A Sting In The Tail

Federico Hernandez shuffled slowly from the elevator, took a left turn, waited for the automatic doors to slide open and headed at a snail’s pace to the professor’s office.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He had thought it through. It would be painful, for sure. Humiliating definitively. But, if the professor agreed, it would solve all the student’s problems. And, it would all be over in five minutes.

Professor Luckhurst was tired. It was late in the day and he wanted to get away. The semester was over, the papers had been graded. All he had to do before he could take off on vacation was to wait for the faculty to clear them.

Luckhurst could have retired years ago. He had a good pension, but he kept coming back to teach classes semester after semester. The university was the only life he had.

Luckhurst almost did not hear the faint knock at the door. Later, he would reflect bitterly, it would have been best if that had been the case.

“Come in,” the professor’s irritation was evident.

Slowly, the door inched open, but nobody appeared.

“Well, come in if you’re coming!” the professor’s patience was exhausted.

Hernandez took a deep breath and forced himself over the threshold.

“Come in boy! Close the door behind you,” Luckhurst tucked his empty lunchbox into his briefcase and fumbled with the lock. “What do you want!”

Fernandez lost his nerve. For two bits he would turn and flee. That would be the sensible thing to do, he reckoned. It was a crazy scheme. Why had he thought it might work?

The professor slumped into his chair and eyed the student in front of him. Federico Hernandez, one of his Eng. Lit. students. He failed the course, if he remembered correctly.

Hernandez had a little speech prepared. He had rehearsed it in front of the bedroom mirror; last night and again that morning. He was word perfect; that was until the time came for him to deliver it.

“Well, eh, professor,” he stumbled. Luckhurst’s lined face, permanently gray despite the almost ever-present sunshine, betrayed his annoyance. Hernandez took a deep breath and launched into it. The story was simple: the student had failed the professor’s course, it was the only one he failed, his grade point average was good enough for him to graduate, but that was impossible unless the professor passed him on the course.

“So, what do you expect me to do about it?” Luckhurst growled. He already knew the answer to that.

“Could you find a way to give me a passing grade,” he hesitated, before stammering the next words. “Perhaps, there’s something you’d like me to do…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Doh!” the professor snorted, confirming to Hernandez this was not going to be easy.

The student stared down at the heavy-duty carpet beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the professor, but he must. If this plan was to work, he had to turn on his charm.

“Please, professor,” he forced a smile. Luckhurst too was suitably embarrassed.

Hernandez’s eyelids fluttered a little. He had researched the professor; he had no family, never been married. He was almost certainly a faggot, the boy deduced. Not that that was supposed to matter anymore. This was 2015; they had same-sex marriages and all that. But, if the professor did go for handsome young men that would play to Hernandez’s advantage.

“Please, professor,” he started again. “Is there anything you would like me to do?”

Luckhurst’s ire rose. Do? Like him to do? What was the boy saying? Yes, there was something he would like the boy to do for him. Get out of his office and let him go home.

The silence was overwhelming. It was the professor’s turn to speak, but he continued to fumble with the lock of his briefcase, pretending he had difficulty with it.

Hernandez had one last chance. He took a deep breath and spluttered it out. This was not how he had planned it, but unless he spoke now, his opportunity would be missed. He would be stuck with an F-grade and a ruined future. “I thought you could spank me as a punishment and then ….” But he couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

Prof Luckhurst’s deathly gray face for once blushed scarlet. He could feel sweat sticking to the collar of his shirt. “What the ….?” he began, but was genuinely lost for words.

Hernandez had regained some confidence. When he had said the words to himself in front of the bedroom mirror, they sounded convincing. Now, he had to put that to the test.

“Well professor, the truth is…” The student confessed his laziness to the professor; he told him that he had not worked hard; he had not respected the course; he thought it would be easy. It was entirely his own fault he had failed.

“So, you see professor. I think I should be spanked. But, please don’t fail me. I won’t be able to graduate.” Then, he added for good measure in what he imagined to be a pitiful voice, “Sir.”

Luckhurst’s blood pressure was on the rise. Spank the boy. He wants me to spank him. He snorted. There had been many students over the years who would have benefitted from a darn good spanking; that was for sure. And, he often thought about personally swatting a paddle across their asses. But, all that was the stuff of fantasy. This was the real world: well, California at least.

“Spank you?” Prof Luckhurst left the question hanging in the air.

Hernandez picked it up and ran with it. “Yes, Professor Luckhurst. It’s what I deserve.”

Luckhurst had never come across anything like it before. The boy said he deserved to be spanked. He was twenty-two years old at least. Who had heard of young adults being spanked? Was this a cultural thing?

He regained some composure. “Spanking. Is this a Spanish-American thing? Do fathers still spank their sons in your community?”

Spanish-American! What year did this man live in? But, Hernandez made no protest. The tide was turning his way.

“Oh yes Sir,” he lied. “If my father knew of my failure, he would beat me.”

“Then let him spank you. You can atone for your failure that way.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hernandez seized the advantage. “He would spank me and hard, but he couldn’t give me the grade. Only you can do that.” He looked the professor straight in the eye, his own confidence growing by the second. “You, do see that don’t you?”

The professor returned the gaze. Often, he had dreamt of spanking his students, especially the Spanish-Americans. They were so short and cute with their slim hips and tight asses.

He looked over at Hernandez, struck by his dark brown eyes, boyish face and short jet black hair gelled up. The open face: that did it for him every time.

Luckhurst leant back in his chair. He was tempted, sorely tempted. He had been puzzled by the student’s failure. He had taught him several classes in the past and he had passed with high grades. His overall GPA showed he was a very bright student; he would go far. But, something strange had happened in Eng. Lit. Without the professor’s grade Hernandez would not make it to graduate school. His entire career could be hurt. Perhaps, Hernandez was correct; he had let his own arrogance get the better of him and imagined he could ace the professor’s course without working. Perhaps a spanking would sort out the boy’s arrogance.

Hernandez watched on as the professor sat at his desk, obviously in deep thought. If he had known any thought-transference tricks, he would have willed Luckhurst to do it. Go on, professor, spank my tight ass. What have you got to lose?

“Please, professor,” Hernandez spoke gently, “Please professor, spank me. I deserve it.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Professor Luckhurst hauled himself from his chair and walked across the room. Reaching the door, he turned the catch. A loud click confirmed the two men were locked together inside the office.

He turned to face Hernandez. He towered over the young man, easily eight inches taller than the student.

“If I do this, you must promise never to tell anybody what happened.”

“Oh, no Sir; of course not Sir,” Hernandez’s heart raced.

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, with more confidence than he actually possessed, the professor said, “Good boy. Come then, let’s do it.”

Luckhurst pulled a straight-backed chair from in front of his desk and placed it in the center of the office. Then, he sat down.

Hernandez stood his ground. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“Come, boy, take down those shorts. Get across my lap.”

“But…” Not for the first time that day Hernandez was lost for words. He had asked to be spanked, but he expected swats across his ass. Maybe he would be leaning over the desk, or bent over “assuming the position,” hands on his shins. No way had he expected to be over the professor’s knee, showing him his underwear.

Professor Luckhurst sat patiently. He had longed for such a moment his entire career. A cute naughty student submissively bent across his knee, offering up his butt for punishment. Sweat poured from his body and the underarms of his shirt was drenched. His breathing was heavy and his blood pressure was reaching record levels.

“Come on Hernandez, it is what you wanted.” Professor Luckhurst watched quietly as with trembling hands the boy undid his cloth belt and popped the button at the top of his bottle-green cargo shorts. The weight of the shorts took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees to rest at his shins. The boy’s legs were covered in thick black hair, to the professor’s evident disappointment. In his fantasies, the students had always been hairless: virginal.

Clearly distressed, Hernandez waddled a few steps so that he stood to the right of the professor. No, he couldn’t do this. He had changed his mind. Never mind the plan; forget how this little episode would insure the boy a bright trouble-free future. At the final moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Doh!” Professor Luckhurst was not about to miss his opportunity of a lifetime. He reached out and took the boy’s right arm and gently pulled him forward, so that he tumbled face down across the professor’s knees.

Hernandez screwed his eyes tight. The contact of his own body against the professor’s repulsed him. This was not how it was meant to be. Now, he had two choices; he could fight his way to his feet and flee the office. It would be easy, he was much smaller than his punisher, but he was forty-five years his junior; he had the superior strength.

He could do that, or he could stick with the original plan; albeit modified. He could take the spanking, graduate the university and get on with his new life.

Professor Luckhurst looked down at Federico, now across his lap. He might be twenty-two, but with his short trim body he could have passed for fifteen. Tight yellow briefs clung to his buttocks, so firmly they separated each one, so that the cotton dug deep into his crack creating a ravine. The boy’s red and white shirt had already risen away from the target area, but the professor helped it on its way by carefully folding it up once and then twice until the whole of his back beneath the shoulder blades was exposed.

Intrigued, the professor gently brushed his hand across the hairs on the boy’s back, feeling a slight tickle against his palm, but he took care not to connect with the flesh.

Federico’s anger was rising. What was the professor up to? The fury turned to rage when the professor moved his hand lower to caress the smooth cotton briefs. This time he let his palm explore the boy’s tight flesh. Each buttock was small enough to fit into the palm of the professor’s hand. Gently and very slowly the cupped hand explored the contours of the buttocks. The underpants were so tight and so small they left the lower half of each cheek exposed. The professor stroked his hand in a circular motion across the bared flesh, rather like he was polishing a window.

