A passing phase

z used sex on couch by sorachan and Hanatsuke

I came home unexpectedly early that afternoon. A pipe had burst and we had to evacuate the office to let the plumbers in. I’d expected the house to be empty. Colin, the only one of my kids still living at home, would have been at business college and my wife was at work. As I closed the front door I heard strange noises coming from the sitting room. They sounded human, but they weren’t exactly voices. I went to investigate.

I don’t know what I expected to see, but I’m absolutely convinced about what I didn’t expect. There on the couch naked as the day they were born was my son and a young man I did not know. They were kissing and cuddling. I think I let out a shriek, like some old maid. The other boy stared at me startled. He went pillar-box red, climbed off Colin, grabbed his clothes and dashed into the hallway.

There the boy – to this day I don’t know his name – hurriedly dressed before flying through the door, leaving me to confront my son. I was naturally dumbstruck. Literally struck dumb. Unable to speak. Colin took the opportunity of my silence to pick up his own clothes and still naked he took the stairs two at a time and I heard his bedroom door slam.

Only then did I think what to do. Father O’Kelly is our parish priest. He’d know what to do. I picked up the phone, dialled his number and put in place this train of events.

@

I’m not gay. Really, I’m not, but I am curious, I think. It was Jake who came on to me. I know him from college; he’s training to be an accountant. He came on to me, holding my hand, stroking my hair. Not that I objected. I want to make to clear that  I’m not claiming sexual harassment here, nor assault. Like I say I was curious, so I went along with it.

I’ve done it twice with Sandra, a girl at college, so I know I’m not gay. That was nothing like doing it with Jake. She was soft and cuddly; he was hard and muscular. And, of course, there’s the cock. Have you ever seen an erect dick? I mean really looked. I’ve jerked mine off many times, but I’ve never actually looked at it.

@

More young men than you might expect are homosexually inclined. They are attracted to their own genitals and to the bodies of other young men. I told this to Colin’s father when he called me. It is a sin, but it is usually only a passing phase; something that a boy must pass through. I have seen many young men through this passage of their lives. I was ready to help Colin. Together we could get him back on the straight and narrow path to God.

@

I wasn’t surprised when Dad said I must visit Fr. O’Kelly; he is a devout Catholic (Dad that is, I can’t be so sure about the priest). I go to Mass every week, but I think mainly that’s just to keep the peace at home. I do believe in God and all that and I like to think I’m a good person (most of the time).

Fr. O’Kelly asked me to see him at his home, which puzzled me. I thought we would meet at the church where the confessionals are. He has quite an ordinary home for a priest; it’s a detached house in a street called The Avenue, which is in an up-scale part of town. A very leafy suburb. I had to get two buses from our council flat.

Fr. O’Kelly was in his “civvie” clothes; black trousers and a grey roll-neck sweater. He is about fifty years old and stands a little over six feet; he has a spare tyre at his waist and his face is fleshy. His eyes always seem to me to be pink and watery. I think he had only just showered and shaved as there was a distinct whiff of Lifebuoy about him.

He directed me into a living room. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do. It’s a smallish room, with a two-seater couch, a leather armchair and a coffee table.  There’s a glass-fronted bookcase along one wall. I must have been shuffling from one foot to the other a bit impatiently waiting for the Father to join me in the room, before I saw it. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. Where had it come from? Why did a Roman Catholic priest have one?

Resting on the coffee table was what I can only describe as a school cane. These things had been banned about thirty years ago; long before I was even born. It was about a metre long and a light brown (almost yellow) colour. One end was bent to make a handle. I couldn’t resist picking it up. It was as thick as a pencil and had four notches along its length. When I held it between both hands I found it could easily bend and when I let I go it sprang back into shape.

“You should really put that back where you found it.” I’m sure I blushed as Fr. O’Kelly swept into the room. Hastily, I returned the cane to the coffee table. The priest perched himself on the edge of the couch, I stood embarrassed, unsure if I was permitted to sit. It was like being in the headmaster’s study (not that this had ever happened to me at school).

I clasped my hands behind my back and with head bowed I listened to his speech. It sounded prepared, like a sermon he might pull out of his pocket when it was necessary. He said that it was not unusual to have homosexual urges, but they were a sin. It was only a passing phase and they could be overcome. A young man’s life need not be ruined.

I was glad to hear this. Since my experiment with Jake I had worried tremendously. I didn’t want to be gay; I wanted to be normal. Like everybody else; like my Dad; like the people at church; like Fr. O’Kelly.

I don’t remember all that the priest said, but there was something about redemption. And, there was something about penitence. I missed most of this. Suddenly, there was silence. I blushed. Had he asked me a question, was I expected to answer?

“I said,” Fr. O’Kelly repeated himself, “It is necessary to beat this sin out of you.” I heard that all right. “It will cure you of your affliction and help you to live a normal, healthy life.” I watched spellbound as Fr. O’Kelly reached over to the coffee table and picked up the cane. He flexed it between his hands, rather as I had done earlier, then he swished it with terrific force through the air. It made an intimidating swoosh as it flew. My heart beat fast.

Fr. O’Kelly took two paces across the room and stood close to the leather armchair. “Come, stand with me,” he said. It was a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. The priest expected to be obeyed. I shuffled close to him; the scent of the soap tickled my nostrils and for one absurd moment I thought I was going to sneeze.

Fr. O’Kelly flexed the cane once more. “I want you to lower your trousers and underpants and bend over the chair.” He tapped the tip of the cane against the apex of the chair in case there was any doubt what he meant.

I suppose I stared in astonishment, I certainly did not move. “Trousers, pants down,” he said a little more sternly this time. Maybe my jaw dropped, I’m pretty sure my mouth opened and closed, but I couldn’t form words. He said it for the third time, “Trousers and pants down,” as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a nineteen-year-old boy to undress in front of a fifty-something priest to offer up his bare arse for a thrashing with a school cane. All to cure a homosexual trait.

I can’t fully explain what happened next. I’m not sure I will ever understand, but some power overcame me. I knew beyond any doubt whatsoever that Fr. O’Kelly was right. I had to undergo penitence; I needed to show remorse; be contrite. It would cure me of my urges and I would be able to lead a normal, happy life.

My hands trembled, but I got them to unbuckle my belt. My brown chinos hung loosely at my waist and they started slipping over my hips. I unbuttoned at the waist and they hurtled down my legs, passed my knees and flopped at my ankles. I was wearing micro-briefs and as I lifted up my shirt and pullover and looked down my flat hairless stomach, I saw they were so small and so tight they hardly encased my cock and balls. Tufts of pubic hair sprang out the sides. I put my two thumbs either side of the waistband and guided the briefs down my legs, abandoning them just below the knees.

I was once again aware that I was not alone. Fr. O’Kelly tapped his cane against the back of the chair and spoke, “Bend over.” I had never been caned; I had never been spanked. I don’t think I had ever even been slapped as a very small child. I was entering uncharted territory. I was determined to cooperate. This was for my own good. I would emerge from the experience a better person.

I lifted up my shirt and pullover so they were completely clear of my buttocks and leaned forward. The soft leather felt cold against my bare stomach. I rested my palms in the seat cushion and spread my fingers. The seat back was quite low and my torso sank into the soft leather. Instinctively I parted my legs, but I was restricted by the trousers at my ankles. Over the edge of the chair seat I could see a red-and-beige-patterned rug. I was facing a bay window and when I lifted my head I realised it was open. Had it not been for lace curtains I would have been able to see into the garden.

Fr. O’Kelly pressed the cane into my stretched bum. First he went to the top of the crown, then he “sawed” the stick across the fleshiest part of the buttocks, before turning his attention to the “sit-spot”, the underside of the curves. He seemed to be taking an inordinate time setting up his aim. I did not object to this; I would have been quite content if he delayed a lot longer.

At last he was ready. I felt the cane lifting away from my bum, there were a few moments silence followed by a tremendous whoosh and the rod bit deep into the very centre of both buttocks. I heard the thwack as rattan connected with meat a second or so before I felt the agony. It was as if Fr. O’Kelly had pressed a white-hot wire into my bum.

My knees buckled. The palms of my hands slid on the smooth leather seats. I wanted to grip hold of something tightly to help me absorb the pain but there was nothing, so I bunched my hands into fists and dug my nails deep into my palms. I shut my eyes tight and opened them almost immediately. My ears stung as blood flooded into them.

I had no time to recover from the shock before Fr. O’Kelly flogged the second cut into my under-curves. My top teeth bit deep into my bottom lip and I tasted blood. My head flailed left and right and up and down. I wanted to twist one foot over the other to stop the pain but my trousers prevented this.

