Six of the best seasonal stories

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For those of us who like their stories with a seasonal flavour, here are six of my favourites from previous years. Click on the titles.


Better believe in Santa Claus

Lucas Lomas is a stroppy teenager and the magic of Christmas means nothing to him. There is no such person as Santa Claus he tells his kid brother — but is he right?

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Approved-School Santas

Inmates at a school for young offenders are forced to show Christmas spirit to a group of orphans, but greed gets the better of them.


The Morning After the Night Before

Tony’s bad behaviour spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day. His friend Tony knows how to deal with that …

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Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

Ben McKenzie works at a supermarket where he decides to steal bottles of booze to give as Christmas presents, but then his boss finds out …

When Santa Claus was caned

Three old men play Santa at a school’s Christmas party. All is well until silver trophies go missing.

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The School Dance

The Christmas school dance always gets out of hand. More so when two horny virgin boys are enticed by the girls from St. Winnie’s.


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Picture credits: British Boys Fetish Club / Alan Paul / C of Sweden / Hotspur / Sting Pictures



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second



You, the housemaster

new story 2

z used school pyjamas cane armchair London

You turn the pages of your newspaper. The world is going to Hell in a handcart. War, pestilence: everywhere. The bus drivers are on strike in Manchester. The Barbarians are at the gate. You lean back in your comfortable armchair and puff on your brier pipe. The aroma of sweet tobacco is somewhat consoling. You glance around the study: your terrain. It is a dominated by a dark, leather-topped desk. It might be a hundred years old. You know it is solid and enduring. It also weighs a ton. It has six drawers in two columns of three. There are two armchairs, each made of a wooden frame covered by a tough fabric coloured green. There are three equally heavy straight-backed wooden chairs arranged along one wall. Glass-fronted bookcases cover two sides. In one corner is the a coatstand with mortar-board cap and flowing academic gown dangling. In another is a tall, thin cupboard. A fireplace is unlit. Whatever might happen in the wider world nothing changes here. That is the way you like it.

The minute hand of the clock on the mantelpiece crawls to number twelve. You rustle the Daily Telegraph and turn the pages. Perhaps, there is better news in the sports section. No! England are failing miserably in the Test. The room is stuffy, only one window opens, the others have been stuck fast since long before you took over as housemaster. The bursar promised to get them fixed. That was two years ago. The muggy air makes you a little drowsy. You should like to abandon the study and return to your home, but you cannot. You have one more duty to perform before your day’s work is done.

All is silence. It is time for lights out. The school is preparing for bed. You hear the floorboards squeak in the passageway outside. You glance at the clock one more time. Your visitor is punctual. The squeaking stops. You imagine him standing outside your door, apprehensive. Not wanting to knock. Anxious, fearful even, about the fate that awaits him. Good, you allow yourself a half-smile, that is exactly how it should be.

At last there is a rap on the door. He has plucked up the courage. You wait counting time in your head. Let him sweat a little. Perhaps he will think you are not at home, that he has been given a reprieve. Ha!  “Come!” Your call is imperious. It is a command that must be obeyed. Your eyes are fixed on the door. Slowly it eases open. You see the top of his head first, the hair dishevelled. It is followed by a chubby face. It is the kind of face that loves to smile: but not this evening. It is etched in misery.

“Close the door, boy!” you bark.  He shudders, turns, looks at the door as if he had never seen it before. It is old and heavy and takes some of his strength to shut. You watch, puffing your pipe, as he moves further into your study. He stands, head bowed, feet slightly apart, a typical schoolboy pose. He is a large boy, a sixth-former, eighteen-years old, but in his dressing gown and bedroom slippers he appears much younger. He wipes his sweaty palms down the side of the thick woollen robe, then clasps his hands behind his back.

You are in no hurry. Your boys prefer you to “just get on with it”. They know why they are here; you know why they are here. But, you think, where’s the sport in that? You carefully fold your newspaper, shuffling the pages so they are carefully aligned. You put it down on a table then you lift yourself from your chair. The boy’s eyes burn into you as slowly you walk across the study and stand in front of the open, unlit fireplace. You turn and face him. He is sweating. Not for the first time he stealthily rubs his palms against the dressing gown. You place your hands behind your back, this is the posture you always adopt when delivering homilies.

You know there is little you can say in such situations. You summarise his misdoings. You demand his confession. This time it is breaking bounds. The young oaf has been at the Three Fishers, a notorious public house in the village. You know many of the senior boys frequent that den of iniquity. You have dealt with many of them in your study. But, you are certain, not all of them. You know that the schoolmaster and schoolboy play a “cat and mouse” game. The boys break the rules, often undetected. That is (if you will) fifteen-love to them. Of course, when they are caught they must accept their punishment (fifteen-all).

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” you intone. You expect him to say, “Sorry, sir,” or some such banality. Then you can get on with the business at hand. But, the young fool stays silent. Suddenly, he frowns. Ha! He hasn’t been listening to you. “Pah!” you exclaim. (Is, you wonder, “Pah!” actually a word. You use it a lot but never in an adult context. That is, you only utter the word (sound?) when exasperated with silly boys.) “Do not add dumb insolence to your list of crimes,” you tell him.

His fearful stare tells you he has no idea what question you have asked of him. You repeat it and as expected he has nothing pertinent to add. You say nothing, but, hands behind back, you saunter across the study. You cannot see him, but you know his eyes are following you. You stop at the tall, thin cupboard, straighten your back and plunge your hand into your right trouser pocket. You know it is empty save for a small silver-coloured key. It is so tiny and the pocket so deep that you cannot at first locate it. You fumble around looking to all the world that you are playing pocket billiards. Your ire rises. At last you find it and at the second attempt you get it in the lock of the cupboard.

You are certain the boy is now standing in a state of great anxiety. He knows what is located within the cupboard. You lean into it and delve around for a while before you withdraw a long, thin yellow cane. You peer at it intently and replace it. You pull out a second cane. This one is longer and thicker than the first. It is a darkish-yellow-almost-brown colour. It is a Malay cane. It is denser than your standard “senior” canes but still has the traditional crooked handle. You know it will pack a punch.

You hold the cane at the handle with one hand and its tip with the other and flex it. Then you swipe it through the air. It travels at a terrific whoosh! You always do this. You think it adds to the drama of the occasion. It is meant to intimidate a boy. You have no idea if this is successful, certainly the sixth-former standing before you is no stranger to your study, or your canes.

“Take off your dressing gown and place it on my desk,” you speak slowly and softly. You are in total command there is no need to bark orders as if you were a sergeant-major on a parade ground. You watch as he unwraps the robe from his body and carefully folds it. Now, he wears only pyjamas. You swish the cane through the air, enjoying the rushing noise it makes as it flies. Your pulse quickens.

“Put the chair into place,” you tell him. He knows exactly what you mean and takes a grip on the armchair you were not sitting at and turns it so that the back faces into the room. The task completed, he stands back and respectfully puts his hands behind his back. You stand behind him and swish the cane, you notice with satisfaction perspiration soaks the back of his head. You are ready to go. You thwack the arm of the chair with the cane – you know this is completely unnecessary but you like to add to the drama. “Bend over.” You intone the words dreaded by every schoolboy summoned to your study.

