Summer spent staring at the carpet

new 5

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

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The hotel swimming pool

A night on the tiles

 

 

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

Other stories you might like

Six of the best caning stories 5. The performance review

Only three thieving days to Christmas

The expenses fiddle

 

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

Other stories you might like

Home early

The pretty policeman

Father deals with idle student

 

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

More Fake News stories here

Other birching stories you might like

Lord Bowinem’s chauffeur

The glorious summer

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

In Uncle Gascoigne’s Library

new story 2

z used uncle gascoigne study (21)

Harry slouched disconsolately in the corner seat. The third-class carriage was empty, as was most of the train. A Thursday afternoon in late November was not a popular time to travel. His buttocks ached on the hard wooden seat. He hugged his arms around his body. Miserably, he shivered. At this rate, he reflected, he’d end up in the hospital with pneumonia.

It had been five hours earlier that the porter at St. Tom’s had put him unceremoniously on the train. There was no word of farewell; the brute hadn’t even carried his suitcase. That’s how they treated a chap when he was sacked.

At last, the steam train chugged into Weatherstone Halt. Journey’s End. Or, Harry supposed, New Journey Starts. What did his future have in store? Who knew? The only certainty was that first he must face Uncle Gascoigne.

He stepped from the train into a swirling mist. It engulfed the small platform; he could barely see a hand in front of his face. His feet slipped on the frost beneath his feet. An eerie silence enveloped him. If Harry had been a reader, he might have likened it to a scene from a Victorian ghost story. He stood, uncertain, suitcase by his side. How was he to get to Weatherstone Manor? It was some distance off; too far to walk with a heavy case.

“Hello Master Harry!” it was a croaking voice. It seemed to come from nearby, but the mist was thickening and he couldn’t see. “Over here!” As if by some magic the fog cleared and Harry saw an old man wrapped in a heavy overcoat, a scarf and a big woollen hat. It was Tom, his uncle’s Faithful Retainer.

The journey by pony and trap was short. A biting wind tore through Harry. He wore only his school blazer and it was no use against the cold. Nor did his grey trousers give protection from the wind. Tom, drove in silence. He was a man of few words as was expected from a devoted servant. He geed the pony and steered it along the narrow lanes to the Manor. His was the only vehicle on the road. Harry hugged his own body with cold and let the wintry countryside pass him by unnoticed.

The Manor loomed; an imposing Gothic pile. Even on a summer’s day it looked unwelcoming. On this day and in these circumstances it seemed especially hostile. Tom steadied the pony while Harry climbed down. “I’ll take care of your case, Master Harry,” the Faithful Retainer spoke with a hint of regret, “Your uncle says you are to go directly to the library.” He studied his own hands intently.

“Oh,” Harry spoke softly. The summons had not been unexpected, but he had hoped there might be some interval before he faced Uncle Gascoigne. He trudged towards the door. The inside of the manor was as ugly and imposing as the outside. The hallway could have been the entrance to a municipal town hall. It might be large enough to house a cricket pitch. Several doors of heavy dark oak ran into it. Harry was not concerned with these. The room he sought was up the imposing spiral staircase on the first floor. He trudged up it.

Harry was a boy of little imagination, so as he made his journey he did not reflect on its similarity to St. Tom’s. He had been summoned to the housemaster’s study countless times, each journey requiring a long trek through School House, along a narrow passageway towards a heavy wooden door. On the other side he would be confronted by a cane-wielding master. What happened next can be safely left to the reader’s imagination.

Harry reached the library door and paused, unsure how to proceed. Should he turn the handle, fling open the door wide and burst into the room and offer Uncle Gascoigne a cheerful “Hello Uncle! I’m home!” Perhaps not. Uncle Gascoigne was not by temperament a cheerful fellow and was generally feared and respected in equal measure by his household and the tenants of the estate he ruled over. He was dreaded by the petty villains who appeared before him at the local magistrates’ bench. Harry tapped his knuckles respectfully against the panelled door.

“Come!” the boomed command was self-important. Uncle Gascoigne was a man who demanded obedience. And invariable received it. With a quaking hand, Harry turned the handle and eased the door open, making only enough space for him to squeeze into the room. He stood anxiously. Uncle Gascoigne sat in a large, padded armchair, a cup and saucer held daintily in his hands. “Close the door boy! Close the door! You’re letting the heat out!” he barked.

