My Friend Justin

z used school longs after (8)

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Justin was the best friend anyone could ever have. We were eighteen years old at the time and had known each other all our lives. We’d grown up on the same street, played with the same children and attended the same school.

So, when I had to unburden myself of a secret, one that had been eating away at me for years, he was the one I told.

He was brilliant; he didn’t say I was queer or anything like that. He just asked me for all the details. And, then he came up with a plan.

Well, where do I start? I told him that I wanted to be spanked, but I did feel I had to make it clear I didn’t want to be spanked by him especially, which was true. I didn’t fancy him at all, still don’t actually.

I fantasied about being spanked by older men. There was one dream I kept having; it involved a teacher at school. Mr King his name was. A right old fossil; he must have been sixty if he was a day. I wanted him to cane me in front of the whole class: all my sixth-form mates. I was dressed in my school uniform; black blazer, dark grey long trousers, grey shirt, and I would, on his command, submissively undo my leather belt, pull the buttons on my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

Then, when he told me to I had to bend over a table, head to the front, legs to the back, with my bum positioned high over the top.

Then, he would pull my gleaming white underpants so tight they stretched over my buttocks and then slowly he would swish his whippy cane, the one with a curved handle, into my taut little bum. That fantasy got me every time. It’s getting me again, even as I am writing this all these years later.

I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about this; but now as I get older I realise that every adolescent male has these fantasies; the only difference between me and most others is that they were dreaming of the French mistress spanking them.

Despite my wicked fetish for spanking there was not much I could do about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years earlier, so I could not engineer a caning or a slippering. Gone were the days when I could make sure I got caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike sheds so I would end up touching my toes in the Year Master’s office. If that were only possible, I would be a twenty-a-day man believe me.

I couldn’t get spanked at home. My dad was a bit of a wimp to be honest and he pretty much let me get away with anything. Not that I was a wicked kid, I wasn’t, but maybe he could have bent me over the armchair and taken his belt to the seat of my jeans when I was cheeky, or worse insolent; which was often.

I had tried to raise spanking with my friends, but was too inept to do it. I do remember when we were very young, seven or eight maybe, the girls in the street were playing “schools” and someone talked about “getting the cane.” Even then, something inside me stirred at the mention of corporal punishment, but I was too young to understand and, of course, my fetish hadn’t really developed at that age.

I used to read lots of comics, we all did in those days, and especially went for the stories where the naughty boys (who remembers Roger the Dodger or Dirty Dick?) ended up in the last frame of the story pictured across dad’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. Come to think of it there were plenty of stories about naughty girls (Beryl the Peril, Minnie the Minx come to mind) who also ended up over dad’s knee. Try writing kids’ comics like that today: how innocent we were then.

Once when I was a bit older, Brian, a friend of a friend, and I were at my house and we acted out stories from the comics, but when it came to the smacked bottom scene we were both too timid to go through with it. Looking back, I suspect Brian was as disappointed as me that we didn’t.

I did go on the Internet to find spanking porn. It was not quite as advanced as it is today, so you couldn’t get videos, but I did find some pictures. One set that really got me going was about a dad who found his son dressed only in his underpants reading a porn mag and dragged him into the bedroom. The boy must have been twenty years old but that didn’t stop his dad. Then, with his pants around his ankles, the boy gets a butt blistering from dad’s hairbrush. Yep! That had me squirting my jizz.

I told Justin about my spanking desires one afternoon after school when we were around his place. He was a “single parent” child and his ma worked long hours for crap pay at a factory, so he had the house to himself a lot.

“So do you want me to spank you? Is that it?”

I couldn’t believe it. He had the same desires as me. My face must have gone scarlet and my reply was mumbled incoherently.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, shall I?” he laughed.

“Only if you want to,” I eventually stuttered.

I learned over the years to come that Justin was completely unshockable. He wasn’t the least turned on by the thought of spanking me or being spanked by me. If I had said I wanted a sex change to become a woman, he would have reacted in the same cool, matter-of-fact way. He would probably have asked me what the procedure involved and how much it would cost, but he wouldn’t have judged me.

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

I hadn’t expected this question and rushed to think of some naughtiness I had committed.

“I’ve been rude to my ma,” was the best that I could come up with.

He laughed again. Looking back he was always laughing, “So what’s new about that? No, you have to do something to earn the spanking.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I hadn’t realised that Justin might one day make an expert psychologist.

He explained, “You want to be spanked, so you have to do something to earn it: something that you should do but wouldn’t normally do.”

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

“Say in the old days your dad might say, ‘If you don’t clean up your room, it’s my slipper for you, my lad.’ If you didn’t want a spanking you’d clean up the room; but if you did want the slipper, you wouldn’t. So, the room would not get cleaned up and you get spanked. So, you have achieved your wish, but your dad has failed in getting the room cleaned. Are you with me so far?”

Not really, so he went on.

“But, say you want to be spanked and your dad wants the room cleaned; the best thing for both of you is for him to say, ‘Clean up the room and if you do it well, I’ll take you across my knee and tan your arse with my slipper.’ Get me now?”

I was beginning to. “So I have to do something that I should do but I am not doing and if I do it then I get spanked.”

It was as clear as mud.

“Look,” Justin was on a roll and could not be stopped. “You are not a good student. It’s a fact, don’t argue. You are bright, but you don’t work, so you will fail your exams. Let’s say, if you pass your A-levels, I’ll spank you. It’ll be an incentive for you to work hard.”

Okay, I got it now, but the A-levels were months away and I told him so. I wanted my spanking now; preferably this evening before his ma came home.

But, it was not to be. Instead, we compromised. There was an essay due in this week for the English Literature course that I was failing. Justin’s plan was if I got a mark of B+ or more, I would be rewarded by him with several marks across my backside, courtesy of a large wooden clothes brush. A deal had been sealed.

I had hardly ever worked so hard on a school essay; I even read the set book, rather than the “crib” notes, that’s how keen I was to get a good grade.

Mr Archer, our English Lit teacher, made a snide comment when he returned my essay. “B+, had a little help David?” Yes, I had, but not in the way he meant.

Justin laughed.

We hadn’t spoken about our deal since the moment we made it and I wasn’t sure if he intended to stick to the bargain. Then, in the middle of the lesson, he lent across to me and whispered. “My place, four o’clock.”

I couldn’t concentrate on my work for the rest of the day; there was nothing new in that, but this time it was because of the anticipation of what was to come. In the past few days, I had fantasised about what would happen, but much as I liked Justin, I should have preferred it if my spanker were an older man. Actually, come to think of it, it would have been more pleasurable if Mr Archer really did believe I had cheated on my essay and threw me across his knee as punishment.

I was eager and arrived too early at Justin’s house and had to wait on the doorstep until he got home. He had, of course, stopped off at the library after classes ended.

Justin could see I was nervous. Was he nervous too? Looking back I can see the absurdity of it; one eighteen-year-old was about to take another across his knee and spank him. When did that ever happen in real life?

I watched as Justin rummaged through a drawer and found what he was looking for. Then he turned to me, clothes brush in hand.

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Take off your blazer and put it on the table.”

While I was taking off my blazer, Justin did the same, and then he took a wooden backed chair and placed it in the middle of the room. My pulse was racing; this really was going to happen. I could feel my cock stirring in my trousers, God, I hadn’t thought about that; I am going to pop wood.

He sat down in the chair, “Come stand there,” he pointed to a spot to his right. I moved, breathing heavily. I had just realised we hadn’t discussed how he was going to spank me; do my trousers come down? If they do, he’ll see my todger is standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

He snapped his fingers. “Bend over my knee.”

I hesitated. I could see Justin’s legs in front of me, they were thin and spindly, as you might expect from someone his age. In my dreams the laps of my spankers were always huge and well-padded. I wasn’t sure this was right at all.

I think Justin must have misread my hesitation. “Do you want to call it off?”

No, I did not. Without a word, I lowered myself over his knee. Again, it wasn’t quite as I expected. I was too close to the floor. In my dreams I suppose I was a little kid, not a strapping eighteen-year-old sixth-form schoolboy.

“Ouch!” I couldn’t help but cry out as the first whack hit me in the middle of my left buttock, followed almost immediately by another on the right. Then another. And another.

Jeez, it hurt! I gasped at the shock of it. I found myself wriggling involuntarily over Justin’s lap. I was in pain, but it wasn’t agony. My bum stung a lot, but quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Justin wasn’t acting, they weren’t love taps he was giving me these were proper wallops with the brush. He was crashing the wood into my trouser-covered buttocks with great force. I was gasping for air as my blood pressure rose. Blood was also surging to my cock and my hard-on was now raging.

