Collection of captions

z used locker room boys life (10)

They can go to hell, see if I care. Let them admire the paddle marks on my bare ass.

 

Fancy a quick one? A hundred assorted drawings with captions supplied by Charles Hamilton II. Available as a book to download free of charge here.

z used no smoking defied by cas

What he didn’t know was that although the club had a no smoking regulation there was not a no spanking rule.

 

Picture credits: Haines (Boys’ Life) and Cas

 

For more free-to-download books click here

Fake News #7

z used plimsoll gym white shorts sting

Secret of Youth Athletic Club’s Success

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Coach Brian Tyler has revealed the secret behind Brocklehurst Athletic Club’s phenomenal success this season – the old-fashioned rubber-soled plimsoll.

The young men at the Club – average age 19 – won both the town and the county championships this year. The first time in history this has happened.

Coach Tyler, who was appointed to the club only 14 months ago, told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “Discipline is the secret of our success.”

He said participants in any sporting endeavour needed to be committed and focused. “Sometimes young men need incentives to achieve their own and the club’s goals,” he added.

The “incentive” at Brocklehurst Athletic Club is a size-10 plimsoll with a heavy but springy soul. “They don’t make these slippers anymore, today’s have light plastic soles. I have had my plimsoll for many years. It has proven to get results.”

Coach Tyler said the young men in his club are spanked with the slipper for infraction of the club’s training policy. They also get “a warm seat” if they perform below their best on the track or field.

“All the boys agree to the rules,” Coach Tyler said, “If they don’t they are not allowed on the team.”

Ritchie Alwood, a middle-distance runner who won gold medals at both the town and county championships, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “We think it’s great. Coach Tyler makes us bend over a vaulting horse in the gym and everyone watches while he spanks our bottoms with his slipper.”

He said for first offences they get slippered on their thin cotton PE shorts. “If you come back for a second dose you get it shorts-down on the underpants. Third time and it’s on the bare,” he added.

“It’s a real incentive for us to work hard,” Ritchie said. “The slipper hurts like hell; Coach really lays it on. You don’t want to come back for more.”

Coach Tyler said the club will be holding trials for new members during the off-season. Young men interested should contact ________________________

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

More Fake News stories here

 

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A preacher teaches humility

A whopping for Warminster

The missed curfew

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Fake News #2

z used fake news otk sport chair (12)

Spanking for Fighting Soccer Star

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe

Sam Spencer, the nineteen-year-old Premier League footballer caught on CCTV brawling outside a nightclub, has been given “an old-fashioned” spanking, we can exclusively reveal.

Spencer whose fight went viral on social media was taken across the knee of Newton Rovers manager Ron Thwistlethorp yesterday for a bare-bottom tanning.

Thwistlethorp, the no-nonsense Yorkshireman, was reportedly “livid with anger” when told news of Spencer’s late night nightclub visit. Spencer was seen on closed-circuit TV allegedly brawling with two other young men. Spencer was seen yesterday morning at club training with bruising to his face.

Now an insider tells The Daily Globe Spencer has quite a few bruises on another part of his body.

“We have high standards at the club. We expect our players to behave themselves, there is no excuse for this kind of behaviour,” the insider said.

The insider revealed that Spencer, who has scored nine goals in the Premier League this season, was summoned to the manager’s office after training.

“Ron Thwistlethorp is a hard taskmaster. He won’t put up with this kind of behaviour. It doesn’t matter if you are an international star or the lowliest apprentice. They all get treated the same.”

And that meant Spencer, who was called up to the England squad for the vital World Cup qualifying match against the Isle of Man last month, found himself over his manager’s knee staring at a rug.

The insider said, “Thwistlethorp doesn’t do things in half measures. He made the teenager remove his football shorts and underwear. It has to be on the bare, otherwise it isn’t a proper spanking.”

Thwistlethorp used a heavy wooden-backed hairbrush, borrowed especially for the purpose from his secretary.

“It packed quite a punch. Sam Spencer was squirming and yelping long before Mr. Thwistlethorp finished.

“He really let him have it. It wasn’t just some little smacked botty,” the insider said.

One source said Spencer was locked in with Thwistlethorp for at least 10 minutes.

Spencer was reportedly spotted later in the club showers with cherry-red buttocks. “It looks like he sat on a barBQ,” teammate Freddie Fiske Tweeted.

