Road Trip

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z used twosome hats car by Mayser Hute

Looking back on it Bradley realised that he ought to have smelt a rat right from the start. If he hadn’t been as vain as he was, he should have wondered what ever possessed his employer Mr MacDonald to take him on that business trip across Europe, when he had so many older and abler men at his disposal. Bradley’s driving was all right, but certainly no better than Smith’s or Davidson’s.

Conceit had something to do with it. Bradley thought he was the blue eyed boy. He might be only nineteen, but so many older, established men at the company had perished in the war. Others had returned with their brains so addled they could never work again.

Bradley and Mr MacDonald travelled to France, but their destination was Germany. The war had ended two years previously and millions of American dollars were flooding in now that continent of Europe had been carved up among the super-powers.  The future was West Germany and Bradley  had his sights on being the company’s top dog. The railways were still shot to pieces and the only way was to travel by car; just the two of them.

Bradley and his boss were St. Tom’s men. That was they had both attended St. Tom’s, an elite public boarding school. But not at the same time. Mr MacDonald was just about old enough to be Bradley’s father. That’s how he got the job in the first place – the old school tie. They all look after one another. The truth was that Bradley hadn’t done so well at school. He was inattentive and selfish. Despite the best efforts of the schoolmasters and their whippy canes, he never quite accepted that rules were to be obeyed by all, including Bradley. He was lucky to get his job he was helped by his father, also an old St Tom’s man.

Bradley and his boss had little in common so conversation during the hours of driving was limited. They were able to share experiences of school. As is the way when old school fellows such as these meet they reminisced about masters they knew. And, the liberal corporal punishment regime they both endured.

The journey was slow as the roads were bad. They were closing in on Munich and the rain fell in torrents. Bradley never saw the five-inch nail. He first knew he had a flat tyre when he lost control of the steering. Cursing his luck and the rain with considerable effort he changed the wheel. His boss stayed in the car which made the task that more difficult. Bradley did not complain. It wasn’t his place to do so and he did not want to get on the bad side of Mr MacDonald. If he played his cards right and impressed the old man he, Bradley, could advance quickly in the company. If he upset him, that could put an end to his future prospects.

At last the car was back on the road. The rain eased but didn’t stop. It was dark and there were no road lamps. This was Germany; electricity was unknown outside of the cities. The darkness was Bradley’s excuse for not seeing the broken glass. Another flat tyre, and the spare already used. Cursing his luck one more time, Bradley kicked the tyre aggressively.

“You need a garage,” Mr MacDonald said. That was true, but Bradley still thought it an unhelpful statement. Where in the middle of this Godforsaken land could he find a garage? “We passed a hotel, or guesthouse, or something back there,” Mr MacDonald waved his hand as if that would clarify his statement. “Go find it and see if they can send someone to help us. We can stay the night there.”

Bradley trudged off into the dark, cussing his boss and the whole world at large. His clothes were soaked and his shoes leaked by the time he found the hotel. It was run-down and creepy. A withered old woman peered at him as he trekked up a pathway, overgrown with weeds. She received him tersely. Bradley did not understand a word she said. She spoke in German and sounded hostile; but then all German sounded hostile to an Englishman. Bradley spoke in English, clearly enunciating each word as if speaking to an idiot. Then he tried speaking loudly. This did not improve matters. He could not get through to her.

Then, a young man, no older than Bradley himself, appeared from down the hall. “Can I be of assistance, Sir,” he spoke good English, but with a heavy German accent. Bradley explain his position and within minutes the boy, who Bradley now knew was called Gerhard, was hitching up a battered old pony to an equally dilapidated cart. “Take me to your master,” he called cheerfully to Bradley and together they set off to rescue Mr MacDonald.

They were the only guests at the hotel but their hosts were helpful and gracious. It took much effort but they ran hot baths and prepared the best meal that they could under their straightened circumstances. Bradley fought to hide his annoyance that his boss was taking a great deal of interest in Gerhard. Gerhard was blond (well, he was a German after all) and fit with muscles honed through manual work. He had a wide open face and surprisingly white teeth considering the state of the country. He liked to laugh and to Bradley’s further annoyance Mr MacDonald joined in. Bradley’s jealousy bit deep. How, he wondered, had Gerhard survived the war? Hadn’t all young men sacrificed themselves for Hitler?

Bradley affected not to notice when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard left the room together whispering as if in some conspiracy. His only consolation was they would be back on the road tomorrow never to return.

He waited for an hour, uncertain what he was supposed to do. Was he to wait for his employer to return? Would Mr MacDonald need his services again that evening? Was it safe for him to go off to his bed? He paced the residents’ lounge and had at last determined he would turn in for the night when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard made an unannounced entrance. The blond German boy grinned from ear-to-ear, adding to Gerhard’s suspicious jealousy. It was compounded when the German smiled even more broadly at Bradley as if he was holding a secret. The German turned to Mr MacDonald and in accented English wished him a very pleasant rest of the evening.

The young German breezed from the room. Bradley stood, somewhat irritated and waited for his employer’s instructions. Mr MacDonald spoke seriously, “I have been very disappointed with you today,” he said gravely. “Your incompetence with the motor car has caused me serious delays. My business may not recover as a result.”

Bradley’s jaw dropped. How unfair! It wasn’t his fault the roads in Germany were so bad. How could he be blamed for the tyre bursts? Had he put the nails and the broken glass on the road? No, of course not! He felt all of this but knew better than to say a word of protest. Mr MacDonald was his employer and held the key to Bradley’s future in his hands. Bradley had no choice but to accept his employer’s rebukes. “Sorry, sir,”’ he said meekly, “I’ll try to do better tomorrow.”

Mr MacDonald’s bright blue eyes flashed. “I sincerely expect so, young man,” he said gruffly. “You cannot continue in this way.” His eyes narrowed and he frowned, “You need to be brought to book.”

Bradley had no idea what his employer could mean. Again, he knew better than to answer back. Mr MacDonald continued uninterrupted, “Follow me, upstairs,” he said mysteriously, “we need to deal with this.”

Not allowing a reply, Mr MacDonald immediately led the way from the room. In deep confusion, Bradley trotted behind him. Outside in the dank passageway Mr MacDonald stopped by a large mahogany table. Bradley peered into the gloom. He blinked furiously. He couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Silently and without explanation Mr MacDonald took hold of a bunch of freshly cut switches. He lifted and carried them as if they were the most delicate flowers on earth. Bradley gasped in realisation: Mr MacDonald and Gerhard must have been out cutting switches from the nearby bushes. What did Mr MacDonald intend to do?

“Follow me this way,” the older man headed to the large, dilapidated staircase that would lead to his bedroom. Bradley, his head spinning, trudged behind.

The room was small and sparsely furnished. An ancient bed with a wrought-iron bedstead took up most of the space. Mr MacDonald carefully lay the switches on the mattress. Bradley stared at them as slowly his employer’s intention dawned on him. Mr MacDonald lost no time getting to the point. “A thrashing should bring you to your senses.” He let the words drift in the air. Bradley blinked back his disbelief. A beating? He might expect something like this at St Tom’s, but he wasn’t at school anymore. He was a grown man – well eighteen years old – and worked for his living.

Instinctively he knew he must not argue. Mr MacDonald was his employer, he held all the power. Bradley was but his servant. Mr MacDonald could be Bradley’s meal ticket, the teenager needed to keep the old man sweet. “Yes sir, sorry sir,” he whispered.

Mr MacDonald drew himself to his full height and pushed back his shoulders. His eyes were rheumy with reminiscence. “Back at the grand old school,” he spoke slowly and softly, “you know what would have happened at a time such as this?”

