The beach house

Randy breathed in the warm air, summer was on the way at last. It had been a cruel winter with record amounts of snow. But that was then. The top of the car was down, rock music blared from the radio. He was happy as a pig in shit.

He was almost there. Another fifteen minutes should do it. He should arrive by about five. That would give him plenty of time.

He passed the road sign. Belinda Beach Welcomes Carful Drivers. He always liked that joke. Carful. Car-full. A pun on careful. Belinda Beach was a holiday resort, it depended on cars full of visitors. He drove along the beach. The holiday season hadn’t quite begun but the beach was busy. Youngsters mostly. College kids. Drop-outs, those kind of people. The families and the rich folk wouldn’t be here until another week or two.

He pulled the car over. He was here now. The beach house. He switched the engine off and sat, admiring the house. How he wished he could afford such a place. Anyhow, he’d get some use of it over the next few days. He climbed out of the car. He had a job to do. He needed to get the house ready before his boss and his family moved in.

He found the key in his pocket and put it in the lock of the front door. No need. The door swung open with a slight nudge. Clearly, it had been forced. His heart jumped. Burglars. Could they still be inside? Were they armed? He peered inside. Nothing seemed to be disturbed. He decided to take the risk; cautiously he entered.

All seemed in order. There wasn’t much for a thief to take, unless they wanted the furniture. Slowly, Randy entered the living room. Nothing unusual. Same with the kitchen. Emboldened, he tried upstairs. He opened the door to the master bedroom. He peered inside. He didn’t need the skills of the homicide detectives he loved to watch on TV. The bed was unmade.  A bag lay nearby, a used shirt poked from its top. He tried the next room and the one beside that.  There was no doubt about it, he knew the story of The Three Bears. Somebody was staying in the house. Without permission.

Randy cursed to himself. This was a hassle he would rather not have. Who were these people? Beach bums, he answered his own question. Cursing some more he made his way downstairs. He needed to call the police. He didn’t even try the phone in the hall, he knew it wouldn’t be connected yet. He exited the house and made his way over to the beach in search of a payphone.

The police were courteous, but Randy reckoned they didn’t seem much interested. They’d send a patrol car over as soon as they could. Randy hopped from foot to foot with indignation, unsure what to do now. If he went back to the house, would the bums return? How would he deal with them? He didn’t want a fight. He found the packet of cigarettes in his pocket and lit one, inhaling deeply. It was a warm evening, he would wait on the beach until he saw a police car approach the house.

He didn’t wait long. Officers Brady and Colhoun were there within minutes. “We were close by,” the larger and older of the two replied when Randy expressed gratitude for a speedy turn out. They went inside and the officers quickly searched the premises. “Anything missing?” Officer Brady, who seemed to Randy to be in charge, asked.

“Not that I can see,” Randy felt a little foolish calling the police. “But,” he went on, “somebody, bodies, are clearly staying here. Isn’t that trespass or something?”

“Civil, not criminal, you need a lawyer. A court order,” Officer Brady stretched his arms. He had been sitting in the patrol car too long. “To be perfectly honest sir, we are a small town here, with a tiny police force, we couldn’t afford to call this in and put the perps. through the system.”

Randy exhaled, “You mean they should just get away with it?”

Officer Brady bristled. “I didn’t say that sir. We have quite a few of these cases at this time of year. Kids come to the beach with no place to stay and they break into houses that have been locked up for the winter. We have a way of dealing with them.”

Randy was intrigued and said so.

“Well,” Officer Brady warmed to his theme, “It’s all very unofficial, you understand.” Randy nodded eagerly, encouraging the cop to tell him more.

 

@

It was an hour later when Randy heard the beach house door open and voices. “Good evening gentlemen,” he smiled weakly at the two startled teens. “Shit,” one breathed almost inaudibly.

“Shit indeed,” Randy had decided he would enjoy this. He eyed them up and down. They were dressed in identical blue-and-white-hooped t-shirts and denims cut right down to the buttocks. “Fags,” Randy silently sneered. They were about nineteen years old, he reckoned, and judging by their suntans they had spent much of the last few weeks on the beach.

Both looked sheepish. Randy liked that. “So,” he had prepared a little speech, “the police say they have a plan for kids like you who break into houses.”

The phrase “their jaws dropped” is a cliché, but their jaws actually did dip as the teens realised their fate.

“Wait,” one of them said. Randy leaned forward so intimidatingly that the teen dried up and looked sulkily across at his companion.

“I am to call Officer Brady,” Randy rose to his feet. “I have to make a phone call,” he went towards the door. “Don’t bother to try to run away, the cops have taken your bags, they know who you are and where to find you. If you know what’s best for you …” he glared at them with contempt, then left the house.

@

Officer Brady knocked on the door and entered. “Well, well, well. Draper and Bartlett, we meet again.” Despite their tan both the teens blanched. “Hello Officer Brady,” the one who turned out to be Draper smiled weakly.

“So, I evict you from the Hollander’s place and you set up residence here.” Both boys stared at the wooden floor, unsure if they were expected to answer. Officer Brady snorted a laugh. “Well, you can’t say you don’t know what’s gonna happen now.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I guess you see it as an occupational hazard.”

“Oh man,” Bartlett’s eyes shone. Yes, he did know what was going to happen next and if it was half as bad as last time. He tried to get the thought out of his mind.

Randy looked on. He was in his late fifties and it was sometime since he had been a teenager. They didn’t hang out to beaches when he had been young. They left school and went to work. Got married. Raised families. The kids today …  He was roused from his thoughts. Officer Brady was saying something to him.

“I said do you want to deal with this or do you want me to do it?” Randy’s eyes flickered, it took a second for him to work out what the cop was asking. “You’d better do it. You know what to do. You’ve had the experience.”

Officer Brady grimaced. Yes, he knew what to do alright. “Right you two,” he barked like a sergeant-major, “stand over there!” He nodded to the corner of the room. Sorrowfully, Draper and Bartlett shuffled. No words were spoken. What was the point? The cops were in control.

Officer Brady waited until the boys were settled, then he dropped his bombshell. “Right, take your clothes off. All of them. Completely.” It provoked his desired reaction. Shock followed by humiliation. “But,” Draper was close to tears, “last time …”

Officer Brady cut him short. “Yes, last time it was an over-the-knee spanking. Well,” his voice was stern and authoritarian, “that didn’t teach you much of a lesson did it? Let’s do it properly this time shall we. Now strip off.”

The two nineteen year olds stood, rigid, unwilling or unable to move. They watched stone-faced as Officer Brady walked out the room and returned seconds later carrying a bar stool. This he placed in the centre of the room. He studied it for a moment and deciding it was not yet fit for purpose, he looked around the room, noticed a couch and took from it a dark blue cushion. This he placed on top of the stool. Perfect, he thought to himself, just the right height.

“I don’t see you undressing,” he barked. “Do you want me to …?” He left the sentence unfinished. Do what? He couldn’t forcibly strip them naked. Even if he had the strength to do so (which he doubted) how would it look if it became public? Police chiefs turned a blind eye to unofficial corporal punishment. Privately, they welcomed it because it made their own jobs much easier by reducing bureaucracy,  but forcibly stripping young men naked might be a bit too much.

Draper and Bartlett were too naïve to realise this. A moment’s contemplation would have been enough. People – even teens – have rights and wasn’t there something about “due process” in the Constitution.

Draper was first to move. He took the bottom hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head. Randy noticed the guy’s hairless torso was as tanned as his face and arms. Taking his lead, Bartlett took his shirt off too. Did Randy detect a slight rueful smile on Bartlett’s face as in synchrony the two teens popped the buttons on the top of their cut-offs and with a slight wriggle of the hips let them sail to their feet. Neither wore underwear. With a certain air of defiance they stepped out of their shorts and stood naked except for their socks.

Randy reckoned the teens were at too much at ease naked together. Definitely fags, he thought.

Officer Brady unbuckled his wide, heavy, black leather belt and with a flourish pulled it from his pants’ belt loops. He doubled it so the leather was now about eighteen inches long. He swished the belt through the air. “Bartlett, face the corner. Draper, bend over the stool.” He swiped the belt through the air in case there was any doubt what he meant.

z used belt stool naked sting

Draper had already decided he would take the whipping as stoically as he could. He wouldn’t give the bastard cop and this millionaire beach house owner the satisfaction of seeing him beg. He walked over to the stool, halted a foot or so from it, peered down at the dusty cushion, took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and fell forward. The stool was low enough that his could rest his palms against the wooden floor. He legs were straight and his stockinged feet slipped on the wooden floor.

He waited. He could not see the cop but he felt the heavy officer’s movements through the floor as he took up position someway behind him and to his left. A faint aroma of perspiration drifted over him. Draper’s heart pounded and already blood was rushing through his body. He closed his eyes anticipating the first lash. His buttocks clenched involuntarily as if trying to protect him from the onslaught that lay ahead.

“Relax, relax,” Officer Brady tapped the leather belt across the centre of the nineteen-year-old’s naked buttocks. He licked his lips, raised the belt and with as much power as he could make, whipped it down. To his great satisfaction a sunset stripe immediately appeared where the belt landed. Draper inhaled, held it and slowly exhaled, trying in vain to ease the agony he felt in his rear end.

