Belted by the Boss

z used belt holding longs touch toes office

Shane waited outside his employer’s office, he knew that he was likely to be sacked and the police would be called: he would do anything to stop that happening.

He had stolen seven pounds from the petty-cash tin and been caught, it was as simple as that. There were no mitigating circumstances; he had wanted the money so he could go down the pub, it wasn’t as if he took it to feed his starving children or widowed mother.

Shane was eighteen years old and had worked at Ferguson’s since he left school two years previously. It’s true that he did have a widowed mother, but when his dad died a few years ago, he left behind a very good insurance policy and the family had lived very comfortably since.

No, Shane had stolen the money because he wanted it.

Mr Ferguson’s secretary opened the door, “He’ll see you now, Shane.” She flashed him a smile, she knew what was going on, but it was impossible not to like Shane, he was a charmer, many women, especially those old enough to be his mother, often thought.

Shane entered the office and stood in front of Mr Ferguson’s desk; he couldn’t help comparing it to his old headmaster’s study. He had visited that a few times, he recalled. But, this was not the headmaster, this was his boss: he wasn’t going to get the cane; he was getting the sack and a criminal record.

Mr Ferguson liked Shane too, but not in the way the women did. Even if he was only eighteen, Shane had the kind of ducking-and-diving spirit that was a good quality in a salesman. He had recently been promoted from general office assistant to a junior salesman; it might be the first rung on the ladder, but it was certainly on the ladder: Shane could climb very high with his talents.

But, now this had happened, Mr Ferguson thought: petty theft. He didn’t know it but Shane felt no remorse; sure he was sorry about being caught but not about the theft itself. He thought they were all hypocrites, the salesmen fiddled their expenses all the time and what was seven quid to a company like this?

Mr Ferguson wasn’t sure what to do. Shane was a thief, but let’s be honest, he thought, it wasn’t armed robbery and the boy’s not a thug. Actually, he’s just like a lot of kids his age, a bit selfish with no real scruples and he wanted everything on a plate, now. He just needs to learn to grow up; a short sharp lesson would be enough, he doesn’t need a criminal record.

When he first heard of Shane’s theft, Mr Ferguson thought how uncannily similar it was to his own experience thirty-odd years ago. He was eighteen years old when he and some pals stole a few bottles of beer from the local tennis club where his father worked as a steward. They took them into the fields and drank them. It was theft, of course, but also youthful high jinks. They got caught, but the police weren’t involved; he was thankful for that because a criminal record would have scuppered his successful career before it started.

Instead, his dad was informed and he dealt with it. And, how he dealt with it, Mr Ferguson could smile in retrospect, but at the time it was humiliating and painful. His dad marched him home and lectured him about how much he had embarrassed the family. And, here’s the rub, then he made him take down his trousers and underpants, bend over the arm of the settee, and he thrashed the living daylights out of him with his razor strop. He howled the house down with the agony and the indignity of it, but it taught him a lesson and he never stole again.

A bit of him wished that he could deal with Shane in the same way; a bloody good hiding would bring him to his senses and then we could all move on, but, he knew, if he told the boy’s mother he was a thief, she would die of shame and how would that help? Certainly, she wouldn’t be able to give him the punishment he so richly deserved.

Sometimes in the past, Mr Ferguson had hoped Shane might see him as a bit of a father figure, a role model if you like, but there was nothing to show he actually did. Perhaps, if Shane had done so, Mr Ferguson might be the one to give him a sound spanking now.

Shane expected the worse outcome from his meeting with Mr Ferguson; he had no excuses, he had stolen the money and he knew there had to be consequences for being found out.

If he realised what Mr Ferguson was thinking he would have jumped at the chance; he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been caned often at school for various misdemeanours such as smoking in the toilets and skiving off school at playtime: he was a naughty boy, but not a thug.

The idea that he might have to sack Shane and involve the police, upset Mr Ferguson and he really wished they could come to another arrangement. Then he had a brainwave; why not be honest with the boy, but he knew it would sound very odd if he just came out and said, “Let me spank you as a punishment.” How would that sound at an industrial tribunal?

Instead, he simply told Shane the story of the tennis club, the beer and the razor strop. When he finished there was an awkward silence between the two. Mr Ferguson could see Shane was debating with himself: should he or shouldn’t he? And, then he did.

“Could you spank me like your father did to you? he looked down at the carpet to hide his blushes.

“Well, I don’t know, Shane.” In fact, he did know, he knew very well that a leathering was the ideal solution.

“You must be quite sure Shane; it is a very unusual solution to the problem.”

Shane said he was sure, please don’t sack him, please don’t call the police.

“Well if it’s what you want, Shane.”

“If it’s what you want?” As soon as he heard the words, Shane was convinced it was exactly what he wanted.  It was the perfect answer, the schoolboy’s solution if you like. You commit the crime, you get found out, you are punished and then we move on.

Yes, Shane was certain: a spanking would be the ideal resolution.

