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

Hotel Duty Manager

do not disturb sign

The duty manager stood at his office window scanning the hotel complex for trouble. It was three days since he had any action and he was getting very tense.

Then he saw them. Yes, this would do nicely.

Two teenaged boys, obviously English judging by their pale skins, were dancing on the balcony of their rooms, dressed only in their underpants. Drunk, of course, he thought. Unless they were high on drugs.

He couldn’t hear from a distance but he was pretty sure loud music would be coming from the room, disturbing other hotel guests.

What’s this? One of the boys wriggled his bottom provocatively at his friend. What the Hell? In what the boy supposed to be a seductive dance, he lowered his bright yellow briefs and thrust out his pert little, now bare, buttocks.

The duty manager went to his computer and after a few mouse clicks the information he wanted appeared on screen. Yes, the thought so: Peter Giles, aged eighteen, and Wayne Calderwood, aged nineteen. They were part of a package group from England: arrived yesterday for ten days.

Yes, they would be ideal, he told himself, as he picked up his keys and briefcase.

Five minutes later he was hammering on their hotel door.

“Duty manager here. Please open the door.”

A few seconds elapsed before the music was turned off and the door opened.

“Duty manager,” he showed his ID card and entered the room. The boys were still in their underpants and judging by the glazed look in their eyes, they had been drinking heavily. The empty beer bottles confirmed that.

Typical English louts, the duty manager thought, away from their parents for an orgy of sun, sand, booze and sex.

“I have had complaints about the noise from this room,” he rasped sternly. Drunk though they were, the boys remained silent and heard him out.

“And, I witnessed myself, your lewd behaviour on the balcony.”

Both boys blushed scarlet at the thought their little secret was out.

“Now, I have your names here; which one of you is Wayne?”

The boy in the yellow pants raised his hand.

“So, you must be Peter?” he told the other boy.

“Right, Peter, Wayne, I want you to pack your bags and leave the hotel.”

The boys had not expected this and they sobered up pretty quickly. There was nowhere they could go. They were on a tourist deal and their flight home didn’t leave for more than a week.

Peter piped up, “We are sorry, Sir. We promise not to do it again.”

“Sir”. The duty manager liked that. This was going to be easy.

Peter and Wayne slurred their explanations. They were on a package tour. There was no way they could fly back to England now. If they were thrown out of the hotel, they would be destitute.  They would have to sleep on the beach.

What would their friends say?

God! What would their fathers say? No what would their fathers DO, when they found out.

Wayne knew what his father would do. It took weeks for the bruises and scars to completely heal after dad heard he had been driving the family car without permission and well over the drink-drive limit.

It had been the whipping of his lifetime. But, the teenager was certain the thrashing he would get when his dad heard about this would be ten times worse, especially if dad had to buy him an air ticket to rescue him from Lanzarote.

The duty hotel manager could read the hooligans like a book.

“No, you must leave. We cannot have this kind of behaviour. We are a respectable hotel.”

That wasn’t strictly true, many things happened at the hotel that were far from respectable. That’s why so many youngsters stayed there.

Peter could feel his eyes welling up. He was such a cry baby.

The duty manager let them suffer a while.

“How old are you boys?”

Peter, “Eighteen, Sir.”

Wayne, “Nineteen, nearly twenty.” And, then he added, “Sir.”

“Doh! If I were your fathers I’d give you each a damn good spanking.”

The boys were literally speechless. Who was this man? How did he know so much about their fathers?

The duty manager eyed each boy carefully, “Do you know in this country we have the law of pater familias?”

The boys looked at each other blankly; they didn’t quite shrug their shoulders to express ignorance; but the duty manager could tell they were clueless.

Pater familias means the head of the household takes responsibility for all those who are aged less than twenty-one years. He acts in the place of their fathers. Do you understand?”

They didn’t, so he carried on.

“In law while you are staying at the hotel you are part of my household and I act in pater familias. I am your father.” And, then a little more sharply, “Do you understand that?”

Yes, they said, they understood that.

The duty manager had them where he wanted. They were so dumb. The products of a fine English education, he thought.

“If you solemnly promise that you will not disturb your neighbours and you will not behave in that disgusting fashion again, I am prepared to act in pater familias. Do you understand?”

Peter still did not, but a light bulb lit above Wayne’s head, “You’re going to spank us.”

The two boys exchanged glances but they said nothing.

“Yes, I am. If you swear you will behave. The alternative is for you both to leave.”

The boys could not look each other in the eyes. The duty manager took their silence as assent and went to his briefcase to extract a wooden paddle. As paddles went, it was not a vicious object; similar ones were still used in a few America schools to whack the backsides of misbehaving schoolchildren.

He held the paddle in one hand as if testing its weight. Then, pointing it towards the door of the room, he said, “Both of you stand there and put your hands on your head.”

Without question, they did as instructed. Raising their hands helped to define their bodies. The duty manager took a moment to admire the muscle tone of each boy; obviously they worked out at the gym a little, but they weren’t obsessive body builders. Each boy had very clear skin and had he taken the trouble to inspect the bathroom he would find an array of lotions that had made that possible.

The rooms in the hotel were small and the duty manager knew from experience the most effective way to swing a paddle was to have the boy over his knees. He sat on a bed and motioned Peter to step forward.

“Come here, Peter and bend over my knee.”

Silently, Peter walked forward. The duty manager could see tears forming already. If he’s like this now, what will be like once I’ve blistered his backside for him?

Peter stared vacantly at the legs of the duty manager. Was he really expected to bend over them to allow this commanding man to whip his arse?

“Come on Peter,” he held out his hand to take the teenager by the arm and gently glide him over his lap. The boy did not resist and allowed the masterful man to adjust him until his chest lay across the bed and his legs stretched out behind him so his toes just reached the carpet. His bottom, the highest part of his body, rested over the duty manager’s lap.

The duty manager rubbed his huge hand over Peter’s underpants to smooth any creases from the cotton. Peter’s breathing became irregular as he waited the first swat of the paddle.

Wallop! It hit into the left cheek. Peter gasped a little, but the pain was not too great. It tingled a little that was all.

The duty manager held the boy firmly around the waist. He could see Peter had taken too much sun today; the skin on his back would be burnt by tonight. The skin on his backside would also be sore by the time he was finished.

The spanking was sound, but not brutal. Peter was in tears by the fourth swat.

By the time the twelfth and last swat smacked home, Peter’s buttocks were raw, but the pain had already turned to stinging sensation and quickly it would become a warm, pleasant glow.

The spanking over, the duty manager sent Peter to stand by the door once more, hands on head. He faced the door, away from sight.

“Wayne, you know the procedure.”

Wayne was determined to be brave in front of Peter. In their relationship, he always was the leader; the strong one.

He put himself over the duty manager’s lap and wriggled around so his backside was in the prime spot to receive the paddle.

The duty manager was annoyed that Wayne did not seem especially anxious. Well, this should make him worry more. He took hold of the pants at the waist and pulled them down to his thighs.

“There, you seem to like showing off your bare bottom. Let’s all have a look.”

Wayne hadn’t expected this; but he knew he must try to take anything the duty manager could dish out; even bare butt.

And, he could. The duty manager whacked him twelve times with the paddle; Wayne writhed a little, but mostly stayed quiet. It hurt like hell and he was a little worried about the bruises. He wanted to show off his body on the beach, but his skimpy swimming trunks hardly covered a thing. What would the boys think when they saw he had been spanked?

His duty to his other guests completed, the duty manager packed up his paddle, and prepared to leave. Both boys were rubbing their hot buttocks to convince him it had been a job well done.

“I shall be keeping an eye on you to for the rest of the stay. I hope we don’t have to have a repeat of this afternoon,” he said, unconvincingly.

Back in his office with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the duty manager reached for the suntan lotion and unzipped his trousers.

The gullible English, he thought. There’s one born every minute.

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 Dope Smoker

z used cane holding (80)

As Mr Carter drove his car onto his driveway he had the shock of his life – a teenaged boy was breaking into his garden shed.

But, soon it would be the boy who was in shock: when Mr Carter revealed his little secret.

