The French student

new 5

z used otk head bare

Back in the day I was a great defender of the English way of life. This was long before we got mixed up in the European Union and lost our national identity.

Every summer for years I took into my home students from France who were in town to learn English. Also, the college that paid me asked me teach them something about our ‘culture’. A pleasure, I said. I meant it too.

The kids were eighteen or nineteen. They’d finished school and were often waiting to go off to university back home. In those days you didn’t become a legal adult until you turned twenty-one, so my houseguests were still children in my mind. That meant I was responsible for them, a bit like I was their father.

I took my responsibilities seriously. With the help of the college I drew up a contract of behaviour that I insisted all students who stayed with me signed. It wasn’t complicated. There was something about night time curfews (they were here to learn, they were not on vacation); meal times and so on. I have a huge house with three different ‘reception’ rooms and I told them which were out of bounds.

The college praised me for my foresight in having such a contract. I beamed with pleasure when they said that. Only later did I add the paragraph about the use of corporal punishment.

Being an Englishman that meant the whippy, rattan cane. There was a sixpenny bazaar in the High Street that sold traditional ‘school-type’ canes. They came in a variety of lengths and thicknesses and I stocked up with half a dozen (“Six of the best,” I joked to the young salesman who served me). Some came with crook handles and others had twine wrapped around one end to make a handle.

I cleared out a cupboard in one of my lounge rooms and deposited the canes inside. I also collected together some other items from around the house that might come in useful. I still had a heavy rubber-soled gym shoe from when I was at school. That went in the cupboard. Also, a heavy ebony hairbrush that I once bought at a junk shop in the Portobello Road in London. I added to that an ancient leather razor strop that had been in my family for generations. A shaving razor had not been near it in decades.

By the time I was finished I had quite a collection. I was ready for any eventuality.

The students were all surprisingly similar. Mostly they came from small towns or villages and had been kept on tight reins by their parents and schoolmasters. Now, as they saw it, out in the free world they thought they could run wild. I have to say that our town of Brocklehurst is hardly a den of iniquity but we can boast a sizeable university so even in those days there were clubs and bars to entice them.

My guests were only too willing to be tested, hence the need for that contract. I was a stickler for curfew. Home by ten every night. In bed, lights out by eleven on a college night. I let them stay up until eleven-thirty at other times. I always believed in the old adage “early to bed, early to rise …” I didn’t see why my routine should be disturbed by a noisy teenager.

I think the kids signed my contract without reading it too closely (English wasn’t their first language after all). They didn’t always take note of the section headed: Corporal punishment (administration of). Not, until it was too late.

Pierre was one of the first kids who boarded with me. He was eighteen and was on some kind of ‘gap year’ between finishing school and going on to university. I was to learn he was a typical boy let loose away from his parents. Brocklehurst in those days was a staid place but some people knew they could make a few quid out of the students so they set up places like coffee bars and dance halls where they could relieve them of their money. Pierre was only too willing to go anywhere that offered the chance of ‘fun’, especially if that included the chance to meet girls.

Need I say that the possibility to meet girls far outweighed his obligation to return to my home before curfew. I am not a hard man, but I believe in rules. I believe in order. I believe in being in charge. I warned Pierre of the consequences if he stayed out late. I showed him the contents of my cupboard. He was left in no doubts. He could only blame himself.

So I lectured him on responsibility, self-discipline, consideration for others. It was quite a speech. He looked bemused half the time. I suppose his English wasn’t up to it. He might not have understood all I was saying but he got it when I said, “Now I am going to spank you.” His face blanched, despite the deep suntan. He blustered. Now it was my turn not to understand. I suppose for some things there’s a universal language. His tone of voice told me he was saying, “No, but, you can’t,” and so on. He might even have said, “I’m too old to be spanked.” Certainly, that was something many of them told me over the years. Too old Bah! Eighteen and nineteen is not too old to be spanked.

I had no intention of flogging him into a pulp, but he needed a wakeup call, that was for sure. I had a choice: a cane, a heavy strap, a plimsoll, hairbrush, you name it. But no, what Pierre needed was a good old-fashioned spanking. Do they say fessee in France? Trousers and pants down and over my knee. Bare bottomed. Spanked until his cheeks burnt red hot. Spanked until they glowed in the dark.

Back in the day I hadn’t yet run to fat. I was no athlete, but I still had some strength. Pierre, was probably an inch or so taller than myself and as thin as most kids were in those days. Despite his constant rule-breaking he was a pretty conventional kid. I have no idea if his father ever spanked him, or an uncle or some other adult in his life. Certainly, he understood the concept of  the instruction, “bend over my knee.”

We were in the room I called my lounge. There were a couple of armchairs and a sofa. Against the wall stood a straight-backed chair. I pulled it into the centre of the room. Pierre’s eyes popped. If he hadn’t believed it before, he did now: I was deadly serious. I sat down and spread my legs. I wriggled my buttocks to get comfortable. Pierre gaped, the tip of his tongue poked through his lips. He was silent but the apprehension was clear in his face. He was standing some distance from me. “Come here,” I ordered. He flinched and started to turn his back on me.

“Pah!” I exclaimed and reached forward, took him by the forearm and pulled him towards me. He may have been too astonished to resist. I was done lecturing, now was the time for action. He wore fashionable loon pants trousers that had no waistband. They were held up with a single button. It took two seconds to release it and tug his zipper down. The loons slid down his bony thighs. I took hold of his wrist and pulled him so that unbalanced he toppled face down across my knee.

I suppose I had the element of surprise because Pierre did not struggle. He waved his arms about but that was so he could keep his balance and not tumble to the floor. He wore tight maroon-coloured briefs. They fitted his tight cheeks perfectly; like a second skin almost. I did not hesitate. “These serve little purpose at a time like this,” I told him as I dug my fingers under the elasticated waistband and with three tugs I had them clear of his bottom.

That’s when he began to struggle. But he was too late. His head was low and his bottom high. At this angle it was impossible for him to reach back with his hands to protect his bottom. I pressed my left arm hard against his shoulders. He was pinned down, going nowhere until I said so. He called out in French, obviously protesting about the indignity of his position.

I peeled up the end of his t-shirt so it was well clear of his bottom. I took a second to observe my target. Two small, round unblemished cheeks rested against my thigh, perfectly positioned for the task I had to perform. I curved the palm of my hand and slapped him hard. Again, and again and again. The sound of my palm against his rock-hard bottom resounded around the small room. The rapid spanks sounded like machinegun fire; I landed eighty or more slaps in the first minute. I was rewarded with an extended hissing from Pierre as he exhaled all the air from his lungs. His head rose and fell. Then he shook it from left to right. His arms flailed about, and his hips swerved. It was like he was trying to swim off my lap. Fat chance.

