Economics failure

new 5

z used white pants paddle chair (3a)

Come in! Which one are you? Callaghan is it? I have a list. Yes, you’re on it here. You skipped my Economics 101 class and you haven’t handed in your coursework. Yes? Well, you are about to learn a very painful lesson. That’s the trouble with so many of you freshers. You don’t think you’re at school to study. It’s just fun and games for the likes of you. Well, believe me when I say it catches up with you in the end.

We have a very clear policy in the Economics Faculty. Some people would say we’re a little old fashioned. Well, I for one say I don’t mind being old-fashioned in air quotes if it delivers results. And, given time we get the results.

I don’t recognise you. Have you attended any of my classes? I suppose you sit at the back of the lecture hall, goofing around with your friends, disturbing everyone else. Why did you ever sign up for university? Your parents, I suppose. You and your kind have a sense of entitlement. You think you just have to register and we’ll give you a college degree. I don’t suppose you’ve done a hard day’s work in your life.

Well, Callaghan, I’ve got news for you. You do the work, or else! I could just flunk you and make you come back next year and do the course again. I could, but let me level with you. If I fail you that makes me look bad. Makes out I’m a bad instructor, do you see what I mean? But don’t let that make you think I’m just going to sign you off with a pass. That’s not going to happen.

What I am going to do Callaghan, is I’m going to give you a second chance. An opportunity to turn yourself around. It won’t be easy – well, not easy for you that is. You need self-discipline to succeed in life and if at your age you don’t have it in you, you need somebody older and a lot wiser to impose that discipline. Do you understand Callaghan?

Do you see what this is boy? Don’t look so blank. You’re pretty intelligent or you wouldn’t have made it here to begin with. What I’m going to do Callaghan is I’m going to paddle your rear end. Don’t pout at me. Read the university regulations. It’s clearly stated. You signed up to them when you came here.

Right. Pick up that chair and put it there by my desk.

Just do it, I don’t want any argument from you, Callaghan.

Right. Stand in front of the chair. I’m going to give you the spanking you so richly deserve. That’s six swats for cutting my class and six swats for not handing in coursework. To run consecutively. That means one after the other, Callaghan. Twelve swats in total.

Right. Take down your jeans and bend over the chair.

Yes, take down your jeans. You’re in Big School now. How old are you – eighteen, nineteen? You need more than a little boy’s spanking. If this paddling is going to turn around your life, it must be memorable. Afterwards, I want to see you hopping all the way down the corridor to the elevator. I want you to monitor the bruises on your butt over the coming week as they turn from deep purple then though all shades of mauves and yellows before they finally disappear. Do you have a girlfriend Callaghan? Better think up a few excuses not to see her. How would you explain them?

Right. Stop making a fuss and down with those jeans.

That’s better. You should learn to face the consequences of your actions like a man. You skip my classes, you don’t do coursework … this is the consequence.

Let those jeans fall all the way. Bend over the chair. Grip the seat. Legs apart. It’s best if you look straight ahead. Don’t try to see what I’m doing back here. Keep that back arched. Head low. Bottom out.

Right Callaghan, let’s see if we can rescue your university career. You might not think so right now, but one day you’ll thank me for this …

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The performance review

Lucas Hodges stood rooted. He wanted to get his legs to move, but they would not obey the command from his brain. He knew he must submit to his boss; not to do so would be unthinkable. The wretched man had complete control over him. Lucas was powerless. He must do what Mr Riley wanted; however perverted it might be.

There was sweat beneath Lucas’s crisp white shirt; but the room was cold. Snow continued to fall and settle on the pavement five storeys below the spacious office where Mr Riley and he stood. Lucas breathed deeply: in, out. In, out. He must regain the use of his legs. With tremendous effort he got the right foot to move; then with a willpower he never knew he possessed, the left foot followed it.

Like a penguin, Lucas shuffled a few paces across the office. Slowly, he reached the spot indicated by Mr Riley and he stood, knees slightly bent. He could not stomach to see his tormentor, the ugly, pot-bellied vile creature, so he cast his eyes down and studied the plush new deep-pile carpet beneath his feet.

The sweat was oozing. The back of his neck was damp and his closely cut ginger hair was soaking, like he had just stepped out of the shower. A moustache of moisture smeared his upper lip.

Mr Riley said nothing; but he was not silent. Air escaped between his lips. That was the old man’s default position. He always wheezed; even at times like this when he was rested in a deeply-padded leather couch. Later, when he put Lucas through his paces, Mr Riley’s breathing and blood pressure would take off into orbit. But that was for the future.

Lucas could not stop his hands from trembling. He bunched his palms into fists and held then rigidly beside the side of his body. Then he clenched the two hands together, interlocking his fingers and gripped them tightly behind his back. But, however he held them, the quaking would not stop.

Mr Riley ogled the twenty-two-year-old purchasing assistant. Lucas Hodges had never been summoned before him in this way before. According to the boy’s personnel record he had been with Asperton’s for four years; ever since he left school and just before the new government-inspired apprenticeship scheme came into force. Technically, Mr Riley was not permitted to treat him as an apprentice. Technically, schmechnically, Mr Riley did not give a hoot. The boy was in no position to complain. He would submit to Mr Lucas’s authority; or he could take his chances with the millions of unemployed slowly starving to death in dark corners of the nation.

Mr Riley did not know Lucas, but he had seen him in the office canteen at lunchtimes and had admired the boy’s lithe figure when he stretched across the pool table to reach a difficult shot. The boy’s tailored suit trousers would hug the contours of his firm round buttocks, affording Mr Riley a perfect view of his adorable arse. An arse, Mr Riley fervently hoped, he would have the pleasure of enjoying at closer quarters one day in the privacy of his office.

Mr Riley shuffled through a file on his lap: Lucas Hodge’s monthly performance review. Tasks had not been completed, deadlines had been missed and invoices had been left unprocessed for days.

In the modern day, at Asperton’s such behaviour would be dealt with in only one way. No excuses; no mitigation. Events had to take their course.

It was a large padded leather armchair. As Lucas swivelled it round so that its back pointed towards him, he saw the clear indentation in the chair’s crown. In the past few years, since the new employment laws had been in force, countless young men had contributed to its making; their heavy bodies pressing down into the soft leather. The channel was so well established that each new boy instinctively rested himself into the groove. The office workers required to submit their rear ends to Mr Riley found it was surprisingly comfortable, but of course what happened once they were ready was far from that.

The chair now in place, Lucas stepped back, his quaking hands once again grasped behind his back as he awaited further instructions.

Mr Riley was not ready yet. He hauled his clammy bulk from the couch, leaving behind a patch of moisture where his flabby buttocks had seeped sweat into the seat cushion. Wheezing, he staggered across the huge office, and rested beside an enormous desk, which appeared to be made of metal and glass. Drawing great gulps of air into his lungs, Mr Riley pulled at a wide drawer running the length of the desk.

Lucas had never been in this office before, but instinctively he knew what was contained within the drawer. Mr Riley delved his hand inside and a rattling sound from within confirmed the young man’s direst suspicions. Within seconds Mr Riley had seized and withdrawn a long, thin, whippy cane. The old man’s face glowered puce as he held the instrument of punishment between his two hands and flexed it thoughtfully.

Lucas had never seen a cane before and could not tell whether the specimen before him was an especially mild or a vicious example. When his boss, still gasping for breath, swished it three or four times through the empty air, however, Lucas knew it was a mightily effective rod that would take his arse off.

For a moment, it seemed to Lucas, Mr Riley was about to have a seizure. The ugly man’s heavy puce face was suffused with blood. The veins stood out on his forehead and temples like purple roots. His noisy breathing calmed to almost nothing so that Lucas could not be sure that he was breathing at all. Spittle dribbled through his unkempt bushy beard.

z used cane hold kernled (26)

Then, as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep, Mr Riley spun on his heels to face Lucas. Then from half way across the office, he wobbled the cane at the petrified boy, and whispered, “Stand behind the chair.”

All the while he had been in the office with Mr Riley Lucas had tried to devise a plan. He had two choices. One was to tell the pervert to shove his cane where the sun doesn’t shine and to walk out of the office. That was no choice. Before the hour was over, Lucas would be dismissed from the company. Destitution would follow; for himself and his parents and younger sisters who were forced to survive on his salary.

