The Cruel Housemaster

new story 2

z used drawing cane master (7)

Percy Westerman paced his study, halted at the wall and for a moment studied the photograph hanging there. He had seen it many times before. It was the House Rugby XV from twenty years ago: 1914. Two years before he was born. Its significance was lost on him.

He glanced across at the clock on the mantelshelf. He still had a few moments before his appointment. Silently, he cursed. How he hated this school. In a few months he would be free of the place and its petty tyrannies. It could not come a second too soon.

He stood at the window. His view was not a picturesque one. He could see one side of the quadrangle of Stockton School – a grey, smoke-grimed pile, looking even more prisonlike in the grey shades of evening. Surrounded by four buildings was the only open space that Stockton School possessed, a rectangle of cinder-covered ground, without grass and ground down by the feet of a hundred scholars.

Stockton was an old and well-known school in the heart of Cokley, a large town in the north of England. Fifty years ago the school had been on the outskirts of the town and was bounded on three sides by green fields. Since then Cokley had grown until it had swallowed its rural surroundings in a mass of factories, furnaces, slag-heaps, railway sidings, and small tenements, while Stockton School remained like an oasis of mid-Victorian architecture in a desert of unlovely bricks and mortar.

Percy drew in a deep breath, even the air smelt foul. Stockton was so unlike the boarding schools he had read about in story papers as a young boy. Greyfriars had never been like this. The big hand on the clock juddered further towards twelve. It was time to go; time to face the music.

If the exterior of Stockton had been encased by grime, its interior still resonated with the past. He passed the mullioned windows of the library, entered the clock tower, took the stairs at a pace slower than a snail’s, and reached the study door. Here he paused, took a deep breath and tapped his knuckles softly against an oak panel.

It was a typical housemaster’s study, smelling of old books, leather and pipe tobacco. There was a polished walnut desk; an old, worn dark upholstered armchair; a glass-fronted cupboard partially concealing books and trophies and other paraphernalia. Dominating one wall was a wooden rack from which hung a number of whippy, rattan canes, bent not only with old age but with the frequent use on the backsides of generations of offending schoolboys.

Mr Brewster the housemaster was in a bad temper and he was liverish. As a master Brewster was a failure. He was unsympathetic. He looked upon boys in general as great nuisances. In his opinion stern discipline was the only way to keep order, and in trying to keep order he bordered on tyranny.

He glared at Percy Westerman standing before him. He was a tall, thin boy of eighteen, dressed in a blue blazer with its red braiding around the collar, cuffs and pockets and dark grey flannel baggy trousers. He wore a grey waistcoat, orange and blue diagonally striped tie and a blue-and-white-hooped school cap.

Brewster’s thin lips snarled. His almost bald pate glistened. His cruel grey eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat and from his hard wooden chair he leaned across the desk, forcing his elbows into the hard surface.

“You have frequently been guilty of impertinence, and more frequently of egging on weaker boys to be impertinent. Of late your whole character seems to have taken a turn for the worse,” he had prepared a speech. Westerman, no stranger to the housemaster’s study let him get on with it. What was the point? Brewster would not be derailed from the journey he had begun. His voice was not loud, but it was deep. His face was inflamed with rage.

“You are a slacker. Your work is appalling,” he peered intently at the boy before him, now hopping uncomfortably from foot to foot. Brewster glared, “Under the circumstances, I must conclude that I have no alternative but to administer a punishment.”

Percy stared resolutely at the rug beneath his feet. His eyes hardly moved when Brewster hauled himself from his chair to his feet, then a little unsteadily he progressed across the study. Percy knew where the master was headed. Seconds later he heard the tell-tale rattle. It was a cane being removed from the rack. Swish! The housemaster let fly. There was no purpose to the action, he was very aware of the properties of each and every one of his collection. He had used them all often enough.

This time he had chosen his favourite “dragon” cane. This was no longer or thicker than any of the traditional whippy curve-handled rattan rods on his rack. It was however more dense. It packed a punch and would leave even a senior boy such as Westerman in severe pain. He turned to face the sixth-former. “Look at me boy,” he intoned and flexed the cane menacingly between his hands. Then, he swiped it once more through empty air. He seemed satisfied.

“Bend over that chair,” the housemaster pointed the cane at the worn armchair as if there could be any doubt in his intentions. “Bend over that chair!” he rapped out the words once more. The armchair had a high back, far too high for even the tallest, lankiest schoolboy to put himself over and stretch out his arms to clutch the seat cushion for dear life.

Westerman knew the routine. A boy was expected to drape himself over one of the upholstered arms, tuck his knees into the side of the chair and thereby raise his bottom high to greet the thwack of the rattan cane.

Percy sucked on his bottom lip, rubbed his sweaty palms together, took a couple of deep breaths and then after one flowing movement he had his face in the seat cushion. It was dusty with a faint smell of sweat where visitors had previously sat in comfort to enjoy conversation, and who knew, tea, with Mr Brewster.

Percy could be assured that after what he was about to receive he would not be able to enjoy a comfortable sit-down for some time to come. Tonight he would be taking supper standing up, that was for certain.

With his face in the cushion the eighteen-year-old couldn’t be sure of Mr Brewster’s movements, but he heard him shuffle across the hard floor of the study. He was taking up his position. He was not yet fully prepared. The room was eerily silent except for the sound of a cane being swished through the air. Instinctively Percy Westerman moved his back slightly, the better to look round to see what was going on.

“Keep perfectly still,” the housemaster growled. Percy burrowed his head in the cushion.

Up went the cane with a whiz and down it came with a fearful slash.


Swipe! YOW!

Mr Brewster’s cane flogged across Percy’s tight backside. He could not have struck harder if he had been beating dust from a carpet.

Swipe! YAROOOOOOH! The savage cane rang across Percy’s bottom like a crack from a pistol. He shut his teeth tightly, just keeping back another cry of pain.

Swipe! YOW-OW-OW!

Percy squirmed; he twisted. Mr Brewster didn’t care; he had a cruel streak and would have gladly cut any boy to shreds.


The cane bounced across Percy’s seat and dust blew off his trousers.

Swipe! Arrrrgggggg!

Percy was close to choking, vomit clogged the back of his throat. Six of the best. Delivered and received. It felt like his bottom had swelled to twice its natural size. He could feel welts throbbing beneath his trousers. It had been a terrific thrashing, quite the worst he had ever received. It would hurt for ages. Sitting down would be unpleasant for some time to come. But, it was over. He had survived.

Swipe! Swipe! Brewster laid on two more fearful slashes. The housemaster’s knuckles grew white his grip on the cane was so tight.

Swipe! Swipe! Percy howled with agony as the cane rose and fell without mercy.

Swipe! Swipe! They were blows such as no master ought to ever have dealt, but Brewster was too furious to care how much he hurt the boy.

That was a dozen cuts. Percy lay limp and suffering trying his best not to blub, waiting for the master to give the command to get up. He seemed to be taking an eternity.

“That’s over,” he growled. “You may remove yourself.”

Percy staggered to his feet; his face ghostly white. Blood coursed through his arteries and his temples throbbed almost as much as his shredded buttocks. Despite every code of honour known to schoolboys he rubbed his cheeks furiously. Mr Brewster averted his eyes pretending not to notice him as he did this, but he did not suppress his smile. He was a very satisfied man.

“You may go, Westerman .”

Without a word Percy left the study. He closed the door hard – with a slam. Brewster started, his eyes sparkled and the words rose to his lips to call the boy back. It was an act of intentional disrespect and Brewster was not the master to forgive it, as a rule. But he did not call Westerman back. The senior’s punishment had already been severe and the master let him go.

Percy paused in the passageway, uncontrollable hate and rage welling up in his breast. He pressed his hands against the seat of his trousers in a dismal attempt to manage the pain, but the relief was very little. The strokes had been laid on with a strong arm and the pain was aching and tingling through all his nerves.

He went down the passage. His white, drawn face attracted glances from several fellows he passed and one or two of them stopped to inquire what was the matter.

Percy did not answer them; he did not even hear them. He went straight to his room, where he knew he would be alone. In the long, lofty, shadowing room the wretched boy flung himself upon his bed, and no longer fearing observation, the hard held tears burst out in a torrential flood.


Picture Credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second


My Friend Justin

z used school longs after (8)

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Justin was the best friend anyone could ever have. We were eighteen years old at the time and had known each other all our lives. We’d grown up on the same street, played with the same children and attended the same school.

So, when I had to unburden myself of a secret, one that had been eating away at me for years, he was the one I told.

He was brilliant; he didn’t say I was queer or anything like that. He just asked me for all the details. And, then he came up with a plan.

Well, where do I start? I told him that I wanted to be spanked, but I did feel I had to make it clear I didn’t want to be spanked by him especially, which was true. I didn’t fancy him at all, still don’t actually.

