Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

z used cane longs adult office suit

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

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

“You know why you are here young man.”

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

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

It was quite a litany of complaints.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stand there young man.”

Adrian shuffled forward and stopped.

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

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

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

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

Swish! “I shan’t tell you again.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘“It hurt like Henry.”’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey! Where’s the fire!”

“Will you watch where you’re going!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are my rules?”

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

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

“What are my rules?”

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

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

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

“And you have been told the sanctions.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, Mr Gregory carries on lashing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But, what if he submitted himself to her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The phone rings. Robert dissolves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bend over.”

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

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

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

“Relax boy, relax.”

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

Their new house

The missed curfew

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Punch in the Face

used drawing birch hold (1)

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A birching then, headmaster?” he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The troublesome lodger

A kiss too far

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Rooming House

Roger stared at the ceiling. It was a freezing cold night but he was snug and warm under the blankets. Cautiously he ran his fingers across the welts that criss-crossed his buttocks. The pain had gone now, but one or two were still tender when he touched them.

Perce, his boyfriend, lay by Roger’s side, breathing heavily: he seemed to be dreaming. Earlier, when they had made love, Roger could see Perce’s once dark blue bruises were turning a lighter shade, almost turquoise. It would take several days, more than a week possibly, before the evidence cleared of the twelve severe strokes of the cane they had been forced to endure on their naked buttocks.

Upstairs, in the top flat, Higgins, their landlord, slept the sleep of the just; alone in his bed. Higgins had moved in after his wife left him for another man. His children were grown up and making their own ways in life. He was very content to live in the block of flats his late mother had bequeathed to him.

He had never met such people as his tenants. As well as the gay boys, there was Lucy who had a small baby, but no husband. Upstairs from her was Miss Alison, an aging spinster, who apparently was once a successful actress. Higgings thought she was probably very lonely. Mr Weston, who lived in the flat next to the boys, was from the West Indies. Mr Higgins had never met a West Indian before he moved in. Now, he knew many: Mr Weston was a gregarious man and had many friends.

Higgins wondered what his colleagues at school would make of it if they knew about his band of tenants. Gay boys, unmarried mothers and West Indians did not feature much at the grammar school. St Francis was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and traditional discipline.

Higgins believed in corporal punishment. He knew the cane applied with some force across the stretched bottom of an errant schoolboy was a great motivator for good behaviour. Even those boys who came back for more eventually discovered the errors of their ways.

Higgins had taken an awesome school cane back his flat when he was forced to deal with Sterling. The boy had the flat next to Miss Alison. The aging actress was all alone in life and vulnerable to the advances of the nineteen-year-old charmer. Sterling was not after sex, of course. He wanted the money he firmly believed she had hidden in her flat. It was easy to befriend a lonely person. In no time he was running her errands and sharing cups of tea. When her back was turned he removed her door key and later had a copy made.

One Thursday morning; it was pension day and the only time in the week Miss Alison would be certain to be out of her flat, Sterling made his move. It was a small flat and it only took minutes to search. He went under the mattress, in the tea caddy, behind the drawers in the kitchenette. There was nothing to find. Frustrated, he was half way through the circuit again in case he had missed something when the door eased open. There was nowhere to hide.

Higgins was no fool. He sized up the situation immediately. Despite his willingness to inflict severe pain on schoolboys, Higgins was a kind man. Miss Alison never discovered that Sterling’s friendship was a sham; a trick simply so that he could steal her money.

And, Sterling? Later that day he found himself in Higgins’s flat. It was a straight choice: the police or a thrashing. It was no choice at all, not with Sterling’s record. If the police got involved, he would do time, there was no doubt about that.

Sterling had been fifteen the last time he felt the cane across his backside. It had been four years ago, only weeks before he finished school forever and embarked on his life of dead-end jobs and petty crime. It had not been too bad. Bend over, whack! whack! whack! stand up. It was all over in seconds. He had a bit of a sore bum, but it was nothing to worry about.

Yes, Sterling agreed, rather too enthusiastically to Higgins’s liking, he would take the stick.

“Where do you want me?”

Higgins detected a smirk. Was the boy daring him?

The experienced schoolmaster knew how to wipe a stupid grin from a boy’s face.

Sterling stood nonchalantly, unconcerned about the events about to unfold.

With his anger rising, Higgins tugged open a drawer and pulled out the cane.

Swish! Higgins swiped the stick through the air. Then he smiled. Sterling had for the first time caught sight of the rod that was going to be used on him. It was nothing like the short rigid bamboo stick they had used at his council school.

Higgins grasped the cane which he had chosen to use to inflict the beating. It was not particularly long, thick or heavy, but what made it fearsome was the series of roughly-shaped and hardened knots which decorated every three or four inches of its length. These gave the cane its remarkable ability to bruise boys’ bottoms, leaving marks that might last for a month and making sitting down a delicate and painful business for the unlucky victim. A severe beating would usually split the skin of the suffering boy and bloody his arse as a further reminder of the penalty for misbehaviour.

Sterling’s cocky demeanour vanished instantly. His face paled and he could feel his hair dampen with sweat.

His mouth gaped open, but no words came as he realised there was nothing he could say, except beg for mercy and his pride was not about to let him do that.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. Higgins pointed the wicked rod at a low armchair.

“Right. I want you take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the chair.”

This time, Sterling did speak. “Wha …?” was all he could say before an impatient Higgins cut him short.

“It is the police or the cane. You choose, but you must do it now.”

Tears were already forming behind the nineteen-year-old’s eyes as mournfully he unzipped his tight loon pants and helped them over his buttocks and left them to slide to his knees. His breathing was laboured as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his mauve underpants and sent them in the same direction to meet his loons.

Sterling’s pale face turned scarlet as he realised he was now standing half-naked in front of this old man; a man who in a moment was going to rip his arse to shreds.

“Bend over,” Higgins feigned impatience.

Sterling closed his eyes, took a deep breath and curved himself over the back of the armchair. He was too tall to fit comfortably over the chair and had to bend at the knees. In this position his creamy-white buttocks jutted out behind him, offering a wonderful target for the cane to lash into him.

Only then did it occur to Higgins: despite all his years as a schoolmaster and the countless canings he had delivered, he had never before thrashed a boy on his naked buttocks. And, rarely, had he beaten a boy as big as Sterling (although there had been a time when he had thrashed five of the first XV rugby team and they had all been exceptionally large schoolboys).

Even so, Higgins laid it on with vigour. Sterling’s arse convulsed and he lifted one foot off the floor as the pain flooded from his backside throughout his body. But, he submissively stayed in position, hands gripping the seat cushion with some strength but with his behind still offered bravely for the remainder of the beating that Higgins continued with enthusiasm.

Higgins gave his bruised and now very colourful bottom a further four cuts in rapid succession. The two after that were directed at the crease between thigh and buttock and were laid one on top of the other. Sterling was now bellowing with pain, clenching and unclenching his quivering deeply ridged backside, and working extremely hard to maintain the correct position bent over the chair.

In the nearby flat, Miss Alison turned up the volume of her wireless.

Higgins was a hard and accurate caner and he delivered twelve of his very best, leaving Sterling hugging the chair and holding on for a minute when the landlord put the cane away and sat down.

