The Moped Gang

By Charles Hamilton II and Cayenne.

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him.  His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, “Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!”

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. “The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood.” Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, “You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. “You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry.” He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. “You have been smoking and drinking and,” the headmaster shuddered at the thought, “urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!”

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. “It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine.  Isn’t that so, Smith?” The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

“Err, yes, Sir,” Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. “Too old for this cane, Passey?”

“Yes, Sir.” Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Too old, Wilkinson?”

“Yes indeed, Sir,” the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. “And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir.” Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. “And finally, we get to you, Davies.”

“Yes Sir?” a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

“You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?”

“I am, Sir?” He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

“Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this!” He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. “He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see.  He’s the life and soul of the club, old ‘Deltic’ Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.”

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame.  He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable.  And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

“So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine?” Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys.  Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

“I have decided,” the headmaster continued, “that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane.  For this junior cane.” He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. “No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.”

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. “He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised!” she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

“He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you?” she asked.

“No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.”

“Ah, of course!” Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. “That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!”

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

“Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful.” Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. “Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.”

“Err, will do Miss Glossop,” he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

“You’d better be getting back,” Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

“You four,” the headmaster waved his arm, “stand and face the bookcase.” He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. “Jenkin,” he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. “Bend over.” Manufacturers called these chairs “comfy” or “comfortable”  chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

“Bend over, lad,” the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

“Legs further apart. Up higher.” It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. “Head nice and low, please.” Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

“Relax lad. Relax.” The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. “Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” the headmaster sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up lad!” the headmaster commanded, “We haven’t got all day.” With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

“Stand and face the bookcase,” the headmaster intoned. “Wilkinson, take his place.”

….

Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. “Who’s been a naughty little boy then?” he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

“I got a phone call from your headmaster,” Dai’s grin broadened. “He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.”

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

“So,” Dai blocked his brother’s way, “he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh?” He swiped the imaginary cane again. “You naughty, naughty little boy.”

“Piss off,” Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

“Of course,” Dai jeered, “When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning.” His arm flew through the air again. “And,” Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. “What was it Dad said last time?” He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. “Oh yes, I remember.” Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

“He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother?” Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. “You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.”

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

“Of course,” Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, “Dad need never know.” He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. “What’d’ya say little brother?”

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. “A little plan, dear brother,” he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, “What plan?”

“Ha,” Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. “Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me ‘What is the plan’”?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out,” Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, “I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead.” Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked “What?”

Dai took a deep breath, “You’ll get to keep your moped.”

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to “fuck off” he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, “You promise you won’t tell Dad?” Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, “Scout’s honour,” he said and waved two fingers in the air. “All right,” Owen whispered.

“Good-oh!” Dai smiled broadly. “We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty.” Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. “The wardrobe’s locked.” He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, “Can we get a cane someplace else?”

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. “Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane,” he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. “All right, but there must be a way round this.”

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, “It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you.” When Owen looked doubtful, he added, “You know, over the knee, like a little boy.”

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. “You’ll get to keep the moped,” he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

“Good-oh,” Dai brightened up. “Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something.” Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. “Come here you naughty little boy.”

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. “Come on, let’s get on with this.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. “Stand there.” Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. “Trousers down, little man. Trousers down.” Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

“Ha!” Dai smirked, “White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning?” He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. “Pants down. All the way,” Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. “Bend over my knee, you naughty boy.” I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. “Woweee!” Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. “Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks.” He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. “It feels like corrugated cardboard back here.” He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. “This should set them on fire again,” he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. “No you don’t buster,” Dai gripped Owen around the waist. “You’re not going anywhere.” Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window.  They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

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His eldest brother

Bend over. Touch your toes

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #13

z used fake adult schoolboy shorts cane desk (5)

 

Residents welcome new ‘adult school’

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Residents in a leafy suburb of Brocklehurst have welcomed an “adult school” that has just opened in their street.

It is the brainchild of a 65-year-old retired civil servant who calls himself “Mr. Quelch” after the schoolmaster in the famous Billy Bunter stories.

He has built a full-sized classroom on the back of his detached house in The Avenue. It has 15 authentic school desks from the 1950s, an old-fashioned blackboard and easel and a globe that has more than half the countries coloured in pink.

Behind a heavy oak desk is a glass-fronted cabinet. Dangling inside from their crook handles are an assortment of whippy rattan canes.

Mr. Quelch told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview the idea was for people over the age of 18 to experience life as a schoolboy in the 1950s. Pupils will be expected to wear a school uniform that includes a red blazer with white trimming, grey short trousers and knee socks.

Mr Quelch said, “We have real lessons in a number of subjects and the pupils are expected to behave themselves properly at all times.”

Those who do not will receive corporal punishment.

“I will pull down a boy’s short trousers and underpants and put him across my knee for a spanking on his bare bottom. I also have a leather taws, a plimsoll and, of course, the dreaded rattan cane. Which of these I use will depend on the degree of a boy’s naughtiness.”

Mr. Quelch has also decked out one of the six bedrooms in his house as a “headmaster’s study”.

He said, “At the end of the day each boy will be summoned to the headmaster’s study where he will have to explain his bad behaviour. I will administer six-of-the-best. This could be on the seat of the short trousers, the underpants or the bare bottom depending the severity of the offences.”

Mr. Quelch said he had already run two school days and there was a waiting list for two more next month. He also “deals with” naughty boys on a one-on-one basis in his headmaster’s study, by appointment.

The new adult school is a hit with neighbours. Mr. Ernie Flynn, aged 52, an accountant, who lives opposite Mr. Quelch told the Bugle, “What a jolly good idea. It sounds like a lot of fun. I can’t wait to sign up for a day.”

Mr. Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, of The Avenue, told the Bugle he hoped Mr. Quelch would expand his activities and deal with some real life trouble-makers. “I can think of a few louts who hang around Widdicombe Woods drinking and whatnot who would benefit from a stiff trousers-down, bare-bottomed caning,” he ejaculated.

To arrange a visit contact Mr. Quelch on _______________

Picture credit: Unknown

More Fake News stories here

 

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Hotel duty manager

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Late home from school

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A ritual played out

z used Three Fishers climbing fence (2)

You walk slowly across the quadrangle, hands defiantly dug deep into trouser pockets. You are taking your time. The summons was for four o’clock. You won’t be late, but you have no desire to arrive early.

