The Smiling Boy

z used face by Cat Bounds (15)

Archie Louden knew the boy was trouble from the start and it would end in tears.

It was all the fault of that infatuated vicar. He had a scheme to help “deprived youngsters” and against his will and his better judgement Archie agreed to let the boy into his home.

He could do your cleaning, laundry, vacuuming and so on, the vicar had assured him. It annoyed Archie that the vicar thought he was a vulnerable person in need of the church’s assistance.

“This is Dean,” the vicar gushed, clearly smitten by the twenty-year-old man with the sparkling hazel eyes and dazzling smile he brought to Archie’s house.

“Deprived?” Archie, thought, a “villain” more like. He could smell it on the boy from a mile away. The boy, an expert manipulator, had the vicar wrapped around his little finger. It was the eyes and the smile that did it. It was a warm smile that could melt the iciest of hearts, Dean knew this: he had practised it often enough in reform school. The smile could sell a lot of toothpaste.

Archie lived in a large house; he had been alone since his divorce twenty years previously. He children were now grown up with kids of their own and Archie lived the life of a lonely bachelor.

It was not that he wanted to be alone; in fact he only went to church because of the widow across the street attended. Archie was not the least interested in religion and he did not need the church’s help in cleaning his house. If he did, he would employ a cleaning lady.

Dean worked hard on his “bubbly personality.” Unlike so many youngsters his age, he was completely free of tattoos, and kept himself clean and tidy. He had a certain working-class character that Archie recognised; he was very like the cheeky chappies who used to work at his catering business before he sold it off; they always had some scheme going on.

Right from the start, Dean came on to Archie. A rich old bachelor, he thought, ripe for the taking. Archie was no fool; he could see that Dean made every excuse to point his backside at him while he did the vacuuming and cleaning. His jeans were not tight, not even snug, but they fitted him well, Archie smiled to himself, Dean was trying a little too hard.

Later one night after dining in an expensive restaurant with the widow, Archie thumbed through the banknotes in his wallet. Something was not quite right; some money appeared to be missing, but he could not be sure. He was not a poor man and the money left in his wallet was more than enough to pay for the meals. Had he spent the money? Was he getting forgetful in his old age? He had been to the grocery store, the fishmonger and the greengrocer earlier in the day; perhaps he had spent more than he remembered.

Archie thought no more it until the next visit from Dean. Money went missing again. He was almost certain of it. After Dean’s third visit, Archie called the vicar. He had set a trap for the boy. Archie had counted the money in his wallet before Dean arrived and marked each banknote with a small cross in pencil just below the Queen’s chin.

Archie was furious. He confronted the interfering vicar. How many times had Dean stolen from people before? Had he stolen from poor people who could not afford it? Were they going without meals or heating because of this lout?

“You must search the boy quickly before he spends the money,” Archie demanded.

An hour later the vicar phoned back to confirm what Archie already knew: Dean had the marked notes in his pocket.

“I’m calling the police,” Archie said and he meant it. He had no sympathy for the boy and this numbskull vicar.

“Oh no, please don’t do that,” the vicar was almost begging. If Archie had thought about it for a moment he would realise the vicar was more interested in his own reputation, than the smiling boy. What would people think of him allowing criminals into the homes of vulnerable people?

“If not the police, what do you intend to do about it?”

The vicar had no answer.

Then Archie had a germ of an idea. Years ago when he was about Dean’s age Archie had stolen money from his uncle’s wallet. Missing money was discovered, accusations made and after many initial denials a confession was obtained.

What happened next stayed with Archie for the rest of his life. His uncle had ordered him to strip naked and then to lay face down across the dining room table. Then he tied Archie’s wrists to the table legs.

Then a cane was produced and his uncle lashed his bare buttocks until they bled. This was not a caning; the sort schoolmasters might inflict on misbehaving pupils, this was a terrible flogging.

Archie shuddered at the recollection. Where did his bachelor uncle get that cane from?

He knew he would not be allowed to beat Dean the way his uncle had flogged him, but the boy deserved a good hiding at the very least.

When he put the idea to the vicar, Archie was very surprised that he did not argue the point.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the vicar said meekly, before putting down the telephone.

The next day Dean and the vicar stood nervously in the living room of Archie’s house. Dean still flashed his ingratiating smile, perhaps believing that even at this last minute he could still melt Archie’s ice cold heart.

But in his own heart Dean knew he had to take a spanking. He had a criminal record as long as his arm and if the police discovered the number of times he had recently stolen from pensioners in their homes he would certainly go to prison.

Archie had made preparations. He had a utility brush with sharp metal bristles that builders had left behind after they made repairs to the roof.  It was heavy and large, the wooden back would be very effective indeed.

Archie had never spanked anyone before but he reckoned Dean was a big lad and the brush would not hurt him enough so he also must be humiliated. Just as his uncle had humiliated him more than forty years ago,

“Strip naked.”

Dean was not smiling now.

“But surely Mr Louden could it not just be on the seat of his trousers?” the vicar tried to intervene.

Archie’s derisive snort put an end to any argument.

Resigned to his fate, Dean slipped his t-shirt over his head; loosened the belt of his jeans and let them fall to his feet. Then he kicked off his trainers and jeans. Now he stood in just his white socks and green and yellow striped briefs.

He hesitated and flashed that smile one more time. Archie could be an imposing figure when he chose to be and one look from him was enough. Dean pulled his socks off and then reluctantly put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and tugged them down to his ankles and stepped out of them.

Archie waited impassively and the vicar hoped no one noticed him sneaking admiring glances.

Dean’s scarlet face spoke volumes.

“You have nothing I haven’t seen before,” Archie lied. When did he ever have the chance to see a young man naked?

The sitting room was huge and easily accommodated an expensive leather sofa. It could seat three people and Archie plonked himself in the centre. Then with a snap of his fingers he ordered Dean to lay face down across his lap.

The young man complied and within seconds he was stretched out on the sofa, his legs resting to one side of Archie and his torso and head to the other. His buttocks were raised above Archie’s lap. Instinctively, the older man parted his legs a little so Dean’s genitals slipped between them to be out of harm’s way during the blistering buttock roasting he was about to get.

Even though he was a novice Archie made an excellent job destroying Dean’s arse. The heavy brush made a fearsome weapon. Dean was a large boy with expansive buttocks. It was difficult for Archie to get a good aim at the cheek nearest to him, but it did not stop the effectiveness of the spanking.

After only a few whacks Dean was hollering so loud Archie feared his neighbours might call the police to report a murder in progress.

He stopped long enough to ask the vicar for a handkerchief – which he then stuffed in Dean’s mouth.

Archie pounded the brush into Dean’s arse. The young man struggled with all his might to break free and lifted his body off the sofa and flailed his legs about. It was like he was trying to swim away, even though Archie had him pinned down across the waist.

“Hold his shoulders down,” it was a curt command to the vicar. He took hold of Dean’s naked shoulders and held on tightly hoping that the boy would not see the bulge in the front of his trousers. Not that Dean had much chance to; his face was now buried deep into the seat cushion.

The thrashing went on and on. Every part of the buttocks and the tops of the thighs were covered in bruises, which soon seeped blood. Dean’s face was puce and with the handkerchief in his mouth and his face pressed into the cushion, he found it hard to catch his breath.

But still Archie spanked on. He was in complete control. This was not a frenzied attack, but coolly calculated, just as Dean’s thieving had been. His bawling and sobbing became emotionally unrestrained screaming and wailing – like a ten year old. The boy’s tears flowed and the sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched as he trembled with each new swat.

Eventually it was over and with contempt Archie pushed the young thief off his lap and onto the floor where Dean laid, his naked body jerking like a goldfish out of water.

The vicar fearing he might be dying took the hanky out of his mouth and fondly wiped Dean’s tear-and-snot-stained face.

Archie looked on. The boy was a pitiful sight and for a second, but only a second, he felt remorse for him, but he quickly checked himself. Dean deserved all he got. The flogging Archie had received from his uncle ensured he never stole again. Perhaps someone should have done this to Dean a long time ago.

Dean was still face down on the carpet, unable to move. Unbidden, the vicar went into the kitchen where Archie could hear the sound of water running. The vicar returned with a bowl of warm water and a tea towel and tenderly washed Dean’s bloodied buttocks. The vicar’s groin was throbbing almost as much as the boy’s backside.

