Two naughty boys

new story 2

z used shorts playing (17)

To Mr Naughton it seemed like a good idea – and it was for a time. His friend and neighbour came up with it. The problem started with Mr Naughton’s eighteen-year-old son, Benji; he was off the rails. He truanted from school, stayed away from home until all hours of the night and was rude and surly when he was there. Something had to be done before the lad failed his examinations and was put on the scrapheap.

Alan Thomas from across the street had the perfect solution. It was a brainwave – and so simple to put into place. He said he had tried it with his son Alfie – Benji’s classmate – and it was working a treat. He would certainly recommend it.

So Mr Naughton did. It was a stroke of generous. What he did was he bought Benji a new school uniform. It wasn’t too different from the one he wore for the comprehensive school (when he could be bothered to attend). But – and here was the stroke of genius – instead of the typical mid-grey long trousers he substituted a smart pair of short trousers. He added socks that came up to the knee and  the outfit was complete.

Then he said Benji had to wear the new school uniform, especially the short trousers and knee socks, at all times when he wasn’t at school. Given his way he would have demanded he wore them there as well, but he knew that would be going too far. For it to work, he confiscated all Benji’s long trousers, jeans, sweats and so on and locked them away in a cupboard. The eighteen-year-old had no choice.

Mr Thomas had told his friend that the benefit of doing this was at least twofold. First, it reminded his son that he wasn’t really grown-up. He might be eighteen, but it took more than that to become an adult. He needed to realise he was still a child and living under his parents’ rules and supervision. The second benefit was it stopped the kid going out at night. How could he dare be seen in public wearing school uniform with short trousers? It meant he stayed home and although he was still quiet and surly at least his parents could keep an eye on him and make sure he did his homework. Mr Thomas swore by the new regime and said his son’s grades at school had improved immeasurably. Putting the boy back into short trousers was the best move he had ever made.

So, Mr Naughton had a go. He was quietly surprised at how easily he found an outlet on the Internet that sold school short trousers large enough to fit an eighteen-year-old. Of course, Benji rejected the idea (as Mr Thomas had warned he would). But once all his clothes had been confiscated he had no choice, unless he wanted to go around in his underwear all the time.

Things went really well until about three months before the final exams were due. As part of the coursework in Geography pupils had to work in pairs on a project. What better, Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas thought, than put Alfie and Benji together. No. It went downhill from there. What did they expect? If you put two eighteen year olds together and dress them up as if they were eight they were going to revert to type.

They would meet at Benji’s house but instead of working on the project they had pretend wrestling matches all the time. Benji had an old book on origami and learnt how to make water bombs out of paper. Then, one day Alfie arrived with a new toy he had bought online. An old-fashioned catapult. It wasn’t one of those industrial-sized slingshots you can get to go hunting with. It was a silly wooden thing with a rubber band; like kids in comics used to have. Oh my, they encouraged one another, what mischief they could make with these.

The postman didn’t know what hit him when he strolled up the drive to deliver his letters. Benji and Alfie were hidden behind the chimney stack on the roof. Benji lobbed his water bomb. “Perfect hit,” he squealed with delight as the poor man’s neck was soaked.

The two naughty boys completely forgot about their schoolwork, they were having far too much fun. The catapult was put to good use terrorising the cats in the neighbourhood. The houses in The Avenue were mostly hidden behind walls and hedges and had large gardens. It was a paradise for cats. Or it had been until the deadly duo set about stalking them. One large brown moggy got a stone smack on the side of the head. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Alfie was beside himself with glee.

But they hadn’t reckoned on one nosey neighbour. Alfie had never liked the man, he thought he was creepy and always looked at him oddly. He would like him even less now. For the man stood at his window camera phone in hand, gathering evidence.

Mr Thomas was furious when he was shown the video. “Grrr,” he said, shaking his fist. “You know what I think?” he asked Mr Naughton.

“No, what?” he replied because he really had no idea.

“I think they need to be spanked, that’s what I think,” he said, shaking his head this time.

“But they’re eighteen years old.”

“Well it’s about time they started acting like it, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Mr Naughton replied. “Yes, I really do.”

“Shall we, then?” Mr Thomas was pacing the room.

“Yes, let’s,” Mr Naughton’s mind was easily made up. “Call the scamps in.”

The boys had been playing catch with a small rubber ball in the lounge room when they heard their names called. Innocently, they followed the sound and found their fathers both stern faced in the room Mr Naughton liked to call his study.

“So,” Mr Thomas said gravely after he had related the boys’ mischievous behaviour, “You will both be spanked.” Benji and Alfie exchanged furtive glances but before either of them had time to say, “You cannot be serious,” their fathers had already arranged two chairs close together in the centre of the room. Within seconds they were seated.

“Come on you,” Mr Thomas scowled at Alfie, “If you insist on behaving like an eight-year-old that’s how you’ll be treated. Bend over my knee.” He slapped his hand on his right thigh to make his command crystal clear. Alfie caught Benji’s eye and suppressed a giggle. He shrugged his shoulders and took two paces across the room. He stood to the right of his seated father and looked down at the old man’s knees. He was still dressed in his business suit and for one stupid moment Alfie worried that he might spoil the sharp creases in his father’s trousers with his weight.

“I’m waiting,” Mr Thomas growled. This was Alfie’s cue to lean forward, place his hands on his father’s lap and gently to lower himself so he was face down and looking at the rug. Benjie stared transfixed and  watched as his pal wriggled his body until his head was as low as he could get it and his bottom pointed up at the ceiling over his father’s right thigh.

“You too,” Mr Naughton growled at Benji. The boy, almost on autopilot, followed his friend’s example. Now there were two eighteen year olds dressed in their school uniforms with grey short trousers and long socks submissively bent across the knees of their fathers waiting to receive their first-ever spankings.

They didn’t wait long. Mr Thomas struck the first blow and Mr Naughton soon followed. Within seconds and without speaking a word the two fathers were spanking in unison, each man slapping the left buttock of his son and then the right as they went about synchronised spanking. Benji and Alfie let them do it. They put up no resistance as slap after slap connected with the seat of their short trousers.


To be fair, they were not being brave soldiers. Wearing thick trousers with underpants beneath meant they hardly felt a thing. Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas were not experienced spankers. They didn’t realise the palms of their hands were hurting much more than the boys’ bums. After about a hundred smacks had been delivered, Mr Thomas once again took the lead. He ordered Alfie to stand. Then Mr Naughton did the same with his son.

