A Memorable Night in the Theatre

It had not been planned, but it turned out to be one of my most memorable nights in the theatre.

I had a leading role in the rival of The Schoolboys that was touring some of the smaller towns in England and Wales. The play was a revival of a dreary play that had not seen the light of day in 75 years. The director said it was rediscovered classic; being as it was an exploration of English upper class life in the 1930s and showed how the degrading treatment of privileged boys by their public school masters turned them into communists. Hogwash!

But, as I had missed out on Pantomime this year (I usually was cast as a wicked step-father), the offer of ‘a tour’ was most welcomed, even though it was the middle of one of the worst winters in the nation’s history.

I played the ‘Housemaster’ (the character had no name which according to the director represented the anonymity of oppression).

As it was a play set in a school, a number of the characters were boys aged sixteen and seventeen. This is always a difficult age to cast, since directors prefer to work with adults (for reasons of employment law) and with actors with at least some experience. Many of the ‘boys’ in The Schoolboys were, not to be too unkind about it, a little too old for the part.

However, once the director dressed them up in their school uniforms and used creative make-up and lighting, they looked the part. The theatre is, after all, the art of illusion; and thankfully, in the theatre one does not have to be concerned with the close-up.

The lead boy was what we in the business call a ‘new-comer.’ He had not toured a production before and his only experience to date was in small walk-on parts. He was called Hugo Ponsonby-Smythe. Now, what kind of name is that? Obviously, his father was not a dockworker. He does not use the name professionally: he calls himself Hugo Smith, which, I suppose might serve to identify him as a member of any number of classes in the prevailing English social system. The name Hugo might put him among the emerging knowledge-creating class and the Smith making him appear to be an ‘everyman.’

Hugo was aged about twenty and with his fresh face and lithe body he could easily pass as a senior schoolboy, especially over the distance between the stage and audience.

There was a very tricky scene near the start of the final act that caused us many difficulties in rehearsal. It was a caning scene, where I as his housemaster had to deliver six-of-the-best with a rattan cane to Hugo’s character, across his bare bottom.

I would have thought it impossible to find a school cane today, corporal punishment had been abolished in schools a generation past. But, by the time we were ready for rehearsal a number of fine school canes had been acquired. The prop master was rather coy when we asked where he obtained them. He told us he found them on e-bay, but really we suspected they were from his own personal collection.

When the play was originally run the theatre censor would not allow the caning scene to be shown on stage. Instead, the boys talked about it to one another and the injured party, as it were, described being caned on the bare bottom and how this made him feel.

But, today we have modern theatre and nothing must be hidden from the audience.

So how would we do it? To begin with two wooden chairs were placed back-to-back so that the boy could kneel on the seat of one and bend his body over the two backs before gripping the seat of the other. If the chairs were positioned correctly it would be possible for the audience to only see the boy’s front and the reactions on his face and not his rear end.

A major problem was the bare bottom. Understandably, Hugo was unhappy since it meant that each night and twice on Wednesdays and Saturdays he would have to bend over and show me his bare arse. I was not too excited by the prospect either. I am not in the least interested in boys’ arses. Which I think was more than might be said for some of the people round the production. The director had been buzzing around Hugo like a bee around jam ever since he met him

Hugo asked if would be possible to play the scene with his trousers up, but the director said this was the most pivotal scene in the whole play. This was the provocation that turned the boy irreversibly against his own social class (do not for heaven’s sake expect me to explain why).

There were issues of modesty to be considered. We could not have a member of cast exposing his genitals on stage and we supposed that audiences would not want to see a bare bottom either. At rehearsal we experimented with ways of getting his trousers and pants down while he was kneeling on the chair. We found that if I unbuckled his belt and buttons I could get the trousers and pants down over his thighs and expose enough buttock to then administer the cane to the housemaster’s satisfaction.

This, the director thought, was “marvellous,” apparently the taking down of the trousers by the housemaster was deeply symbolic of class oppression.

But, how would we deal with the actual caning? The whole point was that the boy was thrashed, not that he got a smack on the bot.

The director told us that in movies when they show someone being whipped, in a ‘Mutiny on the Bounty’ or a slave picture, say, they stick padding on the back of the person being whipped and with a camera at the correct angle, the audience does not realise.

With the victim suitable protected, the whipmaster can flog as hard as he wants into the padding. Later the sound of the lash is edited on and makeup puts the whip marks into his back.

But, it is not so easy on stage, where everything is live. We experimented with padding which might have worked if Hugo were to be allowed to keep his trousers – wardrobe could make a pair of underpants from leather and he would not feel a thing. But, if he had to take it on the bare, where would the padding go?

I had to admire the props and wardrobe people who tried everything. One idea was that Hugo would have his trousers and pants taken down, but there would be some padding strapped to the bum as happened with the backs of whipped slaves.

But, for it to work, the padding would have to be under Hugo’s trousers for the whole scene and would be noticed by the audience, especially since many girls in the audience believed Hugo’s bottom was his prize asset.

So padding was not going to work. Eventually, we turned to sound effects. A recording of a cane whacking into a bare arse was made. (I do not know how it was done and the sound engineer was not about to say.)

The scene then went like this: Hugo bends over the two chairs, I take down his trousers and pants. Then I have some lines of dialogue (revealing myself to be an oppressor, the director says) and then I raise the cane and bring it down on his bare bottom. The timing has to be perfect so that my swishes into the bared flesh coincided exactly with the sound effect.

It took a lot of rehearsal and eventually we achieved it, although I still thought the audience knew I was not really cutting into Hugo’s bum, despite his grimaces and attempts to portray agony.

So, the play fully rehearsed, we took it on the road. We had toured for three weeks, when we arrived at a small town in the industrial North of England, where we were to play for three nights. That was where the trouble started.

Before the tour set off, Hugo had been granted a role in a television drama series called North of the Line! that enjoyed much popularity among the viewing public when televised. He had recorded his part before we began to tread the boards in The Schoolboys. None of us among his fellow actors were aware of this until the episodes began to be televised. Suddenly, we had a ‘star’ in the company. It does not matter how good an actor is, if one is on television, then one is a ‘star’. So it was with Hugo.

In North of the Line! Hugo played a rogue who was disrespectful of his parents and of his schoolteachers and who had an eye for the girls, who were only too willing to accept it. Girls, and also young women, of a certain disposition, took to the character immediately and Hugo began to get noticed by the newspapers.

Our theatre management was not about to look a gift horse in the mouth and capitalised. Posters for The Schoolboys were re-done and Hugo’s name replaced mine above the title. A photograph of Hugo, sporting a nauseatingly cheeky grin, stared out under the words Star of North of the Line!

The result was a sold-out box office, but alas the theatre was full of adolescent girls. They were what I believe are these days called ‘chavs:’ they cheered and called out his TV name when Hugo first appeared on stage; that was how crass they were.

The sudden popularity of a junior member of the cast caused some anxiety back stage, where it is considered important to keep up traditions. Senior members of the cast are deferred to in all matters, by other cast members and by those working back stage. This deference extends even to the director himself, who would never consider calling me by my Christian name.

Hugo came from a different stock. He had no experience in the theatre worth the mention and had not learned the importance of tradition and ‘knowing your place.’ As a television ‘star’ he believed himself to be the most important person in the cast. But, we older hands believed he knew nothing and should be treated as the junior cast member that he assuredly was.

This inevitably led to arguments back stage. A colleague berated Hugo for his unprofessionalism and complained bitterly about the screaming girls in the audience. Perhaps, it was as well that at this point none of us knew about the girls who waited for Hugo at the stage door after a show, willing to offer him a performance of their own.

Hugo exhibited an arrogance that took my breath away. Quite calmly he told those within hearing distance that he considered himself to be the star of this show and that he was the one the audience were coming to see. “Not you,” he said, pointing at me, or the other “dreary dinosaurs” in the cast.

I was livid with anger but controlled myself. He was a guttersnipe, a whippersnapper and I would not rise to his bait. I was more of a star than this pretty boy would ever be. I have worked with the best: Larry, Dickie, Bertie, Johnny, and, of course, dear old Hammy.

It happened in the very next performance after the row with Hugo. I had not planned it. The final act was underway and the housemaster and Hugo were in the study. Hugo placed himself across the two chairs and I took down his trousers and underpants.

I collected the cane from the cupboard, swished it about a couple of times and then lined it up across Hugo’s bared cheeks. We had performed this scene many times before and I had perfected the timing of my cane strokes to coincide with the swishes in the sound effects.

I lined up the cane and saw Hugo’s buttocks, raised submissively to receive his punishment. I say ‘submissively’ but that night I saw defiance. He was pointing his cheeks at me as if to say, “Go on old man, do your worst, there’s nothing you can do to me. Your time has passed. I am the future.”

I hated him. The cane rose and instead of brushing it against his cheeks, I let fly with a real whopper. A thick red stripe appeared across both cheeks. As it bit home, Hugo let out a roar of agony. There was a collective intake of breath among the audience.

I hated him for his youth. Number two came down swiftly, and Hugo gripped onto the chair for dear life. The torture was searing through his bum and legs. He wanted to get up and shout “What the Hell’s going on?” but he was in the middle of a live performance.

By now he realised what was happening and he braced himself for what he knew would be four more searing, painful stingers.

I hated him for his good looks. Slash number three drew gasps from Hugo and from the audience, but Hugo was the only one in the theatre with tears streaming down his face.

I hated him for his fame. Number four sliced open a wound across the top of his buttocks and the shock and pain was so much his body bucked and he lifted the front legs of the front chair off the ground.

I hated him for the money he would earn. Slash number five replicated number four, but this time it whipped across the bottom of his globes, at the point where the buttocks meet the thighs.

I hated him because I hated myself. Number six went across the middle of both buttocks, accidently (honestly!) crossing two or three of the welts that were already standing up from Hugo’s flesh. He was choking for breath and in genuine distress.