Justin giggled, “Oh, you’re enjoying this are you?” and he carried on whacking my bum with renewed vigour, whacking three stinging spanks on one side of my bum, three on the other side and then a real hard thwack on my sit spot. Then he did it all over again.

I was losing control, my reflect movements had me bucking and kicking and struggling to get off his lap but he held on tight and kept spanking me.

And then the inevitable happened: I was beginning to orgasm; I shot my load, creaming my underpants and my trousers.

“You dirty bugger!” Justin snorted, stopped spanking me and pushed me off his lap so that I tumbled to the floor. My hands went to my arse to rub at the pain as I circled around on the carpet, kicking my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried. I was in pain, but not much. Despite the intensity of Justin’s spanking, my trousers and pants had given me considerable protection. As I would learn in future, had he spanked me that hard with such a heavy brush on my bare bum, it would be ripped to shreds by now.

Justin was off the chair and doubled over with mirth. At that moment we heard a click at the front door and a cry, “Just. are you home?”

I jumped to my feet and noticed how large the stain was on the front of my trousers, just as Justin’s ma came into the room. I fled the house in embarrassment, leaving my pal to explain to his ma what was going on.

At home I admired Justin’s handiwork in the mirror. My bum was dark pink and some bluish bruises had formed at the end of my cheeks. The imprint of the brush was distinct where he had spanked my thighs. The sight of my battered bum set my todger off again and I grabbed a handful of tissues and lay on the bed.

I have a lot to thank my great friend Justin for; not least my success in my A-level exams; but that’s another story … or six.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Don’t Knock it Until You’ve Tried

zused drawing paddle hold cane cupboard (1)

Jake stared at the message on the screen of his iPhone. Finn was late but on his way. Jake hated sitting in The Three Fishers on his own. The pub was heaving. It was a bit of a sleaze ball. They had begun drinking there when they were sixteen; they weren’t particular about who they served. A group of old queens at the bar scanned the room searching for fresh meat. Jake felt their stares burning his flesh.

He concentrated on his phone, swiping through the sports news. He didn’t hear the man at first. “Sorry,” he shouted leaning forward to hear what he was saying.

“I said, do you like being spanked?”

Jake frowned, had he heard the old man correctly?

The man edged closer and put his mouth close to Jake’s ear. “Would you let me spank you? Are you in to being spanked?”

Jake’s mouth opened and closed. He had heard all right that time. What sort of question was that? Who was this man? He didn’t seem drunk. High. Crazy.

“I have a house. Lots of toys,” the man smiled.

Jake took a long draw on his drink. Playing for time. Just a little frightened. Bodies pushed past his table. He looked across to the door. Should he leave? Where was Finn?

“I can spank you. Do you like to be spanked?” the man asked again as if it was the most natural question to ask a guy in the pub. (“Do you want a peanut?”)

Jake took another gulp of beer. Dutch courage. “Wor … wor ..” he began, trying to find the right word. How to say “fuck off” without making a scene? He looked the man in the face. It was a bright, open face. Not at all sinister. The guy was no threat. Jake laughed. “Jesus. Does anybody ever say ‘yes’?”

The man’s smile was genuine. “You’d be surprised. But, not for you then?”

Jake shook his head, “No thanks.”

“Oh well, enjoy your evening. But if you ever change your mind …. ” The man disappeared into the crowd.

Five minutes later Finn put two pints on the table in front of his pal. He took a long draught, downing half of the glass.

“You’ll never guess what’s just happened to me?” Jake said and when Finn ignored him, he told the story anyway.

“I guy came up to me and asked if he could take me home and spank me. Incredible!”

Finn took another gulp. Shrugged his shoulders. “About fifty, greasy hair, going a bit bald, bit of a Welsh accent?”

“You know him?”

“Name’s Paddy Price. Least that’s what he calls himself.”

“How do you know him?”

Finn smirked, “How’d ya think?”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. “You’ve been with him?”

Finn snorted, drank some more. “He has a big place on The Avenue. Must be loaded.”

Jake stared at his friend. The room seemed to be spinning. What was happening here? “What he paid you?”

Finn’s nostrils flared, “Fuck off, what do you take me for a rent boy?”

Jake recoiled, Finn was genuinely angry. “No, but,” he paused, uncertain whether he should say this. “But isn’t it gay?”

Finn frowned, Jake could be a right dickhead sometimes. “No.” He nodded at the iphone on the table. “Go online, everybody’s into it.”

Finn was right. Later in bed Jake surfed the net. They were all at it. Guys on girls. Girls on guys. Girls on girls. Guys on guys. An entire industry of adult spanking. In one video there was a guy looked a bit like Finn. He wasn’t, of course, but he was the same height, same basic shape; not fat, but cuddly.

He was supposed to be a junior schoolboy, short trousers, knee socks. The lot. He had been found smoking a cigarette. Then he had to take down his shorts and underpants and bend over the knee of another lad who was the head boy to get a spanking on the bare bottom.

In another one the same Finn-a-like (still a schoolboy in short trousers) is caught smoking. In these videos smoking is the biggest sin a schoolboy can commit. Its shorts and trousers down again. This time he’s over the back of an armchair for a dose of a whippy rattan school cane from the headmaster.

Jake slept so fitfully the duvet was soiled. He dreamt he was back at school and Finn was head boy and Jake was that boy getting his bare arse slapped.

 

Nearly two weeks later Jake walked purposively through the suburban streets. The Avenue was longer than he had anticipated, if he wasn’t careful he would be late for his appointment. Paddy Price had ben most helpful when after three tries Jake had at last tracked him down at the Three Fishers. Of course, they could meet, let us make an appointment. Is an evening good for you? It was as if they were arranging to meet for tea.

At last Jake found the house. It was a modern structure hidden behind a high wall and electronic gate. Away from prying eyes. He touched the intercom button and a cheerful voice greeted him With a whir the gate moved sideways and Jake squeezed through. Paddy Price was waiting at the door, a bright welcoming smile split his face.

They chatted amiably. Did he find the house all right? All the while Jake’s heart pounded. He had been waiting for this hour. Once Finn had introduced him to the joys of spanking videos Jake could not get enough. He sweated waiting for his chance. Oh to go across the back of a chair, or over the knee for an arse-whopping. His temples ached already at the prospect.

Paddy Price led the way upstairs. “I have a special room,” he grinned opening a large wood-panelled door. “It’s sound-proofed,” he said enigmatically. It was a large room, dominated by a huge beaten-up wooden desk. Along one wall were glass-fronted bookshelves. A black leather Chesterfield couch rested against another. A wardrobe with double doors was along a third. Two padded leather armchairs made up the rest of the furniture. Paddy Price gestured to one of them, “Sit down, please.” He noticed Jake’s wide eyes drink in the contents of the room. “Sometimes I use it as a headmaster’s study,” he explained. “Some people like to do role-play, you known blazers, school caps, shirt trousers, the works.”

Jake nodded without enthusiasm. He had noticed in the videos how the “schoolboys” almost always wore short trousers. It did nothing for him personally. Paddy Price perched his ample buttocks on the edge of the desk. He smiled again. “Have you given any thought to tonight?” he asked. Jake gulped, he had thought of nothing else for days. It seemed for every waking moment (and some also while he was asleep).

Paddy Price pulled himself to his feet and ambled to the cupboard. He opened it with a flourish. Jake’s eyes popped. “Voila! My toys,” Paddy Price stepped to one side, giving his guest the full view. Dangling on hooks was an array of straps, paddles, canes and crops. “Something for everyone,” Paddy Price’s lips parted revealing yellowing teeth. “Oh and I have slippers and brushes too if you’d rather.”

The tip of Jake’s tongue poked out and he wetted his lips before clamping his top teeth over his bottom lip. He swallowed hard.

“Do you have a preference?” Paddy Price grinned, “Or would you prefer me to choose?” Jake sat and stared. Speechless. “Never mind,” Paddy Price resumed his spot on the desk, “We have plenty of time.”

They lapsed into amiable silence. Paddy Price was in no hurry. He adored breaking in “newbies”. H would go at Jake’s pace. “Of course,” he said mildly, “It is so much more fun if the discipline is a real punishment,” he noted Jake’s bafflement so continued, “Have you been naughty? Is there something you have done that is bad?” Paddy Price leaned forward hoping to entice his guest into confession.

Jake pondered. No, he thought, he hadn’t done anything that he could recall. Paddy Price flashed his smile once more, then laughed, “Oh, so we have a saint here, do we, ha, ha, ha.” Jake blushed but remained silent. “Have you taken any drugs? Smoked weed?” Paddy Price asked.

