My Friend Justin

z used school longs after (8)

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Justin was the best friend anyone could ever have. We were eighteen years old at the time and had known each other all our lives. We’d grown up on the same street, played with the same children and attended the same school.

So, when I had to unburden myself of a secret, one that had been eating away at me for years, he was the one I told.

He was brilliant; he didn’t say I was queer or anything like that. He just asked me for all the details. And, then he came up with a plan.

Well, where do I start? I told him that I wanted to be spanked, but I did feel I had to make it clear I didn’t want to be spanked by him especially, which was true. I didn’t fancy him at all, still don’t actually.

I fantasied about being spanked by older men. There was one dream I kept having; it involved a teacher at school. Mr King his name was. A right old fossil; he must have been sixty if he was a day. I wanted him to cane me in front of the whole class: all my sixth-form mates. I was dressed in my school uniform; black blazer, dark grey long trousers, grey shirt, and I would, on his command, submissively undo my leather belt, pull the buttons on my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

Then, when he told me to I had to bend over a table, head to the front, legs to the back, with my bum positioned high over the top.

Then, he would pull my gleaming white underpants so tight they stretched over my buttocks and then slowly he would swish his whippy cane, the one with a curved handle, into my taut little bum. That fantasy got me every time. It’s getting me again, even as I am writing this all these years later.

I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about this; but now as I get older I realise that every adolescent male has these fantasies; the only difference between me and most others is that they were dreaming of the French mistress spanking them.

Despite my wicked fetish for spanking there was not much I could do about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years earlier, so I could not engineer a caning or a slippering. Gone were the days when I could make sure I got caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike sheds so I would end up touching my toes in the Year Master’s office. If that were only possible, I would be a twenty-a-day man believe me.

I couldn’t get spanked at home. My dad was a bit of a wimp to be honest and he pretty much let me get away with anything. Not that I was a wicked kid, I wasn’t, but maybe he could have bent me over the armchair and taken his belt to the seat of my jeans when I was cheeky, or worse insolent; which was often.

I had tried to raise spanking with my friends, but was too inept to do it. I do remember when we were very young, seven or eight maybe, the girls in the street were playing “schools” and someone talked about “getting the cane.” Even then, something inside me stirred at the mention of corporal punishment, but I was too young to understand and, of course, my fetish hadn’t really developed at that age.

I used to read lots of comics, we all did in those days, and especially went for the stories where the naughty boys (who remembers Roger the Dodger or Dirty Dick?) ended up in the last frame of the story pictured across dad’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. Come to think of it there were plenty of stories about naughty girls (Beryl the Peril, Minnie the Minx come to mind) who also ended up over dad’s knee. Try writing kids’ comics like that today: how innocent we were then.

Once when I was a bit older, Brian, a friend of a friend, and I were at my house and we acted out stories from the comics, but when it came to the smacked bottom scene we were both too timid to go through with it. Looking back, I suspect Brian was as disappointed as me that we didn’t.

I did go on the Internet to find spanking porn. It was not quite as advanced as it is today, so you couldn’t get videos, but I did find some pictures. One set that really got me going was about a dad who found his son dressed only in his underpants reading a porn mag and dragged him into the bedroom. The boy must have been twenty years old but that didn’t stop his dad. Then, with his pants around his ankles, the boy gets a butt blistering from dad’s hairbrush. Yep! That had me squirting my jizz.

I told Justin about my spanking desires one afternoon after school when we were around his place. He was a “single parent” child and his ma worked long hours for crap pay at a factory, so he had the house to himself a lot.

“So do you want me to spank you? Is that it?”

I couldn’t believe it. He had the same desires as me. My face must have gone scarlet and my reply was mumbled incoherently.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, shall I?” he laughed.

“Only if you want to,” I eventually stuttered.

I learned over the years to come that Justin was completely unshockable. He wasn’t the least turned on by the thought of spanking me or being spanked by me. If I had said I wanted a sex change to become a woman, he would have reacted in the same cool, matter-of-fact way. He would probably have asked me what the procedure involved and how much it would cost, but he wouldn’t have judged me.

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

I hadn’t expected this question and rushed to think of some naughtiness I had committed.

“I’ve been rude to my ma,” was the best that I could come up with.

He laughed again. Looking back he was always laughing, “So what’s new about that? No, you have to do something to earn the spanking.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I hadn’t realised that Justin might one day make an expert psychologist.

He explained, “You want to be spanked, so you have to do something to earn it: something that you should do but wouldn’t normally do.”

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

“Say in the old days your dad might say, ‘If you don’t clean up your room, it’s my slipper for you, my lad.’ If you didn’t want a spanking you’d clean up the room; but if you did want the slipper, you wouldn’t. So, the room would not get cleaned up and you get spanked. So, you have achieved your wish, but your dad has failed in getting the room cleaned. Are you with me so far?”