He got out of the car, intending to shout at the boy and chase him away when he recognised who it was. It was Adam, a kid who lived a couple of houses down the street. This was unexpected, this was a respectable district and one didn’t expect to have one’s shed broken into by neighbours.

By the time Mr Carter unlocked the gate, Adam was inside the shed. Mr Carter realised he could lock the door, trap the boy inside and then call the police. It was a simple plan to execute, but curiosity got the better of him and he decided to confront the boy. What on earth was he expecting to steal from his shed that was worth anything?

“Hey you boy! I know you’re in there, what do you want?” Mr Carter wasn’t scared, whatever happened next he was sure he wasn’t going to be assaulted by the neighbour’s kid.

There was no answer from within the shed, so he hammered on the door.

“Come out! I know you’re in there.” But, still no response.

Carefully, Mr Carter opened the door and peered inside. There inside was Adam, collapsed on the floor. Thinking he had passed out and might need urgent medical treatment, Mr Carter rushed to the teenager’s side. But, he needn’t have worried. One sniff of Adam’s body told him what was wrong: the boy was high as a kite on cannabis.

“Wake up! Wake up!” Mr Carter shook the boy, but couldn’t rouse him. Slap! Slap! Two hefty whacks across the boy’s face had him murmuring, “Whhhhhhhat’s up?” It took a few more shakes before Adam came round sufficiently to realise he was in a strange shed with his neighbour Mr Carter standing over him.

“Come on, you should go home, you can’t stay here.”

The boy looked at Mr Carter with real fear, bordering on terror. “No, no, please, not yet.”

“You can’t stay here, now move it, sonny,” Mr Carter was angry about being disturbed from his daily routine and doubly angry because it was some dope fiend who was causing that trouble.

“Please I can’t go home like this,” there was real pleading in the boy’s dark brown eyes and Mr Carter who had a soft spot for teenage boys fell for it.

“Come on, into the house, sober up before you go home.”

He helped Adam into the house and lay him down on his couch, where he promptly fell asleep. Mr Carter sat and watched the boy: he was dead to the world. He looked so beautiful and innocent, breathing rhythmically, his mouth slightly open.

Mr Carter sat, admiring his cute unexpected house guest and wondered what he should do now. The boy had got sky high on an illegal drug and broken into his shed. All right he probably didn’t intend to steal anything, but he had committed at least two serious crimes.

Then, there were his parents. Mr Carter knew them quite well. They had all lived in the street for at least ten years and Mr Carter had watched, from a respectable distance, Adam grow up. He knew that he had just left school and was presently working in a supermarket (filling shelves mostly) before going off to university. He seemed a good kid from a respectable family.

Should he say something to his mum and dad? Was it any of his business, anyway? For all he knew the kid was a dope fiend and was already on his way to a ruined life. Did his parents know of his drug habit?

What if this was a one-off, an experiment that had gone badly wrong. Should the boy get a criminal record and be made to suffer for the rest of his life for a youthful indiscretion?

Mr Carter had come to no useful conclusion by the time Adam came out of his stupor.

“So, Adam, do you want to tell me what’s been going on?”

Adam was intelligent and articulate and, it seemed to Mr Carter, truthful. Mr Carter had warmed to the boy. It turned out that Adam was a regular drug user, but only, for what he called “recreational purposes.” He had got high on some weed that was stronger than he thought and had gone on a bit of a “trip.” He had broken into the shed to sleep it off. He wouldn’t break into Mr Carter’s shed again, honest.

But, would he stop smoking cannabis? No, he couldn’t promise that, but he would be more careful in future.

That was the wrong answer. Mr Carter would have been prepared to forget the whole episode if Adam had promised to give up drugs. It would have meant he had learned a lesson and mended his ways.

“I’m not going to tell the police, but I am going to tell your parents. They need to know that you are taking drugs and that you are getting into trouble,” Mr Carter told Adam.

“No, please, don’t tell my parents,” the boy was so endearing when imploring.

“Please, Mr Carter, don’t do that, please, Mr Carter,” he was melting the man’s heart.

That was when Mr Carter had an idea. It was a strange plan he was concocting, but, if it worked, it would ensure that the boy was punished properly and it need not involve the police or Adam’s parents.

Upstairs in a cupboard in the spare bedroom were a half-dozen whippy rattan canes. He would thrash the boy with one of these and send him on his way.

What Adam didn’t know, and Mr Carter hoped nor did any of his other neighbours, was that Mr Carter was a very enthusiastic member of the corporal punishment scene. He regularly attended the Whacko! Club, where he and like-minded individuals punished one another with canes, slippers, straps and no end of everyday household implements.

Mr Carter himself was an expert wielder of the cane. Six-of-the-best delivered by him could leave a backside scarred and tender for a week – and that was if the trousers were up. Imagine what the buttocks would be like when he caned on the bare.

The Whacko! Club had one drawback, Mr Carter thought, nearly all its members were middle-aged or older men. They never had much chance to cane the bottoms of the younger generation, and, as Adam was a case in point, some of them could do with a damn good thrashing.

“Adam, you cannot go unpunished for this, you know that don’t you?” Mr Carter was working up to making the boy an offer he hoped he couldn’t refuse. Adam agreed this was the case and that gave Mr Carter the confidence to go through with his plan.

“Adam, we don’t need to involve the police or your parents in this.” Adam beamed and nearly fell on Mr Carter’s neck with gratitude.

“But there is a third option,” he took a deep breath, “I could cane you.”

Adam’s glorious eyes rolled. Had he heard correctly? Was he still tripping on the drug?

“Yes you heard correctly. It would be a short sharp shock that would help you to mend your ways. What do you say to that?”

In truth Adam was speechless, the proposition was preposterous: he was eighteen years old and had never been caned in his life, not even spanked.

Mr Carter moved on swiftly to fill the gap left by the teenager’s silence. “I intend to give you six-of-the-best; it will be intensely painful at first that is the point. The pain will go quite quickly but your bottom will be very tender for some hours after. But, it will not kill you.”

Mr Carter had decided not to tell Adam that his bottom would be striped with six red welts that might last several days, or even a week, depending on how sensitive his skin was.

“I hope you will learn a lesson from this and the next time you are tempted to take cannabis, you will remember this afternoon.”

Adam had recovered his speech by now, but not by much. “The c-c-c-cane?”

“It is entirely up to you,” Mr Carter said, desperately hoping the boy would allow him to thrash him. “Either we go to the police or to your parents or you take six-of-the-best. What’s it to be?”

And, that’s how Adam found himself alone in Mr Carter’s living room, waiting for him to return from upstairs with the cane that he was going to use to beat his backside raw.

Mr Carter sorted through his cane collection. He had a variety in different lengths and thicknesses. He was very familiar with the attributes of each cane, but nonetheless he picked up each one and swished it through the air to test its suppleness. He settled on a medium length cane with the thickness of a pencil. He knew it was a marvellously effective rod and would pack a punch. This would be Adam’s first-ever caning and, sadly, Mr Carter thought, probably his last, this cane would make it a memorable experience.

He took it downstairs half expecting to find Adam had done a runner. In fact, the boy had considered fleeing, but he reckoned there was no point. Mr Carter knew where he lived and if he didn’t allow him to cane him he would certainly call the police.

At the sight of the cane in Mr Carter’s hand, Adam’s face blanched, even with his summer sun tan.

He swished the cane menacingly. “So, Adam do you consent to being caned?” Mr Carter was beginning to feel a little guilty. Was he taking advantage of the boy? Was he still high on drugs and not able to make a rational choice? Was he breaking the law by beating the boy against his will?

“Well Adam?”

Mr Carter looked right into Adam’s puppy dog eyes. He could see the boy was thinking about it. How painful would it be? Surely, not very much, after all in his dad’s day (as he was always telling Adam) boys were caned at school all the time.

He took a deep breath, then, he nodded. He would take the caning.

“Bend over the back of the Chesterfield.”

But, despite having consented, Adam showed no intention of moving, so Mr Carter brought the cane down with a resounding Thwack!! across the leather back of the couch.

“I said bend over. Do it now, or I will give you extra strokes.”