Federico stared straight ahead, trying to control his disgust. His arms were stretched out ahead of him and his own palms were pressed into the heavy material of the carpet, scratching them slightly. The crucifix he wore on a chain around his neck had slipped and dangled in front of his eyes. Behind him, he kept his knees straight and his toes floated an inch or so off the ground. His buttocks, now receiving so much loving attention from the professor, rested high over the old man’s right thigh.

On and on the professor caressed Federico’s buttocks in a circular motion; he was pimping and preening them. Never before had he held such a beautiful boy close to his own flesh. He was adorable; too wonderful to hurt. The professor would be entirely satisfied simply to hold and stroke the boy all night long. Was it too late to renegotiate with the boy? Let there be no spanking, instead give me a blow-job. No, better still; let me take you up the ass.

But it was too late. Better to make the most of the moment. The professor raised his hand two or three inches away from Federico’s left cheek and tapped it down. Then he did the same to the right cheek. Then again and again.

Federico had never been spanked in his life. He was no expert, but he knew one thing about it: it was supposed to hurt. That surely was the whole point. The professor wasn’t spanking him, he was coming on to him. This wasn’t a punishment, this was foreplay: a prelude to full-on sex.

On and on, the professor tapped and smacked his way across the boy’s glorious trim buttocks. No part of the cheeks escaped his attention. Smack, smack. smack.

Federico was losing his breath, not from the pain of his spanking since there wasn’t any, but from his increasing disgust. The professor was using him for his own sexual gratification. That wasn’t the idea. The plan was to get a spanking. It was meant to be four or five swats on the shorts and then, “Thank you Sir” and goodbye.

z used drawing hand otk (7)

Right that’s it. He wriggled his body and tried to force himself off the professor’s lap. Enough already. He was out of here.

The movement might have woken Luckhurst out of a trance. It was as if he suddenly realised why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

“No you don’t buster,” he pushed the boy forward so that his nose could smell the dusty carpet. Then he grabbed Federico’s right arm and twisted it up his back. The boy was going nowhere until the professor said so.

Then, in one swift continuous action, he grabbed the waistband of Federico’s tight yellow briefs and tugged them over his buttocks and left them at his thighs. The student wriggled and writhed, rather like he was swimming out of water, but the professor was his master; he was pinned down powerless to resist.

The professor once again caressed the buttocks. Unlike the boy’s back and legs, they were completely hairless, even the crack and butt hole. Did the boy shave himself, the professor wondered. Or did he have a special friend who did it for him?

But this was no time for speculation. In a frenzy the professor rained down spank after spank across the student’s pert naked butt. Federico felt that alright. The professor’s hand was as large and hard as Federico’s ass cheeks were small and soft. Sweat poured from the professor’s chest as the ache in the palm of his hand increased from a tingle to real pain. He had never spanked anyone in his whole sixty-seven years and was startled at how the boy’s tanned skin turned a deeper shade of brown as his own hand connected again and again with the flesh. The outline of the professor’s open palm was embedded time and time again on the boy’s rear end.

Federico kicked and thrashed his legs about, but he could not disturb the professor. The old man had an uninterrupted access to the buttocks. He realized he rather enjoyed swiping his hand hard into Federico’s naked cheeks and watching the instant reaction of the boy as he exhaled breath and wriggled across the older man’s lap. Yes, there was a direct connection between cause and effect in this spanking motion.

Federico gasped and gaped as each smack came down harder than the one before. He shook his head so violently in his attempt to escape what had become a severe bare-butt hand spanking that his crucifix slipped over his ears and fell on the ground. He stared down at it as his ass got hotter and hotter.

The professor was an old man. He didn’t have the strength he had twenty or thirty years past. He was spent. In his younger days he might have been able to spank the cute boy across his lap all night long. But not now. Not these days. He was choking for breath and blood rushed through his arteries at jet speed. If he didn’t slow down, he might have a stroke. No, worse than that: a heart attack.

“So young man,” he wheezed. “Do you regret not working hard in my class?”

Federico was astounded. He had long ago forgotten the reason he was bent over, naked butt raised high, receiving the attention of the pervert professor.

“Well?” the professor slapped his hand down the hardest yet.

“Yes,” the student gasped. His own breathing was as difficult as that of the professor. “Oh, yes,” he whimpered.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

The student was puzzled. What was he supposed to say?

Slap! “Beg for forgiveness.”

Beg?

Slap! “Say it. I beg you for forgiveness.”

That was it. When, I get up from here, I’m going to smash your fucking head in. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but the intent was real.

Slap! “Say it!”

The boy could not have been more humiliated. He had no choice. He had to remember that once he was released, his future was safe.

He wheezed, “I beg you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” Then for good measure, he added, “Sir.”

The professor stopped spanking. Federico lay across the old man, still staring at the crucifix. His head was spinning; he desperately needed to be standing on his own feet. So much blood had rushed to his brain; he feared he might pass out at any moment.

“Up.” It was a cold command. Despite his ordeal, Federico was still an athletic young man and he was off the man’s lap in seconds. Without waiting for permission, he pulled his underwear and shorts up. He was distressed that his hands would not obey him fully as he tried to button up and then buckle his belt. His ass was hot, but the agony was already dissipating into pain and would soon be only a throbbing.

The professor rose from his chair more slowly and turned to face the boy. He hoped Federico would not notice the bulge in front of his own pants. For several seconds the professor and the student stood facing one another in silence. Neither knew what to do next. Federico’s earlier rage had calmed. He would not beat up the professor. There was no cause to do that.

Eventually, the professor regained some of his own composure. “Nobody will hear about this, will they?”

“No,” Federico’s response was sullen.

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Federico assured him as he bent down to retrieve the fallen crucifix. Then without another word between the two men he walked to the door, unlocked it and left. With a wry smile cracking his lips he ran through the automatic doors toward the elevator.

….

Six months later Federico sat in the bar of a luxury hotel in the Caribbean, a beautiful woman by his side. In his hand he held a copy of the International New York Times. He smiled with satisfaction as for the third time today he read the story headlined: University settles $1.5 million lawsuit in student spanking case. A smaller headline ran: Professor’s career in ruins.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Toby’s Father Visits

z used drawing belt hold (1)

Toby got out of bed early; there was no need to as his father wasn’t due for another two hours, but he had found it impossible to sleep.

He hadn’t seen father since he arrived back at university more than two months ago, but now he was making a special trip to visit his son to “talk about” the mid-term results.

Toby was in the second semester of his first year and things were not going well. He had scraped through the exams last semester and was heading for failure in this.

Toby knew he had screwed up at uni. He had been distracted by his new life of independence and had spent too much time in clubs and bars, making new friends. He had completely neglected his studies and even stopped going to church. Of all the sins he had committed since coming to the university, this was the one he most definitely didn’t want his father to discover.

Independence was something so alien to Toby that he had embraced it like a caged bird set free. He had even moved out of the safety and security of the university halls of residence to share a house in a dilapidated part of town with three guys on his course. His father had not approved and had forbidden Toby to move, but the teenager defied him.

Toby set about making breakfast, but once he had poured the milk on his cornflakes, he realised he had no appetite. He looked at the clock, one-and-a-half hours to go. The house was quiet, his housemates were, he assumed, fast asleep; that is if they were in their beds at all. Yesterday was Friday and the boys had gone clubbing. Usually, Toby would have been with them, but the gloom he felt over his father’s impending visit was inescapable so he gave it a miss.

Perhaps the guys had gotten “lucky” and stayed the night with a girl. He hoped so; he didn’t want them around when father visited. It would be humiliating enough without having them as witnesses.

Toby looked around at the mess in the kitchen. The sink was piled high with unwashed pots and crockery. Father had told him he would end up living in squalor if he moved into the house. Like, in most things, Toby conceded to himself, his father was right. It had been a struggle since moving in: none of the boys were interested in keeping the house tidy.

Toby set about cleaning the kitchen and the front room. He even made a valiant attempt to scrape the grime off the hand basin and shower. He didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” It also helped to kill the time before father arrived.

With fifteen minutes to go before the dreaded time, Toby heard a key in the lock of the front door and Josh entered. He was unshaven and looked like he might have slept in a hedge last night.

“Yo! Toby!” The greeting was so effusive Toby knew immediately that Josh had “scored” last night.

“Hi! Man!” Toby tried to sound delighted to see his friend, but inside he was deflated: he had hoped he would have the house to himself.

“I’m going for a shower, then I’m having a kip.” Good, thought Toby, at least he’ll be out of the way.

Minutes later his other two housemates arrived home. Oh Christ! It’s a full house. Ravenous, they set about making breakfast, undoing all Toby’s efforts at tidiness.

Then there was a knock at the door. It has his father.

Toby had been too embarrassed about the visit to tell his housemates that his father was coming. Only now he realised that if he had confided in them they would have made themselves scarce for the duration. He wouldn’t have told them everything, of course. That would be too humiliating; he would just say that “dad” was coming and they would get the point. He never called his father “dad” but it would sound better with the guys. They didn’t talk much about their parents, but Toby supposed none of the other guys had one quite like his own.

To say his father maintained standards would be to under-state the situation. There were rules for everything; when you got up in the morning, when you went to bed at night, when you did your homework, no watching of television (not even at friends’ houses), no “pop” music. His father lived by the Bible and made sure his entire family did as well.

Toby was very well acquainted that bit about “spare the rod.” His father believed in complete obedience and the penalty for straying was always a beating. When he was very young he would find himself across his father’s knee, shorts and pants down, getting his bare bottom soundly spanked. Father soon graduated from hand spanks to the bedroom slipper. Toby learned quickly to obey father at all times.