“Right now then, act your age in future,” Mr Thomas growled. “Now get back to your schoolwork.”

The two boys rushed from the room. When they were safely out of sight of their fathers they collapsed into fits of giggles. “Didn’t feel a thing,” said Alfie as he loosened his short trousers and pulled them down to show his friend his bare bottom, “Not a mark. Look. What about you?” Without a blush Benji did the same. “Nope,” he grinned, “Not even red.”

The boys wrestled each other to the ground and rolled around on the carpet. It was their way of saying they rather liked being naughty boys and had no intention of changing any time soon.

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Wishful thinking

new story 2

z used otk pants chair student sting

Dr Duncan Rawlinson, Senior Lecturer in Liberal Studies at Brocklehurst University, sits at his desk, head in hands. His temples throb, his throat is raw. Blood rushes through his arteries, he cannot catch his breath. Oh my God! he gasps, I’m having a stroke. He puts his head between his knees, breathes deeply. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out.

He can’t go on, not like this. Life is not worth living. This is not why he became a teacher. Those effing students. They treat him like he was a joke. They turn up to seminars when they feel like it and then with not a stroke of preparation done. They don’t meet deadlines for coursework. When they do, their essays are plagiarised from the Internet. They don’t want to work. They think just because they pay fees they should be given a degree. Lazy, lazy bastards!

Dr Rawlinson’s head slumps onto the desk. The room is spinning, furniture appears to be swirling through the air. He thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s going dark. A fierce wind blows through the office. There is a bang and he looks up. Jake Worthington, surely one of the laziest of his students, is standing there. He looks anxious and so he should.

“I have had enough of this, Jake,” Dr Worthington says, “I won’t stand for it any more. Do you understand me?”

Jake stands contrite, head bowed, staring down at the floor. His bottom lip trembles. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbles. Dr Rawlinson glowers. He has heard this all before. They all say “Sorry”, but only because they think it might get them off a spanking. No way. He hasn’t just fallen from a tree. The boy is to be punished. It is only right and proper.

“You know you must be disciplined don’t you Jake,” he says, leaning back in his chair and peering at the lazy student through half-rimmed spectacles.

“Yes, sir,” Jake struggles to keep composure. He wants to cry. Just like a little boy. A little naughty boy.

“Say it, then,” Dr Rawlinson does not intend to let the boy off lightly. He wants his pound of flesh.

Jake blushes. His face is usually bright and open and his skin clear; he doesn’t grow enough beard to need to take a daily shave. His hair is cut short and neat. Now, his usually smiling face is set firm; grim. He blushes profusely, enough warmth comes off him to heat a room.

“I am a lazy boy,” he begins. “I have not done my homework and I have not been attending classes.” There is quite a long list like this. He does not hand assignment in on time. He never goes to the library. He cuts-and-pastes from Wikipedia. He is as good as a cheat.

“And what else?” Dr Rawlinson is relaxing. Perhaps the boys is not so evil after all.  He is just young. Not quite nineteen years old; still a child really. Jake is losing his way. He needs adult guidance. He needs a helping hand. And, Dr Rawlinson knows precisely where that hand needs to go.

“I have been disrespectful of my tutors,” Jake goes on. “And of you, sir,” Jake cannot stop twisting his fingers behind his back. He hops from one foot to the other, his embarrassment consumes him.

“And …” Dr Rawlinson is not satisfied. He won’t be. Not until Jake reaches the logical conclusion.

Jake’s eyes glisten, he fights back tears. “And?” he gulps.

“Bah!” Dr Rawlinson snorts, “And, what do you think I should do about it, Jake?”

Colour drains from Jake’s face. “Please, no!” he thinks, “No! Don’t make me have to say it. Not out loud.”

“Well Jake,” Dr Rawlinson stretches his arms, his back is aching, “Neither of us has all day. Get on with it.”

Involuntarily Jake’s hands reach behind his back, his thumbs caress the seat of his jeans. They fit across his buttocks snugly; he is meaty, but by no means fat. He is a long way from being obese, unlike many of his fellow students. Jakes sucks in a great draught of air. His mouth is parched, he wriggles his tongue around trying to create some spit. Then, he croaks, “Please Dr Rawlinson, I deserve to be punished,” he trails off thinking his humiliation is complete.

But it isn’t, “And tell me Jake how should I punish you?”

The teenager’s voice breaks, he is almost in tears now. “But sir,” he pleads. It does no good.

“Well Jake?”

“Sir, I deserve to be spanked.”

“How so?”

“You should take down my trousers and put me across you knee,” Jake is scarcely whispering now. There is a long pause. Dr Rawlinson waits for Jake to continue and when he doesn’t the lecturer nods his head vigorously to encourage the boy to say more.

“Then, you should spank me, sir. Hard. I deserve it. I am a bad boy.”

Dr Rawlinson allows a hint of a smile to crack his lips. He hauls himself to his feet and a little unsteadily because there is not much room in the office he makes his way to the front of the desk. He feels Jake’s moist eyes burning into him; watching every move he makes. His fear growing.

Dr Rawlinson picks up a lightweight, plastic straight-backed chair and places in the small space between his desk and the door. He sits down and with a contemptuous click of his fingers he indicates that the student should stand in front of him. Jake, now as miserable as he has ever been in his life, obeys. He can’t look at Dr Rawlinson. Instead, he gazes across the office. There is a calendar on the wall produced by a publishing company and he concentrates on the list of forthcoming titles it advertises. Jake doesn’t see, but he certainly feels, Dr Rawlinson take a grip on Jake’s belt. Dr Rawlinson needs two hands to get it unbuckled. It doesn’t take long for him to lower the zipper and open the front of Jake’s jeans. When he lets go the jeans slip down and bunch at Jake’s thighs.

The student tries to concentrate on the calendar. There’s a book due out this month on cultural studies. That’s the last Jake sees because Dr Rawlinson grips him by the arm and with more strength than the boy expects he pulls him down and over his lap. Jake pushes his palms out towards the floor to break his fall. His legs dangle behind him and his bottom rests high over the lecturer’s right thigh.

Dr Rawlinson shifts his own buttocks on the hard wooden chair and slowly repositions Jake. Not much, but enough for him to adjust the boy’s bottom. Now it is a terrific target. His underwear is stretched across his bum, lifting and separating the cheeks. His legs are virtually hairless.

