Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

“Go to the garage, there you will find some canes, select one and fetch it back here.”

I must have looked dumbfounded, or at least confused, because he repeated the instruction; but more slowly this time.

“Go. Fetch. A. Cane.”

Then he added, “I’m going to give you an old-fashioned English six-of-the-best.”

My name’s Alain and I’m from France, near Paris. At the time I was a nineteen-year-old French student at one of the many language schools in a town on the English south coast.

I was staying with the Martins while I was learning English at the school. The idea was that as well as studying at the school you stayed with a family and improved your conversational English.

The school also said you would learn a lot about English ‘culture.’ But, I don’ think this was the kind of ‘culture’ the school had in mind.

Corporal punishment: wasn’t this what they called the “Vice Anglais”? Or was that homosexuality?

My English wasn’t so bad and I did understand what he had said. I mean I understood what the words meant. But, I didn’t understand entirely: surely he wasn’t going to beat me with a cane?

I left the room and exited the house through a side door. It was a large house with many bedrooms, standing in its own grounds. The garage which was big enough to accommodate at least two large cars was about fifteen metres from the house.

The Martin family seemed very wealthy, so I don’t know why they took in foreign students as lodgers; they certainly didn’t seem to need the money.

I got to the garage. I looked around and spotted a stack of flowerpots. Right close to them were several cane sticks, the kind that you would use to support young plants as they grow. I picked one up in my hands. It was about a metre long and very rigid. I tried to bend it, but it was impossible. I tried one or two others, but they were all the same.

Mr Martin had instructed me to choose one, so I did and made my way back to the house.

I went into the lounge room and handed the stick to Mr Martin who had been waiting impatiently for my return.

“What the Hell’s this?” he snatched the cane from me. ‘That’s not what I sent you for.”

Now, I really was confused. Hadn’t he said “cane”? Yes, he had. He said a cane so he could give me six-of-the-best. If he hadn’t said that what had he said?

“You bloody idiot!” He was going a shade of purple now. I think he was losing his temper.

“Come here!” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed me by the left ear, pulling me out of the room and towards the garage.

He moved at some pace and I was losing my footing as he dragged me across the gravel forecourt and into the garage. I protested all the way that I had done what he had instructed me: I’d fetched a cane.

“There, you fool. I said fetch a cane.” He pointed to the far wall of the garage.

Heck! How had I not noticed? You couldn’t miss them.

There hanging on separate hooks were six canes. I knew right away there was only one purpose you could put these things to – and it had nothing to do with gardening.

Each cane was hanging by its curved handle. In France they don’t use canes for punishing naughty boys, but I recognised what these were immediately. I’d seen pictures of them in dirty magazines you could buy in town. Some of the boys at school had bought some and we roared with laughter when we saw pictures of men dressed as ‘headmasters’ thrashing the bare bottoms of young (and some not so young) women dressed as schoolgirls.

Still holding me by my ear, Mr Martin marched me through the garage to the wall. Close up I could see that each of the canes was slightly different from all of the others. Some were longer or thicker or slightly darker in colour to the others.

Mr Martin let go of my ear and reached out and took one of the canes from its hook.

He swished it once or twice menacingly in front of me.

“Is this the one you want?”

He put it back on the hook and selected another, also swishing that to test its flexibility.

“Or this one?”

I didn’t know what I was expected to say, so said nothing.

“What’s the matter? The cat got your tongue?”

I must have looked completely bemused.

“That’s what we call an English idiom.”

Mr Martin was getting angrier by the second.

“OK, let me choose.” He looked along the row of canes and took, what seemed to me, a medium-sized stick – neither too thick, not too thin.

“Let’s try this.” Mr Martin said, swishing it three times.

My eyes were transfixed on the cane as he raised it way above his shoulder and swished it down with some force through the air.

“Yes, this is a beauty. You’ll certainly remember this one for a long time to come.”

With that he gripped my ear once again and we retraced our steps back to the lounge where I was to be caned like a naughty schoolboy.

“Stand there and face me.” He pointed to a spot on a rug in front of the fireplace.

I did as I was told. With my back to the fireplace I could see the whole room. It was huge; I’d seen whole apartments in France smaller than this one room.  At the far end was an expensive dining room table big enough to accommodate ten chairs. To my left were three massive padded armchairs and on the right a huge padded couch.

Mr Martin stood in front on me gripping the cane just below the handle. I tried not to look at it. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

I was completely overawed by Mr Martin. He had what they call ‘presence.’ He was probably six feet tall and well built. He must have been close to 50 years old, so was going to seed a little bit. His hair was thinning and going grey and there was thickening around the waist. But when he was in a room you noticed him.

I felt dominated by him. I’m not a tiny fellow myself. I’m probably a couple of inches shorter than Mr Martin, but I’m solidly built. If you wanted to make fun of me you might say I was the shape of an oblong. My shoulders and hips are roughly the same size and my beefy buttocks added to the illusion that I my body had no curves. But, I’m not fat, it’s all meat.

Add to that a round head and two sturdy legs and that’s me.

Mr Martin swished his cane idly as he spoke. “What have I told you about curfew?”

To cut a long story short Mr Martin was annoyed that I had been staying out late, sometimes not getting back until gone 2am.

