His first time

new 5

z used cane father bare bed darrien (1a)

SWISH!! The cane fell in a blurred arc on the firm, pert naked cheeks raised high over the edge of the bed. It only took a second for a thin white stripe to change to a vivid scarlet welt.

Air escaped through Michael’s clenched teeth; it sounded like a steam engine settling down. It was followed by a long, piercing banshee-like wail. This was the first time in all his twenty-one years Michael had felt the firm rod of discipline. He screwed his eyes tightly shut against the intensity of the pain.

Unremittingly, the second stroke swiped into his quivering cheeks, landing an inch below the first. Michael’s cheeks clenched together; it was a reflex action, their way of protecting themselves from the assault. Now, Michael gave a loud and pleading yell.

“Yoewwwww! No please stop. No! No! No! Oh please Seymour, No more! No! I can’t take it!” But Seymour was in no mood for mercy. He waited for the cheeks to relax again before he lifted the yellow, whippy rattan cane high above his head, paused a moment and brought it flogging down across the naked buttocks. It fell just below the previous two, in perfect parallel.

This time Michael’s slim, athletic legs kicked up, and he tried to rise from his shameful position, but a firm hand in the centre of his back held him face down against the mattress.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! No more, no more!” he pleaded.

“You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party, flirting with everyone. You showed yourself up. You humiliated me,” Seymour replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long cane.

“But I love you Seymour, how can you hurt me so much?” Michael’s head bounced up and down. To demonstrate just how much, Seymour laid an even firmer stroke across the lower curves of the boy’s bare bottom. Michael screeched in agony; tears shot out of his eyes, soaking the bedcover. Seymour was unmoved. The cane rose and fell rhythmically delivering the stinging correction.

Michael twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting, fiery rod. His feet stomped up and down. His legs flailed.

But then something unexpected happened. Michael’s yells softened into deep groans; then they became more relaxed. His frantic breathing was more regular and even. His bottom rose to meet the challenge of the cane. Seymour saw what was happening. He changed his strokes; now they fell more rapidly, but were gentler and directed low down at the centre of Michael’s firm bottom.

“Oh Seymour,” Michael wheezed huskily, “don’t stop now, it’s such a wonderful feeling. What’s happening to me?”

“Oh Seymour. I’m coming. Oh. I’m coming. oh! oh! oh! ohhh!”


Picture credit: Darrien

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Late home from school

How Many Strokes Will it Be?


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second


Suddenly awoken

new 5

z used bed waiting pyjamas champion (3)

Hal woke with a start. He found himself sitting up in bed, his bottom still tingling. What had roused him? His dick throbbed and he shuddered with shame. Not again? He reached his hand inside the fly of his pyjama bottoms. The top of his cock was wet but still rigid. Quickly, he explored himself with his palm, then he tested the sheets. No, he had not ejaculated; he had caught himself just in time.

“Oh gosh,” he exclaimed aloud. There was someone in the room. It was gloomy, his eyes had not adjusted. He couldn’t see, but he could hear; someone was wheezing hard.

“What the …” Hal cried.

“Shussh. It’s all right.” Hal recognised the voice. It was his elder brother Roger.

“Shussh,” Roger whispered again, placing his index finger across his own mouth. “I’ve missed curfew. By a mile. I saw your window open. I climbed in.”

Hal looked across the room, the curtain was flapping gently in the breeze of a warm night. His brother tip-toed across the room like a cat in a cartoon sneaking up on a canary. Before he reached the bedroom door, Hal spoke in a normal, clear voice. “There’s no point doing that. Dad knows you’re late. I think he’s waiting downstairs with the strap,” he chuckled. As in all families Hal was delighted to know his brother was in trouble. It made a change that it wasn’t himself, Hal might be eighteen years old but he was still no stranger to his father’s knee and a close-up view of the carpet. Without thinking, he pressed his buttocks into the hard mattress, reigniting the pain from earlier. He could testify that father was not in a good mood.

“I don’t believe you,” Roger scorned. “I didn’t see any lights in the house. Everyone’s in bed.”

“Please yourself,” Hal shrugged his shoulders as his brother exited the room. Hal turned on his side, pulled the blanket over him and gently massaged his buttocks. The surface still felt a little like leather.

The house was old and Roger knew every creaking floorboard in the place. He manoeuvred across the hallway. There was no light under the door of his parents’ bedroom. Gingerly, he took hold of the handle on the door of his own room. His heart sped. He was almost safe. The door squeaked. Roger’s heart stopped. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased the door open a few inches; just enough to squeeze his slim body through. He closed the door.

He could relax now, but even so he didn’t put the light on. The moon was bright and he could see well enough to get out of his clothes and into his pyjamas. He slid beneath the blanket. Safe at last. He had a fitful night, his sleep disturbed by recurring visions. He and Mary together. Her breasts. Her thighs. Her buttocks. The tantalising glimpse of petticoat. The things she would not let him do to her.

He was late down to breakfast in the morning. The house was eerie. Where was everyone? He sat alone in the breakfast room, mournfully sucking a piece of dry toast. Still he could not keep the image of Mary from his mind. A voice brought him back to earth. It was Miranda, the live-in maid. “Good morning Mr Roger. Your father says he wants to see you in the drawing room.” She paused to note cheerfully the sudden draining of colour from his face. “At once,” she emphasised and she cleared used plates from the breakfast table. Miranda hoped Roger did not see the smile she was failing to suppress.