Jake knows his face is flushing. Could he be more embarrassed? He closes his eyes as if this will block out reality. Even like this, he still feels his master take hold of his shirt and move it up his back. A cool breeze from the window brushes against his naked flesh. Dr Rawlinson is almost ready. At this point Jake could struggle free, maybe smack his tormentor in the mouth and then make his escape.

But he doesn’t. Jake knows he deserves punishment and Dr Rawlinson is in charge. He will submit himself in any way he is instructed. His stomach digs into Dr Rawlinson’s leg, it is surprisingly bony. Jake wriggles slightly trying to get comfortable. The lecturer misinterprets this, thinking he is resisting punishment. Dr Rawlinson grips him tightly around the waist and presses his elbows into the small of Jake’s back. He is pinned down, going nowhere. Not until his master has spanked his bottom good and hard.

Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready to start. He smooths Jake’s grey-striped briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hug the contours of the young man’s buttocks, he is good to go.

Jake’s breathing is heavy, he clenches his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat. “Relax, Jake,” Dr Rawlinson is kind and caring. “Don’t squeeze up your bottom.”

Jake tries, he wants to present himself submissively, but for some reason he cannot understand he does not have control of his body. He shudders, feeling the cheeks of his bottom exposed to the lecturer’s gaze. The underpants are tight against his full buttocks; they are certainly not going to offer any protection in a spanking.

Dr Rawlinson lets the student lie still for a while over his knee, waiting. He rests his hand lightly on the boy’s backside and then began a slow, steady methodical succession of moderate whacks delivered to alternate buttocks. Jake responds only with tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if he is relaxing and making himself comfortable. If this is hurting, he gives no sign of it.

Dr Rawlinson takes his time to get the measure of Jake. He increases the pace to deliver a good, hard, old-fashioned hand spanking; not holding back. Jake jolts at the shock of the new impact. Gasps of surprise hiss through his not-quite-clenched lips, and only his master’s tight grip stops his right hand flying up to protect his now-smarting bottom. Some smacks land on the back of his bare thighs.

He is embarrassed to be locked in place over the lecturer’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Yet he is powerless to stop it or evade it. He has broken the rules, been disrespectful to Dr Rawlinson. He only has himself to blame for this. For about fifty or so spanks he wriggles and writhes, kicking his feet, squirming around on the master’s knees. But there is no escape and he can’t stop the volley of hand-spanks heating up his rear end.

Jake stops wriggling and tries to take each new whack stoically; the spanking is hurting, but he is not in any real pain. He is a young adult and his bum is pretty tough. The pain of the hand spanking has little effect on him, but the humiliation of having an older man take down his jeans and force him across his knee for a spanking should be enough to ensure his future obedience.

Dr Rawlinson looks down at Jake, prone across his knees, his face is red (and so probably is his backside). It is time to end. He hammers down another dozen smacks for good measure, spanked harshly into the young man’s buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh. A perfect spot to end a spanking, he thinks.

Jake is breathless as he lays over the lap. It is over. Now, he thinks, would you please let me get up? But, Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready. “Will you behave in future Jake?”

“Yes, Dr Rawlinson,” his reply is met by a harsh slap in the centre of his left buttock.

“Yes, sir!.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” he rubs Jakes’s buttocks gently, feeling their warmth. “Now, you may get up.”

Jake puts both hands on the floor and rolls off the doctor’s knees, stands and immediately reaches for his jeans.

“Oh, no. Keep them down,” Dr Rawlinson is enjoying dominating this young man very much indeed. “Now face the wall, hands on your head!” he snaps. “Stand there and think about your behaviour.” His humiliation now complete, Jake shuffles his feet, dragging his jeans across the dirty floor with him and stands where directed. He rests his forehead against the wall mortified, while Dr Rawlinson resumes his position behind his desk, leans back in his chair and in his imagination admires his handiwork before falling sobbing to the floor in a heap.


Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Coffee shop memory

new story 2

z used twosome coffeeshop

I was in town the other day and it was freezing so I went into a coffeeshop to warm myself up with a hot chocolate. It’s not one of those horrible chain shops, this one’s just off the High Street and is a bit run down to be honest. It attracts a lot of young people, which I like. Some of them are quite sexy-looking and at my age unless you’re willing to pay for it looking is all you can do. Friends tell me its popular because they deal drugs there but I don’t know if that’s true.

It was the middle of the afternoon on a Wednesday and it wasn’t that busy. When I was settled at a table I noticed two lads who seemed to be having an argument in whispers. I don’t know them but I’d seen them in the shop a few times before. They were maybe twenty, perhaps a year younger. One, had a face on him like flint and the other who from where I sat looked a bit girly to tell the truth hid behind a long scarf that he kept wrapping around his mouth.

“I warned you. You know what will happen when we get back to the house,” the flint-faced one said. The other one buried his head in the scarf and the look in his eyes while not of terror was certainly of fear. Instinctively, I leaned forward to try to hear more of their conversation but no more was said. After a minute or so they left.

I knew exactly what would happen when they got home. The girly one would be across flint-faced’s knee with his jeans at the ankles and underwear at the knees getting his bare bum blistered with his boyfriend’s hairbrush. The look on girly’s face told me he was not looking forward to this.

I perused the front page of the Brocklehurst Bugle (and read that another train strike is looming) and finished my drink. As I walked home I thought about a time some decades ago when I was about the same age as those two. I was eighteen and had just left school. My mother who was divorced had remarried and I was no longer welcome at home. I wasn’t chucked out and there was no big row it was just that they wanted to be together. Naturally, I had no money and no way of getting the rent together for a place of my own so my brother let me stay with him.

His name is Jonathon but everybody calls him James for reasons I don’t recall (if indeed I ever knew). James was twenty-three at the time and had been to university and was doing well in his chosen career in a bank. I don’t know if he really wanted a kid like me under his feet at home, but the say blood is thicker than water, so perhaps he felt obliged.

Things got off to a bad start. Like all eighteen year olds across time I was lazy, self-centred, untidy and a lot of the time uncommunicative. I would spend hours sleeping late and when I was awake more often than not I’d stay in bed playing with myself. We didn’t have the Internet back then and a group of us would swop porno magazines. One called Whitehouse was very popular. I remember once by the time I got my turn it had several pages stuck together.

James did his best with me, but he had standards and I couldn’t meet them. One evening he brought a girl back and the place was like a pigsty with unwashed dishes all over the place and dirty clothes hanging on the furniture. All of them mine. The mess put the girl off and she left pretty quickly. That was the final straw for James; now it was my fault he wasn’t getting his leg over.