A cold breeze bites. The snow has turned to slush beneath your feet. You enter the building. Legend has it that parts of it dates back to the seventeenth century. A narrow stone staircase winds upwards. You concentrate on your feet. The stairs are slippery with the snow. You don’t want to turn your ankle. The House rugby final is on Saturday, you wouldn’t want to miss taking part in that.

You halt when you reach the passageway. You check your blue-and-red hooped cap is straight on your head. You fasten the buttons on your blazer. It is coloured blue and has red braiding around the collar, cuffs and pockets. You sigh inwardly. There’s no other blazer like it. Everyone can recognise a St Tom’s boy. More’s the pity, you think.

Not far to walk now. You know the way. This isn’t the first time you’ve made this journey. You hope it will be the last. You’ve arrived. You pause in front of the heavy oak door. The letters on the notice reading “Headmaster” are fading. It is part of school tradition. The study has been here for centuries. You take a deep breath, count to ten, compose yourself. You rap your knuckles on the door with a confidence you don’t really feel.

“Come!” An imperious voice beyond the door calls. You breathe deeply again and with an unsteady hand turn the large brass handle. The door is heavy and it takes some of your strength to open it. Dr Winstanley, the headmaster, is seated at his desk. He looks up and growls at you. “Hurry up and close the door.” A fire is roaring in the grate, but the room is still deathly cold.

The headmaster waves his arm. He points to a spot on the rug  in front of him. “There boy!” You shuffle forward, stand hands clenched behind your back, head bowed. “Look at me boy!” the headmaster barks. You jerk your head upwards.

Dr Winstanley is an elderly, portly man. His head is nearly entirely bald except for a tuft at each temple. His face is florid and his jowls drop low. Depending on how he holds his head he has three or four chins. You notice his tweed suit is a little battered. A waistcoat stretches across his ample belly.

You see he is not wearing his academic gown and mortar-board cap; the very symbol of the English schoolmaster. They hang on a coat stand in a corner to the left of the headmaster’s desk.

“Baxter,” the headmaster intones. You know he is about to jaw you. You know why you have been summoned to the study. You know what is going to happen. You wish he would just get on with it. He does not. He tells you that you were spotted last evening in the public bar of the Three Fishers Hotel. What do you have to say about that?

You mumble. You accept you have been caught. You don’t tell him that you tried to make your escape undetected by climbing the rickety fence that encloses the pub’s carpark. You don’t tell him that you landed right in front of Harrison, the school captain. You don’t say that you often visit The Three Fishers as do many of the sixth-form. You are eighteen years old and you can legally enter pubs. If St Tom’s were not a boarding school the headmaster would have no right to punish you for being there.

You say none of these things. For you know there is no point doing so. None at all. You have broken the rules. You must accept punishment. You may console yourself that many times in the past you and your pals drank in the pub undetected. You are uncomplaining. You win some; you lose some.

You know that when the headmaster has finished lambasting you it will be your turn to speak. You have prepared a little speech. You accept you are in the wrong. You apologise. That is how it must be. The headmaster has all the power and you have none. You do not tell him it is absurd for the headmaster to beat you. You do not tell him you are an adult and you should be treated as one.

With all speeches over, the headmaster commands you to take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the coat stand. As you do this you see three crook-handled canes in the part of coat stand reserved for walking sticks and umbrellas. They are of slightly different lengths and thicknesses. At different times in your school career you have felt each of them across your stretched backside. Which will it be this time?

You resume your position on the faded rug in front of the headmaster’s desk. You watch as he lifts his considerably bulk from the chair and waddles across to the coat stand. You see clearly he has already made up his mind which of the canes he will use on you. It is the longest and the thickest of the three. It is dark yellow in colour and you can see it has notches every three or four inches along its length. You watch as he flexes it between his hands as if testing the rod for the every first time. Then he swishes it through the air. You can see how very dense, yet whippy, it is. It is an awesome specimen and you know it will be extremely painful.

The headmaster wobbles the cane at you. You don’t have time to reflect on the efficacy of corporal punishment in schools. If you did you would remember your father once told you that public schools such as St Tom’s existed to educate future leaders. Boys had to learn to obey orders and how to give them. They had to be taught the consequences of rule-breaking. A caning was a thoroughly painful way to remind a boy of his duty. The beating was over in moments (although the cuts and bruises might remain for weeks) and everyone was able to get on with their lives.

You watch impassively as the headmaster puts his cane down on his desk and takes hold of a small leather chair. He swivels it so that the back faces into the room. You take a deep draught of air into your lungs. You know he is almost ready. Only one further detail needs to be determined.

“Lower your trousers,” the headmaster barks. You breathe deeply again. It is to be on the underpants. You know this was not unexpected. You are a senior boy and you are not an infrequent visitor to this study; you expected a thrashing and you expected it to be exemplary. You take no comfort in the fact that until recently boys could be beaten on the bared buttocks. That practice stopped after an unfortunate court case involving a school elsewhere in the county.

You resolve to take your medicine with as much dignity as the situation allows. You will obey the headmaster’s every command. You tug at your belt and loosen the buckle. There are five buttons in total keeping your trousers closed. You struggle to get a good grip on the lower two in the fly, but eventually the front of your bags flap open. You wriggle your hips and simultaneously push down with your hands and your trousers slither down your thighs and snag at the knees. You spread your legs slightly and they continue their journey and puddle on your shoes. Your white shirt covers your buttocks at the rear and your cock and bulls at the front so that your white cotton Y-front underpants are hidden from view.

You hear the headmaster intone, “Stand by the back of the chair. Lift up your shirt, bend over.” You shuffle like a penguin to the required place and grip your shirt by both sides. You lift it so that it almost reaches your chin, then you fall forward. The first thing you notice is the musty smell of the chair seat. It is a combination of dust and body odour. The second thing is the heat from the roaring fire. You are close to the open grate and your legs are scorching.

