Caught in their underpants

Mr West was in for a shock when he opened the front door to his house. Discarded on the floor was a white school shirt, obviously belonging to his eighteen-year-old son. Further inside was a green-and-yellow striped tie, this time abandoned across the back of a chair. A pair of grey trousers lay in the doorway between the hall and the living room.

What on earth was going on here? But, Mr West had a sneaking suspicion. He knew his son was untidy but he had never behaved like this.

It was the middle of the day and Richard should be at school, but instead he was at home and his clothes were scattered across the house.

Voices coming from the boy’s bedroom confirmed his worries. This was disgraceful, Mr West fumed, he had a girl in there. Without hesitating he marched through the house, approached the bedroom, turned the handle and threw open the door.

And there was Richard and his pal Des, dressed only in their white cotton underpants.

The boys blushed scarlet and Mr West coloured up too – with rage.

What was going on here? Mr West was speechless. He didn’t ask the obvious question: he was too afraid to hear the answer. Two eighteen year old boys in the bedroom in their underwear, in the middle of the day: you didn’t need much imagination to work out what it was.

Sheepishly, they stood, like naughty schoolboys caught in an act of misbehaviour. What had they been doing? If he had arrived five minutes earlier what act would he have caught them in? Or maybe they hadn’t yet started and he needed to be five minutes later to discover the full horror.

Mr West found his voice, but he still didn’t ask the pertinent question. Instead, meekly, he inquired, “Why aren’t you two at school?”

Both boys stared at the carpet and shuffled their feet in embarrassment.

Mr West looked at the two lads: they could easily be mistaken for brothers. They were both not much more than five feet seven inches tall and slim. They both had the severe short-back-and-sides haircuts demanded by their school. Otherwise they were quite hairless, but Mr West could see from the bulges in the front of underpants that puberty had arrived. He tried not to notice that Richard’s pants were a little too tight, while his partner’s were slightly too large.

The boys remained silent, still blushing profusely.

Mr West didn’t know how to handle this situation. He was sure he had caught the boys committing an act of abomination.

To give him time to think, he ordered the boys to get dressed.

Five minutes later they stood miserably in the living room, dressed in the white shirts and grey trousers of their school uniform. Neither boy had bothered to put on his tie.

Richard and Des had been friends forever. Mr West knew they did everything together; but he had never thought for one second they also did this kind of thing.

He had a predicament; he had already decided to give his son a sound thrashing. He was eighteen years old. It wasn’t too late to beat the sin out of him. But, what about Des: Mr West had no jurisdiction over him. Should he send him on his way unpunished? For all he knew this boy was a devil who had seduced his own son into this act of immorality.

Mr West was not a man of the world. He could never talk to his son about sex and he had no words to express his disgust at the boy’s behaviour. He knew what the boys had been doing when he came into the house and he knew that they knew that he knew. Perhaps that was enough. Richard would know why he was being thrashed without having it spelt out to him.

“Why are you not at school?” Mr West returned to safer ground. He knew they had truanted and had been caught red-handed. Tearfully, they confessed this crime.

Mr West would use this as his excuse for a spanking but Richard would know he was really being punished for something altogether more serious.

But what was he to do about Des? Then Mr West had an idea. The boy’s mother was a widow and she had enough to worry about without having to deal with her son’s immorality.

“Des, what would your mother say if she knew what you had been up to today?” The boy continued to stare at the floor, hoping he wasn’t really expected to answer this question.

“Don’t you think she would be ashamed?”

Still no sound from Des.

“Do you want me to tell her?”

A response at last, “Oh, no please Mr West, please don’t tell my mother.”

Mr West had hoped he would say this. Now he could put his plan into operation.

“I am going to thrash the pair of you to within an inch of your lives. And, Des I will not tell your mother.”

The boy sobbed quietly. Richard, who until now had scarlet cheeks, turned a deathly white.

Mr West removed a stout wooden paddle from a hook on the kitchen wall, where it was kept as a constant reminder to his sons of the penalties for misbehaviour.

“Now boys, stand behind the couch.” Unnecessarily for there was only one, Mr West pointed to a double-seated couch, furnished with dark blue cushions. It was a perfect height for eighteen-year-old boys to bend across to offer up their backsides for punishment.

Miserably, Richard and Des shuffled to the expected spot. Mr West was an expert in corporal punishment; he had a great deal of experience beating the bottoms of miscreant boys. He knew that boys hated to be thrashed, of course they did, but Mr West fervently believed they benefitted from the experience. He also believed in the ritual of corporal punishment: not for him the taking of a boy across his knee to be followed by a succession of swift slaps into his upturned bottom.

No, Mr West was a man who liked to take his time. He began with a short lecture, “I am going to beat you slowly and thoroughly with this paddle. You may cry out, but if you fail to maintain your position and present your bottom properly for me you will earn yourself additional penalty strokes.”

Richard gulped and felt sick. He had been thrashed by his father several times before, he knew what to expect: it would be agony and the bruises might last for weeks, but the ordeal would not kill him.

He wasn’t so sure his pal Des could take the thrashing so well. This was not helped by the appalled look on Des’s face. Richard knew his friend was never spanked at home but he had been beaten in school; there was hardly a boy who hadn’t, but seeing the look on his face made him realise that what was about to happen was going to be nothing short of dreadful for the boy.

With his little sermon out of the way, one by one the boys were instructed to prepare themselves.

“You first Richard. Please stand closer to the back of the couch and then take down your trousers and underpants.

Des watched mesmerized as Richard went over to the couch back. He admired how well his friend’s buttocks filled out the back of his grey worsted school trousers. He stared, his throat drying up, as Richard slowly unzipped his trousers and then pulled them down until they could fall to the floor around his ankles.

Then equally as slowly, he placed his thumbs into the waistband of his underpants and pulled them down over his slim hips, past his thighs and as far as the knees.

“Now, please lean forward and bend over the couch. Place your hands on the seat cushion and keeping your legs straight push your head down as far as it will go.”

It wasn’t too difficult to comply with the order. He was just the right height.

“Legs further apart, please.” Des’s heart skipped a beat as he saw his friend’s buttocks tighten as the flesh stretched. The bum was so small, but perfectly formed. One swat from the big oval-headed paddle would easily cover both cheeks at once.

“Now, you please Des.” Richard was staring face down into the soft cushion of the couch so could not see Des make his preparations. But, he would have been proud of his friend.

Guided by Richard’s example a moment ago, he had his trousers and pants at his ankles in seconds. Then, in one move that would have delighted a professional swimmer diving into the pool, he was positioned alongside his friend, with his bared buttocks exposed to perfection for whatever Richard’s father had in store for them.

Both boys were aware of the other’s close proximity but they tried to ignore one another, instead staring ahead awaiting the first stinging swat from the plastic paddle. Richard could smell the sweet breath of his friend and recounted the taste of peppermint he had enjoyed moments before his father burst into the bedroom.

Mr West continued with his ritual, “I expect you to stay in position until I am finished. If you move I will repeat the stroke. Understood?”

Silence, except for the heavy breathing of two eighteen-year-old schoolboys about to have their bared bottoms blistered.

“Richard, do you understand?”


“Yes, what!”

“Yes, Sir!” came the required response.

“Des, do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir!” said boldly. Richard was feeling very proud of his partner-in-crime.

Mr West took up position. In all the years punishing boys he had never been presented with four buttocks at the same time. Usually, he dealt with troublemaking teenagers one at a time, but for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate he thought it was most appropriate for this crime for the boys to be dealt with simultaneously.

z used paddle bare couch sting

The first swat of the paddle on Richard’s naked flesh was wickedly loud and accompanied by a pitiful: Owww!

Des shrieked loudly and was admonished by Mr West, “Shut up and take it like a man!” as the first of his swats landed and felt as if it had burned a hole through both his bum cheeks.

Both boys were screeching with pain after the third whack roasted their buttocks and enormous welts were beginning to rise. Each boy had the pattern of the heavy paddle emblazoned across his scorched rump.

