A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Reliving old times

They both saw each other at exactly the same moment. Twenty or so yards across the almost empty new Brocklehust Shopping Centre. Anthony wasn’t sure at first. The man was a little heavier than last they met. His jowls were flabbier too. There was a little less hair and it was greyer, but there was no mistaking it. It was Mr. Durrant, his housemaster at his old school.

“Brewer. It is you, isn’t it? Brewer. No?” Mr. Durrant spoke first.

“Yes, Sir,” Anthony replied shyly, his eyes cast down at the cold grey tiles beneath his feet.

Mr. Durrant beamed and strode across to him. “I would never have recognised you with that moustache.”

Instinctively, Anthony brushed the back of his hand across his top lip. He was very proud of that tache. It had taken ages to grow.

“How long has it been, Brewer?” Mr. Durrant’s smile broadened. “It must be four or five years. You went away to university. Yes?” Mr. Durrant rocked a little on his heels with excitement. “Well, lad, tell me. Did you get your degree?”

“Yes, Sir. And my Masters too. I’m doing a doctorate, now,” Anthony barked, a little more petulantly than he had intended.

“Good lad. Good lad,” Mr. Durrant’s jowls wobbled with delight. “So, it seems all those thrashings I had to give you paid off,” he said with no rancour.

Anthony’s heart beat faster. He knew his face was flushing bright red. He really ought to say something to his former master. But what?

Mr. Durrant quickly filled the silence. “They put you on the straight-and-narrow, what? You were an irritating boy. Needed a whacking now and again. It kept you focussed. I’m glad it all worked out well for you.”

Anthony gulped in a lungful of air. His temples throbbed. In his mind’s eye he saw his own fingers stretching to touch the toes of his scuffed black shoes. The ugly, red, worn rug in Mr. Durrant’s study was once more beneath his feet. He felt the heavy whippy rattan school cane being tapped against his tight-fitting pale-grey trousers.

“Hey,” Mr. Durrant spread his arms wide. “I’m late for an appointment.” He crooked his elbow and looked at his watch as if to prove the point. “We should meet up. Come to my house. Twenty-two The Avenue. Six o’clock tonight. We can have a drink and what-not. Don’t be late, you know I can’t abide tardiness.” With that, he strode on his way, leaving a bemused Anthony to stare at Mr. Durrant’s wobbly buttocks as they and he receded into the distance.

Anthony wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans and set off to Weatherspoons in search of the cheapest pint of beer they had on offer.

Three pints and two hours later, Anthony was back in his old bedroom at his parents’ home. He spent as little time as possible ‘at home’, but it was the middle of the long summer vacation and money was tight, so needs must.

It had been years since he had thought about St. Francis Independent Grammar School. It was an old-fashioned school. They liked to think it was ‘traditional.’ Traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional school uniform. And, traditional discipline: the crook-handled cane. Mr. Durrant had been right, Anthony was no stranger to the sting of the cane across his backside. Even in the last months of school, well after his eighteenth birthday, he was a regular visitor to Mr. Durrant’s study.

“Jeez,” he wheezed to himself, “fancy meeting Old Durrant after all these years. He was old enough to be dead.” Anthony lifted himself from his bed, sat up and opened and closed drawers on his night stand. Yes, it was still here. He pulled out a green-and-gold-hooped school cap. It was a bit greasy. It was all that Brylcreem the sixth-formers used to wear in their hair. He smiled. They all thought it made them look grown-up. Yuck. He used Vitalis hair oil, these days. The natural grooming.

He plonked the cap on his head. It still fitted remarkably well. He doubted if the blazer would. He still had it tucked away in a corner of the wardrobe. He opened the door and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He grinned. A full-grown man with a moustache wearing a school cap. What a laugh.

The green-and-gold blazer was still on a coat hanger. He tugged it off and held it in both hands up to the light, as if admiring a jacket he might like to purchase in one of the trendy boutiques in town. The wool felt soft to touch. He rubbed it against his left cheek. It smelt musty as indeed it should since it hadn’t been off the hanger for five years at least.

He undid the three buttons and slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. It fitted very well, even though Anthony had put on muscle since the days when he was a scrawny schoolkid. “Thanks Mum,” he grinned at his reflection in the mirror, “You always bought school uniforms so I would grow into them.”

Grey trousers. He needed grey trousers, then the outfit would be complete. His school trousers had long ago worn out, but he had a pair of dark-grey trousers for smart. Sunday best, his Mum called them. He hardly wore them and they had a mark along the knees where they had been hanging undisturbed for so long.

He stepped into the trousers, pulled them up tightly and zipped up. The transformation was complete. He turned his back to the mirror and peered at himself over his shoulder. Yep, he thought, Anthony Brewer, twenty-four-year-old Master of Arts, was back in the sixth-form at St. Francis.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the woollen blazer. His armpits were sticky. A line of moisture dampened his moustache.

“Well, lad.” Anthony startled. It was a voice inside his head. “Let’s get on with this. I haven’t got all day.” It was Mr. Durrant speaking. “Bend over. Touch your toes. You know the drill.”

Anthony did indeed; he bent forward, knees straight, feet a little apart. The green-and-gold blazer tightened across his shoulders. It felt odd to be touching his stockinged feet, instead of his black leather shoes.

“Let’s make it six, shall we?” the voice in his head intoned clearly. “Six of the very best.”

Through his parted legs, Anthony had a perfect view of his own backside. The grey trousers clung to his meaty buttocks. He raised one hand to rub across the seat of his trousers, tracing the line of the sharp creases. Yes, he reckoned: beefy, but not fat. His bum would make a terrific target for Mr. Durrant’s cane.

@

It was nearly time to set off. He didn’t want to be late. Mr. Durrant did not tolerate tardiness, Anthony recalled from his schooldays. Being late for class once meant detention. Twice, would get you a sore arse.

He pulled on the grey trousers, they were snug and didn’t need a belt. He did up the buttons on the white shirt and admired his reflection in the mirror. A clean-shaven face smiled back at him. Intuitively, he knew Mr. Durrant would not approve of the tache.

He sat down on the bed and pulled on grey socks and black shoes. The green-and-gold blazer hung on the back of a chair. The school cap was in one pocket. A green-and-gold-striped tie in another. He fished out a C&A plastic bag from a drawer and neatly folded the blazer into it. It was a fine summer evening and too warm to wear a coat. Anyway, Anthony reckoned, a twenty-four-year-old in school uniform might get funny looks from passers-by; he would change into them just before he knocked on Mr. Durrant’s door.

It was ten after six when Anthony pressed the doorbell. Mr. Durrant’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the young adult dressed for school.

“You’re late,” he scowled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Anthony croaked.

“You will be,” Mr. Durrant replied under his breath.

Aloud, he said, “You’d better come in.”

Across the street, a lace curtain flickered. Mr. Albertstein ran the tip of his tongue across his cracked lips and watched the door close behind his neighbour and his young visitor.

It was a large house, far too big for one man to live on his own, Anthony thought. His parents’ house was cramped, with his Mum and Dad, his two sisters and himself, he mused irritably.

“Let me get you a drink. Is beer all right?” Mr. Durrant spoke over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. “Or do you want something a little stronger?”

Anthony’s throat was parched. His heart beat fast and he was finding breathing difficult. “Beer,” he gasped. Mr. Durrant shot him a disgruntled glare. “Eh, please, Sir,” the young man added hastily.

“That’s better,” Mr. Durrant reached into the fridge and pulled out two tins of Double Diamond. “There’s a can-opener in that drawer,” he nodded across the room. “Please fetch it for me.”

Anthony sucked on his can, too aware that he was in school uniform drinking beer. Back in the day, Mr. Durrant had given him and three pals a particularly severe Six for drinking shandy in the sixth-form common room.

“Cigarette?” Mr. Durrant reached into his jacket pocket.

“No thanks, Sir. I don’t,” Anthony shuddered.

“Ha!” a broad grin split Mr. Durrant’s jowls. “You were a twenty-a-day man when you were fifteen.”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he could still feel the stripes across his backside. He knew he was blushing profusely.

“Well …” he stuttered. How could he explain himself to his housemaster?

They started with small talk. What Anthony was researching for his doctorate, whether he still kept in touch with friends from school.

Mr. Durrant listened intensely, watching Anthony’s lips dampened by the beer opening and closing. The young man’s hazel eyes shone; the housemaster suspected that might be the alcohol.

He drained his tin of beer. “I’m retired now, of course, but I still see one or two of the old boys,” he crushed the can in his hand and leaned forward towards Anthony, “They often come to this house,” he waved his arms expansively. Anthony looked around the room, thinking that Mr. Durrant was trying to show him something.

“So, tell me, lad,” Mr. Durrant was beginning to sound like the housemaster he had been for so many years, “Are you behaving yourself?”

Anthony’s ears pinkened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eh, well,” he stuttered. “Yes of course I am, Mr. Durrant,” then quickly he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Mr. Durrant’s florid face darkened. “Pah! Well that would make a welcome change, for you, lad.” He stood from his chair and paced the kitchen. “I have genuinely lost count of the number of times you visited my study for …” His sentence trailed off and he stared blankly at the refrigerator. “You know what I mean?”

Anthony did. He knew very well what the old man was talking about.

“So,” Mr. Durrant seemed to have regained his thought. “You haven’t been a naughty little boy.”

Anthony clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. His mind raced. Had he been misbehaving? Was there some misdeed he could confess to his master?

“I’ve been rude to my mother.” It felt lame the moment the words passed his lips, but it was the best he could do without notice.

“Well,” Mr. Durrant’s lips pursed. “That’s for your father to deal with.” They fell silent. Anthony squeezed his eyes shut, imagining his father pulling him across his knee to apply a bedroom slipper with some vigour across the seat of his pyjama bottoms. He shook the thought clear of his head. It had been some time since he had last had that vision.

“I stole a copy of Football Monthly from Mr. Jenkinson’s shop,” he blurted. “He was serving another customer and I took it from a shelf and ran off.”

Mr. Durrant’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “Did you indeed? Did you?”

“Yes, Sir honestly, Sir,” Anthony insisted.

“Well, now. Theft. That is a beating offence. You know that Brewer. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Anthony rubbed his hands together but he couldn’t get rid of the sweat.

“I have a room upstairs, Brewer,” Mr. Durrant straightened himself and stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “A special room. A very special room, do you understand, Brewer.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

“I think you and I need to repair to that room, don’t you Brewer?”

The young man nodded, silently.

“Follow me, Brewer.”

With slow deliberate steps, Mr. Durrant led the way from the kitchen, through the hallway and up the carpeted staircase. There were four doors on the landing. One was slightly ajar and Anthony could see it was a bathroom.

“This room here,” Mr. Durrant turned a brass knob and eased the door open. “Step this way.”

Anthony stood in the doorway transfixed. The room had bare floorboards, except for an old ugly worn red rug. It was dominated by an imperious wooden desk. In one corner was a hat stand, in another a tall thin cupboard.

The young man’s jaw actually dropped.

“Yes,” Mr. Durrant beamed. “It’s my old study from St. Francis, brought here lock, stock and barrel.”