Eventually, Dean was able to haul himself to his feet and in intense agony with the help of the vicar he managed to dress.

No words were exchanged between Archie and the boy or the vicar. Once they had left, Archie, his hands trembling, poured a glass of whisky.

He never saw Dean or the vicar again.

Picture credit: Cat Bounds

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Transformation

new story 2

z used adult schoolboy shorts cane touch toes (1)

Mr Williams was known to his neighbours as a man of habits. He left the house sharp at 08.30 hrs each morning (Monday to Friday inclusive) and walked the short distance to the railway station where he caught the 08.47 hrs to his workplace, returning home on the 17.17 hrs and depending on the efficiency of the train service he was back in his house in time for the 18.00 hrs news on the wireless.

He spent Saturday mornings in Brocklehurst town centre purchasing provisions, ensuring his tasks were completed no later than 13.00 hrs. In summer he spent Saturday afternoons working in his garden. On Sundays, whatever the season, he took his place on the end of the third pew from the back at St. Andrew’s Church.

He spoke to no one at the church and rarely to his neighbours. The best they might get from him was a mumbled “Good morning,” if severely pressed. He liked it like that and so did his neighbours; The Avenue was that kind of street.

On Sunday afternoon, like this particular day, he would retire to his back bedroom. There he would divest himself of his overly-formal custom-tailored dark-grey three-piece suit before carefully placing it upon a hanger, which he would then equally as carefully place at the back of a single-sized wardrobe, alongside the shop-bought business suits he wore during the week.

He would stand quite naked, apart from a pair of cream-coloured long johns, and for a moment or two contemplate his sagging frame in the mirror. Before opening a second much larger wardrobe. Flicking through the clothes hanging on the bar, each in a dust proof bag, he would make his selection. Then with the care that was his watchword he would remove each dust bag and lay the garments over the back of a small upholstered armchair.

First, he slipped into the heavy cotton collarless white shirt before unsteadily perching on one leg he pulled on a pair of heavy black twill trousers. He struggled to get a thick dark grey waistcoat to fully button across his rotund stomach. It had been many moons since he had managed to fasten the lower most button. Then, he took hold of a black jacket. This he pulled over his waistcoat. He stretched his arms wide and circled them like windmills; testing that there was sufficient ‘give’ in his clothes.

Almost fully dressed, he wobbled across the room to an ancient battered chest of drawers. He opened the first one and extracted a cardboard wing collar and stud. It was but a moment’s work to get each attached. He was very nearly done. A black tie, no wider than a bootlace, completed the ensemble. In the second drawer down he found a black hat. It was he admitted to himself his pride and joy. It was the authentic thing. Decades old. He had bought it from a retired schoolmaster from the local St. Francis School; a mortar-board cap, a little battered by decades of use. The tassel hanging from one corner was classic. Although both his hands were unsteady he fixed it squarely on his head. His heart thumped hard.

“Nearly there,” he told himself silently. Only one more thing to do before he could get started. He stooped low and tugged at the bottom drawer. It was often a bugger to get open. It stuck as usual. “Damn and blast! What is wrong with the damned thing!” he cursed openly although no one was there to hear. Suddenly, the drawer sprang loose, almost sending him tumbling to the floor and onto his backside.

He breathed deeply and his eyes shone. Almost reverentially he leaned forward, putting both hands into the drawer. He smacked his lips and withdrew his pride and joy. He held it high like an offering at the altar. He beamed as he held in his hands three-and-a-bit feet of whippy rattan cane. He had probably handled the school cane more times than he would like to relate, but that never diminished the thrill he experienced each time he pulled it from the drawer. At first he held it beneath the crook-handle. It was as thick as a pencil and as light as a feather.

He returned to the wardrobe and carefully, for this garment could best be described as delicate (‘tatty’ might be more honest), extracted an authentic schoolmaster’s academic gown. He eased it across his shoulder. He turned and faced the mirror. He flexed the cane between his hands; then he swished it through the open air. In the silence of the room it made a terrific swish as it flew! “Bend over boy! Touch your toes!” he scowled. He swiped the cane once more. His transformation to Dr Selwyn Gerard, Headmaster of Albion School, was complete.

….

 

Jessop stood in his bright white Y-front underpants. They were brand new and he delighted in rubbing the palm of his hands across his meaty buttocks to luxuriate in the touch of the soft cotton. He picked up his vest. It smelt as fresh as a daisy. He wriggled it over his head. It fitted well if Jessop ignored his growing tummy. He paused, looked round the room and realised there was no mirror. A trifle disheartened, he carried on and reaching over to the table once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. The shirt was laundered to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar.

Once dressed he picked up his short trousers. They were mid-grey and properly short. Collywobbles fluttered in his stomach when he athletically stepped first into the left leg and then the right. He pulled them tight and buttoned up. He could not see himself but he knew his face was glowing; blood coursed through his arteries and his fingertips tingled.

He and found his school tie. It was black-and-white diagonal stripes, the Albion School colours. Without a mirror, Jessop had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Gerard. Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

He cursed that there was no mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, then with alacrity dodged back into the room when he saw a man in the street walking a dog. Disappointed, he fell into a sumptuous leather armchair to pull up his woollen stockings. They were so very long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and short trousers. He folded over the black-and-white tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up Clarke’s shoes. Now, he was almost ready: only two more items to put on and he would be fully dressed. The school blazer was draped over a heavy wooden coat-hanger. Andrew caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb. He picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. It was a black blazer with white braiding; simple elegance, he thought. Finally, he took hold of the black-quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head.

Jessop was ready.

….

Dr Selwyn Gerard, admired his vision in the mirror. His heart beat thirteen to the dozen. He tucked his whippy rattan cane under his arm and turned to a small cupboard in the corner of the room. His secret stash! He poured himself a small measure of whisky from a chunky decanter, downed it in one, and proceeded from the room.

Moments later he was across the passageway and in his study. The room had been designed as a bedroom in a family house but Dr Gerard had no need for family. Long ago he had converted the room to a study. It was sparsely furnished. There was an ancient desk, a glass-fronted bookcase (complete with school textbooks long ago purchased from a charity shop), an umbrella stand, two hardback chairs and a splendid leather armchair.

He sat himself down behind his desk. The top was empty, save for a blotting pad and an inkwell. He rested his cane down, and waited. Moments later there was a timid knock on the door. Dr Gerard took a deep breath, his palms were sweaty so he rubbed them against his academic gown. He cleared his throat and with an authoritative air, called, “Come!” He watched as the handle twitched, the door slowly inched open, and the top of a school cap appeared, then halted.

“Come on boy!” Dr Gerard roared, “I don’t have all afternoon!” Jessop tumbled into the study, pink-faced.

“There boy!” Dr Gerard snapped, clicking his fingers and pointing to a spot on the carpet in front of his desk. Jessop shuffled forward and stood placing his hands behind his back while hopping from foot to foot. His eyes were downcast. Dr Gerard surveyed the scene before him and growled, “Stand up straight boy! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Jessop straightened a little. He was no star of the Officers’ Training Corp and he could no more stand to attention with thumbs in line with the seam of his trousers as fly. He stared at a photograph of the school rugby team an inch or so above the headmaster’s head.

“Jessop, Jessop, Jessop,” Dr Gerard sighed as if the boy before him represented all the troubles in the world, “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” the boy sniffled. Dr Gerrard’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. Didn’t the boy know a rhetorical question when he heard one?

“I have reports from your housemaster. You have absconded from school twice. The first time you were punished by Mr Corlett. Now, you have absented yourself again and this time you were found at the travelling fair!” He paused for effect. “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” Jessop replied again.

“Don’t you,” Dr Gerard scowled, looking down at the cane on his desk, “Don’t you really?” Jessop paled. He entwined his fingers behind his back and looked down at the desk. “Oh sir,” he whimpered.

“Oh sir, indeed!” Dr Gerard was in his element. “You leave me very little choice Jessop.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and glared at the boy. “None at all.” He wiped his sweaty palms once more. “Come on boy, let’s get on with it. You know what is expected.”

