University bully

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Hundreds of academics have been accused of bullying colleagues in the past five years, prompting concerns that a culture of harassment and intimidation is thriving in Britain’s leading universities. – Genuine news story

z used cane holding office Sting

“Bend over.”

You stare dumbfounded, “Excuse me?”

“I said bend over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What part of ‘bend over’ don’t you understand? I’m going to cane you.”

“Cane me?”

“Yes, cane you. Bend over the desk.”

“You can’t … I mean,” you stammer, your confusion growing.

“I can. I am your head of department. I can do as I please. Bend over.”

You watch confused, as he flexes an old-fashioned, school cane between his hands. “But …” you still can’t quite grasp what is happening to you. “No, you can’t. I’m not a student.”

“I am well aware who you are. That is why I am going to cane you. Bend over.”

Your head spins. Is this really happening? Is it perhaps a surreal dream. “But …” you try to speak, but he interrupts you. “No buts. Bend over that desk.” He swishes the cane through the air and points to a small desk at the other side of the room.

“How can you?” you feel your voice crack, you are starting to plead. “I have my rights.”

He bends the cane between his hands once more. It is a little under a metre long and as thick as a pencil. Your eyes focus on the notches that run along the length of the yellow rod. You notice the muscles flexing in his arms. He sneers, “Rights! Don’t give me rights. You have no rights. I have your annual assessment.” He nods towards a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “What have you published this year?” he growls and then answers his own question, “Nothing!”

You start to protest that you have a huge teaching load. Eight classes, each semester, but before you can form any words, he continues, “And, hardly anything the year before. What do you do all day?”

You can feel your lips moving and some words are forming but you are too terrified to speak clearly. You babble and that only encourages him in his own pursuit. “Your contract is coming to an end at Christmas. Do you really expect me to renew it? Clearly, he thinks this is a rhetorical question because he doesn’t give you time to answer. “Bend over,” he snarls and bends the rattan cane into an arc. You cannot take your eyes off it.

You can’t stop your eyelids from blinking fast. Your heartrate speeds. Suddenly your mouth is arid like a desert. The palms of your hands sweat. You can’t catch your breath. You are starting to panic. What can you do?  Call for help. Isn’t his secretary in the next room? No, you tell yourself, you saw her leaving as you came in. You are on your own. Should you make a run for it? Your mind is a whirl. Where can you run to? You know you can run but you cannot hide. He will get you eventually. Then what? Bend over, get the cane. Or lose your jobs. You know it will be hard to get another. This is your first post. You don’t have much experience, and as he says you have hardly published any research.

He walks over to the small desk and stands besides it. He looks at you menacingly. He wobbles the cane at you and a hideous grin cracks his fleshy face. You see how much he is enjoying this. He taps the tip of the cane against the desk. “Bend over the desk,” and then he adds cruelly, “young man.” You feel like a small child. You are nobody; he is all. He has the power, he can do as he wants with you. “Well?” he draws out the word investing it with sinister connotations. You gulp.

“I shan’t ask you again,” he mocks and then does precisely that, “Bend over the desk.”

Your head pounds so much you fear it will explode. Your throat feels like you are gargling with razor blades. Oh my God! You have no choice. There is nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing. “P…” you start to plead, but stop yourself. He is all commanding. You concede defeat. You feel like you are in a trance. This isn’t really happening to you. It is somebody else in that room. Is this what an out of body experience feels like? Independently of your will, your body moves slowly towards the desk. You stand close to it, the room seems to be spinning. He taps the frayed tip of the cane against the desk once more, “Bend over,” he intones.

The desk is small and low. You are tall. You look down on it as if from a great height. Bend over. How is it done exactly. Do you lean your elbows on the desk top and jut out your bottom? Should you lie down flat on your stomach? And then what, where do your arms go? Time is standing still. It is taking forever for you to work it out. From a great distance away you hear a voice, it is hazy, but you understand enough of what it is saying, “Bend over. Right down. Lie flat.” Your body obeys.

Your chest rests along the top of the desk which is not very big. Your stomach digs into one side. You still don’t know what to do with your arms. You stretch them to your sides spread-eagle fashion. You realise right away this is very uncomfortable and will not work. You change position and reach ahead of you. That is better. “Legs further apart,” you feel a slight tingle across your backside. He has slapped his hand across your bum to encourage you along. You do as you are told. “Good boy,” he says.

You have never felt so humiliated. Nothing before in your life comes anywhere close to this. You are offering up your bottom to an older man. You are going to submit to him; to let him beat you with a long, whippy cane. What if someone finds out. The students. You’d die of shame. You hear floorboards creak as he walks around behind you. Your chin is resting on the desk. If you keep your eyes open you can look across the room to the far wall. There is a day-planner calendar for 2019 with some dates inked in. You think if you concentrate on that it will take your mind off the ordeal to come. You sense he is now standing to your left. You hear his heavy breathing and there is a faint smell of what you suppose is deodorant.

He taps the cane across the centre of your bum. He stops. You sense him move closer to you. Violently, he grips the waistband of your chino trousers and tugs hard. The material digs up between your cheeks, it’s like he’s given you a wedgie. Now he is running the palm of his hand across your buttocks, smoothing out any creases that are left defacing the cotton. You feel very vulnerable. You are presenting him with the perfect target. He moves back, picks up the cane and once more taps it across the crest of your mounds. You feel it move from left to right in a sawing motion. Your cheeks clench. They decided to do this of their own accord. It is a reflex action. You feel the cane being lifted away from your bum, you shut your eyes tight and suck in your lips.

You hear an almighty swishing noise and crack! as the cane connects across the centre of your backside. There is a pause, it feels like a long time before the agony hits you. You gasp with shock, it feels like he has pressed a hot wire into your flesh. Your head automatically rises and falls and you headbutt the top of the desk. The burning intensifies and then cools of a little. Just as the pain subsides a second swish rents the air. The crack is as loud as before. The pain is a little harsher. He lands it below the first, under the cheek in the sensitive spot where the bum and the thighs meet. You do the headbutting thing again and this time your knees also buckle. The flesh is scorched. You have what feels like a strip of pain two or three centimetres long running across your bum.

You suck in air, trying to calm yourself. Your heartrate is off the scale. Your blood pressure must be sky high. Your bottom throbs. The third stroke whistles and cuts into the flesh just above the first. You now have three strokes running parallel to each other. He has an expert aim. The pain radiates from your bum and travels up and down your legs. You wrap your left foot over your right ankle in an almost successful attempt to stop yourself from kicking out. Your hips wriggle and you grip the edge of the desk so hard that your knuckles start to go white.

