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.

 

Other stories you might like

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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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

 

The Tyrant Headmaster 8. The student master

used drawing quelch (7)

For all the previous episodes of The Tyrant Teacher, click here

Steve May slowly closed the door to the study behind him.

He stood blinking the tears. Tears of humiliation; tears of pain. His backside throbbed like crazy. A minute or two earlier it had been intense agony, but it was easing a little. It would be several hours before the pain went completely.

How he hated that school. He would gladly see it burn to the ground. All of it and the schoolmasters with it.

Slowly, he eased his way down the passageway. Every step he took was agony as the elastic at the bottom of his underpants cut into his blistered bottom. He limped downstairs and through the lower school passageways, hands gingerly touching his buttocks. He couldn’t help it; he desperately wanted to rub his scorching bottom. His eyes were still wet and blurry as he made for the bogs and a cubicle in which to hide for a few minutes, until he’d regained some composure.

He cried a bit more; his bum was throbbing madly and the pain was killing him.

That night, alone in his horrible furnished room, Steve wept into his pillow and nursed his scarred buttocks. He still had weeks to go until he would be allowed to leave St Septimius. How would he survive?

 

Four weeks earlier

 

Steve May’s progress was painstaking. He crossed the ivy-covered quadrangle, passed the mullioned-windows of the library and entered the clock tower. He had never been in such a place before. What kind of school was this?

At a snail’s pace, he climbed the stairs in search of Mr Fortescue’s study. “Study:” even the words they used here intimidated him. Study: what was wrong with office? That was a perfectly good word. Steve was in search of Mr Fortescue, the headmaster, the man who was to be his mentor for the next eight weeks, while he undertook his teaching practice.

He was not looking forward to this. Now, he had to prove that he really had the makings of a schoolteacher. Eight weeks was all the time he had. If he failed that was the end for him. But success meant qualification and “Steve May” would become “Mr May,” a junior teacher.

The school porter had told him the study was on the first floor. He found that easily enough and was scrutinising the nameplates on the oak-panelled doors when he stopped in his tracks. Beyond the door of the study at the far end of the corridor came a distinct sound. Swish! Thud. Swish! Thud.

His heart beat faster. Was that what he thought it was? His naturally pale face coloured up with embarrassment. He stopped, stood still, unsure what to do next. Suddenly the door of the study eased open and a boy, bulkier and taller than Steve, emerged. Steve’s attempt to avoid eye contact was a failure. The boy glared at him: his expression a mixture of pain and resentment.

The pain was born of being forced to drop his trousers and bend over a chair to allow Fortescue to swipe his cane across his stretched white underpants and the resentment was forged when this stranger witnessed that humiliation.

The sense of intimidation Steve already felt increased as he formed a slack fist and ever so lightly tapped on the study door. He half hoped Dr Fortescue would not hear the knock so Steve could withdraw and leave the school forever. He would tell his tutors at the teacher training institution that nobody had been expecting him at the school.

“Come in.” Rats! He had heard. There was no going back now for Steve May. He had arrived at St. Septimius and he would have to survive all that the school threw at him in the next two months.

He turned the handle and opened the door slightly as if he was trying not to be a nuisance and squeezed through the small gap he created between door and door jam.

Steve looked around the study. It was dominated by a huge desk, topped with green leather. Behind it was a window that overlooked the school grounds with its ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows.

The walls of the study were panelled in oak. A large open unlit, fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there

Standing against the wall was a wooden chair with a high back over which, Steve would one day discover, boys had to drape themselves when being caned. Behind this was a comfortable seating area where presumably Dr Fortescue held informal meetings. Steve’s eyes, however, were drawn to the object laid across the desk, a thin yellow stick with a curved handle: the cane.

“You must be May.” Dr Fortescue gave him a frosty glare making Steve feel like a naughty twelve-year-old schoolboy. The fact that the cane was resting on the desk did little to modify that. In his mind’s eye, he could see that resentful schoolboy stretched across the desk, bottom high. When Fortescue beckoned him with a crook of his finger to go and stand in front of his desk Steve was certain he was in for similar treatment.

He shuffled forward, eyes lowered. Steve had been overwhelmed from the moment he walked through the gates of St. Septimius. He had never seen such a place. He had attended a modest inner-city secondary modern school made of breeze-blocks and glass, far removed from the ancient buildings at St. SIGS.

Dr Fortescue’s glare fixed on Steve who intuitively stared down at his mud splattered shoes, terrified he might make eye contact with the headmaster. He shuffled from one foot to another in embarrassment.

Dr Fortescue had a red face with a heavy frown on his brow and his thin lips were set tightly. None of the boys were sure of his age; he probably looked older than he actually was. He was an intimidating man, as strong as an ox.

Fortescue did not like what he saw. Who was this pale-skinned scrawny creature dressed in a cheap suit from the Co-op, who stared at the carpet too petrified to even look at him? Who on earth thought he could become a schoolmaster? If he wore one of St Septimius blue-and-white blazers he might be mistaken for a sixth-former. Heavens! Put him in short trousers and he could pass as fifteen.

“So, you are May.”

Steve blushed scarlet. Was he expected to answer? He wasn’t at all certain.

“Well, answer me boy!” Already Dr Fortescue was treating his new “colleague” as if he were a disobedient pupil.

“Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir.”

Fortescue’s already ruddy complexion turned puce with rage. That lower-class accent! Where was this urchin from? Some industrial town in the Midlands: Wolverhampton? Walsall? How could he be expected to teach English, when he couldn’t even speak the language correctly?

He turned his back on Steve and stared out of the window. What was the world coming to? He blamed the new Socialist government. They wanted to abolish schools like St Septimius. Jealousy. Class envy, that’s what it was. The school had been forced to take scholarship boys from the working classes and now it was expected to take on this wretch as a student master. What next: admit West Indians? Independent schools were supposed to “give something back,” the Socialist, no crypto-Communist, Minister of Education had said. “Give something back”: what the hell did that mean?

Fortescue stared through the window. A bell rang in the distance and hundreds of schoolboys in St Septimius colours emerged from classrooms. Bloody Socialists, he thought, they want everybody to be the same.

He turned to May. “Get out of my sight and never come back,” is what he wanted to say. But he had been given his instructions by the school governors. He knew he had to deal with this person and his strangled vowels.

So, instead of throwing the tyke out on his ear, he did the next best thing. He sent him over to see Carruthers, the most junior of the English masters. Let him wet nurse the baby and he sincerely hoped he never had the displeasure to encounter this wretch and his shiny suit ever again.

@

Steve had been at the school for more than two weeks and was on the edge of despair. Carruthers was scarcely older than Steve himself and had not taken well to his task as babysitter. It had brought out his worst bullying tendencies: Carruthers was on the lowest rung of school-mastering and resented it; now, in Steve he had someone who was even lower down the pecking order.

He took an instant dislike to Steve from the moment he opened his mouth. He didn’t care that the new man was a considerable expert on the Romantic poets and Shakespeare’s tragedies: all he heard were his Black Country “strangled vowels.”

