Public Birching

z used naked stocks restrained outdoors (1)

George was walking his dog towards the recreation ground one morning when he realised there were a lot of people on the street, all seemingly going in the same direction. He spotted a neighbour Colin.

“Hi Colin,” he said tugging on his dog’s leash to slow him. “What are all these people doing? Is something happening?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Good morning Rip Van Winkel. Where have you been these past years?” When George failed to respond, Colin went on. “Don’t you watch the news?”

The news?  George was puzzled. “No,” he told his neighbour, “It’s all wars and the economy. Too boring.”

Colin smiled, “Well you do know that about a couple of years ago they passed a law saying that juvenile delinquents could be birched.”

“Yessss,” George replied with some hesitation since he wasn’t at all sure he knew that.

“Well,” Colin went on, “Now they’ve passed another law saying the courts can order the birching to be in public. If the crime is serious enough.”

They were approaching the open piece of land. It was mainly an area of grass. Usually kids kicked footballs and adults walked their dogs. Today would be different.

“This is the first one in this town,” Colin said helpfully, keeping George abreast of what was happening. The News might even be here. ‘Live on Sky News,’ you know.” They had reached the Rec now. “Want a hot dog?” he asked nodding to a row of concession vans. The ice cream man was doing a good trade.

“No I’m good,” George surveyed the scene. There was maybe a hundred people present; mostly elderly. Retirees like himself, George supposed. Nothing better to do than to watch a public whipping. He smelt a strong aroma of onions, Colin had returned.

“C’mon, let’s get a closer view.” Only then did Gorge see in the near distance a wooden structure had been built. It was clearly brand new. Never before used, probably. Two posts had been driven into the ground and there was a plank running between them. Three round holes, one quite large and two smaller had been drilled in to it. George recognised it immediately. It was like medieval stocks, the kind where the criminal had his head and arms locked so the crowd could pelt them with rotten fruit and vegetables. A simple contraption, George recognised, but highly efficient.

The crowd had organised themselves well, standing around in a semi-circle on one side of the stocks; everyone would get a clear view. There was an expectant buzz, people talking in hushed tones, showing reverence before the action began.

“Who is it?” George asked. He meant who was going to be birched.

“Young lad, twenty-something,” Colin said, trying to remember details he had heard on the radio that morning. I forget his name. He beat up an old woman. Street mugging.” He curled his lip, “Deserves all he gets.”

George moved from one foot to another, standing still could be quite tiring. “Is she here?”


“The lady. The one who was robbed?”

“No idea.”

Just then a dark blue police van turned off the road and with its lights flashing, slowly it drove across the grass. Groups of people parted to let it through.

“Looks like we’re under starter’s orders,” Colin grinned ruefully.

The expectant buzz was louder. The van stopped and three young police officers got out. All were younger than his own grandchildren, George estimated. One went to the back and unlocked the back door. Another police officer, this one much older, stumbled out. He got his footing n the uneven ground and then reached back into the van. The murmur from the crowd increased ten fold as a young man was pulled from the van. He was tall and quite thin. His dark, unkempt hair fell across his eyes which were blinking incessantly, as if unused to the light. He was also completely naked.

“Bloody hell,” George said, for want of a better expression. A shiver ran up his spine although it was quite a warm morning. Without thinking, he pulled on his dog’s leash keeping the mutt close to his own feet.

The young man’s head was bowed. His hands were cuffed but he managed to keep them strategically placed to cover his cock on balls. The older officer said something in the young man’s ear and pushed him aggressively towards the stock.

The crowd hushed once more. Only then did George realise most of the people in the crowd were women. Why was that, he wondered. Had the men deliberately decided to stay at home. The three young police officers spoke into radios and then began to move the crowd back.

“Come on ladies and gents,” one said waving his arms to encourage movement. George noticed how much the copper looked like the delinquent about to be whipped. While the crowd was moving back, the other policemen readied the stocks.  It was a beautifully simple contraption. The plank split in half and lifted. The criminal’s head and wrists were placed in the holes and the plank was locked together. The stocks were low off the ground so the young man had to bend his back. He needed to spread his legs wide to stop him slipping on the grass. That way his buttocks were stuck behind him at a perfect height and angle to receive the birch.

A tense silence descended on the crowd as the police officer reached in the van once more, this time retrieving a large enamel bucket. Inside, were two enormous birch rods. He placed the bucket on the ground and took hold of one of them. It was about a metre in length and comprised about twenty or so heavy rods. These were bound at one end with twine to make a handle. The burly officer swiped the rod through the air. Droplets of brine fell from it. He swished it once more. It had been soaking overnight. This increased the birch rod’s suppleness, and, so legend had it, the pain it would cause.

The officer took a moment to take his aim; he admired the muscle tone of the lad and his almost completely hairless body. The culprit flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home. The crowd held its collective breath. The officer took a deep breath, lifted the birch, then lashed down the first stroke. The hiss that escaped through the culprit’s clenched teeth was drown by the gasp of the crowd. George twisted the dog’s leash in his hand, his heart thumping.

Lash number two fell. That must have hurt the culprit even more, but he was determined not to show it. Number three was directed to the lower part of the cheeks where they met the thighs and the pain was excruciating; the culprit gagged a little and vomit rose to his throat but he managed to swallow it down. Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his buttocks. There were dozens of lines across his bum, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the globes where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred. It reminded George of raw hamburger meat.

The police officer, unsure how a man should react during a birching and thinking he might not be whipping the culprit hard enough, laid the next strokes on with extra power. The culprit wriggled his body from left to right, his knees buckled, his feet stamped up and down on the uneven. But his head and wrists were securely fastened. There was no escape.

