Book: All in The Family

z used otk chair bare head (54)

All in the family.

Tales of domestic discipline

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

In this free-of-charge book offering, the cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The book runs for more than 17,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

 

all-in-the-family-by-charles-hamilton-ii

For more free-to-download books click here

A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The expenses fiddle

Paul and his landlord

Boy at the photocopier

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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One hot summer afternoon

Milo, the grad student

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in the front row

used drawing paddle hold (5)

I am quite alone. The door is locked from the outside, it will not be opened until morning. Soon the light will go out, plunging me into darkness. My eyes are awash, but tears are not yet falling. Someone seems to have put my temples in a vice.

Let me try to explain what is happening. I am (sorry, I was) the headmaster of C_______________ College, the most upscale school in this part of the world. You will have heard of it; old money and tradition.

I first saw John in my English class. He is eighteen years old and a new boy. That is not unusual. We often take brilliant young scholars for a year and prepare them for a top university. John aced every test there was in his state. He is destined for great things.

It happened in the third class of the semester. John always sits at the front of the room. He reads voraciously and answers my questions with a confidence belying his years. He has his hair cut military style but has an unusual habit of running his fingers across his scalp as if he had long, flowing locks. Perhaps his crew cut is recent; a new look to go with his new life at school.

He has the most piercing green eyes I have ever encountered. They sparkle when he thinks. They are set symmetrically either side of a button nose, which hovers above slightly crooked lips. When he smiles he exposes uneven teeth. They are not tombstones, but they reflect his family’s lower income status. John is most certainly a scholarship boy.

What is it about those damn eyes? They began to haunt me. Almost literally. I dreamed of the boy night after night. As I recall nothing much happened, but he was constantly in my thoughts, beguiling me. I have a drink problem – there I confess it – but it wasn’t the wine that drove me forward. Indeed, most unusually for me, I had not touched alcohol all day.

Don’t ask me why I did it, I still don’t know the answer to that. I could have understood it had I been rip-roaring drunk. I had asked my secretary Mrs. Crabbe to bring me Mr. McAlpine’s file – we are always so formal when referring to our students. I found the number of his room at the boys’ dormitory and set off just before lights out. My wife has already gone to her bed in her own room. When did we start sleeping apart? I can’t be certain; sometime after our only son went off to the war, I think.

It is quite a trek from the headmaster’s house, through the quadrangle, and across the playing fields to the outlying buildings that comprise the dormitories. Boys and girls are kept separate, of course. It is not usual for the headmaster to visit the boys’ dormitories, but not entirely unheard of. Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, seemed a little flustered when he saw me approaching the building, suspicious perhaps that I had come to spy on him. I don’t know what goes on in the boys’ dorms at night and it would probably be injudicious to inquire.

John’s room was on the third floor at the far end of a corridor. His door was ajar and he was alone. He lay on his bed reading a book. He wore only khaki shorts, adding to his general military appearance. He looked up from his book as if he had been expecting me.  He smiled, those eyes dancing. Quietly, I closed the door behind me.

John is short for his age, I think. Maybe five-seven or so. His waist is narrow and his chest broad. I suspect he uses the gym. His torso is hairless, but a fine down covers his legs. He wriggled to a seating position and reached over and set his book down on the nightstand. It was then that I noticed the whisky bottle. My, how I wanted to grab it and glug down its contents. John saw that I had spied the bottle. His crooked lips parted.

It is against the rules for students to have alcohol. The penalty is strict: expulsion. John knew that, but I reminded him all the same.

He ran his fingers through his almost non-existent hair. I watched the muscles on his arms tense. He gazed at me. “Oh,” he said, “Couldn’t you just paddle me instead.” My jaw must have dropped, or at least I gaped disbelief.

“Paddle me.”

I cannot explain what happened next. That is, I can describe what happened, but I am still unsure why it happened. I am the headmaster of C_______________ College, I am fifty-five years old and have been around young men my whole life and have never given their bodies a passing consideration. I pull him toward me awkwardly, clumsily, unannounced. I am about to do something that will change my life forever. It will in all inevitability be my ruin. He is in my arms and I kiss him forcefully on the mouth.

But, John does not retreat from me; he kisses me back. Passionately. My hands run across his scalp, it feels like petting a hedgehog. Our teeth meet, tongues grope for each other. I run my hand over his warm, smooth naked flesh. My erection presses against the front of my underpants.

Then the lights go out and we plunge into darkness. The boys’ dorm can be like a prison. It is ten-thirty and all must be in bed. John gently pushes me away. I must leave. It would be unseemly for the headmaster to be caught in the dark in the bedroom of an eighteen-year-old male student.

I fumble for the door and as I leave I whisper, “My study, after school tomorrow evening.” It is a rendezvous with the paddle.

We haven’t used corporal punishment at the college since my father was headmaster. He was a devotee of the paddle, but once he retired it fell into disuse. Times, I suppose, have changed. The boys in the athletics clubs continue to use it. I believe the rowers especially paddle each other’s rear ends when they lose a race, which, now I come to think of it, is very often.