Father was waiting. He was a stern man and this morning he looked even more severe. He sat irritably in a chair. “You’re late. What kept you? I haven’t got all day. Stand there.” He barked as Roger entered the room. He pointed to a spot two yards in front of him. Roger, who was no stranger to his father’s temper meekly took up position. He bowed his head, not daring to catch his father’s eye.

“Missed curfew,” father almost shouted. “Again!” He let the final word hang in the air. This was not a first offence. “Bah!” father continued. “What was it this time? Playing cards with those cads again?”

Roger hit down onto his lower lip. His father meant the boys who frequented The Three Fishers, a public house of ill repute. He nodded his head sorrowfully. Better to let him think that than to know Roger had been trying to get his hand inside a girl’s underwear. Father was strict Chapel. Being unchaperoned  with a girl was far higher on the list of sins, even than playing cards.

“Bah!” his father coughed loudly. He had prepared a speech. He always had a homily or two to deliver at times such as this. Roger listened patiently. There was no doubt at all how this meeting would end. He was in no hurry for proceedings to move along. Wicked. Sinful. Were two of the words Roger caught, although he had stopped listening after the first two minutes.

“No son of mine …” Roger’s ears pricked up. He recognised this sentence. It usually meant his father was about to conclude his sermon. Roger paid attention.

“So …” his father had finished his lecture. He was preparing for action. “Fetch the strap.” Roger sucked in a bellyful of air. He did not need further instruction. He turned his back on his father and walked to the far end of the large room. He paused momentarily and looked at the heavy strap that hung from a hook in the wall. He reached up. Not for the first time, he measured its weight in his hand. He looked at it as if seeing it only for the first time. It was old and worn and about fourteen inches long and two wide. It had been specially made as a punishment strap and the name of the manufacturer from the Scottish town of Lochgelly was embossed along one side.

“Hurry up. Bring it here, we haven’t all day to  waste.” His father barked. Roger carried the strap in both hands like it was a religious relic of some kind. With reverence, he handed the strap to his father. “Prepare yourself,” he intoned.

Roger needed no further instruction. Prepare yourself meant lower the trousers and underwear. Father only ever spanked on the bare buttocks. He had once said it was not a proper spanking otherwise. Roger knew there was no point reminding father that he was twenty years old; twenty-one in a few weeks’ time. He was not yet legally an adult. Beside, father would probably continue spanking him for years to come. Father was without doubt the head of the household. The gardener’s boy knew that to his cost and he was thirty years old if he were a day.

With steady hands, Roger prepared himself. His trousers and underwear bunched at his shins. He was not embarrassed to stand half-naked in front of his father. It was hardly the first time. His father shifted his own buttocks on the chair and leaned back so he would not topple once Roger was in position. He closed his knees and splayed his feet making a platform for his son. “Bend over,” he said imperiously.

Roger would submit to his father. He always did. A ritual was playing out between them and they both knew the part they had to play. Roger looked down at his father’s lap, then he rested his hands on his left knee and gently lowered himself. He let his arms fall in front of him. The chair was high and this meant that behind him his feet could brush the floor without him bending his knees. His bared bottom rested at an angle against his father’s knee.

Father was a stoical man. He had said his piece already, there was nothing more to say. He rubbed the strap across the highest point of his son’s bottom and made a sawing motion. He was taking his aim. Satisfied that he had it, father gripped the strap tightly, raised it high into the air and hammered it down with great vim. A dark pink line immediately formed across Roger’s bottom. He winced. That hurt. He knew it would. The second and third swipes landed almost simultaneously, ensuring that both cheeks quickly glowed red-hot. Roger’s hips wriggled and his knees bent slightly. There wasn’t anything he could do about this. His body had a life of its own, the movements were a natural reaction against the pain.

Father set out to make sure every part of Roger’s bottom glowed. He whacked the strap across the highest point of the mounds, then over the crests and finally into the undersides where the cheeks and the thighs meet. Once every square inch of flesh scorched he turned his strap to the backs of the thighs. Roger knew he would do this but that knowledge did not stop him yelping at the pain. He would be reminded of this every time he sat on a hard surface for many hours to come.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Father kept a steady rhythm. He knew spanking his sons could be an exhausting experience so he liked to pace himself. There was no need to hurry. Roger was going nowhere. He was submissively offering up his bared bottom to the lashes of the strap. Father could go on all day if he so chose.

Roger’s cheeks clenched and unclenched. His head swayed from side to side like a horse worried by a fly. He shut his teeth to keep back the yaps and yelps his body wanted him to make. His shirt was sticking to his back with perspiration. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.

Roger’s bottom had been many shades of pink and was now a bright scarlet. Father knew that if he spanked him for only a little longer it would become the colour of a fine Burgundy wine. Then would be the time to stop. He raised the strap again brought it down.

A ritual was being played out between father and son. It was the kind of intimate affair best shared in private. Neither father or son would have been pleased to know that the maid Miranda stood by the half-opened door enjoying every lash of Roger’s punishment.



Picture credit: The Champion

Other stories you might like

A summer to remember

Waiting my turn

You can never escape from Dad


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second


University bully

new 5


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

z used cane holding office Sting

“Bend over.”

You stare dumbfounded, “Excuse me?”

“I said bend over.”

“I don’t understand.”

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

“Cane me?”

“Yes, cane you. Bend over the desk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The boom-box boy

Enhanced community training

A preacher teaches humility


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second



Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)


Readers in the United Kingdom don’t need me to tell them that arguments about leaving the European Union have been raging for more than three years and don’t seem to be resolved yet.