Anthony’s eyes were like saucers. That rug. The same one he had stared down at so many times. It was as if he had been transported back in time.

“Stand there, lad.” Mr. Durrant snapped his fingers. Obediently, Anthony shuffled the few feet so that he stood on the rug.

Mr. Durrant shuffled across the room towards the cupboard. Anthony turned his shoulders to watch him go.

“Face the front, lad,” Mr. Durrant growled. “You’ll find out what’s going on here soon enough.”

Anthony heard a door creaking, followed by the distinct rattling of long, whippy rattan canes swirling around a confined space. Anthony couldn’t stop blinking. Time was playing tricks. It was only yesterday that he last presented his backside to Mr. Durrant for a sound thrashing.

The floorboards behind Anthony squeaked and Mr. Durrant was once more in view. He was dressed in a traditional black academic gown and on his head he wore a mortar board cap at a rakish angle. Between his hands he flexed a curve-handled punishment cane. It was darkish-yellow and as thick as a pencil. Mr. Durrant swished it through empty air. It looked to Anthony a mightily efficient rod. It looked to him a little warped; the result of constant use, he supposed.

All saliva drained from Anthony’s mouth. The room felt as hot as a sauna. The young man’s temples throbbed. He watched as Mr. Durrant once more flexed the cane in his hands, it bent easily into an arc.

Mr. Durrant tapped the tip of the cane gently against the rug. “Bend over, lad. Touch your toes.” It was a simple command, spoken quietly. There was no need to do otherwise. Mr. Durrant was the master, he expected to be obeyed.

And, he was. Anthony was an old hand at this; he knew the drill. He parted his feet slightly and arched his back so that the tips of his fingers touched the toes of his shoes. As had happened in his bedroom earlier, his blazer tightened cross his back. He had forgotten he had a cap on his head. It tumbled to the ground.

“Leave it, lad. Leave it,” Mr. Durrant growled. He stood away from the submissive young man. He saw Anthony was beefier than when he had last punished him. But, so were all his boys. Nonetheless, the twenty-four-year-old presented a wonderful target. The dark grey trousers were taut across the burly buttocks; he could see the outline of Anthony’s underpants.

The cane tap-tap-tapped across his bum, then Anthony felt the housemaster “saw” the rod across the very underside of his buttocks. He gulped in air and shut his teeth. Whoosh! He heard the cane fly through the air and then a resounding thwack! echoed around the study. It seemed an eternity before the agony bit. It was as if Mr. Durrant had pressed a red-hot wire into the most sensitive part of his bottom.

“Owwww!” he howled and his body shot forward. The rug slipped beneath his feet and he almost toppled over. It took an almighty effort to remain in the touch-toes position.

Twenty seconds later (exactly, since Mr. Durrant was counting the time in his head) he let fly with the second swipe. It struck home about a quarter inch above the first. Anthony felt a welt rise. The throbbing was intense; he wouldn’t be surprised later to find it weeping blood.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Number three landed parallel to the first two. Anthony now had a raw band about an inch-and-a-half wide across his bum. Mr. Durrant was an expert caner. He ought to be, he had practiced enough over the years. It helped, Mr. Durrant would agree, to have a subject as submissive as Anthony. The young man hissed and yelped a little as each successive whack cut his bum to ribbons, but he remained stoically in position; back bent, knees straight, fingers touching toes waiting for the next swipe to fall.

Oh, my God, Anthony had never been thrashed like this in all his life. He thought he had been under the lash at school, he had even withstood some of the worst beatings Dr. Henderson-Smith, the one-time headmaster, had ever delivered. But, Mr. Durrant was awesome. It was as if the master was trying to lash the cane into the beefy bottom so hard that it sank into flesh, traversed muscle and exited through the front of the young man

Number six was special. Anthony knew it would be. Mr. Durrant shifted his position slightly and instead of aiming for another parallel stroke, he laid the cane so that it ran from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. The agony was intense, as the rod cut diagonally across the previous five strokes reigniting the pain of each of them. Blood seeped.

“You may stand.” Mr. Durrant tucked the cane under his arm and watched with ill-conceived joy as Anthony rose and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional caning dance. He heartily rubbed at the seat of his trousers in a fruitless effort to relieve the pain.

In time, Anthony settled. His eyes were damp and his body soaked in perspiration. His face and neck glowed a deep pink.

Mr. Durrant slipped the cane back into his hand. “Trousers down. Bend back over.”

The pink face blanched to a ghostly white. Anthony couldn’t catch his breath. “Bu .. bu …” he blabbered, before at last forming coherent words. “But, please, Sir. No,” he wailed.

Mr. Durrant set his face. “Yes, lad,” he swished the cane though the air.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” Anthony pleaded. Swish, the cane flew again. The housemaster was in no mood to show clemency.

“Trousers down.”

Tears were flowing freely.

“Damn it, lad. If you won’t take down your trousers I shall do it for you.”

“Nooooooo!” Anthony’s shriek could probably be heard by Mr. Albertstein across the street.

Mr. Durrant stepped forward, hands outstretched ready to grip Anthony’s waistband. The young man twisted his body trying to put his back between himself and his tormentor. Too late. Mr. Durrant undid the fastener and the zipper fell easily.

Anthony was as white as a sheet. His tormentor tugged the young man’s trousers to his knees.

“Oh my!” Mr. Durrant licked his lips. His face cracked into a beautiful smile. Anthony’s cock was so stiff and his underpants so brief, it poked its glistening head over the elasticated waist.

Mr. Durrant sank to his knees, took hold of the pants at the hips and in a frenzy ripped them down so hard the cotton tore.

Anthony gasped, took hold of his cock and thrust it in Mr. Durrant’s face.

“Suck me off!” he huffed.

The housemaster’s mouth devoured first one and then the other testicles. He licked the balls like they were an ice cream cone.

Anthony moaned as Mr. Durrant took a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffled his knees further apart so that the old man could get to more of his hard dick. Anthony gripped Mr. Durrant’s ears and pulled his florid face onto his raging cock. The man’s flabby jowls wobbled back and forth as he made his way up and down the shaft. As cocks went it wasn’t particularly long, but it was surely one of the fattest the housemaster had ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” Anthony squealed warning his master, but knowing he had left it too late. But, the old man did not heed the warning and his head rhythmically slid in and out of the back of his throat. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumped up the shaft and was immediately swallowed by Mr. Durrant’s hungry mouth.

Anthony writhed on the floor as his orgasm went on and on. Mr. Durrant continued to suck. Then, suddenly his own body convulsed. Anthony slipped his cock out of the master’s mouth and watched in fascination as Mr. Durrant twisted and turned on the bare floorboards as a flood of cum drenched the front of his trousers.

z used buxton cane longs touch toes (2)

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 9. Hawkridge in the study

z used cane white pants tyrant head 9

 

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Hawkridge stands at attention in front of the headmaster’s desk. His blue-and-white woollen school blazer is immaculate, fastened by all three buttons. His thumbs are in line with the seams of his mid-grey trousers, their creases so sharp you could cut yourself. His school cap is squarely on his head, obscuring almost all of his hair. The regulation short-back-and-sides trimmed only the previous Saturday.

Dr. Fortescue sits behind his massive walnut desk; jawing. Hawkridge does not take much of it in. He has heard it all before. He gazes intently at the headmaster. He is of indeterminate age, he might even be younger than he looks. His face is oblong, his features angular. The hook nose somehow keeps his eye glasses from falling from his face. His skin is lined and there are bags beneath his wide-staring eyes. Hawkridge detects a hint of bloodshot in them. Specks of spittle sprout from Dr. Fortscue’s mouth as he castigates the schoolboy before him. He leans forward to berate the miscreant and Hawkridge flinches a little. The stench of sour tobacco is overwhelming. Somewhere there’s also a hint of the aroma of Murray Mints.

He is wearing a crumpled three-piece tweed suit and a white shirt, held together at the collar with a bow-tie. A tattered academic robe hangs from his shoulders and a mortar-board perches precariously on his head, the tassel dangling close to his left ear.

Hawkridge has been here before. He still has three months to go before he finally leaves the school, so he’ll almost certainly be here again. He shows no fear. He is certain he knows in the minutest detail what is about to happen. There is nothing he can do about it. He must let events take their course.

St. Septimius is nothing if not traditional. Traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Yes, Hawkridge is certain he knows how this meeting of master and pupil will end.

Dr. Fortescue rocks backward and forward In his wooden armchair. Sometimes leaning back, steepling his fingers as he concentrates on admonishing the unfortunate creature before him. Then, leaning forward, arms resting on the huge desk, he glares at the boy. The desk is so big and so heavy it must have taken a dozen artisans to manhandle it into the study. A pile of, as yet uncorrected, Latin impos. are to the headmaster’s right hand side.

He glares at Hawkridge. The boy’s behaviour is “outrageous”, “shocking”, “contemptable”. In a fairer forum than this that might be debatable. As schoolboy crimes go, his is quite minor. Hawkridge did not attend school yesterday, preferring instead to queue alongside hundreds of other youngsters to obtain tickets to a forthcoming Eddie Cochran concert. The tickets are now safely tucked away in the sock drawer of his bedroom at home. But truancy is truancy and at St. SIGS, truancy is a beatable offence. Hawkridge is a sixth-former and that almost certainly means a caning on the bare.

Hawkridge knows this, but such is life. School is school. What’s a fellow to do?

The headmaster jaws on and on. The room is stifling. The coal fire is blazing, but the day outside is mild. Sweat soaks Hawkridge’s scalp and his shirt is damp. He wishes the Beak would stop talking and just get on with it.

At last, Dr. Fortescue stops his hectoring. He hauls himself to his feet, presses both palms into his desktop and scowls. “Take your cap and blazer off. Hang them there!” He nods across the study to a hat stand. It is empty save for two long, thin yellow rattan canes that hang by their crook handles. One is a little longer than the other and both are warped. Hawkridge is sure it was the shorter one Dr. Fortescue used to beat him on his last appearance in the study.

Hawkridge is calm. He unfastens the buttons on his blazer and slips the jacket from his shoulders. The armpits of his gleaming white shirt is wringing wet. He hangs the blazer on the hat stand and turns to face his tormentor. Suddenly, he remembers the cap on his head and quickly whips it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his blazer. Instinctively, he rubs the palms of his hands across his head, to smooth down his already tidy hair.

Dr. Fortescue is walking across his study. He takes pigeon steps, like an old man who is afraid of slipping on an icy pavement. Hawkridge watches his slow progress. The headmaster is heading towards the far wall which is dominated by heavy shelving and dark brown cabinets. He reaches a narrow, tall door and steadies himself before reaching into his trouser pocket. He fumbles around for some time before at last extracting a small silver-coloured key. His hand shakes a little as he tries to line up the key with the keyhole. He succeeds at the third attempt and draws the door open. He looks inside and because he knows precisely what he is looking for within a second he is clutching a punishment cane.

Even at a distance, Hawkridge can see this is heavier and denser than the two canes dangling on the hat stand. It is a dark brown colour and has distinct notches every four inches or so across its length. Dr. Fortescue holds it in his right hand, close to the curved handle and gives it an almighty swish through the air. He smiles in response to the swooshing sound it makes as it flies. Then, absent-mindedly he holds the cane between his hands and flexes it backwards and forwards. Despite its density it is a supple rod and makes a perfect arc. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes blaze.