I was spanking him too quickly to be able to count how many slaps I delivered. I was delighted to see the outline of my palm reproduced in red all across his buttocks; from the peaks of his mounds, over the crests and into the soft spot where the crease meets the thighs. Satisfied that every square inch of his bum was now red hot, I went for the back of his thighs.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I didn’t need a translator to understand that. Pierre was in pain. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the back of his neck was as scarlet as his backside. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. The eighteen-year-old foreign language student was feeling this spanking.

By now my hand was smarting almost as much as Pierre’s bum. I didn’t care. It was a small price to pay. It was my duty to punish Pierre. And to teach him; teach him a little about the English way of life. I would happily have kept up the bare-bottomed spanking for half an hour or more, but suddenly I was aware of an urgent tapping on the window. Without pausing my onslaught on Pierre’s writhing bum, I looked up. Peering through the window was a man in uniform and wearing a peaked cap. He was holding up a parcel at the window for me to see. Startled, I momentarily relaxed my grip on Pierre and taking his chance he wriggled off my lap and fell to the floor where in one athletic movement he rolled over, leapt to his feet and while still tugging up his pants and trousers, fled from the room.

I went to the front door. The postman handed me a long, thin parcel and walked back down the path without a word. I glanced at the postmark: Lochgelly. Eagerly, I took it into the kitchen. I lit the gas under the kettle before ripping open the brown paper. A lovely two-tailed leather taws slipped into my hands. I caressed it and lovingly lifted it to my face to savour the aroma of fresh leather. A new toy for my collection. The kettle whistled and I made myself tea which I sipped slowly wondering how long I would have to wait before I had Pierre across the kitchen table.

Picture credit: Franco

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A spanking before bedtime

new 5

z used slipper pyjamas bare chair sting (2)

Go to your room, get changed into you pyjamas and meet me in the lounge. You’re getting a spanking before bedtime.

…….

Come in, stand there. Don’t slouch. Look at me when I’m talking to you. When I took you out of that half-way house for young offenders and gave you a room in my own house, you made certain promises to me. You agreed to abide by my rules. They are not onerous, but a lad like yourself needs guidelines. You need boundaries. You cannot be relied upon to always know the difference between right and wrong. That’s why we have rules. You even signed a contract with me about your behaviour.

Yes, you might look sheepish. They weren’t that strict. Ordinary, decent people wouldn’t think twice about keeping them. I asked that you were polite and respectful at all times to myself and Mrs Burlington. My wife informs me that you are often abrupt and surly with her. You agreed to hold down a job and I am pleased that you have secured a position at Robinson’s store, but I have received reports that you are often late back from lunch and there is a cloud over you and two other employees regarding the disappearance of a bottle of whisky from the off-licence department.

I asked that you attend all meals on time and that you do not stay out later than ten-thirty in the evenings. Last Saturday, you may remember you did not return until close to midnight. My wife informs me that you appear to have been inebriated at the time. I gave you strict instructions that the front room of the house was Mrs Burlington’s private domain and it was out of bounds to you. Mary, our maid, tells me that she saw you sneaking out – her words – of the room one morning last week.

I don’t consider you a wicked or evil lad. I am aware that you had an unfortunate upbringing and at an early age you ceased to be under the control of your parents. You have paid the price for your crimes. They were in the great scheme of things relatively petty, but I don’t suppose the people you stole from think the same.

When I took you into my house I was sure you were a reformed character. I still have great faith in you. If I did not we would not be here this evening. You know that under the terms of the licence that brought you here you can be returned to the half-way house at my discretion. I do not want to do that. I believe in giving people a chance, especially those less fortunate than myself. I want to help you. I believe you can make something of yourself. I have great hopes for you.

That is why I am going to give you a dose of my slipper. I know you are nineteen, going on twenty, and you might think you are too old for such punishment. I don’t agree. You need to be pulled up sharp lad. A short-sharp-shock. Many might say a slippering is a very childish punishment and a lad as big and strong as you deserves something far more severe. They have a case. If your behaviour does not improve after this evening I might have to resort to administering a flogging. Certainly, I am in possession of a very stout, Malacca cane, the type, so I am told, that was once used on unruly boys at borstal institutions. Please don’t make me have to use it on you.

Let’s get on with it. Stand over there, in front of that chair. No, please don’t try to argue. My mind is made up. You deserve a jolly good spanking and that’s just what you are going to get. This is for your own good. You might not believe me now, but one day you will almost certainly thank me for nights like this. I have your best interests at heart.

Right, now take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over. Rest your hands on the seat of the chair. Yes! The slipper on your bare bottom. I hope you feel ashamed. I want you to think very carefully about your behaviour. I want to see a very marked improvement from you. Now, please do as I ask; don’t make me have to come over there and take them down for you.

Good. Now, keep those knees straight. Arch your back. Please stick out your bottom a little more. Let’s get this pyjama jacket out of the way. Hold still, don’t wriggle about. You must learn to take your spankings with some dignity.

Right, remember lad, I’m doing this for your own good ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The rent collector

z used new story 2

z used solo defiant look pants by Bleuboyz (5)

The first thing you need to do is drop the attitude. You are in deep trouble, and you know it. You must have thought I was joking when I said I’d spank you if you didn’t come up with the rent. Well, you owe four weeks now, so you’d better start handing it over.

Haven’t got it? Well, why am I not surprised? Look at you. It’s nearly midday and you were still in bed when I called. Why don’t you get a job. There are plenty about, one’s that pay enough for the rent on this room. You’re just plain lazy and that’s the truth. Young people today think they’re owed a living. You are about to learn a painful lesson in life.

Do you see this? It’s a paddle. I don’t suppose you’ve ever seen one close up before. Never felt one across your ass, that’s for sure. See that blade. Those holes cut in it, they’re to make it fly quicker through the air. They leave blisters on your butt. By the time I’m through with you that creamy-white ass of yours will be covered in big red sores. You ain’t gonna be sitting down for some time buddy.

So? Do you have the money? No? How come, you must be getting it from somewhere. Look at all the empty beer cans here. I bet you’re on drugs too. All kids your age are. How old are you anyhow: twenty, twenty-one? You really ought to be earning your living by now. Out in the world, paying your way.

So, no rent gets you a spanking. Don’t look so smug. You’re getting a tanning. Ah! Who’s that at the door? Come in Mr Pritchard, thank you for joining us. Have you met Mr Pritchard? You might have seen him working the doors on one of the landlord’s many business enterprises in town. He’s here to assist me in my work. See, I reckon you ain’t about to meekly give me your little hiney to spank, so Mr Pritchard here is going to make sure I don’t go away disappointed. Isn’t that right Mr Pritchard?

