His new job

new story 2

Mr Conan, the senior partner of Conan and Connelly, the well-known scholastic agency, was a large, gregarious fellow with a bulbous nose and several chins that wobbled each time he moved his head. His fleshy jowls trembled as he clutched his fountain pen and held it over a lined secretarial pad.

“Your name, sir.”

I told him.

“Oxford or Cambridge?”

I had not attended university. “Neither sir. London. By correspondence.”

He peered at me doubtfully. “By correspondence. Honours?”

“No, sir,” I squirmed in my seat. The office was as small as Mr Conan was large. I shrivelled before him. Mr Conan shook his head. I knew at that moment my chances of gaining gainful employment were zero. Vacancies for teaching posts were few and the number of applicants better qualified than I were many. But, Mr Conan was not despondent.

“I have the very thing,” he beamed. “An admirable institution. You will be well suited.”

He was not deterred by my dubious expression.

“Yes, indeed young man,” his chins and his jowls moved in unison. “You may start tomorrow if you are so inclined.”

“The salary is not so generous but there is board, lodging and washing,” his smile was infectious. I would have been hooked even if I had not been so desperate. I had not worked in weeks and shortly I would be on the streets, lacking the funds to meet my rent. I was eager to accept, but in my soul I was certain there must be a catch.

“Where is this establishment,”  asked.

“The delightful town of Brocklehurst,” he replied. “One of the finest smaller towns in the land.”

I had heard of the name but knew no more about the place. I knew roughly where it was located. It was a journey of an hour of so by train. It was by no means an isolated location. I was sure it is was as amiable place to live as any other. Why then had the vacancy not been filled by a man more qualified and experienced than myself?

“What kind of establishment is this?” I ventured to inquire. I was uncertain that I wanted to hear the reply. It must, I supposed, be a school with some fearful reputation.

Mr Conan, I later concluded, would be able to sell snow to the Eskimo. His face shone brightly as he told me, “It is one of our newer establishments. A specialist college, so to speak.”

He had my attention. “Specialist?” I asked dolefully, fearing he was going to tell me it was a college for some fundamentalist religious sect. Perhaps, Mr Conan read my mind. “No, young sir,” his face radiated honesty, “It is a small college intending to encourage students towards examination success.”

Examination success? Don’t all schools promise that. “How so?” I croaked, still not convinced. “Aha!” Mr Conan, had a ready explanation. “It delivers a curriculum for the older boy who, for whatever reason, requires an intensive period of study in a controlled environment in order to acquire the necessary qualifications to go forth and become a successful member of society.”

He sounded like he might be quoting from the college’s perspective. I suppose I still looked puzzled, so Mr Conan offered a further explanation. “They seek to take examinations by Christmas.”

My own face brightened; the penny had dropped. “Oh,” I ejaculated, “A crammer!” Mr Conan frowned, for once the jocular veneer had been pierced. “I don’t believe young man,” he said, “Such institutions like that terminology.”

Why not? The college was one of many I supposed existed across the country. They catered for the pupils who failed their school examinations. More truthfully, they existed for the fathers of the failures. It was they who insisted the boys must get qualifications and take up careers thereby freeing the fathers of future financial responsibility for their sons. There was nothing reprehensible about this. The boys were probably dunderheads or just as likely were lazy blighters who did not work with sufficient diligence at their studies.  Now, they were to be force-fed enough “learning” over a few number of months to allow them successfully to take the examinations again.

I apologised to Mr Conan, saying I had intended no offence. He accepted and his sunny nature returned. I accepted the offer of employment with alacrity and the following day with my worldly possessions only half-filling my suitcase I set off for Brocklehurst. Mr Conan told me it took a maximum of fifty boys each term and I was expecting to find the “college” consisted only of two rooms above a snooker hall. To my astonishment, the building was a massive pile. Having been recently built it was square and very ugly, standing in its own extensive grounds with a broad driveway curving towards the front entrance.

The door was opened by an elderly lady whom I later discovered fulfilled a combined role of matron, cook and general handywoman. She greeted me warmly as if she was genuinely pleased to meet me. She took my suitcase and showed no sign of noticing that it was much lighter than she had expected. I loved her for this. “Please,” she said pointing towards a grand spiral staircase, “Mr Doyle is expecting you. The first door on the right.”

Mr Doyle was the principal of the school. By now I already knew there were three members of teaching staff, including himself. All the boys boarded at the school and one of my duties would be to supervise the dormitories at night. I had no qualms about this. They were all eighteen years old and could be expected to take care of themselves.

I mounted the stairs, noticing the expensive carpet beneath my feet. The house, despite its unprepossessing exterior, appeared well furnished and appointed. I reached the landing and saw the door to my left had a shining brass nameplate: Mr A. Doyle, Principal. I had arrived at my destination. The door was made of dark-wood panels; another example that the college did not lack money. I was about to raise my fist to rap on it when I heard voices on the other side. I am not generally an inquisitive person and it would never occur to me to peek through keyholes but for a reason I cannot explain I lowered my hand and waited.

I was rewarded by the sounds of voices. I couldn’t hear the words explicitly as the door was too heavy, but it seemed that one person was interrogating another. One voice spoke, there was a moment’s pause and the second voice replied. It went on like this for a few seconds. Then, there was silence. I expected the door to open and one of the parties to leave. This did not happen. I stood transfixed. I could not believe my ears. I was sure I must be mistaken, that I was incorrectly interpreting the sounds from within.

I heard a noise that I can only describe as a “thud”. It was as if something had been struck by I know not what. It was followed by another thud and this time there was an accompanying sound that I took to be a gasp or a yowl of some kind. My imagination raced. I thought I had recognised the noise. Surely not, I thought. I must be mistaken. I counted six thuds in total. Not each was supplemented by a gasp or yelp, but the final one was accompanied by what I can only described as a cry of pain.

There was a silence during which I moved back from the door. My mind was reeling. I was certain I was not wrong. My conclusion was confirmed when the door edged open and a young man slowly emerged. He was perhaps an inch or two taller than myself. As the door closed behind him his hands ruefully massaged his backside. I saw his eyes were wet and his face pale. Only then did he spot me. He shot me a stare of such intense hatred. His white face turned puce and he hurried down the passageway, turned a corner and was soon out of my sight.

I watched him go. It did not take much imagination to conclude the boy had just received a caning. The six thuds, gasps and yelps I had heard were proof of that. And, how the boy despised me for having been a witness. That he was a pupil at the college there was no doubt. But there was still one puzzle. The boy wore a black woollen blazer, the type any schoolboy up and down the country might wear. There was nothing unusual in that, but in addition this boy wore well-cut grey short trousers along with socks that reached to his knees. He was dressed as if he were eight years old, not eighteen.