There was no lecture. There was no need for one. In his own time, Sterling rose from his submissive position. He made no attempt to hide the tears that choked him. Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants and buttoned up the loon pants and without a word he shuffled from the flat and staggered down the staircase to his own room.

Three days later Sterling moved out and Higgins never heard from him again.

2

I think the gay boys Roger and Peace are my favourite tenants. They are so full of vim and energy. I know that probably has a lot to do with the pep pills they take; I’m not naive.

I’d never met any homosexuals before (at least not that I knew of). The boys were not what I expected. I thought homosexuals were all swishy and feminine, as if they were men trapped inside women’s bodies. Roger and Perce are nothing like that; you wouldn’t know they were gay to look at them. Although they are very well groomed; so that might be a clue. They are members of the youth cult called ‘the Mods.’ They have very tidy short hair and wear sharp well-cut Italian suits. Or for ‘leisure’ they wear brightly-coloured pullovers. They also have green Parka coats and ride around on Italian motor scooters.

I don’t think the Mods are gay; but I might be wrong. But there are so many of them, it can’t be possible. The Mods have a rival cult called the ‘Rockers’ who have untidy greasy long hair and wear leather jackets and jeans and ride large motorbikes. The two groups are known to have big battles at seaside towns on holiday weekends.

I don’t think Roger and Perce go out fighting, I’d never seen them with cuts and bruises, until I laid a few of them on the pair myself.

The boys seem pretty respectable. The government decriminalised homosexual acts for men aged twenty-one and over last year so it is perfectly legal for Roger and Perce to be sleeping in the same bed together.

They are mostly good tenants, although they sometimes come home in the early hours and disturb us with their scooters; or they play their music a bit too loud. But, all young people do that; my own sons were the same.

I do have one big problem with them: they don’t pay the rent. Or more accurately, they are late payers, or sometimes they only pay part of what they owe. There is no excuse: they both have good jobs at the John Lewis department store: Roger’s in men’s out-fitting and Perce is in soft furnishings. Between them they earn more than enough to afford the rent I charge.

But, instead of paying rent, they prefer to spend their money on sharp clothes and their motor scooters. I genuinely have lost count of the number of times I have asked them to pay up and the number of broken promises they have made to me.

So, I lost patience with them. They might be twenty-one-year-old adults but they still needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. All I was asking was that they paid the rent before they spent the rest of their money on their luxuries.

They needed a short sharp shock to pull them up a little, and I knew exactly how I was going to do that.

They are not evil like Sterling, so it would not be right to flog them with the knotted cane I used to rip his backside to shreds. Instead, I collected a stout senior rattan cane from my large collection at school. It was the same one that I used on the five eighteen-year-old rugby players who disgraced the school by getting drunk after a match one weekend. It packs a great punch, especially when I am the one wielding it.

Of course, at school I was only allowed to administer a maximum of six strokes per boy and then only on the seat of his trousers. But in my flats I make the rules, so Roger and Perce were to get twelve each on the bare buttocks.

I gave the boys one last chance to pay me what I was owed. All I got were promises in return; the same as the last time I asked and the time before.

They didn’t seem surprised when I announced I was going to cane them. Nobody in the flats had ever spoken to me about the thrashing Sterling received, but I think my tenants knew what had happened.

I launched into a prepared speech. They could get the cane or they could leave the flats; and whatever they chose to do they would still have to pay me the rent. Leaving the flat was not an option; the law on homosexual acts might have changed, but gays could still be sacked from their jobs or thrown out of their homes. If the boys left my flat they would find it almost impossible to find another place where they could be together.

But, I didn’t want that. I wanted my rent money and if putting a whippy rattan cane across their naked arse cheeks got me that, I would be satisfied.

Meekly, both boys accepted the inevitable. I sent Perce to the kitchen, while I dealt with Roger. I had no idea if either of them had been caned before and I didn’t care. I intended to lay on a sharp dozen cuts that would leave even the most experienced receiver in agony. I was not, as our American cousins are apt to say, blowing smoke here.

Roger could not take his eyes of the cane as I swished a few practice stokes through the air. His trepidation was clear. He was not looking forward to this impending thrashing one little bit. Nervously, he lowered his trousers and pants and bent over the armchair.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as rat-a-tat-tat I swiped six hard stingers across the crown of his buttocks. Then after a pause of twenty seconds to allow him and me to catch our breath, I whipped in another six, this time all in the under curve where the cheeks meet the thighs.

When he rose his eyes were blazing, but he successfully held back the tears. His face was deathly pale, but his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks.

I allowed him to dress and then ordered Perce to change places with him. I had always thought of Perce as a cute little mouse; he was short with dark brown eyes and sticking-out ears. Usually, he had a perpetual smile on his face; but not now.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but unbidden by me, he lowered his trousers and pants and almost threw himself across the chair in his eagerness to offer me his bottom. I had known schoolboys adopt the same attitude; they were arrogant in their belief that nothing I and my whippy cane could do would hurt them. I always disabused them of that idea.

I am pretty sure Perce had never been across a chair before for a caning. I had to instruct him to keep his head low, his bottom high and his legs apart. It took him several attempts before his body was positioned to my satisfaction.

Once he was positioned correctly, I rolled his shirt clear of his bottom. Picking up the cane I swished it a couple of times then stood to his left and gently tapped his pale buttocks. I lifted my arm to shoulder height then let the cane swish hard onto the naked cheeks. Perce gasped as the first stroke landed and he wriggled his bottom.

Perce’s compact but nicely rounded bottom had plenty of give. His chunky buttocks were first compressed by the force of the first blow before springing back as the cane was withdrawn ready for the second strike.

I was still new to the experience of beating boys on their naked bottoms, but I was beginning to see its advantages over caning on the trousers. I could see the strokes as they landed, enabling me to see where they struck, and if I was hitting too hard, or too weakly, to adjust my power.

The punishment on the bare was more painful and of course there was the added humiliation for the boy of having to lower his trousers and present his bottom submissively for the beating.

Perce was unable to contain his distress and gave out a series of loud shouts, not for mercy but simply to release the tension of the mounting agony in his beleaguered backside.

The next swipe propelled a lung-full of breath out of Perce’s mouth, and left him gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying the lad’s lungs for a second time.

“Last one, boy!” Try to take this one quietly please,” I requested with little sincerity as I cracked a deliberately extra hard stroke down, causing Perce to yell and stand up clutching at his battered bottom. I simply stared as he danced around clutching and kneading the burning flesh of his buttocks.

I brought the two tenants together and lectured them about fiscal responsibility: they must pay my rent. I did not say, but it was implied, that if the money was not forthcoming they would be back over the chair for another thrashing.

….

Roger stared at the ceiling, reliving the events from earlier in the day. If he missed a payment on his motor scooter and delayed buying that Italian suit he so craved, he should be able to pay off his rent arrears. No way did he want to go back over that chair, he thought as he caressed the scars on his buttocks.

Perce beside him was stirring. In his dream, he was in what he imagined was Mr Higgins’s oak-paneled study at the grammar school. The schoolmaster was dressed in an academic gown and he wore a mortar-board on his head. In his hand he swished a cane. Perce, was unbuckling the snake belt of his short grey flannel trousers before lowering them and then his sparkling-white underpants to his ankles, prior to bending forward to touch his toes.