“Yes,” Jake replied unsteadily.

“Well, that’s bad. That’s against the law,” Paddy Price beamed. “You should be spanked for that.”

Jake blinked. Smoking weed, against the law? Of course, but he had honestly forgotten that. Everyone he knew smoked, all the time. The police never did anything about it.

“Right then lad,” Paddy Price’s smile had gone. He rose from the desk and paced across the room. “Stand up. Stand in front of my desk,” he barked as he sat himself down behind it. “Stand up straight. Stop slouching.”

Jake straightened his back and let his arms hang limply by his side.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Paddy Price’s entire demeanour had changed. “I will not tolerate one of my boys using drugs. They are dangerous. They are against the law.” Jake nodded, uncertain how he should react. His heart was racing and he could feel blood rushing to his temples. Adrenalin was kicking in.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy?” Paddy Price had a script in his head. Jake mumbled, said nothing coherent, then clasping at straws he muttered, “Sorry,” and then after a moment’s further thought, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

“Sorry!” Paddy Price’s voice rose an octave, “Sorry! You soon will be boy.” He rose from his chair and magisterially walked to the still-open cupboard. He paused, turned to Jake and barked, “Hang your jacket on the door.” He nodded to a hook. With damp palms, Jake slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He surprised himself at how much his hands shook.

He turned to face his master in tie to see Paddy Price pick out a cane from the cupboard and swish it through the air a couple of times. Then he held the two ends and flexed it gently testing it for whippiness. It curved easily. It was about a metre in length and as thick as a pencil. It looked just like the ones Jake had seen in the videos. It had notches along its length and the traditional curved handle. All saliva drained from Jake’s mouth.

“Boy when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving you a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live. You will not return for another beating and will learn from this experience,” Paddy Price was enjoying himself. “Now, I want you to stand behind that armchair,” he swished the cane in the required direction so there could be no doubt what he meant. With legs of lead, Jake shuffled the three steps needed to comply with the order.

Paddy Price stood flexing his cane thoughtfully between his hands. “Lower your trousers,” he said sternly. Jake hesitated. His head was light, Paddy Price’s voice sounded as if it was travelling from a vast distance. Paddy Price tapped the end of the cane across the back of the padded armchair, making a series of dull thuds. As if in a trance, Jake fumbled to unbuckle his belt. His hands moved more freely as he slipped the fastener and unzipped his trousers. The weight of the belt and gravity made them slither down his thighs and rest at his knees. “All the way down,” Paddy Price growled. Jake stooped forward and pushed them to his ankles.

He straightened himself in time to hear Paddy Price intone, “Now, your underpants.” There was a thundering noise in Jake’s ears, his temples throbbed, his head ached. He looked down at his gleaming white Y-fronts; he had bought them specially for the occasion; all the boys in the videos wore them. He put his fingers in the waist band and peeled them down, exposing his cock and balls. He left them bunched just below his buttocks. Instinctively, he placed both hands at his from to hide his genitals. “Pah!” Paddy Price wheezed, unimpressed.

He swished the cane through empty air once more, it made a terrific whooshing noise as it flew. “Bend over the chair,” he touched the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis. A feeling he had never felt before overwhelmed Jake; he could not be certain, was this fear? Or was it extreme excitement. He bent forward feeling his bottom tighten into a smooth curve. His bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair.

“Head nice and low please boy.”

Jake’s thigh muscles and bottom tensed as he stretched his arms grasping the armchair’s cushion at the front. Paddy Price watched quietly as the teenager slithered into position. Then he gently took a grip of Jake’s underpants and tugged them so they fell to rest on top of his trousers. He was almost ready. Paddy Price heard Jake’s heavy wheezing and smiled. He lifted the nineteen-year-old’s shirt away from his backside, exposing me, so that his body was naked from the middle of his back to his ankles. Jake shivered; not with cold but fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.”

Jake pushed himself further down into the chair, raising his bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, boy, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jake’s reply was muffled as his head was buried in the chair cushion.

Seconds passed. Only now did Jake realise his master had a perfect view of his crack and hole. And Finn had said there was nothing gay about this. Jake’s hole winked, opened and closed, his buttocks quivered, then clenched. Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable. Suddenly there was an enormous noise. The thwack of the cane landing on Jake’s backside echoed round the room. Jake hardly had time to recover from the shock when there was another crack which this time was immediately followed by an intense burning pain. He held his breath as the next stroke landed causing the pain to increase in a sickening wave.

Number four stuck and Jake hissed a whine. Mr Price continued, determined. Three more strokes landed each one lower than the previous, yet all in a band about three centimetres wide on the lower half of Jake’s bum. As the next stroke cracked across his poor sore seat Jake let out a roar, any restraint he may have had was gone. He could no longer see the chair for the tears filling his eyes. Jake closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and hung on to the chair, aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in his bottom.

Raising his arm high Paddy Price brought the cane down with a full swing, landing in the middle of Jake’s bottom. He cried out and tossed my head, humped the back of the chair and swayed for a few moments. The next three strokes seemed to merge together. Jake was concentrating on staying bent over, in so much pain, and trying without success to stop the tears that were by now flowing down his cheeks.

He desperately wanted to but he did not stand up. Instead he remained bent over the caning chair offering his bottom for the next stroke, completely at the mercy of Paddy Price, who could make each stroke as severe as he wished and all Jake could do was accept it and then wait for the next.

Paddy Price was in his element, he was an expert caner, a master master if you will. He swished in yet another stroke across the very centre of Jake’s bum. Although he still stayed over the chair, his feet beat a frenzied dance, his hips twisted and squirmed.

Jake thought his head might explode; blood coursed through his arteries. His bottom felt like he had been sitting on a barbecue. His arse felt corrugated; welts criss-crossed his once creamy-white buttocks. He was certain some might be weeping blood. How many strokes had it been? Jake had not thought to count. What was certain was it was more than a simple six-of-the-best. Finally, Paddy Price walked over to the cupboard to replace the cane. Jake felt a terrific sense of relief that it was over but remained across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

Paddy Price stood watching the teenager gasping for breath, like some beached dolphin. He had taken it well. “It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Jake slowly pushed himself back on his elbows and rose unsteadily. His legs felt weak and he had to lean on the desk before he got his balance. Tentatively at first, he touched then carefully clasped his raw buttocks and began kneading them, as though he could somehow squeeze the pain out. Only then did he see his rigid cock staring at a forty-five degree angle to reach the ceiling. His head was the clearest it had ever been, like an out-of-body experience. No amount of weed would ever give him a buzz like this.

Slowly, painfully, he pulled up his underpants, staining to get the soft white cotton to cover his cock. Still he massaged his injured rump as vigorously as he could.

Paddy Price slipped his arm around Jake’s shoulder for an instant, before propelling him towards the door, and out into the hallway. His eyes were still wet and blurry, but he found his way to the bathroom where he stayed for the few moments it needed for his cock to explode into a wodge of toilet paper.

“Come down, for a drink,” Paddy Price called, “When you’re quite ready of course.”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Room 414

z used otk white pants prefect youngsters sting (2)

Well Winchester, the Head Boy said to me, we can do this one of two ways. Either you can do a detention and miss going to the cup semi-final this evening or you can go across my knee for a jolly good spanking.

My heart raced and my face burned. Had I heard correctly? Taylor the Head Boy and Captain of just about every sport we played at the school was offering to take me over his knee for a spanking.

I was eighteen years old at the time and I couldn’t remember the first time I dreamed of being taken over the knee for a spanking. Mostly I fantasied about my Uncle Roy. He was married to my Mother’s sister and often visited our council flat when his lorry driving took him to our district. He was a massive man, probably six-and-a-half-feet tall. I was a dwarf beside him. He towered more than head and shoulders above me. He was thickly built with powerful arms. I would masturbate at night imagining I was in my bedroom in my pyjamas and suddenly Uncle Roy would burst into the room. I never cared what naughtiness I was supposed to have displayed. I just saw Uncle Roy rip the bedclothes off my body and then gripping me by one wrist he hauled me to my feet before sitting down on the bed and dragging me face down over his lap. I was powerless.

Then Uncle Roy would take hold of the elasticated waistband of my pyjama bottoms and quite slowly tug them down over my buttocks and leave them bunched at the thighs. Now, with my arse suitably bared and in position he would slap me with the palm of his hand. It was as big and as heavy as a shovel and in no time I was bucking across his knee. It was at about this time that in real life I would ejaculate at speed into a wodge of lavatory paper.