He suddenly realises he has company and tucks the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major. He glares across the study. “Go stand behind that chair,” he growls. There are several chairs in the capacious study and Hawkridge is unsure which he means. He glances uneasily around himself. The study is cluttered with furniture, most of it looks like it’s been there for at least fifty years. His baffled expression is met with a curt, “That one there, boy,” as Dr. Fortescue slips the cane into his hand and points to an ancient armchair.

Hawkridge takes the four paces necessary to reach the chair. He stands at its back and looks down at the seat cushion. In his many visits to the headmaster he has never before seen this particular chair at close quarters. Often, he is required to present himself across the large desk; sometimes it’s, “bend over and touch your toes.”

Dr. Fortescue approaches Hawkridge and stands a yard or to his right. Hawkridge sucks in air. He knows the Beak is about ready to go. Dr. Fortescue’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and croaks, “Lower your trousers, boy.” Hawkridge expects this instruction and reaches for the buckle of his belt. It is easily undone, as are the button at the top of his spotless mid-grey trousers and the zipper. The front of his trousers falls open and his white Y-front underpants peak through. He lets go of the trousers and they slip slowly down his thighs, where they stop. Hawkridge knows from experience this will not satisfy the headmaster so he pushes them further down until they rest in a puddle on top of his shiny black shoes. The heat from the fire irritates the bare flesh on his legs.

The headmaster flexes the cane between his hands and swishes it once more. Then he taps it across the back of the armchair. “Bend over,” he croaks once more.

So it’s not to be bare-arsed. Hawkridge is relieved. He doesn’t believe getting caned on the bare is any more painful than across the seat of the underpants, but he has never enjoyed showing his crack to the headmaster. Underpants certainly maintain a certain modesty.

Hawkridge adjusts his feet so he is just the right distance from the chair and lowers himself forward. The back is not so high and his stomach rests easily against it. It is solid and his nose presses against the seat. The dust almost makes him sneeze. He grips tightly and can tell it is stuffed with horsehair.

The headmaster waits for Hawkridge to settle himself. The eighteen-year-old’s school shirt is long and its tail has flopped over his buttocks. That will not do. Dr. Fortescue tucks the cane once more under his arm and with his two free hands he takes hold of the cotton shirt and carefully folds it once, twice and then three times up Hawkridge’s back until it is clear of his target area. In so doing he exposes an area of hairless flesh. Hawkridge’s whole body is lean and at close quarters the headmaster notices the flatness of the boy’s stomach.

Hawkridge’s buttocks are solid. The white cotton underpants are a little tight and with his bottom stretched they ride up into his crack, thereby lifting and separating the cheeks. Dr. Fortescue has been presented with a terrific target. Although this is not strictly necessary, the headmaster takes hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants and pulls until all wrinkles in the cotton have been eliminated. The pants now fit like a second skin. To make sure all creases have gone, the headmaster rubs the palm of his hand across Hawkridge’s cheeks. Then, he smacks it down hard into the posterior – to encourage the boy.

Hawkridge takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, shuts his teeth and holds onto the chair for dear life. His bottom is twitching but there is nothing he can do about that. Dr. Fortescue stands a little to the left of the buttocks, taps his cane across the fleshiest part and then in one smooth continuous movement he lifts the cane to shoulder height and returns it with considerable force to thwack into Hawkridge’s waiting buttocks. The boy suppresses a hiss. Dr. Fortescue admires his own prowess. A clear line has appeared across the tight underpants and the headmaster is certain that a deep welt is already forming under the cotton.

The headmaster sucks on his tongue. All saliva has now drained from his mouth. He wheezes as he raises the cane and swipes it down a second time, this one is a little lower than the first. The agony in Hawkridge’s backside is intense. It feels like the headmaster has taken a coal from the fire and pressed it into his bum. He wriggles his hips and tries to steady himself for the further onslaught on his poor bottom.

“Keep still,” the headmaster rasps. “If you give me concern to I’ll add extra strokes.” That was unfair since Hawkridge had hardly moved. In fact, he is taking it very well indeed. Other boys – even sixth-formers – on the receiving end of two such stingers would be howling the walls of the study down. Hawkridge tries to keep as still as a statue. He knows the headmaster means it, the Beak would like nothing more. He is at heart a bully.

Number three whips in even lower down and connects in the soft undercurve at the “sit spot” where the buttocks and thighs meet. It will be uncomfortable sitting down for some considerable time. The headmaster tucks the cane back under his arm and searches in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. The palms of his hands are soaking with sweat. He wipes them dry, all the time staring at the boy prostrate before him. He likes nothing better than to have a sixth-former bending submissively before him. This one in particular is especially delicious.

Dry once more, the headmaster grips the cane tightly. This time he “saws” it across the top of Hawkridge’s globes. Sweat is running into the headmaster’s eyes. He wipes it away with the edge of his gown. Then, he brings the cane crashing down; he swipes so hard it is as if he is beating a carpet. Hawkridge feels that all right. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, but valiantly, he does not let a sound pass his lips.

Dr. Fortescue looks on. He resents it when a boy does not holler. Well see about this, he thinks. He moves his position slightly and lays the cane diagonally across both buttocks. Hawkridge’s whole body tenses, he knows what is coming. Swipe! Jesus H. Christ. Hawkridge cannot control himself. The cane has landed atop of the four previous cuts and has reignited the pain in all of them. His bum is truly aglow. Hawkridge’s legs buckle, he stamps his feet up and down and then in a glorious attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing away at his blazing buttocks, he pins his left leg down by twisting his right led across it.

Blood courses through his arteries. His heart races, his temples throb. The headmaster places his cane across Hawkridge’s buttocks; this time along the opposite diagonal. He lets fly. Hawkridge now has a perfect “X” embossed across his backside. The agony redoubles. He grips the chair, his head thrashes up and down and then to left and right, he looks like a horse neighing.

That’s number six. Please God, Hawkridge silently prays, let that be the last stroke. The headmaster had not announced a tariff before he flogged the first stroke home. But “six-of-the-best” was the traditional number in a headmaster’s caning. Hawkridge has taken six strokes and nobody should be in any doubt they were indeed the headmaster’s best.

Dr. Fortescue is wheezing and struggling to catch his own breath. It is difficult to see which of the two is in greater distress. Hawkridge waits, still face down. He does not know if he is allowed to stand. It is better not to risk it. He waits as the throbbing in his bum intensifies. He knows it will be sore for some time yet, but it will eventually die down and become a warm glow. He will feel some pain when he sits on a hard surface but by bedtime it will all be over. The marks will stay for some considerable time. They are probably deep claret at the moment. They will become bruises and over the next few days transmute from deep purple through mauve and yellow before they finally disappear altogether.

“You may stand.” The words sound as if they are from miles away. Hawkridge lifts himself from the chair. He watches as Dr. Fortescue stumbles across his study and with shaking hands returns the cane to the cupboard. He doesn’t bother to close nor lock the door. When he turns around his eyes are red as if he is suffering with hay fever. Hawkridge is still in his underpants, waiting for permission to dress. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes stalk. “Get dressed boy,” he barks as if Hawkridge was deliberately trying to provoke him. The boy bends down, grabs the top of his trousers and pulls them up. He winces as he zips up and tightens the belt, the cloth is pressing against his raw buttocks. For the first time he is aware that he is probably bleeding.

Silently, Dr. Fortescue shuffles across to his desk and slumps in the wooded armchair. He takes a moment to recover himself and then opens the second of three drawers in his desk. He removes the punishment book, places it on his desk and struggles to find the right page. Hawkridge is climbing back into his school blazer.

“Pen, boy. Pen.” Dr. Fortescue snaps his fingers irritably. Hawkridge puts his hand in his inside pocket and finds a Biro. The headmaster snatches it from him and starts to write in the book. He notices that this is the third name he has entered this day. He writes, “Hawkridge, U6, Cane, 6.” He omits to record that it was delivered across the seat of the underpants. The headmaster swirls the book around and passes the pen back. Hawkridge knows the drill. He signs his initials in the book.

There is only one thing still to do. A ritual among gentlemen. The headmaster offers his right hand and Hawkridge shakes it.

“You are dismissed,” the headmaster clears his throat and picks up an essay from the pile on his desk. He watches surreptitiously as Hawkridge replaces his cap on his head and leaves the study. Dr. Fortescue silently counts to ten, throws the essay on the desk and dives to his bottom drawer. Within seconds he is pouring himself a large glass of gin.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

Bug on the wall

The Post Office Thief

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The smoking schoolboy

z used drawing smoking (1)

“You’d better not let Perkins catch you smoking. You know what he said. It’ll be a swishing,” Templeton groaned.

Baxter, leaned back in the study armchair, drew on his cigarette and sucked the smoke into his lungs before holding it there. Then, very slowly he exhaled noisily.

Templeton was not impressed. He sniffed the fug in the air. “This study will stink of tobacco. I don’t want to get the blame for you.”

Baxter sneered. “This place is turning into a madhouse. What’s Fletch’s game?”

That was a question many boys at the school had asked since Dr. Fletcher had arrived as the new headmaster. He had told the sixth-form that he was a “new broom.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Gallagher had asked his fellows. None of them knew for sure at the time. But, they were soon to find out.

“The school has gone to the dogs,” Dr. Fletcher had announced. “Things must improve and quickly,” he decreed to Perkins, the school captain. “And,” he stubbed a finger in the eighteen-year-old’s face provocatively, “I expect you to make the changes.”

Perkins blanched. What was he expected to do?

“Start with the sixth-form and the prefects,” Dr. Fletcher poked the finger again. “Once they understand the rules are for everyone, the rest of the school will soon fall in line.”

Perkins looked dumbfounded, so his new headmaster spelled it out clearly.

“Let them know that lights out and curfew applies to them also. No smoking. No alcohol. Come on boy, you know the sort of thing.”

Perkins nodded uncertainly. He knew the sort of thing, but what was he supposed to do when his fellow prefects and sixth-formers broke the rules?

“Beat them boy. Beat them,” Dr. Fetcher growled in response to the question. “I want to see you take the lead,” the headmaster leaned into Perkins’ face provokingly. “It’s up to you Perkins. I’m relying on you.”

The school captain had never felt so threatened in his life. His arse was quite literally on the line. If he didn’t get the seniors to buck up their ideas and improve their behaviour, it would be Perkins in the head’s study offering up his backside to Dr. Fletcher.

“It’s madness,” Baxter shifted his position in the chair. “I’m eighteen damn it. Does Fletch think that when my father sees me smoking at home, he makes me bend over for six with a cane?” He snorted a derisive answer to his own question.

“If we were day boys at school, would we be taken over nanny’s knee at home for a spanking with the slipper because we weren’t tucked up in bed by nine-thirty?” His eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Why does Fletch insist on treating us like little children?”

Just then the study door opened and Gallagher entered. “My hat, Baxter,” he exclaimed, waving his arms frantically to clear the air. “Can’t you be more blatant about it? One would think you positively wanted Perky to tan your arse.”