He pauses as if sizing up the chair. You know he is familiar with the process. He is tall and the chair low, he leans forward, rests his elbows on the arms and spreads his legs. His face hovers above the old, worn seat cushion. The boy’s bottom is angled across the apex of the chair, it is perfectly positioned for your purpose. You can best describe him as “chunky”; that is, he is not fat, but nor is he slim. His buttocks, loose when he is standing, tighten considerably when stretched for a caning. Now they are firm and round. The cotton material of the pyjamas fits snugly across the buttocks, each cheek is well defined. He has presented you with a terrific target.

He tenses as you “saw” the cane across the fleshiest part of his bum. You tap it three times to get your distance. You stand about three feet to his left (a cane’s distance) and make sure the tip of the cane reaches the far cheek. You lift it off and raise it to the height of your shoulder, then with a slight turn of the body you crack it down at some pace across the centre of his buttocks. It is a manoeuvre you adapted from the golf links. The crack is satisfying (to you, not the boy since he gasps with the shock.) The cane whistles and thuds as you deliver the second stroke. He grips the chair stifling a groan.

You take in a deep breath and hold it there while you lift the cane once more calling up every ounce of strength. You let fly. Bingo! It swipes him on the back of the thighs. Ha! He’ll feel that every time he sits down for the next week. His hips sashay, his head bounces up and down. His neck is scarlet and so (you know from experience) is his bottom.

You lick your arid lips. Your heart pounds. Your palms are sweating. This time you stand on your toes as you swipe the cane higher across the boy’s quivering rear end. He punches his fists into the seat cushion and emits a “sssssss!” through not-quite clenched teeth. The sound reminds you of a steam train settling down. He stamps his feet up and down.

You tap the cane across his bottom again, taking aim. This time higher on the crest of the mounds, closer to his back. The bottom quivers with anxiety. The cut slices his meaty bum with a downward motion. You take a step or two back to admire your handiwork. You are delighted to see thin white lines from the cane embossed across the seat of his pyjamas. There are welts throbbing underneath. The boy’s face and neck are crimson.

You can’t see your face crack into smile. You have a special treat for the boy this evening. You alter your position. Now you lay the cane across his bottom so it runs the bottom of the left buttock to the top of the right cheek – a diagonal shot. Quickly, you raise the cane and with tremendous force (you might be beating a carpet) slash it across the four welts already pulsating across his backside. He wails like a banshee. His feet stamp, he headbutts the seat cushion. He is in great distress. You know he will remember this thrashing for the rest of his life.

Calmly, you reposition yourself and set the cane along the opposite diagonal. Within a second you have imprinted a perfect “X” across his backside. He repeats the shrieking and the stamping and shakes his hips from left to right. You suddenly realise that your nose is dripping. You wipe it with the back of your hand. Slowly, you move to the cupboard and replace the cane.

That done, you turn and survey the scene. An eighteen-year-old schoolboy is draped across the back of the armchair. His bottom still quivers and his knees remain buckled. His face is contorted like a gargoyle. “You may remove yourself,” you quietly tell him. The punishment is over. He has atoned for his misdeed. You must both now get on with your lives.

You return to your armchair and stare down at the pipe in the ashtray. “Go,” you say and wave a hand at the door. He grabs his dressing gown and struggles with the handle and heavy door on his way out. You relight the pipe and pick up the Daily Telegraph. The world outside may be changing, you think, but in this study things will always remain the same.

Picture credit: CP Services London

 For a version of this story from the boy’s point of view, click here


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What would his girlfriend say?

Expelled from school

Rory and Alistair 4: Young Ferguson


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

You, in the housemaster’s study

new story 2

z used cane pyjamas up armchair school london (2)

You walk slowly, pacing yourself. You are in no hurry. You turn the corner and enter a narrow, gloomy, dank passageway. Natural light never intrudes here. A whiff of damp walls, mildew possibly, hits you. That smell is everywhere. Ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows may speak to history and tradition but they fail to hide decay.

Trudge, trudge, trudge. Your bedroom slippers never did fit properly and you shuffle along like an old man. Your dressing-gown is loosely tied. Away from this cold passageway the sun is still awake and late spring saunters into summer. The evening is warm, you have no practical need for the gown. You wear it as a matter of modesty; your pyjamas are protection enough.

The passageway is not long. You walk at a snail’s pace but you reach your final destination soon enough. A dark panelled door. Heavy wood. Chipped and scratched. Like so much of this place, it has seen better days. You pause, your heart beats faster. Your palms sweat. You look closely at the familiar sign, noting not for the first time that one of the screws that attaches it to the door is missing. H. L. T. Haddock, Housemaster. You and your pals long ago exhausted all the jokes attached to that name. You run the back of your hand under your nose. It helps to curb your growing nervousness a little.

You crane your neck forward, almost, but not quite, placing your ear against the door. You don’t know what you expect to hear. Maybe you are not the only visitor this evening. The door is made of oak (you think); it is certainly thick and muffles sounds from inside the room. In your head you count slowly up to ten. One hippopotamus … two hippopotamus … You cannot put this off any longer. You rub your palms against the thick woollen dressing-gown once more, suck in a gulp of air, ball your right hand into a fist, raise it against the door and with more confidence than you truly feel, rap your knuckles against a panel.

Silence. It seems to last forever. You have doubts. Is Haddock at home? Do you have the right time? Was Rustington Minor ragging when he delivered the summons to you? Was this the fags’ idea of a joke. Was there to be a reprieve?

“Come!” The call is imperious. You hear it loud and clear despite the deadening thickness of the door. Your spine tingles as if caught by a draught. This is it, you think. Over the top. Time to go. You can’t put this off any longer. You wipe the palm of your hand again. You reach for the dull brass handle. Twist it. Put some weight against the door and slowly ease it open.

You are hit by the familiar aroma; pipe smoke and stale human sweat. You clear the threshold and stand for a moment transfixed. Nothing has changed since your last visit. Haddock sits in a worn armchair, the Daily Telegraph open on his lap. His pipe smoulders in an ashtray on a small table to his left. He is dressed in his civvies; baggy black trousers with bold white stripes, a shirt with soft collar attached, a cardigan buttoned to his chest. Bedroom slippers on his feet. You see his housemaster’s “uniform” of mortar-board cap and flowing academic gown hanging from a hat stand in one corner of the room.

The atmosphere is close and fuggy. You see wisps of pipe smoke reflected in a sunbeam that streams through the only window in the study that is capable of opening. “Close the door, boy!” Haddock barks at you. Like Pavlov’s dog you obey the command instinctively. That done, you stand submissively, hands clasped behind back. You wait. You are in no hurry. You know how this scenario will play out.

Haddock carefully folds his newspaper, ensuring that all the pages are carefully aligned. He puts it down on the table next to his pipe, safeguarding that it is not so close as to cause a fire. He lifts himself from the chair. You watch him as he moves across the room and stands with his back to the open, but on this sultry evening, unlit fireplace. Like you, he places his hands behind his back. You face one another: man to man. Haddock is a man in his later years (you suppose, but you boys believe that thirty is old). Despite his age he stands with a ramrod back. He is maybe five-eight tall at the most but his presence dominates the room. His chest is broad but his stomach soft. His forehead is high and his hair thin. His jowls sag and his once clear, blue eyes no longer penetrate as they used to.

He begins to speak. Your brain switches off. You know why you are here. You know what is going to happen. You understand there are rituals to this. He talks of your “breaking bounds”. You have been warned before. Disobedience. Intolerable behaviour. You have been to the Three Fishers. Again. It is a disreputable pub. You go there to beat the oiks from the village at billiards. It is an easy task. Billiards, like chess, is a game of intellect. They are no match for you. You despise the working classes. What is it that Cameron calls them? “Thick as two short planks” (whatever that means).

