The boy on the train

new story 2

z used domestic white pants window (7)

Joey peered out the window through moist eyes. His bottom was very tender but most of the real pain had gone now. He gingerly caressed his cheeks with his thumbs and the tips of his fingers. It set the pain off again. Through his thin, cotton shorts he could feel the flesh was like leather. The room was spinning and he had to hold on to a chair to stop from fainting to the floor.

It started two weeks earlier when Joey was on a train going home. He had visited Museum of Philately alone. It was the afternoon and the carriage was empty except for one boy. He was about the same age as Joey (late teens / early twenties) and Joey thought he looked nice. He had short black hair and Joey reckoned he had to cut it that way because if it grew it would be curly and wild. The boy had a clear, bright open face that seemed to Joey to glow. He was conservatively dressed in black chino trousers and a dark blue top with a hood. He had a cheap, white T-shirt that emphasised his muscular chest.

The boy noticed Joey staring and Joey blushed. He was a shy boy and easily got tongue-tied when speaking to people. He spent a lot of time on his own and didn’t know how to talk to strangers. The boy smiled at Joey and straight away he relaxed. He couldn’t put his finger on it but there was something almost magical about the boy. It was that glow that he radiated. Before Joey knew it the boy had started a conversation.

They spoke easily, almost as if they had known each other for years. When they reached Brocklehurst the boy suggested they had a coffee at the station buffet. They did and the boy asked Joey lots of questions about himself: where did he work? where did he live? Did he have family? Joey really liked the boy and was beside himself with delight when he suggested they meet up for coffee again.

It was at their third meeting that Joey told the boy that he was troubled. He was so confident that the boy would understand. He had this problem, Joey said. He thought he didn’t like girls and that worried him. Joey said he was afraid that he liked boys instead. He said he sometimes had these weird dreams. Joey had never told a living soul about this but he was not surprised that he told the boy. The boy was special. Joey knew the boy would understand.

And he did. The boy told Joey so. “I understand,” he said. “I was a bit like that myself.” Joey was overwhelmed with relief. Here was a boy he really liked who felt just the same as he did. Suddenly, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The boy smiled sympathetically and said, “I was like that until I started going to the House of the Sacred Light . They really helped me to get over it. You should come too,” the boy said, radiating a beatific smile, “I could take you.”

Joey was uncertain. House of the Sacred Light; he thought it sounded like one of those churches darkies attended to yell and holler and speak in tongues. “No,” the boy giggled when Joey told him this, “it’s nothing like that. Come, you’ll love it.”

By this time Joey trusted the boy. He was the only friend Joey had. If he thought about it (which he didn’t) Joey would say he was the only friend he had ever had. The boy was the only person who understood his problem.

The House of the Sacred Light sounded like it should be housed in a cathedral a hundred feet high and made of stained glass but it turned out to be a single-storey prefab-type building hidden away just off the town centre. And the people there were not at all happy-clappy, in fact they were mostly very serious (dour even) older folk. The boy told Joey not to be put off by this, “They really know,” he told Joey rather enigmatically. It was at his third visit to the House that Joey found out what he meant.

They were very careful not to call what Joey had a “sin” and they did not call themselves “therapists”, but they did say that the way Joey felt was wrong and they could “cure” him – but only if he wanted them to: “no pressure,” they said. The boy told Joey it really worked. “Trust me,” the boy said and he flashed his beatific smile which made Joey’s heart skip.

They set up a group of four men from the House (including the boy) and they listened to Joey. He told them everything and everybody listened quietly and politely. Then, one of the men, who seemed to be a leader, said what needed to happen next. It seemed to Joey that all of them except himself already knew what was coming.

When they told him, he was very confused. Then, the boy explained it again and Joey thought it must be okay then if the boy said so.

“So,” the leader said quietly. He hardly ever spoke above a whisper. He was an elderly man and Joey knew nothing about him but he thought he looked respectable like an old-fashioned schoolmaster or maybe a country parson. “So,” he said, “we should do it now, don’t you think?” he peered through thick-lensed glasses at Joey. He was saying, “It’s up to you son. Only if you want to.”

Joey felt his face flushing bright red. He had never been asked such a question before. He looked across at the boy for reassurance and when he received the beatific smile he knew everything was going to be fine. Even so he couldn’t quite get the words out of his mouth and so merely nodded his agreement.

“Let’s get on with it then shall we?” the leader said and immediately the boy got off his chair and walked across the rather bare room to a beat-up cupboard attached to a wall. While he was doing this the other three all moved their chairs so they were against the wall and then they sat down again. Joey who by now was very apprehensive watched the boy open the cupboard and reach in. He saw him take out a block of wood. It looked a bit like a bread board his mother had at home, but it was a lot smaller.

