University bully

new 5

 

Hundreds of academics have been accused of bullying colleagues in the past five years, prompting concerns that a culture of harassment and intimidation is thriving in Britain’s leading universities. – Genuine news story

z used cane holding office Sting

“Bend over.”

You stare dumbfounded, “Excuse me?”

“I said bend over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What part of ‘bend over’ don’t you understand? I’m going to cane you.”

“Cane me?”

“Yes, cane you. Bend over the desk.”

“You can’t … I mean,” you stammer, your confusion growing.

“I can. I am your head of department. I can do as I please. Bend over.”

You watch confused, as he flexes an old-fashioned, school cane between his hands. “But …” you still can’t quite grasp what is happening to you. “No, you can’t. I’m not a student.”

“I am well aware who you are. That is why I am going to cane you. Bend over.”

Your head spins. Is this really happening? Is it perhaps a surreal dream. “But …” you try to speak, but he interrupts you. “No buts. Bend over that desk.” He swishes the cane through the air and points to a small desk at the other side of the room.

“How can you?” you feel your voice crack, you are starting to plead. “I have my rights.”

He bends the cane between his hands once more. It is a little under a metre long and as thick as a pencil. Your eyes focus on the notches that run along the length of the yellow rod. You notice the muscles flexing in his arms. He sneers, “Rights! Don’t give me rights. You have no rights. I have your annual assessment.” He nods towards a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “What have you published this year?” he growls and then answers his own question, “Nothing!”

You start to protest that you have a huge teaching load. Eight classes, each semester, but before you can form any words, he continues, “And, hardly anything the year before. What do you do all day?”

You can feel your lips moving and some words are forming but you are too terrified to speak clearly. You babble and that only encourages him in his own pursuit. “Your contract is coming to an end at Christmas. Do you really expect me to renew it? Clearly, he thinks this is a rhetorical question because he doesn’t give you time to answer. “Bend over,” he snarls and bends the rattan cane into an arc. You cannot take your eyes off it.

You can’t stop your eyelids from blinking fast. Your heartrate speeds. Suddenly your mouth is arid like a desert. The palms of your hands sweat. You can’t catch your breath. You are starting to panic. What can you do?  Call for help. Isn’t his secretary in the next room? No, you tell yourself, you saw her leaving as you came in. You are on your own. Should you make a run for it? Your mind is a whirl. Where can you run to? You know you can run but you cannot hide. He will get you eventually. Then what? Bend over, get the cane. Or lose your jobs. You know it will be hard to get another. This is your first post. You don’t have much experience, and as he says you have hardly published any research.

He walks over to the small desk and stands besides it. He looks at you menacingly. He wobbles the cane at you and a hideous grin cracks his fleshy face. You see how much he is enjoying this. He taps the tip of the cane against the desk. “Bend over the desk,” and then he adds cruelly, “young man.” You feel like a small child. You are nobody; he is all. He has the power, he can do as he wants with you. “Well?” he draws out the word investing it with sinister connotations. You gulp.

“I shan’t ask you again,” he mocks and then does precisely that, “Bend over the desk.”

Your head pounds so much you fear it will explode. Your throat feels like you are gargling with razor blades. Oh my God! You have no choice. There is nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing. “P…” you start to plead, but stop yourself. He is all commanding. You concede defeat. You feel like you are in a trance. This isn’t really happening to you. It is somebody else in that room. Is this what an out of body experience feels like? Independently of your will, your body moves slowly towards the desk. You stand close to it, the room seems to be spinning. He taps the frayed tip of the cane against the desk once more, “Bend over,” he intones.

The desk is small and low. You are tall. You look down on it as if from a great height. Bend over. How is it done exactly. Do you lean your elbows on the desk top and jut out your bottom? Should you lie down flat on your stomach? And then what, where do your arms go? Time is standing still. It is taking forever for you to work it out. From a great distance away you hear a voice, it is hazy, but you understand enough of what it is saying, “Bend over. Right down. Lie flat.” Your body obeys.

Your chest rests along the top of the desk which is not very big. Your stomach digs into one side. You still don’t know what to do with your arms. You stretch them to your sides spread-eagle fashion. You realise right away this is very uncomfortable and will not work. You change position and reach ahead of you. That is better. “Legs further apart,” you feel a slight tingle across your backside. He has slapped his hand across your bum to encourage you along. You do as you are told. “Good boy,” he says.

You have never felt so humiliated. Nothing before in your life comes anywhere close to this. You are offering up your bottom to an older man. You are going to submit to him; to let him beat you with a long, whippy cane. What if someone finds out. The students. You’d die of shame. You hear floorboards creak as he walks around behind you. Your chin is resting on the desk. If you keep your eyes open you can look across the room to the far wall. There is a day-planner calendar for 2019 with some dates inked in. You think if you concentrate on that it will take your mind off the ordeal to come. You sense he is now standing to your left. You hear his heavy breathing and there is a faint smell of what you suppose is deodorant.

He taps the cane across the centre of your bum. He stops. You sense him move closer to you. Violently, he grips the waistband of your chino trousers and tugs hard. The material digs up between your cheeks, it’s like he’s given you a wedgie. Now he is running the palm of his hand across your buttocks, smoothing out any creases that are left defacing the cotton. You feel very vulnerable. You are presenting him with the perfect target. He moves back, picks up the cane and once more taps it across the crest of your mounds. You feel it move from left to right in a sawing motion. Your cheeks clench. They decided to do this of their own accord. It is a reflex action. You feel the cane being lifted away from your bum, you shut your eyes tight and suck in your lips.

You hear an almighty swishing noise and crack! as the cane connects across the centre of your backside. There is a pause, it feels like a long time before the agony hits you. You gasp with shock, it feels like he has pressed a hot wire into your flesh. Your head automatically rises and falls and you headbutt the top of the desk. The burning intensifies and then cools of a little. Just as the pain subsides a second swish rents the air. The crack is as loud as before. The pain is a little harsher. He lands it below the first, under the cheek in the sensitive spot where the bum and the thighs meet. You do the headbutting thing again and this time your knees also buckle. The flesh is scorched. You have what feels like a strip of pain two or three centimetres long running across your bum.