Jessop bit his bottom lip, his feet were rooted to the floor but he twisted his body so he could scan across the room. The headmaster read his mind. “I think we’ll have you by the door Jessop.”

“Oh sir.” Jessop was a boy of few words. He stood miserably as the headmaster hauled himself from his chair. “Stand there!” he commanded, pointing to the door. Jessop grimaced. There wasn’t anything he could say. What was the point? He had been caught bang to rights. Dr Gerard was the headmaster and he, Jessop, was the pupil. Matters must take their course.

Dr Gerard picked up the cane and delighted when colour drained from Jessop’s face. He swiped the cane through the air. “Bend over, touch your toes.” Jessop’s mouth opened and closed as if he were about to protest. “Something to say about the matter, Jessop?” the headmaster snarled.

“No sir. Sorry sir.” Jessop turned his back on his tormentor and in one athletic movement he spread his legs, bent forward and pressed his fingertips against the toes of his shoes. He knew from experience with Dr Gerard that “ touch your toes” meant just that; not shins or knees. Jessop looked down at the dark grey carpet. He breathed deeply. This would hurt. This would hurt a lot.

He felt his short trousers and Y-front underpants stretch across his buttocks; he was presenting the headmaster with a terrific target. He felt the stout whippy cane tap against the underside of his cheeks. “Let’s say twelve shall we Jessop,” Dr Gerard said calmly. There was a pause and for a moment Jessop wondered if he were expected to reply. Perhaps he was being asked to bargain, “Oh no sir,” he could say, “I think six would be quite sufficient.” Or, he might even be expected to say, “Oh for a second offence I should get eighteen. Would you prefer it if I also lowered my trousers and underpants?”

The headmaster did not expect a reply. He took his aim, lifted the cane away from the stretched buttocks so that it made an arc and brought it bouncing down with much vigour do that it bit deep into Jessop’s bottom. The boy shut his teeth and screwed his eyes tightly shut, but beyond that he made no movement.

Dr Gerard watched thoughtfully.  He admired a boy who could take a beating stoically. It made his job so much easier. He set cut number two thwacking into the very centre of both cheeks so that a dark welt immediately rose across the fleshiest part of Jessop’s bum. His knees buckled slightly with the fierce impact, but still the boy could take it. In truth, Jessop was no novice to the cane. His bottom was beaten on a regular basis. Rarely had the marks disappeared after a thrashing than he was presenting his bottom for punishment once again.

The echo of thwacks three and four delivered in quick succession echoed around the study. The headmaster paused to admire his handiwork. The marks of the cane were clearly visible embedded into the tight cloth of the short trousers. “Good aiming!” he silently congratulated himself.

Dr Gerard positioned his feet. When he had judged that the hurt was ebbing away from Jessop’s bottom: Swipe! The next cut struck home, maybe a half inch below the others; but there was still plenty of room on the boy’s bottom for lots more strokes. By the time he had finished the whole of Jessop’s bottom, from the top of the mounds, across the very apex of the cheeks and into the fleshiest underside where the bum nearly meets the thighs would be covered with perfectly parallel lines. That was only if the boy was able to maintain his position manfully under the onslaught.

Jessop rocked on the balls of his feet; his mouth opened and closed, but he made no sound. A sharp pain attacked his rear, but very quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Jessop had a high pain threshold. He could take a beating stoically. But Dr Gerard knew how to lay on a caning with some vim. The pain in Jessop’s backside mounted as each successive stroke connected with his jutting backside. His heart raced, blood coursed through his arteries, he found it difficult to catch his breath.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Dr Gerard’s heart raced, perspiration ran down his spine; he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Jessop wriggled his hips, his bum was on fire. This was one heck of a caning. He tensed, hoping he could withstand this onslaught. The cane tapped once more across his bottom. He took a deep breath.

Suddenly, the chimes of a doorbell rang out. Dr Gerard stopped mid-stoke. He harrumphed! Through his outstretched legs, Jessop watched as the headmaster shuffled to the window and ensuring he could not be seen from outside, he peered through. A man was standing at the front door, looking rather irate.

Mr Williams winced and turned to the boy who was still obediently touching his toes. “Did you park your car in front of number twenty-six again?” he groaned.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Trouble at the Mall

z used drawing paddle hold (6)

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Bernie always called Jeff “young man” even though he was two years his junior.

Jeff had been anticipating this since he acted up in the mall.  The shopping trip had not been a success. Bernie had wanted to buy a new suit and couldn’t find one he liked. Jeff, who hated shopping, became more and more irritated at each store, until eventually he stormed off.

“You can find me at the coffee shop when you’re ready.”

Bernie exploded with anger and to the embarrassment of some on-lookers called after Jeff’s disappearing body, “You wait till I get you home, young man!”

Back home Jeff was immediately ordered to his room to change his clothes. Sulkily, he removed his sweater, shirt and pants and dropped them onto the bed. He opened up his closet and took out a freshly-laundered gray shirt; a striped necktie was hanging nearby. He took his time putting them on making sure the tie was knotted perfectly.

He pushed aside a row of slacks on the closet rail and found what he was looking for: gray short pants. He sighed as he stepped into them, first the left leg, then the right. He pulled them on and buttoned up. He took a pair of socks from a drawer, sat on the bed and pulled them on; they were so long they came way above the knee, so he turned down the tops an inch or so.

From the back of the drawer, he fished out an English-style schoolboy’s cap and put it on top of his head. He was ready to return downstairs to face Bernie and whatever it was he had in store for him today.

Bernie always said if Jeff was determined to behave like an eight-year-old boy, he would be treated like one and that meant dressing like one and getting plenty of spankings.

Jeff had put on one of Bernie’s favourite outfits: the English school uniform. Bernie had gotten the idea from a photograph of Princess Diana and her two sons, the Princes William and Harry. The kids were about six or seven and on their way to their up-scale preparatory school. They were dressed entirely in gray: short trousers, knee socks; jacket and best of all an English school cap.

Bernie loved that school uniform and after some searching on the Internet, he found a place in England where they sold identical clothes in Jeff’s size.

Bernie often forced Jeff into children’s clothes; sometimes for days on end. The deal would be as soon as he got home from work he changed and stayed like that until it was time to go back to work next day. If he wanted to leave the house, he would have to go out in his school uniform.

One weekend, Bernie threatened to make Jeff wear his school uniform to the mall if he didn’t stop acting up. Although he didn’t let on to Bernie, Jeff quite liked the idea of parading around in public dressed as an eight-year-old English schoolboy. He had read on the Internet of some middle-aged guy in England who travelled on the London Underground all day dressed in short trousers, school blazer and cap and no passenger batted an eyelid.

“Stand in the corner, hands on head,” Jeff was told when he entered the lounge room. Bernie was seated on a couch, flicking over the pages of the newspaper. He was in no hurry; Bernie knew Jeff hated waiting for spankings: sometimes Jeff thought waiting was the worst part. Good, thought Bernie, he would let Jeff stew for a while.

After about five minutes, Bernie said, “Turn around young man and face me.” Jeff, still with his hands on his heads, obeyed immediately.

“You behaved like a brat at the mall, what have you got to say for yourself young man?”

Jeff stared at his feet in embarrassment, but said nothing.

“Speak up young man. You embarrassed me in public this afternoon. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” mumbled at the carpet.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man. What did you say?”

Jeff looked up but couldn’t meet Bernie’s eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You will be young man. Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

Jeff shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

“Doh! Stand back in the corner and wait till I return.”

Jeff knew Bernie was off to find a paddle to spank him with. Bernie had quite a collection, which one would he use this time? One paddle he had recently bought was made of clear plastic and had holes drilled in it: that one hurt like hell, especially if it were applied with his pants down.

Moments later Bernie returned, not with a paddle, but with a sheaf of writing paper and a pencil.

“Turn round, young man.”

Jeff was puzzled when he saw Bernie did not have a paddle. What was happening? Was he only going to get a hand spanking?

Bernie placed the writing paper and pencil on a table.

“I want you to write out fifty times, ‘I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.’ Make sure it is in your neatest handwriting, young man, or else.”

Bernie did not need to spell out what “or else” meant Jeff could imagine the pain he was going to be in by the end of the afternoon. It was a cruel trick, Bernie knew Jeff’s handwriting was almost illegible, even when he tried his hardest and wrote very slowly indeed, it was nearly always impossible to read what he had written.