But, as he got older, Toby found it more difficult to stick to his father’s harsh regime. Secretly, he developed a love of modern music, but he dared not bring it into his father’s house. He would sneak to friends’ houses to listen to it at full volume. He was in ecstasy. He was amazed at his friends’ parents for allowing this to happen, although sometimes they would roll their eyes and laugh, “Call this music. It doesn’t even have a tune.”

If his father had discovered Toby’s illicit pleasure, he would have thrashed the living daylights out of him.

Toby had only managed to pass his school exams and make it to university because father ordered him to do his homework each night. It had to be completed by 9pm and father would inspect to see that it was. He would also check Toby’s grades and there were beatings when they fell.

He opened the door and let his father into the house. Even before Toby could say “Hello” his father rebuked him about the house. “I told you not to move here. This place is a dump, the district is full of drug addicts and prostitutes. It is Sodom and Gomorrah!”

He made no attempt to be conciliatory with his, now adult, son. All he cared was that his own flesh and blood had disobeyed him and he wanted vengeance.

Quaking, Toby led his father into the front room. It was next to the kitchen and he knew his two friends would hear them.

For five minutes his father harangued him for his failings; the poor grades; the lifestyle; for letting his family and God down.

In truth, Toby knew this already. He was ashamed that he had let himself down since arriving at university. He knew that he had been weak-willed and spent too much time in self-indulgent pleasure-seeking when he should have been studying hard. Yes, he had disappointed his mother and father.

But, at the same time, he was also discovering himself, trying to work out who he was and what sort of person he could become. It was called growing up and he could not become an adult without making mistakes.

He knew also that father believed it was his duty to God to correct him.

His father had finished haranguing him and there was silence. Toby had hardly said a word: he knew his father did not want him to defend his actions; his part in this little drama was to accept unconditionally the word of his father.

Toby could hear the excited voices of his housemates in the kitchen; they seemed to be in exceptionally jolly moods.

“Can we please do this upstairs, father?” there was pleading in Toby’s voice. His father had also heard the voices and immediately understood his son’s predicament. He ignored the plea, said nothing, and slowly unbuckled his belt.

He looked around the small room, searching for a suitable spot. “Stand by that table.” By now he had withdrawn his thick, wide, leather belt and doubled it over.

“Take down your jeans and underwear and bend over the table.”

His father said a silent prayer as he watched the teenager disrobe and bend forward placing his elbows on the Formica-topped table.

“Right over! Flat on your stomach.” Toby shifted his position. “Now, take hold of the table legs.”

Toby obeyed.

His father took two previously prepared pieces of twine from his pocket and tied the boy’s hands to the table. Now, Toby was at his father’s mercy, but no clemency would be shown today.

“Legs further apart!” Toby wriggled a little until his father was satisfied.

Toby lay still, unable to prevent his father’s preparations. The man adjusted the boy’s shirt and pullover, rolling them up until he was naked from the shoulder blades to his ankles.

Satisfied, he raised the belt high and lashed it down with considerable force into Toby’s backside, immediately creating a sunset stripe across both cheeks.

Toby had a high tolerance of pain and remained motionless.

SNAP! Another lash fell, echoing around the small room. In the kitchen the two boys stopped laughing and stared at each other in puzzlement.

WHACK! Toby willed himself not to kick out. He stayed bent over, holding his bottom in place so that his father could lash his buttocks over and over.

WHOOSH! And his father did so, swinging the belt down hard across the top of the boy’s thighs. Involuntarily, Toby’s legs stomped the ground as the agony shot down his legs, but it didn’t relieve the pain and belt didn’t stop; it continued to strike his teenage bottom.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! His father was thrashing his son like never before.

Toby felt the force of the blows sending waves of pain flowing through his bottom, both cheeks shaking with the impact. His resolve to take the belt whipping stoically failed and he yelled.

Next door, Tom and Matt, startled, looked at each other. Without speaking they agreed they should not intervene.

In the front room his father was frenzied as the belt rose and fell, rose and fell and rose again. Toby was in pure agony as lash after lash bit deep into his fleshy globes. His knuckles had long ago turned white as he gripped the table legs for dear life.

Toby’s pain was more than anything he’d ever felt before: none of the past whippings compared. He wanted to push himself away from the table, turn around and grab his father’s arm and stop the pain, but the ties on his hands prevented this. Despite the intense agony that was pulsating through his body, he knew he had no option but to take whatever his father dished out.

Toby’s buttocks and thighs were a mass of welts, the belt had whipped into him so many times it was impossible to tell where one lash started and another finished. The boy was howling with the agony, but his father did not care, he whipped on and on: he was doing God’s work.

Toby was scarcely conscious; the throbbing in his buttocks had travelled down his legs, up his back and through his whole body. His sobbing choked him and he could hardly breathe; his heart was racing and any moment he feared it might give out.

His father raised and lowered the belt for a further onslaught on the boy’s buttocks when the door burst open and Tom and Matt rushed in. Tom made a grab for the belt and was rewarded with a slash across his face. He recoiled doubled over in pain. Toby’s father slashed the belt down across Tom’s back just as Matt, sizing up the situation, delivered a hard kick in between the man’s legs. Now, it was his turn to double up in agony.

At that moment Josh entered the room eager to see what all the commotion was. Horrified, he saw his dear friend Toby, tied across the table, half naked, with his flesh ripped to shreds.

Josh untied Toby and helped him rise from the table. Unable to stand, Toby fell into his arms.

Toby’s father was now cowering on the ground, trying to protect himself as Matt and Tom rained kicks all over his body. Distracted by Josh’s arrival, they stopped their assault allowing Toby’s father to run from the house.

The three friends helped Toby over to the couch and lay him face down. Matt winced at the sight before him. It looked like Toby had been assaulted all over his buttocks and thighs with a meat tenderiser.

Unbidden, Tom went to fetch a bowl of cold water and a flannel, then gently, affectionately, bathed the wounds.

Matt went to his room and found a tube of antiseptic cream, Un-self-consciously, he squeezed out a globule onto his fingers and massaged it gently into his friend’s throbbing arse.

Toby’s father sat in his car, his ribs ached terribly. He thought one might be broken. He realised he had left his belt at the house, but there was no way he was going to go back for it.

After a while, he felt well enough to drive away, not realising this would be the last time he would ever see Toby again.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Senior Tutor

z used jeans man taking down (1)

Nineteen-year-old Liam Thomas stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet shuffling slightly, in front of the desk.

Behind it sat the Senior Tutor, a stern man, imperious, dressed in a black academic gown.

The Senior Tutor, Professor Adams, was doing his best to ignore the student before him. The professor liked to let the boys stew. Leave them to wonder what might happen to them. What punishment they might expect.

The Senior Tutor had seen it all before, but this was a new experience for Liam. This was his first time in Prof Adams’ study. Liam had time to take in the splendour of the room. This was an ancient university, one of the best in the country, no the world. It had high expectations of its students and had centuries of tradition to uphold.

Liam was like a fish out of water at the university. Whereas most of his fellow students had parents in the professional classes and had attended expensive fee-paying schools, Liam’s father was a factory worker and his mother worked in a beauty parlour. He came from a very working class, poor area of South Wales.

“Well, Thomas.” The Senior Tutor had deigned to recognise Liam’s presence at last. “What is this all about?”

It was “all about” Liam being thrown off the philosophy course. He had been at the university for more than a year now. At first he worked hard, just as he had done to get into the university in the first place. But, things had gone downhill lately. Girls and beer were to blame mostly. So, Liam skipped a few tutorials, handed assignments in late and maybe worst of all, the last essay he had delivered was clearly plagiarised.

So, Dr Abramovich had thrown him off the course with the parting words, “Go see the Senior Tutor to discuss your options.”

Soon, Liam would discover that really he had no other option but to submit himself to Prof Adams, the Senior Tutor.

Prof Adams heard Liam’s story in silence. Liam was honest with the Senior Tutor. He admitted he had not worked at all this term and had let down himself and Dr Abramovich.

Prof Adams visibly mellowed as he heard this frank confession. It was always easier to deal with a boy who admitted he was at fault.

“And what should happen now?” the professor asked.

Liam stayed silent, shuffling his feet again, staring at the carpet. He wasn’t sure if this was a rhetorical question that he wasn’t really expected to answer. In any case, if it wasn’t rhetorical, he had no answer to give.

“Well boy?”

Liam mumbled something about being given another chance. He would work harder and so on. Even Liam wasn’t convinced by his answer.

“Not good enough, Thomas.” The professor was not going to let him off so lightly.

“Really, you should be sent down for the rest of the term and after your suspension is over we might discuss your future again.”

This was the last thing Liam wanted. His parents had scrimped and saved to help him to get to university. Whereas most kids in his valley left school at sixteen and went to work to bring money into the house, his own parents had worked overtime to pay for him to stay on to do A-levels and go to university. It would break their hearts if he were sent down.

“There might be an alternative, however,” the professor was speaking again.

Liam’s face brightened, encouraging the Senior Tutor to continue.

“You have worked hard to be at this university Thomas and I would not wish to see all that work wasted. But, you need to be punished and the punishment must be exemplary.”

Liam blushed, his face bright red, what was coming next?

“You need a short, sharp shock. Something to pull you up sharp. Something to help you to mend you ways.”

Liam’s heart was racing now.

“I could administer a sound thrashing.”

Liam’s jaw visibly dropped.