Alright, Mr Ferguson thought, the boy had consented to his belt whipping, so we should get on with it.

“Shane, take off your jacket and leave it on my desk.” With no obvious embarrassment, the boy did as he was told. “Now, take down your trousers and pants and bend over that chair.”

In a swift movement the smart city-style trousers were down, quickly followed by his crisp new briefs. He knew matters had to take their course, so took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and lent forward to offer his bare cheeks to Mr Ferguson’s belt.

His employer had no experience of spanking backsides, but instinctively knew the objective was to cause the punished boy considerable pain; otherwise what was the point? He doubled over the belt rested it across Shane’s buttocks to get his aim and lashed it down.

It had been two years since Shane was last caned, but he still had the schoolboy’s attitude that he should take it like a man. As the first six strokes landed across his bum he made no outward sign that he was in considerable pain. This was a tactical error, because, with his inexperience, Mr Ferguson assumed this meant his punishment was not working. So, he increased the tempo and brought the belt whacking into Shane’s bum harder and faster.

He covered both buttocks, from the top of the fleshy globes to the bottom. Shane’s resolve not to show pain did not last. His gasps turned to groans and then to whimpers. Despite himself he couldn’t stop shaking his legs as the pain built up in his bum to become agony.

Mr Ferguson remembered how his own father had thrashed him thirty years ago, it had been a rigorous beating, hard and fast, but it was not a flogging. His dad had wanted to get the point across, he had hurt his son badly, but not to the point that the boy resented his punishment or the man who punished him.

Mr Ferguson knew his father had spanked him out of love; he wanted his son to grow into a fine man (and he hoped he had fulfilled his father’s ambition). Likewise, Mr Ferguson loved Shane in a way and did not want to destroy any relationship they might have, but he did want him to learn and to mend his ways.

He whacked six more strokes across the centre of Shane’s bum and then told him to stand up.

Shane’s face was ashen and there were tears forming: how could such a thrashing not bring tears to the eyes? He rubbed gently at his bottom and then without waiting for his boss’s permission, he gingerly bent down to pull up his trousers and pants. His buttocks were tender and he felt the pain increase as his tight briefs hugged his burning bottom.

“Go home Shane: it’s over. If you mend your ways, we will not speak of this again.”

Shane picked up his jacket and limped from the office. He was relieved that Mr Ferguson’s secretary was nowhere to be seen and he left the building unobserved.

The pain turned to a glow quite quickly and it took a day or two for the bruising to go, but Shane did not feel he had been unjustly beaten. He had committed a small crime and had been properly punished for it and Mr Ferguson was right, there was no need to ever mention it again.

So long as Shane behaved in future.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in September 2015

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Charles Hamilton the Second

A Teen’s Tale

Was I a typical teenager? I think so. Certainly I was no different from my friends. We couldn’t stand adults; our parents, schoolmasters, the vicar at church. We didn’t think they had much to tell us.

We spent a lot of our time just hanging around in groups “having a laugh.” There was a particular bus stop just outside of town that was our meeting place. Buses didn’t run much after about seven o’clock so we weren’t usually disturbed. We’d buy (or sometimes steal) bottles of cheap cider and get rowdy drunk. If a passer-by complained, we’d soon chase them off: law-abiding citizens are easily cowed by drunken teenagers.

I had just turned eighteen and was close to leaving school. My dad had just been promoted at work and was now a factory manager, but it meant he had to move to a town about a hundred miles away. I didn’t want to go; I’d have to leave all my mates and I hated my parents so much I was pleased to see the back of them. But, I still had a few months left at school so I couldn’t get a job and find a place of my own to live.

My Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice stepped in and said I could stay with them until I left school. I hated them us much as my mum and dad, but I had no choice. She was such a stuck up cow who always thought she was a cut above the rest of us. Her father worked in an office, while my family were mostly factory workers. Uncle Alistair was a jobbing builder, so I don’t know she had much to crow about. They only lived a couple of streets away, so I wouldn’t lose my friends and my life wouldn’t change much: worse thing.

I went to the local grammar school, so that suited her social pretensions. I didn’t like school much, but had a knack for passing examinations without doing much work and my parents made me stay on into the sixth form. Another reason I hated them. I didn’t like being bossed around, and if you don’t like being bossed around, you should not be at grammar school.

There are so many useless, pointless, rules. I loathed wearing school uniform; you could see us coming from a mile off in our pink blazers. We even had to wear short trousers until the end of the third form: fourteen-year-old boys in short trousers, no other school in town humiliated their pupils like that. And, don’t get me started on the stupid school caps they forced us to wear.

I hated the “masters” as we had to call them. Most of them had been at the school since Adam was a lad and had never done a proper day’s work in their lives. They wouldn’t last an hour at dad’s factory. They thought they were proper Christian gentlemen and decided the boys at the school should be too. Nobody ever asked me. I skipped chapel once; I was eighteen and decided I could make my own mind up about God and Jesus and all that. There was Hell to pay.

