Two for the taws

z used sitting room by Leyendecker (59)

“Finlay! MacDonald!” Colonel MacIntosh leaned through the open window and bellowed at the two youngsters practising their golfing putts on the lawn. “Come to the sitting room at once!” His ruddy complexion betrayed his fury.

Finlay gripped his golf club tightly and exchanged a doleful glance with his cousin.  They had been expecting a summons; they had just hoped it wouldn’t come so soon.

“At once!” I say. Col. MacIntosh glared at his son and nephew and clenched his fist, his rage increasing with every moment.

“Coming father!” Finlay let the club fall to the immaculately-cut grass and without waiting for MacDonald he hurried towards the house. History had taught him never to keep the colonel waiting. He paused on the top stone step in front of the entrance and looked over his shoulder.

“C’mon Mac,” he whispered, “Let’s get this over with.”

MacDonald’s freckled face darkened. That blasted vicar, he left the words unspoken. Why couldn’t he mind his own business?

It wasn’t the vicar’s fault. The two eighteen year olds had nobody to blame but themselves. The Three Fishers Hotel was a notorious den of iniquity. The whole community knew that. That was why it was so popular with under-aged drinkers and good-time Charlies. Ladies (and some gentlemen too) of easy virtue were known to frequent its back bar.

Refreshed by a couple of lunchtime pints of beer, Finlay and MacDonald left the hostelry to return to MacIntosh Lodge, the family retreat. Only to, almost quite literally, bump into Rev. Macwhirter on his bicycle. They had been caught in the act. There was no mitigation to give. So, they legged it.

It was a small community, everyone knew each other’s business. They could be no escaping the consequences of the illicit pub visit. Nor, was there to be.

Col. MacIntosh paced the large drawing room. “Just wait until those scallywags get here,” he said aloud, although he was quite alone in the room. He bit deep into his bottom lip, a habit he had when angry.

Outside in the passageway, Finlay and MacDonald were faced with a closed door. What to do? Should they simply turn the handle, open the door and enter? This was their home, after all.

“Wait,” MacDonald commanded brusquely. The teenager was a frequent visitor to his headmaster’s study; he knew there was a certain etiquette with these things. “We should knock first.”

Finlay’s look of incredulity went unheeded. MacDonald balled his right hand into a fist and rapped it against the wood panelling. The silence was intense. Had his uncle not heard? He thought he had knocked pretty hard. He was debating with himself whether to knock again, when an imperious command resonated from within the room, “Enter!”

Suddenly aware that his hand was shaking, MacDonald turned the handle and pushed open the heavy door.

Col. MacIntosh was an imperious figure dressed for summer in a crumpled linen suit. He was a veteran of two Indian campaigns and his glare could fell a tiger at twenty paces. He stood straight as a ram-rod and gripped his hands behind his back.

“Stand there,” he nodded to a space close to an open window. It did not go unnoticed to the two miscreants that an armchair was conveniently placed nearby.

Finlay and MacDonald shuffled into place; eyes downcast. MacDonald could not persuade his hands to stop quivering. He gripped the legs of his trousers in a vain hope that would help. Finlay stood passively, sweat drenched his short ginger hair, it felt like someone had emptied a sponge full of water over his head. Freckles hid his beetroot face. His green eyes shone.

Col. MacIntosh was used to command. He was used to obedience and he never expected to explain himself. He spoke in short, sharp incomplete sentences. “Drinking. Three Fishers. Den of iniquity. Vicar. Warned before. Will not be tolerated.” The colonel shook his head furiously as he spat out the words.

This was not a court of law. Not even a court martial. The colonel had no wish to hear a defence. He proceeded straight to sentence.

“Finlay stand behind the chair. MacDonald face the wall.”

The colonel strode across the room towards a large wooden sideboard. Finlay stared intently; his heart pounding. Saliva drained from his mouth as he watched his uncle bend his knees so he could reach to a bottom drawer. He pulled it open and delved inside. Seconds later he was standing straight once more.

Finlay had no need to wait for his father to turn around to reveal what he had taken from the drawer. He knew well enough. It was a long thick leather strap, cut into three fingers at one end. It was a little over two-feet long and the business end was easily eighteen inches. He ran his dry tongue over cracked lips as his father tested the weight of the taws in his hand. This manoeuvre served little purpose, since the colonel was well aware of the capacities of the strap. He had had cause to use it often enough.

Col. MacIntosh sniffed the air, as if a sudden new pungent odour had entered the room. His eyes narrowed when he barked, “Trousers down. Underwear too!”

The command was not unexpected. His father always tanned on the bare, but Finlay could not stop his body reacting violently. Blood coursed through his body so that his ears hurt and his temples throbbed. His heartrate was off any scale a doctor might find acceptable. His eyes welled.

His belt was wide and heavy and at times like this difficult to loosen. Col. MacIntosh pah’d and bah’d as he waited impatiently for his son to obey his command. At last the trousers were open and the weight of the leather belt took the grey flannels to Finlay’s knee. He unbuttoned his woollen drawers and helped them down to meet his bags.

He stood naked from the waist down, conscious of a slight breeze from the open window cooling his cock and balls. The colonel swished the leather taws through the air; taking its measure. Finlay drew in breath; he wished the old man would just get on with it.

At last, the words he waited for were spoken, “Bend yourself over the chair.”

Finlay shuffled two or three steps to the chair. He paused and then in one athletic movement he dived over the back of the chair, his trousers and underwear slithered to his feet when he spread his legs. The eighteen-year-old gripped the seat. It was an ugly armchair. Finlay had always though so and he had seen it like this at close quarters many times. It was covered in the same material as the curtains. He doubted it had ever been cleaned. The material was worn and greying where so many pairs of buttocks had rested.

He felt his father take hold of his white cotton shirt and tug it forcefully up his back, ensuring that he was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles. The colonel stood back to admire his charge. Finlay was a short lad, no more than five-feet-seven. His build was athletic, he ran cross country for the school and was a keen golfer. Parts of his body were ruddy from the fierce Scottish winds that blew, even in summer.

“Legs further apart.”

Finlay shuffled his compliance. His crack widened and his hole was clearly visible. The colonel’s brow furrowed. It should not look like that. But, the colonel was a man of the world, he knew well enough what went on in school dormitories and army barracks.

He rested the three fingers of leather across his son’s buttocks. They were firm, pert cheeks. The taws covered most of them. He drew his arm back, twisted his body and crashed the taws across Finlay’s backside. He was rewarded by three livid pink stripes and a hissing sound that sounded like a steam engine settling down.

The colonel was a keen golfer and he knew how to put maximum force into a swing. The leather struck home again; this time a little lower. Already, after only two swipes, the whole of Finlay’s bum was glowing red hot.

MacDonald watched, his own heart thumping against his chest. The tanning looked severe, but his cousin seemed to be taking it well. He doubted he could be so stoical under the colonel’s lash. It was a cute bum, MacDonald had often admired it, especially now, naked and stretched over the back of an armchair.

A third and a fourth cut flogged across Finlay’s buttocks, welts started to appear where one stroke landed on top of a previous one. The teenager wriggled and stamped his feet up and down. His flesh was scalded, it felt like someone had poured the contents of a teapot over his bum.

Col. MacIntosh paused in his efforts. The room was close and muggy and sweat built up under the armpits of his linen jacket. In one athletic movement he had it off his shoulders and resting on a table. Thus, loosened up he prepared to continue with his duty. Twelve lashes fell in total. No part of Finlay’s buttocks was left unpunished. Vivid red stripes criss-crossed his cheeks and one burned into the back of his thigh. That would teach him to keep still for his whipping.

The teenager’s eyes blazed. This had been some whopping. His father had swiped his leather strap across his cheeks with so much force it was like he was beating a carpet. The wind had been knocked out of Finlay, he gasped air into his lungs and hacked a dry cough.

MacDonald stood transfixed. Finlay’s beautiful bum had been savaged by the beating. From where he was it seemed to glow like a lantern. He watched his cousin slowly rise from the chair. As Finlay bent to retrieve his drawers, his crack and hole widened. In seconds he was fully dressed and shuffling across the room to stand beside his pal.

“Your turn MacDonald,” Col. MacIntosh swished the leather through the air, pointing it in the general direction of the chair.

“B…” the teenager started to protest, but stopped himself short. There was nothing he could say. He must submit himself for punishment. He clenched his eyes shut tightly. This would be too mortifying. He was aware of Finlay behind him, still hopping from one foot to the other as the agony in his buttocks turned to a constant throbbing.

This was too humiliating. What would Col. MacIntosh think? Jesus what would Finlay think?

“Quickly, boy,” Col. MacIntosh’s glare stunned the teenager. He stepped forward uneasily and stood behind the garish armchair. Col. MacIntosh huffed his displeasure at being kept waiting. Scarlet of face, MacDonald unfastened his trousers.

At first Finlay gasped, then he cackled laughter. His cousin’s cock stood at fall salute. A deep-blue vein ran along the shaft from the balls to the tip and cum dribbled onto his underwear.


Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker


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Charles Hamilton the Second


Uncle gets a shock

z used white pants Jonathan

It came as a total shock when I discovered my nephew Anthony was turned on by being spanked. At least that explained why any number of trips across my knee for the slipper, hairbrush or palm of my hand had not improved his behaviour. Once, I even gave him a thrashing with an old-fashioned whippy school cane. Nothing. He still broke every rule I every laid down for him.

Anthony is nineteen now – going on twenty – and has been living with me for eighteen months since his dad changed jobs and moved down south. The boy has a job of his own at a record shop and didn’t want to go with his parents. Rather, than eek out an existence in a sweaty room in a boarding house, he took up my offer to lodge with me.

Now, I think about it, he agreed with alacrity to my demands that if he came to live with me, he must abide by the rules – or suffer the consequences. I left him in no doubt what that meant: a very sore backside indeed.

He was trouble from the very start. I know something about teenagers; they like to test authority. It’s in their DNA to push boundaries and see how far they can go. The first time I ordered him across my knee was when he repeatedly broke his curfew. Home by eleven, I told him. I could not have been clearer. When he rolled in at eleven-fifteen one evening, I lectured him hard. “Next time, you will feel my slipper across your backside, young man,” I told him. I could not have been clearer.

So, when the following Saturday he arrived home so late it was Sunday morning, I was as good as my word. “Go to the sitting room. Wait for me,” I ordered. Meekly, he shuffled across the hallway and stood head slightly bowed and hands firmly behind his back. He waited like this while I dragged a heavy dining-room chair and plonked it down in the very centre of the room. I sat myself down and manoeuvred a slipper from my right foot.  I wriggled around a bit to get comfortable and when I was ready I squeezed the slipper tightly in my fist. It was a typical bedroom slipper, with the checked cloth upper and the springy sole. A slipper is a perfect spanking tool, which is why it is so popular with fathers and uncles tasked with instilling discipline into the young.

I grunted something to attract Anthony’s attention and he looked up. His eyes widened at the sight of me, a forty-five-year-old man of some physical stature, willing and able to inflict severe pain to his bottom.

Anthony stands at about five-feet-seven, I suppose. He is quite sporty and although I don’t think he goes to the gym, he has a very well-proportioned body. As I would soon discover he hardly had enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage.

He was wearing jeans and a woollen jumper. That was no good to me. He wouldn’t feel a thing through heavy denims. “Take them down,” I instructed and then as if he hadn’t already understood my order, I added, “The jeans. Right down. To the ankles.”

Anthony is fair haired, almost blond, and his skin is very pale. This time, though, his face was so red it reminded me of beetroot. His eyes shone. I suspected he was so embarrassed, he might start to cry. I was prepared to ignore any pleading he might make to be let off. Boys about to be spanked will promise absolutely anything about their future good behaviour if only they could be spared a whacking.

In fact, he made no pleas. With slightly shaking hands, he undid the buckle of his belt and undid the top button on his ice-blue jeans. Once the zipper had been lowered the denims slid down his thighs and snagged at the knees. He spread his legs a little and they slithered down his shins and rested on top of his trainer shoes.

He wore very tight cotton briefs in a multitude of colours. Even in a standing position they hung tightly to the contours of his body. I could see his cock had been circumcised. “Come, bend over my knee,” I slapped my thigh as an encouragement.

He sucked down a lung-full of air and leaned forward, putting his hands on my right thigh and lowering himself down. It took a second or two for him to work out where his hands needed to be and how to present his bottom in the perfect position for my slipper. When he had settled, the palms of his hands were pressed down into the deep-pile carpet and his knees were slightly bent so that his toes hovered an inch or so from the ground. His bum was angled across my right leg, giving me unrestricted access to his buttocks.

The tight cotton briefs clung to his cheeks so tightly it looked like they had been sprayed on him. At this point I had a choice. Should I take hold of the elasticated waistband of the briefs and tug them over his firm bottom until the buttocks were bared, or should I allow them to stay in place and let him have the last vestiges of dignity? Since this was his first spanking – or at least the first I had administered – I left the pants up. In any case, I figured, if there needed to be a repeat performance of this sometime in the future I should have some way to up the ante as it were. That is to increase the severity of the punishment next time.

