Road Trip

new 5

z used twosome hats car by Mayser Hute

Looking back on it Bradley realised that he ought to have smelt a rat right from the start. If he hadn’t been as vain as he was, he should have wondered what ever possessed his employer Mr MacDonald to take him on that business trip across Europe, when he had so many older and abler men at his disposal. Bradley’s driving was all right, but certainly no better than Smith’s or Davidson’s.

Conceit had something to do with it. Bradley thought he was the blue eyed boy. He might be only nineteen, but so many older, established men at the company had perished in the war. Others had returned with their brains so addled they could never work again.

Bradley and Mr MacDonald travelled to France, but their destination was Germany. The war had ended two years previously and millions of American dollars were flooding in now that continent of Europe had been carved up among the super-powers.  The future was West Germany and Bradley  had his sights on being the company’s top dog. The railways were still shot to pieces and the only way was to travel by car; just the two of them.

Bradley and his boss were St. Tom’s men. That was they had both attended St. Tom’s, an elite public boarding school. But not at the same time. Mr MacDonald was just about old enough to be Bradley’s father. That’s how he got the job in the first place – the old school tie. They all look after one another. The truth was that Bradley hadn’t done so well at school. He was inattentive and selfish. Despite the best efforts of the schoolmasters and their whippy canes, he never quite accepted that rules were to be obeyed by all, including Bradley. He was lucky to get his job he was helped by his father, also an old St Tom’s man.

Bradley and his boss had little in common so conversation during the hours of driving was limited. They were able to share experiences of school. As is the way when old school fellows such as these meet they reminisced about masters they knew. And, the liberal corporal punishment regime they both endured.

The journey was slow as the roads were bad. They were closing in on Munich and the rain fell in torrents. Bradley never saw the five-inch nail. He first knew he had a flat tyre when he lost control of the steering. Cursing his luck and the rain with considerable effort he changed the wheel. His boss stayed in the car which made the task that more difficult. Bradley did not complain. It wasn’t his place to do so and he did not want to get on the bad side of Mr MacDonald. If he played his cards right and impressed the old man he, Bradley, could advance quickly in the company. If he upset him, that could put an end to his future prospects.

At last the car was back on the road. The rain eased but didn’t stop. It was dark and there were no road lamps. This was Germany; electricity was unknown outside of the cities. The darkness was Bradley’s excuse for not seeing the broken glass. Another flat tyre, and the spare already used. Cursing his luck one more time, Bradley kicked the tyre aggressively.

“You need a garage,” Mr MacDonald said. That was true, but Bradley still thought it an unhelpful statement. Where in the middle of this Godforsaken land could he find a garage? “We passed a hotel, or guesthouse, or something back there,” Mr MacDonald waved his hand as if that would clarify his statement. “Go find it and see if they can send someone to help us. We can stay the night there.”

Bradley trudged off into the dark, cussing his boss and the whole world at large. His clothes were soaked and his shoes leaked by the time he found the hotel. It was run-down and creepy. A withered old woman peered at him as he trekked up a pathway, overgrown with weeds. She received him tersely. Bradley did not understand a word she said. She spoke in German and sounded hostile; but then all German sounded hostile to an Englishman. Bradley spoke in English, clearly enunciating each word as if speaking to an idiot. Then he tried speaking loudly. This did not improve matters. He could not get through to her.

Then, a young man, no older than Bradley himself, appeared from down the hall. “Can I be of assistance, Sir,” he spoke good English, but with a heavy German accent. Bradley explain his position and within minutes the boy, who Bradley now knew was called Gerhard, was hitching up a battered old pony to an equally dilapidated cart. “Take me to your master,” he called cheerfully to Bradley and together they set off to rescue Mr MacDonald.

They were the only guests at the hotel but their hosts were helpful and gracious. It took much effort but they ran hot baths and prepared the best meal that they could under their straightened circumstances. Bradley fought to hide his annoyance that his boss was taking a great deal of interest in Gerhard. Gerhard was blond (well, he was a German after all) and fit with muscles honed through manual work. He had a wide open face and surprisingly white teeth considering the state of the country. He liked to laugh and to Bradley’s further annoyance Mr MacDonald joined in. Bradley’s jealousy bit deep. How, he wondered, had Gerhard survived the war? Hadn’t all young men sacrificed themselves for Hitler?

Bradley affected not to notice when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard left the room together whispering as if in some conspiracy. His only consolation was they would be back on the road tomorrow never to return.

He waited for an hour, uncertain what he was supposed to do. Was he to wait for his employer to return? Would Mr MacDonald need his services again that evening? Was it safe for him to go off to his bed? He paced the residents’ lounge and had at last determined he would turn in for the night when Mr MacDonald and Gerhard made an unannounced entrance. The blond German boy grinned from ear-to-ear, adding to Gerhard’s suspicious jealousy. It was compounded when the German smiled even more broadly at Bradley as if he was holding a secret. The German turned to Mr MacDonald and in accented English wished him a very pleasant rest of the evening.

The young German breezed from the room. Bradley stood, somewhat irritated and waited for his employer’s instructions. Mr MacDonald spoke seriously, “I have been very disappointed with you today,” he said gravely. “Your incompetence with the motor car has caused me serious delays. My business may not recover as a result.”

Bradley’s jaw dropped. How unfair! It wasn’t his fault the roads in Germany were so bad. How could he be blamed for the tyre bursts? Had he put the nails and the broken glass on the road? No, of course not! He felt all of this but knew better than to say a word of protest. Mr MacDonald was his employer and held the key to Bradley’s future in his hands. Bradley had no choice but to accept his employer’s rebukes. “Sorry, sir,”’ he said meekly, “I’ll try to do better tomorrow.”

Mr MacDonald’s bright blue eyes flashed. “I sincerely expect so, young man,” he said gruffly. “You cannot continue in this way.” His eyes narrowed and he frowned, “You need to be brought to book.”

Bradley had no idea what his employer could mean. Again, he knew better than to answer back. Mr MacDonald continued uninterrupted, “Follow me, upstairs,” he said mysteriously, “we need to deal with this.”

Not allowing a reply, Mr MacDonald immediately led the way from the room. In deep confusion, Bradley trotted behind him. Outside in the dank passageway Mr MacDonald stopped by a large mahogany table. Bradley peered into the gloom. He blinked furiously. He couldn’t quite believe what he saw. Silently and without explanation Mr MacDonald took hold of a bunch of freshly cut switches. He lifted and carried them as if they were the most delicate flowers on earth. Bradley gasped in realisation: Mr MacDonald and Gerhard must have been out cutting switches from the nearby bushes. What did Mr MacDonald intend to do?

“Follow me this way,” the older man headed to the large, dilapidated staircase that would lead to his bedroom. Bradley, his head spinning, trudged behind.

The room was small and sparsely furnished. An ancient bed with a wrought-iron bedstead took up most of the space. Mr MacDonald carefully lay the switches on the mattress. Bradley stared at them as slowly his employer’s intention dawned on him. Mr MacDonald lost no time getting to the point. “A thrashing should bring you to your senses.” He let the words drift in the air. Bradley blinked back his disbelief. A beating? He might expect something like this at St Tom’s, but he wasn’t at school anymore. He was a grown man – well eighteen years old – and worked for his living.

Instinctively he knew he must not argue. Mr MacDonald was his employer, he held all the power. Bradley was but his servant. Mr MacDonald could be Bradley’s meal ticket, the teenager needed to keep the old man sweet. “Yes sir, sorry sir,” he whispered.

Mr MacDonald drew himself to his full height and pushed back his shoulders. His eyes were rheumy with reminiscence. “Back at the grand old school,” he spoke slowly and softly, “you know what would have happened at a time such as this?”

Bradley remained silent while in his mind he recalled his much loved housemaster Mr Coddington. Oh, the times they had spent in his master’s study. Mr MacDonald cut short his nostalgia, “Get those trousers off. Underwear too.” He picked up a heavy pillow and carefully placed it on the edge of the bedstead. It would provide much needed additional height for what he had in mind.

Bradley lightened. It was to be just like with Mr Coddington. He stooped down and tackled the laces on his shoes. He worked with mild enthusiasm on the braces that held his trousers aloft. It was a cumbersome business stripping off his clothes. Mr MacDonald watched patiently, toying with a switch in his hands. At last the teenager was prepared.

“Bend over the pillow, across the bed,” Mr MacDonald ordered curtly. Without a murmur of protest, Bradley stepped forward, judged his distance from the bedstead and slowly fell forward. His stomach sank into the pillow and he folded his arms and rested his face in them. The floor was polished wood and his feet slipped when he parted them to produce a more rounded bottom for his employer to thrash.

Mr MacDonald would take his time.  He preferred it that way. It added to the drama and the excitement. Bradley’s shirttail covered part of his naked haunches so his employer took hold of it and pushed it out of the way. Bradley’s buttocks trembled with anticipation.

The switch was about fourteen inches long and thinner than a pencil. It would leave a fine mark, but it was delicate. Mr MacDonald would have preferred a whippy rattan cane, but such things were the province of English schools (and perhaps some in the colonies) but were unobtainable in Germany. He would have to do the best he could. Gerhard had cut him many specimens so as one switch broke with use there were others to take its place.

Mr MacDonald positioned the switch across Bradley’s bare bottom. The touch of the stick sent shivers of sensuous pleasure up his spine. He began to shake all over. MacDonald patted his stick keenly across all segments of the eighteen-year-old’s rump, calculating where to place his first blow.

The first stroke roared over the buttocks, landing, more or less, over the fleshiest part of the boy’s meaty posterior. Surely Bradley’s gasp of amazement could be heard all over the building. He wondered if the blond-haired German boy Gerhard was listening behind the floor.

The heat and sting was tremendous. Bradley gritted his teeth. The switch returned; it tapped, it patted, and it explored all locations particularly the tender under curves of his bottom, tickling him suggestively in those sensitive areas.

The next stroke fizzed a burning stripe lower across his buttocks and made his head swim. He was dizzy, almost sick. His body went rigid with pain. Bradley let out something that was halfway between a gasp and a wail, but it ended in an undignified gurgle.

Mr MacDonald sighed. The switch had broken in his hand. He tossed the remnants to the floor and reached for a substitute. He tested it between his hands. It was a little longer, but thicker than its companion. He swished it through the air, enjoying the powerful swish! as it flew. Bradley was aroused by the terrific noise. He knew he would need to summon wonderful resources of doggedness to carry himself through the ordeal of this caning session without wailing.

There was a breathless silence in the room apart from the crisp sound of MacDonald’s switch tapping on his sore bottom. His employer whacked a third stroke and Bradley lost all control, unleashing a loud, hollow groan. The pain was very nearly unbearable. He gulped loudly and shuddered. Mr MacDonald remained utterly silent. Bradley wriggled his throbbing buttocks restlessly and clenched both cheeks, but MacDonald’s stick returned and worried itself against the hottest spots on his bottom. There was no escape from the switch; it lashed once more. Bradley’s head swam; he had been prostrate for too long. It seemed as if every drop of blood in his body was travelling through his veins at twice the normal speed.

