Suddenly awoken

new 5

z used bed waiting pyjamas champion (3)

Hal woke with a start. He found himself sitting up in bed, his bottom still tingling. What had roused him? His dick throbbed and he shuddered with shame. Not again? He reached his hand inside the fly of his pyjama bottoms. The top of his cock was wet but still rigid. Quickly, he explored himself with his palm, then he tested the sheets. No, he had not ejaculated; he had caught himself just in time.

“Oh gosh,” he exclaimed aloud. There was someone in the room. It was gloomy, his eyes had not adjusted. He couldn’t see, but he could hear; someone was wheezing hard.

“What the …” Hal cried.

“Shussh. It’s all right.” Hal recognised the voice. It was his elder brother Roger.

“Shussh,” Roger whispered again, placing his index finger across his own mouth. “I’ve missed curfew. By a mile. I saw your window open. I climbed in.”

Hal looked across the room, the curtain was flapping gently in the breeze of a warm night. His brother tip-toed across the room like a cat in a cartoon sneaking up on a canary. Before he reached the bedroom door, Hal spoke in a normal, clear voice. “There’s no point doing that. Dad knows you’re late. I think he’s waiting downstairs with the strap,” he chuckled. As in all families Hal was delighted to know his brother was in trouble. It made a change that it wasn’t himself, Hal might be eighteen years old but he was still no stranger to his father’s knee and a close-up view of the carpet. Without thinking, he pressed his buttocks into the hard mattress, reigniting the pain from earlier. He could testify that father was not in a good mood.

“I don’t believe you,” Roger scorned. “I didn’t see any lights in the house. Everyone’s in bed.”

“Please yourself,” Hal shrugged his shoulders as his brother exited the room. Hal turned on his side, pulled the blanket over him and gently massaged his buttocks. The surface still felt a little like leather.

The house was old and Roger knew every creaking floorboard in the place. He manoeuvred across the hallway. There was no light under the door of his parents’ bedroom. Gingerly, he took hold of the handle on the door of his own room. His heart sped. He was almost safe. The door squeaked. Roger’s heart stopped. Slowly, ever so slowly, he eased the door open a few inches; just enough to squeeze his slim body through. He closed the door.

He could relax now, but even so he didn’t put the light on. The moon was bright and he could see well enough to get out of his clothes and into his pyjamas. He slid beneath the blanket. Safe at last. He had a fitful night, his sleep disturbed by recurring visions. He and Mary together. Her breasts. Her thighs. Her buttocks. The tantalising glimpse of petticoat. The things she would not let him do to her.

He was late down to breakfast in the morning. The house was eerie. Where was everyone? He sat alone in the breakfast room, mournfully sucking a piece of dry toast. Still he could not keep the image of Mary from his mind. A voice brought him back to earth. It was Miranda, the live-in maid. “Good morning Mr Roger. Your father says he wants to see you in the drawing room.” She paused to note cheerfully the sudden draining of colour from his face. “At once,” she emphasised and she cleared used plates from the breakfast table. Miranda hoped Roger did not see the smile she was failing to suppress.

Father was waiting. He was a stern man and this morning he looked even more severe. He sat irritably in a chair. “You’re late. What kept you? I haven’t got all day. Stand there.” He barked as Roger entered the room. He pointed to a spot two yards in front of him. Roger, who was no stranger to his father’s temper meekly took up position. He bowed his head, not daring to catch his father’s eye.

“Missed curfew,” father almost shouted. “Again!” He let the final word hang in the air. This was not a first offence. “Bah!” father continued. “What was it this time? Playing cards with those cads again?”

Roger hit down onto his lower lip. His father meant the boys who frequented The Three Fishers, a public house of ill repute. He nodded his head sorrowfully. Better to let him think that than to know Roger had been trying to get his hand inside a girl’s underwear. Father was strict Chapel. Being unchaperoned  with a girl was far higher on the list of sins, even than playing cards.

“Bah!” his father coughed loudly. He had prepared a speech. He always had a homily or two to deliver at times such as this. Roger listened patiently. There was no doubt at all how this meeting would end. He was in no hurry for proceedings to move along. Wicked. Sinful. Were two of the words Roger caught, although he had stopped listening after the first two minutes.

“No son of mine …” Roger’s ears pricked up. He recognised this sentence. It usually meant his father was about to conclude his sermon. Roger paid attention.

“So …” his father had finished his lecture. He was preparing for action. “Fetch the strap.” Roger sucked in a bellyful of air. He did not need further instruction. He turned his back on his father and walked to the far end of the large room. He paused momentarily and looked at the heavy strap that hung from a hook in the wall. He reached up. Not for the first time, he measured its weight in his hand. He looked at it as if seeing it only for the first time. It was old and worn and about fourteen inches long and two wide. It had been specially made as a punishment strap and the name of the manufacturer from the Scottish town of Lochgelly was embossed along one side.

“Hurry up. Bring it here, we haven’t all day to  waste.” His father barked. Roger carried the strap in both hands like it was a religious relic of some kind. With reverence, he handed the strap to his father. “Prepare yourself,” he intoned.

Roger needed no further instruction. Prepare yourself meant lower the trousers and underwear. Father only ever spanked on the bare buttocks. He had once said it was not a proper spanking otherwise. Roger knew there was no point reminding father that he was twenty years old; twenty-one in a few weeks’ time. He was not yet legally an adult. Beside, father would probably continue spanking him for years to come. Father was without doubt the head of the household. The gardener’s boy knew that to his cost and he was thirty years old if he were a day.

With steady hands, Roger prepared himself. His trousers and underwear bunched at his shins. He was not embarrassed to stand half-naked in front of his father. It was hardly the first time. His father shifted his own buttocks on the chair and leaned back so he would not topple once Roger was in position. He closed his knees and splayed his feet making a platform for his son. “Bend over,” he said imperiously.

Roger would submit to his father. He always did. A ritual was playing out between them and they both knew the part they had to play. Roger looked down at his father’s lap, then he rested his hands on his left knee and gently lowered himself. He let his arms fall in front of him. The chair was high and this meant that behind him his feet could brush the floor without him bending his knees. His bared bottom rested at an angle against his father’s knee.

Father was a stoical man. He had said his piece already, there was nothing more to say. He rubbed the strap across the highest point of his son’s bottom and made a sawing motion. He was taking his aim. Satisfied that he had it, father gripped the strap tightly, raised it high into the air and hammered it down with great vim. A dark pink line immediately formed across Roger’s bottom. He winced. That hurt. He knew it would. The second and third swipes landed almost simultaneously, ensuring that both cheeks quickly glowed red-hot. Roger’s hips wriggled and his knees bent slightly. There wasn’t anything he could do about this. His body had a life of its own, the movements were a natural reaction against the pain.

Father set out to make sure every part of Roger’s bottom glowed. He whacked the strap across the highest point of the mounds, then over the crests and finally into the undersides where the cheeks and the thighs meet. Once every square inch of flesh scorched he turned his strap to the backs of the thighs. Roger knew he would do this but that knowledge did not stop him yelping at the pain. He would be reminded of this every time he sat on a hard surface for many hours to come.

Swipe. Swipe. Swipe. Father kept a steady rhythm. He knew spanking his sons could be an exhausting experience so he liked to pace himself. There was no need to hurry. Roger was going nowhere. He was submissively offering up his bared bottom to the lashes of the strap. Father could go on all day if he so chose.

Roger’s cheeks clenched and unclenched. His head swayed from side to side like a horse worried by a fly. He shut his teeth to keep back the yaps and yelps his body wanted him to make. His shirt was sticking to his back with perspiration. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.

Roger’s bottom had been many shades of pink and was now a bright scarlet. Father knew that if he spanked him for only a little longer it would become the colour of a fine Burgundy wine. Then would be the time to stop. He raised the strap again brought it down.