I was stunned when Taylor made his offer. Here was someone else who was into spanking. Had I been so naïve to think I was the only one? I blustered with embarrassment, so Taylor put his proposition to me again. He would have known how much I wanted to go to the football match. This was the first time our local team had reached the semi-final of anything. Tickets were as rare as hens’ teeth – and I had one. How could I not go to the match. No, doing a detention was out of the question.

I looked Taylor in the face as in my mind I formulated my response. I didn’t want to sound too eager. He had a bright, open face and although he was the same age as me I don’t believe he had started shaving. The term “baby-faced” fitted him perfectly. He stood stony-eyed, I couldn’t read his mind. Did he know of my inclinations? Was there something about my overall demeanour that gave me away? How had he plucked up the courage to expose his own desires?

Perhaps I should explain that corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal some years before. Mine was not one of those schools from ancient history where prefects had the power to cane or whatnot younger boys. I doubt if any dads spanked their sons at home. Corporal punishment was simply unheard of.

Taylor shuffled his feet impatiently. I couldn’t tell how desperately (or not) he wanted me to choose to go over his knee. We were standing in the corridor not far from the sixth-form common room, I swivelled on my heels to make sure we were perfectly alone and no one could hear us. I sucked in air, run my tongue over my bottom lip and croaked my reply. I’ll go for the spanking.

Taylor seemed unfazed by my answer. I’ll see you after school at three-thirty. In the common room, he said before he sauntered away. I stood rooted. My hear beat so fast I thought I might be sick. Two hours to wait. My first-ever spanking. A bell rang in the distance. Heck, how would I get through double Geography?

Don’t ask me what the lesson was about, I don’t have the slightest idea. I was excellent at geography and ended up with an A-star at A-level but my enthusiasm for the subject paled beside my fervour to be spanked. My how the hands crawled on the clock that afternoon. At last the bell rang; the school day was over. I couldn’t get to the common room fast enough. It was crowded, of course, with boys and girls emptying their lockers. I hung back, waiting eagerly for them to leave.

But where was Taylor? Usually, he was as enthusiastic to get away as the rest of us. Why wasn’t he here. My heart skipped. Had he changed his mind? Had the enormity of what he proposed sank in? Did he regret opening himself up to me in this way? Was he scared we might get caught?

After about ten minutes I was the only one left in the room. I slouched in a chair and flicked through the pages of the Brocklehurst Bugle (could there be a more boring local rag than that?) I was about to give up and leave. I still needed to go home and change before catching the train for the match. Dejected, I packed my books in my locker and made for the door.

Outside a few yards down the corridor was Taylor. Where do you think you’re going? He frowned. I gabbled in reply that I thought he had changed his mind. He grunted, no way. A deal was a deal, he said. He held up a key he was carrying. It was for Room 414, he said. I knew this to be a classroom on the top floor of the building. Nobody would see us there.

He led the way. I truly felt like a naughty boy and kept two paces behind Taylor. This happened twenty-five years ago and I don’t remember what was going through my mind as we took the stairs. The school was deserted, that I can recall. I suppose it must have felt very unreal. We reached the classroom and Taylor unlocked the door. It was a typical classroom of its time. There were tables that seated up to six pupils and at the front was a whiteboard and a desk for the teacher. The walls were covered with brightly-coloured pictures and posters.

I stood uneasily. How was this meant to play out? I didn’t have the slightest idea. I need not have worried, Taylor took control. He fetched one of the straight-backed chairs and put it down in a space close to one wall. Without looking at me, he sat himself down. I hovered close by. In my fantasises I was sometimes beaten by a headmaster. The scenario was that I was a pupil in a posh public school some long time back in history. The headmaster wore a black academic gown and a mortar-board cap. He swished a whippy curve-handled rattan cane.

In those dreams, I would be told to take off my blazer and stand behind a large leather chair. Or sometimes it would be by the headmaster’s desk. On his curt command I would fumble with my belt and undo my trousers. I would let them down to my knees. Then on further instruction I would bend over and offer up my bottom to the cane. In those dreams I always wore white cotton Y-front pants. I wore similar underpants in real life, although they were deeply unfashionable by this time.

Taylor had settled himself and seemed ready to go. He said very little. I was still incapable of reading that beautiful face of his. Taking the initiative, I slipped off my jacket and put it on a table nearby. I stood maybe two feet to Taylor’s left waiting for his instruction. I could see that he had not brought any implement with him. It would be impossible for him to find an whippy cane, of course, but he might have been able to come up with a rubber-soled plimsoll, that other staple of schoolboy punishment from days gone by. At a pinch he might have borrowed a hairbrush from one of the girls, or, who knows?, there was always his belt.

It seemed none of these were to be used. My spanking would be by the palm of his hand alone. Clearly, he did not possess the build or the strength on my Uncle Roy, so I did not expect my punishment to be very painful. He spoke almost for the first time since we entered the classroom. Bend over my knee, he said. Oh, those words. How many times in the years since then has my heart sped at that command? To be instructed to present my backside to a dominant male, to submit to discipline.

I hesitated a moment. How was this done precisely? In my dream Uncle Roy dragged me from bed and manhandled me over his knee. With Taylor, I would have to present myself submissively. It was as if I were saying yes I have been a naughty boy and I deserve to be punished, please Taylor spank my bottom for me. I moved forward closer to his parted legs, then paused. I don’t think I had planned what happened next. It came to me on the spur of the moment. With trembling hands I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned at the waist and pulled my zipper. The weight of my leather belt sent my pale-grey trousers hurtling to my feet. I leaned forward, stretched out my arms in front of me to break my fall and bent over Taylor’s knee.

We were much the same height and build and I fitted into his body rather well. I placed my palms flat against the floor and with my knees slightly bent the toes of my shoes reached the ground behind me. This way my bottom was positioned over his knee at a good angle for spanking. I couldn’t see Taylor’s expression. He hadn’t expected this turn of events. Me, in my underwear submissively waiting for him to spank me. I am sure his breathing got heavier the moment my trousers hit my feet.

I stared at the parquet flooring. It was scratched and worn and it hadn’t felt the sweep of a broom for some considerable time. Taylor was composing himself. I felt him take hold of the tail of my shirt and push it away from my bum, leaving an area of naked flesh on my lower back. I knew that my underpants fitted me well, but that did not deter Taylor from taking hold of the elasticated waist and pulling so that the cotton was now like a second skin. I felt the pants dig deep into my crack so that each cheek was nicely separated.

Taylor placed the palm of his hand on my left buttock, holding it there for longer than strictly necessary for him to find his aim. He put his other hand in the small of my back to prevent me moving. Then he spanked me. People say the first time is always special. The first kiss, the first sex, the first marriage. So it was with my first spanking. Taylor had some strength in his arm, he was after all one of the school’s most accomplished sportsmen. He spanked me at speed, as my bum absorbed the hurt of one slap another spank immediately followed. It was like machinegun fire.

The pain, such as it was, was not intense; a hand-spanking on an eighteen-yea-old’s bottom covered with cotton underpants could never be severe. But, Taylor warmed up my arse good and proper. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples throbbed like crazy. On and on he slapped his hand into my tight buttocks. My cock first twitched and then stood at fall attention, like a soldier on guard duty. Taylor must have felt it digging into his thigh and this encouraged him in his efforts. He spanked harder and faster than before.

I feared at any moment I would shoot a load into my underpants. Taylor’s own pale-grey school trousers would be stained. Let him explain that to his mother at home. My breathing was strained: huff-huff-huff. Any time now.

We were both too involved in ourselves to hear the classroom door open. We did catch the strangulated gasp of the school janitor and the clang as the metal bucket fell from his grasp. Taylor released his grip on me and I shot to my feet, the tentpole in the front of my pants pointing at the janitor. He turned on his feet and leaving behind his bucket the janitor rushed down the corridor.

I pulled up my trousers. My head was remarkably clear, it felt as if I were looking down on the room from some height. Taylor remained seated. It was clear to me that his cock was raging as much as mine. The silence in the room was deafening. We could not describe to one another the pleasure we had experienced together. Nor, could we share our fear about what the janitor might say or do.

At last Taylor spoke. He told me to hurry home or I would miss the football match. I left him alone. As I made my way down a deserted corridor, I saw Alderton, a fellow sixth-former, walking toward me. He gave me a cheeky wink but said nothing as he passed. I stood and watched him enter room 414.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Meter Reader

z used paddle jeans chair domestic

The first time I visited the house I failed to notice the large green-and-gold school blazer hanging on a hook in the hallway, but I couldn’t miss the wooden paddle in the cupboard under the stairs.