It went on like that relentlessly until each boy had received a dozen swats. Not one inch of their exposed flesh escaped; from the top of the buttocks near the base of the spine across the poor boys” globes and into their thighs. Neither boy had much flesh in their rear end and the paddle soon raised dark blue bruises.

So it was that two eighteen-year-old friends were thrashed to “within an inch of their lives.” Perhaps, not literally so, but the flogging would have a profound effect on them, but not in the way Mr West might have wished. Instead it brought them closer together than he might have feared, even in his worst nightmare.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

Other stories you might like

The boy in the street

The mailman delivers

The university major

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

Strict landlords- the compilation

Many years ago when I was a student I lived in lodgings with a family who rented out three rooms in their large house. The man of the house was retired and although quite old (to my youth he may have seemed ancient) he was very distinguished. There was a small armchair in my room and many nights I would fantasise that he had me across its back while he lashed a whippy-school-type cane into my pyjama-clad bottom.

I had no idea then that decades later I would use this fantasy as the basis of a series of my stories. One of the first that I ever wrote and published was called Paul and His Landlord. In real life, one night I got back to the house so late that the front door was locked and I had to ring the bell hard and waken the household to get in. I must have inconvenienced many people that night, but nothing was ever said about it.

Not so in my story where I end up receiving a well-deserved caning.

I wrote two episodes of Paul and his Landlord and you can read them by clicking the links below. Remember, they are stories although inspired by real life.

I have written other stories about landlords that were similarly inspired by other real places that I lodged. Links to those are also below.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed fantasising and writing about them.


 Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

Picture credit: Kernled

 Where it all began. That late night home. —- It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg. Paul was mesmerised.

Paul and his landlord 2

Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.

His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.

“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

My First Time

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

My house. My rules

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.”

The broken window

Mr. Epson strode into the lounge brandishing his cane. Jerome stared, confused, unsure what he should do.

“Bend over. I’m going to beat you with this cane. With your trousers and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.” Mr. Epson thought this, but did not say it out loud.

Instead, he did say, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

No Smoking!

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Picture credit: Unknown

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

Kevin’s landlord

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


The stories Paul and His Landlord with others about troublesome tenants is also available as a free-to-download book (PDF file).  You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below


Other stories involving landlords you might like:


The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

Hey neighbour! – the compilation

One of my favourite story themes is the ‘neighbour’ – the fellow next door or along the street who is only too willing to lend a hand (or some suitable implement) to put across the backside of some wayward young man.

Some years back I wrote  three-part series called The Helpful Neighbour. If you missed it first time around or want to read it again follow the links.

Further down this page there are some other stories involving neighbours. I hope you find something you like.


The helpful neighbour, part 1

z used cane holding (5)

My neighbour Peggy was distraught. Tears flowed steadily down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tried to raise the teacup to her lips. She was at her wits end. What could she do?

I knew some of the story already. Along with most people in the street probably I had been kept up until the small hours by the noise.

Poor Peggy. Between great gulps, she filled me in on the details.

It was Oliver, her eighteen-year-old son. He was off the rails. He had stopped attending college ages ago and was sure to fail all his exams. Then what? A life of unemployment – or at best dead-end jobs.

The helpful neighbour, part 2

A lot had happened since I first thrashed Oliver with my cane after I had caught him trying to steal from my garden shed. It turned out that he was a serial thief. He was completely off the rails. He had stopped attending sixth-form college; he stayed out half the night and his mother could no longer control him.

The thrashing had touched a nerve in Oliver. So to speak. Of course, the pain I inflicted on him ignited many nerves in his backside. But, I what I mean is that somewhere deep inside of himself Oliver realised that he deserved the twelve stokes I had administered across his underpants. His life was out of control. Maybe, just maybe, I could get it back on track.

The helpful Neighbour, part 3

Oliver had been at university for nearly eight months and was living in a house he shared with other students. His mother came to me distraught. Late the previous night she had received an unwanted telephone call. It was the police. Oliver had been arrested with some fellow student. He was being charged with being a passenger in a stolen car. What should she do? She asked the question as if she didn’t already know the answer. But, I obliged none the less. She should call the boy home and if she wished I would fetch my rattan cane from upstairs and put it across his backside with some vigour.



The kid across the hall

Arnold opened the front door to his apartment and gestured his friend Tony to come in. “What’s all that bloody noise?” Tony winced as he closed the door behind him. “You can even hear it in here.”
“It’s the kid across the hall. He’s always playing that music too loud.”
Well, what can you do? Tony certainly knew ….


Brian’s redemption

z used jeans chair (1)

Picture credit: Unlnown

When Mr. Bell told Brian to bend over his chair for a caning he never dreamt in a million years he would do it. But, he learnt that boys know when they have overstepped the mark and need to be punished. Brian was the boy from across the street. “Boy?” he must be nineteen or twenty years old. He’d been working for at least a couple of years to Mr. Bell’s certain knowledge.

Like so many youngsters his age Brian thought the world revolved around him. He was rude, inconsiderate and full of himself. He took no notice of his parents and came and went as he pleased. He also drank too much and was high on drugs half the time. It was the drink that pushed Mr. Bell over the edge.


The boy in the street

z used solo boy in the street

Picture credit: Unknown

I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.

It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees …

The boy in the tree

Ricky was the perfect teen. He had just graduated high school top of his class and was waiting to go on to an Ivy League university. He was an avid church attender and believed everything the elders said. But, Ricky had a problem he couldn’t understand and there was nobody he could talk to about it. It was Mr Peters, a man who had moved into the street a couple of months previously…


Other neighbour stories you might like:


The drunken neighbour

Back on the straight-and-narrow

Noisy neighbour

That Connor Kid

The sling-shot

The Dope Smoker

The Man Across the Hall

The Boy From Across The Street

Letter of Regret

The imp next door

The new neighbour

The paper boy and Candy

Changed times 2: Neighbourhood watch

The students next door

The military kid


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

The rental agreement

new 5

z used couch jeans down messy room

I sat alone in silence in my small rented room listening carefully for the sound of my landlord’s car. He had told me he would come around to see me about the rent I had failed to pay.

It was true I had missed my monthly payment. It was the holiday season and there were more important things to pay for then the rent. He frowned when I told him I didn’t have the money. “You did sign the rental agreement didn’t you?” he asked me sharply.

Yes I had. “Did you actually read it?” he sneered. Had I? I didn’t think I had. I remembered checking on the amount of the rent and that was about all.

“You should have read it all the way to the end,” he told me. “To the part about what happens if you don’t pay the rent on time.”

I shrugged my shoulders. That annoyed him. He rasped, “The bit about being subjected to corporal punishment.”

“Corporal punishment?” I asked, genuinely not understanding.

“Corporal punishment,” he replied as if speaking to a person of limited intelligence, “You know. Spanking.”

“Spanking!” I was incredulous. “How? I don’t understand.”

He leaned into me and we were almost nose to nose. “You signed. You agreed. I have it in all my rental agreements. I’ve had lots of people like you. You kids, you think the world owes you a living. You don’t want to pay your way.”

That wasn’t true. I wasn’t like that. I did pay my way. And I wasn’t a kid. I was nineteen years old and I’d been out in the world since I left school and home three years previously. I had a steady job at a supermarket. It didn’t pay much, but I managed to get by. It was just, as I said, the holiday season can be very expensive.

My landlord shook his head, “It’s there in black and white. Signed and agreed by you. Corporal punishment. A spanking.” Then he told me he would come by next day and I must be sure to be at home.

I waited as instructed. I checked the agreement and Mr Rachlin was not lying, I had agreed to the clause. The room I rented was in a converted house and there were ten of us in all. Most of us were in our late teens and early twenties and I suppose we were all signed up in the same way. I was a bit too embarrassed to go knocking on doors to find out.

Anyway, I had agreed to the spanking clause and I am a man of my word. I had to submit myself to him. I could’ve said I wanted to leave and find somewhere else but that would have been madness. Small cheap rooms like mine were impossible to find, especially in a town like Brocklehurst.

