Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)

 

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

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

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

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

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

Charles

 

1: A glimpse into the near future

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

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

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

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’

 

2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

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

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

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

 

  1. The police station

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

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

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

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

 

  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

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

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

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

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

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

 

  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

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

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

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

  1. Pub landlord

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

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

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

  1. Just another day

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

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

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

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

  1. The truck

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

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

“It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

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

 

A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The escapee (or Blakey on the run)

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z used solo boy escaping industrial school Hots

The bars across the window had been sawn through weeks before. They hadn’t been fixed. Money was tight. There were more important things to worry about. Blakey pulled open the sash windows. It was almost dark. The rest of the “students” would be down in the recreation rooms in the hour before bedtime. Now, was the perfect time. He lowered himself to the ground. Crouched, just to check that there were no master around. The coast was clear. He ran towards the gate and was through it and on the road through the Widdicombe Woods in seconds.

It was hardly The Great Escape. Central Industrial School was an establishment for young offenders; chiefly petty, but persistent criminals. Society looked them up in school where they learned a trade before being allowed back to live among decent folk.

It wasn’t high security prison. Really, it was just like an ordinary boarding school; except for the bars. Inmates – or “students” as the authorities preferred to call them – escaped from time to time. Nobody at the schools cared too much; they always got caught. Some found so-called “freedom” tough and handed themselves in. When the masters – as they called the “warders” – found out Blakey had absconded they wouldn’t lose too much sleep.

Blakey wouldn’t get far. The uniform he was forced to wear would give hm away. Someone would soon spot him and know he was on the run. There are not many nineteen-year-old boys running around wearing blue short trousers. And certainly not in November.

No sirens were sounded; no road blocks set up. Blakey wasn’t a murderer or a rapist, breaking into gas meters was his speciality. In time local police would be informed.

Central Industrial School was two miles outside the small town of Brocklehurst and that was Blakey’s destination. He had a girl there. Blakey had needs. So did many of the students at Central Industrial School. It was the way they met those needs that upset Blakey. He needed the real thing and Doris, his girl, would see to it that he got it.

He lasted nearly two whole days. Two officers in a police car took him back. Capt. Harris, the “headmaster” and chief “housemaster” Mr White were ready to receive him. Preparations had already been made. Before the police car had made it to the end of the school’s drive, Capt. Harris gave the order, “Take him down to the gymnasium.”

Blakey made no protest. He didn’t struggle. Calmly, but not meekly, he followed Mr White. There was an eerie quietness about the place. Students were in classes in the main school building. The gymnasium stood on its own at the far end of the school grounds, a little behind the football pitches. It was cold, a frost had not melted and Blakey’s feet crunched along the ground as he trudged to his fate.

Mr White was silent. He had nothing to say. He didn’t care to ask why Blakey had run away; why the boy had done it in the clear knowledge that he would be caught. And what would happen to him upon capture. There was no secret about these things.

The gymnasium was a dilapidated building constructed mostly of wooden slats. It was cold and damp, uninviting at the best of times, even less so on this bitter winter’s afternoon. The door had been left ajar. “Get in,” Mr White barked. He stood aside to allow the nineteen-year-old absconder to enter ahead of him. Mr White feared the lad might try to make another run for it. The gymnasium was dark and dank, and almost completely empty. The first thing Blakey saw as he entered was Mr Albion; another of the school’s housemasters. Mr Albion taught mathematics. He also held a special role in the school. One that made him both feared and hated by the boys.

Blakey blinked hard. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. He saw Mr Albion standing behind an old, worn down vaulting horse. But that was not what startled Blakely. Behind Mr Albion and lined up against the wall were three huge enamel buckets and poking out of each of them were a bunch of birches, each soaking in what appeared to be dirty water. Blakey couldn’t stop his eyes from blinking rapidly. This time it wasn’t the poor light that had his lashes flickering. It was trepidation. He peered closely and even at a distance he saw each birch rod was a cluster of nine or ten leafless branches three feet long and tightly bound at the base with sticking plaster.

“Step forward, stand in front of the horse,” Mr Albion barked. Blakey hesitated. He wanted to comply; he couldn’t get his body to agree. “Hurry up Lad!” Mr Albion did not try to hide his impatience or his disdain for the “student” standing before him. At last Blakey’s legs were able to obey and he stood, unsteady on his feet. He heard little of what Mr Albion said next, he was staring at the leather horse. It was about four feet off the ground and had four short and sturdy wooden legs. Attached to each of these legs, around eight inches from the ground, were heavy leather straps. There could be no doubt of its purpose.

Only then did Blakey notice Mr Albion had moved towards the enamel buckets. Now, he stood gripping a bound birch rod in his hand, its long and thin twigs provocatively splayed.

“Remove your clothes,’ the terse order seemed to be made by a voice from a very long distance.”

Blakey croaked. His throat was dry, his legs shook and his stomach lurched with sickening fear. He couldn’t formulate a response. Mr Albion repeated himself, “Remove your clothes. All of them. Make a pile over there.” He swished the birch rod in the direction of a near corner. Water droplets flew from it and left a damp patch on the floor near his feet.

Blakey’s body once more refused to move. The enormity of his situation dawned on him. The horse, the straps, the birch, all threateningly combined for an attack on his fragile body.

Mr Albion glared at the wretched boy in front of him. “Do as I say and we can get this over and done with.”

Blakey could still not speak but his body responded. He was on some kind of auto-pilot. He removed his jacket and let it drop to the ground. His baggy, ill-fitting shorts fell to the floor the moment he released the belt. His shirt was next. Then he was dressed only in undervest and drawers. He stood, eyes now pleading with Mr Albion.

“Everything. All of it. Naked,” he roared, no longer speaking in sentences.

Blakey put his fumbling hands underneath his vest and, nervously pulled the rough material over his head. As he did so he smelt his own sweat. His armpits were rancid. He dropped the vest at his feet. Then, he slipped his thumbs inside the waist of his grey, woollen drawers. Like all of his clothes they were ill-fitting and they were soon down to his ankles. Immediately, and instinctively, he clasped his hands in front to hide his privates.

“Step out of them,” Mr Albion swished the birch rod again. “Kick them away. Right out of the way.”