So, are you going to come quietly? No, I didn’t think so. Mr Pritchard  grab him and hold him down across the table please.

Don’t fight him. You can’t win. Do you want two broken arms as well as a blistered butt? No, I didn’t think so. Stop struggling.

Thank you Mr Pritchard. Hold him face down. That’s right. Sit on his shoulders if you have to. Good. Right sonny, let me get your underwear down. Don’t fight me. You don’t want me to rip them, they look mighty expensive. Is that why you can’t pay the rent, you’re spending all your money on designer shorts? Or do you have a boyfriend buys them for you. I bet that’s it, a pretty boy like you. Does he pay for the beer and the drugs? You ought to get him to set you up in an apartment someplace.

Stop shouting. D’you want to disturb the neighbours? Look, if you don’t keep quite I’m going to put a sock in your mouth. Do you want that? No, I didn’t think so.

Right. My, what a magnificent butt. I bet you like to show that around The Village. Do you sell it? What a great piece of ass. I bet it fetches a premium. Okay, Mr Pritchard, hold him steady please. Let’s take the skin off his hiney. How may swats do you think? How about one swat for every dollar rent he owes. Does that sound fair?

One …

Two …

Three …

Hold him steady Mr Pritchard ….

Picture credit: Bleuboyz

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Landlord is sick of the lodger

z used new story 2

I lay flat on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling, the ache in my pulsating cock driving me crazy. The strain against my already tight underpants was intense. It was Sarah, the girl with the big tits who serves in the Three Fishers. I couldn’t get her out of my mind. My face, those bazoomas. I turned to my side and reached over to the cabinet and grabbed a handful of Kleenex. I rolled onto my back and urgently ripped down my pants. I gobbed spit onto the palm of my right hand and set to work.

My head still spun. It had been one hell of a night. It always is at The Three Fishers. Lots of girls, of course. I didn’t get anywhere. They prefer the students. What have they got that I haven’t. God alone knows what time I returned to my lodgings. I was three sheets to the wind. How the hell I got back, I’ll never know. I was steaming. Had I been sick? I had a vague idea I might have been.

I slowly massaged my swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. I closed my eyes, imagining Sarah’s breasts and my tongue, licking, then slurping. Nipples erect. Me sucking, she groaning with ecstasy.

A groan of pure pleasure. This time real. My own. My fingers continuing to massage the warm, sticky, foreskin covered head. My other hand played with my own nipples, pinching one then the other tightly between finger and thumb, the sharp pain adding to the intensely erotic mixture of sensations my body was experiencing. I was building up towards orgasm. I writhed on the bed as it seemed to go on and on. Suddenly the cock in my hand started to pulse and throb and white fluid splashed across my stomach.

I cleaned myself down and screwed up the soiled tissues. I left them to flush down the toilet later. I turned over, snuggled under the duvet, hugged a pillow to my chest and tried to get back to sleep.

I wasn’t to know that downstairs, my landlord Mr Dickens sat at his kitchen table in despair, peering down at the pool of cold, congealed sick in the middle of the floor. He eased himself from the chair and shuffled across the room, picked up a kettle and filled it from the cold water tap. While he waited for it to boil he stared closer at the putrid mass on the floor. This wasn’t the first time. If he didn’t do something about it, it would be the last either.

The kettle switched itself off. Mr Dickens put a level teaspoon of instant coffee into the bottom of a mug and carefully poured the boiling water. He opened the fridge door. There was no milk. He cursed under his breath. That brat of a lodger has drunk it. He returned to his chair and blew across the top of the mug in a futile attempt to cool the coffee. It was then he formulated his plan.

The coffee was soon okay to drink. He sipped it thoughtfully.

….

I dozed, not quite awake, but not quite asleep either. If I had been more alert I might have been able to do something about it. I might have heard Mr Dickens stomping up the stairs. I never saw it coming.  The bedroom door flew open. A huge man framed the doorway. Tall and broad and muscled. A sour expression on his face. Mr Dickens, my landlord with a huge heavy wooden brush in his hand.

“You brat. It’s time you were taught a lesson.” That’s all he said. There was no need for explanation. I knew immediately what he meant. I tried to sit up but before I cold Mr Dickens rushed forward and tugged the duvet onto the floor. I was naked. He grabbed me by the arm. His physical strength startled me. I had never noticed before. He was just the old geezer who was my landlord.

z used otk naked bed straightladsspankdeddotcom

It took two tugs for him to haul me to my feet. I whimpered a protest. It was something like, “But… you can’t.” But, he could and he did. I was clear of the bed standing dumbfounded. He plonked his backside down on the mattress and bounced as his weight sank. He still had my arm. He pulled me to his left and within a blink of an eye I was spread-eagled, face-down over his knees. Me, total naked. Absurdly, I remember my balls were trapped under the weight of my body and were pressing into the coarse denim jeans he wore. The tip of my cock dribbled spunk. Mr Dickens didn’t seem to mind his jeans being soiled (perhaps, he didn’t realise.)

He said nothing. His intention was clear. He gripped his left hand around my waist. Of course, I struggled. I twisted this way and that. I kicked out my legs. My shoulders heaved. I lifted my head and shouted. I called him all the names under the sun. Truth be told, I couldn’t escape. He was naked, face down across my landlord’s knees. Totally at the mercy of Mr Dickens and that heavy brush.

My protests just spurred him on to action. I heard the thwack of the heavy wooden brush connect with my naked buttock cheek a nanosecond before I felt the intense sting. It was like he had pressed a boiling hot wet cloth into my flesh. I gasped and wriggled and he sent a second and then a third whack across my upturn rear.

I hadn’t given it much consideration before, but my bum is actually quite small. Like the rest of me, I suppose. The huge head of the brush covered about half a cheek, so by the time he had walloped me six or seven times, not one square centimetre of my bum was un-toasted. The pain was intense. I don’t know about you, but I had never been spanked before in my life. I don’t suppose there are many eighteen year olds these days who have been. I didn’t know what a spanking was supposed to be like. It had to hurt (obviously) otherwise what was the point of it? But, somehow, instinctively, I reckoned Mr Dickens wasn’t just giving me a common or garden type of spanking. This was something special.

My bum was on fire. He whacked that goddam brush everywhere. He went for that fleshy part that’s like the crest of the hills, then he pummelled into the top of the mounds. Then (oh God, this hurt so much!) he slapped the undercurves, just where the buttocks meet the backs of the thighs. When he did that I thought I would never feel anything that hurt so much. How wrong I was! He raised that brush so high and brought it down with maximum force right across the back of the thighs themselves. I hollered.  I howled. I cannot deny it. I couldn’t breathe. I thought I would pass out. My heart was thumping so much I though it would burst through my chest.