Right on time I heard the purr of Mr Rachlin’s car. It was a Merc; he wasn’t short of a few bob. He himself lived in a grand house in a select street called The Avenue, a million miles from my tiny bed-sit. I heard the car door slam and I waited. My heart was running fast now. I had never been spanked in my life. I had no idea what to expect. It couldn’t hurt too much – could it?

My landlord rapped on my door and I stumbled over and opened it. He stood in the doorway looking into my room. He turned his nose up in the air, “What a mess. It looks like a rubbish tip in here.”

It wasn’t that bad. It’s difficult to keep such a small room tidy. Once you put the bed, a couch, a table and a rail for hanging clothes in it there wasn’t much space for anything else.

Mr Rachlin came in and closed the door behind him. He stood for a while with his feet spread. He was about fifty years old, I guess and like men of that age he had gone to seed a bit. He made a big figure and was perhaps ten centimetres taller than me. He wore no jacket and his belly ballooned over the waistband of his trousers. He carried a plastic bag from the same supermarket where I worked.

I mumbled a greeting. I wasn’t sure how this was going to play out. Was I supposed to offer him tea or coffee like this was some social visit? I stood awkwardly waiting for him to make the first move.

“Do you have the rent?” he asked casually. He knew darned well that I hadn’t – otherwise he wouldn’t be here. I confirmed what he already knew. That was when I saw the slight smile about his lips. It was late in the day and his face was covered with stubble which made his double chins bristle menacingly. It sent a shudder through my body.

His brown eyes shone. “Let’s get on with this shall we?” He smiled broadly. That was when I began to wonder if he might be enjoying this. Without moving, he surveyed the small room. His eye rested on the small couch, he had made up his mind.

“Come over here,” he said as he walked towards the two-seater settee. “Let’s get on with this. I don’t have all night,” and he added ominously, “I have other tenants to visit.”

He delved into the plastic bag and brought out what looked to me like a block of wood. It was almost square at one end and had a small handle. It reminded me of a smaller version of the blocks people use when cutting bread. Mr Rachlin must have seen my confusion. “It’s called a paddle. It’s what our American cousins use for spanking naughty boys’ butts – bottoms that is to me and you.” He brandished it in my face so I got a closer look. It was about a half-centimetre thick and from where I stood it looked very heavy. To demonstrate this point my landlord gripped the handle with one hand and smacked the blade end into the palm of the other. “Look,” he said showing me the red mark he had made on his hand. “That’ll be your backside in a minute.”

He let that sink in for a moment and then he sat down. He beckoned me to stand in front of him. “Put your hands on your head.” It was at this point that I forcefully reminded myself that I was the one who had decided not to pay the rent and instead had used the money on fun and partying. I had to face the consequences of my action. I should do whatever my landlord asked of me. I was surprised how wet my hair was. I had not realised I was sweating profusely, even though the room was quite cool.

“I always do this part myself,” he said evenly. I flinched as with both hands he took hold of my belt and began to unbuckle it. Instinctively I wriggled my hips. “Do not resist,” he said sternly. “Your job is to take your spanking calmly. Next time you’ll pay the rent on time.”

As he said this he had opened the front of my jeans and was calmly guiding them down my legs so they bunched at my shins. He leaned forward and I could smell sour tobacco smoke mingling with some greasy hair oil. It almost made me gag.

I had never been undressed by a man before; and not often by a woman either. My face blazed with embarrassment, but that wasn’t half my problem. Without warning Mr Rachlin took a firm grip on the waistband of my boxer shorts and with a flourish like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat he tugged them down my buttocks. I only wore a short t-shirt so my cock flapped up and down in front of his face. I was mortified. I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this was not happening.

It couldn’t be true. Here I was a nineteen-year-old shopworker standing in his rented room in front of his landlord with his jeans and his underwear at his shins with his arse bared to the wind. Waiting to be spanked on that naked bottom with a heavy wooden paddle. You couldn’t make it up.

Because he carried so much weight in the belly department, Mr Rachlin had sank back into the cushions of the couch and had a problem getting back on his feet. He wheezed with the effort but I had no intention of helping him up. At last he stood beside me. He leaned down again and picked up the paddle. He was good to go.

Without a further word he placed a cushion on top of one arm of the couch. It wobbled and nearly toppled to the floor. He waved his paddle at it and sternly said, “Bend over the couch.” Ice ran down my back.

I looked down at the couch. It seemed very low. It wouldn’t be that easy. I was a virgin to spanking but even I could see bending across the back of the couch would have been a better proposition. I said nothing. Instead I stumbled forward and did my best to lay across the arm. I rested my stomach on it and had to bend my legs behind me so that my feet could rest on the floor. To my front I leaned on my elbows and this meant I had the choice of staring down at the dusty cushion only centimetres from my face or to stare into the distance at the far wall. My back was arched and like this I awaited Mr Rachlin’s next move.

What I couldn’t know because I couldn’t see was that my bottom was raised high at an angle and offered my landlord a terrific target. I’m a long way from being fat – not like Mr Rachlin – but my bum is well covered. I had no idea whether this was a good or a bad thing. Does the more padding a fellow has offer more protection from the paddle? Or does it mean the bum is bigger and there are therefore more nerve ends to set on fire? I didn’t know then and I still don’t.

The floorboards creaked when my landlord took up his position behind me and to my left. I could smell him. Had he showered that day? I shut my eyes tight and my bottom tightened. I braced myself for the pain I expected to start at any moment. I felt Mr Rachlin’s hand press hard into my shoulder blades. There was a pause. I felt a movement in his body. Then, CRACK! the paddle connected with my left buttock cheek. I gasped and the impact was so great my arms collapsed so that my head sank into the cushion. My lips formed a perfect “O” shape and I let out a silent “ouch.”

There was no time to do more before the paddle pounded into my other cheek. My bum was ablaze. Suddenly two more swats hammered into the underside of my cheeks. The pain was indescribable. Was this how it felt if you stood too close to an open roaring coal fire? My back bucked and my legs kicked out.

“Stay in position,” my landlord barked and paddle slammed into my bare bum again. The noise was horrific. The room echoed as though a bomb had gone off. I wondered if the young Asian guy in the next room could hear.

The paddle slammed again and again. I was really feeling it. I writhed and moaned, kicking my feet. I still had enough dignity not to beg Mr Rachlin to stop. Besides, looking back on it I know he had the right to spank me. I had not paid the rent and I had signed the contract.

My bum was hot and sweaty and the paddle was warm. My backside was roasted.

Bent over the arm of the couch like that I was uncomfortably conscious of my bare arse pointing to the ceiling. It seemed like a huge target, completely vulnerable to the big wooden paddle.

Only then did I panic: could Mr Rachlin see up my crack? The embarrassment of offering my bared-buttocks to the older man to spank was intense, but what a humiliation if he was gazing down at my hole?

My landlord couldn’t have been bothered by that because he didn’t slow down with the paddling, in fact he accelerated the assault. Every smack felt like a hot frying pan pressing against my flesh. Steamy tears ran down my face. There was a plump scatter cushion within reach, I grabbed it and buried my head, choking on the dust it held.

Other blows pushed me against the arm, crushing my penis against the couch, adding to the flow of my tears.

I lost all sense of time. Was it a minute, was it an hour? I really don’t know. The sound of the paddle connecting with naked flesh continued to travel around the room. My bum was numb. The pain had reached a plateau. It didn’t matter how many more times he swatted me I wouldn’t feel a thing.

Mr Rachlin might have known this; suddenly he stopped. “That’s it,” he wheezed, “Get up. Get dressed.”

I stumbled to my feet and ran up and down on the spot, like footballers do when they get a kick and try to run-off the pain. It didn’t work. I clutched my bare bum horrified that the flesh felt like leather. I didn’t care that my cock and balls were bouncing in front of my landlord’s face.

