The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a pointon the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The New Coach

new story 2

z used plimsoll sports

“What in the name of glory just happened!!”

Eleven young men carried on stripping off their kits. The post-match banter flew around the changing room.

“I’m talking to you boys!” Louder. Angrier. Voices quietened. Silence at last.

“So answer me? Who wants to tell me what just happened?”

The boys shuffled nervously. Embarrassed.

“Gillingwater!” The coach’s face was now puce as he faced a stocky lad with his shorts half way to his knees.

“Seven-nil! Seven-nil! Unbelievable. Do you lot even now how to play football! A team of Girl Guides could do better than that.”

Gillingwater flushed. His teammates stared at the ground embarrassed.  “How long have you played together?”

The boys of the St Vincent’s Youth Club said nothing. They knew their new coach had a reputation as a hard man. Mr Townsend, their coach until the beginning of the season, had been quite the opposite, a gentle kindly man.

“Do any of you bunch of losers ever expect to play football again? After today’s disaster I am quite happy to tell the parish to throw in the towel.”

Now every eye was on the coach, teenaged faces etched with dismay.

“You ought to be ashamed! Every one of you! Ashamed!”

The changing room again went silent. A ghastly, frozen silence. Despite being a team of eighteen and nineteen year old men, many were close to blubbing.

“Do you want to be a team that this parish can be proud of? Do you actually want to play like men and not like a bunch of woofters?” Silence. “Well, do you?”

“Yes Sir,” they muttered, eyes still downcast.

The coach scowled, not trying to disguise his distain. “I said DO YOU WANT TO PLAY LIKE MEN!”

“YES SIR!”

Somewhere in the reaches of his mind he conjured up the image of a drill sergeant. In the US Marines perhaps. Someone out of a movie about Vietnam. These wimps had to be toughened up. For their own good, of course. It could save their lives.

The coach stiffened his back. “Right! From now, everything changes. From this very second. Is that understood?”

“YES SIR!” barked like Marine recruits.

“Any boy who thinks he can get away with what I saw today can get out, in fact he can get out now.” He pointed to the door, scowling, his eye ranging round the changing room, daring just one of them to move.

“Spreadbury. You’re the Captain of this shower. As Captain you are responsible for the performance and conduct of the team. Do you want to remain as captain?”

“Yes Sir”

“Do you take responsibility for today’s result?”

Spreadbury hesitated. He was not such a bright boy but even he knew the answer he gave might have grave consequences. “Y-yes. Yes, I take responsibility Sir.”

The coach turned, marched through the door of the changing room and returned brandishing a heavy white plimsoll.

“From now on failure has consequences. From now on when the team takes a beating on the pitch it also takes a beating in the changing room!”

There was a collective in-take of breath. Was he going to slipper the whole team?

“Spreadbury. For your failure to lead the team today you will get a whacking. NOW. SHORTS AND PANTS DOWN. BEND OVER.”

Spreadbury’s eyes widened, his usually pale face blushed crimson. A spanking. With a slipper. On the bare. In front of everyone. Most of the boys had attended St. Francis Independent Grammar School, they were no strangers to corporal punishment, but on the bare and in public! Even St. FIGS would draw the line at that.

“B..b..b.. but Sir,” he faltered, aware of ten pair of eyes transfixed upon him. “But, we’re not at school anymore.” He trailed off conscious of his lack of conviction.

“Pah!” The coach spat. “This is the only thing you boys understand!” He gripped the plimsoll in his right fist and waved it in the faces of the dumbfounded teenagers. It was a size fourteen. The coach had never known a person to have feet that big. It might be unsuitable as footwear but it made a terrific spanking tool. The sole was large enough to cover an entire buttock cheek. One whack delivered with vim would leave the flesh scorching.

“Well,” he smacked the slipper into his left hand. “It’s my way or the highway!” Eyes circled. The new coach was deadly serious. Things would never be the same again.

“What’s it to be?”

Spreadbury stood legs slightly apart, hands behind his back. Involuntarily his thumbs traced the contours of his buttocks. A slippering. He had touched his toes in the housemaster’s study many times for a swishing with a flexible rattan cane. That hurt like billy-oh, but he had taken his thrashings stoically. He had never been slippered. Surely, it couldn’t be as bad as the cane? These thoughts flashed through his mind at the speed of light. He would have to go through with it, what would his pals say if he chickened out.

“Come on lad,” the coach growled with impatience. “Shorts, pants down. Bend over,” he beat the plimsoll into his palm at every syllable. Sweat began to soak Spreadbury’s brow, there was a line of moisture above his top lip. “But, bare Sir …” he hated himself for pleading.

“It’s the only way,” the coach snarled. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

Ten young footballers watched on with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. None had seen a public spanking before. Spreadbury sucked down a lungful of air, preparing himself for the ordeal. His shorts hardly covered his buttocks, he stuck his thumbs in the elasticated waistband and with a mere turn of the wrist sent them hurtling south to rest at his feet. The coach watched intently, Spreadbury had an athletic figure, his legs muscular and hairless. The outline of his cock was clearly visible under the tight white cotton of his briefs. The teenager hesitated, psyching himself up for his next action.

“Pants down, lad. C’mon, we haven’t got all day,” the coach could not hide his eagerness to get on with the job. Again, Spreadbury stuck his thumbs under an elasticated waistband, but this time without bravado. He inched the briefs down, conscious of his fellow teammates staring intently. Of course, they had all seen his naked arse and cock and balls before; they showered together after every match, but never before had he felt such the centre of attention.

At last his buttocks were exposed, but rather than letting them slip down his thighs and legs to rest above his shorts, he kept the briefs bunched up. Quickly, fearful they would fall further, he leaned forward. At St FIGS “Bend over” meant “Bend over and touch your toes” and “toes” meant “toes”, not knees or shins. Spreadbury’s fingertips brushed the canvas tops of his own plimsolls. His back was arched and his legs were taut which made the muscles in his buttocks stretch tight. There was no spare meat back there; he was as tight as a drum.

“Bah!” the exasperated coach saw Spreadbury’s little game. “Let’s get these out of the way,” he snarled as he gripped the teenager’s underpants and tugged them away from the buttocks until they bunched at his shins. “Let the dog see the rabbit.” From somewhere a cold breeze drifted against Spreadbury’s naked bottom. He stared down at the dirty splintered tiles on the changing room floor, intensely aware that his crack and hole was on full display to his pals.

The coach gripped the plimsoll tightly, the muscles in his forearm tensed. He took up position about a foot to Spreadbury’s left. He could smell the fresh sweat on the boy’s body. He rested the plimsoll on the left cheek, running from north to south so that it covered the entire buttock. He tapped gently, taking his aim, then Whack! he brought it crashing down. The teenager stumbled forward under the mighty force of the blow but immediately steadied himself. An imprint of the plimsoll’s sole immediately appeared in dark pink across the once-creamy-white flesh.

A second later the right cheek was just as pink and equally as sore. “Ah!” Spreadbury sucked in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper his bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With only two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the plimsoll. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and screwed his face in pain.

The coach’s enormous large slipper thumped heavily down on his bottom over and over again. A caning was never like this. That was bend over, six swipes stand up, go. This slippering was going on forever. Spreadbury’s bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Spreadbury squirmed and gasped as some wallops hit right on a spot where others had landed. Coach quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after about three minutes and took a pace backwards the better to admire his handiwork. He saw an eighteen-year-old footballer bent submissively touching his toes. His hair was drenched with sweat; his face was as scarlet as his backside. No square inch of the teenager’s buttocks and the backs of his thighs had escaped the slipper. Spreadbury blazed. The pain would by now be dissolving into a throb that would stay for some time until it turned to a warm glow. “Yes,” the new coach congratulated himself silently, “A job well done.” He studied the plimsoll in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then glared around the changing room at the rest of his charges. Each boy stood bemused, unsure what they should make of the spectacle they had witnessed. One lad, shorter and fairer than his teammate, looked the most uncomfortable. He clasped his hands in front of his shorts.

“OK, lads,” the coach spoke quietly, “I think we understand each other now, get changed and showered.” He watched intently as still in silence they stripped themselves naked. He moved slowly to the room next door and replaced the plimsoll in his locker, conscious at how much his hand trembled.

Picture credit: Jonathon

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

Don’t bully our mum

Professor and the fresher student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Footballer’s Judicial Caning

z used cane hold military kernled (9)

“One hundred dollar fine; two hundred and fifty dollars to be paid in damages and four lashes of the cane on the bare buttocks. Take him away. Next case.”