Suddenly there is a silence in the room. You realise with a start Haddock has finished jawing. He is glaring at you. Oh scissors! he must have asked you a question. You see Haddock’s face redden. Soon it will be puce. “Pah!” he ejaculates. “Do not add dumb insolence to your list of crimes.”

You wait for him to repeat the question. No, you have nothing to say for yourself. You are guilty as charged. You do not tell him that you made several visits undetected to the Three Fishers this term. You know it was bad luck this time. Seagrass, the new junior mathematics master, was in the “snug” bar? You are pragmatic: you win some, you lose some.

Your eyes follow Haddock as he walks across the study. It is a medium-sized room mark dark by mahogany wall panels. It is dominated by a huge, leather-topped desk. You guess it weighs a ton. It has six drawers in two columns of three and would need several men to move it. There are two armchairs, each with a wooden frame covered by a tough fabric coloured green. Like so much at the school they are not in the full flush of youth. There are three equally heavy straight-backed wooden chairs arranged along one wall. Glass-fronted bookcases cover two walls. In one corner is the aforementioned hat stand, in another is a tall, thin cupboard.

You know where Haddock is headed. You see him pause at the cupboard, straighten his back and with his right hand delve into a pocket in his trousers. You see it is deep and his hand rummages around. To you the pocket seems to be empty. You see his impatience as he fishes around. At last he withdraws his fist. You see between his fingers he holds a small silver-coloured key. You suck down on your bottom lip, rub sweaty palms against the dressing-gown. You watch as he fumbles to get the key in the lock, his irritation growing. Success. The key turns, the door squeaks open. From where you are standing you cannot see inside the cupboard. You watch Haddock lean into the cupboard. It is not large. A rattling sound confirms what you already know. You see him withdraw a long, thin yellow cane. He peers at it intently and replaces it. You wipe your palms one more time.

You watch Haddock pull out a second cane. It is longer and thicker than the first. Your throat tightens as he turns to face you. It is a darkish-yellow-almost-brown colour. You recognise it. It is his Malay cane. It is denser than Haddock’s standard “senior” canes but has the traditional crooked handle. You know it will pack a punch. You are not impressed as Haddock holds the cane at the handle with one hand and its tip with the other and flexes it. Then he swipes it through the air. It travels at a terrific whoosh! You know schoolmasters always do this with their canes. It is another part of the ceremony. You know this is designed to intimidate a boy. Not you. You have seen it all before.

You know Haddock is nearly ready, but there are more formalities to come. Your hand is steady as you undo the belt on your dressing-gown and shake it off your body. You fold it lengthways and then widthways and place it carefully on his desk. You are now dressed only in your pyjamas. You know Haddock only beats a boy at lights out. You think this is supposed to add to the tension. You have spent the entire day anticipating this moment. You know housemasters have their own formalities; Forester always canes at lunchtime. With Corbin it is immediately after school. Haddock does it at the end of the day.

Haddock swishes the cane through the empty air as you manoeuvre the armchair into position. You swivel it around so that its back now faces into the room. The task completed, you stand back and respectfully put your hands behind your back. Waiting. The room is stuffy, the pipe continues to smoulder in the ashtray. The only window that opens provides no air. You feel sweat trickle down your spine, your scalp inches. Your heartbeat quickens. You can no longer see Haddock but you hear him swishing the cane. You sense his movement. He is standing directly behind you. Then he steps forward. You see him from the corner of your eye. He grips the cane in his right hand. His arm stretches. He whacks the tip of the cane across the back of the armchair. “Bend over,” he intones.

You look down at the familiar armchair. The fabric is faded in places and the material has worn through along the seams. You know as armchairs go it is modest in size and ambition. This is not a plush leather Chesterfield couch. Such furniture befits the headmaster’s study. Haddock has to make do with something that would not be out of place in a suburban sitting room. You have the measure of this chair. You know that when you bend across it and rest your elbows on the wooden arms your stomach will clear the chair’s apex by some inches. In this position your bottom should be perfectly positioned for Haddock’s purposes.

You rub your palms one last time, take a deep breath, and lean forward. You part your feet by about twelve inches and your back is arched. “Head a little lower boy. Bottom out.” You wriggle around to Haddock’s satisfaction. You feel the cotton material of your pyjamas tighten around your buttocks. You know you pack a lot of meat back there. They are firm and round and much admired by the fellows in the baths after rugby.

You don’t consider the incongruity of your situation. Here you are eighteen years old offering up your bottom for an older man to beat with a whippy cane. To you it is just how things are. It doesn’t occur to you that none of the oiks from the Three Fishers are submitting to similar punishment. You stare down at the squashed seat cushion. It is stained with the sweat of countless backsides. How many hundreds of visitors have sat in that chair? And, how many generations of schoolboys have bent over its back?

These are not questions that concern you much. You sense Haddock moving again. Then, you feel him touch your buttocks with the cane. He is sawing it across the fleshiest parts. He is taking his aim. You know this is going to hurt. A very great deal. A caning from Haddock across trousers and underpants would be awesome, when delivered with only thin cotton pyjamas for protection it will be tremendous. You know some chaps have tried to sneak underpants under their pyjama bottoms. Barchester was busted for this. He failed to realise that once a chap is stretched over the armchair their outline becomes clearly visible. Barchester’s backside resembled a map of Clapham Junction railway once Haddock had delivered a bare-arsed flogging as retribution.

You feel the cane tapping. Your buttocks tense. They always do this. It is a natural reflex. You grind your teeth. Swipe! Crack! Pyjamas are a poor protection against a cane well laid on. The Malay cane struck just on your undercurve, where the bum meets the thigh. You gasp with shock as an intense line of pain bites deep. It feels like Haddock has pressed a red-hot poker into your flesh.

You can’t see the ghost of a smile as Haddock’s jowls wobble in satisfaction. You might not know it but many believe your bottom cries out to be beaten. It has certainly been caned many times before and might be again before you leave school in July.

If the bottom cries out, you do not. You feel the intense pain subside a little. The cane rises and falls whistling as it goes. You grip the chair and stifle a yelp. Now you have two lines of pain throbbing across the bum, a quarter of an inch apart. The pain sears from your buttocks and runs up and down your legs. Your knees buckle, but you keep in position. Waiting for Number Three.

You hear a grunt behind you. Haddock puts all his beef into it. The cut takes you on the back of the thighs. It is a deliberate act by the housemaster; he has had enough practice with the cane. You struggle to stay calm. It sucks the breath from your body. Your hips sway and your head bounces up and down. This is a natural thing to do. It is how a boy’s body reacts when under attack.

The next slashes higher. You bunch your fingers into fists and punch them into the seat cushion. “Sssssss!” air escapes through your lips. The pain is beyond belief. Much harder than anything you have endured before. It starts on the crown of your bum and travels north-south-east-west through your body. Each stroke has been a swipe. It’s as if Haddock is beating a carpet.

Beneath the stretched pyjamas you feel weals forming. You know each is raised off the surface of the bum and as thick as a pencil. They run in almost perfect parallel from left to right. You stamp your feet up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. The agony is overwhelming. You can’t take much more of this.

Haddock does the tapping thing again. Taking aim. This time higher on the crest of the mounds, closer to your back. Your bottom quivers. Behind your master takes a step or two back and admires his handiwork. He sees your face and neck are scarlet. He knows your bum is just as red. He can see lines embossed in your pyjama trousers showing exactly where the cane landed.

