The helpful Neighbour 3

taws free taws

Previously in The Helpful Neighbour

Episode one

Episode two

I convinced myself that I was right. Young men today were undisciplined. They hadn’t been set boundaries. They didn’t know right from wrong. They needed to be reined in. And, when necessary they needed a damn good spanking to set them straight.

So it was with Oliver, my next door neighbour. His mother Peggy had asked for my help when her son went off the rails. I obliged. My whippy rattan cane had lain unused on top of my wardrobe for a number of years, but when I took it down it proved to be a mighty fine motivator for the lad. That and later sound over-the-knee maintenance spankings kept him on a straight and narrow path.

It worked so well that despite his mother’s and my fears he passed his A-level examinations and obtained a place at university. He decided not to go to the local one where I teach; he wanted to be away. I wasn’t surprised. My own children left home as soon as they could to make their way in the world.

I didn’t think about Oliver much after he left until one morning his mother Peggy knocked on my door. She was in some distress. I boiled the kettle, made a pot of tea and settled down to hear her tale of woe.

It was Oliver, of course. He had been at university for nearly eight months now and was living in a house he shared with other students. Late the previous night she had received an unwanted telephone call. It was the police. Oliver had been arrested with some fellow student. He was being charged with being a passenger in a stolen car. Except the police didn’t use the word “stolen.’’ In this crazy world of ours they call it “taking and driving away.” The police believed the stupid louts hadn’t intended to deprive the owner of the car permanently. I wouldn’t be too bothered about the distinction if I was the car’s owner.

What should she do? She asked the question as if she didn’t already know the answer. But, I obliged none the less. She should call the boy home and if she wished I would fetch my rattan cane from upstairs and put it across his backside with some vigour.

“Oh, no,” she said.

I was staggered. She had said to me many times in the past that my disciplinary regime had saved her son. He wouldn’t be at university today with the prospect of a fine career ahead of him if it hadn’t been for a liberal use of corporal punishment.

But I had misunderstood. When she said “No” she meant he should not be called home. It would disrupt his studies. She didn’t want that. Would I, she asked, with that pleading look in her eyes that I could never resist, would I please go to the university and deal with him there?

The university was no more than an hour’s drive away. Oliver could have returned home, taken his thrashing, and returned to his housemates inside an evening. But, I didn’t argue the point.

That was how the following evening I found myself in Brocklehurst, a growing town on the south coast of England. The university was one of the new ones. Until recently it had been a technical college and now it was a university. That’s what mass higher education does for you. Oliver was doing a degree in Sport Studies. Sport Studies? What kind of a Mickey Mouse course was that?

Mind you, I shouldn’t complain too much. My own university is pretty bog standard; but Sport Studies? Even we don’t stoop to that.

Oliver’s house was a run-down terrace in one of the older districts of the town. It was the kind of area where unscrupulous landlords charged young people to live in accommodation that older, wiser, people would never do.

Oliver had been told to expect me. He was in no doubt that before I left he would have a very sore backside indeed. I knew he lived with other students and the chances were that they also would be at home. That wasn’t my problem. I would take Oliver to his bedroom, take the skin of his buttocks with my taws and then leave. It was none of my business if his friends were around to witness the spectacle.

I rang the doorbell and to my surprise it was opened by a young man who I took to be of West Indian heritage. His huge dreadlocks down to his shoulders was the giveaway. The usual racial stereotypes flew through my mind, but the moment he opened his mouth to say, “Good evening, you must be Oliver’s guest,” I could tell he was as English as the rest of us.

I wasn’t sure that “Oliver’s guest” was the best way to describe me, but I suppose the nineteen-year-old had to explain my presence away somehow.

The boy, whose name I later discovered was Errol, led me into a sitting room. It was untidy in the way that only student homes can be. I didn’t even try to count the number of discarded take-away boxes and empty beer cans that littered the place.

I heard the footfalls outside the room. It was Oliver making his way down the stairs. He entered the room. He and Errol exchanged meaningful glances. That was when I realised that the purpose of my visit was no secret.  I expected Errol to discreetly withdraw at that point to leave his friend to his fate. But, instead he showed no sign of doing so. Nor, it seemed to me, did Oliver want him to go.

I felt my own cheeks colour up. I was more embarrassed by the situation than either of the two university students standing in front of me. Was I supposed to deliver my speech of reprimand to Oliver in front of an audience. And what about the punishment I intended to inflict. Had Errol been invited to watch?

The silence was awesome. We couldn’t meet each other’s eyes. Oliver shuffled from one foot to the other. Errol stood erect, like a statue. Eventually, Errol spoke up. It seemed he too had prepared a speech. What he said astonished me. Truly.

This is the drift of what Errol said. It was his fault. It had been his idea to take the car. Oliver was only a passenger. They had both been drunk. If it wasn’t for Errol none of it would have happened.

Then, he concluded, “If Oliver is to get a spanking. I should too.”

I don’t know if my jaw actually dropped, but it should have. Yes, I thought, you deserve to have the skin taken off your backside. You shouldn’t be able to sit down for a month. Drink-driving! Someone could have been killed. I would have been delighted to whip the kid into the middle of next week but I knew it couldn’t. I wouldn’t be able to live with the scandal if word got out. The police could be involved. Magistrates. I could lose my job.

So, reluctantly, I said, “No Errol. It is your father’s job to punish you, not mine.”

“But you’re not Oliver’s father,” he shot back at me.

I hadn’t been expecting an argument. “No, but I have Oliver’s mother’s permission to spank him.”

I might have imagined it, but the lad looked crestfallen. “But,” I blurted, without really thinking about it, “If Oliver thinks you deserve to get the same as him, he should be the one to spank you.”

The two boys exchanged looks. No words were spoken but they seemed to be weighing up the idea. Then, Oliver glanced at the door. It was an instruction for Errol to leave.

Alone with Oliver, I went through the prepared speech. It was standard fare. Stupid, thoughtless, dangerous, criminal record, hurting future job prospects. I gave him the works.

He knew, and I knew what would come next. I opened a plastic carrier bag I had brought with me and withdrew an old worn leather taws. It had the manufacturer’s name G. W. Dick & Son Lochgelly stamped into its side. It was an authentic taws as previously used in a Scottish school. At least that’s what it said on the eBay site where I bought it.

It was nearly two feet long and the “business end” was split into three tails. It was about a quarter inch thick and surprisingly heavy. It had been designed to be used across the open palm of the hand, but it would also be very effective delivered across a bending backside. A bending bare backside.