The twenty-eight-year-old footballer bitterly resented being in this God-forsaken African country. Tony Jeffries was an important name in European soccer and starred in a top club, but he was still forced to tour the world to these backwaters, just because the club wanted to extend its brand across the globe.

Now, he was to get a different kind of brand across his own globes.

It had all happened so quickly. Last night he and some of the backroom boys at the club escaped their hotel to see a bit of night life. That was a big mistake, the town was a dump and there was nothing to do. They did find a rundown bar and had a few drinks, but nothing too much. Then some locals recognised who he was and muscled in. They would not leave him alone, words were exchanged, punches flew, tables got overturned, glasses were smashed, the police were called, and he ended up in the magistrates’ court.

The charges were violent conduct, criminal damage and causing a disturbance. And, for that, in this country you got your arse caned. Judicial corporal punishment was normal here, the law said men up to the age of forty could be lashed and courts routinely sentenced criminals to the cane.

Jeffries had to sit through two others cases before his own was heard. In the first a twenty-eight-year-old man got a fine and three lashes on the bare buttocks for stealing peanuts from a store. In the second, a man got five cuts for trying to snog a woman who did not welcome his advances.

Corporal punishment was a relic from colonial days when the ruling power used the cane liberally against the natives. They treated the locals as if they were children, no matter how old they really were, and believed that administering ‘spankings’ was the  way to get them to do as they were told.

Today, people believed corporal punishment was a good method of controlling the population and a sentence of lashing was cheaper than sending people to prison.

So, that’s how Jeffries came to be waiting his turn for a visit to the flogging room at the court. He had spent the night in a police cell, but he couldn’t complain. He was given a chance to call his club who contacted a lawyer and his country’s embassy and got the same response: Jeffries was guilty (he admitted that) and he had to take a whipping. It was the law and that was all that could be said about it.

A doctor had examined Jeffries to ensure he was fit to be whipped. All he did was to put a stethoscope to his chest to test his heart and, of course, Jeffries was fit; he was a world-class athlete, after all.

At one time the beatings were held in the police station’s examination room, but they were later transferred to the present room when it was found that the police station ceiling was too low to permit a full swing of the cane.

In the flogging room there were five adults. Two policemen held Jeffries bent over a table, and his trousers were pulled down.

A third policeman flogged him on his naked buttocks.

So great was the pain caused by the chastisement that a handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth to prevent those present hearing his piteous cries. It might also stop him biting off his tongue.

The policeman threw himself into a striking attitude. This was to be no child’s play.

The chief officer called “One!” His colleague raised the cane and smashed it down on the bare buttocks of the prisoner.

The first stroke had been a sort of overhead and downward cut.

The policeman was in no hurry. The second hand of the chief officer’s watch crawled. The punishment must not be hurried. After five seconds that seem like an age, he called, “Two!”

This second one – whew! –  swish! It came underhand and upwards, shattering the bruised flesh.

The doctor took note of Jeffries’s face. It was grey. But the doctor was not concerned. His function was not to stop the infliction of pain but to save the authorities the embarrassment of a man dying under punishment.

Jeffries’s entire consciousness was dominated by the thought of the next stroke – until his torture came to an end or the doctor called a halt.

“Three!” As the third stroke swished home, the footballer lost all sense of his surroundings. A symphony of pain engulfed his whole being. By now, he could no longer keep track of time.

“Four!” Whizz! — slosh! A straight forearm cut fair across the other three lines.

The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes. His arse burned as though he’d sat his bare bottom on a hot griddle.

A policeman ushered Jeffries from the room, to ready it for the next customer.

Jeffries could not sit down and was forced to lie on his stomach in the back of a people carrier for the journey back to his hotel. In the privacy of his room he gently eased down his trousers and underpants and examined the four distinct burning lines of pain that adorned his buttocks, it would be a full day before his backside became less painful to touch.

The following day he had to work hard not to fidget sitting in the plane as the team flew home and it took another two days before he could sit without being reminded of that God-forsaken country.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

First day of term

A public service

The Chamber pot incident

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

z used cane longs adult office suit

Adrian chewed on his bottom lip and kept his eyes downcast on the carpet. He was not quite sure where to put his hands, so he let them hang loosely at his sides, then he clasped them behind his back the way a member of the royal family does. Lastly, he held his hands in front of his cock like a footballer defending a free kick. Then he started the routine all over again.

He could not get his eyelids to stop flickering; he was wracked with anxiety.

“You know why you are here young man.”

Adrian was not sure: was this a question, or a statement of fact? He decided a non-committal grunt would be enough of a response.

“Your work is sloppy. You make countless mistakes; you do not pay attention when you are working.”

It was quite a litany of complaints.

And there was more. “You are often late into work and back from lunch. You are often away from your desk for no good reason.”

Adrian listened as best he could. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst through his chest. His breathing was becoming shallower and those damn eyelids would not slow down.

“I warned you before about your conduct, young man.”

Yes, Adrian silently agreed. Mr Gregory had warned him. More than once actually. There was nothing Adrian could say in mitigation. Everything his boss said was true. He was probably the worst accounts clerk in history. He had no aptitude for the job; no head for figures. Hey, he could not even add up properly.

It was a wonder to him how he ever got this job in the first place, but really he had no choice but to stick at it. Jobs were hard to come by these days and you did not readily give one up.

Mr Gregory eyed the accounts clerk. The boy’s clear skin was flushed pink; with embarrassment and also anxiety. His sparkling grey eyes were a little moist and hidden by his long curled lashes that refused to keep still.

“What did I say would happen if your work did not improve?”

Adrian’s pinkish face turned pillar-box red. He could not catch his breath.

“T..t..t…” he tried to respond but no words would form. His mouth was now as dry as the Gobi Desert.

Mr Gregory enjoyed the boy’s discomfort and his grey deeply-lined face cracked into a broad grin as he leaned forward in his chair.

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten,” he cackled, his beaklike nose gave him the appearance of an eagle about to sweep down on the poor boy.

Adrian’s breathing, once shallow, now almost stopped completely.

“Well then young man let’s get this over with shall we.” Mr Gregory hauled himself from his padded chair and took a few steps across the room.

Adrian eyes followed the middle-aged man and his eyelids still worked overtime.

Mr Gregory sighed audibly and stooped down to reach the bottom drawer in an old-fashioned wooden chest.

Adrian closed his eyes tight: knowing instinctively what his boss would withdraw from it.

“Here,” Mr Gregory straightened himself and turned towards Adrian. “I said if your work did not improve I would cane you.”

Adrian was transfixed. His cruel ugly boss held a long yellowish-brown stick between his hands.

Mr Gregory was very proud of his cane. He fondly imagined it was just like hundreds that were used every day by schoolmasters to whack the stretched backsides of naughty schoolboys.

He wobbled it in front of Adrian’s face, hoping to intimidate him. He succeeded.

The rod was a little over three feet in length, about the thickness of a pencil and with the traditional curved handle at one end.

Through half-closed eyes Adrian watched apprehensively as Mr Gregory slashed the springy rod through thin air.

This was not the first time Adrian had seen such a cane. He had been on the receiving end of one many times at school for general laziness and misbehaviour. Adrian had been raised to believe a thrashing with a cane was a just punishment for wrongdoing. He knew he had screwed up at work and he had been warned of the consequences if he did not improve. He really did not have anything to complain about, but it was a little strange to have to show his backside to his boss. Adrian had thought he had left all that behind at school.

Mr Gregory whipped the cane through the air one more time. Seemingly satisfied that he now had the measure of the rod, he pointed it at his desk.

“Take off your jacket and put in there,” he swished one more time for emphasis.

Mr Gregory watched intently as Adrian with fumbling fingers undid the button of the jacket of his dark grey suit and slid it over his shoulders, uncovering his gleaming white shirt. With his dark blue striped tie and dark grey trousers he could be mistaken for a senior pupil at any of the local schools.

Mr Gregory drank in the sight of Adrian’s muscular shoulders and slim flat stomach as the boy carefully folded the jacket and placed it on the desk. He was so unlike many of the other boys in the office, still in their teens but already running to fat with middle aged spreads around their waists.

Another swish of the cane told Adrian it was time to prepare himself.

“Take that chair and turn it round so that the back is facing you.”

Although Adrian was no virgin to the sting of the rattan cane, he still did not relish the ordeal he was about to face.

Sorrowfully, he gripped the large padded leather chair and in one movement swivelled it round into position.

Another swish of the cane, this time directed at a spot on the floor.