You suck in air, trying to calm yourself. Your heartrate is off the scale. Your blood pressure must be sky high. Your bottom throbs. The third stroke whistles and cuts into the flesh just above the first. You now have three strokes running parallel to each other. He has an expert aim. The pain radiates from your bum and travels up and down your legs. You wrap your left foot over your right ankle in an almost successful attempt to stop yourself from kicking out. Your hips wriggle and you grip the edge of the desk so hard that your knuckles start to go white.

He lands the next one so that it cuts into one of the three welts pulsating across your bottom. You yelp, you just can’t help it. You just have to. The pain intensifies. It feels like your underpants have stuck to your skin. You panic. You’re bleeding. Before you have time to think more about this another swipe bounces off your bum. Again it lands across the others. You have never felt so much agony in your life; not even that time when you fell off your bike and broke a collarbone. You bite hard into your lip and think you can taste blood.

“Keep still, boy,” his voice echoes as if it is coming from a faraway valley. You are not aware that your hips have risen from the desk and you are stomping your feet up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. You feel the strength of his hand pushing you in the back until once again you are face down with your bottom high. He releases his grip and stands back, takes his aim and lets fly. He puts that one right into the area below the bum. It is almost right across the backs of the thighs. You stomp again, but some instinct stops you jumping up to rub the pain away from your backside. You groan, your eyes start to water. You fight back tears. The pain is intolerable. Is this how it would feel if someone had rubbed a steam iron across your bum? The back of your legs pulsate. You don’t know it yet but the welt that is forming now will reignite every time you sit down for days to come.

Has time stood still? It seems forever before the next stroke whips into you. Your eyes are closed tight so you cannot see him. You sense he is close behind you. He seems to be moving his position. You hear his irregular breathing. “Last one,” he says. The cane rises, swoops and cuts hard across your buttocks. This time you do scream. Your legs flail. Your head butts the desk top. You think your head is going to explode. He has landed the cane so that it runs in a diagonal line from the bottom left to the top right across your buttocks, biting into each of the five cuts previously delivered. Can there be so much agony in the world? How can such a thin, light whippy cane deliver so much hurt.

You are wheezing, struggling to catch your breath. Tears flood your face and drip onto the desk. Your bum is on fire. Again, you lose any sense of time. You daren’t move. Is it over? Are you allowed to stand up? He is in control. He is your master. You cannot do anything without his permission. At last the words, “Stand up,” drift through the air. You move your feet and they slip on the hard carpet and you topple forward. You grip the desk to stop tumbling to the ground. Even as you await your next instruction you feel the intense agony in your bottom is easing to a pulsating throb. Very soon it will become an intense ache. Over the coming minutes it will turn to a warm glow. The marks will stay with you for days and you will be reminded of this humiliation every time you sit down over the coming hours and days.

You grab hold of your own buttocks and rub furiously, it does very little to ease the pain. Through moist eyelids you see him open a cupboard and hide the cane from view. He turns to you. How you hate him. How you would like to grab a knife (or any sharp object) and gouge out his eyes. Perhaps, he senses this as he stays at the other end of the room. You see the armpits of his shirt are drenched. He too is waiting for his body to recover from the ordeal. After a few moments he looks across at you, you note the look of utter contempt in his eyes.

“That’s it,” he sneers. “Get out. Go.”

You hobble from the room, your humiliation complete. You know you can’t tell a living soul about this. Never. Who would believe you if you did? You hurry along the corridor towards the stairs. You see Jenkins, a young colleague from your department. Ashamed, you put your head down and rush past him. As you reach the stairwell you look back. Jenkins is at his door and about to knock.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The boom-box boy

Enhanced community training

A preacher teaches humility

 

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

 

Bring back the cane

new 5

Scenes we’d like to see (or wishful thinking)

 

The staff lounge of Albion Academy was quiet, it was lunchtime and most of teachers were in classrooms working their way through piles of paperwork. Monthly assessments were due. Mr Whitfield, merely months away from his pension was not one of them. He sat in a battered armchair, eyelids closed, his hands serenely placed on his lap. Opposite him sit Mr Hancock, still in his twenties and restless, leafed through the Daily Telegraph. The headlines disagreed with him and he became increasingly irritated.

Suddenly, he cried, “Ha! Look at this! Says here more than seventy percent of people surveyed want to bring back the cane in schools.” Whitfield suppressed a sigh. He would not get involved. Unperturbed by the silence, Hancock continued, “Even the majority of the kids want it,” he said with a note of triumph. “Quite right too!”

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools thirty years previously, before Hancock had been born. The impending anniversary had prompted renewed discussion about the state of discipline in the land. Hancock was “old guard.” He believed in law and order and respect for elders and betters (especially schoolmasters).

“It would do this place a lot of good,” he spread his arms to encompass the room so Whitfield would understand he meant Albion Academy. “Used to be a fine school. A grammar. Best in the town. Respected. Now look at it.”

Whitfield would not be goaded. Could he pretend to be asleep? Hancock sighed as if he carried the burden of the entire universe on his shoulders. “No discipline nowadays, none at all.” He pored over the details in the news report. “Pah!” he exclaimed, “Everyone wants it except the damned politicians. Well if I had my way …”

He hesitated. Perhaps it would not be wise to share with colleagues what he would do if he had his way. Several of them would be making their way to the job centre to seek new careers; along with half the administrators and all of the politicians. School masters (as he insisted on thinking of himself, although all his colleagues were happy to be called “teachers”) were given no support these days. What discipline was there? How were they supposed to punish misbehaviour? If you wanted to put a kid in detention you had to send a note home to their parents. Then, maybe – just maybe – two days later they might condescend to turn up. Or not. Then what could a teacher do? Nothing. The next step up on the discipline ladder was “exclusion” – they used to call that suspension in the good old days. Or even expulsion. No chance today. The school didn’t want that on its record. Exclusions meant the school was failing. Well, it was bloody failing. It was churning out nothing but hooligans. He could cry. Albion Academy sold itself as a school with “standards.” It was enough to make Jesus weep, Hancock thought.