Bradley remained silent while in his mind he recalled his much loved housemaster Mr Coddington. Oh, the times they had spent in his master’s study. Mr MacDonald cut short his nostalgia, “Get those trousers off. Underwear too.” He picked up a heavy pillow and carefully placed it on the edge of the bedstead. It would provide much needed additional height for what he had in mind.

Bradley lightened. It was to be just like with Mr Coddington. He stooped down and tackled the laces on his shoes. He worked with mild enthusiasm on the braces that held his trousers aloft. It was a cumbersome business stripping off his clothes. Mr MacDonald watched patiently, toying with a switch in his hands. At last the teenager was prepared.

“Bend over the pillow, across the bed,” Mr MacDonald ordered curtly. Without a murmur of protest, Bradley stepped forward, judged his distance from the bedstead and slowly fell forward. His stomach sank into the pillow and he folded his arms and rested his face in them. The floor was polished wood and his feet slipped when he parted them to produce a more rounded bottom for his employer to thrash.

Mr MacDonald would take his time.  He preferred it that way. It added to the drama and the excitement. Bradley’s shirttail covered part of his naked haunches so his employer took hold of it and pushed it out of the way. Bradley’s buttocks trembled with anticipation.

The switch was about fourteen inches long and thinner than a pencil. It would leave a fine mark, but it was delicate. Mr MacDonald would have preferred a whippy rattan cane, but such things were the province of English schools (and perhaps some in the colonies) but were unobtainable in Germany. He would have to do the best he could. Gerhard had cut him many specimens so as one switch broke with use there were others to take its place.

Mr MacDonald positioned the switch across Bradley’s bare bottom. The touch of the stick sent shivers of sensuous pleasure up his spine. He began to shake all over. MacDonald patted his stick keenly across all segments of the eighteen-year-old’s rump, calculating where to place his first blow.

The first stroke roared over the buttocks, landing, more or less, over the fleshiest part of the boy’s meaty posterior. Surely Bradley’s gasp of amazement could be heard all over the building. He wondered if the blond-haired German boy Gerhard was listening behind the floor.

The heat and sting was tremendous. Bradley gritted his teeth. The switch returned; it tapped, it patted, and it explored all locations particularly the tender under curves of his bottom, tickling him suggestively in those sensitive areas.

The next stroke fizzed a burning stripe lower across his buttocks and made his head swim. He was dizzy, almost sick. His body went rigid with pain. Bradley let out something that was halfway between a gasp and a wail, but it ended in an undignified gurgle.

Mr MacDonald sighed. The switch had broken in his hand. He tossed the remnants to the floor and reached for a substitute. He tested it between his hands. It was a little longer, but thicker than its companion. He swished it through the air, enjoying the powerful swish! as it flew. Bradley was aroused by the terrific noise. He knew he would need to summon wonderful resources of doggedness to carry himself through the ordeal of this caning session without wailing.

There was a breathless silence in the room apart from the crisp sound of MacDonald’s switch tapping on his sore bottom. His employer whacked a third stroke and Bradley lost all control, unleashing a loud, hollow groan. The pain was very nearly unbearable. He gulped loudly and shuddered. Mr MacDonald remained utterly silent. Bradley wriggled his throbbing buttocks restlessly and clenched both cheeks, but MacDonald’s stick returned and worried itself against the hottest spots on his bottom. There was no escape from the switch; it lashed once more. Bradley’s head swam; he had been prostrate for too long. It seemed as if every drop of blood in his body was travelling through his veins at twice the normal speed.

“What an ugly looking row of welts.” Mr MacDonald’s voice was tinged with glee. “You should get up now,” he said softly. “Undress completely and get into my bed.”

And so, Bradley passed the first milestone on his road trip to becoming one of Mr MacDonald’s most trustworthy employees.

Picture credit: Mayser Hute

Other stories you might like

 

The boys in the mailroom

Professor and the fresher student

The boy in the kitchen

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

St Francis Grammar School – the compilation

As readers know one of my favourite subjects for stories is the old-fashioned English school. Masters prowl the passageways dressed in academic gowns and caps. They swipe whippy curve-handled rattan canes across stretched backsides. Sometimes the unfortunate victims have their trousers – or Glory Be! – their underpants at their ankles. My heart is racing just thinking about it.

Some of my earliest school stories were set in St Francis Independent Grammar School (affectionately known as St FIGS). St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline.

I have gathered some of those stories together here in one place. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them.

Charles

 

First Day At School

z used drawing cane SFIGS (63a)

Picture credit: Unknown

John Allison is on his first day at St FIGS. He is new in town and has a lot to learn. He encounters the housemaster Mr Durrant and his lunch-time line-up: the boys sent to him each day for caning. Boys like James Axford … Mr Durrant whipped six stingers into the boy’s submissive buttocks: rat-tat-tat- rat-tat- tat. The strokes were a little more vigorous than he had originally intended and the cracks of his rattan cane against the tightly-stretched grey Terylene trousers rang around the room like machinegun fire.

 

The Padded Armchair

Jack Wilks stood about two feet from the padded armchair. At any moment he would be bent across its back, face in the soft cushion with his bottom high for the schoolmaster to whack it with a heavy slipper. He deserved it, of course. He knew that: he had no argument. The rule was simple and all the boys understood it. If you got less than sixty percent in a class test you got the slipper.

 

A Punch in the Face

used drawing birch hold (1)

Picture credit: Unknown

Christopher could feel a searing pain in his knuckle as he crushed it into the face of the opposing team’s centre-half. Blood poured from the schoolboy’s nose as in agony he sank to his knees. His piercing scream drowned the shrill blast of the referee’s whistle. His nose could quite possibly be broken, Christopher didn’t care. It served him right. He would, of course, have to suffer the consequences of his action.

 

Headmasters, Like Elephant’s, Never Forget

z used drawing cane quelch (78)

Picture credit: The Magnet

Former pupil Kevin Smith is now a junior ‘cub reporter’ on the local newspaper. He returns to St Francis to collect details of the annual speech day and pick up the names of the pupils who won prizes only to find there is painful unfinished business with the headmaster.

 

Murph in the Headmaster’s Study

z used drawing cane picture quelch Mag no 6

Picture credit: The Magnet

Murph was bent over the desk, awaiting his fate. He had been told to grip the far edge of the desk, so he was stretched across it. His school blazer, shirt and white vest had ridden up his back. His grey school trousers and white Y-fronts were down at his ankles.

 

The Run

z used twosome the runPicture credit: Unknown

Brother Sebastian sends the sixth-formers out on a cross-country run. All but two arrive back on time. But where are Allison and Howard? There will be hell to pay when they return. A heavy rubber plimsoll applied with great force across the backsides would be the solution.

Housemaster’s Double Caning

z used drawing cane master (3)

Picture credit: Unknown

Da Silva recounts a visit to Mr Hill, his housemaster … I flinched as I felt him pull the end of my shirt out from under the waist-band of my trousers and all too soon the cane was tapping the middle of my buttocks. I kept telling myself that it was not going to be too bad, right up until I heard the crack then felt the fire sweep across my bum, Jesus he was going to rip my backside open.

 

Snowballs

It is winter and the throwing of snowballs is banned. George Baker, sixth-former and prefect knows the penalty for disobeying the headmaster’s ruling. The snow is falling fast and the temptation is great, what will he do?

 

A school-leaving present

It was now halfway through the last week of summer term and in just a couple of days another batch of what Mr Price, the deputy headmaster, regarded as his natural prey – the sixth-form boys – would be leaving forever and be beyond his gasp. Or more specifically beyond the reach of his cane. The thought made him grind his teeth.