3

Higgins replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and stared through the window into the darkness outside. It was an intriguing idea and it might just work. But, he did not even know the boy; it had nothing to do with him. It was probably best to leave him alone.

The call had been from Professor Ambrose from Brocklehurst University. Higgins had known Ambrose for thirty years or more, since as a boy the professor had been a pupil at St Francis and Higgins a junior master. Higgins could not be certain but he fancied Ambrose might have been the first boy he had ever caned: the first in a very long line of proffered buttocks that stretched across three decades. The very thought of it made Higgins feel old.

Ambrose was now among other things a senior tutor at the university with responsibility for the pastoral wellbeing of students. He had a problem, he had told Higgins in the phone call and it was a problem he felt certain Higgins could solve for him.

It was Baxter, a first-year student who was going off the rails and if drastic action was not taken immediately the eighteen-year-old boy would become a train wreck.

The story was simple; Baxter had arrived at university after a successful career at a very traditional school; Higgins would know the type, Ambrose assured him. He was, of course, referring to St Francis: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and above all, traditional discipline. But, at university Baxter had let things slip; seduced by the high-life of Brocklehurst he was neglecting his studies by spending too much time in coffee bars and chasing after girls.

Back home, in his small town in Scotland, Baxter’s widowed mother continued to scrimp and save and neglect herself to pay for her son’s university education.

Baxter had one last chance, Ambrose had said. He could re-sit his examinations in two months’ time, but to be able to pass, he would need to knuckle down to some hard work. Baxter needed an incentive; the knowledge of his poor widowed mother’s sufferings would not do the trick. Baxter would not work hard on his own; he lacked self-discipline. That was where Higgins came in. Would he take the boy under his wing and impose the discipline that Baxter lacked?

Universities faced a problem when disciplining students: there was not much they could do. Young people were not legally adults until they reached the age of twenty-one, so university staff acted in ‘loco parentis,’ that is the university stood in for their parents. But, that only went so far: a professor could not give a boy a damn good hiding when he needed it. Ambrose and some of his senior colleagues lamented that the university had no regulation that permitted them to use corporal punishment. If somebody had swished a cane across Baxter’s backside the first time he skipped a tutorial or failed to hand in an essay, he would not be in this mess.

Higgins sympathized with Ambrose. He had married late to a woman twenty years his junior and his youngest son Horatio was still at university. Higgins hoped the boy’s professors would show the same concern for him if he was not performing. Indeed, if Higgins found out Horatio was slacking, he would take the boy across his knee for a bared-bottomed encounter with the hairbrush: twenty years old or not.

Higgins continued to stare through the window, rain was softly falling and soon there would be a heavy downpour. The room had darkened, but he did not switch on a light. In his mind he weighed up the possibilities.

He had an empty room since Sterling had moved out suddenly; he could easily accommodate Baxter. If the boy accepted the new regime, it would not be too difficult to draw up a kind of contract concerning curfews, deadlines for completing homework and general behaviour about drinking and smoking. The penalty for breaking the contract would be corporal punishment. Higgins knew from a lifetime’s career in school-mastering that corporal punishment worked; he had no doubts about that and it would work with Baxter.

Higgins thought about the boy’s widowed mother and the sacrifices she had made for her son. Higgins owed it to her to save the boy. The boy had lacked a father figure growing up; perhaps now, he could be the father that the boy needed.

Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would call Ambrose and say he would take on the case.

Two days later Alexander Baxter, aged eighteen, first-year university student, stood impassively in the front room of Higgins’ flat. His new landlord had just helped him move his belongings from the university hostel. Higgins noted with dismay the boy had a portable gramophone and a number of records, but no books. To Higgins that summed up the boy’s problem.

Higgins eyed the boy, he was only a few months older than the sixth-formers at his school, but he looked as if he had visited from another planet. His expensively-styled hair flopped over his collar and he wore the tightest multi-coloured ‘tank top’ pullover imaginable. His trousers were equally as tight at the waist and across the buttocks, but the legs flared down into ‘bell bottoms’ that left folds of cloth covering his wet-look shoes.

Higgins had a lecture prepared, but the boy was not listening. Baxter had endured an embarrassing meeting with his professor and he already knew the score. He had not been too surprised when the subject of corporal punishment was raised: he was used to feeling the sting of leather across the palms of his hands. He had last received a beating only a few months previously, when in his final week at school he had let his guard down and had been caught smoking. He was a chronic smoker, but was rarely caught. The two-tailed taws was in everyday use at his old school, but he had thought he had left it behind when he moved to university.

He also knew that punishment by leather strap across the palms was almost unheard of in England. Here the preferred method of punishment was three feet of flexible rattan administered with some force across the seat of a boy’s trousers. Baxter did not like the idea of that one little bit.

However, the boy decided, it was all academic. He was not stupid; he knew he was in danger of expulsion. He was letting himself down and, yes, his mother also. He also had a strange feeling he might be letting Prof Ambrose down as well. He did not know why it was but his senior tutor appeared to be taking a strong interest in him. Baxter was not the only slacker student in his year, but he was the only one to be given this last chance.

Higgins completed his lecture.

“Well, Alexander?”

The boy started. He had not been listening. Had the old man asked him a question?

“Were you listening to me?”

Baxter’s blush confirmed he had not.

“Doh!” Higgins was losing patience with the boy. The sooner he spanked his backside black and blue the better.

Higgins had thought about it a lot over the previous two days. The boy needed a new discipline regime to make sure he behaved well and worked hard in future. But, he could not be allowed to get away with his past slacking. He would need to be spanked immediately, so that he understood why he was here and what his failings were.

Higgins had concluded it would be a spanking and not a caning. Higgins believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and had no compunction in caning the boys at school, but he used a different method at home.

He had always spanked his sons on their bare bottoms while they lay (or in their younger days were held forcibly) across his knees. This was the appropriate way for a loving father to discipline his sons. At school a beating was more bureaucratic; the boys broke a rule and the regulation stated they should be beaten on the bottom with a cane (“on the seat as normally clothed”, as the instruction from the Department of Education had it). In that way the punishment of the boy by the schoolmaster was quite literally at arm’s length. But, a parental spanking was more intimate. It was almost an act of love with father and son in close proximity with the boy’s bared bottom bouncing across the man’s legs.

Higgins wanted to be a father to Baxter, or Alexander as he would call him, and he would treat him like a son from the very start. He had used a very heavy hairbrush on his own sons, but his wife had taken that when she left. Undeterred, he had visited the Co-operative Retail Store that morning and purchased a large oval-shaped clothes brush that would make a very fine substitute.

“I said Alexander that you will have to be spanked. You are to take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across my knee.”

Baxter’s impassive look cracked and Higgins could see the boy had not been prepared for this.

“I thought Professor Ambrose had explained …” Higgins let the sentence tail off.

“Yes, but …” Baxter was no better at completing his sentences.

“Perhaps you need time to think it over. I do not want to make you do anything that you do not agree to. If you want to stay here with me you will have to accept that I am going to spank you on your bare bottom for all your misbehaviour since you came to Brocklehurst. You must also understand that I will use corporal punishment on you in the future if you do not abide by our contract.