Randy’s eyes flickered. He had never before seen a man naked, let along one who submitted himself buttocks high across a stool for a leathering from a much older guy. Not realising he was doing so, Randy edged himself a little closer to the action so that he got a better view of Draper’s naked haunches.

Smack! Smack! Two lashes flogged across the under-curve of Draper’s buttocks. His body shook. He couldn’t stop it. His head banged up and down in empty air and he gripped the legs of the stool tightly. Smack! Smack! Two more, higher this time. The whole of Draper’s naked ass was alight. A yelp, like that of a whipped puppy, escaped his lips. Bartlett, who until then had his nose pressed against the wall, whirled around startled by the noise. He blanched at the sight, not only in sympathy for his pal, but in sorrow in the knowledge that it was his turn next.

Another half dozen cracked down. Sweat soaked Draper’s long hair, the back of his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks. Another half dozen fell and then six more. Tears ran down his face and snot dribbled from his nose.

Watching on, Randy experienced a novel sensation. He had never met these two teens before this evening, but oh how much he wanted to see them suffer. The heavy leather had raised welts on Draper’s flesh, now Randy wanted them to bleed. On and on Officer Brady lashed his leather belt. Draper was spent, his yelps had transformed into a constant sobbing. He might have been spent, but he would not beg for the cop to stop. He was already utterly humiliated, he needed to keep a semblance of pride.

Officer Brady was not a fit man. His shirt was soaked with sweat and his heartbeat was off the scale. If he didn’t let off soon he might have a stroke. He whipped another half dozen across Draper’s already disfigured cheeks and let off. “Alright,” he wheezed, “you can get up. Go stand in the corner. Bartlett, get yourself here.”

Draper hauled himself off the stool and stood unsteady on his feet. His ass was on fire, it looked and felt like he had sat on a griddle. He stumbled towards the corner and slouched against the wall, still sobbing gently.

Dazed, Bartlett shuffled forward and stood apprehensively at the stool. Officer Brady examined the leather belt in his hands and snapped it so a resounding crack bounced around the room. He looked across at Randy. “Here,” he handed the belt over, “you do this one.”

Randy’s hands shook. Too eagerly, he reached and grabbed the belt. “Get over the stool. Head down, legs apart. As far as you can get them,” Randy barked the order. Bartlett submissively complied. The teen’s hairless crack was open and his hole winked open and shut. Randy patted the teen’s buttocks with the belt, carefully taking his aim.

Smack! The leather landed. Randy paused to admire his handiwork. Yea! He lined up another one, not yet conscious of the bulge in his own underwear that would soon reveal to the room just how much fun he was having.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Expelled from school

An early morning call

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The cricketer

z used drawing cricket BOP (2)

He was about twenty years old; I was old enough to be his father. I was the coach at the Brocklehurst Cricket Club Colts – a rather archaic name for the youth team. I was a big cheese at the club on account of my time playing for the county side. It made me a “gentleman”. And, in cricketing circles in those days that meant a lot.

Robbie Renaud was a dish (I know it sounds a bit girly to say that but even the boys could see that). He stood about five-feet-ten with broad shoulders and narrow waist. He played a lot of cricket (naturally) but was also something of a long-distance runner. All that fresh air and exercise gave him a delicious peaches and cream complexion, overlaid with a sun tan. He loved to smile, a cheeky impish grin. His brown eyes shone constantly and his chestnut hair flopped wildly around his forehead, but never encroached over his ears. He could have been the poster-boy for all those young cricketers schoolboys loved to read about in their storybooks.

It happened one day in late August. It had been an exceptionally hot summer and Robbie who was down from Cambridge for the long vacation spent much of his time at the club. The Colts had one of their most successful spells in their not-so long history. God was in his heaven and everything was as it should be. That’s when it happened.

Alderman, a rather useful spin bowler, had been the first to notice. Money had gone missing from his jacket pocket, which had been left hanging in the changing room. It was only coins and would probably not have been noticed, except that the few coppers represented Alderman’s bus fare home and it was all the cash he had brought with him. Of course, we said he must be mistaken, was he certain he hadn’t forgotten to put the money in his pocket when he left home? Nobody wanted to admit that there was a thief among us.

The following week more money went missing. It could not be ignored. Had a sneak thief managed to infiltrate the clubhouse while we were out in the nets? We would not countenance the possibility that one of our own was responsible. We were gentleman after all.

My cigarette lighter proved to be the final straw. It wasn’t an expensive piece, I often suspected it was made of old iron, it was so heavy and (frankly) ugly. But it was mine. It was also very conspicuous. Unlike the small amounts of cash that had been stolen this would not be so easy to dispose of.

I spoke with Porter, our head groundsman. Something had to be done. I suggested a search of the premises. Porter was a sergeant in the War and I a major. He knew his place and set about doing this without demurring.

We kept the boys out of the clubhouse and I let Porter get on with it. We sat in the late afternoon sun. Some of the boys were impatient. We had finished match practice and they wanted to be off. Many had mothers at home waiting to serve tea. One or two had dates with lady friends.

About ten minutes later Porter emerged ashen faced from the clubhouse. He took me to one side to be out of the hearing of the boys. He was as embarrassed as hell. “I don’t know what to say, Major,” he said. “Spit it out man, we haven’t got all day,” I responded.

His face sweated and his ears were pink with embarrassment. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and brought out a dark-grey object. “Is this your cigarette lighter, sir,” he asked demurely.  “Yes, by jove, it is,” I asserted, “Wherever did you find it?”

He blushed more deeply. “Well, sir,” I could see he could hardly bear to tell me, but he found fortitude and did so, “there’s the rub, it was in the jacket of Mr. Renaud.” His voice trailed off sorrowfully.

Aha! So our star player Robbie Renaud was a thief and caught red handed to boot.

“Whatever shall we do, sir?” Porter seemed genuinely concerned. There was, I told him only one thing for it, “We shall have to inform the police.”

“Oh, no sir, we couldn’t do that, think of the scandal.”

Maybe he had a point, but then again as scandals at youth sporting clubs went this was very small beer.

“I believe Master Renaud is doing well at the university,” Porter continued. I noticed but made no comment that our groundsman had demoted him from “mister” to “master” but I let the matter go. Porter continued, “He plans a career in the law, as a barrister.” I failed to see the point of all this and told Porter so.

“His career would be in ruins before it even started. He couldn’t have a criminal record,” the groundsman informed me. He had a point. So what did the fellow think we should do?

“Well in the Army days, as I’m sure you know Major,”  I noticed the emphasis he had placed on my military rank. “We had a way of dealing with matters in the barracks informally, if you know what I mean, sir.”

I truly did not and I was getting impatient, as I’m sure so were the boys in the cricket team.

“Oh spit it out man, what are you trying to say?” I let my exasperation show. Porter was miffed. He sniffed, “Well, Major if we had any trouble in the barracks; and we had one or two tea-leafs I have to admit, we would give them a damn good hiding.”

I supposed the puzzlement showed on my face because he immediately clarified. “A beating, Major. Generally we used a heavy leather belt. There in the barracks.” He could see I was intrigued by now. “Bare arsed, as it were,” he coughed politely perhaps realising it was not the “done thing” to swear in front of an officer.

“Do I understand Porter you are suggesting that we punish Renaud in such a way?” I asked although I knew damn well that’s what he was saying. He nodded gruffly.

“You had better ask Renaud to see me privately, I’ll be in the club secretary’s office. Porter scuttled off.

Moments later I luxuriated in a large soft leather chair and examined the young man standing awkwardly before me. I had said previously he had the body of a schoolboy sporting hero. That remained the case, but now also he had the demeanour of the schoolboy himself. Maybe sixteen years old, standing in the housemaster’s study for a wigging – and maybe much more beside. I told him the facts of the case. My missing  cigarette lighter had been found in his jacket pocket. He denied it. I was a little disappointed. He was an ex-St. Tom’s man, which was my old school too. If there was one thing we learned at St. Tom’s it was honour. We took our punishment, which at that very traditional English publish school meant a thrashing with a whippy ashplant cane.  I was ashamed of the young man in front of me.

“Well, you leave me no alternative,” I sneered at him, “I must inform the police.”

“Oh no sir, please, no.” I had elicited a reaction. “Not the police, sir.” I did not have to prompt him, but he gave the same explanation that Porter had. Any whiff of legal scandal would put paid to his dream of the Bar. His father, a distinguished “silk” himself would be devastated. He would discontinue paying his university fees and the boy would have to get a job. And, for someone of his class that could only mean exile to a colony. “Yes,” he conceded, he would take a beating.

Now, I don’t want to say too much about this, but it so happened that the club had a number of school canes tucked away in a cupboard in the club secretary’s office. As I had intimated many of us were ex-public school men.

“An exemplary lesson must be made,” the tone of my voice mimicked that of H. R. C. Masterton, my housemaster at St. Tom’s. I say so myself, but when I choose to show it I have a very impressive presence. Renaud blanched, genuinely fearful of my next sentence. “You will be caned in front of the entire team.”

