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.

Other stories you might like

Footballer’s judicial caning

Missed Opportunities

Lazy students home for the hols

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

The movie mogul

Ned, the mailroom manager, looked up from his paperwork. Henderson, the boss’s minion strode across the floor: a man on a mission. “Here comes trouble,” Ned sighed.

“Henderson!” his smile was painted. “What can I do for you today – and so early on a Monday morning.”

Henderson towered over Ned, fingering a foolscap manila folder. Only he knew it contained blank sheets of paper. He had to carry something. It gave him gravitas.

“You’ve got a new intern,” he pretended to consult his notes, “Robert Mitchum.” He grinned, suddenly realising. “That his real name?”

“He calls himself Robbie,” Ned shrugged his shoulders, What can you do?

“HW wants you to send him upstairs.”

Ned’s face flushed. “How did HW know about the new intern?” He didn’t say the words aloud, but his expression said enough.

“HW sees all the files. He selects the interns.”

“Yeah, I bet he does,” again best not said aloud. Ned was not naïve. HW was President of Global Pictures Inc. The top banana. The big cheese. Numero Uno. He could (and did) make a career with the stroke of a pen (and God only knew what else).

“The kid’s a film school grad. Wants a break in pictures …” he let his words trail off. This wasn’t Henderson’s first such mission; it wouldn’t be the last.

“Send him up at ten. Don’t be late. He’s on a tight schedule this morning.” Henderson turned on his heels. There was some Latino boy in the canteen he still had to track down.

 

@

 

Five to ten. Robbie didn’t want to be late. You didn’t keep Herb Winklestein waiting. Well maybe only once. You never got a second chance. He stood nervously in front of the personal assistant’s desk. Why was it surprised it was a guy. Weren’t PAs always women? Wasn’t that a thing? Secretary equals women’s work. Well, Robbie supposed, this was nineteen-seventy-six; the film business was blazing a trail for equality.

The young PA seemed nervous. “He’s got someone with him, do you want to sit and wait,” he nodded towards a row of seats. “He’ll see you when he’s …” he stopped himself in time and blushed. Robbie shuffled to the seating area, sat and looked back across at the PA. Did everyone in the movie business have film-star good looks, he wondered. The guy was maybe in his early twenties, with tanned flawless skin. Clearly, he worked out. His sober grey suit hugged his developed muscles. A wild shock of brown curly hair was expensively cut, emphasising his grey sparkling eyes. A phone rang, the PA reached out, picked it up and spoke. Robbie was mesmerised by the guy’s thick red lips and gleaming white teeth.

A door opened and a small, very thin Latino boy shuffled out. He seemed in some distress. His dark eyes glistened. Neither looking to left nor right he hurried past Robbie, the PA guy and another young man who was coming towards HW’s office. He passed the elevator, pushed upon the doors to the emergency exit with his shoulder and taking the stairs two at a time disappeared from view.

“Mr. Winklestein will see you now,” the PA guy called over to Robbie. “Just knock and go in,” he instructed, then paused. “Good luck,” he added in the softest of voices.

It was a large office, about the size of a football field probably. A gargantuan desk strewn with telephones was at the far end, but Mr. Winklestein was at the opposite side of the room slouched on a couch surrounded by three armless ‘easy’ chairs.

“Come,” Winklestein waved a hand, “Robbie, isn’t it? Come stand here. In front of me.”

Robbie had seen him in photographs and on the television of course, but Winklestein looked larger in real life. He was in his early forties (according to the official records at least) but looked a lot older in person. He was going to flab, a roll of fat drooped over his belt (fastened a little too tightly) and his smartly trimmed beard could not fully disguise the man’s jowls. Round, rimless slightly-tinted spectacles disguised the colour of his eyes.

Robbie moved forward, his mouth suddenly drained of saliva and his heart thumping. Awkwardly, he stood in front of the “world’s greatest movie mogul” (hadn’t Variety called him that last fall?).

“I’ve heard a lot about you, young man,” Winklestein spluttered. The tip of his tongue brushed over his top lip. He shifted his buttocks on the grey leather couch and crossed and uncrossed his legs. Robbie sucked in breath. This was unreal. The second week of his internship and here he was in front of the great man himself.

“I hear you come highly recommended. Top of your class in film school. A star in the making.” Winklestein disregarded Robbie’s puzzled frown. None of what the producer said was true. Yes, Robbie was a film school graduate, but from an unknown community college – and his GPA was nothing to write home about.

“So,” Winklestein continued. He had a prepared script. “I want you to work here in my office. Do your internship here.” His tongue did the licking thing again, this time taking in both top and bottom lips.

Robbie bit down on his own bottom lip. He was trying not to leer.

“What do you say?” Winklestein shuffled his buttocks and started to rise to his feet, appeared to think twice about it, and settled back against the hard leather.

Robbie’s mouth opened and closed. Like a goldfish. What could he say? There could be only one response. What’s the catch?

Winklestein shuffled again. This time he managed it all the way to his feet. He stood inches from Robbie; so close the twenty-two-year-old intern could smell the tobacco on his breath. “You really are a delightful thing,” Winklestein’s voice cracked a little. His left hand gently touched Robbie on the small of his back. The intern closed his eyes and suppressed a flinch. The film producer’s hand stroked his hip and then gently caressed Robbie’s left buttock. The smell of the tobacco increased with Winklestein’s wheezing.

“What you need young man,” Winklestein spoke clearly. “Is a darn good spanking.” He slapped the palm of his hand across Robbie’s left buttock. “And,” then he slapped the right cheek, “I think you know it.”

Robbie had taken an acting class or two at community college. That helped him in what happened next. “Yes, Sir,” he said with contrition. “I need to be punished.”

He suppressed his giggles. So the rumours about the old goat were true. Robbie had wondered why he had gotten an internship at the world’s top film company. He was glad he let his pal Arlo take those “artistic”  photographs to put in his portfolio.

“I’ve been a bad, bad boy,” Robbie prepared to launch into a soliloquy, listing his (supposed) misdeeds, but Winklestein cut him short.

“Darn right you have mister!” He walked a away across the office, wheezing, “and now you’ve got to pay for it.” Robbie watched as the film producer grabbed a straight-backed office chair and settled it clear of other furniture. Then, with hands shaking he undid his wide thick leather belt and tugged it free of his trousers. His belly flopped an inch downwards grateful to be released. Winklestein eased his flabby buttocks down on the hard seat. He looked across at Robbie, snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot close to his feet. “Stand there.”

Robbie moved slowly. Darn, he thought, if only he had been able to sneak Arlo into the office. His photographs would be dynamite.

“Take down your jeans.” It was a calm, clear instruction. Winklestein was in charge – and didn’t he know it. Just as calmly, Robbie dealt with the buckle of his belt and popped the button at his waistband. He felt Winklestein’s eyes burn into him as he tugged the metal zipper and let the jeans slip down his thighs to his knees.

A cheap novelist would at this point write that Winklestein’s eyes stood out on stalks. But that’s the only way to describe it. Robbie’s tight, ice-blue briefs clung to the contours of his body, hardly covering the young man’s dick and ball sack. Robbie couldn’t breathe. Blood rushed to his ears and his eyes welled. He was about to cry. No! That must not happen.

“Bend over my knee.”

Robbie knew he had to do this. His life was flipping burgers and crap rooming houses.  But that could be the past. Here was the future. Bending across Winklestein’s knee. Taking a spanking.

