Rev. Harris does his duty

z used touch toes white pants

The Reverend Harris puffed his cheeks and wheezed. His bulky frame wasn’t suited to riding a bike but his parish was too stingy to buy him a car so he had no choice. He was nearly there now. The streets were empty as he struggled along the cobblestones.

Andrew Buckley sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Waiting. His mother was at bingo and his sister at the youth club. Usually when he had the house to himself he would sneak out his postcards hidden away in a box at the back of the wardrobe and pleasure himself. But not this evening. Not with his visitor arriving at any minute.

Rev. Harris turned his bicycle into a street of run-down terraced houses. Number seventeen, his destination, was at the far end. Sweat soaked his brow as his huffed his way closer. Two women gossiping on a doorstep watched intently as he dismounted his bike. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, before leaning down and untying a long thin rattan cane from the crossbar.

He smiled a greeting to the housewives and tucked the curve-handled cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. It was one of the Reverend’s heavier canes, taken from a collection he kept at the church youth club. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It felt as light as a feather as he carried it to the front door, but he knew from years of experience it could pack a punch. In the right hands – and Rev. Harris possessed such – it could leave a young man scarred.

Andrew paced his bedroom unaware of the Rev’s imminent appearance. The eighteen-year-old glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked devilishly anxious. His usually bright blue eyes were hooded. His open, cheerful face was glum.

He had thought about running away and hiding. If the vicar found he was not at home he would have to return to the youth club. But it would do no good, Andrew knew. Rev. Harris would only return later and he would probably get it twice as hard.

He moved to the window, attracted by a scuffling noise from the street. His heart faded. Rev. Harris stood on the doorstep, cane under his arm, ready to knock on the door. Damn. Andrew saw his two neighbours staring intently. Soon the whole street would know. He hated to think what his pals would say.

Rat-a-tat-tat. It was an insistent knock. Rev. Harris did not like to be kept waiting. Andrew ran his tongue across his dry lips and padded down the stairs.

Rev. Harris brushed past Andrew and made for the parlour. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder when he realised Andrew was rooted to the doormat. “You know why I am here.”

Indeed he did. His mother had asked the vicar to “do something” about Andrew. He was surly, curt, churlish. He had long ago stopped obeying his mother’s instructions. The vicar heard her pleas, dismayed. Rev. Harris had heard it all before. The war had left many of his parishioners widows and the poor women were driven to distraction by their teenaged sons. Rev. Harris was at hand to do his duty.

Andrew followed the portly man as instructed. He stood uneasily watching as Rev. Harris dropped the curve-handled cane onto the settee and laboriously unbuttoned his jacket and tugged it off his back. Then he let that drop beside the cane.

How Andrew hated this place. Soon he would leave school. If he could pass his exams he would escape this hovel of a house and the dingy small town. He could go to university, or if not, he would get a clerking job somewhere. In Manchester perhaps. Whatever became of him, it would be miles away from here; he promised himself.

Rev. Harris waddled across the room and picked up a heavy wooden chair, which he plonked down so that it rested against a wall with its straight back facing him. Andrew’s eyes followed him as he returned to the settee and retrieved the cane. No words were spoken. There was no need for them. Both Rev. Harris and Andrew knew how this must play out.

Rev. Harris flexed the cane between his hands. He always did this. It was part of the ritual of punishment. As was swishing the rod through the air. Andrew blanched. He couldn’t help it. At any moment that wicked cane would be slicing his backside to pieces. He stared at the worn carpet beneath his feet shamefully.

The vicar pointed at the chair. “Take down your trousers,” he intoned. “This time I shall not cane you on your bare butt-tocks,” he let the word swirl around his mouth, “But if ever I have to repeat this punishment, be assured it will be across your bare flesh.” He let the word “flesh” hang in the air.

Andrew had expected this. From the moment his mother had told him the vicar would call, he knew his bum would be toasted. But he couldn’t quite get his hands to move.

“Hurry along boy,” the vicar feigned impatience. He knew young men did not relish being caned. They would do anything to delay just discipline. But there was no way out. The power of the Church was immense in this town. The vicar was truly God’s representative on Earth. If he said, “Take down your trousers and pants and bend over,” that’s what you did.

At last Andrew’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The button fly of his grey school trousers were open and they slithered down his thighs to his knees.

“Bend over.” It was softly spoken; hardly a command. There was no need for histrionics. Andrew sucked his bottom lip and moved forward. Not daring to look at the vicar, he leaned forward and gripped the wooden seat of the chair. He parted his feet and stuck his bum out, ready to receive the kiss of the cane. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Rev. Harris was in no hurry. He had his own little ritual when caning. First, gently he tucked Andrew’s white school shirt up the teenager’s back. It was now clear of his target. Next, he gripped the waistband of the white Y-fronts and pulled so that the cotton fitted the contours of Andrews cheeks snugly.

He was almost ready. Now, he stood a little to the teenager’s left and slowly tap-tap-tapped the cane across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. He was getting his aim. Satisfied, Rev. Harris pulled the whippy rod back and with all the force he could muster he brought it crashing down so that it sank into Andrew’s tight flesh. He was rewarded by a long, low hiss from his victim. Andrew’s bum wriggled from side to side and then up and down as the pain seared through his body. He gripped the wooden seat as if his life depended upon it.

Rev. Harris rewarded himself a smirk. Then, slowly he paced across the room. It wasn’t a large room. It took three paces to get from one side to the other. Then, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Then he made another circuit. He liked to allow time for the agony of a stroke to register before delivering the next swipe.

He took up position and took aim once more. This time a little lower than before. Swish! Crack! It landed, perhaps a quarter-inch lower than the first. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed into the flesh. Andrew now had a red-raw strip running across both buttocks. He did the wriggling again and this time added some foot stomping. Rev. Harris went on his tour of the room.

Andrew settled himself, shut his teeth firmly and increased his grip on the chair. The third stroke cut into the underpart of the cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. Part of the cane stuck bare flesh. The two women in the street outside must have heard his anguished howl. He leapt bolt upright, danced from one foot to the other and rubbed the palms of his hands furiously into the soft cotton underpants. It did nothing to dull the torture.

Rev. Harris growled. “Bend down. If you stand again I will start the punishment from the beginning. Do you understand?”

Sorrowfully, Andrew returned to the chair and with great fortitude resumed the punishment position. Slowly, methodically, three more swipes ripped Andrew’s bum to shreds. Thick dark welts rose across his once pale flesh. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he would see blood had seeped and coloured part of his underpants pink. His heart raced and he felt his eardrums bursting. His temples throbbed almost as much as his raw bottom. His eyes were awash and tears trickled down the side of his nose. Drips of snot congregated on his top lip.

“Get dressed.” Rev. Harris dropped the cane on the dining room table and struggled back into his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat. His own breathing was laboured. He had put his full energy into the thrashing. He congratulated himself on a job well down.

“Go upstairs, I shall see myself out.”

Andrew did not need telling twice. He shot from the room and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to escape the vicar.

Rev. Harris ambled to the kitchen, found a tea cup and filled it from a tap. Soon he would be ready for the exertion of a cycle ride back to the vicarage. As he made his way to his bicycle he saw the two housewives in animated conversation. As he tied the cane to the bike frame, one approached him.

“Rev. Harris,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wonder if I might trouble you. It’s about my Robert.” Rev. Harris straightened and smiled. He knew Robert of old. His cane would be put to more use before he returned to the youth club.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Reliving old times

They both saw each other at exactly the same moment. Twenty or so yards across the almost empty new Brocklehust Shopping Centre. Anthony wasn’t sure at first. The man was a little heavier than last they met. His jowls were flabbier too. There was a little less hair and it was greyer, but there was no mistaking it. It was Mr. Durrant, his housemaster at his old school.

“Brewer. It is you, isn’t it? Brewer. No?” Mr. Durrant spoke first.

“Yes, Sir,” Anthony replied shyly, his eyes cast down at the cold grey tiles beneath his feet.

Mr. Durrant beamed and strode across to him. “I would never have recognised you with that moustache.”

Instinctively, Anthony brushed the back of his hand across his top lip. He was very proud of that tache. It had taken ages to grow.

“How long has it been, Brewer?” Mr. Durrant’s smile broadened. “It must be four or five years. You went away to university. Yes?” Mr. Durrant rocked a little on his heels with excitement. “Well, lad, tell me. Did you get your degree?”

“Yes, Sir. And my Masters too. I’m doing a doctorate, now,” Anthony barked, a little more petulantly than he had intended.

“Good lad. Good lad,” Mr. Durrant’s jowls wobbled with delight. “So, it seems all those thrashings I had to give you paid off,” he said with no rancour.

Anthony’s heart beat faster. He knew his face was flushing bright red. He really ought to say something to his former master. But what?

Mr. Durrant quickly filled the silence. “They put you on the straight-and-narrow, what? You were an irritating boy. Needed a whacking now and again. It kept you focussed. I’m glad it all worked out well for you.”

Anthony gulped in a lungful of air. His temples throbbed. In his mind’s eye he saw his own fingers stretching to touch the toes of his scuffed black shoes. The ugly, red, worn rug in Mr. Durrant’s study was once more beneath his feet. He felt the heavy whippy rattan school cane being tapped against his tight-fitting pale-grey trousers.

“Hey,” Mr. Durrant spread his arms wide. “I’m late for an appointment.” He crooked his elbow and looked at his watch as if to prove the point. “We should meet up. Come to my house. Twenty-two The Avenue. Six o’clock tonight. We can have a drink and what-not. Don’t be late, you know I can’t abide tardiness.” With that, he strode on his way, leaving a bemused Anthony to stare at Mr. Durrant’s wobbly buttocks as they and he receded into the distance.

Anthony wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans and set off to Weatherspoons in search of the cheapest pint of beer they had on offer.

