A Robust Response

I am a fair man, a man of the world. I understand the temptations of the young. I know it is a rocky road to adulthood. I have myself suffered temptations. When I was a teenager I knew desire. I knew what it was to long for the clear skin of other boys, lust over taut muscles, envy their shiny hair, their blazing eyes, ruby-red lips. Long legs, tight buttocks. Sins of the flesh.

As the young say today, “I have been there.” But I was saved. I was eighteen years old when my lusts came to light. I won’t share with you the details. They are too humiliating for me to recall, even now so many years later. But, I was saved by the priests at my school. It took some doing. A modern-day scourging of the flesh. It worked. Homosexuality is only a passing phase, all young men go through it. Yes, it is a sin, but it can be cured. I know. I was cured. And, in a few moments it will be my pleasure – no my duty – to cure a young man at this school similarly afflicted.

In my own case it took three priests, each acting separately, to make the breakthrough. I shall be eternally grateful to them for their diligence; their thoroughness. Without their intervention I should have descended into a cesspool of my own making. Adrift. Never to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Corporal correction; corporal punishment if you will. Punishment of the flesh.  “Blessed are the pure at heart,” the priests at school would say, “Boys, if you are not pure at heart, I’ll flog you!”

In a few moments, Teddy will arrive here at my study. Teddy is a bright young man, I have had my eye on him for some years. He has all the attributes needed to enter the priesthood. But, he has lost his way. Like a lamb in the hillside. But, he is not a lost cause. He can be set back on the right path. I shall save him. He knows why he has been summoned to my study. He has already confessed his sin. He knows he must be saved. He wants to be saved. He can be saved. He will be saved.

I will talk to him so that he understands that the feelings he has are perfectly natural for a young man of eighteen. But, he is a teenager, really still an adolescent. He is going though a phase in his life. He is at a crossroads. He must decide which way to turn. Once I know he understands this we shall pray. God will give his blessing. God loves us. He will protect us. He will save us.

When that is done I shall instruct Teddy to stand behind my desk. It is a very large, heavy walnut beast. I sometimes joke that it could double up as a hockey pitch. While he does that I shall go to my special locked cupboard. Inside I have many instruments of punishment; leather straps, riding crops, whippy rattan rods, and (my favourites) heavy wooden paddles. Teddy is a tall, slim boy. He is a member of the school athletic team and he runs constantly. His body is strong and his legs are long. His buttocks are tight and from memory I calculate that one of my larger paddles would conveniently fit across both cheeks.

I will instruct Teddy to lower his trousers. He might be reluctant to be seen by an older man in his underwear but he will do as I command without question. I am the authority of God. It is His will that this scourging takes place. Once the trousers are down, in all probability the tail of his dress shirt will be so long as to cover his bottom. If this indeed proves to be the case, he must raise his shirt high so that his stomach and back are bared. The next manoeuvre might be tricky. Once I am satisfied that the shirt offers him no protection, he must “assume the position”. This can be a moment of confusion for what constitutes “the position” may vary from person to person. To some it means “bend down, grab your ankles”. Otherwise, it might mean “hands on knees”. Still again, “bend over the back of the chair”. When I say, “Assume the position” I mean stand by the edge of the desk, lean forward, place the forearms squarely on the desk top, head up, look ahead, spread the feet wide.

It can be difficult to convey all this information to the boy about to be paddled. The brighter ones get it almost immediately; not so the dumb. I have on occasion been forced to assume the position myself in order to demonstrate the correct way to present oneself for punishment. I take care in such circumstances to give the young man extra swats by way of compensation for the embarrassment he has caused me.

Once Teddy is in position, the whipping begins. As I have already indicated my paddle of choice is large and I know the blade will cover both buttocks. In preparation I have to take hold of the waistband of his underpants and pull them so tight so that the cotton caresses the bottom like a second skin. I should be able to see the outline of each cheek perfectly, and the ravine that separates them. Once that task is completed it is only a matter of resting the paddle across the target area, tapping it against the tight flesh once or twice for effect, raising the wood high and bringing it back with a resounding crash.

Let me explain what I mean by “for effect”. Such a beating as this is of course about inflicting pain. A great deal of pain (agony even) in many cases. Of course it is, otherwise what is the point of it all? But along with the actual pain comes anticipation. I remember from my own times “in position” for the priests that the preparation, the waiting, the anticipation of the pain to come, the humiliation, was almost as much punishment as the paddling itself.

So, I shall take my time with Teddy. Pat, pat here. Tap, tap there. Swat! Once the first blow has been struck I shall count to twenty (in my head, not aloud). This will add somewhat to the effect. It will give a moment for the pain of the blow to register. I well remember how one hears the whack of wood connecting with one’s own flesh maybe a second before the pain registers. That is when the body shudders or shakes as red-hot aching radiates from the rear end and travels up and down the legs. As more and more swats are delivered that agony journeys through the whole body becoming tortuous. The peak of pain of each swat lasts maybe ten seconds. When I beat a boy I make sure there is a further ten seconds for the sinner to anticipate the next blow before I deliver it.

I have a routine when spanking; a rhythm if you will. I start in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and in most cases fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe goes lower; the third higher. In this way it is possible to have the entire area ablaze after only three swats: from the top near the spine, over the mounds of flesh and into the underside where the thighs meet. With the whole rear end blazing each successive stroke will land on already damaged flesh, reigniting the hurt and adding to its intensity considerably.

I shall award Teddy twelve strokes. I shall leave it to your own imagination to visualise the state of his flesh by the time I have finished. Remember also that the thin cotton underpants offer no useful protection against the paddle. If that is the case, you might think to ask, why don’t I beat my young man on the bare posterior? It is a good question and I think you would agree making Teddy remove his underwear would increase the humiliation of the occasion somewhat. Given my own head I would not hesitate to beat him “on the bare”, but if you read the lying Liberal newspapers you would know that the Church is under much scrutiny these days. I am certain all right-thinking people agree with our way of combating homosexuality among the young; but a manufactured scandal about our method would only be a distraction.

Teddy is a strong young man, I fully expect him to take his punishment stoically. He will assume the position and stay in it until I command that he may stand. I have no doubt his body will react against the agony I shall inflict and his legs will buckle, his back buck, his shoulders shake and his head will neigh like a horse. But, he will stay in place. He will offer his backside to me. He will obey.

There may be tears. This is often involuntary. Think when you hit yourself on the thumb with a hammer do your eyes not water? I keep paper tissues in a box in my drawer. I find such are useful for a number of emergencies that can take place in my study.

Teddy will dress, we shall pray once more. I shall remind him that I (and God) love him and send him on his way.

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second


Rock n Roll Sinner

zused short shorts pop records (21)

Mr Harriet drove his car slowly up the drive of his house, switched off the engine and seethed. You could hear the heavy beat coming from his front room a mile away. It was a wonder the house itself wasn’t vibrating. Jungle music. Scandalous. Disgraceful. Ungodly. He hauled himself from his car and walking fast, but not quite running, he headed for the front door.

