High School Reunion

When I first heard about the 10th anniversary reunion at my old High School I wasn’t interested, until I remembered Mr Sorensen and his goddam paddle.

Things went well for me after I graduated. I went to college and qualified as a plumber and worked at that for a couple of years until I got bored. Then I went in to the Military: that was good, I travelled to places I’d never have seen and made some good buddies.

I found it hard after the Army and I’ve drifted from job to job since. I don’t seem to be able to settle down much. I had a good relationship, but that broke up because I was told I was no good at “commitment.”

I was drinking in a bar when I saw a story about the reunion in the local newspaper. It didn’t make much impression on me; I just assumed I wouldn’t go. What was the point? I’d drifted away from most of my High School graduation classmates; people do, don’t they. I kept in touch until I went to the Army and after that I hadn’t bothered.

I had a few more beers and went back to my rented room. I found it hard to get to sleep and it wasn’t only because of the beer. In my mind I kept going over my schooldays, and particularly I couldn’t get a certain Mr Sorensen, the English Lit teacher, out of my head.

My High School was a tough place to be. We were blue-collar kids, from mostly poor families. Nobody at home was much interested in education, and certainly not English Lit, and everyone – students and their parents – were just itching for the day they could leave school and get a job.

We were a restless bunch, especially as we got older and reckoned school had nothing to offer.

Mr Sorensen was one of a kind. You stepped out of line with him and you got your butt blistered with the paddle: period. I guess he must have paddled four or five of us every day. If you didn’t do your assignments it would be over the desk for three swats. Inattention in class; two swats: late for class; two swats. There seemed to be swats for everything. He was particularly hard on kids he thought were “punks.” To him a punk was the loud-mouthed, disobedient student who wouldn’t be told anything.

He was always willing to help out the women teachers; they had the worst time with the punks. But, the punks calmed down once they realised that the ladies would send them to Mr Sorensen to kiss the top of his desk.

He would often paddle a boy in front of the class. It was more humiliating for the student to have his classmates looking on during the punishment and it also encouraged the others in good behaviour: you knew if you stepped out of line and it would be your turn next.

A typical class would start with collection of or handing back of assignments. That was a dangerous time; kids who didn’t hand in or who had done badly were asked to stand. There would always be at least one boy, and usually more than one, on his feet. If you hadn’t handed in and didn’t have a legitimate excuse you were done for. If you had scored less than a C+ your butt belonged to Mr Sorensen.

The guys were lined up against the wall, facing the class. Then Mr Sorensen would get the “Attitude Adjuster” board from his desk. It was a typical paddle, just like all the others used in schools, I guess. It was maybe twelve or fourteen inches long, by three wide; shaped in an oblong. It had smoothed down sides and a handle to grip it by.

Each boy in turn was ordered to stand forward to be told, “Assume the position.” To a lot of kids from other schools, “Assume the position” meant bend down and grab your ankles, but in Mr Sorensen’s class it mean go to the teacher’s desk and lay across it, so that your chest and stomach connected with the desk top.

We called it “kissing the desk” but no one literally did that. Once they bent over, kids were never sure where to put their arms. The solution depended on how tall you were, I think. Shorter kids folded their arms and buried their faces in them. The taller ones could reach out and hold on to the legs of the desk.

If we were wearing a jacket, Mr Sorensen would take the tail end and fold it up our back, then he’d grab the waistband of our pants and tug it hard so there was nothing much between the pants and our asses for protection. If we had no jacket, he would go straight to the pants yanking. Then, without a word, pop, pop, pop, he’d whack the paddle into the seat of your pants.

“Stand up,” he would command. “Next boy.”

Then, as the first boy rose from the desk, desperately wanting to rub the agony out of his butt cheeks, but not daring to admit to the teacher or his classmates he was hurting, the next boy in line would assume the position.

This went on until all the boys had blistered butts and then the lesson would begin.

Mr Sorensen swung the paddle a mighty lot, but I don’t remember anyone getting swats who didn’t deserve it. We knew the rules; if we kept to them our butts were safe. But if we broke the rules, then what did we expect?

I got swats so many times, I can’t remember them all. But, I have to admit, without the threat of an ass whipping, I would never have done any work. The fact I graduated at all was down to the Attitude Adjuster.

The worst paddling I got from Mr Sorensen had nothing to do with the quality of my schoolwork. By the time I was eighteen, I was getting out of control. My mom and dad couldn’t handle me and I was spending a lot of time on the streets with friends. Sometimes I wouldn’t get home until the early hours and oftentimes, I’d be drunk.

One day the strangest thing happened. I was staggering home drunk early one Sunday morning and I was so far gone I stepped into the road in front of an oncoming car. Thank the Lord the driver wasn’t as drunk as I was and he swerved to avoid hitting me. There was no traffic, so no damage was done, at least not to the car, but the driver’s nerves were shattered.

I swore at the driver, as if it was the poor man’s fault. As I staggered on I heard the distinct voice of Mr Sorensen. Blearily, I turned round, to see his head poking through the open driver’s window. Boy, was he mad.

He drove me safely home. On Monday after school I found myself facing him in the classroom. I’d expected him to be mad, to tell me I was a punk and then to paddle my ass raw. In fact, only one of these things happened.

I knew this was not going to go as expected when he invited me to sit down. This wasn’t going to be a lecture; this was going to be a conversation. He asked me about my life, what I did in my spare time and who my friends were. Nobody had ever asked me these questions before. Mom and dad always complained about my friends and what I got up to, but they never asked me “why” I did things.

Looking back, I think I was just waiting for someone to ask: I told him everything. To be honest, my life wasn’t very different to those of my classmates; but some of them were coping a lot better than I was.

We talked a lot and Mr Sorensen said I needed help to identify my “priorities” and to set myself “objectives.” At first, it sounded like bullshit, but as he detailed the kinds of things I should think about; such as what job I wanted to do when I left school; what I needed to do to qualify for it and so on, he began to make a lot of sense.

He also said I needed “encouragement” to meet these objectives. I needed praise when I achieved something, but also punishment when I failed. The way he put it, it seemed so clear cut. He told me to go away and make a list of priorities and objectives and take them to him and he would guide me in the appropriate way.