The second choice: the only choice really, was to submit to whatever Mr Riley demanded. If Lucas could close off his brain in some way, to block out what the revolting man was doing to him, he could get through it. He faced a dreadful ordeal, but it would not kill him.

So, Lucas shuffled back to the chair.

Mr Riley spoke in a whisper, as if each word had to be clutched from his throat. His mouth was full of saliva, “Take down your trousers and undergarments and bend over the chair.”

Lucas tried to unbuckle his belt, but his fingers at first refused to comply with the instructions of his brain. After much fumbling, it was loose. It was easier to unfasten his smart city-style suit trousers and pull the zipper. The trousers slipped down his pale legs and settled at his shins.

Lucas was not a shy man; he played a lot of sports and was very comfortable undressing in the company of men. But this time, he felt a wave of embarrassment sweep through him. It was Mr Riley’s google-eyed stare that did it. His piggy hazel eyes popped out on stalks at the sight of Lucas in his tight fitting boxer briefs. The cotton clung to the boy’s buttocks and thighs and even from a distance it was evident that Lucas’s cock and balls were an exceptional size.

“Wheeze, wheeze …. Undergarments down, wheeze, wheeze …”

Looking back on this experience, Lucas supposed he had never despised anybody in his entire life as he did Mr Riley at that moment. Would any right-minded person blame him if he took a paperknife from the desk and stabbed the revolting man through the throat? Alas, for Lucas, the law courts did not comprise reasonable people and he would soon find himself on death-row if he did.

So, Lucas sent his boxer briefs to meet his trousers. Mr Riley would have liked to see more of Lucas’s uncut penis and his dangling ball sack, but the young man took a deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together to steady his nerves and like dozens (possibly hundreds) of his fellow workers before him, he settled himself into the channel over the back of the chair.

The armchair was the perfect height for young men to prostrate themselves across to offer up their arses. He fitted rather well with his stomach comfortably resting in the groove and his arms stretched out ahead of him clutching onto the seat cushion. In this position his face rested close to his own chest and he breathed in the heavy scent of Brut 33 splash-on lotion. Behind him his legs were parted and his knees held straight, offering a wonderful target to Mr Riley and his whippy cane.

Mr Riley took hold of the tail of Lucas’s shirt and pushed it up his back, revealing an area of pale white skin. From this vantage the boss could see right into the boy’s crack. There was not a hair to be seen, it was as if Lucas’s entire body was hairless, virginal.

Lucas’s bottom was slightly raised and nothing would impede the cane, shiny and whippy in Mr Riley’s right hand. He tapped it, impatiently, against his own left hand and then placed it gently across the centre of the boy’s buttock cheeks. Lucas squirmed and instinctively turned his head. His bottom involuntarily twitched and Mr Riley, his face now a deep purple, tapped the cheeks again as if to say, keep still and let my cane do its work.

Then, the cane thwipped down across the centre of Lucas’s pale backside. It was not a vicious stroke: Mr Riley liked to see a boy’s buttocks bounce under the impact of his cane leaving a vivid red line to slowly emerge across the surface of his skin. It hurt the boy, he sucked in his breath and closed his teeth tightly. He gripped the seat cushion firmly and waited for swipe number two.

When it came, impacting the lower part of the cheeks close to where they meet with the thigh, Lucas gasped and lifted his left leg slightly as if to ease the pain but, other than that, there was no movement and there was no sound. Lucas had never been caned in his life and had no real idea how much it should hurt, but instinct told him that Mr Riley was not delivering him a whipping.

The stroke had been clean and true, but not too hard, and as it echoed around the office another clear red line painted itself across the centre of the upturned cheeks. The pulsating soreness spread across Lucas’s shapely bottom.

“Uh!” Another sharp cut, lower this time, thwacked across Lucas’s round buttocks making his entire body shudder. Lucas felt his eyes begin to moisten as another stroke cut into his bottom, higher than the others.

From his place face down over the chair, Lucas could not see Mr Riley reach into his own trouser pocket and take a large blue-and-white-spotted kerchief which he used to mop up copious amounts of perspiration from his face and neck.

The delay set Lucas’s mind racing as he wondered was happening back there. Was Mr Riley wavering; was his limited strength giving out on him?

The cloth was sopping wet when Mr Riley returned it to his pocket and took up his station to thwip another stroke across Lucas’s, by now, red and sore buttocks.

“Eekk!” that one cut into the centre of Lucas’s tightly clad rear. He began to move a hand back towards his sore bottom then because he knew some unwritten law would not allow this he withdrew it and tucked the hand under his face.

“Eeekk!!” Again, the slender rattan cane bounced into Lucas’s by-now very tender bottom sending a dose of pain shooting across his backside and down the backs of his legs. He clung to the chair for all he was worth.  Mr Riley stared on, mesmerised by the luscious buttocks, which twitched, clenched and unclenched.

The cane met Lucas’s bare backside with a thump that swiftly transformed into a singing bite. A thin line of pain zipped across the apex of his buttocks, and the cane moved its attention to the lower section just above the top of the thighs. Another thwack hit with lightning speed. It was an even deeper, more painful bite, and its momentum pushed Lucas’s groin against the edge of the chair. The surface of the lush leather cushion clouded over with the hot breath propelled from the boy’s lungs.

Lucas fought back cries and when, eventually, gasping, groaning, heaving and writhing, he began to realise that the caning was over, that twelve strokes had been cut on his bare flesh, and that Mr Riley was admiring his work of art, he flopped over the chair and let the tears run down his face.

Mr Riley lowered his cane and rested it on his desk. The beating was over. Lucas Hodges slumped across the chair back, still gripping the rests, trying to maintain his composure. His buttocks were streaked with livid red weals. There were not twelve distinct lines because the whole of his rear end was covered with marks the colour of deep burgundy.

“You may get up.” Lucas almost missed the order Mr Riley’s voice was so shallow. The boy dragged himself up from the chair. His buttocks were aflame, but already, less than a minute after the end of his caning the pain was subsiding. Some parts of his once-creamy white buttocks would be tender to the touch for some hours to come, but mostly the worst was now over. The pain was quickly turning to a throbbing and would very soon become a warm glow.

Without waiting for permission, Lucas tugged first his boxer briefs and then his trousers over his savaged bottom. He was tightening and buckling his belt when with deep shock he realised his ordeal was not yet over. The worst was yet to come.

Mr Riley was unbuttoning his own trousers revealing baggy canary yellow-coloured boxer shorts. A vast belly hung over the waistband and even from some yards away Lucas could see a red indentation around Mr Riley’s middle where his waist should have been, caused by his tight underwear.

No words were spoken as the boss hitched his fingers into his boxers and pulled them down to his shins. The physical effort this entailed set off the abhorrent old man’s wheezing. Still without speaking, Mr Riley gestured to Lucas to step forward and take his semi-erect cock in his mouth.

Twenty minutes later Lucas was in the office lavatory. He could not be sure how much water he had forced down inside of him. Gallons and gallons, probably. But still he could not get rid of the taste of the filthy old man. In desperation he put two fingers down his throat and retched and retched.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The apprentices

z used otk bare chair office Sting (3)

Anders Schmidt’s heart raced, he re-entered the figures on the spreadsheet, double clicked the mouse and waited for it to update.

Sweat was moistening his brow and it was not only because the air-conditioning in the room was not working.

In a second the computer screen flickered. Schmidt did not have to look; he already knew the answer. He had missed his target again – for the second month running. He was in big trouble. Very big trouble.

He had a couple of hours maximum before his boss checked the files and found out what Schmidt, the apprentice salesman, had done; or more accurately, what he had failed to do.

Schmidt had been with MegaCorp for five months. He was taken on after he left school, along with dozens of other teenagers, for a five-year apprenticeship. He had been overjoyed to land it: unemployment in the country was high, and in the stratosphere for young people. Welfare had been slashed and for Anders, no job would have meant destitution.