Robbie moved forward and rested his hands on Winklestein’s left leg, before slowly easing himself forward and placing both palms flat on the floor ahead of him. His legs were straight behind him with his pert butt bursting against tight cotton resting snugly over Winklestein’s right leg.

Robbie stared at the plush deep-pile carpet as Winklestein prepared. He used the young man’s back as a shelf and rested the belt, then with slow deliberate care he held the waist of the ice-blue briefs and pulled gently. First one cheek popped free, then the other. What delicious buttocks. Then Winklestein tugged the briefs down to the thighs. His heart skipped, the butt was as tanned as the rest of Robbie’s sexy body. Winklestein smacked his hand into the left cheek. “You been running around naked!” He slapped him some more; hard. Real stingers. Robbie gasped. The spanking was getting to him already and it hadn’t really begun.

Robbie couldn’t find his breath. His mouth was drying. Saliva collecting at his throat made him gag a little.

The intern was submissive. He knew Winklestein was in charge. This might be Robbie’s only chance in life. He raised his butt higher, making an easier target. It was as if he were saying, “I am a bad, bad boy and I deserve to have my bottom spanked. And you are the one to do it.”

Winklestein picked up the belt from off Robbie’s back. It was long; too long to whip Robbie at short distance, so he folded it into two pieces. He grasped it in his right hand and tapped it gently over the centre of the twenty-two-year-old’s buttocks; finding his spot, testing his aim.

Robbie sucked in air. His buttocks trembled, his hole winked and his crack opened and closed. It was a physical reflex, there was nothing he could do to control it. Winklestein licked his middle finger of his left hand and ran it down the hairless crack. He stopped at the hole. It was wide open and he inserted his finger gently. Robbie winced. Winklestein needed to cut his fingernails.

Winklestein raised his arm as high as it could go. Ready to lash the leather into the bared flesh. As hard as he possibly could. The buttocks clenched (another natural reflex) as Robbie had no control over them.

used drawing belt hold otk (7)

Whap. Crack! The sound of a thick leather belt connecting with bare flesh bounced around the huge office. Robbie’s eyes glared. Pain. It was not too bad. He kept still, butt still raised high. Waiting for number two.

It was not long coming. Winklestein usually spanked to a rhythm. He lashed the leather down, one whack every ten seconds. Again and again and again. In no time every part of Robbie’s sun-tanned buttocks were sunset red.

Then, Winklestein stopped. Robbie wheezed, gasping hard, he couldn’t suck air into his lungs. The pain grew in intensity. The bruises would be around for some time. No more hanging out at the beach.

But, Winklestein hadn’t done. He was only pausing; he gripped Robbie tightly at the waist, preparing an onslaught. Making sure the naughty little intern was going nowhere.

Swipe! The leather belt landed with maximum force with the power of a man possessed.

The belt rose and fell quickly. Robbie’s legs buckled at the knees. He kicked out. His body squirmed and his arms flailed. His ice-blue briefs were at his feet and they stopped him thrashing about too much, but then he kicked them clear and they landed yards away.

The relentless pounding continued. Robbie wanted to be brave, to be stoic and not cry out. That’s how a guy should take his spanking. Wasn’t it? Darn, but what if Winklestein preferred his victims to holler and scream. What if Robbie wasn’t doing it right. To go through all this and get it wrong. To miss out on the prize at the end. Robbie yelped; quietly at first and then a bit louder until he sounded like a little whipped puppy.

With no let up on the downward strokes, Winklestein grabbed Robbie’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back, so his hand was pinned at the shoulder blades. He was going nowhere until Winklestein said so. Winklestein could do what he wanted. Robbie was at his total mercy. He had no choice, he must lay there face down, bare butt high and take a severe spanking.

The belt went up and up and down. Up and down, at terrific speed. Robbie gasped in air, but couldn’t fill his lungs. He wheezed out breath and tried to counter the intense pain running from his ass and tingling every nerve in his body.

Tears flowed. Snot ran from his nose. Please God in heaven make sure I’m doing this right, he prayed.

Robbie felt a movement in Winklestein ’s body. The film mogul rested the belt on the small of the intern’s back. Winklestein had his own problems breathing. He was exhausted himself.

Robbie was still across his knees, but Winklestein had let go his grip. Robbie could stand up and flee if he wanted to. He didn’t. His breathing was easier now, he was calming down. He would stay in position until Winklestein said he could get up.

It was taking a long time. Robbie hoped he was not just resting and finding energy for another attack on his scorched buttocks. He had had enough; he couldn’t take any more.

Then Winklestein spoke. “Get up. Slowly.” Robbie put both hands on the floor ahead of him. Lifted his body from Winklestein’s knees and tried to stand, but stumbled forward, hitting the floor where he stayed a while, his whole body shaking.

Robbie lifted himself off the floor onto his knees. His forehead bounced against the carpet as he gasped and wheezed, trying to get the energy to stand. Winklestein sat in his chair, his feet inches from Robbie’s face. The intern leaned forward and puckered his lips, kissing Winklestein’s left foot and then his right.

Two minutes later, Robbie closed the office door behind him. Not many words had been spoken. Winklestein dismissed him curtly and sent him back to the mailroom. As Robbie slouched towards the elevator he heard the PA Guy speak to a young man in a business suit. “Mickey, Mr. Winklestein will see you now.”

Picture credit: Endart

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Quarterly performance review

z used drawing paddle hold (20)

Tyler rose from the desk in the workstation, lifted his jacket from the back of the chair and climbed into it. Nervously, he ran his tongue across his cracked bottom lip. He buttoned up and headed for the office door, pausing in front of a window to check himself out. Usually, he liked what he saw; a twenty-three-year-old man, lean and fit (in at least two senses of the word). He straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He checked his watch, he mustn’t dawdle, he daren’t be late. Not for his quarterly performance review.

Mr. Ferguson was an elderly man, at least in his fifties, Tyler reckoned. His hair was thinning and he tried (with woeful lack of success) to disguise this evident fact by combing what few strands he had left over his bald pate. His shaggy grey moustache and large rimless spectacles aged him further. But, more than that, what made Mr. Ferguson appear like a relic from a by-gone age was his tight-fitting light grey suit and amber waistcoat.

Tyler stood respectfully in Mr. Ferguson’s office, feet slightly part, hands behind his back, head bowed. He accepted Mr. Ferguson was in charge. He was the boss. Nobody thought to deny that. Mr. Ferguson’s desk was huge and for the most part empty. It was the colour of a light wood and had a grain pattern running through it, but it was made from some artificial material. As was all the furniture. The boss might look as if he belonged fifty years in the past, but it was an illusion. Behind him was a computer and printer and it was through these that Mr. Ferguson was receiving a copy of Tyler’s work performance.

While the printer whirled, Tyler stared apprehensively at the two straight-backed, armless chairs that stood between himself and the desk. Each of them was the perfect height for a young man to bend across to offer up his backside for punishment. The huge desk was both wide and deep, but it was also a little higher than average. Tyler could see himself spread-eagled across it.

Mr. Ferguson perused the sheaf of printed notes now in his hands. Tyler could not bear to look at him, he would find out soon enough what his boss thought of his work. Instead, he concentrated on the three-drawer metal filing cabinet in the far corner of the room and the stout wooden paddle he supposed was nestling somewhere inside.

Mr. Ferguson placed his notes on the desk and addressed Tyler. The young insurance claims adjuster’s eyes blinked uncontrollably. His heart raced, his palms sweated. The voice seemed to be coming from a long distance, as if from a mountain top. What was it his boss was saying?