Oliver watched transfixed as I gripped the taws by its handle and tapped it across my own palm. Even a slight smack hurt. The teenager could see that. I left it to his imagination to think about how sore his backside would be by the time I had finished with him.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

“Please take down your trousers and pants and bend across the back of that chair.” I nodded towards an old dilapidated armchair. Its back was the right height and strong enough to take Oliver’s weight.

Even though Oliver had been expecting to be thrashed he still had great difficulty in obeying my command. His hands shook as he unbuckled his belt and released the metal clasp on the waistband of his trousers. Eventually, he had them at his knees. His underpants were garish. Four different colours fought for attention. I didn’t have much time to contemplate Oliver’s fashion sense because he put his thumbs inside the waist and with the merest flick of the wrists he sent them down to meet his trousers.

He took a deep breath, made two steps towards the armchair and threw himself over its back. He was anxious to get it over with. He pushed his face into the dirty seat cushion and then interlocked his fingers and placed them on his head, rather like a naughty boy might do when sent to stand in the corner.

Behind him he spread his legs wide. I hadn’t instructed him to do this, but it had the effect of spreading his buttocks and giving me more to aim at. He closed his usually shiny blue eyes tightly shut; ready to absorb the intense pain he was expecting. His breathing was even; he was relaxed. Ready and waiting for the thrashing he knew he thoroughly deserved.

I gripped the old Lochgelly taws and stood a yard or so to Oliver’s left side. I laid the top end of the tails against his left cheek, trying to find my aim. The teenager’s buttocks tensed, it was a natural act. In my experience a boy always tenses the moment before the first lash lands.

Satisfied that I had the right spot, I lifted the leather away from his buttocks until it was at about the height of my shoulder then with a terrific forward movement I landed it across the centre of both cheeks. I was rewarded with two dark pink lines. Oliver gasped and wriggled his hips. The first stroke had hurt him; a great deal indeed.

I saw him clasp his hands together more tightly as he awaited the second lash. I wondered how he had discovered this spanking posture. I had never seen it used before. I whipped the taws down again. It fell, as I had intended, a little below the first. Now, most of his bottom was coloured dark pink and only two strokes had been delivered.

Oliver repeated his wriggling. His knees buckled and his feet slipped a little on the carpet. I did not need to rebuke him because he immediately steadied himself and ensured his backside was once again in the perfect position to receive punishment.

I paused while he did this and heard a movement in the passageway. Errol was standing outside the room, listening. He was a truly irritating young man. If only I could have him bare-arsed across the back of that armchair; I’d teach him some manners.

I aimed the taws higher, on the top of the curves, just below Oliver’s back. The loud crack of leather on bare flesh resounded around the room. I was sure Errol could hear it also in the passageway. Oliver failed to stifle a yelp. It was the first time he had made a sound. It wasn’t much of a noise, but I knew he was breaking.

The next whack landed across an already sore part of his bum. That really hurt. His yelp became a definite yell. “Wowwwwww!” he cried. Then, for the first time, I thought about the neighbours. The houses were so cheap the walls must have been paper thin. Could the people next door hear what was going on? Would they think someone was being assaulted? Would they call the police?

But, I supposed they were also students; they would be used to neighbours making noise. They probably did it themselves sometimes.

Undeterred, I lifted the leather once again and smacked it low, into the under-curves, just above the thighs. It burned deeply into his arse, with penetrating intensity. Oliver hissed. It sounded like air being released from a balloon. But otherwise he made no further sound. He was determined to take his beating like a man. With previous spankings and certainly on the first time I had caned him he had broken down quite easily. Not so this time. Perhaps he was developing a “pain threshold”. Perhaps, he didn’t want to let himself down with Errol listening in.

The boy remained obediently in position with humbleness and obedience. I slashed two cuts in quick succession, right across the centre of the bum. The tails landed on already sore spots. Oliver gave a sudden quick shudder and then clenched every muscle. Every nerve across his bottom was stretched taut waiting for the next blows.

The next swipe hit low. A little too low to be honest. Two crimson lines glowed across the back of the boy’s thighs. Oliver let out a yell like a scalded cat, shot bolt upright and clasped both hands to his burning flesh and rubbed like mad. His eyes watered.

I opened my mouth to admonish him and order him back over the chair, but before I could form a word, he repositioned himself. This time he gripped the chair cushion with all his strength. Even from where I was standing I could see his knuckles turning white with the strain.

The lines on his thighs looked mighty painful. I hadn’t intended to hit him on this spot. I had been targeting the lower part of his buttocks, but had missed my aim. I felt sorry for the boy. I had intended punishment, not torture.

I resolved to give him three more strokes and end the thrashing there. I took careful aim, much higher up his globes and struck home. Bang. Bang. Bang.

It was over. His backside had turned from a dark pink colour to scarlet. There was already signs that some of the marks were turning purple. The imprint of the taws decorated both cheeks and was especially visible at the outer edges of his buttocks. He would be sore for a considerable time. The marks would probably last for a few days, before they faded to yellow and then disappeared.

Oliver lay across the back of the armchair. His face was almost as red as his bottom and his hair was damp. He had endured one heck of a thrashing. I could hear his breathing was shallow. It seemed to me that he was allowing his body to recover to something like normality before he stood up.

Then I realised, I had not given him permission to stand. He was remaining in his submissive position until I did.

“Get up Oliver. It’s over.” I said quietly and watched as the nineteen-year-old hauled himself from across the chair. Deliberately, he did not look at me and instead busied himself with pulling up his trousers and underpants.

I packed the taws away in the plastic bag and left the room in search of tea. I found the kitchen and it was even more untidy than the living room. I boiled the kettle and poured water over a teabag. While I did this I could hear voices in the adjoining room. Errol and Oliver were in conversation, but I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

I was sipping my tea when Oliver appeared at the door. He seemed to have regained his composure. Certainly, his face was its usually pale hue.

“Tell mum I’m sorry,” he said. I think at the moment I loved the boy. Not sexually, but I adored the way he recognised he had behaved badly and had deserved the bare-bottomed leathering I had delivered. He would, I felt, be better behaved in future.

“No more joy-riding around in stolen cars,” I said, rinsing my mug under a running tap. I picked up my plastic bag and made my exit. My car was parked in a nearby street. I hoped it still had all four wheels intact when I got there.

I hadn’t reached the car when I had a hunch. Curiosity got the better of me. I turned on my heels and retraced my steps to Oliver’s house. When I arrived I peered through the dirty net curtains. There was Errol bent across the armchair, his trousers and pants at his ankles. Standing next to him with a wide leather belt doubled up in his hands was Oliver. I knew I should have left and returned to my car. This was an intimate moment between two friends. It did not need an audience. But, I stayed and watched Oliver flog the belt across his friend’s naked buttocks. Hard and fast.