Once this was done, Harry stood, hands deferentially held behind his back. Uncle Gascoigne called the room his “library” but in truth it was a drawing room with shelves of books. Harry had never once troubled himself to handle any of the hundreds of volumes that surrounded him. As well as an armchair the room contained a dining table, matching chairs and an ancient Chesterfield-type couch.

Uncle Gascoigne returned his cup and saucer to the table and stretched his arms wide. He was an imposing figure, standing head and shoulders above Harry, who himself was no dwarf. He wore a frockcoat, waistcoat and striped trousers. Harry did not know this but he had recently returned from the Magistrates’ Court. Even as they spoke seven youths were under the lash of the local police sergeant.

Uncle Gascoigne frowned. He gripped the lapel of his coat and steadied himself. This was how he stood when making speeches at the Tory Association. He had prepared some words. Harry did not change his stance; hands behind back, head high. At St. Tom’s the form was always to look at a master when he was jawing you.

“Since your parents passed on,” Uncle Gascoigne droned, “I have taken care of you. I have paid for your education.” He delivered a liturgy on his generosity. “So this is how you repay me.” He picked up a letter from the table and (for dramatic effect) peered closely at it. It was an unnecessary gesture since he knew its contents by heart. It was a letter from the headmaster at St. Tom’s detailing Harry’s misdeeds leading to the inevitable conclusion that the eighteen-year-old must leave the school forthwith.

“You spend your time playing billiards in some God-awful public house when you should be at your studies.”

Harry suppressed a smile. He did much more at the Three Fishers than play billiards, but it was better that the headmaster and Uncle Gascoigne did not hear about that.

“A disgrace!” Uncle Gascoigne had used similar words to the louts at the court earlier that day. For it was true, Harry was no better than they. For all his privileges, he was a wastrel. “We shall have to consider your future at a later date,” Uncle Gascoigne said, his puffy eyes narrowing, “For now …” he let the words trail away and glanced across the room. Harry followed his gaze. His heartbeat skipped, standing in the corner of the room was a large enamel bucket and soaking in water and sticking from its top was a freshly-cut birch rod.

Silently, Uncle Gascoigne took hold of one of the dining room chairs and moved it so that it was in front of Harry. His beady eyes met those of his nephew. He hesitated, trying to read the mind of the wayward teenager. Harry’s eyes were dull; unreadable. “Bah!” Uncle Gascoigne ejaculated. “Take off your blazer, put it on the table. Lower your trousers and underwear. Bend over the chair.” It was a simple set of commands, sternly spoken. The boy would do as he was instructed, Uncle Gascoigne was in no doubt.

While Harry climbed out of his school blazer, Uncle Gascoigne stood over the enamel bucket and gripped the birch rod by its handle. He swished it through the air allowing droplets of water to dampen the solid wooden floor. He tested the rod in his hands, taking its weight. Birch rods were made for purpose and each was unique. They could be long or short; heavy or light. They might have six branches or dozens.

The one Uncle Gascoigne held was not in fact strictly-speaking a birch rod, since it was constructed of hazel branches. Hazel was more easily available in local woods and had the properties of both suppleness and strength. It had been made at the local police station. It was unheard of for Uncle Gascoigne to request them to make him personally a birch, but they asked no questions when he did. Col. Trumpington-Smythe, his fellow magistrate, often made such a demand.

The rod in Uncle Gascoigne’s hand had been expertly constructed. There were fifteen twigs, each almost perfectly straight, that were between twenty-six and thirty inches long. They had been clipped into a conical shape. The ends and tips had been trimmed and a handle bound with cord made. It tapered gracefully from handle to tip and felt comfortable and balanced as he held it. He swished it through the air once more, it had been soaked in water overnight and felt fresh and supple.

Harry watched aghast. His blazer was safely laying on the table but his trousers and underwear were still in their rightful position. “Quickly!” Uncle Gascoigne snapped. “Or do you want additional strokes?” It was a question that needed no answer. Harry had no doubt that his uncle was serious. He forced his hands to unfasten his trousers, the weight of the heavy wool sent them hurtling to his knees. He wore fashionable athletic underwear of the short variety. He hesitated until Uncle Gascoigne’s heavy, impatient breath spurred him onwards. Soon he was bare from the waist to his ankles.

