The wrong pub

Masher stared into the laptop, paused the image and made a screen grab. He had identified six of the lads now. Only one to go.

The door to the small airless office opened and Big Boy Bonzo rumbled in. He nodded a perfunctory greeting and eased his considerable bulk into a swivel chair.

“That the kids from last night?” he growled nodding towards the laptop.

“Yeah,” Masher replied concentrating on the cursor. “The CCTV has picked them all out.”

“Good,” Bonzo sneered. “Do you think they knew whose pub it was?”

Masher let his concentration wander from the screen. “Yeah, we get a lot of college kids in. They enjoy the frisson.”

“Frisson!” Bonzo rarely spoke without sneering.

“Yeah, frisson, it means ….”

“I know what friggin frisson means. Don’t try to bust my balls.”

Bust my balls, Bonzo said that a lot. It’s what gangsters in America said all the time. I’m just busting your balls. Bonzo knew for a fact, he had all seven boxsets of The Sopranos.

Masher returned to his screen. Now he had a clear shot of the last of the troublemaking students.

“There,” he said not trying to hide the triumph he felt. “I can print off their pictures, or email them, whad’ya want me to do boss?”

Bonzo rolled his huge arse on the narrow chair and thought for a moment. “Can we identify them. Do we know where to find them?”

“Yeah, boss. Look some of them are wearing Brocklehurst University Rowing Club shirts. It’ll be easy.”

Bonzo dragged himself to his feet, steadied himself and waved his flabby arms at Masher. “OK round them up. Have them taken to Damon’s gym.” With that he lumbered from the office, satisfied. He would teach the brats to come into his pub and disrespect it. They would regret their brash arrogance. They would pay for it. Bonzo was the head of the largest crime family in the South; he had a reputation to keep.

….

Five hours later a Bentley drew up outside Damon’s gym. A tall, strong black man rushed forward to open the passenger door. He waited patiently while the pile of flab that was the crime boss spilled onto the pavement.

“Good evening, Mr. Bonzo,” the bouncer touched his forelock before turning to open the door. He sucked in his own stomach to make room for Bonzo to squeeze past him and into the building. Upstairs, seven terrified young men waited, hands fastened behind their backs with plastic ties.

“You got them all?” Bonzo sneered to Masher as the crime boss glared at the youngsters.

“Yeah, boss.”

“Who’s the shrimp?” He nodded towards a small dark-haired teenager. His chocolate brown eyes brimmed with tears. All the others stood six feet or more tall. This one was barely five-six.

“He’s the fair-haired one’s bitch,” Masher didn’t disguise his distain. He nodded at a clear-faced blond lad. He too fought back tears. He was tall and strong, his open shirt showing a smooth muscular chest.

“Whaýa mean?” Bonzo leant towards Masher. “They’re fags?”

Masher grimaced, “That one,” he indicated the fair boy, “was half way up the little one’s arse when we found them.” He paused, disgusted. “At three o’clock in the afternoon.”

Bonzo guffawed. “Fairies in a rowing team, who’da thought it?”

Bonzo waddled across the gym and paused in front of the line of young men. Then slowly, painstakingly, he manoeuvred down the line, like he was making a military inspection. His demonic stare froze each boy. One, a strong fresh-faced lad with a slicked quiff of hair, looked about to wet his trousers.

Bonzo eyed him up and down. “Now,” he spoke to the whole line of men, “I don’t want no one pissing their pants. It stains the  parquet flooring.” He turned to his gangster accomplices and grinned, showing green uneven teeth, “We know that for a fact don’t we.” The four gangsters vigorously nodded their agreement and laughed loudly. The boss had made a joke.

“Do they know why they’re here?” he snarled at Masher.

“Yeah, boss.”

“And,” Bonzo added darkly, “what we’re going to do to them?”

Another affirmative.

“Then let’s get on with it.” Bonzo ran his eye along the line, the way he often did when choosing a girl for the night. “Start with him. The fag.” He nodded at the fair-haired boy. What little colour he had drained from his face. Pointlessly, he struggled to free his hands from behind his back.

“B.. b… b…” he began to protest, but he could form no words. Two sweaty gangsters grabbed him, one on each arm and propelled him towards the middle of the gym where an old vaulting horse had been placed.

One gangster snipped the plastic ties, freeing him, but only long enough for him to be manhandled face-down over the horse. Masher looked on as each of the boy’s wrists were secured by specially-made leather restraints to the legs of the horse. Once this was completed Bonzo walked forward. He said nothing, but stood directly behind the boy wheezing. When the crime boss’s hands reached around the boy and tugged at his belt there was no doubt of his intentions. The boy wriggled his hips but it was useless.

Masher watched Bonzon loosen the lad’s trousers and tug them to his knees. The gangster’s face flushed crimson as he placed his fingers in the waistband of the boy’s cotton trunks and slowly wound them down over his meaty, but firm, buttocks. He left them snagged at the knees. Masher always thought it was a bit “gay” the way Bonzo stripped a boy naked before the whipping started, but he kept his thoughts to himself. He didn’t want his balls ripped off and fed to him.

While Bonzo prepared his victim another gangster known as Nosher fetched a large metal bucket from the corner of the gym. It was filled with brine and heavy. He set it down close to the horse, making sure the lad could see the bucket and its contents. His grin was malevolent. He picked out one of the four birch rods in the bucket and swished it through the air. Droplets of brine splashed on the boy’s face. He screwed his eyes shut, partly because the liquid stung them, but mostly in terror of the ordeal he was about to suffer.

The birch rod actually was made of twenty-four hazel twigs bound together with twine. Nosher felt the weight of it in his right hand. Without the added brine, it was probably a little less than a pound.

“Get on with it Nosher,” Bonzo growled. “We’ve got a lot of work to get through tonight.”