You hear the headmaster taking up position behind you. He is swishing the cane through the air. It makes a terrific sound as it flies. You bury your face in the cushion and clasp your hands together, as if in prayer. You know this is going to hurt. You feel the cane “sawing” against the underside of your buttocks. Then it stops. The headmaster grips the waistband of your underpants and tugs so hard you feel the cotton cloth ride up your crack. You know the cheeks have been separated and there is a canyon between them. The headmaster now has a terrific target.

You feel the cane tapping against your stretched flesh. Any moment now. You know this will hurt greatly, but you have been here before. You know you can take it. You suck in your breath and hold it. The cane is lifted away from your bottom, there is an almighty whoosh! as it scatters air in its path, followed by a resounding crack as it connects with your bottom. It takes a second before the astonishing agony registers. You hack out a dry cough. You know you always do this. Other boys hiss as air rushes from their lungs through half-closed teeth. Others yelp; some yell. You are very proud of your ability to take a beating. That first stroke hurt like crazy. You can feel a thick line has already formed across your bum. It feels like the headmaster has pressed a white-hot wire into your flesh.

You hold your breath once more and wait for the second lash. You correctly predict it will land a little lower than the first. When it does you scrunch your eyes shut and increase pressure on your clasped hands. Now, you have a burning stripe across the lower half of your buttocks. You know the headmaster is an expert with the cane. You rather admire him for it. His aim is impeccable. He can land six strokes in a band no wider than an inch. If he choses no stroke will land on top of another. You know a boy is well advised to keep his bottom perfectly still while the headmaster goes about his duty. If he does not, a stroke might land on top of an existing cut and the resulting agony would be excruciating.

Your bottom throbs and despite your best effort your cheeks quiver and you wriggle your hips. “Steady boy,” the headmaster’s voice seems to come from a very long distance. You dig your elbows into the back of the leather chair and brace yourself. The cane flogs deep into your flesh before bouncing off. You cough louder this time. You feel the pain mounting. It radiates across both buttocks and travels up and down your legs. Your temples pulsate.

Your knees buckle and you make a great effort to straighten them. You hips gyrate and your stomach moves up and down over the apex of the chair. You know the headmaster is waiting for you to steady yourself once more before he lets fly again. You raise your bottom high. It is as if you are saying, “Go on. Do your worst.”

The headmaster lands two strokes. Crack!-crack! The shock of the first made you lift your bum. It put the headmaster off his aim and the second has landed diagonally across three of your welts. You hiss like a steam engine. Your legs march up and down on the floorboards. You shake your head up and down, and to the left and right.

You hear the headmaster’s footsteps. He is pacing the study, waiting for you to absorb the pain. You sense he is no hurry. You are determined not to let yourself down. Your heartrate is off the scale. Sweat soaks the back of your neck. It feels as if your underpants have stuck to your bottom.  You fear your welts are bleeding. You feel like you have sat in the fire grate.

With a monumental effort you grip hold of the seat cushion, spread your legs wide, raise your bottom high over the chair and wait. You feel the cane “sawing” across the underside of the buttocks. The headmaster is finding the “sit-spot”. This is the part of the bottom that connects with the chair when you sit down. You know if he slices you there the pain will reignite each time you sit down for a week.

Whoosh! Crack! Bingo! Right on target. You do the foot stomping and the hip wriggling and the head banging all over again. You hack the dry cough, expel air from your lungs. Blood courses though your body at the speed of sound. Your bum is on fire. Your head feels like it is about to explode.

You hear the headmaster return the cane to the coat stand. “You may stand up boy.”

You heave yourself to your feet. You desperately want to clutch your scolding bottom. You have just enough self-control not to. The headmaster has thrashed you well but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing this. Gingerly, you pull up your trousers and button up. As you retrieve your cap and blazer, the headmaster opens the punishment book, finds the correct page and enters your details.

You are now fully dressed. The headmaster stands, approaches you and offers his hand. You shake. You are gentlemen. You hobble from the study and with difficulty make your way down the stone stairs. Back in the quadrangle you see it is snowing again. Ruefully, you rub your backside. The throbbing is intense. For one mad moment you consider whipping down your trousers and pants to sit down in the snow. You smile and make your way towards your study.

There is still one part of the ritual to play out. In a moment you will display your wounds to your chums and together you will discuss the headmaster’s prowess. You award him a maximum ten points.

You know that within a few hours the pain will have vanished. The marks will last for many days; some maybe for weeks. Six-of-the-best; such is the lot of the schoolboy. You hold no resentment. You broke the rules and you got caught. You also know that once the dust has settled you will be back at the Three Fishers propping up the bar.

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Room 414

z used otk white pants prefect youngsters sting (2)

Well Winchester, the Head Boy said to me, we can do this one of two ways. Either you can do a detention and miss going to the cup semi-final this evening or you can go across my knee for a jolly good spanking.

My heart raced and my face burned. Had I heard correctly? Taylor the Head Boy and Captain of just about every sport we played at the school was offering to take me over his knee for a spanking.

I was eighteen years old at the time and I couldn’t remember the first time I dreamed of being taken over the knee for a spanking. Mostly I fantasied about my Uncle Roy. He was married to my Mother’s sister and often visited our council flat when his lorry driving took him to our district. He was a massive man, probably six-and-a-half-feet tall. I was a dwarf beside him. He towered more than head and shoulders above me. He was thickly built with powerful arms. I would masturbate at night imagining I was in my bedroom in my pyjamas and suddenly Uncle Roy would burst into the room. I never cared what naughtiness I was supposed to have displayed. I just saw Uncle Roy rip the bedclothes off my body and then gripping me by one wrist he hauled me to my feet before sitting down on the bed and dragging me face down over his lap. I was powerless.

Then Uncle Roy would take hold of the elasticated waistband of my pyjama bottoms and quite slowly tug them down over my buttocks and leave them bunched at the thighs. Now, with my arse suitably bared and in position he would slap me with the palm of his hand. It was as big and as heavy as a shovel and in no time I was bucking across his knee. It was at about this time that in real life I would ejaculate at speed into a wodge of lavatory paper.

I was stunned when Taylor made his offer. Here was someone else who was into spanking. Had I been so naïve to think I was the only one? I blustered with embarrassment, so Taylor put his proposition to me again. He would have known how much I wanted to go to the football match. This was the first time our local team had reached the semi-final of anything. Tickets were as rare as hens’ teeth – and I had one. How could I not go to the match. No, doing a detention was out of the question.