Intrigued, I knocked on the door and when invited I entered. Mr Arthur Doyle was sitting behind a large desk. It was completely empty except for a blotter encased in leather. My eyes quickly scanned the room; I was searching for the cane I supposed he had used to beat the boy. All evidence had been removed. I noticed a chest of  drawers and at least one cupboard that could at that moment be secreting canes.

“Sit down, please,” Mr Doyle indicted a heavy straight-backed chair that was positioned in front of his desk. As I did so I wondered if the boy had moments earlier been draped across this very piece of furniture. From the corner of my eye I saw an armchair that could also have been be used. Then, again the desk I was facing was of a good height to accommodate a prostrate body.

It was difficult to get the image of Mr Doyle caning the boy from my mind. Maybe the boy had been ordered, “Bend over and touch your toes.” Had he been required to lower his short trousers for the caning? What about his underwear? Distracted in this way I am afraid I missed much of what Mr Doyle said to me. Possibly that is of no consequence because once he had finished his welcoming chat he sent me to meet Mr Percival Manners who Mr Doyle said was to show me the ropes.

Manners, “Call me Percy when the boys aren’t in earshot,” was in his mid-thirties. I immediately liked him and it wasn’t only because he brought out his gin bottled and poured us both generous measures. After he refiled our glasses I felt the courage to ask him to explain what I had witnessed. “Yes,” he sipped at his drink. “Corporal punishment is an important part of the regime here, the fathers expect it. In fact, they are prepared to pay a little extra on the fees for it.”

My eyebrow must have shot heavenwards because he hooted a raucous laugh and said, “Stranger things happen at sea.” He explained that the boys sent to Brocklehurst were not stupid; in fact they were mostly academically bright. “Just bone-idle, the lot of them,” he roared. He loved to laugh, even when sober. “So we have to persuade them to study.” His face beamed, “Three feet of whippy rattan applied with some force across the you-know-where makes a mighty-fine inducement for them to work hard.”

“Oh,” I said weakly, unsure how I was supposed to respond. Of course, corporal punishment was used in schools although not as much as it once was. It was banned in the school I had attended. I couldn’t believe colleges were using it on eighteen-year-old boys. But then again that probably explained why Brocklehurst had a devoted clientele prepared to pay a little bit extra. Would I be expected to cane the boys myself?

Percy might have read my mind. “I have a cane here for you to take.” He nodded towards a cupboard but made no move otherwise. “There’s also a list of written rules. It’s not only about studying, it’s the whole way of life.”

That prompted me to ask about the short trousers. Percy laughed again. “Blooming great brainwave. This isn’t a prison, we don’t lock the blighters up in their dorms. What’s to stop them absconding during the day or going down the pub at night?” He answered his own question. “Short trousers. We take away all their civvy clothes when they arrive. All they have is their school uniform. Short trousers.  Which of them is going to be seen dead dressed like that in public.”

I nodded my agreement. He was correct, a brainwave indeed. Percy hadn’t finished, “And it reminds then that they aren’t yet adults. They are still children and should be treated as such. Wearing short trousers keeps them in their place.”

We finished our second drink and Percy rose to refill our glasses. While he was on his feet, he opened a closet door and extracted a cane. “Ever use one of these before?” he asked passing it to me. I took it. My eyes popped. “Used one,” I said, fearing my voice might be slurred, “I’ve never seen one before today.” I held it in my hand. It felt light as a feather and I told Percy so. “Don’t be fooled. That little beauty can do a lot of damage.”

I caressed the cane, running my thumb and finger along its length. It was about three-feet long and as thick as a pencil. There were notches every six or eight inches. At one end it had been curved into handle. I held it in my hands and bent it, it flexed easily into an arc. I swished it through the air. “And,” I asked incredulously, “the boys let us beat them with this?”

Percy roared, “Let us!” He took his drink back to his seat, “Well, ‘let us’ might not be the best way to put it.  But really they don’t have a choice. Remember their fathers are paying for this. What’s a boy to do? If he refuses he gets expelled. He could run away. Either way, he’s got to face his father’s wrath at some point. No, believe me: we say, ‘Bend Over’ and over they bend.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Then Percy piped up once more. “So you’ve never seen a cane before and obviously never been caned.” We let that remark hang in the air. It was a sultry evening and Percy’s room was stifling. My head was beginning to ache (I was not much of a drinker in those days). “I thought you might benefit from a little tutorial,” Percy’s eyes shone. I blustered.

“You don’t want to make a darned fool of yourself in front of the boys,” he gestured towards the cane that was still in my grasp. “You have no idea how to use that thing.” There was nothing to be gained by denial. Until this day it had never occurred to me I might need to develop such a skill.

“Don’t worry,” Percy beamed, “Percy has it sorted.” I think like me he might be getting drunk. “I’ve asked one of the boys along. You know for a demonstration.” I must have looked incredulous. “A guinea pig, like,” he said by way of explanation. “Namby’s coming,” he put his left hand on his hip and flounced his right wrist (his idea of an effeminate man). “I think he likes it, Ha! Ha! Ha!”

As if on cue there was a knock at the door. Namby was dressed in his school uniform, complete with short trousers. He did not appear the least ill at ease as Percy gestured him to come into the room. He introduced us. He called the boy “Namby” and I assumed incorrectly as things transpired that this was a nickname of some sort. Percy and I both affected not to see the boy glance at the gin bottle. Apparently it was permissible to bring a boy into one’s room to thrash him, but not to drink alcohol.

“Right then,” Percy took immediate control. I wondered at that moment if this was not the first time he had instructed a colleague in the use of the cane. He manoeuvred a sofa so that it was in the middle of the room. Then, he took up the cane and swished it through the air. I could not see Namby’s face but by his general demeanour I calculated that he was not troubled by this scenario. Certainly when Percy instructed, “Bend over the sofa,” the boy did not hesitate to assume the required position.

The back of the sofa was quite high. Namby rested his stomach on the apex and reached forward with his arms and gripped the seat cushion. He spread his legs and bent his knees. “Well done, lad,” Percy encouraged him. Then to me he said, “Always have the head low and the bottom high. See,” he touched the tip of the cane against the crown of Namby’s buttocks, “Perfect.”

z action cane school shorts couch domestic

He continued speaking as he moved the cane across Namby’s buttocks making a sawing motion, “Ideally, you want to get all the strokes to land as close together as possible. Get one to land on top of another. That’s really painful.” He tapped the cane harder, “Isn’t that so Namby.”

“Yes sir, Mr Manners, sir,” he replied, speaking into the seat cushion.

“Right,” Percy stood to the left of his target. “Stand about three feet away. A cane’s length, then lay the tip across the crest of the furthest buttock.” He demonstrated what he meant. “That way when you whack the cane down it’s sure to hit both cheeks evenly and not just the nearest.” He wobbled the cane, laid it across the seat of the teenager’s short trousers and tapped it with some vigour into Namby’s bum.” Percy looked across at me, “That’s all there is to it really. It’s more craft than science. You just need to practice. It’s all in the arm and wrist. Bring your am back, bring it forward and then at the last moment reverse the wrist so that the cane snaps into his backside.”