We still have my father’s paddles in storage and it is no problem for me to blow the dust off one of them. I have a fretful day. The college governors are in town and I am forced to sit through interminable committee meetings when all I want to do was stroll through the campus in the hope of catching a glimpse of my beloved John.

At last, the afternoon draws to a close. Mrs. Crabbe is tidying her desk when he arrives. She passes me a quizzical look, when she announces Mr. McAlpine is here to see me. Mrs. Crabbe keeps my diary and nobody, not even the chairman of the governors himself, gets to see me without her say-so. Why do I feel like a naughty boy found out in some misdeed? I croak that she should leave; her services are no longer needed.

I wait until from my study window I see Mrs. Crabbe pass through the quadrangle and then I order John into my study. It is a huge room befitting a man of my status at the school. At one end is my desk and cupboards for my official paperwork. At the far end are leather armchairs, a small table and bookcases. I order John to stand close to a chair. He does so without a murmur.

He is dressed in a blue jacket and cream chinos which passes for the school uniform here. His white shirt is immaculate and a wine-coloured tie is tightly knotted at his neck. His face shines. I imagine he is having second thoughts. But, it is his idea to be here. He could face expulsion and disgrace. I am sure his impoverished parents are extremely proud of him. They would die of shame.

I had placed the paddle in a drawer. I didn’t want it to attract attention, not with Mrs. Crabbe snooping around. I remind John of why we are here. He chews his bottom lip. My heart skips a beat. I want to pull him towards me and put my tongue down his throat. Instead, calmly I open the drawer and pull out the paddle. John’s eyes widen.

And, so they might. It is an awesome specimen. It is more than two feet in length and maybe four wide. Large holes have been drilled into the blade to reduce wind resistance during the swing. John appears to be sweating. His eyes follow my movements when I hold the paddle by its handle and smack the blade into my left palm. I have never spanked a boy before, but I know that this wood is capable of inflicting great pain.

“Take off your jacket, put it on the table,” I have decided he should put himself across the back of one of the leather armchairs. It is low and his buttocks will be presented perfectly. He slips the coat from his shoulders and folds it neatly on the table. The tail of his shirt is poking out of his chinos. I see they fit him tightly at the waist and a fold of cotton covers his buttocks snugly, separating each cheek.

I tap the paddle against the back of the chair. “Bend over.” I say this calmly although my heart is racing and my palms sweat. He gazes at me with those intense green eyes. I flinch a little. Then he does something truly remarkable. He moves into position behind the chair, unfastens his trousers and sends them to his ankles. He is wearing sparkling white boxer shorts. His fingers pinch the cloth at his hips and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them south to meet his chinos. He swallows hard and bends over.

I have never seen a man’s bare arse so close. His cheeks are smooth and as bald as his torso. His ballsack dangles and I see it too is hairless. His flesh tautens as he stretches over the leather chair. He keeps his head low and his legs apart. I feel that this is not the first time he has submitted himself for a spanking.

I had been dreaming of this moment all day. Except in my version I am paddling the seat of John’s chinos. That in itself is an erotic vision that has my cock tingling. The sight of the eighteen-year-old’s naked buttocks has me hard. I lick my dry lips, take up position a little to John’s left and gently tap-tap-tap the wood against his flesh. His cheeks clench a little. I raise my arm away and bring the paddle down with a resounding crack! I am please Mrs. Crabbe has departed for the day since surely she would have heard the noise and come running.

A dark pink imprint of the blade immediately appears across John’s bottom. It looks sore, but John makes no fuss, his face buried in a cushion. I make another mark, this time on his other buttock. The flesh wobbles. He feels that.

I put the next two swats in the underside of John’s cheeks. His knees buckle and he hangs on to the chair as the pain mounts. I admire the aesthetic effect the paddle has on his once creamy white flesh. By the time I pound home swat number five, some of the pink blotches are turning mauve. The imprint of the blade has been reproduced several times. No square inch of flesh remains untouched.

I appreciate the look of the teenager’s buttocks as increasingly they are battered, but (and I am very nervous to discover this) I also relish the fact that I am hurting him. He squirms with each successive blow and clenches his fists and shuts his teeth. Despite his best efforts he yaps like a dog when I hammer home numbers nine and ten.

I had planned to give him ten swats but I am loving this so much I whack home an additional two.

“Stand up,” I croak, as my mouth is as dry as a desert. I realise the back of my shirt is soaked. My hands are shaking.

John bounds up, his buttocks are sore and so is his cock. It points to the ceiling as he hops from foot to foot and kneads the raw flesh. I find myself staring at his dick and look away fearfully, catching John’s eyes. I think I can read his thoughts. I am on my knees sucking his hairless balls. He spreads his legs and takes hold of the back of my head, urging me on.

“Take it all,” he cries.

Then I have John’s entire shaft in my mouth and throat, squeezing my lips tightly around the base of the eighteen-year-old’s cock.