Merkel sipped on his too-hot coffee and waited patiently as the printer coughed out the sales figures. Business had been slow since Christmas and he did not expect this month to be much better. He put down his mug, picked up a highlighter pen, and shuffled through the printed sheets. He almost smiled: sales were higher than he expected. By the time he had finished only two of his salesmen’s names were marked. Schmidt and another apprentice Vidic had missed their targets; Schmidt by a little and Vidic by a mile.

Oh well, Merkel, thought, he could have a little sport now.

Anders stared impassively out of the window. The sun was blazing, it had not rained in months and the grass had turned brown and died. The shortage meant it was now illegal to water plants and gardens across the country had perished.

Anders had never been in this situation before, but he knew something unpleasant and painful was going to happen. Since the Unity Government came to power a lot had changed. Its first task to tackle mass unemployment had been to strip workers of all their rights and set up work schemes. The apprenticeships had been welcomed by youngsters and parents alike. Boys, girls were not included, were signed up for five years and given training and a wage. In return, the boys were compelled to stay with the company until the end of their contract. The company, however, if it saw fit, could terminate the apprentice at any time.

To lose an apprenticeship would be a disaster. No former apprentice could by law be re-hired at another business.

Anders would not lose his job; not this time, he knew that. But, he would have to undergo a humiliation the like of which he had never suffered before.

MegaCorp called it their “second-chance” policy. In fact, for some apprentices it was a third, or even a fourth-chance policy. Ander’s bosses were not cruel people, they understood how vital it was for a young man to have work; many of the apprentices in the company were the only earners in their family. Heck, MegaCorp knew it had a social responsibility.

Merkel looked at the clock: it was twenty after noon. He would take lunch soon and deal with the apprentices later in the afternoon. It would give him something to look forward to.

At three-thirty prompt, Anders stood in Helmut’s office. Helmut was Merkel’s personal assistant. They used to call his post a “secretary”, but they changed the title when they sacked all the women and gave their jobs to men. No self-respecting man would want to be called a secretary.

Helmut was in his twenties and like everyone else in the country, he feared for his job, so he kept his head down, his mouth buttoned and his thoughts to himself. He knew how Merkel treated the apprentices and, even with the pace of changes being made to the law, he was darned sure what he did was illegal. But, he said nothing: fearing for his job and also for the skin on his backside.

A screen on Helmut’s desk flickered. “You can go in now,” and despite his timidity, he added, “Good luck.”

Anders knocked on the door, waited for a response and then entered.

It was a large modern open-plan office. It was so big if you took the furniture out there would be enough space to play five-a-side football. One end of the office was dominated by a vast steel and glass desk and the other end had been decked out like a fashionable lounge room with comfortable chairs and a coffee table.

Anders took his place in front of the desk. He could not look Merkel in the eye and instead stared over his left shoulder at the framed portrait of the nation’s new leader. He was in a commanding pose. Anders and his friends had once thought the man absurd, he even looked a little like the clown Chico who had been famous in silent movies more than a century previously.

But, now Chico had been in power for more than five years with no sight of a general election to come, they knew he was no clown.

Merkel eyed Anders up and down. He saw a slight boy in a pin-striped suit that was just a little too big for him. All the apprentices wore blue pin-stripes; it was like an unofficial uniform. If Merkel had his way the young men would have a proper uniform: he imagined them in pale blue shirts and black shorts. They would be proper shorts too, the ones that showed the boys’ legs and were not much longer than their underwear.

Merkel had never met Anders before, but he recognised him from the office. He knew all his apprentices by sight and expected that with the second-chance rule he would get to know each one intimately eventually.

Anders listened impassively as his boss went through the apprentice’s sales figures. They were poor. They were worse than those of the other boys. Anders nodded agreement from time to time; what more could he do? Nothing he said could change the course of action.

Satisfied that his case had been made, Merkel put down the printed sheets.

“We have a policy at MegaCorp. It is called the ‘second-chance’ policy; do you know what that means?”

Anders, his mouth now as dry as the grass outside the building, nodded.

“Well?” Merkel raised his voice.

“Yes, Sir,” Anders coughed and said no more.

“Yes, Sir, what?”

“Yes, I understand the policy.”

“Good. Then let us not waste any more of my time.” With that Merkel rose from his chair and walked the length of the office. Anders looked on mournfully. Any moment now, something would happen, but he was unsure what.

He had heard all kinds of stories. Tomas, a second-year apprentice had heard from a friend who heard from a friend that it was just like at the police station. What he meant was that teenagers and young men found hanging around the streets (even before curfew time) were routinely rounded up and taken to police stations. There was one such station less than a mile from Anders’ home.

At the station, one by one, each boy was led (or sometimes dragged) into a specially prepared room. It was bare except for a purpose-built frame. Some boys were brave and prepared themselves, but most were not and had their trousers and pants ripped down by one, or if the boy put up a titanic struggle, two officers. Then he was hauled across the frame and his wrists secured by straps.

The police had previously used a smaller room at the back of the building, away from the main street, but the ceiling was too low for an officer to properly raise and flog birch rods into a boy’s naked buttocks.

The replacement room was much better: there was ample space to swing a birch. The downside was that the pitiful screams of the whipped boy could be easily heard in the street. The punishments were so frequent and the wails so loud that people in offices nearby had asked that the police confine their activities until night time; the noise was disturbing their work.

“Pathetic liberals,” the police commander sneered when he received the complaint. Nonetheless, he ordered the room to be sound-proofed.

Merkel took up a straight-backed chair and put it down in the middle of the room. There would be no birching for Anders, he would get something much less severe; but much more pleasurable for the boss.

“Come here boy.” Anders had not moved from the desk.

Merkel sat down and moved his buttocks around and spread his legs a little until he was comfortable and ready to take the boy.

“Take off your jacket and put it on the chair there.”

Merkel enjoyed watching the boy unbutton the jacket and slip it from his shoulders. He was much more muscular than he had first realised. The too-large jacket did not flatter him.

“Stand in front of me here,” Merkel waved his hand unnecessarily, as Anders by now understood what was going to happen.

Anders stood a little under six-feet tall and was perfectly proportioned. His skin was clear and his unkempt brown hair flopped over his forehead. His sky blue eyes positively sparkled, even when he was in such a predicament as this.

He was so much better than Vidic, who had stood in the same spot thirty minutes previously. That boy was small, squat, with curly dark hair and eyes as brown as mud. And, Merkel still shuddered at the thought of it; his body was covered in rough black hair.

No matter, Merkel thought, Vidic and his kind would not be around for much longer. The Unity Government had plans for people like Vidic.

Anders was rooted to the spot, too humiliated to move, when his boss reached forward and began to unbuckle the teenager’s belt. He wanted to push him away and run from the room. In a fair world he would be able to punch the old man in the mouth before calling Security.

But this was not a fair world; Anders must let Merkel do as he wished.

The belt loosened, Merkel turned to the zipper. It took a second for it to fall and the trousers to open to reveal Anders was wearing bright blue briefs that were so tight Merkel could immediately see this was no boy standing before him.

Merkel pulled the pin-stripe trousers down Anders’ hips, over his buttocks and down to the teenager’s knees. He was ready now.

Anders could feel his face flush; it was as red now as his buttocks would surely be in only a few moments.

“Relax,” Merkel whispered as he took Anders left arm and gently guided him across his knees.

Anders was too tall to comfortably fit across anyone’s knees. Instinctively, he placed the palms of both hands squarely on the floor in front of him. Behind him his legs were so long, he had to curve them at the knees so his toes rested on the carpet.

“Spread your legs a little, it will be easier.” Merkel’s gave the instruction calmly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world for a boss to have his nineteen-year-old apprentice bent across his knee preparing to have his bottom smacked.

Anders did as instructed and was now comfortably over the man’s knee, hands pressed into the carpet at one end and toes resting comfortably on the ground at the other; his bottom perfectly resting on the old man’s right thigh.

This was a novel experience for Anders, but not for Merkel. Over the past few months he had developed a routine that he liked to follow. He loved to take his time, especially with boys as beautiful as Anders.

He took hold of the tail of the boy’s crisp white shirt and carefully pushed it up until an inch or two of bare flesh was exposed. Then, with his left hand he pulled at the elasticated waist of the briefs. They were tight already and it took no effort to smooth out creases so the cotton fitted smoothly like a second skin.

