All is well in the world

new 5

Harry Clifton was in no hurry. He ambled across the quadrangle. It was a fine day in early summer. The sun shone. The sky was blue. It was all in all a beautiful day. Except is wasn’t a fine day. Not for Harry Clifton, the sixth-form pupil at St. Francis Independent Grammar School; the soon-to-be former pupil of said school. The final exams were only weeks away. Then freedom. The end of school. Whoever it was who said schooldays were the happiest days of your life was an ass. Surely, Harry Clifton supposed, things could only get better after St FIGS.

Harry Clifton was on to something there. He knew as sure as eggs was eggs that this present day could never count as one of the best of his life. Ha! He almost smiled the best. Not so much the best, but six-of-the-best. It was a weak joke, but it was the best that Harry Clifton could come up with. He passed through the entrance of Founder’s Building and into a short, dark passageway. He was answering the summons of his headmaster. Chaps were only called to the Beak for one reason and one reason alone. There could be no doubt about it. Harry Clifton was in for a bowing. A swishing. A caning. Six-of-the-best.

Harry Clifton knew this for certain because St FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline. No matter how slowly he walked Harry Clifton would eventually reach the heavy oak door of the headmaster’s study. He might delay his ordeal by a few seconds, but he could not put it off forever. He paused outside the door and ran his hand through his unruly hair. He rubbed each shoe against the back of his trouser leg. They were far from shining, but they would have to do. He made sure all three buttons on his green-and-gold woollen blazer were correctly fastened. All was ship shape and Bristol fashion. He was under starter’s orders. Ready for the off. About to go over the top. He drew down a deep draught of air, formed a fist with his right hand, raised it, and with more confidence than he truly felt, he rapped on the door.

Silence. Nothing. He craned his neck and placed his ear closer to the door. Was the headmaster not at home? Had he been called away on an urgent mission? Did this spell a reprieve for Harry Clifton? No, the senior sixth-former considered. The Beak had probably not heard. He bunched his fist again and was about to have another go at the door when a clear, sonorous voice rang out from the other side, “Come!” The headmaster had heard all right, he was only playing his silly games.

Harry Clifton sucked in air once more, gripped the handle and pushed the heavy door open. He hesitated on the threshold of the study. “Come in boy, don’t dawdle,” the headmaster rasped. Harry Clifton jolted forward and landed in front of the headmaster’s vast walnut desk. “Pah! Close the door Clifton! Close the door,” the Beak thundered.

With that task completed Harry Clifton once more stood before the headmaster. The Beak presented an imposing character, drenched in ugliness. Standing, he made a tall, lank, almost skeletal figure. His gaunt face, was heavily lined. His aquiline nose and thin pointed chin made the appearance of a caricatured witch. He wheezed through his nose. His dark piercing eyes transfixed on the boy before him.

For his part Harry Clifton resolved not to meet that alarming gaze. He focused on a spot over the headmaster’s shoulder, at a hat stand in the corner of the room. It was an ancient beat-about piece of furniture, old enough to be steeped in the tradition of the school. It had served many headmasters at St FIGS over countless generations. The number of hats it had supported over the years was a matter lost to history. The present headmaster had an additional requirement for the furniture. Harry Clifton’s gaze transfixed on the three long, thin whippy rattan canes that dangled by their curved handles. Small and relatively unobtrusive though they were, to the boy standing awaiting punishment they dominated the study.

Harry Clifton swallowed hard. The canes were of differing thicknesses, densities and lengths but he knew with absolute certainty that in the hands of the headmaster any one of these rods would “take his backside off” as the schoolboy slang then circulating had it. Alongside the canes hung the headmaster’s black academic gown and the flat mortar-board cap, the official uniform of schoolmasters across the land. The badge of office. The seal of power.

Harry Clifton did not concentrate on his droning headmaster. The room was hot and airless and the monotonous voice was sleep-inducing. Suddenly there was silence. A long, pregnant pause. “Well boy!” the headmaster barked. Harry Clifton shook awake, the headmaster leaned from his chair forward over the large desk, his black piggy eyes blazed, “What have you to say for yourself?”

At a loss to the question he had been asked, Harry Clifton mumbled an all-purpose reply. Schoolboys up and down the land and throughout history when carpeted in the headmaster’s study were required to utter these words at some point in the proceedings, most often immediately before the real action began. “Sorry, Sir,” he coughed, his throat irritatingly dry.

“Bah!” the headmaster ejaculated and leaned back in his chair, his nose and chin quivering so that the points of each almost touched. “Not good enough, Clifton; not good enough.” Harry Clifton had never supposed it would be. He expected Six and he wished the headmaster would just get on with it. The school day was at an end and he was anxious to be away home. He had a date to meet the boys at The Three Fishers that evening and there was every chance to meet girls of a certain character.

The headmaster jawed on and on. Smoking. Smoking cigarettes, surely the biggest crime imaginable at a school. Why, the headmaster had only last week delivered another of his edicts. He cared little about the harmful effects of tobacco to one’s health. It is unlikely that he had ever read about the causes of cancer. Cigarettes were banned because he said so. It was an order. Orders were given by those on high and obeyed (unquestioned) by those below. The hierarchy of a school was beyond question. The headmaster’s word was law and if that law was broken there could be only one outcome. The punishment must fit the crime. If orders were not obeyed society would crumble; the country would go to the dogs. Anarchy would reign!

Harry Clifton had been smoking on and off since the age of eleven and by the age of eighteen had developed a ten cigarettes a day habit. No headmaster’s proclamation was going to alter that. The craving for nicotine far outweighed any danger of capture. It was just bad luck that Mr Hopkinson, the junior sports master, had carelessly left a gym sock behind after lessons that morning. Harry Clifton was caught cigarette in hand. Mr Hopkinson, whose contract of employment at the school had yet to be confirmed, was delighted at the opportunity to demonstrate his loyalty to the tradition of St FIGS.

The headmaster had finished his jawing. “Take off your blazer Clifton. Hang it there,” he curled his lips and cricked his neck in the general direction of the hat stand. Harry Clifton had not expected the palms of his hands to be sweating. He wiped them on his blazer and tackled the three buttons. As he lifted it onto the hat stand he observed the three whippy canes in close up. They really didn’t look so awesome. None was thicker than a pencil. Their dark yellow colouring made them look old and worn; they were warped through excessive use.

As he was doing this he was aware of noises behind him. Floorboards creaked; the headmaster was on the move. By the time Harry Clifton turned back to face into the study the Beak had moved an ancient, armless, straight-backed chair into the middle of the room. He sat down and wriggled his bony buttocks in an attempt to achieve comfort. He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the worn rug close by himself. “Stand there boy,” he rasped. Harry Clifton stood for a moment enveloped in confusion. He had half-expected a chair to be placed in position, but then if the usual script was being played out he, Harry Clifton, would be bent across the thing; head low, bottom high, offering up his posterior to his tormentor’s cane.

But what was this? The headmaster glowered across the room. “Now!” he roared, since he was unable to ever speak with a natural voice. A bemused Harry Clifton shuffled forward until he stood a foot or two to the right of the headmaster. At this point, the Beak spread his legs offering the wretched sixth-former a bird’s-eye view of the Beak’s bony thighs and knees. Harry Clifton’s head swam with confusion, but things were about to get much worse.

The headmaster’s ugly, lined face looked up at the boy, his mouth cracked into a sneer, “Lower your trousers and bend over my knee,” he cackled. The sneer widened into a full-on smile, revealing a set of nicotine-stained teeth that many would describe as “tombstones.”

Harry Clifton’s own mouth gaped open. He uttered no words, for it was not his place to question his headmaster. His mouth opened and closed so he resembled a goldfish. This could not be happening. Trousers down. Bend over my knee. No, it should be, Bend over that chair. It’s six of the best for you m’lad. The world’s order was being turned upside down. What game did the headmaster think he was playing?

“I’m waiting,” the headmaster growled. “Bend over,” and he slapped the palm of his right hand against his knee in case there could be any doubt about his instruction. Harry Clifton knew his face had flushed bright red; sweat made the collar of his shirt stick to his neck. His palms were once again damp. What should he do? Lower your trousers and bend over my knee. The words pounded in his head. What should he do? What could he do?. A chap expected a caning at a time like this. Commit a felon, bend over, whack-whack-whack-whack-whack-whack. Stand up. Dismissed. All over. The punishment fits the crime. The world moves on.

But, Lower your trousers and bend over my knee. That was not cricket. That was a nursey spanking. Something a chap might have expected from Mother when aged six. What was the headmaster thinking?

A disinterested observer might say Harry Clifton should tell the headmaster all this. “I’ll take a caning Sir, even trousers down if you insist, but I’ll not be humiliated by going over your knee.” But could Harry Clifton, or indeed any schoolboy faced with a similar predicament, say this? Harry Clifton was a bright boy and he weighed up the consequences of disobedience in seconds. The headmaster had instructed him to take a punishment and no matter how bizarre that might be he had no choice – absolutely no choice – but to obey.

Failure to comply would lead to suspension, or possible expulsion from the school. He would not be allowed to take his exams. He hoped to attend college, or even university, but without qualifications that would be impossible. No university meant no career. A life of drudgery as a clerk in some accountant’s office would be the best he could look forward to. He had to take the right decision.