Stung by his boss’s displeasure, Nosher took up position to the lad’s left, he touched the birch rod across the fleshiest part of the (for now) creamy white flesh. He delighted when the boy’s body tensed and he flailed his hands trying desperately to free himself. He felt his heart pounding against the smelly leather top of the horse. Oh sweet Jesus.

“One.” Bonzo liked to be in charge. He knew he had neither the strength nor the energy to inflict floggings. He contented himself with taking a ringside position and directing matters from there. He had a perfect view. He would see the birch rod cut deep into flesh and the blood seep from the resulting wounds. He would lick his lips as a posterior was whipped so hard and so often that it finally resembled raw hamburger meat. It was a bonus (a result, he liked to call it) if the lashed boy howled and screamed with the agony. Let them holler. Who cared? Nobody could hear them. And if they were heard by someone, who would dare interfere with the work of Crime Boss Bonzo.

Nosher took his cue and raised the birch rod high, he swung it around his head, building momentum, before bringing it crashing down across the centre of both buttocks. The boy’s body convulsed, his unrestrained legs kicked behind him, his head threw back and the most almighty yowl flew from the back of his throat.

Bonzo cleared his own throat. “Two,” he called. Nosher did the swirling thing again and landed the rod across the boy’s bum, lower this time. He repeated his convulsion and yelling. Even now, after only two strokes, it looked, from where Bonzo was watching like the whole of his backside was ripped. Welts had risen and three tiny drops of blood seeped down his buttocks.

The more the boy screamed the more Nosher lashed the unrelenting birch across his arched backside. By the eighth stroke, realising that unremitting straps held his naked frame firmly in place, he screamed and begged for release.

“Please sir, no more sir. Please.”

“Nine.”

Nosher whipped the birch rod down, harder than ever. The boy’s bum was already a mass of cuts, the thin whippy twigs ripped them open further. Blood now flowed freely.

“Ten.”

Behind him and therefore unseen by Bonzo, six other young men waited their turn in terror. One, and not the small dark boy as one might imagine, had an erection, longer and stiffer than he had experienced in his life.

The rod tore into flesh once more.

“No more. Oh god, please sir, please sir. No more sir. Please no more. I’m dying.”

“Eleven.”

Across town, five young men from Brocklehurst Cricket Club lurched through the doors of the Beluga. “This is where the gangsters hang out,” one slurred to the others, as he stumbled towards the bar, knocking over a stool.

At Damon’s gym, the birch rose again.

z used birch and marks sting (1)

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Bend over my knee for a birching

z used otk birch CS (17)

Johanne stood staring down at the floor. His knees were buckling, his pulse raced. The saliva in his mouth had already drained. He could feel the heat of embarrassment in his face. He had been here many times before, but he could never get used to it.

He heard his father preparing himself. A hard wooden chair with a straight back had already been placed in the middle of the room. Now, his father was at a cabinet, opening a low cupboard. He had to stoop down to get a closer view of its contents. He had placed something there earlier in the day, ready and waiting for this moment.

He reached inside. An aroma wafted to his nostrils. A fresh, country smell. Even after so many years, the scent perked him up every time he encountered it. It felt rough in his hand, scratchy. He pulled it clear of the darkened cupboard into the daylight. It wasn’t s heavy. He had made heavier ones in the past. But, not this time. It wasn’t necessary. Not for what he had in mind.

There were about thirty twigs bound together with twine at one end to form a handle. The ‘business end’ was about eighteen inches long. Perfect, Mr Anderson, thought, even if he did say so himself.

He held the birch rod in his hand and leaving the cupboard door ajar, he took the few paces necessary to reach the chair. He settled himself down, wriggling his buttocks until he felt comfortable. He looked across at his son Johanne. How many times had he done this before? He really had no idea, it was literally countless times.

Johanne stood head bowed and fidgeting. His fair complexion now quite scarlet with embarrassment; humiliation even. Mr Anderson studied the top of his son’s head. The thick wavy blond fair hair needed cutting. Why was it so long, he pondered? He hoped some teenaged rebellion wasn’t in the air.

“Look at me.” It was a calm command. Mr Anderson did not believe in histrionics. None of his compatriots at the business he owned and ran, nor his friends (such that there were), nor his family could remember the last time he had raised his voice.

Sheepishly, Johanne lifted his eyes. They were pale blue and already watery. He set his jaw firmly, fighting against his quivering chin. He would not let himself down, he told himself. Absolutely not. Not so early in the proceedings.

“We know why we are here,” his father sighed, as if he was obliged to carry all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. He paused. It was Johanne’s cue to speak. The boy twisted his fingers behind his back and returned his attention to the carpet.

“Look at me, Johanne, I shan’t tell you again,” Mr Anderson bared his teeth.

“Sorry father,” sweat beaded Johanne’s heavy fringe. He wiped it with the back of his hand, alarmed at how much it trembled as he did so.

“The report from your tutor is very discouraging,” Mr Anderson breathed quietly as he recapped his son’s end of term report. “You seem not to be attending to your lessons.” His glare cut through his son like a hot knife.

There was really no “seem” about it. The kindest thing one might say about the nineteen-year-old was that he was idle. Lazy. A slacker. He was undoubtedly all of these things when it came to his studies. But, were the truth to be told, one would also have to include “dull” to the litany. That would be “dull” as in “not very bright”, “unacademic” or just downright “unclever.”

“We have spoken about your attitude and behaviour before, have we not?” It was a rhetorical question and Mr Anderson did not pause, but continued to berate his son.

Satisfied that the case against Johanne had been made, Mr Anderson skipped the part of the trial where the defence gets to speak. Instead, he proceeded straight to sentence.

