His first time

new 5

z used cane father bare bed darrien (1a)

SWISH!! The cane fell in a blurred arc on the firm, pert naked cheeks raised high over the edge of the bed. It only took a second for a thin white stripe to change to a vivid scarlet welt.

Air escaped through Michael’s clenched teeth; it sounded like a steam engine settling down. It was followed by a long, piercing banshee-like wail. This was the first time in all his twenty-one years Michael had felt the firm rod of discipline. He screwed his eyes tightly shut against the intensity of the pain.

Unremittingly, the second stroke swiped into his quivering cheeks, landing an inch below the first. Michael’s cheeks clenched together; it was a reflex action, their way of protecting themselves from the assault. Now, Michael gave a loud and pleading yell.

“Yoewwwww! No please stop. No! No! No! Oh please Seymour, No more! No! I can’t take it!” But Seymour was in no mood for mercy. He waited for the cheeks to relax again before he lifted the yellow, whippy rattan cane high above his head, paused a moment and brought it flogging down across the naked buttocks. It fell just below the previous two, in perfect parallel.

This time Michael’s slim, athletic legs kicked up, and he tried to rise from his shameful position, but a firm hand in the centre of his back held him face down against the mattress.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! No more, no more!” he pleaded.

“You should have thought of that when you were making such a disgusting exhibition of yourself at the party, flirting with everyone. You showed yourself up. You humiliated me,” Seymour replied grimly, taking a firmer grip on the long cane.

“But I love you Seymour, how can you hurt me so much?” Michael’s head bounced up and down. To demonstrate just how much, Seymour laid an even firmer stroke across the lower curves of the boy’s bare bottom. Michael screeched in agony; tears shot out of his eyes, soaking the bedcover. Seymour was unmoved. The cane rose and fell rhythmically delivering the stinging correction.

Michael twisted and turned, trying desperately to avoid the biting, fiery rod. His feet stomped up and down. His legs flailed.

But then something unexpected happened. Michael’s yells softened into deep groans; then they became more relaxed. His frantic breathing was more regular and even. His bottom rose to meet the challenge of the cane. Seymour saw what was happening. He changed his strokes; now they fell more rapidly, but were gentler and directed low down at the centre of Michael’s firm bottom.

“Oh Seymour,” Michael wheezed huskily, “don’t stop now, it’s such a wonderful feeling. What’s happening to me?”

“Oh Seymour. I’m coming. Oh. I’m coming. oh! oh! oh! ohhh!”

 

Picture credit: Darrien

Other stories you might like

A whopping for Warminster

Late home from school

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

 

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

Act your age

new 5

Ted and his brother Derek were sipping pints in The Three Fishers. Ted was downcast, he was having trouble with his eighteen-year-old son.

“He acts like a little kid. I can’t believe it. He has this catapult. You know like one of those kids in the Beano comic. He smashed a window in Mrs Whittington’s greenhouse. She came to complain. I nearly died of embarrassment.”

Derek sipped on his beer and said philosophically, “Eighteen can be a very difficult age. They can act very mature and grown up and then suddenly they regress and behave like they’re eight again.”

Ted snorted, “So what am I supposed to do?”

“Well for now, treat him like he was eight.”

“What you mean dress him up in short trousers and a striped jersey like Dennis the Menace?” Ted chortled.

“Something like that,” Derek nodded sagely. “Remember what happened to Dennis the Menace?”

“How do you mean?”

“You know. What happened to Dennis in the last picture of the story? Almost every week.”

Ted’s brow furrowed. He had no idea what his brother was talking about and told him so.

Derek’s face brightened, “He got the slipper. His dad took him across his knee and spanked his backside. Remember.” He gulped beer triumphantly.

Ted couldn’t work it out. He sipped more beer to hide his confusion. “You mean I should spank Gavin?” his face wrinkled with disbelief, “With a slipper?”

Derek took another sip. “Not necessarily with a slipper.”

The two drank on in companionable silence, then Derek went to the bar for refills. By the time he returned Ted had gathered his thoughts. “I can’t spank him. He’s eighteen. He’s too old to be spanked.”

Derek set the glasses on the table. “It didn’t stop Dad. Remember that time I got caught stealing magazines from Clark’s newsagents? I was nineteen. He whacked my backside with Mum’s hairbrush. Remember?”

Ted nodded, he did. He hadn’t thought about that in nearly thirty years. “Yes, but did it do any good?”

“Well, I never stole again.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Did it hurt then? Was that it?”

“Not really. It hurt a bit, but it was more ….” Derek blushed at the memory, “I just felt a right fool that’s all. Dad taking me across his knee and spanking me like a little kid. That was the  worst part.”

Ted stared into his glass. Would it work with Gavin? Would it stop him acting like a child? Would it stop him showing Ted up in front of the neighbours? He drank more beer. “But, he’d never let me,” he sighed, “He’s hardly going to bend across my knee when I tell him to,” he paused, hoping he was wrong, before adding, “Would he?”

Derek remembered that day all those years ago. He hadn’t been expecting it. There was no warning. One minute his dad was standing in the sitting room telling him off and the next thing he knew Dad was sitting on the settee and pulling Derek down and across his knees. Dad had total surprise on his side. Then whack-whack-whack. He pounded the seat of Derek’s football shorts with that goddam hairbrush.

Derek told his brother this. “Get your Laura’s hairbrush. Have everything ready. Wait for Gavin to come home. Tell him what a fool he’s been and then … Bob’s your uncle.

Ted listened carefully. It sounded easy. “Didn’t you struggle. Fight with Dad. I would have done.”

“Ha!” Derek sneered. “No you wouldn’t. Not you. You couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.”

Ted smiled, he knew his brother was joshing. “Still can’t. If Gavin wants to he stop me doing it …”

Derek shook his head, “Not if you work it out. The first thing he’ll know something’s up is when he’s over your knee and staring down at the carpet. Then, you hammer that hairbrush into his backside for as long as you can.”

Ted drained his glass. “You’re bloody mad you are. Crackers. It’ll never happen. Do you want another?”

An hour later, not too much the worst for beer, Ted arrived home. Laura, his wife, was waiting with bad news. “I’ve had another complaint. Gavin’s put a cricket ball through Old Thommo’s window. He wants you to go and see him. He wants you to pay for the damage.”

“Oh bloody Nora, Laura!” Ted bellowed. “What is wrong with that kid? He ain’t retarded. He’s got those qualifications from school. He’s off to the tech. college in September.”

“I don’t know,” Laura’s chin wobbled. “He’s driving me to distraction. What on earth can we do?” She rose from her chair and ambled towards the kitchen, “Cup of tea, love?”

Ted sank into the settee. What could he do? Ha! His brother’s words came back to him. Dad was sitting on the settee and pulling me down and across his knees. Dad had total surprise on his side. Ted shook his head. No, he told himself, it would never work.

Laura returned with a tray and cups. “He’s up in his room now, sulking,” she said as she set the  tray down on the table. “Laura,” Ted began uneasily, “I was talking to Derek just now and he says …” They sipped their tea as Ted shared Derek’s plan. “What do you think? Should we?” he asked at the end.

He was alarmed by the eagerness of his wife’s reply, “Yes!” she said emphatically. “If it worked with your Derek, why wouldn’t it work with our Gavin?”

Ted’s mouth opened and closed. He tried but failed to find a reasonable objection. Both Derek and Laura thought it was a splendid idea. Ted was in a minority of one. “It’s all right for them,” he thought, but did not say aloud, “They’re not the ones who have to do it. What if Gavin laughs in my face. Or pushes me away. Or punches me in the face.”

Laura collected the cups, “I’ll put these in the sink, then I’ll go fetch my hairbrush.” She bustled from the room, leaving Ted alone to make his silent protest.

The brush was some kind of family heirloom. It had been Laura’s grandmother’s and possibly her grandmother’s mother’s. Nobody could be sure. What was certain was it had an oval-shaped head that was at least six inches at its longest point. It was made of ebony wood and was extremely heavy. “Here,” Laura said calmly, as she handed it to her husband. “I’ll go call him. It’s best if I keep out of the way.”

Again, she left before Ted could share his doubts. He swore under his breath. What had he got himself into? Was it too late to back out? Suddenly, his son loomed over him, “Wossup Dad?” he moaned, “I was in the middle of something.”

Ted noticed the zipper of the teenager’s jeans was half open. He just managed not to say, “Yes, and I know what it was.”