I was sweating and breathing very hard. I must give up smoking cigars. I replaced the cane in the cupboard.

Only now did the enormity of my crime hit home. Yes, I had thrashed Hugo, and yes, it gave me tremendous pleasure to do so, but I am a professional actor and it is a sin to deviate from the script and place your fellow actors in jeopardy.

I walked upstage (this was not in the script) to give myself thinking time and turned to face Hugo. He was still breathing heavily, but he was gaining control of his sobbing.

“All right. That’s over, you may remove yourself,” I said. I was back on the script. I did not know how Hugo would react.

Clearly, still in agony, Hugo pulled up his trousers and pants, while still kneeling on the chair, as was required by the script. He stood and buttoned himself up.  Then, he shook my hand and I dismissed him from my study and he exited stage left.

Hugo completed the play tormented by pain.  His next scene was where he talked with this study mates about his caning ordeal and was required to wince a little as he sat down, but he was to remain seated. This time, he sat on the chair and jumped straight up in pain; the audience loved it, unaware that he was not acting.

Hugo finished the play word perfect. We all received curtain calls and standing ovations and Hugo was cheered. The cast members knew this was because he was a famous face ‘off the telly,’ and not because of his acting abilities.

I still think he is a poor actor, but after the caning ordeal I cannot say he is not a true professional.

 z used housemaster play (1)

Story inspired by the Housemaster play by Ian Hay

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

His Father’s Wrath

new story 2

z used drawing white shorts by spy (2)

Tommy slammed the car door, waved goodbye to his friends and bounded up the driveway towards his house. It was seven p.m. and he knew he was late. Breathless, he pushed the front door open and entered the hallway.

“Your father is looking for you, Mr Thomas” it was Clara the cook / housekeeper, “Said you’re to see him the moment you get in.”

“Thanks Clara!” he called, intending to ignore her and hurry to his room to change out of his tennis clothes.

Then, his mother appeared from the drawing room. “Do you know what time it is?” Tommy frowned, he wanted to look at his watch in an ostentatious manner and say “It’s just gone seven mama,” but her stern frown warned him not to be flippant. “Where have you been to this hour?”

“Tennis, obviously,” he indicted with a flourish that he was wearing tennis shirt and shorts.

“Don’t be fresh darling,” his mother admonished him. Tommy headed towards the stairs, not wanting a confrontation.

“Your father wants to see you,” she called after him. “In his study.”

“Later,” Tommy called over his shoulder.

“No darling. Now.”

Tommy stopped in his tracks. He recognised that tone of voice.

“He’s been waiting for hours. Better not keep him any longer.”

Tommy sucked on his bottom lip, a habit he did when he was concerned. Something was up. It couldn’t just be that he was late home. What was it? Any number of possibilities went through his mind. Maybe his father had found him a job for the summer. He had threatened to find him a position working in an office with one of his clients. Blast! If that was it. He had hoped to spend the summer playing tennis and at the beach.

His father’s study was on the first floor of their mansion, tucked way at the end of a long, dark passageway. Tommy hesitated. Should he get changed first? No, better to get whatever it was out of the way first. Then he could have a cocktail and get ready for dinner. Tommy rarely visited his father’s study. It was his place of work, where he prepared the complicated cases he presented in the law courts. The passageway was dark and surprisingly cool on such a warm summer’s day. The floorboards beneath his feet creaked as he made his way towards the heavy oak door. He stopped outside, suddenly unsure how he should proceed. Was this similar to visiting the housemaster’s study? Was he to knock politely and wait for the summons “Enter!” Or would it be permissible simply to open the door and barge in?

Tommy was rarely on familiar terms with his father. They were father and son; not dad and son. There was very little bonhomie in their lives together. He knocked politely. “Come in!” his father’s call was as imperious as that from any pompous headmaster. Tommy, surprised that his hand was shaking, turned the handle and pushed against the heavy door.

His father was sat behind a large walnut desk, sheaves of official-looking documents were strewn across it. His father was dressed in his business clothes, striped trousers, black jacket and waistcoat. He had made no concessions to the weather. He raised his head, took off his glasses and held them in his right hand. “Ah, Thomas. Home at last I see.” He looked his son up and down, not attempting to hide his distain at his appearance. “An arduous day was it?” he snarled. Tommy so wished he had changed clothes first.

He pushed the door closed and stood awkwardly. There was a hardback chair and a comfortable armchair in the room, but he wasn’t sure if he was permitted to use them. He waited, shuffling from one foot to the other, for an invitation to sit. None came.

His father shuffled through his papers, tut-tutting silently to himself. Finally, he found the envelope he was looking for. “Have you seen your examination results?” Tommy’s eyes blinked uncontrollably. No, of course he hadn’t seen them. The school would have sent them directly to his father. “Failures, all of them,” he threw a sheet of paper down on the desk, “Well damn nearly all of them. Pah!”

He let his exasperation hang in the air. With shaking hands, Tommy leaned forward and picked up the paper. He scanned it for confirmation. He let it fall with a flutter onto the desk top. His father leaned back in his chair. He was a successful advocate and he knew how to compose a sentence and how to deliver it with devastating effect. He could leave a judge and a jury in no doubt what he thought (and by extension what they should think too).

“I have engaged a private tutor, he will arrive on Monday and he will work with you throughout the summer. You will retake your examinations and you will pass them.”

Tommy could not stop his eyelids fluttering. His palms were sweating and all the saliva seemed to have dried from his mouth. “Thank you father,” he croaked. He knew he had not been summoned to engage in a conversation. His father had delivered his message and that was to be an end to it. So much for the tennis club and the beach. He would have to stay indoors in a stuffy room with an even stuffier private tutor. Damn and blast!

Supposing the meeting was at an end, he turned towards the door.

“Not so fast Thomas!” the fierceness of his father’s tone surprised him. He turned to see genuine anger on the old man’s face. “We have not yet finished.” His father’s pale complexion darkened. He placed the palms of both hands on the desk and leaned forward, his steely grey eyes glaring. “You might remember that I was far more successful at school than you have manged to be,” he spoke sharply. This was no question; it was a statement of fact. “I achieved the rank of house captain. If we had a slacker like you in the house we should have known how to deal with him.” He paused for dramatic effect. It worked, Tommy sucked in a lung-full of air, he was hanging on every word. “A beating. A damn good beating. God knows why that school of yours didn’t give you a damn thrashing is beyond me.”

Tommy knew his jaw had dropped and his mouth was now wide open. He watched astonished as his father pulled himself from his chair and walked the short distance across his study. He stopped at a cupboard, opened its door and delved inside. Seconds later he was brandishing a long, thick school cane. Tommy’s mouth opened and closed, but he could form no words. His father tucked it under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major with a baton, and moved to the centre of the room. “Turn around. Face me.” Tommy swivelled on his heels. His father slipped the cane into his hand and then as schoolmasters have done throughout history he flexed it between both hands. A flicker of smile passed his lips as if he had recalled a fond memory. He swished the cane through the air. Aware that his son’s face appeared to have lost some of its tan, he pointed the tip of the cane at the boy’s chest.

“I should have done this years ago.”

Tommy’s heart told him to protest. “No! I’m eighteen, I’m not a child, I’m far too old to be caned,” he could say. His head told his otherwise. His father was in total control. In control of this moment and in control of Tommy’s entire life. He had failed his examinations, he had no opportunity to go to university and little chance of getting a half-decent job. He needed his father’s money and his influence if he was ever going to get out of this mess.

“Take down those shorts, bend over and touch your toes.”

If Tommy’s face had been pale, it was now scarlet. Shorts down! A caning on the underpants. The humiliation. The cane swished through the air. “I shall not tell you again,” he growled and the proceeded to do just that, “Shorts down, bend over and touch your toes.”

His tennis shorts fitted well and needed no belt. With fumbling fingers he undid the clasp at the waistband and allowed the weight of the cloth to send the shorts tumbling to his feet. Tommy was an athlete and was fit enough to take his father’s instruction literally. Toes meant toes, not shins or knees. He parted his feet and bent forward stretching his fingertips so they rested gently on the toecaps of his shoes. The muscles in his hairless legs and buttocks tensed so that he presented a hard, round bottom for his father’s attention. Stretched in this way his rear end was as hard as a rubber ball.

His father had not beaten a bottom in twenty five years, but he supposed it was rather like riding a bike; once you learned the technique you never forgot. As house captain, he had believed that a beating must be memorable. A caning should be laid on with some vim. He developed a reputation for beating backsides with as much energy as a maid might beat a carpet.

He stood to the left of his son’s bending body. His son had closed his eyes in anticipation of what he was about to receive. The buttocks flinched as his father laid the cane squarely across the centre of both mounds. He took careful aim, then satisfied of his target, he raised the cane high, and brought it crashing down, twisting his body slightly as he did so. His strong golf swing was much admired at the club. The cane landed where he had intended. Tommy’s eyes opened wide and he shut his teeth together to stifle the yelp that threatened to escape his lips. His knees buckled slightly and his fingertips rose an inch or so above his shoes. He steadied himself. A thick line pulsed across his backside. It hurt, but so far he could take it.

His father adjusted his swing and brought the second stroke down hard across the top of the boy’s buttocks. The cotton of the underpants was so thin he saw a clear welt develop before his eyes. The throbbing was intense. Tommy closed his eyes tight and his knees swayed from side to side, but again he managed to control his body. Two down, four to go. He was proud of himself so far.

Number three was an uppercut entering the underside of the cheeks on the tender ‘sit spot’. Tommy would be reminded of that stroke whenever he sat down over the coming day.

Sweat poured from his father; the heat of the day and his exertions were taking their toll. He rested the cane on the desk and proceeded to remove his jacket and waistcoat. As he did so he looked across the room at his son. What a world, he thought. How well it is ordered. They had the law to thank for that. His son was before him, bent over, touching toes, willingly submitting his bottom for a thrashing. He had not been coerced. He was not tied to a bench or held down against his will by burly prison guards. No, he had acknowledged his transgression, accepted he must atone and was now taking his just punishment. He rather admired his son for that.