You tell yourself, “Four down, only two more to go.” It is nearly over. You regain more control of your breathing but your temples throb and blood is cascading through your arteries. Then your heart almost literally stops. Haddock has changed position again. This time he lays the cane across your bottom not from left to right as before but from the bottom of the left buttock to the top of the right. You realise at once what this means: it is to be diagonal shot. Before you can prepare, a crack like a pistol shot resounds around the room. Haddock slashes the cane down with considerable force across the four welts already emblazoned across your rear end. You shriek as each of the previous cuts are brought back to life. The tempo of your military marching doubles. You bang your head up and down against the seat cushion, but nothing, nothing at all, eases the agony.

Your buttocks are ripped to shreds. They might even be bleeding. Your eyes blaze as much as your bum but you do not cry. You will not cry. A chap under the cane is allowed to holler. It can be mightily difficult not to. But you know you must not blub. Even the junior chaps know that. You must take it like a man.

You fear the very worst. Haddock moves to your right and places the cane along the opposite diagonal. Within a second you have a perfect “X” imprinted across your bum. It seems to have swollen to twice its normal size. But it also feels numb as if you have reached some threshold of pain that cannot be surpassed. You hear Haddock step across the study and open the door to the cupboard. You continue to stare at the seat cushion. You bum is raw but even now, only seconds after the final cut flogged you, the pain is easing down. Soon it will be a constant throb. The worst is over. You have survived. The cuts will still be painful for some time to come. You know you will be sleeping in on your side tonight. Tomorrow you will not be able to sit comfortably on a hard surface. You will have welts and bruises for many days.

“You may remove yourself,” the instruction seems to come from a far distance. You take a deep breath and using your elbows as levers you resume a standing position. The seat of your pyjama trousers are stuck to your bum. You worry that you might be bleeding. You desperately want to caress your cheeks to discover the truth but you know this must wait. You know Haddock doesn’t like a fuss after he beats a boy and soon he will dismiss you.

He returns to his armchair and peers down at his pipe in the ashtray. “Go,” he says absent-mindedly and waves a hand at the door. As you struggle with the handle and heavy door you see him pick up a box of matches. It rattles as he shakes it. He clenches the pipe between his teeth then opens the box, takes a match, strikes it and shielding the flame he sets light to the tobacco in the bowl.

You leave and run along the passageway towards the bogs.


Picture credit: CP Services London

Coming soon: The story from the housemaster’s point-of-view.


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The movie mogul

Warren’s awakening

The milk bottle thief


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

The bully

new story 2

z used gym sport shorts horse waiting sting (31)

I am watching Aitkens. He seems to be waiting patiently for me to begin. He is prostrate across a gym horse, dressed in his PE kit: white shorts and vest. The horse is a little high and he is on tip-toes so he can stretch his body across it to grip the two front legs. This makes his back arch and his buttocks are pointing at me at an angle.

I am surprised how big he is but I don’t know why I should be. He is eighteen years old and one of our prefects. He’s in the rugby team and I suppose his bulk is a virtue on the pitch. The muscles in his arms and his legs are straining as he hold his position.

I can’t read his mind. Is he submissive? Certainly, he did not put up a struggle when I told him of my intentions. Nor, did he protest. Why would he? Why could he? He deserves everything that is coming to him.

The gym is empty, it is shortly after four in the afternoon and school is over for the day. I bet Aitkens wishes he was with his pals, on the bus into town, where they will hang around the shopping centre, leering at girls (or whatever it is boys his age do these days). Not this afternoon. At least not yet; he has an appointment with me first.

I flex the heavy cane between my hands. It is about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It’s dark brown in colour with notches along it every six inches or so. As I bend the cane I can tell it is more powerful than the rattan canes we usually use. It’s called a Dragon, I believe. It’s property is that it’s denser than other canes and it packs more of a punch. Properly applied it will leave severe marks and bruising on a boy’s backside. Good. Aitkens deserves everything that is due to him. I hope by the time I am finished he won’t be able to sit for a week.

Aitkens is a bully. It is as simple as that. Pathetic, isn’t it. This big, strong sixth-form boy has made a career out of stealing dinner money from the juniors. If they don’t cough up the cash, he quite literally bashes them. I should correct myself there. I don’t believe he has bashed any of the kids, the mere threat of violence is enough to make them hand over the dosh.

I can’t be sure how long it’s been going on, but I have every reason to believe it has been a considerable time. At last we have found him out. Now, he will get his just deserts. I look at him over the horse, he is still, waiting, staring down at the wooden floor of the gym. Is he remorseful? Does he regret his shameful action? There must be some regret surely, but I suspect it might only be the regret of being found out.

I want him expelled from the school. We should chuck him and all bullies out on their ears. That would be a deterrent for other louts who think they can torment their juniors. I wanted him out but I know the headmaster would never countenance it. It will be too public a gesture. It will draw attention to the school. Parents will demand answers to awkward questions: how did we allow bullying to take place? How much is still going on?

No, it is better to keep the matter within the confines of the school. To hush it up, if you will. So, here we are this late afternoon. Me with the cane in my hand and Aitkens bent across the horse with his backside pointing out. I’m annoyed that the school rules only allow me to administer a maximum six strokes. Damn, stupid rules. Aitkens deserves to suffer badly for all the pain he has caused others.

The rule says he can only be caned on the seat “as normally clothed”. That is supposed to mean wearing trousers and pants. I would gladly thrash him on the bare buttocks. And, yes, so hard and so often that he bleeds. There, I’ve said it. He is a lout. He is not a mischievous little boy deserving a short, sharp shock. He is not a lazy bones in need of encouragement.

So, it is to be six on the seat as normally clothed. Aitkens is presenting his backside to me in tight fitting cotton gym shorts without underwear. If some blasted school governor wants to argue it out with me later I’ll tell him Aitkens is as “normally clothed”. That’s as normally clothed for a gym class. Aitkens made no protest when I instructed him to present himself to me dressed in this fashion. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the school rules. That’s his look out. I wonder if I could risk ripping down his shorts and giving him six stingers on the bare. Would he tell on me? Sadly, it’s best not to find out. The headmaster would not support me and it would be me out on the tiles, as it were, and not Aitkens.

I am only allowed six strokes so I will make them count. I discussed how best to do this in the staff room earlier and Hopkins, the Head of Mathematics, told me how the prefects caned a boy at his school back in the day. They would have the boy positioned over a desk (but any piece of furniture would suffice) and they would rub their cane across the centre of the boy’s bum to get an aim, then they would stride away for five or six paces and then raise the cane high above their shoulder and take a run up before flogging it into the waiting bum. “It would take his arse off,” Hopkins told me with great satisfaction.

I am not so sure that I can do that with Aitkens. I think it takes a great deal of skill to get the cane to land on target. So much could go wrong in the run up. I might miss the target altogether. I suppose that wouldn’t matter too much if the cane whipped him across the back of the thighs; that would be excruciatingly painful and would surpass any agony Aitkens might feel from an orthodox caning.

I suppose if I wanted to thrash him on the thighs, I could just do it. I mean I just need to stand beside the boy as I would in ordinary circumstances and whip the Dragon into him there, rather than across the backside. It is a temptation.

I decide not to go in for the athletic approach. I stand about three feet to his left (a cane’s length) and rub the heavy rod across the curves of his cheeks. At such close proximity I see that he seems entirely relaxed; unconcerned that he is about to be beaten. His backside is rather meaty and although this is not entirely necessary I allow myself to rub the palm of my right hand across his contours. I smile gently as his bottom quivers in response to my caress. I pat him twice on each cheek as if to say I am ready to go.