The boy saw Joey’s confused look and smiled. “It’s a paddle,” he said. He held it up so Joey could see more clearly. It was a rectangle of wood about the size of a paperback book and it had a handle at one end. The boy gripped the handle and gently tapped the blade end into the palm of his left hand. It was hot in the room but even so Joey shivered when he saw this. His heartrate sped up and at the same time all the saliva in his mouth seemed to dry.

The boy went back to his chair and sat down. He looked over at Joey and said, “What you need to do now is take down your trousers.” He didn’t smile now but Joey knew he could trust the boy. The boy was his friend. Joey was a bit confused but he did as he was asked. It was a warm day and he wore polyester leisure trousers which had elastic at the waist. All he had to do was to pinch them at the hips and guide them down. He didn’t notice the three men lean forwards in their chairs when he did this.

Now, he was standing in front of the boy wearing only a white t-shirt and very short boxer shorts that weren’t really much bigger than ordinary briefs. “Bend over my lap,” the boy said and he separated his legs to make a platform. Joey’s eyes blinked uncontrollably as the boy’s knees parted. He felt sweat pour through his long hair. He was so moist he had to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. The boy tapped his knee to encourage Joey to bend over. Joey had never done anything like this before and he wasn’t too certain what to do. The boy must have read his mind because he smiled and reached out and took Joey’s left wrist. “Here, like this,” the boy said as both gently and firmly he pulled Joey forward. Joey had quickly to put out his hands in front of him because he thought he was going to crash into the floor but the boy had a good hold of him and he landed gently.

“Move a bit more forward,” the boy said and he continued to give instructions until Joey had his palms flat out on cheap, plastic tiles. His legs dangled behind him so his feet were off the ground. In this position his head was low and his bottom high over the boy’s right thigh. Joey felt a movement in the boy’s body. He flinched when he realised what was happening. The boy took the end of his t-shirt and gently pushed it up Joey’s back so there was now a lot of bare flesh. Then (and this made Joey shudder) the boy ever so gently rubbed the palm of his hand across Joey’s buttocks. Joey hardly felt a thing but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the man who was the group’s leader had almost toppled from his chair because he was leaning too far forward.

The boy was smoothing wrinkles out of Joey’s shorts. They were really tiny and they fitted Joey’s buttocks snugly. The boy left it so the shorts actually lifted and separated each cheek. He had given himself a beautiful target. The next thing the boy did was to put his left arm across Joey’s body around the middle so he had a firm hold of his waist. Like this Joey was pinned down. He was over the boy’s knee at such an angle that he couldn’t wriggle free and escape – even if he wanted to.

The boy didn’t say anything, he just tapped the wooden paddle against Joey’s left buttock and then against the right one. Then there was a terrific crack as the wood pounded Joey’s cotton-covered bottom. It landed dead centre of the left cheek and the noise it made echoed around the small room. It was a moment or two later that Joey felt the burn. It was like the boy had tried to iron Joey’s shorts with him still inside.  The pain was like nothing he had felt before. He opened his mouth and let out a long hiss. Ssssssssssss! He wriggled his waist but of course the boy had a firm grip and Joey was trapped. All he could do was keep looking down at the dirty, grey tiles and wait for the next swat.

It wasn’t long in coming. This one landed in the middle of the right cheek. Now it seemed to Joey that his whole bum was on fire. The boy went back to the left cheek and walloped it a little lower then he went to the right one. He kept up a steady rhythm, one cheek, then the other, and in no time at all every inch of Joey’s buttocks was scorched. Because Joey’s shorts were so small and the cotton so thin the boy could see exactly where each swat was landing. This helped him make sure first of all that he got Joey everywhere; from the top of the globes, over the crests and into the underside where the cheeks meet the thighs. The second thing the boy could do was to decide where he would swat Joey to create maximum pain. This meant he could choose to land a new swat on an area that was already throbbing.

Joey did not know what had hit him. His legs flailed, his hips and waist wriggled, he lifted his head and shook it up and down and from side to side. He gasped and then he yelped and before long he was crying full-throated yells. All this just seemed to spur the boy on. Joey wasn’t counting the number of whacks and it wasn’t sure whether the boy was either; it seemed to go on forever.

At last the boy let up and Joey was left gasping for breath. The boy still held him tightly so he had to keep staring down at the floor while his body started to recover. His buttocks pulsated and his temples throbbed, he had no spit in his mouth and he seemed to be making gentle mewing sounds, like a little lamb who had lost its mother.

After a while the boy let go of Joey and said he could stand up. As he was doing this the three men who had been watching hurriedly left the room. When Joey and the boy were left together the boy smiled that smile and told Joey this was just the start. It would take a while, but it would be worth it in the end. Then, he too left the room.