@

Tyler slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school paddle, around two feet in length. It looked mighty heavy and had about a dozen holes drilled along its length. Mr Ferguson’s manic grin exposed decaying teeth as he pointed to a spot on the floor in front of him, “Please
bend
over and touch your toes.”

Submissively, Tyler did as he was told.  He rubbed his hands together, flexed the muscles in his arms, arched his back and stooped forward to present his buttocks for a thrashing. With his feet planted a yard apart and his legs straight, he was in the perfect position. His bottom was thrust up with only the thin material of his underpants between him and the wood. He felt like his arse was on offer, raised provocatively to his master.

Mr Ferguson waited. There was no need to hurry.

“You’ve been late for work too many times, lad. You take long lunches and, my God! your closure rates this quarter are appalling.” Mr. Ferguson swished the paddle through the air as he catalogued Tyler’s faults.

Bent double, with his fingertips touching his toes, Tyler was in no position to argue. It didn’t matter what he had to say in mitigation (in truth he had nothing, he was guilty as charged on all counts), his boss had already decided on his course of action. The twenty-three-year-old had no real choice but to obey: for him it was swats from the paddle or the unemployment line.

His bottom was thrust out backwards invitingly as he touched his toes, stretching the cotton underpants tight. Tyler’s hair tumbled forward and his buttocks trembled nervously, making ripples in the fabric that betrayed his growing apprehension as he waited for the swats to begin.

Mr. Ferguson believed there was no point spanking a boy unless it hurt, so he always paddled on the bare buttocks. He set the wood down on his desk and approached Tyler from behind. In one swift movement he grasped the young man’s underpants at each hip and gently lowered them down his thighs until they rested precariously at his knees. One sharp move from Tyler would see them tumble down his shins to a final resting place at his feet.

Tyler’s buttocks were creamy white and hairless. It was obvious he had recently shaved: back and front. The young man felt incredibly foolish, his bottom bared, offered for chastisement to this older man. He twitched in anticipation as his boss moved behind him. Surely, he was ready now? Why did he always play these games; making him wait, and wait, before cracking the first agonising swipe across his bum?

His boss’s cold hands rested on his tender mounds as he slowly pushed the tail of his jacket well clear of his target. Nearly ready, the tip of Mr. Ferguson’s tongue licked his lips, as he gripped the paddle and began tapping it gently on Tyler’s bare bum. Slowly, he removed the wood and then lashed it down viciously into his naked haunches. Tyler gasped as the pain kicked in. That first searing swat reminded him just why the paddle was to be feared.

After a long pause, stroke two slashed down, slicing into his sore cheeks with real force. His arse throbbed and ached. CRACK!  Mr. Ferguson whipped a third swat down on the bare buttocks. The cheeks gave way as the paddle sank into the fleshy buttock cheeks.

Another stroke followed and landed just below the first. This time the young man gasped and felt tears coming into his eyes as the intense sting burned deep into his bum, The following swats landed lower down before he could catch his breath another lashed right into his sit-spot where the cheeks met the thighs.

As he struggled for breath, Tyler felt the gentle (reassuring almost) touch of his boss’s hand on his back, just between his shoulder blades, this was before a further three swats lashed across his bottom leaving him yelling and crying bitterly as Mr. Ferguson raised bruise after bruise across his sorry burning backside.

Mr. Ferguson was enjoying this. He adjusted his own trousers and raised the paddle once more before whipping it down viciously. The blast of this thwack! resounded all around the small office.

Then there was an eerie silence, broken only by Tyler’s gulps and gasps for breath and his sobbing. Mr. Ferguson stepped back and looked at the boy still bent over, his buttocks quivering.

“It’s over”, he said. “You can get up now.”

Tyler managed to raise himself up, the change of position made his arse hurt even more; how he wanted to rub it, but he knew his master never allowed that till you left the office. In severe pain he bent and pulled first his underpants and then his trousers up over his blistered cheeks. The touch of cloth on burning flesh reignited the agony in his buttocks.

“I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?” his boss asked rhetorically, but Tyler tried to gulp a reply. He knew this was his cue to leave.

@

“Tyler, Tyler, are you even listening to me?”

The young man blushed to his hair. Mr. Ferguson laughed. This really was a delicious boy. His wide, open face always seemed to smile. The acne scars around his chin and throat emphasised, not diminished, his beauty. His hair was expensively cut, like the feathers of a bird. Oh, how he wished he could run his fingers through it.

Tyler shuffled his feet in embarrassment. He had not heard a single word his boss had spoken.

“I said, Tyler,” Mr. Ferguson said, waving the report at the young man, “this is an excellent set of results, you are doing very well.”

Somewhat confused, Tyler mumbled, “Thank you,” and then added rather contritely, “Sir.”

Mr. Ferguson grinned, the boy was scrumptious when embarrassed. “You’d better get back to work. Keep it up.”

Mr. Ferguson watched Tyler turn on his heels and make for the door. He looked delightful in his dark-blue striped business suit. He licked his lips as Tyler fumbled with the door handle. His eyes transfixed on Tyler’s round, firm buttocks filling out his snug-fitting trousers. “He has a bum that’s crying out to be spanked,” he told himself ruefully.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Called home

z used otk pants chair beard (1)

Wayne trudged across the glistening pavement. The rain had stopped at last, but not for long, he reckoned. His shoes leaked and he squelched along. He turned the corner and there it was looming ahead of him. Nelson Mandela Tower, damp, grey and ugly. He had thought he had left this all behind.

The street was deserted: even the junkies hated the rain. He opened the huge communal doorway and entered the building. A familiar stink of stale piss overwhelmed him. Gagging a little he sucked in breath and headed for the lifts. Dad lived on the twelfth floor, he hoped to God they were working.

They were. The only bit of fortune for Wayne that night. He stubbed a finger at the call button and waited. Why was he doing this, he wondered. Hadn’t he escaped all this?

A faint whirling of machinery grew louder and the lift door lumbered open. He stood aside to let out a girl, no older than himself, pushing a buggy. A nearly-new born baby slept fitfully. A toddler, hardly two years old, clutched his mother’s hand.

Wayne hesitated. He could just turn around and head back home. He could. He should. But if he did, he knew he could never return. Bridges would be burnt. There would be no turning back.

With heart thumping, he walked into the lift. A too familiar stench of human sweat greeted him. The temperature was rising. Perspiration wet his beard. He rubbed it away with the back of his hand. He pushed button twelve and the lift door closed. He stood feet slightly apart, knees a little bent, hands behind his back and waited. Without realising, he rubbed the crown of his buttocks with his thumbs.

Seconds later the lift shuddered to a halt and lumbering once more the door opened. Wayne stepped out. Paused. Waited for the door to close. There was no further sound. The lift was waiting. Teasing him. One last chance to escape.

Why wouldn’t his heart stop thumping?

He shuffled forward. Dad’s flat was across the landing. The front door gleaming red. Newly painted.

One, two, three. He counted in his head. Over the top.

He leaned on the doorbell. Somewhere deep inside the flat he heard a chime. A familiar cheesy tune. But what was it? He knew it. The name was on the tip of his tongue.

The door opened wide. Dad stood in the threshold. He was a bit on the short side, befitting a man of his generation and social class. He wore a shirt and tie. His trousers were pressed. He had dressed for the occasion. A visit from his eldest son.

“Come in,” he said curtly. “Close the door behind you.”

Wayne watched his father turn and shamble along the passageway. Wayne hesitated. There was still time. He could turn and run, be at the lift before Dad realised he was gone. If it was still waiting he could be gone in seconds.