I was found out of course, I knew I would be. We were always answering to roll calls, having our names taken, masters checking that we hadn’t absconded. It was a caning offence, but I reckoned that sixth-formers were immune from the stick, even at that school.

My headmaster soon corrected me on that idea. I didn’t get thrashed that time, but he told me if I skipped chapel again he would whop me himself. I had to write a two thousand word essay on why Jesus was important in my life. Two thousand words! Believe me I would have preferred the cane to that any day: trousers down; pants down, six strokes, twelve: anything but that essay.

One thing I did like about being in the sixth-form was the power it gave me over the younger boys. They were terrified of me. It was only a few years earlier that the headmaster had taken away the prefect’s power to spank the younger boys. I would have loved to parade around the school, gym plimsoll in hand, able to whack the arse of any boy I fancied.

In my time the best we could do was to hand out ‘punishment slips’ which the boy took to his form master. When the boy collected three slips he was beaten. It wasn’t the same as the plimsoll, but the boys knew I scattered slips like confetti so it came pretty close.

You didn’t have to be in the sixth to be a bully. One thing I loved to do when I was about fifteen or sixteen was to beat up on the sissies; those boys who were a little bit different from the rest of us. They were easy targets, scared of their own shadows most of them. They would never defend themselves. There was one lad (I forget his name now: Kevin? Keith? Karl?) who I loved to push around. You only had to touch him and he would fall to the ground and curl up into a little ball. He was crying before I ever got the first kick in. I took his lunch money most days – it helped to pay for the cider and my smokes.

With my parents out of the way I tried it on a lot with my aunt and uncle. I skimped on my homework, lazed around in my bedroom most of the day; that was when I wasn’t out with my friends hanging round the bus stop and haranguing old folk going about their business.

The final straw for pious Aunt Alice was that I stopped going to church. It’s not that I refused to go: there was no argument, no discussion even, I just stopped going and that for me was the end of the matter. Not so for my aunt and uncle. Aunt Alice in particular berated me for non-attendance and was rewarded by my most hostile indifference.

Maybe that was the point at which they decided I needed a damned good hiding, but if it was, they put it off for another week or so.

I finally found myself with a red backside one Wednesday in June. It was a school night and as had become my habit, I would return from school, get out of that horrid uniform and wait in my bedroom playing records at full volume until it was time to eat. My aunt often implored me to turn down the noise, but the more she showed her dislike, the more determined I became to annoy her.

Meal times were always strenuous times. Looking back on it I wonder if my aunt and uncle weren’t going through a difficult patch in their lives: surely, I thought at the time they must have been bored to tears with their pathetic mundane lives. They definitely found it difficult to communicate with one another and impossible to do so with me. I made no concessions to them: any question they asked me would be returned with a one word answer, or just a grunt.

When tea was over I would almost immediately disappear out the door, never telling them where I was going, who I would be with and what time I would be back.

Eventually, Aunt Alice imposed a curfew: I should be home by nine-thirty at the latest on school nights and ten at the weekend.

Yeah right, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud, there was no need to. I had no intention of sticking to her stupid new rules. To Hell with the both of them, what right did they have to order me about!

The very same night I rolled home drunk at past eleven o’clock. Nobody was up. Emboldened by this, two days later I missed curfew again.

At breakfast the morning after I skipped curfew for the third time, Uncle Alastair simply informed me that he had been keeping watch and if I was late ever again there would be “dire consequences.”

So, naturally, I took this as a challenge and even though it was a quiet night at the bus stop and most of my mates returned to their homes early, that night I walked the streets alone for another hour to make sure I wouldn’t get back home before eleven.

I could see the lights were on in the living room as I approached the house. As I turned the key in the lock I heard Uncle Alastair call.

“In here. Now!”

Sullenly, I slouched into the room, with the most disrespectful expression on my face that I could assemble. My uncle was alone, he looked very tired indeed, of course it was way past his bedtime. I can’t be sure if he had prepared a little speech for me, but if he had he muffed his lines. He was incoherent with anger but “brazen”, “audacious” “insolent”, “disrespectful” and “rude” were some of the words that faltered from his mouth.

He was impatient for me to respond but I said nothing. Who cared what he thought, the miserable little man.

His lecture at an end, Uncle Alistair commanded, “Go upstairs, have a wash, clean your teeth, put on your pyjamas and then come back down here, and be quick about it.”

Corporal punishment was imminent: I knew the tell-tale signs; I’d been spanked often enough at home by my father. I trudged upstairs and as I spread the Pepsodent on my toothbrush I wondered what uncle would do to me. My dad’s preferred method of torture was the razor strop. He would make me take down my trousers to my ankles and I would have to lay face down on the bed with two pillows under my stomach so my bum was high to meet the lash of the leather. I kept my hands well clear of the target while he raised the strop back over his own shoulder, took aim and whipped it down into the seat of my underpants. The pain was immense, but I soon learned not to wriggle about. If he missed my bum and hit the bare flesh at the back of my thighs I wouldn’t be able to stand for a week, let alone sit down.