Joey bent double so his head was almost between his knees, the pain was dreadful. He rubbed his bum for a bit and then bent down again. The room seemed to be spinning and he couldn’t work out what was going on. He was very light-headed and he remembered that one time when he was drunk and he felt a bit like that, except this time was somehow better. But, he didn’t know how.

He needed air, so he staggered across the room to the window.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

You reap what you sow

First thing in the morning

You, the housemaster

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Craig Misses Curfew

new story 2

Craig slowly opened the front door, trying desperately not to make a sound. He was in trouble; he knew that. Big trouble. Maybe he could delay the inevitable for a little while yet.

“Is that you Craig, come into my study, this instance!” It was Reverend Crick, his landlord, calling. “Drat!” Craig breathed silently. He closed the door, dropped his bag of books onto the ground and reluctantly shuffled through the passageway to a dark oak door. He paused and wondered for a second if he should knock. Why? The vicar had clearly summoned him. With a sweaty palm, he gripped the door handle and pushed.

His jaw actually dropped at the sight. Gary the barman from the village pub was tucking his shirt into his trousers before buckling his belt. Rev. Crick stood thoughtfully bending a whippy, crook-handled school punishment cane between his hands. Gary stared at Craig with astonishment, his wide open face now as red as his bottom at the arrival of the witness.

“What time did you get back last night?” the vicar growled. It wasn’t really a question Crick knew very well it was close on one a.m. “Well boy!” Crick flexed the cane some more. Gary made a hasty exit through the half-open door.

“Eh, well,” Craig blustered. He had no idea what time he arrived back at the vicarage, but it was way past his curfew, of that there was no doubt. He had met with friends from the university and missed the last bus from Brocklehurst to the little village of Aston Budleigh. He would have been later still if a car hadn’t stopped to give him a ride.

“Out drinking, no doubt.” The vicar’s eyes blazed. He had an angular face, with a jutting jaw line. What hair he still retained was thin and straw coloured. He had on the shabby sports jacket that he habitually wore and dark brown corduroy trousers that were a bit thin at the knees. His round glasses were perched on his nose in the centre of a florid face.

Craig stood transfixed. He had been in the vicar’s study many times since his mother had found him these lodgings, but still it took his breath away a little. His eyes could not leave the two canes hanging from hooks on the far wall. They were both something more than three feet in length; one was considerably thicker than the other and both were a little warped.

He knew the wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling with shelving. Some were stacked with books, but in the centre was a tall thin cupboard, with a smoked-glass front.

Also in the room were a huge Chesterfield couch and two armchairs to one side and the vicar’s desk. It was February but the sky was brilliant blue. It was cold in the room but Rev Crick had not set a fire in his study and the nineteen-year-old could not stop from shivering. He could not be sure if that was because of the cold or the fear he felt.

“It is not the first time, you have broken curfew,” Rev. Crick tucked the cane under his armpit and paced the room. He rather fancied he looked the part of a headmaster at an important public school. One day he promised himself he would treat himself and buy an academic gown and mortar-board cap.

Craig tore his attention away from the canes on the wall. In the few months he had been one of the vicar’s lodgers he had become very aware that Crick had a fine assortment of whippy rattan canes and many other punishment tools. The vicar stood, his feet apart and he slipped the cane into his hand. Craig had no doubt what his intentions were. His parents, his mother especially, were convinced Christians. They believed in the Bible, especially that bit about not sparing the rod. They had chosen Rev Crick to be their son’s landlord and mentor while he was at university for a purpose. They knew his reputation for dealing with young men.

Craig was no stranger to corporal punishment at home and school but he had hoped that now he was at university he had left behind that sort of thing.

Swish! The cane flew through open air. Rev. Crick was ready for action. “I think,” he said as if speaking as one reasonable man to another, “that you should remove your coat and set it down on my desk.” He watched, eyes darting and the tip of his tongue poking in and out of his mouth lizard-like as Craig slipped off his dark green parka coat.

“Stand there!” he pointed the cane at middle of the room. Craig shuffled into position and stood, arms behind back, head slightly bowed. Rev. Crick frowned, stared intently at the cane in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and hacked out a cough. Slowly, he moved across the study towards the tall thin cupboard. Deftly he opened its door and slipped the cane inside. Craig watched him move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

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

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” Crick said exasperatedly in his own English accent. Craig sucked in breath. “Here we go again,” he thought. It was at times like this he began to hate his mother. Fancy sending him to live with this oddball. He was nineteen years old and about to offer up his backside for this vicar to whack it with a heavy plank of wood. He could refuse, Crick couldn’t make him do it. He was a weedy runt of a man really who smoked and drank too much. Craig knew he could take him in a fight.