This message makes him wriggle his hips and shake his bottom from left to right. He grips the wooden legs of the gym horse tightly. Aha! He is not so unconcerned after all. He opens his eyes wide and seems to be taking an inordinate interest in the scratched wooden floorboards in his line of vision. I tap the cane across his shorts. I intend an uppercut. That is to say I will whip the cane from below so that it bites into the undercurves of his cheeks. I will put all my beef into it and should be rewarded with a thick welt. It will be in the exact part of his bum that connects with a chair whenever he sits. He will, I hope, feel it for some considerable time to come.

I find my aim and draw the cane back. It wobbles as it rises. I hold it high and steady for a moment and am delighted to see Aitkens’ bum clench tightly. It is now as hard as rubber. As a devoted golfer I have a superior upper body strength. I use every ounce of it as I flog the cane into the seat of his shorts. Bingo! A perfect hit. The cane sinks into his flesh and seems to remain embedded there for a second. Another second passes before “Yeow!!” Aitkens felt that all right. He grips the legs of the horse tighter. His knees buckle under the pain. His buttocks wobble.

I stand back and admire my handiwork. A clear line where the cane struck is visible across his white shorts. I can’t see it but I know there is a livid red welt forming under the cotton. Satisfied with my effort so far, I take aim again. Sometimes with a caning a master will go “round the circuit”. By that I mean he will try to strike as much of the buttocks as humanly possible, leaving not a square inch of bottom un-scorched. There are many merits in that approach. The boy is undoubtedly left sore. But I wanted Aitkens to encounter maximum agony. Since I have discounted the “run-up” approach I intend to go for Plan-B.

Plan-B is simple. For it to succeed I must lay the cane on the same spot as often as I can. This means that the welt that already throbs on his backside will be reignited if I can land the cane on top of it. You get the picture? It will double the pain. Think then how it will be if there are six strokes. I might be able to achieve my ambition of drawing blood.

I take my aim and whack him as hard as I would if beating a carpet. Spot on! His head rises and falls and he stamps his legs up and down. “Huff, huff, huff.” I can’t quite describe the sound he makes, but wind is whistling through his lips. The back of his neck is scarlet, as I suppose is his once-creamy backside.

I take a third swipe. It lands just below the other two. Aitkens yells. Oh how I wish I had been able to give the bully a public thrashing. How the youngsters he bullied for so long would enjoy seeing him reduced to this. I stand back to take in the scene. His knuckles are white, he is holding the horse so tightly. His short, fairish hair is soaked in sweat. It looks like he has just stepped out of the shower. I take a gentle stroll so that I can now see Aitkens from the front. I am delighted to observe his once-open and rather handsome face is now distorted like that of a gargoyle. Good, I hope he is suffering.

Number four hits right on target. He does the wriggling and the stomping and the yelling once more. I congratulate myself. I am on fire. And so is Aitkens’ backside. Tears are flowing freely. I did not expect this. Senior boys do not as a rule cry during a caning. That is something we expect from a junior boy, subjecting himself to corporal punishment for the first time. Again, I rue the fact that Aitkens’ victims cannot see this.

I stand close to Aitkens. His shorts are tight and I can clearly see the effects of my caning. His under-cheeks are corrugated. I want to know if there is blood. I can’t see any so I press my hand into Aitkens’ flayed bottom. Of course, he roars with the pain. The cotton of his shorts is pressing into the welts and I hope to see traces of blood. Alas, there is none. Disappointed, I take up my position once more, determined to rectify this.

I surprise myself with the ferocity of stroke number five. I have found reserves of strength I did not know I had. It was another uppercut and as it whizzes through the air and cracks into his buttocks I am sure it slices them open. That one should have taken his arse off, to use Hopkins’ very apt phrase. Aitkens is in deep distress. Manfully, he keeps his position, head low, bottom high, despite the tears and the snot flowing down his face. I ought to admire his fortitude but I can only hope the humiliation he feels outweighs his all too obvious agony.

One final stroke to go. I hesitate. I dearly want to know what his savaged backside looks like. I have a last chance to achieve my ambition. Shall I rip down his shorts so I can examine the naked flesh beneath? I know I am not permitted to beat him on the bare, but am I also not allowed to do this? I will allow him to pull them up before I deliver the final lash.

I take the coward’s way out. I do not want the aggravation that will come if Aitkens sneaks on me to the headmaster. So for the last time, I take aim. I go for the middle of the red, throbbing stripe of flesh. By now it must feel to Aitkens like he has been sitting on the glowing bar of an electric fire.

Whoop! Bulls Eye! I stand back only now realising that I gripped the cane so tightly that my fingernails dug into my palms. My pulse is racing and I am suddenly aware of the cold sweat soaking the back of my shirt. I stare disinterestedly at the eighteen-year-old writhing over the top of the horse. Yes, he is crying but I despise him because he is not more hurt. Given my way they would be calling for a medic at this point.

I do not want to let him go but really what choice do I have? Six strokes is the maximum I am allowed to give. It is no consolation that I delivered six-of-the-very-best. Aitkens, nor any other boy at this school, would have suffered such a caning before. But, that is no comfort.

“Get up. Go!” I rasp and Aitkens hauls himself to his feet. He dares not look at me and unsteadily he sashays across the gym towards the exit. I watch him as he goes. I tuck the cane under my arm and prepare to leave, a dark cloud of dissatisfaction over my head.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The Colonel and Tyler

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Your last chance

new story 2

z used drawing face schoolboy Hot (1)

You sit alone in the sixth-form common room. Sun beams shine in your eyes magnified by the glass in the closed window but you can’t be bothered to move. The cushion on your “easy chair” is misshapen, one of the elasticated slates holding it in place is broken. You slump down in it and survey the room. At least half of the chairs are in some state of disrepair. A Formica-topped table is worn and chipped. A folded up page of the Daily Mirror, wedged under one leg keeps it from wobbling. The battered tea urn stands by a sink full of unwashed mugs. The rubbish bin overflows. Nothing changes in that room.

You stare at the clock on the wall. You have seen it many times. You know like a pub clock it is set a few minutes fast, an failed confidence trick to induce pupils to get to lessons on time. The words “London County Council” are engraved in large black letters across the white face. A successful deterrent against theft. It is almost four o’clock; nearly time for your appointment.

You hold a copy of George in your hand. Twenty-four pages of A4 Roneo’d paper held together by two staples. There is still a faint whiff of methylated spirits on it. The illegal school magazine; published this morning. One hundred and twenty copies distributed – free of charge. You know it will cost you three weeks wages from your Saturday job at Freeman, Hardy and Willis. You think it is worth it.

You flick through the pages; past the jokes and cartoons, through the short stories and “investigative journalism” to land at the poems. Your poem. Three verses, twenty-four lines. You don’t read it again, there is no need as you know the words off by heart. A poem? It is not poetry, more like doggerel. You don’t care. It has your initials on it; people know who wrote it. That is the point.

You think of Miss Lowenstein, the fearsome old battle-axe. You know she has been in Mr Henderson’s ear the whole day. “Something must be done. He cannot be allowed to get away with this,” she has been saying. Or something quite similar. No one at the school likes Miss Lowenstein. She really is an old crone. One of the ugliest women you’ve ever seen; hair pulled back tightly in a bun, buck teeth, blotted skin and a gammy leg, courtesy of childhood polio.