I readily agreed.

But, before our meeting was over, we still had to deal with my drunken misbehaviour. I had expected this and was ready to take my paddling. I had screwed up, I could have been killed, and heck, if there had been more traffic on the road, I might have killed Mr Sorensen too.

I assumed the position submissively: Mr Sorensen was entitled to do whatever he felt fit with my ass.

I hadn’t expected the ferocity of the attack; Mr Sorensen was like a demon possessed. This wasn’t just a pop, pop, pop, paddling; this was a full scale attack on my butt. The agony was so great I lost control of my senses: how many swats did I survive? I think it was ten, it might have been more.

I howled, like I had never screamed before. I was glad my classmates were not there to see me, but my yells were so loud, anyone still anywhere in the school building would have heard my pitiful shrieks.

At the finish I was breathless, and so was Mr Sorensen. His commitment to spanking me with that paddle was total. Still face down across the desk, I buried my head in my arms and sobbed and sobbed. After a few minutes, I was calming down a little, but my ass was burning, the pain was searing, I had never felt such agony in my life. Had he attacked me with a paddle or a hot iron?

I remember he stroked my hair, before giving me permission to stand up. I got to my feet and stumbled, but Mr Sorensen caught me before I fell.

Once I had composed myself I was allowed to leave. Later at home I pulled my pants down and looked in the mirror at my ass. Each bun was scarlet with a spot of purple in the middle. He really had blistered me. There were lines where the edge of the paddle had hit and I could tell I had had my ass properly paddled. It was the next day before I could sit down easily. My whole rump turned a lovely shade of black and blue and it was more than a week before the bruises slowly faded.

Thinking about Mr Sorensen and those days made me want to go to the reunion after all. There was quite a good attendance, and I had been mingling with some of my former classmates for some time, but there was no sign of Mr Sorensen.

I was hugely disappointed. I had simply assumed he would be there. I didn’t actually know if he still taught at the school; or had moved someplace else, or, please I hope not, he had passed on. I wanted to see him again and tell him what I thought about him and his treatment of me all those years ago.

I knew Mr Sorensen was not popular among my classmates so I didn’t want to let people know I was anxious to meet him again. Even these days I wanted to be one of the guys.

Eventually, I could stand it no more and asked my friend Tommy. “Yes, he’s here,” he said with a wry smile, “He’s doing one-on-ones in his classroom.”

One-on-ones? Meeting people one at a time for private conversations and who knew what else?

I made my way to the classroom, passing a guy in the corridor. It was Ricky; he had been the class genius, always acing tests. My mom told me he went to university out West somewhere. He didn’t look too happy; I couldn’t be certain, but there appeared to be tears behind his eyes.

I reached the classroom. From the outside it looked the same as I remember it, except for tonight at least the glass windows in the door had been covered up, so you couldn’t see inside. I guess it was to give him privacy with his one-on-ones.

I raised my fist to knock on the door and hesitated. For the first time since I hatched this plan, I had my doubts. This was stupid. It was all a long time ago, I’m an adult now. We should forget the past and the paddlings and all that pain.

I knocked anyway and a confident voice responded. Apprehensively, I entered. Mr Sorensen had changed, but not much. His hair was a little thinner and grayer and his waist a little thicker, but he was the same Mr Sorensen.

He called me by my name; I was ridiculously delighted he had remembered me. “Hello, Sir,” I responded.

He smiled at me. It was a genuinely welcoming smile. “Come in, how are you? Tell me everything.”

Tell me everything. He had asked me, so I did. I told him about the mess my life had become in the past three or four years; how I had no structure to my life, no priorities and no objectives.

He listened passively, apparently taking in every word that I said.

“I have this list,” I said, pulling paper from my pocket. He took it from me and read it carefully.

“And, I still have this,” he reached over, opened the drawer in his desk and pulled out the Attitude Adjuster.

Our eyes met, we understood each other very well. There was no need for either of us to speak, except for him to say, “Assume the position.”

used paddle holding (5)

 

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. The Boy in the Scarlet Blazer

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The Boy in the Scarlet Blazer

Timothy Hutchins is a young man with a wicked spanking fetish. There is little he can do about it until Billy, the boss of the burger bar where he works, takes him under his wing. Or more truthfully across his knee

In this latest free-to-download book, Timothy enters the world of the boy for hire and soon becomes a spanking-movie star. Everybody wants a piece of his backside.

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

the-boy-in-the-scarlet-blazer-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

For more free-to-download books click here

 

The freshman class

z used fresher students 2

Professor Patterson entered the classroom and peered over the top of his rimless spectacles, dazzled by the array of brightly-coloured shirts before him. Another year at Popper State was about to start. Twenty-five open-faced boisterous Psy. students waited excitedly. All new to the university, eager to make friends.

Prof. Patterson set his briefcase on the desk. He paused to survey the young men. If they took off their shirts, he thought, they would be identical. It was as if students came in in packs of one hundred. Just about everyone was fair haired or blond. Each had a tan from the hot summer that was just ending. Every eighteen-year-old sitting before him was slim and healthy. Everyone was a churchgoer. They all had prosperous fathers. Each of them would submit to his will. Without question.

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen.”

The excited youngsters carried on talking.

“Gentlemen.” Louder this time, but not shouting. The buzz of conversation subsided. Heads swivelled. Buttocks shifted on chairs. Soon he had their attention.

“Thank you gentlemen and welcome to the Psychology Department. My name is Professor Patterson. Let me say right from the start that when I call you to order I expect immediate obedience.” He removed his spectacles, held them in his hand and leaned forward. “Do I make myself perfectly clear.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of intent. Twenty-five teenagers sat unnerved.

“We should start as we mean to go on,” Prof. Patterson paced the room. “As well as being your instructor, I am also the faculty’s Dean of Discipline.” He stopped in front of a youngster wearing an exceptionally garish yellow-and-red-patterned shirt and leaned forward menacingly. “Do you know what that means, young man?” Tony Cresswell flinched, he could feel his face burning. The professor’s breath stank.

“Eh ….” Tony stumbled. He didn’t know what a ‘dean of discipline’ was but he could make a pretty good guess.