I looked on intently as he demonstrated. There was an almighty “Crack!” as the cane whacked into Namby’s tight buttocks. The boy gasped. “Felt that didn’t you lad.” The boy replied, “Yes sir, Mr Manners, sir,” but from where I stood he appeared sanguine. Here,” Percy handed the cane to me, “You have a go.”

My palm was sticky as I received it from him. I held it by the handle and realised immediately this gave me no control over it. “Hold it further down. Here,” Percy took my hand and guided it. I wriggled my wrist trying to get the measure of the thing. From the wobble it made I could see that the cane would be a more powerful weapon than I first supposed. I swiped it through the air and the whoosh it made as it flew sent a small shudder through my body. I stood to the boy’s left, laid the tip of the cane on his far buttock and lifted my arm as instructed. I took one, then two practice strokes. Unaccountably, my heartbeat raced. I raised the cane and then trying to get the correct wrist action I brought it down across the seat of the short trousers.

I was very pleased that it landed where I had intended. “How was that lad?” Percy sipped on his gin. “Sorry Mr Manners, sir,” he said, “I didn’t feel that one.” Percy put down his glass. “Here,” he stood behind me, “Let me help.” He instructed me to lay the cane across Namby’s bottom. Then, he leaned across my body bringing his mouth so close to my face I could smell the gin on his breath. He held my hand in his and directed the cane so it made an arc. Then he guided my wrist so that it made the final snap. “There,” he said. “Try again.” He was very patient with me and I could tell he was an excellent teacher. I would bet the boys loved him.

I took my aim once more. This time I put more beef into the final delivery. It landed with more power. “Better Mr Manners, sir,” Namby said without being asked. I allowed myself a small smile and tried again. This one elicited a gasp from the boy. I wasn’t sure if he truly was in some pain or it was only meant as a gesture of encouragement. Either way, I laid on another and then another. My aim each time was true and each landed with increased force.

“Good,” Percy beamed encouragingly. “Right, Namby brace yourself.” Percy winked at me and said, “Go on. Give him a real six-of-the-best. Make him feel it.” I noticed Namby’s body stiffen, his legs straightened a little and he gripped the seat cushion. He at least had the confidence that I could deliver. I took a deep breath. For the first time I noticed the shape of Namby’s bottom. It was well rounded when stretched across the sofa. His legs were not muscular. This and the short trousers emphasised the buttocks as a target. Trying to remember my instructions, I put the cane across his bottom, taking a horizontal aim. Satisfied by this, I drew the cane back slowly in an arc and keeping my eye on the target I whipped the forearm and wrist. Bingo! Bang on target. Namby’s shoulders stiffened, but he made no sound. I was certain he had felt that one.

I gave myself perhaps twenty seconds to settle and repeated the manoeuvre. The stroke landed about a quarter inch below the first. The third stroke cut between the two. That made Namby gasp. Now, he had three cuts and a throbbing strip of flesh about an inch wide across both cheeks. He wriggled his hips. He was not faking this. My confidence was sky high. I allowed myself to believe I was good at this. A natural even. Whack! Number four landed on top of one (or possible more) of the previous cuts. Namby’s legs flinched. Air hissed through his pursed lips.

The next I landed with full force. I hit so hard I might have been beating a carpet. Namby yelped. I heard Percy speak, “Steady on man.” His voice seemed to be coming from a long distance. My heartbeat was racing and blood rushed to my ears. The room was hotter than ever. I lay the cane across Namby’s bottom. This was to be the final stroke. I wanted it to be memorable. I touched it low down just below where the buttock cheek meets the thigh. It was in fact touching the back of his thigh. The area was still covered by his trousers. I raised the cane, brought it forward, snapped my wrist and left the boy with a red-hot line of fire. His head rose, he let out a yelp, but just in time he managed to prevent his feet from stomping up and down with the agony.

I admired my handiwork. There were thin lines embossed into the tight material of his short trousers where the cane had landed. I was no expert but I presumed his bottom was welted. That’s how it should be, I thought. A caning should be awesome, otherwise both Namby and I should be wasting our time. He remained bent over the sofa, bottom still held high and his head low. His breathing was regular, I am sure he felt pain, but he was not in any agony. Next time, I thought, I would lay it on with more vigour. The boys in my charge must learn I am not a man to be trifled with.

“Stand up lad,” Percy gave the command. I was too engrossed in my own thoughts. The boy scrambled to his feet. His face was scarlet but I could see his eyes were dry. I should concede that perhaps Namby was a more practised receiver of a caning than I was a giver. I had no way of knowing if a less experienced boy would have reacted differently.

I could feel Percy’s eyes burning into me. “You should go now Namby,” he said.

“Yes sir, Mr Manners. Thank you sir,” he said and he offered me his hand to shake. I, my face burning with confusion, shook it. After the door closed behind him I stood in the middle of the room dumbfounded. I still held the cane in my hand and looked at it as if only now seeing it for the first time. I was light-headed and I blamed this on the gin. “You did very well. You learned a good lesson there,” he said. I mumbled some kind of agreement. I hardly heard him, my senses were somewhere else; I was at a place where I had never been.

Percy smiled at me and moved across the room. He held out his hand so I could return the cane to him. As I did so our eyes met. He smiled. “You passed the first test. You know how to deliver a caning.” He paused for an exceedingly long time. I felt my throat tighten. My temples throbbed. He glanced at the cane in his hands, then looked at me straight in the eye. “Do you think you should also learn how it feels to take a caning.”

“Oh yes please Mr Manners, sir,” I wheezed before I stepped forward and dived over the back of the sofa. Then, I wriggled about a bit making certain that my head was low and bottom high.

 

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

The terrible twins

z used twosome on couch football shirt by M Pegasi (1a)

Last summer I had quite two of the naughtiest boys imaginable staying with me at my house.

Antonio and Pedro were foreign language students. The idea was they came over for some intensive English training and they stayed with “hosts” who helped them with “conversational English.” We were also asked to teach them something about our traditions and customs. Well, before their stay was over I taught the pair of them something about one English custom they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

I called them The Terrible Twins, even though they weren’t twins. They weren’t even brothers, but they were both Spanish and did look alike. Well, a little anyway.

I take a couple of students each year. I don’t need the money. I’ve retired on a very good pension, but I like the company of young people and a friend owns the language school so I help out.

The Terrible Twins were eighteen years old, but you’d never believe it the way they behaved. I was continually scolding them for larking about around the house, having “pretend” wrestling matches and fighting on the sofa in the living room.

