Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)

 

Readers in the United Kingdom don’t need me to tell them that arguments about leaving the European Union have been raging for more than three years and don’t seem to be resolved yet.

Many people who voted to leave the EU (it seemed to me) wanted to return to sometime in the past when in their eyes the world was a less complicated place. Maybe the 1930s where everybody knew their place in the world and discipline was much tighter than it is today.

That set me thinking. What if, after the exit from the EU, we did start to turn the clock back. In my imagination, corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools. This proved such a success with parents that it was soon extended to include other young people, such as university and college students and workplace apprentices. Before long any person under the age of thirty could be subjected to the cane or the birch (or any other CP implement of choice).

So, was born the series of stories that I called “Changed Times.” I have brought them all together here for those who may not have seen them before. I enjoyed writing them, but the stories and sentiments expressed are fiction and I am not asking you to join me in forming a new political party.

Click on the titles and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: A glimpse into the near future

This story sets up the series and follows Kenny on his first day at college as an apprentice to Global Petroleum.

“Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

“Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’

 

2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

“Mr Scroggins was the “punishment officer” for the Neighbourhood Watch. It was a title he chose for himself. It wasn’t official; he wasn’t paid a salary. He didn’t want paying, he was glad to perform his civic duty.

“The Neighbourhood Watch had been formed in the words of its members, ‘to take back the streets.’ The Avenue was in a prosperous middle-class suburb.

“They had a ‘punishment room’ at the community hall. It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light. It was quite small, but big enough for its purpose. It contained a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the youth to be secured with straps. The horse itself had once been in the gymnasium of a local school. It had been lowered and modified so that when a young man was properly mounted and helpless the padded upper surface was quite comfortable.”

 

  1. The police station

Of course, the police play a large part in the new social control.

‘“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

‘“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

‘“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.”

 

  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

“Mr Hodgson took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in ‘Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.’ He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

“He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.”

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

Emboldened by the new laws, fathers were reintroducing discipline into their own homes.

“Downstairs in the living room Mr Nightingale flexed a thick rattan cane thoughtfully in his hands. He had never held such a thing until the day he bought it in the local market. A stall specialised in all kinds of spanking instruments. It did a roaring trade in school canes and paddles. Mr Nightingale picked up a large scatter cushion and balanced it over the back of an armchair. Then, he positioned himself an arm’s length to its side. The cushion was more or less where George’s backside would be in about ten minutes’ time. Mr Nightingale rubbed the cane across the cushion, raised his arm high and brought the whippy rod crashing down. A line indented across the centre of the polyester-filled cushion.”

 

  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

‘“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. ‘We’re live in twenty seconds.’ Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

“The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

“The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.”

  1. Pub landlord

Soon everyone was getting in on the act. A pub landlord takes control after a group of lads get rowdy and smash up chairs.

“I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

“Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.”

  1. Just another day

Just another day, in just another office. It could be anywhere across the UK. Three twenty-something workers face the consequences of not taking a training workshop seriously.

“Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. ‘But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.’

‘“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.’

“Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

  1. The truck

Another workplace whacking. What happens if you consistently turn up late for work?

“My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

“It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

I have also written other “futuristic” stories along the lines of Changed Times. You can read some of them here

 

A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The newly wed

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z used retro domestic young man and woman kitchen (1)

Bradley and Martha had been married for three months and despite all the smiles and the good humour they showed in public things were not going so well. They lived rent-free in the small apartment owned by Martha’s dad. Bradley had no job and, of course, there was no question of Martha going out to work. She kept the home and soon – if Bradley could ever get anything right – she would be a mother.

Bradley was a waster. He said he went out looking for work each day and Martha believed him. Then one afternoon her father saw him coming out of the snooker hall behind Brocklehurst High Street. He didn’t tell his daughter, he loved her too much for that. Instead, he sent his youngest son Baxter over with a written note. “Oh, honey,” Bradley peered at the paper in his hand, “Your pop wants to see me. At his house. This evening. On my own.”