Not really, so he went on.

“But, say you want to be spanked and your dad wants the room cleaned; the best thing for both of you is for him to say, ‘Clean up the room and if you do it well, I’ll take you across my knee and tan your arse with my slipper.’ Get me now?”

I was beginning to. “So I have to do something that I should do but I am not doing and if I do it then I get spanked.”

It was as clear as mud.

“Look,” Justin was on a roll and could not be stopped. “You are not a good student. It’s a fact, don’t argue. You are bright, but you don’t work, so you will fail your exams. Let’s say, if you pass your A-levels, I’ll spank you. It’ll be an incentive for you to work hard.”

Okay, I got it now, but the A-levels were months away and I told him so. I wanted my spanking now; preferably this evening before his ma came home.

But, it was not to be. Instead, we compromised. There was an essay due in this week for the English Literature course that I was failing. Justin’s plan was if I got a mark of B+ or more, I would be rewarded by him with several marks across my backside, courtesy of a large wooden clothes brush. A deal had been sealed.

I had hardly ever worked so hard on a school essay; I even read the set book, rather than the “crib” notes, that’s how keen I was to get a good grade.

Mr Archer, our English Lit teacher, made a snide comment when he returned my essay. “B+, had a little help David?” Yes, I had, but not in the way he meant.

Justin laughed.

We hadn’t spoken about our deal since the moment we made it and I wasn’t sure if he intended to stick to the bargain. Then, in the middle of the lesson, he lent across to me and whispered. “My place, four o’clock.”

I couldn’t concentrate on my work for the rest of the day; there was nothing new in that, but this time it was because of the anticipation of what was to come. In the past few days, I had fantasised about what would happen, but much as I liked Justin, I should have preferred it if my spanker were an older man. Actually, come to think of it, it would have been more pleasurable if Mr Archer really did believe I had cheated on my essay and threw me across his knee as punishment.

I was eager and arrived too early at Justin’s house and had to wait on the doorstep until he got home. He had, of course, stopped off at the library after classes ended.

Justin could see I was nervous. Was he nervous too? Looking back I can see the absurdity of it; one eighteen-year-old was about to take another across his knee and spank him. When did that ever happen in real life?

I watched as Justin rummaged through a drawer and found what he was looking for. Then he turned to me, clothes brush in hand.

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Take off your blazer and put it on the table.”

While I was taking off my blazer, Justin did the same, and then he took a wooden backed chair and placed it in the middle of the room. My pulse was racing; this really was going to happen. I could feel my cock stirring in my trousers, God, I hadn’t thought about that; I am going to pop wood.

He sat down in the chair, “Come stand there,” he pointed to a spot to his right. I moved, breathing heavily. I had just realised we hadn’t discussed how he was going to spank me; do my trousers come down? If they do, he’ll see my todger is standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

He snapped his fingers. “Bend over my knee.”

I hesitated. I could see Justin’s legs in front of me, they were thin and spindly, as you might expect from someone his age. In my dreams the laps of my spankers were always huge and well-padded. I wasn’t sure this was right at all.

I think Justin must have misread my hesitation. “Do you want to call it off?”

No, I did not. Without a word, I lowered myself over his knee. Again, it wasn’t quite as I expected. I was too close to the floor. In my dreams I suppose I was a little kid, not a strapping eighteen-year-old sixth-form schoolboy.

“Ouch!” I couldn’t help but cry out as the first whack hit me in the middle of my left buttock, followed almost immediately by another on the right. Then another. And another.

Jeez, it hurt! I gasped at the shock of it. I found myself wriggling involuntarily over Justin’s lap. I was in pain, but it wasn’t agony. My bum stung a lot, but quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Justin wasn’t acting, they weren’t love taps he was giving me these were proper wallops with the brush. He was crashing the wood into my trouser-covered buttocks with great force. I was gasping for air as my blood pressure rose. Blood was also surging to my cock and my hard-on was now raging.

Justin giggled, “Oh, you’re enjoying this are you?” and he carried on whacking my bum with renewed vigour, whacking three stinging spanks on one side of my bum, three on the other side and then a real hard thwack on my sit spot. Then he did it all over again.

I was losing control, my reflect movements had me bucking and kicking and struggling to get off his lap but he held on tight and kept spanking me.

And then the inevitable happened: I was beginning to orgasm; I shot my load, creaming my underpants and my trousers.

“You dirty bugger!” Justin snorted, stopped spanking me and pushed me off his lap so that I tumbled to the floor. My hands went to my arse to rub at the pain as I circled around on the carpet, kicking my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried. I was in pain, but not much. Despite the intensity of Justin’s spanking, my trousers and pants had given me considerable protection. As I would learn in future, had he spanked me that hard with such a heavy brush on my bare bum, it would be ripped to shreds by now.