“If you do not want to do this, you may leave and return to the university hostel. But, you should know that in all probability you will fail your examinations and be sent down from the university.”

Baxter was perplexed. He understood corporal punishment and had received it many times at school, every boy did, it was that kind of school. Professor Ambrose had told him he would be subjected to it if he continued to break the rules, but he had not been expecting to be punished for his past actions. But, he understood it made sense that he should be.

Yes, he concluded he deserved to be punished, but not in this way. He expected the strap on his hands, or since this was England, the cane across his bum. But, this old man expected him to take down his trousers and pants and bend across his lap so he could spank his bare buttocks like he was eight years old.

Higgins was reasonableness itself. “I can give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. Then, you must either take your spanking or leave.”

I spent the most fretful night. I did not know what to do and I had no one to turn to. I couldn’t go back to my pals at the varsity and tell them what was happening: I’d be a laughing stock. I’m getting my bare little botty smacked. Wah! Wah! Wah!. I’d never hear the end of it.

I stayed in my room all night. It was a great room, much bigger than at the university hostel, with its own little cooker and wash basin. Higgins was going to charge me the same rent as at the university: it was a great bargain. I’d fallen on my feet, except for the very sore bum I had to suffer.

I unpacked my things. At the bottom of my bag were the pyjamas my mother had bought me on the eve of my departure from home. She said my others were a disgrace and I couldn’t be seen dead in them. I don’t know who she thought would see me in my pyjamas. They were a cheap pair, they were all she could afford, made of flannelette with blue-and-white stripes. They could have been worse; the last ones she bought for me had designs of football players all over them. I had never worn the new pyjamas. I considered myself ‘grown up’ now and preferred to sleep in only my underpants, even on very cold nights.

As I unpacked the pyjamas I realised how much I missed my mother. She loved me so much and made so many sacrifices for me. And, how had I repaid her? I went out on the town as often as I could and neglected my studies. Soon I would be sent down from the university and the shame of that would break her heart.

It was not that I was unintelligent, I was brighter than average. When I bothered to do any studying I found it quite easy and I scored good grades. The thing was I was lazy: Professor Ambrose had spotted that. I was my own worst enemy; I had no self-discipline.

I stripped off my fashionable clothes and pulled on the pyjama bottoms. The flannelette material was thick and soft. I didn’t think they still made flannelette pyjamas; surely, the fashion was for cool cotton.  Then I put on the jacket. It was a bit too big for me and when I glanced at myself in the mirror I looked like the small child I had until recently been. I couldn’t help it and I dissolved into tears.

After that, it was an easy decision to make. I had let my mother down and I had let myself down. I was the luckiest boy alive; I was being given a second chance. The next morning, despite the intense humiliation I would suffer, I would let the old man take me over his knee and spank my bare bum.

I think Higgins was surprised when the next morning I knocked on his door and he opened it to see a remorseful pyjama-clad teenager. The jim-jams symbolised to me that I was still not an adult and I needed to be reminded of that. I also thought somehow they represented my mother; they were the kind of clothes she would expect me to wear; not the fashionable cosmopolitan clothes I wore at university.

As I prepared to knock on the door one of the neighbours came by on the stairs; he was short and mouse-like, with shiny brown eyes and sticking-out ears. He beamed at me and I swear gave a wink as he hurried on his way. Something about him intrigued me and I hoped soon we would get to know each other better.

I did not have to say much to Mr Higgins. Once I told him I accepted his terms he was ready to get down to business. He walked to a sideboard, opened a cupboard and extracted a shiny light brown brush. The look on my face must have told him I had not expected this.

“You are too old for me to spank you with my hand, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” I swear he smiled when he said this. It wasn’t an unkind snarl; he was only stating a fact as he saw it. I had no way of knowing the truth of his statement, despite my beatings at school I had never been spanked on the bottom. My father had died when I was very young and my mother never laid a finger on me; not even when on the many occasions that I was spiteful and disrespectful to her. My Uncle Gordon, exasperated at my bad manners, had once threatened to take his belt to my backside if I did not stop giving my mother grief, but although I continued my shameful behaviour he never carried out his threat. I think my mother may have had a word with him.

Mr Higgins pulled a straight-backed armless dining room chair from beneath a table and placed it heavily in the centre of the room. Then, he sat down and spread his legs by maybe two or three feet. In doing so he had created a perfect platform for me to bend across his lap.

I had been awake half the night visualising this scene. I had determined that I would not make a fuss; I would ‘take it like a man.’ But, now the moment had arrived I was not so sure that I could be brave. The thought of taking down my trousers and exposing my private parts to a stranger (to anyone, really) filled me with horror. And, then to lie across his lap and show him my bare buttocks with the crack and everything was beyond any humiliation I had ever endured in my life.

I had not even started to think about the pain I would suffer. The strap whistling down across the palm of the hand had been agonising and I doubted that a beating on the bottom could be worse.

“Come here Alexander,” Mr Higgins’ tone was gentle and in a way that I couldn’t quite understand, this calmed me.

He reached his hand out and gently took the elbow of my right arm. Before I knew it he had guided me across his lap and I found myself face down staring at a dusty and slightly worn carpet. My feet were a little above the ground and my middle was resting on the plateau Mr Higgins had created with his open legs.

Instinctively, I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but found that Mr Higgins had positioned me so far forward that it was physically impossible for me to do this. I was soon to discover that Mr Higgins was an expert spanker and he knew how to place a naughty boy across his knees for maximum impact.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms, but any hope I retained that this would not by a spanking on the bare was dashed when he gripped the elasticated waist and slowly eased them down over my buttocks as far as my thighs. Then he raised my jacket away from the target area so that I was naked from my shoulders to almost my knees. I did not realise it at the time, but my new master had deliberately spared me the humiliation of taking down my trousers and exposing my genitals to him.

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (16)

I felt a movement in Mr Higgins’ body: he was making his final preparations. Then: I had never experienced such a concentration of pain in my life. The brush crashed down into the centre of my left buttock; I exhaled so quickly that it seemed that I had no more breath in my body. Before I could gulp fresh air into my lungs, the brush landed with equal ferocity on my right buttock. Then it hit the left cheek again; and then the right. Then the left. Over and over again, he whacked his brush into my fleshy globes. There was no let-up; he set up a steady rhythm, spanking each cheek on and on.

My legs kicked out involuntarily and I wriggled my body to the left and right. I must have looked as if I was trying to do the crawl stroke at swimming. But, I was going nowhere: Mr Higgins had me securely gripped around the waist and the angle of my upper body across his knee was so acute that I had no means of escape. I had no choice: I had to lie there face down, bared bottom high, and let Mr Higgins spank the living daylights out of me. When he was satisfied I had suffered enough, and only then, would he release me.

I don’t know how many times he whacked that heavy brush into my buttocks but when it was eventually over and, back in my room, I inspected the damage in the mirror, I could see every square inch of my buttocks from the top where the spine is, across the fleshy globes, into the under curves, where the cheeks meet the thighs and the tops of the thighs themselves, were a mass of dark blue and mauve bruises. At the edges of the cheeks I could clearly see the oval shape of the brush imprinted into my flesh.