He lands the next one so that it cuts into one of the three welts pulsating across your bottom. You yelp, you just can’t help it. You just have to. The pain intensifies. It feels like your underpants have stuck to your skin. You panic. You’re bleeding. Before you have time to think more about this another swipe bounces off your bum. Again it lands across the others. You have never felt so much agony in your life; not even that time when you fell off your bike and broke a collarbone. You bite hard into your lip and think you can taste blood.

“Keep still, boy,” his voice echoes as if it is coming from a faraway valley. You are not aware that your hips have risen from the desk and you are stomping your feet up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. You feel the strength of his hand pushing you in the back until once again you are face down with your bottom high. He releases his grip and stands back, takes his aim and lets fly. He puts that one right into the area below the bum. It is almost right across the backs of the thighs. You stomp again, but some instinct stops you jumping up to rub the pain away from your backside. You groan, your eyes start to water. You fight back tears. The pain is intolerable. Is this how it would feel if someone had rubbed a steam iron across your bum? The back of your legs pulsate. You don’t know it yet but the welt that is forming now will reignite every time you sit down for days to come.

Has time stood still? It seems forever before the next stroke whips into you. Your eyes are closed tight so you cannot see him. You sense he is close behind you. He seems to be moving his position. You hear his irregular breathing. “Last one,” he says. The cane rises, swoops and cuts hard across your buttocks. This time you do scream. Your legs flail. Your head butts the desk top. You think your head is going to explode. He has landed the cane so that it runs in a diagonal line from the bottom left to the top right across your buttocks, biting into each of the five cuts previously delivered. Can there be so much agony in the world? How can such a thin, light whippy cane deliver so much hurt.

You are wheezing, struggling to catch your breath. Tears flood your face and drip onto the desk. Your bum is on fire. Again, you lose any sense of time. You daren’t move. Is it over? Are you allowed to stand up? He is in control. He is your master. You cannot do anything without his permission. At last the words, “Stand up,” drift through the air. You move your feet and they slip on the hard carpet and you topple forward. You grip the desk to stop tumbling to the ground. Even as you await your next instruction you feel the intense agony in your bottom is easing to a pulsating throb. Very soon it will become an intense ache. Over the coming minutes it will turn to a warm glow. The marks will stay with you for days and you will be reminded of this humiliation every time you sit down over the coming hours and days.

You grab hold of your own buttocks and rub furiously, it does very little to ease the pain. Through moist eyelids you see him open a cupboard and hide the cane from view. He turns to you. How you hate him. How you would like to grab a knife (or any sharp object) and gouge out his eyes. Perhaps, he senses this as he stays at the other end of the room. You see the armpits of his shirt are drenched. He too is waiting for his body to recover from the ordeal. After a few moments he looks across at you, you note the look of utter contempt in his eyes.

“That’s it,” he sneers. “Get out. Go.”

You hobble from the room, your humiliation complete. You know you can’t tell a living soul about this. Never. Who would believe you if you did? You hurry along the corridor towards the stairs. You see Jenkins, a young colleague from your department. Ashamed, you put your head down and rush past him. As you reach the stairwell you look back. Jenkins is at his door and about to knock.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Strictly no alcohol

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Trent and Alex were in the students’ union bar finishing their second pint of the evening. “I’m going to make this the last one,” Trent said. “Then I have to be off home.”

His friend wrinkled his nose, “But it’s early yet, it’s not even nine.”

“I know, but I’ve got to go,” he sipped his beer ruefully. Colour drained from his face.

His close pal noticed this at once. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”

Trent wriggled in his chair as if the memory discomforted him. “You’ll never believe me if I told you. I can’t even believe it myself.”

Alex laughed. “Oh come on. You can’t leave it like that. You’ve got to tell me now.”

Trent laughed too. “Okay, but promise you won’t tell anyone else.”

“Scout’s honour.”

This is the story he told.

“You know I’ve just moved into digs with that weird fellow, the one with all the tattoos. Well, it turns out that he’s a born-again teetotaller. He used to be a wino, an alcoholic. Turns out he’s really against booze. The first day I got there he says I’m not to bring any alcohol into the house. He says I’m not to drink outside either.

“I didn’t take any notice of him. I was desperate for somewhere to stay after that trouble at my last place, so I just said ‘okay’ and left it at that. I think he must have been in a right state back in the day. Did I tell you he’s got tattoos all the way up his neck and over some of his face? I couldn’t take him seriously to be honest.

“Things were fine for a day or two. Turns out he’s quite an artist – and not only a piss artist either – he’s got an exhibition of paintings and ceramics coming up. I knew he had a bob or two in the bank, those houses in The Avenue don’t come cheap.

“Like I say, things were all right and then last Saturday I went to the gig with The Dudes – did you go? – and afterwards there was a party so I didn’t get back until gone two in the morning. I didn’t think much of it. I’ve got my own key obviously and I was going to just let myself in and go to bed. I was a bit drunk actually. I just about managed to get the key in the lock and I was on my way up the stairs when he came flying out of the living room.

“He was livid. He had stayed up until I came home. ‘What time do you call this this,’ he roared. He was really angry. I couldn’t work it out. I was drunk like I said and so I said back to him, ‘Two o’clock what’s it to you?’ He had never said anything about curfew, y’know like some landlords do.

“It just made things worse. He storms up to me and his face is like this; y’know we’re practically nose to nose. Then he smells the beer on my breath. He hits the effing roof. I can’t tell you. I’ve never seen anyone so angry before. His face goes scarlet and that made me scared. His face is pretty scary anyway. He’s jabbering away at me so fast that I can’t get what he’s saying. I’m pissed, of course, so that doesn’t help.

“Then he screams, ‘I told you! I told you!’ and I thought he was going to explode. Then you’ll never guess what happens. You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone else, remember. Then he grabs hold of me by the back of my jumper and he drags me across the floor. I’m still on my feet but they’re slipping on the polished floor of the hallway. He takes me into the sitting room. Of course, I’m hollering and calling him all the names under the sun, but he’s too far gone. He’s somewhere with the fairies.

“So we’re in the sitting room now and I see his eyes are blazing, they’re like something out of a cheap horror movie. I’ve never seen anyone with red eyes before. Red. Have you? Well, I’m thinking this guy is well out of control now and I wonder how I’m going to get away.