“Bend over the chair,” Uncle Gascoigne swiped the birch, “I assume you know the drill.” Indeed Harry did. Schoolmasters had their own peculiarities when administering canings. One might require a boy to present himself touching toes, knees straight; that was probably the most “traditional” position known. It was, however, not the most efficient method. The posterior was stretched and bent at such and angle that the size of the target was diminished. Others would make a boy go over a chair. How this was done depended on the furniture available. The back of an armchair could be used, but so many of them were tall and a boy could not properly reach over. Most studies had at least one hard wooden chair and this was perfect. A boy faced the seat, gipped tightly on both sides, spread his legs, arched his back and jutted his rear end out. A perfect target, offering up a generous expanse of stretched bottom for the schoolmaster’s cane. Harry chose that latter position.

Uncle Gascoigne was no expert at birching. It was one of his roles in life to order others to perform such acts. He acted on instinct. He supposed the general idea was to assault as great an area of the naked buttocks now on show as possible. The posterior should end up raw and tender, but there was no need to leave the boy bloodied and battered.

He took up position to Harry’s left. The cheeks quivered in anticipation of the  assault to come. The other end of Harry appeared stoical. He held the seat cushion tightly, his eyes focused on a small stain on its fabric. His breathing was easy. Uncle Gascoigne rested the birch against his nephew’s bottom so that it covered nearly every square inch.

Harry bit down on his lower lip. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by his angry uncle might prove to be a torment of great proportions.

With the skill of a golfer, Uncle Gascoigne turned his body, screeched, and then flogged the birch across the eighteen-year-old’s bare bottom with startling speed. Harry’s head rose, his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the delinquent schoolboy swayed noticeably. His face was now as scarlet as his bottom. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed his once-pale buttocks, small cuts ranged from his undercurves over the fleshiest part of his bottom. Already his bum was beginning to resemble raw hamburger meat.

Harry gasped, drank in a mouthful of air, then sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. To do that in the middle of punishment always meant extra strokes (it was an unwritten law). His heartrate sped as the agony travelled through his body; his legs in particular ached terribly.

Uncle Gascoigne slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. The second swipe fell low, across the backs of Harry’s thighs. His almighty screech bounced around the library. In the passageway outside, with his ear close to the door, Old Tom the Faithful Retainer winced in sympathy.

“I think you are learning your lesson,” Uncle Gascoigne intoned.

“Yes, Sir,” Harry croaked, feeling he was required to answer.

The birch flew through the air applied with considerable beef one more time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom higher. Harry convulsed. His legs marched up and down like a demented sentry, his hips swayed from left to right and his cheeks rose and fell. He wheezed heavily, sucked a throatful of vomit back down and sniffed back the snot that was promising to drip from his nostrils.

Blood raced through his body, his temples throbbed; his ears were about to explode. The agony was intense, but it was over. “Get up.” Uncle Gascoigne, himself wheezing, returned the birch to the enamel bucket. As it jangled against the side he noted how sturdy the rod was. Very expertly made, he thought.

He turned to see Harry struggling back into his underwear and trousers, the boy’s face was drenched in tears. He stood unsteady, holding the back of the chair for balance. His backside felt like he had been forced into a bathtub of boiling water; he thought he would be unable to sit down for a week.

Uncle Gascoigne pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and swabbed his brow and the back of his neck. The flogging had taken more out of him than he had expected. “You may go,” he grimaced, “And ask Old Tom outside to fetch me a glass of whisky.”

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

Other stories you might like

Caught reading stories

The pretty policeman

Alexander’s little secret

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Saturday School

new story 2

In February 2006 Mr R. A. T. Brightlington-Pugh, a former housemaster at the Ridgeway private boarding school in the west of England, passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-seven. Some years later, his great-great-great-great nephew found a leather-bound travelling chest containing diaries he had written during the 1930s and 1940s. This present story was inspired by the diary entry for 14th April 1936.

Other diary stories here

 

I had always thought schoolboys lived in dread of the cane and that it was the three-feet of swishy rattan that kept them in order. I believed they would obey any rule or instruction to avoid being ordered to present their backside for chastisement.

In my own case a caning is an awesome event. After six-of-the-best from me a boy leaves my study in some distress. Undoubtedly his backside would be severely bruised and sometimes, when I have administered a particularly severe thrashing, he would have grazes and cuts on his buttocks.

No schoolboy, I had thought, would want a caning if he could possible avoid it. I had not, however, reckoned with Green of the Upper Sixth. He visited my study at lunchtime last Thursday with what he termed “a proposition.”

There was a confident knock on my door which I had not been expecting. It is true that one boy or another – and sometimes more – would be summoned to attend my study most lunchtimes. Today had been no exception. I had dealt with two fourteen-year-old boys from the Remove form. They had been caught in Wringleton Wood. The headmaster had declared the place out of bounds to boys for reasons that I could not properly fathom. But, rules are rules and if a boy breaks bounds he had better not get caught.