“Take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.” It was a cold command and one that Mr Anderson expected to be obeyed. And, there was no doubt that it would be.

The room which had been on the cool side until then, suddenly seemed to warm. Johanne’s temperature was rising rapidly. Perspiration stuck his shirt to his back, his armpits felt soaked. He rather wished he hadn’t worn a woollen pullover.

Mr Anderson shuffled his buttocks on the hard wooden chair. He gazed intently at his son as he fumbled first with the buckle of his belt and then the three buttons of his fly. It took sometime before the front of the trousers gaped open and Mr Anderson glimpsed the white cotton underpants beneath. Johanne abhorred physical activity and was no athlete, but he had the slender body of a young man. It would be some years yet before the combination of his laziness and his fondness for food would show on his waistline. For now, his stomach was flat and hairless.

Johanne allowed his grey trousers to slither down his thighs to snag at the knees. Mr Anderson eyed his son’s sparkling tight white underpants. He pondered if they were a size or two too small for him. If that was not the case, the teenager appeared to be generously endowed in the manhood department.

Johanne’s face travelled from scarlet to the colour of a good claret wine. How could he be spared the humiliation of removing his underwear in front of his father? Silently, he pleaded with his father. Non-verbal communication was not one of Mr Anderson’s strong suits. He was a man who spoke his mind. Quietly, but robustly.

He cleared his throat. “Please take down your underpants, Johanne.” When the teenager recoiled at the command, his father snarled, “Unless you should like me to remove them for you.”

Johanne’s flinch was instinctive. He took a half step backwards, steadied his nerve, hooked his thumbs into the elasticated waistband, closed his eyes, and sent the soft white cotton south to meet his trousers. Befuddled, he covered his dick and balls with his hands.

Mr Anderson grimaced. What had his son to hide? He had a cruel streak that sometimes he didn’t try to conceal. “Johanne,” he said, still speaking softly, “Please put your hands on your head.”

His son’s response, “But father,” was a mere whimper. One never argued with father. Ever. Not about anything. If the old man were ever, say, to order Johanne to run naked around town, he would do it. Not gladly, but he would do it in the knowledge that the consequence of not doing it would be awesome indeed.

He closed his eyes once more, sucked in breath and linked his fingers before placing his hands firmly on the top of his head in the classic “naughty boy” stance. Mr Anderson shuffled his buttocks once more and pursed his lips. Johanne’s dick was long and thin and his ball sack hung down by some inches. Mr Anderson was no expert in young men’s genital, but his breast swelled a little with pride at his son’s manhood.

He gripped the birchrod in his right hand and gently tapped himself on the lap with it. “Come bend over my knee.” He was a little surprised with the apparent eagerness his son showed by removing his hands from his head, stepping forward and diving across his knee.

Johanne was no novice. He settled himself quickly. His father had spread his own knees thereby offering Johanne a sizeable platform to lean across. In that position, he was able to put his arms ahead of himself and place the palms of his hands firmly into the harsh carpet.

Behind him, with his knees bent his feet hovered an inch or so from the ground. Thus positioned, his bottom was perfectly placed over his father’s right thigh to receive the administrations of the birch.

Mr Anderson too was no novice in the spanking stakes. Years of administering chastisement had taught him that often “less means more”. He was not one of those fathers who take their errant sons across the knee and then proceed to slap their bottoms a hundred times or more. Often, such “punishment” hurt dad’s hand much more than junior’s backside.

No, a couple of minutes of hard whacks with thirty birch rods tied together would impress on any young miscreant the need to mend the error of his ways. It would deliver red, raw buttocks with no pain experienced by father.

Johanne’s bottom quivered, his hole winked open and shut. His buttocks clenched, as if trying to harden like a rubber ball. All this was instinctive. Johanne was not in control, it was his backside’s natural defence mechanism taking over.

He felt his father rub the birch twigs across the entire expanse of his bottom, the twigs scratched a little, but, he knew from painful (very painful) experience that this was but a prelude to the most excruciating agony.

The birch twigs moved away from his bare flesh, there was a pause, maybe two seconds, then an almighty whooshing sound. Johanne heard the birchrods smack into his bum. He never felt a thing. And, then the most incredible burning sensation spread across the whole of his backside. He wriggled across his father’s lap. Another instinctive reaction.

The sting of the birch is like no other pain caused in corporal punishment. There are at least two types of birch. The one used in the military and the law courts in days gone by was an instrument of torture. It was heavy and wielded with such viciousness the sole intent of the whipper was to cause serious and lasting damage.

The domestic birch, if we may call it that, is something much lighter, comprising thin supple rods. The intention is not to torture, but it is to punish severely. The birchrod has about thirty twigs and once it flies through the air its business end could have a spread wide enough to connect with every square inch of the bared buttocks. Again, and again and again. The burning sensation this creates is intense, even when the birch is delivered at close quarters such as while prostrate over Mr Anderson’s knee.

The worst part of a birching, Johanne would say, was that it lasted for hours. At least it felt like that. The blows would keep coming and coming and coming, on and on and on, until he wondered, if it would ever end.

Eventually, of course, the birching would end, but not until every square inch of bared flesh was scorched with scarlet welts. From the top of the buttocks where the curves meet the spine, across the fleshly mounds and into the under-curves where the bum meets the thighs. Sometimes, if Johanne was unable to control his wriggling and writhing and his father missed his aim, the birch rods might take some skin off the thighs themselves. When that happened, Johanne could be sure, he wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for many days to follow.

Even without the miss-hits, the buttocks would be alive and raw for at least twenty-four hours. The marks would last for several days, though some of the worst ones would be around for a week or more.

A birching was best avoided; but it made one wonder why Johanne never seemed to learn his lesson. You could bet your house that very soon he would once again be across his father’s knees, trousers and pants at the ankles, getting his bare buttocks roasted. What is it about that boy?