My heart skipped a beat and my face flushed. It took a super human effort not to pick it up and caress it. It was about two feet long and four inches wide with a handle at one end. It looked all the world like a cricket bat designed for an eight-year-old.

“Ahh, you’ve found my little toy, I see.” An elderly man stood behind me, blocking the light. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I’m pretty sure I came across as a complete idiot. I shone my torch at the gas meter’s dial, recorded some numbers in my book and made a swift exit, face burning and (frankly) my dick twitching.

I stopped outside the front gate to regain my breath. My head was dizzy and my heart racing. I sucked in a lung full of air and hurried down The Avenue to the next house.

My Uncle Clive used to paddle my backside. Good and hard. I was a difficult kid. I never liked school because I couldn’t see the point. I looked around me and saw my Mum and Dad and the neighbours all had good, steady jobs. The men mostly worked in construction, the women in shops or beauty parlours. We rented a council flat, had a family car and took holidays abroad each year. And I don’t suppose any one of them had a qualification. School, who needed it?

Of course, with an attitude like that I was uncooperative and disruptive. The school couldn’t do much about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished years before and if a teacher put me in detention, I didn’t bother to go, Really, what could they do? They suspended me from school once. Yes please, I said. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to go to school. Losers.

Uncle Clive was the exception. Where everyone else had no qualifications, he had a shedload. He had at least two college degrees and some piece of paper that made him an accountant. He believed he had bettered himself. He said I should have more ambition. There won’t always be a construction industry, he said.

I made a vital mistake. I treated him like he was a schoolteacher. I told him where to get off. Leave me alone, I said, I know best.  So I left school as soon as I was legally allowed at sixteen. Big mistake. Banks went bust and the unemployment lines grew. I was out of work for two years. To cut a long story short I went off the rails: I drank, took drugs, got involved in a little thieving. Mum and Dad despaired. After the police turned up at our house to arrest me for the third time they said “Enough”, I would have to go.

I spent a month living on the streets. I was one of those bundles in a shop doorway people hurry by through fear or embarrassment. I was cold, hungry, alone and scared. I don’t know how Uncle Clive discovered where I was living rough. Late one night as I shivered outside Tesco, I looked up wearily to see a tall, strong man towering over me.

He gave me a choice. Stay living on the streets until I die of exposure or go live with him at his nice warm bungalow. A no-brainer really. “My house. My rules.” Uncle Clive was clear from the start. “No booze, no weed. Get a job. Make something of yourself.”

Now, the thing about Uncle Clive was that somewhere along the road he had found religion. Big time. There’s a bit somewhere in the Bible about spare the rod and spoil the child. Except in Uncle’s case the “rod” was a heavy wooden paddle, identical to the one in that cupboard under the stairs. I was eighteen at this time, but as far as Uncle Clive was concerned I was still a little kid. He sat me down and drew up what he called my “Objectives.” I had to get up by eight in the morning, I had a curfew at night, chores to do around the house and I had to go looking for work. Or else.

I had never been threatened with a spanking before. Corporal punishment had been confined to the dustbin of history years since. One day when I was on my own I took Uncle’s paddle from the sideboard drawer and studied it. It looked professionally made. The “blade” end was about two feet long. It must have been a quarter inch thick. I gripped it by the handle and swished it through the air, imagining there was a backside bent across the back of the armchair. It look my breath away. What would it feel like to have this monster crashing into my backside? I held the handle tightly, leaned forward a little and smacked the wood into the seat of my jeans. Ouch! It hurt. Quite a bit actually. I couldn’t get a decent swing into my own backside. I supposed it would hurt a lot more if Uncle Clive was doing it.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out. I had been mooching around the house for too long. I was getting nowhere finding a job. “Just work at a burger bar for now,” Uncle Clive berated me. “Get something to start you off. Don’t worry about the crap pay, you can stay here with me.” He really wanted to help me and I suppose my lack of energy must have frustrated the hell out of him.

So, Uncle Clive said one night the choice was simple. Back to the cardboard box or swats from the paddle. I couldn’t understand why my heart beat so quickly when he said this. You would think it would be through fear. Perhaps it was, but wasn’t there also something exciting about his?

Uncle Clive held the paddle and whacked it into the palm of his hand. I watched transfixed, remembering how much it hurt when I tried it on myself. “Let’s not have any fuss here,” Uncle Clive’s steely-blue eyes pierced through me. “I want you to go over to that chair,” he waved the wood at a straight-backed dining room chair, “And bend over.”

My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. Looking back what was it that I wanted to say? “No way?” Or quite possibly, “Yes, please.” I shuddered. Again, fear or excitement? I couldn’t look at Uncle Clive, I shuffled towards the chair and stopped halfway. Sweat soaked the palms of my hands and I wiped them on the leg of my jeans. My mouth was suddenly dry and I ran my tongue across my lips.

“Bend over,” Uncle Clive was calm, but he did want to get a move on. I stood closer to the chair. “Turn it around so the back faces you.” I did as instructed. I remember the chair was much heavier than I expected. “Bend over,” Uncle Clive said again as he gently tapped the paddle into his palm. I leaned forward and gripped hold of the seat of the chair. My stomach cleared the top of the chair by some distance. Without thinking I spread my legs and kept my knees straight. My jeans fitted tightly and I could feel them tug against my buttocks.

Uncle Clive rested the heavy wooden paddle across the lower part of my cheeks. I felt it move away and then return with an almighty Crack! The sound of wood connecting with my tight denim-clad arse echoed around the room. My knees buckled, my hips swayed and I gripped the chair seat tightly. Ouch! That hurt. If the time I whacked myself scored two out of ten, Uncle Clive’s first attempt was way off the top of the scale.

Uncle Clive swung hard, with all of his strength which was considerable as he was a big man. Every blow hit like the kick of a horse knocking me forward over the back of the chair. At first there was a fierce stinging all the way across my bum. Then the pain increased and it seemed like my entire body ached. Then the next swat landed and the next until Uncle Clive was beating a rhythm on my poor defenceless bottom.

When it was over I performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot and clutching the seat of my jeans. My buttocks glowed red hot but very soon the pain turned to a warm glow. Uncle Clive sent me to my room where I lowered my jeans and pants and stared in astonishment at the reflection of my battered bum in the mirror. My cock was semi-erect and my head buzzed. I can’t quite describe that feeling after my first spanking, but it was better than any drug I was taking at the time.

That was about six years ago. Eventually I got a job with the Gas Board. Uncle Clive encouraged me to find a room of my own and gradually we stopped seeing each other. I hadn’t thought much about  that paddling until my visit to the house in The Avenue. Now, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Why was that paddle in the cupboard? What did that old man do with it? I obsessed. I lay awake at night imagining I was at that house, bent across the back of a leather armchair, my jeans at my ankles while he took my backside off with the paddle.

This could not go on. I had to go back to The Avenue. But, I couldn’t just knock on his door and ask to be spanked. Even so I took a bus and walked up and down the street. It’s a long road with lots of upscale, expensive houses. I felt very conspicuous. How would I explain myself if someone called the police? I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I would bump into the man as he left home to go to the shops.

Nothing happened, of course. Nor did it on the next three times I walked up and down The Avenue. Then it was Saturday. I passed by his house for the third time that morning when the front door opened. I blushed profusely at the sight of the man standing in his doorway. He was about sixty I suppose and showing his age. His waist had long ago disappeared as had most of his hair. His face was fleshy but he still managed to flash me the most beguiling smile.

“Are you spying on me?” he called cheerfully. Oh how I wished the pavement could swallow me up right there. He called me over to him. I could hardly dare to look as I shuffled up his garden path. “I’ve seen you several times, walking past my house,” he still smiled. “Did you want me for something?”

How could I tell him? What could I say? “Yes, please, I want you to spank me,” would sum up my thought succinctly, but I was too bashful to say it out loud. At that point he recognised me. “You’re the chap who came to read my meter,” he paused as if trying to compute. “The one who liked my toy so much!” At this he burst into cackling laughter.

The glint in my eye probably gave him his answer because I certainly did not confirm his supposition with words. “Do come in dear boy,” he moved away from the door to make room for me to enter. I stood uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot. Then I noticed the green-and-gold blazer on the coat hook. Alongside it was a matching school cap and – oh glory – on the hook next door dangled two curve-handled whippy rattan school canes. My eyes darted away from them, fearful that the man would register my interest.