Footage of the spanking recorded on a Smartphone was uploaded to the Internet. By midnight it had received more than two million views.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

More Fake News stories here

 

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Visit to Uncle Roy

Thieving cousins

Warren’s awakening

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The cricketer

z used drawing cricket BOP (2)

He was about twenty years old; I was old enough to be his father. I was the coach at the Brocklehurst Cricket Club Colts – a rather archaic name for the youth team. I was a big cheese at the club on account of my time playing for the county side. It made me a “gentleman”. And, in cricketing circles in those days that meant a lot.

Robbie Renaud was a dish (I know it sounds a bit girly to say that but even the boys could see that). He stood about five-feet-ten with broad shoulders and narrow waist. He played a lot of cricket (naturally) but was also something of a long-distance runner. All that fresh air and exercise gave him a delicious peaches and cream complexion, overlaid with a sun tan. He loved to smile, a cheeky impish grin. His brown eyes shone constantly and his chestnut hair flopped wildly around his forehead, but never encroached over his ears. He could have been the poster-boy for all those young cricketers schoolboys loved to read about in their storybooks.

It happened one day in late August. It had been an exceptionally hot summer and Robbie who was down from Cambridge for the long vacation spent much of his time at the club. The Colts had one of their most successful spells in their not-so long history. God was in his heaven and everything was as it should be. That’s when it happened.

Alderman, a rather useful spin bowler, had been the first to notice. Money had gone missing from his jacket pocket, which had been left hanging in the changing room. It was only coins and would probably not have been noticed, except that the few coppers represented Alderman’s bus fare home and it was all the cash he had brought with him. Of course, we said he must be mistaken, was he certain he hadn’t forgotten to put the money in his pocket when he left home? Nobody wanted to admit that there was a thief among us.

The following week more money went missing. It could not be ignored. Had a sneak thief managed to infiltrate the clubhouse while we were out in the nets? We would not countenance the possibility that one of our own was responsible. We were gentleman after all.

My cigarette lighter proved to be the final straw. It wasn’t an expensive piece, I often suspected it was made of old iron, it was so heavy and (frankly) ugly. But it was mine. It was also very conspicuous. Unlike the small amounts of cash that had been stolen this would not be so easy to dispose of.

I spoke with Porter, our head groundsman. Something had to be done. I suggested a search of the premises. Porter was a sergeant in the War and I a major. He knew his place and set about doing this without demurring.

We kept the boys out of the clubhouse and I let Porter get on with it. We sat in the late afternoon sun. Some of the boys were impatient. We had finished match practice and they wanted to be off. Many had mothers at home waiting to serve tea. One or two had dates with lady friends.

About ten minutes later Porter emerged ashen faced from the clubhouse. He took me to one side to be out of the hearing of the boys. He was as embarrassed as hell. “I don’t know what to say, Major,” he said. “Spit it out man, we haven’t got all day,” I responded.

His face sweated and his ears were pink with embarrassment. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and brought out a dark-grey object. “Is this your cigarette lighter, sir,” he asked demurely.  “Yes, by jove, it is,” I asserted, “Wherever did you find it?”

He blushed more deeply. “Well, sir,” I could see he could hardly bear to tell me, but he found fortitude and did so, “there’s the rub, it was in the jacket of Mr. Renaud.” His voice trailed off sorrowfully.

Aha! So our star player Robbie Renaud was a thief and caught red handed to boot.

“Whatever shall we do, sir?” Porter seemed genuinely concerned. There was, I told him only one thing for it, “We shall have to inform the police.”

“Oh, no sir, we couldn’t do that, think of the scandal.”

Maybe he had a point, but then again as scandals at youth sporting clubs went this was very small beer.

“I believe Master Renaud is doing well at the university,” Porter continued. I noticed but made no comment that our groundsman had demoted him from “mister” to “master” but I let the matter go. Porter continued, “He plans a career in the law, as a barrister.” I failed to see the point of all this and told Porter so.

“His career would be in ruins before it even started. He couldn’t have a criminal record,” the groundsman informed me. He had a point. So what did the fellow think we should do?

“Well in the Army days, as I’m sure you know Major,”  I noticed the emphasis he had placed on my military rank. “We had a way of dealing with matters in the barracks informally, if you know what I mean, sir.”

I truly did not and I was getting impatient, as I’m sure so were the boys in the cricket team.

“Oh spit it out man, what are you trying to say?” I let my exasperation show. Porter was miffed. He sniffed, “Well, Major if we had any trouble in the barracks; and we had one or two tea-leafs I have to admit, we would give them a damn good hiding.”