Martha reached for the note but Bradley hurriedly put it in the pocket of his trousers. She sighed, why hadn’t daddy told her about this? Why hadn’t he invited them both for supper?

“Beats me,” Bradley smiled. He had no idea at all. He couldn’t even begin to imagine. “I’ll tell you all about it when I get back.”

Martha’s dad, Mr Verne, was a successful businessman, he had started with a corner shop and now he had properties all across the town. At the last count he employed about a hundred people. He worked hard and he knew for an absolute fact that people who worked hard would get on. They would make something of their lives, no matter how humble their origins. All it needed was a bit of sweat.

Bradley was no success. He would never amount to anything. He was lazy. A day’s work would probably kill him. Mr Verne had told his wife as much almost the moment he set eyes on the man. Bradley was not good enough for Mr Verne’s daughter. Of course, he didn’t tell Martha any of this. She was in love. And, as any father knows, when a young woman is in love there’s no reasoning with her.

Bradley took the bus across town and alighted at Widdicombe Wood. His destination, Mr Verne’s house at The Avenue, was a short walk away. It was a large spread, bigger than many of the five-bedroomed detached houses in the street. The Avenue reeked of success. My, Bradley thought to himself as he got closer to his destination, what it must mean to live here.

He trudged up the gravelled driveway and rang the bell. Trisha, the maid, took his hat and coat, and asked him to wait in the hallway. “Mr Verne is in his study,” she said and without further ado she bustled away. He waited admiring his reflection in a mirror and wondered where everyone was. The house felt deserted. Why hadn’t anyone been to greet him.

Then, Baxter, Martha’s fourteen-year-old brother, appeared at the top of the spiral staircase. He leaned over a handrail and peered down at Bradley. A grin spilt the boy’s face. Bradley froze. There was something sinister about the boy’s knowing look. Then Baxter shook his head vigorously from side to side, “Wouldn’t want to be you, no sir,” he giggled. He had ran back to his bedroom before Bradley could question him. “Little brat,” he muttered under his breath. He was in two minds to go chasing after him when the maid appeared as if from nowhere. “Mr Verne will see you now,” she spoke formally and led Bradley to the door of the study. “Knock, and then enter,” she said quietly and once again bustled away.

Bradley stood outside the door. Why, he wondered, was his heart beating so fast? Why was he nervous? Why did he feel like he was one Mr Verne’s employees, summoned to see the boss? He knocked and as he fumbled with the door handle, a voice from within the room called, “Enter!” It startled Bradley; now he felt like a school boy called to the headmaster’s study. He pushed the door open.

He had never been in Mr Verne’s study before. Why he chose to call it a “study” Bradley did not know. It looked to him like an office, like you would see in a business building anywhere across the country. There was a largish desk, some chairs, a filing cabinet and shelves. Mr Vernon was seated behind the desk. The top was clear of clutter and only an old Bakelite telephone remained.

Bradley was dumbfounded. Why was he here? What was going on? He certainly didn’t feel like one of the family. This was no social visit. He closed the door and lingered by it, unsure what he was meant to do. “Come in,” Mr Verne spoke crisply. “Stand there where I can see you,” he waved his hand indicating a space in front of the desk.

Bradley opened his mouth, ready to offer a friendly greeting but Mr Verne’s stern visage halted him. Bradley frowned instead. “Do you know why I have sent for you?” Mr Verne’s tone was commanding and Bradley could only mutter in reply. “Speak up!” Mr Verne roared, demonstrating to Bradley for the first time that evening that Marth’s father was in a sour mood.

“Eh, no Sir, sorry Sir,” Bradley bit down on his tongue. What had made him call him “Sir.” Since the wedding it had always been, “Father,” and even once when they had both tasted whisky, “Dad.”

“If I said Billingham’s Snooker Hall would that mean anything to you?” Mr Verne spat. He leaned forward across the desk and eyed his son-in-law threateningly. Bradley recoiled. His face flushed and suddenly his heartrate sped. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words escaped his lips.