Three pints and two hours later, Anthony was back in his old bedroom at his parents’ home. He spent as little time as possible ‘at home’, but it was the middle of the long summer vacation and money was tight, so needs must.

It had been years since he had thought about St. Francis Independent Grammar School. It was an old-fashioned school. They liked to think it was ‘traditional.’ Traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional school uniform. And, traditional discipline: the crook-handled cane. Mr. Durrant had been right, Anthony was no stranger to the sting of the cane across his backside. Even in the last months of school, well after his eighteenth birthday, he was a regular visitor to Mr. Durrant’s study.

“Jeez,” he wheezed to himself, “fancy meeting Old Durrant after all these years. He was old enough to be dead.” Anthony lifted himself from his bed, sat up and opened and closed drawers on his night stand. Yes, it was still here. He pulled out a green-and-gold-hooped school cap. It was a bit greasy. It was all that Brylcreem the sixth-formers used to wear in their hair. He smiled. They all thought it made them look grown-up. Yuck. He used Vitalis hair oil, these days. The natural grooming.

He plonked the cap on his head. It still fitted remarkably well. He doubted if the blazer would. He still had it tucked away in a corner of the wardrobe. He opened the door and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He grinned. A full-grown man with a moustache wearing a school cap. What a laugh.

The green-and-gold blazer was still on a coat hanger. He tugged it off and held it in both hands up to the light, as if admiring a jacket he might like to purchase in one of the trendy boutiques in town. The wool felt soft to touch. He rubbed it against his left cheek. It smelt musty as indeed it should since it hadn’t been off the hanger for five years at least.

He undid the three buttons and slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. It fitted very well, even though Anthony had put on muscle since the days when he was a scrawny schoolkid. “Thanks Mum,” he grinned at his reflection in the mirror, “You always bought school uniforms so I would grow into them.”

Grey trousers. He needed grey trousers, then the outfit would be complete. His school trousers had long ago worn out, but he had a pair of dark-grey trousers for smart. Sunday best, his Mum called them. He hardly wore them and they had a mark along the knees where they had been hanging undisturbed for so long.

He stepped into the trousers, pulled them up tightly and zipped up. The transformation was complete. He turned his back to the mirror and peered at himself over his shoulder. Yep, he thought, Anthony Brewer, twenty-four-year-old Master of Arts, was back in the sixth-form at St. Francis.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the woollen blazer. His armpits were sticky. A line of moisture dampened his moustache.

“Well, lad.” Anthony startled. It was a voice inside his head. “Let’s get on with this. I haven’t got all day.” It was Mr. Durrant speaking. “Bend over. Touch your toes. You know the drill.”

Anthony did indeed; he bent forward, knees straight, feet a little apart. The green-and-gold blazer tightened across his shoulders. It felt odd to be touching his stockinged feet, instead of his black leather shoes.

“Let’s make it six, shall we?” the voice in his head intoned clearly. “Six of the very best.”

Through his parted legs, Anthony had a perfect view of his own backside. The grey trousers clung to his meaty buttocks. He raised one hand to rub across the seat of his trousers, tracing the line of the sharp creases. Yes, he reckoned: beefy, but not fat. His bum would make a terrific target for Mr. Durrant’s cane.

@

It was nearly time to set off. He didn’t want to be late. Mr. Durrant did not tolerate tardiness, Anthony recalled from his schooldays. Being late for class once meant detention. Twice, would get you a sore arse.

He pulled on the grey trousers, they were snug and didn’t need a belt. He did up the buttons on the white shirt and admired his reflection in the mirror. A clean-shaven face smiled back at him. Intuitively, he knew Mr. Durrant would not approve of the tache.

He sat down on the bed and pulled on grey socks and black shoes. The green-and-gold blazer hung on the back of a chair. The school cap was in one pocket. A green-and-gold-striped tie in another. He fished out a C&A plastic bag from a drawer and neatly folded the blazer into it. It was a fine summer evening and too warm to wear a coat. Anyway, Anthony reckoned, a twenty-four-year-old in school uniform might get funny looks from passers-by; he would change into them just before he knocked on Mr. Durrant’s door.

It was ten after six when Anthony pressed the doorbell. Mr. Durrant’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the young adult dressed for school.

“You’re late,” he scowled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Anthony croaked.

“You will be,” Mr. Durrant replied under his breath.

Aloud, he said, “You’d better come in.”

Across the street, a lace curtain flickered. Mr. Albertstein ran the tip of his tongue across his cracked lips and watched the door close behind his neighbour and his young visitor.

It was a large house, far too big for one man to live on his own, Anthony thought. His parents’ house was cramped, with his Mum and Dad, his two sisters and himself, he mused irritably.

“Let me get you a drink. Is beer all right?” Mr. Durrant spoke over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. “Or do you want something a little stronger?”

Anthony’s throat was parched. His heart beat fast and he was finding breathing difficult. “Beer,” he gasped. Mr. Durrant shot him a disgruntled glare. “Eh, please, Sir,” the young man added hastily.

“That’s better,” Mr. Durrant reached into the fridge and pulled out two tins of Double Diamond. “There’s a can-opener in that drawer,” he nodded across the room. “Please fetch it for me.”

Anthony sucked on his can, too aware that he was in school uniform drinking beer. Back in the day, Mr. Durrant had given him and three pals a particularly severe Six for drinking shandy in the sixth-form common room.

“Cigarette?” Mr. Durrant reached into his jacket pocket.

“No thanks, Sir. I don’t,” Anthony shuddered.

“Ha!” a broad grin split Mr. Durrant’s jowls. “You were a twenty-a-day man when you were fifteen.”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he could still feel the stripes across his backside. He knew he was blushing profusely.

“Well …” he stuttered. How could he explain himself to his housemaster?

They started with small talk. What Anthony was researching for his doctorate, whether he still kept in touch with friends from school.

Mr. Durrant listened intensely, watching Anthony’s lips dampened by the beer opening and closing. The young man’s hazel eyes shone; the housemaster suspected that might be the alcohol.

He drained his tin of beer. “I’m retired now, of course, but I still see one or two of the old boys,” he crushed the can in his hand and leaned forward towards Anthony, “They often come to this house,” he waved his arms expansively. Anthony looked around the room, thinking that Mr. Durrant was trying to show him something.

“So, tell me, lad,” Mr. Durrant was beginning to sound like the housemaster he had been for so many years, “Are you behaving yourself?”

Anthony’s ears pinkened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eh, well,” he stuttered. “Yes of course I am, Mr. Durrant,” then quickly he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Mr. Durrant’s florid face darkened. “Pah! Well that would make a welcome change, for you, lad.” He stood from his chair and paced the kitchen. “I have genuinely lost count of the number of times you visited my study for …” His sentence trailed off and he stared blankly at the refrigerator. “You know what I mean?”

Anthony did. He knew very well what the old man was talking about.

“So,” Mr. Durrant seemed to have regained his thought. “You haven’t been a naughty little boy.”

Anthony clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. His mind raced. Had he been misbehaving? Was there some misdeed he could confess to his master?

“I’ve been rude to my mother.” It felt lame the moment the words passed his lips, but it was the best he could do without notice.

“Well,” Mr. Durrant’s lips pursed. “That’s for your father to deal with.” They fell silent. Anthony squeezed his eyes shut, imagining his father pulling him across his knee to apply a bedroom slipper with some vigour across the seat of his pyjama bottoms. He shook the thought clear of his head. It had been some time since he had last had that vision.

“I stole a copy of Football Monthly from Mr. Jenkinson’s shop,” he blurted. “He was serving another customer and I took it from a shelf and ran off.”

Mr. Durrant’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “Did you indeed? Did you?”

“Yes, Sir honestly, Sir,” Anthony insisted.

“Well, now. Theft. That is a beating offence. You know that Brewer. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Anthony rubbed his hands together but he couldn’t get rid of the sweat.

“I have a room upstairs, Brewer,” Mr. Durrant straightened himself and stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “A special room. A very special room, do you understand, Brewer.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

“I think you and I need to repair to that room, don’t you Brewer?”

The young man nodded, silently.

“Follow me, Brewer.”

With slow deliberate steps, Mr. Durrant led the way from the kitchen, through the hallway and up the carpeted staircase. There were four doors on the landing. One was slightly ajar and Anthony could see it was a bathroom.

“This room here,” Mr. Durrant turned a brass knob and eased the door open. “Step this way.”

Anthony stood in the doorway transfixed. The room had bare floorboards, except for an old ugly worn red rug. It was dominated by an imperious wooden desk. In one corner was a hat stand, in another a tall thin cupboard.

The young man’s jaw actually dropped.

“Yes,” Mr. Durrant beamed. “It’s my old study from St. Francis, brought here lock, stock and barrel.”

Anthony’s eyes were like saucers. That rug. The same one he had stared down at so many times. It was as if he had been transported back in time.

“Stand there, lad.” Mr. Durrant snapped his fingers. Obediently, Anthony shuffled the few feet so that he stood on the rug.

Mr. Durrant shuffled across the room towards the cupboard. Anthony turned his shoulders to watch him go.

“Face the front, lad,” Mr. Durrant growled. “You’ll find out what’s going on here soon enough.”

Anthony heard a door creaking, followed by the distinct rattling of long, whippy rattan canes swirling around a confined space. Anthony couldn’t stop blinking. Time was playing tricks. It was only yesterday that he last presented his backside to Mr. Durrant for a sound thrashing.

The floorboards behind Anthony squeaked and Mr. Durrant was once more in view. He was dressed in a traditional black academic gown and on his head he wore a mortar board cap at a rakish angle. Between his hands he flexed a curve-handled punishment cane. It was darkish-yellow and as thick as a pencil. Mr. Durrant swished it through empty air. It looked to Anthony a mightily efficient rod. It looked to him a little warped; the result of constant use, he supposed.

All saliva drained from Anthony’s mouth. The room felt as hot as a sauna. The young man’s temples throbbed. He watched as Mr. Durrant once more flexed the cane in his hands, it bent easily into an arc.