“Argh, that is so good.’’ John’s fingers dig deep into my scalp. The scratches will be sore for hours.

John gives a low groan, “I’m cumming,” he gasps. I don’t heed the warning. My head continues the  rhythmic up and down motion on John’s rock solid cock. It throbs and I feel spurt after spurt of sticky cum being pumped up his shaft into my hungry mouth.

John pulls away. I don’t see what happens next as I am lying on the floor in the foetal position choking. Should I spit or swallow? I have visions of Mrs. Crabbe’s disapproval as she inspects the stained carpet. That is a humiliation too far; I swallow.

When I look up John has his underwear and chinos back on. He picks up his jacket and without uttering a word, he leaves my study.

I do not see John for three days. The absence is agony. I crave for his body. I need to understand what is going on. He misses my next English class. Is he punishing me? I need to know.

In despair and with half a bottle of whisky inside me, once more I go to his dorm room. He is on the bed wearing the same shorts as before. He looks up from his book as I enter, his look of distain is profound. I mumble incoherently. I am more drunk than I realise. I think I say something about love, or at least lust.

He sneers. Yes, really sneers. He an eighteen-year-old student and me the headmaster of one of the most prestigious schools in the land. But, the humiliation has only just begun.

“It’s a list,” he says, trying to explain what is happening. “Things I want to do once,” he is still lying on the bed but rests on one arm. “Get sucked off by an old man.” His eyes shrug. That is all there is to it, they are saying.

Cry me a river. Tears course down my cheeks. Great sobs rage from my body. The arrogance of the beauty of youth. I stagger forward. I take him by surprise. I roll him so that he is now face down on the bed. He struggles, but even in my drunken stupor I am too strong for him. I dig my knee into his shoulders. He wriggles his hips and waist and flails his legs, but he is going nowhere. Not until I say so.

I tug at the waist of his khaki shorts. He resists but I inch them down over the mounds of his buttocks. His cheeks are bare. I see bruises from the paddling are still to heal completely. I wish I had a paddle. I don’t, so I smack the palm of my hand across his buttocks.

“Gerroff! Leave me alone!” he yells as I pound away at his backside. The flesh feels soft and warm. Soon my palm begins to tingle. It is probably hurting more than John’s rear end. I don’t care. I hate him so much. If I had a knife I would probably plunge it into his heart.

My cock is rock hard. My heart races. My temples throb. I loosen my trousers and find my dick. I climb on his back. John squeals with terror.

“Headmaster, headmaster!” Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, stands in the doorway, ashen-faced. I climb from the bed and without fastening my trousers, I push past him and stagger down the corridor, leaving John convulsing on the bed.

Picture credit: Endart

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

z used drawing athlete

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

I can remember it as if it were yesterday: 1985. I was eighteen years old. A senior sixth-former at St. Jack’s Grammar. A prefect, no less. He was Mr. Braithwaite, head of the History Department. A lay priest as well. And, Head of Discipline for the entire school.

I don’t suppose we thought much of it at the time. School was school. Nobody was supposed to enjoy it. You went to classes, kept your mouth closed (unless you were asked a direct question by a master and then woe betide you if you didn’t know the answer.) You did as you were told. And if you didn’t you got a sore arse. That just about sums up my schooldays.

Even in the sixth form. Even if you were a prefect.

Braithwaite had a collection of torture instruments. I don’t know how many whippy crook-handled canes he had. Long ones; short ones. Thick ones; thin ones. A rattan cane for every occasion. Every occasion, except for when he decided to use the leather taws. Two-tailed. Three-tailed, he had plenty of those too. Nearly two feet of heavy leather; delivered with vigour across the palm of the hands. Scorching! He always asked which hand you wrote with. Then he’d whip the other one until it was red raw.

A gym slipper – the old-fashioned plimsoll with springy rubber soles, not the trainers we have today. Sized eleven. Big. Hard. It covered the whole of one buttock cheek. Whap! Ouch! The pain was intense. Even across trousers and pants. Think how bad it was with only thin cotton gym shorts to protect you.

“Bend over. Touch your toes.” I wonder how many times Mr. Braithwaite said that in all the years he was at the school. Mister Braithwaite. Even after so long, I still can’t help thinking of him as Mister Braithwaite.

He had a special room that he used for punishment sessions. Each lunchtime and often at four-fifteen after school had ended for the day there would be two or three boys lined up outside. Trembling. Waiting for the call, “Enter.” It didn’t matter how many visits a boy made to Mr. Braithwaite, he could never get used to it. The fear. What would Mr. Braithwaite do to you today? What implement would he use? How many strokes? Dear God! Trousers up or trousers down?

Or, as with me: in your PE kit. This one time. It wasn’t the first time Mr. Braithwaite had dealt with me, and even though there were only six weeks to go before I left school forever, it wasn’t the last. But never before like this.

I hated Wednesday afternoons. Compulsory sports. Even for the sixth-formers. I was bookish, a nerd if you like, I would have been very happy to spend the afternoons in the library. Reading. Swotting up for my forthcoming English Literature exam. Doing something useful.