I wrapped by left arm around Anthony’s middle to hold him in place and began my assault on his dignity. My slipper crashed into the centre of his very tight bottom over and over again.  The sound of rubber against cotton echoed around the room. Anthony opened and closed his mouth, rather like a goldfish, but he uttered no sound. His head bounced up and down once or twice and his bum rose and fell across my knee, but all that was, I suspect, simply a natural reaction from his body. He was, in fact, taking his slippering remarkably well.

I’m not sure how many whacks I gave him, but I made sure that every square inch of his buttocks was toasted. I even lay one or two across the back of his thighs, below the hem of his pants. That hurt him, I could see that, but apart from some heavy breathing, he remained silent. I was delighted to see a dark-pink imprint of the sole of my slipper embossed in his pale flesh.

Satisfied that I had spanked him enough for now, I released him. Anthony shot to his feet, turned his back to me and bent down to retrieve his jeans. He had them zipped and buckled before he faced me, his hands held contritely in front of him. His cheeks were scarlet and I knew his buttocks would be too. His hair was drenched with sweat and I could see by the gleam in his eye that he desperately wanted me to dismiss him so he could rush to his room. I imagined that in a moment or two he would be face down on his bed sobbing his guts up into a pillow.

I lectured him a little and reminded him that I had an array of spanking instruments in the cupboard under the stairs that I would not hesitate to use and sent him on his way.

Well, over the coming months each and every one of those tawses, paddles and straps connected with Anthony’s backside. I went so far as to buy a couple of “authentic” school canes off eBay. I had the nineteen-year-old across my knee, bending over the back of the armchair and spread-eagled across the dining table. He was an incorrigible rule-breaker. No amount of punishment could make him obey.

Now I know why.

This evening I received a phone call from the owner of the record shop where Anthony works. He hadn’t been in today, was everything all right? I confronted my nephew and he told me he had skived off work with some mates and queued all day to get tickets for the forthcoming FA Cup quarter final. Now, I like football as much as the next man, but I know I have responsibilities to my employer and I can’t just not turn in. I also have responsibilities to Anthony to make sure he understands such things.

He was not surprised when he arrived in the kitchen after I had called him from his room that I was brandishing a heavy wooden hairbrush. He had felt its power across his naked buttocks more than once before. I sighed so hard to demonstrate to him how much of the world’s burdens I was asked to shoulder and ordered him to lower his cargo shorts and bend over my knee. He did so without question.

Once in position I dragged his gleaming white briefs down to his thighs and assaulted his bare buttocks with the brush. It is a mightily effective punishment tool and soon the centre of each cheek was glowing crimson. Anthony shook his head from side to side, rather like a horse does when it neighs, and his legs kicked out. The spanking was hurting, that’s for sure. I whacked on and on over the same spots on his bum until the flesh turned dark red and then purple. If I spanked any harder or for any longer blood would seep from the wounds. I did not want that. I believe in punishment and not in torture.

When I released him, he tugged his pants and shorts up and fled from the kitchen, not waiting for me to lecture him. I let the brush fall on to the kitchen table and switched on the kettle. I desperately needed a cup of tea.

I also needed to use the bathroom. As I climbed the stairs I noticed the door to Anthony’s room was slightly open. Suddenly, I had an overwhelming urge to know whether he was sobbing into his pillow. In all the times I had spanked him he never shed a tear in my presence. Rather absurdly, I tiptoed along the landing and stood outside his door with my ear pressed against it. I could not hear anything. Thinking that maybe the weight of the door was obstructing the sound, I pushed against it gently.

Nothing would ever be the same again.

Anthony was standing in front of the dressing table mirror. His rather large and extremely hard cock was in his hand and he was pumping away. His eyes were closed and he was stifling moans of ecstasy. I turned to leave. Too late. He heard a creak on the floorboard, opened his eyes and in the reflection in the mirror saw me. His face glowed with embarrassment, he pulled up his pants and turned to face me.

I don’t know what happened next, I skedaddled and locked myself in the bathroom.

That was a little over an hour ago. I have drunk three cups of tea and have calmed down considerably. A young man who likes to be spanked, who would ever have thought such a thing. Still, it certainly explained a thing or two to me about his bad behaviour.

I started to giggle; I think it was the tannin in all that tea. Now, I had a plan. I shall confront Anthony and tell him this. In future, he will obey his curfew, he will do all the chores about the house that I give him. He will respect my wishes at all times and follow all my instructions. If he does these things to my total satisfaction I will spank him. Very hard indeed. I think they call that ‘psychology’. It is in any case a win-win situation for both of us.


Picture credit: Jonathan / colour by Buckcub


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Charles Hamilton the Second


Dad’s revenge

used drawing strap hold (1)

Harry Taylor barged his way through the crowds towards his train. Evening rush hour did nothing to improve his temper. He had been seething all afternoon since he got the phone call from his wife. There would be hell to pay when he got home.

He couldn’t get a seat on the train (of course) and had to stand nose by armpit all the way. The summer heat was unbearable. Sweat soaked the back of his shirt and there was no room to turn around to remove his jacket.

At last the train pulled into Brocklehurst South. In ten minutes time he would be home. Then the drama would begin. He removed his jacket and carried it under one arm. In the other hand he carried his briefcase. It was light because it had nearly nothing in it. He had it to impress the neighbours. Let them think he was “something” in the City, he thought. Better that than they know the truth.

He crossed the road from the station, turned into Acacia Avenue and followed it until it dog-legged. Then he took a left into The Avenue. The air was clear in the tree-lined suburb. A fellow could breathe here; not like on the train, or in the City.

Everything was quiet, most residents of The Avenue kept themselves hidden from their neighbours. Some houses were large and detached from the rest of the world behind hedges or gates. The Taylor house was more modest; semi-detached with a garden, big enough for his family’s needs, but no different from hundreds of thousands such houses across suburbia.

The front door was ajar. His wife was waiting, anxiously, her ashen face betraying her torment. He gave her a perfunctory peck on the cheek; he thought she deserved as much. He left his briefcase in the hallway, hung his jacket on a hook and eased his necktie off.

His wife followed him into the kitchen and watched nervously as he took a coffee mug, half filled it with lukewarm water from the tap and gulped it down. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and spoke. “So, where is he?”

He noticed for the first time that his wife had been crying. The redness in her eyes deepened as she snapped a reply, “Skulking, in his bedroom.”

Harry puffed out his cheeks. There would have to be a confrontation. What if he called his son to come down from his room and face him and he refused to do so. What then? He exchanged silent glances with his wife. Harvey was twenty years old and a few inches taller than his dad; and a lot less heavy. In a fair fight Mr Taylor wouldn’t stand a chance.

“What are you going to do about it?” His wife’s tone was accusatory, as if it was her husband’s fault their son was a thief.

“He needs a damn good leathering,” Harry had been thinking about it all afternoon.

“He’s a bit old for that, isn’t he?” his wife was unconvinced.

“Well, what do you suggest?” Harry’s hands shook. His wife had no answer. She still couldn’t take it in. It was a nightmare. The police had called that afternoon in broad daylight. With a search warrant – for the whole house. It took an hour and twenty minutes. She had timed them and all the while nosey Mrs. Brackett in the house across the street stood at her front window twitching the lace curtains.

The police found what they were looking for. Stolen car parts. Car parts. Mrs. Taylor was astonished. Of all the things a person might want to steal, why the hell chose car parts?

At last she answered her husband’s question, “There’s nothing we can do really, is there?” she sniffed.

Harry puffed his cheeks. “No, we can’t just let it go. He deliberately planned to steal these things and hide them in our house. It was planned. Meticulous.” Harry felt absurd even as the words flowed from his mouth. It was as if he was describing a bank heist or a jewel theft. “It’s not as if he stole on the spur of the moment. Like taking a Mars bar from the newsagents.”

His wife had no answer to that. There would be a court case. Harvey would get a fine, or a community service order. Or possibly, both. “Oh”, she gasped at a sudden realisation, “It’ll be in The News, everyone will read about it.”

The stuck-up neighbours in The Avenue would have a field day. She remembered Tommy Burstow at number ninety-two. He had been convicted of taking and driving away cars. It was the main topic of gossip in the street for days and she had contributed more than her fair share of it.

Harry wanted revenge. Retribution. Vengeance, even. Harvey would have to pay. He would have to take a leathering or he could pack his bags and go. He was twenty years old, he had a job in an insurance office, he could find himself a room somewhere.

“I’m calling Frank. I’ll see if he can bring Paul, I can’t do this on my own.” He told his wife who wearily nodded her assent.

Harry’s brother Frank was appalled. “If it was my boy, I’d tan his arse and kick him out of the house.”

Frank and his brother Paul were in The Avenue within the hour. They listened appalled as Harry once more detailed his son’s crime. A black, wide, heavy leather belt lay on the dining room table. Harry tested is weight in his hands. He had never used it for anything other than its intended purpose, but he reckoned it would pack a punch, if only he could get close enough to Harvey to swing it.

Harry put the strap down and shuffled to the foot of the stairs. “Come down Harvey!” he called, “I want a word with you!”

The twenty-year-old curled up on his bed, clutching his pillow to his chest. “A word”, his dad wanted more than “a word”. He had seen Uncle Frank’s BMW pull up in front of the house. His cousin Terry had told him about Uncle Frank. This was not going to end pleasantly.

Harvey heard his father call once more. He put the pillow over his head, but he could still hear.

“C’mon” Frank nodded to Paul, “Let’s go and fetch him down.” Harry grunted.

Moments later Harvey was manhandled down the stairs. His shoeless feet slipping and sliding against the carpet as he failed to stop the two men dragging him into the living room.

“Fuck off! Leave me alone!” Harvey heaved his shoulders, but with two heavy men, one holding each arm, he was going nowhere.

“Watch your mouth,” Uncle Frank twisted the boy’s arm, cranking his shoulder. Harvey yelped with the pain.

Harry stood impassively watching. His son’s eyes were bloodshot; he had shed a bucketful of tears already. The boy was bulky, but not as weighty as his two assailants. Tattoos completely covered both arms.

“Here,” Frank had taken compete control. With Paul’s help and despite Harvey’s continual effing and blinding the boy was bent face down over the table. He wriggled, writhed and kicked his legs at his jailers, but he was overpowered.

In all the mayhem, Harvey’s denim jeans had risen up his buttocks and clung tightly to his cheeks. Frank could clearly see the outline of the boy’s crack.

“These jeans are too thick,” Frank looked across at Harvey’s dad, but did not wait for permission. “C’mon Paul,” he said as he jerked Harvey to his feet. “Harry,” he called to Harry, “undo his belt, take the jeans down.”

Without thinking, Harry stood behind his son and reached around the boy’s waist. He was rewarded with a kick in the shins. Undeterred, the belt was soon undone and buttons and zipper fly released. Harry had intended only to lower the jeans but Harvey twisted and turned so much, his boxer shorts slipped down over his buttocks. Harry helped them on their way. Now, bare-arsed, Frank and Paul toppled him back over the table top.

Harry stood emotionlessly. This was not his son spread-eagled across the table. It was a stranger. Harvey had not been raised to be a thief. Mr Taylor didn’t want an explanation. He had no desire for mitigation. He lifted the heavy leather strap and crashed it against his son’s quivering buttocks. A sunset strip seared across Harvey’s bum and the twenty-year-old yelped like a little whipped puppy. Frank and Paul pressed him further down into the wooden table top.

Another swipe landed a little lower. Harvey banged his head up and down and kicked his legs. All attempts to escape were futile. He was held face-down and bottom-high and he was staying there until his dad and his uncles said so.

Whack-whack-whack! Harry had no idea how to spank a boy. He had never been beaten as a child and, unlike Frank, had never felt it necessary to wallop any of his children. He worked on instinct. A spanking had to hurt, he reckoned, that was the point of it. So, he whipped the leather into his son’s spongy bum over and over again. It was crimson in no time. Stripes criss-crossed the buttock cheeks. Some went east-to-west; others north-to-south, forming ridges.

Harvey soon gave up swearing at his attackers. He had no breath, his lungs were empty. He huffed and puffed and coughed his guts up. Tears washed his face, vomit stuck in his throat.

Looking back later, Harry was surprised he was so calm. It was, he told his wife, like an “out-of-body” experience. He was looking down at the scene as someone else leathered the arse off his son.

Harry crashed another six, hard and at speed, into the fleshiest part of Harvey’s cheeks. The boy roared. Snot cascaded down nose. His face and neck were as scarlet as his bum, sweat soaked his hair. His temples pulsated.

“Let him go.” Frank released his grip and Paul followed. Harvey sprang to his feet like jack-in-the-box released. Not waiting to pull up his jeans and pants, he stumbled from the room. His dad heard him stumbled and fall as he struggled to mount the stairs.