“What an ugly looking row of welts.” Mr MacDonald’s voice was tinged with glee. “You should get up now,” he said softly. “Undress completely and get into my bed.”

And so, Bradley passed the first milestone on his road trip to becoming one of Mr MacDonald’s most trustworthy employees.

Picture credit: Mayser Hute

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The boys in the mailroom

Professor and the fresher student

The boy in the kitchen

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Sgt Trueform takes charge

new 5

z used plimsoll in drawer sting (2)

“Freeman. Hardy. Willis. Come here lads. Now. All three of you!” Sgt Trueform barked as he strode through the playground. Three hapless sixth-formers trailed in his wake. The sergeant was a typhoon. He never stopped. He had energy to burn. He may have been discharged from the Army at the end of the war but he never gave up military discipline. Even now since his appointment as senior sports master at St Francis Independent Grammar School.

The school suited him well. Tradition. What was the Army about if it wasn’t about Tradition? St FIGS, as the school was affectionately known, was no different. It believed in tradition: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional religion and, of course, traditional discipline.

“Follow me!” Sgt Trueform led the way into the changing room adjacent to the gymnasium. The three fellows straggled after him. None was anxious to arrive at their final destination. A cold wind blew across the open, asphalt playground. Ancient buildings stood on three sides, the fourth led onto a grass playing fields where at the far end stood the school’s latest proud possession, the gymnasium.

The wind bit through the boys’ thin singlets and white cotton physical training shorts. Hardy’s legs were already turning blue. Willis could feel a cold coming on. My how all three hated sports classes. Especially in the depth of winter, when the pitches froze and the old martinet Sgt Trueform sent the boys out on a cross country run, through the town and into Widdicombe Wood.

“Get a move on lads!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. He was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice. He had reached the changing room and by the time the wretched threesome arrived he was unlocking the door. The sergeant stood to one side, “Get in there now,” he barked. Freeman and Hardy ducked but the sergeant caught Willis with a hefty clip on the back of his head. He rubbed it ruefully as they stood in the large, empty changing room.

“Stand there. In a row,” Sgt Trueform roared. “Stand up straight Hardy. Don’t slump Freeman.” Sgt Trueform imagined he was back on the Army parade ground. In his mind he had never left it. For him the school was merely an extension of his military days.

“So,” he paced up and down in front of the three lads. “You thought you could skive off Games did you?” He paused as if he genuinely expected a reply. When none came he blustered on. “Not in my school you don’t. Freeman,” he leaned into the eighteen-year-old, “It’s not your first time,” he glared ominously. “I suppose you were the ring leader here. You led the others on,” he narrowed his eyes and leaned into the boy so that Freeman could smell his sour tobacco breath.

“Oh no Sergeant,” Freeman moaned, “That’s not fair. It wasn’t me. They did …”

Before he could finish his sentence, Sgt Trueform growled, “I should keep quiet of I were you lad, you are in enough trouble as it.” Freeman’s jaw dropped and his face sulked.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I don’t care if you are sixth-formers. You think you’re so grown up. Well, let me tell you, you obey the rules just like everyone else. Or else,” he threatened. All three boys stared at their own feet. Willis’s spine shook but it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver.

“Why if this happened back in the Army …” Sgt Trueform let the thought drift in the icy air. He marched across the room to an old, rickety table. Three pairs of eyes followed him. Each boy had a jolly good idea what he was up to. The sergeant tugged open the drawer on the table and reached in. There was only one object inside. His face split into a grin as he picked it up and turned towards the boys. In his hand he brandished a size twelve rubber-soled plimsoll. It was old and well used, but had not seen the inside of a gymnasium or a sports field in many years.

Sgt Trueform gripped it by the heel in his right fist. Then, with his left hand he took hold of the toe end. Menacingly, he flexed the slipper between his hands. Three pairs of eyes turned away. Sgt Trueform grinned maniacally and thwacked the rubber sole against the palm of his hand, savouring the sting it made.

“Step forward Freeman,” he barked, wringing the plimsoll between his hands. Colour drained from Harry Freeman’s face. He had been here before. He knew exactly what to expect. There was nothing he could do about it. It was that kind of school. Sgt Trueform was the master; he was in charge. The boy took a pace forward.

“Stand in the middle of the room, lad,” Sgt Trueform waved the slipper in case Freeman did not understand the instruction. Sorrowfully, the boy shuffled forward. “Since you are a recidivist, Freeman,” Sgt Trueform sneered and then stopped. The blank look on Freeman’s face told him he did not understand, “Since this is not your first time,” the sergeant scoffed, “And since I believe you were the ringleader, we’ll have those shorts down.”

Freeman’s face fell, he could not disguise his shock. “No, sergeant, no,” he protested, “I wasn’t the ring leader, honest, serge.”

Sgt Trueform’s eyes narrowed. He was a fair man (although the boys at the school might not agree) and he had no evidence for his accusation. He dismissed the case immediately, “This is your second time, Freeman. Take down those shorts.”

There was no arguing with that. It was true. It was a verifiable fact. Freeman had been done before. This was his second time. “Oh, serge,” he said piteously.

“Don’t, ‘Oh serge’ me lad. Get those shorts down,” Sgt Trueform glared, twisted the slipper in his hand and then with an almighty whack slammed it down into the palm of his hand, “Now lad!”

There was no more to be said. Nothing more to do. Freeman had skived off the cross-country run. Freeman had been caught red handed. Sgt Trueform had the authority to punish him. “But, serge,” Freeman tried to reason with the man. “We are seniors, serge. Seniors don’t get the slipper.” He started his plea with some confidence but the glare in Sgt Trueform’s eye silenced him.

“Ha!” the sergeant cackled. “What you expect a detention instead,” he sneered. “You think I’m going to sit with you lot in a room for an hour one evening watching you write out lines?” It wasn’t a question, for he carried on, “Shorts down. Bend over.”

Freeman sucked on his bottom lip. He had no choice. He had to do it. With no enthusiasm he took hold of the elasticated waist of his white cotton shorts. He wore no underpants. He would be naked from the waist down. He dismissed the thought of a further protest from his mind. He just had to get on with it.

He turned his back slightly so Sgt Trueform would not have a clear view of his cock and balls, put his thumbs inside the waistband and slowly pushed the tight shorts down until they had cleared his buttocks. He left them bunched up over his thighs.

“All the way Freeman. Let them fall to the floor,” Sgt Trueform slapped the slipper across his palm once more. He watched intently as, red-faced, the eighteen-year-old shoved them to his knees and let them slip down to his feet.

Sgt Trueform pretended not to notice Freeman’s long, thin cock, nestling in a hairy bush.

“Bend over, lad,” he snapped. “Touch toes lad. Not knees lad. Toes. All the way.”

It is not easy to take up the “touch toes” position, especially if like Freeman you were a dough boy, running to fat.

“Spread your legs, lad. Now touch toes.”

Freeman could not do it. He huffed and he puffed. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. He could only get down as far as his knees. “Stay like that,” Sgt Trueform barked with exasperation. Freeman’s buttocks wobbled like jelly. If any boy would benefit from regular exercise it was him.

He was a tall boy when standing and bent like this he presented his bum at a perfect height to receive Sgt Trueform’s slipper. Freeman’s cock dangled in front of his upturned face emphasising to him his nakedness. Cold air wafted across his bare cheeks and suddenly he realised the sergeant and his two pals had a perfect view into his crack and hole. He shut his eyes tight.

Whap!!! The sergeant was delighted to see the sole of his size twelve plimsoll imprinted on Freeman’s left cheek. A deep pink pattern quickly emerged. The boy’s hands rose from his knees and in a panic he stopped himself just in time from jumping to his feet to rub away the sting.

“Steady lad. Stay down,” Sgt Trueform growled. He waited for Freeman to resume the position. Head down, bottom jutting out. Whap!! The rubber sole pounded into the right buttock. Now he had two identical footprints across his bum.

The next whack went higher on the left cheek. Then lower on the right. After twelve swats no square inch of Freeman’s buttocks were un-toasted. The pink was turning to red, and even mauve in some places. Sgt Trueform grinned. He rubbed the palm of his hand across Freeman’s left cheek. “I could warm my cold hands,” he said enigmatically. “Stand up lad.”

Freeman rose. He had never sat down on an open coal fire, but he imagined if he ever did, it would feel like this. His bum was blistered. “Shorts up. Stand by the wall,” Sgt Trueform ordered. As Freeman ruefully tugged up his shorts and gave his bum a couple of furtive rubs, the sergeant barked, “Hardy. Take his place.”

All colour had drained from Joe Hardy. He watched awestruck as Freeman shuffled across the room and stood by the wall. Hardy had been given a perfect view of his pal’s torment. His own legs shook as he tried to move forward. He didn’t think he could take such a slippering.

Sgt Trueform read the eighteen-year-old’s mind. “Bend over. You can keep your shorts up. But if you ever come back here again, you’ll know what to expect.” Hardy almost gasped with relief. He took a deep breath and stretched down. He was slimmer than Freeman and had little difficulty touching his toes.

Sgt Trueform watched him go. The cotton shorts were truly short – not much longer than undershorts older men wore – they clung to the contours of Hardy’s bottom. The white shorts gleamed. Evidence, if any were needed, that Hardy had not been on a muddy cross-country run that afternoon.

z used plimsoll gym white pants sting (3)

Hardy clenched his buttocks tightly, now his bum was as hard as a rubber ball, it was protecting itself from the expected onslaught. Hardy sucked down a mouthful of saliva, his heart pounded through his thin vest. He felt a slight tap-tap of the rubber sole across his stretched bottom, the sergeant was finding his aim. Hardy’s shoulders tensed. The slipper was lifted away, Hardy bit down on his lower lip. There was a pause, but not much of one and then WHACK! the sound of plimsoll against tight flesh resounded around the room. The shock pushed the teenager forward, his fingers flew from his toes, his knees buckled and he almost toppled over.

Sgt Trueform hadn’t said but Hardy knew instinctively the punishment for standing up would be extra whacks. With something akin to a superhuman effort he forced his fingers back to the toecaps of his own plimsolls. His bum burned, his head throbbed and blood raced through his arteries.

Sgt Trueform was taking no prisoners that afternoon. He laid the second whack harder and tried not to show the enthusiasm he felt. The victim bent over submissively before him gasped with the shock of the impact. The lad’s hips twisted and his knees creased. The sergeant took aim for the third stroke.

Joe Hardy felt a certain pride after the twelfth stroke landed on the underside of his left cheek. It missed most of the thin cotton shorts and fell on naked flesh. The pain was excruciating; he would have difficulties sitting for the rest of the day, his bum was roaring hot, but it was over now. He had survived. His head was close to exploding, his face and neck were as scarlet as his backside. The back of his singlet was drenched with perspiration. His throat was parched and his temples pulsated. He was a wreck, but he had come through. His grey eyes blazed but no tear had trickled down his face.