Harry Clifton bit down hard on his bottom lip. He avoided looking at his tormentor as he unbuckled his belt. His pale-grey trousers were loose fitting and once he had unbuttoned the fly they slipped down over his thighs and knees and travelled at speed to rest in a puddle over his black lace-up shoes. He stood before his headmaster in gleaming white cotton Y-front underpants. His equally bright white shirt was long enough to cover most of his buttocks. Harry Clifton stood modestly with his hands clasped across his private parts.

He was an enthusiastic rugby player and quite used to undressing in company. Of course, after a match the whole team would romp naked in the showers and changing room. But standing here like this, trousers at his ankles in front of his headmaster, prior to going across the Beak’s knees for a little-boy’s spanking was beyond humiliating. How the sixth-former hated the vile, ugly bully.

“Bend over.” The command was terse. Harry Clifton peered down at the headmaster’s knees. They were thin and bony and encased in smart, striped trousers with a crease sharp enough to cut through cheese. Harry sucked on his bottom lip and pondered for a moment. How exactly was this done? Was he expected to leap over the Beak’s body, as if flying over a vaulting horse in the gym, and then land face down? Should he ease himself down gently by resting the palms of his hands on the headmaster’s thighs to steady himself as he spread his body forward?

“Pah!” the headmaster misunderstanding Harry Clifton’s hesitation for reluctance gripped the eighteen-year-old by the left wrist and tugged him forward with such ferocity that the boy tumbled forward. He stretched his arms in front of himself to avoid crashing and dug his palms into the ground. His nose was inches from the rug. Like this his head was low and his bottom was raised high over the headmaster’s thigh. Harry Clifton’s legs dangled in mid-air.

It took a second or two for him to recapture his breath. He was a trifle dizzy. Being prostrate across a man’s knees was an unusual posture and gave a boy a distorted view of the world. It had literally been turned upside down. How different it was to preparing to receive a caning. Then, a chap was required to “bend over” but whether he was across a chair or a desk or simply touching toes he always kept on his feet; he was vertical as it were, if he chose he could see what was going on around him. There was little disorientation.

Going over-the-knee was altogether different. Harry Clifton could see nothing but the old rug beneath his face; bent at this angle it was nearby impossible for him to turn his head. He was extremely vulnerable. He could see little but his other senses were unimpaired. His crotch ached as the weight of his body pressed against the headmaster’s thighs. He heard the Beak wheezing and felt the Old Man’s rough hand grip the tail of his shirt and tug it half way up his back. Then, a hand gently caressed the seat of his underpants as it smoothed away creases, even though the Y-fronts already fitted snugly. The hand patted and preened. Then it tapped gently across the fleshiest part of the left cheek.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

Suddenly. Spank! The hand swiped into the left buttock and then the right. Then it went high; then low. The headmaster smacked his rough hand with speed and force across Harry Clifton’s upturned buttocks. The boy stared down at the rug, his bemusement growing. He felt the hand strike his bottom again and again and again. The sound of hand hitting hard flesh resounded around the hot, airless study. It sounded like machinegun fire. The headmaster put all his beef into the spanking, delivering maybe eighty slaps in the first minute – and there were many more minutes to follow.

Harry Clifton lay face-down, head low, bottom high and let his headmaster get on with it. For he had quickly realised that a hand spanking did not hurt – even when delivered with vigour across the set of his tight, cotton underpants. Of course, he felt something. A tingling sensation. A slight warming of the flesh. But pain? No. A properly delivered six-of-the-best with any one of the three whippy, rattan canes that were at that moment still dangling from the hat stand could have had him howling. His bottom would feel like it had been beaten to become twice its natural size. Dark, vicious welts would throb beneath his underpants (even if he were allowed to keep his trousers up). The marks and associated bruises would last for days. He would display them proudly to the rugby boys in the showers.

But this? This over-the-knee spanking. Nothing. “My,” Harry Clifton pondered silently to himself, “I bet his hand is hurting more than my bum.” He almost smiled at the thought.

So, it went on. The headmaster spanked Harry Clifton on the seat of his underpants and the boy had to submissively allow him to do so. The headmaster was in control. There was peace in the nation. The Pound was sound. God was in his Heaven.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The military camp

Murph in the headmaster’s study

The housebreaker

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Cricket captain takes control

new 5

There were a group of about eight of us, stretching out and enjoying the sunshine. The cricket match we were watching had adjourned for the tea interval. The gap in play gave us the chance to discuss the latest scandal at the club. The exploits of Carstairs, one of the colts, a man barely turned eighteen but promoted to the full county side, was splashed all over the newspapers that day. The pup had been arrested for being drunk and disorderly a couple of nights earlier. He was awaiting a court case. There would inevitably be a fine and perhaps an additional sentence of community service.

But, we were discussing, should the club impose an additional sanction? A further fine, or a suspension perhaps, for there was no doubt in any of our minds that Carstairs had brought the club into disrepute. He had most certainly let the side down.

It was at this point that Old Harry told his story. I do not know Old Harry’s surname. I can’t be sure that any of us do. He has been a stalwart of the club for half a century or more. If asked, I would hazard a guess that he won’t see his eightieth birthday again. He settled back, took a large sip from his half-full plastic pint glass and launched into his tale. This is what he told us.

“It involved a young lad. About the same age as Carstairs. He wasn’t a drunk. Well not that we knew of, but he was a bumptious little oaf. He had been promoted to the full county side. He was a very useful number four batsman and a crafty spin bowler. We won many a game thanks to the little tyke.

“But oh, he was an arrogant sod. The cock of the walk. He knew he was good. What he forgot and needed to be told was that in cricket there are those that lead and those that are led. And, any eighteen-year-old, no matter how talented, was at the bottom of a very long ladder. He had a great habit of telling his elder and betters what they should do.

“Well to cut a long story short, the other players were right cheesed off. But what to do? How could they cut the lad down to size?

“‘Spanking,’ one fellow said.

“‘Come again?’ another queried.

“‘Spanking,’ the first fellow repeated.

“‘I’m not with you,’ another chimed in.

“The first fellow was becoming quite exasperated by now. ‘Spanking,’ he spoke clearly so even a dull foreigner could understand. ‘As in, “Take down your trousers. Underpants too maybe. Bend over my knee” A spanking!”

“Well, of course they got the drift. This was back in 1962 so it wasn’t that unusual. They still used the cane at school. You’d get the belt from your dad if you misbehaved at home. Our local vicar was known to take a choirboy or two across his knee when events warranted it.

“There were no murmurs of dissent. All were in agreement. That was exactly what was needed. A spanking. And, of course the club captain was the very man to deliver it. He was quite a young chap himself at the time. Had been school captain as well, so he was well versed in delivering corporal punishment to boys in his charge. I think they discussed the possibility of acquiring a whippy rattan cane, y’know the ones with the curved handle, to deliver an authentic six-of-the-best across his stretched backside. It wouldn’t have been too difficult to get one. You could buy them in sixpenny bazaars back then. Besides, there were at least two local headmasters on the committee, they could have supplied the wherewithal.

“The idea was quickly dismissed. The boy needed to be taken down a peg or two. Or three even, he was that arrogant! No, it had to be an over-the-knee-spanking. Just like a small child. That would properly teach him a lesson. Humiliate him a little.

“So after a spell practicing in the nets they all adjourned to the pavilion. In those days it was a rickety old building that doubled up as a storeroom for old furniture and whatnot. Not the magnificent beast it is today. They circled the brat and thereby had him trapped in the corner. The club captain was, of course, their spokesman, and verbally tore into the boy. He was dumbfounded at first, then he protested a little. Was he not the star of the team? Had not the local paper written extensively about him? This only served to deepen the club captain’s resolve. An entire litany of offences was read to the boy. Chief among these was his refusal to behave like a junior and to show his older and wiser colleagues the respect they deserved.

“‘So,’ the club captain said with all the authority that came with his position, ‘You are to take a spanking.’ I suppose you might have heard a pin drop at that moment, the silence was so intense. The boy’s face fell. His jaw dropped. His mouth opened and closed. He might have been expected to voice a protest. He could not make an escape for as I said he was surrounded by team mates. There were only two courses of action open to him. He could submit meekly to the demands of the club captain, or he could resist and be forced over the older man’s knee. They were certainly enough men present to overpower him.

“It would never happen today of course. Can you imagine an eighteen-year-old, any eighteen-year-old, never mind a so-called ‘star player’ doing this. There was an eerie silence. The club captain broke it by taking up a wooden chair, unfolding it and plonking it down onto the wooden floor. He sat himself down on it and turning to the boy, he clicked his fingers, pointed at the boy’s midriff and said clearly, ‘Take down your trousers.’ There was a moment’s hesitation, so he spoke some more, ‘Right now. I haven’t got all day.’

“The club members moved away a little to give the boy space. He was, of course, entirely conscious that his team mates were present and intended to stay and witness his ordeal. That was to be an essential part of the punishment. The embarrassment, nay, the humiliation of being spanked by the club captain in public.

“Corporal punishment was common in those days as I said and the boy was no stranger to it. With steady hands he undid his trousers and guided them down his legs until they settled above his shoes. He was wearing white Y-front underpants as everyone did in those days. His white shirt covered most of his buttocks and private parts.

“‘Come here,’ the club captain reached out his hand and gripped the boy by his elbow and pulled him gently towards him. ‘Bend over my knee.’ When the boy showed a little too much hesitation the club captain sighed heavily and pushed the boy over. He gave no resistance and was soon settled face-down across the club captain’s lap. In comparison to his tormentor, the boy was small and he fitted comfortably into his submissive permission. He rested the palms of his hands into the dirty wooden floorboards. This way his head was low and his bottom pointed up towards the ceiling. He closed his eyes trying to block out the reality of his situation.