Hancock looked to the past. He knew his history. When Albion had been a grammar school, and not so very long ago, it had been a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline: the cane! Today the school had to follow the national curriculum; where was Latin and Greek? (not that Hancock himself spoke either of these dead languages). They still had a uniform but back in the day when it was an all-boys’ school they wore short trousers even in the third form until they were fourteen. Proper shorts. Neatly tailored trousers that came to just above the knee. And long socks too. They could do a lot worse than bring that uniform back. If Hancock had his way they’d all wear short trousers, right up until the day they left school. The seniors as well. They might be eighteen years old (some of them even nineteen), but they weren’t adults. Not yet. They were children and they ought to look like children. These days they were indulged to think they were adults; that they had “rights”. They had no rights, they only had responsibilities and the first of these was to do as they were damn well told by their elders and betters.

Whitfield eyes remained closed and his hands rested on his lap. He had no idea of the turmoil inside Hancock’s head. The young man’s heart was racing, anger was rising in his body. He clutched the newspaper tightly. Why, he thought, if he had his way. What he would do. The boys would wish they had never been born. And he would start with those louts in the school football team.

Albion had recently won a new (but apparently prestigious) soccer tournament among schools in the region. Hancock thought members of the team had become insufferable. They had been superior and self-centred (like all kids at the school) before but their success took this to new levels of arrogance; nobody could claim to be their equal (let along superior) and Hancock, the young teacher still making his way at the school, suffered more than many.

This was Hancock’s first appointment. He was the youngest member of staff. When he first arrived some of his older colleagues had joked injudiciously that were he to dress in a school uniform he would be indistinguishable from the senior lads. One or two of the elder ladies “mothered” him a little, to his intense irritation.

With the staff seemingly patronising him Hancock took to exerting his authority on the kids. He could succeed with the youngest; to them a man in his twenties was ancient. The older ones had no such illusions. Mostly, they ignored him; the sixth-formers – the most senior students in the school – disdained him. Students!, how Hancock hated that word. They were not students, they were school pupils.

Now, he read the newspaper story once more; carefully. Yes, bring back the cane. What he wouldn’t do then. Those sixth formers would catch it hot. Especially the players in the football team. Especially that Bagnis; the worst of the lot: arrogant, self-opinionated, cocksure. Hancock’s breathing hardened. He closed his eyes to concentrate, he could see it now.

Bagnis stands in the gymnasium changing room, he is alone. There is a faint aroma of stale sweat about the place that he hardly notices. Hancock is in the adjacent office. He peers through a connecting window, not hiding his loathing for the eighteen-year-old. Oh, how he needs taking down a peg or two. Well, now is the time. The law has been changed (no, better, it had never been passed. The cane had never been abolished. Schoolboys still knew their place.)

Hancock turns away from the window. Standing snugly in one corner of the room is a tall thin cupboard. It is unlocked. There is no need for a lock as no boy in the school will dare go near it. Hancock opens the door, he does not hurry. He has all the time in the world, Bagnis is going nowhere, not until Hancock says so. There are five whippy punishment canes hanging on a rail, of various lengths and thicknesses. Each one has the traditional curved handle. Above them on a shelf are three leather straps; two of them are traditional Lochgelly tawes, one cut with two tails, the other with three. The tawes so beloved by Scottish schoolmaster and equally loathed by their charges are ancient and worn. They belong to Mr MacTaggart, one of Hancock’s older colleagues. He alone uses them, the preferred weapon of choice among masters is the cane. That said, a huge, size twelve dirty-white, rubber-soled gym plimsoll is propped up against the back of the cupboard. The sports masters use this for instant punishments on the younger boys.

Hancock handles each of the whippy rattan canes in turn. He is familiar with them all, but he likes how they feel in his hand. He takes one out of the cupboard and flexes it between his hands. As always it bends easily and forms an almost perfect arc. He replaces it and takes out a second. This is a little denser than the first. It is dark-yellow and not quite three feet in length (Hancock refuses to use metric measurements). It is as thick as a pencil and his heart judders when he swishes it through the empty air. This is his favourite. Lovingly, he tucks it under his arm and quietly closes the cupboard door. He turns and once more looks through the window. Bagnis is standing, hands behind back, eyes downcast at the floor: it is, Hancock agreeably notes, the perfect naughty-boy posture.

He strides through the connecting door into the changing room. Bagnis raises his head; his face pales, thereby acknowledging that he has seen the cane under Hancock’s arm. It confirms his expectations: corporal punishment in the form of a caning is imminent. Hancock slips the cane into his hand and taps it gently against his own right leg. Tap-tap-tap. Bagnis cannot help himself, his eyes hypnotically follow the cane.

Hancock looks at Bagnis. He is the Bagnis of today; he is tall and beefy. He has a clear open face and his arrogant hazel eyes shine. He still has the tattoos down his right arm. It is Bagnis; but he is also altogether different. His hair is cut short in a conventional style. He is dressed in a traditional grey shirt and a darker-grey sleeveless pullover. He wears mid-grey, tailored short trousers. They fall to a couple of inches above the knee. Hancock smiles. The uniform gives his fantasy a nice touch. This is school uniform as it should be.

He swipes the cane through the air and then wobbles it in front of Bagnis before he turns and points across the room. Standing there is a leather vaulting horse. It is about four feet off the ground with four short and sturdy wooden legs. Hancock has no idea when it became a tradition at the school for masters to deliver beatings in the changing room. It may have been a matter of necessity. Masters do not have their own private studies and the staff lounge and classrooms are too public. The gymnasium is in a building of its own tucked away from prying eyes. Its location adds to the drama; a boy sent to wait at the gym is left in no doubt about his fate.