The third and fourth strokes came in immediate succession. Bam! Bam! That was when I lost it. I coughed up bile and swallowed it down again. I howled. There really is no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise. I could no longer see the pattern on the rug, my vision was blurred by tears.

By now I had lost all sense of time and space, but I am pretty certain there was a delay before the fifth swipe was delivered. What I do know is that I felt the cane being once more “sawed” across my buttocks as the priest found his spot. This time the cane lay in a diagonal from the bottom of my left cheek to the top of the right. When Father O’Kelly let fly the whippy rattan flogged across the four previously delivered cuts, reigniting the agony in them all. I lifted my feet off the floor, wrapped my arms around my head, gasping, desperately sucking in air.

My heart very nearly gave out at that point. My blood pressure must have been off the scale. I was aware of arteries throbbing. My temples pounded. Any moment now I might have a stroke.

I wasn’t aware of such things at the time, but the “traditional” tariff for schoolboy beatings was “Six-of-the-best”. Fr O’Kelly was nothing if not a traditionalist. He took his aim for the sixth and last time. Now, he had the cane resting along the opposite diagonal. My bum was so toasted and my nerve ends so frayed that I could not feel this. I felt the resultant swipe right enough. When I inspected the damage later I saw he had imprinted a perfect “X” on my arse.

He had finished, but he left me heaving over the back of the leather armchair.  My nose was so close to the soft cushion I could smell the leather and the sweat of countless backsides. My bum felt like I had sat on a barbecue, the agony was intense. But even as I lay there waiting for permission to stand, the pain was already easing into an intense throb. Soon it would be merely sore and then just a tingle. I had problems sitting on a hard surface for some hours and it was days before the bruises disappeared.

Fr. O’Kelly let me stand and dress and he said a little prayer. I was on the path to salvation, he said. I was cured of my homosexual inclinations; of that I was certain. What puzzled me was why I had a raging hardon that night in bed when in my mind I recounted my bare-arsed flogging.

 

Picture credit: Sorachan

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The night porter

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University encounter

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The cricketer

z used drawing cricket BOP (2)

He was about twenty years old; I was old enough to be his father. I was the coach at the Brocklehurst Cricket Club Colts – a rather archaic name for the youth team. I was a big cheese at the club on account of my time playing for the county side. It made me a “gentleman”. And, in cricketing circles in those days that meant a lot.

Robbie Renaud was a dish (I know it sounds a bit girly to say that but even the boys could see that). He stood about five-feet-ten with broad shoulders and narrow waist. He played a lot of cricket (naturally) but was also something of a long-distance runner. All that fresh air and exercise gave him a delicious peaches and cream complexion, overlaid with a sun tan. He loved to smile, a cheeky impish grin. His brown eyes shone constantly and his chestnut hair flopped wildly around his forehead, but never encroached over his ears. He could have been the poster-boy for all those young cricketers schoolboys loved to read about in their storybooks.

It happened one day in late August. It had been an exceptionally hot summer and Robbie who was down from Cambridge for the long vacation spent much of his time at the club. The Colts had one of their most successful spells in their not-so long history. God was in his heaven and everything was as it should be. That’s when it happened.

Alderman, a rather useful spin bowler, had been the first to notice. Money had gone missing from his jacket pocket, which had been left hanging in the changing room. It was only coins and would probably not have been noticed, except that the few coppers represented Alderman’s bus fare home and it was all the cash he had brought with him. Of course, we said he must be mistaken, was he certain he hadn’t forgotten to put the money in his pocket when he left home? Nobody wanted to admit that there was a thief among us.

The following week more money went missing. It could not be ignored. Had a sneak thief managed to infiltrate the clubhouse while we were out in the nets? We would not countenance the possibility that one of our own was responsible. We were gentleman after all.

My cigarette lighter proved to be the final straw. It wasn’t an expensive piece, I often suspected it was made of old iron, it was so heavy and (frankly) ugly. But it was mine. It was also very conspicuous. Unlike the small amounts of cash that had been stolen this would not be so easy to dispose of.

I spoke with Porter, our head groundsman. Something had to be done. I suggested a search of the premises. Porter was a sergeant in the War and I a major. He knew his place and set about doing this without demurring.

We kept the boys out of the clubhouse and I let Porter get on with it. We sat in the late afternoon sun. Some of the boys were impatient. We had finished match practice and they wanted to be off. Many had mothers at home waiting to serve tea. One or two had dates with lady friends.

About ten minutes later Porter emerged ashen faced from the clubhouse. He took me to one side to be out of the hearing of the boys. He was as embarrassed as hell. “I don’t know what to say, Major,” he said. “Spit it out man, we haven’t got all day,” I responded.

His face sweated and his ears were pink with embarrassment. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and brought out a dark-grey object. “Is this your cigarette lighter, sir,” he asked demurely.  “Yes, by jove, it is,” I asserted, “Wherever did you find it?”

He blushed more deeply. “Well, sir,” I could see he could hardly bear to tell me, but he found fortitude and did so, “there’s the rub, it was in the jacket of Mr. Renaud.” His voice trailed off sorrowfully.

Aha! So our star player Robbie Renaud was a thief and caught red handed to boot.

“Whatever shall we do, sir?” Porter seemed genuinely concerned. There was, I told him only one thing for it, “We shall have to inform the police.”

“Oh, no sir, we couldn’t do that, think of the scandal.”

Maybe he had a point, but then again as scandals at youth sporting clubs went this was very small beer.

“I believe Master Renaud is doing well at the university,” Porter continued. I noticed but made no comment that our groundsman had demoted him from “mister” to “master” but I let the matter go. Porter continued, “He plans a career in the law, as a barrister.” I failed to see the point of all this and told Porter so.

“His career would be in ruins before it even started. He couldn’t have a criminal record,” the groundsman informed me. He had a point. So what did the fellow think we should do?

“Well in the Army days, as I’m sure you know Major,”  I noticed the emphasis he had placed on my military rank. “We had a way of dealing with matters in the barracks informally, if you know what I mean, sir.”

I truly did not and I was getting impatient, as I’m sure so were the boys in the cricket team.

“Oh spit it out man, what are you trying to say?” I let my exasperation show. Porter was miffed. He sniffed, “Well, Major if we had any trouble in the barracks; and we had one or two tea-leafs I have to admit, we would give them a damn good hiding.”

I supposed the puzzlement showed on my face because he immediately clarified. “A beating, Major. Generally we used a heavy leather belt. There in the barracks.” He could see I was intrigued by now. “Bare arsed, as it were,” he coughed politely perhaps realising it was not the “done thing” to swear in front of an officer.

“Do I understand Porter you are suggesting that we punish Renaud in such a way?” I asked although I knew damn well that’s what he was saying. He nodded gruffly.

“You had better ask Renaud to see me privately, I’ll be in the club secretary’s office. Porter scuttled off.

Moments later I luxuriated in a large soft leather chair and examined the young man standing awkwardly before me. I had said previously he had the body of a schoolboy sporting hero. That remained the case, but now also he had the demeanour of the schoolboy himself. Maybe sixteen years old, standing in the housemaster’s study for a wigging – and maybe much more beside. I told him the facts of the case. My missing  cigarette lighter had been found in his jacket pocket. He denied it. I was a little disappointed. He was an ex-St. Tom’s man, which was my old school too. If there was one thing we learned at St. Tom’s it was honour. We took our punishment, which at that very traditional English publish school meant a thrashing with a whippy ashplant cane.  I was ashamed of the young man in front of me.

“Well, you leave me no alternative,” I sneered at him, “I must inform the police.”

“Oh no sir, please, no.” I had elicited a reaction. “Not the police, sir.” I did not have to prompt him, but he gave the same explanation that Porter had. Any whiff of legal scandal would put paid to his dream of the Bar. His father, a distinguished “silk” himself would be devastated. He would discontinue paying his university fees and the boy would have to get a job. And, for someone of his class that could only mean exile to a colony. “Yes,” he conceded, he would take a beating.

Now, I don’t want to say too much about this, but it so happened that the club had a number of school canes tucked away in a cupboard in the club secretary’s office. As I had intimated many of us were ex-public school men.

“An exemplary lesson must be made,” the tone of my voice mimicked that of H. R. C. Masterton, my housemaster at St. Tom’s. I say so myself, but when I choose to show it I have a very impressive presence. Renaud blanched, genuinely fearful of my next sentence. “You will be caned in front of the entire team.”