“Sit down and get started. I’ll be back in half an hour to see how you are getting on. Remember, neatest handwriting, young man. Or else.”

Jeff did try, he really tried, to write his lines neatly. He held the pencil tightly in his hand and slowly began to write, “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.” After he had written the sentence five times, his hand ached terribly. He wasn’t used to writing by hand. His keyboard skills were magnificent, his fingers flew across the letters and he could input forty words a minute. But, he was hopeless with a pen or pencil and that was just a fact and here was nothing he could do about it.

Resigned to the bottom blistering that would inevitably follow, Jeff scrawled “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall,” forty-five more times.

“Completely illegible. I can’t decipher a word. If I didn’t already know what this said, I would never be able to understand it. Well, young man, you know what’s coming.”

Yes, Jeff knew what was coming and he wished Bernie would just get on with it.

“Back in the corner, young man. Hands on head.”

Jeff obliged and Bernie left the room. This time when he returned he was carrying a paddle and to Jeff’s dismay it was the heavy plastic Lexan.

“Turn and face me. Keep those hands on the head. Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man.”

Bernie recapped all Jeff’s failings that day, especially the misbehaviour at the mall and the storming off in a temper. He added the poorly-written lines for good measure.

He picked up a chair that was tucked neatly under the dining room table, turned it round, and sat down. Bernie kept his back straight and planted his legs apart to create a platform that would soon receive Jeff’s body.

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Jeff kept his hands on his head and stepped forward so he stood immediately in front of Bernie.

“Don’t think you’re keeping these on, young man,” he said, as he unbuttoned the short pants and let them fall to the ground.

“Bend over my knee.”

Jeff hesitated.

“Doh! Come here,” Bernie took Jeff’s arm and with an expertise borne from practice, he pulled him face down across his knee.

“This is going to hurt me just as much as it hurts you, young man,” Bernie said that every time he spanked Jeff, but Jeff knew for sure it wasn’t true.

Bernie raised the paddle and brought it smacking down into the seat of Jeff’s tight underpants.

The first spanks were always mild; Bernie was just warming Jeff up for the real onslaught that was to follow.

Jeff gasped a little as the paddle landed on his left cheek, then the right, then across the middle of both at once, but he made no other sound. He knew from experience that the real spanking began the moment Bernie gripped the elasticated waist of his underwear and tugged them down over his thighs. An intense bare-bottomed blistering would always follow.

Neither of them was keeping time, but it must have been at least five minutes before Bernie bared Jeff’s buttocks. They were a deep red by this time and Bernie reckoned they must be pretty sore by now.

Undeterred, he raised his arm high and brought the paddle down hard into the naked flesh. Jeff felt that one, most definitely. He felt the next dozen as well, each one spanking into his fleshy ass with force. Jeff wanted to be a brave boy and not cry out – at least try not to cry out too soon.

His resolve broke after about twenty-five swats. The pain was intense and Jeff knew his buttocks would be turning from scarlet to mauve about now. The bruising would be intense and last for days, or even a week.

Bernie spanked on … and on. He hadn’t made up his mind how many whacks to deliver. It had to be a lot, there were two crimes here that that to be paid for: the bad behaviour at the mall and the crapily-written lines.

Jeff was sobbing by now, crying genuine tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“That’s the point young man. That’s the point,” and Bernie kept raising the paddle and crashing it down into Jeff’s naked cheeks.

“Please, I will be a good boy, I will behave. I’m sorry,” it sounded like genuine repentance, but Bernie had heard it all before. This wasn’t the first time they had problems at the mall, but, he reckoned, if he did his job well today, it should be the last.

Bernie spanked on oblivious to Jeff’s pleadings.

Suddenly, the sound of plastic on bare flesh and a man’s cries was broken by the distinctive ring-tone of a cell phone. Bernie stopped spanking.

“It’s the Bat Phone,” Bernie said, using the joke name they had for the emergency cell phone.

He let Jeff up from his lap and, he crossed the room, trying to rub the soreness out of his buttocks. He picked up the phone and said his name. The person at the other end had a curt message and Jeff turned off the phone.

Turning to Bernie, he said, “That was the hospital there’s been an incident and I have to give emergency surgery. I have to go.”

Not waiting to pick up his short pants from the floor where they had fallen, he rushed upstairs, changed into his outdoor clothes and was in the car on his way to the hospital inside two minutes. Sitting was extremely painful and he was grateful that he would be performing surgery standing up.

Through the window Bernie watched him go and then cleaned up. He didn’t put the paddle back with the others, instead he left it on the dining room table, thinking, “We’ll continue with this when you return, young man.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

My father’s legacy

The freshman class

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Expenses Fiddle

z used drawing cane hold (26)

Mr Harkaway shuffled the papers on his desk. Something did not look right. He walked over to the filing cabinet and found last month’s returns.

Stupid, stupid, stupid boy! He did not say it out loud as there was nobody in the office to say it to.

He had unearthed an expenses fraud. It was blatant; the work of an amateur. Tony Michaels, a trainee salesman, was writing his own petrol receipts. It was the oldest trick in the book and that was why it was so easy to spot.

Harkaway’s heart raced; he would have to report this; there would be trouble; the police would probably be called and there could be a court case. It would all end in tears.

Harkaway hated confrontation. It was bad for his health. Harkaway had joined Tilotson’s about two years previously. He had taught maths at a local secondary modern school for twenty years. They were tough kids who never understood the value of learning. Every day was a confrontation, but he and the other teachers had one weapon on their side: the cane. Even the toughest boys could be brought to order by a length of swishy rattan.

Then, a new ‘progressive’ headteacher arrived; with ‘ideals.’ Corporal punishment was abolished and the inmates took over the asylum. It was chaos from day one and order was never restored.

Harkaway suffered the inevitable breakdown. Now, he had a nice little job in the accounts department shuffling pieces of paper and balancing columns of figures. He did not have to meet many people in his job, especially not unruly teenagers, and he liked it just like that.

Harkaway had never heard of Tony Michaels, so he made the short journey down the corridor to see his colleague Mr MacDonald, himself another refugee from modern schooling. Within minutes, Harkaway was reading the trainee salesman’s file.

“Damn!” This time he did say it out loud.

“What’s the matter?” asked MacDonald, although he was not really interested.

“This salesman. He’s nineteen years old. Been here a year since he left St Francis Grammar School. He’s got really good reviews from his boss. Expected to go far,” Harkaway replied.

“So what?” MacDonald sensed his colleague’s distress.

Harkaway told him about the expenses fraud.

“It’s the end of his career. He could even get a criminal record. It’s such a waste.”

MacDonald had never met the teenager, but he felt sad for him. “What are you going to do?”

Harkaway was more distressed than he expected to be, “When I think of all the children at our school who never had a chance. Now, here’s this lad, with all the chances in the world and he’s throwing them away. It makes me so angry.”

Harkaway knew that he was expected to report him to his manager. Those were the rules. Let Michaels explain himself and leave it for others to make the decision.

“I’ll have to report him, of course,” Harkaway said wearily.

“Yes, of course,” MacDonald returned the file to the drawer. “What a pity there can’t be some other way to deal with it.”

Another way? Later, when Harkaway was eating his lunch the germ of an idea entered his head. It might just work, but he doubted Michaels would agree.

Back in his office, Harkaway found a ‘Girl Friday’ and instructed her to tell Michaels to report to his office at once. She was startled by the ferocity of his tone.

Harkaway had many years’ experience dealing with misbehaving schoolboys. He was used to hearing their denials and false excuses, but he would break them down in the end. He did it with facts; he presented the evidence.

Michaels was not like his secondary modern pupils. He was smart, well presented and articulate. No wonder he was doing so well as a trainee salesman. It made Harkaway furious. He thought of all those boys and girls at his former school who never had a chance. They were put on the scrapheap. Now, here was Michaels; he had every opportunity to make something of himself and he was throwing it away.

Yes, Michaels agreed under questioning; he had forged the petrol receipts. He had no choice but to confess, the evidence was undeniable. He could have kicked himself for being so obvious.

“Why did you do it Michaels?” The teenager recognised Harkaway’s tone; he had heard it many times from masters at his grammar school. He could tell he was in for a ticking off, but at school it would be followed by a caning.