I supposed the puzzlement showed on my face because he immediately clarified. “A beating, Major. Generally we used a heavy leather belt. There in the barracks.” He could see I was intrigued by now. “Bare arsed, as it were,” he coughed politely perhaps realising it was not the “done thing” to swear in front of an officer.

“Do I understand Porter you are suggesting that we punish Renaud in such a way?” I asked although I knew damn well that’s what he was saying. He nodded gruffly.

“You had better ask Renaud to see me privately, I’ll be in the club secretary’s office. Porter scuttled off.

Moments later I luxuriated in a large soft leather chair and examined the young man standing awkwardly before me. I had said previously he had the body of a schoolboy sporting hero. That remained the case, but now also he had the demeanour of the schoolboy himself. Maybe sixteen years old, standing in the housemaster’s study for a wigging – and maybe much more beside. I told him the facts of the case. My missing  cigarette lighter had been found in his jacket pocket. He denied it. I was a little disappointed. He was an ex-St. Tom’s man, which was my old school too. If there was one thing we learned at St. Tom’s it was honour. We took our punishment, which at that very traditional English publish school meant a thrashing with a whippy ashplant cane.  I was ashamed of the young man in front of me.

“Well, you leave me no alternative,” I sneered at him, “I must inform the police.”

“Oh no sir, please, no.” I had elicited a reaction. “Not the police, sir.” I did not have to prompt him, but he gave the same explanation that Porter had. Any whiff of legal scandal would put paid to his dream of the Bar. His father, a distinguished “silk” himself would be devastated. He would discontinue paying his university fees and the boy would have to get a job. And, for someone of his class that could only mean exile to a colony. “Yes,” he conceded, he would take a beating.

Now, I don’t want to say too much about this, but it so happened that the club had a number of school canes tucked away in a cupboard in the club secretary’s office. As I had intimated many of us were ex-public school men.

“An exemplary lesson must be made,” the tone of my voice mimicked that of H. R. C. Masterton, my housemaster at St. Tom’s. I say so myself, but when I choose to show it I have a very impressive presence. Renaud blanched, genuinely fearful of my next sentence. “You will be caned in front of the entire team.”

I let that sink in. Renaud’s ears turned a cherry red and his eyes welled. I hauled myself from the huge leather chair and headed for a cupboard at the far end of the room, where as expected I found three school canes. Unlike those we suffered at St. Tom’s these were not made of local ashplant, but were of sturdy, but whippy rattan, imported from one of our colonies somewhere out East. I took hold of the thickest of the three and held it between my two hands and flexed it. It had the effect on Renaud I desired. He blanched a little and looked down at the floorboards beneath his feet. I am sure he was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy at St. Tom’s had not felt the rod applied with some force against his stretched buttocks? It was that kind of school. It built men.

I was anxious to get on with this and instructed Renaud to follow me across to the clubhouse. This he did following at my heels like an obedient dog. Porter, anticipating my decision had kept the cricket colts behind. I swiftly informed them of the happenings of the previous few minutes and informed them of my decision. A dozen or so faces around me brightened. An Englishman likes nothing more but to witness the discomfort of another. And, let me share with you, how much more enjoyable it is when one as distinguished as the best cricketer in the team is on the receiving end.

There was a long wooden table along the centre of the room, it would prove prefect for my needs. “I want you to climb onto the table,” I intoned, “and lay flat across it.” I had no intention of instructing him to “bend over” in the more traditional style. The room had a tall roof and I knew I should be able to swing the cane high and flog it down with maximum force into Renaud’s meaty buttocks without touching the ceiling.

What colour he still had drained from his face, but I had not yet finished. “But before you do that, I want you to lower your trousers. Right down to your shoes.” There was a gasp from some boys and I looked up to see Alderman beaming with delight. Oh, I wondered, what rivalry was it that existed between the two boys? It probably transcended cricket.

I had said earlier that Renaud had not impressed me with his honour. I take back that criticism now. He undid his wide black belt. It must have taken tremendous fortitude to do so, knowing that all his teammates would witness his humiliation. I (seemingly) absent-mindedly swished the cane through empty air, waiting for the twenty-year-old to prepare himself. With surprisingly steady fingers (I thought) he unbuttoned his cricket whites and opened them up affording myself and his fellow teammates a fine view of his cock and balls encased in soft white cotton. Grim-faced he put his thumbs inside the trouser waistband and with a mere flick of the wrist sent his whites south where they formed a puddle on top of his shoes.

