Keynes College Caning Case

z used drawing canes (1)

Chief Inspector Morose gulped on his fourth pint as he studied the written report in his hand. Another killing at a college. Oxford would soon surpass those villages at Midsomer as the murder capital of the world. Just then Sergeant Lois hurried into the pub. Morose hated working with a girl but these were modern times. How he hated modern times.

“Lois,” he said gruffly. “Knock on doors, find witnesses, get Scene of Crimes to check the room where Professor Blenkinsop was found, get fingerprints, search for a weapon.”

Sgt. Lois looked on in admiration. What a terrific detective, she thought. It would never have occurred to her to do any of those things. “What will you be doing, sir?” she asked. “I’ll have another pint,” Morose said handing her his empty glass.

At Keynes College Jack stared from the window of his room onto the deserted quadrangle below. In his mind he visualised himself in Prof Blenkinsop’s room. “This essay is atrocious. You should spend more time in the library and less in the Student Guild,” the professor spoke through his bushy beard. He was a short rotund man, almost as wide as he was tall. Jack stood, feet slightly apart, head bowed. Memories flooded back of unpleasant visits to his housemaster at St. Tom’s. He watched slack-jawed as the professor waddled towards a cupboard. It was tall and thin and was part of a especially-designed glass-fronted bookcase that ran along the entire length of one wall. Prof Blenkinsop delved into his pocket and retrieved a bunch of keys. Slowly, almost as if he had never seen them before he searched for the one he needed. His breath was shallow as he unlocked the door, opened it an reached in.

Jack blinked in disbelief. Now, it really was a trip back to schooldays. The professor held a dark-yellow whippy cane. He turned and faced the student, flexing the rod as he did so. He swished it trough the air. It made a tremendous whoosh! as it went. It was thicker than the canes they used at St. Tom’s, but had the traditional crook handle.

“Bu ….” Jack began a protest but stopped himself. He wanted to say, “Sir, you can’t do this,” but he knew otherwise. The professor had all the power. He alone would decide what grade a student would get. He was the sole arbiter of success or failure. Prof Blenkinsop stopped his swishing and looked quizzically at Jack, as if only just remembering he was there. “That chair,” he nodded to a low-backed old leather armchair standing against a wall, “Turn it round.” It was heavier than it looked. “Bring it into the middle of the room.”

Jack was surprised how calm he felt. This should not be happening. But, it was, and Jack knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had been beaten at school; many times, it was that kind of place. It would hurt like hell, but he would live.

“Lower your trousers. Underpants too. Bend over the chair.” A thin line of spittle dribbled into the professor’s beard as he gave his instructions. A look of incredulity washed across Jack’s face. “Just do as you are told,” Professor Blenkinsop bent the cane again. It made a perfect arc.

Jack hesitated. This was new territory. They had always caned on the seat of the trousers at St. Tom’s. He watched the dreadful professor flexing his cane. The man’s eyes sparkled. He was enjoying himself. Jack’s heart skipped a beat as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. He supposed it was adrenaline coursing to his brain that made him so light-headed. The belt successful undone, Jack unbuttoned the fly of his heavy twill trousers. Gravity took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees and shins and into a puddle at his brogues. His hands trembled, but he was unsure if this was fear.

Professor Blenkinsop squelched two or three paces across the room. Jack could not watch him as he moved. He still had to bare his bottom. Of course he had been naked in front of men before, but he was reluctant to let this old man see his cock and balls.

“Get on with it, you have nothing that I haven’t seen before,” the professor said truthfully. Jack placed his thumbs inside the elasticated waistband of his white Y-fronts and slid them down, careful that they bunched just below his buttocks. He took a deep breath, rubbed his palms together, and rather like a swimmer going into freezing water, dived over the chair. His trousers were at his feet and his underpants at his thighs. Jack was a little over five-six in height and hardly weighed a thing. His waist was narrow, stomach flat and his buttocks when stretched resembled not much more than two pips.

Jack stared down at the worn seat. The chair had seen better days and as his nose was close to the leather he could smell the faint sweat of the generations of students (himself included) who had sat there during tutorials with the professor.

“Head low, legs apart,” the professor ordered. There was no reason to do this, since Jack was already perfected positioned to receive the cane, but it made the professor feel totally in control of the situation. Jack closed his eyes, waiting. Jack felt Professor Blenkinsop take hold of the long tail of his shirt and pull it clear of the target area. The professor was almost ready. But not quite. “I am going to beat you,” he said, slowly, as if reading from a script. “It will hurt, it is supposed to. That is the point. Do not wriggle about too much and do not try to rise or in any other way obstruct me in my duty,” he continued. Then, after a pause for dramatic effect, he concluded, “Or you will receive extra strokes. Is that understood?”

Jack’s mouth was inches from the worn leather. He croaked a response that the professor quite probably could not hear, “Yes, sir.”

Professor Blenkinsop sawed his cane across the fleshiest part of Jack’s bum; taking his aim. The first swipe caught him on the lower part of the buttocks, just above the thigh. It felt like he had seared a red-hot poker across his bum. Jack’s entire body shuddered and his backside bounced up and down, he had had absolutely no control. It was all a reflex to the intense pain that started at the bottom and ran up and down his legs.

Professor Blenkinsop was in no hurry. To Jack it felt like an eternity, but only fifteen seconds elapsed before the second cut scorched the top end of his buttocks. He shuddered some more and his mouth opened and closed, but he successfully stifled the yelp his body wanted him to make.

Number three hit half way between the previous two. Professor Blenkinsop was an expert; he should be, he had enough practice. Jack now had a red stripe about four inches wide across both cheeks. Tears itched his eyes, he snuffled them back. Number four landed on top of a previous cut. How could it not? The professor had already burned most of Jack’s backside. The agony was intense. Jack’s legs marched up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. His hips swayed from side to side. An long, low whistle escaped through Jack’s clenched lips.

The fifth hurt just as badly. Jack’s temples throbbed almost as much as his backside. His right foot wrapped around his left ankle and his buttocks rose and fell, humping the back of the chair. Jack quivered under a series of dry hacking coughs.

Professor Blenkinsop left the worst to last. Jack sensed it coming before he felt it. The professor moved the position of his cane so that it rested in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of Jack’s entire arse, then he lifted it away and brought it down with a magnificent crash so that it landed across five previous scars, igniting the agony in all of them. Jack yelled. He jumped up from the chair, but half way to his feet, some schoolboy instinct kicked in and he resumed my position. He remembered the professor’s earlier threat; he didn’t want extra strokes.

Jack lay, bottom on fire, sobbing into the chair. His head ached and his throat was sore from coughing, but his head was as clear as anything he had felt before in his life. The professor waited a moment before he intoned, “Stand up.”

Jack crawled off the back of the chair and stumbled, grabbing hold of the edge of a desk to steady himself. He doubled up to restore his trousers and pants to their rightful place, all the time gulping in lungs full of air.

At the police station Lois recapped the plot so far, “The professor was killed in his study sometime between two and four. He was hit on the head by a heavy object. A granite paperweight is missing so that’s the most likely weapon. We’ve searched the room. We found a couple of canes in a cupboard.”

Morose winced, he hated it when people used Americanisms. “Canes, you mean walking sticks, of course,” he scowled.

Lois let a slight smile curl her lips. “No, canes, as in bend over, touch your toes, it’s six-of-the-best for you m’lad,” she flexed an imaginary school punishment cane between her hands. She was delighted to see Morose flush, embarrassed. Morose wriggled in his chair, suddenly a vision of the buxom Sgt. Lois swishing a cane across Morose’s backside as he bent touching toes came to him. He coughed to hide his nervousness.

“We’ve interviewed colleagues, he had no enemies; he was loved by all,” Lois said.

“Clearly not everyone,” Morose growled. He hesitated, trying to make the next question seem insignificant, “What did you do with the canes?”

“They’re in the property store, logged as evidence,” she answered.