“Get dressed,” he repeated. I bent down to retrieve my boxers, my bum burnt some more as I stretched down. The effort of bending made me gasp for breath, I hadn’t realised how shot my body was. At last I had my jeans in place. My backside throbbed like crazy.

Mr Rachlin was ready to go. Before he opened the door he turned to me and snorted, “Don’t forget you still owe me the rent. If I have to come back again next month and you haven’t paid me up, you’ll get double.”

With that he was gone. I heard footsteps as he crossed the hall and then the sound of his knuckles rapping on another door.


Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Back on the straight-and-narrow

new 5

When I was in my mid- to late-teens my head was so messed up I was in danger of going right off the rails. I carried so much guilt around with me it’s a wonder my head didn’t explode. In my view of myself I could never do anything right. It was building up inside me like a pressure cooker.

Guilt can be a terrible thing. It wasn’t like I was particularly religious. I went to church but only because my mum and dad dragged me there. It was just a habit with me. It’s not as if I was a Believer. If I had told my parents I didn’t want to go any more that would’ve added to my guilty feelings.

I have Mr Thoroughgood to thank for saving my sanity. He was an expert on boys and he knew just what I needed. And he was prepared to go that extra mile for me.

I look back after twenty years or so and I don’t recognise the teenager I was. I probably wasn’t so bad; not much different from any other teenager. Mr Thoroughgood saw that. That’s why he knew how to treat me. He had the experience. He was the expert.

I don’t want you to go away with the idea that I was some great villain, I wasn’t. My problem wasn’t drug-taking or knife crime. My big problem was my temper. I would shoot my big mouth off and my words hurt. No one was immune. Certainly not Mum, or my Nan. Even Dad felt the rough end of my tongue. He was too gentle a man to deal with me. He just sucked it up. That made it worst for me. I instinctively knew what I was doing was wrong and that was when the remorse kicked in.

I was also a lazy old sod. I never worked at school to the best of my ability. I was guilty about that. I didn’t have the sense to study and get some exams behind me. I might have got to university. Then what? How different my life might have been. I needed someone to mentor me. The teachers at my school were alright, I suppose, but they never took me by the scruff f the neck and gave me a good shaking.

I was heavily into self-abuse. Of course, I later learnt that everybody was at it – girls as well as boys. I used to get home from school and when the house was empty I’d get my stash of porn mags out and bash my meat until I was raw. I never was caught, but oh my how the sorrow ate away at me.

One Saturday I travelled from my home into Brocklehurst on the train. There was no one at the barrier so I waltzed by without buying a ticket. I was never caught. Now, that I’ve remembered that perhaps I’ll write the train company a cheque and post it to them anonymously.

There is no doubt that I was in serious trouble. I was being eaten away by guilt. There was no escaping it. It seemed like every day there was another thing to add to the guilt trip.

What would have happened without Mr Thoroughgood? Might it have got so bad that I ended up jumping in front of that train to Brocklehurst?

Mr Thoroughgood was a teacher at my school. I never had him for any lessons and to me he was only a mysterious figure seen occasionally walking through the corridors. You would easily spot him. He always wore a dark suit with a pressed white shirt and sober tie. This was in the days when at my school most of the men teachers wore jeans and jumpers with holes in them.

I was eighteen and had left school a few months when I saw Mr Thoroughgood in a café by the bus station. It was a Saturday, but he still wore a formal suit. I couldn’t miss him among all the down-trodden riff-raff that were most of the customers. He noticed my eye linger on him and since the café was busy he gestured that I should join him at his table.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” he said with great manners and an accent that might have belonged to a minor member of the English Royal Family, “I know you were a pupil at the Academy, but I don’t think I know your name.”

I told him and before I had finished my coffee and sandwich I had told him my career history since leaving school. He was a great listener and so very easy to talk to. He made his excuses and left leaving me bereft. There’s no other way to describe it. In the few minutes we had talked I felt a bond form between us.

I could not get the schoolteacher out of my brain. What was it about him that had mesmerised me? I had to meet him again. I had no idea where he lived. I went back to the café the following Saturday and waited for hours. He did not come. I tried the week after. Still no success. I had to see him again. He could help me, I convinced myself. I had no clue how he would do this. But he was to be my saviour.

I had no choice, I went to the Academy late one afternoon and waited at the gate.  My guardian angel was looking out for me. After no more than ten minutes I spied him coming through the main entrance. He stopped in his tracks when he saw me. It looked like he was debating with himself whether he could make a run for it and escape me. I called across to him. His natural good manners made him stop and chat.

I burbled some nonsense about just happening to be passing. What a coincidence we should meet. He didn’t fall for it. He was a tall, middle-aged man and he towered above me, he seemed to be eyeing me up and down. He was making a judgement. What was he looking for? What did he want to know?

He read me like a book. “Let’s go back inside, find an empty classroom. We should have a talk.”

And, that was it. We talked – correction I talked – for about half an hour. I told him everything. The temper, the guilt. I told him I had been drinking too much alcohol.  I told him of the cruel things I had said to Mum and Nan. I drew the line at the masturbation.

When I had finished he spoke softly. The words he said would change my life forever. “It is not your fault,” he said. “Not your fault at all,” he repeated. It was manna from heaven. He was going to absolve me of my sins.

What he then said went something like this, “I blame society. It (we) have let you down. You, your fellows. All of you. There was a time, in my youth for example, when rules were clearly laid out. You knew how you were expected to behave and you knew how you were expected not to behave.

“If you broke the rules you were punished. Call it retribution, if you will. You were called to account. Call it restitution, if you will. You had behaved badly, you were punished. You had paid the price. You, we, all of us, were able to go on with our lives.

“Alas, for you the rules are not laid down. You do not know where the boundaries are. You are made to find them yourselves. And then what? Who is there to guide you? To punish you? To allow you to pay for your crimes – your sins, if you will?”

It was a long speech and it all made perfect sense to me. Mr Thoroughgood had hit the nail on the head. I had been left to find my own boundaries. When I found I had transgressed them there was nothing I could do except bottle up the guilt.

I needed more information on this. When he said “punished” what did he mean exactly? He let out a throaty chuckle. “Well, back in the day, for example, a boy of your undoubted talent who wilfully refused to study hard would find himself up before the headmaster,” he said. He let the import of that statement hang in the air for a while, before continuing. “A sound caning. Six-of-the-best. We called it a ‘short, sharp, shock’. Something to pull you together. To buck your ideas up. To get you back on the straight and narrow.”

Corporal punishment had been outlawed in schools about ten years previously. The most severe punishment we ever had was an hour’s detention after school. Hardly, a life-changing experience.

“It is such a pity,” Mr Thoroughgood spoke so softly I had to lean in towards him to hear, “that corporal punishment was not an option available in your case.” Again he let his statement float in the air. “You would have benefited greatly.”

The moment he said the words I knew he was right. I needed to pay restitution. I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to make amends. Merely saying “Sorry” to Mum and Nan would not be enough. I had to show remorse. I had to suffer.

Mr Thoroughgood was an astute man. “It may not be too late.” My confused expression spurred him on to elaborate. “There are ways,” he said, “Things that can be done. A boy of your age still has so much to learn.”

He was right and I told him so. “I can help,” he said. “I’ll be happy to help.”

Two nights later I was walking down a street of terraced houses, searching for number 17. It was a small, run-down place with paint peeling from window frames and door. Not the sort of place I imagined a schoolteacher like Mr Thoroughgood living. I checked my watch, it was the expected time. I did not hesitate. I pushed the bell and held my finger there.

Mr Thoroughgood still wore his suit. He nodded a wordless greeting and opened the door slightly. I slid my body through the narrow gap and he slammed the door shut. He led me across the hallway to a room at the back of the house. It was tiny and dominated by a two-seater couch and a small table. A single dining room chair was against the far wall.

Mr Thoroughgood wasted no time. “Did you do as I asked?” he said and on cue I pulled a sheet of paper from my jeans pocket. I offered it to him. He refused and instead of taking it he said, “Read it to me. All of it.”