The town had lots of language schools so during the summer months there were thousands of young people. That meant lots of bars and clubs were available to us. And, clubs and bars meant girls.

Nobody (except perhaps Mr Martin) was complaining about this. The English girls loved the foreign students and we were happy with that. Unfortunately I didn’t get much action; they preferred the Latin types, with the snake-hips and the lovely little derrieres.

Mr Martin had complained to me at least three times before about getting home late. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. I had my own key and when I came in I was always quiet so as not to disturb anyone.

But, Mr Martin didn’t see it that way. He imposed a curfew: home by 11pm on school nights and midnight on Fridays and Saturdays.

I did try to stick to the rules, but I suppose the temptation of the bars and the girls was too much for me. Last night I had left the house at 8.30pm and hadn’t returned until nearly three.

And Mr Martin was having no more of it.

He started lecturing me about the need for discipline, but I couldn’t take it in. I had no real idea what he was talking about. It was as if I wasn’t even there.

He said something about self-discipline and if you couldn’t do that someone else would have to do it for you.

It was then he swished that cane again and pointed to the couch.

“I want you to stand by the couch.” I walked across the lounge and stood in front of the couch, just as you would if you were about to sit down.

“No, Idiot! That’s not how you do it.”

He grabbed me by the ear once again and dragged me to the side of the couch making me face one of the arms.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

Could I have made a break for it and ran out of the house? Looking back, maybe I could have. No, maybe I should have, but I promise you I was utterly unable to fathom what was going on. It could just have easily have been someone else there instead of me that afternoon

Thwack!! He swished the cane bringing it down full force on the padded back of the couch. The noise was so loud surely Mr Martin’s neighbours would have heard it and wondered what was going on.

“I said bend over!” He put his hand on the back of my neck and pushed me and I fell forward across the arm of the chair. I could smell the leather as he pushed my face into the cushion and ordered me to stay still.

I didn’t know it but Mr Martin took some time to take in the view. What he saw was a beefy nineteen-year-old bent across the arm of the chair. My bottom was high over the arm and my knees were bent in slightly towards the couch, affording him a perfect target of my ample backside for the swing of his cane.

I was wearing very short shorts and as I bent across the arm the cotton stretched so tight Mr Martin got a perfect view of the outline of my underpants beneath. It was a hot day but I could feel a breeze across my naked legs.

And, then he thrashed me. I heard the swish and heard the cane land moments before I felt the actual pain. How do I describe it? You could say it was like having a white-hot poker placed on your bum, but I’ve never had that happen so I don’ know.

I do know that he put tremendous force into each stroke. After the second one hit I threw my head back to scream out, but Mr Martin pushed my face back down into the cushion. I could taste the leather.

“Do that again and I’ll take your shorts down and we’ll start all over again!”

I believed him. Cut three hit me somewhere below the other two and I had no control: my body wriggled from left to right across the arm, but I stayed down. I could feel welts forming across my bum and the tightness of my shorts and pants across my stretched buttocks increased the sensation.

Stroke number four was higher at the top of the buttocks and somehow didn’t seem to hurt quite so much.

Five and six came immediately one after the other. I was howling, sweat ran down my back but it was my shirt front that was soaked. Then I realised I had been bawling my eyes out and tears were everywhere.

My six-of-the-best were over, but my ordeal wasn’t. Mr Martin threw his cane down to the floor and began raining hand spanks across my bottom. He was out of control, slapping at great speed and with so much force that each time his palm connected with my bum it set the thick welts on fire.

I tried to get up, but Mr Martin used his left hand to hold me firmly over the arm of the couch, while with his right he continued to crash into my bottom.

I don’t know how long he continued with the hand spanks. I didn’t pass out, but I did lose all sense of time and place.

Eventually, he let me up and with no ceremony I rushed out of the room and taking the stairs two at a time dashed to my room and threw myself on my bed, sobbing out of control.

A few weeks later, when I was making my statement to the police, I said I couldn’t explain why I had let him beat me. I was just very confused, I said.

It seems Mr Martin did this to all his lodgers. One of the students he spanked last year mentioned it to his dad when he got home (it just came out naturally in a conversation, it wasn’t meant as a complaint) and the police were called in.

Mr Martin appears in court next week. They say he could do jail time.

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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

The First Day of Term

z used adult schoolboy shorts cane desk (35)

Andrew picked up his short trousers from the shelf in the changing room. They were properly short shorts, the kind that just about covered his underpants with at best only two inches of leg.

They were grey flannel and immaculately laundered and pressed so that he could have cut his finger on the crease down the front if he had a mind to. School was starting again and here in front of him was the school uniform he loved to wear.

Matron was very fussy and had laid out his togs with orderly care. Everything was prepared to perfection. He was late for class and he knew he would draw the fury of Dr Bulstrode, the form master, when he eventually put in his appearance in the schoolroom, but he did not care, he wanted to savour every moment of his transformation to prep school boy at Lyncroft Court.

Carefully he scanned the room to make sure nobody could see him. Then, confident his nudity would remain undetected, he quickly stripped off down to his birthday suit.