Instead, Trubshaw the PE master, sent us on a road run. The lazy good-for-nothing couldn’t even be bothered to organise some actual games. So, a couple of dozen eighteen year olds set off on a three-mile run around town. Trebilcock and Howerstone were the only ones to take it seriously. The rest of us ran for a while, jogged for a bit more and walked the rest. Who cared?

“Don’t care was made to care.” There’s some nursery saying like that isn’t there? I’ll Google it later to find out. Nobody had told us we were being timed. “Be back at school by three-fifty-five or you’ll cop it.” That’s what bone-idle Trubshaw should have told us. He should have; but he couldn’t be bothered.

I don’t have long to tell this story, so I’ll cut to the chase. Eight of us. Eight! One in three of the group ended up in a line outside the punishment room. With me at its head. When the punishment queue is in alphabetical order it doesn’t pay to have a name like Albertson.

Braithwaite was a rangy, thin-haired man with a buzzard’s-beak nose. He must have been still quite young at the time. Even today, after so many years, I remember those steely-blue eyes. Cold as ice. His nostrils seemed to flare when he prepared to deliver a beating.

Me? I was eighteen years old and despite my distain for physical activity, I was in pretty good shape. The beer belly and the jowls arrived during my thirties. I had a twenty-seven-inch waist and a thirty-three-inch chest. Why do I remember that?

I expected a caning. Six very hard slashes across the seat of my PE shorts. They were thin cotton and because I was growing out of them, they were a bit tight across the buttocks. We weren’t allowed to wear pants under our shorts, so six-of-the-best would take my arse off. I knew that and resolved to take my caning with fortitude. I suppose by this time in my school career I had developed a very high pain threshold.

I stood there waiting. In my white shorts and white sleeveless singlet. It was late spring or early summer, but I still shivered. The punishment room was dark and dank. There was only one small opaque window. It didn’t let much light in.

Mr. Braithwaite admonished me. His tone was imperious. You would have thought I had been caught robbing the school safe, not dawdling on a town run. He didn’t say much. He assumed, as he always did, that he was in the right. The mournful schoolboy before him was never allowed to speak in mitigation.

Then, it happened. It was so unexpected it left me speechless. Rooted to the spot.

Mr. Braithwaite opened a cupboard door and took out his size-eleven plimsoll. It was dirty white. Us boys would never have gotten away wearing these for gym class. Three whacks, touching toes, crash, crash, crash. That was the penalty for wearing unclean PE kit. Mr. Braithwaite flexed the plimsoll between both hands. I could see it was a mighty springy shoe. The sole was worn to a sheen. It had seen a lot of action and probably not all of it on the running track.

I stood transfixed as Mr. Braithwaite gripped the back of an upright wooden chair and placed it in the very centre of the room. He sat down and spread his legs wide. Then he growled at me. “Albertson, take down your shorts and bend over my knee.”

My jaw probably quite literally dropped. Had I heard him correctly? Shorts down? Bend over his knee?

I blabbered. “B… b… b…”  I wanted to say but I was wearing no pants. If I took my shorts down I would be bare arsed. Hadn’t he realized that? Surely, once he knew that he would change his mind and give me a whacking with the plimsoll on my shorts.

“It is really quite straightforward Albertson, either you take down your shorts, come here and bend across my knee, or we can visit the headmaster. What’s it to be?”

The headmaster. That was no option. I’d probably get a heck of a caning from the Beak. Then, because I refused to accept punishment, he would suspend me from school. With exams coming up I couldn’t afford to miss classes. I had ambitions. I needed those A-levels.

I stared down at Mr. Braithwaite’s legs. He had parted them so far, I had a perfect view of his crotch, encased in the cotton of his trousers. I didn’t look at his cock, I concentrated on his thighs that presented an ideal platform for me to bend over and present my bottom for punishment.

But, first I had to remove my shorts. Despite my lack of sexual experience, I had been naked in public many times before. We boys were not shy in the showers after games. Even now, I can recall the size of Thompson’s donger.

But, I had never before offered up my bared buttocks for inspection at such close quarters. Bending over to accept a caning was an act of submission; every schoolboy and schoolmaster knew that. But, the cane was delivered at arm’s length and across a clothed bottom. There was distance between the punisher and the punished. There was no intimacy involved. And none was intended. It was a business process. Something that had to be got through. Then everybody could move on with their lives.

A bare-bottomed over-the-knee spanking was something altogether different. It was something that a father might administer to a deserving son. It was intimate. It was meant to be. The father was saying, “I am doing this because I love you.”

I just knew I had to let him do it to me. I had no choice. He was the master. I was the schoolboy. Eighteen years old, maybe, but a schoolboy nonetheless.

“Quickly,” Mr. Braithwaite was anxious to get going. After all, I was only the first in a long line of sixth-formers he wanted to spank bare-bottomed that afternoon.

