Brian’s redemption

z used jeans chair (1)

When Mr. Bell told Brian to bend over his chair for a caning he never dreamt in a million years he would do it. But, he learnt that boys know when they have overstepped the mark and need to be punished. Brian was the boy from across the street. “Boy?” he must be nineteen or twenty years old. He’d been working for at least a couple of years to Mr. Bell’s certain knowledge.

Like so many youngsters his age Brian thought the world revolved around him. He was rude, inconsiderate and full of himself. He took no notice of his parents and came and went as he pleased. He also drank too much and was high on drugs half the time. It was the drink that pushed Mr. Bell over the edge.

He was coming home himself late one night with his wife when he saw Brian lurching down the street. The Avenue is in an upscale part of town and he watched him weaving from pavement to pavement when he wasn’t actually walking in the middle of the road. Mr. Bell gaped open-mouthed as Brian swung across the street, hung on to the hedge of Mr. Bell’s front garden, leaned over and puked a gutload of vomit all over the roses. Then he slid onto his knees and lay on the pavement, semi-conscious.

If his wife hadn’t been with him, Mr. Bell would have kicked Brian’s face in there and then and left him to sleep it off. His wife was a kinder soul. She insisted they take him into the house and let him recover.

“Why not just take him to his own house?” Mr. Bell asked reasonably, since it was less than a hundred yards away.

“Oh, no,” his wife replied. “What would his mother say if she saw him in this state?” That left him open-mouthed for the second time in two minutes. Why was the brat their responsibility? He had been married for more than twenty years and knew when he couldn’t win an argument, so he helped Brian to his feet and with the help of his wife (oh, sweetness of his life) they got him inside.

There wasn’t much they could do with him so they took off his shoes and left him on the couch while Mrs. Bell fetched blankets.

The next morning they lay in bed wondering what they should do about Brian.

“If he were ours, you’d give him a damn good hiding,” Mrs. Bell remembered how her own sons had been successfully guided to adulthood. Plenty of parental love and very sore backsides when necessary, was her simple recipe for life.

“We still have those canes in the attic,” she said wistfully.

“No, Nora,” Mr. Bell had cottoned on to his wife’s thinking, “We can’t he’s not ours.”

Nora sniffed dismissively, “Fat lot of good his parents are. They’d let him get away with murder.”

“Even so, Nora,” Mr. Bell didn’t want this argument.

“Even so, nothing. He’s probably killed our roses.”

She pulled the duvet from her and stepped out of bed. “Give him a good thrashing. You know he deserves it,” she said as she hurried to the bathroom.

He did deserve it, Mr. Bell was certain of that. But it was too late for Brian. He was twenty years old. It was too late to start disciplining him now.

“It’s never too late,” his wife was full of scorn when he told her this. “You’d probably be doing him a favour. He needs to be taught a lesson.” She closed the door behind her as she left the bedroom.

Mr. Bell grimaced, As usual, his wife had the final say. Minutes later she returned. “Here, go do your duty.” She passed him a long, thin, whippy school cane. It felt light in his hands. He remembered that even something so seemingly innocuous as this cane could cause severe pain when used correctly.

“Get dressed,” his wife ordered. “You’ve got work to do.”

Five minutes later Mr. Bell padded down the stairs, hoping that Brian had woken already and gone home. He heard the youngster’s snores. “Drat!” he said to himself. He would have to go through with this. He knew Brain needed a dose of good old corporal punishment. Mr. Bell knew this for a fact. He had absolutely no doubts that caning worked. But, it was too late now. Even if he told Brian he had overstepped the mark for the final time, the boy would just walk away. Worse, he might give him a rude gesture and then walk away.

No, Mr. Bell knew these days no twenty-year-old was going to submissively bend over and allow him to whack a cane across his backside. And more was the pity, he thought. He left the cane resting against the hall table and went to the kitchen for breakfast.

Brian woke with a start, his cock was stiff and his bladder ached. He needed the toilet and fast. He did a double-take as he returned down the stairs having dealt with both. He had never seen anything like this before; but instinctively he knew what it was. What a fine specimen; a school cane, with a curved handle.

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years ago, but Brian still knew what one of these things looked like, even if he couldn’t tell you what it felt like to bend over touching toes to have one whacked across the seat of his trousers.

Gently, he held the rod between his two hands. It was dark yellow, about three feet long and perhaps as thick as a pencil. It surprised Brian how easily he could flex it. It was so springy. Fascinated, he held it to the light and counted the number of notches from one tip to another.

Then, he swished it up and down. “Bend over boy. Touch your toes,” he said aloud. Heck where did that come from?

He walked with it into the sitting room, still sweeping the cane through the air. Then, suddenly he brought the cane down with a fierce swish and whacked it across the back of the huge dark brown leather sofa. The thwack!!! echoed around the room.

Brian’s pulse raced as he scythed the rattan cane through the air imagining it crashing into the backsides of naughty schoolboys. “It’s six of the best for you Baker, bend over.”

He was anxious to know what the cane felt like. Awkwardly, he held the cane and inexpertly aimed it towards his own buttocks. He hit the target, but not with enough force to cause any pain. Sorely disappointed, but not actually sore, he swished the cane into his thigh.

Ouch!!!” yes that hurt. He dropped the cane as if it was a white-hot poker and hopped up and down, rubbing furiously at the red stripe that had already formed beneath his jeans.

“My, aren’t you having fun.” Brian who nearly had a seizure with the shock, whirled round to see Mr. Bell standing in the doorway, smiling.

Shit! How much had he seen? Brian blushed scarlet and blubbered some excuse. “I found it in the hallway.”

The silence was intense: neither wanted to be the first one to continue.

Brian cracked first, “Where did it come from?”

“It’s mine,” Mr. Bell said, picking up the swishy cane and flexing it between his hands.


It was a short, simple question, but Mr. Bell heard so much more in it like, “When did you get it? Why? Who do you intend to you it on? Is it going to be me?”

“I’ve had it for years. I used it on my sons.” He broke off abruptly realising he had overstepped the mark. Perhaps, it wasn’t something people should know. Not in this day and age

“Really, you used to cane them?”

“It was quite common in the past to have canes in the house. Most people did.”

Brian watched a little fascinated as Mr. Bell continued to play with the cane.

“Fathers punished their children to teach them to behave and make them grow up properly.”

“How do you mean Mr. Bell?”

“So, they behaved responsibly. Not. Like kids today.” He didn’t know why he said that; he didn’t want to start an argument with the boy.

“What’s wrong with kids today?”

Mr. Bell looked at this drunkard boy. It took the old man back twenty years or more to the time he discovered his son Alan had been helping himself from the cocktail cabinet. Eighteen years old or not, justice was swift in the form of a thick leather belt applied with some force across the boy’s bared buttocks.

Oh, how he howled the house down that evening. Mr. Bell could still hear the wailing. But it was worth it, it was many years before Alan touched a drop of alcohol again. And, when he did he made certain he had paid for it himself.

Then Brian asked a question that almost knocked Mr. Bell on his back. “Mr. Bell, if I had been your son, how would you treat me differently than my dad does?”

It was a question, so reasonably stated, posed as if Brian genuinely wanted to know the answer.

Mr. Bell wasn’t prepared to let the boy’s father down by answering that question, so he asked one of his own, “Are you happy, Brian?”

Brian thought for a moment and then quietly replied, “No, not really.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.”

But, he did. Even if he couldn’t find the words, he was unhappy because he was aimless. He had no idea what he wanted in life and nobody cared enough to guide him. He could do anything he liked at home, he could stay out late smoking dope and nobody cared.  He had flunked his exams and all it led to was a row at home. Nobody would help him to sort out his life.

Mr. Bell  broke the silence. “It’s probably because you don’t know how you are supposed to behave; you don’t know the difference between what’s right and what’s wrong.”

Mr. Bell picked up the cane and pointed it at Brian, but not threateningly, “And that’s why this was so useful.”

He watched Brian’s eyes transfix on the cane. It came as a revelation to Brian. Mr. Bell knew. Mr. Bell knew exactly how he felt.

“If you behaved like you do now in your father’s time you would have a permanent groove on your stomach from constantly bending over the back of that chair,” he laughed at his own little joke and swished the cane in the direction of the dining room table.

And, if you came home late, after curfew, drunk as you were last night, you would not sit down for a fortnight after I had finished with you.”

A remorseful Brian blushed deep red. Why had he gotten drunk? Truly he didn’t know and equally as truly he regretted it. Sincerely. He didn’t just regret it because he had been found out.

“Mr. Bell, help me. Please.” It was said so quietly the old man could hardly hear the boy’s pleading.


Mr. Bell looked at the boy through sad eyes. Could Brian be helped, or was it already too late for him. Brian remained silent, but his own shiny grey eyes spoke volumes: would someone please offer him salvation. He had said, “Help me,” but Mr. Bell heard it as, “Beat me, let me atone, don’t leave me stewing in my own guilt.”