“Don’t even try to deny it. I saw you. I then had inquiries made, you are a regular there. Most weekdays. Do I need to say any more?” It was what is known as a rhetorical question, even Bradley who had not performed well at school knew that. He made no answer.

“Pah!” Mr Verne rose to his feet. He was a small man by stature but he had a big presence, he could quell a shop full of workers with a single stare. Bradley was no match for him. Mr Verne had prepared a speech. Its details need not detain us in this story. He summarised Bradleys many failings. There were many. So many in fact, that Mr Verne’s conclusion was startling. “From Monday, you come to work for me. In one of my shops. As a lowly assistant. You’ll get no favours from me. You’ll have to earn any advancement you make in my business. What do you say to that?”

What was there to say. It was the a most generous offer; one that Bradley knew in his heart he did not deserve. “Thank you, Sir,” he croaked, not showing his father-in-law and now employer due gratitude.

“Good,” Mr Verne barked. He stood, still keeping his steely gaze on Bradley. The young man flinched, the stare seemed to burn right into his soul. Both men fell into silence. Bradley wondered was he supposed to leave now, and when Mr Verne remained statuesque, he made a small movement to turn and leave the room.

“Not yet, young man,” Mr Verne rasped. Bradley froze. “I haven’t finished yet.” Bradley turned to face his father-in-law who was now moving across the study. Bradley’s eyes followed him as he went. He stopped at the filing cabinet. It was unlocked and Mr Verne had only to lean forward to open the third drawer down. He reached in. Bradley could not make out the mysterious thudding sound he heard coming from within the wooden cabinet. What was Mr Verne searching for?

Bradley soon found out. When Mr Verne straightened up and turned toward the young man he was clutching what looked to Bradley like a small cricket bat. It was an oblong of wood with a handle at one end. Mr Verne brandished it at Bradley. He noted the uncomprehending look on his face. “It’s what our American cousins call a paddle,” he said in explanation. “A mightily-effective punishment tool,” he added, “A much more efficient weapon than a whippy rattan cane. Believe me.”

Bradley was indeed prepared to take Mr Verne’s word for it. He feared the old man intended to make a demonstration of it when he watched him smack the blade of the paddle into the palm of his own hand. “Mightily effective,” Mr Verne muttered. He looked across at Bradley and pierced him once more with that steely gaze. “You need to buck up your ideas young man. A lesson in life is what you need.” Bradley felt his knees weaken. The palms of his hands started to sweat. He rubbed them against the legs of his trousers. “I short, sharp shock,” Mr Verne concluded.

Bradley could not stop his eyes blinking. His throat tightened. He sucked down on his bottom lip. His father-in-law’s intensions were made entirely clear when he said, “Remove your jacket and hang in behind the door.” It was a clear instruction and Mr Verne was in no doubt that it would be obeyed. It was.

“Stand by my desk.” Mr Verne waved the paddle in its direction as if there could be any doubt what he meant. Bradley could not get his feet to move, they felt like they were encased in concrete. A spanking. His father-in-law wanted to spank him like he was Baxter. He wasn’t fourteen, he was a full grown man of twenty-two. He should tell Mr Verne this. A spanking with that cricket bat thing. How preposterous. Bradley said nothing. He was a coward as well as indolent. “Quickly,” Mr Verne scorned, “I haven’t got all night. My supper is waiting.”

Somehow, Bradley made it to the desk. His knees were weak and he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t fall to the floor in a dead faint. “Take down your trousers. Bend over the desk.” Bradley’s jaw dropped. Literally. His mouth gaped open. Now, he must say something. To take spanking would be an embarrassment; to suffer it trousers-down, a humiliation. Again, he said nothing. He had no courage.