In the basement of the building Police Constable First held a long, thin crook-handled rattan cane in both hands, holding it up for close examination. It was thinner and lighter than the ones he had at home, he thought. But still mightily effective. They would do the job. PC First was four months off retirement, hauled into County Headquarters to see his off his last days hidden away after the rumours of his methods of policing in the sleepy villages of Oxfordshire had reached the ears of the Chief Constable.

“Eh lad,” he called across to Police Cadet Barnaby Wordsworth. “Wordsworth,” he growled. Bloody silly name. Whoever heard of a copper with a poet’s name? The eighteen year old fresh-faced youngster looked up from his Football Monthly “Get these labelled and logged.” Wordsworth continued reading. Preston North End were in with a chance of winning the league. “Now lad,” First blustered.

“All right Jock, keep your hair on.” The joke was wearing thin. Jock First was as bald as a billiard ball. Bloody kids, PC First thought. No respect for their elders and betters. He didn’t say Constable or even Mister First. He placed the cane down on the wooden top of the table. How he would like to put this across the cheeky sod’s backside. And no mistake. Teach him some manners. Just wait, he thought, once he was safely retired he would invite him out to the house. The cadet continued reading his magazine.

Two days later Cadet Wordsworth was reading the local newspaper. “Hey Jock,” he said with the mildest of interest, “It says here they’ve taken in a suspect in the professor’s murder.”

First smiled enigmatically, “Of course they have, laddie. He’ll be confessing even as we speak.”

“Why would he confess?”

“They always do laddie. It’s the only way we ever solve a crime.”

“What do you mean?”

“It stands to reason. It saves time. When you’ve seen as many shows – I mean as many cases – as I have you’ll understand.”

Two floors above in Interview Room 2 Inspector Morse and Sgt Lois sat opposite the murder suspect. No solicitor was in sight. “Let me understand this,” Lois said moving the plot along at a tremendous pace. “You say that after he beat you with a cane, he turned around and put it back in a cupboard. Then you picked up a heavy granite paperweight and you hit him on the back of the head.”

Morose studied the young student before him. His dark brown hair was unkempt and his hazel eyes were dull, but Morose knew in happier times they would sparkle. His skin was smooth, he had barely started shaving; it would be twice a week maximum, Morose knew the type. He was shorter than average and clean limbed. Quiet thin, a scholar perhaps, not a sportsman, he imagined. Although Morose couldn’t see because he was sitting on it he just knew he had the most spankable bum.

The student was becoming agitated. “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“You hit him three times,” Morose coughed. God, his throat was dry, he could kill a pint of Theakston’s Old n Filthy. “Once is manslaughter, self-defence, or an accident. Three times is murder.”

The student convulsed into fits of sobs. Morose licked his lips and stared away into the middle distance. “Well pretty boy, you’re going to jail for a long stretch. Getting six-of-the-best will be the least of your troubles,” he thought as a rather annoying bleeping noise sounded in his ears.

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

A Robust Response

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

z used cane holding (15)

Newbury wondered how many strokes it would be. He stood to attention, heart beating far too quickly, watching through rapidly blinking eyelids as the headmaster made his preparations. Dr Fortescue had been at the school less than two weeks. Already the boys had Christened him The Tyrant Headmaster.

Newbury sucked in a lung full of air. The room was stifling; not hot, but airless. Did the headmaster ever open the windows of his study? Dr Fortescue ruled the school with a rod of iron. No, that was not quite true, he ruled with rods of bamboos, Malacca, rattan and ash. Newbury stood in silence. Dr Fortescue busied himself at a cupboard. His collection of canes was extensive, he must select just the right one for the job in hand. He took one, dark yellow in colour, dense but whippy, three feet and more in length, a traditional crook handle. He swished it through the air, then flexed it between his hands. It was as if he had never met the rod’s acquaintance before. He peered at it intently, stone-faced; his white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

Newbury licked his dry lips, waiting patiently. Dr Fortescue was an elderly man dressed in an old-fashioned, untidy academic gown. He was a commanding figure, rumour was he had once played prop forward in rugby. He was a tall, grim man and as strong as an ox. The senior boys of St Septimius could testify to that.

The headmaster had made it his business to raise standards from the moment he arrived. The school was going downhill, it needed drastic action. That was what the governors had told him when they appointed him. “Clean it up man,” were his orders. So, he started at the top, with the sixth-formers. Many of them, like Newbury, might be eighteen years old but they were still school pupils, still children. And they had better not forget that.

Newbury watched intently as the headmaster replaced the cane in the cupboard and selected another. To Newbury it looked exactly like the one he had returned, but the headmaster seemed to discover new properties it. He let it fly through empty air. It made a terrific swoosh! It looked like the one Dr Fortescue had used to thrash Rodriquez on his very first day at the school. Newbury blanched at the memory. Rodriquez prone across the table in front of the entire sixth-form, trousers down, buttock cheeks stretching his tight, white underpants and the headmaster flogging that very same Dragon cane into the firm young bum. Newbury clasped his hands behind his back to stop them shaking. The memory of his pal was all too recent.

The agony of the caning was so great Rodriquez had leapt to his feet. Two sixth-formers were ordered to hold him down, then the headmaster slowly bared Rodriquez’ bottom and whipped him with all his force. He had to be half-carried from the room at the end.

Newbury coughed dryly. Dr Fortescue had selected his weapon of choice, now he was making his preparations. The teenager took close note of how the headmaster’s arm muscles tensed as he picked up a heavy straight-backed chair and set it down in the centre of the room. His shoulder muscles tensed when he gripped a second chair and manoeuvred it so it stood back-to-back with the first. Satisfied they were in the required position, he ambled across to the bookcase and selected the first volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. It was a heavy book and several inches thick. He knew it would do the job in hand. He had no intention of reading it, he turned, walked across the study and set it down on the hard wooden seat of the first chair. Then he rested the cane on the top of his desk.

“Thieving Newbury,” Dr Fortescue snarled. “Such disgraceful behaviour.”

Newbury stared down at his shoes, embarrassed into silence. There was nothing he could say. He had been caught red-handed filching cigarettes from the corner shop. He wore his distinctive blue and white school blazer, there was no escape.

The headmaster frowned, his white whiskered quivered. “Theft is crime. You should go to court. You will have a record,” he leaned forward and Newbury recoiled. “There goes your place at university. Any hope of a decent career. You stupid, stupid boy.”

Tears formed behind Newbury’s eyes. Criminal record, a life ruined. It had never entered his head.

The headmaster paced the room slowly, tutting to himself; like so many schoolmasters he was a ham actor at heart. “But, Newbury,” he took hold of a hem of his gown and swished it across his body, rather like a magician about to complete a trick. “Help is at hand.” He straightened his back, shoved his shoulders forwards and (he liked to think) rather like his hero Winston Churchill, he barked, “Mr Scrimshaw, the shopkeeper, has agreed not to go to the police.”

Newbury’s heart skipped, this time with something approaching joy, not terror. “He will not press charges, if he is to be present at your beating.” The headmaster  strode to the door of an anteroom and with a flourish opened it. “Come in please, Mr Scrimshaw.”

A wizened man, hunchbacked, with a long sharp nose and pointed nose, shuffled into the room. His beaky eyes peered around the room as if he had transferred from a dark cave into a brightly-lit room. He stopped three feet in front of Newbury and very deliberately he examined the boy’s features as if ensuring that he was indeed the culprit who tried to make off with then Woodbines without payment.

“Please sit down Mr Scrimshaw,” the headmaster indicated a small comfortable armchair. Scrimshaw coughed a response and wheezing all the time settled himself down. He shifted his buttocks for comfort and leaned forward menacingly. He was making sure he had a perfect view of the drama about to unfold.

The headmaster picked up his cane and flexed it between his hands. “Whip him well Mr Headmaster, whip him well,” Spittle dribbled over Scrimshaw’s bottom lip. The headmaster’s eyebrows shot heavenwards, “Oh, I intend to Mr Scrimshaw, I intend to.” He turned toward Newbury and swished the cane through empty air, then pointed it at the two straight-backed chairs. “Stand there boy!”