Gavin stood irritably. His huffing and puffing pushed Ted’s buttons. “I’ve had complaints,” Ted babbled. He hadn’t planned what he was going to say. He felt awkward. He wished Derek was there to help him along. “Catapult,” he blurted, “Cricket ball. Broken windows. Neighbours are complaining. Who’s going to pay for it?” It all come out in a rush.

Gavin’s long, angular face creased into a sneer.

“That’s just like you,” Ted tried to keep his temper. He had to stay calm, be in control. “You don’t care. It’s about time you started acting your age. You’re not a kid any more. A catapult. I ask you.”

Gavin stared at his dad, not hiding his scorn. Blah, blah, blah. Here he goes again.

“It can’t go on like this. It can’t,” Ted felt himself babbling. He needed to act fast. The element of surprise was vital. “You need to be taught a lesson. How to act responsibly. It’s for your own good,” he chided as he took hold of a dining room chair and placed it gently in front of the settee.

Gavin watched impassively. Then, his dad sat himself down on the chair. He reached out his arm. “Come here, son. This is long overdue.” Gavin was at least two inches taller but that didn’t stop Ted tugging him forward. The boy stumbled as he went flying face down over his dad’s lap. He had no control, his arms fell ahead of him and he had to rest his palms in the carpet to steady himself. His knees bent and his toes brushed the ground. Gavin couldn’t see it himself, but could feel his bottom was raised high over his dad’s knee.

Ted gripped the boy around the waist. He was going nowhere. He had never noticed it before but his son was thin and wiry. His jeans fitted him tightly and stretched across his buttocks so that each cheek was clearly outlined. Ted took a deep breath and smacked the palm of his hand against the meatiest part of Gavin’s left cheek. Then he did the same with the right.

“Hey, worr-you-doing? Gerroff! Hey! Stop it!” Gavin kicked his legs against open air. He tried to wriggle off Dad’s knees but the Old Man held him firmly down. Gavin waved his arms about, trying to reach back to protect his bottom, but his head was too low he couldn’t do it.

z used otk jeans chair (52a)

Ted spanked all across Gavin’s buttocks. The cheeks were solid; was this what “buns of steel” were? Soon the palm of Ted’s hand stung. In all the excitement he had forgotten the brush. It lay on the table within easy reach. He gripped it. The heavy weight felt good in his hand. Whap! He pounded it into the underside of Gavin’s left cheek. The boy gasped, wriggled and continued his protests.

To no avail. Ted had the boy where he wanted him. Face down, across his knee. Pinned in position. He could yell and holler all he wanted to, but that would not stop Ted. His confidence grew with each successive whack.

“Are you learning your lesson, son,” he wheezed. It wasn’t really a question. “I hope you’ll start acting your age now.” He spanked the hairbrush into the peaks of the cheeks. “This is for your own good.” Now, he went higher. The jeans had two thick pockets sewn into the seat, Ted tried to avoid them – they gave too much protection. Gavin’s hips wriggled and his bottom rose and fell. He was feeling this all right. Ted remembered Derek said his spanking hadn’t hurt so much. The thought encouraged Ted to spank right into the undercurve (away from the pockets) with renewed energy. “Ahhhh! Arrgggh,” Gavin cold not stop himself crying out.

“No more catapults. Be careful where you play cricket,” Ted was wheezing. He was not an energetic  man at the best of times, and now with five pints of beer inside him, he was slowing down. Gavin’s energy levels were higher. He wriggled his hips, and waved his arms like his life depended on it. His fury was unbounded. Put across his Dad’s knee for a spanking with a hairbrush like a little kid. Jesus, what if his friends found out.

At last, Ted admitted defeat. He was spent. If he carried on one minute more he might collapse in a heap. He released his grip on Gavin and the teenager bounded to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, trying hard to keep his temper. Why, for two bob he’d smack the bastard in the chops.

Ted stayed seated. He was getting his breath back. He watched his son moving around the room. The boy’s face was scarlet, his eyes shone. “Will I have to do that again,” Ted asked reasonably.

Gavin gaped. To his own astonishment he heard himself reply, “No Dad. Sorry Dad.” His could not meet his father’s eyes. He stood, hands behind his back overcome with embarrassment.

“Good lad,” Ted rose from the chair and, also self-conscious, returned the chair to its rightful place. “You’d better go back to your room,” he whispered.

Laura came in, carrying more tea. “That’s the first good idea your Derek has had in his life,” she giggled as he handed over a cup.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

Late for breakfast

Clubbing

The smoking schoolboy

 

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

A drama in one scene

new 5

A theatre play

The drama takes place sometime in the late 1960s / early 1970s. It is the sitting room / lounge / front room / parlour with typical furniture of the time, which could a settee, arm chairs, dining table, sideboard and television set. It must include at least one straight-backed chair.

Characters

UNCLE who can be aged anywhere between 40 and 55. He is a working-class man and should dress appropriately, such as dark trousers and a plain shirt. He could be dressed with no shirt but a discoloured singlet. He might be in work clothes, such as jeans or overalls.

NEPHEW aged 18. Ideally he should be slim and shorter in height than UNCLE. He can be dressed in basic jeans and shirt but if the theatre resources allow let him wear more “fashionable” clothes of the time such as baggy trousers, floral-print shirt and striped “tank top” pullover.

 

SCENE

Curtain opens onto the sitting room. After about five seconds UNCLE enters the room. He is guiding (not dragging) NEPHEW by the wrist. UNCLE takes NEPHEW to the centre of the room. Both stand while the dialogue takes place.

UNCLE [Not angry] I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve spoken to you.

NEPHEW shakes his wrist free and stares shamefaced at the floor.

UNCLE. Ever since you came to stay with me and Aunt Jane you’ve been nothing but trouble. [Waves his arms about.] You treat this place like a hotel. You stay out til all hours. Last night you came home drunk.

NEPHEW looks at his Uncle opens his mouth as if to protest but thinks better of it.

UNCLE. I’ve spoken to you about this before. Haven’t I?

NEPHEW shrugs shoulder and looks down at the floor.

UNCLE. Doh! Is that all you can do? Shrug your shoulder. Don’t you have anything to say for yourself.

NEPHEW gives a half smile, showing indifference.

UNCLE. Nothing I seem to say gets through to you lad. Nothing. Well, you leave me no alternative. You’re getting a spanking. That’s all.

NEPHEW. [Gapes] A spanking? But …

UNCLE. No buts. You’ve been asking for this for a long time. I said you had to be home by ten-thirty every night but you ignored me. You’re always rude to Aunt Jane. I told you about that. You don’t do yourself any favours.

NEPHEW. But uncle, I’m too old for a spanking.

UNCLE. Ha! You are not too old. If you don’t know how to behave, I’ll have to teach you. A spanking will soon bring you to your senses.

UNCLE picks up a straight-backed chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room.  NEPHEW stares uncle wide-eyed.

NEPHEW. But uncle  . ..

UNCLE sits on the chair.

UNCLE. Stand there.

UNCLE snaps fingers and points to the floor by his side. NEPHEW stares at his uncle. Twists his fingers with embarrassment.

NEPHEW. But uncle ….

UNCLE. Don’t “But uncle” me. Do as you’re told. Right now!

NEPHEW shuffles to the spot.

UNCLE. Right. Take down your trousers.

NEPHEW. [Gaping. Panicking] No uncle! No. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.

UNCLE. I know you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve spanked you. You’ll remember it next time you want to be rude to your aunt or stay out late. Now get em down.

NEPHEW takes a step back, looks around him as if he is thinking about running away.

UNCLE. Are you going to take those trousers down or do you want me to do it for you?

UNCLE reaches forward and takes hold of the waist of NEPHEW’S trousers and pulls him forward. Tries to unbuckle his belt. NEPHEW tries to retreat but UNCLE has grip on his belt.

NEPHEW. No, no uncle. Please. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. Really.

UNCLE. I’ve given you lots of chances. You threw them all back in my face. This is what you deserve. I don’t want to spank you. You don’t give me any choice. You need to learn to behave. You’ll thank me for this one day.

NEPHEW. But uncle. I’m eighteen. I’m too old to be spanked like a little kid. I’m an adult.

UNCLE. You are not an adult until you’re twenty-one. That doesn’t make you an adult anyway. You have to act like an adult. Take responsibility. You don’t do that. I’ve tried with you. God alone I’ve tried. We even thought about telling you you had to leave. We couldn’t stand it anymore. Do you want that? Do you want to go live in some stinking bedsit somewhere?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Right then. Take down them trousers.