I looked Taylor in the face as in my mind I formulated my response. I didn’t want to sound too eager. He had a bright, open face and although he was the same age as me I don’t believe he had started shaving. The term “baby-faced” fitted him perfectly. He stood stony-eyed, I couldn’t read his mind. Did he know of my inclinations? Was there something about my overall demeanour that gave me away? How had he plucked up the courage to expose his own desires?

Perhaps I should explain that corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal some years before. Mine was not one of those schools from ancient history where prefects had the power to cane or whatnot younger boys. I doubt if any dads spanked their sons at home. Corporal punishment was simply unheard of.

Taylor shuffled his feet impatiently. I couldn’t tell how desperately (or not) he wanted me to choose to go over his knee. We were standing in the corridor not far from the sixth-form common room, I swivelled on my heels to make sure we were perfectly alone and no one could hear us. I sucked in air, run my tongue over my bottom lip and croaked my reply. I’ll go for the spanking.

Taylor seemed unfazed by my answer. I’ll see you after school at three-thirty. In the common room, he said before he sauntered away. I stood rooted. My hear beat so fast I thought I might be sick. Two hours to wait. My first-ever spanking. A bell rang in the distance. Heck, how would I get through double Geography?

Don’t ask me what the lesson was about, I don’t have the slightest idea. I was excellent at geography and ended up with an A-star at A-level but my enthusiasm for the subject paled beside my fervour to be spanked. My how the hands crawled on the clock that afternoon. At last the bell rang; the school day was over. I couldn’t get to the common room fast enough. It was crowded, of course, with boys and girls emptying their lockers. I hung back, waiting eagerly for them to leave.

But where was Taylor? Usually, he was as enthusiastic to get away as the rest of us. Why wasn’t he here. My heart skipped. Had he changed his mind? Had the enormity of what he proposed sank in? Did he regret opening himself up to me in this way? Was he scared we might get caught?

After about ten minutes I was the only one left in the room. I slouched in a chair and flicked through the pages of the Brocklehurst Bugle (could there be a more boring local rag than that?) I was about to give up and leave. I still needed to go home and change before catching the train for the match. Dejected, I packed my books in my locker and made for the door.

Outside a few yards down the corridor was Taylor. Where do you think you’re going? He frowned. I gabbled in reply that I thought he had changed his mind. He grunted, no way. A deal was a deal, he said. He held up a key he was carrying. It was for Room 414, he said. I knew this to be a classroom on the top floor of the building. Nobody would see us there.

He led the way. I truly felt like a naughty boy and kept two paces behind Taylor. This happened twenty-five years ago and I don’t remember what was going through my mind as we took the stairs. The school was deserted, that I can recall. I suppose it must have felt very unreal. We reached the classroom and Taylor unlocked the door. It was a typical classroom of its time. There were tables that seated up to six pupils and at the front was a whiteboard and a desk for the teacher. The walls were covered with brightly-coloured pictures and posters.

I stood uneasily. How was this meant to play out? I didn’t have the slightest idea. I need not have worried, Taylor took control. He fetched one of the straight-backed chairs and put it down in a space close to one wall. Without looking at me, he sat himself down. I hovered close by. In my fantasises I was sometimes beaten by a headmaster. The scenario was that I was a pupil in a posh public school some long time back in history. The headmaster wore a black academic gown and a mortar-board cap. He swished a whippy curve-handled rattan cane.

In those dreams, I would be told to take off my blazer and stand behind a large leather chair. Or sometimes it would be by the headmaster’s desk. On his curt command I would fumble with my belt and undo my trousers. I would let them down to my knees. Then on further instruction I would bend over and offer up my bottom to the cane. In those dreams I always wore white cotton Y-front pants. I wore similar underpants in real life, although they were deeply unfashionable by this time.

Taylor had settled himself and seemed ready to go. He said very little. I was still incapable of reading that beautiful face of his. Taking the initiative, I slipped off my jacket and put it on a table nearby. I stood maybe two feet to Taylor’s left waiting for his instruction. I could see that he had not brought any implement with him. It would be impossible for him to find an whippy cane, of course, but he might have been able to come up with a rubber-soled plimsoll, that other staple of schoolboy punishment from days gone by. At a pinch he might have borrowed a hairbrush from one of the girls, or, who knows?, there was always his belt.

It seemed none of these were to be used. My spanking would be by the palm of his hand alone. Clearly, he did not possess the build or the strength on my Uncle Roy, so I did not expect my punishment to be very painful. He spoke almost for the first time since we entered the classroom. Bend over my knee, he said. Oh, those words. How many times in the years since then has my heart sped at that command? To be instructed to present my backside to a dominant male, to submit to discipline.

I hesitated a moment. How was this done precisely? In my dream Uncle Roy dragged me from bed and manhandled me over his knee. With Taylor, I would have to present myself submissively. It was as if I were saying yes I have been a naughty boy and I deserve to be punished, please Taylor spank my bottom for me. I moved forward closer to his parted legs, then paused. I don’t think I had planned what happened next. It came to me on the spur of the moment. With trembling hands I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned at the waist and pulled my zipper. The weight of my leather belt sent my pale-grey trousers hurtling to my feet. I leaned forward, stretched out my arms in front of me to break my fall and bent over Taylor’s knee.

We were much the same height and build and I fitted into his body rather well. I placed my palms flat against the floor and with my knees slightly bent the toes of my shoes reached the ground behind me. This way my bottom was positioned over his knee at a good angle for spanking. I couldn’t see Taylor’s expression. He hadn’t expected this turn of events. Me, in my underwear submissively waiting for him to spank me. I am sure his breathing got heavier the moment my trousers hit my feet.

I stared at the parquet flooring. It was scratched and worn and it hadn’t felt the sweep of a broom for some considerable time. Taylor was composing himself. I felt him take hold of the tail of my shirt and push it away from my bum, leaving an area of naked flesh on my lower back. I knew that my underpants fitted me well, but that did not deter Taylor from taking hold of the elasticated waist and pulling so that the cotton was now like a second skin. I felt the pants dig deep into my crack so that each cheek was nicely separated.