Neither looking to left or right and thereby ignoring his audience, Renaud climbed on the table. It was old and rickety and it swayed as he moved to settle himself into position that I wondered if it might collapse under his weight. Instinctively he stretched his arms in front of his head and gripped the far end of the table; the muscles in his back rippled underneath his white cotton shirt. I took a moment to drink in the sight. This was some athlete prostrated before me. His muscular body was exposed to my gaze. I leaned forward and gently took hold of the tail of his shirt and folded it up his back away from the target area. I took a deep breath and reached for the waist of his underwear. He wore modern elasticated Y-fronts. I pulled the waist a little and the cotton clung more to the contours of his bottom, creating a kind of ravine at his crack.

I moved back away from the table and picked up the cane once more. Renaud’s bottom stiffened, it was preparing to receive the first tremendous swipe. “Relax,” I told him. He didn’t seem to hear. In any case his bum stayed tight as I tapped the cane gently across the very centre of both cheeks. The flesh was solid, it felt like I was rapping my rod against a solid rubber ball. I raised the cane to ceiling height and with a slight twist of my body I brought it crashing down. A perfect hit. We all saw a welt rise beneath the tight white cotton. Renaud’s body shuddered, his head shook and his fingertips gripped the table edge more tightly.

I counted to fifteen in my head and went again. The second stripe hit an inch or so below the first. The cricketer wriggled his hips and his legs flailed behind him, but I thought he kept remarkably quiet considering the searing pain he must be enduring. I counted again in my head, while also looking at my audience. A boy called Robinson had his hands folded in front of his crotch; his eyes were damper than Renaud’s.

The third hit a little above the first. He now had three deep cuts running parallel across his backside. A spot of blood was turning his crisp white underpants pink. His face was as scarlet as I presumed his bottom to be. He bit deeply into his lower lip, stifling the howls that surely his body demanded he make in response to the agony it endured.

I slashed number four low, into the crease where the bottom meets the back of the thighs. His body shuddered and his legs flew again. His head hammered up and down as it butted the top of the table. Still, almost total silence, save for the gulps he made as he desperately drew air into his lungs.

I am not a cruel man: ask the men under my command in the war if you disbelieve me, but I do believe in doing things thoroughly. That was why for my next stroke I repositioned my own body slightly and placed the cane in such a way that it lay along a diagonal from the bottom left cheek up to the top right. The crack of the cane elicited a satisfying yowl from Renaud. I had broken him at last. He emptied his lungs, as well he might since that swipe had landed across the previous four cuts reigniting the pain in all of them. A pink stain spread over the snugly-fitting underpants.

You have probably already guessed what I did next. You would have done the same in my place. I moved myself again and this time placed the whippy rattan along the opposite diagonal. By the time the lash struck the meaty backside Renaud had a perfect “X” emblazoned across his bottom.

There was, naturally, a repeat of the howling. Tears and snot flowed down his beautiful face. His hair was soaked with sweat and his shirt stuck to his muscular back. From my close vantage point I saw welts had risen under his Y-fronts. They would be with him for many days and serve as a continuing reminder of this severe thrashing.

Six-of-the-best is the standard tariff for such a beating and I was content at that. I handed the cane to Porter who unsure what he was expected to do with it simply tucked it under his arm.

“That is it. It is over,” I said quietly. The boys from the cricket club took this as their cue to leave and the room emptied.

“Take the cane back to the secretary’s room,” I instructed Porter and he too left. I was alone with Renaud. I watched in silence as he climbed off the table and onto his feet. He was sobbing, but seemed to be regaining some control. Without looking at me he tugged up his trousers, wincing as the heavy material made contact with his scorched backside. He did up his wide leather belt and waited. The silence lasted for some seconds, before I realised he was waiting for me to speak.

“You are dismissed,” I intoned rather pompously and Renaud shuffled from the room in intense discomfort. I waited a full minute and when it was clear nobody was going to return to the clubhouse, I loosened the front of my trousers to deal with my own discomfort, not once reproaching myself for planting the cigarette lighter in Renaud’s jacket pocket.

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Footballer’s judicial caning

Missed Opportunities

Lazy students home for the hols

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

The swim coach

z used otk trunks chair (2a)

 

“I am giving you ten minutes to swim three lengths of the pool, Clark. You are bone idle and well out of condition.” It was the varsity swim coach speaking. He had been on my case all evening. I wasn’t the worst of the swim team but I was the only one he picked on. There was a reason.