Mr. Durrant tapped the tip of the cane gently against the rug. “Bend over, lad. Touch your toes.” It was a simple command, spoken quietly. There was no need to do otherwise. Mr. Durrant was the master, he expected to be obeyed.

And, he was. Anthony was an old hand at this; he knew the drill. He parted his feet slightly and arched his back so that the tips of his fingers touched the toes of his shoes. As had happened in his bedroom earlier, his blazer tightened cross his back. He had forgotten he had a cap on his head. It tumbled to the ground.

“Leave it, lad. Leave it,” Mr. Durrant growled. He stood away from the submissive young man. He saw Anthony was beefier than when he had last punished him. But, so were all his boys. Nonetheless, the twenty-four-year-old presented a wonderful target. The dark grey trousers were taut across the burly buttocks; he could see the outline of Anthony’s underpants.

The cane tap-tap-tapped across his bum, then Anthony felt the housemaster “saw” the rod across the very underside of his buttocks. He gulped in air and shut his teeth. Whoosh! He heard the cane fly through the air and then a resounding thwack! echoed around the study. It seemed an eternity before the agony bit. It was as if Mr. Durrant had pressed a red-hot wire into the most sensitive part of his bottom.

“Owwww!” he howled and his body shot forward. The rug slipped beneath his feet and he almost toppled over. It took an almighty effort to remain in the touch-toes position.

Twenty seconds later (exactly, since Mr. Durrant was counting the time in his head) he let fly with the second swipe. It struck home about a quarter inch above the first. Anthony felt a welt rise. The throbbing was intense; he wouldn’t be surprised later to find it weeping blood.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Number three landed parallel to the first two. Anthony now had a raw band about an inch-and-a-half wide across his bum. Mr. Durrant was an expert caner. He ought to be, he had practiced enough over the years. It helped, Mr. Durrant would agree, to have a subject as submissive as Anthony. The young man hissed and yelped a little as each successive whack cut his bum to ribbons, but he remained stoically in position; back bent, knees straight, fingers touching toes waiting for the next swipe to fall.

Oh, my God, Anthony had never been thrashed like this in all his life. He thought he had been under the lash at school, he had even withstood some of the worst beatings Dr. Henderson-Smith, the one-time headmaster, had ever delivered. But, Mr. Durrant was awesome. It was as if the master was trying to lash the cane into the beefy bottom so hard that it sank into flesh, traversed muscle and exited through the front of the young man

Number six was special. Anthony knew it would be. Mr. Durrant shifted his position slightly and instead of aiming for another parallel stroke, he laid the cane so that it ran from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. The agony was intense, as the rod cut diagonally across the previous five strokes reigniting the pain of each of them. Blood seeped.

“You may stand.” Mr. Durrant tucked the cane under his arm and watched with ill-conceived joy as Anthony rose and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional caning dance. He heartily rubbed at the seat of his trousers in a fruitless effort to relieve the pain.

In time, Anthony settled. His eyes were damp and his body soaked in perspiration. His face and neck glowed a deep pink.

Mr. Durrant slipped the cane back into his hand. “Trousers down. Bend back over.”

The pink face blanched to a ghostly white. Anthony couldn’t catch his breath. “Bu .. bu …” he blabbered, before at last forming coherent words. “But, please, Sir. No,” he wailed.

Mr. Durrant set his face. “Yes, lad,” he swished the cane though the air.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” Anthony pleaded. Swish, the cane flew again. The housemaster was in no mood to show clemency.

“Trousers down.”

Tears were flowing freely.

“Damn it, lad. If you won’t take down your trousers I shall do it for you.”

“Nooooooo!” Anthony’s shriek could probably be heard by Mr. Albertstein across the street.

Mr. Durrant stepped forward, hands outstretched ready to grip Anthony’s waistband. The young man twisted his body trying to put his back between himself and his tormentor. Too late. Mr. Durrant undid the fastener and the zipper fell easily.

Anthony was as white as a sheet. His tormentor tugged the young man’s trousers to his knees.

“Oh my!” Mr. Durrant licked his lips. His face cracked into a beautiful smile. Anthony’s cock was so stiff and his underpants so brief, it poked its glistening head over the elasticated waist.

Mr. Durrant sank to his knees, took hold of the pants at the hips and in a frenzy ripped them down so hard the cotton tore.

Anthony gasped, took hold of his cock and thrust it in Mr. Durrant’s face.

“Suck me off!” he huffed.

The housemaster’s mouth devoured first one and then the other testicles. He licked the balls like they were an ice cream cone.

Anthony moaned as Mr. Durrant took a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffled his knees further apart so that the old man could get to more of his hard dick. Anthony gripped Mr. Durrant’s ears and pulled his florid face onto his raging cock. The man’s flabby jowls wobbled back and forth as he made his way up and down the shaft. As cocks went it wasn’t particularly long, but it was surely one of the fattest the housemaster had ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” Anthony squealed warning his master, but knowing he had left it too late. But, the old man did not heed the warning and his head rhythmically slid in and out of the back of his throat. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumped up the shaft and was immediately swallowed by Mr. Durrant’s hungry mouth.

Anthony writhed on the floor as his orgasm went on and on. Mr. Durrant continued to suck. Then, suddenly his own body convulsed. Anthony slipped his cock out of the master’s mouth and watched in fascination as Mr. Durrant twisted and turned on the bare floorboards as a flood of cum drenched the front of his trousers.

z used buxton cane longs touch toes (2)

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 9. Hawkridge in the study

z used cane white pants tyrant head 9

 

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Hawkridge stands at attention in front of the headmaster’s desk. His blue-and-white woollen school blazer is immaculate, fastened by all three buttons. His thumbs are in line with the seams of his mid-grey trousers, their creases so sharp you could cut yourself. His school cap is squarely on his head, obscuring almost all of his hair. The regulation short-back-and-sides trimmed only the previous Saturday.

Dr. Fortescue sits behind his massive walnut desk; jawing. Hawkridge does not take much of it in. He has heard it all before. He gazes intently at the headmaster. He is of indeterminate age, he might even be younger than he looks. His face is oblong, his features angular. The hook nose somehow keeps his eye glasses from falling from his face. His skin is lined and there are bags beneath his wide-staring eyes. Hawkridge detects a hint of bloodshot in them. Specks of spittle sprout from Dr. Fortscue’s mouth as he castigates the schoolboy before him. He leans forward to berate the miscreant and Hawkridge flinches a little. The stench of sour tobacco is overwhelming. Somewhere there’s also a hint of the aroma of Murray Mints.

He is wearing a crumpled three-piece tweed suit and a white shirt, held together at the collar with a bow-tie. A tattered academic robe hangs from his shoulders and a mortar-board perches precariously on his head, the tassel dangling close to his left ear.

Hawkridge has been here before. He still has three months to go before he finally leaves the school, so he’ll almost certainly be here again. He shows no fear. He is certain he knows in the minutest detail what is about to happen. There is nothing he can do about it. He must let events take their course.

St. Septimius is nothing if not traditional. Traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Yes, Hawkridge is certain he knows how this meeting of master and pupil will end.

Dr. Fortescue rocks backward and forward In his wooden armchair. Sometimes leaning back, steepling his fingers as he concentrates on admonishing the unfortunate creature before him. Then, leaning forward, arms resting on the huge desk, he glares at the boy. The desk is so big and so heavy it must have taken a dozen artisans to manhandle it into the study. A pile of, as yet uncorrected, Latin impos. are to the headmaster’s right hand side.

He glares at Hawkridge. The boy’s behaviour is “outrageous”, “shocking”, “contemptable”. In a fairer forum than this that might be debatable. As schoolboy crimes go, his is quite minor. Hawkridge did not attend school yesterday, preferring instead to queue alongside hundreds of other youngsters to obtain tickets to a forthcoming Eddie Cochran concert. The tickets are now safely tucked away in the sock drawer of his bedroom at home. But truancy is truancy and at St. SIGS, truancy is a beatable offence. Hawkridge is a sixth-former and that almost certainly means a caning on the bare.

Hawkridge knows this, but such is life. School is school. What’s a fellow to do?

The headmaster jaws on and on. The room is stifling. The coal fire is blazing, but the day outside is mild. Sweat soaks Hawkridge’s scalp and his shirt is damp. He wishes the Beak would stop talking and just get on with it.

At last, Dr. Fortescue stops his hectoring. He hauls himself to his feet, presses both palms into his desktop and scowls. “Take your cap and blazer off. Hang them there!” He nods across the study to a hat stand. It is empty save for two long, thin yellow rattan canes that hang by their crook handles. One is a little longer than the other and both are warped. Hawkridge is sure it was the shorter one Dr. Fortescue used to beat him on his last appearance in the study.

Hawkridge is calm. He unfastens the buttons on his blazer and slips the jacket from his shoulders. The armpits of his gleaming white shirt is wringing wet. He hangs the blazer on the hat stand and turns to face his tormentor. Suddenly, he remembers the cap on his head and quickly whips it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his blazer. Instinctively, he rubs the palms of his hands across his head, to smooth down his already tidy hair.

Dr. Fortescue is walking across his study. He takes pigeon steps, like an old man who is afraid of slipping on an icy pavement. Hawkridge watches his slow progress. The headmaster is heading towards the far wall which is dominated by heavy shelving and dark brown cabinets. He reaches a narrow, tall door and steadies himself before reaching into his trouser pocket. He fumbles around for some time before at last extracting a small silver-coloured key. His hand shakes a little as he tries to line up the key with the keyhole. He succeeds at the third attempt and draws the door open. He looks inside and because he knows precisely what he is looking for within a second he is clutching a punishment cane.