I let that sink in. Renaud’s ears turned a cherry red and his eyes welled. I hauled myself from the huge leather chair and headed for a cupboard at the far end of the room, where as expected I found three school canes. Unlike those we suffered at St. Tom’s these were not made of local ashplant, but were of sturdy, but whippy rattan, imported from one of our colonies somewhere out East. I took hold of the thickest of the three and held it between my two hands and flexed it. It had the effect on Renaud I desired. He blanched a little and looked down at the floorboards beneath his feet. I am sure he was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy at St. Tom’s had not felt the rod applied with some force against his stretched buttocks? It was that kind of school. It built men.

I was anxious to get on with this and instructed Renaud to follow me across to the clubhouse. This he did following at my heels like an obedient dog. Porter, anticipating my decision had kept the cricket colts behind. I swiftly informed them of the happenings of the previous few minutes and informed them of my decision. A dozen or so faces around me brightened. An Englishman likes nothing more but to witness the discomfort of another. And, let me share with you, how much more enjoyable it is when one as distinguished as the best cricketer in the team is on the receiving end.

There was a long wooden table along the centre of the room, it would prove prefect for my needs. “I want you to climb onto the table,” I intoned, “and lay flat across it.” I had no intention of instructing him to “bend over” in the more traditional style. The room had a tall roof and I knew I should be able to swing the cane high and flog it down with maximum force into Renaud’s meaty buttocks without touching the ceiling.

What colour he still had drained from his face, but I had not yet finished. “But before you do that, I want you to lower your trousers. Right down to your shoes.” There was a gasp from some boys and I looked up to see Alderman beaming with delight. Oh, I wondered, what rivalry was it that existed between the two boys? It probably transcended cricket.

I had said earlier that Renaud had not impressed me with his honour. I take back that criticism now. He undid his wide black belt. It must have taken tremendous fortitude to do so, knowing that all his teammates would witness his humiliation. I (seemingly) absent-mindedly swished the cane through empty air, waiting for the twenty-year-old to prepare himself. With surprisingly steady fingers (I thought) he unbuttoned his cricket whites and opened them up affording myself and his fellow teammates a fine view of his cock and balls encased in soft white cotton. Grim-faced he put his thumbs inside the trouser waistband and with a mere flick of the wrist sent his whites south where they formed a puddle on top of his shoes.

Neither looking to left or right and thereby ignoring his audience, Renaud climbed on the table. It was old and rickety and it swayed as he moved to settle himself into position that I wondered if it might collapse under his weight. Instinctively he stretched his arms in front of his head and gripped the far end of the table; the muscles in his back rippled underneath his white cotton shirt. I took a moment to drink in the sight. This was some athlete prostrated before me. His muscular body was exposed to my gaze. I leaned forward and gently took hold of the tail of his shirt and folded it up his back away from the target area. I took a deep breath and reached for the waist of his underwear. He wore modern elasticated Y-fronts. I pulled the waist a little and the cotton clung more to the contours of his bottom, creating a kind of ravine at his crack.

I moved back away from the table and picked up the cane once more. Renaud’s bottom stiffened, it was preparing to receive the first tremendous swipe. “Relax,” I told him. He didn’t seem to hear. In any case his bum stayed tight as I tapped the cane gently across the very centre of both cheeks. The flesh was solid, it felt like I was rapping my rod against a solid rubber ball. I raised the cane to ceiling height and with a slight twist of my body I brought it crashing down. A perfect hit. We all saw a welt rise beneath the tight white cotton. Renaud’s body shuddered, his head shook and his fingertips gripped the table edge more tightly.

I counted to fifteen in my head and went again. The second stripe hit an inch or so below the first. The cricketer wriggled his hips and his legs flailed behind him, but I thought he kept remarkably quiet considering the searing pain he must be enduring. I counted again in my head, while also looking at my audience. A boy called Robinson had his hands folded in front of his crotch; his eyes were damper than Renaud’s.

The third hit a little above the first. He now had three deep cuts running parallel across his backside. A spot of blood was turning his crisp white underpants pink. His face was as scarlet as I presumed his bottom to be. He bit deeply into his lower lip, stifling the howls that surely his body demanded he make in response to the agony it endured.

I slashed number four low, into the crease where the bottom meets the back of the thighs. His body shuddered and his legs flew again. His head hammered up and down as it butted the top of the table. Still, almost total silence, save for the gulps he made as he desperately drew air into his lungs.

I am not a cruel man: ask the men under my command in the war if you disbelieve me, but I do believe in doing things thoroughly. That was why for my next stroke I repositioned my own body slightly and placed the cane in such a way that it lay along a diagonal from the bottom left cheek up to the top right. The crack of the cane elicited a satisfying yowl from Renaud. I had broken him at last. He emptied his lungs, as well he might since that swipe had landed across the previous four cuts reigniting the pain in all of them. A pink stain spread over the snugly-fitting underpants.

You have probably already guessed what I did next. You would have done the same in my place. I moved myself again and this time placed the whippy rattan along the opposite diagonal. By the time the lash struck the meaty backside Renaud had a perfect “X” emblazoned across his bottom.

There was, naturally, a repeat of the howling. Tears and snot flowed down his beautiful face. His hair was soaked with sweat and his shirt stuck to his muscular back. From my close vantage point I saw welts had risen under his Y-fronts. They would be with him for many days and serve as a continuing reminder of this severe thrashing.

Six-of-the-best is the standard tariff for such a beating and I was content at that. I handed the cane to Porter who unsure what he was expected to do with it simply tucked it under his arm.

“That is it. It is over,” I said quietly. The boys from the cricket club took this as their cue to leave and the room emptied.

“Take the cane back to the secretary’s room,” I instructed Porter and he too left. I was alone with Renaud. I watched in silence as he climbed off the table and onto his feet. He was sobbing, but seemed to be regaining some control. Without looking at me he tugged up his trousers, wincing as the heavy material made contact with his scorched backside. He did up his wide leather belt and waited. The silence lasted for some seconds, before I realised he was waiting for me to speak.

“You are dismissed,” I intoned rather pompously and Renaud shuffled from the room in intense discomfort. I waited a full minute and when it was clear nobody was going to return to the clubhouse, I loosened the front of my trousers to deal with my own discomfort, not once reproaching myself for planting the cigarette lighter in Renaud’s jacket pocket.

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Footballer’s judicial caning

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

The honourable thing

“You cannot say that we haven’t discussed this in the past.” Uncle Simon stood, legs slightly apart, rolling on the balls of his feet. Daniel breathed deeply. This wasn’t going to end well.

Uncle Simon clasped his hands behind his back, it made him seem more imposing somehow. Not that he needed much help. At six-feet-four he towered over his nephew. His shoulders were broad, his arms muscular. He was the eldest of his family, easily ten years older than Daniel’s father. He had always been the dominant brother. Daniel suspected his father was a little in fear of the man.

Uncle Simon’s fleshy face contorted, as if a sudden pungent aroma had seeped into the drawing room. His crisp blue eyes watered. He let the tip of his tongue explore the outer edge of his bottom lip. He too sucked in breath. Then he continued, “I made it perfectly clear when I allowed you to stay that there would be rules. Did I not?”

Daniel shifted uneasily. Yes, there had been rules. It was worse than being back at St. Tom’s. Do this. Don’t do that. Curfews. No drinking alcohol. No visiting cinemas or other places of lurid entertainment. The parlour was out of bounds. Bed by eleven o’clock. Rules, rules and more rules.

Daniel’s head bobbed, nodding assent. His had no words. What was he expected to say?

“You were late home last Thursday,” Uncle Simon spoke evenly, as if reading from a written charge sheet. He paused for effect, as if losing his place on the page for a moment. “I spoke to you about it at the time.” He waited some more. Daniel would know what Uncle Simon had said. He let the import of his words sink in. “And now,” his voice rose slightly, “and now you have repeated the offence.”

Daniel felt his face redden. Suddenly he was hot, but the room itself was decidedly cool – rather like Uncle Simon’s demeanour. He stared down at the parquet floor, ashamed.

“You will be going up to the varsity next week,” Uncle Simon ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair, feeling the stickiness of Brylcreem on them. “You will need to be self-disciplined. Study hard. Perform well. What chance will you have?”

The silence was intense. The tick-tock, tick-tock of the ancient grandfather clock pounded Daniel’s temples.

“Eh boy?” Uncle Simon’s patience like his flecked grey hair was thinning.

Daniel’s top teeth bit into his lower lip. He gurned his face. What was he supposed to say? Did Uncle Simon expect a speech of repentance? Was the eighteen-year-old meant to confess his sins? To invite retribution?

“Pah!” Uncle Simon waved his arms through the air, as if conducting an imaginary orchestra. “This will not do. This will not do,” he intoned. Perspiration began to dribble from his brow. Without thinking, he wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. “Well,” he sighed, as if he had been called upon to carry the woes of the entire world on his shoulders, “let’s get on with it.”

Daniel blinked hard. This was not entirely unexpected. He had broken the rules. He had been warned of his consequences. He had been caught a second time. Punishment was inevitable. He watched his uncle move across the room. It was large and cluttered with furniture. Daniel’s eyes flickered from the heavy leather Chesterfield coach, over to the dark oak dining table, taking in two overstuffed horsehair armchairs on the way. Any moment now he expected the instruction to present himself for punishment draped across one or other of these.

Uncle Simon made his way to a sideboard, hesitated for a second as if trying to remember an important detail. Then, he tugged at a drawer. It stuck hard and Uncle Simon cursed under his breath as he struggled to open it. At last, with a resounding clutter, he did so. He reached inside and ran his hand through the contents. It was the easiest thing to find what he sought.