Prof. Patterson straightened up. “It means gentlemen that I am the one who maintains discipline.” He paused for dramatic effect. Then, certain that twenty-five pairs of eyes were on him he walked slowly to the desk. He shielded the briefcase from the students’ view while he opened it and delved inside. Then, rather like a magician producing a rabbit from a top hat, he turned in a flourish brandishing a stout wooden paddle. The silence in the room was intense. There wasn’t a young man in the room who hadn’t seen a “board of education” before. Many would have felt the sting of a paddle across the backside; paddles were in common use in schools across the county. Some of their fathers still kept paddles hanging on hooks in woodsheds or in their personal dens at home.

Prof. Patterson gripped the handle tightly and tap-tap-tapped the fourteen-inch blade into the palm of his left hand. “Let me be quite clear, I will not hesitate to use this. None of you are adults until you reach the age of twenty-one. Until then think of me as a father,” he leered. “If you are late for class you will be paddled. If you are inattentive, you will be paddled.” He paused, staring at each teenager in turn; many had sweat glistening their brows.

Satisfied with the reaction so far, he continued, “If you score less than seventy in our weekly tests you will be paddled.” His nostrils flared, “You boy!” he pointed to a youngster in a grey sweater, “What did I just say?”

Al French blustered, “Er, if we get less than seventy, Sir,” he trembled and lapsed into silence.

“What then? What happens then?”

“The paddle, Sir,” Al couldn’t stop shaking, “We get the paddle, Sir.”

“That’s correct.” Prof. Patterson hid his disappointment well. He had thought the wretched student had not been listening. He was determined that at least one of the freshers seated before him would feel the sting of the paddle before the class was over. That would show them he meant business.

“Now gentlemen, for our first class I have devised a test,” he reached once more into his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Here,” he instructed a boy in a bright yellow shirt, “distribute these.”

He stared with delight at the young man’s buttocks encased in snug-fitting tan slacks as he leaned across chairs stretching to hand out the test papers. It was a backside crying out to be spanked.

“Now, gentlemen,” the professor continued, “This test will show which of you did the required reading ahead of this course. You have thirty minutes,” he paused and glared across the room at the heavy wooden paddle, “and remember what I said.”

Twenty-five heads went down, tops of pens were sucked. Some stared into open space, hoping to find answers. Prof. Patterson sat and watched. They really were a delightful bunch; so fresh and young. They positively glowed with health. What fun he would have this semester.

Rich Rider sat at the back of the class. From there he could see every boy in the room. Each had his head down as he beavered away at the test. One hundred questions. True-or-false? Multiple-choice. Short answers. He took a deep breath, gripped his fountain pen, closed his eyes, and scrawled his answers.

The time passed quickly. “Pens down gentlemen. Please swop your paper with your neighbour. I shall read out the answers.” Professor Patterson sniffed the trepidation that hung over the room like musk. None of his new charges could look his fellows in the eye.

“Question one. True. Question two. False,” his monotone might in other circumstances have sent a class of students to sleep. Not this afternoon. Their attention was rapt. Each question ticked for correct, crossed for wrong. The penalty for failure was immense.

“Thank you gentlemen,” Prof. Patterson’s heart raced. His palms were clammy. Surreptitiously, he rubbed them on his pants’ leg. How many of the beauties would he whack today? “Please indicate by a show of hands if the paper you have has scored less than seventy percent.” His face flushed in anticipation. No hand stirred.

Prof. Patterson flared, “Gentlemen, please do not try to protect your neighbour by withholding information from me. If I discover deceit, I shall punish the perpetrator most severely. Now, a show of hands, please.”

Vance Kearney whispered softly to Rich Rider, “Sorry.” He raised his hand.

“What?” the professor’s beady eye surveyed the room. “Only one?” The previous year he had six pairs of buttocks to deal with. Maybe word had spread. His new crop of students had an incentive to do their preparatory reading. Next year he had better make the test harder.

“Stand up the boy whose paper this is.”

Rich Rider sucked in a lungful of air and slowly rose from his chair.

“And your name is?” the professor growled, peering intently across the room.

“Rider, Sir.”

“Well, Rider, it would seem that we are to make an example of you. Please come to the front of the class.”

Twenty-four heads swivelled as he made his way forward. The tension had lifted. The new students were in the clear. They would go unscathed. Now, they could sit back and enjoy the sport.

“Stand there boy. Face the class.”

Rich Rider slumped his shoulders and stared intently at his tennis shoes.

“Stand up straight. Look at your fellow students.”

Rich Rider’s hazel eyes shone. Tears were on the way. Blood rushed through every artery. His heart beat so fast, quicker than when he ran on the athletics track.

“Now face me.”

Slowly Rich Rider turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. The paddle in the professor’s hand was awesome. Up close it looked an almighty weapon. In the right hands it could do terrific damage and Rich Rider had no doubt the professor was an expert paddler.

Prof. Patterson sucked in breath of his own. The eighteen-year-old student before him was quite delightful. He was shorter than average; the professor towered at least a foot above him. A frown adorned the boy’s fresh open face. He looked so adorably sad. His multi-coloured short sleeved shirt was open at the neck showing his well-developed chest. Prof. Patterson gulped down saliva; this boy was some athlete.

Prof. Patterson gripped the paddle in his right hand. It shook a little.

“Assume the position, Rider.” Rich Rider hesitated. What did that mean? Over the desk? A chair? He had presented himself so many different ways for a spanking.

“Feet apart, grab your ankles, boy.” It was a cool command, quietly spoken. Prof. Patterson knew he would be obeyed. Students at Popper State were conformists.

drawing paddle hold (20)

Twenty-four students and Prof. Patterson had a marvellous view of Rich Rider’s taut buttocks stretching against his snug-fitting pale grey slacks. Ty Spreader, a student in the front row, licked his lips in anticipation.

Prof. Patterson stood to Rich Rider’s left side. He could trace the outline of the boy’s spine through the garish shirt. There was no practical need to do this, but the professor took hold of the tail of Rich Rider’s shirt and pulled it clear from the waistband of his slacks, exposing two inches of bare suntanned flesh. The top of the teenager’s underwear poked above his waistband. From this close juncture, Rich Rider’s buttocks looked solid like two rubber balls. Each cheek was tiny, dwarfed in size by the stout wooden paddle as the professor rubbed it across the centre of the teenager’s backside.