Bagnis is one such boy. He is to be beaten. He knows this. Mr Hancock is in charge. His word is law. When he says “bend over”, then over you bend. No questions asked; no quarter given. It is what it is. There is a reason they are called school masters.

“Stand by the horse, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. Sorrowfully, but submissively, the egotistical sixth-former takes the three steps needed to cross the room. He stands close to the horse, towering over the worn, leather top. His breathing is heavy. So is Hancock’s. Hancock swishes the cane once more and then thwacks it across the top of the horse, a thin line imprints into the leather. Hancock allows himself a slight smile. He knows Bagnis will soon have similar lines throbbing across his backside. It gives him great satisfaction to know Bagnis also knows this. “Bend over, lad, you know how it’s done.”

Indeed he does. This is not his first thrashing and although he only has a few more weeks until he takes his exams and leaves Albion for ever he knows it probably won’t be the last. He lets the tip of his tongue run over his dry, cracked lips before he leans forward. Because he is tall and the horse relatively low, Bagnis spreads his legs wide so his stomach can rest comfortably across the leather top. He grips the two legs of the horse and concentrates on the dirty carpet beneath his nose. He tries to block out his surroundings. He knows the best way to get through this ordeal is to try to ignore what is going on.

Hancock allows Bagnis to settle. The boy’s buttocks jut out at a perfect angle and height. The tail of his shirt has slipped out of the waistband of his short trousers and although there is no practical necessity to do this, Hancock takes hold of both the shirt and the pullover and pushes them further away from the short trousers. This exposes an area of naked flesh on Bagnis’s lower back. Although he tries not to notice, Bagnis feels exposed; more vulnerable.

z used gym short trousers cane horse (3)

Hancock grips the waist of the short trousers and tugs vigorously. Now, they fit snugly and each buttock cheek is clearly defined under the material. Bagnis stays still. He shuts his mouth firmly and closes his eyes. He is ready. But, Hancock is not yet. He takes up a position to the left of the boy and taps the cane across the centre of his buttocks. The cane is warped through age and use. The far tip is frayed. Hancock cannot be certain his aim will be true. He saws it across the lower part of the cheeks. The short trousers have back pockets and Hancock fears this will afford Bagnis protection from the sting of the rod. Hancock knows he must make the strokes land below these and well into the sensitive “sit spot” where the cheeks meet he thighs. If his aim is true Bagnis will reignite the welts every time he tries to sit down for many hours to come.

Hancock saws some more, then he lifts the cane away from the seat of Bagnis’s short trousers and raises it in an arc. The ceiling is high and there is plenty of room to swing a cane. He holds it for a second at its highest point and then using all the strength in his upper body, he flogs it with great force across the lower buttocks. A thick line instantly digs into the stretched material of the short trousers. Bagnis reaction is imperceptible, the merest shudder in his shoulders speaks to the intense pain he feels. He bites down on his lower lip and tries to ignore the inferno in his bottom.

Hancock grimaces. He expects more reaction. Clearly, he thinks, that stroke was not hard enough. Maybe, he tells himself, he carelessly struck the pocket. He takes careful aim, lower this time. The cane rises and falls, the noise of the thwack of rattan cane across stretched backside rolls around the room. Bagnis wriggles his hips and grips the legs of the horse. If he dared open his eyes he would see his knuckles are turning white. His once pale face is now scarlet as surely are his throbbing buttocks beneath the short trousers.

Hancock is disappointed. He wants to hear Bagnis howling, to see him wriggling and writhing across the horse. He wants him to beg for mercy. Hancock lays a third stroke across Bagnis’s by-now quivering rump. It is the hardest yet. Bagnis thinks his  head is about to burst open. His buttocks are flailed. Can he feel blood weeping from the wounds? With magnificent self-control, he stifles the yells his body demands he must make. He will not cry out, he will not give the schoolmaster the satisfaction.

Hancock delivers six of his best. Never before in his short history as a schoolmaster has he flogged a boy so well. Still, Bagnis appears unperturbed by the ordeal. Hancock’s temper rises. So, he says, the boy is so arrogant and insolent that even a caning won’t change him. “Stand up, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. With difficulty, because it feels like his backside is blazing like the fires of Hell, the boy climbs to his feet. He leans against the horse to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He fears he will not be able to walk unaided from the gym. The room swirls around him so that he hardly hears the words spoken by his master.

“Well, Bagnis,” Hancock snarls. “It seems that beating didn’t quite have the intended effect.” He wobbled the cane up and down in front of Bagnis before pointing it at the boy’s middle. “Take down those shorts, and bend back over.”

Hancock steps away from the horse and looks on at the boy from a distance. Without a murmur, but with unsteady hands, the eighteen-year-old reaches for his belt. It takes several tries before it is unfastened. The button on the waistband is even harder to deal with. “Bah!” Hancock ejaculates with genuine anger, “Get on with it. Do you want me to come over there and take them down for you?”

The threat spurs Bagnis on to success. The top of the short trousers are undone and the fly buttons burst when he tugs. They lunge to his feet. Hancock is delighted at the sight before him. Bagnis is wearing gleaming-white, cotton Y-front underpants. “Bend over, boy.” The cane wobbles some more.

Sore and aching, Bagnis turns his back and with super-human effort he flops back over the horse, once more gripping the wooden legs. Hancock notices the pink botches in the otherwise white underpants. There are also two heavy, dark-red stripes throbbing in the bare flesh below the smooth cotton. Hancock smiles. In the distance he hears a bell ringing. Afternoon school is about to start. He flexes the cane and saws it across the fleshiest part of the bum.

“Come on Hancock, wake up, are you sleeping?” It was the voice of Whitfield. “Classes are starting. You mustn’t be late. The little buggers will destroy the classroom if you’re not there.” Hancock threw down the newspaper with disgust and dragged himself to his feet.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other ‘scenes we’d like to see’ stories are here

 

Other stories you might like

“You wanted to see me sir?”

