. What nonsense was this? He had stayed awake until nearly midnight waiting for this magical fat man to appear and now what? No presents.

“No, Santa, I’ve been a good boy,” and then he flashed his cutest “little boy” smile, the one that broke the hearts of so many, and said, “Honest, Santa. I’m a good boy.”

Santa snorted. There was no ho-ho-ho this time. “No, Joe. That’s not true now is it? Listen to this list. You don’t do your chores at home; you are disrespectful to your dada; you sometimes go out to play and stay out late.”

“No, Santa, no, it’s not true,” Joe wailed. This was not going to plan at all. But, the naughty little boy could deny it all he liked – he, and Santa, knew it was true.

“Do you know what Santa does to naughty boys, Joe?”

“No, Santa,” he spoke as if he genuinely did not.

“Santa takes them across his knee, Joe, and Santa spanks their naughty bottoms, that’s what Santa does Joe.” Then, he added, making Joe’s blood curdle, “Ho-ho-ho.”

“No, Santa, no! I’m a good boy. I am. Really!” But Joe was only adding the crime of lying to Santa to all the others on the list.

Santa hauled himself off the couch. Joe stared wide-eyed as Santa rummaged in a deep pocket and with his own eyes gleaming, he pulled out a heavy wooden clothes brush.

“Ho-ho-ho. Look Joe, look what Santa’s got for you!”

“No, Santa!” Alarmed, Joe tried to make a run for the door, but fat old Santa was too quick for him. He gripped the terrified little boy by his arm and pulled him forward. It took only a moment for Santa to retain his seat on the couch and drag the kicking and wailing naughty little boy face down across his knees.

“No, Santa, no. I’m sorry. I’ll be a good boy. Please. You can keep the presents. I don’t want them.”

Ha! Santa beamed. That’s what all the boys say. They will plead and promise him anything – as long as he didn’t spank them.

But, Santa had his job to do. Joe must have his bottom spanked. He had to stick to the rules. It was only the threat of a spanking from Santa at Christmas that kept many naughty boys on the straight and narrow.

Joe was in no position to argue. Santa had him pinned across his legs, so that his head and chest rested along the couch on one side and his legs stretched out behind him on the other. His naughty little spankable bottom rested vulnerably over Santa’s crotch. Joe wriggled to the left and the right, but Santa’s grip was tight and he was going nowhere.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa gripped the waist of Joe’s pyjama bottoms and tugged them down.

“No, Santa, no,” Joe gasped, but by now he realised he had no choice. Santa was in charge. He could do anything he wanted to and there was nothing the naughty little boy could do to stop it.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa admired the sight across his lap. It was a smooth pert bottom, and completely hairless, as were the boy’s thin legs.

Santa wasn’t quite ready to go. He pulled off his thick woollen gloves and with the palm of his right hand he gently caressed Joe’s buttocks; making circular motions, first on the right cheek and then the left. The buttocks clenched and rose off Santa’s lap in protest.

“You have a lovely bottom, Joe. Very boyish. I shall enjoy spanking it. It feels very soft. Very soft and very small, but nicely rounded,” Santa kept his thoughts to himself.

Instead, he said. “Relax Joe. It is better if you relax. You know that.” Santa’s words were kind. He did not despise the boy across his laps. He had been naughty and like all naughty boys, he deserved to have his bare bottom spanked. And it would happen. But, then it would be over. Joe would have atoned for his naughtiness and everyone could get on with their lives.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa chuckled as he raised the heavy wooden clothes brush about three inches above the boy’s right buttock and whacked it down into the fleshiest part of the cheek. Joe winced, but had no time to do anything else before the next blow fell, this time across the left buttock.

The boy gasped a little. It hurt, but not much. Santa slapped the brush down for a quick dozen whacks. Santa could see Joe’s bottom was warming up nicely. Yes, it was a lovely shade of pink.

“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa was enjoying himself now.

Joe’s bottom was beginning to throb with the pain and he tried to move his right hand to protect his cheeks but Santa was having none of it. He leaned across the boy making it impossible for him to reach back to his increasingly reddening bottom. But Joe continued to writhe and squirm uselessly while kicking his legs up and down against the soft cushion of the couch. Santa dominated him completely.

“Stop it Joe, I am going to spank you until I think you’ve been properly punished, and until I reach that point, I’m just going to keep stinging that bare bottom of yours hard and fast,” and Santa whacked the brush again and again into Joe’s bouncing bottom, concentrating on the very tender spot where the cheeks join the thighs.

In the distance, church bells were calling out for Midnight Mass. It was getting late, Santa wanted to move on. He had other things to do tonight before he could fall into his bed.

Satisfied that he had delivered a classic old-fashioned bottom warming with all the trimmings, Santa finally stopped. He released his grip on the naughty little boy across his lap and Joe sprang to his feet, clasping his sore bottom with both hands.

“Ho-ho-ho!” Santa beamed. Joe’s cock was pointing at him at a forty-five degree angle, rigid and inviting. Its uncut tip glistened.

Santa ripped off his fat suit and stood in his boxers and vest. His own member throbbed to escape the confines of the tight cotton shorts. He wouldn’t be able to control it for too much longer.

Joe’s grin was so wide it seemed his face might split in two. This was what he really loved about Christmas. Tradition. He and Jamie had played this game every year since they first met.

Joe sank to his knees and took Jamie’s cock sideways in his mouth, running his tongue along the shaft from the ball sack to the moist tip.

Jamie reeled back in ecstasy. “Ho-ho-ho! Here cums Santa Claus!” he shrieked.

 

Other stories you might like.

 Only three thieving days to Christmas

When Dad got home

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com