“Hurry up!” It was uncle, as impatient as ever.

I rubbed a wet cloth across my face and hurried into the bedroom, quickly stripped off my clothes and stepped into my pyjamas. I was still tying up the drawstring of the bottoms as I descended the stairs.

Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice were waiting for me in the living room. I gave her my most disrespectful stare. So the snooty mare was going to witness my spanking was she?

I quickly glanced around the room but could see no obvious implement of punishment. Uncle was wearing no belt. Did my aunt have a hairbrush in her apron pocket? Was he going to smack me with his hand?

He gave me a short sermon about manners and disobedience and even managed to bring God into it. Then he hopped on one leg, bent down and removed one of his bedroom slippers.

It was all over in a flash. He grabbed me by the left arm, quickly untied the string on my pyjama trousers and they easily fell to my knees. Then, unceremoniously he took me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me over the back of the worn-out sofa. Then there was a frenzied attack with the slipper on my bare bottom.

I was indignant. The sod didn’t believe I would present myself for a spanking. Who did he think I was? Corporal punishment was common in those days and we boys had an unspoken code of conduct. We often misbehaved and sometimes we were very bad indeed. We got away with it a lot, but when we were caught we accepted it. So we would submissively sprawl across a knee, bend over a chair or sofa or spread ourselves across the dining room table. We would be on the painful receiving end of the slipper, belt, razor strop, hairbrush, hand or cane. And we would take it like troopers.

Next day we would report back to our mates; often displaying the cuts and bruises to our admiring friends. Then, like film critics, we would award ‘stars’ for the best performances. My father always got the top five stars for the deep welts on my poor bum.

Uncle Alistair loosened his grip on my neck and I struggled to my feet. My buttocks were a little sore, but it was nothing compared to my father’s beatings. I said nothing, but I hoped my look of utter contempt told its own story.

I didn’t wait to be dismissed; I pulled up my pyjamas and went to my room. My bum wasn’t very sore, but there was a tingle that soon disappeared. There would be no marks to show the next day, not that I would tell the others. We were eighteen years old now and I doubted if their dads were still spanking their bottoms at that age.


z used drawing cane master (18)

I was counting the days until I could leave school. The examinations were a little over a month away and then I would be free. I had all but given up on my studies. I still attended school (there were many opportunities to bully the younger boys), but took no interest and did as little homework as possible.

I was idling around the sixth-form common room one day, shortly after my run-in with Uncle Alistair, when the sixth-form form master approached.

“See me in my study immediately after school,” he was a man of few words and he swept away, the tail of his tattered schoolmaster’s gown flapping, before I could ask what it was all about.

It could have been about anything. If there was a rule to break, I was likely to break it. Even as I sat pondering, I knew I had in my pocket a packet of illicit cigarettes, paid for with money I had extorted from an eleven-year-old first-former who was desperate not to get his third punishment slip and the beating that would come with it.

I had more than an hour before I had to obey the summons. I cursed; I had no lessons at this time and was intending to bunk off early. Wearily, I picked up a football magazine that one of the other boys had left behind, sat down and flicked through the pages.

I didn’t want to delay this longer than was absolute necessary. Two minutes after the bell had stopped ringing for end of school my knock on the study door received a haughty response.


It wasn’t so much a schoolmaster’s study as a functioning office. There was a desk and a large padded chair behind, where the form master was seated. A couple of low back chairs were ranged in front of the desk for visitors and apart from that there was a sideboard affair consisting of some cupboards and bookshelves.

I stood facing the desk a foot or two back from the chairs. From this position I could see that they were the ideal height for a boy to bend across. Doubtless, they had been chosen with this purpose in mind.

I still did not know why I had been summoned by the form master. I didn’t have long to wait as he got straight to the point. “slacking”, he called it: a peculiarly old fashioned word for “lazy.” I had not been working hard enough in his classes. I had not submitted homework on time. My marks were falling. He didn’t ask me to respond, but if he had I could only agree with him. I despised my form master. He taught the sixth form poetry and he was lousy at it. I couldn’t understand the point of it (and to this day still can’t). He could not, as we say these days, “motivate” me.

He was a decaying old man and I scorned him for being so old. His liver spots spread from his neck to his face and it had been many years since he stood erect and his stooped shoulders reminded me of a bird. A shock of untidy white hair stuck out from beneath his mortar board and his moustache and beard were as white as his hair. He was the image of the schoolmaster in that film Goodbye, Mr Chips.

Old though he might be, my Mr Chips could still pack a punch with his right arm as I was about to find out.

Once he had read out my crime sheet, he moved straight to sentencing. I swear I heard his bones creak as he slowly raised himself from the chair and shuffled over to the sideboard. Only then did I notice that one of the cupboards was an unusual shape: tall and thin. He opened it and even though his body obscured my view, I could see inside were a number of crook-handled rattan canes. There must have been six or seven of them in varying thicknesses and lengths. I could hear the canes rattling around the cupboard as he searched for the implement he intended to use on me.