Then, he picked up the gleaming white Aertex white briefs with interlocking fronts and wide elasticated waist band. He stepped into them, noticing at once how the thickness of the material clung to his buttocks. He wriggled a little to ease them on comfortably. It was still early in the morning and the temperature was cold, it might warm a little later, but this was the end of winter and he did not expect it to get much warmer all day.

Next, he pulled the Invicta singlet over his head; the snugness of the cotton against his flesh defined his body. In the correct fashion, he tucked the singlet into the waistband of his underpants. He wished there was a mirror close by so he could admire himself. He loved to be in traditional vest and pants but it was only at Lyncroft Court that he had the opportunity; even his mother would consider them to be a bit old fashioned.

Andrew reached over to the shelf once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. Matron was so very good to the boys. The shirt was ironed to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar. The creases down the sleeves might have been even sharper than those in his short trousers.

He buttoned the shirt and found his school tie. It was of light blue and dark blue diagonal stripes, the Lyncroft Court colours. Without a mirror, Andrew had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Bulstrode. He could swear his fingers were turning blue with the cold as they struggled to make the required ‘windsor knot.’ Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

The doctor was a stickler for the uniform and constantly berated the boys. He insisted they be proud of the school and that meant their uniform had to be perfect. He punished all uniform infringements and sometimes the punishment was severe.

The tie eventually tied, he hoped to the doctor’s satisfaction, Andrew fingered the short trousers. A shiver ran through his body, but it was not the cold weather. He unfastened the button at the waist, and the three on the fly, opened the top of the trousers and stepped in. Within seconds he had pulled them up and was tucking in the shirt and vest. The short trousers were especially tailored and fitted him snuggly. Even though it was unnecessary, he took down the elasticated snake-belt that Matron had left on a hook and threaded it through the belt loops.

He so wanted there to be a mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, but the light was not good enough. Disappointed, he sat on a rickety wooden chair to pull up his woollen stockings. They were so very long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and trousers. This would be ideal protection from the cold on a winter’s day such as this, but that was not how the boys wore their uniform. Andrew folded over the dark and light blue tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees. He flinched slightly as he accidentally touched a cut he had made earlier shaving.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up Clarke’s shoes. Now, he was almost ready: only two more items to put on and he would be fully dressed. The school blazer was draped over a heavy wooden coat-hanger. Andrew caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb; Lyncroft Court had done a magnificent job once again. Lovingly, he picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. ‘Beautiful,’ he didn’t say the word aloud since there was nobody there to hear, but ‘beautiful’ it was. The light-and-dark blue-striped blazer had been made especially for him and fitted, if one is allowed to use an awkward simile, ‘like a glove.’ He stood to attention, once again trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the window and once again to his intense disappointment, he failed.

Finally, he took hold of the blue quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head. It completely covered his recently cut short-back-and-sides haircut, as it was intended to.

Andrew was ready to go to the schoolroom. Only, now in his delightful school uniform, did he remember that he was at least ten minutes late for class and he should expect anger (and possibly much more besides) from Dr Bulstrode.

The schoolroom was situated one floor below where Andrew now stood, so it was a matter of seconds before he found himself outside, wondering how he should proceed. Through the door’s window pane, he could see Dr Bulstrode in full flight, lecturing the five pupils in the schoolroom. Should he wait for the doctor to finish; or should he enter now; or should he knock on the door first and see what transpired?

The idea of the knock won. Rat-a-tat-tat! Andrew always had a heavy knock. Nobody could ever say they had not answered his call because they had not heard it.

Dr Bulstrode certainly heard the knock. He stopped in mid-sentence and positively growled. ‘Come in! Who is it?’ He knew of course who it was. Andrew’s absence had been noticed immediately form-room registration had been taken. When interrogated, none of the other boys professed to know Andrew’s whereabouts (Dr Bulstrode doubted the truthfulness of this, but what could he prove?).  Lowther would turn up eventually, the doctor supposed, and when he did he would give him what for.

Six pairs of eyes turned on the door as slowly it eased open and Andrew’s school cap appeared, followed shortly by his head and then the rest of his body.

‘Don’t dawdle boy,’ Dr Bulstrode thundered, ‘Come in at once!’

Sheepishly, Andrew walked a few steps into the schoolroom and then paused, not sure what to do next. The five boys had a jolly good idea what would happen next and perked up at the prospect of the entertainment to come.

Dr Bulstrode was a tall man in his fifties. He had once been a sportsman; it was rumoured he had played rugby for England Juniors, a long time ago in his youth. Now, he was losing his shape, and a small paunch at his belly was developing into a gut. He was dressed in the traditional schoolmaster’s gown and even inside the schoolroom he donned a mortar-board cap, under which untidy grey hairs emerged. His eyes were very searching and he had a jaw like a steel trap. His nose upon which he perched prinz nez spectacles was shaped like an eagle’s beak.

“The first thing you can do is to close the door behind you!” Dr Bulstrode said everything at the highest possible volume. He had practised for many years a character that could bring even the most rebellious schoolroom full of boys to heel. When the doctor spoke he was listened to.

Now, crimson from ear to ear, Andrew turned on his heels, and closed the door.