“He has enormous strength, like some wild animal. I can’t think of one now, a bear or something like that. He’s so strong that I can’t get away from him. He’s jabbering his gibberish again and I know he’s trying to tell me something, to explain maybe, but I haven’t a clue what he’s going on about. Then, it happened.

“I swear to God I’m not making this up. He’s still got me by the scruff of the neck and he pulls me across the sitting room. It’s quite a big room and there’s a large couch at one end. He’s still got hold of me and he sits himself down and then he pulls me down on top of him. He puts me across his knee. Honestly. He’s got me across his knee like I’m nine years old, not nineteen. I’m face down and he picks me up like I’m a rag doll and he pulls me about out so my chest and arms are flat on one side of him and my legs are stretched behind me on the couch on the other. And he’s got my bum high over his lap. He leans his arm across my body and nearly breaks my back as he pins me down. I cannot move!

“Of course, I’m yelling blue murder, but he don’t care. I still cannot move. He’s got me exactly where he wants me: face down, bum high. I feel him take hold of the waist of my jeans and he pulls them really hard. It’s like he’s giving me a wedgie. I can feel the jeans digging into my crack. I couldn’t believe it!

“Then, he spanks me. He slaps his horrible old tattooed hand all over my arse. Of course, I’m wriggling and kicking and trying to escape. It must have looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. It didn’t stop him. He’s jabbering on still, while his spanks me all over my bum. He even went on the back of my thighs. I was drunk, of course, and by now I’m feeling a bit sick and I’m thinking I’m going to throw up all over the couch any minute now. I don’t but because I was thinking that I wasn’t doing much else, so I just sort of lay there and let him spank me. Over and over again.

“Have you ever been spanked? No, of course you haven’t, who has? It’s supposed to hurt isn’t it? That’s the whole point of it surely. ‘Come her you naughty boy, get across my knee’, smack, smack, smack. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! But I didn’t feel a thing. Nothing. I could feel his hand landing on the seat of my jeans but that’s all. Of course, the jeans are thick aren’t they. And, of course, I’m wearing pants. Boxers, actually. Never felt a thing.

“Anyway, eventually he stops spanking me and lets me go. I didn’t hang around. I stumbled up the stairs and bounced into my bedroom. I had a little look. Y’now at my bum like and it wasn’t even red. It was like nothing happened. It might have been a dream.

“So, that’s what happened. My landlord spanked me for being out drinking. It didn’t hurt a bit and – obviously, since we are in the bar – it hasn’t stopped me drinking. What was the point of it all?”

Trent had stopped speaking. There was silence before Alex realised his pal had asked him a genuine question. “What was the point of it?” he mused, “None at all. Unless, of course, we come to the inevitable conclusion that he got a great deal of pleasure spanking your gorgeous arse. Come on, have another drink, what’s the worst that could happen?”

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Picture credits: Bad-lads dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Unexpected demonstration of affection

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Nigel Wallace, a long-since retired professor at Brocklehurst University, was at home doing nothing when the phone rang. He didn’t recognise the voice at the other end and was a little alarmed when the man said he was a lawyer and asked Wallace to confirm his identity. Was he being accused of something? Lawyers always spelled trouble.

The lawyer detected the uneasiness in the professor’s reply and sought to reassure him. “I am dealing with the estate of Mr Eric Stanhope.” That didn’t help. “I know no one of that name,” he replied, anxious to put the phone down and continue staring at the fading wallpaper in his front room.

“He was a student of yours in the early nineteen-seventies,” the lawyer continued, “I am sorry to say he has passed away. Lung cancer. I should like to invite you to a reading of the will.”

Prof Wallace wanted to retort, “Reading of the will. Is there really such a thing? I thought they only happened in crime novels. Agatha Christie. A group of strangers get called to the reading of a will at a creepy mansion and one by one they get bumped off.” He wasn’t given time to speak as the lawyer was anxious to conclude business. He gave a date, a time and a venue for the event.

“No thanks,” Prof Wallace was adamant. He had no wish to travel half way across the country on a fool’s errand. What interest was a former student of forty years ago to him? The lawyer did not press the case. He was used to such refusals. He could inform the professor of the details of his legacy at a later date. “But,” he added, “He has left a letter for you, may I forward it on to you?”

“Bah!” Prof Wallace croaked. Despite being a cantankerous old man (indeed, he had always been cantankerous) he did not add “What should I care?” The lawyer wished him good day and ended the conversation.

So it was that the next day a registered letter arrived at Prof Wallace’s home. He had to admit (to himself, since he was alone in the world) that he had become intrigued. Who was this Mr Eric Stanhope and why did he want to remember him after so many years? He pulled out a printed transcript from the envelope and settled back in his armchair. This is what he read.

“Dear Professor,

“You probably don’t remember me since so many young men have passed through your hands over the years but I have never forgotten you. There is no doubt in my mind that I owe my life to you. Please don’t think I am being over-dramatic. I don’t mean that you once dragged me from a burning building or conducted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after I had been pulled from a river. I mean that it was the help and guidance you gave to me as a young student that made me the man I became.

“It was the sense of discipline that you instilled in me back at Brocklehurst that set me on the path to success. You almost certainly won’t know that I went on to build a great financial empire. This brought me great wealth and happiness. Believe me when I say without you I would not have a wonderful wife and three fantastic daughters.

“What I have just said probably puzzles you. You have never met my family and in all probability you think you don’t know me from Adam. Let me explain. When I arrived at Brocklehurst I was a bumptious eighteen-year-old. I was smug and conceited. I had come from humble origins. I had not studied hard at school but I had a knack for passing exams with minimal effort. I had no intention of working hard and expected to cruise through university. In the early weeks of my first term I hardly attended lectures, I spent my time in the bars of Brocklehurst and introduced myself to many young ladies of the town. I did not know it but I was heading for failure. It seemed that at Christmas time I would be put on the train to my home never to return. You saved me.

“I remember the first time you summoned me to your study as if it were only yesterday. You were not only a professor at the university, you held the post of head of department. I didn’t have the sense I was born with. I was self-satisfied and arrogant. What could you, an old man teach me? (Old man. Ha! Now I look back I see you were probably still in your thirties). Well, you soon showed me. As my memories flood back, my bottom tingles as I write this.