“Nooooo! Please!!!!” I yowled. My humiliation was total. Me, eighteen years old, a trainee solicitor in a prestigious firm in town, stark naked across the knee of an older, powerful man, getting my little bottom blistered with a heavy wooden brush. Just like I was an eight year old kid.

Mr Dickens ignored my pleas. He was a man on a mission. He was possessed. Whap! Bang! Splat! On and on and on, he spanked me.

Sweat poured off Mr Dickens. His armpits were drenched. Be he was not deterred. He had the strength of an ox. At last he stopped. He still gripped my waist. I was still face down. Still naked. Still totally humiliated.

“Right, you brat!” Mr Dicken released me, I jumped to my feet. I jumped from one foot to the other (the spanking dance). My cock and balls flopped up and down. My hands shot to my backside. The skin felt like tough leather. It was intensely hot. Suddenly, Mr Dickens grabbed a hunk of my hair, he dragged me across the room. My bare feet could not get a grip and slid as he pulled me over the carpet. My elbow banged on the doorway as he bundled me through. My arms flailed. I tried to punch at him, but he was wise to me. Within seconds he had me bouncing down the stairs. We came to an unsteady halt on the lower landing. He released his grip on my hair and took my wrist instead. I was powerless to stop him.

He pushed me into the kitchen. “Now,” he growled as he forced me down on my knees. “Clear up that mess.”

The doorbell rang. He left me and went to answer the door. I heard him call “Get on with it,” as he opened the door. Moments later his daughter and her two young sons stood and watched opened mouthed as naked and on hands and knees I wiped up my vomit.

Picture credit: straight lads spanked dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Jackson

new story 2

z used otk slipper pyjamas (8)

“Right lad. Let’s get you spanked and sent to bed.” Jackson looked at me from the vantage point of his chair. He was trying to grimace, to look grim. His moon face gave him away. He couldn’t hide the smirk, he was enjoying this too much. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee. And be quick about it.” Jackson gripped one of his own bedroom slippers in his right fist.

He knew I would obey his order. I had done so in the past and would do it again many times in the future. I took hold of the drawstring of my pyjamas and untied it. The bottoms slipped down to my thighs. I held on to them so they didn’t hurtle to my feet. I shuffled over to Jackson’s side. He spread his legs to offer me a platform. He was in his own pyjamas but wearing a dressing gown. He always did this. I suppose it stopped his tackle dangling out.

I reached forward so that my body fell across his lap. My bare bottom was perfectly placed. Moments later I felt the familiar sting and rush of adrenaline as the slipper connected for the first time with my right buttock cheek.

I had met Jackson at the beginning of my second year at university. Me and two pals rented a furnished flat in the High Street over a chiropodist’s office. A chiropodist is a foot doctor – did you know that? I didn’t. Jackson was that chiropodist and also our landlord. There was nowhere for the postman to leave letters at our flat so I would collect the mail from the receptionist at the chiropodist’s office every day. Sometimes Jackson was around and he would stop for a little chat. Inconsequential stuff; I can’t for the life of me remember anything that we talked about.

In the winter there was an emergency at the flat and the entire plumbing needed fixing. It meant we had to vacate. My two mates found people to put them up for the few days it would take before we could move back in. But, I was stuck. Jackson said he had a spare room at his house; so I went to stay.

Jackson was old enough to be my father and I don’t suppose we had too much in the way of common interests. I am gay and have never hidden it but to look at me you might not know. I look pretty ordinary and it’s not easy to tell. I don’t want to say I look “normal”, but I think you know where I’m coming from.

Jackson spotted I was gay straight away. It takes one to know one, I suppose. He didn’t make a pass at me or anything, but we did share a bottle of wine one evening while we chatted and got to know each other a little bit.

The first Friday I was staying with Jackson I went out and got bladdered. I was a student after all; it’s what students do. I got back to the house in the early hours three sheets to the wind. I was so drunk I couldn’t get my key into the front door. I guess I made quite a racket trying and failing to get into the house because Jackson had to come down and let me in. Even in my state I could see he was pretty pissed off with me, but he didn’t say anything.

Not until the next day. On Saturday afternoon, he called me into the room we laughingly called “the library”. It was just a standard living room really, but Jackson had put shelves around the walls and he kept all his books in there so they didn’t clutter up the rest of the house. There were a couple of low easy chairs and a table. I used the room myself for studying because I had no table in my bedroom.

Jackson gave me a good talking to. A right telling off. He told me he was angry about being dragged out of bed to let me in. I apologised. He had a right to be upset, I said. I’m sorry. “Good,” he said and he stared fiercely at me, “Because if it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. Now, clear off. Don’t you have studying to do?”

I stumbled out of the library in a daze. “Spanking?” He was joking right? Of course he was, I assured myself. Spanking indeed. What did he take me for – a little kid? I didn’t think any more about Jackson’s threat until hours later when once again I was drunk as a skunk. I staggered down The Avenue, the upscale suburban street where Jackson lived (foot doctoring clearly pays well). I held on to the gatepost at the end of the drive that went up to the house. I searched my pockets to find my key. I gripped it tightly and taking small pigeon steps I scrunched up the gravel path. I reached the door and hesitated. I had to make a decision. I closed one eye and carefully lined up my key with the lock. After two unsuccessful attempts I got it in. I could enter the house quietly and go to bed. Or, I could make an almighty clatter and wake up Jackson. If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I hesitated some more, trying to clear my head. I turned the key quietly, entered the house and tip-toed across the hallway. I thought I was doing pretty well until, I tripped over a wellington boot Jackson had carelessly left at the foot of the stairs. As I fell arse over tit I took the hat stand with me. The row it made would have woken the dead, let alone Jackson. But as it happens he was already awake. As I stumbled from my knees to my feet the door to the library opened and Jackson stood there, hands on hips. He pursed his lips so it looked like he had sucked on a lemon.

“Bed now. I’ll speak to you tomorrow,” he growled. Holding tightly to the banisters I crawled up the stairs. I crashed out on the bed and slept the sleep of the unjust for about nine hours. My head was pretty clear when I woke. I had the typical recovery powers of a nineteen-year-old. I only had a vague recollection of the previous night, but the words, “I’ll speak to you tomorrow” were clear in my mind.

As were If it happens again, you’ll have to be spanked. I did the three S’s – shit, shower and shave – and then went downstairs. I found Jackson in the kitchen surrounded by the Sunday Times. He peered over the top of the gardening section, his face stern. “Ah, good morning. Or should I say afternoon,” he dripped sarcasm. I nodded a perfunctory greeting and grabbed a bowl from the draining board and filled it with cornflakes. Jackson rose from his chair. “When you’ve eaten that come to the library. Don’t be long.”