 

All is well in the world

Harry Clifton is off to the headmaster’s study. It’ll be the cane for sure – it always is. But something most unexpected happens … Harry Clifton swallowed hard. The canes were of differing thicknesses, densities and lengths but he knew with absolute certainty that in the hands of the headmaster any one of these rods would “take his backside off” as the schoolboy slang then circulating had it. Alongside the canes hung the headmaster’s black academic gown and the flat mortar-board cap, the official uniform of schoolmasters across the land. The badge of office. The seal of power.

 

It was thirty years ago

z used drawing cane prefect boy Mag (2)

Picture credit: The Magnet

Corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty years ago but two present-day sixth-formers are keen to travel back in time … Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand. Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the real deal all right.

 

A memory

z used drawing cane master Mag (53)

Picture credit: The Magnet

A chance encounter at a bus stop takes George Harkness back to his schooldays in the housemaster’s study with Will Rigley …. George Harkness watched intently as Dr. Cuthbertson sawed the cane across the centre of Will Rigley’s bottom. He took careful aim, then lifted the cane away from the seat of the pale grey trousers, before whipping it back with terrific force. A tremendous crack as cane connected with backside echoed around the study. Air hissed through Will Rigley’s clenched teeth. His buttocks swayed under the sting, but he quickly settled himself for stroke number two. George Harkness watched in awe as a white line appeared across the seat of Will Rigley’s trousers. He imagined a thick red welt must be throbbing across Will Rigley’s buttocks.

 

Some of these stories were collected together as a free-to-download book in PDF format.

Click below to download.

Tales from the study 1. St Francis Grammar School by Charles Hamilton II

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Out of the bushes and into the study

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The headmaster was at his most sonorous. He was reading a list of names. “And finally, Upper Sixth: Hawkes! Those people are to report for detention straight after school.” Dr Hines peered along the row of senior boys but Hawkes was not present.

“Creasey,” the headmaster moaned, “After assembly find Hawkes and tell him to report to my study immediately.”

“Yes sir,” the head boy smiled. It would be a pleasure.

Hawkes was in the bushes at the side of the school field. He popped out of the rhododendrons and looked down the slope to see if the classrooms were still empty. “Come on Janet, they’ll be out of assembly in a minute.”

They hurried through the bushes and over the muddy paths. Larry Hawkes ran across the wet grass, past the empty rooms and into the boys’ entrance round the side. Janet watched him go, then made her own way to the girls’ entrance.

Larry walked straight to a radiator and started to dry the two dark stains on the knees of his trousers.

When the assembly dismissed Larry still had his knees pressed to the radiator waiting for the natural colour to return to his trousers. His pal Terry Edwards joined him. “Hey up, Lar, where you been?”

“Celebrating.”

“Where?”

“In the bushes.”

“Who with?”

“Janet.”

“Again! You’ll both get expelled if you’re caught.”

“I don’t intend to get caught.”

Creasy came in and watched Larry. “This is the third time you’ve been late this week and missed assembly, Hawkes,” the head boy whined.

“No it’s not,” Larry protested. “I’ve been here ages.”

“You haven’t,” Creasy snarled. “Dr Hines called out your name for detention. You weren’t there. He’s sent me to tell you to report to his study at once.”

“Oh heck,” Larry grimaced.

“It’ll be six, easy,” the head boy smiled malevolently. There was no love lost between the two.

“I’ll just dry off my trousers.”

“Shouldn’t bother,” Creasy smiled. “You probably won’t be needing them.” He hurried away to his first class of the morning.

Larry Hawkes took his time. He was in no hurry. Nothing he did or said could change the course of events. He had been summoned to the headmaster’s study, it would mean only one thing.

Satisfied that the knees of his trousers were dry he gathered up his bag and headed at a snail’s pace out of the building and across the quadrangle to Founders’ Building. The headmaster’s study was on the first floor. Larry gently tapped his own backside with his thumbs as he walked. He had been here before.

He stopped at a large oak door and tapped on the “M” of the nameplate. A voice echoed from within, “Come!” Larry turned the handle and put his shoulder to the heavy door. Dr Hines was seated behind his large mahogany desk. He rested back in his padded chair and peered intently at Larry as he stood in the doorway. “Close the door lad,” the headmaster snarled and snapped his fingers. “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot on the rug in front of his own desk.

Larry stood as generations of schoolboys in similar circumstances had stood: hands behind his back and head slightly bowed. The headmaster shuffled through some pages of foolscap paper. He paused, shook his head and growled. “Quite a litany of offences, Hawkes. You seem to have forgotten that you are a senior boy and as such are expected to show the younger ones an example. Instead you behave no better than a first former.”

Larry grimaced.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

Larry knew nothing he said would alter a thing. Matters had to take their course. “Sorry, sir,” he said quietly, although he wasn’t particularly. He was incorrigible and unable to follow rules. He would never learn. Not today. Not ever.

“Well,” the headmaster sighed, “If you insist on behaving like a junior boy, you cannot be surprised if I treat you as one.”

Larry looked transfixed as the headmaster slipped off his black gown and hung it on a hook behind the door, then took off his charcoal-grey suit jacket and hung that up too.

Then, slowly he crossed the study lecturing Larry about the headmaster’s shock and horror at his misdemeanours. He reached the cupboard. The door was already slightly ajar. He reached in an gripped a cane. He paced the large open space in the centre of the study, flexing the cane to and fro the whole time. He bent it almost into a circle, then let it spring back.

Larry’s head bowed lower and lower, his hands now clasped tightly his backside, as though trying to protect his tight bottom from the imminent chastisement.

“Right Hawkes. Take off your jacket, hang it on the door. Then stand in the middle of the room.”

Larry took his time. Matters had to take their course, but he was in no hurry to get on with them. He slipped the blazer off his shoulders and reached up to the hook. Slowly, he turned and took up the required position.

Dr Hines watched him thoughtfully. He flexed the cane once more and intoned, “Lower your trousers and underpants.”

Larry blanched. He had expected the cane. Perhaps even trousers down. But on the bare. That was unheard of. He looked intensely at the headmaster. His stare spoke volumes. He opened his mouth to protest. The headmaster cut him short, “Hawkes, you might want to consider the likely consequences if you refuse to accept your punishment. You will be immediately suspended from school and later expelled entirely. You are a bright boy and despite your abominable behaviour you should do well in your examinations. You could go on to the university. Why put all that in jeopardy?”

It was a long speech and Larry listened to every word of it. The headmaster held all the cards. Larry had no choice. A bare-bottomed beating would be a terrible humiliation, but what choice did he have.

“Trousers and underpants down,” the headmaster repeated solemnly. Larry reached for his belt. It was the second time that morning he had lowered his trousers and pants; the first time had been ecstatic. The trousers tumbled down his thighs and bunched at his shins. He slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his Y-fronts and helped them slip down. He cupped his hands over his privates; they were still a little sticky.

“Bend over. Touch your toes,” the headmaster swiped the cane through the air. “Touching your toes is a position normally reserved for the junior boys,” he said, “but it seems appropriate for you Hawkes since you are being punished for the sort of behaviour we normally associate with first or second formers.”

Larry reached for his toes. He was an athletic boy, the star of the nearby youth club’s football team, and his body was lithe and supple. Many of the local girls admired it. He stared down at his trousers bunched at his ankles. He concentrated on the label giving cleaning instructions. He felt his shirt being folded back so that he was bare from halfway up his back down to his ankles.

