Sports report

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z used drawing football The Gem (54)

Good afternoon from the Old Mill ground where this thrilling First Division match ended with a 4-3 victory for the Town over title challengers Albion.

The star of the show was once again whiz kid Stanley Mitchell, the eighteen-year-old amateur player who has burst onto the scene this season. Mitchell who is still a schoolboy displayed all the brilliance we have come to expect of him from recent matches. He scored the first goal with a quite remarkable dribble from the halfway line. I lost count of the number of Albion players he left in his wake as he charged up the field.

His second goal was a wonderful volley from the edge of the penalty area that simply flew into the top corner of the net leaving goalkeeper Hanks with no chance.

But for all Mitchell’s undoubted footballing talent he once again showed his immaturity and ill-discipline. He was dismissed from the pitch in the 75th minute when he went down after being tackled in the Albion area. He claimed a penalty which the referee denied.

Mitchell refused to accept the decision and spent some time arguing violently with the referee Mr Calderstones. The air was quite blue. Mr Calderstones quite rightly sent off Mitchell who reacted by taking off his shirt and throwing it to the ground as he left the field.

Although he is a quite brilliant player Mitchell is garnering a reputation for being a spoilt, unruly, petulant young man. Much to the annoyance of his fellow players and his manager Mr Clapman.

I am told there was a scene in the dressing room after the match. Alf Mortenson, Town’s burley captain, intervened on behalf of his club-mates. Young Mitchell soon found himself across Mortenson’s knee in the fashion of many petulant boys. His football knickers and underwear were ripped down so that his bottom was quite bare. A size-12 rubber-soled plimsoll was then used with some vigour.

Many listeners may know  from their own experiences with physical-training instructors at school that the plimsoll in the right hands is an awesome punishment tool. Mortenson, who stands well over six-foot-five and weighs fifteen-stone was well placed to deliver Mitchell’s much-deserved spanking.

Mortenson was encouraged by his clubmates who watched and cheered as he hammered the slipper across the young brat’s naked bottom. No square inch of the buttocks was left unattended. The eighteen-year-old was said to be howling and hollering long before the captain let up.

One thing is for certain it will be a very uncomfortable ride home for Mitchell on the team bus.

We shall have to see whether there is an improvement in Mitchell’s behaviour at next week’s match against Rovers. Meanwhile, the wonderkid has to return to school on Monday and it remains to be seen if his headmaster has something more to say on the matter.

This is Raymond Gladhanding returning you to the studio. Eamonn.

Picture credit: The Gem

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Footballer’s Hairbrush Treatment

Oh my papa

Smoking on the bus

 

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

Still spanked in short trousers

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z used otk school white pants taking down chair sting

Fred and Jim were in the Three Fishers bored out of their skulls and not talking about much when Jim suddenly piped up: You still keeping your lad in short trousers?

Which one? Fred inquired.

The eldest, Gavin.

Yeah, he’s left school now, nearly nineteen.

So it works then?

Oh yeah. He got through his exams and everything.

I thought you might have given up now.

No. It keeps him out trouble. Off the streets. He’s not going to want to go out at night dressed up like a little schoolboy. His mates would crucify him.

No, I see that.

You should try it with your Kevin. I hear he’s been seen drinking down here.

I know. But …

It’s easy. You can buy the short trousers on the internet. Proper ones, just like the boys wear at school. Even in Kevin’s size. I think it’s because even small kids today are really fat.

Well, I suppose I need to do something about Kevin.

A good hiding wouldn’t come amiss.

But he’s eighteen.

So what. I still spank Gavin.

Get away.

Yeah, why not? When he deserves it. Which is quite often, actually. D’you know what, I saw they were selling those old fashioned whippy canes on eBay like they used to use in schools back in the day. I’m thinking of getting one for Gavin if he doesn’t buck up his ideas.

I wouldn’t have the nerve.

Well … Start as you mean to go on. I still use the rubber-soled plimsoll. The one Gavin had for PE at school. A big heavy one. Works a treat. Packs a right punch.

What he lets you spank him?

Lets me? He doesn’t have much choice. My house. My rules. He knows that. It always has been, always will. He’s working now. He can leave home if he wants to. But even then, when he comes back to my place he has to behave himself.

Sounds fair enough. So you say you spanked Gavin. What, recently?

Last week. Sunday,

What’d he do?

Usual stuff. That was why I had to take him across my knee. He needed a reminder.

Reminder?

Yeah, like a wake-up call. He needs to come home for his meals. Liz cooks and he doesn’t turn up and it all gets wasted. Then, he never lifts a finger around the house. I told him it was his job to take the Hoover around the carpets every Saturday. Did he do it? Did he hell. Then last Saturday night – well Sunday morning actually – he rolls home drunk as a skunk. Couldn’t get his key in the door. Rings the bell wakes the whole house up. Well, after that what did he expect?

So what? You spanked him.

Too right. I waited until he had sobered up and I sent him off for a shit, shower and shave and I said, Get into those short trousers and then come down to the living room.

And he did?

Course, he did. No question about it.

So he comes down and he’s in the full togs. Neat grey short trousers, grey shirt, tie. The lot. He’s quite a big lad as you know, but when he’s dressed up like this it’s like he’s ten years old. That’s why I make him dress like that – he’ll never dare go out like it. What would people say?