“The club captain took hold of the end of the boy’s shirt and tucked it up his back. Now he was staring at a firm, round bottom, encased in tight white underpants. He gripped the boy firmly around the waist with his left arm to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. Then, with his right hand he gripped the waistband of the underpants. Every one of the onlookers must have seen the vision of horror that spread across the boy’s face. ‘These serve no useful purpose at a time such as this,’ the club captain intoned as with two or three tugs he had the underpants down at the boy’s feet with the trousers. ‘Ah,’ the club captain could hardly contain his delight, ‘A bare bottom. Well, my boy I hope you feel suitably ashamed.’

“It wasn’t a question and he didn’t expect an answer which was just as well because the boy simply gulped loudly and once more closed his eyes tight. His face and neck were scarlet and soon so too would be his bottom. The club captain was not yet ready. He cupped his right hand and gently used it to caress the boy’s shiny bottom. He pinched the peaks of the cheeks and stroked the undersides where they join with the backs of the thighs.

z used otk cricketer story

“He was ready now. He raised his hand high and let fly. The sound of the palm of his hard hand connecting with force with the fleshy bottom echoed around the small room. He spared no energy. The club captain was both a fine pace bowler and a slogger of the ball. He had a great deal of strength in his upper body which he demonstrated that afternoon. The spanks rained down like machinegun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! Rat-a-tat-tat! In no time every square inch of the boy’s buttocks – both of them – and also the soft underside (the sit-spot) glowed bright pink.

“The boy tried to be stoical, to take his punishment without fuss, but soon his bottom was boiling. His gasps and not-quite-silent yaps rent the air. His hips twisted and turned. His head neighed from side to side like an excited horse. His legs flailed so that first his trousers and later his white Y-fronts were kicked across the floor.

“The club captain spanked on and on. Surely, the palm of his hand must have hurt just as much as the boy’s bum. If it did it did not deter the club captain. He was indeed a leader of men. I suppose that had he thought of it at the time, he might have let up the spanking to save his hand and then turned the boy over to the club’s vice-captain to continue the punishment. Heavens, every man in the team might have been given a go.

“But that wasn’t the intention and that did not happen. The club captain fair blistered that boy’s backside. He was suitably chastened. Humbled and humiliated. At last he was released and without a mere glance towards any of his clubmates he scooped up his clothes and ran from the room.”

Old Harry finished his story there. He had also finished his pint and he waved the empty glass in the air and I took the less-than-subtle hint and took it to the bar. As I waited for a fresh beer to be pulled I looked across the pavilion at the story teller. His face was flushed and his eyes were rheumy and he wriggled his buttocks on the chair where he sat. He looked as if he were in some discomfort. I took the beer, along with another for myself, and gingerly, anxious not to spill a drop I made my way back to Old Harry. I resolved to discreetly learn his second name. It would then be no problem to check who starred in the team back in 1962.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

Other stories you might like

The cricketer

The Spanking Vicar 10. The Cricketer

Footballer’s judicial caning

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A wicked theft

new 5

Trent, my grandson, visited me at home last week. He’s a grand lad and I love him to pieces. He’s the other way, if you catch my drift. But I don’t care. It’s all legal now isn’t it. They can even get married. He asked if he could bring a friend from university to visit me for Sunday lunch; they would do all the cooking, he assured me.

The moment I saw the pair of them together I knew that the word friend needed to be put in inverted commas. They were obviously more than just “friends”; lovers more like, but I’d rather not think too much about that.

They did me the traditional Sunday dinner: roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, the lot. It was very nice of them because you don’t see it done very often nowadays. After the meal we sat and watched the live football on the telly. I don’t mind having Sky now that horrible Murdoch man is no longer involved. When the game was over, Trent and Wayne left to go back to uni.

It was later that evening when I went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea that I noticed an old biscuit tin had been moved. I feared the worst even before I opened the lid. I keep money in the tin and I saw immediately that ten pounds was missing. I knew exactly how much I had because I had only filled the tin that morning. It had been stolen, no doubts about it.

I knew Trent hadn’t taken it. I just knew, don’t ask me to explain. That could only mean that his boyfriend Wayne had dipped his sticky fingers into my biscuit tin. He hadn’t taken all the money, he probably thought he was being clever. If he didn’t take it all, he figured, I would never notice. I was furious, I don’t mind admitting it. It wasn’t the money as such, I am not a poor man, ten pounds means nothing to me. It was the idea that a guest had come into my house and while I wasn’t around he stole from me. That was a great principle to me.

I also feared for my grandson. Did he know that his new boyfriend was a thief? Had he stolen from other people? Had he stolen from Trent? It was late by now so I waited until morning before I phoned Trent. I told him my suspicions. He took it calmly, I had wondered that he might fly off the handle and accuse me of all sorts of things. He might even have said I was getting old and forgetful and I spent the money. He offered to come round with Wayne after classes finished to discuss it with me.

That gave me several hours to brood. I hated the idea of being deceived. I wasn’t sure I could prove to the satisfaction of the law that Wayne had stolen the money. I could hear a defence lawyer saying anyone could have taken it – assuming it had actually been there in the first place. I have to admit that I probably didn’t want to get the law involved. Like all law-abiding people I have never had any dealings with the police, but from what I see on TV drama I reckoned they wouldn’t think that such a small crime was worth investigating.

After a while I calmed down a bit. By now I also thought the theft of ten pounds might not warrant the full force of the law. If I reported it to the university, would Wayne be expelled? I had no idea of such things. I’m certain that back in the day that would have been the case, but not today. It’s all “human rights” now. There’s probably nothing they could do.

I had to admit to myself that for the few hours I was in his company I got to rather like Wayne. He has a sunny disposition and it was abundantly clear that my grandson doted on him. Perhaps then I wouldn’t want to get Wayne in too much trouble.

I made myself a cup of tea and sat down to ponder what other options I might have. There was one that came to mind. It would certainly make the punishment fit the crime. It would also give me satisfaction knowing that Wayne had not got off scot free. I smiled to myself as I thought about this. It seemed a bit absurd, in this day and age. And anyway, Wayne would never consent to it and without his agreement I had no chance.

“Bugger it!” I exclaimed aloud, even though I was alone in the room, “I’ll do it!” I sauntered up the stairs and entered one of the spare bedrooms. There was an old chest of drawers. I noticed how dusty it was, I hadn’t been in here for years. I opened the top drawer and just as I expected there was a long, two-tailed leather taws. I reached in and gently lifted it and placed it in the dust on the top of the drawers. Then I removed the wooden paddle. This was a rectangle of wood about the size of a paperback book with a handle. I set this alongside the taws. I stared at both for a long minute. Either would be perfect for what I had in mind. I picked them both up and carried them downstairs.

I made another cup of tea and as I waited for it to cool I fondled the leather taws. It was more than a quarter-inch thick and heavy. The brown surface was tarnished and worn. It had been in the family for generations. I put it to one side and picked up the paddle. This was relatively new. I had made it myself back in the day when I was the father of three boisterous boys. I had used it several times on Trent’s dad. I smiled at the memory. The last time I had used it he was nineteen years old, no older than Trent was today. I’d better not let Trent know that little secret, his father would never forgive me.

Trent and Wayne arrived at a little after five. I was in no mood for small talk so I got straight down to business. I said ten pounds was missing. I asked Wayne – I did not accuse him – if he had taken it. His immediate confession took the wind out of my sails. I had expected a long drawn out series of denials.

“Why on earth …” I spluttered.

“Sorry,” he shrugged his shoulders, “I just wanted it.”

I was confused. I genuinely could not understand “Are you behind with your rent?” I ventured.

“No,” he replied but failed to elaborate. So there we were. Wayne was a typical teenager today. Take, take, take. He only thinks about himself. He wants instant gratification. What he cannot earn he simply takes. The palm of my hand itched. It wanted to grab the handle of that paddle.

“I cannot let this go, you understand that don’t you,” I was calm and spoke gently, every inch the caring grandpa. What I had to do was done more in sorrow than in anger. I had no choice. The boy deserved punishment. Heck, it was my duty to paddle his pert nineteen-year-old bottom. I said none of this to him, of course. Instead I pretended that I had a choice. The police, the law courts, the fine, the criminal record, the plight on his future career etcetera, etcetera.  Or we could deal with it ourselves. Here. Now.

I hope I didn’t show just how startled I felt when he replied with alacrity, “I want you to deal with it.” Then, as an afterthought he added, “Please.” And after a further pause, “Sir.” I shook my head wearily, looking as if I was carrying all the burdens of the world on my shoulder. Then he told me, “I deserve to be punished.”

There was no denying that. Until that moment I had kept the paddle out of sight. I retrieved it from its hiding place and grasped the handle firmly. I waved it through the air so that Wayne could get a very good look at it. His eyes followed it as it moved but the rest of his face remained impassive. His bright brown eyes shone.

“I intend to spank you, do you understand?” His face paled and the tip of his tongue darted out of his mouth and ran around his lips. He croaked a response, “Yes, Sir.” Rather haughtily, I dismissed Trent from the room. He went without fuss. I heard him go into the kitchen. “Right young man,” I said, turning my attention once more to Wayne. “Let’s get on with this shall we.” It was a statement, not a question. I left him standing while I took hold of an the office chair I use when I am at my computer. I wheeled it closer to the centre of the room and sat down. It was now or never, I supposed. Wayne still had time to change his mind. I did not have the strength to force him across my knee. I had no desire for an unseemly fight with the boy. He was nineteen-years-old and I was no match for him in a wrestling match. I needed him to be submissive.

