University bully

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Hundreds of academics have been accused of bullying colleagues in the past five years, prompting concerns that a culture of harassment and intimidation is thriving in Britain’s leading universities. – Genuine news story

z used cane holding office Sting

“Bend over.”

You stare dumbfounded, “Excuse me?”

“I said bend over.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What part of ‘bend over’ don’t you understand? I’m going to cane you.”

“Cane me?”

“Yes, cane you. Bend over the desk.”

“You can’t … I mean,” you stammer, your confusion growing.

“I can. I am your head of department. I can do as I please. Bend over.”

You watch confused, as he flexes an old-fashioned, school cane between his hands. “But …” you still can’t quite grasp what is happening to you. “No, you can’t. I’m not a student.”

“I am well aware who you are. That is why I am going to cane you. Bend over.”

Your head spins. Is this really happening? Is it perhaps a surreal dream. “But …” you try to speak, but he interrupts you. “No buts. Bend over that desk.” He swishes the cane through the air and points to a small desk at the other side of the room.

“How can you?” you feel your voice crack, you are starting to plead. “I have my rights.”

He bends the cane between his hands once more. It is a little under a metre long and as thick as a pencil. Your eyes focus on the notches that run along the length of the yellow rod. You notice the muscles flexing in his arms. He sneers, “Rights! Don’t give me rights. You have no rights. I have your annual assessment.” He nods towards a filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “What have you published this year?” he growls and then answers his own question, “Nothing!”

You start to protest that you have a huge teaching load. Eight classes, each semester, but before you can form any words, he continues, “And, hardly anything the year before. What do you do all day?”

You can feel your lips moving and some words are forming but you are too terrified to speak clearly. You babble and that only encourages him in his own pursuit. “Your contract is coming to an end at Christmas. Do you really expect me to renew it? Clearly, he thinks this is a rhetorical question because he doesn’t give you time to answer. “Bend over,” he snarls and bends the rattan cane into an arc. You cannot take your eyes off it.

You can’t stop your eyelids from blinking fast. Your heartrate speeds. Suddenly your mouth is arid like a desert. The palms of your hands sweat. You can’t catch your breath. You are starting to panic. What can you do?  Call for help. Isn’t his secretary in the next room? No, you tell yourself, you saw her leaving as you came in. You are on your own. Should you make a run for it? Your mind is a whirl. Where can you run to? You know you can run but you cannot hide. He will get you eventually. Then what? Bend over, get the cane. Or lose your jobs. You know it will be hard to get another. This is your first post. You don’t have much experience, and as he says you have hardly published any research.

He walks over to the small desk and stands besides it. He looks at you menacingly. He wobbles the cane at you and a hideous grin cracks his fleshy face. You see how much he is enjoying this. He taps the tip of the cane against the desk. “Bend over the desk,” and then he adds cruelly, “young man.” You feel like a small child. You are nobody; he is all. He has the power, he can do as he wants with you. “Well?” he draws out the word investing it with sinister connotations. You gulp.

“I shan’t ask you again,” he mocks and then does precisely that, “Bend over the desk.”

Your head pounds so much you fear it will explode. Your throat feels like you are gargling with razor blades. Oh my God! You have no choice. There is nothing you can do. Absolutely nothing. “P…” you start to plead, but stop yourself. He is all commanding. You concede defeat. You feel like you are in a trance. This isn’t really happening to you. It is somebody else in that room. Is this what an out of body experience feels like? Independently of your will, your body moves slowly towards the desk. You stand close to it, the room seems to be spinning. He taps the frayed tip of the cane against the desk once more, “Bend over,” he intones.

The desk is small and low. You are tall. You look down on it as if from a great height. Bend over. How is it done exactly. Do you lean your elbows on the desk top and jut out your bottom? Should you lie down flat on your stomach? And then what, where do your arms go? Time is standing still. It is taking forever for you to work it out. From a great distance away you hear a voice, it is hazy, but you understand enough of what it is saying, “Bend over. Right down. Lie flat.” Your body obeys.

Your chest rests along the top of the desk which is not very big. Your stomach digs into one side. You still don’t know what to do with your arms. You stretch them to your sides spread-eagle fashion. You realise right away this is very uncomfortable and will not work. You change position and reach ahead of you. That is better. “Legs further apart,” you feel a slight tingle across your backside. He has slapped his hand across your bum to encourage you along. You do as you are told. “Good boy,” he says.

You have never felt so humiliated. Nothing before in your life comes anywhere close to this. You are offering up your bottom to an older man. You are going to submit to him; to let him beat you with a long, whippy cane. What if someone finds out. The students. You’d die of shame. You hear floorboards creak as he walks around behind you. Your chin is resting on the desk. If you keep your eyes open you can look across the room to the far wall. There is a day-planner calendar for 2019 with some dates inked in. You think if you concentrate on that it will take your mind off the ordeal to come. You sense he is now standing to your left. You hear his heavy breathing and there is a faint smell of what you suppose is deodorant.