And then what happened?

Well, I told him why he’d been a bad boy. Never doing the Hoovering, not even keeping his own room tidy. The drinking. He went red as a beetroot when I told him Liz had found a stinky wodge of tissue under the bed where he’d been wanking.

Oh my God! If it’d been me I’d have died of shame.

Ha! Ha! Well after I told him that he was putty in my hand. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He would’ve done anything I asked.

So what did you ask?

Same as always. Not asked, exactly. Told. I said, right let’s have them shorts down.

Shorts down!

Oh yeah. Those short trousers are pretty thick. They’re made to last ain’t they. Extra thick on the seat. Great for sitting down. Not so good for spanking. So down they have to come.

And he did?

Did what?

He took them down. Did as he was told?

He had to. He knew full well if he didn’t take them down, then I’d do it for him. And, he bloody well knew if I took his shorts down I’d take his pants down as well and he could get it on the bare bum.

Blimey!

Exactly. He didn’t want that did he?

No, he did not.

So, he does as he is told. Undoes the thing at the waist. Pulls the zipper and the trousers fall down.

I can’t believe this.

What’s not to believe? He’s done wrong. He has to be punished.  He knows that. If he doesn’t want to be spanked he just has to do as he’s told. So, now he’s standing their wearing old-fashioned Y-fronts.

What the white ones?

The very same. Like I say, just like a little boy. So I sit on a chair and I tell him bend over my knee.

And he does.

Without a murmur. Let’s be honest, he’s been here before. It’s not the first time. He knows what to expect. And over he goes. And I get to work with the slipper.

What is it six of the best?

Six! Nah, six wallops won’t make much impression. Six is only getting started. You wouldn’t cover all his backside with six. Not both cheeks. Takes a lot more than six.

Oh. How many then?

I’m not sure to be honest. I’ve never counted.  I start right in the middle of each bum cheek and then kind of work my way out. The middle, the top, the bottom – as it were – you know under the cheek. That sit-spot. That’s where my dad used to spank me. Hurt like mad every time I sat down for the rest of the day, know what I mean?

No, not really.

What you never spanked? Never spanked Kevin, neither?

No.

Explains a lot. Why your Kevin’s a bit of a tearaway.

Well …

Give him a good hiding. Like I do with Gavin. I roasted his backside with that slipper. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hurt like the fires of hell. Even with a big lad like Gavin. His big old bum was bucking up and down and his legs were kicking. Ha! I had to hold him really tight round the waist to stop him running away. He kicked so hard his short trousers went flying across the carpet. I hammered that slipper all over his BTM.

BTM?

BTM. His bottom. Bum. Posterior. Call it what you like.

His arse.

Well there’s no need to be crude.

Sorry.

And he’s still struggling. Kicking. Hollering the lot. He brings his hand back to try to stop me. That’s pretty hard to do because I’ve got him right over my knee. You know his face is nearly in the carpet and his bottom is pointing at the ceiling so it’s not easy to get your hand back there. But he keeps doing it and I warn him not to, but it makes no difference.

No it won’t. I suppose it’s hurting him a lot.

Yeah, of course. That’s the whole point ain’t it. A spanking is supposed to hurt, otherwise why bother.

Yeah, sorry.

So I warned him but he just kept on trying.

What did you do?

I’m coming to that. I took hold of the waist of his pants. Ha! You should have seen the way his body froze. He knew right away what I was going to go. No, no, please, not that, he yells.

Too late lad.

You took the words right out of my mouth. So I pulls them over his big butt-tocks and drag them down to his knees. Of course, he struggles all the more now.

He would. Who wouldn’t?

And that just encourages me. I grip that plimsol and I put all my effort into it. Whack!-Whack!-Whack! Fantastic! I could see the imprint of the sole glowing bright pink on his bare backside. What a sight! I toasted those butt-tocks good and proper. The spanking of a lifetime it was.

Sounds like it.

I’d still be there now, hammering away, but Liz heard all Gavin’s hollerings and she came in and made me stop. Still I made my point. He won’t want to go over my knee again anytime soon.

I don’t blame him.

Yeah, spanking works. Mark my words.

Okay, I believe you.

Oh look. There’s your Kevin just came in the bar. I thought he was supposed to be revising for his exams.

He is. Bloody hell.

Want a borrow of my plimsoll?

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Father deals with idle student

The fire-raiser

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

 

 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

Sgt Trueform takes charge

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z used plimsoll in drawer sting (2)

“Freeman. Hardy. Willis. Come here lads. Now. All three of you!” Sgt Trueform barked as he strode through the playground. Three hapless sixth-formers trailed in his wake. The sergeant was a typhoon. He never stopped. He had energy to burn. He may have been discharged from the Army at the end of the war but he never gave up military discipline. Even now since his appointment as senior sports master at St Francis Independent Grammar School.

The school suited him well. Tradition. What was the Army about if it wasn’t about Tradition? St FIGS, as the school was affectionately known, was no different. It believed in tradition: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional religion and, of course, traditional discipline.