Now, a little cooler, he returned to his task. Could any other father had delivered two swipes of the cane with such energy and intent? He rather doubted it. Bang! Bang! The strokes sank deep into the boy’s flesh. He wriggled and writhed but stayed in position (just) to the bitter end. Through the underpants his father could see six distinct lines each travelling from left to right embossed in his backside covering a distance of about two inches from top to bottom. “A good set of marks, even if I say so myself,” he congratulated himself silently.

Aloud, he said, “Stand up. Get dressed.” Tommy did not need telling twice, he gripped the waistband of his tennis shorts and bounded to his feet; kneading his raw flesh with one hand while trying to fix the clasp with the other. He stood before his father, face scarlet and eyes moist.

His father resumed his place behind the desk. “You are dismissed. Be ready to receive your tutor on Monday.” He watched his son limp from the room, gave himself a moment for his heartbeat to ease and then returned his attention to his documents.

Picture credit: Spy

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The Headmaster and Hutchins

z used drawing cane master Chums

If I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late. I have to report at Mr Gardner’s study at four. I grab my blue-and-gold school blazer from the hook and head through the door.

I run all the way and make it with a minute to spare.

He is waiting for me in his study. I know the drill. Knock on the wooden panel, wait for his call to “enter,” take a deep breath, turn the handle, open the door, enter and be prepared to get a sore arse.

….

So what’s keeping that boy? I heard him arrive outside my study door ages ago. I am sweating a little and my breath is coming in short pants. I have been waiting for about fifteen minutes. I sit at my desk surveying the room. The study is a decent size but there aren’t many furnishings. There’s my desk of course. It’s quite small and functional, but I don’t use it for punishing the boys. I have an armless black vinyl chair that’s perfect for the job. A boy goes over its back and grabs the seat at the front. He makes a perfect target.

I’ve already selected two canes from my extensive collection. I’m not sure which one I’ll use. They’re both a little longer than three feet. They have curved handles of course; they wouldn’t be school canes without the curved handles. Both are made of authentic rattan. Very supple. Very swishy. I have placed them on a small table close to my desk. I’ll make my final choice at the last minute.

I am ready. And, now I wait.

There’s a timid knock at the door. I can hardly hear it.

“Enter.” Spoken, not shouted.

The door opens slowly and in comes Hutchins. He stands in the doorframe, unsure what to do.

“Close the door boy. Stand in front of my desk.”

He is perfect. His blue blazer with gold trimmed braiding is immaculate. He stands in front of me, not quite to attention, hands slightly behind his back. His knees bent. I take in the view. His crisply-ironed white shirt. The blue-and-gold striped tie, knotted tightly at his neck. His charcoal grey trousers have a crease so sharp you could cut your finger. His black shoes gleam.

“Hutchins, you again. This is the fourth time you have been summoned to my study since Christmas.”

“Yes, Sir,” meekly said.

“And, now we have drinking alcohol. You are a sixth-form boy. You know very well, drinking alcohol is against the rules.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then, why did you do it?”

“I don’t know Sir.”

“Don’t know Sir. That really isn’t good enough is it Hutchins?”

“Yes Sir, I mean no Sir.”

“Not good enough. In the past weeks you have been before me for smoking and for being out of bounds.”

“Yes Sir.”

“This is not good enough. You are a senior boy; you should be setting an example.”

“Sorry Sir.”

“You will be. Now face the wall.”

Arms still behind his back, Hutchins walks to the wall. Without being instructed, he puts his hands on his head.

I stay seated. Let him stew a while. A full minute passes and by now Hutchins, unsure what is happening, turns to look over at me.

“Face the wall boy. I shall tell you when you may move.”

“Sorry Sir.”

I take this as a cue to prepare myself for the beating I am to administer to the boy.

I pick up the two canes and bring them to my desk. I test one after the other for their whippiness by swishing them through the air. A good cane should bite into a boy’s bottom and curl around as it does so. A good stripe is one that fully covers both the boy’s cheeks, so causing maximum sting.

Hutchins hears me moving about and I can see he desperately wants to turn again to see what is going on. But he resists the temptation.

Another minute passes. “Right Hutchins, let’s have you out the front here.”

The boy positions himself once again in front of my desk. Apprehensively, he eyes the two canes lying across the desk.

“Now, boy I want to make a clear example of you. Drinking alcohol and absconding from the school will not be tolerated. I shall deal with you severely. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“That will mean six on your trousers and six with them down. Do you understand?”

He swallows hard. “Yes Sir.”

“Right boy. Take your blazer off and put it on the table.”

He does as he was told, revealing his sparkling white shirt. The creases down the long sleeves are as sharp as those in his trousers.

I point to the black vinyl chair. “Now, bend over that chair.”

Hutchins is a wonderful sight. In one athletic movement his hips slide over the back of the chair and he grasps the front of the seat, a hand on the each of the corners. Blood rushes to his face, making his cheeks rosy pink. His other cheeks will be a darker pink by the time I’ve finished.

I pick up the dark yellow rattan cane and give it a few practice swishes. Hutchins turns his head to see.

“Face the front boy. You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on back here.” The headmaster had made a little joke.

I am nearly ready.

“Legs further apart boy. Up over more. Head down, bottom high.”

He pushes himself a little higher over the back of the chair, raising his backside a couple of inches more. Perfect. His grey trousers are stretched so tightly across the buttocks I can see the outline of his underpants.

I stand a cane’s length to Hutchins’ left side and lay the cane across the centre of his buttocks. Gently I tap the cotton trousers. Hutchins holds his breath as I raise the rattan cane until it is behind me, pause, and then bring it down with as much strength as I can muster across the vulnerable buttocks.

Whooop!!! A stinger. His eyes pop and he puffs out both cheeks.

I don’t believe in half measures. When I beat a boy, I do it properly. I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. The rod shouldn’t just skim the top of the skin it should bite deep into the flesh. I cover the whole area, from the crown of the bum cheeks to the middle.

I wait about fifteen seconds before applying cut number two, so he feels the full effect of each stroke before the next arrives. I watch, fascinated, as the buttocks jerk in a paroxysm of pain. This stroke seems to hurt much more than the first and I can see sweat forming at the boy’s temples.

His thigh muscles and bottom are tense but Hutchins is stoical. That’s the way I like it. My schoolboys should take it like men. I don’t want them screaming and shouting and jumping up and down. Stay perfectly still. At least as still as is possible under the circumstances and let me get on with my business.

As cut number four bites home, Hutchins’ face screws up with agony and he lets out a yelp. His knuckles are turning white as he grips the chair ever more tightly. Four thin lines are clearly visible in the dark grey trousers, each in parallel with the others and no more than a half an inch apart. I am an expert caner, let nobody deny that.

By stroke six he is openly weeping.

I pause for breath. Hutchins is finding breathing a little difficult too.

“Stand up boy.”

Unsteadily he rises from the chair, still facing forward.

“Face me boy.”

He turns around and stands in front of me, but he cannot look me in the eye. His gaze is firmly fixed at the red patterned rug beneath his feet.

“I said the punishment would be severe and I meant it. Now, take down your trousers.”

With his gaze still averted, Hutchins reaches for the buckle of his belt. His hands are shaking and with some difficulty he unfastens the clasp. I watch intently as he undoes the button at the top of the trousers and then the four buttons on his fly.

The trousers slip to his thighs revealing his tight underpants, as sparking white as his shirt.

“Right boy. Back over.”

Hutchins swivels to his right and flops over the chair offering up his bottom. Unbidden he spreads his legs and raises his backside high.

His shirt has a long tail and I take a moment to pull it up. Hutchins raises his body and I am able to get the shirt over the boy’s back as far as his shoulder blades.

I tap the cane, finding my aim as Hutchins’ body visibly flexes. Swishhhhhh! Number seven has him sobbing. Number nine crashes into the centre of his bottom. Though he stays over the chair, his feet start to beat a frenzied dance, as his hips twist and squirm.

I can see blood staining his brilliant white underpants. I never set out deliberately to wound a boy, but it is a hazard of the job. But, I never give more than a dozen at a session and never on the bare, so the boy is able to recover quite quickly.

The final two strokes are exemplary. The objective is to cause as much pain as possible, but with the minimum of exertion on my part. My experience tells me if you are able to land the final two diagonally across the buttocks they will cross the existing welts and reignite the pain the boy is already suffering.

So, that’s what I do. One diagonal cut from the left and the final slash from the right.

Hutchins is howling. There is no other word to describe it. His feet are drumming on the floor, but, to his credit, he stays in position, submissive to the end.

I put the cane down on my desk and go round and stand behind Hutchins and briefly survey the twitching buttocks in front of me. Hutchins’s entire body is spasmodically jerking.

“It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Hutchins feels so sore that he doesn’t want to move.

“Hurry up! I haven’t got all day.”

Hutchins stands up and begins rubbing his glowing backside, feeling the swelling of each weal. “Stop that this instance.” Startled, he pulls his hands away. As he does this I can see a bulge in the front of his pants.

Tears are flowing down his cheeks and a little snot trickles from his nose.

“Now get dressed. You are dismissed.”

….

I closed the door of the study behind me. I was more or less in control of my feelings now, and was massaging my injured rump as vigorously as I could, trying (I suppose) to rub away the pain. It doesn’t work, I can tell you!

It was difficult to walk. My bottom throbbed like mad and I had an aching erection. I couldn’t wait to get home and rub away at the both of them. I picked up an envelope from the hall table and went to find my bicycle. I thought I was too sore to ride home so I’d have to wheel it.

After a couple of minutes the pain in my buttocks had eased a little, but not my throbbing erection. I decided to risk it, mounted my bicycle and in considerable discomfort rode home.

