Their new house

z used hands (6)

Frankie and his boyfriend Hugo were in the sitting room surrounded by suitcases and cardboard boxes. Their first home together. What times they would have. Things would never be the same again.

They had been seeing each other for three years and now they were going to “the next level”, as Hugo put it. Frankie was fine with that. He wanted commitment; a wedding eventually. The whole nine yards.

Frankie was twenty-five and Hugo three years older. They loved each other; whatever “love” means. They were monogamous. Mostly. Frankie had once had a fling with a barman who worked in a straight pub near his parents’ house, but there was no need for Hugo to know that. Hugo didn’t stray too far; not for sex. He had other interests to consume him.

They had spent many nights together, weekends too, but they had never “lived together”. It would be a voyage of discovery.

They settled in quickly. It was a furnished house in an upscale part of town. Frankie was in advertising; Hugo, public relations. They did alright. But, The Avenue was anything but young and trendy. Their friends joked middle-age had consumed them.

But they both liked the house, even though the neighbours were a bit stand-offish. “They just lead staid, conformist lifestyles,” Frankie, who understood such advertising “demographics”, said with authority.

Hugo was preparing supper one evening when his boyfriend sauntered into the kitchen, a puzzled frown on his usually smiling face. “What’s this do you suppose, Hugo?” he asked. In his hand he held a worn strip of leather, cut into three pieces at one end.

“Oh, my word,” Hugo giggled. “Where did you find that?”

“In the cupboard under the stairs, it was hidden under some plastic sheets.”

Hugo reached forward and took the strap from his boyfriend. “You really don’t know what this is?” he enjoyed that for once he knew something more than Hugo.

“It’s a taws,” he said, and when the puzzlement on his pal’s face remained, he added, “Schoolmaster’s in Scottish schools used to use them.”

He couldn’t believe Frankie still did not understand.

“For beating,” he smiled. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold your hands out.”

“No way,” Frankie laughed nervously, he had begun to twig what Hugo meant.

Hugo saw his boyfriend’s face redden. “C’mon, I won’t really hurt you. Hold out your hand.”

“No,” Frankie pretended to pout. “Shan’t.” he shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on his partner.

“Do as you’re told boy,” Hugo’s rotten attempt at a Scottish accent made Hugo grin. “Come on, take it like a man.”

Uncertain, Frankie raised his right hand and held the palm up and to his side. Hugo grinned, “Not like that. Hold your hands out in front of you. Lay the right palm over the left,” he demonstrated. Still, unsure what would happen next, Frankie did as he was told.

Hugo fingered the worn leather strap. It was nearly two feet long and the “business end” was about three inches wide.

Hugo raised the strap and caressed Frankie’s palm with it. His boyfriend’s grey-blue eyes sparkled. “This is what happened. The schoolmaster would take the strap and whack it down across the boy’s palm.”

Frankie roared, “Owww!” as the leather hit home. “That hurt!” he roared and tucked his hand under his armpit. “Bloody hell, why did you do that!” He twisted his body as if in genuine pain.

“Don’t be a baby. I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Now, Frankie was licking the palm of his hand as if that would ease the pain. “Look,” he held up his hand to show Hugo the pale pink strip that decorated it.

“It’s not bad. The schoolmaster would have really thrashed it down. Then you’d have to change hands and by the time he was finished you would have had four, or even six strokes.” He watched his boyfriend distort his face comically. “On each hand,” Hugo laughed.

“Look at that,” Frankie grimaced and ran his index finger along the imprint the taws had left. “It hurts.”

Hugo pulled him forward, “You wimp,” he said, just before he slipped his tongue into his mouth.

Two days later, Frankie returned from work to an empty house. He went to the refrigerator for juice. As he put the carton away, he saw it from the corner of his eye. Unaccountably, his heart missed a beat. The taws hung on the wall from a plastic cup-hook.  He couldn’t resist. He leaned forward and released it. It was heavy and much of the leather was pitted and scarred. It had seen some action in its time. Whose was it, he wondered. Had a previous tenant been a Scottish schoolmaster? Surely not; they were hundreds of miles from the border, and corporal punishment had been outlawed before Frankie was born.

The weight of the taws intrigued him. If Hugo had been correct the strap would have been excruciatingly painful. He remembered the sting he felt when his boyfriend had tested it on him. He took hold of the handle, stretched out his left hand and gave himself a thwack across the palm. It hurt, but maybe not as much as when Hugo did it. He whacked it down again a little harder.

Hours later, supper eaten and glasses of wine consumed, the boys snuggled up on the couch. Frankie had been anxious to ask all evening, now would be a good time.

“The strap. On the wall. Why?” He didn’t need to speak in sentences, Hugo knew what his boyfriend meant.

“Well, young man,” Hugo cuddled Frankie more tightly. “I think we need to discuss your behaviour,” he said sweetly.

Frankie blushed. The wine and his passion for Hugo were playing havoc with his feelings. He said nothing, hoping Hugo would say more. He did. “I didn’t realise what a slut you were until we moved in together. You leave your clothes all over the place. You expect me to washup your dirty plates. What did your last slave die of?”

Hugo caressed Frankie’s cock. It rose and pressed against his tight briefs.

“So,” Hugo spoke quietly. He was serious. He needed his boyfriend to understand that. “If you don’t buck up your ideas a bit, young man, I think you know what the consequences will be.” He unzipped Frankie’s fly and inserted his fingers.

Next morning, Frankie rushed off to work, running late again. His breakfast bowl festered on the draining board; yesterday’s shirt and underpants lay on the floor by their bed. Hugo sighed and picked up his phone. His text message read: BOWL. CLOTHES. REMEMBER WHAT I SAID.

That evening, Frankie sat in the kitchen, sucking on a can of Coke, staring at the cereal bowl. His clothes remained untouched. Nervously, he paced the room. There was still thirty minutes before Hugo was due home. He sat, rubbed his palms and inspected them. All signs of his strapping had cleared. He went to the living room, slouched on the couch and surfed through satellite television.

Hugo walked into the room. They embraced. Hugo adored his boyfriend’s smell; always so fresh and boyish. He pulled away. He needed to check a thing or two. He left Frankie waiting. Frankie paced some more. Seconds passed, but it felt like hours to Frankie.

“Well don’t say you weren’t warned, young man.” Hugo let the worn leather taw dangle from his hand. He tap-tap-tapped it against his thigh as he spoke. He had been rehearsing his speech all day. The warning. Frankie’s disobedience. He only had himself to blame.