“Follow me!” Sgt Trueform led the way into the changing room adjacent to the gymnasium. The three fellows straggled after him. None was anxious to arrive at their final destination. A cold wind blew across the open, asphalt playground. Ancient buildings stood on three sides, the fourth led onto a grass playing fields where at the far end stood the school’s latest proud possession, the gymnasium.

The wind bit through the boys’ thin singlets and white cotton physical training shorts. Hardy’s legs were already turning blue. Willis could feel a cold coming on. My how all three hated sports classes. Especially in the depth of winter, when the pitches froze and the old martinet Sgt Trueform sent the boys out on a cross country run, through the town and into Widdicombe Wood.

“Get a move on lads!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. He was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice. He had reached the changing room and by the time the wretched threesome arrived he was unlocking the door. The sergeant stood to one side, “Get in there now,” he barked. Freeman and Hardy ducked but the sergeant caught Willis with a hefty clip on the back of his head. He rubbed it ruefully as they stood in the large, empty changing room.

“Stand there. In a row,” Sgt Trueform roared. “Stand up straight Hardy. Don’t slump Freeman.” Sgt Trueform imagined he was back on the Army parade ground. In his mind he had never left it. For him the school was merely an extension of his military days.

“So,” he paced up and down in front of the three lads. “You thought you could skive off Games did you?” He paused as if he genuinely expected a reply. When none came he blustered on. “Not in my school you don’t. Freeman,” he leaned into the eighteen-year-old, “It’s not your first time,” he glared ominously. “I suppose you were the ring leader here. You led the others on,” he narrowed his eyes and leaned into the boy so that Freeman could smell his sour tobacco breath.

“Oh no Sergeant,” Freeman moaned, “That’s not fair. It wasn’t me. They did …”

Before he could finish his sentence, Sgt Trueform growled, “I should keep quiet of I were you lad, you are in enough trouble as it.” Freeman’s jaw dropped and his face sulked.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I don’t care if you are sixth-formers. You think you’re so grown up. Well, let me tell you, you obey the rules just like everyone else. Or else,” he threatened. All three boys stared at their own feet. Willis’s spine shook but it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver.

“Why if this happened back in the Army …” Sgt Trueform let the thought drift in the icy air. He marched across the room to an old, rickety table. Three pairs of eyes followed him. Each boy had a jolly good idea what he was up to. The sergeant tugged open the drawer on the table and reached in. There was only one object inside. His face split into a grin as he picked it up and turned towards the boys. In his hand he brandished a size twelve rubber-soled plimsoll. It was old and well used, but had not seen the inside of a gymnasium or a sports field in many years.

Sgt Trueform gripped it by the heel in his right fist. Then, with his left hand he took hold of the toe end. Menacingly, he flexed the slipper between his hands. Three pairs of eyes turned away. Sgt Trueform grinned maniacally and thwacked the rubber sole against the palm of his hand, savouring the sting it made.

“Step forward Freeman,” he barked, wringing the plimsoll between his hands. Colour drained from Harry Freeman’s face. He had been here before. He knew exactly what to expect. There was nothing he could do about it. It was that kind of school. Sgt Trueform was the master; he was in charge. The boy took a pace forward.

“Stand in the middle of the room, lad,” Sgt Trueform waved the slipper in case Freeman did not understand the instruction. Sorrowfully, the boy shuffled forward. “Since you are a recidivist, Freeman,” Sgt Trueform sneered and then stopped. The blank look on Freeman’s face told him he did not understand, “Since this is not your first time,” the sergeant scoffed, “And since I believe you were the ringleader, we’ll have those shorts down.”

Freeman’s face fell, he could not disguise his shock. “No, sergeant, no,” he protested, “I wasn’t the ring leader, honest, serge.”

Sgt Trueform’s eyes narrowed. He was a fair man (although the boys at the school might not agree) and he had no evidence for his accusation. He dismissed the case immediately, “This is your second time, Freeman. Take down those shorts.”

There was no arguing with that. It was true. It was a verifiable fact. Freeman had been done before. This was his second time. “Oh, serge,” he said piteously.

“Don’t, ‘Oh serge’ me lad. Get those shorts down,” Sgt Trueform glared, twisted the slipper in his hand and then with an almighty whack slammed it down into the palm of his hand, “Now lad!”

There was no more to be said. Nothing more to do. Freeman had skived off the cross-country run. Freeman had been caught red handed. Sgt Trueform had the authority to punish him. “But, serge,” Freeman tried to reason with the man. “We are seniors, serge. Seniors don’t get the slipper.” He started his plea with some confidence but the glare in Sgt Trueform’s eye silenced him.

“Ha!” the sergeant cackled. “What you expect a detention instead,” he sneered. “You think I’m going to sit with you lot in a room for an hour one evening watching you write out lines?” It wasn’t a question, for he carried on, “Shorts down. Bend over.”

Freeman sucked on his bottom lip. He had no choice. He had to do it. With no enthusiasm he took hold of the elasticated waist of his white cotton shorts. He wore no underpants. He would be naked from the waist down. He dismissed the thought of a further protest from his mind. He just had to get on with it.

He turned his back slightly so Sgt Trueform would not have a clear view of his cock and balls, put his thumbs inside the waistband and slowly pushed the tight shorts down until they had cleared his buttocks. He left them bunched up over his thighs.