They each took their Six like the gentlemen they undoubtedly are.

I had not expected Green and was a little irritated when he appeared uninvited. He had disturbed my reading of the Daily Mail newspaper.

I called him to enter and he stood before me confidently. Usually, a boy in my study would exhibit an overwhelming interest in the pattern on the rug beneath his feet, or alternatively he would be intrigued by the bookshelf behind my desk. Some boys would be unable to turn their attention away from the hat stand in the corner of the room and the two crook-handled canes that hang there.

Green did none of these things; he looked me straight in the eye and said what he had come to say. Green is eighteen-years-old and like all boys at the school who are not in the lower forms, he wears the Ridgeway uniform of dark-grey trousers, a bright red woollen blazer with white edging and a red-and-white-hooped cap.

Green had made a particular effort with his uniform. The three buttons on his blazer were fastened; his tie was tightly knotted. His trousers had been brushed and looked from a distance at least to be as new.

Green has always been a bit of a charmer. His open face is often covered with freckles; his fair hair was today neatly combed and hidden underneath his school cap. He is an athletic boy and something of a star of the school’s association football team.

Association football was the subject that had brought him to me.

He launched into what I supposed was a rehearsed speech. He had, he told me, been misbehaving in class and as a result landed himself with a spot in Saturday School. Saturday School as the name surely demonstrates is a school session that is held on Saturdays for misbehaving boys. Saturday for everyone else is a day of leisure.

Green’s pale blue eyes bore into me as he made his case. This coming Saturday was the semi-finals of the inter-schools’ association football knock-out cup. Ridgway, he assured me, were “in with a chance” of beating rivals Witchdale and securing a place in the final.

This could only be achieved, he averred, if he took up his usual place at inside-right in the team. Alas, for Green, the match coincided with Saturday School. If he were made to attend detention, he would miss the match and Ridgeway’s chances of cup glory would be no more.

I was startled by the boy’s arrogance, but that was as nothing compared to what he said next.

“So Sir, I wish to have my detention caned-off.”

My brows must have knotted betraying my lack of understanding, for he continued. “Caned-off, Sir. If I could be caned instead of attending detention …” He trailed off as he saw the look of astonishment in my face.

Caned-off! What a preposterous suggestion. It was not for a boy to decide his own punishment. What on earth would be the point of that?

I could have caned him there and then for his impudence and still insisted he attend Saturday School. Instead, I sent him on his way with merely a flea in his ear and returned to my newspaper. Perhaps, I had to concede, my canings are not quite as awesome as I had supposed.

I did not think of the matter again until earlier this evening. I had spent the morning in the nearby town and followed my shopping expedition with a stroll in Wringleton Wood. I had quite forgotten that the association football match was to take place today.

I was reminded of the fact by Wilson, a junior colleague. It had been his misfortune to be assigned to supervise Saturday School. Green, he told me, had not attended. His inquiries soon unearthed the information that the wretched boy had been seen boarding the motor coach that transported the association football team to its match.

I am not a man given over to temper. It is true that just like the next man I can become angry at times. I do not, however, rant and rave or behave in ways that later I might regret. When the need arises I show my anger calmly, as Green was to discover.

I had an hour or so to prepare for the boy’s return to the school. I used the time wisely. I spoke with Mr Anderson, the school porter, who assured me he would be able to assist.

It was nearly eight in the evening when Green tapped on the door of my study. It was not the same self-confident Green who had attended on Thursday. His blazer was unbuttoned; his tie was loose. His school cap was nowhere to be seen.

His usual open and cheerful face was grim. The day had been a disaster for him. Ridgeway had been trounced in the game, going down by four goals to nil. Now, to round off it all off he was appearing before his housemaster to explain his absence from Saturday School.

There was not much to say. He was clearly guilty as charged. Corporal punishment was of course imminent. Green undoubtedly expected a caning. It was after all what he had wanted when he asked for his detention to be caned-off.

“Remove your blazer, Green and hang it on the hook on the study door.” Green had been a frequent visitor to my study and he knew the ritual that preceded a caning. Soon he would expect to be face down across my desk with his arms stretched ahead of him and his backside pointing at me.