All the time, Anders lay submissively in position. He had never been spanked in his life and had no idea how much this was going to hurt. He wished Merkel would stop toying with him and get on with it.

But his boss was not ready yet. With his right hand he caressed the boy’s buttocks, feeling the firmness of the cheeks and the smoothness of the thighs. The beautiful blond boy seemed almost hairless; but Merkel palm was tickled as he ran it down the back of Anders’ legs. The hair was so blond it was almost invisible against his skin.

His breathing was becoming a little heavy and very soon he feared he might show just how attractive he felt the boy was. It was time to get on with it.

He raised his hand to about three inches from the boy’s left buttock and brought it down with a resounding smack! The flesh gave way and he felt his hand sink into the boy’s buttock. Perhaps, he was not as firm as he looked.

Merkel smacked away across both cheeks: high, low and then in the centre.

Anders lay impassively across the man’s lap. He felt the slaps hit into his proffered cheeks, but there was hardly any pain. There was a tingling sensation at first that after a dozen or so slaps became a warm glow. He was new to the experience of hand spanking and would not know that no matter how hard or how rapidly a man smacked the palm of his hand into the buttocks of a nineteen-year-old he would not make much of an impression. Indeed, there was a real possibility that after a short time the man’s hand would hurt a lot more than the teenager’s bottom.

Merkel knew what he was doing. After a few dozen slaps, he paused, and without saying a word, he tugged Ander’s underpants down.

He rubbed his hand over the now-naked cheeks. “What a lovely shade of pink,” he said and rubbed some more. “And, so very warm.”

Anders gasped and closed his eyes tight. “Please God, don’t let him put his fingers in my crack,” he prayed silently.

Merkel raised his hand and slapped it down into the buttocks: again and again and again.

It still did not hurt Anders much, but despite the novelty of the experience he reckoned it was supposed to cause him pain. Otherwise, he thought somewhat naively, what was the point of the spanking?

He let out an “Oww”, followed by an “Ahhh” and hoped he sounded convincing.

Merkel smiled. He was not fooled. He smacked on and on into the yielding naked flesh, landing a few blows on the sensitive sit-spot where the cheeks meet the thighs. A genuine gasp escaped Anders’ lips.

The boss was impressed by his own handiwork; literally, for his handprint was clearly visible at the top of each cheek.

He smacked the boy’s bare bottom for fully five minutes and would have carried on for at least another five, but he was interrupted by Helmut.

“Sorry, Sir. There’s an urgent phone call from head office in Dusseldorf. It’s important.”

“It had better be.”

He released his hold on Anders and the boy sprang to his feet and quickly whipped up his pants and trousers. His bottom was a little sore, but even in the few moments it took to get dressed the pain had turned to a warm glow. Within minutes it would be gone altogether.

“Take your jacket and go.” Merkel picked up the telephone and called out to Anders as he was disappearing through the door. “And I want to see better sales figures from you next month.”

But he did not mean it.

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Sting In The Tail

Federico Hernandez shuffled slowly from the elevator, took a left turn, waited for the automatic doors to slide open and headed at a snail’s pace to the professor’s office.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He had thought it through. It would be painful, for sure. Humiliating definitively. But, if the professor agreed, it would solve all the student’s problems. And, it would all be over in five minutes.

Professor Luckhurst was tired. It was late in the day and he wanted to get away. The semester was over, the papers had been graded. All he had to do before he could take off on vacation was to wait for the faculty to clear them.

Luckhurst could have retired years ago. He had a good pension, but he kept coming back to teach classes semester after semester. The university was the only life he had.

Luckhurst almost did not hear the faint knock at the door. Later, he would reflect bitterly, it would have been best if that had been the case.

“Come in,” the professor’s irritation was evident.

Slowly, the door inched open, but nobody appeared.

“Well, come in if you’re coming!” the professor’s patience was exhausted.

Hernandez took a deep breath and forced himself over the threshold.

“Come in boy! Close the door behind you,” Luckhurst tucked his empty lunchbox into his briefcase and fumbled with the lock. “What do you want!”

Fernandez lost his nerve. For two bits he would turn and flee. That would be the sensible thing to do, he reckoned. It was a crazy scheme. Why had he thought it might work?

The professor slumped into his chair and eyed the student in front of him. Federico Hernandez, one of his Eng. Lit. students. He failed the course, if he remembered correctly.

Hernandez had a little speech prepared. He had rehearsed it in front of the bedroom mirror; last night and again that morning. He was word perfect; that was until the time came for him to deliver it.

“Well, eh, professor,” he stumbled. Luckhurst’s lined face, permanently gray despite the almost ever-present sunshine, betrayed his annoyance. Hernandez took a deep breath and launched into it. The story was simple: the student had failed the professor’s course, it was the only one he failed, his grade point average was good enough for him to graduate, but that was impossible unless the professor passed him on the course.

“So, what do you expect me to do about it?” Luckhurst growled. He already knew the answer to that.

“Could you find a way to give me a passing grade,” he hesitated, before stammering the next words. “Perhaps, there’s something you’d like me to do…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Doh!” the professor snorted, confirming to Hernandez this was not going to be easy.

The student stared down at the heavy-duty carpet beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the professor, but he must. If this plan was to work, he had to turn on his charm.

“Please, professor,” he forced a smile. Luckhurst too was suitably embarrassed.

Hernandez’s eyelids fluttered a little. He had researched the professor; he had no family, never been married. He was almost certainly a faggot, the boy deduced. Not that that was supposed to matter anymore. This was 2015; they had same-sex marriages and all that. But, if the professor did go for handsome young men that would play to Hernandez’s advantage.

“Please, professor,” he started again. “Is there anything you would like me to do?”

Luckhurst’s ire rose. Do? Like him to do? What was the boy saying? Yes, there was something he would like the boy to do for him. Get out of his office and let him go home.

The silence was overwhelming. It was the professor’s turn to speak, but he continued to fumble with the lock of his briefcase, pretending he had difficulty with it.

Hernandez had one last chance. He took a deep breath and spluttered it out. This was not how he had planned it, but unless he spoke now, his opportunity would be missed. He would be stuck with an F-grade and a ruined future. “I thought you could spank me as a punishment and then ….” But he couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

Prof Luckhurst’s deathly gray face for once blushed scarlet. He could feel sweat sticking to the collar of his shirt. “What the ….?” he began, but was genuinely lost for words.

Hernandez had regained some confidence. When he had said the words to himself in front of the bedroom mirror, they sounded convincing. Now, he had to put that to the test.

“Well professor, the truth is…” The student confessed his laziness to the professor; he told him that he had not worked hard; he had not respected the course; he thought it would be easy. It was entirely his own fault he had failed.

“So, you see professor. I think I should be spanked. But, please don’t fail me. I won’t be able to graduate.” Then, he added for good measure in what he imagined to be a pitiful voice, “Sir.”

Luckhurst’s blood pressure was on the rise. Spank the boy. He wants me to spank him. He snorted. There had been many students over the years who would have benefitted from a darn good spanking; that was for sure. And, he often thought about personally swatting a paddle across their asses. But, all that was the stuff of fantasy. This was the real world: well, California at least.

“Spank you?” Prof Luckhurst left the question hanging in the air.

Hernandez picked it up and ran with it. “Yes, Professor Luckhurst. It’s what I deserve.”

Luckhurst had never come across anything like it before. The boy said he deserved to be spanked. He was twenty-two years old at least. Who had heard of young adults being spanked? Was this a cultural thing?

He regained some composure. “Spanking. Is this a Spanish-American thing? Do fathers still spank their sons in your community?”

Spanish-American! What year did this man live in? But, Hernandez made no protest. The tide was turning his way.

“Oh yes Sir,” he lied. “If my father knew of my failure, he would beat me.”

“Then let him spank you. You can atone for your failure that way.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hernandez seized the advantage. “He would spank me and hard, but he couldn’t give me the grade. Only you can do that.” He looked the professor straight in the eye, his own confidence growing by the second. “You, do see that don’t you?”

The professor returned the gaze. Often, he had dreamt of spanking his students, especially the Spanish-Americans. They were so short and cute with their slim hips and tight asses.