I dragged it out as long as I could like it was a condemned man’s final meal. Spanking. Did he really intend to spank me? Absurd though it may sound to you, I thought he actually might. I had never been spanked in my life and I don’t remember that any of my friends growing up were either. They had the cane at school, but I never got it. You could say that I was a virgin to corporal punishment. No, I said to myself as I made my way to the library; all he’s going to do it give me a bollocking. Which, I would readily admit, I deserved.

Jackson was seated in one of the easy chairs. He peered at me as I entered the room as if I were a stranger and he was sizing me up for the first time. I stood, embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to say. I hoped he would start talking soon. He did, but he had few words for me.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he said and then without further warning he leaned forwards and with his left hand he grabbed my right wrist. He pulled me towards him and then downwards so hard that I almost flew across his knees. I hollered a protest and kicked my legs about but it didn’t stop Jackson slapping his hand onto my backside. He went at a rush and struck me with some force. He put his whole effort into spanking my rear end. He gripped me tight at the waist and despite my kicking and flailing I was stuck face down, bottom up across Jackson’s knee. I stared down at the carpet incredulously: I was having my backside spanked. Me, nineteen years old, across the knees of a much older man getting whacked. Could you imagine such a thing?

I was pinned into position, I was going nowhere. I was at Jackson’s mercy. I couldn’t believe it. And, here’s something else I couldn’t believe: I was loving every moment of it. I think it must have been a submissive thing. Of course, with my jeans and pants on I didn’t feel a thing. Poor Jackson’s hand was hurting much more than my backside. He must have known that, but it didn’t stop him pounding my bum. He must have had a beautiful target. My buttocks were firm and pert in those days and my jeans were shrunk to fit. They left nothing to the imagination. Jackson spanked every square inch of my bum at least three times over and then he turned his attention to the back of my thighs.

I could have stayed there all day. Jackson on the other hand was running out of steam. At last, almost exhausted, he released his grip on my body and pushed me so that I rolled off his lap and onto the floor. My own heart was racing and my temples throbbed. The room was blurred (when it wasn’t spinning). I had taken all kinds of drugs in the past but none of them had done this to me.

I stumbled to my knees. I was only inches from Jackson’s crotch. He might have been an “old” man but his tackle seemed to be in good working order. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson,” Jackson’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. It echoed like we were in a canyon not a small room in a suburban house. I blinked to clear my head a little. He repeated himself, “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

I heard him more clearly the second time. I grinned. My eyebrows shot heavenwards. I said nothing. I didn’t have the words. Jackson’s moon face shone. He grinned, “Oh, It’s like that is it, young man.” He gripped my wrist once more and hauled me to my feet. In one swift expert movement he had my jeans at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. He threw me back across his knee and this time I felt every one of those vicious slaps as Jackson almost literally took my arse off.

At the end of the academic year me and my friends decided to give up the flat above the chiropodist’s. They went back to their families for the long vacation. I could have gone to mine, but I was twenty years old now and being with my Mum and Dad held no attractions. I mentioned it to Jackson when I went to give him notice to quit. “Come and stay with me,” he said quietly. “If you want to, of course,” he added with a wink. I moved in at the end of the month.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Meet the Greenes

The Country Club

Paying the rent

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Kevin’s landlord

new story 2

z used cane holding kernled (2)

Kevin stands in the middles of the sitting room, gaping at his landlord. His head is light and the room is spinning. His heart races and although he cannot see it he knows his face is flushed bright red. He can’t quite catch his breath. He has never had an out-of-body experience, but he knows this must be how it feels. The room has a dreamlike quality. All is hazy. He cannot quite find his bearings, although he has been in this room dozens of times before.

His landlord is speaking to him. Kevin cannot make out the words. He feels from the tone of voice his landlord is not happy. The landlord’s face is pasty, the lines on his forehead and cheeks are as deep as ravines. The landlord is angry. Kevin struggles to make out the words. His knees begin to buckle. Every one of his senses is in overdrive. He fears he might faint to the floor.

His landlord takes a pace across the room. It is a large room. At one end there is a large leather sofa with two heavy, matching plush armchairs. Opposite them is a dining room table, large enough to seat eight people in comfort. Against the walls are dark, mahogany bookcases full of china ornaments. There is a sizeable collection of dogs and cats in cute poses.

Kevin’s head is static, but his eyes follow his landlord on his travels. What saliva that is left in Kevin’s mouth drains. His temple start to throb and his eyes water a little. The landlord is small in stature, his shoulders slump a little. He will never see seventy again. He halts by the dining room table. Turns to Kevin says something that the teenager cannot decipher. Kevin is not listening, he is watching. His eyes stand on stalks when his landlord reaches forwards and gently picks up the long, thin whippy rattan cane that rests there. He peers at it for a moment as if he has never seen it before. As if he has no idea what it is. As if he did not know what it is used for.

Suddenly, the landlord snaps out of his spell. He turns to face Kevin. Now, the landlord has the cane in both hands. He flexes it, demonstrating to Kevin how easily it bends. Kevin stares transfixed. The cane is about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It is yellowy-brown in colour and even at a distance Kevin can see the notches that run along its length. His landlord swishes the cane through the air. It makes a terrific whooshing sound as it flies. Kevin closes his eyes and is transported back in time.

It is five minutes previously. Kevin is passing through the gate to the large detached house that for the duration of this university term will be his home. Kevin feels the gravel crunch under his feet as he makes his way to the door. He fishes in his pocket for his housekey. His attention is drawn to a large bay window to his right. He knows it is the window to the sitting room, he has passed this way many times before. Usually he would not notice it. What is there to see? It is just a window, after all.

There is something different this late afternoon. He hears the sound of voices. Kevin is not an inquisitive boy. He has no interest in other people’s conversations, especially not in their private conversations. But there is something special about this conversation. He cannot at first understand what it is that has made him stop and listen. He realises immediately that it is his landlord speaking. It is a warm day and the windows are open. Kevin cannot hear the words clearly, but there is no mistaking the tone of voice. His landlord is angry. Kevin is intrigued, but he does not understand why. Something is drawing him to take two steps closer to the window. He does not go too close. Kevin is a well brought up young man. He knows it is rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.