“Stand up!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. “Back to the wall. Willis, take his place.” Hardy stretched his back and staggered to the upright position, he shocked himself when he stumbled with his first step and almost went tumbling to the ground. He was so concerned about getting himself safely to the edge of the room that he didn’t notice his pal John Willis was rooted. Tears washed all colour from his face.

“Willis!” Sgt Trueform jeered, “I’m waiting lad! Get yourself over here!”

“No sergeant, no sergeant, no. Please,” Willis begged. “No, please.”

“Now boy!” the master snorted.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman exchanged glances. Willis was a funk. He couldn’t take it. He was pleading to be let off.

“Couldn’t I do lines sir. Detention. Anything,” panic was rising in his voice and Willis wrung his hands pleading.

“Bend over lad!” Sgt Trueform squeezed the size twelve plimsoll in his hands. His muscles tensed and his face snarled. “Don’t test me boy!”

John Willis had lost it. Tears flowed down his face and his shoulders heaved. “No. No. No,” was all he could sob.

“Lads,” Sgt Trueform addressed Freeman and Hardy. “Grab him. Hold him down over the bench.” He nodded across the room to a low wooden structure.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman did not utter a word to each other. But they communicated nonetheless. Both were nursing sore backsides. They had taken their whackings. Freeman’s was on the bare. They had all skived the cross-country run, they had all been caught, they all deserved punishment, why should John Willis get away with it?HardyH

Without hesitation, Hardy moved forward and gripped Willis by the left elbow. Freeman took his cue from his pal and grabbed the right. Together they dragged a howling Willis across the floor. The boy’s feet slipped against the cold ground as he failed to get traction to resist.

Within seconds they were at the bench.

“Face down,” Sgt Trueform ordered. “Hold him steady.”

Two boys were always going to be stronger than one. John Willis had no chance. He was upended and dumped unceremoniously along the bench. It was about ten feet long and two wide, there was ample room to take the eighteen-year-old schoolboy.

“Shorts down?” Freeman asked a little too eagerly.

Sgt Trueform glared at the writhing Willis. What a coward the lad was. Couldn’t even take a spanking. His two pals had followed his orders and accepted their punishment. They were fine men. Fine English men. But what about this other snivelling wretch? He had known men like Willis in the Army. Weaklings, quitters, defeatists, deserters. How he hated them all. They would always let you down.

“Shorts down, serge?” Hardy was ready to rip them from the teenager’s backside. Sgt Trueform’s heart sped. Bare-arsed. Yes, he would love to whip the boy bare-arsed. That would show him. Show him who was the boss. Who was the master and who was the subordinate.

Willis wriggled and writhed, he hollered and screamed. The yells were so intense the sergeant feared he would be heard all across the playing fields and back in the main school buildings. Any moment someone might burst into the changing room attracted by the racket wondering whether a murder was being committed.

Sgt Trueform wanted dearly to beat Willis’s bare bum black and blue but he was a realist. The school allowed him a great freedom when dealing with the boys. It was a traditional school, health sports and healthy discipline were high in its priorities, but even St FIGS might baulk at the sight of two senior boys holding a third over  a bench while the sports master spanked his naked buttocks with a heavy plimsoll.

“Better leave them up lads,” he sighed and then with more gusto, he added, “This time.”

Freeman took the shoulders and Hardy the legs. That way they were clear of Willis’s torso and bottom. The sergeant had clear access to his prey. He stood towering over the prostrate boy. Willis was a smallish lad with narrow shoulders and slender hips but his bottom was round and ample. When he stood it jutted out behind him and some people said it looked like the tail of a bird. Now, with Willis flat on his stomach, the buttocks were presented as two hillocks, full and fleshy.

The sergeant took a deep breath, tensed the muscles in his forearm, laid the slipper across Willis’s left cheek, then he raised the rubber-soled plimsoll high and hammered it home. The boy’s wail outperformed a banshee. It sent a cold shiver up Harry Freeman’s spine but he pressed down harder onto Willis’s shoulder; he wasn’t letting the coward free.

“Keep him pinned down,” Sgt Trueform encouraged. Harry Freeman was so strong and Willis so weak there was no chance of escape. Harry felt the bones in the shoulder of the boy beneath him. From his vantage point he had a perfect bird’s-eye view of Willis’s buttocks.

Harry’s eyes swivelled from sports master to prostrate boy; from the hand holding the slipper, to the plump backside about to receive it. The next whack cut across the boy’s bottom raising dust from the stretched cotton of his shorts. Willis tried to kick his legs up and down and to summon the strength to lift himself free of the bench, but Hardy had a firm grip of his ankles.

Harry Freeman swallowed hard as he caught sight of the stern, impassive look on Sgt Trueform’s face, and the icy coldness of his blue eyes, as the sports master assessed the impact of each whack and took time to determine which part of Willis’s bottom would be the target of the next smack.

Willis’s entire body was quaking; his backside was quivering and wobbling; even spasmodically jerking.

The twelve whacks that Sgt Trueform pounded across Willis’s backside were no more severe that those Freeman and Hardy had received, but by the eighth stroke the boy was hollering to be let off. Screaming, and writhing and twisting as much as Harry Freeman’s heavy hands would allow.

Then, the beating over John Willis gradually ceased his screaming. Freeman and Hardy released their grips and embarrassed shuffled across to the other side of the room. They stood unsure what to do next. Had they been dismissed? Should they get dressed and go home?

Willis was crying. Quietly. Tears rolling down his cheeks. Trying to suppress any sound and unable to stop the sobbing.  Neither could he stop the sniffing nor the noise in the back of his throat as his body tried to gulp in the air his lungs needed between sobs. He was trying to keep as quiet as possible but the noise was deafening.

Picture credits: Both Sting Pictures

More stories from St FIG’s are here

Other stories you might like

Housemaster’s double caning  

Uncle Martin lends a hand

Memories of Dad’s slipper

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Caught drinking beer

new 5

Mr Harding parked the car in the driveway of his house. His head throbbed. It must be the flu, he feared. Better to leave the office behind, take a few aspirins and get into bed. He unlocked the front door. As he headed for the stairs he saw the door to the kitchen was ajar. The house should be empty. What was going on? Stealthily, he approached wondering if he had burglars.  He needn’t have worried. It was his nineteen-year-old son Lucas. But, why wasn’t he at college?

Mr Harding’s temper was already frayed and he let fly, “What are you doing at home during the afternoon? What the hell have you got there! Drinking. I thought we agreed no more drinking during the day. Not after you were arrested for drink-driving. I just cannot believe you.”

Lucas shrugged his shoulders and drained the bottle in his hand.

“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. How many of those have you had? Are you drunk?” Mr Harding fumed. “Look at you. You’re nineteen years old. You’re supposed to be at college and here you are skiving off classes. You can’t be trusted. I’ve tried to treat you like an adult. To give you responsibilities. But look at you. This is how you behave.”

Lucas could not hide his indifference. It was like a red rag to a bull. His father waved his arms hysterically,  “You don’t give me much choice do you? If you can’t behave like an adult, I’ll have to carry on treating you like a child won’t I?”

It wasn’t really a question but Mr Harding paused in the hope he might get some response from his surly son. When none came Mr Harding’s temperature rose another ten degrees. “Yes. You know what that means don’t you. You’ve only got yourself to blame. God knows I’ve tried with you and this is how you repay me.”

Suddenly Lucas’s ears pricked up. He had only been half listening. Now he was getting his father’s drift. His eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “But …” he wheezed, but his father was now on a roll.

“Spanking. I thought we were done with this, but clearly we are not.”

“I’m too old for this,” Lucas had found his voice.

“No, you are not too old for this. You’re too old for this when you demonstrate to me you can be trusted. Put that beer bottle down.”

Lucas stared at the label of the bottle in his hand as if only just realising it was there.

“Now! …. I shan’t tell you again.”

Hurriedly, the boy but the bottle on the table. He watched his father pick up a straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room.

“Right stand up. Come over here.”

“No!” Lucas protested. “What for?”

“You know what for. Now, come over here. Get across my knee.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t.”

“I can and I will.” Mr Harding gripped Lucas by his left wrist and pulled him forward. The nineteen-year-old struggled hard but his feet slipped on the shiny floor tiles as he resisted and he toppled forward. Soon he was face down over his father’s knees: head low, bottom high in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. Skipping college and drinking during the afternoon. You deserve all you get.”

Mr Harding held Lucas tightly around the waist. The teenager wriggled and writhed but he was going nowhere. His bum was wide and meaty and his buttocks filled out the seat of his denims. A perfect target Mr Harding told himself as he raised his hand high and brought it down hard across his son’s left cheek. Then he raised the hand again and motored. Slap after slap rained down across Lucas’s bum. It was like machinegun fire.

Lucas did not take it well. “Stop that noise,” his father fumed. “You deserve this. A damn good spanking. I should have done this before. When you got arrested for drink-driving. I know you got fined and banned but think of what might have happened. You could have killed somebody. A child. You stupid oaf. I should have taken my belt to your backside then.”

Mr Harding slapped his hand into Lucas’s hard bottom. His palm was hurting badly. He hoped he was having some effect on the boy’s backside. Just then, the front door opened and his wife appeared. She stood, mouth gaping in the doorway to the kitchen.

z used otk jeans kitchen sting 4

“I came home early and found him at home. Skiving off college and drinking beer. After all that trouble before,” Mr Harding told her.

His wife watched her husband’s hand as it pounded into the seat of Lucas’s jeans. “You’re wasting your time with that. You’re not getting through. You’re not hurting him one little bit.”

Mr Harding paused in his efforts. “What’s that? … Yes, I think you’re right.” He looked down at his son sprawled across his knee. “You’re not really feeling this are you?” He looked over at his wife. “Hey, love can you go fetch your hairbrush. You know that big black one. The heavy one that used to be your grandma’s. That’ll make an impression.”

Mr Harding continued spanking his son’s bum as his wife hurried from the room. His hand was definitely hurting now. Lucas’s hips bucked and his hips swayed. In a moment he was likely to topple off his father’s lap and land in a heap on the floor.  Just then his wife reappeared. In her hand she brandished the hairbrush. It was a monster – easily thirty centimetres long with the handle. The head was oval shaped and measured about ten centimetres across. She held on tightly to it and tapped the head into the palm of her hand demonstrating how heavy it was. It made a fantastic spanking implement.

Mr Lucas stopped spanking. “Right you. Get up.” Sourly, Lucas climbed to his feet. He saw the mighty brush in his mother’s hand and considered making a run for it.

His father had other ideas. “Stay where you are. I’m not finished yet. Not by a long way. You’ll regret skiving off college and drinking beer before I’m through with you young man. You need to learn a lesson and by God I’m going to teach it to you.”