He also knew he was going to do exactly what the vicar told him to. His mother had all the power. She held the purse strings. If he didn’t do as he was told she wouldn’t hesitate to stop paying his university fees. Then what? He would have to leave and get a job. A job! Not if he could help it, he wanted a degree and a life in a top profession,not a job serving in a shop all his life.

“What are you waiting for?” Crick smacked the paddle into his left palm.  It was about five inches wide by a foot long. It was nearly an inch thick. It was a mightily impressive punishment tool. Craig frowned, took a deep breath and reached down to his ankles. He took the vicar at his word, ordinarily, if he was in the housemaster’s study back at school say, the command would be, “Touch your toes,” and toes meant toes, not shins or knees. Keeping in the touch-toes position was more difficult than it sounded, it put a terrible strain on the calves. Grabbing ankles was an altogether more comfortable position, although Craig was perfectly aware that what was about to happen next would be far from comfortable.

He looked down at the threadbare carpet and felt a movement to his left as the vicar approached. He could smell the man’s sour sweat and old tobacco smoke. The vicar pressed his left hand into the small of Craig’s back, keeping him steady. The paddle was small enough that Crick could stand right by the boys proffered bottom and whack the wood home from a short distance. It would be a very painful jab.

z used paddle jeans touch toes domestic (1)

Craig felt the paddle tap against his stretched jeans. They were a little tight and hugged his cheeks. He knew the vicar would have a delightful target. The wood moved away and a second later returned crashing into his meaty, hard bottom. He bit down on his bottom lip. That hurt. A burning sensation radiated from the point of impact and warmed his whole backside. Slam! The wood returned with great force, landing a little higher. Now his entire bum was alight. He gripped his ankles and shut his eyes tightly.

Paddle pain is quite different from the cane. The whippy rod strikes a line of fire across the cheeks and very quickly a welt forms. It throbs like mad for ages. The paddle delivers something more like a slap than a cut, the pain spreads over a wider area and leaves a pain like sitting in a too-hot bath.

Wallop! Smack! Crash! The sound of the paddle echoed around the cold study. The vicar hacked another long cough. “Stand up, drop those jeans,” he spluttered. Craig rose slowly, his bottom was toasted. His heavy denim jeans had been no protection.

“Quickly,” Crick gasped, “I haven’t got all day.”

Craig’s jeans fit snugly, he didn’t need a belt. He popped the button at the top of his Wranglers and pulled the zipper. The jeans were so snug they wouldn’t fall to the floor of their own accord so he pushed them down, first to the knees and then to the ankles. “Over!” the reverend barked. Craig morosely resumed the position.

Rev. Crick had a little ritual when he spanked on the underwear. He liked to make sure there were no creases in the cotton and that the pants fitted like a second skin. He gripped the waistband of Craig’s briefs and tugged hard. The cotton rode up into Craig’s crack and lifted and separated each cheek perfectly. Crick had no willpower and didn’t try not to rub the palm of his right hand across Craig’s rock hard buttocks. They quivered as his rubbed.

Ready once more he lifted the heavy paddle and whacked it down five more times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Craig screwed up his face, the pain was immense, his heart raced, blood pounded his ears, his arse was on fire. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to all parts of his body.

Rev. Crick waddled to his desk and slipped the paddle back into the still-open drawer. He turned and admired the sight of the teenager who was still holding his ankles. He was a very fit lad, he thought. Very fit indeed. Oh how he would enjoy working with the boy over the next three years.

“You may stand.” Gingerly, Craig stood and then bent again so he could pull his jeans up tot their rightful place. His face burned but nowhere near as much as his bum. He desperately wanted to give himself a good rub, but that would have to wait. He wouldn’t give the vicar the satisfaction knowing he had hurt him.

“You may go now,” the vicar almost whispered. Craig did not need telling twice, he sped from the study leaving his coat on the vicar’s desk. Crick tutted to himself, reached into his jacket pocket and found cigarettes and matches. Within seconds he took a deep drag of tobacco. He waddled over to an armchair and fell into it. Puffing heavily on the cigarette he recalled in his mind the past few minutes. A caning and a paddling, what a perfect afternoon, he thought as he blew smoke at the ceiling.

Picture credit: Unknown

Mores stories featuring the spanking vicar of Aston Budleigh are here

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By order of the court

New boy at Albion

My house. My rules

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Festus

new story 2

z used otk birch CS

Neither of my parents were bothered with religion so I grew up without knowing about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” My Uncle Festus was altogether different as I would find out. I went to a modern school, they taught us sciences as well as humanities. It was a progressive place and corporal punishment was unheard of. I was a bright child but distracted. I wasn’t lazy, but I never worked; not on my academic studies anyway. I was a good and popular sportsman and made many friends. There were girls at the school and in my later years they were a distraction.