It was an account of all my crimes and misdemeanours. All of the faults that had weighed so heavily on my mind. The reasons for my guilt. Mr Thoroughgood listened thoughtfully. “So many,” he said with a frown. “I don’t think we may expunge them all in one evening.” He was a schoolteacher and he realised at once I had no idea what “expunge” meant. “To remove them,” he said helpfully.

I nodded my agreement. Yes, the list of my sins was long, I could not expunge them all in one go.

“Let us deal with the insolence towards your parents and grandparent,” he said. It was a statement, not a question so I gave no reply. He cleared his throat with a raucous cough and left the room. When he returned a few moments later he had removed his jacket and tie. In his hand he clutched a miniature cricket bat.

That’s what it looked like to me. It was a block of wood about ten inches long and maybe three wide. It had a handle at one end. Again, Mr Thoroughgood immediately detected my ignorance. “It’s called a paddle. It is the preferred instrument of punishment used by our American cousins,” he told me. To demonstrate, he slapped the blade end into the palm of his left hand. “Very effective,” he said as if speaking to himself.

“Take off your coat and stand there,” he pointed to the straight-backed chair. I left the coat on the settee and without hesitation stood where ordered. Mr Thoroughgood sat himself down on the chair and once more slapped his palm with the wood. I could see close up that it was indeed a powerful punishment tool.

“Now Sturgess,” he said, “This is going to hurt. It is supposed to. That is the entire point of it. Now, since this is your first time I will be a little lenient.” He hesitated and it took a moment before I realised I was supposed to thank him. When at last I did so, he continued, “I want you to take your punishment, stoically – without fuss. Now, bend across my knee. There’s a good boy.”

I hadn’t expected this. After Mr Thoroughgood’s talk in the classroom I had expected to find myself over the back of a chair or possibly bending over and touching my toes. Six-of-the-best, Mr Thoroughgood had said. That meant a whippy school cane.

Mr Thoroughgood misinterpreted my hesitation. “I do hope you are not going to prove difficult. Bend over my knee.”

I hadn’t done anything remotely like this in my life – eighteen years old and never been spanked. Using only instinct to guide me I rested my hands on his right thigh and eased myself forward. He had parted his legs to make a platform for my stomach and chest. This meant I could spread my arms ahead of me and rest my palms on the carpet. My legs dangled behind me. At first I kept my head high and this way I was able to look behind me and see my backside was presented to Mr Thoroughgood at a perfect angle.

My jeans fitted snugly and in those days my stomach was still flat and my bottom round and firm. There was plenty of meat back there to absorb that paddle. I felt Mr Thoroughgood grip me around the waist with his left hand and slowly and gently he began tapping the paddle across my buttocks. He was taking an aim low down so he would hit the part of the cheek that connected with the chair when I sat.

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The patting was gentle, but what happened next was anything but. He lifted the paddle away, my whole body tensed, he held it high for a moment and then brought it crashing down. My eyes closed (they did it themselves, I had no control) and I sucked hard on my bottom lip. Before I had absorbed the pain of my first-ever swat Mr Thoroughgood pounded my backside with all the energy he could find. Rapidly. Bang-bang-bang. Like machinegun fire. My legs kicked, my hips writhed, my head shook from side to side.

I gasped. Desperately, I tried to suck in air. I could not breath. “Huff-huff-huff,” I wheezed. At last enough air got to my lungs to let me holler blue murder. It hurt! Oh my, how it hurt! Mr Thoroughgood kept hammering my backside with that cricket-bat-thing.

“I hope this is getting through to you,” he said, not for a moment letting up beating my backside black and blue. “You will learn not to be disrespectful to your parents and grandparent,” he was himself breathless. “This will teach you a valuable lesson.”

Have you ever stood too close to an open coal fire that your flesh felt singed? That’s how my bum felt. Mr Thoroughgood covered every square-inch of my bum. Then, for good measure, he turned to the backs of my thighs. When I later inspected the damage red blotches covered both buttocks, with the under-cheeks a deep mauve. The surface of the skin felt like leather.

I think he spanked me methodically for about ten minutes that night. My head throbbed so much I thought I was losing all sense of where I was. Could it really be Jimmy Sturgess, aged 18, across the knee of an elderly schoolmaster, getting his meaty arse spanked with a paddle? Well, the answer was: Yes!

At last he let me go. I stumbled to my feet and without hesitation rubbed the seat of my jeans vigorously. Mr Thoroughgood spoke gently, “That is for your misbehaviour to your parents and grandparents. We need say no more about it. You have paid the price.” I nodded heartily, “Yes sir, thank you sir,” I said and I meant it. But, Mr Thoroughgood had not finished, “Unless of course, you repeat the offence, in which case I shall deal with you very severely indeed.”

“Yes sir, thank you sir,” I repeated. My heartrate was off the scale and I had to bend forward with my hands on my knees to catch my breath.

Mr Thoroughgood rose from his chair. He put the paddle down and picked up my list of crimes. He placed his hand on my shoulder, “Good boy. You took your punishment well. There is hope for you yet.” He read the list silently. “You should go home now. Return on Saturday at 7 p.m. and we can deal with your laziness and lack of drive.”

I found my coat and was leaving the room when he called, “Of course, next time, we’ll have those jeans at your ankles,” he opened the front door for me and patted me gently on the bottom as I squeezed past him.

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second


The exam results

new 5

A theatre play


A suburban living room. It is the present. It is nearly Christmas so there could be a tree or decorations to show this. What furniture there is can be at the discretion of the theatre depending on what is available, but it must that it is the modern day the furniture etc (e.g. flat screen TV). There must at least be a couch and a set of drawers (possibly a sideboard). A Table / Smart phone and a wooden paddle are the only two essential props.


NATE: A 19-year-old university student. Dressed in jeans and a top. He wears colourful underpants.

DAD: In his late forties / early fifties. He is dressed casually for a day spent at home.

MUM: Roughly same age as DAD and also dressed for a day at home


Curtain rises showing MUM and DAD in the living room. DAD is holding a Tablet. MUM stands close by watching him read from the screen


DAD (Peering into Tablet). I’m into Nate’s exam results here. (face drops) Jeez, look at this. Five subjects. One’s an F. That’s fail. Nothing higher than a D. They’re worse than the midterms.

MUM. (Looking over his shoulder). What are we paying all this money for to send him to university? What a waste.

DAD. (Anger showing in his face) We told him. Back in October. This is just not good enough.

MUM. It can’t go on like this. This is too bad. What’s he doing? Too much time in the bar, not enough in the library.

DAD. I know what he needs. (Pauses) I did warn him.

MUM. But he’s eighteen (let’s the sentence trail off)

DAD. That’s not too old.

MUM. Maybe.

DAD. It’s what got him through his A-levels. Remember? He failed his mocks. He soon bucked up his ideas after that. Did quite well in the end. Good enough to get to university.

MUM. Yes, that’s true. Will it work again?

DAD. I don’t see why not. He just needs a wake up call. It worked before. It’ll work again.

MUM. (Showing doubt) Well ….

DAD. Just a bit of maintenance. Put him back on the straight and narrow. To remind him that we’re keeping an eye on him.

MUM. (Frowning) I guess so. (Pause as she thinks about it some more). Yes …. OK … Right …

At that moment Nate enters. He is a bit dishevelled and it is clear he has only just got out of bed. He sees DAD with the Tablet but doesn’t realise its importance.

MUM. (Berating NATE) You just got up? Look at the time. It’s nearly eleven. Late night. (Pause) Again. You need to go out an get a job for the holidays. I don’t want you lying in bed all day.

NATE. (Showing insolence) OK Mum.

DAD. (Snapping) Don’t talk to your mother like that.

NATE. (Sulks) Ohhh.

MUM. Don’t expect me to make you breakfast.

NATE. (Snaps) Don’t want none.

DAD. What’s up with you. Got a hangover?

NATE. (Grimaces but says nothing)

DAD. (Holding up the Tablet) I’ve got your exam results.

NATE. (Taken aback) Worr…?