“You will take twelve strokes of the cane on your underpants, bent over that sofa,” he nodded to a leather couch that was just behind Liam.

Suspension or a beating: those were the options. Liam had never been caned in his life. Not even spanked. He couldn’t even remember being slapped as a very small child. What the hell would a “sound thrashing” with a cane on his pants be like?

But suspension from the university was out of the question. He really had no option.

“Well, what’s it to be Thomas?”

All the saliva had drained from Liam’s mouth and he could barely get the words out, “The caning please.”

“The caning please, SIR,” the professor snapped back.

“The caning please, Sir.”

The Senior Tutor rose from his chair and went to a second desk where he opened a long drawer. Liam couldn’t see exactly what the professor was doing, but he heard a rustle of canes as the professor chose the rod he would use to whip him.

The professor extracted a rattan with a curved handle. He swished it in the air two or three times to get its measure. Satisfied that it was the perfect implement to thrash Liam, the professor closed the drawer.

Liam was transfixed. Not only had he never been caned, he had never even seen a cane before. This was an impressive instrument, dark yellow in colour and maybe three feet in length. The Senior Tutor swished it once again, deliberately trying to intimidate Liam.

“Stand by the sofa.” It was a simple command made with authority.

Liam must have been in a trance. Later, when he tried to recall his encounter with the professor, there were large parts that he simply could not remember.

Professor Adams watched in silence as Liam walked to the couch and stood four feet from it.

“Closer boy.” Of course, Liam realised, he couldn’t stretch across the back of the couch from this distance. He shuffled forward a little.

The professor held the cane in his right hand, ready to do his duty. “Take down your trousers.”

Blood was rushing through his veins and his temples were throbbing, but Liam obeyed. He fumbled with the buckle of his wide leather belt and snapped open the clasp. Then he undid the button at the waist. The weight of the belt helped his corduroy trousers slip down revealing his bright red underpants. Liam undid the zip fly and the trousers fell to his knees.

“Bend over,” the professor touched the back of the couch with his cane.

Liam hesitated. Was he really going to let this man thrash him with a cane?

“Quickly!” The professor snapped the cane against the couch again.

Liam took a deep breath and lowered himself across the couch. It was the perfect size for a teenager to bend over. Liam stretched his arms in front of him, grasping the front edge of the couch tightly.

“Legs further apart boy.” Liam did as he was told.

Prof Adams stood cane in hand, observing the scene. He did not enjoy beating boys, he told himself.

He watched as Liam, breathing heavily, clenched his buttocks together in anticipation of the first lash.

The Senior Tutor believed it was his duty to deliver sound thrashings to his wayward students. It was for their benefit. A short, sharp shock would bring them to their senses. The alternative was to ruin their studies, their future careers and ultimately, perhaps, their entire lives.

Better by far to deal with the problem this way.

Prof Adams stood to Liam’s left, extended his cane and tap, tap, tapped it against the student’s right buttock. Then with a swift movement he swung the cane back, beyond shoulder height and lashed it into his underpants.

Liam shrieked as the cut hit home. It was involuntary; he hadn’t meant to do it. His body writhed in pain and he jumped up hopping from foot to foot, rubbing his backside vigorously.

“Get back over!” there was real anger in the professor’s voice. “If you stand up again, we shall start the punishment all over again. This time on your bare backside.”

Reluctantly, slowly, painfully, Liam positioned himself once again over the back of the couch.

Slash!!! The second cut bit deep into Liam. A white line appeared across the student’s tight red underpants and the professor knew that beneath the cotton a deep welt had formed.

Thwack!! Thwack!! Thwack!! Three cuts fell one after the other with no time for respite. Liam yelled each time the cane hit home. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. He did not know how to cope with this thrashing.

His knuckles were white as he clutched the couch for dear life.

Prof Adams saw Liam’s pain, but he felt no reason to let up. He had a duty to perform and he was going to do it. He had beaten many students over the years and he knew that once thrashed very few ever came back for more. This punishment, however harsh and unusual some people might see it, actually worked. He had the evidence.

He lashed down cut number six. Liam’s howling did not let up. It was so intense it could probably be heard all over town, if the professor hadn’t had the foresight many years ago to have his study sound-proofed.

The Senior Tutor paused as he reached half way in the punishment. He stepped forward and gently pulled at the elastic waistband of Liam’s underpants. For a split second the boy thought the professor was going to pull them down and deliver the final six on the bare. That wasn’t fair; he had kept his part of the bargain and had kept down across the back of the couch.

But, the professor was only inspecting the damage. He could see six thick, deep welts in Liam’s buttocks. His aim had been perfect, even though the boy had been writhing most of the time. Blood was beginning to seep from the wounds.

The professor snapped back the elastic and ran his hand across both buttocks, smoothing the cotton so it became a second skin. Liam winced in pain as the man’s hand connected with his wounds.

Stepping back, the professor raised the cane and continued with the thrashing. Blows seven, eight and nine fell in quick succession. Poor Liam gagged as tears and snot cascaded down his chin. His whole body was wracked in pain.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Then it was over. The professor quietly laid his cane on his desk. Liam was sobbing uncontrollably into the cushion of the couch, his whole body heaving as he gasped for air.

“Stand up Thomas.” It was a quiet instruction, devoid of anger. It was over. The boy had submitted to his punishment. Not well, but he had taken it.

Liam raised himself from the couch unsteadily. He almost fell as he tried to stand in front of the professor.

“Get dressed.”

Liam was distraught. He couldn’t stop the sobs. His backside was raw. The red pants camouflaged the blood that was oozing from his wounds. His backside throbbed with a pain the like he had never experienced. Liam tried to rub at his bottom, but realised that the merest touch increased the pain, it didn’t relieve it.

He bent down to retrieve his trousers from his ankles. Even that small effort stretched the skin across his buttocks and sent another shock wave of pain through him. With some difficulty Liam zipped and buckled himself up.

The professor went to his desk drawer and retrieved a box of paper handkerchiefs. He offered the box to the boy. Liam grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped away the mucus from his face. He was beginning to regain some measure of control.

“When you have composed yourself, please go to Dr Abramovich and with my compliments tell her you have received a thrashing and ask her if she will kindly consider reinstating you on her philosophy course.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Liam replied and turned to leave, his university career saved.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Letter of Gratitude

new story 2

z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

Today I leave to travel to Newcastle to start my new job and new career. I will be living 200 miles away from you and I know our lives will never quite be the same again. How can I express my gratitude for all you have done for me and the love you show me?

I am shamed when I look back at how much I resented it when you took me in to your home and gave me a roof over my head when I was eighteen. I now shudder when I think how different things might have been. I would probably today be sleeping in a shop doorway or at best I’d be in some homeless men’s hostel maybe with a job sweeping floors somewhere. Now the world is my oyster. I owe it all to you.

When you persuaded me (Ha! Ha! Persuaded, let’s be honest forced me kicking and screaming) to take up that college course I resented the hell out of you. Going back to school at nineteen. I didn’t know then how much you wanted the best for me and you were prepared to make sacrifices. You were the first – and probably still the only – person ever to do such a thing. I didn’t know at the time just how much you loved me. You said you would do what it takes to get me on track: on the straight and narrow.

I didn’t believe you. I do now. I remember the first time you took your belt to me and leathered my backside. Do you remember the fight? You grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me face down over the back of the sofa and setting my rear end on fire. Nobody but you would ever have done such a thing. Such a kindness. My own parents all but abandoned me. Was it any surprise I dropped out of school and wandered through life aimlessly. I know it’s a cliché but you were my guiding light in a storm.

I spent much on the next few months appreciating the pattern on the carpet in your lounge. Me across your knee; you pounding a paddle across the seat of my underpants. Ha! Ha! I can laugh about it now; but then, not so. It took a while for me to appreciate you had my best interest at heart. That ‘contract of objectives’ we drew up was a masterstroke. I set my goals in life, we worked out how to measure my achievements and if (indeed often it was when) I fell short you were there to catch me; with that goddamn  paddle, or that heavy leather taws. Where did you get that?

I owe it to you and your efforts and yes your love that I passed my examinations and won a place at the university. Me, at university! No one in our family – not even you dear uncle – had ever achieved such a distinction.

We thought I was ready for the challenge. We thought I was mature enough to set sail on my own, so I signed up at a university away from home. From your home, from the place that I call home and with your permission would like to think of my home always. I was now absent from your day-to-day influence but I carried in my heart the lessons you had taught me.

Uncle, you know what happened next. I was nearly twenty-one years old, but I regressed to being sixteen again. My studies started well, but the cheap beer in the student guild bar and the women – oh there were so many women available. How was I to know I was such a handsome chap (Ha! Ha!). Uncle, the women came to me. Of course, the inevitable happened. By the second semester I was in danger of failing my courses. Disaster. But once more you rode to my rescue.

Who but my loving Uncle would take the time and the effort to take me in hand. You explained that women were all right in their place. A young man has needs. But there has to be a balance in life. We drew up one of those contracts. Time for study, time for women. Once the assignments were written, I could allow myself a treat.