That brought things to a head. He laid down the law: do this; don’t do that. Get out find a job, start paying some rent. Have some self-respect. All I gave him in return was a pout, a sneer and a slammed door as I stormed off to my pit of a bed.

I don’t know how much thought James put into it but what he did later changed our relationship forever. The next day was Saturday, so there was no work for James. I could hear the Hoover going as he cleaned the house. I buried my head under the blankets and tried to get back to sleep. Some time later James burst into the room unannounced (thank god I wasn’t having a wank!) and told me to get up. My reply to him suggested sex and travel. “I’m warning you,” he threatened “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

I went back under the blankets. I didn’t keep time but before I knew about it the door flew open again and James loomed over me. He was about three inchers taller than me and broad at the shoulders. He was a keen rugby player and often turned out for a team at the bank. “What did I tell you?” he roared and without waiting for my answer he ripped the blankets and sheet off my body. I was stark naked and had no time to cover up my cock (which almost certainly was standing at half-mast) before James grabbed me by the hair and hauled me from the bed. Then, he dragged me across the room. My feet slipped on the old, thin carpet as he towed me with great force out of the bedroom, through the hallway and into the lounge.

I was effing and jeffing at him but he took no notice. He was a man on a mission; nothing was going to stop him now. The lounge was a small room dominated by a dining table. James had left one of its wooden chairs in the centre of the room. Before I even realised what was happening and still tugging my hair he sat himself down. He let go of my hair only long enough for him to take my wrist and heave me so I fell face down across his lap. I didn’t know then but I was to enjoy many close-up views of the loungeroom carpet before that summer was over.

I was no match for James’ strength. He held me tightly around the waist, reached over to the table where he had strategically left the brush that usually hung in the shower, and blistered my backside with it. I had a round, hard bottom in those days (photographs of me at the time don’t do it justice.) James took that brush which must have been twice the size of a hairbrush and three times as heavy and pounded it into my bum. He was like a man possessed (maybe it was not having sex with that girl that spurred him on). I hollered the flat down and called him all the names under the sun but he would not let up.

Have you ever been spanked with a bath brush? No, I don’t suppose you have: why should you? Let me tell you, the size of it and the weight and the speed with which James attacked my buttocks turned my cheeks at first red, then mauve and before he had finished the underside had started to turn blue.

The pain was awesome; I’d never experienced anything like it before. It started as a sharp sting when the first half dozen or so swats landed on different parts of my arse. Once James had covered the full circuit (as it were) he landed that brush on parts that were already smarting. They set off a new wave of throbbing and by now I was twisting and turning over James’ lap. My legs must have been flailing around as well. The ache in my bum travelled up and down my legs and then north-south, east-west across my entire body. I howled so loudly my mouth drained of spit.

I was shrieking with indignation. It is true the spanking hurt like billy-oh, but I was an eighteen-year-old adult and quite tough. I was wailing at the indignity of being completely naked and across the knees off my elder brother while he spanked my bare bottom with a bath brush like I was eight or something.

At last he let off; he had nowhere else to go, every square inch of flesh was scorched. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I wrapped my buttocks with the palms of my hands and the heat I felt could have warmed a small room. My cock bounced up and down in front of James’ face as I tried to rub away the pain. My humiliation was complete and I ran from the room.

James spanked me a number of times that summer. I hated it each and every time. I don’t think it improved my behaviour. I didn’t really grow up and develop self-respect until my mid-twenties when, like James, I had embarked on a successful career. I have no interest in spanking as a fetish and nor I believe does James. He genuinely thought it would improve my behaviour. I dimly remember when we were kids James went off the rails a bit and he was spanked once or twice by an uncle (a real one, my mother’s brother) and maybe that taught him a lesson. I never spanked any of my own children (or nephews for that matter) and It wouldn’t have occurred to me to do so.

Perhaps spanking works for some people. I wonder about the two in the coffeeshop. I’ll have to drop in again tomorrow to see if girly’s attitude has improved.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

A night on the tiles

new story 2

z used dinner jacket mirror posh by Leyendecker (1)

“When Mr Winston comes in send him immediately to my study.”

The words were spoken imperiously by an elderly gentlemen with a sharp, deeply-lined face, and narrow slit eyes. Robbins, the butler, knew from his master’s tone that Mr Winston Cardew had in some way violated his father’s authority. With a sedate, “Yes, sir,” Robbins retreated feeling a sense of benign pity for the breezy blue-eyed youth – the only son of the bookworm and recluse.

“Wonder what Mr Winston has been up to now,” Robbins remarked to his fellow servants. “The master looks black as thunder this afternoon.”

Upstairs, Mr Cardew gazed unseeingly upon the open page of the book before him. His anger was all-consuming. He remembered his sweet-voiced, dearly loved but now departed wife. How she used to say, “Don’t be hard on little Winston.” Bah! Now “Little Winston” was no longer so small. He was nineteen-years-old, not yet legally an adult, but he was acting as though he were. He was without doubt off the rails. He needed to be reined in. Mr Cardew knew exactly what Little Winston needed.

He had expected such great things from his son. Instead, he only had misery and heartache. He sent his son to the best schools money could buy, but he was expelled from them all. He had no interest in studying. At each opportunity he would absent himself from the dormitory and go carousing. From an extraordinarily young age he spent more time in the alehouses and billiard rooms than in his study. His schoolwork suffered and he failed his examinations. It had been a dashed hard thing to find him gainful employment since. Mr Cardew had called in some favours among former business acquaintances to secure the boy a position.

As he pondered these things the door to his study opened unceremoniously. A tall young man with fair hair, greased and styled in the latest fashion stood before him. Winston was dressed in a tailcoat and striped trousers. His stiff collar was a little askew and his tie loose. The boy clearly had only now returned from some social event or other, a little the worse for wear. Mr Cardew knew his son to be vain about his appearance. He would spend hours in front of the mirror before leaving the mansion to descend on London. Winston would admire his reflection in every window he passed along the journey.

“Oh! So you’ve come at last,” Mr Cardew growled, closing his book with a heavy slam and tapping it irritably with his fingers.

“Yes,” the boy responded calmly, “I did not know you wanted me till Robbins gave me your message or I should have been a little sooner.”