Mr Harding took the brush from his wife and waved it close to his son’s face. The boy blanched. He had felt the power of this brush before. He had hoped never to encounter it again.

Mr Harding smacked the brush into the palm of his hand. “Right you. Let’s have those jeans down.”

Lucas said nothing but the look on his face spoke volumes. “Yes,” his father confirmed. “Right down.”

“No, but Dad, c’mon,” Lucas had found his voice.

“Don’t you dare argue with me. Take them down. NOW! Do you want me to get your mother to take them down for you?”

Lucas’s face was already scarlet. The force of the spanking and the acute embarrassment he felt did that. He fumbled with his jeans.

“No,” his father growled, “I didn’t think so. Get them down. All the way. To the ankles.”

The jeans puddled at the teenager’s feet.

“That’s right. Good. Be thankful you’re not taking your pants down as well. I’d happily give to a bare-bottomed spanking, but we need to spare your mother’s blushes. Right. Now bend across the kitchen table. Yes. The table. Stop whining please and just do it.”

Mr Harding watched dispassionately as his son waddled the three or four steps needed to get to the table. The jeans snagged around his ankles and nearly sent him toppling face-down to the floor. Lucas stood hesitantly at the table. He looked forlornly across at his mother, his eyes appealing to her to intervene, to stop his father spanking his bottom with the heavy hairbrush. He got no joy from her. Her face was grimly set. Lucas needed his backside blistered and she was glad her husband had the courage to do his duty.

Lucas looked at his father, now brandishing the hairbrush threateningly. He was raring to go. He tested the weight of the brush in his hand. Sadly, Lucas lowered himself forward. His stomach and chest rested on the cold wood. He hesitated a moment working out in his head where he should put his arms. He decided to reach forward and grip the far edge of the table top.

His father waited for his son to settle before approaching. Lucas had submitted himself to the deserved punishment. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the pain to come. Mr Harding was almost ready, but not quite. Lucas’s body tensed when his father gripped the elasticated waistband of his cotton underpants. He gasped, fearful that his father had changed his mind and he was going to bare Lucas’s buttocks.

He needn’t have worried. His father took the waistband and pulled hard. The cotton underpants now fitted snugly against the buttocks. The cheeks were lifted and separated and the crack between them was clearly visible under the cloth. Now satisfied, Mr Harding tapped the head of the brush against the fleshiest part of the left buttock. He took his aim, raised the brush high, paused for a second or two with it in the air and hammered it down with all the force he could muster. It sank into the left cheek. Lucas opened and closed his mouth but managed to stifle the yap his body insisted he make.

The second whack – this time on the right cheek hurt just as much. Mr Harding pounded the brush across Lucas’s backside all the while scolding his son.

“That’s hurting I see. Good. It’s supposed to, otherwise we’d both be wasting our time. I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you, bent across the kitchen  table with your jeans at your ankles. With your bottom in the air. Getting a spanking, like a silly little boy. Well, young man, let me tell you, if you do not buck up your ideas and start behaving around here, I’ll have you across this table again and again. And I’ll do it until you learn. Don’t think I enjoy doing this because I don’t. I do it because I love you. We love you. Your mother and me. We want you to grow to be a good man.”

Mr Harding increased the force and the speed of the spanks. Lucas kicked his legs. He wriggled his hips. His privates humped the side of the table. His hands gripped the far edge, his knuckles turned white. His head nodded up and down until he was headbutting the tabletop. He had no breath. The pain in his backside spread across his body. His head ached. His eyes watered. He bit down on his lower lip; anything to stop himself crying out. And still, his father walloped that brush at full pelt into his bucking bum. And still, he scolded his son.

“We want you to be a credit. To yourself and to us. And if that means I have to spank your backside until it’s black and blue, well that’s just what I’m going to do. Remember, this is for your own good. If you don’t want to go through this again, all you have to do is behave yourself. Do you think you can do that?”

The doorbell rang. Mr Harding broke off his lecture. He looked quizzically at his wife. She dashed to the window. “It’s my mother. What does she want?”

Her husband frowned. “Blast. Wait a second. She can’t see this. I’d die of shame if she knew we still had to spank Lucas at his age.” He pounded the brush across the boy’s bottom one last time. “Right lad. Get up and get dressed. You’ve been saved by the bell. Get dressed quickly. It’s over. Go to your room. Stay there until we call you down to meet your grandmother. Remember it’s over this time, but I won’t hesitate to have you back over that table again. Now skedaddle!”

He turned to his wife, “Go open the door love. Your mother will wonder what’s going on.”

Lucas rushed from the room and took the stairs two at a time. He crashed through the door of his bedroom and threw himself face down on the bed. He rubbed and rubbed at his aching arse. Later he would inspect the damage in the mirror. The oval head of the heavy hairbrush was imprinted all across his buttocks and the back of his thighs. The whole area was one continuous red blotch. Mauve marks were forming at the edges. It would take days for them to clear. The pain had already turned to a dull ache but it would reignite every time he sat down on a hard surface for the rest of the day.

He buried his head in his pillow and let the tears of shame and embarrassment soak it.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

Perils of drink-driving

Tompkins in the housemaster’s study

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Out of the bushes and into the study

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The headmaster was at his most sonorous. He was reading a list of names. “And finally, Upper Sixth: Hawkes! Those people are to report for detention straight after school.” Dr Hines peered along the row of senior boys but Hawkes was not present.

“Creasey,” the headmaster moaned, “After assembly find Hawkes and tell him to report to my study immediately.”

“Yes sir,” the head boy smiled. It would be a pleasure.

Hawkes was in the bushes at the side of the school field. He popped out of the rhododendrons and looked down the slope to see if the classrooms were still empty. “Come on Janet, they’ll be out of assembly in a minute.”

They hurried through the bushes and over the muddy paths. Larry Hawkes ran across the wet grass, past the empty rooms and into the boys’ entrance round the side. Janet watched him go, then made her own way to the girls’ entrance.

Larry walked straight to a radiator and started to dry the two dark stains on the knees of his trousers.

When the assembly dismissed Larry still had his knees pressed to the radiator waiting for the natural colour to return to his trousers. His pal Terry Edwards joined him. “Hey up, Lar, where you been?”

“Celebrating.”

“Where?”

“In the bushes.”

“Who with?”

“Janet.”

“Again! You’ll both get expelled if you’re caught.”

“I don’t intend to get caught.”

Creasy came in and watched Larry. “This is the third time you’ve been late this week and missed assembly, Hawkes,” the head boy whined.

“No it’s not,” Larry protested. “I’ve been here ages.”

“You haven’t,” Creasy snarled. “Dr Hines called out your name for detention. You weren’t there. He’s sent me to tell you to report to his study at once.”

“Oh heck,” Larry grimaced.

“It’ll be six, easy,” the head boy smiled malevolently. There was no love lost between the two.

“I’ll just dry off my trousers.”

“Shouldn’t bother,” Creasy smiled. “You probably won’t be needing them.” He hurried away to his first class of the morning.

Larry Hawkes took his time. He was in no hurry. Nothing he did or said could change the course of events. He had been summoned to the headmaster’s study, it would mean only one thing.

Satisfied that the knees of his trousers were dry he gathered up his bag and headed at a snail’s pace out of the building and across the quadrangle to Founders’ Building. The headmaster’s study was on the first floor. Larry gently tapped his own backside with his thumbs as he walked. He had been here before.

He stopped at a large oak door and tapped on the “M” of the nameplate. A voice echoed from within, “Come!” Larry turned the handle and put his shoulder to the heavy door. Dr Hines was seated behind his large mahogany desk. He rested back in his padded chair and peered intently at Larry as he stood in the doorway. “Close the door lad,” the headmaster snarled and snapped his fingers. “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot on the rug in front of his own desk.

Larry stood as generations of schoolboys in similar circumstances had stood: hands behind his back and head slightly bowed. The headmaster shuffled through some pages of foolscap paper. He paused, shook his head and growled. “Quite a litany of offences, Hawkes. You seem to have forgotten that you are a senior boy and as such are expected to show the younger ones an example. Instead you behave no better than a first former.”

Larry grimaced.

“What have you got to say for yourself?”

Larry knew nothing he said would alter a thing. Matters had to take their course. “Sorry, sir,” he said quietly, although he wasn’t particularly. He was incorrigible and unable to follow rules. He would never learn. Not today. Not ever.

“Well,” the headmaster sighed, “If you insist on behaving like a junior boy, you cannot be surprised if I treat you as one.”

Larry looked transfixed as the headmaster slipped off his black gown and hung it on a hook behind the door, then took off his charcoal-grey suit jacket and hung that up too.

Then, slowly he crossed the study lecturing Larry about the headmaster’s shock and horror at his misdemeanours. He reached the cupboard. The door was already slightly ajar. He reached in an gripped a cane. He paced the large open space in the centre of the study, flexing the cane to and fro the whole time. He bent it almost into a circle, then let it spring back.

Larry’s head bowed lower and lower, his hands now clasped tightly his backside, as though trying to protect his tight bottom from the imminent chastisement.

“Right Hawkes. Take off your jacket, hang it on the door. Then stand in the middle of the room.”

Larry took his time. Matters had to take their course, but he was in no hurry to get on with them. He slipped the blazer off his shoulders and reached up to the hook. Slowly, he turned and took up the required position.

Dr Hines watched him thoughtfully. He flexed the cane once more and intoned, “Lower your trousers and underpants.”

Larry blanched. He had expected the cane. Perhaps even trousers down. But on the bare. That was unheard of. He looked intensely at the headmaster. His stare spoke volumes. He opened his mouth to protest. The headmaster cut him short, “Hawkes, you might want to consider the likely consequences if you refuse to accept your punishment. You will be immediately suspended from school and later expelled entirely. You are a bright boy and despite your abominable behaviour you should do well in your examinations. You could go on to the university. Why put all that in jeopardy?”

It was a long speech and Larry listened to every word of it. The headmaster held all the cards. Larry had no choice. A bare-bottomed beating would be a terrible humiliation, but what choice did he have.

“Trousers and underpants down,” the headmaster repeated solemnly. Larry reached for his belt. It was the second time that morning he had lowered his trousers and pants; the first time had been ecstatic. The trousers tumbled down his thighs and bunched at his shins. He slipped his thumbs under the waistband of his Y-fronts and helped them slip down. He cupped his hands over his privates; they were still a little sticky.

“Bend over. Touch your toes,” the headmaster swiped the cane through the air. “Touching your toes is a position normally reserved for the junior boys,” he said, “but it seems appropriate for you Hawkes since you are being punished for the sort of behaviour we normally associate with first or second formers.”

Larry reached for his toes. He was an athletic boy, the star of the nearby youth club’s football team, and his body was lithe and supple. Many of the local girls admired it. He stared down at his trousers bunched at his ankles. He concentrated on the label giving cleaning instructions. He felt his shirt being folded back so that he was bare from halfway up his back down to his ankles.