Mr. Bell flexed the cane in his hands. Should he beat the boy. He didn’t expect Brian would submit himself to a thrashing. The boy had been mollycoddled all his life; he was hardly likely to be man enough to take this well-deserved whipping. If he ordered the boy to bend over, Mr. Bell expected to hear the front door slam and see Brian running up the driveway to escape punishment.

“Look at me Brian. You have been a thorough disgrace; not just today, but for a very long time past. You are an utter shame; you are disobedient to our parents; you are lazy; and last night you came home drunk and puked up in my garden.”

Brian looked Mr. Bell square in the eye. He was not disputing a word of it. Mr. Bell was correct in every part; he was all the things he said.

Mr. Bell heard his wife bustling in the kitchen. Then she stopped. He knew she was listening. There would be hell to pay later, if he did not go through with his. He took a deep breath. “Stand behind that chair,” he pointed with his cane.

Brian stared hard at the old man. To Mr. Bell it seemed he was debating something with himself. Then, without a murmur, Brian obeyed.

Mr. Bell held the cane, tapping it against his leg as he waited for the boy to decide. He knew if this morning was to have any purpose at all, the beating had to be exemplary. This could not be a token slap on the bum.

But, for it to work, Brian had to submit himself to the old man for punishment. He had to admit that he deserved to be beaten and he was ready to accept the caning, delivered in any way his punisher felt fit; with no argument.

Mr. Bell didn’t know Brian well, but even as he saw the boy standing, apparently emotionless, behind the chair he doubted that he would submit.

Then came the moment of truth, “Bend over.”

There was a hesitation, but only a slight one, before, with his hands visibly trembling he glanced over at Mr. Bell. The old man thought he saw a spark of gratitude in the boy’s grey eyes, before Brian fell forward across the back of the chair.

Brian wore dirty denim jeans, a shirt and jumper. Mr. Bell pulled the jumper clear of the target area and gripped the waistband of the jeans pulling them taut. In truth, Mr. Bell would have preferred to thrash Brian’s naked buttocks. A beating on the bare only increased the severity slightly, but it impressed upon the boy that he was totally submissive to his master.

Despite the wish, Mr. Bell knew that a bare-bottomed beating might prove too much for the boy, no matter how long he had been in need of this.

“Bottom higher, please.”

Brian reached further forward. Mr. Bell noticed him dig his finger nails hard into the chair’s seat and brace himself for what was to come.

Mr. Bell sliced the cane across Brian’s buttocks. It stung like hell. It made him open his fists and cover his face with both hands. A second stroke forced the hands to hold onto his head and stifle the cry which was bursting to emerge. He arched his back, shook his buttocks from side to side and felt every muscle in his body reaching bursting point, but Brian remained bent over, fighting the shafts of pain which were chewing up his buttocks, and struggling to control his laboured breathing

Twelve strokes had succeeded in creating a volume of pain across his backside, bringing tears to his eyes, he lost control and his legs shook in anger in response to the cane’s ravaging of his backside. Brain was a virgin to the cane and even with considerable protection of layers of denim and cotton underpants it felt like his backside was ablaze.

Brian was crumpled, breathless, shocked and utterly defeated.

“Stand,” a curt command from Mr. Bell.

He pulled himself up from his prone position, nursing his injured buttocks and wounded pride. With damp eyes he looked imploringly at his Mr. Bell and forced out his contrition with a strangled, “I’m sorry Mr. Bell, thank you.”

Mr. Bell tucked the cane under his arm like a sergeant-major, as Brian frantically tried to rub away the agony in his blistered buttocks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry”, he repeated.

Mr. Bell knew that all recently-spanked boys said the same. And, as they danced up and down wondering if the pain in their bottoms would ever ease, they probably were.

The test of their true repentance came with their future behaviour. It was now up to Brian to show if he truly wanted help to reform. If he did, Mr. Bell and his cane would be ready, willing and able, to assist.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

He knew the boy would be trouble


Todd Driver knew the boy would be trouble the moment he saw him, that’s why he pulled the car over and offered him a ride.

“Where you going?” he leaned through the car window to get a closer look at the hitchhiker. He looked like he hadn’t slept for days. Probably hadn’t changed his shirt in a week.

“Anywhere,” he replied, the fatigue evident in his voice. “As long as it ain’t here.”

Todd reached across to the passenger door. A stale odour followed the boy. Todd put the car in gear and eased down the highway. Todd Driver, aged forty-five, but not yet looking it. He took care of himself, visited the gym, fought against the aging process. Still had a thirty-two-inch waist.

“I’m a salesman,” he said to try to make conversation. The boy’s head nodded against his own chest, fighting sleep. “I can take you as far as Tonisville. My people have booked me a motel room there.” But Todd was speaking to himself.

It was an hour’s drive. Simple. Highway all the way. No traffic to talk of. From the corner of his eye he watched the boy sleeping. His hair was greasy, his neck unwashed. His clothes stained. But Todd had known the second he saw him; the boy was sex on a stick. Let him shit, shower and shave and he would buff up lovely. Todd’s heart fluttered. Silently, he reproached himself. “Here you go again Todd Driver, will you never learn?”

The boy was still sleeping when Todd pulled the car up at the motel. Todd had to shake him hard before he came around. “This is the end of the line,” he paused, waiting for a response. The boy yawned, stretched, rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Expecting Todd to ask his question.

“I’m checked in for one night,” he nodded at the motel office as if that explained everything. More silence. The boy waited. His bladder was full, aching. He needed to take a piss. He opened his bright hazel eyes wide, encouraging Todd to make the right decision.

“You could stay the night here, if you want to.” His lips parted into what he convinced himself was a winning smile. “We could share the room, if you know what I mean?”

The boy knew what he meant well enough. “It’ll cost you fifty,” he said.

“Okay,” Todd made to open the car door. The boy cursed silently. That was too easy, he should have asked for a hundred.

The night clerk gave Todd a key. He asked no questions. The bill was already taken care of. If he started asking too many questions about his guests and the people they brought to their rooms, the motel would soon go bust.

Todd had never stayed at this motel before, but he knew it well. The noisy wall heater, low watt electric bulbs, the dark patterned carpet. The bedspread was five shades of brown, ideal for concealing stains. There was nothing Todd hadn’t seen a million times before.

“I need to go,” the boy pushed his way past Todd and entered the bathroom. Todd marvelled at the noise of a strong stream of urine hitting water. Impressive, he mused. Like a stallion. He hoped the boy would be like a stallion in other ways as well.

“You need to shower,” Todd told the boy. “Do you have any clean clothes?” he already knew the answer, the boy only had what he stood up in. A dirty white shirt, blue jeans and a red jacket. “Maybe I’ve got a clean shirt you can borrow. We need to go find a diner, I need to eat.”

Todd hovered outside the bathroom door, listening to the shower splash over the boy. He imagined him naked under the cleansing water. He looked sexy as hell in those dirty clothes, he would probably be gorgeous naked, Todd reckoned.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out. The door opened and the boy stood towelling his privates and ass. Todd’s dick stiffened. The boy had a muscular chest, he probably did manual work, when he could get any, Todd supposed. His waist was flat and his cut dick was long and thin. He would be perfect for what Todd had in mind.

The boy turned his back on Todd and let the towel drop a little, giving Todd a perfect view of the goods he was paying for.

The saliva drained from Todd’s mouth, “Hey,” he croaked, “I’m Todd, what’s your name?” The boy missed a beat, before replying, “Joe. My name’s Joe.”

The hell it is, thought Todd, but who cared?

The diner was across the street. It was almost deserted. The supper customers had come and gone. Two guys in some kind of security company uniform drank coffee in one booth. A tired waitress, in her forties and showing it, lumbered up. She smiled, what she probably thought was her winning smile and greeted them like long-lost cousins. Todd smiled back. She was on minimum wage, he supposed, relied on the generosity of her customers’ tips to get by.

Joe scrutinised the pictures on the menus. “Two cheeseburgers, double fries,” he said. He grinned across the table at Todd, “And whatever he’s having.”

Todd ordered the diner’s “special” and coffee. The waitress wrote it down. “Does the boy drink coffee,” she asked sweetly. “Is he old enough?”

“Soda,” Joe snapped. “Coke. Ice. Lots of it.”

Todd watched the waitress sashay over to the counter, then turned to Joe. The boy’s hazel eyes sparkled. There was mischief there. “How old are you anyway?” he whispered.

“Don’t worry pal,” Joe was hungry and irritated. “I ain’t no jail bait.”

Joe ate hurriedly, gulping another mouthful before the first one had been properly swallowed. Todd reckoned he hadn’t seen food for a week. Todd watched, trying (and failing) not to gape. Joe was beautiful, absolutely stunning. His reddish hair suggested Irish heritage. His lips were full, most of his body was tanned by the sun. Now, it was clean Joe’s face shone. His eyes sparkled. Todd had already seen the boy’s naked body. The strong muscles, the tight butt. Todd needed to get the check paid and hightail it back to the room. Now.