Inside his son Richard, eighteen years old and a high school graduate, gyrated to the music. From a disc a man was wailing. Mr Harriet couldn’t make out the words. “Cecile?” What was that all about? Richard was oblivious to his father’s presence. In ecstasy; hips gyrating, arms twirling, head waving, heart pounding. Mr Harriet stood aghast. Astonished. He rushed to the record player, swiped the arm from the disc, pulled it away and puce in the face smashed it once, twice, three times against the back of a wooden chair until it was shattered to pieces.

Richard stood eyes burning with distain and watched his father, sweat streaming from his contorted face, turn to a pile of discs and with his right forearm swipe them from the shelf. “Ungodly. Disgraceful. Jungle music!” he screamed.

Richard watched, his fists clenched. His father was drawing in gulps of air, struggling to regain equilibrium. He bent forward, hands on knees wheezing. A little calmer, he eyed his son with despair. The boy was dressed as if for the beach. A tee-shirt and shorts so short his thighs were visible. “Dear God,” Mr Harriet said aloud, “How has it come to this?”

Mr Harriet loved his children – all six of them. He had provided for them and his wife all his life.  He worked long hours; hard work, done without resentment. He had brought them up as good God-fearing church attendees. And now this. Where did he go wrong?

He stood face to face with his son. The boy was maybe an inch shorter than his father and a hundred pounds lighter. He didn’t flinch. He kept his father’s furious stare. “How many times have I told you about this music?” his father said, attempting, but not quite achieving, stillness. “It’s the Devil’s music. It is sinful. Full of lust. Ungodly. Music of the jungle.”

Richard was impassive. He had heard it many times before. He knew his father’s next sentence. “And don’t think I don’t know you sneak off to those n______  clubs at night. Dens of iniquity. Drugs. Whores.” Spittle dribbled down Mr Harriet’s chin.

“Well ….” Mr Harriet left the sentence unfinished. Richard didn’t bother to follow his father with his eyes as the old man strode across the room. He knew where he was going. Mr Harriet reached up to a hook on the wall. From it dangled a stout wooden paddle. He took it down and tested it in his hand, as if he had never held it before. It was about fourteen inches long and five wide, not including the handle. It had six holes drilled in the blade. It was made of maple and heavy.

Mr Harriet brandished the wood at Richard. The feel of the paddle had a calming effect. Mr Harriet placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. He loved him so much. God loved him so much. Didn’t the boy see that? Why did he forsake his father and God? He must be saved. How would he enter the kingdom of Heaven?

Richard flinched at his father’s touch, his fists still bunched. Mr Harriet removed his hand from his son’s shoulders and rubbed it along the length of the paddle’s blade, emphasising is length and strength. It was an unnecessary gesture; Richard had felt the power of that paddle many times in the past. It was awesome. In his father’s hands it would tear his backside to pieces.

“Son,” Mr Harriet almost whispered. “You know you have sinned. You know you must be punished,” his eyes were moist. “I love you.” He rubbed the paddle once more. “The Good Book says ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’,” he choked back tears, “But if you promise me that you will never play that music again, nor go to those clubs, if you promise me that son, then I won’t beat you.” He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his shirt.

When his eyes were dried Mr Harriet watched astonished as his son without hesitation unbuckled his shorts and pulled the zipper. They slithered down his thighs. Richard parted his knees and they continued south to his feet. Not looking at his father, he hitched his thumbs into his underpants and tugged them down to his knees. He turned on his heels, faced the back of the couch and in one simple athletic movement he bent forward. He wriggled into place; head low, naked bottom high, legs slightly apart. A perfect target.

Mr Harriet took a deep breath and eyes heavenward, he muttered words that Richard could not decipher. The eighteen-year-old stared down at the couch cushion and tried to stop his heart rushing. He felt the cold wooden blade against his cool naked buttocks. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth. The wood rose and fell with a terrific swipe into his pert bottom. A dark red image of the paddle seared into the flesh. Richard shook his head. That hurt. A lot. So did the next swipe. And the next. And the next.

His father had God and righteousness on his side. The paddle rose and fell. Again, and again and again. Richard’s buttocks were small and the paddle large in comparison. Not a single square inch of flesh was left untoasted. From the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs, across the curves themselves and along the top close to the spine. The once creamy-white flesh turned quickly pink, then red, then mauve. Blisters formed wherever the edge of the paddle pounded flesh.




Two years later Mr Harriet knelt on his bedroom floor, forehead to the ground, tears streaming, his face awash with snot. He was incoherent. Inconsolable. “Oh God! Oh God!” he wailed. On the nightstand was a newspaper. Rickie Harriet and his band the Rebels had reached number one in the Billboard chart with their new disc “Rock n Roll is here to stay.”

Picture credit: unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Dreams of spanking

z used bed solo white pants erect cody furguson (1)

Dean lays on his bed staring at the erect cock stretching the front of his cotton underpants. It happens every morning. Regular as clockwork. As day follows night. He dreams of spanking. He has never been spanked. The cane was abolished at school years ago and dads generally don’t take the belt to their sons, no matter how unruly they behave.

He is not concerned why he fantasises about spanking, but he is sad that he is too shy to tell anyone about it. Sometimes he likes to think of bad things he has really done and imagines the punishment he should suffer. Like the other week when he got so drunk at the student union bar and staggered home so out of control he lurched over a garden fence and heaved up two stomach-fulls of vomit into the flowerbed. In his imagination, Dean was bent across the dining room table, jeans and pants at the knees, while the house owner lashed his naked buttocks with a switch he cut especially.

Dean drinks a lot. The other day he rode his moped while drunk. It was a stupid, irresponsible act. Somebody could have been killed. Any magistrate worth his salt would have sentenced him to a birching. Dean sees himself stripped naked from the waist down, tied to a wooden frame. His shirt is bunched up at his shoulders. One prison officer grips a bundle of twenty-four birch twigs bound together with tape. It has been soaking overnight in a metal bucket full of brine. Droplets fall from the birch as he swishes it through the air. You can cut the tension in the room with a knife. A second prison officer holds a clipboard, studies a sheet of paper stuck to it. He licks the end of a stub of pencil. He makes a tick. “Cut number one!” he calls in a clear, steady voice.

The first officer rests the birch against Dean’s buttocks. It is so big and Dean’s bum so relatively small it covers both cheeks. The officer lifts the birch high, swirls it around his head and twists his body before delivering an almighty lash into quivering flesh. Dean screams. The prison officer sweats. He raises the birch again.

After twelve cuts Deans bottom is a mass of cuts and grazes. It looks like raw hamburger meat. Deans screams subside into sobbing gulps as two officers drag him back to his cell.

Dean likes to dream about Paddy, a guy in his English Lit. class at university. Paddy could be the biggest student alive. He is built like a brick outhouse. Dean has this scene where he and other students share a house and Paddy is in a fit of temper. He is trying to finish an essay that should have been handed in yesterday but he can’t concentrate because of the loud music coming from Dean’s “ghetto blaster.” The whole house is shaking. Paddy shouts, “Turn that music down!” He hammers on Dean’s bedroom door. But to no avail.