Back in my room I peeled off my bloodied underpants and examined the damage in the mirror. My scalded bum was corrugated with twelve distinct welts. Blood was clotting at the intersection where the two diagonal cuts had crossed the other ten. There were bruises around the edges of my buttocks where the tips of the rattan cane landed and they would probably get worse before they got better.

I was a right mess. That’s the big problem with a caning, it leaves marks and if the beating had been severe they could stay for a very long time. Spankings are best, even ones with a slipper or a hairbrush. They left bruises, but not welts or cuts, and cleared up pretty quickly.

I had a problem. I had a date to see one of my other gentlemen next Wednesday and he would not be happy if I turned up with a pre-bruised bum. They liked it to be lily-white, as it were; it was their prerogative to whack it red, black and blue. After all, that’s what they were paying for.

Picture credit: Chums

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Run

z used twosome college jocks

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

Brother Sebastian grew impatient. It was cold and starting to rain. Soon it would be dark. Where were those two boys? The others had returned ages ago.

Brother Sebastian paced around the carpark. He paused and looked at his watch. He would give it another five minutes before he informed the headmaster. Where were they? He hoped they had not come to harm. Would the police have to be informed? What would their parents say?

The seconds hand on his watch crawled. Three more minutes then he would give up.

Then he saw them turning a corner in the street: two sixth-formers dressed in physical training kit; white shorts and green-and-gold singlet, the colours of St Francis Independent Grammar School.

“Come on boys!” he barked angrily; although inside he felt intense relief: not that the boys were back safely, rather that he would not have any awkward explaining to do to Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster.

It had started as just a routine physical training class. Twenty-two boys had set off on a road run; two miles around the streets of town. There was nothing to it; even the most non-sporting of the boys, and there were many of them in the sixth-form, could cope with that.

“Allison, Howard! Where have you been!” Brother Sebastian shouted across the car park as the boys passed through the school gates. But before they could answer, he shouted, “Get in the changing room now, both of you. This instance.”

Sorrowfully, the two eighteen year olds lumbered into the building.

Moments later Brother Sebastian was pacing the room while two sheepish teenagers stood arms at their side in acute embarrassment.

“Why has it taken you so long to complete the route? Where have you been? What have you been up to?”

Alan Howard, the tallest of the pair, blushed. If Brother Sebastian discovered the truth they would be in the most frightful trouble.

“Well answer me. Allison? Howard?”

But both boys stared at their feet; not daring to catch the Brother’s eye.

“Doh!” Brother Sebastian was losing his temper. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Where have you been?”

Then, John Allison made a fatal mistake. He raised his head, looked at Brother Sebastian, and simply said, “Sorry, Brother.”

That was enough. Brother Sebastian sniffed the air. What! Beer. He could smell alcohol on the boy’s breath.

He exploded, “Have you two been drinking!” Then he answered his own question, “You have! Beer! You’ve been drinking beer. I can’t believe this.”

Brother Sebastian was a young man himself, only twenty-five years old, but when he got into a paddy he could reprimand a boy like a schoolmaster twice his age.

His open, some might say cherubic, face turned puce as he bawled the boys out. What stupidity. What irresponsibility. What would their parents say?

John Allison’s eyes moistened as he desperately tried to stop the tears from flowing. It would be bad enough to blub in front of the Brother but if his friends got to hear about him crying like a six year old because the Brother scolded him, he would never hear the end of it.

“Darn it,” the Brother’s anger was intense. “Both of you go take a shower and then when I want you to dry off and return to me wearing only your towels.”

John began to mouth a protest, but catching sight of the Brother’s fiercely-burning eyes he thought better of it. He had only recently joined the sixth-form at St Francis, but in the short time he had been a pupil he had discovered a boy must never, repeat never, argue with a master.

Miserably the two boys stripped off their shorts and singlets and stepped into the showers.

No words were spoken between the two boys. They were great friends and had shared an adventure that afternoon; when word spread around the sixth-form they would become mini-heroes.

It had been a simple plan. For weeks the sixth-formers had been daring one another to do it. It was the kind of dare adolescent boys make all the time. Mostly, though sanity prevails and they come to their senses in time.

When they were next forced on the road run, someone should stop off at the pub for a pint of beer mid-way round. It was that simple; and anyone with an ounce of sense could see it was a pretty pointless thing to do. It was not as if they were getting one over on the schoolmasters; they were not gaining an advantage. It was not as if they were stealing the answers ahead of the examinations. Now, that would be something.

So, Alan and John decided that afternoon would be when they made their names. The King’s Head pub was only one street off the route, so no major detour was needed. It was the middle of the afternoon and the bar was almost deserted.

The barman, busy drying glasses, looked up in amusement as he heard the door swing open and saw two teenagers in sports kit daring one another to enter.

“Good afternoon gents. What’ll it be?”

Trevor the barman could not give a stuff. He saw straight away from the colours of their singlets they were from the local grammar school. They might be eighteen and legally entitled to drink and then again they might not.

“Two pints of bitter please,” the taller of the two boys said with a confidence he did not really feel.

Wordlessly, Trevor pulled the pints and set them down on the bar. He had a fair idea what was going on. It was some kind of dare by the schoolboys.

“Do you want me to sign a beer mat for you?”

The puzzlement on the boys’ faces gave Trevor much joy.

“There’s no point in doing this unless you can prove to the lads that you’ve been here, is there?”

Oh. The boys understood.

It took longer to drink a pint of beer than they expected and then with bellies full of gas they found they could not run without getting a terrible stitch.

Trevor smiled to himself. They would get found out for sure. Did they still whack the kid’s              arses with a cane at the grammar school, he wondered.

Good job if they did: he hated them all.

….

Brother Sebastian paced the changing room waiting for the boys to finish their showers. What could he do with the pair? They deserved the most severe punishment. He had only been at St Francis’s since the beginning of term, but he knew it was a traditional school and that meant traditional discipline.

After five minutes, showered and dried, Allison and Howard emerged from the shower room. As instructed each boy had a large white bath towel tied around the waist.

“Stand there, both of you,” Brother Sebastian pointed to a spot in the middle of the changing room.

He paced in front of them. “You know what this means? I have to report you to the headmaster and he will flog you severely. He might even suspend you both. I can’t let this go.” He threw up his arms in exasperation.

“Please don’t do that Brother Sebastian. Our parents will find out. Please, we’re sorry!” Alan jabbered.

Brother Sebastian had some sympathy. The boys had behaved irresponsible and must be punished. But the final school examinations were not far away; did they deserve to be suspended? What could he do?

A heavy rubber plimsoll applied with great force across the backsides would be the solution.

“Ok, boys. You don’t want to be suspended?”

At last, a ray of hope. The boys brightened up. “What do we have to do, Brother Sebastian?” asked Alan.

The Brother moved a chair out into the middle of the room. Brother Sebastian had been no stranger to discipline himself when he had been younger. Even through his teen years wilful disobedience had been punished by a trip across his father’s knee for a stinging session with a flat backed hairbrush on his bared bottom. He recalled those sessions all too well. The hot sting of those spankings had taught him to behave.

“Boys; here’s the deal. You violated a very important rule. It is forbidden to visit pubs or drink alcohol. You deliberately broke the rule and you intended to make a fool of me and of the school.”

John Allison tried to interject, “Oh no Brother.” It was not true that they tried to make a fool of the Brother. That had never been the intention. They liked Brother Sebastian a lot; none of the boys would want to humiliate him.

“Quiet,” Brother Sebastian was getting into his stride. “But, if you accept my punishment, we’ll forget about this little escapade of yours.”

Brother Sebastian fell silent. Now, it was time for the boys to speak.

John went first, “How do you intend to punish us, Brother,” he asked, but he could see the chair in the middle of the floor was a clue to the answer.

Brother Sebastian felt himself begin to blush, “Both of you, right here, right now, take a good hard spanking. You drop those towels, bend over this chair and take your licking. Then we forget about this. Well, what will it be?”

Both sets of jaws dropped. Eyes grew big as saucers.

“A…a spanking, Brother Sebastian?” John Allison was shaking his head in disbelief.

“You heard me. Or, you can go to the headmaster, first thing in the morning. And then it’s a flogging and a suspension.”

For a minute they stood still, thinking it over. Alan Howard knew that if he was suspended his parents were sure to find out. They were a traditional Christian family and he would get a severe thrashing from his father. Whatever he chose: Brother Sebastian’s punishment slippering or the headmaster’s suspension, Alan would end up with a very sore backside. He knew from painful experiences the severity of his father’s beatings. However hard Brother Sebastian spanked him it would not be in the same league as a whipping from his father. And, if the Brother punished him there would be no reason for his father to know. The Brother’s offer was the best offer on the table.

Finally he spoke, “Our parents won’t find out, right?”

“That’s right. It ends here. So decide. I don’t have all night and you boys have to get home.”

The boys looked at each other. Alan turned toward Brother Sebastian and shrugged. “I’m in,” he said, lifting his chin in an act of teenage bravado. “How do you want me?”

“Alan!” John squealed.

“Oh, John, don’t be such a baby,” said Alan. “I’m ready, Brother.”

All colour drained from John’s face. It was all right for Alan, he thought, he was always getting his arse whacked at home; he was used to it. He had never been spanked in his life. Before he came to St Francis he had been at a progressive school; corporal punishment was unheard of. And, it would never occur to his father to spank him, no matter how much of a brat John could be sometimes.

It took the Brother only seconds to fetch the slipper from the cupboard. Alan’s eyes shone at the sight of the plimsoll. It must be size twelve at least. Did it belong to a giant? Did the brother intend to hit him with that? The heavy sole would smash his bare arse to pieces. Perhaps, this spanking was not going to be as easy to take as he had hope.

“Come over here stand facing the chair,” Brother Sebastian said, pointing at the chair’a wooden seat. Alan moved over with slow steps to stand at the Brother’s right. “Ok, Howard, drop the towel.”