Rich Rider sucked in breath and gripped the folds of cotton on his pants’ legs tightly, bracing himself for familiar pain. He felt the wood moving away from his bottom, then there was a tremendous crack of wood connecting at force with buttock. One, two, three; that’s how many seconds it was before the full pain hit him. It was like someone had pressed his mother’s maid’s hot iron into his flesh. Rich Rider’s mouth opened and a sound like compressed air releasing filled the room. His body shuddered and he held on to his ankles for dear life.

He waited. Then, he waited some more. Eventually, whack number two stuck. It connected on the underside of his cheeks and the force of the blow sent him rocking forward. His knees buckled. He stopped himself tumbling just in time. Behind him, Ty Spreader crossed his legs and leaned forward a little, shielding the front of his slacks from view.

Rich Rider resumed his position. Prof. Patterson stepped back, keen to admire his charge. Those buttocks were tough. There wasn’t enough spare fat to sizzle a sausage. And so small, he could cup an entire cheek in the palm of one hand. The professor sucked in another lungful of air and raised the paddle high. Rich Rider braced himself before his punisher brought it crashing down right across the centre of his mounds. God that hurt. Rich Rider wheezed. His head shook from left to right, he neighed like a horse. His knees buckled. He feet shifted. The pain travelled from his rear end and up and down his legs before spreading east, west, north, south across his whole body.

Professor Patterson wiped his brow with the back of his hand and placed the paddle on the top of the desk. “That will do. You may stand.”

Rich Rider hauled himself straight. His hands shot to the seat of his tight slacks and he rubbed furiously. Ty Spreader shot from his chair and was through the door before Professor Patterson had time to say, “Resume your seat Rider.”

Gingerly, Rich Rider eased himself onto the hard chair. The pain was easing into a constant throbbing. He knew that soon it would become a warm glow. There would be bruises and they’d probably hang around for a day or two. He would feel the swat the professor landed low every time he sat down over the next few hours. That was OK, Rich Rider told himself, he could deal with that.

He was less sure what he was going to do about the raging woody that ached against the front of his tight underpants.

 

Other stories you might like

The dope smoker

Foreign language student

The junior salesman

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Old Dud and the wrought iron gate

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Mr Dudley glowered at the schoolroom full of sixth-form pupils. Somebody was whispering. He could hear but he could not see. The sound appeared to be coming from somewhere near the back.

He peered through rounded eye glasses; his side whiskers bristled. Important examinations were due, the boys should be studying hard, not engaging in tomfoolery.

“Buchan, what are you doing?” Mr Dudley’s voice rasped sharply, jarring the generally studious atmosphere in the small, airless schoolroom.

“What were you doing, Buchan?” repeated Mr Dudley sternly.

Ronald Alan Francis Buchan glanced up, somewhat startled and confused. Now, all eyes in the room had turned from text-books toward RAF Buchan.

“I was whispering, sir,” Ronald confessed.

“Oh, was that all?” Mr Dudley, commonly known by his pupils as “Old Dud,” demanded sarcastically.

“Yes, sir.”

“To whom were you whispering?”

“To Johnstone, Sir”

Old Dud stood from his uncomfortable wooden chair and pulled his worn black academic gown tightly around his body. He glared at Ronald. The other boys sat silently, ready to enjoy the sideshow that was unfolding before them.

“If I am intruding on no confidences, what were you whispering about?” Old Dud sneered.

“I …” began Ronald, and then his face turned scarlet under the curious gaze of his fellow sixth-formers. “I was telling Johnstone a funny story.”

“Do you think it was very funny?” inquired Old Dud.

Ronald felt his hands shake. He was not a boy who dealt well with confrontation. He wished he had kept his mouth shut. “The story? Yes, Sir.”

The broad grin that promptly spread over “Johnny” Johnstone’s face seemed to confirm Ronald’s claim. It had been a funny story.

Old Dud stared wildly. His eyes could resemble saucers when his ire was raised. Before him sat fifteen eighteen-year-old boys. Many would consider them young adults, but legally they did not become that until there reached the age of twenty-one. Even so, they should behave maturely, Old Dud considered. Instead RAF Buchan was behaving like the most junior boy in the school. Well, Old Dud decided, if that’s the way he wanted it.

“Buchan, you may rise in your seat and tell the story to the whole class, myself included. On this dull, rainy day I feel certain that we all need a good laugh.”

A smile that grew to a titter in some quarters of the room greeted Ronald as he struggled half-shamefacedly to his feet.

“Go on with the story,” encouraged Old Dud. “Or, rather, begin at the beginning. That’s the right way to serve up a story.”

“I… I’d rather not tell the story, Sir,” Ronald protested.

“Why not?” demanded the schoolmaster sharply.

“Well, because, Sir … I’d rather not. That’s all.”

Old Dud often employed a grilling way of questioning to make his young charges squirm before the class. Whispering, in itself, was not a criminal offence, yet it often had a bad effect on the discipline of a schoolroom, and of late Old Dud had been much annoyed by whisperers.

“So you won’t tell us all that choice story, eh, Buchan?” insisted the schoolmaster as a hint of a smile played at his lips.

“On account of its being such a very personal one I’d rather not, Sir,” Ronald stared at the bare wooden floorboard beneath his feet. He clasped his hands behind his back; he could not get them to stop shaking. “I might hurt someone’s feelings.”

“Too bad!” murmured Old Dud. “And just after we had all been enlivened by the hope of hearing something really funny! I know your rare quality of humour, Buchan, and I had promised myself a treat,” Old Dud dripped sarcasm. “My own disappointment in the matter may be cured, but what about the boys of this class? I know that they are all still eager to hear a really funny story.”

Old Dud paused, glancing impressively about the room. Ronald shifted first to one foot and then to the other. His cheeks, temples and forehead were aflame.

“Buchan,” the schoolmaster glowered, “the class shall not be deprived of its expected treat. I will tell a story, and I think you will find some of the elements of humour in it. Will you kindly step this way?”