House rules

You, over the knee for the paddle from Pop

 

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

Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)

 

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

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

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

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

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

Charles

 

1: A glimpse into the near future

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

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

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

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’

 

2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

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

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

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

 

  1. The police station

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

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

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

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

 

  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

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

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

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

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

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

 

  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

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

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

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

  1. Pub landlord

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

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

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

  1. Just another day

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

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

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

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

  1. The truck

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

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

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

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

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

 

A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Take a very close look …

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z used retro short shorts cane holding

Yes young man, take a very close look at it. It’s a Malacca cane. Feel the weight. Flex it, see how powerful it is. It’s one that we use at the young offenders’ institute. And, that’s where you’ll end up if you carry on thieving.

Can you imagine how much that is going to hurt when I put it across your backside? Your bare backside.

When I said you could stay at my house while you were at university I had no idea you would treat me like this. Your own uncle! I hope you feel thoroughly ashamed young man. You should. Stealing money from me. From my wallet. In my own house. I cannot believe it.

At least you had the good grace not to deny it when I confronted you. But you would never have owned up on your own would you?

Don’t try to deny that. You really have let yourself down. Yourself and your family. When I contacted your father and told him what you had done he readily agreed that I should give you the thrashing of your life. You might be eighteen, but so are some of the boys at the institute and that doesn’t stop them being caned.

Now, hand me the cane and go into the kitchen, let’s get on with this.

The kitchen was not huge but big enough to have a table that could seat four people. Simon stood staring at it. His hands trembled, so he clasped them behind his back. Uncle as right, Simon had stolen money, but more than Uncle realised. Simon had “owned up” when Uncle accused him of taking a ten shilling note, but he didn’t confess to the one he took last week and the handful of silver coins the week before. Stealing from Uncle had become something of a routine and subsidised his nights out in town. The government grant he received to study at Brocklehurst University didn’t go far, even though his Uncle wasn’t charging him a proper rent for his lodgings.

Simon stared at the table ahead of him. It was one of the modern kind with an artificial laminated top. He heard Uncle approach from behind and heard him bark, “Stand closer to the table, boy.” He heard the heavy cane swish through the air. It made a terrific noise as it travelled. Uncle had been correct when he said the cane was heavy and powerful. Simon had never been caned before: not at school and certainly not at home. Dad had never spanked him either; even though Simon recognised there were times when he had deserved a damn good hiding. He had no way of knowing just how much the caning he was about to endure would hurt.

Uncle was deputy governor at Brocklehurst Young Offenders’ Institution and one of his duties was to inflict corporal punishment. He believed in the power of the cane, he knew first hand how it kept unruly youth on the straight-and-narrow path. He was not sentimental, Simon would benefit from a good bare-bottomed thrashing. He wouldn’t steal again, not after Uncle had finished with him.

He flexed the cane thoughtfully. It wasn’t like the school canes that many people recognise. It had no curved handle, instead there was a leather grip at one end. It was roughly the same length as a school cane, around three feet, but it wasn’t as thin and whippy. The school cane was usually made of swishy rattan, but the cane he now held was made of more dense Malacca. It was thicker and had notches along its length, but it still was flexible enough to bend into an arc. It packed a more powerful punch than the rattan and was ideally designed for the older youth. It would take Simon’s backside off, especially when applied with some strength across his naked bottom. The lad wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for some time to come and the marks and bruises would probably hang around for a week or more.

Uncle stood behind Simon and ran his eye up and down his tiny frame. He was eighteen years old, but slightly built. He reckoned if he dressed him up in school uniform he might be able to sneak on the buses and get away with the children’s fare. The tight beige shorts he was wearing added to his youthful appearance. They were very short as was the fashion and showed off his bony legs. His waist was slim and from where Uncle was standing Simon’s bottom looked puny inside them. Not more than two pips, Uncle thought. At the Young Offenders’ Institute he was more used to thrashing more burly teenagers.

“Lower your shorts and your underpants,” Uncle spoke clearly. He was used to giving orders and always expected to be obeyed. The youth under his supervision had no choice but to obey and today neither did Simon. Uncle observed his nephew shudder. It ran through his whole body. He was terrified. Uncle expected this; most boys were in this situation, especially those enduring the cane for the first time. Uncle waited ten seconds and when it looked like Simon was not about to loosen his trousers, he barked, “Shorts, underpants down. Now!”

The angry tone in Uncle’s voice spurred Simon to action. Although his fingers nearly refused to move, the teenager managed to get them to tackle the buckle of the wide leather belt that held his shorts in place. The shorts fitted him snugly and the belt served no practical purpose, but Simon thought it drew attention to the bulge in his pants. After several tries he had the belt undone. It took more effort to get the top button open and to pull the metal zipper. The weight of the belt and the power of gravity made the shorts slide to his feet.

“Step out of them,” Uncle intoned. Simon wore no shoes so this was no difficulty. A slight breeze from somewhere tickled his bare legs. He looked down at his own body and saw that bulge in his pants close-up. “Get them down,” Uncle said evenly. Simon turned to make sure Uncle would not see his cock and balls once the pants were lowered. Uncle amused himself by swishing the cane through the air and affected not to look as Simon hitched his thumbs in the elasticated waistband of the pants and with the merest flick of the wrists sent them down to the floor. “Step out,” Uncle swished the cane once more. Simon now stood naked from the waist down. “Bend over the table.”

The table seated four people but it was still quite small. When he lay his stomach on the cold laminated top and stretched his arms ahead of him they dangled over the far edge. Even though Simon had no personal knowledge of such things, this didn’t feel right, so he spread his arms and gripped each side to his left and to his right. He decided spread-eagled like this was more comfortable. “Legs further apart, jut that bottom out further.” Simon followed Uncle’s instructions to the letter and now he was perfectly positioned to Uncle’s satisfaction.