Justin was off the chair and doubled over with mirth. At that moment we heard a click at the front door and a cry, “Just. are you home?”

I jumped to my feet and noticed how large the stain was on the front of my trousers, just as Justin’s ma came into the room. I fled the house in embarrassment, leaving my pal to explain to his ma what was going on.

At home I admired Justin’s handiwork in the mirror. My bum was dark pink and some bluish bruises had formed at the end of my cheeks. The imprint of the brush was distinct where he had spanked my thighs. The sight of my battered bum set my todger off again and I grabbed a handful of tissues and lay on the bed.

I have a lot to thank my great friend Justin for; not least my success in my A-level exams; but that’s another story … or six.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Saturday School

new story 2

In February 2006 Mr R. A. T. Brightlington-Pugh, a former housemaster at the Ridgeway private boarding school in the west of England, passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-seven. Some years later, his great-great-great-great nephew found a leather-bound travelling chest containing diaries he had written during the 1930s and 1940s. This present story was inspired by the diary entry for 14th April 1936.

Other diary stories here

 

I had always thought schoolboys lived in dread of the cane and that it was the three-feet of swishy rattan that kept them in order. I believed they would obey any rule or instruction to avoid being ordered to present their backside for chastisement.

In my own case a caning is an awesome event. After six-of-the-best from me a boy leaves my study in some distress. Undoubtedly his backside would be severely bruised and sometimes, when I have administered a particularly severe thrashing, he would have grazes and cuts on his buttocks.

No schoolboy, I had thought, would want a caning if he could possible avoid it. I had not, however, reckoned with Green of the Upper Sixth. He visited my study at lunchtime last Thursday with what he termed “a proposition.”

There was a confident knock on my door which I had not been expecting. It is true that one boy or another – and sometimes more – would be summoned to attend my study most lunchtimes. Today had been no exception. I had dealt with two fourteen-year-old boys from the Remove form. They had been caught in Wringleton Wood. The headmaster had declared the place out of bounds to boys for reasons that I could not properly fathom. But, rules are rules and if a boy breaks bounds he had better not get caught.

They each took their Six like the gentlemen they undoubtedly are.

I had not expected Green and was a little irritated when he appeared uninvited. He had disturbed my reading of the Daily Mail newspaper.

I called him to enter and he stood before me confidently. Usually, a boy in my study would exhibit an overwhelming interest in the pattern on the rug beneath his feet, or alternatively he would be intrigued by the bookshelf behind my desk. Some boys would be unable to turn their attention away from the hat stand in the corner of the room and the two crook-handled canes that hang there.

Green did none of these things; he looked me straight in the eye and said what he had come to say. Green is eighteen-years-old and like all boys at the school who are not in the lower forms, he wears the Ridgeway uniform of dark-grey trousers, a bright red woollen blazer with white edging and a red-and-white-hooped cap.

Green had made a particular effort with his uniform. The three buttons on his blazer were fastened; his tie was tightly knotted. His trousers had been brushed and looked from a distance at least to be as new.

Green has always been a bit of a charmer. His open face is often covered with freckles; his fair hair was today neatly combed and hidden underneath his school cap. He is an athletic boy and something of a star of the school’s association football team.

Association football was the subject that had brought him to me.

He launched into what I supposed was a rehearsed speech. He had, he told me, been misbehaving in class and as a result landed himself with a spot in Saturday School. Saturday School as the name surely demonstrates is a school session that is held on Saturdays for misbehaving boys. Saturday for everyone else is a day of leisure.

Green’s pale blue eyes bore into me as he made his case. This coming Saturday was the semi-finals of the inter-schools’ association football knock-out cup. Ridgway, he assured me, were “in with a chance” of beating rivals Witchdale and securing a place in the final.

This could only be achieved, he averred, if he took up his usual place at inside-right in the team. Alas, for Green, the match coincided with Saturday School. If he were made to attend detention, he would miss the match and Ridgeway’s chances of cup glory would be no more.

I was startled by the boy’s arrogance, but that was as nothing compared to what he said next.

“So Sir, I wish to have my detention caned-off.”

My brows must have knotted betraying my lack of understanding, for he continued. “Caned-off, Sir. If I could be caned instead of attending detention …” He trailed off as he saw the look of astonishment in my face.

Caned-off! What a preposterous suggestion. It was not for a boy to decide his own punishment. What on earth would be the point of that?

I could have caned him there and then for his impudence and still insisted he attend Saturday School. Instead, I sent him on his way with merely a flea in his ear and returned to my newspaper. Perhaps, I had to concede, my canings are not quite as awesome as I had supposed.