Swish! Swish! Blood was forming as some birch strokes landed upon those that had already marked the once white and now scarlet bottom. The culprit let out a silent cry; it was a wonder that he wasn’t howling. His agony was intense and the pain had travelled from his blooded buttocks throughout his whole body. His shoulders ached with his wrists were sore. His head ached as his blood pressure went through the roof and tried to burst through his ears. But, he refused to cry out: he would not give them the satisfaction. Nobody in the recreation ground doubted that the culprit deserved all he was getting.

As, cut number twelve thrashed into his flesh, the culprit’s head rose and he bit deep into his tongue to stifle the yell. His tongue would be damaged and he would have as much trouble speaking over the coming days as he would sitting down.

With no word spoken, the police officer returned the birch rod to the enamel bucket and put it in the van. The young policemen unlocked the stocks. The culprit stood unsteadily, his knees buckled. One young policeman grabbed him before he fell, took his arm placed it around his own shoulders and unceremoniously dragged him to van, bundled him in and slammed the door shut. Within seconds the van was edging its way through the crowd towards the road.

“Are you coming?” Colin asked, “I want to see it on the News. They’re bound to show it all day long.”

The crowd was quickly dispersing, group of people muttering amongst themselves, re-living the experience.

“No, I’m going to let the dog run,” George said slipping the lease from the collar. The dog bounded across the recreation ground. George watched it run. Behind him, two teenagers, both a little high, inspected the stocks. One stuck his head and arms through the holes. Trying to see what it was like.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Called to Account

adultschoolboy cane longs touch toes classroom (1)

Mr Moore turned the corner of the road and stopped. Why the hell was his heart racing. He drew in a lung full of air, conscious of other people in the street. One man wearing a black coat and carrying a furled umbrella eyed him suspiciously. “Oh for pity’s sake, man what’s the matter with you?” he silently berated himself.

The “matter” was St. Francis Independent Grammar School – known to all as St. FIGS – his old school. Former alma mater; the place where he was educated. There it stood less than fifty yards ahead of him. Why did it scare the shit out of him? He took another deep breath; he had to get this thing over with.

This thing was a summons to see Mr Trout, his former housemaster. A summons, at his age. Mr Moore wouldn’t see thirty again. He had left school at eighteen and hadn’t been back since. And that suited him just fine. He shuffled forward. Absent-mindedly he put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt the envelope. Inside was a letter. He had read it so many times he knew the words by heart. His eleven-year-old son Ronnie had been skipping classes, not doing homework, he was likely to fail his exams at the end of the year. “You are requested to attend to see me.” It was curiously archaic language. But, Mr Moore thought, how entirely typical of Trout. Never say anything clearly.

Mr Moore had reached the school gates. Although he continued to live in the town, he never made the journey back. Too many unhappy memories. Sweat prickled the back of his neck, although it was not a warm evening. He ran a finger under his collar to try to clear it. Time plays ridiculous tricks sometimes. Suddenly it was 1970, fifteen years ago. He was no longer a middle manager at the Brocklehurst Building Society, with people under him. Now, at this moment he was Moore A.J., aged fifteen, about to undergo a very awkward – and ultimately painful – encounter with his housemaster. Instinctively, he massaged the seat of his trousers with his thumbs as he entered the building. He had been instructed to meet Trout in the schoolroom. The passageway was dark and deserted. The days in February were still short. He shivered in the dankness. They said parts of the school were five hundred years old; it certainly felt like it to Moore. The school was deserted, classroom doors were locked. It added to Moore’s sense of unreality. He had stepped into the Twilight Zone. Nothing here was real.

He saw a light in a room at the end of the passageway. His final destination. He halted outside the door, rubbed his sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers. His hands were shaking. “For God’s sake,” he reproached himself silently, “What has gotten into you, man!” It was a statement of condemnation, rather than a question. He wiped his moist brow with his sleeve and tapped gently on the door.

“Come!” The voice within made him shudder. Unmistakeably Mr Trout. Haughty with a dash of self-importance.  The brass door handle was stiff, it wouldn’t turn at first. It rattled and shook and finally gave way. Moore put his shoulder to the door and it opened suddenly, spilling him into the schoolroom. He blushed; flustered he turned and pushed the door closed. He stood for a moment transfixed. The room was not too large, it contained twenty ancient wooden desks, a blackboard and easel dominated one wall, close to it behind a small wooden desk sat Mr Trout. He was unmistakable. Even sitting, he made an imposing figure. Standing, he towered above the schoolboys. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow (for a man his age). Had he aged since 1970? Moore could not be sure. To the boys at the school all the masters looked ancient. It was impossible to look youthful while wearing an academic gown and mortar board cap. Trout pursed his lips, and stared with distain. “Moore, A. J.” he intoned, his top lip curling into a scowl. He rested his hands on his desk and leaned his shoulders forward: Churchill doing his bulldog impersonation.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore babbled, hopping with embarrassment from left foot to right. He waved his hands around, unsure where to put them. Trout’s glare burned into him. He knew his face was already flushed bright red.

“Pah!” Trout spat. Silence filled the room. Moore couldn’t stop his eyes blinking furiously. Was he expected to say something? At the Building Society, he would be the first to make a decision. He was something of a rising star. Destined to go far. He glanced to left and right. He should sit down, this was a meeting of equals, two grown men coming together to discuss a matter of mutual concern. All the chairs were placed neatly behind small single desks. If Moore sat down he would not only feel like an extremely small child he would look like one as well.

Trout spoke before Moore had a chance to decide. “You know why I have summoned you, Moore,” it was a statement, not a question. Moore stared. Summoned. The word spoke volumes. Trout was in charge. Nothing had changed.

“Err, no Sir,” Moore was confused. What the hell was he supposed to say? Trout’s right arm waved. “Don’t know, don’t know Moore!” he glared. Moore wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Well Moore,” Trout’s voice rose an octave, “I’ll tell you. Your son,” he paused confused. He opened a drawer on the desk, he seemed to be searching for something. “Your son …. Moore.” He had never troubled to learn the boy’s Christian name.

“Ronnie, Sir,” Moore said apologetically.