I held the paddle in my right fist and rubbed the palm of my left hand across the blade. I studied it hard, as if I had never seen the blessed thing before in my life. I could not bear to look at him. His refusal to obey my instruction would mean total humiliation. My throat was suddenly dry and I had to cough before speaking. “Take down your jeans, then come bend over my knee,” I croaked. Wayne was gym-honed and needed no belt to keep his trousers up. He popped the fastener on the waistband and tugged the metal zipper then pulled the jeans down as far as his knees.

Now, I felt able to look at him. He wore blue underpants that fitted so snugly nothing was left to the imagination. I could see Wayne was no boy and his thick cock was uncut. He shuffled the two steps necessary so that he stood close to my body on my right side. He shook his head several times, I think he might have been psyching himself for what lay ahead. His black hair was cut fashionably short and was stuck in place with some sort of “product” so that not a hair seemed to move. He took a deep breath and then in one complete athletic movement he almost threw himself across my lap. Within a second he was face down with his arms stretched before him with his palms pressing into the deep-pile carpet. His back arched and his groin rested over my right thigh. In this way he presented his tight bottom at the perfect angle for the spanking he so richly deserved. He kept his knees straight and his legs stuck out at about forty-five degrees. He was breathing heavily. He clenched his buttocks. I noticed that they were as hard as a rubber ball. The phrase “buns of steel” was made for him.

z used paddle otk pants chair bbfc

Wayne was entirely submissive. With some naughty boys you have to grip their waist tightly to stop them moving about while trying to escape. This was not necessary with Wayne. I simply rested my spare hand on the small of his back. At this point I had the option of peeling down his tight underpants to bare his bottom. There can be no doubt that the crime of stealing deserves a bare-bottomed spanking. However, I was very aware that this was the boy’s first offence. I hoped that the spanking would cure him of his criminality but I could not be certain that it would. If I paddled him on his pants now should I be called upon to repeat this punishment when he stole again I would be able to up the ante as it were and spank him on the bare next time.

So, I gripped the handle tightly and gently tap-tap-tapped the blade across the highest point of his left cheek and I let fly. I may be an aging man but I still have enough strength to deliver a severe spanking and that was my intention that evening. The thud of wood connecting with hard flesh resounded around the room. Wayne sucked in air. I hardly gave him time to absorb the first swat before I laid the paddle across his right buttock. The next went left and high, then right and low. Then back to the left. Within about a minute I had peppered his backside so thoroughly no square inch was left untoasted. He wriggled his hips and kicked his legs and his head bounced up and down, but to his credit he kept his backside raised high after each swat, inviting the next and the next and the one after that.

I obliged. I hammered his bottom. The paddle pounded the peak of the mounds, the tops of the hills, the undercurve where the bum and the backs of the thighs meet. His pants were so tight they fitted like a second skin and I could see the outline of the paddle’s blaze embossed over and over again across his bottom. The backs of his thighs were bare and I did not hold back making sure the wood stung him there good and proper.

Hs body was shaking. The pain would have been intense. His bum was glowing red hot. His heartbeat must have been off the scale. Even through all the gel or whatever it was, I saw his hair was soaked with sweat. The back of his neck was as scarlet as his bottom, yet curiously his face was deathly pale. I couldn’t see his eyes so didn’t know if he was crying. Certainly the cheeks of his face were not moist.

I am not a sadist. I believe in punishment, not in torture. There comes a time when I must consider that a boy has had enough. The punishment has fitted the crime. I am a just man. That time hadn’t quite arrived. The palm of my hand was wet with perspiration. I let go of the paddle and rested it on Wayne’s back. Then, I rubbed my hand dry on his shirt. I gripped the paddle once more and returned to my task with renewed vigour. I laid another dozen swats – the hardest so far – right around the circuit. I reckon his bottom felt like I had forced him to sit on white-hot coals.

It was time to stop. I tapped the blade across the peak of his left cheek. “Finished,” I gasped. I hadn’t realised quite how out of breath I had become. “Stand up.” Wayne wriggled his torso and pressing the palms of his hands on my left thigh he unsteadily rose to his feet. He pressed both hands across the seat of his pants and rubbed vigorously while at the same time he hopped from foot to foot. His jeans were still snagged at his knees and it took no effort for him to get them back up in their rightful place. He zipped himself up.

I regained my breath while he did all this. His face was pale but his bright brown eyes shone like lanterns. I could not tell where his mind was at that moment but it did not seem to be in the front room of a large house in Brocklehurst.

I rose from my chair. I wanted him out of my house quickly. “I trust you have learned your lesson,” I said, knowing that I sounded like some maiden aunt. He nodded his assent. Trent re-entered the room at that moment. I took myself off to the kitchen. I needed a cup of tea. As I waited for the kettle to boil I could hear the two boys talking in the hallway. “See,” my grandson Trent said, “I told you he would do it.” They both dissolved into fits of high-pitched giggles.

I gaped. What the hell did they mean? But, of course, I knew. What a fool I’d been. I hurried from the kitchen to confront them, but was too late. The front door was closing in front of me.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

Other stories you might like

A memory in the attic

Caught in their underpants

The dope smoker

  

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Hotel’s strict no-noise policy

new 5

z used after on bed naked (1)

The hotel has a strict no-noise after 11 p.m. policy. You know that, there are signs up all over the place. Many of our guests have children or are older people and they don’t appreciate being kept awake at nights by louts like you.

I usually have a little speech ready.  It hardly ever changes. It doesn’t have to; they’re all the same these lads. They come over here for the sun, drugs, and sex. We’d rather they stayed at another hotel but business is business and I’m afraid these days you can’t turn customers away.

I’m one of the assistant managers and it’s my job to see the no-noise policy is enforced. It’s a tough job but someone has to do it! I’m usually called on one or two times a night. The louts mainly come over from England. They really are an ill-mannered lot. Don’t their parents teach them discipline? I heard they banned corporal punishment in schools a while back; that explains a lot.

We have a party of apprentice plumbers in at the moment. Ten of them, squeezed into three rooms. I can’t begin to describe the mess they’ve made. I suppose they expect the maid to clean up all their filth. Their mothers probably wait on them hand-and foot at home.

I went to patrol the main block of our complex. I heard the racket coming from their room the second the elevator door opened on the fifth floor;  it was vibrating. I took a deep breath, exhaled a long, low sigh and strode down the corridor. I hammered with my fist and when they wouldn’t open the door I let myself in with my passkey.  I gagged on the stench: sweat, semen and the unmistakable aroma of cannabis.

Two lads were sprawled out on a bed built for one;  both totally naked. One, a fair-haired boy with a small, turned-up nose and a rash of ache running down one cheek tried to focus on me. “Turn that noise down!” I shouted. I meant the big boom-box that pulsated on the floor. Perhaps he couldn’t hear me (I wouldn’t be surprised) because he didn’t move. I stormed across the room and did it myself. By the time I turned around both boys were sitting up. The other one, who was tall, lank, and had untidy curling hair cascading down to his shoulders, grabbed a pillow and covered his privates. He was a little too late: I saw his throbbing stalk.

I gave them the speech. A strict no-noise after 11 p.m. policy. That means you too, I said. Why did they think the rule didn’t apply to them? Selfish. Inconsiderate. I let them have the works. They sat impassively; no reaction. Arrogant, snotty-nosed, little …. I didn’t say any of this last part out loud, it was enough that I thought it.

Well, I said, that’s it. Pack your bags. Get out. We don’t want you here. I strode across the small room and loomed over the pair of them. Hurry. Chop-chop. Let’s see some action! That got their attention. The long-haired one started babbling something incoherent. I think the gist of it was that I couldn’t do that. I could, but there was no point quoting the hotel’s contract chapter and verse to him, he was too far gone to understand.

The fair-haired one was less confused. He got the seriousness of his situation. Sorry, he said, meekly. He ran his fingers though his hair and muscles in his chest rippled. The corners of his mouth rose and he showed me his brilliantly white, even teeth. He wrinkled his nose and his bright-blue eyes shone. I suppressed a giggle; I know boys like him, many hang out at a bar near the hotel where they scrounge drinks from holidaymakers.

I played along. Well, I said, maybe you don’t have to pack and leave. He wrinkled his nose and his smile broadened. Thank you, he simpered, oozing sexuality. I wondered where he had learned that little trick. Do they just pick it up or do the boys teach one another?

Don’t be so grateful, I told him and returned the smirk. Mine was not cute and sexy. If a piranha could smile it would smile like me. His grin was still stuck to his face. I put my hand into my jacket pocket. His eyes stared, transfixed. His smile fell to be replaced by a grimace. I held in my hand a small wooden paddle, its blade no bigger than a paperback book. His lips formed the word Oh! but he made no sound.

So, I said, returning to the set speech I usually make at times like this. You can pack your bags or …. I smacked the paddle into the palm of my hand. There was no need to say more, my intention was clear. At this point any of a number of things might usually happen. The boy or boys might get angry; scream and shout and threaten violence. They might plead for forgiveness. A surprising number burst into tears like they were eight years old. Most (and believe me when I tell you this because it’s true) after chatting back and forth with me for a while concede quietly that they really have no choice in the matter unless they want to spend the next few days sleeping on the beach until their flight home.