Harry rested his belt on the settee and moved to the cocktail cabinet. He poured three stiff whiskeys.

Paul took a long sip and then looked at up at the ceiling. “He deserved all he got.” He took another sip, “Serves him right for getting caught.”

Frank nodded his agreement and downed his drink in one.


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The sleep over

z used pillow fight (4b)

Simon sat in his favourite chair, a weak gin and tonic at his elbow, trying to read the evening newspaper. The noise from the bedroom above was disturbing him. Typical, every time the boys came around for a sleep-over, something like this happened. It sounded like they were having a pillow fight.

He got out of his chair and shuffled into the kitchen. The noise was louder in there. He delved into the freezer, scooped three ice cubes into a glass, and prepared another G&T. The shouts from the bedroom were worse. Simon stood at the foot of the stairs and called up, “Be quiet, you two or I’ll be up there to sort you out. You know I will!”

He returned to the lounge and picked up The News. He sipped at his drink and rifled through the pages of the newspaper in search of juicy court cases. He found none. Boring, he thought, nothing interesting ever happened in Brocklehurst.

The electric light above his head shook. Leo and Edward seemed to be on the floor, wrestling. A high-pitched giggle reverberated around the room. And then another. Simon crumpled the newspaper and threw it onto the couch. Enough, he fumed. Well, they can’t say they weren’t warned.

Slowly and with purpose, Simon plodded up the stairs. He reached the bedroom and without knocking, he gripped the handle and flung the door open. Leo and Edward, dressed only in underpants were on the floor. Edward was on his back and Leo straddled him. He appeared to be gently slapping the boy across his face.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Simon wailed, “Get up, the pair of you. Why can’t you play nicely?”

Leo rolled off his friend, stood and then sat on the bed. Edward, red in the face, climbed to his feet and stood sheepishly.

“You’re at university now,” Simon berated them. “You should have grown out of these childish games.” He glowered first at Edward and then at Leo. “I’m not even going to ask who started it; you’re both as bad as each other.”

Leo’s mouth opened as if he was about to say something. He closed it again; he had thought better of it.

“We’ll what did I say last time would happen if you behaved like this?” Simon’s question was not directed at one boy in particular. The two nineteen-year-olds exchanged glances. They knew the answer to the question, but neither wanted to say the words out loud.

“Well, then?” Simon scowled, and when no response was still forthcoming, he looked at Leo, still sat on the bed. “Stand up.” Leo made no attempt to move. “Now!” Simon barked. He meant business.

Leo hauled himself to his feet, affecting an air of resentment.  Simon brushed by him and sat himself squarely in the middle of the bed, his feet hanging over the edge. “Come, here and put yourself across my legs.” He reached out to Leo, in case the teenager proved reluctant. But, Leo once more exchanged looks with Edward, before stepping forward and lowering himself over the bed.

The bed was wide and Leo relatively short, so his body lay flat across the mattress. His stomach rested over Simon’s legs, lifting his own bottom a little. He stretched his arms out ahead of him and his legs were pushed out behind him.

Simon gripped the elasticated waist of Leo’s underpants and tugged them until the teenager’s bottom was completely bare. Leo at first closed his eyes, then tuned his head sideways. When he opened them again, Edward was in his direct vision standing close to the bed with a perfect view of the proceedings.

Simon smacked his hand into Leo’s left cheek and then into the right. Leo swam a lot and the muscles on his body and backside reflected this. The teenager’s bum was round and hard. Simon rained more spanks into the naked bottom and was pleased to see dark pink handprints appear all over the curves and into the crease. He turned his attention to the top of the mounds. After a couple of minutes of spanking the whole of Leo’s bottom from the top where the cheeks met the spine, over the hills, and into the undercurves was rosy, but the youngster had made no sign that he was in pain.

“Stand up,” Simon spoke brusquely. Leo climbed from Simon’s knees and rolled off the bed. He pulled up his pants and stood close to the wardrobe.

“You next,” Simon nodded at Edward. The nineteen-year-old stood his ground. He was going nowhere.

“Doh!” Simon exhaled. He bounced his bottom along the mattress and sat on the edge of the bed. Before Edward realised what was happening, Simon had gripped him by the wrist and pulled him forward. He rested over the older man’s knees, his torso stretched across the mattress and his feet firmly on the ground. Simon soon had Edward’s orange briefs at the boy’s ankles. Bent over this way, Edward’s bum was stretched and as Simon whacked away at his bared bottom, it felt like it might be made of solid rubber.

Leo shuffled along the wall to get a better view as his friend’s arse was spanked from pink to rosy. Edward’s bum always coloured easily and after a couple of minutes it had turned scarlet.

Soon, it dawned on Simon that both boys had buns of steel. His own hand hurt a lot more than Leo’s and Edward’s backsides.

“Oh, this is pointless, Simon moaned. “Get up.” The teenager sprang to his feet and pulled up his pants.

“You didn’t feel a thing. I’m going to have to start all over again,” he said as he unbuckled his heavy leather belt and pulled it clear of his trousers.

“No, come on Uncle Simon, that’s not fair,” Edward spoke first, but Leo soon joined in. “You’ve spanked us once, you can’t do it again.”

Simon doubled the belt in his hand. “Oh, can’t I. We’ll soon see about that.” He pulled the leather belt between his two hands so it made a resounding, “Crack!”

“Kneel by the side of the bed,” Simon waved the belt so there could be no misunderstanding, “And, then bend across it.”

“B …” Leo started to protest, but stopped. Edward had already taken up the position, as ordered. He was submitting to Uncle Simon.  There was no way Leo could let his pal be belted and refuse to take it himself. With some trepidation, he knelt down beside Edward.

“We don’t need these,” Simon gripped both boys’ pants simultaneously until he was rewarded with two sets of naked buttocks.

Edward looked to his left; Leo to his right. The pals would have eye contact throughout the ordeal they would suffer together.

Smack! The belt thwacked across Leo’s backside, a dep red stripe instantly appeared. The teenager’s mouth was opening and closing, registering the pain, just as the strap bit into Edward’s bum. His eyes widened. That hurt. A lot.

Simon grinned. They would certainly feel this belting. With gusto, he laid a dozen stripes across each boy’s naked haunches. They wriggled and squirmed. Edward took it better than his pal. Tears streamed down Leo’s face after the first half dozen and he was yelping like a lost puppy by the time Simon had finished.

Edward was more stoical. His eyes blazed and his face was ashen by the time Simon permitted them to stand. He was in great pain, but mostly he kept it hidden from Leo and Simon.

Sweat poured from Simon’s body, although it was quite a cool evening. “Get to bed the pair of you and I don’t want to hear a peep from you until morning. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Uncle Simon,” only Edward spoke; Leo was still gently sobbing.

Simon replaced his belt and exited. Moments later, he lay on the bed in his own room. In a few minutes, he knew, he would be disturbed by the noise of Edward’s and Leo’s frantic lovemaking. Simon would have to make do with solitary masturbation.



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Brad, the spanking-movie star

The paying guest

The TV repairman


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Spanked by my uncle: who enjoyed it the most?

When my uncle put me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom I don’t know which of us enjoyed it more, him or me.

I come from a strange family. Mum was one of ten children. Ten! Poor gran; she must have been exhausted the whole time. I bet granddad had a whale of a time though.

Uncle Neil was the youngest of the lot. I was eighteen and he was only twenty-eight. I was causing my mum a lot of problems. The main problem was that I was eighteen. Like so many people that age I was totally selfish, I thought the world should revolve around me. I was arrogant and you couldn’t tell me anything. I disrespected my mother at every turn.

I had left school at sixteen – the earliest possible age – and I hadn’t had anything that you could call a proper job since. I lazed about the flat all day and drove mum mad.

My dad had skedaddled after my younger brother was born and left mum on her own to raise two kids. How could she cope with me? At last mum and Uncle Neil said I needed a “time out.” They said I should go stay with him for a while, until I sorted myself out a bit.

Uncle Neil might only be twenty-five, but already he was a great success. He had an important job with an advertising agency. I’m not sure exactly what he did but it bought him a smashing apartment on the fourth floor of a block overlooking the marina. It had every conceivable gadget. He drove a flash Jeep and spent a lot of cash on his clothes and his looks.

The expensive facials, haircuts and nail jobs he paid for made him stand out in a crowd. He was gym-fit. He tried to encourage me to take exercise – he said I should go running or to go work out. He reckoned it would make me a much happier person. He said when you exercised hard chemicals in your brain changed and it made you feel really good – it was much better than taking drugs. I can’t remember what the chemical was called, but it was something like “dolphins.”

I didn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t be bothered.

He didn’t have a girlfriend. When I asked him about it he flushed scarlet and said he was too busy at work. I didn’t believe him; he would be a great catch for any girl. I reckoned there was some special lady he was trying to capture, but she was giving him a hard time. Who knew, perhaps she was already married; not that that seemed to bother people these days.

Uncle Neil wanted me to get a job. Any job, he said. I whined that there were no jobs, not for people like me who left school with no qualifications. He scoffed. He was having none of it. He said I should take any job going, even if it was only part-time. There was plenty going in burger bars and pubs. Supermarkets always wanted people to fill shelves and carry boxes.

Once I had a job, he lectured me, I could make your way up the company. Or, after a while I could get a better job somewhere else. If nothing else, I could get some “work discipline” and prove that I could get up in the morning and put in a shift – every day.

I ignored him on that too.

After a month with me lounging around the apartment in my underwear most of the time, Uncle Neil snapped. He gave me an ultimatum. It was, he said, my choice. I had to take some responsibility for myself. If I didn’t have a job by the end of the month, he would throw me out the apartment. He said my mum wouldn’t take me back, so I would be on my own.

I didn’t believe him. Yes, he would throw me out probably, but I wouldn’t be on my own. I had nine aunts and uncles – and that was just on my mother’s side. We were family; someone would take me in.

I pretended to Uncle Neil that I was looking for a job. I had to anyway to get my welfare payment each fortnight, but I wasn’t really. If I had been a more sensitive type I should have noticed that he was coming to the end of his tether.

That happened one night. I had just got my money and I went drinking with mates. I got back late and pretty high. Next day, Uncle Neil sat me down and gave me the lecture. I vaguely knew that at work he was a boss of something. From his tone, I knew he was used to being obeyed. He told you to jump; you asked how high? That was, I guess, the secret of his success. Decisive action.

“If you do anything like that again,” he said calmly, “I am going to take you across my knee and spank your bare bottom so hard it will glow in the dark.”

I stared at him. His gaze was steely. I hadn’t noticed before how piercing his blue eyes were. He meant it. He was deadly serious. If my mum had said something like that I would have laughed and told her where to go. I would have used the “F” word a lot. With Uncle Neil, I just gaped. My jaw probably quite literally dropped.

What could I say? I looked him up and down. He had the kind of body that had muscles on top of muscles. I was the opposite. I hadn’t taken any exercise since I was fifteen when we did PE classes at school. I was no match for Uncle Neil. If he wanted to haul me across his knee, he could.

I went to my room confused. I stood at the window and watched the yachts and small boats in the harbour below. Spanking? He’d give me a spanking? I had never been spanked in my life. The cane had been banned in schools long before I was born – before Uncle Neil was born too – and mum never hit us; Lord knows why not, I deserved it.

Uncle Neil was bluffing, I reckoned. He had already said he would throw me out of the apartment; surely he thought that was a bigger threat.

I obviously didn’t know Uncle Neil.

It was only two days later when he asked me to do some grocery shopping. He left a list and some cash. Even I wasn’t so lazy or so stupid as to ignore him. I got the bus to Tesco and wheeled my trolley around the store. Uncle Neil had been right about jobs. There was a notice near the entrance advertising part-time jobs. Apply within. I pretended not to see it.

After I left the checkout, I realised I had more than five pounds in change. He’d never notice. I didn’t think twice about it. It would be my tip for doing the shopping. I stopped at an off licence and spent the money on cheap beer.

I was pretty far gone by the time Uncle Neil got home. He asked about the change. I lied and told him there wasn’t any. He sighed, “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

Deal with me? I staggered from the room. Deal with me? Was he really serious?

Next morning was Sunday; even Uncle Neil didn’t work Sunday. I laid in bed dealing with my Morning Glory. I had just shot my load into a fistful of Kleenex when he knocked on the door. Hurriedly, I tugged up my Boxer shorts. Just in time. He didn’t wait for permission, he barged in through the door.

I think his speech had been prepared. Certainly, he was fluent, short and to the point. He had warned me about me behaviour. True. He had told me what he would do. True again. So why did I do it? Good question. The answer was probably, “Because I could.” I had been getting away with things my whole life. Nobody had stopped me. It had become a habit. My life was all me, me, me.