“Your speech was word perfect. You listed my faults and there were many. You were never a tall man, nor especially large. But you had a presence about you. Much to my surprise I found myself cowered. I clenched my hands behind my back. My feet wriggled with embarrassment. I showed an intense interest in the carpet beneath my feet. I had never experienced this before.

“What you did next was also a novelty for me. It was a shock. I had no expectation. I had never been called to your study before. I had heard no other student speak of their visits. I was completely unprepared. Your study wasn’t too big and along one wall were a series of shelves and cupboards. I forced my gaze away from my feet and my eyes followed you as you took the stately walk across the room. You stopped at a cupboard. Did you feel my eyes burning into your back as I stared? You fumbled in the pocket of your trousers and found a small key. This you used to unlock a cupboard door. You reached in.

“Your back obscured my view, but when you straightened up and turned back towards me I saw you were carrying what looked like a block of wood. No, not carrying; brandishing. You were flaunting it. It was a rectangle of wood with a handle and you were waving it at me. How naïve was I? I didn’t have the slightest idea what it was. It looked like a miniature cricket bat. I had never seen a spanking paddle. They weren’t so common in England. Schools might use a whippy rattan cane or a rubber-soled gym plimsoll, but not a paddle. I now know they were more favoured by our American cousins. I had never seen a cane close up, nor seen a plimsoll smacked across a boy’s stretched backside, my school did not use corporal punishment.

“I think you might have guessed I was a novice to this sort of thing. My behaviour might have given you a big clue that I was unpunished (as well as undisciplined) as a child. You approached me still brandishing the paddle and I had no doubt about your intention. You had me in your spell. I was rooted to the spot. My heart raced and my mouth dried. I am not much of a writer, but ‘like the Sahara Dessert’ springs to mind. Even today, I remember what you did.

“With one hand you picked up the straight-backed chair that usually stood in front of your desk and you plonked it down in the middle of the room. You gave me one of your steely glares. I blanched. I looked away. I could not compete with you in a staring contest. You nodded towards the chair. You spoke no words, but your message was clear. You tapped the paddle into the palm of your hand with menace. ‘Bend over the chair,’ was your unspoken command. I was bemused. You wanted to spank me. Could this be true? Was I dreaming? Me, an eighteen-year-old adult. I didn’t say any of this, of course. I daren’t. At that moment all my bluster and arrogance had melted. I was timid. You were my master. I would not say that I was your ‘slave’, but I was your subordinate. You were in charge. Your word was law. What could I do but obey?

“I wanted to obey. I intended to obey, but again my innocence let me down. I had never been spanked. I had never seen a boy spanked. Bend over. But, how exactly was this done? Bend over the back of the chair? Lay my stomach on the seat of the chair with my arms ahead of me and my legs dangling behind?

“You read my mind. ‘Stand to the front. Bend over, place your hands on the seat of the chair,’ you commanded. Of course. It was that simple. I did not stop to think that now was my last chance to flee the room, to run helter-skelter back to my digs and lock the door behind me. I did not contemplate what the consequences might be if I refused to obey. Refusal was not an option. I stepped up to the chair, then hesitated for a moment before leaning forward as you had instructed.

“It felt mighty strange, bent over a chair, offering up my backside to an older man to spank with a wooden paddle. I don’t suppose I had ever felt so vulnerable. I didn’t know it at the time, but realised later that you took account of my lack of experience in such matters. I wore heavy jeans. They fitted snugly and showed my buttocks. But, denim is a thick material and offers quite a protection against any spanking. You allowed me to keep my jeans on. I am thankful. I think on that first time a spanking on my underpants – or God forbid, on the bare! – would have been an embarrassment (no, a humiliation too far).

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“You delivered six, very hard swats across the lower part of my buttocks. I suppose that’s what was known as six-of-the-best back in those days. Each one landed on top of the previous swipe. My bum was on fire. You got me right on the ‘sit-spot’ and I couldn’t sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Only later, was I to realise what an expert spanker you were.

“My bottom wriggled and writhed as the paddle hammered across the seat of my jeans. Your strong left arm pushed into my shoulders and forced me to remain bent over. Otherwise, I would have been jumping up and down, rubbing my bum, hopping about like some demented Red Indian.

“I don’t think I cried, but my eyes would have been pretty moist by the time you finished. You let me stand and then you lectured me some more about my future behaviour and the consequences I faced should I be summoned back to your study.

“It took the better part of a week for the bruises to clear completely. Each time I went to the shower I was reminded of the penalty for bad behaviour. I resented you. I could go so far as to say I hated you. How dare you treat me like a little kid. I was eighteen, legally an adult. I fumed a lot, but I didn’t miss any of your lectures for the rest of the term. But, I was young and stupid and I liked my beer. And, the girls. Although I was afraid to upset you again I had less concerns about my other lecturers. That’s what got me in trouble again.

“Looking back, Mr Lowry had every right to report me when I failed to complete his essay, even after he had granted an extension on submission. I didn’t think so at the time. How I hated you when I received that second summons to your study. I knew what to expect. You had made it clear enough. Of course, I only had myself to blame. I was going to wear my football shorts and swimming trunks and a couple of pairs of underpants under my jeans. My jeans were always tight and when I tried it was a battle to get the zipper to close. When I looked in the mirror my bum was massive. Just as well I abandoned that ruse, considering what you made me do in your study.

“You gave me a right telling off, but – and I’ll never forget this – you said you thought I was bright and intelligent and could make something of myself. But I had to pull my finger out (my words, you were too eloquent to speak like that) and concentrate on my work. Nobody had ever said that to me before. No one at school, and certainly not my parents. It gave me something to think about.

“Naturally, you didn’t leave it there. You made a return visit to that cupboard. This time the paddle you choose was larger and heavier. It was some kind of dark wood and it was so highly polished it reflected the light from the ceiling. I can still see the way you held it in your hand, demonstrating its power. How many holes were drilled into it: six or eight? I can’t quite remember.

“Then, you had me take down my jeans and spread-eagle myself across your desk. Oh boy! Luckily, I was only wearing one pair of pants. We wore tiny briefs in those days and they hardly covered my buttocks. Most of the underside of the cheeks were bare to the wind. You exploited that. I don’t suppose you could have left me in any greater pain if you’d made me take my briefs down.