What happened next is as clear as a bell in my memory. I pulled down my shorts and placed myself over his knees. It was memorable as it was the first and last time I was spanked in this way. I remember I fitted quite snugly. My arms were stretched ahead of me and the palms of my hands rested comfortably against the vinyl floor covering. My head was so low I could see under the chair behind me. My white cotton shorts were bunched at my feet. My toes hardly brushed the floor.

My own cock was pressed deeply into Mr. Braithwaite’s body. I suppose I must have been quite a weight against him. Even so he pressed his left hand down hard across my shoulders, pinning me against his crotch. My buttocks must have been high above his right thigh. This would have given him a terrific view of my crack and hole.

My bum cheeks twitched in anticipation. How much would the plimsoll hurt against my bare flesh? I had been spanked previously with a similar slipper across the shorts and that had hurt like hell.

I would have to wait before I found out. Mr. Braithwaite wasn’t quite ready. I felt his hand – and it was surprisingly soft – caress my cheeks. With circular motions, he gently followed the contours of my right globe from the top near the spine, across the mound and into the under-curves. Then he travelled further south down my thigh and almost to my knee. Then he did it all over again on my left side.

Then, he spanked me. With his hand. Whack-whack-whack. He kept up quite a rhythm. First my right cheek, then my left. I gasped. It didn’t hurt, but I was taken by surprise. I had expected the searing pain as the springy rubber-soled plimsoll struck home. Instead, he was giving me love-taps.

This went on for some time. I lay face down, staring at the vinyl floor. How absurd that I still remember that a ball of fluff breezed past my nose. Mr. Braithwaite stopped his spanking. I couldn’t see for myself, but by this time my bottom would have been a rosy-pink colour.

I felt a movement in his body. He gripped hold of the slipper and brought it crashing down across the very centre of my left cheek, then the right. A dozen slaps fell rapidly, like machinegun fire. Bang. Bang. Bang.

That hurt all right. My legs kicked out behind me and my body twisted and turned across Mr. Braithwaite’s lap. More spanks rained down. The pain intensified. I had been on the receiving end of corporal punishment many times before. Mr. Braithwaite was that kind of man. It was that kind of school. But, always I had been able to control my body movements. But, not this time.

In the past I had always had something to hold on to. My shins, a chair, a desk. But, while draped over the lap of Mr. Braithwaite I just dangled: in midair. I tried to wriggle my arms to clutch hold of the chair leg, but it was out of my grasp. I swivelled my body a little and reached back behind me, intent on preventing further blows. Mr. Braithwaite was wise to this. He gripped my wrist tightly and pushed my arm up my back as far as my shoulders. I wasn’t going anywhere; Mr. Braithwaite made certain of that.

I carried on kicking and squirming as wave after wave of slipper spanks toasted my backside. Sweat soaked my white PE vest. My breath came in short bursts. My heartrate must have been off the scale.

I gritted my teeth so hard I almost bit into my tongue. On and on he went. My buttocks throbbed. I could feel bumps forming on my bum where the slipper repeatedly connected. I writhed and wriggled, like I was trying to swim away off his lap.

Then, he stopped. I shot off his lap and pulled my shorts up. I was breathless, but Mr. Braithwaite also seemed unable to draw air into his lungs. I hopped from foot to foot, desperate to rub away at my raw buttocks; but I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of knowing he had really hurt me.

“Go,” he croaked. “Send in the next boy.”

I didn’t need telling twice. I flung open the door and rushed out. “You’re next,” I nodded at Collins, the next boy in the alphabet. I didn’t hang around to wait for the others. I went to the changing rooms and inspected the damage. My bum was dark pink all over and there were small patches of purple in the very centre of the cheeks. On the outer edges were several imprints of the size-eleven slipper.

I got dressed and walked the mile or so to my home. I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs. I needed to walk off the pain. The throbbing had gone by the time I reached my house, but there were tender spots that reignited when I put pressure on them. The backs of my thighs were raw and it was pretty difficult to sit at the tea table in comfort.

Why am I telling you all this after more than thirty-five years? This morning as I travelled on the Tube from my home in Leytonstone to my work at Liverpool Street, I noticed a newspaper that had been discarded by a passenger. It was open and I saw the headline, “Sex pervert schoolmaster jailed.” One George Albert Higginbottom had been sent to prison for six years after being found guilty of “the inappropriate use of corporal punishment”. The newspaper said he had assaulted dozens of pupils that police knew of over a twenty-year period.

I read the story slowly, taking in every detail. Then, the train thundered into the station. I threw the newspaper to the ground and pushed my way through the crowds to the exit. Well, I thought to myself, I was glad I hadn’t been to that school.

 

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boy in the street

used drawing modern (8)

 

I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.

The first time was in the street near my house. He was walking toward me oblivious to the world around him. He had those things in his ears that all kids have. Did I gape open-mouthed? I rather think I might. He had an aura. I can’t explain it. His shock of uncombed hair, the regal nose. Thin lips that looked like he had been drinking raspberryade. The front of my underpants bulged.