Within seconds he had extracted his preferred model and turned to face me. He flexed the cane between his left and his right hand as he gave a little lecture about the need for me to study hard. If I did not have the self-discipline to do this on my own, then he had the perfect remedy: he would impose discipline on me.

I couldn’t take my eyes of that cane. I still don’t know why I was so transfixed by it. I had seen canes before; indeed I had felt them across my backside a few times. This one was deep yellow in colour and was as thick as one of Mr Chips’ bony fingers. It must have been three feet (maybe more) long and flexed easily in the form-master’s hands.

He swished it through the air for effect, if he intended this to intimidate me, he failed. It just made me hate him all the more. This pathetic old man, who couldn’t teach for toffee, was going to beat me because I was not doing well in his class. I was eighteen years old and in a few weeks I would be away from that goddam school forever, but here I was expected to submit myself to Mr Chips so he could whop me with his cane.

I had a choice, of course. Even as I stood watching the cane swish through the air I knew I could refuse to take a beating. I could tell him to stuff it and swagger out of the study. I could do that, but it would be a direct defiance of his authority. The headmaster would be involved and I could rest assured that he wouldn’t be on my side. There would be no two-thousand-word essay (“Why the cane is not an effective punishment for slacking schoolboys”) as an alternative. All I could look forward to was expulsion from the school and the bastards probably wouldn’t let me take my exams.

I only had five more weeks left at this school and I didn’t want to throw away the past two years of misery now.

Mr Chips pointed with his cane to a spot in the middle of the room.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

I hesitated and he must have read the contempt I had for him in my face because he almost bellowed, “Bend over and touch your toes, this instance!”

I moved to the spot, took a deep breath and placing the palms of my hands on my knees I offered Mr Chips my backside.


“Ouch!” I yelled and stood bolt upright, squeezing my hand under my armpit. Mr Chips had lashed his cane across my knuckles.

“When I say touch your toes boy, I mean touch your toes. Now, bend right down.”

I blew on my knuckles, parted my legs a little, bent at the waist, and stretched my fingers so that the tips rested against the toe caps of my shoes. A thick stripe across the back of my left hand was turning blue.

I was quite a fit lad at the time and was able to keep in place without much effort, but there was pressure against the back of my knees.

Looking through my parted legs I saw Mr Chips approach me and then I could feel him take hold of my pink blazer and push it up my back away from the target area. Then he rolled up my jumper a little, giving him an unobscured view of the grey trousers, now stretched across my buttocks. Still not satisfied, he took hold of my shirt and pulled it so that the tail came away from the waistband, then he did the same thing with my vest. I felt a cool breeze blow across the inch or so of now bare flesh at the base of my back.

Finally, he grabbed the waistband of my trousers and tugged so that any wrinkles were smoothed from the cloth.

Then he took my arse off.

He had the strength of an ox. With no interval between cuts, he lashed down six stingers across the very centre of my buttocks each one landing very close to, and sometimes right on top of, others already delivered.

It took my breath away. Quite literally. I was gasping and stifling yells at the same time. It was all over in about twenty seconds, six whacks crashing down one after the other. I buckled a little, but just about managed to stay in position. No matter the agony I was suffering, I was not going to stand up and give him the pleasure of inflicting extra strokes.

It was over. I stayed looking at my scuffed shoes awaiting his permission to stand. My backside was throbbing. It must have been red raw and I could feel welts had formed across my bum. I had been caned before, but this beating was not like anything I had endured previously. I so much wanted to run away to the bogs, sit down on a lavatory pan and pull the flush so the cold water could soothe my aching buttocks.

Eventually he said, “Stand up, boy. Stand there.” I rose and moved to a spot in front of the form-master’s desk. I could not look him in the eyes. I had despised him when I entered the study and I hated him even more now, but my contempt was mixed with the intense pain in my arse. I did not want him to know he had hurt me.

He wrote some words in the punishment book and handed it to me to sign.

Then to add to my fury, he said, “If you fail to get at least an Alpha-minus in the essay I set the form today, you will be back here for another thrashing. Is that clear?”

It was, and I was. No number of beatings could make me good at poetry.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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When Dad got home

One hot summer afternoon

The drunken neighbour


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

Book. Troublesome Teens


Troublesome Teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.


The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

– Extract from Put Back in Short Trousers


The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.


Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

BOOK. The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.


Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here


A group of them were talking in the pub. The beer was flowing. There was only one topic of conversation. Those bloody kids. The ones who congregated around the bus stop at night. Giving innocent folk grief.

“Have you seen the graffiti? The swear words?”

“They drink strong cider, then piss it up all over the bus shelter.”

Everyone spoke at once. They all had horror tales.

“They make racist comments to the Muslims.”

“Did you hear what they called young Garry?” Garry had cerebral palsy. He dribbled a lot. “It was so upsetting for his mum.”

“We should do something about those hooligans.”