Even at a distance, Hawkridge can see this is heavier and denser than the two canes dangling on the hat stand. It is a dark brown colour and has distinct notches every four inches or so across its length. Dr. Fortescue holds it in his right hand, close to the curved handle and gives it an almighty swish through the air. He smiles in response to the swooshing sound it makes as it flies. Then, absent-mindedly he holds the cane between his hands and flexes it backwards and forwards. Despite its density it is a supple rod and makes a perfect arc. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes blaze.

He suddenly realises he has company and tucks the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major. He glares across the study. “Go stand behind that chair,” he growls. There are several chairs in the capacious study and Hawkridge is unsure which he means. He glances uneasily around himself. The study is cluttered with furniture, most of it looks like it’s been there for at least fifty years. His baffled expression is met with a curt, “That one there, boy,” as Dr. Fortescue slips the cane into his hand and points to an ancient armchair.

Hawkridge takes the four paces necessary to reach the chair. He stands at its back and looks down at the seat cushion. In his many visits to the headmaster he has never before seen this particular chair at close quarters. Often, he is required to present himself across the large desk; sometimes it’s, “bend over and touch your toes.”

Dr. Fortescue approaches Hawkridge and stands a yard or to his right. Hawkridge sucks in air. He knows the Beak is about ready to go. Dr. Fortescue’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and croaks, “Lower your trousers, boy.” Hawkridge expects this instruction and reaches for the buckle of his belt. It is easily undone, as are the button at the top of his spotless mid-grey trousers and the zipper. The front of his trousers falls open and his white Y-front underpants peak through. He lets go of the trousers and they slip slowly down his thighs, where they stop. Hawkridge knows from experience this will not satisfy the headmaster so he pushes them further down until they rest in a puddle on top of his shiny black shoes. The heat from the fire irritates the bare flesh on his legs.

The headmaster flexes the cane between his hands and swishes it once more. Then he taps it across the back of the armchair. “Bend over,” he croaks once more.

So it’s not to be bare-arsed. Hawkridge is relieved. He doesn’t believe getting caned on the bare is any more painful than across the seat of the underpants, but he has never enjoyed showing his crack to the headmaster. Underpants certainly maintain a certain modesty.

Hawkridge adjusts his feet so he is just the right distance from the chair and lowers himself forward. The back is not so high and his stomach rests easily against it. It is solid and his nose presses against the seat. The dust almost makes him sneeze. He grips tightly and can tell it is stuffed with horsehair.

The headmaster waits for Hawkridge to settle himself. The eighteen-year-old’s school shirt is long and its tail has flopped over his buttocks. That will not do. Dr. Fortescue tucks the cane once more under his arm and with his two free hands he takes hold of the cotton shirt and carefully folds it once, twice and then three times up Hawkridge’s back until it is clear of his target area. In so doing he exposes an area of hairless flesh. Hawkridge’s whole body is lean and at close quarters the headmaster notices the flatness of the boy’s stomach.

Hawkridge’s buttocks are solid. The white cotton underpants are a little tight and with his bottom stretched they ride up into his crack, thereby lifting and separating the cheeks. Dr. Fortescue has been presented with a terrific target. Although this is not strictly necessary, the headmaster takes hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants and pulls until all wrinkles in the cotton have been eliminated. The pants now fit like a second skin. To make sure all creases have gone, the headmaster rubs the palm of his hand across Hawkridge’s cheeks. Then, he smacks it down hard into the posterior – to encourage the boy.

Hawkridge takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, shuts his teeth and holds onto the chair for dear life. His bottom is twitching but there is nothing he can do about that. Dr. Fortescue stands a little to the left of the buttocks, taps his cane across the fleshiest part and then in one smooth continuous movement he lifts the cane to shoulder height and returns it with considerable force to thwack into Hawkridge’s waiting buttocks. The boy suppresses a hiss. Dr. Fortescue admires his own prowess. A clear line has appeared across the tight underpants and the headmaster is certain that a deep welt is already forming under the cotton.

The headmaster sucks on his tongue. All saliva has now drained from his mouth. He wheezes as he raises the cane and swipes it down a second time, this one is a little lower than the first. The agony in Hawkridge’s backside is intense. It feels like the headmaster has taken a coal from the fire and pressed it into his bum. He wriggles his hips and tries to steady himself for the further onslaught on his poor bottom.

“Keep still,” the headmaster rasps. “If you give me concern to I’ll add extra strokes.” That was unfair since Hawkridge had hardly moved. In fact, he is taking it very well indeed. Other boys – even sixth-formers – on the receiving end of two such stingers would be howling the walls of the study down. Hawkridge tries to keep as still as a statue. He knows the headmaster means it, the Beak would like nothing more. He is at heart a bully.

Number three whips in even lower down and connects in the soft undercurve at the “sit spot” where the buttocks and thighs meet. It will be uncomfortable sitting down for some considerable time. The headmaster tucks the cane back under his arm and searches in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. The palms of his hands are soaking with sweat. He wipes them dry, all the time staring at the boy prostrate before him. He likes nothing better than to have a sixth-former bending submissively before him. This one in particular is especially delicious.

Dry once more, the headmaster grips the cane tightly. This time he “saws” it across the top of Hawkridge’s globes. Sweat is running into the headmaster’s eyes. He wipes it away with the edge of his gown. Then, he brings the cane crashing down; he swipes so hard it is as if he is beating a carpet. Hawkridge feels that all right. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, but valiantly, he does not let a sound pass his lips.

Dr. Fortescue looks on. He resents it when a boy does not holler. Well see about this, he thinks. He moves his position slightly and lays the cane diagonally across both buttocks. Hawkridge’s whole body tenses, he knows what is coming. Swipe! Jesus H. Christ. Hawkridge cannot control himself. The cane has landed atop of the four previous cuts and has reignited the pain in all of them. His bum is truly aglow. Hawkridge’s legs buckle, he stamps his feet up and down and then in a glorious attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing away at his blazing buttocks, he pins his left leg down by twisting his right led across it.

Blood courses through his arteries. His heart races, his temples throb. The headmaster places his cane across Hawkridge’s buttocks; this time along the opposite diagonal. He lets fly. Hawkridge now has a perfect “X” embossed across his backside. The agony redoubles. He grips the chair, his head thrashes up and down and then to left and right, he looks like a horse neighing.

That’s number six. Please God, Hawkridge silently prays, let that be the last stroke. The headmaster had not announced a tariff before he flogged the first stroke home. But “six-of-the-best” was the traditional number in a headmaster’s caning. Hawkridge has taken six strokes and nobody should be in any doubt they were indeed the headmaster’s best.

Dr. Fortescue is wheezing and struggling to catch his own breath. It is difficult to see which of the two is in greater distress. Hawkridge waits, still face down. He does not know if he is allowed to stand. It is better not to risk it. He waits as the throbbing in his bum intensifies. He knows it will be sore for some time yet, but it will eventually die down and become a warm glow. He will feel some pain when he sits on a hard surface but by bedtime it will all be over. The marks will stay for some considerable time. They are probably deep claret at the moment. They will become bruises and over the next few days transmute from deep purple through mauve and yellow before they finally disappear altogether.

“You may stand.” The words sound as if they are from miles away. Hawkridge lifts himself from the chair. He watches as Dr. Fortescue stumbles across his study and with shaking hands returns the cane to the cupboard. He doesn’t bother to close nor lock the door. When he turns around his eyes are red as if he is suffering with hay fever. Hawkridge is still in his underpants, waiting for permission to dress. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes stalk. “Get dressed boy,” he barks as if Hawkridge was deliberately trying to provoke him. The boy bends down, grabs the top of his trousers and pulls them up. He winces as he zips up and tightens the belt, the cloth is pressing against his raw buttocks. For the first time he is aware that he is probably bleeding.

Silently, Dr. Fortescue shuffles across to his desk and slumps in the wooded armchair. He takes a moment to recover himself and then opens the second of three drawers in his desk. He removes the punishment book, places it on his desk and struggles to find the right page. Hawkridge is climbing back into his school blazer.

“Pen, boy. Pen.” Dr. Fortescue snaps his fingers irritably. Hawkridge puts his hand in his inside pocket and finds a Biro. The headmaster snatches it from him and starts to write in the book. He notices that this is the third name he has entered this day. He writes, “Hawkridge, U6, Cane, 6.” He omits to record that it was delivered across the seat of the underpants. The headmaster swirls the book around and passes the pen back. Hawkridge knows the drill. He signs his initials in the book.

There is only one thing still to do. A ritual among gentlemen. The headmaster offers his right hand and Hawkridge shakes it.

“You are dismissed,” the headmaster clears his throat and picks up an essay from the pile on his desk. He watches surreptitiously as Hawkridge replaces his cap on his head and leaves the study. Dr. Fortescue silently counts to ten, throws the essay on the desk and dives to his bottom drawer. Within seconds he is pouring himself a large glass of gin.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Not like at school

David Busby eyed himself in the mirror, took hold of his necktie and unstraightened it so it didn’t have quite such a perfect knot. He was nearly ready. He climbed into a red-and-white-blazer. Proper wool: the real-deal, he was fond of telling people. He licked his lips; they usually dried out at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his tailored light-grey shorts. Up to the knees. He liked to keep the short trousers until last. His cock tingled. It always did. He hopped to his feet and carefully pulled the flannel shorts over his sparkling white Y-front underpants. The new short trousers fitted perfectly. They ought to, it had cost him a fortune to have them made. The button-fly made all the difference.

He admired his view in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. David Busby, aged forty-two, going on what? Eight? Nine? An insurance salesman transformed into a prep. school boy. Jennings and Derbyshire eat your hearts out.

He wiped the sleeve of his blazer across his brow. He was sweating badly, but the room was quite cool. It had nothing to do with the temperature, David Busby (or, more formally, “Busby” from here on in) couldn’t stop his pulse racing. Blood rushed through his body, his face flushed scarlet. His cock swelled inside his tight underpants. Any moment now he would leave the room, walk two or three steps across the landing and rap his knuckles on the door. What a thrill.