He knew why he had done it but he was not about to tell Harkaway. He wanted the money. He wanted to buy things, like smokes, clothes, records and to go to discos. He wanted to take a girl out and give her a good time (and later have her give him a good time). All these things cost money: more than he earned.

Instead, in the way naughty schoolboys had done for generations, Michaels stared at his shoes and mumbled, “Don’t know, Sir.”

“Sir,” Harkaway liked that. Maybe there was some hope for this wretched boy after all.

“You don’t know!” Harkaway pretended to fume, “You took a lot of trouble to perpetrate this forgery, you must have needed the money pretty badly.”

Michaels remained silent. If this had been the United States he would have invoked the Fifth Amendment: say nothing, do not incriminate yourself.

“Doh!” Harkaway’s frustration was evident.

“You do know you will be dismissed for this. The police might be called and you could end up with a criminal record?” Harkaway barked.

Michaels blanched. He had not thought of that. He had been so stupid he did not think he would be caught. The consequences of his actions had never occurred to him.

“B… But,” he started miserably, but his famous salesman’s gift-of-the-gab eluded him. Somehow he must save his job and keep the police out of this.

Harkaway was unsure how to turn the conversation to reveal his plan.

Unsteadily, he began. “I see in your personnel file you attended St Francis Independent Grammar School.” He paused to see if there was a reaction from Michaels. There was not.

So he blundered on. “It is a school with a very fine tradition for … err … for discipline.”

Still Michaels remained silent.

“What would your headmaster think about how you have behaved? How you have let down the honour of the school.”

Michaels did not give a damn about what the school thought about his behaviour. He was very glad to be away from there. It would suit him very much indeed if he never saw the place again. Why was this lowly accounts clerk lecturing him about school and honour?

“I was myself a schoolteacher for many years. Not at such a fine school as St Francis, of course,” Harkaway was losing his thread. This was too embarrassing; why did he care about this boy? He was a thief; he deserved to be sacked and to be prosecuted. He should let events take their course.

He was about to dismiss the teenager from his office when Michaels piped up. Suddenly, he had realised what this was about: discipline … school … honour.

“I am sorry Sir. I have behaved badly,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. “I deserve to be punished severely, but could it be without losing my job. I will never do it again. I promise.”

It was a lie and Michaels knew it. He enjoyed the clothes, the clubs and the girls too much to give them up. He would lose the lot if he was sacked. But if he could stay with Tilotson’s, later when the heat had died down he would find another more successful way to steal from the company. But, for now he would have to take what was coming to him.

Harkaway flushed. Had he understood the boy correctly? “What would your headmaster have done if he found you stealing?”

It was now or never, Michaels realised. He took a deep breath. “He would have thrashed me,” and then for dramatic effect he added, “And I should have deserved it, too.” And, for good measure he added, “Sir!”

And, that was how four hours later, Tony Michaels, a nineteen-year-old trainee salesman, came to be standing in Harkaway’s living room at his home. He had had plenty of time to change his mind, but he knew he had no choice; he had to go through with it.

Harkaway flexed a long, yellow, rattan cane thoughtfully between his hands. He could not get the measure of young Michaels. He seemed impassive to his fate.

“Have you been caned before, Michaels?” Harkaway swished the rattan through the air to try to intimidate the boy.

“No, sir,” it was another lie. There was no reason to tell it, but Michaels seemed incapable of telling the truth. He had been caned. It hurt like crazy, but it did not kill him.

If he had thought being a caning novice would make Harkaway go easy on him, he was much mistaken.

“Then, young man this will be an awesome experience for you. I do not intend to be lenient at all. This will be a thrashing you will never forget.”

Michaels’ heart raced. Exactly what did this jumped-up accounts clerk have in mind?

Harkaway eyed the teenager. He wore a smartly-cut dark suit. His buttocks would make a perfect target in those trousers, he thought.

But, he would never find that out.

“Take off your jacket, Michaels,” he swished the cane, “and place it on the table there.”

Only now, did the magnitude of this sink in. This could turn out to be one hell of a thrashing. With trembling hands, Michaels undid the two buttons on his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. Then he tidily folded the immaculate jacket and put it on the table.

“Now, stand behind that armchair,” the cane swished again for emphasis.

Colour was draining from Michaels’ face as he took two or three steps to cross the room.

He breathed deeply, waiting for the final instruction: bend over.

“Now lower your trousers, Michaels.”

The teenager’s mouth gaped open, but he just stopped himself voicing an objection. He had not expected this: Harkaway had not said it was to be on the pants; or God forbid on the bare.

Michaels looked pleading at Harkaway, but the ex-schoolteacher was not to be moved.

“Do it immediately, boy,” he intoned quietly, “or you will receive extra strokes.”

Michaels closed his eyes and cussed silently. Then he unbuckled his belt, and popped the buttons on his trousers before he guided them across his buttocks and down his thighs where they came to rest at his knees.

He could feel a cool breeze against his now bare legs. Please God, he prayed, please let me keep my pants on.

“Bend over the chair, Michaels.”

Oh thank you God! Michaels placed his hands together as if in prayer, rubbed the palms, took a deep breath and dived forward over the back of the ugly vinyl armchair.

His face came to rest on an old worn cushion. The odour of stale sweat filled his nostrils.

“Feet further apart boy.”

While the teenager manoeuvred himself into the required position, Harkaway approached him from behind, grabbed at the tail of his shirt and carefully rolled it up until it rested half way up his back.

Then he grabbed the waistband of the boy’s gleaming white underpants.

“Oh, no! God, you have deceived me!” Michaels would have words to say the next time he attended his church.

The pants were soon reunited with the trousers.

Harkaway did not announce the number of strokes he intended to deliver, so it came as an almighty shock to Michaels’ system when a dozen hard cuts lashed into his naked buttocks and each one laid on with the greatest force.

Harkaway had never caned a boy with such ferocity. Later, recalling the incident to his colleague Mr MacDonald, he would say he did not remember much of what happened. He did recall the anguished shrieks from the boy as lash after lash whipped into his buttocks. And, he remembered the squirming as the boy’s body thrashed from left and right and up and down as if it were being tossed about on a heavy sea.

After the boy had dressed and left the house, Harkaway found a tea towel soaked in his blood.

If Harkaway’s memory was blurred, Tony Michaels remembered every second of every minute.

My arse is tight and open, all my muscles in my legs and buttocks are tense, and I cannot flex my backside. I can also feel my cock touching the top of the chair.

I hear some swishing sounds which send tremors all through my body. Next I feel the cane touch my backside, right in the middle. It rests there, for a moment. There are a few taps, which sting.

Before I have time to think any more there is a zip sound, followed by absolute agony. I could not believe how much pain I was in. It was sharp, but then it built up like a burn going deeper and deeper into me. Just as it started to fade the next stroke landed.

I had been caned at school – many times, it was that kind of school – but I had never felt such pain in my whole life as I did under Harkaway’s cane.

I could feel burning lines across my bum, the first across the fleshiest part and each stroke that followed cut just below the last. I was screaming, sweating, gasping and gripping the chair with both hands desperately trying to stay in position. I so wanted to run away, but some schoolboy code of honour must have kicked in: I knew I must take my punishment like a man.

Mr Harkaway waited a little longer before delivering another stroke, which left me in intense agony. The bastard laid it diagonally across previous welts, raising the heat and burn in all of them again. I could feel blood oozing from the wounds which felt very deep.

Slash number eight was the same and so were the final four but they were diagonals laid on the other way round.

Throughout, I shrieked out in agony and shock, my legs kicking up automatically as a merciless shower of mighty whacks followed in unbelievably quick succession. My bum, hips, shoulders all wriggled frantically in a futile attempt to escape the flashing cane which scorched into my buttocks.

By the time he had finished, I was sobbing. My bum was burning like I had sat on a lit coal fire.

After what seemed like hours, Harkaway instructed that I should stand up. Gingerly, I did so, but this sent fresh waves of agony through my injured bottom. Harkaway was breathing heavily, gasping for breath. He seemed to be in as bad a state as I was.