A ritual was being played out between father and son. It was the kind of intimate affair best shared in private. Neither father or son would have been pleased to know that the maid Miranda stood by the half-opened door enjoying every lash of Roger’s punishment.

 

 

Picture credit: The Champion

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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

University bully

new 5

 

Hundreds of academics have been accused of bullying colleagues in the past five years, prompting concerns that a culture of harassment and intimidation is thriving in Britain’s leading universities. – Genuine news story

z used cane holding office Sting

“Bend over.”

You stare dumbfounded, “Excuse me?”

“I said bend over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What part of ‘bend over’ don’t you understand? I’m going to cane you.”

“Cane me?”

“Yes, cane you. Bend over the desk.”

“You can’t … I mean,” you stammer, your confusion growing.

“I can. I am your head of department. I can do as I please. Bend over.”

You watch confused, as he flexes an old-fashioned, school cane between his hands. “But …” you still can’t quite grasp what is happening to you. “No, you can’t. I’m not a student.”

“I am well aware who you are. That is why I am going to cane you. Bend over.”

Your head spins. Is this really happening? Is it perhaps a surreal dream. “But …” you try to speak, but he interrupts you. “No buts. Bend over that desk.” He swishes the cane through the air and points to a small desk at the other side of the room.

“How can you?” you feel your voice crack, you are starting to plead. “I have my rights.”

He bends the cane between his hands once more. It is a little under a metre long and as thick as a pencil. Your eyes focus on the notches that run along the length of the yellow rod. You notice the muscles flexing in his arms. He sneers, “Rights! Don’t give me rights. You have no rights. I have your annual assessment.” He nods towards a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “What have you published this year?” he growls and then answers his own question, “Nothing!”

You start to protest that you have a huge teaching load. Eight classes, each semester, but before you can form any words, he continues, “And, hardly anything the year before. What do you do all day?”

You can feel your lips moving and some words are forming but you are too terrified to speak clearly. You babble and that only encourages him in his own pursuit. “Your contract is coming to an end at Christmas. Do you really expect me to renew it? Clearly, he thinks this is a rhetorical question because he doesn’t give you time to answer. “Bend over,” he snarls and bends the rattan cane into an arc. You cannot take your eyes off it.

You can’t stop your eyelids from blinking fast. Your heartrate speeds. Suddenly your mouth is arid like a desert. The palms of your hands sweat. You can’t catch your breath. You are starting to panic. What can you do?  Call for help. Isn’t his secretary in the next room? No, you tell yourself, you saw her leaving as you came in. You are on your own. Should you make a run for it? Your mind is a whirl. Where can you run to? You know you can run but you cannot hide. He will get you eventually. Then what? Bend over, get the cane. Or lose your jobs. You know it will be hard to get another. This is your first post. You don’t have much experience, and as he says you have hardly published any research.

He walks over to the small desk and stands besides it. He looks at you menacingly. He wobbles the cane at you and a hideous grin cracks his fleshy face. You see how much he is enjoying this. He taps the tip of the cane against the desk. “Bend over the desk,” and then he adds cruelly, “young man.” You feel like a small child. You are nobody; he is all. He has the power, he can do as he wants with you. “Well?” he draws out the word investing it with sinister connotations. You gulp.

“I shan’t ask you again,” he mocks and then does precisely that, “Bend over the desk.”

Your head pounds so much you fear it will explode. Your throat feels like you are gargling with razor blades. Oh my God! You have no choice. There is nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing. “P…” you start to plead, but stop yourself. He is all commanding. You concede defeat. You feel like you are in a trance. This isn’t really happening to you. It is somebody else in that room. Is this what an out of body experience feels like? Independently of your will, your body moves slowly towards the desk. You stand close to it, the room seems to be spinning. He taps the frayed tip of the cane against the desk once more, “Bend over,” he intones.

The desk is small and low. You are tall. You look down on it as if from a great height. Bend over. How is it done exactly. Do you lean your elbows on the desk top and jut out your bottom? Should you lie down flat on your stomach? And then what, where do your arms go? Time is standing still. It is taking forever for you to work it out. From a great distance away you hear a voice, it is hazy, but you understand enough of what it is saying, “Bend over. Right down. Lie flat.” Your body obeys.

Your chest rests along the top of the desk which is not very big. Your stomach digs into one side. You still don’t know what to do with your arms. You stretch them to your sides spread-eagle fashion. You realise right away this is very uncomfortable and will not work. You change position and reach ahead of you. That is better. “Legs further apart,” you feel a slight tingle across your backside. He has slapped his hand across your bum to encourage you along. You do as you are told. “Good boy,” he says.

You have never felt so humiliated. Nothing before in your life comes anywhere close to this. You are offering up your bottom to an older man. You are going to submit to him; to let him beat you with a long, whippy cane. What if someone finds out. The students. You’d die of shame. You hear floorboards creak as he walks around behind you. Your chin is resting on the desk. If you keep your eyes open you can look across the room to the far wall. There is a day-planner calendar for 2019 with some dates inked in. You think if you concentrate on that it will take your mind off the ordeal to come. You sense he is now standing to your left. You hear his heavy breathing and there is a faint smell of what you suppose is deodorant.

He taps the cane across the centre of your bum. He stops. You sense him move closer to you. Violently, he grips the waistband of your chino trousers and tugs hard. The material digs up between your cheeks, it’s like he’s given you a wedgie. Now he is running the palm of his hand across your buttocks, smoothing out any creases that are left defacing the cotton. You feel very vulnerable. You are presenting him with the perfect target. He moves back, picks up the cane and once more taps it across the crest of your mounds. You feel it move from left to right in a sawing motion. Your cheeks clench. They decided to do this of their own accord. It is a reflex action. You feel the cane being lifted away from your bum, you shut your eyes tight and suck in your lips.

You hear an almighty swishing noise and crack! as the cane connects across the centre of your backside. There is a pause, it feels like a long time before the agony hits you. You gasp with shock, it feels like he has pressed a hot wire into your flesh. Your head automatically rises and falls and you headbutt the top of the desk. The burning intensifies and then cools of a little. Just as the pain subsides a second swish rents the air. The crack is as loud as before. The pain is a little harsher. He lands it below the first, under the cheek in the sensitive spot where the bum and the thighs meet. You do the headbutting thing again and this time your knees also buckle. The flesh is scorched. You have what feels like a strip of pain two or three centimetres long running across your bum.

You suck in air, trying to calm yourself. Your heartrate is off the scale. Your blood pressure must be sky high. Your bottom throbs. The third stroke whistles and cuts into the flesh just above the first. You now have three strokes running parallel to each other. He has an expert aim. The pain radiates from your bum and travels up and down your legs. You wrap your left foot over your right ankle in an almost successful attempt to stop yourself from kicking out. Your hips wriggle and you grip the edge of the desk so hard that your knuckles start to go white.

He lands the next one so that it cuts into one of the three welts pulsating across your bottom. You yelp, you just can’t help it. You just have to. The pain intensifies. It feels like your underpants have stuck to your skin. You panic. You’re bleeding. Before you have time to think more about this another swipe bounces off your bum. Again it lands across the others. You have never felt so much agony in your life; not even that time when you fell off your bike and broke a collarbone. You bite hard into your lip and think you can taste blood.

“Keep still, boy,” his voice echoes as if it is coming from a faraway valley. You are not aware that your hips have risen from the desk and you are stomping your feet up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. You feel the strength of his hand pushing you in the back until once again you are face down with your bottom high. He releases his grip and stands back, takes his aim and lets fly. He puts that one right into the area below the bum. It is almost right across the backs of the thighs. You stomp again, but some instinct stops you jumping up to rub the pain away from your backside. You groan, your eyes start to water. You fight back tears. The pain is intolerable. Is this how it would feel if someone had rubbed a steam iron across your bum? The back of your legs pulsate. You don’t know it yet but the welt that is forming now will reignite every time you sit down for days to come.