“Stand there Lowther!” Dr Bulstrode pointed to a spot in front of his desk. Andrew stood and surveyed the schoolroom. It had not changed since last term, and he had not expected it to. There were the same low wooden desks with sloping tops, some were paired and others stood singularly on their own. Each desk had an inkwell and a groove where the boy kept his nibbed pen. The schoolroom was decorated with a map of the world (most of the countries coloured pink), a large clock and several pictures of groups of schoolboys, all formally staring straight ahead.

To Andrew’s left was the schoolmaster’s desk, a cupboard for books and a blackboard and easel. And hanging from the easel on clear display was a crook-handled swishy cane.

Andrew had seen that cane many times before, but his heart still beat a little faster now. There was a very real prospect that it would be connecting with his stretched backside at any moment.

“Late again Lowther! I thought we had dealt with your time-keeping problem last term! Face the wall! Place your hands on your head! I shall deal with you later!”

With the sniggers of the others boys clearly audible, Andrew moved and stood facing the map with his nose almost touching Canada.

Behind him Dr Bulstrode was in full stride. In fact, Dr Bulstrode was no more a ‘doctor’ than Andrew’s Aunt Fanny; it just added to the supposed authenticity of Lyncroft Court to give him such a title. Nobody questioned his academic credentials and why would they? It was universally acknowledged by those who paid the school fees that he gave ‘satisfaction.’

Dr Bulstrode lectured his charges about the rules of the school. Andrew had noticed that everyone in the group except one were new boys. The one boy he knew from last term was called Harry Wharton (at least at the school) and he had developed a reputation as a ‘prankster.’ He had received lots of corporal punishment for his troubles, but it did not seem to do him much good. He should be good fun, Andrew hoped.

Dr Bulstrode was extremely agitated about his rules and the consequences for any boy who deliberately broke them. He reached a climax when he spoke of “contraband.”

“No boy is to bring contraband onto the school premises,” he shrieked. “And any boy found with contraband will suffer the severest punishment! Do I make myself clear?”

He was met with silence. In part because the boys were stunned by the ferocity of his oration, but also because they were unsure what he meant by “contraband.”

Andrew, who had heard it all last term, and had suffered the direst consequences for breaking rules, knew the doctor mostly meant cigarettes and sweets. The punishment would be severe: the only matter in question would be whether the boy’s short trousers would be snugly fitted across the buttocks as he bent over or down at his ankles.

The doctor’s lecture now completed, he turned his attention to Andrew. “Turn around Lowther, face me!”

Andrew turned on his heels, still with his hands firmly on the top of his blue-quartered school cap.

“Late again, I think you know by now that I will not stand for this kind of behaviour!” Dr Bulstrode strode to the blackboard as he was speaking and reached up for the whippy rattan cane. Behind him, five boys sat up to attention.

“Bend over that desk, Lowther!” The doctor pointed to one of the single-seat wooden desks. It had been left unoccupied at the front of the schoolroom, especially to be used for such contingencies.

“But it wasn’t my fault, Sir,” Andrew started, with no expectation of winning this argument.

“Bend over that desk!” Dr Bulstrode’s impatience was clear for all to see.

“But, it wasn’t my fault the train was late.” And, then just in time he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

The doctor swished the cane fiercely. If Andrew did not obey his order immediately the consequences could be insufferable.

Swish! “Bend over!” Swish! Swish!

“But it wasn’t my fault, Sir,” Andrew continued to protest, even as he stepped forward and lent over the desk. The desk sloped forward and was the correct height and shape to take a boy’s body so that his bottom was raised at a perfect position to receive a whopping. Andrew clutched tightly onto two wooden legs and felt his Aertex briefs ride up his buttocks. He remembered how thick the material was, but he knew from painful experience the pants would be no protection from the caning he was about to get.

All the boys had a perfect view of Andrew’s bottom and legs as he stretched across the wooden desk awaiting the onslaught on his bum. No doubt, the positioning was deliberate. Dr Bulstrode liked his boys to witness corporal punishment sessions. It was a notice of what would certainly happen to them if they decided to step out of line.

He might have intended it as a deterrent, but boys can be evil creatures and at this moment they were more excited about seeing their fellow pupil thrashed than for the future safety of their own backsides.

The doctor took hold of Andrew’s blazer and moved it away from the target area. Then, he ceremonially pulled first the boy’s shirt and then his vest out from the waistband of his grey short trousers. Finally, he tugged the top of the trousers so that they fitted snuggly against the boy’s buttocks. When he could clearly see the outline of Andrew’s underwear under the material of the shorts, he was ready to go.

He swished six cuts into the boy’s buttocks, one whop after the other with no pause. As school canings went it was not a severe thrashing. It was delivered with enough force to make Andrew gasp a little after each stroke and to leave a tingle in his buttocks, but when Andrew was allowed to stand up his face was redder from the embarrassment of the public chastisement than his buttock cheeks must have been from the caning itself.

“Take your seat, Lowther and next time get an earlier train,” Bulstrode barked, unable to disguise a slight smile.

The distraction of Andrew’s caning over, the boys quickly settled down for the first lesson of the day: Sums.

“Boys!” Bulstrode intoned, “I trust you have all done your prep and you are ready for the test I am about to deliver.”