Adam bent over for his first-ever caning.

“Head down, bottom high. Legs further apart boy.”

His jeans-covered arse made a terrific target, the outline of his tight briefs were clearly visible. Mr Carter liked the Chesterfield, it was just the right height and width to take any shape of “boy.”

Mr Carter was unsure how hard to make the first stroke. He had been caning men’s backsides for nearly twenty years, but mostly they were guys who were beaten once a month on average and they had tough hides. Adam was a caning virgin.

Oh well, Mr Carter thought, the point is to make him suffer, so he brought the cane down across the middle of Adam’s backside with some vigour. The teenager’s eyes widened and he puffed out a blast of air, but remained steady. Mr Carter could see a thin white line had appeared across the tight denim and he knew a red welt would have formed beneath Adam’s underpants.

Number two struck home a quarter of an inch below the first, Adam’s hips moved from side to side, but he kept down across the couch.

Number three hurt the most so far. Adam was in real agony and wanted to leap up and rub at his poor bottom to make the pain go away. But he didn’t. Some schoolboy instinct told him he must remain in position, he didn’t want extra strokes.

Number four landed across the welts made by the previous cuts and the boy screamed.

“Stay down boy,” Mr Carter instructed. He was enjoying beating the boy. Despite his lust, he genuinely wanted Adam to give up drugs. He hoped this thrashing would set him on the straight-and-narrow. He decided to make the final two strokes exemplary.

He lashed them down in quick succession, SWISH! SWISH! Adam did a little stomping dance on the spot, desperately hoping it would make the agony in his backside go away.

It was over, Adam lay across the Chesterfield, his arse felt like it had been hit by a red hot poker. It must have swollen to at least twice its normal size, he reckoned.

“Stand up, boy,” it was a curt command and Adam obeyed.

“Stand there.” Mr Carter pointed with his cane to a spot close to the dining room table.

Adam was desperately rubbing away at his bottom. Usually, Mr Carter would have ordered a punished boy to stop that immediately, but not this time: Adam looked so cute.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” Mr Carter could see Adam’s beautiful eyes were moist, he wasn’t crying, not yet at least, but Mr Carter knew that as soon as he was left alone in private, Adam would bawl his eyes out.

“If I hear you have been taking drugs again, you will be back over my Chesterfield again. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Mr Carter very much liked the way the boy said, “Sir.”

“Only next time, I’ll give you six strokes on your bare bottom. Do you understand, that, Adam?”

Another wonderful, “Yes, Sir.”

“You are dismissed, go home.”

Mr Carter poured himself a glass of whiskey. Wow! How he had enjoyed that, but the guilt was returning. Had he taken advantage of the boy? Was Adam’s judgment impaired by the cannabis? Would Mr Carter live to regret this moment?

It was three weeks later when the doorbell rang and Adam was at the door, giggling. “Sir, I have to tell you something ….”

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Headmasters, Like Elephant’s, Never Forget

z used drawing cane quelch (78)

Former pupil Kevin Smith returns to St Francis only to find there is painful unfinished business with the headmaster

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

 

This cannot really be happening; but here I am a twenty-one-year-old newspaper reporter standing in the headmaster’s oak-panelled study about to get six-of-the-best. The very best.

My name’s Kevin Smith and I work for the Brocklehurst Bugle, a weekly newspaper in a small town on the south coast of England. I’ve only just started as a cub reporter. I think I got the job because I was born and brought up in Brocklehurst and they wanted someone who knows the area. Also, I live with my mum and dad so that means the paper doesn’t have to pay me too much. Jobs in journalism are as hard to find as hens’ teeth so I was absolutely knocked-out when I got the job. I like it a lot and I hope in time I’ll be a really good journalist.

I used to be a pupil here at St Francis Independent Grammar and after I got my A-levels I went away to university. But, now I’m back. My editor knows I used to be a pupil here and that’s why he sent me on this job. The Grammar’s just had its annual speech day and I have to pick up the names of the pupils who got prizes and so on. Pretty boring actually, but you know local papers they love stuff like that.

I was really pleased to be asked by my editor to do this job because I thought it would give me a chance to go back to my old school and maybe show off a bit, about how important I’d become.

But, I had forgotten something very important. And, now my past was about to catch up with me.

“Well Smith,” Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster, looked at me stone-faced; his white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

“Before we talk about speech day, I think there’s some unfinished business we must deal with.”

“Unfinished business.” What did he mean?

And, then in a rush, I remembered. Blast! How could I have forgotten?

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, was seated behind his huge desk, topped in green leather. I knew from experience that when he stood up he was commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. And, he was strong as an ox, as could be testified every time he swiped down a cane across a boy’s backside.

I was standing in front of him, every inch, in his eyes, the naughty schoolboy deserving of just such a sound thrashing.

“A matter of the decomposed frog in the science laboratory, I believe.” Dr Henderson-Smith was rather pompous in the way he talked. He always had been. He still was. He strung out the word “la-bor-a-torrry” to give it full dramatic force.

Now, I was absolutely certain what he was talking about. But, he wasn’t going to leave it alone. I couldn’t look him in the face and cast my eyes down to examine the red patterned rug that I was standing on. I noticed my shoes could do with polishing.

The headmaster had centre stage and like the old ham actor he was, he was going to have his moment. He intoned the details of my crime, making sure every last detail was recorded for posterity.

In truth, there wasn’t much to tell. Three years ago when I was in the sixth-form here, I played a prank on my final day as a pupil. It was silly and very unpleasant for Mr Wilkinson, the science master, but that’s all it was, a schoolboy prank.

None of the boys much liked Mr Wilkinson. He was very strict and he thought nothing of peppering our backsides with the cane. There can’t have been many boys he taught who didn’t get a whacking from him at least once. You could get it for anything. With other science masters, pupils used to love to lark about during lessons; science does that to you, all those Bunsen Burners and test tubes. But, you never larked around with Mr Wilkinson – or, at least if you did it once, you never did it again. His cane made sure of that.

Mostly, though we got the stick for poor work. God help any boy who didn’t do his homework or did badly in a test. And, I don’t mean fail a test, if you did that, it meant death. But, Wilkinson would beat you if you got less than seventy out of a hundred in one of his classroom exercises and as you might imagine that meant a lot of boys showed him their backside over the years.

So, you can see why I thought it would be jolly good fun to play a trick on him. Here’s what I did. I took one of the frogs that we had for dissecting so we could explore the gizzards inside. You know the sort of thing; you would have done it yourself at school. So, I took one of these frogs, mashed it up a bit and put the dead body in Mr Wilkinson’s desk.

Then we all set off for our summer holidays and for me it was the last time I set foot in the school until today.

So now here I am standing in front of the headmaster listening to him recount my misdeeds. How, six weeks later the by now fully decomposed frog had been discovered in the laboratory. He told me about the stench, the bluebottles and the maggots. The headmaster seemed to be enjoying himself.

“So, Smith, what do you have to say for yourself?” I wanted to ask how he knew it was me, but I think I know the answer to that. As every schoolboy knows there’s no point in playing a trick on a master and keeping it to yourself, where’s the fun in that? So, that summer hols I was full of it. It wouldn’t have taken anyone at Brocklehurst long to find out who did it.

There was no denying it. I had done it and now I was found out.

I really didn’t have anything to say, so I just stared at the rug. I could see it was a little bit threadbare (generations of naughty boys shuffling their feet before being ordered to bend over so they could get a close up view of the pattern?).

The headmaster mistook my silence for denial. “Do-you-deny-you-did-this-thing?” he tried to get dramatic effect with every word.

“No sir,” I blurted out the response. I think this took him a bit by surprise, I think he was expecting denial and then a big argument.

“So-you-do-not-de-ny-you-per-pet-rate-ted-this villle-cer-ime?” he seemed a bit disappointed he wasn’t going to get to play another dramatic scene.

So, I coughed to it. Yes, it was me, I did it, I’m sorry, it seemed like a good idea at the time, now I know it wasn’t a good thing to do, I’m sorry.