Newbury clutched his hands behind his back, rather like the Duke of Edinburgh on a walk-about. Dr Fortescue stood close to him casting a show over the sixth-former’s body. Newbury caught the masculine aroma of stale whiskey, cigarette smoke and coal tar soap. “Lower your trousers and your underpants.” It was a simple, calm instruction. There was no need to engage in histrionics,  the headmaster was in charge, and he knew it.

Newbury turned his head slightly toward the headmaster, a look of incomprehension on his face. Dr Fortescue sneered, “Get on with it boy. Right down to the ankles, if you please.” Newbury’s head pounded, blood was rushing through his arteries to his temples. He felt unsteady on his feet. He gulped in air, afraid that he might faint to the floor. At last he got his shaking fingers to cooperate with his brain and the front of his trousers opened. He sensed Mr Scrimshaw lean forward in his chair.

Of their own accord the trousers slipped down his thighs and past his knees and settled in a puddle on top of his shoes. His white Y-front underpants were a little small and hugged the contours of his buttocks and cock. The musky aroma of the headmaster wafted into his nostrils. He gulped down saliva, slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and guided them south. He had to bend his knees as he took them on their way, suddenly conscious that his bare bottom, crack and balls were on full display. A strange combination of a wheeze and a sneeze escaped Mr Scrimshaw’s mouth.

Newbury stood naked from the waist down, the long-ish tail of his shirt covering his privates and buttocks. The headmaster tapped his cane on the top of the encyclopaedia. “Lift up your shirt, kneel on the book and bend across the chairs.” Newbury stared at the cane in the headmaster’s right hand. It was about three feet in length, darkish yellow in colour and with the traditional crook handle. It was dense and had notches every three or so inches along its length. It was a terrific weapon, Newbury wondered if he might be permitted to stuff a handkerchief into his mouth.

“Over boy,” the headmaster’s patience was exhausted. He thwacked the cane across the book. Still, unsteady on his feet, Newbury gripped his shirt and hauled it up to his chest while simultaneously climbing onto the chair. The book was to rise his body so that his backside would be high, and as his body stretched across the chair backs, his buttocks would be at the correct height and angle to receive lashings into the underside (and most sensitive) part of the cheeks.

“Head down, bottom high,” Dr Fortescue intoned. Newbury wriggled into the required position and waited, conscious of his submissive position. His naked buttocks were twitching submissively, completely at the mercy of the powerful headmaster. There would be no mercy  that afternoon. Newbury was resigned to his fate.

Dr Fortescue stood a cane’s length from Newbury’s left side and began to saw the cane across the underside of the cheeks. He had beaten many buttocks in his career as an educator, the pair offered up to him now were quite typical. Newbury was well covered. He was in no way ‘fat’ but his bum has a certain amount of ‘give’ as the headmaster pressed his cane into the flesh as he took his aim. He tapped the cane smartly against a dimple that had formed under Newbury’s left cheek. The headmaster counted to five in his head, raised the cane high and with a strength nurtured over many years flogged the whippy rattan with maximum force across the centre of both cheeks. He was greeted by a thick dark pink line across the otherwise unblemished skin.

A hissing sound like a steam engine whistled through Newbury’s clenched teeth. He hands gripped the seat of the hard wooded seat. His back bucked, his head rose and fell. That hurt. That hurt a great deal. He heard the floorboards of the study creak as the headmaster paced. “Thank you Sir, may I have another,” Newbury spoke firmly. The headmaster paused pacing and glared. “What?” he did not say out loud. “I have never come across such a thing before. Such impertinence.” He took aim and the cane whistled as it flew though the air, the crack of rattan on stretched flesh bounced off the walls. Newbury repeated the buckling and the bouncing. This time a sharp yelp rang out. The headmaster paced.

“Thank you Sir. May I have another,” croaked this time. Dr Fortescue’s face, never clear at the best of times turned puce. “What!” again thought but unsaid. “Is he saying my flogging is not hurting? He can take anything I might offer?” The third lash struck across the top of the curves; there were now three livid red welts running almost parallel across Newbury’s buttocks. The headmaster had a terrific aim. He was (as it were) a master master. “Thank you Sir, may I have another.” The headmaster paced the floor, this time noticing Mr Scrimshaw was himself red of face. He was leaning forward elbows resting on knees stretching himself to get as close to Newbury’s prone body as possible without actually leaving his chair.

The headmaster tapped his cane ready for the fourth stroke. Perspiration soaked Newbury’s short hair, it looked as if he had just emerged from the swimming pool. The eighteen-year-old’s face was deathly pale. His knuckles were turning white, the muscles of his arms were taut as he gripped the chair for dear life. All saliva had drained from the headmaster’s mouth. He ran his tongue around it trying to make some moisture, tasting a tang of whisky. He took a deep breath, found his aim and whacked the cane across Newbury’s dimple. There was no yelp this time; the boy had shut his teeth together with such force he feared they might crack. The thumping at his temples had disappeared replaced with a light-headedness he had never experienced.

“Thank you Sir. Please may I have another,” his voice sounded as if had travelled from miles away. It did not sound to Newbury as if the words were his. The headmaster paced. Perplexed. Never in his life had a boy asked for more. By the fourth stroke many a boy – seniors as well as juniors – would be begging for mercy, promising to do anything if only the headmaster would stop the beating.

More pacing followed by more tapping. Swish! Crack! “Thank you Sir. Please may I have another.” The intense agony had started at the buttocks and then travelled up and down his legs; soon his whole body ached with pain. But by cut number five something unexpected happened. Newbury heard the swish, he felt the cane sink into his flesh and then … Nothing. There was no pain. The boy lay breathing heavily. Was his body now so numb that he was immune? “Thank you Sir. Please may I have another.”

The headmaster paced. Number six. Six-of-the-best. The very best. Dr Fortescue always finished on a high note. His special headmaster’s caning had already become infamous at the school. Newbury was not surprised to feel the headmaster alter his position. Now, instead of tapping the cane from left to right across the bared bum, he laid it in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. He let fly. A thick red line intersected the previously-laid five, reigniting and adding to the severe pain already inflicted. Newbury hung on. His mind was playing tricks. It was as if were floating on the ceiling looking down at himself submissively positioned across the chair, buttocks blazing. The headmaster, a little unsteady was at his cupboard replacing the cane along with his collection. Mr Scrimshaw rocked gently back and forth in his chair.

The headmaster sat at his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a hard-covered exercise book. He fished in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pen. All this time Newbury lay still, trying to figure out this feeling. Was this how it felt to take drugs? The headmaster found a page in the book, wrote some words and closed it. Still seated he called to Newbury, “That’s it. Get up and get dressed.”

Newbury climbed from the chair and un-self-consciously massaged his buttocks. He swivelled his body and saw six impressive welts. Mr Scrimshaw stared at him intently as cautiously Newbury rubbed his index finger across the lines. His bum felt like corrugated cardboard. The headmaster sat back a little in his chair observing his senior pupil.

Newbury turned his back to Dr Fortescue then bent down to retrieve his underpants. It gave the headmaster an uninterrupted view of his savaged buttocks, his crack and hole and his ballsack. Newbury took a moment more than necessary to get his pants back in their rightful place. He turned and faced the headmaster’s desk. His cock was hard and fought against the already stretched cotton. He looked directly at the headmaster who could not return his gaze. Newbury pulled up his trousers and buttoned up.

And that was how Newbury came to worship Dr Fortescue with all his heart and soul.

Picture credit: Unknown


More stories involving The Tyrant Headmaster are here.


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 Charles Hamilton the Second


Rock n Roll Sinner

zused short shorts pop records (21)

Mr Harriet drove his car slowly up the drive of his house, switched off the engine and seethed. You could hear the heavy beat coming from his front room a mile away. It was a wonder the house itself wasn’t vibrating. Jungle music. Scandalous. Disgraceful. Ungodly. He hauled himself from his car and walking fast, but not quite running, he headed for the front door.