Frankie stood before his boyfriend, his eyes glistening, his heart thumping. His head was bowed. He held his hands behind his back. He couldn’t make himself look Hugo in the face.

“Do you remember how I told you to do this?” Hugo spoke reasonably, as if what was about to happen was the most natural thing in the world. Frankie’s face flushed to Hugo’s great delight. His boyfriend was adorable when embarrassed. It brought out the pigment in his skin and the colour of his eyes.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Frankie raised his head.

“Hold out your hands in front of you. One palm on top of the other.”

A moustache of moisture soaked Frankie’s top lip. Then, the tip of his tongue darted in and out of his mouth, making him look like a lizard. His grey-blue eyes seemed distant to Hugo. He looked deep in thought.

Hugo held the leather strap between two hands, waiting. Perhaps, he thought, he should have ordered his boyfriend to bend over the coach and take it on the arse. That way Frankie wouldn’t face the added humiliation of looking him in the eye and showing his fear.

Then, Frankie held out his hand as instructed. He didn’t look at Hugo, instinctively his head turned away to the wall. He had stretched his arm and hand out in the required manner, directly in front of his body; one hand on top of the other. His shoulder ached from holding his arm so high.


He felt the strap stroke the centre of his palm. Suddenly, he panicked. What if Hugo’s aim was off and he slashed the taws into his fingers or his thumb. The pain would be excruciating and the damage would make it impossible for Frankie to use a computer or hold anything for days. How would he explain that to the people at work?

As the cold strap tapped his palm he screwed up his eyes and readied himself for the first stroke. The taws swooped down and cracked across his flesh. The burn was intense, it felt like he had accidentally leant against the glowing ring of a cooker. Some dormant schoolboy instinct stopped him withdrawing his hand and blowing air on it or wrapping it under his armpit to ease the pain.

He was inordinately proud of himself when he managed to hold the palm steady, while Hugo readied himself to deliver the second cut. It fell with a deafening Crack!  Fire burned into Frankie’s delicate flesh. He scrunched his face like an ugly gargoyle. Tears pricked the back of his eyes. His palms throbbed like crazy. Never before had he felt such pain.

“Other hand.” Hugo’s instruction sounded as if it had come from a hundred miles away, Frankie could barely hear for the blood rushing through his ears. He switched hands, groaning as the weight on his untouched hand pressed into the scorching flesh of the other.

He closed his eyes shut and waited. The next stroke whipped expertly into his palm and tears fell freely. Still, he held his hand firmly for the next lash. Absurdly, he felt tremendous pride that he had not (at least not yet) howled the house down.

“Last one,” Hugo intoned. “Raise your hands higher please.”

Although every nerve in his body seemed to tremble, Frankie stretched his arm further and raised it to the required height. He was rewarded by a cracking slash into the centre of his palm. All dignity was lost, he bent double, howling with agony. He blew on the palm to no effect, so he tried rubbing his hands together. That made it worst, so, he stuck them between his knees. Still there was no relief. His palms were crimson and throbbing. They seemed to be twice their natural size. He held them out for Hugo to see. His unspoken words were, “Look what you’ve done to me.”

Hugo threw the taws onto the couch and advanced on his boyfriend. Bulges in both their trousers betrayed their true feelings. Hugo unbuckled Frankie’s belt and ripped down his zipper. When it was clear Frankie’s hands were too tortured to do the same to Hugo, he did it himself. Two steel hard cocks pointed at the ceiling. Frankie’s was about to take off like an Exocet missile. Hugo sank to his knees and took the glistening top of Hugo’s cock in his mouth.

Later, spunked out, they lay on the carpet gasping with ecstasy. It had been some time, if ever, that they had made-out like this. Hugo held his lover’s head in his arms, delighted that Frankie had been so quick to find the taws he had planted in the cupboard under the stairs.



Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

The casting couch

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


The Private Tutor

school shorts touch toes (1)

There are now more than 200 stories uploaded to this website. Thanks to everybody who has supported the site and thanks for all the kind comments you have sent me.

New visitors are finding this site every week and I hope you like what you see. I know it can be a bit difficult sometimes to find your way around Male on Male Spanking Stories, so I have decided to try to make life easier for you. Starting today and continuing over future Mondays I am collecting together some of my stories and publishing them as books.

The first one today is the series The Private Tutor. It was originally published in four parts. It runs for more than 18,000 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 Private Tutor

 What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

 Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

 The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

 The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II


Other stories you might like

Summer at Uncle’s – a full-length story

My friend Justin

The housebreaker



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second



The Spanking Vicar 7. One off the wrist

Rev Crick has three young university students staying with him as paying guests. In part one his latest lodger nineteen-year-old Craig was caned for his idleness during the past year. In part two, he learnt that the vicar does more on a Sunday than preach sermons.

Now, Tommy, another lodger, discovers Rev Crick keeps a firm hold on his tenants’ moral behaviour …

Tommy was late for breakfast and he knew that very soon if he wasn’t careful he was going to be in a heck of a lot of trouble.

But, he couldn’t help it. It wasn’t his fault. It was the girl in the sweetshop: he couldn’t get her out of his mind: that hair flowing over her shoulders; the smile; the neck.  Those breasts!

The twenty-year-old hawked a gob of saliva onto his palm and pushed his arm under the bedclothes.

Downstairs in the kitchen Reverend Crick was losing his patience. He had called Tommy five minutes ago and he still wasn’t at the breakfast table.

Tommy’s breathing was heavy, har, har, har as he worked away. Quickly, finish off before the reverend comes in. No, not quickly: slowly.

Ah, ah, ah. Tommy’s legs straightened as sensation pulsated through his body. Those breasts!

Rev Crick was angry now. He knew what that dirty little boy was up to.

Tommy was holding on, trying to make it last.

Crick turned the gas down low under the saucepan and left the kitchen.

Ah, ah, ah, the breathing quickened, any moment now.

Crick strode to the stairs and started to ascend.

Yes, yes, yes!! Tommy shot a load onto a strategically placed wad of toilet paper.

The bedroom door burst open to reveal Rev Crick’s face of thunder.

“What have you been doing?” It was an accusation, not a question.

Tommy peered from under the bedclothes, feigning sleep.

“Eh, what time is it?”

“Don’t give me that.  You were not asleep.”

Tommy made exaggerated yawning noises, sat up in bed and stretched.

“What have you been up to?”