Carruthers would have left Steve to fend for himself if he hadn’t been given instructions by Dr Fortescue to “look after” him. Carruthers knew from painful experience that he must obey his headmaster at all times. Failure would mean a second humiliating visit to Fortescue’s study and Carruthers intended to avoid that at all costs.

Steve was assigned Sixth Form English classes, on the expectation that boys were older and responsible and would not make trouble for him. Alas, for poor Steve, that wasn’t to be. The boys might only eighteen year olds, but they were already well versed in snobbery; they knew their own sense of superiority and Mr May was most assuredly not of their class.

The boys went through the formalities: they stood, as they would for any master, when he entered the schoolroom and they called him “Sir”, but they had no respect for him at all and rather resented that he had been foisted upon them.

They called him the Queen of the May behind his back and made assertions that he was “queer,” even though they didn’t quite know what that meant. A particularly obnoxious boy called Jenkins led the charge. Jenkins was one of those boys who thought he was the class clown, and makes himself popular by always making his fellows laugh, but is in fact a bully. He and another boy had made up a poem about Steve that concentrated on the master’s assumed sexual behaviour.

Steve knew none of this but he did know that he had no rapport with his pupils and every class with them had become an ordeal for him.

Things were about to get even more humiliating. Every time he entered the schoolroom he felt he had been transported back two or three decades. The schoolroom consisted of about twenty wooden desks connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on wooden benches. Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

A master would stand at the class at a blackboard and easel. To his left was a small desk for him to work at and behind it was a shelf for books.

The boys hated Mr May and wanted to make as much trouble for him as possible. Jenkins had made a plan. Each boy would make a paper dart and at a given signal as Steve chalked on the board they would simultaneously bombard him. It worked perfectly – at first.

Each boy surreptitiously tore a page from his exercise book and whenever Mr May turned his back, they would stealthily fold their paper until they had fashioned a serviceable paper airplane.

Then as Mr May was chalking a particularly difficult explanation on the board, Jenkins silently gave the command and a veritable air force of paper flew at the trainee schoolmaster. Some darts hit him about the body (at least one caught him on the back of the neck) while others made crash landings all around his feet.

“What? What? What is going on?” Steve spluttered.

Then, the schoolroom door flew open and Dr Fortescue stormed in. What back luck for the boys that he had been passing the classroom at the very moment the air force took flight and he had seen enough to know the boys were attacking the schoolmaster.

He might not have liked nor respected May, but Dr Fortescue knew it was his own duty to protect him and the dignity of all the schoolmasters at St Septimius from the savagery of their pupils.

The boys stood to attention as Dr Fortescue strode into the room, his face was puce in colour and he was sweating profusely. He seemed to be losing a struggle to retain his temper. The boys were fortunate he was not carrying a cane at the time (he almost always did when he patrolled the school corridors) for he might just have thrashed every backside in the classroom.

“This is disgusting behaviour,” he thundered. The silence from the boys was deafening, hardly one of them dared to breathe. All Steve could hear was the thump, thump, thump of his own heart bursting to get out of his chest. He was so miserable; made so by the boys’ air attack on him and compounded by his headmaster witnessing his incompetence in the schoolroom. He was close to tears as Dr Fortescue glared around the room, catching the eye of every single boy as he roared his disapproval.

“You will all return here at four o’clock this afternoon for detention.” With that he turned on his heels and burst through the door into the corridor, leaving a classroom full of shocked sixth-formers and one deeply humiliated trainee schoolmaster.

@

Shortly after four o’clock the boys assembled in the schoolroom for their detention. Some might have felt resentful since all the form was being punished for the misbehaviour of a few boys, but they did not show it. Schoolboys have an acute sense of injustice, but on this day they had a sense of solidarity that would made a trade union leader envious. They were united in their disdain for Mr May; if he could keep control of a class they wouldn’t be here now.

Dr Fortescue entered; glared at the class and pronounced. “You will tear a page out of your exercise book and each boy will write a two-page letter of apology to Mr May. I will read your missives and if your apology is not to my satisfaction, I will apply my cane to the seat of your trousers.”

With that he strutted from the room, in search of tea.

The boys started on the task. Two pages? How was a fellow expected to make a letter of apology run for two pages? What was there to say except: “I’m sorry.”

Many of the boys stared into space, chewing the end of their pens, hoping for inspiration. Others whispered to their neighbours as if that might stimulate thought.

Then Jenkins, the class joker, piped up. “Dear Mr May. I am sorry that you are a lousy schoolmaster.”

He was encouraged by the laughter this received.

“I am sorry that you are a tyke, who was born in Wolverhampton,” this said in a mock Black Country accent. The boys were appreciating the joke.

“Dear Mr May, I am sorry you are a homo.” The class was silent. Faces reddened. Jenkins had not expected this. All the boys thought May was queer, that’s why they nicknamed him Queen of the May.

“Jenkins!” Dr Fortescue had returned to the schoolroom, a cup of tea in one hand and his favourite cane in the other.

“Stand up boy!” Fortescue’s face had turned the colour of red wine. Boys of Dr Fortescue’s acquaintance knew this was a dangerous sign. Jenkins stumbled to his feet. Just as blood was rushing to the headmaster’s face, it was draining from Jenkins.

“What is the meaning of this!” Fortescue thundered, but he clearly did not expect an answer.

“Stand out in front of the class.”

Every boy in the room knew what was to happen next. Dr Fortescue’s punishments were always given in front of the class; the unfortunate boy would be called out to the front and given a real whacking. Once it was over the boy would be sent hobbling to his seat, finding it extremely difficult to let go of his stinging cheeks. Without fail he would at least have moist eyes; most would be in tears, even openly crying as they tried to sit down. Dr Fortescue would stand in front of the class with a satisfied smirk on his face watching and still wielding the cane. He would place the weapon back on the desk, in plain view, as a warning to everyone else, should they misbehave.

“Right Jenkins! Bend over the front desk backside facing the class.”

Reluctantly, the eighteen-year-old walked to the desk and bent over and waited for Dr Fortescue to begin. He sensed his grey trousers being tightened as the headmaster ensured they would offer the least protection to his bottom as possible.

Jenkins was no longer the class clown, he was a fool bent over with a class of sixth-formers staring intently at his bottom. The classroom was tense as they all waited for the caning to begin. Jenkins felt the cane tapping his backside and then it was gone. The next thing he heard a swish and his bottom was on fire.

Before he could recover the second stroke had landed, this took his breath away and by the third it was all he could do not to yell as the agony was so intense.

The fourth landed right at the bottom of his cheeks and Jenkins gulped tears. As the final two strokes fell in the same area he could no longer keep quiet and screamed out in pain, broken and humiliated in front of his classmates.

Dr Fortescue liked to examine a boy immediately he had caned him and ordered Jenkins to rise from the desk at once. As tears streamed down the teenager’s face, Dr Fortescue laid into him verbally. “Boy, I have gone easy on you this time, if I catch you again abusing Mr May your trousers and underpants will come down and Six will become Twelve. Is that understood?”

It was, but Jenkins did not have sufficient control of himself to say so.

“Back to your desk and complete your letter of apology.”