“Don’t dawdle,” Dad barked.

Wayne kicked the door shut and resigned that matters must take their course, he followed his Dad.

The room was almost bare. A small sideboard rested against one wall and a dining table and two chairs against another.

“Well, lad ….” Dad spoke harshly and then became silent. Wayne had no idea what he was supposed to say. Well lad was it a question he had to answer? Or a statement of fact. Well lad you know why you are here.

Dad glared at Wayne, barely suppressing a sneer.

Christ. Let’s get this over with. Wayne dared not say it out loud, but it was how he felt. He had passed the point of no return. They had said it all in the phone call. There was nothing more to say. Accusations had been made. Excuses offered. There was no mitigation. Wayne had been sacked from his job. Again. That is to say not sacked again from the same job, just sacked from another. Bone idle, his Dad called it. Irresponsible. Can’t act like an adult. No self-discipline.

Well, Dad had a solution for that. If he couldn’t discipline himself, it was up to Dad to do it for him. That’s what dads were for. It was in the contract. The one between parent and child.

Dad walked the three paces it took to cross the room. Ignoring his son, he turned his back, leant forward slightly and picked up a dining chair. It wasn’t heavy. He needed only one hand to manoeuvre it away from the wall and set it down in the centre of the room. Wayne watched, licked his lips in anticipation of what was to come, and did the thumbs rubbing the backside thing again.

Satisfied the chair was in the perfect position, Dad sat down, wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable and spread his legs by about eighteen inches. Wayne towered above his Dad. The old man’s legs looked thin and insubstantial, as if they would buckle once Wayne put himself in the traditional over-the-knee position.

Dad clicked his fingers. He always did that. It was his signal that he was ready for action. Wayne knew the sign. This wasn’t the first time he had presented himself before his dad. He hoped to hell it would be the last.

“Jeans down. Right down,” Dad snapped. Wayne hesitated. Not for the first time that day he contemplated the absurdity of the situation. A twenty-six year-old man going over Dad’s knee for a spanking.

Absurd or not, without protest he gripped the buckle of his wide leather belt and unfastened it. His Dad’s heavy breathing momentarily distracted him. Then he popped the rivet at the waistband and pulled the zipper. The weight of the heavy denim and the belt sent the jeans slithering down his thighs. They rested at his knees. Wayne gripped the waistband and folded them down to his shins.

Dad licked his lips and professed not to notice his adult son was wearing underpants with drawings of motorcars. Truly childish, he thought, impervious to any ironical intent from Wayne.

“Get over my knee.”

Wayne shuffled a step forward so he was directly to the right of Dad’s legs. He looked down, once again noting the spindly knees. Gently he lowered himself forward. His flabby stomach rested against Dad’s right knee and he stretched his torso forward. He rested his fingers on the cheap carpet to steady himself. He looked straight ahead taking note of the slightly open door. It was chipped and in need of painting.

Wayne felt Dad tug the end of his short-sleeved shirt away from the target area, he felt a breeze blowing from somewhere. Dad pressed his left hand into Wayne’s shoulder blades, intending to pin him should the young man resist.

Wayne felt dad’s right hand rub across the seat of his underpants. He was smoothing down creases. He would be ready for action any moment.

Slap-slap-slap. Three stingers rained down, but rather than aim them at Wayne’s ample buttocks his Dad spanked into his bare thigh. Over and over. It hurt. More than an inexperienced spankee might think. A rough palm on bare flesh, especially a part of the body with so many nerve endings, will cause pain. In no time the flesh was raw, glowing deep pink and then red.

Wayne shut his eyes and pressed his hands deeper into the thin carpet. Dad turned his attention to Wayne’s buttocks, hammering his palm into the fleshiest part of the mounds. Involuntarily, Wayne wriggled his hips. It was a reflex action He had no real control, it was his body’s natural way of dealing with the assault being made upon it.

On and on Dad spanked. It felt like hours to Wayne, but it was probably only three or four minutes. Wayne always marvelled at dad’s stamina. He could probably spank all night if the mood took him. Soon he stopped. Wayne lay still, unmoving. He knew it wasn’t the end. Dad had just paused. Now, they would go to the next level.

Dad slipped his fingers into the elasticated waistband of Wayne’s pants and after three tugs had them lowered so that his son’s buttocks were entirely bared. He admired his own handiwork. The bum was a deep pink from the top of the mounds where the buttocks meet the back, over the fleshy curves, into the underside and way down his thighs. This was one well-spanked boy, Dad thought, as he lifted his hand and whacked it down rapidly and a speed. Rat-tat-tat. It sounded like machine gun fire.

Wayne sucked in air, the bristles on his own beard tickled him. He shook his head from left to right, rather like a horse does when neighing. He pressed the palms of his hands flat into the scratchy carpet. The heat in his bum was rising, the pain was growing.

Dad hammered on, encouraged by the imprints of his own palm that were being embedded into his son’s backside.

Sweat soaked Dad’s shirt. His heart raced, his temples throbbed.

Suddenly the door chimes rang out. Dad stopped spanking. A gasp of relief escaped Wayne’s lips. It was over. Saved by the bell.

“Stand up,” Dad growled. “Don’t think this is over.”

Wayne hauled himself to his feet. His bum was hot. He wanted to rub it, but he wouldn’t give Dad the satisfaction.

The doorbell rang again.

“Face the wall. Hands on head. Leave your jeans down,” Dad snapped.

Wayne shuffled like a penguin, put his nose to the dusty wall, interlocked his fingers and placed them on top of his closely-cropped head.

“Ah vicar,” he heard his Dad say. “I didn’t think you were coming. I started without you. Did you bring your canes?”

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Horny as hell

twosome metro Michael Mitchell

Jack’s arse throbbed madly. The hard metal seat on the subway train reignited the pain every time he moved. So he shifted from one buttock to the other; then back again. It felt rather pleasant.

Fifteen minutes earlier he had left Uncle Colin’s flat. Three dozen lashes with the two-tailed leather taws had battered his backside. His cock was still stiff, raging against the tightness of his underpants, craving to be set free. Demanding release.

Jack could still smell Uncle Colin’s kitchen. He lived in a small “housing association” flat on the seventeenth floor of a tower block. The lift always smelt of piss. The flat wasn’t much better. It wasn’t urine that stank the place out, it was old cooking fat. Uncle Colin made a packet of lard last a lifetime.

The kitchen was small. You could hardly swing a cat in there, but you could swipe a leather strap. It just about held a dilapidated gas cooker, a fridge that could never be silent, and a tiny Formica-topped table.

Uncle Colin was an older man, old enough to be Jack’s father. Perhaps here, I ought to explain that “Uncle” Colin wasn’t really Jack’s uncle; he was in no way related, by blood or otherwise. He was uncle in name only and then for only the few minutes they spent together in the flat, on most Sunday nights.

Jack wasn’t even certain the old man’s name was truly Colin. Uncle Colin was the name he used on boyzblazingbutts, the website where they had hooked up. Man seeks nephew for spanking sessions was the sum total of the personal ad. That and a vague location. It was a short journey on the underground from Jack’s bed-sitting room. What could be better?

Jack got off being spanked. He had just turned twenty and if there was one thing he knew without doubt it was that spanking was better than any drug he had ever taken. Ecstasy for jack wasn’t a small pill and a bottle of designer water, it was offering up his arse – preferably bare – to an older, dominant man.