“If you don’t complete on time, I’m taking you back to my office and you’re going over my knee for a damn good spanking.” He blew his whistle and I dived into the pool.

The idea of hunky Coach Kevin spanking my bottom did not encourage me to work hard. On the contrary it turned my thoughts onto his beautiful body. He was maybe thirty-years-old. I was eighteen, a fresher at Brocklehurst University. Young and open to new experiences. Kevin was definitely one of those. The first time I saw him I had furtively gazed at his muscular legs and firm, meaty arse. I had never given a damn about swimming, but from that day on I was a changed boy.

Of course, ten minutes came and went and I was still some distance from my target. Kevin blew his whistle again.

“OK, don’t say you weren’t warned. Out you get.” Kevin spoke calmly, but I was certain he was as excited as me. I swam slowly to the pool steps and pulled myself out. I stood dripping wet. My towel was in the changing room some distance away. Puddles of water formed at my feet.

Kevin stood twenty metres away, his legs parted. I admired the bulge in the front of his trousers, silently regretting that he like me wasn’t wearing tight-fitting swimming trunks.

“Follow me,” Kevin looked over his shoulder towards where I was standing and slowly moved away from the poolside. I waited, mouth gaping, eyes transfixed on the two mounds inside his trousers as he sashayed towards his office. I shuddered. Partly with sexual excitement, but mainly because I was trying to shake some of the surplus water from my body, rather like a dog would do after emerging from a river.

The office was small and sparsely furnished. There was a desk, two small straight-backed chairs and a locker. I knew from wonderful experience that the locker contained Kevin’s day clothes. But that wasn’t what interested me. Along with his jacket and shirt he kept a small wooden spanking paddle. It wasn’t much bigger than a paperback book with a handle attached. It was maybe three or four millimetres thick. The last time he summoned me to the office he had me “assume the position” – that is bent over hands clutching shins. The bum juts out at a perfect angle to receive swats from the paddle. Woweeee! He damn near took my arse off. I shot my load before he finished.

Kevin led the way into the room. This time he didn’t go to the locker. Instead, without speaking a word, he took hold of one of the chair and put it in the middle of the room. I stood transfixed. I shivered, although the room was airless and quite hot. He had said he would take me over his knee and that was what he intended to do. Now, blood coursed through my veins. My cock was on the move. My fingers trembled. I clasped my hands behind my back, head bowed: the classic “naughty little boy” pose.

Kevin stood by the chair, but did not sit.

“Clark come to me.”

I obeyed and stood before my hunky dominant master. I am rather small and the top of my head hardly reached his chin. I could smell the sweetness of his breath. He must have eaten mints or fresheners.

He sat on the chair and spread his legs, his cock bulged beneath the folds of his jeans. His t-shirt rode up a little exposing his flat hairless stomach. Muscles in his arms rippled.

“Bend over my knee.”

Oh, those wondrous words. Submit yourself to me, you are mine. Mine to do with as I wish.

Trembling, I moved towards Kevin and carefully placed the palms of my hands on his right leg and then slowly I reached forward, lowering my body until I lay flat. I fit well across Kevin’s knee and in no time I manoeuvred myself so that my groin rested at an angle against his leg and my bum was raised perfectly. I stretched my arms ahead of me so that the tips of my fingers hovered above the dull grey floor tiles. My body was still wet and I could feel my damp trunks clinging to my pert bum.

Kevin smoothed my cotton trunks as best he could so that no creases were visible. I must have made a terrific sight for him.

My naked flesh pressed against Kevin’s muscular thighs, his denim jeans itched a little. Once before Kevin had worn shorts and the touch of my flesh against his flesh had been electrifying. He smelt of chlorine from the pool.

Kevin wrapped his arms around my body and took hold of my waist. It was hardly a grip. His intention was to steady me should I wriggle about too much and prevent me toppling to the floor. I felt his strong fingers softly caress my bum. He made gentle circular motions. His breathing deepened. So did mine. I shut my eyes tight. I was at his mercy. My todger swelled out to a painful extent, but I had no time to notice this before a rapid succession of spanks pounded into my bottom.

Holding me firmly with his left arm Kevin spanked unmercifully. His strength was immense. My bum hotted up immediately. With an experienced master even a hand spanking can be excruciatingly painful. I gulped in air, then sucked on my bottom lip. I closed my eyes. Kevin whacked on. Very soon the pain became less acute, succeeded by a constant throbbing.