An observer of this scene might have been surprised to witness what happened next. There were no abject pleas for mercy. No cursing and swearing. No struggles. No unseemly fight as Blakey fought to escape the terrible ordeal that was ahead. The lad allowed himself to be led by the arm to the horse. There he was bent over and tied, first by the hands and then by the legs. The downward slope of the horse meant that his backside was raised unusually high. In a moment his bare behind would feel the first kiss of the birch. Two hard, round hairless buttocks quivered as Mr Albion gently touched the splaying twigs against the naked flesh.

z used restrained naked horse (1)

Then, he raised the birch and remorselessly, and with a skill honed by experience, lashed it down across the upturned naked cheeks. Blakey yelled. He was no stranger to corporal punishment, his backside had been blistered by any number of whippy, rattan school canes. This was different. The cane delivers a single blow each time it falls, the birch causes more pain, owing to the number of thin supple rods. The more Blakey yelled the more Mr Albion lashed the unrelenting birch across his arched backside. Each combined thrash of the individual twigs found every inch of the lad’s mounds.

By the third stroke Blakey was lurching both to the left and the right. By the fifth stroke, realising that unremitting straps held his naked frame firmly in place, he begged for release. On the eighth he sobbed uncontrollably. “Please sir, no more. Please!’

The ninth stroke of the birch caught the underside of Blakey’s buttocks. “No more. Oh god, no more.”

The tenth and eleventh strokes lashed across the dividing curves of the young and, still smooth, backside. The twelfth stroke, firm and true, fell hard across the centre of all that had gone before.

Mr Albion’s birch had done its work for the final time. The last stroke embedded itself in the bare flesh and, having left a final mark, dragged down the outstretched legs and rested.

Blakey gradually ceased his screaming but continued to sob and bleat. Even that faded away to nothingness until, eventually, an eerie silence and stillness fell upon the gymnasium. Only the picture of a beaten lad, stretched naked across a vaulting horse. Mr Albion and Mr White left and did not return for ten minutes but, when they did, a still and exhausted lad had resumed his quiet sobbing.

Then the man who had birched Blakey’s bottom gently released the restraining straps and, just as gently, lifted him off the horse. For a moment Blakey was unbalanced and dizzy but, as Mr Albion put a steadying hand on his shoulders, his own hands moved to ease his burning rear. In silence and with much difficulty Blakey climbed back into his clothes.

“Come with me, that backside of yours needs some attention,” Mr White demanded and he led the way from the gymnasium, a bulge in his right hand trouser pocket causing him to limp a little.

 

 

Picture credits: Hotspur / Unknown

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The sneak thief

Trousers down. Over my knee

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Speaking in support of the birch

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z used birch school CS (20)

Gentlemen,

I speak this evening in support of the birch as a preferred method of chastisement in schools. As you will be aware there is a great deal of debate and correspondence in our great newspapers regarding the introduction of the supple cane to replace the age-old birch rod. I speak as the headmaster of one of our country’s greatest schools and I trust you will consider that I speak from experience.

For those unfamiliar with such things, the birch rod is an ordinary birch and is constructed of twelve or fourteen twigs held together at one end into a handle. Its length is up to eighteen inches and the spread of the rods is twelve inches. It is applied to the bare posterior once trousers and underwear are lowered.

As some of us know, the birch stings freely and occasionally breaks the upper skin and underlying tissue. But the birch hurts less than the cane in the end.

I approve of the use of this punishment rather than expulsion for some of the graver offences, and for the continual repetition of lesser faults, which other punishments have failed to control. I approve of the use of the birch only, for it simply temporarily stings.

It should be administered only on the place suggested by nature; and thus applied I continue to advocate it as one of the kindest, most impressive, and least injurious punishments.

Further, it should be invariably administered by the headmaster, or in his presence and never by the form-master. I entirely disapprove of the use of the cane, for it can act as an instrument of torture, severely bruising the posterior for days and weeks. Moreover, a vindictive cut with the cane on the hand by a master can be too easily given in the moment of exasperation. This could not occur where the birch was employed; the use of the birch, too, allows time for the temper to subside before its application.

I believe that the birch is a safer method of chastisement than the cane. It can do less harm than a severe blow with a single cane, and at the same time a lighter stroke causes more pain, owing to the number of thin supple rods. The severity of application is more important than the size of the birch. In all cases in which it is used the part should be naked, as injury might be caused by objects in the boy’s clothing coming in contact with the body under the blow. The presumption is that in all cases the boy is in a good state of health, but if he is not, the injury from the one method would be very similar in all respects to the other.

Those who paint harrowing pictures of the boy’s sufferings from his well-deserved punishment simply betray their ignorance. I can speak from knowledge. I have suffered both birching and caning; I have inflicted both, on some of my children and on some of my pupils. My own experience and that of my victims, voluntarily communicated long afterwards, is that the former is the less painful operation, though the marks (which no one need or ought to see) may to the uninitiated appear to betoken the contrary. I believe that medical authorities are pretty well agreed that of all the forms of corporal infliction in use in English schools and of all the instruments used for that purpose, flogging with a birch rod in the usual way is the least injurious. Caning on the hand is almost universally condemned, and the efficacy of an infliction on a covered portion of the body varies with the amount and texture of the ordinary (or extraordinary) clothing worn upon it at the time.

For centuries the birch was the usual form of school flagellation, and although no doubt in olden times school punishments, like those of adult criminals, erred greatly on the side of severity, that is no reason why a moderate chastisement should be regarded as an outrage. Probably a majority of the older men among aristocratic families have been flogged in the old fashioned way in their boyhood for much less serious offences than lying, and even the younger ones who have not experienced the discipline of the birch rod themselves have been at schools where they were liable to it on due occasion. Certainly no schoolboy who has had experience would regard five strokes with the rod (which, is the amount of this much-exaggerated punishment) as a very serious or severe infliction. I can only say that when I was a boy I should have expected (and my expectation would not have been disappointed) a much more severe personal penance for a similar offence, if at home from my parents or at school from my master.

In conclusion, may I say that if there be one thing that will not fit our boys for the important and honourable duties of future citizenship it is ‘mollycoddling.’ Some parents nowadays injure their children and lessen the teacher’s influence for good by listening to petty complaints about punishment. It is a great mistake. It tends to sap the growth of true nobility of character and make puling, whining nobodies. Long ago (those were manifestly more Spartan times) when a boy was caned or strapped the last thing he dreamt of doing was to tell his father. He knew that most likely in that case the chastisement would be supplemented. That line of action, for the boy’s sake, was immeasurably the better one. Let parents wisely, frankly, tenderly put their boys on their honour to be truthful, pure-minded, inflexibly fair and just, kindly and companionable to be, indeed, always and everywhere genuine, and to honour their teachers, on whose efforts their future so much depends. And while warning the boys against getting into scrapes, let the parents with equal frankness tell them, should they ever happen to get into one, not to sulk or whine, but stick to the truth and take their chastisement like a man and be wiser for the future. Above all things, may we be saved from a generation of ‘mollycoddles’!