That’s my boy, I thought. That’s my boy.

 

Other stories you might like

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

The drunken neighbour

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The helpful neighbour, part 2

used belt holding (8)

 

The helpful neighbour, part one is here

 

I gripped hold of the clothes brush and stormed up the stairs towards Oliver’s room. I had called him for breakfast twenty minutes ago, but the lazy brat was still in bed. I’d warned him about this before.

I burst through the door. I had surprise on my side. He was tucked under the duvet; only the tip of his head visible. He didn’t know what hit him. I tore the cover away. He was on his side. In one continuous movement I pushed him over on his front and knelt in his back.

He was pinned face down. He was going nowhere.

“Warrrr ….?” He had no breath to protest. The weight of my body on his back had winded him.

“When I tell you to come down for breakfast, you come down. You’ll be late for college.”

He was naked except for a pair of blushing pink Aussiebum underpants. I pulled them down to his thighs. Then, I let him have it with the brush.

It was controlled fury. I whacked down about twenty swats across his quivering cheeks. Bang. Bang. Bang. He struggled like crazy. His legs kicked out. But to no purpose. He was trapped. There was nothing he could do except let me get on with it.

“Gerrrofff.” He flailed his head to left and right. “Stop it.”

Not yet. His backside was now as shockingly pink as his underpants. It had taken me about a minute, raining down rapid hard smacks.

Then I turned my attention to the back of his thighs. A dozen or so whacks were enough to get him. “Owwww! Ouch!! Noooo!”

I stopped. I released my knee from his back and he shot to his feet. I pushed him in the shoulders and propelled him to the door.

“Get down to breakfast,” I connected a couple more whacks across his stinging bottom. “Now!”

He shot out the door and headed for the stairs.

Oliver had been staying with me for about a week. My next door neighbour Peggy, his mother, and I agreed it would be easier for me to keep an eye on him that way.  We thought that the eighteen-year-old layabout needed a “disciplinary regime” and I was the one to impose it.

Part of the new broom was that Oliver would get up in the morning and go to college on time.

I followed him into the kitchen. He poured himself a bowl of cereal. He said nothing.

“Hurry, you’ll be late,” I admonished him.

He pouted. Not a good thing to do when I’m around. I had a remedy for that.

“Do you want me to fetch my cane?”

He looked at me sulkily. “No, Sir.”

“Sir.” I liked that. There might be hope for Oliver yet.

A lot had happened since I first thrashed Oliver with my cane after I had caught him trying to steal from my garden shed. It turned out that he was a serial thief. He was completely off the rails. He had stopped attending sixth-form college; he stayed out half the night and his mother could no longer control him.

The thrashing had touched a nerve in Oliver. So to speak. Of course, the pain I inflicted on him ignited many nerves in his backside. But, I what I mean is that somewhere deep inside of himself Oliver realised that he deserved the twelve stokes I had administered across his underpants. His life was out of control. Maybe, just maybe, I could get it back on track.

A few days after the caning, Peggy came round to my house. It was the first time we had met since that night. I know Oliver had returned to his home in quite a state. His buttocks had been scarred and a little bloody. He had been bawling his eyes out by the time I had finished with him.

Although she had consented to her son’s punishment, I worried that she might have changed her mind once she saw the sight of him.

I need not have worried.

“Thank you for the other day,” she said as we waited for the kettle to boil.

I stopped short of saying “It was a pleasure.” It wasn’t a “pleasure,” I did not enjoy beating the boy one little bit, but I had no doubts whatsoever, none at all, that the caning was necessary. It was definitely for his own good.

I made the tea and we sat down. Peggy had not visited to talk about the past; it was the future that concerned her much more.

She had booked an appointment to see Oliver’s “personal tutor” at the college. She wanted me to go with her. I knew quite a bit about the college. The university where I taught had an agreement with it. Any of their students who graduated with at least two A-level passes (grades immaterial) were guaranteed a place at the university. It helped keep the university’s student numbers up. Such is mass higher education today.

The students at Oliver’s college were aged sixteen to eighteen. It prided itself that they were treated like “adults.” They called lecturers by their first name and came and went as they wanted.

Of course there weren’t “adults.” Legally, the eighteen year olds were, but it takes more to being an adult than age. There were no rules or boundaries at the college. Nobody was taught how to behave or the sanctions they would face if they did not. The kids didn’t stand a chance.

I had never visited the college before. What an eye-opener it proved to be. It was lunchtime and the kids were all mingling around the building and what at a school would be called the “playground.” They were dressed as if for a trip to the mall. I lost count of the number who were smoking cigarettes (and who knows what else besides).

This was one of the new privatised colleges. I’m glad my own children missed out on that. They went to a traditional school with its own sixth-form. There wore uniforms and would never have dreamt of calling the headmaster Mr Davidson, “Arthur.”

Corporal punishment had been banned years earlier, but there were still rules and punishments. And, woe betides any of mine who were caught smoking, eighteen years old or no. My whippy rattan cane was always on hand.

I doubt if Oliver’s personal tutor was older than twenty-five. He was a scruffy little oik. His hair needed cutting, but I would have accepted it if he at least put a comb through it. He obviously hadn’t shaved that day. Perhaps, he had the same problems as Oliver in the morning.

He wore a crumbled cotton shirt and, I swear this is true, the fly of his dirty cord trousers was held in place by staples.

We sat in a grimy seminar room. I let Peggy do the talking.

“Mr Lamb,” she began, but was immediately interrupted.

“Call me Richard,” he said. He then went on to call Peggy by her first name. I tried to disguise my intense irritation. It was clear Call Me Richard had no idea who Oliver was. He hadn’t even bothered to read the boy’s file.

What chance did Oliver have with this waste of space as a role model? For two pins I should have pulled the tutor across my knee and spanked his backside very hard indeed.

We left the college despondent. We were on our own. Peggy and I alone would have to find a way to turn Oliver’s life around.

He wasn’t a bad kid, not deep down. I had known him for about ten years; it was only recently that he had gone astray. Perhaps, it was all part of growing up.

Back at my house Peggy and I set about drawing up a list of rules. There was nothing special about them. Most families with older teens have rules. The only difference was we had a very painful sanction for breaking them. There was to be a curfew; regular times for getting up in the morning; restrictions on watching TV and using the Internet. As a professional educator, I would act as a “private tutor” monitoring the college wok Oliver was doing; checking on his grades and so on.