He removed his blazer and turned back to face me. The puzzlement on his face was evident. He watched me take two wooden chairs and place them in the centre of the room back-to-back. Satisfied by the re-arrangement of the furniture, I ambled to the other side of the study and picked up from an empty bookshelf a dusty sack. The contents bulged but it was surprisingly lightweight. Green’s pale blue eyes burned into me as he studied my every movement.

I placed the sack on my desk, opened its neck and reached in. Green’s face blanched as he realised what was emerging from the sack. It was a freshly-made birch rod. Mr Anderson had made a splendid job of it. He had found the leafless branches at Wringleton Wood. He cut eight of them so they were three feet long and tightly bound them at the base with twine. Usually, a birch rod would be soaked in brine for as long as possible to ensure the suppleness of the rods and the effectiveness of the sting they would inflict on bared flesh.

I had considered delaying Green’s punishment for a day to allow the birch to soak overnight, but I always prefer to administer punishment as soon after the crime is committed as possible.

“Remove your trousers and underwear, Green,” I intoned. I do not believe I have ever seen a schoolboy look so horrified. “B..b..” he tried to speak, but really what was there for him to say?

“Please, let us do this without fuss.” I had no pity for the boy, he deserved everything that I intended to deliver. He would not be the first boy at Ridgeway to be birched. I knew from experience that boy’s believed a birching to be an extreme punishment. In fact, I have it on good authority that a birching hurts a lot less than a traditional caning with a rattan rod. It hurts a great deal, but the birch delivers a different pain to the cane. The rattan would slice into the bottom, cutting a single welt with each rise and fall, creating intense agony where the rod landed. The birch was different; the boy’s bottom would be on fire, but it would feel as if a white-hot egg-whisk had been pressed into his flesh.

The other difference is that a birch is only effective if it is swished into a bared bottom.

Green stood motionless as if he had failed to hear my command. I repeated it. “Take off your trousers and underwear.” I hoped the boy would be man enough to comply. I know that boys do not like to expose their bare bottoms to schoolmasters, but that is not my problem. If a boy behaves such that he deserves a thrashing bare, he has only himself to blame.

The eighteen-year-old’s hands fumbled at the buttons of his trousers. They fitted him well and he needed no belt or braces to hold them up. Once loosened they fell down his thighs and snagged to a halt at his knees, before slowly slithering to his feet.

“Step out of them, Green.”

As if in a trance, he lifted first his left foot and then his right and stepped clear of the trousers. He was now standing before me in his underwear. He wore modern drawers that fastened at the waist; it would be easy to remove them. But the boy needed to demonstrate the will to comply with my instruction.

He remained silent, but his eyes pleaded with me for mercy. Please, he seemed to be saying, do not make me expose myself to you.

I was in no mood for mercy. “Take down your drawers, Green.”

His face was that of a ghost. He closed his eyes tight and placed his thumbs in the waistband of the drawers. They were soon at his feet. Unbidden, he stepped out of those too. He clasped both hands in front of his privates. His eyes were still closed as he stood trembling awaiting my further instruction.

“Kneel on one chair and reach over the back and grip the seat of the other.” It was a standard position for a caning. Many of my colleagues preferred the two-chairs technique because it could present the boy’s posterior at the perfect angle if you wanted to slash it rather like a batsman at cricket slogging a ball to the boundary for four runs.

I admit now that I was relieved when Green complied with my instruction. I had been unsure that he would be brave enough to do so and I had instructed Mr Anderson to wait in an adjoining room should I need his assistance to hold the boy down.

Green kneeled, his stomach resting against the backs of the chairs with his bared bottom raised in the air. Slowly and with some ceremony I took hold of the tail of the boy’s shirt and rolled it up his back. I was now staring at a considerable are of naked flesh from the boy’s shoulders to below his knees where his socks were slumped.

 

The boy gripped the edge of the wooden seat and flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home. I measured my distance and swung the birch round my head and brought it down with a terrific upper-cut on the Green’s naked flesh. The hairless buttocks were scarred with dozens of thin white lines; narrow welts were rising where the birch twigs connected with the boy’s fleshy haunches.

z used birch and marks sting (1)

The birch swished again; Green screwed his eyes tight and stifled the yell I knew he so desperately wanted to make. He was a trooper. He would not let himself down: he would not give me the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

Swish! Swish! Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his cheeks. There were dozens of lines across his bottom, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the bottom where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred.

The sixth-former wriggled his body from left to right, as he struggled to remain in position, prostrate across the wooden chairs with his bared bottom still pointing submissively at me.

Swish! the hardest cut yet and the boy’s response was to beat his knees up and down against the wooden chair. Tears were now forming behind his eyes.