I was very aware that I still had my swimming trunks on. Would Kevin decide my misbehaviour had been so calculated that I deserved a spanking on the bare? If so, usually a spanker could easily grip the elasticated waist of a boy’s trunks or pants and tug them down clear of the buttocks. That manoeuvre would be impossible. My cock was so hard (and if I might be boastful for a moment, so large) that Kevin would never be able to get the waistband of the trunks over it.

I struggled against Kevin’s constant pounding of my bum. I wriggled and writhed, my cock humping Kevin’s thigh. I was in a frenzy, almost delirious. None of the drugs I was experimenting with at university gave me so much pleasure.

At last Kevin stopped his pounding. I lay across his knees breathless. Contemptuously, he pushed me away and I fell to the floor. As I rose before Kevin the front of my trunks appeared to conceal a tentpole. My prick convulsed.

Kevin stared, licked his licks and broke into a broad grin. I hopped from one leg to the other while simultaneously rubbing the seat of my trunks: the typical spanking dance. Kevin continued to stare, flushing scarlet, at my raging cock for some moments.

Then, he rose from the chair. Only then was it clear to me that Kevin was as excited as me. He said nothing. Instead, he whipped down his jeans and stepped out of them. His shorts quickly followed. I gasped at the sight of his weapon, a deep-blue, thick vein ran the length of the missile, the tip glistened.

He leaned forward and with both hands he grabbed my ears and pulled my face forward. I gagged as  his cock penetrated my mouth.

 

Picture credit: straightladspankeddotcom

 

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Watch out for her brothers!

Brocklehurst Crammer

The man across the hall

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Why me?

z used sport shorts (40)

 

Why me? Why am I always the one coach picks on to paddle when something goes wrong? I’m the one who has to “assume the position,” palms on shins, legs straight, butt sticking out. It’s me who feels the full force of coach’s 14-inch paddle across the arse.

I don’t have much padding back there and his wood leaves heavy purple bruises; right in the centre of each cheek. Coach doesn’t hold back. It’s a full swing every time. Crack! Heavy beech against my poor cotton-covered rear.

That’s when he lets me keep the shorts up. We don’t wear cycling shorts underneath like all the professional players do. Some of us wear jocks, but otherwise we’re left swinging in the breeze. Even with a jockstrap, the rear end is exposed. Five – ten swats sometimes – on the naked flesh. Can you imagine what that does to the bum of a poor boy like me?

Only today we lost two-one. Our defence was shocking. Their forwards went through it like a hot knife and butter. Who gets blamed? Me. I’m the number eight for pity’s sake; defence has got nothing to do with me.

“Chapman,” coach says as we all trudge back into the dressing room, “My office. Now.” I’m hardly through the door before he’s reaching for the paddle he has hanging from a hook on the wall. He holds it in his right hand and taps it menacingly into the palm of his left. It’s an awesome thing. I think it’s homemade, or at least not store-bought. I don’t know my oak from my willow tree, but someone said they thought it was made of beech. Is that likely? I really don’t know.

It’s maybe fourteen inches long at the blade and about three inches wide. Large holes have been drilled into it. Apparently, this decreases wind resistance and lets it swoosh through the air at speed before it lands on the tight shorts of the lad offering himself for discipline.

There is total silence from the changing room. The other lads have not gone to the showers. They are waiting to hear what is happening. Some will have placed bets on whether I holler.

“You know the drill,” coach says, without telling me what it is I’ve supposed to have done this time.

“But …” I begin to protest but bite my tongue just in time. There’s no point. Coach is the coach. He’s in charge. He’s the boss man. He. Is. The. Law. He can throw anyone off the team. For any reason. He owns me. I have a soccer scholarship to the university. If I lose my place in the squad, I lose my place here. Then I’m on the unemployment line with a few million other kids. I can say “goodbye” to any future right there.

“Assume the position,” coach growls. He is a small, squat man, almost as wide as he is tall. It’s hard to believe he was one of the top left-halves of his generation until a double leg fracture put paid to his playing career. That was in the old days before everyone was paid squillions of bucks a week just to warm the bench.