“Yes, well, err,” it was Trout’s turn to sound confused. He drew his shoulders back and regained the advantage. “Moore Junior has not been doing his homework and he has been missing classes,” he eyed the man standing before him suspiciously. “What have you got to say for that then?”

Moore had been thinking about this. A lot. His son was a brat, he was disrespectful to his mother and even aged eleven treated the home like a hotel. Moore was out of his depth. Ronnie had been a mistake – an unplanned child – he and his wife had been far too young when they had him. Moore sometimes thought the terror was a good advertisement for contraception.

“Well, I don’t really know,” Moore said weakly.

“Pah!” Trout was charging full throttle. “It is your responsibility, Moore,” his voice rose in anger. “You have failed in your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wanted to say, “Hang on, you’re the schoolmaster, you do something,” but his courage failed him. Instead, he whispered, “Can’t you beat him?”

Trout’s nostrils flared, his already ruddy complexion turned puce, a dribble of spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. “Beat him!” he roared. His body shook so violently, Moore took a step backwards in fear.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore gabbled. “You know, cane him. It’s what you would have done to me.” Trout’s eyes swivelled in his head, scaring Moore into adding, “Sir.” Trout rose from the desk and walked forward, approaching Moore with eyes flaring and arms swirling. “Don’t you follow the news Moore?” And then is if to answer his own question, he blurted, “You always were idle, boy. Bone idle.”

Trout stood so close to Moore he could smell the schoolmaster’s sour breath. Trout fumed, “The government outlawed corporal punishment last year, Moore. We can no longer cane.” His chin wobbled, his eyes moistened. Moore thought the aged schoolmaster might blub.

“Oh”. Suddenly, Moore realised why he had been brought into school. In his days a master would not dream of involving parents. Trout shook his shoulders and took a deep breath, he was composing himself. “I blame you Moore,” he stared unflinchingly into Moore’s eyes, “You have neglected your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed once more. He spoke no words, Trout was on a bit of a roll. “It is your responsibility you ensure your son attends school. You must see to it that homework is done. You have been inattentive. It is in short your fault.”

Moore shuffled his feet, embarrassed.

“You have got to pull up your socks, Boy,” Trout grimaced, “I expect an immediate improvement, do I make myself clear?”

Moore stared down at his feet, “Yes, Sir,” he mumbled. Trout fell silent. Moore did not see, but heard the schoolmaster’s footsteps as he shuffled across the room. Moore knew Trout was correct, he had neglected his son. If he were brutally honest with himself, he didn’t really care about Ronnie. Out of sight was out of mind. The boy could do as he liked, as long as he didn’t drag his father into anything.

Moore heard Trout open a door to a cupboard, it sounded like the hinge was rusty. Then a swishing whoosh rent the air. It was unmistakeable. Alarmed, Moore swivelled on his heels and faced Trout; his jaw dropped, his eyes popped. Trout was flexing between his hands a traditional whippy, curve-handled rattan cane.

Trout answered Moore’s unasked question. “They have banned the cane, but we have not disposed of out supply.” He swiped the cane through empty air. “I fervently pray that this ban is an aberration and that our betters quickly come to their senses.” He walked slowly towards Moore. “However, in the meantime …” he glared at the young manager before him. Moore recoiled, once more the fifteen-year-old miscreant summoned to the housemaster’s study for bowing.

Even before sentence was handed down, Moore began a protest, “But …” He was silenced by Trout’s icy stare. Moore’s own eyes watched intently as the schoolmaster moved and stood in front of the blackboard. He looked back at Moore, pointed the tip of the cane at a spot on the bare floorboards and said, “Stand there boy.”

Time truly plays tricks. Moore shambled across the schoolroom. There could be no doubt about Trout’s intentions. A sane man would say it was absurd. A thirty-one-year-old business manager presenting himself to an older man for a caning. But this was not rational. Hundreds of years of conditioning and tradition had led to this moment. Although he had yet to articulate it to himself Moore accepted he had erred. His son’s misbehaviour was down to him. He had been neglectful as a father. Punishment was due. Punishment was accepted.

“I want you to consider your behaviour and ensure that it improves. This,” he swished the cane again, “will give you something to think about. Bend over. Touch your toes.”

Moore’s eyelids blinked rapidly. He couldn’t get them to stop. His heart pounded. He hesitated.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Moore. You know the penalty.” Indeed he did: extra strokes. He shook his head to clear it, loosened the button on his suit jacket and bent forward. Touch your toes, meant just that to Mr Trout. Not, hands on knees or grab your shins. The tips of the fingers should touch the tops of the shoes. Knees straight. It was harder to get in this position that it sounded. Moore was absurdly proud as he presented his bottom perfectly for the administrations of Trout’s cane. In his mind he visualised the times he had been caned while still a pupil at St. FIGS. Once in the sixth-form when a bunch of them had been caught with beer. Eighteen years old, but bent over the back of a smelly old armchair in the study. How it had hurt. He remembered Jackson, a pal of those days he hadn’t seen in a decade, hopping up and down trying to rub the hurt away from his backside. “Well”, he thought, “I’m going to take this caning better than he did.”

Trout was taking his aim. Moore was far from fat but his body had naturally bulked out since his schooldays. The schoolmaster sawed his cane across the centre of the proffered buttocks. This backside was somewhat larger than those he habitually dealt with. He tapped the cane gently, Moore’s shoulders tensed, his buttocks twitched. Whack! The cane whipped down with force, dust motes rose from the trouser seat. Moore gritted his teeth and gasped. That hurt. It had been about thirteen years since he had last been “dealt with”, he was a little out of practice. He heard footsteps on the floorboards as Trout paced the schoolroom. He paused about three yards from Moore’s curved buttocks, raised the cane above shoulder height and then almost ran three paces towards the young man, flogging the cane across the backside. The rod sank into the flesh. Moore’s head rose, his back arched, his fingers flew away from the tip of his shoes. He half stood, instinctively wanting to rub away the agony in his bum. He caught himself just in time, forcing his hands back to his toes. It was a schoolboy ritual being played out. You stayed down. You took your swishing. You didn’t move. If you did: extra strokes.