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The debut

z used shower after a spanking sport club ivory soap

Lars clutched his savaged buttocks. The warm water of the shower turned crimson as it washed over his throbbing arse. He knew the other guys were watching him to see how he would react. He hopped from one foot to the other, rubbing his bum. He gave them a show. They couldn’t see his smile. He was happy. He was now one of the team.

It had been a boyhood dream for the eighteen-year-old. A player for C­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________ Soccer Club. The biggest and best in the whole country. And, now it had become reality. His first senior match was over. A victory. Not that Lars had much to do with that. Truth be told, he had been overcome with nerves. His game was off. An undistinguished debut. Except for what followed.

The team sprinted off the field into the locker room. “Well, young Lars,” it was the Club Captain Sven speaking. A broad smile creased his face. Team members gathered around. Nobody wanted to miss out on the fun.

Lars stood, waiting. At eighteen, he was the youngest in the team. His captain was not much older – just enough to be an elder brother.

“Happy Debut Day.” The team had a special song. It was like Happy Birthday. Tradition. Lars grinned. He knew what was coming. They all went through it.

Indridi, the kit man, arrived just then. A raucous cheer echoed through the locker room. The tubby man gave an audacious bow. “Thank you gentlemen; thank you.”

“Get on with it Indridi!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted. The kit man smiled, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Patience gentlemen. Patience. These things cannot be hurried,” he grinned. He set his bag on a bench and with a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit, he ostentatiously unzipped it. He paused. He knew all eyes were on him. In his head, he counted to five. The drama was intense.

“Voila!” he reached into the bag. “And, Hey Presto!” To wild cheering, he drew out a birch rod. He held it in both palms lovingly. High. Sven stepped forward. Referentially, as if it were a religious offering, Indridi bent one knee, bowed his head, and allowed the Club Captain to take it.

Lars watched transfixed. The birch was maybe fourteen inches long. It was a tight bundle of twigs, held together at one end by gaffer tape. It looked pretty heavy from where he was standing. Sven clutched it in both hands and held it high above his head. Just as he had done last season with the national soccer championship trophy. His teammates cheered as loudly as they had done that day.

Satisfied that they were ready, Sven sat on a bench. Unbidden, the team formed a semi-circle around him. Everyone would have a front row view.

“Come young lad.” It was a pleasant command. Lars knew he was blushing. He desperately wanted to be part of the team. He would do anything to make that happen.

“Take off your shorts. This has to be on the bare.” Another, kindly instruction. Lars had been naked in front of team mates many times in the past. Stripping held no terror for him. He was rather proud of his muscular body – he was an athlete after all.

The rhythmic sound of clapping echoed around the locker room.  Lars hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. He stepped out of them. Then, his white briefs hit the floor. Thinking ahead of this day, Lars had imagined that he might take hold of the underwear and like one of the strippers in the “gentlemen’s club” across the street, he would provocatively twirl his pants around his head, before teasingly throwing them for a team mate to catch.

In the event, he stood motionless. Waiting for events to take their course.

“Bend over my knee.” The roof might have risen; the cheering was now so intense.

Lars stepped forward. He was a tall teenager, easily six feet and more. He paused for a moment, looking down at the bare knees of his Captain, wondering how this was done. Sven sat on a long bench; Lars supposed the best thing to do was to lower himself across the older man’s knees and lay his chest along the wooden slats. He could stretch his arms ahead of him. His legs would have to dangle in mid-air.

Before he could decide, Sven gripped him by his left wrist and propelled him forward and face-down across his lap. Lars could not see, but he was perfectly positioned, buttocks nicely angled, to receive the lashes of the birch rod.

His Club Captain gripped the birch rod in his right hand and gently rubbed the tips of the twigs across the lower half of the eighteen-year-old’s bottom, just where the under-curves met the thighs.

“One. Two. Three!” the teammates counted. Sven took his cue and brought the birch down with tremendous force. He was rewarded by wild cheering and clapping from the team and a low sorrowful hissing from the boy across his knees. Lars’ eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wouldn’t allow a sound to pass his lips.

Swish! A second cut hit higher. Already, the whole of his smooth, white bum was criss-crossed with thin stripes. Lars heaved his bottom high, but Sven was an expert at this. He wrapped his left arm across the boy’s middle and pressed down hard. Lars was going nowhere.

The boy’s face was now as scarlet as his backside. He shut his eyes, silently vowing he could take this. He must take this. Not to do so meant shame and ignominy. Slices three and four tore into him. Never in his whole life had he felt such pain. He had been injured many times on the playing field, but nothing before had prepared him for this.

Six hard strokes ripped his arse to shreds and then it was over. Blood wept from dozens and dozens of small cuts. Lars’ buttocks resembled raw hamburger meat. The agony had numbed his bum. To frantic clapping and cheering, the boy hauled himself to his feet. Teammates crowded him, each extended a hand for him to shake. Many clapped him on the shoulders. One or two went in for a full hug.

His face glowed with pride. Teammates formed a guard of honour for him to walk through on his way to the shower.

“He took it well,” Sven beamed with pride. “I wonder if Stig will be so stoical when it’s his turn next week?”

 

Picture credit: Ivory Soap

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Lord Bowinem’s chauffeur

used drawing suit (25)

Simmonds carefully manoeuvred the Rolls-Royce motorcar into the garage, switched off the engine and climbed out. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed out a smear on the gleaming blue paintwork. He loved driving that car.

“Simmonds.” Lord Bowinem spoke firmly. “I wish to speak to you privately. Please go to your room, change into your pyjamas and then attend the library. Do not take longer than ten minutes.”