Inside his son Richard, eighteen years old and a high school graduate, gyrated to the music. From a disc a man was wailing. Mr Harriet couldn’t make out the words. “Cecile?” What was that all about? Richard was oblivious to his father’s presence. In ecstasy; hips gyrating, arms twirling, head waving, heart pounding. Mr Harriet stood aghast. Astonished. He rushed to the record player, swiped the arm from the disc, pulled it away and puce in the face smashed it once, twice, three times against the back of a wooden chair until it was shattered to pieces.

Richard stood eyes burning with distain and watched his father, sweat streaming from his contorted face, turn to a pile of discs and with his right forearm swipe them from the shelf. “Ungodly. Disgraceful. Jungle music!” he screamed.

Richard watched, his fists clenched. His father was drawing in gulps of air, struggling to regain equilibrium. He bent forward, hands on knees wheezing. A little calmer, he eyed his son with despair. The boy was dressed as if for the beach. A tee-shirt and shorts so short his thighs were visible. “Dear God,” Mr Harriet said aloud, “How has it come to this?”

Mr Harriet loved his children – all six of them. He had provided for them and his wife all his life.  He worked long hours; hard work, done without resentment. He had brought them up as good God-fearing church attendees. And now this. Where did he go wrong?

He stood face to face with his son. The boy was maybe an inch shorter than his father and a hundred pounds lighter. He didn’t flinch. He kept his father’s furious stare. “How many times have I told you about this music?” his father said, attempting, but not quite achieving, stillness. “It’s the Devil’s music. It is sinful. Full of lust. Ungodly. Music of the jungle.”

Richard was impassive. He had heard it many times before. He knew his father’s next sentence. “And don’t think I don’t know you sneak off to those n______  clubs at night. Dens of iniquity. Drugs. Whores.” Spittle dribbled down Mr Harriet’s chin.

“Well ….” Mr Harriet left the sentence unfinished. Richard didn’t bother to follow his father with his eyes as the old man strode across the room. He knew where he was going. Mr Harriet reached up to a hook on the wall. From it dangled a stout wooden paddle. He took it down and tested it in his hand, as if he had never held it before. It was about fourteen inches long and five wide, not including the handle. It had six holes drilled in the blade. It was made of maple and heavy.

Mr Harriet brandished the wood at Richard. The feel of the paddle had a calming effect. Mr Harriet placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. He loved him so much. God loved him so much. Didn’t the boy see that? Why did he forsake his father and God? He must be saved. How would he enter the kingdom of Heaven?

Richard flinched at his father’s touch, his fists still bunched. Mr Harriet removed his hand from his son’s shoulders and rubbed it along the length of the paddle’s blade, emphasising is length and strength. It was an unnecessary gesture; Richard had felt the power of that paddle many times in the past. It was awesome. In his father’s hands it would tear his backside to pieces.

“Son,” Mr Harriet almost whispered. “You know you have sinned. You know you must be punished,” his eyes were moist. “I love you.” He rubbed the paddle once more. “The Good Book says ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’,” he choked back tears, “But if you promise me that you will never play that music again, nor go to those clubs, if you promise me that son, then I won’t beat you.” He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his shirt.

When his eyes were dried Mr Harriet watched astonished as his son without hesitation unbuckled his shorts and pulled the zipper. They slithered down his thighs. Richard parted his knees and they continued south to his feet. Not looking at his father, he hitched his thumbs into his underpants and tugged them down to his knees. He turned on his heels, faced the back of the couch and in one simple athletic movement he bent forward. He wriggled into place; head low, naked bottom high, legs slightly apart. A perfect target.

Mr Harriet took a deep breath and eyes heavenward, he muttered words that Richard could not decipher. The eighteen-year-old stared down at the couch cushion and tried to stop his heart rushing. He felt the cold wooden blade against his cool naked buttocks. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The wood rose and fell with a terrific swipe into his pert bottom. A dark red image of the paddle seared into the flesh. Richard shook his head. That hurt. A lot. So did the next swipe. And the next. And the next.

His father had God and righteousness on his side. The paddle rose and fell. Again, and again and again. Richard’s buttocks were small and the paddle large in comparison. Not a single square inch of flesh was left untoasted. From the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs, across the curves themselves and along the top close to the spine. The once creamy-white flesh turned quickly pink, then red, then mauve. Blisters formed wherever the edge of the paddle pounded flesh.




Two years later Mr Harriet knelt on his bedroom floor, forehead to the ground, tears streaming, his face awash with snot. He was incoherent. Inconsolable. “Oh God! Oh God!” he wailed. On the nightstand was a newspaper. Rickie Harriet and his band the Rebels had reached number one in the Billboard chart with their new disc “Rock n Roll is here to stay.”

Picture credit: unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Public Birching

z used naked stocks restrained outdoors (1)

George was walking his dog towards the recreation ground one morning when he realised there were a lot of people on the street, all seemingly going in the same direction. He spotted a neighbour Colin.

“Hi Colin,” he said tugging on his dog’s leash to slow him. “What are all these people doing? Is something happening?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Good morning Rip Van Winkel. Where have you been these past years?” When George failed to respond, Colin went on. “Don’t you watch the news?”

The news?  George was puzzled. “No,” he told his neighbour, “It’s all wars and the economy. Too boring.”

Colin smiled, “Well you do know that about a couple of years ago they passed a law saying that juvenile delinquents could be birched.”

“Yessss,” George replied with some hesitation since he wasn’t at all sure he knew that.

“Well,” Colin went on, “Now they’ve passed another law saying the courts can order the birching to be in public. If the crime is serious enough.”

They were approaching the open piece of land. It was mainly an area of grass. Usually kids kicked footballs and adults walked their dogs. Today would be different.

“This is the first one in this town,” Colin said helpfully, keeping George abreast of what was happening. The News might even be here. ‘Live on Sky News,’ you know.” They had reached the Rec now. “Want a hot dog?” he asked nodding to a row of concession vans. The ice cream man was doing a good trade.

“No I’m good,” George surveyed the scene. There was maybe a hundred people present; mostly elderly. Retirees like himself, George supposed. Nothing better to do than to watch a public whipping. He smelt a strong aroma of onions, Colin had returned.

“C’mon, let’s get a closer view.” Only then did Gorge see in the near distance a wooden structure had been built. It was clearly brand new. Never before used, probably. Two posts had been driven into the ground and there was a plank running between them. Three round holes, one quite large and two smaller had been drilled in to it. George recognised it immediately. It was like medieval stocks, the kind where the criminal had his head and arms locked so the crowd could pelt them with rotten fruit and vegetables. A simple contraption, George recognised, but highly efficient.

The crowd had organised themselves well, standing around in a semi-circle on one side of the stocks; everyone would get a clear view. There was an expectant buzz, people talking in hushed tones, showing reverence before the action began.

“Who is it?” George asked. He meant who was going to be birched.

“Young lad, twenty-something,” Colin said, trying to remember details he had heard on the radio that morning. I forget his name. He beat up an old woman. Street mugging.” He curled his lip, “Deserves all he gets.”

George moved from one foot to another, standing still could be quite tiring. “Is she here?”


“The lady. The one who was robbed?”

“No idea.”

Just then a dark blue police van turned off the road and with its lights flashing, slowly it drove across the grass. Groups of people parted to let it through.

“Looks like we’re under starter’s orders,” Colin grinned ruefully.

The expectant buzz was louder. The van stopped and three young police officers got out. All were younger than his own grandchildren, George estimated. One went to the back and unlocked the back door. Another police officer, this one much older, stumbled out. He got his footing n the uneven ground and then reached back into the van. The murmur from the crowd increased ten fold as a young man was pulled from the van. He was tall and quite thin. His dark, unkempt hair fell across his eyes which were blinking incessantly, as if unused to the light. He was also completely naked.