Your insistence on what you called “reinforcement” was a master stroke (or strokes, Ha! Ha!). I appreciate greatly your sensitivity. You knew I lived in the student halls of residence where the walls of the rooms were paper thin. I needed to be “dealt with” but this was a relationship best kept between us two. The rest of the student population need not know of our arrangement. The Motel With a View, on the A-287 trunk road was perfectly discreet. It was the first (but by no means the last) time I felt that intense sting that can be delivered only by a stout but whippy rattan cane used in such a determined manner. I remember you piled three pillows on the bed. I removed my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear to lie face down on the bed. I chewed the fourth pillow. My what strength you have. I have never been forced to sit on an electric fire but if I were ever made to do so it could not possible hurt less than one of your canings. That time it was twelve stripes. Ouch! Each searing into my flesh. As you know (you’ve seen it at close quarters often enough, Ha! Ha!) my bottom is really quite small. There is no meat back there to speak of so your lashes sank deep and left behind terrific welts. My bum felt like corrugated cardboard at the end. Oh how I needed that pillow.

Yes, Uncle I owe everything to you. Without you I should never have graduated university. And, now look at me, a young professional man with a future ahead of me. I don’t know however I shall be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But dear Uncle I have a request. Please don’t abandon me now. Newcastle is so far away and the temptations in my new life will be so great. You have taught me well, but I fear for the future, please reassure me that you will be there for me, ready to whip me in to shape when the occasion demands.

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The University Major

z used otk paddle older

Gerard Underwood was no ordinary first year Freshman at the university. For a start he was forty years old and second he had just been made redundant as a Major from the army.

Not that Underwood minded. He took a large pay off and set off to the university to explore a great love of his: English Literature.

Suitable housing had been in short supply so the university set him up in a room at one of the student halls of residence. That’s how he came to be living cheek-by-jowl with a group of eighteen- and nineteen-year-old students.

It hadn’t been easy. They were a boisterous lot who liked to make a lot of noise: for some reason the Major didn’t understand music always had to be played at the highest possible level. That irritated him a lot. But, he was even more put out by the constant mess the lads made in the communal areas such as the kitchen. That really offended his military sensibilities: everything should be tidily put away in its place.

He had complained several times but the boys didn’t take much notice. In fact, they considered him a bit of a joke.

What they needed, Major Underwood knew, was some discipline. A spell in the Military would soon sort them out. But, that was just a dream; it was never going to happen.

But, Underwood concluded, if they couldn’t be put in uniform, they could at least be put across his knee for some old-fashioned discipline, courtesy of his stout wooden paddle.

The Major believed in corporal punishment, he had used it on his own three boys. Not when they were in their late teens, of course. He had put them across his knee from an early age and they soon got the message.

Actually, that wasn’t quite true. He did have a run-in with Gerard Junior, his eldest boy, when he was eighteen. The boy was getting out of control, staying out late and drinking alcohol. It came to a head one night when Gerard had arrived home roaring drunk. The next day words were said and the boy soon found himself trousers down, over his father’s knee, a place he hadn’t been for the past six or seven years.

There followed a severe spanking and the sound of wood crashing into the soft yielding flesh could be heard all the way from the boy’s bedroom into the street. So too could Gerard Jr’s howls of outrage and pain.

His son soon mended his way. Yes, Major Underwood knew for certain: spanking worked. It worked on his own sons and it would work on his fellow lazy, thoughtless, students.

After a weekend back at his home, the Major returned to the university with his trusted paddle. It was about a foot in length and a quarter of an inch or more thick with large holes drilled into its face, the better to get a good swing at the target backside.

He had told some of the students they needed some discipline and if they didn’t mend their ways he might just be the person to administer it. They didn’t want to take him seriously.  Whoever heard of nineteen-year-old students getting their backsides blistered?

But, there were also some uncomfortable glances between the boys after the Major made his promise. Deep down inside some of the boys at least thought he might just be serious.

And he was, as Tommy was about to find out. Tommy was eighteen years old and the Major thought as slovenly as anyone could possibly be. He never washed up his things when he made a meal in the communal kitchen and he always played his music at deafening levels.

But, the Major decided this night he was about to get his comeuppance.

It was quite late one evening and there were only the two of them in the kitchen. Tommy had left his dirty dishes unwashed on the table. Did he expect someone to wash up for him? the Major thought to himself. Maybe at home his mother did.

It was all over in a matter of moments. The Major barked an order at Tommy as he was half way to the door and the boy stopped in his tracks.

A few short sentences from the Major were all it took to let Tommy know he was in real trouble. He had been warned previously and had chosen to ignore it and now he must face the consequences.

The Major ordered Tommy to stand still and wait. He obeyed without question.

Major Underwood strode to his locker and from it retrieved the paddle. The boy’s eyes were transfixed on the older, powerful, man.

“Come here, Tommy,” the Major gestured with the paddle for him to move forward. As the boy did so, the Major pulled a wooden bench clear of the table and sat down on it.

“Right boy bend over my knee.”

To the Major’s surprise, Tommy meekly did as he was told. In one continuous movement he approached the Major, took a deep breath and almost fell across the older man’s lap. He came to rest with his head low on the floor and his bottom raised high over the Major’s right leg, ready to receive the thwack of the paddle into the seat of his faded Levi jeans.

This is not a new experience for this boy, the Major thought. He must have been in this position before.

He put his hand into the small of Tommy’s back to hold him steady and swiftly brought the wood down with an almighty THWACK!!! into Tommy’s backside. The boy let out a gasp, but continued to keep his bottom raised high, seemingly welcoming his punishment.

THACK!!! number three had just hit home when the kitchen door opened and in walked Wayne. This boy was just as badly behaved as Tommy and the Major intended to make sure that before too long he too would be presenting his buttocks for the paddle.

Wayne stopped in his tracks, immediately sized up the situation and blanched. He was about to turn on his heels and exit swiftly when the Major called out.

“Not so fast Wayne. Wait right there. You’re next.”

Without hesitation, the boy turned and fled. No matter, he’s going nowhere: there’s nowhere for him to run, the Major reckoned.

Undeterred, he raised the paddle again, high into the air, and brought it crashing down again into the Levis.

He stopped after a dozen licks. Tommy had had enough. The major, too, was satisfied. He wasn’t a sadist, but he believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and that meant when you whacked a boy you made sure you did it good and hard.

Tommy slowly rose to his feet. His face was crimson, as in all probability was his backside. He was in pain, and his eyes were watery, but he successfully stopped himself from crying.

His buttocks throbbed, the denim jeans had been no protection against the expertly handled wooden paddle. Tommy dearly wanted to rub his fleshy globes, but that would have to wait a few more moments until he was in the privacy of his bedroom.

“Will I have to do this again, Tommy?”

“No, sir.”

The Major noted the word “Sir” – the boy knew when he was beaten: both literally and figuratively.

“I hope not. Mend your ways quickly, or next time we’ll see how you like it with your jeans around your ankles and your underwear around your knees.”

Tommy shrank from the major at the thought of it.

“Yes, Sir. I will Sir.”

The Major believed he meant it. He would try to be better, that was for sure. Whether he would succeed was another matter.

…..

Twenty minutes later the Major was back in his own bedroom, reading Shakespeare’s Macbeth, when music started playing so thunderously that the walls of his room vibrated.

That bloody brat, Wayne.

Pausing only to pick up his paddle, the Major hurried from the room. He hammered on the boy’s bedroom door, but it took a while for it to open and for Wayne’s head to poke outside.

Without a word the Major pushed the boy backwards, entered the room and unplugged the music.

Wayne put up a protest. In the time since he had witnessed his friend’s humiliation across the Major’s knees he had vowed to himself that he was not going the same way.

But, the protestation was in vain. The Major told the boy in no uncertain terms that he had over-stepped the mark for the last time.

No way are you whacking me, Wayne thought, and pushed Major Underwood towards the door.

That was entirely the wrong thing to do. The boy might be more than twenty years younger than the ex-Military man, but in any trial of strength he would come off second best: as he was about to find out.

The Major made a grab for the boy’s hair, intending to bend him double so he could get swats at his backside, but Wayne was too quick for him. The room was too small to swing a paddle properly and the Major knew he would have to overpower the boy so he could get up close to deliver the licks.

Getting the boy across his knee was out of the question. Instead he made a grab for the boy’s throat and pushed him on the bed. He fell on his back, winded, and from there it was easy for the Major to get up close and turn Wayne over onto his stomach.

The Major knelt on the bed beside the boy and with a strength Wayne could not believe he could possess he pinned him down with his face in the pillow. The boy was his for the taking.

The Major really despised a boy who couldn’t take his punishment without a fuss. Tommy had been no trouble; he went down across his knees the moment he was instructed. He was a fine lad; you could make a man out of him.

But, Wayne was just a brat – and a cowardly brat at that. He should be taught a lesson.

With one hand holding him face down, the Major used the other to tug at the elasticated waist of Wayne’s sweat pants. In no time his buttocks were bared. He tried desperately to escape, but the Major was in complete control: the boy was going nowhere until he had been punished severely.

The Major released Wayne’s arm for just long enough for him to put his knee in the small of his back. This gave him the opportunity to swing the paddle from a great height and smack it at extreme force into the boy’s fleshy cheeks.

A dozen swats crashed down in quick succession. Bang! Bang! Bang! one after another. Wayne wailed and kicked his feet but his screams were muffled by the pillow his face was buried in, but the yells must still have been heard by all his neighbours: the walls of the students’ rooms were paper thin.

Tears and snot rolled down Wayne’s face and he gasped for air, partly because of the intense pain he was feeling, but also because of the mouthful of pillow he was swallowing.

Then it was over. Wayne’s buttocks were dark red and already turning to purple bruises. He would feel the effects of this bare-bottomed thrashing for a long time to come.

The Major stood looking down on the whipped boy. He had no compassion for him. He knew the brat deserved all he got but he wasn’t man enough to take it.