His buttocks were creamy white, hard and smooth, in spite of the hairs elsewhere on his body, particularly his legs.

Larry was humiliated and blushed red, but the headmaster had not noticed, he was looking at the cheeks of his bottom not the cheeks of his face. Larry reflected that only a few minutes ago he had had sex with his girlfriend. He was eighteen years old, but here he was, bent over touching his toes, like a junior boy, waiting to have his bare bottom lashed by the cane.

The headmaster stood to Larry’s left. He was a man of action. He studied the rounded buttocks presented before him and saw how the naked orbs seemed to twitch slightly and the two cheeks pulled tightly together as though trying to reduce their size so the cane would not have so much to whip down upon.

z used cane school white pants down touch toes sting

He didn’t waste time, tap-tap-tapping, taking aim. He drew back the cane and let fly. There was a hiss followed by a barely audible “hhhha.” Larry sucked in his breath sharply. Across the middle of his bottom was a crimson blotch that was slowly fading into a pink stripe. His bottom looked like a hot cross bun with a thin line at right angles to his deep dividing cleft.

The headmaster raised the cane and then whipped it down again, not too hard but with enough strength to make Larry hiss wildly.

The third vigorous stroke landed across the full meat of Larry’s backside, very close to the line of the first. His bottom danced franticly. Larry sagged and the agony was intense, Larry struggled to stay down in the “touch toes” position, he wanted to leap up and rub away at his scorching bum but he wouldn’t give the headmaster the satisfaction of seeing he had hurt him so much.

The headmaster laid the cane across the fullest part of Larry’s buttocks, making them jiggle. Then smoothly he raised it and brought it down with a quite a sickening Thwack! Larry gave a strangled gasping cry.

The cane bit into his hard bottom again. Once more he jerked as another scarlet line blazed across the firm flesh like a red-hot needle. Larry moaned softly.

Larry was expecting six strokes and bit his lip in anticipation that the final cut would be awesome. The cane whipped into the gentle underswell of his buttocks and needles of fire lanced through his whole body. He gasped and all the breath was expelled from his lungs, causing him to gulp for air, exaggerating and prolonging the sharp pain and hurting him beyond belief.

He writhed and moaned and yelped a bit while wriggling his backside from left to right.

“Stand up. Get dressed.”

Slowly, Larry unfurled himself and rose. It felt like his bum was on fire. He desperately wanted to rub away the pain. But that would have to wait until he was far away from the headmaster’s study. He pulled up his pants, wincing as the cotton pressed against his scorched skin. Soon his trousers were up and fastened and he was climbing back into his blazer.

Dr Hines was not a cruel man. He knew he had punished Larry severely and that the senior schoolboy wanted nothing more than to run away to the lavatories for a prolonged howl. He dismissed him curtly and Larry half-ran and half-stumbled down the stairs and out to the quadrangle.

He had a free period and so no class to run back to. As he entered the school building he saw Janet waiting. She greeted him with a beaming smile. “Been to the headmaster, I see.”

“Does the whole school know?”

“Probably, you know what they’re like.”

Larry made a joke of rubbing his bottom vigorously and kneading pretend tears away from his eyes.

“Well,” Janey shrieked, “Let’s see then?”

“Do what?” Larry laughed.

“Let’s see the marks then.”

Larry blushed, his heart raced. He took Janet by the hand and together they raced towards the bushes.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

New boy at Albion

Bend over. Touch your toes

The fire-raiser

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

An unexpected lesson for Alfie

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I’ll be glad when the holidays are over and my nephew goes back to college. He’s been staying with me because his parents have taken themselves off for a New Year’s cruise down to the Caribbean. Lucky them.

It never occurred to me that Alfie would be so much trouble. He’s nineteen – twenty in February – and has been living away at university for a couple of years. I thought he was all grown up, but he keeps acting like a little kid.

The trouble is he treats my home like it’s a hotel. It’s driving my wife Carol to distraction. Nearly every morning we have the same problem: he just will not get out of bed. She cooks his breakfast and wakes him up but then what? Nothing. He never goes down to the kitchen to eat it.

Then, I have to run up and down the stairs all morning to see if he’s gotten out of bed.

 

Well, let me tell you something. I soon tired of that. Alfie’s a good kid, but sometimes he just needs to be pulled up a bit. He needs to be reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around him. I told him what would happen if he didn’t start playing by my rules.

My wife has this hairbrush she picked up at an antiques shop when we went on a visit to Brocklehurst. It’s a great heavy thing made of ebony wood. It’s nothing like those light plastic things they make today. It’s excellent for brushing her hair, but I quickly realised it could have a pretty good secondary use as well.

So last week Monday when I entered my nephew’s room that morning for the fourth time, I was carrying that hairbrush. I threw back his bed covers and delivered a sound smack that had him awake in a second. Before he was totally aware of what was going on I had pulled him to his feet. I sat myself down on the bed and hauled him over my knees. By this time he was awake well enough to be pleading for me to stop. “I will come down to breakfast,” he promised, “Please stop spanking me!” He was wailing like a little kid. Of course, they’ll promise you anything if only you’d stop spanking them.

I was having none of it. I had him where I wanted him and I might not get another chance. I pulled down his pants and started whacking his bare backside with the brush. He’s nineteen years old and entirely too big for this type of a spanking and I did more arguing and threatening than actual spanking while trying to keep him in position. He was flailing and kicking and hollering like crazy but I did succeed in getting in about twenty five whacks before I let him up.

He came down to breakfast on time after that.

I thought that would be the end of it. I had made my point that he ought to be a bit more thoughtful about others and I expected we wouldn’t have any more trouble with him. I could never have imagined what happened next.

It was getting close to midnight on the following Saturday and me and Carol were just getting ready to turn in when the phone rang. It startled us because no one calls us at that time of night. I said, “It won’t be for us, let it ring out,” but my wife said it might be urgent bad news and grabbed the handset. It was bad news all right. It was the local police station. They had Alfie and would someone please come and collect him. Carol melted with shame. He and some other louts had been hauled in for being drunk and incapable.

I had to get the car out and go fetch him. Naturally, I was angry with him but that was nothing to how I felt about the police. The sergeant at the station said Alfie and the others wouldn’t be prosecuted. It was only drunk and incapable, he told me. Not drunk and disorderly. It wasn’t worth the cost and effort taking him to court. He’d only get a ticking off, anyway.

So, Alfie was going to get off scot-free. He had disgraced himself and me and the wife. We wouldn’t be able to show our faces if the neighbours found out. I took him home. I said I’d have a word in the morning and left him to stagger off to bed.

Of course, when I said “a word” that was a code which meant his backside would be doing the listening while my heavy hairbrush did the talking.

I told my wife what had happened and what I intended to do. “The hairbrush,” she scoffed. “He needs a darn sight more than the hairbrush.” Maybe he did, but what did she expect me to do? That was when she reminded me of her Uncle Bill. Bill had been a housemaster at a very posh boarding school for many years. “He knows about this sort of thing,” she said as she rolled over and instantly fell asleep.

Uncle Bill hoped he had not shown too much enthusiasm when he was asked to help out his niece. He had retired as a schoolmaster many years before but he had kept a few souvenirs; among them his tattered academic gown and mortar-board cap along with three stout but whippy curve-handled rattan canes.

When he received the phone call he said he’d be happy to come out of retirement. If that’s what she really wanted. Carol was not a woman to mince words. “Yes, it is. Definitely. When can you get here?”