“Twelve swats with that paddle across the half-naked bum. Oh how I howled. I just about absorbed the first two, but by the third I was gripping the edge of the desk for dear life. My head butted the desktop. My legs kicked. My hips swivelled and swerved. I almost bit through my bottom lip in my failed attempts to stop myself yowling. They must have heard me down in the street below. I’m surprised someone didn’t burst into the study to see who was being murdered.

“By the time you let me climb back into my jeans my bum was throbbing raw. It felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I have never sat down on top of a blazing coal fire, but if I ever did it would not hurt as much as that paddling.

“You gave me time to calm down and before you sent me on my way you told me again how talented I was. That you had confidence in me. That you wanted me to achieve. That night as I lay on my side in my bed, trying not let my savaged buttocks brush against the mattress, I thought about what you had said. As I said nobody had shown such faith. I realised then that you were not a bully. You had power over me, but you didn’t exploit it. You spanked me for my own good.

“I worked hard that term and passed the exams and was doing well. It looked like the paddling had worked. Then, I fell off the wagon. It was a girl, of course. Or more truthfully, girls. I was a good looking lad back then with an easy charm and a sexual appetite. I spent too much time in bed (but not alone) and not enough in the library. I failed a couple of mock exams.

“I remember how you shook your head with disappointment. I can’t explain how that stabbed at my heart. You told me how proud you had been when I bucked up my ideas and passed my exams the previous term. You said you had hoped I had turned a corner. I was on the straight-and-narrow path to success. Alas, no! I had veered to the side of the road and broken down. I needed maintenance. A maintenance spanking!

“You were no longer my professor. Is it too fanciful to say you were a father figure? You certainly showed you cared more than my real dad. What you did next confirmed this. You were back at that goddam cupboard and this time you brandished a small block of wood that was no bigger than a paperback book. I blinked in disbelief. Compared to the whopping paddle you used to take my backside off last time, this was puny. I almost smiled with relief. This one wouldn’t do much damage. I had forgotten what an expert you were.

“You had finished lecturing me and without a further word you took that chair I had been ordered to bend across on my first visit and once more you placed it in the centre of the room. I was waiting for your command ‘Bend over’, but you had other ideas. You sat on the chair and made yourself comfortable before with an imperious click of the finger you instructed that I should come and stand beside you. I did so. You peered at my feet and then ran your eyes up my legs, stopping when you reached the fly of my jeans. ‘Take them down,’ you said. My heart skipped. Only then did your intention become clear to me.

“This was not to be a professor-student spanking, something delivered at arm’s length. At a distance. Dare I say this was to be more personal, more intimate? It was to be like a loving father with his erring son.  My hands shook so much I fumbled with the clasp at the top of my jeans and I couldn’t get a grip on the zipper. At last the front of my jeans were open. They fitted so tightly that they would not easily fall to my feet and I had to roll them down my legs. I was now standing by you wearing only a shirt and underpants. I did not feel shame, nor embarrassment and certainly not humiliation. I felt respect. My respect for you – and dare I say it, your respect for me? You had my best interest at heart. I deserved this spanking. It would pull me up sharp. As you had already told me, it would put me back on the straight-and-narrow path to success.

“I had never been across the knee of an older man. It is a more submissive position than being across a chair or spread across a desk. My body was close you yours. I could feel your breathing. My stomach dug into your thigh and my chest rested against your legs. I didn’t have a view of myself but I sensed that our bodies fitted together perfectly. I spread my arms ahead of me and rested my palms in the harsh carpet. My nose was inches from the ground. My bottom was raised at an angle of about forty-five degrees which allowed my legs to dangle behind me with my toes hovering above the floor. When I moved my head I could see under the chair and look at my own feet encased in denim.

“I felt your body move. You had taken hold of my shirt and gently pushed it up my back until it was scrunched at my shoulders. By now you must have had a perfect target. I braced myself for the heat of the paddle. But, you were not quite ready. You rested the paddle on the small of my back. With both hands you gripped the elasticated waist of my underpants. Ha! I’ve read in books where a character was said to have ‘gasped with surprise’. I had always thought that was a stupid expression. Not anymore. I gasped. I inhaled a great mouthful of air and I held it there. What were you doing? Of course, I knew full well what you were doing; that was what made me wheeze so!

“Slowly, with some ceremony, you peeled down my underpants. My stomach was resting on your thigh and you struggled to get them over my buttocks. I lifted myself slightly and soon they were on their way to rest at my knees. ‘Ha!’ you said, ‘You weren’t expecting that! I hope you realise how seriously I take this.’ I did not reply. I think my body tensed. Did my buttocks clench? Did they harden like two rubber balls? You picked up the paddle and I felt you tap it against the highest point of my bum cheeks. You took your aim and you let fly.

“You had to take a firm grip of my waist to keep me in place. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why I was being spanked. I deserved it. I needed it. I was prepared to submit to you, but my body had other ideas. My head was low and my bottom high and you had positioned me so that I couldn’t get my hands behind me to protect my poor, exposed bottom. There was nothing I could do but wriggle and kick. It did me no good. Did my protests spur to on to greater deeds? Did you spank me harder and longer because of it?

“That was the last time you spanked me. There was no further need. You had transformed me. I worked hard for you. It wasn’t that I feared further paddlings. I certainly did not welcome them. But, the spankings were incidental. What drove me was that you had faith in me. You cared. You wanted me to do well. The spankings were supplementary.”

At this point Prof Wallace let the letter drop onto a nearby coffee table. He hauled himself from his chair and edged his way into the kitchen where he flipped a switch and waited for the kettle to boil. He busied himself finding tea bags and sugar. He opened the fridge and carefully tested the milk for freshness. Then, with his tea he returned to the front room and picked up the letter once more. He stared at it intently as if it could answer the question on his mind. Who was this Eric Stanhope? Which one had he been? The professor didn’t have the least recollection of these events.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The Dean’s list

 First day at St CIGS

Late home from a date

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Economics failure

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z used white pants paddle chair (3a)

Come in! Which one are you? Callaghan is it? I have a list. Yes, you’re on it here. You skipped my Economics 101 class and you haven’t handed in your coursework. Yes? Well, you are about to learn a very painful lesson. That’s the trouble with so many of you freshers. You don’t think you’re at school to study. It’s just fun and games for the likes of you. Well, believe me when I say it catches up with you in the end.

We have a very clear policy in the Economics Faculty. Some people would say we’re a little old fashioned. Well, I for one say I don’t mind being old-fashioned in air quotes if it delivers results. And, given time we get the results.