Some of the boys actually groaned aloud at these words, while others silently grumbled. None of the six boys looked forward to this. They had been instructed to prep for this test and, because the good doctor considered that eight-year-old boys at a Council school should pass it with flying colours, his own pupils were expected to obtain maximum marks.

“Any boy who fails to get at least seven out of ten in this test, will feel my leather taws across the palms of his hands!”

The news did not come as a surprise; they had been warned beforehand. Dr Bulstrode was quite right about the simplicity of the task he had set the boys: any boy who failed only had himself to blame.

The test papers duly distributed, Bulstrode gave instructions to. “turn the page over and begin.”

Andrew did so and picked up his pencil and began. The boy was a whiz at long division and multiplication, and he knew it. His pencil flew across the paper as he filled in the answers. He stopped for a second when confronted by “vulgar fractions.” Ah, vulgar fractions, how rude. He chortled to himself at the little joke.

“Is something amusing you, Lowther!” Bulstrode’s beaky eye had caught him. Andrew flushed a little and stared down at this test paper.

Within minutes Andrew had completed the test. In triumph, for he was certain none of the others in the class would have finished so soon, he plonked his pencil down on the desk and sat back in his uncomfortable wooden chair.

He glanced around the room. The intensity of concentration on the faces of the boys amused him: surely they weren’t struggling with this silly test. One boy chewed on his pencil thoughtfully, but the taste of the wood and graphite did nothing for his memory; he still did not know how to multiply fractions.

The test was over; papers collected and in no time at all Bulstrode had marked them. “Lowther, come here, distribute the papers!” Andrew rose from his desk and took the sheaf from the schoolmaster’s hand. As he handed them back to each boy, he sneaked a look at the marks: nobody had scored more than himself.

But, oh dear! one boy was for it. Five out of ten. Only five out of ten, Andrew thought scornfully, he deserves all he gets.

“Wharton, stand up! Come out to the front!” The boy was expecting this. He made no protest as he climbed out of his desk, barking his shin as he did so.

“Stand there boy. Face the class!” Bulstrode ordered as he opened his desk drawer and took out a two-tailed leather taws.

Most of the boys had never seen such an instrument before. It was made of heavy tanned leather with each tail about nine inches long and less than an inch wide. Bulstrode held it by a short wooden handle and tapped the business end against his thigh as he berated Wharton.

“You are a lazy boy, Wharton, what are you!”

The boy agreed that he was indeed a lazy boy.

“And you are very, very stupid! What are you boy!” One boy Andrew could not see towards the back of the schoolroom, suppressed a giggle. Yes, Andrew agreed silently, old Bulstrode was laying it on a bit thick.

Again, Wharton was forced to say he agreed with his master’s assessment, but he did not really agree. He was not stupid, just lazy. He had not prepared for the test and had failed it. It was his own fault that he found himself in this predicament.

Bulstrode instructed Wharton to hold out his right hand. Reluctantly, the boy did as he was told, unsure that he would be able to keep his hand in place for the beating he deserved. He had never received corporal punishment on the hand before. He had been spanked, slippered and caned many times before; but all his punishments had been delivered to his bottom. Getting it on the bum was easy; all a boy had to do was bend over in the required position (over the knee, chair, desk or what not) and let his tormentor get on with it. If the pain was too great the boy could cling on tightly until it was all over.

Getting it on the hand was altogether a different experience. A boy had to face the schoolmaster eye-to-eye and he was obliged to look on as the punisher brought down the strap or cane into his outstretched palm. The temptation to withdraw the hand at the last moment to avoid the agony of the lash would be difficult for Wharton to resist.

“Put your left hand underneath your right hand!”

Wharton’s hands trembled as he raised them into position.

Bulstrode lifted the strap straight up and behind his shoulder. Wharton screwed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to see it.

“You shall receive two licks, one on each hand!” And with sentence pronounced, the schoolmaster smacked the taws so that it landed squarely on Wharton’s palm and fingers. He let out a yelp and bounced around a bit but stayed in position. Then, Bulstrode made him switch hands and followed with another equally hard whack.

Wharton’s hand was crimson and burning. Bulstrode never did a thing by halves. If punishment was earned it was given, as Wharton and the other pupils found that out many, many times.

By the time Bulstrode had finished, Wharton was rubbing his hands up and down against his outer thighs but it was of little comfort.

The schoolmaster returned the leather taws to the desk and moved to a cupboard from which he removed a cardboard hat in the shape of a cone. Across the front in tidy black letters was the word ‘DUNCE.’

A wave of giggles travelled around the schoolroom: the boys had never seen anything quite like this before.

Dr Bulstrode, evidently pleased with the response, handed the Dunce’s cap to Wharton.

“Take this and stand in the corner and stay there until play time! If you are going to behave like a dunce in my class, you might as well be treated like one.”

Miserably, the boy stood in the corner, still evidently in much pain from his leathering.

The cold sleet lashed against the schoolroom window; another winter’s day had set in. Even hardy schoolboys could not be expected to play out in such conditions, so Bulstrode declared a ‘wet play time.’

This meant the boys could go to the junior common room for play time. Andrew was delighted; it meant he could read comics. But, first he had to endure the free school milk. This was a ritual in schools across the nation. Every morning junior-school children were forced to drink a small bottle of milk. Joe Lane was that day’s milk monitor and he took his duties very seriously indeed. He had been allowed to carry the tiny knife that was needed to slice a hole in the metal top of the bottle so a drinking straw could be poked through. Lane was so proud of the responsibility he had been given.