Later, he couldn’t remember much of what happened next in that study. He must have taken hold of his braces and slipped them from his shoulders. The trousers were soon open and sliding down his legs. He was spread-eagled across the desk. His arms were stretched wide and his fingers gripped the edge of the desks. He rested his chin on the desktop and stared straight ahead at the ugly pattern in the wallpaper. Like this his bottom was raised at an angle over the front of the desk. Mr Verne made further preparations by taking hold of the tail of Bradley’s shirt and his singlet and pushing them up his back, exposing an inch or two of naked flesh. Bradley wore fashionable cotton shorts. They fastened by buttons at the side. This made it convenient for Mr Verne who soon had them at Bradley’s knees. The backside he was presented with was chubby. Mr Verne pressed the paddle blade into the buttocks taking note of how far it could sink into the flesh.

While he did all this, Bradley closed his eyes. It was all too unreal to him; it could easily have been a dream. He lay prostrate, submissively. His father-in-law owned him.

The buttocks though flabby were smooth with youth. Mr Verne patted Bradley’s bottom with the paddle, noticing how the cheeks quivered with anticipation. The paddle rose and fell three times in quick succession. Immediately, the flesh was stained bright pink as the paddle blade was imprinted across the peaks of the mounds.

The following smacks across the bare flesh were twice as loud as before. Bradley gasped sharply, hissing at the furious sting. Mr Verne waited patiently for the jiggling bottom to come to a halt.

He paddled slowly. He paddled hard. Bradley yelped and wiggled and cried out as the heat mounted. His cheeks turned from hot pink to a deep magenta. The change in colour encouraged Mr Verne in his endeavour. He swatted the paddle at a steady, unhurried rate, hammering the wood across the scorched buttocks again and again.

He counted twelve to himself. Was that enough, he wondered. How many would be “enough?” What was the lesson that he was trying to impart here? Mr Verne wasn’t sure, even in his own mind. Bradley would become an employee next Monday, he would work for his living. He would no longer be able to shirk his duties. None of that would change, no matter how many, or how few, swats of the paddle he received that evening.

Mr Verne halted, at that moment he realised why he wanted to punish the man submitting to him. It wasn’t only because he was lazy, indolent and idle. It wasn’t because he was a coward, although that fact helped. Mr Verne wanted to punish Bradley for stealing his daughter away from him. Of course, she would have eventually married; but she was worth so much better than this dolt, presently offering up his bare buttocks for the taste of the wood.

He lifted the paddle and let fly again. The middle portion of Bradley bottom was scorched, so Mr Verne aimed lower, into the under cheeks, on that sensitive “sit-spot” where the bum and thighs meet. Then he went higher to redden the tops of his cheeks. Bradley sobbed and whimpered for his boss and master to stop.

Mr Verne lined up the paddle as before, then hoisted it to his shoulder. He continued to bring it down in an easy, steady motion. It made a meaty “thunk!” as it connected. Bradley whimpered and his bottom shook violently.

Bradley was a mess. His face was blotchy with red and damp with tears and his eyes were bloodshot. His chubby cheeks were mottled with crimson and purple blotches. The once-smooth skin was rough and corrugated with tiny blisters. It looked like leather. The soreness would last for days. It was time to stop. Mr Verne put down the paddle and Bradley bleated with relief.

The ride back on the bus was horrendous. Bradley stood the whole way although many seats were vacant. He ignored the puzzled looks of his fellow passengers. By the time he reached home the worst of the pain had subsided. What had been an agonising hurt had become a constant throbbing. Before too long it would be an irritating ache. Martha greeted him with open arms. She busied herself in the kitchen, preparing a late supper. “Tell me all about it,” she gushed, “What did daddy say?”

Bradley just manged to supress a groan as he sat down on the hard chair. He hoped Martha didn’t notice how he wriggled. “He’s given me a job. I start on Monday,” Bradley said through gritted teeth.

“Marvellous!” Martha trilled. “Isn’t daddy just wonderful!”

“Yes,” Bradley groaned, “Marvellous.” He held his head  in  his hands. How would he explain away the bruises?

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

You can never escape from Dad

Skipping school to watch football

My houseboy Nate

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Unexpected demonstration of affection

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Nigel Wallace, a long-since retired professor at Brocklehurst University, was at home doing nothing when the phone rang. He didn’t recognise the voice at the other end and was a little alarmed when the man said he was a lawyer and asked Wallace to confirm his identity. Was he being accused of something? Lawyers always spelled trouble.