You had her for English since the fourth year. In her first class she says she is a tough disciplinarian and calls herself a “martinet” and when no one can tell her what that word means she makes you look it up in the dictionary. She sets herself apart from the other women teachers; no way can you call her “miss”; it’s “ma’am.” She has a mean streak and is a bully and vindictive. You are counting on that. Your verse doesn’t name her, but everyone knows who you mean by the “Old Crow.”

You have to go see Mr Henderson in his office at four. He’s head of Upper School. You don’t see much of him usually; your comprehensive school has about 1,600 pupils, it’s like a factory. Mr Henderson is in charge of discipline. You think the Old Crow wants him to cane you for your insolence. You wring your copy of George in your hands, twisting it into a cylinder. Yes, you think to yourself. You, eighteen years old, a prefect, just about to leave school for ever about to get the cane. God! You hope so!

You don’t know when you first started dreaming of corporal punishment. You think you have been fascinated by this forever. Sometimes you go over someone’s knee (you’re not sure whose but preferably someone big and strong). Mostly, you are in the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best from a whippy, curve handled rattan cane. You are in an elite public boarding school which is a world away from the inner city comprehensive you go to. In real life, you have never been caned, not even spanked, in your life. It is, you reckon, now or never. Your last chance.

The hand on the clock is moving too slowly. You climb out of the broken chair and pace the room. You pause by the door, your ears prick up, you listen for sounds in the corridor outside. You hear none, but to be safe you inch open the door and peek outside. You confirm you are alone. You walk back into the room, your heart beats fast. You approach the chair you were sitting on, then stand behind it. You close your eyes, a headmaster with an aged academic gown across his shoulders and a battered mortar-board cap on his head is swishing a cane through the air. He leans forward, taps the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Bend over, Crosby!” he intones. In the sixth-form common room you lean forward and stretch over the chair. You grasp the cheap foam filled cushion and spread your legs. You keep your bottom high and your head low. The headmaster lays the first swipe across your meaty buttocks.

When the six-of-the-best is over, you rise to your feet. You are breathless and your cock is twitching. The fantasy is great and you hope Mr Henderson has a big armchair waiting for you. It is hot but you don’t open the window; you find your blazer and climb into it. It is an ordinary black jacket with the school crest on the pocket; it’s nothing like the green and yellow ones the boys at the grammar school wear. You do up all three buttons and then pull at your necktie. Boys at the school ever do up their ties, but you want to look the part. The submissive schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study. Something exciting is happening to you but you can’t find the words to describe it.

The minute-hand on the clock judders to twelve. It is time. Mr Henderson’s room is along the corridor outside the sixth-form common room. In your dreams there is always a long walk to the study and you go through a cobbled quadrangle into a building with ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows. The passageway is lined with oak doors. Your real school is a concrete-and-glass monstrosity. The corridor has grey, scratched plastic floor tiles. Each door is constructed with some new-fangled artificial material. You could be at the offices of the municipal council.

You stop outside Mr Henderson’s door. You read his name typewritten on a card stuck on with Sellotape. You check your tie, pull at the hems of your blazer and check the shine on your shoes. You are wearing fashionable wet-look slip-ons with a faux silver buckles. You bought them at a discount at the shop where you work. In your mind you are at St, Alphonso’s, a fine public school for the sons of gentlemen. The time is about sixty years ago. You knock on the door. There is a faint noise from within that sounds like, “Come in,” so you press down on the door handle and push.

You are surprised to see Miss Lowenstein there. It heartens you. She is determined to make sure you get your caning and she is personally going to witness it. You have never been in the room before. It is very small. You stand as best you can in front of his tiny desk. Unlike those in your imagination it is small, functional and clearly not built from walnut. It is in a mess and piled high with files and official documents. He sits in a wooden armchair and there are two plastic chairs, purloined at some time from a classroom, in front of the desk. You see a metal filing cabinet in a corner and there are some metal shelves screwed to walls. And that is it. You see no stuffed armchairs, no ancient Chesterfield couch, no open fire, no cabinet of sports trophies, no packed bookcases with leather-bound volumes and most disappointingly of all, no umbrella stand in the corner with three or four crook-handled canes of varying thicknesses dangling from it.

You see this is not a headmaster’s study, it is the office of a middle manager. Miss Lowenstein moves to one side of you and is now out of your eyeline. Your disappointment grows when you look at Mr Henderson. You see no academic gown or cap only a middle-aged man with a beer gut man in a scruffy shirt and plain tie. His beige trousers were purchased at a cheap chain store many years ago.

You know your school has not abolished corporal punishment, but no one can remember the last time a boy was caned. That has always been a disappointment to you. You hear at the grammar the cane is swished through the air every day by enthusiastic schoolmasters. If you were a boy there you could be caned as often as you wished – you know smoking cigarettes is a caning offence. You would be on forty a day.

Now you realise your cunning plan is about to come to nothing. Mr Henderson probably doesn’t believe in the cane. He has only summoned you for a ticking off. You think maybe he will make you write a letter of apology to the Old Crow.

Mr Henderson doesn’t quite know what to say. He calls you “Crombie,” which isn’t quite your name. He mumbles something about how awful you have been. He says your behaviour is “ugly” and you suppress a laugh, thinking that word perfectly describes Miss Lowenstein. You tune out, no longer listening. You want to get out of there and go home. You know you can make this into a fantasy when you are in your bedroom. You hear words but they seem to be coming from a long way off as if drifting on the wind. You realise he has stopped speaking. He is waiting for you to say something. You are unsure if he has asked you a question. You mumble, “Sorry sir”, just to say something.

Then you hear him say, “I am going to cane you.” You wake up at that. You stare at Mr Henderson seeking confirmation that you heard correctly. He is on his feet now and your eyes follow him as he takes the short distance across his office. He reaches the filing cabinet. You have not noticed until now on top of it lies a short stick. You see it is no crook-handled whippy cane beloved of public schoolmasters. It is a  piece of bamboo, a little over two feet long. You watch him pick it up and you see it is rigid and impossible to bend. It looks like a garden cane but you are not sure as there are no gardens anywhere near where you live.

You see Mr Henderson is uncomfortable with the stick in his hand. He looks embarrassed. He does not swish the cane through the air and it is too stiff for him to flex into an arc. You hear him speak the wonderful words you have waited to hear all your life, “Bend over.” Your throat dries. You take another look around the room and you confirm there is nothing to bend over. The desk is piled high with files; the plastic chairs are too low. You look at Mr Henderson for guidance. His face is flushed. The heat in the airless office and the stress of the moment disturbs him. He points the cane at a space in between his desk and the door.

You take his hint. You shuffle a pace and a half. “Face that way,” he says, so that you have your back to the desk. You see Miss Lowenstein hobble away and flop down into Mr Henderson’s chair. She is giving herself the perfect view. Mr Henderson has not given the time-honoured command “touch your toes”. Many times at home you pretend you are one of the boys sent for “six on the bags” as the old school stories have it. Often you  dress in black blazer and grey trousers and pose in front of the full-length mirror in the hall of your council flat. You bend over touching toes and admire the tight contours of your bum. Your uniform is ordinary and so are you: standing at about five-foot-seven, a little over eight-stone in weight, and properly proportioned.