His buttocks were creamy white, hard and smooth, in spite of the hairs elsewhere on his body, particularly his legs.

Larry was humiliated and blushed red, but the headmaster had not noticed, he was looking at the cheeks of his bottom not the cheeks of his face. Larry reflected that only a few minutes ago he had had sex with his girlfriend. He was eighteen years old, but here he was, bent over touching his toes, like a junior boy, waiting to have his bare bottom lashed by the cane.

The headmaster stood to Larry’s left. He was a man of action. He studied the rounded buttocks presented before him and saw how the naked orbs seemed to twitch slightly and the two cheeks pulled tightly together as though trying to reduce their size so the cane would not have so much to whip down upon.

z used cane school white pants down touch toes sting

He didn’t waste time, tap-tap-tapping, taking aim. He drew back the cane and let fly. There was a hiss followed by a barely audible “hhhha.” Larry sucked in his breath sharply. Across the middle of his bottom was a crimson blotch that was slowly fading into a pink stripe. His bottom looked like a hot cross bun with a thin line at right angles to his deep dividing cleft.

The headmaster raised the cane and then whipped it down again, not too hard but with enough strength to make Larry hiss wildly.

The third vigorous stroke landed across the full meat of Larry’s backside, very close to the line of the first. His bottom danced franticly. Larry sagged and the agony was intense, Larry struggled to stay down in the “touch toes” position, he wanted to leap up and rub away at his scorching bum but he wouldn’t give the headmaster the satisfaction of seeing he had hurt him so much.

The headmaster laid the cane across the fullest part of Larry’s buttocks, making them jiggle. Then smoothly he raised it and brought it down with a quite a sickening Thwack! Larry gave a strangled gasping cry.

The cane bit into his hard bottom again. Once more he jerked as another scarlet line blazed across the firm flesh like a red-hot needle. Larry moaned softly.

Larry was expecting six strokes and bit his lip in anticipation that the final cut would be awesome. The cane whipped into the gentle underswell of his buttocks and needles of fire lanced through his whole body. He gasped and all the breath was expelled from his lungs, causing him to gulp for air, exaggerating and prolonging the sharp pain and hurting him beyond belief.

He writhed and moaned and yelped a bit while wriggling his backside from left to right.

“Stand up. Get dressed.”

Slowly, Larry unfurled himself and rose. It felt like his bum was on fire. He desperately wanted to rub away the pain. But that would have to wait until he was far away from the headmaster’s study. He pulled up his pants, wincing as the cotton pressed against his scorched skin. Soon his trousers were up and fastened and he was climbing back into his blazer.

Dr Hines was not a cruel man. He knew he had punished Larry severely and that the senior schoolboy wanted nothing more than to run away to the lavatories for a prolonged howl. He dismissed him curtly and Larry half-ran and half-stumbled down the stairs and out to the quadrangle.

He had a free period and so no class to run back to. As he entered the school building he saw Janet waiting. She greeted him with a beaming smile. “Been to the headmaster, I see.”

“Does the whole school know?”

“Probably, you know what they’re like.”

Larry made a joke of rubbing his bottom vigorously and kneading pretend tears away from his eyes.

“Well,” Janey shrieked, “Let’s see then?”

“Do what?” Larry laughed.

“Let’s see the marks then.”

Larry blushed, his heart raced. He took Janet by the hand and together they raced towards the bushes.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

New boy at Albion

Bend over. Touch your toes

The fire-raiser

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The rental agreement

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z used couch jeans down messy room

I sat alone in silence in my small rented room listening carefully for the sound of my landlord’s car. He had told me he would come around to see me about the rent I had failed to pay.

It was true I had missed my monthly payment. It was the holiday season and there were more important things to pay for then the rent. He frowned when I told him I didn’t have the money. “You did sign the rental agreement didn’t you?” he asked me sharply.

Yes I had. “Did you actually read it?” he sneered. Had I? I didn’t think I had. I remembered checking on the amount of the rent and that was about all.

“You should have read it all the way to the end,” he told me. “To the part about what happens if you don’t pay the rent on time.”

I shrugged my shoulders. That annoyed him. He rasped, “The bit about being subjected to corporal punishment.”

“Corporal punishment?” I asked, genuinely not understanding.

“Corporal punishment,” he replied as if speaking to a person of limited intelligence, “You know. Spanking.”

“Spanking!” I was incredulous. “How? I don’t understand.”

He leaned into me and we were almost nose to nose. “You signed. You agreed. I have it in all my rental agreements. I’ve had lots of people like you. You kids, you think the world owes you a living. You don’t want to pay your way.”

That wasn’t true. I wasn’t like that. I did pay my way. And I wasn’t a kid. I was nineteen years old and I’d been out in the world since I left school and home three years previously. I had a steady job at a supermarket. It didn’t pay much, but I managed to get by. It was just, as I said, the holiday season can be very expensive.

My landlord shook his head, “It’s there in black and white. Signed and agreed by you. Corporal punishment. A spanking.” Then he told me he would come by next day and I must be sure to be at home.

I waited as instructed. I checked the agreement and Mr Rachlin was not lying, I had agreed to the clause. The room I rented was in a converted house and there were ten of us in all. Most of us were in our late teens and early twenties and I suppose we were all signed up in the same way. I was a bit too embarrassed to go knocking on doors to find out.

Anyway, I had agreed to the spanking clause and I am a man of my word. I had to submit myself to him. I could’ve said I wanted to leave and find somewhere else but that would have been madness. Small cheap rooms like mine were impossible to find, especially in a town like Brocklehurst.

Right on time I heard the purr of Mr Rachlin’s car. It was a Merc; he wasn’t short of a few bob. He himself lived in a grand house in a select street called The Avenue, a million miles from my tiny bed-sit. I heard the car door slam and I waited. My heart was running fast now. I had never been spanked in my life. I had no idea what to expect. It couldn’t hurt too much – could it?

My landlord rapped on my door and I stumbled over and opened it. He stood in the doorway looking into my room. He turned his nose up in the air, “What a mess. It looks like a rubbish tip in here.”

It wasn’t that bad. It’s difficult to keep such a small room tidy. Once you put the bed, a couch, a table and a rail for hanging clothes in it there wasn’t much space for anything else.

Mr Rachlin came in and closed the door behind him. He stood for a while with his feet spread. He was about fifty years old, I guess and like men of that age he had gone to seed a bit. He made a big figure and was perhaps ten centimetres taller than me. He wore no jacket and his belly ballooned over the waistband of his trousers. He carried a plastic bag from the same supermarket where I worked.

I mumbled a greeting. I wasn’t sure how this was going to play out. Was I supposed to offer him tea or coffee like this was some social visit? I stood awkwardly waiting for him to make the first move.

“Do you have the rent?” he asked casually. He knew darned well that I hadn’t – otherwise he wouldn’t be here. I confirmed what he already knew. That was when I saw the slight smile about his lips. It was late in the day and his face was covered with stubble which made his double chins bristle menacingly. It sent a shudder through my body.

His brown eyes shone. “Let’s get on with this shall we?” He smiled broadly. That was when I began to wonder if he might be enjoying this. Without moving, he surveyed the small room. His eye rested on the small couch, he had made up his mind.

“Come over here,” he said as he walked towards the two-seater settee. “Let’s get on with this. I don’t have all night,” and he added ominously, “I have other tenants to visit.”

He delved into the plastic bag and brought out what looked to me like a block of wood. It was almost square at one end and had a small handle. It reminded me of a smaller version of the blocks people use when cutting bread. Mr Rachlin must have seen my confusion. “It’s called a paddle. It’s what our American cousins use for spanking naughty boys’ butts – bottoms that is to me and you.” He brandished it in my face so I got a closer look. It was about a half-centimetre thick and from where I stood it looked very heavy. To demonstrate this point my landlord gripped the handle with one hand and smacked the blade end into the palm of the other. “Look,” he said showing me the red mark he had made on his hand. “That’ll be your backside in a minute.”

He let that sink in for a moment and then he sat down. He beckoned me to stand in front of him. “Put your hands on your head.” It was at this point that I forcefully reminded myself that I was the one who had decided not to pay the rent and instead had used the money on fun and partying. I had to face the consequences of my action. I should do whatever my landlord asked of me. I was surprised how wet my hair was. I had not realised I was sweating profusely, even though the room was quite cool.

“I always do this part myself,” he said evenly. I flinched as with both hands he took hold of my belt and began to unbuckle it. Instinctively I wriggled my hips. “Do not resist,” he said sternly. “Your job is to take your spanking calmly. Next time you’ll pay the rent on time.”

As he said this he had opened the front of my jeans and was calmly guiding them down my legs so they bunched at my shins. He leaned forward and I could smell sour tobacco smoke mingling with some greasy hair oil. It almost made me gag.

I had never been undressed by a man before; and not often by a woman either. My face blazed with embarrassment, but that wasn’t half my problem. Without warning Mr Rachlin took a firm grip on the waistband of my boxer shorts and with a flourish like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat he tugged them down my buttocks. I only wore a short t-shirt so my cock flapped up and down in front of his face. I was mortified. I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this was not happening.

It couldn’t be true. Here I was a nineteen-year-old shopworker standing in his rented room in front of his landlord with his jeans and his underwear at his shins with his arse bared to the wind. Waiting to be spanked on that naked bottom with a heavy wooden paddle. You couldn’t make it up.

Because he carried so much weight in the belly department, Mr Rachlin had sank back into the cushions of the couch and had a problem getting back on his feet. He wheezed with the effort but I had no intention of helping him up. At last he stood beside me. He leaned down again and picked up the paddle. He was good to go.

Without a further word he placed a cushion on top of one arm of the couch. It wobbled and nearly toppled to the floor. He waved his paddle at it and sternly said, “Bend over the couch.” Ice ran down my back.

I looked down at the couch. It seemed very low. It wouldn’t be that easy. I was a virgin to spanking but even I could see bending across the back of the couch would have been a better proposition. I said nothing. Instead I stumbled forward and did my best to lay across the arm. I rested my stomach on it and had to bend my legs behind me so that my feet could rest on the floor. To my front I leaned on my elbows and this meant I had the choice of staring down at the dusty cushion only centimetres from my face or to stare into the distance at the far wall. My back was arched and like this I awaited Mr Rachlin’s next move.

What I couldn’t know because I couldn’t see was that my bottom was raised high at an angle and offered my landlord a terrific target. I’m a long way from being fat – not like Mr Rachlin – but my bum is well covered. I had no idea whether this was a good or a bad thing. Does the more padding a fellow has offer more protection from the paddle? Or does it mean the bum is bigger and there are therefore more nerve ends to set on fire? I didn’t know then and I still don’t.

The floorboards creaked when my landlord took up his position behind me and to my left. I could smell him. Had he showered that day? I shut my eyes tight and my bottom tightened. I braced myself for the pain I expected to start at any moment. I felt Mr Rachlin’s hand press hard into my shoulder blades. There was a pause. I felt a movement in his body. Then, CRACK! the paddle connected with my left buttock cheek. I gasped and the impact was so great my arms collapsed so that my head sank into the cushion. My lips formed a perfect “O” shape and I let out a silent “ouch.”

