Economics failure

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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

A right caning

new 5

I was on the bus the other day and there were two young men sitting behind me and one said a little loudly, “He gave him a right caning!” Naturally, my ears pricked up at this. Intrigued, I very casually turned my head to see who had spoken. They were two students. I could tell because they had ID cards hanging round their necks. They got off at the next stop leaving me bemused. He gave him a right caning: did that mean what I hoped it meant?

Of course it couldn’t, I told myself. Right caning, it must be some slang the kids use. Perhaps it means doing something to excess; like, “He gave the whiskey bottle a right caning.” But that didn’t seem to be the right answer. He gave him a right caning. That was definitely one person doing something to another.

It continued to puzzle me and later in the day when I saw my grandson Richie who is also a student I asked him what it might have meant. He gave me that look he always gives when I have demonstrated how out of touch I am with the modern world. “Where have you been these last years?” he asked good humouredly and when I continued to look blank he told me that they had introduced corporal punishment in colleges and universities two years ago. This was after they brought back the cane in schools. Apparently, that solved a lot of the discipline problems that had been plaguing teachers for decades.

It didn’t seem to be a big deal to Richie. He told me that he and two pals had themselves been caned last semester. They got back to the halls of residence late after they had been to some club. They had to report to the office of the Dean of Discipline next morning. There were a few other students standing in line waiting their turn. He told me all about it. He wasn’t the least embarrassed.

He said the room wasn’t really an office. There was a table pushed up against one wall and some empty shelves along another, but mainly there was just an ordinary armchair stuck in the middle. It was one of those with a low back and wooden arms that you sometimes see in reception areas of big offices. The whole thing was done with little ceremony. Apparently, the Dean of Discipline reads out from a charge sheet; a bit like in the Army I imagine. So, it went something like, “You missed curfew and returned back inebriated.” Richie had to agree this was so and then sign a paper saying he consented to be punished. He’s over eighteen, so legally an adult so he can do this.

The Dean of Discipline is permitted to give up to twelve strokes of the cane. It has to be on the seat of the trousers, but apparently they are thinking of changing this so in future you could get it on the underpants or even on the bare. Blimey! Imagine that.

Once the legal document was signed, they just got on with it. Richie said, “There was a tall vase thing in the corner of the room with about six or seven canes standing in it. He’s a bit of a sod because he takes his time deciding which one to use. He took one out, studied it carefully and he swished it about a bit. Then he decided that wasn’t good enough and he took another one and did the same with that. I don’t know why he bothered,” Richie laughed, “He had used them all often enough, they were all his old friends.”

I didn’t tell him that the Dean of Discipline was trying to intimidate him; to make him fearful of what was about to happen. I have to say judging by the way Richie was opening up to me about his caning he wasn’t the least worried. But who knows, at the time he might have been bricking it.

It seems this Dean of Discipline is an older man, gone to seed a little with his belly hanging over his belt and his suit jacket straining over his shoulders. He was very formal. “In the end he got the stick he wanted. It was less than a metre long and looked quite stout, but when he flexed it between his hands it was very whippy. He swished it a couple of times and then he said, ‘Bend over that chair.’ I’d never been done before but plenty of others had so I had a good idea of what was going to happen.”

z used cane holding kernled

Richie told me went to the back of the chair, counted to three and “threw myself over.” I was trying not make my interest too obvious but I asked him, why he did it? Why did he let himself be beaten by this older man? He gave me that “What planet are you on?” look again. “I broke the rules. I got caught. I took my punishment,” he told me snootily. Well, I thought, back in my day if they tried that on we would have told them to go to hell and the entire student union body would’ve been on strike before the day had ended. My, how times have changed.

“I got six. Six strokes that is. They call it six-of-the-best,” he said as if speaking to a slightly backward child.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, feigning innocence. He laughed loudly, “What do you think! Of course, it bloody hurt. That’s the whole point!” I must say he seemed enormously relaxed about the whole thing. He certainly didn’t think he was the victim of some terrible outrage. I nodded sagely to encourage him to continue.

“I knew it would,” he said. “What you have to do,” he continued as if he were a veteran in such matters, “is try not to think about it. Just hold on tightly to the chair. Some students stare straight ahead and concentrate on the wall at the other end of the room. Me, I looked down at the seat cushion and studied the dent somebody’s arse had made in it.”

I wriggled in my chair imagining the scene in the Dean of Discipline’s office. Richie bent across the back of the chair. His head is low and his bottom is high. I suppose his legs are set apart and his knees held straight. He didn’t say but I wonder if the Dean of Discipline took some time smoothing the seat of Richie’s trousers; so there were no creases. He would have wanted them to be as tight as a drum. Did he move the tail of Richie’s jacket away from the target area? Was he wearing a jacket? Perhaps he only had on a shirt. Would it ride up away from the waist of his trousers, exposing a patch of bare flesh on his lower back.

Richie continued talking, he was almost evangelical, “You have to stay there and take it. Let him get on with it. Close your eyes and grit your teeth. Try not to jump about. Keep quiet, don’t scream and holler.”

I nodded agreement, perhaps a little too vigorously and he might have thought I was mocking him. “Of course, you’ve never been caned,” he said scathingly. I raised my hand to my mouth and covered a sly smile. “Six,” he reiterated, “Six strokes. He was a master. He got them all to land right next to each other. In a strip. It was like he pressed a red hot poker into my bum,” his eyes watered at the memory. “I didn’t yell. It was touch and go I tell you.” He was clearly inordinately proud of his fortitude.

“Couldn’t sit down for a week, I suppose,” I laughed. He was relaxed and shared in the joke. “I had these big welts right across my arse. Stayed about a week. The guys have got pictures of it somewhere.” That was the end of his story. There wasn’t much more that could be said. With my heart racing and short of breath, I made a pot of coffee and we drank in companionable silence.

Picture credit: Kernled

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The Dean’s list

new story 2

zused paddle jeans touch toes american school

Bruce is standing with his nose centimetres from the wall. The smell of damp plaster is cloying. He thinks he is about to sneeze. The passageway is hot and humid. The mid-afternoon sun blazes but none of the windows are open. They have been stuck closed for years: no budget for maintenance Bruce stares dead ahead as instructed. To his right two other students stand obediently. To his left are a further three. All stand in silence. All Bruce can hear is rhythmic breathing. No one dares speak. All afraid of breaking more rules.

Bruce was the third to arrive. All were summoned to attend at three o’clock sharp and don’t dare be late. All arrived early. Some earlier than others. None knew that the rule was first to arrive, first to be dealt with. Bruce feels under dressed. He is in blue jeans and green t-shirt. Both of the two ahead of him in the queue are in smart business suits. The others are in smart trousers. All wear neck ties. One wears a blazer. Bruce thinks he looks like a schoolboy. Now he thinks about it, less than six months ago he was.