You take a deep breath and bend from the trunk. You keep your knees straight and by parting your feet a little you are able to brush your fingertips against your shiny black shoes. You feel your tight cotton briefs dig into the crack between your cheeks. You know that your buttocks are filling out the back of your trousers and presenting a marvellous target. You wait staring down at the worn industrial-strength carpet. You recall all those times in front of the mirror. You don’t mind how much this hurts, you will shut your teeth and bear it; like the boys in the stories you love so much.

There is no swish as the Head of Upper School makes his preparation. Suddenly there is a dull thud and you realise the cane has landed on your bum. You feel it but there is no agony, no intense pain, not even a throbbing ache. The second and third stoke land. What a disappointment. You hardly feel a thing. You realise Mr Henderson’s heart is not in this. You feel terribly let down.

He gives you six strokes. You have not been caned before and know of no other boy who has. You have nothing to compare it to, except your fantasies. You know that this was not “six-of-the best.” It couldn’t be. You should be howling with pain, jumping up and down from foot to foot and furiously rubbing away at your savaged backside. Instead you remain bending over, hoping that this is not all. Somehow you have learnt the etiquette is for a boy to stay in position, fingertips on toecaps until the master gives permission to stand up. In the stories failure in this respect leads to additional strokes. You would be quite content to get extras, nonetheless you continue to admire the faded blue carpet.

You hear Mr Henderson moving behind you and there is a rattling sound as he replaces the cane on the top of the filing cabinet. Then you hear him say rather absent-mindedly, “You should stand up now.” You do so. Your head feels funny but you think that is because you have been upside down and blood has rushed into your brain. You feel deep disappointment and wonder if your face shows it. If you are nonchalant and make it clear the caning did not hurt would Mr Henderson fly into a rage, sweep the files from the desk, grip you by the neck, hurl you facedown across the desk and proceed to thrash the living daylights out of you?

Clearly not, as Mr Henderson simply says, “You should go now.” You look towards Miss Lowenstein. She has a face like thunder. She too is not impressed by Mr Henderson’s lack of prowess with the cane. She wants to see you clutching your bum in agony and choking back sobs. For the first time in your life, you sympathise with her.

You turn away, open the door and you are in the corridor. In some of the stories you know at this point a boy is rubbing his backside furiously as he rushes back to his study. You do have a sneaky feel of the seat of your trousers, a quick rub with your thumb, but there is no sensation. You can go to the lavs to inspect the damage but you know you will find none. So, you return to the sixth-form common room and collect your vinyl holdall before going home seeing yourself as another victim of the failing comprehensive school system.


Picture credit: Hotspur

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Rock n Roll Sinner

The Poker School

Uncle Festus


 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


Waiting for the slipper

new story 2

z used plimsoll gym white pants sting (6)

Yes, you’re right, I am bent over a horse in the gym about to get the slipper across my arse. I know what you’re thinking, “Isn’t he a bit old for a spanking?” Well, that’s schools for you I suppose. I am eighteen and in my final year, but rules are rules. What can you say?

I’m not bothered. No, really, it won’t hurt much. It’s true that the gym master Mr Cartwright is a big, strong fellow. Not that long ago he was playing rugby for the county. He can pack a punch no doubt about that. But a gym plimsoll, even a size-twelve one, can’t do that much damage.

Well, maybe to a first year. A little one might be overwhelmed by the slipper, but not me. A slipper is no use on a boy my size. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking that Cartwright puts a cane across my backside. That will hurt. And may I remind you that I’m not wearing pants under those shorts.

I do feel a bit foolish, I suppose. Made to bend over the horse and present my backside so a master can pummel it. It could be worse, those shorts could be at my ankles. Actually, no they couldn’t; not at this school anyway. I can’t see, of course, but I think I’ve given Cartwright a pretty good target. It feels like it anyway. The horse is just the right height for me. I fit over it perfectly. My stomach is rested comfortable on the leather top and with my legs spread, my bum is in just right position. You can’t see but my arms are half way down the back of the horse. It’s a bit awkward because there’s nowhere to put them. There’s no handles to grip on to so I’m clasping my hands together.

So, there you see me; head low, bottom high, waiting for the slipper. I don’t resent being spanked. No, honestly. I get that I’m eighteen and supposedly an adult and therefore “too old for this”, but really what’s the school supposed to do? There are rules, everyone understands that. If you break the rules you need to be punished. I get that; otherwise why would people stick to the rules? There are other punishments, I suppose. If I didn’t get the slipper, I reckon they could put me in detention, or make me write an essay or (God forbid) lines.

No, give me the slipper any time. It’s over in seconds and we can all get on with our lives. That is if only Mr Cartwright would get on with it. It won’t hurt much. Really. I’m being honest with you. It’s not some false bravado. If you’ve ever had the slipper you’d agree with me, I’m sure.

“What did I do?” did you ask? “Why am I getting a spanking?” you want to know. Of course, in a school like this you could get corporal punishment for any number of reasons; there are that many rules. Masters here use two main methods: the cane and the slipper. That said, we have a Mr McDonald, a Scotch fellow, who uses a two-tailed leather taws. No, I didn’t know either what that was until I saw one for the first time. It’s a specially made leather strap split into two at the business end. They’re all the rage in schools in Scotland. You get it across the palms of the hand, mostly, but Old McDonald sometimes gives it to you across the bum. It hurts a lot more than the slipper, that’s for sure.

Anyway, I digress. Masters have their own preferences in their weapons of choice. With games masters, physical ed. teachers and the like it’s the plimsoll. It’s a tradition. Now I think about it I suppose its because the slipper is the most easily available implement. There are no shortages of plimsolls in a gym class.

So, it’s to be the slipper for me. What did I do to deserve it? Sorry, I will tell you. It’s a bit embarrassing to be honest. I would ask you to see if you could guess, but we haven’t got all day. I’m late for dinnertime as it is. Here goes: I got caught peeping into the girls’ changing room. I know, I know. You think I’m a perve. But, why do they leave the door ajar if they don’t want us to look inside? I am eighteen you know and the lasses round here don’t exactly give it away, if you get my meaning.

So I got caught. Bang to rights. In the act if you like. Red handed. If I had been there any longer that wouldn’t have been the only part of my body that would have been red. Sorry, that’s a bit crude isn’t it.

As I said the school has rules. I was caught red-handed, and I was red-faced and now I’m going to be red-arsed. That’s the way it is. I’ve got no complaints. I can feel Mr Cartwright standing behind me. He smells a bit sweaty to be honest. I’m ready. Get on with it. It won’t hurt. Really. He’s tapping his plimsol against my bum. Here we go. It won’t hurt. Six whacks with the slipper. Over my shorts. It won’t hurt. Honestly.

He’s lifting the slipper away from my bum.


“Ouch!” That hurt!

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The Chamber pot incident

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

When Santa Claus was caned

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


The cigarette box

new story 2

z used boy 16

Sanderson bounced down the narrow passageway, feet slipping, shoulders hitting first one wall and then the next. He had to get away. Nobody must see him. Not in the state he was. If he rushed he could get to his study in time. Undetected.

Victory. He gripped the handle of the heavy door, it stuck a little so he gave it a kick with the sole of his foot. It flew open. He tumbled inside. Thank God his study mate was elsewhere. This was a private matter. He stood unsteady, catching his breath, desperately holding back the tears. His face burned, almost as much as his backside. He could barely contain his fury.

The humiliation. Sanderson, eighteen years old and a senior at St. Tom’s, whipped on the arse by a prefect. Bags down. Underpants down. Six of the best. Bare. He could strangle Tomkinson, the head boy, with his bare hands.