I don’t recognise you. Have you attended any of my classes? I suppose you sit at the back of the lecture hall, goofing around with your friends, disturbing everyone else. Why did you ever sign up for university? Your parents, I suppose. You and your kind have a sense of entitlement. You think you just have to register and we’ll give you a college degree. I don’t suppose you’ve done a hard day’s work in your life.

Well, Callaghan, I’ve got news for you. You do the work, or else! I could just flunk you and make you come back next year and do the course again. I could, but let me level with you. If I fail you that makes me look bad. Makes out I’m a bad instructor, do you see what I mean? But don’t let that make you think I’m just going to sign you off with a pass. That’s not going to happen.

What I am going to do Callaghan, is I’m going to give you a second chance. An opportunity to turn yourself around. It won’t be easy – well, not easy for you that is. You need self-discipline to succeed in life and if at your age you don’t have it in you, you need somebody older and a lot wiser to impose that discipline. Do you understand Callaghan?

Do you see what this is boy? Don’t look so blank. You’re pretty intelligent or you wouldn’t have made it here to begin with. What I’m going to do Callaghan is I’m going to paddle your rear end. Don’t pout at me. Read the university regulations. It’s clearly stated. You signed up to them when you came here.

Right. Pick up that chair and put it there by my desk.

Just do it, I don’t want any argument from you, Callaghan.

Right. Stand in front of the chair. I’m going to give you the spanking you so richly deserve. That’s six swats for cutting my class and six swats for not handing in coursework. To run consecutively. That means one after the other, Callaghan. Twelve swats in total.

Right. Take down your jeans and bend over the chair.

Yes, take down your jeans. You’re in Big School now. How old are you – eighteen, nineteen? You need more than a little boy’s spanking. If this paddling is going to turn around your life, it must be memorable. Afterwards, I want to see you hopping all the way down the corridor to the elevator. I want you to monitor the bruises on your butt over the coming week as they turn from deep purple then though all shades of mauves and yellows before they finally disappear. Do you have a girlfriend Callaghan? Better think up a few excuses not to see her. How would you explain them?

Right. Stop making a fuss and down with those jeans.

That’s better. You should learn to face the consequences of your actions like a man. You skip my classes, you don’t do coursework … this is the consequence.

Let those jeans fall all the way. Bend over the chair. Grip the seat. Legs apart. It’s best if you look straight ahead. Don’t try to see what I’m doing back here. Keep that back arched. Head low. Bottom out.

Right Callaghan, let’s see if we can rescue your university career. You might not think so right now, but one day you’ll thank me for this …

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

 

Other stories you might like

Professor Paddle

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

Milo, the grad student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boom-box boy

new 5

z used short shorts outdoors 2

We had a lovely summer’s day last week and you don’t get many of those in Brocklehurst so I decided to make the most of it and lounge out in the garden, fortified by some gin-and-tonic and an ice bucket.

Imagine my annoyance when after about five minutes of catching the rays, I was assaulted by the sound of heavy rock music. No, not the sound, the noise, the racket, the din of rock music. It wasn’t that it was rock music that did my head in; I should’ve felt the same if it had been Beethoven’s Fifth or some other classical stuff. It was the intrusion into my peaceful afternoon that I objected to. Someone, somewhere close by, was playing loud music and couldn’t give a damn if he was disturbing the whole neighbourhood. I say he, without even seeing the culprit: I was certain no woman would ever be as thoughtless as this.

I could stand it no longer and went through the gate in my garden and into The Avenue. The paving stones were almost vibrating to the noise of the music and its source was immediately obvious. Just across the road, half way up a ladder painting the front of the house was a young workman. I say young; he might have been somewhere in his thirties but at my age that’s pretty young. Near the foot of the ladder was a contraption that was blaring out the music. I did a “double-take” when I saw what it was. I honestly don’t think I’ve seen such a thing in twenty years or more.

It was what we used to call a ghetto-blaster until the politically-correct folk told us we had to say “boom-box”. It was one of those combinations of a radio and cassette tape (I think CDs hadn’t been invented when they were fashionable.) I think they went on the scrapheap when the Sony Walkman came out and suddenly we were all “wired for sound” behind our own personal ear-phones.

I was about to cross the road and kick the ladder away so that the blighter fell from a height onto the accursed boom-box and (hopefully) flattened it to destruction when I had a sudden thought. Things like this often happen to me on days when the sun shines brightly. I suppose a psychiatrist might explain it better than me but I  had a flashback; that is to say I remembered something from a past summer that I hadn’t thought about in more than 40 years. It was the boom-box that did it.

I was still at college and living in the halls of residence and there was this fellow student who always – and I truly mean always – had his ghetto blaster going at full tilt. He carried it with him wherever he went. He had a room somewhere on the third floor but the cacophony he created could be heard all over the building, even where I stayed on the ground floor (just next to the entrance if you insist I pinpoint it.)

I remember him so clearly, even though this was 1974 I’m talking about. He called himself Ian C. Hirst. We thought he was a bit of a tit because of the “Ian C.” bit. Nobody used their middle initial in their name. We didn’t say, “Good morning, I’m Alan P. Taylor,” or what have you. Only Americans did that sort of thing. Perhaps, Ian C. Hirst wanted people to think he was American, although why anyone would want to do that is beyond me. [That’s meant to be a joke, please don’t write to me]. Ian C. thought a lot of himself. I remember it was a long, hot summer that year and he paraded around college wearing only a pair of white shorts and nothing else. Shorts were properly short in those days; I’ve seen underwear today longer than those shorts. He had a muscular, hairless torso and dreamy brown eyes. His hair was curled and fashionably long. He turned the heads of all the girls, and a quite a few of the boys secretly had a crush on him (I can testify to that).

So, Ian C., sexy or not, was a complete pain in the you-know-where. It was summer and exams were fast approaching but how could we expect to study with all that racket going on? Naturally, those who had rooms on the same landing asked him to turn it down. He did so and we all sighed with relief. But before too long the building was shaking once again. Back in those days people didn’t talk much about “rights” and there were no student residents’ committees and in short there was no one to complain too. Today, an Ian C. Hirst would be out on his ear, but in 1974 we were left on our own.