“Bloody hell,” George said, for want of a better expression. A shiver ran up his spine although it was quite a warm morning. Without thinking, he pulled on his dog’s leash keeping the mutt close to his own feet.

The young man’s head was bowed. His hands were cuffed but he managed to keep them strategically placed to cover his cock on balls. The older officer said something in the young man’s ear and pushed him aggressively towards the stock.

The crowd hushed once more. Only then did George realise most of the people in the crowd were women. Why was that, he wondered. Had the men deliberately decided to stay at home. The three young police officers spoke into radios and then began to move the crowd back.

“Come on ladies and gents,” one said waving his arms to encourage movement. George noticed how much the copper looked like the delinquent about to be whipped. While the crowd was moving back, the other policemen readied the stocks.  It was a beautifully simple contraption. The plank split in half and lifted. The criminal’s head and wrists were placed in the holes and the plank was locked together. The stocks were low off the ground so the young man had to bend his back. He needed to spread his legs wide to stop him slipping on the grass. That way his buttocks were stuck behind him at a perfect height and angle to receive the birch.

A tense silence descended on the crowd as the police officer reached in the van once more, this time retrieving a large enamel bucket. Inside, were two enormous birch rods. He placed the bucket on the ground and took hold of one of them. It was about a metre in length and comprised about twenty or so heavy rods. These were bound at one end with twine to make a handle. The burly officer swiped the rod through the air. Droplets of brine fell from it. He swished it once more. It had been soaking overnight. This increased the birch rod’s suppleness, and, so legend had it, the pain it would cause.

The officer took a moment to take his aim; he admired the muscle tone of the lad and his almost completely hairless body. The culprit flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home. The crowd held its collective breath. The officer took a deep breath, lifted the birch, then lashed down the first stroke. The hiss that escaped through the culprit’s clenched teeth was drown by the gasp of the crowd. George twisted the dog’s leash in his hand, his heart thumping.

Lash number two fell. That must have hurt the culprit even more, but he was determined not to show it. Number three was directed to the lower part of the cheeks where they met the thighs and the pain was excruciating; the culprit gagged a little and vomit rose to his throat but he managed to swallow it down. Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his buttocks. There were dozens of lines across his bum, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the globes where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred. It reminded George of raw hamburger meat.

The police officer, unsure how a man should react during a birching and thinking he might not be whipping the culprit hard enough, laid the next strokes on with extra power. The culprit wriggled his body from left to right, his knees buckled, his feet stamped up and down on the uneven. But his head and wrists were securely fastened. There was no escape.

Swish! Swish! Blood was forming as some birch strokes landed upon those that had already marked the once white and now scarlet bottom. The culprit let out a silent cry; it was a wonder that he wasn’t howling. His agony was intense and the pain had travelled from his blooded buttocks throughout his whole body. His shoulders ached with his wrists were sore. His head ached as his blood pressure went through the roof and tried to burst through his ears. But, he refused to cry out: he would not give them the satisfaction. Nobody in the recreation ground doubted that the culprit deserved all he was getting.

As, cut number twelve thrashed into his flesh, the culprit’s head rose and he bit deep into his tongue to stifle the yell. His tongue would be damaged and he would have as much trouble speaking over the coming days as he would sitting down.

With no word spoken, the police officer returned the birch rod to the enamel bucket and put it in the van. The young policemen unlocked the stocks. The culprit stood unsteadily, his knees buckled. One young policeman grabbed him before he fell, took his arm placed it around his own shoulders and unceremoniously dragged him to van, bundled him in and slammed the door shut. Within seconds the van was edging its way through the crowd towards the road.

“Are you coming?” Colin asked, “I want to see it on the News. They’re bound to show it all day long.”

The crowd was quickly dispersing, group of people muttering amongst themselves, re-living the experience.

“No, I’m going to let the dog run,” George said slipping the lease from the collar. The dog bounded across the recreation ground. George watched it run. Behind him, two teenagers, both a little high, inspected the stocks. One stuck his head and arms through the holes. Trying to see what it was like.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Don’t Knock it Until You’ve Tried

zused drawing paddle hold cane cupboard (1)

Jake stared at the message on the screen of his iPhone. Finn was late but on his way. Jake hated sitting in The Three Fishers on his own. The pub was heaving. It was a bit of a sleaze ball. They had begun drinking there when they were sixteen; they weren’t particular about who they served. A group of old queens at the bar scanned the room searching for fresh meat. Jake felt their stares burning his flesh.

He concentrated on his phone, swiping through the sports news. He didn’t hear the man at first. “Sorry,” he shouted leaning forward to hear what he was saying.

“I said, do you like being spanked?”

Jake frowned, had he heard the old man correctly?

The man edged closer and put his mouth close to Jake’s ear. “Would you let me spank you? Are you in to being spanked?”

Jake’s mouth opened and closed. He had heard all right that time. What sort of question was that? Who was this man? He didn’t seem drunk. High. Crazy.

“I have a house. Lots of toys,” the man smiled.

Jake took a long draw on his drink. Playing for time. Just a little frightened. Bodies pushed past his table. He looked across to the door. Should he leave? Where was Finn?

“I can spank you. Do you like to be spanked?” the man asked again as if it was the most natural question to ask a guy in the pub. (“Do you want a peanut?”)

Jake took another gulp of beer. Dutch courage. “Wor … wor ..” he began, trying to find the right word. How to say “fuck off” without making a scene? He looked the man in the face. It was a bright, open face. Not at all sinister. The guy was no threat. Jake laughed. “Jesus. Does anybody ever say ‘yes’?”

The man’s smile was genuine. “You’d be surprised. But, not for you then?”

Jake shook his head, “No thanks.”

“Oh well, enjoy your evening. But if you ever change your mind …. ” The man disappeared into the crowd.

Five minutes later Finn put two pints on the table in front of his pal. He took a long draught, downing half of the glass.

“You’ll never guess what’s just happened to me?” Jake said and when Finn ignored him, he told the story anyway.

“I guy came up to me and asked if he could take me home and spank me. Incredible!”

Finn took another gulp. Shrugged his shoulders. “About fifty, greasy hair, going a bit bald, bit of a Welsh accent?”

“You know him?”

“Name’s Paddy Price. Least that’s what he calls himself.”

“How do you know him?”

Finn smirked, “How’d ya think?”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. “You’ve been with him?”

Finn snorted, drank some more. “He has a big place on The Avenue. Must be loaded.”

Jake stared at his friend. The room seemed to be spinning. What was happening here? “What he paid you?”

Finn’s nostrils flared, “Fuck off, what do you take me for a rent boy?”

Jake recoiled, Finn was genuinely angry. “No, but,” he paused, uncertain whether he should say this. “But isn’t it gay?”

Finn frowned, Jake could be a right dickhead sometimes. “No.” He nodded at the iphone on the table. “Go online, everybody’s into it.”

Finn was right. Later in bed Jake surfed the net. They were all at it. Guys on girls. Girls on guys. Girls on girls. Guys on guys. An entire industry of adult spanking. In one video there was a guy looked a bit like Finn. He wasn’t, of course, but he was the same height, same basic shape; not fat, but cuddly.

He was supposed to be a junior schoolboy, short trousers, knee socks. The lot. He had been found smoking a cigarette. Then he had to take down his shorts and underpants and bend over the knee of another lad who was the head boy to get a spanking on the bare bottom.

In another one the same Finn-a-like (still a schoolboy in short trousers) is caught smoking. In these videos smoking is the biggest sin a schoolboy can commit. Its shorts and trousers down again. This time he’s over the back of an armchair for a dose of a whippy rattan school cane from the headmaster.

Jake slept so fitfully the duvet was soiled. He dreamt he was back at school and Finn was head boy and Jake was that boy getting his bare arse slapped.