Alan let the towel slip to the floor. Any doubts that this eighteen-year-old schoolboy was anything but a young adult were dispelled. He put both hands at his crotch. He was well-built and stood at nearly six feet tall. His chest was hairless and in the cold of the changing room his nipples hardened. He had long legs and a slender torso with slim hips, but a cute apple-cheeked bottom prominently set off from his long legs. Brother Sebastian aimed to thoroughly redden that pert bum to teach this young man a lesson.

“Over the chair,” he said.

Alan bent forward slightly and took a firm grip on both sides of the chair’s seat. “Further down, legs apart. Give me something to aim at,” Brother Sebastian seemed in a jovial mood as he pushed Alan’s shoulders lower so that the teenager’s bottom stuck out at an enticing angle to receive his spanking.

“Ready, Howard?”

“Yes, Brother,” he squeaked, tensing his body.

“You’ll be getting fifty swats with this plimsoll. It would help if you counted.”

He raised his hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a loud smack! Alan hissed with an intake of breath. Smack! the Brother spanked the other cheek and the boy lifted a leg off the floor.

“How many?” demanded Brother Sebastian. “I don’t hear counting.”

“Ow…two,” Alan gasped.

Brother Sebastian launched into a rhythmic smacking of Alan’s bouncing bottom, landing smacks on alternating cheeks at a rate of about one every two seconds or so. He carefully covered the full expanse of the teenager’s backside, working from the top of his bottom to the lush underside, not missing an inch. Sometimes he landed crisp smacks right across the divide, right on the sit spot.

John Allison stood, his eyes transfixed on his pal’s once creamy white buttocks, now rapidly turning a crimson red. He had a perfect view up the teenager’s crack and was surprised how hairy it was. Absurdly considering the circumstances, he wondered if his own bum-hole was as hairy.

Alan yipped softly but kept the count, bending his knees and stamping his feet on the ground, wincing, opening and closing his eyes, flexing his wriggling buttocks as the spanks landed. At the count of fifty, the Brother stopped. Alan’s bottom was beet red. It looked like two stoplights on a white background.

Brother Sebastian let him up.

Alan hastily grabbed his towel and covered himself, only to find he could not cover up and rub the agonising throbbing in his bottom at the same time.

“Ok, Allison. Your turn.”

Utterly humiliated in his nakedness, John took Alan’s place. He was shorter than his good friend. Where Alan Howard was tall and lean, John Allison was stockier. His legs were covered in light downy hair, but his buttocks were almost completely bare.

Brother Sebastian rested his plimsoll on the boy’s back and for a moment allowed his right palm to caress John’s cheeks: first the left and then the right. The touch was so gentle that the eighteen-year-old hardly realised it was happening.

John’s heart was racing; he could not be sure he could take fifty hard whacks with the giant’s slipper. Whatever happened, he must control himself. His pal Alan had taken his own spanking well. John must not let himself down.

In his nakedness, head down he had a perfect view of his own cock and balls dangling in front of his face. His face flushed in humiliation. Not only were his privates visible to his pal and his punisher, he knew they would also have a tremendous view up his crack

Brother Sebastian gripped the slipper tightly, raised it and brought it crashing down across the left globe. The teenager’s feet stamped on the floor, his legs fluttering. He did not have his friend’s experience of being beaten and could not take the whacking stoically.

The sharp spanks rang out, echoing off the concrete walls in the enclosed changing room. John yelped and had to be reminded several times to keep count. The Brother’s plimsoll rose and fell, splatting into the hairless mounds at a steady tempo.

Time and time again the slipper was applied to John’s seat. He wriggled, he whimpered, he yelled and finally he broke down and sobbed as he lay across his tormentor’s lap. The eighteen-year-old youth was soon reduced to a blubbering five year old.

“Youch … oh, youch, Brother! Uh, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two … owwww!”

Finally, Brother Sebastian stopped and gently patted the scorched buttocks.

“Both of you stand in front of me and turn around.”

Both boys had been duly punished, Brother Sebastian could see as he inspected his handiwork. Two sets of glowing red bottom cheeks attested to the fact that he had meted out very thorough spankings.

“Now face me,” he said. “Never do that again, do you understand? Next time it will be a visit to the headmaster’s study. Now get dressed and go home.”

The boys gathered the towels, dressed and left in a hurry.

Whew! thought Alan Howard. I need a drink.

Twenty minutes later at home Alan slipped into the bathroom and eased down his trousers and pants. It still hurt like crazy and his bottom glowed like a cigarette in the dark. Brother Sebastian had spanked him hard; he had practically been crying at the end. He looked over his shoulder, his buttocks were still red and it burned. Still, that was better than anyone finding out. He reached for some cold cream.

“Alan?” His mother burst in.

In the mirror Alan saw his mother staring in disbelief at his inflamed bottom.

“Alan! What have you been getting up to?” She did not wait for an answer; she knew it already. “Wait until your father gets home!”

The teenager confessed all to his father. He told him about the road run, the pub visit with John Allison; getting caught and then the incident with Brother Sebastian.

His father was insistent and wanted all the gory details and he got them; right down to the fifty whacks with the plimsoll while bent naked across the old wooden chair.

“Disgraceful! How could you behave like this? What have I said about drinking?” Alan made no reply; he knew his father’s questions were rhetorical. Nothing he said would change what was going to happen next.

His father blustered and lectured Alan for at least fifteen minutes, but the boy turned his mind off long before the diatribe was finished. Can we not just get on with this, he thought.

Eventually, his father dashed from the room, only to return moments later with a long stout, but very whippy, cane in his hand.

He swished it through the air as if testing its effectiveness. It was an unnecessary gesture; Mr Howard had whacked this very cane many times across the collective backsides of his five sons. He knew how to inflict the maximum pain possible with it.

“Up!” It was an imperious command and Alan knew better than to disobey his father. He sprung up from his seat and stood uncomfortably in front of his father while he wobbled the cane threateningly in front of his son’s face.

“Trousers, pants down!”

“But, dad, I’ve already been slippered,” Alan whimpered. But, he did not expect pity and none came.

“Over the back of the sofa and be quick about it.”

The boy obeyed and within seconds, his trousers and underpants at his knees, he was stretching his firm muscular buttocks tightly across the plush leather sofa and stretching down to grip the seat cushion on the far side.

His father eyed his son’s bared buttocks. The round cheeks were scarlet with dark crimson blotches of pain. Alan’s backside still throbbed from the earlier spanking, but he was too proud to beg his father for mercy.

The first stroke caught Alan unawares. The pain soon followed, it was excruciating! His flesh felt as if it had been blowtorched.

The second stroke followed rapidly and hurt his already scorched teenage flesh badly. The agony of the stroke reignited the pain from the fifty whacks with the plimsoll he had endured only an hour previously.

“No, Sir!! Oh God, noooooo, Sir!!”

Alan struggled to retain his composure and his submissive position. His head was spinning and he was feeling dizzy. He could not be certain he would not faint at any moment from the intense pain.

His father paused and sliced the cane through the air a few times before whipping it down with increased force across the very centre of his son’s bottom. The boy let out a scream and held on to the seat cushion as if his very life depended upon it. Never before, despite the numerous thrashings he had received from his father, had he experienced pain quite like this.

Four more sickening strokes lashed down hard across Alan’s bottom. Mr Howard was a hard, accurate caner. Although he was forty-one he had been in the military in his younger days and had kept up his physical fitness levels.

Alan yelled out in torment as each new cane stroke whipped into his agonised buttocks, now red raw and bleeding profusely from the relentless bombardment.

As soon as the last of twelve strokes had been given, Alan shot bolt upright and tried to grasp his bottom. His face was a mess, covered in snot and tears. But the mess of his face was nothing compared to his buttocks. Blood oozed from what appeared to be dozens of small cuts, giving his cheeks the appearance of raw hamburger meat.

His father stood and watched impassively as his son gingerly pulled up first his underpants and then his trousers. He struggled to get them over his throbbing buttocks. Had he imagined it, but his arse seemed to have swollen to at least twice its natural size.

Alan zipped and buttoned up as his father came back to life. The room was spinning rapidly, but Alan just about managed to stay upright as he endured another lecturer from his father. There was something about not drinking alcohol and another thing about disgracing the family, but Alan could not be sure.

At last his father dismissed him and sent him to his room. Every step was agony and he bounced out of the room and crawled up the stairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

Calmly, his father replaced the cane in its resting place in a drawer.

“I’m going to telephone John Allison’s father to tell him what happened at school today,” Mr Howard told his wife. “I know he’ll want to give his boy a sound thrashing.”

John’s dad had not expected the phone call. He listened impassively and made mental notes of the details of his son’s behaviour and the punishment he had received.

Struggling to control his anger, he stormed to the foot of the stairs. “John! Come down here please.”

John, was in his room. He could not stop himself crying. The pain had eased and as long as he did not press into the buttocks of his cheeks, he was all right. It was the humiliation of the naked spanking that upset him most.

John loved his father, but the evident anger in the man’s voice petrified him. What was he going to do? Alan had said he expected a thrashing from his father; was his own dad going to whip him too?

Tearfully, John descended the stairs to find his dad in the living room. He had never seen the man looking so distressed before.

“I’ve had a call from Alan’s dad. Is it true?

Uncontrollable gulps choked the boy and his father held out his arms to clutch the boy to his breast.

Yes, it was all true. Between sobs, Alan told the whole story of the pub visit and his encounter with Brother Sebastian.

The father and his almost-adult son stood together hugging. Eventually, the boy was calmed by the loving embrace of his father.

Mr Allison helped the boy settle down on the sofa, before taking a deep breath.

“Fucking pervert! Making teenage boys strip naked and then spanking their bare backsides!”

He strode into the hallway. “I’m phoning the police,” he said, picking up the telephone.