Daniel watched puzzled. He supposed it would be a swishing. With a stout but whippy rattan cane – just like the ones he had endured at St. Tom’s. But, the drawer was too small to accommodate such a thing. What was Uncle up to? Daniel soon found out. With a look of distinct satisfaction on his lips, Uncle Simon gripped a large ebony hairbrush. He thought better of trying to close the drawer, so  turning on his heels he brandished it at his nephew.

It was about a foot long and the business end about four inches wide. The head was made of dark ebony wood. Instinctively, the tips of Daniel’s fingers brushed the seat of his trousers. Memories of encounters in the nursery startled him. Nanny had been very proficient with one of these.

Uncle Simon glowered at Daniel through narrowed eyes, then turned his attention to his surroundings. He came upon a large dining chair with ornate carvings tucked under the table. “There,” he said vaguely, “that will do.” Then, more forcefully, he said to his nephew. “Take hold of that chair and place it in the middle of the room.” He nodded to an open space near the horsehair armchairs.

Daniel’s heart raced. Could this really be happening? He could tell at a glance that the back of the chair was too high for him to bend himself across. Surely his uncle did not intend ….

His thoughts were interrupted. “Now, if you please. I wish to conclude this before your aunt comes down.” Startled into action, Daniel shuffled the five or six paces necessary to reach the chair. He paused and a little surprised by how damp the palms of his hands were, he rubbed them along the sides of his legs. The rough texture of his trousers scratched them. He reached for the chair and gripping it by the back he lumbered it across the room and plonked it into position. He stood; embarrassed, unsure what was now expected of him.

Uncle Simon watched with interest. His nephew cut a scrawny figure. He was hardly five-feet-seven-inches in his stockinged feet. Clearly, he was a stranger to the rugby field. No part of his body appeared muscular. The boy’s deathly-white complexion attested to time spent in study halls and libraries. His too-long fair hair flopped over his forehead and ears. From a distance and in a certain light he might be mistaken for a girl, Uncle Simon thought unkindly.

Uncle Simon held the brush in his right fist and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. It was time to take action. He strode to the chair and sat down. He spread his long legs wide and shifted his buttocks until he had attained the posture he desired, all the time conscious that his nephew’s stare burned into him.

Satisfied that he was now ready, Uncle Simon snapped his fingers and spoke. “Stand there. Take down your trousers.”

Simon’s already pale visage blanched even more. His uncle intended he should go over his knee for a spanking. “Dash it all,” he thought but did not speak aloud, “that’s not cricket. That’s not how a chap should be punished.” Daniel was an honourable chap. Like generations of boys at St. Tom’s he had grown up knowing the code of conduct. If a chap got found out in some misdeed, he took his punishment, fair and square. That was the right thing to do. A chap took his punishment like a man. But this …..? To take his trousers down and bend over his uncle’s knee? It was not manly. It was the punishment of a child; of the nursery.

“I have already scolded you for dallying,” Uncle Simon scowled. “Lower those trousers.”

Daniel was determined to do the honourable thing. Uncle Simon was his master, he should be obeyed. He wore no jacket nor waistcoat so was able to quickly put his thumbs under the straps of his braces and manoeuvre them over his shoulders. Thus released his trousers, which hung somewhat loosely at his waist, began to slip over his hips. His fingers trembled as he unbuttoned and helped them on their way south to puddle at his shoeless feet. He waited hands held loosely at his side for the inevitable next instruction.

It wasn’t long in coming. “Remove your underwear.”

This was really too much. The humiliation was great. Over uncle’s knee for a bare-bottomed spanking with a hairbrush. Dammit, why didn’t he just invite the housemaid and the footman in to witness the spectacle? At that moment the door behind rattled; Daniel alarmed twisted his head. It was only a gust of wind. His disgrace would go unwitnessed by the servants. He turned his attention once more to the matter in hand. His woollen drawers were held up by buttons and again his darned fingers were reluctant to obey his brain. At last they met with his trousers.

Daniel clasped his hands together as if in prayer and used them to obscure the sight of his private parts from his uncle. The old man professed not to notice, but although he intended to treat him as such, he could see his nephew decidedly was not a little boy.

Daniel stood head bowed. His uncle’s legs were parted some distance and the folds of his tweed trousers cloaked his own manhood. “Come, bend over my knee,” Uncle Simon spoke the words so hoarsely, Daniel did not hear. Only an accompanying hand gesture confirmed to the eighteen-year-old what was expected of him.

This was too much, Daniel thought. What couldn’t Uncle Simon beat him with a cane. He could do it on the naked buttocks if he believed Daniel’s offence warranted such treatment. Daniel would submit. But being spanked on the bared bottom nursery style was beyond the pale. He sucked in breath. He had no choice. He was an honourable boy, he must go through with this. He leaned forward and at first resting his hands on Uncle Simon’s left knee he eased himself down until his body rested across the platform the old man had created. Uncle was so tall and Daniel so small that he easily fitted into position. His fingers stretched out ahead of him and barely brushed against the wooden floor. Behind him his feet dangled in mid-air. His waist rested at an angle against Uncle Simon’s right knee, thereby offering his naked buttocks at a perfect angle to his uncle.

Despite his earlier entreaty for Daniel to get a move on, Uncle Simon was in no hurry. Carefully, he took hold of the boy’s shirttail and rolled it away from the target area up towards his shoulders. He noted his nephew’s hairless back and skinny waist. There was hardly any fat on the boy’s buttocks either. His nerve ends were entirely unprotected. This would indeed be an exceedingly painful experience for the boy.

Uncle Simon lay the heavy ebony-backed hairbrush on the small of Daniel’s back. He wasn’t yet quite ready to start. Instead, he cupped the palm of his right hand and slowly explored the contours of Daniel’s small, pert, buttock cheeks. He stared at the top near the spine and with deft circular motions explored the crest of the mounds, before squeezing the undercurves. Then for the sake of completeness he pat-pat-patted Daniel’s thighs. He could not be certain, but had he detected the slightest purring sound from his nephew as he performed this final task?

Now ready, he picked up the brush once more and gently stroked it over the highest point of Daniel’s right buttock cheek. His nephew’s body stiffened in anticipation of the hurt to come. Smack! The heavy wooden brush slammed with force. It met little resistance and a pink shape, replicating the hairbrush’s head immediately appeared. Daniel gasped but had little time to do more before a second and then a third swipe landed in almost exactly the same spot. He wriggled. It was an involuntary movement, a natural reaction from his body to the pain it felt.

Just as quickly three whacks bounced off his left buttock. The boy’s bum glowed a deep pink. Without hesitation Uncle Simon delivered another six on each globe. Each one of them landing with extreme force. Daniel’s legs flailed and his hips wriggled this way and that. Uncle Simon gripped the boy’s waist with his left arm and leaned his elbow against Daniel’s back. The boy was going nowhere; not until Uncle Simon decided he had been punished enough.

When he thought about it later, Daniel concluded the hairbrush spanking had hurt terrifically. He was no stranger to corporal punishment; St. Tom’s was that kind of school. But the masters there always used a whippy rattan cane. Six-of-the-best was the standard tariff and delivered with the expertise of the experienced schoolmaster it always hurt like billy-o whether trousers were up or down. The cane was thin and whippy and cut deep into the flesh, always causing intense pain and often leaving deep welts that reignited even hours later whenever a punished boy tried to sit. The pain from the hairbrush was altogether different. Its effects were terrible at the point of correction, but the pain rapidly faded into a throb before becoming merely an intense glow.

Uncle Simon was not a cruel man. He believed in discipline and he believed in punishment. He did not believe in torture. It was his intention to blister every square inch of his nephew’s buttocks and thighs, but no more. The pink marks quickly turned deeper red and after a few dozen spanks with the heavy brush a colour not unlike that of a good claret wine had been achieved. Daniel, now more securely pinned by his uncle’s elbow was unable to resist. Not that he wished to. The kicking and writhing had been purely physical reactions of his body of which he had no control. He had been determined to accept his just punishment. Rules had been stated, rules had been broken, the consequence of further rule-breaking made clear, the warning ignored and punishment meted out. Daniel offered no cause for complaint.

At last, satisfied with his own handiwork, Uncle Simon made one final circuit with his hairbrush before landing six stingers across the backs of Daniel’s thighs. It was over. He released his grip on his nephew and watched in awe as the eighteen-year-old staggered to his feet and performed the traditional “spanking dance”, hopping first from one foot and then to the other all the time rubbing the palms of his hands across the scorched flesh of his buttocks. Daniel seemed not to notice his cock and balls bouncing up and down inches from Uncle Simon’s glistening face.

Uncle Simon gave no instruction, but once the pain in his bum started to ease, Daniel bent down and began to pull up his drawers, offering his uncle a perfect view of his battered buttocks and his crack and hole. The underwear was in place in a trice and the trousers soon followed.

Uncle Simon heaved himself from his chair, a little surprised by his own breathlessness. He shook his nephew’s hand when the boy offered it. The way gentlemen do in such circumstances. Daniel with as much dignity as he could muster for an eighteen-year-old boy who had been across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking left the room.