The lawyer detected the uneasiness in the professor’s reply and sought to reassure him. “I am dealing with the estate of Mr Eric Stanhope.” That didn’t help. “I know no one of that name,” he replied, anxious to put the phone down and continue staring at the fading wallpaper in his front room.

“He was a student of yours in the early nineteen-seventies,” the lawyer continued, “I am sorry to say he has passed away. Lung cancer. I should like to invite you to a reading of the will.”

Prof Wallace wanted to retort, “Reading of the will. Is there really such a thing? I thought they only happened in crime novels. Agatha Christie. A group of strangers get called to the reading of a will at a creepy mansion and one by one they get bumped off.” He wasn’t given time to speak as the lawyer was anxious to conclude business. He gave a date, a time and a venue for the event.

“No thanks,” Prof Wallace was adamant. He had no wish to travel half way across the country on a fool’s errand. What interest was a former student of forty years ago to him? The lawyer did not press the case. He was used to such refusals. He could inform the professor of the details of his legacy at a later date. “But,” he added, “He has left a letter for you, may I forward it on to you?”

“Bah!” Prof Wallace croaked. Despite being a cantankerous old man (indeed, he had always been cantankerous) he did not add “What should I care?” The lawyer wished him good day and ended the conversation.

So it was that the next day a registered letter arrived at Prof Wallace’s home. He had to admit (to himself, since he was alone in the world) that he had become intrigued. Who was this Mr Eric Stanhope and why did he want to remember him after so many years? He pulled out a printed transcript from the envelope and settled back in his armchair. This is what he read.

“Dear Professor,

“You probably don’t remember me since so many young men have passed through your hands over the years but I have never forgotten you. There is no doubt in my mind that I owe my life to you. Please don’t think I am being over-dramatic. I don’t mean that you once dragged me from a burning building or conducted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after I had been pulled from a river. I mean that it was the help and guidance you gave to me as a young student that made me the man I became.

“It was the sense of discipline that you instilled in me back at Brocklehurst that set me on the path to success. You almost certainly won’t know that I went on to build a great financial empire. This brought me great wealth and happiness. Believe me when I say without you I would not have a wonderful wife and three fantastic daughters.

“What I have just said probably puzzles you. You have never met my family and in all probability you think you don’t know me from Adam. Let me explain. When I arrived at Brocklehurst I was a bumptious eighteen-year-old. I was smug and conceited. I had come from humble origins. I had not studied hard at school but I had a knack for passing exams with minimal effort. I had no intention of working hard and expected to cruise through university. In the early weeks of my first term I hardly attended lectures, I spent my time in the bars of Brocklehurst and introduced myself to many young ladies of the town. I did not know it but I was heading for failure. It seemed that at Christmas time I would be put on the train to my home never to return. You saved me.

“I remember the first time you summoned me to your study as if it were only yesterday. You were not only a professor at the university, you held the post of head of department. I didn’t have the sense I was born with. I was self-satisfied and arrogant. What could you, an old man teach me? (Old man. Ha! Now I look back I see you were probably still in your thirties). Well, you soon showed me. As my memories flood back, my bottom tingles as I write this.

“Your speech was word perfect. You listed my faults and there were many. You were never a tall man, nor especially large. But you had a presence about you. Much to my surprise I found myself cowered. I clenched my hands behind my back. My feet wriggled with embarrassment. I showed an intense interest in the carpet beneath my feet. I had never experienced this before.

“What you did next was also a novelty for me. It was a shock. I had no expectation. I had never been called to your study before. I had heard no other student speak of their visits. I was completely unprepared. Your study wasn’t too big and along one wall were a series of shelves and cupboards. I forced my gaze away from my feet and my eyes followed you as you took the stately walk across the room. You stopped at a cupboard. Did you feel my eyes burning into your back as I stared? You fumbled in the pocket of your trousers and found a small key. This you used to unlock a cupboard door. You reached in.