“No, dad, no!” John chased after his father. “Please dad. No! Please don’t do it!”

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uploaded to YouTube

z used adult schoolboy shorts holding cane

I think it all started with The Dudes. Do you remember them? They were a band that was hot for a couple of years. Their “thing” was that they all dressed in grey short trousers, the kind that schoolboys wore in the olden days.

Short trousers became very fashionable. Clubs would be full of students dressed up like eight-year-olds. The girls loved it. Men in smart short trousers are very sexy, apparently.

They were not school uniforms. You usually wore a smart coloured shirt and a paisley-patterned sleeveless pullover with your short trousers. The Dudes all had neatly-cut short hair and that look became fashionable as well. We were all very clean cut.

It was a scorching summer, my last before leaving school. It was so hot boys took to wearing their short trousers to school. Our parents, of course, hooted with laughter at the sight of us, but which teenager ever wanted his parents to approve of his clothes?

The teachers did not complain. These were properly tailored grey short trousers, not untidy leisure shorts. We looked very smart in blazers, white shirts and striped ties. And as I said the girls loved to see us dressed this way so that some of the boys carried on wearing their short trousers, even when the weather cooled a little.

Although the teachers did not complain, some of them ribbed us a little about ‘old-fashioned values’ and asked when we were going to do our National Service. That went above our heads, but Mr Figgis, our history teacher, soon put us right on that.

We all loved Mr Figgis. He was a great teacher and we all owed him a lot. I certainly did, I would never have got my A-levels and university place without him. We loved him also because he was an eccentric.

Encouraged by the school students’ ‘retro’ look, Figgis turned up to the sixth-form common room one day, dressed in an old-fashioned schoolmaster’s academic gown and on top of his head was a mortar-board and tassel. We roared our approval and he took a little bow, the way that ham actors do. Then, rather like a magician, he swept his gown aside and revealed he was carrying a cane.

He swished it through the air to more hoots of laughter. None of us had seen such a thing. Corporal punishment had been banned in schools thirty years previously and one might have expected all the crook-handled rattan canes to have been put on a bonfire somewhere.

His face split into a huge grin. “Now who’s for six-of-the-best?” This set us off again.

“Bend over Thompson!” George Furness called out, rather too enthusiastically.

“Skirts up girls, knickers down, touch your toes,” this was from Shane Gardner, an especially unpleasant student.

Before we knew it Mr Figgis had surrendered his cane and it was being passed from hand to hand round the room. It seemed everyone, girl or boy, wanted to feel the suppleness of the cane. And, it was terrifically bendy. I almost got the two ends to touch.

Nobody noticed when Figgis left the room, leaving fifteen or so sixth-formers alone together with his cane.

I think it was Shane who got us going. “Well, who wants to bend over? Sharon?”

Sharon decidedly did not want to bend over for Shane and told him so in most unladylike language.

It was Rich who was the first to stick his bum out. It was a comical gesture. He bent at the waist and jutted out his bottom. Everyone laughed as Alex picked up the cane, took aim and smacked it into the seat of Rich’s short trousers.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” Rich pulled a comical miserable face and jumped up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. “Oh, my poor botty.” He was not hurt at all and we roared with laughter.

Rich’s histrionics kicked it off and soon boys were offering up their bottoms. Alan King, the head prefect, took hold of the cane and swished it menacingly. “So which prefect shirked his duties last week?”

The roar from the sixth-formers could be heard all over the building. They knew that Alan meant Wayne Littleton. Wayne was a lazy sod and was always missing in action. It was a prefect’s duty to patrol the buildings at lunchtime and morning break to make sure all the school students were out. Wayne’s prefect partner Timothy often had to do the work on his own.

“Little-ton! Little-ton!” the cry went up.

“Well, Wayne,” Alan swished the cane.

Wayne’s face lit up with a bright smile. He might be lazy but he was a good sort and people generally liked him. He raised himself from his seat with a huge grin on his face. Camera phones and Tablets were whisked from cases.

“Stand there,” the head prefect pointed to a spot on the rug with his cane. The crowd of onlookers tried unsuccessfully to suppress giggles.

Another swish of the cane, and then, “Bend over and touch your toes.”

Wayne’s short trousers tightened across the teenager’s buttocks as he lent forward, placing his hands on his knees.

“Right over. Touch your toes, boy,” Alan played the part of ‘headmaster’ to perfection. Submissively, Wayne stretched down into the required position.

The video recording that was uploaded later to YouTube showed a determined head prefect line up his cane across the very centre of Wayne’s buttocks. This was no piece of fun for him; he was in deadly earnest.

He tap, tap, tapped the cane and then raised it and brought it back down with a swipe. Wayne was not expecting this. He let out a gasp but suppressed the yelp he truly wanted to emit. Unlike Rich, he did not jump up and down rubbing at his scorched buttocks. Instead, he stayed calmly bent over, breathing heavily, waiting for stroke number two.

The sixth-formers were astounded. This was not a joke any more. All eyes stared at Alan. What would he do next? The first cut had clearly hurt Wayne, but he was still submitting himself for more. Alan felt the eyes of his fellow school students’ burn into him. What did they want him to do? He fingered the cane and was about to put it down and walk away when an urge got the better of him. He turned to face Wayne, raised the cane and brought it crashing down one more time on the boy’s bottom.

“That’s enough. Stand up and make sure you’re on duty on time in future.”

Wayne stood up, genuinely hurt, but some schoolboy instinct that had lain dormant for a generation or more told him he must not show it in front of the others.

In spite of encouragement from the boys no girl submitted herself to the sting of the cane. It was entirely boy-on-boy action.

I had my chance to brandish the cane with Peter Levell; he of the dewy eyes and bubble butt. We boys thought he was gay, but the girls all adored him, so maybe we were just jealous.

Peter’s eyes lit up as I picked up the cane and swished it at him. He made no attempt to disguise it. To me it looked like he could not wait to offer me his bottom. His warm smile was encouraging me. He did not say anything, but I knew what he was thinking: you are my master and I am your slave. Given minimum encouragement, he would probably have dropped his short trousers and pants and let me flog his bare arse.

“Bend over that chair!” I ordered

“Oh, yes please!” Peter the Pansy needed no encouragement. In a jiffy he was over the back of the low armchair and wriggling his bum at me. It was a gorgeous bottom, round and fleshy. I am not gay, but even I can recognise a great butt when I see it and it was rare indeed that I could see one this close up and presented to me in such a provocative manner.

I took aim, raised the cane and swiped it with all the force I could muster and thwacked it so hard across the centre of his buttocks that the rod could have entered at his backside and exited through his front.

Peter yelled a piercing scream and shot up from the chair, genuinely injured. He rubbed hard at the seat of his short trousers and tears formed behind his eyes.

“Bend over.” I professed not to notice the state of Peter’s injuries. The wretched boy stood his ground, bent double. If he had believed he would enjoy being caned by me, or anyone else for that matter, he had been wrong.

What happened next surprised me. It had not been planned, but when I review the incident on the video – the upload to YouTube has had hundreds of thousands of views – I am sickened.

Shane Gardner and another boy called Aaron, grabbed Peter and manhandled him so that he was face down across the table we sometimes eat our lunch from. Each boy held on to a shoulder pinning the boy down. He was entirely at my mercy.

The video shows fifteen or so eighteen year olds hooting with merriment. They had never had so much fun.

I slashed the cane into Peter’s buttocks and his scream was so loud it could be heard in the street five storeys below our common room.

By the time the next slash had landed the hoots of laughter had become a deathly hush.

But, poor Peter was roaring. His struggles to get free were impeded by two hefty sixth-formers.

By the time I had delivered the full six swipes, six-of-the-very-best to use the phrase so feared by schoolboys in days gone by, Peter was a wreck. His body trembled as he fought to take in gulps of air. He looked like a fish out of water struggling to stay alive.

His once-dewy eyes shone brightly and his face was contorted in agony. Tears and snot covered his mouth and chin.

Shane and Aaron still held him tightly, unsure what they should do next.

Someone, I don’t know who it was but it was one of the girls, whispered, “Let him go, let him go.”

Once released, Peter lurched across the common room and staggered through the door into the corridor, where unnoticed by the cameras and Tablets, he collapsed.

He did not go to the hospital, but maybe he should have done. Some of the girls took him to Karen’s house and they patched him up there.

I skipped my classes and went home alone.

Within hours the images and videos of our escapade were all over social media where they have stayed to this day.

Next day, nobody talked about it, but I did hear that Mr Figgis did not get his cane back. One of the sixth-formers must have taken it (to do who knows what?). “No need to worry,” Rich, said to me, “he probably has quite a collection.”

Peter did not return to school. We were weeks away from A-levels and I also stayed away as much as possible. There were rumours that he had some kind of breakdown, but I did not know the truth of this.

I was torn apart with remorse. That person on the video was not me. What demon had entered my body and made me behave like this? I wanted to apologise, to make amends, to show remorse, but I did not know how. Many times, late at night, after viewing the video yet again I tried to compose apologies. I could not find the words and any email I might have written poor Peter remained unsent.

The glorious hot summer continued and I worked in a supermarket to make some cash before I went off to university. I would soon be hundreds of miles from home and in all likelihood would drift away from the city of my birth and my home. I knew that if I did not act swiftly and atone to Peter before I left for university, I might regret it for the rest of my life.

Then, totally out of the blue, Peter contacted me. His email was short, but to the point; he wanted to meet. We exchanged emails and arranged to meet at his parent’s house. They were on holiday and he had it to himself.

I was not sure exactly what I would say when I met Peter, but I resolved to be contrite. The weather broke and it was a cool day so I abandoned my short trousers and dressed in sweat pants and a top. His house was on the other side of town and I had never visited it before, but it was not too difficult to find.

In some trepidation I knocked on the door and was met not by Peter but by a young man who was perhaps a couple of years older than me. He was as wide as he was tall with shaven head and from what I could see, every square-centimetre of his flesh was covered in tattoos.