“All the way Freeman. Let them fall to the floor,” Sgt Trueform slapped the slipper across his palm once more. He watched intently as, red-faced, the eighteen-year-old shoved them to his knees and let them slip down to his feet.

Sgt Trueform pretended not to notice Freeman’s long, thin cock, nestling in a hairy bush.

“Bend over, lad,” he snapped. “Touch toes lad. Not knees lad. Toes. All the way.”

It is not easy to take up the “touch toes” position, especially if like Freeman you were a dough boy, running to fat.

“Spread your legs, lad. Now touch toes.”

Freeman could not do it. He huffed and he puffed. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. He could only get down as far as his knees. “Stay like that,” Sgt Trueform barked with exasperation. Freeman’s buttocks wobbled like jelly. If any boy would benefit from regular exercise it was him.

He was a tall boy when standing and bent like this he presented his bum at a perfect height to receive Sgt Trueform’s slipper. Freeman’s cock dangled in front of his upturned face emphasising to him his nakedness. Cold air wafted across his bare cheeks and suddenly he realised the sergeant and his two pals had a perfect view into his crack and hole. He shut his eyes tight.

Whap!!! The sergeant was delighted to see the sole of his size twelve plimsoll imprinted on Freeman’s left cheek. A deep pink pattern quickly emerged. The boy’s hands rose from his knees and in a panic he stopped himself just in time from jumping to his feet to rub away the sting.

“Steady lad. Stay down,” Sgt Trueform growled. He waited for Freeman to resume the position. Head down, bottom jutting out. Whap!! The rubber sole pounded into the right buttock. Now he had two identical footprints across his bum.

The next whack went higher on the left cheek. Then lower on the right. After twelve swats no square inch of Freeman’s buttocks were un-toasted. The pink was turning to red, and even mauve in some places. Sgt Trueform grinned. He rubbed the palm of his hand across Freeman’s left cheek. “I could warm my cold hands,” he said enigmatically. “Stand up lad.”

Freeman rose. He had never sat down on an open coal fire, but he imagined if he ever did, it would feel like this. His bum was blistered. “Shorts up. Stand by the wall,” Sgt Trueform ordered. As Freeman ruefully tugged up his shorts and gave his bum a couple of furtive rubs, the sergeant barked, “Hardy. Take his place.”

All colour had drained from Joe Hardy. He watched awestruck as Freeman shuffled across the room and stood by the wall. Hardy had been given a perfect view of his pal’s torment. His own legs shook as he tried to move forward. He didn’t think he could take such a slippering.

Sgt Trueform read the eighteen-year-old’s mind. “Bend over. You can keep your shorts up. But if you ever come back here again, you’ll know what to expect.” Hardy almost gasped with relief. He took a deep breath and stretched down. He was slimmer than Freeman and had little difficulty touching his toes.

Sgt Trueform watched him go. The cotton shorts were truly short – not much longer than undershorts older men wore – they clung to the contours of Hardy’s bottom. The white shorts gleamed. Evidence, if any were needed, that Hardy had not been on a muddy cross-country run that afternoon.

z used plimsoll gym white pants sting (3)

Hardy clenched his buttocks tightly, now his bum was as hard as a rubber ball, it was protecting itself from the expected onslaught. Hardy sucked down a mouthful of saliva, his heart pounded through his thin vest. He felt a slight tap-tap of the rubber sole across his stretched bottom, the sergeant was finding his aim. Hardy’s shoulders tensed. The slipper was lifted away, Hardy bit down on his lower lip. There was a pause, but not much of one and then WHACK! the sound of plimsoll against tight flesh resounded around the room. The shock pushed the teenager forward, his fingers flew from his toes, his knees buckled and he almost toppled over.

Sgt Trueform hadn’t said but Hardy knew instinctively the punishment for standing up would be extra whacks. With something akin to a superhuman effort he forced his fingers back to the toecaps of his own plimsolls. His bum burned, his head throbbed and blood raced through his arteries.

Sgt Trueform was taking no prisoners that afternoon. He laid the second whack harder and tried not to show the enthusiasm he felt. The victim bent over submissively before him gasped with the shock of the impact. The lad’s hips twisted and his knees creased. The sergeant took aim for the third stroke.

Joe Hardy felt a certain pride after the twelfth stroke landed on the underside of his left cheek. It missed most of the thin cotton shorts and fell on naked flesh. The pain was excruciating; he would have difficulties sitting for the rest of the day, his bum was roaring hot, but it was over now. He had survived. His head was close to exploding, his face and neck were as scarlet as his backside. The back of his singlet was drenched with perspiration. His throat was parched and his temples pulsated. He was a wreck, but he had come through. His grey eyes blazed but no tear had trickled down his face.

“Stand up!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. “Back to the wall. Willis, take his place.” Hardy stretched his back and staggered to the upright position, he shocked himself when he stumbled with his first step and almost went tumbling to the ground. He was so concerned about getting himself safely to the edge of the room that he didn’t notice his pal John Willis was rooted. Tears washed all colour from his face.

“Willis!” Sgt Trueform jeered, “I’m waiting lad! Get yourself over here!”

“No sergeant, no sergeant, no. Please,” Willis begged. “No, please.”

“Now boy!” the master snorted.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman exchanged glances. Willis was a funk. He couldn’t take it. He was pleading to be let off.