Taylor placed the palm of his hand on my left buttock, holding it there for longer than strictly necessary for him to find his aim. He put his other hand in the small of my back to prevent me moving. Then he spanked me. People say the first time is always special. The first kiss, the first sex, the first marriage. So it was with my first spanking. Taylor had some strength in his arm, he was after all one of the school’s most accomplished sportsmen. He spanked me at speed, as my bum absorbed the hurt of one slap another spank immediately followed. It was like machinegun fire.

The pain, such as it was, was not intense; a hand-spanking on an eighteen-yea-old’s bottom covered with cotton underpants could never be severe. But, Taylor warmed up my arse good and proper. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples throbbed like crazy. On and on he slapped his hand into my tight buttocks. My cock first twitched and then stood at fall attention, like a soldier on guard duty. Taylor must have felt it digging into his thigh and this encouraged him in his efforts. He spanked harder and faster than before.

I feared at any moment I would shoot a load into my underpants. Taylor’s own pale-grey school trousers would be stained. Let him explain that to his mother at home. My breathing was strained: huff-huff-huff. Any time now.

We were both too involved in ourselves to hear the classroom door open. We did catch the strangulated gasp of the school janitor and the clang as the metal bucket fell from his grasp. Taylor released his grip on me and I shot to my feet, the tentpole in the front of my pants pointing at the janitor. He turned on his feet and leaving behind his bucket the janitor rushed down the corridor.

I pulled up my trousers. My head was remarkably clear, it felt as if I were looking down on the room from some height. Taylor remained seated. It was clear to me that his cock was raging as much as mine. The silence in the room was deafening. We could not describe to one another the pleasure we had experienced together. Nor, could we share our fear about what the janitor might say or do.

At last Taylor spoke. He told me to hurry home or I would miss the football match. I left him alone. As I made my way down a deserted corridor, I saw Alderton, a fellow sixth-former, walking toward me. He gave me a cheeky wink but said nothing as he passed. I stood and watched him enter room 414.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #10

z used fake news ama (18)

Back in Short Trousers at Brocklehurst High

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

(Photograph posed by models)

 

Boys up to the age of eighteen and beyond at Brocklehurst High will be made to wear short trousers as part of their school uniform from next term.

It is part of a new disciplinary regime that also sees the return of the whippy crook-handled rattan cane.

New headmaster Dr. GOF Powell made the announcement this week in a letter to parents of the 750 boys-only school.

Dr. Powell told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The boys need to know that they are not yet adults. They are children and they should be treated as such. Wearing short trousers will be a constant reminder of that.

“They should also respect adults at all times and obey instructions.”

Dr. Powell became headmaster in January with the remit from school governors to “tighten up discipline”.

He said that after the government announced it would allow schools to reintroduce corporal punishment, Brocklehurst High wrote a new code of conduct.

“Boys will be left in no doubt about the consequences if they do not adhere to the rules,” he said.

Dr. Powell is on record as a strong supporter of the cane. He was one of a number of educationalists who lobbied for its reintroduction.

He told the Brocklehurst Bugle the cane could be used on boys of all ages, but he intended to target the eldest pupils in the sixth-form first.

“We have pupils who are eighteen years old and they have no idea how they are supposed to behave. There are only a few months before they leave school so we do not have time to waste. They must know that I will not hesitate to deliver a sound six-of-the-best across the backside of any sixth-former – including the prefects – if I deem they deserve such punishment.”

The new rulings have largely been welcomed by parents. Mrs. Alison Golightly, the chairwoman of the school’s Parent Teacher Association, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “I think many parents will welcome the reintroduction of the cane. My own son is completely out of control at home. I have no husband and I hope the headmaster will beat some manners into him.”

Boys at the school had mixed reactions to the introduction of short trousers. Oliver Bateman-Manning, aged 18, the head boy of the school, said it might be good to wear short trousers in the hot summer months, but “they will freeze our knees off in winter”.

Another sixth-former who did not wish to be named said, “Short trousers can be very sexy. Of course, it depends on a boy’s legs and bum.”

Senior boys welcomed news of the reintroduction of the cane. John Herbert, aged 18, said, “Discipline has been poor for many years. A sore backside is a small price to pay if we get good A-level grades and get to a top university.”

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Looking back . . .

z used cane touch toes pyjamas (15)b

Sometimes these days I rub my eyes with disbelief with much the same vigour I used to rub my backside. That’s when I remember my days at St. Tom’s. In the housemaster’s study (again). In pyjamas, touching toes for six-of-the-best .

You tell kids that today and they think you’re mad. Eighteen years old and bending over for the cane. It happened all the time back in the nineteen-sixties. St. Tom’s was a middling public school (that is a private fee-paying school) with delusions that it was among the elite. It dripped “tradition”: traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional religion and, of course, traditional discipline.

St. Tom’s was an enclosed boarding school; boys only of course. There were rules for everything: do this; don’t do that. Break the rules, touch your toes. There was a small town close to the school and it was an illegal excursion to the cinema there that got me my last caning.

Do you remember Sophia Loren? She was the Italian sex-kitten film starlet of her time. There was a film and I can’t for the life of me remember the name of it now, where she stripped off her clothes. Not all the way of course, but for we sex-starved boys of St. Tom’s a flash of thigh would have been enough to fuel self-abuse for weeks.

Naturally, we had to see it. So taking our lives (or at least our bums) in our hands three of us snuck off one Saturday. We got spotted by a master coming out the cinema. Had he been inside watching the film himself? If so he was a jolly rotter for turning us in. The cinema was out of bounds at all times, not just when steamy sex movies were showing.

Our housemaster Mr. Camden had a ritual. Looking back after fifty years it seems a pretty rum one to me. He would keep a list of boys who misbehaved during the and call them to his study at lights-out, just before bedtime. That way he ensured we arrived in our pyjamas. Naturally, a whippy rattan cane would sting much more without heavy trousers and cotton underpants as protection.

So, that night, Richard MacDonald, Brian LeFevre and myself took ourselves down to the study. Camden was a strange cove. He looked to us like he was a hundred years old at least, but he stayed on at the school for another twenty-odd years after I escaped so he must have only been in his forties. He was a stout man with a ruddy complexion (was he a drinker?) and was incapable of talking in a normal voice. He always sounded like he was addressing a parade ground full of troops.