“Stand there young man.”

Adrian shuffled forward and stopped.

“Closer!” Mr Gregory was impatiently anxious to get started. Adrian, however, was quite keen for the action to be delayed.

“Bend over the chair!” It was a curt command devoid of emotion. Mr Gregory had to perform his duty.

Adrian hesitated, gripped by the absurdity of the situation. Here he was a nineteen-year-old man expected to bend over the back of an armchair to offer up his arse for his miserable boss to whack with his cane. But there was nothing he could do about it; Mr Gregory was in charge.

For the first time that afternoon Adrian caught Mr Gregory’s eye; was his boss just a little embarrassed too? He could not tell.

Swish! “I shan’t tell you again.”

Adrian hesitated no longer; if he wanted to keep this job he had no choice. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together, took a pace forward and swiftly fell face first over the back of the chair.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart.” They were unnecessary instructions for Adrian’s bottom was already perfectly positioned to receive punishment. And what a trim bottom it was, much admired by the girls in the company and, if only Mr Gregory knew, by a surprising number of men as well.

Mr Gregory took up position about three feet from Adrian’s left buttock, before carefully rubbing the springy cane across the very centre of the boy’s globes. Tap, tap, tap, it went. Mr Gregory heard Adrian hold his breath in anticipation of the first agonising cut that would soon slice into his bottom.

Slowly, Mr Gregory raised the cane about four or five feet above the boy’s taut bottom and then with an almighty swing he slashed it down across the very centre of the target area.

A gasp of air whistled through Adrian’s clenched teeth, as a burning stripe seared into his tight cheeks. Instinctively he gripped hold of the foam padded seat cushion and let the pain course from his rear end up and down his stretched legs.

“Owww!” he could not help himself. He had determined not to show Mr Gregory any emotion, but this first stroke was worse than anything he had ever been forced to endure at St Simeone’s School.

Mr Gregory admired his handiwork. Yes, he smirked to himself that one had really hit home.

He raised the cane once more and positioned it a half an inch below the first cut. Again he gave the swing all his strength. The cut hit Adrian’s pert buttocks at speed, sank a little into what flesh there was on the boy, and bounced back with vim.

Adrian screamed like a stuck pig. Still gripping the cushion his back arched and his feet stamped up and down. Never in his entire life had he felt such agony. To say it felt like a white hot poker had been pressed against his skin would be an understatement.

The boy’s face, usually so clear and a little pale, was now puce. His beautiful grey eyes were drowned in tears.

He wanted desperately to plead for mercy. He would do anything for Mr Gregory. Anything at all. He would concentrate on his work, go to night school to learn accounting; buy himself an adding machine. He would be the best-ever accounts clerk that ever lived, if only Mr Gregory would stop hurting him.

“Yowllll! Oh my God!” The third struck diagonally across the other two, setting both on fire again. The howl that surged from his throat was so deep; Adrian thought he would vomit at any moment.

Mr Gregory spluttered and coughed. His body convulsed one way and then another.

“Urgggh” he was woken by a cold damp patch across the front of his pyjamas.

Miserably, he wriggled the pyjama bottoms over his buttocks and down his legs, before throwing them from under the bedclothes onto the floor. Then he rolled across to the empty half of his bed and tried to resurrect Adrian and those trim buttocks that still had to endure three more strokes from Mr Gregory’s cane.

The next day was Saturday so there was no work. Mr Gregory got up at eight o’clock, bundled his soiled pyjamas together with the bedsheets and the rest of his laundry into the washing machine, picked up his keys and left the house.

He was a creature of habit and just like every day, he shuffled down the street to the newsagents. It was still early and the street of small semi-detached houses was almost deserted. Couples were still snuggled together in bed, enjoying what was euphemistically called a ‘lie-in.’

It was June and the day was already heating up. There had been a heatwave for days and the forecasters said there was much more to come. At the newsagent, as he did every morning, he nodded a cursory “good morning” to the silver-haired lady behind the counter. He had been to the shop every day for ten years and still did not know the lady’s name. Somehow she knew his. Almost.

“Good morning Mr Gregson,” she smiled the way that small shopkeepers, eager to ingratiate themselves with customers, always did. He handed over some coppers and took his copy of the Daily Express. On weekdays he would then proceed on the five minutes’ walk that took him to his office, but on Saturdays and Sundays, he went in the opposite direction and made his way to Joe’s Café.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

His was a mundane life. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Unlike the wretched Adrian of his fantasies, Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

The café was not busy at this time of day. It did most of its trade during the week, servicing workshops and offices. Mr Gregory liked it that way. He sat at his usual table and ordered his usual meal (full English breakfast) and settled down with his paper.

Nobody took any notice of him and he took none of them. He scanned the paper with no real interest. It was the usual stuff; economic downturn, a murder in London’s gangland and politicians droning on about how bad members in opposition parties were. There was a General Election due and they could expect a lot more of that before polling day.

Then he turned a page and saw something that made his juices drool. He slammed shut the paper as the café owner came and set his meal down on the table. Mr Gregory hoped the man had not seen the story that had caught his eye. He would not want people to know he was interested in that sort of thing.

With the café owner safely back behind his counter, Mr Gregory surreptitiously opened the paper. He read the story through quickly, then took a mouthful of sausage from his plate and chewed contemplatively as he savoured every detail of the story once again.

There was a school in a town he had never heard of. A right posh school by the sound of it. What happened was that the boys had been complaining about the heatwave. They were sweltering in their traditional school uniform of woollen blazer and long trousers. The older boys, some were as old as eighteen, said they wanted to be allowed to wear short trousers. The younger boys were obliged by the school to wear shorts up to the age of fourteen whatever the weather.

When the older boys demanded the right to wear short trousers their headmaster told them flatly: No. But, they rebelled and a group of them turned up dressed in their smart grey flannel short trousers anyway.

The headmaster went ballistic. They had broken the rules and defied his authority. There was only one course of action. They were lined up outside the headmaster’s study and one by one they were ordered inside.

Mr Gregory read with mounting excitement, ‘One eighteen-year-old sixth-former, who did not want to give his name for fear of retribution, said: “When it was my turn to go in the headmaster instructed me to bend across his desk. He then administered six hard whacks with his cane to the seat of my trousers.

‘“It hurt like Henry.”’

‘Another boy said: “It’s not fair. We weren’t asking to wear beach shorts. We would be happy to wear the same type of grey flannel short trousers the younger boys wear all the time.”’

Oh, how Mr Gregory envied that headmaster. That was the job to have, he thought.

He gulped down more of his breakfast as he read more of the story. Later, the headmaster rounded up three of the ringleaders and he publicly thrashed them in front of the whole school, even though they had already been beaten in the privacy of his study.  And, oh glory! He gave it to them on the bare buttocks.

Mr Gregory’s heart sped. He read the story for a third time and then sipped gently on his tea. Tylesbury had its own posh school, called unimaginatively Tylesbury School. It was an independent grammar school, a kind of private school. The pupils were made to attend lessons on Saturday mornings and he often saw the older boys looking delicious in their bright blue striped blazers and long light grey trousers hanging around the shops in the afternoon after classes had finished. Some of those boys looked very dapper and eminently spankable.

The dreams he had about them would be enhanced greatly, now that he could picture them in their tailored short trousers each in turn knocking on the heavy oak door of Mr Gregory’s study, waiting for the gruff “Come!” from within as their instruction to enter.

Mr Gregory would be waiting in his oak panel-lined study, dressed in his swishing academic gown, a mortar-board cap, the one with the tassel hanging down, planted firmly on his head. To the consternation of the boys, he would be flexing his whippy cane between his hands.

There would be a curt command, “Bend over, touch your toes.” Mr Gregory would roll the boy’s blazer up his back clear of the target area and then thrash six almighty swipes into the flannel-covered buttocks. It would not matter how much the boy yelped, he would get the full six.

Then, “Stand up. Send in the next boy.” And one boy would be replaced by another as headmaster Dr Gregory did his duty and ensured the next generation of gentlemen understood the virtue of obedience.

Carefully, Mr Gregory tore the page from the newspaper. It would join his growing collection. In his spare bedroom at home, he had a tin box that he always kept locked. Inside was a sheaf of cuttings from newspapers and magazines. The box was inside a suitcase (also locked) on top of his wardrobe.

This would become one of his favourites, for sure. Others that he liked to take out and read again and again were about an approved school for juvenile offenders that was closed down the previous year after a government inquiry. They said there was inappropriate use of the cane. Inappropriate? At least no boy there got it across the bared buttocks.