He looked over at Hernandez, struck by his dark brown eyes, boyish face and short jet black hair gelled up. The open face: that did it for him every time.

Luckhurst leant back in his chair. He was tempted, sorely tempted. He had been puzzled by the student’s failure. He had taught him several classes in the past and he had passed with high grades. His overall GPA showed he was a very bright student; he would go far. But, something strange had happened in Eng. Lit. Without the professor’s grade Hernandez would not make it to graduate school. His entire career could be hurt. Perhaps, Hernandez was correct; he had let his own arrogance get the better of him and imagined he could ace the professor’s course without working. Perhaps a spanking would sort out the boy’s arrogance.

Hernandez watched on as the professor sat at his desk, obviously in deep thought. If he had known any thought-transference tricks, he would have willed Luckhurst to do it. Go on, professor, spank my tight ass. What have you got to lose?

“Please, professor,” Hernandez spoke gently, “Please professor, spank me. I deserve it.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Professor Luckhurst hauled himself from his chair and walked across the room. Reaching the door, he turned the catch. A loud click confirmed the two men were locked together inside the office.

He turned to face Hernandez. He towered over the young man, easily eight inches taller than the student.

“If I do this, you must promise never to tell anybody what happened.”

“Oh, no Sir; of course not Sir,” Hernandez’s heart raced.

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, with more confidence than he actually possessed, the professor said, “Good boy. Come then, let’s do it.”

Luckhurst pulled a straight-backed chair from in front of his desk and placed it in the center of the office. Then, he sat down.

Hernandez stood his ground. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“Come, boy, take down those shorts. Get across my lap.”

“But…” Not for the first time that day Hernandez was lost for words. He had asked to be spanked, but he expected swats across his ass. Maybe he would be leaning over the desk, or bent over “assuming the position,” hands on his shins. No way had he expected to be over the professor’s knee, showing him his underwear.

Professor Luckhurst sat patiently. He had longed for such a moment his entire career. A cute naughty student submissively bent across his knee, offering up his butt for punishment. Sweat poured from his body and the underarms of his shirt was drenched. His breathing was heavy and his blood pressure was reaching record levels.

“Come on Hernandez, it is what you wanted.” Professor Luckhurst watched quietly as with trembling hands the boy undid his cloth belt and popped the button at the top of his bottle-green cargo shorts. The weight of the shorts took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees to rest at his shins. The boy’s legs were covered in thick black hair, to the professor’s evident disappointment. In his fantasies, the students had always been hairless: virginal.

Clearly distressed, Hernandez waddled a few steps so that he stood to the right of the professor. No, he couldn’t do this. He had changed his mind. Never mind the plan; forget how this little episode would insure the boy a bright trouble-free future. At the final moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Doh!” Professor Luckhurst was not about to miss his opportunity of a lifetime. He reached out and took the boy’s right arm and gently pulled him forward, so that he tumbled face down across the professor’s knees.

Hernandez screwed his eyes tight. The contact of his own body against the professor’s repulsed him. This was not how it was meant to be. Now, he had two choices; he could fight his way to his feet and flee the office. It would be easy, he was much smaller than his punisher, but he was forty-five years his junior; he had the superior strength.

He could do that, or he could stick with the original plan; albeit modified. He could take the spanking, graduate the university and get on with his new life.

Professor Luckhurst looked down at Federico, now across his lap. He might be twenty-two, but with his short trim body he could have passed for fifteen. Tight yellow briefs clung to his buttocks, so firmly they separated each one, so that the cotton dug deep into his crack creating a ravine. The boy’s red and white shirt had already risen away from the target area, but the professor helped it on its way by carefully folding it up once and then twice until the whole of his back beneath the shoulder blades was exposed.

Intrigued, the professor gently brushed his hand across the hairs on the boy’s back, feeling a slight tickle against his palm, but he took care not to connect with the flesh.

Federico’s anger was rising. What was the professor up to? The fury turned to rage when the professor moved his hand lower to caress the smooth cotton briefs. This time he let his palm explore the boy’s tight flesh. Each buttock was small enough to fit into the palm of the professor’s hand. Gently and very slowly the cupped hand explored the contours of the buttocks. The underpants were so tight and so small they left the lower half of each cheek exposed. The professor stroked his hand in a circular motion across the bared flesh, rather like he was polishing a window.

Federico stared straight ahead, trying to control his disgust. His arms were stretched out ahead of him and his own palms were pressed into the heavy material of the carpet, scratching them slightly. The crucifix he wore on a chain around his neck had slipped and dangled in front of his eyes. Behind him, he kept his knees straight and his toes floated an inch or so off the ground. His buttocks, now receiving so much loving attention from the professor, rested high over the old man’s right thigh.

On and on the professor caressed Federico’s buttocks in a circular motion; he was pimping and preening them. Never before had he held such a beautiful boy close to his own flesh. He was adorable; too wonderful to hurt. The professor would be entirely satisfied simply to hold and stroke the boy all night long. Was it too late to renegotiate with the boy? Let there be no spanking, instead give me a blow-job. No, better still; let me take you up the ass.

But it was too late. Better to make the most of the moment. The professor raised his hand two or three inches away from Federico’s left cheek and tapped it down. Then he did the same to the right cheek. Then again and again.

Federico had never been spanked in his life. He was no expert, but he knew one thing about it: it was supposed to hurt. That surely was the whole point. The professor wasn’t spanking him, he was coming on to him. This wasn’t a punishment, this was foreplay: a prelude to full-on sex.

On and on, the professor tapped and smacked his way across the boy’s glorious trim buttocks. No part of the cheeks escaped his attention. Smack, smack. smack.

Federico was losing his breath, not from the pain of his spanking since there wasn’t any, but from his increasing disgust. The professor was using him for his own sexual gratification. That wasn’t the idea. The plan was to get a spanking. It was meant to be four or five swats on the shorts and then, “Thank you Sir” and goodbye.

z used drawing hand otk (7)

Right that’s it. He wriggled his body and tried to force himself off the professor’s lap. Enough already. He was out of here.

The movement might have woken Luckhurst out of a trance. It was as if he suddenly realised why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

“No you don’t buster,” he pushed the boy forward so that his nose could smell the dusty carpet. Then he grabbed Federico’s right arm and twisted it up his back. The boy was going nowhere until the professor said so.

Then, in one swift continuous action, he grabbed the waistband of Federico’s tight yellow briefs and tugged them over his buttocks and left them at his thighs. The student wriggled and writhed, rather like he was swimming out of water, but the professor was his master; he was pinned down powerless to resist.

The professor once again caressed the buttocks. Unlike the boy’s back and legs, they were completely hairless, even the crack and butt hole. Did the boy shave himself, the professor wondered. Or did he have a special friend who did it for him?

But this was no time for speculation. In a frenzy the professor rained down spank after spank across the student’s pert naked butt. Federico felt that alright. The professor’s hand was as large and hard as Federico’s ass cheeks were small and soft. Sweat poured from the professor’s chest as the ache in the palm of his hand increased from a tingle to real pain. He had never spanked anyone in his whole sixty-seven years and was startled at how the boy’s tanned skin turned a deeper shade of brown as his own hand connected again and again with the flesh. The outline of the professor’s open palm was embedded time and time again on the boy’s rear end.

Federico kicked and thrashed his legs about, but he could not disturb the professor. The old man had an uninterrupted access to the buttocks. He realized he rather enjoyed swiping his hand hard into Federico’s naked cheeks and watching the instant reaction of the boy as he exhaled breath and wriggled across the older man’s lap. Yes, there was a direct connection between cause and effect in this spanking motion.

Federico gasped and gaped as each smack came down harder than the one before. He shook his head so violently in his attempt to escape what had become a severe bare-butt hand spanking that his crucifix slipped over his ears and fell on the ground. He stared down at it as his ass got hotter and hotter.

The professor was an old man. He didn’t have the strength he had twenty or thirty years past. He was spent. In his younger days he might have been able to spank the cute boy across his lap all night long. But not now. Not these days. He was choking for breath and blood rushed through his arteries at jet speed. If he didn’t slow down, he might have a stroke. No, worse than that: a heart attack.

“So young man,” he wheezed. “Do you regret not working hard in my class?”