“Right! That’s it! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Paddy bursts through the door and sees Dean flat out on his bed, still in his pyjamas although it’s nearly eleven in the morning. Paddy’s face is purple, Dean’s turns white. Dean is as small as Paddy is huge. It is no match. Paddy grips Dean by the arm, hauls him off the bed. His grip hurts Dean’s arm. But that is only the half of it. Paddy sits on the bed, his weight digs deep into the mattress. Deans struggles. It is a waste of time. Paddy pulls him across his knees. Dean is sucking the eiderdown, his legs dangle in mid-air. His bottom juts at an angle over Paddy’s right knee. Dean wriggles and writhes but Paddy’s supreme strength is too much.

Paddy says nothing. He concentrates on the task ahead. He grips the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and pulls hard, almost tearing the material. Dean’s bum is exposed. He kicks his legs. Paddy adjusts his own body so he can put his right leg across the back of Dean’s calves. He takes Dean’s right arm and twists it up his back. He is pinned down. He is going nowhere. Paddy stretches the fingers of his right hand, cups them slightly and pounds away at Dean’s naked buttocks. Paddy’s forearm is like a leg of mutton, his hand as large and as heavy as a shovel. With only a few smacks Dean’s bum is as red as a London bus. The outline of Paddy’s hand appears in scarlet over and over again across Dean’s bum.

There’s a professor at the university who reminds Dean of the headmaster at his old school. He is about fifty and always sports a hostile look on his face. Dean knows the professor wouldn’t truck any nonsense from his students.  It is late in the afternoon and Dean stands morosely in front of the desk. The study is cold and the night is drawing in. The room is in gloom. The professor holds a sheaf of paper in his hand. He reads with increasing incredulity.

“Balderdash! Poppycock!” he shakes his head. He looks as if he is forced to carry all the woes of the world on his shoulder. He waves the essay in Dean’s face. “You need to spend less time in the bar and more in the library.” His nostrils flare.

“Not good enough. Not good enough,” he mutters as he rises from his chair and walks a few steps to a table. Dean watches with mounting tension as the professor opens a drawer and extracts from it a long, whippy rattan cane. Dean stares at its crook handle. The professor flexes it between his hands. It curves easily. He swishes it through the air. A breeze travels across the room.

“Take off your jacket.” Dean does so.

“Stand by my desk.” Dean takes up position.

“Take down your trousers.” Dean is wearing Levi jeans. He fumbles with the metal buttons but soon they are at his knees. He is wearing his favourite mustard-coloured briefs. They are very snug.

“Bend over.” In his mind’s eye, Dean watches himself lean forward. He lays his stomach on the cold wooden desktop. He reaches forward with his arms and grips the edge of the desk. The professor takes his shirt and tugs it away from the target area. Dean’s buttocks twitch when the professor smooths down his pants so they fit like a second skin.

The professor taps the cane across the underside of Dean’s buttocks. Satisfied that he has his aim, he lets fly. It is to be six-of-the-very best.

There is a guy Dean saw in the student bar. He doesn’t know his name so christens him Michael. Michael has smooth skin and shiny light brown hair. Dean reckons his haircut must have cost a fortune. Michael is a trim lad and his Wrangler jeans hang over his buttocks invitingly. Michael is standing and Dean is behind him admiring his bum. Then, Michael leans forward to look at a picture in a magazine his friend wants him to see. Michael places his hands on his knees and arches his back. His feet are parted. It is the perfect “assume the position”. Dean is so close he could fondle Michael’s backside. Later Dean imagines he is holding an American-style wooden paddle. He rubs it backward and forward. “Brace yourself,” he intones as he lifts it high.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door. “Come on Dean! You’ll be late for breakfast.” It is Roger, a fellow lodger at Mr. Williams’ guesthouse. Dean hears Roger’s footfalls as he races down the stairs. Late for breakfast- again, Dean thinks. That would never do. In his imagination he sees Mr Williams take a thick leather belt from a hook on the kitchen wall. In the real world, Dean slides his hand down the front of his pants.




Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

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Charles Hamilton the Second



Only a glass of wine

z used pants wine glass Endymion Hill

C’mon Uncle Jack it was only a glass of wine

It wasn’t only a glass of wine, it was my wine. Wine I told you not to touch.


And judging by the state of you when I came in last night you had drunk a lot more than one glass of wine.


I told you when I took you in you had to obey my rules. I’m not a soft touch like your dad.

No, but.

But nothing. I’m gonna spank you, like I told you I would.

But Uncle, I’m nineteen.

Yeah, you are nineteen. That’s plenty old enough to be making your own way in the world. Maybe you should just pack your bags and go.

No, Uncle, no.

Then you must accept discipline.

Oh, but Uncle.

Here, look at this. Have you seen it?

What’s that?

I bought it at Aldi. They call it a serving board, but look at it, it’s exactly the same size and weight as a spanking paddle. Like the Americans use.

You’re gonna spank me with a bread board?

Thank your lucky stars I don’t use a cane on you. You can get authentic school canes on eBay. If you don’t learn to behave, I’m going online for next time.

No, Uncle, no.

Stand there, by the table. Quickly. Now take down your jeans.

No Uncle, not my jeans.

Too right. They’re so thick you’d hardly feel a thing. Now, get on with it.

No, Uncle, please.

Do you want me to come over there and do it?

Oh, Uncle.

OK have it your way. Go pack your bags, I want you out of here before ten o’clock.

No, sorry Uncle. Here.

That’s right. Get them right down to your ankles . . . Jeez those pants look lived in. When did you last change them?


Disgusting. Now, lift up your shirt and bend over the table . . . Not like that. Lay flat on the table top. Stick your bum out.

Oh, Uncle.

Right. Now don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.

Ouch! Owww!

Oh don’t be such a baby. I’ve hardly started.

Oww! Oww! Oww!

Keep still. Hold on to the edge of the table.


Stop that! Keep your hands out of the way.


Get back down. Now! I shan’t tell you again. Do you want extra swats?

Oh Uncle.

So much fuss. And you such a big boy.


Just be thankful I don’t take down your pants and give you a few on your bare buttocks.

No Uncle, No!

Well, behave yourself. Take your punishment like a man.

Owww! Sniff, sniff

Are you crying?

No, Uncle. Owwwwwwww!


Picture Credit: Endymion Hill

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Father Must Be Obeyed

z used uniform short shorts (56)

“Trousers down. Bend over my knee.” The command from his Father was crystal clear. And totally expected. John shivered with cold. The short grey school trousers and knee socks he wore were totally inappropriate for the middle of winter. But that was Father for you. “You are still a child and you will be treated like a child,” was almost a holy mantra with Father.

So, it was that at eighteen years old, John was still dressing in grey school short trousers, and as often as not a white shirt and striped tie. If Father could have his way his son would wear the short trousers to school as well, but he was worldly-wise enough to know that would bring a gang of do-gooding teachers down on his head.

They were a good God-fearing family. John knew the meaning of obedience. Obedience to God, to his Father, to adults, to schoolteachers. To just about anyone really. It was all in the Bible; so was that bit about “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”

Father had all kinds of rules that must be obeyed. When to get up in the morning, a curfew at night. Bible studies, school work, chores about the house. No alcohol, no drugs (without question). No girls. Boundaries were set.

The lounge was cold and gloomy, a small table lamp failed to illuminate much of the room. Father sat with his back rigid in a wooden chair, his feet planted firmly on the carpet about eighteen inches apart. This was part of the ritual. In his hand he gripped a small wooden paddle. It had been especially made thirty years previously. It was a kind of family heirloom. It had been made with one purpose only one purpose: to inflict a terrific sting across a boy’s buttocks. The paddle’s blade was about the size of a DVD cover and a little thicker. Holes had been drilled in it; that made it speed faster through the air as it went on its mission.