He had. “I have many toys. Come inside, I’ll show you some if you wish.” His smile was so warm I had no fear as he led me into a large living room. It was dominated by a leather Chesterfield couch and two enormous armchairs. At the far end covering almost an entire wall was a glass-fronted display case containing a collection of expensive-looking china ornaments. “You are a very naughty boy, spying on my house like that,” the man said. The smile had vanished, but his words held no fear for me. “And you know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you?”

My head ached. The room was hot and stuffy and I couldn’t breathe properly. I think I shrugged my shoulders in reply to his statement. “What’s up boy, the cat got your tongue?” The man spoke more sternly now. He paced the room in front of me. I stood, hands behind my back, eyes cast down at the expensive wooden flooring beneath my feet.

“I know what you need boy,” the man folded his arms across his chest. My soldier stirred but it was not yet on the march. The man grunted and we lapsed into an oppressive silence. I knew I needed to say something as he needed only the slightest encouragement. I couldn’t find the words. I shrugged my shoulders. “Pah!” The man expelled air through pursed lips. “Such insolence.” He rocked back on his heels and unfolded his arms. He glared at me down a long, angular nose. “Well boy, I know how to deal with that.”

He waved his hand in the general direction of the Chesterfield couch. “Stand there. Put your hands on your head.” My mouth drained of saliva and my hands trembled, but I did as he commanded. With my fingers interlocked I placed my hands on my head in the classic naughty-boy pose. My hair was soaked with sweat. From the corner of my eye I saw the man stride from the room. He returned seconds later. Under his right arm was a thick, whippy school cane. My eyes saucered. I had never seen a school cane before.

“Never seen a school cane before,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question. “Well boy, today will also be the first time you feel a school cane.” He placed great emphasis on the word “feel”. I felt my cock press into the front of my pants. The man walked to the front of me and slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He wobbled it in front of my face. My eyes followed it as it travelled through the air. My heart was already racing but sped more when the man flexed the cane between two hands so that effortlessly it made an arc. Then he swiped the cane across the back of the Chesterfield couch, leaving a thin indentation in the rich black leather.

“In a moment that will be your backside boy.” The man’s smile was now malevolent. I closed my eyes tight. “Now,” the man spoke calmly and evenly. “I want you to lower your trousers and bend over the couch.” The blood was rushing so quickly through my body and pounding my ears that I didn’t fully catch his words. I stood trembling but made no other movement.

“Pah!” The man exhaled. “Take down your trousers.” The command was sterner. This was a man who expected to be obeyed. I felt his eyes burn into my soul as I fumbled with the button of my chino trousers. It took an inordinate length of time. I wanted to do this very much but I could not persuade my fingers to obey me. At last the waistband was loose. I had less trouble with the zipper but was alarmed to see the bulge in the front of my green underpants. They fitted tightly in ordinary circumstances and my tentpole was straining the cotton. The man professed not to notice.

The chinos slid down my highs and bunched at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued their journey to my feet. I think I could feel pre-cum oozing from my cock but it might have been my imagination. I eased myself forward over the back of the couch. It was an expensive piece of furniture and judging by the aroma of rich leather that assaulted my nostrils it was almost brand new.

I was tall enough that my body cleared the apex of the couch. Just as well as I am sure the friction of my body on the back of the Chesterfield would have made me shoot my load. My eyes were closed so I could not see the man but I felt him take hold of my shirt and roughly move it further up my back. Very daintily, he smoothed the cotton underpants so they fitted my stretched buttocks so well that I felt them dig into my crack. My buttock cheeks must have been beautifully separated.

The man sawed the cane across the underside of my bum, taking his aim. A second later I heard a swoosh and there was a tremendous crack as the cane swiped deep into my flesh. It was another second before the pain registered. It was as if the man had pressed a white-hot wire into me. My legs stamped up and down and my hips swirled. I bit down deeply on my bottom lip to silence the wail my body desperately wanted me to make. I was certain my bum had been sliced open. Surely it was bleeding? A thin weal, puffy and swelling rose.

The speed at which the cane swished through the air both fascinated and terrified me. Swish-crack! It was all I could do not to scream. The line of fire bored into my bum and I wiggled frantically.

“Keep still!” the man scolded. I tried to stay calm. My eyes stung with tears but they had not yet started to flow down my face. Swish-crack! Swish-crack! Swish-crack! The agony was too much. I jumped to my feet and clutched my burning backside, hopping around the room. The tears flowed freely now. I had no control whatsoever of my body. My lungs were empty and desperately I tried to suck in air.

The man stood impassively, cane once more tucked under his arm as I humiliated myself before him. Once I had stopped my dancing, he ordered me back over the couch. I obeyed without question. The man was in charge. It was his duty to beat me. It was my role to offer up my bottom for discipline. Only when my master was satisfied I had been punished enough would the caning end.

He was not a cruel man. He knew I was a novice at this. He gave me six hard swipes. Six-of-the-best they used to call it back in the day. He left me there prostrate across the couch for a full minute while I regained my breathing. “Stand up,” the man’s tone was gentle. My bum was on fire, my cock throbbed like crazy but my head was as clear as a bell. It was the euphoria you can only get with a severe beating. Without waiting for permission, I tugged up my trousers and with great difficulty zipped them up over my pulsating penis. I wasn’t the least embarrassed that the man could see my predicament.

“Do you need the lavatory?” the man asked, his face once more cracked by a smile. Of course I did.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It was thirty years ago

The A-level English Lit. class was restless. “Sir! Sir!” Jackson folded his newspaper, “It says in the Telegraph that corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty years ago.”

Mr. Hawkes raised his eyebrows.

“Did they have the cane here in those days, Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes suppressed a melancholy smile. “Yes, indeed St. Francis has always been a very traditional school.”

“Oooh Sir, I bet the boys were  pleased when they abolished the cane,” Jackson wriggled on his chair.

“As a matter of fact Jackson, the cane was only banned in state schools. St FIGS is an independent school,” he laid great stress on the word independent. “The cane continued to be used for another decade. It was only abolished in 1999.” And more’s the pity, he thought. Look how the county had gone to the dogs since.

“Sir,” Jackson was on a roll. “You’ve been here forever, did you ever cane a boy Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes paused and stared at the sixth-formers lounging at their desks. “Yes, Jackson, especially boys who disrupted classes with silly questions.”

He was rather pleased at the laughs that got.

“Oh, but Sir,” Jackson was not to be silenced. “Not sixth-formers, Sir,” he grinned.

Mr. Hawkes pursed his lips, “Especially sixth-formers, Jackson, especially sixth-formers. Now why do you keep asking these questions?”

“Because he’s got a boner, Sir,” Edwards chirruped from the back of the class. Every boy jeered at Jackson, but not entirely unkindly.

@

 

Some afternoons later Robbie Jackson was with Ant Edwards in his bedroom. They were supposed to be working on a history project together. “Look what I’ve got,” Ant pulled the wardrobe forward by a couple of centimetres and reached behind it. “Look!” His grin was returned by his pal.

“War …?” Robbie was speechless.

“I got it on eBay,” Ant replied to a question he had not been asked. “It’s the real deal.”

Robbie had found his voice. “Give it here.” He reached forward with a shaking hand. “It’s as light as a feather,” he said weighing it in his hand.

“But, I bet it still packs a punch.”

Robbie had never seen an authentic school cane before, never mind handled one. Less still, felt the sting of one across his stretched buttocks. Tentatively, he flexed it between his hands, it curved easily.

“It’s OK,” Ant grinned, “It’s very swishy, you won’t break it.”

Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand. Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the real deal all right. Just like the ones they used in the videos he jerked off to.

“Isn’t she a beaut?” Ant’s eyes shone. He knew his mate would love it.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

Robbie’s heart thumped. “Yes, let’s,” he croaked.

They went to the lounge. It was a large room dominated by a shiny leather sofa and two enormous armchairs. Along one wall was a glass-fronted cabinet and a dining table and chairs was in an alcove. Ant had a plan, he had run it through his head a hundred times since he saw the glint in Robbie’s eyes in the classroom.

Robbie stood in the middle of the room. He ought to say something. But what? Blood was coursing through his body at an alarming rate. His cock was on the march.

Ant broke the silence. He tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. Then thinking twice about it, he slipped it into his hand and pointed with it. “Jackson,” he said aiming at an “old fashioned” English accent. “Fetch that chair and place it there.” He swished the cane and pointed to a spot a metre or so in front of himself.

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed. He moved across the room and picked up a straight-backed dining chair. It was surprisingly heavy. He manhandled it across the carpet and set it down, its back facing him.