I let that sink in. Renaud’s ears turned a cherry red and his eyes welled. I hauled myself from the huge leather chair and headed for a cupboard at the far end of the room, where as expected I found three school canes. Unlike those we suffered at St. Tom’s these were not made of local ashplant, but were of sturdy, but whippy rattan, imported from one of our colonies somewhere out East. I took hold of the thickest of the three and held it between my two hands and flexed it. It had the effect on Renaud I desired. He blanched a little and looked down at the floorboards beneath his feet. I am sure he was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy at St. Tom’s had not felt the rod applied with some force against his stretched buttocks? It was that kind of school. It built men.

I was anxious to get on with this and instructed Renaud to follow me across to the clubhouse. This he did following at my heels like an obedient dog. Porter, anticipating my decision had kept the cricket colts behind. I swiftly informed them of the happenings of the previous few minutes and informed them of my decision. A dozen or so faces around me brightened. An Englishman likes nothing more but to witness the discomfort of another. And, let me share with you, how much more enjoyable it is when one as distinguished as the best cricketer in the team is on the receiving end.

There was a long wooden table along the centre of the room, it would prove prefect for my needs. “I want you to climb onto the table,” I intoned, “and lay flat across it.” I had no intention of instructing him to “bend over” in the more traditional style. The room had a tall roof and I knew I should be able to swing the cane high and flog it down with maximum force into Renaud’s meaty buttocks without touching the ceiling.

What colour he still had drained from his face, but I had not yet finished. “But before you do that, I want you to lower your trousers. Right down to your shoes.” There was a gasp from some boys and I looked up to see Alderman beaming with delight. Oh, I wondered, what rivalry was it that existed between the two boys? It probably transcended cricket.

I had said earlier that Renaud had not impressed me with his honour. I take back that criticism now. He undid his wide black belt. It must have taken tremendous fortitude to do so, knowing that all his teammates would witness his humiliation. I (seemingly) absent-mindedly swished the cane through empty air, waiting for the twenty-year-old to prepare himself. With surprisingly steady fingers (I thought) he unbuttoned his cricket whites and opened them up affording myself and his fellow teammates a fine view of his cock and balls encased in soft white cotton. Grim-faced he put his thumbs inside the trouser waistband and with a mere flick of the wrist sent his whites south where they formed a puddle on top of his shoes.

Neither looking to left or right and thereby ignoring his audience, Renaud climbed on the table. It was old and rickety and it swayed as he moved to settle himself into position that I wondered if it might collapse under his weight. Instinctively he stretched his arms in front of his head and gripped the far end of the table; the muscles in his back rippled underneath his white cotton shirt. I took a moment to drink in the sight. This was some athlete prostrated before me. His muscular body was exposed to my gaze. I leaned forward and gently took hold of the tail of his shirt and folded it up his back away from the target area. I took a deep breath and reached for the waist of his underwear. He wore modern elasticated Y-fronts. I pulled the waist a little and the cotton clung more to the contours of his bottom, creating a kind of ravine at his crack.

I moved back away from the table and picked up the cane once more. Renaud’s bottom stiffened, it was preparing to receive the first tremendous swipe. “Relax,” I told him. He didn’t seem to hear. In any case his bum stayed tight as I tapped the cane gently across the very centre of both cheeks. The flesh was solid, it felt like I was rapping my rod against a solid rubber ball. I raised the cane to ceiling height and with a slight twist of my body I brought it crashing down. A perfect hit. We all saw a welt rise beneath the tight white cotton. Renaud’s body shuddered, his head shook and his fingertips gripped the table edge more tightly.

I counted to fifteen in my head and went again. The second stripe hit an inch or so below the first. The cricketer wriggled his hips and his legs flailed behind him, but I thought he kept remarkably quiet considering the searing pain he must be enduring. I counted again in my head, while also looking at my audience. A boy called Robinson had his hands folded in front of his crotch; his eyes were damper than Renaud’s.

The third hit a little above the first. He now had three deep cuts running parallel across his backside. A spot of blood was turning his crisp white underpants pink. His face was as scarlet as I presumed his bottom to be. He bit deeply into his lower lip, stifling the howls that surely his body demanded he make in response to the agony it endured.

I slashed number four low, into the crease where the bottom meets the back of the thighs. His body shuddered and his legs flew again. His head hammered up and down as it butted the top of the table. Still, almost total silence, save for the gulps he made as he desperately drew air into his lungs.

I am not a cruel man: ask the men under my command in the war if you disbelieve me, but I do believe in doing things thoroughly. That was why for my next stroke I repositioned my own body slightly and placed the cane in such a way that it lay along a diagonal from the bottom left cheek up to the top right. The crack of the cane elicited a satisfying yowl from Renaud. I had broken him at last. He emptied his lungs, as well he might since that swipe had landed across the previous four cuts reigniting the pain in all of them. A pink stain spread over the snugly-fitting underpants.

You have probably already guessed what I did next. You would have done the same in my place. I moved myself again and this time placed the whippy rattan along the opposite diagonal. By the time the lash struck the meaty backside Renaud had a perfect “X” emblazoned across his bottom.

There was, naturally, a repeat of the howling. Tears and snot flowed down his beautiful face. His hair was soaked with sweat and his shirt stuck to his muscular back. From my close vantage point I saw welts had risen under his Y-fronts. They would be with him for many days and serve as a continuing reminder of this severe thrashing.

Six-of-the-best is the standard tariff for such a beating and I was content at that. I handed the cane to Porter who unsure what he was expected to do with it simply tucked it under his arm.

“That is it. It is over,” I said quietly. The boys from the cricket club took this as their cue to leave and the room emptied.

“Take the cane back to the secretary’s room,” I instructed Porter and he too left. I was alone with Renaud. I watched in silence as he climbed off the table and onto his feet. He was sobbing, but seemed to be regaining some control. Without looking at me he tugged up his trousers, wincing as the heavy material made contact with his scorched backside. He did up his wide leather belt and waited. The silence lasted for some seconds, before I realised he was waiting for me to speak.

“You are dismissed,” I intoned rather pompously and Renaud shuffled from the room in intense discomfort. I waited a full minute and when it was clear nobody was going to return to the clubhouse, I loosened the front of my trousers to deal with my own discomfort, not once reproaching myself for planting the cigarette lighter in Renaud’s jacket pocket.

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Footballer’s judicial caning

Missed Opportunities

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

Remembering the Tyrant Headmaster

z used drawing cane master sil (35)

I shuffled down the passageway that led to the headmaster’s study. I was in no hurry to suffer the consequences of my actions. I still had a few seconds more before I faced that humiliation.

I stopped outside the study door and pulled from the pocket of my school blazer a blue-and-white hooped cap. I plonked it on my head and then adjusted it so it would fit neatly over my short-back-and-sides haircut to the satisfaction of the headmaster. I was in enough trouble as it was: I did not want to annoy Dr. Fortescue any further.

The fancy headgear summed up the school to me. It was so full of itself: which schools still made their pupils wear caps? I was glad I was eighteen and in the sixth form; all the younger boys were forced to wear grey flannel short trousers.

I stared for a while at the heavy oak-panelled door. This school was out of date and so damn ancient; this was 1968, everything should be fresh and new. But not St. Septimius Independent Grammar School; here it was 1968 going on 1908. St. SIGS dated from sometime in the seventeen-hundreds. It was a traditional school: traditional teaching methods, traditional sports, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. It was a boys-only independent fee-paying grammar school with delusions that it was an elite public school.

My heart beat faster. I knew what would happen after I knocked and Dr. Fortescue bade me enter and I did not relish the prospect one little bit. How I hated St. SIGS; I wished I had never been awarded that damned scholarship last term. I nearly said “won” the scholarship, but believe me it was no prize.

Taking a deep breath, I raised his fist and with more confidence than I really felt, rapped on the door.

@

“Enter!”

I know who it is, it’s that guttersnipe Eldridge; the scholarship boy. What the hell are boys like him doing at my school?

I blame the new Socialist Government. They are forcing good schools like St. Septimius to take on boys from the working classes. They have no right to be here. No right at all. Eldridge. What does his father do? He’s a postman, and his mother cleans offices. A charwoman! What right have they to send their son here? They should know their place.

I do not care if he has the top marks for mathematics in the county examinations; he will never amount to anything. He does not have the breeding.

Now, I am supposed to deal with the brat. He is on a charge of insubordination: answering back to Mr. Jenkins, the maths master. Well I know how to deal with that, all right.

“Stand there boy! Right in front of my desk.”

@

I closed the door and took up position on the slightly worn rug, as instructed. I suppose usually a boy in this situation would stand eyes cast down at is feet, desperately trying not to catch the headmaster’s eye. Well, stuff that. I stood, hands clasped firmly behind my back and stared intently at him. What a seedy, ridiculous specimen, I thought. I could smell the peppermint on his breath from five paces. His face was ruddy and his nose glowed. Tiny veins were so raised through his skin I could have squeezed half a glass of whisky from them. Dr. Fortescue was pear-shaped and wore a waistcoat buttoned tightly across his portly stomach with a gold (or at least a gold-coloured) watch-chain tucked into a pocket. On his back he wore a rather tattered black academic gown.