Many people who voted to leave the EU (it seemed to me) wanted to return to sometime in the past when in their eyes the world was a less complicated place. Maybe the 1930s where everybody knew their place in the world and discipline was much tighter than it is today.

That set me thinking. What if, after the exit from the EU, we did start to turn the clock back. In my imagination, corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools. This proved such a success with parents that it was soon extended to include other young people, such as university and college students and workplace apprentices. Before long any person under the age of thirty could be subjected to the cane or the birch (or any other CP implement of choice).

So, was born the series of stories that I called “Changed Times.” I have brought them all together here for those who may not have seen them before. I enjoyed writing them, but the stories and sentiments expressed are fiction and I am not asking you to join me in forming a new political party.

Click on the titles and I hope you enjoy reading them.



1: A glimpse into the near future

This story sets up the series and follows Kenny on his first day at college as an apprentice to Global Petroleum.

“Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

“Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’


2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

“Mr Scroggins was the “punishment officer” for the Neighbourhood Watch. It was a title he chose for himself. It wasn’t official; he wasn’t paid a salary. He didn’t want paying, he was glad to perform his civic duty.

“The Neighbourhood Watch had been formed in the words of its members, ‘to take back the streets.’ The Avenue was in a prosperous middle-class suburb.

“They had a ‘punishment room’ at the community hall. It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light. It was quite small, but big enough for its purpose. It contained a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the youth to be secured with straps. The horse itself had once been in the gymnasium of a local school. It had been lowered and modified so that when a young man was properly mounted and helpless the padded upper surface was quite comfortable.”


  1. The police station

Of course, the police play a large part in the new social control.

‘“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

‘“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

‘“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.”


  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

“Mr Hodgson took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in ‘Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.’ He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

“He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.”

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

Emboldened by the new laws, fathers were reintroducing discipline into their own homes.

“Downstairs in the living room Mr Nightingale flexed a thick rattan cane thoughtfully in his hands. He had never held such a thing until the day he bought it in the local market. A stall specialised in all kinds of spanking instruments. It did a roaring trade in school canes and paddles. Mr Nightingale picked up a large scatter cushion and balanced it over the back of an armchair. Then, he positioned himself an arm’s length to its side. The cushion was more or less where George’s backside would be in about ten minutes’ time. Mr Nightingale rubbed the cane across the cushion, raised his arm high and brought the whippy rod crashing down. A line indented across the centre of the polyester-filled cushion.”


  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

‘“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. ‘We’re live in twenty seconds.’ Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

“The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

“The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.”

  1. Pub landlord

Soon everyone was getting in on the act. A pub landlord takes control after a group of lads get rowdy and smash up chairs.

“I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

“Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.”

  1. Just another day

Just another day, in just another office. It could be anywhere across the UK. Three twenty-something workers face the consequences of not taking a training workshop seriously.

“Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. ‘But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.’

‘“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.’

“Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

  1. The truck

Another workplace whacking. What happens if you consistently turn up late for work?

“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.”


Picture credits: Unknown


I have also written other “futuristic” stories along the lines of Changed Times. You can read some of them here


A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second



The newly wed

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z used retro domestic young man and woman kitchen (1)

Bradley and Martha had been married for three months and despite all the smiles and the good humour they showed in public things were not going so well. They lived rent-free in the small apartment owned by Martha’s dad. Bradley had no job and, of course, there was no question of Martha going out to work. She kept the home and soon – if Bradley could ever get anything right – she would be a mother.

Bradley was a waster. He said he went out looking for work each day and Martha believed him. Then one afternoon her father saw him coming out of the snooker hall behind Brocklehurst High Street. He didn’t tell his daughter, he loved her too much for that. Instead, he sent his youngest son Baxter over with a written note. “Oh, honey,” Bradley peered at the paper in his hand, “Your pop wants to see me. At his house. This evening. On my own.”

Martha reached for the note but Bradley hurriedly put it in the pocket of his trousers. She sighed, why hadn’t daddy told her about this? Why hadn’t he invited them both for supper?

“Beats me,” Bradley smiled. He had no idea at all. He couldn’t even begin to imagine. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

Martha’s dad, Mr Verne, was a successful businessman, he had started with a corner shop and now he had properties all across the town. At the last count he employed about a hundred people. He worked hard and he knew for an absolute fact that people who worked hard would get on. They would make something of their lives, no matter how humble their origins. All it needed was a bit of sweat.

Bradley was no success. He would never amount to anything. He was lazy. A day’s work would probably kill him. Mr Verne had told his wife as much almost the moment he set eyes on the man. Bradley was not good enough for Mr Verne’s daughter. Of course, he didn’t tell Martha any of this. She was in love. And, as any father knows, when a young woman is in love there’s no reasoning with her.

Bradley took the bus across town and alighted at Widdicombe Wood. His destination, Mr Verne’s house at The Avenue, was a short walk away. It was a large spread, bigger than many of the five-bedroomed detached houses in the street. The Avenue reeked of success. My, Bradley thought to himself as he got closer to his destination, what it must mean to live here.

He trudged up the gravelled driveway and rang the bell. Trisha, the maid, took his hat and coat, and asked him to wait in the hallway. “Mr Verne is in his study,” she said and without further ado she bustled away. He waited admiring his reflection in a mirror and wondered where everyone was. The house felt deserted. Why hadn’t anyone been to greet him.