From the first whack to a long time after the final wallop hit home I was gagging for breath. I think the fact that I was gasping for air stopped me yelling and screaming with the pain. I was crying copious tears. I had never cried when I got the strap: boys never did. We were allowed to yelp with the pain; that was something we could not control, but any boy who blubbed would have been treated badly. The boys would have called them ‘girls.’ or even something much worse.

Eventually, Mr Higgins released his grip and allowed me to stand. He averted his eyes, so as not to see my cock, as I tugged my pyjama bottoms up. The pain was intense, but even as I stood hopping from foot to foot in front of the man who had punished me, it was turning to a throb that very soon would become a warm glow. I had suffered one heck of a spanking, but Mr Higgins was not a brutal man.

He smiled as I rubbed away at my bum.

“Will I need to do that again?” It was a gentle question. He did not seem to be a demented, angry man.

“No, Sir,” I sniffed. I meant it too. The slate had been wiped clean. I had been punished for all my misdemeanours since I had arrived at Brocklehurst. It was now up to me. Once I had been given time to recover from my spanking Mr Higgins and I sat down (me, gingerly) to agree a contract of behaviour. If Mr Higgins had cause to assault my backside again, I would only have myself to blame.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

A maintenance spanking

Father Must Be Obeyed

The terrible twins

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Headmasters, Like Elephant’s, Never Forget

z used drawing cane quelch (78)

Former pupil Kevin Smith returns to St Francis only to find there is painful unfinished business with the headmaster

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

 

This cannot really be happening; but here I am a twenty-one-year-old newspaper reporter standing in the headmaster’s oak-panelled study about to get six-of-the-best. The very best.

My name’s Kevin Smith and I work for the Brocklehurst Bugle, a weekly newspaper in a small town on the south coast of England. I’ve only just started as a cub reporter. I think I got the job because I was born and brought up in Brocklehurst and they wanted someone who knows the area. Also, I live with my mum and dad so that means the paper doesn’t have to pay me too much. Jobs in journalism are as hard to find as hens’ teeth so I was absolutely knocked-out when I got the job. I like it a lot and I hope in time I’ll be a really good journalist.

I used to be a pupil here at St Francis Independent Grammar and after I got my A-levels I went away to university. But, now I’m back. My editor knows I used to be a pupil here and that’s why he sent me on this job. The Grammar’s just had its annual speech day and I have to pick up the names of the pupils who got prizes and so on. Pretty boring actually, but you know local papers they love stuff like that.

I was really pleased to be asked by my editor to do this job because I thought it would give me a chance to go back to my old school and maybe show off a bit, about how important I’d become.

But, I had forgotten something very important. And, now my past was about to catch up with me.

“Well Smith,” Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster, looked at me stone-faced; his white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

“Before we talk about speech day, I think there’s some unfinished business we must deal with.”

“Unfinished business.” What did he mean?

And, then in a rush, I remembered. Blast! How could I have forgotten?

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, was seated behind his huge desk, topped in green leather. I knew from experience that when he stood up he was commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. And, he was strong as an ox, as could be testified every time he swiped down a cane across a boy’s backside.

I was standing in front of him, every inch, in his eyes, the naughty schoolboy deserving of just such a sound thrashing.

“A matter of the decomposed frog in the science laboratory, I believe.” Dr Henderson-Smith was rather pompous in the way he talked. He always had been. He still was. He strung out the word “la-bor-a-torrry” to give it full dramatic force.

Now, I was absolutely certain what he was talking about. But, he wasn’t going to leave it alone. I couldn’t look him in the face and cast my eyes down to examine the red patterned rug that I was standing on. I noticed my shoes could do with polishing.

The headmaster had centre stage and like the old ham actor he was, he was going to have his moment. He intoned the details of my crime, making sure every last detail was recorded for posterity.

In truth, there wasn’t much to tell. Three years ago when I was in the sixth-form here, I played a prank on my final day as a pupil. It was silly and very unpleasant for Mr Wilkinson, the science master, but that’s all it was, a schoolboy prank.

None of the boys much liked Mr Wilkinson. He was very strict and he thought nothing of peppering our backsides with the cane. There can’t have been many boys he taught who didn’t get a whacking from him at least once. You could get it for anything. With other science masters, pupils used to love to lark about during lessons; science does that to you, all those Bunsen Burners and test tubes. But, you never larked around with Mr Wilkinson – or, at least if you did it once, you never did it again. His cane made sure of that.

Mostly, though we got the stick for poor work. God help any boy who didn’t do his homework or did badly in a test. And, I don’t mean fail a test, if you did that, it meant death. But, Wilkinson would beat you if you got less than seventy out of a hundred in one of his classroom exercises and as you might imagine that meant a lot of boys showed him their backside over the years.

So, you can see why I thought it would be jolly good fun to play a trick on him. Here’s what I did. I took one of the frogs that we had for dissecting so we could explore the gizzards inside. You know the sort of thing; you would have done it yourself at school. So, I took one of these frogs, mashed it up a bit and put the dead body in Mr Wilkinson’s desk.

Then we all set off for our summer holidays and for me it was the last time I set foot in the school until today.

So now here I am standing in front of the headmaster listening to him recount my misdeeds. How, six weeks later the by now fully decomposed frog had been discovered in the laboratory. He told me about the stench, the bluebottles and the maggots. The headmaster seemed to be enjoying himself.

“So, Smith, what do you have to say for yourself?” I wanted to ask how he knew it was me, but I think I know the answer to that. As every schoolboy knows there’s no point in playing a trick on a master and keeping it to yourself, where’s the fun in that? So, that summer hols I was full of it. It wouldn’t have taken anyone at Brocklehurst long to find out who did it.

There was no denying it. I had done it and now I was found out.

I really didn’t have anything to say, so I just stared at the rug. I could see it was a little bit threadbare (generations of naughty boys shuffling their feet before being ordered to bend over so they could get a close up view of the pattern?).

The headmaster mistook my silence for denial. “Do-you-deny-you-did-this-thing?” he tried to get dramatic effect with every word.

“No sir,” I blurted out the response. I think this took him a bit by surprise, I think he was expecting denial and then a big argument.

“So-you-do-not-de-ny-you-per-pet-rate-ted-this villle-cer-ime?” he seemed a bit disappointed he wasn’t going to get to play another dramatic scene.

So, I coughed to it. Yes, it was me, I did it, I’m sorry, it seemed like a good idea at the time, now I know it wasn’t a good thing to do, I’m sorry.

Actually, I am sorry. I’m not in agonies of guilt about it, but I can see that the frog must have been a pretty disgusting mess by the time Wilkinson discovered it at the end of the summer vac. I also know I was just trying to show off in front of my friends.

There was silence for a moment as the headmaster seemed to weigh up his options about what he would do next.

And, unsurprisingly perhaps, he decided to do what a headmaster would do in these circumstances.

“You committed this crime while a boy at this school and you should be dealt with accordingly,” he was speaking more naturally now.

Without another word, he stood up from his plush leather chair and walked the three or four paces to a set of cupboards running the length of one wall. My eyes followed him. He pulled his academic gown to one side so he could delve into a trouser pocket to withdraw a small bunch of keys. Selecting one, he unlocked one of the cupboards.