Thank you for listening.

Picture credit: C of Sweden

AUTHOR’S NOTE: This story was compiled from genuine correspondence in the Manchester Guardian, England, in 1907

Other stories you might like

 

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

The Boy From Across The Street

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Summer spent staring at the carpet

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z used otk chair head bbfc (200)

I cannot begin to remember how often I had a close-up view of the carpet that summer. My nose hovering inches above the dusty, cheap flooring. Trousers at my ankles, underwear at the knees and Uncle Simon flogging a birch rod into my naked buttocks. Yowl! I can still feel the sting as I recall the pain and indignity of it all.

Nineteen years old and over an older man’s knees for a bare-arsed whipping. Can you imagine such a thing?

I’m not sure where to begin. It was 1974. A lifetime away. I had spent the previous six months banged up at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. They called it Youth Detention in those days, a bit like borstal really. It doesn’t much matter what you called it, it was still locked up three to a cell for most of the day. I was a menace to society, apparently. Okay, I stole cars. Lots of them in fact. Can you be addicted to stealing cars? Perhaps I was. Do they have a special name for it? Probably. I never did much with them. I drove around at high speed and when I had my fill I dumped them. Crazy really. It didn’t take the cops long to find me. The daft magistrates gave me community service the first time. Making tea at some old granny’s day centre. At the end of the third day there, I stole a Cortina and thrashed it along the motorway. The magistrate gave me a fine that time.

The fifth time I was up before the Bench, he sent me to YD. Mum disowned me when I came out. Step forward Uncle Simon.

“What he needs,” he told my mum, “is a good dose of the birch. None of that namby-pamby community service.” And, he knew what he was talking about. Uncle Simon was no angel when he was younger. House breaking was his thing. Stealing wireless sets his speciality. I know, it just shows you how long ago that was. The Assizes ordered him to six strokes of the birch. Bare-arsed, naturally. “Still got the scars to prove it,” Uncle Simon boasted. I never believed him. I asked him once to drop his kecks and show me his bare arse. Enough said on that matter.

I was to find out myself that the birch can take your arse off, but the cuts soon heal. Uncle Simon took me into his home which was a dingey little flat on a council estate near Widdicombe Woods. It was near one of the poshest suburbs of Brocklehurst and I thought nothing of bunking over garden walls and taking my pick from summer houses and sheds. Now and again one of the old geezers who lived there left a french window carelessly unlocked. Bingo! In those days you could easily sell a video in the pub. Ha!

What I didn’t reckon with was that Uncle Simon hadn’t changed so much. He liked to drink in the less savoury joints and hang out with petty criminals so when one time I waltzed into The Three Fishers with a video recorder hidden in a Tesco’s bag who should I see propping up the bar? He didn’t say anything. His deadly stare was enough to make me leg it out of the pub. I knew I was for it later. Still, I thought, in for a penny in for a pound. Or, better to be hung for a sheep than for a lamb.  Actually, I probably didn’t really think that at the time (I hadn’t learned about fancy words; that came later). What I did was I went touring the pubs until I sold the video. So, at least my pockets were jangling with cash by the time I got home.

Uncle Simon was waiting. He had put the time since I saw him to good use. The second I walked through the door the very strong smell of freshly-cut tree branches hit me. Uncle Simon was in the kitchen busy with a bread knife. But he wasn’t cutting sandwiches; he had a pile of birch twigs neatly stacked on the kitchen table. I stood half in the doorway and watched, as he collected about a dozen of the twigs together and wrapped sticking plaster around one end. This made a makeshift, but effective handle. As he finished off the second birch rod, he acknowledged my presence. I probably blushed to my roots, but I didn’t say a word. Uncle Simon didn’t say much. He took both birch rods in his hands and nodded in a direction behind me. “Living room. Now!”

I didn’t need to ask for confirmation or explanation. I knew precisely what he intended to do. Now, at this point in my story, you too know what happens next. But, you might also be asking yourself, “Why did he let his Uncle do this?” You probably think I should have told him to go to hell and refused to have anything to do with his plan. And it would be perfectly reasonable of you to say that. I have no answer to you. Except to say that this was a very long time ago and I had been through the youth detention system and maybe I was conditioned to this kind of thing. I lived a regimented life; there were rules and you were expected to obey them. If you didn’t you were punished. Sometimes that meant a birching. That’s life. What I can say to those of you with suspicious minds, not for one moment did I enjoy this.

So, I trudged into the living room with Uncle Simon following closely behind me. The room was very small, like the rest of the flat, and had a cheap, vinyl settee and two small armchairs that did not match it. There was a beat-up table in the corner and a worn, wooden straight backed armless chair. “Put that there!” Uncle spoke softly and in a monotone voice. I knew what he meant and I picked up the chair and took it into the middle of the room. As I did that Uncle Simon laid the birch rods on the table. He left one there and took the other with him as he went and sat on the chair. He spread his legs the way you do at times like this and told me quietly and sternly, “Take down your jeans and pants. You know what to do.”

I did. And I knew why I was about to be birched. Uncle Simon had not said a word about my thieving. He knew that I knew and that was enough. All he wanted was to get on with it. He didn’t even give me time to take off my coat. I stood about a yard distance from Uncle’s  right thigh and stared at him. At the time I thought he was an old man but now I look back I suppose how wasn’t much over fifty. He was padding out a bit and he had a muffin belly that hung a little over his belt. He still had all his hair, but it was going grey at the temples. I looked at the birch in his hands. By this time I had become familiar with this. We all called it “a birch” but I think it was actually made of about a dozen hazel twigs; he had cut each of them to about ten or twelve inches and tied them into a handle at one end. Despite its size it wasn’t very heavy; not like the birches Uncle Simon had been flogged with back in the day. He had constructed the birch so he could swish my bare arse while I was bent across his knee in the traditional naughty-little-boy fashion. Of course, since I was face down staring at the carpet I never saw this, but I’m pretty certain that the birch rods spread enough to cover both my cheeks in a single swipe.

So, Uncle Simon told me to strip down and I did. My jeans were puddled over my trainers and my boxer shorts hung over my knees. “Bend over,” he said and again I did as I was told. I was roughly the same height as Uncle Simon but a lot leaner and my body fitted comfortably across his lap. He spread his legs so there was a platform for my stomach and chest to rest on. My arms and head dangled forward. Uncle gripped my right arm and twisted it up my back so I was pinned down. My bare bum was raised high over his thigh and my legs stretched behind me and with my knees bent a little my toes hovered above the carpet. I waited submissively. I had no intention of fighting Uncle Simon.