I began to wonder if they were a little retarded, but when I checked with my friend I found they had both done extremely well at school and were off to university in the autumn.

They were young people and spent a lot of time in the town at bars and clubs. I imagine they chased girls, although they never brought any home. They were both extremely handsome in the way young Spaniards can be, with hard bodies, snake hips, wavy black hair, clear olive skin, cheeky grins and dark brown eyes. I would have thought the girls of this town would have been queueing up. So many of the young men around here are pasty and already well on the way to obesity.

I don’t make many rules for my summer guests. The school expects me to give them breakfast but otherwise they come and go as they please. I do insist that they do not use the parlour at the back of the house; I do like a little privacy. It is also where I keep the liquor.

Despite my clear instructions, I twice found them in the room. What were they doing? There was nothing for them to see. Were they attracted there simply because it was out of bounds? They stood heads bowed while I gave them a stiff telling-off.

They bought catapults and stalked local cats, firing stones at them. A pane of glass in Mr. Axford’s greenhouse was smashed. They made friends with a boy down the street and spent evenings drinking cheap cider at bus shelters and abusing passers-by.

One Saturday afternoon I returned from the shops and was confronted by an irate next-door neighbour. Mr. Adams was livid. Did I know what my two brats had just done? Well, no I didn’t and that was clear because Mr. Adams had just seen me pull into my own driveway. I was open mouthed. The Terrible Twins had climbed onto the roof of the house and hurled water bombs (something they had made from folded paper) at Mr. Adams and his wife. What was I going to do about it?

I was aghast. What in God’s name possessed them to do such a thing.

“They need a good hiding. The pair of them,” Mr. Adams growled at me.

Indeed they did.

“Well, what are you going to do?” Mr. Adams’ anger would not abate for some considerable time.

Spanking? This was 2016. A lot of people think spanking had been confined to distant history. It is true the cane was abolished in schools in the nineteen-eighties, but things were different in the home. There were still many responsible men who saw it as their duty to help young people navigate the choppy waters of life into adulthood. Mr. Adams was one of them. And, there were plenty of others to my certain knowledge even here in The Avenue who were ready to blister backsides when the occasion demanded.

Yes, they needed a spanking right enough. I should have done it sooner.

I confronted the Terrible Twins about their behaviour. I was rewarded with fits of giggles. Sometimes eighteen year olds can be insufferable. “It was a lark. A wheeze,” Pedro grinned at me. I frowned, genuinely puzzled. Where had he picked up such old-fashioned idioms?

Well, if they thought this was a joke, I’d soon disillusion them. Deliberately, I unfastened the buckle of my wide, heavy leather belt and slowly pulled it through the loops of my trousers. Antonio’s eyes stalked. I saw real fear. Sweat glistened his already shiny black hair. Pedro whispered something in Spanish to him, but it didn’t seem to calm the boy. I stretched the belt between my hands and with great care I folded it in thirds, leaving myself with a leather strap about eighteen inches long.

Antonio wiped the palms of his hands against his shorts. Pedro, as far as I could see, was impassive; waiting for events to take their course.

“Stand by the back of the sofa,” I instructed. Pedro took the three paces necessary to obey my command. Antonio stood his ground, immobilised by fear. Antonio gestured with his hand that his amigo should join him and with obvious reluctance he shuffled and took up position next to his companion in dishonour. I wondered at that moment whether Pedro had been the leader among the pair and Antonio, the led. He did seem to be the dominant force at this time.

I pulled the belt between my hands creating a loud snap. Antonio jumped. Pedro stayed calm. I was nearly ready. “Take down your trousers,” I said calmly. Antonio’s eyes saucered, he glanced at his friend whose entire demeanour was subservient. He was ready to obey my every command. Pedro fumbled with the buckle of his belt, but then calmly popped the button at the waist and pulled the zipper of his jeans. They slithered down to his knees. He parted his legs a little and they continued their journey and rested on top of his trainers. He stood with his hands rather demurely clasped in front of his manhood

Antonio was rigid. It was as if he was cemented to the ground.

“Doh!” I exhaled and threw my belt on the couch. Pedro’s eyes glazed as I gripped the waist of his cargo shorts, and with an expertise I didn’t know I possessed, I had them at his feet within seconds. His face shone with embarrassment. I picked up the belt and re-folded it and made it ready for action. I looked at the two eighteen year olds. They wore identical canary-yellow briefs. Both teenagers’ legs were entirely hairless.

“Bend over the couch,” I tapped the belt across the padded back so there was no doubt of my instructions. Pedro gave a sideway glance to his friend before falling forward. The couch was quite low and Pedro’s body easily cleared its back. He gripped the front of the seat cushion and spread his feet. He had presented me with a terrific target.

Antonio, of course, did not move. By now, I had anticipated I would have to intervene every step of the way. Holding my belt in my right hand, I used my left to grip Antonio by the scruff of his neck and push him forward. It was like throwing a reluctant child into a swimming pool. Antonio threw his hands forward to break his fall. To his credit, he did not try to escape. His amigo                 took hold of his hand.

Antonio was breathing heavily, Pedro was calmness personified. I had one more task to perform. The twins’ bottoms were firm, not quite “buns of steel” but not far off. Their briefs, were exactly that, and hardly covered the buttocks. In Pedro’s case a strip of bare buttock was visible below the hem of the pants. I should have dearly loved to belt them bare-bottomed, but in this day and age one cannot be too careful. So, instead I smoothed down wrinkles in their cotton briefs so that they fitted so well they might have been sprayed on.

I took up position to Pedro’s right and lashed the belt into the centre of his right cheek. Then I walloped the left. Then Antonio’s right, then the left. Then I returned to the start of the line and belted them again. And, again. The crack of leather against tight backsides resounded around the walls. The room was at the front of the house and the window wide open. My front garden is large but any passer-by would still be able to hear. Indeed, they would also be able to see two teenaged boys bent submissively across the back of a sofa having their naughty backsides tanned with a leather belt. Just another day in an English suburb.

A belt employed with some vim can deliver serious pain. The Terrible Twins “ooo’d” and “ahhhh’d” as swipe after swipe connected with firm buttocks. But, neither boy cried out. Even Antonio, who I had feared might howl the house down, took his whipping stoically. Pedro winced and sucked in air, when (quite by accident, honestly) my belt struck the bare area below his pants. He gripped the seat cushion tightly at that point and held on gamely.

I belted them with such energy you might have thought I was beating a carpet. A spanking has to hurt otherwise what is the point? These two would learn a real lesson. Actions have consequences and sometimes those consequences can be very painful indeed.

I lost count of the times I went up and down the line, spanking buttock after buttock. I must have laid it on well because my own breathing was soon laboured and my heartrate was off the scale. It was time to stop.