We were satisfied with our work. If Oliver would stick to these rules the problem would be solved.

I think he was genuine when he said he would obey the rules. He was an intelligent kid; he could see that he needed help. He was on the threshold of his adult life; he had to make the right choices.

It went well for a while and then things started to slip. First it was getting up late in the morning; then it was the missed curfew. His college work was OK, but I could tell he wasn’t really applying himself.

It was time for “sanctions” to be enforced. I had made it clear what would happen if he failed to abide by the rules. He had already felt the brush across his bare backside for staying in bed late. Obviously, it had not worked.

Peggy and I discussed it over coffee. She wasn’t too keen on another sound caning. Nor, was I. There wasn’t much point in forcing the boy back over the table and tying him down. What he needed now was a “maintenance spanking.” He had to accept that he had fallen short of expectations. He had failed in his part of the bargain. He needed a “wake-up” call. He had to submit himself willingly to punishment.

I left it to his mother to explain it to Oliver. She must be the one to detail his faults and to explain why he must be spanked.

While she did that, I searched through cupboards and drawers in my house. I was looking for a special belt. It had belonged to one of my sons. It was wide and thick and had been the height of fashion once. It was heavy and in the right hands it could leave a backside severely bruised. Its greatest advantage was its length. It was not much more than twenty-four inches long. Once doubled up it made a wonderful punishment tool. It was much easier to manoeuvre than one of my own much longer belts.

It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening when Oliver arrived. He was thoughtful and his usually sparkling eyes seemed a little dull.

“What have you decided, Oliver?” I asked. I wanted this to be his choice. He must accept his need to be punished and then present himself to me passively. There was to be no unseemly wrestling; only a young man submitting himself for a thoroughly deserved spanking.

He had clearly rehearsed a speech. I suspect his mother had helped him. He was on autopilot. He was sorry. He knew his mother and I had his best interests at heart.

I listened unimpressed. It was just words. I didn’t think he really meant it. Then, he truly startled me.

“Please spank me. I deserve it.”

“Yes you do, Oliver,” I stumbled.

I gazed into the teenager’s eyes. I saw honest regret. He really meant it.

We were in the lounge. I moved across the room and pulled a straight-backed chair away from the dining table. I opened a drawer in the sideboard and extracted the belt. I sat down and doubled it over, ready for use.

Oliver stood in front of me awkwardly, not quite still, moving slightly from one foot to another. He was chewing on his bottom lip.

I reached and took hold of the waist of Oliver’s trousers, just below his belly button and pulled him forward a few inches. He did not resist and shuffled into the place where I wanted him.

“Take down your trousers please, Oliver.” I spoke softly, determined that he would show contrition. He would offer up his own backside to me for punishment.

He blushed bright red. His body stiffened a little. His fingers trembled as he took hold of his belt buckle and loosened it. I am not a mind-reader, but I felt this was the moment when he truly accepted that this had to happen. Events had to take their course. He had to obey my instructions.

The fingers refused to stop shivering as he unpopped the button at his waistband and dragged down the zipper. The front of his trousers flapped open, showing he was wearing tightly-fitting sky blue briefs. I know little about the underwear young men wear these days, but he seemed to have a preference for Aussiebum.

He breathed deeply and awaited further instruction. I noticed the cotton briefs fitted Oliver a little too snugly against his private parts.

“Please take down your trousers.” It was another calm instruction.

He wriggled his hips and with gravity and the weight of the trousers they were soon at his ankles.

“Now your pants please.”

His eyes began to well. He gulped in a lungful of air. He stared over my right shoulder, careful not to catch my eye but by taking hold of both sides of his briefs, he pulled them down slowly; over his hips and across the buttocks until they rested at his knees.  He spread his legs an inch or two and the briefs slivered down to join his trousers.

I held the belt tightly. Now was the moment of truth. Would he submit himself to this spanking?

“Bend over my knee Oliver.”

I hope I didn’t show my relief. Oliver was obedient. He shuffled forward a little, leant down and resting his hands on my left leg, he gently eased himself over.

Then he put both his palms flat on the floor ahead of him. His legs were straight behind him and his bottom rested snugly over my right leg. It was the perfect position to receive a spanking. The eighteen-year-old had never been across a knee for a spanking and I suppose he had never seen anyone else do it, yet he conducted himself like an expert.

He stared down at the deep pile carpet while I made final preparations. I pushed his shoulders so that his head was closer to the floor.  Then I took hold of his yellow-and-green tee-shirt and pushed it as far up his back as it would go, until it was bunched over his shoulder blades.

His back was hairless. On his shoulder was a small tattoo. It looked like a lizard, but I am no expert. I wondered if Peggy knew about this.

Then he did something extraordinary. He raised his bottom a little higher. He was saying “I know I have been a bad boy. I deserve this spanking.”

The window was open and I worried that the neighbours might hear. Last time, when I caned Oliver I had stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth to stifle his yells. I hadn’t thought to do that this time. But, I hoped it would not be necessary. A spanking with a belt was nowhere near as painful as a whipping with a cane. It should hurt Oliver a lot, but it would be a different kind of pain; he should be able to absorb it without too much fuss.

I gripped the belt in my right hand and tapped it gently over the centre of Oliver’s buttocks, trying to test my aim.

Oliver felt the movement in my body and immediately sucked in air, expecting the first wave of pain.

I raised my arm ready to let fly; Oliver’s buttocks clenched. It was a natural reflex.

Crack! The sound of a thick leather belt connecting with bare flesh resounded around the room. I could see Oliver’s eyes widen as the hurt sank in. But, it was not too painful and he kept steady, bottom still raised high waiting for number two.

It was not long in coming. I like to keep up a rhythm and at a rate of about one whack every ten seconds or so I brought the belt down again and again and again: until every part of Oliver’s buttocks was coloured sunset red.

Oliver was feeling it. He had not cried out, but his face creased in agony each time the short strap connected across his backside. He was breathing heavily, the accumulated pain growing. Crimson marks run at angles across his bottom and the once-soft flesh looked leathery.

I was impressed by Oliver’s stoicism. He was taking this spanking submissively and rather well. I gripped him tighter at the waist. I wanted to finish with an almighty onslaught. I wasn’t counting, but maybe thirty lashes connected. Oliver’s legs kicked out behind him and he buckled at the knees.

His trousers and pants were at his feet and they restricted his legs from thrashing about too much. If he was not wearing shoes he would have kicked his clothes half way across the room by now.

My pounding was relentless. Oliver began to crack. He yelped like a little whipped puppy. His arms flapped and his body swayed from side to side.