While the chatting went on, I slipped off my jacket and put it on the hook by the door. I was going nowhere, not until I had done my duty by all my rule-abiding guests. I sat on the other bed in the room. I had done this countless times before (it was the second time that night) so I knew how not to waste my time. The fair-haired lad was frowning now; he exchanged glances with his friend. Both seemed resigned to the fact that matters had to take their course.

Theatrically, I beckoned him towards me with a crooked finger. He clambered from his bed and stood shakily. He stretched his arms out like a child playing at aeroplanes and steadied himself. Still playing the ham, I clicked my fingers at him and waved my hand indicating that he should approach my bed. Without protest he stood close to me, the aroma of marijuana was strong. Up close, I saw his blue eyes were more glazed than sparkling.

Bend across my knee. It is the sort of thing you might say to a naughty child, not to a lad like this who I think must have been at least twenty. He looked over his shoulder at his pal who simply stared back, his eyes popped on stalks. The fair-haired one pushed his fingers through his hair once more and submissively fell forward. The bed was narrow but there was enough room for him to place the top half of his body across the mattress. From experience I knew to trap his ankles with my leg and to take his left arm and hold it against his back. Like this he was pinned down and completely exposed to me.

Although he was by no means fat, his body felt heavy against my knees. That usually means a lad spends a lot of time in the gym. His legs were muscular and his backside firm and beefy. It was obvious to me that he shaved his body as he was completely hairless, even up into his crack. I didn’t resist the temptation to pat his mounds and stroke them gently with the palm of my hand. He had a delightful bottom that simply asked to be spanked. And, so I did.

My paddle might be small but it is made of hard wood and is probably a couple of centimetres thick. It is perfect for delivering an over-the-knee spanking. In this lad’s case the blade covered roughly a third of one cheek, so by the time I’d pounded home a dozen swats the whole target area glowed bright pink. He rewarded my endeavours with a series of gentle wheezes that quickly progressed to yaps. He wriggled his beefy bum and he headbutted the mattress but I had him pinned securely and there was nothing he could do to get away.

Big strapping lads can take quite a lot of punishment, even if they are “spanking virgins”. This might be his first time but that didn’t mean I was going to go soft on him. I owed it to my other guests and I wanted to make darned sure I got no trouble from him for the rest of his stay. Also, when the other apprentice plumbers got to hear what happened it would deter them from breaking the rule.

The smooth, muscular hairless cheeks bounced provokingly each time my paddle crashed into his taut bottom. Like Oscar Wilde I can resist anything but temptation and so was encouraged to crack my wood harder and harder across this naughty boy’s bottom. The yaps quickly graduated to yelps and became full-throated yells. His creamy-white flesh was now flamed with a rosy hue. I whacked down another dozen and stopped. I am not a sadist, I believe in discipline and punishment, but not in torture.

I released my grip and the lad lay across my knees gasping for breath. His naked back glistened with sweat. I moistened my own dry, cracked lips. Still he had not moved. Once again, I caressed his bottom. It was tougher than before, feeling a bit like leather. Eventually I said stand-up. He did so and danced up and down in front of me, his cock bouncing close to my face. He turned away and rubbing his burning buttocks as he went, returned to his bed.

I had forgotten about his pal. Now, it was the turn of the slim, long-hair lout. I waved towards him and clicked my fingers. It was his signal to approach me and take his punishment. His face was pale, despite the tan he had from sitting in the sun. He made no attempt to move so I clicked again more belligerently. This caught his attention.

Sorrowfully, he wriggled his bottom along the mattress. He still had the pillow clutched to his front. He stood, hesitated, thought for a moment or two and them shuffled forward. I supposed he was psyching himself up for the ordeal to come. Now, he was standing by my side, still grasping the pillow. The fair-haired lad had not shown such modesty. Impatiently, I made a grab for the pillow, he resisted, but I was too quick for him. I had it in my hand. The smell rising from it was unmistakable, and so was its stickiness. I looked at the lad and his cock was steel-hard and pointing at the ceiling.

With some discomfort to both of us, I eventually got him flat across my lap.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

Hotel Duty Manager

I remember like it was yesterday

His new job

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Late for breakfast

new 5z used white pants vest window cody ferguson (17)

Mr Weatherspoon sauntered into the kitchen and sighed. He could not,  would not, hide his irritation. “Where is he?” he demanded of his wife.

“He’s not here.”

“Well, I can see he’s not here,” Mr Weatherspoon snarled. “Is he still upstairs?”

“What do you think?” his wife’s sarcasm was not lost on Mr Weatherspoon.

“I’ve told him about this before,” Mr Weatherspoon pulled up a chair and sat at the table.

“Yes, you’ve told him before. You’ve told him lots of things before,” she banged a plate of bacon and eggs in front of him.

Mr Weatherspoon eyed his wife cautiously, “Come on Mary.”

“Don’t Come on Mary me, Jack,” what else did you tell him, eh? It’s me that cooks breakfast that gets ruined because he’s late down. I fetch and carry for him all the time. He’s got worse since he started work. He treats this place like a hotel and me like a skivvy.”

Jack stared down at his breakfast. Would she give him no peace?

No she wouldn’t because she went on, “What did you say you’d do if he was late down again? Well, what was it?”

Jack filled his mouth with a forkful of bacon. This was not a conversation he wished to have.

“You told him you’d give him a damn good hiding. Remember that Jack. You said he needed to buck up his ideas. You said that Jack.”

Jack chewed thoughtfully. He had said that. But, it was the heat of the moment. Surely she hadn’t taken him seriously. “He’s eighteen Mary. A bit old for spanking don’t you think?”

Mary stared scornfully, “He was eighteen when you said it, Jack. What’s changed? He certainly hasn’t!” She sat down in a huff and slashed at her own eggs and bacon. She seethed as she poured tea. “Go up now. Do it. Take my hairbrush. The ebony one, it’s on the dressing table.”

Jack slurped tea. How he wished he had a newspaper to hide behind. “Oh Mary,” he bleated and then trailed off, ashamed.

Mary had finished eating. She let her knife and fork fall with a clutter on her plate. “Do you want me to do it? Is that it? I will you know. If you won’t, I will. I swear I will.” She observed her husband from the corner of her eye. She had touched a sore spot with him and she knew it. “Let me just finish this tea,” she added slyly.

“Bah!” Jack rose from the table sharply, banging his knee as he stood. “No, don’t worry. I’ll do it,” he fumed, “If I must. If that’s what you want?”

“It’s not what I want, Jack,” she said scornfully, “It’s what you promised to do.” She allowed herself a wry smile as she watched her defeated husband slink from the room. “The heavy ebony one. On the dressing table,” she called after him.

Wayne was out of bed, but he was not quite fully awake. He stood by the window in his vest and underpants stretching. His head was a little befuddled from the six pints he sank at the Three Fishers the night before. His Dad had surprise on his side. The door burst open and there he stood brandishing in his right fist, a black, wooden hairbrush.

“I did warn you. You can’t say you weren’t warned,” Dad babbled as he strode through the door. Instinctively, Wayne backed away, but it was a small room and there was nowhere for him to run. Dad had no clear plan, he hadn’t thought anything through; he would have to work on instinct, fuelled by adrenaline.

He sat on the narrow bed, reached forward, grabbed Wayne by the left wrist and tugged him towards him. The teenager was off balance and toppled forward easily. Then he was face down across Dad’s legs with his chest and head bouncing on the mattress. Dad wriggled about and quickly put his right leg across his son’s ankles. He had him pinned down. Wayne twisted and turned, “Gerroff! Wodya doing? Stop! No!” He could struggle all he wanted to; he was going nowhere.

Dad had surprised himself. It had been easy. He had feared some kind of stand-up fight. Wayne was eighteen, he had youth – and strength – on his side; Dad could not expect to win. Instead, he had the brat face down across his knee. If not exactly submissive, he was nonetheless at his mercy. Wayne twisted and turned but when Dad lay his left arm across the boy’s back, that put an end to that.

Dad smiled. How he wished his wife was here to witness his victory. He looked down at his son’s buttocks. He had never examined them before. The boy was slender and thin and the cheeks were round and soft. Dad ran his hand over them slowly, feeling the “give” in them. They were some way off being “buns of steel”. He had never spanked Wayne before; never spanked anyone before (unless you count the “slap-and-tickle” games he and Mary played in their younger days). How was this done, exactly? He let instinct take over once more. He took hold of the top of Wayne’s pants. That set he boy wriggling and hollering again, “No! Dad, no!” He was mightily relieved when Dad didn’t tug the pants down to his thighs and expose his bare bottom. Instead, he pulled the pants tight so the smooth white cotton stretched across the buttocks as if they were a second skin. They also dug into the crack, in effect lifting and separating each cheek. Dad had made a perfect target.

He took hold of the brush, his palms were sweaty but that didn’t impair his grip. He raised it a couple of feet away from Wayne’s backside, the brush was heavy in his hands. He paused, took a deep breath and smacked it down exactly in the middle of the right cheek. Then, he raised it again and did the same with the left.

That set Wayne off. As Dad spanked the brush over and over again into the soft cheeks, his son let out a continuous barrage of protest and howls. “No, No Dad, Stop, Oww! Ouch! Eeek! Yowl! No. Stop. Please Dad. Oww! Yowlll! No. Pleeeasse!”