Busby had never been to prep. school. They were for the sons of the rich. His dad was a milkman, Busby had to make do with a back-street primary school and a bog-standard comprehensive. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was pretty sure he had never worn short trousers as a kid. Not proper smart grey shorts. Definitely, not to school. They had a uniform at the comp. Just an ordinary black blazer, nothing as fanciful as the one he wore now.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his short trousers, gulped down a lung-full of air and reached for the door handle. He shuffled across the landing and stalled at his final destination. It was a plain door, eggshell in colour. He paused, hesitating, wishing that his heart would behave itself. His mouth drained of what little saliva he had left. He raised his hand and with a confidence belying his supposed age he firmly rapped three times.

Five second passed. Then an imperious command bellowed from the other side of the door. “Come!”

Busby’s hand trembled as he reached for the handle. Absurdly, considering his predicament, he noted dark finger marks on the door. Someone needs to take a J-cloth to that, he thought as he turned the handle down and pushed against the door.

It was a small room. It had once housed a bed, wardrobe and dressing table, but now it was almost empty. A small, rickety wooden desk dominated. A grey, metallic armless chair and a hat-stand were the only other furniture.

Busby stood in the open doorway. He had entered this room many times in the past. Yet, he still took a moment to sniff the atmosphere. Dr. ELT Mastertone, headmaster of this parish, sat behind the desk, his facial features gravely set. He was not an elderly man (he would be about forty-five) but he liked to act much older. Mr. Chips might have been his role model. The tattered academic gown around his shoulders and the mortar-board cap perched precariously on his head, certainly placed him in the 1930s.

He pursed his lips and sneered, “Come in boy, don’t dawdle. Close the door.” He watched the boy fumble with the door and satisfied that he had, at last, managed to close it, he snapped his fingers. “Stand there!” He pointed to the grey tiles in front of his desk.

Busby shuffled to position. His eyes flickered. He couldn’t stop blinking. His hands shook so much he clasped them behind his back. He stared down at his scuffed black shoes.

“Look at me boy when I’m talking to you!” Dr. Mastertone barked. He lived to intimidate small boys. Unenthusiastically, Busby raised his head. Ah!, the headmaster sighed with satisfaction, the boy’s dark-brown eyes were glistening. He was already half way to his goal. He wanted nothing less than tears: real tears, before he would allow the wretch to depart the study.

“Well, Busby, I have a report here from your housemaster,” Dr. Mastertone waved a single sheet of paper above his head. “It is not good boy, it is not good.”

Busby shuffled his feet. He knew what was written in the report. He took a deep breath and stared ahead of him, determined to take what was coming to him bravely.

“Bah!” the headmaster peered closely at the paper in his hand. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Shameful. Shocking.”

The boy before him nodded his head sagely. It was all true. Every word of it. He twisted his fingers, prepared for more of Dr. Mastertone’s outpourings.

“This is criminal, Busby. Actually, criminal,” the headmaster thrust the paper at the boy standing before him. Busby winced, falling back a half-step. For this was no childish misdemeanour; this was an honest-to-goodness real adult crime.

“Drunk-driving!” spittle flew from Dr. Mastertone’s mouth. “You darn fool! You could have killed someone. You could have lost your licence. Your job!”

Busby’s knees buckled. This was the bit he loved the most; even more than the sound thrashing that was sure to follow. Being told off like a little child.

“You’re a very naughty boy!” Music to Busby’s ears.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy!”

There was nothing to say. It was Friday night, too many drinks with the lads after work, a curry; then the drive home. There was no accident, no police pulled him over. He got to his flat and crawled into bed. He would probably do it all over again next week.

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t do it again, Sir. Promise, Sir.”

“Pah!” Dr. Mastertone glared across the desk. “Sorry. Sorry. You soon will be boy!” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and hauled himself to his feet. “Stand there boy,” he nodded across the room. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”

Busby shambled across the study, his sore cock made it uncomfortable to walk. He stuck his nose as close to the wall as it would go, interlocked his fingers and put his hands on his head in the classic naughty-boy pose. His hair gel made his hot, sweaty hands even stickier. The headmaster watched with mounting pleasure as his pupil submitted himself to his will. Soon, pleasure would turn to ecstasy.

Dr. Mastertone took the grey kitchen chair from its place in the corner of the room and lifted it with one hand. He plonked it down with an echoing smack in the middle of the room. Busby flinched. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was being prepared. Satisfied that the chair was in its rightful place, the headmaster sauntered to the opposite corner and the hat-stand. It had no hats, nor coats. It never did have. Its sole purpose was to support the stout but whippy curve-handled rattan school cane that presently dangled from it.

The headmaster reached up and snatched it from its mooring. Eagerly, he flexed it between his hands. He had thrashed countless backsides with this stick, but even so every time he picked it up he liked to reacquaint himself with its supple power by first flexing it between his hands and then swishing it with tremendous force through the air. The terrific swooshing! noise it made as it went sent a shudder up Busby’s back. He barked a dry cough as he contemplated the agony he would endure when that awesome rod flogged across his buttocks.

“Turn around boy,” Dr. Mastertone was ready. Slowly, the pupil turned on his heels. “Bend over the chair,” the headmaster tapped the tip of the rattan against the chair’s grey cloth seat. Busby’s tongue darted in and out through not-quite closed lips, making him look a little like a lizard.

At a snail’s pace, he edged forward, making every second count.

“Bend over boy. You know the drill!” Dr. Mastertone was eager to get on.

Busby did indeed know the drill; he had presented his backside to the headmaster for punishment on times too numerous to remember. He stood behind the chair, took a deep breath, rubbed his sticky palms together and like a diver going into an icy pond, he threw himself forward. He was the perfect height for the chair, his stomach rested comfortably over the metal back. In that position he was able to grip each side of the chair’s seat with his face about nine inches above the stained cloth seat.

“Legs further apart boy,” Dr. Mastertone said this every time, even though on this occasion there was no need as Busby’s bottom was perfectly poised to receive the headmaster’s cane.

The headmaster took up position to the boys left and slowly “sawed” his cane across the centre of his buttocks. He stopped and tucked the cane under his arm. Something was not quite right. A white lining was visible under the short trousers. He leant forward towards Busby, cupped his right hand and rubbed it across both buttocks.

“Ha!” he cried. “Well I never. Who would have thought it, eh boy!” He rubbed Busby’s bum some more, just to be certain he was not mistaken. “Who needs a book down the back of the trousers when you’ve got these!”

The short trousers were made of thick flannel and beneath that the entire insides were covered with a double lining. They were beautifully-tailored short trousers. Elegant and hard-wearing, but entirely useless for corporal punishment. Any boy wearing these for a caning wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Stand up boy!” Dr. Mastertone suppressed a smile. “This won’t do Busby. Won’t do at all. Do you take me for a fool?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “Take down these shorts. It’ll be twelve on the underpants,” he swished his cane in anticipation of the fun to come, “Followed by another twelve on the bare, for thinking you could get away with this ruse.”

But Sir! Busby mouthed the words, but no sound came. He straightened his back and stood and hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“C’mon boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Busby’s once scarlet complexion was now puce.

“Quickly boy,” the headmaster flexed the cane and steadily paced the room. Busby eyed him on his travels and when his back was turned, he hurriedly unbuttoned his flies, let his heavy short trousers tumble to his feet and once more bent across the chair, this time presenting an expanse of gleaming white cotton to his master.

“Ah! That’s better.” Dr. Mastertone admired the beefy buttocks on offer. They were nowhere near pert and nobody would claim they were “buns of steel” but they were far from flabby. He tapped his cane across the fleshiest part, then paused once more. It took a second to tug the waistband of the pants so that the cotton hugged Busby’s bum like a second skin.

He took a pace back, raised the cane high and like a golfer taking a swing he thudded it across the very centre of the backside. Busby shuddered and air hissed through his lips. He mouthed a silent “ouch!” A burning pain. Like someone had rested a hot poker on his bum.

Swipe! Lower this time. Swipe! Now higher. A throbbing strip of flesh two or three inches wide. Whack! One on the underside of the cheek. Nearly on the bare thigh. Busby wriggled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s natural reaction to the assault taking place. Twelve hard cuts. Dr. Mastertone admired his own handiwork. Each stroke expertly delivered.

“Keep still boy!” The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm and gripped the waist of Busby’s white Y-fronts. The boy shut his eyes tight. The pants snagged on their journey south. Busby’s rock-hard cock throbbed even more than his raw arse.

Back in position the headmaster did the sawing thing again. There wasn’t a quarter inch of the naked bum offered up submissively unmarked by the cane. Dr. Mastertone ran the tip of his tongue around his cracked lips. It is what it is, he thought. He had no alternative; slice the cane across already battered flesh.

So, that’s what he did. Thwip-twip-twhip! The springy rattan cane sank into the meaty mounds before bouncing off again. The agony was ecstasy.

The final slice fell. Two men sweating. Huffing for breath. Blood pressure off the scale.

“Stand up boy,” Dr. Mastertone croaked. Busby hauled himself up, stood erect before his master. Cock pointing at the ceiling.

“Bend over the desk boy.”

Shuffling like a penguin, short trousers at the ankles, pants at the knees. Busby stands by the edge of the desk. Lifts his red-and-white blazer half way up his back. Slowly, carefully manoeuvres himself across the bashed-up wooden desk. Puts his weight against the aching cock. Closes his eyes. Hears Dr. Mastertone open the desk drawer. Doesn’t see this, but he knows what is happening. Hears the ripping of a condom packet, a jar of Vaseline is opened. Busby buries his head in his arms. Ready. Willing. Thinking, Schooldays were never like this.

z used shorts self

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Sam’s caning

z used cane white pants down table

Sam glanced at the long, thin yellow-coloured crook-handled cane lying on the table and shuddered nervously at the thought of the wretched thing curling itself around his buttocks. He hated the dreadful waiting. Not that he was eager to have his backside beaten; he knew matters had to take their course. There was no escaping the inevitable and how he wished his dad would just get on with it.