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 were also two straight-backed chairs leaning against one wall.

I stood silently waiting for the inevitable lecture to begin.

@

I shall wipe that faint but irritating smirk from his face: is he daring me to use the cane on him?

I should lecture him about his bad behaviour and the need for good manners and how he should obey the instructions of the masters at all times. It is the lecture he should receive and I shall give it soon, but my heart will not be in it.

Nothing I say or do will turn this son of a charwoman into a gentleman. He was born and raised as an oik and he will continue to be an oik long after he has left this school to take up a job in a factory somewhere.

Why is this Socialist Government so envious of our kind of people? We have produced the leaders and the administrators that built the biggest empire the world has ever known and we did not need scholarship boys to do it.

In a few moments, when my lecture is completed I shall thrash him and send him on his way. I enjoy the sense of power I hold over him, knowing that I could give him real pain if I so desire. Let the Socialists make of that what they will.

@

I stood impassively only half listening to the headmaster. There was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable. Dr. Fortescue was dubbed “The Tyrant Headmaster” by the boys with good justification. He had arrived at St. SIGS a decade or so previously. He had been brought in by the governors to shake the school up a bit. Examination results were slipping, discipline was slack. Something must be done. The good doctor only knew one method. Legend had it that from the very first day he publicly thrashed a sixth-former and he would never stop flogging until the day he died.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The headmaster jawed me. I had been “impertinent.” “Insolent.” “Impudent.”  All I had done was to question the maths master’s answer to a quadratic equation. The maths master was wrong, I was still sure of that, but at this school a boy never, ever, questioned a master: about anything.

The lecture over, I watched, heart now thumping, as the headmaster rose from his seat and waddled across the study to a tall, thin cupboard. I had never been in this study before, but instinctively I knew what it contained.

I stared slack-jawed into the open cabinet. The array of canes was impressive. There were nine assorted rods, some with the traditional crook-handle; most were made of rattan and two were dragon canes. Dr. Fortsecue leant into the cupboard obscuring my view, but I heard the rattle of six or seven thin canes rolling around inside the cupboard as his headmaster selected the one he would use to beat me.

Satisfied, Dr. Fortsecue closed the cupboard door and turned to face me. I had never seen such an awesome rod. It was the headmaster’s pride and joy: a Malacca cane. It was no bigger or thicker than any of the other canes in the cabinet; but it was denser. This one had notches every three inches or so along its length. I ran my tongue across my teeth, all saliva had drained from my mouth. I knew instinctively these notches would cut into my flesh and leave severe bruises and welts.

@

I have selected a rather stout, but still extremely whippy, Malacca cane. It is a bit thicker and longer than some in my collection and it will deliver a sting that this guttersnipe will feel for a long time to come. I swish the cane through the air a few times. There is no need to do this, but I hope it intimidates the boy somewhat. I want to give him time to contemplate his fate. In a few moments this fearsome rod will be whipping into your outstretched buttocks and the agony you will feel will be intense, is the message I hope to convey. And, you deserve it. Never again will you question the authority of your betters.

Eldridge’s eyes have widened. I do believe my intimidation is working.

“Take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the door!” I bark out the order, as if we were on a parade ground. I want this experience to be awesome, something that he will never forget.

Slowly, he fumbles with the buttons of the blue-and-white school blazer and pulls it off. He seems unconcerned about what is about to befall him. I suppose he is putting on a brave face, as they say.

“Cap off too boy!” It seems he may have forgotten he had it on his head.

Suitable disrobed, I order him to approach my desk. I thwack the cane down hard against it.

@

“Please lower your trousers and bend over the desk,” the headmaster says as if it is the most natural request in the world to make. An eighteen-year-old young man compelled to present himself in his underwear for a thrashing from a vile older man.

I doubt if I hid contempt I felt as the drunken old soak swished the cane through the air. I would not be intimidated, I told myself. I would submit to the beating, but only because I had no choice. If I refused I would be expelled from the school and that would give the odious snob Fortsecue far more satisfaction than he would get from simply beating me. Besides, by that age I had realised I wanted more from life than a dead-end job with low wages and no future. That was already the fate of my pals back at Gum Shoe Lane Secondary Modern. For poor kids like us the only escape was through sport or by becoming a pop star. I had no talents in those directions, but I had discovered a third way: education. I was good at exams and at St. SIGS I would ace them and go on to university.

I had never been caned before, but I had enough imagination to suppose it would hurt a very great deal indeed. That was the point, surely. But, the purpose of corporal punishment also was to ensure compliance in the beaten boy; to make certain he obeyed the rules in future. But the only rule I had broken was to question the wisdom of his maths master. Such is the injustice of corporal punishment.

I suppressed a sneer when Fortsecue ordered me to remove my blazer and cap. So, we are nearly there. Any moment now, I would be compelled to show my arse to my master. What a farce. I could not understand why my hands shook so much as I unbuttoned my blazer.

My heart raced, as I tugged at my belt buckle. Suddenly, it dawned on me that this was no picnic. However defiant I might feel inside, outwardly my body and more specifically my backside was about to be attacked by a man more than three times older than myself. Submissively, I must present myself to this man and allow him to whip my buttocks as hard as he wished; there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to prevent it.

With blood racing through my body and temples throbbing, I let my trousers slither down my thighs. I took a deep gulp and lowered myself over the desk.

I lay face down across the huge walnut desk topped with green leather, the scent of my own aftershave sticking in my throat. I strained my arms ahead of me and held tightly to the edge. My mid-grey trousers were at a puddle at my feet. The headmaster neatly pulled my shirt up to my shoulders. My white Y-front underpants felt tight across my stretched buttocks. A window was slightly open and a soft breeze wafted across my bare legs.

@

He presents his bottom perfectly for the thrashing he is about to receive, but I want to make him suffer a little more.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart!”

It is all entirely unnecessary, but I enjoy watching him wriggle over the desk trying to comply with my demands.

Eventually, I decide he has been kept waiting long enough.

I give my usual lecture to boys I am about to thrash. “You must keep perfectly still. Do not wriggle or try to get up before I give you instruction to. If you do so I will award extra strokes. I trust that is clear!”

“Yes, Sir!” he responds in a clear voice. Is he daring me to whip him as hard as I wish because he can take it?

But, now Eldridge is breathing heavily. This is more like it. It is common among boys about to be beaten; even the repeat offenders fear the cane.

I slide the cane from middle to top, from top to middle and from middle to the crease between buttocks and thighs. I can hear the increased tension in the yob’s breathing before I lift the cane away, raise it to shoulder level and swipe it down, landing it with awesome accuracy across the very centre of his buttocks.

I tap again, twice actually, draw back and give the next cut lower, but not harder. This time his body flinches a little, but his head does not move. He does groan and I appreciate his mettle. The ability to stay still and not move or cry out does not come naturally to most boys, certainly not ones new to the cane. How I hate him for his fortitude.

I will not allow this wretched boy to get the better of me. I lash him harder than I have ever thrashed a schoolboy. His bottom dances under my strokes, twice I have to remind him not to struggle. The threat of extra strokes makes him comply. After the full nine strokes have been given, he lays sobbing over the desk; he is a very sorry boy. Which is how it should be.

@

I shuddered when I felt for the first time in my life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of my pants to warn me the punishment was about to begin. I knew I had to go through with it now. I wanted it to start so that I could get it over and go home. My buttocks tensed and untensed in fear of the pain of the first stroke. It was a reflex action; I had no control over my body’s movement.

Swish! It propelled a lung-full of breath out of my mouth and left me gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying my lungs for a second time, and making me gasp in desperation. It rose up again for the third time and swooped lower down to thwack into the crease between buttocks and thighs. That was when I cried out. Humiliated. Literally beaten.

The next three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep into my arse, around about where the cheeks meet the thighs. I yelled fit to bring the oak-paneled walls of the study crashing down. I gripped the edge of the desk for dear life my fingernails biting so deep I thought they might break.

Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, I tried to catch my breath. My heartbeat was racing and phlegm rose in my throat. Any second now I feared I would spew a stream of vomit across the desk. Up and down the cane rose.

The intense agony which started in my buttocks travelled through my whole body. My face and neck were as scarlet as my backside. Tears flowed down my cheeks to meet the snot dribbling from my nose.

The pain mixed with my humiliation. This awful man had forced me to submit my backside to him and he had whipped it to shreds. And, he had enjoyed every moment of it.