“Yes, we should.”

“Whose round is it?”

More beer was drunk.

It had been the beer talking. When they first came up with the idea it was conceived in drink. But, later, in the cold light of sobriety, it still sounded a good idea.

So, they made a plan. It was pretty simple. It would work. If everybody played their part and didn’t bottle out at the last minute.

They chose Thursday night. They needed access to the community hall. It was used most evenings. But not Thursday. So, Thursday it was.

They needed tools. That was a bit more difficult. The thing they needed most wasn’t made anymore. It had gone out of fashion. Time was you’d find them in every school. In many homes too. But, not now.

Old Joe thought he could find a decent alternative, so he was set loose in the nearby woods to see what he could come up with.

The others scoured their homes to see what they could contribute.

It was Thursday night; nearly nine o’clock. It had threatened to rain, but it was clear now. Stars were out. The louts at the bus shelter were swigging cider; smoking dope. There were five of them. A gang of mates. All unemployed and living off the state. All over eighteen, all strong, all able to work. Just bone idle, that’s all.

They didn’t know what hit them. Five family cars pulled up together. Passenger doors opened. Podgy middle-aged men got out. Not the fighting kind. The louts would have made mincemeat of them in a fight. A half-fair fight. But this was no fair fight. They had surprise on their side.

In the blink of an eye plastic shopping bags were over heads and five louts were bundled into backseats. Plastic ties bound their wrists. Cars sped off. Round one had been a success.

Trestle tables had been put out at the community hall. One was covered in fresh switches. Old Joe had done a good job whittling. They really wanted good solid school canes. The whippy rattan kind. With curved handles. But the switches would make a good substitute.

There were also belts and brushes. Someone had found a pair of old-fashioned bedroom slippers. Ones with checked uppers and flexible leather soles. A heavy razor strop took pride of place. Did anyone still use cutthroat razors?

A dozen strong and some not-so-strong men awaited the arrival of the cars. They were psyched up. Waiting. Ready to give the louts the thrashings they thought they so richly deserved.

It was such a simple plan. Each car in turn pulled up outside the hall. Then, the unwilling passenger was hauled inside. A dozen men helped to tie each hooligan over the trestle tables. Face down, backsides high. The perfect position. Legs were tied together with rope. Nobody was going anywhere. Not until punishment had been effected.

They shouted, hollered and shrieked. And that was before a single lash had connected.

Gerry Aldermaston decided he was the residents’ leader. He made a speech. It wasn’t Churchillian; nobody would have followed Aldermaston into gunfire. But he spoke from the heart. The five young men with their jeans-covered arses on show had destroyed the peace of the community. They vandalised common property. Good, honest, decent, people were afraid to walk the streets.

“It has to stop and it must stop right now!” he roared.

Five young men muttered curses. None spoke out loud. The enormity of their plight was clear. They were at the mercy of Aldermaston and his cronies.

“Gentlemen,” Aldermaston spoke to his colleagues as if they were an army platoon. “Down with their jeans. Underwear too.”

That set the five hooligans off again. Whining and cursing and kicking their legs. It was to no avail. Five pairs of naked buttocks were soon on display.

“Come to order, please gentlemen,” Aldermaston was marshalling his troops.

Each resident picked his weapon of choice.

“What a pity we don’t have a proper school cane,” Mr Winstanley sighed aloud. “They don’t make them any longer,” he added. His colleagues muttered their sympathies, all ignorant of the existence of eBay.

Twenty-five residents formed an orderly line.

Aldermaston was enjoying his moment in the limelight. “Gentlemen,” he smiled, “Take your marks. Let punishment commence.”

Then each man stepped forward and slashed his instrument of punishment into the naked haunches of the erstwhile terrorists. One after another they whipped switches, belts, a razor strop, a slipper and assorted brushes across the bared cheeks of the hooligans. Then they resumed their original positions and went around the circuit again. And again. And again.


Other stories you might like

Lazy students home for the hols

The military camp

A maintenance spanking


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


You can never escape from Dad


The ring tone of the phone played again. With trepidation Alan Hawkes glanced at the caller ID. He knew it would be his dad again. It was the third time in an hour.

He let the phone ring out. He knew he would have to face his dad sooner or later. But not just now. He wasn’t ready yet.

His dad must have seen the newspaper story. It had been in the local paper, but dad lived a hundred miles away.  He probably saw it on-line. Someone must have shown it to him.

Alan Hawkes was twenty-four years old. He was a purchasing administrator for a national fast-food chain. He lived with his girlfriend. They had a child. They even had a mortgage. He was an independent adult. But, he would never be free of his dad.

The phone rang again. This time Alan answered it. Dad was mad. “Come home Saturday.” It was an order. One that must be obeyed.

As “crimes” went, Alan Hawkes’s was not big. He and some workmates had too much to drink and empty beer bottles were smashed in the street. The case at the magistrates’ court made the newspaper. A small fine; nothing much.