Uncle wasn’t yet ready. Although Simon’s t-shirt was not very long its hem rested over the top part of his buttocks. In one swift practiced movement Uncle took hold of it and tugged it up Simon’s back. He was now bare from the shoulders all the way down to the soles of his feet. Now, Uncle was good to go. All he needed to do now was to take up position to the left of Simon’s prone, submissive body. He tapped the cane across the centre of the teenager’s furthest buttock, then he bent his own legs slightly. He tapped the tip of the cane gently to get his aim. Then, in one fast, complete movement, he raised, it brought it up and then along the same arc he swiped it with all the force he could muster across the very centre of both of Simon’s cheeks. An ugly red, raw line immediately appeared and maybe half a second later a tremendous howl echoed around the room. The boy’s body buckled, his head nodded up and down, his legs kicked, but somehow, through some resolve that Simon did not know he possessed, he managed not to leap to his feet and clasp his burning backside while dancing around the room.

Uncle let him settle. It took fully half a minute. Then, he rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the lower part of Simon’s bum. The next stroke was equally as vicious as the first. It provoked the same response, and in addition this time tears flooded down Simon’s face. He gripped the edges of the table as if his very life depended on it. He wanted to beg for mercy, to tell Uncle that if he would only stop the caning now Simon would never, ever, steal again. But, some inborn instinct told him not to do this. There is some unwritten law that has been followed across the centuries that says a boy or young man under the lash (whether in the headmaster’s study at school, or the governor’s office at borstal or across the back of the sofa in the family home) must take his medicine with as little fuss as he may muster. Simon was not doing too well, but he vowed not to humiliate himself by pleading for mercy. Besides, he knew very well he would get none from Uncle.

So, the flogging continued. It was hell. By the time Uncle was done Simon had six deep cuts throbbing across his rear end. Already each had risen to a welt. The pain was intense, Simon had no idea what a caning was supposed to feel like, but by instinct he knew Uncle’s beating was classic. This had been no ordinary schoolboy’s six-of-the-best. Every square inch of his bum throbbed like crazy. His heart raced and he could feel the blood coursing at one hundred miles an hour through his arteries. His temples throbbed, almost as much as his poor savaged bottom. He could hardly see for the water in his eyes. The back of his throat was raw from his screeching. He could taste vomit inside his mouth.

Uncle tucked the cane under his arm. “Stand up!” he ordered, just as he would with any of the young offenders at the institute. Uncle watched with deep satisfaction as his nephew struggled to raise himself. Simon got to his feet but had to quickly clutch at the table’s edge to stop himself slipping to the floor. His legs didn’t seem to work. His bottom felt like he had been forced to sit in a bucket of boiling water. Gingerly, he reached behind him and to his shock he felt heat rising from his bum. Was that his imagination? He let the tip of his fingers brush his battered behind, even the slightest touch sent further shockwaves of pain streaming through his body. He resolved not to try to massage the pain away.

His head was clearing a little and after he wiped tears and snot away from his face he could see more clearly. He daren’t look at Uncle. Simon stood unsteadily breathing deeply, forcing down great lung-fulls of air. It seemed to him like hours before Uncle spoke again. “Pick up your shorts and pants. I wouldn’t try to put them on if I were you. Go up to your room.” He said this kindly. Despite appearances, Uncle was not a tyrant. Simon was a thief. He had been caught and now he had been punished. That should be an end to the matter. And if Simon did not repeat the offence, it would be. Punishment had been severe; but the lad deserved everything he got. Now, it was over: they could both move on with their lives.

Uncle watched unmoved as his nephew hobbled from the room and began the long and intensely painful journey up the stairs to his bedroom.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Memories of Dad’s slipper

Celebrity encounter

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

 

 

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

A housemaster muses

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Without doubt the most annoying thing about being housemaster at a boarding school is I am never off duty. There is not a moment of the day I can truly call my own. By the nature of my work I have responsibility for a house full of schoolboys. During the day I am one of a number of masters who teach them; by evening and night we live under the same roof and I must account for their safety and general welfare.

It can be very wearisome. My wife would prefer it if I went to teach at an adult college or preferably a university where we could have a home we could call our own. I think she also finds the company of adults more agreeable.

This evening has been a case in point. We had settled down after supper to enjoy a glass of whisky (one each that is not one between two) and listen to a concert on the BBC Third Programme on the wireless when we were interrupted by Blair, the school porter. He had a message he felt he must convey to me with the utmost urgency.

I cursed under my breath when he arrived on my doorstep, but propriety requires that I treat such visits with the utmost seriousness. I allowed him to enter into the hallway, but, keen to get rid of him at the earliest opportunity, I did not invite him further into the house. I had no wish to antagonise my wife further.

Blair told me in the breathless way he has that he had intercepted Wilson, a senior pupil in my house, as he climbed over the exterior wall of the school. He had been out of school illicitly. Blair did not have the sense to ignore this and allow the boy a safe passage to his dormitory. The dunderhead decided he had to come to inform me.

There are many rules at boarding schools; too many some would say. Boys break them all the time, but logic suggests that a rule can only be noticed to have been broken if the boy is caught. Put another way, if I did not know that Wilson had been breaking bounds then I need not do anything about it. Now, that I did know, I was required to act, thereby disturbing my cosy night at home with my wife.

Blair was without doubt exceedingly pleased that he had intercepted Wilson. I knew he would not allow me to turn a blind eye and he would expect me to fulfil my duty as a housemaster. Of course, I had to act. Now, that Wilson had been caught he would expect nothing less of me. If I failed to do so word would soon spread among the boys and my credibility would be ruined. I would become a “soft touch” and they need never heed my word again. No, my hands were tied. I had no choice.

I might have left this problem until the morning but since my evening had already been disturbed I reasoned I might as well get it over with now. Blair was inordinately pleased when I asked him to seek Wilson out in the dormitory and instruct him to visit me in my study. “He’ll be in his pyjamas,” he said, his mouth widening into a cruel snarl. “It is a warm evening,” I responded evenly, “Tell him not to get dressed.” The snarl became a broad grin and Blair darted off enthusiastically.