“Your back obscured my view, but when you straightened up and turned back towards me I saw you were carrying what looked like a block of wood. No, not carrying; brandishing. You were flaunting it. It was a rectangle of wood with a handle and you were waving it at me. How naïve was I? I didn’t have the slightest idea what it was. It looked like a miniature cricket bat. I had never seen a spanking paddle. They weren’t so common in England. Schools might use a whippy rattan cane or a rubber-soled gym plimsoll, but not a paddle. I now know they were more favoured by our American cousins. I had never seen a cane close up, nor seen a plimsoll smacked across a boy’s stretched backside, my school did not use corporal punishment.

“I think you might have guessed I was a novice to this sort of thing. My behaviour might have given you a big clue that I was unpunished (as well as undisciplined) as a child. You approached me still brandishing the paddle and I had no doubt about your intention. You had me in your spell. I was rooted to the spot. My heart raced and my mouth dried. I am not much of a writer, but ‘like the Sahara Dessert’ springs to mind. Even today, I remember what you did.

“With one hand you picked up the straight-backed chair that usually stood in front of your desk and you plonked it down in the middle of the room. You gave me one of your steely glares. I blanched. I looked away. I could not compete with you in a staring contest. You nodded towards the chair. You spoke no words, but your message was clear. You tapped the paddle into the palm of your hand with menace. ‘Bend over the chair,’ was your unspoken command. I was bemused. You wanted to spank me. Could this be true? Was I dreaming? Me, an eighteen-year-old adult. I didn’t say any of this, of course. I daren’t. At that moment all my bluster and arrogance had melted. I was timid. You were my master. I would not say that I was your ‘slave’, but I was your subordinate. You were in charge. Your word was law. What could I do but obey?

“I wanted to obey. I intended to obey, but again my innocence let me down. I had never been spanked. I had never seen a boy spanked. Bend over. But, how exactly was this done? Bend over the back of the chair? Lay my stomach on the seat of the chair with my arms ahead of me and my legs dangling behind?

“You read my mind. ‘Stand to the front. Bend over, place your hands on the seat of the chair,’ you commanded. Of course. It was that simple. I did not stop to think that now was my last chance to flee the room, to run helter-skelter back to my digs and lock the door behind me. I did not contemplate what the consequences might be if I refused to obey. Refusal was not an option. I stepped up to the chair, then hesitated for a moment before leaning forward as you had instructed.

“It felt mighty strange, bent over a chair, offering up my backside to an older man to spank with a wooden paddle. I don’t suppose I had ever felt so vulnerable. I didn’t know it at the time, but realised later that you took account of my lack of experience in such matters. I wore heavy jeans. They fitted snugly and showed my buttocks. But, denim is a thick material and offers quite a protection against any spanking. You allowed me to keep my jeans on. I am thankful. I think on that first time a spanking on my underpants – or God forbid, on the bare! – would have been an embarrassment (no, a humiliation too far).

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“You delivered six, very hard swats across the lower part of my buttocks. I suppose that’s what was known as six-of-the-best back in those days. Each one landed on top of the previous swipe. My bum was on fire. You got me right on the ‘sit-spot’ and I couldn’t sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Only later, was I to realise what an expert spanker you were.

“My bottom wriggled and writhed as the paddle hammered across the seat of my jeans. Your strong left arm pushed into my shoulders and forced me to remain bent over. Otherwise, I would have been jumping up and down, rubbing my bum, hopping about like some demented Red Indian.

“I don’t think I cried, but my eyes would have been pretty moist by the time you finished. You let me stand and then you lectured me some more about my future behaviour and the consequences I faced should I be summoned back to your study.

“It took the better part of a week for the bruises to clear completely. Each time I went to the shower I was reminded of the penalty for bad behaviour. I resented you. I could go so far as to say I hated you. How dare you treat me like a little kid. I was eighteen, legally an adult. I fumed a lot, but I didn’t miss any of your lectures for the rest of the term. But, I was young and stupid and I liked my beer. And, the girls. Although I was afraid to upset you again I had less concerns about my other lecturers. That’s what got me in trouble again.