The train rattled into a station, the platform was heaving with people, his carriage quickly filled. He let his eye wander, searching for the perfect cock. He was as horny as hell. He always was after Uncle Colin. In his mind’s eye he saw the old man, dressed as usual in cavalry twill trousers and a beige cardigan. He always wore a white cotton shirt (although it was clearly fraying at the collar) and a navy blue tie, tightly knotted. Jack had no idea if this was Uncle Colin dressed in his “Sunday best”. He had never seen him at any other time of the week.

Jack knocked on the front door and waited respectfully for Uncle to answer. He was getting on in years, but he was still an energetic man; he stood no more than five-eight, but his back was straight and despite the obvious paunch straining beneath the buttons of his cardigan, he cut an imposing figure.

“Go wait in the kitchen,” it was a firm instruction. Uncle was always in charge. Jack had no idea how the visit would pan out. Last time he had been whipped with a swishy rattan school cane. Two dozen bare. Bent across the back of the threadbare sofa in the sitting room. He still had faint marks.

Jack shuffled into the kitchen and waited contritely. Uncle Colin was taking his time. Jack heard him open a door to the bedroom, then creaking footsteps. Suddenly, the old man appeared in the doorway, hands hidden behind his back.

“Well, young Jack,” he intoned. “Misbehaving again.” It was a statement, not a question. “You naughty boy.” He let the word naughty roll around his mouth, stretching it out. Then, like a magician revealing a bunch of flowers, he brandished the leather taws.

Jack’s eyes widened. He had never seen such a thing before. It was about fourteen inches long and made of brown leather, worn down by use. Uncle Colin gripped the handle and let the business end dangle in mid-air. Then, once he was certain he had the young man’s full attention, he swished the two tails of leather through empty space. It was a terrific whoosh as it flew.

“So, Jack,” Uncle Colin stated grimly, “I hear you have been drinking alcohol to excess. Your mother tells me you were late up for work on Wednesday.”

Jack stood, head bowed, contrite, staring at the faded lino beneath his feet. It was all fiction. None of it was true. Uncle Colin wrote the script. Jack didn’t give a stuff, as long as he ended up with a raw bum.

“Sorry, Uncle,” he whispered, for want of any other response.

“Sorry,” the old man sneered. “You always say you’re sorry, naughty boy, but you never improve your behaviour.”

Jack held his hands behind his back and linked his fingers. He shuffled from one foot to another, still staring sheepishly at the floor. It was, he hoped, the perfect naughty boy pose.

“You leave me no choice,” Uncle Colin caressed the leather strap and then smacked it into the palm of his left hand. “I’m going to have to spank you.”

Oh good, Jack thought, he’s getting on with it. It wasn’t always the case, Uncle Colin would sometimes draw out the role play. Really, all Jack wanted was to get his trousers and pants down.

“Stand there,” Uncle Colin scowled, pointing to spot in front of the kitchen table with his taws. Heart pounding and not at all reluctantly. Jack took up position. “I want you to take down your shorts,” Uncle Colin spoke calmly. He ran his tongue across his lips as without warning they had dried.

He watched intently as the twenty-year-old hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his tight cotton sport shorts. Slowly, Jack lowered them over his crotch and buttocks until they snagged at his muscular thighs. He waited a moment before parting his legs a little to let them slither past his knees and shins to rest on his Nike shoes. Uncle Colin made some saliva in his mouth and washed his lips again.

Jack’s shorts were so short that he could only really wear briefs beneath them. They fitted snugly and revealed the young man’s penis was uncut. “Take them down,” Uncle Colin’s instruction came as a croak.

Slowly, Jack peeled the tight cotton down. His cock was hardening, but it was far from stiff. Uncle Colin had seen Jacks cock and arse before, but nonetheless he took time to admire the long penis. “Bend over.”

Jack lifted his t-shirt so his midriff was bare and leaned forward. It was a warm evening but the hard Formica felt cold against his bare skin. It was a tiny table and Jack had to wriggle around to find comfort. He much preferred going over the back of the sofa; his body fitted perfectly. Or, of course, his personal favourite, draped over Uncle Colin’s lap, face an inch or so above the ground, feet hovering in mid-air and his bare bum delightfully positioned.

The table was low and since he wanted to lay with his stomach and chest across its top he had to bend his knees a little. He folded his arms in front of himself and buried his face in them. He was now submissively in position, arse bared and waiting for Uncle’s administrations. He was at the old man’s mercy.

Jack couldn’t see Uncle Colin make his preparations. He tested the taws by holding it over his shoulder so that the tails tapped against the small of his back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when he tried to lash it down. It cleared with a couple of inches to spare.

Satisfied on his height, he then tested his distance, standing three feet, then two feet from the edge of the Jack’s bare arse. He intended that the taws should lash the naughty boy in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but soon he had the aim correct.

He raised the leather strap across his shoulder and brought it crashing down into Jack’s firm globes. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Jacks body absorbed the lash and he sucked on his bare arm making trickles of salvia drip from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into the meaty backside. Jack’s body jerked. His throat tightened.

It only took three or four lashes of the two-tailed taws to cover the entire area of his now reddening buttocks. Sunset stripes adorned his mounds and already purplish bruises were forming.

Jack gasped as without mercy Uncle Jack snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of his buttocks. One after the other in quick succession. Rat-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Uncle Jack stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s bare curves. The sound of the strap against naked flesh was intense, the walls of the flat were so thin he feared his neighbour might hear. What the hell, he thought, he couldn’t stop now. Not yet.

He curled the strap over his shoulder. Jack braced himself for a further onslaught of controlled and accurate lashes. Uncle Colin found his rhythm as the lashes embedded themselves harder and harder into bare flesh.

Jack chewed his arm and rivulets of saliva dripped from his mouth. Despite Uncle’s best efforts, Jack was taking his whipping stoically. Stepping back Uncle Colin snapped the leather down again as hard as he could.

After three dozen exemplary lashes, Uncle Colin was exhausted, his face almost as red as Jack’s arse. Sweat drenched the back of his shirt and his temples ached. “It’s over. You can get up now,” Uncle Colin intoned. Jack lay still gulping in air, he knew it wasn’t yet the time to rise. Uncle Colin slowly exited the kitchen and when Jack heard the bathroom door open and close, he sprang to his feet rubbing his savaged arse furiously. His aching cock pointed at the ceiling. His head was remarkably clear. Twisting his body, Jack admired his burning buttock cheeks. Once again, Uncle Colin had done a fine job. He pressed his fingers into his flesh. The agony had gone and soon, he knew from experience, the pain would turn into a throbbing that he could reignite in the coming hours by applying pressure to his bum. He reached down and with difficulty got his tight cotton briefs over his raging cock. Then, he pulled up his shorts. They were so tight he could not disguise his erection.

He moved to the front door. It was time to go. He and Uncle never spoke after a spanking. Jack assumed he was locked in the bathroom tossing himself off. That was OK with Jack. He craved to be spanked by older men but the thought of having sex with them made his stomach churn. Sorry, but that’s how God made him.

He walked a little gingerly to the lift and made his way to the subway station.

Now, he sat in a crowded carriage, his erection still obvious through the tight cotton sport shorts. Directly in front of him stood a large muscular man, in a cut down vest and tight sweat pants. He was so close Jack couldn’t avoid looking at him, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t because the bulge in the front of the man’s trousers was inviting.

Jack clenched his fist and sucked on it; he couldn’t stop staring. The ache inside his briefs was intense. Emboldened by the adrenaline rush from the spanking, he spread his legs wide and his cock rose like an Exocet missile. The man’s eyes glazed, he leaned towards Jack and whispered, “You got someplace where we can go?”