Nearly two weeks later Jake walked purposively through the suburban streets. The Avenue was longer than he had anticipated, if he wasn’t careful he would be late for his appointment. Paddy Price had ben most helpful when after three tries Jake had at last tracked him down at the Three Fishers. Of course, they could meet, let us make an appointment. Is an evening good for you? It was as if they were arranging to meet for tea.

At last Jake found the house. It was a modern structure hidden behind a high wall and electronic gate. Away from prying eyes. He touched the intercom button and a cheerful voice greeted him With a whir the gate moved sideways and Jake squeezed through. Paddy Price was waiting at the door, a bright welcoming smile split his face.

They chatted amiably. Did he find the house all right? All the while Jake’s heart pounded. He had been waiting for this hour. Once Finn had introduced him to the joys of spanking videos Jake could not get enough. He sweated waiting for his chance. Oh to go across the back of a chair, or over the knee for an arse-whopping. His temples ached already at the prospect.

Paddy Price led the way upstairs. “I have a special room,” he grinned opening a large wood-panelled door. “It’s sound-proofed,” he said enigmatically. It was a large room, dominated by a huge beaten-up wooden desk. Along one wall were glass-fronted bookshelves. A black leather Chesterfield couch rested against another. A wardrobe with double doors was along a third. Two padded leather armchairs made up the rest of the furniture. Paddy Price gestured to one of them, “Sit down, please.” He noticed Jake’s wide eyes drink in the contents of the room. “Sometimes I use it as a headmaster’s study,” he explained. “Some people like to do role-play, you known blazers, school caps, shirt trousers, the works.”

Jake nodded without enthusiasm. He had noticed in the videos how the “schoolboys” almost always wore short trousers. It did nothing for him personally. Paddy Price perched his ample buttocks on the edge of the desk. He smiled again. “Have you given any thought to tonight?” he asked. Jake gulped, he had thought of nothing else for days. It seemed for every waking moment (and some also while he was asleep).

Paddy Price pulled himself to his feet and ambled to the cupboard. He opened it with a flourish. Jake’s eyes popped. “Voila! My toys,” Paddy Price stepped to one side, giving his guest the full view. Dangling on hooks was an array of straps, paddles, canes and crops. “Something for everyone,” Paddy Price’s lips parted revealing yellowing teeth. “Oh and I have slippers and brushes too if you’d rather.”

The tip of Jake’s tongue poked out and he wetted his lips before clamping his top teeth over his bottom lip. He swallowed hard.

“Do you have a preference?” Paddy Price grinned, “Or would you prefer me to choose?” Jake sat and stared. Speechless. “Never mind,” Paddy Price resumed his spot on the desk, “We have plenty of time.”

They lapsed into amiable silence. Paddy Price was in no hurry. He adored breaking in “newbies”. H would go at Jake’s pace. “Of course,” he said mildly, “It is so much more fun if the discipline is a real punishment,” he noted Jake’s bafflement so continued, “Have you been naughty? Is there something you have done that is bad?” Paddy Price leaned forward hoping to entice his guest into confession.

Jake pondered. No, he thought, he hadn’t done anything that he could recall. Paddy Price flashed his smile once more, then laughed, “Oh, so we have a saint here, do we, ha, ha, ha.” Jake blushed but remained silent. “Have you taken any drugs? Smoked weed?” Paddy Price asked.

“Yes,” Jake replied unsteadily.

“Well, that’s bad. That’s against the law,” Paddy Price beamed. “You should be spanked for that.”

Jake blinked. Smoking weed, against the law? Of course, but he had honestly forgotten that. Everyone he knew smoked, all the time. The police never did anything about it.

“Right then lad,” Paddy Price’s smile had gone. He rose from the desk and paced across the room. “Stand up. Stand in front of my desk,” he barked as he sat himself down behind it. “Stand up straight. Stop slouching.”

Jake straightened his back and let his arms hang limply by his side.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Paddy Price’s entire demeanour had changed. “I will not tolerate one of my boys using drugs. They are dangerous. They are against the law.” Jake nodded, uncertain how he should react. His heart was racing and he could feel blood rushing to his temples. Adrenalin was kicking in.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy?” Paddy Price had a script in his head. Jake mumbled, said nothing coherent, then clasping at straws he muttered, “Sorry,” and then after a moment’s further thought, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

“Sorry!” Paddy Price’s voice rose an octave, “Sorry! You soon will be boy.” He rose from his chair and magisterially walked to the still-open cupboard. He paused, turned to Jake and barked, “Hang your jacket on the door.” He nodded to a hook. With damp palms, Jake slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He surprised himself at how much his hands shook.

He turned to face his master in tie to see Paddy Price pick out a cane from the cupboard and swish it through the air a couple of times. Then he held the two ends and flexed it gently testing it for whippiness. It curved easily. It was about a metre in length and as thick as a pencil. It looked just like the ones Jake had seen in the videos. It had notches along its length and the traditional curved handle. All saliva drained from Jake’s mouth.

“Boy when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving you a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live. You will not return for another beating and will learn from this experience,” Paddy Price was enjoying himself. “Now, I want you to stand behind that armchair,” he swished the cane in the required direction so there could be no doubt what he meant. With legs of lead, Jake shuffled the three steps needed to comply with the order.

Paddy Price stood flexing his cane thoughtfully between his hands. “Lower your trousers,” he said sternly. Jake hesitated. His head was light, Paddy Price’s voice sounded as if it was travelling from a vast distance. Paddy Price tapped the end of the cane across the back of the padded armchair, making a series of dull thuds. As if in a trance, Jake fumbled to unbuckle his belt. His hands moved more freely as he slipped the fastener and unzipped his trousers. The weight of the belt and gravity made them slither down his thighs and rest at his knees. “All the way down,” Paddy Price growled. Jake stooped forward and pushed them to his ankles.

He straightened himself in time to hear Paddy Price intone, “Now, your underpants.” There was a thundering noise in Jake’s ears, his temples throbbed, his head ached. He looked down at his gleaming white Y-fronts; he had bought them specially for the occasion; all the boys in the videos wore them. He put his fingers in the waist band and peeled them down, exposing his cock and balls. He left them bunched just below his buttocks. Instinctively, he placed both hands at his from to hide his genitals. “Pah!” Paddy Price wheezed, unimpressed.

He swished the cane through empty air once more, it made a terrific whooshing noise as it flew. “Bend over the chair,” he touched the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis. A feeling he had never felt before overwhelmed Jake; he could not be certain, was this fear? Or was it extreme excitement. He bent forward feeling his bottom tighten into a smooth curve. His bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair.

“Head nice and low please boy.”

Jake’s thigh muscles and bottom tensed as he stretched his arms grasping the armchair’s cushion at the front. Paddy Price watched quietly as the teenager slithered into position. Then he gently took a grip of Jake’s underpants and tugged them so they fell to rest on top of his trousers. He was almost ready. Paddy Price heard Jake’s heavy wheezing and smiled. He lifted the nineteen-year-old’s shirt away from his backside, exposing me, so that his body was naked from the middle of his back to his ankles. Jake shivered; not with cold but fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.”

Jake pushed himself further down into the chair, raising his bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, boy, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jake’s reply was muffled as his head was buried in the chair cushion.

Seconds passed. Only now did Jake realise his master had a perfect view of his crack and hole. And Finn had said there was nothing gay about this. Jake’s hole winked, opened and closed, his buttocks quivered, then clenched. Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable. Suddenly there was an enormous noise. The thwack of the cane landing on Jake’s backside echoed round the room. Jake hardly had time to recover from the shock when there was another crack which this time was immediately followed by an intense burning pain. He held his breath as the next stroke landed causing the pain to increase in a sickening wave.

Number four stuck and Jake hissed a whine. Mr Price continued, determined. Three more strokes landed each one lower than the previous, yet all in a band about three centimetres wide on the lower half of Jake’s bum. As the next stroke cracked across his poor sore seat Jake let out a roar, any restraint he may have had was gone. He could no longer see the chair for the tears filling his eyes. Jake closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and hung on to the chair, aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in his bottom.