Actually, I am sorry. I’m not in agonies of guilt about it, but I can see that the frog must have been a pretty disgusting mess by the time Wilkinson discovered it at the end of the summer vac. I also know I was just trying to show off in front of my friends.

There was silence for a moment as the headmaster seemed to weigh up his options about what he would do next.

And, unsurprisingly perhaps, he decided to do what a headmaster would do in these circumstances.

“You committed this crime while a boy at this school and you should be dealt with accordingly,” he was speaking more naturally now.

Without another word, he stood up from his plush leather chair and walked the three or four paces to a set of cupboards running the length of one wall. My eyes followed him. He pulled his academic gown to one side so he could delve into a trouser pocket to withdraw a small bunch of keys. Selecting one, he unlocked one of the cupboards.

I should have guessed. Inside were an array of punishment canes, the headmaster was blocking my sight, but I could see at least four crook-handled rattans. Dr Henderson-Smith put his hand in the cupboard and as he did so he moved his body a little and I could see it contained many, many more. He seemed to be looking for a particular stick. In no time he found it, withdrew, locked the cupboard, and turned to face me.

I wasn’t terribly surprised. If I had been found out while I was still a pupil here I would have been beaten. Maybe, Wilkinson would have done it himself, or maybe he’d have sent me to the head. Who can be sure? But, either way my bum would be on fire.

The head placed the cane on his leather topped desk and walked to the far side of the study. There was a wooden-backed chair leaning against the wall. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He picked it up and placed it on the rug in front of his desk, just as if he was putting it there for a visitor to sit on. But, I knew I wasn’t going to be sitting down, not on this chair, and probably not anywhere comfortably, for some hours to come.

“Stand by the chair,” it was a calm instruction, not barked as if an order. I walked over and as instructed stood facing the back of the chair. “Closer boy,” Of course, I was about three feet from the wooden back of the chair, there was no way I could bend over from there.

I shuffled a couple of paces forward. Dr Henderson-Smith stood to my right hand side, I turned my head slightly to see what he was doing and for the first time I saw close up the cane he was going to use to whip me. It wasn’t like any cane I’d seen before. I’d been caned a few times before, not just by Wilkinson, it was that kind of school, so I’d seen a few sticks in my time.

This one was different, it was amber in colour and no longer than any others and no thicker, if anything it might be a bit thinner than the one Wilkinson used on me the last time. Dr Henderson-Smith held the cane at the crooked-handle end with one hand and he ran the other over the length of the rod, bending it ever so slightly as he did so. Then he let go and swished the stick through the air. That’s when I realised this cane had more power than any I had suffered before. It might be thin, but it was whippy and it was going to pack one heck of a punch.

I looked down at the trousers I was wearing thankful that they were rather fashionable and expensive. They were made of a very dense material and would provide some protection, I was sure.

The headmaster pointed the stick at the lower half of my body. “Take down your trousers and bend over the chair.”

“What the hell, no way!” I didn’t say it out loud, of course. Up to this point I wasn’t too worried about getting the cane. I’d had it a few times, I knew it would hurt, but I also knew I could take it. I’d take my Six and that would be it.

But having seen the implement he intended to use on me and now being told it’s “trousers down,” I was far from sure.

What could I do? There was a simple answer: walk out. He had no right to thrash me, even though I had been a naughty boy while at school. That was in the past and he had no jurisdiction over me now. But, I knew, or thought I knew, that if I did that Henderson-Smith would tell my editor about it and I’d be in trouble at work.

I’ve only just started at the paper and I’m on what they call ‘probation’ for six months, that means if I don’t fit in I get sacked. I didn’t want that. Jobs in journalism were hard to come by and I might not be lucky enough to get another one. I really didn’t have any choice.

“Quickly boy, do as I say,” the headmaster swished that fierce rod once again.

This is it. Deep breath. Let’s get this over with. Although in my mind I had decided to take my punishment trousers down, I couldn’t get my body to agree. My hands fumbled at the buckle of the thick black leather belt I was wearing. I couldn’t quite get that prong thing out of the hole in the belt.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

There, I’ve managed it, the belt’s undone. Getting the trousers undone was just as bad. I’d never noticed before just how many buttons there are on trousers. My fumbling fingers got the two at the waistband undone.

I couldn’t see him, but I felt the eyes of the headmaster burning into the back of my head, Swish! He was practicing his strokes.

At last the waist was loose and I pulled at the fly. All undone. I let go of my trousers and the weight of the thick leather belt and the force of gravity sent them crashing to my ankles with no help from me. I felt a breeze as the thick cloth passed by my knees.

And, that I think is where you came in. I’m standing here in the headmaster’s study my trousers around my ankles in my blue-and-white striped Boxer shorts about to bend over the chair for Six.

The headmaster is still behind me. I can feel his cane tapping my behind. “Not exactly school uniform are they?” he says, almost absent-mindedly. I want to say “No they’re not and that’s because I am not one of your schoolboys, I’m a grown man.” But, I don’t. The tapping continues. Christ! Please don’t tell me to pull down my pants.

Before he can say anything else I bend over the chair. It’s quite an ordinary chair really. The back isn’t so high so I can go over it without my stomach touching it. I am putting my hands out in front of me clutching the far corners off the seat, one with each hand.

I am as ready as I am ever going to be. And, so is the headmaster.

Swipe! Jesus H. Christ! That hurt. It got me right in the centre of my bum. I can feel a welt rising and I’m pretty certain it runs across both cheeks from left to right.

Swipe! Crack. I can’t breathe. I’m clutching onto the chair for dear life. Gasping.

Swipe! No! Please no more! I’ve got three stripes, all on the fleshy part of the buttocks. I can feel where each one has landed; they’re running parallel about a quarter of an inch apart.

Swipe! Swipe! God in Heaven! I will not cry. I will not cry. These two are lower than the others. One has hit me on the crease where the fleshy bum connects with the thighs.

Swipe! Ouch! One cut lower than all the others. I can’t help it I yell out and my legs kick out behind me. I want to stand up and rub and rub at my bottom. I have gripped the chair so tightly that as I move to stand I find myself lifting the front two legs clean off the ground.

That’s it. Six-of-the best. It’s over. I’m waiting for permission to stand. I just want to get the Hell out of here. I want to run down the street clutching my bum and howling. Please let me up.

Swipe! Swipe! Yowll! No! No! No! Stop I cannot take any more. My whole body is writhing in pain. I can hear the headmaster speaking, it sounds as if he is miles away. He is instructing me to keep still.

Swipe! Swipe! Ouch! Arrrrh! I’m bleeding. I’m sure I can feel blood seeping under my Boxers. I move my lower torso from left to right and back again. Has the blood made my underwear stick to my bum?

Swipe! Yow-yow-yow!! The bastard! I can’t breathe, I’m truly gasping. He’s deliberately laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks so it landed across all the other fresh welts. I cannot, I cannot, take any more of this. There is a pause. I can feel the headmaster moving from my left hand side to my right. Oh, no, he isn’t?

Swipe! Yesss He Is!! He whipped the cane across my wounds from the other side. I can feel criss-cross cuts right the way across my buttocks, running from the top to the bottom and from left to right and back again. I am bleeding and I am beaten.

“Get up.” I stay still across the chair breathing heavily. I can stand but I cannot be sure that I will be able to walk. The throbbing pain is so severe; I have no words to describe it.

“Up boy.” I can feel his hand on my shoulder helping me to rise. He lets go of me as I stand unsteadily. Tears are flowing and sobs are coming in great big gulps. I watch as the headmaster returns to his cupboard, unlocks the door and replaces the cane that has just ripped me apart.

“Get dressed boy.” I hadn’t realised I was still standing trousers at ankles. I desperately want to touch both buttocks, to explore the extent of the damage, but I don’t want the headmaster to see.

Oh my God, how will I explain this to Cindy, my girlfriend? It will take weeks, no months, to heal.

I am bending down to grab the waist of my trousers. The pain sears as my buttocks stretch with the effort. I grab the trousers, pull them up and repeat the fumbling with buttons and belt.

I am not quite sure what will happen next.

“Tuck your shirt in boy,” the headmaster is smiling as he returns to his desk, sits down, opens a drawer and pulls out a sheaf of papers, which he is handing to me.