“Couldn’t I do lines sir. Detention. Anything,” panic was rising in his voice and Willis wrung his hands pleading.

“Bend over lad!” Sgt Trueform squeezed the size twelve plimsoll in his hands. His muscles tensed and his face snarled. “Don’t test me boy!”

John Willis had lost it. Tears flowed down his face and his shoulders heaved. “No. No. No,” was all he could sob.

“Lads,” Sgt Trueform addressed Freeman and Hardy. “Grab him. Hold him down over the bench.” He nodded across the room to a low wooden structure.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman did not utter a word to each other. But they communicated nonetheless. Both were nursing sore backsides. They had taken their whackings. Freeman’s was on the bare. They had all skived the cross-country run, they had all been caught, they all deserved punishment, why should John Willis get away with it?HardyH

Without hesitation, Hardy moved forward and gripped Willis by the left elbow. Freeman took his cue from his pal and grabbed the right. Together they dragged a howling Willis across the floor. The boy’s feet slipped against the cold ground as he failed to get traction to resist.

Within seconds they were at the bench.

“Face down,” Sgt Trueform ordered. “Hold him steady.”

Two boys were always going to be stronger than one. John Willis had no chance. He was upended and dumped unceremoniously along the bench. It was about ten feet long and two wide, there was ample room to take the eighteen-year-old schoolboy.

“Shorts down?” Freeman asked a little too eagerly.

Sgt Trueform glared at the writhing Willis. What a coward the lad was. Couldn’t even take a spanking. His two pals had followed his orders and accepted their punishment. They were fine men. Fine English men. But what about this other snivelling wretch? He had known men like Willis in the Army. Weaklings, quitters, defeatists, deserters. How he hated them all. They would always let you down.

“Shorts down, serge?” Hardy was ready to rip them from the teenager’s backside. Sgt Trueform’s heart sped. Bare-arsed. Yes, he would love to whip the boy bare-arsed. That would show him. Show him who was the boss. Who was the master and who was the subordinate.

Willis wriggled and writhed, he hollered and screamed. The yells were so intense the sergeant feared he would be heard all across the playing fields and back in the main school buildings. Any moment someone might burst into the changing room attracted by the racket wondering whether a murder was being committed.

Sgt Trueform wanted dearly to beat Willis’s bare bum black and blue but he was a realist. The school allowed him a great freedom when dealing with the boys. It was a traditional school, health sports and healthy discipline were high in its priorities, but even St FIGS might baulk at the sight of two senior boys holding a third over  a bench while the sports master spanked his naked buttocks with a heavy plimsoll.

“Better leave them up lads,” he sighed and then with more gusto, he added, “This time.”

Freeman took the shoulders and Hardy the legs. That way they were clear of Willis’s torso and bottom. The sergeant had clear access to his prey. He stood towering over the prostrate boy. Willis was a smallish lad with narrow shoulders and slender hips but his bottom was round and ample. When he stood it jutted out behind him and some people said it looked like the tail of a bird. Now, with Willis flat on his stomach, the buttocks were presented as two hillocks, full and fleshy.

The sergeant took a deep breath, tensed the muscles in his forearm, laid the slipper across Willis’s left cheek, then he raised the rubber-soled plimsoll high and hammered it home. The boy’s wail outperformed a banshee. It sent a cold shiver up Harry Freeman’s spine but he pressed down harder onto Willis’s shoulder; he wasn’t letting the coward free.

“Keep him pinned down,” Sgt Trueform encouraged. Harry Freeman was so strong and Willis so weak there was no chance of escape. Harry felt the bones in the shoulder of the boy beneath him. From his vantage point he had a perfect bird’s-eye view of Willis’s buttocks.

Harry’s eyes swivelled from sports master to prostrate boy; from the hand holding the slipper, to the plump backside about to receive it. The next whack cut across the boy’s bottom raising dust from the stretched cotton of his shorts. Willis tried to kick his legs up and down and to summon the strength to lift himself free of the bench, but Hardy had a firm grip of his ankles.

Harry Freeman swallowed hard as he caught sight of the stern, impassive look on Sgt Trueform’s face, and the icy coldness of his blue eyes, as the sports master assessed the impact of each whack and took time to determine which part of Willis’s bottom would be the target of the next smack.

Willis’s entire body was quaking; his backside was quivering and wobbling; even spasmodically jerking.

The twelve whacks that Sgt Trueform pounded across Willis’s backside were no more severe that those Freeman and Hardy had received, but by the eighth stroke the boy was hollering to be let off. Screaming, and writhing and twisting as much as Harry Freeman’s heavy hands would allow.

Then, the beating over John Willis gradually ceased his screaming. Freeman and Hardy released their grips and embarrassed shuffled across to the other side of the room. They stood unsure what to do next. Had they been dismissed? Should they get dressed and go home?

Willis was crying. Quietly. Tears rolling down his cheeks. Trying to suppress any sound and unable to stop the sobbing.  Neither could he stop the sniffing nor the noise in the back of his throat as his body tried to gulp in the air his lungs needed between sobs. He was trying to keep as quiet as possible but the noise was deafening.