Then turning back to the class, Dr Fortescue added, “I shall return in twenty minutes’ time and I expect each one of you to have completed the letter of apology. Any boy who has not done so will get the same as Jenkins.”

With that he left the classroom to the sound of his own footsteps. For the next twenty minutes the classroom was in silence except for the gentle sobbing of one eighteen-year-old boy.

@

He had only been at St Septimius a short time but nothing could surprise Steve about the school. Dr Fortescue, his headmaster, expected him to bend over and offer up his arse for his cane, just as if he were one of his fourth-form pupils.

To Dr Fortescue it seemed the most natural thing in the world; he was in charge and he would brook no nonsense from this trainee schoolmaster, who had failed in all his duties in the schoolroom. He was utterly incompetent and if he expected a good report for his training officer at the end of his placement he had better get his backside in the air fast.

Dr Fortescue didn’t say any of this out loud, of course, but Steve knew that was what he meant. The only chance he had (and it might only be a slim chance) of becoming a junior schoolmaster was to let this bullying headmaster have his way.

Dr Fortescue opened one of the desk drawers and picked out a small bunch of keys which he carried across to a tall cupboard on the far side of the room. The cupboard was like a wardrobe with a metal rail running from side to side and there was a black schoolmaster’s cloak and an overcoat hanging from it on coat hangers. Then to one side, Steve saw several canes also suspended from this metal rail. They seemed to vary in length by only a few inches and one or two were thicker than the others.

“Very well, go to the cupboard and choose a cane and bring it to me.”

Slowly, Steve went over to the cupboard and looked at the array of canes inside. He looked back at Dr Fortescue questioningly. “The one you think you deserve.” he repeated. Finally, Steve took a breath and chose the thickest one, which was second longest. He held it almost reverentially as he passed it to his master. It was heavier than he thought, but easy to hold. Despite its thickness, it was very pliable.

Fortescue moved a high-backed chair from the corner of the room and set it down in front of his desk.

“Stand there.” It was a clear command as Dr Fortescue pointed to a spot on the rug. Steve shuffled his feet, reluctant to move, but deep down he knew he had no choice. For the sake of his future he had to be completely subservient to Dr Fortescue and anything the headmaster demanded of him he had to deliver.

“Trousers and underpants down.” Another cool command, delivered as if the instruction was the most natural thing in the world: a twenty-two-year-old trainee school teacher required to strip half naked to allow a man more than twice his age to flog his buttocks with a whippy rod.

Hesitatingly, Steve started to undo the belt of his trousers and then his trouser buttons. He half pushed and half pulled his suit trousers down just below his bottom.

“That’s no good boy. I want them down round your ankles.”

Steve blushed and pushed his trousers right down. He then seemed to freeze.

“Now your underpants,” Dr Fortescue gently reminded him. “Right down please.”

Steve summoned up the courage, grasped the waistband of his pants and in one slow, but steady movement, drew them down to meet his trousers. He had a long-tailed shirt so that action did not reveal his buttocks, other than a brief glimpse of the very lowest part.

“Please pull your shirt up so that your bottom is fully exposed.”

Steve obeyed pulling his shirt up and gathering it at the front. His bottom was round and pert.

“Bend over the chair boy,” he ordered, rattling through his rules for caning. “Head right down, I want you tight, bottom out more, legs slightly apart, hold the chair seat tightly. And stay there. If you move out of position I shall give you extra strokes.”

Steve bent with his legs stretched out at forty-five degrees behind him. The seat of the chair was cold to his hands. He could feel the back of it sticking in to his stomach. He felt very frightened.  He could hear a cane being swished. Then footsteps moving towards him. He felt intense embarrassment. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt!

With a growl, Fortescue swiped the rod through the air and landed it with a heavy thwack across Steve’s bottom, pacing each stroke for maximum effect, giving him the full length of the cane and making sure that twelve strokes covered the whole of his bottom.

“Ow! Ow!” shrieked Steve, moving his bottom from side to side over the back of the chair as he tried to alleviate the sting, but the stick whipped and cracked to Dr Fortescue’s delight, dancing on his bare cheeks and painting pink stripes. His buttocks rocked from side to side as Steve wiggled his hips frantically, attempting to dissipate the pain.

The trainee teacher begged the headmaster for mercy as Dr Fortescue lashed his cane into his tight buttocks. His behind was throbbing with the pain of twelve strokes of the cane, but Fortescue wasn’t satisfied.

Suddenly, Fortescue stopped swiping his cane and began dementedly slapping his hard, rough hand into Steve’s welted buttocks. A rapid succession of sharp whacks covered almost every part of young Steve’s bare backside and upper thighs, leaving him panting noisily for breath and gulping back a flood of cries. He was sweating profusely, and his breathing was heavy, fast, gasping. His face and neck were red and strained and his mouth agape.

Dr Fortescue’s breathing was heavy, excited, uncontrolled. Then he stopped spanking Steve’s red-raw buttocks.

Steve could not be sure his punishment was at an end as he assumed Dr Fortescue would instruct him to stand when he was finished. When no instruction came, the twenty-two-year-old drew a deep breath and exhaled slowly and tentatively raised his head up just ten or twelve inches.

When he was not stopped, he took another deep breath and stood half upright, his hands gripping the top of the chair. Finally, he stood up on tiptoe and began gently exploring the damage caused to his bottom, trying to disperse the sting. Several tears trickled down his cheeks and he wiped them away with the back of his hand.

Dr Fortescue was motionless, Steve could not be sure, but the headmaster appeared to be in some kind of trance.

With a sharp intake of breath, Steve bent down and slowly hunted through the material that lay around his ankles as he sought the waistband of his pants. With a slight groan as he experienced once more the soreness of his bottom, he eased them up his legs. Equally as slowly he pulled up his trousers.

Dr Fortescue was battling to regain his composure, but failing. Steve started to run on the spot and jump up and down to help relieve the pain. Football commentators on TV are always talking about how players “run off” their injuries after they’ve been kicked about a bit on the pitch. In Steve’s case, it didn’t seem to work.

Seemingly lacking the power of speech, Dr Fortescue pointed to the door and whispered, “You had better go.”

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The pillow fight

z used drawing pyjamas pillow fight Mag (1)

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sat slumped in the comfortable leather armchair in his study, trying to read the evening newspaper. It was deuced hard work. The noise coming from the senior boys’ dormitory on the landing above was disturbing his concentration.

Typical first night of term, the doctor mused. Let them get on with it. It was still early, they would eventually run out of steam and settle down to sleep.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood turned the pages of his newspaper. The American election was in full swing. Who really cared? he sighed.

Judging by the way the floorboards were shaking some kind of fight was in progress. With pillows, no doubt, the housemaster smiled. Boys will be boys. What tales they would have to tell, when they left the school. Thump! Something heavy crashing to the floor made the ceiling shake. Oh dear, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned. If it went on like this much longer, he would be forced to investigate.

A piercing screech rent the air. It sounded like a boy was being murdered. The housemaster folded his newspaper carefully and placed it on a nearby table. He listened intently. Silence. Whatever had happened, it seemed to be over.