I did not think of the matter again until earlier this evening. I had spent the morning in the nearby town and followed my shopping expedition with a stroll in Wringleton Wood. I had quite forgotten that the association football match was to take place today.

I was reminded of the fact by Wilson, a junior colleague. It had been his misfortune to be assigned to supervise Saturday School. Green, he told me, had not attended. His inquiries soon unearthed the information that the wretched boy had been seen boarding the motor coach that transported the association football team to its match.

I am not a man given over to temper. It is true that just like the next man I can become angry at times. I do not, however, rant and rave or behave in ways that later I might regret. When the need arises I show my anger calmly, as Green was to discover.

I had an hour or so to prepare for the boy’s return to the school. I used the time wisely. I spoke with Mr Anderson, the school porter, who assured me he would be able to assist.

It was nearly eight in the evening when Green tapped on the door of my study. It was not the same self-confident Green who had attended on Thursday. His blazer was unbuttoned; his tie was loose. His school cap was nowhere to be seen.

His usual open and cheerful face was grim. The day had been a disaster for him. Ridgeway had been trounced in the game, going down by four goals to nil. Now, to round off it all off he was appearing before his housemaster to explain his absence from Saturday School.

There was not much to say. He was clearly guilty as charged. Corporal punishment was of course imminent. Green undoubtedly expected a caning. It was after all what he had wanted when he asked for his detention to be caned-off.

“Remove your blazer, Green and hang it on the hook on the study door.” Green had been a frequent visitor to my study and he knew the ritual that preceded a caning. Soon he would expect to be face down across my desk with his arms stretched ahead of him and his backside pointing at me.

He removed his blazer and turned back to face me. The puzzlement on his face was evident. He watched me take two wooden chairs and place them in the centre of the room back-to-back. Satisfied by the re-arrangement of the furniture, I ambled to the other side of the study and picked up from an empty bookshelf a dusty sack. The contents bulged but it was surprisingly lightweight. Green’s pale blue eyes burned into me as he studied my every movement.

I placed the sack on my desk, opened its neck and reached in. Green’s face blanched as he realised what was emerging from the sack. It was a freshly-made birch rod. Mr Anderson had made a splendid job of it. He had found the leafless branches at Wringleton Wood. He cut eight of them so they were three feet long and tightly bound them at the base with twine. Usually, a birch rod would be soaked in brine for as long as possible to ensure the suppleness of the rods and the effectiveness of the sting they would inflict on bared flesh.

I had considered delaying Green’s punishment for a day to allow the birch to soak overnight, but I always prefer to administer punishment as soon after the crime is committed as possible.

“Remove your trousers and underwear, Green,” I intoned. I do not believe I have ever seen a schoolboy look so horrified. “B..b..” he tried to speak, but really what was there for him to say?

“Please, let us do this without fuss.” I had no pity for the boy, he deserved everything that I intended to deliver. He would not be the first boy at Ridgeway to be birched. I knew from experience that boy’s believed a birching to be an extreme punishment. In fact, I have it on good authority that a birching hurts a lot less than a traditional caning with a rattan rod. It hurts a great deal, but the birch delivers a different pain to the cane. The rattan would slice into the bottom, cutting a single welt with each rise and fall, creating intense agony where the rod landed. The birch was different; the boy’s bottom would be on fire, but it would feel as if a white-hot egg-whisk had been pressed into his flesh.

The other difference is that a birch is only effective if it is swished into a bared bottom.

Green stood motionless as if he had failed to hear my command. I repeated it. “Take off your trousers and underwear.” I hoped the boy would be man enough to comply. I know that boys do not like to expose their bare bottoms to schoolmasters, but that is not my problem. If a boy behaves such that he deserves a thrashing bare, he has only himself to blame.

The eighteen-year-old’s hands fumbled at the buttons of his trousers. They fitted him well and he needed no belt or braces to hold them up. Once loosened they fell down his thighs and snagged to a halt at his knees, before slowly slithering to his feet.

“Step out of them, Green.”

As if in a trance, he lifted first his left foot and then his right and stepped clear of the trousers. He was now standing before me in his underwear. He wore modern drawers that fastened at the waist; it would be easy to remove them. But the boy needed to demonstrate the will to comply with my instruction.

He remained silent, but his eyes pleaded with me for mercy. Please, he seemed to be saying, do not make me expose myself to you.

I was in no mood for mercy. “Take down your drawers, Green.”

His face was that of a ghost. He closed his eyes tight and placed his thumbs in the waistband of the drawers. They were soon at his feet. Unbidden, he stepped out of those too. He clasped both hands in front of his privates. His eyes were still closed as he stood trembling awaiting my further instruction.