Without letting up on the downward strokes, I grabbed Oliver’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back and pinned it against his shoulder blades. He was going nowhere until I said so. He was at my complete mercy. He had no choice but to lay face down, bare bottom high to receive this severe spanking.

The belt was going up and down; up and down; at some considerable speed. Oliver tried to gulp in air, but he could not fill his lungs. Tears flowed freely.

I stopped. It was never my intention to cause the boy medical injury. He was gasping and wheezing. He was still across my knees, but I had released my grip. Oliver’s breathing was more even now and he was calmer.

Oliver’s buttocks were scorched. He had had enough.

“Get up. Slowly.” I was impressed by Oliver. He had taken a severe belting from me and he had taken it well. He lifted his body from my knees and then in a sideways movement he fell onto the carpet. His whole body was shaking.

He lifted himself onto his knees. His forehead bounced against the carpet as he gasped and wheezed until he regained enough composure to stand. With tears trickling down his face Oliver tugged up his trousers and pants and silently shuffled from the room.

I made myself some tea and settled down to flick through 350 television channels in search of something worth watching.

Five minutes later, my phone vibrated. I had an incoming text message. It was from Oliver. “Thank U” was all it said.

The Helpful neighbour, part 3 is here

Other stories you might like.

My drunken nephew

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Caught in their underpants

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The helpful neighbour, part 1

used cane holding (5)

My neighbour Peggy was distraught. Tears flowed steadily down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tried to raise the teacup to her lips. She was at her wits end. What could she do?

I knew some of the story already. Along with most people in the street probably I had been kept up until the small hours by the noise.

Poor Peggy. Between great gulps, she filled me in on the details.

It was Oliver, her eighteen-year-old son. He was off the rails. He had stopped attending college ages ago and was sure to fail all his exams. Then what? A life of unemployment – or at best dead-end jobs.

He was hardly ever at home. Where was he all day and half the night? Was he getting into trouble; taking drugs?

He had bullied her into letting him have a party at her house with some friends. She laid down a few rules and left them to it. When she came back some of them, including Oliver, were revoltingly drunk. Some were high as kites on cannabis. One had been sick on her carpet.

The sober ones took the others home and she helped Oliver to bed to sleep it off. She then spent an hour cleaning up.

She sobbed some more. Poor Peggy, she was alone with the boy. Her husband had skedaddled from the family home years ago and hadn’t been heard of since.

Did I know what she should do? Peggy asked me. I think she knew the answer to that, she had known me long enough. The lout needed a good hiding. If he had been one of my sons he would have had his backside whipped a very long time ago. My three boys all passed school exams, went on to university and were now away from home making their way in the world. And, it was discipline, and sometimes punishment imposed by me, that got them there.

I wasn’t one of those dads who spanked their kids for any and all reasons; but when the occasion warranted it, they would get blistered backsides. I still had a couple of canes on top of the wardrobe in the spare bedroom upstairs.

I remember once Joey, my eldest, went to a party at a friend’s house. The circumstances were just like Peggy’s. He was brought home roaring drunk by a kind and sober friend. Next day, I waited until the boy’s hang-over had subsided and replaced the pain in his head with sharp agony in his backside. Twelve strokes, jeans and pants down; and I didn’t care if he was eighteen or not. He was howling so much Peggy next door could probably hear.

My treatment of my young adult son might not be thought conventional by some, but it was effective. I’ve never seen him drunk since and when he visits me at the house he never touches a drop of alcohol. Not even at Christmas.

I held Peggy by the hand to try to comfort her. Yes, I knew her Oliver needed a damn good thrashing, and I knew that I had just the thing to deliver it in the bedroom upstairs, but I also knew the teenager was a fit strong young man and there was no way I or his mother could manhandle him across the sofa so I could get a whack at his arse.

After some time, Peggy calmed down and went back home. I was upset by how distraught she was and seriously considered rounding up a couple of the neighbours to see if they would hold the brat down across my kitchen table while I lashed a dozen cuts of my cane across his rear end. But that was pie in the sky. There was no way any of them would do such a thing. Corporal punishment had fallen into disuse years ago and they would be shocked and appalled at such a suggestion. They might even call the police on me and have me arrested.

Things went quiet next door and gradually I forgot about Oliver, until a week or so later I was returning to my house during the middle of the afternoon. I had left the university where I teach and brought home a pile of assignments to grade in peace and quiet. I pulled the car into the driveway just in time to see the door of my garden shed close. Somebody had gone inside. The police had warned the local Neighbourhood Watch that there had been a lot of thefts from sheds and outhouses recently. Mainly things like hand tools had been stolen; it was reckoned people might be selling them on to raise cash to buy drugs.

I’m no have-a-go-hero, but I was brave enough to tip-toe to the shed, slam the door shut and snap the padlock. The thief was trapped inside. I pulled my cell phone from my pocket and was about to phone the police when I heard a familiar voice shouting from inside the shed. I peered through a dirty window: it was Oliver. He was rattling the shed door trying to break free. At his feet were a power drill and a hedge strimmer. I did not own such tools; he must have stolen them from another shed before breaking into mine.

So, Oliver was the guy who had been breaking into outhouses. I was furious; not only was he a thief, but he had been stealing from friends and neighbours. I started to dial for the police, but pulled up short, just in time. No, first I would call Peggy; let her know what was happening and give her the chance to come over.

She was at work and I could tell she was appalled at the news. She couldn’t get away early and would not get here for another three hours. That’s all right, I assured her; he’s locked up and not going anywhere.

I told Oliver to calm down and wait for his mother to arrive and I set about marking the assignments. I had trouble concentrating and my temper was not at its best. Then, I blew a fuse. Two of the test papers were identical; the students had obviously been cheating. Plagiarism: that’s all I needed. It was so blatant, I could not ignore it. Plagiarism was supposed to be the biggest sin you could commit at a university and if I reported it there would have to be a big formal inquiry. What a waste of time that would be; they were clearly guilty as charged. And what would be the penalty? Nothing much; a warning probably. It was at times like this that I wished I could take one of my canes and swish it across the backsides of my students. An old fashioned six-of-the-best laid on with vigour; that would buck their ideas up a bit. A short sharp shock was what they needed, not a long drawn out inquiry.

I put their papers to one side and graded the others. I was pleased to have finished by the time Peggy rang my doorbell. I opened the door and immediately saw she had been crying. I led her into the living room and offered her a glass of wine. She took a big gulp and nearly spilled the rest down the front of her blouse in her eagerness to get it inside her.