Raising his arm high Paddy Price brought the cane down with a full swing, landing in the middle of Jake’s bottom. He cried out and tossed my head, humped the back of the chair and swayed for a few moments. The next three strokes seemed to merge together. Jake was concentrating on staying bent over, in so much pain, and trying without success to stop the tears that were by now flowing down his cheeks.

He desperately wanted to but he did not stand up. Instead he remained bent over the caning chair offering his bottom for the next stroke, completely at the mercy of Paddy Price, who could make each stroke as severe as he wished and all Jake could do was accept it and then wait for the next.

Paddy Price was in his element, he was an expert caner, a master master if you will. He swished in yet another stroke across the very centre of Jake’s bum. Although he still stayed over the chair, his feet beat a frenzied dance, his hips twisted and squirmed.

Jake thought his head might explode; blood coursed through his arteries. His bottom felt like he had been sitting on a barbecue. His arse felt corrugated; welts criss-crossed his once creamy-white buttocks. He was certain some might be weeping blood. How many strokes had it been? Jake had not thought to count. What was certain was it was more than a simple six-of-the-best. Finally, Paddy Price walked over to the cupboard to replace the cane. Jake felt a terrific sense of relief that it was over but remained across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

Paddy Price stood watching the teenager gasping for breath, like some beached dolphin. He had taken it well. “It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Jake slowly pushed himself back on his elbows and rose unsteadily. His legs felt weak and he had to lean on the desk before he got his balance. Tentatively at first, he touched then carefully clasped his raw buttocks and began kneading them, as though he could somehow squeeze the pain out. Only then did he see his rigid cock staring at a forty-five degree angle to reach the ceiling. His head was the clearest it had ever been, like an out-of-body experience. No amount of weed would ever give him a buzz like this.

Slowly, painfully, he pulled up his underpants, staining to get the soft white cotton to cover his cock. Still he massaged his injured rump as vigorously as he could.

Paddy Price slipped his arm around Jake’s shoulder for an instant, before propelling him towards the door, and out into the hallway. His eyes were still wet and blurry, but he found his way to the bathroom where he stayed for the few moments it needed for his cock to explode into a wodge of toilet paper.

“Come down, for a drink,” Paddy Price called, “When you’re quite ready of course.”


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Called to Account

adultschoolboy cane longs touch toes classroom (1)

Mr Moore turned the corner of the road and stopped. Why the hell was his heart racing. He drew in a lung full of air, conscious of other people in the street. One man wearing a black coat and carrying a furled umbrella eyed him suspiciously. “Oh for pity’s sake, man what’s the matter with you?” he silently berated himself.

The “matter” was St. Francis Independent Grammar School – known to all as St. FIGS – his old school. Former alma mater; the place where he was educated. There it stood less than fifty yards ahead of him. Why did it scare the shit out of him? He took another deep breath; he had to get this thing over with.

This thing was a summons to see Mr Trout, his former housemaster. A summons, at his age. Mr Moore wouldn’t see thirty again. He had left school at eighteen and hadn’t been back since. And that suited him just fine. He shuffled forward. Absent-mindedly he put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt the envelope. Inside was a letter. He had read it so many times he knew the words by heart. His eleven-year-old son Ronnie had been skipping classes, not doing homework, he was likely to fail his exams at the end of the year. “You are requested to attend to see me.” It was curiously archaic language. But, Mr Moore thought, how entirely typical of Trout. Never say anything clearly.

Mr Moore had reached the school gates. Although he continued to live in the town, he never made the journey back. Too many unhappy memories. Sweat prickled the back of his neck, although it was not a warm evening. He ran a finger under his collar to try to clear it. Time plays ridiculous tricks sometimes. Suddenly it was 1970, fifteen years ago. He was no longer a middle manager at the Brocklehurst Building Society, with people under him. Now, at this moment he was Moore A.J., aged fifteen, about to undergo a very awkward – and ultimately painful – encounter with his housemaster. Instinctively, he massaged the seat of his trousers with his thumbs as he entered the building. He had been instructed to meet Trout in the schoolroom. The passageway was dark and deserted. The days in February were still short. He shivered in the dankness. They said parts of the school were five hundred years old; it certainly felt like it to Moore. The school was deserted, classroom doors were locked. It added to Moore’s sense of unreality. He had stepped into the Twilight Zone. Nothing here was real.

He saw a light in a room at the end of the passageway. His final destination. He halted outside the door, rubbed his sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers. His hands were shaking. “For God’s sake,” he reproached himself silently, “What has gotten into you, man!” It was a statement of condemnation, rather than a question. He wiped his moist brow with his sleeve and tapped gently on the door.

“Come!” The voice within made him shudder. Unmistakeably Mr Trout. Haughty with a dash of self-importance.  The brass door handle was stiff, it wouldn’t turn at first. It rattled and shook and finally gave way. Moore put his shoulder to the door and it opened suddenly, spilling him into the schoolroom. He blushed; flustered he turned and pushed the door closed. He stood for a moment transfixed. The room was not too large, it contained twenty ancient wooden desks, a blackboard and easel dominated one wall, close to it behind a small wooden desk sat Mr Trout. He was unmistakable. Even sitting, he made an imposing figure. Standing, he towered above the schoolboys. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow (for a man his age). Had he aged since 1970? Moore could not be sure. To the boys at the school all the masters looked ancient. It was impossible to look youthful while wearing an academic gown and mortar board cap. Trout pursed his lips, and stared with distain. “Moore, A. J.” he intoned, his top lip curling into a scowl. He rested his hands on his desk and leaned his shoulders forward: Churchill doing his bulldog impersonation.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore babbled, hopping with embarrassment from left foot to right. He waved his hands around, unsure where to put them. Trout’s glare burned into him. He knew his face was already flushed bright red.

“Pah!” Trout spat. Silence filled the room. Moore couldn’t stop his eyes blinking furiously. Was he expected to say something? At the Building Society, he would be the first to make a decision. He was something of a rising star. Destined to go far. He glanced to left and right. He should sit down, this was a meeting of equals, two grown men coming together to discuss a matter of mutual concern. All the chairs were placed neatly behind small single desks. If Moore sat down he would not only feel like an extremely small child he would look like one as well.

Trout spoke before Moore had a chance to decide. “You know why I have summoned you, Moore,” it was a statement, not a question. Moore stared. Summoned. The word spoke volumes. Trout was in charge. Nothing had changed.

“Err, no Sir,” Moore was confused. What the hell was he supposed to say? Trout’s right arm waved. “Don’t know, don’t know Moore!” he glared. Moore wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Well Moore,” Trout’s voice rose an octave, “I’ll tell you. Your son,” he paused confused. He opened a drawer on the desk, he seemed to be searching for something. “Your son …. Moore.” He had never troubled to learn the boy’s Christian name.

“Ronnie, Sir,” Moore said apologetically.

“Yes, well, err,” it was Trout’s turn to sound confused. He drew his shoulders back and regained the advantage. “Moore Junior has not been doing his homework and he has been missing classes,” he eyed the man standing before him suspiciously. “What have you got to say for that then?”

Moore had been thinking about this. A lot. His son was a brat, he was disrespectful to his mother and even aged eleven treated the home like a hotel. Moore was out of his depth. Ronnie had been a mistake – an unplanned child – he and his wife had been far too young when they had him. Moore sometimes thought the terror was a good advertisement for contraception.

“Well, I don’t really know,” Moore said weakly.

“Pah!” Trout was charging full throttle. “It is your responsibility, Moore,” his voice rose in anger. “You have failed in your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wanted to say, “Hang on, you’re the schoolmaster, you do something,” but his courage failed him. Instead, he whispered, “Can’t you beat him?”