“Come here,” he leant forward and grabbed a hunk of my hair. I yelped as he pulled me up and out of the bed. Then without a further word he dragged me from the room and hauled me into the lounge. Even in my distressed state, I could see the furniture had been rearranged. A soft-backed, armless chair had been turned away from the dining table, so it faced into the room.

Still holding a clump of my hair he sat down and stretched his legs wide. Then, he pulled me across his left knee and immediately draped his right leg over the back of my calves. I was pinned down. Uncle Neil and I are about the same height; I was too tall to go over his knee. My elbows rested on the carpet in front of me and my knees bent behind me and still my feet rested on the ground. I couldn’t see this, but my bum was raised at a forty-five-degree angle over his knee.

I was only wearing Boxer shorts and a tee-shirt that I used for sleeping. He pushed his left hand into my shoulder so hard he winded me. While I gasped for air, I felt him grip the waistband of my shorts and he yanked them down over my buttocks and down my thighs and he left them bunched at my knees.

He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite catch. It sounded like, “You deserve this and you know it.” Then he smacked the palm of his hand into my right buttock and then the left. I don’t know what a spanking is supposed to feel like; it should hurt, naturally, otherwise what’s the point. He hit me so hard and so rapidly that within seconds my bum began to heat up. He had strong arms, but very soft hands; even so I felt each and every one of the slaps as he made his way around my globes. He concentrated on the under-curves, just under the cheeks, where they meet the thighs.

I wriggled and squirmed, but with his legs across my calves and with his hand on my shoulders he had me trapped. I was going nowhere. My bum cheeks quivered and I felt my crack open and close involuntarily. Only then did I think he might have a perfect view in my crack and up my hole. I don’t think I have ever felt so humiliated. It was worse because I knew I hadn’t showered since the last time I’d taken a dump. It would be pretty rancid back there.

The pain was building into a constant throbbing across my whole backside. It hurt a lot, but I could take it. I didn’t know how many spanks he intended to deliver, but I was pretty confident he wouldn’t do much damage. Then he stopped.

I felt his body twist and he reached behind him. When I was dragged into the room I hadn’t noticed the heavy brush on the table. I hadn’t seen, it but soon I felt it. The first almighty whack across the centre of both cheeks took my breath away. By the time the sixth hit home, I was on fire. By the tenth I was yelping. By number twenty I was yelling.

My heart raced and I gasped for air. I couldn’t suck air into my lungs. Blood raced through my arteries so quickly I thought my ears would pop. Then I realised with horror my cock was stiff. My soldier wasn’t fully on the march, but it was standing to attention. I wriggled and writhed over Uncle Neil’s knee. It was involuntary, it was my body’s reflex action to the pounding it was getting at my rear end. Each time I moved my dick rubbed against my uncle’s leg. In no time it throbbed almost as madly as my bum.

I could hear Uncle Neil wheezing. The effort of spanking me was taking its toll, yet, on and on he hammered the bath brush into my naked arse. I didn’t know it yet but the whole of my buttocks from the top near my spine, over the mounds and into the crease was now toasted scarlet. My bum was so hot you could probably fry an egg back there.

The more he spanked, the more my body gyrated. The more my body spun, the more my prick pulsated. Any moment now I would shoot a load. What could I do? I knew when I masturbated that the way to control an orgasm was to stop tugging for a while and let it settle. I couldn’t do that here.

Even as I thought, “No! No! No!” my whole body shook, like a dog does when it comes out of water. I must have shot a pint of cum over Uncle Neil’s already cream chinos. He let out a mild screech, released my legs and shoulders and pushed me off his knee onto the carpet, where I lay face down, desperately failing to hide my humiliation.

“You dirty bugger,” Uncle Neil snarled. “Look what you’ve done to my trousers.” He tried to sound angry, but I knew he wasn’t really. I was certain, because from my position at his feet I looked up at my handsome muscular uncle towering above me and saw that he had a boner so big and so hard that it could have been a tent pole in the front of his pants.

I gazed in wonderment. My head was the clearest it had ever been. I was glowing. Never in my life had I felt so good. Uncle Neil peered down at me, our eyes met for a brief moment. We didn’t say a word to each other. What could we say? He was my uncle. But we both knew we felt the same way.


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The Dean of Dorm Discipline

The vicar and the gay boys

The padded armchair


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Spanked by my uncle. Who enjoyed it most?

drawing brush hold otk young man (1)


When my uncle put me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom I don’t know which of us enjoyed it more, him or me.

A brand new story from Charles Hamilton II, now appearing on The Canery website. Click here to read it.


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The sling-shot

My first spanking — aged 18!

Caught in their underpants



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Summer at uncle’s

used drawing cane hold (18)


This blogsite reached its first anniversary this week and to celebrate here’s a special full length story.


PETER, AN EIGHTEEN-YEAR-OLD from a small town, stays with Uncle Barnabas in London for the summer. The country boy soon learns the wicked ways of the city as he is introduced into the world of corporal punishment by a cast of characters including his cousin Albert; “out-and-proud” Nickie; and an old-fashioned schoolmaster by the unlikely name of Dr Cains.


Summer at Uncle’s runs for more than 12,000 words. You can either scroll down and read it here or download a special PDF version that can be read on a PC, computer or e-book reader. Click the link below. The downloadable version also has illustrations.

Summer at Uncle’s by Charles Hamilton II


Peter stepped off the bus and elbowed with other passengers to collect his rucksack from the driver. Victoria Coach Station heaved with people – of all shapes, sizes and colours.

The eighteen-year-old pushed his way through the crowds with mounting excitement. There were men with long beards, old women in saris, two women were dressed head to foot in black with only a slit in their costumes for their eyes. He had never seen anything like it before. This was going to be a summer to remember.

Peter had never been to London. He lived in a tiny town in Dorset. He had never seen a black face there; never mind women in burkas. The streets were crowded with people, many rushing to the coach station. He was pushed this way and shoved the other; a young man and a rucksack can take up a lot of space on packed pavements.

He found the Underground station and checked the handwritten note his mother had made. It was his directions to Uncle Barnabas’s house. He bought a ticket and made his way to the Victoria Line. He knew he had to change trains twice, but he was a bright boy and it shouldn’t be a worry.

It was Saturday afternoon and the platform was busy. Peter could see many were tourists. Some of the accents he heard sounded American. American! How glamorous. As he stood and waited for his train four men walked by. Other passengers made efforts to ignore them. They knew they were there, but they pretended otherwise. The four men were dressed in English school uniform. They wore black blazers with red edgings with white shirts and striped ties. That wasn’t what got them noticed. What everyone pretended not to see was the grey short trousers and long knee socks the men wore.

They were old enough to be his father, Peter thought, and one of them considerably more so. Who were they? He looked around expecting to see a film camera but there was nothing. Were they part of a publicity stunt; but if so what were they advertising. He gaped in bafflement. Suddenly, one of the adult-schoolboys caught him staring. The man flashed a cheeky smile and winked. Peter’s face resembled the colour of beetroot. He always embarrassed easily. He was mightily relieved when the train thundered into the station.

Otherwise, it was an uneventful journey. His mother’s directions were detailed. Soon he stood on the doorstep of Uncle Barnabas’s house. His uncle was the rich one in the family. He was “something in The City,” but Peter was not sure what. Stockbroking, he understood, but Uncle’s line of work bewildered him.

When Peter had been invited to stay for the summer he accepted with alacrity. London for three months, you betcha! What a time he would have. He was told he could even get a job; there was plenty of work in burger bars, or pubs, or filling supermarket shelves. He had just left school and was waiting for his exam results; if they were good enough he would be off to university in October.

He rang the bell and waited. It was a massive town house; his mother had said there were at least twenty rooms. It’s not a house, she had giggled, it’s a hotel. He waited and eventually the door opened. A rather formidable middle-aged woman stood and peered at him. He was disappointed a butler had not appeared. It was his Aunt Martha.

She smiled wanly and stood back to let him enter. His mother was right about the hotel. He stepped into a large hall and in the distance was a large spiral staircase. There were seven dark wooden doors, which he supposed led to drawing rooms and libraries and whatever it was that posh houses had.

Aunt Martha examined the boy standing before her and Peter tried desperately not to flush scarlet. It had been at least four years since they had met. It was at a cousin’s wedding. The whole family had attended; people feel obliged to attend such events.

Aunt Martha was tall for a woman and despite advancing middle age, she had a firm muscular body. She wore jodhpur-type trousers and a dark top, buttoned to the neck. Her eye glasses made her look a little fearsome; rather like an old-fashioned schoolmistress.

She waved her hand toward the staircase. “Follow me.” Her instruction was terse. She led the way up the stairs. Peter’s eyes followed her voluptuous backside all the way. His bedroom was massive; it was bigger than many flats back in his hometown. There was even an ensuite bathroom. Yes, it was a hotel.

“I’ll leave you to get settled; I’ll call you for supper,” and with that she turned on her heels and Peter watched her arse disappear down the passageway. He explored the room, opening and closing drawers and cupboards. All his belongings could fit into one of them. He stretched out on the bed, he had never before slept in a double bed. The one he had at home was so small his feet poked out the end. You lucky sod, he thought, you’ve landed a winner here.

He ran the shower, stepped in and washed himself down. His cock twitched; it often did this when he rubbed himself with soap. It had been a huge embarrassment to him at school after PE lessons. Suddenly, the vision of Aunt Martha and that arse flooded his senses. His cock ached. The erection was strong and powerful. He closed his eyes, lathered up the soap and worked away, first at his balls and then up and down the shaft. He suppressed a squeal when he reached the tip of his cock. But, he couldn’t hold out; it only took three strokes before a rush of cum shot across the shower.

He towelled himself down; ashamed. He had tossed off to the vision of his Aunt Martha, what kind of pervert did that make him?

It was a warm summer afternoon so he found his blue cotton shorts and clambered into them. Then he put on a yellow tee-shirt. He stepped into a pair of flip-flops. He was ready. His aunt hadn’t said when “supper” would be, but he supposed it was some time off. He would explore the house. He walked through the passageway; all the doors were closed. It was eerily quiet for such a large house. He padded down the staircase, intent on going outside to look at the garden and grounds.

He was walking through the cavernous hall when a crack like a pistol shot rang out. He knew it wasn’t gunfire. Then he heard another. It was coming from a nearby room. Intrigued, he pressed his ear against the door and heard voices. Then another crack. The door was ancient and the keyhole was wide. Checking that no one was in the hall to see him, for Peter knew spying was not right, he bent down and put his eye to the hole.

His pupil dilated. What the hell was going on? The vision the boy saw was of a young man bent across the back of a small padded armchair. His trousers were at his ankles and his underpants at the knees. Peter had an arse-on view, he couldn’t see the young man’s face, but surely it was his cousin Albert. It must be, he reckoned, because standing behind him about to flog a whippy school cane into his naked backside was Uncle Barnabas. He raised the cane high and swiped it with great force into the buttocks. His cousin shuddered, but kept his positon. Uncle Barnabas raised the cane once more.

Suddenly, Peter felt a great pain in his left ear as a hand grabbed it and hauled him to his feet.

“Peeping Tom! How dare you spy at keyholes!” It was a furious Aunt Martha. “What do you think you are doing,” she pushed him away from the door. “Get up those stairs. Go to your room. Stay there. I’ll deal with you later.”

At that second the door opened and Albert appeared. His pale face reddened when he realised his caning had been witnessed by his mother and cousin. He rushed up the stairs two at a time. A shamefaced Peter followed at a more sedate pace.

Supper was a quiet affair. Peter had three cousins but Alexander who was twenty was away at university in Newcastle and had decided to stay there for the summer. Elizabeth, a precocious sixteen-year-old, was travelling Europe with a friend’s family. That left Albert, who was Peter’s age, and Aunt Martha and Uncle Barnabas.

Albert sat in total silence. Peter supposed he was embarrassed about the caning. That, and the fact that he was dressed in grey short trousers, long socks and a white shirt. He looked like the four men Peter had seen at the Tube station.

Peter made polite conversation. He answered questions about his own family and his plans for the summer, but his heart was not in it. He wanted the meal to end. This was all too embarrassing. He hadn’t forgotten his aunt’s earlier threat, “I’ll deal with you later.”

At last he and Albert were allowed to leave the table. The cousins trudged up the stairs.

“Come to my room,” Albert smiled at Peter. It was a warm smile. The teenager’s face lit up when he grinned. His blue eyes sparkled and dimples formed on his cheeks.

Albert’s bedroom was huge but it was cluttered with the debris that teenage boys collect. He cleared cricket gear from a hard chair and let Peter sit. Albert stretched out on the soft bed. Peter wondered if his cousin’s backside was still sore. It looked like one heck of a caning. Peter had never been caned himself, nor spanked even, he didn’t know how painful it was.

Peter stared at his cousin and his short trousers. They were proper short trousers, like children wore with school uniforms, they weren’t summer shorts like Peter was wearing.