I think it was Richard who knocked on the door. We waited for the customary order to “enter” and shuffled to stand in front of Camden’s desk. It was a ramshackle affair, not too big and always covered in piles of exercise books. He must have spent half his waking hours marking. I remember the room was cold although it was early summer. Parts of the school supposedly dated back three or four hundred years so it was a draughty hole.

We stood hands behind backs, eyes downcast at our slippered feet, in the classic naughty-boy pose. We knew how to play our role in the drama that was about to unfold. We also knew how it would end.

I had been caned countless times (who hadn’t?) it was that kind of school. It always hurt; that was after all the point of the exercise and I never really got used to it. I think the embarrassment of bending over and offering my backside to a master much larger than me was as bad as the pain. I wasn’t like some of my pals (Richard was one) who took it entirely in their stride. Some actually welcomed the cane. It was some kind of badge of honour. I know when we were lower down the school we would make marks with ink on our snake belts, one for each time we were caned. Some years later I met an old school pal who had formed a club where men dressed in school uniform and relived their canings.

Camden jawed us a bit. Did we know the cinema was out of bounds? Yes, we did. That was it really. We coughed to the crime and all that was left was the punishment.

Camden had a tall thin cupboard in one corner of the room. I have never seen these cupboards anywhere but in a school study. What possible use could they have except to house an array of punishment canes? He had several of different lengths, thicknesses and densities. His pride and joy was a Malacca which was no longer or thicker than the plain rattans but it had a powerful density. It was as springy and whippy as the others but with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave a boy’s backside heavily bruised. If a master chose to put an extra bit of beef into a swipe he could easily cut flesh.

The Malacca was for recidivists, those for whom a “normal” caning had proved ineffectual. It was also reserved for senior boys like ourselves, Camden supposing that we were too tough even for the thickest rattan or dragon. We watched impassively, but with pulses racing, while Camden fished a key from his trouser pocket, unlocked the cupboard and reached inside. The rattling of several canes seemed to echo around the room. He turned to face us holding the Malacca between two hands.

Another of Camden’s rituals was to flex and swish the cane through the air. He was testing its effectiveness as if he had never encountered it before. He was also trying to intimidate the boy standing before him, demonstrating just how much damage the rod could do to a boy’s stretched buttocks. I wasn’t intimidated and I doubt if my two fellows were either; we just wanted to get it over with.

Camden soon obliged. “Stand there,” he waved towards a wall dominated by bookshelves. We did as instructed. “Hands on head” (another ritual) “Face the bookcase.” The only uncertainty was how he would cane us. Sometimes it was the traditional “touch your toes”; otherwise we would drape ourselves over a piece of furniture. The desk was always too cluttered to be used but on occasion I had presented my bum over the back of an armchair or by gripping the seat of a hard straight-backed chair.

“Stand out LeFevre,” Camden hollered. I supposed the chaps back in the dormitory would have heard. Not that it would matter. It was no secret that we had been summoned to the study and every boy at the school knew that could mean only one thing.

Brian turned on his heels and with hands still on his head, he lumbered into the centre of the study. Richard and I turned to watch. There was nothing so fascinating as watching a fellow get a bowing. Brian’s face was pale. It was difficult to control such things, the body makes natural reactions in times of stress. Camden flexed his cane and then pointed to a spot in the middle of the carpet, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

Brian sucked down a lung-full of air and slumped forward. He was a thin, wiry boy and when he bent over his pyjama bottoms rode up across his buttocks. Camden swished his cane and gently sawed it across the centre of Brian’s bum. Suddenly he stopped. “What’s this?” he shouted. “Padding?”

I exchanged glances with Richard. Padding? A chap never put padding down the back of his trousers. It was cheating. Not the done thing. A bad show. Besides it was bloody impractical if a boy was only in pyjamas. “You are wearing underpants, LeFevre. Stand up boy.”

Underpants. Hardly “padding”. But to Camden they were both the same. Brian straightened up, his pale face now quite red. “Take down your pyjama bottoms.” It was a straightforward command. I noticed Brian’s eyes watered. He chewed on his bottom lip. I thought for a moment he would protest, perhaps he wanted to but thought better of it. There would be no point. Camden was in charge and we all knew that well.

Brian’s fingers trembled as he stumbled with the drawstring of his pyjamas. He had trouble undoing the knot but eventually succeeded. He let go and the bottoms hurtled to his feet, rather like clown’s trousers do. He started to bend forward once more. “Not so fast,” Camden barked. “Since you have attempted to deceive me. Let us have the underpants down as well.”

I saw Richard’s eyes blaze. Bare arsed. That was unheard of. And it was so jolly unfair. Brian hadn’t tried to use padding. Most of the chaps wore underpants under their pyjama bottoms. Matron might not think it very hygienic but it was immensely practical: it stopped our erect cocks from poking through the fly of the pyjamas. And believe me when we were eighteen it was impossible to stop our dicks saluting at the least provocation.

If looks could kill. Brian shot Camden a dirty scowl, but still he did not complain. I watched him hitch his thumbs into the waistband  of the pants and slowly guide them over his buttocks until he released them at the thighs and let them slither to his ankles at their own speed. I tried not to gape. There were lots of times at the school when we saw one another naked, but we went around pretending not to notice. It was impossible now not to see Brian’s long, thin cock. It was awesome, quite the largest I had seen in my life until them.

Feigning nonchalance Brian bent down once more. I had a side-on view so was unable to see his crack or hole but, of course, this would have been in Camden’s view. How utterly humiliating it must have been for Brian. The housemaster took his aim, raised the cane to above shoulder height and with a slight turn of his body swiped it across Brian’s buttocks. The boy gasped and his body shook under the impact, his balls bounced up and down. Almost immediately a deep pink line emerged across the pale flesh where the cane had landed.

Number two fell a little lower than the first and the next a little higher. Camden was an expert caner. The Malacca landed precisely where he intended. It helped that Brian was also an expert canee (if indeed that is the correct word). He took his lashes as stoically as circumstances allowed and did not move around unduly.