I did badly in my examinations and my parents’ hopes that I would go to Oxford or Cambridge University were dashed. I wasn’t even qualified to attend one of the smaller, less prestigious varsities. That’s how I found myself at the Brocklehurst Crammer. Brocklehurst is a small town a long way from my home. My father arranged that I should attend the college for three months during the autumn. The idea was that I would be force-fed all the learning I had passed up at school and then retake my exams. That way, so the theory went, I could get a university place and get my life back on track.

I was never told why I was to be sent to Brocklehurst as there were many similar colleges close to my home. Looking back I suspect the deciding factor in sending me away was Uncle Festus. He lived alone in a large house in Brocklehurst. He had never married and was a pillar of the local community, especially one particular church. It was arranged that I would lodge with him, returning to his home at the end of each college day. I was not consulted over the arrangement, but I could see no reason to object. I would be the first to admit I had let myself and my parents down; I should be grateful to be afforded a second chance.

I took a very long journey by three steam trains and was near exhaustion when finally we chuffed into Brocklehurst Station. I had been told my uncle would meet me. I had rarely met him and had no idea what he looked like. I spotted him immediately. He was a young child’s nightmare of a latter day Old Testament prophet. His hair was wild, his side whiskers were overgrown, a waxed moustache curled above his upper lip. Wild blue eyes stared through half-moon glasses. It was a late summer day and seasonably warm but Uncle Festus was dressed in a heavy serge suit with buttoned-up waistcoat. Cutting into his neck was a stiff cardboard collar from which a tightly knotted tie hung.

He recognised me too. Father had insisted that I wear my old school uniform.  My bright red blazer shone in the sunlight. I had abandoned the stiff collar and tie but wore a white shirt and pale grey trousers. Uncle Festus grunted something that might have been a greeting. He peered at me over the top of his glasses, inspecting first my hair and then my face. Evidently he was not pleased with what he saw. “Hair needs cutting. No cap. Where’s your collar?” He did not wait for my response and instead turned on his heels and sped off in the direction he had come. “Follow me!” he barked. I watched him disappear down the platform. When it became clear that I was not following he stopped. He stared at me from a distance of fifty feet; his eyes blazed, I swear I saw then spin, he drew back his shoulders, gulped down air into his lungs and roared, “I said follow me!” The few people still at the station stopped what they were doing and turned startled, wondering what manner of emergency had taken place.

My face reddened, my hands trembled, I was sure tears were close to forming. “B.. b..” I stumbled, terrified to speak. At last I found the courage and the wind, “But Uncle, I have to get my luggage from the train,” I bleated pitifully. Thankfully, at the a moment a porter approached pushing a trolley heavily loaded with two trunks and a suitcase; the provisions for my stay.

The porter might well have encountered my uncle in the past and knowing of the old man’s temper, he kept his distance and waited silently for instructions. “Pah!” my uncle ejaculated. “Take them to the trap,” he barked and like a frightened rabbit the ancient porter scurried on his way.

The nag pulling the trap was on its last legs, before too long its dead body would be served to cats. I sat behind Uncle Festus as we bumped over every hole in the roads, and there were many. He was silent the entire journey. I sat despondent. My uncle’s appearance and attitude had scared the living daylights out of me and his silence as we made our way to his house was oppressive. I had a close view of his broad shoulders and powerful back, I had no idea what he did or a living but from my short distance he had the appearance of a manual labourer. He certain had the tang of one; he omitted a sour aroma which was unsurprising considering the warmth of the day and the heaviness of his clothing.

At last the pony and trap turned into a wide street called The Avenue. The road was paved with cobbles and the noise of the pony’s hooves as it clip-clopped along was deafening. The house on each side were large and imposing, nearly all of them hidden behind vast hedges and ancient trees so high they blocked out the sun. The driver cried out “Whoa there!” and the pony shuddered to a halt. Neither the driver not my uncle made to move. I sat for a moment before it dawned on me I was expected to haul the trunks and case from the trap and drag them into the house on my own; surely an impossible task. I was summoning up the courage to ask the driver or my uncle to help when a boy, about my age, bounded out through the gateway of one of the houses. This was evidently my uncle’s home. The boy nodded a greeting to me and took hold of one end of a trunk. He said nothing yet I understood perfectly his intention. I took hold of the other end and together we manhandled it into the house.