I fantasied about being spanked by older men. There was one dream I kept having; it involved a teacher at school. Mr King his name was. A right old fossil; he must have been sixty if he was a day. I wanted him to cane me in front of the whole class: all my sixth-form mates. I was dressed in my school uniform; black blazer, dark grey long trousers, grey shirt, and I would, on his command, submissively undo my leather belt, pull the buttons on my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

Then, when he told me to I had to bend over a table, head to the front, legs to the back, with my bum positioned high over the top.

Then, he would pull my gleaming white underpants so tight they stretched over my buttocks and then slowly he would swish his whippy cane, the one with a curved handle, into my taut little bum. That fantasy got me every time. It’s getting me again, even as I am writing this all these years later.

I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about this; but now as I get older I realise that every adolescent male has these fantasies; the only difference between me and most others is that they were dreaming of the French mistress spanking them.

Despite my wicked fetish for spanking there was not much I could do about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years earlier, so I could not engineer a caning or a slippering. Gone were the days when I could make sure I got caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike sheds so I would end up touching my toes in the Year Master’s office. If that were only possible, I would be a twenty-a-day man believe me.

I couldn’t get spanked at home. My dad was a bit of a wimp to be honest and he pretty much let me get away with anything. Not that I was a wicked kid, I wasn’t, but maybe he could have bent me over the armchair and taken his belt to the seat of my jeans when I was cheeky, or worse insolent; which was often.

I had tried to raise spanking with my friends, but was too inept to do it. I do remember when we were very young, seven or eight maybe, the girls in the street were playing “schools” and someone talked about “getting the cane.” Even then, something inside me stirred at the mention of corporal punishment, but I was too young to understand and, of course, my fetish hadn’t really developed at that age.

I used to read lots of comics, we all did in those days, and especially went for the stories where the naughty boys (who remembers Roger the Dodger or Dirty Dick?) ended up in the last frame of the story pictured across dad’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. Come to think of it there were plenty of stories about naughty girls (Beryl the Peril, Minnie the Minx come to mind) who also ended up over dad’s knee. Try writing kids’ comics like that today: how innocent we were then.

Once when I was a bit older, Brian, a friend of a friend, and I were at my house and we acted out stories from the comics, but when it came to the smacked bottom scene we were both too timid to go through with it. Looking back, I suspect Brian was as disappointed as me that we didn’t.

I did go on the Internet to find spanking porn. It was not quite as advanced as it is today, so you couldn’t get videos, but I did find some pictures. One set that really got me going was about a dad who found his son dressed only in his underpants reading a porn mag and dragged him into the bedroom. The boy must have been twenty years old but that didn’t stop his dad. Then, with his pants around his ankles, the boy gets a butt blistering from dad’s hairbrush. Yep! That had me squirting my jizz.

I told Justin about my spanking desires one afternoon after school when we were around his place. He was a “single parent” child and his ma worked long hours for crap pay at a factory, so he had the house to himself a lot.

“So do you want me to spank you? Is that it?”

I couldn’t believe it. He had the same desires as me. My face must have gone scarlet and my reply was mumbled incoherently.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, shall I?” he laughed.

“Only if you want to,” I eventually stuttered.

I learned over the years to come that Justin was completely unshockable. He wasn’t the least turned on by the thought of spanking me or being spanked by me. If I had said I wanted a sex change to become a woman, he would have reacted in the same cool, matter-of-fact way. He would probably have asked me what the procedure involved and how much it would cost, but he wouldn’t have judged me.

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

I hadn’t expected this question and rushed to think of some naughtiness I had committed.

“I’ve been rude to my ma,” was the best that I could come up with.

He laughed again. Looking back he was always laughing, “So what’s new about that? No, you have to do something to earn the spanking.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I hadn’t realised that Justin might one day make an expert psychologist.

He explained, “You want to be spanked, so you have to do something to earn it: something that you should do but wouldn’t normally do.”

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

“Say in the old days your dad might say, ‘If you don’t clean up your room, it’s my slipper for you, my lad.’ If you didn’t want a spanking you’d clean up the room; but if you did want the slipper, you wouldn’t. So, the room would not get cleaned up and you get spanked. So, you have achieved your wish, but your dad has failed in getting the room cleaned. Are you with me so far?”

Not really, so he went on.

“But, say you want to be spanked and your dad wants the room cleaned; the best thing for both of you is for him to say, ‘Clean up the room and if you do it well, I’ll take you across my knee and tan your arse with my slipper.’ Get me now?”

I was beginning to. “So I have to do something that I should do but I am not doing and if I do it then I get spanked.”

It was as clear as mud.

“Look,” Justin was on a roll and could not be stopped. “You are not a good student. It’s a fact, don’t argue. You are bright, but you don’t work, so you will fail your exams. Let’s say, if you pass your A-levels, I’ll spank you. It’ll be an incentive for you to work hard.”

Okay, I got it now, but the A-levels were months away and I told him so. I wanted my spanking now; preferably this evening before his ma came home.

But, it was not to be. Instead, we compromised. There was an essay due in this week for the English Literature course that I was failing. Justin’s plan was if I got a mark of B+ or more, I would be rewarded by him with several marks across my backside, courtesy of a large wooden clothes brush. A deal had been sealed.

I had hardly ever worked so hard on a school essay; I even read the set book, rather than the “crib” notes, that’s how keen I was to get a good grade.

Mr Archer, our English Lit teacher, made a snide comment when he returned my essay. “B+, had a little help David?” Yes, I had, but not in the way he meant.

Justin laughed.

We hadn’t spoken about our deal since the moment we made it and I wasn’t sure if he intended to stick to the bargain. Then, in the middle of the lesson, he lent across to me and whispered. “My place, four o’clock.”

I couldn’t concentrate on my work for the rest of the day; there was nothing new in that, but this time it was because of the anticipation of what was to come. In the past few days, I had fantasised about what would happen, but much as I liked Justin, I should have preferred it if my spanker were an older man. Actually, come to think of it, it would have been more pleasurable if Mr Archer really did believe I had cheated on my essay and threw me across his knee as punishment.

I was eager and arrived too early at Justin’s house and had to wait on the doorstep until he got home. He had, of course, stopped off at the library after classes ended.

Justin could see I was nervous. Was he nervous too? Looking back I can see the absurdity of it; one eighteen-year-old was about to take another across his knee and spank him. When did that ever happen in real life?

I watched as Justin rummaged through a drawer and found what he was looking for. Then he turned to me, clothes brush in hand.

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Take off your blazer and put it on the table.”

While I was taking off my blazer, Justin did the same, and then he took a wooden backed chair and placed it in the middle of the room. My pulse was racing; this really was going to happen. I could feel my cock stirring in my trousers, God, I hadn’t thought about that; I am going to pop wood.

He sat down in the chair, “Come stand there,” he pointed to a spot to his right. I moved, breathing heavily. I had just realised we hadn’t discussed how he was going to spank me; do my trousers come down? If they do, he’ll see my todger is standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

He snapped his fingers. “Bend over my knee.”

I hesitated. I could see Justin’s legs in front of me, they were thin and spindly, as you might expect from someone his age. In my dreams the laps of my spankers were always huge and well-padded. I wasn’t sure this was right at all.

I think Justin must have misread my hesitation. “Do you want to call it off?”

No, I did not. Without a word, I lowered myself over his knee. Again, it wasn’t quite as I expected. I was too close to the floor. In my dreams I suppose I was a little kid, not a strapping eighteen-year-old sixth-form schoolboy.

“Ouch!” I couldn’t help but cry out as the first whack hit me in the middle of my left buttock, followed almost immediately by another on the right. Then another. And another.

Jeez, it hurt! I gasped at the shock of it. I found myself wriggling involuntarily over Justin’s lap. I was in pain, but it wasn’t agony. My bum stung a lot, but quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Justin wasn’t acting, they weren’t love taps he was giving me these were proper wallops with the brush. He was crashing the wood into my trouser-covered buttocks with great force. I was gasping for air as my blood pressure rose. Blood was also surging to my cock and my hard-on was now raging.

Justin giggled, “Oh, you’re enjoying this are you?” and he carried on whacking my bum with renewed vigour, whacking three stinging spanks on one side of my bum, three on the other side and then a real hard thwack on my sit spot. Then he did it all over again.

I was losing control, my reflect movements had me bucking and kicking and struggling to get off his lap but he held on tight and kept spanking me.

And then the inevitable happened: I was beginning to orgasm; I shot my load, creaming my underpants and my trousers.

“You dirty bugger!” Justin snorted, stopped spanking me and pushed me off his lap so that I tumbled to the floor. My hands went to my arse to rub at the pain as I circled around on the carpet, kicking my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried. I was in pain, but not much. Despite the intensity of Justin’s spanking, my trousers and pants had given me considerable protection. As I would learn in future, had he spanked me that hard with such a heavy brush on my bare bum, it would be ripped to shreds by now.