As if in a trance he left the room. I was not sure what to do next, so I tried to get dressed, but the very action of pulling my pants across my flogged buttocks was enough to send shockwaves through my body. I pulled my pants down again and saw the rear was covered in large pink stains. That was when I realised my buttocks were bleeding; Harkaway had ripped me to shreds.

Still in much pain and with my pants and trousers now around my ankles, I waddled to the kitchen and found a tea towel which I soaked in water and eased the flow of blood. The cool water felt good against my throbbing arse and I let it soak for a minute or two.

Mr Harkaway was nowhere to be seen. I did not want another confrontation with him, so when the raging agony in my arse subsided a little and was reduced to a constant throbbing, I managed to pull up my pants and trousers. I collected my jacket and left.

On the way out, I glimpsed myself in the hallway mirror. I did not recognise the ghostly figure with the snot covered face and the wild staring eyes.

I walked the three miles back to my home; I could not risk taking the bus, I knew I would not be able to sit down for some considerable time to come.

At home I whipped down my trousers. The blood had dried against my underpants and I had to take a wet flannel to soak them off my skin.

My bottom was still incredibly painful. There were a dozen deep welts criss-crossed over the buttocks; they looked like Clapham Railway Junction. The cheeks were still swollen and covered in dark blue bruises.

The next day when I returned to work, my bottom was still tender to the touch and I wriggled a bit as I sat at my desk. Mr Harkaway never mentioned the forged petrol receipts and I kept my job.

That was more than four weeks ago. The wounds have healed and I lived. I submitted an honest expenses claim this month, but I am working on a new fiddle for the future. I hope I do not get caught, but if I do then please don’t let it be by Mr Harkaway.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The pub visit

The thieving window cleaner

Lord Bowinem’s chauffeur

 

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Memorable Night in the Theatre

It had not been planned, but it turned out to be one of my most memorable nights in the theatre.

I had a leading role in the rival of The Schoolboys that was touring some of the smaller towns in England and Wales. The play was a revival of a dreary play that had not seen the light of day in 75 years. The director said it was rediscovered classic; being as it was an exploration of English upper class life in the 1930s and showed how the degrading treatment of privileged boys by their public school masters turned them into communists. Hogwash!

But, as I had missed out on Pantomime this year (I usually was cast as a wicked step-father), the offer of ‘a tour’ was most welcomed, even though it was the middle of one of the worst winters in the nation’s history.

I played the ‘Housemaster’ (the character had no name which according to the director represented the anonymity of oppression).

As it was a play set in a school, a number of the characters were boys aged sixteen and seventeen. This is always a difficult age to cast, since directors prefer to work with adults (for reasons of employment law) and with actors with at least some experience. Many of the ‘boys’ in The Schoolboys were, not to be too unkind about it, a little too old for the part.

However, once the director dressed them up in their school uniforms and used creative make-up and lighting, they looked the part. The theatre is, after all, the art of illusion; and thankfully, in the theatre one does not have to be concerned with the close-up.

The lead boy was what we in the business call a ‘new-comer.’ He had not toured a production before and his only experience to date was in small walk-on parts. He was called Hugo Ponsonby-Smythe. Now, what kind of name is that? Obviously, his father was not a dockworker. He does not use the name professionally: he calls himself Hugo Smith, which, I suppose might serve to identify him as a member of any number of classes in the prevailing English social system. The name Hugo might put him among the emerging knowledge-creating class and the Smith making him appear to be an ‘everyman.’

Hugo was aged about twenty and with his fresh face and lithe body he could easily pass as a senior schoolboy, especially over the distance between the stage and audience.

There was a very tricky scene near the start of the final act that caused us many difficulties in rehearsal. It was a caning scene, where I as his housemaster had to deliver six-of-the-best with a rattan cane to Hugo’s character, across his bare bottom.

I would have thought it impossible to find a school cane today, corporal punishment had been abolished in schools a generation past. But, by the time we were ready for rehearsal a number of fine school canes had been acquired. The prop master was rather coy when we asked where he obtained them. He told us he found them on e-bay, but really we suspected they were from his own personal collection.

When the play was originally run the theatre censor would not allow the caning scene to be shown on stage. Instead, the boys talked about it to one another and the injured party, as it were, described being caned on the bare bottom and how this made him feel.

But, today we have modern theatre and nothing must be hidden from the audience.

So how would we do it? To begin with two wooden chairs were placed back-to-back so that the boy could kneel on the seat of one and bend his body over the two backs before gripping the seat of the other. If the chairs were positioned correctly it would be possible for the audience to only see the boy’s front and the reactions on his face and not his rear end.

A major problem was the bare bottom. Understandably, Hugo was unhappy since it meant that each night and twice on Wednesdays and Saturdays he would have to bend over and show me his bare arse. I was not too excited by the prospect either. I am not in the least interested in boys’ arses. Which I think was more than might be said for some of the people round the production. The director had been buzzing around Hugo like a bee around jam ever since he met him

Hugo asked if would be possible to play the scene with his trousers up, but the director said this was the most pivotal scene in the whole play. This was the provocation that turned the boy irreversibly against his own social class (do not for heaven’s sake expect me to explain why).

There were issues of modesty to be considered. We could not have a member of cast exposing his genitals on stage and we supposed that audiences would not want to see a bare bottom either. At rehearsal we experimented with ways of getting his trousers and pants down while he was kneeling on the chair. We found that if I unbuckled his belt and buttons I could get the trousers and pants down over his thighs and expose enough buttock to then administer the cane to the housemaster’s satisfaction.

This, the director thought, was “marvellous,” apparently the taking down of the trousers by the housemaster was deeply symbolic of class oppression.

But, how would we deal with the actual caning? The whole point was that the boy was thrashed, not that he got a smack on the bot.

The director told us that in movies when they show someone being whipped, in a ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’ or a slave picture, say, they stick padding on the back of the person being whipped and with a camera at the correct angle, the audience does not realise.

With the victim suitable protected, the whipmaster can flog as hard as he wants into the padding. Later the sound of the lash is edited on and makeup puts the whip marks into his back.

But, it is not so easy on stage, where everything is live. We experimented with padding which might have worked if Hugo were to be allowed to keep his trousers – wardrobe could make a pair of underpants from leather and he would not feel a thing. But, if he had to take it on the bare, where would the padding go?

I had to admire the props and wardrobe people who tried everything. One idea was that Hugo would have his trousers and pants taken down, but there would be some padding strapped to the bum as happened with the backs of whipped slaves.

But, for it to work, the padding would have to be under Hugo’s trousers for the whole scene and would be noticed by the audience, especially since many girls in the audience believed Hugo’s bottom was his prize asset.

So padding was not going to work. Eventually, we turned to sound effects. A recording of a cane whacking into a bare arse was made. (I do not know how it was done and the sound engineer was not about to say.)

The scene then went like this: Hugo bends over the two chairs, I take down his trousers and pants. Then I have some lines of dialogue (revealing myself to be an oppressor, the director says) and then I raise the cane and bring it down on his bare bottom. The timing has to be perfect so that my swishes into the bared flesh coincided exactly with the sound effect.

It took a lot of rehearsal and eventually we achieved it, although I still thought the audience knew I was not really cutting into Hugo’s bum, despite his grimaces and attempts to portray agony.

So, the play fully rehearsed, we took it on the road. We had toured for three weeks, when we arrived at a small town in the industrial North of England, where we were to play for three nights. That was where the trouble started.

Before the tour set off, Hugo had been granted a role in a television drama series called North of the Line! that enjoyed much popularity among the viewing public when televised. He had recorded his part before we began to tread the boards in The Schoolboys. None of us among his fellow actors were aware of this until the episodes began to be televised. Suddenly, we had a ‘star’ in the company. It does not matter how good an actor is, if one is on television, then one is a ‘star’. So it was with Hugo.

In North of the Line! Hugo played a rogue who was disrespectful of his parents and of his schoolteachers and who had an eye for the girls, who were only too willing to accept it. Girls, and also young women, of a certain disposition, took to the character immediately and Hugo began to get noticed by the newspapers.

Our theatre management was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and capitalised. Posters for The Schoolboys were re-done and Hugo’s name replaced mine above the title. A photograph of Hugo, sporting a nauseatingly cheeky grin, stared out under the words Star of North of the Line!