Mr Cardew made a snarling sound, “Hum!,” he said, “You think because I don’t go out and about in the world that I sit at home hearing and seeing nothing. Allow me to tell you sir, that in this you are mistaken. I do see and I do hear – I am neither deaf nor blind – and rumour carries fast, evil rumour especially. Now explain, if you can, why you violate my expressed wishes and associate with low-born actresses – women of the stage?”

Winston flushed deeply, “Really, I don’t understand you,” he exclaimed. In his mind he recalled events over the past week. Which of these had his father heard? Women of the stage? Winston was genuinely perplexed.

“Well,” his father continued relentlessly, “Can you deny that yesterday afternoon you were seen escorting a certain Miss Fox from the theatre at which she is playing after the afternoon matinee?”

Winston’s blue eyes glazed. Miss Fox. It was only about Miss Fox. “She is not low-born,” he stuttered. “She is a friend of mine.”

“Oh! I know the sort of friend!” sneered Mr Cardew. “I know the way of the world. When young men make friends with such women they generally end___” he spluttered and left the final words unsaid. Mr Cardew glared through his spectacles at his son. He struck the desk with his fist violently. “I’ll stand no nonsense. I have repeatedly told you so.” When his temper was thoroughly roused argument became useless. Winston was forbidden to speak in his own defence.

“I have warned you of the consequences of your own behaviour. Repeatedly. Mark my words sir I’ll stand no nonsense. I will cut you off without a shilling, you shall be no son of mine.”

Winston’s attempt at protest was overruled. “I shall give you one last chance,” Mr Cardew’s eyes blazed, his face attained a red flush. “I intend to thrash you most severely.” He spoke hurriedly, “You have consistently and wilfully disobeyed me. If you do so again you will be asked to leave the house, never to return.”

Winston stood still. It would do no use to complain that at nineteen he was too old to be beaten. When his father sat on the local magistrates’ bench he sentenced men far older than Winston to cuts of the birch. Also, he did not want to prolong this conversation with his father, too many secrets might be revealed. His heart raced as he watched his father make his way across the study. Winston knew his father’s destination. In one corner of the study, alongside a magnificent glass-fronted bookcase stood a narrow, tall mahogany cabinet. His father fumbled with its door, opened it and reached in. A familiar rattling noise echoed from within. Winston took a deep breath.

His father held a splendid ashplant cane. It was about three feet long and as thick as his little finger. A curved handle had been shaped at one end and its entire length had been expertly smoothed. Mr Walker from the village had made it. He supplied local schools and many more fathers in the district. Winston knew his own father had quite a collection hidden in the cabinet.

Mr Cardew tucked the cane under his arm and faced his son. “We should not delay. You know how to prepare yourself. Indeed Winston did. A boy with his scholastic record was very used to presenting his rear end to a headmaster’s cane. Also, his father was no stranger to his son’s bared buttocks.

With steady hands Winston unbuttoned his tail coat and slipped it from his shoulders. He glanced around the study unsure where he should leave it. It was a large room with several armchairs and a large horsehair sofa as well as his father’s magnificent desk and two smaller occasional tables.

“Place it there,” Mr Cardew said brusquely, nodding his head towards a small walnut table. Winston did so. “Now stand there.” Another nod directed the boy to his father’s desk. Winston shuffled forward and stood three feet away. He placed his hands behind his back and with head bowed slightly, he awaited further instructions. “Too far away!” his father barked. “Stand closer.” Once positioned to his father’s satisfaction Winston heard the words that are designed to make a young scoundrel’s blood freeze. “Bare your but-tocks.” Mr Cardew placed great emphasis on the final word.

Winston had bared his buttocks many times but no matter how experienced he had become in such a matter, he still found the act of disrobing in front of a master profoundly embarrassing. To do so before his father was especially humiliating. Nonetheless, Winston was aware he had no choice. His father must have his way. He must accept a thrashing. He had little doubt that the punishment would not make him mend his ways. His future conduct would not change; could not change. His father did not know the full extent of Winston’s behaviour.

With an unsteady heart and shaking hands, Winston released the braces on his dress trousers. They immediately fell with a thud to his feet, revealing that the boy was wearing the most fashionable woollen drawers. His father sneered at the sight. The young were going to Hell in a handcart! Winston gripped the tops of the drawers and turning his back on his father, he eased them down his thighs. They snagged at his knees and he left them there. He felt a sharp slap from the cane across his now naked flanks, “Bend over the desk, bend over,” his father sounded both impatient and exasperated.

Winston took one more deep breath and with some expertise born of experience in one flowing movement he stretched forward, lay his stomach and chest flat on the huge desk and reached forward with his arms and clutched its far edge. His bared buttocks rested at an angle over the nearside edge. He opened his legs slightly and wriggled so that his Manhood did not press into the desk. In this position he offered his father a splendid target for his cane. He then closed his eyes tightly and in his imagination he conjured up memories of joyful scenes from the previous days.

The first stroke brought him back to reality. The cane sliced across his buttocks at an angle. Winston heard a swooshing sound and a dull thud as it struck his stretched cheeks. There was a delay of six or seven seconds (there always is in such circumstances) before he felt the agony. It was as if his father had pressed a red-hot poker from the fire across his bottom. Winston bit deeply into his bottom lip. It suppressed any yelp, but he could not stop the trembling in his body. His shoulders shuddered and his waist twisted.

His father waited for the boy to settle. He knew that it would take several seconds for the impact of the stroke to travel fully through Winston’s body. Only then would he lay on the next cut. This one higher, across the top of Winston’s quivering bottom. A dark welt immediately raised where the cane fell. It was raw and sent a wave of tremendous throbbing through Winston’s backside.

Mr Cardew was not a cruel man, but he was exasperated. His son had consistently disobeyed him. He had always been lazy and unreliable but now he brought the family name into disrepute. He did not want to disown the boy; he truly wanted him reformed. A thrashing might do that. It was, he believed fervently, his duty to get Winston back on a straight-and-narrow path to decency. He swiped and he slashed the cane. After eight cuts the lines across Winston’s once white, but now red-raw, buttocks resembled a map of a railway junction. The boy’s face was almost as scarlet as his backside.

Winston very nearly bit off his tongue in an effort to stifle yells. He wanted to, he wanted to express the agony he was feeling. It was a physical emotion. Any person suffering so much pain would want to howl like a banshee. But, he was an English gentleman’s son, he was raised to suffer stoically.

Mr Cardew raised the cane high again and jumping a little from the floor slashed a swipe into Winston’s posterior. He waited for the impact of that to subside before taking three steps backwards, raising the cane high above his shoulder and rushing in at Winston, swishing the most almighty slash into his backside.