Justin was off the chair and doubled over with mirth. At that moment we heard a click at the front door and a cry, “Just. are you home?”

I jumped to my feet and noticed how large the stain was on the front of my trousers, just as Justin’s ma came into the room. I fled the house in embarrassment, leaving my pal to explain to his ma what was going on.

At home I admired Justin’s handiwork in the mirror. My bum was dark pink and some bluish bruises had formed at the end of my cheeks. The imprint of the brush was distinct where he had spanked my thighs. The sight of my battered bum set my todger off again and I grabbed a handful of tissues and lay on the bed.

I have a lot to thank my great friend Justin for; not least my success in my A-level exams; but that’s another story … or six.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

A Double Whammy

new story 2

z used school cane pants touch toes sting

The headmaster puffed out his cheeks and frowned. His bushy white eyebrows knotted, he drew in a sharp breath and studied the two pupils standing before him. Duncan Richards and Paul Clarke shuffled their feet nervously as the Old Man jawed them.

“You are senior boys. Prefects even. You know the rules. You are expected to enforce them,” he leaned back in his chair and peered over the top of his spectacles. “You do not leave the school premises during the day. We are responsible for you at all times,” he watched closely, delighted that the two miscreants were blushing, suitably embarrassed.  “What would have happened if you were involved in an accident?” He didn’t pause for an answer, the was on a roll. “Your parents would be very worried indeed.”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the large mahogany desk. “You know the rules,” he repeated, his eyes blinking furiously. “I am a fair man. I treat every boy equally,” he steepled his fingers. “Be they first or sixth-formers.”

Paul risked a sideways glance at his pal, he didn’t like where this was going. Duncan stared at the dark blue carpet beneath his feet. “So,” the headmaster eased himself to his feet, “I am going to beat you both.” Duncan’s head shot upwards, startled by the news. “A fair man,” he thought but dared not say aloud, “I wouldn’t mind if you were unfair now.”

He watched miserably as the headmaster made his way across the study, for a man of such weight and proportions he made an unexpectedly nimble movement. He halted at a tall thin cupboard and delved into his pocket. Duncan could not meet his pal’s eye. This could not be happening. Could it?

The headmaster found a key and inserted it into the lock and opened the cupboard door. Paul was no stranger to the headmaster’s study and was very aware what it was that was making the hollow rattling sound. The headmaster sighed as he withdrew a long thin crook-handled cane. He pushed the door closed with his elbow and turned to face the two eighteen year olds. He flexed the cane between his hands taking its measure; an entirely unnecessary action since he knew the properties of this little beauty only too well. Hardly thirty minutes earlier it had left six distinct marks across the tightly stretched Teryelne-covered rear end of an habitual smoker.

“Six.” The headmaster announced if the solemnity of a judge sending a man to the gallows. The two teenagers shuffled their feet as their faces paled at the totally expected news. “Richards, face the wall. Clarke,” he pointed his cane to a spot in the centre of the study, “Stand there.” Moments later all three were in their allotted places. The headmaster swished the cane. Once, then once again. He was not quite ready to go, his eyebrows were once again knotted he appeared to be wrestling with a problem. Swish. Swish. He took a deep breath, he had made up his mind.

“Lower your trousers and bend over.”

Duncan Richards until now obediently standing with his nose an inch from the pale blue patterned wallpaper turned around aghast. He saw his pal’s mouth open and close, but no words were uttered. If he had intended to protest, he quickly thought better of it. With tremendous fortitude (Duncan thought) he unbuckled his belt and opened the front of his pale-grey trousers. The weight of the keys in his pocket sent them slithering to his ankles. He took a look around the study as if trying to find his bearings and satisfied that he truly was in the headmaster’s study and this wasn’t a dream. Then he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees.

“Right over, boy. Touch your toes,” the headmaster barked, unafraid to show his intense irritation. Duncan watched his pal separate his feet and stretch down so that his fingertips brushed the toecaps of his black lace-up shoes. His back was arched, his knees slightly bent and his bottom poked out at an angle. Duncan had never before noticed that Paul’s bum was firm and pert. His white cotton briefs clung to the contours of his cheeks.

The headmaster was nearly ready to go, but first he tucked his cane under his arm and approached the submissive teenager. Using both hands he took hold of the tail of Paul’s gleaming white shirt and rolled it along with his grey pullover up the boy’s back, exposing an inch of bare hairless flesh. He slipped the cane into his hand and took a step back, then he laid the thin whippy rattan cane across the centre of Paul’s underpants. He had a terrific target and he was taking his aim.

Paul bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish. Jesus. Fuck. Ouch. Oooooh. Hisssssss. Ow, ow, ow. With tremendous fortitude the boy kept in position, held low, bottom high, fingertips on toes. That hurt! That hurt a lot. It felt like his bum was on fire. The headmaster hadn’t laid on a sound six-of-the-best, he had pressed a white hot wire deep into his flesh. His arse was on fire.

“Stand up. Get dressed. Stand by the wall. Richards take his place.” The headmaster swished his cane and watched unable and not unwilling to show his deep satisfaction on a job well down. The boy’s bottom would be roasting. He had landed the strokes low down, the agony of the six deep cuts would reignite each time he sat down for many hours to come. Paul wriggled in pain as he pulled his trousers over his raw buttocks and pulled the belt tight. He suspected his eyes were moist and he had no desire for his pal to see him in this state so he kept his head low as he passed Duncan on his way to the wall.

Duncan had witnessed his friend’s punishment, he knew exactly what was going to happen. Even so, he stood and waited for the headmaster’s command. “Lower your trousers. bend over. Touch your toes.” Resolute not to show himself up in front of his friend, and just as determined not to give the headmaster any satisfaction, he quickly had his trousers at his feet. He bent forward and waited. Touching toes is not as easy as it looks. It put a terrible strain on he backs of Duncan’s thighs. He shivered involuntarily as the headmaster pulled his shirt up his back and then (unexpectedly) he took hold of the waistband of his white Y-fronts and pulled hard so that all creases were removed from the cloth and his pants fitted like a second skin.

“You have not been to me before Richards,” the headmaster who never forgot a bottom, stated. “Is this you first caning?” “Yes, sir,” Duncan spoke to the carpet. “Well, it will be quite an experience for you,” the headmaster sneered. “And, eighteen years old,” he added smugly.

It would be Duncan’s first caning, but he was no stranger to spanking. His father was a fervent advocate of corporal punishment; the influence of a small church he followed religiously. Duncan and his two elder brothers often felt father’s belt across their naked backsides. He sucked in his breath as he felt the tip of the cane tap against his stretched flesh.

It was over in seconds. Six almighty swipes. One after the other. Rat-tat-tat like machinegun fire. He had never experienced pain like it. Nothing his father had ever delivered prepared him for the hurt.

“Stand up. Get dressed.” Duncan rose furiously massaging his burning bum. It hurt so much, he couldn’t wait until he was properly dressed and away from the study. He needed to rub away the agony. Now, and he couldn’t care less who saw him do it. The headmaster laid the cane on his desk. “You are dismissed,” he intoned and took much pleasure as the pair sped from the room. He knew very well they would be dashing down the passageway to the senior boys’ lavatories to inspect the damage. He very much hoped they would award him the maximum ten points for the effectiveness of his beating.


z used jeanz down belt table (2)

Mr Richards placed the handset on the cradle and waddled out of the room in search of his wife. “Hilda!” he called and she answered him from the kitchen. “I just got off the phone from Paul Clarkes’ father, he tells me his son and Duncan were caned by the headmaster today. Playing truant. He says Duncan was the ringleader.”

“Oh dear,” his wife dried her hands on her wrapround apron. “Trouble at school …” She let her sentence trail of into silence. Both she and her husband knew what that meant.

“Call him down will you please. Well do this in the sitting room,” Mr Richards ran his thumbs across the belt holding up his trousers. It was a narrow thin affair, constructed of plastic. “That won’t do at all,” he tutted silently. “Not at all.”

He heard footsteps padding down the carpeted staircase. He looked into the hallway to see his son standing, a little dumbfounded. Clearly, his mother had not told him the reason for his summons. “Wait in the sitting room,” Mr Richards spoke clearly and calmly. He never believed in histrionics. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He ascended the stairs slowly, his immense stomach rolling as he went. Breathless, he reached his bedroom and pushed open the door. This shouldn’t take a moment. He waddled across the room and halted before a large wardrobe with double doors. He turned a key in the lock and the right hand door eased open on its own. Inside the rail was heaving with clothes. His on the right hand side, hers on the left. He reached up and felt in the dark and his hand brushed against a heavy leather strap. “Just the fellow,” he whispered. In seconds he was fingering a thick wide leather belt. “Yes, the very thing.” He knew it would pack a punch.