The result was a sold-out box office, but alas the theatre was full of adolescent girls. They were what I believe are these days called ‘chavs:’ they cheered and called out his TV name when Hugo first appeared on stage; that was how crass they were.

The sudden popularity of a junior member of the cast caused some anxiety back stage, where it is considered important to keep up traditions. Senior members of the cast are deferred to in all matters, by other cast members and by those working back stage. This deference extends even to the director himself, who would never consider calling me by my Christian name.

Hugo came from a different stock. He had no experience in the theatre worth the mention and had not learned the importance of tradition and ‘knowing your place.’ As a television ‘star’ he believed himself to be the most important person in the cast. But, we older hands believed he knew nothing and should be treated as the junior cast member that he assuredly was.

This inevitably led to arguments back stage. A colleague berated Hugo for his unprofessionalism and complained bitterly about the screaming girls in the audience. Perhaps, it was as well that at this point none of us knew about the girls who waited for Hugo at the stage door after a show, willing to offer him a performance of their own.

Hugo exhibited an arrogance that took my breath away. Quite calmly he told those within hearing distance that he considered himself to be the star of this show and that he was the one the audience were coming to see. “Not you,” he said, pointing at me, or the other “dreary dinosaurs” in the cast.

I was livid with anger but controlled myself. He was a guttersnipe, a whippersnapper and I would not rise to his bait. I was more of a star than this pretty boy would ever be. I have worked with the best: Larry, Dickie, Bertie, Johnny, and, of course, dear old Hammy.

It happened in the very next performance after the row with Hugo. I had not planned it. The final act was underway and the housemaster and Hugo were in the study. Hugo placed himself across the two chairs and I took down his trousers and underpants.

I collected the cane from the cupboard, swished it about a couple of times and then lined it up across Hugo’s bared cheeks. We had performed this scene many times before and I had perfected the timing of my cane strokes to coincide with the swishes in the sound effects.

I lined up the cane and saw Hugo’s buttocks, raised submissively to receive his punishment. I say ‘submissively’ but that night I saw defiance. He was pointing his cheeks at me as if to say, “Go on old man, do your worst, there’s nothing you can do to me. Your time has passed. I am the future.”

I hated him. The cane rose and instead of brushing it against his cheeks, I let fly with a real whopper. A thick red stripe appeared across both cheeks. As it bit home, Hugo let out a roar of agony. There was a collective intake of breath among the audience.

I hated him for his youth. Number two came down swiftly, and Hugo gripped onto the chair for dear life. The torture was searing through his bum and legs. He wanted to get up and shout “What the Hell’s going on?” but he was in the middle of a live performance.

By now he realised what was happening and he braced himself for what he knew would be four more searing, painful stingers.

I hated him for his good looks. Slash number three drew gasps from Hugo and from the audience, but Hugo was the only one in the theatre with tears streaming down his face.

I hated him for his fame. Number four sliced open a wound across the top of his buttocks and the shock and pain was so much his body bucked and he lifted the front legs of the front chair off the ground.

I hated him for the money he would earn. Slash number five replicated number four, but this time it whipped across the bottom of his globes, at the point where the buttocks meet the thighs.

I hated him because I hated myself. Number six went across the middle of both buttocks, accidently (honestly!) crossing two or three of the welts that were already standing up from Hugo’s flesh. He was choking for breath and in genuine distress.

I was sweating and breathing very hard. I must give up smoking cigars. I replaced the cane in the cupboard.

Only now did the enormity of my crime hit home. Yes, I had thrashed Hugo, and yes, it gave me tremendous pleasure to do so, but I am a professional actor and it is a sin to deviate from the script and place your fellow actors in jeopardy.

I walked upstage (this was not in the script) to give myself thinking time and turned to face Hugo. He was still breathing heavily, but he was gaining control of his sobbing.

“All right. That’s over, you may remove yourself,” I said. I was back on the script. I did not know how Hugo would react.

Clearly, still in agony, Hugo pulled up his trousers and pants, while still kneeling on the chair, as was required by the script. He stood and buttoned himself up.  Then, he shook my hand and I dismissed him from my study and he exited stage left.

Hugo completed the play tormented by pain.  His next scene was where he talked with this study mates about his caning ordeal and was required to wince a little as he sat down, but he was to remain seated. This time, he sat on the chair and jumped straight up in pain; the audience loved it, unaware that he was not acting.

Hugo finished the play word perfect. We all received curtain calls and standing ovations and Hugo was cheered. The cast members knew this was because he was a famous face ‘off the telly,’ and not because of his acting abilities.

I still think he is a poor actor, but after the caning ordeal I cannot say he is not a true professional.

 z used housemaster play (1)

Story inspired by the Housemaster play by Ian Hay

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Letter of Gratitude

new story 2

z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Old Boys

z used drawing master cane jonathon (2)

The headmaster always enjoyed the annual Old Boy’s Reunion; especially the canings he dished out.

It had become a ritual; two of the most revered Old Boys would not leave until they had each received ‘a proper’ six-of-the-best from the headmaster. When some years ago it had first been put to him that he should order them to his study, lecture them on their misdeeds and then command each to, “bend over that chair,” he thought he was having his leg pulled.

It was the school’s Bursar who raised it. He was one of the most venerable members of staff and had even been at the school when the Old Boys were pupils. The headmaster thought it was a bizarre idea, a bit kinky even, but had to respect the Bursar and hear him out.

“It goes on in schools across the land, you’ll be surprised,” the Bursar said. And the headmaster was.

“What harm can it do?”

Corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal at least fifteen years previously and the headmaster had never beaten a boy in anger. The two Old Boys were at least ten years older than he; it was absurd. One was a High Court Judge and the other a member of the House of Lords for pity’s sake.

“Headmaster, if you humour them I am sure we can get a new chemistry lab out of this,” the Bursar told him.

The headmaster laughed out loud at the suggestion; he had forgotten that each of the Old Boys were great benefactors of the school and had donated substantial amounts of money in the past and the Bursar was probably right; if he indulged them now they would give even more in the future. He agreed to go through with it.

The headmaster’s study needed surprisingly few alterations; it hadn’t changed much in the years since the Old Boys were pupils. The oak-panelled walls remained and the desk was surely as old as the hills; but the computer had to go.

The headmaster was embarrassed about having to go through this charade and wanted as few people as possible to know, but he had to rope in Mr Higgins, the school historian. He had set up a small school museum with mementos such as photographs of past headmasters and school rugby teams; but it also contained memorabilia including an old school desk, a blackboard and easel and, oh glory!, the tall thin cupboard that once stood in the corner of the headmaster’s study; including its contents: a dozen whippy rattan canes.

Higgins was alarmingly eager to supply the headmaster with everything he needed. He had indeed been an enthusiastic beater of boys’ bottoms when the law still allowed and he fervently hoped the legislators might someday reverse the decision. Perhaps, Lord Barnaby might be prevailed upon to raise the issue in Parliament.

Higgins had also kept the punishment books, where records of canings were kept. They dated back nearly a hundred years. He took great delight in reading them and recollecting the Good Old Days when boys showed their masters proper respect. And if they didn’t, they would soon be signing their names in the punishment book and nursing throbbing backsides.

Higgins’ name appeared many times in the book. On one day he had caned six boys for six different offences. One was Rodgers T. E.; he was in the sixth-form and thought he was immune to the rules. Higgins soon disabused him of that idea. He had been found in possession of a bottle of beer, despite the strict no-alcohol rules. Higgins confiscated the Watneys Pale Ale and took Rodgers to a classroom where he ordered him to bend across a school desk.

Try doing that today, Higgins thought, it’s all lawyers and childrens’ rights. But, back then, Rodgers knew he had no choice and despite being eighteen years old he went over the desk without complaint to show Higgins his arse for six top notch stingers from the master’s favourite ‘senior’ cane. He still had that cane. Rodgers was in some distress, the beating had been that severe, but he took it like a man and Higgins respected him for that. Later, alone in his digs, reminiscing the day’s events, Higgins enjoyed the boy’s beer.

The headmaster now had all that he needed, but he knew he had a problem. His two Old Boys were presumably very experienced receivers of the cane, but he had never even seen one, never mind used one. They would expect a proper thrashing, not just a tap on the bottom for old time’s sake.