The heavy oak door at the end of the passageway opens. Nobody turns his head, but they all sense what is happening. A tall, thin teenager shuffles out. His face soaked in perspiration, eyes dampened by tears. His neck is scarlet. He hesitates slightly, whispers to the boy at the head of the line and then darts down the passageway, both hands clutching the seat of his trousers. The air is thick with expectation. Still nobody speaks. The boy at the head of the queue fastens the button of his suit jacket, checks his tie and sucks in a lungful of air. With absolutely no enthusiasm he knocks on the door. The boy catches the faintest sound from the other side, he turns the handle and pushes against the heavy oak.

Another day at Brocklehurst University. The same ritual is played out every afternoon at 3 p.m., Monday to Thursday. Week in and week out. The Dean of Discipline likes to spend Friday afternoons at the golf club so he brings forward the line-up to one o’clock.

This is Bruce’s first time on the Dean’s List. It is his third month at the university. It is a wonder to him he has escaped for so long. The list of rules at Brocklehurst is endless. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Be on time. Get good grades. Keep your nose clean. Don’t make waves. Or else. It’s the Dean’s List. And, that means only one thing. The door creeps open again. Another sorrowful boy limps out. “Six!” he gasps. “Bare arsed,” he says disbelievingly. “Bare arsed!” he repeats to make certain they all understand he is incredulous. “Your turn,” he nods at his companion in the suit. “Bloody hell!” He waddles down the passageway towards the staircase and freedom.

Bruce continues staring at the wall. Six. Bare arsed. He shuts his eyes. Bloody hell indeed. Corporal punishment. At university. Aged eighteen. The world is turning upside down. It started when Britain crashed out of the European Union. The government collapsed. The opposition parties were useless. There was turmoil everywhere. Food shortages. Riots on the streets. Suddenly from nowhere came the New Democratic Party to save the nation. They knew what Britain needed. A little bit of gardening. They had made that joke a lot at the time the NDP came to power. Lawn Order. Cut the grass neat and tidy. They meant law and order, of course. And they meant it too.

In the flick of an eyelid new regulations were passed. Curfews were introduced. Food was back in the shops. The immigrants were sent home. The public loved it. Especially, when the NDP went for the no-good layabout youth. That gormless politician who spoke like he had a plum in his mouth and the funny double-barrelled surname called, “bring back the birch for juvenile delinquents”. So, they did. And the cane at school. Before you knew it no fellow under the age of thirty was safe from corporal punishment. Students at university, apprentices in factories, office juniors and many more suffered.

Bruce has a tenuous grasp of all this history. It matters little to him. All he knows for sure is he flunked his mid-term examination. Too much time spent with his lips around a beer bottle and not enough with his nose in a book. He knows he has no one to blame but himself.

His heart is trying to pound through his ribcage. His head aches a little. Six. Bare arsed. This is unchartered territory. Like many eighteen year olds he has never been spanked before. The laws are that new. The door opens. Bruce gets a whiff of sour breath as the boy leans towards him and croaks, “Your turn.”

Bruce faces the door. His eyelids flicker. His heart races. His hand is unsteady. He raps his knuckles on the oak panel and waits for the call. His palm sweats as he turns the handle and pushes his way into the Dean of Discipline’s office. The room is large. A conference table runs almost its entire length. A heavy sideboard takes up one wall. A window – this one also jammed shut – faces him. Dean Cooper holds a tablet in his hand. He peers over the top of his spectacles at the screen. “Name?” he does not look up at Bruce. Bruce answers, his voice cracking. Dean Cooper uses his thumbs to find Bruce on his list. “Ah,” Dean Cooper says, still not looking at the student before him. “First time. I see.” He doesn’t give Bruce time to confirm this. “Stand there.” Dean Cooper speaks but does not say where it is Bruce must position himself. Bruce stands in a space between the conference table and the door. He is surprised he is so calm. He watches Dean Cooper, a short, dumpy man in his fifties, reach over to the top of the sideboard. Only now does Bruce see the dark-brown rectangular paddle that rests there.

Dean Cooper grips it in his right hand. It is about thirty centimetres long and maybe ten wide. Bruce has never seen a punishment paddle before but he knows instinctively that this one has been lovingly crafted. Twelve holes are neatly drilled in groups of two along its length. Sunlight reflects off its thick coating of varnish. “Face that way.” Dean Cooper nods towards the far wall. Bruce swivels on the balls of his feet. Any moment now, he will be ordered to bare his arse. He knows he has no choice. He must do as instructed. If he refuses punishment he will be expelled from the university. He won’t be able to get a job and he will end up in one of those camps for the young jobless that the NDP has just set up.

Bruce scrunches up his face, bracing himself for the humiliation. Bent over, arse bared to the wind, his crack and balls on full view to this oily old man. “Assume the position.” Bruce hesitates. Assume the position. What does that mean exactly? Take down your jeans? Underpants too? Dean Cooper snarls, unable to hide his irritation. He wants to get this over with. He doesn’t have all afternoon. There is a gin and tonic with his name on it waiting for him at the Three Fishers.

“Assume the position,” he repeats. Then, mindful that Bruce is a first-timer, he adds, “Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight.” A wave of relief washes over Bruce. Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight. So it isn’t to be bare-arsed at all. Almost with gratitude, Bruce leans forward. It is harder to assume the position and keep his knees straight than he thought. He feels his jeans tighten across his buttocks. He winces when Dean Cooper places the paddle across the centre of his cheeks and pats gently. Bruce stares down at the patterned rug beneath his feet. It is brown and full of dust. Absurdly, at that moment he remembers most of the cleaning staff lost their jobs recently because of cuts in budgets. The wood feels heavy as it taps across his bottom. Dean Cooper is getting his aim.

Bruce closes his eyes tight and tenses his buttocks. The paddle raises and returns, crashing into his cheeks with tremendous speed. The force knocks him forward and it takes some doing for Bruce to stop himself falling headlong onto the floor. He grips his ankles more tightly. The paddle crashes down again. It feels like Dean Cooper has pressed a hot iron into his flesh. Within seconds Dean Cooper whacks the paddle six times into Bruce’s bum. “Stand. Go.” Dean Cooper returns the paddle to the sideboard and takes hold of his tablet waiting for the next boy.

Bruce is winded. His bottom hurts. Quite a bit. But, he is not in agony. The pain is sharp at first but quickly it turns to an intense throb. Even as he prepares to leave the room, it is becoming a dull ache. It will be gone entirely by the time Bruce reaches his room and can inspect the damage.

Bruce tugs open the heavy door and pushes himself through. He is breathing heavily and he thinks his face must be either deathly pale or bright scarlet. He nods at the next boy in the line. “Good luck,” he says as he makes his leave. “It wasn’t so bad,” he thinks to himself and wonders how long it will be before he finds out what it feels like to get it on the bare.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Sting In The Tail

Federico Hernandez shuffled slowly from the elevator, took a left turn, waited for the automatic doors to slide open and headed at a snail’s pace to the professor’s office.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He had thought it through. It would be painful, for sure. Humiliating definitively. But, if the professor agreed, it would solve all the student’s problems. And, it would all be over in five minutes.