Baxter drew more cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, creased his nose and glared disdainfully at Gallagher. “No, I leave that sort of thing to you, old bean.” His eyes sparkled and he relished in Gallagher’s discomfiture as his companion’s face took on a deep shade of beetroot.

Baxter leaned back in his armchair, one foot at rest on a wooden chair, blew smoke at the ceiling, and steadfastly ignored his chums in the study. Each of us have different talents; that is God’s gift to us all. Baxter’s talent was sneering. He was disdainful of the scholar, the boys with noses buried in books. He derided the rugger buggers who huffed and puffed across wet, muddy fields in pursuit of glory for the school. He jeered at any boy who took anything seriously. Now, he professed to scoff at Perkins, the sincere school captain forced on a mission to improve the morals of his flock.

 

@

 

Perkins paced the passageway, shoulders slumped, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. A decision had to be made; he had put it off for far too long. If matters did not improve immediately, Dr. Fletcher would be on his back. Rather, he would be on Perkins’s backside. With a stout whippy cane (or heaven forbid) a heavy birch rod. Perkins was captain of rugby. He was captain of cricket too; he knew the value of decisive leadership. He sighed as if he carried the whole world’s troubles on his young shoulders.

He had no choice in the matter: Baxter must be beaten. The decision made, Perkins shuffled towards study no. 2 where he was sure to find the culprit.

The school captain shoved open the heavy wooden door with more confidence than he really felt. Three pairs of eyes burned into him as he stood in the doorway, his fists clenched. Perkins cut an imposing stature, He was at least six-feet-two, broad at the shoulders, rounded of chest, with narrow hips. His muscles had been developed on many sporting fields. He had biceps that would make a navvy proud.

“You’re brazen, Baxter. You don’t even have the courtesy to hide it,” he snarled at the figure slumped in the armchair surrounded by a fug of cigarette smoke. Baxter flapped the wrist holding the offending cigarette and grimaced.

His unspoken message was clear, “What’s a fellow to do; these school rules are so darned tedious.”

Perkins stretched his arms wide, he made a formidable foe framed by the stout doorway.

“You know the rules Baxter. Dr. Fletcher has spoken them clearly,” Perkins face flushed.

He received another limp-wristed wave for his trouble.

Damn Baxter’s impertinence. Perkins was fuming now. “That’s it Baxter. I’m going to beat you. You give me no choice.”

“Ha!” the solitary word spat from Baxter’s mouth. He leaned forward and ostentatiously stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. “I really don’t think so, old bean,” he beamed. The matter, he had decided was at an end.

Perkins strode into the study and stood over the seated sixth-former. “Stand up. Come with me,” his voice faltered; it had not been as clear a command as he had wished. Baxter waved his arm, dismissing his superior. Perkins knew his ears were reddening. He did not like to be confronted. He did not expect it. In a school such as this there were clear understandings. Some people were the bosses; the others the bossed. Baxter should darned well know his place.

“C’mon Baxter,” Gallagher who had been observing proceedings from a seat in the corner of the study, piped up. “You know Fletch told Perky he had to clean up the Sixth. That means you. If he doesn’t he’s probably got a birching to look forward to.”

“That’s right,” Templeton joined in. “If you don’t take a punishment and mend your ways, Perky will cop it.” Templeton was a self-righteous boy and many of his fellows despised him for it, but they would have to agree he was correct on this occasion.

“Do you have no honour?” Templeton’s question stunned the occupants of Study no. 2 into silence.

Honour? A chap should never let another fellow be punished for his own misdeeds.

Gallagher stirred in his chair. “If you let Perky down, the whole school will know about it. You’ll be ostracised; sent to Coventry.”

A moral high-ground was being constructed. Perkins took his chance. “Come with me Baxter. We should visit the Punishment Room.” Baxter could not mistake the glint in the school captain’s dark brown eyes. The unspoken message was clear,

Perkins walked slowly to the study door, paused for dramatic effect and then turned the handle. He eased the door open, knowing that all eyes in the room blazed on him. “Follow me, Baxter,” he said quietly and without looking back he exited the room safe in the knowledge that Baxter would be following on his heels.

The Punishment Room was really only an ordinary classroom, set aside for a particular purpose. The room was used for detention classes. It was about ten feet by ten and contained a half dozen wooden forms and desks. A rickety wooden teacher’s desk stood at the front with an uncomfortable chair behind it. Behind that and nailed to the wall were three metal hooks. From one dangled a stout, dark-yellow, curve-handled, whippy, rattan punishment cane. The “business end” was a little more than three feet in length and it was a little thicker than a pencil. It had been delivered with some vim across a generation of young gentlemen’s backsides and was a little warped.

A diffused light entered the room through a small window high on the wall. No boy could idly gaze out into the world from this classroom. Gloom enveloped the airless room.

Baxter stood silently watching Perkins prepare himself. Baxter placed his hands behind his back, his feet were slightly apart. His kept a steady gaze on the school captain, noticing the muscles in Perkins’s back flex when he picked up the teacher’s chair to carry it across the room and place it in an open space in front of the schoolboy desks. Perkin’s striped trousers stretched across his round, meaty buttocks as he leant forward.

Baxter ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth; all saliva had dried. He wished he hadn’t smoked quite so many cigarettes that day. Perkins returned to the teacher’s desk and silently divested himself of his jacket and let it fall on the heavily-marked desktop.

Baxter’s tongue still worked hard to moisten his mouth as he watched the school captain slowly take the cuff of the right sleeve of his shirt in his left hand and slowly, meticulously, roll it up by two inches. Then he rolled it once more. Then, again. In this way, the taut muscles in Perkin’s arm were gradually exposed to the warm air.

He turned to Baxter, studying the teenager’s demeanour. His clear blue eyes were dim. In his mind, Baxter seemed to be somewhere else. Not here, in this small, hot room about to be thrashed on the backside with a stout whippy cane by a boy of his same age.

“Take off your coat, put it there,” Perkins nodded across the room to his own jacket. Baxter crinkled his nose, as if a sudden bad odour had seeped into the room. He glanced across at his tormentor, wrinkled his nose again and slowly stepped across the room. His hands shook violently as he undid the buttons and slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He laid it neatly on the desk beside the other coat lying there.

He paused, as if some thought had just struck him. He turned his body, faced Perkins full on, and with a slight arching of his eyebrow indicated the waistcoat he was wearing.

“Yes, take that off too.” It was a quiet, simple instruction. With a little more confidence than earlier, Baxter removed it and let it drop on top of his jacket.

“Stand by the chair.”

Baxter ran his tongue across dry, cracked lips. Why was his heart pounding so hard, he wondered? He had been beaten countless times in the past. It was that kind of school. A cane or ashplant laid on with power could hurt like crazy. Sometimes the marks lasted days; a week even. The agony was excruciating at the moment the rod swiped across the stretched buttocks. But, it quickly eased into a throbbing pain, to be followed by a warm glow.

Whatever his school captain had in store for him, Baxter was certain he would live through it.

He stood in front of the chair, hands behind his back and watched intently as Perkins reached up to the hook on the wall and took down the rattan cane.

He flexed it between his hands. The school captain always marvelled at how light these things were. Like, his chum Baxter, Perkins had had his buttocks blistered many times. How, he wondered, could something so light, inflict such damage?

Baxter watched as Perkins swished the rod through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing noise as it went. Perkins’s big brown eyes sparkled as he felt the power of the rod in his hands.

Then there was silence. It was time to get on with this. One eighteen-year-old schoolboy was to thrash another with a whippy cane across the backside. All in the name of school discipline. Perkins’s own heart thumped. This was not the first time he had wielded the cane; why, he wondered was he so tense this time?

“C’mon, let’s get on with this,” he croaked, swishing the cane one more time. Baxter kept a steady eye contact with his punisher and mimed unbuckling his own belt. Perkins’s flushed pink. “No, no,” he blustered. “Just bend over.”

Baxter turned his back, set his feet about a yard apart, arched his back and grasped the side of the seat of the wooden chair. To stop his eyes continuously blinking he stared intently at a gnarled knothole. He heard Pekins’s feet shuffle behind him, he was taking up his position. In his mind’s eye, Baxter pictured the imposing school captain flexing his muscles, cane in hand, finding his aim. He felt the cane tap the underside of his buttocks, just where they met the thighs. He held his breath, shut his teeth, screwed his eyes tight and waited for the first stinging swipe.

It landed with a resounding crack that echoed across the small room. Moments later, Baxter felt the pain. A rush of wind escaped his clenched teeth. Wow!! That was some cut. Already, he felt a welt was forming beneath his trousers. His buttocks shuddered and his knees bent slightly, but he held himself steady. As he waited for the next swipe. He respected the expertise of his punisher; that was quite one of the best (or, perhaps the worse) cuts he had ever been dealt.

As, he aimed the cane once more across Baxter’s buttocks (a little higher this time) Perkins admired the fortitude of his fellow sixth-former. He had taken it with stoicism. He would be in intense pain, but was determined not to let that show. Good old Baxter!

The second swipe bounced off the very centre of Baxter’s bum. The boy was no athlete and his body was covered in more than a little flesh, but when bent over the chair his raised buttocks firmed up, offering two solid meaty mounds for punishment. Perkins’s was delighted to be presented with such a target.

The third cut (high this time, just below the base of the spine) had Baxter sucking in his breath. His arse was on fire and soon he would not be able to disguise the fact from Perkins. The school captain was hurting him. A lot. All he could see was the worn wooden seat of the chair, but he was almost certain Perkins would be drained in sweat from his exertions. Or maybe not; since Perkins was some athlete, he would be used to physical strain. Baxter was unsure; which of the two images, he preferred.

Perkins paused, took a step away from the boy bent submissively before him and drank in the sight. Here was Baxter, passively offering up his bottom to him. Silently saying, “Here, do what you wish with me. In this moment, I am yours.” And, here was Perkins, anxious to take advantage. Whenever again would he get such a chance.

He gripped the cane in his right fist and positioned himself a little further to Baxter’s left, tap-tap-tapped the rod across the top of the mounds once more and let fly. The stick landed right on top of a previously-delivered cut. Baxter could not help himself. He yelped like a little whipped puppy, wriggled his bum and stamped his legs up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He steadied himself, a little ashamed at his reaction. Two strokes to go. What more did Parkins have in store for him.

Perkins adjusted himself one more time, delighting in the pain he was causing. But, he had no animosity against Baxter. His fellow sixth-former’s behaviour had been nothing personal. It was just Baxter kicking off against the school. And, Perkins had been put in an impossible position by the headmaster.

Even so, a caning should hurt. A lot. Otherwise what was the point of it? Perkins aimed once more (from the bottom left buttock to the top right). “YOWLLLLL!!” Baxter’s scream was genuine as the cane landed diagonally across his arse, slicing into the four welts that already throbbed beneath his trousers and reigniting the pain in all of them. He would discover later that blood seeped from some of the points where the cane marks intersected.

Baxter repeated the buttock wiggling and the leg stomping and added a few heaves of the shoulders for good measure, but gamely he hung on to the seat of the chair.