“Nothing,” it was an unconvincing lie from Tommy who had guilt written all over his face.

Rev Crick sniffed a faintly sweet aroma in the air. His eyes searched the room. Then he saw it: a fistful of soiled toilet paper.

“You filthy, disgusting, dirty little boy, what are you?”

Tommy blushed scarlet, but remained silent. There wasn’t much he could say.

“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?”


“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

The reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the reverend desired.

“Talk to me boy! What did I say?”

Tommy mumbled an inaudible answer.

“Speak up,” the reverend’s anger was boiling over.

“The cane.”

“What about the cane?”

“You said I’d get the cane.”

“I said I’d cane your hands so hard you wouldn’t be able to touch anything for a week, let alone your pee-pee, you disgusting, dirty, boy.”

Crick’s anger was genuine. He was of the old church that had distinctly strong views about the body. He believed that masturbation was one of the worst sins a person could commit.

He leaned towards Tommy and ripped the clothes from the bed, throwing them on the floor.

Tommy, naked except for a pair of green briefs, cowered away in fear. He had seen Rev Crick in foul moods before, but he had never witnessed anything like this. His fear turned to terror when Crick grabbed him by the hair and hauled him out of bed.

Within seconds they were out the door and Crick was dragging Tommy to the stairs. They both almost tumbled down them as Crick in his rage pulled the boy by the hair along behind him. Alerted by the commotion, the other lads rushed from the dining room in time to see Rev Crick open his study door and push Tommy through.

Tommy stood shivering in his underpants: shaking mostly from terror, rather than the cold. He watched in dread as Crick fetched a thin whippy cane from his special cupboard.

“You disgusting, dirty little boy.” Crick could not stop himself calling Tommy all the filthy names under the sun.

He swished the cane through the air. “I am going to make sure you never touch yourself again.”

“Hold out your hand.”

Terrified, Tommy stood rooted to the spot.

“Hold out your hand!”

Still Tommy did not move.

“I will not tell you again. Hold out your hand or I’ll flog you to an inch of your life, dirty, disgusting boy.”

In sheer terror, Tommy lifted his left arm slightly.

“Up, more! Higher.”

Tommy was shaking so much with fear that he couldn’t make his arm move any further. The reverend grabbed his elbow and raised the hand himself. Then after taking a step back he brought the cane down with a vicious swipe.

Tommy moved his hand just in time and the cane whistled past and very nearly struck Crick a very painful blow, near his own private parts.

Crick was puce. As if possessed, he grabbed Tommy’s arm in a tight lock with his own left arm and held the boy’s hand out as straight as he could and then he swiped down six ferocious cuts into the boy’s right palm.

The howls of pain rang around the whole vicarage and could be heard as far away as the church itself.

Outside the study, Tommy and Craig wondered whether they should barge in and rescue Tommy. But, they were too late. Rev Crick released Tommy’s arm and grabbing the other, repeated the punishment on the boy’s left palm. Six stinging swipes!

Tommy sank to his knees, screaming with the pain, hugging himself with both hands under his armpits, tears pouring from his eyes.

The reverend stood over the boy menacingly brandishing the cane, ready to deliver more.

“Please God! No more, please God!” Tommy choked on his words. His throbbing hands had swollen to twice or three times their natural size. “No more, please!”

Suddenly, Rev Crick regained his composure. He looked at the boy on his knees before him and he observed that he was himself still holding the cane. For a few seconds he was unsure where he was. What had just happened? He couldn’t quite remember what he had done; it was as if he had been in a trance.

Tommy was still on his knees, hands under armpits, bent double, sobbing into the carpet.

Sheepishly, Crick replaced the cane in the cupboard and without a further word to Tommy, left the room, fumbling for his cigarette packet and brushing past an astonished Bob and Craig in the passageway on his way out.

From that day forward a dark mist engulfed the vicarage.



The next episode of The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh is here


Some other stories from The Spanking Vicar


House call

Missed curfew

Reefer madness

Village fete


Charles Hamilton the Second

The Private Tutor: 3

used taws on hands (3)

A group of lazy eighteen-year-old sixth-form school pupils are in danger of failing their exams. The Private Tutor has been hired to get them back on track. They are mid-way through a special Saturday “revision class.”

Part one of the story is here. Part two here.


A hand bell rang from right outside the classroom door.

“Alright form. It is now Play Time. Please leave the classroom quietly. Be sure to be back in class ready to start work in fifteen minutes time,” the tutor instructed.

I was putting my pens and pencils away in my desk when I noticed the man in the tracksuit I had seen when I arrived had entered the room. He was in animated conversation with the tutor. By the way they were both looking over in my direction I knew they were talking about me.

The man was no longer in track suit. He, like the tutor, was in an academic gown, but he was not wearing a mortar-board. He was a middle-aged man with severely thinning grey hair.

“Carstairs!” the tutor called to attract my attention. “You are to remain seated at your desk until all the other pupils have left the classroom.”

Meekly, I did as instructed. In no time at all we were the only three people left in the classroom.

“Carstairs, come here.” I swear the tutor actually beckoned me with a crooked finger and pointed to a spot on the floor in front of the pair of them.

I wriggled out from behind my desk, managing not to bark my shins in the process and stood where indicated.

“I believe you have already met Mr Smisk, our headmaster.”

Before I could confirm this to be true, he spoke up.

“Carstairs, you are a thoroughly objectionable young man. I want you to go to my study and wait outside facing the wall with your hands on your head until I arrive.”

“Headmaster’s study?”  who were these people? Who is it that builds an old-fashioned classroom in their back garden, then dresses up as a headmaster?

“My study is at the end of the hall, you will see my name on the door. Go now.”

I did. It wasn’t a large house and the study was easy to find. It had what appeared to be an oak door and on a wooden panel was painted the words: Mr. T. L. Smisk. Headmaster.

As an eighteen year old I wasn’t very experienced in life but I had a pretty good idea what was going to happen next. Now, was my chance to walk out the door and never come back. My father would not need to know; the exams started this week, I was probably as ready to take them as I ever would be. I’d never need to see the pervy tutor ever again.

But, I didn’t leg it to freedom. Instead, I stood outside Mr Smisk’s study, faced the wall and put my hands on my head, submissively.

Something was stirring inside of me as I contemplated the inevitable that was about to happen. I’d been spanked and caned and slippered by the tutor, but he had never made me catch my breath quite like this.