I recapped the events of the afternoon and when I was certain she was calm, I went to the shed and released Oliver. He was very subdued, I think I had expected him to struggle and try to flee.

He could not look his mother in the eye and she was just as embarrassed. To break the silence, I spoke first. “You know Oliver, I have to call the police. You have been stealing for some time; this is not just a once-off.”

I thought Peggy was going to start crying all over again. I wasn’t sure if I was telling the truth. Would I really call the police; could I put the poor woman through all that?

Oliver blanched and I could see he was breathing in small gulps. Any moment now he would break down in tears.

There was one alternative to the police. I knew that and I think Peggy did too. I had not discussed it with her, but someone had to take the initiative.

I tore a strip off Oliver, I said how despicable it was to steal – and from his neighbours too. I told him he had upset his mother terribly and brought her great shame. Oliver stared down at the carpet; his eyes were getting moist.

Then, I came to the point. “To save your mother’s feelings and to give you a second chance; there is an alternative. I can cane your backside very hard indeed.”

This immediately registered with Oliver and for the first time that day he looked me in the face. I think he wanted confirmation that he had heard me correctly.

“Yes, twelve strokes,” I was firm and calm, “And, don’t think they will be across those thick jeans you’re wearing. They must come down. It will be across your underpants.”

Peggy’s face had turned if anything whiter than her son’s. She could not look at Oliver, nor could she look at me. I saw Oliver’s shoulders heave and then he took a great gulp of air and burst into a flood of tears.

That set his mother off as well. Now, I had the two of them bawling their eyes out.

I had not expected this. I thought Oliver would be belligerent; that he would tell me where to get off and then possibly storm from the room.

Instead, Oliver was weeping copiously into his mother’s shoulder as she hugged him close to her, while she too wept like a small child.

He was either a tremendous actor or my words had unleashed something that had been pent up within him. Was it some realisation that he was ruining his life and needed some guidance, even redemption?

But, I was not to be moved. The scene unfolding before me was very touching, but it did not change the facts. Oliver was a serial thief and he must atone for that.

I took a couple of swigs from my own wineglass to steady my nerves and my will. No matter how sorry I felt for Peggy and her predicament, her son must be punished for his behaviour.

I could see the pair of them would hug and cry all night long unless I did something.

“So Oliver,” I said, “What’s it to be; the police or a thrashing?”

He turned his head slightly away from his mother’s shoulder to look at me.

“Yes, it must be one thing or the other,” I confirmed.

He did not answer, but turned back to his mother and carried on crying. Peggy seemed to have found a new wind from somewhere and wept harder than ever.

I was losing patience. I would not let this sentimental scene detract me from my mission.

“OK Oliver,” I had a plan to get them out of my house. “You and your mother should go home and discuss this. Decide what you want to do.”

I was not sure if either of them was actually listening to me, but I continued, “But you must not be too long. The police will wonder why I delayed reporting the break-in.”

Oliver’s ears pricked up at this.

“So, go home, talk about it and be back here in no more than thirty minutes. Make up your mind.”

They continued crying.

“Go. Now. Please.”

Peggy spoke for the first time. “Yes, Oliver; he’s right,” she said softly, and with that she gently guided her son from the room.

Once they were safely out the door I poured myself another glass of wine and downed it in one. Then, I went upstairs to fetch my canes. I knew that if Oliver had one ounce of sense he would choose the caning over the police. A criminal record for thieving would affect him for life. Why go down that road when he didn’t have to.

Even so, I was beginning to have doubts. It was one thing to cane my own sons, they had been raised on it and despite the severity of some of the thrashings I delivered, they always took their punishments as stoically as possible. This would be new territory for Oliver. I would not be surprised if he ran screaming from the room after the first lash of the cane bit deep into his buttocks.

I took down the canes from the top of the wardrobe where I kept them wrapped in a huge plastic carrier bag. Even though the cane was abolished in schools about thirty years ago, it was still surprisingly easy to buy them today. Mine had the traditional crook handle and were made of rattan. They had been used many times and were slightly warped, but this did not detract from their effectiveness. I chose the thinner of my two canes. It had been a few years since this had seen action. I swished it through the air a couple of times. Then I picked up two pillows and set them down in the centre of the bed. Raising my arm to shoulder height I brought the cane crashing down at full force into them.

The sound of the thwack of rattan whipping into feather-filled pillow echoed off the walls. I was startled; I didn’t think the cane ever sounded so loud when I brought it down into the stretched buttocks of my sons. I inspected the length of the cane; there was no damage. It should be capable of delivering twelve hard strokes into Oliver’s backside without breaking.

I had a plan to make sure Oliver took his punishment without fuss. I found my only two neckties and a clean handkerchief and stuffed them in my pocket. Then I went downstairs to await Oliver’s return.

He was on time and I could see from his red eyes he had been crying some more. I asked him for his verdict.

“T… t… t…  c.. c… ane,” he could hardly get the words out.

Good, that was what I expected to hear. I was about to give instructions on how he should present himself, when he continued, this time with more confidence. I think he must have rehearsed a little speech; perhaps his mother had helped him with the words.

He told me he was sorry for all his bad behaviour. He knew he had gone off the rails. It was a touching speech. I had known Oliver for about ten years and he had been a good kid for more most of that time. Yes, somewhere things had gone badly wrong.

I think I knew what the problem was. Like most young people today, Oliver was selfish and self-centred. Nobody had set him boundaries or explained what the rules were. That meant when he behaved inappropriately there were no sanctions. So, he just carried on behaving badly. I didn’t blame his mother for that; if anyone was to blame it was all of us: society. We are far too soft on our children today, and look where it gets us.

I let him have his say. I did not argue with him. When I was sure he had finished, I had my own little speech. “You have agreed that you deserve punishment. You have agreed that it should be twelve strokes of the cane across your underpants. Is that correct?”

I needed him to confirm his consent for me to thrash him. It would never stand up in a court of law, but it would make me feel better knowing that he accepted the punishment as fair.

He murmured, “Yes,” and then to my surprise, added, “Sir.”

Now was the time to put my plan into action. I ordered him to take down his jeans. Of course, this was no surprise to Oliver. I think he had already steeled himself for this, because with little difficulty he had his belt unbuckled and the rivet unpopped. Once he unzipped the fly, the weight of the belt and the denim sent the jeans hurtling to the floor.

So far, so good. Now, I thought, came the tricky part.

“I want you to bend over the table. Lie flat with your stomach resting on the top.”

Again, without fuss, he did this.

“Please grab hold of the legs of the table.”