I popped my head around the drawing room door to appraise my wife of developments. She did not speak but her icy stare said enough. I went across the passageway and awaited Wilson’s arrival. I know enough about the senior boys here to know he had probably been visiting The Three Fishers which is a run-down hostelry a short distance from the school. It is a disreputable establishment where they think nothing of serving pints of mild beer to our boys. I also knew without doubt that Wilson would not have been alone. Blair would be disappointed to know that although he had snared Wilson there were others who had evaded his capture. I also decided that I would not make it my business to try to get Blair to give me the names of his companions. The schoolboy code of honour runs deep and I did not want to spend more time on this than I absolutely had.

No more than two minutes later there was a knock on the study door. I called for Wilson to enter. He waited hesitantly in the doorway. “Come in. Stand there.” I pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and Wilson went there, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back and head bowed. He knew what to expect; he had been a pupil at the school for long enough.

Indeed, he was eighteen years old and in less than a month would be leaving us for good. I walked to the corner of the study where several whippy, rattan canes dangled from a rail by their crook handles. I took down the thickest cane from my collection. Wilson continued to stare at his bare feet. I flexed the cane between my hands; this serves no practical purpose and I suspect I do this by habit.

“Look at me Wilson,” I intoned and he did so. I continued bending the cane. It was less than three feet long and dark-brown in colour.  It was denser than the other canes and most suitable for a senior boy. It had notches every six inches or so along its length and I knew from experience it would deliver a satisfactorily sound beating.

Boarding schools are unusual places; they are their own little world. I wonder how many people realise just what goes on here. I was about to cane an eighteen-year-old pupil for staying out late. Is there a father in the entire land who would do the same to his son of similar age? Would such a boy submit himself to punishment if called upon? I don’t need to answer those questions.

But at boarding school we have our rituals and one was about to play itself out here. I read Wilson the charge sheet. Did he know being out after lights out was against the rules? (An unnecessarily question, but one needs the miscreant to acknowledge same.) Did he have anything to say in mitigation? (Of course not, what could he say?). So, the verdict was guilty as charged. Let punishment commence.

I swished the cane through the empty air and pointed it at a somewhat worn armchair that I had already strategically placed. “Stand behind the chair,” I instructed. In my years as a housemaster I have never had a boy refuse my instructions. One or two of the younger ones, and therefore with less experience of corporal punishment, might plead for clemency. I have known them shed tears before the first stroke has landed. But, none, ever, has refused to comply.

Wilson positioned himself to my satisfaction. He placed his steady hands on the back of the chair and waited further instruction. “Take down your pyjama bottoms. Bend over.” A flicker of his grey eyes and a slight colouring of his cheeks revealed to me that he had not expected that order. His hands were less steady when he took hold of the drawstring on his pyjamas and undid it. Once the front of his pyjamas were open all he had to do was to let go and the bottoms hurled to his ankles.

He turned his body slightly to conceal his privates from my view then after taking a deep breath he slumped across the chair.

z used cane pyjamas armchair london CPS

Wilson was the prefect height to fit across it. His stomach rested easily on the back’s apex. He reached his arms forward and gripped the seat cushion tightly. He kept his head low and stared down at the rather soiled material. Without my requesting, he spread his feet and raised his bottom high. He presented me with a perfect target.

All I had to do was take hold of the tail of his pyjama jacket and pull it away from the buttocks. I could hear he was breathing heavily and saw a trail of moisture forming down the centre of his back. As if to remind me that this was a senior boy submitting his backside for discipline, his bottom and legs were covered with fine hair and two testicles hung below his cheeks and between his legs.

There are some people who object to the corporal punishment of schoolboys. I can only say they have probably never taught; and certainly not in boarding school. A caning is an effective discipline and unlike a detention or the imposition of lines or an essay it is takes up no time. It is over in minutes. The boy has committed a misdemeanour, he has been found out, he admits his guilt and he submits to a beating. Then he and the schoolmaster get back to work. I have no doubt whatsoever that if the school decided to abolish the cane in favour of some other punishment the boys themselves would lead the complaints.

So it was that Wilson submitted himself to my cane. He tried to be stoic but his bottom quivered the moment I sawed my cane across the centre of his cheeks. I took my aim, raised the cane high and twisting my torso slightly (as a golfer does when taking a swing) I slashed the whippy rattan down. It hit him exactly where I intended and a glowing red line immediately appeared. A hissing noise like a steam engine setting down whistled through his clenched lips, but otherwise he made no sound. He gripped the seat cushion harder and pursed his lips.

I know (because I was beaten often enough myself as a boy) that the agony as the cane impacts is intense. Almost immediately that pain dissipates and becomes a throbbing ache. For maximum effect the master should wait a few seconds before delivering the next stoke. I have my own ritual whereby I hold the cane behind my back and gently stroll the length of the study. It is not a big room but by the time I have circumnavigated it and returned to stand behind the boy sufficient time has elapsed for me to continue.

I put the second swipe an inch below the first. Wilson’s knees wobbled but he showed great fortitude and otherwise remained motionless. I went for my walk and then laid the third cut high. Now, he had three parallel lines and a band of throbbing, red flesh three inches wide to contend with. My method of caning is quite typical. When presented with a boy’s bottom there isn’t much more one can do. I believe that a good master should put six strokes one beside the others across the posterior and that is a sound enough caning. Some of my colleagues try to get a stroke to land on top of one previously delivered, thereby re-opening the cut and intensifying the pain. I am sure the boys agree with me that that this is not cricket. Let punishment be appropriate to the misdeed committed; there is no need to resort to torture.

That can be left to our headmaster; his preferred method is to deliver four parallel strokes and then place two diagonals across them so the boy has a perfect “X” embossed across his bottom. Now, that really is not cricket; but I, a humble housemaster, will keep further comment on this to myself.

So, I put six parallel strokes across Wilson’s bare bottom. He took them well. They hurt and I could see his buttocks were glowing. I had roasted his posterior well. I toured the study for the last time giving my beating time to fully sink in. Wilson’s pyjama jacket was soaked with perspiration and the back of his neck was almost (but not quite) as scarlet as his bottom. In contrast, his face was a deathly white. I instructed him to stand and quickly he pulled up the pyjama bottoms and tied himself up. I could see he desperately wanted to rub away at his buttocks, but in the etiquette of these things, that is not allowed. A boy must never let his master know he is in pain.