Dad was in no mood to stop. He was rather enjoying himself. He should have done this a long time ago, he told himself. The brat had been asking for it for a very long time. Whack-whack-whack. He increased the pace and equally Wayne’s howling and pleading intensified. “Come down to breakfast when you’re called.” Whack-whack. “Don’t give your Mum grief.” Whack-whack. “Don’t stay out till all hours.” Whack-whack. “Tidy up this room.” Whack-whack. And, on and on.

How long should a spanking last? Dad had no idea. Instinct told him it had to be until Wayne had learned his lesson. But how would Dad know? He decided to ask. “Have you learned your lesson?” Whack-whack. “Are you going to do as you’re told in future?” Whack-whack. “Will you behave?”

“Yes Dad, oww! Ouch! Yes Dad. Honestly. Ouch! Ouch! No more. Please.”

The boy was not in tears but he was in considerable distress. The spanking was getting through to him. Dad walloped another dozen all around the target. High near the back, over the crest of the mounds and down into the undercurve. Whack-whack. “Okay. That’s it. You can get up now.”

He cocked his leg and set his son free. Wayne jumped to his feet and hopped about and at the same time rubbed away at his toasted bottom. For his part, Dad was surprised how breathless he was. He hadn’t felt the least bit tired while he was taking Wayne’s backside apart. Now, he took a few deep breaths. He looked closely at the brush in his hand. Mary had been right, it was the perfect tool for spanking.

“Right. Get downstairs for breakfast,” he said sternly and when Wayne started searching for his jeans, he added, “No go like you are in your vest and pants. You’ve wasted enough of your Mum’s time as it is.” He watched with deep satisfaction as without a murmur of dissent Wayne left the room.

Moments later Wayne arrived in the kitchen. Mary Weatherspoon noticed at once his air of remorse.  She saw also the deep pink marks on the backs of his thighs. As she set a plate before her son she felt the stirrings of respect for her husband.

 

Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

 Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

My belligerent nephew

Rock ‘n’ roll truants

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

John’s jam jar

new 5

z used jar money drawing

John Hepplewhite was a modest man, he didn’t ask for much in life and he didn’t get it. He lived on a small pension from the Post Office and what he got from the state. He lived alone in two rented rooms and because he was trying to save money he would spend a lot of time at the House of the Sacred Light pensioners’ club where he could sit in the warm, read the newspapers and drink countless cups of tea without having to pay. And, what if from time to time he had to listen to some ruddy-faced fellow wittering on about the Bible.

He did his shopping at the shops and the market where they sold off perishable food cheaply late in the day. At home he never lit more than one bar on the electric fire. John Hepplewhite didn’t think of himself as poor. He was careful with his money. Hidden away at the back of the larder was an old jam jar. Into this he put every spare copper coin he had. Sometimes, when he had been especially careful, or he skipped a meal and made up for it with even more cups of tea at the House of the Sacred Light, he added silver. John Hepplewhite was saving for his special treat.

When the jar was about half full – for that was all he needed – he took it along to the post office where he used to work, and where he still collected his pension, and Mavis, a jolly old type, would patiently count out the coins and change them to banknotes. John Hepplewhite could scarcely contain his excitement and even though Mavis had known him for years she could never get him to tell him what he was saving for.

John Hepplewhite, now greatly excited and with the banknotes tucked securely in the inside pocket of his heavy coat, he trudged down the High Street to the public phone box. Of course, he wouldn’t dream of paying to have a phone at home, not even with the special rates they gave pensioners. His hands didn’t usually tremble, but they did as he lifted the receiver and dialled the number. He knew it by heart, he had rung it before many times. The phone at the other end rang and rang and John Hepplewhite was about to throw down the handset when there was a click and man with a smooth voice answered. John Hepplewhite beamed like a small boy with a new toy. The call concluded, John Hepplewhite returned to his rooms, not now trudging but walking on air, or walking on air as much as a man his age could.

Two days later John Hepplewhite took a bus into the suburbs. He had a pensioners’ pass so he didn’t have to pay the fare. He had already put its equivalent into his jam jar for the next treat. He got off near Widdicombe Wood and had to walk half a mile to get to his destination. It was late spring, the sun was shining but it was still a little cold. John Hepplewhite was as happy as any man could be. He lived for days like this.

He turned into a street called The Avenue, it was a long thoroughfare but entirely deserted of people. The large houses were mostly hidden behind walls or fences and sometimes high hedges. The house he wanted was half way down. He liked that no one was about, it made him feel safe. He didn’t like prying eyes. He saw a large figure on a bicycle ride towards him; as it got closer he saw he was dressed in a bright red school blazer. Instinctively, John Hepplewhite looked at his watch; it was not yet noon. As the bicycle approached and then passed him, John Hepplewhite noticed the boy also wore pale-grey short trousers. John Hepplewhite turned and watched him cycle off into the distance. He smiled broadly, the “boy” was at least forty if he were a day.

John Hepplewhite paused at the gate to number 42. The house itself was set back from the road with a wide shingle path leading to it. John Hepplewhite’s heartrate quickened and his mouth dried. He checked his watch again to make sure he was not early (he had never once been late for this appointment) and satisfied all was well he set off up the path. He rang the doorbell and since he was expected he was not surprised the door was opened instantly. An older women, dressed austerely in a long shapeless black skirt and a white blouse buttoned to her throat welcomed him in.

“Wait in the hallway,” she said abruptly and certain that he would comply with her instruction, she immediately waddled away and entered a room at the far end. John Hepplewhite knew the house well. There were five identical doors leading from the hallway, each made of heavy oak. A coat stand stood in the corner close to the door and there were two small tables along a wall. A grandfather clock that John Hepplewhite had never seen working leaned forlornly in another corner. There were no pictures on the wall but there was a full-length mirror that John Hepplewhite always avoided on his visits. He had no wish to see the reflection of a flabby old man staring back at him.

The woman was gone for five minutes and then she returned and briskly said, “Go into that room and change.” John Hepplewhite had been expecting this and without even a murmur he took the few paces needed to reach the door, he turned the handle and went in. The room was a library of sorts. In some houses it would be called a living room or a drawing room. This was a “library” because there were shelves of books. In the centre was a large oak table with matching chairs. Two leather armchairs were placed either side of a low coffee table. It took John Hepplewhite only seconds to survey the room. He was familiar with its layout and soon found what he was seeking.

Without hesitation, he began to strip off his clothes. He was nearly seventy and he was proud that he was still sprightly, unlike some of the others at the pensioners’ club who could no longer put on their own socks. He was soon completely naked. He stood admiring the collection of goods displayed on the oak table. He took hold of the white cotton briefs with Y-shaped front and elasticated waist band. He steadied himself against the table as he stepped into them. They fitted snuggly against his buttocks.

Then, he pulled the white singlet over his head and the snugness of the cotton against his flesh emphasised his flabby belly. In the correct fashion, he tucked the singlet into the waistband of his underpants. John Hepplewhite ran his eye across the oak table, his tongue darted through his pursed lips as he chose the grey shirt from a paper wrapper. It felt recently ironed and as he climbed into it he caught the distinct aroma of the starch that had stiffened the collar.

Next came his favourite; he lovingly fingered the grey short trousers, they were made of flannel and immaculately laundered and pressed and if he didn’t take care he might have cut his finger on the crease down the front. He felt his withered penis stir. He had no idea why, but short trousers always did this to him. He unfastened the button at the waist, and then 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.

He buttoned the shirt and found his school tie. It was of red and green diagonal stripes. There was no mirror and John Hepplewhite made several attempts to knot the tie neatly. His previous reservation about the mirror was gone. He so wanted to admire his appearance. He walked to the window and failing to see his reflection he sat in an armchair and pulled up his woollen stockings. They were so long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and trousers. He folded over the tops of the stockings until they were tucked just below the knees.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up shoes. He was not quite ready. His school blazer was on a heavy wooden coat-hanger. John Hepplewhite caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb; he picked it up and smelled its freshness. It fitted him well, as always. Finally, he took hold of the 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. He was ready. At that moment the door edged open slowly and the old lady appeared. She appraised the situation and happy that John Hepplewhite was dressed she said, “The headmaster is waiting for you boy! Do not keep him waiting.”

John Hepplewhite rubbed his sweaty palms on his blazer and with a mixed feeling of anxiety and excitement he left the room and crossed the hallway. The old woman had left, her job completed for the moment. He stopped, peered at a sign displaying the word “Headmaster” in worn lettering, took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles on the door. His heart raced in anticipation of the response. It was some time coming. At last a voice boomed, “Come!” John Hepplewhite slowly turned the handle, it was a heavy door and he almost had to put his shoulder to it to get it to budge. He stood in the threshold. “Ah Hepplewhite, come in. Close the door. Stand there boy.”

The words were intoned by an imposing figure seated at a large mahogany desk. He wore a dark suit enclosed in a heavy, black academic gown. On his head balanced a mortarboard cap. The figure steepled his fingers and leaned back in a large leather chair. “You again, Hepplewhite,” he peered down his beaked nose. “This is becoming something of a habit, boy.”

Hepplewhite nodded meekly, but said nothing. He clasped his hands behind his back and stood, feet slightly apart. He looked intently at the headmaster who continued his lecture. “Your geography master informs me that you have failed on two separate occasions to complete your prep. You failed to present an imposition he duly set and you were insolent when he questioned you about it,” saliva dribbled from  his mouth. “Well boy! What have you to say for yourself?” he snapped.