He doubled it up in his hand testing the weight. There was no reason to do this, it was no stranger to him. The sheen on the leather had long since worn away.  This little beauty had seen action in its time. He had successful seen three sons into adulthood. Only Duncan now remained.

He shuffled back across the room and at a snail’s pace inched his way down the stairs. Duncan’s eyes widened. Dad had his belt in his hand; it meant only one thing.

“Paul Clarke’s father rang …” His dad need say no more. Matters must take their course. His father’s eyes narrowed. “You know what to do.” Indeed he did. It was a rule of the house. Clearly stated and known by all Mr Richards’ sons. You get punished at school, you get punished again at home. Mr Richards waved his belt in the general direction of the small sitting room. “In there,” he wheezed, and added for emphasis, “Now!”

Sorrowfully, Duncan turned on his heels and slowly, as befitting a condemned man, he edged into the room. It was a small space, with the dining room table and four chairs there was little room for much else. Small it might be, but there was enough room to swing a belt. It was a small terraced house, similar to thousands, hundreds of thousands probably, in towns and cities up and down the land.

Duncan stood quietly. There was nothing to say. Dad was in control. He ruled his own castle. They had both been here before. He heard voices through the wall from the house next door. The Robinsons were settled down watching Crossroads on the television. “Come on, you know what to do. Get ready! Trousers and pants down across the table! Anybody would think this was your first time.” His father’s voice was harsh as he waved the belt through the air.

Slowly, Duncan obeyed the command. Not looking at his father, he walked slowly towards the old rickety table. This would hurt, and hurt a lot. A strapping on top of the still fresh cane marks would be agony. Each lash of the leather would reignite the welts across his backside. His black jeans fitted snugly so he had no use for a belt. He popped the rivet at the waist and tugged down the zip. Oh how he hated for his father to see his cock and balls. He turned his back slightly on him and taking a firm hold of the waistband of his Levis he quickly pulled both jeans and briefs down just far enough to expose his buttocks. Before Dad could glimpse his privates he fell forward and rested his forearms on the table top.

The table was low and Duncan quite tall so he had to arch his back and jut out his bare backside at an angle to present himself submissively to the lashing. He closed his eyes and waited. He knew Dad would take his time. He heard a low wheezing sound as Mr Richards got himself into position. “Well, these are a fine set of marks,” Dad said admiringly. “That headmaster of yours certainly knows his onions.” Duncan winced, he certainly did not need reminding of that. His buttocks quivered as his father’s hand traced the welts that ran left to right across the naked flesh. “Yes,” Mr Richards repeated, “A very fine set indeed.” He tapped his belt across his son’s bum. “This should set them alight.”

Duncan felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his tender rear end. It was on fire. Each stoke of the headmaster’s caning returned to life, aching like crazy to be joined by the new dull throbbing made by the thick, heavy leather belt.

The crack of leather on stretched bottom bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Next door, the volume of the television was lowered. Obviously the goings-on at the Richards’ house was more interesting than the Crossroads Motel.

Duncan shut his teeth. His bum hurt. More than the Robinsons might ever have imagined. Then there was a short respite as Dad took a breather. Duncan could hear him breathing heavily with his exertions. Then he was off again. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the teenager’s  buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Duncan’s dad made sure the strap toasted every square of his son’s buttocks which were by now blazing, burning, stinging mounds of flesh.

Dad twisted his own flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Duncan’s buttocks. With his son’s upturned bottom in front of him, Mr Richards could choose his target with great accuracy. The eighteen-year-old’s bare bum made a terrific target.Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed.

“Enough!” Dad wheezed. He had to stop. If the truth be told he was suffering in his own way as much as his son. If he didn’t halt now he might have a heart attack, or at least a stroke. Duncan’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived. Gingerly, he rose from the table, carefully, so his Dad could not see his half-erect penis, he pulled his jeans and briefs up before stamping one foot after the other. He desperately wanted to rub away at his scorching buttocks, but as any spanked boy would tell you there’s an etiquette to these things. No matter how much you hurt, never let your punisher know. He had let himself down earlier in the headmaster’s study, he didn’t want to do that again. The rubbing would have to wait until he was back in his bedroom.  For now, he hopped up and down, rather like football players did when they had been kicked up in the air by an opponent. It didn’t help.

“Go,” Dad gasped. “And keep out of trouble at school in future.” Duncan flew from the room, took the stairs two at a time and hurled himself through his bedroom door and face down onto his bed. He buried his face in a pillow and sobbed his guts up.

Downstairs, his mother busied herself in the kitchen. She lit a match and got the gas going. Soon they could relax with a nice cup of tea. She hoped her husband would recover his breath soon.


Picture credits: Sting Pictures / Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

In the Dead of the Night

Clint Chapman woke up with a start and an aching bladder. If he did not get to a toilet very soon he would have an embarrassing accident.

Geoff Dawson lay beside him; breathing heavily; in a deep sleep. This would be tricky, Clint was pinned against the wall; Geoff blocked his way. It was a single bed; no more than a child’s size really. There was no alternative; he would have to climb over the sleeping boy.

“War… war … what’s up,” Geoff woke with a start.

“Sorry, I’ve got to have a whiz,” Clint was already climbing over the boy’s body.

Geoff switched on the table lamp. It was three in the morning.

Clint was out of the bed. “Where are my pants?” He was stark naked.

Geoff ducked under the bedclothes to search for them.

“Don’t worry. Too late, no time,” and without a stitch of clothing on his body, Clint dashed through the door to the bathroom.

With his bladder emptied and his penis dutiful rinsed, Clint felt much calmer. Now, he could return to the fifteen-year-old schoolboy tucked up in bed. Clint’s penis perked at the prospect of another round of hot sex with the blond boy who waited for him.

He opened the bathroom door.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” There was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff-backed, wrapped in a woollen dressing gown, standing on the landing.

Clint blinked in the poor light at the man who was now blocking his pathway. The man’s moustache bristled as his steely-grey eyes burned into Clint’s body.

Clint’s face brightened to the colour of beetroot and he placed his hands strategically in front of his dangling privates.

“Are you a burglar?”

Clint’s grinned sardonically and shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “A burglar? Naked like this?”

“I’m a friend of Geoff’s, from school,” he said unconvincingly. He was no schoolboy.

The man in the dressing gown, realising his own urgent need to answer a call of nature, pushed his way into the bathroom.

Moments later, Clint back in the bedroom, recounted his chance meeting in the hallway.

“Shit! That’s my father. What did you say?”

“I told him I was a school friend.”

“Do you think he believed you?”

Clint wanted to ask: “Would you?” but knew this would upset the boy.

There was no chance of more sex that night; Clint was certain of that. He delved under the bedclothes, retrieved his mauve bikini briefs and wriggled into them.

“It’s freezing!” He shuddered to emphasise the point, as if Geoff would not believe him. Then he climbed over the boy and resumed his place in the narrow bed, squashed up between the eighteen-year-old and the wall.

The light was off and they were both snuggling under the blankets, when the door swung open. The man in the dressing table, his jaw set in a fierce scowl, thundered into the room.

He switched on the light. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?” his purple face betraying the fury he felt.

Clint smiled wanly and waved hello.

“Who is this?” the furious father stormed across the small room to stand by the bed. It looked like at any moment he might drag Clint from beneath the blankets.

Geoff was breathlessly trying to remain calm. His whizzing heartbeat was sending blood coursing through his veins. He desperately hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt.

“This is Clint, he’s a friend from school,” even as the words escaped his lips, he knew his lie would not be believed.

Geoff’s father knew how to intimidate a boy. He had many years of practice as the headmaster of King Egbert’s Grammar School. If he chose to do so he could reduce the most unruly teenager to jelly. He leaned into the bed, “Get out now! You are going home!”

Terrified by this imposing man, Clint pulled the blankets tight across his chest and tried to hide behind the slender body of his companion.

“But father,” Geoff had never called him dad, “it’s the middle of the night, the buses have stopped running.”

“Pah!” Mr Dawson’s explosion sent shudders through both boys.

“Get out of bed now. At once. This instance,” he directed his anger at Clint.

Relieved that he was now wearing his underpants and his penis was once again soft, Clint rose from the bed, climbed across Geoff, and stood alongside Dawson.

“Here put this on,” he scooped up a shirt discarded earlier in haste on the carpet and thrust it at Clint. “Come here!”

Geoff was transfixed with terror. His father was a strong man and there was no telling what he might do.

Taking Clint by the hair he marched him from the room on to the landing, and still holding a tight grip on the hapless intruder, Mr Dawson opened an airing cupboard and took out two blankets.

Then he trudged Clint down the stairs to the lounge.