It was summer, but the day was not particularly warm. A window was open and a breeze cooled my bare bottom and legs. Uncle Simon teased me by gently caressing my naked cheeks with the birch. It was ticklish. But not for long. I felt the birch being raised, Uncle Simon held it aloft for a second or so and then there was an almighty swishing noise as it swooped through the air and connected with terrific force across the undercurves of my buttocks. My entire body shuddered, my knees buckled and a long, shrill hiss of air escaped through my clenched teeth. Another second or so passed and I felt a searing pain as the skin on my bum burned like the fires of Hell.

Uncle Simon repeated the manoeuvre and this time he laid the birch high on the crest of my mounds. Now, ever square inch of my bottom was alight. It throbbed madly and I knew small cuts were creeping across the whole target area. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples ached almost as much as my bum. I did the wriggling and writhing thing again, but Uncle had a very firm hold of me and I wasn’t going anywhere until he said so.

Of course, with both cheeks roaring any further swipes of the birch could only land on already raw flesh and reignite the intense pain. Uncle Simon showed no mercy. Swipe! Swish! Swipe! Swish! Six cuts had opened up the flesh. No matter how many times I went across Uncle Simon’s knee that summer I never got used to the sting of the birch. I kicked; I wriggled; I swayed; I yelped; I yelled; I hollered. I was out of control. I had no choice. It was an entirely physical reaction, it was my body’s way of coping with the assault. That was why my face was awash with tears after three stokes and my chin was soaked in snot after six.

He stopped after nine. I hopped to my feet and rubbed away like fury. My bum felt like raw hamburger meat. The cheeks were criss-crossed with dozens and dozens of thin lines; some were white and others glowed dark pink. Before long the whole lot would merge into a deep mauve that in the days to come would transform into oranges and yellows before eventually disappearing. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. I glared at Uncle Simon, not with fury but remorse. My eyes were on stalks and I could hardly see through the tears. It would take some time yet before my heartrate steadied, my breathing eased and my body returned to its natural state. I couldn’t bear the pain involved in pulling up my boxers and jeans so with them at my ankles I waddled like a penguin from the room and staggered across the passage to my bedroom. I lay face down sobbing for the rest of the day.

Did it do me any good; that summer spent staring at the carpet? Well, the truth is I did carry on stealing. Uncle Simon lost patience and threw me out. I left Brocklehurst and thumbed a lift North. One day with a couple of equally coked-up pals I attempted to rob an off-licence. We got five years jail time for that and I’ve been in and out ever since.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The apprentices

z used otk bare chair office Sting (3)

Anders Schmidt’s heart raced, he re-entered the figures on the spreadsheet, double clicked the mouse and waited for it to update.

Sweat was moistening his brow and it was not only because the air-conditioning in the room was not working.

In a second the computer screen flickered. Schmidt did not have to look; he already knew the answer. He had missed his target again – for the second month running. He was in big trouble. Very big trouble.

He had a couple of hours maximum before his boss checked the files and found out what Schmidt, the apprentice salesman, had done; or more accurately, what he had failed to do.

Schmidt had been with MegaCorp for five months. He was taken on after he left school, along with dozens of other teenagers, for a five-year apprenticeship. He had been overjoyed to land it: unemployment in the country was high, and in the stratosphere for young people. Welfare had been slashed and for Anders, no job would have meant destitution.

Merkel sipped on his too-hot coffee and waited patiently as the printer coughed out the sales figures. Business had been slow since Christmas and he did not expect this month to be much better. He put down his mug, picked up a highlighter pen, and shuffled through the printed sheets. He almost smiled: sales were higher than he expected. By the time he had finished only two of his salesmen’s names were marked. Schmidt and another apprentice Vidic had missed their targets; Schmidt by a little and Vidic by a mile.

Oh well, Merkel, thought, he could have a little sport now.

Anders stared impassively out of the window. The sun was blazing, it had not rained in months and the grass had turned brown and died. The shortage meant it was now illegal to water plants and gardens across the country had perished.

Anders had never been in this situation before, but he knew something unpleasant and painful was going to happen. Since the Unity Government came to power a lot had changed. Its first task to tackle mass unemployment had been to strip workers of all their rights and set up work schemes. The apprenticeships had been welcomed by youngsters and parents alike. Boys, girls were not included, were signed up for five years and given training and a wage. In return, the boys were compelled to stay with the company until the end of their contract. The company, however, if it saw fit, could terminate the apprentice at any time.

To lose an apprenticeship would be a disaster. No former apprentice could by law be re-hired at another business.

Anders would not lose his job; not this time, he knew that. But, he would have to undergo a humiliation the like of which he had never suffered before.

MegaCorp called it their “second-chance” policy. In fact, for some apprentices it was a third, or even a fourth-chance policy. Ander’s bosses were not cruel people, they understood how vital it was for a young man to have work; many of the apprentices in the company were the only earners in their family. Heck, MegaCorp knew it had a social responsibility.

Merkel looked at the clock: it was twenty after noon. He would take lunch soon and deal with the apprentices later in the afternoon. It would give him something to look forward to.

At three-thirty prompt, Anders stood in Helmut’s office. Helmut was Merkel’s personal assistant. They used to call his post a “secretary”, but they changed the title when they sacked all the women and gave their jobs to men. No self-respecting man would want to be called a secretary.

Helmut was in his twenties and like everyone else in the country, he feared for his job, so he kept his head down, his mouth buttoned and his thoughts to himself. He knew how Merkel treated the apprentices and, even with the pace of changes being made to the law, he was darned sure what he did was illegal. But, he said nothing: fearing for his job and also for the skin on his backside.

A screen on Helmut’s desk flickered. “You can go in now,” and despite his timidity, he added, “Good luck.”

Anders knocked on the door, waited for a response and then entered.

It was a large modern open-plan office. It was so big if you took the furniture out there would be enough space to play five-a-side football. One end of the office was dominated by a vast steel and glass desk and the other end had been decked out like a fashionable lounge room with comfortable chairs and a coffee table.

Anders took his place in front of the desk. He could not look Merkel in the eye and instead stared over his left shoulder at the framed portrait of the nation’s new leader. He was in a commanding pose. Anders and his friends had once thought the man absurd, he even looked a little like the clown Chico who had been famous in silent movies more than a century previously.

But, now Chico had been in power for more than five years with no sight of a general election to come, they knew he was no clown.