Another favourite concerned two eighteen-year-old sixth formers. There were some young rabbits that were caged up ready to be used by the pupils in science lessons. The boys took the rabbits down to an open field and set them free. That cost them three strokes on the backside.

Mr Gregory wondered why that was considered newsworthy by the Daily Express, but he was grateful nonetheless to add it to his collection.

Breakfast over, Mr Gregory set off on the next part of his Saturday routine. Shopping at the new large self-service supermarket had become a pleasure in recent weeks after he discovered a young assistant called Phillip.

He knew he was called Phillip because all the staff wore name tags. He supposed it was to make customers feel they were getting personal service, as they had done before the large stores drove most of the small shops out of business.

You would not give Philip a second glance if you saw him coming towards you in the street. He was smaller than average, with a pock-marked face, developing jowls and an overbite. But if you saw him walking away you would be captivated by his exquisite buttocks. They were like two pimples inside his loosely fitting black trousers, inviting close inspection from connoisseurs of the male form.

Mr Gregory first saw him in the dry goods section of the supermarket. The old man turned from one aisle into another and quite literally stopped in his tracks. There at the end of the aisle was Philip, his back to Mr Gregory and bending down to put packaged goods on to the bottom-most shelf.

Mr Gregory’s tongue might have hung out, or his face might have blushed scarlet with desire; either way he was immensely conscious of a woman standing close by looking at him in a strange manner. He turned on his heels. He must get away and he must do it quickly.

But the temptation was too much for him. Only a few seconds had passed before he retraced his steps and stood once again at the end of the aisle admiring the vision in the black trousers before him.

Slowly, pretending to have great interest in the cornflakes and other breakfast cereal on the shelves, he inched his way down the aisle, fearful that at any moment the boy would straighten up and go away to another task.

Mr Gregory reached Philip and stood by the boy’s side. Unconscious of the stir he was causing, Philip continued to rearrange the packets on the bottom shelf. The boy’s knees were straight and his body bent. Mr Gregory was so close he could touch him. He had never been so close to a bending boy. It was as if he were submissively presenting his bottom to Mr Gregory and saying, “I’m sorry Sir, I have been a naughty boy, please spank me.”

He was so close he could put his hand in the small of Philip’s back, hold him steady and smack his palm down into the boy’s tiny, but perfectly formed buttocks. His ungainly hand was the size of a shovel and could almost fit across both buttocks at once.

The old man first approached the boy from behind, then covertly moved to the side to take in the full view of one of Philip’s curved cheeks. Mr Gregory raised his hand ready to strike.

Quickly, catching himself before he disgraced himself, he turned away ashamed and almost bolted to the other side of the store. Safe among the dairy cold counter he paused to catch his wind. The sight of Philip’s backside, seemingly offered submissively for a spanking, had literally taken his breath away.

His attempt to continue with his shopping as usual was frustrating. Did he need sugar, how many eggs did he have a home? None of this mattered any more. All he wanted to do was to return to dry goods and stand once again by the boy in the black trousers.

Trying not to be obvious he meandered around the aisles, seemingly haphazardly, but, like a marine on manoeuvres he was headed for one destination only. At last he was in the adjoining aisle. He was wheezing. Why? There had been no physical exertion. It was a sedate journey from one end of the store to the other.

But he did know why but could not admit it, not even to himself. He wanted that boy. He wanted him bent over before him touching his toes, asking, no demanding, that Mr Gregory beat his buttocks black and blue.

Then, but only when Mr Gregory gave the order, Philip would rise and very slowly and deliberately peel down his trousers, before in one fine athletic movement, once again bending forward knees straight, fingertips on his toes, offer up his bum again, this time wrapped in the soft white cotton of his underpants.

There would follow a bottom scorching whacking. Mr Gregory thought one of his old worn bedroom slippers would do the job very well. Two, no three dozen, whacks across those tight cheeks would do it.

The boy would take it bravely. There would be no howling like a hyena. Instead the punishment completed the boy would gaze into Mr Gregory’s eyes lovingly. “Thank you, Sir,” he would say, “I thoroughly deserved that.”

“Yes you did,” Mr Gregory would reply, “and if I have to deal with you again, make no mistake you will get it with your trousers and your pants at your ankles.” And then for emphasis, he would add, “On your bare bottom.”

His mouth dry and his tongue almost hanging out, Mr Gregory turned into the aisle to drink in the sight of the wonderful boy who had become his imaginary spank slave.

But, he was not there. In his place were two middle-aged ladies discussing the merits of instant porridge.

Oh no! Where could he be? In distress Mr Gregory darted from aisle to aisle, bumping into housewives going about their lawful shopping.

“Hey! Where’s the fire!”

“Will you watch where you’re going!”

No, he would not watch where he was going. All he cared about was finding Philip. He must be in another aisle, filling shelves. Somewhere on this supermarket floor, he was bent over straight knees, straight back. Showing off his perfect, spankable bum.

He searched in vain and then calming a little he completed his shopping. He must stop making a fool of himself, he admonished himself. You deserve a damn good spanking yourself, what disgraceful behaviour, and in public too.

Waiting his turn at the check-out he once again saw Reginald. Reginald was some kind of store supervisor and wore the cheap mid-blue suits the company made them wear to prove it. He could not be much more than twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, Mr Gregory had supposed.

He was tall, fair and rather chubby. Mr Gregory fell in hate with the young man the first time he had seen him, two weeks previously. It had been a small matter. A loose cap on a sauce bottle. It had not been noticed until the customer was ready to pay. Reginald intervened. A shop assistant was called, an elderly man, and directed to go fetch a replacement. You would have thought the man, who was old enough to be Reginald’s grandfather, was his personal slave.

“And be quick about it!” he ordered as the old man scuttled off.

Reginald was far too young to be a boss. He had no idea how to treat people properly. The way he spoke to the shop assistant was disgraceful; he was far too haughty. For nine pence Mr Gregory would throw the wretch face down across one of the counters and thrash his fat arse to pieces with a cane.

Right in front of ‘his’ staff; that would bring him down a peg or two.

Mr Gregory had a fitful sleep that night. Philip, oh Philip! He dreamt of him so often, He was naked and bent submissively across his knee. With his left hand Mr Gregory ruffled his hair, to let him know he was loved. His fingertips caressed his back as he followed the spine from the boy’s neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. Mr Gregory’s right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.

The boy breathed easily; he was submissive and ready for what he was about to receive. Mr Gregory raised his right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. He smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.

Then there was the time Philip was in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as Mr Gregory smacked a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. Philip was across his knee as a soccer player for a spanking on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). Then dressed only in swimming trunks (he had been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’) he was whacked (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.

Mr Gregory’s favourite was the boy in those lovely trousers bent submissively across the check-out counter for him to be thrashed with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.

There was a timid knock on the office door. Mr Gregory’s looked up from his paperwork, expecting the door to open and his unexpected visitor to enter. But, nothing happened. The old man returned to his list of figures; perhaps he had imagined it. He was finding it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate that morning. And, his temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap. No, it was definitely a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Mr Gregory was surprised how hoarse his voice sounded. It was Monday morning and he had rather overdone it the night before, demolishing one bottle of whisky and starting on a second.

The door edged open slowly and it seemed like an age later when a young head with shaggy light brown hair poked around. Beneath the shock of hair was a cherubic face. Mr Gregory took in the vision: hazel green eyes, tanned, almost glistening skin, a firm chin and the cutest button of a nose the old man had seen in many a long year.

“Come in, come in,” Mr Gregory tried joviality, but his alcohol-fuelled headache turned his intended warm smile into a threatening grimace.

He could see the young man blanch; his eyes darting down to the floor.

Someone had to break the silence. Mr Gregory assumed as he was the boss it had better be he.

“Can I help you?” Again the attempt at warmth failed dismally.

The boy startled. “I’m the new work experience boy,” he blurted in confusion and even with the deep sun tan Mr Gregory could tell the boy was blushing.

“Oh, yes of course.” Now, it was Mr Gregory’s turn to sound confused. He knew the boy was coming. Mega Fastenings took two business students each year from the polytechnics. They stayed for a year, a sandwich course they called it. He had a file on the boy somewhere; what had he done with it?

“Craig. Craig Weston” the boy’s nervous smile was really rather scrumptious, Mr Gregory thought as furtively he ran his eye over the boy. Oh, yes, he thought, a definite improvement on Ian, the intern who had just left the company to return to his college. You will do very well.