I let him out of his misery and dismissed him. I am sure the moment the study door had closed behind him he massaged  his rump vigorously. He certainly would have dashed to the lavatories to inspect my handiwork in the mirrors there before belatedly going to bed.

I replaced the cane with the others and went to re-join my wife. She poured us both whiskies and we settled down to enjoy the final movement of the concert on the wireless.

 

Picture credit: CP Services, London

Other stories you might like

 

Housemaster’s double caning

The rookie deputy sheriff

His eldest brother

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7)

When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

z used drawing taws hold (8)

  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.

‘“Mmmm”

‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

“The Reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the Reverend desired.’

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

“Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.”

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

“Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

“He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

“The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

‘“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.”

 

Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

“He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle

 

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

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

new 5

Tompkins stared down at the dirty grey carpet. From his position he had an excellent, close-up view. It wasn’t the first time he had been in this position with his knotted striped tie dangling in front of his face and his fingertips brushing the toes of his black, shiny shoes. It probably wouldn’t be the last time either, St. Tom’s was that kind of school.

He waited, stoically. He was in no hurry to have his backside blistered one more time by the housemaster. His heart raced as he felt the tail of his shirt being raised and folded up his back.

He tried to ignore the sight of his pale-grey trousers bunched at his ankles. His back was arched, it ached a little. Touching toes was more difficult than it looked.

He could feel his white Y-front underpants stretched across his firm bottom. They fitted a bit too snugly and rode up into his crack. Not that it made much different, this was to be a bared-bottom caning. Not that the thin cotton pants could offer any protection against the housemaster’s thick, but whippy rattan cane.

Tompkins felt the housemaster’s warm hands on his flesh as he took hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. Then they were fluttering down his legs to land on top of his trousers. Now, he was ready for a stinging Six.

The housemaster wasn’t quite ready. He had a ritual and it included preparing a boy by uncovering his bottom and then going to fetch the crook-handled cane that dangled from the hat stand in the corner of the study. From the corner of his eye Tompkins watched the headmaster’s feet as he made his journey. A cool breeze from an open window tickled Tompkins’ naked legs.

z used cane pants down touch toes school London

He could hear, but not see, the cane being lifted from the stand. It made a slight rattle. There was a pause, followed by a tremendous whooshing noise as the headmaster swished the cane through the air. Tompkins’ heart skipped a beat. It usually did at this moment, even though he was eighteen years old and no stranger to the sting of the rattan across his stretched bottom.

The housemaster’s creaking footsteps announced he was nearly ready for action. He stood to Tompkins’ left and slightly behind him. Again, the boy could see him from the corner of his eye. The feet swayed slightly. Tompkins knew that the cane was high in the air. Any moment now!

Swipe! Crack!

Tompkins grunted as the cane landed in the centre of his naked cheeks. It was a real stinger. The housemaster put all his beef into it. He could lay it on when he wanted to. Tompkins knew he was really going to take his backside off. He expected nothing less. The housemaster was a renowned caner, one of the best (or the worst, depending on your point of view) in the entire school and he had many rivals for that honour.

The housemaster waited, counting slowly to twenty in his head; waiting for the pain in Tompkins’ bottom to ebb away. Then he lashed the second stroke, landing it an inch below the first. The pain rose sharply to a new peak. He was rewarded with a sharp exhalation of breath. Tompkins screwed his eyes tightly and shut his teeth. Before the housemaster was finished Tompkins’ rear end would be a raging fire.

The third cut made him yelp and he rocked on the balls of his feet. His fingers shot up off his toes but he quickly grabbed his ankles and this stopped him jumping to his feet. He must avoid that at all costs: he didn’t want extra strokes. His bottom roared like mad, he knew three deep welts were throbbing across the middle of his bum, expertly delivered in a strip no more than two inches wide and perfectly parallel. There was still plenty of space on Tompkins’ quivering bottom for more strokes.

Crack!

“Yarooh!”

It was a full-throated cry. Tompkins couldn’t help it. He shook his head from side to side as the excruciating agony coursed north-south; east-west throughout his body. His bottom wriggled.

“Steady, boy,” the housemaster intoned. Tompkins watched the housemaster’s feet, whenever he raised the cane, he dug his heels into the carpet.

Tompkins clenched his buttocks as he waited for the next stinger. It was a natural reaction. His bottom tried to compressed itself into something approaching a hard, rubber ball. It was supposed to be a protection from the stick. It didn’t work.

Slash! Slash!

Two in quick succession. Tompkins’ bottom felt like it had been cut open with a razor. His knees buckled and he let out a shrill scream. He was fighting back the tears. The housemaster’s shiny shoes disappeared. Tompkins knew then that he was returning the cane to its resting place.

Tompkins waited, head low, bottom high, fingers now back on toes. The punishment wasn’t yet over. The housemaster had one final ritual to perform. With the cane now safely stashed away until the next time, he sauntered over to Tompkins. The boy held his breath. This was the worst part. The housemaster patted Tompkins naked rear and gently caressed the corrugated flesh. Then, the hand rose and slapped down hard first on the left buttock and then the right. They were painful blows, reigniting the cuts on Tompkins’ roasted rear. He wriggled from side to side.

“Up you get!” the housemaster ordered brightly.

Tompkins sucked down a lung-full of air and slowly straightened up. The housemaster stood directly in front of him, gazing at Tompkins’ cock as it bounced up and down while the boy struggled into his Y-fronts. Soon, his trousers were back in their rightful position
Now, fully dressed again, Tompkins gingerly rubbed the seat of his trousers. “Thank you, sir,” he croaked and he hobbled towards the study door.

“My pleasure, Tompkins,” the headmaster replied graciously.

Picture credit: CP Services, London

 

Other stories you might like

If you dress like a little boy …

Dad, spank me please

An old English custom

 

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