“Kneel on one chair and reach over the back and grip the seat of the other.” It was a standard position for a caning. Many of my colleagues preferred the two-chairs technique because it could present the boy’s posterior at the perfect angle if you wanted to slash it rather like a batsman at cricket slogging a ball to the boundary for four runs.

I admit now that I was relieved when Green complied with my instruction. I had been unsure that he would be brave enough to do so and I had instructed Mr Anderson to wait in an adjoining room should I need his assistance to hold the boy down.

Green kneeled, his stomach resting against the backs of the chairs with his bared bottom raised in the air. Slowly and with some ceremony I took hold of the tail of the boy’s shirt and rolled it up his back. I was now staring at a considerable are of naked flesh from the boy’s shoulders to below his knees where his socks were slumped.

 

The boy gripped the edge of the wooden seat and flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home. I measured my distance and swung the birch round my head and brought it down with a terrific upper-cut on the Green’s naked flesh. The hairless buttocks were scarred with dozens of thin white lines; narrow welts were rising where the birch twigs connected with the boy’s fleshy haunches.

z used birch and marks sting (1)

The birch swished again; Green screwed his eyes tight and stifled the yell I knew he so desperately wanted to make. He was a trooper. He would not let himself down: he would not give me the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

Swish! Swish! Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his cheeks. There were dozens of lines across his bottom, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the bottom where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred.

The sixth-former wriggled his body from left to right, as he struggled to remain in position, prostrate across the wooden chairs with his bared bottom still pointing submissively at me.

Swish! the hardest cut yet and the boy’s response was to beat his knees up and down against the wooden chair. Tears were now forming behind his eyes.

I lashed down two more strokes with full force. That did it: the skin started to open. Soon blood would seep through. Green’s scream of agony echoed around the study and no doubt could be heard as far away as study hall.

“Right boy, stand up.” It was over: Green had survived. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on the chair and raised himself to his feet. Instinctively, his hands shot to his buttocks to gently rub against the dozens of raised stripes that decorated them.

Unsteadily, he retrieved his drawers and gingerly stepped into them, all the time avoiding looking at me. Soon his trousers were in their rightful place.

“Dismissed.” I had no desire to prolong this meeting. The boy had transgressed; he had been punished most severely. The matter was now closed. We should all get on with our lives.

He limped from the room, pausing only to unhook his blazer from the door.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Maintenance Spanking

z used cane bare armchair maintenance (28)

I am sitting at home waiting for Theo to arrive. He visits me on the last Friday of every month and is never late. He comes for what he calls his “maintenance spanking.”

Theo, I don’t know if that’s his real name, is twenty-years-old. He’s one of the bosses at a double-glazing firm. A ‘boss’ at twenty, how can anyone be a ‘boss’ at that age?

Theo has problems with his behaviour and he relies on me to help him sort them out.

…..

I first heard about Mr Tucker on the Internet. He has a website and offers corporal punishment services. He has one of the rooms at his house decked out like a headmaster’s study. Adult schoolboys pretend they have been naughty and get six-of-the-best or whatever for their pains.

I don’t have to pretend to be a bad boy, I am. The people who visit the headmasters’ study want to be punished. It turns them on, I suppose. But, not me: I hate being punished by Mr Tucker; it’s humiliating and terribly painful. Even an over-the-knee bare-bottomed spanking is too much for me. But, I need it. It does me good and helps me to be a better person.

I had wanted corporal punishment therapy. I’d read about it online. They have it in America, where you visit a counsellor and discuss where your life is going wrong. For some people it can be reasonably simple like trying to give up smoking or drink. You set objectives with the counsellor and if you fail to meet them you get spanked. This goes on until the fear of being walloped motivates you to meet your objectives.

Mr Tucker is not my counsellor, he isn’t qualified for that, but until I find someone who is he serves as my motivator.

….

Theo isn’t like my other visitors; you never know what you are going to be asked to do when he is here. The others are quite straightforward. You just set up a reason why they should be caned: “Smoking again Thompson” … “Three detentions Wilkins” … that sort of thing. Many of them dress up as schoolboys in full uniform with short trousers. Does it take them back to their childhoods? I don’t know. Most of them are middle aged and older: quite a number are retired gentlemen.

Theo comes in and tells me all the bad things he has done since the last visit. Then it’s my job to assess what his punishment should be and deliver it accordingly. Last time, he had been disrespectful to his mother (that’s on the list most months) and he had lost his temper with some of the people at work (also a regular occurrence).

For Theo, that was a mild month, so I decided a less severe punishment was called for. I believe that if boys give their mothers a hard time it is the duty of father to take them across their knee for a bare-bottomed spanking.

So, that’s what I did. Boys hate being spanked, which is why it’s so effective.

I also believe a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over your knee leaves him in no doubt about who’s in charge. Consider what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across the knee. He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, he knows that his bottom will be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any ill-disciplined child.