Uncle Simon reached inside his trouser pocket and finding a handkerchief pulled it out to mop his soaking head. Sweat soaked the armpits of his shirt and he felt the cotton sticking also to his back. The front of his trousers were tight and he knew he ought to withdraw from the room quickly and return to his bedroom.

Upstairs, Daniel in his own room had lowered his trousers and underwear and was inspecting the results his uncle’s administrations. “Oh well,” he said out loud although he was entirely alone, “I jolly well deserved it. Nobody can say that Uncle Simon isn’t a just man.”

used drawing brush hold (9)

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The choice is yours

Jason and Chris stood awkwardly, hands behind backs, eyes downcast. The principal was mad – if not, he was a pretty good actor.

“Senior boys acting like juniors!” he raged. “Fighting in the corridors!”

Jason looked at his partner in crime through the corner of his eye. “Too true,” he thought. “And if that faggot looks at me that way again, I’ll cripple him.”

Principal Golightly rose from his chair. He was an elegant man in his fifties, with premature silver hair. He was lean and fit, which is more than could be said for most of the other teachers at Rosewood College. Golightly took care of himself.

He ambled across his office and stopped by the far wall where his eyes ran along the shelves as if he had never seen his books before. Jason hopped from one foot to the other. His legs were tiring. He wished Golightly would just get on with it. What would it be? Detention? An essay? Why it is wrong to settle our differences with violence – a title like that.

Golightly turned his attention away from his book collection and faced his two eighteen-year-old students. He paused, weighing his words carefully. “I shall give each of you a choice,” he said, his voice sonorous. He paused again as if for dramatic effect. He had both teens’ attention. “You may take swats or attend Saturday morning class.” He paused once more before reiterating, “The choice is yours.”

He delighted at their shocked expressions. Jason’s eyebrows arched. Principal Golightly could read the boy’s eyes. “What the fuck?” they said, but Jason himself remained silent. Chris was the first to speak. “It’s against the law.”

I am the law at Rosewood,” Golightly drawled. He delighted in the ensuing silence as Chris’s face blushed scarlet.

“Well Manor, what’s it to be?” the principal stared intently at Chris although he already knew the answer. What eighteen-year-old would submit himself to the principal’s paddle. Taking a spanking was beneath their dignity.

“Saturday detention,” Chris croaked, and then after a beat or two, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Principal Golightly’s nose wrinkled. He turned his attention to Jason. “And you Taylor?”

Jason mind whirled. Saturday morning detention. No way. He had discovered a neat little bar off Main Street where the university girls went. Jason was five-feet-ten, with broad shoulders and trim waist and the most beautiful ass. The girls loved him. He could have his pick. He would be screwing some girl on Friday night and be in no fit state for school on Saturday.

His choice was not as the principal put it. For him it was not detention or the paddle; it was sex or no sex. A no brainer. Jason took a deep breath and as confidently as he could, he said, “I’ll take the swats, Principal Golightly.”

The principal hoped he didn’t look as astonished as he felt. This hunky eighteen-year-old was prepared to offer up his ass to the wood. To let a much older man blister his buttocks. Well, well, well, he thought, and he had supposed that Chris Manor was the gay boy here.

Principal Golightly straightened his shoulders. “Very well,” he intoned imperiously. “Manor, you should leave us.” He needed no second telling and within seconds Chris was on the other side of the door. Realising he was quite alone in the corridor, he put his ear to the door.

Inside the office, Jason stared ahead, determined to go through his ordeal with some dignity. He had never been paddled before; nor to his best recollection had he been smacked. Not ever. Not even as a little kid.

Principal Golightly walked slowly across the office to a long, narrow table. He delved his hand into his pants pocket and found a key. Jason watched intently as the silver-haired man unlocked the drawer, opened it, reached in and withdrew a heavy wooden paddle. It was awesome; easily eighteen inches long and maybe four wide. And drilled into its blade were a dozen holes. Jason wouldn’t know this (not yet, at least) but the holes were there to combat wind resistance and make the paddle fly faster through the air. The holes would also add to the blisters that he would carry on his backside for some time to come.

Principal Golightly caressed the wood, rubbing the tips of his fingers along its entire length. It was as if he had never before seen it. Then, he tested its weight and seemingly satisfied, he held it in his right hand and smacked it firmly into the palm of his left. Jason watched transfixed. It needed little imagination to conclude this was a mightily effective punishment tool.

“Put that chair in the middle of the room,” Principal Golightly nodded to an ordinary office chair. The command startled Jason and at first he was unsure what had been said. “That chair. There.” The principal waved his paddle at an area of rug. Jason fully awake now took hold of a small straight-backed chair. It was very light and he had it in place in no time.

Principal Golightly caressed the paddle some more. Jason watched him closely. The old man seemed to be contemplating. Was he having a discussion inside his head? Perhaps he was, and very soon Jason discovered the outcome of the interior dialogue.

“Stand in front of the chair.” Jason did as he was told. Why was his heart thumping? The palms of his hands were sweating too. “Now take down your jeans and bend over.”

“What the …” Jason’s mouth formed the words but no sound passed his lips, but his astonished look spoke volumes.

“Take down your jeans,” Principal Golightly repeated, slowly. “They are far too thick,” he said. “Besides, you are a senior boy and you deserve a senior boy’s punishment,” he added, but immediately regretted it. He owed this boy no explanation. He was the principal of Rosewood College, one of the most prestigious educational establishments in the state. He answered to nobody.

Jason blinked hard. Jeans down. Stand there in his underwear. And he thought Chris was the faggot.

“I am waiting,” Principal Golightly, intoned. “Or do you wish to change your mind and take Saturday School,” he sneered. He knew Jason would not back down. His pride would be hurt.

The eighteen-year-old bit his bottom lip and with fingers that trembled more than he wished, he unbuckled his belt. He felt the principal’s glare burn into him as he fumbled with the metal buttons and allowed the front of his jeans to fall open. He paused, summoning the courage to go further.

“Take them down. Right down. To your feet,” Principal Golightly waved his paddle menacingly. Jason released his hold on his waistband and the jeans slithered over his thighs and down to his knees. The weight of his belt and the denim cloth took them further south where they puddled at his feet.

Principal Golightly’s eyes shone. The teen wore rather old-fashioned white cotton briefs that were tight enough to demonstrate to him that Jason was no boy. “Bend over. Take hold of the seat of the chair. Make sure you stick your bottom out.”

If looks could kill. A mixture of contempt and defiance clouded Jason’s usually bright, open face. He turned his back on his tormentor and in one swift, athletic movement he positioned himself to perfection to receive paddle swats.

Principal Golightly took the paddle in his right hand, stood close up to the boy and tap-tap-tapped it across the centre of Jason’s rear end. The term “buns of steel” might have been invented for the boy. His muscles stretched to present a solid target. There was no “give” anywhere. The principal lifted the heavy blade away from the cotton-covered ass and with all the strength he could muster – which was considerable – he returned it at speed pounding it into the proffered buttock cheeks. The crack!! echoed around the office. Its intensity startled Chris who stood on the other side of the door. He heard Jason’s startled yelp as the pain shot through his buttocks and raced up and down his legs. Chris touched his own backside with his fingertips in an involuntary act of solidarity. His dick stiffened.

Inside the office the paddle rose and fell once more. Now, every square inch of Jason’s buttocks seemed on fire. He wriggled his hips, stomped his legs and gripped the seat of the chair as if his very life depended upon it. Principal Golightly pressed his left palm firmly into the small of Jason’s back to steady the boy. He was going nowhere; not until the principal said so. Swat three landed lower and a red mark imitating the paddle blade instantly formed on the back of Jason’s thighs. His wailing was terrific. He did the wriggling and the stomping thing again and this time wrapped his left foot around his right ankle in a desperate bid to stop himself from jumping up to rub away at the terrifying agony. It felt like Principal Golightly had poured boiling water over him.

Tears flowed with the fourth swat. Jason despised himself, but the tears and the wailing were his body’s way of coping with the enormous battering it was getting. He gripped the chair’s seat and waved his head backward and forward, rather like horses do when they neigh. Snot dribbled from his nose, his heart raced and it felt like blood would burst through his ears.

“Last one,” Principal Golightly announced quietly. He pushed his left hand firmly into Jason’s back, steadying the teen. Then he raised the paddle high and with tremendous force landed it across the underside of the cheeks. Bam!! He let go his grip and Jason shot to his feet jumping up and down rubbing furiously at the seat of his briefs, tears soaked his cheeks. He hopped from foot to foot  in the traditional spanking dance. Principal Golightly pretended not to notice Jason’s dick has swollen and was staring against the front of his tight cotton underpants.

“Get dressed.”

Jason pulled his jeans up, wincing as the heavy denim rubbed against his scorched flesh. Soon he had the belt securely fastened.

“You should leave now,” Principal Golightly spoke softly, “And no more fighting.”

Jason hobbled to the door, opened it with shaking hands and exited. The corridor was empty, he did not know it but Chris was at that moment locked in a lavatory cubicle furiously jerking off. Jason ruefully rubbed at his rear end. The agony had gone, replaced by a dull ache. Within fifteen minutes or so that would become a tender throbbing. The pain would disappear quite quickly, but Jason did not yet know that it take until after the weekend for the bruises to disappear. Friday would be devoid of sex after all.

z used paddle white pants chair office

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Remembering the Tyrant Headmaster

z used drawing cane master sil (35)

I shuffled down the passageway that led to the headmaster’s study. I was in no hurry to suffer the consequences of my actions. I still had a few seconds more before I faced that humiliation.