It was late, the motel was mostly deserted. Todd had asked for and gotten a room as far away from other guests as was possible. The night clerk hadn’t blinked an eye. He’d seen it all before. Most motel clerks had a tale or two to tell. Hookers, husbands cheating on their wives with other dames; heck with other guys. Men dressed as women, you name it. A middle-aged guy checking in with a boy for rent didn’t turn a hair.

Todd pulled the drapes and switched on the lights, the cheap bulbs gave a dim, yellowy light. Todd had done this before. The boy knew it and Todd knew that the boy knew it. There was no need for soft talking. No wine was drunk, no “sweet nothings” whispered into ears. They could just get down to it. Once fifty in used bills had been counted out.

Todd unbuttoned his shirt. His torso was muscle-toned, but the skin was ruffled. He was advancing on middle age and there was nothing that could be done to hold back nature. Joe took his shirt off, his shiny tight skin testament to his youth. He was half Todd’s age and then some.

Todd undid the buckle of his belt, popped the button on the waist of his pants and pulled the zipper. They tumbled to his feet. He kicked off his black town shoes and stepped out the pants, all the time staring intently at the Adonis before him. Joe purposely avoided Todd’s eye as he stripped himself to his grubby shorts. Then, he stopped. Now, he had to acknowledge the man in the room. His eyes asked the question, “What do you want me to do?”

Todd bent down picked up his pants and withdrew the wide leather belt from the loops. He tossed the pants onto a cheap plastic chair, then tested the belt in his hands. It was heavy. He already knew that fact. He had purchased the belt especially for its thickness and weight. That had little to do with keeping his pants up.

Joe’s sparkling eyes shone brighter. He had a shrewd idea what Todd wanted. He really should have asked for a hundred, he thought. He watched silently as Todd doubled up the belt and swished it through the air. That little beauty could do some real damage, he supposed. Memories of a guy in Reno blurred his thoughts.

Todd was completely naked now. “This is what I want.” He gave clear instructions. Joe had thought he’d heard it all before. From the guys he did tricks for and from other hustlers. There were some right kinky bastards out there, but he’d seen no one like Todd.

Todd offered the belt to Joe. “Whip me as hard as you can. On the butt. Give it all your strength,” Todd smiled and gently caressed Joe’s biceps. “Make me suffer,” Todd said, lying face down on the bed. Joe stood stunned as his John adjusted his dick and balls with his hands so the weight of his body wasn’t squashing them and then reached his arms forward and gripped the bed headboard.

Todd closed his eyes tight and waited for the ecstasy to begin. He had never understood where his compulsion originated. The need to be beaten by other men. People might think it stemmed from childhood, but Todd had never been spanked as a kid. His parents were kind and loving, they would be devastated to discover his obsession. Late in adolescence, Todd had fooled around with a guy from school. His dad kept a wooden paddle in the den. Todd was transfixed the first time he saw it; the sparkling varnished wood, the smoothed down sides.

By the time he graduated Todd was what they called a “bottom” and would willingly offer up his butt for spanking. Someone introduced him to a private little club where the eighteen-year-old was made most welcome. That was the start of it. It was nearly thirty years ago. Now, what with the travelling and the need to keep his job (scandal is bad for business), he had to get his kicks with hookers.

Joe anxiously fingered the leather in his hands. The figure prostrated on the bed breathed heavily. His buttock cheeks twitched in delighted anticipation of the pain to come. Joe couldn’t do it. The humiliation was too great. He had done many things before for his Johns, but not this. The fucking faggot was demented.

“Come on boy, I’m waiting,” Todd thought he was being alluring. He wasn’t. Red mist descended. Sweat soaked Joe’s naked torso; his tanned flesh glistened in the poor light. His heart raced. He slapped the leather across the centre of Todd’s ass, a crimson line immediately appeared on the solid flesh. He slapped another and then another.

“Harder. Harder. Put all those wonderful muscles into it.”

Joe glared, lifted the belt high and turning his body into the swing he landed a dozen or more mighty swipes across Todd’s buttocks. The man wriggled and writhed. He struggled to control his arms, they flailed about, instinctively wanting to cover the target area and stop the belt crashing into his flesh.

“Keep still,” Joe growled. He supposed the flogger was supposed to say something like that. He whipped another flurry of strokes. It looked like Todd was trying to swim off the bed. His arms and body moved like he was doing the crawl.

“Stop,” he gasped. “In my bag there’s some rope. Tie my wrists to the bed.”

“Loser!” Joe snorted silently. He found the rope; two pieces, each about eighteen inches long. Joe had never been a Boy Scout and he knew nothing about knots. Todd did. He had plenty of experience. He guided the boy until he was securely tied; arms akimbo, head down, butt naked to the wind.

“As hard as you can. Take my ass off,” Todd could not, would not, contain his excitement. He didn’t see the boy, contempt stamped into his face. He hated this two-bit salesman for making him do this. He gripped the belt tightly in his hand, stepped closer to the bed so he stood almost over Todd’s body. From this position, he could whip the belt directly down into the man’s already-blistered flesh. He paused. Thinking. Taking his time. Todd had relinquished control. Maybe that’s what really turned him on. Being powerless. That and, of course, the pain.

Todd sensed something was wrong. This wasn’t what he was paying for. He wanted to feel the burn of the leather as it struck again and again across his submitted ass. He raised his head from the mattress and as best he could he looked over his shoulder at Joe. “Get on with it, will you?” he demanded.

Joe grinned. Loser. Fucking loser. He put the belt down on the plastic chair, found his jeans and climbed into them.

“What the … ?” Todd complained.

“Shut up, fucking loser.” Joe reached for one of Todd’s socks. There was nothing the man could do.

“Open wide,” Joe sounded like a dentist with a patient. Todd’s eyes blazed with fear. He clenched his teeth shut.

“Oh per-lease,” Todd cuffed an almighty smack of his hand across Todd’s face. His mouth opened to sound a protest and Joe stuffed the sock home. Todd gagged, it filled most of his mouth. He wasn’t sure he could breathe. He pulled his wrists, but he had taught Joe well. He was going nowhere until the boy decided to release him.

Joe finished dressing. He stood over Todd and ruffled the man’s hair. “Who’s a naughty boy then,” he teased, imitating the voice of a five-year-old. He smacked Todd’s bare butt playfully. Todd pleaded with his eyes, tears welled.

Joe picked up Todd’s bag, tipped it over and let the contents fall to the floor. Not much there. Just clothes. Joe smiled. He had thought of something. Quickly, he toured the motel room stuffing all Todd’s clothes in to the bag. He zipped it up. Then he took the man’s wallet from the night stand, pulled out the currency notes and stuffed them in his own pocket. Contemptuously, he threw the empty wallet at Todd.

Joe mocked Todd’s muffled cries. Then, making sure the man knew exactly what he was doing, he pocketed Todd’s watch.

“Bye, bye, baby,” he jeered as he rattled Todd’s car and house keys. He slipped Todd’s bag over his shoulder and walked out into the cold night air, leaving the man behind to deal as best he could with his raging hard-on.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

What a jolly jape


“He’s only gone and done it. I can’t believe it, Dougall’s only gone and done it.”

Geoff Arkwright’s face fell. Surely, not, he thought, he wouldn’t be so stupid.

“He said he would, and by jove he’s true to his word.” Terrence Aspel rushed through the cricket pavilion. His team mates stopped in their tracks.

“I never thought he would do it,” said one.

“I thought he was drunk when he said it,” offered another.

“He’s as daft as a brush,” chipped in a third.

Arkwright hunched his shoulders. He would get the blame, he just knew it. They would say it was his fault. He was captain of the Downshire County Cricket Club Colts, they would say he should maintain discipline.

Well, he thought, bitterly, it wasn’t like being House Captain at school. There wasn’t much he could do. He couldn’t very well order Dougall to touch his toes for six stingers from an ashplant.

“Come on lads, we’re missing all the fun,” Aspel called over his shoulder. He rushed from the pavilion, followed by seven of his team mates. Arkwright watched them go, before despondently following on. It would all end in tears he was certain of that.

Andy Dougall, the club’s opening batsman, had vowed he would strip off and wash himself in the horse trough if the county colts won the national championship. Well, the cup was safely in the trophy cabinet and now the twenty-year-old wunderkind was as good as his word. “Please God,” Arkwright prayed silently, “Don’t let him be totally naked.”

A small crowd had gathered, of course.  Children, businessmen, ladies with shopping. All had stopped to enjoy the fun. It wasn’t every day a fit naked man had a bath in a horse trough.

Arkwright watched glumly. Everyone seemed to take the jape in good spirits. Just wait until a maiden aunt sauntered by, he thought. She’d have the rozzers on Dougall, that was for certain.