So what to do? I think it was my pal Edward Anthony who made the suggestion. It might plausibly have been me. Whoever it was, it was an idea conceived in drink, of that I can be certain. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And, as time would show, it was. We couldn’t do it on our own, there needed to be a gang of us. The more the merrier. There would be safety in numbers. When we discussed it again in the cold light of sobriety we began to have our doubts. It did seem to be an extreme measure. What if it didn’t work and Ian C. turned on us? He was bigger and fitter and although I’d have been happy to wrestle around with him, I didn’t fancy getting my face bashed in.

Don’t worry, Edward Anthony said, there would be plenty of the boys ready and willing to join with us. And, indeed that turned out to be the case. There were easily a dozen in all. Poor Ian C. Hirst, he never stood a chance.

It was late afternoon and lectures had finished and we students were back at the halls of residence. In about an hour people would start to prepare meals in the communal kitchens; so this was the perfect time to pounce. Naturally, with the music blaring from his room, he never heard us coming. It took some hammering on his door before he realised he had visitors. As he opened the door, he also appeared to be buttoning up his shorts. His hair was messy (he was famous at college for using half a can of hairspray every day to keep his locks in place) and I wondered if we had interrupted him with a girl (or please God, a boy!) but his room was tiny and it was immediately obvious that he was alone.

“Grab him!” One of our gang yelled and six pairs of hands grabbed out. “Worr…!!” Ian C. bellowed in reply but he didn’t get much chance to say any more because already he was being manhandled down the corridor towards the communal kitchen. As so often during that summer, he wore only his shorts and we had very little to grip hold to as we bundled him along. He was effing and jeffing, of course, and called us all the names under the sun, but we had so effectively overpowered him he had no choice but allow himself to be carried along.

We had the kitchen to ourselves. Somebody locked the door. We were not going to be disturbed and Ian C. had no escape. I remember someone, I’m pretty certain it was Simon Aldridge, had written a charge sheet so Ian C. knew exactly why he was there. Simon sounded a bit pompous when he read it out, but it must have been good practice for him because later in life he went on to become a well-known lawyer in London.

This wasn’t a court of law and it most certainly wasn’t a democracy, so we didn’t ask Ian C. to speak in his own defence. We went straight to carrying out the sentence. It doesn’t matter how fit and strong you are, or how good a fighter, when eight people simultaneously take hold of you then you are defeated. So it was with Ian C. We had it planned. It was simple and like many simple plans it was entirely effective.

The kitchen was a large room with six laminated tables pushed together in the centre so up to sixteen students could sit down to eat at the same time. It took only seconds for us to heave him up and spread-eagle him face down on the table. He yelled blue murder, but Alan Keefe had shown the presence of mind to bring the boom-box along with him. When he switched it on it drowned out all of Ian C.’s protests. He had a boy at each corner, his wrists and ankles holding him firmly down. Ian C. wriggled and writhed, but he was going nowhere. Even though that was entirely obvious he squirmed and struggled. Another couple of boys held his legs and that settled him. We were nearly ready.

There was still one important matter to deal with before we could start properly. I delegated myself to perform this task. It was, as I joked beforehand, a difficult job but somebody had to do it. Ian C. was reasonably sedate for now, but that changed immediately I reached out beneath his body and searched for the button at the top of his shorts. It indeed proved to be a difficult job because the full weight of Ian C.’s body was resting on his stomach and he wasn’t about to raise his torso to give me clearer access to his shorts.

Eventually, after much fumbling, I got the top of his shorts open. Then, it was a fairly simple mission to get the zipper down. The shorts, as I said previously, were very short and also extremely tight fitting. I had hoped to take hold of his shorts and with some ceremony lower them down over his buttocks and then down his thighs before abandoning them somewhere near his knees. I would then, with even greater ceremony deal with his smooth cotton briefs.

Alas, the combination of his weight, the tightness of his shorts and Ian C.’s continued attempts to wriggle free meant that I had no opportunity to debag him with great ritual. His shorts and underpants slithered down his bum together and I left them at his knees. Another of our gang by the name of Patel (I blush to recall that he was universally known by the nickname “Inky”) then lowered the garments further until they settled at his feet.

I had a perfect bird’s eye view of Ian C.’s naked bottom. It was as I had imagined: smooth and hairless; meaty but firm. His cheeks were creamy white in stark contrast to the rest of his body which was a deeply tanned. I did not resist the urge to rub his mounds with the palm of my hand. I knew for certain I was not the only fellow present who desired to do this.

Obviously, there had been no possibility of rehearsing or practising what we wanted to do, but we all knew what was intended. As I had been removing Ian C.’s shorts and pants, the rest of the gang had removed their own leather belts which by now they had doubled (or trebled, depending upon their length). One boy, James Banks, had with him an authentic leather taws. It was one with two tails at one end and he later told us he had purloined it from his school near Edinburgh when he had left two years previously.

So we were set. Ian C.’s feet and wrists were firmly held, he was face-down on the table top. His bottom was bare to the breeze. He was an easy target. And we all took advantage. There were eight boys armed with straps, they took up position four on each side and to put it simply; they let him have it.

I don’t know if you have ever been belted or maybe seen another boy belted, but a heavy strap quickly leaves its mark on naked flesh. Within half a minute Ian C’.s backside was criss-crossed with deep-pink lines. It resembled an aerial shot of a railway junction. After a couple of minutes the deep-pink had turned red and soon mauve and purple blotches appeared. Ian C. fought like a trooper and I was very pleased that we had so many people in our gang that we were able to hold him down. I wouldn’t fancy our chances otherwise.

At one point we all ceased our own battering to allow James a free-range with his taws. I have to report he was something of an expert. He positioned himself to the right of Ian C. and took aim by first laying the two-tailed strap which was probably fourteen inches long so that it rested across the highest point of both cheeks. Then he adjusted his own position so that he had enough room to raise the taws and rest it over his own shoulder so that it tapped the small of his back. Then he practised to make sure he could swing the taws in an arc up and over without touching the ceiling of the kitchen and then bring it down right on target. He took two practice swings and then let rip for real. My! The CRACK! of the leather on Ian C.’s hard, naked bum echoed around the room. I think we were all relived that Alan had brought the boom-box and that the music from it drowned Ian C.’s shriek. James let fly with a half-dozen swipes before making way for some of the others to resume with their own more modest belts.

So, that was it. Ian C.’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat. He never played his boom-box in the halls again, we all studied hard, sat our exams and went our separate ways. And that happened in 1974 and I hadn’t given it a thought in more than forty years. There was one other thing I remembered: after we had finished with Ian C. I went back alone to my own room and shot my load about two feet high. I was twenty-one then; I couldn’t do that today. I know because I’ve just tried.