The boy led the way into the house. Once inside I could see immediately that it was vast. I would later learn there were five bedrooms and two living rooms along with a private room that uncle used, as well as the usual kitchen and so on. The hallway was dark and cold, you would never guess it was summertime. Gas lamps were attached to the walls at long intervals. The boy led the way up the wide staircase and took me to the room that I had been allocated. It was large and musty and sparsely furnished. A large bed with what I supposed was a cast-iron bedstead dominated. The floors were bare, without even a worn rug. A bowl and water jug was on a stand in one corner. In another there was a cupboard. Next to the bed was a set of drawers and on top of this stood a candle in a dish with hardened melted wax.

It was then I realised the house had no electricity. By that time electricity was available cheaply all over the country and there could have been no reason but by choice that uncle had not had it connected.

The boy helped me to put the trunk down and we went out to fetch the rest of my luggage. The boy seemed to me to be rather preoccupied with his own thoughts and he made no attempt to make conversation. I wondered if he was in fact a little simple.

At last my possessions were in my room. I was uncertain what I was expected to do next as Uncle Festus had given me no instructions; he had hardly said two words to me since we met on the station platform. I resolved I would seek him out. I was making my way through the dark passageway when the front door opened and six men all dressed in similar fashion to my uncle entered. Each had a thick black book in his right hand. They moved swiftly through the hallway and entered uncle’s private room. The boy emerged from another room and joined then. I stood on the staircase and watched. They appeared to have come for a meeting of some sort.

My uncle was already in the room and I saw him close the door. I am not generally a curious boy, which is one reason why I didn’t do so well with my studies, but this time my interest was aroused. I tip-toed down the stairs and approached the now-closed door, very aware that my footsteps were amplified by the bare floorboards. My heart thumped as I pressed my ear against the heavy oak door. It was too thick for sound to pass through and I could not hear what the group inside were saying. I stooped down and placed my eye on the eyehole. I am not one who is often wracked with guilt but I felt my presence snooping at the keyhole would not be well received by my uncle if I was discovered. It would be in my own interest to make my exit.

Intrigued, and determined to discover what they were doing inside uncle’s room I left the house and entered the garden. The house was huge and there was no shortage of windows but at last I found the one I was looking for. It was closed, despite the fine day. I thought how hot and stuffy it must be in the room, especially since by now there was a small crowd of people, all dressed in heavy clothes. The aroma of uncle’s stale sweat came to my mind. Large trees overshadowed most of the house and I used one as a cover and I was able to secret myself and still have a passable view into the room. The men were on their knees with their books open in their hands. They were reading something aloud in unison. A prayer, I supposed.

I remembered that Uncle Festus was an active member of his church. Was this a service of some sort? I wondered. That might have been the case but this was a Tuesday; perhaps it was some kind of Bible study group.

I watched for a moment or two and since nothing much was happening I was about to leave to explore the rest of the house and garden when I saw the boy stand. Even from my distance and peering through dirty glass into an unlit room I could see he appeared in some distress. He sank to his knees and held his hands together as if in prayer. The others then stood and in unison recited an incantation. The boy looked close to tears. Intrigued I resolved to stay and watch developments. I didn’t have long to wait. My uncle suddenly placed his Bible on a small table and then with great deliberation, he unbuttoned his coat and slipped it from his shoulders. With solemnity he handed it to a colleague who hung it on a hat stand. While that was being done, Uncle Festus slowly undid the buttons of his waistcoat. All eyes in the room were transfixed.

Having loosened his clothing he took a couple of paces across the room and leaned towards a vase-like ornament that stood easily three feet tall. He reached his hand inside and with a flourish (rather like a magician taking a rabbit from a hat) he extracted a bunch of twigs. No one in the room was the least surprised, but I almost fell backwards with amazement. There were about a dozen or so twigs or small branches and they were tied together at one end to make a handle. Even I, with my great lack of knowledge of such things, recognised it as a birch. Any number of the trees in the garden where I stood could have supplied the wherewithal to construct it. Uncle Festus held it upright in the palms of both hands and presented it as if it was an offering to the assembled audience.

There was complete silence. I watched astounded. There was movement in the room. It seemed everyone knew their role in the unfolding drama. Two men took hold of a large, ornate armless chair that was leaning against a wall and manoeuvred it into the middle of the room. Uncle Festus seated himself. I had not noticed but while Uncle Festus was taking centre stage, the boy had removed his own coat and shirt collar. He stood forlornly. Uncle Festus made some remark to his congregation and they chanted their response. Satisfied with that my uncle turned towards the boy. Uncle’s face was set firmly. I did not see his lips move but he must have spoken some words because as if following a command the boy proceeded to loosen his britches. They had complicated fastenings and the boy’s trembling hands made heavy work of getting them to fall to his feet. He made a better job with his underwear and within seconds his buttocks were bared. He had his back to me so I have no way of knowing his expression or gauging his sense of humiliation which must have been acute.