The Major left the room. Outside a small crowd of students had gathered, attracted by the noise and their curiosity excited by the certainty that one of their own was getting his bottom blistered.

They parted as the Major exited the room and watched in awe as he returned to his own room, swinging the paddle nonchalantly as he went.

The boys looked at each other in silence, each one thinking the same thing: which of them would be next?

While Wayne was getting his buttocks toasted, Tommy was back in his own room with his Levis and pants around his ankles stroking away at his todger. He panted hard as he relived the past five minutes and his soldier stood to attention.

Breathing heavily, Tommy stared at the ceiling: he had done it. At last, he had gotten the real spanking he had craved all his life.

Tommy had been interested in spanking for as long as he could remember. When he was ten-years-old he loved to take out the old books in the children’s library modern kids never wanted to read. His favourites were the stories from boarding school, where teenaged boys were always being ordered to bend over for a “swishing” from the form master, or even, oh glory!, a birching from the headmaster.

He would read and re-read these stories for hours, imagining that he was the boy summoned to the Beak’s study for six on the bags with an ashplant.

Growing up, he desperately wanted to be spanked, but he never got the chance. That’s not strictly true; he did remember once that his father got hold of a rigid bamboo cane, one of those that you would use in the garden, from somewhere. He had no idea where it came from: they lived on the seventh storey of a block of flats; they had no use for it. He could vaguely remember that once, he must have been quite young, his dad chased him with it around the flat, intending to give him a whacking, but he ran away bawling his eyes out. His dad (soft thing) gave up her chase, showed tremendous remorse, and the cane disappeared forever.

Many times since, Tommy played that scene in his dreams, only this time there was no chase: instead he pictured himself in the front room, bent over touching his toes, his jeans pulled down to his ankles and his father thwacking a proper whippy rattan cane with a curved handle across his stretched underpants. This time, he did the job properly.

So, Tommy had never received corporal punishment, but he did try many times to spank himself. When he was alone in the flat he would lock himself in the bathroom, take his trousers down, bend over the side of the bathtub and whack his bottom with a bath brush. He couldn’t get much of a swing so the results were unsatisfactory.

Tommy could not believe it when Major Underwood turned up at the university’s halls of residence and lambasted him and his fellow students about their noise and the mess they made in the kitchen. The students all thought he was a bit of a joke and a loser: who was still at university at the age of forty?

Tommy didn’t take much notice of the Major, until one evening Underwood declared that if the students did not shape up he would take a paddle to their backsides.

That night Tommy had a wet dream. In it he and the Major were in the kitchen, Tommy had been playing his music too loud and he had not washed up his dishes. Now, he was for it. Many times in the past, Tommy had dreamt about being put across a strong man’s knee: Tommy was always submissive. His favourite position was head way down, almost kissing the carpet, his bottom raised high over the thigh with his legs dangling in the air behind him.

Usually, he had his trousers at his ankles. Sometimes, but not always, he would be wearing tight briefs, so short they hardly covered his buttocks. Other times, his spanker would pull the briefs down to expose bare cheeks before whacking into him with the palm of his hand, or a hairbrush, or a slipper. In his dreams, Tommy had never been spanked with a paddle.

In real life Tommy didn’t play his music loud (he preferred listening through headphones, anyway) and he wasn’t especially untidy about the residences. Tommy wasn’t one of the students the Major should be worrying about. Underwood didn’t know that: as far as he was concerned all the students were as blameworthy as one another.

Even though he craved to be taken over the Major’s knee for a bottom-blistering spanking with the paddle, Tommy could not summon up the courage to contrive it. That evening he had lain on his bed, torturing himself with fantasies about himself and the Major. Tommy was going crazy; he had to do something about this.

He went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea and found the Major there alone, as usual the sink and draining board were full of unwashed dishes.

“Are these yours!” the Major barked at Tommy. There weren’t, but Tommy was too dumbfounded to reply.

The Major was in a strop, he tore a strip off Tommy and without waiting for a response strode to his locker and took out his paddle.

Tommy was breathless. He was going to get spanked. At last! He was so excited blood popped in his ears.

Within seconds, Tommy was across the Major’s lap and he wriggled himself into the position he had dreamt about many times: head far down, bottom far up.

Tommy’s breath came in short gasps; he hoped he would be able to take his first over-the-knee spanking well. However much it hurt, and he hoped it was much more painful than when he had spanked his own bum with the bath brush, he would try to take it without fuss.

SMACK!!!! the first lick of the paddle fell across his tight jeans. Tommy’s gasps turned to wheezes as the shock of the pain forced him to expel air from his lungs.

Marvellous! He had never experienced such pain before. WHACK! SMACK! the paddle rose and fell in the hands of a master. Tommy was in agony when he the kitchen door opened and the eighteen-year-old boy’s best friend Wayne came in.

The thought that Wayne was witnessing his spanking sent a wave of desire through Tommy’s body and he could feel a prominent erection under his pants.

The Major called out to Wayne, but as soon as the boy realised what was going on he scarpered, fearful he would be next over the strong knee of Major Underwood.

Alone together again, the Major continued with the licking.

When it was over, Tommy stood in front of the Major, his buttocks glowing and his cock throbbing, with his hands cupped in front of his crotch. To the Major it looked like an act of submission, but actually the boy was trying to hide the huge bulge behind his zipper.

Tommy’s shirt had stuck to his back with sweat, his breathing was irregular, his buttocks were roasted and he was in Heaven!

Back in his room, Tommy was in ecstasy! His soldier stood to attention once again as he relived it all in his mind: the command to “bend over my knee;” the agony as the paddle swiped into his globes; Wayne’s appearance and finally being scolded like a little boy by the Major.

And, the Major promised next time the spanking would be with his trousers at his ankles and his pants at his knees. Oh Joy!

As Tommy started rubbing himself he heard a commotion from the next room. Wayne was getting it too! The spunk shot a foot in the air, staining his blanket.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Professor Paddle

z used drawing paddle hold (11)

“It is indeed regrettable that the university failed to make proper provisions for regular corporal punishment as a normal part of academic tuition, but Armstrong and Kitso in your case I can assure you a sound spanking with a stout wooden paddle is very much in order.”

The two miserable twenty-year-old students shifted their feet and stared down at their shoes like the two naughty twelve-year-old schoolboys they closely resembled.

The professor detailed their misdeeds, but neither of the young men listened too carefully, since they had already learned their fate.

They had been caught cheating on an essay. It was blatant and inexpert; they were as the students at the university called it, “bang to rights.” They had no excuses really. They were just idle students who spent too much time in the bar or on the sports field, or, as often as they could, chatting up girls.

They listened to the lecture with downcast eyes. They knew they’d done wrong, and deserved to be punished for it.

The professor was not too surprised by their behaviour; he had seen it all before. They were not the only students who had been to visit his study this term, all for more or less the same offence: slacking. And each one had hobbled away from the study with a throbbing backside.

He was so keen on the wood, his students called him Professor Paddle. They knew what price they would pay if they broke the rules or didn’t put enough effort into their studies: they only had themselves to blame.

The professor believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment: he always spanked students who were up before him. Experience told him that if he whacked their butts for their first offence, they rarely committed a second.

Now, it was the turn of Armstrong and Kitso: two very ordinary students, as far as the professor could tell. Neither would become a star academic and distinguish the university, but if they knuckled down and worked hard, they would graduate with good enough degrees and enjoy decent careers.

The professor’s sermons never lasted long. He told the embarrassed pair they were cheats and might never be trusted again. He said their parents would be ashamed of them if they heard of their behaviour. It was standard stuff; he had given similar homilies many times before.

Each boy stared at the faded rug beneath his feet, each uncertain whether they were expected to respond, so they did what generations of naughty schoolboys had done before them, they kept silent.

The lecture now over Professor Paddle got straight to the point. “Both of you stand facing that wall.” Miserably, the youngsters did as instructed. It was quite a large study, two walls were dominated by bookcases and a third accommodated a large Chesterfield-type couch. The fourth consisted of fake mahogany panelling.

The study was full of furniture and the professor had many choices when he positioned his naughty students for their punishment. Over the years he had them draped across an armchair, the Chesterfield and his over-large desk. But, he thought, he preferred one of the simple plastic chairs he had swiped from a seminar room and that he used for visitors.

It was one of these lightweight chairs that he picked up and placed in the centre of the room. In this position there would be ample space for a boy to bend over the chair and for the professor to swing his paddle into the proffered buttocks with maximum force.

“Armstrong. You first.” He was looking at Kitso when he said this and was surprised when it was the other boy who moved forward.

“Stand in front of the chair, boy.” Armstrong felt he was in a dream, he had never been spanked in his life and he could not entirely believe that his first taste of butt pain would come when he was twenty years old.

“I want you to take down your jeans and assume the position, hands on the seat of the chair. Keep facing the wall boy.” This last was addressed to Kitso who astonished by the professor’s command had turned to see the reaction of his friend.

Armstrong had not expected this. Paddled on the shorts! The pain of a whacking on the jeans would be bad enough, but surely the paddle thwacked across the thin cotton of his underwear would be unbearable.

Armstrong moved slowly across the room and around to the other side of the chair, facing away from the professor. He deliberately avoided thinking about what he was doing as his fingers undid the button of his jeans, then the zipper, and then slid them down altogether. They hung around his knees for a moment, before the force of gravity took them down to rest at his feet. That wasn’t so hard. He still had his boxers on. There was no shame in the professor seeing him in his boxers, he lied to himself.

Meanwhile, the professor rummaged in a desk drawer.  A big wooden paddle with air holes in it was in his hands in no time.