DAD. You heard. Exam results. What a disgrace

NATE turns away to leave the room – he does not want to have this conversation

DAD. Woah. Hold your horses. Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere.

NATE. pauses, considers disobeying DAD, but stays waiting at the door.

DAD. One fail. Nothing higher than a D. (Pauses, expecting NATE to respond. When he doesn’t DAD’s anger shows) Well! (Pause). Well, what have you got to say.

NATE embarrassed, shrugs his shoulders but says nothing.

DAD. Well. (Pause. His anger rising) We talked about this at midterm. (He waves the Tablet to confirm what he is talking about).

NATE stands by the door contemplating whether he should make a run for it

DAD. Did you go to lectures? Do you even know where the library is? Did you do any work at all?

NATE embarrassed looks at his feet

DAD. Well? Answer me. (More silence) Bah! You know what you need don’t you.

NATE looks startled. He opens his mouth intending to respond but thinks better of it

DAD. (speaking rapidly as if he is himself embarrassed) A damn good spanking. That’s what. A good hiding. That’ll buck your ideas up. A sore backside.

NATE. (eyes wide with astonishment) Dad …. (he is lost for words) But …. I’m too old ….

DAD. (cutting NATE short) You’re not too old. I’ll tell you when you’re too old. When you start acting like a responsible adult, that’s when you’re too old.

NATE. (Struggling to find the words) But Dad. You can’t … I mean….

DAD. (Cutting NATE short) I can. (Pause for effect) And I will. (Pause) Now get back in here.

NATE. But Dad ..

DAD. Come here. (Points to the couch)

NATE. Oww Dad. C’mon Dad.

DAD. (Pointing to the couch) I won’t tell you again.

NATE (pouts). But Dad …

MUM walks across the room. NATE stops and his eyes follow MUM as she walks. NATE has a concerned look. MUM reaches a drawer and opens it. DAD and NATE watch her carefully as MUM reaches in the drawer. She searches with her hand for a moment. MUM’s expression is puzzled. It seems she cannot find what she is looking for. Then, MUM gives a half-smile. MUM turns to face DAD and NATE, she is holding a wooden punishment paddle.

NATE (Alarmed). Oh, c’mon Mum. (Pause) Dad? (Pause) No, come on. No, you can’t.

MUM (Hands the paddle to DAD. Looks at NATE). You have nobody to blame but yourself.

DAD takes paddle and weighs it in his hand, demonstrating that it is a substantial piece of wood and has some weight. NATE’s eyes pop as he watches DAD tap the blade of the paddle into the palm of his hand.

MUM. (To NATE) You were warned. You can’t say you weren’t.

NATE (Mouth opens and closes like a goldfish). But Mum.. (Looks at DAD who is now tapping thee paddle against his own thigh. Then in a plea)  Dad ….. No ….

DAD sits on the edge of the couch. Waves paddle at NATE.

DAD (To NATE). Let’s get this over with. (Pause) Come here, son.

NATE Doesn’t speak but body language says he is considering whether he should run from the room. He appears to be debating with himself in his head. He doesn’t realise the thumbs of both hands are gently caressing the seat of his jeans.

DAD (Losing patience). Don’t make me ask you twice.

NATE shows no signs of moving.

DAD (Speaks fiercely). NOW!

NATE jolts, then slowly moves towards DAD. NATE stands a metre or so away from DAD and looks sorrowfully at DAD

NATE (Pleading). Dad …

DAD (looking stern). Your fault…. Not mine. This is to make sure you work harder next semester.

NATE shuffles his feet with embarrassment, dreading DAD’s next words

DAD (Slowly looks NATE up and down, from head to feet and back again. DAD’s eyes rest on NATE’s waist). You better take those jeans down.

NATE looks astonished, silently mouths ‘But Dad’.

DAD (As if speaking to himself). They’re too thick. You won’t hardly feel a thing. Take them down.

NATE stands rooted to the spot, his face red with shame.

NATE (Pleading). C’mon Dad, please. Not jeans down. C’mon. Please.

DAD. Now. If I have to do it for you, I’ll take the pants down too.

NATE hurriedly finds the buckle of his belt and tugs it open. He looks pleadingly at DAD as if hoping DAD will relent at the last moment and let him keep the jeans up. DAD stares into the middle distance. NATE looks down at his jeans for a moment. Reluctantly NATE undoes the button on the waistband of his jeans. He pulls the zip fly. The jeans fall open showing the front of NATE’s colourful briefs. NATE closes his eyes as if to persuade himself that this is not really happening to him. Slowly he pushes the jeans down his thighs. They snag at his knees and he leaves them there. He glances pitifully at DAD.

DAD (Calmly but with authority). All the way.

NATE spreads his knees and the jeans slip further down until they rest in a puddle over his feet.

DAD grips the handle of the paddle and pushes it towards NATE. NATE recoils slightly, but stands his ground.

DAD spreads his legs to create a platform and taps his own right thigh

DAD. Bend  over my knee.

NATE looks down at DAD’s lap. NATE hesitates

DAD taps his own thigh again

DAD. Just like last time.

NATE shuffles forward and stands to the right of DAD, Slowly, NATE places the palms of his hands on DAD’s thighs and lowers himself down. Once his stomach is resting across DAD, NATE stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the ground. NATE’s legs are left to dangle in mid-air (or his toes touch the carpet, depending upon the height of the actor playing the role). NATE’s bottom is raised over DAD’s thigh at a perfect angle to receive swats of the paddle.

DAD, slowly and with great deliberation takes hold of the elasticated waistband of NATE’s briefs. NATE’s face registers fear as he thinks DAD is about to pull down his underpants and bare his backside.

DAD does not do this. DAD tugs the waistband so that the cotton briefs fit snugly across NATE’s bottom. All creases are removed and the briefs are so tight that each buttock cheek is clearly defined, offering DAD a terrific target to spank. DAD takes hold of NATE’s shirt and pulls it up NATE’s back so that the audience now has an unrestricted view of the whole buttock area. DAD places his left hand around NATE’s waist to hold him in place. NATE and DAD are now both adopting the traditional spanking posture as demonstrated by fathers and sons across the ages.

NATE’s body is tense. NATE closes his eyes and shuts his mouth tight.

DAD gently taps the blade of the paddle against the underside of NATE’s left buttock cheek. NATE’s buttocks clench as if they are firming up to protect themselves from the painful spanking that is about to start.

DAD (Still tapping to find his aim, says almost inaudibly). Relax, son. Relax.

DAD raises the paddle to above shoulder height.

NATE’s whole body tenses

DAD pauses with the paddle raised high. He counts “one, two, three,” in his head then brings the paddle pounding down into NATE’s left buttock.

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NATE winces with pain. His legs kick.

DAD raises the paddle and repeats the previous manoeuvre, this time swatting the right buttock.

NATE’s head raises up and down. NATE’s mouth forms the perfect “O” shape, but he does not make a sound.

DAD slowly hammers another two swats across each cheek, making a total of six whacks.

NATE is feeling the pain. NATE’s head shakes from side to side, like a horse bothered by a fly.

DAD quickens the momentum of the spanking. Instead of counting “one, two, three” before each swat he spanks rapidly: bang-bang-bang, like machinegun fire.

NATE’s hips swivel, his shoulders shake. NATE acts as if he is trying to swim away off DAD’s lap. DAD grips NATE harder around the waist and continues spanking, making sure that the paddle whacks the fleshiest part of NATE’s bum, as well as the tender undersides, the sit-spot, where the bum meets the thighs. DAD also swipes the peaks of the mounds, so that no square-centimetre of bum is left untoasted.

DAD (While he is spanking). There. This is just what you deserve. Maybe you’ll work harder next semester. Why do you think your mother and I are paying for you to go to university. So you get a good degree. Have a decent career.

DAD (spanks the paddle with rhythm; one spank per word). This (spank) is (spank) how (spank) you (spank) repay (spank) us (spank).