The speech day results.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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.

Other stories you might like

 

The Private Tutor: 1

A preacher teaches humility

Oh my papa

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Cutting College

cane (6)

Mr Braithwaite closed the car door and strode the fifty yards to his house. A neighbour had phoned him at work to tell him what was going on. He was furious. When he got hold of his son there would be hell to pay.

There was his confirmation, even before he had the front door open. He could see Arthur through the window of the sitting room. He was lolling around on the settee, drinking beer with another lad. Damn! Mr Braithwaite slammed the door behind him. The brat was cutting college again. Well: there was only one thing to do now. The boy couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.

He had been warned and more than once. Arthur was nineteen years old and on his second year at the community college. Well, he should have been on his second year. But he failed so many courses in year one, they made him retake the whole lot again.

Mr Braithwaite burst into the sitting room and the furious father let rip, “What did I say would happen if you cut classes again? What did I say?”

A startled Arthur could only mouth, “B..b..b..” before his father harangued him again.

“What did I say?” Mr Braithwaite shouted.

“Dad…” his son wailed, looking across the settee to his pal Tony. He had regained some power of speech but he did not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not in front of Tony.

“And who is this?” Mr Braithwaite waved his arm in the general direction of Tony, who blushed bright red at all the commotion.

Mr Braithwaite half knew the answer to his question. He had seen Tony once or twice at the off-licence where the boy sometimes worked. He remembered him because he thought the boy was a bit precious.

Arthur mumbled something about, “a friend from college”.

His father growled. He was determined to get an answer from his son. “What did I say would happen if you cut college again!” his voice had reached fever pitch.

Now, Arthur was equally as red in the face as his pal. He was sure he would die with the humiliation.

“But dad, please …” he implored.

“Doh!” his father answered his own question. “I said I would fetch that cane from the back of my wardrobe and I’d put it across your backside and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“But dad …” Arthur tried to reason with his dad, but the man had already left the room and was striding up the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

Arthur and Tony exchanged embarrassed stares, but no word was spoken.

Twenty seconds later, Mr Braithwaite returned to the room. His anger had not lessened. In his hand he clutched a whippy school-type cane.

Tony had never seen such a thing before. It was about three-feet-six long, as thick as a pencil and dark yellow in colour. It was curved at one end and the other end was frayed by much use. The boy’s mouth gaped as he watched Mr Braithwaite swish the rod through empty air fiercely. The cane was awesome. Where had it come from? Did they still make things like that? Maybe you could buy them on e-Bay.

Tony had so many questions, but the most important was: Did Mr Braithwaite really intend to beat Arthur with it?

“You,” Mr Braithwaite wobbled the cane in Tony’s face. “Get away from the settee,” he said before swishing the cane and pointing it at the opposite side of the room. “Go stand over there.”

Tony was transfixed by the sight of the rod slicing through the air. It looked a mightily effective cane. It would surely take any boy’s arse off.

Obediently, he moved from the couch, not daring to look at his pal, who was sweating profusely. Oh no! Arthur recoiled at the realisation; not only was dad going to cane him, he was going to do it in front of his best pal Tony.

“You,” he pointed the cane at his son. “Pick up the end of the settee and move it away from the wall.”

Arthur stared dolefully at his father. One more time he tried to make a protest. “Aww dad…” but the words would not come. His voice broke and desperately he tried to choke down a tear.

In seconds the settee was moved. Arthur stood mournfully. It needed no imagination to guess what would happen next. Please God! Arthur prayed silently, please don’t make me take down my trousers.

Twack!! Mr Braithwaite swiped the cane viciously across the back of the settee and a dust cloud rose.

“You,” he glared at his now ashen-faced son. “You, bend over that settee. You know how to do it.”

Tony stared down at the carpet, too embarrassed to witness his friend take two steps towards the settee and ease himself over.

“You,” Mr Braithwaite swished the cane at Tony, “Move over there – out of the way.”

Tony’s heart raced. Never before had he seen a cane in action and somehow he already knew the events of this day would stay with him forever.

He shuffled over to the bay window. Jesus. He realised anyone walking down the street could look in and see his nineteen-year-old pal stretched across the back of the couch his backside pointed upwards waiting for his dad to lash his backside raw with a whippy school cane.

The muscles in Arthur’s back flexed as he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. The boy spent a little too much time in the gym. His entire body was firm and across much of his torso even his muscles had muscles.

He had buttocks of steel that filled out the fabric of his dark blue polyester ‘leisure pants’. They had fallen slightly down the top of his buttocks, exposing his green-and-yellow checked boxer shorts, but his father quickly dealt with that. It took one tug at the elasticated waistband and the seat of the trousers clung to the lad’s buttocks so tightly each cheek and his deep crack were clearly defined. It made a wonderful target for Mr Braithwaite to lash down his fearsome cane.

Tony watched fascinated as Mr Braithwaite positioned himself a cane’s length to the left of Arthur and very gently tapped the frayed tip of the rattan across the very centre of his son’s bottom. It was then that Tony realised this wasn’t the first time this little scenario had played out in Arthur’s sitting room.

Satisfied that he had his aim, Mr Braithwaite slowly raised the cane away from the stretched seat until it was above the height of his own shoulder then with an almighty swipe he sent it crashing down into Arthur’s rock-hard bum.

They might have been ‘buns of steel’ but that did not stop the cane penetrating deep into the boy’s nerve ends. He let out a breathless ‘whoop!’ and bit deep down into the scatter cushion to muffle the yell he really wanted to make.

Slash two followed immediately. Arthur’s legs stamped up and down in a useless attempt to stop the pain roaring from his bum across his whole body. Saliva dripped from the cushion as he stuffed it further into his mouth. No way was he going to yell out. No matter how much this thrashing hurt, he would not let himself down in front of Tony. And he wouldn’t give his dad the satisfaction of knowing he had wounded him.

Cuts three and four ripped into the lower part of his cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. They were the most painful cuts yet. The lad’s once ashen face was now bright scarlet, as was his neck. If he had eyes in his backside he would see both cheeks were scarred by four deep welts, which were already a dark pink in colour and would very quickly turn to horrible purple gashes.

Cuts five and six were aimed higher on the top of the curves. Now the boy’s buttocks had a half dozen deep welts running almost parallel from the top to bottom of the cheeks. The pain was astonishing. Blood coursed through Arthur’s body at the speed of sound and he was sure it would soon come rushing out through his nose. His breathing came in short pants, hindered by the scatter cushion that had made such an effective job in stifling his yells. Without it the boy would have screamed like a banshee: so loud that neighbours would be opening their front doors and coming onto the street to see where the murder was.

His arse felt like it was twice its normal size. Sitting down comfortably would be a big problem for some time to come and the cuts emblazoned into his backside would be visible for many days: there could be no visits to the gym for some considerable time.

But, despite his agony, he thought, he had not disgraced himself. He had taken the thrashing rather well, considering.

But it was not over yet. Mr Braithwaite misunderstood the situation. So, his son was not yelling and screaming and as yet although the lad’s face was puce and he was sweating buckets, clearly the punishment had not been severe enough.

“Well,” he growled, “Since you don’t seem to be making too much of a fuss, these should come down.” He gripped the waistband of the boy’s trousers and tugged them over his buttocks and down his thighs until the rested bunched up at his knees. Arthur closed his eyes tight and bit even deeper into the cushion.

The checked boxer shorts rose up the boy’s buttocks. Tony winced at the sight of the dark red ridges gouged across his friend’s handsome bum. What agony his poor friend must be in. Why was Arthur’s father so cruel to inflict such punishment?

Mr Braithwaite smoothed down the thin cotton material of the underwear, sending a further shockwave through his son’s body. Arthur braced himself for round two of the onslaught. Nothing he had experienced so far that afternoon could prepare him for what was to follow.

Mr Braithwaite gripped the cane just below the curved handle. His hold was so tight his knuckles started to go white. Then in a coolly calculated manoeuvre he brought the cane swiping down six times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was like machinegun fire as the sound of rattan biting deeply into tight flesh echoed around the small sitting room.