Has time stood still? It seems forever before the next stroke whips into you. Your eyes are closed tight so you cannot see him. You sense he is close behind you. He seems to be moving his position. You hear his irregular breathing. “Last one,” he says. The cane rises, swoops and cuts hard across your buttocks. This time you do scream. Your legs flail. Your head butts the desk top. You think your head is going to explode. He has landed the cane so that it runs in a diagonal line from the bottom left to the top right across your buttocks, biting into each of the five cuts previously delivered. Can there be so much agony in the world? How can such a thin, light whippy cane deliver so much hurt.

You are wheezing, struggling to catch your breath. Tears flood your face and drip onto the desk. Your bum is on fire. Again, you lose any sense of time. You daren’t move. Is it over? Are you allowed to stand up? He is in control. He is your master. You cannot do anything without his permission. At last the words, “Stand up,” drift through the air. You move your feet and they slip on the hard carpet and you topple forward. You grip the desk to stop tumbling to the ground. Even as you await your next instruction you feel the intense agony in your bottom is easing to a pulsating throb. Very soon it will become an intense ache. Over the coming minutes it will turn to a warm glow. The marks will stay with you for days and you will be reminded of this humiliation every time you sit down over the coming hours and days.

You grab hold of your own buttocks and rub furiously, it does very little to ease the pain. Through moist eyelids you see him open a cupboard and hide the cane from view. He turns to you. How you hate him. How you would like to grab a knife (or any sharp object) and gouge out his eyes. Perhaps, he senses this as he stays at the other end of the room. You see the armpits of his shirt are drenched. He too is waiting for his body to recover from the ordeal. After a few moments he looks across at you, you note the look of utter contempt in his eyes.

“That’s it,” he sneers. “Get out. Go.”

You hobble from the room, your humiliation complete. You know you can’t tell a living soul about this. Never. Who would believe you if you did? You hurry along the corridor towards the stairs. You see Jenkins, a young colleague from your department. Ashamed, you put your head down and rush past him. As you reach the stairwell you look back. Jenkins is at his door and about to knock.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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A preacher teaches humility

 

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 brush with Uncle Herbert

new 5

“Right lad, this is what’s going to happen,” it was Uncle Herbert speaking to me, “You are going to come and stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot just to the right of where he sat, “You are going to take down your trousers and bend across my knee.”

My incomprehension must have been obvious because he went on by way of explanation, “I’m going to spank you.” And to emphasise his point he brandished a heavy, wooden utility brush with metal bristles.

I was too confused to say anything. He glowered at me and said, “You have been asking for this from the moment you arrived.”

I stood rooted to the spot, totally confused. Uncle Herbert wanted to spank me. Me, a nineteen-year-old warehouseman.

“I told you from the start I would treat you like the rest of my young employees. No exceptions.” He waved the brush at me as he spoke. I shook my head violently as if to clear it. Was I hearing this correctly? He wanted to spank me like the rest of my young employees. I stared across the room. His eyes burned into me. He was entirely serious. No, I told myself silently, this was not happening. I’ll wake up in a minute and it would have just been a weird dream.

I had been working at Uncle’s import-export business for about a month. I’d left school the year before without any qualifications to speak of and had been in and out of dead-end jobs; shelf filling, burger flipping, delivering leaflets door-to-door, that sort of thing. My mum made Uncle Herbert take me on. I suppose blood is thicker than water and he felt obliged.

I loathed my job; it was mostly loading and unloading vans or stacking shelves. Once they discovered I was the boss’s nephew, the other guys hated me. They would stop talking among themselves when I came near. They knew lots of different ways to avoid work, and I think some of them might have been stealing from the warehouse: they were afraid if I found out I’d grass on them.

I started skiving off on my own. I sometimes went around the back of the building to look at porn on my phone. I didn’t realise there was CCTV all over the place; Uncle Herbert soon found out about me. He hit the roof and threatened all sorts of things. But he didn’t say anything about spanking me! Mostly, it was, I’ll tell your mum!”

“I said, come here and bend over my knee!” Uncle Herbert growled, still waving the huge brush about. I should have told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine. And, he could do the same with his stinking job. I could have done that but Mum would’ve gone mental. She got annoyed when I lost my other jobs; what the Hell would she do if I walked out on Uncle Herbert. I couldn’t do it. He was family. Mum might have thrown me out the house and told me to go live in a cardboard box for all she cared. I know Dad couldn’t wait to see the back of me. My younger brother Nathan wouldn’t mind either; he’d get the bedroom we shared all to himself.

“Now, Lad!” Uncle Herbert snarled, “Or do I have to come over there and get you?” He half raised from the chair. I could see he meant business. “C’mon Uncle,” I whined, “You cannot be serious?” I sounded like that brat tennis player what’s his name? The one with the frizzy hair and attitude. “I’m nineteen years old, not nine,” I told him. The moment the words came out I knew I had made a big mistake.

He leapt from the chair and was across the room in a flash. He grabbed a hunk of my hair and tugged me back to the chair. I howled as my feet slipped across the shiny floor. “Eff off!” I yelled, only I used the proper F-word. That was another bad move. He let go of my hair and swiped the back of his hand across my chops. I very nearly fell to the ground with the shock. Tears prickled the backs of my eyes.

“Now, are you going to do as you’re told?” He gripped my wrist and sat himself back down on the chair. “Get those trousers down, or I’ll do it myself,” his face contorted and the end of his large, pointed nose immediately turned purple.

“I.. I…” I spluttered. The sting on my face still tingled. He reached across and grabbed the waistband of my trousers and pulled me closer to him.

“No. No,” I wailed, slapped his hand away and pulled myself back. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself. I would take down my trousers so Uncle Herbert could spank me with his brush. All I can think now is I must have thought it was preferable to having an older man strip me.

I stood uneasily in front of him. To be honest with you, Uncle Herbert is quite a weedy feller; he’s so thin he could easily fall down a drain cover. He sat in an old wooden chair and spread his legs; they looked like two pipe cleaners. I must be a head taller than him and I’m not fat (well not obese, anyway) but I am beefy. I did some boxing at school and I’ve got muscles. You know, if he tried something on with me in a dark alleyway one night I could knock the bejesus out of him.

I stood meekly in front of him. My hands hardly shook as I found the buckle of my belt and did the business. I had the front of my trousers open before it really hit me. I was going to take down my trousers for him. I mean how gay is that? Can you imagine it, a strapping nineteen-year-old willingly taking down his trousers and then bending over the knee of a much older man so that man could spank him on the seat of his underpants with a brush. You couldn’t make it up.

But that’s exactly what I was doing. I held on to my open trousers. I suppose this was my last chance to leg it. I could zip up and run and Uncle Herbert wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. But my life flashed before my eyes. At least the foreseeable future did. Would Mum really throw me out of the house? Yes. No. Maybe. I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t look at Uncle. I closed my eyes and let the trousers slip over my thighs and they snagged at my knees.

“All the way. Down to your feet,” Uncle Herbert said grimly.

My eyes were still closed, I parted my feet and the trousers slipped down my shins and made a puddle over my trainers. I stood stock still like an idiot. I really did not want to do this. Let my Uncle spank my behind with a brush. “Bend over my knee, lad,” Uncle Herbert was stern.

I opened my eyes and looked down at his puny knees. For one moment I absurdly wondered if he could take my weight across his lap. I think Uncle Herbert misunderstood my hesitation. He thought I had chickened out. “Doh!” he cried and he grabbed my left wrist and pulled me forward. I lost my balance as I toppled forward over his lap. I went too fast and my shoulder hurt as my hands hit the floor, wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Well, I exaggerate there. But I did hurtle face-down over Uncle’s knees. I had to spread my arms wide and dig my palms down into the ground to hold myself steady.