“You may stand up,” I intoned. They climbed to their feet in perfect harmony, the Terrible Twins might have been synchronised swimmers. Each teenager instinctively rubbed the seat of his underpants with some vigour. Then, Antonio saw me looking at him and he whipped up his shorts with alacrity. A huge grin split Pedro’s face when he realised what his amigo had done. More sedately, he pulled up his own jeans and buckled up.

They hovered before me, unsure what to do next. Both had shiny faces and damp eyes, but beyond that they seemed unaffected by their ordeal. Pedro clasped his hands behind his back and surreptitiously caressed his buttocks with his thumbs. Antonio stood head bowed, his hands in front of his crotch, every inch the contrite naughty boy.

I saw no reason to lecture them further. They had been disobedient boys and they had been spanked. And, I have to say, they had taken it rather well. I dismissed them to their rooms.

@

Antonio lay on his back, the pain had gone a long time ago, but the marks would probably last for ages. His throbbing cock pointed at the ceiling. Pedro knelt over him, his own dick thick and stiff. They were so long and hard the boys could have had a sword fight. Pedro leant in; his tongue was received by Antonio’s open mouth. A half-empty tube of KY jelly lay waiting on the pillow.

 

Picture credit: M. Pegasi

Other stories you might like

The exhibitionist

The padded armchair

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Bible College

z used paddle twosome bible college

“Each of you take down your jeans and your underwear and bend yourselves across my desk.” Rev. Paisley tapped the wooden paddle into the palm of his hand and watched intently as Jackson and Manning fumbled with belt buckles. Avoiding each other’s’ eyes, the two students slipped the jeans to their thighs. Gravity took the heavy denim to the floor. Jackson pushed his white briefs to his knees, leant forward and rested his elbows on the small wooden desk. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend this was not happening. In seconds he felt his classmate Manning take up his position by his side. Two twenty-one-year-olds, buttocks bared. Ready, waiting for the sting of the paddle.

Rev. Paisley loved the end of term at Todd Carter Bible College, it gave him the opportunity to perform God’s will and guide more young men on the path to righteousness. The College had a simple rule. It was an incentive, the school principal declared. It made the young men study harder. After all, he had said, who would want their butt toasted? So, in every class, after the exams were finished the two students with the lowest test score showed Rev. Paisley their bared buttocks.

They didn’t have to fail the test – just come last. So it was that in theory (at least) they might all be A-students, but arithmetically someone had to be at the end of the line.

Rev. Paisley swiped the paddle through the air. He was nearly ready. They had said prayers together. Sought God’s guidance. Ten swats each. It was God’s will. Rev. Paisley gripped the handle tightly. As paddles went it was no monster. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide. In the right hands it would pack a punch. And, Rev. Paisley was an expert. It came with practice. Jackson and Manning owned the third pair of buttocks he had beaten that afternoon.

Jackson and Manning were typical students at Todd Carter’s; neither tall nor short. Not fat, not thin. You might say they were standard. Typical. Average. Normal, even. Rev. Paisley felt Jackson’s body tense as he rubbed the wood across the centre of the young man’s buttocks. The flesh wobbled when he pressed the paddle in. He raised it shoulder high and with a rush crashed it home. He was rewarded by a bright pink mark on the buttock and a slow hiss as Jackson emptied his lungs.

Satisfied with his work so far, Rev. Paisley reached across to Manning, placed his hand on the student’s back to steady himself and let fly. Manning’ head shot up and shook violently from left to right. That hurt. A lot.

The tip of the good reverend’s tongue wetted his top lip.  He raised the paddle once more.

 

Other stories you might like

The milk bottle thief

The glorious summer

The imp next door

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The Brocklehurst crammer

used drawing cane hold (52)

Terry, Damien and Harry stood nonchalantly in front of the principal’s desk. The eighteen year olds had never met each other before, but they all had one important thing in common. They had all failed their school A-level exams and their irate fathers were paying a large fee to send them to Brocklehurst College.

The college was a “crammer.” Its job was to coach its students to pass the re-sit examinations. That meant three months of intense study; no mean feat for lazy teenagers. But Principal Tucker had one method at his disposal. It was a proven aid to learning.

Tucker eyed his new recruits with distain. Louts, he thought, that’s what they were; uncouth yobs. He’d soon lick them into shape.

“Stand up straight, all of you!” he barked. “You boy,” he nodded at Terry, “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Reluctantly, each boy shuffled a little. They stood straighter, but it was hardly parade-ground excellence.

“You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

“It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

“Here we use corporal punishment.”

The stunned look on the boys’ faces betrayed their apparent lack of comprehension.

“Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.”

“But …” Damien started to protest but the principal’s icy glare silenced him.

“You will all have signed a consent form.” Doubtless under the duress of your fathers, he thought to himself. Principal Tucker had run the crammer for seven years. He knew that fathers sent their sons to his college as a last resort. The boys would not respond to reason. They were often wilfully lazy. Well Brocklehurst College would soon put a stop to that.

“Yes,” he addressed the three crestfallen teenagers, “We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

Damien blushed to his roots. Yes, he knew all about the corporal punishment regime. He had had a tremendous row with his father. Dad said he must get his A-levels and go on to university. If he did not do that he would be thrown out of the family home. Dad was not a man to carry passengers. Failure for Damien might mean a life flipping burgers.

The principal had not finished his welcoming speech. “Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

“When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey-and-blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.”

All three mouthed protests. Short trousers! Even kids at primary school no longer wore short trousers.

“Silence!” Tucker feigned anger, but he expected protests from his students. Of course, eighteen year old boys would object to being forced back into short trousers. But, as a disciplinary tool it worked wonders. It reminded the louts that they were not yet truly adults. Adulthood came with responsibility. By failing their exams these boys had demonstrated their lack of responsibility. The short trousers would be a constant reminder of their status in the eyes of the college.

Short trousers were also a practical way to keep control. No boy would willingly want to be seen in public wearing grey short trousers and a school uniform. So, they wouldn’t truant from class or sneak out in the evening.

“You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

“You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?”

Principal Tucker was not sure if the boys’ silence was a demonstration of insolence.

“Is that clear!” he barked.

Their murmurs confirmed it was.

“Good.”

Of the three teenagers standing before him, two had neat short-back-and-sides haircuts. The third sported a mop of shaggy fair hair. The principal doubted it had seen a comb let alone a barber in some considerable time.

“You boy,” he gestured at the shaggy-haired boy, “What’s your name?”

“Damien,” the teen responded sullenly.

“We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir. What’s your surname?”

“Wendersley,” he sneered, but noticing that Tucker’s complexion was reddening, he quickly added, “Sir.”

“Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?”

Yes, he had. He hated this college. He hated Principal Tucker and he hated his father for sending him here. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

“Well boy?” Tucker’s fingers were beginning to itch. This meeting could end in only one way.

“Yeah,” Damien Wendersley breathed.

“Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears. So, why have you not followed the instruction?”

“Why do we have to have short hair?”

Veins stood out on Tucker’s neck.

“How dare you! Don’t be insolent.”

Wendersley blushed. The other two lads stood silently. Harry, for one, was rather enjoying this. He hoped the principal would give Wendersley what-for.  If Harry had to have his hair cropped like a convict, why should Wendersley get away with it?

“So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.”

Damien Wendersley stared at the plush carpet beneath his feet.

“Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.”

All three gasped. “But,” Wendersley tried to protest.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The three teenagers quietened. It was a shock. The boy was to be caned. For not having his haircut. The cane. When they had seen the clause about corporal punishment in the contract none of the boys had taken it seriously. The cane. It was unheard of. This was 2016.

But, there was a greater shock to come.

The principal rose from his desk. “Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.”

That set the boys off again. This time each one protested.

“Be quiet!” Tucker roared. “Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.”

“But, Sir,” Terry Reilly piped up, “That’s not fair.”

“I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

“I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?”

Yes, it was clear, but none of the teenagers replied. Surely it had been a rhetorical question.

“Right. You two boys go to the dormitory and change. You Wendersley. Stay behind.”

Terry and Harry sped from the room.

Principal Tucker sauntered across his office. It was a large modern space, designed mostly in walnut. Along one wall were shelves and a tall thin cabinet.

“Right let me deal with you Wendersley,” he said as he opened the cabinet door and searched inside.

Damien’s eyes widened. They almost stood out on stalks.

“Ah,” the principal smiled malevolently, “It would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.”

He flexed the rod between his two hands. It was just over three feet in length and as thick as the man’s little finger. It was supple and easily curved into a bow.

Damien visibly paled.

“I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.”

He swiped the cane through the air, delighted at the look of real fear spread across the teenager’s face.

“Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.”

“Please stand behind the chair,” Tucker wobbled his cane in the direction of a wooden Ikea armchair with a bright red cushion.

“No, please, no…” Damien wailed. He wanted to beg for mercy but his vocal chords refused to work.

“Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.”

The teenager stood rooted. He was gripped with such fright he literally could not move.

“Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college. Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?”

The true reality of his circumstances dawned on the wretched boy. He had no choice but to submit to this horrible man. He had to work hard at his studies and pass those A-levels. His father would throw him out of the house otherwise.

“No,” he mumbled.

“I thought not. Stand by the chair.”

Damien shuffled across the room.

“I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down,” Principal Tucker was enjoying himself. This oafish lout had displeased him from the moment he had set his eyes on him.

“Nooo, please, nooo,” it was incoherent wailing. Already tears were welling up in the boy’s eyes.

“Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.”

The boy’s now bright red face pleaded silently with his master. But it was to no avail.

“I am waiting Wendersley.”

Somehow he unbuttoned his belt, popped the buttons on his jeans and let them fall over his thighs to his knees.

“Ha!” Tucker roared with scorn. “Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.”

He swished the cane. “Now, bend over the chair.”

Damien had never been caned before; he had never seen anyone caned, not even in a movie. How exactly was it done?

He leaned over the back of the chair and stretched his arms in front of him, so that the lay along the hard wooden arms.

“Grip the front of the cushion boy. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

Damien wriggled into position and stared down at the red cushion. There was a small grey stain. Someone must have spilled coffee, he thought. He concentrated on the mark. It was about three inches long. If he thought about how the stain had been made it might take his mind off the ordeal he was facing.

Principal Tucker rubbed the palm of his right hand across both of Damien’s buttocks, smoothing the cotton underpants. Satisfied that all creases had been removed, he stood back three paces, raised his cane and let fly. It flogged down right across the centre of both cheeks.

Damien roared and he flew to his feet, furiously rubbing away at his backside.

“Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.”

Damien stood his ground. The pain was so great. How could he be expected to take six strokes like that?

“Back over,” Principal Tucker readied himself to force the teenager face down over the back of the chair, but the boy found a reserve of courage and offered up his backside.

Swish number two hit an inch or so lower than the first. Damien howled. He stamped his feet up and down and he wriggled his hips to the left and to the right. But this time he remained bent over.

“Doh! Keep still.” The cane rose and fell again. Damien repeated his march, thrust his backside out and waved it about. Principal Tucker despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on six.

Stroke number four was met with another spasm of physical jerks, accompanied by wailing that echoed around the bright office. A less experienced master might have taken pity on poor Damien Wendersley. Clearly, the boy was unable to take such a thrashing.

But Tucker was made of stern stuff. He knew as a matter of conviction that this beating, harsh though it might seem, was being administered for the teenager’s own good. This was the first step on the young man’s redemption. After this afternoon, Damien’s life would never be quite the same again. In time, once he had passed his examinations, succeeded at university, and enjoyed a fine career he might even look back on this caning with gratitude.

“Stop your blubbing, take it like a man,” he intoned and bought swipe number five down across the lad’s underpants; low, just where the cheeks meet the thighs. Damien’s throat was full of bile. At any moment he might vomit up the contents of his stomach. He gasped in great gulps of air like a beached whale.

Slash. The sixth and last stroke lashed down diagonally across all of the other five. The pain was searing. The red coloured underpants disguised the blood stain that was slowly creeping across the seat.

Principal Tucker had finished. Another student punished. It was all in a day’s work.

“You may stand up Wendersley.”

Gingerly, the teenager regained a standing position. He ran up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. It was an instinctive reaction; he had no idea if it would really relieve his pain. For now, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Stop rubbing your bottom,” Principal Tucker’s distain for the boy before him was evident.

“Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.”

Damien’s face was awash with tears and snot. He was in no fit state to leave the office just yet.

“Here, take this and wipe your eyes,” Tucker passed the boy a fistful of tissues.

“I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

“Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut.  For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

“You are dismissed.”

 

Other college-themed stories you might like.

The student’s first caning

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Toby’s father visits

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Brocklehurst Crammer

used-cane-holding-18

“We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

 

Brocklehurst Crammer, a new story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded to The Canery website. Click here to read it

 

Other college-themed stories you might like.

The student’s first caning

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Toby’s father visits

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The house across the street

Ricky sat at the table by his bedroom window. He was supposed to be writing a college essay but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead, he gazed at the house across the street. Mr Raines had moved into The Avenue that week. He lived alone, in a three-bedroom house with two reception rooms. Why did a man on his own need so much space, the teenager wondered?

The Top Forty countdown was playing on the radio. Goddam it, Bohemian Rhapsody was still number one. It seemed like it had been top of the pops forever.

There was activity across the road. Ricky hid behind the curtain and watched. A schoolboy in a bright scarlet blazer cycled up to the front door. Who was this? No, Ricky realised as the boy dismounted. He wasn’t a boy; he looked to be at least forty. It couldn’t be a schoolboy. Besides, it was Sunday, no boy would willingly be out in his school uniform at the weekend. Perhaps, the blazer wasn’t from a school. More likely it was a sporting club. Rugby, maybe.