Then it was over. Mr Braithwaite stepped back from the couch to admire his handiwork. He saw his son, still prostrate across the back of the settee. His feet were stomping and he wriggled his hips from side to side. He was gulping in great gasps of air; like a beached whale, trying to force his lungs to work. His head was banging up and down head-butting the back of the settee. His face and neck were scarlet and his eyes glazed like monster’s.

“All right. That’s over. You may stand.” Mr Braithwaite was calm, almost kind.

Gingerly Arthur hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed onto the settee as he nearly toppled to the floor trying to pull up his trousers. Within seconds he was fully dressed. The intense agony he felt as each successive swipe had bitten into him had lessened. His buttocks still throbbed like crazy, but he knew very soon even that pain would ease. Much of his buttocks would be too tender to touch for a long time yet, but the worst was now over.

He stood not daring to look at either his father or his pal Tony. Involuntarily, tears welled behind his eyes and washed down his face.

“You!” Mr Braithwaite had not finished his work. He turned to face Tony. “Your turn now.”

Tony pushed past Arthur, exited the room, opened the front door and hurried up the street outside.

“Bah! Coward! You know he’s a poofter!” Mr Braithwaite sneered as he tossed the cane onto the settee. “I’m going back to work and you should get off to college.”

Seconds later he left the house. Gingerly, Arthur hobbled into the passageway and tugged down his trousers to inspect his toasted buns in the mirror. The whole of both buttocks was a deep red, with purplish bruises forming at the edges. Across the centre of his cheeks were twelve distinct cuts; some had overlapped others and droplets of blood seeped where they crossed. He was wondering where his mum kept the Germolene when the doorbell rang. Through the opaque glass Arthur could see the distinct figure of his pal Tony.

He opened the door to find a very sheepish friend hopping from one foot to the other in embarrassment.

“I thought you’d be half way to Sheffield by now,” Arthur grinned as he let his pal into the house.

For some moments the boys stood, unsure who should speak first. Eventually, Tony piped up. “Does it hurt?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Arthur’s backside.

“No, it tickles,” the boy growled but then seeing the hurt in Tony’s deep brown eyes, he relented. “No, it’s not so bad now. I’ll live.”

The two boys looked each other in the eye in companionable silence.

“C’mon, we didn’t finish the beers,” Tony said as he led the way into the sitting room.

Arthur stood shuffling his feet and Tony sat in an armchair while they slurped on their cans. Then Tony spotted the cane on the settee; he seemed transfixed by it.

“Of course, it’s all your fault,” Arthur nodded at his pal.

“What is?”

“This,” Arthur said holding both his hands against his buttocks as if trying to rub away the pain. “It was you who said we should cut college.”

Tony blushed. He had; but both boys had readily agreed to go to Arthur’s house for a bit of fun. He couldn’t be blamed for what happened next.

Arthur stooped down and picked up the cane and thoughtfully flexed it between both hands. It was very supple and he easily made it bend into an arc. Tony’s eyes followed Arthur’s hand as the boy swished the cane through the air. Tony’s mouth suddenly dried and he gulped on his beer.

“I think you should get the same as me,” Arthur stared intently at his friend to measure his reaction. Then he wobbled the cane in front of Tony. The boy’s round brown eyes shone. Arthur knew that look in his friend. He had seen him give similar looks before.

“So,” he swished the cane once more. “What do you say? Should I cane you?”

Tony knew his face had flushed. His breathing was tight as well. His heart beat faster with excitement.

“Well lad, what do you say?” It was a commanding order.

Tony stared down at the garishly-patterned carpet beneath his feet. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.

“Speak up boy. Do you want me to thrash you?” Arthur rolled the word “thrash” around his tongue.

“Oh yes, Sir,” Tony whimpered. Arthur snorted. His friend could be such a wimp sometimes.

“Have you ever been caned before?”

Tony flushed, as if embarrassed by his answer, “Oh no, Sir.”

“Then this will be an awesome experience for you, won’t it?” Arthur realised he was loving this. It would be an awesome experience for them both.

“Shall we say six on the trousers and another six on the pants? Which pants are you wearing?”

“You know; those tight dark green ones.”

Arthur tapped the worn end of the cane against the wooden surface of the dining room table. “Bend over the table, boy.” He was enjoying himself. “I am going to thrash your bottom. Very. Hard. Indeed,” he tried to sound like an old-fashioned schoolmaster about to administer six-of-the-best to some misbehaving sixth-former.

Tony’s breathing quickened and his mind flooded with contradictory thoughts. He knew he wanted his pal Arthur to cane his backside; but he wasn’t sure he could take the pain that would result.

He shuffled forward to the table and bending at the waist he gipped its far edge.

“No, it’s better if you lay flat on your stomach,” Arthur clearly had more expertise in such matters than his pal.

Obediently, Tony repositioned himself so that his belly and chest rested on the table top and his legs stretched out behind him. This way his bottom was raised over the edge of the table at just the right angle for Arthur to lash the cane across the centre of both buttock cheeks.

Tony buried his face in his folded arms and waited for the intense pain to start.

Arthur swiped the cane through the air and observed his pal’s rounded buttocks clench and unclench and then clench again. Arthur had always thought Tony’s bum was his finest asset and having it presented to him in this way confirmed that view.

“Relax. Relax; it is better if you can relax your buttocks.” Arthur tapped the cane across the centre of his target.

It was easier said than done, but Tony gave it his best shot. But, if the mind was willing, the body was not. The buttocks continued to remain clenched.

“Are you ready?” Arthur’s kind question was met with a muffled groan from Tony’s mouth which was now buried deep in his arms.

Swish! Arthur’s first stroke caught his pal in the centre of the bum. Tony gasped, his head shot up and Arthur could see his pal’s beautiful brown eyes were shining.

“Keep still, now,” stoke number two landed a centimetre lower than the first. Despite his best efforts, Tony’ buttocks lifted off the table and he swung his hips from left to right in response to the pain now shooting down his legs.

Arthur smiled at his pal’s histrionics. He wasn’t caning the lad one-tenth as hard as his dad had beaten him. What a wimp.

The third stroke was met with a girlish shriek and “Ow, ow, ow.” Again, Tony sashayed his hips and his round bum danced across the table top.

“Keep still.” It was such an inviting target that Arthur wanted to land at least one cut with full force across the lad’s full bottom.

Swish! Thwack! Bingo: right on target Tony let out a loud yelp and jumped from the table, hopping from foot to foot and massaging his injured bum.

Arthur looked deep into his pal’s shining eyes. He couldn’t read his expression: was he loving or hating this caning.

Swish! Arthur swished the cane menacingly. “C’mon boy. Take this with some dignity can’t you. Get back over.”

Tony knew he had let himself down. His great pal Arthur had received one hell of a beating from his dad and he didn’t howl and holler. He buried his face in his arms once more and gritted his teeth.

Swipe! Swipe! Two strokes fell in quick succession. Tony’s bottom reprised its table-top dance but the boy stayed face down. The first six was over. Now, it was trousers-down time.

“Stand up. Take down your trousers.”

Tony was a ghostly white as he raised himself from the table. He smiled enigmatically, but made no effort to unbutton his trousers.

Arthur stared at his best pal. A bright smile creased his own face. Then he burst into laughter.

“Get them down,” he laughed. “At once you naughty little boy.”

“Okay, you asked for it,” Tony giggled and ripped down his trousers, revealing a massive erection straining to break free of his bottle-green briefs.

Arthur also had a tent pole in his pants. Without a word, he grabbed Tony’s pants and pulled them to his knees; then he took the lad’s cock into his own mouth.

“Wait, wait,” gasped Tony as he struggled out of his t-shirt and pulled his trousers and pants off his legs. In seconds Arthur had his own clothes on the floor and the two nineteen-year-olds entwined together fell on the carpet as naked as the day they were born.

And that was how Mr Braithwaite would have found them if earlier in the day he had arrived home five minutes later.

 

Other caning stories you might like.

My belligerent nephew

His Eldest Brother

The expenses fiddle

 

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Teen’s Tale

Was I a typical teenager? I think so. Certainly I was no different from my friends. We couldn’t stand adults; our parents, schoolmasters, the vicar at church. We didn’t think they had much to tell us.