“The short trousers?” Albert had read his cousin’s mind. “It’s a long story,” he said and then launched into it. It had started a few months back when he had failed all his “mock exams” at school. He had been given twelve-of-the-best with a rattan cane by his father, but he left that part out of the story. He did tell Peter that his dad had the idea that by putting him back into short trousers it would concentrate his mind. It would also keep him in the house and stop him spending evenings and weekends with his friends. Which eighteen-year-old boy would want to be seen dead wearing short trousers?

So, that was it really. Short trousers as punishment. Peter remembered the men in the Tube station. He wasn’t a man of the world, but surely it was a bit kinky for adults to wear school short trousers. He thought better than to ask Albert what he thought.

He changed the subject. “Sorry about earlier …” he trailed off. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject of Albert’s caning. “Your mum caught me spying at the keyhole,” he laughed.

“I’m surprised she didn’t take you across her knee and spank your bare bum with her hairbrush,” Albert said. Peter grinned and was about to make a witty rejoinder when he saw his cousin’s grim expression. He had not been joking.

“I’ll deal with you later.”

Peter blanched. No, surely not.



Later that evening Peter was in his bathroom. He had stripped down to his bright yellow briefs and was washing himself and cleaning his teeth. He studied himself in the mirror. He was thin and bony with a hairless chest and stomach; an eighteen-year-old youth with the body of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old boy. His mother often said he needed “fattening up.” He was a little shorter than average and his cheap short-back-and-sides haircut emphasised his schoolboy look.

He was startled out of his thoughts by a stern rat-a-tat-tat knocking on the door. Before he could respond the door opened and Aunt Martha stood grimly in the doorway. She stood for a moment as if apprising if it was safe to enter. When she saw her nephew standing with a confused expression and dressed only in his underwear, she strode in kicking the door closed behind her.

Peter stood transfixed. Aunt Martha was still dressed in her jodhpur trousers and black blouse. The image of her vast arse flashed before his eyes. His cock twitched. Instinctively, he cupped his hand in front of his penis, hiding any tell-tale movement. He was so concerned by her buttocks that at first he failed to register an important factor.

In her right hand she held a long thin leather riding crop. She allowed it to dangle at her side. She peered closely at Peter. She was a no-nonsense lady, she ran her own successful business; she knew how to get straight to the point.

“We don’t like peeping toms here,” she snarled. “Naughty little boys should not be peeping through keyholes.” She gently tapped the riding crop against her leg as she berated the teenager. His eyes widened as they followed the movement of the crop.

“We have standards in this house. Rules. Codes of behaviour.” She spoke as if she were addressing a room full of people. Then as if as an afterthought, she added, “Your mother would be ashamed of you.”

She stopped. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Peter was dumb. Was he expected to say something? If so, what? Even as he had been spying through the keyhole to witness Albert’s bare-bottomed caning, he knew he was behaving badly. It had been a temptation that he could not resist.

Aunt Martha lifted the crop and pointed it at her confused nephew. “We have ways of dealing with naughty little boys in this house.”

Peter’s youthful, open face blushed scarlet. Why did she keep calling him a “naughty little boy?”

She bent the crop between her hands. It was a sturdy whip. It was not too supple. It was designed for horses. Its job was to cut into thick flesh to encourage a horse to obey its mistress. Aunt Martha knew it could also encourage naughty little boys onto better behaviour.

Peter watched transfixed as his aunt walked to the bed and leaned across it. Her buttocks stretched tightly against the smooth material of her trousers. Quickly, he averted his eyes. He must keep control of his cock. His aunt bundled together four pillows and quickly piled them one on top of the other at the edge of the bed.

There were no prizes for guessing her intentions.

“B.. B..” Peter was literally at a loss for words. What could he say? Everything Aunt Martha had said was true. He had spied on his uncle and cousin. It was a bad thing to do.

Aunt Martha straightened herself up and took up position a foot or two away from the bed. Peter’s heart raced.

“I’m surprised she didn’t take you across her knee and spank your bare bum with her hairbrush.”

Albert hadn’t been quite right. It wasn’t to be a hairbrush spanking.

Aunt Martha swiped the whip through the air before tapping it across the top of the pillow tower. The command was curt. She expected to be obeyed. “Bend over those pillows.”

Peter stood rooted; unable to move. He stared intently at the leather riding crop. He felt incredibly exposed, in only skimpy cotton briefs.

Aunt Martha glared. She was not used to such disobedience. “If you do not put yourself over those pillows I’ll come over there and pull your underpants down and tan your bare bottom so hard you won’t sit for a week, you naughty little boy.”

With his hands still strategically placed in front of his pants, the teenager slowly moved forward. His heart beat so loudly he could hear it. Blood rushed so fast through his body he feared his ears would pop. He stood for a moment at the edge of the bed looking down at the pillows. Then he fell forward. His face was pressed into the sweet smelling eiderdown; the toes of his feet brushed the deep pile carpet and his bottom was raised over the pillows.

His face was so close to the eiderdown that he could see nothing. Everything was black. He felt a rustle behind him and then heard a swishing sound. The pain was intense. Aunt Martha had landed the crop across the very centre of his bum. He wriggled from side to side. The intensity of the pain subsided almost immediately, leaving his behind throbbing.

He humped the pillows after the second whack slashed into his bum. That hurt. A lot. He lifted his head from the bed and sucked in great gulps of air. He was still wheezing for breath when Aunt Martha sent her crop whizzing into the underside of his cheeks. His pants were so brief that they hardly covered his arse. That cut stuck him on bare flesh and he yelped like a little whipped puppy.

Aunt Martha paused to admire her handiwork. Before her she saw her eighteen-year-old nephew laid face-down over a pile of pillows. His cotton-covered bottom trembled and quivered. The boy could not keep still; his body was moving up and down. He crossed and uncrossed his legs at the ankles. He buried his head in his arms. She could see he appeared to be in great pain; but he remained submissive waiting for her to continue the punishment.

She aimed higher this time and struck the top of his mounds. He huffed and puffed, “Huff, huff, huff,” and repeated his wriggling and humping.

She could not see his face and had no idea whether tears were flowing. To her tears were a bonus. Experience with her own sons told her big boys didn’t cry. Mostly they took their spankings stoically. They didn’t make much fuss, but that didn’t mean they weren’t exceptionally painful and something to be avoided.

She whacked two almighty stingers one after another. Slash. Slash. That got the boy panting and wheezing and rolling and rocking over the pillows. “Huff, huff, huff,” Peter wheezed. Then he settled and lay taking deep breaths.

Aunt Martha tucked the riding crop under her arm. That was it. Six-of-the-best. That would teach the naughty little boy to spy at keyholes. She looked down at the teenager, still gasping for breath.

“That’s it you can stand up now. It’s over. No more peeking at keyholes.”

Peter made no response. His face was still pressed into the eiderdown. Aunt Martha took one more look at the boy’s bottom. The backs of his thighs were striped red. His buttocks would be roaring, she thought. Serves the naughty little boy right.

Quietly, she opened the door and left. Peter waited a moment or two to make sure she had gone. Then, gingerly he lifted himself to his feet. He found he could not walk easily. The front of his underpants was full of sticky goo.




Uncle Barnabas and Aunt Martha were professional people and spent much of the week at work. That suited Albert perfectly, it meant he had the run of the house. It made him very popular with friends who had a ready-made place to hang out. London was spectacularly short of free meeting places for young people. The availability of many spare bedrooms in the house proved particularly attractive.

Nickie – with an “ie” as he constantly told people – was a welcome visitor. He and Peter sat in the large walled garden at the back of the house. Nickie had the whitest hair Peter had ever seen. Not even old men had hair so white. It must have come out of a bottle, he supposed. Nickie’s hair was expensively cut and was as flat as a plateau on top,

He was “out and proud.” Peter had never met a homosexual before. He didn’t think there were any in the town where he lived. If there were they probably kept quiet about it. This was 1986 and if you believed the newspapers, gay boys were a hazard to public health.

Albert appeared carrying two bottles of red wine and three coffee mugs.

Nickie’s eyes shone. “Where did you get those?”

“My dad has lots; he won’t miss a couple.”

He set the bottles on a table and expertly cut the foil and extracted the cork. There was a satisfactory glug, glug, glug as he poured wine into the first mug. Soon the three teenagers were toasting one another. Nickie and Albert took extensive gulps of their wine. Peter was not so confident. He had never drunk wine before. He was hardly a drinker, despite his age. He didn’t much like the taste of alcohol. He could make a bottle of Labatts last all night and still leave it behind half full.

Albert poured refills. Nickie lay back on a beach towel, strategically placed on the threadbare lawn. “I do adore you in those short trousers.” He loved to tease Albert. “Very sexy,” he snickered. Albert pulled a face.

Peter told them about the four men he had seen dressed in school uniforms at Victoria Underground station. “They were older than my dad,” he added incredulously.

“Oh they were probably going to the Whacko! Club,” Nickie said matter of factly.

“The Whacko Club?”

“Yes it’s a male corporal punishment club. They meet above a pub called the Spring Chickens. You see lots of guys dressed as school kids.”


“Others like to be headmasters,” Nickie added confidently. “Some are into heavier stuff. You know, whips and chains,” he smiled brightly and took another huge swig of wine.

Yeah right, Peter thought. This was a wind-up. No such places really existed.

“You should check it out, Pierre,” Nickie continued. “You’d go down a storm with your boyish hips and daft haircut.”

Peter resented being called “Pierre,” but what could he say? He scowled instead.

“I’ll take you next Saturday,” Nickie’s eyes twinkled as he observed his new friend’s reaction closely. “You said you might be looking for a job. You could earn more in one night at Whacko! than you’d get burning burgers at Wimpy in a month.”

“What are you talking about,” Albert grinned.

“Yes dear boy,” Nickie affected a Noel Coward voice, “Our fathers may spank us for free, but others must pay us a fee.” He collapsed in a fit of giggles. He poured the dregs of wine into his mug and nonchalantly tossed the bottle over the high fence into the garden next door.

“You shouldn’t do that,” Peter protested.

Nickie laid on his back, contemplated the heavy rain clouds forming overhead, and sighed, “Out of sight, out of mind dear boy.”

Albert opened the second bottle.

Suddenly, the heavens opened and rain lashed down. The boys gathered together the wine and mugs and dashed inside, leaving the towels to soak.

It wasn’t until the following Saturday that Peter and Albert got the call. Uncle Barnabas wanted to see them in his study. Immediately.

Albert, wearing his grey short trousers and Peter in a tattered pair of Levi cut-offs, stood side by side in front of Uncle Barnabas’ desk. It was a huge room, which he sometimes used when he worked from home. It had dark mahogany panels around the walls and a large window with stained glass decorations. Uncle sat behind a walnut desk. It reminded Peter of an old-fashioned headmaster’s study.

That wasn’t the only similarity. The last time Peter had seen inside this room was when he peeped through the keyhole to witness Uncle Barnabas thrash Albert’s bare backside with a whippy rattan school cane. He was relieved that the cane did not appear to be present that afternoon.

What was in evidence was an empty bottle of red wine sitting on the desk. Peter could not be certain, but it looked like one that the boys had drunk earlier in the week.

“Mr Joseph from next door tells me that this wine bottle,” Uncle Barnabas nodded at his desk, “was found in his back garden. He believes it was thrown over the fence from here.”

“Oh dad,” Albert flashed his winning smile. He made sure his beautiful teeth gleamed and his dimples showed. “It could have come from anywhere.” He smiled again as if to say, “Well, really, of course it wasn’t us.”

His father glowered. He was an angry man. He was sick and tired of his unruly son. “It could not. I have this wine specially imported. I doubt if anyone else in the district has wine like this.”

Albert’s face fell. The smile disappeared like ice in sunshine. “Oh,” he mumbled. There wasn’t much more to say.

“I have checked my cellar. There are two bottles missing. What do you have to say to that?”

Peter felt his face flaming up. Bloody wine. He hadn’t wanted to drink it. It gave him a thumping headache. Now, look at the trouble it was causing him.

Albert shrugged his shoulders and had the grace to look abashed.

“Albert, did you steal my wine?” It was a straight question demanding a straight answer.

“I wouldn’t call it stealing …” Albert began but trailed off, unconvinced of his own argument.

“Pah!” his father exploded, “What else would you call taking my wine without permission. It is downright theft!”

Albert stared at his bare feet. Peter shuffled with embarrassment.

“I won’t have it. I simply won’t have it. My own son stealing from me.” He rose from his chair and walked to the front of the desk. Peter saw he was wearing loose linen trousers and an electric blue shirt; perfect attire for a warm summer’s day. Incongruously, on his feet he wore bedroom slippers without socks.

Without speaking, he lifted a straight-backed chair from its place against the wall and set it down in the middle of the room. Peter eyed him nervously. Albert’s pretty face twitched. His eyes blinked fast.

Uncle Barnabas sat on the chair, reached down and took off the slipper from his right foot. He squeezed it in his hand. It was soft and the top was made of checked cloth. The sole was rubber. It was typical of its kind; similar slippers had been used to spank the backsides of naughty boys for generations.