Father held the paddle in his right hand and tapped it gently into the palm of his left. He watched his son make his preparations. This ritual had been played out countless times in the past. There would undoubtedly be many more reruns in the future. John would not legally be an adult until he reached the age of twenty-one. Even then if he stayed under Father’s roof, he would continue to be subjected to Father’s rules.

John knew what was expected. Father had made clear his displeasure and now John must pay the price. There was no argument. Pleas for clemency were out of the question. Actions had consequences. He looked at his Father impassively; the old man never changed. He was in his early fifties with grey, thinning hair. He was still remarkably thin, a lifetime’s abstinence from alcohol probably contributed to this. He wore dark grey trousers, a white shirt and tie. He was always dressed as if for the office, even though he actually worked on the bins at the local council.

John’s grey short trousers had an elasticated waist and needed no belt. He undid the metal clasp and pushed them to his knees. Gravity did the rest.  His Father ceased tapping the paddle in his hand and spread his arms wide creating space for his son. The end of John’s shirt covered his crotch and buttocks, so he took a hold and lifted it to expose his flat, hairless stomach. Then, he leaned forward stretching out his arms before him to break his fall. He put his hands palm down and pressed them into the worn wooden floor. Behind him his toes hardly touched the ground. His stomach rested at an angle against his Father’s thigh so that his bottom was presented at a perfect angle for the paddle.

John stared down at the floor. Although worn by age it was spotlessly clean. It always was. That was his Mother’s doing. John waited patiently. There was more ritual to perform. Slowly, Father grasped the waist of John’s white cotton underpants and pulled them gently over the curves of his buttocks. John raised his body slightly above his Father’s lap to allow him the drag the pants down his thighs, past his shins before depositing them above his short trousers at his feet.

“There,” his Father sighed, “I hope you feel ashamed.” He never pulled down John’s pants in silence. He always had something to say. Oftentimes he would make his little joke, “These serve very little purpose at a time like this,” he would say as he bared John’s bottom.

A cold draught brushed against John’s naked flesh. His cheeks clenched. They always did. He had no control over this, it was just a natural reaction. He didn’t feel ashamed, his Father had seen John’s bare bottom (and much more besides) many times. His Father gripped the paddle tightly; he was ready to go. Father did not believe himself to be a cruel man. He was doing his duty: to God and to his son. The boy had to learn obedience. He must obey without question. How else would he get into the Kingdom of Heaven?

Father knew it was his responsibility to spank John’s bottom. Good and hard. It must hurt a lot, otherwise what was the point of it all? He rubbed the paddle across John’s left buttock, pressing it into the flesh as it went. John was a lean teenager with hardly enough fat on his body to sizzle a sausage; unlike so many of the obese teenagers Father saw hanging around the shopping centre. Father raised the paddle high and with a sharp downwards swipe sent it crashing down across John’s bare bum. The imprint of the paddle blade burned into the naked flesh. John’s legged bucked (another reflex action) and silently he expelled air through pursed lips.

Father made a second imprint on his son’s bottom. The paddle was so large and John’s bum so small that by now most of the cheeks were glowing bright pink. Already it looked like John’s buttocks were severely sun-burned. Six slaps hit John squarely across his bum, hitting both cheeks equally. He let out a quiet groan as each whack! struck the target. He wanted to take his punishment without fuss; that was what Father expected. Even so with each blow he wriggled his hips and his bum writhed. Father gripped him around the waist, steadying him.

Father carried on whacking the eighteen-year-old with a steady rhythm with the strikes.. Whack! Whack! One every three seconds or so. Whack! Whack! Whack!

John wasn’t in tears (it had been years since he blubbed during a spanking) but the pain was getting to him. He kept his palms flat on the floor, but my shoulders and back continued to writhe with the blows.

“Keep still.” Whack! Whack! Whack!

“You’re getting what you deserve.”

Father was right, John knew this. He deserved his spanking. Father did not enjoy beating him. He did it because he loved him.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

“I’m sorry,” John said. Another part of the ritual was being played out: repentance.

Father was impressed but carried on with the pulsating blows. John was breathless, losing more wind as each successive wallop bounced off his taut bottom.

The next dozen or so whacks were a little harder. The pain was growing, travelling down John’s legs. Whack! Whack!

No square inch of John’s buttocks or the back of his thighs was left untouched. Red blotches were already turning purple. His undercurves were tender and blood was rising under the skin, it looked a little like raw hamburger meat. Sweat soaked John’s back, despite the chill air in the room. The back of the teenager’s neck was almost as scarlet as his beaten bottom. Father was not an ogre, he was not a cruel man, it was time to stop.

John lay face down gulping in breath. Father continued to hold him tightly at the waist. He examined his handiwork. John’s bottom was swelling and would be tender for some considerable time to come. He would be reminded of the need to show obedience every time he sat on a hard surface for the rest of the day. The bruises might take a week or more to clear. Father congratulated himself on a job well done.

He let his son stand and watched impassively as John retrieved his grey short trousers from the middle of the room where he had kicked them during the worst of the spanking. Within seconds they were securely buckled at their rightful place.

John had regained his composure. “Sorry Father,” he said quietly and he meant it. He did so want to please God and his Father.

“Go to your room. Once you are settled I’ll come up and we shall read the Bible together.”

John flashed a smile of gratitude and gently rubbing the seat of his short trousers he left the room. His Father sat in the gloom lightly polishing his paddle.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The Meter Reader

z used paddle jeans chair domestic

The first time I visited the house I failed to notice the large green-and-gold school blazer hanging on a hook in the hallway, but I couldn’t miss the wooden paddle in the cupboard under the stairs.

My heart skipped a beat and my face flushed. It took a super human effort not to pick it up and caress it. It was about two feet long and four inches wide with a handle at one end. It looked all the world like a cricket bat designed for an eight-year-old.

“Ahh, you’ve found my little toy, I see.” An elderly man stood behind me, blocking the light. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I’m pretty sure I came across as a complete idiot. I shone my torch at the gas meter’s dial, recorded some numbers in my book and made a swift exit, face burning and (frankly) my dick twitching.

I stopped outside the front gate to regain my breath. My head was dizzy and my heart racing. I sucked in a lung full of air and hurried down The Avenue to the next house.

My Uncle Clive used to paddle my backside. Good and hard. I was a difficult kid. I never liked school because I couldn’t see the point. I looked around me and saw my Mum and Dad and the neighbours all had good, steady jobs. The men mostly worked in construction, the women in shops or beauty parlours. We rented a council flat, had a family car and took holidays abroad each year. And I don’t suppose any one of them had a qualification. School, who needed it?

Of course, with an attitude like that I was uncooperative and disruptive. The school couldn’t do much about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished years before and if a teacher put me in detention, I didn’t bother to go, Really, what could they do? They suspended me from school once. Yes please, I said. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to go to school. Losers.

Uncle Clive was the exception. Where everyone else had no qualifications, he had a shedload. He had at least two college degrees and some piece of paper that made him an accountant. He believed he had bettered himself. He said I should have more ambition. There won’t always be a construction industry, he said.