Picture credits: Both Sting Pictures

More stories from St FIG’s are here

Other stories you might like

Housemaster’s double caning  

Uncle Martin lends a hand

Memories of Dad’s slipper

 

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

John’s jam jar

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z used jar money drawing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Next came his favourite; he lovingly fingered the grey short trousers, they were made of flannel and immaculately laundered and pressed and if he didn’t take care he might have cut his finger on the crease down the front. He felt his withered penis stir. He had no idea why, but short trousers always did this to him. He unfastened the button at the waist, and then the three on the fly, opened the top of the trousers and stepped in. Within seconds he had pulled them up and was tucking in the shirt and vest. The short trousers were especially tailored and fitted him snuggly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Picture credit: Unknown /  Charles Chapman (The Magnet)

Other stories you might like

Late home from school

A Fragment of a Memory

The Fare Dodger

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Will life imitate art?

new story 2

z used twosome older younger shower josman (2a) (2)

Mr and Mrs Pettit thought they had found the perfect solution to their problem. It was so simple really. What could possibly go wrong? They thanked their lucky stars. Now, they just had to convince their son Ant.

The thing was Mr Pettit had been promoted by his company to become a regional director. He and his wife were over the moon. It meant more prestige, more money, an even bigger home, a flashier car. The whole nine yards. The problem was this: the region he was going to “direct” was three hundred miles away at the other end of the country. They would have to move away.

Ant was in his final year at school with just six months to go until he took his examinations. He couldn’t change schools now. That was where Gordon Conway came in. He was a friend and neighbour. He had a spare room. He said Ant could move in with him until his exams were over and then Ant would be able to join his parents in the summer. What could be simpler?

Ant told his pal Will about it when they were sinking a couple of pints at the Three Fishers. “Oh yes, that’s a really good idea,” Will said, dripping irony.

“What’s wrong?” Ant was genuinely perplexed.

“A middle-aged man living on his own,” Will slurped beer down his throat. “Takes in a cute, blond eighteen-year-old boy as a lodger.” Will laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He’s a queen. Just make sure you keep the bathroom door locked, that’s all I can say.”

“He is not a queen,” Ant wasn’t sure if his pal was just joshing him. “He was married. She left him for another bloke.”

Will’s eyes shone. He laughed, “I rest my case, m’lud. A poofter. It’s backs to the wall boys!” They drank on into the evening.

Later that night in bed Ant gently stroked his erect cock. Was Mr Conway gay? What if he were. He thought about the many stories he had read online as he worked his fist up and down his shaft.  They usually went something like this: for some reason a teenager has to move out of his parents’ home and move in with an uncle, or grandparents, or maybe even a neighbour. Suddenly, his whole life changes. His new “guardians” won’t put up with his disrespectful and slovenly ways. There are rules. He is told: “It’s my way or the highway.”  A night time curfew is imposed. Alcohol is banned. No drugs. Do this, don’t do that. Be polite to your aunt / grandmother. And if he disobeys …..

Ant had never given Mr Conway a second thought before. He was just someone from further down The Avenue that his parents knew. Now, he couldn’t get the man out of his mind.

They are standing in lounge room. Mr Conway rests his buttocks against the edge of the dining table. In his hand he holds a single sheet of paper. He reads from it, slowly at dictation speed. “Curfew is ten-thirty on school nights and eleven-forty-five on other days. You will have homework completed and ready for my inspection at nine o’clock. You will not be allowed to use the back room or to enter the room upstairs that I call my study.”

Ant nods his assent as each new rule is read to him. Mr Conway drones through his list. “And finally,” he says, with no inflection in his voice, “You will be subjected to corporal punishment at my complete discretion should you break any of the rules. Please sign your name at the place indicated.” He hands the sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen to Ant. The eighteen-year-old takes it and signs.

Mr Conway takes back the sheet of paper and carefully folds it in two. “Right,” he says, “Let’s test you out.” He walks across the room, opens a drawer to a sideboard and slips the newly-signed contract in. Then he closes it and opens a second drawer. This time he reaches in. Ant watches him. His own heart is thumping. His head feels like church bells are clanging inside it. His eyes moisten when he sees Mr Conway take out a well-worn white plimsoll. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face Ant.

“Right,” he says. He sits himself down on a straight-backed, armless chair. When he speaks again he is quiet and unemotional. He delivers instructions clearly and concisely. He might be ordering a takeaway meal on the telephone. “Stand there.” He points to a spot a metre from his thigh. “Take down your jeans. Bend over my knee. Place your hands flat on the floor. Keep your head low. Raise your bottom as high as you can. Keep perfectly still. Keep as quiet as you can. We do not need to disturb the neighbours. Do not try to resist me. If you do I shall start the punishment all over again. Do you understand?”

Ant croaks, “Yes sir.” He is now on some sort of automatic pilot. He fumbles a bit with his belt and the jeans have buttons and they refuse at first to be undone. At last he slips the jeans down his thighs and over his knees. Gravity takes them the rest of the way to his feet. He is still a short distance from Mr Conway, so when Ant moves towards him he waddles like a penguin.

Mr Conway is not a large man, in fact he is shorter than Ant. Ant notices for the first time that Mr Conway is very muscular. He is strong for a man of his age, which Ant supposes might be forty-five or more. Mr Conway is also wearing jeans and he parts his legs to create a platform for Ant to submit his body across. For a second, Ant glances at Mr Conway’s privates which bulge against tight denim cloth.