Saturday was a fine bright spring day. Alan Hawkes arrived at his “home” in the early afternoon. No matter how many years he would live in his own place, his parents’ house, where Alan and his two younger brothers were brought up, would always be called “home.”

He parked the car and walked up the path. He still had a door key and let himself in. His nineteen-year-old brother Jimmy’s came out of the kitchen to greet him. The smile that split Jimmy’s face was as good as a confession. It was he who had told dad.

“You’re for it now,” he crowed. “Dad’s mad as hell. It’s the woodshed.”

Jimmy knew that for certain. Only the previous Tuesday, he had himself been in the woodshed over dad’s knee; his jeans at his feet and his pants at the knees while the old man pounded his son’s bare buttocks with a heavy wooden utility brush. Jimmy and his pals had been out on the lash. With bladders full of beer and nowhere to relieve them they had urinated in a shop doorway. There were no police and no newspaper story. A neighbour passing by had spotted him and told his dad.

They called it the “woodshed,” but it wasn’t really. Theirs was a large suburban house. It had a big garden with a shed, but no woodshed. The “woodshed” was a small space in the basement, just off the utility room where they kept the washing machine and the chest freezer. There was a beat-up couch and a table and an old TV. It was more like dad’s “den.” This was where he would take his sons when they needed their backsides blistered.

Dad reckoned it was more private than the living room or the boy’s bedroom. The boys were never allowed in the den on their own. If they were spotted sneaking down the stairs to the basement, it could mean only one thing: a spanking was imminent.

Dad was a powerful man in his late forties. He owned his own building firm; he’d built it from scratch. He employed hundreds of men. He was the boss. He was used to getting his own way.

Dad and his twenty-four-year-old son stood in the den. Dad eyed his son from head to foot with undisguised distain. Every square inch of Alan’s arms was covered with tattoos. There was another across most of his back that dad couldn’t see. Why did young people mutilate themselves like this, he wondered. Did they think it made them look attractive?

He wasn’t about to have an argument about “body art,” he had other business to attend to.

Alan stood, his eyes blazing as his dad ripped into him. He was determined he would not cry, but the tears were already forming.

“Irresponsible,” “immature,” “reckless,” were some of the words dad threw at his son. “You have a child of your own …” he let the sentence trail off. How could Alan ever think to discipline his own son if he couldn’t behave himself?

Alan watched passively as the colour of his father’s face moved through pink, to mauve, to purple. His old man was genuinely enraged; this was not an act.

“Why am I doing this?” Alan had wondered during the two-hour drive. Why was he travelling a hundred miles knowing that his dad would belt his backside for him when he arrived?

His dad had no control over him anymore. Alan didn’t live at home, his dad didn’t employ him in his business and he wasn’t obliged to him for anything.

All these things were true, but somewhere deep down in his soul in ways he couldn’t understand his dad was still his dad. He was the boss. When he told you to jump you replied, “How high?”

Both Alan and his dad knew how this confrontation would play out. Corporal punishment must be administered.

Satisfied that he had vented his spleen and there was no more to be said, dad strode from the woodshed into the adjoining utility room.

He returned seconds later. Alan’s mouth gaped open. “What the …”

Under his arm, dad held a long thin cane. It was like nothing Alan had seen before. It wasn’t a length of garden bamboo. It had a curved handle at one end and even in its current lifeless state, it looked extremely whippy.

“I got it on eBay,” dad said in response to the quizzical look from his son. “Especially,” he smirked.

He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it in front of his boy’s face. Alan’s eyes followed it as his dad made practice swishes. A “swoosh” echoed around the den every time it cut through the air.

“They used to use these in schools. Years ago,” his dad flexed the cane between two his hands.

Alan’s face paled. He had been spanked many times by dad, even as an adult. It always hurt like hell, but nothing he had experienced before would be as painful as this.

“Six-of-the-best they used to call it,” his dad continued. “But, since you are not a little boy, let’s call it twelve.”

He swiped the cane through the air to emphasise his point.

“Trousers, pants down. Bend over the couch.”

Alan’s eyes blazed. Twelve strokes with that cane. Bare arsed.

“B …” he started to mouth the words of protest, but held back. He mustn’t argue with his dad. The old man’s mind was made up. If Alan made a fuss, he would get extra strokes. That was for certain.

He took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. Events had to take their course.

Alan shuffled to the back of the couch. He pulled at the elasticated waist of his trousers sending them south. Then with the merest flick of his wrists the underpants followed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, rubbed the palms of his hands together, and then as if diving into an icy pond, he threw himself over the back of the couch.

He had been in this position before. Last time, just before Christmas, he had taken a couple of dozen whops from an old razor strop. It was a family heirloom. At least three generations of Hawkes men had had their bare backsides tattooed by it.

Alan straightened his legs and set his feet about twenty inches apart. He kept his head low into the dusty couch cushion and raised his bum as high as he could. Submissively, he waited for the first lash from dad’s new school cane.