Alas, no. Another equally spine-chilling shriek echoed across his study, followed by wild cheering. What on earth were they up to? Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood was very used to having boisterous schoolboys in the house, but this was too much.

Another scream. Foot stomping. The light fitting on the ceiling swayed. “Oh, this is really the limit,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood groaned inwardly. “If they persisted in behaving like junior boys, they should not be surprised to be treated that way.”

He hauled himself from his chair and stretched. His academic gown hung from a nearby umbrella stand. Wearily, he climbed into it. He placed his mortar-board cap on his head, fixing it so the tassel fell in just the right place. He glanced in the mirror; he rather liked his look.

Then, he took four steps across the study and stopped in front of a tall, thin cupboard. The door was closed but not locked. It opened with a flick of the wrist. Inside were several whippy rattan canes, of varying lengths and thicknesses. Any one of them could in the right hands deliver a stinging beating, he thought, but these were senior boys, they deserved something special.

He reached in and took hold of a dark-yellow curved-handled cane. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed it between his hands. He had used this particular rod many times in the past. He could attest to its effectiveness, as could the dozens of boys he had thrashed in the past three months alone. The housemaster was well-known, and justifiably proud, of his reputation among the fellows for his expertise.

He swished the cane a few times, delighting in the swooshing sound it made as it travelled through the air. Satisfied with the rod’s competence to deliver, he tucked it under his arm and exited his study.

There was no great distance between the study and the senior boys’ dormitory. Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood walked maybe ten yards down the passageway before ascending one flight of stairs to the landing above. The dormitory was almost exactly above the study. The housemaster made stately progress. He knew he should not be in a great hurry. There was a certain understanding in such matters. Boys who were ragging would have one of their own on sentry duty to call “cave” on the approach of a master. That would give the chaps a chance to affect an air of total innocence when the beak arrived.

But, there was no lookout and no abatement in the noise. Well, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood concluded, fingering the end of his cane, they only had themselves to blame. He waited outside the dormitory door, listening to the mayhem from within. He counted to ten in his head, gripped the handle and dramatically flew open the door.

There was chaos. A dozen senior boys, all dressed in identical red-and-white-striped pyjamas, attacked one another with pillows. There appeared to be no sides. It was a free-for-all. Everyone was fair game.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood made an imposing figure, framed in the doorway. He was about six-feet-four-inches tall and built like a rugby prop forward, although he had never played the game. He wrapped his gown around his body and glared into the room. He looked like a hawk about to take flight. Impressive indeed. But, not one boy present took notice of him, too intent were they on their own private battles.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood sucked in a lung-full of air. “Boys!” he boomed. “Desist this instance.” A few paused their combat; many did not.

“I said, desist!” he roared.

Sheepishly, all in the room turned to face their housemaster. One or two hurriedly dropped pillows, staring at them as if they had never seen the things before, as they fell on beds.

“Such disgraceful behaviour,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood spoke in a natural voice. He had the complete attention of every boy in the room. “What were you thinking?” He turned to the boy nearest to him, “Carruthers?” and when he received no reply, he tried another senior, “Carstairs?”

The silence of the replies irritated him. “Carruthers, you are the dormitory monitor, explain to me what is going on.”

Carruthers blushed. Suddenly, he had an intense interest in the bare floorboards beneath his feet, but he did not reply. Carstairs could not stop looking at the fierce-looking cane tucked under the housemaster’s arm.

“Would some boy explain what is going on,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood’s beaky stare intimidated one boy after the other. “Dunno, Sir,” said one. “Sorry, Sir,”” another ventured.

“Sorry, yes you will be sorry,” the housemaster barked, “All of you.”

A dozen pairs of eyes burned into him as slowly and deliberately Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He paused for dramatic effect, then flexed it between his hands until it made a perfect arc. Then, he swished it in the direction of the far wall. “Line up there all of you. Face me. Hands on head.”

Sorrowfully, the seniors shuffled across the dormitory. Not a sound could be heard, not even the thumping of the boys’ hearts. Corporal punishment was imminent. Soon, each stood as instructed, hands on head. Some tried to stand to attention as if on a military parade ground; most slouched, their backs arched and knees bent.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood glared at each boy in turn. He said nothing, his face said it all. He had practiced his intimating stare over many years. No boy dared meet his gaze. Some looked blankly into the distance, others at their bare feet. The housemaster swished his cane. All the boys would be beaten. Hard. They would expect, no demand, nothing less. Rules had been clearly expressed. Lights out and silence at nine-thirty. Just as clearly, rules had been disobeyed. There was a certain etiquette in such things. Matters had to take their course.

“I shall not tolerate such behaviour, and from senior men too,” he intoned. “You will each be beaten on the bared buttocks.” The housemaster delighted at his reception. Faces flushed as red as buttocks soon would be. He tapped the tip of his cane against a wrought-iron bedstead and pressed against it so his thick, dense cane curved.

“Step forward Carruthers. You are dormitory captain, it is your duty to maintain order,” he growled. “And discipline.” He rolled the word “discipline” around his mouth. The wretched senior before him would not – could not – look his master in the eye. “Sorry, Sir,” he mumbled.

“Carruthers, you will take Six; you other boys will get three,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood flexed the cane once more. “Lower your pyjama bottoms and bend over the bed.” It was a clear command, softly spoken. It was an instruction from a housemaster, no boy at the school would dare disobey.

Carruthers stepped forward; his fingers fumbled at the drawstring of his pyjamas, but soon the red-and-white-striped bottoms slithered down his thighs before snagging at the knees. He parted them slightly and they continued the journey to his feet. The senior hesitated, unsure if he should step out of the trousers bunched at his feet and present himself totally naked from the waist down. When no further instruction was forthcoming from the housemaster, he elected to leave them in place and bend forward.

The bedstead was cold and hard. It stuck into his stomach and hurt. He would have much preferred if the housemaster had placed a pillow for him, but, he knew, the good doctor had no concern that the boys he was about to punish should be comfortable. That was hardly the point of the exercise.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood stretched forward and took the tail of the pyjama jacket and with some ceremony folded it once, and then twice, up Carruthers’ back, exposing several inches of flesh covered in dark brown hair. He stood back to take his aim. He pressed the cane into Carruthers’ naked buttocks. There was a lot of “give”. The housemaster beat many boys and most had well upholstered bottoms. He could not recall the last time he had been presented with a pair of taut, pert buttocks.

He “sawed” the cane across the centre of the senior’s backside, enjoying how it twitched with anticipation. The housemaster made two practice swipes, raised the cane high and swiped it with terrific force into the naked flesh. The buttocks wobbled with the impact, a dark pink line appeared, and Carruthers threw back his head and silently gulped in draughts of air.

Unseen by the housemaster other boys craned their necks forward, lest they should miss any of the excitement. One boy, who had never been beaten, nor witnessed such a thing, felt his cock stiffen. He wondered if he dared remove his hands from his head to cover the obvious erection that was growing.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood took his aim once more. Carruthers’ body stiffened. The stroke made him tingle with agony from head to foot. His eyes shone, and his face went white, but he uttered no cry. He had been thrashed before, often. He knew the form; no matter how much a master hurt you, you must never show it. Four more cuts hammered into his naked haunches, each as hard and stinging as the first, but not a sound escaped his lips. But for the drawn, strained look about his lips, and the blaze in his eyes, he might have been a statuesque bust when he rose and joined his fellows, hands on head.