Merkel eyed Anders up and down. He saw a slight boy in a pin-striped suit that was just a little too big for him. All the apprentices wore blue pin-stripes; it was like an unofficial uniform. If Merkel had his way the young men would have a proper uniform: he imagined them in pale blue shirts and black shorts. They would be proper shorts too, the ones that showed the boys’ legs and were not much longer than their underwear.

Merkel had never met Anders before, but he recognised him from the office. He knew all his apprentices by sight and expected that with the second-chance rule he would get to know each one intimately eventually.

Anders listened impassively as his boss went through the apprentice’s sales figures. They were poor. They were worse than those of the other boys. Anders nodded agreement from time to time; what more could he do? Nothing he said could change the course of action.

Satisfied that his case had been made, Merkel put down the printed sheets.

“We have a policy at MegaCorp. It is called the ‘second-chance’ policy; do you know what that means?”

Anders, his mouth now as dry as the grass outside the building, nodded.

“Well?” Merkel raised his voice.

“Yes, Sir,” Anders coughed and said no more.

“Yes, Sir, what?”

“Yes, I understand the policy.”

“Good. Then let us not waste any more of my time.” With that Merkel rose from his chair and walked the length of the office. Anders looked on mournfully. Any moment now, something would happen, but he was unsure what.

He had heard all kinds of stories. Tomas, a second-year apprentice had heard from a friend who heard from a friend that it was just like at the police station. What he meant was that teenagers and young men found hanging around the streets (even before curfew time) were routinely rounded up and taken to police stations. There was one such station less than a mile from Anders’ home.

At the station, one by one, each boy was led (or sometimes dragged) into a specially prepared room. It was bare except for a purpose-built frame. Some boys were brave and prepared themselves, but most were not and had their trousers and pants ripped down by one, or if the boy put up a titanic struggle, two officers. Then he was hauled across the frame and his wrists secured by straps.

The police had previously used a smaller room at the back of the building, away from the main street, but the ceiling was too low for an officer to properly raise and flog birch rods into a boy’s naked buttocks.

The replacement room was much better: there was ample space to swing a birch. The downside was that the pitiful screams of the whipped boy could be easily heard in the street. The punishments were so frequent and the wails so loud that people in offices nearby had asked that the police confine their activities until night time; the noise was disturbing their work.

“Pathetic liberals,” the police commander sneered when he received the complaint. Nonetheless, he ordered the room to be sound-proofed.

Merkel took up a straight-backed chair and put it down in the middle of the room. There would be no birching for Anders, he would get something much less severe; but much more pleasurable for the boss.

“Come here boy.” Anders had not moved from the desk.

Merkel sat down and moved his buttocks around and spread his legs a little until he was comfortable and ready to take the boy.

“Take off your jacket and put it on the chair there.”

Merkel enjoyed watching the boy unbutton the jacket and slip it from his shoulders. He was much more muscular than he had first realised. The too-large jacket did not flatter him.

“Stand in front of me here,” Merkel waved his hand unnecessarily, as Anders by now understood what was going to happen.

Anders stood a little under six-feet tall and was perfectly proportioned. His skin was clear and his unkempt brown hair flopped over his forehead. His sky blue eyes positively sparkled, even when he was in such a predicament as this.

He was so much better than Vidic, who had stood in the same spot thirty minutes previously. That boy was small, squat, with curly dark hair and eyes as brown as mud. And, Merkel still shuddered at the thought of it; his body was covered in rough black hair.

No matter, Merkel thought, Vidic and his kind would not be around for much longer. The Unity Government had plans for people like Vidic.

Anders was rooted to the spot, too humiliated to move, when his boss reached forward and began to unbuckle the teenager’s belt. He wanted to push him away and run from the room. In a fair world he would be able to punch the old man in the mouth before calling Security.

But this was not a fair world; Anders must let Merkel do as he wished.

The belt loosened, Merkel turned to the zipper. It took a second for it to fall and the trousers to open to reveal Anders was wearing bright blue briefs that were so tight Merkel could immediately see this was no boy standing before him.

Merkel pulled the pin-stripe trousers down Anders’ hips, over his buttocks and down to the teenager’s knees. He was ready now.

Anders could feel his face flush; it was as red now as his buttocks would surely be in only a few moments.

“Relax,” Merkel whispered as he took Anders left arm and gently guided him across his knees.

Anders was too tall to comfortably fit across anyone’s knees. Instinctively, he placed the palms of both hands squarely on the floor in front of him. Behind him his legs were so long, he had to curve them at the knees so his toes rested on the carpet.

“Spread your legs a little, it will be easier.” Merkel’s gave the instruction calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a boss to have his nineteen-year-old apprentice bent across his knee preparing to have his bottom smacked.

Anders did as instructed and was now comfortably over the man’s knee, hands pressed into the carpet at one end and toes resting comfortably on the ground at the other; his bottom perfectly resting on the old man’s right thigh.

This was a novel experience for Anders, but not for Merkel. Over the past few months he had developed a routine that he liked to follow. He loved to take his time, especially with boys as beautiful as Anders.

He took hold of the tail of the boy’s crisp white shirt and carefully pushed it up until an inch or two of bare flesh was exposed. Then, with his left hand he pulled at the elasticated waist of the briefs. They were tight already and it took no effort to smooth out creases so the cotton fitted smoothly like a second skin.

All the time, Anders lay submissively in position. He had never been spanked in his life and had no idea how much this was going to hurt. He wished Merkel would stop toying with him and get on with it.

But his boss was not ready yet. With his right hand he caressed the boy’s buttocks, feeling the firmness of the cheeks and the smoothness of the thighs. The beautiful blond boy seemed almost hairless; but Merkel palm was tickled as he ran it down the back of Anders’ legs. The hair was so blond it was almost invisible against his skin.

His breathing was becoming a little heavy and very soon he feared he might show just how attractive he felt the boy was. It was time to get on with it.

He raised his hand to about three inches from the boy’s left buttock and brought it down with a resounding smack! The flesh gave way and he felt his hand sink into the boy’s buttock. Perhaps, he was not as firm as he looked.

Merkel smacked away across both cheeks: high, low and then in the centre.

Anders lay impassively across the man’s lap. He felt the slaps hit into his proffered cheeks, but there was hardly any pain. There was a tingling sensation at first that after a dozen or so slaps became a warm glow. He was new to the experience of hand spanking and would not know that no matter how hard or how rapidly a man smacked the palm of his hand into the buttocks of a nineteen-year-old he would not make much of an impression. Indeed, there was a real possibility that after a short time the man’s hand would hurt a lot more than the teenager’s bottom.