When I was permitted to rise from the desk, how I hated Fortsecue and his school full of snobs. I despised his whisky-soaked face and tubby beer-gut. I loathed above all his poisonous attitude.

The intense pain quickly subsided to a deep throbbing and very soon was just a warm glow. The marks on my bum lasted a week or so and the cut he had landed on my thighs made it difficult for me to sit in comfort for some hours. I hated The Tyrant Headmaster with all the passion that only a teenager can muster.

I aced my exams and went onto university and had a successful career as a mathematics professor. I never gave Fortescue a second thought until one day when I was in my twenties my mother sent me a cutting from the local newspaper. The decomposing body of Dr. Fortescue had been found in the house where he lived alone. It had laid unnoticed for six weeks. A half-empty bottle of Teachers was nearby.

 

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The Tyrant Headmaster

A glint in the eye

Don’t bully our mum

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Shoplifting

I am walking down Brocklehurst High Street heading for the Pound Shop. It is late summer and college restarts the next week and I need provisions like pens and paper and such like. Not, if I am going to be particularly honest about it, that I will put them to good use, since college for me is just an opportunity to skive. I know the Pound Shop is a good place to go; not because of the low cost of their products (the clue is in the store’s name) but it is an easy place to steal things from.

I am of the opinion that there is no reason to pay for something when you can take it for free and those of you who have visited such places as the Pound Shop know they have little use for security. I take what I want and simply hide it under my coat and make my leave.

I think this day is to be no exception. I choose Saturdays because; one) it is a little busier than during the week and two) because it is staffed by “Saturday workers” who by and large are school or college kids working for the day and they really couldn’t give  a shit. About anything.

I am making my selection and heading to the sunlight uplands of the high street with a bulge under my coat when I hear a voice call out. It says, “Hey you there, stop!” I am not sure the voice – it is a gruff sound and is clearly a man and quite possibly an older guy at that – is directed at me so I just keep on going. I have a date with my girlfriend and don’t want to be late on account that her folks are visiting her gran this day and the house will be empty for some hours and as they say, “While the cat’s away …”

“You! Stop!” The old geezer shouts again and now people are looking at him and looking at me and some Good Citizen steps in front of me to block my path.

“You!” I turn around and see I was right. It is a man who will never see fifty again, he has a paunch the size of a football hanging over the waist of his cheap dark-blue polyester trousers. His matching jacket is a little too tight and he sweats like he has just run a marathon rather than walking maybe a hundred feet from the shop doorway.

He is a security guard and doesn’t he know it. Now, I know and you probably know too, that security guards are the scum of the earth. They get minimum wage, an ill-fitting suit, and the chance to beat up on ordinary citizens just going about their not-so lawful business.

“Would you please come with me sir,” he says, sneering the word “sir” because he doesn’t really mean it. What he wants to say is, “I’ve got you bang to rights sunny boy, let’s see you grovel out of this one.”

I am standing in the middle of the crowded street seeing my afternoon shag-fest melting in the hot sun. I think about running. I have no practice at athletics preferring to spend my waking hours at Tablet screens or in dark pubs. And, sometimes I do both these things at the same time. I am not fit but I can outrun the old security guard.

I get ready to leg it when the security guard speaks. He says, “I know you. You’re …” and he gives up my name. Both bits. The first name and the last. “You live at The Avenue,” he is triumphant. “I know your dad.”

Now, how old fattyboy here, who is a nobody on minimum wage and who has always been and always will be, knows my dad, who just happens to be the director of administrative affairs at the local borough council and a big cheese in town to boot, escapes me. The news makes me hesitate my flight and next thing I feel his hand on my shoulder and I am going nowhere. Nowhere, that is except back into the shop.

There is a small room close to the self-service checkouts that he takes me to. It looks like a store room, but there is a cheap plastic-looking table, so it might be an office. There is only one window high up in the wall. It is frosted glass and hardly any daylight gets in. Fatty flicks a switch and a dim bulb sparks into action.

Well, Fatty goes on at me a bit, asks me what I’ve got under my jacket, have I got receipts, the whole nine yards. I cough to it. Who cares? The total value of my swag is four pounds. It’s hardly worth the trouble calling the police. It’ll cost the store more money to prosecute people than they ever lose in theft. I know it and I pretty sure Fatty boy here knows it too.

I let him have his moment in the spotlight and I’m just getting ready to say, “Call the cops or let me go,” like we were in some two-bit drama show on cable TV, when he goes to his pocket, pulls out a dirty handkerchief and very deliberately mops his brow with it. I watch mesmerised. He is really a fat, ugly reptile of a specimen. His brownish eyes are dull and I can see he is thinking about something. He is trying out the words he is about to say out loud. It is like he is rehearsing them like an actor in that TV drama I just told you about.

Then he says, “I think I’ll call your dad, let’s see what he has to say about it.” Then he smiles and I see half his teeth are missing and those that aren’t are dirty yellow and decayed. “What do you think about that?” he says. It isn’t really a question because he damn well knows what I think about that. I don’t think much of that at all.

I wonder how he knows of my dad. But if he really knows him at all, he knows that my dad will have my hide when he finds out. Now, “have my hide” is a saying that has been about for decades and means many different things to many different people. But when I say dad will “have my hide”, I don’t mean, “no more movies for a week or two, no more running round with the usual crew”, I mean “have my hide”, as in “take the skin off my rear end”.

Fatty grins at me and my stomach turns over. It turns over; one) because Fatty is repulsive to look at and more so when he shows the inside of his mouth, and two) because I do not want to be bent across the end of my bed at home with my trousers at my ankles and underpants at the knees while dad whips me with a thick, whippy, old-fashioned school-type cane he purchased off e-Bay especially for the purpose. I’ve been there and done that and no thank you I don’t need the t-shirt.

z used after pants down bed (2)

Fatty grins at me some more and I swear licks his lips, like he is sizing me up as his next meal. I am silent. What can I say? What exactly does he want?

I find out soon enough, when he wipes that snotty handkerchief over his face again and then he speaks. He says, “I have a little something in that drawer I keep for people like you,” and he nods towards a long drawer that is part of the table as if I can’t work out for myself what it is he is talking about.

He opens the drawer and pulls out a piece of wood. I know right away what it is because I see lots of these last time I’m at the TK Maxx store. It is a chopping block like you use in a kitchen for cutting carrots and onions and what-not. Fatty holds the board by the handle and waves it at me. I realise for the first time the chopping block has another use. The  chopping end is maybe thirty-five centimetres long and fifteen wide and not at all thick. He licks those lips again and his dull eyes blaze now.

He says nothing, but I know he wants to spank me with the chopping board. I am in a jam. I can leg it out of there and go screw my girlfriend, but I know when I get home later dad will be waiting, flexing his curved-handled cane between his hands. I can do that or I can stay and let Fatty do his worst. I know that Fatty’s worst will be nothing like dad’s. I see the blade of the chopping block could pack a punch and might blister my bum, but dad’s cane will rip me to shreds and I’ll still know about it in two weeks’ time.

Fatty might be a mind reader because he says to me, “It’s me or your dad,” and he leaves it at that. He doesn’t say more. He knows that I know what he means. Either way, I cop it. It’s him or dad. If you were in my shoes, what would you do?

“You need to take down those trousers and bend over the table,” Fatty says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to have a nineteen-year-old kid with his jeans down bending across a table in an airless room on a Saturday lunchtime while he wallops his backside with a chopping board.

“And, you need to do it now,” he goes on, like this is something he does all the time. He licks those frigging lips again.

I close my eyes and see the sight of my bare arse when I look at it in the mirror after dad finished with me last time. Think about Clapham Junction railway lines. I open the peepers again and reach down to my belt and tug it open. Soon my zipper is lowered and my jeans slip down my thigh. Fatty has the chopping board by the handle and is thumping it into the palm of his left hand. He is trying to frighten me, but I say to myself there is nothing to worry about because no way is that piece of wood going to hurt me one little bit when I think of what dad’s cane will do.

So, I shuffles forward like a penguin until I reach the table. I am a tall guy and the table is quite low. I stop and think. How do I do this? Do I spread my legs and lean forward and grab the table and stick my bum out? That would do it. Or do I lay on the table spread-eagled with my legs splayed.

“Put your elbows on the table and stick yer arse out,” Fatty is breathing heavily, but I get what he is trying to tell me. I do as he says. I don’t see myself, but I can tell this puts me in a mightily good position. My head is low, my back arched, my legs are apart and my bum juts out at a perfect angle for Fatty to spank me.

I still have my jacket on so Fatty takes hold of the tail end and moves it away from his target area. I wear mini briefs (my girl’s favourite) and they stick to my cheeks like a second skin. Still, Fatty rubs his hand over my arse to smooth the cotton down some more. It feels like the briefs have ridden up my crack.