UNCLE waves his hands up and down in front of NEPHEW

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle.

NEPHEW’s hands shake as he fumbles with the buckle of his belt. At last it is open. He pauses and looks at UNCLE seeking pity, hoping for a last-minute reprieve. UNCLE watches him impassively. NEPHEW unbuttons the waist of his trousers and then pulls the zip fly. He looks at UNCLE who is wriggling his bottom to get comfortable on the chair. NEPHEW lets the trousers fall down his legs to his feet.

UNCLE. Good lad. Now, come bend over my knee.

NEPHEW has a look of horror on his face. He stares at UNCLE who parts his legs to make a platform for NEPHEW to bend across.

NEPHEW. Oh Uncle … please.

UNCLE slaps his own thigh to encourage NEPHEW to bend over.

UNCLE. C’mon lad. Let’s get this over with.

NEPHEW hugely embarrassed, chews on his bottom lip. He moves forward, rests his hands on UNCLE’S thigh and gently lowers himself across.

NEPHEW must be over UNCLE’s knee with his arms stretched ahead of him and palms flat on the ground. His bottom must be at an angle over UNCLE’s thigh. NEPHEW legs will dangle in the air behind him. He must be positioned submissively. He has decided he must take his spanking.

UNCLE takes his time to observe NEPHEW’s position over his lap. UNCLE is impassive. Slowly he takes hold of the elasticated waist of NEPHEW’s underpants. NEPHEW tenses visibly. Slowly UNCLE starts to pull the underpants down over NEPHEW’S buttocks.

UNCLE. It’s not a proper spanking if it’s not on the bare.

NEPHEW. [Panicking] No, uncle, no!

NEPHEW tries to reach his hand back to protect his bottom. UNCLE slaps it. Then grabs the arm and pushes it back towards the floor.

UNCLE. None of that. Keep that away. Don’t be a coward. Take your spanking. You deserve it. You know you do.

UNCLE continues to pull the pants down until they are at NEPHEW’S knees. NEPHEW closes his eyes tight. Covers his face with his hands.

UNCLE pats NEPHEW on the fleshiest part of his bottom. He presses gently into the flesh judging how much meat there is in the boy’s buttocks. He wraps his left arm around NEPHEW’s middle to make sure he isn’t going anywhere. Then, he raises his hand to a height of a foot or two and slaps hard across the middle of the bum. He spanks hard and fast. Within seconds the bottom is pink.

NEPHEW gasps. He uncovers his face and slumps forward. As the spanking intensifies he presses his hands into the ground and his body goes up and down. It is like he is doing press-ups.

UNCLE spanks rapidly. About sixty whacks per minute. He makes sure he goes round the entire circuit. He starts in the fleshiest part of the buttocks and systematically goes higher and then lower. He sees the overline of his own hand imprinted time and again across the buttocks.

NEPHEW gasps. He shakes his head from side to side and up and down like a horse trying to get rid of a troublesome fly.

z used otk chair bare (41)

UNCLE. I hope you’re feeling this. I hope it’s doing you some good.

NEPHEW opens his mouth as if to reply but cannot get the words out because he is too busy gasping.

UNCLE slaps his hand hard into the back of the legs where it is more sensitive. NEPHEW yaps with the shock and the pain.

UNCLE. Are you learning a lesson from this?

NEPHEW. Gasping. Yes, uncle yes. Please stop.

UNCLE. I’m not so sure. [Spanks the back of the legs harder] Maybe I should call Aunt Jane to bring down her hairbrush.

NEPHEW. No uncle, please. No. I’m sorry. I will be good. I will. I promise.

UNCLE. [Still spanking] I know you’ll behave. Because if you don’t I’ll have you back over my knee and it will be the hairbrush. How do you feel about that.

NEPHEW. [Pleading] No uncle. Please no.

UNCLE. [Spanking harder] Are you going to be rude again to your aunt?

NEPHEW. No uncle. No.

UNCLE. Are you going to stay out late at night?

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. Promise?

NEPHEW. Yes, uncle. Please stop spanking me. You’re hurting me.

UNCLE. That’s the point son. That’s the point. It’s the only way you’ll learn.

NEPHEW covers his head with his hand.

NEPHEW. Oh uncle.

UNCLE spanks for another minute or so. He is not a brutal tyrant he is a caring uncle. He wants NEPHEW to learn to behave. NEPHEW is sore. His bottom feels like he has been made to sit in a bathtub of very hot water. It hurts like hell now, but once uncle stops slapping his bare bottom the pain will soon become a throbbing ache and within no time at all it will be only a tingle.

UNCLE [Stops spanking] OK. Get up.

NEPHEW jumps up. His trousers are still at his feet and the underpants at his knees. He rubs away at his toasted buttocks vigorously and screws his face up to emphasise the pain he feels. UNCLE stays seated watching impassively.

UNCLE. Get dressed.

NEPHEW tugs up his underpants and winces as the soft cotton connects with his raw bum. Then, slowly, he bends down to retrieve his trousers and pull them up. He is breathless.

UNCLE stands close to NEPHEW.

UNCLE. Will I have to do that again.

NEPHEW pats the seat of his trousers

NEPHEW. No uncle.

UNCLE. I hope not. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.

NEPHEW. Yes, I have uncle. Sorry uncle.

UNCLE. Good lad. Get off to your room.

NEPHEW walks gingerly from the room. UNCLE goes to the television, switches it on and sits in the armchair.

Lights fade to dark.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Lodging with Uncle Ralph

The TV repairman

 

 

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

 

Movie time

new 5

z used bed pants laptop

Trent was holding on as if his very life depended on it. He worked his fist up and down the full length. It was as thick as a broomstick. But not as long. And not as stiff. His heels beat against the mattress every time he kicked his legs. His heartrate was off the scale. Slowly, he eased his fist up and down. He groaned when he took his balls in his hand. The tip of his tongue darted through clenched lips as he cupped the sticky shaft. Slowly. Slowly. It was a battle. He had to slow down. But the sheer joy he felt as the fingers caressed his sensitive stick compelled him to go faster. Huff. Huff. Huff.

No! He told himself not now. Hold it back. Make it last longer. Not  now! Not now! His fist slowed. Too late. He arched his back, only his shoulders and feet remained on the mattress. He swivelled his hips. Fell back; crossed his ankles. Too late! With a whoosh of energy it spurted through his shaft. He closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t see that it flew so high it almost hit the ceiling. Hot, sticky goo splashed across his bare chest and stomach.

Huff. Huff. Huff. Oh, the joy, The ecstasy. He opened his eyes and peered down at the mess, rapidly cooling. His breathing eased. His heartrate slowed close to normal. Without turning his body, so none would drip onto the bedsheet, he reached his left arm across the bed to the length of toilet paper he knew was there. He scrunched it up and quickly wiped himself off. He tossed the crumpled tissue onto the floor.

Trent was spent, but the movie continued. He turned onto his side and pulled the laptop closer. It was one of his favourites. It always made him cum. Schoolboys in the headmaster’s study. They were supposed to be sixth-formers but the actors were obviously older than that. Not by much: nineteen or twenty  maybe. This one had one of the best of the lot. A fresh faced lad with a cheeky smile. His flat stomach and cute bum were very boyish.

The Swish! movies were the best. They were so professionally done. Real experts. The stories never changed though. Trent didn’t mind. Oh, how he wished he had gone to a school like that. The movie started with a boy they called Jimmy arriving at the headmaster’s study. He is in school uniform. Black blazer, white shirt, striped tie and pale-grey trousers. This time he’s wearing long trousers but often the movies have him in nice tailored short trousers that fall to just above the knee. Trent prefers the boys in ‘longs’ – just like he wore at school.

Jimmy has been caught smoking behind the gymnasium. Smoking tobacco that is. Smoking is the greatest crime imaginable in the world of Swish! movies. Well Jimmy knows what’s going to happen next. The headmaster, who is dressed in traditional academic gown, sometimes with and sometimes without the old-fashioned mortar-board cap on his head, goes to a hat-stand or a cupboard or over to a radiator. In any case he is going to choose a cane. He has a selection, but they are all about the same. They are about a metre long, no thicker than a pencil and all have the traditional – and sexy – curved handle. It is this that makes them authentic school canes, otherwise all the headmaster has is a stick that anyone could to hold up plants in the garden.