Then, Baxter, Martha’s fourteen-year-old brother, appeared at the top of the spiral staircase. He leaned over a handrail and peered down at Bradley. A grin spilt the boy’s face. Bradley froze. There was something sinister about the boy’s knowing look. Then Baxter shook his head vigorously from side to side, “Wouldn’t want to be you, no sir,” he giggled. He had ran back to his bedroom before Bradley could question him. “Little brat,” he muttered under his breath. He was in two minds to go chasing after him when the maid appeared as if from nowhere. “Mr Verne will see you now,” she spoke formally and led Bradley to the door of the study. “Knock, and then enter,” she said quietly and once again bustled away.

Bradley stood outside the door. Why, he wondered, was his heart beating so fast? Why was he nervous? Why did he feel like he was one Mr Verne’s employees, summoned to see the boss? He knocked and as he fumbled with the door handle, a voice from within the room called, “Enter!” It startled Bradley; now he felt like a school boy called to the headmaster’s study. He pushed the door open.

He had never been in Mr Verne’s study before. Why he chose to call it a “study” Bradley did not know. It looked to him like an office, like you would see in a business building anywhere across the country. There was a largish desk, some chairs, a filing cabinet and shelves. Mr Vernon was seated behind the desk. The top was clear of clutter and only an old Bakelite telephone remained.

Bradley was dumbfounded. Why was he here? What was going on? He certainly didn’t feel like one of the family. This was no social visit. He closed the door and lingered by it, unsure what he was meant to do. “Come in,” Mr Verne spoke crisply. “Stand there where I can see you,” he waved his hand indicating a space in front of the desk.

Bradley opened his mouth, ready to offer a friendly greeting but Mr Verne’s stern visage halted him. Bradley frowned instead. “Do you know why I have sent for you?” Mr Verne’s tone was commanding and Bradley could only mutter in reply. “Speak up!” Mr Verne roared, demonstrating to Bradley for the first time that evening that Marth’s father was in a sour mood.

“Eh, no Sir, sorry Sir,” Bradley bit down on his tongue. What had made him call him “Sir.” Since the wedding it had always been, “Father,” and even once when they had both tasted whisky, “Dad.”

“If I said Billingham’s Snooker Hall would that mean anything to you?” Mr Verne spat. He leaned forward across the desk and eyed his son-in-law threateningly. Bradley recoiled. His face flushed and suddenly his heartrate sped. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words escaped his lips.

“Don’t even try to deny it. I saw you. I then had inquiries made, you are a regular there. Most weekdays. Do I need to say any more?” It was what is known as a rhetorical question, even Bradley who had not performed well at school knew that. He made no answer.

“Pah!” Mr Verne rose to his feet. He was a small man by stature but he had a big presence, he could quell a shop full of workers with a single stare. Bradley was no match for him. Mr Verne had prepared a speech. Its details need not detain us in this story. He summarised Bradleys many failings. There were many. So many in fact, that Mr Verne’s conclusion was startling. “From Monday, you come to work for me. In one of my shops. As a lowly assistant. You’ll get no favours from me. You’ll have to earn any advancement you make in my business. What do you say to that?”

What was there to say. It was the a most generous offer; one that Bradley knew in his heart he did not deserve. “Thank you, Sir,” he croaked, not showing his father-in-law and now employer due gratitude.

“Good,” Mr Verne barked. He stood, still keeping his steely gaze on Bradley. The young man flinched, the stare seemed to burn right into his soul. Both men fell into silence. Bradley wondered was he supposed to leave now, and when Mr Verne remained statuesque, he made a small movement to turn and leave the room.

“Not yet, young man,” Mr Verne rasped. Bradley froze. “I haven’t finished yet.” Bradley turned to face his father-in-law who was now moving across the study. Bradley’s eyes followed him as he went. He stopped at the filing cabinet. It was unlocked and Mr Verne had only to lean forward to open the third drawer down. He reached in. Bradley could not make out the mysterious thudding sound he heard coming from within the wooden cabinet. What was Mr Verne searching for?

Bradley soon found out. When Mr Verne straightened up and turned toward the young man he was clutching what looked to Bradley like a small cricket bat. It was an oblong of wood with a handle at one end. Mr Verne brandished it at Bradley. He noted the uncomprehending look on his face. “It’s what our American cousins call a paddle,” he said in explanation. “A mightily-effective punishment tool,” he added, “A much more efficient weapon than a whippy rattan cane. Believe me.”

Bradley was indeed prepared to take Mr Verne’s word for it. He feared the old man intended to make a demonstration of it when he watched him smack the blade of the paddle into the palm of his own hand. “Mightily effective,” Mr Verne muttered. He looked across at Bradley and pierced him once more with that steely gaze. “You need to buck up your ideas young man. A lesson in life is what you need.” Bradley felt his knees weaken. The palms of his hands started to sweat. He rubbed them against the legs of his trousers. “I short, sharp shock,” Mr Verne concluded.

Bradley could not stop his eyes blinking. His throat tightened. He sucked down on his bottom lip. His father-in-law’s intensions were made entirely clear when he said, “Remove your jacket and hang in behind the door.” It was a clear instruction and Mr Verne was in no doubt that it would be obeyed. It was.

“Stand by my desk.” Mr Verne waved the paddle in its direction as if there could be any doubt what he meant. Bradley could not get his feet to move, they felt like they were encased in concrete. A spanking. His father-in-law wanted to spank him like he was Baxter. He wasn’t fourteen, he was a full grown man of twenty-two. He should tell Mr Verne this. A spanking with that cricket bat thing. How preposterous. Bradley said nothing. He was a coward as well as indolent. “Quickly,” Mr Verne scorned, “I haven’t got all night. My supper is waiting.”