The ticking of the clock echoed around the room. Dad was doing it deliberately, he knew. As if the pain of the thrashing wasn’t enough, dad wanted to increase the punishment by making him anticipate it.

At last, the door to the sitting room edged open. Sam eyed his dad apprehensively as he entered, quietly closing the door behind him. He was a bulky man, well into middle-age. His face was set tight. Nothing would prevent him from doing his duty. The list of Sam’s misdeeds had already been intoned remorselessly by his dad while Sam stood eyes focussed on the Axminster carpet.

Dad clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot close to the dining room table. Sam blanched and shuffled into position. He waited, head bowed, for further instructions.

“You persist in playing the rebel. I think a dose of the cane will teach you some manners and it must be hard and plentiful. That’s the only way to get the message across.”

He picked up the cane. It rattled provokingly against the table top. Dad flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air as if testing its weight. It was light and whippy, a novice might think it too ineffective as a punishment tool. Mr. Ramsden knew otherwise.

Without thinking, Sam put his hands behind his back and smoothed his fingers over his bottom.

“You know what to do,” Mr. Ramsden was sharp and business like. Unable to look his dad in the eye, Sam unzipped his tight pale-blue jeans and pushed them down to his ankles.

“Bend over the table.”

Pulling up his shirt, he leaned over the table, as he had done so many times in the past. The rule was you had to keep your legs together, with your feet on the ground, and your arms flat on the table. You could wiggle, writhe, and scream all you wanted, but you couldn’t get out of position. You had to stay there and suffer, accept the pain willingly and demonstrate your submission.

Sam reckoned there was pride in being able to take a caning properly. He was twenty years old, it would be shameful to make a fuss.

His underpants were snug and he felt the soft cotton dig into his crack as he stretched forward. “Oh,” he gasped when dad gripped the waistband and slowly, inch by inch, drew Sam’s Y-fronts inside out and down to his thighs. His bum was plump and round, the skin smooth and hairless.

Dad “sawed” the cane across the fleshiest part of his son’s naked buttocks. The cheeks clenched, as if this might protect Sam from the fearful thrashing that was about to start.

“Relax,” his dad, tapped the cane into the underside of Sam’s curves. Then he raised the rattan and took a fairly substantial swing back. Suddenly the tip of the cane vanished in a blur as it travelled at incredible speed with a whistling Swish! followed immediately by the satisfying (to dad) resounding Thwack! of rattan against sensitive flesh.

It landed squarely on the middle of the target area. For two or three seconds Sam felt nothing, then suddenly it seemed like a red-hot poker had been seared into his flesh. He grit his teeth and gripped the edge of the table.

Mr. Ramsden admired the imprint of the cane springing up instantly on the pale skin of his son’s bottom. He waited before delivering his next cut, he wanted the young backside to glow in agony before inflicting further punishment.

Mr. Ramsden believed that speed with which a cane strikes the buttocks was a key element in any caning, the faster the better; and Sam’s plump rump would need a lot of caning. Swishing the cane, he waited and then lashed the stick across the offered bottom. A red stripe flamed the hairless buttocks, it was angled diagonally, higher on the left buttock lower across the right.

Sam gasped; the strike of a hard cane stroke was like an electric shock. Mr. Ramsden swished the cane again and waited a few seconds, observing his buttocks carefully. The next stroke would be squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. Mr. Ramsden caned often; he was an expert. He could place each blow where he wanted it.

Swish! There was a gurgling gasping yelp from Sam. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance. Sam had no control, it had a mind of its own. He settled, concentrating hard on keeping his bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over his arse, he managed it.

But, Sam’s bum wobbled as Mr. Ramsden’s stick struck again. Another red stripe blazed across the bottom. Sam gasped, he couldn’t get air into his lungs. He thrashed his head about, like a horse neighing. He clamped his eyes shut. His arms were rigidly extended and his fists tightly clenched.

Mr. Ramsden filled his own lungs, leaned back and thrashed an exceptionally severe stroke. Sam wheezed, another vivid bright stripe appeared across his pale skin. He grunted, gasped, wriggled. Mr. Ramsden whipped him again, and Sam yapped a high, piercing “owwww!”

His whole system leapt with the shock of the intense pain. Bolts of electricity surged through his bum and travelled up and down his legs. His body writhed and the searing pain followed his every movement. His shoulders shuddered and his hands clenched and unclenched on the table.

As if in a trance Sam waited. He was dizzy with the sensations of pain and heat, stabbing through his naked bottom in surging waves. But there was no respite and his dad administered the last four strokes in quick succession. Sam twisted and turned as if to escape the lashing pain, and the compelling pulse in his throbbing bottom. All his senses concentrated on this one aching area.

“It’s over. Stand up.”

Sam allowed himself a long relieved sigh, and he leapt upright, his flat, large palms each caressed a cheek. He rubbed them up and down vigorously, making little jumps as his long fingers kneaded his hot, rubbery buttocks.

The pain in Sam’s welted bottom quickly turned to a warm glow, it was almost quite pleasant. His heart still raced and his head seemed remarkably clear. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. His soldier tingled. It wasn’t at attention yet, but it was on the march. He stood, jeans and pants still at his ankles, facing his dad. Dad’s face flushed as he realised the effect of the caning on his son.

He turned and rushed from the room, leaving Sam to stretch his pants and jeans over his flaming bottom. Still clutching the rattan cane, dad took the stairs two at a time and barged into the bathroom. He had desperate need of a damp face cloth.

 

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The drunken neighbour

Max of ‘The Champion’ 5. The town boss

My boy Dixon

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Changed Times 8. Just another day

z used cane pants down touch toes

 

Click here for all episodes of Changed Times

 

Mr. Burton heaved a heavy sigh and glared at the three young men standing in front of his desk. Won’t they ever learn? The law had been in place for three years, they knew the rules – and the penalty for breaking them.

Osbourne, Rowe and Tapler, three twenty-something trainee managers stood hands behind backs, head slightly bowed. Contrite. Waiting for the inevitable. Mr. Burton noticed how all the young men a Global Petroleum looked like peas in a pod. Dark, perfectly creased trousers, gleaming white shirt, tie knotted tightly at the throat. Neat, short hair. Clean shaven.

There wasn’t much to be said. They knew why they were there. Just returned from a company residential course. They had too much to drink one night and missed the start of the following day. That would not do. Not do at all. Action had to be taken.

“It was a serious training school, not a vacation,” Mr. Burton leaned forward in his chair, planting his forearms on the desk. He was a tall wiry man in his early fifties. He was known as one of the “old guard” – staff who had been at Global since before the changes. When Britain was still in the European Union and before the huge economic crash. Things had changed when the New Democrats came into power. Mr. Burton was a keen supporter, the country had been going to the dogs – especially the young people.

“Well, let’s get on with this shall we,” he lifted himself from his sumptuous leather chair and made his way across the office, conscious of three pairs of eyes craning to watch him go. His destination was a long table. It had a drawer running along its length. Mr. Burton tugged it open, creating a rattling sound. To the three young men it seemed to echo around the office, the sound bouncing off the walls. Osbourne’s hands started to shake. Rowe stared intently at his highly polished black leather shoes. Tapler absent-mindedly rubbed his thumbs across the seat of his trousers.

It took Mr. Burton only seconds to reach in the drawer and withdraw a long, thin whippy rattan school cane. They still called them “school” canes, but since the law was passed it was permissible to beat young people in all walks of life. It started when they brought back corporal punishment to schools and soon its use spread to colleges and universities. Then misbehaving apprentices found they could have their backsides blistered. Suddenly, young people learned how to behave. The public loved it. Next thing the law allowed anyone in authority over the young to beat them black and blue.

This cane was made of the traditional rattan and when Mr. Burton flexed it between his hands he effortlessly made an arc. He looked across at the three young men, each still facing his desk. Three backsides waiting to be beaten. He walked slowly back to his desk, gently swishing the cane as he went.

“I think twelve strokes should do it, don’t you?” It was so gently said Mr. Burton might have been asking a genuine question. As if the lads were able to negotiate. “You know what Mr. Burton, I rather think I deserve three dozen.”

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

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

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

Mr. Burton swiped the cane through the air. “Rowe, Osbourne, stand by the wall.” He nodded to his left and the two young men obediently shuffled. “Tapler. Stand there.” He tapped the tip of his cane in the middle of a red-patterned rug. Tapler breathed deeply. His palms were sweating. He rubbed them against his trouser legs and set off across the office.

“Take down your trousers. Bend over.”

The three young men expected this. They weren’t the first employees to be beaten by Mr. Burton. They wouldn’t be the last. Even so, Tapler’s open faced coloured. His palms dampened again. This was too embarrassing. He saw Mr. Burton tap the cane against his own leg impatiently.

“C’mon lad, I haven’t got all day.”

Tapler’s wet fingers unbuckled his narrow back leather belt. He popped the button on the waistband of the trousers and tugged the zipper. The weight of his keys in his pocket helped them slither down his legs. He felt a slight breeze as they went.

“Bend over, lad.” More tapping against his leg.

Mr. Burton used to order a lad to, “Touch your toes.” He wasn’t sure why. It was the traditional way, he supposed. What generations of schoolmasters had done. He quickly learned it was better to have the lad grab his shins. It kept the knees straight and the bum was beautifully rounded to receive the swish of the rattan.

That was how Tapler presented himself. His spotted boxer shorts fitted snugly against his stretched cheeks. The lad’s shirttail hung down and covered most of his buttocks. It was no effort for Mr. Burton to take the edge and push it up the lad’s back to his shoulders. Mr. Burton was surprised how hairy the twenty-two-year-old was. Quite the hairiest youngster he had ever dealt with.