I lashed down two more strokes with full force. That did it: the skin started to open. Soon blood would seep through. Green’s scream of agony echoed around the study and no doubt could be heard as far away as study hall.

“Right boy, stand up.” It was over: Green had survived. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on the chair and raised himself to his feet. Instinctively, his hands shot to his buttocks to gently rub against the dozens of raised stripes that decorated them.

Unsteadily, he retrieved his drawers and gingerly stepped into them, all the time avoiding looking at me. Soon his trousers were in their rightful place.

“Dismissed.” I had no desire to prolong this meeting. The boy had transgressed; he had been punished most severely. The matter was now closed. We should all get on with our lives.

He limped from the room, pausing only to unhook his blazer from the door.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

Warren’s awakening

The Gaffer of The Academy 2. In the chill of the night

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Festus

new story 2

z used otk birch CS

Neither of my parents were bothered with religion so I grew up without knowing about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” My Uncle Festus was altogether different as I would find out. I went to a modern school, they taught us sciences as well as humanities. It was a progressive place and corporal punishment was unheard of. I was a bright child but distracted. I wasn’t lazy, but I never worked; not on my academic studies anyway. I was a good and popular sportsman and made many friends. There were girls at the school and in my later years they were a distraction.

I did badly in my examinations and my parents’ hopes that I would go to Oxford or Cambridge University were dashed. I wasn’t even qualified to attend one of the smaller, less prestigious varsities. That’s how I found myself at the Brocklehurst Crammer. Brocklehurst is a small town a long way from my home. My father arranged that I should attend the college for three months during the autumn. The idea was that I would be force-fed all the learning I had passed up at school and then retake my exams. That way, so the theory went, I could get a university place and get my life back on track.

I was never told why I was to be sent to Brocklehurst as there were many similar colleges close to my home. Looking back I suspect the deciding factor in sending me away was Uncle Festus. He lived alone in a large house in Brocklehurst. He had never married and was a pillar of the local community, especially one particular church. It was arranged that I would lodge with him, returning to his home at the end of each college day. I was not consulted over the arrangement, but I could see no reason to object. I would be the first to admit I had let myself and my parents down; I should be grateful to be afforded a second chance.

I took a very long journey by three steam trains and was near exhaustion when finally we chuffed into Brocklehurst Station. I had been told my uncle would meet me. I had rarely met him and had no idea what he looked like. I spotted him immediately. He was a young child’s nightmare of a latter day Old Testament prophet. His hair was wild, his side whiskers were overgrown, a waxed moustache curled above his upper lip. Wild blue eyes stared through half-moon glasses. It was a late summer day and seasonably warm but Uncle Festus was dressed in a heavy serge suit with buttoned-up waistcoat. Cutting into his neck was a stiff cardboard collar from which a tightly knotted tie hung.

He recognised me too. Father had insisted that I wear my old school uniform.  My bright red blazer shone in the sunlight. I had abandoned the stiff collar and tie but wore a white shirt and pale grey trousers. Uncle Festus grunted something that might have been a greeting. He peered at me over the top of his glasses, inspecting first my hair and then my face. Evidently he was not pleased with what he saw. “Hair needs cutting. No cap. Where’s your collar?” He did not wait for my response and instead turned on his heels and sped off in the direction he had come. “Follow me!” he barked. I watched him disappear down the platform. When it became clear that I was not following he stopped. He stared at me from a distance of fifty feet; his eyes blazed, I swear I saw then spin, he drew back his shoulders, gulped down air into his lungs and roared, “I said follow me!” The few people still at the station stopped what they were doing and turned startled, wondering what manner of emergency had taken place.

My face reddened, my hands trembled, I was sure tears were close to forming. “B.. b..” I stumbled, terrified to speak. At last I found the courage and the wind, “But Uncle, I have to get my luggage from the train,” I bleated pitifully. Thankfully, at the a moment a porter approached pushing a trolley heavily loaded with two trunks and a suitcase; the provisions for my stay.

The porter might well have encountered my uncle in the past and knowing of the old man’s temper, he kept his distance and waited silently for instructions. “Pah!” my uncle ejaculated. “Take them to the trap,” he barked and like a frightened rabbit the ancient porter scurried on his way.