My uncle squeezed his thighs together, the boy shuffled forward, and with a practiced move he dived headlong over Uncle Festus’s knees. He stretched his arms forward and placed both palms firmly into the ground. His naked buttocks rested across uncle’s right thigh and he kept his knees straight. They were presented to my uncle at a perfect angle. Uncle Festus was not yet quite satisfied, he took hold of the long tail of the boy’s shirt and gently tucked it away up the small of his back and away from the target.

All eyes, my own included, were glued to the boy’s naked, quivering milk-white posterior. Uncle Festus raised the birch twigs high above his own head; there was a collective intake of breath in the room. I bit my bottom lip hard. Uncle whipped the boy over the upturned bottom, the boy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. Uncle’s arm rose again and the strong, broad-shouldered man flogged the birch down with increased vim. The boy twitched, sniffed and quivered.

With the window tightly shut I could not hear a sound from the room. I have no idea if the boy, yelped, yelled or screamed. Certainly, as the beating continued he wriggled and writhed. His hips swivelled, his legs kicked. I imagined that was only to be expected, his body was being asked to absorb great pain, to twist and turn must surely be a natural physical reaction to such an assault.

The men in the room watched impassively.

Uncle Festus set about his duty at a steady pace. The birch lifted and fell. The spread of the twigs was such that a single stroke covered most of the boy’s bottom. Soon, his once smooth, white buttocks were a mass of scratches, cuts and grazes. His cheeks flamed crimson. I couldn’t begin to imagine how sore they must feel; the sting must be agonising.

I didn’t think to count the number of strokes delivered, but by the time it was over the boy’s bottom, from the top of the globes, over the peaks themselves and into the under cheeks resembled raw meat. I couldn’t imagine that he would be able to sit down after that for a week or more. When there was no more flesh to flay, Uncle Festus desisted. Again, no word was spoken, but he released his hold on the boy who immediately sprang to his feet.

For a moment he looked unbalanced and dizzy but Uncle Festus put a steadying hand on his shoulders, while the boy’s own hands moved to ease his burning rear and he sobbed gently. Then, uncle put his hand firmly on the top of the boy’s head and took up what seemed to me to be a low moan. My heart fell; he was in ecstasy. The congregation joined the chanting and it continued for what seemed like several minutes. At last uncle released his grip on the boy’s scalp and unbidden he reached down and retrieved first his underwear and then his britches. Once suitable attired, he was handed his coat and silently and without ceremony he left the room.

Within moments they all left. I thought it unwise to be caught snooping and moved off to the furthest part of the garden as far away as possible from uncle and his cronies. There, I replayed it all in my mind. I had not the slightest idea what I had witnessed, but I knew for certain my three months lodging with Uncle Festus would prove to be the longest of my life.

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Robust Response

I am a fair man, a man of the world. I understand the temptations of the young. I know it is a rocky road to adulthood. I have myself suffered temptations. When I was a teenager I knew desire. I knew what it was to long for the clear skin of other boys, lust over taut muscles, envy their shiny hair, their blazing eyes, ruby-red lips. Long legs, tight buttocks. Sins of the flesh.

As the young say today, “I have been there.” But I was saved. I was eighteen years old when my lusts came to light. I won’t share with you the details. They are too humiliating for me to recall, even now so many years later. But, I was saved by the priests at my school. It took some doing. A modern-day scourging of the flesh. It worked. Homosexuality is only a passing phase, all young men go through it. Yes, it is a sin, but it can be cured. I know. I was cured. And, in a few moments it will be my pleasure – no my duty – to cure a young man at this school similarly afflicted.

In my own case it took three priests, each acting separately, to make the breakthrough. I shall be eternally grateful to them for their diligence; their thoroughness. Without their intervention I should have descended into a cesspool of my own making. Adrift. Never to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Corporal correction; corporal punishment if you will. Punishment of the flesh.  “Blessed are the pure at heart,” the priests at school would say, “Boys, if you are not pure at heart, I’ll flog you!”

In a few moments, Teddy will arrive here at my study. Teddy is a bright young man, I have had my eye on him for some years. He has all the attributes needed to enter the priesthood. But, he has lost his way. Like a lamb in the hillside. But, he is not a lost cause. He can be set back on the right path. I shall save him. He knows why he has been summoned to my study. He has already confessed his sin. He knows he must be saved. He wants to be saved. He can be saved. He will be saved.

I will talk to him so that he understands that the feelings he has are perfectly natural for a young man of eighteen. But, he is a teenager, really still an adolescent. He is going though a phase in his life. He is at a crossroads. He must decide which way to turn. Once I know he understands this we shall pray. God will give his blessing. God loves us. He will protect us. He will save us.