He looked menacingly at his son. “You know the drill.”

“But dad,” Albert implored. He meant, “Dad please don’t spank me in front of Peter. It’s not fair.”

His father read his mind. “Don’t worry you will both get it.”

“But, it wasn’t Peter’s fault. I stole the wine, not him,” Albert was an incorrigible rogue most of the time, but he was an honourable boy.

Peter’s hopes were raised only to be dashed on the rocks.

“Maybe, but he helped to drink it.” It was his uncle’s last word on the matter.

“Now, shorts down. Bend over my knee.”

Albert’s short trousers had a half-elasticated waist so didn’t need a belt. Peter watched as the eighteen-year-old unfastened the metal clasp at the top and allowed the trousers to slip down to his feet. In one continuous movement, he stepped out of them and took two paces towards his father and then gently lowered himself across his lap.

He stretched his hands out ahead of him and placed the palms of his hands flat on the carpet. His legs were slightly bent at the knees and his toes hardly brushed the ground. Peter stood immediately behind his cousin. He had a magnificent view of his arse. Albert was growing out of his navy blue-coloured pants and they clung snugly to his buttocks. His crack was clearly visible through the smooth cotton.

It wasn’t strictly necessary, but Uncle Barnabas took hold of the waistband of the pants and pulled, making doubly sure that there were no creases in the seat. Satisfied that they fitted like a second skin, Uncle Barnabas raised the slipper to shoulder height and smacked it down across Albert’s left cheek.

The thwack of rubber on stretched flesh resounded around the room. Peter flinched as the slipper struck home, but Albert did not. He remained resolutely staring down at the carpet concentrating on its various mixes of brown. Uncle Barnabas moved his own left arm and used it to pin his son tightly across his lap, then he battered the boy’s bum with the slipper. Hard and rapid.

Albert gasped and wheezed. His face gurned like a gargoyle. His body twisted and turned. His legs kicked up and down. After twenty-four cracks, Uncle Barnabas stopped. Albert’s head was still bouncing up and down off the carpet.

The teenager remained still. It was not over yet. He knew from experience there was more to come. And there was. Unceremoniously, his uncle tugged the teenager’s underpants down until they bunched at the thighs.

Peter gasped. His cousin’s buttocks were bright red, but even from a distance he could detect a number of lines running parallel from left to right across his backside. There were the remains of the cuts from the cane Albert had endured the previous weekend. It must have been some thrashing, Peter supposed. His own bottom had been badly marked by Aunt Martha’s riding crop, but the livid red marks had quickly turned, first to mauve and then various shades of blue to yellow, and by Thursday they had disappeared altogether.

Uncle Barnabas clutched his slipper tightly and renewed the onslaught on his son’s now bare bottom. Albert at first folded his arms and when that did nothing to absorb the pain, he clasped his hands together rather like some people do when they pray. Another two dozen whacks tore up his savaged cheeks. Not one square inch of his buttocks and thighs was left unblemished. The pain was searing. A burning sensation ripped through the boy’s bum. Every nerve end was frayed.

Uncle Barnabas was an expert spanker, but his son was also an experienced receiver. A boy laid across his father’s lap to receive a sound spanking has little control over his body. It will involuntarily wriggle and squirm. Legs will kick out; it’s a reflex action. But, a boy does have control of the sounds he makes. Albert groaned and gasped but no matter how much pain he felt, he didn’t yelp or yell. He didn’t plead for mercy or promise to behave better in future if dad would only stop whopping his arse.

He did none of these things. As the parlance goes: he took his punishment like a man.

When dad spanked he gave twenty-four on the seat of the underpants and another two dozen on the bare. After whack forty-eight bounced off his bum, Albert lay quietly. The pain at the point of impact had been searing, but even now it was reducing to a constant throb. Soon it would be a warm glow. He waited patiently for his father to release his grip on his middle.

Moments later he was back on his feet with his underpants and short trousers back in their rightful places. He stood close to the wall of the study and massaged his bottom gently. It felt really good. He would never admit it to his dad, but his head always felt remarkably clear after a spanking. It was almost a feeling of euphoria. He couldn’t understand why.

He watched on as his cousin lowered his cut-off jeans and stepped out of them. Albert didn’t know it but Peter felt he had much to live up to. He greatly admired Albert’s grit. He hoped he could endure his spanking as well as his cousin.

Uncle Barnabas made no concessions for first-offenders. In his book a spanking was a spanking. It had to hurt considerably, otherwise what was the point of it?

Peter was shorter than his cousin and both his head and his legs dangled off the ground. The first slap took him by surprise and then he kicked his legs trying to escape the stinging spanks. He twisted and turned his body all over his uncle’s lap, but he held him tight with his big arm wrapped around Peter’s midsection. He beat out a staccato rhythm on the teenager’s backside, but Peter made no sound at all.

It felt like flames were lapping his bottom. Then the whacking ceased. Peter knew what was coming next. He braced himself. Without an instant’s pause, Uncle Barnabas reached for the waistband of Peter’s thin, small, green briefs and tugged them over the boy’s bony hips and lean rump, down to his knees.

Peter remained silent, but being in front of his cousin with his pants down and his bare bum up in the air was pretty embarrassing.

Uncle Barnabas delivered the first spank on Peter’s naked left cheek and then gave him a hard swat about every five seconds for the first ten or so, alternating between his left cheek and right. Peter endured this though his bum felt like he had sat in a bath of hot water. After about ten, uncle increased the speed to about one every second. It seemed like a blur and Peter felt the heat building and he was “oohing” and “aahing.”

He stopped spanking after twenty-four whacks and lifted his nephew off his lap. The boy reached back immediately with his hand and rubbed furiously, not realising that this made his soft cock bounce up and down in front of his uncle.

Minutes later the two boys were in Albert’s bedroom. Shorts and pants had been discarded and they were admiring the red sheen on each other’s raw backsides.

“Yours is even redder than the wine we drank,” Albert gently caressed his cousin’s savaged cheeks.

“Yours feels like it could heat the whole room,” Peter rubbed Albert’s backside roughly.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch,” he feigned pain. Both boys hugged and laughed. There was nothing to compare with the bonding two friends feel after they have been spanked together.

“It’s all Nickie’s fault,” Albert grinned. “If he hadn’t chucked the bottle over the fence we’d never have been found out.”

“That’s right,” Peter’s cock twitched. “So which of us is going to give him his spanking?” They both collapsed in a fit of the giggles.




“You want to cane me on my botty-wotty,” Nickie shrieked with laughter. “Oh, yes per-lease!” He put his hands on his knees and jutted his backside out comically. “Oh! Oww! Ouch! Eek!” he jumped up and down and clasped his hands to the seat of his ripped jeans.

Peter frowned, but Albert giggled. It was an absurd idea, he knew that. They had endured a sound bare-bottomed spanking over Uncle Barnabas’s knee for stealing his wine. They wouldn’t have been found out if Nickie hadn’t chucked an empty bottle into next door’s garden. Surely, the two teenagers had thought, he should be punished too.

“Yes,” Peter rebuked Nickie sternly, he wasn’t joking. “Why should you get away with it?”

Nickie beamed. He had a wonderful smile. His whole face lit up. His blue eyes shone and his ruby lips were very kissable. What Peter had not yet realised was Nickie often sold his arse to corporal punishment enthusiasts. He loved being spanked and caned. A punishment for him would be not to be caned.

“Sorry.” Nickie was genuine. He hadn’t meant to get his pals into trouble. It was his fault they got caught. They wouldn’t have been spanked by Uncle Barnabas if it wasn’t for him.

“Okay,” Nickie looked Peter in the eye. “If you want to you can cane me.” Peter could feel his face colouring up. He was always too easily embarrassed. “You too,” he looked across at Albert who was seated in a garden chair affecting an air of indifference.

“Sure,” Albert stood up. “I’ll fetch one of dad’s canes. We should do this indoors. In the lounge.”

While Albert rifled through his dad’s collection of whippy rattans, Peter rearranged the furniture in the lounge room. A leather armchair, so worn it must surely be an antique, was the right height. Nickie could bend over its back in comfort, but Peter would ensure what happened next was far from comfortable.

“Here we are,” Albert entered the room with a thin yellow cane tucked under his arm. “Let’s say six each. Twelve in all.” He slipped the cane into his hand and swished it through the still air. It made a terrific swooshing sound.

Nickie shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever,” he thought. He caught Peter’s eye; he had a maniacal glint. He looked as if he was going to enjoy this very much indeed.

Nickie’s heavy ripped jeans would give ample protection against the thwack of the cane; especially one as thin as the rod Albert was theatrically bending between his hands. Unbidden, Nickie unbuckled his belt, popped the metal buttons on his fly and pushed the Levis to his feet. He wore a pair of very (for Nickie) conventional maroon-coloured briefs. His mother had probably bought them for him at Marks and Spencer.

He leant over the back of the chair and gripped the front of the seat cushion. Close up, Nickie could see how distressed the leather was. It smelt of dust. At that moment, the teenager realised the chair might have been in the family for generations. How many people had been in his position over the years, he wondered, with their head low and bottom held high while some master in authority whipped their arse with a cane?

His thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sting. Albert had delivered his first stroke. Nickie felt it, but it was hardly painful. Nor were any of the six strokes Albert administered. He didn’t want to hurt his friend; why would he? If it wasn’t for Peter, he wouldn’t be doing this at all.

Albert handed the cane to Peter. Peter was no expert in caning, but he remembered how Uncle Barnabas had dealt with Albert, the time he peeked through the keyhole of the study. Uncle had put some beef into the strokes. And so did Peter. He swiped the cane across Nickie’s maroon underpants with great force; he might have been beating a carpet.

Nickie felt those strokes. He screwed up his face and puffed out air through his teeth after each one landed, but he made little sound. The teenager was often caned; he had a very high pain threshold. With the guys he considered his “clients” he would put on a show. If they wanted him to he would yelp and scream and beg to be let off the caning. Others preferred a more stoical reaction where he simply bent over and absorbed the sometimes intense pain.

Nickie’s arse throbbed when Peter had finished, but rather like a schoolboy who had been caned by his headmaster, he wasn’t about to let the teenager know he had hurt him. He bent down and pulled up his jeans.

“Right,” Albert was embarrassed. How should this end? Then he had an idea. “Who says we go to the pub. Nickie’s buying.”




It would soon be granddad’s sixty-fifth birthday and the family planned a party. They asked him to find mementoes – photographs and the like – from his childhood and teenage years so they could make a display. He had lots of things in the loft at home, but Aunt Martha thought he was too old to be climbing ladders and crawling around the roof space so she despatched Peter and Albert to do it. When they got to his house they found him already sorting through cardboard boxes.

“You shouldn’t be going in the loft granddad,” Albert chided.

“Why ever not?”

“Because you’re an old man now,” he teased, running the word “old” around his tongue as he had once heard Nickie do.

Granddad knew he was being wound up, so he gave some back to his grandson. “I see you father still has you dressed in short trousers.”

Albert wasn’t about to let his granddad know but he was used to the juvenile clothes. When he walked the streets nobody seemed to notice he was dressed in school uniform and his friends thought it was a good laugh. Being forced to wear grey school short trousers like a little boy was not much of punishment and it was infinitely preferable than going over his dad’s knee for another bare-arsed tanning.

Granddad picked up a small pile of yellowing papers. “My old school reports,” he waved them around. “I’ve got them all. This one’s when I was twelve. It says, ‘Richard is very lazy. He would do well if he applied himself.’” Granddad chuckled. “My father gave me a good hiding when he read that.” Peter couldn’t be sure but he thought the old man’s eyes misted at the memory. “It must have done me some good, I passed my exams and went on to university.”

He put the school report on the dining table. It would be ideal for his family exhibition. Uninvited Albert delved into a box. There were several fading back-and-white photos. “What’s this granddad?” He held up a picture of two teenagers in what even without the benefit of colour he could see were clearly posh school blazers.

“Blooming heck,” he said. Granddad usually swore like a trooper but it amused him when he was around his grandchildren to pretend that he was genteel. “I haven’t seen that picture for years. St Augustus Grammar.” He trailed off, suddenly overcome with a memory.

Albert peered closely at the picture. It was clear which of the two boy was granddad. These days the old man had little hair and had fleshed out considerably since his schooldays, but the shape of his head and the sticky-out ears were unmistakable.

“Who’s the other boy?” Peter thought he looked sad, as if he were carrying the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. Granddad took hold of the photo and studied it intently. “Geraldson Major,” he whispered. “Old Gerry,” his lips quivered into a wan smile. “We got up to some scrapes.”

Albert beamed and nodded his head vigorously, encouraging the old man to tell a tale of his schooldays. “Six of the best,” granddad stuttered the words. “We were in the sixth form. Eighteen years old. That blinking headmaster, we called him Dr Toaster, because he was always warming up boys’ backsides.” He trailed off once more.