The table top is old and stained. It has seen much action. I think I recognise one of the stains and it has no connection to tea, coffee or other beverage. I feel Fatty move away and then I feel a kiss of wood against my stretched flesh, then Wham! The wood cracks into my arse. I get a burning sensation where it lands. Bam! Another hits, just below the first blow. Crack! and so on.

My buttocks are sizzling. The sound of the crack of wood on cotton underwear bounces off the walls of the small room and I think surely the store staff on the other side of the door can hear what is going on. Any moment someone is coming in to see what the commotion is.  I bite my bottom lip as the pain intensifies. It starts at my bum and travels up and down my legs. I keep my position well. I can stand it. Fatty spanks the chopping board across every square centimetre of my bum and wallops the back of my thighs for good measure. I hear him wheezing. Soon it becomes full out coughing.

He stops spanking me before he suffers a stroke. I stand and without looking at the fat old man who is now struggling for breath, I pull up and fasten my jeans. My bum is sore, but even now it is turning from pain to only a throb. I rub the seat of my jeans and can’t find any trace of welts, but my bum will be bruised for sure.

I pick up my pens and writing paper and without a backward glance at Fatty I leave the office. I am walking down the High Street and I think, how do I explain the bruises to my girlfriend? I think I could just tell her the truth, but honestly who would believe me?

 

Other stories you might like

Bible College

Memories of Uncle Edgar

The shoplifter

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

What would his girlfriend say?

z used after girlfriend story sting

Harrison sped down the passageway. His arse was on fire. There was nobody around so he was not embarrassed kneading his scorching flesh. Jesus H. Christ, he was on fire. Moments earlier he had been stretched across the worn leather chesterfield coach in the headmaster’s study. Nose pressing against the stinking leather. Trousers at his ankles; Y-fronts at his knees.

The headmaster laid on twelve stingers. Twelve. A dozen. On the bare arse. Was that even legal? Bloody hell, he’s eighteen years old, almost an adult.

Harrison heaved his shoulder against a door and pressed hard against the force of the overhead spring. Great. The sixth-form bogs were unoccupied. Carefully, he unbuckled his belt and let his mid-grey trousers slip over his buttocks. Then gingerly he eased down his cotton underpants. The throbbing was intense. Then, he pointed his bare bum at the mirror. Crikey! The marks will last a month, he thought.

Suddenly, the door opened. In walked his best pal Tollinson. He paused in the doorway and seeing Harrison’s corrugated flesh, let out a low soulful whistle.

“I heard you had been called to the beak,” he said, moving further into the lavatory. “Well he’s given you a good set of marks.” He licked his index finger and gently traced one of the longer, deeper cuts with it.

“Sorry,” he lied, when his friend winced as the pain was reignited. As any schoolboy would, Tollinson was greatly enjoying his pal’s distress. “It looks like a map of Clapham Junction,” he grinned.

Harrison twisted his body to get a closer view while Tollinson carefully massage his hairless bum with the palms of his hands. “It’s hot enough to fry an egg back here,” he grinned.

Harrison grimaced. “Look at those cuts,” he sashayed his bum. “It’ll take forever for them to clear.”

“A week at least,” Tollinson confirmed. “When Davis got done, there were bruises for ten days,” he added with authority, “and he only got six.”

Harrison cupped one buttock in his hand and weighed it ruefully. “I’m meeting Sandra tonight, what’s she going to say?”

“Your girlfriend?” Tollinson asked sulkily. “Do you mean you’re doing it?” He assumed like himself, every boy at the school was a virgin. There were no girl pupils. The only action the sex-starved boys got came courtesy of their right hands. Or (he supposed) the left for those so inclined.

“Of course,” Harrison straightened his shoulders. The cock of the walk. “How do I explain this?”

Tollinson stared at the ridged arse and shrugged, “Tell her the truth, why not?”

Harrison eased up his underpants and trousers. Tollinson struggled to hide his disappointment. Harrison buckled his belt furiously. “I told her I was a student at Brocklehurst Uni. How can I explain this?” He rubbed the seat of his trousers in case Tollinson didn’t understand.

Tollinson pursed his lips. “Tell her you flunked a test and your professor gave you a bowing to buck up your ideas.”

“Will she buy that?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah, right,” his pal chortled. “Come on, let’s go home.”

The two schoolboys walked down the passageway. One distressed and the other delighted there would be no nookey for Harrison that night.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Housemaster’s double caning

Room 203 at the motel

Someone needs his bottom spanked

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A memory

z used drawing cane master Mag (53)

George Harkness hurried towards the bus-stop, late for work. A fascinating discussion about the failing economy in Venezuela on The Today programme had delayed his departure from home. If he hadn’t been late he would never have seen the young man.

He saw him as he turned out of The Avenue. He was equally in a hurry. George Harkness sucked in breath. There could be no mistaking it. The dark (almost , but not quite) black hair cut close to the scalp. The long thin drawn face, covered in acne. The gangly gait the young man had as he weaved his way through the busy pavement, his painfully thin body dodging mothers with strollers.

It was Will Rigley.

Will Rigley, as George Harkness lived and breathed. Unmistakable.

Except that this man was about twenty years old and Will Rigley, like George Harkness himself, was thirty-eight.

George Harkness watched the man disappear into the distance. It was Will Rigley. An exact likeness. How could this be? George Harkness chewed his bottom lip, his heart suddenly racing. He hadn’t seen Will Rigley in twenty years, was it possible that this man was his son?

As George Harkness waited patiently for his bus to arrive, he was transported back in time. It was 1997, Will Ridley and George Harkness stood uneasily in the headmaster’s study. Literally on the carpet.

St. Francis Independent Grammar School was fighting the tide of progress. Dr. Cuthbertson loomed over the boys, his grim, lined, grey face, a little flushed. Between his hands he flexed a stout but supple rattan cane. George Harkness watched intently as the ageing headmaster swished it through empty air. It made a terrific swooshing noise as it went.

Corporal punishment had been abolished in state schools a decade earlier and most private schools had voluntarily given it up. Not so St. FIGS. It was a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. St. FIGS was trapped in aspic, somewhere just after 1945. George Harkness and Will Rigley stood to attention in the headmaster’s oak-panelled study, weak light streaming through mullioned windows. All three buttons on their green-and-gold blazers were fastened. Striped ties were tightly knotted. School caps were perfectly positioned on their heads. They were the perfect embodiment of the post-war schoolboy. First formers at the school still wore traditional grey short trousers and knee socks.

Dr. Cuthbertson wore a gown over his tweed suit, a mortarboard cap on his head. He glowered at the two sixth-formers before him.

George Harkness shivered at the bus stop, uncertain if it was caused by the nippy autumnal air or the memory of the visit to the headmaster’s study. George Harkness and Will Ridley were eighteen years old. Legal adults. Old enough to vote. Old enough to join the military and kill people. Old enough to have sex – even with one another. The exams started in three weeks’ time and then they would be out of that place.

Dr. Cuthbertson cared about none of this. They were pupils of his school. They had broken the rules and should be (and would be) punished. He swished the cane once more. “Take off your caps and blazers and put them on my desk,” he intoned. Will Rigley, anxious to get on with proceedings, quickly unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. He was no stranger to this. It would be Six, he knew that. It would hurt like blazes, he knew that too, but the pain would quickly dissolve into a throbbing before turning to a dull ache.  He would live.

George Harkness knew none of this. Unlikely though it might sound in a school like St. FIGS he had never been beaten. He was relatively new to the school, having joined the sixth form when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a directorship at the borough council. Caned for the first time, aged eighteen. What the hell would they say at his former school if they ever found out?

George Harkness watched as Will Rigley put his blazer on the headmaster’s desk and then carefully placed his cap on top of it. He returned to his original spot on the carpet, clasped his hands behind his back and stared intently at the floor. He seemed very calm. Unlike, George Harkness. George Harkness couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. They would not at first obey his instruction to unbutton his coat.

“Come along boy, we haven’t all day,” Dr. Cuthbertson growled and menacingly flexed the stout curve-handled cane between his hands.

Sweat started to soak the back of his shirt as George Harkness at last slipped the blazer from his shoulders and with trembling hands he placed it next to that of Will Rigley. He too resumed his position on the carpet in time to see the headmaster stride across the study towards a low-backed armchair. He tucked his cane under his arm and in one smooth movement swivelled the chair so that its back now faced into the room. He stood by its side and slipped the cane into his hand. He thwacked it against the padded apex of the chair and barked, “Rigley, you first. Step forward.”