After three strokes Brian had a band of hurt roughly two inches wide across the centre of both buttocks. Camden slashed another three into that patch. Six welts throbbed across Brian’s bum. It had been an exemplary thrashing. Brian opened and closed his mouth silently. The agony would have been intense, but he managed to utter not one sound. On command he rose, pulled up his pants and pyjamas and resumed his position by the bookcase. His eyes were damp but he wasn’t blubbing. A chap never blubbed during a caning, he would never hear the end of it from his pals.

Camden called my name. I walked forward and when instructed I bent over. It is more difficult to touch your toes than perhaps people imagine. It puts a tremendous strain on the calf muscles. I grabbed my ankles instead and with my knees bent slightly my bottom jutted out at a decent angle to receive the caning. I felt Camden take hold of my pyjama jacket and move it an inch or so up my back and away from the target area. I shuddered; not from fear (as I said I had been in this position before) but from a cold draught that came from I know not where. I had a close up view of the pale blue carpet beneath my feet. It was new, a modern concession. Not so long previously the floor had been bare boards with a tatty rug.

I closed my eyes and shut my teeth as I felt the cane tap against my stretched pyjamas. The housemaster was finding his aim. I knew it would hurt. A great deal. That was the point of it. No point in caning a boy’s backside unless it hurt. I understood that. I heard the cane swish through the air and the crack as it connected with my hard bum. It seemed like ages before I felt the burning pain. Air escaped through my clenched teeth.

As with Brian’s caning, the second landed. Whop! Just below the first slice. My buttocks were blazing. Camden was such an expert with the cane. His beatings were awesome. I tried to ignore the pain searing from my arse up and down my legs. From somewhere outside the study I heard the sound of footsteps on creaking boards. Then they stopped. Some one was outside the door. Probably, another boy waiting his turn.

Number three connected with the top of my thigh. I must have yelped, it would be impossible not to. Camden had missed his aim, maybe he wasn’t such an expert after all. I stopped myself leaping to my feet and rubbing away.

“Keep still boy.”

I was soaked with sweat. My temples throbbed every bit as much as my bum. My blood pressure was off the scale. The housemaster paused, allowing me to settle. He took better aim this time. The fourth went high, on the top of the curves, well away from the thighs. My bum felt like it was on fire. Camden was putting all his beef into this, he had beaten carpets with less force.

Bang-Bang! The final two cut deep into my meaty bum, in quick succession. I had no time to absorb the first until the second landed, almost on the same spot. It was over. I stared down at the carpet, already the intense pain was dissolving. I knew that soon it would become an awesome throb before turning to a scorching glow. I waited for permission to stand. I had no time to reflect on the incongruity of an eighteen-year-old allowing himself to be thrashed in such a way by a schoolmaster. In those days one didn’t legally become an adult until twenty-one, maybe we were still conditioned to think of ourselves as children.

I rose and resumed my place at the bookcase. MacDonald offered Camden his arse and a couple of minutes later we were on our way back to the dorm. to display our wounds to an admiring crowd.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It was thirty years ago

The A-level English Lit. class was restless. “Sir! Sir!” Jackson folded his newspaper, “It says in the Telegraph that corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty years ago.”

Mr. Hawkes raised his eyebrows.

“Did they have the cane here in those days, Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes suppressed a melancholy smile. “Yes, indeed St. Francis has always been a very traditional school.”

“Oooh Sir, I bet the boys were  pleased when they abolished the cane,” Jackson wriggled on his chair.

“As a matter of fact Jackson, the cane was only banned in state schools. St FIGS is an independent school,” he laid great stress on the word independent. “The cane continued to be used for another decade. It was only abolished in 1999.” And more’s the pity, he thought. Look how the county had gone to the dogs since.

“Sir,” Jackson was on a roll. “You’ve been here forever, did you ever cane a boy Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes paused and stared at the sixth-formers lounging at their desks. “Yes, Jackson, especially boys who disrupted classes with silly questions.”

He was rather pleased at the laughs that got.

“Oh, but Sir,” Jackson was not to be silenced. “Not sixth-formers, Sir,” he grinned.

Mr. Hawkes pursed his lips, “Especially sixth-formers, Jackson, especially sixth-formers. Now why do you keep asking these questions?”

“Because he’s got a boner, Sir,” Edwards chirruped from the back of the class. Every boy jeered at Jackson, but not entirely unkindly.

@

 

Some afternoons later Robbie Jackson was with Ant Edwards in his bedroom. They were supposed to be working on a history project together. “Look what I’ve got,” Ant pulled the wardrobe forward by a couple of centimetres and reached behind it. “Look!” His grin was returned by his pal.

“War …?” Robbie was speechless.

“I got it on eBay,” Ant replied to a question he had not been asked. “It’s the real deal.”

Robbie had found his voice. “Give it here.” He reached forward with a shaking hand. “It’s as light as a feather,” he said weighing it in his hand.

“But, I bet it still packs a punch.”

Robbie had never seen an authentic school cane before, never mind handled one. Less still, felt the sting of one across his stretched buttocks. Tentatively, he flexed it between his hands, it curved easily.

“It’s OK,” Ant grinned, “It’s very swishy, you won’t break it.”

Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand. Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the real deal all right. Just like the ones they used in the videos he jerked off to.

“Isn’t she a beaut?” Ant’s eyes shone. He knew his mate would love it.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

Robbie’s heart thumped. “Yes, let’s,” he croaked.

They went to the lounge. It was a large room dominated by a shiny leather sofa and two enormous armchairs. Along one wall was a glass-fronted cabinet and a dining table and chairs was in an alcove. Ant had a plan, he had run it through his head a hundred times since he saw the glint in Robbie’s eyes in the classroom.

Robbie stood in the middle of the room. He ought to say something. But what? Blood was coursing through his body at an alarming rate. His cock was on the march.

Ant broke the silence. He tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. Then thinking twice about it, he slipped it into his hand and pointed with it. “Jackson,” he said aiming at an “old fashioned” English accent. “Fetch that chair and place it there.” He swished the cane and pointed to a spot a metre or so in front of himself.