He stays a distance from the window. He can hear enough to get the gist of the conversations. He can see perfectly into the room. He sees his landlord and the landlord’s son Eric. Eric is wearing his school uniform. Kevin supposes he has just returned home from school. Eric is in his last year at school and Kevin knows enough about Eric to know that he is not the best behaved eighteen-year-old in the town of Brocklehurst. Kevin stands perfectly still, his conscious is troubling him. He knows he should not be there, spying. But, an instinct he does not understand makes him stay. Something is about to happen. Kevin cannot guess what that something will be, but he knows – he just knows – that it will be momentous. Things will never be the same again.

Kevin’s landlord is at least seventy but his wife Alice is closer to forty. Life can be complicated some times. Kevin has yet to learn this. He soon will. Kevin watches as his landlord delivers a lecture to his son. Eric remains impassive, head slightly bowed. The lecture is soon ended. Eric elects not to respond. Kevin watches as his landlord imperiously steps across the room. His landlord pulls open a drawer that is part of the dining room table. He reaches in. He pulls out a thin, whippy cane. It is just like the ones that are used to punish naughty boys in schools up and down the land. Kevin’s jaw drops. It literally falls an inch or two and his mouth is open.

Kevin’s landlord says something to Eric. Kevin cannot hear what he has said, but Eric does and he responds immediately. Kevin watches fascinated, unbelieving. He sees Eric shuffle a couple of steps across the room until he reaches the dining room table. He stops, hesitates for a moment and then slowly leans forward. He does not stop until his stomach and chest are laying flat across the table top. Eric stretches his arms forward and with his hands he grasps the far end of the table. In this position Eric’s buttocks are angled across the near edge of the table.

Kevin has a perfect view. Eric’s pale-grey trousers are stretched across his bottom. He is a large boy and in this position his buttock cheeks appear round and firm. He parts his legs a little and wriggles his hips. He settles. Eric is now submissive. He is waiting for his father to get on with it. Kevin has never seen anything like this before. They did not have corporal punishment at his school. He knows about canings, of course. He has seen enough comics and read countless school stories while growing up.

Kevin’s heart races as he watches his landlord tuck the cane under his right armpit and approach his prone son. With great delicacy Kevin’s landlord takes hold of the edge of Eric’s blazer and gently he pushes it up the teenager’s back. He moves it far enough that it is out of the way of his target area. Kevin sees Eric’s buttocks quiver. He assumes it must be the anticipation of what is to come that makes them do that.

Kevin’s own body is also reacting with anticipation. Kevin has urges. Desires. Wants. Needs. He has never spoken about this to a living soul. The front of his underpants suddenly become tight. Kevin’s landlord rubs the palm of his right hand gently across Eric’s left buttock. Then he does the same to the right cheek. He is smoothing out the wrinkles from the seat of Eric’s trousers. He is satisfied. He is good to go.

Kevin watches, transfixed. Kevin’s landlord takes a step away from his son’s submissive body. He stands to the left, slips the cane from the armpit to the hand. He taps it across the very centre of Eric’s bottom. He takes aim. Kevin sees Eric’s buttocks tense. They are a little firmer than before. The cane taps. Once. Twice. Kevin’s landlord raises the rod above shoulder height and with a slight twisting of his body he brings it crashing down across Eric’s bottom. Kevin winces as the cracking sound of rattan connecting with stretched trousers reverberates around the room. The windows are open and the noise is clearly heard in the driveway. Kevin wonders if they can hear it beyond the walls and hedges in The Avenue.

Kevin’s landlord slashes a second swipe down. The cane sinks into Eric’s bottom and almost immediately bounces back. Kevin knows it must hurt. How can it not? Kevin concentrates hard, following the direction of the cane as it takes aim, as it lifts away from Eric’s bottom, as it returns at tremendous force and leaves its mark. There are now three clear indentations across Eric’s trousers. Kevin stares at the eighteen-year-old’s quivering bottom. The pain must be intense. At least that is how Kevin always imagines it. In his fantasies. Himself stretched across the armchair in the headmaster’s study. Sometimes, but by no means always, his trousers are at his ankles and his tight, crisp, white underpants are offered to the cane.

Kevin’s landlord puts another stroke across his son’s bottom. Eric’s head raises from the table top and then he headbutts it. Kevin supposes it is his way of dealing with the pain. Wind whistles through Eric’s teeth, but apart from that he makes no sound. Kevin’s landlord delivers twelve strokes. Each one is a stinger. A swipe. These are not love-taps. Kevin’s landlord is not playing games here. Kevin is still rooted to the spot. He cannot move. All his senses are in pieces. He is unable to put into words his feelings. Meanwhile, Eric lifts himself from the table. His face is scarlet. He and Kevin’s landlord exchange no words. Clearly in great discomfort, Eric hobbles from the room.

Time is standing still for Kevin. He does not know how long he is standing there before he realises he should go into the house. His hands shake as he searches for his key. At last he gets the door open. He is still disorientated and he drops his books and they crash to the floor. It seems to Kevin that the sound they make as they fall could wake the dead. He kneels down to gather them. He sees carpet slippers. Kevin’s landlord is standing there. Kevin, still on his knees, peers up. Kevin’s landlord appears to tower over him. Kevin sucks in breath. A faint aromas of coal tar soap mingles with cigarette smoke.

Kevin’s landlord is speaking, but Kevin cannot distinguish a word. Next thing he knows Kevin is standing in the sitting room. Everything is spinning around him. Kevin’s landlord is speaking. He is telling Kevin about last night. How the student came home in the early hours. How he had missed curfew. How the house was locked up. How Kevin’s landlady had to get out of bed for him. How this was not the first time. How rules were rules. How breaking rules had consequences.

Kevin hears none of this. In his head he sees Eric stretched across the dining room table. The very same table that is only feet away from him. He sees Kevin’s landlord whipping twelve stingers across Eric’s backside. He sees the cane raising and falling. He remembers the dream he has. The dream he has had, many times. Eric is in his room. There is a small, low backed armchair. Kevin is in his pyjamas. Kevin is bent across the back of that armchair. Head low, bottom held high. Kevin’s landlord s beating Kevin’s taut backside with a whippy school cane.

Kevin has never been beaten. Never. Not caned. Not slippered. Not tawsed. Not even taken across the knee for a hand spanking. Kevin fantasises all the time. The headmaster at his school, the lecturers at the polytechnic, his father. Then there is Uncle Alan. The man who lives across the way in the same block of council flats. So much wishful thinking. Kevin thinks he will never be spanked in real life. How can such a thing happen?

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

Kevin feels a hand caressing his buttocks. It is Kevin’s landlord smoothing away the wrinkles in Kevin’s trousers. Kevin shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. This is going to hurt. He hopes. He demands. Kevin feels the tapping of the cane on his left buttock. He hears the swish of the cane. Kevin hears the cane connect with his stretched bottom. There is a definite crack. He waits. Waits for the pain to hit. Nothing. Kevin is puzzled. He feels the cane tap against his buttocks. It is lower this time. Swish! Crack! Kevin’s disappointment is palpable. It does not hurt.