Professor Luckhurst was tired. It was late in the day and he wanted to get away. The semester was over, the papers had been graded. All he had to do before he could take off on vacation was to wait for the faculty to clear them.

Luckhurst could have retired years ago. He had a good pension, but he kept coming back to teach classes semester after semester. The university was the only life he had.

Luckhurst almost did not hear the faint knock at the door. Later, he would reflect bitterly, it would have been best if that had been the case.

“Come in,” the professor’s irritation was evident.

Slowly, the door inched open, but nobody appeared.

“Well, come in if you’re coming!” the professor’s patience was exhausted.

Hernandez took a deep breath and forced himself over the threshold.

“Come in boy! Close the door behind you,” Luckhurst tucked his empty lunchbox into his briefcase and fumbled with the lock. “What do you want!”

Fernandez lost his nerve. For two bits he would turn and flee. That would be the sensible thing to do, he reckoned. It was a crazy scheme. Why had he thought it might work?

The professor slumped into his chair and eyed the student in front of him. Federico Hernandez, one of his Eng. Lit. students. He failed the course, if he remembered correctly.

Hernandez had a little speech prepared. He had rehearsed it in front of the bedroom mirror; last night and again that morning. He was word perfect; that was until the time came for him to deliver it.

“Well, eh, professor,” he stumbled. Luckhurst’s lined face, permanently gray despite the almost ever-present sunshine, betrayed his annoyance. Hernandez took a deep breath and launched into it. The story was simple: the student had failed the professor’s course, it was the only one he failed, his grade point average was good enough for him to graduate, but that was impossible unless the professor passed him on the course.

“So, what do you expect me to do about it?” Luckhurst growled. He already knew the answer to that.

“Could you find a way to give me a passing grade,” he hesitated, before stammering the next words. “Perhaps, there’s something you’d like me to do…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Doh!” the professor snorted, confirming to Hernandez this was not going to be easy.

The student stared down at the heavy-duty carpet beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the professor, but he must. If this plan was to work, he had to turn on his charm.

“Please, professor,” he forced a smile. Luckhurst too was suitably embarrassed.

Hernandez’s eyelids fluttered a little. He had researched the professor; he had no family, never been married. He was almost certainly a faggot, the boy deduced. Not that that was supposed to matter anymore. This was 2015; they had same-sex marriages and all that. But, if the professor did go for handsome young men that would play to Hernandez’s advantage.

“Please, professor,” he started again. “Is there anything you would like me to do?”

Luckhurst’s ire rose. Do? Like him to do? What was the boy saying? Yes, there was something he would like the boy to do for him. Get out of his office and let him go home.

The silence was overwhelming. It was the professor’s turn to speak, but he continued to fumble with the lock of his briefcase, pretending he had difficulty with it.

Hernandez had one last chance. He took a deep breath and spluttered it out. This was not how he had planned it, but unless he spoke now, his opportunity would be missed. He would be stuck with an F-grade and a ruined future. “I thought you could spank me as a punishment and then ….” But he couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

Prof Luckhurst’s deathly gray face for once blushed scarlet. He could feel sweat sticking to the collar of his shirt. “What the ….?” he began, but was genuinely lost for words.

Hernandez had regained some confidence. When he had said the words to himself in front of the bedroom mirror, they sounded convincing. Now, he had to put that to the test.

“Well professor, the truth is…” The student confessed his laziness to the professor; he told him that he had not worked hard; he had not respected the course; he thought it would be easy. It was entirely his own fault he had failed.

“So, you see professor. I think I should be spanked. But, please don’t fail me. I won’t be able to graduate.” Then, he added for good measure in what he imagined to be a pitiful voice, “Sir.”

Luckhurst’s blood pressure was on the rise. Spank the boy. He wants me to spank him. He snorted. There had been many students over the years who would have benefitted from a darn good spanking; that was for sure. And, he often thought about personally swatting a paddle across their asses. But, all that was the stuff of fantasy. This was the real world: well, California at least.

“Spank you?” Prof Luckhurst left the question hanging in the air.

Hernandez picked it up and ran with it. “Yes, Professor Luckhurst. It’s what I deserve.”

Luckhurst had never come across anything like it before. The boy said he deserved to be spanked. He was twenty-two years old at least. Who had heard of young adults being spanked? Was this a cultural thing?

He regained some composure. “Spanking. Is this a Spanish-American thing? Do fathers still spank their sons in your community?”

Spanish-American! What year did this man live in? But, Hernandez made no protest. The tide was turning his way.

“Oh yes Sir,” he lied. “If my father knew of my failure, he would beat me.”

“Then let him spank you. You can atone for your failure that way.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hernandez seized the advantage. “He would spank me and hard, but he couldn’t give me the grade. Only you can do that.” He looked the professor straight in the eye, his own confidence growing by the second. “You, do see that don’t you?”

The professor returned the gaze. Often, he had dreamt of spanking his students, especially the Spanish-Americans. They were so short and cute with their slim hips and tight asses.

He looked over at Hernandez, struck by his dark brown eyes, boyish face and short jet black hair gelled up. The open face: that did it for him every time.

Luckhurst leant back in his chair. He was tempted, sorely tempted. He had been puzzled by the student’s failure. He had taught him several classes in the past and he had passed with high grades. His overall GPA showed he was a very bright student; he would go far. But, something strange had happened in Eng. Lit. Without the professor’s grade Hernandez would not make it to graduate school. His entire career could be hurt. Perhaps, Hernandez was correct; he had let his own arrogance get the better of him and imagined he could ace the professor’s course without working. Perhaps a spanking would sort out the boy’s arrogance.

Hernandez watched on as the professor sat at his desk, obviously in deep thought. If he had known any thought-transference tricks, he would have willed Luckhurst to do it. Go on, professor, spank my tight ass. What have you got to lose?

“Please, professor,” Hernandez spoke gently, “Please professor, spank me. I deserve it.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Professor Luckhurst hauled himself from his chair and walked across the room. Reaching the door, he turned the catch. A loud click confirmed the two men were locked together inside the office.

He turned to face Hernandez. He towered over the young man, easily eight inches taller than the student.

“If I do this, you must promise never to tell anybody what happened.”

“Oh, no Sir; of course not Sir,” Hernandez’s heart raced.

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, with more confidence than he actually possessed, the professor said, “Good boy. Come then, let’s do it.”

Luckhurst pulled a straight-backed chair from in front of his desk and placed it in the center of the office. Then, he sat down.

Hernandez stood his ground. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“Come, boy, take down those shorts. Get across my lap.”

“But…” Not for the first time that day Hernandez was lost for words. He had asked to be spanked, but he expected swats across his ass. Maybe he would be leaning over the desk, or bent over “assuming the position,” hands on his shins. No way had he expected to be over the professor’s knee, showing him his underwear.