“Carstairs, you’re next. Step forward boy.” Carstairs was a little taller than Carruthers, but no less padded. Nonchalantly, he let his pyjama bottoms fall. He stood facing his tormentor affording the housemaster a perfect view of his flaccid cock and ball sack. It was, Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood observed silently, quiet the longest member he had seen in a considerable time.

Without fuss, Carstairs lifted his jacket to his chest exposing an almost hairless stomach. He paused to a silent count of three and satisfied that his fellow miscreants had admired his manhood, he dived across the bedstead. He spread his arms wide and opened his legs. His cock and balls dangled provocatively. But, the housemaster would not be distracted.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

Three deep welts were already forming as Carstairs hobbled back in line. The pain was intense. It had only been three cuts, but the housemaster was a recognised expert with the cane. It had been “three” like the senior had seldom received before.

“Next boy,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood slashed his cane through the air. He was in his stride now.

So, it was that twelve boys settled down to sleep, each nursing deep cuts on their backsides. No words were exchanged until First Bell next morning. Then, each would display his trophy stripes. By then, deep pink would be turning to mauve. They would change to many colours of the rainbow before finally disappearing several days later.

Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood returned to his study. He replaced the cane in the tall, thin cupboard and opened his cocktail cabinet and poured two glasses of gin. Soon, the study door burst open. His visitor owned the establishment; he was not one to knock on doors.

“How did it go?” he inquired eagerly before gulping his drink.

“Very well. Very well indeed. I think they all thoroughly enjoyed themselves,” Dr. Thrumpington-Redwood nodded approvingly. “It should be one of our best weekends ever.”

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

Other stories you might like

The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

A pair of shorts

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Oh my papa

z used cane shorts chair (72)

Ian stretched his arms and legs and turned on his side to get a look at the bedside clock. Just gone eleven. He rolled onto his back and pulled the sheet up under his chin. He would leave it a little longer. The pubs didn’t open until twelve.

Suddenly, the door burst open and a huge figure blocked the frame. Mr. Hector was six-feet-four in his stockinged feet, broad at the shoulders and thick at the waist.

“C’mon, Ian. Get up. It’s time for your maintenance spanking.”

Ian pouted and pulled the bedsheet over his head. “Oh Papa, I don’t want to.”

Mr. Hector folded his arms across his chest and smiled. The naughty little boy was going to be difficult. Well, we shall see about that, he thought.

“C’mon son, you know how much I enjoy Sunday mornings.”

“Oh, Papa,” the nineteen-year-old sulked.

“Well, have it your own way,” Mr. Hector strode to the bed, took a handful of sheeting and wrenched it clean away from the teenager’s body. He licked his lips (an involuntary movement) at the sight of the gym-honed figure on the bed, wearing just blue-and-white-striped boxer briefs.

“Up you get young man,” Mr. Hector gripped Ian’s right wrist and pulled him to his feet. The boy was six inches shorter than Papa and several pounds lighter. He gave no resistance as Mr. Hector guided him from the room and down the stairs of the modern semi-detached house. The door to the sitting room was open. Mr. Hector had already made his preparations. A straight-backed, armless chair had pride of place in the centre of the room.

Mr. Hector guided Ian to the chair, then momentarily released his wrist while he sat in it, spread his legs a little and wriggled his bum until he was comfortable. Ian watched silently, noticing how Papa’s legs were thick and well-padded.

“Over you go,” Mr. Hector took Ian’s wrist and pulled him forward so that the teenager fell face downwards across his knees. Ian put his arms forward to break his fall and settled with the palms of his hands flat against the expensive Axminister carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air, his toes hovering an inch or so above the ground.

“These serve no useful purpose at a time like this,” Mr. Hector grinned as he took hold of the waist of the underwear and tugged them down the boy’s buttocks until they bunched up at his knees. Mr. Hector’s tongue ran around his lips.

Ian’s bum was well buffed. He shaved it himself every day. It was always completely hairless. His boyfriend Neville did Ian’s ball-sack once a week; on a Saturday, so Papa always got to see him at his very best.

Mr. Hector caressed the buttocks; first the right cheek, then the left. The teenager’s body seemed completely bald. It wasn’t; soft downy hair covered his legs. It was so fair in colour it was almost impossible to see. Papa rubbed the palm of his hand gently down the teenager’s legs, enjoying the slight tickling feel.

Then, with his left hand he caressed Ian’s naked back. He felt the blood surge into his own crotch. It was time to get started.

“You have the most beautiful bum,” he gasped. “Quite the best I’ve ever spanked.”

Ian’s face cracked into a smile, “I bet you say that to all the boys. Ouch!” Papa had landed a stinging smack across the centre of his right cheek. “That hurt.”

Papa watched a dark pink mark form on the boy’s bottom. “That’s the point, young man. That’s the point.”

He raised his right hand a foot or so away from the surface of the left buttock and brought it down with a mild slap. Then, he did the same to the right cheek. Then, he did it all over again. Slowly, every square inch of Ian’s buttocks turned a dark pink. Then, he started on the back of his thighs.

“Ow, ouch, oooh,” Ian wriggled his bum as smack after smack connected with his tight arse. It didn’t hurt so much, but he wanted to please Papa.

Mr. Hector increased the pace and the strength of the spanks. “Nearly finished,” he panted, “You know what to do.”

He smacked his hand across Ian’s bum. “One, Papa. Thank you, Papa.” He smacked again. “Two, Papa. Thank you, Papa.”

After a hundred spanks, Mr. Hector’s palm hurt more than Ian’s backside. His cock was pretty sore too. It was time to finish.

“Okay, up you get.” He leaned back to give the teenager space to lift himself to his feet. Ian stood in front of his punisher and hopped from foot to foot while rubbing his not very sore backside. His hairless cock and balls bounced in front of Papa’s face.

Mr. Hector sucked on his bottom lip. “You’d better go back to your room now.”

Ian bent down to pull up his underwear, making sure the old man got a good view of his glory hole.

“Thank you, Papa,” he grinned and headed for the stairs.

Twenty minutes later he was in the bar of the Three Fishers Hotel with his boyfriend Neville, slurping on a bottle of Mexican lager.

Neville snuggled up close. “Did you have to toss off Papa?”

Ian playfully poked his tongue out. “No, not this time. He had one hell of a boner, I could feel it.” He gulped his beer and looked Neville in the eye, “I guess he’s probably wanking himself, right now.”

Neville convulsed with giggles.

“Hi guys,” Toby, the barman, sauntered over.

All three nodded their welcomes.

“Did your Papa deal with you yet?” Ian glanced across the bar at the hotel manager.

“No, not yet. He’ll do it this afternoon, once the bar’s closed.”