Somehow, Bradley made it to the desk. His knees were weak and he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t fall to the floor in a dead faint. “Take down your trousers. Bend over the desk.” Bradley’s jaw dropped. Literally. His mouth gaped open. Now, he must say something. To take spanking would be an embarrassment; to suffer it trousers-down, a humiliation. Again, he said nothing. He had no courage.

Later, he couldn’t remember much of what happened next in that study. He must have taken hold of his braces and slipped them from his shoulders. The trousers were soon open and sliding down his legs. He was spread-eagled across the desk. His arms were stretched wide and his fingers gripped the edge of the desks. He rested his chin on the desktop and stared straight ahead at the ugly pattern in the wallpaper. Like this his bottom was raised at an angle over the front of the desk. Mr Verne made further preparations by taking hold of the tail of Bradley’s shirt and his singlet and pushing them up his back, exposing an inch or two of naked flesh. Bradley wore fashionable cotton shorts. They fastened by buttons at the side. This made it convenient for Mr Verne who soon had them at Bradley’s knees. The backside he was presented with was chubby. Mr Verne pressed the paddle blade into the buttocks taking note of how far it could sink into the flesh.

While he did all this, Bradley closed his eyes. It was all too unreal to him; it could easily have been a dream. He lay prostrate, submissively. His father-in-law owned him.

The buttocks though flabby were smooth with youth. Mr Verne patted Bradley’s bottom with the paddle, noticing how the cheeks quivered with anticipation. The paddle rose and fell three times in quick succession. Immediately, the flesh was stained bright pink as the paddle blade was imprinted across the peaks of the mounds.

The following smacks across the bare flesh were twice as loud as before. Bradley gasped sharply, hissing at the furious sting. Mr Verne waited patiently for the jiggling bottom to come to a halt.

He paddled slowly. He paddled hard. Bradley yelped and wiggled and cried out as the heat mounted. His cheeks turned from hot pink to a deep magenta. The change in colour encouraged Mr Verne in his endeavour. He swatted the paddle at a steady, unhurried rate, hammering the wood across the scorched buttocks again and again.

He counted twelve to himself. Was that enough, he wondered. How many would be “enough?” What was the lesson that he was trying to impart here? Mr Verne wasn’t sure, even in his own mind. Bradley would become an employee next Monday, he would work for his living. He would no longer be able to shirk his duties. None of that would change, no matter how many, or how few, swats of the paddle he received that evening.

Mr Verne halted, at that moment he realised why he wanted to punish the man submitting to him. It wasn’t only because he was lazy, indolent and idle. It wasn’t because he was a coward, although that fact helped. Mr Verne wanted to punish Bradley for stealing his daughter away from him. Of course, she would have eventually married; but she was worth so much better than this dolt, presently offering up his bare buttocks for the taste of the wood.

He lifted the paddle and let fly again. The middle portion of Bradley bottom was scorched, so Mr Verne aimed lower, into the under cheeks, on that sensitive “sit-spot” where the bum and thighs meet. Then he went higher to redden the tops of his cheeks. Bradley sobbed and whimpered for his boss and master to stop.

Mr Verne lined up the paddle as before, then hoisted it to his shoulder. He continued to bring it down in an easy, steady motion. It made a meaty “thunk!” as it connected. Bradley whimpered and his bottom shook violently.

Bradley was a mess. His face was blotchy with red and damp with tears and his eyes were bloodshot. His chubby cheeks were mottled with crimson and purple blotches. The once-smooth skin was rough and corrugated with tiny blisters. It looked like leather. The soreness would last for days. It was time to stop. Mr Verne put down the paddle and Bradley bleated with relief.

The ride back on the bus was horrendous. Bradley stood the whole way although many seats were vacant. He ignored the puzzled looks of his fellow passengers. By the time he reached home the worst of the pain had subsided. What had been an agonising hurt had become a constant throbbing. Before too long it would be an irritating ache. Martha greeted him with open arms. She busied herself in the kitchen, preparing a late supper. “Tell me all about it,” she gushed, “What did daddy say?”

Bradley just manged to supress a groan as he sat down on the hard chair. He hoped Martha didn’t notice how he wriggled. “He’s given me a job. I start on Monday,” Bradley said through gritted teeth.

“Marvellous!” Martha trilled. “Isn’t daddy just wonderful!”

“Yes,” Bradley groaned, “Marvellous.” He held his head  in  his hands. How would he explain away the bruises?

Picture credit: Unknown


Other stories you might like

You can never escape from Dad

Skipping school to watch football

My houseboy Nate


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second


The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7)

When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.



1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

z used drawing taws hold (8)

  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.


‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

“The Reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the Reverend desired.’

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

“Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.”

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

“Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

“He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

“The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

‘“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.”


Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

“He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”


Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second


Untidy housemates get a shock

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When John returned to the house he shared with three other fellows from Robinson’s department store he was in for a surprise. He noticed it the moment he entered the kitchen where he went to make a cup of tea. He couldn’t miss it. The kitchen was quite small and it would be difficult to hide anything there. But this was not hidden. Whoever had left it wanted it to be found.

John pursed his lips and his eyebrows knotted. He stopped in his tracks and stared at it for a while. He knew what it was at once, although he had never seen such a thing. Not in real life. He had seen many drawings and once or twice they had popped up on television, in old films from the black-and-white days. Where on earth had it come from?