I stared intently at the pavement as we passed. I tried hard; honestly I did. The urge to turn around to get a look at his bum consumed me. What if he caught me admiring his buttocks? How could I stand the humiliation? But I did look. What a disappointment. I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was a twenty-something boy. It’s what they are like. He wore those trousers that are so baggy you can’t see any shape inside. I don’t want lads to wear skin tight jeans or what-not; but I do enjoy seeing how round their buttocks are.

It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees, of course, and I am hammering away with my heavy bath brush. He is rocking and rolling his hips and legs but by and large he is taking it like a trooper.

I came to spanking quite late in life. I’ve always been “gay”, but in my day we never knew much about it. We just got on with life. Where I came from if a girl was still unmarried at twenty-one, she was “on the shelf”; so, we all got hitched young.

Doris was my wife for nearly forty years. She was undemanding after I gave her three girls. Is it a wicked thing to say that when she passed on I was relieved? It was as if a huge weight had been taken from me. I pretty much lived in my head until then.

I had a mild interest in corporal punishment of young men. I remember a scene from an old black-and-white film that played on TV quite often. Goodbye Mr Chips. The old doddery headmaster is in his study with a schoolboy. Ha! The actor playing the sixth-former must have been about thirty-five. Chips picks up a sturdy crook-handled cane. “Bend over that chair!” he thunders. The boy is understandably reluctant. “Bend over that chair!” he roars once more. The boy lowers himself over the arm of a large chair. The film goes to silhouette as Chips swipes six of the best across the boy’s stretched trousers.

I would lay alone on my bed replaying that scene in my head; uncertain whether I wanted to be the headmaster whipping his cane into the boy’s bottom, or to be the one on the receiving end.

After Doris left us the days seemed endless. My daughter Cathy urged me to get out and meet people. She signed me up for an evening class at the local school. Beginners DIY. Do-it-yourself home maintenance. Me? It showed how little she really knew about my interests.

I didn’t show up at class. I went to the school, just to keep her quiet, but in the hallway I saw a poster for something that genuinely, truly, changed my life. The Internet for Beginners. A class aimed at fossils like myself who didn’t know their Web from their wi-fi.

I don’t have to tell you what I found online. Jesus. If I were forty years younger! It took a while to pluck up the courage before I contacted a guy who gave corporal punishment services. For a fee, of course. He had a room at his house decked out like a headmaster’s study. It wasn’t as grand as Mr Chip’s, but it felt authentic enough. I dressed in pale-grey trousers, white shirt and striped tie. It made a very passable school uniform. There was a chair, not unlike the one in my own sitting room.

Swish! He swiped a thin curve-handled rattan cane through the air. “Bend over that chair!” he thundered. Had he developed his technique from watching Mr Chips? In time, I came to doubt it. He proved to be a very experienced “master”.

I licked my tongue across my top lip. Saliva drained from my mouth. I stared down over the back of the chair at the faded blue cushion. Savouring every moment. I had never come close to being summoned to the headmaster’s study as a child. This was unchartered territory.

“Bend over!” the headmaster tapped his cane on the apex of the chair. I drew in breath and lowered myself into position. I felt the fabric of my trousers stretch across my buttocks. I must have been an awesome target. My bum is round and meaty. I might be old, but I am not fat. I stared intently at the back of my hands as I gripped the seat cushion tightly.

He tap-tap-tapped the cane across the centre of my buttocks, then withdrew it. I tensed. Crack! The cane landed squarely across my cheeks. Nothing happened for a second or two and then an intense shockwave roared across my bum. My first stroke of the cane. I was on my way.

Back home, I took to skulking close to my sitting room window hoping to catch sight of the boy. I didn’t know if he lived in The Avenue. It is long and full of upscale houses, many of them hidden behind walls and fences, so it is not easy to know your neighbours. Several days passed and sadly I concluded he must have been a visitor. Somebody’s nephew, perhaps. Or a boyfriend.

I had given up hope of ever seeing him again when one afternoon I was shuffling down the street in search of an evening newspaper and there he was. My cock flipped. He was wearing a military camouflage tee-shirt and this time his chino trousers fitted snugly. He carried across his shoulder a bag that looked light and almost empty. He smiled nonchalantly as he passed and nodded a greeting. My heart skipped. He had noticed me. The boy knew I existed. I stopped dead and careless as to who might see, I turned to admire his buttocks as they sashayed down the street.

All thoughts of evening papers abandoned, I let him get fifty or so yards ahead of me and I followed. He turned a bend in the road and crossed over and pushed open the gate of one of the smaller houses. I stood maybe ten yards away. I have no idea if there were others in the street, I only had eyes for the boy. He hopped from one foot to another as if he were desperate to go to the toilet. Suddenly the door flew open and a youngster about the same age as the boy stepped out. He wrapped his arm around the back of the boy’s head and pulled him toward him. They kissed unselfconsciously. It was real snogging. Then the youngster dragged him into the house, slamming the door shut.