“Here take these,” he stabbed the blankets into Clint’s chest. “You are sleeping on the sofa. And don’t you dare leave this house until I have dealt with you in the morning!”

Clint, shivering with more than the cold of the early winter’s morning, watched eyes blazing as the man in the dressing gown, stormed from the room and ascended the stairs two at a time in his determination to sort out his son.

Geoff, who had been standing on the top landing while his father berated his lover, dashed back into bed at the sound of his father’s furious footsteps.

The door burst open once again. Geoff fully expected his father to be brandishing one of his school canes.

“Now tell me what’s going on!” he thundered.

Geoff, although relieved that his backside was spared imminent assault, sat terrified on the bed.

“He … he … he’s a friend from school,” he could hardly get the words out. He was not a dishonest boy by nature and the deception he was playing was tearing him apart.

“He missed his last bus, so he was staying the night,” he trailed off, before adding as an afterthought, “That’s all. Really.”

Then, feeling an urgent need not to lapse into silence, he said, “We were sleeping top to tail.”

His father exploded. “Don’t you dare lie to me! I know what’s going on.” Mr Dawson was as terrified as his son, but for entirely different reasons.

“I’m not lying. Honestly, I’m not,” tears were welling up in Geoff’s eyes.

His father’s eyes blazed. He was barely in control.

“Do you want me to come over there and inspect the sheets for stains!”

Even as the words left his lips, Mr Dawson despised his own crudity.

Geoff’s breathing hardened. That would be a humiliation too far. He manoeuvred his bottom slightly to move it away from a damp patch.

Mr Dawson, realising he was losing control, stormed towards the door, but he saw Clint’s jeans on the floor, so scooped them up: that would prevent any escape during the night, he thought.

From the door he thundered back at Geoff. “It’s late; I’ll deal with you in the morning!”

Tears flowed freely. “Deal with” him. His father was a headmaster; Geoff knew exactly what “deal with” him meant. King Egbert’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional sports and traditional discipline.

The next morning Dawson’s anger had not lessened. He followed his usual morning routine and by seven o’clock, showered and shaved and unannounced, he burst through the lounge room door to confront Clint.

The young man had not slept, his mind in turmoil imagining the ordeal that awaited him. He played out every possible scenario and before breakfast time was over he expected to be locked away in a police cell.

“Tell me: who are you?” Dawson barked.

“A friend of Geoff’s. From school.”

“Nonsense,” Dawson had expected the lie. “I saw your ID in your jeans.”

Clint blanched. The truth was out. He could already feel the handcuffs on his wrists.

“You are a civil servant. You’re twenty-six. Nearly twenty-seven,” Dawson’s eyes darkened.

“My son is eighteen years old …” he let the sentence trail off, unable to finish it. But the meaning was clear enough. Clint the older man had seduced his child and had his wicked way with him. The age of consent for homosexuals was twenty-one and Clint was in deep trouble.

The room fell silent. Clint knew it was useless to argue. Dawson would never believe that Geoff had been a more than willing partner. He would not want to know that Geoff had come on to him outside Barnaby’s, a well-known gay haunt in town. And, he certainly would not want to hear that his sweet innocent son Geoffrey was gaining a reputation around Hazeldene as a great lay. He loved to suck cock and he was very good at it.

All of this was left unsaid. Clint had no choice. When the police heard what had happened, he would be the perpetrator, the sex-fiend, the older man who had sexually assaulted a child. He vaguely knew it was statutory rape or something. He was on his way to jail and for a very long time.

“I should call the police!” Dawson still found it impossible to speak at a normal volume. But he made no movement towards the telephone.

Clint stared impassively from beneath his blankets.

It was a bluff. Dawson had no intention of calling the police. He hated this handsome man who had slept with his son, but if the police were involved the events of last night would become a public scandal. It would ruin Geoff’s life and the headmaster would become a laughing stock among the boys at school.

Another course of action was required, and Dawson knew exactly what he wanted to do.

“I should call the police, but I am not entirely sure that is the best solution,” Dawson was starting to sound like the headmaster that he was.

Clint’s sense of relief was pictured in the young man’s bright open face. He was to be spared the law, but he knew this was not yet over.

“Stand up!” It was a command.

Without question, Clint pushed the blankets to one side and rose from the sofa. Dawson eyed the young man up and down. In his time he had seen many naughty boys stand before him, but none were dressed only in a yellow t-shirt and mauve bikini briefs.

“Fold up those blankets. Neatly!” Clint had started to bunch them up but stopped and took care to fold them into four quarters of equal length.

Satisfied at Clint’s obedience, Dawson was ready to move on.

“Stand there, boy!” he pointed to a spot on the carpet in the middle of the room.

Clint did as instructed.

Dawson lectured the twenty-six-year-old. He was a headmaster of many years’ experience and he had many sermons prepared, suitable for any occasion.

Clint stood motionless, like generations of naughty schoolboys before him staring down at the floor, unwilling to meet the eye of his persecutor.

On and on, Dawson preached. He talked about responsibility, cleanliness and manliness. He told Clint he was irresponsible. He needed to control himself. He needed to set an example.

It was a new sensation for Clint, who sometimes believed he had been around the block a few times. He felt his cock stir as the dressing-down from the powerful, commanding, older man went on and on.

Still staring at his feet, Clint swiftly moved his hands in front of his crotch, hoping the headmaster had not seen his stirrings. The bikini briefs fitted so snuggly nothing could be hidden.

Dawson had not noticed. He did not have the slightest interest in this young man’s private parts; he had a different part of Clint’s anatomy in his sights.

At last, the sermon was over.

Clint had not been expecting what happened next.

Dawson walked through the door and returned within seconds. In his hand was a large school cane. He swished it through the air to demonstrate its whippiness and then he wobbled it in front of Clint’s face.

z used cane holding sting (3)

The teenager had never seen a school cane before. This one was more than three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Close up he could see how the yellow colour deepened at one end. If he had a mind to, he could have counted the ridges along the length of the rattan rod. For some reason that he could not understand, he was transfixed by the cane’s crook handle.

The front of his bikini briefs tightened further.

Dawson had beaten many backsides over the years. He had his own rituals for such occasions. Usually, once he had completed the sermon, he went straight to the action. The boy was ordered to bend over and the thrashing commenced.

That morning was to be no different. Dawson had the arrogance of all headmasters. It did not occur to him that there might be something unusual about the situation he had engineered. He had decided to beat the boy’s backside and the boy’s backside would be beaten.

Clint’s heart was racing. It was obvious where this was leading. The headmaster was going to cane his bottom as if he were one of his thirteen-year-old grammar schoolboys: and Clint wanted him to.

The young man had never been interested in corporal punishment. He knew it turned on some of his friends and he had heard that Geoff was not averse to taking money to go across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking. But not Clint. Yet, now, at the point that this older, dominant man was wobbling a cane in his face, he could not wait to show him his arse. He was, quite literally, bursting for it to happen.

Dawson knew none of this. In his world a boy about to be caned awaited his fate with trepidation. Even the boys who made regular trips across the back of his study armchair or desk feared the sting of the rod. No matter how stoical they tried to appear on the outside, inside they were in turmoil.

That was how he imagined Clint was at the moment he barked his order, “Bend over that sofa boy!”

Unnecessarily, since there was only one in the room, he swished the cane in the direction of the sofa.

Clint blushed deep red. Did this middle-aged man really intend to whip him with a school cane?

“Quickly, I have other things to attend to this morning!”

Yes, he did indeed intend to beat his backside, Clint concluded. And, as he walked forward and placed himself face down over the back of the sofa, he conceded, he wanted to let him do it.

This was a new experience for the headmaster. Usually, his target was contained within smart grey flannels: short trousers for the younger boys and long ones for the seniors. Very occasionally the trousers would be bunched at the boy’s ankles and he was offered buttocks enclosed in tight white underpants.

This was the first time Dawson had whipped his cane into mauve bikini briefs.

“Legs further apart, boy. Keep your head low down in the cushion!”

Dawson noticed for the first time that Clint’s body was muscular and gym-honed. Stretched as they were across the sofa, his buttocks appeared to be completely devoid of fat: they were buns of steel. The briefs hardly covered the young man’s cheeks and Dawson could see they were completely hairless, as were his legs.

Dawson saw all this, but was not interested in the boy’s beauty. Dawson had a duty to perform and he was going to do it.

A cane had never been close to Clint’s buttocks before and nor had any other instrument of corporal punishment. Now, his buttocks were offered up to this older, powerful man to do with as he wished. Clint had offered his arse up before, sometimes to a complete stranger, but Dawson had no desire to part Clint’s cheeks and enter him. He wanted to rip them to shreds. And he did.

He had never thrashed a boy so savagely in his entire career in school-mastering. The bikini briefs were useless. Within seconds twelve deep red lines criss-crossed his arse cheeks. Clint howled as the first cut bit deep into his muscular arse and he did not stop yelling and screaming until long after the headmaster laid down his cane.