It didn’t need a sweet, sheltered old lady. The police found Dougall for themselves. “What the blinking blimey?” Police Constable Percy Perkings exclaimed to his Sergeant. “What’s ’appening at the ’orse trough?” He peered through the summer’s haze. A crowd of people were staring into the trough. Sgt Truscott saw Dougall first. His jaw dropped. A naked man. In broad daylight. It was a scandal.

“Hey you!” he cried as he broke into a run. What d’you think yer doing?” PC Perkins puffed behind him, a startled look on his face.

“Break this up. Move along please,” Sgt Truscott gasped. “There’s nothing to see here,” he added, quite erroneously. The people of Downshire, were by and large a law-abiding lot. The small crowd dispersed giggling and muttering. They wouldn’t have minded if the show had continued a little longer.

“You,” Sgt Truscott’s face was puce, in part from the run he had made on a hot afternoon, and also by his genuine disgust. “Nudity. In public,” he thundered. “It’s disgusting,” Truscott gulped. “It’s against the law.”

Dougall smiled ingratiatingly. He had attended an English public school with delusions of grandeur, he knew how to deal with the servant class. “I am not in the nude,” he sneered, He was about to add, “my man,” when the sergeant took the wind from his sails.

“You look pretty nude to me,” he roared. “It’s disgusting,” he repeated.

“I am wearing a swimming costume.” Dougall flapped his hands around his midriff to draw attention to his trunks. “Not nude at all.”

PC Perkins watched from a distance. The sergeant had a wicked temper. The young boy would do well not to rile him; the constable knew that from bitter personal experience.

“You,” the Sergeant barked at Aspel, “Fetch a raincoat; he can’t stay like this.”

Meekly, Aspel trudged into the pavilion.

Dougall had dried off by the time he had been frogmarched the mile or so to the police station. The duty officer at the front desk didn’t try to conceal his merriment. A half-naked man: they would have a lot of fun with that.

“The charge is lewd behaviour,” Sgt Truscott boomed. “Put him in a cell, we’ll take him before the magistrate in the morning.” He paused, waiting for Dougall’s predictable reaction.

“Magistrate?” his face flushed. In a whirl his future flashed before him. He was one of the top up-and-coming opening batsmen in the country. There was every possibility he’d get his first England cap soon. But, not with a criminal record. Lewd behaviour in a horse trough. The story would probably get in the Sunday papers. He would be a laughing-stock. Downshire would probably sack him.

“But,” Dougall’s voice quivered in protest. “It was only a bit of fun,” he implored. “A jape. A boyish prank.”

Sgt Truscott sneered, “You’re a bit too old for boyish pranks, aren’t you?”

It was a straw and Dougall was so desperate he would clutch at anything. “I’m twenty; I’m not legally an adult,” he pleaded.

“Pah! Do you want me to telephone your father? Tell him you’re at the police station and ask him to come down?” he glared at Dougall. “Shall I ask him to fetch his slipper?”

God no! His father must never know. Dougall would never hear the end of it.

“No, I didn’t think so,” Sgt Truscott turned to the duty officer. “What do you think Fred? What shall we do with the toe rag?”

The duty officer smiled. He had heard his sergeant talk like this before. He had a shrewd idea what was on his guv’nor’s mind. “Is he too old for a good hiding, do you think Sarge?” he stared intently at Dougall, delighted to see the menace blush to his roots.

“Maybe not,” Sgt Truscott turned his back on Dougall ensuring the twenty-year-old would not see the twinkle in his eye. “Shall we call his father then?”

“No, please,” even as the words escaped his lips, Dougall knew he had given the game away. He would do anything to leave his father out.

“What about the cricket club?” Truscott winked at the duty officer, “Is there someone we could call there? A coach perhaps? Maybe six-of-the-best across the backside with a cricket stump would do the trick?”

Dougall’s temples throbbed. He was wretched. His silly prank had backfired terrifically. He needed to keep out of the magistrates’ court at all costs. But, a beating from the cricket coach was out of the question.

“Or,” Sgt Truscott turned on his heels to face Dougall, “What about the club captain. He’s ex-public school isn’t he? I bet he knows how to swing a cane. Eh, what d’you think?” The sergeant could barely suppress his delight as blood drained from Dougall’s face.

“No, please,” Dougall mumbled.

“We’ll who else can there be?” Sgt Truscott stretched his arms and waited. The boy was about to break.

Corporal punishment was the solution, Dougall knew that. He was ex-public school. St. Tom’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional games and traditional discipline. A stiff caning solved most problems. It hurt like billy-o. But it was soon over and everybody moved on with their lives. He would accept a beating for his foolishness, but not from his father. And, it would be too humiliating to have Arkwright or the club coach administer his caning.

“Well …?” Sgt Truscott asked the duty officer. “What are we to do?”

“Dunno Sarge, what does the young lad have to say?”

The stares from the police officers burned into Dougall. The young man’s heart raced. He felt so foolish. But, he had to speak up. He had to say what was on his mind. He might regret it for the rest of his life if he remained silent.

He gulped air into his lungs. “Could you do it?”

“Do what sonny?” Sgt Truscott’s face was immobile. The duty officer licked his lips.

Dougall stared intently at the worn lino beneath his feet. “You know, could you …?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The silence was intense. It was now or never.

“Would you beat me,” he whispered.

“Speak up sonny.”

Dougall had never before thought much about the police. He had no opinion about them one way or the other. Until now. Now, he hated them with a passion. He gulped in more air and curled his fingers into fists. “Would you beat me,” he enunciated clearly.

“Say, please.”

Dougall’s fingernails bit deeply into the palms of his hands. “Per-lease.”

“I think that could be arranged, don’t you officer?” Sgt Truscott strode towards the back of the police station. “Follow me, lad. Come this way.” Sorrowfully, Dougall skipped down the corridor after the quickly disappearing policeman.

The room was usually used for interviews. There wasn’t much furniture. There didn’t need to be. There was a small wooden table in the centre surrounded by four chairs; and not much else. Sgt Truscott silently moved the chairs to the edge of the room; they would be of no use for what he had in mind.

Slowly, he unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. Seconds later it was in a heap on one of the chairs.

“Take off your raincoat and put it over there,” Sgt Truscott nodded to his own jacket. Dougall thought he was calm, but he couldn’t get his fingers to obey him. At last the buttons were undone and the coat removed. Sgt Truscott drew in breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he stood so close to a nearly naked man. The swimming trunks fitted Dougall snugly and the outline of his cock and balls was visible. It took an effort, but Sgt Truscott didn’t stare.

Instead, his own hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. Dougal stared intently. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as the sergeant folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Truscott ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip. “Shall we get this over with then?”

Dougall answered with an almost imperceptible nod.

“Climb up onto the table. Lay flat out.” The sergeant watched intently as Dougall stretched himself across the worn wooden table top.

“It helps if you fold your arms and rest your face in them,” the sergeant spoke kindly. He saw Dougall’s muscles in his back ripple as he manoeuvred to get into place. The twenty-year-old was some athlete. There wasn’t an ounce of spare fat on his body; his legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. Almost absent-mindedly, Sgt Truscott reached to the waist of the swimming trunks and tugged slightly. Now, they fitted like a second skin. The crack between Dougall’s cheeks was clearly defined. The young man made a terrific target.

The crack of leather on stretched cotton bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Dougall shut his teeth. It hurt. More than he might have imagined, but he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He screwed up his eyes to absorb the pain and settled himself for whack number two. It wasn’t long in coming. The sergeant twisted his own body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Dougall’s buttocks. With his prey lying flat in front of him, the punisher was able to choose his target with great accuracy. Had the boy been bent across the table or over the back of a chair, a great deal of his flesh would have been hidden away from the direct line of the lashing leather.

Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed. Dougall silently counted them all and when Truscott reached thirty the sergeant stopped.

The young man’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived.

“Stand up. Get back into your raincoat. Get out.” Sgt Truscott could not get rid of the boy too quickly. Dougall had no desire to stay. It was over. There would be no appearance before the magistrate. No scandal in the Sunday newspapers. His chances of an England cap remained strong. Gingerly, he hobbled from the room and limped down the passageway to the front door.









It was still sunny. Summer was not yet quite over. His bum felt raw. It was a scorching sensation very unlike the pain from six with the cane. It would take some time for the burning to fade.

He must at all costs resist the temptation to sit in the cool water of the horse trough to relieve his suffering, he smiled to himself as he set off back to the cricket club to collect his clothes.


Picture credit: The Champion

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The Crammer

Toby’s father visits

A preacher teaches humility


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 The landlord Kevin saw me heaving my shoulder against the heavy saloon bar door. “You’re barred!” he shouted from across the empty room before I even stepped across the threshold. He meant it too.

I stood bemused. The bar was deserted apart from we two. “After the other night,” Kevin began to explain. “I don’t need the grief. Just go. Find some other pub to smash up.”

Then, I knew what he meant.

“Three chairs. Broken. Beyond repair.” Kevin was an elderly man, running to fat. Even across the dimly-lit bar I could see sweat was streaming down his face. He was not enjoying this. He hated confrontation.