Trent is hooked at this point. Blood gorges to his cock when the headmaster takes a cane in his hand and thoughtfully flexes it between his hands to see how far it will bend. He replaces it and takes another. He flexes that one too and swishes it through the air. It is a mighty rod. It will leave marks across poor Jimmy’s bottom for sure.

“Take off your jacket. Take that chair and put it there,” the headmaster intones and Jimmy has to put his blazer on a hook on the door and move the furniture around the study and prepare his own seat of execution. This chair is made of leather with wooden arms. It has a low back and Jimmy will fit across it perfectly as he demonstrates when the headmaster swishes the cane sharply and orders, “Bend over.”

We get a shot of Jimmy’s rascally face as he recognises the gravity of his situation. He does not argue. He does not point out that he is an eighteen-year-old senior boy. He is legally an adult. He is too old for this. Instead, meekly he approaches the chair. He looks at it for a moment while the camera lingers on his back and legs. Then slowly he eases forward. He rests his stomach on the apex of the chair and grips the front of the seat cushion. The material of his pale-grey trousers caresses the curves of his cheeks. They are round and firm. Trent sees this in close up. “Oh,” Trent thinks to himself sadly, “I wish I went to a school like this.”

The headmaster swishes his cane and then taps it across the firmest part of Jimmy’s bottom. “Legs apart. Up over,” he says quietly. Jimmy adjusts his buttocks so that more meat is exposed to the cane. The headmaster steps back. He saws the cane across the centre of both cheeks. The cane rises. It falls, striking Jimmy’s bottom firmly. A line appears in the seat of the pale-grey trousers where the rod fell. Jimmy’s lips purse. His eyes shine. He felt that.

The headmaster delivers six-of-the-best in close up. Jimmy’s face is a picture. Each successive stroke hurts more than the last one. His face glows. He bites his lip. He grimaces. This is an authentic caning. It hurts, but he lives. The headmaster stands back and admires his handiwork. A true schoolboy beating. But he has not finished. “Stand up,” the headmaster intones. “Take down your trousers, then back over.”

The headmaster tucks the cane under his arm and watches as Jimmy hauls himself to his feet. Without looking to left or right, nor even down at his waist, the boy unbuckles his leather belt. Then he pops the clasp of his trousers, pulls the zipper and pushes his trousers down. They bunch at his shins. Then, with no further ado, he goes back over the chair. Trent loves this bit.

Corporal punishment had been outlawed at schools long before Trent was born. He knows that boys regularly faced the threat of the cane across the seat of their trousers. Nobody got it on the underpants. Did they? Who cares? Swish! do not make documentaries. Whoever tossed off to Panorama? Jimmy is wearing white cotton Y-fronts (as much a part of school uniform as blazer and tie). Once he is over the chair they stretch across his buttocks so that they fit like a second skin. The headmaster, still with the cane under his arm, approaches. He hesitates for a moment as if admiring the sights and then with both hands gently takes hold of the tail of Jimmy’s crisp white shirt. The headmaster lifts it and pulls it up Jimmy’s back until it is away from the target area. He reveals an area of smooth, hairless back.

Not yet ready to resume caning, the headmaster now takes hold of the waistband of the underpants. He plays a little game. He acts as though he is going to rip them down over Jimmy’s buttocks and haul them down to his knees so the teenager’s bum is bare. Instead, he tugs the waistband so that the already smooth underpants are even tighter. This way the cotton digs right up the crack and each cheek is lifted and separated. Jimmy has a gorgeous bum. It is (naturally) his prize asset.

The headmaster steps back, slips the cane from armpit to hand and takes aim. Trent sees that the Y-fronts do not fully cover the bum and there are red marks on naked flesh where the cane previously struck. Jimmy’s bottom quivers when the headmaster taps the cane into the underpart of his cheeks, where the bum and thighs meet. The cane is lifted. It strikes. Jimmy’s face contorts. His mouth opens wide. Those beautiful blue-grey eyes sparkle. “Ouch!” he mouths the word.

Jimmy takes another six-of-the-best. Trent sees headmaster. Trent sees cane rise. Trent see tighty-whitey cotton underpants. Trent sees cane fall. Trent sees Jimmy’s startled reaction. Trent’s cock throbs. He reaches for the lube.

“Stand up boy,” the headmaster pompously paces the study. He rests and watches Jimmy sorrowfully get to his feet. Will he ever smoke cigarettes again? Who knows? Trent has long ago forgotten the reason for the punishment. “Underpants down,” the headmaster growls as if it is the most natural thing in the world for him to say.

Trent is in a parallel universe. Usual rules do not apply here. The eighteen-year-old does not tell the headmaster where to get off. He does not stride across the study and punch the headmaster in the mouth and then pummel him into jam as he falls to the floor, before kicking him in the kidneys and leaving. Instead, Jimmy hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tight, cotton Y-fronts and with no more than a flick of the wrist he sends them south to join his trousers. He turns back to the chair and as he bends forward Trent is given a marvellous close-up shot of Jimmy’s savaged buttocks. Thick wheals run across both cheeks. They are genuinely raw.

Jimmy takes up position again. Head low, bottom high, feet apart. The headmaster does the sawing thing again with his cane and then lets fly. By now, Trent has his eyes closed tight. He concentrates on the job in hand. He can still hear the sound from the movie. The swish. The crack! The arrghhs and ouches from Jimmy, but Trent is now in his own world. How he wants to be that boy bent over the back of the chair. He remembers Mr Watney, the aging headmaster at his inner-city comprehensive school. If only Mr Watney had caned him like that. Trent would gladly have smoked ten cigarettes a day.

In the movie the caning is over. Jimmy is sent to stand to face the wall where he rubs his marked cheeks vigorously. He smiles, a little more ruefully than cheekily. The headmaster sits in the chair. He gestures to Jimmy who at first looks bemused. His confusion does not last long. “Come, stand there,” the headmaster points to a spot beside him. Jimmy understands. He has lived in this unnatural world long enough. Still rubbing his throbbing backside he slowly makes his way across the study. He stands where indicated. “Bend over,” again the headmaster’s command is obeyed without question.

Jimmy is face down across the headmaster’s knee. Trent watches with half an eye. Sometimes in these movies the headmaster makes the boy strip off all his clothes and bend across his knee totally naked. Trent has a movie where Jimmy does this. He looks terrific naked; he is slender, yet muscular. His legs go all the way up to his terrific bum. He doesn’t seem to have a single hair anywhere on his body – not even around his cock.

Sexy though Jimmy is naked, he prefers the boys to be at least partly dressed. It makes the scene more authentic. Trent lets the movie move to its conclusion. He glances at the time in the corner of the screen. It is time to go. Carefully, so none of the cum drips onto the bed, he climbs off the mattress. He picks up the soggy Kleenex from the floor and walks across the room. He drops it into the lavatory pan, has a piss and then turns on the shower.

Minutes later, towelled dry, he opens a drawer and selects the clothes he will wear that night. He has tight-white Y-fronts, a grey shirt and grey trousers. He doesn’t have a blazer, but he doesn’t think he needs one. He slips a striped tie into his trouser pocket. He is off to The Three Fishers where he is certain to meet Fat Steven. He is always there on a Friday night. Fat Steven will bring the cane.

 

Picture credit: unknown

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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

 

Over Pop’s knee with Perce

new 5

z used otk scrumping white pants down sting

I read a report in the Brocklehurst Bugle today. It was about a young lad, nineteen years old, who stole some beer from a shop. He was up in court and they fined him something. Now he has a criminal record. As I read about him I had a senior moment, or an acid flashback or some such. If you and me were characters in a corny movie at this point the picture would go all wobbly and then fuzzy and there’d be that do-do-do-do kind of music and we’d be transported back sixty, yes sixty, years …

Rising Bollard wasn’t much more than a village back then. I was eighteen and me and my best pal Perce were inseparable. Had been since we were in our prams. I worked as a baker’s assistant at Sidebottom’s and Perce was a labourer on Arkwright’s farm. It’s a housing estate today. Has been for thirty years. Sidebottom’s is a Greggs.

So, me and Perce weren’t bad lads. We hung around the cemetery with the rest of the village idiots and tried to chat up girls. We drank horrible cheap VP wine and smoked those really rough Player’s Weights cigarettes. Do you remember them? In packets of five. They burnt the back of your throat away.