I couldn’t see myself (I was staring at the wooden floor) but I could tell my big bum was high over Uncle’s right thigh and my knees were slightly bent and the tips of my toes brushed the ground. I wore tight boxer shorts and Uncle shocked me by gripping the waistband and tugging so hard that he gave me a ‘wedgie’: they rode right up into the crack of my arse.

He paused for a long minute. I’ve no idea what he was up to. I felt a slight tapping on the fleshiest part of my left bum cheek. Then there was an almighty whack! noise. I felt the sting maybe a second later. The noise bounced around the room and it felt like he had pressed the iron Mum uses at home into my bum. It took my breath away. My mouth opened and my lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as I just about managed to stop myself yapping.

z used otk pants chair cp4men

Before I got my breath back Uncle had hammered that heavy utility brush into my other cheek. Then he pounded it across both cheeks, high, low and across the peaks without mercy. Now, I was yelping, like a little whipped puppy. My hips rose and fell, my arms flailed about and my legs kicked. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap. He seized me tightly around the waist and held onto me for grim life. I wasn’t going anywhere while he blistered each and every square centimetre of meat (and my bum had quite a lot of acreage). When he had done toasting that he went for the backs of my thighs. My shorts were just that short, so he was walloping me on the bare. I wailed like some demented banshee.

I did the swimming thing again and my head went up and down. If I’d been closer to the ground I would’ve headbutted it. I was in so much pain and my heart was racing so fast I could not breathe. I thought for a moment I’d pass out. Still Uncle Herbert battered my bum. When would he let up? It seemed the answer was Never. On and on and on he spanked me. I’m quite a big, strong guy as I’ve told you, but even I wondered how much longer I could take it.

My bum had been battered and bruised so much I swear it had gone numb. I could hear the thwack as each new whack hit me, but I couldn’t feel a thing? Does that make sense? It shouldn’t, but I tell you it’s the truth. Uncle Herbert must have got wind of this because he laid a few more over my red-raw thighs.

I lost all sense of time. I might have been across his knees for half an hour for all I know. The spanking just went on and on. At last (thank the Lord!) he stopped. Bam-Bam-Bam. “Okay. Get up!” He let go of my waist and I lay still face down for a long moment catching my breath. It was only when Uncle Herbert started to push me off his lap that I came to. I tumbled to the floor and stayed there on my hands and knees. From that position I saw Uncle get off his chair and walk over to a hook on the far wall and hang up the brush. I climbed to my feet and nearly fell back to the floor as I stumbled pulling my trousers up.

“Get back to work, you’ve wasted enough of my time,” Uncle Herbert grumbled. I didn’t need telling twice. I stumbled through the door. Outside I saw Harry, one of my fellow workers. He had a huge grin across his face. He gave me an exaggerated wink. “Nice one, son,” he chortled. He had heard it all. My humiliation would soon be the talk of the warehouse. Without a word, I staggered down the hall. I needed to get away. I needed to calm down. I needed a smoke. I cursed myself that I wasn’t carrying any weed.

Things improved a lot after that. I didn’t work any harder and Uncle Herbert had me across his knee again before too long, but Harry and the guys now knew I wasn’t the boss’s pet and they treated me like one of the gang from there on in.

 

 

Picture credit: CP 4 Men

 

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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

 

Skipping night class

new 5

The public bar of The Three Fishers was not too busy. Frank and his neighbour Andy liked it that way. When it was crowded you couldn’t hear yourself talk. They didn’t usually drink on a Wednesday night but their wives were out on a “hen night” with the girls, and well, while the cats’ are away.

The Three Fishers was not the classiest pub in Brocklehurst, some might even say it was a bit sleazy. But, the beer was cheap and you never got troubled by the Salvation Army selling War Cry.  “Look,” Andy said, for something to say, “How old do you thing those kids are?” He nodded to a group of youngsters playing the machines and sipping lager slowly so it would last them all night. “About fifteen, I’d reckon.”

Frank gulped some beer. “You know what they say; you know you’re getting old when policemen and kids in bars look young.” It wasn’t a very clever thing to say, but conversation between them had slowed for a time. There’s only so much you could say about Liverpool’s chances of winning the Premier League.

Each of them stared into space for a while, enjoying the company, but also the quiet. Suddenly, Frank gagged on his beer as a mouthful went down the wrong hole. In between coughing and spluttering, he nodded towards the bar, “Look that’s my Harry and your Marcus.” Andy turned to see, his face reddened. “What the ….?” He was genuinely angry. Harry and Marcus were Frank and Andy’s sons.

Andy looked at his watch, “What’s the time. Not even nine. They’re supposed to be at night school. It doesn’t finish until ten.”

Frank had recovered his composure, “What are we paying for if they’re skiving off?” The boys were apprentice plumbers. It had cost both men a pretty packet to get them signed up by a big firm. The pair would be made for life once they qualified. More so now all the Polish plumbers were being sent packing back home by the government.

So far the boys had not noticed their dads. Frank stared aggressively across the pub. He noticed the way they were chatting casually with the barman. “Damn it!” he fumed, “See that! Looks like they’re regulars in here. Do they do this every week?” Andy shook his head: how could he possibly know?

Frank drained his glass. “What are we going to do?”

“I’ll have another pint, thanks,” Andy waved his glass in the air.

“No.” Frank’s face had turned puce. “About them. What are we going to do about the boys?”

Andy smiled wryly, “Well, I think we both know the answer to that.”

Frank headed for the bar, empty glasses in hand, “I’m going to have a word.”

Harry didn’t see his dad until it was too late. Suddenly, he was standing over him. “Good evening lads,” Frank sneered. “Fancy seeing you here. Night class cancelled was it?”

It was hard to tell which of the two eighteen-year-olds blanched the paler. Marcus almost dropped his glass. He glanced across at the exit and for a second contemplated making a run for it. “You dad’s over there,” Frank pointed back at Andy who was watching the proceedings with half a smile across his face. Andy waved mockingly.

“But Dad …” Harry tried to form a sentence. He was tongue-tied. It wasn’t the drink affecting him; he’d only taken two sips from his lager. It was the confusion. His dad never came to The Three Fishers; that’s why he and Marcus used it. They’d been coming for weeks.

Frank didn’t want to make a public scene. He had no cause to. He leaned in to the two boys and menacingly said, “You are going to put down those glasses and go to my house. Wait their until we get there. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a question, it was an instruction. Frank expected it to be obeyed, and it was. Without hesitation, Harry and Marcus pushed their way to the bar, deposited their glasses among the slops there, and sorrowfully trudged to the door. Only once they were standing outside in the cold street did either utter a word. “We’re for it now,” Marcus spoke for both of them, but that didn’t stop Harry from agreeing, “Too right.”

Frank took the full glasses back to Andy and told him what he had done. “Good. Well, I know what I’m going to do. What about you?” Andy attacked the foam on his beer leaving himself with a white moustache. “I think we are in perfect agreement,” he said looking at his watch. “We shouldn’t leave it too late. Best to get it done before the girls get back.” They both sipped their beer thoughtfully.

Harry and Marcus walked the streets slowly, even though it was a cold night and the wind was bitter. “What will your dad do?” Marcus whispered.

“Same as yours, probably,” Harry replied, although he knew there was no “probably” about it.

“Bugger,” Marcus moaned. “What a life.”

The house was cool and in darkness when they arrived. The boys’ spirits were so low they made no effort to get the central heating going. They sat in the gloom. “How long do you think they’ll be?” Marcus sighed.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Harry snapped.

“Yeah, well …” Marcus paced the room. During the coming hour neither boy settled. The television stayed off and they made no effort to lighten their despair with music or other entertainment. Shortly before ten-thirty the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their fathers.