The door opened and Mr Raines ushered the man inside hastily. Then he looked up and down the street and satisfied that nobody was there he closed the door behind him.

Ricky was bored and restless. He delved under the mattress of his bed and pulled out a copy of Whitehouse. He lay down on the bed and began to undo the seven buttons on the high waist of his trousers. It was laborious work. The trousers might be the height of fashion, but they were not practical if you wanted to get out of them fast. Not that anyone did want to get his trousers down in a hurry. If they did, he wouldn’t need the porn mag.

He wriggled the trousers down to his knees and then pulled at the waist of his pants so they snagged just below his buttocks. Whitehouse was no good. He didn’t go for the close-up camera shots of ladies’ private parts. He closed his eyes and conjured up a scene in his head. He knew this one would work for him.

Things were not going well for Ricky at the polytechnic where he studied. He had failing grades and was put on what was called “the Dean’s List.” That meant he was summoned for an awkward interview with Mrs Martin. And, yes that did make her Dean Martin. Mrs Martin was an austere woman with black shiny hair, cut short. She favoured neat dark business suits and sheer stockings.

It really happened like this. Ricky stood in her office. She sat in a large leather chair. Ricky shuffled from foot to foot, while she rebuked him. If he didn’t pull his socks up, he would have to re-sit the whole year again. The nineteen-year-old felt as if he were back at school, answering to the headmaster.

At that point he felt his cock stiffen. Even as he stood there taking his bollocking, he invented a scene. He was spread-eagled across her big polished desk, his jeans at his ankles. Mrs Martin swished a thick rattan crook-handled school cane through the air and then whacked it with great force six times into the seat of his tight navy-blue underpants. He didn’t come in her office, but he had reimagined that scene many times since. Even now his cock was aching. All it needed was a half dozen tugs.

Ricky cleaned himself and resumed his watch at the window. He didn’t know it but he had missed two men who arrived together. One carried a large sports bag, the kind of thing that could carry bats and stumps. Perhaps, the boy in the blazer was part of a cricket club.

Ricky sat and watched. Soon another three men arrived. It looked to him that Mr Raines was having a party. It was probably a house warming. Why weren’t there any girls, he wanted to know.

While Ricky pondered this, Mr Raines and his guests were preparing their merrymaking.

The man in the blazer was in one of the bedrooms. Except that it wasn’t a bedroom. An old desk dominated the room and a beat up armchair stood in one corner. In another corner was a coat stand. From this dangled a schoolmaster’s academic gown. Below this, in a section reserved for umbrellas stood two rattan school canes.

Downstairs, one man who would never see his fiftieth birthday again was dressed in a Cub Scout uniform. He was so stout and his short trousers were so tight that fat rolled over the waistband. He was speaking with Mr Rainer. “It is a pity that we can’t get younger boys to attend these parties. There must be some who are interested?”

Mr Rainer sighed, “There is a cute boy who lives in the house across the road. I would love to have him across my knee.”

“Do you think he would do it?” the man wheezed. “We could pay him.”

“He’s a student; students are always in need of money,” Mr Raines laughed.

The man’s fleshy jowls wobbled, “Perhaps he has friends. Perhaps he could bring some of them with him.”

“Yes, perhaps,” Mr Raines said sadly, but he doubted it.

Mr Raines pulled a large bedroom slipper from a cupboard. “Now young man,” he clutched it in his right hand and waved it at the obese Cub Scout, “Get those shorts down and bend across my knee.”

Back in his room, Ricky had lost interest in the house across the street. For now; tomorrow, he would go and introduce himself to Mr Raines, it was the neighbourly thing to do.

He lay on his bed, closed his eyes and conjured up once more the image of Dean Martin and her thick swishy cane.

….

The next day was scorching hot. It really was turning out to be a delightful summer. Ricky stayed in bed until about midday. There wasn’t much to get up for. Certainly not a three-hour session on business economics at the poly. Dean Martin occupied much of his thoughts.

Eventually, he climbed out of bed, showered, and dressed. It was too hot for high-waisted trousers. Instead, he pulled out a pair of blue cotton shorts from his chest of drawers. He loved these shorts. They fitted snugly at the waist so he didn’t need a belt and they clung to his buttocks. They were fashionably short and reached only an inch or two down his thighs. They showed off his already deep-tanned legs perfectly.

He dragged a yellow-and-white tee-shirt over his head and stepped into his brown leather sandals. He was ready to greet the day.

He walked across the road to Mr Raines’s house and knocked on the door. He was a confident lad and made friends easily. He would say “hello and welcome to the street,” to Mr Raines and take it from there.

There was no answer. It was early Monday afternoon; the man was probably at work. He turned to retrace his steps home when he noticed the side gate was closed, but its padlock was unfastened. Mr Raines was probably in the back garden. He hadn’t heard the knock at the door.

Ricky opened the gate and walked by the side of the house into the back garden. There was no sign of Mr Raines. It was a sizable garden, dominated by a mature apple tree, groaning with ripe fruit.

The teenager didn’t think twice. He kicked off his sandals and shined up the tree. In seconds he had knocked a half dozen apples to the ground.

Upstairs in his bedroom, Mr Raines watched through the window with wonder. He had been in the shower and not heard the door. Now, the gorgeous kid from across the road, was in his garden, stealing his apples. He was a delightful sight. Loose limbed and athletic. The boy stretched across a branch, his back arched with his buttocks sticking out. The blue cotton shorts rode up into the boy’s bum cheeks. Mr Raines’s cock stiffened. How, he would like to put one of his swishy rattan canes across that tight backside.

He rushed downstairs. He must catch the boy before he escaped.

Ricky was back on the ground bending down to pick up the apples. Mr Raines got his first close-up sight of the teenager’s arse. His cock ached.

“What do you think you are doing?” Mr Raines spoke in the voice he used when he played at headmasters and schoolboys with his pals. It startled Ricky.

“Oh, I, Ah,” the teenager blustered. He blushed profusely. “I didn’t know you were at home.”

“Evidently,” Mr Raines perfected a schoolmaster’s glare. He studied the boy standing in front of him. The most striking thing about the lad was his hair. It was fair, almost blond, and flopped on to his sun-tanned open face. He had striking blue eyes and a gorgeous frown and Mr Raines could tell the boy would also have a smile that could light his whole face.

Looking further down, he saw a trim hard chest, wrapped in a tight yellow-and-white tee-shirt. He had already admired the boy’s tight cotton shorts from the rear. He looked equally wonderful from the front.

“What will your mother say when I tell her you have broken into my house and stolen from my garden?” Mr Raines was enjoying himself enormously. This was much better than the games they played inside the house. This was for real. The sexy teenager really had stolen from him.