Once more, Higgins had the solution. He was an expert caner and although it had been many years since he last lashed a rattan into a boy’s stretched trousers, it was surely like riding a bike; something you never forgot how to do. Let him be the one to administer the Old Boys beatings, he suggested, fervently hoping the headmaster would agree.

“No, I fear it has to be me, they seem to insist it is a headmaster’s caning.”

“Oh,” Higgins replied trying to hide his disappointment. But, he explained a “headmaster’s caning” did not only mean a caning from the headmaster; to schoolboys throughout history and all over the British Empire, a “headmaster’s caning” meant an exemplary severe thrashing; something to be dreaded.

The headmaster did not like the sound of this. What could he do?

“I can teach you how to use the cane to inflict maximum pain.”

The headmaster was grateful, but how could this be done? Would it be enough simply to whack the cane down into a cushion? Didn’t they need a real person to be on the receiving end?

Yes, Higgins agreed, they did, and he knew exactly the right person for the job, but it would be tricky to explain this to the headmaster.

“I have an acquaintance who might be willing to act as your guinea pig, so to speak,” Higgins did not want to say too much about Timothy Hutchins, a young man who hired out his backside to clients willing to pay for the pleasure of beating it black and blue.

The headmaster considered discretion in the matter to be paramount and was unwilling to bring a total stranger to the school for the headmaster to practice his caning technique. That’s how the headmaster met with Timothy one evening at Higgins’ dismal apartment in town.

It took the headmaster no more than an hour to progress from novice to expert caner. Timothy was a trooper, he did not object when asked to remove his trousers and underpants so the headmaster could see exactly where his cane stokes landed. At first, he was way off target, but soon he was landing them exactly where he wanted.

With accuracy sorted, the headmaster practiced severity. He was alarmed at the damage a single lash of the cane could inflict on flesh and began to doubt the wisdom of the whole enterprise. Could he really do this to the two Old Boys, even if they wanted him to?

“Don’t worry, headmaster. The bottom will not mark if the boys are wearing trousers.” Higgins knew he was telling a lie, but it was the only way to make sure the headmaster went through with it.

So, suitably prepared, the headmaster awaited the Old Boys’ Reunion.

The plan was surprisingly simple. The Old Boys wanted to be punished for committing real offences. What could be easier than to catch them smoking cigarettes? In the old days that would get them a caning from their housemaster, not the head. But, repeat offenders would find them on the list for a headmaster’s special caning. And, truly, both had been caned at school for smoking at least once.

Higgins had the pleasure of saying, “Barnaby, Bennett, report to the headmaster’s study. At once.”

The two boys walked in silence through the school quadrangle, into North Building and up the narrow staircase to the corridor leading to the headmaster’s study. They were reliving times in the past when they had last made this journey. Time can be deceptive. This wasn’t today, for them, this was thirty-five years ago.

They reached the study door and halted. As if in a dream each checked that their appearance was immaculate; shoes cleaned, ties straightened. Each was wearing the blue and yellow striped school blazer of their youth. Many of the Old Boys had these blazers and liked to dress up for the reunion day. Some secretly wished they could complete the outfit with their grey flannel short trousers, long grey knee socks and school cap, but these were not clothes that could easily be worn in public.

The two boys shuffled their feet, seemingly unwilling to take the next step.

“You knock.”

“No, you.”

“Oh come on,” Lord Barnaby, or now, plain Barnaby, C. T. E. knocked.

“Enter!”

They held their breath. Then Bennett took the handle, turned it and opened the door.

The headmaster sat behind his huge oak desk, resplendent in an old fashioned academic gown.

“Stand there, both of you,” he pointed to the carpet. The headmaster was used to hectoring misbehaved boys and his stern lectures were well rehearsed. He had giving tongue-lashings to many of them across the years. They did very little good. The truth was that it was impossible to punish a boy beyond giving impositions or lines. This was a boarding school and the pupils had very little liberty, so being placed in detention meant very little to them.

Since being introduced to the cane, and encouraged by Higgins, the headmaster had begun to believe that corporal punishment might be beneficial to his school. He could easily think of six or seven repeat offenders among his present boys who would profit from a sore backside. A cane laid on with force would soon buck their ideas up a bit. All it would need was one visit to the headmaster’s study for a ‘proper’ caning while bent across the desk, or over the back of the armchair. Six strokes whacked into their trouser seats; they wouldn’t be back in a hurry after that.

The headmaster eyed the two grown men standing before him: Barnaby and Bennett. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of it.

He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and read from it. “Smoking again. You have both been caned by your housemaster for this before. Is that true?”

Mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” from both of them.

“Barnaby, you have been caned twice before.”

“Sir,” said with real misery from his Lordship.

The headmaster gave his “cigarettes are bad for you,” lecture.

Only yesterday he had delivered a different lecture to two fifteen-year-old fifth-formers; their rudeness and arrogance to their masters had resulted in a visit to the headmaster. But, they had seemed unmoved by his words. He was certain they would be back on his carpet before too long. Oh, how he now wished it was them in front of him and he could whack some manners into them through their backsides.

Oddly, in his imagination, Barnaby became Probert and Bennett became Turner. No longer were they fifty-something middle-aged men, they really were two snotty fifteen-year-old schoolboys, deserving of a thrashing.

Yes, he would certainly give these boys the thrashing they so richly deserved.

Probert, you first, he thought, but said out loud, “Bennett you stand at the back of the chair. Barnaby, face the wall; hands on head.”

Meekly, both boys did as instructed.

The headmaster picked up a crook-handled rattan cane and thoughtfully bent it between his two hands.

“We shall see how you like the feel of this, Bennett,” without intention, the headmaster was speaking in an old-fashioned, upper class accent; like something out of a 1930s film: he had suddenly become Mr Chips.

“Bend over boy.” Bennett, expertly positioned himself; head down, bottom high, legs apart. As with Higgins, a caned boy never forgets how to present his backside to the satisfaction of the headmaster and his cane. Could it really be thirty-five years since his last headmaster’s caning?

Right Probert, you have been asking for this for a very long time. The headmaster raised the cane and brought it crashing down across Bennett’s trouser seat with great force. The boy gasped, but stayed in position.

“One Sir, thank you, Sir,” Bennett was reciting a ritual from days long past.

He thanked the headmaster for each of the five stingers that followed. The headmaster knew he had done a good job, his cane had left marks across the seat of the boy’s trousers and it was clear that the cuts had fallen neatly in a half-inch group across the centre of his buttocks. The headmaster would not know but the cane had bitten into the fleshy cheeks so deeply that welts had already risen.

It was with an extremely throbbing backside that Bennett rose from the chair and stood by his friend, hands on head, facing the wall. He desperately wanted to rub away the agony in his aching bottom, but the ancient schoolboy ritual did not allow this. Only when he was dismissed from the study would he be able to show that he was in any pain. Until then, he had to tough it out.

Turner, your turn, the headmaster thought, “Barnaby, your turn,” he said aloud.

The boy took up his position behind the chair.

The headmaster was enjoying himself. He swished the cane through the air a couple of times, before intoning the words all schoolboys once dreaded. “Bend over that chair.”

Barnaby was across the chair in an instant, eager to feel the lash of the cane. The headmaster eyed his target; he saw the backside of fifteen-year-old Geoffrey Turner, raised his cane high and let fly.

“One Sir, Thank you Sir,” his Lordship intoned.

He took his six-of-the-best like the man he was. The headmaster put all his effort into cracking his whippy rattan into the proffered buttocks.

“Phew!!!!” Barnaby thought, but could not say. This was the best thrashing he had ever had in his entire life; at school or after.

“Get up boy. Both of you stand in front of my desk.” The two punished schoolboys shuffled on the carpet, hands behind their backs, sneakily patting their raw buttocks with their thumbs.

The headmaster scolded them some more and dismissed them.

They sauntered from the study, as if they had no cares in the world. Once the door closed behind them, each boy jumped up and down on the spot, rubbing furiously at his buttocks.

“Crikey! What a whacking!” Bennett said.

“Quick let’s find the bogs. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” his friend responded.

And, that’s how it started. Every year they return to his study for six-of-the-best and each time the headmaster chooses from among the present crop, the boys he would dearly love to thrash with his cane.

Picture credit: Jonathon

This story was first uploaded in September 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com