Ronald went forward. He failed miserably to look defiant. He held his head up and threw out his chest as a titter ran around the room.

“Stand right here beside me,” coaxed Old Dud. He moved his chair so that it stood between his desk and his pupils. Then, he turned to the desk, leant forward and opened a drawer. The silence in the schoolroom was intense. Every boy present knew what was kept in that drawer. Old Dud withdrew a long, narrow leather strap. It was old and worn and had seen much action. He held it between his hands as if seeing it for the first time. It was about eighteen inches long and the “business” end was divided into two tails. It was extremely heavy and it stung his palm when experimentally he smacked it into his hand.

He sat on the straight-backed armless chair. Ronald stood crestfallen by his side. “Now, let me see if I can remember the story. Yes; I believe I can. It runs something like this.”

It was a very ordinary story that had to do with a boy’s disobedience of his father’s commands. “So,” continued Old Dud, “Mr Shepherd took his boy into the parlour. There, with a sigh as though his heart were breaking, the old man seated himself on the chair. He gathered his son across his knee – about like this.”

Here, Old Dud suddenly caught Ronald by the arm and directed the eighteen-year-old across his own knee. The expectant class now snickered loudly.

“I can’t tell this story unless I have quiet,” announced Old Dud, glancing up and around the room with a reproachful look. Then, after clearing his throat, the schoolmaster resumed, ‘“Ronny,’ said the old man huskily, ‘I know what my duty in the matter really is. I ought to give you a good spanking, like this (whack!). But I haven’t the heart to give you such a blow as you deserve. (Whack!) But the next time (whack!), I’m going to give you (whack!) just such a good one (whack! whack!) as you deserve. (Whack! whack!) So, remember, Ronny (whack!), and don’t let me catch you (whack!) disobeying me again. (Whack! whack!).”

Old Dud emphasised each “whack” by bringing down the heavy strap across Ronald’s meaty backside. There were a few flashing eyes in the young audience, and a few sympathetic glances from Ronald’s pals, but, for the most part, the class was now in a loud roar of laughter.

“That’s the story,” announced Old Dud, gently restoring Ronald to his feet. “I think you all see the point to it. Perhaps there’s a moral to it, also. I really don’t know.”

Pallor due to a sense of outraged dignity now struggled for a place in the red that covered Ronald Buchan’s face.

“You may go to your seat, Buchan.”

Ronald marched there, without a glance backward.

“Now, that we’ve had our little indulgence in humour,” announced Old Dud dryly, “we shall all return to our studies.”

There was silence again in the room, during which the rain outside began to come down in a flood.

“Old Dud’s getting rather too fresh these days,” growled Johnny Johnstone to his chum Ronald later that day. “We’ll get even with him tonight. Some of us will go around to his house and wreck his flower gardens.”

He stopped in his tracks. He had an even better idea. “I know, we’ll switch Old Dud’s new gate off and dump it in the river.”

So, it was that close to midnight, Ronald, Johnny and their chum Donald, were at Old Dud’s house. The gate was wrought iron. It was ornately decorated. It would have cost the schoolmaster a tidy sum. It was also unexpectedly heavy.

“This won’t do,” Donald gasped. They had hardly raised the gate a couple of inches off the hinges. They would need a block and tackle to do the job properly.

“Let’s just trample his flower beds,” Johnny said.

“Good idea. Let’s.”

But before the three teenagers could move, a light appeared on the porch. Old Dud stood there in his dressing-gown. “Who’s there! I know somebody is there.” The schoolmaster peered into the gloom. “Is that you, Buchan? Johnstone? McAllister?”

Old Dud was no fool. He knew the calibre of the boys he taught. He expected to be “ragged” by them following the public spanking he had given Ronald. The boys and masters were constantly at war. Now, he had caught them red-handed intent on causing damage to his gate. He had watched studiously from his bedroom window as the young fools tried to carry off his prized possession.

“My study. Morning break,” he barked. There was no need to say further. His instruction was understood. There would be an awesome price to pay for their escapade.

Next day three miserable sixth-former stood in the passageway outside Old Dud’s oak-panelled study door, waiting. Old Dud was not at home. They faced the wall, nose pressed close, hands clasped on the tops of their school caps. No one had ordered them to do this, but they knew from painful past experience, this was the way a boy presented himself while awaiting a master’s return.

Minutes that felt like hours passed. None of the boys spoke; they were alone with their thoughts. There was no doubting what would happen after Old Dud arrived. All that was in question was how many strokes.

At last, Old Dud trundled down the passageway, a cup and saucer in his hand. He affected a nonchalant air; he had no troubles to speak of. It was the three sixth-formers who had the worries. “Wait five minutes and then knock,” he growled at none of the boys in particular. He opened the study door, went in, closed the door and sat at his plush chair behind his enormous desk. Quietly, he sipped his tea. Let the boys stew, he thought.

The knock on the door duly came. “Enter!” he called imperiously. The heavy door inched open. Roland led the way, his face grim, his shoulders stooped. Johnny and Donald traipsed behind.

“There!” Old Dud pointed a long bony finger at a spot in front of his desk. The teenagers shuffled into position. The schoolmaster peered through his round eye glasses. Each boy seemed suitably discomforted. Neither could look at the aging schoolmaster. Each found his own spot on the faded rug to interrogate.

Old Dud sneered, “Which of you fine young specimens would care to explain your presence at my house at midnight?” He watched as each in turn coloured beetroot. None seemed willing to provide an explanation.

“Buchan!” Old Dud barked. “Explain yourself. At once.” Old Dud was a bit of a ham actor; he knew how to strike fear into the hearts of small boys. The three sixth-formers carpeted before him were far from small boys, but his terror tactics were working.

Still none dared answer.

“Let me fill in the details,” Old Dud leaned back in his chair, drew his academic gown around his body and fixed them with a steely gaze. “You thought you would play a trick on me. You wanted to get back at me for taking Buchan across my knee and spanking his naughty backside. You decided to steal my gate. Is that not the long and the short of it?”

Still silence.

“Well Buchan! Answer me!” he roared.

“Yes, Sir,” came the slightest whisper.

“I had deduced correctly. This will not do Buchan, Johnstone, McAllister,” he sighed, “This will not do at all.”