And, as for the young man painting the house? I didn’t kick his ladder away. I didn’t get a gang of neighbours together and tan his backside. I pointed out to him that he was causing a disturbance. He blushed prettily, apologised profusely and turned his boom-box off. He was, I mused to myself, as I poured my second gin-and-tonic in my garden, really rather sweet.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

Professor Paddle

The scavenger hunt

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A right caning

new 5

I was on the bus the other day and there were two young men sitting behind me and one said a little loudly, “He gave him a right caning!” Naturally, my ears pricked up at this. Intrigued, I very casually turned my head to see who had spoken. They were two students. I could tell because they had ID cards hanging round their necks. They got off at the next stop leaving me bemused. He gave him a right caning: did that mean what I hoped it meant?

Of course it couldn’t, I told myself. Right caning, it must be some slang the kids use. Perhaps it means doing something to excess; like, “He gave the whiskey bottle a right caning.” But that didn’t seem to be the right answer. He gave him a right caning. That was definitely one person doing something to another.

It continued to puzzle me and later in the day when I saw my grandson Richie who is also a student I asked him what it might have meant. He gave me that look he always gives when I have demonstrated how out of touch I am with the modern world. “Where have you been these last years?” he asked good humouredly and when I continued to look blank he told me that they had introduced corporal punishment in colleges and universities two years ago. This was after they brought back the cane in schools. Apparently, that solved a lot of the discipline problems that had been plaguing teachers for decades.

It didn’t seem to be a big deal to Richie. He told me that he and two pals had themselves been caned last semester. They got back to the halls of residence late after they had been to some club. They had to report to the office of the Dean of Discipline next morning. There were a few other students standing in line waiting their turn. He told me all about it. He wasn’t the least embarrassed.

He said the room wasn’t really an office. There was a table pushed up against one wall and some empty shelves along another, but mainly there was just an ordinary armchair stuck in the middle. It was one of those with a low back and wooden arms that you sometimes see in reception areas of big offices. The whole thing was done with little ceremony. Apparently, the Dean of Discipline reads out from a charge sheet; a bit like in the Army I imagine. So, it went something like, “You missed curfew and returned back inebriated.” Richie had to agree this was so and then sign a paper saying he consented to be punished. He’s over eighteen, so legally an adult so he can do this.

The Dean of Discipline is permitted to give up to twelve strokes of the cane. It has to be on the seat of the trousers, but apparently they are thinking of changing this so in future you could get it on the underpants or even on the bare. Blimey! Imagine that.

Once the legal document was signed, they just got on with it. Richie said, “There was a tall vase thing in the corner of the room with about six or seven canes standing in it. He’s a bit of a sod because he takes his time deciding which one to use. He took one out, studied it carefully and he swished it about a bit. Then he decided that wasn’t good enough and he took another one and did the same with that. I don’t know why he bothered,” Richie laughed, “He had used them all often enough, they were all his old friends.”

I didn’t tell him that the Dean of Discipline was trying to intimidate him; to make him fearful of what was about to happen. I have to say judging by the way Richie was opening up to me about his caning he wasn’t the least worried. But who knows, at the time he might have been bricking it.

It seems this Dean of Discipline is an older man, gone to seed a little with his belly hanging over his belt and his suit jacket straining over his shoulders. He was very formal. “In the end he got the stick he wanted. It was less than a metre long and looked quite stout, but when he flexed it between his hands it was very whippy. He swished it a couple of times and then he said, ‘Bend over that chair.’ I’d never been done before but plenty of others had so I had a good idea of what was going to happen.”

z used cane holding kernled

Richie told me went to the back of the chair, counted to three and “threw myself over.” I was trying not make my interest too obvious but I asked him, why he did it? Why did he let himself be beaten by this older man? He gave me that “What planet are you on?” look again. “I broke the rules. I got caught. I took my punishment,” he told me snootily. Well, I thought, back in my day if they tried that on we would have told them to go to hell and the entire student union body would’ve been on strike before the day had ended. My, how times have changed.

“I got six. Six strokes that is. They call it six-of-the-best,” he said as if speaking to a slightly backward child.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, feigning innocence. He laughed loudly, “What do you think! Of course, it bloody hurt. That’s the whole point!” I must say he seemed enormously relaxed about the whole thing. He certainly didn’t think he was the victim of some terrible outrage. I nodded sagely to encourage him to continue.

“I knew it would,” he said. “What you have to do,” he continued as if he were a veteran in such matters, “is try not to think about it. Just hold on tightly to the chair. Some students stare straight ahead and concentrate on the wall at the other end of the room. Me, I looked down at the seat cushion and studied the dent somebody’s arse had made in it.”

I wriggled in my chair imagining the scene in the Dean of Discipline’s office. Richie bent across the back of the chair. His head is low and his bottom is high. I suppose his legs are set apart and his knees held straight. He didn’t say but I wonder if the Dean of Discipline took some time smoothing the seat of Richie’s trousers; so there were no creases. He would have wanted them to be as tight as a drum. Did he move the tail of Richie’s jacket away from the target area? Was he wearing a jacket? Perhaps he only had on a shirt. Would it ride up away from the waist of his trousers, exposing a patch of bare flesh on his lower back.

Richie continued talking, he was almost evangelical, “You have to stay there and take it. Let him get on with it. Close your eyes and grit your teeth. Try not to jump about. Keep quiet, don’t scream and holler.”

I nodded agreement, perhaps a little too vigorously and he might have thought I was mocking him. “Of course, you’ve never been caned,” he said scathingly. I raised my hand to my mouth and covered a sly smile. “Six,” he reiterated, “Six strokes. He was a master. He got them all to land right next to each other. In a strip. It was like he pressed a red hot poker into my bum,” his eyes watered at the memory. “I didn’t yell. It was touch and go I tell you.” He was clearly inordinately proud of his fortitude.

“Couldn’t sit down for a week, I suppose,” I laughed. He was relaxed and shared in the joke. “I had these big welts right across my arse. Stayed about a week. The guys have got pictures of it somewhere.” That was the end of his story. There wasn’t much more that could be said. With my heart racing and short of breath, I made a pot of coffee and we drank in companionable silence.

Picture credit: Kernled

Other stories you might like

Two naughty boys

The party’s over

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety.  It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

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By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.

Picture credit: CP Services London

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com