“Armstrong, bend yourself over the chair, lift up your shirt tail out of the way and keep your hands away from your bottom. If your hands move from the chair, I will start over.”

With those words, he drew back the paddle and whacked Armstrong’s rear end with it – hard! He winced, and gave out an audible gasp. The crack of the paddle echoed through the study. Again, the professor drew back and walloped his rear end. The underwear he was wearing didn’t give him much protection.

Then the professor struck the boy’s right buttock with as much force as he could muster, almost causing him to topple forward. Unable to see clearly through the tears in his eyes, Armstrong fought to stay in position as the pain seared into his bottom, determined not to cry out. Worse almost than the pain itself was the awful humiliation of having to submit to a spanking at his age like a naughty child.

Holding his position, he waited for the next swat, his buttocks clenching convulsively in anticipation.

For a moment the professor eyed the boy’s cotton-clad backside and then, taking careful aim with the paddle in his right hand, struck the left buttock cheek a resounding blow that dented the thin material deep into the soft, yielding flesh.

Armstrong wailed and kicked his feet, but was smart enough to remain in position. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the paddle, Armstrong rising to his tiptoes and groaning with each powerful swat.

The paddle was like a hot iron, scalding him with every touch. He felt tears racing down his cheeks, so hot they seemed to sear their own path through his skin, leaving permanent canals.

Armstrong was howling, but took his licks as bravely as he could. He stood panting as the professor put down the paddle.

“Up. Stand by the wall. Kitso, your turn,” the command was curt and intended to be obeyed. Both boys jumped to attention.

Armstrong was in some distress as he faced the wood panelling. Tears were flowing freely down his face. His rear end felt as if he had sat on a hamburger griddle and surely the flesh on his buttocks was as raw as hamburger meat.

Kitso turned away from the wall, ready to take his own licking, and was astonished to see the professor seated on the plastic chair. He was gripping a smaller paddle, one not much bigger than a hairbrush.

“Come here boy, don’t dawdle. Trousers down. Bend over my knee.” Kitso blanched: it was humiliating enough to have to assume the position to let this older man whack his arse, but being made to bend across his knee like a five-year-old was going too far. Kitso stood his ground unable to move.

“Doh!” the professor exhaled, and with that he dragged Kitso’s head by the ear and held him in front of him while he unfastened and pulled down the student’s beige trousers to below his knees.

When he’d pulled down the trousers, he grabbed Kitso’s wrist so tightly it actually hurt. In the same motion, he yanked him over his lap with more force than he imagined he had, so the boy fell neatly into place across his widely placed knees. Kitso had to stop himself from crashing into the floor with his hands. He tried to get up but the professor grabbed the back of his neck, forced the head down and raised his knee by propping his heel against the chair leg so that the boy’s bottom was raised vulnerably. Kitso had to grab hold of the professor’s ankle with one hand and put his other on the floor to balance himself.

He laid one hand firmly on the boy’s lower back to hold him still but the cheating student’s body was trembling.

Like an explosion the paddle struck his bottom with enough force to make him feel like his eyes popped out of his head. There was no hesitation, the paddle bounced off his butt and slammed back into him. By that second blow tears began to roll down his face. By the third or fourth he was begging him to stop and screaming each time he hit him.

At some point during the spanking, Kitso reached back to try and protect his buttocks from any more pain. That turned out to be a huge mistake. With his free hand, the professor pinned both his wrists behind his back and began beating his poor cheeks with vengeance. He was crying wildly, screaming and whining and begging him to stop. His legs were kicking around and he tried with everything he was worth to wiggle off of his lap, but he never could. The professor was way too strong.

Kitso didn’t know how long it took for the professor to get his lesson across, but when he realized he had stopped, he was choking and weeping as he dangled, pinned across his knee. He was so humiliated, he could only double over and look at the floor, while both his hands rushed to clasp and rub his ignited bottom, trying to make the throbbing pain stop. He bounced and danced around, mostly in the same place, as he wailed and rubbed his behind.

Kitso looked sheepishly at the master who had delivered such a harsh spanking. Totally indifferent and non-responsive, the professor directed him to pull up his trousers and move to stand beside the leather arm chair from which he normally conducted his tutorials. Armstrong was instructed to join him.

The professor had earlier delivered his sermon and saw no reason to repeat any of it now. He warned the boys of the consequences of a repeat offence and dismissed them. Trying to walk as normally as possible, and desperately resisting the temptation to grip their bottoms, they walked slowly to the door and out.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

z used jeans chair (2)

The sunshine beamed through the window awakening Mitch from his slumbers. Blearily he turned to look at his watch. He had better get a move on, he daren’t miss his appointment.

He stretched a little and yawned before pulling the sheet from his body. His mauve and yellow pants bulged and for a few moments he lay admiring himself. The pants were too tight so he pulled them down to his thighs liberating his Morning Glory. No time to handle that now, he thought as he kicked off the pants.

Seconds later he was on his knees down on the floor ready for his morning exercises. Mitch was a fit lad and had no problem executing twelve push-ups at some speed. Then he turned on his back for the twelve sit-ups that completed his daily routine.

He was sweating a little by now, but not because of the exercises; it was probably the belly full of beer he had drunk before falling into bed in the early hours.

He really should take a shower but there was no time so Midge picked up a flannel and soaked it under a tap. His soldier was still pointing to the sky and aching like crazy. It only took five or six strokes before the nineteen-year-old shot his load into the hand basin.

He cleaned himself down with the cloth and then rubbed it over the rest of his body. He needed a shave, but that would have to wait. He also noticed one or two hairs on his chest: he would deal with them sometime over the weekend.

He only had five minutes before he was due at his meeting, he had better hurry. He looked around the room; he had no clean clothes (that would be another task for the weekend he thought.)

He picked the pants off the bed, checked them for skid marks, and decided they would have to do. He grabbed a t-shirt that had only been worn twice since its last trip to the laundry and tugged that over his head, sniffing his armpits as he did so. A can of deodorant lay nearby and Mitch sprayed a liberal quantity all over his shirt.

He picked up some old sweats and pulled them over his pants. It didn’t matter which trousers he wore, they wouldn’t be staying on for very long.

Picking up his keys, the teenager left the room and hurried to the top floor of the dorm block to meet the Dean of Dormitory Discipline.

….

Frank looked down at the grubby brown carpet, his hands on his knees and his bottom jutting out slightly. He was sweating a little and his breathing was shallow. Despite his best efforts his buttocks remained clenched in anticipation.

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline looked on at the young student. The boy was wearing dark grey short trousers. It was a hot day, even at this early hour, and shorts were certainly the best clothes to wear. But, Frank wasn’t wearing summer shorts, his were short trousers like children wore as part of their school uniform. In his a grey short-sleeve shirt, he was perfectly dressed for a day in the classroom: if he were about eight years old.

What was going on in the student’s head, the Dean wondered as he selected a paddle; he was building quite a collection. This was Frank’s first appearance before him, so he selected a stout wooden specimen about fourteen inches long and four inches wide. Unlike some of his others, this paddle was solid without holes (manufacturers put holes in the heavier paddles so they could fly through the air towards their target with minimum wind resistance).

The Dean had devised a tariff for his punishments, he believed it was fairer to treat everyone equally, and the students knew exactly where they stood if they broke the rules. He gave first offenders twelve hard whacks on the seat of their trousers. For a second offence they got twelve on the underpants, swiftly followed by another twelve on the bare. In the six months since his job had been created, the Dean had never had to deal with a boy for a third time.

Frank was wondering why his punishment had not yet begun and craned his neck to look behind him at the Dean.

“Face the front boy, you’ll find out what’s going on back here soon enough.” It was a little joke the Dean liked to make every time a student made such a move.

He stepped forward and placed his hand into Frank’s shoulder blades pushing the teenager’s face a little closer to the carpet. Then he pulled the boy’s shirt out from the waistband of his short trousers exposing the skin of his lower back. Shirt tails are never long enough to cover a boy’s buttocks, so they don’t afford him extra protection. So, pulling the shirt clear is a wasted effort, but the Dean liked to do this as a ritual, believing it added something extra to the drama of the occasion.

He was now ready to deliver the swats. Although this was Frank’s first appearance in front of the Dean of Dormitory Discipline, it was not his first ever spanking. Like a lot of youngsters around his age, Frank had been caught out by the sudden change in the law, that not only reintroduced corporal punishment in schools, but permitted it to be also used on students up to the age of twenty-five and to young people more generally for certain criminal offences.

Frank was like most people of his age: he was self-centred, lacking much direction, a bit lazy and he rarely accepted the authority of his elders. In the six months since the law came into effect, Frank had been spanked twice; once to his great horror at the university for arriving at class late; and once at home by his father for what dad called his “insolence.”

Both spankings had been humiliating for Frank, but he soon discovered from his university friends that he wasn’t the only one getting his buttocks toasted. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Frank waited for the Dean to begin. He didn’t feel ashamed or humiliated, this was his third spanking in a few months and he was becoming used to them. Nor was he resentful. He had been caught smoking a cigarette in the university grounds. Smoking was now strictly forbidden and the punishment for transgression was widely advertised. Frank only had himself to blame for his situation. He promised himself he would take the spanking with whatever dignity he could and he wouldn’t cry or yell out.

The Dean loomed above him, the paddle gripped tightly in his hand. He was an expert: he swatted twelve stokes into his tight behind, making sure he wore out every inch of Frank’s backside. The teen grunted with each strike and had difficulty keeping in his ‘grab-the-knees’ position as the force of the paddle knocked him forward.