McAllister’s eyes were already watering. He nearly burst into tears when Old Dud proclaimed theatrically, but with no malice, “I am going to beat each of you and I am going to beat you most severely.”

The three boys blanched.

“First, take off your blazers and set them down on my desk.” Old Dud watched closely as with fumbling fingers the three eighteen-year-old sixth-formers struggled to comply with his demands. At last three blue-and-black-stripped blazers were off.

He rose from his desk and paced to the far side of the study. He could feel the heat of three pairs of eyes burning into his back as he drew a key from his trouser pocket and slowly unlocked the door to a tall thin cabinet. He reached inside. There was a large selection of punishment canes; some long, some short. Many were thin; others thicker. Some were ashplants; others were made of whippy rattan. He was searching for a special cane. One that he reserved for older pupils. One that would leave the three miscreants in severe pain.

It was a stout dense Malacca, more than three feet in length. Unlike his other canes this did not have a crooked handle. It was straight, although a little warped from use. Twine had been wrapped around one end to form a grip. It had notches every four or five inches along its length. It was these that would cause the most damage to the boys’ backsides.

He closed the cabinet door and turned to face the three boys. He swiped the Malacca through the air to demonstrate its effectiveness and was delighted to be rewarded by almost audible gasps from the three sixth-formers.

“Right all three of you stand in a line.” The boys eyed one another apprehensively, not only were they to be thrashed severely they were going to get it in front of their friends. Their pals would see how well (or not) they could take it.

“Buchan you stand there,” Old Dud steered the boy by this shoulders into place. “Johnstone, you here,” he manoeuvred the teenager a yard or two to the right and a pace forward of his companion. “McAllister, you here.”

The boys were lined up alongside each other, but arranged in steps so Old Dud could move freely between each of them to deliver his caning.

“‘It will be six for each of you.” It was the maximum school regulations allowed him to deliver, but he would have dearly loved to give Buchan more: he was developing into a rebel of the first order.

“Now lower your trousers. Bend over, touch your toes.” Old Dud paused for effect. He knew the boys expected to be caned, but not with their trousers down. He delighted in the look of abject horror that flashed across McAllister’s face. The other two were also suitably shocked.

“B. b. b.” Johnstone wanted to protest, but words literally failed him.

“Sir?” Buchan implored. But protestations were futile. The schoolmaster was in charge. He had made up his mind and as every schoolboy that ever suffered a caning knew, the master was always in control.

They had shown difficulty removing their blazers. Lowering the trousers was more so. At last all fly buttons were unfastened and grey flannel trousers slipped down thighs. Three boys stood; nervousness etched in their faces.

“Bend down and touch your toes.” It was a calm instruction, but one Old Dud expected to be obeyed. The three miserable teenagers reached for their toes.

“Keep those knees straight, McAllister. Legs further apart. Johnstone move further forward.”

Once the boys were in position to his satisfaction, Old Dud went over to each of them and raised the tail of their shirts up their backs, away from their stretched posteriors. Buchan felt a chill run across his naked flesh. He could not be certain if it was fear or a genuine coldness in the room.

All three boys were stoic at first. They had all been beaten before; it was that kind of school.

But, Johnstone had not been thrashed by Old Dud previously. He had heard from other boys that a tanning from him was awesome; the agony in the arse was like nothing else you could experience.

He was soon to find out the truth of the matter. Old Dud set about his task with vigour. He was not dealing with a seemingly trivial matter; this was personal. The teenagers bent before him and offering up their backsides for a schoolmaster’s caning had attacked his home. He would not stand for this and order must be restored.

One by one he lashed the boys with his fierce Malacca cane. First Buchan received a stoke; then McAllister; then Johnstone, and then back to Buchan again. Until all three boys felt six stingers across their buttocks.

They tried to be brave. In Old Dud’s experience all boys tried to be while they were being caned: they did not want to give their punisher the satisfaction of knowing they were in agony. The schoolmaster approved of that: it was about strong character, acknowledging you had done wrong and accepting the consequences without fuss.

This time the three punished boys also had to prove to their chums that they could take it. And, maybe they also wanted to show they could take it better than their fellows.

Even so, by the time the third stroke had bounced off Johnstone’s backside, all three were in tears. Somehow, despite the agonising heat under their underpants, all the boys managed to stay in position (but only just in the case of Johnstone).

The three were deathly pale when Old Dud at last allowed them to stand. Each wanted to desperately rub at the seat of his underpants to try to drive away the pain, but they dared not: none wanted to lose face in front of their friends.

And, that was it. Old Dud returned the cane to the cupboard and lectured them some more about the need for obedience. The boys were not listening; they desperately wanted to get out of there so they could cool their burning bum cheeks.

At last, three throbbing sets of buttocks were released into the autumnal sunshine.

 

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Housemaster’s double caning

The office manager

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in the scarlet blazer book

used-school-longs-chair-2

Timothy Hutchins is a young man with a wicked spanking fetish. There is little he can do about it until Billy, the boss of the burger bar where he works, takes him under his wing. Or more truthfully across his knee

In this latest free-to-download book, Timothy enters the world of the boy for hire and soon becomes a spanking-movie star. Everybody wants a piece of his backside.

 

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

the-boy-in-the-scarlet-blazer-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Another book available to download free-of-charge.

ALL IN THE FAMILY. TALES OF DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Private Tutor

school shorts touch toes (1)

There are now more than 200 stories uploaded to this website. Thanks to everybody who has supported the site and thanks for all the kind comments you have sent me.

New visitors are finding this site every week and I hope you like what you see. I know it can be a bit difficult sometimes to find your way around Male on Male Spanking Stories, so I have decided to try to make life easier for you. Starting today and continuing over future Mondays I am collecting together some of my stories and publishing them as books.

The first one today is the series The Private Tutor. It was originally published in four parts. It runs for more than 18,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free of charge.

The Private Tutor

 What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

 Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

 The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

 The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

 

Other stories you might like

Summer at Uncle’s – a full-length story

My friend Justin

The housebreaker

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Changed times 1: A glimpse into the near future

Kenny Hawkins slipped on his new blazer and admired his reflection in the mirror. Pale-grey trousers, gleaming white shirt, striped tie, shiny black shoes. It looked exactly like his old school uniform. But, not quite. Only the badge on the blazer pocket was different. It showed the logo of Global Petroleum, the company that would change his life.