He lit a match under the kettle and while it boiled he took a closer look. For a reason he couldn’t explain to himself it made him a little nervous. He inched closer to the edge of the table and stood over it. His nervousness was seeping into embarrassment. Why was it here? Who had left it out for all to see?

He looked around the room, he had left the door open. One of his housemates might appear at any moment. He had not checked but he felt sure that for now he was alone. Just to be sure he tip-toed from the room and crossed the passageway. The lounge room was empty. He stood at the foot of the stairs and craned his neck, seeking to hear tale-tale signs of life upstairs. All was silence. Satisfied, but with heart fluttering, he returned to the kitchen. The kettle whistled and he turned off the gas but left his tea unmade. He had other things on his mind.

He closed the kitchen door and checking that he could not be overseen from the garden he cautiously approached the table. It was still there, where he had left it. The tip of his tongue darted through a nearly-closed mouth. His lips were dry so he ran his tongue over them. There was a lump in his throat. He knew what he wanted to do. He needed to find some courage. Suddenly his palms sweated. He reproached himself silently. What was wrong with him! Why did this thing make him so nervous?

He rubbed his hands across the legs of his trousers and cautiously he leaned forward to pick it up. He moved slowly, as if the thing were white-hot, or was radioactive, or was threatening to explode at any moment. Gingerly, he picked it up between finger and thumb of his right hand. It surprised him. It was laughingly light. He licked his lips again and held it in his hands with as the reverence usually afforded a religious relic.

He peered down at it. He had never seen one before. He studied it. It didn’t look much close up. In his imagination he had always thought of this thing as awesome. But now he wondered, what was all the fuss about. He gripped it at one end, it was no heavier than a feather. He ran his hand over it. It was long and thin; about three feet he estimated, and no thicker than a pencil. It was dark yellow in colour with notches at every six inches or so. It was curved into a handle at one end and the other was a little frayed. He flexed it between his hands, surprised by its whippiness.

It was a school cane. He suddenly recalled that they had recently been in the news. The government had just banned corporal punishment in schools, there had been a terrific row about it in parliament. Teachers, parents and even the kids themselves were against the ban. John was unsure but he thought the decision had something to do with “Europe.”

He swished the cane through the air, impressed by the swooshing sound it made as it flew. Now, more relaxed, he flexed it to see how far it would bend. He couldn’t make both ends meet but he nearly got there. He swished the cane once more, conjuring up in his mind the image of a headmaster resplendent in academic gown and mortar-board cap. He swiped the cane across an imaginary schoolboy’s backside.

That was when the kitchen door opened. Ralph, one of his housemates, stood in the threshold. John blushed cherry red and in his confusion he let the cane fall onto the table. “I was making tea,” he croaked as he hurried back to the kettle.

Ralph surveyed the scene. His eye looked at the whippy, rattan cane and then across the room at John who was fumbling with tea caddy, pot and cups. “I bought it at Orwell’s Bazaar,” he said evenly. “I thought we needed more discipline in the house. Keith leaves the kitchen in such a mess. Albert’s not much better. I don’t know how many times I’ve spoken to them. Yes, I’ll have tea thank you.”

He took the proffered cup and saucer and blew across the top encouraging the tea to cool. He nodded at the cane on the table. “I hope not to have to use it, but it might be a deterrent, what do you think?”

John felt his face flush again. He mumbled a response that was no response at all. He had difficulty comprehending. The four housemates had shared the house for six months since Christmas. Ralph was three or four years older than the others and had lived there longest, he had chosen the others as companions and considered himself to be the landlord’s representative. He had once been School Captain at St. Tom’s an upscale public (that is elite) boarding school. He had never abandoned the role and continued his attitude into adult life, often treating the others as if they were juniors in the third form.

Ralph finished his tea and making his excuses he went to his room, leaving John to do the washing up. John was about to leave the crockery soaking in the sink until later when from the corner of his eye he saw the cane. Ralph’s words rang in his ears, I thought we needed more discipline in the house. Keith leaves the kitchen in such a mess. Albert’s not much better. He washed the cups and put them away before retreating to his own room.

Five minutes later Keith and Albert arrived together. “Blooming heck!” Keith chortled when he saw the cane, “Look at this!” He grasped it enthusiastically and with great delight he swished it through the air. “Whacko!” he roared with glee. Albert was keen to join in the fun. He gripped his knees and jutted out his backside in jocular fashion. “O’ive been a norky, likkle boy,” he gurgled, while wriggling his buttocks. Keith narrowed his eyes like a pantomime villain. “Pah! It’s six-of-the-best for you me lad,” he frowned jokingly. He skipped across the room, stopping close to Albert’s outstretched posterior. He raised the cane about shoulder height, wobbled it until it sang and then swiped it with force across the very centre of Albert’s seat. “Ouch! Yaroooo! Crikey!” Albert jumped to his feet while simultaneously rubbing away at his bottom in an exaggerated style, “You’ve hurt my botty-wotty.”

Keith flexed the cane between his hands and tried to effect a menacing stance. “Bend over boy. It’s six. There’s five more to go.” Albert was still rubbing the seat of his trousers, “No, thank you very much,” he gasped before dissolving into a fit of giggles.

It was much later that evening that Ralph convened what he chose to call a “house meeting.” The other three agreed Ralph could be a pompous ass at times. Ralph waved a piece of paper. On it, in his neat handwriting, was a list of household chores. “I’ve drawn up a rota. You’re all on it.” He did not emphasise that his own name was not. “You’ve all seen the cane in the kitchen. It will hang on the back of the door. Please don’t make me have to use it,” he said menacingly.