There was no time to do more before the paddle pounded into my other cheek. My bum was ablaze. Suddenly two more swats hammered into the underside of my cheeks. The pain was indescribable. Was this how it felt if you stood too close to an open roaring coal fire? My back bucked and my legs kicked out.

“Stay in position,” my landlord barked and paddle slammed into my bare bum again. The noise was horrific. The room echoed as though a bomb had gone off. I wondered if the young Asian guy in the next room could hear.

The paddle slammed again and again. I was really feeling it. I writhed and moaned, kicking my feet. I still had enough dignity not to beg Mr Rachlin to stop. Besides, looking back on it I know he had the right to spank me. I had not paid the rent and I had signed the contract.

My bum was hot and sweaty and the paddle was warm. My backside was roasted.

Bent over the arm of the couch like that I was uncomfortably conscious of my bare arse pointing to the ceiling. It seemed like a huge target, completely vulnerable to the big wooden paddle.

Only then did I panic: could Mr Rachlin see up my crack? The embarrassment of offering my bared-buttocks to the older man to spank was intense, but what a humiliation if he was gazing down at my hole?

My landlord couldn’t have been bothered by that because he didn’t slow down with the paddling, in fact he accelerated the assault. Every smack felt like a hot frying pan pressing against my flesh. Steamy tears ran down my face. There was a plump scatter cushion within reach, I grabbed it and buried my head, choking on the dust it held.

Other blows pushed me against the arm, crushing my penis against the couch, adding to the flow of my tears.

I lost all sense of time. Was it a minute, was it an hour? I really don’t know. The sound of the paddle connecting with naked flesh continued to travel around the room. My bum was numb. The pain had reached a plateau. It didn’t matter how many more times he swatted me I wouldn’t feel a thing.

Mr Rachlin might have known this; suddenly he stopped. “That’s it,” he wheezed, “Get up. Get dressed.”

I stumbled to my feet and ran up and down on the spot, like footballers do when they get a kick and try to run-off the pain. It didn’t work. I clutched my bare bum horrified that the flesh felt like leather. I didn’t care that my cock and balls were bouncing in front of my landlord’s face.

“Get dressed,” he repeated. I bent down to retrieve my boxers, my bum burnt some more as I stretched down. The effort of bending made me gasp for breath, I hadn’t realised how shot my body was. At last I had my jeans in place. My backside throbbed like crazy.

Mr Rachlin was ready to go. Before he opened the door he turned to me and snorted, “Don’t forget you still owe me the rent. If I have to come back again next month and you haven’t paid me up, you’ll get double.”

With that he was gone. I heard footsteps as he crossed the hall and then the sound of his knuckles rapping on another door.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

My landlord’s slipper

Step-dad’s little trick

The military camp

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

An unexpected lesson for Alfie

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I’ll be glad when the holidays are over and my nephew goes back to college. He’s been staying with me because his parents have taken themselves off for a New Year’s cruise down to the Caribbean. Lucky them.

It never occurred to me that Alfie would be so much trouble. He’s nineteen – twenty in February – and has been living away at university for a couple of years. I thought he was all grown up, but he keeps acting like a little kid.

The trouble is he treats my home like it’s a hotel. It’s driving my wife Carol to distraction. Nearly every morning we have the same problem: he just will not get out of bed. She cooks his breakfast and wakes him up but then what? Nothing. He never goes down to the kitchen to eat it.

Then, I have to run up and down the stairs all morning to see if he’s gotten out of bed.

 

Well, let me tell you something. I soon tired of that. Alfie’s a good kid, but sometimes he just needs to be pulled up a bit. He needs to be reminded that the world doesn’t revolve around him. I told him what would happen if he didn’t start playing by my rules.

My wife has this hairbrush she picked up at an antiques shop when we went on a visit to Brocklehurst. It’s a great heavy thing made of ebony wood. It’s nothing like those light plastic things they make today. It’s excellent for brushing her hair, but I quickly realised it could have a pretty good secondary use as well.

So last week Monday when I entered my nephew’s room that morning for the fourth time, I was carrying that hairbrush. I threw back his bed covers and delivered a sound smack that had him awake in a second. Before he was totally aware of what was going on I had pulled him to his feet. I sat myself down on the bed and hauled him over my knees. By this time he was awake well enough to be pleading for me to stop. “I will come down to breakfast,” he promised, “Please stop spanking me!” He was wailing like a little kid. Of course, they’ll promise you anything if only you’d stop spanking them.

I was having none of it. I had him where I wanted him and I might not get another chance. I pulled down his pants and started whacking his bare backside with the brush. He’s nineteen years old and entirely too big for this type of a spanking and I did more arguing and threatening than actual spanking while trying to keep him in position. He was flailing and kicking and hollering like crazy but I did succeed in getting in about twenty five whacks before I let him up.

He came down to breakfast on time after that.

I thought that would be the end of it. I had made my point that he ought to be a bit more thoughtful about others and I expected we wouldn’t have any more trouble with him. I could never have imagined what happened next.

It was getting close to midnight on the following Saturday and me and Carol were just getting ready to turn in when the phone rang. It startled us because no one calls us at that time of night. I said, “It won’t be for us, let it ring out,” but my wife said it might be urgent bad news and grabbed the handset. It was bad news all right. It was the local police station. They had Alfie and would someone please come and collect him. Carol melted with shame. He and some other louts had been hauled in for being drunk and incapable.

I had to get the car out and go fetch him. Naturally, I was angry with him but that was nothing to how I felt about the police. The sergeant at the station said Alfie and the others wouldn’t be prosecuted. It was only drunk and incapable, he told me. Not drunk and disorderly. It wasn’t worth the cost and effort taking him to court. He’d only get a ticking off, anyway.

So, Alfie was going to get off scot-free. He had disgraced himself and me and the wife. We wouldn’t be able to show our faces if the neighbours found out. I took him home. I said I’d have a word in the morning and left him to stagger off to bed.

Of course, when I said “a word” that was a code which meant his backside would be doing the listening while my heavy hairbrush did the talking.

I told my wife what had happened and what I intended to do. “The hairbrush,” she scoffed. “He needs a darn sight more than the hairbrush.” Maybe he did, but what did she expect me to do? That was when she reminded me of her Uncle Bill. Bill had been a housemaster at a very posh boarding school for many years. “He knows about this sort of thing,” she said as she rolled over and instantly fell asleep.

Uncle Bill hoped he had not shown too much enthusiasm when he was asked to help out his niece. He had retired as a schoolmaster many years before but he had kept a few souvenirs; among them his tattered academic gown and mortar-board cap along with three stout but whippy curve-handled rattan canes.

When he received the phone call he said he’d be happy to come out of retirement. If that’s what she really wanted. Carol was not a woman to mince words. “Yes, it is. Definitely. When can you get here?”

It was mid-afternoon and the winter sun was quickly setting when Uncle Bill arrived. He was a sprightly man in his seventies but many who met him for the first time thought him much younger. He still ran three miles every other day and was envied among his friends for his strength.

“Does he know that I am here?” Uncle Bill asked once he had taken off his coat and put the cane he had selected down on the dining room table. Carol nodded emphatically, “Oh yes, he knows what to expect.”

Alfie was no stranger to Uncle Bill. The old man had been much used by exasperated parents within the family across a number of generations. His expertise was much in demand and Uncle Bill shared his skill willingly. After all, what were families for?

“Call him down,” Uncle Bill stretched his arm and shoulder muscles, limbering himself up as he spoke, “You don’t need to be present if you’d rather not,” he added. He watched impassively as his niece headed for the stairs.

Shortly, Alfie appeared in the doorway. He wasn’t especially tall for his age, probably about five-feet-eight with a slim build. Uncle Bill was taken by the nineteen-year-old’s blond hair, dark at the roots (obviously dyed). It was parted down the centre and hung down over his eyes, partially obscuring a pale face that might have been thought cute if not for the attempted sneer that twisted the corners of his mouth.

“Come in,” Uncle Bill snapped, he had assumed his oft-repeated role of the disgruntled schoolmaster. “Take that look off your face.” He gestured to a far wall. Alfie hesitated, he could not fail to see the small, white straight-backed dining room chair that stood there, its back unnaturally facing into the room.

He glanced at the old man, but remained silent.

Uncle Bill sighed, “You know why you are here.” Alfie knew it was a statement, not a question and stayed silent. His heart thumped against his chest. “I manged to email your father, he is appalled by your behaviour. Do you want to know what he said?”

This time it was a question, but Alfie had no words. His mouth was parched, his temples were throbbing. The crook-handled cane lay on the table in plain sight. He didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out what was about to happen.

“He agreed I should cane you,” Uncle Bill answered his own question. “What do you say to that?” Another question.

If he were a member of any other family, Alfie might have said, “But I’m nearly twenty, I’m too old for this.” But his was no ordinary family. Uncle Bill’s standing was well-known. In the summer he had dealt with Arron and he was twenty-two and in trouble with the law. Rumour had it the young man could hardly walk, let alone sit down, for two days.

Uncle Bill picked up the cane. It was a typical old-fashioned school cane, made of rattan and a little over three feet long. It was as thick as a biro but was wonderfully whippy. Uncle Bill brandished it at Alfie and then menacingly flexed it between his hands. It made a perfect arc. Alfie’s eyes transfixed on the rod’s smoothness. What little saliva there was in his mouth drained. His throat hurt. The room began to move slowly.

“Six of the best,” Uncle Bill said, almost jauntily. “Stand there.” He brandished the cane and swished it towards the small chair.

Alfie didn’t understand: what was happening to him. His knees groaned, the light jumper he wore was beginning to soak with sweat. He desperately needed a drink.

He heard the cane swoosh once more through the air. “Yes, just there,” Uncle Bill tapped the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Turn round and bend over.” Alfie’s look of incomprehension would not deter Uncle Bill. “You need it to support you. It will hurt you more this way. That is the purpose of a caning you know.”

Bewildered, Alfie looked at the chair in front of him. He towered over it. What was he supposed to do? Bend over? What did that mean exactly?

Uncle Bill was used to dealing with boys who were about to receive their first caning. They had to be “talked through” the process. He tapped the cane on the seat of the chair. “Stand behind the chair. Place both hands on the seat. Arch your back enough so that your backside juts out. It helps if you spread your feet.”

Looking back, Alfie couldn’t believe what he did next. Instead of fleeing to the sanctuary of his room, he sidled up to the chair. The seat looked a long way down. He reached over and took hold of it and waited.

“No further than that,” Uncle Bill snapped. “Bend over as far as you can,” he pushed Alfie’s shoulders down. “Further!” Uncle Bill stepped back to get a better look. “Good, now hold on for dear life. Spread those legs. Yes, but keep the knees straight.”