Federico was astounded. He had long ago forgotten the reason he was bent over, naked butt raised high, receiving the attention of the pervert professor.

“Well?” the professor slapped his hand down the hardest yet.

“Yes,” the student gasped. His own breathing was as difficult as that of the professor. “Oh, yes,” he whimpered.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

The student was puzzled. What was he supposed to say?

Slap! “Beg for forgiveness.”

Beg?

Slap! “Say it. I beg you for forgiveness.”

That was it. When, I get up from here, I’m going to smash your fucking head in. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but the intent was real.

Slap! “Say it!”

The boy could not have been more humiliated. He had no choice. He had to remember that once he was released, his future was safe.

He wheezed, “I beg you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” Then for good measure, he added, “Sir.”

The professor stopped spanking. Federico lay across the old man, still staring at the crucifix. His head was spinning; he desperately needed to be standing on his own feet. So much blood had rushed to his brain; he feared he might pass out at any moment.

“Up.” It was a cold command. Despite his ordeal, Federico was still an athletic young man and he was off the man’s lap in seconds. Without waiting for permission, he pulled his underwear and shorts up. He was distressed that his hands would not obey him fully as he tried to button up and then buckle his belt. His ass was hot, but the agony was already dissipating into pain and would soon be only a throbbing.

The professor rose from his chair more slowly and turned to face the boy. He hoped Federico would not notice the bulge in front of his own pants. For several seconds the professor and the student stood facing one another in silence. Neither knew what to do next. Federico’s earlier rage had calmed. He would not beat up the professor. There was no cause to do that.

Eventually, the professor regained some of his own composure. “Nobody will hear about this, will they?”

“No,” Federico’s response was sullen.

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Federico assured him as he bent down to retrieve the fallen crucifix. Then without another word between the two men he walked to the door, unlocked it and left. With a wry smile cracking his lips he ran through the automatic doors toward the elevator.

….

Six months later Federico sat in the bar of a luxury hotel in the Caribbean, a beautiful woman by his side. In his hand he held a copy of the International New York Times. He smiled with satisfaction as for the third time today he read the story headlined: University settles $1.5 million lawsuit in student spanking case. A smaller headline ran: Professor’s career in ruins.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Expenses Fiddle

z used drawing cane hold (26)

Mr Harkaway shuffled the papers on his desk. Something did not look right. He walked over to the filing cabinet and found last month’s returns.

Stupid, stupid, stupid boy! He did not say it out loud as there was nobody in the office to say it to.

He had unearthed an expenses fraud. It was blatant; the work of an amateur. Tony Michaels, a trainee salesman, was writing his own petrol receipts. It was the oldest trick in the book and that was why it was so easy to spot.

Harkaway’s heart raced; he would have to report this; there would be trouble; the police would probably be called and there could be a court case. It would all end in tears.

Harkaway hated confrontation. It was bad for his health. Harkaway had joined Tilotson’s about two years previously. He had taught maths at a local secondary modern school for twenty years. They were tough kids who never understood the value of learning. Every day was a confrontation, but he and the other teachers had one weapon on their side: the cane. Even the toughest boys could be brought to order by a length of swishy rattan.

Then, a new ‘progressive’ headteacher arrived; with ‘ideals.’ Corporal punishment was abolished and the inmates took over the asylum. It was chaos from day one and order was never restored.

Harkaway suffered the inevitable breakdown. Now, he had a nice little job in the accounts department shuffling pieces of paper and balancing columns of figures. He did not have to meet many people in his job, especially not unruly teenagers, and he liked it just like that.

Harkaway had never heard of Tony Michaels, so he made the short journey down the corridor to see his colleague Mr MacDonald, himself another refugee from modern schooling. Within minutes, Harkaway was reading the trainee salesman’s file.

“Damn!” This time he did say it out loud.

“What’s the matter?” asked MacDonald, although he was not really interested.

“This salesman. He’s nineteen years old. Been here a year since he left St Francis Grammar School. He’s got really good reviews from his boss. Expected to go far,” Harkaway replied.

“So what?” MacDonald sensed his colleague’s distress.

Harkaway told him about the expenses fraud.

“It’s the end of his career. He could even get a criminal record. It’s such a waste.”

MacDonald had never met the teenager, but he felt sad for him. “What are you going to do?”

Harkaway was more distressed than he expected to be, “When I think of all the children at our school who never had a chance. Now, here’s this lad, with all the chances in the world and he’s throwing them away. It makes me so angry.”

Harkaway knew that he was expected to report him to his manager. Those were the rules. Let Michaels explain himself and leave it for others to make the decision.

“I’ll have to report him, of course,” Harkaway said wearily.

“Yes, of course,” MacDonald returned the file to the drawer. “What a pity there can’t be some other way to deal with it.”

Another way? Later, when Harkaway was eating his lunch the germ of an idea entered his head. It might just work, but he doubted Michaels would agree.

Back in his office, Harkaway found a ‘Girl Friday’ and instructed her to tell Michaels to report to his office at once. She was startled by the ferocity of his tone.

Harkaway had many years’ experience dealing with misbehaving schoolboys. He was used to hearing their denials and false excuses, but he would break them down in the end. He did it with facts; he presented the evidence.

Michaels was not like his secondary modern pupils. He was smart, well presented and articulate. No wonder he was doing so well as a trainee salesman. It made Harkaway furious. He thought of all those boys and girls at his former school who never had a chance. They were put on the scrapheap. Now, here was Michaels; he had every opportunity to make something of himself and he was throwing it away.

Yes, Michaels agreed under questioning; he had forged the petrol receipts. He had no choice but to confess, the evidence was undeniable. He could have kicked himself for being so obvious.

“Why did you do it Michaels?” The teenager recognised Harkaway’s tone; he had heard it many times from masters at his grammar school. He could tell he was in for a ticking off, but at school it would be followed by a caning.

He knew why he had done it but he was not about to tell Harkaway. He wanted the money. He wanted to buy things, like smokes, clothes, records and to go to discos. He wanted to take a girl out and give her a good time (and later have her give him a good time). All these things cost money: more than he earned.

Instead, in the way naughty schoolboys had done for generations, Michaels stared at his shoes and mumbled, “Don’t know, Sir.”

“Sir,” Harkaway liked that. Maybe there was some hope for this wretched boy after all.

“You don’t know!” Harkaway pretended to fume, “You took a lot of trouble to perpetrate this forgery, you must have needed the money pretty badly.”

Michaels remained silent. If this had been the United States he would have invoked the Fifth Amendment: say nothing, do not incriminate yourself.

“Doh!” Harkaway’s frustration was evident.

“You do know you will be dismissed for this. The police might be called and you could end up with a criminal record?” Harkaway barked.

Michaels blanched. He had not thought of that. He had been so stupid he did not think he would be caught. The consequences of his actions had never occurred to him.

“B… But,” he started miserably, but his famous salesman’s gift-of-the-gab eluded him. Somehow he must save his job and keep the police out of this.

Harkaway was unsure how to turn the conversation to reveal his plan.

Unsteadily, he began. “I see in your personnel file you attended St Francis Independent Grammar School.” He paused to see if there was a reaction from Michaels. There was not.

So he blundered on. “It is a school with a very fine tradition for … err … for discipline.”

Still Michaels remained silent.

“What would your headmaster think about how you have behaved? How you have let down the honour of the school.”

Michaels did not give a damn about what the school thought about his behaviour. He was very glad to be away from there. It would suit him very much indeed if he never saw the place again. Why was this lowly accounts clerk lecturing him about school and honour?

“I was myself a schoolteacher for many years. Not at such a fine school as St Francis, of course,” Harkaway was losing his thread. This was too embarrassing; why did he care about this boy? He was a thief; he deserved to be sacked and to be prosecuted. He should let events take their course.

He was about to dismiss the teenager from his office when Michaels piped up. Suddenly, he had realised what this was about: discipline … school … honour.

“I am sorry Sir. I have behaved badly,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. “I deserve to be punished severely, but could it be without losing my job. I will never do it again. I promise.”