At last it was over, Mr Cardew, his whole body shaking threw the ashplant onto the sofa and panting for breath he slumped into an armchair. From this vantage point he surveyed Winston’s bare buttocks. Thick red welts criss-crossed the cheeks, it looked from a distance that some might be weeping blood. The boy himself was in some distress, but he hid it well and Mr Cardew admired him for that. His breathing was harsh and irregular. His knuckles were white as he continued to grip the edge of the desk. The back of his neck was moist with perspiration.

“You had better stand,” Mr Cardew’s voice croaked. Slowly, and obviously in agony, Winston slid his body backwards across the smooth top of the desk. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and using his hands as support he rose. He had to grip the desk to stop from toppling to the floor. He took several deep breaths, trying to gain full control of his body once more. The pain was intense. It felt like he had been forced to sit in a pan of boiling water. He desperately wanted to knead his savaged cheeks, to try to rub away the pain. This, of course, was not permitted. A chap never did this in front of his punisher. He had to pretend he was not at all hurt.

After at least a minute, Winston felt able to gingerly reach down for his woollen drawers. He pulled them up wincing as the soft material connected with his wounds. This sent a new shockwave through his body and he bent forward almost double to absorb it. Then, slowly, with every small movement reigniting the pain, he took hold of his fine, fancy trousers and returned them to their rightful place. He stood, his backside burning, his head pounding, his throat raw and his temples throbbing. As he took the few steps across the study to retrieve his coat it felt as if his bottom was being stabbed with sharp knives.

He climbed into his coat. He headed towards the study door. “Aren’t you forgetting something,” his father’s voice was clear and calm. Winston stopped and turned. His father was on his feet again, his own composure seemingly fully recovered.

Winston winced, “Thank you, sir,” he grimaced through gritted teeth and offered his hand for his father to shake.

Moments later in his room, face down on the bed and his head buried in a pillow, Winston cried like a baby. He knew he wouldn’t be able to sit comfortably for a week. The cuts and bruises would last much longer. Oh what was he to do? How would he explain this to his friends? What life could he live henceforth?

What would his father do when he learns his liaison with Miss Fox the actress was nothing but a ruse. The true love of his life was Tommy Alsop, the stagehand at the Majestic Theatre.


Picture Credit:  J C (Joseph Christian) Leyendecker


Inspired by the opening paragraphs of ‘The Fairy With the Grey Beard’ by Winifred Graham. The Strand Magazine, June 1900.

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The ritual

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z used otk pyjamas chair sting (20)

You sit on the edge of your bed and wait. You are very calm, you know exactly what’s about to happen. You are wearing your blue-and-white-striped pyjamas. Usually, you sleep naked, but this time the jim-jams are not for sleeping in. The room is cool although it is the middle of summer. Minutes pass; you don’t mind, you are in no hurry.

There is a knock on the door, you call out “Yeah!” it opens slightly and you see the face of your twenty-year-old brother. It is flushed and you see perspiration along his hairline. “Your turn, good luck,” he says without emotion and disappears to his own room. You take a deep breath and rise from the bed. As you take the few steps towards the door your pyjama bottoms slip down over your hips. You grab them and take a few seconds to retie the drawstring. Satisfied they won’t plunge to your feet you cross the landing and pad down the stairs.

You know your father will be waiting in the lounge room. You live in a large house and there are any number of other rooms, but without being told you know where to go. Father is waiting. He sits on a wooden chair that he has placed in the centre of the room. He nods his head slightly as a kind of greeting as you enter the room. Even today a lifetime after the event you always picture father the same way. He wears dark grey trousers (part of a business suit). They are held up by both a leather belt and braces. He has a white shirt and a tightly fastened necktie. The shirt is buttoned to the top. That’s your father: buttoned up. You cannot recall ever seeing him dressed for leisure.

He speaks to you and you listen. You don’t expect him to interrogate you, he simply states the facts. They are that you, your brother and two pals were spotted drinking in the Three Fishers pub. You know father forbids you to drink alcohol. It is one of his many rules: there is, of course, no smoking and also no going with girls into Widdicombe Woods. In those days no fathers thought about drugs. There are also rules about attendance at church and doing chores about the house.

The Three Fishers is a dive of a pub, tucked away off the main street of town. It is notorious for serving under-aged drinkers and for much else. Bohemians hang out there, and so do prostitutes both male and female. A neighbour spotted you and told your father.

You are unconcerned. You break father’s rules all the time. Sometimes you get caught; often you don’t. You know the penalty. It is what it is. Once father finishes his speech, the ritual begins in earnest. It is always the same, nothing changes. That’s what makes it a ritual. This is not the first time you have been here and in all probability it won’t be the last, even though you are fast approaching your nineteenth birthday.

“Stand there,” father points to a spot on the carpet a little to his right. You do as you are told. “Lower your pyjama bottoms,” father speaks slowly and clearly pronounces each word. There is no need for him to show anger or any other emotion, he knows you will obey his instructions. Without question. Your hands are steady and you untie the drawstring on your pyjama bottoms. They fall with a swoosh to your feet (rather like clown’s trousers). You feel no embarrassment standing half-naked in front of your father; he has seen it all before.

You look down at your father’s lap. He spreads his legs slightly to give you a platform to lower yourself across. You know the ritual is that you bend over his knees and place the palms of your hands flat against the floor. You bend your knees behind you so that your toes hover above the ground. Your bared bottom is raised at an angle over your father’s thigh. It is perfectly positioned for the spanking you are about to receive.

You wait patiently for the next stage of the ritual. You don’t think it unusual that an eighteen-year-old is bent across his father’s knee for a spanking. It is just the way things are. Father always punishes you like this. Not all fathers are the same. Your pal across the road will be bending over the back of an armchair, trousers at his feet, underpants at the knees while his father lashes a dozen hard strokes of a whippy, curved-handled rattan school cane into his naked buttocks. That’s his way. Your friend down the street will be holding onto the seat of a wooden dining room chair his arse also bare to the wind while his father whips him with a leather riding crop. That’s a small hard whip people use to encourage horses along. Horses. His father knows nothing about horses, he hasn’t even seen one since the coal merchant started using lorries.