We spent a lot of our time just hanging around in groups “having a laugh.” There was a particular bus stop just outside of town that was our meeting place. Buses didn’t run much after about seven o’clock so we weren’t usually disturbed. We’d buy (or sometimes steal) bottles of cheap cider and get rowdy drunk. If a passer-by complained, we’d soon chase them off: law-abiding citizens are easily cowed by drunken teenagers.

I had just turned eighteen and was close to leaving school. My dad had just been promoted at work and was now a factory manager, but it meant he had to move to a town about a hundred miles away. I didn’t want to go; I’d have to leave all my mates and I hated my parents so much I was pleased to see the back of them. But, I still had a few months left at school so I couldn’t get a job and find a place of my own to live.

My Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice stepped in and said I could stay with them until I left school. I hated them us much as my mum and dad, but I had no choice. She was such a stuck up cow who always thought she was a cut above the rest of us. Her father worked in an office, while my family were mostly factory workers. Uncle Alistair was a jobbing builder, so I don’t know she had much to crow about. They only lived a couple of streets away, so I wouldn’t lose my friends and my life wouldn’t change much: worse thing.

I went to the local grammar school, so that suited her social pretensions. I didn’t like school much, but had a knack for passing examinations without doing much work and my parents made me stay on into the sixth form. Another reason I hated them. I didn’t like being bossed around, and if you don’t like being bossed around, you should not be at grammar school.

There are so many useless, pointless, rules. I loathed wearing school uniform; you could see us coming from a mile off in our pink blazers. We even had to wear short trousers until the end of the third form: fourteen-year-old boys in short trousers, no other school in town humiliated their pupils like that. And, don’t get me started on the stupid school caps they forced us to wear.

I hated the “masters” as we had to call them. Most of them had been at the school since Adam was a lad and had never done a proper day’s work in their lives. They wouldn’t last an hour at dad’s factory. They thought they were proper Christian gentlemen and decided the boys at the school should be too. Nobody ever asked me. I skipped chapel once; I was eighteen and decided I could make my own mind up about God and Jesus and all that. There was Hell to pay.

I was found out of course, I knew I would be. We were always answering to roll calls, having our names taken, masters checking that we hadn’t absconded. It was a caning offence, but I reckoned that sixth-formers were immune from the stick, even at that school.

My headmaster soon corrected me on that idea. I didn’t get thrashed that time, but he told me if I skipped chapel again he would whop me himself. I had to write a two thousand word essay on why Jesus was important in my life. Two thousand words! Believe me I would have preferred the cane to that any day: trousers down; pants down, six strokes, twelve: anything but that essay.

One thing I did like about being in the sixth-form was the power it gave me over the younger boys. They were terrified of me. It was only a few years earlier that the headmaster had taken away the prefect’s power to spank the younger boys. I would have loved to parade around the school, gym plimsoll in hand, able to whack the arse of any boy I fancied.

In my time the best we could do was to hand out ‘punishment slips’ which the boy took to his form master. When the boy collected three slips he was beaten. It wasn’t the same as the plimsoll, but the boys knew I scattered slips like confetti so it came pretty close.

You didn’t have to be in the sixth to be a bully. One thing I loved to do when I was about fifteen or sixteen was to beat up on the sissies; those boys who were a little bit different from the rest of us. They were easy targets, scared of their own shadows most of them. They would never defend themselves. There was one lad (I forget his name now: Kevin? Keith? Karl?) who I loved to push around. You only had to touch him and he would fall to the ground and curl up into a little ball. He was crying before I ever got the first kick in. I took his lunch money most days – it helped to pay for the cider and my smokes.

With my parents out of the way I tried it on a lot with my aunt and uncle. I skimped on my homework, lazed around in my bedroom most of the day; that was when I wasn’t out with my friends hanging round the bus stop and haranguing old folk going about their business.

The final straw for pious Aunt Alice was that I stopped going to church. It’s not that I refused to go: there was no argument, no discussion even, I just stopped going and that for me was the end of the matter. Not so for my aunt and uncle. Aunt Alice in particular berated me for non-attendance and was rewarded by my most hostile indifference.

Maybe that was the point at which they decided I needed a damned good hiding, but if it was, they put it off for another week or so.

I finally found myself with a red backside one Wednesday in June. It was a school night and as had become my habit, I would return from school, get out of that horrid uniform and wait in my bedroom playing records at full volume until it was time to eat. My aunt often implored me to turn down the noise, but the more she showed her dislike, the more determined I became to annoy her.

Meal times were always strenuous times. Looking back on it I wonder if my aunt and uncle weren’t going through a difficult patch in their lives: surely, I thought at the time they must have been bored to tears with their pathetic mundane lives. They definitely found it difficult to communicate with one another and impossible to do so with me. I made no concessions to them: any question they asked me would be returned with a one word answer, or just a grunt.

When tea was over I would almost immediately disappear out the door, never telling them where I was going, who I would be with and what time I would be back.

Eventually, Aunt Alice imposed a curfew: I should be home by nine-thirty at the latest on school nights and ten at the weekend.

Yeah right, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud, there was no need to. I had no intention of sticking to her stupid new rules. To Hell with the both of them, what right did they have to order me about!

The very same night I rolled home drunk at past eleven o’clock. Nobody was up. Emboldened by this, two days later I missed curfew again.

At breakfast the morning after I skipped curfew for the third time, Uncle Alastair simply informed me that he had been keeping watch and if I was late ever again there would be “dire consequences.”

So, naturally, I took this as a challenge and even though it was a quiet night at the bus stop and most of my mates returned to their homes early, that night I walked the streets alone for another hour to make sure I wouldn’t get back home before eleven.

I could see the lights were on in the living room as I approached the house. As I turned the key in the lock I heard Uncle Alastair call.

“In here. Now!”

Sullenly, I slouched into the room, with the most disrespectful expression on my face that I could assemble. My uncle was alone, he looked very tired indeed, of course it was way past his bedtime. I can’t be sure if he had prepared a little speech for me, but if he had he muffed his lines. He was incoherent with anger but “brazen”, “audacious” “insolent”, “disrespectful” and “rude” were some of the words that faltered from his mouth.

He was impatient for me to respond but I said nothing. Who cared what he thought, the miserable little man.

His lecture at an end, Uncle Alistair commanded, “Go upstairs, have a wash, clean your teeth, put on your pyjamas and then come back down here, and be quick about it.”

Corporal punishment was imminent: I knew the tell-tale signs; I’d been spanked often enough at home by my father. I trudged upstairs and as I spread the Pepsodent on my toothbrush I wondered what uncle would do to me. My dad’s preferred method of torture was the razor strop. He would make me take down my trousers to my ankles and I would have to lay face down on the bed with two pillows under my stomach so my bum was high to meet the lash of the leather. I kept my hands well clear of the target while he raised the strop back over his own shoulder, took aim and whipped it down into the seat of my underpants. The pain was immense, but I soon learned not to wriggle about. If he missed my bum and hit the bare flesh at the back of my thighs I wouldn’t be able to stand for a week, let alone sit down.

“Hurry up!” It was uncle, as impatient as ever.

I rubbed a wet cloth across my face and hurried into the bedroom, quickly stripped off my clothes and stepped into my pyjamas. I was still tying up the drawstring of the bottoms as I descended the stairs.

Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice were waiting for me in the living room. I gave her my most disrespectful stare. So the snooty mare was going to witness my spanking was she?

I quickly glanced around the room but could see no obvious implement of punishment. Uncle was wearing no belt. Did my aunt have a hairbrush in her apron pocket? Was he going to smack me with his hand?

He gave me a short sermon about manners and disobedience and even managed to bring God into it. Then he hopped on one leg, bent down and removed one of his bedroom slippers.

It was all over in a flash. He grabbed me by the left arm, quickly untied the string on my pyjama trousers and they easily fell to my knees. Then, unceremoniously he took me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me over the back of the worn-out sofa. Then there was a frenzied attack with the slipper on my bare bottom.