As Alfie stood head lowered, bottom raised, the room span. Uncle Bill observed the teenager’s hard bottom straining against the seat of his jeans. The denim was pretty thick. Could he risk ordering the boy to take them down for a caning across the underpants? He mused for a moment and dismissed the idea. The brat deserved a severe caning. It would do him good. It would buck his ideas up a bit. But, Uncle Bill feared Carol might think it overstepped the boundaries of modesty. “Oh well,” he consoled himself, “maybe next time.”

Uncle Bill was lefthanded so he stood to Alfie’s right and tapped the whippy, heavy cane on the rounded backside. He was tempted to lay at least one dark weal across the boy’s muscular thighs swelling under the denim but he decided to slash each stroke squarely into the seat of the jeans.

Alfie felt the weight of the cane, stinging him lightly but unpleasantly even when applied with almost no force. He felt its heavy, threatening mass. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding on tightly to the chair.

“Well,” said Uncle Bill. “I had better cane you, hadn’t I?”

“Not now!” Alfie kept the thought to himself . “Not yet! I’m not ready for it!”

But when would he ever be ready for it? The cane descended with a low-toned whoosh. The impact was heavy and almost numbing. It knocked him forward, and as he went two of the legs of the chair rose from the ground almost making him lose his balance. For a split second it did not seem to have hurt him very greatly. Then the pain came welling up like a biting, stinging, bruising wave. He wanted to let go of the chair and stand up to rub the pain away, but he dared not. Some long dormant instinct told him this was not the way to behave. He must pretend that the thrashing had not hurt.

The second stroke came, and now the pain mounted to a terrible crescendo. Alfie’s head shook from left to right vigorously like an old horse troubled by a fly. Wind escaped his pursed lips which made it sound like he was neighing.

There was a pause. Uncle Bill knew his business. He waited for the pain of the two strokes to soak in for a quarter of a minute. Then he tapped the heavy cane again on the seat of the jeans. Alfie winced both at the pain it caused on his already sore bum and the anticipation of what was to follow.

Uncle Bill drew back the cane and sank another satisfyingly hard stroke into the blue surface. Three clear lines were now etched into the tight denim. Beneath the jeans welts were throbbing. Alfie felt the impact; his body hated the pain, but his brain sent him different signals. Alfie gasped. It was all he could do to keep holding the chair.

z used cane jeans touch toes domestic

“Your punishment is half-way through,” Uncle Bill intoned. “I trust you are enjoying it.” He bit into his lip. What a thing to say.

“Thank you, sir,” Alfie wheezed.

Uncle Bill’s eyebrows arched. Had he heard Alfie’s tone correctly?

Alfie’s heart raced and sweat ran down the back of his shirt. The same number of strokes still to go. He wondered how he could endure it.

Slowly and in measured fashion. Uncle Bill delivered three more strokes with all his force, squarely across the bucking backside. The heavy, whippy cane felt firm and powerful, the gasps and small cries of the nineteen-year-old submitting himself to him were intensely satisfying and he enjoyed the impact which seemed to rock Alfie forward each time. He knew he was putting him through a dreadful ordeal and he liked it.

The boy’s mother might have been horrified, but Uncle Bill had a certain matter-of-fact harshness that represented the attitude of countless schoolmasters through the ages.

He would never have committed any real cruelty, of course, but he knew how beneficial an authentic caning could be. Anything less would detract from the quality of the thing and leave the boy ultimately disappointed. Uncle Bill knew Alfie was not enjoying his ordeal, but there was nonetheless something in the way he had said, “Thank you, sir.”

On some level that Alfie could not yet imagine this caning was satisfying to him as well as to Uncle Bill.

The man was experienced enough to understand that deeper level and not to hold back or feel regret because of the superficial layer of pain he was inflicting, although to Alfie that was the only thing his mind and body understood at this moment.

Nothing but the thought of repeating the caning from the beginning, kept Alfie from gripping the chair through those desperate moments as Uncle Bill lashed those terrible last three strokes. Each one seemed to cut him in half and impel him with a force beyond resistance to leap up.

But reason held sway over nature and Alfie held the seat.

“Good lad,” Uncle Bill cooed approvingly, ten seconds after the sixth and final stroke had seared across the hard target. Alfie’s bottom was on fire. It felt like Uncle Bill had forced him to sit in an open coal fire.

“You may stand.”

Alfie rose to his feet, his face flushed almost to match his backside. His head swooned. Colours passed the back of his eyes. It was like being on drugs.

“ T…t…t…thank you, sir,” he stammered.

Uncle Bill flexed the sturdy cane. “ Now that, young man, was a caning,” he said, with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He had truly enjoyed it; not in a cruel or vindictive way, but with a genuine artistic pleasure.

“Yes, sir,” Alfie said as he furiously rubbed the seat of his jeans. The agony was already dimming to a throbbing ache. Somehow, in a way he could not yet articulate, he thought he understood Uncle Bill.

“You should go upstairs,” Uncle Bill tucked the cane under his arm in the fashion of a sergeant-major.

Alfie rushed to the bathroom and splashed his flushed face. He drank some cold water and slipped his hands down the back of his jeans and under his briefs. His burning, tender, welted backside felt like corrugated cardboard.

It was still painful to touch and he dared not look. He glanced at his face in the mirror, not recognising the ghostly-pale vision that stared back. His head had stopped spinning. He felt somehow purified and pleased with himself to have come through the ordeal. As he went back down the stairs he was filled with the most curious mixture of sensations. He felt at once tearful and tremulous, throbbing with lingering pain, slightly queasy, proud, peaceful and cleansed. He felt glad to have had the experience and was not absolutely determined to avoid having it again at any cost.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

Don’t borrow dad’s car

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Harry discovers he’s not too old …

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The doorbell rang. Babs was flustered, she looked at the clock in the hallway. “Damn,” she said aloud although nobody was there to hear her, “She’s on time.” Babs wasn’t ready. Something had cropped up. Something unexpected. This really wasn’t a good time to have a neighbour call. She hurried down the hall and quietly closed the door to the front room. If she was careful she could steer her friend into the kitchen. She need never know.

Babs wiped her hands on her dress, slowly counted to five and opened the door. Mags from across the road smiled weakly, “I thought you were never going to answer. Brrrr, it’s perishing. I didn’t put on my heavy coat.” She didn’t need an invitation, she brushed past Babs into the inviting warmth of the house and headed towards the front room.

“No! Not there,” Babs realised her voice was too shrill but it was too late to moderate it, “Let’s go into the kitchen.” Mags looked startled. They always used the front room. What was up? Babs read her mind, “Oh it’s such a mess in there. You know Christmas,” she gave a frown and exaggerated shrug of the shoulders. “Come in here. It’ll be warmer,” she led the way to the kitchen. Mags hesitated. Couldn’t she hear voices – raised voices – coming from the front room?

They sat in uncomfortable silence waiting for the kettle to boil. Something was wrong, Mags sensed it. She had known her friend for many years. She had never seen her so … so what? Nervous?  Worried? Edgy? Agitated? She smiled softly, hoping Babs might spill the beans.

“Won’t be long. Won’t be long,” Babs glanced at her watch and then at the cold kettle.

Her husband George was in the front room with the couple’s nineteen-year-old son, Harry. He was staying for the holidays. Things were not going well. He had lived away from his parents for more than two years. Life in the big city was so different from his small hometown of Brocklehurst. Harry was a different person now. He played by his own rules. He had a job, he shared a house with three other guys. He was, he insisted, an adult.

Parents struggle when their children grow and fly the nest. To Mum and Dad Harry would always be about ten years old. The small boy. In need of love and guidance: firm rules, backed up when necessary by a firm hand. The past few days had been difficult. Harry arrived on Christmas Eve and it was now December 28th. Harry had become restless confined to the house, making small talk with his parents and visiting neighbours. He needed some Life.

So, the previous night he had sneaked out to The Three Fishers, the most notorious pub in sleepy Brocklehurst. It had been packed and by chance he met up with lads from school. One thing led to another. And another. He rolled back home at three in the morning, woke everybody in the house (and possibly the neighbours too) because he no longer had a door key. Dad was none too pleased to be dragged out of a warm bed in the freezing cold. His irritation was multiplied when Harry emptied the contents of his stomach over the carpet as he fell up the stairs.

Dad was old-fashioned. He had standards. He believed an Englishman’s home was his castle. He made the rules. Harry knew that. Puking up on the carpet was most certainly against the rules.

Harry sobered up quickly; nineteen year olds have remarkable powers of recovery. So it was that next morning a confrontation took place. Harry’s mother told him quietly he ought to get himself downstairs and into the front room.

His heart had lain heavily in his stomach as he awaited his father. Then it seemed to rise into his throat. Dad stood frowning in the doorway. Harry watched forlornly as his father crossed the room and seated himself on the sofa.

“Come here, Harry,” he said. The teenager rose and with leaden legs shuffled across the room. “Closer please. Stand exactly there.” His father indicated a spot on the carpet. “ Now, Harry, what have you to say for yourself? ”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“You don’t know. You know what I’m talking about don’t you?”

“Yes, Dad,” Harry sucked on his bottom lip.

“Drunk,” his father sighed. “Look, son, you’re nineteen. You’ve been moody and disrespectful the whole holiday. Mum and me shouldn’t be troubled with your constant misbehaviour. You should have learned how to behave by now. You’ve spoiled your mum’s Christmas, you know that.”

Harry bowed his head in embarrassment, but not shame. He had enjoyed himself greatly at The Three Fishers, a pub frequented by available girls and given the chance he would visit again before he went back to the city.

His dad sighed again. He shook his head sorrowfully, “I wonder Harry if anything I am saying is getting through to you. I could tell you off until my face turns blue. You must get a grip of yourself. The time for childish behaviour is over. You’re growing up. You have got to act responsibly. Coming home drunk through the streets for all the neighbours to see.

“This is a small town, Harry. Your reputation goes with you everywhere. You used to be admired by some round here as a charming child and you are a good example some times. Now you must learn to discipline yourself and be well behaved all the time, not only when you feel like it.

“If you can’t discipline yourself, well,” he shook his head, “you know what must happen don’t you?”

Harry stared vacantly at the floor beneath his feet. He knew this moment would come, but he dreaded it nonetheless. “Yes Dad,” he whispered.

“Good,” his father said sternly. “You know what to do. Let’s have those jeans down.” He nodded at the boy’s Levis as if there was any doubt what he meant. Harry’s face coloured, he took a deep breath. He knew he ought to argue. To say, “I’m nineteen, I’m too old for this.” And it was true: he was nineteen, but his behaviour had been bad. He had let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he knew, he had let himself down. Instead of arguing, he took hold of his belt and began to unbuckle.

“All the way down,” his father encouraged. Then, “Good. Come, bend over my knee.”

Harry obeyed, lying himself across his father’s lap, his upper body resting on the vacant seat of the sofa.