Merkel knew what he was doing. After a few dozen slaps, he paused, and without saying a word, he tugged Ander’s underpants down.

He rubbed his hand over the now-naked cheeks. “What a lovely shade of pink,” he said and rubbed some more. “And, so very warm.”

Anders gasped and closed his eyes tight. “Please God, don’t let him put his fingers in my crack,” he prayed silently.

Merkel raised his hand and slapped it down into the buttocks: again and again and again.

It still did not hurt Anders much, but despite the novelty of the experience he reckoned it was supposed to cause him pain. Otherwise, he thought somewhat naively, what was the point of the spanking?

He let out an “Oww”, followed by an “Ahhh” and hoped he sounded convincing.

Merkel smiled. He was not fooled. He smacked on and on into the yielding naked flesh, landing a few blows on the sensitive sit-spot where the cheeks meet the thighs. A genuine gasp escaped Anders’ lips.

The boss was impressed by his own handiwork; literally, for his handprint was clearly visible at the top of each cheek.

He smacked the boy’s bare bottom for fully five minutes and would have carried on for at least another five, but he was interrupted by Helmut.

“Sorry, Sir. There’s an urgent phone call from head office in Dusseldorf. It’s important.”

“It had better be.”

He released his hold on Anders and the boy sprang to his feet and quickly whipped up his pants and trousers. His bottom was a little sore, but even in the few moments it took to get dressed the pain had turned to a warm glow. Within minutes it would be gone altogether.

“Take your jacket and go.” Merkel picked up the telephone and called out to Anders as he was disappearing through the door. “And I want to see better sales figures from you next month.”

But he did not mean it.

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Snuffy

new story 2

z used face cravat helen upton

We first met quite by accident in a crowded coffeeshop in town. I was seated at a table deep into my Guardian, he was at the other end of the room, searching with his eyes. Do you ever get that feeling someone’s watching you, even if you can’t see them? That’s how it was. I raised my head from the newspaper and caught him staring. Obviously at me. I allowed myself a little smile. I knew what his game was. I’d seen it before.

Our eyes met. That confirmed it to me. I’ve been doing this for years. I can spot a fellow enthusiast a mile away. He was definitely weighing me up. Our eyes only met for a heartbeat or two but I liked what I saw. I gestured subtly for him to join me. He pushed his way through the crowd and sat opposite me. He was easily half my age, I reckoned. His hair was fair, thick and made messy by the wind and his face was pinched by cold. He wore a heavy woollen pullover and a long scarf. If he had been five years younger he might have been a student. He grinned warmly at me. That was all the encouragement I needed.

“I saw you staring at me,” I said, “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to stare?” It wasn’t much of an opening gambit but it worked. “Had to stare. Couldn’t believe it the first time,” he replied. He said it in the voice of an eight-year-old. I liked him for that. I gave an exaggerated gesture of shock, making my eyebrows shoot to the top of my head. “How dare you,” I said in my most authoritarian voice, “talk to an adult like that.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t say a word but the gesture spoke volumes. I don’t care! I leaned forward so I was in his face. “What you need young man,” I looked deep into his eyes, “is a jolly good spanking.”

And, that’s how it started. We arranged to meet that evening in a pub in town. It makes sense to be on neutral territory the first time. But there was nothing to worry about. Novices to the scene rarely realise just how many men there are out there who are into spanking. I’ve met all sorts over the past twenty years and not all of them gay. Would it surprise you to learn that “real” men, straight guys, adore to be spanked by other men. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.

He told me his name was Snuffy. I’d never heard that one before and supposed it to be a nickname, but it turned out that was his actual name: Tony Snuffy. I think I fell in love at that moment. Of course, from then on I only called him by his surname. “Stand there Snuffy. Take down your trousers Snuffy. Bend over my desk Snuffy.” I couldn’t say it often enough. We had a drink and got to know one another. We had a lot going for us. He got into spanking when he was at university and so did I (albeit twenty-five years apart). He liked different kinds of roleplay (ditto me). He was a bottom. I was a top. Within the hour we were in a taxi heading for my house.

He stays over some nights, but we don’t live together. He works in a bank and has a room in a converted house near where he works. He treats my place a bit like a hotel. One Saturday I caught him doing his laundry without asking my permission. “What a cheek!” I scolded him before ripping down his trousers and underpants and turning him over my knee right there in the utility room. He has a lovely bum and in my humble opinion it is shown at its best when upturned across my knee. His legs are thin but muscular, his waist narrow and stomach flat and combined they emphasise his buttocks. The cheeks are a bit flat when he’s standing but they round out and become as hard as a rubber ball when he’s draped at a forty-five-degree angle over my knee.

On that particular occasion because I hadn’t prepared in advance it had to be a summary spanking. That is, I scolded him, readied him and spanked him with the flat of my hand (it was all I had). It was  great fun. It made me realise that sometimes you can overprepare things. I slapped his bare arse until it shone bright pink. I think my hand probably hurt more than his bum by the time I finished but I was delighted to see the pattern of my fingers embossed into his bottom over and over again.

I have a large house and I’ve made one of the bedrooms into a kind of headmaster’s study. I haven’t overdone it. There’s no carpet, instead I’ve put in shiny floorboards and I bought a worn rug at a car boot sale. The desk is dark wood and heavy and there’s a couple of straight-backed chairs. My pride and joy is an old leather armchair that is exactly the right height. There are some bookshelves and I spent a wonderful afternoon years ago in a second-hand bookshop in a small seaside town buying lots of school textbooks from way back when. The room looks quite authentic, especially when you consider the umbrella stand I keep in one corner. My mortar-board cap and academic gown hangs there. As do five crook-handled canes of assorted lengths and thicknesses.

Snuffy loves to be a naughty schoolboy. I don’t know where he gets it from. The cane was abolished before he was born and in “real life” he has never seen a teacher in a cap and gown, but he craves to be summoned to the study. Sometimes we watch videos together before we get down to the action. You’ve probably seen some of these yourself, there’s plenty to choose from. The plots are usually the same. The boy is in the headmaster’s study. “Bend over that chair” and so on. I think Snuffy probably bases a lot of his private fantasies on these videos.

I have a collection of authentic school uniforms. I prefer Snuffy to wear long trousers, but often he likes to parade around in short trousers and knee socks. I admit he looks terrific, especially with those legs I told you about.  I like to see Snuffy as an obstreperous sixth-former; eighteen years old and well in need of a caning. Of course, whether he wears long or short trousers becomes somewhat irrelevant when I order, “Lower your trousers Snuffy. Bend over that chair Snuffy!” Snuffy bulging in tight, sparkling white Y-fronts is a sight to behold.