Trout involuntarily licked his lips. How he had wanted the younger Moore in this position. How the boy deserved this. But it was not to be. That way led career ruin and loss of pension. This he had to console himself was the next best thing. The swiped numbers three and four in quick succession and satisfied himself that Moore’s pain was increasing. The back of the young man’s neck was equally as red as his backside. His face by contrast was a deathly white. Trout flexed the cane between his hands, playing for time. He knew that the pain would be radiating out from the buttocks and travelling up and down his legs and then going north, south, east, west, throughout his body.

Nearly over, Moore comforted himself. He concentrated on the bare floorboard beneath his feet. It looked almost new, he thought. Maybe the old one had been worn out by generations of schoolboys shuffling their feet while adopting his present position. This absurd notion tickled him but it did not assuage the agony that spread throughout his buttocks as the cane welted the underside of his bum, on the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs. It would be uncomfortable to sit down for some hours to come.

Behind him Moore heard Trout wheeze and then hack a dry couch. The old schoolmaster must be showing his age after all, he supposed. The cane tapped across the higher end of his mounds. This must be the last one, he thought. Six-of-the-best. He steeled himself, closed his eyes, shut his teeth and held his breath. As he expected, Trout landed it in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of the target area. The cane hit across all five lines reigniting them all. Only by a monumental effort did he stay in position, wheezing to catch his breath, his head pounding, blood rushing through his arteries so fast he was sure it would whoosh out through his ears.

He felt the cane tap across his bottom once more. “Sweet Jesus, no more, please,” he prayed inwardly. “That’s over. You may stand.” Slowly, Moore straightened. The throbbing in his backside was intense. He had never sat on a barbecue but he imagined if he had done so it would have felt something like this. Remembering the distain he felt for Jackson he restrained himself from performing the caning dance, jumping up and down while simultaneously rubbing himself. That would have to wait until he was in private.

Trout stood before him, holding the cane he had just used to rip Moore’s backside apart. He glared. “I hope you have learnt a valuable lesson.” It was a rhetorical question and he did not allow Moore time to answer. “Here take this,” he offered the astonished Moore the cane, “take it home. I think you might find a use for it there.” Moore could not be certain but Trout might have given him a ghost of a smile, as he took hold of the whippy rod. It was astonishingly light. Who could believe such a thing could do so much damage.

Not waiting for a response, Trout shuffled towards the door and was gone. Moore put the cane down on the desk and massaged his bottom ruefully. The intense pain had gone to be replaced by a hot throbbing. Very soon, he knew from experience, it would turn to a warm glow. The welts would be tender to touch for some hours yet, but by bedtime even that would be gone. The marks would last from some days. How the hell was he going to explain that to his wife? Bitterly, he grabbed the cane, tucked it under his arm and left.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Clumsy Waiter

z used otk waiter mancspank chair (10f)

Conversation had stopped among the diners at The Three Fishers. Even those who had missed the spilling of the wine, and the outraged protest by Col. JEB Charleigh, the district’s chief magistrate, had finally been distracted by the unmistakeable sound of a spanking in progress.

It was only Jake Wiltshire’s second week as a waiter, but already his inattention and dereliction of duty had become a talking point. Headwaiter Mr. Alphonso’s patience was exhausted. Within moments the twenty-two-year-old found himself trousers at the ankles, underpants at the knees, face down across the head waiter’s knees.

Mr. Alphonso spanked hard and fast, without reference to his surroundings. Jake deserved all he was getting – and then some more. “This is just the beginning,” he stuttered breathlessly. “Your backside will be at least the colour of the vintage burgundy you managed to throw over the colonel’s suit. And, you’ll pay for the damage from your wages.” He slapped across Jake’s bottom and into the under-crease where the bum meets the thighs, “And, I’m not going to stop until Colonel Charleigh says so.”

Col. Charleigh eased his buttocks on the padded dining chair and stretched to get a better view. He had taken a special interest in Jake the first time he had been served by him. It wasn’t the boy’s clumsiness, that would be noticed later; it was his fresh open face and boyish smile, the way his hair was gelled, the broad shoulders and the slender hips.

Mr. Alphonso was as good as his word. Jake’s once creamy-white, hairless buttocks had already turned dark pink and as the headwaiter’s hard, calloused hand spanked continuously rat-a-tat-tat into the muscular buttocks dark patches were appearing.

The colonel smirked and crossed his legs, especially engaged by the soft “ahhhs” and “ouches” escaping the young waiter’s lips. He leaned across the table to his fidgeting companion. “This reminds me, Allen,” he said. “Did you clean up the study today as I asked? Or is another naughty boy going to be having his bare bottom smacked when we get back?”

Allen squirmed in his seat. He had been about to ask for the bill, but now he was in no hurry. He had little appetite for the dessert awaiting him at the manor.

Picture credit: Mancspank

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Fake News #13

z used fake adult schoolboy shorts cane desk (5)


Residents welcome new ‘adult school’

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Residents in a leafy suburb of Brocklehurst have welcomed an “adult school” that has just opened in their street.

It is the brainchild of a 65-year-old retired civil servant who calls himself “Mr. Quelch” after the schoolmaster in the famous Billy Bunter stories.

He has built a full-sized classroom on the back of his detached house in The Avenue. It has 15 authentic school desks from the 1950s, an old-fashioned blackboard and easel and a globe that has more than half the countries coloured in pink.

Behind a heavy oak desk is a glass-fronted cabinet. Dangling inside from their crook handles are an assortment of whippy rattan canes.