It was the cigarettes that got me and Perce into trouble. We had been working lads since we were fifteen and of course we gave our mums housekeeping money, but we were never skint. Perce had a motorbike, even then. What I’m trying to say is that we could afford to buy cigarettes, but we preferred to steal them. Don’t ask me why? Did you ever do that? Steal stuff from shops for no good reason. Just for the fun of it. Maybe to look big with your mates?

We got away with it too. Cigs and tobacco weren’t locked away like Fort Knox or the Bank of England like they are nowadays. They were on the counter. If you worked in pairs all you had to do was for one of you to distract the shopkeeper (get him to climb up his ladder and fetch something from the top shelf at the other end of the shop) and while he’s doing that the other one pockets a packet of fags. We weren’t Big Time Charlies, one packet at a time was enough for us.

Like I said we got away with it too. Until one day we didn’t. Rising Bollard was a sleepy place and we could always find a time when the shop was empty. It didn’t take long to slip a packet of fags into your pocket. So, one day I did that and was sloping out the shop but what happened but I walked slap bang into the arms of Harry Gate. Or Police Constable Harry Gate to give him his full title. He was in plain clothes, but if you’re the copper for a couple of villages like Harry was I don’t suppose you were ever off duty.

“Well, well, well,” says Harry, like all comic policemen did in those days, “What have we ’ere?” He says this as he twists my ear, like he was making some rubbish joke. “Turn out your pockets.”

It was all over in about ten seconds. Caught red handed. Bang to rights, as crooks in the films used to say. Harry didn’t have to ask our names or our addresses, Harry knew every one and everyone knew Harry. He made me hand back the cigarettes to Mr Higginbottom, the shopkeeper. I knew what was coming next.

In fact, it turned out I didn’t know. I thought he would take us into the back room and leather our backsides. He was known for doing that. He was the law. But, he didn’t do that. Now I think of it he was in his civvy clothes and wasn’t wearing the thick, heavy leather belt that went with his policeman’s uniform.

No, he didn’t spank our bare arses. He marched us the half mile or so to my house. Just my luck Pop was there on his dinner break. Well, the Old Man went scarlet with embarrassment when the village policeman turned up on the doorstep with me and Perce in tow.

“I’ll leave it to you Mr Ramsbottom,” Harry says, with a bit of a sly wink, as he bids Pop goodbye and gets back to his shopping or whatever it was he was doing in the village.

Pop nearly sank to his knees with gratitude. His son a thief. What a scandal. But Harry wouldn’t tell. They’d be no court case. No scandal for the family to live down. Pop could deal with it just the way that Pops were supposed to.

They were different days back then. Do you remember? More innocent. People took care of things themselves. “Right, you, come here,” Pop says even before Harry had disappeared down the street. Pop turns his back on me and marches into the kitchen. Me and Perce follow like obedient little puppies.

“Stand there,” he points at the wall and Perce and me meekly do as we’re told. I don’t suppose eighteen years  lads would do that nowadays. Do as they’re told, I mean. Times are different. Pop picks up an old wooden chair and plonks it down in the middle of the room. He sits down, glares at me and he says, “I cannot believe it. I just cannot. Thieving. What possessed you?” He goes on like this for quite a while actually and I’ve got my head bowed in shame. He’s absolutely right, of course. He says, “It’ll break your mother’s heart; she’s not to find out about this.”

I loved my Pop. That was him all over. He loved my Mum, he loved my brothers and he loved me. He wasn’t an educated man (not many were around Rising Bollard) but he did the best that he could. “I don’t want any more of this stealing,” he says.

“No, Pop,” I says, “Sorry, Pop, I won’t do it again.” I felt such a heal. “I know you won’t son,” he says, and I can see he is very upset with me. “And, I’m going to make sure you don’t.”

I knew what was coming. It was common in those days. No one thought anything about it back then. “Thieves in this house get spanked.”

So, did you see that coming? Like I say all the Pops in Rising Bollard spanked their kids and back then you didn’t get to be legally an adult until you were twenty-one, so it wasn’t such a surprise to see an eighteen-year-old like me get his bum blistered. Tell that to kids today!

How did your Pop spank you? I know some who lost their rag and lashed out with a belt all over the back and arms. My Pop wasn’t like that. He was a gentle-man. I know that sounds a daft thing to say Gentle when he was about to spank my backside and very hard indeed. I mean he never lost his temper, he was always in control. He knew what he was doing. He had told me very quietly why he was going to spank me. Now, he was going to get on and do it.

“Come here,” Pop says and he waves his hand at his side. That was my cue to leave the wall and stand beside him. It was summer and I had on those thick corduroy shorts we used to wear. “Take ’em down,” he says. I didn’t argue. He was my Pop. I was a thief. I was glad he didn’t know about all the other times I got away with it.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thigh like I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to go. I expected it but my face burned scarlet with embarrassment. I’d been spanked before, but never in public – and never in front of my best friend Perce. I lowered myself. I must have been at least as tall as Pop, but even so I fitted over his knee quite well. How did you present yourself for an over-the-knee spanking? The only way I knew was to stretch my arms out and rest the palms of my hands on the floor. Then with my head low and my bottom high my legs were left to dangle behind me. I suppose I could have held on to Pop’s legs or maybe even covered my head with my hands.

So, there I was in position. Submissive. Letting Pop spank my naughty little backside. And it was little back then. I used to do the deliveries for the bakery and rode a bicycle for miles each day. That keeps the stomach flat and the buttocks pert. I truly believe Pop did not like spanking me or my brothers. He wasn’t a tyrant, he was a decent man trying to do his best. “I hope this teaches you a lesson,” he says as he smooths out my cotton underpants until all the creases are gone. “I don’t want to have to do this again.”

Then he starts to spank me. Me, an eighteen-year-old thief. If I told my great-grandchildren that I was spanked like that they’d fall on their backs laughing with their legs waving in the air. “You let him do that?” they’d holler.

Yes, I let him do that. It was the right thing to do. I had done wrong. I wasn’t a hooligan. I hadn’t beaten anyone up. I hadn’t robbed an old lady. But, I had stolen from a shop. There was no need to waste time and money sending me to court. Why turn me into a convicted criminal and blot the rest of my life? No. I needed to be punished and a jolly good spanking would do the trick. Pop knew that. I knew that.

So, Pop spanked me. Pop had a ritual when he spanked. He was slow and methodical. He made sure no part of my bum was left untouched. So he started across the middle where there’s most meat (even in my rock-hard bum) and when he was satisfied he had tenderised both cheeks, he went to the top of the mounds just below he back. When three-quarters of my bum was burning, he turned his attention to the soft undercurves. That’s the part that touches the chair when you sit down. It’s almost the most sensitive part of the bum. If you’ve been spanked yourself, you know what I’m saying. Well that hurt. It had me wriggling my hips and buckling my knees. Pop had to hold on tight to my waist to stop me tumbling to the floor.

“I hope I’m getting through to you son,” Pop says kindly. “No more thieving.”

“No, Pop,” I says, because I suppose he wants an answer, “Sorry pop.”

“Sorry,” he says and pauses. His body jerks like he’s suddenly remembered something. “Sorry,” he repeats, “You will be by the time I’ve finished.” Then I feel him grip the elasticated waist of my white Y-fronts. “No Pop, No!” I stutter, as he starts to tug the pants down over my buttocks. “No, sorry. Sorry!” I’m wailing now.

It doesn’t stop Pop. He has the pants at my knees. It’s summer but I feel a cool breeze waft across my naked cheeks. I also hear Perce gasp. I’d forgotten he was watching.  He has a perfect view of me, submissively bent over Pop’s knee with my shorts at my feet and my pants at the knees and my arse bare to the wind. He can see everything. I mean everything. My balls, my crack and right up into the hole. My embarrassment turns to humiliation. How can I ever face my best pal again?

Pop spanks my bare bum hard. And rapidly. Whack-whack-whack. He slaps me about eighty times a minute. I feel my bum heating up. If you didn’t think a hand spanking (even on the bare) could have much impact on an eighteen-year-old, think again. My bum was glowing. Pop spanks me like this for a few minutes, then as a finale he goes for the back of my thighs. Now, if the undercurves are sensitive (and they are) the bare thighs give twice the value. I am gasping and yapping and twisting and kicking. You have to admire Pop’s stamina. He was a manual worker all his life, believe me he was a strong man.

At last (thank God, at last!) he stops spanking. He lets go of my waist and I take my chance and leap to my feet. My bum throbs and I hop from foot to foot and try to rub the soreness away from my bum. I don’t care who sees me do it. Then, I lean down to pull up my pants. “Leave them where they are,” Pop sighs, he is a little out of breath, “Stand by the wall. I want you to think about what you have done and why I have spanked you.”