Over the next week or so the house was kept if not spotless, then at least tidy. The cane rattled each time the door was opened. It was a constant reminder of the penalty for domestic failure. None of the housemates took it down to play with it. It hung threateningly. None were in any doubt that Ralph was entirely serious.

One Saturday morning Keith and Albert were reclining in the lounge room. Keith was far from happy. “Somehow my father has learned about our trouble at The Three Fishers last weekend,” he said sorrowfully. He meant the time the two of them and another group of youngsters, tanked up on bitter beer, had cavorted down the High Street. Someone, not Keith or Albert, had urinated in the doorway of Orwell’s. The police were called, but what could they do? The yobs were sent on their way with the smallest flea in their ears.

“He’s coming to visit me here, later,” Keith sighed.

“What will he do?” Albert stretched his legs across the couch.

“Not much he can do really, I’m not a little kid anymore,” Keith brightened up. “Just give me a jawing, I suppose.”

Keith’s father, Mr Parkinson,  arrived with little ceremony. He was a big man in many senses. Not only was he tall and broad, he was a man of importance. He employed upward of one hundred people and made deals worth hundreds of thousands. He was not a man to be trifled with. When he spoke, people listened. Keith was right when he told Albert his father would give him a “jawing”. He feared the lecture might go on all day. Oh, how Keith wished his father would just shut up and go home. He already knew he had been an idiot to get drunk and go tearing down the High Street. He knew he had made a damned fool of himself, but his father wasn’t right when he said Keith had embarrassed the family. He hadn’t, Keith reckoned, but dared not say so to his father. He hadn’t appeared in court and nothing had been in the newspapers. Nothing had become public and he wondered how his father had found out.

At last Mr Parkinson had run out of words. There wasn’t any more he could say. He had made himself clear. “Bah!” he concluded. “Damn it boy. Go make me a cup of tea.” Keith was grateful to get off the couch and be out of the room. Mr Parkinson watched him go, his own heart beating fast, set off by the anger he felt. “The damn boy is getting away scott-free,” he thought silently.

As the kitchen door opened, he heard an unusual rattling noise. “Damn,” his son muttered, as he bent over to pick something off the floor. “What was that?” his father asked intrigued. His son blanched, “Oh, nothing Dad. Don’t worry. Let me get that tea.” His father recognised that tone of voice. Something was up. What was he hiding? He followed Keith into the kitchen.

“What the dickens,” his father’s face lit up while Keith’s darkened. The boy held the school cane in his hand. He fumbled his effort to hide it behind his back. “Give it here,” his father’s lips pursed and his eyes narrowed. Shamefacedly, Keith passed the long, thin, supple cane over. His father did what everyone seems to do when holding a cane. He flexed it between his hands to see how far it would bend. He wobbled it in front of his face before swishing it viciously through the air. He said nothing, but the changed expression on his face told that an idea had come to him.

“Where did this come from?” he inquired. Keith’s cheeks burned and his palms moistened as he told his father the story. Mr Parkinson roared with laughter. It was a genuine outburst. He had not heard anything so funny, so preposterous, in ages. He recovered some control of himself and asked “And, has he used it on you yet?” He took perverse pleasure at his son’s discomfort. “No, no, of course not, no,” the boy blustered. Mr Parkinson’s eyebrows knitted, he flexed the cane thoughtfully. He was debating with himself. “Ha! It’s only a matter of time.” Keith stepped backward, away from his father, he had an almost overwhelming desire to flee from the room. The cane swishing continued.

To Keith it seemed like an eternity, but in fact it only took Mr Parkinson seconds to make up his mind. “Perfect,” he said absent-mindedly, “absolutely perfect.” His son’s eyes shone, his throat suddenly dried, his heart beat twenty to the dozen. “No, Dad, no. Please. No. You can’t. Dad, no!” he almost wailed.

“Let’s go into the next room,” his father tucked the cane under his armpit, like some sergeant-major on parade. And, when Keith remained rooted to the spot, he thundered, “Now, lad!” Keith was twenty years old. He had a job and he lived away from his parents’ home, but in that moment he learned that he would never truly escape his father. He would always be in charge. His word would remain law until; until when? Well, until the day one of them died, Keith would later reflect. Keith, sorrowfully and at funeral-pace, led the way.

It was a small lounge, but nonetheless big enough for Mr Parkinson’s purposes. He had never been in the room before but it took mere seconds to appraise his possibilities. An armchair was pushed against the far wall. It had the perfect proportions. “Move that around,” he nodded towards it, “so the back faces into the room.” It was a clear command, given without histrionics. He expected to be obeyed; and he was. Meekly, his son shuffled the few paces necessary to cross the room. The chair was not heavy, but it was hard to get a hold because of the soft, shiny cloth that covered it. It slipped several times in his hand as he manoeuvred it. At last it was in place. He stood straight uncertain what he was supposed to do next.

His father might be considered an ‘old-fashioned’ man, even for the times in which he lived. He believed in order; he believed everything should be in its rightful place. He believed in hierarchy; some led while others followed. He believed in duty.  He believed it was his duty as a father to punish his son. Keith’s behaviour had been outrageous. The boy had been drunk and out of control. What kind of life could Keith expect if he had no self-discipline?

Mr Parkinson slipped the cane from under his arm and into his hand. He wobbled it in empty air while gazing at his son. Only for the first time since his arrival had he looked properly at the boy. Already he showed signs of degeneration. His face was pudgy, his waist thick. Too much beer and not enough exercise, his father concluded. Keith could not return his father’s stare, he found great interest in the complicated pattern in the carpet beneath his feet.