Tapler stared at the rug. It had a pattern but he couldn’t work out what it was. Some modern art perhaps. From the corner of his eye, he saw Mr. Burton take up position. He felt the cane being “sawed” across the centre of his tight buttocks. Then it was lifted away. He heard the swoosh as the cane flew and the crack as it connected with the seat of his underwear. It was a second or so later that he felt the tremendous pain. A thick welt was already forming under his boxers. It throbbed like mad.

Tapler gripped his calves so tightly his fingernails scratched the flesh. The second and third swipes bounced off his bum; landing in almost the same spot. It knocked the wind out of him. He shut his teeth just in time to stifle the “yowelll!” he wanted to make.

Osborne and Rowe looked on apprehensively. Their pal seemed to be taking the thrashing well. Rowe had howled when Mr. Richardson spanked him, he couldn’t imagine taking a trousers-down caning stoically.

Tapler’s head ached and saliva drained from his mouth. His boss continued his task with determination. It was his duty to instil discipline in the young. One day, when they were managers and making a good career at Global they would thank him for days like this. All his employees would. Mr. Burton was convinced corporal punishment worked. A sore arse never did any harm. The youngster broke the rules, learnt a very painful lesson and the world moved on. God was in his Heaven.

Twelve swipes of the cane across the underwear is an awesome punishment. By the time Tapler was allowed to stand his bum was ripped to shreds. Even without rubbing his hands across his buttocks he knew there were high ridges rising on the flesh. It felt like his shorts were stuck to the skin. That was either sweat, or God forbid, blood.

“Osbourne.”

The trainee manager took Tapler’s place. Tapler’s ashen face and damp eyes made Osbourne’s skin crawl. Osbourne took up position, let his trousers fall and bent to stare at the rug. Mr. Burton grimaced. Osbourne wore the most garish briefs, in a kind of zebra pattern. He had noticed that although young men dressed outwardly alike, they favoured outlandish underwear.

“Brace yourself boy.” He lashed the first cut home.

He had landed number eight when the office door swung open. Mr. Harris the section head – Mr. Burton’s boss – stood in the threshold. He was younger and beefier than Mr. Burton. He smiled broadly. “I heard there was something going on in here.”

He stared across at the zebra-covered arse. “Don’t I know you,” he grunted. “Didn’t I have occasion to thrash you the other week?”

“Yes, Sir,” the reply was addressed to the rug.

“Give me that, Burton,” he grabbed the cane from his hand and marched up to Osbourne. Rowe and Tapler watched in horror as Mr. Harris gripped the waist of the twenty-three-year-old’s pants and ripped them to his knees, completely baring the buttocks.

“You’ve given him a good set of marks, Burton,” he said with genuine admiration. Eight thick parallel lines ran from the top of the globes, over the crest of the buttocks and into the soft sit-spot. Mr. Harris raised the cane high and thrashed six stingers into the bare flesh. Rat-tat-tat, like machinegun fire. Osbourne howled like a banshee. His body twisted this way and that. His knees buckled and straightened as he fought to stop himself jumping to his feet and rubbing away at the scolding flesh.

“Here, carry on,” Mr. Harris handed the cane back and perched his buttocks on the edge of the desk. He folded his hands demurely over his crotch and made himself comfortable to watch the rest of the show.

 

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Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

My boy Dixon

Fr. Christian

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The smoking schoolboy

z used drawing smoking (1)

“You’d better not let Perkins catch you smoking. You know what he said. It’ll be a swishing,” Templeton groaned.

Baxter, leaned back in the study armchair, drew on his cigarette and sucked the smoke into his lungs before holding it there. Then, very slowly he exhaled noisily.

Templeton was not impressed. He sniffed the fug in the air. “This study will stink of tobacco. I don’t want to get the blame for you.”

Baxter sneered. “This place is turning into a madhouse. What’s Fletch’s game?”

That was a question many boys at the school had asked since Dr. Fletcher had arrived as the new headmaster. He had told the sixth-form that he was a “new broom.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Gallagher had asked his fellows. None of them knew for sure at the time. But, they were soon to find out.

“The school has gone to the dogs,” Dr. Fletcher had announced. “Things must improve and quickly,” he decreed to Perkins, the school captain. “And,” he stubbed a finger in the eighteen-year-old’s face provocatively, “I expect you to make the changes.”

Perkins blanched. What was he expected to do?

“Start with the sixth-form and the prefects,” Dr. Fletcher poked the finger again. “Once they understand the rules are for everyone, the rest of the school will soon fall in line.”

Perkins looked dumbfounded, so his new headmaster spelled it out clearly.

“Let them know that lights out and curfew applies to them also. No smoking. No alcohol. Come on boy, you know the sort of thing.”

Perkins nodded uncertainly. He knew the sort of thing, but what was he supposed to do when his fellow prefects and sixth-formers broke the rules?

“Beat them boy. Beat them,” Dr. Fetcher growled in response to the question. “I want to see you take the lead,” the headmaster leaned into Perkins’ face provokingly. “It’s up to you Perkins. I’m relying on you.”

The school captain had never felt so threatened in his life. His arse was quite literally on the line. If he didn’t get the seniors to buck up their ideas and improve their behaviour, it would be Perkins in the head’s study offering up his backside to Dr. Fletcher.

“It’s madness,” Baxter shifted his position in the chair. “I’m eighteen damn it. Does Fletch think that when my father sees me smoking at home, he makes me bend over for six with a cane?” He snorted a derisive answer to his own question.

“If we were day boys at school, would we be taken over nanny’s knee at home for a spanking with the slipper because we weren’t tucked up in bed by nine-thirty?” His eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Why does Fletch insist on treating us like little children?”

Just then the study door opened and Gallagher entered. “My hat, Baxter,” he exclaimed, waving his arms frantically to clear the air. “Can’t you be more blatant about it? One would think you positively wanted Perky to tan your arse.”

Baxter drew more cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, creased his nose and glared disdainfully at Gallagher. “No, I leave that sort of thing to you, old bean.” His eyes sparkled and he relished in Gallagher’s discomfiture as his companion’s face took on a deep shade of beetroot.

Baxter leaned back in his armchair, one foot at rest on a wooden chair, blew smoke at the ceiling, and steadfastly ignored his chums in the study. Each of us have different talents; that is God’s gift to us all. Baxter’s talent was sneering. He was disdainful of the scholar, the boys with noses buried in books. He derided the rugger buggers who huffed and puffed across wet, muddy fields in pursuit of glory for the school. He jeered at any boy who took anything seriously. Now, he professed to scoff at Perkins, the sincere school captain forced on a mission to improve the morals of his flock.

 

@

 

Perkins paced the passageway, shoulders slumped, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. A decision had to be made; he had put it off for far too long. If matters did not improve immediately, Dr. Fletcher would be on his back. Rather, he would be on Perkins’s backside. With a stout whippy cane (or heaven forbid) a heavy birch rod. Perkins was captain of rugby. He was captain of cricket too; he knew the value of decisive leadership. He sighed as if he carried the whole world’s troubles on his young shoulders.

He had no choice in the matter: Baxter must be beaten. The decision made, Perkins shuffled towards study no. 2 where he was sure to find the culprit.

The school captain shoved open the heavy wooden door with more confidence than he really felt. Three pairs of eyes burned into him as he stood in the doorway, his fists clenched. Perkins cut an imposing stature, He was at least six-feet-two, broad at the shoulders, rounded of chest, with narrow hips. His muscles had been developed on many sporting fields. He had biceps that would make a navvy proud.

“You’re brazen, Baxter. You don’t even have the courtesy to hide it,” he snarled at the figure slumped in the armchair surrounded by a fug of cigarette smoke. Baxter flapped the wrist holding the offending cigarette and grimaced.

His unspoken message was clear, “What’s a fellow to do; these school rules are so darned tedious.”

Perkins stretched his arms wide, he made a formidable foe framed by the stout doorway.

“You know the rules Baxter. Dr. Fletcher has spoken them clearly,” Perkins face flushed.

He received another limp-wristed wave for his trouble.

Damn Baxter’s impertinence. Perkins was fuming now. “That’s it Baxter. I’m going to beat you. You give me no choice.”

“Ha!” the solitary word spat from Baxter’s mouth. He leaned forward and ostentatiously stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. “I really don’t think so, old bean,” he beamed. The matter, he had decided was at an end.

Perkins strode into the study and stood over the seated sixth-former. “Stand up. Come with me,” his voice faltered; it had not been as clear a command as he had wished. Baxter waved his arm, dismissing his superior. Perkins knew his ears were reddening. He did not like to be confronted. He did not expect it. In a school such as this there were clear understandings. Some people were the bosses; the others the bossed. Baxter should darned well know his place.

“C’mon Baxter,” Gallagher who had been observing proceedings from a seat in the corner of the study, piped up. “You know Fletch told Perky he had to clean up the Sixth. That means you. If he doesn’t he’s probably got a birching to look forward to.”

“That’s right,” Templeton joined in. “If you don’t take a punishment and mend your ways, Perky will cop it.” Templeton was a self-righteous boy and many of his fellows despised him for it, but they would have to agree he was correct on this occasion.

“Do you have no honour?” Templeton’s question stunned the occupants of Study no. 2 into silence.

Honour? A chap should never let another fellow be punished for his own misdeeds.

Gallagher stirred in his chair. “If you let Perky down, the whole school will know about it. You’ll be ostracised; sent to Coventry.”

A moral high-ground was being constructed. Perkins took his chance. “Come with me Baxter. We should visit the Punishment Room.” Baxter could not mistake the glint in the school captain’s dark brown eyes. The unspoken message was clear,

Perkins walked slowly to the study door, paused for dramatic effect and then turned the handle. He eased the door open, knowing that all eyes in the room blazed on him. “Follow me, Baxter,” he said quietly and without looking back he exited the room safe in the knowledge that Baxter would be following on his heels.