It was mid-afternoon and the winter sun was quickly setting when Uncle Bill arrived. He was a sprightly man in his seventies but many who met him for the first time thought him much younger. He still ran three miles every other day and was envied among his friends for his strength.

“Does he know that I am here?” Uncle Bill asked once he had taken off his coat and put the cane he had selected down on the dining room table. Carol nodded emphatically, “Oh yes, he knows what to expect.”

Alfie was no stranger to Uncle Bill. The old man had been much used by exasperated parents within the family across a number of generations. His expertise was much in demand and Uncle Bill shared his skill willingly. After all, what were families for?

“Call him down,” Uncle Bill stretched his arm and shoulder muscles, limbering himself up as he spoke, “You don’t need to be present if you’d rather not,” he added. He watched impassively as his niece headed for the stairs.

Shortly, Alfie appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t especially tall for his age, probably about five-feet-eight with a slim build. Uncle Bill was taken by the nineteen-year-old’s blond hair, dark at the roots (obviously dyed). It was parted down the centre and hung down over his eyes, partially obscuring a pale face that might have been thought cute if not for the attempted sneer that twisted the corners of his mouth.

“Come in,” Uncle Bill snapped, he had assumed his oft-repeated role of the disgruntled schoolmaster. “Take that look off your face.” He gestured to a far wall. Alfie hesitated, he could not fail to see the small, white straight-backed dining room chair that stood there, its back unnaturally facing into the room.

He glanced at the old man, but remained silent.

Uncle Bill sighed, “You know why you are here.” Alfie knew it was a statement, not a question and stayed silent. His heart thumped against his chest. “I manged to email your father, he is appalled by your behaviour. Do you want to know what he said?”

This time it was a question, but Alfie had no words. His mouth was parched, his temples were throbbing. The crook-handled cane lay on the table in plain sight. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out what was about to happen.

“He agreed I should cane you,” Uncle Bill answered his own question. “What do you say to that?” Another question.

If he were a member of any other family, Alfie might have said, “But I’m nearly twenty, I’m too old for this.” But his was no ordinary family. Uncle Bill’s standing was well-known. In the summer he had dealt with Arron and he was twenty-two and in trouble with the law. Rumour had it the young man could hardly walk, let alone sit down, for two days.

Uncle Bill picked up the cane. It was a typical old-fashioned school cane, made of rattan and a little over three feet long. It was as thick as a biro but was wonderfully whippy. Uncle Bill brandished it at Alfie and then menacingly flexed it between his hands. It made a perfect arc. Alfie’s eyes transfixed on the rod’s smoothness. What little saliva there was in his mouth drained. His throat hurt. The room began to move slowly.

“Six of the best,” Uncle Bill said, almost jauntily. “Stand there.” He brandished the cane and swished it towards the small chair.

Alfie didn’t understand: what was happening to him. His knees groaned, the light jumper he wore was beginning to soak with sweat. He desperately needed a drink.

He heard the cane swoosh once more through the air. “Yes, just there,” Uncle Bill tapped the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Turn round and bend over.” Alfie’s look of incomprehension would not deter Uncle Bill. “You need it to support you. It will hurt you more this way. That is the purpose of a caning you know.”

Bewildered, Alfie looked at the chair in front of him. He towered over it. What was he supposed to do? Bend over? What did that mean exactly?

Uncle Bill was used to dealing with boys who were about to receive their first caning. They had to be “talked through” the process. He tapped the cane on the seat of the chair. “Stand behind the chair. Place both hands on the seat. Arch your back enough so that your backside juts out. It helps if you spread your feet.”

Looking back, Alfie couldn’t believe what he did next. Instead of fleeing to the sanctuary of his room, he sidled up to the chair. The seat looked a long way down. He reached over and took hold of it and waited.

“No further than that,” Uncle Bill snapped. “Bend over as far as you can,” he pushed Alfie’s shoulders down. “Further!” Uncle Bill stepped back to get a better look. “Good, now hold on for dear life. Spread those legs. Yes, but keep the knees straight.”

As Alfie stood head lowered, bottom raised, the room span. Uncle Bill observed the teenager’s hard bottom straining against the seat of his jeans. The denim was pretty thick. Could he risk ordering the boy to take them down for a caning across the underpants? He mused for a moment and dismissed the idea. The brat deserved a severe caning. It would do him good. It would buck his ideas up a bit. But, Uncle Bill feared Carol might think it overstepped the boundaries of modesty. “Oh well,” he consoled himself, “maybe next time.”

Uncle Bill was lefthanded so he stood to Alfie’s right and tapped the whippy, heavy cane on the rounded backside. He was tempted to lay at least one dark weal across the boy’s muscular thighs swelling under the denim but he decided to slash each stroke squarely into the seat of the jeans.

Alfie felt the weight of the cane, stinging him lightly but unpleasantly even when applied with almost no force. He felt its heavy, threatening mass. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on tightly to the chair.

“Well,” said Uncle Bill. “I had better cane you, hadn’t I?”

“Not now!” Alfie kept the thought to himself . “Not yet! I’m not ready for it!”

But when would he ever be ready for it? The cane descended with a low-toned whoosh. The impact was heavy and almost numbing. It knocked him forward, and as he went two of the legs of the chair rose from the ground almost making him lose his balance. For a split second it did not seem to have hurt him very greatly. Then the pain came welling up like a biting, stinging, bruising wave. He wanted to let go of the chair and stand up to rub the pain away, but he dared not. Some long dormant instinct told him this was not the way to behave. He must pretend that the thrashing had not hurt.

The second stroke came, and now the pain mounted to a terrible crescendo. Alfie’s head shook from left to right vigorously like an old horse troubled by a fly. Wind escaped his pursed lips which made it sound like he was neighing.

There was a pause. Uncle Bill knew his business. He waited for the pain of the two strokes to soak in for a quarter of a minute. Then he tapped the heavy cane again on the seat of the jeans. Alfie winced both at the pain it caused on his already sore bum and the anticipation of what was to follow.

Uncle Bill drew back the cane and sank another satisfyingly hard stroke into the blue surface. Three clear lines were now etched into the tight denim. Beneath the jeans welts were throbbing. Alfie felt the impact; his body hated the pain, but his brain sent him different signals. Alfie gasped. It was all he could do to keep holding the chair.

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“Your punishment is half-way through,” Uncle Bill intoned. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He bit into his lip. What a thing to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Alfie wheezed.

Uncle Bill’s eyebrows arched. Had he heard Alfie’s tone correctly?

Alfie’s heart raced and sweat ran down the back of his shirt. The same number of strokes still to go. He wondered how he could endure it.

Slowly and in measured fashion. Uncle Bill delivered three more strokes with all his force, squarely across the bucking backside. The heavy, whippy cane felt firm and powerful, the gasps and small cries of the nineteen-year-old submitting himself to him were intensely satisfying and he enjoyed the impact which seemed to rock Alfie forward each time. He knew he was putting him through a dreadful ordeal and he liked it.

The boy’s mother might have been horrified, but Uncle Bill had a certain matter-of-fact harshness that represented the attitude of countless schoolmasters through the ages.

He would never have committed any real cruelty, of course, but he knew how beneficial an authentic caning could be. Anything less would detract from the quality of the thing and leave the boy ultimately disappointed. Uncle Bill knew Alfie was not enjoying his ordeal, but there was nonetheless something in the way he had said, “Thank you, sir.”

On some level that Alfie could not yet imagine this caning was satisfying to him as well as to Uncle Bill.

The man was experienced enough to understand that deeper level and not to hold back or feel regret because of the superficial layer of pain he was inflicting, although to Alfie that was the only thing his mind and body understood at this moment.