I put my head down and as far as a man in my condition could, I ran back towards my house. My fury could not be controlled. That boy; my boy. Even now, as I hurried home, I knew they would be having wild passionate sex. On the sitting room carpet quite likely.

At home, I headed straight to the cocktail cabinet. Drat! I was out of tonic. My hands could not stop shaking as I splashed gin into a tumbler. Urggh! It tasted foul. Too strong. My head buzzed. My rage subsided. I stood by the window looking into the empty street. Then, I had an epiphany. It wasn’t rage I felt. It was envy. Envy that my boy was now enjoying unrestrained sex with an equally beautiful guy. And envy too, of all the boys their age and the freedom they enjoyed to be themselves. My own barren life, fifty-something wasted years, disgusted me.

It might have been the gin. God knows it might have been hormones or something, I don’t know. I rushed from the house and trundled down the street. I had to see my boy again. The house seemed quiet when I arrived. They were probably rolling around on the bed, I thought. Indifferent for who might see me, I crossed the small, neat lawn and tip-toed toward the window of what I supposed to be a living room. The curtain was open. I could see inside, but equally anyone in the room would be able to see me. I would take the risk.

Risk-takers are the ones who reap the rewards. My boy was completely naked, lying prone across the knees of the other boy. The other boy made small circular motions with the palm of his hand, patting each buttock in turn and caressing the backs of his thighs. Then, having taken his measure, he smacked the open palm of his hand again and again into the firm bum. From my vantage point and with my imperfect eyesight it seemed my boy was completely hairless. He would have had to shave to achieve such smoothness.

My boy’s face shone serenely. The other boy was just as calm. He smacked my boy a dozen or so times; you couldn’t call them “spanks”, there was no intent to cause harm. Then he stopped and fondled him some more. This time he stroked the naked back and shoulders before inserting his fingers under my boy’s body and twitching his nipples. I could hear the gasp of ecstasy.

The other boy ruffled my boy’s hair some and then returned his attention to his cute, pert bum. I stood; back arched, hands on my knees and breathless for some time. They were so engrossed in their sex play they would never notice me. Who knows how much time elapsed? Eventually, the other boy whispered a love call. My boy pulled himself from the lap, at first resting on his knees and then stretching himself to his feet. His rock-solid uncut cock pointed towards his young lover.

The other boy rose from his chair and sank to his knees. Inside a second he had the throbbing muscle between his lips. His tongue darted up and down along my boy’s shaft. I thought my boy’s eyes would pop. Instead, he leaned forward and gripped the other boy’s dick. It was as rigid as my boy’s. A thick vein crossed the entire length of the cut member. The cock shuddered as soon as my boy’s fingers made contact. Any moment now, he would shoot a load.

“May I help you?” The voice came from a million miles away. “I said, can I help you?” It had a dreamlike quality.

I turned my head slightly. A man in a business suit, with a laptop bag across his back, approached me across the lawn.

“I say are you alright?”

I sank to my knees, rolled over onto my side and bawled like a baby.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The bully

Burley the sixth-former towered over the cowering junior, a cricket stump raised at shoulder height. “Lick ’em; lick ’em clean,” he sneered. The small, trembling boy knelt forward. Tears welled as he poked out his tongue and started to wash the bully’s shoes.

“You have got to do something about Burley. The way he treats the fags is disgraceful.” Carstairs leaned forward in his chair, “You should take him to task.”

Alsop sighed. His chum was right of course. But what could he do?

“He is giving us all a bad name. He’s nothing short of a bully,” Carstairs was not about to let the School Captain off the hook.

“And what do you propose I do?” Alsop’s face flushed.

“Beat him. Six. That’ll soon put a stop to it.”

Alsop stared across the study. His crook-handled ashplant cane hung from a hook on the far wall. “How can I do that, man? He’s a sixth-former. The Sixth can’t be caned.”

“Nonsense,” Carstairs sneered. “The Sixth don’t get caned. It doesn’t mean they can’t.” He pulled himself out of his armchair and stood over the School Captain. “If it were a junior doing the bullying, you’d soon have him bent over that chair.”

“Well …” Alsop seemed to be thinking about it. Burley certainly deserved a whopping. “But he’d never stand for it,” his face brightened. “Or should I say bend for it.” He laughed at his own poor joke.

“I’d wager any number of the fags would hold him down while you laid the ashplant across his arse.”

Carstairs was probably right, Alsop concede silently. But, it was pie in the sky. It would never happen.

Burley strode the passageway toward dormitory two. The juniors were preparing for bed. He could always catch someone out. He paused at the door and peered through the window. Good, he smiled to himself, one boy was out of bed. He’d soon cop it.

Burley knew sixth-formers were not allowed to beat the juniors. The juniors knew it also. Only the prefects could. That didn’t stop Charles Alfred Burley. Every evening without fail he managed to get one poor boy or the other across his knee. Pyjamas down.

“He’s spanking the juniors,” Carstairs was back in Alsop’s study. “Over his knee. Trousers down.”

Alsop furrowed his brow. “His trousers?”