The Royal pub was my favourite place to hang out. Me and a group of pals were well out of order a few nights earlier. You might have been there yourself. Or you’ve had your evening spoiled by people who were. I don’t remember much of the detail. Too much to drink. Certainly. Too loud. Beer splashed about. Was there a fight? Like I said, I really don’t remember.

Just then, Albert, his partner, or husband, or whatever you call it, appeared from a trap door behind the bar. He wiped his hands on an old rag and looked across the room at me. I felt his eyes burn into me with distain. “If I had my way …” he started and then trailed off. He threw the rag on the bar counter and busied himself stacking glasses.

“B … b …” I tried to speak, but I could not find the words. I wanted to say I was sorry, but I wasn’t too sure what it was that I was sorry about. We must have been well out of order. I approached the bar and sat on a stool.

“I said you’re barred,” Kevin tried to growl at me. He wasn’t very good at aggression.

“Piss off. We don’t want your sort here,” Albert was much better at it. He leaned across the bar and put his face close to mine. I could smell his toothpaste. “If I had my way ….” He said it again. His way? I thought he meant he would call the police or something. Perhaps he had wanted to, but Kevin had talked him out of it.

“I’m sorry. Really sorry.” I managed to get the words out this time. I was too. I wasn’t just saying this. I am not the kind of guy who goes around wrecking pubs. I’m twenty-two and a bank clerk for pity’s sake. I spend my days sedately counting other people’s money. I’ve got a girlfriend. I hope we’ll get married one day. Settle down. Have a family. I am Mr Normal. Not a pub fighter.

Kevin peered at me through owl-like glasses, as if seeing me for the very first time. “Whatever possessed you, Simon?” I blushed with shame. He sounded a bit like my mum. What on earth would mum say if she ever found out?

“Let me pay for the damage,” I stuttered.

“You should pay all right,” Albert sneered. “If I had my way …”

“No,” a smile forced its way across Kevin’s flabby face. “You didn’t do the damage.”

It was a relief to hear that. Perhaps, I wasn’t such a bad lad after all.

“But you did encourage them on. You are equally to blame,” Albert was not letting me off the hook so easily. I stared down at the drip cloth on the counter. It advertised Carlsberg. I could murder a pint, I thought.

“If I had my way …” Albert said again. He was beginning to annoy me.

“What would you do if you had your way?” I snapped. I always had a quick temper. It sometimes got me into trouble.

Albert’s face creased in anger. I saw him clench his right hand into a fist. He was trying to control his own temper. “I’d give you a damn good hiding,” he blurted.

What? I didn’t say anything but my face or my body language must have spoken for me. It said, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Spanking.” Albert unclenched his fist and pointed his index finger in my face. “A jolly good spanking.”

I sat and gaped. Spanking? He meant it too.

“That would teach you a lesson. You little shit.” Albert definitely had it in for me. “Now piss off. You’re barred.”

I sat as if glued to the stool. Spanking? What an idea. Was it a gay thing? Did he get off on spanking younger guys? I looked at my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I had seen myself plenty of times before. I knew what I looked like. I was a little over five-eight, which made me average height. My hair was cut short; if I let it grow it would curl and make me look like a scarecrow. This was Sunday, so I needed a shave, but my stubble didn’t detract from my otherwise boyish looks. I was a bit on the thin side. I liked the pub, but I also ran the streets two or three times a week. That kept the beer belly at bay and contributed to my flat stomach. From what I had seen of it in the past, my bum was round and firm. I was sitting on it as I checked myself out in the mirror, but Albert would have had plenty of opportunities in the past to admire it.

“Go,” Albert snarled. I slipped my arse off the stool and headed for the door. Five minutes later I was gulping down a pint of lager at The Mitre, a horrible pub that was usually full of miserable old geezers who spent their whole time moaning about their wives. I had no choice. There were only two pubs in the village.

I was close to the bottom of the glass, when Tony breezed in. “You barred too?” he grinned. I smiled. I suppose we were all banned. We deserved it, too. Why the hell did we do it?

Tony put a fresh pint in front of me.

“Did Albert say anything to you?” Tony sipped on his best bitter. He looked quizzically at me, as if he was pondering something.

I gulped my lager. “About spanking us, you mean?”

Tony flushed and hurriedly looked around the bar, “Keep your voice down.”

I took another gulp.

“Well?” Tony seemed agitated.

“Well what?”

Tony leaned close to me. His breath stank of booze and cigarettes. He whispered, “The spanking.”

My puzzled look must have spurred him on.

“Are we going to let him?” Tony was earnest.

I spluttered my beer. It dribbled down my chin as I coughed up a lungful of air.

“War ….?” I mouthed the word. I wasn’t recovered enough to speak properly.

“We can’t be barred from the Royal. I’m in the snooker team. And the darts.”

I got my wind back. “You cannot be serious.” I sounded like John McEnroe on a bad day.

He shrugged. Just then Bill walked through the door. He beamed and rubbed the palms of his hands against his buttocks.

“Yeah, I know!” I said. He didn’t need to explain himself.

He sat down and sipped from a bottle of designer beer.

“We’ve got no choice, of course,” he said thoughtfully. I looked blank.

He sighed at my ignorance, “The new law.”

I was still uncomprehending.

“Don’t you ever follow the news? The new law. Juvenile delinquents. If Albert reports us to the police and we’re convicted of vandalism. Or affray, even. We’ll get the birch. No question.”

I saw the blood drain from Tony’s face. “Jesus!” he exclaimed. “I forgot about that.” He gulped at his beer, sweat soaking his temples.

“So,” Bill, sighed, “We either let Albert smack our little botties or some prison officer will rip our arses to shreds.” He drew on his bottle. “It’s a no-brainer.”

We lapsed into uncomfortable silence. Each of us alone with our fears. Pain. Humiliation. Disgrace. Would I lose my job at the bank?

Tony broke the silence. “You know Albert’s a bit …” He flapped his wrist and threw his head back.

“Ha!” Bill sneered. “He’s not at all limp-wristed.” He sipped his beer. “I wish he were.” He was thinking of the pain that was undoubtedly to come.

“Would he … you know …?” I daren’t say the words out loud.

My pals did know. None of us wanted to think about it.

“Bare, you mean?” Bill spoke at last. I nodded.

“But, won’t he enjoy it? You know? Being gay?” Tony blushed.

“Maybe,” Bill smiled, “But not as much as the prison officer who birches the skin off juvies.”

I nodded agreement. Why? What did I know about anything?

“I bet they cream their pants,” Bill sneered.

We fell back into silence. The bar was filling up. We needed to make a decision. Soon.

“So,” Bill was a natural leader. He had led us in the mayhem that caused the damage. He was about to lead us again. “We’re going to let him do it.” It was a statement, not a question.

I shrugged my shoulders. It meant, “Yes,” not, “I dunno.”

Tony gave a twisted smile. His face paled. It was his way of assenting.

Bill went to the bar. One more drink and then we would go face the music.

The Royal was busy when we got there half an hour later. Albert spotted us as soon as the big heavy saloon bar door edged its way back to a closed position. His jaw opened. He was about to tell us we were barred. He stopped short. One look at our hunched shoulders and embarrassed faces told him he had won.

He lifted the flap in the bar. “Come through lads,” he said pleasantly. It was as if we were old, valued friends and he was pleased we were visiting. He probably was delighted. I certainly was not.

“Go up the stairs, lads.” It irritated me that he called us “lads”, I don’t recall him ever doing that before. We did as we were told and were taken into Albert’s private quarters. It was a smallish sitting room. It was not much different from the one at my mum’s house. There was a small dining table, a double-sized couch, a television. The usual things.

We stood shuffling our feet, not sure what we were supposed to do. Or, say. There had been almost total embarrassed silence on the way over. None of us wanted to share our feelings. I’m not certain about the others, but I had never been spanked in my life. I had left school before the cane was brought back and as far as I knew the junior bank clerks and whatnot at the bank were immune from corporal punishment. Or, if not “immune” exactly, at least no one misbehaved enough to warrant a thrashing. I was entering unchartered territory.

Albert perched his buttocks on the edge of the table. His disdain for us was obvious. I clasped my hands behind my back and took an unusually keen interest in the pattern in the carpet beneath my feet. My heart was pounding and my ears popped as blood coursed at maximum speed through my arteries. I don’t remember a single word he said. And, he said an awful lot. At last, satisfied that he had lectured us enough, he pronounced sentence. I heard that alright.

“Stand there.” He pointed to the far wall. “Take off your clothes.”

The shock on Tony’s face scared me. I thought he was going to cry and faint, all at the same time.

“Now, come on,” Bill started a protest. Albert’s face flashed crimson anger. That stopped Bill.

“Or would you prefer I called the police?” Albert knew he had us over a barrel. Or wherever he intended us to bend over to receive our thrashing.

I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.