It was a lie and Michaels knew it. He enjoyed the clothes, the clubs and the girls too much to give them up. He would lose the lot if he was sacked. But if he could stay with Tilotson’s, later when the heat had died down he would find another more successful way to steal from the company. But, for now he would have to take what was coming to him.

Harkaway flushed. Had he understood the boy correctly? “What would your headmaster have done if he found you stealing?”

It was now or never, Michaels realised. He took a deep breath. “He would have thrashed me,” and then for dramatic effect he added, “And I should have deserved it, too.” And, for good measure he added, “Sir!”

And, that was how four hours later, Tony Michaels, a nineteen-year-old trainee salesman, came to be standing in Harkaway’s living room at his home. He had had plenty of time to change his mind, but he knew he had no choice; he had to go through with it.

Harkaway flexed a long, yellow, rattan cane thoughtfully between his hands. He could not get the measure of young Michaels. He seemed impassive to his fate.

“Have you been caned before, Michaels?” Harkaway swished the rattan through the air to try to intimidate the boy.

“No, sir,” it was another lie. There was no reason to tell it, but Michaels seemed incapable of telling the truth. He had been caned. It hurt like crazy, but it did not kill him.

If he had thought being a caning novice would make Harkaway go easy on him, he was much mistaken.

“Then, young man this will be an awesome experience for you. I do not intend to be lenient at all. This will be a thrashing you will never forget.”

Michaels’ heart raced. Exactly what did this jumped-up accounts clerk have in mind?

Harkaway eyed the teenager. He wore a smartly-cut dark suit. His buttocks would make a perfect target in those trousers, he thought.

But, he would never find that out.

“Take off your jacket, Michaels,” he swished the cane, “and place it on the table there.”

Only now, did the magnitude of this sink in. This could turn out to be one hell of a thrashing. With trembling hands, Michaels undid the two buttons on his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. Then he tidily folded the immaculate jacket and put it on the table.

“Now, stand behind that armchair,” the cane swished again for emphasis.

Colour was draining from Michaels’ face as he took two or three steps to cross the room.

He breathed deeply, waiting for the final instruction: bend over.

“Now lower your trousers, Michaels.”

The teenager’s mouth gaped open, but he just stopped himself voicing an objection. He had not expected this: Harkaway had not said it was to be on the pants; or God forbid on the bare.

Michaels looked pleading at Harkaway, but the ex-schoolteacher was not to be moved.

“Do it immediately, boy,” he intoned quietly, “or you will receive extra strokes.”

Michaels closed his eyes and cussed silently. Then he unbuckled his belt, and popped the buttons on his trousers before he guided them across his buttocks and down his thighs where they came to rest at his knees.

He could feel a cool breeze against his now bare legs. Please God, he prayed, please let me keep my pants on.

“Bend over the chair, Michaels.”

Oh thank you God! Michaels placed his hands together as if in prayer, rubbed the palms, took a deep breath and dived forward over the back of the ugly vinyl armchair.

His face came to rest on an old worn cushion. The odour of stale sweat filled his nostrils.

“Feet further apart boy.”

While the teenager manoeuvred himself into the required position, Harkaway approached him from behind, grabbed at the tail of his shirt and carefully rolled it up until it rested half way up his back.

Then he grabbed the waistband of the boy’s gleaming white underpants.

“Oh, no! God, you have deceived me!” Michaels would have words to say the next time he attended his church.

The pants were soon reunited with the trousers.

Harkaway did not announce the number of strokes he intended to deliver, so it came as an almighty shock to Michaels’ system when a dozen hard cuts lashed into his naked buttocks and each one laid on with the greatest force.

Harkaway had never caned a boy with such ferocity. Later, recalling the incident to his colleague Mr MacDonald, he would say he did not remember much of what happened. He did recall the anguished shrieks from the boy as lash after lash whipped into his buttocks. And, he remembered the squirming as the boy’s body thrashed from left and right and up and down as if it were being tossed about on a heavy sea.

After the boy had dressed and left the house, Harkaway found a tea towel soaked in his blood.

If Harkaway’s memory was blurred, Tony Michaels remembered every second of every minute.

My arse is tight and open, all my muscles in my legs and buttocks are tense, and I cannot flex my backside. I can also feel my cock touching the top of the chair.

I hear some swishing sounds which send tremors all through my body. Next I feel the cane touch my backside, right in the middle. It rests there, for a moment. There are a few taps, which sting.

Before I have time to think any more there is a zip sound, followed by absolute agony. I could not believe how much pain I was in. It was sharp, but then it built up like a burn going deeper and deeper into me. Just as it started to fade the next stroke landed.

I had been caned at school – many times, it was that kind of school – but I had never felt such pain in my whole life as I did under Harkaway’s cane.

I could feel burning lines across my bum, the first across the fleshiest part and each stroke that followed cut just below the last. I was screaming, sweating, gasping and gripping the chair with both hands desperately trying to stay in position. I so wanted to run away, but some schoolboy code of honour must have kicked in: I knew I must take my punishment like a man.

Mr Harkaway waited a little longer before delivering another stroke, which left me in intense agony. The bastard laid it diagonally across previous welts, raising the heat and burn in all of them again. I could feel blood oozing from the wounds which felt very deep.

Slash number eight was the same and so were the final four but they were diagonals laid on the other way round.

Throughout, I shrieked out in agony and shock, my legs kicking up automatically as a merciless shower of mighty whacks followed in unbelievably quick succession. My bum, hips, shoulders all wriggled frantically in a futile attempt to escape the flashing cane which scorched into my buttocks.

By the time he had finished, I was sobbing. My bum was burning like I had sat on a lit coal fire.

After what seemed like hours, Harkaway instructed that I should stand up. Gingerly, I did so, but this sent fresh waves of agony through my injured bottom. Harkaway was breathing heavily, gasping for breath. He seemed to be in as bad a state as I was.

As if in a trance he left the room. I was not sure what to do next, so I tried to get dressed, but the very action of pulling my pants across my flogged buttocks was enough to send shockwaves through my body. I pulled my pants down again and saw the rear was covered in large pink stains. That was when I realised my buttocks were bleeding; Harkaway had ripped me to shreds.

Still in much pain and with my pants and trousers now around my ankles, I waddled to the kitchen and found a tea towel which I soaked in water and eased the flow of blood. The cool water felt good against my throbbing arse and I let it soak for a minute or two.

Mr Harkaway was nowhere to be seen. I did not want another confrontation with him, so when the raging agony in my arse subsided a little and was reduced to a constant throbbing, I managed to pull up my pants and trousers. I collected my jacket and left.

On the way out, I glimpsed myself in the hallway mirror. I did not recognise the ghostly figure with the snot covered face and the wild staring eyes.

I walked the three miles back to my home; I could not risk taking the bus, I knew I would not be able to sit down for some considerable time to come.

At home I whipped down my trousers. The blood had dried against my underpants and I had to take a wet flannel to soak them off my skin.

My bottom was still incredibly painful. There were a dozen deep welts criss-crossed over the buttocks; they looked like Clapham Railway Junction. The cheeks were still swollen and covered in dark blue bruises.

The next day when I returned to work, my bottom was still tender to the touch and I wriggled a bit as I sat at my desk. Mr Harkaway never mentioned the forged petrol receipts and I kept my job.

That was more than four weeks ago. The wounds have healed and I lived. I submitted an honest expenses claim this month, but I am working on a new fiddle for the future. I hope I do not get caught, but if I do then please don’t let it be by Mr Harkaway.

Picture credit: Unknown

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This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

What a Disappointment . . .

z used longs touch toes school sting

No sixth-former had ever been caned at my school, so I made history that day.

Actually, hardly anyone had been caned in living memory – it was a “progressive” school and I had thought corporal punishment had been abolished a long time ago.

But, as I was to find out it had only fallen into disuse and that day it was making a comeback.

And, I welcomed its return, thank you very much, Sir.

I was eighteen years old and for a long as I could remember I had had a thing about corporal punishment. I used to fantasize about what it would be like to go over someone’s knee for the slipper or be sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best with the cane.

And, now my fantasy was to come true: or so I hoped.

It was all rather unexpected. I was in no way a bad lad, a rebellious teen, or a troublemaker. In fact I was such a goody-goody I was a prefect at the school and tipped to go on to university.