His head throbbed almost as much as his bum. Carefully, he loosened his bags and let them slip a little. Then, oh so gingerly, he eased his cotton undershorts, away from his savaged buttocks. He grimaced, they had stuck against a weeping welt. Six thick dark red stripes decorated his rear end. Each about a quarter of an inch thick, running in perfect parallel from left to right. An objective observer would say Tomkinson was an expert; the boy knew his business.

Sanderson fastened up his bags and gripped the edge of the study table, suddenly, unexpectedly, choked-up tears washed down his face as the events of that afternoon flashed through his mind.

It had started some days earlier. Tomkinson was newly appointed as Head Boy of St. Tom’s and eager to ingratiate himself with the headmaster who had himself recently been elevated to the position. Some stand had to be taken. Tomkinson needed to exert his authority. Old Bean (as the head was affectionately known by the boys) had a strong aversion to cigarette smoking. His loathing was not for him a personal matter. Smoking was (naturally) banned among the boys; he would have stopped masters puffing as well is he had been able, but that would be an imposition too far.

So, behold the word came from on high: a boy caught smoking (or indeed merely in possession of cigarettes) could expect the severest punishment. Now, there was not much new about Old Bean’s instruction. Schoolboys had been beaten since time immemorial for the offence. Tomkinson, in his eagerness to please, went a stage further. The rule would apply to any boy – junior, or senior. The Sixth-Form had been warned.

In later life Tomkinson would become a fine administrator in a far-flung British colony. He learned some of the techniques of using power at St. Tom’s. A squad of spies, of squealers if you will, fed him titbits of information.

So it was on the afternoon in question that Tomkinson raided Sanderson’s study. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air for the tell-tale aroma. None; the study was clear. Driven by a determination that someone must suffer, he shrieked, “Open the cupboards, Sanderson. All of them.”

“Oh for the love of God! Tomkinson,” Sanderson leaned back in his armchair. “What’s this all about?”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain Sanderson. You know very well. Smoking.”

The eighteen-year-old blanched.

“If you do not open these cupboards, drawers too, I shall do it myself.” Not waiting for a response, he strode to an old worn cabinet and tugged open the door. Inside was a small wooden box of cigarettes, just as his spy had reported.

“If smoking is going on in this study, there’s going to be a whopping!  Sanderson, are these cigarettes yours?”

“Certainly not!” answered Sanderson coolly. “I have no idea how they got there.”

“Very well!” said Tomkinson.  “You deny it.  The matter will have to go before the headmaster then!  It’s between you two, and the Head will sift it out.”

He turned to the door.

“Hold on, Tomkinson!’? muttered Sanderson.  His sallow face was pale.  Sanderson of the Sixth did not want to go before the Head.  Sanderson had too many shady secrets to keep, for that.  Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than smoking in the study.  A fellow who continually, and with cynical indifference broke all the rules of the school, had to be careful.

Tomkinson looked round. “Hold on? he said. “What for?”

Sanderson gasped a little. “Look here, suppose a fellow had a box of cigarettes in his study?, he muttered. “No need to make a song and a dance about it.  I daresay you could scare up a few in the Sixth, if you looked.”

“Possibly!” said Tomkinson.  “If I find any in the Sixth, there will be trouble, same as if I find them in the Fifth!  I’ve got certain duties to do, as a prefect, and I’m going to get them done. Were the cigarettes yours; yes or no?”

“Yes,” muttered Sanderson.

“That’s enough then!  I’ve whopped a junior for smoking, if I let a senior off, I should be a rotter!  Let’s cut along to my study, Sanderson.”

Stephen Sanderson stood facing him, his hands clenched.  Sanderson was a senior, a Sixth-Form man, and it was unheard of for a senior to be told to bend over like a junior! The humiliation of it was almost more than Sanderson could bear.

“You can’t whop me, Tomkinson!’, he muttered thickly.  “You know you can’t!  A Sixth-Form man …”

Tomkinson curved the cane in his hands menacingly. “Will you bend over the chair?”

“You can call a Prefects’ Meeting and have me up!” muttered Sanderson.  “I’ll stand for that!  But …”

“You’ll bend over that chair, and take six just as if you were a sneaking smoky little tick in the Second Form!” said Tomkinson coolly.  “And if you don’t do it, this instant, I’ll take you to the Head, and leave it to him.  If you’d rather be sacked, you’ve got the choice.”

Sanderson gave him a long look. “But, darn it Tomkinson, this isn’t right!”

“Enough. Stop right there. I have given you every opportunity. Now, lower your bags and underwear.”

White as a sheet with rage and humiliation, Sanderson’s mouth gaped open.

“You have only yourself to blame, for this,” Tomkinson swiped the heavy crook-handled cane and pointed it at the dusty armchair.

Sanderson winced. The brute! Tomkinson was drunk with power.

“Tomkinson,” he muttered.

“Nothing for you to say.” interrupted the Head Boy as he swished the cane through the air.

A gasp came from Sanderson.  In a fury he ripped down his own bags, leaving them in a heap at his feet. The ferocity of his anger blinded him as he sent his drawers in the same direction.

He dived over the back of the armchair.

Tomkinson stood his ground, waiting patiently for his fellow eighteen-year-old senior schoolboy to prepare himself. The boy’s buttocks were small and round and perfectly white. A tusk of dark hair crawled along his crack.

Tomkinson swiped the ashplant in the air.  It came down with a loud whack on Stephen Sanderson’s naked haunches. A groan came from Sanderson. A dark red line furrowed both cheeks.

z used cane prefect Mag (95)

Sanderson set his face for the second stroke. Six strokes fell; six of the best.  Sanderson remained motionless, bent over the chair, his face colourless with fury.  He tried his hardest to keep back a sound; it was too bitterly humiliating to yell like a junior under the cane!  But hard as he was by nature, he was not tough physically, and he could not bear pain. In spite of himself, he gave a yell at the fourth swipe, and a ringing howl at the fifth.

The study door opened, and Jackson, Tomkinson’s deputy, looked in. “What’s this howling row about?” asked Jackson staring.


“Get out!” snapped Tomkinson.

“Oh, my only hat!” gasped Jackson and he got out and went back to his study in a state of dazed amazement, to tell Potter and Greene that Tomkinson was whopping a Sixth Form man.

Whack!  The last swipe fell followed by a howl from Sanderson. Tomkinson tucked the cane under his arm.  “That’s a tip!” he said grimly.  “I’ve had my eye on you a long time, Sanderson. You’ve got off with a whopping this time – next time you’ll go before the Head, and you know what that means.”

Sanderson stood and stared at him.  Where it had once been ghostly white, his face now blazed scarlet. He dressed. He was hurt, and he wriggled painfully.  But that was not the worst.

He had been “whopped”  like a junior – he, a Sixth Form man, a senior! Jackson – that ass, Jackson – had actually witnessed the whopping, and would be talking of it up and down the passages and studies. All St. Tom’s would know about it in under an hour.

Sanderson clenched his hands with fury.  He had not dared to resist. The penalty for punching Tomkinson would be the sack, short and sharp.  Neither would it have helped him, for the stalwart Head Boy of St. Tom’s could have handled the weedy slacker almost like an infant. He dared not even think of standing up to Tomkinson in the gym with the gloves on; he could not have hoped to get the better in a scrap, and he hated getting hurt.

There was nothing he could do – nothing – but swallow his rage and humiliation, and “mind his step” in the future.


Picture credits: The Magnet

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Over the headmaster’s knee

My father’s legacy


 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second