He did this too. He seemed very calm. But this changed the moment he saw the neckties. I took his left wrist and secured it to the table leg; then I did the same with the right. He was firmly secured. No matter how much agony I inflicted on him, there was no escape.

He tried to pull his arms away from the table legs and I’m sure I saw real terror in his eyes when he realised he was trapped. Before, he could make a protest, I took the handkerchief from my pocket and folded it once and then twice. Oliver saw my intention and shut his mouth tight.

“Come on Oliver,” I was reasonableness itself. “It’s for your own good. Put this between your teeth. It will help.”

It would too. If the agony was too great there was a danger he might bite deep into his tongue.  It would also stifle any yells he tried to make. I did not want his poor mother sitting next door to hear his piteous cries. And, I certainly did not want my other neighbours to hear Oliver’s screams. They would have the police at my door in no time, believing a murder was taking place.

Oliver’s tensed and untensed his buttocks in anticipation of the first cut. “Relax Oliver, it will be better for you that way,” I said kindly. Despite the appearance of a young man restrained across a table with a gag in his mouth, I intended punishment, not torture. This was not to be some Singaporean-style whipping. This caning was to be like those endured in bygone times by senior schoolboys in their housemaster or headmaster’s study. A sound caning that would leave an impression on the buttocks for some days; it would be intense and agonizing, but the boy would live.

I was nearly ready. Oliver was wearing snug fitting canary yellow briefs; they were short and had ridden up a little exposing some of his lower globes. I smoothed them out so they covered as much of his cheeks as possible.

Satisfied that he was in position, I picked up the cane and flexed it between my hands. Oliver saw none of this but he knew the first lash was imminent and once again he clenched his buttocks in the mistaken belief perhaps that this might lessen the pain.

I tapped the cane across the very centre of both mounds to get my aim and then raised it about three feet from the target. Then with great force I swished the whippy rattan down into his backside.

He gasped and his whole body shook under the impact. If the handkerchief had not been between his teeth, I am sure he would have yelled the house down. Desperately, he tried to break his wrists free, but my knots were more than adequate to keep him in place. He kicked his legs out behind him and for the first time I realised that I should have restrained his feet as well as his wrists. I had no more neckties and wondered for a moment if I might have something in the kitchen that I could use as a restraint.

As I was contemplating this, I saw Oliver’s leather belt in the loops of his jeans. It took only seconds to free it and wrap it round his ankles. There would be no more problem with kicking.

I took careful aim and swiped cut number two just below the first. This elicited a repeat performance from Oliver. The neckties cut deep into his wrists and I could see that they might be very sore before the teenager’s ordeal was completed.

I intended to lash Oliver at about twenty second intervals. That would give time for the full force of the cut to sink into his cheeks and for the pain to travel from his buttocks to the north and to the south of his body so that every nerve-end in the wretched boy felt the full impact of the punishment.

As I waited to deliver cut number three I studied the body lying in front of me. Oliver’s face was bright red and a vein was throbbing on his left temple. His china-blue eyes shone brightly and sweat soaked his whole body. His short mousey-coloured hair looked like he had just stepped out of the shower.

I let him have the third stroke. It was no fiercer than the previous two, but he seemed to feel it more. His buttocks clenched and unclenched and they shuddered like jelly and continued to wobble for what seemed to me to be a considerable time. He was openly weeping.  I checked that the handkerchief was still firmly between his shut teeth. I did not want it to slip into his mouth and choke him. As the thrashing continued I knew from experience that he would find it ever more difficult to catch his breath; the intense pain now coursing through his body would see to that.

Number four I aimed high, right at the top of the curves and just below the spine. Even with the gag in his mouth I heard him shriek and he banged his head up and down on the table. The tears flooded from his eyes and began to form a small puddle on the table-top beneath Oliver’s head.

There were still eight cuts to deliver; Oliver seemed spent. He was finding it hard to take his first-ever caning. I had my doubts that he could survive the full punishment. Perhaps, I should have awarded him the standard six-of-the-best. But it was too late now; I had sentenced him to twelve and it would be a sign of weakness on my part if I did not deliver as promised.

As number four was high, so number five was low, connecting on the underpart of his cheeks, just where they meet the thighs. His briefs had once again ridden up and the cane struck bare flesh. As Oliver’s body wriggled and writhed, I saw a deep red weal form instantly across the top of his legs. That stroke must have been the most painful so far.

I had promised the miserable boy a caning on his underpants, not on the bare. It would not be fair to lash him again on the naked flesh, so I put some beef into a stroke right across the very centre of his buttocks. Again, he writhed in agony. I think I might have landed on top of one of the previous strokes, reigniting the agony.

I put down my cane, not because I had decided to remit his sentence to six. I took hold of the elasticated waist of his briefs and pulled them away from his body. Oliver could not speak, but the pleading in his eyes said to me, “Please, not on the bare!” He did not need to worry. I had no intention of going against my word. I wanted to inspect the damage so far. I was able to see six clear deep red lines across his bum. As I suspected, number six had cut across one of the previous strokes. The intersection of the two looked exceedingly raw and a droplet of blood oozed from the junction.

I covered up his buttocks once more and smoothed down the cotton with the palm of my hand. Even this slight touch was enough to ignite the whole of the poor boy’s buttocks and he yelped into his handkerchief with the pain.

We were half way through. Oliver’s breathing, once heavy was now shallow. It reminded me of the way young children sometimes are when they are asleep. His face was still scarlet and the vein on his temple pulsed in and out; in and out.

I put number seven across the top of his cheeks. No matter where I landed the final six strokes, there was always the possibility that I would land on a previous cut. Boys do not like being caned on the bare; it is, I suppose, mostly because of the humiliation of being naked with crack and sack on view. But a bare-arsed beating has one advantage; the punisher can see exactly where the cut has landed and can more easily avoid putting another one on top of it.

I had no such advantage and I was slashing the cane blindly, in a manner of speaking. I landed number eight across an area that I was reasonably confident had not been visited before. I cannot be sure whether I was successful or not, but I do know that Oliver’s body twisted and turned and he renewed his desperate efforts to break his wrists free of the restraints. There was no doubt that stroke struck home.

After I struck number nine, I realised another advantage of the handkerchief gag. Oliver’s eyes pleaded with me for mercy, but he was restrained from saying the words. If he had been free he would have been begging for mercy and promising me all kinds of things about his future improved behaviour if only I would stop hurting him. If he had done so, he would have later felt utterly humiliated. Boys do not like to let their punisher know they are inflicting hurt. They try to adopt a certain air of casualness. Go on, they seem to say, do your worst. Nothing you can do will hurt me. Some boys are expert at hiding their emotions and no matter how much pain they are suffering they never show this to their master.