The next stroke is harder. There is a bit of a throb. What is going on? Why isn’t Kevin’s landlord laying it on the way he did with Eric? Kevin feels cheated. This is not how he imagined a caning.

The next strokes are harder. Number five makes him gasp. But only a little.  Swish six hits the spot on the crease just where the bottom reaches the top of the leg. That one definitely hurts. This is more like it. Kevin steadies himself. Now we are cooking.

Kevin hears a voice. It seems to be coming from a distance. From over the mountains and far away. Kevin’s landlord is saying, “Stand up boy.” Kevin feels blood rush to his face; his cheeks are scarlet. His buttocks tingle, but he is not in pain. Kevin’s landlord is speaking. Kevin’s head is light. He has never felt like this before. But he wants more. Kevin’s landlord swishes the cane and points it at him. Kevin hears him say, “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Is that clear young man! Now, go to your room.”

Kevin floats up the stairs. Then he is on his bed. His trousers are on the floor. His underpants are at his knees. His todger is in his fist. His palm is sticky. The words of Kevin’s landlord reverberate around his brain: If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Kevin does not quite understand but instinctively he knows this is the start of something big.

 

Picture credit Kernled

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Nothing ventured, nothing gained

Uncle David has a plan

The students’ landlord

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A memory in the attic

new story 2

z used retro twosome one pyjamas domestic - A Weber Brams (2a)

“Granddad! Granddad!” It was Christine calling from the other room, “Look what I’ve found. It’s you I know it is!”

My heart sank. What now! Why couldn’t she just leave me alone. She hurried into the room clutching a small photograph in her hand. Another piece of treasure, or so she thought. She had taken upon herself to clear out the attic space in my house. Clutter, she called it. All the stuff I had accumulated over a lifetime. Stuff I hadn’t seen in years – decades, maybe – and frankly, had no desire ever to see again.

“Look,” she beamed handing me the picture. “It is you isn’t it.” I took it in an unsteady hand and peered intently. It showed two young men, one formally dressed in a collar and tie seated at an expensive upholstered chair. The other stood over him, dressed in pyjamas. They both were staring at something that was not in the picture but at the other end of the room.

“Is it you? It is!” Why was Christine so damned pleased to have found this picture? I wasn’t. I think it sent a shudder through my body, I can’t be certain because I get all kinds of aches and pains at my age; it could have been anything.

I recognised the setting immediately. It was a rooming house I lived in while at university. Christine was correct, it was me; but the more I stared at the picture the less certain I was which of the two young men I was: they (we) almost looked identical. We might have been brothers; twins even. We had our hair cut in a way that was fashionable among young men of our type at the time; it was smeared away from the forehead with brilliantine. The grease made our hair seem more blond than it actually was. We both had high cheekbones with clear open and healthy-looking faces. We looked (as we were) like a couple who had never had to do a day’s hard work in their lives.

At my age I can’t always remember what I ate for breakfast that morning but my memories from sixty-plus years ago are as clear as a bell. The closer I studied the photograph the clearer my memory became. I was the fellow in the pyjamas. My companion seated on the chair was Harcourt Llewelyn (how could one forget a name like that?). In the photograph we seem to look older than we were; we couldn’t have been quite twenty when it was taken.

“Who is he? Where was it taken?” Christine was full of questions. I shivered again and playing for time since I had no intention of satisfying her infernal curiosity I took the picture and first held it to the sunlight streaming from the nearby french windows then I screwed up my eyes tight and squinted at it. “No idea. Never seen it before,” I said and then to deflect attention I asked, “Where did you find it?”

I knew Christine would give me the most detailed account of the circumstances of her find: which box it was in, where the box had been stored and on and on. She duly obliged and as her piercing, and frankly extremely irritating voice whined on, my thoughts travelled back sixty or so years.

The boarding house was run by a Mrs Greening who had a long-standing relationship with the university. All her “guests” as she insisted on calling the lodgers were students. Perhaps I should explain to any readers who have been students at university at any time in the past forty years or so that these were very different times. We might have been twenty years old but we were certainly not considered adults. The college was for males only and the same of course went for the rooming house. We lived to very strict rules and were required to live lives of the utmost propriety. Chaps who frequented public houses or were known to consort with young ladies of a certain repute soon found themselves “sent down” from the university.

Mrs Greening’s husband Freeman took it upon himself to be our moral compass. He would say that since we were not yet legally adults he would act in loco parentis – which in his mind meant he took the place of our fathers. In the event, since all his guests were former public school men who had spent their formative years at elite boarding schools and away from their homes, he might better have described himself as our housemaster.

Harcourt and I became firm friends and neither of us had much interest in our studies and spent much of our time idling around town. Of course, you can only get away with this for so long. Soon, my tutor hauled me into his study for a wigging. As I recall he was an unworldly kind of a man who would never be interested in the delights of town; not even one so lacking in immorality as Brocklehurst. He cared little about my needs and desires, his only concern was that I should complete my essays and pass through the university without blemishing his own record as a teacher. He was (I think now) also a bit of a coward. Certainly, he disliked any kind of confrontation. I think that is why, rather than deal with my idleness himself, he reported my behaviour to Freeman Greening.

Greening had a high opinion of himself and his place as a leader in God’s university. This was undoubtedly encouraged by the House of the Sacred Light, a church (of sorts) that demanded the utmost obedience to its teachings. He also enjoyed the authority of the university and once my tutor referred my case to him he undoubtedly had carte blanche to deal with the matter as he saw fit.

Should I have been surprised by the course of action he took? Not really. As I have said these were different times, we lived by different standards. As I look at the photograph now I remember that it had once been larger, that is using the technical term it has been “cropped” to edit out other unwanted detail. I don’t remember if other persons have been cut out but I do know that if you follow the eyeline of Harcourt and myself we are looking towards a large glass-fronted mahogany bookcase and shelves. Chief in my memory is the cupboard with double-doors next to that. It was always kept locked and as far as I knew the only key to it resided at all times upon Mr Greening’s person.

It was one evening in March that I discovered what was kept inside. We had dined and the guests were sent to their rooms to study. As I moved away from the table to join them Mrs Greening caught my attention. “Mr Greening wishes to see you,” she said not even trying to hide the pleasure speaking the words gave her, “in the library.” Then she bustled away to give the cook and housemaid a hard time over nothing at all. The library. That was one of the couple’s many pretensions. In other houses it would be a lounge or (at a pinch) a drawing room. The only books in this library were leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare and a dictionary, the only human hands that touched them were the maids’ who dusted them.