I hobble over and stand beside Perce. I can’t catch his eye. The throbbing pain in my bum is easing into a warm glow. Perce shuffles with embarrassment. Neither of us wants to speak. Pop regains his breath and says quietly, “Percy, I am not your father. It is not really my job to punish you.”

From the corner of my eye I see Perce turn to face my Pop. Pop says, “I should tell him what you have done. It is for him to decide what to do.” Pop sounds sorrowful. It’s not that he wants to spank Perce, Pop’s just unhappy that our behaviour has brought him to this.

“Sorry, Mr Ramsbottom,” I hear Perce’s voice quiver. I think he’s about to cry. I blush, embarrassed for him. But he doesn’t turn on the water taps, he’s just getting himself ready to say what he wants to say. It can’t be easy. I don’t think I would do the same if I was Perce. He says, “Mr Ramsbottom, we were both in it together. You can’t spank Perce and not spank me too.”

Well! You could’ve knocked me down with a feather, because I know for a fact Perce’s Pop is probably the only Pop in Rising Bollard who doesn’t believe in spanking. He’s never raised a finger to any of his kids. Best he’d do to Perce is make him stay at home a couple of weekends and clean up the yard or something. What a pal! Perce and me. Me and Perce. Together.

“Right, Percy,” Pop calls from the chair. “I think you know how this is done. Stand there. Take down your shorts. Bend over my knee.”

And Perce did. And I got to see his bare bum and the rest of it, so I didn’t have any worries about how I was going to face him.

So, two eighteen-year-old shoplifters from sixty years ago got their backsides spanked. We both went on to have honest, respectable lives. The shopkeeper got his goods back, we were punished. The world went on.

I wonder about that lad in the Brocklehurst Bugle. Given the chance what would people like to happen to him? A sound spanking and a second chance or a life blighted by a criminal record?

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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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 disgraced prefect

new 5

z used school headmaster study boy by H M Brock

Worthington stood before his housemaster in the dark luxurious study, his hand deep into his trouser pocket. He was the senior prefect in the House and quite used to being called in to see Mr Whitbread; often late in the evening after ‘lights out’ and the juniors were safely in bed. This evening, he supposed, was no exception. The Old Man probably wanted to congratulate him on how well Worthington ran the House. The Association Football trophy had already been bagged and they had high hopes for Cricket that summer. He might even offer him a glass of sherry – which they would enjoy together, man to man.

Mr Whitbread sat imperiously in his leather chair behind a large mahogany desk. He still wore his formal academic gown, despite the lateness of the hour. Worthington hesitated. He had arrived at the study fully two minutes ago, he had expected to be offered a take a seat by now. From the corner of his eye he saw a fine leather armchair was placed close to the housemaster’s desk. He toyed with the notion that he might sit down uninvited. He glanced at it, hesitated for a moment, and then decided to make his move. He took one step and was halted in his tracks.

“Stand there!” Mr Whitbread roared. “How dare you be so impudent!” Worthington froze, startled. “And take your hand out of your pocket! I have never witnessed such impertinence!” Worthington turned and faced the desk to be confronted by an icy stare. He stood, puzzled. This was not what he had expected.

“There boy!” Mr Whitbread waved his hand royally and indicated a spot in front of his desk. Worthington shuffled and stood. No, this was not going to plan at all. The housemaster leant forward in his chair so that his hands gripped the desk. Worthington blanched. Instinctively, he clasped his hands behind his back. He felt like the most junior boy in the House called in for a wigging.

“You are a disgrace to the House, Worthington! I have never known anything like it!” Mr Whitbread thundered. Worthington looked down at his own feet, lost for words. What was happening? He could think of nothing he had done to warrant such an outburst. “Shameful …” Mr Whitbread shook his head violently and his three chins wobbled like jelly. A thin line of spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth. “What have you to say for yourself?”

Worthington stood perplexed. What was the Old Man talking about? Mr Whitbread mistook his silent puzzlement for something much worst. “Answer me boy! I shall not tolerate such insolence!” he thundered. Again, Worthington stared at his own feet, “B.. b..” he stuttered, but could not start a sentence.

“A card game!” Mr Whitbread boomed. “How dare you!”

Suddenly, it dawned on Worthington. Card game. The Old Man knew about the card game. “Smoking. Gambling. And much else besides I should not wonder,” Mr Whitbread fumed. A lump rose to Worthington’s throat and stuck there. How had the housemaster found out?

Mr Whitbread half rose from his chair and with his hands firmly on the top of the desk he leaned forward so that his face was only inches from Worthington’s. The boy could smell the tobacco on the housemaster’s breath. For a moment he feared the Old Man would grip him by the lapels and throw him to the floor. “Never before in my entire career as a schoolmaster have I encountered such a thing,” he intoned pompously.

Worthington’s head buzzed. Now he understood. It was all about the fourth formers. They had taken to abandoning their beds at night. They had formed a poker club in study two along the fourth-form passageway.

That night Mr Whitbread, bored to distraction, had taken a stroll through the building. A shaft of light gleamed beneath a door. As he approached his nostrils picked up a familiar scent. An aroma that was unwelcome in the junior boys’ studies. It was the smell of cigarette smoke. Six astonished juniors were caught playing poker. Now, only moments before Worthington’s arrival they had hobbled from the study with their bottoms glowing red-hot.

Before commencing the swishing, and on pain of a bare-bottomed thrashing, the housemaster had ascertained from the wretched youngsters that the poker school was a regular event informally sanctioned by the prefects, headed by Worthington.

The housemaster’s complexion was the colour of prunes. He straightened himself and still glaring at the woeful boy standing before him, he boomed. “You have betrayed my trust. You have dishonoured the position of senior prefect. You are an abject disgrace!”

Worthington withered under the onslaught.

Mr Whitbread shoved his chair to one side as he wobbled from behind the desk. “Scandalous. Disgraceful. Unutterably …” he broke off, seemingly unable to think of further insults. He straightened himself and stood so close to the hapless Worthington that they were eyeball to eyeball. Spittle once more dribbled. “Beyond comprehension! Such behaviour!” the housemaster appeared to have gained a second wind.

He backed away from the boy and unsteadily made his way across the study. Worthington’s eyes followed him on his travels. The boy’s jaw opened in astonishment. The housemaster had stopped beside a hat-and-coat stand. He wheezed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, without ceremony, he reached up and snatched from the stand a long, thick crook-handled cane. He swerved around so he faced the boy and with fury waved the cane through the air.

Worthington blanched. Involuntarily he took a small step backwards. “Now, boy,” Mr Whitbread swiped the cane through the air, it made a terrific swoosh noise as it flew. “Bend over that chair!” He pointed the cane at the chair that stood in front of his desk. Worthington was rooted to the spot, aware that suddenly he was sweating profusely.

Mr Whitbread’s already-mauve complexion turned dark red. He wobbled his chins and waved the cane once more. “I said bend over that chair!” his voice cackled with emotion. “Now boy!”

Worthington felt the room spin. This could not be happening. It must be some kind of dream; a nightmare, he thought. In a moment he would shudder awake and find himself in the sixth-form dorm, safely in his bed.

“I do not propose to tell you again Worthington!”

Worthington shook his head, trying to get his brain to work properly. “But Sir,” he almost wailed. “You can’t,” he said and realising he might have been too bold in answering back to his housemaster, he added, “Sir.”

Spittle flew from between Mr Whitbread’s lips, “How dare you!” he exploded. He swiped the cane through the air, “Bend over that chair!”

“But Sir,” Worthington had found his voice. “You can’t Sir. I’m a sixth-former, a senior boy. Sixth-formers can’t be beaten.” He bit down hard on his lower lip. No sixth-former was ever beaten. It was unheard of. Not only in this House, but anywhere in the whole school. He was eighteen years old dammit. Of course, he could not be beaten.

“Bah!” Mr Whitbread exploded. “I shall decide who can and cannot not be beaten.” He furrowed his brow and his eyes shone malevolently. “I have told you to bend over that chair, Worthington! You must not resist my authority. If you are so ill-advised, I shall take you to your headmaster with a request that you shall be immediately flogged and then expelled from the school for rebellion against authority! I am waiting, Worthington!”

“But, Sir,” Worthington’s heart thumped. The housemaster was serious. He really intended to thrash him.