The strangest thing happened last week. Snuffy was stopped by police in his car. He was over the drink-drive limit. Not by much, but that’s not the point. I was livid when he told me. “You could’ve had an accident. Killed a child.” I work in Brocklehurst General Hospital and I’ve seen things I don’t want to tell you about. Snuffy will have to go to court; he’ll get a fine and a driving ban, because that’s what everyone gets.

“It’s not enough,” I told him genuinely shocked at his behaviour. “What kind of punishment is that?” He stood before me a little abashed. Then, he smiled. He thought he knew where I was headed. “A flogging,” I said calmly. “A proper flogging.” His smile faded a little into puzzlement. It was the word I used that confused him. Flogging. It’s not one we use in our games. Spanking, yes. Beating, slippering, belting, caning; even thrashing. But not flogging. Flogging is something else. It’s not really a “corporal punishment” word. It’s more S&M.

I had read recently that back in the nineteen-hundreds in England magistrates ordered offenders to be birched. What had exercised the mind of the historian who wrote the book was that this penalty was for quite minor crimes and the usual tariff handed down was twenty-four strokes. I told Snuffy about this. “Of course,” I said, “they didn’t have drink-driving back then, but if they had …” I left the sentence unfinished, it was clear where I was going.

“I am truly disappointed in you,” I told Snuffy (and I was, this was no act). “You deserve more than a fine.” Snuffy was by now shuffling from one foot to another, it was one of the poses he adopted during our games. I had no idea if he was acting now or not. He knew what I was going to say before I got the words out. “I am going to birch you. Twenty-four strokes.” And then I added, in case Snuffy hadn’t got the point, “For real.”

Unlike the summary over-the-knee hand spanking a birching requires a lot of preparation. A birch rod has to be made to measure (you can’t simply buy one off the shelf.) I told Snuffy to return to my house at eight that evening. It would give me the time I needed. He did as he was told. I watched from the window as he climbed into his battered Mini and drove away. I wondered if he would ever return. We were entering uncharted territory. This was no longer a game. This was for real. Twenty-four strokes of the birch and without a safe-word that could make me stop.

I had work to do. I had to construct a birch. At the end of the street where I live is Widdicombe Wood and I could get what I needed there. Birches aren’t necessarily made from birch twigs; oftentimes hazel makes a better rod. There were plenty of hazel trees at Widdicombe. I didn’t care one jot if I was seen cutting branches. Let the neighbours say what they want about me. I was a man on a mission and within the hour I was back home. A birch rod is simple to make. I took eight twigs and whittled them to remove buds, then I trimmed so the longest was about three-feet long. Then I tied them with twine at one end making a fine handle. A birch rod is apt to splinter when thrashed against a rock-hard backside and might not survive twenty-four strokes, so I made a second to be on the safe side.

There was still an hour before Snuffy’s deadline to return. I paced the lounge like a caged animal constructing in my mind the scene that was soon to play out. Where should the punishment take place? I had no birching block for him to kneel on and no time to build one. There was no vaulting horse available (the preferred method of so many video birchings). Should I tie Snuffy down so that he couldn’t resist? What about a gag? If he screamed would the neighbours think a murder was taking place and call the cops?

I had read somewhere that back in the days when magistrates ordered the birch sentence was carried out in the local police station. I supposed they might simply get their victim to bend over a table. Or, to lay face down on the table top. I went to my study and tested the desk for strength by myself laying across it. If it could take my weight it would have no trouble with Snuffy. My problem was solved.

I retuned to the lounge and paced some more. I wondered if Snuffy would tun up. I had proposed a drastic punishment and intended to carry it out despite any protests he might make. This was for real. What happened next rested on Snuffy. If he returned, he would be flogged. If he chose not to come back that would be the end of our relationship. It was up to him.

Just before eight I heard the chugging noise from the clapped-out engine of Snuffy’s car. He had retuned. I watched furtively from the window as he climbed out of the tiny car offering me a delightful view of his tight, pert bum as he did so. He was dressed in dark brown corduroys and a t-shirt. My heart skipped and blood rushed to my cock at the sight.

We met in the lounge. After short pleasantries I reminded him of the fate that awaited. “I am sorry for drink-driving. It was wrong. I want to repent,” he said. Snuffy had obviously rehearsed this little speech. Repent! What kind of word was that. Usually, when I played the headmaster and he the schoolboy apology was good enough. Repent! I hoped he wasn’t showing me some hidden religious side of himself.

“Snuffy,” I almost growled. “It is time we went upstairs together.” His eyes glazed and his face paled a little, but he made no objection and he led the way. I had another delightful view of his arse as slowly he climbed the stairs with me only inches behind. In different circumstances I might have leant forward to sink my teeth into the firm flesh.

We went into my study. I had taken the precaution of removing the cap and gown and canes, I did not want this to look like a school scenario. This was to be a serious judicial flogging. I had left the two birch rods soaking in a metal bucket in the middle of the room and this was the first thing Snuffy saw as he entered. I saw his shoulders stiffen but he couldn’t stop staring at the two bundles of twigs that would soon take the skin off his backside.

I didn’t have much more to say. Having no police or prison officers’ uniform I had dressed myself in dark blue trousers and white shirt with a plain tie. It looked vaguely “authoritarian” and would have to do. I lectured him a little and reminded him of his crime. “Your sentence is twenty-four strokes of the birch,” I intoned. “Take down your trousers and underwear and climb on top of the desk.” It was a straightforward instruction that I expected to be obeyed.

Snuffy is a sensible boy, he knows when his fate is sealed. With what I thought  were remarkably steady hands he unbuckled the belt to his corduroy trousers and then released the button on his waistband. It was a simple task from there to pull the metal zipper. The front of his trousers flapped open offering me the delightful vision of his semi-erect cock bulging against very tight bright-blue briefs. The weight of the corduroy and the belt and I suppose keys or whatnot in his pockets had the trousers slipping down his thighs. They snagged at the knees but Snuffy, who appeared entirely at ease, stooped and pushed them down so they fell onto his feet.

I had not ordered that Snuffy should take the trousers off completely but he took it upon himself to kick off his shoes to facilitate the smooth passage of his trousers onto the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up and tidy them away. Instead, in one complete vigorous movement, he then hitched his thumbs inside the waist of those tight underpants and dragged them down his legs. He gave an almost contemptuous kick to send them flying across the floor. His penis was by now rock-hard. It gave him no embarrassment to see it straining upwards towards the ceiling. I had seen him erect many times before of course. Even so, saliva drained from my mouth at the sight.