I made a vital mistake. I treated him like he was a schoolteacher. I told him where to get off. Leave me alone, I said, I know best.  So I left school as soon as I was legally allowed at sixteen. Big mistake. Banks went bust and the unemployment lines grew. I was out of work for two years. To cut a long story short I went off the rails: I drank, took drugs, got involved in a little thieving. Mum and Dad despaired. After the police turned up at our house to arrest me for the third time they said “Enough”, I would have to go.

I spent a month living on the streets. I was one of those bundles in a shop doorway people hurry by through fear or embarrassment. I was cold, hungry, alone and scared. I don’t know how Uncle Clive discovered where I was living rough. Late one night as I shivered outside Tesco, I looked up wearily to see a tall, strong man towering over me.

He gave me a choice. Stay living on the streets until I die of exposure or go live with him at his nice warm bungalow. A no-brainer really. “My house. My rules.” Uncle Clive was clear from the start. “No booze, no weed. Get a job. Make something of yourself.”

Now, the thing about Uncle Clive was that somewhere along the road he had found religion. Big time. There’s a bit somewhere in the Bible about spare the rod and spoil the child. Except in Uncle’s case the “rod” was a heavy wooden paddle, identical to the one in that cupboard under the stairs. I was eighteen at this time, but as far as Uncle Clive was concerned I was still a little kid. He sat me down and drew up what he called my “Objectives.” I had to get up by eight in the morning, I had a curfew at night, chores to do around the house and I had to go looking for work. Or else.

I had never been threatened with a spanking before. Corporal punishment had been confined to the dustbin of history years since. One day when I was on my own I took Uncle’s paddle from the sideboard drawer and studied it. It looked professionally made. The “blade” end was about two feet long. It must have been a quarter inch thick. I gripped it by the handle and swished it through the air, imagining there was a backside bent across the back of the armchair. It look my breath away. What would it feel like to have this monster crashing into my backside? I held the handle tightly, leaned forward a little and smacked the wood into the seat of my jeans. Ouch! It hurt. Quite a bit actually. I couldn’t get a decent swing into my own backside. I supposed it would hurt a lot more if Uncle Clive was doing it.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out. I had been mooching around the house for too long. I was getting nowhere finding a job. “Just work at a burger bar for now,” Uncle Clive berated me. “Get something to start you off. Don’t worry about the crap pay, you can stay here with me.” He really wanted to help me and I suppose my lack of energy must have frustrated the hell out of him.

So, Uncle Clive said one night the choice was simple. Back to the cardboard box or swats from the paddle. I couldn’t understand why my heart beat so quickly when he said this. You would think it would be through fear. Perhaps it was, but wasn’t there also something exciting about his?

Uncle Clive held the paddle and whacked it into the palm of his hand. I watched transfixed, remembering how much it hurt when I tried it on myself. “Let’s not have any fuss here,” Uncle Clive’s steely-blue eyes pierced through me. “I want you to go over to that chair,” he waved the wood at a straight-backed dining room chair, “And bend over.”

My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. Looking back what was it that I wanted to say? “No way?” Or quite possibly, “Yes, please.” I shuddered. Again, fear or excitement? I couldn’t look at Uncle Clive, I shuffled towards the chair and stopped halfway. Sweat soaked the palms of my hands and I wiped them on the leg of my jeans. My mouth was suddenly dry and I ran my tongue across my lips.

“Bend over,” Uncle Clive was calm, but he did want to get a move on. I stood closer to the chair. “Turn it around so the back faces you.” I did as instructed. I remember the chair was much heavier than I expected. “Bend over,” Uncle Clive said again as he gently tapped the paddle into his palm. I leaned forward and gripped hold of the seat of the chair. My stomach cleared the top of the chair by some distance. Without thinking I spread my legs and kept my knees straight. My jeans fitted tightly and I could feel them tug against my buttocks.

Uncle Clive rested the heavy wooden paddle across the lower part of my cheeks. I felt it move away and then return with an almighty Crack! The sound of wood connecting with my tight denim-clad arse echoed around the room. My knees buckled, my hips swayed and I gripped the chair seat tightly. Ouch! That hurt. If the time I whacked myself scored two out of ten, Uncle Clive’s first attempt was way off the top of the scale.

Uncle Clive swung hard, with all of his strength which was considerable as he was a big man. Every blow hit like the kick of a horse knocking me forward over the back of the chair. At first there was a fierce stinging all the way across my bum. Then the pain increased and it seemed like my entire body ached. Then the next swat landed and the next until Uncle Clive was beating a rhythm on my poor defenceless bottom.

When it was over I performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot and clutching the seat of my jeans. My buttocks glowed red hot but very soon the pain turned to a warm glow. Uncle Clive sent me to my room where I lowered my jeans and pants and stared in astonishment at the reflection of my battered bum in the mirror. My cock was semi-erect and my head buzzed. I can’t quite describe that feeling after my first spanking, but it was better than any drug I was taking at the time.

That was about six years ago. Eventually I got a job with the Gas Board. Uncle Clive encouraged me to find a room of my own and gradually we stopped seeing each other. I hadn’t thought much about  that paddling until my visit to the house in The Avenue. Now, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Why was that paddle in the cupboard? What did that old man do with it? I obsessed. I lay awake at night imagining I was at that house, bent across the back of a leather armchair, my jeans at my ankles while he took my backside off with the paddle.

This could not go on. I had to go back to The Avenue. But, I couldn’t just knock on his door and ask to be spanked. Even so I took a bus and walked up and down the street. It’s a long road with lots of upscale, expensive houses. I felt very conspicuous. How would I explain myself if someone called the police? I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I would bump into the man as he left home to go to the shops.

Nothing happened, of course. Nor did it on the next three times I walked up and down The Avenue. Then it was Saturday. I passed by his house for the third time that morning when the front door opened. I blushed profusely at the sight of the man standing in his doorway. He was about sixty I suppose and showing his age. His waist had long ago disappeared as had most of his hair. His face was fleshy but he still managed to flash me the most beguiling smile.

“Are you spying on me?” he called cheerfully. Oh how I wished the pavement could swallow me up right there. He called me over to him. I could hardly dare to look as I shuffled up his garden path. “I’ve seen you several times, walking past my house,” he still smiled. “Did you want me for something?”

How could I tell him? What could I say? “Yes, please, I want you to spank me,” would sum up my thought succinctly, but I was too bashful to say it out loud. At that point he recognised me. “You’re the chap who came to read my meter,” he paused as if trying to compute. “The one who liked my toy so much!” At this he burst into cackling laughter.

The glint in my eye probably gave him his answer because I certainly did not confirm his supposition with words. “Do come in dear boy,” he moved away from the door to make room for me to enter. I stood uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot. Then I noticed the green-and-gold blazer on the coat hook. Alongside it was a matching school cap and – oh glory – on the hook next door dangled two curve-handled whippy rattan school canes. My eyes darted away from them, fearful that the man would register my interest.