I had fallen foul of one of the school’s most fearsome battle-axes: Miss Lowenstein. She really was an old crone. One of the ugliest women you’d ever be likely to meet, with buck teeth and a gammy leg, courtesy of a childhood bout of polio.

She was, of course, a spinster and we boys all thought she was sex starved (as if we weren’t). And, she was a tough disciplinarian. She called herself a “martinet” and woe betides anyone who did not call her “ma’am”. No way were we allowed to call her “miss”, like we did all the other women teachers.

She had a mean streak and that’s how it was that I was about to break the record and take a caning.

We had a school magazine, it wasn’t a posh one, professionally published, but just something we cobbled together on an old Roneo printer. It was mostly short stories and poems (well doggerel verse really). It was my prowess as a poet that got me in trouble. I’d penned a verse that did not name her, but everyone knew who I meant. Somewhere in there it called her a “crow” and that she did not like.

So, before I knew it she was onto Mr Henderson, the head of Upper School, whining on that something must be done. And, the only “something” that would satisfy the bat was me bent over getting a sore arse.

When I realised I was for it I was not the least worried. I had dreamt about this for so long. I was fascinated by school canings and read lots of stories and comics that involved schoolboys getting their backsides tanned.

My favourite stories took place in public schools which were a world away from the inner city comprehensive I attended. In England “public” schools are expensive private schools, often where pupils boarded. What they all had in common was the thwack of the cane across the seat of the trousers that rewarded boys who misbehaved.

At home I used to pretend I was one of the boys sent for “six on the bags” as the school stories had it. Often I would dress up in my school uniform and pose in front of the full-length mirror in the passageway of our council flat. I would bend over touching my toes admiring the reflection of my bum in the mirror.

I never did anything about my spanking fantasy. I was young and we were all very naïve in those days. We didn’t have Internet then, so I wasn’t to know that there were plenty of people out there who shared my interest. Let’s face it there would have been plenty of people ready to cane an eighteen-year-old schoolboy’s backside raw (and much else besides) if they knew he was ready and willing.

I had one friend who looking back I think might have shared my interest. We were too young to express to each other our true feelings and the closest we got to doing anything was one day, while playing in his house, we found some sticks and had a go at sword-fighting. I can’t remember how it happened, but we moved on from medieval knights or whatever to naughty boys.

To this day, I remember he was willing to get a whacking from me. He bent over the back of the couch. We were both children so he couldn’t quite stretch all the way over. But, I do remember his chubby buttocks stretching against his corduroy trousers. He made a perfect target and if I hadn’t been so shy, I would have (no, should have) swished the stick into his arse.

But I chickened out. Why? I don’t know. But even now nearly fifty years after the event I still have pangs of regret.

So, I wasn’t about to give up the chance of a proper headmaster’s caning from Mr Henderson.

I went to a pretty ordinary school and we had no airs and graces: my school uniform was a very standard black blazer with grey trousers.

My uniform was ordinary and if truth be told I was pretty ordinary too: about five-foot-seven, a little over eight-stone in weight, and properly proportioned, not like the obese teenagers you see today.

At the appointed time I went to the concrete and glass Admin Block and knocked on the door of Mr Henderson’s office. My heart was thumping as if I had run a mile in a minute to be there. Something exciting was happening here and I couldn’t easily describe it, but I hoped that after this afternoon I wouldn’t quite be the same again.

I entered on Mr Henderson’s command. I was surprised to find Miss Lowenstein waiting there: not only was she determined to make sure I got my beating; she was going to personally witness it.

Mr Henderson had a modern office and it was very small. With all the filing cabinets you couldn’t swing a cat (or hardly a cane) in it. He probably looked like a typical comprehensive schoolteacher: wearing a rather scruffy shirt and plain tie with beige trousers that had seen better days since he bought them at a cheap chain store many years ago.

There wasn’t much room with all three of us present. I stood as best I could in front of Mr H’s Formica-covered desk. It was a mess, piled high with files and school notebooks. Miss Lowenstein moved out of my eyesight, probably all the better to get a view of what was to happen next.

Mr Henderson didn’t quite know what to say. He called me “Walton,” which isn’t quite my name. He mumbled something about how awful I had been. He actually said my behaviour was “ugly” and I suppressed a laugh at that, knowing that word perfectly described Miss Lowenstein.

I said something nondescript in return and then he told me matter-of-factly that he was going to cane me.

He moved to a filing cabinet. I hadn’t noticed before, but on top of it lay a short stick. This was no crook-handled ashplant cane beloved of public school masters; this was a  piece of bamboo, a little over two feet long and so rigid it would be impossible to bend it, or get much of a swish out of it.

Then he said the wonderful words I had dreamt of hearing for so long, “Bend over, Walton.”

There wasn’t anything to bend over, a desk or a chair, so heart thumping madly I just bent down. He hadn’t given the time-honoured command “touch your toes,” so I leaned forward a bit and keeping my legs straight I put my hands on my knees. That was enough. I was stooped there showing sufficient backside to serve the purpose.

I waited staring down at the worn carpet for the first stroke to land, remembering all those times I had bent touching my toes in front of the mirror. It didn’t matter how much it hurt I would shut my teeth and stick it, just like the boys in the stories I loved so much.

There was no swish as the cane landed on my bum, just a dull thud. I felt it, but there was no searing pain. The second and third stoke landed. What a disappointment. I hardly felt a thing. Mr Henderson’s heart was not in this. I felt terribly let down.

I got six strokes, but there’s no way anyone could have mistaken them for “six-of-the best.” I remained bent over after the last one landed. I knew the etiquette was you stayed in position until you were given permission to stand up. In the stories if a boy stood up before being allowed he got extra strokes. I wouldn’t have minded some more, but I doubt Mr Henderson would have obliged.

Eventually, rather absent-mindedly Mr Henderson said I should get up. I did as I was told. Did my face show my disappointment? I can’t be sure, but I could see Miss Lowenstein had a face like thunder. She was not impressed. Had she wanted to see me jumping about from foot to foot clutching my bum in agony and choking in fits of sobs?

Maybe she did. I’m sure that’s what I wanted too.

Mr Henderson was still holding the cane, not sure what to do with it, or how to dismiss me from his office. I don’t suppose he had much experience caning schoolboys since corporal punishment had all but been abolished at the school.

Eventually he summoned up enough wit to send me on my way.

I was in no real pain. In the stories I would have been rubbing my backside furiously as I rushed back to my study. I did have a surreptitious feel of the seat of my trousers, just a quick rub with my thumb, but there was no sensation there.

I knew I couldn’t go to the lavs to inspect the damage (if there was any) because they would be full of smokers and there’d be no privacy.

Instead, I went straight home. Thirty minutes later I was lying on my bed, my trousers and pants on the floor beside me. I was sorely disappointed. I couldn’t find a trace of the cane’s marks. It was as if it hadn’t happened.  There were no welts or bruises that would last for days and no chance that I would have difficulty in sitting down at tea time or have to sleep on my stomach tonight.

I leaned over and took an ancient storybook and a handful of tissues from the bedside table. They certainly knew how to deal with misbehaving seniors at St Tom’s School.

Dr Tulke rose from his writing-table. To Wooton’s surprise, he picked up a cane. Wooton could not see what the cane was wanted for.
He was, however, soon to discover.
“Senior boys,” said the Head, “are not usually caned at St, Tom’s, but there are exceptional cases that can be dealt with in no other way. Bend over that desk, Wooton!”
“Eh?”
“Bend over that desk!”
Wooton – bewildered and dismayed – bent over the desk.
Swipe! Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe, Swipe!

It was not merely “six.”  It was as thorough a licking as Dr Tulke had ever administered; such a licking as Wooton had seldom or never experienced before.
It seemed like a horrid dream to Wooton of the Sixth. But it was no dream; it was painful reality. Very painful! The head was a venerable gentleman, but he seemed to have a lot of beef in his right arm. He put it all into that whacking.
Wooton fairly squirmed.
“Now,” said the head, breathing hard, “you may go, Wooton! Not another word, or I shall cane you again! Go!”

Wooton almost tottered from the study. He left with pale face and compressed lips. His eyes were burning like hot coals.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in August 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com