I stopped outside the study door and pulled from the pocket of my school blazer a blue-and-white hooped cap. I plonked it on my head and then adjusted it so it would fit neatly over my short-back-and-sides haircut to the satisfaction of the headmaster. I was in enough trouble as it was: I did not want to annoy Dr. Fortescue any further.

The fancy headgear summed up the school to me. It was so full of itself: which schools still made their pupils wear caps? I was glad I was eighteen and in the sixth form; all the younger boys were forced to wear grey flannel short trousers.

I stared for a while at the heavy oak-panelled door. This school was out of date and so damn ancient; this was 1968, everything should be fresh and new. But not St. Septimius Independent Grammar School; here it was 1968 going on 1908. St. SIGS dated from sometime in the seventeen-hundreds. It was a traditional school: traditional teaching methods, traditional sports, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. It was a boys-only independent fee-paying grammar school with delusions that it was an elite public school.

My heart beat faster. I knew what would happen after I knocked and Dr. Fortescue bade me enter and I did not relish the prospect one little bit. How I hated St. SIGS; I wished I had never been awarded that damned scholarship last term. I nearly said “won” the scholarship, but believe me it was no prize.

Taking a deep breath, I raised his fist and with more confidence than I really felt, rapped on the door.

@

“Enter!”

I know who it is, it’s that guttersnipe Eldridge; the scholarship boy. What the hell are boys like him doing at my school?

I blame the new Socialist Government. They are forcing good schools like St. Septimius to take on boys from the working classes. They have no right to be here. No right at all. Eldridge. What does his father do? He’s a postman, and his mother cleans offices. A charwoman! What right have they to send their son here? They should know their place.

I do not care if he has the top marks for mathematics in the county examinations; he will never amount to anything. He does not have the breeding.

Now, I am supposed to deal with the brat. He is on a charge of insubordination: answering back to Mr. Jenkins, the maths master. Well I know how to deal with that, all right.

“Stand there boy! Right in front of my desk.”

@

I closed the door and took up position on the slightly worn rug, as instructed. I suppose usually a boy in this situation would stand eyes cast down at is feet, desperately trying not to catch the headmaster’s eye. Well, stuff that. I stood, hands clasped firmly behind my back and stared intently at him. What a seedy, ridiculous specimen, I thought. I could smell the peppermint on his breath from five paces. His face was ruddy and his nose glowed. Tiny veins were so raised through his skin I could have squeezed half a glass of whisky from them. Dr. Fortescue was pear-shaped and wore a waistcoat buttoned tightly across his portly stomach with a gold (or at least a gold-coloured) watch-chain tucked into a pocket. On his back he wore a rather tattered black academic gown.

The walls of the study were panelled in oak. A large open unlit fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there were also two straight-backed chairs leaning against one wall.

I stood silently waiting for the inevitable lecture to begin.

@

I shall wipe that faint but irritating smirk from his face: is he daring me to use the cane on him?

I should lecture him about his bad behaviour and the need for good manners and how he should obey the instructions of the masters at all times. It is the lecture he should receive and I shall give it soon, but my heart will not be in it.

Nothing I say or do will turn this son of a charwoman into a gentleman. He was born and raised as an oik and he will continue to be an oik long after he has left this school to take up a job in a factory somewhere.

Why is this Socialist Government so envious of our kind of people? We have produced the leaders and the administrators that built the biggest empire the world has ever known and we did not need scholarship boys to do it.

In a few moments, when my lecture is completed I shall thrash him and send him on his way. I enjoy the sense of power I hold over him, knowing that I could give him real pain if I so desire. Let the Socialists make of that what they will.

@

I stood impassively only half listening to the headmaster. There was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable. Dr. Fortescue was dubbed “The Tyrant Headmaster” by the boys with good justification. He had arrived at St. SIGS a decade or so previously. He had been brought in by the governors to shake the school up a bit. Examination results were slipping, discipline was slack. Something must be done. The good doctor only knew one method. Legend had it that from the very first day he publicly thrashed a sixth-former and he would never stop flogging until the day he died.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The headmaster jawed me. I had been “impertinent.” “Insolent.” “Impudent.”  All I had done was to question the maths master’s answer to a quadratic equation. The maths master was wrong, I was still sure of that, but at this school a boy never, ever, questioned a master: about anything.

The lecture over, I watched, heart now thumping, as the headmaster rose from his seat and waddled across the study to a tall, thin cupboard. I had never been in this study before, but instinctively I knew what it contained.

I stared slack-jawed into the open cabinet. The array of canes was impressive. There were nine assorted rods, some with the traditional crook-handle; most were made of rattan and two were dragon canes. Dr. Fortsecue leant into the cupboard obscuring my view, but I heard the rattle of six or seven thin canes rolling around inside the cupboard as his headmaster selected the one he would use to beat me.

Satisfied, Dr. Fortsecue closed the cupboard door and turned to face me. I had never seen such an awesome rod. It was the headmaster’s pride and joy: a Malacca cane. It was no bigger or thicker than any of the other canes in the cabinet; but it was denser. This one had notches every three inches or so along its length. I ran my tongue across my teeth, all saliva had drained from my mouth. I knew instinctively these notches would cut into my flesh and leave severe bruises and welts.

@

I have selected a rather stout, but still extremely whippy, Malacca cane. It is a bit thicker and longer than some in my collection and it will deliver a sting that this guttersnipe will feel for a long time to come. I swish the cane through the air a few times. There is no need to do this, but I hope it intimidates the boy somewhat. I want to give him time to contemplate his fate. In a few moments this fearsome rod will be whipping into your outstretched buttocks and the agony you will feel will be intense, is the message I hope to convey. And, you deserve it. Never again will you question the authority of your betters.

Eldridge’s eyes have widened. I do believe my intimidation is working.

“Take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the door!” I bark out the order, as if we were on a parade ground. I want this experience to be awesome, something that he will never forget.

Slowly, he fumbles with the buttons of the blue-and-white school blazer and pulls it off. He seems unconcerned about what is about to befall him. I suppose he is putting on a brave face, as they say.

“Cap off too boy!” It seems he may have forgotten he had it on his head.

Suitable disrobed, I order him to approach my desk. I thwack the cane down hard against it.

@

“Please lower your trousers and bend over the desk,” the headmaster says as if it is the most natural request in the world to make. An eighteen-year-old young man compelled to present himself in his underwear for a thrashing from a vile older man.

I doubt if I hid contempt I felt as the drunken old soak swished the cane through the air. I would not be intimidated, I told myself. I would submit to the beating, but only because I had no choice. If I refused I would be expelled from the school and that would give the odious snob Fortsecue far more satisfaction than he would get from simply beating me. Besides, by that age I had realised I wanted more from life than a dead-end job with low wages and no future. That was already the fate of my pals back at Gum Shoe Lane Secondary Modern. For poor kids like us the only escape was through sport or by becoming a pop star. I had no talents in those directions, but I had discovered a third way: education. I was good at exams and at St. SIGS I would ace them and go on to university.

I had never been caned before, but I had enough imagination to suppose it would hurt a very great deal indeed. That was the point, surely. But, the purpose of corporal punishment also was to ensure compliance in the beaten boy; to make certain he obeyed the rules in future. But the only rule I had broken was to question the wisdom of his maths master. Such is the injustice of corporal punishment.

I suppressed a sneer when Fortsecue ordered me to remove my blazer and cap. So, we are nearly there. Any moment now, I would be compelled to show my arse to my master. What a farce. I could not understand why my hands shook so much as I unbuttoned my blazer.

My heart raced, as I tugged at my belt buckle. Suddenly, it dawned on me that this was no picnic. However defiant I might feel inside, outwardly my body and more specifically my backside was about to be attacked by a man more than three times older than myself. Submissively, I must present myself to this man and allow him to whip my buttocks as hard as he wished; there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to prevent it.

With blood racing through my body and temples throbbing, I let my trousers slither down my thighs. I took a deep gulp and lowered myself over the desk.

I lay face down across the huge walnut desk topped with green leather, the scent of my own aftershave sticking in my throat. I strained my arms ahead of me and held tightly to the edge. My mid-grey trousers were at a puddle at my feet. The headmaster neatly pulled my shirt up to my shoulders. My white Y-front underpants felt tight across my stretched buttocks. A window was slightly open and a soft breeze wafted across my bare legs.

@

He presents his bottom perfectly for the thrashing he is about to receive, but I want to make him suffer a little more.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart!”

It is all entirely unnecessary, but I enjoy watching him wriggle over the desk trying to comply with my demands.

Eventually, I decide he has been kept waiting long enough.

I give my usual lecture to boys I am about to thrash. “You must keep perfectly still. Do not wriggle or try to get up before I give you instruction to. If you do so I will award extra strokes. I trust that is clear!”

“Yes, Sir!” he responds in a clear voice. Is he daring me to whip him as hard as I wish because he can take it?

But, now Eldridge is breathing heavily. This is more like it. It is common among boys about to be beaten; even the repeat offenders fear the cane.