I know from that time at our house that Harry was turned on when he was punished, but it had never happened to me in quite the same way: although I did have one time with my girlfriend Sharon. It was a few days after I had been caned by the tutor. I’d forgotten about it and on Friday I went out on the lash with the gang as always. Sharon’s parents were away so we went back to her house. We snogged and got passionate on the bed and before long her dress was off and my trousers and pants were down.

Most of the girls think my arse is my prime asset, so it was no surprise that with it bare to the wind that’s where she headed. Then, she noticed something was not quite as it should be. I hadn’t inspected myself that day and didn’t realise my bum hadn’t properly healed.

“What’s this? Who’s been a naughty boy then?”

Of course, I couldn’t tell her the truth, so I played along.

“Oive bin a vewy nawty likkle boy,” I said in my best baby voice.

She didn’t need any persuasion. She turned me over so I was face down in the duvet and slapped my bare arse. Slap, slap, slap. She wasn’t very expert and I don’t know if she was trying to “punish” me or just give my globes a good rubbing. She wasn’t an expert but by God she was enthusiastic.

“You naughty, naughty boy.” She kept saying it as she slapped away, “Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

I could feel my cock stirring, but it wasn’t about to crow.

Then she turned me on my back, straddled me and went at it like a steam hammer.

Thank you tutor. Thank you. Thank you.

Mr Smisk arrived just as I was reliving the climax of my session with Sharon. He unlocked his study door and told me to follow him in.

The room was a revelation: someone had gone to great lengths to make it look like a traditional study, the kind of place that would have featured in the school stories of eighty years ago: Billy Bunter, that kind of thing.

In truth it was just an ordinary sized room in a suburban detached house but wooden panels around the walls helped take it back to a bygone age.

A heavy mahogany desk topped in red leather dominated the room. A leather Chesterfield combination of couch and comfortable chair took up most of the remaining space, but there was also a small bookcase, a couple of wooden chairs and a footstall. In one corner stood a writing bureau.

And, of course, in another corner stood a tall vase stuffed with a number of canes, some crook-handled, some not, and incongruously I thought, a wooden carpet beater.

The floor was bare boards, except for a large rug that was placed in front of the desk.

“Stand there boy,” Mr Smisk commanded, pointing to a place on the carpet facing the desk. Then he sat himself down at the desk.

He tore me off a strip. He said I was “uncouth,” “foul mouthed” a “brat.”

“What would your mother or father have to say if they heard you speaking like that?” It was rhetorical, I didn’t need to answer.

But I did have to respond to, “What have you got to say for yourself, young man?”

Not much actually. I mumbled something about I was in a hurry, nervous, it was out of character.

“I’m sorry,” I murmured. He took that as his cue. “Sorry! You soon will be Carstairs.”

With that he rose from his chair and walked the few steps to the vase. He seemed to know exactly what he was looking for, because he drew out a thick, straight cane. It was dark yellow in colour and from where I was standing it looked quite thick. It didn’t have the traditional curved handle that school canes always seemed to have. This one had what looked like twine wrapped around one end, presumably to give the caner something to get a grip on.

He swished the cane once or twice to show that he was ready for business.

“Turn and face that way,” he said pointing to the bookcase.

I did. Suddenly I could hear voices from the other side of a window. The curtains were not drawn and I could see the study overlooked the garden. The rest of the class were going into the garden to play. I saw they would be able to hear – and see – everything that happened in the headmaster’s study.

Undeterred by this, Mr Smisk set about his duty.

“Take down your shorts and bend over.”

They fitted me so well, I didn’t need a belt. It was easy to undo the buttons of my grey Terylene shorts and let them fall to my feet. I was wearing the regulation white Y-fronts this time.  I bent over. He hadn’t specified to “touch your toes,” but I knew from painful experience this was what was expected and since I had an athletic body, it was no struggle for me to assume the position.

I heard him swish the cane once or twice for practice.

Then, he took hold of the waistband of my underpants and pulled them down, just enough that my buttocks were exposed. The pants didn’t fall below my thighs. Although my bum was bare, my cock and balls were still covered by white cotton.

“Carstairs,” he intoned. “I am going to cane you and I want you to count out the strokes after each one and say, ‘Thank you Sir, please may I have another.’ Is that understood?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I heard the noise of the cane swishing through the air, and thought, “This is it.” Then the cane landed and for a moment I felt nothing at all. Then a terrible fiery pain spread all though my whole body.

“Ssssssss,” I hissed, “One. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Most certainly.” Swish!

“Haaaa, two. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Of course.” Swish!

I hissed, desperately trying to come to terms with the incandescent fire engulfing my bottom.

“Three. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Without hesitation.” Swipe!

“Yawooo!” That one was the hardest so far. The force of the blow made my legs buckle a little, my whole backside seemed to be on fire, but I still remembered my lines.

“Four. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“Only too happy to oblige.” Swipe!

Another hard whack. The pain was pulsating through my arse and legs. I struggled to keep my fingertips on my toes. I wanted to spring up and clutch my burning buttocks, but I could be sure that if I did I’d get extra stokes.

“Five. Thank you Sir, please – may – I – have – another,” it was more difficult to get the words out.


“Yowll!. Yow. Yow. Yow.” This time I did a little dance from foot to foot. I half stood up, but not enough to be really standing. I hoped the headmaster would see it that way anyhow and not give me extra stripes.

He hadn’t said so, but I hoped six-of-the-best was my allotted tariff. Even though his rules required that I ask for more. “Six. Thank you Sir, please may I have another.”

“No, Carstairs, I think you have had quite sufficient for one day. But, believe me boy if I hear that you have been using filthy language again, I shall give you a dozen. Stand up boy. Get dressed.”

I pulled up my pants to cover my blistered arse and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed away at it. I didn’t care if he was watching me do it. An extra wave of pain shot through me as I stretched down to retrieve my short trousers from my feet.

“Now, Carstairs go join your fellows at play in the garden. You are dismissed.”

“Thank you Mr Smisk.” Still rubbing my bum furiously, I left his study.

It helped to get out into the garden. I did some running on the spot and jumping up and down to help relieve the pain. Football commentators on TV were always talking about how players “run off” their injuries after they’ve been kicked about a bit on the pitch. It does seem to work. I saw in the garden that Rawlings had much the same idea.

Still hopping and skipping a bit, I went to see if I could find Harry. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the day he came to study at my house and I’d have liked to get reacquainted. I’d realised after we spent some time together following our thrashing together that I hardly knew a thing about him, where he lived, what school he went to: I didn’t even know his last name.