He waves the paddle in front of my face to emphasise he is ready to roll. The office is small, there’s only a table with a laminated top pushed against the wall and two rickety straight-backed wooden chairs. Sometimes he makes me spread-eagle myself across the table or bend over the back of a chair. Once – and thank the Lord it was only the once – he sat down in the chair himself and spread his legs and made me bend over his knee. He ripped down my shorts and spanked me with the palm of his hand on my bare bum. For about an hour. Or, so it seemed. It’s bad enough having to submit myself to coach for a whacking, but across his knee for a bare-arsed spanking …

This time I have to “assume the position.” That means hands on shins, legs straight, back arched and backside sticking out. I feel the blood rush to my face the moment I stare down at the dirty grey chipped floor tiles. I have the complexion of a beetroot. Pretty soon, I know, my arse will be the same colour.

From the corner of my eye I can see coach take the few steps he needs to be directly to my left. I can smell sour sweat on his clothes. He is breathing heavily. So am I. This is going to sting like hell. My buttocks clench. They always do at this point, I don’t seem to have any control over them. Does the paddle hurt any less if the buttocks are hard? I really have no idea.

I hear coach hack a dry cough, the paddle is pressed against the very centre of both my cheeks. He is taking aim. I shut my eyes tight and suck my bottom lip with my top. Whack! The wood hammers into my bum. I am shoved forward by the force, but steady myself. The pain is searing, but I am not going to stand up. I don’t want to give coach the satisfaction of knowing he has hurt me. Besides, I don’t want extra swats.

The tariff from coach is always five whacks or ten. He never tells you at the start what you are getting. I dig my fingers hard into my shin bones and wait for the second. It lands lower than the first. Coach is aiming for the tender “sit spot” just where the buttocks and the thighs meet. It hurts like hell. He needs to be accurate and I must make sure not to move; my shorts are so tiny they hardly cover my cheeks, he could end up paddling me on the bare flesh.

The third whack goes higher. I now have a wide line of soreness running from the top of my mounds, over the crest and into the under-curve. I know when I inspect the damage later no part of my bum will be untouched.

Sweat is pouring from my head. My hair couldn’t be wetter if I had stepped into the shower. The room is sweltering, there is no window and the electric fan has not been switched on. Coach does the coughing thing again. Then he settles. Whack. Whack. Two swats in rapid succession land on exactly the same spot. Torture. Total, unmitigating agony. I suck down the yell I desperately want to make. My body twists and turns as it tries to absorb the pain. I cling onto my shins, I will not stand up. I will not. I say this in my head as a kind of mantra. I am chanting to the god of spanked boys everywhere. Please help me to withstand this.

Sweat stings my eyes but I can still see coach waddle across the room and reach up to the wall. He is replacing the paddle. There is a god. Thank you.

“Stand up.” Coach croaks the words. He desperately needs a drink. I rise slowly. My arse feels like it’s on fire. I want to rub away at the hurt, but that will have to wait until I have privacy. I know the whole surface of my buttocks will feel rough like leather. The intense pain is already easing into a hot throbbing sensation. Once I let cold water from the shower run over my bum it will become a warm glow. My “sit-spot” radiates heat. It will be a bit uncomfortable to sit for some hours.

“Go.” Coach nods towards the door of his office. I don’t need telling twice, I am through it and on my way to the changing room. I know the lads will sneer and jeer at me. It’s what they call “banter.” One or two will insist on seeing the marks. Taylor will probably want to touch my bum and trace the outlines of the paddle marks with his fingers.

Soon I shall be showered and we will all be on the bus home. Later, some of us will go to the pub and get bladdered. By tomorrow the pain will have gone completely, but the marks will stay for a few days. By next matchday my bum will be free of bruises again. Then, I’ll probably find myself back in the coach’s office, bum held high. It is what it is, I suppose.

But, I wish someone would just answer my question: Why me?

 

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The fire-raiser

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The debut

z used shower after a spanking sport club ivory soap

Lars clutched his savaged buttocks. The warm water of the shower turned crimson as it washed over his throbbing arse. He knew the other guys were watching him to see how he would react. He hopped from one foot to the other, rubbing his bum. He gave them a show. They couldn’t see his smile. He was happy. He was now one of the team.

It had been a boyhood dream for the eighteen-year-old. A player for C­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________ Soccer Club. The biggest and best in the whole country. And, now it had become reality. His first senior match was over. A victory. Not that Lars had much to do with that. Truth be told, he had been overcome with nerves. His game was off. An undistinguished debut. Except for what followed.

The team sprinted off the field into the locker room. “Well, young Lars,” it was the Club Captain Sven speaking. A broad smile creased his face. Team members gathered around. Nobody wanted to miss out on the fun.