The twenty-four-year-old walked toward the servants’ entrance of the mansion. Life wasn’t so bad, he thought. He had a nice warm room and three square meals a day. The wages weren’t much, but there was a way to supplement them.

The mansion was huge and befitting a house that size, mostly cold and dank. Simmonds climbed the stairs and entered the back passage. His room was at the far end. There was no time to dawdle. He worked at six buttons on the jacket of his smart blue chauffer’s uniform and slipped it over the back of an old wooden chair. His trousers fitted snuggly. He unbuttoned them and since there was not much space in his room, he sat down on his bed and rolled them down his legs. It was always a struggle to get them off.

His off-white vest and knickers came off next. For a moment, he stood totally naked. He took in his view in the mirror. Not bad, he thought, and better than many who worked below stairs for his Lordship.

His pyjamas were under his pillow. He stepped into the blue-and-white-striped bottoms and pulled them up before tying the drawstring into a bow. He tested that they would not sink down to his knees as he walked and satisfied, he climbed into the jacket. He wiggled his feet into his carpet slippers and after glancing once more in the mirror, he left the room.

It was some distance from Simmonds’s room to the library and the passageways were devilishly cold. Even so, he knew his Lordship would not want him to wear a dressing gown. The chauffer knew from experience he would be warmed up after he entered the library.

There was a roaring fire in the library. It was another magnificently-sized room. Naturally, it was dominated by shelves of books and these ran from the floor to the high ceiling. A large table stood in the centre of the room overshadowing a shiny leather Chesterfield couch. Three other plush padded leather chairs stood nearby.

Simmonds had no need to take this in. He had attended the library on many previous occasions but never once to read a book.

Lord Bowinem stood and dug his hands firmly into his pockets. He wore a business suit with a waistcoat. He was one of England’s finest Peers of the Realm, but he often dressed as if he were a provincial bank manager. He had an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He removed it and vaguely scanned the room for an ashtray. When he couldn’t find one, distractedly, he put the cigar into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Simmonds watched his master intently. At last, the old man spoke. “Well Simmons, it just isn’t good enough. Is it?”

The chauffeur stood, his face impassive. What wasn’t good enough? He had no clear idea what his master was talking about. He stayed silent, hoping His Lordship would explain himself.

He did, “You were late for duty on Wednesday,” he said and then paused. Simmonds knew this to be true, but it had only been a minute or two. He knew better than to argue the case.

“Yes, Sir,” he replied in a strong voice.

“Mmm,” Lord Bowinem nodded his head fervently. “Then, you lost your route to Sir Humphrey’s.”

He said no more. There was no need, Simmonds knew what he meant. He had got lost in the narrow streets of Newcastle when driving His Lordship to meet an important industrialist.

There was silence. His Lordship seemed to have nothing more to say. Simmonds knew his place. It was not for him to say anything.

“It won’t do, Simmonds. It just won’t do.” Lord Bowinem’s face flushed. He looked as if he might have attacked the whisky. But, there had been no time for that.

“Well, you know what must happen.”

Simmonds’s eyes followed the back of his master as he shuffled the considerable length of the library before stopping in front of a tall cupboard. He fumbled in his pocket for some time before withdrawing a small ring containing keys. He found the one he needed and unlocked the door. Simmonds held his breath. His heart raced. Lord Bowinem opened the door and reached in. Even from a long distance, Simmonds could hear a distinctive rattle. He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to see. Not yet.

When he did open them again, he saw Lord Bowinem held a freshly-made birch rod in his hand. His Lordship said nothing, but tested the instrument for its weight. It was thirty or more rods, collected together at one end into a handle. Old Fletcher, His Lordship’s gardener, had tied it with twine. Lord Bowinem swished the rod around, making sure he could get a good grip on the thing. Satisfied, that he could he walked over to the far end of the huge table. Sweat soaked his bald pate, so he pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped it dry. He returned it to his pocket, but made no attempt to remove his jacket, even though his armpits were sticky with perspiration.

“Please lower your trousers and bend across the table.” It was said with such reasonableness an onlooker might believe that Simmonds was being given a choice and that he might fairly reply, “Well thank you, Your Lordship, but I’d rather not on this occasion.”

Of course, it was not a request, it was an instruction.

The twenty-four-year-old looked down at the carpet beneath his feet and shuffled into position. His hands hardly shook as he untied the bow on the drawstring of his pyjamas. The bottoms slowly slipped down his legs and sagged at the knees. Simmonds parted them slightly and they continued their journey to his feet.

Without awaiting instruction, he lifted his jacket so that his flat stomach was uncovered and he eased himself forward. The table was far too long and far too wide for him to grip any of its edges, so he folded his arms in front of him and rested his head on them.

Lord Bowinem took a pace or two backward, the better to admire the view. The boy looked delightful, naked from the small of his back to his ankles. His Lordship had seen Simmond’s tight, naked rump many times before. It was very pale and round like a rubber ball. In His Lordship’s estimation, it was by far the best bottom that he could call upon among his servants.

He waited. His Lordship always liked to take his time. He supposed Simmonds, also, was in no hurry to get proceedings underway. He looked along the length of the birch rod in his hand. A smile flitted across his features. Then, he patted it across Simmonds’s firm bottom.

“Well, you can’t say you don’t deserve this.” He tapped the birch on the trembling rump. His eyes shone with delight. “Let it be six-of-the-best.”

Simmons screwed up his eyes and bit down into the sleeve of his pyjamas. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by an enthusiast such as Lord Bowinem would be a torment of great proportions.

With the refinement of a golfer, His Lordship swivelled his body, groaned, and then flogged the birch across Simmonds’s bottom with startling speed. Simmonds’s head rose from its place in his own arms and his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the twenty-four-year-old swayed violently. His neck was as scarlet as his bottom now was. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed open his once-pale buttocks. Simmonds sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. His heartrate doubled and the agony multiplied. He could not yet see that his buttocks were raw and that small scratches covered large parts of his pert backside.