He had. “I have many toys. Come inside, I’ll show you some if you wish.” His smile was so warm I had no fear as he led me into a large living room. It was dominated by a leather Chesterfield couch and two enormous armchairs. At the far end covering almost an entire wall was a glass-fronted display case containing a collection of expensive-looking china ornaments. “You are a very naughty boy, spying on my house like that,” the man said. The smile had vanished, but his words held no fear for me. “And you know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you?”

My head ached. The room was hot and stuffy and I couldn’t breathe properly. I think I shrugged my shoulders in reply to his statement. “What’s up boy, the cat got your tongue?” The man spoke more sternly now. He paced the room in front of me. I stood, hands behind my back, eyes cast down at the expensive wooden flooring beneath my feet.

“I know what you need boy,” the man folded his arms across his chest. My soldier stirred but it was not yet on the march. The man grunted and we lapsed into an oppressive silence. I knew I needed to say something as he needed only the slightest encouragement. I couldn’t find the words. I shrugged my shoulders. “Pah!” The man expelled air through pursed lips. “Such insolence.” He rocked back on his heels and unfolded his arms. He glared at me down a long, angular nose. “Well boy, I know how to deal with that.”

He waved his hand in the general direction of the Chesterfield couch. “Stand there. Put your hands on your head.” My mouth drained of saliva and my hands trembled, but I did as he commanded. With my fingers interlocked I placed my hands on my head in the classic naughty-boy pose. My hair was soaked with sweat. From the corner of my eye I saw the man stride from the room. He returned seconds later. Under his right arm was a thick, whippy school cane. My eyes saucered. I had never seen a school cane before.

“Never seen a school cane before,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question. “Well boy, today will also be the first time you feel a school cane.” He placed great emphasis on the word “feel”. I felt my cock press into the front of my pants. The man walked to the front of me and slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He wobbled it in front of my face. My eyes followed it as it travelled through the air. My heart was already racing but sped more when the man flexed the cane between two hands so that effortlessly it made an arc. Then he swiped the cane across the back of the Chesterfield couch, leaving a thin indentation in the rich black leather.

“In a moment that will be your backside boy.” The man’s smile was now malevolent. I closed my eyes tight. “Now,” the man spoke calmly and evenly. “I want you to lower your trousers and bend over the couch.” The blood was rushing so quickly through my body and pounding my ears that I didn’t fully catch his words. I stood trembling but made no other movement.

“Pah!” The man exhaled. “Take down your trousers.” The command was sterner. This was a man who expected to be obeyed. I felt his eyes burn into my soul as I fumbled with the button of my chino trousers. It took an inordinate length of time. I wanted to do this very much but I could not persuade my fingers to obey me. At last the waistband was loose. I had less trouble with the zipper but was alarmed to see the bulge in the front of my green underpants. They fitted tightly in ordinary circumstances and my tentpole was straining the cotton. The man professed not to notice.

The chinos slid down my highs and bunched at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued their journey to my feet. I think I could feel pre-cum oozing from my cock but it might have been my imagination. I eased myself forward over the back of the couch. It was an expensive piece of furniture and judging by the aroma of rich leather that assaulted my nostrils it was almost brand new.

I was tall enough that my body cleared the apex of the couch. Just as well as I am sure the friction of my body on the back of the Chesterfield would have made me shoot my load. My eyes were closed so I could not see the man but I felt him take hold of my shirt and roughly move it further up my back. Very daintily, he smoothed the cotton underpants so they fitted my stretched buttocks so well that I felt them dig into my crack. My buttock cheeks must have been beautifully separated.

The man sawed the cane across the underside of my bum, taking his aim. A second later I heard a swoosh and there was a tremendous crack as the cane swiped deep into my flesh. It was another second before the pain registered. It was as if the man had pressed a white-hot wire into me. My legs stamped up and down and my hips swirled. I bit down deeply on my bottom lip to silence the wail my body desperately wanted me to make. I was certain my bum had been sliced open. Surely it was bleeding? A thin weal, puffy and swelling rose.

The speed at which the cane swished through the air both fascinated and terrified me. Swish-crack! It was all I could do not to scream. The line of fire bored into my bum and I wiggled frantically.

“Keep still!” the man scolded. I tried to stay calm. My eyes stung with tears but they had not yet started to flow down my face. Swish-crack! Swish-crack! Swish-crack! The agony was too much. I jumped to my feet and clutched my burning backside, hopping around the room. The tears flowed freely now. I had no control whatsoever of my body. My lungs were empty and desperately I tried to suck in air.

The man stood impassively, cane once more tucked under his arm as I humiliated myself before him. Once I had stopped my dancing, he ordered me back over the couch. I obeyed without question. The man was in charge. It was his duty to beat me. It was my role to offer up my bottom for discipline. Only when my master was satisfied I had been punished enough would the caning end.

He was not a cruel man. He knew I was a novice at this. He gave me six hard swipes. Six-of-the-best they used to call it back in the day. He left me there prostrate across the couch for a full minute while I regained my breathing. “Stand up,” the man’s tone was gentle. My bum was on fire, my cock throbbed like crazy but my head was as clear as a bell. It was the euphoria you can only get with a severe beating. Without waiting for permission, I tugged up my trousers and with great difficulty zipped them up over my pulsating penis. I wasn’t the least embarrassed that the man could see my predicament.

“Do you need the lavatory?” the man asked, his face once more cracked by a smile. Of course I did.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The School Dance

z used school cane pants chair (19)

Jay Collins’ cock pulsated against his snug cotton underpants. Just the thought of the girls he would meet that night gave him a terrific hard-on. He stared at the tentpole in his pants. It was no good he would have to polish one off.

Quietly, he edged a straight-backed wooden chair towards his bedroom door. Then tipping it on its hind legs he wedged the top under the door handle. That would stop his mum coming in unexpectedly.

He lay on his bed and dragged the white Y-fronts over his throbbing muscle. Jay Collins, eighteen years old and a virgin. He had no control over his prick. He only had to be within ten yards of a girl and it saluted. He spat into the palm of his right hand and worked it up his rigid shaft. He closed his eyes and imagined himself rubbing his face between the breasts of a sixth-form schoolgirl.

It was the annual Christmas dance. The boys from St. Septimus against the girls of St. Winnie’s. His cock would never hold out.

Dr. Fortescue, the new headmaster of St. Septimus Independent Grammar School, had been clear. He was not a man who enjoyed life and he did not see why others should either. His rules for the dance were simple. No alcohol. No cigarettes. No jiving. Full school uniform. He did not say, “No petting between boys and girls.” He assumed that was already taken as read. “I shall be on hand to ensure there is no misbehaviour,” he growled at the boys. They all knew what that meant.

Jay had been at an all-boys’ school since he was eleven years old. He had hardly ever met a girl. Certainly, he had never been alone with one. Not even the sister of a friend. Now, tonight, he desperately hoped, he would be able to get close to one. Maybe, even to touch.

A stream of cum shot over his belly.

. . .

Audrey and Susan were rather mellow; courtesy of the miniature bottles of whisky they had smuggled into the dance in the pockets of their blazers. The school hall was full now. Somebody had taken great care with the decorations. “It actually feels like Christmas,” Susan shouted in her friend’s ear.

Audrey grinned, almost demonically. “Yes, and it’s time to hand out the presents.” Both eighteen year olds giggled conspiratorially.