“Bloody hell, it’s like an icebox in here,” Frank shivered theatrically and headed upstairs to use the bathroom and switch on the heating. The boys stood, not daring to catch each other’s eye.

“That’s better,” Frank said, when he returned, rubbing the palms of his hands together to get his blood circulation going. “In here, you two,” he gestured to a sizeable open-plan room and led the way. Two sorrowful eighteen-year-olds followed with Andy bringing up the rear.

Frank stood, his feet apart and his hands behind his back. The two lads stared down at the expensive wooden flooring. “I’m not even going to dignify this with a lecture,” Frank spoke forcefully. He had appointed himself spokesman for the two fathers. The two boys looked sheepish. “We’ve spent a fortune on your apprenticeships and look how you repay us.”

Marcus’s eyes glazed. Frank’s words sounded like a lecture to him. “And, it’s not the first time is it?” Frank’s question went unanswered. “Is it!” he thundered. He was rewarded with muffled “Noes” from the wretched pair. “No, it’s not,” Frank confirmed. “Well, we’re not putting up with it, are we Mr Hutchins?”

Andy had not expected to be addressed by this name and missed his cue. “Are we?” Frank repeated. Andy’s response was to shake his head vigorously and intone, “No!” That proved to be his only contribution to the reprimand.

Frank was ready for action. “Pull up a stool,” he nodded at a set of low wooden seats and took hold of one himself. Andy followed his lead. Frank sat down on one. Andy did the same on his. “Right,” Frank gestured to his son Harry, “Stand by me.” Harry glanced at his pal Marcus but the boy did not see him, his eyes were transfixed at the floor.

“You too,” Andy snapped his fingers. That got Marcus’s attention. Soon both boys were in position. They made no objection. What objection could they make? They were in the wrong. Their fathers had right on their side. Matters had to take their course. That’s what made the world go round.

Frank spoke quietly but with authority, “Take down your jeans.” Harry’s eyes pleaded with his father. It was bad enough to be spanked by his dad, and worse to have it done in front of his friend, but jeans down was going too far. Embarrassment was one thing; humiliation was something else. Harry said none of this. Meekly, he fumbled with the belt of his jeans. They were baggy and the moment he un-popped the button at the waist they started to slide down his thighs, even with the zipper still fastened. They snagged at Harry’s knees which he bent slightly and this was enough to send them travelling down to his feet.

Harry stood by his dad’s side, looking down at the old man. “Bend over my knee.” Frank had a beer gut and this drooped over his lap, offering very little room for his son to present himself for a spanking. Harry eased himself down. Like father, like son, Harry was well padded himself and struggled to keep his balance. He pressed the palms of his hands into the floor and his toes rested comfortably on the ground behind him. His big bum was angled over his dad’s knee but he could feel himself slipping. Frank gripped him around the waist and this kept Harry steady.

Marcus was an altogether trimmer boy. His chino trousers clung to his slim body and once he unfastened the belt and zipper he was obliged to roll them down over his hips and thighs. He left them bundled at his knees. His dad Andy had some “middle-aged spread” but there was sufficient room for Marcus to offer his body comfortably across the lap.

The two dads faced each other. Frank gave a signal and they began spanking in unison. Synchronised spanking is not yet an Olympic sport but were it to become one the two dads might be in the running for Gold. They quickly got their rhythm. The stereophonic sound of two hands slapping two bums resounded around the room.

Although the two dads had eye contact, the boys did not. That saved them much embarrassment. But, Marcus realised that by looking to his right he had a perfect view of his friend’s fat bum, pointing in the air, the palm of Frank’s hand sinking into the flesh with each slap.

z used otk twosome Magic spanking factory (4)

An over-the-knee hand spanking on the underpants for eighteen-year-old boys is not much of a punishment. No matter how hard, or how rapid the slaps, after a short while it becomes apparent that Dad’s hand hurts far more than Junior’s bottom.

“Bah!” Frank wheezed. He stopped spanking. Andy did the same with Marcus. Was this the end? Andy hesitated, waiting to take his cue from Frank. He saw the tip of Frank’s tongue dart out of his mouth and wriggle around his lips. With that task completed Frank gripped the elasticated waistband of Harry’s pants. “These really don’t serve much purpose at a time like this,” he grinned as he tugged the pants over the fleshy mounds. Harry wriggled his bum in protest, “Nooooo,” he mouthed but not loud enough that his dad would hear.

Across the way Marcus saw Harry’s bottom was covered with dark-pink blotches. He could see right into his crack. But, his attention was diverted; his own father was pulling down Marcus’s pants. A cold breeze from somewhere wafted across his naked flesh.

The two dads resumed their synchronised spanking. Frank was delighted to see the imprint of his fingers reproduced time and again across Harry’s trembling buttocks. It encouraged him to wallop the boy harder and faster. Soon he was ahead of Andy. It was like a race where the horses keep together in a bunch until the final two furlongs when one of them makes a dash to the finishing line. Andy increased his speed and chased after Frank, ignoring Marcus’s gasps and yaps. He spanked with renewed vigour. He had found his second wind. He could spank all night, if need be.

So, they went on. Two sets of buttocks glowed. Smack, smack, smack. The noise from the slaps and the associated yaps and yelps filled the room. They didn’t hear the front door open. They didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway.

But, they did hear a woman’s voice, “Frank, I brought some of the girls back for a night cap.” They heard that and then the banshee-like screeches of a half-a-dozen women.

 

Picture credit: Magic Spanking Factory

Other stories you might like

Double trouble – his first time

The party’s over

Why me?

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

 

Bring back the cane

new 5

Scenes we’d like to see (or wishful thinking)

 

The staff lounge of Albion Academy was quiet, it was lunchtime and most of teachers were in classrooms working their way through piles of paperwork. Monthly assessments were due. Mr Whitfield, merely months away from his pension was not one of them. He sat in a battered armchair, eyelids closed, his hands serenely placed on his lap. Opposite him sit Mr Hancock, still in his twenties and restless, leafed through the Daily Telegraph. The headlines disagreed with him and he became increasingly irritated.

Suddenly, he cried, “Ha! Look at this! Says here more than seventy percent of people surveyed want to bring back the cane in schools.” Whitfield suppressed a sigh. He would not get involved. Unperturbed by the silence, Hancock continued, “Even the majority of the kids want it,” he said with a note of triumph. “Quite right too!”

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools thirty years previously, before Hancock had been born. The impending anniversary had prompted renewed discussion about the state of discipline in the land. Hancock was “old guard.” He believed in law and order and respect for elders and betters (especially schoolmasters).

“It would do this place a lot of good,” he spread his arms to encompass the room so Whitfield would understand he meant Albion Academy. “Used to be a fine school. A grammar. Best in the town. Respected. Now look at it.”

Whitfield would not be goaded. Could he pretend to be asleep? Hancock sighed as if he carried the burden of the entire universe on his shoulders. “No discipline nowadays, none at all.” He pored over the details in the news report. “Pah!” he exclaimed, “Everyone wants it except the damned politicians. Well if I had my way …”

He hesitated. Perhaps it would not be wise to share with colleagues what he would do if he had his way. Several of them would be making their way to the job centre to seek new careers; along with half the administrators and all of the politicians. School masters (as he insisted on thinking of himself, although all his colleagues were happy to be called “teachers”) were given no support these days. What discipline was there? How were they supposed to punish misbehaviour? If you wanted to put a kid in detention you had to send a note home to their parents. Then, maybe – just maybe – two days later they might condescend to turn up. Or not. Then what could a teacher do? Nothing. The next step up on the discipline ladder was “exclusion” – they used to call that suspension in the good old days. Or even expulsion. No chance today. The school didn’t want that on its record. Exclusions meant the school was failing. Well, it was bloody failing. It was churning out nothing but hooligans. He could cry. Albion Academy sold itself as a school with “standards.” It was enough to make Jesus weep, Hancock thought.