Upstairs, in his bedroom Geoff buried his head under the bedclothes, unsuccessfully trying to hide away from the events taking place in the lounge. Clint was being put through it. And in a few moments, it would be Geoff’s turn.

At school, once a thrashing was over, another of the rituals took place. Ceremoniously, an entry would be written in the punishment book, the beaten boy would sign his name, and with that done, he would be dismissed, often still in great distress, from the study.

There was no punishment book to be signed this time, but the headmaster wanted the boy out of his sight and out of his house quickly.

Leaving Clint still jumping up and down on the spot trying fruitlessly to rub away the agony from his throbbing bottom, Dawson went to his own bedroom to fetch the man’s jeans. Then he burst into Geoff’s room (he was incapable ever of entering his son’s room quietly) and gathered up the rest of Clint’s clothes.

“I want you dressed and in my study in five minutes,” it was a stern command.

When Dawson reappeared downstairs, Clint had regained some of his composure. His face glistened with tears, but he had wiped most of the snot from his face. His was breathing more evenly and his heart rate had reduced nearly to normal.

“Get dressed,” Dawson threw the clothes on the floor. “Get out of my house!”

Clint did not need to be told a second time. He was through the front door inside a minute. The ache in his arse was intense as he hobbled down the street towards the bus stop. He was grateful the bus driver did not ask why he was standing when so many empty seats were available.

Mr Dawson’s study at home was nothing like the one at St Edgar’s Grammar School. That was wood panelled with a huge oak desk and padded armchairs. His study at home was more modest; it was a spare bedroom with a modern metal desk and a low-backed bucket chair. It was a small room, but quite large enough for Mr Dawson to swing his cane.

Geoff was quick out of bed on his father’s order. He was in enough trouble over last night he did not want to compound that by disobeying his father.

Although it was Saturday, Geoff still had to be at school. He did not attend the grammar school where his father was headmaster. He had won a scholarship to the much grander The Academy, a private school. He was a “day boy” although most of the pupils were boarders. Geoff resented that he had to return home to his parents at the end of each day: the opportunities for sex at night with the boarders must be awesome, he imagined.

In readiness for the classes he would attend later, Geoff began to dress himself in his school uniform. He was buttoning up his grey shirt when he was struck by an idea. Until two years previously when he entered the sixth-form at The Academy he was obliged to wear short trousers. He still had them tucked away in a drawer. If he presented himself to his father dressed in them it might convince him that Geoff was a sweet innocent child who was led astray by an older man.

He stepped into the grey flannel short trousers and pulled them up. He had to wriggle a little to get the waistband button to fasten, but they still fitted him, if a little snugly. He admired his reflection in the mirror: he saw a shortish, blond-haired boy with an arse to die for. He should wear these short trousers one night at The Village, the old queens would blow their fuses, he thought.

Minutes later he was stood contrite in his father’s study. The headmaster was well into his prepared sermon; but it was not the same one he had inflicted on Clint.

“How long have you had these feelings?” he intoned.

Geoff blushed and kept his eyes downcast at the carpet. “Dunno.”

“There are some things you might not quite understand. This friendship you have with Clint,” he said. “It is not, it cannot be a good thing. Do you understand?”

Geoff’s embarrassment was mounting. What was his father talking about?

“Yes, father,” he mumbled, realising that the question had not been rhetorical.

“Feelings such as these are often a by-product of growing up. That is not to say they are not wrong. You are going through a phase, but this is a serious matter and it must be nipped in the bud. Six strokes of the cane, I think should sort you out. You understand don’t you Geoffrey?”

Geoff clenched his jaws tight to stop them gaping. His father’s naivety left him gasping. Did he really believe what he was saying? Perhaps his father was not after all the font of all knowledge, Geoff had supposed him to be.

When instructed, Geoff bent himself over the low bucket chair. He could feel the seat of his short trousers tighten further; his buttocks making the perfect target for his father’s cane.

The eighteen-year-old scrunched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and clenched his cheeks in anticipation of the terrible pain to come.

His father was not quite ready. Many headmasters are drama queens and he was no exception. To heighten the tension, Dawson took the tail of the boy’s grey shirt and tugged at it until it was clear of the trousers and part way up the boy’s back. It was a freezing morning and Geoff shuddered as cold air connected with his bare skin.

He heard the swish, swish, of the cane as his father took up his position and found his aim.

Six strokes of the cane fell, hard, one after another.  Every one was a hefty lash; but no sound came from Geoff.  He rose from the chair, his face pale, and his eyes glinting. His father pointed to the door.

“You may go!” he said harshly.

And in silence, Geoff went.

That evening Clint lay on his bed. Downstairs his mother and father were engrossed in a soap opera on the television. In his mind, Clint played out his own drama. He was in the headmaster’s study at St Edgars’s School. In front of him stood Mr Dawson, dressed in a formal academic gown with a mortar-board cap on his head. In his hand he flexed a stout, but very supple, crook-handled cane.

He is fifteen years old, he thinks. He has been caught wanking with other boys behind the bike sheds. The headmaster berates him for his wickedness. He is a dirty, dirty, little boy, Dawson scolds wobbling his cane in Clint’s face.

And, we all know what happens to dirty little boys who cannot keep their hands to themselves, the headmaster preaches.

Clint is wearing a distinctive green and yellow school blazer and his even more distinctive grey short trousers are in a puddle at his feet. On the headmaster’s command, Clint bends over and touches his toes.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

The headmaster lays on the cane with all the strength of his arm, which is considerable. Six terrible swipes bring a succession of fearful yells from Clint.

At about the same time Clint reached for a fistful of tissues, Geoff was also at home, on his own bed.

Certain that the coast was clear and he would not be disturbed, he flicked with some melancholy through a porn magazine. He wanted to be in The Village, parading outside of Barnaby’s in his short trousers. For now, it would have to remain a fantasy. He needed to be careful for a while, now his father knew his secrets.

He wriggled a little. The six deep welts across his buttocks were still tender to the touch. He made himself comfortable and unzipped the front of his jeans.

Downstairs in the kitchen his father stared forlornly through the window into the darkened garden beyond.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

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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 Charles Hamilton the Second

The Scotch Whisky Mystery

new story 2

In February 2006 Mr R. A. F. Brightlington-Pugh, a former housemaster at the Ridgeway private boarding school in the west of England, passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-seven. Some years later, his great-great-great-great nephew found a leather-bound travelling chest containing diaries he had written during the 1930s and 1940s. This present story The Scotch whisky mystery was inspired by the diary entry for 11th November 1932.

Other diary stories here


The mystery of where the sixth form boys obtained their whisky has been solved at long last. It had been troubling me for many months. They thought I did not know they were taking nips after lights out. There is nothing that goes on in this house that I do not know about. Nothing. Sometimes, I believe it is better not to show one’s hand too early.

Whisky and all alcohol is naturally banned at Ridgeway, but the senior boys had a supply from somewhere. We are an isolated community and the boys are very conspicuous in the locale. The boys wear grey short trousers until they enter the sixth-form; no purveyor of alcoholic beverages could mistake them for anything other than schoolboys. Even the sixth formers dress in bright red blazers with white trimming and red-and-white-hooped school caps.

I was certain that nobody locally would knowingly supply my boys with firewater. I was, however, quite wrong. There was one person and he was I confess very adept at deceiving the school authorities.

I discovered it quite by accident. I had been to the senior common room and found I had forgotten my pen which I needed to correct some compositions. As I hurried down the passageway to my study I espied Tom Nedley, the baker’s boy. He had secreted under his jacket an empty Scotch whisky bottle. His stock in trade was loaves of bread and sticky buns; not booze. Something was afoot.

One need not be Sherlock Holmes to work it out. The idiot boy confessed under the mildest interrogation. He was the supplier to the sixth form. He brought to the school full bottles and later collected the empties. That way no evidence of illicit drinking would fall into the hands of we schoolmasters.

Tom is I suppose at least eighteen years old. I cannot be sure, but he stands at close to six foot and has a build that suggests he has worked manual labour for some time. He looks much older than that age. I know very little about him, except that he works in his father’s bakery and the family has been supplying the school since Noah was a lad.

What would his father say if the school cancelled its order and found a new baker for its needs?

“You have let your father down very badly,” I told him.

His ruddy face paled significantly. Some horror had struck him. “No, please don’t tell my dad,” he said. Then he positively wailed, “Ple-ase!”

Within minutes we were in my study and I was on the telephone to Mr Nedley. I could hear the alarm in his voice after I threatened to cancel the school’s order.

“Keep the boy there. I’ll be right over.”

Mr Nedley was true to his word. Within a quarter of an hour he stood in my study. Mr Nedley was his son’s father. Nobody who saw the two together could doubt it. They were like two peas in a pod, except that one was somewhat older than the other.