Mr Greening stood with his back to the open, roaring fire warming his bottom. As I entered the room he placed his hands behind his back and took a stance that he imagined made him look magisterial. “Come in Hamilton,” he droned. He waggled his head and his jowls wobbled. “Stand there boy.” I had not been warned by my tutor that he would report me but at that moment as I shuffled to the spot on the rug indicated to me I knew my fate.

Mr Greening confirmed it with a short lecture about my behaviour. I nodded in places that I thought appropriate. I had no intention of arguing with him. I was guilty of the crimes he outlined. I knew he had the authority of the university on his side. Mr Greening liked the sound of his own voice and extracted all that he could from my visit. He enjoyed his sense of moral superiority. I determined not to give him additional satisfaction and when the time came for me to speak I apologised. “It won’t happen again,” I added knowing that these were empty words and that Harcourt and I would be on the town the very next day.

Mr Greening grunted, “Won’t happen again.” His flabby, florid face turned a darker shade of red. “We shall most certainly ensure that it won’t happen again.” He shook his head again, his jowls trembled and his many chins wobbled. Then, unsteadily on his feet, he shambled across the room. He paused and extracting every last ounce of performance from the occasion he thrust his hand in his pocket and I saw his fist clenching and quivering. At last he found a small key on a ring and with a trembling hand he made several attempts before finally getting it into the lock. He hesitated (I believe for dramatic effect) before swinging the door open. He stood to one side ensuring that I could get an uninterrupted view of the cupboard’s contents.

Had I been thirteen years old and new to the rigours of an English public school education I might have gasped with horror at the sight. My heart might pound with fear. Tears might flood from my eyes.  Had I been thirteen that might have happened. However, I was probably twenty years old at this time; I felt I had seen it all before. In fact, Mr Greening proved to me that I hadn’t. Even at St. Tom’s where the infliction of corporal punishment was a daily routine no master had a collection of implements quite like Mr Greening. There were several straps of differing lengths, widths and thicknesses. A taws with two fingers worn with age and use hung from a hook alongside a couple of wooden paddles. A white plimsoll lay on a shelf. But, what impressed me most was the impressive range of whippy canes; many undoubtedly made of rattan, but some (even from a distance) I discerned were the denser Malacca kind.

Mr Greening wheezed heavily when he leaned into the cupboard to inspect his toys more closely. Did saliva drip from his chin as he took up one cane after another and tested it lovingly between his hands? Surely there was no reason to do this; he would have been very well acquainted with the properties of every instrument in that cupboard. He was a connoisseur, of that I could have no doubt.

At last he decided on a traditional school-type cane. It was a little longer and maybe thicker, but with the typical crook handle, than the one my housemaster used on me as he drove me in my studies. Sweat moistened his forehead and his complexion was now puce as he turned to face me with the thing in his hand. He swiped it through the air and it travelled with menace. It would without doubt deliver a tremendous flogging. I stood my heart pounding (you have no control of it in such circumstances) but outwardly I was calm. Mr Greening would have his way with me. There was nothing I could do, not if I wished to stay at the university. Even though I cared little for my studies I knew my father expected me to come down with a degree. He already had a career lined up for me. I would not let him down.

Mr Greening wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The open fire roared but the room was always draughty and it wasn’t that warm. I saw him lick his lips and then he coughed to clear his throat. “Please bare your backside and put yourself across the back of that chair.”

So it was to be bare-arsed. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not with Mr Greening and his moral posturing. I should expect nothing less. I was (I am) an old St. Tom’s man and if there was anything I learned at school it was to take your punishment. No fuss. You get caught, the master jaws you for a bit, he orders you to bend over, over you go, he beats you, you stand up, you shake hands, you leave and the world carries on as before.

I had learned well. Students in those days dressed as Harcourt had in the photograph, we could have been young businessmen. I lowered my flannels and as I sported fashionable woollen drawers (rather than the one-piece combinations our fathers wore) I was able to bare my buttocks with ease. The chair he indicated was the very one in the photograph and its back was a very good height for a young man of my size to bend across. I took hold of my neck tie and hooked it over my shoulder before diving over. Once back at school I had almost choked myself when my tie caught between my body and the chair in such a position.

The chair was constructed mainly of soft cushions and my weight sank into them. Without awaiting instructions from Mr Greening I pushed my head low, parted my feet and raised my bottom high. This way I ensured he had a terrific target to aim at. The floorboards creaked when Mr Greening positioned himself behind me. I felt his hot breath against my naked buttocks as he leant in to take hold of my shirt tail and drag it halfway up my back and out of the way. Once that was done he gently laid the cane just below the centre of my bum where the cheeks fold into the thighs. His wheezing reached a crescendo when he sawed the rod across my bum.

The sound of the crack of cane against my taut flesh resounded off the walls. At first I felt nothing and then excruciating agony. My head rose with the shock and I had to grip hard the soft cushion to stop myself leaping from the chair and dancing across the floor. I had been caned before many (many) times but nothing had prepared me for Mr Greening’s cruelty.

He cracked the cane down so hard I thought my backside would come off. He made true the ancient schoolboy saying, “He took my arse off.” He was intense.

A second lash quickly followed and although it was stinging it was just about bearable. The third stroke changed that and it was like he had forced me sit on the open fire. The next three were the most excruciating strokes I had ever felt. I was contorting about like a cat on heat, gasping for breath as the inferno built up.

He gave me a dozen in all. The last five just had me bouncing around, screaming in pain. Tears were pouring down my face. I felt as if I was being cut to ribbons. The cane had caught me on my thigh and one had come close to catching my balls. At last I was allowed to get up. My hands flew round and I went into a panic as I felt my backside was full of crisscross welts. The flogging had hurt more than I could have imagined. My bum was raw and painful and the fire was raging fiercely.

I hopped around, stomped my feet like a soldier on sentry duty, my body doubled like a hairgrip. I couldn’t get my breath. I wanted to vomit, I hawked but nothing came up. Mr Greening smiled thinly, he was having breathing problems of his own.

I cannot remember exactly what happened next, but moments later I was back in my room. I do remember that. Had Harcourt carried me up from the library? I was face down on the bed, my trousers and underwear nowhere to be seen. Harcourt treated my wounds. I remember much blood on his silk handkerchief. And then? Which of us instigated it? Had I made the first move? Surely I was too exhausted so it would have been Harcourt. Our bodies entwined, tongues flailed.

“Granddad!” it was Christine again. “Are you even listening to me,” she chided affectionately. “Tell me, who is it in the picture with you?”

“Sorry love,” I sighed, “I really can’t remember. How about making a nice cup of tea?”

 

Picture credit: A Weber Brams

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com