I saw him and a chum from a distance. They were playing catch with a ball: two eight-year-olds together. They seemed to be having so much fun. They were clearly “relaxed in each other’s company,” as newspapers of the time often sneered when they meant you-know-what.

I must admit I felt a pang of jealousy. The bell for end of Play Time rang at that moment sent us back to the classroom.

The tutor handed out test papers. The idea was to see how much of the lesson we had endured before Play Time we could remember.

“Any boy who scores less than seventy percent in this exercise will find himself across my knee,” the tutor intoned.

“Silence everybody. You may begin.”

And there was silence as eight boys set about discovering whether they even had the ghost of a chance of passing their A-level that week.

The tutor strode around the classroom, his hands clasped behind his back. I think he was trying to intimidate us a little in case we thought we might try a little cheating and help one another out with the answers.

The tutor might have been a good crammer, but he was a lousy actor. If he thought he was Mr Quelch the Master of the Remove at Billy Bunter’s Grayfrairs School, he had another think coming. I almost snorted with laughter at the absurdity of the man. I’m glad I didn’t considering the flogging Rawlings received earlier when the tutor thought he was trying it on with him.

All you could hear in the classroom was the sound of the tutor strutting around like Groucho Marx and the breathing of eight boys as we tried to figure out the answer to the test.

After a short while the tutor must have become bored walking up and down and returned to his own desk.

The test was hard, but I was coping with it alright. I was about half way through when the tutor disrupted us again.

“Sergeant! What are you doing?”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Yes you were. You were trying to look at Clifford’s paper.”

Clifford was the boy seated next to him. Aware that he might be drawn into an argument with the tutor that would end in only one way – a very sore backside, Clifford said, “It’s nothing to do with me Sir. I’m not helping Sergeant, Sir.”

The tutor left his desk and strode to the front of the class.

“Both of you boys stand up this instance.”

Sergeant and Clifford rose from their seats. The rest of us stopped writing and watched on – hoping this distraction would be too good to miss.

“Come to the front of the class, both of you and bring your test papers with you.”

“It’s nothing to do with me, Sir,” Clifford protested, but he still obeyed the instruction and made his way from his desk. Sergeant took the same decision.

The tutor grabbed the test papers from the boys and examined them.

“Sergeant, you have been cheating. You have copied from Clifford.”

Sergeant could not see how the tutor could possibly tell, but he didn’t want to raise an argument with him about it – because it was true, he had copied.

“Clifford, return to your seat.” A relived Clifford skedaddled back to his desk, leaving Sergeant to face the might of the tutor’s wrath.

“Stand there, Sergeant. Face the class.”

We knew he was going to cop it from the tutor that was for certain. The only matter in doubt was what instrument of punishment would the tutor employ?

We soon found out. He turned his back on the class and returned to his desk where he opened a drawer and extracted a thick, dark brown Lochgelly taws. I could see Sergeant’s wide brown eyes start to water, even from my place in the second row.

It looked a monstrous weapon. It must have been a foot-and-a-half long and was made of shiny leather. It had a handle which took up about a quarter of its length and the “business end” was shaped into two tails.

“There is no value in cheating in a test, Sergeant; you will be the only loser in the end. You are an exceedingly stupid boy. What are you?”

“An exceedingly stupid boy,” Sergeant stumbled over the word “exceedingly,” perhaps demonstrating that indeed stupidity was one of his major characteristics.

The tutor held the taws tightly in his hand and swished it about in practice. Then he stood directly in front of Sergeant: they were eye to eye, and he was ready to go.

“Right Sergeant up with your hands, palms flat.” The boy raised his hand, one on top of the other, ready for the first blow. Unlike with Bob Rake, the tutor did not inquire which of his hands he used when writing. Sergeant must be getting a double dose.

The tutor raised the taws high and took it back over his right shoulder. Then he brought it crashing down on the palm of Sergeant’s hand with maximum force. The blow was awesome – the pain shot through his hands and the force of the blow made him drop them to his side, rub them together, wiggle them about as if he were dementedly waving to a crowd and blow onto his palms.

“Up boy – get those hands up,” the tutor barked.

With considerable fortitude, I thought, he did so. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one Sergeant repeated his hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other.

Upon instruction, he slowly and painfully swapped the hands over. His right hand was crimson from the belting so far and his hand was numb.

The tutor gave him three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. Sergeant’s eyes were moist but he wasn’t openly crying. It must have been excruciatingly painful, and his body was shivering as he doubled up with his hands under his armpits.

“Sit here at this desk at the front Sergeant and finish your test,” the tutor instructed as he returned to his own desk. Did I imagine it or was the tutor a little over-satisfied that his thick leather taws had Sergeant dancing a Scottish reel in agony? Sergeant was soon to discover that with a strapping from the taws, the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in.


The test was over and the tutor marked the papers and distributed them among the boys. I was relieved to see I had passed with eighty-eight percent. I was home and dry. I’d always known I wasn’t stupid: in fact I was quite academically able, but I had lost my focus a lot and needed to be redirected. That’s how I’d ended up with the tutor. It had been his “old fashioned methods” of corporal punishment that had kept me on the straight and narrow. Bring on the A-levels.

“Only one boy has failed this test.” The tutor was speaking. “Harrison, stand up.” Over to my left I saw Harry spring to his feet.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Fifty-two percent. You are either an incredibly stupid little boy, or incredibly lazy. Which is it Harrison?”

Harry had no answer to that. But, I suspected that I had. From our time working together, I knew Harry was as bright as a button. I’d always assumed he was just like me, lacking focus. But, I also knew from that evening Harry got turned on by being walloped. The tutor has threatened an over-the-knee spanking to any boy who failed the test. Had Harry engineered this?

“Come out to the front, Harrison.”

Eagerly, I thought, Harry left his desk.

Meanwhile, the tutor returned to his the shelf behind his desk and picked up a small spanking paddle. He lifted the chair from behind his desk and carried it placing squarely in spot in front of his pupils. Every boy present would get a clear view of this.

The tutor sat in the straight backed wooden chair, feet planted firmly on the ground, but with his knees closed together.

“Stand there boy!” he clicked his fingers to indicate a point a foot or so from his right side. The eighteen-year-old boy obeyed.

“Trousers down.”

Harry didn’t need telling twice. Slowly and carefully, Harry undid the button of his grey school short trousers, slid down the zip, and with the merest flick of his wrists sent them flowing to the floor. He stood, his hands clasped behind his back, legs straight, ready for the next instruction, which wasn’t long in coming.