Mr. Quelch told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview the idea was for people over the age of 18 to experience life as a schoolboy in the 1950s. Pupils will be expected to wear a school uniform that includes a red blazer with white trimming, grey short trousers and knee socks.

Mr Quelch said, “We have real lessons in a number of subjects and the pupils are expected to behave themselves properly at all times.”

Those who do not will receive corporal punishment.

“I will pull down a boy’s short trousers and underpants and put him across my knee for a spanking on his bare bottom. I also have a leather taws, a plimsoll and, of course, the dreaded rattan cane. Which of these I use will depend on the degree of a boy’s naughtiness.”

Mr. Quelch has also decked out one of the six bedrooms in his house as a “headmaster’s study”.

He said, “At the end of the day each boy will be summoned to the headmaster’s study where he will have to explain his bad behaviour. I will administer six-of-the-best. This could be on the seat of the short trousers, the underpants or the bare bottom depending the severity of the offences.”

Mr. Quelch said he had already run two school days and there was a waiting list for two more next month. He also “deals with” naughty boys on a one-on-one basis in his headmaster’s study, by appointment.

The new adult school is a hit with neighbours. Mr. Ernie Flynn, aged 52, an accountant, who lives opposite Mr. Quelch told the Bugle, “What a jolly good idea. It sounds like a lot of fun. I can’t wait to sign up for a day.”

Mr. Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, of The Avenue, told the Bugle he hoped Mr. Quelch would expand his activities and deal with some real life trouble-makers. “I can think of a few louts who hang around Widdicombe Woods drinking and whatnot who would benefit from a stiff trousers-down, bare-bottomed caning,” he ejaculated.

To arrange a visit contact Mr. Quelch on _______________

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Through the window

z used belt pants couch spankingboysdoteu (110c)

“You’ll never guess what I saw today,” Alan blew across the top of his mug of tea, wallowing in the suspense he hoped to create in the postal distribution centre canteen. “I was in The Avenue, you know those posh houses.” His co-workers nodded assent. “So, I’m walking up the driveway and I can see through the window and what did I see?”

He paused, genuinely expecting his pals around the table to guess. When no one took the bait, he continued. “There’s this huge front room and this guy, he must have been about twenty, and he’s only wearing underpants,” he sipped his tea, to build the tension. “And he’s bent over the back of a massive settee with his arse held high. And standing over him is an old geezer,” he stared intently at his three pals waiting to gauge their reaction to his impending punchline, “and he’s got this belt and he’s whipping the kid on his arse; giving him a right good spanking.”

“Unbelievable,” a co-worker munched on a sandwich.

“I ain’t lying, why would I lie?” Alan couldn’t hide his indignation.

“No,” his pal explained, “Unbelievable. Who’d think it would happen today. It’s 2018.”

A second postman piped up. “Was it a kinky thing? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about what goes on in The Avenue.”

“Well,” Alan grinned. “The kid didn’t look like he was enjoying it.”

“So,” the first pal spoke again, “It was a proper spanking? Discipline. Punishment, like?”

“Alan says the kid was twenty,” the second postman interjected. “That right? Bit too old to have his bum smacked, ain’t he.”

“I don’t know,” Alan said, “I can think of a few louts round my way who could do with a bloody good spanking.”


Earlier that day.

Mr Grainger slumped on the plush leather sofa and stared at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Almost ten o’clock and that brat was still in bed, he fumed silently. He heard the sound of the tap running in the kitchen and hoisted himself to his feet and waddled out the room. Jack was making tea, naked, except for a pair of underpants.

“Too bone idle even to get dressed,” Mr Grainger blasted the twenty-year-old. “Look at you.”

Jack switched the kettle on, turned and gave Mr Grainger his best scornful glare.

“You’re late for college. Again.” Mr Grainger growled. “And what time did you get in last night?” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno.” Mr Grainger flared his nostrils. “Half past twelve. You know curfew is eleven o’clock on a school night.”

The kettle boiled and Jack poured water over a tea bag in a single mug.

“Pah! What did I say I would do if you didn’t pull yourself together?” Mr Grainger fumed.

Jack set his mug on the table. “Wordya mean?”

“A spanking. I said I’d give you a jolly good spanking.”

Jack let his jaw slacken, then he said, “Oh come on Gramps, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Nonsense,” Mr Grainger waved his arms. “I was still taking a cane to your father’s backside when he was twenty-one.”

Jack stared blankly. The silence could be cut with a knife. He waited for Gramps next move.

“Come with me. Into the lounge,” Mr Grainer gripped Jack’s left ear and propelled him forward.

“Ouch! Leggo!” he cried, but was forced to allow Gramps to drag him away and pull him towards the sofa. He released his grip on the ear and with one swift movement pushed the brat forward so that he was face down over its back.

“Now stay there. Don’t move,” Mr Grainer ordered as he unbuckled his belt and drew it through the loops of his trousers. Jack gazed vacantly at the seat cushion centimetres from his face. Mr Grainger doubled the belt. It was narrow and thin and he held it between his two hands and stretched it so it make a thwacking sound. Jack’s head rose from the settee at the sound of the crack.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned,” Mr Grainger swished the leather belt through the air and took up position by the brat’s side. Jack was small and stocky and fitted comfortably across the settee. His weight pressed into the leather. With his knees slightly bent his bottom was perfectly positioned for Gramp’s purpose.

Jack’s Calvin Klein underpants were a snug fit. He was far from fat, but he carried a little bulk. “A terrific target,” Mr Grainger thought to himself. He rubbed the belt across the centre of Jack’s buttocks, delighting as the brat’s bum tensed. The twenty-year-old was steadying himself for the ordeal about to come.

Smack! The thud of leather hitting cotton-covered buttocks resounded around the room. A line creased the pants where the belt landed. Gramps raised the belt again and lashed it a centimetre or so below it. Then he whipped again and again. Within seconds there were stripes across the whole of Jack’s bum, from below the spine, over the fleshy mounds in into the under-cheeks. Jack took his whipping without a murmur. This perplexed the old man. A spanking should hurt, otherwise what was the point.