Mr Gregory was practising his small talk with the office staff. He had been on a course. Say nothing of any consequence, nod repeatedly and smile a lot: that was the gist of it.

There were two easy chairs in the office but the boy did not have the confidence to sit uninvited. Instead, he stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back.

“So this is your first morning?” Mr Gregory started on the small talk.

“Yes, Sir,” Craig replied, still not quite able to look Mr Gregory in the eye.

Sir! Yes, Mr Gregory liked that. He also very much liked the way the teenager was standing, awkwardly in front of him. He felt a fantasy coming on. It was a sweltering hot day, but Craig had dressed formally for his first day. He had left his jacket behind, but wore dark grey trousers, a plain shirt and a striped tie.

He supposed it was the kind of thing office workers wore. It was, but in Mr Gregory’s imagination it was a school uniform and Craig was a very naughty boy, sent to the headmaster’s study to be dealt with.

He could not see Craig from behind, but if what was on show in the front was a guide, he would look fabulous draped over the back of a low easy chair; or maybe even better, stood in the centre of the office, feet apart by a yard or so, bent over, knees straight, fingers stretching into the toes of his shoes.

Mr Gregory asked more inane questions but did not listen to the answers until, “So I have nowhere to live at the moment.”

Mr Gregory came back to earth. “Oh, so where did you stay last night?”

Craig gave the name of a local ‘hotel.’ Mr Gregory was not sure if the called itself a hotel, but if it did the new Trade Description Act would soon put a stop to that. It was a place for down-and-out tramps. It was entirely unsuitable for such a good-looking boy.

“But, I am looking for something else,” Craig trailed off.

It was an hour or so later that a germ of an idea lodged in Mr Gregory’s mind. It might work, he thought. Why not? He should take more initiative.

He had a spare room at his house. Craig could stay there. Why not? There might be gossip; he did not want the neighbours to get the wrong idea. Maybe, just temporarily then, to get him out of the doss house; until he found somewhere more suitable.

The heat, his self-inflicted headache and this wonderful new idea he had, was too much. He needed fresh air.

He fleshed out the plan as he slowly walked the length and breadth of the industrial estate. There would have to be rules of course; a curfew, keep the house tidy; set times for watching TV and so on.

He could see it now. It is a sweltering hot afternoon: will this damn heatwave never end? Craig is sprawled on the sofa in the living room glistening, dressed only in skimpy satin running shorts and a singlet. Mr Gregory enters.

“What are my rules about smoking in the house?”

Craig is startled; he did not know Mr Gregory was at home.

“What are my rules?”

“Eh …” Craig knows the rules and that he has broken them, but he will not give in without a fight.

“But, it was only in my room,” he says a little too defiantly.

“What are my rules?”

Craig flushes. He is in big trouble and he knows it. Mournfully, he replies, “No smoking.”

“Yes, no smoking. I’ve spoken to you about this before.”

Sorrowfully, Craig nods assent. Yes, he has been told. There is no excuse.

“And you have been told the sanctions.”

Craig gulps. No, surely not. He had not meant it, had he?

Mr Gregory strides further into the room. “You know my methods. Stand up.”

Craig flinches, trying to sink further into the padded cushion of the settee.

“Come here,” Mr Gregory reaches forward and grabs the boy by the left arm. He gives little resistance; he is scared but instinctively he knows he cannot get out of this. Matters have to take their course.

Releasing his grip on Craig’s arm, Mr Gregory snatches a clump of his unruly hair and pushes him face down over the back of the armchair. The boy’s singlet rides up his back revealing an expanse of golden tanned flesh.

Mr Gregory grabs at the elastic waist of the provocative shorts and they are soon at the boy’s knees: followed by his underpants.

Craig seems resigned to his fate. He whimpers a little, his now bared bottom twitches as he hears Mr Gregory unbuckle his belt and remove it through the loops of his trousers. Then he doubles up the wide, thick, heavy leather belt and brings it crashing down across the centre of Craig’s bottom.

In a frenzy Mr Gregory puts six sunset stripes across the boy’s cheeks.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he wails. “I’m sorry Mr Gregory. I won’t smoke again. Ow! Ow! Ow! Please let me off!”

But, Mr Gregory carries on lashing.

“Nooo! Please,” the wailings and pleading continues.

“Be quiet. You deserve this. You’ve had this coming for a very long time.” Sweat is pouring from Mr Gregory as he raises the belt again and again, swiping it down into the upturned buttocks.

“You miss curfew, your room is a disgrace, you smoke in my house.”

“Please! I’m sorry! Please,” the pleading continues, but so also does the bare-arsed leathering.

Maybe, Mr Gregory reflected that evening, as he poured himself more whisky, it was for the better that Craig had found a room with the Rev Crick at Aston Budleigh where Ian used to lodge.

Back at the office Mr Gregory was on tour. He did this every day; he had been taught to do it on a management course. Be seen by the staff, stop and chat for a minute, let them know you are there. Mr Gregory was not a natural ‘talker,’ but he practiced a lot.

He loved walking through the offices of Mega Fastenings; it gave him the excuse to ogle the boys’ backsides. The office was pretty typical of its type there were upwards of 250 employees; many women with families; one or two older men; but mostly younger boys and girls in their teens and twenties.

Most days Mr Gregory would find Adrian working busily at his desk. Adrian was not an accounts clerk in real life; he was a general administrator in the order office. Mr Gregory had no idea if Adrian was good or bad at his work. He rather suspected he was good, he always seemed to be hard at it when Mr Gregory passed by.

Once, Mr Gregory had tried to talk to Adrian; to chat, just as the management course had instructed. Which of them had been the most shy? Mr Gregory reflected sullenly that evening. The boy blushed scarlet as if he had been caught in some naughtiness when his boss stumbled over an inane question.

It was not a meeting of great minds, but that night as he lay in bed his head spinning, Mr Gregory as he always did, went through the activities of his day, trying to focus on a moment that he could turn into a fantasy. He tried to conjure up Adrian, but instead got Robert and Pat.

Pat was a forty-something mother with the figure of a woman who had delivered four children. Advertisers had started saying such people had the ‘fuller figure.’ Mr Gregory arrived at the section of the open-plan office given over to purchasing in time to catch the tail end of a conversation.

Pat was cheerfully berating Robert, a twenty-something clerk.

“I should take you cross my knee, but you’d probably enjoy it!”

“Ha!” Robert replied backing off and returning to his work station, “You should be so lucky.”

What did it mean? Mr Gregory flushed and walked on pretending not to have heard.

Would she spank Robert. Across her knee? He was a burly lad, a rugby player type. She would have her work cut out forcing him face down.

But, what if he submitted himself to her.

“I’m sorry Pat. You’re right. I do deserve a spanking.” And then he prostrates himself across her lap. His chubby bum in the air and his sweaty face staring down at the hard nylon floor covering.

What would she do? Would she smack the palm of her hand into his tight bulging trousers?

No, Mr Gregory supposed, she would have a hairbrush in her drawer, that would be a perfect weapon. She could whack that with great vigour into his fat arse. Even with his trousers and pants on he would feel it.

Why had she threatened to spank Robert? Back in his office, breathing heavily, Mr Gregory cannot get the image of Robert out of his mind. What had he done? He should be told, he is the boss. It is his job to enforce discipline, not Pat’s. He should call the boy into the office right now and deal with him.

Mr Gregory sat behind his desk and stared intently at the space between it and the door. Mr Gregory is sat on a wooden straight backed chair. Robert stands in front of him, crestfallen. The boy’s hands are trembling. He knows he has done wrong. His boss has found out and now he must face the inevitable discipline.

Mr Gregory grips a stout wooden ruler. It is only twelve inches long by an inch wide, but it is half and inch thick and made of solid wood. It packs one heck of a punch when lashed down with force across a boy’s bared bottom.

Mr Gregory’s instructions are calm. “Take off your jacket and place it on my desk. Then please lower your trousers and underpants.”

Robert hesitates, but not for long. There is nothing he can do. He has broken the rules and he must be punished.

Not daring to look at Mr Gregory, sitting, legs splayed, back straight, sweat patches forming under his armpits, Robert unbuckles his belt, pops the button on his trousers and unfastens the zip. The weight of the bunch of keys in his pocket makes them hurtle to his ankles. Then he puts his thumb in the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them to his knees.

His shirt is long and covers most of his manhood and buttocks. Mr Gregory affects a lack of interest that he does not feel.

“Lift up your shirt and bend over my knee.”