“I’m waiting, Worthington,” the housemaster had traversed the study and now stood directly behind the sixth-former. He had half a mind to grip the boy by the scruff of the neck and force him face-down over the back of the chair. Decorum won the day. It would be undignified to scrap with a boy in the study. Worthington must bend to his will. Quite literally. If he refused to take his punishment the housemaster would make good on his promise and march him off to the headmaster’s study first thing next morning.

“But, Sir,” Worthington was an intelligent boy and usually more literate than he was at this moment. Words failed him. What argument could he put forward to escape the thrashing? He was guilty as charged. He had permitted the juniors to play their poker games. He had done similar things and much more beside after lights out when he was younger. It was almost a House tradition. It would be pointless to try to explain that to Mr Whitbread. He was ‘old school’. He would never understand.

The cane swished for the umpteenth time. “Do you intend to keep me waiting, Worthington? Bend over, this instance.” The housemaster flexed the cane. It was about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It had notches along its length and was coloured dark yellow. At one end it was shaped in the traditional curved handle and the tip at the other end was frayed. The whole whippy, rattan cane was warped, due to excessive use.

Worthington stared intently at the cane. It looked a mightily-effective weapon. Mr Whitbread was aged and long-ago had run to fat but he was still strong enough to take any boy’s backside off with that cane. Worthington sank a mouthful of air. What choice did he have? Take a caning now, or wait to the morning when the headmaster would almost certainly flog him on the bares with birch rods. Then, once he was able to walk again he would unceremoniously be taken to the railway station and sent home in disgrace where his father would in all probability repeat the thrashing.

The cane swished once more. Worthington took another long lung-full of air and shuffled so that he stood behind the chair. It was a smallish chair with a soft back and wooden arms. It was just the right height for a boy of his size to fit over comfortably. Of course, what happened next would be far from comfortable.

The floorboards creaked so Worthington knew his housemaster was taking up his position behind him. Worthington licked his now-dry lips and rubbed his sweaty palms together. Then, in one continuous movement he leaned forward and stretched his arms so he took a grip of the front end of the soft seat cushion. He spread his legs so that he was able to rest his stomach on the top of the chair’s back. He felt the material of his trousers stretch over his buttocks. He could not see himself, but in this position he made a terrific target for chastisement.

Mr Whitbread took a moment to take in the sight before him. Worthington was one of the House’s finest athletes and his body demonstrated this. Back muscles rippled beneath his jacket and his buttocks, now stretched across the chair, were firm and meaty and his thighs were taut.

The boy’s face was deathly pale and his light brown hair fell in a fringe over his forehead. He closed his eyes tight and tried to pretend this was not happening. Mr Whitbread slipped the cane under his arm and with two free hands he took hold of the tail of Worthington’s jacket. With some force he tugged it so that it rode up the boy’s back and away from the target area.

“Thank your God that you are not presenting yourself to me with your trousers at your ankles,” Mr Whitbread snarled. He stood to the boy’s side and gently rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the highest part of the cheeks. Satisfied that he had his aim, he gently lifted the cane until it was at shoulder height, then swiped it down with all the energy he had. The cane thwapped against the tightly-presented backside and bounced away. It sounded like a pistol shot. A wide, white line formed across the seat of the trousers. Worthington gasped and held on tighter to the chair.

Mr Whitbread frowned. He was not sure of the quality of his performance. His aim was true, but had he struck with sufficient force? He sawed the cane across the meaty buttocks once more, this time about an inch lower than the first. He lifted the cane away in an arc and swiped it home with all the vim he could muster. The boy yelped. His bottom shook violently and his knees buckled. Mr Whitbread silently congratulated himself on a job well done.

Fortified by this success, he whipped the third stroke higher than the previous two. Worthington’s head rose from the seat cushion, he shook it like a horse bothered by flies. His feet stomped up and down.

Mr Whitbread licked his bottom lip so intense was his concentration as he lined up the next stroke. Swish! Crack! “Agggghhhh!” Worthington could not control himself. The pain was intense. A wide strip of flesh beneath his trousers and underwear was burning like the fires of Hell. Never in his life – and this was not the first caning he had endured at the school – had he hurt so badly. It was agony. Worse even than that time when he was hit between the legs by a cricket ball.

So it went on. Mr Whitbread delivered a full dozen. Twelve strokes of his heavy, whippy rattan cane. Each time the rod fell it left a line embossed across the seat of Worthington’s trousers. The housemaster had no doubt that the boy’s bottom was in ribbons. Welts would be throbbing across his corrugated buttocks. Worthington’s face, once deathly pale, was now glowing scarlet. Perspiration soaked the back of his neck. His eyes blazed.

Worthington lay over the back of the chair choking for breath like a goldfish out of water. His bottom was raw; as if he had been forced to sit in a cauldron of boiling oil. He desperately wanted to get up and rub the ache from his backside. But traditions were traditions and he could not rise until his master gave permission.

Mr Whitbread slowly paced the study before returning the cane to the hat-and-coat stand. From his vantage across the study he surveyed the miserable boy, still head-low, bottom-high across the chair. The buttocks continued to quiver long after the final stoke was landed. It gave him grim satisfaction to see the boy so distressed. It was a job well down, Mr Whitbread was relieved that he still had it in him to deliver such an exemplary thrashing.

In his own time, he barked, “Get up and go!” He watched, now impassively, as the senior prefect hauled himself unsteadily to his feet. He neither looked to left or right as he hurtled towards the study door and freedom on the other side.

Mr Whitbread stayed standing for a while, then slowly crossed the study to a cupboard which he opened. From inside he took a heavy glass whisky decanter. He held it to the dim light and confirmed to himself that it was indeed empty. He had cleaned it out early that evening just before he took his tour of the building.

Picture credit: H M Brock

Other stories you might like

Yank at English school gets ‘six of the best’

The Country Club

Late for breakfast

 

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

Justin learns a valuable lesson

new 5

z used pants contrite (1)

I cannot believe you. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve had to tell you. What is the matter with you? You are a disgrace. Your aunt is in floods of tears. I cannot believe what you have said to her.

You need to learn some manners lad. You’re not a schoolboy any more. You’re at university for God’s sake. You’ve been such a disappointment since you moved in here. What would your mum and dad say, eh? You used to be such a sweet little boy. Look at you now. Rude. Arrogant. Insolent. Disrespectful. Bad-mannered. I just don’t get it. What’s got into you Justin?

Look at me when I’m talking to you. Don’t look down at the floor. Aren’t you the least bit ashamed? You treat our house like it’s a hotel. We know you haven’t got much money; we don’t charge much rent. Only enough to cover your keep. We are doing you a favour. And your mum and dad. If your weren’t family we would’ve chucked you out long ago.

Now, you come home drunk. At least I hope it was drunk. Was it drugs? Are you taking drugs? Is that why you’ve gone off the rails. Are you high all the time? Are you an addict? Do you need help? No, I don’t think you’re an addict, but you do need help. You can’t go on like this. You’ve got a lot of growing up to do, young man.

You’re not evil Justin. You seem to be working hard. Your grades aren’t bad. So far anyway. Are you still going to classes? You’d better be. I don’t want to find out too late that you’ve been skiving off uni. When you fail your exams at the ned of the semester.

What have you got to say for yourself?

Don’t pout at me. You must have some explanation. Why did you call Aunt Rose such a vile name? I still cannot believe you were so rude. What is the matter with you lad? What. No answer. I despair. I really do. You have got to change. I’ve told you often enough. I told you not to take food into the good lounge. What did you do? The room stinks of hamburgers. And what’s that stain on the carpet on the stairs? Looks like beer to me. I didn’t do it. Aunt Rose didn’t do it. It was you. Don’t shake your head at me lad. Don’t deny it.

You haven’t left me a lot of choice. You only have yourself to blame. I have told you over and over. You just take no notice. I despair, I really do. You know what Justin I’ve spoken to your dad and he agrees with me. He’s two hundred miles away or else he’d do it himself. But he’s told me to go ahead and do it myself. What do you think of that?

Don’t argue with me Justin. You know what I’m talking about. A good hiding. You’ve been asking for it for weeks. Now you’re going to get it. I don’t want any fuss from you. I don’t want to spank you. Look at you, you’re eighteen, nearly nineteen years old. You should be too old for this. But you’re not. You leave me no choice. I hope to God I can knock some sense into you.

….