Picture credit: Michael Mitchell

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Reliving old times

They both saw each other at exactly the same moment. Twenty or so yards across the almost empty new Brocklehust Shopping Centre. Anthony wasn’t sure at first. The man was a little heavier than last they met. His jowls were flabbier too. There was a little less hair and it was greyer, but there was no mistaking it. It was Mr. Durrant, his housemaster at his old school.

“Brewer. It is you, isn’t it? Brewer. No?” Mr. Durrant spoke first.

“Yes, Sir,” Anthony replied shyly, his eyes cast down at the cold grey tiles beneath his feet.

Mr. Durrant beamed and strode across to him. “I would never have recognised you with that moustache.”

Instinctively, Anthony brushed the back of his hand across his top lip. He was very proud of that tache. It had taken ages to grow.

“How long has it been, Brewer?” Mr. Durrant’s smile broadened. “It must be four or five years. You went away to university. Yes?” Mr. Durrant rocked a little on his heels with excitement. “Well, lad, tell me. Did you get your degree?”

“Yes, Sir. And my Masters too. I’m doing a doctorate, now,” Anthony barked, a little more petulantly than he had intended.

“Good lad. Good lad,” Mr. Durrant’s jowls wobbled with delight. “So, it seems all those thrashings I had to give you paid off,” he said with no rancour.

Anthony’s heart beat faster. He knew his face was flushing bright red. He really ought to say something to his former master. But what?

Mr. Durrant quickly filled the silence. “They put you on the straight-and-narrow, what? You were an irritating boy. Needed a whacking now and again. It kept you focussed. I’m glad it all worked out well for you.”

Anthony gulped in a lungful of air. His temples throbbed. In his mind’s eye he saw his own fingers stretching to touch the toes of his scuffed black shoes. The ugly, red, worn rug in Mr. Durrant’s study was once more beneath his feet. He felt the heavy whippy rattan school cane being tapped against his tight-fitting pale-grey trousers.

“Hey,” Mr. Durrant spread his arms wide. “I’m late for an appointment.” He crooked his elbow and looked at his watch as if to prove the point. “We should meet up. Come to my house. Twenty-two The Avenue. Six o’clock tonight. We can have a drink and what-not. Don’t be late, you know I can’t abide tardiness.” With that, he strode on his way, leaving a bemused Anthony to stare at Mr. Durrant’s wobbly buttocks as they and he receded into the distance.

Anthony wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans and set off to Weatherspoons in search of the cheapest pint of beer they had on offer.

Three pints and two hours later, Anthony was back in his old bedroom at his parents’ home. He spent as little time as possible ‘at home’, but it was the middle of the long summer vacation and money was tight, so needs must.

It had been years since he had thought about St. Francis Independent Grammar School. It was an old-fashioned school. They liked to think it was ‘traditional.’ Traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional school uniform. And, traditional discipline: the crook-handled cane. Mr. Durrant had been right, Anthony was no stranger to the sting of the cane across his backside. Even in the last months of school, well after his eighteenth birthday, he was a regular visitor to Mr. Durrant’s study.

“Jeez,” he wheezed to himself, “fancy meeting Old Durrant after all these years. He was old enough to be dead.” Anthony lifted himself from his bed, sat up and opened and closed drawers on his night stand. Yes, it was still here. He pulled out a green-and-gold-hooped school cap. It was a bit greasy. It was all that Brylcreem the sixth-formers used to wear in their hair. He smiled. They all thought it made them look grown-up. Yuck. He used Vitalis hair oil, these days. The natural grooming.

He plonked the cap on his head. It still fitted remarkably well. He doubted if the blazer would. He still had it tucked away in a corner of the wardrobe. He opened the door and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He grinned. A full-grown man with a moustache wearing a school cap. What a laugh.

The green-and-gold blazer was still on a coat hanger. He tugged it off and held it in both hands up to the light, as if admiring a jacket he might like to purchase in one of the trendy boutiques in town. The wool felt soft to touch. He rubbed it against his left cheek. It smelt musty as indeed it should since it hadn’t been off the hanger for five years at least.

He undid the three buttons and slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. It fitted very well, even though Anthony had put on muscle since the days when he was a scrawny schoolkid. “Thanks Mum,” he grinned at his reflection in the mirror, “You always bought school uniforms so I would grow into them.”

Grey trousers. He needed grey trousers, then the outfit would be complete. His school trousers had long ago worn out, but he had a pair of dark-grey trousers for smart. Sunday best, his Mum called them. He hardly wore them and they had a mark along the knees where they had been hanging undisturbed for so long.

He stepped into the trousers, pulled them up tightly and zipped up. The transformation was complete. He turned his back to the mirror and peered at himself over his shoulder. Yep, he thought, Anthony Brewer, twenty-four-year-old Master of Arts, was back in the sixth-form at St. Francis.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the woollen blazer. His armpits were sticky. A line of moisture dampened his moustache.

“Well, lad.” Anthony startled. It was a voice inside his head. “Let’s get on with this. I haven’t got all day.” It was Mr. Durrant speaking. “Bend over. Touch your toes. You know the drill.”

Anthony did indeed; he bent forward, knees straight, feet a little apart. The green-and-gold blazer tightened across his shoulders. It felt odd to be touching his stockinged feet, instead of his black leather shoes.

“Let’s make it six, shall we?” the voice in his head intoned clearly. “Six of the very best.”

Through his parted legs, Anthony had a perfect view of his own backside. The grey trousers clung to his meaty buttocks. He raised one hand to rub across the seat of his trousers, tracing the line of the sharp creases. Yes, he reckoned: beefy, but not fat. His bum would make a terrific target for Mr. Durrant’s cane.

@

It was nearly time to set off. He didn’t want to be late. Mr. Durrant did not tolerate tardiness, Anthony recalled from his schooldays. Being late for class once meant detention. Twice, would get you a sore arse.

He pulled on the grey trousers, they were snug and didn’t need a belt. He did up the buttons on the white shirt and admired his reflection in the mirror. A clean-shaven face smiled back at him. Intuitively, he knew Mr. Durrant would not approve of the tache.

He sat down on the bed and pulled on grey socks and black shoes. The green-and-gold blazer hung on the back of a chair. The school cap was in one pocket. A green-and-gold-striped tie in another. He fished out a C&A plastic bag from a drawer and neatly folded the blazer into it. It was a fine summer evening and too warm to wear a coat. Anyway, Anthony reckoned, a twenty-four-year-old in school uniform might get funny looks from passers-by; he would change into them just before he knocked on Mr. Durrant’s door.

It was ten after six when Anthony pressed the doorbell. Mr. Durrant’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the young adult dressed for school.

“You’re late,” he scowled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Anthony croaked.

“You will be,” Mr. Durrant replied under his breath.

Aloud, he said, “You’d better come in.”

Across the street, a lace curtain flickered. Mr. Albertstein ran the tip of his tongue across his cracked lips and watched the door close behind his neighbour and his young visitor.

It was a large house, far too big for one man to live on his own, Anthony thought. His parents’ house was cramped, with his Mum and Dad, his two sisters and himself, he mused irritably.

“Let me get you a drink. Is beer all right?” Mr. Durrant spoke over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. “Or do you want something a little stronger?”

Anthony’s throat was parched. His heart beat fast and he was finding breathing difficult. “Beer,” he gasped. Mr. Durrant shot him a disgruntled glare. “Eh, please, Sir,” the young man added hastily.

“That’s better,” Mr. Durrant reached into the fridge and pulled out two tins of Double Diamond. “There’s a can-opener in that drawer,” he nodded across the room. “Please fetch it for me.”