But, not yet totally humiliated. “I said take off all your clothes.” Albert’s tongue darted through his lips, like a lizard. I could see he had a moustache of sweat.

Tears welled behind my eyes. I wanted to plead for mercy. Had I been on my own, I might have. Bill once more took the lead. He stood on his right foot and unsteadily pulled the sock off his left. Then he reversed the process. Now, he was in only his bright blue briefs. His tubby stomach hung over the waistband. He glared at Albert, a last gesture of defiance. He pinched the elasticated waist at his hips and with an exaggerated twist of his wrists he sent the pants down to his ankles. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen an uncut cock before.

Tony was not so flamboyant. He eased his boxer shorts over his hips and slowly – a snail would have been faster – he exposed his buttocks and his hairy dick and ball sack. I had known Tony for years, he had always been shy with women. I couldn’t see why; if they realised what he had to offer they would flock to him. He was long and thin. When erect, he could have competed with a stallion.

I took hold of my own waistband. I hesitated. Absurdly, I remembered I had not changed my pants for a couple of days. Would there be skid marks? I closed my eyes and stepped out of them.

We stood, our hands cupping our balls. I dared not look at Albert. What if he was checking me out? What if he fancied me? We had known for years that Kevin and Albert were gay. They were married for pity’s sake, but I had never thought of them as sexual beings. They were older than my mum and dad! What if he wanted to stick his dick up my bum?

“Stay there. I’ll be back in a second.” Albert left the room and true to his word, he returned almost immediately. He was holding a piece of wood. Do you call it a four by two? I’m not sure. I’m no carpenter. I didn’t even do woodwork at school. It was a piece of pale-brown wood about two feet in length and maybe two inches wide and a quarter-inch thick. He held it in his right hand and smacked it into the palm of his left. His eyes glazed and he winced.

He looked around the sitting room as if he were taking an inventory, his face impassive. Table. Dining chairs. Couch. Coffee table. He pondered each item of furniture in turn, weighing up its properties for the task in hand.

His eyes sparkled. A decision had been made.

“You, Simon,” he waved his wood at me. “Lay face down across the table.” He pointed at the coffee table. A shot of bile heaved from who-knew-where and stuck in the back of my throat. For an awful moment, I thought I would vomit on the carpet. My knees buckled. I steadied myself in time, just before I collapsed in a heap.

Albert waved the wood once more. I felt the gazes of my two pals burning into the back of my head as I waddled towards the table. This could not be happening. Any moment I would wake up. In bed, at my girlfriend’s home.

“C’mon, I haven’t got all day. I’ve got customers.” Albert took a pace backwards to give me space to approach the low coffee table. “Lay on it.”

I hesitated. I genuinely did not know what he meant. Was I to lay flat, my stomach and chest on the table and my legs waving behind me? Where did my arms go?

“Lay down. Put your bum on the edge. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Hold the far end. Keep your arse still.”

I manoeuvred into position. My cock dug into the hard table edge. I wriggled trying to find comfort. I stretched my arms ahead of me and looked down at the table top. I concentrated on the pattern of three rings that had been left by mugs. A draught wafted across my naked body. I shivered as much from fear as the cool air.

Albert wheezed. I heard him gulp in a lung-full of air. I tapped my head against the table top. My ears popped, I feared blood would pour through them any second now. I felt sick. Albert could see right into my crack. Up the hole probably. Was his dick throbbing against his zipper fly? Did he want to rip down his own trousers and pants and take me up the arse?

I never heard it coming. Albert gave no warning. There was no command, “Brace yourself.” There was just a dull thud as the wood whopped against the centre of my buttocks. Then four or five beats later an intense pain spread across my tight bum. It started in the very centre and travelled in waves across both cheeks and up and down my legs. Startled, a rush of air whistled through my teeth.

After the third whack, I was humping the table’s edge. I had no bodily control. Spasms of pain made my body rise and fall; rise and fall. My blistered bum was going up and down, it must have looked like I was screwing a girl.

Hot tears flowed down my cheeks, like a young river cascading through mountains. Snot dribbled from my nose. My head banged the table top.

I lost count of the times that piece of wood bounced across my backside. It could have been dozens. What I do know was that later, when we inspected the damage, none of us had a square inch of flesh on the buttocks or the back of the thighs that did not glow red. My bum was hot to touch. You could have fried an egg back there.

I clenched my teeth and waited for the onslaught to continue. Albert was into his stride. He pop-pop-popped the wood against my bum, finding virgin areas to inflame. He was some expert. I’m not about to share my shame with other customers, but I’d dearly love to know how many others Albert had spanked before me.

At last it was over. “Up!” It was a curt command. I lay gasping for breath. The cliché people use is gasping, “like a beached whale.” I don’t know about that, but I couldn’t breath and my head ached like made. The agony in my whole body was intense. I had never felt anything like it before. My arse was on fire. Had Albert just poured a kettle of boiling water over it?

“Come. Up.” Albert was anxious to move on to the next lad. I was calming a little. My ordeal was over. I supposed I had taken it as well as could be expected. I had not disgraced myself in front of my pals. I felt self-satisfied. Smug even.

I eased myself off the table and waited a second on my knees. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bill moving toward me, ready to take my place. I flashed him what I thought was a comradely smile. “Go get it boy!” it was meant to say.

I’m not sure if his look back at me was terror or horror. He turned away. He could not bear to face me.

I hauled myself to my feet. Only then did I see my seven-inch cock standing proud, pointing at the ceiling. It kinked a little to the right. I had never seen it so stiff. It throbbed even as much as my arse. The top glistened with pre-cum. It pulsated, even without my hand to stimulate it. I covered it with my palms. Tony, ashen faced, looked away. I saw he too had his cock covered.

I heard the smack of wood against flabby flesh. I turned to see a red stripe a couple of inches wide spreading across Bill’s bum. My palms filled with sticky, hot cum.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


A group of them were talking in the pub. The beer was flowing. There was only one topic of conversation. Those bloody kids. The ones who congregated around the bus stop at night. Giving innocent folk grief.

“Have you seen the graffiti? The swear words?”

“They drink strong cider, then piss it up all over the bus shelter.”

Everyone spoke at once. They all had horror tales.

“They make racist comments to the Muslims.”

“Did you hear what they called young Garry?” Garry had cerebral palsy. He dribbled a lot. “It was so upsetting for his mum.”

“We should do something about those hooligans.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Whose round is it?”

More beer was drunk.

It had been the beer talking. When they first came up with the idea it was conceived in drink. But, later, in the cold light of sobriety, it still sounded a good idea.

So, they made a plan. It was pretty simple. It would work. If everybody played their part and didn’t bottle out at the last minute.

They chose Thursday night. They needed access to the community hall. It was used most evenings. But not Thursday. So, Thursday it was.

They needed tools. That was a bit more difficult. The thing they needed most wasn’t made anymore. It had gone out of fashion. Time was you’d find them in every school. In many homes too. But, not now.

Old Joe thought he could find a decent alternative, so he was set loose in the nearby woods to see what he could come up with.

The others scoured their homes to see what they could contribute.

It was Thursday night; nearly nine o’clock. It had threatened to rain, but it was clear now. Stars were out. The louts at the bus shelter were swigging cider; smoking dope. There were five of them. A gang of mates. All unemployed and living off the state. All over eighteen, all strong, all able to work. Just bone idle, that’s all.

They didn’t know what hit them. Five family cars pulled up together. Passenger doors opened. Podgy middle-aged men got out. Not the fighting kind. The louts would have made mincemeat of them in a fight. A half-fair fight. But this was no fair fight. They had surprise on their side.

In the blink of an eye plastic shopping bags were over heads and five louts were bundled into backseats. Plastic ties bound their wrists. Cars sped off. Round one had been a success.

Trestle tables had been put out at the community hall. One was covered in fresh switches. Old Joe had done a good job whittling. They really wanted good solid school canes. The whippy rattan kind. With curved handles. But the switches would make a good substitute.

There were also belts and brushes. Someone had found a pair of old-fashioned bedroom slippers. Ones with checked uppers and flexible leather soles. A heavy razor strop took pride of place. Did anyone still use cutthroat razors?

A dozen strong and some not-so-strong men awaited the arrival of the cars. They were psyched up. Waiting. Ready to give the louts the thrashings they thought they so richly deserved.

It was such a simple plan. Each car in turn pulled up outside the hall. Then, the unwilling passenger was hauled inside. A dozen men helped to tie each hooligan over the trestle tables. Face down, backsides high. The perfect position. Legs were tied together with rope. Nobody was going anywhere. Not until punishment had been effected.

They shouted, hollered and shrieked. And that was before a single lash had connected.

Gerry Aldermaston decided he was the residents’ leader. He made a speech. It wasn’t Churchillian; nobody would have followed Aldermaston into gunfire. But he spoke from the heart. The five young men with their jeans-covered arses on show had destroyed the peace of the community. They vandalised common property. Good, honest, decent, people were afraid to walk the streets.