Professor Luckhurst sat patiently. He had longed for such a moment his entire career. A cute naughty student submissively bent across his knee, offering up his butt for punishment. Sweat poured from his body and the underarms of his shirt was drenched. His breathing was heavy and his blood pressure was reaching record levels.

“Come on Hernandez, it is what you wanted.” Professor Luckhurst watched quietly as with trembling hands the boy undid his cloth belt and popped the button at the top of his bottle-green cargo shorts. The weight of the shorts took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees to rest at his shins. The boy’s legs were covered in thick black hair, to the professor’s evident disappointment. In his fantasies, the students had always been hairless: virginal.

Clearly distressed, Hernandez waddled a few steps so that he stood to the right of the professor. No, he couldn’t do this. He had changed his mind. Never mind the plan; forget how this little episode would insure the boy a bright trouble-free future. At the final moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Doh!” Professor Luckhurst was not about to miss his opportunity of a lifetime. He reached out and took the boy’s right arm and gently pulled him forward, so that he tumbled face down across the professor’s knees.

Hernandez screwed his eyes tight. The contact of his own body against the professor’s repulsed him. This was not how it was meant to be. Now, he had two choices; he could fight his way to his feet and flee the office. It would be easy, he was much smaller than his punisher, but he was forty-five years his junior; he had the superior strength.

He could do that, or he could stick with the original plan; albeit modified. He could take the spanking, graduate the university and get on with his new life.

Professor Luckhurst looked down at Federico, now across his lap. He might be twenty-two, but with his short trim body he could have passed for fifteen. Tight yellow briefs clung to his buttocks, so firmly they separated each one, so that the cotton dug deep into his crack creating a ravine. The boy’s red and white shirt had already risen away from the target area, but the professor helped it on its way by carefully folding it up once and then twice until the whole of his back beneath the shoulder blades was exposed.

Intrigued, the professor gently brushed his hand across the hairs on the boy’s back, feeling a slight tickle against his palm, but he took care not to connect with the flesh.

Federico’s anger was rising. What was the professor up to? The fury turned to rage when the professor moved his hand lower to caress the smooth cotton briefs. This time he let his palm explore the boy’s tight flesh. Each buttock was small enough to fit into the palm of the professor’s hand. Gently and very slowly the cupped hand explored the contours of the buttocks. The underpants were so tight and so small they left the lower half of each cheek exposed. The professor stroked his hand in a circular motion across the bared flesh, rather like he was polishing a window.

Federico stared straight ahead, trying to control his disgust. His arms were stretched out ahead of him and his own palms were pressed into the heavy material of the carpet, scratching them slightly. The crucifix he wore on a chain around his neck had slipped and dangled in front of his eyes. Behind him, he kept his knees straight and his toes floated an inch or so off the ground. His buttocks, now receiving so much loving attention from the professor, rested high over the old man’s right thigh.

On and on the professor caressed Federico’s buttocks in a circular motion; he was pimping and preening them. Never before had he held such a beautiful boy close to his own flesh. He was adorable; too wonderful to hurt. The professor would be entirely satisfied simply to hold and stroke the boy all night long. Was it too late to renegotiate with the boy? Let there be no spanking, instead give me a blow-job. No, better still; let me take you up the ass.

But it was too late. Better to make the most of the moment. The professor raised his hand two or three inches away from Federico’s left cheek and tapped it down. Then he did the same to the right cheek. Then again and again.

Federico had never been spanked in his life. He was no expert, but he knew one thing about it: it was supposed to hurt. That surely was the whole point. The professor wasn’t spanking him, he was coming on to him. This wasn’t a punishment, this was foreplay: a prelude to full-on sex.

On and on, the professor tapped and smacked his way across the boy’s glorious trim buttocks. No part of the cheeks escaped his attention. Smack, smack. smack.

Federico was losing his breath, not from the pain of his spanking since there wasn’t any, but from his increasing disgust. The professor was using him for his own sexual gratification. That wasn’t the idea. The plan was to get a spanking. It was meant to be four or five swats on the shorts and then, “Thank you Sir” and goodbye.

z used drawing hand otk (7)

Right that’s it. He wriggled his body and tried to force himself off the professor’s lap. Enough already. He was out of here.

The movement might have woken Luckhurst out of a trance. It was as if he suddenly realised why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

“No you don’t buster,” he pushed the boy forward so that his nose could smell the dusty carpet. Then he grabbed Federico’s right arm and twisted it up his back. The boy was going nowhere until the professor said so.

Then, in one swift continuous action, he grabbed the waistband of Federico’s tight yellow briefs and tugged them over his buttocks and left them at his thighs. The student wriggled and writhed, rather like he was swimming out of water, but the professor was his master; he was pinned down powerless to resist.

The professor once again caressed the buttocks. Unlike the boy’s back and legs, they were completely hairless, even the crack and butt hole. Did the boy shave himself, the professor wondered. Or did he have a special friend who did it for him?

But this was no time for speculation. In a frenzy the professor rained down spank after spank across the student’s pert naked butt. Federico felt that alright. The professor’s hand was as large and hard as Federico’s ass cheeks were small and soft. Sweat poured from the professor’s chest as the ache in the palm of his hand increased from a tingle to real pain. He had never spanked anyone in his whole sixty-seven years and was startled at how the boy’s tanned skin turned a deeper shade of brown as his own hand connected again and again with the flesh. The outline of the professor’s open palm was embedded time and time again on the boy’s rear end.

Federico kicked and thrashed his legs about, but he could not disturb the professor. The old man had an uninterrupted access to the buttocks. He realized he rather enjoyed swiping his hand hard into Federico’s naked cheeks and watching the instant reaction of the boy as he exhaled breath and wriggled across the older man’s lap. Yes, there was a direct connection between cause and effect in this spanking motion.

Federico gasped and gaped as each smack came down harder than the one before. He shook his head so violently in his attempt to escape what had become a severe bare-butt hand spanking that his crucifix slipped over his ears and fell on the ground. He stared down at it as his ass got hotter and hotter.

The professor was an old man. He didn’t have the strength he had twenty or thirty years past. He was spent. In his younger days he might have been able to spank the cute boy across his lap all night long. But not now. Not these days. He was choking for breath and blood rushed through his arteries at jet speed. If he didn’t slow down, he might have a stroke. No, worse than that: a heart attack.

“So young man,” he wheezed. “Do you regret not working hard in my class?”

Federico was astounded. He had long ago forgotten the reason he was bent over, naked butt raised high, receiving the attention of the pervert professor.

“Well?” the professor slapped his hand down the hardest yet.

“Yes,” the student gasped. His own breathing was as difficult as that of the professor. “Oh, yes,” he whimpered.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

The student was puzzled. What was he supposed to say?

Slap! “Beg for forgiveness.”

Beg?

Slap! “Say it. I beg you for forgiveness.”