“So what did you do granddad?” Albert knew that the old man used to beat his own father with a cane when he was a boy. Corporal punishment was a family tradition. He would enjoy hearing that granddad was also given a sore bum when he was a kid.

“Nothing really. We skipped school so we could line up and buy tickets for the FA Cup semi-finals. We got found out, of course. We got a sound caning for our troubles.” Granddad’s voice changed. He appeared to be mimicking his old headmaster. “Trousers down. Bend over. Touch your toes.” Granddad’s eyes twinkled. “I suppose old Toaster was a rugby man.”

He looked closely at the photograph and the twinkle faded and his eyes misted. “Poor Gerry. He died in the war.”

Just then the front door opened and closed. “In here!” granddad called. A youth no older than Albert and Peter appeared. He had jet black hair – obviously dyed – which stuck up from his scalp in all directions. He looked like a throwback to the Punks. He was laden with four bulging Tesco carrier bags. “This is Ferris,” granddad said by way of introduction. “Some of my grandchildren,” he nodded at the two teenagers.

“Pleased,” Ferris grinned a crooked smiled. Then looking at the bags in his hands, he said, “I’ll just put these away.”

“Who was that?” Albert liked the boy already. He was odd-looking, someone who was not conventional.

“That’s Ferris. He stays here sometimes.”

“Is he your lodger?”

Granddad beamed. “Ferris!” he shouted so the boy could hear him in the next room. “Albert asks if you are my lodger!” A shriek of laughter peeled from the kitchen. “Well, I suppose rent is sometimes involved.”

Granddad’s face flushed and he returned his attention to the boxes. He picked up a bundle of letters tied up with string. The knot was too tight. “Flipping heck. I can’t untie this.”

“Here,” Peter delved into his pocket and withdrew his pride and joy: a Swiss Army Knife and granddad cut the string.

“What are they granddad, love letters?” Albert’s face shined. Was he about to discover some juicy secret about the old man’s past? Granddad shuffled the envelopes in his hands. “Birthday cards mostly. Picture postcards. Nothing too interesting.”

Ferris returned to the room and hovered unsure what he should do. “Should I …?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. He meant should he go upstairs and keep out of the way.

“No, Ferris. We’re looking at my old photos and things.”

Ferris picked up the school photo and held it close to his face. Peter thought the boy must need glasses. “What a sexy creature you were,” he shrieked with laughter again. Granddad’s face flushed, but his shoulders heaved. He had enjoyed the compliment immensely.

About an hour later, Peter and Albert were approaching the Underground station on their way home. “Bugger it,” Peter stuck his hands in his pockets, searching them all. “I’ve left my knife behind.”

Albert shrugged. “C’mon. let’s go back. It’ll only take ten minutes.” They walked in companionable silence. At the house they heard the sound of a vacuum cleaner whirring. Peter had an insatiable curiosity. Many would say he was “nosey.” It got him in trouble sometimes. He still masturbated at the memory of the riding-crop thrashing Aunt Martha gave him for peeking through the keyhole when Albert was caned by his dad.

Instead of ringing the doorbell, Peter stepped over the flowerbeds and peered through the window. One day he would learn this was bad behaviour. Spying was an intrusion of privacy. Sometimes you saw things it was better not to see. Some secrets were best left unrevealed.

Inside the lounge room Ferris was entirely naked, except for a pair of gleaming white briefs. They were a size or two too small. The under curves of his buttocks were visible and even from a distance Peter could see the outline of the boy’s cock. Unlike, every boy Peter knew, Ferris was not circumcised.

Granddad sat in the centre of a large leather couch watching. Ferris sashayed his hips and tight bottom as he glided the vacuum cleaner across the rug. Then, he released the Hoover and put his hands on his knees, stuck out his bum and wriggled it. Still bending over, he looked over his shoulder at granddad.

The old man gave a signal with his eyes. Ferris straightened and skipped across the room to granddad. No words were spoken. Ferris lay face down across granddad’s lap. The couch was large enough for Ferris to have his chest on one side of granddad and stretch his legs behind him. His toes rested on the arm of the couch.

Peter watched astonished as granddad, slowly and gently peeled down the tight briefs. Ferris’s bum was creamy white and contrasted starkly with his deeply suntanned body. Granddad gently caressed Ferris’s buttocks, making circling motions. He pinched the teenager’s flesh. The bum was tight; there wasn’t much “give.” Then, granddad, stroked Ferris’s hairless back. He spent some time at the shoulders. Ferris purred like a cat.

Suddenly, granddad raised his right hand and brought it smacking down into the teenager’s left buttock cheek. Then the right. He kept up a staccato rhythm; randomly smacking the cheeks high, then low, then high, then at the crest of the mounds.

Albert stared at his cousin. The look on Peter’s face scared him. He moved forward toward the window. “What is it? What are you looking at?”




Peter got a part-time job at a burger bar and he was loving every minute of it. Most of the people who worked there were like him; they had just left school or were students on vacation from university.

He was there one day when the manager Billy had a public row with Timothy. “You’ve been falsifying your timesheets,” Billy accused.

“No I haven’t boss,” was Timothy’s predictable response.

“You have. I’ve been going through them You’re putting an hour or more extra a day. That adds up to a day a week.”

“It’s just a mistake. Sorry boss.”

Nobody was working by this stage. There were all ears. Those who had worked at the bar for a while knew where this would end.

“It’s no mistake. You’ve been doing it every day for weeks.”

Timothy looked abashed. So did a few of his co-workers. Inflating the timesheets was the oldest trick in the book. You could get away with it too if you didn’t get too greedy.

“I should sack you,” Billy frowned.

“Oh, come on boss,” Timothy flushed. He didn’t need the sack. He had payments to make on his car.

“Alright. Come and see me in my office at the end of the shift.” With that Billy strutted from the room.

A gang of schoolchildren came into the bar and they got back to work. Everyone knew what “see me in my office at the end of the shift” meant, but not a word was spoken on the subject.

At six on the dot, Timothy gingerly knocked on the office door. His shift was over but he still wore the burger bar uniform; cheap black polyester slacks and a top that looked like it was styled for a puppet in Thunderbirds. Billy was seated behind his desk. It was piled with paperwork. It always was; none of it ever seemed to move.

Billy wasn’t much older than most of his staff. He wouldn’t turn thirty for another eighteen months. He had been in the burger business for years. The work suited his personality and gave him ample opportunities to feed his appetite. The increasing number of foreign workers coming to London were especially to his taste.

Timothy wasn’t “foreign”, he was London born and bred. So were his parents and their parents before him. He was a bright lad and was working at the bar during university holidays.

“Do you admit falsifying the timesheets?” Billy knew he had, but he would still like a confession.

“Yes, boss. Sorry.”

Billy grinned lasciviously. He should demand that the money be repaid and once that was done he should sack Timothy’s arse. But, he wouldn’t. Billy wouldn’t sack his arse, but he would give his arse a damn good spanking.

“I think you know what happens now,” Billy spoke softly. He never spanked in anger. He took his time. He relished every moment.

Timothy knew. The youngster had a spanking fetish for as long as he could remember. He dreamed about it most nights. The latest involved his mother. Timothy’s grades were poor, so he was over her knee, his pyjama bottoms at his feet while mother hammered her hairbrush into his naked buttocks. In the dreams he wasn’t a kid, he was his real age; twenty-one.

Timothy would prefer to be spanked by a woman, and a matronly one at that. But beggars can’t be choosers, so Billy would have to do.  His boss opened a desk drawer and reached inside. He withdrew a solid wooden ruler. He rose from his chair, navigated the desk and stood in the centre of the room. “Bring that over here,” he indicated a worn wooden chair with a straight back that stood against a wall.

It was heavier than it looked, but Timothy soon had it in position. Then, Billy sat down and spread his legs. “Now, get over here.” He pointed to his right side, indicating that Timothy was to stand there. He did. His heart was thumping and he was certain his face was scarlet. He had often dreamed of being spanked, but apart from a bit of a fumble with a girl at university, he was a spanking virgin.

“Lower your trousers, boy.” Timothy blanched. He had thought he wanted this so much, but now at this last minute he was not so sure. He was losing his nerve. He stood rooted. “Down,” Billy repeated pointing with a bony finger. “Right now.”

Still, Timothy did not move. “Pah!” Billy expelled air through nearly clenched teeth. He pulled the young man toward him and quickly unfastened his black polyester trousers. Timothy felt the static electricity crackle as they slid over his thighs and rested at his knees. Billy gripped them again and guided them to Timothy’s feet.

Billy paused to admire the bulge in the front of Timothy’s briefs. They fitted snugly and the outline of the young man’s cock was clearly seen. Billy noted with disappointment that Timothy’s cock was cut. He skinned the briefs past his knees and smiled as the cock bounced up and down in front of his face. It wasn’t erect, but nor was it fully limp.

“Over my knee,” he quietly ordered, and fearing Timothy would be reluctant, he gripped his right arm and guided him across his lap and helped him to settle into place. Timothy stared down at the hard industrial strength carpet. It needed Hoovering, he noticed. The rough carpet scratched his palms when he put the weight of his body on them. Behind him, the toes of his shoes rested comfortably on the ground. His knees were bent slightly and his bum lay at a forty-five-degree angle against Billy’s right leg. The boss gripped Timothy around the waist. He was going nowhere until Billy said so.


“This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me, boy.” Billy liked that joke, he used it often, especially with first-timers. He kept his word as he lifted his strong right arm and whacked the heavy foot-long ruler into Timothy’s buttocks time and again until they turned bright red. Timothy kicked his legs. It was a reflex action He had no control of his body. Billy paused the spanking, forced the young man further forward and wrapped his right leg over Timothy’s calves. That stopped his kicking.


Billy’s target was now more accessible, and more vulnerable. He resumed spanking, hard and fast. Every time Timothy thought the target had gone numb, Billy found areas of the buttocks that were still tender until no part of Timothy’s backside was left unblistered. Satisfied that there was not a square inch of flesh left untoasted, Billy stopped. He hooked his leg away and released his grip on Timothy’s back. The twenty-one-year-old jumped to his feet. Billy roared with laughter. Timothy’s cock was rock hard and pointing up at the ceiling.


Billy didn’t immediately take it in his mouth. Instead, he poked out his tongue and started to lick up and down the iron-hard shaft, as if it was an ice lolly. He paused at the rim of the swollen head. He did this for minutes, while holding the dick tightly at the base. The cock was purple and ready to explode. Timothy was desperate to shoot. Billy ran his tongue in a circle all around the rim. Timothy balled his fists and curled his toes. Just as he thought he could stand it no longer Billy opened his mouth and the top half of Timothy’s cock slid smoothly inside.


Outside the office door Peter was ready to leave. His shift was over and he had changed back into his street clothes. As he turned toward the staff exit, he heard what sounded like a scream of anguish from Timothy. My God, Peter thought, the poor guy’s being tortured.




“Stand there, bend over. Touch your toes, it’s six of the best for you young man.” Dr Cains flexed the rattan curve-handled cane between his hands and then swished it at point on the floor in the middle of the room.

Peter eyed the cane apprehensively. He had never seen a school cane close up until that day. It was thin and whippy. He supposed as canes went it was at the lighter, milder end of the scale. Dr Cains swiped the cane through the air once more. “I am waiting Wharton, I am waiting.”

Peter’s heart thumped so loud he was sure Dr Cains could hear it from the other side of the room. His hands were trembling. Taking care not to catch his punisher’s eye, he stepped forward, took a deep breath and bent from the waist. Touching his toes was harder than he expected; it put a terrible strain on the calves.

He concentrated hard on the stained carpet beneath his feet. He felt the cane being tapped across the middle of his stretched bum. The Terylene cloth of his grey short trousers clung to his buttocks. His green-and-gold diagonally-striped tie dangled in front of his eyes. He clenched his mouth shut, waiting for the fearsome sting of the first stroke.

Peter had travelled to London to stay with his uncle wanting new experiences. But this wasn’t quite what he had in mind when he left his tiny town in Dorset.

Peter, Albert and Nickie had met in a pub in Soho. It was one of Nickie’s regular haunts. It was a “gay bar.” Peter never knew such things existed. It was packed and guys that Nickie knew came to their table, chatted and moved on. Peter thought Nickie had a lot of friends.

“So do you want to come to The Whacko! Club next week, Pierre?” Nickie sucked on a bottle of designer lager.

Peter looked puzzled; he had forgotten their earlier conversation.

“Whacko! The CP club.” And when Peter still looked baffled, he explained. “CP. Corporal punishment.”

Now Peter remembered.

“I thought that was a joke.”

“No. They meet every Saturday. It’s been going on for years.”

Peter remained silent.