NATE reaches his hand back to try to protect his backside from the onslaught. His body is tipped at such an angle he cannot quite manage this. DAD grips NATE’s wrist and together they struggle. DAD pushes NATE’s arm half way up his back.

(At this point the theatre director has a decision to make. In real life, because NATE was causing trouble and refusing to take his punishment stoically the DAD would pull down his underpants and continue the spanking across the bared buttocks. This might not be possible during the theatrical performance. Local districts have their own laws or regulations about nudity in public places and, of course, these must be respected. Even where laws permit bared buttocks to be shown, audiences might not appreciate the sight of a young man’s naked bottom writhing across lap of a much older man. It is a matter for the theatre director, producer and management to decide. For what it is worth, it is the preference of the play’s author, that NATE’s bottom is fully bared at this point so that his spanking might be exemplary. However, the script from this point on assumes that NATE’s underpants remain in place.)

DAD (Struggling with NATE). Oh, no you don’t.

NATE (Said as spanking continues). Oww, no, please, Dad. No more. I’m sorry. I will. I’ll work harder. Promise. Owww

DAD (breathless, still spanking hard). That’s what you said last time. (DAD spanks even faster and harder). It didn’t do much good.

NATE (squirming and writhing). I will. I will. I will. I promise. I’ll go to lectures.

DAD (Spanking hard, but now showing signs of fatigue). Library (huff). More time studying (huff)

NATE. Yes, ouch! Yes Dad, Yes Dad.

DAD (Spanking). Stop partying.

NATE. Yes, yes, yes Dad,. Please stop. Please I’ve had enough.

DAD stops paddling and looks across at MUM. He speaks no words but his look says “Has he had enough? Do you think he’ll behave now?” MUM nods “Yes”

DAD hammers a further six swats across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Three on each cheek. They are the hardest swats so far. Then, he releases his hold on NATE.

NATE rolls from DAD’s lap and lays on the floor gasping for breath, like a beached dolphin.

DAD grips the paddle and tries to control his own heavy breathing.

MUM watches NATE closely as NATE struggles to his knees and then to his feet. NATE ruefully rubs the seat of his underpants. The backs of his thighs are bright red where the paddle blade struck. NATE pulls up his jeans, zips up and does up the button. He does not do up the belt. NATE stands shamefaced, looking at the floor unable to meet the eye of MUM or DAD.

MUM (Calmly). You should go to your room. Make sure it’s tidy.

NATE still not looking at MUM or DAD makes for the door.

MUM (calling after NATE). And, I want you to go out this afternoon and find a job. Lots of the shops at The Exchange are looking for staff.

NATE (Patting the seat of his jeans as he exits the room). Yes, Mum.

DAD watches NATE leave, then turns to MUM

DAD (Hands her the paddle). There, put that back. Somehow, I think we’ll need it again, next mid-term.

MUM smiles ruefully. Takes the paddle and replaces it in the drawer. Then, MUM and DAD look at one another from across the room.

DAD. Know what, I could kill for a cup of tea, love.

Curtain falls.


Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

You, called home

new 5

You sit glumly, as the green fields become first factories, then houses, then offices and shops. The train rattles into the station. Nearly home. Only a short bus ride before you meet up with father. The carriage is nearly empty of passengers, Saturday is not a busy day on the railway at Brocklehurst. You try to listen to your music but you can’t concentrate. The sounds blur in your ears.

An unintelligible voice crackles through the speaker. You can’t understand a word, but you know the guard is announcing the train is approaching Brocklehurst: your home town. Like a good citizen you wait until the train comes to a complete standstill before you rise from your seat and reach to the overhead shelf and take down your bag. You feel the weight of your dirty laundry as you sling it over your shoulder. At least one good thing will come from this visit: mother will do your washing.

You alight from the train and with no enthusiasm make your way down the platform. You have your ticket ready to get through the automatic barrier. In no hurry, you walk through the station, your footsteps echoing against the hard floor tiles. Ghost town. You have been away only three months, but already you have forgotten how dull this place is.

The bright lights of Newcastle have seduced you. Your new home. New friends. New experiences. That’s what university is supposed to give you. And, that is the problem. That’s why father has called you home.

The buses stop right outside the station. They call this ‘Brocklehurst Parkway’, a transport hub for the 21st century. As if buses never stopped outside train stations in the past. But that’s modern life, the ordinary is branded as if it were something new.

The buses run every twenty minutes. The number 66 – your bus – pulls up at the stop the second you exit the station. You pause, consider letting it go. Waiting for the next one. Or the one after. You are in no hurry to get home. Father doesn’t know what time your train is due. You can string this out for a while yet.

A nagging voice in your head tells you, “Get on that bus. Do not deceive your father.” It is your conscience. Those nagging voices have been troubling you since the day you arrived at the university. You are eighteen years old and free from your parents for the first time in your life. Free from all kinds of authority. There are few rules at the university. At your first class you were told, “Failure is a process, not an event.” The lecturer meant it was up to you – and your fellow students – to work hard, attend lectures, do the reading, submit the assignments on time. Go the whole nine yards (or whatever). If you do, success would follow. If but you do not, you will fail. Nobody is going to stand over you with a big stick to make sure you work.

You step onto the bus, offer your credit card for the fare and take a seat near the back. A light rain begins to fall as the bus pulls away. Your mid-term exams didn’t go so well. That lecturer was right. Too much time spent at student social clubs, playing football, discovering bars. Alcohol. A drop had never passed your lips before Newcastle. You soon made up for lost time.

Your father never touched a drop. The devil’s brew. There is something about it in the Bible. You know there are a lots of things in the Bible. About how to behave and how not to behave. Nobody you know at home drinks. Everyone goes to church – the same church. That’s the House of the Sacred Light. It came as a shock when you discovered The Sacred Light doesn’t operate in Newcastle. You are a member of a select band of people. You all know the true way. The Light. You know this to be true: it’s what you are taught.

You still read your Bible; you haven’t changed that much in the time you’ve been away. It makes a lot of sense to you. It is your guiding light. You’ve just lost your way a little. You need help to get back on the straight and narrow path. You know that. That’s why father has called you home. To help you. To guide you. You shuffle your buttocks on the hard seat as the bus takes a roundabout a little too quickly.

Traffic is light and the bus soon arrives at Widdicombe Wood, which is where you get off. Your street, The Avenue, is opposite. The rain has stopped but it’s cloudy and dank, it will start again fairly soon. Saturday is usually busy in The Avenue. Cars are washed and gardens attended. Two teenagers lounge idly with their bicycles. One, a fat youth with a face scarlet with acne and pus, leers at you as you pass. Your heart misses a beat. Can he read your mind? Does he know? Do all the neighbours know? Know why you have been called home.

You pass several large detached house, each hidden in its own way from the scrutiny of neighbours. Your house is surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. The gate is closed but unlocked. You pause for a moment to allow your heartrate to slow. Then with your knee you push the gate open, but only so far that you can squeeze your body through. Once inside you back-kick the gate and it slowly creaks back to its original state.

There is a light on in the loungeroom, although it is only midday. Father is probably waiting there for you. Mother will be hidden away in her own private ‘den’ pretending to make a dress with her new state-of-the-art sewing machine. You walk up the drive – slowly. Any passing tortoise would beat you in a race. You silently curse that the drive is not longer. You arrive at the front door. You have your own key and you let yourself in.

There is an eerie silence. Usually chamber music plays from an old-fashioned record player. Not today. You close the door and plonk your bag in the hall. Mother will deal with that later. You take off your coat and hang it neatly on a coat stand. While you are doing this you make sure to move all the other coats. You are checking. You don’t know what to think. The two whippy school-type rattan punishment canes that usually dangle from their curved handles here are missing.

Just then, Mother bustles from the lounge. “I thought I heard you come in,” she says shyly. “Do you have laundry?” You point to the bag. She picks it up and hurries into the utility room where she will stay for the next several hours. You watch her go, holding back your resentment that she hasn’t even said, “Hello, how are you?”