Hancock looked to the past. He knew his history. When Albion had been a grammar school, and not so very long ago, it had been a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline: the cane! Today the school had to follow the national curriculum; where was Latin and Greek? (not that Hancock himself spoke either of these dead languages). They still had a uniform but back in the day when it was an all-boys’ school they wore short trousers even in the third form until they were fourteen. Proper shorts. Neatly tailored trousers that came to just above the knee. And long socks too. They could do a lot worse than bring that uniform back. If Hancock had his way they’d all wear short trousers, right up until the day they left school. The seniors as well. They might be eighteen years old (some of them even nineteen), but they weren’t adults. Not yet. They were children and they ought to look like children. These days they were indulged to think they were adults; that they had “rights”. They had no rights, they only had responsibilities and the first of these was to do as they were damn well told by their elders and betters.

Whitfield eyes remained closed and his hands rested on his lap. He had no idea of the turmoil inside Hancock’s head. The young man’s heart was racing, anger was rising in his body. He clutched the newspaper tightly. Why, he thought, if he had his way. What he would do. The boys would wish they had never been born. And he would start with those louts in the school football team.

Albion had recently won a new (but apparently prestigious) soccer tournament among schools in the region. Hancock thought members of the team had become insufferable. They had been superior and self-centred (like all kids at the school) before but their success took this to new levels of arrogance; nobody could claim to be their equal (let along superior) and Hancock, the young teacher still making his way at the school, suffered more than many.

This was Hancock’s first appointment. He was the youngest member of staff. When he first arrived some of his older colleagues had joked injudiciously that were he to dress in a school uniform he would be indistinguishable from the senior lads. One or two of the elder ladies “mothered” him a little, to his intense irritation.

With the staff seemingly patronising him Hancock took to exerting his authority on the kids. He could succeed with the youngest; to them a man in his twenties was ancient. The older ones had no such illusions. Mostly, they ignored him; the sixth-formers – the most senior students in the school – disdained him. Students!, how Hancock hated that word. They were not students, they were school pupils.

Now, he read the newspaper story once more; carefully. Yes, bring back the cane. What he wouldn’t do then. Those sixth formers would catch it hot. Especially the players in the football team. Especially that Bagnis; the worst of the lot: arrogant, self-opinionated, cocksure. Hancock’s breathing hardened. He closed his eyes to concentrate, he could see it now.

Bagnis stands in the gymnasium changing room, he is alone. There is a faint aroma of stale sweat about the place that he hardly notices. Hancock is in the adjacent office. He peers through a connecting window, not hiding his loathing for the eighteen-year-old. Oh, how he needs taking down a peg or two. Well, now is the time. The law has been changed (no, better, it had never been passed. The cane had never been abolished. Schoolboys still knew their place.)

Hancock turns away from the window. Standing snugly in one corner of the room is a tall thin cupboard. It is unlocked. There is no need for a lock as no boy in the school will dare go near it. Hancock opens the door, he does not hurry. He has all the time in the world, Bagnis is going nowhere, not until Hancock says so. There are five whippy punishment canes hanging on a rail, of various lengths and thicknesses. Each one has the traditional curved handle. Above them on a shelf are three leather straps; two of them are traditional Lochgelly tawes, one cut with two tails, the other with three. The tawes so beloved by Scottish schoolmaster and equally loathed by their charges are ancient and worn. They belong to Mr MacTaggart, one of Hancock’s older colleagues. He alone uses them, the preferred weapon of choice among masters is the cane. That said, a huge, size twelve dirty-white, rubber-soled gym plimsoll is propped up against the back of the cupboard. The sports masters use this for instant punishments on the younger boys.

Hancock handles each of the whippy rattan canes in turn. He is familiar with them all, but he likes how they feel in his hand. He takes one out of the cupboard and flexes it between his hands. As always it bends easily and forms an almost perfect arc. He replaces it and takes out a second. This is a little denser than the first. It is dark-yellow and not quite three feet in length (Hancock refuses to use metric measurements). It is as thick as a pencil and his heart judders when he swishes it through the empty air. This is his favourite. Lovingly, he tucks it under his arm and quietly closes the cupboard door. He turns and once more looks through the window. Bagnis is standing, hands behind back, eyes downcast at the floor: it is, Hancock agreeably notes, the perfect naughty-boy posture.

He strides through the connecting door into the changing room. Bagnis raises his head; his face pales, thereby acknowledging that he has seen the cane under Hancock’s arm. It confirms his expectations: corporal punishment in the form of a caning is imminent. Hancock slips the cane into his hand and taps it gently against his own right leg. Tap-tap-tap. Bagnis cannot help himself, his eyes hypnotically follow the cane.

Hancock looks at Bagnis. He is the Bagnis of today; he is tall and beefy. He has a clear open face and his arrogant hazel eyes shine. He still has the tattoos down his right arm. It is Bagnis; but he is also altogether different. His hair is cut short in a conventional style. He is dressed in a traditional grey shirt and a darker-grey sleeveless pullover. He wears mid-grey, tailored short trousers. They fall to a couple of inches above the knee. Hancock smiles. The uniform gives his fantasy a nice touch. This is school uniform as it should be.

He swipes the cane through the air and then wobbles it in front of Bagnis before he turns and points across the room. Standing there is a leather vaulting horse. It is about four feet off the ground with four short and sturdy wooden legs. Hancock has no idea when it became a tradition at the school for masters to deliver beatings in the changing room. It may have been a matter of necessity. Masters do not have their own private studies and the staff lounge and classrooms are too public. The gymnasium is in a building of its own tucked away from prying eyes. Its location adds to the drama; a boy sent to wait at the gym is left in no doubt about his fate.

Bagnis is one such boy. He is to be beaten. He knows this. Mr Hancock is in charge. His word is law. When he says “bend over”, then over you bend. No questions asked; no quarter given. It is what it is. There is a reason they are called school masters.

“Stand by the horse, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. Sorrowfully, but submissively, the egotistical sixth-former takes the three steps needed to cross the room. He stands close to the horse, towering over the worn, leather top. His breathing is heavy. So is Hancock’s. Hancock swishes the cane once more and then thwacks it across the top of the horse, a thin line imprints into the leather. Hancock allows himself a slight smile. He knows Bagnis will soon have similar lines throbbing across his backside. It gives him great satisfaction to know Bagnis also knows this. “Bend over, lad, you know how it’s done.”

Indeed he does. This is not his first thrashing and although he only has a few more weeks until he takes his exams and leaves Albion for ever he knows it probably won’t be the last. He lets the tip of his tongue run over his dry, cracked lips before he leans forward. Because he is tall and the horse relatively low, Bagnis spreads his legs wide so his stomach can rest comfortably across the leather top. He grips the two legs of the horse and concentrates on the dirty carpet beneath his nose. He tries to block out his surroundings. He knows the best way to get through this ordeal is to try to ignore what is going on.

Hancock allows Bagnis to settle. The boy’s buttocks jut out at a perfect angle and height. The tail of his shirt has slipped out of the waistband of his short trousers and although there is no practical necessity to do this, Hancock takes hold of both the shirt and the pullover and pushes them further away from the short trousers. This exposes an area of naked flesh on Bagnis’s lower back. Although he tries not to notice, Bagnis feels exposed; more vulnerable.

z used gym short trousers cane horse (3)

Hancock grips the waist of the short trousers and tugs vigorously. Now, they fit snugly and each buttock cheek is clearly defined under the material. Bagnis stays still. He shuts his mouth firmly and closes his eyes. He is ready. But, Hancock is not yet. He takes up a position to the left of the boy and taps the cane across the centre of his buttocks. The cane is warped through age and use. The far tip is frayed. Hancock cannot be certain his aim will be true. He saws it across the lower part of the cheeks. The short trousers have back pockets and Hancock fears this will afford Bagnis protection from the sting of the rod. Hancock knows he must make the strokes land below these and well into the sensitive “sit spot” where the cheeks meet he thighs. If his aim is true Bagnis will reignite the welts every time he tries to sit down for many hours to come.