His Lordship slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. An almighty shriek bounced around the nearly-empty library. A flock of birds resting on the lawn outside the room flew off in fright. Lord Bowinem pressed his nose to the savaged buttocks, intent on studying close-up the damage he had inflicted.

“I think you are learning your lesson, young man,” Lord Bowinem beamed.

“Yes, Sir,” Simmonds managed to croak with considerable effort.

The birch flew through the air with some vim for the last time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom. Simmonds quivered and convulsed. His legs marched up and down, his hips swayed from left to right. His bottom rose and fell so that he was humping the edge of the table. He wheezed heavily. Blood raced through is body at such speed he expected it to explode out of his ears. The pain was intense, but it was over. He had survived another six-of-the-best from His Lordship.

But it was not quite over. Lord Bowinem threw the birch to the floor and lurched forward. He cupped his right hand and caressed the bloodied buttocks. Simmonds winced, the weight of the hand against his open flesh, however gently applied, sent more shockwaves of pain through his body.

Then, a chortling Lord Bowinem wildly gripped one buttock and friskily squeezed it. Simmonds shot up from his position prostrate across the table. He took a step back from His Lordship and pulled his pyjama bottoms up.

They were almost done. Simmons straightened himself, looked his master straight in the eye and said, “Thank you sir, I deserved that. I hope I can improve my service to you in future.”

His Lordship drank down great gasps of air, before he replied, “You had better Simmonds or we shall repeat this.”

The twenty-four-year-old chauffeur hobbled through the cold passageway to his room, content that there would be an extra pound in his wage packet the following Friday.

 

Other stories you might like

Bug on the wall

Don’t bully our mum

Two brothers

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The glorious summer

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It was the most beautiful summer Crispin and Alfie had ever experienced. Eighteen years old with their whole lives ahead. School was over; soon they would go up to the varsity together. Life was bliss.

Crispin usually took the lead; in life as well as in the punt. Alfie was very content to follow in his chum’s wake. This day was to be no exception. Slowly, lugubriously, for they had all the time in the world, they floated away from the river bank. It would take maybe half an hour to reach the island. They would be safe there. Not alone, but with people like themselves. Nobody would bother them there.

Parson Scorn paced his sitting room. It was too hot to be inside, but he wasn’t yet ready to venture out. He would wait for the noon day sun. He could be sure of success at that hour. His quarry were not notorious early risers.

Crispin manoeuvred through the weeds. He was becoming expert at this. His lithe arm muscles flexed as he strained on the punt pole. Alfie lay back admiring Crispin’s taut buttocks encased in white linen trousers. The exertions made his pal perspire. Soaking his unruly fair hair. The sun appeared from behind a white cloud; temperatures were rising all round.

“We should be safe here,” Crispin gasped, jumping from the punt onto solid ground. The little boat rocked leaving Alfie clinging it its side.

“Careful, you’ll have me in the water,” he snapped.

“Then, we’d have to take off all your wet clothes,” Crispin grinned. Alfie scowled, but he didn’t really mean it.

Crispin reached out his hand and helped his chum from the punt. Then, still fingers entwined, they walked away from the water’s edge. They knew a spot. They had used it often enough. They wouldn’t be seen from there.

Parson Scorn checked his watch. Now would be a good time to leave. He climbed into his black coat and reached for his hat. At the umbrella stand, he collected a canvas bag, testing its weight. It was never very heavy. It didn’t need to be.

Parson Scorn was a large man; people said he ate well. They meant he ate plenty, not healthily. Folds of fat flopped over his belt; a third chin dragged down his jowls so his facial features were as indistinct as a bowl of blancmange. Sweat soaked his back. The sun was hot and his coat heavy. He walked slowly, pacing himself. He needed his strength. There would be many exertions before the afternoon was over.

Crispin tested the grass. It was dry, it hadn’t rained for days. His brilliant white trousers would remain unstained. He pulled Alfie to his side.

“Why do you still wear the old school cap? I should have thought we were both glad to be away from St. Tom’s.” He pulled at the cap and threw it to the ground, releasing Alfie’s shiny black wavy hair. Crispin ran his fingers through it. It was strong hair and a little greasy. The two teenagers’ eyes met. No words were spoken. There was no need. Their lips met. Tongues entwined.

Parson Scorn kept a small rowing boat. It was meant for one person. He scrambled in, his fat buttocks overhanging the wooden slat that passed for a seat. Carefully, he rested his canvas bag between his knees; it wouldn’t do for that to fall in the river. He clutched the oars and slowly inched his way towards the island.

Crispin and Alfie lay naked. Alfie was on his back, Crispin straddled him, working his lips down his pal’s strong chest. Alfie gasped with pleasure. Crispin was doing that thing with his tongue. It made his manhood throb like crazy. He closed his eyes and tried to think of dull things. It would stop him exploding too early.

“No, not yet,” Crispin climbed off his chum and lay by his side. “You mustn’t come too soon.” He stretched his arm around Alfie’s shoulders and pulled him close for an intimate, loving embrace. The sun beat own fiercely. Both boys had nut-brown skin; all over. There was a stretch of the river where men sunbathed naked. Wags called the place ‘Parsons’ Pleasure.’ Crispin and Alfie loved to show their bodies. Their devotees could not hide their admiration. Ah, the beauty of youth, they all agreed.

Parson Scorn disembarked and tugged the tiny boat out of the river. He was sweating profusely, but he would not remove his hat and coat. They were his credential. They indicated he was a parson. They were his symbols of power. He sat and caught his breath. He was unsure what to do next. Last time he patrolled the island he had turned to the left; perhaps this time he would go to the right.