“Oh, no, please,” Baxter silently whined as he felt the cane rest across his buttocks once more (from the low right to the top left). Crack!!! Now, he had a perfect “X” indented across his buttocks. His face and neck were as scarlet as his bottom as blood rushed through his body to his head. His temples pulsated as much as the meat in his bum.

Perkins tucked the cane under his arm and admired his handiwork. Baxter’s buttocks twitched. How, Perkins wished he had allowed Baxter to lower his trousers and underwear. His arse must be cut to ribbons. What a sight to behold that must be.

Seconds that seemed like minutes passed. Baxter’s was getting his breathing back under control. He blinked back tears. He could not help it, it was his body’s natural reaction to the onslaught it had suffered. Suddenly, Perkins startled, as if just realising where he was. He stepped around the still-prostrated teenager and replaced the cane on the hook.

“You can remove yourself, now,” his command was haughty. Baxter jumped up, hopping from foot to foot. Perkins grinned widely. Baxter stopped his spanking dance puzzled. His stare was as good as asking the question, “What are you laughing at?”

By way of silent reply, Perkins nodded toward the huge bulge in the front of Baxter’s trousers.

Baxter’s own grin was wider than Perkins’s.

“What the deuce …?” The two eighteen-year-olds eyes met. Instant understanding. Perkins reached forward and expertly undid the buckle of the belt, unbuttoned the flies and in a single continual movement had the trousers and underwear at Baxter’s feet. The released cock pointed in Perkins’s face, the tip already glistening.

He sank to his knees and gripped Baxter’s buttocks and pulled him forward. Baxter winced as his chum’s fingers dug into his blistered cheeks, the new pain encouraging his dick to swell further. Perkins gripped the base of his cock and energetically licked it from the ball sack, along the steel-hard shaft up to the red-raw tip. Within seconds, Perkins’s face was soaked in cum. Baxter fell on his back wheezing as if his life’s breath had deserted him.

Perkins wiped his chin clean with the back of his hand. His own cock strained against the front of his trousers, demanding to be freed. His companion lay on the dusty floor still struggling to force air into his lungs.

The pain in his trousers was too great; swift action had to be taken. In one continuous movement, Perkins bent down and gripped Baxter under the armpits. Perkins had superior strength, but he didn’t need it. Baxter gave no resistance. Perkins lifted him to his feet and dragged him towards the teacher’s desk. Within a heartbeat, Perkins had Baxter facedown across it, his savaged buttocks at his mercy. A hand in the small of his back held him firm, while with the other Perkins undid his own trousers and dragged his clothes to his knees.

“Yes, yes,” Baxter wheezed and parted his legs, offering his winking hole. Perkins could see this was not a new experience for the eighteen-year-old. He held his shaft half way down and guided his cock forward and was greeted with a satisfying screech.

Upstairs in Study No 2. Gallagher and Templeton exchanged contented looks. Perkins was giving Baxter the sound flogging he so truly deserved. Order had been restored to the school.

 

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

 

The boy in the front row

used drawing paddle hold (5)

I am quite alone. The door is locked from the outside, it will not be opened until morning. Soon the light will go out, plunging me into darkness. My eyes are awash, but tears are not yet falling. Someone seems to have put my temples in a vice.

Let me try to explain what is happening. I am (sorry, I was) the headmaster of C_______________ College, the most upscale school in this part of the world. You will have heard of it; old money and tradition.

I first saw John in my English class. He is eighteen years old and a new boy. That is not unusual. We often take brilliant young scholars for a year and prepare them for a top university. John aced every test there was in his state. He is destined for great things.

It happened in the third class of the semester. John always sits at the front of the room. He reads voraciously and answers my questions with a confidence belying his years. He has his hair cut military style but has an unusual habit of running his fingers across his scalp as if he had long, flowing locks. Perhaps his crew cut is recent; a new look to go with his new life at school.

He has the most piercing green eyes I have ever encountered. They sparkle when he thinks. They are set symmetrically either side of a button nose, which hovers above slightly crooked lips. When he smiles he exposes uneven teeth. They are not tombstones, but they reflect his family’s lower income status. John is most certainly a scholarship boy.

What is it about those damn eyes? They began to haunt me. Almost literally. I dreamed of the boy night after night. As I recall nothing much happened, but he was constantly in my thoughts, beguiling me. I have a drink problem – there I confess it – but it wasn’t the wine that drove me forward. Indeed, most unusually for me, I had not touched alcohol all day.

Don’t ask me why I did it, I still don’t know the answer to that. I could have understood it had I been rip-roaring drunk. I had asked my secretary Mrs. Crabbe to bring me Mr. McAlpine’s file – we are always so formal when referring to our students. I found the number of his room at the boys’ dormitory and set off just before lights out. My wife has already gone to her bed in her own room. When did we start sleeping apart? I can’t be certain; sometime after our only son went off to the war, I think.

It is quite a trek from the headmaster’s house, through the quadrangle, and across the playing fields to the outlying buildings that comprise the dormitories. Boys and girls are kept separate, of course. It is not usual for the headmaster to visit the boys’ dormitories, but not entirely unheard of. Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, seemed a little flustered when he saw me approaching the building, suspicious perhaps that I had come to spy on him. I don’t know what goes on in the boys’ dorms at night and it would probably be injudicious to inquire.

John’s room was on the third floor at the far end of a corridor. His door was ajar and he was alone. He lay on his bed reading a book. He wore only khaki shorts, adding to his general military appearance. He looked up from his book as if he had been expecting me.  He smiled, those eyes dancing. Quietly, I closed the door behind me.

John is short for his age, I think. Maybe five-seven or so. His waist is narrow and his chest broad. I suspect he uses the gym. His torso is hairless, but a fine down covers his legs. He wriggled to a seating position and reached over and set his book down on the nightstand. It was then that I noticed the whisky bottle. My, how I wanted to grab it and glug down its contents. John saw that I had spied the bottle. His crooked lips parted.

It is against the rules for students to have alcohol. The penalty is strict: expulsion. John knew that, but I reminded him all the same.

He ran his fingers through his almost non-existent hair. I watched the muscles on his arms tense. He gazed at me. “Oh,” he said, “Couldn’t you just paddle me instead.” My jaw must have dropped, or at least I gaped disbelief.

“Paddle me.”

I cannot explain what happened next. That is, I can describe what happened, but I am still unsure why it happened. I am the headmaster of C_______________ College, I am fifty-five years old and have been around young men my whole life and have never given their bodies a passing consideration. I pull him toward me awkwardly, clumsily, unannounced. I am about to do something that will change my life forever. It will in all inevitability be my ruin. He is in my arms and I kiss him forcefully on the mouth.

But, John does not retreat from me; he kisses me back. Passionately. My hands run across his scalp, it feels like petting a hedgehog. Our teeth meet, tongues grope for each other. I run my hand over his warm, smooth naked flesh. My erection presses against the front of my underpants.

Then the lights go out and we plunge into darkness. The boys’ dorm can be like a prison. It is ten-thirty and all must be in bed. John gently pushes me away. I must leave. It would be unseemly for the headmaster to be caught in the dark in the bedroom of an eighteen-year-old male student.

I fumble for the door and as I leave I whisper, “My study, after school tomorrow evening.” It is a rendezvous with the paddle.

We haven’t used corporal punishment at the college since my father was headmaster. He was a devotee of the paddle, but once he retired it fell into disuse. Times, I suppose, have changed. The boys in the athletics clubs continue to use it. I believe the rowers especially paddle each other’s rear ends when they lose a race, which, now I come to think of it, is very often.

We still have my father’s paddles in storage and it is no problem for me to blow the dust off one of them. I have a fretful day. The college governors are in town and I am forced to sit through interminable committee meetings when all I want to do was stroll through the campus in the hope of catching a glimpse of my beloved John.

At last, the afternoon draws to a close. Mrs. Crabbe is tidying her desk when he arrives. She passes me a quizzical look, when she announces Mr. McAlpine is here to see me. Mrs. Crabbe keeps my diary and nobody, not even the chairman of the governors himself, gets to see me without her say-so. Why do I feel like a naughty boy found out in some misdeed? I croak that she should leave; her services are no longer needed.

I wait until from my study window I see Mrs. Crabbe pass through the quadrangle and then I order John into my study. It is a huge room befitting a man of my status at the school. At one end is my desk and cupboards for my official paperwork. At the far end are leather armchairs, a small table and bookcases. I order John to stand close to a chair. He does so without a murmur.

He is dressed in a blue jacket and cream chinos which passes for the school uniform here. His white shirt is immaculate and a wine-coloured tie is tightly knotted at his neck. His face shines. I imagine he is having second thoughts. But, it is his idea to be here. He could face expulsion and disgrace. I am sure his impoverished parents are extremely proud of him. They would die of shame.

I had placed the paddle in a drawer. I didn’t want it to attract attention, not with Mrs. Crabbe snooping around. I remind John of why we are here. He chews his bottom lip. My heart skips a beat. I want to pull him towards me and put my tongue down his throat. Instead, calmly I open the drawer and pull out the paddle. John’s eyes widen.

And, so they might. It is an awesome specimen. It is more than two feet in length and maybe four wide. Large holes have been drilled into the blade to reduce wind resistance during the swing. John appears to be sweating. His eyes follow my movements when I hold the paddle by its handle and smack the blade into my left palm. I have never spanked a boy before, but I know that this wood is capable of inflicting great pain.

“Take off your jacket, put it on the table,” I have decided he should put himself across the back of one of the leather armchairs. It is low and his buttocks will be presented perfectly. He slips the coat from his shoulders and folds it neatly on the table. The tail of his shirt is poking out of his chinos. I see they fit him tightly at the waist and a fold of cotton covers his buttocks snugly, separating each cheek.

I tap the paddle against the back of the chair. “Bend over.” I say this calmly although my heart is racing and my palms sweat. He gazes at me with those intense green eyes. I flinch a little. Then he does something truly remarkable. He moves into position behind the chair, unfastens his trousers and sends them to his ankles. He is wearing sparkling white boxer shorts. His fingers pinch the cloth at his hips and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them south to meet his chinos. He swallows hard and bends over.

I have never seen a man’s bare arse so close. His cheeks are smooth and as bald as his torso. His ballsack dangles and I see it too is hairless. His flesh tautens as he stretches over the leather chair. He keeps his head low and his legs apart. I feel that this is not the first time he has submitted himself for a spanking.

I had been dreaming of this moment all day. Except in my version I am paddling the seat of John’s chinos. That in itself is an erotic vision that has my cock tingling. The sight of the eighteen-year-old’s naked buttocks has me hard. I lick my dry lips, take up position a little to John’s left and gently tap-tap-tap the wood against his flesh. His cheeks clench a little. I raise my arm away and bring the paddle down with a resounding crack! I am please Mrs. Crabbe has departed for the day since surely she would have heard the noise and come running.

A dark pink imprint of the blade immediately appears across John’s bottom. It looks sore, but John makes no fuss, his face buried in a cushion. I make another mark, this time on his other buttock. The flesh wobbles. He feels that.

I put the next two swats in the underside of John’s cheeks. His knees buckle and he hangs on to the chair as the pain mounts. I admire the aesthetic effect the paddle has on his once creamy white flesh. By the time I pound home swat number five, some of the pink blotches are turning mauve. The imprint of the blade has been reproduced several times. No square inch of flesh remains untouched.