The nag pulling the trap was on its last legs, before too long its dead body would be served to cats. I sat behind Uncle Festus as we bumped over every hole in the roads, and there were many. He was silent the entire journey. I sat despondent. My uncle’s appearance and attitude had scared the living daylights out of me and his silence as we made our way to his house was oppressive. I had a close view of his broad shoulders and powerful back, I had no idea what he did or a living but from my short distance he had the appearance of a manual labourer. He certain had the tang of one; he omitted a sour aroma which was unsurprising considering the warmth of the day and the heaviness of his clothing.

At last the pony and trap turned into a wide street called The Avenue. The road was paved with cobbles and the noise of the pony’s hooves as it clip-clopped along was deafening. The house on each side were large and imposing, nearly all of them hidden behind vast hedges and ancient trees so high they blocked out the sun. The driver cried out “Whoa there!” and the pony shuddered to a halt. Neither the driver not my uncle made to move. I sat for a moment before it dawned on me I was expected to haul the trunks and case from the trap and drag them into the house on my own; surely an impossible task. I was summoning up the courage to ask the driver or my uncle to help when a boy, about my age, bounded out through the gateway of one of the houses. This was evidently my uncle’s home. The boy nodded a greeting to me and took hold of one end of a trunk. He said nothing yet I understood perfectly his intention. I took hold of the other end and together we manhandled it into the house.

The boy led the way into the house. Once inside I could see immediately that it was vast. I would later learn there were five bedrooms and two living rooms along with a private room that uncle used, as well as the usual kitchen and so on. The hallway was dark and cold, you would never guess it was summertime. Gas lamps were attached to the walls at long intervals. The boy led the way up the wide staircase and took me to the room that I had been allocated. It was large and musty and sparsely furnished. A large bed with what I supposed was a cast-iron bedstead dominated. The floors were bare, without even a worn rug. A bowl and water jug was on a stand in one corner. In another there was a cupboard. Next to the bed was a set of drawers and on top of this stood a candle in a dish with hardened melted wax.

It was then I realised the house had no electricity. By that time electricity was available cheaply all over the country and there could have been no reason but by choice that uncle had not had it connected.

The boy helped me to put the trunk down and we went out to fetch the rest of my luggage. The boy seemed to me to be rather preoccupied with his own thoughts and he made no attempt to make conversation. I wondered if he was in fact a little simple.

At last my possessions were in my room. I was uncertain what I was expected to do next as Uncle Festus had given me no instructions; he had hardly said two words to me since we met on the station platform. I resolved I would seek him out. I was making my way through the dark passageway when the front door opened and six men all dressed in similar fashion to my uncle entered. Each had a thick black book in his right hand. They moved swiftly through the hallway and entered uncle’s private room. The boy emerged from another room and joined then. I stood on the staircase and watched. They appeared to have come for a meeting of some sort.

My uncle was already in the room and I saw him close the door. I am not generally a curious boy, which is one reason why I didn’t do so well with my studies, but this time my interest was aroused. I tip-toed down the stairs and approached the now-closed door, very aware that my footsteps were amplified by the bare floorboards. My heart thumped as I pressed my ear against the heavy oak door. It was too thick for sound to pass through and I could not hear what the group inside were saying. I stooped down and placed my eye on the eyehole. I am not one who is often wracked with guilt but I felt my presence snooping at the keyhole would not be well received by my uncle if I was discovered. It would be in my own interest to make my exit.

Intrigued, and determined to discover what they were doing inside uncle’s room I left the house and entered the garden. The house was huge and there was no shortage of windows but at last I found the one I was looking for. It was closed, despite the fine day. I thought how hot and stuffy it must be in the room, especially since by now there was a small crowd of people, all dressed in heavy clothes. The aroma of uncle’s stale sweat came to my mind. Large trees overshadowed most of the house and I used one as a cover and I was able to secret myself and still have a passable view into the room. The men were on their knees with their books open in their hands. They were reading something aloud in unison. A prayer, I supposed.

I remembered that Uncle Festus was an active member of his church. Was this a service of some sort? I wondered. That might have been the case but this was a Tuesday; perhaps it was some kind of Bible study group.

I watched for a moment or two and since nothing much was happening I was about to leave to explore the rest of the house and garden when I saw the boy stand. Even from my distance and peering through dirty glass into an unlit room I could see he appeared in some distress. He sank to his knees and held his hands together as if in prayer. The others then stood and in unison recited an incantation. The boy looked close to tears. Intrigued I resolved to stay and watch developments. I didn’t have long to wait. My uncle suddenly placed his Bible on a small table and then with great deliberation, he unbuttoned his coat and slipped it from his shoulders. With solemnity he handed it to a colleague who hung it on a hat stand. While that was being done, Uncle Festus slowly undid the buttons of his waistcoat. All eyes in the room were transfixed.