I sat down in a straight-backed wooden chair and pulled Theo before me and unfastened his trousers which immediately fell off his hips down to his feet. He was panicking and nervous, fully realizing what I intended to do, and not liking the idea one little bit. I quickly pulled his boxer shorts down to his knees.

Without pausing, I took hold of Theo’s right arm and upper back and firmly pulled him forward and downward, dragging him across my lap so that he was practically kissing the carpet.

I am masterful with the hairbrush and bounced it all over Theo’s buttocks, upper thighs, and the sensitive sit spots. Of course, he kicked out his legs trying to escape the stinging spanks. He twisted and turned all over my knees, but I held him tight with my arm wrapped around his middle.

After more than fifty whacks, his red, tear-soaked face registered a look of total dread, desperation, and pain, but I carried on spanking. He thrust out with each whack of the brush on his red-raw buttocks. He wailed for mercy and his bawling and sobbing turned to screams. The tears flowed and sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched.

I continued the punishment with Theo squirming and wriggling around on my lap, his bottom dancing and bucking around, his legs kicking out. It was not long before he was pleading and apologizing for his misbehaviour.

Finally, I stopped spanking, and Theo laid sobbing and heaving convulsively across my knee for several minutes before I released him and sent him on his way.

….

I am walking up the street where Mr Tucker lives. It’s just an ordinary street of quite run-down terraces; nobody would suspect what goes on behind the curtains of No. 128. My heart is beating fast as I approach the door. I know I have been particularly bad this month and am in for the hiding of my life.

….

The doorbell rings. Theo is here: 6.30 on the dot. At least poor time-keeping isn’t one of his problems.

I open the door to see a pleasant looking young man, dressed in an immaculate city-style blue stripped suit. His shirt is pale blue with a gaily-patterned tie, tightly knotted. He looks every inch the young businessman, which, after all, is what he is.

There are no preliminaries when Theo visits.

“Go wait outside my study.”

Even though he is not a schoolboy, I treat him as if he is. It’s the only way I know how. He stands in the hallway, waiting for me to make my next move.

I open the study door and he follows me in. It’s a small room, it is meant to be a living room or lounge, but I have converted it. There is room enough for a desk, some wooden chairs and bookshelves. There is an armchair that is the centrepiece of the room. In the corner by the window is a hat stand. There are no hats; only six or seven canes of assorted lengths and thickness. I keep other punishment implements; a slipper, taws, hairbrush in the drawer of the desk.

Theo stands on the worn rug in front of the desk and I take the chair behind it. The routine of these visits is that he begins by recounting to me his misdeeds of the month. It is a familiar list: the impertinence to mother, impatience and anger to work colleagues, temper tantrums. But, this month there are worse crimes to confess. And, I do mean ‘crimes.’

He has been drinking too much which is not unusual for men of his age, but worse than that he has been driving under the influence. Not once, but three times. Once, he was so drunk he hit the curb of the road and punctured a tyre. Being too drunk to think clearly, he proceeded to drive home anyway, thereby buckling the wheel.

I was genuinely angry when he told me this. Drink-driving is dangerous not only to the driver and passengers but also to other entirely innocent road users and pedestrians. I knew from my days as a hospital porter the deaths and injuries drunks caused.

Theo was clearly distressed when he recounted this. He was genuinely upset and ashamed of his actions. Remorse is welcome, but it is not enough. There must also be punishment and in this case it must be exemplary.

I wished I had been informed in advance of Theo’s crimes so I could prepare a birch. He deserved the severest kind of punishment possible. In this case I would not hesitate to rip his bare buttocks to pieces. I didn’t care if he was unable to sit for a month. It would, at least stop him driving his car.

But with no birch available, it would have to be a cane. I have a wide selection from a small reed-like nursery cane that I sometimes use across the palm of the hand through to Malacca rods that are whippy, but dense, and pack a punch to suit even the most hardened masochist.

So, the Malacca it would have to be. I gave Theo a short lecture about the foolishness of his behaviour. I didn’t say much, I’m not a psychiatrist; I couldn’t help him with whatever his underlying problem was. I’m a ‘master.’ My job is to beat the living daylights out of him and that was what I intended to do.

Theo’s face was pale and his eyes moistened as he told me of his drunken antics. He was genuinely upset by his actions and – I knew from experience – dreading what I was going to do to him.

I did not immediately pronounce sentence.

“Hang your jacket on the door.”

I picked out a cane from the hat stand and swished it through the air a couple of times and then held the two ends and flexed it gently testing it for whippiness. It curved nicely in my hands.

Theo turned to face me once again, eyeing with dread both the cane in my hands and the armchair.

“Theo when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving you a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live. You will not return for another beating and will learn from this experience.”

He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite hear and before I even ordered him to take down his trousers and underpants, tears were trickling down his face.