Anthony sucked on his can, too aware that he was in school uniform drinking beer. Back in the day, Mr. Durrant had given him and three pals a particularly severe Six for drinking shandy in the sixth-form common room.

“Cigarette?” Mr. Durrant reached into his jacket pocket.

“No thanks, Sir. I don’t,” Anthony shuddered.

“Ha!” a broad grin split Mr. Durrant’s jowls. “You were a twenty-a-day man when you were fifteen.”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he could still feel the stripes across his backside. He knew he was blushing profusely.

“Well …” he stuttered. How could he explain himself to his housemaster?

They started with small talk. What Anthony was researching for his doctorate, whether he still kept in touch with friends from school.

Mr. Durrant listened intensely, watching Anthony’s lips dampened by the beer opening and closing. The young man’s hazel eyes shone; the housemaster suspected that might be the alcohol.

He drained his tin of beer. “I’m retired now, of course, but I still see one or two of the old boys,” he crushed the can in his hand and leaned forward towards Anthony, “They often come to this house,” he waved his arms expansively. Anthony looked around the room, thinking that Mr. Durrant was trying to show him something.

“So, tell me, lad,” Mr. Durrant was beginning to sound like the housemaster he had been for so many years, “Are you behaving yourself?”

Anthony’s ears pinkened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eh, well,” he stuttered. “Yes of course I am, Mr. Durrant,” then quickly he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Mr. Durrant’s florid face darkened. “Pah! Well that would make a welcome change, for you, lad.” He stood from his chair and paced the kitchen. “I have genuinely lost count of the number of times you visited my study for …” His sentence trailed off and he stared blankly at the refrigerator. “You know what I mean?”

Anthony did. He knew very well what the old man was talking about.

“So,” Mr. Durrant seemed to have regained his thought. “You haven’t been a naughty little boy.”

Anthony clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. His mind raced. Had he been misbehaving? Was there some misdeed he could confess to his master?

“I’ve been rude to my mother.” It felt lame the moment the words passed his lips, but it was the best he could do without notice.

“Well,” Mr. Durrant’s lips pursed. “That’s for your father to deal with.” They fell silent. Anthony squeezed his eyes shut, imagining his father pulling him across his knee to apply a bedroom slipper with some vigour across the seat of his pyjama bottoms. He shook the thought clear of his head. It had been some time since he had last had that vision.

“I stole a copy of Football Monthly from Mr. Jenkinson’s shop,” he blurted. “He was serving another customer and I took it from a shelf and ran off.”

Mr. Durrant’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “Did you indeed? Did you?”

“Yes, Sir honestly, Sir,” Anthony insisted.

“Well, now. Theft. That is a beating offence. You know that Brewer. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Anthony rubbed his hands together but he couldn’t get rid of the sweat.

“I have a room upstairs, Brewer,” Mr. Durrant straightened himself and stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “A special room. A very special room, do you understand, Brewer.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

“I think you and I need to repair to that room, don’t you Brewer?”

The young man nodded, silently.

“Follow me, Brewer.”

With slow deliberate steps, Mr. Durrant led the way from the kitchen, through the hallway and up the carpeted staircase. There were four doors on the landing. One was slightly ajar and Anthony could see it was a bathroom.

“This room here,” Mr. Durrant turned a brass knob and eased the door open. “Step this way.”

Anthony stood in the doorway transfixed. The room had bare floorboards, except for an old ugly worn red rug. It was dominated by an imperious wooden desk. In one corner was a hat stand, in another a tall thin cupboard.

The young man’s jaw actually dropped.

“Yes,” Mr. Durrant beamed. “It’s my old study from St. Francis, brought here lock, stock and barrel.”

Anthony’s eyes were like saucers. That rug. The same one he had stared down at so many times. It was as if he had been transported back in time.

“Stand there, lad.” Mr. Durrant snapped his fingers. Obediently, Anthony shuffled the few feet so that he stood on the rug.

Mr. Durrant shuffled across the room towards the cupboard. Anthony turned his shoulders to watch him go.

“Face the front, lad,” Mr. Durrant growled. “You’ll find out what’s going on here soon enough.”

Anthony heard a door creaking, followed by the distinct rattling of long, whippy rattan canes swirling around a confined space. Anthony couldn’t stop blinking. Time was playing tricks. It was only yesterday that he last presented his backside to Mr. Durrant for a sound thrashing.

The floorboards behind Anthony squeaked and Mr. Durrant was once more in view. He was dressed in a traditional black academic gown and on his head he wore a mortar board cap at a rakish angle. Between his hands he flexed a curve-handled punishment cane. It was darkish-yellow and as thick as a pencil. Mr. Durrant swished it through empty air. It looked to Anthony a mightily efficient rod. It looked to him a little warped; the result of constant use, he supposed.

All saliva drained from Anthony’s mouth. The room felt as hot as a sauna. The young man’s temples throbbed. He watched as Mr. Durrant once more flexed the cane in his hands, it bent easily into an arc.

Mr. Durrant tapped the tip of the cane gently against the rug. “Bend over, lad. Touch your toes.” It was a simple command, spoken quietly. There was no need to do otherwise. Mr. Durrant was the master, he expected to be obeyed.

And, he was. Anthony was an old hand at this; he knew the drill. He parted his feet slightly and arched his back so that the tips of his fingers touched the toes of his shoes. As had happened in his bedroom earlier, his blazer tightened cross his back. He had forgotten he had a cap on his head. It tumbled to the ground.

“Leave it, lad. Leave it,” Mr. Durrant growled. He stood away from the submissive young man. He saw Anthony was beefier than when he had last punished him. But, so were all his boys. Nonetheless, the twenty-four-year-old presented a wonderful target. The dark grey trousers were taut across the burly buttocks; he could see the outline of Anthony’s underpants.

The cane tap-tap-tapped across his bum, then Anthony felt the housemaster “saw” the rod across the very underside of his buttocks. He gulped in air and shut his teeth. Whoosh! He heard the cane fly through the air and then a resounding thwack! echoed around the study. It seemed an eternity before the agony bit. It was as if Mr. Durrant had pressed a red-hot wire into the most sensitive part of his bottom.

“Owwww!” he howled and his body shot forward. The rug slipped beneath his feet and he almost toppled over. It took an almighty effort to remain in the touch-toes position.

Twenty seconds later (exactly, since Mr. Durrant was counting the time in his head) he let fly with the second swipe. It struck home about a quarter inch above the first. Anthony felt a welt rise. The throbbing was intense; he wouldn’t be surprised later to find it weeping blood.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Number three landed parallel to the first two. Anthony now had a raw band about an inch-and-a-half wide across his bum. Mr. Durrant was an expert caner. He ought to be, he had practiced enough over the years. It helped, Mr. Durrant would agree, to have a subject as submissive as Anthony. The young man hissed and yelped a little as each successive whack cut his bum to ribbons, but he remained stoically in position; back bent, knees straight, fingers touching toes waiting for the next swipe to fall.

Oh, my God, Anthony had never been thrashed like this in all his life. He thought he had been under the lash at school, he had even withstood some of the worst beatings Dr. Henderson-Smith, the one-time headmaster, had ever delivered. But, Mr. Durrant was awesome. It was as if the master was trying to lash the cane into the beefy bottom so hard that it sank into flesh, traversed muscle and exited through the front of the young man

Number six was special. Anthony knew it would be. Mr. Durrant shifted his position slightly and instead of aiming for another parallel stroke, he laid the cane so that it ran from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. The agony was intense, as the rod cut diagonally across the previous five strokes reigniting the pain of each of them. Blood seeped.