The ferocity of the headmaster’s questioning rocked Hepplewhite. He burbled something unintelligible. The headmaster leaned forward, placed the palms of his hands on the desk and roared, “Hepplewhite I trust you are not trying to be insolent now!” Hepplewhite found his voice, “Oh no sir, truly sir, no sir, sorry sir,” but he was almost as incoherent as before.

The headmaster steepled his fingers once more. “Pah! I’m going to thrash you Hepplewhite. Thrash you. You deserve nothing less.” Hepplewhite’s faced flushed, “Crikey,” he said. “No please sir, don’t cane me sir. I shall be good.”

The headmaster grimaced, “Quiet! Stand in the corner. Hands on head. Contemplate your sins. Think about what’s coming to you.” He watched with satisfaction as the wretched boy before him, his face a picture of misery, turned and shuffled away. “Right in the corner,” the headmaster called after him, “I want to see your nose touching the wall.” He leaned back in his chair, then opened and closed drawers to his desk. He was not looking for anything, this was part of his ritual. He would give Hepplewhite ample time to anticipate what was to come.

After five minutes, the headmaster rose from the desk. “Let’s get on with this shall we,” he stated abruptly. “Turn around boy,” and when Hepplewhite did so and took his hands from his head, the headmaster who was incapable of speaking in a normal voice, roared, “I did not give you permission! Hands on head, boy!”

“Sorry sir,” Hepplewhite croaked. His eyes followed the headmaster as he walked across the study. He stopped when he reached a tall, thin cupboard. With great deliberation he reached into his pocket and after fumbling around he withdrew a small key. Hepplewhite watched with increasing anticipation as the headmaster opened the cupboard door and reached inside. The rattle as several thin, whippy canes were moved around seemed to fill the room. Hepplewhite licked his bottom lip and gulped; his mouth was now completely dry.

He watched as the headmaster withdrew a cane. It was a typical school punishment cane, about three feet long and as thick as a pencil with the traditional curved handle. The headmaster showed it to Hepplewhite whose eyes widened. He recognised it. The headmaster had thrashed him with that very stick on his last visit to the study. The headmaster flexed it between his hands and studied it closely as if he had never seen it before. He frowned, and replaced it in the cupboard. “I have acquired a new cane,” he said as he reached inside again. “It is especially suitable for senior boys. For recidivists. For boys who return to my study time after time. It is a Malacca!”

He showed the cane to Hepplewhite. It was much the same size and shape as the previous cane but as the headmaster bent it between his hands and then swished it through the air, Hepplewhite saw it was extremely dense, but whippy. It looked an awesome weapon. “Yes,” the headmaster spoke as if to himself only, “This will be very suitable.” He looked over at Hepplewhite who was still standing submissively, hands on head. “Go there,” the headmaster swished the cane in the general direction of a low leather armchair. “Bend over. You know what to do Hepplewhite.”

z used drawing cane quelch (38a) (2)

Indeed he did. He was no stranger to the headmaster’s study. Still with his hands on his head he took the three paces necessary to get into position. He looked at the chair in front of him. He was easily tall enough to clear its back. “Bend over Hepplewhite,” the headmaster growled, “He haven’t all afternoon.” He swished the cane to emphasise his impatience.

Hepplewhite took his hands from his head, rubbed them together and then fell forward. He stretched his arms out ahead of him and gripped the front of the seat cover. In this position his school cap remained firmly on his head. He spread his feet and jutted out his bottom, submissively. He heard footsteps behind him and a terrific swishing noise as the headmaster took practice swipes with his heavy cane. Then, in quick succession he felt a hand gripped the tail of his blazer and pushed it up his back and away from the target area; followed by the cane “sawing” across the centre of his bottom. Suddenly, it was lifted away and returned with great force so that it cut across both cheeks equally.

It hurt Hepplewhite, but not much. He had received harsher strokes in the past. He waited patiently; this time the headmaster tap-tapped the cane into the softer undercurve of his buttocks. The cane rose and fell. It was a harsher stroke but Hepplewhite was not deceived, he knew the headmaster was just warming up. He took four more strokes so that now his bottom sported six lines running parallel to each other. The headmaster was an expert with the cane, each had fallen precisely where he intended.

“Stand up Hepplewhite,” the headmaster placed the cane under his arm and paced the study. When Hepplewhite was on his feet, the headmaster glared, “Shorts down Hepplewhite, bend back over.” Still facing the chair, Hepplewhite fumbled with the waistband of his grey short trousers and then the fly buttons. It would have been difficult enough for him to perform this task even if his fingers had not been trembling. At last the immaculate short trousers were open. They fell easily down his thighs and snagged at the knees. He opened them and they continued to the floor. Without hesitation, Hepplewhite threw himself back over the chair. This time his cap fell from his head and slipped to the floor.

The headmaster tidied Hepplewhite’s blazer once more and was presented with an expanse of white cotton underpants. He “sawed” the cane once more taking note of how it sank deep into Hepplewhite’s fleshy buttocks. This swipe was the hardest yet and the headmaster was rewarded with the sight of Hepplewhite’s knees buckling. Hepplewhite gripped the cushion harder, but before he could settle himself properly the second and third strokes bounced off his bum.

“Ouch!” it was a genuine cry of pain. The headmaster knew this for certain because Hepplewhite like several of his pupils usually reacted with the somewhat overstated yell of “Yarrooo!” during a caning.

The next three were harder still. Hepplewhite wriggled his hips and stamped his feet. This was genuine. His heart raced and his breath came in shallow pants. “Up Hepplewhite,” the headmaster strolled the study once more. Hepplewhite rubbed his rubbery buttocks ruefully. “Leave it alone boy! You know the rules,” the headmaster growled. Hepplewhite’s hand immediately sprang to his sides. “Pants down. Back over.” It was a simple command, given without histrionics for the headmaster had no doubt Hepplewhite would obey. The headmaster was in control.

Indeed Hepplewhite did not argue, he simply slipped his thumbs inside the waistband of the white cotton Y-fronts and with not much more than a flick of the wrist he sent them sliding to his knees. Not waiting to ensure they reached his feet he dived over the back of the chair. As the headmaster for the third time moved the blazer out of the way he took careful note of the dozen lines that now emblazoned Hepplewhite’s hairy bum. He congratulated himself on a job well done. “Brace yourself boy,” he called with some good humour as he sent the first of six absolute stingers across Hepplewhite’s bared bottom. Air whistled through his clenched teeth, he writhed and his shoulders rose a little.

Swipe! This one had Hepplewhite crossing one foot over the other to stop himself jumping up. His temples pulsated just as quickly as his bottom. This caning was proving hard to take. The headmaster never liked to draw blood during a caning so he aimed his cane at one of the few places that had not yet been touched. Thankfully, Hepplewhite’s bum was large so this gave him the opportunity to lay one high on the apex of the mounds. He was rewarded by the sight of a deep red line and a hissing boy.

At last the final of the six was delivered. It had been quite an ordeal: six-six-and-six; it wasn’t a punishment for a novice. The headmaster ambled leisurely toward the cupboard and then taking his time he found the key, unlocked the door and returned the cane to rest alongside its companions. All the while Hepplewhite stared down at the seat cushion. His bum was on fire; a caning on the bare, even if lightly delivered – and this one had not been – is always a severe punishment. The intense agony was quickly dissolving into a sore ache. It had been a harsh punishment, but he had survived.

At last the headmaster called across the study, “You may stand now, Hepplewhite.” He watched as he hauled himself to his feet. The short trousers and Y-fronts were in a puddle at his feet. Hepplewhite leaned down to retrieve them but was cut short, “Leave them be!” the headmaster snarled, “I have not finished with you! Stand back in the corner. Hands on head.”

Meekly, Hepplewhite waddled like a penguin until he resumed his place, nose pressed against the wall. The headmaster returned to his desk and sat back in his hair. From this position he had a superb view of Hepplewhite’s battered bottom. He watched the clock on the mantelpiece, keeping a close eye on the time and when he was ready he reached down to the bottom drawer of his desk. In it was the book where an official record of corporal punishment was kept. He drew this out and put it on the desktop and then returned to the drawer.

He stood up and walked in front of the desk, there he picked up a straight backed chair and manoeuvred it into the centre of the room. He sat down and with a little difficulty adjusted his academic gown so he became comfortable. Once satisfied he spoke with a haughty air. “Turn around Hepplewhite and face me.”

Hepplewhite did so and his jaw dropped open. He had not expected this. Seated in the straight-backed wooden chair was the headmaster and in his fist he gripped an off-white rubber-soled plimsoll, the type of slipper generations of schoolboys had worn for physical education classes.

The headmaster released his grip on the plimsoll and let it rest on his lap. He snapped his fingers, “Stand there boy,” he pointed to a spot close to his right thigh. As Hepplewhite waddled across the study, the headmaster took up the plimsoll again. He waited for the full import of the situation was clear to Hepplewhite and then intoned, “Bend over my knee.”

Without instruction, Hepplewhite slipped the blazer from his shoulders and tossed it to the floor. Then he dropped forward so quickly that he hurt his shoulder because he had to push his arms ahead of himself to break his fall against the hard ground. He pressed his palms firmly into the floor and bent his knees so that his bare bottom pointed at an angle over the headmaster’s thigh. He waited impatiently as the headmaster carefully folded his shirttail so that it bared his lower back. The headmaster took a firm hold of him around the waist and thwacked the hard slipper into his already-sore backside. The burning sensation was terrific.