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed. He moved across the room and picked up a straight-backed dining chair. It was surprisingly heavy. He manhandled it across the carpet and set it down, its back facing him.

“Other way round,” Ant snarled. “Have the seat facing you.” He had seen in the old comics that a boy was supposed to stand in front of the chair and stoop forward, clutching the seat of the chair. That would tighten the buttocks sufficiently and create a perfect target for the cane.

“Now, Jackson,” Ant had cast himself as the school captain and Robbie was the lazy slacker of the House. He needed a damn good thrashing to buck up his ideas. “Bend over and grab the seat of the chair.”

Robbie’s face flushed, saliva drained from his mouth, his heart beat faster. His dick thrust into the flies of his school trousers. He took a deep breath, turned his back on his pal, spread his feet a little and leaned forward. This was not quite how he had imagined it. In the videos they usually went over the back of a chair. He had fantasised many times about being over the back of an old rather worn green armchair that starred in many movies. His head would be down in the dusty cushion, his stomach over the chair’s back and his trousers would be at his ankles. Often, but not always, it was Mr. Hawkes who wielded the cane.

Robbie looked around the room. The armchairs were too large to bend across and the sofa wasn’t much better. He might at a pinch fit over one of its arms. No, he concluded, Ant had chosen wisely. The straight-back chair is was to be. He took a deep breath, leaned forward and offered his backside to his friend.

Ant’s hand shook as he gripped the cane. How often he had dreamed about this; having someone – anyone – submit themselves to him. He had never caned a boy before, but he had seen it done often enough in the films. He took up position a half-metre to Robbie’s left and tap-tap-tapped the cane across his stretched bottom. No, this was no good, he couldn’t get a good swing like this. He took a step back. That was better; now he was a cane’s length away. He took aim again.

Robbie was a little short for an eighteen year old; he often had problems getting served in pubs. Barmen always thought his ID was forged. He was slim and wiry and didn’t have enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His buttocks were small and sinewy. Ant “sawed” his cane across the fleshiest part (such as it was) and prepared to deliver the first stroke. He licked his lips and hesitated. He had seen young men caned countless times online, but it wasn’t always obvious just how hard the cane had struck. He suspected trick photography was used so there would be a shot of the headmaster flexing his cane and a close-up of it being steadied across the culprit’s arse, then most likely you’d get a shot over the boy’s shoulder of the cane being raised and swiping down. You’d see the painful grimace of the face, but not actually see the cane strike home.

It wasn’t always like that, of course, but even so Ant was at a loss. How hard should he hit? Robbie’s bottom wriggled with anticipation (or possibly impatience). Ant needed to make a move. He raised the cane and with a flick of the wrist send it thwacking into Robbie’s stretched trousers. His friend was unmoved. The ensuing silence was deep and embarrassing.

Robbie turned his head and called over his shoulder. “Do it harder. It’s meant to hurt. It’s a punishment.”

Ant flushed. Annoyed by the sting of his friend’s criticism, he took aim again. This time the cane rose to shoulder height and with all the strength he could muster, Ant flogged the cane down. It bounced off Robbie’s bum and the crack echoed around the room and could be heard outside in The Avenue.

Robbie gritted his teeth and gulped in air, before speaking. “Yes, that’s it. Give me six more like that.” He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the wooden seat. The second stoke cut lower than the first. Robbie could already feel a welt rising beneath his underwear. He had never experienced such pain before. How had schoolboys in the past survived six-of-the-best?

The third stroke landed on top of the first. Robbie shuddered; pain shot north, south, east and west through his entire body. His hips swayed and his knees buckled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s reflex action to the assault.

Sweat soaked Ant’s collar. It was a warm afternoon but even with the window open the room felt airless. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his woollen blazer, steadied himself and aimed for the top curves of Robbie’s arse. A thick line immediately appeared across the tight polyester-cotton trousers. He knew a deep red mark was throbbing in Robbie’s flesh.

A low long-drawn out hiss escaped through Robbie’s clenched teeth. His eyes watered. He hacked a dry cough. His feet stamped up and down like a sentry on guard duty.

“Steady boy, steady.” Ant was enjoying himself enormously. “Keep still, or it’ll be extra stokes for you Jackson.”

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed, “Sorry.” He dug his feet into the ground, gripped the seat once more and waited for the agony to be reignited. It wasn’t long in coming. Ant raised the cane once more and this time swiped down two cuts one after the other: bang-bang. Robbie howled; there was no other way to describe the ear-splitting noise. He lifted the chair some centimetres from the ground and danced around, clutching it tightly.

A broad smile split Ant’s face. “OK Jackson, you may stand.” He watched with undisguised delight as his friend hopped from one foot to the other furiously rubbing  the seat of his trousers. Robbie’s face was scarlet and Ant fully expected the teenager’s backside was a similar colour.

“Ferking hell,” Robbie unbuckled his belt and whipped down his trousers and underpants. He twisted his back to get a view of his scarred buttocks. Six clear red lines traversed his hairless cheeks. He touched each gingerly reigniting the pain. The agony had gone now but his bum glowed with a throbbing pain. It felt rather good. He traced his index finger along the ridges unaware that Ant was videoing him on his phone. Later, Ant would wank off watching it.

“Come on,” Ant breezed. “My turn now.”

“You bet,” Robbie beamed. “Bend over that chair Edwards.” He stood amazed as his mate unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his trousers and let them fall to his knees. Then eagerly he bent over the chair. Robbie’s jaw slackened. Ant was wearing gleaming white Y-front underpants, just like the guys in the videos. No one wore Y-fronts these days.

Ant wriggled his bottom; the pants were tight and rode up into his crack, separating each cheek. Ant wriggled some more in a fashion he supposed to be sexy. He couldn’t wait for the first slash.

Robbie took aim. It had never occurred to him before what a terrific arse Ant had. It was round and hard. The term “buns of steel” was made for it. He raised the cane and slammed it home. He was inexperienced and his aim was off. The whippy rattan seared a mark across the back of Ant’s naked thigh. He screamed.

Two Mormons walking up the path halted. Attracted by the cry they peered through the open window before making a hasty retreat.

Robbie took aim once more, a little higher this time.

z used drawing cane prefect boy Mag (2)

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com