Ian grinned. Toby was about his own age, but thin as a rake. His pale-grey trousers clung to his hips and when he stood up it looked like he had no buttocks at all. But, when he bent forward, he had the cutest little bum imaginable. All the customers would gape when Toby reached down to a bottom shelf to fetch a packet of crisps.

Neville knew that later, when the customers had all gone away for their Sunday lunches, Toby would drape himself across one of the high bar stools and clutch onto the wooden legs. He could visualise it now. Toby’s Papa, a short stocky man with a beer gut befitting someone who had worked in bars all his life, would flex and swish an authentic whippy school cane. There would be much tap-tap-taping and then whoosh, Papa would smack the cane across Toby’s stretched bum. Ouch! Yarroo!

Neville’s daydreams were interrupted by Jonathon, a pal who had just arrived. “Hi, Neville,” he waved a greeting, his dark curly hair flopping into his eyes. He came across and uninvited sat next to Ian.

“Hey, Neville,” he leaned across the table, “Do you have a Papa?”

Neville crinkled his nose, “Don’t need one,” he grinned at Ian and took hold of his hand, “Not with lover boy here. Why?”

“Hugh, asked me if I could find him someone.”

“Hugh?”

“Yeah, you know him. Big fat guy. Welsh.”

Neville nodded vigorously. Yes, he knew him. He had been across his knee. Once. Never again. He could still taste the stench of stale beer and body odour.

Ian interjected. “What about little Davy, wasn’t he looking for a Papa?” Little Davy was probably pushing twenty, but he was only five-feet-three and with his tiny body and fresh face, he could pass for fourteen. People said he still travelled half-fare on the buses.

Jonathon frowned. “No, he’s found someone. A schoolmaster.”

“Schoolmaster?” Neville didn’t know of any schoolmaster Papa.

“Well, retired schoolmaster, I think. Lives in those posh houses on The Avenue.”

The boys nodded sagely. They had heard all sorts of stories about the goings-on in The Avenue.

Jonathon sipped a pint of bitter. “He makes him wear short trousers all the time. A green jumper too. I think he’s got a blazer too. A proper one, like they wear at St. Francis.”

“Oh God, no!” Neville guffawed. He had hated wearing that uniform when he was a pupil at St. FIGS. St. Francis Independent Grammar School, with the emphasis on Independent. It was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports and traditional discipline. That meant a swishy rattan cane.

Suddenly, a thought came to him. “The schoolmaster, what’s his name? Did he teach at St. FIGS?”

Jonathon shrugged his shoulders, “Dunno. Could be. They all liked to whack boys’ bums,” he spluttered on his beer as he failed to stifle a laugh.

“Davy’s coming over later, you can ask him.” Jonathon said, composing himself.

Neville giggled, “I hope he wears his short trousers and jumper; all the old queens here will blow a fuse.”

Just then the pub manager ambled over. “Good day lads,” he breezed. “Anyone up for an adventure?”

The three youngsters paused their conversation.

“That gentlemen at the bar,” he nodded over his shoulder at a dapper man in an expensive three-piece suit.

Neville grinned, “Not your average customer in here. Must be slumming. What’s he want?”

“To go upstairs,” the manager’s eyes shone, “With company,” he gave what he fondly believed to be a discreet cough.

“Nah, not today,” Neville sucked on his beer bottle.

The pub manager was undeterred. He leaned in so close to Neville he could smell the boy’s cologne and whispered in his ear.

“How much? He’ll pay that much,” Neville reeled. The man must be a millionaire. Or very desperate. “Does he want afters?”

“No, I don’t think so,” the pub manager straightened himself, confident he had made a sale. Money always talked in places like the Three Fishers. “But, you could always negotiate.”

Neville glanced across the table at Ian, his boyfriend. The merest blink conveyed his consent.

“Tell him I’ll be up in five minutes,” Neville said as he settled back to finish his beer. It never did to appear too keen.

@

 

The room was dingy, no concession had been made for comfort. People rarely actually slept in a bedroom at the Three Fishers. Neville sniffed the dust in the air, there was only one small skylight window in the roof and there was no way to reach to open it. Already sweat was starting to run down his back.

The man had not introduced himself. He was about forty, Neville reckoned. Up close he oozed wealth. His suit was hand-tailored of the finest cloth that the young man had ever seen. His shoes shone almost as much as the man’s complexion. That skin was the product of more than a healthy diet. Neville had knocked on the door respectfully. He had not been briefed on his role in this little play acting. Was he to be the naughty pupil sent to the headmaster for a traditional six-of-the-best? Perhaps, it was Uncle & Nephew and he was to feel the full force of a slipper across his bum. Or maybe it was Magistrate & Poacher and he would bear the brunt of a birch rod across naked haunches.

The man’s instruction to “Enter” was so softly spoken Neville almost had not heard it. He gingerly opened the door to see the man seated in a rickety straight-backed wooden chair. He gave an almost imperceptible nod of greeting. Neville shuffled into the room and stood, hands clasped behind his back unsure what was expected of him.

The man rose from the chair and took two or three steps across the room to the wrought-iron bed. On it, he had left a long narrow carpet bag. Without acknowledging Neville’s presence further, he unclasped the bag and reached inside. Neville watched intently. What instrument of punishment would the stranger withdraw from it? The shape of the bag probably had given the answer to that already.

Instead of withdrawing a long thin whippy cane, the man produced a tiny pair of leather shorts. “Please put these on,” he murmured softly. Neville took them in his hands. At once he felt their weight. If the stranger’s intention was to whip him in these he wouldn’t feel a thing.

Neville unbuttoned his trousers and sat down on the bed and then tugged them over his shoes. His yellow briefs fitted a little too snugly and one of his balls was exposed to the gaze of the stranger. He didn’t seem to notice. He was once more inside the carpet bag and this time he did withdraw a long, sturdy dragon cane. He flexed it thoughtfully between his hands while he waited for Neville to get ready.

The shorts were precisely that: short. They hardly covered the teenager’s briefs. He was relived he had not worn boxers, they would have probably poked out under the hem of the shorts. Neville wriggled into them. They fitted so well they might have been made especially for him. The man swished his cane through the air and Neville watched it fly. He was no stranger to the cane and from what he saw this was a breath-taking specimen. It was a little under four-feet in length, and about as thick as a pencil. It was dark yellow in colour and both dense and extremely whippy. This kind of rod could take any boy’s arse off.

The man’s tongue darted in and out of his not quite closed mouth, making him look a little like a lizard. He seemed about ready. “Please bend over the back of the chair,” he lightly tapped the cane against the wooden seat as if there might be some doubt what he meant.

Neville blinked. Was this all the stranger wanted? Wasn’t there to be some ritual dropping of the shorts to be followed by a baring of the bottom? The cane tapped again. “Please do as you are asked?” the man’s tone was reasonableness itself.

Neville took a deep breath; the room was hot and airless and he wished he could open the window. He wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and leant forward. He was taller than average and the chair was quite low. He had been across this particular chair before, so unbidden he stretched himself right over and gripped the bottom of the legs. Ordinarily, a boy would place his hands on the seat and stick his bottom out in readiness for the swipe of the cane. Neville knew how to serve up his bum as a special treat. He stretched down and grasped the bottom of the legs. His muscular legs were straight and his buttocks were beautifully presented over the top of the chair’s back.