That was it. When, I get up from here, I’m going to smash your fucking head in. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but the intent was real.

Slap! “Say it!”

The boy could not have been more humiliated. He had no choice. He had to remember that once he was released, his future was safe.

He wheezed, “I beg you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” Then for good measure, he added, “Sir.”

The professor stopped spanking. Federico lay across the old man, still staring at the crucifix. His head was spinning; he desperately needed to be standing on his own feet. So much blood had rushed to his brain; he feared he might pass out at any moment.

“Up.” It was a cold command. Despite his ordeal, Federico was still an athletic young man and he was off the man’s lap in seconds. Without waiting for permission, he pulled his underwear and shorts up. He was distressed that his hands would not obey him fully as he tried to button up and then buckle his belt. His ass was hot, but the agony was already dissipating into pain and would soon be only a throbbing.

The professor rose from his chair more slowly and turned to face the boy. He hoped Federico would not notice the bulge in front of his own pants. For several seconds the professor and the student stood facing one another in silence. Neither knew what to do next. Federico’s earlier rage had calmed. He would not beat up the professor. There was no cause to do that.

Eventually, the professor regained some of his own composure. “Nobody will hear about this, will they?”

“No,” Federico’s response was sullen.

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Federico assured him as he bent down to retrieve the fallen crucifix. Then without another word between the two men he walked to the door, unlocked it and left. With a wry smile cracking his lips he ran through the automatic doors toward the elevator.

….

Six months later Federico sat in the bar of a luxury hotel in the Caribbean, a beautiful woman by his side. In his hand he held a copy of the International New York Times. He smiled with satisfaction as for the third time today he read the story headlined: University settles $1.5 million lawsuit in student spanking case. A smaller headline ran: Professor’s career in ruins.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Senior Tutor

z used jeans man taking down (1)

Nineteen-year-old Liam Thomas stood, hands clasped behind his back, feet shuffling slightly, in front of the desk.

Behind it sat the Senior Tutor, a stern man, imperious, dressed in a black academic gown.

The Senior Tutor, Professor Adams, was doing his best to ignore the student before him. The professor liked to let the boys stew. Leave them to wonder what might happen to them. What punishment they might expect.

The Senior Tutor had seen it all before, but this was a new experience for Liam. This was his first time in Prof Adams’ study. Liam had time to take in the splendour of the room. This was an ancient university, one of the best in the country, no the world. It had high expectations of its students and had centuries of tradition to uphold.

Liam was like a fish out of water at the university. Whereas most of his fellow students had parents in the professional classes and had attended expensive fee-paying schools, Liam’s father was a factory worker and his mother worked in a beauty parlour. He came from a very working class, poor area of South Wales.

“Well, Thomas.” The Senior Tutor had deigned to recognise Liam’s presence at last. “What is this all about?”

It was “all about” Liam being thrown off the philosophy course. He had been at the university for more than a year now. At first he worked hard, just as he had done to get into the university in the first place. But, things had gone downhill lately. Girls and beer were to blame mostly. So, Liam skipped a few tutorials, handed assignments in late and maybe worst of all, the last essay he had delivered was clearly plagiarised.

So, Dr Abramovich had thrown him off the course with the parting words, “Go see the Senior Tutor to discuss your options.”

Soon, Liam would discover that really he had no other option but to submit himself to Prof Adams, the Senior Tutor.

Prof Adams heard Liam’s story in silence. Liam was honest with the Senior Tutor. He admitted he had not worked at all this term and had let down himself and Dr Abramovich.

Prof Adams visibly mellowed as he heard this frank confession. It was always easier to deal with a boy who admitted he was at fault.

“And what should happen now?” the professor asked.

Liam stayed silent, shuffling his feet again, staring at the carpet. He wasn’t sure if this was a rhetorical question that he wasn’t really expected to answer. In any case, if it wasn’t rhetorical, he had no answer to give.

“Well boy?”

Liam mumbled something about being given another chance. He would work harder and so on. Even Liam wasn’t convinced by his answer.

“Not good enough, Thomas.” The professor was not going to let him off so lightly.

“Really, you should be sent down for the rest of the term and after your suspension is over we might discuss your future again.”

This was the last thing Liam wanted. His parents had scrimped and saved to help him to get to university. Whereas most kids in his valley left school at sixteen and went to work to bring money into the house, his own parents had worked overtime to pay for him to stay on to do A-levels and go to university. It would break their hearts if he were sent down.

“There might be an alternative, however,” the professor was speaking again.

Liam’s face brightened, encouraging the Senior Tutor to continue.

“You have worked hard to be at this university Thomas and I would not wish to see all that work wasted. But, you need to be punished and the punishment must be exemplary.”

Liam blushed, his face bright red, what was coming next?

“You need a short, sharp shock. Something to pull you up sharp. Something to help you to mend you ways.”

Liam’s heart was racing now.

“I could administer a sound thrashing.”

Liam’s jaw visibly dropped.

“You will take twelve strokes of the cane on your underpants, bent over that sofa,” he nodded to a leather couch that was just behind Liam.

Suspension or a beating: those were the options. Liam had never been caned in his life. Not even spanked. He couldn’t even remember being slapped as a very small child. What the hell would a “sound thrashing” with a cane on his pants be like?

But suspension from the university was out of the question. He really had no option.

“Well, what’s it to be Thomas?”

All the saliva had drained from Liam’s mouth and he could barely get the words out, “The caning please.”

“The caning please, SIR,” the professor snapped back.

“The caning please, Sir.”

The Senior Tutor rose from his chair and went to a second desk where he opened a long drawer. Liam couldn’t see exactly what the professor was doing, but he heard a rustle of canes as the professor chose the rod he would use to whip him.

The professor extracted a rattan with a curved handle. He swished it in the air two or three times to get its measure. Satisfied that it was the perfect implement to thrash Liam, the professor closed the drawer.

Liam was transfixed. Not only had he never been caned, he had never even seen a cane before. This was an impressive instrument, dark yellow in colour and maybe three feet in length. The Senior Tutor swished it once again, deliberately trying to intimidate Liam.

“Stand by the sofa.” It was a simple command made with authority.

Liam must have been in a trance. Later, when he tried to recall his encounter with the professor, there were large parts that he simply could not remember.

Professor Adams watched in silence as Liam walked to the couch and stood four feet from it.

“Closer boy.” Of course, Liam realised, he couldn’t stretch across the back of the couch from this distance. He shuffled forward a little.

The professor held the cane in his right hand, ready to do his duty. “Take down your trousers.”

Blood was rushing through his veins and his temples were throbbing, but Liam obeyed. He fumbled with the buckle of his wide leather belt and snapped open the clasp. Then he undid the button at the waist. The weight of the belt helped his corduroy trousers slip down revealing his bright red underpants. Liam undid the zip fly and the trousers fell to his knees.

“Bend over,” the professor touched the back of the couch with his cane.

Liam hesitated. Was he really going to let this man thrash him with a cane?