Snuffy had by now taken complete control. He reached to the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, the muscles on his stomach and chest rippled. Now he stood before me completely naked. You don’t need me to tell you that my own cock was bursting against my underpants. Snuffy threw the shirt to the ground and without even a glance in my direction, he climbed onto the desk. As he lay flat he used his left hand to maneuver his stiff cock so that it was fattened under his body. All the time I swished the birch rod gently through the air. What water drops that had clung to the twigs had by now dispersed.

Snuffy stretched his arms forward and took hold of the far side of the desk. This made the muscles in his back tense. He turned his feet so that they were splayed which in turn tightened the sinews in his legs. His bottom was flat (in the same way it was when he stood). Like this the milk-white, tight buttocks were tiny; no more than two pimples.

While Snuffy appeared calm and collected, I was not. My fists whitened as I gripped the handle of the birch rod. I could feel the sweat on my palms sticking. My heartrate was off the scale and I could not get rid of an annoying buzzing noise in my ears. I knew if I didn’t get on with this I might conceivably fall to the floor in a dead faint; or worse suffer a stroke. I positioned myself close to the table alongside Snuffy’s prostrate body. I gently brushed the birch across the highest point of his bum. I knew of course that a birch laid on with power could rip an arse to shreds. If I gave Snuffy twenty-four strokes like that his bottom would become raw, blooded meat. That was not my intention, nor, I believed, could it have been the intention of the magistrates back in the Edwardian era. There was a difference between punishment and torture.

I tapped the birch across Snuffy’s bottom. The muscles in his back tensed and his bottom quivered. He was preparing himself for the shock of the first stroke. I raised the rod about three feet above his rear end and swished it down. Snuffy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. I saw him clamp his jaws shut. I can’t be sure if this was to stifle a yell. I thwacked down a second stroke and he made a noise like the air released from a balloon, his fists bunched tightly, and he gasped loudly.

Snuffy was not tied down so he could (had he wanted to) have jumped from the desk and danced round the room howling. He did not. Instead, after a second or two had passed, he bravely clutched hold of the desk’s edge. He was telling me he was ready for the next stroke. I very much admired his fortitude.

“Feeling this, aren’t you lad?” It was a stupid thing for me to say but it did elicit the reply, “Yes, Sir. Yes I am,” which was an equally obvious statement. I continued birching and Snuffy flailed about and moaned impotently. He twitched, sniffed and quivered as I flayed his tight bottom with much slashing and swooping.

By now the floor around me was covered in scraps of hazel twigs. I tossed it to one side and reached for the substitute. I violently shook the water from it. I could hear air rushing out of Snuffy. He was grinding his molars and his jaw probably ached, but not half as much as his arse. He wriggled and writhed but nonetheless maintained his self-discipline. Not one square inch of his buttock area was unblemished. My birch was not excessively heavy and I did not want to draw blood if I could possibly avoid it. Whiteish welts had risen and grazes and bruises covered the whole area. It was red raw as boiling blood raced beneath the skin.

Twenty-four strokes of the birch even moderately laid on can do tremendous damage. Snuffy’s rear-end was corrugated and glowered bright red. In places it looked like raw hamburger meat. I had never beaten him so severely this before. I don’t suppose anyone had. He lay gasping, twitching, still clutching the edge of the desk. His eyes glowed brightly, tears soaked his face but he was not sobbing. I suppose the tears were a natural reaction to the agony he must be feeling. A person might shed tears if he accidentally hit his thumb with a hammer.

“Sentence delivered,” I said, unsure what I was supposed to say at a time like this. He continued to twitch. “Stand up, Snuffy.” He was obviously in great pain as he slid his body off the desk and tried, and failed, to stand steadily. He gripped the desk for support and arched his back as if that somehow eased the pain. His bum, usually so beautiful, looked as if had swollen to twice its normal size. It had the appearance of rotten orange peel.

Eventually, he regained some composure and stood to face me. I fished a tube of antiseptic cream from the desk drawer but before I treated his wounds, I slumped to my knees and took his raging cock into the back of my throat.

 

Picture credit: Helen Upton

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Fake News at New Year

new story 2

Five louts birched after New Year’s brawl

Brocklehurst Bugle

z used birch bare gym horse sting restrained (2)

Five louts each received 12 strokes of the birch on their bare buttocks for brawling in the street after a new law came into force at midnight on New Year’s Day.

The five, aged between 19 and 21, appeared before Brocklehurst Magistrates on Tuesday. Police Inspector Harry Dorian told the court there had been a series of fist fights in the High Street shortly after pubs closed at 2. a.m. “The louts were quickly arrested and locked up in the cells overnight,” he said.

All five admitted public order offences.

Chief Magistrate Gillingham Jones said, “We will not tolerate this disgraceful behaviour in Brocklehurst. I am delighted that the new law allows me to sentence each of you to a severe birching. I hope it serves as a lesson to you and to all others in the town who think they can terrorise the streets. There is no place for violence in Brocklehurst.”

The birchings were thought to be the first of their kind to take place in the country since a new law was introduced allowing corporal punishment to be administered on males under the age of 30. Punishment took place immediately after the sentence was handed down hours after the offences were committed.

Inspector Dorian who witnessed the birchings said they took place at the gymnasium at the central police station. “Each of the yobs was required to take off his trousers and underpants before being taken one at a time into the gym.”

He added, “They were big cowards and we needed two police officers to drag each of them over the vaulting horse. Special leather cuffs had been attached to it so we could tie them down.”

He said birches had been specially made in anticipation of trouble on New Year’s Eve. He added they would return to Widdicombe Wood later in the week to gather further supplies.

“One of our police sergeants administered the birchings. He is a burly copper and plays prop forward in the police rugby team. He undertook special training.”

A doctor was on hand to ensure no lasting damage was done. Police Inspector Dorian said, “Each one of the louts hollered the place down. They were all weakliness. They were begging for mercy after the first couple of strokes but we at Brocklehurst Police Service are determined to do our duty. Twelve strokes of a heavy birch across naked buttocks does a lot of damage and none of the yobboes could walk properly after the flogging. We had to let them recover in the cells.

“It serves them right. I have no sympathy.”

He warned that there would be extra police on patrol this coming weekend. “We will not hesitate to birch every young man in Brocklehurst if the need arises,” he said.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com