Kenny was a new apprentice at GP. He was delighted to get the job. Times were hard. If he kept his nose clean, worked hard and served his time, he thought he was made. Which was more than could be said for most people his age.

The country was still going through a difficult patch. It had started ten years in the past, in 2016. Britain had voted to leave the European Union. There was a political crisis. The government split, opposition parties – such as there were – had no idea. Immigrants fled back to their home countries. British Muslims hid out in their mosques. Everything was chaos.

Then a new group calling itself The New Democrats emerged from the shadows. Many people said it was the saviour of the nation. The New Democrats were poorly named, since the things they believed in; discipline, respect for order, deference to the Church, schools, and so on, were not new. They harked back to an imagined past when the country was at ease. Nor, were they particularly democratic. A wave of authoritarianism hit the country. Trade unions were suppressed; women were forced back into the home and sexual minorities were attacked.

The hardest hit were young people. Corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools to great acclaim from teachers and parents. So, it made perfect sense to extend it to colleges and universities. Soon, young apprentices at businesses were added to the list. In no time the law courts were sentencing young criminals to the birch.

People fell into line quickly. Order of a kind was restored. Young people were placed on curfews. Old people could walk the streets at night in safety.

A turning point came with a television soap opera called Northern Lights. It had been running for decades, long before the troubles started. It featured a cheeky-chappie character called Robbie. Robbie was in his twenties and lived his life close to the edge of the law. In one episode he gets caught stealing motor parts. He goes to court and the magistrate sentences him to eight stokes of the birch. Bare buttocks.

Then, they showed it. A birching. In all its glory. A huge bunch of twenty-four twigs sits soaking in brine in a metal bucket. Robbie is marched into the punishment room. Actors in soaps are usually not very good, but Robbie looks terrified. Then, viewers see a close up as the trousers and underpants come down and he is tied over a specially-made birching bench.

The prison guard is built like a brick out-house. He takes the heavy bundle of birch twigs, swishes it so droplets of brine fly all over the room. Then, he hauls the beast high above his head, twists his body as if he is teeing off at golf and flogs it down into Robbie’s naked haunches.

Robbie screams fit to shake the walls. The flogging continues. Whip-whip-whip!

At the end his buttocks are a bloodied mess. Torn to shreds. Robbie cannot walk and he is seen being dragged from the room by two uniformed officers.

And, all shown on television at eight o’clock in the evening.

In the past all the bleeding-heart liberals would have been on every news outlet denouncing the scene. Instead, a snap opinion poll showed nearly eighty percent of those questioned approved of real criminals being flogged. Half of those said they’d like to see it put out on live TV.

Television shows played a crucial part changing attitudes. Uni, a comedy-drama set in a fictional Midlands town, featured everyday students in typical situations. In one episode Jack is giving his parents a hard time. He is lazy, won’t get out of bed and misses lectures at university. His dad berates him about it and is rewarded by extensive pouting and sulking. Dad has had enough. One morning he calls his son down for breakfast, but the boy is too busy in bed playing with himself. Dad goes to the bathroom, collects a heavy wooden brush and bursts into the boy’s bedroom. Lots of laughs because Jack has been caught with his willie in his hand.

The laughs quickly turn to tears when dad hauls the duvet off the bed, grabs Jack by the hair, forces him face down on the bed and hammers away at the seat of his underpants with the brush. Jack’s howls echo around the room. In the street the camera catches a neighbour wondering where all the yelling is coming from.

The next scene is the following day. Jack is up early, polite to his parents, and heads off to university on time.

The show hit a nerve with parents. It seemed to give fathers permission to tackle their own idle sons. News programmes later reported an increase in sales of heavy bath brushes.

Kenny was nearly ready for his first day at the GP college. He would do a six-month full-time course, before returning to his office, based in London. GP had set him up with a place to stay. His landlord Mr Hart was a retired bank manager. Like so many other pensioners, even those from the professional classes, he had found it hard to make ends meet. Inflation ripped away at pensions and savings.

Hart was forced to take in a lodger. It helped put food on the table. The first thing the old man did was to spell out the rules. A curfew, no drinking, smoking or girls. Household chores to be done every day. He delighted in showing his new nineteen-year-old lodger the stout whippy rattan cane he kept hanging on a hook in the cupboard under the stairs.

“And, I won’t be backward in using it,” he told Kenny. The teenager believed him. He had met enough old people who despised the young.

It wasn’t legal for landlords to beat their tenants – not yet, at least. But Kenny would have no choice but to bend over for Mr Hart’s cane when the time came. If his landlord reported him to GP, that would be curtains for Kenny. No job. No future.

Kenny left his digs and took a bus to the college. It was full of older schoolchildren. All in smart uniforms. All wearing short trousers. Judging by the prefect badges many of them wore, they must have been at least eighteen. All of them put back into short trousers. It was happening all over the country. It was as if schools were saying, “We know we can humiliate you and there’s nothing you can do about it. So we shall.”

How could the boys complain? One word spoken out of place and it would be a six-of-the-best from the headmaster. On the bared bottom. Eighteen years old or not.

The college was a large modern Community College. GP had its own wing of one of the buildings that it sponsored. There were twenty new recruits settling in for their first day of classes. All the young men seemed apprehensive. Not sure how they were expected to behave – to one another and to the lecturers they would encounter.

One young man was more apprehensive than the others. He entered the classroom following a tall man in a dark suit. His round open face was ghostly. Without instruction, he took himself to the far corner of the room and stood with his nose close to the wall. Then, he put his hands on the top of his head in the classic naughty-boy stance.

The low murmur of voices in the room petered out to silence. All eyes were on the boy in the corner. He was dressed in the GP uniform, was about five-eight tall, with jet black hair closely cut around his neck and ears. His blazer had risen up his back, uncovering the seat of his trousers which covered two round chubby buttocks.