Your own father has taken the tail of your pyjama jacket and pulled it half way up your back. This ensures that it is well away from the target area. You wait patiently. You stare down at the ugly copper-coloured pattern in the carpet inches from your face. Now father is running the palm of his right hand over your left buttock. He gently traces its outline, patting and preening. He pauses when he reaches the highest point of the globe and gives it a gentle slap. Then he does the same with the other cheek. You know that by now he is ready to go.

The spanks rain down. They are hard and rapid. The sound of the slap of his hand on your bare bum echoes around the room. Inside a minute he has delivered forty or fifty whacks; he goes that fast. It stings, but you are not in great pain. No matter how hard or how quickly father spanks you with the palm of his hand it hardly hurts. You are after all eighteen and strong. Does father realise this? You feel obliged to give some reaction. It’s what your brother calls, “Making show.” You gasp as the harder slaps connect across the peaks of your mounds. You wriggle your neck in mock pain when father’s hand connects with the backs of your thighs. That actually does hurt, but really not much.

You feel your bottom warming up. The buttocks tingle and the thighs sting. You settle down and wait patiently. You cannot see it but you know your bum is now deep pink; father will spank on until it’s the colour of a tomato.

At last he achieves his aim. There is one final part of the ritual. He stops spanking and intones, “Stand up.” You rest your hands on his left knee and haul yourself to your feet. You turn your back on father and rub the palms of your hands ruefully across your buttocks and hop from one foot to the other. Your brother will be impressed by your playacting. Now, you bend down and retrieve the pyjama bottoms from your ankles, pull them up and tie the drawstring.

Father sends you back to your bedroom with words designed to encourage you in your future behaviour. Your brother is waiting for you on the landing, you both going into his bedroom and examine each other’s marks, such as they are. Already, in your mind you are planning your next visit to the Three Fishers.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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.”

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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

The scavenger hunt

new story 2

The boy was in the bushes, hidden from both the house and the road. Five minutes ago he saw an elderly grey man he knew to be the Dean of the Humanities Faculty leave. He had been told he lived alone and as far as he knew the house was empty. Now would be his chance.

It was late afternoon and still warm. The Dean had left a window of an upstairs room open. A drainpipe was conveniently adjacent. The boy was far from an athlete but he should be able to shin up it and get into the house. It should take him only a minute. He could be in and out inside another two or three. If he found what he was looking for. Now, was the time for action.

He checked over his shoulder, the road was clear. It was no more than a driveway really. It connected to a main thoroughfare with the university. Checking once more that the coast was clear he dashed across the immaculately-kept lawn. His heart raced faster than his body. In a moment he sized up the drain. He was a heavy boy, but a couple of tugs on the pipe confirmed it would take his weight. He had a good idea how to do this. Back in the day he had learned how to climb ropes. The Boy Scouts would not be amused to discover they had been teaching House Breaking 101.

It was more difficult than he thought. The pipe was narrow and connected close to the brick wall, there wasn’t much to grip on to. He made it to the top, a little breathless. With his head he pushed the window open further and on his stomach he wriggled through it, landing on his head. He was unhurt and quickly climbed to his feet. It took seconds for him to see the room was a bedroom. The bed was a bare mattress. The dressing table was empty. It must be an unused guestroom. He wanted the Dean’s bedroom.

His heart pounding from the exertion of the climb and excitement he crept towards the door. He put his ear to it and listened carefully. He had been told the Dean lived alone, but who knew he might have a houseguest. All was silent. Not even a cat stirred. Gingerly he opened the door and walking on the tips of his toes like some cartoon burglar he moved down the passageway. The door to the adjoining room was ajar. He peaked through the crack. Bingo! This bedroom was obviously lived-in. Two recently-ironed dress shirts hung on the door of the wardrobe. Using his shoulder (he suddenly remembered he mustn’t leave fingerprints) he edged the door open further. Now, his heart rate rising and sweat soaking his brow, he moved smoothly into the room; his destination a chest of drawers. Within seconds he had the first one open. Inside was his prey. He smiled broadly and reached in.

Then, he was out of the room and heading down the stairs clutching in his hand a pair of the Dean’s boxer shorts. His grin was wide, he was consumed with self-satisfaction. A pair of the Dean’s boxer shorts, purloined from his house was worth sixty points. He had won the freshman’s scavenger hunt for certain.

The scavenger hunt took place each autumn at the beginning of the academic year. New boys at the university got points for collecting various objects on a list. One year a guy stole a campus bus. This year top points went to the kid who got the shorts. He padded down the stairs, he had no wish to topple out of the window head first. He was almost whistling so great was the joy at his achievement. He was across the hallway reaching for the door handle when without his help the door opened. Standing there, with two brown bags in his arms was the Dean of the Humanities Faculty.

He was a large man in a crumpled grey suit. His shirt was formal but he wore no tie. Despite the mildness of the day a scarf hung at his neck. His fleshy face frowned, his unkempt moustache bristled. He glared at the boy standing in front of him. The Dean’s eyes looked him up and down. There was nothing unusual about the boy; he wore jeans and a checked shirt like (it seemed) everyone else his age. The Dean’s eyes shone when he saw his boxer shorts in the boys hand.

He moved into the house, quietly closing the door behind him. The boy blushed to his roots. Instinct told him to run for it but he could see the Dean blocked his path to freedom. His jaw dropped, then his mouth opened and closed but no words came out. He felt his face burn with embarrassment.

At last the Dean spoke. “A burglar I see. Breaking and entering.” He put the bags of groceries on the floor at his feet and reached into his pocket. “I should call the campus police.”

“No!” he boy wailed and waved his arms as if the try to impede the Dean’s movement. The Dean kept the phone in his pocket. The boy was too distressed to see the twinkle in the old man’s eye. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” he demanded ferociously.

The boy blustered, “I’m Mike McManus. A student. A fresher.”

“Show me your ID,” the Dean’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. He made great play at examining the plastic card. He held it up against Mike’s face to compare the photograph with the real thing. Satisfied the boy was who he claimed to be he handed it back.

“The scavenger hunt,” Mike’s explanation was brusquely cut short by the Dean. He knew all about scavenger hunts and boxer shorts. He had been a member of faculty for more than thirty years, he had seen it all before.

“Get in there,” he ordered and pointed to a door at the far end of the hallway. When the boy stood rooted to the spot the Dean gripped him by the left year and half pulling the boy along the highly-polished floor he directed him forcefully into his study. He let go of the ear and Mike stood sheepishly rubbing it while examining his own feet.