Nickie was a man on a mission. He wasn’t going to leave the bar until he had made a sale. “There are lots of people who go. They’re a great bunch of pals.” He studied Peter’s reaction. He hadn’t known the teenager for long, but he had detected a spark behind the eighteen-year-old’s eyes when Peter had caned him over the wine incident. He could be converted to the cause.

“Thing is, they are mostly middle-aged fellows, or old.” He rolled the word “old” around his tongue, as if he were describing a group of rare, rather absurd, creatures from Papua New Guinea. “So, every so often they bring in a group of youngsters to play with.”

Peter flushed scarlet and examined the label on his Labatts intently. He didn’t want to hear this. He knew where Nickie was going. It scared him a little.

Until he had come to London, Peter had never received corporal punishment. Then within a week of his arrival he had been beaten with a riding crop by Aunt Martha and taken across Uncle Barnabas’s knee for a spanking with a slipper on his bare bottom.

He had ejaculated into a pillow even while Aunt Martha was still lashing his buttocks. He hadn’t disgraced himself in that way with Uncle Barnabas, but afterwards he had a sensation he had never felt before. He didn’t understand it and he couldn’t describe it. It was as if his head had never been so clear. It was a kind of euphoria, an ecstasy. He had never felt so “good” before. He wasn’t much of a drinker and never had the chance to take drugs, so he wasn’t sure if he was on some kind of “high.”

It worried him and excited him in equal measure. He might not know “what” had happened to him, but he did know “how.” Corporal punishment turned him on.

“So the guys at Whacko! have themed parties,” Nickie continued. “One time it was Boy Scouts, another, no surprise here, it was schools and headmasters. One time we dressed up as footballers. They talk about managers giving their players the ‘hairdryer’ treatment; we got the ‘hairbrush’ treatment,” he giggled, knowing it was a lame joke.

Peter swigged at his beer too quickly. It went down the wrong hole and he coughed so violently Nickie thought he might choke to death.

After Peter had recovered, Nickie carried on. “We’re doing schools again.” He nudged Peter playfully in the arm. “You will go down a treat. You even look like a real schoolboy.” He hesitated, “No offence. You could tell them you were still at a school. It’s nearly true, you’ve only just left. They would blow a fuse.”

Nickie was babbling now. “And, if you let on that you just had a spanking for real from your uncle, they’d all want to adopt you as a nephew.”

Nickie paused, trying to gauge Peter’s reaction. His new friend’s eyes were glazed, but he knew it wasn’t caused by the beer.

“Oh, did I say?” Nickie lent in so close Peter could smell his beery breath. “No sex. They can’t do sex. CP is all right, sex is against the law. Nothing like that happens …” he trailed off. He knew he wasn’t quite telling the truth. All sorts of things happened after club night ended, but that was in the privacy of people’s own homes.

“Oh and,” he hoped this might be the fact that would seal the deal, “the money’s fantastic. Bugger filling shelves at Tesco.”

Later that night in his bedroom at Uncle Barnabas’s, Peter replayed the night in his head. He had given Nickie the brush-off. The Whacko! Club was too dangerous. Letting complete strangers spank and cane you. What was Nickie thinking? His new friend insisted that there was no danger. The guys had rules and they kept to them. Nobody did anything they didn’t want to, Nickie had said emphatically. And besides, he wouldn’t be on his own, there were usually seven or eight youngsters at the party – there was safety in numbers.

Peter had a fitful sleep. He woke at about three with a raging hard-on. His cock ached so much it was about to burst. If he hadn’t woken in time he would have soiled the sheets. He ran into his private bathroom and unfurled a yard of toilet paper. His hand made several frantic tugs along the full length of his bursting cock. His body juddered as pints of cum soaked into the tissue.

He washed his dick and staggered back to the bed. He couldn’t get back to sleep. He usually never remembered his dreams, but this one haunted him. It had been vivid, precise. He remembered every detail clearly. He was back at school. In the headmaster’s study. The old man was dressed in academic gown and mortar board. In his hand he gripped an awesome thick crook-handled cane. In front of him bent across the back of an armchair was Peter. His pale-grey long trousers were at his feet; his white Y-fronts at the knees. His bared-bottom was raw with red welts. The headmaster raised the cane and flogged it down into the naked haunches; over and over and over again.

Two days later, which was the next time that he met Nickie, Peter put his name down for The Whacko! Club.

It was lust at first sight the moment Dr Cains clapped eyes on Peter. Dr Cains – it wasn’t his real name – was one of the organisers at The Whacko! They met at the pub in Soho. The boy sitting before him was a thing of beauty. Was he really eighteen years old? Dr Cains wondered to himself. Later, he would ask for some proof of his age. The club couldn’t break the law.

Peter had not dressed up for the occasion. He wore his yellow tee-shirt and blue cotton shorts and flip-flops on his feet. Much of this was hidden below the table away from De Cains’s gaze. What the elderly man did see was a young fresh-faced boy. He tried not to peer too intently, but had the delightful creature yet started shaving? He was so slender most people would say he was “skinny;” he had the body of a fifteen or sixteen-year-old. His dark brown eyes would melt the stoniest of hearts and that haircut: it was straight out of the nineteen-forties.

Dr Cain couldn’t see the boy’s bum – Peter was sitting on it – but he knew instinctively it would be pert and deliciously spankable.

The meeting was supposed to be an “interview;” as if Peter had applied for a proper job. There was no need for that, Dr Cains had already decided. The only question he had was, “When can you start?”

The answer delighted him. “Any time,” Peter swigged at his Coca-Cola, a little taken aback by his own confidence.

“What size waist are you Peter?” The question startled the boy. Dr Cains was thinking of the Whacko! Club’s extensive range of costumes. He was pretty sure they didn’t have a pair of short trousers small enough to fit the boy.


Twenty-six-inch waist. Dr Cains gasped. “Dear boy, I can buy you short trousers at the children’s department of John Lewis. Do you have a school blazer? No, I suppose they are all back home in Dorset. Don’t worry,” Dr Cains was talking to himself, “I will kit you out. White Y-fronts? No, I don’t suppose so.”

He leaned over to Nickie, “Bring him to my flat at three o’clock for an audition. Don’t be late. Don’t be drunk.” With that Dr Cains rose from his seat and trilled, “I must fly. To John Lewis, I must fly!”

Peter sipped at his Coca-cola and Nickie swigged at a bottle of over-priced tasteless Mexican beer.

It was three-fifteen. Peter was dressed in smart mid-grey short trousers. They fitted him perfectly; John Lewis had served him well. They were a little longer than the summer cotton shorts he had been wearing; they fell to about an inch above the knees.

His gleaming white shirt was too big and hung loose at the neck. He pulled a striped tie up tight. Dr Cains had produced a fancy green blazer with gold braiding. The badge said it was from St Francis Independent Grammar; a real school, apparently.

He pulled on long grey knee socks. They were woolen and in the heat of the summer’s afternoon, they itched his legs. He had no “regulation” black lace-up shoes, so they decided to go without.

Dr Cains dressed his part as well. Peter stared in wonder. The old man had gone to enormous trouble with his costume. He had a heavy tweed jacket and old black trousers with thick grey stripes. Across his back was a tattered academic gown. A mortar board cap with a tassel at the back perched precariously on his head. But the piece-de-resistance was his shirt. It was a grubby off-white colour held together at the neck by a cardboard wing collar.

They stood in an ordinary sitting room. There was a cheap vinyl settee, one armchair and a dining room table with matching chairs. No attempt was made to disguise the room as a headmaster’s study.

“We shall call you Harry Wharton,” Dr Cains said pleasantly. He paused; Peter did not recognise the name.

“We call Nickie, ‘Bob Cherry,’” he continued. Still Peter was uncomprehending. “Bah,” Dr Cains ejaculated. “You young people today, you know nothing.” He was genuinely upset that the heroes of his childhood (and indeed continuing into his adulthood) were unknown to the younger generation.

“Sorry, who are they?” Peter’s question was genuine.

“Go to a library. Find out yourself!” Dr Cains barked.

He was genuinely irritated with the teenager. The numbskull deserved six-of-the-best for his ignorance. It might add a little authenticity to the proceedings.

“Stand there, bend over. Touch your toes, it’s six of the best for you young man.” The audition had begun. Peter understood. Dr Cains had said they didn’t want a “newbie” as he called him to flunk it at the club; to “bottle it” at the last minute. They had to be sure Peter had the fortitude to take Six.

Peter stretched his fingertips to touch his feet. It put a strain on his knees. “Spread your legs by a foot or so, it will make it easier.” Dr Cains’s instructions were helpful. Soon, Peter had maneuvered himself into position.

Dr Cains took his time. It really was a perfect bum. He had caned many arses over the years. Truthfully, most of them on offer at The Whacko! Club were well-covered. No, Dr Cains thought, that was being overly-polite; they were fat. He wondered if a caning hurt more if you had a fat bottom? Were there more nerve ends for the cane to strike?

Not everyone at The Whacko! was fat. There had been one guy whose buttocks were non-existent. He had legs that disappeared up into his back. His bum was almost perfectly flat. Now, he thought about it, Dr Cains reckoned caning would probably hurt more on a small bum. There wasn’t much area to aim at and the cane would land time and again on the same spot. Yes, that would hurt terrifically.

Peter’s bum wasn’t so small that the old man would be able to land six cuts across it and not land two in the same place. It depended, of course, if Peter could stay still and “take it like a man.”

They would soon find out. Dr Cains found his target and tapped the tip of the cane gently across the taut Terylene. He let fly. There was a tremendous crack as the cane hit home. There was something about man-made fibres that amplified the sound of cane against trousers. It made a much duller thwack when aimed into a backside covered by wool.

Peter’s fingers sprung from his toes and he half lifted his body, intent on standing to rub his bum. But, he realised his mistake and he steadied himself just in time. He resumed his submissive position, ready for number two.

Dr Cains landed it just an inch below the first. Peter’s eyes scrunched up. He felt that. His backside throbbed.

“Stand up.”

Peter hadn’t expected this. He had been told it would be ‘’six-of-the-best.”

“Shorts down. Bend back over.”

Peter frowned. Of course, the guys would want to go further than the trousers.

He surprised himself by his calmness. The short trousers had a half-elasticated waist, so he needed no belt. He undid the metal clasp at the top and let them slither down his legs to his feet. Then he took a deep breath and bent over.

He felt Dr Cains tug at the waistband of his Y-fronts. He was making sure there were no creases in the pants and they clung to his buttocks like a second skin. While the “doctor” busied himself, Peter studied the label inside his shorts intently. It said they were, “15 years sturdy fit.” Which school made its fifteen-year-old pupils wear short trousers? Peter didn’t know of any. Not even the very posh schools in Dorset did that.

His thoughts were interrupted by a searing pain across the top of his buttocks. He expelled air through clenched teeth. It sounded like a car tyre puncturing. That stroke was the worse yet. The others had throbbed, this one burned.

So did the next. He now had four lines of pain in a band from the top of his bum to the crown. It hurt, an authentic caning was supposed to after all, but Peter felt OK. He was on top of this.

“Stand up. Pants down.”

Peter had expected this. It was two-two-two. Two on the shorts, a couple on the pants and the last ones on the bare. He hitched his thumbs in the top of his pants and pushed them to his knees. As he bent over the force of gravity helped the Y-fronts slip to his feet.

His heart raced; he recalled the vivid dream with him bare-arsed over the armchair in the headmaster’s study. His head buzzed. In his half-naked state his cock and balls were inches from his face. He hoped he could hold out. It wasn’t the pain of the punishment that troubled him. He didn’t feel embarrassed that he was showing an older man his bare buttocks, crack and hole. But, it would be deeply humiliating if his cock sprang to attention now.

Dr Cains paused to admire his handiwork. There were four lines across Peter’s buttocks. A couple were quite red, but he knew he wasn’t beating the teenager with any force. His strokes would make the boy gasp a little, but they wouldn’t do much damage. The marks would clear quickly and he would have unblemished buttocks before “showtime” on Saturday.

He put the final two on the underside of Peter’s bum, where the cheeks met the thighs. “Hissssss.” They hurt. He wriggled his hips and held tightly onto his ankles as the pain travelled from his buttocks up and down his legs. Blood rushed to his brain.

When instructed, he rose to a standing position. His dreamy brown eyes were damp, but he was far from crying. He clutched his hands to his burning bum and hopped about. Dr Cains watched lovingly. What a dish Peter was to set before any king – or, indeed, queen.

He pulled up his short trousers and pants. The intense agony he felt as the cane impacted his stretched pert buttocks had already gone. He felt a warm glow across his seat. His mind was clear. He grinned at Dr Cain in his old-fashioned schoolmaster’s costume. What ridiculous sights they both were. What fun they would have together.

“Please sir, have I passed the audition?” he beamed.

“Oh yes, dear boy. Oh yes.”

Peter’s heart raced with excitement. This was turning out to be a summer to remember.


Other stories you might like

The night before Christmas

Don’t borrow dad’s car – take two

Dad’s despair




More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second