“Other way round,” Ant snarled. “Have the seat facing you.” He had seen in the old comics that a boy was supposed to stand in front of the chair and stoop forward, clutching the seat of the chair. That would tighten the buttocks sufficiently and create a perfect target for the cane.

“Now, Jackson,” Ant had cast himself as the school captain and Robbie was the lazy slacker of the House. He needed a damn good thrashing to buck up his ideas. “Bend over and grab the seat of the chair.”

Robbie’s face flushed, saliva drained from his mouth, his heart beat faster. His dick thrust into the flies of his school trousers. He took a deep breath, turned his back on his pal, spread his feet a little and leaned forward. This was not quite how he had imagined it. In the videos they usually went over the back of a chair. He had fantasised many times about being over the back of an old rather worn green armchair that starred in many movies. His head would be down in the dusty cushion, his stomach over the chair’s back and his trousers would be at his ankles. Often, but not always, it was Mr. Hawkes who wielded the cane.

Robbie looked around the room. The armchairs were too large to bend across and the sofa wasn’t much better. He might at a pinch fit over one of its arms. No, he concluded, Ant had chosen wisely. The straight-back chair is was to be. He took a deep breath, leaned forward and offered his backside to his friend.

Ant’s hand shook as he gripped the cane. How often he had dreamed about this; having someone – anyone – submit themselves to him. He had never caned a boy before, but he had seen it done often enough in the films. He took up position a half-metre to Robbie’s left and tap-tap-tapped the cane across his stretched bottom. No, this was no good, he couldn’t get a good swing like this. He took a step back. That was better; now he was a cane’s length away. He took aim again.

Robbie was a little short for an eighteen year old; he often had problems getting served in pubs. Barmen always thought his ID was forged. He was slim and wiry and didn’t have enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His buttocks were small and sinewy. Ant “sawed” his cane across the fleshiest part (such as it was) and prepared to deliver the first stroke. He licked his lips and hesitated. He had seen young men caned countless times online, but it wasn’t always obvious just how hard the cane had struck. He suspected trick photography was used so there would be a shot of the headmaster flexing his cane and a close-up of it being steadied across the culprit’s arse, then most likely you’d get a shot over the boy’s shoulder of the cane being raised and swiping down. You’d see the painful grimace of the face, but not actually see the cane strike home.

It wasn’t always like that, of course, but even so Ant was at a loss. How hard should he hit? Robbie’s bottom wriggled with anticipation (or possibly impatience). Ant needed to make a move. He raised the cane and with a flick of the wrist send it thwacking into Robbie’s stretched trousers. His friend was unmoved. The ensuing silence was deep and embarrassing.

Robbie turned his head and called over his shoulder. “Do it harder. It’s meant to hurt. It’s a punishment.”

Ant flushed. Annoyed by the sting of his friend’s criticism, he took aim again. This time the cane rose to shoulder height and with all the strength he could muster, Ant flogged the cane down. It bounced off Robbie’s bum and the crack echoed around the room and could be heard outside in The Avenue.

Robbie gritted his teeth and gulped in air, before speaking. “Yes, that’s it. Give me six more like that.” He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the wooden seat. The second stoke cut lower than the first. Robbie could already feel a welt rising beneath his underwear. He had never experienced such pain before. How had schoolboys in the past survived six-of-the-best?

The third stroke landed on top of the first. Robbie shuddered; pain shot north, south, east and west through his entire body. His hips swayed and his knees buckled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s reflex action to the assault.

Sweat soaked Ant’s collar. It was a warm afternoon but even with the window open the room felt airless. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his woollen blazer, steadied himself and aimed for the top curves of Robbie’s arse. A thick line immediately appeared across the tight polyester-cotton trousers. He knew a deep red mark was throbbing in Robbie’s flesh.

A low long-drawn out hiss escaped through Robbie’s clenched teeth. His eyes watered. He hacked a dry cough. His feet stamped up and down like a sentry on guard duty.

“Steady boy, steady.” Ant was enjoying himself enormously. “Keep still, or it’ll be extra stokes for you Jackson.”

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed, “Sorry.” He dug his feet into the ground, gripped the seat once more and waited for the agony to be reignited. It wasn’t long in coming. Ant raised the cane once more and this time swiped down two cuts one after the other: bang-bang. Robbie howled; there was no other way to describe the ear-splitting noise. He lifted the chair some centimetres from the ground and danced around, clutching it tightly.

A broad smile split Ant’s face. “OK Jackson, you may stand.” He watched with undisguised delight as his friend hopped from one foot to the other furiously rubbing  the seat of his trousers. Robbie’s face was scarlet and Ant fully expected the teenager’s backside was a similar colour.

“Ferking hell,” Robbie unbuckled his belt and whipped down his trousers and underpants. He twisted his back to get a view of his scarred buttocks. Six clear red lines traversed his hairless cheeks. He touched each gingerly reigniting the pain. The agony had gone now but his bum glowed with a throbbing pain. It felt rather good. He traced his index finger along the ridges unaware that Ant was videoing him on his phone. Later, Ant would wank off watching it.

“Come on,” Ant breezed. “My turn now.”

“You bet,” Robbie beamed. “Bend over that chair Edwards.” He stood amazed as his mate unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his trousers and let them fall to his knees. Then eagerly he bent over the chair. Robbie’s jaw slackened. Ant was wearing gleaming white Y-front underpants, just like the guys in the videos. No one wore Y-fronts these days.

Ant wriggled his bottom; the pants were tight and rode up into his crack, separating each cheek. Ant wriggled some more in a fashion he supposed to be sexy. He couldn’t wait for the first slash.

Robbie took aim. It had never occurred to him before what a terrific arse Ant had. It was round and hard. The term “buns of steel” was made for it. He raised the cane and slammed it home. He was inexperienced and his aim was off. The whippy rattan seared a mark across the back of Ant’s naked thigh. He screamed.

Two Mormons walking up the path halted. Attracted by the cry they peered through the open window before making a hasty retreat.

Robbie took aim once more, a little higher this time.

z used drawing cane prefect boy Mag (2)

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

Other stories you might like

Fr. Pat’s paddle

University student late for class

The pub manager

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Collection of Spanking Stories

z-used-otk-chair-bare-27

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

 

Not like at school

David Busby eyed himself in the mirror, took hold of his necktie and unstraightened it so it didn’t have quite such a perfect knot. He was nearly ready. He climbed into a red-and-white-blazer. Proper wool: the real-deal, he was fond of telling people. He licked his lips; they usually dried out at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his tailored light-grey shorts. Up to the knees. He liked to keep the short trousers until last. His cock tingled. It always did. He hopped to his feet and carefully pulled the flannel shorts over his sparkling white Y-front underpants. The new short trousers fitted perfectly. They ought to, it had cost him a fortune to have them made. The button-fly made all the difference.

He admired his view in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. David Busby, aged forty-two, going on what? Eight? Nine? An insurance salesman transformed into a prep. school boy. Jennings and Derbyshire eat your hearts out.

He wiped the sleeve of his blazer across his brow. He was sweating badly, but the room was quite cool. It had nothing to do with the temperature, David Busby (or, more formally, “Busby” from here on in) couldn’t stop his pulse racing. Blood rushed through his body, his face flushed scarlet. His cock swelled inside his tight underpants. Any moment now he would leave the room, walk two or three steps across the landing and rap his knuckles on the door. What a thrill.

Busby had never been to prep. school. They were for the sons of the rich. His dad was a milkman, Busby had to make do with a back-street primary school and a bog-standard comprehensive. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was pretty sure he had never worn short trousers as a kid. Not proper smart grey shorts. Definitely, not to school. They had a uniform at the comp. Just an ordinary black blazer, nothing as fanciful as the one he wore now.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his short trousers, gulped down a lung-full of air and reached for the door handle. He shuffled across the landing and stalled at his final destination. It was a plain door, eggshell in colour. He paused, hesitating, wishing that his heart would behave itself. His mouth drained of what little saliva he had left. He raised his hand and with a confidence belying his supposed age he firmly rapped three times.

Five second passed. Then an imperious command bellowed from the other side of the door. “Come!”

Busby’s hand trembled as he reached for the handle. Absurdly, considering his predicament, he noted dark finger marks on the door. Someone needs to take a J-cloth to that, he thought as he turned the handle down and pushed against the door.

It was a small room. It had once housed a bed, wardrobe and dressing table, but now it was almost empty. A small, rickety wooden desk dominated. A grey, metallic armless chair and a hat-stand were the only other furniture.