I should have guessed. Inside were an array of punishment canes, the headmaster was blocking my sight, but I could see at least four crook-handled rattans. Dr Henderson-Smith put his hand in the cupboard and as he did so he moved his body a little and I could see it contained many, many more. He seemed to be looking for a particular stick. In no time he found it, withdrew, locked the cupboard, and turned to face me.

I wasn’t terribly surprised. If I had been found out while I was still a pupil here I would have been beaten. Maybe, Wilkinson would have done it himself, or maybe he’d have sent me to the head. Who can be sure? But, either way my bum would be on fire.

The head placed the cane on his leather topped desk and walked to the far side of the study. There was a wooden-backed chair leaning against the wall. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He picked it up and placed it on the rug in front of his desk, just as if he was putting it there for a visitor to sit on. But, I knew I wasn’t going to be sitting down, not on this chair, and probably not anywhere comfortably, for some hours to come.

“Stand by the chair,” it was a calm instruction, not barked as if an order. I walked over and as instructed stood facing the back of the chair. “Closer boy,” Of course, I was about three feet from the wooden back of the chair, there was no way I could bend over from there.

I shuffled a couple of paces forward. Dr Henderson-Smith stood to my right hand side, I turned my head slightly to see what he was doing and for the first time I saw close up the cane he was going to use to whip me. It wasn’t like any cane I’d seen before. I’d been caned a few times before, not just by Wilkinson, it was that kind of school, so I’d seen a few sticks in my time.

This one was different, it was amber in colour and no longer than any others and no thicker, if anything it might be a bit thinner than the one Wilkinson used on me the last time. Dr Henderson-Smith held the cane at the crooked-handle end with one hand and he ran the other over the length of the rod, bending it ever so slightly as he did so. Then he let go and swished the stick through the air. That’s when I realised this cane had more power than any I had suffered before. It might be thin, but it was whippy and it was going to pack one heck of a punch.

I looked down at the trousers I was wearing thankful that they were rather fashionable and expensive. They were made of a very dense material and would provide some protection, I was sure.

The headmaster pointed the stick at the lower half of my body. “Take down your trousers and bend over the chair.”

“What the hell, no way!” I didn’t say it out loud, of course. Up to this point I wasn’t too worried about getting the cane. I’d had it a few times, I knew it would hurt, but I also knew I could take it. I’d take my Six and that would be it.

But having seen the implement he intended to use on me and now being told it’s “trousers down,” I was far from sure.

What could I do? There was a simple answer: walk out. He had no right to thrash me, even though I had been a naughty boy while at school. That was in the past and he had no jurisdiction over me now. But, I knew, or thought I knew, that if I did that Henderson-Smith would tell my editor about it and I’d be in trouble at work.

I’ve only just started at the paper and I’m on what they call ‘probation’ for six months, that means if I don’t fit in I get sacked. I didn’t want that. Jobs in journalism were hard to come by and I might not be lucky enough to get another one. I really didn’t have any choice.

“Quickly boy, do as I say,” the headmaster swished that fierce rod once again.

This is it. Deep breath. Let’s get this over with. Although in my mind I had decided to take my punishment trousers down, I couldn’t get my body to agree. My hands fumbled at the buckle of the thick black leather belt I was wearing. I couldn’t quite get that prong thing out of the hole in the belt.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

There, I’ve managed it, the belt’s undone. Getting the trousers undone was just as bad. I’d never noticed before just how many buttons there are on trousers. My fumbling fingers got the two at the waistband undone.

I couldn’t see him, but I felt the eyes of the headmaster burning into the back of my head, Swish! He was practicing his strokes.

At last the waist was loose and I pulled at the fly. All undone. I let go of my trousers and the weight of the thick leather belt and the force of gravity sent them crashing to my ankles with no help from me. I felt a breeze as the thick cloth passed by my knees.

And, that I think is where you came in. I’m standing here in the headmaster’s study my trousers around my ankles in my blue-and-white striped Boxer shorts about to bend over the chair for Six.

The headmaster is still behind me. I can feel his cane tapping my behind. “Not exactly school uniform are they?” he says, almost absent-mindedly. I want to say “No they’re not and that’s because I am not one of your schoolboys, I’m a grown man.” But, I don’t. The tapping continues. Christ! Please don’t tell me to pull down my pants.

Before he can say anything else I bend over the chair. It’s quite an ordinary chair really. The back isn’t so high so I can go over it without my stomach touching it. I am putting my hands out in front of me clutching the far corners off the seat, one with each hand.

I am as ready as I am ever going to be. And, so is the headmaster.

Swipe! Jesus H. Christ! That hurt. It got me right in the centre of my bum. I can feel a welt rising and I’m pretty certain it runs across both cheeks from left to right.

Swipe! Crack. I can’t breathe. I’m clutching onto the chair for dear life. Gasping.

Swipe! No! Please no more! I’ve got three stripes, all on the fleshy part of the buttocks. I can feel where each one has landed; they’re running parallel about a quarter of an inch apart.

Swipe! Swipe! God in Heaven! I will not cry. I will not cry. These two are lower than the others. One has hit me on the crease where the fleshy bum connects with the thighs.

Swipe! Ouch! One cut lower than all the others. I can’t help it I yell out and my legs kick out behind me. I want to stand up and rub and rub at my bottom. I have gripped the chair so tightly that as I move to stand I find myself lifting the front two legs clean off the ground.

That’s it. Six-of-the best. It’s over. I’m waiting for permission to stand. I just want to get the Hell out of here. I want to run down the street clutching my bum and howling. Please let me up.

Swipe! Swipe! Yowll! No! No! No! Stop I cannot take any more. My whole body is writhing in pain. I can hear the headmaster speaking, it sounds as if he is miles away. He is instructing me to keep still.

Swipe! Swipe! Ouch! Arrrrh! I’m bleeding. I’m sure I can feel blood seeping under my Boxers. I move my lower torso from left to right and back again. Has the blood made my underwear stick to my bum?

Swipe! Yow-yow-yow!! The bastard! I can’t breathe, I’m truly gasping. He’s deliberately laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks so it landed across all the other fresh welts. I cannot, I cannot, take any more of this. There is a pause. I can feel the headmaster moving from my left hand side to my right. Oh, no, he isn’t?

Swipe! Yesss He Is!! He whipped the cane across my wounds from the other side. I can feel criss-cross cuts right the way across my buttocks, running from the top to the bottom and from left to right and back again. I am bleeding and I am beaten.

“Get up.” I stay still across the chair breathing heavily. I can stand but I cannot be sure that I will be able to walk. The throbbing pain is so severe; I have no words to describe it.

“Up boy.” I can feel his hand on my shoulder helping me to rise. He lets go of me as I stand unsteadily. Tears are flowing and sobs are coming in great big gulps. I watch as the headmaster returns to his cupboard, unlocks the door and replaces the cane that has just ripped me apart.

“Get dressed boy.” I hadn’t realised I was still standing trousers at ankles. I desperately want to touch both buttocks, to explore the extent of the damage, but I don’t want the headmaster to see.