I appreciate the look of the teenager’s buttocks as increasingly they are battered, but (and I am very nervous to discover this) I also relish the fact that I am hurting him. He squirms with each successive blow and clenches his fists and shuts his teeth. Despite his best efforts he yaps like a dog when I hammer home numbers nine and ten.

I had planned to give him ten swats but I am loving this so much I whack home an additional two.

“Stand up,” I croak, as my mouth is as dry as a desert. I realise the back of my shirt is soaked. My hands are shaking.

John bounds up, his buttocks are sore and so is his cock. It points to the ceiling as he hops from foot to foot and kneads the raw flesh. I find myself staring at his dick and look away fearfully, catching John’s eyes. I think I can read his thoughts. I am on my knees sucking his hairless balls. He spreads his legs and takes hold of the back of my head, urging me on.

“Take it all,” he cries.

Then I have John’s entire shaft in my mouth and throat, squeezing my lips tightly around the base of the eighteen-year-old’s cock.

“Argh, that is so good.’’ John’s fingers dig deep into my scalp. The scratches will be sore for hours.

John gives a low groan, “I’m cumming,” he gasps. I don’t heed the warning. My head continues the  rhythmic up and down motion on John’s rock solid cock. It throbs and I feel spurt after spurt of sticky cum being pumped up his shaft into my hungry mouth.

John pulls away. I don’t see what happens next as I am lying on the floor in the foetal position choking. Should I spit or swallow? I have visions of Mrs. Crabbe’s disapproval as she inspects the stained carpet. That is a humiliation too far; I swallow.

When I look up John has his underwear and chinos back on. He picks up his jacket and without uttering a word, he leaves my study.

I do not see John for three days. The absence is agony. I crave for his body. I need to understand what is going on. He misses my next English class. Is he punishing me? I need to know.

In despair and with half a bottle of whisky inside me, once more I go to his dorm room. He is on the bed wearing the same shorts as before. He looks up from his book as I enter, his look of distain is profound. I mumble incoherently. I am more drunk than I realise. I think I say something about love, or at least lust.

He sneers. Yes, really sneers. He an eighteen-year-old student and me the headmaster of one of the most prestigious schools in the land. But, the humiliation has only just begun.

“It’s a list,” he says, trying to explain what is happening. “Things I want to do once,” he is still lying on the bed but rests on one arm. “Get sucked off by an old man.” His eyes shrug. That is all there is to it, they are saying.

Cry me a river. Tears course down my cheeks. Great sobs rage from my body. The arrogance of the beauty of youth. I stagger forward. I take him by surprise. I roll him so that he is now face down on the bed. He struggles, but even in my drunken stupor I am too strong for him. I dig my knee into his shoulders. He wriggles his hips and waist and flails his legs, but he is going nowhere. Not until I say so.

I tug at the waist of his khaki shorts. He resists but I inch them down over the mounds of his buttocks. His cheeks are bare. I see bruises from the paddling are still to heal completely. I wish I had a paddle. I don’t, so I smack the palm of my hand across his buttocks.

“Gerroff! Leave me alone!” he yells as I pound away at his backside. The flesh feels soft and warm. Soon my palm begins to tingle. It is probably hurting more than John’s rear end. I don’t care. I hate him so much. If I had a knife I would probably plunge it into his heart.

My cock is rock hard. My heart races. My temples throb. I loosen my trousers and find my dick. I climb on his back. John squeals with terror.

“Headmaster, headmaster!” Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, stands in the doorway, ashen-faced. I climb from the bed and without fastening my trousers, I push past him and stagger down the corridor, leaving John convulsing on the bed.

Picture credit: Endart

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 8. The student master

used drawing quelch (7)

For all the previous episodes of The Tyrant Teacher, click here

Steve May slowly closed the door to the study behind him.

He stood blinking the tears. Tears of humiliation; tears of pain. His backside throbbed like crazy. A minute or two earlier it had been intense agony, but it was easing a little. It would be several hours before the pain went completely.

How he hated that school. He would gladly see it burn to the ground. All of it and the schoolmasters with it.

Slowly, he eased his way down the passageway. Every step he took was agony as the elastic at the bottom of his underpants cut into his blistered bottom. He limped downstairs and through the lower school passageways, hands gingerly touching his buttocks. He couldn’t help it; he desperately wanted to rub his scorching bottom. His eyes were still wet and blurry as he made for the bogs and a cubicle in which to hide for a few minutes, until he’d regained some composure.

He cried a bit more; his bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing him.

That night, alone in his horrible furnished room, Steve wept into his pillow and nursed his scarred buttocks. He still had weeks to go until he would be allowed to leave St Septimius. How would he survive?

 

Four weeks earlier

 

Steve May’s progress was painstaking. He crossed the ivy-covered quadrangle, passed the mullioned-windows of the library and entered the clock tower. He had never been in such a place before. What kind of school was this?

At a snail’s pace, he climbed the stairs in search of Mr Fortescue’s study. “Study:” even the words they used here intimidated him. Study: what was wrong with office? That was a perfectly good word. Steve was in search of Mr Fortescue, the headmaster, the man who was to be his mentor for the next eight weeks, while he undertook his teaching practice.

He was not looking forward to this. Now, he had to prove that he really had the makings of a schoolteacher. Eight weeks was all the time he had. If he failed that was the end for him. But success meant qualification and “Steve May” would become “Mr May,” a junior teacher.

The school porter had told him the study was on the first floor. He found that easily enough and was scrutinising the nameplates on the oak-panelled doors when he stopped in his tracks. Beyond the door of the study at the far end of the corridor came a distinct sound. Swish! Thud. Swish! Thud.

His heart beat faster. Was that what he thought it was? His naturally pale face coloured up with embarrassment. He stopped, stood still, unsure what to do next. Suddenly the door of the study eased open and a boy, bulkier and taller than Steve, emerged. Steve’s attempt to avoid eye contact was a failure. The boy glared at him: his expression a mixture of pain and resentment.

The pain was born of being forced to drop his trousers and bend over a chair to allow Fortescue to swipe his cane across his stretched white underpants and the resentment was forged when this stranger witnessed that humiliation.

The sense of intimidation Steve already felt increased as he formed a slack fist and ever so lightly tapped on the study door. He half hoped Dr Fortescue would not hear the knock so Steve could withdraw and leave the school forever. He would tell his tutors at the teacher training institution that nobody had been expecting him at the school.

“Come in.” Rats! He had heard. There was no going back now for Steve May. He had arrived at St. Septimius and he would have to survive all that the school threw at him in the next two months.

He turned the handle and opened the door slightly as if he was trying not to be a nuisance and squeezed through the small gap he created between door and door jam.

Steve looked around the study. It was dominated by a huge desk, topped with green leather. Behind it was a window that overlooked the school grounds with its ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows.

The walls of the study were panelled in oak. A large open unlit, fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there

Standing against the wall was a wooden chair with a high back over which, Steve would one day discover, boys had to drape themselves when being caned. Behind this was a comfortable seating area where presumably Dr Fortescue held informal meetings. Steve’s eyes, however, were drawn to the object laid across the desk, a thin yellow stick with a curved handle: the cane.

“You must be May.” Dr Fortescue gave him a frosty glare making Steve feel like a naughty twelve-year-old schoolboy. The fact that the cane was resting on the desk did little to modify that. In his mind’s eye, he could see that resentful schoolboy stretched across the desk, bottom high. When Fortescue beckoned him with a crook of his finger to go and stand in front of his desk Steve was certain he was in for similar treatment.

He shuffled forward, eyes lowered. Steve had been overwhelmed from the moment he walked through the gates of St. Septimius. He had never seen such a place. He had attended a modest inner-city secondary modern school made of breeze-blocks and glass, far removed from the ancient buildings at St. SIGS.

Dr Fortescue’s glare fixed on Steve who intuitively stared down at his mud splattered shoes, terrified he might make eye contact with the headmaster. He shuffled from one foot to another in embarrassment.

Dr Fortescue had a red face with a heavy frown on his brow and his thin lips were set tightly. None of the boys were sure of his age; he probably looked older than he actually was. He was an intimidating man, as strong as an ox.

Fortescue did not like what he saw. Who was this pale-skinned scrawny creature dressed in a cheap suit from the Co-op, who stared at the carpet too petrified to even look at him? Who on earth thought he could become a schoolmaster? If he wore one of St Septimius blue-and-white blazers he might be mistaken for a sixth-former. Heavens! Put him in short trousers and he could pass as fifteen.

“So, you are May.”

Steve blushed scarlet. Was he expected to answer? He wasn’t at all certain.

“Well, answer me boy!” Already Dr Fortescue was treating his new “colleague” as if he were a disobedient pupil.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir.”

Fortescue’s already ruddy complexion turned puce with rage. That lower-class accent! Where was this urchin from? Some industrial town in the Midlands: Wolverhampton? Walsall? How could he be expected to teach English, when he couldn’t even speak the language correctly?

He turned his back on Steve and stared out of the window. What was the world coming to? He blamed the new Socialist government. They wanted to abolish schools like St Septimius. Jealousy. Class envy, that’s what it was. The school had been forced to take scholarship boys from the working classes and now it was expected to take on this wretch as a student master. What next: admit West Indians? Independent schools were supposed to “give something back,” the Socialist, no crypto-Communist, Minister of Education had said. “Give something back”: what the hell did that mean?

Fortescue stared through the window. A bell rang in the distance and hundreds of schoolboys in St Septimius colours emerged from classrooms. Bloody Socialists, he thought, they want everybody to be the same.

He turned to May. “Get out of my sight and never come back,” is what he wanted to say. But he had been given his instructions by the school governors. He knew he had to deal with this person and his strangled vowels.

So, instead of throwing the tyke out on his ear, he did the next best thing. He sent him over to see Carruthers, the most junior of the English masters. Let him wet nurse the baby and he sincerely hoped he never had the displeasure to encounter this wretch and his shiny suit ever again.

@

Steve had been at the school for more than two weeks and was on the edge of despair. Carruthers was scarcely older than Steve himself and had not taken well to his task as babysitter. It had brought out his worst bullying tendencies: Carruthers was on the lowest rung of school-mastering and resented it; now, in Steve he had someone who was even lower down the pecking order.

He took an instant dislike to Steve from the moment he opened his mouth. He didn’t care that the new man was a considerable expert on the Romantic poets and Shakespeare’s tragedies: all he heard were his Black Country “strangled vowels.”

Carruthers would have left Steve to fend for himself if he hadn’t been given instructions by Dr Fortescue to “look after” him. Carruthers knew from painful experience that he must obey his headmaster at all times. Failure would mean a second humiliating visit to Fortescue’s study and Carruthers intended to avoid that at all costs.

Steve was assigned Sixth Form English classes, on the expectation that boys were older and responsible and would not make trouble for him. Alas, for poor Steve, that wasn’t to be. The boys might only eighteen year olds, but they were already well versed in snobbery; they knew their own sense of superiority and Mr May was most assuredly not of their class.