You have no time for further thoughts on the matter as father now emerges from the lounge. He looks at you sternly. “Good. You’re here at last,” he says. Again, there s no welcome. You nod blindly as if agreeing that indeed you are here. “Come in here,” he says sternly and walks back into the lounge.

The room hasn’t changed in the past three months. It is a large room that is dominated by two couches and a set of armchairs. Small tables are dotted around the room. There is no television set. But something is out of place. Your eyes settle on a chair, it is armless and has a straight back. It belongs in the kitchen. It has been brought into the lounge for a reason. It has been placed close to a corner facing into the room. You know why it is there. A heavy wooden paddle left on a nearby table confirms your thought.

Your father gives a little cough. He is both clearing his throat and gaining your attention. You stand, hands behind your back and look at him, making clear to your father that he has your rapt attention. Father looks as he always does whatever the time of day or the day of the week. He is dressed in a sober dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. You cannot remember ever seeing him dressed otherwise.

He begins to speak and you know – almost word for word – what he is going to say. He knows you failed your midterms and he thinks he knows why. You meekly confirm his suspicions. You know you have not worked this semester. You know if you don’t buck your ideas up you will fail at Christmas. You know you have let your mother and father down. You tell father this. He nods sagely, it is what he wants to hear.

You promise him you will work harder. He is pleased to hear it, he says. You say sorry again. You know this is expected. It is a kind of ritual. You go through the motions, knowing already what comes next.

Father picks up a Bible from one of the tables and flicks through the pages, finding his place. He reads several passages at great length and solemnity. Honour your mother and father. Work hard. Spare the rod. You know this by heart, but you show you are paying attention as if hearing it all for the very first time.

Father finishes reading and replaces the Bible on the table. He closes his eyes and begins to pray aloud. He is seeking the strength of the Lord. You are obliged to join in with the Amen.

Father says no more. Now, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it from his back. Carefully, he folds it and places it on the seat of a couch. You watch him intently as he does this and then he sits in the kitchen chair. He beckons to you with a crooked finger. He wants you to stand close to him. Silently, you take the three or four paces necessary.

You are standing so close that you can smell the aroma of coal tar soap and hair oil that follows your father around. He licks his lips, gives that little cough again and says, “I think you know what to do.” You don’t need clarification. This is your cue to prepare myself. You are soberly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. At home you are always required to dress like this. You look a bit like a senior schoolboy. Not that you ever attended school – not a proper school. Parents of The Sacred Light ‘home-schooled’ which meant they taught their children themselves. There were several of you and you had classes at the church. You wore a distinctive school uniform with a grey shirt and pale-grey short trousers – even when you were eighteen. It taught you humility; walking to and from the church dressed like that.

Today you are wearing the long grey socks from school and the unusual and unflattering grey underwear worn by all males of The Sacred Heart. You have several pairs of grey short trousers in your bedroom and you wouldn’t be surprised if father insists you go upstairs to change. But, he has not. So, you must prepare yourself now.

You take a deep breath as if preparing yourself for an ordeal. Then you take hold of the buckle of the belt keeping your trousers up and open it. There’s a button on the waistband of your trousers and your fingers shiver a little so you fumble getting it undone. From the corner of your eye you see father is silently in prayer. You tug the zip fly and the front of the trousers fall open. The material of the trousers is heavy and with the weight of the belt and some keys and coins in your pocket, the trousers tumble to your shins.

Father has stopped praying and watches you as you place each of your thumbs in the waistband of your underwear and with not much more than a flick of the wrists you sent the pants south to meet your trousers. A faint breeze wafts in from somewhere to cool your naked legs and buttocks. Father slaps his thigh with his right hand. He is becoming impatient. Which is a sin, so he stops slapping and says quietly, “Bend across my knee, son.”

As he says this he parts his knees slightly and you look down at his thighs. He has made a platform for you to present your body. Carefully, you rest the heels of your hands on his right leg and slowly ease yourself down and forward. Within seconds you are across his knee in the traditional to-be-spanked posture. You make fists with your hands and push these into the carpet. Your bottom is raised over father’s lap and your legs are stretched out behind you so that the tips of your shoes brush the ground.

You hear father’s breathing getting heavier. You wait patiently. Father takes the end of your shirt and pushes it gently up your back so that it is away from his target area. Not long now. Your buttocks clench in anticipation. Now father has cupped the palm of his right hand and he is caressing each buttock cheek. You close your eyes and shut your teeth tightly. Any moment now. Father leans his left arm across your back holding you in position.

Slap! You hear the noise of his palm spanking your left buttock a split-second before you feel the sting. It tingles, but it doesn’t really hurt. Then father slaps the right cheek. Quickly he gets into a rhythm, slapping down hard across your bum. He works enthusiastically and in no time the whole area is glowering pink. The pain is building, but you are eighteen-years-old and no matter how hard father slaps the palm of his hand into you backside – even your bare backside – it isn’t going to do you much harm.

z used otk pants down chair sting (6)

You know this and father knows this. The spanking is so far symbolic. Father is expressing his displeasure and you are submissively presenting yourself for punishment. You know your place. You are your father’s son. You father is doing his duty to God. All is well.

But, father knows there is a difference between mere discipline and punishment. You have to be punished. Without adequate punishment you will not mend your ways. You will not work harder. You will fail your exams, be excluded from university and your future will be ruined. This punishment is for your own good. Father stops slapping your bare bum. You feel a movement in his body as he reaches over to the nearby table. He grips the paddle. It is a little bigger than a paperback book or a DVD cover, but a great deal heavier. Without warning father lifts it high and whacks it down with maximum impact across the underside of your cheeks – the sensitive ‘sit-spot’.

The suddenness of the move and the pain is creates takes you by surprise and for the first time this afternoon a yelp escapes your tight lips. Father spanks with the paddle as hard and as quickly as he had with his hand. Your backside quickly roasts. You can’t help it, your hips sway and your legs kick. Father presses his arm down into your back. You are going nowhere. Not for a considerable time to come.

You lose all sense of time. It might be one minute, it might be twenty. Up and down, up and down. The paddle flies, biting into your fleshy backside. It burns. Your temples throb almost as much as your backside. Tears fill your eyes but do not fall. Your throat is tight, but that doesn’t stop a series of “Owwws” and “Ouches” escaping your mouth. You are burning.

Father has covered every square centimetre of your buttocks which are now shining bright red. So, he turns his attentions to the backs of your thighs. Whack! “Noooooo! Stop!!!!! Please!!!!” you yell for mercy, but none is forthcoming. Father is on a mission.

You kick and wriggle and squirm and yell. It does no good. It never does. Father will spank you for as long as it takes. Until he is satisfied you have learned a lesson. Your head is buzzing. You hear the sound of wood connecting with naked flesh, but you feel no more pain. You have reached a plateau. A literal pain barrier.

Perhaps father realises this, because he eases off. The paddle continues to pound into your bottom but the whacks are not so heavy and less frequent. Then – at last – they stop completely. You lay face down staring at the carpet, your heartbeat races, your blood pressure is off the scale. Your backside feels like you have sat in a bathtub of boiling water. You hear your father’s uneven breathing. The spanking has taking it out of him as well.

At last he croaks, “Get up.” You scramble to your feet and instinctively your hands go to your naked buttocks. Your flesh feels like leather. The pain is already easing but both cheeks throb like mad. You are unconcerned that you are standing half-naked in front of father exposing your privates. Father hauls himself from the chair and reaches for his jacket. You take this cue and get dressed yourself, gingerly puling your underwear over your scorching buttocks. You bend down and retrieve your trousers. Pain reignites when you pull them over your bum. You zip up but leave the belt undone.

Father reaches for the Bible. Your head spins. You feel high. It must be the adrenaline, or something. You know father is reading to you but you can’t make out the words. This goes on for a long minute before father intones, “Amen.” Hurriedly, you echo that.

“Go to your room,” father says quietly. You hobble away. As you walk towards the staircase you hear the sound of a washing machine and catch the smell of detergent. Mother is washing your clothes. You wonder how long you will have to wait before you can get the train back to university.


Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second