Oh my God, how will I explain this to Cindy, my girlfriend? It will take weeks, no months, to heal.

I am bending down to grab the waist of my trousers. The pain sears as my buttocks stretch with the effort. I grab the trousers, pull them up and repeat the fumbling with buttons and belt.

I am not quite sure what will happen next.

“Tuck your shirt in boy,” the headmaster is smiling as he returns to his desk, sits down, opens a drawer and pulls out a sheaf of papers, which he is handing to me.

The speech day results.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

Changed Times 4. Global Petroleum

Bend over. Touch your toes

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Never Too Old

z used cane holding (14)

“Stand up straight boy.”

“Take your hands out of your pocket.”

“Take that look off your face.”

I wasn’t used to this. Usually, when a boy stood on the carpet facing my desk, he was contrite. “Yes sir. No sir. Three bags full sir.”

But, not this boy Rawlinson; he was as cocky as they come. He needed taking down a peg or two. And, I knew the best way to do that: a flogging with my cane.

Reluctantly, he stood straight. At first he held his arms limply at his sides and then, perhaps not quite knowing what to do with them, he clasped them behind his back.

He was an older lad. He was dressed in a shiny red blazer, long charcoal-grey trousers, with an immaculate crease down each leg, a grey shirt and tightly knotted red and silver striped tie. He resembled just about any of the schoolboys who had ever stood in my study to receive a lecture as a prelude to a thorough thrashing from me.

“You were seen drinking beer in the Goat’s Head. What have you to say for yourself?”

The Goat’s Head was a pub in town, frequented by under-aged drinkers. One of my colleagues had spied Rawlinson in the bar last evening.

There wasn’t actually a school rule that said pupils could not go into pubs, but I think you would agree with me that we can take it as read that they should not do so.

“Well boy?”

I swear he snorted his reply. “No I wasn’t.”

My blood pressure rose slightly.

“How dare you argue with me boy! You were seen.”

He stared straight at me. “I wasn’t there.”

This was outrageous! I don’t think I had ever in my entire career encountered such insolence from a boy.

“Don’t lie to me boy. You were seen by one of the masters.”

“Who was it? Which one?” he snapped back at me.

I struggled to retain my temper.

“I do not intend to bandy words with you about this matter. Accept that you were caught red-handed and take your punishment.”

“No. I wasn’t there. I didn’t do it.” There was not a trace of fear or contrition in his voice. Usually, by now a boy would be close to tears, confessing all and begging for mercy.

“You were there.” I thought I might be sounding a little foolish. We were beginning to behave like two squabbling children. “You did. I didn’t.”

I was sure how to conclude this. It was my intention to beat him black and blue with my heaviest cane.

But he was not yet ready to submit.

“Let there be an end to this!” I roared as I reached over to a wicker basket containing an array of swishy canes. I selected the heaviest and turned to face Rawlinson. It was a crook-handled senior cane that I used on the older boys when I wished to ensure that the message was clearly understood. This particular model had more spring than flexibility and this meant a significant degree of bite.

Still there was no look of fear in his eyes. He did not even pretend to be nervous or scared.

I swished the cane a few times so he could see I meant business. His eyes followed, fascinated by the arc of the cane as it moved through the air.

“I am going to beat you and I am going to beat you severely. Not only have you been drinking in the pub, you have shown no remorse. Further, you have shown disrespect to your headmaster. I shall give you twelve strokes for each of those offences.

Rawlinson looked at me unabashed. Did I feel more anxious than he? I had never delivered thirty-six strokes at the one time before. Surely his backside would be a mess by the time I laid down my cane.

“But, Sir. I’m too old to be caned, Sir.”

Too old? Good God, they were never too old to be caned.

“Stop that nonsense at once, Rawlinson. You will take a beating, or I will arrange for you to be expelled from this school. What is it to be?”

I swear he smirked. I was dumbfounded, now. I had never been treated with so much disrespect by a boy.

“Hang your blazer on the door boy and stand in front of the desk.

Without hesitation he did as he was told. He faced my desk, hands still clasped behind his back.

“Rawlinson, bend over the desk.”

Rather eagerly, I thought, he stretched his arms out and dived across the desk. He wriggled into position, his stomach flat on the desk and his arms folded in front of him.

His bottom was raised slightly on the near edge of the desk. I moved forward and grabbing the tail end of his grey jersey I pulled the garment up his back. He now offered a superb target, his trousers stretched across his plump buttocks.

“I want you to count as each stroke is delivered. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” delivered in a clear, strong voice.

“Spread your legs wider.”

He did so without fuss.

My first stroke was a beauty. It landed dead centre and fully covered both buttocks.

“One sir, thank you, sir,” he responded without hesitation. Other than that there was no reaction to the searing pain that must at that moment have been travelling from his buttocks all through his body.

And, this was repeated three more times. I was caning hard and he was taking it like a man. I could see clear deep lines had formed across the trouser seat where the cane had struck home. Again, he counted in a clear, resolute voice.

I don’t think I have ever caned a boy as hard as I did Rawlinson that afternoon.  All twelve cuts were superb stingers, delivered with all the power I could muster. Any other boy would have been howling with the pain and dancing over the desktop. I shouldn’t be surprised if they begged for mercy.

But not Rawlinson. I knew he must be in agony. How could he not be after a thrashing like that? His buttocks must be throbbing like mad.

“Stand up Rawlinson. Those twelve strokes were for being in the pub. The next twelve are for not showing remorse. Take down your trousers and bend back over the desk.”

The trousers were down in a jiffy, revealing that he was wearing tight white briefs. I suspected they were a size or two too small for him. This was confirmed when he went back over the desk. I could see a set of welts had formed under the pants. My thrashing had indeed hit the mark so to speak.

“Twelve more Rawlinson. You know the rules. Count after each stroke.”

Again, I laid twelve humdingers into his backside. He counted them off without faltering once. I could see that under the tight cotton some of the welts were beginning to seep blood.

“Stand up Rawlinson.” He sprang to his feet.

“Now for showing disrespect to me, twelve on the bare. Take your pants down.”

He slid his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrist sent them tumbling to his knees. He parted his knees slightly and they fell all the way to his feet.

“Back over the desk.”

I had a perfect view of his by now scarified buttocks. There was some blood, but they there were not, as yet, open wounds. But, soon there would be. I didn’t mind about this at all. I had my job to do.

I lashed into him twelve more times. Not once did he cry out. His body stayed in place hardly moving during the entire thrashing, but as the final six cuts whooshed into his already raw flesh he let out an almost silent cough as each one slashed into him.

It was over. I looked down at the boy prostrated across my desk. He appeared to be breathing evenly, unperturbed by the whipping I had delivered to him. I think maybe it had been more of a physical ordeal for me than for him. I had put my all into the 36 strokes. I was the one breathing heavily.

“Get up boy.” He did so and stood before me. He at least had the good grace to shuffle his feet a little, as if to admit that, yes, he was in some pain.

“Get dressed.”

He pulled up his pants and trousers and buckled his belt, as if he did not have a care in the world.

“You are dismissed.”

Jauntily, he grabbed his blazer from the hook, turned the handle on the door, and was gone.

Five minutes later, more composed myself, I exited my study. Crossing the hall, I knocked on the door of the room opposite.