Lars stood, waiting. At eighteen, he was the youngest in the team. His captain was not much older – just enough to be an elder brother.

“Happy Debut Day.” The team had a special song. It was like Happy Birthday. Tradition. Lars grinned. He knew what was coming. They all went through it.

Indridi, the kit man, arrived just then. A raucous cheer echoed through the locker room. The tubby man gave an audacious bow. “Thank you gentlemen; thank you.”

“Get on with it Indridi!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted. The kit man smiled, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Patience gentlemen. Patience. These things cannot be hurried,” he grinned. He set his bag on a bench and with a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit, he ostentatiously unzipped it. He paused. He knew all eyes were on him. In his head, he counted to five. The drama was intense.

“Voila!” he reached into the bag. “And, Hey Presto!” To wild cheering, he drew out a birch rod. He held it in both palms lovingly. High. Sven stepped forward. Referentially, as if it were a religious offering, Indridi bent one knee, bowed his head, and allowed the Club Captain to take it.

Lars watched transfixed. The birch was maybe fourteen inches long. It was a tight bundle of twigs, held together at one end by gaffer tape. It looked pretty heavy from where he was standing. Sven clutched it in both hands and held it high above his head. Just as he had done last season with the national soccer championship trophy. His teammates cheered as loudly as they had done that day.

Satisfied that they were ready, Sven sat on a bench. Unbidden, the team formed a semi-circle around him. Everyone would have a front row view.

“Come young lad.” It was a pleasant command. Lars knew he was blushing. He desperately wanted to be part of the team. He would do anything to make that happen.

“Take off your shorts. This has to be on the bare.” Another, kindly instruction. Lars had been naked in front of team mates many times in the past. Stripping held no terror for him. He was rather proud of his muscular body – he was an athlete after all.

The rhythmic sound of clapping echoed around the locker room.  Lars hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. He stepped out of them. Then, his white briefs hit the floor. Thinking ahead of this day, Lars had imagined that he might take hold of the underwear and like one of the strippers in the “gentlemen’s club” across the street, he would provocatively twirl his pants around his head, before teasingly throwing them for a team mate to catch.

In the event, he stood motionless. Waiting for events to take their course.

“Bend over my knee.” The roof might have risen; the cheering was now so intense.

Lars stepped forward. He was a tall teenager, easily six feet and more. He paused for a moment, looking down at the bare knees of his Captain, wondering how this was done. Sven sat on a long bench; Lars supposed the best thing to do was to lower himself across the older man’s knees and lay his chest along the wooden slats. He could stretch his arms ahead of him. His legs would have to dangle in mid-air.

Before he could decide, Sven gripped him by his left wrist and propelled him forward and face-down across his lap. Lars could not see, but he was perfectly positioned, buttocks nicely angled, to receive the lashes of the birch rod.

His Club Captain gripped the birch rod in his right hand and gently rubbed the tips of the twigs across the lower half of the eighteen-year-old’s bottom, just where the under-curves met the thighs.

“One. Two. Three!” the teammates counted. Sven took his cue and brought the birch down with tremendous force. He was rewarded by wild cheering and clapping from the team and a low sorrowful hissing from the boy across his knees. Lars’ eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wouldn’t allow a sound to pass his lips.

Swish! A second cut hit higher. Already, the whole of his smooth, white bum was criss-crossed with thin stripes. Lars heaved his bottom high, but Sven was an expert at this. He wrapped his left arm across the boy’s middle and pressed down hard. Lars was going nowhere.

The boy’s face was now as scarlet as his backside. He shut his eyes, silently vowing he could take this. He must take this. Not to do so meant shame and ignominy. Slices three and four tore into him. Never in his whole life had he felt such pain. He had been injured many times on the playing field, but nothing before had prepared him for this.

Six hard strokes ripped his arse to shreds and then it was over. Blood wept from dozens and dozens of small cuts. Lars’ buttocks resembled raw hamburger meat. The agony had numbed his bum. To frantic clapping and cheering, the boy hauled himself to his feet. Teammates crowded him, each extended a hand for him to shake. Many clapped him on the shoulders. One or two went in for a full hug.

His face glowed with pride. Teammates formed a guard of honour for him to walk through on his way to the shower.

“He took it well,” Sven beamed with pride. “I wonder if Stig will be so stoical when it’s his turn next week?”

 

Picture credit: Ivory Soap

 

Other stories you might like

Skipping school to watch football

A punch in the face

Late at the office

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com