Mr Parkinson swished the cane at his son and waved it up and down, “Let’s have those trousers down. Underpants too.” Keith’s jaw fell and for a few moments his mouth remained open. His mouth wanted to voice a protest but his brain was numb, he couldn’t think of a word to say. His body would not move.

“Pah!” His father did not hide his exasperation. “Now, lad. Or do you want extra strokes?” He spoke imperiously, and to Keith his voice seemed to be coming from a long distance away. “Well lad?” the almighty swipe his father made with the cane brought Keith to his senses. He shook his head vigorously, “No, no … Please.”

He father suppressed a sneer, at that moment he disliked his son very much indeed. “Well, let’s get on with it shall we.” The trousers were loose-fitting and once Keith put his mind to the task they were soon open at the front and slipping over his flabby thighs. He let them rest at his knees. He took a deep breath and hesitated. He had been spanked by his father on his underpants as a kid, but never on the bare. “Pants too!” Mr Parkinson blurted. The boy closed his eyes, put his thumbs in the waistband of his dark-blue briefs and slowly guided them down. For a moment he stood like a rabbit in car headlights, afraid to move, aware that he was standing half naked in front of an older man. His cock dangled, demonstrating (if this was needed) to his father that he was no longer a boy.

Swipe! The cane flew through the air, then Mr Parkinson thwacked it with some force against the back of the chair, “Bend over.” Keith was resigned. There was no way to avoid this. His father was in control. Keith lived by his rules. No question. He shuffled his feet and turned on his heels. Now he faced the chair, he rubbed the palms of his hands together, tried to calm his beating heart and slowly leaned forward.

The chair was the perfect height to receive Keith. His cock dug into the apex of the chair and his stomach cleared it by an inch or so. His bottom was raised at a good angle to receive the beating. He reached forward and gripped the front of the seat cushion. His knees were slightly bent and his feet parted. The trousers and underpants stayed at his knees which meant he would be unable to kick his legs about too much once the cane began to bite.

Mr Parkinson waited for Keith to settle, “Head low, bottom high,” he intoned and he tapped the cane gently across his buttocks to encourage the boy further over the chair. “Good,” he said when Keith was positioned to his satisfaction. “Now, try not to move about too much. And don’t stand or try to impeded me. If you do, we’ll start all over again. Is that clear?” A muffled response spoken into the dusty seat cushion affirmed that it was.

Mr Parkinson stood a yard or so to his son’s left side (a cane’s length) and gently sawed the whippy rod across the centre of his buttocks. The cheeks were plump and he pressed the cane in hard, noticing how it left a line imprinted in the flesh. Satisfied of his aim, he moved the cane away, raised it so that it was above the height of his shoulder and with a twist of his body he brought it crashing down, using all the power in his forearm. Mr Parkinson was a keen golfer so had a great deal of upper body strength. A thin red line immediately appeared across Keith’s buttocks. The whole of his bottom wobbled, then his hips wriggled, his head moved from left to right like a horse trying to shake off a fly. He gasped, but swallowed down the yelp his body demanded he bark.

z used cane longz down cane armchair (1)

The second stroke hit lower, the third higher. Mr Parkinson had a large target and he made sure his whippy cane struck from the top of the mounds, over the crest of the hills and into the sensitive under-cheeks. It was a mightily-effective thrashing. Keith played his part. The pain was excruciating and it felt like his father was pressing a white-hot wire into his rear, but with some effort the boy stayed in position. True, his buttocks, wobbled, his hips swayed and his back arched, but at no time did he move from his submissive position. His father, quietly admired him for his fortitude.

There was no need for “extra strokes” – a dozen had been Mr Parkinson’s unannounced tariff and once the twelfth stroke had cut deep into the underside of his bottom (that one would reignite every time Keith sat down in the hours to come) he said quietly, “Okay. That’s over. You may stand. Get dressed.”

It took a moment for the boy to get his breath back. His body was wracked with pain and blood travelled through his arteries at the speed of light. His heartrate was off the scale, his temples throbbed as much as his bum, his eyes were blinded, he had no saliva in his mouth. He paused, still prostrate across the chair, waiting for his body to calm and recover. The pain in his bottom was powerful, but already it was dissipating. His scorched flesh cooled a little and the pain turned to an intense throbbing. As he stood and gingerly examined the damage with the tips of his fingers the surface of his corrugated bottom felt like leather. He sucked in air, still urging his blood pressure to fall. He reached down to his knees and in one movement he tugged up both his trousers and pants together and in great discomfort he wriggled them over his buttocks. He straightened himself and turned to face his father.

Only then, over Mr Parkinson’s shoulder, did he see Ralph standing half in and half out of the doorway. He was failing to suppress a grin. Mr Parkinson, alerted by his son’s stare, turned and for the first time realised that he had an audience. “Well done, Sir,” Ralph beamed, “A very fine job if you don’t mind me saying so.” Mr Parkinson flushed and looked down at the cane still in his hand. He had never been good at receiving compliments and he blushed profusely.

“Thank you, Ralph,” he glowed. “And, thank you for informing me about this little …” He nodded towards Keith, for once lost for words.

“A pleasure, Sir,” Ralph bowed his head as a courtier might to a king, “Indeed a pleasure.”

Picture credit: Unknown


Other stories you might like:

The housemates

Housemate pays the rent

Lodging with Uncle Ralph


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second