Ant has not done this before, so he takes some deep breaths while he works out what to do exactly. He decides to rest the palms of his hands on Mr Conway’s right knee and then lower his body down so that his belly rests across the plateau made by Mr Conway’s thighs. Then, as previously instructed, Ant stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the deep-pile carpet. He wriggles a little as he tries to get his bottom into the required position. Ant cannot see behind him so cannot be sure if his bum is pointing up at the correct angle. He supposes Mr Conway will tell him soon enough if he has got it wrong.

Prostrate like this, his knees bend and his toes hover just above the ground. Ant cannot be sure whether he ought to close his eyes tight until the spanking is over or should he stare down at the carpet. If he lifts his head a centimetre or two he can look across the room. In his eyeline there is a large painting of a bowl of fruit. Ant thinks he could concentrate on that to take his mind off the whacking that is about to come.

He decides to close his eyes tight and tries to imagine what he must look like. Here he is an eighteen-year-old schoolboy draped across the knees of his middle-aged neighbour who is grasping an old worn gym shoe that he is about to whack into Ant’s pert bottom.

Ant’s imaginings are interpupted.  He feels Mr Conway take hold of the end of his shirt and roughly he pushes it halfway up his back so it is away from the target area. Ant is sure the inside of his head is about to explode when Mr Conway takes a firm hold of the elasticated waistband of Ant’s underpants. It takes only two fierce tugs to have the small briefs up and over Ant’s neat bottom and resting at his knees. Ant is now naked from the shoulders to his knees. Totally at the mercy of his neighbour’s hard, rubber-soled slipper.

Back in the real world, in his bed Ant’s right wrist is pumping like a steam piston. He scrunches his eyes tight trying both to visualise his bared buttocks as the plimsoll hammers into his naked flesh and at the same time he tries not to ejaculate too soon.

Downstairs Mr and Mrs Pettit share a bottle of red wine and congratulate themselves on finding the perfect solution to their problem. They think how lucky they are to have such an understanding son.

 

Picture credit: Josman

Other stories you might like

The interview

Called to Account

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The New Coach

new story 2

z used plimsoll sports

“What in the name of glory just happened!!”

Eleven young men carried on stripping off their kits. The post-match banter flew around the changing room.

“I’m talking to you boys!” Louder. Angrier. Voices quietened. Silence at last.

“So answer me? Who wants to tell me what just happened?”

The boys shuffled nervously. Embarrassed.

“Gillingwater!” The coach’s face was now puce as he faced a stocky lad with his shorts half way to his knees.

“Seven-nil! Seven-nil! Unbelievable. Do you lot even now how to play football! A team of Girl Guides could do better than that.”

Gillingwater flushed. His teammates stared at the ground embarrassed.  “How long have you played together?”

The boys of the St Vincent’s Youth Club said nothing. They knew their new coach had a reputation as a hard man. Mr Townsend, their coach until the beginning of the season, had been quite the opposite, a gentle kindly man.

“Do any of you bunch of losers ever expect to play football again? After today’s disaster I am quite happy to tell the parish to throw in the towel.”

Now every eye was on the coach, teenaged faces etched with dismay.

“You ought to be ashamed! Every one of you! Ashamed!”

The changing room again went silent. A ghastly, frozen silence. Despite being a team of eighteen and nineteen year old men, many were close to blubbing.

“Do you want to be a team that this parish can be proud of? Do you actually want to play like men and not like a bunch of woofters?” Silence. “Well, do you?”

“Yes Sir,” they muttered, eyes still downcast.

The coach scowled, not trying to disguise his distain. “I said DO YOU WANT TO PLAY LIKE MEN!”

“YES SIR!”

Somewhere in the reaches of his mind he conjured up the image of a drill sergeant. In the US Marines perhaps. Someone out of a movie about Vietnam. These wimps had to be toughened up. For their own good, of course. It could save their lives.

The coach stiffened his back. “Right! From now, everything changes. From this very second. Is that understood?”

“YES SIR!” barked like Marine recruits.

“Any boy who thinks he can get away with what I saw today can get out, in fact he can get out now.” He pointed to the door, scowling, his eye ranging round the changing room, daring just one of them to move.

“Spreadbury. You’re the Captain of this shower. As Captain you are responsible for the performance and conduct of the team. Do you want to remain as captain?”

“Yes Sir”

“Do you take responsibility for today’s result?”

Spreadbury hesitated. He was not such a bright boy but even he knew the answer he gave might have grave consequences. “Y-yes. Yes, I take responsibility Sir.”

The coach turned, marched through the door of the changing room and returned brandishing a heavy white plimsoll.

“From now on failure has consequences. From now on when the team takes a beating on the pitch it also takes a beating in the changing room!”

There was a collective in-take of breath. Was he going to slipper the whole team?

“Spreadbury. For your failure to lead the team today you will get a whacking. NOW. SHORTS AND PANTS DOWN. BEND OVER.”

Spreadbury’s eyes widened, his usually pale face blushed crimson. A spanking. With a slipper. On the bare. In front of everyone. Most of the boys had attended St. Francis Independent Grammar School, they were no strangers to corporal punishment, but on the bare and in public! Even St. FIGS would draw the line at that.