I heard Peter’s voice from inside the house call to me, “Come in!”

Peter had not changed much since I had last seen him. He still had the warm smile but his dewy eyes seemed more hardened.

What happened next will stay with me forever. If this was to be a meeting of reconciliation he first wanted his revenge. I did not blame him for it then and I do not blame him now.

He and his friend, I never was told his name, took me into the front room. It was a typical room of its type, not different from ours at home. Except they had rigged up two cameras on tripods at different ends of the room, both were pointed at the dining room table.

His friend left the room and reappeared almost immediately. Under his arm he had three straight Malacca canes. He stared malevolently at me as he laid them on the table.

“You can get them on e-Bay,” Peter told me unnecessarily.

They were all about three or four feet long and of different thicknesses. One at least was thicker than the one I used to flog Peter.

The moment I saw the canes and the cameras I knew what they proposed to do. I might have had a chance to run for the door and escape, but I realised that I did not want to do that. Peter was right; this was the way that I should atone for the hurt I had caused. He should do to me what I had done to him. He should return the favour, but with interest.

Peter’s friend pointed to the table. “Do you want to choose?” I was surprised by his accent, it was posh upper-class English; I had expected him to be a gangster.

I blanched, not knowing whether this was a serious question. “No, by jove,” he said and I knew he must have been putting on the accent, ‘then allow me to choose for you.”

He picked up the thickest of the three canes and tested it between his hands. Despite its thickness it was extremely supple. In an attempt to intimidate me (it worked) he slashed the cane through the air. Then, for extra effect, he brought it crashing down into the seat cushion of an armchair. Dust flew as the rod sank deep into the soft cushioning.

I could see that this cane would rip my arse to shreds. But, of course, that was the point. I should be reduced to a physical wreck just as Peter had been. I did not relish the prospect, but I knew it was what I deserved.

Peter checked that the cameras were working and his friend produced rope from his pocket.

I watched impassively, as if this were just another YouTube video (which it soon would be) and this was happening to somebody else and not to me.

I did not resist when the friend took my arm and dragged me to the table and then shoved me across it face down. He tied both my wrists firmly to table legs. Absurd though it sounds I was very impressed by his ability to tie knots. Had this tattooed monster once been a Boy Scout?

Neither man said a word from that point on. I was able to turn my head enough to see Peter pull on a Margaret Thatcher mask. The absurdity only struck me later; how many men had dreamed of being caned by Margaret Thatcher?

Peter seemed satisfied with his disguise; nobody watching YouTube would know that it was him wielding the cane. Nobody that is, except every one of the sixth-formers who witnessed his own humiliation at my hands.

Peter was not quite ready to begin. I felt him move behind me and, he did this ever so gently, he pulled my sweat pants and underpants down to my ankles. I was to be naked from the waist down for my caning. A bared-arse thrashing: I deserved no less. Peter’s friend tied my ankles together and my former school friend was ready to go. I tensed my defenceless buttocks as I heard Peter walk behind me swishing the cane. Then there was a terrible crack. I screamed in agony and instantly began to cry uncontrollably.

I was panting and gasping for breath when the second cut slashed into the very centre of my cheeks. I struggled to get free, but Peter’s friend’s knots were tight.

I closed my eyes tight and clenched my teeth, but it was no good. My screams could be heard in the street outside.

The pain was excruciating, worse than I could possibly have imagined. Had I beaten Peter like this?

After what seemed an eternity Peter resumed his position. The next stroke was every bit as hard as the first two and I could feel flesh in my buttocks had been ripped apart. Blood was seeping from my wounds.

“You’re killing me!” I screamed, but Peter was already raising the cane to slash it lower down my buttocks.

I might have passed out at the next stroke, I cannot be sure. Certainly, everything appeared to go black. I have never had the courage to view the video, so I cannot say for sure what happened.

Peter sadistically lashed the final cut diagonally across welts of the other five. The agony was terrifying and I raised my body a couple of centimetres off the table. I struggled with all my might to try to break free of my restraints, but to no avail. Later I would have to treat the deep burn marks on both wrists.

Peter and his friend left me alone in the room. The agony in my buttocks was intense and my heart was racing, I could feel the blood speeding through my veins. Every part of my body ached. I thought I might have a heart attack at any moment.

I shed so many tears there were pools on the table top. I had no control over any of my bodily functions. I felt a surge in my stomach and vomit flooded from my mouth. Moments later my bowels evacuated and shit ran down the back of my legs.

Totally and utterly humiliated, I lay face down in my own filth and cried and cried and cried.

It was some time before Peter returned. I never saw his friend again. He switched off the cameras and removed the mask.

He never said a single word as he undid the ropes and helped me to stand. Then, he put one of my arms over his shoulders and very gently he guided me up the stairs to the bathroom.

He pulled off my top so that I was now totally naked and turned on the shower. Even though he was himself fully dressed, he picked up a sponge and gently washed the shit and vomit from my body.

Then, gently, lovingly almost, he patted me dry with a towel. I had still not regained any composure, so once again he took my arm and guided me to his bedroom. There, he laid me face down on the bed.

He left and returned with a tube of antiseptic cream. His touch was caressing, but he still ignited the agony in my buttocks as he applied the Savlon to my wounds.

Then, he left me alone. The pain was still excruciating. It was as if I had sat down naked on a red hot stove. Even my tiniest movement sent waves of pain crashing through my body.

I buried my head in the pillow. I could smell the hair product Peter used. My tears soaked the pillowcase.

I lay on the bed all night. In the morning Peter arrived with cornflakes for breakfast, but I had no appetite.

I looked across the room at him piteously. He smiled and I could see the sparkle in his eye had returned.

“Don’t fret mate,” he said. “It’s all over. We’re even.”

I burst into tears once more. Yes, it was over. I had atoned.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Senior Tutor

z used jeans man taking down (1)

Nineteen-year-old Liam Thomas stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet shuffling slightly, in front of the desk.

Behind it sat the Senior Tutor, a stern man, imperious, dressed in a black academic gown.

The Senior Tutor, Professor Adams, was doing his best to ignore the student before him. The professor liked to let the boys stew. Leave them to wonder what might happen to them. What punishment they might expect.

The Senior Tutor had seen it all before, but this was a new experience for Liam. This was his first time in Prof Adams’ study. Liam had time to take in the splendour of the room. This was an ancient university, one of the best in the country, no the world. It had high expectations of its students and had centuries of tradition to uphold.

Liam was like a fish out of water at the university. Whereas most of his fellow students had parents in the professional classes and had attended expensive fee-paying schools, Liam’s father was a factory worker and his mother worked in a beauty parlour. He came from a very working class, poor area of South Wales.

“Well, Thomas.” The Senior Tutor had deigned to recognise Liam’s presence at last. “What is this all about?”

It was “all about” Liam being thrown off the philosophy course. He had been at the university for more than a year now. At first he worked hard, just as he had done to get into the university in the first place. But, things had gone downhill lately. Girls and beer were to blame mostly. So, Liam skipped a few tutorials, handed assignments in late and maybe worst of all, the last essay he had delivered was clearly plagiarised.

So, Dr Abramovich had thrown him off the course with the parting words, “Go see the Senior Tutor to discuss your options.”

Soon, Liam would discover that really he had no other option but to submit himself to Prof Adams, the Senior Tutor.

Prof Adams heard Liam’s story in silence. Liam was honest with the Senior Tutor. He admitted he had not worked at all this term and had let down himself and Dr Abramovich.

Prof Adams visibly mellowed as he heard this frank confession. It was always easier to deal with a boy who admitted he was at fault.

“And what should happen now?” the professor asked.

Liam stayed silent, shuffling his feet again, staring at the carpet. He wasn’t sure if this was a rhetorical question that he wasn’t really expected to answer. In any case, if it wasn’t rhetorical, he had no answer to give.

“Well boy?”

Liam mumbled something about being given another chance. He would work harder and so on. Even Liam wasn’t convinced by his answer.

“Not good enough, Thomas.” The professor was not going to let him off so lightly.

“Really, you should be sent down for the rest of the term and after your suspension is over we might discuss your future again.”

This was the last thing Liam wanted. His parents had scrimped and saved to help him to get to university. Whereas most kids in his valley left school at sixteen and went to work to bring money into the house, his own parents had worked overtime to pay for him to stay on to do A-levels and go to university. It would break their hearts if he were sent down.

“There might be an alternative, however,” the professor was speaking again.

Liam’s face brightened, encouraging the Senior Tutor to continue.

“You have worked hard to be at this university Thomas and I would not wish to see all that work wasted. But, you need to be punished and the punishment must be exemplary.”

Liam blushed, his face bright red, what was coming next?

“You need a short, sharp shock. Something to pull you up sharp. Something to help you to mend you ways.”

Liam’s heart was racing now.

“I could administer a sound thrashing.”

Liam’s jaw visibly dropped.

“You will take twelve strokes of the cane on your underpants, bent over that sofa,” he nodded to a leather couch that was just behind Liam.

Suspension or a beating: those were the options. Liam had never been caned in his life. Not even spanked. He couldn’t even remember being slapped as a very small child. What the hell would a “sound thrashing” with a cane on his pants be like?

But suspension from the university was out of the question. He really had no option.

“Well, what’s it to be Thomas?”

All the saliva had drained from Liam’s mouth and he could barely get the words out, “The caning please.”

“The caning please, SIR,” the professor snapped back.

“The caning please, Sir.”

The Senior Tutor rose from his chair and went to a second desk where he opened a long drawer. Liam couldn’t see exactly what the professor was doing, but he heard a rustle of canes as the professor chose the rod he would use to whip him.

The professor extracted a rattan with a curved handle. He swished it in the air two or three times to get its measure. Satisfied that it was the perfect implement to thrash Liam, the professor closed the drawer.