Carstairs giggled, “No you ass. The poor junior.” He crinkled his nose as if suddenly a bad smell had wafted in the room. “It’s immoral. You know it is.”

It turned Alsop’s stomach. A bully was bad enough, but a bully with a fetish was too much.

He ran his hand through his thick wavy hair. “Would Burley take it? If I ordered him to take a punishment, would he?”

Carstairs face lightened. At last, the bully would get his comeuppance. “He’d jolly well have to. Any boy who refuses a whopping from a prefect would have to go to the head. It’d be a public flogging, for sure. The sack, even. Even if he were a senior boy.”

Alsop supposed it were true. No boy had ever refused a prefect’s caning, as far as he knew. But, then no eighteen-year-old had been ordered to bend over for Six, either.

Burley lounged back in the armchair in the School Captain’s study while Alsop jawed him. He wasn’t about to stand on the carpet, hands behind back, head bowed, like some junior while Alsop berated him. Alsop gave it all to him. Both barrels. The Bulley’s cold grey eyes bore into his accuser. Such hatred.

At last the School Captain had finished. He ran his hand through his hair and waited. Waited for Burley to respond. He scowled, “What do you want to do? Cane me? You know you can’t cane a sixth-form man.”

“Not so.” He interlocked his fingers. He looked down at the carpet, avoiding Burley’s stare. “The headmaster supports my actions.” It was a lie the Beak knew nothing about it. Burley’s grey eyes shone. He narrowed them, preparing to offer a retort. His smart mouth let him down. Silence engulfed the room.

At last Alsop broke it. “I want you to stand up.” He stood and waited for Burley to do the same. He did not. His puzzlement was writ large on his round open face.

Alsop was surprised his hands were shaking. He grasped them behind his back. He took a deep breath. “Stand up please,” he said with over-stressed politeness. “Or shall we visit the headmaster?”

Burley blew out his cheeks and hauled himself to his feet. He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. He hoped it was a stance of defiance. He eyed the whippy ashplant dangling from its hook.

“I rather thought not.” Alsop paced the study, but he did not reach for the cane. Instead, he gripped the handle of the door and opened it. “Follow me,” he ordered, looking back over his shoulder.

“Where we going?” Burley growled.

“You’ll find out soon enough.”

The School Captain led the way down the dimly lit passageway. Burley shuffled two paces behind him. Where were they going? If Alsop was going to whop him, why hadn’t he done so in the study? What was he going to do? He had left his cane behind.

Alsop halted at the top of the large spiral staircase. It was the central thoroughfare of the school. Every boy and master passed through it several times during the day. It was as busy as any provincial railway station.

“Wait here.” Alsop had a plan. He had discussed it with Carstairs. His chum thought it an excellent idea. It would be historic. Boys will talk about it for generations to come, he had said.

Six junior boys heading off to the football pitch, halted. Something was up, they sensed it. But what, they didn’t yet know.

Alsop pointed to a large wooden bench. “I want you to bend over.”

“War …?” Burley took his hands from his pocket and stood to his full six-feet-one-inch. He pushed back his shoulders. He all but clenched his fist, ready to punch the School Captain on the nose.

“I want you to place your hands on the seat and stick your backside out. I’m going to spank you.”

“No you’re jolly well not!” Burley roared, his face colouring with anger. He turned his back and made to leave.

“Or would you have me take you to the junior study and put you across my knee and spank you on your bare bottom?” He glared at the bully. “Just as you do each night in the dorms?”

Burley felt his heart beat faster. He wasn’t usually a nervous boy. He was big and strong and always got his way.

Not now. “Bend over, I said.” Alsop grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him so he faced the bench. Then, he pushed him forward. Taken by surprise, Burley slipped and fell so that his stomach rested on the wooden bench. Alsop took advantage of his position and pressed his hand into the boy’s back. For some moments he was pinned; helpless.

Alsop rained down slaps into the bully’s backside. Burley wriggled and cursed. In equal measure. A crowd of boys gathered on the stairs. What a lark. Burley the bully being spanked on his bottom by the School Captain. “What ho! Alsop!” they cried.

Alsop couldn’t keep it up. Spanking with one hand and holding his victim still with the other was a near impossible feat. Burley broke free and red-faced with humiliation, he pushed his way through the throng.

That evening Burley sat in a poorly-lit corner of the public bar at the Three Fishers Hotel. His companion fidgeted with the cuffs of his heavy woollen coat.

“Tomorrow at midday, I’ll give you a signal. Then you do the deed,” Burley’s grey stared burned into the man.

“Yussir!” The man gulped down beer.

Burley walked from the bar, leaving five shillings on the table.

Next day at noon in the village Burley strode across the green in search of Alsop.

“Alsop old man,” Burley held out his hand. “No hard feelings about yesterday, what-ho.” He shook the hand of the School Captain heartily and darted on his way, leaving Alsop both startled and puzzled.

Five minutes later a sock full of stones crashed into his face, breaking his nose and three teeth.

z used Sixth former gives another a spanking Mag

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com