“B..b..b.. but Sir,” he faltered, aware of ten pair of eyes transfixed upon him. “But, we’re not at school anymore.” He trailed off conscious of his lack of conviction.

“Pah!” The coach spat. “This is the only thing you boys understand!” He gripped the plimsoll in his right fist and waved it in the faces of the dumbfounded teenagers. It was a size fourteen. The coach had never known a person to have feet that big. It might be unsuitable as footwear but it made a terrific spanking tool. The sole was large enough to cover an entire buttock cheek. One whack delivered with vim would leave the flesh scorching.

“Well,” he smacked the slipper into his left hand. “It’s my way or the highway!” Eyes circled. The new coach was deadly serious. Things would never be the same again.

“What’s it to be?”

Spreadbury stood legs slightly apart, hands behind his back. Involuntarily his thumbs traced the contours of his buttocks. A slippering. He had touched his toes in the housemaster’s study many times for a swishing with a flexible rattan cane. That hurt like billy-oh, but he had taken his thrashings stoically. He had never been slippered. Surely, it couldn’t be as bad as the cane? These thoughts flashed through his mind at the speed of light. He would have to go through with it, what would his pals say if he chickened out.

“Come on lad,” the coach growled with impatience. “Shorts, pants down. Bend over,” he beat the plimsoll into his palm at every syllable. Sweat began to soak Spreadbury’s brow, there was a line of moisture above his top lip. “But, bare Sir …” he hated himself for pleading.

“It’s the only way,” the coach snarled. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

Ten young footballers watched on with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. None had seen a public spanking before. Spreadbury sucked down a lungful of air, preparing himself for the ordeal. His shorts hardly covered his buttocks, he stuck his thumbs in the elasticated waistband and with a mere turn of the wrist sent them hurtling south to rest at his feet. The coach watched intently, Spreadbury had an athletic figure, his legs muscular and hairless. The outline of his cock was clearly visible under the tight white cotton of his briefs. The teenager hesitated, psyching himself up for his next action.

“Pants down, lad. C’mon, we haven’t got all day,” the coach could not hide his eagerness to get on with the job. Again, Spreadbury stuck his thumbs under an elasticated waistband, but this time without bravado. He inched the briefs down, conscious of his fellow teammates staring intently. Of course, they had all seen his naked arse and cock and balls before; they showered together after every match, but never before had he felt such the centre of attention.

At last his buttocks were exposed, but rather than letting them slip down his thighs and legs to rest above his shorts, he kept the briefs bunched up. Quickly, fearful they would fall further, he leaned forward. At St FIGS “Bend over” meant “Bend over and touch your toes” and “toes” meant “toes”, not knees or shins. Spreadbury’s fingertips brushed the canvas tops of his own plimsolls. His back was arched and his legs were taut which made the muscles in his buttocks stretch tight. There was no spare meat back there; he was as tight as a drum.

“Bah!” the exasperated coach saw Spreadbury’s little game. “Let’s get these out of the way,” he snarled as he gripped the teenager’s underpants and tugged them away from the buttocks until they bunched at his shins. “Let the dog see the rabbit.” From somewhere a cold breeze drifted against Spreadbury’s naked bottom. He stared down at the dirty splintered tiles on the changing room floor, intensely aware that his crack and hole was on full display to his pals.

The coach gripped the plimsoll tightly, the muscles in his forearm tensed. He took up position about a foot to Spreadbury’s left. He could smell the fresh sweat on the boy’s body. He rested the plimsoll on the left cheek, running from north to south so that it covered the entire buttock. He tapped gently, taking his aim, then Whack! he brought it crashing down. The teenager stumbled forward under the mighty force of the blow but immediately steadied himself. An imprint of the plimsoll’s sole immediately appeared in dark pink across the once-creamy-white flesh.

A second later the right cheek was just as pink and equally as sore. “Ah!” Spreadbury sucked in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper his bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With only two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the plimsoll. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and screwed his face in pain.

The coach’s enormous large slipper thumped heavily down on his bottom over and over again. A caning was never like this. That was bend over, six swipes stand up, go. This slippering was going on forever. Spreadbury’s bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Spreadbury squirmed and gasped as some wallops hit right on a spot where others had landed. Coach quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after about three minutes and took a pace backwards the better to admire his handiwork. He saw an eighteen-year-old footballer bent submissively touching his toes. His hair was drenched with sweat; his face was as scarlet as his backside. No square inch of the teenager’s buttocks and the backs of his thighs had escaped the slipper. Spreadbury blazed. The pain would by now be dissolving into a throb that would stay for some time until it turned to a warm glow. “Yes,” the new coach congratulated himself silently, “A job well done.” He studied the plimsoll in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then glared around the changing room at the rest of his charges. Each boy stood bemused, unsure what they should make of the spectacle they had witnessed. One lad, shorter and fairer than his teammate, looked the most uncomfortable. He clasped his hands in front of his shorts.

“OK, lads,” the coach spoke quietly, “I think we understand each other now, get changed and showered.” He watched intently as still in silence they stripped themselves naked. He moved slowly to the room next door and replaced the plimsoll in his locker, conscious at how much his hand trembled.

Picture credit: Jonathon

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com