“Yeah, come in.”

I found Rawlinson, trousers and pants at his knees, admiring my handiwork in a mirror.

“So, how was it?” I asked.

“Brilliant. Fantastic. Wonderful,” he replied a broad smile across his face.

“So, what now?” I inquired.

“Let me put my short trousers on. Then you can take me across your knee and spank me as hard as you like.”

“Okay. I’ll go back to the study. You come along when you’re ready.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

 

Other stories you might like

Missed Opportunities

The drunken neighbour

The run

 

 

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

A Robust Response

I am a fair man, a man of the world. I understand the temptations of the young. I know it is a rocky road to adulthood. I have myself suffered temptations. When I was a teenager I knew desire. I knew what it was to long for the clear skin of other boys, lust over taut muscles, envy their shiny hair, their blazing eyes, ruby-red lips. Long legs, tight buttocks. Sins of the flesh.

As the young say today, “I have been there.” But I was saved. I was eighteen years old when my lusts came to light. I won’t share with you the details. They are too humiliating for me to recall, even now so many years later. But, I was saved by the priests at my school. It took some doing. A modern-day scourging of the flesh. It worked. Homosexuality is only a passing phase, all young men go through it. Yes, it is a sin, but it can be cured. I know. I was cured. And, in a few moments it will be my pleasure – no my duty – to cure a young man at this school similarly afflicted.

In my own case it took three priests, each acting separately, to make the breakthrough. I shall be eternally grateful to them for their diligence; their thoroughness. Without their intervention I should have descended into a cesspool of my own making. Adrift. Never to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Corporal correction; corporal punishment if you will. Punishment of the flesh.  “Blessed are the pure at heart,” the priests at school would say, “Boys, if you are not pure at heart, I’ll flog you!”

In a few moments, Teddy will arrive here at my study. Teddy is a bright young man, I have had my eye on him for some years. He has all the attributes needed to enter the priesthood. But, he has lost his way. Like a lamb in the hillside. But, he is not a lost cause. He can be set back on the right path. I shall save him. He knows why he has been summoned to my study. He has already confessed his sin. He knows he must be saved. He wants to be saved. He can be saved. He will be saved.

I will talk to him so that he understands that the feelings he has are perfectly natural for a young man of eighteen. But, he is a teenager, really still an adolescent. He is going though a phase in his life. He is at a crossroads. He must decide which way to turn. Once I know he understands this we shall pray. God will give his blessing. God loves us. He will protect us. He will save us.

When that is done I shall instruct Teddy to stand behind my desk. It is a very large, heavy walnut beast. I sometimes joke that it could double up as a hockey pitch. While he does that I shall go to my special locked cupboard. Inside I have many instruments of punishment; leather straps, riding crops, whippy rattan rods, and (my favourites) heavy wooden paddles. Teddy is a tall, slim boy. He is a member of the school athletic team and he runs constantly. His body is strong and his legs are long. His buttocks are tight and from memory I calculate that one of my larger paddles would conveniently fit across both cheeks.

I will instruct Teddy to lower his trousers. He might be reluctant to be seen by an older man in his underwear but he will do as I command without question. I am the authority of God. It is His will that this scourging takes place. Once the trousers are down, in all probability the tail of his dress shirt will be so long as to cover his bottom. If this indeed proves to be the case, he must raise his shirt high so that his stomach and back are bared. The next manoeuvre might be tricky. Once I am satisfied that the shirt offers him no protection, he must “assume the position”. This can be a moment of confusion for what constitutes “the position” may vary from person to person. To some it means “bend down, grab your ankles”. Otherwise, it might mean “hands on knees”. Still again, “bend over the back of the chair”. When I say, “Assume the position” I mean stand by the edge of the desk, lean forward, place the forearms squarely on the desk top, head up, look ahead, spread the feet wide.

It can be difficult to convey all this information to the boy about to be paddled. The brighter ones get it almost immediately; not so the dumb. I have on occasion been forced to assume the position myself in order to demonstrate the correct way to present oneself for punishment. I take care in such circumstances to give the young man extra swats by way of compensation for the embarrassment he has caused me.

Once Teddy is in position, the whipping begins. As I have already indicated my paddle of choice is large and I know the blade will cover both buttocks. In preparation I have to take hold of the waistband of his underpants and pull them so tight so that the cotton caresses the bottom like a second skin. I should be able to see the outline of each cheek perfectly, and the ravine that separates them. Once that task is completed it is only a matter of resting the paddle across the target area, tapping it against the tight flesh once or twice for effect, raising the wood high and bringing it back with a resounding crash.

Let me explain what I mean by “for effect”. Such a beating as this is of course about inflicting pain. A great deal of pain (agony even) in many cases. Of course it is, otherwise what is the point of it all? But along with the actual pain comes anticipation. I remember from my own times “in position” for the priests that the preparation, the waiting, the anticipation of the pain to come, the humiliation, was almost as much punishment as the paddling itself.

So, I shall take my time with Teddy. Pat, pat here. Tap, tap there. Swat! Once the first blow has been struck I shall count to twenty (in my head, not aloud). This will add somewhat to the effect. It will give a moment for the pain of the blow to register. I well remember how one hears the whack of wood connecting with one’s own flesh maybe a second before the pain registers. That is when the body shudders or shakes as red-hot aching radiates from the rear end and travels up and down the legs. As more and more swats are delivered that agony journeys through the whole body becoming tortuous. The peak of pain of each swat lasts maybe ten seconds. When I beat a boy I make sure there is a further ten seconds for the sinner to anticipate the next blow before I deliver it.

I have a routine when spanking; a rhythm if you will. I start in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and in most cases fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe goes lower; the third higher. In this way it is possible to have the entire area ablaze after only three swats: from the top near the spine, over the mounds of flesh and into the underside where the thighs meet. With the whole rear end blazing each successive stroke will land on already damaged flesh, reigniting the hurt and adding to its intensity considerably.

I shall award Teddy twelve strokes. I shall leave it to your own imagination to visualise the state of his flesh by the time I have finished. Remember also that the thin cotton underpants offer no useful protection against the paddle. If that is the case, you might think to ask, why don’t I beat my young man on the bare posterior? It is a good question and I think you would agree making Teddy remove his underwear would increase the humiliation of the occasion somewhat. Given my own head I would not hesitate to beat him “on the bare”, but if you read the lying Liberal newspapers you would know that the Church is under much scrutiny these days. I am certain all right-thinking people agree with our way of combating homosexuality among the young; but a manufactured scandal about our method would only be a distraction.

Teddy is a strong young man, I fully expect him to take his punishment stoically. He will assume the position and stay in it until I command that he may stand. I have no doubt his body will react against the agony I shall inflict and his legs will buckle, his back buck, his shoulders shake and his head will neigh like a horse. But, he will stay in place. He will offer his backside to me. He will obey.

There may be tears. This is often involuntary. Think when you hit yourself on the thumb with a hammer do your eyes not water? I keep paper tissues in a box in my drawer. I find such are useful for a number of emergencies that can take place in my study.

Teddy will dress, we shall pray once more. I shall remind him that I (and God) love him and send him on his way.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Thieving cousins

The military kid

The paying guest

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com