“Looking back, Mr Lowry had every right to report me when I failed to complete his essay, even after he had granted an extension on submission. I didn’t think so at the time. How I hated you when I received that second summons to your study. I knew what to expect. You had made it clear enough. Of course, I only had myself to blame. I was going to wear my football shorts and swimming trunks and a couple of pairs of underpants under my jeans. My jeans were always tight and when I tried it was a battle to get the zipper to close. When I looked in the mirror my bum was massive. Just as well I abandoned that ruse, considering what you made me do in your study.

“You gave me a right telling off, but – and I’ll never forget this – you said you thought I was bright and intelligent and could make something of myself. But I had to pull my finger out (my words, you were too eloquent to speak like that) and concentrate on my work. Nobody had ever said that to me before. No one at school, and certainly not my parents. It gave me something to think about.

“Naturally, you didn’t leave it there. You made a return visit to that cupboard. This time the paddle you choose was larger and heavier. It was some kind of dark wood and it was so highly polished it reflected the light from the ceiling. I can still see the way you held it in your hand, demonstrating its power. How many holes were drilled into it: six or eight? I can’t quite remember.

“Then, you had me take down my jeans and spread-eagle myself across your desk. Oh boy! Luckily, I was only wearing one pair of pants. We wore tiny briefs in those days and they hardly covered my buttocks. Most of the underside of the cheeks were bare to the wind. You exploited that. I don’t suppose you could have left me in any greater pain if you’d made me take my briefs down.

“Twelve swats with that paddle across the half-naked bum. Oh how I howled. I just about absorbed the first two, but by the third I was gripping the edge of the desk for dear life. My head butted the desktop. My legs kicked. My hips swivelled and swerved. I almost bit through my bottom lip in my failed attempts to stop myself yowling. They must have heard me down in the street below. I’m surprised someone didn’t burst into the study to see who was being murdered.

“By the time you let me climb back into my jeans my bum was throbbing raw. It felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I have never sat down on top of a blazing coal fire, but if I ever did it would not hurt as much as that paddling.

“You gave me time to calm down and before you sent me on my way you told me again how talented I was. That you had confidence in me. That you wanted me to achieve. That night as I lay on my side in my bed, trying not let my savaged buttocks brush against the mattress, I thought about what you had said. As I said nobody had shown such faith. I realised then that you were not a bully. You had power over me, but you didn’t exploit it. You spanked me for my own good.

“I worked hard that term and passed the exams and was doing well. It looked like the paddling had worked. Then, I fell off the wagon. It was a girl, of course. Or more truthfully, girls. I was a good looking lad back then with an easy charm and a sexual appetite. I spent too much time in bed (but not alone) and not enough in the library. I failed a couple of mock exams.

“I remember how you shook your head with disappointment. I can’t explain how that stabbed at my heart. You told me how proud you had been when I bucked up my ideas and passed my exams the previous term. You said you had hoped I had turned a corner. I was on the straight-and-narrow path to success. Alas, no! I had veered to the side of the road and broken down. I needed maintenance. A maintenance spanking!

“You were no longer my professor. Is it too fanciful to say you were a father figure? You certainly showed you cared more than my real dad. What you did next confirmed this. You were back at that goddam cupboard and this time you brandished a small block of wood that was no bigger than a paperback book. I blinked in disbelief. Compared to the whopping paddle you used to take my backside off last time, this was puny. I almost smiled with relief. This one wouldn’t do much damage. I had forgotten what an expert you were.

“You had finished lecturing me and without a further word you took that chair I had been ordered to bend across on my first visit and once more you placed it in the centre of the room. I was waiting for your command ‘Bend over’, but you had other ideas. You sat on the chair and made yourself comfortable before with an imperious click of the finger you instructed that I should come and stand beside you. I did so. You peered at my feet and then ran your eyes up my legs, stopping when you reached the fly of my jeans. ‘Take them down,’ you said. My heart skipped. Only then did your intention become clear to me.