“Quickly!” The professor snapped the cane against the couch again.

Liam took a deep breath and lowered himself across the couch. It was the perfect size for a teenager to bend over. Liam stretched his arms in front of him, grasping the front edge of the couch tightly.

“Legs further apart boy.” Liam did as he was told.

Prof Adams stood cane in hand, observing the scene. He did not enjoy beating boys, he told himself.

He watched as Liam, breathing heavily, clenched his buttocks together in anticipation of the first lash.

The Senior Tutor believed it was his duty to deliver sound thrashings to his wayward students. It was for their benefit. A short, sharp shock would bring them to their senses. The alternative was to ruin their studies, their future careers and ultimately, perhaps, their entire lives.

Better by far to deal with the problem this way.

Prof Adams stood to Liam’s left, extended his cane and tap, tap, tapped it against the student’s right buttock. Then with a swift movement he swung the cane back, beyond shoulder height and lashed it into his underpants.

Liam shrieked as the cut hit home. It was involuntary; he hadn’t meant to do it. His body writhed in pain and he jumped up hopping from foot to foot, rubbing his backside vigorously.

“Get back over!” there was real anger in the professor’s voice. “If you stand up again, we shall start the punishment all over again. This time on your bare backside.”

Reluctantly, slowly, painfully, Liam positioned himself once again over the back of the couch.

Slash!!! The second cut bit deep into Liam. A white line appeared across the student’s tight red underpants and the professor knew that beneath the cotton a deep welt had formed.

Thwack!! Thwack!! Thwack!! Three cuts fell one after the other with no time for respite. Liam yelled each time the cane hit home. Tears were flowing down his cheeks. He did not know how to cope with this thrashing.

His knuckles were white as he clutched the couch for dear life.

Prof Adams saw Liam’s pain, but he felt no reason to let up. He had a duty to perform and he was going to do it. He had beaten many students over the years and he knew that once thrashed very few ever came back for more. This punishment, however harsh and unusual some people might see it, actually worked. He had the evidence.

He lashed down cut number six. Liam’s howling did not let up. It was so intense it could probably be heard all over town, if the professor hadn’t had the foresight many years ago to have his study sound-proofed.

The Senior Tutor paused as he reached half way in the punishment. He stepped forward and gently pulled at the elastic waistband of Liam’s underpants. For a split second the boy thought the professor was going to pull them down and deliver the final six on the bare. That wasn’t fair; he had kept his part of the bargain and had kept down across the back of the couch.

But, the professor was only inspecting the damage. He could see six thick, deep welts in Liam’s buttocks. His aim had been perfect, even though the boy had been writhing most of the time. Blood was beginning to seep from the wounds.

The professor snapped back the elastic and ran his hand across both buttocks, smoothing the cotton so it became a second skin. Liam winced in pain as the man’s hand connected with his wounds.

Stepping back, the professor raised the cane and continued with the thrashing. Blows seven, eight and nine fell in quick succession. Poor Liam gagged as tears and snot cascaded down his chin. His whole body was wracked in pain.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Then it was over. The professor quietly laid his cane on his desk. Liam was sobbing uncontrollably into the cushion of the couch, his whole body heaving as he gasped for air.

“Stand up Thomas.” It was a quiet instruction, devoid of anger. It was over. The boy had submitted to his punishment. Not well, but he had taken it.

Liam raised himself from the couch unsteadily. He almost fell as he tried to stand in front of the professor.

“Get dressed.”

Liam was distraught. He couldn’t stop the sobs. His backside was raw. The red pants camouflaged the blood that was oozing from his wounds. His backside throbbed with a pain the like he had never experienced. Liam tried to rub at his bottom, but realised that the merest touch increased the pain, it didn’t relieve it.

He bent down to retrieve his trousers from his ankles. Even that small effort stretched the skin across his buttocks and sent another shock wave of pain through him. With some difficulty Liam zipped and buckled himself up.

The professor went to his desk drawer and retrieved a box of paper handkerchiefs. He offered the box to the boy. Liam grabbed a handful of tissues and wiped away the mucus from his face. He was beginning to regain some measure of control.

“When you have composed yourself, please go to Dr Abramovich and with my compliments tell her you have received a thrashing and ask her if she will kindly consider reinstating you on her philosophy course.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Liam replied and turned to leave, his university career saved.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Making the Grade

used drawing paddle hold (16)

 

“Look at these grades. I’ve failed psychology.” Randy Caulfield was despondent.

He pushed the printed transcript across the table to his friend Seth. The nineteen-year-old student studied the paper carefully, as if a careful examination might change the ‘F’ into a pass.

He took a long pull on his iced cola, “What are you going to do about it?”

“What can I do? I had a place lined up at school and now look at this.” Randy waved the transcript in the air dramatically.

“I’ve got A’s in just about everything else. But, this goddam fail means I can’t go,” Randy felt like weeping. His life was over. Ahead lay forty-five years of dead-end jobs.

“It was the only elective I could get. All the others were full. What good is psychology anyway?” Randy’s bitterness spilled over.

“But it’s only an elective course, does it count?” Seth was trying to be supportive, but he knew it did matter.

At John F. Kennedy Community College you had to pass all your courses, even when your overall grade point average was a pass.

“Do you know,” Randy said, “If I got a bare pass in the psychology, my GPA would still be good enough to take me to university.”

“Who teaches the course?” Seth had the germ of an idea.

“Drake, d’you know him?”

“Yes, I think so. Youngish man, only been here a couple of years,” Seth replied, trying not to let on that he knew more than he was saying.

“Yes, that’s him. A goddam awful teacher, no wonder I never learned anything,” Randy said, and then as an afterthought, “I wonder how many others failed.” He was wondering if he would win an appeal against the grading.

“You should talk to him, this Drake.  Tell him what’s happened. Ask him to pass you,” Seth knew he had to tread carefully.

“Would that work? Would he do it?” Randy doubted it.

“Make an appointment. Go see him. What is there to lose?” Seth drained his cola and stood up to leave.

If the rumours Seth had heard were true, Randy would get his pass; but he would have to pay a price for it.

….

Randy got his appointment to see Drake, but he had to wait until six in the evening. The semester was over and John F. Kennedy Community College was nearly deserted as he made his way to Drake’s office, hidden away at the end of a corridor on the eighth floor of the main building.

As he exited the elevator he saw Mark Cheyne, a fellow psychology student, hurrying down the corridor. He was ashen faced and his eyes shone like hot coals. Randy growled “Watch it!” as Mark pushed him out of the way before disappearing into the elevator.

It was late and the support staff had all gone home. There did not seem to be anyone around, so he walked down the corridor reading name plates until he found: T. E. Drake. Suddenly, overtaken by nerves, Randy hesitated. Something was not quite right, but he could not put his finger on it. Checking that nobody else was in the corridor, the teenager put his ear to the door. He had no clue why he did that, or what he expected to hear. In fact, he heard nothing; there was nothing to hear.