Nothing but the thought of repeating the caning from the beginning, kept Alfie from gripping the chair through those desperate moments as Uncle Bill lashed those terrible last three strokes. Each one seemed to cut him in half and impel him with a force beyond resistance to leap up.

But reason held sway over nature and Alfie held the seat.

“Good lad,” Uncle Bill cooed approvingly, ten seconds after the sixth and final stroke had seared across the hard target. Alfie’s bottom was on fire. It felt like Uncle Bill had forced him to sit in an open coal fire.

“You may stand.”

Alfie rose to his feet, his face flushed almost to match his backside. His head swooned. Colours passed the back of his eyes. It was like being on drugs.

“ T…t…t…thank you, sir,” he stammered.

Uncle Bill flexed the sturdy cane. “ Now that, young man, was a caning,” he said, with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He had truly enjoyed it; not in a cruel or vindictive way, but with a genuine artistic pleasure.

“Yes, sir,” Alfie said as he furiously rubbed the seat of his jeans. The agony was already dimming to a throbbing ache. Somehow, in a way he could not yet articulate, he thought he understood Uncle Bill.

“You should go upstairs,” Uncle Bill tucked the cane under his arm in the fashion of a sergeant-major.

Alfie rushed to the bathroom and splashed his flushed face. He drank some cold water and slipped his hands down the back of his jeans and under his briefs. His burning, tender, welted backside felt like corrugated cardboard.

It was still painful to touch and he dared not look. He glanced at his face in the mirror, not recognising the ghostly-pale vision that stared back. His head had stopped spinning. He felt somehow purified and pleased with himself to have come through the ordeal. As he went back down the stairs he was filled with the most curious mixture of sensations. He felt at once tearful and tremulous, throbbing with lingering pain, slightly queasy, proud, peaceful and cleansed. He felt glad to have had the experience and was not absolutely determined to avoid having it again at any cost.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

Don’t borrow dad’s car

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Harry discovers he’s not too old …

new 5

The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.

Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.

“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?

They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous?  Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.

“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.

Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.

Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.

So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.

Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.

Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.

His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.

“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.

“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”

Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.

His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.

“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.

“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”

Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.

“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.

“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”

Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.

“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.

Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.

He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.

He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.

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Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.

His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.

“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”

Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.

He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.

Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.

Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.

The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.

His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.

Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.

Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”

Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.

The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.

 

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Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.

“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.

“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.

“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.

“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”

More silence. More sipping of tea.

“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.

“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.

“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”

“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”

“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.

“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.

Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.

Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry

“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.

The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.

Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.

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His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.

“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”

Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.

“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”

Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.

“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”

Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “

“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”

“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”

Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.

He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.

For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”

He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.

The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.

Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.

Picture credits: Both unknown

 Other stories you might like

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

Memories of Dad’s slipper

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Seasonal spankings – compilation

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Picture credit: Joe Phillips

Tis the season of goodwill to all men, but not necessarily all boys. Santa has his list of who’s been naughty and who’s been nice. Expect a few sore bottoms before the holiday is over. Here are a selection of my stories from Christmases past for you to enjoy for the first time or rediscover. Click on the links.

Enjoy the festive season, play safe and I’ll see you all in the New Year

Shopping for toys

Herbert goes shopping for Christmas toys at the local department store and has an unexpected encounter with Santa

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Picture credit: CP4Men dot net

 

Better believe in Santa Claus

Lucas Lomas is a stroppy teenager and the magic of Christmas means nothing to him. There is no such person as Santa Claus he tells his kid brother — but is he right?

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Picture credit: Alan Paul

 

Approved-School Santas

Inmates at a school for young offenders are forced to show Christmas spirit to a group of orphans, but greed gets the better of them.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

The Morning After the Night Before

Tony’s bad behaviour spoiled everyone’s Christmas Day. His friend Tony knows how to deal with that …

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Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

Ben McKenzie works at a supermarket where he decides to steal bottles of booze to give as Christmas presents, but then his boss finds out …

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

When Santa Claus was caned

Three old men play Santa at a school’s Christmas party. All is well until silver trophies go missing.

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Picture credit: The Hotspur

The School Dance

The Christmas school dance always gets out of hand. More so when two horny virgin boys are enticed by the girls from St. Winnie’s.

z used school cane pants chair (19)

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

The Night Before Christmas

It was the night before Christmas and little Joe was ever so excited. This was the time Santa came to deliver all his presents – and Joe had a very long list indeed. But had Joe been a good boy? What do you think? And we all know what Santa does to naughty boys.

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Picture credit: Unknown

 

Fake News at Christmas

Santa Claus Irked at Unexpected Productivity Hike … Santa Claus is reportedly mad at a new directive forcing him to extend his naughty boys’ list to include guys up to the age of 21.

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Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Snowballs

When the headmaster bans all snowball fights at the school it gives George Baker, a Sixth-former and prefect a bright idea. But will he get away with his curious plan?

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Picture credit: The Magnet

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It happened to me too …

new 5

pants desk office sting

This photograph’s not what it looks like. A fellow, trousers down, over the desk, about to get a caning. It’s not real. It’s not from a documentary,  it’s from a video. A spanking video. A fetish video. There are lots of them all over the Internet. I know it’s from a made-up story, but the moment I saw it for the first time, I thought, “Wow!” It was so evocative. Each time I look at it I get memories of me fifty years ago. Something that really happened.

I was twenty-four at the time and in my first-ever proper job. I’d had lots of temporary ones after I left university. I did all the usual things, like working in a factory (we still had factories back then) or serving in a shop. I was a postman at Christmas. You know the kind of thing.

What I really wanted was a job in journalism. Working on a newspaper. I had this vision of me in a trench coat and one of those trilbies on my head with a ticket reading “PRESS” in the hatband. The sort of character Humphry Bogart might play in a movie.

Jobs in journalism were as rare as hens’ teeth, so when after dozens and dozens of applications all over the country I final got taken on I knew just how fortunate I was. I knew that, which makes what I did later all the more difficult to comprehend.

Back in those days not many people of my parents’ generation and before had university degrees. They left school and went straight into work. So, I was one of the few at the newspaper – the Bugle –with a degree. As far as I knew none of my supervisors, right up to the mighty editor, had been to the varsity.

In those days we were more deferential than today. We knew our place. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate, you know the kind of thing. We even respected the clergy. Ha! how times change. Of more relevance to my story, we respected our work supervisors and bosses. Maybe respected isn’t quite the right word here. I really just mean we did as we were told without question. We worker ants would mutter among ourselves out of the earshot of the foreman, but those of us with forelocks tugged them unceasingly.

That makes what I did all the more astonishing.

As I said, I was one of the few people at the Bugle with a university education. I was quite proud of this. I had worked hard (well, hard enough anyway) to get a degree and I swaggered a bit knowing that I was one of the elite. Bumptious, some people might call it. Prideful would suffice. So would self-satisfied. Today, we might say I was full of myself. Arrogant is another word that works.  Superior. Oh, I could go on.

Let me just say I wasn’t the most popular person at the Bugle. I was what we then called a “junior reporter”, I think the Americans say “cub reporter”. I’m thinking here of Superman’s Pal Jimmy Olsen at the Daily Planet. The Bugle wasn’t as glamourous as the Planet. My work consisted mostly of taking names of people attending funerals (there were many deaths, we had an aged population) or prize-winners at flower shows. It depended a bit on the season of the year. No flower shows in winter, but a surprisingly large number of funerals.