I slide the cane from middle to top, from top to middle and from middle to the crease between buttocks and thighs. I can hear the increased tension in the yob’s breathing before I lift the cane away, raise it to shoulder level and swipe it down, landing it with awesome accuracy across the very centre of his buttocks.

I tap again, twice actually, draw back and give the next cut lower, but not harder. This time his body flinches a little, but his head does not move. He does groan and I appreciate his mettle. The ability to stay still and not move or cry out does not come naturally to most boys, certainly not ones new to the cane. How I hate him for his fortitude.

I will not allow this wretched boy to get the better of me. I lash him harder than I have ever thrashed a schoolboy. His bottom dances under my strokes, twice I have to remind him not to struggle. The threat of extra strokes makes him comply. After the full nine strokes have been given, he lays sobbing over the desk; he is a very sorry boy. Which is how it should be.

@

I shuddered when I felt for the first time in my life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of my pants to warn me the punishment was about to begin. I knew I had to go through with it now. I wanted it to start so that I could get it over and go home. My buttocks tensed and untensed in fear of the pain of the first stroke. It was a reflex action; I had no control over my body’s movement.

Swish! It propelled a lung-full of breath out of my mouth and left me gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying my lungs for a second time, and making me gasp in desperation. It rose up again for the third time and swooped lower down to thwack into the crease between buttocks and thighs. That was when I cried out. Humiliated. Literally beaten.

The next three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep into my arse, around about where the cheeks meet the thighs. I yelled fit to bring the oak-paneled walls of the study crashing down. I gripped the edge of the desk for dear life my fingernails biting so deep I thought they might break.

Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, I tried to catch my breath. My heartbeat was racing and phlegm rose in my throat. Any second now I feared I would spew a stream of vomit across the desk. Up and down the cane rose.

The intense agony which started in my buttocks travelled through my whole body. My face and neck were as scarlet as my backside. Tears flowed down my cheeks to meet the snot dribbling from my nose.

The pain mixed with my humiliation. This awful man had forced me to submit my backside to him and he had whipped it to shreds. And, he had enjoyed every moment of it.

When I was permitted to rise from the desk, how I hated Fortsecue and his school full of snobs. I despised his whisky-soaked face and tubby beer-gut. I loathed above all his poisonous attitude.

The intense pain quickly subsided to a deep throbbing and very soon was just a warm glow. The marks on my bum lasted a week or so and the cut he had landed on my thighs made it difficult for me to sit in comfort for some hours. I hated The Tyrant Headmaster with all the passion that only a teenager can muster.

I aced my exams and went onto university and had a successful career as a mathematics professor. I never gave Fortescue a second thought until one day when I was in my twenties my mother sent me a cutting from the local newspaper. The decomposing body of Dr. Fortescue had been found in the house where he lived alone. It had laid unnoticed for six weeks. A half-empty bottle of Teachers was nearby.

 

Other stories you might like

The Tyrant Headmaster

A glint in the eye

Don’t bully our mum

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The swim coach

z used otk trunks chair (2a)

 

“I am giving you ten minutes to swim three lengths of the pool, Clark. You are bone idle and well out of condition.” It was the varsity swim coach speaking. He had been on my case all evening. I wasn’t the worst of the swim team but I was the only one he picked on. There was a reason.

“If you don’t complete on time, I’m taking you back to my office and you’re going over my knee for a damn good spanking.” He blew his whistle and I dived into the pool.

The idea of hunky Coach Kevin spanking my bottom did not encourage me to work hard. On the contrary it turned my thoughts onto his beautiful body. He was maybe thirty-years-old. I was eighteen, a fresher at Brocklehurst University. Young and open to new experiences. Kevin was definitely one of those. The first time I saw him I had furtively gazed at his muscular legs and firm, meaty arse. I had never given a damn about swimming, but from that day on I was a changed boy.

Of course, ten minutes came and went and I was still some distance from my target. Kevin blew his whistle again.

“OK, don’t say you weren’t warned. Out you get.” Kevin spoke calmly, but I was certain he was as excited as me. I swam slowly to the pool steps and pulled myself out. I stood dripping wet. My towel was in the changing room some distance away. Puddles of water formed at my feet.

Kevin stood twenty metres away, his legs parted. I admired the bulge in the front of his trousers, silently regretting that he like me wasn’t wearing tight-fitting swimming trunks.

“Follow me,” Kevin looked over his shoulder towards where I was standing and slowly moved away from the poolside. I waited, mouth gaping, eyes transfixed on the two mounds inside his trousers as he sashayed towards his office. I shuddered. Partly with sexual excitement, but mainly because I was trying to shake some of the surplus water from my body, rather like a dog would do after emerging from a river.

The office was small and sparsely furnished. There was a desk, two small straight-backed chairs and a locker. I knew from wonderful experience that the locker contained Kevin’s day clothes. But that wasn’t what interested me. Along with his jacket and shirt he kept a small wooden spanking paddle. It wasn’t much bigger than a paperback book with a handle attached. It was maybe three or four millimetres thick. The last time he summoned me to the office he had me “assume the position” – that is bent over hands clutching shins. The bum juts out at a perfect angle to receive swats from the paddle. Woweeee! He damn near took my arse off. I shot my load before he finished.

Kevin led the way into the room. This time he didn’t go to the locker. Instead, without speaking a word, he took hold of one of the chair and put it in the middle of the room. I stood transfixed. I shivered, although the room was airless and quite hot. He had said he would take me over his knee and that was what he intended to do. Now, blood coursed through my veins. My cock was on the move. My fingers trembled. I clasped my hands behind my back, head bowed: the classic “naughty little boy” pose.

Kevin stood by the chair, but did not sit.

“Clark come to me.”

I obeyed and stood before my hunky dominant master. I am rather small and the top of my head hardly reached his chin. I could smell the sweetness of his breath. He must have eaten mints or fresheners.

He sat on the chair and spread his legs, his cock bulged beneath the folds of his jeans. His t-shirt rode up a little exposing his flat hairless stomach. Muscles in his arms rippled.

“Bend over my knee.”

Oh, those wondrous words. Submit yourself to me, you are mine. Mine to do with as I wish.

Trembling, I moved towards Kevin and carefully placed the palms of my hands on his right leg and then slowly I reached forward, lowering my body until I lay flat. I fit well across Kevin’s knee and in no time I manoeuvred myself so that my groin rested at an angle against his leg and my bum was raised perfectly. I stretched my arms ahead of me so that the tips of my fingers hovered above the dull grey floor tiles. My body was still wet and I could feel my damp trunks clinging to my pert bum.

Kevin smoothed my cotton trunks as best he could so that no creases were visible. I must have made a terrific sight for him.

My naked flesh pressed against Kevin’s muscular thighs, his denim jeans itched a little. Once before Kevin had worn shorts and the touch of my flesh against his flesh had been electrifying. He smelt of chlorine from the pool.

Kevin wrapped his arms around my body and took hold of my waist. It was hardly a grip. His intention was to steady me should I wriggle about too much and prevent me toppling to the floor. I felt his strong fingers softly caress my bum. He made gentle circular motions. His breathing deepened. So did mine. I shut my eyes tight. I was at his mercy. My todger swelled out to a painful extent, but I had no time to notice this before a rapid succession of spanks pounded into my bottom.

Holding me firmly with his left arm Kevin spanked unmercifully. His strength was immense. My bum hotted up immediately. With an experienced master even a hand spanking can be excruciatingly painful. I gulped in air, then sucked on my bottom lip. I closed my eyes. Kevin whacked on. Very soon the pain became less acute, succeeded by a constant throbbing.

I was very aware that I still had my swimming trunks on. Would Kevin decide my misbehaviour had been so calculated that I deserved a spanking on the bare? If so, usually a spanker could easily grip the elasticated waist of a boy’s trunks or pants and tug them down clear of the buttocks. That manoeuvre would be impossible. My cock was so hard (and if I might be boastful for a moment, so large) that Kevin would never be able to get the waistband of the trunks over it.

I struggled against Kevin’s constant pounding of my bum. I wriggled and writhed, my cock humping Kevin’s thigh. I was in a frenzy, almost delirious. None of the drugs I was experimenting with at university gave me so much pleasure.

At last Kevin stopped his pounding. I lay across his knees breathless. Contemptuously, he pushed me away and I fell to the floor. As I rose before Kevin the front of my trunks appeared to conceal a tentpole. My prick convulsed.

Kevin stared, licked his licks and broke into a broad grin. I hopped from one leg to the other while simultaneously rubbing the seat of my trunks: the typical spanking dance. Kevin continued to stare, flushing scarlet, at my raging cock for some moments.

Then, he rose from the chair. Only then was it clear to me that Kevin was as excited as me. He said nothing. Instead, he whipped down his jeans and stepped out of them. His shorts quickly followed. I gasped at the sight of his weapon, a deep-blue, thick vein ran the length of the missile, the tip glistened.

He leaned forward and with both hands he grabbed my ears and pulled my face forward. I gagged as  his cock penetrated my mouth.

 

Picture credit: straightladspankeddotcom

 

Other stories you might like

Watch out for her brothers!