George Harkness held his breath. His heart pounded and his shirt was by now soaked in sweat although it was cold in the study. He watched intently as Will Rigley took three paces forward. That was enough to leave him standing behind the chair.

“Bend over.” It was a curt command. The headmaster was in charge. He gave orders and others obeyed. That went for the schoolmasters as well as the pupils. Not, of course, that he ordered his masters to bend over for a swishing. Well, there had been that one very junior English master, but Dr. Cuthbertson was certain the wretch would not have shared the details of his ordeal with others.

George Harkness had a perfect view as Will Rigley drew a deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together and went over the back of the chair. It seemed to George Harkness like Will Rigley had dived into a pool of iced water. Will Rigley gripped the soft cushion of the chair. The back of the armchair was low and there was a gap of several inches between it and Will Rigley’s stomach.

“Head low, bottom high, feet further apart.” The eighteen-year-old obeyed each command. He was now ready to receive his thrashing.

George Harkness had never had cause to think about it before, but now watching Will Rigley present himself he realised how impossibly thin he was; almost unhealthily so. Will Rigley had legs like pipe cleaners and his bottom was but two pimples, his bum looked awfully small against the headmaster’s stout whippy cane.

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

Dr. Cuthbertson resumed his sawing, a little lower this time. He took his time, finding a spot on the under cheek, close to where the buttocks meet the thighs. Then he let fly. Will Rigley did the hissing and the buttock swaying again. This time he added a little knee bending. But, as before, he quickly settled, inviting the headmaster to deliver the third cut.

George Harkness’s temples throbbed. His head ached. Saliva drained from his mouth. He gave a throaty cough. The third stroke was aimed higher, near the crest of the mounds. Will Rigley now had three parallel welts, perfectly delivered. The pain was intense. Will Rigley felt his eyes welling and screwed them tight. He  wouldn’t give the old goat the satisfaction of tears.

The headmaster paused, took two steps back and then slowly paced the study. George Harkness stood fascinated. The headmaster was admiring his handiwork from every conceivable angle. He took particular care to study Will Rigley’s face and neck, which were as red as his backside undoubtedly was. George Harkness saw Dr. Cuthbertson’s tongue dart through his pursed mouth before slowly licking first his lower lip and then the upper, all the time his gaze was on Will Ripley’s tight buttocks.

It seemed like an eternity to George Harkness (and also probably to Will Rigley) before the headmaster once more took up position behind and slightly to the left of the prostrate sixth-former. Will Rigley tensed as he felt the cane tap-tap-tap against his thigh. Whack! Total agony. Will Rigley fought to suppress the yell he desperately wanted to make. The back of the thighs was the most sensitive part of the body on offer to the headmaster. Many schoolmasters would agree it was bad form to beat a boy there. A caning should only be on the buttocks; that’s what God had made them for.

George Harkness screwed his eyes tight, he could not bear to watch further. What he failed to see was the headmaster alter his stance slightly. Now, he sawed the cane from the lower left buttock to the higher right. He used every ounce of his considerable strength to lash a diagonal cut across Will Rigley’s bum. He howled. Will Rigley didn’t want to but he had no choice. It was the most natural reaction his body could make to the utter agony he felt. The cane had flogged across the previous cuts reigniting the pain in them all. Blood gently oozed at the points the cuts intersected.

Dr. Cuthbertson moved position once more. This time the cane rested from the lower right to the upper left cheek. Whoosh! When Will Rigley later inspected his bare bum in the boys’ bogs he would find a perfect “X”. For now, he clutched the soft cushion of the armchair as if his life depended on it. His hips wriggled, his buttocks swayed and his left leg entwined the right. He gulped in draughts of air like a goldfish out of water. He wanted to leap to his feet and rub away at the intense burn that engulfed him. His bum had been ripped to shreds. He knew he must not do this. It would only encourage Dr. Cuthbertson to award him extra strokes.

The headmaster resumed his stroll around the study. Will Rigley’s bottom was now still. It jutted out once more at a perfect angle to receive the headmaster’s administrations. Dr. Cuthbertson tucked the cane under his arm, approached the teenager and gently rubbed the palm of his right hand across the contours of Will Rigley’s buttocks, making circular motions as he caressed every square inch.

“You may rise. Harkness take his place.”

George Harkness felt a jolt in his back. A man in the queue behind him was pushing forward. The bus had arrived. George Harkness reached into his pocket for his pass and made to board the bus. It was full and he had to strap-hang the whole journey. He had not thought of that incident in twenty years. His first and only caning. He had not taken it well. Tears flowed at the first cut and by number three he was howling like a banshee. It embarrassed him greatly. It took more than a week for the marks to completely disappear.

He left the school a few weeks later and went away to university. Will Rigley went away too and George Harkness never heard of him again. Corporal punishment was eventually outlawed (even at St. FIGS). George Harkness quickly forgot about the school and Dr. Cuthbertson until one day in 2005 his mother sent him a cutting from the Brocklehurst Bugle. Dr. Cuthbertson had committed suicide one day after police raided his house  and found a dozen or so commercial video tapes, some depicting scenes of “headmasters” spanking “sixth-formers”.

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 boys in room 3b

z used twosome students short shorts Adams Gay Readers

Mr. Twirler had his doubts about the boys in room 3b. Yes, they had been at his rooming house since last January; six months now, but still there was something about them he just couldn’t get. Try as he might he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Why should he worry? He told himself often enough. They paid the rent on time. They were both in good jobs. Donny, the fair-haired one with the broad chest and snake hips, was an office boy or some such at the Gas Board. Jasper, the dark-haired lad with the deep brown eyes and the Mediterranean skin, worked at the Co-op store. Something in the warehouse, Mr. Twirler thought. But he couldn’t be sure how he knew that. It couldn’t have been Jasper himself who told him. The two had hardly exchanged a dozen words since the boys moved in. It must have been one of his other tenants. Mr. Baskerville, perhaps. He knew everybody’s business, that was for sure.

They had arrived together. As a package as it were. Wanting to share a room. Donny had been living with his parents.

“They’re driving me crazy Mr. Twirler,” he had said, flashing a toothy grin and waving his arms about. “I’ve got to get out. I’m eighteen. I shouldn’t be living at home.”

Jasper hadn’t said a thing. He could have been living in a skip, for all Mr. Twirler knew.

 

@

 

“Let’s do it,” Jasper gasped and he leaned back until he was flat on the bed. He felt Donny’s hand on his thigh making light stroking movements. He hissed through his teeth as the tips of Donny’s fingers made their first fleeting contact with the skin of his still soft cock.

The eighteen-year-old’s fingers lightly caressed the length of Jasper’s penis and it twitched again as it started to fill out and moved up from between his legs, rubbing against his thigh then flopping onto his stomach.

He felt Donny’s fingers lightly enclose the hardening shaft down near the base and slide slowly up the length of the twitching member. Reaching the top, Donny’s finger’s gently tweaked the sensitive edges of Jasper’s foreskin, causing an involuntary gasp of pleasure. His hand made a couple of slow, firm strokes along the full length of the older boy’s now fully erect cock. Donny’s other hand cupped Jasper’ balls, gently kneading them between his fingers.

Donny’s hand was slowly massaging along the full length of the cock from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. Jasper, shifted his hips, torn between wanting Donny to go faster and wanting this feeling to last as long as possible.

“Wait,” Jasper shuffled his buttocks on the bed. “Come here, get across my legs. Let me spank that terrific arse.”

Donny beamed. “Oh, yes please.” He released his hand from his pal’s cock and careful not to be speared by the rock-hard member he stretched himself over Jasper’s knees. He squealed with pleasure as the palm of his friend’s hand smacked with full force into the soft undercurve of his cheek.

 

@

 

“They’re homosexual,” Mr. Baskerville’s face creased like he could smell a dead dog in the room.

“Homosexual?” Mr. Twirler’s pink fleshy jowls wobbled as he shook his head in incomprehension.

“Pansies. Perverts. Fruits. Fairies. Queers,” Mr. Baskerville’s voice rose an octave with each word. “Shirt lifters!” he roared.

“Shirt lifters?”

Mr. Baskerville mimed raising his shirttail clear of his buttocks. “Shirt lifters,” he said definitively, expecting that to be an end to the matter. “You must have read about them in the Sunday papers.”

Mr. Twirler’s face reddened, perspiration soaked his bald dome. Absent-mindedly, he reached into his trouser pocket, extracted a clean handkerchief and wiped his head dry.

“Shirt lifters, Mr. Twirler,” Mr. Baskerville scowled, “What are you going to do about it?” he asked rhetorically as he slammed the front door behind him and scurried off to the seamen’s mission.