He closed his eyes and waited patiently. He heard, but could not see, the stranger pace across the bare floorboards. His fancy shoes creaked against the worn wood. Eventually, the stranger settled. He took up a position to Neville’s left and with his own legs slightly bent he took his aim. Whack!!! The sound of rattan against leather echoed round the small room as the man let fly with every ounce of strength that he possessed. A clear white mark where the cane connected immediately spread across the taut leather. Beneath the shorts, Neville felt nothing.

Within seconds another swipe struck with tremendous force a little lower this time. The sound reverberated across the room. and the leather cracked. The noise could be heard across the landing where two labourers were playing horses. Again, Neville felt nothing.

The stranger whipped the cane into Neville’s leather-covered arse over and over and over again. The boy felt the stick connect at force across his stretched buttocks. He knew from painful experience that if he were getting such strokes on his cloth trousers – or God forbid – on his underpants or the bare he would be hollering the house down by now. Blood would be running from the wounds.

Only then did Neville think of the money he was being paid. Now, he realised why it was so generous. Once the stranger had satisfied himself whipping into the leather shorts, he would want a repeat performance with them down at Neville’s ankles.

A beaten boy always thinks the ordeal went on longer than it did. But, this time it really did last for ten minutes. The stranger dripped perspiration. His silky skin was drenched. Large damp patches soaked his armpits. Even his own buttocks were damp. It was as if he has stepped in from a thunder storm.

His heart raced and his temples throbbed. Breath was hard to catch. He stopped. “Stand up boy,” he croaked. A terrified Neville hauled himself to his feet. Still the caning had not registered against his fleshy bum. He quite literally had not felt a thing. Now, he knew the ordeal was really about to start. His hands shook uncontrollably as he waited for the instruction, “Drop ’em.”

The man threw the cane on the bed, reached down to the flies of his own trousers and in a frenzy yanked them down to his knees. Already Neville could see the huge bulge pressing against the man’s underwear. Within seconds his penis was released. Neville gasped. He had never seen one so long, thick and stiff. Had the man stolen it from a stallion?

The stranger’s eyes glazed, tears were already streaming down his cheeks. Plaintively, he implored Neville, “Please take me.”

The teenager couldn’t believe his luck. With his own cock fighting against the front of the tight leather shorts, he dived forward mouth open, hoping that he could get it wide enough to gorge the stranger’s manhood.

 

Other stories you might like

The rooming house

The drunken neighbour

Their new house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A family business

z used office posh by Leyendecker (1)

Richard Bullivant loved his job; most of the time. This was not one of them. Mr. Greaves, the company’s owner, peered at him over the top of his spectacles. The boss was seated and in his hands he clutched a hand-written report. Bullivant stood to his front, meekly, hands behind his back, holding on to his hat.

“This will not do, boy,” Mr. Greaves sucked air through his teeth. Bullivant shuffled from foot to foot. “No, boy, certainly not.”

Bullivant resented being called ‘Boy.” He was thirty-five years old and deputy head of the accounts department. He deserved more respect than this.

Mr. Greaves waved the report provocatively in Bullivant’s face. The boss’s thinning grey hair swirled around his mostly-bald dome. Bullivant grimaced as specks of spittle flew towards him. Mr. Greaves was certainly angry.

He had good cause to be, Bullivant would be first to admit. There had been an error. Figures miscalculated, a profit reported as a loss. It could do the company damage. But, it hadn’t. It was spotted in time and corrected. But, not until word had reached the ears of Mr. Greaves. A junior man in the accounts department had made a mistake, but Bullivant would have to carry the can.

Greaves’s was a family firm. Mr. Greaves always said so. He had inherited most of it from his father and he had built on it. Now, in his seventies he expected his own son to soon take the reins. Mr. Greaves believed everyone who worked for him was one of the family. They were all his children. He was the Pater familias. He was responsible for them all; just like he was their father.

Bullivant knew all about Mr. Greaves’s attitude to his workers, that was why he couldn’t stop his heart thumping through his chest. His palms were sticky and his mouth dry as a desert. “We can’t have this, boy. You know we can’t have this,” Mr. Greaves seemed to be talking to himself. Bullivant stood waiting for his boss to get to the point, but the old man appeared to have dried up.

The silence startled him. Then his boss spluttered, “Well boy, well boy, what do you say for yourself?” Bullivant blanched. The moment he had dreaded since the mistake had come to light. It wasn’t Bullivant’s fault. Truly, it wasn’t, but that was not what Mr. Greaves expected to hear. The mistake was made by one of his underlings; Bullivant must take responsibility.

“Could have cost us dear,” Mr. Greaves coughed. “Very dear indeed, eh boy?”

But it hadn’t. Bullivant had spotted the mistake in time. He had been doing his job. A job he loved, and if he said so himself, a job he did very well indeed. It was no good telling Mr. Greaves that. He was old school and “school” was the appropriate metaphor here. He expected a man to take responsibility for those he managed. The buck, as their American cousins might say, stopped here.

Bullivant sucked in air and began the little speech he had prepared. It lasted less than a minute and ended with the words, “I take full responsibility, Sir.”

Mr. Greaves glowered. A smile split his face. “Indeed you should, boy. Indeed you should.”

Bullivant relaxed a little. Perhaps, this interview wasn’t going to be so bad after all. He forced a smile himself. It looked more like a scowl from where his boss was seated.  Mr. Greaves eyes narrowed. “All right Bullivant. It mustn’t happen again.”

“Oh no, Sir,” Bullivant had brightened already. He tried the smile again, without evident success. He wouldn’t be able to smile properly until he was safely dismissed from the office and back on the second floor with his minions. He waited for Mr. Greaves to let him go.

“Bullivant, we can’t leave it at this,” Mr. Greaves shifted his buttocks and started to rise from his armchair, “You do appreciate that, don’t you?”

Oh no! The thought flashed through Bullivant’s mind. This was not over yet. Unsure if the question had been rhetorical, he merely nodded sagely.

“Speak up, boy,” Mr. Greaves’s famed irritability showed.

Now, red in the face, Bullivant, mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” and hoped that would suffice as an answer.

“Good boy,” Mr. Greaves was now on his feet and walking across his capacious office. It had shelves and cupboards along two of its walls. Another had a large window and the fourth an unlit fire. A huge desk dominated the room. Towards one corner were four comfortable armchairs, encircling a glass-topped table. Mr. Greaves stopped when he reached a set of cupboards. One was narrow and tall. He delved into his pocket and found a key which he used to open its door. Bullivant had never noticed the cupboard before, but now instinctively he knew what it contained.

He wrung his hat in his hands and watched intently as his boss reached inside. There was a slight rattling sound before Mr. Greaves’s hand emerged clutching a long, thin, yellow-coloured cane. It had the traditional crooked handle. Bullivant had seen many of these before. Every schoolboy in the land knew what a rattan cane looked like and many of them could attest to the intense pain one could inflict.