And so it went on like that until the clock on the mantlepiece confirmed the hour was over. Hepplewhite dressed himself in his school uniform once more and the headmaster divested himself of gown and cap. And like that John Hepplewhite and the headmaster repaired to the kitchen and enjoyed a nice cup of tea, while the old woman discreetly counted the banknotes.

 

Picture credit: Unknown /  Charles Chapman (The Magnet)

Other stories you might like

Late home from school

A Fragment of a Memory

The Fare Dodger

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Summer spent staring at the carpet

new 5

z used otk chair head bbfc (200)

I cannot begin to remember how often I had a close-up view of the carpet that summer. My nose hovering inches above the dusty, cheap flooring. Trousers at my ankles, underwear at the knees and Uncle Simon flogging a birch rod into my naked buttocks. Yowl! I can still feel the sting as I recall the pain and indignity of it all.

Nineteen years old and over an older man’s knees for a bare-arsed whipping. Can you imagine such a thing?

I’m not sure where to begin. It was 1974. A lifetime away. I had spent the previous six months banged up at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. They called it Youth Detention in those days, a bit like borstal really. It doesn’t much matter what you called it, it was still locked up three to a cell for most of the day. I was a menace to society, apparently. Okay, I stole cars. Lots of them in fact. Can you be addicted to stealing cars? Perhaps I was. Do they have a special name for it? Probably. I never did much with them. I drove around at high speed and when I had my fill I dumped them. Crazy really. It didn’t take the cops long to find me. The daft magistrates gave me community service the first time. Making tea at some old granny’s day centre. At the end of the third day there, I stole a Cortina and thrashed it along the motorway. The magistrate gave me a fine that time.

The fifth time I was up before the Bench, he sent me to YD. Mum disowned me when I came out. Step forward Uncle Simon.

“What he needs,” he told my mum, “is a good dose of the birch. None of that namby-pamby community service.” And, he knew what he was talking about. Uncle Simon was no angel when he was younger. House breaking was his thing. Stealing wireless sets his speciality. I know, it just shows you how long ago that was. The Assizes ordered him to six strokes of the birch. Bare-arsed, naturally. “Still got the scars to prove it,” Uncle Simon boasted. I never believed him. I asked him once to drop his kecks and show me his bare arse. Enough said on that matter.

I was to find out myself that the birch can take your arse off, but the cuts soon heal. Uncle Simon took me into his home which was a dingey little flat on a council estate near Widdicombe Woods. It was near one of the poshest suburbs of Brocklehurst and I thought nothing of bunking over garden walls and taking my pick from summer houses and sheds. Now and again one of the old geezers who lived there left a french window carelessly unlocked. Bingo! In those days you could easily sell a video in the pub. Ha!

What I didn’t reckon with was that Uncle Simon hadn’t changed so much. He liked to drink in the less savoury joints and hang out with petty criminals so when one time I waltzed into The Three Fishers with a video recorder hidden in a Tesco’s bag who should I see propping up the bar? He didn’t say anything. His deadly stare was enough to make me leg it out of the pub. I knew I was for it later. Still, I thought, in for a penny in for a pound. Or, better to be hung for a sheep than for a lamb.  Actually, I probably didn’t really think that at the time (I hadn’t learned about fancy words; that came later). What I did was I went touring the pubs until I sold the video. So, at least my pockets were jangling with cash by the time I got home.

Uncle Simon was waiting. He had put the time since I saw him to good use. The second I walked through the door the very strong smell of freshly-cut tree branches hit me. Uncle Simon was in the kitchen busy with a bread knife. But he wasn’t cutting sandwiches; he had a pile of birch twigs neatly stacked on the kitchen table. I stood half in the doorway and watched, as he collected about a dozen of the twigs together and wrapped sticking plaster around one end. This made a makeshift, but effective handle. As he finished off the second birch rod, he acknowledged my presence. I probably blushed to my roots, but I didn’t say a word. Uncle Simon didn’t say much. He took both birch rods in his hands and nodded in a direction behind me. “Living room. Now!”

I didn’t need to ask for confirmation or explanation. I knew precisely what he intended to do. Now, at this point in my story, you too know what happens next. But, you might also be asking yourself, “Why did he let his Uncle do this?” You probably think I should have told him to go to hell and refused to have anything to do with his plan. And it would be perfectly reasonable of you to say that. I have no answer to you. Except to say that this was a very long time ago and I had been through the youth detention system and maybe I was conditioned to this kind of thing. I lived a regimented life; there were rules and you were expected to obey them. If you didn’t you were punished. Sometimes that meant a birching. That’s life. What I can say to those of you with suspicious minds, not for one moment did I enjoy this.

So, I trudged into the living room with Uncle Simon following closely behind me. The room was very small, like the rest of the flat, and had a cheap, vinyl settee and two small armchairs that did not match it. There was a beat-up table in the corner and a worn, wooden straight backed armless chair. “Put that there!” Uncle spoke softly and in a monotone voice. I knew what he meant and I picked up the chair and took it into the middle of the room. As I did that Uncle Simon laid the birch rods on the table. He left one there and took the other with him as he went and sat on the chair. He spread his legs the way you do at times like this and told me quietly and sternly, “Take down your jeans and pants. You know what to do.”

I did. And I knew why I was about to be birched. Uncle Simon had not said a word about my thieving. He knew that I knew and that was enough. All he wanted was to get on with it. He didn’t even give me time to take off my coat. I stood about a yard distance from Uncle’s  right thigh and stared at him. At the time I thought he was an old man but now I look back I suppose how wasn’t much over fifty. He was padding out a bit and he had a muffin belly that hung a little over his belt. He still had all his hair, but it was going grey at the temples. I looked at the birch in his hands. By this time I had become familiar with this. We all called it “a birch” but I think it was actually made of about a dozen hazel twigs; he had cut each of them to about ten or twelve inches and tied them into a handle at one end. Despite its size it wasn’t very heavy; not like the birches Uncle Simon had been flogged with back in the day. He had constructed the birch so he could swish my bare arse while I was bent across his knee in the traditional naughty-little-boy fashion. Of course, since I was face down staring at the carpet I never saw this, but I’m pretty certain that the birch rods spread enough to cover both my cheeks in a single swipe.

So, Uncle Simon told me to strip down and I did. My jeans were puddled over my trainers and my boxer shorts hung over my knees. “Bend over,” he said and again I did as I was told. I was roughly the same height as Uncle Simon but a lot leaner and my body fitted comfortably across his lap. He spread his legs so there was a platform for my stomach and chest to rest on. My arms and head dangled forward. Uncle gripped my right arm and twisted it up my back so I was pinned down. My bare bum was raised high over his thigh and my legs stretched behind me and with my knees bent a little my toes hovered above the carpet. I waited submissively. I had no intention of fighting Uncle Simon.

It was summer, but the day was not particularly warm. A window was open and a breeze cooled my bare bottom and legs. Uncle Simon teased me by gently caressing my naked cheeks with the birch. It was ticklish. But not for long. I felt the birch being raised, Uncle Simon held it aloft for a second or so and then there was an almighty swishing noise as it swooped through the air and connected with terrific force across the undercurves of my buttocks. My entire body shuddered, my knees buckled and a long, shrill hiss of air escaped through my clenched teeth. Another second or so passed and I felt a searing pain as the skin on my bum burned like the fires of Hell.

Uncle Simon repeated the manoeuvre and this time he laid the birch high on the crest of my mounds. Now, ever square inch of my bottom was alight. It throbbed madly and I knew small cuts were creeping across the whole target area. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples ached almost as much as my bum. I did the wriggling and writhing thing again, but Uncle had a very firm hold of me and I wasn’t going anywhere until he said so.

Of course, with both cheeks roaring any further swipes of the birch could only land on already raw flesh and reignite the intense pain. Uncle Simon showed no mercy. Swipe! Swish! Swipe! Swish! Six cuts had opened up the flesh. No matter how many times I went across Uncle Simon’s knee that summer I never got used to the sting of the birch. I kicked; I wriggled; I swayed; I yelped; I yelled; I hollered. I was out of control. I had no choice. It was an entirely physical reaction, it was my body’s way of coping with the assault. That was why my face was awash with tears after three stokes and my chin was soaked in snot after six.

He stopped after nine. I hopped to my feet and rubbed away like fury. My bum felt like raw hamburger meat. The cheeks were criss-crossed with dozens and dozens of thin lines; some were white and others glowed dark pink. Before long the whole lot would merge into a deep mauve that in the days to come would transform into oranges and yellows before eventually disappearing. My bum felt like it had swollen to twice its normal size. I glared at Uncle Simon, not with fury but remorse. My eyes were on stalks and I could hardly see through the tears. It would take some time yet before my heartrate steadied, my breathing eased and my body returned to its natural state. I couldn’t bear the pain involved in pulling up my boxers and jeans so with them at my ankles I waddled like a penguin from the room and staggered across the passage to my bedroom. I lay face down sobbing for the rest of the day.

Did it do me any good; that summer spent staring at the carpet? Well, the truth is I did carry on stealing. Uncle Simon lost patience and threw me out. I left Brocklehurst and thumbed a lift North. One day with a couple of equally coked-up pals I attempted to rob an off-licence. We got five years jail time for that and I’ve been in and out ever since.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

Other stories you might like

Changed Times 6. Birched live on TV

The hotel swimming pool

A night on the tiles

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com