They might be sixth-formers of St. Winnie’s, a somewhat demur school for girls, but they were worldly-wise. Like so many young women they found boys of their age own immature. Audrey and Susan preferred the undergraduates at the local university, and the students liked them very much indeed. There was something about a girl’s school gymslip and navy blue knickers that sent the boys wild. Audrey and Susan had long since ceased to be “maidens.”

Susan shrieked theatrically as yet another St. SIGS boy held a sprig of mistletoe above her head and demanded a kiss. She obliged and pursed her lips against a spotty cheek. Blushing profusely, the teenager ran away.

“He’s going back to his mother,” Audrey said, satisfied with her own superiority.

“We need to get moving. We’ll run out of time,” Susan cautioned her friend. She nodded an agreement.

The girls had a plan. It was fiendishly simple. It would work easily. They knew so; they loved it that they had so much power.

“Cock virgins. They’re all cock virgins,” Susan had told her friend earlier. “We can have anyone we choose.”

“Let’s find the most desperate two we can and give them the time of their life,” Audrey swung her long auburn hair around her face.

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Susan giggled. The word “hard” had set her off. She knew the allure her breasts had on young males.

Susan chose her victim quickly. A nerdy prefect. “He’s not bad looking either,” she told Audrey. “But, the look of desperation in his eyes …” she turned her own eyes heavenwards.

Audrey couldn’t make up her mind. There were so many to choose from. She rather supposed it would be a fair-haired lad who had danced ineptly with her. “It was obvious he had a hard on,” she reported, then howled, “Actually, he was hung like a donkey.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?” Susan led her friend back to the boys.

Jay Collins thought he was dreaming. A girl was asking him to go into one of the darkened classrooms with her. His cock thrust through the fly of his pants as she led him by the arm into the passageway. Audrey suppressed a sneer, he was like a dog slavering over a raw steak.

Dr. Fortescue, the headmaster, had abandoned his study. It was too far from the school hall; he would never be able to supervise the dance from there. He wrapped himself in his overcoat and set up a listening post in the geography classroom. Oh, why, he castigated himself, had he allowed this infernal dance to go ahead. He could be in his nice warm house, drooling over a favourite magazine.

The classroom was freezing. He slipped his hand inside his coat and withdrew a bottle of Teachers whisky. “Just for the cold,” he told himself unconvincingly. Furtively, he switched off the light.

The cold and the alcohol befuddled Fortescue. He couldn’t get the image of Peter Rodriquez out of his mind. The eighteen-year-old had troubled him since the first time he saw the olive-skinned beauty in the bar of the George Hotel. The boy’s jet black, almost blue, wavy hair was cut short exposing a longish slim neck. His mid-grey school trousers clung to the outline of his legs which went all the way up to tight muscular buttocks.

The headmaster had thrashed the teenager in front of the whole sixth-form on his unprotected naked buttocks. It was to the first of many beatings. Fortescue was known throughout the school as “The Tyrant Headmaster” and he had earned the title. No excuse was too small to have Rodriquez bent over a chair or the large desk in the headmaster’s study. Earlier that day Fortescue had lashed six stingers with his special dense Malacca cane into the boy’s stretched buttocks. The pale-grey trousers fitted like a second skin; the outline of the boy’s Y-front underpants clearly visible. That would teach him not to throw snowballs.

Fortescue took another sip at the bottle. The stirring in his pants was troublesome. He couldn’t ignore it any longer. Stealthily, even though no one else was there to see, he slipped his hand under his overcoat. The tip of his cock was raw. He gasped in cold air.

Suddenly, the door flew open and the light came on. Four teenagers, two girls and two boys, stood in the doorway. It took a second or two for the full horror to sink in.

“Wha …?” Dr. Fortescue blustered hurriedly removing his hand.

“Oh lor!” Keith Green gasped.

All four backtracked, jostling one another in their urgency to leave.

“Wait. Stop where you are!” The headmaster roared. He was a commanding figure. He expected to be obeyed.

“You girl, what do you have there?”

Too late. Audrey had tried to slip the miniature bottles of whisky back into her blazer pocket. She blushed. Confused. The whisky had already gone to her head.

Dr. Fortescue rose from his seat. Standing, he made a tall, grim man. He looked as strong as an ox. The truth of this was soon to be demonstrated.

“All of you. Go to my study. Now. This instance. I shall follow you later.”

Without question, the four shuffled down the passageway. Their fate inevitable. Even for Susan and Audrey and they weren’t pupils at St. SIGS.

The headmaster’s study was set in the clock tower. The doleful teenagers had to slip and slide across the school quadrangle. The cold was intense, but none felt it. They had other concerns.

They manoeuvred the narrow stone steps leading to the study in silence and paused outside the heavy oak door. Without thinking, Green and Collins faced the wall and placed their hands on their heads. Audrey and Susan glanced at each other. They were familiar with these rituals. Things were much the same at St. Winnie’s. They joined their companions in submission. No one spoke. Each was left to contemplate what would happen next.

Minutes later, they heard footsteps. Two people. Voices. Dr. Fortescue had fetched Mrs. Witherington, the senior mistress at St. Winnie’s.

“Ah,” she cried, “I should have known. Henley and Stritch.” Mrs. Witherington, married for twenty years, but still a spinster, gurned her face like a gargoyle.

Dr. Fortescue lead the way into the study. “Wait here until you are called,” he growled over his shoulder as he closed the door. The room was still warm. Embers glowed in the large open fireplace. Satisfied that his manhood was no longer raging, the headmaster removed his overcoat and made about stoking the fire.

Mrs. Witherington admired the study. The huge desk, topped with green leather was magnificent. So was the mullioned window that overlooked the school grounds with its ivy-covered walls.

The study was panelled in oak. The fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there were also two straight-backed chairs leaning against one wall. She rather wished her own study at St. Winnie’s was so splendid.

Fortescue straightened himself from the fire, turned and faced his companion. “Corp-oreal punishment,” he ran the words over his tongue. It was a statement, not a question. They should be beaten, he had decided. His boys would be caned, but he would defer to the senior mistress on the girls.

“Most definitely, headmaster. Most definitely.” The headmaster was taken aback by Mrs. Witherington’s eagerness. She blushed when she noticed his quizzical stare.

Fortescue strode across the study to the tall thin cabinet. He found a key in his trouser pocket and rather like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he opened it with a flourish, suddenly realising how absurdly proud he was of his array of punishment instruments. He stood back offering his companion a view of its contents.

The doctor only used the cane himself; it was the only instrument that a headmaster should use. A thrashing by the Beak had to be awesome, something to be feared by the boys. But, his predecessor was a man of diverse tastes. That was why the cabinet also stored a leather taws, a white rubber-soled gym shoe and a wooden paddle.

The senior mistress’s eyes widened. A wooden paddle. She had never seen such a thing before. She reached in and picked it up, caressing it lovingly. “From America, I suppose,” she whispered softly.

It was a weighty piece of hardwood. It looked like a smaller version of a bread board she had at home. It was probably four inches by nine and had a firm handle attached. It had been lovingly created. All the edges had been sanded smooth and it been painted with several coats of varnish. Six small holes had been drilled into it. She could see it was a little worn, it had seen action in its time.