“It has to stop and it must stop right now!” he roared.

Five young men muttered curses. None spoke out loud. The enormity of their plight was clear. They were at the mercy of Aldermaston and his cronies.

“Gentlemen,” Aldermaston spoke to his colleagues as if they were an army platoon. “Down with their jeans. Underwear too.”

That set the five hooligans off again. Whining and cursing and kicking their legs. It was to no avail. Five pairs of naked buttocks were soon on display.

“Come to order, please gentlemen,” Aldermaston was marshalling his troops.

Each resident picked his weapon of choice.

“What a pity we don’t have a proper school cane,” Mr Winstanley sighed aloud. “They don’t make them any longer,” he added. His colleagues muttered their sympathies, all ignorant of the existence of eBay.

Twenty-five residents formed an orderly line.

Aldermaston was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “Take your marks. Let punishment commence.”

Then each man stepped forward and slashed his instrument of punishment into the naked haunches of the erstwhile terrorists. One after another they whipped switches, belts, a razor strop, a slipper and assorted brushes across the bared cheeks of the hooligans. Then they resumed their original positions and went around the circuit again. And again. And again.


Other stories you might like

Lazy students home for the hols

The military camp

A maintenance spanking


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


I feel like I’ve sat on a barbecue



“I don’t know about you, but my arse feels like I’ve sat on a barbecue,” Nathan looked ruefully at his friend. His own trousers were at his knees and he held on to the elasticated waist of his underpants as he tugged them away from his body to inspect his savaged buttocks.

“Yeah, Old Nutter can sure lay on a caning.” Noah twisted his body to try to get a better look at his own bum. He could make out several thick red lines running in all directions across both cheeks. A number had risen into welts that he knew would soon turn purple. It had been twelve swipes on the bare, and now his arse resembled a map of Clapham Junction railway.

A few minutes earlier

“Can you think of any reason why I should not cane you for this,” Dr Nuttingham, the headmaster, said quietly, Noah shook his head, resigned to the fact he would shortly be bending over with his bare arse in the air.

“Lower your trousers and underpants and put yourself over the desk, Watkins,” the headmaster ordered.

Dr Nuttingham watched intently as Noah moved towards the desk and undid the belt of his long grey school trousers. He released the buttons of the fly and pushed them firmly down to his ankles. He then placed his hands under his grey school shirt and pulled down a pair of white regulation underpants. He pushed these down his pale legs to join his crumpled trousers and stretched himself firmly across the surface of the desk. He had made no attempt to lift up his school shirt and the area he knew would shortly suffer familiar pain remained decently covered.


The headmaster supressed a smile as he watched these proceedings and then enquired, unnecessarily, if Noah was ready. He then approached the prostrate boy. He said nothing but lifted the tail of the boy’s shirt and rolled it to a little above his waist. The eighteen-year-old senior sixth-former, acutely conscious of this final baring of his backside, lifted his body slightly to allow the shirt to make its journey.

The thick, swishy crook-handled cane had left its nesting place on the hat stand and was now whistling through the air – limbering up for yet another tirade of indignant, righteous strokes across another offender’s bare backside. Noah could see Dr Nuttingham’s mouldy, almost worn out striped black trousers and his tattered academic gown out of the corner of his eye. He felt the cane tap the inside of his thighs to encourage him to spread his legs. Now, the headmaster could better appreciate the teenager’s scrotum, crack and hole.

Noah felt something hard pressed against the bare flesh of his buttocks and he tensed his legs in anticipation. His palms were sweaty as he gripped the opposite side of the desk.

There was a long pause, then a swish followed by a loud firecracker explosion. Intense, blinding pain overwhelmed him for a few seconds, and then he was aware of a deep and biting ache across his bottom. The stroke had landed full across both cheeks, high across the top of his bum. The stinging was amazing, but it faded quickly.

The tight bottom quivered as the cane tapped on the apex of the contours. Noah panted a little, but he was a boy who had felt the bite of the cane frequently and he had endured many thrashings. Swipe! The headmaster hit so fiercely, he might have been trying to beat a carpet.

The next cut was low, at the base of his bum, landing with a meaty “thunk.” It hurt. It hurt terrifically. The stinging was insane. He gasped loudly. It was involuntary; it was what his body demanded he do. Already the line of agony across his seat felt like a hot branding iron against his bare flesh. His fingers hurt from their impossibly tight grip on the desk, but that was nothing compared to the pain behind him.

There was a sharp swish followed by a louder, more intense, pop. The pain was startling. It came at him fast, a rush of stinging that took his breath away. Dr Nuttingham didn’t give Noah a moment to think about it but promptly whipped the cane down again, this time a bit lower, right where the bum meets the thighs.

Pain flooded through him, searing and burning. He thought he might die; the agony was so bad. His whole arse was on fire, the stripes sent messages of alarm to his brain. His eyes watered and he choked back sobs.

The next swipe had him stamping his right foot in a futile attempt to dull the pain. Despite grunts and groans, he somehow managed to keep his position; chest and left cheek on the desk top, stomach pressed against one edge, while his hands gripped the further edge for dear life.

The eighteen-year-old gritted his teeth and waited for the onslaught to continue. The cane tapped across the waiting rump, then without warning another swipe whistled down, landing with a sickening swish and crack. Noah nearly jumped off the desk as the stripe landed diagonally across two previous cuts, igniting a line of searing heat right across both cheeks.

The headmaster smirked. The boy most certainly felt that one. Good. The brat deserved everything he was getting; every last swipe of Dr Nuttingham’s fearsome rattan cane.

Outside the study door, Nathan winced, his hands slipping round subconsciously to comfort his own bottom at the whistle and crack of the rod as it made contact with Noah’s arse. He knew it would only be moments until he was across the desk receiving the same treatment.

The headmaster was nearly finished. He laid on three more strokes in rapid succession, slicing across another three narrow lines of piercing pain on the upper half of the boy’s buttocks.

Noah’s yelps turned to full-throated yells. Tears flowed down his cheeks; his body gyrated to the left and right; his feet marched up and down; his bare crotch humped the hard wooden desk. “Excellent work”, the headmaster thought. “I’ve defeated the arrogant, cheeky sod.”

He replaced the cane in the hat stand and stood behind the weeping prostrate teenager. “You may stand up now Watkins,” he said softly. Painfully, Noah slipped off the desk. He stumbled slightly and grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself. Dr Nuttingham gave him a couple of tissues to wipe his nose and eyes. Then the headmaster sat back in his chair and watched as Noah slowly replaced his white Y-fronts over his scorching bottom and then gingerly bent down again to retrieve his grey school trousers.

Once the boy was once again fully dressed, the headmaster delivered his lecture. Noah stood, staring intently at the rug beneath his shiny black shoes. He heard none of it, all he wanted to do was leave and go and give his tortured buttocks some comfort. At last, Dr Nuttingham opened a drawer, extracted the punishment book, found his page, and started to write. Soon he pushed the book and pen across the desktop for Noah to sign his name.

With that final task completed, the headmaster growled, “You are dismissed. Send in Michaels.”


Nathan reached inside his backpack and pulled out a phone. “Let me take some photos; I’ll put them on blazingboyzbuttz.”

Noah put his hands on his knees and jutted his backside. The phone vibrated, Nathan checked caller ID and answered. “Y’ello Mr Hennessey. Yeah, everything’s fine. We’ve finished. Just about to leave. Another job?” Nathan questioned Noah with his eyes. “Well yes, but we’ll need some time to heal,” he giggled. “Okay, speak to you later.”

The boys stripped off their school uniforms and replaced them with jeans and jumpers. “Fancy a drink before we go home?” Nathan inquired.


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Mr. Hennessey’s Boys

Paul and his landlord

Over the boss’s knee


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


Fr. Christian

“Stand there boy and wait. You need to be taught a painful lesson. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Keith stood in the passageway and watched miserably as Fr. Christian slowly lumbered up the stairs; one fat buttock after another wobbling towards the top landing.

He could make a run for it. There was time. The front door was only feet away. He could be through it, down the driveway and on the main road within seconds.

He could, but it didn’t even occur him to do such a thing. Whatever happened to him now was his own fault. There was nobody else to blame.

Keith’s mother had put him in the care of the church a few months previously. She had told Fr. Christian that he was out of control. He had been drinking, smoking weed and stealing money from her purse. There seemed no end to his misdeeds. She was powerless to punish him. She standing not much more than five feet tall and he towering above her at six feet.

Fr. Christian, as his name suggested, thought himself to be a charitable man. Besides, he believed it was his duty to help. How else could the young man be saved without the intervention of the church and lots of prayer?

It remained to be seen whether Keith was a pious person. Fr. Christian and fellow worshipers prayed and prayed, but still the wretched boy drank and inhaled.

“Prayer is not working,” Fr. Christian told whoever would care to listen. “Now, we must try mortification of the flesh.”