Busby stood in the open doorway. He had entered this room many times in the past. Yet, he still took a moment to sniff the atmosphere. Dr. ELT Mastertone, headmaster of this parish, sat behind the desk, his facial features gravely set. He was not an elderly man (he would be about forty-five) but he liked to act much older. Mr. Chips might have been his role model. The tattered academic gown around his shoulders and the mortar-board cap perched precariously on his head, certainly placed him in the 1930s.

He pursed his lips and sneered, “Come in boy, don’t dawdle. Close the door.” He watched the boy fumble with the door and satisfied that he had, at last, managed to close it, he snapped his fingers. “Stand there!” He pointed to the grey tiles in front of his desk.

Busby shuffled to position. His eyes flickered. He couldn’t stop blinking. His hands shook so much he clasped them behind his back. He stared down at his scuffed black shoes.

“Look at me boy when I’m talking to you!” Dr. Mastertone barked. He lived to intimidate small boys. Unenthusiastically, Busby raised his head. Ah!, the headmaster sighed with satisfaction, the boy’s dark-brown eyes were glistening. He was already half way to his goal. He wanted nothing less than tears: real tears, before he would allow the wretch to depart the study.

“Well, Busby, I have a report here from your housemaster,” Dr. Mastertone waved a single sheet of paper above his head. “It is not good boy, it is not good.”

Busby shuffled his feet. He knew what was written in the report. He took a deep breath and stared ahead of him, determined to take what was coming to him bravely.

“Bah!” the headmaster peered closely at the paper in his hand. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Shameful. Shocking.”

The boy before him nodded his head sagely. It was all true. Every word of it. He twisted his fingers, prepared for more of Dr. Mastertone’s outpourings.

“This is criminal, Busby. Actually, criminal,” the headmaster thrust the paper at the boy standing before him. Busby winced, falling back a half-step. For this was no childish misdemeanour; this was an honest-to-goodness real adult crime.

“Drunk-driving!” spittle flew from Dr. Mastertone’s mouth. “You darn fool! You could have killed someone. You could have lost your licence. Your job!”

Busby’s knees buckled. This was the bit he loved the most; even more than the sound thrashing that was sure to follow. Being told off like a little child.

“You’re a very naughty boy!” Music to Busby’s ears.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy!”

There was nothing to say. It was Friday night, too many drinks with the lads after work, a curry; then the drive home. There was no accident, no police pulled him over. He got to his flat and crawled into bed. He would probably do it all over again next week.

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t do it again, Sir. Promise, Sir.”

“Pah!” Dr. Mastertone glared across the desk. “Sorry. Sorry. You soon will be boy!” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and hauled himself to his feet. “Stand there boy,” he nodded across the room. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”

Busby shambled across the study, his sore cock made it uncomfortable to walk. He stuck his nose as close to the wall as it would go, interlocked his fingers and put his hands on his head in the classic naughty-boy pose. His hair gel made his hot, sweaty hands even stickier. The headmaster watched with mounting pleasure as his pupil submitted himself to his will. Soon, pleasure would turn to ecstasy.

Dr. Mastertone took the grey kitchen chair from its place in the corner of the room and lifted it with one hand. He plonked it down with an echoing smack in the middle of the room. Busby flinched. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was being prepared. Satisfied that the chair was in its rightful place, the headmaster sauntered to the opposite corner and the hat-stand. It had no hats, nor coats. It never did have. Its sole purpose was to support the stout but whippy curve-handled rattan school cane that presently dangled from it.

The headmaster reached up and snatched it from its mooring. Eagerly, he flexed it between his hands. He had thrashed countless backsides with this stick, but even so every time he picked it up he liked to reacquaint himself with its supple power by first flexing it between his hands and then swishing it with tremendous force through the air. The terrific swooshing! noise it made as it went sent a shudder up Busby’s back. He barked a dry cough as he contemplated the agony he would endure when that awesome rod flogged across his buttocks.

“Turn around boy,” Dr. Mastertone was ready. Slowly, the pupil turned on his heels. “Bend over the chair,” the headmaster tapped the tip of the rattan against the chair’s grey cloth seat. Busby’s tongue darted in and out through not-quite closed lips, making him look a little like a lizard.

At a snail’s pace, he edged forward, making every second count.

“Bend over boy. You know the drill!” Dr. Mastertone was eager to get on.

Busby did indeed know the drill; he had presented his backside to the headmaster for punishment on times too numerous to remember. He stood behind the chair, took a deep breath, rubbed his sticky palms together and like a diver going into an icy pond, he threw himself forward. He was the perfect height for the chair, his stomach rested comfortably over the metal back. In that position he was able to grip each side of the chair’s seat with his face about nine inches above the stained cloth seat.

“Legs further apart boy,” Dr. Mastertone said this every time, even though on this occasion there was no need as Busby’s bottom was perfectly poised to receive the headmaster’s cane.

The headmaster took up position to the boys left and slowly “sawed” his cane across the centre of his buttocks. He stopped and tucked the cane under his arm. Something was not quite right. A white lining was visible under the short trousers. He leant forward towards Busby, cupped his right hand and rubbed it across both buttocks.

“Ha!” he cried. “Well I never. Who would have thought it, eh boy!” He rubbed Busby’s bum some more, just to be certain he was not mistaken. “Who needs a book down the back of the trousers when you’ve got these!”

The short trousers were made of thick flannel and beneath that the entire insides were covered with a double lining. They were beautifully-tailored short trousers. Elegant and hard-wearing, but entirely useless for corporal punishment. Any boy wearing these for a caning wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Stand up boy!” Dr. Mastertone suppressed a smile. “This won’t do Busby. Won’t do at all. Do you take me for a fool?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “Take down these shorts. It’ll be twelve on the underpants,” he swished his cane in anticipation of the fun to come, “Followed by another twelve on the bare, for thinking you could get away with this ruse.”

But Sir! Busby mouthed the words, but no sound came. He straightened his back and stood and hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“C’mon boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Busby’s once scarlet complexion was now puce.

“Quickly boy,” the headmaster flexed the cane and steadily paced the room. Busby eyed him on his travels and when his back was turned, he hurriedly unbuttoned his flies, let his heavy short trousers tumble to his feet and once more bent across the chair, this time presenting an expanse of gleaming white cotton to his master.

“Ah! That’s better.” Dr. Mastertone admired the beefy buttocks on offer. They were nowhere near pert and nobody would claim they were “buns of steel” but they were far from flabby. He tapped his cane across the fleshiest part, then paused once more. It took a second to tug the waistband of the pants so that the cotton hugged Busby’s bum like a second skin.

He took a pace back, raised the cane high and like a golfer taking a swing he thudded it across the very centre of the backside. Busby shuddered and air hissed through his lips. He mouthed a silent “ouch!” A burning pain. Like someone had rested a hot poker on his bum.

Swipe! Lower this time. Swipe! Now higher. A throbbing strip of flesh two or three inches wide. Whack! One on the underside of the cheek. Nearly on the bare thigh. Busby wriggled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s natural reaction to the assault taking place. Twelve hard cuts. Dr. Mastertone admired his own handiwork. Each stroke expertly delivered.

“Keep still boy!” The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm and gripped the waist of Busby’s white Y-fronts. The boy shut his eyes tight. The pants snagged on their journey south. Busby’s rock-hard cock throbbed even more than his raw arse.

Back in position the headmaster did the sawing thing again. There wasn’t a quarter inch of the naked bum offered up submissively unmarked by the cane. Dr. Mastertone ran the tip of his tongue around his cracked lips. It is what it is, he thought. He had no alternative; slice the cane across already battered flesh.

So, that’s what he did. Thwip-twip-twhip! The springy rattan cane sank into the meaty mounds before bouncing off again. The agony was ecstasy.

The final slice fell. Two men sweating. Huffing for breath. Blood pressure off the scale.

“Stand up boy,” Dr. Mastertone croaked. Busby hauled himself up, stood erect before his master. Cock pointing at the ceiling.

“Bend over the desk boy.”

Shuffling like a penguin, short trousers at the ankles, pants at the knees. Busby stands by the edge of the desk. Lifts his red-and-white blazer half way up his back. Slowly, carefully manoeuvres himself across the bashed-up wooden desk. Puts his weight against the aching cock. Closes his eyes. Hears Dr. Mastertone open the desk drawer. Doesn’t see this, but he knows what is happening. Hears the ripping of a condom packet, a jar of Vaseline is opened. Busby buries his head in his arms. Ready. Willing. Thinking, Schooldays were never like this.

z used shorts self

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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Fr. Christian

Yellow Pages spanking

Father deals with idle student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com