Deliberately, he landed a slash low, so that it avoided Jack’s pants altogether and landed on his naked left thigh. “Ouch!” Jack felt that one all right. Gramps watched with great satisfaction as a dark pink line formed. Then he slashed one into the brat’s right thigh.

Mr Grainger might be a senior citizen, but he had some stamina despite his old age. He returned his attention to Jack’s cotton-covered backside and spanked him with his belt for a further five minutes.

“Get up,” he ordered. Jack sprung to his feet. His face was scarlet and his untidy hair soaked in sweat. He rubbed his buttocks, even though they didn’t hurt so much. What pain there was quickly turned to a tingle before almost immediately disappearing.

Mr Grainger returned his belt to its rightful place and sat on a large leather armchair. He spread his legs wide. “Come here,” he gestured to Jack. The brat eyed Gramps cautiously. What did he want? Was he going to take him across his knee for another spanking? Gramps patted his own leg. Now Jack understood. He hurried forward and sat on the old man’s lap. Gramps put his arms around the brat and pulled him forward into a caress.

“Well,” he whispered kindly, “What did you think of that?” Jack smiled, “Not much really. It hardly hurt. Not like the paddle.”

Mr Grainger grinned and pushing Jack to his feet, said, “OK. Go fetch the paddle and we’ll go again.” With mounting excitement, he watched Jack’s beautiful buttocks sashay from the room.


Picture credit: spankingboysdoteu

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Fake News #11

used drawing cane hold (6)

Sen. Magistrates Welcome New Judicial Caning Law

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

Senior Magistrate Col. CET Thumpington-Smythe of the Brocklehurst Bench has welcomed the new law allowing male offenders up to the age of 40 to be caned on the bare buttocks.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe (pictured above) said young men especially needed a severe dose of discipline.

He told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “There is too much juvenile delinquency in this town. Most young men are ill-mannered and rude. They need to be taken down a peg or two. A good dose of the cane will soon put them straight.”

He said there was a particular problem with cannabis smoking among students.

“I should gladly go myself to Brocklehurst University and personally cane every student who has ever taken drugs. A sound six-of-the-best on the bared buttocks is what they need.”

The new law allows magistrates to impose caning sentences for a range of offenses that previously only carried fines or community service.

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I and my colleagues will not hesitate to impose caning sentences. This will be in addition to the other sentence options open to us.”

It is not clear who will carry out the canings. Brocklehurst Police Superintendent Mr. Harry Hardnose told the Brocklehurst Bugle the courts would need to make that decision. “I suppose we can train up police officers to do this. Perhaps one of the lads with big muscles in our rugby team could do it. We need someone who is strong and can leave his mark on the offenders.”

Col. Thumpington-Smythe said, “I should be glad to undertake the thrashings myself. We don’t want some namby-pamby liberal wet in charge. The boys must suffer. They must bleed for their crimes.”

Residents of Brocklehurst also welcomed the new law. Mr. Eric Sloop, aged 45, a shop manager, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, told the Bugle, “I can think of a few louts who hang around Widdicombe Woods drinking and whatnot who would benefit from a trousers-down, bare-bottomed spanking.”

Mr. Ernie Flynn, aged 52, also of The Avenue, has circulated a petition asking the courts to make the canings open to public viewing. He said, “I think it is proper that residents see how their council taxes are being used.”

He said he had already collected nearly 50 signatures from residents of The Avenue alone. Others who would like to sign the petition can contact him on ______________

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Meter Reader

z used paddle jeans chair domestic

The first time I visited the house I failed to notice the large green-and-gold school blazer hanging on a hook in the hallway, but I couldn’t miss the wooden paddle in the cupboard under the stairs.

My heart skipped a beat and my face flushed. It took a super human effort not to pick it up and caress it. It was about two feet long and four inches wide with a handle at one end. It looked all the world like a cricket bat designed for an eight-year-old.

“Ahh, you’ve found my little toy, I see.” An elderly man stood behind me, blocking the light. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I’m pretty sure I came across as a complete idiot. I shone my torch at the gas meter’s dial, recorded some numbers in my book and made a swift exit, face burning and (frankly) my dick twitching.

I stopped outside the front gate to regain my breath. My head was dizzy and my heart racing. I sucked in a lung full of air and hurried down The Avenue to the next house.

My Uncle Clive used to paddle my backside. Good and hard. I was a difficult kid. I never liked school because I couldn’t see the point. I looked around me and saw my Mum and Dad and the neighbours all had good, steady jobs. The men mostly worked in construction, the women in shops or beauty parlours. We rented a council flat, had a family car and took holidays abroad each year. And I don’t suppose any one of them had a qualification. School, who needed it?

Of course, with an attitude like that I was uncooperative and disruptive. The school couldn’t do much about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished years before and if a teacher put me in detention, I didn’t bother to go, Really, what could they do? They suspended me from school once. Yes please, I said. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to go to school. Losers.

Uncle Clive was the exception. Where everyone else had no qualifications, he had a shedload. He had at least two college degrees and some piece of paper that made him an accountant. He believed he had bettered himself. He said I should have more ambition. There won’t always be a construction industry, he said.

I made a vital mistake. I treated him like he was a schoolteacher. I told him where to get off. Leave me alone, I said, I know best.  So I left school as soon as I was legally allowed at sixteen. Big mistake. Banks went bust and the unemployment lines grew. I was out of work for two years. To cut a long story short I went off the rails: I drank, took drugs, got involved in a little thieving. Mum and Dad despaired. After the police turned up at our house to arrest me for the third time they said “Enough”, I would have to go.

I spent a month living on the streets. I was one of those bundles in a shop doorway people hurry by through fear or embarrassment. I was cold, hungry, alone and scared. I don’t know how Uncle Clive discovered where I was living rough. Late one night as I shivered outside Tesco, I looked up wearily to see a tall, strong man towering over me.