“Bend over my knee boy!”

The tutor’s knees were so close together that Harry had no choice but to lay across them with his face and his huge shock of curly hair almost touching the floorboards, his bottom was high over the tutor’s thigh with his legs behind at a forty-five degree angle. Harry shifted his position a little. He was raising his pert bum higher.

It was as if Harry was saying to the tutor, “Yes, I am submissive. I deserve this spanking. Here, take my bum: do your worst.”

The tutor smoothed Harry white Y-fronts across his buttocks. I’d noticed the last time I saw him beaten that his underpants were brilliant white: whiter than any whiteness I had seen before or since. He should be in a washing powder commercial on television.

The tutor took a firm grip on his paddle. It was almost square, about the size of a paperback novel, much smaller than the one he had blistered my own backside with when we met for our first class. This paddle had nine holes drilled into it, presumably to reduce the wind resistance as the tutor whacked it through the air.

He brought it down on Harry’s left cheek with a loud crack. It wasn’t the hardest blow he could have given, but the sound of wood connecting with flesh echoed round the classroom. The tutor repeated the stroke with moderate force three more times: another one on the right cheek, then two on the left.

Harry felt his whole bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung, but the pain wasn’t excruciating. He was a regular naughty boy and what the tutor was dishing out was still within his comfort zone.

The tutor laid on some more whacks, increasing their strength as he went along. Harry maintained his bum’s high position throughout.

The tutor paused after a dozen. I thought he would probably take Harry’s Y-fronts down at some point and deliver a few on the bare, but he never did. Maybe the tutor knew Harry as well as I did and didn’t want to risk having his nice academic gown and trousers soiled.

“You need to buck your ideas up a bit, boy!” the tutor scolded and brought another dozen steady rhythmic rising and falling swats of the paddle down into Harry’s buttocks.

Harry definitely felt those, his bum was throbbing. His breathing was heavy, but he didn’t make any other noise as the tutor went about his task.

Then it was over.

“Stand up boy.”

Harry rose, he face was as beetroot red as I assumed his buttocks to be.

His hands went to sooth his burning bottom, rubbing against the smooth white cotton of his underwear. He turned his back on the classroom of boys (to hide from us his raging erection?) and pulled up his short trousers.

The tutor ordered him to return to his seat.

A bell rang outside the door.

“All right boys, that’s today’s revision class over. Good luck in the exam this week. Please be here the same time next Saturday for the next class. Please arrive fully dressed in school uniform and do not be late.

“Class dismissed.”

The Private Tutor, Episode 4 is here.


Other stories you might like

 Rory and Alistair: The head prefect

University student late for class

The man across the hall


The Private Tutor: 2

used plimsoll (3)

A group of lazy eighteen-year-old sixth-form school pupils are in danger of failing their exams. The Private Tutor has been hired to get them back on track.

Part one of the story is here.


I was studying hard and I didn’t think there would be any reason for the tutor to spank me again – but I hadn’t reckoned with Revision Class.

The A-levels started next week and the tutor had called all his pupils together for the first of two classes so we could cram as much as possible into our lazy little heads to enable us to pass our exams.

I had been doing quite well since my dad forced me to take on the extra studies with the private tutor. I’m not a stupid boy, but at eighteen years old I had lost direction a little and was falling way behind with my school work. Dad reckoned, correctly as it turned out, that if I didn’t have the self-discipline to study, some discipline would have to be imposed on me.

My tutor dished out spankings when I slacked and they were keeping me in line.

It was Saturday and I had to be at the Revision Class by nine. The address the tutor had given me was in Hazelwood Avenue, only a few streets away from where I lived. I reckoned it would only take a few minutes to get there, so I was in no hurry leaving.

We were instructed to arrive in our school uniforms: grey school short trousers, grey knee socks, white shirt, striped tie and black shoes. There was no way I was walking through my neighbourhood dressed like that, but there was a simple solution. I put on a pair of brown cord trousers, ones that my new girlfriend Sharon found particularly revealing of my bum and manhood, stuffed the short trousers and tie into a plastic carrier-bag and set off for school.

I found the street with no trouble. It was a typical middle-class suburban road, just like the one I lived in. But, I couldn’t find the actual address. I was expecting a school or a college or some kind of community building, but all I found was a row of expensive detached houses.

I checked on the bit of paper I had written the address on: number 42. I walked from one end of the street to the other, but couldn’t find anything that looked like it would be the schoolroom. I was late for school now and quickened my pace and retraced my steps. No, no schoolroom.

There was a house called number 42, it was hidden a little behind a wall, so I decided I’d better go through the gate and ring the bell to see if anyone knew where I was supposed to be.

The door opened the second my finger hit the button. A flint-faced man dressed in a crumpled track suit confronted me. He had obviously just returned from a run.

“You are late,” he growled at me, accusingly as if I had deliberately set out to cause trouble.

I was sweating from the heat of the fine sunny day and was a bit out of breath after hurrying to find the address.

“What the f**k’s it got to do with you?” It just came out. I hadn’t intended to say it, I just did. I do have a temper and sometimes it can get me into trouble. Often I regretted it later. The man gave me a look like thunder and pushed me in the shoulder towards a door at the end of a hallway.

“Get in there, this instance.”

I turned the handle and opened the door.

Bloody hell. I couldn’t believe what I saw. It was a full-sized classroom.

There sat at their school desks were seven other Revision Class pupils; all of them my age, and, of course, all dressed in their short trousers and school uniforms.

In front of them stood the tutor, dressed in a traditional schoolmaster’s academic gown, with a mortar-board topped a bit unsteadily on his head. He had a piece of chalk in his hand and was writing something on a blackboard.

The schoolroom consisted of about twenty school desks. I don’t know which period from history they belonged to, but we had definitely travelled back in time.  The boys were sat at light brown wooden desks; some were connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on wooden benches. Other desks were single-seaters. All of the desks sloped and could open upwards so a boy could stash away his schoolbooks.

Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

The tutor stood in front at the class at a blackboard and easel. To his left was a small desk for him to work at and behind it was a shelf for books. Next to it screwed to the wall was a specially-constructed rack holding five or six crook handled canes of various sizes.

Around the walls were educational posters, including a map of the world, which highlighted most of the countries in pink.  The floor was bare varnished floor boards

The tutor stared at me as I came through the door.

“You are late,” he thundered.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the place.” I heard a snigger or two from my fellow classmates.