When that is done I shall instruct Teddy to stand behind my desk. It is a very large, heavy walnut beast. I sometimes joke that it could double up as a hockey pitch. While he does that I shall go to my special locked cupboard. Inside I have many instruments of punishment; leather straps, riding crops, whippy rattan rods, and (my favourites) heavy wooden paddles. Teddy is a tall, slim boy. He is a member of the school athletic team and he runs constantly. His body is strong and his legs are long. His buttocks are tight and from memory I calculate that one of my larger paddles would conveniently fit across both cheeks.

I will instruct Teddy to lower his trousers. He might be reluctant to be seen by an older man in his underwear but he will do as I command without question. I am the authority of God. It is His will that this scourging takes place. Once the trousers are down, in all probability the tail of his dress shirt will be so long as to cover his bottom. If this indeed proves to be the case, he must raise his shirt high so that his stomach and back are bared. The next manoeuvre might be tricky. Once I am satisfied that the shirt offers him no protection, he must “assume the position”. This can be a moment of confusion for what constitutes “the position” may vary from person to person. To some it means “bend down, grab your ankles”. Otherwise, it might mean “hands on knees”. Still again, “bend over the back of the chair”. When I say, “Assume the position” I mean stand by the edge of the desk, lean forward, place the forearms squarely on the desk top, head up, look ahead, spread the feet wide.

It can be difficult to convey all this information to the boy about to be paddled. The brighter ones get it almost immediately; not so the dumb. I have on occasion been forced to assume the position myself in order to demonstrate the correct way to present oneself for punishment. I take care in such circumstances to give the young man extra swats by way of compensation for the embarrassment he has caused me.

Once Teddy is in position, the whipping begins. As I have already indicated my paddle of choice is large and I know the blade will cover both buttocks. In preparation I have to take hold of the waistband of his underpants and pull them so tight so that the cotton caresses the bottom like a second skin. I should be able to see the outline of each cheek perfectly, and the ravine that separates them. Once that task is completed it is only a matter of resting the paddle across the target area, tapping it against the tight flesh once or twice for effect, raising the wood high and bringing it back with a resounding crash.

Let me explain what I mean by “for effect”. Such a beating as this is of course about inflicting pain. A great deal of pain (agony even) in many cases. Of course it is, otherwise what is the point of it all? But along with the actual pain comes anticipation. I remember from my own times “in position” for the priests that the preparation, the waiting, the anticipation of the pain to come, the humiliation, was almost as much punishment as the paddling itself.

So, I shall take my time with Teddy. Pat, pat here. Tap, tap there. Swat! Once the first blow has been struck I shall count to twenty (in my head, not aloud). This will add somewhat to the effect. It will give a moment for the pain of the blow to register. I well remember how one hears the whack of wood connecting with one’s own flesh maybe a second before the pain registers. That is when the body shudders or shakes as red-hot aching radiates from the rear end and travels up and down the legs. As more and more swats are delivered that agony journeys through the whole body becoming tortuous. The peak of pain of each swat lasts maybe ten seconds. When I beat a boy I make sure there is a further ten seconds for the sinner to anticipate the next blow before I deliver it.

I have a routine when spanking; a rhythm if you will. I start in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and in most cases fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe goes lower; the third higher. In this way it is possible to have the entire area ablaze after only three swats: from the top near the spine, over the mounds of flesh and into the underside where the thighs meet. With the whole rear end blazing each successive stroke will land on already damaged flesh, reigniting the hurt and adding to its intensity considerably.

I shall award Teddy twelve strokes. I shall leave it to your own imagination to visualise the state of his flesh by the time I have finished. Remember also that the thin cotton underpants offer no useful protection against the paddle. If that is the case, you might think to ask, why don’t I beat my young man on the bare posterior? It is a good question and I think you would agree making Teddy remove his underwear would increase the humiliation of the occasion somewhat. Given my own head I would not hesitate to beat him “on the bare”, but if you read the lying Liberal newspapers you would know that the Church is under much scrutiny these days. I am certain all right-thinking people agree with our way of combating homosexuality among the young; but a manufactured scandal about our method would only be a distraction.

Teddy is a strong young man, I fully expect him to take his punishment stoically. He will assume the position and stay in it until I command that he may stand. I have no doubt his body will react against the agony I shall inflict and his legs will buckle, his back buck, his shoulders shake and his head will neigh like a horse. But, he will stay in place. He will offer his backside to me. He will obey.

There may be tears. This is often involuntary. Think when you hit yourself on the thumb with a hammer do your eyes not water? I keep paper tissues in a box in my drawer. I find such are useful for a number of emergencies that can take place in my study.

Teddy will dress, we shall pray once more. I shall remind him that I (and God) love him and send him on his way.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com