While Keith stood awaiting the return of Fr. Christian he heard excited whispers from within the lounge room. He was yet to discover that three of the leading lights of the local Church were there to assist the Father. All were men. This was no job for a lady.

A door opened and closed upstairs. Fr. Christian was in the special room he liked to call his study. Keith had never seen inside; it was always kept locked. A moment or two passed and the Father emerged and he lumbered down the stairs. His fat jowls wobbled and he moved unsteadily. His enormous stomach flopped over the waistband of his trousers. The exertion of walking up and down the stairs brought him out in a sweat.

Keith noticed little of this. All he saw was the rod Fr. Christian had in his hand. He held it daintily by its curved handle, allowing it to hang perpendicularly against his leg. Even from a distance Keith could see the rattan school cane was awesome. It was nearly four feet long and as thick as a man’s finger.

He took a step backwards as Fr. Christian’s mound of fat squelched onto the lower landing.

“Nearly ready boy,” the Father wheezed. “Nearly ready.”

Fr. Christian tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. He peered at the boy through half closed eyes. His eyelids were thick and heavy and he always appeared to be squinting. “Follow me lad. Follow me,” he rasped.

Keith allowed the Father to lead the way. He was in no hurry. He would make no complaint if what was to happen next were delayed. Fr. Christian entered the lounge room, then realising his eighteen-year-old charge was not following, he peered over his shoulder and barked as if calling a dog, “Come boy; come!”

Reluctantly, Keith entered. It was a large room, over-filled with very old furniture that was aged and worn, rather than antique and elegant. Scratched dark wood was the dominant furnishing. A huge couch over stuffed with horsehair dominated the room. Seated on it were Mr Grainger and Mr Murphy; two stalwarts of the Church. Seated nearby at the dining room table was Mr Lawrence. All three men stared intently at Keith as he hopped from one foot to another, unsure where he was supposed to stand.

He hardly knew the men who had come to witness, and who knew, partake in his humiliation. One he did know. Mr Murphy was very engaged with church youth club. His mother had insisted Keith attend. He hated it. It was full of devout kids prattling on about Jesus. Who wanted to hang out with them?

One answer to that was Mr Murphy; he wanted to be with the kids. He had no children of his own. He had no wife either. He was easily in his fifties, Keith reckoned. You did not need much imagination to see what he was up to, he thought. It was hate at first sight. Murphy’s habit of pushing his tongue in and out through his lips as he spoke, churned Keith’s guts. It was like talking to a lizard.

Murphy grinned at Keith as he walked through the door; his tongue slipping in and out as if he were observing the boy and waiting to pounce.

“Gentlemen,” Fr. Christian spoke loudly, as if he were addressing a congregation in church. “May I have the couch please?” He made it sound like a request, but all in the room knew it was an instruction. Mr Grainger and Mr Lawrence immediately stood and hovered, unsure where they should position themselves for what was to come.

“Keith,” Fr. Christian tried to sound kindly, but he was unsuccessful. He was not naturally a generous person. “You know why you are here. We have spoken often enough about your behaviour.”

Mr Murphy’s lips slithered and slipped. Keith averted his eyes. He despised the vile man. Why had he come?

“I warned you of the consequences. You continue to smoke cannabis, even though you know it is illegal,” Fr. Christian had a sermon prepared. “You know I could report you to the police. Would you like me to do that?”

Keith suppressed a sneer. The police? They wouldn’t do a thing. Possession for personal use; they probably wouldn’t even bother to give him a caution. They couldn’t care less.

“No Father,” Keith whimpered. He supposed the portly priest was expecting a response.

“No, so thank God Almighty I am going to be lenient with you,” Fr. Christian intoned as he swiped the formidable cane through the air. Keith flinched when he felt wind rushing against his cheek. It was a terrific weapon.

Fr. Christian’s eyebrows knotted and he scowled. “This is what you must do,” he swished the rod once more. “You must remove all your clothes and place yourself across the back of that couch.” He tapped its back in case he had not made himself clear.

Keith’s knees buckled. Blood coursed through his body. He nearly fell to the dingy carpet. He felt his face glow. Tears were already welling behind his eyes.

“B …” he found he was literally speechless. No words of protest would form. He turned his body slightly, but before he could move Mr Grainger positioned himself in the doorway. There was no escape.

Keith stood rooted. Terrified.

“Quickly boy. Undress. We are busy men. We don’t have all day.” Fr. Christian flexed the cane between his hands. He was anxious to get on with it. Keith could not move. Undress? Be naked, in front of these horrible old men?

“Should we assist?” Mr Murphy’s tongue worked a hundred to the dozen. His own blood pressure seemed dangerously high. He moved a step towards the petrified teenager.

“Gerrofff!” Keith pushed and connected squarely with Mr Murphy’s shoulder. “Leave me alone.”

Mr Murphy was stronger than he looked. “Come on you fellows,” he said, gripping Keith by the hair. The other two men were quick on their feet. Soon they had the teenager’s yellow tee-shirt over his head and off. Then Mr Grainger held his shoulders while the other two took him by the legs, raised them off the floor and tugged his jeans down. In moments they were over his trainers and on the floor.

“No, no, no!” Keith wailed. He kicked out, but he was over-powered. Next his white Boxer shorts were on top of his jeans. He was left in only his trainers and socks. Mr Grainger kept his grip of the teenager’s shoulders.

“Come on, you,” he snarled as he dragged Keith close to the couch. Then assisted by a very willing Mr Murphy, he had the lad face-down over the couch.

“Get round the other side,” Mr Grainger instructed. “Hold his shoulders down.” Mr Lawrence, who was hardly less porky than the priest leant his considerable bulk into the boy’s back.

Keith coughed and spluttered. The horsehair couch was old and dusty. He gulped for air and instead took in a lungful of grime. Mr Lawrence wheezed. He wouldn’t be able to hold the boy much longer. Mr Grainger took Keith’s left arm and Mr Lawrence his right. He was pinned down. Helpless. He was going nowhere. Not until his tormentors were finished with him.

“I should take his legs,” Mr Murphy lisped. Then to Fr. Christian’s obvious surprise, the man sat at Keith’s feet with his back to the couch and then wrapped his arms around the boy’s calves. From this vantage point when Mr Murphy looked up he had a wonderful view of the teenager’s cock and ballsack. When he craned his neck he could also see into the crack and hole.

Keith bellowed and he hollered. He screamed all the swear words under the sun. It made no difference. The house was in the church grounds, surrounded by a grave yard. Nobody would hear his bawling. There was to be no rescue.

Three men now held him down. He was completely naked. His head and shoulders were low; his legs were clamped together and his bottom was perched over the apex of the couch’s back. It was perfectly positioned to receive lashes from Fr. Christian’s cane.

The priest wasn’t quite ready. He bowed his head, closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer. Nobody else could hear his words. They didn’t know if he prayed for Keith to be forgiven or to be given strength for the task in hand.

Eventually, he was ready. He didn’t swish the cane for effect; he didn’t tap, tap, tap away to get his aim. With no ceremony at all he rose the cane as high as he could and brought it smashing down across the centre of the teenager’s bum. There was a resounding crack as rattan connected with flesh. A second later it was followed by a shrieking wail from Keith. His entire body shook as he fought to escape his restraints. He lifted his head. His face was scarlet. Tears rolled down his cheeks like a river going downhill.

The priest watched with deep satisfaction as a deep red mark instantly appeared across Keith’s white flesh. He rose the cane and slashed it down, an inch or so lower than the first. Keith repeated his bawling and his shaking. He squealed and rocked and writhed violently. Another deep cut formed.


The sickening pain quickly overwhelmed his senses. He forgot everything. Who he was; why he was there. The fact that he was naked and held down by three old men. All he knew was agony filtering through thousands of nerve endings across his sensitive buttocks.

The priest wasted no time and gave Keith another cut, this one slightly lower, just above the thighs. They came like clockwork — a steady descent of vicious stings, all concentrated onto the same general area of his bottom. There were nine in all.

And then, suddenly, it was over. Keith felt a gush of relief. At once he was aware of many physical sensations. He was panting heavily and drenched with sweat. He was exhausted. He could hardly believe it; he had survived. His buttocks were screaming, but he wasn’t dead.

The three men simultaneously released him. He rolled off the couch and not stopping to pick up his clothes, he rushed naked from the room and after taking the stairs two at a time he bundled himself into his bedroom and threw himself down on the bed.

He sobbed into the pillow and sucked great gulps of air. Slowly, very slowly, he regained some control. His heartrate slowed and his breathing became calmer. He rubbed and kneaded his scalded flesh.

Downstairs, the priest shared whisky with the three men. “A job well done,” Mr Grainger congratulated all present.

“Yes indeed.”


Only Mr Murphy remained silent. He shuffled away from his companions and stood behind the couch that had been the scene of Keith’s torture. He hoped they would not notice the raging erection pressing against the flies of his trousers.

Other stories you might like

Untidy bathroom

The man across the hall

The pub visit


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second