“Perhaps,” Mr Raines intoned, “I should call the police. Breaking and entering, I think they call it.”

The look of sheer terror that spread across Ricky’s beautiful face, delighted him.

“B… b… b…” Ricky stammered. He wanted to say that he hadn’t really broken into the garden. The gate was unlocked. He had been looking for Mr Raines. He hadn’t intended to steal. He wanted to say all these things, but he could only bluster.

“You’re a student aren’t you? Do you really want a criminal record? Wouldn’t they expel you from the college?” Mr Raines was working on a plan.

“Please don’t …” Ricky’s beautiful blue eyes watered.

Nearly there, Mr Raines thought. Out loud, he said, “Well what do you think I should do with you?”

Ricky blushed, stared at his bare feet, and clutched his hands behind his back with embarrassment. “Do?” What did Mr Raines mean, “Do?”

“You must be punished in some way. Surely you understand that?”

Ricky’s heart jumped. Punished. Images of Dean Martin, her study, and her whippy rattan cane sped through his head.

His mouth opened and closed. He wanted to speak, to ask Mr Raines what he meant by “punished,” but words would not come.

Mr Raines stared thoughtfully at the teenager in front of him. He was forty-two years old and had been active on the corporal punishment scene for more than twenty years. He could read Ricky like a book. It was only a matter of time.

“If I were your father, I’d give you a damn good hiding. Breaking into a neighbour’s garden and stealing from him.” Mr Raines let the thought hang in the air. Ricky was sweating, but it wasn’t because of the hot summer’s afternoon.

Ricky raised his moist blue eyes and looked into Mr Raines face. No words were spoken. They didn’t have to be. A bond was forged.

“Come into the house,” Mr Raines spoke mildly now. He was no longer a stern schoolmaster. He was the kind, considerate, neighbour who was just about to give the young man the first spanking of his life.

He took Ricky gently by the elbow and led him into the sitting room.

A thief should receive a severe beating. In some countries in Africa, even today, courts order thieves to be beaten with canes on their bared buttocks. Mr Raines would have been entitled to whip one of his special whippy rattan canes across Ricky’s naked bum. But Mr Raines was playing the long game. If he thrashed the teenager like that he would never see him again. No, experience told him, he should start gently; get the boy used to being spanked. Later, in the future, Ricky would graduate to bare-bottomed canings.

Today, Ricky’s grooming would begin.

The teenager stood, heart thumping, cock throbbing, in the centre of the sitting room. He watched his new neighbour make his preparations. First, a dining room chair was placed in the centre of the room; then Mr Raines went to a cupboard and took out a huge wooden brush. He sat in the chair, spread his legs and with a crooked index finger, he beckoned the boy to approach him.

Ricky had never been spanked before and had never seen anyone spanked. But, instinctively he knew what to do.

“Bend over my knee,” Mr Raines’s tone was stern. It was an order, not a request. Ricky bent his knees slightly, rested his hands on Mr Raines’s right leg and gently lowered himself across the older man’s lap. Then, he reached out his arms in front of him, so that the palms of both hands were pressed firmly into the carpet. In this position his head was raised and he had a clear view through the window into the garden beyond and the apple tree that was the cause of his present predicament.

Behind him, his knees were buckled and the toes of his bare feet hovered an inch or so off the ground. His pert bottom rested at an angle over Mr Raines’s right knee, in a terrific position to receive whacks from the heavy wooden brush.

Mr Raines’s gulped hard at the sight before him. Already his cock was close to bursting. He put his arm around Ricky’s waist and moved him so that he wouldn’t feel the boner pressing into his body. Then, Mr Rainer tugged the waistband of the shorts tightly so they made a kind of wedgie in the boy’s crack. The shorts were so short that they no longer covered the lower part of the buttocks, affording Mr Raines a cracking view of the boy’s arse.

Ricky closed his eyes. In his dreams about Dean Martin’s office he never thought about the agony the cane caused; he got off on the vision of himself, jeans at his ankles and navy-blue pants tight against his buttocks. Now, for the first time he would experience the pain of a spanking. He hoped he could stand it.

drawing brush hold otk (13)

Mr Raines gripped the brush tightly and smacked it down into Ricky’s cotton-covered left buttock. Then he did the same to the right. They weren’t hard spanks, merely slaps. Ricky gasped as each whack connected. He felt the impact against his tight flesh, but there was no real pain.

Mr Raines increased the vigorousness of each succeeding spank. Ricky’s face contorted and he bit down on his beautiful ruby lips. The pain was increasing. He was definitely feeling those. Mr Raines tried a little harder and was rewarded by a clear, “Ouch,” from the young man across his lap.

Spank, spank, spank. Three hard swats landed in the fleshiest part of Ricky’s right cheek. He wriggled his body and kicked his legs. Mr Raines smiled. He was really warming the boy up now.

Let’s test him a little, Mr Raines thought, and slapped the heavy wooden brush into the bare flesh beneath the hem of the shorts. He was rewarded with “Ow, wow, ow!!” from Ricky, so, he slapped another and another. Clear red oval marks appeared on the boy’s thigh, mirroring the head of the brush.

More yelps. Ricky’s head bounced up and down and his body wriggled across Mr Raines’s lap.

“I hope you’re learning your lesson, young man,” Mr Raines said and without waiting for an answer he slapped six stingers right around the circuit of the boy’s bum, from the top where the cheeks meet the back, over the fleshy mounds and into the bare under-curves.

Mr Raines was close to ejaculation. He could not go on. To cum all over the beautiful boy writhing and wriggling over his lap would be too humiliating. He slapped two more on each cheek for good measure and released his grip on Ricky’s waist.

“Up boy. It’s over.”

Ricky rolled off Mr Raines’s lap onto the floor where he rested, catching his breath. His bottom was throbbing a little. It was definitely sore, but even with his lack of experience, Ricky knew Mr Raines had not gone hard on him. He felt a little disappointed; cheated even.

“Stand up.” Mr Raines was anxious for the boy to leave his house. He had urgent business to attend to.

“You should go home now, Ricky,” he said. Then he flashed the boy a smile, “I’ll be keeping an eye on you from now on.”

The teenager returned the grin. He wasn’t sure what had just happened, but he knew he would never be the same again. “Thank you,” he said and added wistfully, “Sir.”

He left the room and before he had reached the front door Mr Raines had his own trousers and pants at his ankles. He shot his load before the boy had crossed the road.

Later, in his own bedroom, Ricky inspected the damage. His buttocks were a little pink, but the pain, such as it had been, had gone completely. Next time, he should spank me on the bare, he thought, as he lay back and sent a stream of spunk eight inches into the air.

 

Other stories you might like.

The dope smoker

The man across the hall

First day of term

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com