He taps the cane across the centre of your bum. He stops. You sense him move closer to you. Violently, he grips the waistband of your chino trousers and tugs hard. The material digs up between your cheeks, it’s like he’s given you a wedgie. Now he is running the palm of his hand across your buttocks, smoothing out any creases that are left defacing the cotton. You feel very vulnerable. You are presenting him with the perfect target. He moves back, picks up the cane and once more taps it across the crest of your mounds. You feel it move from left to right in a sawing motion. Your cheeks clench. They decided to do this of their own accord. It is a reflex action. You feel the cane being lifted away from your bum, you shut your eyes tight and suck in your lips.

You hear an almighty swishing noise and crack! as the cane connects across the centre of your backside. There is a pause, it feels like a long time before the agony hits you. You gasp with shock, it feels like he has pressed a hot wire into your flesh. Your head automatically rises and falls and you headbutt the top of the desk. The burning intensifies and then cools of a little. Just as the pain subsides a second swish rents the air. The crack is as loud as before. The pain is a little harsher. He lands it below the first, under the cheek in the sensitive spot where the bum and the thighs meet. You do the headbutting thing again and this time your knees also buckle. The flesh is scorched. You have what feels like a strip of pain two or three centimetres long running across your bum.

You suck in air, trying to calm yourself. Your heartrate is off the scale. Your blood pressure must be sky high. Your bottom throbs. The third stroke whistles and cuts into the flesh just above the first. You now have three strokes running parallel to each other. He has an expert aim. The pain radiates from your bum and travels up and down your legs. You wrap your left foot over your right ankle in an almost successful attempt to stop yourself from kicking out. Your hips wriggle and you grip the edge of the desk so hard that your knuckles start to go white.

He lands the next one so that it cuts into one of the three welts pulsating across your bottom. You yelp, you just can’t help it. You just have to. The pain intensifies. It feels like your underpants have stuck to your skin. You panic. You’re bleeding. Before you have time to think more about this another swipe bounces off your bum. Again it lands across the others. You have never felt so much agony in your life; not even that time when you fell off your bike and broke a collarbone. You bite hard into your lip and think you can taste blood.

“Keep still, boy,” his voice echoes as if it is coming from a faraway valley. You are not aware that your hips have risen from the desk and you are stomping your feet up and down like a demented soldier on sentry duty. You feel the strength of his hand pushing you in the back until once again you are face down with your bottom high. He releases his grip and stands back, takes his aim and lets fly. He puts that one right into the area below the bum. It is almost right across the backs of the thighs. You stomp again, but some instinct stops you jumping up to rub the pain away from your backside. You groan, your eyes start to water. You fight back tears. The pain is intolerable. Is this how it would feel if someone had rubbed a steam iron across your bum? The back of your legs pulsate. You don’t know it yet but the welt that is forming now will reignite every time you sit down for days to come.

Has time stood still? It seems forever before the next stroke whips into you. Your eyes are closed tight so you cannot see him. You sense he is close behind you. He seems to be moving his position. You hear his irregular breathing. “Last one,” he says. The cane rises, swoops and cuts hard across your buttocks. This time you do scream. Your legs flail. Your head butts the desk top. You think your head is going to explode. He has landed the cane so that it runs in a diagonal line from the bottom left to the top right across your buttocks, biting into each of the five cuts previously delivered. Can there be so much agony in the world? How can such a thin, light whippy cane deliver so much hurt.

You are wheezing, struggling to catch your breath. Tears flood your face and drip onto the desk. Your bum is on fire. Again, you lose any sense of time. You daren’t move. Is it over? Are you allowed to stand up? He is in control. He is your master. You cannot do anything without his permission. At last the words, “Stand up,” drift through the air. You move your feet and they slip on the hard carpet and you topple forward. You grip the desk to stop tumbling to the ground. Even as you await your next instruction you feel the intense agony in your bottom is easing to a pulsating throb. Very soon it will become an intense ache. Over the coming minutes it will turn to a warm glow. The marks will stay with you for days and you will be reminded of this humiliation every time you sit down over the coming hours and days.

You grab hold of your own buttocks and rub furiously, it does very little to ease the pain. Through moist eyelids you see him open a cupboard and hide the cane from view. He turns to you. How you hate him. How you would like to grab a knife (or any sharp object) and gouge out his eyes. Perhaps, he senses this as he stays at the other end of the room. You see the armpits of his shirt are drenched. He too is waiting for his body to recover from the ordeal. After a few moments he looks across at you, you note the look of utter contempt in his eyes.

“That’s it,” he sneers. “Get out. Go.”

You hobble from the room, your humiliation complete. You know you can’t tell a living soul about this. Never. Who would believe you if you did? You hurry along the corridor towards the stairs. You see Jenkins, a young colleague from your department. Ashamed, you put your head down and rush past him. As you reach the stairwell you look back. Jenkins is at his door and about to knock.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Unexpected demonstration of affection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dear Professor,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

zused paddle jeans touch toes domestic (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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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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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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