What indeed? Mr. Twirler stared aimlessly from his window. It was grey and overcast. It would rain soon. Then, he’d be forced to turn on the lights. More expense, he supposed. If only all his tenants were like the boys in 3b.

Mr. Twirler meant if only they paid their rent on time then he could afford money for the electricity meter; not if only they were all … what had Mr. Baskerville called them? Shirt lifters.

Homosexual? Was it even legal to be homosexual? Mr. Twirler wasn’t certain, but he rather thought not. Mr. Baskerville was correct; there had been an awful lot about it in the papers lately. If only Mr. Twirler could remember. Against the law: what if the police found out, would Mr. Twirler be arrested? He turned away from the window. He would ask at Church; they would tell him what he should do.

 

@

 

“Evil.”

“Sinful.”

“An abomination.”

“Contrary to God’s law.”

Everyone he asked at Church knew for sure. It was simple really. Donny and Jasper were going to Hell.

“Love the sinner, not the sin.” That was Mr. Tinkerman, a wizened old geezer. He trembled as he spoke and gently held onto his chair. He looked like it wouldn’t be long before he would be able to get God’s definitive word about homosexuals.

Mr. Twirler sat opposite the old man, silently marvelling that in his state he was still able to shuffle down to the Church every day.

“You should save them,” the ancient man wheezed. He slurped in a mouthful of air, “Your Christian duty.” He left the sentence unfinished. His piety spoke for him. He didn’t feel the need to spell it out.

Except that he had to. Mr. Twirler blinked uncomprehendingly.

Mr. Tinkerman’s tongue popped through his lips and he ran it slowly around his cracked lips. “There’s a cure,” he coughed silently. His eyes watered. “It works.” He stopped and stared at the florid man sitting in front of him, as if only then noticing him for the first time.

“Go on,” Mr. Twirler leaned forward. A cure. He could save the boys. Wouldn’t they be pleased when he told them.

“Lashing,” Mr. Tinkerman breathed and when once again Mr. Twirler looked vacant, he continued impatiently. “Whipping. Thrashing. Flogging. Caning!” a trickle of saliva ran from the corner of his mouth. Mr. Twirler watched it reach the ancient man’s chin, his own stomach churning.

“Beat the Devil out of them!” Mr. Tinkerman’s eyes blazed. “It works. I know it does. I read about it in The Empire News last week.” His hands shook violently.

 

@

 

So, that was that then. Mr. Twirler pulled his threadbare overcoat tightly around his body: July, the height of summer and bloody freezing. He would go to Frank’s, the oil shop on Commercial Street; he sold all sorts of things there, including authentic whippy, rattan school canes.

Frank’s young assistant grinned broadly. “Of course, Sir,” he beamed. They got all sorts in the shop. This old geezer was no schoolmaster, nor was he a father in search of an implement to punish a disobedient son. He probably got his rocks off caning young men.

“We have two types of cane; the junior or the senior.” He stopped himself adding, “Would you like to try them out?” He had once earned thirty shillings from a customer. Six stingers across the seat of his trousers, but it was worth it. Thirty shillings, that was nearly a week’s wages.

Mr. Twirler grunted. “Bah, give me the one that hurts the most.”

“Shall I wrap it?”

Mr. Twirler carried his long, thin parcel back to the rooming house.

 

@

 

“He says he wants to cane our arses; it’s something to do with saving our souls,” Jasper guffawed as he recounted his weird conversation with Mr. Twirler.

“Does he?” Donny’s eyes shot heavenwards. “Well, only if he sucks me off after.”

“It might be fun,” Jasper wrapped his arm around his friend’s shoulder and led him to the bed. “It would make a change to be caned by an old man.”

“So I’m not good enough,” Donny’s pout was exaggerated.

“Oh behave; you know what I mean.”

“Do we use our cane, or has he got one of his own?”

“I rather think he has come prepared,” Jasper leaned forward and slipped his tongue inside his pal’s mouth.

 

@

 

Mr. Twirler swished the cane through the air. It was incredibly light weight; he wasn’t at all sure it was up to the job. He was in room 3b. Donny and Jasper stood contritely together on the warn rug. A small rickety table – utility furniture from the end of the war – had been dragged into the middle of the room. It was just about strong enough to hold both their weights as they bent across together; heads low, arses high.

Mr. Twirler had not noticed before just how round an how brown Jasper’s eyes were. He looked a lot like Mickey Mouse. His permanently-tanned face shone. His white tee-shirt was tight and showed some of his tight, flat waist. His pink shorts were just that – short. They hardly covered his buttocks. Jasper wore no shirt; his hairless torso was smooth-skinned and muscular. His yellow cotton sport shorts were if anything even shorter and tighter than his pal’s.

All the spittle drained from Mr. Twirler’s mouth. He licked his dry lips, but he had nothing to moisten them.

“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” he spluttered as he flexed the cane between his hands. It was indeed an authentic punishment cane, complete with the curved handle. It would not look out of place in a headmaster’s study. Mr. Twirler swished it through the air oblivious to the stares of the two contrite teenagers before him. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It made a terrific swooshing noise as it cut through the empty air.

Mr. Twirler gave a little cough; he still could not find his voice. “Bend across the table,” he pointed the cane in front of him in case there was any doubt what he meant. Jasper and Donny exchanged the merest of glances. They shuffled to the table, paused for a second and then fell forward together like synchronised swimmers, until both their stomachs rested across the worn out wood.

Jasper clasped his pal’s hand, only to have it shaken away vigorously. Donny didn’t want Mr. Twirler to discover their little secret.

Mr. Twirler was presented with a terrific target. The tight cotton shorts ran up into the boys’ creases, lifting and separating each cheek. The naked undercurves were easily visible beneath the hem. It was almost as if the bare buttocks were on show.

Mr. Twirler had never beaten a boy’s backside before. There had never been occasion to, but he was a man of God, a man of certainty, and he was sure he was up to the task. He tapped the cane across Jasper’s tight cheeks. There was a lot of meat there. There wasn’t enough spare fat on the nineteen-year-old to sizzle a sausage. He let fly and was rewarded by a dull thud as the whippy rattan connected. The teenager truly had buns of steel. Jasper sucked on his bottom lip. That hurt. The warm glow across his bum was quite pleasant.

Thack! A cut – a little harder this time – connected with the seat of Donny’s shorts. “Ow, ow, ow,” he howled. Jasper stifled a laugh. Trust Donny to act the goat.

Mr. Twirler cut three more slices into the pair’s rear ends. Jasper remained stoic, absorbing the pain. Donny wriggled and writhed and yapped and yelped. Two more to go. Six of the best – wasn’t that the usual number of strokes for a caning?

The old man had a plan. He would finish with a flourish. He “sawed” his cane across the bared undercurve of Jasper’s buttocks. The teenager tensed his body. This would hurt. Like crazy. Whop! Whop! Two stingers swiped across the naked flesh. Immediately two dark red welts rose on the skin. Jasper’s head threw back, tears filled his eyes. The agony was intense. Huff-huff-huff, he struggled to catch his breath.

Donny’s cock grew. It was his turn now. This would be something else. “Owww!” the cry was genuine this time. It was like Mr. Twirler had pressed a red-hot poker against his unprotected flesh. The agony was intense, it started at his bottom and ran up and down his legs. Donny stomped his feet up and down like a soldier on sentry duty.

Then it was over. The aching in two scorched backsides was swiftly dissolving into a hot throbbing. They knew soon it would become a warm glow.

“Stand up,” Mr. Twirler was enjoying himself. He had missed his vocation in life. He would make a splendid headmaster, he reckoned. Jasper and Donny rose gingerly from the table and stood contritely, hands held in front of crotches. The silence was awkward. What was supposed to happen now? How did a beating end?

Mr. Twirler tucked the cane under his arm. “God loves you,” he croaked as he exited the room.

“Jesus Christ,” Donny shrieked with glee as he ripped down his shorts. He wore no underwear. He poked his bum at the mirror and was rewarded with the sight of six deep marks. Jasper’s shorts were off too. Both cocks were at full attention.

“Quick,” Donny pushed Jasper face down on the bed and knelt beside him. He soaked his tongue in spit and ran the tip along the length of his pal’s cane marks.

Downstairs, in his own room, Mr. Twirler lit a match and set a flame under the kettle. His mouth was parched. He needed a cup of tea. His hand shook uncontrollably as he reached up on the shelf for the caddy. What had just happened? Was it God’s Will? He had no idea, he wasn’t an educated man. He didn’t have the answer. Somehow, instinctively, he knew he should not ask for guidance at Church the next day. The front of his underpants was full of cold, sticky goo.

 

Picture credit: Adams Gay Readers

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com