Hancock saws some more, then he lifts the cane away from the seat of Bagnis’s short trousers and raises it in an arc. The ceiling is high and there is plenty of room to swing a cane. He holds it for a second at its highest point and then using all the strength in his upper body, he flogs it with great force across the lower buttocks. A thick line instantly digs into the stretched material of the short trousers. Bagnis reaction is imperceptible, the merest shudder in his shoulders speaks to the intense pain he feels. He bites down on his lower lip and tries to ignore the inferno in his bottom.

Hancock grimaces. He expects more reaction. Clearly, he thinks, that stroke was not hard enough. Maybe, he tells himself, he carelessly struck the pocket. He takes careful aim, lower this time. The cane rises and falls, the noise of the thwack of rattan cane across stretched backside rolls around the room. Bagnis wriggles his hips and grips the legs of the horse. If he dared open his eyes he would see his knuckles are turning white. His once pale face is now scarlet as surely are his throbbing buttocks beneath the short trousers.

Hancock is disappointed. He wants to hear Bagnis howling, to see him wriggling and writhing across the horse. He wants him to beg for mercy. Hancock lays a third stroke across Bagnis’s by-now quivering rump. It is the hardest yet. Bagnis thinks his  head is about to burst open. His buttocks are flailed. Can he feel blood weeping from the wounds? With magnificent self-control, he stifles the yells his body demands he must make. He will not cry out, he will not give the schoolmaster the satisfaction.

Hancock delivers six of his best. Never before in his short history as a schoolmaster has he flogged a boy so well. Still, Bagnis appears unperturbed by the ordeal. Hancock’s temper rises. So, he says, the boy is so arrogant and insolent that even a caning won’t change him. “Stand up, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. With difficulty, because it feels like his backside is blazing like the fires of Hell, the boy climbs to his feet. He leans against the horse to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He fears he will not be able to walk unaided from the gym. The room swirls around him so that he hardly hears the words spoken by his master.

“Well, Bagnis,” Hancock snarls. “It seems that beating didn’t quite have the intended effect.” He wobbled the cane up and down in front of Bagnis before pointing it at the boy’s middle. “Take down those shorts, and bend back over.”

Hancock steps away from the horse and looks on at the boy from a distance. Without a murmur, but with unsteady hands, the eighteen-year-old reaches for his belt. It takes several tries before it is unfastened. The button on the waistband is even harder to deal with. “Bah!” Hancock ejaculates with genuine anger, “Get on with it. Do you want me to come over there and take them down for you?”

The threat spurs Bagnis on to success. The top of the short trousers are undone and the fly buttons burst when he tugs. They lunge to his feet. Hancock is delighted at the sight before him. Bagnis is wearing gleaming-white, cotton Y-front underpants. “Bend over, boy.” The cane wobbles some more.

Sore and aching, Bagnis turns his back and with super-human effort he flops back over the horse, once more gripping the wooden legs. Hancock notices the pink botches in the otherwise white underpants. There are also two heavy, dark-red stripes throbbing in the bare flesh below the smooth cotton. Hancock smiles. In the distance he hears a bell ringing. Afternoon school is about to start. He flexes the cane and saws it across the fleshiest part of the bum.

“Come on Hancock, wake up, are you sleeping?” It was the voice of Whitfield. “Classes are starting. You mustn’t be late. The little buggers will destroy the classroom if you’re not there.” Hancock threw down the newspaper with disgust and dragged himself to his feet.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other ‘scenes we’d like to see’ stories are here

 

Other stories you might like

“You wanted to see me sir?”

House rules

You, over the knee for the paddle from Pop

 

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

Restrictions

new 5

solo couch by eitan

Wilf Hepplewhite took his latchkey and opened the door of his house. He stood in the hallway for a moment. His ears pricked. There was a faint, but unmistakable sound coming from the lounge. Someone was in the room. Carefully, so that he could not be heard, he closed the door. He put down his case and hung his coat on a hook, all the time craning his neck towards the sound. It was indeed unmistakable. He knew the room should be in silence. Furtively, he tip-toed towards the room. He stood outside and put his ear to the door. “Damn and blast,” he said to himself as his annoyance rose. He threw open the door.

Jake, his eighteen-year-old nephew, was slumped on a couch, feet on a table, watching television. The boy barely registered him as he entered the room and stood angrily. “What the b…” Mr Hepplewhite stammered, as he gesticulated wildly at Jake.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he found his voice at last.

The teenager merely glanced at his uncle. “Watching television,” he just managed not to add sarcastically, “what does it look like?”

His uncle’s face darkened. “You’re on restrictions. Did I say you were off restriction?”

Jake straightened himself up in the chair.

“And take your feet off the table,” Uncle Wilf growled. Reluctantly, Jake did so, silently glowering.

“And what’s this?” Uncle Wilf spotted what looked like bread crumbs. “What are my rules about eating in this room?”

Jake shrugged his shoulders and twisted his mouth. “I didn’t make a mess.”

“What. Are. My. Rules?” Uncle Wilf did not disguise his irritation. “What did I say?”

Sulkily, Jake replied, “No food.”

“Right. No food in this room.”

Uncle Wilf spotted a glass on the floor near Jake’s chair. “What’s this?” He had a clear suspicion as he swooped and grabbed it and wafted it under his nose. “I don’t believe it!” he stormed. “Whisky, you’ve been drinking my whisky,” he waved the glass in Jake’s face and repeated loudly, “I don’t believe it!”

Jake stayed slouched on the couch, trying to ignore his uncle, still with his eyes set on the television screen. “Doh!” Uncle Wilf was close to exploding. He grabbed the remote from the table and swung round to face the TV. The picture faded. He turned back to his disobedient nephew. “I cannot believe this,” he said again, struggling to find the words to match his anger.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble since I took you in.”

“Snot my fault,” Jake said sullenly. “I didn’t want to come.”

Uncle Wilf’s ire was rising. “I can’t wait until you finish school and you can join your mum and dad in their new home up north.” He paced the room, failing to control his rising temper. “I told you when you came there would be rules. It’s not much to ask to treat me and Aunt Sarah with respect. You are rude to her all the time. You treat this house like a hotel. She is not your chambermaid!”

The boy stared at the blank screen.

Uncle Wilf continued, “Your bedroom is like a pigsty and you leave a mess all over the house,” he waved his arms angrily. “Now, you don’t respect me when I punish you. Only yesterday, I said you weren’t to use the television.”

Jake grimaced, “I thought that was only for yesterday.”

“Did I say it was only for yesterday?” and when Jake remained silent, Uncle Wilf’s voice rose an octave, “Did I!”

“Well, no,” Jake reluctantly conceded.

“No,” Uncle Wilf paced the room, his heartbeat racing. “I’ve had just about all I’m going to take from you, Jake,” he raged as he walked. “What you need is a darn good spanking.”

Jake’s face fell, “A spanking?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s just what you deserve. A good old-fashioned spanking.”

“You’re joking right?”

“Do I look as if I’m joking,” Uncle Wilf stared intently at the teenager, still slumped. Then he began to unbuckle his belt.

Jake blushed, silenced for a moment by the sight of his uncle taking off his wide, thick leather belt and doubling it up. He was getting ready for action. He was not bluffing.

“B… but I’m too old to be spanked,” Jake blustered at a loss for words. “You.. you can’t.”

“Ha!” Uncle Wilf held the belt between both hands and snapped it making a loud crack! “Can’t I. We’ll see about that young man.” He glared at Jake. “Stand up.”

The boy slunk back on the couch. “No. No, you can’t,” he wailed.