The boys went through the formalities: they stood, as they would for any master, when he entered the schoolroom and they called him “Sir”, but they had no respect for him at all and rather resented that he had been foisted upon them.

They called him the Queen of the May behind his back and made assertions that he was “queer,” even though they didn’t quite know what that meant. A particularly obnoxious boy called Jenkins led the charge. Jenkins was one of those boys who thought he was the class clown, and makes himself popular by always making his fellows laugh, but is in fact a bully. He and another boy had made up a poem about Steve that concentrated on the master’s assumed sexual behaviour.

Steve knew none of this but he did know that he had no rapport with his pupils and every class with them had become an ordeal for him.

Things were about to get even more humiliating. Every time he entered the schoolroom he felt he had been transported back two or three decades. The schoolroom consisted of about twenty wooden desks connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on wooden benches. Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

A master would stand at the class at a blackboard and easel. To his left was a small desk for him to work at and behind it was a shelf for books.

The boys hated Mr May and wanted to make as much trouble for him as possible. Jenkins had made a plan. Each boy would make a paper dart and at a given signal as Steve chalked on the board they would simultaneously bombard him. It worked perfectly – at first.

Each boy surreptitiously tore a page from his exercise book and whenever Mr May turned his back, they would stealthily fold their paper until they had fashioned a serviceable paper airplane.

Then as Mr May was chalking a particularly difficult explanation on the board, Jenkins silently gave the command and a veritable air force of paper flew at the trainee schoolmaster. Some darts hit him about the body (at least one caught him on the back of the neck) while others made crash landings all around his feet.

“What? What? What is going on?” Steve spluttered.

Then, the schoolroom door flew open and Dr Fortescue stormed in. What back luck for the boys that he had been passing the classroom at the very moment the air force took flight and he had seen enough to know the boys were attacking the schoolmaster.

He might not have liked nor respected May, but Dr Fortescue knew it was his own duty to protect him and the dignity of all the schoolmasters at St Septimius from the savagery of their pupils.

The boys stood to attention as Dr Fortescue strode into the room, his face was puce in colour and he was sweating profusely. He seemed to be losing a struggle to retain his temper. The boys were fortunate he was not carrying a cane at the time (he almost always did when he patrolled the school corridors) for he might just have thrashed every backside in the classroom.

“This is disgusting behaviour,” he thundered. The silence from the boys was deafening, hardly one of them dared to breathe. All Steve could hear was the thump, thump, thump of his own heart bursting to get out of his chest. He was so miserable; made so by the boys’ air attack on him and compounded by his headmaster witnessing his incompetence in the schoolroom. He was close to tears as Dr Fortescue glared around the room, catching the eye of every single boy as he roared his disapproval.

“You will all return here at four o’clock this afternoon for detention.” With that he turned on his heels and burst through the door into the corridor, leaving a classroom full of shocked sixth-formers and one deeply humiliated trainee schoolmaster.

@

Shortly after four o’clock the boys assembled in the schoolroom for their detention. Some might have felt resentful since all the form was being punished for the misbehaviour of a few boys, but they did not show it. Schoolboys have an acute sense of injustice, but on this day they had a sense of solidarity that would made a trade union leader envious. They were united in their disdain for Mr May; if he could keep control of a class they wouldn’t be here now.

Dr Fortescue entered; glared at the class and pronounced. “You will tear a page out of your exercise book and each boy will write a two-page letter of apology to Mr May. I will read your missives and if your apology is not to my satisfaction, I will apply my cane to the seat of your trousers.”

With that he strutted from the room, in search of tea.

The boys started on the task. Two pages? How was a fellow expected to make a letter of apology run for two pages? What was there to say except: “I’m sorry.”

Many of the boys stared into space, chewing the end of their pens, hoping for inspiration. Others whispered to their neighbours as if that might stimulate thought.

Then Jenkins, the class joker, piped up. “Dear Mr May. I am sorry that you are a lousy schoolmaster.”

He was encouraged by the laughter this received.

“I am sorry that you are a tyke, who was born in Wolverhampton,” this said in a mock Black Country accent. The boys were appreciating the joke.

“Dear Mr May, I am sorry you are a homo.” The class was silent. Faces reddened. Jenkins had not expected this. All the boys thought May was queer, that’s why they nicknamed him Queen of the May.

“Jenkins!” Dr Fortescue had returned to the schoolroom, a cup of tea in one hand and his favourite cane in the other.

“Stand up boy!” Fortescue’s face had turned the colour of red wine. Boys of Dr Fortescue’s acquaintance knew this was a dangerous sign. Jenkins stumbled to his feet. Just as blood was rushing to the headmaster’s face, it was draining from Jenkins.

“What is the meaning of this!” Fortescue thundered, but he clearly did not expect an answer.

“Stand out in front of the class.”

Every boy in the room knew what was to happen next. Dr Fortescue’s punishments were always given in front of the class; the unfortunate boy would be called out to the front and given a real whacking. Once it was over the boy would be sent hobbling to his seat, finding it extremely difficult to let go of his stinging cheeks. Without fail he would at least have moist eyes; most would be in tears, even openly crying as they tried to sit down. Dr Fortescue would stand in front of the class with a satisfied smirk on his face watching and still wielding the cane. He would place the weapon back on the desk, in plain view, as a warning to everyone else, should they misbehave.

“Right Jenkins! Bend over the front desk backside facing the class.”

Reluctantly, the eighteen-year-old walked to the desk and bent over and waited for Dr Fortescue to begin. He sensed his grey trousers being tightened as the headmaster ensured they would offer the least protection to his bottom as possible.

Jenkins was no longer the class clown, he was a fool bent over with a class of sixth-formers staring intently at his bottom. The classroom was tense as they all waited for the caning to begin. Jenkins felt the cane tapping his backside and then it was gone. The next thing he heard a swish and his bottom was on fire.

Before he could recover the second stroke had landed, this took his breath away and by the third it was all he could do not to yell as the agony was so intense.

The fourth landed right at the bottom of his cheeks and Jenkins gulped tears. As the final two strokes fell in the same area he could no longer keep quiet and screamed out in pain, broken and humiliated in front of his classmates.

Dr Fortescue liked to examine a boy immediately he had caned him and ordered Jenkins to rise from the desk at once. As tears streamed down the teenager’s face, Dr Fortescue laid into him verbally. “Boy, I have gone easy on you this time, if I catch you again abusing Mr May your trousers and underpants will come down and Six will become Twelve. Is that understood?”

It was, but Jenkins did not have sufficient control of himself to say so.

“Back to your desk and complete your letter of apology.”

Then turning back to the class, Dr Fortescue added, “I shall return in twenty minutes’ time and I expect each one of you to have completed the letter of apology. Any boy who has not done so will get the same as Jenkins.”

With that he left the classroom to the sound of his own footsteps. For the next twenty minutes the classroom was in silence except for the gentle sobbing of one eighteen-year-old boy.

@

He had only been at St Septimius a short time but nothing could surprise Steve about the school. Dr Fortescue, his headmaster, expected him to bend over and offer up his arse for his cane, just as if he were one of his fourth-form pupils.

To Dr Fortescue it seemed the most natural thing in the world; he was in charge and he would brook no nonsense from this trainee schoolmaster, who had failed in all his duties in the schoolroom. He was utterly incompetent and if he expected a good report for his training officer at the end of his placement he had better get his backside in the air fast.

Dr Fortescue didn’t say any of this out loud, of course, but Steve knew that was what he meant. The only chance he had (and it might only be a slim chance) of becoming a junior schoolmaster was to let this bullying headmaster have his way.

Dr Fortescue opened one of the desk drawers and picked out a small bunch of keys which he carried across to a tall cupboard on the far side of the room. The cupboard was like a wardrobe with a metal rail running from side to side and there was a black schoolmaster’s cloak and an overcoat hanging from it on coat hangers. Then to one side, Steve saw several canes also suspended from this metal rail. They seemed to vary in length by only a few inches and one or two were thicker than the others.

“Very well, go to the cupboard and choose a cane and bring it to me.”

Slowly, Steve went over to the cupboard and looked at the array of canes inside. He looked back at Dr Fortescue questioningly. “The one you think you deserve.” he repeated. Finally, Steve took a breath and chose the thickest one, which was second longest. He held it almost reverentially as he passed it to his master. It was heavier than he thought, but easy to hold. Despite its thickness, it was very pliable.

Fortescue moved a high-backed chair from the corner of the room and set it down in front of his desk.

“Stand there.” It was a clear command as Dr Fortescue pointed to a spot on the rug. Steve shuffled his feet, reluctant to move, but deep down he knew he had no choice. For the sake of his future he had to be completely subservient to Dr Fortescue and anything the headmaster demanded of him he had to deliver.

“Trousers and underpants down.” Another cool command, delivered as if the instruction was the most natural thing in the world: a twenty-two-year-old trainee school teacher required to strip half naked to allow a man more than twice his age to flog his buttocks with a whippy rod.

Hesitatingly, Steve started to undo the belt of his trousers and then his trouser buttons. He half pushed and half pulled his suit trousers down just below his bottom.

“That’s no good boy. I want them down round your ankles.”

Steve blushed and pushed his trousers right down. He then seemed to freeze.

“Now your underpants,” Dr Fortescue gently reminded him. “Right down please.”

Steve summoned up the courage, grasped the waistband of his pants and in one slow, but steady movement, drew them down to meet his trousers. He had a long-tailed shirt so that action did not reveal his buttocks, other than a brief glimpse of the very lowest part.

“Please pull your shirt up so that your bottom is fully exposed.”

Steve obeyed pulling his shirt up and gathering it at the front. His bottom was round and pert.

“Bend over the chair boy,” he ordered, rattling through his rules for caning. “Head right down, I want you tight, bottom out more, legs slightly apart, hold the chair seat tightly. And stay there. If you move out of position I shall give you extra strokes.”

Steve bent with his legs stretched out at forty-five degrees behind him. The seat of the chair was cold to his hands. He could feel the back of it sticking in to his stomach. He felt very frightened.  He could hear a cane being swished. Then footsteps moving towards him. He felt intense embarrassment. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt!

With a growl, Fortescue swiped the rod through the air and landed it with a heavy thwack across Steve’s bottom, pacing each stroke for maximum effect, giving him the full length of the cane and making sure that twelve strokes covered the whole of his bottom.

“Ow! Ow!” shrieked Steve, moving his bottom from side to side over the back of the chair as he tried to alleviate the sting, but the stick whipped and cracked to Dr Fortescue’s delight, dancing on his bare cheeks and painting pink stripes. His buttocks rocked from side to side as Steve wiggled his hips frantically, attempting to dissipate the pain.

The trainee teacher begged the headmaster for mercy as Dr Fortescue lashed his cane into his tight buttocks. His behind was throbbing with the pain of twelve strokes of the cane, but Fortescue wasn’t satisfied.

Suddenly, Fortescue stopped swiping his cane and began dementedly slapping his hard, rough hand into Steve’s welted buttocks. A rapid succession of sharp whacks covered almost every part of young Steve’s bare backside and upper thighs, leaving him panting noisily for breath and gulping back a flood of cries. He was sweating profusely, and his breathing was heavy, fast, gasping. His face and neck were red and strained and his mouth agape.