With no grace at all, Andrew accepted the proffered bottle of milk and dramatically holding his nose to show his distain, he sucked up the whole third of a pint of milk in two almighty gulps. Yuck! He cried loudly and went off in search of his favourite comic.

….

Playtime was soon over but Bulstrode was nowhere to be seen and the schoolroom was getting restless. Any schoolmaster knows that you cannot leave a group of boys with the presumed age of eight alone; they cannot resist getting into mischief. So it was that morning. No one boy started it; there were no ring-leaders, but within minutes chaos ensued. Alfie Cook tore a sheet of paper from his exercise book, scrunched it up into a tight ball and using his wooden ruler flicked it across the desk. It landed squarely in the eye of Dick Durrance, who did not take the disturbance kindly. With the precision usually associated with a surgeon, he tore a corner from his blotting paper and dipped it in his inkwell. It flew across the room, but mercifully, for the matron, who would have had to spend hours trying to remove ink from the boy’s blazer, it missed Cook, its intended target.

Paper darts whistled across the form room. Joe Lane produced a catapult (how had he smuggled that into the schoolroom?) and was searching the desks for suitable projectiles to launch around the room.   Not a single boy was where he should be; sitting quietly at his desk waiting for class to begin.

The door burst open and the from-master surged in. “What!!” That was all that is was necessary for Bulstrode to bark before the boys to come to order.

The master did not have to ask; it was perfectly obvious to him and anybody else within a hundred yards of the schoolroom what had been happening.

The boys sheepishly stood still and Lane hurriedly stuffed the catapult into the pocket of his trousers, hoping he had been quick enough to escape Bulstrode’s eagle eye.

The schoolmaster hesitated for a moment; weighing up the situation. He spied the swishy rattan cane hanging from the blackboard easel. Who could doubt that each of the boys deserved a sound caning? But, the schoolmaster had a better idea.

“Stand alongside that wall, all of you.” The boys were still frisky and pushed and shoved one another until they were in some semblance of a line.

“Stand up straight! Keep still! Be quiet!” One command followed another, until eventually Bulstrode had the boys calmed to his satisfaction.

He honoured each one of them with his most steely scowl. No schoolboy could hope to return such a glare and they stared down at their own shoes.

Corporal punishment was imminent, but none of the boys could have guessed what was to happen next.

Imperiously, Bulstrode marched towards his desk, but instead of taking the cane from the blackboard easel, he reached over and picked up a wooden chair. Even though it was small and had no arms it was remarkably heavy. Six pairs of eyes watched in wonder as the schoolmaster manoeuvred the chair from behind the desk and laid it down with a heavy crash in the very centre of the schoolroom.

Then turning to the boys, he confirmed to them the actions he was about to take.

“If you insist on behaving like kindergarten children that is precisely how I will treat you!”

With that, he sat down in the chair, straightened his back and set his legs apart by about three feet.

He clicked his fingers angrily.  “You first, Durrance! Step forward!”

Dick Durrance knew they were all going to get it, but why did he have to be the first? Maybe if he was second, he would know what it was that was in store for him.

Even, if he did not know the details, the basic premise was clear for all. The doctor intended to take each of the boys across his knees for a traditional spanking.

Bulstrode had not taken himself a weapon. Boys knew from past history that the schoolmaster delivered corporal punishment enthusiastically and he had a number of instruments of persuasion (as he liked to call them) to choose from. That day the boys had already witnessed the cane and the taws in use, but had he a mind to, Bulstrode could call upon a large rubber-soled plimsoll, a selection of light- and heavyweight spanking paddles and a heavy ebony-backed hairbrush that had once belonged to his mother and he could recall (not altogether fondly) being used across his own bared bottom when he was the age of the boys now standing in front of him.

None of these instruments of torture (as the boys called them) were evident.

Durrance had been spanked many times before, corporal punishment played a large part in his life, but that did not mean that he did not have butterflies in his tummy as he stepped forward as instructed.

Bulstrode clicked his fingers again to indicate the boy should stand directly in front of him.

“Hands on head, Durrance.”

The boy was unable to meet the master’s eye, so when he clasped his fingers together and placed them on his head he intently looked over Bulstrode’s shoulder to the window beyond, in a vain attempt to imagine that this might not really be happening.

But it was. Bulstrode undid the snake belt that held up the boy’s short trousers and let them slide into a puddle around his feet. Alfie Cook blushed to his roots as it dawned on him what was about to happen to his pal Dick and what would shortly to happen to him.

Bulstrode placed his thumbs inside the wide waistband of the boy’s Aertex briefs and lowered them first over his buttocks, then down his thighs until the rested at the boy’s knees. Dick still stared out of the window at the falling sleet.  He shuffled a little as a cold breeze brushed against his naked skin and the underpants continued their journey south until they rested on top of his shorts. He blushed profusely. He had been spanked many times in the past, but this was the first time he had travelled across the lap in full public view.