The Punishment Room was really only an ordinary classroom, set aside for a particular purpose. The room was used for detention classes. It was about ten feet by ten and contained a half dozen wooden forms and desks. A rickety wooden teacher’s desk stood at the front with an uncomfortable chair behind it. Behind that and nailed to the wall were three metal hooks. From one dangled a stout, dark-yellow, curve-handled, whippy, rattan punishment cane. The “business end” was a little more than three feet in length and it was a little thicker than a pencil. It had been delivered with some vim across a generation of young gentlemen’s backsides and was a little warped.

A diffused light entered the room through a small window high on the wall. No boy could idly gaze out into the world from this classroom. Gloom enveloped the airless room.

Baxter stood silently watching Perkins prepare himself. Baxter placed his hands behind his back, his feet were slightly apart. His kept a steady gaze on the school captain, noticing the muscles in Perkins’s back flex when he picked up the teacher’s chair to carry it across the room and place it in an open space in front of the schoolboy desks. Perkin’s striped trousers stretched across his round, meaty buttocks as he leant forward.

Baxter ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth; all saliva had dried. He wished he hadn’t smoked quite so many cigarettes that day. Perkins returned to the teacher’s desk and silently divested himself of his jacket and let it fall on the heavily-marked desktop.

Baxter’s tongue still worked hard to moisten his mouth as he watched the school captain slowly take the cuff of the right sleeve of his shirt in his left hand and slowly, meticulously, roll it up by two inches. Then he rolled it once more. Then, again. In this way, the taut muscles in Perkin’s arm were gradually exposed to the warm air.

He turned to Baxter, studying the teenager’s demeanour. His clear blue eyes were dim. In his mind, Baxter seemed to be somewhere else. Not here, in this small, hot room about to be thrashed on the backside with a stout whippy cane by a boy of his same age.

“Take off your coat, put it there,” Perkins nodded across the room to his own jacket. Baxter crinkled his nose, as if a sudden bad odour had seeped into the room. He glanced across at his tormentor, wrinkled his nose again and slowly stepped across the room. His hands shook violently as he undid the buttons and slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He laid it neatly on the desk beside the other coat lying there.

He paused, as if some thought had just struck him. He turned his body, faced Perkins full on, and with a slight arching of his eyebrow indicated the waistcoat he was wearing.

“Yes, take that off too.” It was a quiet, simple instruction. With a little more confidence than earlier, Baxter removed it and let it drop on top of his jacket.

“Stand by the chair.”

Baxter ran his tongue across dry, cracked lips. Why was his heart pounding so hard, he wondered? He had been beaten countless times in the past. It was that kind of school. A cane or ashplant laid on with power could hurt like crazy. Sometimes the marks lasted days; a week even. The agony was excruciating at the moment the rod swiped across the stretched buttocks. But, it quickly eased into a throbbing pain, to be followed by a warm glow.

Whatever his school captain had in store for him, Baxter was certain he would live through it.

He stood in front of the chair, hands behind his back and watched intently as Perkins reached up to the hook on the wall and took down the rattan cane.

He flexed it between his hands. The school captain always marvelled at how light these things were. Like, his chum Baxter, Perkins had had his buttocks blistered many times. How, he wondered, could something so light, inflict such damage?

Baxter watched as Perkins swished the rod through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing noise as it went. Perkins’s big brown eyes sparkled as he felt the power of the rod in his hands.

Then there was silence. It was time to get on with this. One eighteen-year-old schoolboy was to thrash another with a whippy cane across the backside. All in the name of school discipline. Perkins’s own heart thumped. This was not the first time he had wielded the cane; why, he wondered was he so tense this time?

“C’mon, let’s get on with this,” he croaked, swishing the cane one more time. Baxter kept a steady eye contact with his punisher and mimed unbuckling his own belt. Perkins’s flushed pink. “No, no,” he blustered. “Just bend over.”

Baxter turned his back, set his feet about a yard apart, arched his back and grasped the side of the seat of the wooden chair. To stop his eyes continuously blinking he stared intently at a gnarled knothole. He heard Pekins’s feet shuffle behind him, he was taking up his position. In his mind’s eye, Baxter pictured the imposing school captain flexing his muscles, cane in hand, finding his aim. He felt the cane tap the underside of his buttocks, just where they met the thighs. He held his breath, shut his teeth, screwed his eyes tight and waited for the first stinging swipe.

It landed with a resounding crack that echoed across the small room. Moments later, Baxter felt the pain. A rush of wind escaped his clenched teeth. Wow!! That was some cut. Already, he felt a welt was forming beneath his trousers. His buttocks shuddered and his knees bent slightly, but he held himself steady. As he waited for the next swipe. He respected the expertise of his punisher; that was quite one of the best (or, perhaps the worse) cuts he had ever been dealt.

As, he aimed the cane once more across Baxter’s buttocks (a little higher this time) Perkins admired the fortitude of his fellow sixth-former. He had taken it with stoicism. He would be in intense pain, but was determined not to let that show. Good old Baxter!

The second swipe bounced off the very centre of Baxter’s bum. The boy was no athlete and his body was covered in more than a little flesh, but when bent over the chair his raised buttocks firmed up, offering two solid meaty mounds for punishment. Perkins’s was delighted to be presented with such a target.

The third cut (high this time, just below the base of the spine) had Baxter sucking in his breath. His arse was on fire and soon he would not be able to disguise the fact from Perkins. The school captain was hurting him. A lot. All he could see was the worn wooden seat of the chair, but he was almost certain Perkins would be drained in sweat from his exertions. Or maybe not; since Perkins was some athlete, he would be used to physical strain. Baxter was unsure; which of the two images, he preferred.

Perkins paused, took a step away from the boy bent submissively before him and drank in the sight. Here was Baxter, passively offering up his bottom to him. Silently saying, “Here, do what you wish with me. In this moment, I am yours.” And, here was Perkins, anxious to take advantage. Whenever again would he get such a chance.

He gripped the cane in his right fist and positioned himself a little further to Baxter’s left, tap-tap-tapped the rod across the top of the mounds once more and let fly. The stick landed right on top of a previously-delivered cut. Baxter could not help himself. He yelped like a little whipped puppy, wriggled his bum and stamped his legs up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He steadied himself, a little ashamed at his reaction. Two strokes to go. What more did Parkins have in store for him.

Perkins adjusted himself one more time, delighting in the pain he was causing. But, he had no animosity against Baxter. His fellow sixth-former’s behaviour had been nothing personal. It was just Baxter kicking off against the school. And, Perkins had been put in an impossible position by the headmaster.

Even so, a caning should hurt. A lot. Otherwise what was the point of it? Perkins aimed once more (from the bottom left buttock to the top right). “YOWLLLLL!!” Baxter’s scream was genuine as the cane landed diagonally across his arse, slicing into the four welts that already throbbed beneath his trousers and reigniting the pain in all of them. He would discover later that blood seeped from some of the points where the cane marks intersected.

Baxter repeated the buttock wiggling and the leg stomping and added a few heaves of the shoulders for good measure, but gamely he hung on to the seat of the chair.

“Oh, no, please,” Baxter silently whined as he felt the cane rest across his buttocks once more (from the low right to the top left). Crack!!! Now, he had a perfect “X” indented across his buttocks. His face and neck were as scarlet as his bottom as blood rushed through his body to his head. His temples pulsated as much as the meat in his bum.

Perkins tucked the cane under his arm and admired his handiwork. Baxter’s buttocks twitched. How, Perkins wished he had allowed Baxter to lower his trousers and underwear. His arse must be cut to ribbons. What a sight to behold that must be.

Seconds that seemed like minutes passed. Baxter’s was getting his breathing back under control. He blinked back tears. He could not help it, it was his body’s natural reaction to the onslaught it had suffered. Suddenly, Perkins startled, as if just realising where he was. He stepped around the still-prostrated teenager and replaced the cane on the hook.

“You can remove yourself, now,” his command was haughty. Baxter jumped up, hopping from foot to foot. Perkins grinned widely. Baxter stopped his spanking dance puzzled. His stare was as good as asking the question, “What are you laughing at?”

By way of silent reply, Perkins nodded toward the huge bulge in the front of Baxter’s trousers.

Baxter’s own grin was wider than Perkins’s.

“What the deuce …?” The two eighteen-year-olds eyes met. Instant understanding. Perkins reached forward and expertly undid the buckle of the belt, unbuttoned the flies and in a single continual movement had the trousers and underwear at Baxter’s feet. The released cock pointed in Perkins’s face, the tip already glistening.

He sank to his knees and gripped Baxter’s buttocks and pulled him forward. Baxter winced as his chum’s fingers dug into his blistered cheeks, the new pain encouraging his dick to swell further. Perkins gripped the base of his cock and energetically licked it from the ball sack, along the steel-hard shaft up to the red-raw tip. Within seconds, Perkins’s face was soaked in cum. Baxter fell on his back wheezing as if his life’s breath had deserted him.

Perkins wiped his chin clean with the back of his hand. His own cock strained against the front of his trousers, demanding to be freed. His companion lay on the dusty floor still struggling to force air into his lungs.

The pain in his trousers was too great; swift action had to be taken. In one continuous movement, Perkins bent down and gripped Baxter under the armpits. Perkins had superior strength, but he didn’t need it. Baxter gave no resistance. Perkins lifted him to his feet and dragged him towards the teacher’s desk. Within a heartbeat, Perkins had Baxter facedown across it, his savaged buttocks at his mercy. A hand in the small of his back held him firm, while with the other Perkins undid his own trousers and dragged his clothes to his knees.

“Yes, yes,” Baxter wheezed and parted his legs, offering his winking hole. Perkins could see this was not a new experience for the eighteen-year-old. He held his shaft half way down and guided his cock forward and was greeted with a satisfying screech.

Upstairs in Study No 2. Gallagher and Templeton exchanged contented looks. Perkins was giving Baxter the sound flogging he so truly deserved. Order had been restored to the school.

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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The pretty policeman

He knew the boy would be trouble

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com