This is the first time that Robert looks at his boss. Has he noticed before how old and ugly the man is? His skin is pale grey, even in the height of the heatwave, the deep lines cut across his face; the beak of his nose reminds Robert of a witch in a fairy tale.

With his shirt lifted and buttocks and genitals duly exposed, Robert flops forward, his considerable weight taking Mr Gregory by surprise. Robert is not as lithe as Adrian and his buttocks are huge and flabby.

Mr Gregory is fascinated at the way the narrow heavy ruler sinks deep into the fleshy globes, before emerging, leaving behind deep pink stripes against the whiteness of his flesh.

Mr Gregory works methodically; no inch of the vast buttocks is left unscathed. Robert remains impassive, enduring the increasing pain. His bottom starts to tingle and this turns to real pain. His bottom is getting hotter and hotter. Ouch! This is real, not like when Pat spanks him.

The phone rings. Robert dissolves.

Adrian lumbers up the stairs towards his bedroom, the scolding words of Uncle Gregory still ringing in his ears. Already tears are welling up in his sparkling grey eyes and uncle has not even started yet.

“Hurry up, be quick about it!” Uncle Gregory is standing outside the living room. Adrian quickens his pace. Inside the bedroom, sorrowfully, Adrian looks at himself in the mirror. “You’re for it now, me lad!”

His face is wringing with sweat: the damned heatwave mingled with the boy’s fear. His deeply tanned face anxiously stares back at him. “Oh well, I’d better get on with it.”

In one movement he pulls his loose fitting shirt over his head, revealing a nut-brown chest. Then down come his shorts.

His tight bright green micro briefs hug tightly, bulging at the front. Some hair is poking out over the top. Adrian is no longer a little boy.

Should he keep his pants on? Would Uncle Gregory notice?

“Who am I kidding?” Adrian talks to himself in his head. He knows what Uncle Gregory has in store for him; underpants will not be playing a part in the action. He whips them down, releasing his cock and balls.

His pyjamas are tucked neatly under his pillow. He loves these pyjamas; he hunted in shops all over town for them. He steps into the grey-and-white striped bottoms, and pulls the long white drawstring tight before tying a perfect bow. The pyjama jacket is just a little bit too big; the sleeves reaching halfway down the palms of his hand.

Dressed, he turns once again to the mirror and sees the image of a small boy reflecting back at him. Ready, he leaves the room and trudges down the stairs to face Uncle Gregory.

Uncle Gregory has prepared a dining room chair which now dominates the centre of the room.

Adrian shuffles in and stands facing his uncle. He knows the drill; he has been through this many nights before.

Uncle Gregory loosens and then removes his tie, before taking hold of the cuff of his right shirtsleeve and slowly rolls it up to his biceps, all the while rebuking Adrian.

“I told you if I got any more complaints from school I would give you a damn good spanking.”

It was true. Many times, his uncle had made the promise, and now he would deliver.

Adrian’s eyes flicker wildly as his gaze follows his uncle across the room. He stoops and retrieves a bedroom slipper from a shelf under the television set. Fully armed, he walks over to the chair and plonks himself down.

“Come here.” Uncle reaches forward and takes Adrian by the left arm and pulls him forward. He does not need much force, Adrian is not resisting. The boy has been raised well. He knows rules are rules and if he breaks them he gets punished. And, in Uncle Gregory’s house that means a spanking.

Adrian cannot stop his eyelids fluttering. His breathing becomes laboured and he can feel the blood rushing to his face as the moment draws nearer.

Uncle places the slipper on his lap and with two free hands he sets about untying the perfect bow. Once done, the pyjama trousers fall of their own accord down to the boy’s knees.

“Bend over.”

Adrian closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath and gently eases himself into position, wriggling a little until he is comfortable. Both his palms rest flat in the deep pile carpet, his knees are straight and his toes hover an inch or so above the ground.

Silently, Uncle Gregory prepares the boy. Adrian feels him take hold of the tail of the over-large pyjama jacket and drag it half way up his back. Now, naked from the shoulders to his toes, Adrian feels a very slight breeze cooling his bare flesh.

He cannot help himself as he instinctively clenches his buttocks in protection against the expected onslaught.

“Relax boy, relax.”

Adrian tries, but fails to release the tightness in his cheeks. He tenses more when Uncle Gregory caresses his huge bony hand across the boy’s soft tender cheeks. His heartbeat races and for a moment Adrian is certain he will faint.

Adrian feels a movement in Uncle Gregory’s body as his right arm is raised and he prepares to bring the slipper crashing down into the pert naked buttocks offered up to him.

Adrian twists and turns as sweat pours from his body soaking the bedsheet beneath him, his raging hard-on ready to explode. Something is disturbing him.

An ambulance rushes by the window, siren blaring, on a mercy mission.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

Their new house

The missed curfew

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Punch in the Face

used drawing birch hold (1)

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

 

Cristopher could feel a searing pain in his knuckle as he crushed it into the face of the opposing team’s centre-half.

Blood poured from the schoolboy’s nose as in agony he sank to his knees. His piercing scream drowned the shrill blast of the referee’s whistle. His nose could quite possibly be broken, Christopher didn’t care. It served him right.

It only took seconds for the referee to point to the dressing room. Sent off! For violent conduct.

Grim faced and unrepentant, the eighteen-year-old trudged off the pitch. As he passed his livid sports master, he heard the instruction, “Go to the changing room and wait for me there.”

Rain began falling as Christopher walked the hundred yards or so to the shower block. His heart was thumping; adrenalin rushed through his body and his anger would not abate.  Their centre half had been kicking lumps out of him all through the match; was he really surprised that he had retaliated?

Once in the changing room Cristopher plonked himself down on a hard wooden bench; head lowered, almost to between his knees. Slowly, his breathing became more even as he regained some composure. Now, he had to contemplate his fate.

Five minutes later, the match over, his fellow schoolboy footballers filed into the room. Each in turn looked over at their disgraced colleague, but none had a word of support or comfort for him. To a man they had been genuinely shocked at the savagery of the attack. The poor boy was now on his way to hospital with a suspected broken cheekbone.

Christopher raised his head to acknowledge his friends but they would not meet his eye. Instead, hurriedly they stripped off their kits, grabbed towels and dashed to the showers, leaving Christopher to his fate.

The boy could not summon the will to follow the other players into the shower; instead he sat still, head in his hands, waiting for Mr Richardson, the sports master.

Mr Richardson was with his counterpart from St Anthony’s School. His own school, St Francis Independent Grammar School were the school’s guest that afternoon. Mr Richardson was both embarrassed and angry. Never in his twenty years as a schoolmaster had he witnessed such a spectacle. Yes, sometimes a boy would overstep the mark and tackle too heavily. Or a player would mistime a tackle and bring an opponent crashing down; cut off at the knees. But, never before had he seen such premeditated violence. If his pupil had punched a boy like that away from the playing field, he would certainly be facing a police charge and an appearance in the magistrates’ court.

Mr Richardson apologised profusely to Mr Stringer of St Anthony’s, but he recognised it would not be enough.

“We need to take severe action,” Mr Richardson told him. “And, we should do it right away.”

He knew that when his headmaster heard about the incident he would expect to also be told the boy had received an exemplary punishment: the thrashing of his life, at the very least.

“Can you lend me a cane, the heaviest that you have? I should beat the boy before we leave.”

Mr Stringer was taken aback by the request. Not that he didn’t expect Christopher to be punished, he did. But, he wanted the boy to be suspended or expelled from school at the very least for such an attack. A beating with a cane did not match the severity of the offence, and Mr Stringer said as much.

As the words came from his mouth his own headmaster, Dr Shorter appeared. “A cane?” he pondered when Mr Richardson asked again for a loan. Dr Shorter was uncertain. “A cane,” he repeated, as if weighing up options.

“No,” at this school a boy is beaten with a rattan if he misbehaves, breaks the rules, that kind of thing. But, this violent attack goes so much further than that.” He let the words sink in. Mr Richardson was confused by the ensuing silence, but Mr Stringer thought he knew where this was going.

“A birching then, headmaster?” he asked.

“Quite possibly. If it is to be corporal punishment, then it must be the birch.”

Mr Richardson’s mouth gaped open a little. He wasn’t sure what to say. The birch? Such an implement had never been used at St Francis, at least not to his knowledge. Was it even permitted?

The headmaster was in his stride. “It just so happens, that I already have a birch rod prepared that would be suitable for the purpose. Jenkins, one of our fifth-formers is due a birching after chapel tomorrow.”