…..

Mr Tucker stood flexing his cane thoughtfully between his hands as I began to unbuckle my belt. I unzipped and let my trousers fall to my ankles. Putting my fingers in the waist band, I peeled my underpants down letting them fall on top of my trousers.

Mr Tucker swished the cane through the air. If his intention was to intimidate me, he had succeeded.

“Bend over the chair,” he touched the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis.

In terror I bent forward; my bottom, a little wobbly when I was standing, tightened into a smooth curve. My bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair, my trousers and underpants bunched around my ankles.

“Head nice and low please Theo.”

My thigh muscles and bottom tensed as I stretched my arms out grasping the armchair’s cushion at the front. I felt Mr Tucker lift my shirt from my backside, exposing me, both to his eyes and to the air of the room. My body was naked from the middle of my back to my ankles. This made me shiver slightly; not with cold so much as fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.”

I pushed myself further down into the chair, raising my bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, Theo, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” my reply was muffled as my head was buried in the chair cushion.

Seconds seem to pass. I was feeling very vulnerable as I imagined him eying up his target and I fidgeted my legs. Suddenly there was an enormous noise. The sound of the cane landing on my backside echoed round the empty room. I hardly had time to recover from the shock when there was another crack which this time was immediately followed by an intense burning pain. I held my breath as the next stroke landed causing the pain to increase in a sickening wave.

Number four stuck and I let out a whine. Mr Tucker continued, determined to make me pay for my drunkenness. Three more strokes landed each one lower than the previous, yet all in a one inch band on the lower half of my bum.

As the next stroke cracked across my poor sore seat I let out a roar, any restraint I may have had was gone. I could no longer see the chair for the tears filling my eyes.

I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth and hung on to the chair. I was aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in my bottom.

Raising his arm high Mr Tucker brought the cane down with a full swing, landing in the middle of my bottom. I cried out and tossed my head, swaying for a few moments.

The next three strokes seemed to merge together. I was concentrating on staying bent over, in so much pain, and trying without success to stop the tears that were by now flowing down my cheeks.

I desperately wanted to but I did not stand up. Instead I remained bent over the caning chair offering my bottom for the next stroke. I was completely at the mercy of Mr Tucker, who could make each stroke as severe as he wished and I would have to accept it and then wait for the next.

He swished in yet another stroke across the very centre of my bottom. Though I still stayed over the chair, my feet beat a frenzied dance, and my hips twisted and squirmed. I resolved never to drink and drive again.

The caning seemed to go on forever, but finally I heard Mr Tucker walk over to the hat stand and replace the cane. I felt a terrific sense of relief that it was over but I remained across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

Mr Tucker gave me time to recover a little. “It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

I slowly pushed myself back on my elbows as I got unsteadily up. My legs felt weak and I had to lean on the desk before I really got my balance. Tentatively at first, I touched then carefully clasped my raw buttocks and began kneading them, as though I could somehow squeeze the pain out.

Slowly, painfully, I pulled up my underpants and trousers. I was more or less in control of my feelings now, and was massaging my injured rump as vigorously as I could, still trying to rub away the pain.

Mr Tucker slipped his arm around my shoulder for an instant, before propelling me towards the door, and out into the hallway. My eyes were still wet and blurry, but I found my way to the toilet where I stayed for a few minutes until I’d regained some composure. I cried a bit more; my bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing me.

I limped out of the house and walked through the streets in a trance. I walked three miles home that night, knowing that I would not be able to sit down if I caught a cab.

Picture credit: CP Services London

This story which is a work of fiction was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

The bedroom door flies open and Mr. Walter bursts in with a face like thunder. “You’ve been smoking!”

Steph looks up from the magazine he is reading. “No I ain’t.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. I saw you as I was driving in. You were leaning out of the window.”

“Oh.”

“You may well say ‘oh’. And I can smell it from here.”

There is silence for a moment.

“I told you before you moved in. Strictly no smoking. It’ll kill you.”

“No it won’t.”

“And I don’t want it killing me either. You know what happened to Roy Castle.”

“Who?”

“Died of cancer. Secondary smoking.”

“Oh.”

“What did I say I would do if I caught you smoking?”

“Eh?”

“A spanking. I said I’d give you a spanking.”

“Yeah, but you didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t I buster. You’re about to find out.”

“C’mon, I’m at college, not kindergarten.”

“Then you should start acting like it. Be responsible. Get up, the other boys are waiting in the dining room.”

Mr. Walter reaches for Steph’s left wrist and pulls him off the bed.

“Wor …. Gerroff me.”

Steph’s face pales to a ghostly white. Now holding his arm, Mr. Walter tugs Steph across the room. Steph tries to resist but his feet slide across the floor and he cannot get a grip to resist.