He picked up his canvas bag, and headed inland. He had trod this path before. There was a small clearing maybe fifty yards ahead.

Alfie nibbled Crispin’s ear. It was a simple gesture, but it always made his chum’s heart race and his penis stiffen.

“We shall have so much fun at Oxford,” Crispin beamed. “Together. Always. We shall take rooms together. Undisturbed. Forever,” he babbled.

Alfie kissed Crispin deeply. His tongue washing around the teenager’s mouth, right inside, reaching the throat.

“Warr…?” Crispin broke free, gasping for air. “What’s that noise?” He hauled himself to a sitting position. “There’s somebody there.”

“Just another couple courting, I suppose.” Alfie peered into the undergrowth. “We wouldn’t be alone on this island.”

“No…” Crispin started, but further words were impossible. Alfie’s tongue was back inside his mouth. They stretched out and Alfie straddled his body.

“Monstrous! Ungodly! Disgraceful!” Parson Scorn had a lexicon of words for such occasions. He pushed through the undergrowth and stood towering over the boys, his shadow blocking out the sun. He stared intently at Alfie’s naked buttocks.

“Shameful! Shocking! Outrageous!” Parson Scorn was not yet ready to speak in full sentences.

Alfie climbed off his chum. Crispin lay on his back, his penis pointing to the sky.

Parson Scorn stood, scowling, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. He had perfected this stance. It put terror into the hearts of his victims. Sometimes, even before he revealed his plan, young men would be in floods of tears. Once, some darn fool had begged on his knees for mercy. Mercy, indeed, Parson Scorn had thought. Retribution was the order of the day.

He had a speech prepared. He rarely had to deviate from the script. It started with a tirade from the Bible. Then there was a passage about Hell. That always made an impact. Most of the young men he pursued had been brought up as strict Christians of one sort of another.

But, the words that really struck terror into their hearts were about the law. This perversion was a crime, punishable by imprisonment. With hard labour. Prison would destroy them. Just think about that fellow Oscar Wilde. They would live their lives in disgrace. Living and dying penniless.

But, kindly person that Parson Scorn was, he had an alternative.

Crispin and Alfie listened with mounting dread. The dreadful parson was right. The law could destroy them, but only if the law was invoked. There were many men like themselves leading quiet lives, not harming anyone. Many of them, especially from Crispin and Alfie’s social class, were ignored by the police.

“I am prepared, in the name of God, to give you a second chance,” Parson Scorn’s beady eyes burned into Crispin. He really was the most delightfully looking fellow. The sun highlighted the colour of his yellow hair which contrasted with his deep suntan.

“It will not be pleasant,” Parson Scorn’s voice broke. He coughed nervously. “But, I am prepared to do my duty.”

Crispin stared at the Parson. He had seen the way the old men looked at him at Parson’s Pleasure. Suddenly, he realised the significance of it name.

Parson Scorn reached for the canvas bag at his feet. Inside seconds, it was open. Crispin’s eyes widened. It had been years since he had seen such a thing. Furtively, he exchanged glances with Alfie. Now, they understood the vile clergyman’s game.

Parson Scorn picked up the birch rods in his hands and held them up to the eighteen year olds, as if making a religious offering. As birch rods went, this was on the smaller side. From where Crispin stood it looked like there were about a dozen branches, tied together at one end by string.

The headmaster at St. Tom’s had preferred a much heavier birch rod. Crispin had seen the damage that could inflict on naked buttocks. But, the birch was rarely used at his old school, the whippy ashplant was the preferred instrument of punishment among the schoolmasters.

“I shall flog you,” Parson Scorn rolled the word “flog” around his tongue, relishing the sound it made and the reaction it caused in the two teenagers sprawled before him. He swished the birch rod through the air for emphasis, delighting in the way their eyes followed it on its travels.

Parson Scorn knew his place in the world. He was a man of God; an authority figure. The boys he was about to beat were products of an English public school. They had been raised to know their place, also. They would obey his every word; however unusual and indeed perverse it might be. They always did. Not once had Parson Scorn’s victim refused to comply with his instruction. Nor, he was certain, would these two boys.

“You should stand up,” he spoke quietly. Without hesitation Crispin and Alfie rose to their feet. Parson Scorn flushed. For the first time, he had seen Alfie’s long, thick penis. Even flaccid, it was a terrific sight. Parson Scorn’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“Stand together,” Parson Scorn swished his birch rod, “About two or three feet apart,” he directed. Satisfied with their distance, he continued. “You should bend over and grip your shins.” Meekly, the two teenagers bent forward. Alfie shut his eyes tight. Crispin looked down at the mud and mould beneath his feet.

Parson Scorn stepped back to assess his targets. Crispin was smooth skinned, but Alfie’s buttocks and legs were covered with thick, black hair. The Parson tried not to look into their cracks, but there was no way he could avoid the sight of penises and ball sacks dangling between their legs.

Parson Scorn sucked in air. He lay the birch rod against Crispin’s naked left buttock. Once the rod swung it would contact across the centre of both cheeks. He raised his arm a yard or so away from the naked flesh and brought it down. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from the eighteen-year-old and an array of small welts across the backside.

The Parson turned his attention to Alfie. The hair on the boy’s backside hid the marks of the birch, but the Parson knew well enough that both teenagers would have throbbing rear ends.

Parson Scorn had no wish to cut the boys backsides to ribbons. A heavier birch rod, applied with maximum force would do that. Instead, the clergyman whipped his rod across the naked haunches with just enough power to scar the flesh. The boys would be raw. They would feel intense agony as the dozen birch twigs connected. But, soon that agony would give way to a deep throb, which in turn would become a warm glow. After an hour or so the pain would have gone, except for when they sat on a hard surface. Then, one or two of the welts would reignite. It would be a week or so before the scars cleared fully.