Soon he was across Bulstrode’s knee, affording his witnesses a perfect view of his chubby pink buttocks as they pointed towards the ceiling. Anxious not to let himself down in front of his fellow form-mates, Dick Durrance raised his bottom high, as if to say to his punisher, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, I deserve to be punished and I will take my spanking like a man.”

Dick placed the palms of both hands flat on the dusty wooden floorboards and looked directly ahead: he was ready for anything the good doctor had in store for him.

There were no hidden weapons. Bulstrode smacked his hand into the boy’s buttocks with some force and at rapid speed. In seconds he had covered the whole area from the top near the base of the spine, across the fleshy globes, down to the very sensitive spot where the bum meets the thighs. Then he covered the area again and again. Durrance gasped as the heat of his bare-bottomed spanking intensified. It started as nothing more than a warm glow, but it grew to a scorching pain as Dr Bulstrode spanked on and on. He had never known an over-the-knee hand spanking hurt so much.

His bottom and thighs were the colour of a good Burgundy by the time Bulstrode released him and ordered him back into line.

“Don’t you dare rub that bottom, or I’ll put you back over my knee!” Durrance’s hands had started to drift toward his very sore backside.

“Keep those shorts and pants at your feet, until I tell you that you may take them up!”

Durrance shuffled back in line. He was a little proud that he had withstood the severe spanking in front of his pals without too much fuss, but he was not at all comfortable standing in line naked from the waist down. He slipped his hands in front of his private parts.

Dr Bulstrode noticed the boy’s discomfort and demonstrated his mean streak. “Hands on head, Durrance!”

Miserably, his face blushing even redder than his bottom, the wretched boy obeyed the command.

‘You next Lowther!’ Bulstrode snapped his fingers again and Andrew walked forward to the point of execution.

And so, one after another, the boys went across Bulstrode’s knees for a forceful bare-bottomed spanking. A disinterested observer would have admired the schoolmaster for his strength and determination as his palms hammered into the fleshy globes of his charges. He spanked at such pace and with such force that surely by the time that Harry Wharton, the sixth and final boy, had been dealt with Bulstode’s palms must have been throbbing with more pain than any of his charge’s backsides.

But, even as Wharton rose from Bulstrode’s knees, that was not the end of the punishment session. Joe Lane might have succeeded in hiding his catapult when the form-master had entered the room earlier, but it was detected in the boy’s pocket the moment the good doctor started to unbutton his short trousers.

Lane was spanked like the rest of the class for his unruly behaviour, but he now must endure an additional six-of-the-best for bringing a prohibited item into school.

His form-master pointed with the cane to the chair he had just sat on.
“Bend over that chair, Lane!”

 

The boy’s short trousers and underpants were still at his feet, but silently, doggedly, he bent over. He shut his teeth hard as the swipes came down. Bulstrode handed out six of the very best, and though Lane went through it in silence, he had to keep his teeth clamped to keep back yells of anguish.

Bulstrode put beef into every swipe! Lane’s face was deathly pale when he had finished, but his bottom was scarlet and crossed with six deep crimson lines.

His eyes shone as he pulled up his clothes, dressed and limped back to his desk.

Despite his physical exertions, Bulstrode was calmness personified. Beating boys’ backsides was all in a day’s work.

Once the boys were settled at their desks, all except Lane, who wriggled like an eel, Bulstrode arranged himself in front of the class.

“Boys I was delayed returning to the class after playtime because I had to go to the headmaster’s study!”

Andrew suppressed a chortle at the image of Bulstrode bent over touching his toes while Dr Manners, the headmaster, delivered six stinging swipes into the seat of his trousers.

“I have a message for Herries! Stand up Herries!”

Andrew swivelled at his desk as a boy behind him slowly raised himself from his seat. He was a tall, gangly boy, with an unusually long neck. He reminded Andrew of a giraffe.

“Herries, during the first period this morning a search was made of the changing rooms and in the pocket of your outer coat there was found a packet of five Player’s Weights cigarettes!” Bulstrode intoned this in the way a hanging judge might pass sentence of the noose.

All eyes were on Herries. He was for it, now. Breaking the cardinal rule about ‘contraband.’

“And,” the good doctor had not finished, “two of the cigarettes were missing.” Then he added further, rather unnecessarily, “Presumably they had been smoked.”

“But, S..s..sir,” Tom Herries stuttered.

“Silence, boy! Leave your excuses for the headmaster. You are to attend his study immediately after this class has completed.”

Then, Bulstrode launched into a geography lesson.

Andrew sat puzzled. If the headmaster had discovered cigarettes in Herries’s pockets, why had be not found the packet of cigarettes in his own coat?

Tom Herries spent the next hour in fevered anticipation. Summoned to the headmaster’s study; there could be only one outcome.

….

The door of the headmaster’s study was made of heavy oak. Shaking a little in nervous anticipation, Tom Herries balled a fist and rapped his knuckles against the dense wood.

“Enter!” It was a loud, clear command. Tom took a deep breath, turned the handle and opened the door.

The study was larger than he expected it to be and more antique in style. Facing him was a large oak desk with two chairs in front.  The headmaster Dr Manners was standing stiff-backed behind his desk, dressed in a schoolmaster’s black gown over tweed jacket and striped trousers, with a mortar-board on his head.