“You may stand.” Mr. Durrant tucked the cane under his arm and watched with ill-conceived joy as Anthony rose and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional caning dance. He heartily rubbed at the seat of his trousers in a fruitless effort to relieve the pain.

In time, Anthony settled. His eyes were damp and his body soaked in perspiration. His face and neck glowed a deep pink.

Mr. Durrant slipped the cane back into his hand. “Trousers down. Bend back over.”

The pink face blanched to a ghostly white. Anthony couldn’t catch his breath. “Bu .. bu …” he blabbered, before at last forming coherent words. “But, please, Sir. No,” he wailed.

Mr. Durrant set his face. “Yes, lad,” he swished the cane though the air.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” Anthony pleaded. Swish, the cane flew again. The housemaster was in no mood to show clemency.

“Trousers down.”

Tears were flowing freely.

“Damn it, lad. If you won’t take down your trousers I shall do it for you.”

“Nooooooo!” Anthony’s shriek could probably be heard by Mr. Albertstein across the street.

Mr. Durrant stepped forward, hands outstretched ready to grip Anthony’s waistband. The young man twisted his body trying to put his back between himself and his tormentor. Too late. Mr. Durrant undid the fastener and the zipper fell easily.

Anthony was as white as a sheet. His tormentor tugged the young man’s trousers to his knees.

“Oh my!” Mr. Durrant licked his lips. His face cracked into a beautiful smile. Anthony’s cock was so stiff and his underpants so brief, it poked its glistening head over the elasticated waist.

Mr. Durrant sank to his knees, took hold of the pants at the hips and in a frenzy ripped them down so hard the cotton tore.

Anthony gasped, took hold of his cock and thrust it in Mr. Durrant’s face.

“Suck me off!” he huffed.

The housemaster’s mouth devoured first one and then the other testicles. He licked the balls like they were an ice cream cone.

Anthony moaned as Mr. Durrant took a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffled his knees further apart so that the old man could get to more of his hard dick. Anthony gripped Mr. Durrant’s ears and pulled his florid face onto his raging cock. The man’s flabby jowls wobbled back and forth as he made his way up and down the shaft. As cocks went it wasn’t particularly long, but it was surely one of the fattest the housemaster had ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” Anthony squealed warning his master, but knowing he had left it too late. But, the old man did not heed the warning and his head rhythmically slid in and out of the back of his throat. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumped up the shaft and was immediately swallowed by Mr. Durrant’s hungry mouth.

Anthony writhed on the floor as his orgasm went on and on. Mr. Durrant continued to suck. Then, suddenly his own body convulsed. Anthony slipped his cock out of the master’s mouth and watched in fascination as Mr. Durrant twisted and turned on the bare floorboards as a flood of cum drenched the front of his trousers.

z used buxton cane longs touch toes (2)

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

Other stories you might like

Caned at college

Home early

When Dad got home

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 9. The truck

A glimpse into the near future. Other Changed Times stories are here.

z used bum bent over truck (1)

 

I thought Mr. Whittaker was kidding me when he said if I arrived late one more time he would make me take down my trousers and pants and bend over the back of the truck for a belt whipping.

Well, really. I’m twenty years old not some baby.

I hadn’t reckoned on the new law that allows employers to spank their younger workers. Nobody my age is safe now.

I’m not good in the morning. I always wake up with a raging hard-on and it takes me half an hour to deal with that (you don’t want to hurry these things) and then if the bus is delayed or full I’m late for work.

Mr. Whittaker is older than my dad; bigger and stronger too. It’s all the outdoor work we do. He keeps his corduroy trousers up with a thick, wide, leather belt. I tried to pretend I wasn’t late. I’d just been to the toilet for a slash, but he was having none of it.

I swear he grinned when he said, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Go stand by the truck.”

“But, Mr. Whittaker …” I wailed.

“Don’t ‘Mr. Whittaker’ me,” he sneered, reaching for the buckle of his belt. “We do this or you can go back to the dole queue.”

He had me there and he knew it. There are no jobs out there, especially not for young people. If you’re out of work for more than three months they send you to a workcamp. What happens there is a bit of a secret, but if the rumours are true I for one don’t want to go there.

Mr. Whittaker read my thoughts. “You’ve only got yourself to blame. Get outside.”

My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before. That was bad enough, but I had to take down my jeans and boxers and let Mr. Whittaker see my cock and balls. And, Jesus H. Christ, my crack and hole when I bent over. And, now the whole firm was standing around as well.

Mr. Whittaker pulled his belt through the trouser loops with a flourish, like a magician pulling a cloth away during a trick. He’s got some beer gut and it turns out he doesn’t really need the belt to keep his trousers up. He wears it just for show, or maybe to have something at hand to whip his workers.

He folded the belt in two; it must have been a couple of feet long. He waved it around, just to make sure I knew what it looked like. It seemed very heavy, in the right hands it could take my arse off.

“Trousers and pants down. Come on.”

I resolved not to make a fool of myself by pleading for mercy or making a fuss, but I could not get my fingers to move.

“Do you want me to do it for you?” Mr. Whittaker snarled. I swear I heard a snigger somewhere in the audience. At last I had my own belt undone. I wear my jeans loose; we used to wear them half way down our arses, but they started arresting kids for indecency, so that fashion soon stopped. I undid the button on my jeans and they slipped down my legs. I was wearing blue boxers with white dots. My mum bought them for me, I don’t think I’ve ever bought my own pants in my life.

“Those too,” Mr. Whittaker nodded and swished his belt about again. I turned my back to the crowd, screwed my eyes tight and slowly lowered my boxers. More than one of the guys wolf-whistled. I only hope one of them wasn’t that poofter Barclay.

They could see my bare bum but not my tackle. I’m not usually this shy. I do a lot of football and we’re always together in the showers waving our willies around. No lady would be disappointed with me, if you get my drift.

“Over.”

There was no way out of this. I had to let this old man whip my bare arse with his belt. Mr. Whittaker had already lowered the truck’s tailgate, so I leant forward. It was just like bending across a table. I kept my knees together so they couldn’t see my crack, folded my arms and buried my head in them. I felt a warm breeze cross my naked bum. Then, Mr. Whittaker rested the heavy leather belt across the centre of my cheeks. He was taking aim.

He let fly. Crack, he got me right on the sit-spot, the soft underside of the buttocks. It hurt, but not as much as I expected. He whipped me again and again. There was a deathly hush, all you could hear was the leather cracking against my bum. I’ve got a bit of meat back there, so the belt sank deep. The belt was snaking around my buttocks and connecting with the side of my cheeks. Later when I had a look there were ugly purple welts.

I didn’t count the strokes, but later Sandy told me it had been fifty lashes. My bum was sore, but I wasn’t really in agony. My cheeks were a mess though, they were so criss-crossed with lines it looked like a map of Clapham Junction. The skin on my bum felt like leather.

The pain quickly eased, except for a couple of lashes that had hit on the back of my thighs. They throbbed a bit, especially when I sat down.

Mr. Whittaker seemed a little disappointed when it was over. He grunted to me to get dressed and hurried off to the toilet. My workmates carried on with their business.

Mr. Whittaker said no more about my spanking. Next day, I arrived on time find he had brought a thick, whippy, curve-handled cane and hung it on a nail on the office wall that he had hammered in specially.

 

Other stories you might like

 

The paper boy and Candy

Remembering Professor Price

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com