Seconds later they enter the dining room where four college guys stand waiting. Steph sees them, his face now a rich shade of claret.

“Steph thinks the rules don’t apply to him. I am going to teach him otherwise. And let it be a lesson to you all too.”

Mr. Walter picks up the clothes brush he has left on the dining table, then sits down in a straight-backed wooden chair strategically placed close to a wall. He pulls Steph towards him by the waist of his jeans. The lodger does not resist. Mr. Walter unbuckles Steph’s wide leather belt and then pops the rivets on his dirty blue jeans. Soon they are at his shins.

“Bend over my knee.”

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

Mr. Walter takes hold of the waistband of Steph’s underwear. He is wearing trunks. His bum is beefy and the underwear is designed to fit snugly. Mr. Walter tugs the elastic making sure there are no creases and the cotton fits the buttocks like a second skin. The young man’s crack is clearly defined. He can feel Steph’s heavy breathing. He is waiting anxiously for the spanking to begin.

Mr. Walter wants to get on with it. He has other things to do this afternoon besides spanking smokers. He takes hold of the brush, makes a fist around its handle, raises it a foot or so above the trembling bottom and smacks it down with some force. Over and over and over again. Steph gasps as each whack connects with meat. It hurts. It is not agony. Not yet. But as each successive stroke hits home, all overlapping, his bum heats up; the soreness increasing.

The four lads watch transfixed. Eyes glues on Steph’s bum which is now bouncing over Mr. Walter’s knees. Steph’s eyes clench shut, his mouth opens and closes like a goldfish; he emits quiet yelps. Nobody is counting the whacks, least of all Mr. Walter and (surprisingly perhaps) not Steph. Several dozen at least have scarred every square inch of Steph’s magnificent bum.

Mr. Walter stops his assault. Steph waits. It is over. At any moment his landlord will release him and Steph will pull up his jeans and run from the room, not stopping until he has hauled himself onto his bed to sob into his pillows.

But no. Mr. Walter has not finished. “These really aren’t of much use at a time like this,” he says as with two pulls he takes Steph’s trunks over his buttocks and leaves them bunched below his thighs. He admires his own handiwork for a moment. The boy’s bum is already blistered. He raises the hard wooden brush once more and rat-a-tat-tat like rapid machinegun fire batters the naked flesh.

Steph wriggles and writhes. His feet flail but the jeans at his ankles make it impossible for him to move quickly. Bang-bang-bang, the noise of wood against fat resounds around the room. A sparrow resting on the lawn outside takes flight in fear. Steph’s almost silent yelps intensify. He cannot control himself. His body has to react. Sweat already soaks the back of his shirt and soon his pullover will be wet also. He lifts his head from the floor and shakes it from side to side, rather like a neighing horse.

Satisfied that every area of Steph’s backside from the top of his mounds, over the globes themselves and the sensitive sit-spot is toasted, Mr. Walter turns the attention of his brush to the back of Steph’s thighs. That gets him howling. After only three wallops the flesh glows red hot. Tears form at the back of Steph’s eyes, but are not yet flowing.

The front gate opens and there is the sound of footsteps on gravel. Mr. Walter and Steph do not hear the letterbox of the front door open followed by the plop of mail hitting the doormat. The postman is retreating to the pavement when his attention is caught. He pauses. It is the unmistakable sound of a spanking coming from behind the bay window. He approaches, stops, and watches.

Mr. Walter does not consider himself to be a cruel man. He believes in punishment, not torture. Steph has broken a cardinal rule and he lied to Mr. Walter; he deserves to be punished. He hammers home a couple of dozen more all over the target area and with a final flourish, he stops.

“Get up.”

Wheezing, Steph rolls off Mr. Walter’s lap. He catches his breath and while still on the ground he tugs up his underwear conscious that his fellow students might see his cock and balls. With modesty  restored, he gets first on his knees and then he stands, pulls up his jeans, fastens the fly and buckles the belt. Through the window he glimpses the postman closing the garden gate.

There is silence for a moment before Steph walks rather gingerly from the room.

Moments later he is in front of his bedroom mirror, jeans and underwear at his ankles once more. He admires Mr. Walter’s craftsmanship. The pain has already subsided, but his bum and thighs tingle. The pain reignites if he touches flesh and he knows it will be uncomfortable to sit on a hard surface for some time to come.

In the room next door, Ritchie reviews the video on his phone. Beautiful. He has the perfect view arse-on. He uploads it to Boyzblazingbuttz, then lowers his own jeans and underpants before stretching out on the bed where he tugs his rigid dick.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

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Book. The Private Tutor

z used cane white pants touch toes london (3)

The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

Click on the link below to download it free of charge.

The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

 

Picture credit: CP Services London

For more free-to-download books click here