Parson Scorn tapped the birch rod against Crispin’s bottom once more; a little lower than the previous cut. Swish! The birch rod made an eerie sound in the open air. Crispin hacked a dry cough. That one had hurt so much more than the first. Alfie, failed to suppress a yelp as his second stroke connected.

Ex-public schoolboys are stout fellows. It comes from spending many years holed up with manic masters who carried an ashplant under their arms to slip into their hands at a second’s notice before applying it with some vigour against the backside of an errant schoolboy. Crispin and Alfie took their whipping stoically.

Parson Scorn laid on six-of-the-best. That was sufficient. Not one square inch of the naked backsides pointing at him was left unblemished. Each cheek was a deep cherry red. Bruises were forming on the outer side of Crispin’s bum. The Parson assumed that under all that dark hair, similar bruises adorned Alfie’s buttocks.

“That will do,” Parson Scorn, replaced the birch rod in the canvas bag, alongside two more he had there. “I hope I never catch you behaving in such a monstrous manner again,” he said, untruthfully, before taking his leave. Crispin and Alfie rubbed their sore bums and watched him fight his way through the undergrowth toward the centre of the island.

“You know, he enjoyed doing that, don’t you?” Crispin kneaded his pert inflamed buttocks.

“Yes,” Alfie grinned. His penis was rock hard. “Come my chum, deal with this, there’s a fine fellow.” Crispin sank to his knees, formed a perfect “O” with his lips and prepared to take the member in his mouth.

Three hours later, they sat contented outside the Three Fishers Hotel. It had been a wonderful day in a glorious summer. Despite the Parson’s threat there had been no danger of involving the law. There would be no prison. A life of bliss lay ahead for Crispin and Alfie.

“Do you know what?” Alfie sipped on his warm beer, “I can see us as two old codgers, living in harmony. In our dotage.”

“Wouldn’t that be lovely. I look forward to it.”

Suddenly, a boy rushed through the gate. “Read all about it. Read all about it,” he yelled waving a newspaper.

“What is it,” Crispin sighed wearily.

“Germany invades Belgium! War to be declared!”

 

Other stories you might like

The missed curfew

Caught in their underpants

The shoplifter

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

A glimpse into the near future. The series starts here.

 

The officer stared at the quivering naked buttocks before him. The world was changing. The punishment frame gleamed with its newness.

He tried to ignore the camera shooting over his shoulder.

He gripped the birch rod tightly and waited for his cue.

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

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

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

Much had changed in the past few years. After Britain left the European Union, there was a massive collapse in the economy. Political turmoil followed. A political party, the New Democrats, formed to save the nation. Now, there was order. The young suffered most. First, they brought back the cane to schools. Then, they extended corporal punishment to universities. Then, all young people under thirty could be beaten by their employers. Juvenile criminal offenders were flogged. The older public loved it. It made them feel safe.

“And, five and ….” A green light shone. It was the officer’s cue to deliver the first lash.

It was a heavy birch. Sixteen branches. Tapped together at the end. It looked like a bundle of wires. It had been soaking for a day in a bucket of brine. That made the birch rod supple. And far more painful. Conscious of his own moment in the limelight, the officer made great play at swishing the birch through the air. Droplets of brine spread across the bare floorboards around him.

It was a small room. They didn’t need much space. The punishment frame, newly designed, recently built, was propped close to a wall. Apart from an old enamel bucket there was nothing else. Automatic cameras, like you see at football matches, manoeuvred on wires. The room was probably no more than ten feet by eight.

It didn’t need to be large; but the ceiling had to be high. The birch was three feet long. The officer needed to be able to swing it high above his head. Then, bring it crushing down into the naked haunches of the prisoner.

Dramatically, enjoying every moment, the officer rolled up the shirt sleeve on his right arm. Muscles rippled. Gym-honed. He took his duties to the welfare of the public seriously indeed.

He took a step back, measuring his distance. His was an accustomed eye. His expertise had developed over time. Satisfied of his position, he griped the birch, scowled his face and swung the birch around his head. It missed the ceiling by three inches.

Then, he brought it down with a sensational upper-cut in the victim’s naked flesh.

The prisoner, taken by surprise, caught his breath with a gasp and strained desperately at the unreleasing bonds. His shoulders and arms quaked convulsively, in a desperate bid to free his limbs. The frame shook, such was the youth’s determination to break away. He threw back his head and screeched.

Camera one moved in. A great red blotch mark spread across the prisoner’s flesh where the lash connected into beefy buttocks. Across the nation millions of people leaned towards their screens, intent of enjoying a closer look.

The punishment had only just started. A second merciless cut broke the skin. Blood seeped. The prisoner, his face and neck as scarlet as his hind quarters, repeated his howling.

The officer paused. Bent down towards the enamel bucket. A camera closed in. He reached for a damp sponge. Slowly, allowing the camera to reposition, the officer wiped it across the prisoner’s arse. The water turned crimson with blood.

Again, and again the officer swung the birch rod around his head, bringing it down with merciless vigour. Then he paused. He ran his fingers through the clotted birch rods, flicking blood from them onto the floor.

“And we’re out,” the TV director mopped his brow with a handkerchief. A five-minute break for commercials. The satellite channel could have sold the space a dozen times over.

The prisoner sobbed rhythmically, numbed and stupefied by his pain, unaware there were another dozen lashes still to come.

 

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University student late for class

Foreign language student

Two brothers

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Paul and his landlord

paul-cover-pic

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is the latest in a series of collections of my stories being published on Mondays. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Another book available for download free-of-charge.

TALES FROM THE STUDY 1. St FRANCIS INDEPENDENT GRAMMAR SCHOOL

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com