Mr. Greaves turned and faced his employee. He held the cane in his hands and looked down at it as though he had never seen such a thing before. It was a little over three feet long and had notches every three or four inches along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and formed a perfect arc when Mr. Greaves tested its flexibility. He swished it through the air. Swoosh! It made a terrific noise as it went.

He pointed the cane at Bullivant. “Hang your hat and jacket over there,” he nodded at the coat-stand in the far corner of the office. Bullivant’s mouth opened and silently closed. Should he make a protest? What would be the point? Mr. Greaves was in control. Bullivant loved his job, he was very good at it and he was well paid for his efforts. The drama presently unfolding was surely a small price to pay. He convinced himself this was so, but his hands did not seem to agree since they shook almost uncontrollably as he placed his hat on the stand and set about trying to get his coat off his back. It took some considerable time. Mr. Greaves peered over his eye glasses and entertained himself by swiping the cane through the air.

At last Bullivant was ready. “Stand by the desk, boy,” Mr. Greaves pointed the cane, in case there was any doubt what he meant,

In a trance Bullivant made the short journey across the office. In his head it was twenty years previously and he was in the housemaster’s study at St. Tom’s. That was the only way he would be able to deal with the absurdity of the situation he now faced.

“Stand up straight,” Mr. Greaves barked.  Bullivant had not been slouching but nonetheless, moved his legs and shoulders to demonstrate total obedience to his master. Mr. Greaves stared at Bullivant. He was a little taller than himself and powerfully built. Perhaps, Mr. Greaves wondered, he partook in sports: boxing maybe. Bullivant’s white shirt looked starched and his detachable collar was held in place by a gold stud. His trousers were held aloft by red braces. He wore them a little tightly and they pulled the fabric of his trousers into his buttocks so each cheek was clearly separated from the other. They were round and plump.

Mr. Greaves stood close to his minion. He sucked on his bottom lip as he leaned forward to get a closer look at the man he was about to thrash. “No, no, this will never do,” he mused absent-mindedly. “Won’t do at all.” He tapped his cane across Bullivant’s buttocks. “They’re too thick. Take them down.”

Bullivant’s flushed face blanched. “Wor…?” he started to protest, but thankfully stopped himself in time. It never did to protest. A chap never did that. He was an Englishman of a certain social class and he knew the honour code. A chap would always take his punishment, even when it was unjustly meted out by those in authority.

He pulled the braces from his shoulders and let them dangle at his sides. His trousers were now loose and once he unfastened the button at the waist the weight of the keys in his pocket sent them hurtling to form a puddle on top of his shoes. Mr. Greaves’s eyes widened. Bullivant wore the new-fangled undershorts. The covered his buttocks and hung an inch or two down his legs. Mr. Greaves touched the desktop with his cane. “Bend over, boy.” It was a sharp command and one he expected to be obeyed without question. It was.

Bullivant had last been caned at school by his housemaster. It was the final week before he had left for good. It was unheard of for eighteen year olds to be thrashed, but he and a pal had made some tomfool pact together to climb the clocktower and deposit a pair of matron’s bloomers on the weathervane. They had done it too – in the dead of night. But what was the point of doing something so splendid if nobody knew who the culprit was? It was worth owning up. They were heroes and talked about with admiration by boys for years to follow. What bare-arsed beating could top that?

The memory of that caning was suddenly fresh in Bullivant’s mind. He stretched across Mr. Greaves’s desk just as he had done in the headmaster’s study nearly two decades previously. He held on to the far edge and rested his right cheek against the cool wood. He had a close-up view of the grain in the walnut. His legs were parted by about eighteen inches and his stomach rested at an angle so that his buttocks were correctly raised to receive the whipping from the cane. It was a bit like riding a bike. Once you had learned the right way to present your backside for a thrashing, you never forgot.

Mr. Greaves took a moment to admire the scene. He had caned many of his employees’ bottoms over forty or so years. Mostly, he beat them across the stretched fabric of trousers. Sometimes recalcitrant junior staff were required to lower their bags and he whipped them on the seat of their woollen “combinations”. Never before had been presented with a set of buttocks encased in snug shorts. Bullivant made a terrific target.

Mr. Greaves’s heart raced as he took up his position to Bullivant’s left. He “sawed” the cane across the plumpest part of his target, raised it to above shoulder height and swiped it down. He was greeted by a resounding “twack!” as the supple rattan sank into the soft flesh. Bullivant shut his eyes tight. It hurt. A lot. Memories of past canings flooded his mind. Yes, it stung tremendously, but he could take it.

Mr. Greaves landed the second low down, where the buttocks meet the thighs. That had Bullivant gasping. The thirty-five-year-old wriggled his bottom, this way and that. He couldn’t help it. He felt a little ashamed. Had he ever reacted like that at school? He steadied himself. Closed his eyes, shut his teeth and waited for the next.

Wow! It was some stinger. It landed across the top of the globes. A hot stripe seared into his bum. Now he had three parallel cuts across his cheeks. Bullivant had to admit it, his boss was an expert with the cane.

“Feeling that aren’t you boy?”

The voice sounded as if it were hundreds of miles away. There was no reasonable answer a boy undergoing punishment could give to such a question, so Bullivant stayed quiet. Mr. Greaves took silence for impertinence and sliced number four so hard it was as if he were beating a carpet. Despite his determination to take his beating “like an Englishman” Bullivant yelped at that one. He could not see the smile curl around Mr. Greaves’s lips.

The boss adjusted his stance. He was nearing the finishing line. He lay the cane so that it lay from the bottom left to the top right of his target and let fly. The stroke cut across all four that had previous landed, reigniting the pain of them all. Bullivant’s bum throbbed. He held on to the desk for dear life, his fingernails digging deep into the wood. He felt Mr. Greaves move behind him.

God no! He knew what the sadist planned. The cane tapped across the buttocks from bottom right to top left. Whack!

“Ohmygod” Bullivant yelled out loud as a perfect “X” was scorched into his bum. Blood oozed from the intersections of the cuts. The agony was awesome. It was as if someone had poured a pail of boiling water over his flesh. His heartrate sped and his temples throbbed, almost as much as his rear end.

He heard a rattle as Mr. Greaves replaced the cane in his cabinet. Then the words, “You may stand.” Bullivant did not need telling twice. He leapt to his feet and without waiting for permission he pulled his trousers up. It gave him the cover to surreptitiously rub his thumbs across his savaged backside. It didn’t ease the pain.

Mr. Greaves sniffed the air as if a sudden bad odour had permeated the office. “You should take your hat and coat and leave.” He watched his minion pick up the clothes and without waiting to put them on, rush from the room.

Outside, Bullivant paused. The office was full of people busy at their desks. Had they heard his thrashing? His head was light. He rather hoped they had. He had never experienced such a sense of euphoria. He was on top of the world. He walked through the office to the lift. But, instead of taking it to the second floor to return to his office, he went to down to the ground floor. He had something to do first.

He put his hat on his head and joined the throngs of people in the city centre. He was walking on air in search of the right shop. He wanted to purchase a whippy school cane. Brian Clark, the accounts department junior, was in for a shock.

 

Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker

 

Other stories you might like

His big brother is not amused

The housemates

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com