I’d been at the Bugle for about six months and was still on “probation” (that meant I had to keep my nose clean for a year before I was taken on staff permanently) when the chief reporter, a rather limp-wristed fellow we called Fairy although his name was actually Farleigh, sent me off to collect some documents from the mayor’s office. The mayor in England is nothing like a mayor in an American city. He is just a honorary figurehead who wears a gold chain round his neck and goes round opening garden fetes. Like all minor functionaries he expected to be treated as if he were King of England.

Mayors were also part-time appointments. Mayor Moncrieff’s day job was as a schoolmaster. He taught at a place called St Francis Independent Grammar School. Even for those days St FIGS (as it was affectionately known) was pretty traditional: traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional uniform, and as you’ve probably guessed, traditional discipline.

I arranged to go to the mayor’s office at two in the afternoon. That would give me time to slope off to lunch at the Three Fishers, the pub where all the young layabouts in town went. It was benefits day – the day when the workshy got their unemployment pay outs – so it was pretty busy. That’s how I managed to be knocked in a crush of people and get beer spilled down my jacket. It wasn’t too bad but I had to get Big Mary, the landlady, to sponge it down as best she could.

So, I was late getting to the mayor’s office and (I didn’t realise it) I smelled somewhat of beer. The mayor’s secretary, an officious old cow of very advanced years was none too pleased when I waltzed in late. She looked down her nose at me and haughtily exclaimed, “We do not have all day to wait on Her Majesty’s Press.” She was being sarcastic. The Bugle was not the Times of London, or the Washington Post. It definitely wasn’t the Daily Planet. She meant the Bugle was just some insignificant local rag.

In the great scheme of things, she was right of course. But, as I said, I was pretty full of myself in those days, so I said, “I’ll remind you of that next time the mayor wants his picture in the paper, schmoozing with the Lord Lieutenant.”

Her face crinkled, her long nose and her pointed chin almost met. She sniffed the air. Her eyes shone, “You’ve been drinking,” she cackled.

That was when Mayor Moncrieff stepped through the door of his office. He had heard it all. His face, a ruddy complexion at the best of times, deepened towards puce. “Pah!” he blasted, “How dare you.” Like I said he was a schoolmaster by trade. What a combination. The pomposity of a small-town mayor is enough to have to cope with, but a man who was both a mayor and a schoolmaster is insufferable. He berated me. I tuned my ears out. I couldn’t stand the man and I was quite capable of giving as good as I got in the verbal stakes, so I had to be careful. Finally he said, “Drunk in my office. Your editor, will hear about this.”

I kept my mouth buttoned but my body language said, “Go on. See if I care.” I snatched the documents I had come for and exited stage left.

By the time I retuned to the Bugle Mayor Moncrieff had been on the blower to my editor. Like I said, we all knew our place and the editor, a man named G A B Larcombe, knew where he was in the pecking order. Quite high, actually in a town like Brocklehurst, but a long way below the mayor.

I didn’t hear the phone call and I don’t know how GAB reacted to the mayor’s command. Did he put up much of a fight? I’d like to think he did, but I wouldn’t bet on it. As I said I was always a bit above myself; GAB probably thought I needed to be taken down a peg.

I was back at the Bugle office an hour or so when the summons comes from GAB’s secretary. I must attend at GAB’s office. This was a big deal. I had only been there once. That was the day I was appointed. The editor was seen as a bit of a God and wouldn’t condescend to talk to the likes of me and I had hardly seen hide nor hair of him since that day. I was surprised he remembered who I was.

I straightened my tie and began to climb into my jacket but the strong smell of beer deterred me. I left it on the back of my chair and made towards the door of the reporter’s room. Charlie, our fifty-something sports reporter, cheerfully rubbed his buttocks with the palms of his hands. His message was clear. I grinned at him. Yes, I got he joke. Going to the editor’s office was just like being summoned to the headmaster’s study.

“Good luck,” Charlie whispered as I left the room. I thought nothing of his remark and made the short journey to DAB’s office. The secretary, who almost as ugly as the mayor’s, (is it a requirement of the job of secretary?) nodded to the old mahogany door and sneered, “Knock and enter. He’s expecting you.” I rubbed the sweat from the palms of my hands, made a fist and rapped three times.

The office was large and furnished in a modern style. Pine was all the rage at the time. GAB sat behind a desk the size of a billiard table. He was an elderly, wizened man in I imagine his late fifties. He was thin, almost to the point of being sickly, and was dressed immaculately in a dark suit with a crisp white shirt.

“You know Mayor Moncrieff,’ he said firmly and nodded to the corner of the room. Only then did I see the mayor lounging in a small easy chair, his belly hanging over his waist and his legs splayed. He gave me the evil eye. I mumbled a half-hearted greeting.

GAB spoke slowly, as if giving dictation, “I understand there was an altercation this afternoon.” He rolled the word altercation around on his tongue, relishing the sound it made. He stopped. It took a moment before I realised I was supposed to say something. Taken off guard, I babbled, “Well, no not altercation exactly.”

GAB cut me short. “You had been drinking.” It was a statement, not a question. I gathered some confidence and told him about The Three Fishers.

“Three Fishers!” his voice cracked. He obviously knew the reputation that pub had all over town. “To make contacts, I go to make contacts,” I said truthfully, although that was not the only reason I went. It was easy to pick up girls of “easy virtue” as we used to say back then. I told him of my accident. He seemed to accept my explanation because he said no more about it.

He honed in on my exchange of words with the mayor’s secretary. He gave an accurate account. I knew I had been rude. I had a short temper sometimes. I shouldn’t have said what I said. GAB narrowed his eyes and leaned across his desk, “The mayor is very upset.” He glanced across at the sprawling mayor as if seeking his approval for the words he had just spoken. Then GAB said, “I am very upset. I do not expect a member of the Bugle to behave in such a way.”

My face almost cracked. The pompous buffoon really did believe he was editor of the Times of London. Bumptious though I was I had enough sense to keep my mouth buttoned tight. GAB and the mayor were my social superiors. I had to listen to what they had to tell me. My task was to listen and to suck it up. In the back of my mind I knew that I was still a probationer at the Bugle and jobs in journalism did not grow on trees. Time for me to be humble.

“Sorry Mr Mayor,” I said, hoping that I didn’t betray the sarcasm I felt. “I most humbly apologise.”

Mayor Moncrieff’s face went that puce colour again. His eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Bwwaa, bwwaa,” he seemed unable to articulate his thoughts. For a brief moment I thought he was going to cough up his false teeth.

“That will do, Hamilton,” GAB clasped his hands together as if in prayer and glared at me. He leaned back in his chair. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind about something. Once again he looked to the mayor for support. I saw Mayor Moncrieff give what looked to me like a judicial nod. He had made a decision. GAB’s eyes sparkled. Suddenly his face even with all those wrinkles looked twenty years younger.

“This will not do, Hamilton,” GAB intoned. “I cannot have a junior member of my staff,” he began and then quickly corrected himself, “I cannot have any member of my staff disrespect the mayor in such a way.” His eyes narrowed and he stared intently at my shirt front. “You are, of course, still on probation …” He let the words hang in the air. There was no need to say more, I got the point. Keep my mouth shut or face dismissal.

“So,” GAB rose from behind his desk. I watched as with some difficulty he managed to unbutton his jacket and slip it from his shoulders. He walked slowly across the office and with great careful deliberation he hung it on a coat stand. I was transfixed. I watched as he glided across to a set of drawers. He fumbled in his pocket and found a small keyring. He searched for the key he needed and once more, slowly and carefully, he inserted it into a lock and turned it. I was spellbound. The tension in the room was electric. He pulled the drawer open by a foot or so. His shoulders hunched as he reached inside. Even Mayor Moncrieff was mesmerised.