I was indignant. The sod didn’t believe I would present myself for a spanking. Who did he think I was? Corporal punishment was common in those days and we boys had an unspoken code of conduct. We often misbehaved and sometimes we were very bad indeed. We got away with it a lot, but when we were caught we accepted it. So we would submissively sprawl across a knee, bend over a chair or sofa or spread ourselves across the dining room table. We would be on the painful receiving end of the slipper, belt, razor strop, hairbrush, hand or cane. And we would take it like troopers.

Next day we would report back to our mates; often displaying the cuts and bruises to our admiring friends. Then, like film critics, we would award ‘stars’ for the best performances. My father always got the top five stars for the deep welts on my poor bum.

Uncle Alistair loosened his grip on my neck and I struggled to my feet. My buttocks were a little sore, but it was nothing compared to my father’s beatings. I said nothing, but I hoped my look of utter contempt told its own story.

I didn’t wait to be dismissed; I pulled up my pyjamas and went to my room. My bum wasn’t very sore, but there was a tingle that soon disappeared. There would be no marks to show the next day, not that I would tell the others. We were eighteen years old now and I doubted if their dads were still spanking their bottoms at that age.

….

z used drawing cane master (18)

I was counting the days until I could leave school. The examinations were a little over a month away and then I would be free. I had all but given up on my studies. I still attended school (there were many opportunities to bully the younger boys), but took no interest and did as little homework as possible.

I was idling around the sixth-form common room one day, shortly after my run-in with Uncle Alistair, when the sixth-form form master approached.

“See me in my study immediately after school,” he was a man of few words and he swept away, the tail of his tattered schoolmaster’s gown flapping, before I could ask what it was all about.

It could have been about anything. If there was a rule to break, I was likely to break it. Even as I sat pondering, I knew I had in my pocket a packet of illicit cigarettes, paid for with money I had extorted from an eleven-year-old first-former who was desperate not to get his third punishment slip and the beating that would come with it.

I had more than an hour before I had to obey the summons. I cursed; I had no lessons at this time and was intending to bunk off early. Wearily, I picked up a football magazine that one of the other boys had left behind, sat down and flicked through the pages.

I didn’t want to delay this longer than was absolute necessary. Two minutes after the bell had stopped ringing for end of school my knock on the study door received a haughty response.

“Come!”

It wasn’t so much a schoolmaster’s study as a functioning office. There was a desk and a large padded chair behind, where the form master was seated. A couple of low back chairs were ranged in front of the desk for visitors and apart from that there was a sideboard affair consisting of some cupboards and bookshelves.

I stood facing the desk a foot or two back from the chairs. From this position I could see that they were the ideal height for a boy to bend across. Doubtless, they had been chosen with this purpose in mind.

I still did not know why I had been summoned by the form master. I didn’t have long to wait as he got straight to the point. “slacking”, he called it: a peculiarly old fashioned word for “lazy.” I had not been working hard enough in his classes. I had not submitted homework on time. My marks were falling. He didn’t ask me to respond, but if he had I could only agree with him. I despised my form master. He taught the sixth form poetry and he was lousy at it. I couldn’t understand the point of it (and to this day still can’t). He could not, as we say these days, “motivate” me.

He was a decaying old man and I scorned him for being so old. His liver spots spread from his neck to his face and it had been many years since he stood erect and his stooped shoulders reminded me of a bird. A shock of untidy white hair stuck out from beneath his mortar board and his moustache and beard were as white as his hair. He was the image of the schoolmaster in that film Goodbye, Mr Chips.

Old though he might be, my Mr Chips could still pack a punch with his right arm as I was about to find out.

Once he had read out my crime sheet, he moved straight to sentencing. I swear I heard his bones creak as he slowly raised himself from the chair and shuffled over to the sideboard. Only then did I notice that one of the cupboards was an unusual shape: tall and thin. He opened it and even though his body obscured my view, I could see inside were a number of crook-handled rattan canes. There must have been six or seven of them in varying thicknesses and lengths. I could hear the canes rattling around the cupboard as he searched for the implement he intended to use on me.

Within seconds he had extracted his preferred model and turned to face me. He flexed the cane between his left and his right hand as he gave a little lecture about the need for me to study hard. If I did not have the self-discipline to do this on my own, then he had the perfect remedy: he would impose discipline on me.

I couldn’t take my eyes of that cane. I still don’t know why I was so transfixed by it. I had seen canes before; indeed I had felt them across my backside a few times. This one was deep yellow in colour and was as thick as one of Mr Chips’ bony fingers. It must have been three feet (maybe more) long and flexed easily in the form-master’s hands.

He swished it through the air for effect, if he intended this to intimidate me, he failed. It just made me hate him all the more. This pathetic old man, who couldn’t teach for toffee, was going to beat me because I was not doing well in his class. I was eighteen years old and in a few weeks I would be away from that goddam school forever, but here I was expected to submit myself to Mr Chips so he could whop me with his cane.

I had a choice, of course. Even as I stood watching the cane swish through the air I knew I could refuse to take a beating. I could tell him to stuff it and swagger out of the study. I could do that, but it would be a direct defiance of his authority. The headmaster would be involved and I could rest assured that he wouldn’t be on my side. There would be no two-thousand-word essay (“Why the cane is not an effective punishment for slacking schoolboys”) as an alternative. All I could look forward to was expulsion from the school and the bastards probably wouldn’t let me take my exams.

I only had five more weeks left at this school and I didn’t want to throw away the past two years of misery now.

Mr Chips pointed with his cane to a spot in the middle of the room.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

I hesitated and he must have read the contempt I had for him in my face because he almost bellowed, “Bend over and touch your toes, this instance!”

I moved to the spot, took a deep breath and placing the palms of my hands on my knees I offered Mr Chips my backside.

Swish!

“Ouch!” I yelled and stood bolt upright, squeezing my hand under my armpit. Mr Chips had lashed his cane across my knuckles.

“When I say touch your toes boy, I mean touch your toes. Now, bend right down.”

I blew on my knuckles, parted my legs a little, bent at the waist, and stretched my fingers so that the tips rested against the toe caps of my shoes. A thick stripe across the back of my left hand was turning blue.

I was quite a fit lad at the time and was able to keep in place without much effort, but there was pressure against the back of my knees.

Looking through my parted legs I saw Mr Chips approach me and then I could feel him take hold of my pink blazer and push it up my back away from the target area. Then he rolled up my jumper a little, giving him an unobscured view of the grey trousers, now stretched across my buttocks. Still not satisfied, he took hold of my shirt and pulled it so that the tail came away from the waistband, then he did the same thing with my vest. I felt a cool breeze blow across the inch or so of now bare flesh at the base of my back.

Finally, he grabbed the waistband of my trousers and tugged so that any wrinkles were smoothed from the cloth.

Then he took my arse off.

He had the strength of an ox. With no interval between cuts, he lashed down six stingers across the very centre of my buttocks each one landing very close to, and sometimes right on top of, others already delivered.

It took my breath away. Quite literally. I was gasping and stifling yells at the same time. It was all over in about twenty seconds, six whacks crashing down one after the other. I buckled a little, but just about managed to stay in position. No matter the agony I was suffering, I was not going to stand up and give him the pleasure of inflicting extra strokes.

It was over. I stayed looking at my scuffed shoes awaiting his permission to stand. My backside was throbbing. It must have been red raw and I could feel welts had formed across my bum. I had been caned before, but this beating was not like anything I had endured previously. I so much wanted to run away to the bogs, sit down on a lavatory pan and pull the flush so the cold water could soothe my aching buttocks.

Eventually he said, “Stand up, boy. Stand there.” I rose and moved to a spot in front of the form-master’s desk. I could not look him in the eyes. I had despised him when I entered the study and I hated him even more now, but my contempt was mixed with the intense pain in my arse. I did not want him to know he had hurt me.

He wrote some words in the punishment book and handed it to me to sign.

Then to add to my fury, he said, “If you fail to get at least an Alpha-minus in the essay I set the form today, you will be back here for another thrashing. Is that clear?”

It was, and I was. No number of beatings could make me good at poetry.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com