“This was not to be a professor-student spanking, something delivered at arm’s length. At a distance. Dare I say this was to be more personal, more intimate? It was to be like a loving father with his erring son.  My hands shook so much I fumbled with the clasp at the top of my jeans and I couldn’t get a grip on the zipper. At last the front of my jeans were open. They fitted so tightly that they would not easily fall to my feet and I had to roll them down my legs. I was now standing by you wearing only a shirt and underpants. I did not feel shame, nor embarrassment and certainly not humiliation. I felt respect. My respect for you – and dare I say it, your respect for me? You had my best interest at heart. I deserved this spanking. It would pull me up sharp. As you had already told me, it would put me back on the straight-and-narrow path to success.

“I had never been across the knee of an older man. It is a more submissive position than being across a chair or spread across a desk. My body was close you yours. I could feel your breathing. My stomach dug into your thigh and my chest rested against your legs. I didn’t have a view of myself but I sensed that our bodies fitted together perfectly. I spread my arms ahead of me and rested my palms in the harsh carpet. My nose was inches from the ground. My bottom was raised at an angle of about forty-five degrees which allowed my legs to dangle behind me with my toes hovering above the floor. When I moved my head I could see under the chair and look at my own feet encased in denim.

“I felt your body move. You had taken hold of my shirt and gently pushed it up my back until it was scrunched at my shoulders. By now you must have had a perfect target. I braced myself for the heat of the paddle. But, you were not quite ready. You rested the paddle on the small of my back. With both hands you gripped the elasticated waist of my underpants. Ha! I’ve read in books where a character was said to have ‘gasped with surprise’. I had always thought that was a stupid expression. Not anymore. I gasped. I inhaled a great mouthful of air and I held it there. What were you doing? Of course, I knew full well what you were doing; that was what made me wheeze so!

“Slowly, with some ceremony, you peeled down my underpants. My stomach was resting on your thigh and you struggled to get them over my buttocks. I lifted myself slightly and soon they were on their way to rest at my knees. ‘Ha!’ you said, ‘You weren’t expecting that! I hope you realise how seriously I take this.’ I did not reply. I think my body tensed. Did my buttocks clench? Did they harden like two rubber balls? You picked up the paddle and I felt you tap it against the highest point of my bum cheeks. You took your aim and you let fly.

“You had to take a firm grip of my waist to keep me in place. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why I was being spanked. I deserved it. I needed it. I was prepared to submit to you, but my body had other ideas. My head was low and my bottom high and you had positioned me so that I couldn’t get my hands behind me to protect my poor, exposed bottom. There was nothing I could do but wriggle and kick. It did me no good. Did my protests spur to on to greater deeds? Did you spank me harder and longer because of it?

“That was the last time you spanked me. There was no further need. You had transformed me. I worked hard for you. It wasn’t that I feared further paddlings. I certainly did not welcome them. But, the spankings were incidental. What drove me was that you had faith in me. You cared. You wanted me to do well. The spankings were supplementary.”

At this point Prof Wallace let the letter drop onto a nearby coffee table. He hauled himself from his chair and edged his way into the kitchen where he flipped a switch and waited for the kettle to boil. He busied himself finding tea bags and sugar. He opened the fridge and carefully tested the milk for freshness. Then, with his tea he returned to the front room and picked up the letter once more. He stared at it intently as if it could answer the question on his mind. Who was this Eric Stanhope? Which one had he been? The professor didn’t have the least recollection of these events.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The Dean’s list

 First day at St CIGS

Late home from a date

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7)

When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

z used drawing taws hold (8)

  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.

‘“Mmmm”

‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

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

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

“Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.”

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

“Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

“He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

“The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

‘“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.”

 

Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

“He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A wicked theft

new 5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why on earth …” I spluttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

z used paddle otk pants chair bbfc

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Hotel’s strict no-noise policy

new 5

z used after on bed naked (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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His new job

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Economics failure

new 5

z used white pants paddle chair (3a)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com