“Perfect,” she wheezed, as if to herself. “This will do the job.” She held the handle tightly and swished the wood through the air, taking its weight.

“Let’s get them in here,” Dr. Fortescue was taking control.

Four teenagers shuffled into the study. Eyes downcast, they stood hands clasped behind their backs in front of the headmaster’s enormous desk.

Jay Collins raised his eyes from the floor to look at the headmaster. The elderly man was stone-faced; his icy-blue eyes burned into the boy.

Dr. Fortescue was a man of few words, but this time he jawed and he jawed. He addressed the two abject boys. Letting the school down. Girls. Alcohol. He leaned back in his chair, so they could not smell the whisky on his own breath.

Susan and Audrey stared impassively at the worn rug beneath their feet. At least, the headmaster had not discovered the cigarettes. Nor, the condoms.

The lecture over, Dr. Fortescue pronounced sentence. Green and Collins drew in breath. The cane. Six. The boys’ hearts raced. “But,” the headmaster continued, “Mrs. Witherington will attend to the girls.”

The relief was etched on the boys’ faces. The cane. They had expected that. But, no mention of trousers down. Maybe, the Beak was in a festive mood. Goodwill and all that. The last time Keith had been in the study – with two other prefects for defying the Beak’s orders –  it had been six swipes; on the bare. He cut their arses to ribbons. Keith could not sit in comfort for days. It was weeks before the marks cleared completely.

The senior mistress took her cue. “Henley. You first.” She eyed the leather-topped desk she so admired. She nodded to it. “If I may headmaster?” His eyes gave assent. “Bend over that desk.”

Audrey was impassive. She was no stranger to corporal punishment. She stepped forward to the desk’s edge, estimated its size and where she should put her arms and leaned forward.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Witherington barked. “Lift up your skirt. This is to be on the knickers.”

Keith Green’s heart thumped. Instinctively, he glanced at his classmate. Collins face was puce. Sweat was soaking his scalp, even though the study was rather cold. Both boys stared intently as, her own face now scarlet, Audrey hauled herself to her feet. She shot a pleading look at her senior mistress. If it was mercy she sought, her luck was out. All she saw was Witherington holding the paddle in her right hand and stroking it gently with her left.

Audrey had never seen such a weapon before. She had been spanked many time at school and at home with a slipper or a leather strap. They could sting like billyo, but this wooden board was in a different league. Her stomach twisted in knots and she resolved herself to be brave. She couldn’t let herself down in front of the boys. She grinned at them impudently to show she wasn’t afraid.

“Quickly, now,” the senior mistress patience was sorely tested.

Audrey hitched her skirt, uncovering her navy-blue knickers. She caught sight of Jay and remembered how hard he had been during the dance. Hung like a donkey, she had said. She leaned forward, rested her elbows on the desktop, gritted her teeth and waited.

Witherington lined up the paddle with the cheeks, patting them gently in warning, then drew back. Whack! Suddenly there was an explosion and Audrey felt pressure against her backside pushing her forward. The paddle bounced off the firm bottom as if it was made of rubber. It was raw pain. The stinging was intense. It was nothing like the slipper or the strap. Her whole bum was alight.

Audrey jumped away from the desk, clutching her knicker-covered rear and danced furiously. Her face was bright red, her eyes bloodshot and watery.

“Stay in position,” the senior mistress growled. Contrite, Audrey lent over the desk once more.

“Green,” Dr. Fortescue had his own work to do. “Over to the chair boy.” He waved a curve-handled rattan cane. Green was startled. He was so fascinated by the girl’s arse; he had quite forgotten his own plight.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Take down your trousers,” the good doctor grinned. “Well as the ladies are being punished on their underwear, so must you,” he said in answer to a question etched on the sixth-former’s face.

Hands trembling, Green released the catch of his belt, conscious of Susan’s eyes burning into him. His trousers slowly slithered down his thighs. His bum was round and firm. He was outgrowing his underpants and they clung tightly to his buttocks and crotch. Unintentionally, Susan licked her top lip as she watched the eighteen-year-old lean forward over the chair, submitting his backside to the lash of the cane.

Jay had no interest in his pal’s predicament. He could not pull away from Mrs. Witherington. She raised the hefty wooden paddle to her shoulder height and slammed it forward. It landed with crushing force against the knicker-covered bottom.

“Ooooh! Ouch!” Audrey roared, half-rising up from the desk.

“Stay in position,” Mrs. Witherington slammed the wood into Audrey’s backside again.

Across the study, the headmaster “sawed” his cane across the top most part of Green’s round bottom. The boy’s body tensed, expecting an explosion of agony. It was not long in coming. Dr. Fortescue spun his body, rather like a golfer, and landed a stinger. He was rewarded by a clear line across the top of the sparkling white underpants. He knew a red raw welt would be instantly forming across the teenager’s taut flesh. Air rushed through Green’s clenched teeth. His knees buckled and his bum rose an inch or two over the back of the armchair. He steadied himself and waited for slash number two, conscious of the paddle raising and falling and the yelps of Audrey from across the study.

The paddle smacked again and again. Audrey soon lost count. Her buttocks quivered and throbbed. Spasms of pain ran across the blistered flesh. By the time the twelfth and final whap! had crashed into her, Audrey’s eyes were wet. Her bum was incredibly sore. She hastily wiped the tears off her face, hoping her friends had not seen. When instructed, she stood, smoothed her skirt down and stood against the wall, allowing her friend Susan to take her place.

Susan was taller than Audrey. Jay, who was no expert on these things, thought her posterior was a little fleshier than her friend’s. It could probably absorb the awesome wood much better. He watched her take hold of the hem of her skirt, raise it high, exposing bottom and long, slim legs and lean forward offering herself to her tormentor.

The headmaster had completed his Six. Keith rose unsteadily and hopped from foot to foot. Even with his pants up, it had been a terrific whacking. He wanted to massage away at the pain, but didn’t want the Beak to know he was hurt.

Audrey, looked on transfixed. She rather wished he had giving himself a rub. She wouldn’t mind feeling that arse for herself.

“Collins, you next.” Dr. Fortescue tucked the cane under his arm and glared at the boy. Jay’s face paled. He could not move. “But, Sir …” he blubbered. His hands wrung in front of him, his shoulders hunched. He couldn’t face the Beak. “Please …. I can’t, Sir. Please, no. Don’t make me.”

The headmaster slipped the cane into is hand and swished it menacingly. “Pah! Come on lad. We haven’t got all night,” he growled. He walked forward, intent on gripping the teenager and hauling him to the chair. Jay Collins swerved to avoid the clutch and ran to the door.

“Stop him! Stop him!” Fortescue roared at an astonished Green. Too late. The door swung open and Jay had made his escape.

“Come back. This instance!” Never in his entire life as a schoolmaster had such a thing happened. Of course, boys were sometimes reluctant to bend over and take their punishment like men. If need be the headmaster would have a senior boy pinion an offender across a desk or chair. But like the Canadian Mounties, Dr. Fortescue always got his man.

Not this time. At least, not yet. Collins was now slipping and sliding across the school quadrangle towards the school gates and his home. A large hot sticky patch of goo spreading through the front of his trousers.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures


AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is one in a series of stories called The Tyrant Headmaster. To read episode one, click here


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second