He read Mr Richardson’s blank expression. “For bullying. He is to be birched for bullying. If you consent, we can use the birch on your boy and have another one made up for Jenkins.”

“Headmaster, I am really not sure,” Mr Richardson began, but his sentence trailed off.

The headmaster could be stern when the occasion demanded. “It is your decision to make. But, I must say, I do not think a caning sufficient punishment. If we decide not to birch the boy, I would expect the police to be informed and they can take up the case. Alderson is in the hospital, he would expect us to give your boy the harshest-possible punishment. So, too would his parents.”

The police? God no. Think of the bad publicity. Mr Richardson knew the headmaster would blame him for it. Dr Henderson-Smith already had his doubts about the sports master’s ability to keep order when he took teams away from the school.

The headmaster’s mind was already made up. “We can do it now, without delay. We can go to the gymnasium. I am sure any one of Alderson’s team mates would oblige in holding your boy down over the vaulting horse.”

Mr Richardson blanched. Would he be expected to deliver the birching? He was not experience in administering corporal punishment. The most he ever gave was a whack or two on the seat of a boy’s shorts, touching toes.

The headmaster seemed to read the man’s mind. “If you wish, Sir, I would be willing to wield the birch rod on your behalf.”

Mr Richardson meekly nodded his assent. And, in those few moments, Christopher’s fate was sealed.

Christopher took the news of his impending birching impassively. He had expected a beating; this was school after all and that’s what they did to you at school. A birching, however, would be a new experience.

Mr Richardson felt obliged to give the boy a lecture on his behaviour and how violence was not the answer.  The irony that Christopher was to be birched was lost on him.

Minutes later, Christopher and his sports master were into the gymnasium. Mr Richardson was surprised and a little angry to see the entire St Anthony’s School football team lined against one wall. He had not agreed to a public birching, but it was too late to argue now. At least Christopher would be spared the humiliation of having his own team mates witness his flogging.

The boys who had been standing easily straightened up in readiness for the evening’s entertainment. How absurd they looked, Mr Richardson thought, in their blue and yellow striped blazers and grey short trousers and knee socks. Fully grown men forced to dress like little boys.

A vaulting horse had been placed in the centre of the floor and nearby, soaking in an enamel bucket, was a birch rod.

Mr Richardson had never seen a birch before, and, he supposed neither had Christopher. This one was a cluster of seven or eight leafless branches three feet long, tightly bound near the base with sticking plaster.

“Come boy, stand here,” the headmaster pointed to a spot in front of the horse. Christopher affected no emotion as he complied with the order, inwardly he was in turmoil. The birch looked fearsome. He was used to the cane, he had been thrashed many times before: St Francis was that kind of school. It hurt like hell, but he knew he could stand the pain of six-of-the-best on the trousers. But, today he was going to get eight sticks across the backside with only his thin football shorts between his flesh and the rods.

“When I instruct you,” the headmaster intoned, “You will lower your shorts and bend over the horse.” Mr Richardson saw Christopher blanch: on the bare. Bare arsed: and in front of all these people.

The headmaster continued, “You will hold on to the handles of the horse and you will remain in position. You will take your beating like a man.”

The headmaster droned on for a while, but Christopher was deaf. All he had heard was “lower your shorts” and after that it was a blank. All the headmaster’s threats of the consequences of moving or screaming were lost on him.

By now Mr Richardson was having grave doubts. Was there still time to stop this? A public bare-bottomed birching was unheard of at St Francis. Would his own headmaster support him when he learned what happened here this evening?

“Take down your shorts and bend over,” the headmaster ordered as he himself lent forward to retrieve the bundle of birch twigs from the bucket.

Defiantly, Mr Richardson thought, Christopher placed his thumbs in the waistband of his football shorts and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them down to his knees. The shorts fell to his feet as he moved towards the horse so he stepped out of them. Now, naked from the waist down, the eighteen-year-old hooligan leaned forward and placing his stomach on the leather top, bent over the horse, offering up his bared buttocks to the headmaster and his birch rods.

He clutched at the pieces of rope that served as carrying handles and wrapped them around his wrists, in effect tying himself down in readiness for the thrashing.

The watching schoolboys were impassive, save for one, who Mr Richardson observed had a slight smile playing around his lips. Another folded his hands in front of his crotch in an attempt to hide the growing erection inside his tight grey shorts.

The headmaster was in no hurry. He swished the birch rods through space spraying droplets of water across the dusty floor of the gymnasium. Christopher stared down at the wooden floorboards, intently studying the many scratch marks: anything to distract him from his present predicament.

Mr Richardson stared too: at Christopher’s smooth hairless bottom; soon to be pounded into raw meat.

The headmaster was ready and without ceremony, he drew his arm back and swished the birch across the proffered buttocks. The merest gasp, escaped from the boy’s clenched lips. A second stroke quickly followed, met with an audible, “ouch” from Christopher.

It hurt, it hurt a great deal, but it was a different pain to the cane Christopher was used to. The rattan would slice into the bum, cutting a single welt with each rise and fall, creating intense agony where the rod landed. The birch was different; his bottom was on fire, but it felt as if a white-hot egg-whisk had been pressed into his flesh.

The headmaster paused to admire his handiwork. The hairless buttocks were scared with dozens of thin white lines, narrow welts were rising where the birch twigs connected with the boy’s fleshy globes. As yet, no bruises had formed, and there was no sign of blood.

The birch swished again; Christopher screwed his eyes tight and stifled the yell, he so desperately wanted to make. The eyes of the schoolboy footballers seared into his neck, feeling almost as hot as his burning backside. He would not let himself down: he wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing him in pain.

Swish! Swish! The birch rose and fell: sweat poured from the boy’s back, soaking through his football shirt. Christopher’s gasps were louder, but he was still in control. Swish! the hardest cut yet and the boy’s response was to beat his legs up and down against the wooden horse. Tears were forming behind his eyes.

Nobody in the gymnasium, Mr Richardson included, doubted that Christopher deserved all he was getting. But, many of the boys were dissatisfied with the punishment: they wanted blood, literally.

Perhaps the headmaster could read the thoughts of his pupils: he lashed down two more strokes with full force. That did it: the skin opened and blood seeped through. Christopher’s yelp echoing around the gymnasium was greeted with smiles of satisfaction from many of the boys.

“Right boy, stand up,” It was over: Christopher had survived. Slowly, he relaxed his grip on the rope handles and raised himself from the horse. Instinctively, his hands shot to his buttocks to gently rub against the dozens of raised stripes that decorated them.

Unsteadily, he retrieved his football shorts and gingerly stepped into them, all the time avoiding looking at the headmaster or the schoolboys who lined the walls. How he hated them; all of them. Given a chance he would gladly smack each and every one of their smug mouths.

“Take him away,” the headmaster’s order was directed at Mr Richardson. Christopher violently shrugged off the sports master’s offer of his arm, determined to leave the scene of his humiliation under his own stream.

They returned to an empty changing room; his team mates too embarrassed to await his return. The warm water from the shower washed away the blood but did little to relive the intense throbbing in Christopher’s backside. Mr Richardson had enough sensitivity to leave the boy to his own devices.

Fifteen minutes later the motor coach left to return the boys to their own school; a journey made in total silence.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The troublesome lodger

A kiss too far

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Footballer’s Hairbrush Treatment

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The new Chief Coach knew what he would do if he could have his way. A so-called top class footballer smoking cigarettes. What was the boy thinking?

And, he still was a boy.

Chief Coach Herbertsen had only recently been appointed to lead one of the best-known football clubs in the world and he was expected to deliver great things: the championship title at least.

There were some problems at the club, and most of them had to do with the attitude of the players. The older men were trouble enough, but now he had to deal with one of the “rising stars.”

It was all over the news media and some commentators were saying it was a scandal. A professional footballer had been photographed smoking a cigarette. What a disgrace.

Chief Coach Herbertsen put down the newspaper in despair. The front page; the “story” had made the front page for chrissake. In a few moments time the young footballer in question was due to appear before him and he was expected to do something about it.

Let’s call him Bobby Dazzler, just in case any lawyers are reading this: we don’t need another scandal. You know who it is.

Dazzler had just turned eighteen and was a rising star at the club. He had just broken into the first team, but was spending most of his time on the bench. When he came off it, or when he started some of the minor matches, he’d shown himself to be a very enterprising goal scorer. But, he was just at the start of his career. He needed a lot of discipline if he were to make it in the word of football. Herbertsen had lost count of the number of talented but ill-disciplined teenagers who eventually came to nothing in their twenties.

Dazzler could go that way if he didn’t buck up his ideas.