Shaking his head (what a fool he was), he tapped on the door and was greeted by a firm “Come in!”

It was an ordinary office and very modern. The furniture, such of it that there was, was made from light pine. A desk and computer table dominated the small room and there were two ‘bucket type’ chairs for guests. The walls were lined with shelving upon which Drake piled high books and journals. It was about as untidy as any other lecturer’s office Randy had ever visited.

Behind the desk, working at the computer was Drake. Seth had described him well; he was a young man, hardly out of university himself. His wide open face and floppy fair hair gave him the appearance of a much younger person.

He looked up, removed his glasses, and peered at Randy.

“And you are?” Drake feigned not to know the nineteen-year-old student he had failed to teach all semester, but he knew very well who he was. And, he knew why he was here.

“I’m Randy Caulfield,” he began, before adding ‘Sir,” as if he were back at Junior High.

Drake liked that. “Sir!” Yes, he thought, this boy had the correct attitude.

“And why are you here?”

Randy launched into a prepared speech about his grade, it being an elective course, how he was an A-student and how his future would be ruined if he could not take his place at the university.

Drake listened impassively. He had already made up his mind, but he wanted a little fun first.

“Why should I give students grades they do not deserve?”

Randy had no coherent answer to that, so just mumbled about his lost university place.

Drake stood up from his computer and walked around his desk so that he was next to Randy.

“It is important that I treat all my students in the same way, he intoned pompously, recalling in his mind Mark Cheyne’s visit to his office not ten minutes previously.

“Yes, sir … I know … but …” Randy tailed off.

There he went again: “Sir.”

Drake paced his office. “You are a lazy student Caulfield and you cannot be allowed to get away with it!” He was firm and determined to make the teenager suffer.

Randy did not think himself lazy, his A-grades in other course proved that. He was a chemist and one day would distinguish himself in the science. He was a good student, but he was just was not cut out for psychology.

He should tell Drake this, he thought, but he could not find the words. Disheartened by his wasted journey, he prepared to leave.

Startled that he might lose a golden opportunity, Drake said, “No, don’t go yet. There might be something I can do for you.”

Puzzled, Randy swung round to face the lecturer.

“You are lazy and you must be taught a lesson. But, I do not want to destroy what might prove to be a promising career. You can be punished in some other way.”

Drake’s words came easily. He had said the same, or something very similar, to many students already that day. He had rehearsed them well and in his own mind what he was about to propose was reasonableness itself.

“If you behaved like this in High School, you would be sent to the principal’s office, would you not.”

Randy was not so sure. “Maybe. I guess,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“There is no ‘maybe’ about it,” Drake’s certainty was not to be questioned.

Randy stood silent. What exactly was happening here?

“And the principal would more than likely give you swats with one of these,” and Drake opened a cupboard door, reached in and took out a spanking paddle.

Randy’s face glowed red with embarrassment. Drake wanted to paddle him.

“So what do you say? If you take a licking and atone for your laziness, I will raise your grade to a pass.” Drake smacked the paddle down into the palm of his hand and stared intently at the teenager as he waited for Randy to respond.

Randy could not take his eyes off the wood Drake wanted to use to beat his ass. It was a typical school paddle, about fifteen inches long and five wide. It was maybe a half an inch thick. Some joker had written ‘Board of Education’ on one side of the blade.

Randy was breathless. Was the man serious? Could he actually do this? Was it even legal?

The boy said none of this aloud, but Drake could read his thoughts.

“It is the solution. You know it is Randy.” This was the first time the man had ever called him by his first name.

“Come. Let’s get this over with,” Drake said as he moved one of the bucket chairs into the centre of the room.

Randy was in a trance. Later when he recounted his story to Seth (who knew all about Drake’s little game) there were many parts of the action he could not remember.

“Bend over the chair, Randy.”

He meekly did as he was told and bent down. It was a small chair with a low back. Drake had Randy move back a bit, using the paddle against his legs and inner thighs to guide him to spread his legs until they were about shoulder-width apart.  Then Drake tugged at Randy’s jeans until they stretched across his buttocks like a second skin.

Then, Swat! The first one landed in the center of his backside. Randy let out a loud yelp and hung on for dear life as he furiously stamped his feet trying to get the sting out of his poor butt.

Drake did not mind if Randy kicked about, as long as he stayed in position.

Randy was gasping for breath as if he would never end off gasping, then he clenched his teeth to try to stop yelling again as swat number two connected. The paddle stung like fire and he was surprised how loud a sound it made when it landed across his bent-over behind. All he could say was Ow, ow, ow!!! again and again.

After two dozen swats had connected it was over. Randy let go of the chair and jumped up and down, hollering in pain, his hands frantically trying to soothe the unquenchable heat burning every square inch of his poor butt. His eyes were welled up with tears but he did not care. He was way past the point of being embarrassed about tears or about the show he was putting on as he tried to stop the burn. After a minute or so of carrying on, he stopped dancing up and down and just stood still and rubbed.

Drake stood there paddle in hand just watching Randy with a look of satisfaction on his face that seemed to say: job well done.

And, it was a job well done. Drake had satisfied himself. He could with a clear conscience delete Randy’s failed grade and replace it with a pass.

Randy heard the news in silence. He had regained control of his breathing and the red heat in his throbbing buttocks was cooling.

Shoving his hands deep into his pockets he tramped out of the office; his place at the university saved.

At the end of the corridor the elevator opened and out stepped Phil King, another psychology student.

“Good luck!” Randy said to the puzzled classmate before pressing the button for the lobby.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

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Professor Paddle

z used drawing paddle hold (11)

“It is indeed regrettable that the university failed to make proper provisions for regular corporal punishment as a normal part of academic tuition, but Armstrong and Kitso in your case I can assure you a sound spanking with a stout wooden paddle is very much in order.”

The two miserable twenty-year-old students shifted their feet and stared down at their shoes like the two naughty twelve-year-old schoolboys they closely resembled.

The professor detailed their misdeeds, but neither of the young men listened too carefully, since they had already learned their fate.

They had been caught cheating on an essay. It was blatant and inexpert; they were as the students at the university called it, “bang to rights.” They had no excuses really. They were just idle students who spent too much time in the bar or on the sports field, or, as often as they could, chatting up girls.

They listened to the lecture with downcast eyes. They knew they’d done wrong, and deserved to be punished for it.

The professor was not too surprised by their behaviour; he had seen it all before. They were not the only students who had been to visit his study this term, all for more or less the same offence: slacking. And each one had hobbled away from the study with a throbbing backside.

He was so keen on the wood, his students called him Professor Paddle. They knew what price they would pay if they broke the rules or didn’t put enough effort into their studies: they only had themselves to blame.

The professor believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment: he always spanked students who were up before him. Experience told him that if he whacked their butts for their first offence, they rarely committed a second.