I heard a rattling sound like a stick rubbing against wood. GAB’s shoulders shook, he straightened up and turned to face me. I believe my jaw literally dropped, such was my surprised. GAB held in his hand a long, thin crook-handled school cane. He narrowed his eyes to stare across the room at me. He took the cane in both hands and flexed it to make an arc. He said nothing. The only sound in the room was my breathing. My mouth opened and closed but no words came.

GAB’s intention was clear. My head was befuddled. I had just seen my boss, the editor, go to a drawer in his office and retrieve from it a school punishment cane. He did this like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to do. A lump came to my throat and I gulped it away. My boss kept a cane in his office. All the time. It hadn’t been brought in specifically for me.

GAB must have seen my confusion. “It’s a cane,” he said rather unnecessarily. “And, I think we all know what it’s for.”

I heard a loud retort behind me, Mayor Moncrieff had snorted. Indeed, as a schoolmaster he was very aware of its purpose.

“This is what we are going to do,” GAB spoke carefully, without emotion. He pointed the cane to a small table at the furthest end of the office. “You, Hamilton, are to stand there.” My eyes moved to the table, but my body remained rooted. He was going to cane me. My heart raced. I wanted to protest. I should have protested. How could this be possible? My boss was going to cane me. I was twenty-four years old, not fourteen. Besides, what right did he have? I said none of these things. I didn’t even think these things until much later, when it was all over and I was back at my digs examining the cuts.

“Please do as I say,” GAB tapped the cane against his right leg as he spoke: tap-tap-tap. “Stand by the table.”

My feet were leaden but I dragged them across the room. I stood where instructed. Suddenly, in my mind I was transported back ten years or so. In my housemaster’s study, about to prostrate myself across the desk. Yes, I was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy of my era and social class was?

I faced the table. I was a tall, lanky fellow and the table was low. I heard the mayor rise from his seat and cross the room to another chair. He was moving to get a better view. Only then did I realise the miserable bastard intended to enjoy himself. Not only would I face the humiliation of a beating from my boss, the wretched man was going to drool over it.

GAB approached me and stood by my side. He flexed the cane between his hands once more. It was heavier and thicker than the one my housemaster used to thrash me back in the day. I could see GAB’s eyes flashing. “Bend over the table,” he said loudly and clearly. I hesitated, surely I was too tall to lay down on my stomach. Where would my legs go? I hadn’t solved this conundrum before the mayor rasped an irritating couch.

A startled GAB turned towards the man. GAB’s face brightened. “Oh, of course,” he said softly, as if to himself. Then, turning to me he said with great deliberation, “Hamilton. Take down your trousers and bend over the desk.”

Now, it was the turn of my eyes to sparkle. Tears of shame welled. I just about held them back. Just as I held my temper. The bastards. They knew I had no choice. I had to obey they commands. They were my masters. I was the submissive. Take down your trousers bend over the table, take a caning. Show what a small, insignificant creature I was. It was enough to turn a chap to Communism.

It took a super-human effort not to tell them to go to hell. What right did they have? What right? Well, they had no right, or course. But they had the power. If I wanted to keep my job and career, I had no choice.

I sucked down several deep breaths, bit down on my bottom lip and with unsteady hands I took hold of my belt buckle. I could feel GAB’s hot breath against my neck as I loosened the belt, unfasted the clasp at the top of my trousers and pulled the zip fly. I stared straight ahead, trying to clear my mind. I was not there in the editor’s office, about to lower my trousers and bend over the table so the old man could beat my backside with a school cane.

The trousers slid down my thighs and snagged at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued down to make a puddle over my shoes. Without thinking I leaned forward and rested my elbows on the desk. That way, my bum jutted out behind me. I spread my feet and arched my back. I couldn’t see it myself (of course) but I knew my bottom was at the perfect angle to receive my punishment.

I could smell GAB’s aftershave as he leaned across me and took hold of the tail of my shirt. My body shivered (and not with cold) as he pulled the shirt up my back, exposing my underpants fully. I nearly shrieked with anguish when he gripped hold of the elasticated waistband of my underpants. Oh my God! he’s pulling them down. He’s going to show my bare arse to the mayor!

He didn’t. He pulled the pants tightly and I felt them ride up into my crack. Each buttock cheek was lifted and separated. The cotton clung to my bum. I presented the perfect target.

GAB smacked my right buttock, almost playfully. Then, he did the same with the left. My body quivered when he rubbed the cane across the centre of my arse. He sawed it once or twice as he found his aim. Then, he lifted the cane away, held it in mid air for a second or so before bringing it crashing down across my cheeks. A line of hot pain glowed and it felt like a welt had immediately risen. I gasped. That hurt. That really hurt.

Before I had time to fully absorb the pain a second swipe landed with terrific vigour and hit me an inch or so lower than the first. “Yowll,” I yelled, or some such. “Ouch!” I don’t know how I sounded. What I do know is that it hurt like crazy. My legs buckled and I balled my hands into fists to try to absorb the agony.

The third swipe landed above the first. I now had three parallel lines perfectly placed across my quavering backside. It was a strip of suffering about three inches wide. GAB was an expert. A master. Proof, if proof were needed, that I was not the first person he had caned in his life.

My hips wriggled, my legs kicked, my head shook from side to side when the fourth cut landed in a diagonal across the first two. Could they hear my yell of anguish back in the reporters’ room? I don’t know. I wouldn’t be surprised if passers-by in the street heard. My head throbbed almost as much as my backside and rivulets of tears flowed down my face. How I kept my back arched and my bum sticking out, I’ll never know. Every instinct in my body cried for me to stand up and flee from the room.

GAB put the next stroke high, right on the apex of my mounds. That one didn’t hurt so much. Maybe I had gone through some pain barrier. Maybe there’s more muscle or meat or padding there, I don’t know.

I had counted five. How many was I getting? GAB hadn’t said. It would be six, wouldn’t it? I fervently told myself. It’s always six. Six-of-the-best. Every schoolboy of my generation knew that. I tensed my body. Please, I prayed silently, let this be the final one. GAB seemed to be taking his time. Maybe he had finished already. It was over. No such luck!

I felt the cane touch the back of my thighs, just along the hem of the underpants. He was going low. On the sensitive sit-spot. I held my breath. This would be agony. The worst of them all. The cane rose. It hovered in the air. It fell. I shrieked like a banshee. Every fibre of my body rebelled. GAB had missed his aim. The cane struck me across the back of my thighs. My bare flesh. My naked flesh. I leapt to my feet and clutched my burning arse with my legs stomping up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. My body doubled, I yelled some more. I rubbed and I rubbed but the contact of the palms of my hands against the thick red, throbbing welt glowering across the backs of my thighs made the pain worse.

GAB rested his cane on the table, “I think that is enough,” he said quietly. A grunt from Mayor Moncrieff announced that he begged to differ. On this occasion, GAB overruled him. “Get dressed,” GAB told me gently. I tugged my trousers up over my roaring buttocks. My hands shivered as I buttoned up. I couldn’t work the belt buckle so left it undone.

GAB couldn’t wait to get rid of me. I rushed from the room, eyes blazing, backside on fire. I sped down the passageway, bouncing from wall to wall and then through the doors and into the street. I didn’t stop running until I reached my lodgings.

That caning didn’t teach me to know my place, but it did make me keep my mouth closed in future; which as we all know isn’t the same thing.

 

 

Picture credit: Sting pictures

Other stories you might like

Late at the office

The fire-raiser

A Fragment of a Memory

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com