“See if I can’t.” Uncle Wilf reached over Jake, gripped him by the wrist and tugged hard. The boy skidded to his feet. “Stop it. You can’t,” he wriggled and then swore hard.

“Right. That’s it.” Uncle Wilf kept his grip on Jake and sat down on the couch. It took a second to pull the still-protesting boy down so he was spread-eagled across his lap. “Stop that!” Uncle Wilf held the wriggling boy down. “I’m going to blister your backside and you are going to take it. Understand!” It was an instruction, not a question. “If not, you can pack your bags and be out tonight. I don’t care where you go. You’re not staying here.”

He did not wait for a reply. Jake was wearing “leisure pants” with an elasticated waist. Uncle Wilf took a fist full of material and tugged hard. The boy’s trousers and underpants came down together. Jake protested loudly but he was no longer wriggling so hard. Soon, his buttocks were bare. Uncle Wilf gripped the boy around the waist and hauled him so that his chest was laid out along the couch.  His legs dangled behind him with his knees straight and toes hovering above the carpet. Like this his bare cheeks were displayed at an angle across Uncle Wilf’s thigh. They were perfectly positioned for the spanking Jake was about to receive.

“You’ve been asking for this for a long time, young man,” Uncle Wilf said as he took up his belt and carefully doubled it. It was wide, thick and heavy and would make a perfect punishment tool. Jake’s bare bottom twitched and the cheeks clenched. They were firm and round and made to be spanked. Uncle Wilf took a firm grip of the boy’s waist so he was pinned down. He raised the belt high and with as much strength as he could find he lashed it across the very centre of his target. He was delighted to be rewarded with two sunset stripes. He whacked again and again and in no time Jake’s bottom resembled a plan of a railway junction.

The boy gasped as the leather lashed him. After a dozen or so more whacks he began to quietly yap.

“Good, you’re feeling that,” Uncle Wilf scoffed. “Am I getting through to you?” he asked. This time he expected an answer and when none came he lashed the belt harder, “I said, am I getting through to you?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake was breathless. “You’re hurting me please stop,” he wailed.

“I’ll stop when I’m ready to stop,” Uncle Wilf responded slashing the belt across the backs of Jake’s thighs.

“Ouch! Ooooh! Please stop. I’ve had enough!”

Uncle Wilf hammered the leather belt across Jake’s naked bottom. “You’ve had enough when I say you’ve had enough,” and he continued the thrashing. By now the whole of Jake’s bottom glowed scarlet. The outline of the belt was embossed across his cheeks and thighs. The boy’s yaps increased in volume to become yelps.

“Are you going to start behaving now?” Uncle Wilf was gasping himself.

“Yes,” Jake answered with alacrity.

“Yes, what?” Uncle Wilf landed an especially hard swipe.

“Yes, I’ll behave.”

“Yes, what?” Another swipe landed on the underside of the cheeks in the most sensitive sit-spot. “Yes, sir!” Uncle Jake roared.

“Yes, sir,” Jake mewed.

“Good, that’s what I like to hear. Have you learnt your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake almost screamed. “Please stop. Please.”

Uncle Wilf’s heart was racing. His blood pressure was off the scale. If he didn’t stop spanking soon he might have a seizure.

“I’m not so sure,”’ he answered his nephew and laid another six slashes low on the boy’s left cheek. Jake was spent. He lay submissively across his uncle’s lap, stretched across the couch. Entirely at the older man’s mercy.

“If I have to do this again …” Uncle Wilf let the thought trail off and landed six more across the right cheek. The boy’s entire bottom was hot and welted. Later when Jake rubbed the palms of his hands gingerly across his buttocks the surface would feel like leather.

Uncle Wilf slashed two more across each cheek for good measure. “Okay. That’s it. Stand up.”

Jake sprang to his knees, he stumbled and held on to the table to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He hopped from one foot to the other doing the traditional spanking dance. His hair was wet with sweat. His face glowed and was as scarlet as his bottom. His eyes shone. He wriggled as he returned his trousers and pants to their rightful place. He couldn’t bear to look at his uncle.

“Will I have to do this again,” Uncle Wilf asked calmly. Jake was still rubbing his bottom, “No, sir,” he replied meekly.

“Good. Go to your room.”

Jake hobbled across the room and Uncle Wilf heard him take the stairs two at a time before there was the sound of a slamming bedroom door.

Uncle Jake threaded the belt through the loops on his trousers. The front door opened and his wife walked in. Her face fell as she caught sight of him. Then it dawned on her what had happened and she smiled. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

He snorted a laugh. “Make us some tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

Picture credit: Eitan

 

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Clubbing

My friend Justin

 

 

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

 

Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)

 

Readers in the United Kingdom don’t need me to tell them that arguments about leaving the European Union have been raging for more than three years and don’t seem to be resolved yet.

Many people who voted to leave the EU (it seemed to me) wanted to return to sometime in the past when in their eyes the world was a less complicated place. Maybe the 1930s where everybody knew their place in the world and discipline was much tighter than it is today.

That set me thinking. What if, after the exit from the EU, we did start to turn the clock back. In my imagination, corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools. This proved such a success with parents that it was soon extended to include other young people, such as university and college students and workplace apprentices. Before long any person under the age of thirty could be subjected to the cane or the birch (or any other CP implement of choice).

So, was born the series of stories that I called “Changed Times.” I have brought them all together here for those who may not have seen them before. I enjoyed writing them, but the stories and sentiments expressed are fiction and I am not asking you to join me in forming a new political party.

Click on the titles and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: A glimpse into the near future

This story sets up the series and follows Kenny on his first day at college as an apprentice to Global Petroleum.

“Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

“Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’

 

2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

“Mr Scroggins was the “punishment officer” for the Neighbourhood Watch. It was a title he chose for himself. It wasn’t official; he wasn’t paid a salary. He didn’t want paying, he was glad to perform his civic duty.

“The Neighbourhood Watch had been formed in the words of its members, ‘to take back the streets.’ The Avenue was in a prosperous middle-class suburb.

“They had a ‘punishment room’ at the community hall. It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light. It was quite small, but big enough for its purpose. It contained a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the youth to be secured with straps. The horse itself had once been in the gymnasium of a local school. It had been lowered and modified so that when a young man was properly mounted and helpless the padded upper surface was quite comfortable.”

 

  1. The police station

Of course, the police play a large part in the new social control.

‘“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

‘“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

‘“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.”

 

  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

“Mr Hodgson took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in ‘Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.’ He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

“He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.”

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

Emboldened by the new laws, fathers were reintroducing discipline into their own homes.

“Downstairs in the living room Mr Nightingale flexed a thick rattan cane thoughtfully in his hands. He had never held such a thing until the day he bought it in the local market. A stall specialised in all kinds of spanking instruments. It did a roaring trade in school canes and paddles. Mr Nightingale picked up a large scatter cushion and balanced it over the back of an armchair. Then, he positioned himself an arm’s length to its side. The cushion was more or less where George’s backside would be in about ten minutes’ time. Mr Nightingale rubbed the cane across the cushion, raised his arm high and brought the whippy rod crashing down. A line indented across the centre of the polyester-filled cushion.”

 

  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

‘“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. ‘We’re live in twenty seconds.’ Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

“The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

“The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.”

  1. Pub landlord

Soon everyone was getting in on the act. A pub landlord takes control after a group of lads get rowdy and smash up chairs.

“I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

“Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.”

  1. Just another day

Just another day, in just another office. It could be anywhere across the UK. Three twenty-something workers face the consequences of not taking a training workshop seriously.

“Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. ‘But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.’

‘“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.’

“Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

  1. The truck

Another workplace whacking. What happens if you consistently turn up late for work?

“My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

“It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

I have also written other “futuristic” stories along the lines of Changed Times. You can read some of them here

 

A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

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