The man in the black suit, who introduced himself simply as “Fraser,” welcomed the new boys and went through a series of pleasantries. Kenny was not the only one not paying attention. He couldn’t keep his eyes off the lad in the corner.  Who was he? Why was he here?

Fraser droned on some more. He was just a buzz in the room, to Kenny. Like a bee, he could hear his presence, but he didn’t pay him any attention.

“Corporal punishment.” Those two words pulled Kenny up sharp. What was Fraser talking about?

“Corporal punishment is in use here as you probably know. We believe you boys are an elite group and we expect you to work hard and obey the rules. If you do not our first recourse is to corporal punishment.”

Fraser let the sentence hang in the air a little. For dramatic effect. Like so many college lecturers he was a bit of a ham actor.

“You will be beaten for indiscretions and misdemeanours.”

Twenty nineteen year olds shuffled uncomfortably in their seats. This was not news to them; young people were subjected to corporal punishment all over the country, but the realisation that its use was so close, made them shiver.

It was to get closer still.

“I want to be aware from the very beginning of the consequences of poor behaviour. That is why I have brought Sterling here this morning.”

The boy in the corner shuddered at the mention of his name.

“Sterling is a second-year apprentice who should know better.” Fraser fixed the class with a beady eye. It felt like he was staring into the very soul of everyone present.

“Yet, he insists on breaking the rules. He missed curfew last week and now he must be punished.”

Kenny stared across at Sterling in the corner who buckled a little at the knees and shuffled his feet. It was tiring standing for so long with hands on head.

Fraser walked across the classroom to a pine-effect cupboard, took out a ring of keys from his pocket, searched for the correct one, and inserted it in a lock. He slid the door across. It was empty, except for one thing. Fraser picked it up and withdrew it.

He turned to the class full of new recruits and held up a stout wooden paddle. It looked a lot like a long thin chopping board Kenny’s mother had in her kitchen. It was about a eighteen inches long and maybe three inches wide.

used paddle holding (9)
There was a collective intake of breath when Frasier slapped the board  into the palm of his hand

There was a collective intake of breath when Fraser slapped the board with some force into the palm of his hand.

Fraser failed to suppress a smirk when he called across the room. “OK, Sterling. You know the drill.”

Sterling removed his hands from his head and reluctantly turned on his heels to face into the classroom.

“Stand by that desk,” Fraser waved the paddle at a teacher’s desk in front of the class. With eyes glued to the floor, the wretched young man waddled across the room.

“Take off your jacket.” It was a quiet order, spoken in a calm voice. But it was an order that Fraser expected to be obeyed.

Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

“Lower your trousers and underpants.”

Kenny saw the lad sitting to his right cross his legs. The boy’s face was scarlet. He seemed to be perspiring a lot too.

Sterling unbuttoned the top of his trousers and pulled at the zipper. Then, he placed both thumbs inside the waistband and pulled down the trousers and his underpants together. He let them bunch up against his shins.

Twenty pairs of eyes were glued to the young man’s buttocks. Sterling was not a fat boy, but his bum was wobbly. Sterling stood with his hands cupped across his cock and balls. It was an unnecessary gesture; none of those present in the room had a view.

Unseen by the class, Sterling chewed on his lower lip, waiting with dread for the final instruction.

It came. “Bend over the desk, Sterling.”

Kenny did not know if Sterling had been in this position before or if he had witnessed others, but he reckoned that Sterling knew exactly what was expected of him. He lay flat on the desk, with his stomach resting on the near edge. He stretched his arms ahead of him and gripped the two far legs of the desk. One in each hand. In this spread-eagled position his legs were parted, offering his audience a tremendous sight into his crack.

The boy next to Kenny looked fit to burst.

Fraser held the paddle in his right hand and approached the submissive Sterling. Twenty boys leaned forward together.

Fraser rubbed the paddle across the centre of Sterling’s bum. In this prone position, the buttocks had tightened considerably. He raised the wood about two feet from the target, brought it down with a resounding crack, and lifted it away again. A dark red rectangle appeared immediately. Sterling groaned weakly. His knees buckled and he gripped the legs of the desk a little more tightly.

Whack-whack! Two swats landed. One on each cheek. Sterling’s stomach lifted from the desktop. His head thrashed from side to side, the way a horse’s sometimes did when it was troubled by a fly.

The boy sitting next to Kenny seemed to be in as much distress as Sterling. Kenny wondered if this public paddling had brought back unpleasant personal memories for him.

The next swat hit lower. It was a large paddle and a single swipe covered a lot of flesh. The tops of Sterling’s thighs were raw.

“Ouch, oww, yeowl,” any resolve Sterling might have not to show himself up in front of the new recruits was broken. That one hurt! Like crazy. It felt as if the backs of his legs were on fire.

“Steady boy. Steady.” Fraser waited while Sterling marched his feet up and down, trying, unsuccessfully, to ease the throbbing pain in his bottom and legs.

Crack-crack! Two terrific shots landed in the fleshiest part of the globes, right in the curves. More marching from Sterling. He banged his head up and down on the desk. Tears welled in his eyes. He couldn’t catch his breath.

Fraser stepped back away from Sterling. “Have a good look boys. That’s how your backsides will be if you step out of line.”

Sterling’s rear end was bright red. No part of his bum was untouched. Bruises had already started forming in the very centre of the cheeks. The imprint of the paddle was clearly visible at the outer edges of the buttocks.

“Stand up Sterling. Get dressed.”

Sterling hauled himself from the desk. His arse burnt like the flames of hell. It took monumental self-control not to shoot both hands to his buttocks and rub furiously. He did not want to give Fraser the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt him. Besides, past experience told him that rubbing never eased the pain. Sometimes it made it worse.

Careful not to show his audience his manhood, Sterling bent down and retrieved his trousers and pants. This movement gave the boys a final chance to witness the damage. They would all agree later it they were really toasted buns.

Fraser waited for Sterling to get fully dressed and sent him on his way. He was not a cruel man, Sterling had been humiliated enough.

Fraser himself exited shortly after and the boys waited for the arrival of a lecturer for their first class.

The boy next to Kenny sat mortified. His underpants were full of spunk.

Changed Times 2. Neighbourhood Watch is here

Other stories you might like.

University student late for class

The junior salesman

When Dad got home

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com