Brocklehurst Crammer

The man across the hall

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Shoplifting

I am walking down Brocklehurst High Street heading for the Pound Shop. It is late summer and college restarts the next week and I need provisions like pens and paper and such like. Not, if I am going to be particularly honest about it, that I will put them to good use, since college for me is just an opportunity to skive. I know the Pound Shop is a good place to go; not because of the low cost of their products (the clue is in the store’s name) but it is an easy place to steal things from.

I am of the opinion that there is no reason to pay for something when you can take it for free and those of you who have visited such places as the Pound Shop know they have little use for security. I take what I want and simply hide it under my coat and make my leave.

I think this day is to be no exception. I choose Saturdays because; one) it is a little busier than during the week and two) because it is staffed by “Saturday workers” who by and large are school or college kids working for the day and they really couldn’t give  a shit. About anything.

I am making my selection and heading to the sunlight uplands of the high street with a bulge under my coat when I hear a voice call out. It says, “Hey you there, stop!” I am not sure the voice – it is a gruff sound and is clearly a man and quite possibly an older guy at that – is directed at me so I just keep on going. I have a date with my girlfriend and don’t want to be late on account that her folks are visiting her gran this day and the house will be empty for some hours and as they say, “While the cat’s away …”

“You! Stop!” The old geezer shouts again and now people are looking at him and looking at me and some Good Citizen steps in front of me to block my path.

“You!” I turn around and see I was right. It is a man who will never see fifty again, he has a paunch the size of a football hanging over the waist of his cheap dark-blue polyester trousers. His matching jacket is a little too tight and he sweats like he has just run a marathon rather than walking maybe a hundred feet from the shop doorway.

He is a security guard and doesn’t he know it. Now, I know and you probably know too, that security guards are the scum of the earth. They get minimum wage, an ill-fitting suit, and the chance to beat up on ordinary citizens just going about their not-so lawful business.

“Would you please come with me sir,” he says, sneering the word “sir” because he doesn’t really mean it. What he wants to say is, “I’ve got you bang to rights sunny boy, let’s see you grovel out of this one.”

I am standing in the middle of the crowded street seeing my afternoon shag-fest melting in the hot sun. I think about running. I have no practice at athletics preferring to spend my waking hours at Tablet screens or in dark pubs. And, sometimes I do both these things at the same time. I am not fit but I can outrun the old security guard.

I get ready to leg it when the security guard speaks. He says, “I know you. You’re …” and he gives up my name. Both bits. The first name and the last. “You live at The Avenue,” he is triumphant. “I know your dad.”

Now, how old fattyboy here, who is a nobody on minimum wage and who has always been and always will be, knows my dad, who just happens to be the director of administrative affairs at the local borough council and a big cheese in town to boot, escapes me. The news makes me hesitate my flight and next thing I feel his hand on my shoulder and I am going nowhere. Nowhere, that is except back into the shop.

There is a small room close to the self-service checkouts that he takes me to. It looks like a store room, but there is a cheap plastic-looking table, so it might be an office. There is only one window high up in the wall. It is frosted glass and hardly any daylight gets in. Fatty flicks a switch and a dim bulb sparks into action.

Well, Fatty goes on at me a bit, asks me what I’ve got under my jacket, have I got receipts, the whole nine yards. I cough to it. Who cares? The total value of my swag is four pounds. It’s hardly worth the trouble calling the police. It’ll cost the store more money to prosecute people than they ever lose in theft. I know it and I pretty sure Fatty boy here knows it too.

I let him have his moment in the spotlight and I’m just getting ready to say, “Call the cops or let me go,” like we were in some two-bit drama show on cable TV, when he goes to his pocket, pulls out a dirty handkerchief and very deliberately mops his brow with it. I watch mesmerised. He is really a fat, ugly reptile of a specimen. His brownish eyes are dull and I can see he is thinking about something. He is trying out the words he is about to say out loud. It is like he is rehearsing them like an actor in that TV drama I just told you about.

Then he says, “I think I’ll call your dad, let’s see what he has to say about it.” Then he smiles and I see half his teeth are missing and those that aren’t are dirty yellow and decayed. “What do you think about that?” he says. It isn’t really a question because he damn well knows what I think about that. I don’t think much of that at all.

I wonder how he knows of my dad. But if he really knows him at all, he knows that my dad will have my hide when he finds out. Now, “have my hide” is a saying that has been about for decades and means many different things to many different people. But when I say dad will “have my hide”, I don’t mean, “no more movies for a week or two, no more running round with the usual crew”, I mean “have my hide”, as in “take the skin off my rear end”.

Fatty grins at me and my stomach turns over. It turns over; one) because Fatty is repulsive to look at and more so when he shows the inside of his mouth, and two) because I do not want to be bent across the end of my bed at home with my trousers at my ankles and underpants at the knees while dad whips me with a thick, whippy, old-fashioned school-type cane he purchased off e-Bay especially for the purpose. I’ve been there and done that and no thank you I don’t need the t-shirt.

z used after pants down bed (2)

Fatty grins at me some more and I swear licks his lips, like he is sizing me up as his next meal. I am silent. What can I say? What exactly does he want?

I find out soon enough, when he wipes that snotty handkerchief over his face again and then he speaks. He says, “I have a little something in that drawer I keep for people like you,” and he nods towards a long drawer that is part of the table as if I can’t work out for myself what it is he is talking about.

He opens the drawer and pulls out a piece of wood. I know right away what it is because I see lots of these last time I’m at the TK Maxx store. It is a chopping block like you use in a kitchen for cutting carrots and onions and what-not. Fatty holds the board by the handle and waves it at me. I realise for the first time the chopping block has another use. The  chopping end is maybe thirty-five centimetres long and fifteen wide and not at all thick. He licks those lips again and his dull eyes blaze now.

He says nothing, but I know he wants to spank me with the chopping board. I am in a jam. I can leg it out of there and go screw my girlfriend, but I know when I get home later dad will be waiting, flexing his curved-handled cane between his hands. I can do that or I can stay and let Fatty do his worst. I know that Fatty’s worst will be nothing like dad’s. I see the blade of the chopping block could pack a punch and might blister my bum, but dad’s cane will rip me to shreds and I’ll still know about it in two weeks’ time.

Fatty might be a mind reader because he says to me, “It’s me or your dad,” and he leaves it at that. He doesn’t say more. He knows that I know what he means. Either way, I cop it. It’s him or dad. If you were in my shoes, what would you do?

“You need to take down those trousers and bend over the table,” Fatty says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to have a nineteen-year-old kid with his jeans down bending across a table in an airless room on a Saturday lunchtime while he wallops his backside with a chopping board.

“And, you need to do it now,” he goes on, like this is something he does all the time. He licks those frigging lips again.

I close my eyes and see the sight of my bare arse when I look at it in the mirror after dad finished with me last time. Think about Clapham Junction railway lines. I open the peepers again and reach down to my belt and tug it open. Soon my zipper is lowered and my jeans slip down my thigh. Fatty has the chopping board by the handle and is thumping it into the palm of his left hand. He is trying to frighten me, but I say to myself there is nothing to worry about because no way is that piece of wood going to hurt me one little bit when I think of what dad’s cane will do.

So, I shuffles forward like a penguin until I reach the table. I am a tall guy and the table is quite low. I stop and think. How do I do this? Do I spread my legs and lean forward and grab the table and stick my bum out? That would do it. Or do I lay on the table spread-eagled with my legs splayed.

“Put your elbows on the table and stick yer arse out,” Fatty is breathing heavily, but I get what he is trying to tell me. I do as he says. I don’t see myself, but I can tell this puts me in a mightily good position. My head is low, my back arched, my legs are apart and my bum juts out at a perfect angle for Fatty to spank me.

I still have my jacket on so Fatty takes hold of the tail end and moves it away from his target area. I wear mini briefs (my girl’s favourite) and they stick to my cheeks like a second skin. Still, Fatty rubs his hand over my arse to smooth the cotton down some more. It feels like the briefs have ridden up my crack.

The table top is old and stained. It has seen much action. I think I recognise one of the stains and it has no connection to tea, coffee or other beverage. I feel Fatty move away and then I feel a kiss of wood against my stretched flesh, then Wham! The wood cracks into my arse. I get a burning sensation where it lands. Bam! Another hits, just below the first blow. Crack! and so on.

My buttocks are sizzling. The sound of the crack of wood on cotton underwear bounces off the walls of the small room and I think surely the store staff on the other side of the door can hear what is going on. Any moment someone is coming in to see what the commotion is.  I bite my bottom lip as the pain intensifies. It starts at my bum and travels up and down my legs. I keep my position well. I can stand it. Fatty spanks the chopping board across every square centimetre of my bum and wallops the back of my thighs for good measure. I hear him wheezing. Soon it becomes full out coughing.

He stops spanking me before he suffers a stroke. I stand and without looking at the fat old man who is now struggling for breath, I pull up and fasten my jeans. My bum is sore, but even now it is turning from pain to only a throb. I rub the seat of my jeans and can’t find any trace of welts, but my bum will be bruised for sure.

I pick up my pens and writing paper and without a backward glance at Fatty I leave the office. I am walking down the High Street and I think, how do I explain the bruises to my girlfriend? I think I could just tell her the truth, but honestly who would believe me?

 

Other stories you might like

Bible College

Memories of Uncle Edgar

The shoplifter

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com