Uncle Buster takes a deep breath. He’s little harangue is over. Now is the time for action. Justin watches, a little stunned, as his uncle crosses the lounge over to the stand where the television is. On the lower shelf are his bedroom slippers. He reaches down and grabs one. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face his nephew. He is very calm. He has no anger against the boy. Justin needs a dame good spanking. That is what he is going to get. Uncle Buster hopes it will do the trick. He wants Justin to grow up into a decent, responsible adult. He used to be a good kid – didn’t he get really good marks in his school exams – but somehow he’s lost his way. He needs guiding back onto the straight-and-narrow. A sore bum will show him the way.

“Come over here Justin,” Uncle Buster walks over to the dining table. He picks up one of the chairs and turns it round so it faces into the room. “Hurry up lad,” he sighs. He really doesn’t want a fuss. He wants Justin to take his punishment; he doesn’t need some unseemly row. Heaven forbid his nephew should fight him.

Justin stays motionless. He seems to be weighing things up. Having a discussion with himself in his head. Foremost, he is embarrassed. His uncle wants to spank him. Eighteen years old and to be spanked by his uncle. He cannot be serious. It is true, Justin knows he is all the things Uncle Buster says he is. But Justin likes his aunt and uncle. It’s just … It’s just …. Justin cannot explain it, not even to himself. He has no idea why he behaves the way he does.

Uncle Buster brandishes his slipper. “Come here lad,” he says more sternly. He sits down on the chair. It is obvious what his intentions are. He waves the rubber-souled slipper again. “Quickly,” his voice cracks. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Justin frowns. Does he have a choice? If so, what is it? This is uncle’s house. It is a fine, comfortable house. His aunt and uncle are kind to him. Justin has repaid their generosity by making their lives a misery. A little shamefaced, he sucks down on his bottom lip. If he refuses, he will certainly be told to pack his bags and go. Then what? His dad will hit the roof, so Justin will have Dad and Uncle Buster to contend with. Justin knows he cannot defeat the both of them.

Justin is not a religious boy (who of his age is these days?) but he does feel shame. He has let Aunt Rose and Uncle Buster down. He has let Mum and Dad down. Heck, he begins to see, he has let himself down. He is better than this.

Uncle Buster is getting irritated. “Stand there,” he snaps his fingers to a place on the carpet close to his right leg. The snapping seems to wake up Justin. He sucks his lip again. He is a little surprised to find his legs are taking him across the room. He stands by his uncle. Justin stares at the man sitting on the chair. He is a large man, mostly because of the roll of fat that hangs over the waistband of his trousers. He has two chins and what are sometimes referred to as “man boobs”.

Uncle Buster holds the slipper by the heel and scrunches it in his right fist. “Bend over my knee, son,” he says apologetically. He doesn’t want to do this, but that won’t stop him. It is for Justin’s sake. He deserves to have his backside soundly spanked. He needs correction. He has to learn how to behave. It will be for his own good. He won’t think that today, but sometime in the future he’ll understand. He might even thank Uncle Buster for caring enough to take him across his knee.

Justin draws down a lung-full of air. His head feels light. Is he really here? In the lounge room. Standing by his Uncle Buster. About to bend across his knee. To let him spank him on the bottom with his slipper. Justin cannot believe it. It’s like it’s happening to some other disrespectful teenager, not Justin.

Uncle Buster parts his legs. His fatty thighs make a sizeable platform for his nephew. Justin doesn’t know what to do. Where are his hands supposed to go? Is he meant to lean on Uncle Buster’s thighs and slowly lower himself down? He decides to flop forward, a bit like the way he does when he dives into a swimming pool. His body sinks into uncle’s thighs. Justin reaches his arms forward and lets his legs dangle in mid-air. He is surprised how comfortable he feels. Uncle Buster has a lot of padding.

Justin is dressed only in underpants. When he is standing they cling to the contours of his buttocks. Now, stretched across uncle’s knees, they are even tighter. The smooth cotton digs into his crack. It’s like someone is giving him a wedgy. It makes him wriggle.

“Keep still Justin,” his uncle’s voice is soft. He shows no anger. “Now, please don’t make a fuss,” he whispers. Then he takes a firm hold of the waistband of Justin’s pants and starts to tug them down. They are tight and the boy is lying firmly across his lap and it is not easy for Uncle Buster to get them over the buttocks. “No, Uncle, no,” Justin pleads as the reality of his situation becomes clear.

“Underpants are of little use at a time like this,” Uncle Buster says stoically. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.” After much tugging he has the pants at Justin’s knees. He hopes they might prevent his nephew from kicking his legs about too much.

“Remember Justin,” Uncle Buster says as he gently taps the slipper against the fleshiest part of the teenager’s left cheek, “You have been asking for this for a very long time. You only have yourself to blame.” Then he whacks the slipper down hard. The cheek wobbles. A pink mark slowly appears. Justin opens his mouth, forming a perfect “O” with his lips. His eyes blink. A second slap hits him on the other cheek. The pain is mounting.

Uncle Buster sets about slippering Justin’s bottom. He pounds the slipper across the quivering bum cheeks with great force. These are not “love taps”, this is a proper spanking. It has to be a genuine punishment, otherwise Justin will not learn. It has to hurt. Justin must fear a repeat performance if he does not improve his behaviour.

Very soon the imprint of the slipper’s sole is embossed all across Justin’s bum. He wriggles and he kicks his legs (the pants do act as a restraint). He waves his arms about. He looks like he’s trying to swim off Uncle Buster’s lap. He can’t help it. He has no control, it is his body’s natural reaction, trying to protect itself against the heavy onslaught. The bottom glows red. The boy tries to protect his bum with his hand. He can’t do it. He can’t reach back that far. He is over uncle’s knee at an acute angle; his head is low and his bottom is high. Uncle grips him tightly around the waist. Justin can’t do a thing. He is trapped; he’s not going anywhere. Not until Uncle Buster thinks he has been spanked enough. Then – and only then – will he be released.

Not one square centimetre of Justin’s buttocks are spared. They go dark pink and then red. Purple bruises burst out where the edge of the slipper catches his bottom awkwardly. Justin shuts his eyes tightly. His bum throbs. Each new whack of the slipper makes the temperature of his bum go higher.

“Are you learning your lesson?” Uncle Buster asks softly. Justin concentrates on dealing with the growing pain and does not hear the question. Uncle smiles affectionately. His nephew’s grunt and groans tell him the answer is Yes. Justin’s temples throb almost as much as his backside. His head feels like it has expanded to twice its natural size. His heart races and he can’t quite catch his breath. Tears trickle from the corner of his eyes.

Uncle is nearly finished. Just one more task left. He slaps the slipper six times across the back of Justin’s naked left thigh. That has the lad yapping like a little whipped puppy. The six he pounds into the other thigh turns the yaps to full-throated yells.

That’s enough, Uncle Buster says to himself. He is soaked with sweat. It is not easy for a man of his size to expend so much energy. If he isn’t careful he might have a seizure. He stops slippering, but continues to hold Justin face down across his lap. The boy’s breathing is uneven and heavy. Is this how a beached dolphin sounds? Uncle Buster admires his handiwork. Both buttocks shine. If he turned off the light they would glow in the dark. It is a sound spanking. Just as it should be. He feels no hatred or anger for the disobedient boy. Justin has taken his punishment. He hardly struggled. Uncle Buster is very proud of him. We hopes it will be the only time he needs to punish the boy.

“Get up,” he says quietly. Justin rolls off his uncle’s lap and plops onto the floor. Instinctively, he reaches to his burning bottom and rubs vigorously. Still on the ground he tugs his underpants up to their rightful place. Uncle Buster stands, walks to the sideboard and digs into a box of Kleenex. He hands Justin a fistful of tissues and quietly the teenager wipes the residue of tears from his face.

“Will I have to do that again?” Uncle Buster asks gently. Justin has regained full control. “No uncle. Sorry uncle,” his voice catches. He means it. The pain in his backside is easing, but it stings like a thousands wasps have been at it.

“Go to your room and make sure you apologise to Aunt Rose later,” Uncle Buster is replacing the chair.

“Yes uncle,” Justin walks unsteadily back to his bedroom where in the mirror he examines his battered bottom in minute detail. He shakes his head in disbelief. Did this really happen? In this day and age? To a disrespectful eighteen-year old? He rubs his eyes as if that might wake him from his dream. It doesn’t work. Gingerly, he lays down on his bed and with the tips of his fingers he gently massages his bottom.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

What a disappointment!

Dreams of spanking

 

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