Trout’s nostrils flared, his already ruddy complexion turned puce, a dribble of spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. “Beat him!” he roared. His body shook so violently, Moore took a step backwards in fear.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore gabbled. “You know, cane him. It’s what you would have done to me.” Trout’s eyes swivelled in his head, scaring Moore into adding, “Sir.” Trout rose from the desk and walked forward, approaching Moore with eyes flaring and arms swirling. “Don’t you follow the news Moore?” And then is if to answer his own question, he blurted, “You always were idle, boy. Bone idle.”

Trout stood so close to Moore he could smell the schoolmaster’s sour breath. Trout fumed, “The government outlawed corporal punishment last year, Moore. We can no longer cane.” His chin wobbled, his eyes moistened. Moore thought the aged schoolmaster might blub.

“Oh”. Suddenly, Moore realised why he had been brought into school. In his days a master would not dream of involving parents. Trout shook his shoulders and took a deep breath, he was composing himself. “I blame you Moore,” he stared unflinchingly into Moore’s eyes, “You have neglected your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed once more. He spoke no words, Trout was on a bit of a roll. “It is your responsibility you ensure your son attends school. You must see to it that homework is done. You have been inattentive. It is in short your fault.”

Moore shuffled his feet, embarrassed.

“You have got to pull up your socks, Boy,” Trout grimaced, “I expect an immediate improvement, do I make myself clear?”

Moore stared down at his feet, “Yes, Sir,” he mumbled. Trout fell silent. Moore did not see, but heard the schoolmaster’s footsteps as he shuffled across the room. Moore knew Trout was correct, he had neglected his son. If he were brutally honest with himself, he didn’t really care about Ronnie. Out of sight was out of mind. The boy could do as he liked, as long as he didn’t drag his father into anything.

Moore heard Trout open a door to a cupboard, it sounded like the hinge was rusty. Then a swishing whoosh rent the air. It was unmistakeable. Alarmed, Moore swivelled on his heels and faced Trout; his jaw dropped, his eyes popped. Trout was flexing between his hands a traditional whippy, curve-handled rattan cane.

Trout answered Moore’s unasked question. “They have banned the cane, but we have not disposed of out supply.” He swiped the cane through empty air. “I fervently pray that this ban is an aberration and that our betters quickly come to their senses.” He walked slowly towards Moore. “However, in the meantime …” he glared at the young manager before him. Moore recoiled, once more the fifteen-year-old miscreant summoned to the housemaster’s study for bowing.

Even before sentence was handed down, Moore began a protest, “But …” He was silenced by Trout’s icy stare. Moore’s own eyes watched intently as the schoolmaster moved and stood in front of the blackboard. He looked back at Moore, pointed the tip of the cane at a spot on the bare floorboards and said, “Stand there boy.”

Time truly plays tricks. Moore shambled across the schoolroom. There could be no doubt about Trout’s intentions. A sane man would say it was absurd. A thirty-one-year-old business manager presenting himself to an older man for a caning. But this was not rational. Hundreds of years of conditioning and tradition had led to this moment. Although he had yet to articulate it to himself Moore accepted he had erred. His son’s misbehaviour was down to him. He had been neglectful as a father. Punishment was due. Punishment was accepted.

“I want you to consider your behaviour and ensure that it improves. This,” he swished the cane again, “will give you something to think about. Bend over. Touch your toes.”

Moore’s eyelids blinked rapidly. He couldn’t get them to stop. His heart pounded. He hesitated.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Moore. You know the penalty.” Indeed he did: extra strokes. He shook his head to clear it, loosened the button on his suit jacket and bent forward. Touch your toes, meant just that to Mr Trout. Not, hands on knees or grab your shins. The tips of the fingers should touch the tops of the shoes. Knees straight. It was harder to get in this position that it sounded. Moore was absurdly proud as he presented his bottom perfectly for the administrations of Trout’s cane. In his mind he visualised the times he had been caned while still a pupil at St. FIGS. Once in the sixth-form when a bunch of them had been caught with beer. Eighteen years old, but bent over the back of a smelly old armchair in the study. How it had hurt. He remembered Jackson, a pal of those days he hadn’t seen in a decade, hopping up and down trying to rub the hurt away from his backside. “Well”, he thought, “I’m going to take this caning better than he did.”

Trout was taking his aim. Moore was far from fat but his body had naturally bulked out since his schooldays. The schoolmaster sawed his cane across the centre of the proffered buttocks. This backside was somewhat larger than those he habitually dealt with. He tapped the cane gently, Moore’s shoulders tensed, his buttocks twitched. Whack! The cane whipped down with force, dust motes rose from the trouser seat. Moore gritted his teeth and gasped. That hurt. It had been about thirteen years since he had last been “dealt with”, he was a little out of practice. He heard footsteps on the floorboards as Trout paced the schoolroom. He paused about three yards from Moore’s curved buttocks, raised the cane above shoulder height and then almost ran three paces towards the young man, flogging the cane across the backside. The rod sank into the flesh. Moore’s head rose, his back arched, his fingers flew away from the tip of his shoes. He half stood, instinctively wanting to rub away the agony in his bum. He caught himself just in time, forcing his hands back to his toes. It was a schoolboy ritual being played out. You stayed down. You took your swishing. You didn’t move. If you did: extra strokes.

Trout involuntarily licked his lips. How he had wanted the younger Moore in this position. How the boy deserved this. But it was not to be. That way led career ruin and loss of pension. This he had to console himself was the next best thing. The swiped numbers three and four in quick succession and satisfied himself that Moore’s pain was increasing. The back of the young man’s neck was equally as red as his backside. His face by contrast was a deathly white. Trout flexed the cane between his hands, playing for time. He knew that the pain would be radiating out from the buttocks and travelling up and down his legs and then going north, south, east, west, throughout his body.

Nearly over, Moore comforted himself. He concentrated on the bare floorboard beneath his feet. It looked almost new, he thought. Maybe the old one had been worn out by generations of schoolboys shuffling their feet while adopting his present position. This absurd notion tickled him but it did not assuage the agony that spread throughout his buttocks as the cane welted the underside of his bum, on the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs. It would be uncomfortable to sit down for some hours to come.

Behind him Moore heard Trout wheeze and then hack a dry couch. The old schoolmaster must be showing his age after all, he supposed. The cane tapped across the higher end of his mounds. This must be the last one, he thought. Six-of-the-best. He steeled himself, closed his eyes, shut his teeth and held his breath. As he expected, Trout landed it in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of the target area. The cane hit across all five lines reigniting them all. Only by a monumental effort did he stay in position, wheezing to catch his breath, his head pounding, blood rushing through his arteries so fast he was sure it would whoosh out through his ears.

He felt the cane tap across his bottom once more. “Sweet Jesus, no more, please,” he prayed inwardly. “That’s over. You may stand.” Slowly, Moore straightened. The throbbing in his backside was intense. He had never sat on a barbecue but he imagined if he had done so it would have felt something like this. Remembering the distain he felt for Jackson he restrained himself from performing the caning dance, jumping up and down while simultaneously rubbing himself. That would have to wait until he was in private.

Trout stood before him, holding the cane he had just used to rip Moore’s backside apart. He glared. “I hope you have learnt a valuable lesson.” It was a rhetorical question and he did not allow Moore time to answer. “Here take this,” he offered the astonished Moore the cane, “take it home. I think you might find a use for it there.” Moore could not be certain but Trout might have given him a ghost of a smile, as he took hold of the whippy rod. It was astonishingly light. Who could believe such a thing could do so much damage.

Not waiting for a response, Trout shuffled towards the door and was gone. Moore put the cane down on the desk and massaged his bottom ruefully. The intense pain had gone to be replaced by a hot throbbing. Very soon, he knew from experience, it would turn to a warm glow. The welts would be tender to touch for some hours yet, but by bedtime even that would be gone. The marks would last from some days. How the hell was he going to explain that to his wife? Bitterly, he grabbed the cane, tucked it under his arm and left.

Picture credit: Unknown

For other stories about St. FIGS, click here

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Charles Hamilton the Second