Tom quaked as his father entered the study. There is no other word for it. There was genuine fear.

I had no prior knowledge of Mr Nedley’s intentions. He was both young Tom’s employer and his father and legal guardian. I sat in my armchair and watched as events unfolded before me.

Mr Nedley’s face contorted with anger as his son confessed his misdeeds. He had supplied illicit alcohol to a variety of sixth-formers over the past months. He had received a generous “tip” with each delivery for his troubles. Yes, he confessed to his father, he knew he was breaking the school rules and the laws of Olde England itself.

That was enough for Mr Nedley. His son had erred and he had a father’s duty to punish him.

His eyes searched the room; until he found what he needed. He carried a straight-backed wooden chair from against the wall and placed it in the very centre of the study. Then, without saying a word to his son, he unbuckled his wide heavy leather belt and in one swift continuous movement pulled it through the loops on his thick serge trousers.

z used drawing belt hold (1b).jpg

He sat himself down on the wooden chair. Tom stood horror struck. Clearly he knew where this episode would end.

“Take down yer trousers and drawers and get across me knee.”

Tom shot a look across at me and then at his irate father. He said nothing, but the panic in his eyes said, “No, please, not in public.”

“Quickly, or I’ll do it fer yer.”

I watched impassively as the boy complied with his father’s instruction. First his thick grey worsted trousers fell to the ground. He hesitated significantly before sending his grimy grey woollen drawers in the same direction.

For a few moments he stood; his private parts on full display. His ruddy face was now scarlet.

“Over.” His father slapped his own thigh as if there were any doubt what he meant.

Tom lowered his vast frame across his father’s lap. At six-feet tall he made an imperfect fit. An over-the-knee spanking is best administered to a small child; not to a strapping eighteen-year-old. His knees were bent and his toes rested on the fairly worn rug. He placed the palms of his hands flat on the floor. His meaty bottom was raised at an angle against his father’s right knee.

In the time waiting for Mr Nedley to arrive I had contemplated what punishment young Tom should receive. I fully intended that the sixth-form boys would receive a severe beating with my special Malacca cane. It seemed only fair and appropriate that young Tom should receive similar treatment.

I had been prepared to offer one of the two crook-handled rattan canes that dangled from the hat stand in the corner of my study to Tom’s father. Indeed, I should have been prepared to administer the thrashing myself had Mr Nedley felt he did not have sufficient expertise to wield a cane effectively.

I watched as Mr Nedley trebled up his thick heavy leather belt. I am an exponent of corporal punishment. As a schoolmaster it is my duty to instil discipline in the young. I am the representative of authority; of law and order. As such it is entirely appropriate that I should deliver a beating at (quite literally) arm’s length. A boy prepares himself for a beating and I lash the cane into his backside. Our respective roles in this little ritual are clearly defined.

Corporal punishment delivered by a father to his son is altogether different. The spanking is part of a loving relationship and as such more intimacy is assuredly required. If I were to order a pupil (even the most junior) across my knee eyebrows would be raised. The relationship between schoolmaster and pupil is not at all intimate. The boy most of all would resent the imposition.

I once had a colleague who told me that when he was a schoolboy a certain master would always punish his charges with an over-the-knee spanking. He was last dealt with in such a way when he was aged eighteen. He had been required to lower his trousers and underwear and lay across the master’s lap to allow him to slap the palm of his hand into his naked bottom.

A realist would say that a hand spanking could never hurt nearly as much as a swishing with a rattan cane and therefore the boys should have been grateful to receive a lesser punishment. The boys did not see it this way. Their dignity suffered. A caning was a “manly” punishment; a spanking should be confined to the nursery.

I had never before witnessed a spanking, but it was clear this was not new territory for Tom and his father. The boy lay submissively, his head held so low that he was able to look underneath the chair and observe the trousers and underwear bunched at his own feet. Mr Nedley took hold of the tail of his son’s shirt and tucked it up his back so it was away from the buttocks. Then slowly and deliberately he rolled up the shirtsleeve on his own right arm so that any swing he might make with the leather belt would be unhindered.

Then, without warning he lashed the thick leather belt into Tom’s naked haunches. A sunset stripe appeared immediately; followed by another and then another as Mr Nedley set about covering every square inch of his son’s bottom.

The boy scrunched up his face to absorb the pain. His mouth opened and closed silently, rather like that of a goldfish. But, he made no sound. His father set about his task at a rhythmic pace and soon two meaty cheeks were the colour of a good Burgundy. From my vantage point on the armchair I could tell Tom must be in considerable pain. The flesh on his buttocks looked scorched.

Sweat soaked Mr Nedley’s grubby cotton shirt as he continued to pound his leather strap up and down; up and down. Satisfied that there was no part of the boy’s bottom unbranded he turned his attention to the back of the teenager’s thighs. That part of the anatomy is especially sensitive and the boy wriggled and squirmed a little in response to the sting of the strap.

At no point did Tom move the palms of his hands from the floor. He made no attempt to resist the ministrations of his father. He was as submissive as any one of my schoolboys when required to present themselves to me for a thrashing. I admired the boy’s fortitude.

In no time Tom’s face was as red as his backside. The leathering was having its desired effect. But Mr Nedley was not yet ready to conclude the spanking. With renewed vigour he took his belt once more around the circuit; smacking it into every part of the boy’s bottom; from the top of the curves, across the fleshiest part of the buttocks and into the crease at the under-cheeks where the rear end meets the thighs.

Then and only then was Mr Nedley satisfied.

There was no lecture. All he said was the single word, “Up.” The boy sprang to his feet and without waiting for permission he whipped up his underwear and trousers. Within seconds he was once again fully dressed.

Since we were in my study I felt the need to say something that might conclude the matter. I assured Mr Nedley that I had no intention of stopping further bakery orders. As far as I was concerned the boy had transgressed and he had accepted his just punishment. We could all move on now.

I did however warn young Tom that if he ever dared to supply my boys with whisky or any other alcohol I would personally see to it that he received a severe swishing with one of my special Malacca canes.

He murmured something that might have been, “Sorry, Sir,” and the pair of them went on their way.

All that was now left for me to do was to decide whether or not when the sixth formers attended my study later that day I would require them to lower their trousers and underwear.


Picture credit: Endart

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Five Bar Gate

new story 2

z used cane shorts armchair school london


Ralph stood at the bus stop bracing himself against the wind, his thumbs gingerly traced the contours of his buttocks through the folds of his grey short trousers. The pain had almost gone now but if would reignite when he pressed against the six raised welts that ran across his bum in the pattern of a five-bar gate.

The bus wouldn’t arrive for another fifteen minute. He had already missed an important appointment. This day would all end in tears.

He pulled his smart red school blazer tight across his chest, the wind was picking up. There was nothing he could do about his bare knees. Short trousers! In winter. He still could not got get over the absurdity of it. At his age.

Why had nobody made a serious complaint when the new headmaster decreed out of nowhere that all the boys would be put back into short trousers. All of them, from the first formers to the most senior boys. It would make the school distinctive, he had said. Ralph’s widowed mother had nodded sagely when he delivered the news. She was a timid woman and never liked to make a fuss. Oh how he despised her.

So, that was that. The whole school back in short trousers. The lads in the village thought it was a hoot. He had enough trouble with them because he had won a scholarship to the posh independent grammar school. His smart red blazer gave him away wherever he went. That was bad enough, but short trousers; they never let him hear the end of it.

He rubbed his bottom some more; it felt rather good. And that was another thing, Dr Anderson had bought back the cane. No one was quite sure if corporal punishment had officially been banned, but definitely it had fallen into disuse.

Ralph had no idea if the boys’ behaviour had worsened because there was no caning; or indeed if it had improved since the good doctor had commenced swishing backsides. Naturally, the story went round the school that Anderson enjoyed beating their buttocks. Certainly, he did it all he time. He flew into the school like some occupying force. At once pronouncements were made; rules were published; a list of ‘caning offences’ drawn up.

The doctor took no prisoners. Not even the sixth-formers as Ralph could testify. Smoking cigarettes. That was top of the list of caning offences. In the school’s eyes smoking was a bigger crime than murder or rape. Looking back Ralph could see he only had himself to blame; he should have known the doctor was deadly serious.

Now Ralph understood times had really changed. Caning. Sixth-formers. For smoking. Since time immemorial it had been accepted that sixth-formers went behind the pavilion by the playing fields for a quick drag at lunchtime. Always had done; always would. Not any longer. He, along with two pals, had been caught that lunchtime puffing on Woodbines, by Mr Tompkins, the most junior of the physical ed. masters. What a sod. He dobbed them in to the head of sixth-form and he passed their case up the line. Why! They’re sixth-formers for pity’s sake. Eighteen years old. Adults. In the world outside school it was legal to smoke at sixteen. Try telling that to Dr Anderson.