“You are not wearing school uniform.”

I held up my plastic carrier-bag by way of explanation.

The tutor let out an exasperated sigh. He didn’t say anything, but walked to the shelf behind his desk and picked up an enormous plimsoll. I don’t think I’d ever seen one like it before, it was one of those white shoes people used to wear for PE classes in the long-distance days before trainers had been invented.

He flexed the plimsoll in both hands. I could see it was huge. What giant’s feet had worn this for gym in the past? Did they really make shoes in size sixteen!

“Put down that bag and face the class.”

I did as I was told. For the first time I could look at my fellow pupils. I could see Harry, he of the knockout smile, flashing away in the third row, but I didn’t recognise any of the others. Apart from the undoubted fact that we were late teenagers dressed in short trousers and school uniforms we probably looked like any group of kids you were ever likely to come across.

They sat in silence waiting for the drama to unfold.

“Bend over and touch your toes.” Of course, I wasn’t surprised by the command. I moved my feet a foot or two apart and bending from the waist stretched the tips of my fingers to reach my toes.

He tutor had a perfect view of my pert seat covered in tightly-stretched corduroy. My classmates could see the top of my head and would be able to get a great view of any flinching I made as the tutor laid into my backside with his giant plimsoll.

And they were loving it. And, so, let’s be honest about it, probably would I if the roles had been reversed.

Whack! The first thwack of the slipper connected with my bum. It knocked the wind out of me a little, but I didn’t move.

The second and third smacks hit on my left cheek and then the right. My classmates were openly grinning as they enjoyed the spectacle of one of their fellows going through his punishment.

He gave me six whacks with the slipper. I took it well: I was getting used to the tutor’s beatings. I could hardly credit it, but before the tutor came into my life I’d never been spanked in my life – now look at me.

He told me to stand up and instructed me to leave the classroom and change into my short trousers and put on my school tie.

“And be back within two minutes or I shall give you a further six with your trousers at your ankles.”

I believed him. I left the room and in the hallway outside changed into my school uniform. I had just enough time to inspect the damage from the slippering. Both cheeks were bright red and I knew from experience that by the time I got home that evening they would be covered in bruises.

When I returned to the classroom the tutor was starting the lesson. He pointed to a seat in the second row and instructed me to sit. The desks weren’t designed to accommodate young adults so I had to squeeze my knees under the desk and slide along the wooden bench to settle as best I could.

It was going to be a very dull day. The tutor’s idea was to cram as much information into our stupid heads as would be enough to get us through the exams and it seemed that would mean lots and lots of rote learning.

The next half hour was pretty uneventful, the tutor droned on at his blackboard and we, for the most part I suspect, didn’t pay too much attention. Then the tutor gave us an exercise to do from a text book. This mostly consisted of copying things out and memorising them for a test he would give us after Play Time.

We worked on silently. Suddenly the silence was broken by the shrill eagle-eyed tutor.

“Rake,” he rapped out, “What have you got in your mouth!”

Bob Rake, a boy sitting behind me, responded.”Mmmmmmm!” He couldn’t say much more as a lump of toffee was firmly fixed between his teeth.

“Answer me immediately, what have you got in your mouth?”

Mmmmmmm!” Bob was trying hard to dislodge the toffee.

“Disgusting boy. Your mouth is full of toffee. Come out in front of the class.”

There was dead silence in the class. Bob Rake reluctantly rose from the confines of his seat, scratching his bare knee on the desk in the process. Ouch! That hurt, but it would be nothing in comparison to what the tutor had in store for him.

The tutor picked up a small, thin cane from the rack. He swished it and tested it, as if to make sure it was in good condition for a severe beating.

“Face the class.”

Bob was a fat boy and looked even more ridiculous in his short trousers, school shirt and tie, then the rest of us. His flabby belly stretched the buttons of his white shirt, the tail of which hang out from the bulging waistband of his shorts.

Bob faced us; we could see fear in his eyes.

“Which hand do you use to write?”

Bob hesitated, before realising the importance of the question.

“The right hand, Sir.”

“Hold out your left hand.”

Bob backed away, but the tutor grabbed him and pulled him forward.

“Do as you are told you disgusting boy. Hold out your hand.”

Reluctantly, this time Bob obeyed quietly.

The cane went down with a Swish! It was a savage cut.

There was a deep-drawn intake of breath in the classroom as the lash of the cane rang through the classroom. A spasm of pain passed up Bob’s arm, his hand closed convulsively, his elbow drooped. Bob let out such a Yowl! we could see the fillings in his teeth. He doubled up, hugging his hand to his chest.

“Hold out your hand again.” Bob hesitated and turned to his classmates with pleading eyes. If he expected any one of us to intervene in his punishment he was sorely mistaken. We were loving it: me too. They had enjoyed seeing me take my whacking, so it was only right I had some pleasure too.

Reluctantly, Bob held out his now swollen and scorching hand again.

Swish! Once more the fat boy received a stinging cut to his hand. He roared, jumped up in agony, bent down and shoved his hand under his armpit.

“Let this be a lesson to you, if I ever see you with toffee in your mouth again I will punish you more severely.  Now go to your seat,” the tutor roared.

Bob stumbled as he returned to his seat, his face quite pale and his hand smarting and tingling.

We got on with our work in silence.

You can’t put a group of eighteen-year-old boys together in an old-fashioned classroom, dress them up as primary school children and not expect them to behave as they look.

It was coming up to mid-morning Play Time, where we would have a fifteen-minute respite from what was a really dull day. Most of us boys were getting very restless. The tutor stood in front of the class at the blackboard with his back to us, writing notes on the importance of something or other.

I could feel one of boys sitting behind me was particularly fidgety. He seemed unable to keep still for a second. I turned round and saw he had discovered that the inkwell on his desk, actually contained ink. Who knows why there was ink, I doubt if any of us boys had used a fountain pen in his life, let alone one of those sharp nibbed jobs that you had to dip into the inkwell every time you finished writing a sentence.

He was soaking a piece of tissue in the ink. What was he up to? Soon, we were all to discover. He was constructing an ink pellet and he was making a right mess of it. I turned back to my work.

Behind my back, the boy was preparing his plan. He made an ink ball from one entire tissue, and anyone who has ever used a tissue before knows one of those can hold an awful lot of whatever it is you care to heave into it.

I turned around again and saw the boy had chosen his target. On the other side of the classroom was a rather small, ginger haired fellow sitting alone at one of the single desks.