He’d been out one night, in the street, just walking somewhere like an ordinary civilian, when he lit up a cigarette. A passing citizen on a cell phone captured him enjoying his Marlborough and this being the twenty-first century, immediately sold the image to a tabloid newspaper.

And, now it was a big deal, an athlete smoking tobacco. It had been a major item on twenty-four-hour television news all yesterday and they were still talking about it this morning. Social media had gone crazy and every sanctimonious so-and-so in cyberspace had a view. Dazzler was not coming out of this well.

Herbertsen would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so worried. What was he supposed to do about it? The club wanted Dazzler “disciplined” to appease all those critics and it was up to him to do it.

Herbertsen despaired. He often thought that football clubs treated their players like schoolchildren. It happened all the time; especially when they travelled to away matches or went away on tour. The players were told when to get up in the morning, what to eat, when to eat it, when to take a nap in the daytime and when to go to bed at night. Even when they were away from the club they were expected to observe a night-time curfew; to be home no later than eleven o’clock; even earlier if there was a match the next day.

It was even worse when the players were staying at a hotel; there were strict rules about behaviour; if they used their cell phones or tablets and the like they had them confiscated. It was worse than being at boarding school. No girls were allowed of course, not even wives. Coach Herbertsen or a member of his staff were expected to make what they called a “dormitory round” at night to make sure everyone was where they should be and there were no illegal visitors.

That was embarrassing for everyone concerned. Especially the one time Herbertsen stumbled across two of his players and very well-known ones at that (very well known: it would make your hair curl if you discovered their names) together pleasuring one another under the bed clothes. What could Herbertsen do? They were over the age of consent and it was legal. He just closed the door and none of them ever mentioned the matter again.

Yes, they were treated just like schoolboys. They even had their own “prefects.” The senior players ruled the roost. If you were a new member of the playing squad, especially if you had just been promoted from the junior ranks, you knew your place and you stuck to it. Only speak when spoken to; keep your opinions to yourself. The club captain was like God (or the Head Boy at least). You just did not get on his wrong side.

The cherry on the cake was the clothes the players were forced to wear. The red blazer with white braiding and grey trousers, white shirt, club tie: it really was indistinguishable from a school uniform. All it needed was the addition of grey short trousers and they would look like a bunch of little kids. As it was Dazzler was so young he was no older than a senior schoolboy; someone in the sixth-form, say. Coach Herbertsen saw real schoolboys every day in the street that looked older than some of his football squad.

Ha! Herbertsen thought we really do treat them like schoolkids. Smoking a cigarette. Well, back in the day, he knew how the school would have dealt with that. Off to the housemaster’s study; bend over; sore bum; don’t let me catch you smoking again. All over in a moment. No fuss.

Why couldn’t it be that simple, now? Herbertsen was the boss of the players, their headmaster if you want to continue the analogy, and one of his jobs was to impose discipline. There wasn’t much he could do when they broke the rules. If one of the lads missed training without an excuse or broke one of the more petty rules, he usually summoned him to his office.

There was no cane or paddle. He would give them a rollicking. The media called it “the hairdryer treatment.” Sometimes, he thought, it would do more good if he gave them the “hairbrush treatment.”

Herbertsen knew if the reports he received from the junior squad manager were true, Dazzler was in trouble for more than just smoking cigarettes. He liked a drink and his house situated just outside of town was the venue for lots of parties involving the club’s younger players, including many who were only apprentices. Dazzler should be setting them an example, not leading them astray.

Then there was the bullying: he had it on good authority that Dazzler was the leader of a gang who terrorised some of the younger players. Herbertsen could scarcely believe it but Dazzler and the others took one of the kids and put him in the clothes drier in the club’s laundry. The poor lad had some kind of fit.

Dazzler arrived for his meeting ten minutes late and was neither apologetic about his poor timekeeping nor contrite about his smoking. Herbertsen was not impressed. He tore into the boy, ranting about his bad behaviour and was rewarded with a shrug of the shoulders and a pout for his trouble.

He felt his anger rising and was about to punch the brat in the mouth when he regained control for just long enough to tell him to F-off out of his office and come back to see him after training.

Herbertsen had calmed down considerably by the time Dazzler reappeared later that day. He had consulted with the club’s chairman who confirmed that although Dazzler might yet prove to be a star, he wasn’t there yet, and if the Head Coach wanted to transfer him to another club, that was alright with him.

Good, thought Herbertsen, let’s deal with the brat once and for all. And, he hatched a plan on how to do exactly that.

Dazzler had also had time to think carefully about the newspaper reports. On the phone, his agent had warned him that he shouldn’t upset the club. It was a major world footballing power and if it let him go, the only way to go would be down. With his growing reputation as a smoker and a party-animal another top club was unlikely to move in with a contract. That would be the end of his career, the fame and the riches. And, Dazzler had already decided at the tender age of eighteen, he would do anything to achieve these.

It was imperative that he make his peace with the Head Coach.

Dazzler was on time for his second meeting of the day with Coach Herbertsen and ready to show him some remorse.

But, he didn’t get the chance. “I have discussed it with the chairman and your contract will be terminated forthwith.”

The shocking news took the wind out of Dazzler and he held on to a table to stop himself fainting to the ground.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. You are constantly misbehaving and you show no remorse. It is best that you go.”

Remorse? Dazzler had prepared a little speech of apology, but now he had forgotten every word of it.

Tears welled in his eyes and all he could say was, “I’m sorry, boss, I’m sorry.”

Herbertsen looked at the teenager with satisfaction. That was more like it; he’s not so arrogant now.

Dazzler pleaded for one last chance. He would do better. He promised.

“You lack discipline. You behave like a spoilt child. There is nothing I can do with you,” the Head Coach said, but he knew there was something he could do and the solution was hidden in his desk drawer.

“Please,” Dazzler was begging now. “I’ll do anything, please give me a second chance.”

He had flown straight into the Head Coach’s web.

“Maybe there is something we can do. You act like a spoilt brat and you need to be taken down a peg or two.”

Dazzler looked on blankly, not comprehending his boss.

The Head Coach opened his drawer and pulled out a large oval shaped hairbrush, borrowed from one of the women office workers this afternoon for this particular purpose.

“You need a damn good spanking.”

Dazzler’s jaw almost dropped at the absurdity of the situation he now found himself in, but he had the good sense to stay silent.

“This can be your one last chance,” Herbertsen assured him as he waved the hairbrush in the footballer’s direction.

To say Dazzler couldn’t believe it was an understatement. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? The coach spanking the football player: was it even legal?

Yet, in his present circumstances it was the only solution. He would submit to his boss and be able to pursue the fame and fortune of a career at one of the world’s top clubs. Otherwise his career was as good as over.

Herberston wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter.

“I want you to lower your trousers. You can keep your underpants on. Then bend across my desk. C’mon, do it now.”

Dazzler knew he had only seconds to make the biggest decision of his life. Bend over and show the Head Coach his arse, or walk out of the door, possibly to oblivion.

When he thought about it later he couldn’t remember much of what happened next. But he did know that he unbuckled his belt, let his trousers fall to his knees and then he lent face down across the boss’s huge desk.

Dazzler didn’t know how many times Herbertsen smacked the wooden hairbrush across the seat of his boxer briefs, but later, back at home, as he nursed his raw buttocks, he could see both cheeks and this thighs down almost to the backs of his knees were covered in mauve bruises and some were turning black.

The throbbing pain had died down, but the whole area was still tender to the touch and he had difficulty sitting comfortably.  These bruises would last for days, probably weeks: how would he explain them away to the guys in the dressing room?

He couldn’t be certain but he thought he might have bawled his eyes out as he lay face down across the desk, the hairbrush raining down across his buttocks, while he gripped the edge of the desk for dear life.

By the time he reached home, his nerves were still shot to pieces. He needed something to calm himself down. In the room below he had a packet of cigarettes and there was booze in the fridge …

Picture credit: Orient

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

 

Footballer’s judicial caning

The smiling boy

The housemates

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

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Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

Here’s another free-to-download book containing a selection of my favourite male-on-male spanking stories. It has some of my earliest writings and some of my most recent. I hope there’s something for every taste from military, judicial, dad-and-son, the vicar, my best friend and many more besides. All characters are aged 18 or over.

The book which also has many illustrations runs for more than 26,000 words.

Please enjoy.

Click on the link below to download Charles Hamilton II’s Collection of Spanking Stories

collection-of-spanking-stories-vol-1-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Mancspank

For more free-to-download books click here