Dr Manners stared at the boy. He was more than six feet tall and looked a little absurd in his school uniform. He had long ago grown too tall to be wearing short trousers.

Manners knew his boys very well; their present-day characters and their past histories of conduct. He knew Tom was one of those in-between boys as far as behaviour was concerned; not bad, though far from being a goodie-goodie. He had racked up a few detentions and had been spanked on his bare bottom only that morning, but until that day he had never felt the cane.

Tom stood and watched as the headmaster went to the corner of the room. The wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling shelving from the door right across to the window. The centre section of this opened when he touched something at the edge, to reveal a cupboard, in which Tom could see a selection of canes. Most had curved handles, and were lying on shelves, though the headmaster selected one that was straight. This was about four feet long, maybe a quarter of an inch thick, and had ridges every four inches or so along its length.

Tom watched him as he put it back and took out another cane and flexed the wicked looking rod and swished it down before placing it back and selecting another cane. He flexed that cane three times and swished it down twice.

Waiting for his punishment, Tom had a mixture of fear and excitement as the headmaster selected yet another cane which he could almost bend tip to crook handle. He repeated the procedure with the cane before putting it back and taking out another cane and flexing it, he put that cane back and seemingly took out the cane he had selected before.

Apparently at last satisfied with his selection, Dr Manners turned to the boy and delivered a sermon. “Corporal punishment is painful, but if you want to improve your life, I’m afraid it is a necessity. Believe me young man, nothing will help you learn to obey the rules than the burning memory of the last good caning you got and the realization that another one is coming if you don’t shape up.”

Tom stood hands behind his back and feet about a foot apart as the headmaster swivelled an armchair round so that its back faced into the room. Tom could not help but look at the cane on his desk.

“Your punishment will be six of the best strokes of the cane,” he informed Tom.  “Take your blazer off and put it on my desk and then bend over the chair in front of you and place your hands on the seat.” Tom’s stomach churned as he barely managed to stutter, “Yes, Sir,” before removing his blazer and resting It on the leather top of the headmaster’s desk. Then, with a deep breath he launched himself across the back of the chair and manoeuvred into place. He was very tall and thin and his stomach easy cleared the chair’s back.

In his bent-over position Tom’s pants had sank between each buttock, clinging to the soft curves. The boy was entering for him unchartered territory: his first-ever caning. The muscles in his thighs and calves tightened in anticipation of the imminent cascade of pain. He screwed his eyes shut, held tightly on to the seat cushion and braced himself.

He could hear the headmaster breathing, then the rustle of his gown as he took up position behind him.

The first stroke was a beauty. The cane slid over the crown of the tightened buttocks, moved away, and with a rush of demonic enthusiasm, struck on the precise spot it had selected. Tom’s teeth ground together in a determined effort to control any audible or physical reaction.

The headmaster lifted the cane high into the air a second time before bringing it down again with a will. The boy heard the swish then felt the line of fire, the pain was ten times worse than he expected it to be. Tom jumped and only just managed to hold his position, as the third stroke landed just below the first right in the lower part of his buttocks.

The cane tapped across his bottom again, and then cut in slightly lower. Whack! Although his buttocks jerked, this time the pain was stingy but not agonisingly so.

Dr Manners raised the cane high, had second thoughts and raised it higher and then had third thoughts and raised it higher again. Tom’s bottom tautened. The cane stayed up. Tom’s bottom relaxed. The cane came down.

After a few seconds wait, the headmaster raised the cane for the final time and placed the last searing stroke across the centre of Tom’s bottom. The effect was as expected, with Tom’s head lurching backwards when the cane impacted and the pain exploded across his bottom like a red hot poker had been placed on it.  Tom, gasping for breath, fought to remain bent over the chair.

It was over. Tom had taken his first caning and it had been quite a “six-of-the-best.”

“Stand up Herries,” Dr Manners ordered imperiously. Clearly in some pain, the boy hauled himself to an upright position. Instinctively his hands shot to rub at his tenderized buttocks. Tom’s face was scarlet and his eyes moist.

“I can see that you didn’t enjoy that,” the headmaster remarked matter-of-factly, for he had no sympathy for the boy.

Tom could only sniff his response.

“Well that’s good. I think I woke you up and I believe you will be obeying instructions in future. Am I right?”

“Yes, Sir!” it was a muffled reply.

“Well, just keep in mind that this cane is here waiting for you if you don’t. And next time it will be six strokes with your trousers down.”

And with that Dr Manners dismissed Tom from his study and the boy shuffled off in great discomfort to join the other fellows for school dinners.

….

It was five-thirty; school had ended more than an hour ago and six “boys” and their “schoolmaster” relaxed in the bar of the George Hotel. Most were on their second gin-and-tonics.

Tom Herries wriggled a little in his hard leather chair. Harry Wharton was surprised that the palm of his hand tingled as he held onto his glass. And, Andrew Lowther wondered what chance he had of getting Dick Durrance into one of hotel’s bedrooms and taking him up his chubby arse.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

Late home from school

Trouble at the mall

Damien’s mid-term results

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

BOOK. The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

Book: All in The Family

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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

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Boy at the photocopier

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

University encounter

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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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The thieving window cleaner

Missed Opportunities

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com