“Put your hands under me,” coaxed his father. It was his practice when administering a severe spanking to sit on Harry’s hands, this made it impossible for the boy to struggle.

Harry manoeuvred his hands under his father’s heavy thighs. Harry had a slim build with slender hips and a small, hard bottom. His underpants had snugged against his cheeks and into his crack, lifting and separating his buttocks.

He was pinned firmly and he felt his father’s hand gently caressing his left cheek. The old man was smoothing out the last remaining wrinkles from Harry’s cotton pants. The teenager gasped slightly as the hard palm of his father’s hands explored the circuit of his two buttocks and into the undercurves and across the back of his naked thighs.

He knew how he was to be disciplined. He had seen the hairbrush waiting on the seat, and watched his Dad pick it up before he positioned himself across his knee. In truth, it was not actually a hairbrush, although that is what it was always called. It was a round-headed bath-brush, long, heavy and with a back flat enough for its purpose. There were numerous of these brushes in the shops, glistening in their light-brown glossy timber. There was a severity about these implements, so ideal for their purpose as spanking tools and versatile enough to use in the shower as well.

z used otk pants brush couch (5)

Harry tensed himself involuntarily as he felt a motion in his father’s body: the first stroke was coming. The flat, heavy, stinging shock exploded across his skin, penetrating the cotton pants as if they had not been there at all. Such delicate protection was powerless against the heavy thwack of the brush.

His legs stiffened, his body reared a little, though his hands were pressed immobile by warm, masculine thighs.

“I hope you are not going to resist,” his father grunted. “I have all day if you do. Relax, please. Submit yourself. You deserve this spanking and you know you do.”

Harry forced his body to go limp, letting himself go to the will of his father. The brush smacked home again, tingling-sore upon the surface of his bottom, yet deeply hurting too. These were not “love taps”, they were heavy strokes. A third, a fourth, a fifth and a sixth thwacked with force against his bucking backside. Harry yelped, tensed, tried to untense and tensed again.

He had endured spankings from his father better than this in the past, but punishment is a curious thing. In the right mood he could absorb so much, submitting himself. But today was different, Harry could hardly bear to be touched. The ringing, flood waves of pain were almost intolerable.

Often his father scolded him all through a spanking. Today he seemed to have said all he had to say. Harry knew what was expected. If he tensed and arched himself, the punishment would go on. If he submitted it would come in the end.

Unable to help himself and although he was pinned by the hands, Harry twisted his legs to avoid the pain, opening his thighs in an ungainly manner. His father deftly brought down the hard brush in agonising reproof across Harry’s exposed inner thighs.

The teenager squealed like a wounded animal and closed his legs as his only way of protecting the sensitive flesh. For the rest of the spanking his legs remained neatly side by side, despite the mounting pain in his bottom and thighs. The burning soreness would make sitting a delicate task for the rest of the day.

His father had found his rhythm now. Hard, swinging slaps fell with easy force upon the cotton-covered bottom and thighs. The flesh was becoming hot. Even father’s own thighs were hot and moist against Harry’s clenching, powerless hands.

Harry was blubbing now. He was resigned to the long, hard spanking. Harry’s fingertips were digging deep into his father’s thighs. The ordeal was far greater than he had expected. His involuntary squeals of acute distress as hard wood bit his flesh flowed through the house.

Back in the kitchen Harry’s mother Babs listened to the rhythmic strokes, each one accompanied by a high, soulful moan. Her embarrassment level was off the scale. Beside her drinking tea demurely sat her neighbour, Mags. Babs smiled coyly. “Another cup of tea? We have some mince pies left over.”

Mags nodded politely although she wanted neither tea nor cakes. Her thoughts were back across The Avenue at her house where her son Malcolm was still tucked up in bed. He hadn’t raised a finger to help all holidays. He was sour and surly when spoken to. He drank most of his father’s whisky yesterday.

The sound of hard wood against taut bottom still pounded from the nearby room. She accepted the offered teacup gracefully but was lost in her thoughts. How she envied her friend Babs with her husband unafraid to instil a little discipline where it was needed. She took a nibble of the mince pie, her heart sinking at the thought of what awaited her when she returned home.

 

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Days later Babs and Mags were in the front room sipping tea.

“George will be down in a minute, he’s just sorting something out with Harry,” Babs said and blew on her tea to cool it.

“Yes I thought your boy was still here on his holidays,” Mags said. They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. Babs hoped her husband wouldn’t be too long.

“Did you do anything last night, for the new year?” Mags asked for want of something better to say.

“Nothing much, we don’t really bother.”

More silence. More sipping of tea.

“Did you hear all that racket in the street about one o’clock this morning?” Mags piped up.

“Rather,” Babs blushed, she looked at the ceiling as if she could see into the rooms above.

“Bunch of louts,” Mags warmed to her theme, “Waking the whole street. Disgraceful. You don’t expect behaviour like that in The Avenue, do you?”

“No,” Babs sighed, “No, you do not.”

“I know what I’d like to do to them if I got my hands on them,” Mags slurped on her tea so some dribbled down her chin.

“Yes, I quite agree,” Babs whispered.

Upstairs, her husband was “sorting something out” with nineteen-year-old Harry. “An absolute disgrace. All of you. Drunken louts,” he seethed. “Waking all the neighbours. What do you think they will say if they find out you were one of them? Your mother won’t be able to hold her head up at the shops. An utter disgrace,” he fumed.

Harry’s hands sweated. His head still ached from last night and his throat was as dry as a camel’s whatsit. He nodded along with his father’s reprimands, he had no strength to argue. “I am utterly ashamed of you. I spanked you the other day for coming home drunk, now look at you.” He paused and literally looked over Harry from the top of his gelled head to his feet.arryHarry

“I hope you’re ashamed too,” he paused for an answer. None came. For Harry the room was spinning, his head ached, he just wanted this over with so he could go back to bed.

The silence angered his father. “Dumb insolence. Right, that’s it,” he roared. “You are going to get the thrashing of your life.” He started to unbuckle his belt. Harry’s eyes glazed. “Right,” his father hissed, “Get those jeans down. Underpants too. Lay face down on the bed.” He pulled the wide leather belt from the loops of his trousers and folded it in two.

Harry had not moved. “Be quick about it,” his father snapped. “Or do you want me to do it for you?” That moved the teenager to slow action. Through moist eyes he unbuckled his own belt and unclipped and unzipped the jeans. He turned away from his father, hoping the old man wouldn’t see his naked cock and balls. He inserted his thumbs into the waistband and inch by inch lowered his jeans and pants together. He just about uncovered his buttocks. Gingerly, so not to reveal himself to his father, he crawled onto the bed and lay on his stomach.

z used belt jeans down bed

His father held the belt loosely as he waited for his son to submit himself. “Pah!” he groaned. “Not like that,” he did not hide his irritation. “Pull them right down.” He took two paces towards the bed, leaned forward and ripped the jeans and pants down until they uncovered his thighs and bunched at his knees.

“That’s better,” his father sneered, “Let the dog see the rabbit.”

Harry gripped a pillow and buried his aching head in it. “Right lad,” his father hissed, “a sound leathering that’s what you need and that’s what you’re going to get. You can only blame yourself. You never learn.” He gripped the belt tightly and towered over his prone son. The bed was made for a child so was narrow and low. His father flapped the belt and let it rest over Harry’s naked buttocks. He was finding his aim. He stood straight, then lifted the belt to shoulder height so that the leather tapped his own back. Then in one swift continuous movement he whipped it high, then forward and landed it with a resounding crack across Harry’s bottom. A thick deep pink stripe immediately appeared. Harry winced and pushed his face deeper into the pillow.

It had been some years since his father had used a belt in this way and he was quietly satisfied that he hadn’t lost his touch. The belt had landed exactly where intended. Now, he aimed a little higher. Harry’s bum was meaty, but hard. There was a lot to aim at. Up went the belt and down it came with astonishing speed. Bingo! A second sunset band glowed across the naked bottom. Harry’s legs shook on the impact.

“Feeling that, aren’t you. Good,” his father grizzled. “It’s what you deserve. It’s what you need.” He whipped another two cuts in quick succession. Most of Harry’s bum blazed red hot. “I thought after last time, I wouldn’t have to do this again. How wrong I was.” He scolded and slashed. “Look at you, nineteen years old and getting your bare backside belted by your father. What would those other louts say if they could see you.”

Harry had no idea what his friends would say. What he did know for certain was that none of them would be submitting themselves as he was to their dads for a spanking.

“And don’t be thinking that you’re too old for this,” his father said, reading his son’s mind. “You are never too old. Not in my house.” He whipped another three hard slashes across the under cheeks. “Good shots,” he told himself, “he’ll feel those every time he sits down for some time to come.”

Whack-whack-whack. His father had forgotten to keep count, but he was sure he had landed at least twenty-four. “Right lad,” he said, “That’s the belting over.” Harry sprang to his feet and started to tug his pants up. “

“Not so fast mister,” his father chided, “I’ve not finished yet. This is only half time.” Harry’s mouth opened and closed but he could find no words of protest. “Now for the cane,” his father crossed the room to the open door and reached out into the landing. When he turned back he held a length of bamboo he had taken from the garden shed earlier. It was about two feet long and rigid. He brandished it at Harry. “Leave those jeans and pants down. Kneel on the bed. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

“Oh, c’mon Dad,” Harry had found his voice. “I’ve had enough.”

“Enough,” his father coughed, “I spanked you last time for drinking. Well, it didn’t seem to work did it? This time I’m going to do the job properly. Now get a move on.”

Defeated, Harry climbed on the bed. “Head low,” his father encouraged. Soon Harry’s forehead and nose were squashed into the mattress. “Bottom high, spread those legs.” His father watched intently as his son manoeuvred himself. He had a perfect view into the teenager’s crack and of his dangling ball sack.

He held the cane in both hands. It was too rigid to bend. His father frowned with disappointment. What he really wanted was an old-fashioned whippy school cane, made of rattan and with a curved handle. One he could swish around before landing it across his son’s bare bottom. He promised himself he would search the Internet later to see what he could find.

For now he lined the stiff rod across the highest point of Harry’s mounds. Tap-tap-tap, then lift and return. The cane didn’t swish through the air and it landed with a dull thud but it left a deep mark across Harry’s bare cheeks. “Not bad,” his father mused to himself, “Not bad, but not as good as a proper cane would be.”

He said aloud, “Six of the best, for you, m’lad.” He imagined himself as an ancient schoolmaster. He landed the next stroke higher. The third went lower. That one snagged across the back of Harry’s thighs. He howled.

The noise travelled downstairs to the kitchen. Babs and Mags sat silently. Both aware of what was going on upstairs in the bedroom but neither feeling it was polite to discuss it. Another loud “Yowll!” rent the air.

Mags stared at her empty teacup and wondered quietly where her own son Malcolm had been at one o’clock that morning.

Picture credits: Both unknown

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Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com