“You deliberately broke the rules,” he intoned as the three boys stood uneasily, hands behind backs, eyes downcast in the headmaster’s study. “You were fully aware of my edict against smoking cigarettes,” he steepled his fingers and leaned back in his padded chair. Dr Anderson was younger than he looked. His pate was almost entirely bald, save for tusks of snowy-white hair at the temples, his nose and chin were so pointed they almost met, his cold grey eyes could pierce armour.

Ralph listened solemnly. He had never been summoned the headmaster’s study before. It was a medium sized room, dominated unsurprisingly by a large oak desk. At one end of the room were two rather decrepit armchairs and a small occasional table. Three walls were lined with shelves and glass fronted bookcases. The fourth wall almost entirely comprised mullioned windows of dark glass. In one corner an umbrella stand was unadorned except for three crook-handled rattan canes that leaned limply.

Ralph had never seen a school punishment cane before. Sure, he had seen drawings of them in comics like the Beano and he had seen an old film on television where a headmaster administered six-of-the-best. The camera stayed on the boy’s face throughout so there wasn’t much to see. Ralph wondered what a caning would feel like. Pretty painful probably. It would have to be otherwise what was the point of it all?

Dr Anderson rose from his chair interrupting Ralph’s thoughts. The headmaster was making his stately way across the study. He was a tall, upright man with broad shoulders and a torso that narrowed to the waist. He had been a keen sportsman in his younger days and still liked to keep in shape.

Three pairs of eyes followed him on his travels. He paused at the umbrella stand and reached forward. The rattling sound of the canes as he moved them seemed to Ralph to echo around the study. Dr Anderson pulled the thinnest cane free and took it in his hands. He flexed it into a perfect arc and half-heartedly swished it through the air. His face frowned; he returned it to its moorings. The doctor was well acquainted with all his canes. He had several more locked away in a cupboard but he liked to keep three on display close a hand, ready for action. He chose a second cane from the umbrella stand and repeated the flexing and swishing. He liked to take his time, he thought it intimidated any boy waiting nervously for proceedings to begin. He grimaced again and returned the cane. His shoulders heaved as he emitted a sigh so deep one might be led to believe the poor man carried the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. What a responsibility he held, he was saying, trying to guide the young along the rocky road to manhood.

He took up the third cane and turned to face the three miscreants. It was no longer than the others but was thicker and more dense. It was a little over three feet long (not counting the curved handle), yellowy-beige in colour and had notches every three or four inches along its length. Dr Anderson flexed it thoughtfully in his hands, as if he had never seen the thing before. His lips pursed, he seemed to be considering if this rod was fit for the job. He tested its weight, pointed it at the three anxious teenagers and swished it through the air. It was a vicious swipe and it made a terrific whooshing! sound as it flew. Ralph now had no doubt at all that the beating he was about to receive would be very painful indeed.

The headmaster was ready. “You boys,” he gestured to Ralph’s two pals, “turn around and face the wall.” Ralph’s face paled. He was to go first. “Rowcastle,” he glared at Ralph. “Take off your blazer, hang it there,” he waved the cane at the umbrella stand. Ralph’s knees weakened, a fear he had never experienced before in his life gripped him. This was really happening. It wasn’t a dream, he wouldn’t suddenly hear his mum’s voice, “Wake up Ralphy you’ll be late for school.”

He stood rooted. “Come on boy, I haven’t got all day!” Dr Anderson’s patience had been tested beyond its very low level of endurance. Ralph’s fingers trembled as he fumbled at the buttons of his blazer. Why couldn’t he get them to work? At last the front of the jacket was open. He slipped it off his shoulders and hung it up.

He turned to see the headmaster standing by an old, worn armchair. He pointed his cane to a spot on he grey carpet. “Stand there.” As if in a trance, Ralph shuffled forward. In years ahead, recalling this afternoon, Ralph would say he couldn’t remember too much of what happened next. His first ever caning was something of a blur. If questioned on the matter, Dr Anderson might say something similar. He might not be able to recall thrashing Ralph Rowcastle; after all, he might say in mitigation, he was one of three boys he beat at the same time and was probably the sixth or seventh boy to go across the back of the armchair that day. Certainly, a day never passed without Dr Anderson swishing his cane across a bevy of bottoms.

“Bend over the chair.”

Ralph’s pal, Paul Thompson, could stand it no longer. He had obediently set his face to the wall as instructed. He too had never been caned in his life. His heart was thumping so fast he was certain it would burst through his chest. Blood was coursing through his body. He couldn’t wait to get started. Surreptitiously, he turned his head to sneak a peek. His headmaster did not notice, he had other things on his mind. Paul watched as Ralph hesitated before moving. Paul wouldn’t know what to do either. “Bend over the chair”; what did that mean exactly? Paul watched his pal stare down at the seat of the chair. He was a tall boy and would easily fit over the back of the chair with some room to spare. Was he expected to rest his stomach on the back of the chair and with his knees bent present a jutting backside to the headmaster? Perhaps if he fell all the way forward, Paul thought, and reached over and gripped the front of the seat cushion, his back would be arched with his bottom presented round and firm.

Ralph had other ideas, he simply stooped forward and grabbed the wooden arms of the chair. He spread his legs so that his backside was hardly curved at all. A feeling that Paul could not understand struck him. His pal was hardly bent over at all. He might just as well be standing. Suddenly he felt disappointed, cheated even.

The headmaster seemed satisfied. Paul had a perfect view of Ralph’s backside. The boy’s buttocks trembled as Dr Anderson took his aim. He stood a cane’s length to Ralph’s left and tap-tap-tapped it across the eighteen-year-old’s left buttock cheek. Satisfied that he had his mark, the headmaster lifted the cane up and drew it to about shoulder height, then he brought it back with great force, making a perfect arc before it crashed across the very centre of both cheeks. Ralph stamped his feet, wriggled his hips, heaved his shoulders, raised his head. A long drawn out hissing noise escaped his lips, it sounded like a steam engine setting down.

“Keep still boy!” Dr Anderson growled. With great difficulty, Ralph regained his position. Paul’s temples throbbed as he watched intently as the headmaster made his preparations for cut number two. He swiped the cane through empty air while he waited for Ralph to compose himself. Satisfied that he was ready, he tapped the cane against Ralph’s solid backside, this time an inch or so below the first. Whoppp! It landed with an upward swing. Ralph cried out a terrific yelp! and did the stomping and twisting thing again.

“Don’t make such a fuss!” Dr Anderson stood, feet apart flexing the cane between his hands. Paul gasped. That hurt. His pal was in agony. Soon it would be Paul’s turn.

The third stroke was aimed higher and the fourth lower. Ralph was weeping openly. He threw his head back and yowled. He made no attempt to conceal it. He was a thoroughly beaten boy. Dr Anderson paced the study in irritation. He despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on Six.

Ralph settled. His humiliation was total, Paul reckoned. He watched the headmaster line up swipe number five, anxious to ignore the slight swelling inside his tight cotton underpants. Ralph’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wooden arm of the chair for dear life. “Aggghhhhh!” The cane stuck the underside of the cheeks, just where they meet the thighs. He wouldn’t be able to sit down in comfort for many hours to come.

Ralph’s breathing was almost as rapid as Paul’s. The onlooker couldn’t control his own dick, now standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

The last one. The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff; how many strokes he would administer, but it wouldn’t be more than six – would it? Six-of-the-best; wasn’t that what they called it?

Ralph’s brutalised bottom shook with trepidation. Paul saw the headmaster change his stance. He moved closer to his pal’s proffered posterior. Paul’s eyes widened. He realised what the good doctor was up to. He had placed the cane at an angle across both buttocks. It lay from the bottom of the left cheek across to the top of the right; it was a perfect diagonal. “The brute!” Paul thought as the cane rose and lashed across Ralph’s backside crossing each of the five previously delivered strokes and reigniting the pain in them all and then adding some.

Ralph shot to his feet, his hands clutching at his burning bum. Simultaneously, he bent forward double desperately trying to catch his breath. When that made no difference he jumped up and down on the spot, like footballers did when they were trying to run off an injury. When that didn’t work, he resorted to hopping from left foot to right. The headmaster glared at the spectacle with unconcealed distain.

“Bah!” he growled, “Stand by the wall. “Thompson take his place.” Paul shuffled forward, hands clutched in front of his groin. Eagerly, he dived over the back of the chair, head low, firm, round bottom high, feet spread, and waited.

At the bus stop, the bus had at last arrived. It would take him to his village of Aston Budleigh; but not to his home. Not quite yet. Ralph had an appointment with Rev Crick, the local vicar, when he would be expected to atone for his rudeness and disobedience to his widowed mother.


Picture credit: CP Services London.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second