Having loosened his clothing he took a couple of paces across the room and leaned towards a vase-like ornament that stood easily three feet tall. He reached his hand inside and with a flourish (rather like a magician taking a rabbit from a hat) he extracted a bunch of twigs. No one in the room was the least surprised, but I almost fell backwards with amazement. There were about a dozen or so twigs or small branches and they were tied together at one end to make a handle. Even I, with my great lack of knowledge of such things, recognised it as a birch. Any number of the trees in the garden where I stood could have supplied the wherewithal to construct it. Uncle Festus held it upright in the palms of both hands and presented it as if it was an offering to the assembled audience.

There was complete silence. I watched astounded. There was movement in the room. It seemed everyone knew their role in the unfolding drama. Two men took hold of a large, ornate armless chair that was leaning against a wall and manoeuvred it into the middle of the room. Uncle Festus seated himself. I had not noticed but while Uncle Festus was taking centre stage, the boy had removed his own coat and shirt collar. He stood forlornly. Uncle Festus made some remark to his congregation and they chanted their response. Satisfied with that my uncle turned towards the boy. Uncle’s face was set firmly. I did not see his lips move but he must have spoken some words because as if following a command the boy proceeded to loosen his britches. They had complicated fastenings and the boy’s trembling hands made heavy work of getting them to fall to his feet. He made a better job with his underwear and within seconds his buttocks were bared. He had his back to me so I have no way of knowing his expression or gauging his sense of humiliation which must have been acute.

My uncle squeezed his thighs together, the boy shuffled forward, and with a practiced move he dived headlong over Uncle Festus’s knees. He stretched his arms forward and placed both palms firmly into the ground. His naked buttocks rested across uncle’s right thigh and he kept his knees straight. They were presented to my uncle at a perfect angle. Uncle Festus was not yet quite satisfied, he took hold of the long tail of the boy’s shirt and gently tucked it away up the small of his back and away from the target.

All eyes, my own included, were glued to the boy’s naked, quivering milk-white posterior. Uncle Festus raised the birch twigs high above his own head; there was a collective intake of breath in the room. I bit my bottom lip hard. Uncle whipped the boy over the upturned bottom, the boy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. Uncle’s arm rose again and the strong, broad-shouldered man flogged the birch down with increased vim. The boy twitched, sniffed and quivered.

With the window tightly shut I could not hear a sound from the room. I have no idea if the boy, yelped, yelled or screamed. Certainly, as the beating continued he wriggled and writhed. His hips swivelled, his legs kicked. I imagined that was only to be expected, his body was being asked to absorb great pain, to twist and turn must surely be a natural physical reaction to such an assault.

The men in the room watched impassively.

Uncle Festus set about his duty at a steady pace. The birch lifted and fell. The spread of the twigs was such that a single stroke covered most of the boy’s bottom. Soon, his once smooth, white buttocks were a mass of scratches, cuts and grazes. His cheeks flamed crimson. I couldn’t begin to imagine how sore they must feel; the sting must be agonising.

I didn’t think to count the number of strokes delivered, but by the time it was over the boy’s bottom, from the top of the globes, over the peaks themselves and into the under cheeks resembled raw meat. I couldn’t imagine that he would be able to sit down after that for a week or more. When there was no more flesh to flay, Uncle Festus desisted. Again, no word was spoken, but he released his hold on the boy who immediately sprang to his feet.

For a moment he looked unbalanced and dizzy but Uncle Festus put a steadying hand on his shoulders, while the boy’s own hands moved to ease his burning rear and he sobbed gently. Then, uncle put his hand firmly on the top of the boy’s head and took up what seemed to me to be a low moan. My heart fell; he was in ecstasy. The congregation joined the chanting and it continued for what seemed like several minutes. At last uncle released his grip on the boy’s scalp and unbidden he reached down and retrieved first his underwear and then his britches. Once suitable attired, he was handed his coat and silently and without ceremony he left the room.

Within moments they all left. I thought it unwise to be caught snooping and moved off to the furthest part of the garden as far away as possible from uncle and his cronies. There, I replayed it all in my mind. I had not the slightest idea what I had witnessed, but I knew for certain my three months lodging with Uncle Festus would prove to be the longest of my life.

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

Other stories you might like

Father deals with idle student

Lazy students home for the hols

The apprentices

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com