Liam was transfixed. Not only had he never been caned, he had never even seen a cane before. This was an impressive instrument, dark yellow in colour and maybe three feet in length. The Senior Tutor swished it once again, deliberately trying to intimidate Liam.

“Stand by the sofa.” It was a simple command made with authority.

Liam must have been in a trance. Later, when he tried to recall his encounter with the professor, there were large parts that he simply could not remember.

Professor Adams watched in silence as Liam walked to the couch and stood four feet from it.

“Closer boy.” Of course, Liam realised, he couldn’t stretch across the back of the couch from this distance. He shuffled forward a little.

The professor held the cane in his right hand, ready to do his duty. “Take down your trousers.”

Blood was rushing through his veins and his temples were throbbing, but Liam obeyed. He fumbled with the buckle of his wide leather belt and snapped open the clasp. Then he undid the button at the waist. The weight of the belt helped his corduroy trousers slip down revealing his bright red underpants. Liam undid the zip fly and the trousers fell to his knees.

“Bend over,” the professor touched the back of the couch with his cane.

Liam hesitated. Was he really going to let this man thrash him with a cane?

“Quickly!” The professor snapped the cane against the couch again.

Liam took a deep breath and lowered himself across the couch. It was the perfect size for a teenager to bend over. Liam stretched his arms in front of him, grasping the front edge of the couch tightly.

“Legs further apart boy.” Liam did as he was told.

Prof Adams stood cane in hand, observing the scene. He did not enjoy beating boys, he told himself.

He watched as Liam, breathing heavily, clenched his buttocks together in anticipation of the first lash.

The Senior Tutor believed it was his duty to deliver sound thrashings to his wayward students. It was for their benefit. A short, sharp shock would bring them to their senses. The alternative was to ruin their studies, their future careers and ultimately, perhaps, their entire lives.

Better by far to deal with the problem this way.

Prof Adams stood to Liam’s left, extended his cane and tap, tap, tapped it against the student’s right buttock. Then with a swift movement he swung the cane back, beyond shoulder height and lashed it into his underpants.

Liam shrieked as the cut hit home. It was involuntary; he hadn’t meant to do it. His body writhed in pain and he jumped up hopping from foot to foot, rubbing his backside vigorously.

“Get back over!” there was real anger in the professor’s voice. “If you stand up again, we shall start the punishment all over again. This time on your bare backside.”

Reluctantly, slowly, painfully, Liam positioned himself once again over the back of the couch.

Slash!!! The second cut bit deep into Liam. A white line appeared across the student’s tight red underpants and the professor knew that beneath the cotton a deep welt had formed.

Thwack!! Thwack!! Thwack!! Three cuts fell one after the other with no time for respite. Liam yelled each time the cane hit home. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. He did not know how to cope with this thrashing.

His knuckles were white as he clutched the couch for dear life.

Prof Adams saw Liam’s pain, but he felt no reason to let up. He had a duty to perform and he was going to do it. He had beaten many students over the years and he knew that once thrashed very few ever came back for more. This punishment, however harsh and unusual some people might see it, actually worked. He had the evidence.

He lashed down cut number six. Liam’s howling did not let up. It was so intense it could probably be heard all over town, if the professor hadn’t had the foresight many years ago to have his study sound-proofed.

The Senior Tutor paused as he reached half way in the punishment. He stepped forward and gently pulled at the elastic waistband of Liam’s underpants. For a split second the boy thought the professor was going to pull them down and deliver the final six on the bare. That wasn’t fair; he had kept his part of the bargain and had kept down across the back of the couch.

But, the professor was only inspecting the damage. He could see six thick, deep welts in Liam’s buttocks. His aim had been perfect, even though the boy had been writhing most of the time. Blood was beginning to seep from the wounds.

The professor snapped back the elastic and ran his hand across both buttocks, smoothing the cotton so it became a second skin. Liam winced in pain as the man’s hand connected with his wounds.

Stepping back, the professor raised the cane and continued with the thrashing. Blows seven, eight and nine fell in quick succession. Poor Liam gagged as tears and snot cascaded down his chin. His whole body was wracked in pain.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Then it was over. The professor quietly laid his cane on his desk. Liam was sobbing uncontrollably into the cushion of the couch, his whole body heaving as he gasped for air.

“Stand up Thomas.” It was a quiet instruction, devoid of anger. It was over. The boy had submitted to his punishment. Not well, but he had taken it.

Liam raised himself from the couch unsteadily. He almost fell as he tried to stand in front of the professor.

“Get dressed.”

Liam was distraught. He couldn’t stop the sobs. His backside was raw. The red pants camouflaged the blood that was oozing from his wounds. His backside throbbed with a pain the like he had never experienced. Liam tried to rub at his bottom, but realised that the merest touch increased the pain, it didn’t relieve it.

He bent down to retrieve his trousers from his ankles. Even that small effort stretched the skin across his buttocks and sent another shock wave of pain through him. With some difficulty Liam zipped and buckled himself up.

The professor went to his desk drawer and retrieved a box of paper handkerchiefs. He offered the box to the boy. Liam grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped away the mucus from his face. He was beginning to regain some measure of control.

“When you have composed yourself, please go to Dr Abramovich and with my compliments tell her you have received a thrashing and ask her if she will kindly consider reinstating you on her philosophy course.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Liam replied and turned to leave, his university career saved.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

The housebreaker

The imp next door

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Letter of Gratitude

new story 2

z used caption graduate

Dear Uncle Algernon

Today I leave to travel to Newcastle to start my new job and new career. I will be living 200 miles away from you and I know our lives will never quite be the same again. How can I express my gratitude for all you have done for me and the love you show me?

I am shamed when I look back at how much I resented it when you took me in to your home and gave me a roof over my head when I was eighteen. I now shudder when I think how different things might have been. I would probably today be sleeping in a shop doorway or at best I’d be in some homeless men’s hostel maybe with a job sweeping floors somewhere. Now the world is my oyster. I owe it all to you.

When you persuaded me (Ha! Ha! Persuaded, let’s be honest forced me kicking and screaming) to take up that college course I resented the hell out of you. Going back to school at nineteen. I didn’t know then how much you wanted the best for me and you were prepared to make sacrifices. You were the first – and probably still the only – person ever to do such a thing. I didn’t know at the time just how much you loved me. You said you would do what it takes to get me on track: on the straight and narrow.

I didn’t believe you. I do now. I remember the first time you took your belt to me and leathered my backside. Do you remember the fight? You grabbing me by the scruff of the neck, forcing me face down over the back of the sofa and setting my rear end on fire. Nobody but you would ever have done such a thing. Such a kindness. My own parents all but abandoned me. Was it any surprise I dropped out of school and wandered through life aimlessly. I know it’s a cliché but you were my guiding light in a storm.

I spent much on the next few months appreciating the pattern on the carpet in your lounge. Me across your knee; you pounding a paddle across the seat of my underpants. Ha! Ha! I can laugh about it now; but then, not so. It took a while for me to appreciate you had my best interest at heart. That ‘contract of objectives’ we drew up was a masterstroke. I set my goals in life, we worked out how to measure my achievements and if (indeed often it was when) I fell short you were there to catch me; with that goddamn  paddle, or that heavy leather taws. Where did you get that?

I owe it to you and your efforts and yes your love that I passed my examinations and won a place at the university. Me, at university! No one in our family – not even you dear uncle – had ever achieved such a distinction.

We thought I was ready for the challenge. We thought I was mature enough to set sail on my own, so I signed up at a university away from home. From your home, from the place that I call home and with your permission would like to think of my home always. I was now absent from your day-to-day influence but I carried in my heart the lessons you had taught me.

Uncle, you know what happened next. I was nearly twenty-one years old, but I regressed to being sixteen again. My studies started well, but the cheap beer in the student guild bar and the women – oh there were so many women available. How was I to know I was such a handsome chap (Ha! Ha!). Uncle, the women came to me. Of course, the inevitable happened. By the second semester I was in danger of failing my courses. Disaster. But once more you rode to my rescue.

Who but my loving Uncle would take the time and the effort to take me in hand. You explained that women were all right in their place. A young man has needs. But there has to be a balance in life. We drew up one of those contracts. Time for study, time for women. Once the assignments were written, I could allow myself a treat.

Your insistence on what you called “reinforcement” was a master stroke (or strokes, Ha! Ha!). I appreciate greatly your sensitivity. You knew I lived in the student halls of residence where the walls of the rooms were paper thin. I needed to be “dealt with” but this was a relationship best kept between us two. The rest of the student population need not know of our arrangement. The Motel With a View, on the A-287 trunk road was perfectly discreet. It was the first (but by no means the last) time I felt that intense sting that can be delivered only by a stout but whippy rattan cane used in such a determined manner. I remember you piled three pillows on the bed. I removed my shoes, socks, trousers and underwear to lie face down on the bed. I chewed the fourth pillow. My what strength you have. I have never been forced to sit on an electric fire but if I were ever made to do so it could not possible hurt less than one of your canings. That time it was twelve stripes. Ouch! Each searing into my flesh. As you know (you’ve seen it at close quarters often enough, Ha! Ha!) my bottom is really quite small. There is no meat back there to speak of so your lashes sank deep and left behind terrific welts. My bum felt like corrugated cardboard at the end. Oh how I needed that pillow.

Yes, Uncle I owe everything to you. Without you I should never have graduated university. And, now look at me, a young professional man with a future ahead of me. I don’t know however I shall be able to repay you. Thank you, thank you, thank you! But dear Uncle I have a request. Please don’t abandon me now. Newcastle is so far away and the temptations in my new life will be so great. You have taught me well, but I fear for the future, please reassure me that you will be there for me, ready to whip me in to shape when the occasion demands.

Affectionately Yours,

Gideon.

Picture credit: Laurence Fellows

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The vicar and the gay boys

No Smoking!

Letter of Regret

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com