It hurt like Hell, much worse than the spanking his university lecturer had given him. That time it had been the palm of the hand on his bottom. Even his dad’s clothes brush didn’t have the impact of this paddle.

Frank grimaced and gasped a little as each swat connected with his dark grey short trousers. His buttocks quivered from side to side but the pain wasn’t too bad at first, but it grew as each successive blow fell on top of a previous strike, until he was roasting. He wanted to jump up and rub his burning bottom, but the fear of what the consequences of such behaviour might have been were too terrible to contemplate.

Frank’s shirt clung to his back with sweat and the teen’s underpants also seemed to be dripping wet. His eyes were damp, but he had successfully kept his promise and stopped himself from crying.

Frank knew there would be only twelve swats to endure, so after number ten landed low, almost on his bare thighs, he hoped the worst was over. But, the Dean had other ideas. He slashed down the final two at maximum force on the same spot right on the curves across the centre of both cheeks. The boy howled and stood upright, his hands clutching at his raw bottom; the agony was like nothing he had felt before, not even that time as a kid when he fell off his bike and broke his arm.

Realising his error in standing up he immediately resumed his position, fearful of what additional punishment he might receive.

But, the Dean was no sadist. He had promised twelve swats and he had delivered the twelve. The punishment was over. There would be no more today, but woe betide the boy if he were ever caught smoking again.

“Stand up. It’s over.”

Frank did as instructed. His eyes were moist, but he was not yet crying: that would wait for later once he had been dismissed by the Dean. His bottom felt like he had sat in a fire.

“If you are back here again, it will be twelve on the underwear followed by twelve on the bare. Do you understand?”

Frank nodded; he would not be making a return visit. The short trousers and underpants had not been much protection this time, the agony that twenty-four swats with twelve on the bare would cause him was beyond his comprehension. He made that promise that all recently spanked boys make: he would never do it again – and that’s a promise.

“Ok you can go.” And with his backside throbbing Frank left the Dean of Dormitory Discipline to deal with the other four students on his list that morning.

When Mitch arrived at the Dean’s room he wasn’t surprised to find three other students already waiting; it didn’t take long to discover all four were to be spanked for the same offence: breaking curfew.

Mitch had read in a newspaper somewhere that since the new regime had begun, breaking curfew was the most common reason why students were punished. He knew that even as he stood awaiting punishment there could be dozens, hundreds possibly, of students up and down the country also queuing to have their bottoms blistered.

Mitch was a pragmatist, like many students at his university. The rule was you had to be in the dorm by eleven at night. If you were caught breaking curfew you were paddled. All the students knew that: but you could only get paddled if you were caught.

It was like a cat and mouse game between the students and the university authorities. Mitch had broken curfew the previous two times he went out and wasn’t caught. Last night he wasn’t so lucky, but next time, who knew? For him the lure of the town’s nightlife and the girls was too good to miss (especially the girls) and if it meant getting a sore backside from time to time that was a price he was prepared to pay.

The students had a simple plan to avoid curfew. One of the lads who wasn’t going out would leave a window in the common room unlocked so it would be easy for a late arrival to climb in. But, you had to avoid the Dean. He wasn’t a fool and he would patrol after curfew, but he had a life too, so he wasn’t always on duty to catch the latecomers. And, the later the boy was in coming back, the better his chances of going undetected: the Dean needed his sleep just like anyone else.

Last night, the Dean had trouble sleeping so was still on patrol at three in the morning just in time to catch Mitch in the act of climbing through the window. He was caught red-handed, there was no excuse, he had broken the rules and now fully expected to be red-arsed by the time the Dean had finished with him.

All four boys had similar experiences and although none were great supporters of the new corporal punishment law, they all accepted the consequences if they were caught breaking the rules.

They waited outside the Dean’s door. On the other side it was obvious someone was getting his whacking. The knowledge that it would soon be his turn did little to settle his nerves. For Mitch, this was a second offence and he knew it would be twelve swats pants up and twelve down: an entirely new experience for him.

Soon, the door opened, and a youngster Mitch did not recognise hobbled out. He was close to tears and could not look at the four boys as he passed on his way back to his room where, no doubt, he would bawl his eyes out.

A moment later, the door opened again and the Dean of Dormitory Discipline beckoned Mitch to enter the room.

The Dean was in his mid-forties and had been a university lecturer for twenty years or more. He still was: his disciplinary role was an extra duty on top of his teaching. He had never expected to be the beater of boys’ backsides, but when the new law came in the university advertised the job and he was asked to apply. No one quite knew what experience a Dean of Dormitory Discipline could be expected to have. Corporal punishment had been banned for thirty years at least, so no one would have practical experience in administering it. The best the university could hope for was for a Dean who would take the job seriously.

In his twenty years on the job, the Dean had seen many youngsters waste their opportunity at the university; they were often lazy or distracted and ended up failing courses altogether or getting poorer degrees than necessary. He genuinely believed that with clear rules supported by corporal punishment when necessary the current crop of undergraduates would excel in their studies. He took his job very seriously indeed.

The Dean had a little sermon prepared. He used it often with the curfew breakers. It was about the need to obey rules for their own safety. The town was dangerous at night. They had to be punished for their own good. Mitch nodded at what he thought were appropriate points. He knew nothing he said would change the inevitable outcome.

Then the Dean got on to the second offence. The previous punishment obviously had not worked. Now, a more serious spanking was needed. Mitch still made no reply. He knew what was going to have to happen and he just wished the Dean would get on with it.

When he was ready, the Dean walked to the small cupboard attached to the wall and explored inside to retrieve a small wooden paddle, with the business end no bigger than a paperback book.

Mitch was confused. He had expected one of the largest and heaviest paddles would be used to take his backside off.

But, the Dean had a plan: he always had a plan.

Silently, he took hold of a small plastic armless chair and placed it in the centre of the room. Now, Mitch thought he knew what was going to happen.

His suspicion was confirmed when the Dean sat down in the chair and spread his legs. Mitch had not expected this and did not like it one little bit. The Dean expected him to bend himself across the old man’s knees as if he were a ten-year-old boy for a spanking. Worse than that, he would have to raise his bared bottom for the gaze of the Dean who would see into his crack and everything.

The Dean knew boys hated being spanked, that was the point of the exercise. He reckoned these big strapping students would hate it even more if they were reduced to little boys. Just think what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across the knee. He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, no differently than when he was ten. He knows that his bottom will soon be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any naughty child when he is spanked.

The Dean sat in the upright chair, as Mitch stood, still hoping this was not going to happen. When the Dean was ready, he nodded at the student and almost in a trance he put his thumbs into the elasticated waist of his sweat pants and pulled them down off his hips, down, and down until they dropped of their own accord to his ankles. His white t-shirt, though, covered all but the lowest inch of his snug mauve and yellow pants.

Until recently, the Dean had very little experience spanking bottoms, but he was learning on the job. Experience had taught most spankers to favour the over-the-lap position in which the offending bottom can be elevated above the spanker’s right thigh or knee with both legs dangling down to the right. He had learnt that it was crucial that the bottom be as high and as far forward as possible, with maximum accessibility to the target area.

The paddle had already been placed close at hand, readily available for spanking without the Dean having to loosen his grip around Mitch’s waist.

So, the Dean gripped the teen by the arm and guided him over his knee. Once he was there he raised his shirt up his back then grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them tightly against his firm, flat, muscled backside.

The deafening splat with each paddle contact brought a gasp of pain from Mitch.

Mitch, now face down across the older man’s knees, grabbed the Dean’s ankle and held on tight, he gritted his teeth but he couldn’t stop himself from howling every now and then at a particularly hard and well placed swat. The Dean spanked into the taut cotton pants, spanking the bottom all the way from the lower back to below the crease on the upper thighs. The student struggled not to squirm or kick his legs, but the spanking went on and on and on.

Mitch lost count of the number of swats raining into his upturned bum, but the Dean had not. After twelve whacks he paused. Mitch was gasping and the pain was intense, but he still managed to keep his composure. Despite the agony, he thought he was taking this rather well.

The Dean paused only to slide the tight underpants down so they rested at the teenager’s thighs, then he renewed the onslaught, this time a little harder and into bare flesh.

Mitch howled and kicked like a child, begging the Dean to stop hurting him. The distressed boy was now writhing on his lap, vainly trying to protect his right buttock with a convulsively trembling hand.

Four more whacks followed with the Dean allowing a break between them for the sting of each to be fully appreciated. Mitch sobbed and yelped as each stroke landed on his bottom.

He accelerated and intensified the smacks from his paddle against the bare, upended behind. Mitch was bawling unashamedly, but the Dean seemed not to notice. A bawling boy was the expected result when it came to any bare-bottom spanking he administered.

Tears filled the student’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he squirmed and struggled to escape the relentless spanking being inflicted on him.

Then the Dean stopped and Mitch gulped for air like a goldfish out of water, thinking about how close to the edge of complete collapse he had come.

The Dean released his grip on the teen, who stumbled to his feet. His bottom was throbbing in protest at the indignities it had just received. His face was as red as the scorched flesh on his bottom. Quickly, Mitch tugged his underpants over his buttocks to hide his manhood from the man who had just roasted his naked backside.

Soon, the sweats were also in position and the Dean, who was a kindly man at heart, offered the boy a handful of tissues. When Mitch had regained some composure, he was dismissed with the words. “Send in the next boy.” The Dean’s work for the day was not yet over.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in September 2015

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com