Dr Fortescue’s breathing was heavy, excited, uncontrolled. Then he stopped spanking Steve’s red-raw buttocks.

Steve could not be sure his punishment was at an end as he assumed Dr Fortescue would instruct him to stand when he was finished. When no instruction came, the twenty-two-year-old drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly and tentatively raised his head up just ten or twelve inches.

When he was not stopped, he took another deep breath and stood half upright, his hands gripping the top of the chair. Finally, he stood up on tiptoe and began gently exploring the damage caused to his bottom, trying to disperse the sting. Several tears trickled down his cheeks and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Dr Fortescue was motionless, Steve could not be sure, but the headmaster appeared to be in some kind of trance.

With a sharp intake of breath, Steve bent down and slowly hunted through the material that lay around his ankles as he sought the waistband of his pants. With a slight groan as he experienced once more the soreness of his bottom, he eased them up his legs. Equally as slowly he pulled up his trousers.

Dr Fortescue was battling to regain his composure, but failing. Steve started to run on the spot and jump up and down to help relieve the pain. Football commentators on TV are always talking about how players “run off” their injuries after they’ve been kicked about a bit on the pitch. In Steve’s case, it didn’t seem to work.

Seemingly lacking the power of speech, Dr Fortescue pointed to the door and whispered, “You had better go.”

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

 

The pillow fight

z used drawing pyjamas pillow fight Mag (1)

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sat slumped in the comfortable leather armchair in his study, trying to read the evening newspaper. It was deuced hard work. The noise coming from the senior boys’ dormitory on the landing above was disturbing his concentration.

Typical first night of term, the doctor mused. Let them get on with it. It was still early, they would eventually run out of steam and settle down to sleep.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood turned the pages of his newspaper. The American election was in full swing. Who really cared? he sighed.

Judging by the way the floorboards were shaking some kind of fight was in progress. With pillows, no doubt, the housemaster smiled. Boys will be boys. What tales they would have to tell, when they left the school. Thump! Something heavy crashing to the floor made the ceiling shake. Oh dear, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned. If it went on like this much longer, he would be forced to investigate.

A piercing screech rent the air. It sounded like a boy was being murdered. The housemaster folded his newspaper carefully and placed it on a nearby table. He listened intently. Silence. Whatever had happened, it seemed to be over.

Alas, no. Another equally spine-chilling shriek echoed across his study, followed by wild cheering. What on earth were they up to? Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood was very used to having boisterous schoolboys in the house, but this was too much.

Another scream. Foot stomping. The light fitting on the ceiling swayed. “Oh, this is really the limit,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned inwardly. “If they persisted in behaving like junior boys, they should not be surprised to be treated that way.”

He hauled himself from his chair and stretched. His academic gown hung from a nearby umbrella stand. Wearily, he climbed into it. He placed his mortar-board cap on his head, fixing it so the tassel fell in just the right place. He glanced in the mirror; he rather liked his look.

Then, he took four steps across the study and stopped in front of a tall, thin cupboard. The door was closed but not locked. It opened with a flick of the wrist. Inside were several whippy rattan canes, of varying lengths and thicknesses. Any one of them could in the right hands deliver a stinging beating, he thought, but these were senior boys, they deserved something special.

He reached in and took hold of a dark-yellow curved-handled cane. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed it between his hands. He had used this particular rod many times in the past. He could attest to its effectiveness, as could the dozens of boys he had thrashed in the past three months alone. The housemaster was well-known, and justifiably proud, of his reputation among the fellows for his expertise.

He swished the cane a few times, delighting in the swooshing sound it made as it travelled through the air. Satisfied with the rod’s competence to deliver, he tucked it under his arm and exited his study.

There was no great distance between the study and the senior boys’ dormitory. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood walked maybe ten yards down the passageway before ascending one flight of stairs to the landing above. The dormitory was almost exactly above the study. The housemaster made stately progress. He knew he should not be in a great hurry. There was a certain understanding in such matters. Boys who were ragging would have one of their own on sentry duty to call “cave” on the approach of a master. That would give the chaps a chance to affect an air of total innocence when the beak arrived.

But, there was no lookout and no abatement in the noise. Well, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood concluded, fingering the end of his cane, they only had themselves to blame. He waited outside the dormitory door, listening to the mayhem from within. He counted to ten in his head, gripped the handle and dramatically flew open the door.

There was chaos. A dozen senior boys, all dressed in identical red-and-white-striped pyjamas, attacked one another with pillows. There appeared to be no sides. It was a free-for-all. Everyone was fair game.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood made an imposing figure, framed in the doorway. He was about six-feet-four-inches tall and built like a rugby prop forward, although he had never played the game. He wrapped his gown around his body and glared into the room. He looked like a hawk about to take flight. Impressive indeed. But, not one boy present took notice of him, too intent were they on their own private battles.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sucked in a lung-full of air. “Boys!” he boomed. “Desist this instance.” A few paused their combat; many did not.

“I said, desist!” he roared.

Sheepishly, all in the room turned to face their housemaster. One or two hurriedly dropped pillows, staring at them as if they had never seen the things before, as they fell on beds.

“Such disgraceful behaviour,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood spoke in a natural voice. He had the complete attention of every boy in the room. “What were you thinking?” He turned to the boy nearest to him, “Carruthers?” and when he received no reply, he tried another senior, “Carstairs?”

The silence of the replies irritated him. “Carruthers, you are the dormitory monitor, explain to me what is going on.”

Carruthers blushed. Suddenly, he had an intense interest in the bare floorboards beneath his feet, but he did not reply. Carstairs could not stop looking at the fierce-looking cane tucked under the housemaster’s arm.

“Would some boy explain what is going on,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood’s beaky stare intimidated one boy after the other. “Dunno, Sir,” said one. “Sorry, Sir,”” another ventured.

“Sorry, yes you will be sorry,” the housemaster barked, “All of you.”

A dozen pairs of eyes burned into him as slowly and deliberately Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He paused for dramatic effect, then flexed it between his hands until it made a perfect arc. Then, he swished it in the direction of the far wall. “Line up there all of you. Face me. Hands on head.”

Sorrowfully, the seniors shuffled across the dormitory. Not a sound could be heard, not even the thumping of the boys’ hearts. Corporal punishment was imminent. Soon, each stood as instructed, hands on head. Some tried to stand to attention as if on a military parade ground; most slouched, their backs arched and knees bent.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood glared at each boy in turn. He said nothing, his face said it all. He had practiced his intimating stare over many years. No boy dared meet his gaze. Some looked blankly into the distance, others at their bare feet. The housemaster swished his cane. All the boys would be beaten. Hard. They would expect, no demand, nothing less. Rules had been clearly expressed. Lights out and silence at nine-thirty. Just as clearly, rules had been disobeyed. There was a certain etiquette in such things. Matters had to take their course.

“I shall not tolerate such behaviour, and from senior men too,” he intoned. “You will each be beaten on the bared buttocks.” The housemaster delighted at his reception. Faces flushed as red as buttocks soon would be. He tapped the tip of his cane against a wrought-iron bedstead and pressed against it so his thick, dense cane curved.

“Step forward Carruthers. You are dormitory captain, it is your duty to maintain order,” he growled. “And discipline.” He rolled the word “discipline” around his mouth. The wretched senior before him would not – could not – look his master in the eye. “Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled.

“Carruthers, you will take Six; you other boys will get three,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed the cane once more. “Lower your pyjama bottoms and bend over the bed.” It was a clear command, softly spoken. It was an instruction from a housemaster, no boy at the school would dare disobey.

Carruthers stepped forward; his fingers fumbled at the drawstring of his pyjamas, but soon the red-and-white-striped bottoms slithered down his thighs before snagging at the knees. He parted them slightly and they continued the journey to his feet. The senior hesitated, unsure if he should step out of the trousers bunched at his feet and present himself totally naked from the waist down. When no further instruction was forthcoming from the housemaster, he elected to leave them in place and bend forward.

The bedstead was cold and hard. It stuck into his stomach and hurt. He would have much preferred if the housemaster had placed a pillow for him, but, he knew, the good doctor had no concern that the boys he was about to punish should be comfortable. That was hardly the point of the exercise.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood stretched forward and took the tail of the pyjama jacket and with some ceremony folded it once, and then twice, up Carruthers’ back, exposing several inches of flesh covered in dark brown hair. He stood back to take his aim. He pressed the cane into Carruthers’ naked buttocks. There was a lot of “give”. The housemaster beat many boys and most had well upholstered bottoms. He could not recall the last time he had been presented with a pair of taut, pert buttocks.

He “sawed” the cane across the centre of the senior’s backside, enjoying how it twitched with anticipation. The housemaster made two practice swipes, raised the cane high and swiped it with terrific force into the naked flesh. The buttocks wobbled with the impact, a dark pink line appeared, and Carruthers threw back his head and silently gulped in draughts of air.

Unseen by the housemaster other boys craned their necks forward, lest they should miss any of the excitement. One boy, who had never been beaten, nor witnessed such a thing, felt his cock stiffen. He wondered if he dared remove his hands from his head to cover the obvious erection that was growing.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood took his aim once more. Carruthers’ body stiffened. The stroke made him tingle with agony from head to foot. His eyes shone, and his face went white, but he uttered no cry. He had been thrashed before, often. He knew the form; no matter how much a master hurt you, you must never show it. Four more cuts hammered into his naked haunches, each as hard and stinging as the first, but not a sound escaped his lips. But for the drawn, strained look about his lips, and the blaze in his eyes, he might have been a statuesque bust when he rose and joined his fellows, hands on head.

“Carstairs, you’re next. Step forward boy.” Carstairs was a little taller than Carruthers, but no less padded. Nonchalantly, he let his pyjama bottoms fall. He stood facing his tormentor affording the housemaster a perfect view of his flaccid cock and ball sack. It was, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood observed silently, quiet the longest member he had seen in a considerable time.

Without fuss, Carstairs lifted his jacket to his chest exposing an almost hairless stomach. He paused to a silent count of three and satisfied that his fellow miscreants had admired his manhood, he dived across the bedstead. He spread his arms wide and opened his legs. His cock and balls dangled provocatively. But, the housemaster would not be distracted.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

Three deep welts were already forming as Carstairs hobbled back in line. The pain was intense. It had only been three cuts, but the housemaster was a recognised expert with the cane. It had been “three” like the senior had seldom received before.

“Next boy,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slashed his cane through the air. He was in his stride now.

So, it was that twelve boys settled down to sleep, each nursing deep cuts on their backsides. No words were exchanged until First Bell next morning. Then, each would display his trophy stripes. By then, deep pink would be turning to mauve. They would change to many colours of the rainbow before finally disappearing several days later.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood returned to his study. He replaced the cane in the tall, thin cupboard and opened his cocktail cabinet and poured two glasses of gin. Soon, the study door burst open. His visitor owned the establishment; he was not one to knock on doors.

“How did it go?” he inquired eagerly before gulping his drink.

“Very well. Very well indeed. I think they all thoroughly enjoyed themselves,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood nodded approvingly. “It should be one of our best weekends ever.”

 

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