I’d never met either of the boys before and didn’t know them from Adam, but instinctively I knew they were more than acquainted with one another. And equally, I could tell who between them was the bully and who was the bullied boy.

He took up his ruler and held the ink pellet in place at its top end so he could shoot it at Ginger, who was day-dreaming about who knows what?

He kept one eye on the tutor’s back to make sure he was still busy chalking away at the blackboard, pulled back the plastic ruler and let fly with the ink-ball.

It whizzed. Unfortunately, it didn’t fly and hit Ginger. The boy had a rubbish aim: instead of hitting its intended victim square on the head, the ink-ball veered off course and landed at the tutor’s feet.

I breathed in and held it there. There was trouble ahead. The only saving grace for the boy was that the ink-ball hadn’t struck the tutor about the body.

The tutor stopped his chalking.

“What – what – what?” he exclaimed, truly lost for words. It took him a second or two to weigh up what had happened and when he did the expression on his face was terrific.

I couldn’t see the boy behind me, but he had turned quite pale at the realisation of what had happened and of the obvious consequences to his hide if the tutor discovered who had thrown the ink-ball. But, he had the presence of mind to hide the ruler, ink and tissue supply from the tutor’s sight.

The tutor stared at his pupils and we all stared back at him. Not all of the boys had realised what had happened, but it soon became clear to everyone. The ink-ball was a huge one and a small puddle of blue/black ink had formed where the soggy tissue had come to rest at the tutor’s feet.

“Who threw that ink-ball?” The tutor’s voice was not loud, but deep. He had command of the room and there was no mistaking the fact. He genuinely believed he had been the intended target of the attack and he was not prepared to let the matter rest until he had discovered the culprit and administered to the boy a severe thrashing.

There was no answer from the form. I could feel my face glowing hot. Would the tutor notice and misinterpret my blushing as a sign of guilt? I bowed my head and stared at my desk.

“Who threw that ink-ball?” The tutor spoke louder this time, his fury growing as he was met by silence from his pupils.

The tutor sucked his lips into a tight line. He strode to the top of the class and picked from the rack an awesome rattan cane. Then he faced the class again.

“Every boy will stand up!” he rapped.

Without question we all did as commanded.

“Every boy will raise his hands with the palms outward.”

I knew the boy was done for now. His palm would be as black as coal. He had no escape.

The tutor scanned the hands: it didn’t need a gimlet-eye to find the one covered in ink. He could see one boy did not have his palms raised.


“Yes, Sir.”

“Hold up your hands at once.”

All we boys turned to look at Rawlings.

The distressed Rawlings put up his hands. The tutor’s eyes fixed on the inky palm, the inky finger, the inky thumb with a glare. His grip tightened on his cane.

“Rawlings! Stand out in front of the class.”

“I didn’t mean it for you, Sir,” Rawlings stammered.

“Stand out in front of the class.”

“I meant it for Trevor, Sir.”

“This instant, Rawlings!”

Rawlings left his desk and stood limply before the tutor. The tutor pointed to an unoccupied school desk with his cane.

“Bend over that desk.”

“I really never meant it for you Sir — it was an accident — I meant it for that tick — I mean, Trevor.”

“BEND OVER!” thundered the tutor.

Rawlings bent limply across the desk. The desk was not designed for a full-sized adult and it was low enough that he could very nearly touch the floor in front of him. He grasped with both hands a wooden support that ran the width of the desk, just a few inches from ground level.

To reach this position, Rawlings had to go on tip-toe to stretch all the way across the top of the desk. His stocky torso fitted perfectly across the length of the desk, allowing him to rest the groove of his stomach against the edge. In this position his bottom was raised high at an angle to receive his thrashing.

Rawlings had a chunky round bottom and in his present position his grey cotton short trousers fitted tightly across his bum cheeks. From where I was sitting I could see his shorts had an elasticated waist, which seemed a little snug and had the effect of pulling them that little bit tighter into the contours of his buttocks. The tutor would see clearly the outline of the boy’s underpants through them.

The tutor gripped the cane with a tight fist: it wasn’t only Rawlings who was going to go through a white-knuckle ride.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The savage cane rang across his backside like cracks from a rifle.

Rawlings Howled! And he Howled! And he Howled! You could probably hear his yells all over the house. No, all over the street. No, all over the town.

Swipe! Yow-ow-ow! Rawlings wriggled. The tutor didn’t care; in his present frame of mind he would gladly have cut him to pieces.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! The tutor was too furious to care how much he was hurting Rawlings.

He gave him nine thunderous cuts across the seat of his short trousers. Rawlings did not take it well, he was sobbing, begging the tutor for mercy. But, mercy was in short supply this day.

We all watched spellbound. I don’t think any of us got enjoyment from this scene. Unlike the other corporal punishment dealt out today this was vicious. Unmerciful. Cruel.

I actually felt sorry for Rawlings. He had played the fool with the ink-ball incident, but genuinely, he had not meant it to hit the tutor. It wasn’t an attack on him and his authority and his right to be leading a class of nearly secondary school dropouts.

But, what I didn’t know much about Rawlings, but the tutor did. There was history here. Rawlings was a bully. This flogging was for all the boys at his school whose lives Rawlings made a misery every day. It was for ginger-haired Trevor who had suffered under Rawlings from the first day they both attended classes with the tutor.

Poor Trevor, Rawlings despised him and took it upon himself to humiliate him at every turn. Rawlings attacked Trevor because he thought he was “ginger” in nature and not just by his hair colour.

If I had known any of this, I would gladly myself have given Rawlings twice the number of strokes, twice as hard – and on the bare.

The tutor stopped after nine strokes. Rawlings was a broken boy. He lay over the desk sobbing with great convulsions of his body as he tried desperately to take in air.

“Stand up and return to your place.”

Rawlings stood limply in front of the tutor. Clearly suffering he crawled his way back to his own desk, where, until the bell went for Play Time he wriggled like an eel.


Episode 3 is here


Other stories you might like.

The missed curfew

Caught in their underpants

The shoplifter

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

First day of term

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish! “Bend over!” Swish! Swish!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The boy agreed that he was indeed a lazy boy.

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

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

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

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

“Put your left hand underneath your right hand!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hands on head, Durrance.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, Bulstrode launched into a geography lesson.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tom could only sniff his response.

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

“Yes, Sir!” it was a muffled reply.

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

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


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

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


Other stories you might like.


The missed curfew

Untidy bathroom

Never too old


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second