“I know all about the scavenger hunt,” the Dean confirmed. “I also know that breaking and entering is a crime. You will go to court. Maybe even do time in juvie. At the very least you will be expelled from the university.” It came out like a rehearsed speech. In a few words the Dean had summed up Mike’s predicament. A silly freshman’s prank had dire consequences. The Dean watched as Mike’s jaw wobbled. Any second now and he would be in a flood of tears.

“I know the scavenger hunt is a tradition. I am all in favour of the college traditions,” he said in a firm but not unfriendly voice. “You boys have your traditions and I too have mine.” Mike looked up from the floor, his puzzlement now etched on his face. He saw the Dean walk to an old battered desk. He bent forward and opened a drawer. When he stood again he had an aged wooden paddle in his fist. Mike stared open-eyed. He knew about paddles, of course, but he had never before seen one.

The Dean slapped the blade of the paddle into his hand. It was a traditional school-type affair about fourteen inches long and four wide and half-inch thick at least. As is also traditional it had a series of holes drilled in it (to counter wind-resistance). The Dean did not speak, there was no reason to, Mike instinctively knew the old man’s intention. The student could not keep from staring at the wood. “He’s never going to spank me. I’m eighteen years old. This is two-thousand-and-nineteen. Things like that don’t happen anymore.” That is what he thought but all he could say aloud was, “B.. b… b …”

“So, Mr Michael McManus,” the Dean stretched his shoulders and swung the paddle through the air as he spoke, “What happens next is up to you. I can call the cops or I can deal with it myself.” He smacked the paddle into the palm of his hand so there was no doubt as to his meaning. “What’s it to be?”

A student confronted this way should call for a lawyer. The ensuing litigation might take years. He might have graduated by the time the case was decided. A bright student would do that. Mike must have been one sandwich short of a picnic; he didn’t get lawyered up. He muttered, almost inaudibly, “Your way.”

The Dean responded with a smile. “Smart choice,” he said and waved the paddle once more. “Right stand there.” He pointed to a space between his desk and the door. “Jeans and underwear down. Assume the position.” Mike went bright red and he began to protest.

“It’s entirely your choice,” the Dean put his hand in his pocket, making to search for his phone. Mike, now in a daze of confusion, blurted, “No, wait. Don’t.” His protest defeated and with severely trembling hands he reached for the waistband of his jeans.

“They always come round in the end,” the Dean told himself silently as he watched Mike fumble with the buttons on his fly. The boy seemed to be on auto-piolet, his eyes were glazed into a strange faraway look. Once he had the front open, the jeans slithered to his knees of their own accord. The Dean noticed with a wry smile Mike was wearing boxer shorts. “Those too,” the Dean barked. They went south to join the jeans.

“Assume the position.”

Mike was unsure what this meant exactly. Assume the position. It must mean: Bend over. Still in a dreamworld, he arched his back and placed his hands on his knees. The Dean stood behind him, paddle in his hand. “Emm,” he mused silently, “Much more padding on the hind quarters than the boy yesterday.” Of course Mike was not the first student to attempt to steal the Dean’s boxer shorts. Adam, a sweet boy, had also been caught red-handed. His luscious little bottom was hard and round. The term “Buns of steel” had been invented for boys like Adam. Mike’s backside was fleshy, almost flabby. He wasn’t quite fat but if he didn’t hold up on the burgers and beer pretty soon he would be joining the ranks of the obese, like so many of his fellow students.

z used paddle trousers down office kernled (1)

The Dean placed the paddle against Mike’s left buttock and pressed it down. It sank and the flesh wobbled like jelly on a plate. The student’s shoulder flinched at the touch; he was preparing himself for the onslaught soon to start. The Dean was in no particular hurry. He tapped the paddle down; one, two, three, getting his aim. Then he lifted it and brought it down with maximum force. It hit the flesh with a dull thud that echoed around the small study. There was a pause of a second or three before the pain registered in Mike’s brain. His lips pursed and created a perfect “O” shape, then he hissed like an old steam engine. He wanted to jump to his feet and rub away at his scorched buttocks. He didn’t. Instinct kicked in. He knew to do so was against tradition. A guy took his paddling, come what may. He let his hands slip from his knees and he clutched his shins tightly waiting for the impact of the next swat.

It was a while coming. The Dean had been paddling the butts of students for the best part of twenty years, he was an expert at this. He knew that it took some seconds after the swat landed for the pain to connect. Then it took a few more for it to make its way through the boy’s body. It started at the cheeks and then usually travelled up and down the legs before sending messages to the brain about how much it hurt. The Dean allowed time for all that to happen before landing the next whack.

In no time at all every square inch of Mike’s buttocks glowed pink. The Dean admired his own handiwork awarding himself extra credit for the way the outline of the paddle was embossed again and again in the flesh. He especially liked the patterns the holes made.

For a boy virgin to corporal punishment, Mike took his paddling with great stoicism. The first swats hurt like hell and he winced, screwed up his face and gripped his shins for dear life. But soon his buttocks numbed and while each additional whack hurt they registered low down on the barometer of pain.

The Dean let up at eighteen. From where he was standing, Dean’s butt looked thoroughly toasted. It would hurt the boy when he sat on a hard surface for some time to come.  The blisters would let up after a day or so but the bruises would be around for a week or more. It amused the Dean that it would curb the boy’s love life for a while.

“Up.” It was a clear command and Mike did not need telling twice. He straightened and hopped from one foot to another and stomped his feet, rather like a soldier on sentry duty. He hoped it would ease the pain. It didn’t; it never does. He retuned his shorts and jeans to their correct places and buttoned up. He stood awaiting further instructions unable to comprehend what had just happened. His head was dizzy, the study seemed to spin around him. He was so light-headed he feared he would giggle in the Dean’s face. No drug he had taken ever gave him this kind of high.

Seconds later he was gingerly walking across the lawn back to his dorm. He was glad his roommate was out. Had he known that at that moment he was secreted in the bushes outside the Dean’s house he would not have given him a word of warning. Mike lowered his jeans and underwear and pointed his butt at the mirror. It surprised him how sore and red it was. His dick jutted out towards the ceiling. He spat on the palm of his hand. It took no more than four tugs before he shot a load across the glass. With his jeans and pants at his ankles he waddled across the room to his nightstand and grabbed a handful of tissue. Once he had cleaned away the mess he found his phone and took a selfie.

Well, he thought, if he can’t get points for the Dean’s boxer shorts, the old man’s spanking should be worth something.

Picture credit: Kernled

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second