He gave me a choice. Stay living on the streets until I die of exposure or go live with him at his nice warm bungalow. A no-brainer really. “My house. My rules.” Uncle Clive was clear from the start. “No booze, no weed. Get a job. Make something of yourself.”

Now, the thing about Uncle Clive was that somewhere along the road he had found religion. Big time. There’s a bit somewhere in the Bible about spare the rod and spoil the child. Except in Uncle’s case the “rod” was a heavy wooden paddle, identical to the one in that cupboard under the stairs. I was eighteen at this time, but as far as Uncle Clive was concerned I was still a little kid. He sat me down and drew up what he called my “Objectives.” I had to get up by eight in the morning, I had a curfew at night, chores to do around the house and I had to go looking for work. Or else.

I had never been threatened with a spanking before. Corporal punishment had been confined to the dustbin of history years since. One day when I was on my own I took Uncle’s paddle from the sideboard drawer and studied it. It looked professionally made. The “blade” end was about two feet long. It must have been a quarter inch thick. I gripped it by the handle and swished it through the air, imagining there was a backside bent across the back of the armchair. It look my breath away. What would it feel like to have this monster crashing into my backside? I held the handle tightly, leaned forward a little and smacked the wood into the seat of my jeans. Ouch! It hurt. Quite a bit actually. I couldn’t get a decent swing into my own backside. I supposed it would hurt a lot more if Uncle Clive was doing it.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out. I had been mooching around the house for too long. I was getting nowhere finding a job. “Just work at a burger bar for now,” Uncle Clive berated me. “Get something to start you off. Don’t worry about the crap pay, you can stay here with me.” He really wanted to help me and I suppose my lack of energy must have frustrated the hell out of him.

So, Uncle Clive said one night the choice was simple. Back to the cardboard box or swats from the paddle. I couldn’t understand why my heart beat so quickly when he said this. You would think it would be through fear. Perhaps it was, but wasn’t there also something exciting about his?

Uncle Clive held the paddle and whacked it into the palm of his hand. I watched transfixed, remembering how much it hurt when I tried it on myself. “Let’s not have any fuss here,” Uncle Clive’s steely-blue eyes pierced through me. “I want you to go over to that chair,” he waved the wood at a straight-backed dining room chair, “And bend over.”

My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. Looking back what was it that I wanted to say? “No way?” Or quite possibly, “Yes, please.” I shuddered. Again, fear or excitement? I couldn’t look at Uncle Clive, I shuffled towards the chair and stopped halfway. Sweat soaked the palms of my hands and I wiped them on the leg of my jeans. My mouth was suddenly dry and I ran my tongue across my lips.

“Bend over,” Uncle Clive was calm, but he did want to get a move on. I stood closer to the chair. “Turn it around so the back faces you.” I did as instructed. I remember the chair was much heavier than I expected. “Bend over,” Uncle Clive said again as he gently tapped the paddle into his palm. I leaned forward and gripped hold of the seat of the chair. My stomach cleared the top of the chair by some distance. Without thinking I spread my legs and kept my knees straight. My jeans fitted tightly and I could feel them tug against my buttocks.

Uncle Clive rested the heavy wooden paddle across the lower part of my cheeks. I felt it move away and then return with an almighty Crack! The sound of wood connecting with my tight denim-clad arse echoed around the room. My knees buckled, my hips swayed and I gripped the chair seat tightly. Ouch! That hurt. If the time I whacked myself scored two out of ten, Uncle Clive’s first attempt was way off the top of the scale.

Uncle Clive swung hard, with all of his strength which was considerable as he was a big man. Every blow hit like the kick of a horse knocking me forward over the back of the chair. At first there was a fierce stinging all the way across my bum. Then the pain increased and it seemed like my entire body ached. Then the next swat landed and the next until Uncle Clive was beating a rhythm on my poor defenceless bottom.

When it was over I performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot and clutching the seat of my jeans. My buttocks glowed red hot but very soon the pain turned to a warm glow. Uncle Clive sent me to my room where I lowered my jeans and pants and stared in astonishment at the reflection of my battered bum in the mirror. My cock was semi-erect and my head buzzed. I can’t quite describe that feeling after my first spanking, but it was better than any drug I was taking at the time.

That was about six years ago. Eventually I got a job with the Gas Board. Uncle Clive encouraged me to find a room of my own and gradually we stopped seeing each other. I hadn’t thought much about  that paddling until my visit to the house in The Avenue. Now, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Why was that paddle in the cupboard? What did that old man do with it? I obsessed. I lay awake at night imagining I was at that house, bent across the back of a leather armchair, my jeans at my ankles while he took my backside off with the paddle.

This could not go on. I had to go back to The Avenue. But, I couldn’t just knock on his door and ask to be spanked. Even so I took a bus and walked up and down the street. It’s a long road with lots of upscale, expensive houses. I felt very conspicuous. How would I explain myself if someone called the police? I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I would bump into the man as he left home to go to the shops.

Nothing happened, of course. Nor did it on the next three times I walked up and down The Avenue. Then it was Saturday. I passed by his house for the third time that morning when the front door opened. I blushed profusely at the sight of the man standing in his doorway. He was about sixty I suppose and showing his age. His waist had long ago disappeared as had most of his hair. His face was fleshy but he still managed to flash me the most beguiling smile.

“Are you spying on me?” he called cheerfully. Oh how I wished the pavement could swallow me up right there. He called me over to him. I could hardly dare to look as I shuffled up his garden path. “I’ve seen you several times, walking past my house,” he still smiled. “Did you want me for something?”

How could I tell him? What could I say? “Yes, please, I want you to spank me,” would sum up my thought succinctly, but I was too bashful to say it out loud. At that point he recognised me. “You’re the chap who came to read my meter,” he paused as if trying to compute. “The one who liked my toy so much!” At this he burst into cackling laughter.