Oliver was not one of these boys. He was completely and utterly spent. Never in his whole life had he experienced such pain and humiliation. He would remember this evening if he lived to be a hundred.

I bounced the tenth stroke across the very centre of his bum and was welcomed by a slight discoloration of the boy’s bright yellow pants. There were definite points of orange. No doubt blood was seeping from one of the welts across his now raw buttocks.

It had not been my intention to leave his arse looking like raw hamburger meat, but that was one of the consequences of a multi-stroke thrashing.

Number eleven cut open the welts and blood spread slowly across the crown of his underpants. Oliver made very little reaction. Had he passed through some kind of ‘pain barrier?’ Was his arse now so sore that no further hurt could be inflicted upon it? Yes, wounds could open up and his buttocks could be a bloody mess, but the pain, no the intense agony, he felt had reached a plateau.

I had nearly finished. I had intended to make the final slash awesome. I hesitated for a moment, knowing that the teenager’s buttocks were red raw and bleeding. I could have made the last cut gentle, a token swish in recognition of the pain Oliver had endured. I could have done this, but I did not. I had always intended to do what I did with my own sons.

I moved my own position slightly so that I could aim the cane, not across the centre of Oliver’s buttocks, but from the bottom left to the top right. I took aim and let fly with a searing stroke that whipped diagonally across the backside landing across most of the previous eleven cuts.

The way Oliver’s body at first shook and then shuddered violently confirmed to me that indeed no ‘pain barrier’ had been reached.

I had finished. The punishment was over. “It’s over, Oliver,” I said gently in case the boy had not been counting his strokes. I moved away from the table and put the cane down on the sofa. From that vantage point I observed the eighteen-year-old thief. He was sobbing gently into the table top. His body was drenched in sweat and his face glowed scarlet. He hardly seemed to be breathing and I realised at once that I had not been monitoring his gag to see if it had slipped inside his mouth.

I hurried across the room. Oliver’s was face down on the table-top and I could not see his mouth. He seemed not to notice me and my intention, so I took hold of his hair and roughly turned his head so he looked at me face on. I reached into his mouth and extracted the handkerchief. It was dripping with saliva. My action was greeted by a coughing fit as Oliver tried desperately to gulp down air into his lungs.

Satisfied that he was still breathing, I set about untying his wrists. It had been easier to tie him than release him. The strain he had made on the knots attempting to free himself had made then close up more tightly. I thought I might have to fetch a knife from the kitchen to cut his binds, but eventually I had them loose.

Getting the belt from his ankles and freeing his legs was altogether easier. Now, he was free to get off the table under his own steam. But he did not do so. There was an eerie silence in the room punctuated only by Oliver’s breathing as it became more regular. I noticed with some relief that his face was rapidly turning to a more natural colour. The throbbing on his temple had also stopped.

“Come on Oliver,” I tried to encourage him, “You should get up now.”

Slowly and with considerable effort, he pulled himself off the table. He stumbled as he tried to stand on his own two feet and quickly grabbed the table’s edge for support.  At the end of a beating my sons would always gingerly explore their backsides with their hands, testing out where the tenderest spots were. Sometimes they would vigorously rub away at their buttocks; I suppose this helped to ease the pain.

Oliver did neither of these things. He stood upright, with his hands by his sides, his fists clenched. It looked to me like this was his way of controlling the considerable pain he must still be feeling. He had not yet stopped crying, but he was quite quickly regaining control.

He looked a mess. It would not be fair on his mother to send him home like this. She would be wracked with guilt at making her son take this punishment. She might also be angry with me for inflicting it upon him. She would be wrong on both counts. What happened this evening had been entirely Oliver’s fault. He had disobeyed his mother and he had stolen from the garden sheds. He had earned his punishment.

He still had not pulled up his jeans. Nor, as far as I could see, had he yet inspected his backside. Perhaps he could already feel the blood seeping from his wounds and did not want to see confirmation of his worst fears. Perhaps also he suspected that the effort of bending down to pull up his jeans and in so doing stretching the flesh across his buttocks would increase the agony he already struggled to cope with.

“Oliver,” I said kindly. “You should go upstairs to a bedroom and stay there until you feel you have recovered enough to go home.”

Oliver had not said a word to me since before the thrashing and he did not speak now. But, the look in his eyes was one of gratitude. He pulled up his jeans and hobbled from the room.

Only now did I realise that my own breathing had been heavy and my heartbeat racing. I took a few deep breaths to steady myself and went to fetch the whisky from the kitchen. Soon, not today Oliver was not ready, but in the next few days, I would meet with the boy to talk about his future. I had to define for him his boundaries and he must know the penalties for future misbehaviour. This evening’s caning had been the start of a process that I hoped would change Oliver’s life for the better.

I returned to the living room, whisky glass in hand and began to tidy up. I picked up the university assignments I had graded earlier. On top were the two from the plagiarising students. I was not looking forward to all the paperwork I would need to complete ahead of the formal inquiry. I looked from the papers across to my cane on the sofa and from the cane back to the papers. If only, I smiled to myself, if only …

 

Other neighbourly stories you might like.

That Connor boy!

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

 

Part two of The Helpful Neighbour is here.

See also, The Cheating Student here

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

COMING SOON: The Helpful Neighbour

Peggy is a single parent and at her wit’s end. It’s her eighteen-year-old son Oliver. He is off the rails. He had stopped attending college ages ago and was sure to fail all his exams. Then what? A life of unemployment – or at best dead-end jobs.

He was hardly ever at home. Where was he all day and half the night? Was he getting into trouble; taking drugs?

Luckily, her good friend and neighbour has an idea.

The Helpful Neighbour is a two-part story starting on Monday 11 April 2016 and concluding on Wednesday 13 April.

 

I took down the canes from the top of the wardrobe where I kept them wrapped in a huge plastic carrier bag. Even though the cane was abolished in schools about thirty years ago, it was still surprisingly easy to buy them today. Mine had the traditional crook handle and were made of rattan. They had been used many times and were slightly warped, but this did not detract from their effectiveness. I chose the thinner of my two canes. It had been a few years since this had seen action. I swished it through the air a couple of times. Then I picked up two pillows and set them down in the centre of the bed. Raising my arm to shoulder height I brought the cane crashing down at full force into them.

  • Extract from The Helpful Neighbour, part 1.

 

 

Other series of stories you might like.

Max of The ‘Champion’

Rory and Alistair

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com