Now, it was the turn of Armstrong and Kitso: two very ordinary students, as far as the professor could tell. Neither would become a star academic and distinguish the university, but if they knuckled down and worked hard, they would graduate with good enough degrees and enjoy decent careers.

The professor’s sermons never lasted long. He told the embarrassed pair they were cheats and might never be trusted again. He said their parents would be ashamed of them if they heard of their behaviour. It was standard stuff; he had given similar homilies many times before.

Each boy stared at the faded rug beneath his feet, each uncertain whether they were expected to respond, so they did what generations of naughty schoolboys had done before them, they kept silent.

The lecture now over Professor Paddle got straight to the point. “Both of you stand facing that wall.” Miserably, the youngsters did as instructed. It was quite a large study, two walls were dominated by bookcases and a third accommodated a large Chesterfield-type couch. The fourth consisted of fake mahogany panelling.

The study was full of furniture and the professor had many choices when he positioned his naughty students for their punishment. Over the years he had them draped across an armchair, the Chesterfield and his over-large desk. But, he thought, he preferred one of the simple plastic chairs he had swiped from a seminar room and that he used for visitors.

It was one of these lightweight chairs that he picked up and placed in the centre of the room. In this position there would be ample space for a boy to bend over the chair and for the professor to swing his paddle into the proffered buttocks with maximum force.

“Armstrong. You first.” He was looking at Kitso when he said this and was surprised when it was the other boy who moved forward.

“Stand in front of the chair, boy.” Armstrong felt he was in a dream, he had never been spanked in his life and he could not entirely believe that his first taste of butt pain would come when he was twenty years old.

“I want you to take down your jeans and assume the position, hands on the seat of the chair. Keep facing the wall boy.” This last was addressed to Kitso who astonished by the professor’s command had turned to see the reaction of his friend.

Armstrong had not expected this. Paddled on the shorts! The pain of a whacking on the jeans would be bad enough, but surely the paddle thwacked across the thin cotton of his underwear would be unbearable.

Armstrong moved slowly across the room and around to the other side of the chair, facing away from the professor. He deliberately avoided thinking about what he was doing as his fingers undid the button of his jeans, then the zipper, and then slid them down altogether. They hung around his knees for a moment, before the force of gravity took them down to rest at his feet. That wasn’t so hard. He still had his boxers on. There was no shame in the professor seeing him in his boxers, he lied to himself.

Meanwhile, the professor rummaged in a desk drawer.  A big wooden paddle with air holes in it was in his hands in no time.

“Armstrong, bend yourself over the chair, lift up your shirt tail out of the way and keep your hands away from your bottom. If your hands move from the chair, I will start over.”

With those words, he drew back the paddle and whacked Armstrong’s rear end with it – hard! He winced, and gave out an audible gasp. The crack of the paddle echoed through the study. Again, the professor drew back and walloped his rear end. The underwear he was wearing didn’t give him much protection.

Then the professor struck the boy’s right buttock with as much force as he could muster, almost causing him to topple forward. Unable to see clearly through the tears in his eyes, Armstrong fought to stay in position as the pain seared into his bottom, determined not to cry out. Worse almost than the pain itself was the awful humiliation of having to submit to a spanking at his age like a naughty child.

Holding his position, he waited for the next swat, his buttocks clenching convulsively in anticipation.

For a moment the professor eyed the boy’s cotton-clad backside and then, taking careful aim with the paddle in his right hand, struck the left buttock cheek a resounding blow that dented the thin material deep into the soft, yielding flesh.

Armstrong wailed and kicked his feet, but was smart enough to remain in position. Bang! Bang! Bang! went the paddle, Armstrong rising to his tiptoes and groaning with each powerful swat.

The paddle was like a hot iron, scalding him with every touch. He felt tears racing down his cheeks, so hot they seemed to sear their own path through his skin, leaving permanent canals.

Armstrong was howling, but took his licks as bravely as he could. He stood panting as the professor put down the paddle.

“Up. Stand by the wall. Kitso, your turn,” the command was curt and intended to be obeyed. Both boys jumped to attention.

Armstrong was in some distress as he faced the wood panelling. Tears were flowing freely down his face. His rear end felt as if he had sat on a hamburger griddle and surely the flesh on his buttocks was as raw as hamburger meat.

Kitso turned away from the wall, ready to take his own licking, and was astonished to see the professor seated on the plastic chair. He was gripping a smaller paddle, one not much bigger than a hairbrush.

“Come here boy, don’t dawdle. Trousers down. Bend over my knee.” Kitso blanched: it was humiliating enough to have to assume the position to let this older man whack his arse, but being made to bend across his knee like a five-year-old was going too far. Kitso stood his ground unable to move.

“Doh!” the professor exhaled, and with that he dragged Kitso’s head by the ear and held him in front of him while he unfastened and pulled down the student’s beige trousers to below his knees.

When he’d pulled down the trousers, he grabbed Kitso’s wrist so tightly it actually hurt. In the same motion, he yanked him over his lap with more force than he imagined he had, so the boy fell neatly into place across his widely placed knees. Kitso had to stop himself from crashing into the floor with his hands. He tried to get up but the professor grabbed the back of his neck, forced the head down and raised his knee by propping his heel against the chair leg so that the boy’s bottom was raised vulnerably. Kitso had to grab hold of the professor’s ankle with one hand and put his other on the floor to balance himself.

He laid one hand firmly on the boy’s lower back to hold him still but the cheating student’s body was trembling.

Like an explosion the paddle struck his bottom with enough force to make him feel like his eyes popped out of his head. There was no hesitation, the paddle bounced off his butt and slammed back into him. By that second blow tears began to roll down his face. By the third or fourth he was begging him to stop and screaming each time he hit him.

At some point during the spanking, Kitso reached back to try and protect his buttocks from any more pain. That turned out to be a huge mistake. With his free hand, the professor pinned both his wrists behind his back and began beating his poor cheeks with vengeance. He was crying wildly, screaming and whining and begging him to stop. His legs were kicking around and he tried with everything he was worth to wiggle off of his lap, but he never could. The professor was way too strong.

Kitso didn’t know how long it took for the professor to get his lesson across, but when he realized he had stopped, he was choking and weeping as he dangled, pinned across his knee. He was so humiliated, he could only double over and look at the floor, while both his hands rushed to clasp and rub his ignited bottom, trying to make the throbbing pain stop. He bounced and danced around, mostly in the same place, as he wailed and rubbed his behind.

Kitso looked sheepishly at the master who had delivered such a harsh spanking. Totally indifferent and non-responsive, the professor directed him to pull up his trousers and move to stand beside the leather arm chair from which he normally conducted his tutorials. Armstrong was instructed to join him.

The professor had earlier delivered his sermon and saw no reason to repeat any of it now. He warned the boys of the consequences of a repeat offence and dismissed them. Trying to walk as normally as possible, and desperately resisting the temptation to grip their bottoms, they walked slowly to the door and out.

Picture credit: Endart

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com