The glint in my eye probably gave him his answer because I certainly did not confirm his supposition with words. “Do come in dear boy,” he moved away from the door to make room for me to enter. I stood uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot. Then I noticed the green-and-gold blazer on the coat hook. Alongside it was a matching school cap and – oh glory – on the hook next door dangled two curve-handled whippy rattan school canes. My eyes darted away from them, fearful that the man would register my interest.

He had. “I have many toys. Come inside, I’ll show you some if you wish.” His smile was so warm I had no fear as he led me into a large living room. It was dominated by a leather Chesterfield couch and two enormous armchairs. At the far end covering almost an entire wall was a glass-fronted display case containing a collection of expensive-looking china ornaments. “You are a very naughty boy, spying on my house like that,” the man said. The smile had vanished, but his words held no fear for me. “And you know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you?”

My head ached. The room was hot and stuffy and I couldn’t breathe properly. I think I shrugged my shoulders in reply to his statement. “What’s up boy, the cat got your tongue?” The man spoke more sternly now. He paced the room in front of me. I stood, hands behind my back, eyes cast down at the expensive wooden flooring beneath my feet.

“I know what you need boy,” the man folded his arms across his chest. My soldier stirred but it was not yet on the march. The man grunted and we lapsed into an oppressive silence. I knew I needed to say something as he needed only the slightest encouragement. I couldn’t find the words. I shrugged my shoulders. “Pah!” The man expelled air through pursed lips. “Such insolence.” He rocked back on his heels and unfolded his arms. He glared at me down a long, angular nose. “Well boy, I know how to deal with that.”

He waved his hand in the general direction of the Chesterfield couch. “Stand there. Put your hands on your head.” My mouth drained of saliva and my hands trembled, but I did as he commanded. With my fingers interlocked I placed my hands on my head in the classic naughty-boy pose. My hair was soaked with sweat. From the corner of my eye I saw the man stride from the room. He returned seconds later. Under his right arm was a thick, whippy school cane. My eyes saucered. I had never seen a school cane before.

“Never seen a school cane before,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question. “Well boy, today will also be the first time you feel a school cane.” He placed great emphasis on the word “feel”. I felt my cock press into the front of my pants. The man walked to the front of me and slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He wobbled it in front of my face. My eyes followed it as it travelled through the air. My heart was already racing but sped more when the man flexed the cane between two hands so that effortlessly it made an arc. Then he swiped the cane across the back of the Chesterfield couch, leaving a thin indentation in the rich black leather.

“In a moment that will be your backside boy.” The man’s smile was now malevolent. I closed my eyes tight. “Now,” the man spoke calmly and evenly. “I want you to lower your trousers and bend over the couch.” The blood was rushing so quickly through my body and pounding my ears that I didn’t fully catch his words. I stood trembling but made no other movement.

“Pah!” The man exhaled. “Take down your trousers.” The command was sterner. This was a man who expected to be obeyed. I felt his eyes burn into my soul as I fumbled with the button of my chino trousers. It took an inordinate length of time. I wanted to do this very much but I could not persuade my fingers to obey me. At last the waistband was loose. I had less trouble with the zipper but was alarmed to see the bulge in the front of my green underpants. They fitted tightly in ordinary circumstances and my tentpole was straining the cotton. The man professed not to notice.

The chinos slid down my highs and bunched at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued their journey to my feet. I think I could feel pre-cum oozing from my cock but it might have been my imagination. I eased myself forward over the back of the couch. It was an expensive piece of furniture and judging by the aroma of rich leather that assaulted my nostrils it was almost brand new.

I was tall enough that my body cleared the apex of the couch. Just as well as I am sure the friction of my body on the back of the Chesterfield would have made me shoot my load. My eyes were closed so I could not see the man but I felt him take hold of my shirt and roughly move it further up my back. Very daintily, he smoothed the cotton underpants so they fitted my stretched buttocks so well that I felt them dig into my crack. My buttock cheeks must have been beautifully separated.

The man sawed the cane across the underside of my bum, taking his aim. A second later I heard a swoosh and there was a tremendous crack as the cane swiped deep into my flesh. It was another second before the pain registered. It was as if the man had pressed a white-hot wire into me. My legs stamped up and down and my hips swirled. I bit down deeply on my bottom lip to silence the wail my body desperately wanted me to make. I was certain my bum had been sliced open. Surely it was bleeding? A thin weal, puffy and swelling rose.

The speed at which the cane swished through the air both fascinated and terrified me. Swish-crack! It was all I could do not to scream. The line of fire bored into my bum and I wiggled frantically.

“Keep still!” the man scolded. I tried to stay calm. My eyes stung with tears but they had not yet started to flow down my face. Swish-crack! Swish-crack! Swish-crack! The agony was too much. I jumped to my feet and clutched my burning backside, hopping around the room. The tears flowed freely now. I had no control whatsoever of my body. My lungs were empty and desperately I tried to suck in air.

The man stood impassively, cane once more tucked under his arm as I humiliated myself before him. Once I had stopped my dancing, he ordered me back over the couch. I obeyed without question. The man was in charge. It was his duty to beat me. It was my role to offer up my bottom for discipline. Only when my master was satisfied I had been punished enough would the caning end.

He was not a cruel man. He knew I was a novice at this. He gave me six hard swipes. Six-of-the-best they used to call it back in the day. He left me there prostrate across the couch for a full minute while I regained my breathing. “Stand up,” the man’s tone was gentle. My bum was on fire, my cock throbbed like crazy but my head was as clear as a bell. It was the euphoria you can only get with a severe beating. Without waiting for permission, I tugged up my trousers and with great difficulty zipped them up over my pulsating penis. I wasn’t the least embarrassed that the man could see my predicament.

“Do you need the lavatory?” the man asked, his face once more cracked by a smile. Of course I did.

Picture credit: Unknown

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