Dad had never caned anyone before but he reckoned it wasn’t rocket science. He stood a little to his son’s left and tapped the cane across his buttocks to get an aim. Then, he moved the cane back and whipped it down hard.

Alan’s buttocks were far from firm. He was no athlete and he spent too many hours in the pub. Like so many of his generation, he was already in his mid-twenties running to fat. The cane struck home, sank into his wobbly bum and emerged a split-second later leaving behind a distinctive red mark.

Alan sucked in his breath. It had hurt, but not as much as he had feared.

Swipe number two sank lower across the buttocks. Again the flesh quivered and the cane submerged into the pink mounds. Another line appeared; this one a little deeper than the first. A welt slowly formed.

Alan opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, but he successfully suppressed any sound.

There was plenty of fat for dad to aim at. He went high with the third stoke, cutting across the top of the curves, just below the base of the back. His son gasped. That one was the most painful yet.

The next one he aimed low, almost across the crease where the bum and the thighs met. Alan yelped. His legs twisted at the knees and his hips swayed. “Huff, huff, huff,” he wheezed. Sweat was beginning to show under his shirt. His heart was racing.

Encouraged by the reaction to the previous stroke, dad laid three more in quick succession in the same area. Rat-tat-tat! It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the small den.

That had Alan roaring. His face rose from the dusty cushion and he shook his head violently from left to right. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

“Steady. Keep still.” It was a curt command from his dad and Alan knew better than to disobey the order. He gulped in draughts of air.

Thwip, thwip, thwip. Three more slashes cut into the jelly-like buttocks. The flesh shuddered under the impact as the cane struck the same spot over and over. A small trickle of blood weeped from the cut.

Alan was no stranger to corporal punishment, or to its pain, but this bare-arsed caning was the worst he had experienced. He stamped his feet on the floor, bounced his head up and down against the back of the couch and twisted his torso as waves of agony shot north-to-south and east-to-west through his entire body.


Dad swivelled on his heels. That hissing sound had not come from Alan, his son, prostrated across the couch in front of him.

He turned to see Jimmy, his face pale and his lips parted in astonishment.

“You!” dad roared at the nineteen-year-old. He knew immediately that he had sneaked into the basement to try to witness his brother’s humiliation.

“Stand there!” he shook his cane. “Face the wall! I’ll deal with you later!”

Sorrowfully, the teenager shuffled across the room and pressed his nose against the wall. Behind him he heard the almighty swish of the cane flying through the air, followed by a dull thud as it sank into jelly. His brother’s growl was husky; all the saliva had drained from his mouth. He hacked up a dry cough.

Swish! Crack! the cane flew and landed for the twelfth and final time. Dad paused to admire his handiwork. His aim had been true. Twelve distinct marks were burned across his son’s buttocks. Most ran in a perfect parallel one to the other. Blood was seeping from a particularly deep and wide welt. The bum was red raw and he was certain he had given Alan a thrashing he would not forget in a hurry.

Dad tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. He made an imposing sight.

“Get up and leave.”

Alan didn’t need telling twice. He pulled himself up from the couch, tugged up his trousers and pants in one movement and headed for the stairs.

Moments later he was hurrying down the street. At the time he found his parked car his brother Jimmy was loosening his trousers before bending over the couch to offer his bum for what would be the first encounter of many with dad’s new school cane.


Other father and son stories you might like.

Lazy students home for the hols

The pub visit

Rules of the house


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

The room at the top



If people thought it strange that the two men shared rooms at the top of the boarding house then nobody said so out loud. Bob was a little to old to be Ramsey’s elder brother and too young to be an uncle.

Ramsey had recently been released from Lansbury Approved School for young offenders. His career in petty crime had burgeoned until he was considered a threat to society. The headmaster Mr Jossop, a man of Christian principle, rarely had a thick whippy cane out of his fist. Ramsey was no stranger to corporal punishment. Even aged nineteen he found himself resting his forearms on the headmaster’s desk (Jossop’s preferred position) with his back arched and his bottom sticking out to receive eight strokes (the maximum permitted) across the seat of his regulation short trousers.

Bob had an altogether different upbringing. Although he too was no stranger to an ashplant cane. He was a boarder at St Tom’s, a minor public school in the West of England. He was not a success. The word “slacker” might have been invented for him. The headmaster’s ashplant and his father’s razor strop, both administered with excessive vigour across his naked eighteen-year-old buttocks, did not improve his performance. His father removed him from school following an undistinguished set of examination results.

Soon, Bob found himself in the Colonial Service, serving in some godforsaken hole in The Dark Continent that nobody had never heard of. He was quietly asked to return to England following a misunderstanding involving two young African men. So, aged twenty, he was home to receive a further leathering from his father before he was found a position as a clerk in an accountancy business.

That had been six years previously.

Ramsey came into his life by accident. Approved school might have kept the boy off the streets but it did little to prepare him for life. Without a job and often with nowhere to sleep he returned to his life of crime. He did good business in an area of Hampstead Heath where sad lonely men would go for company. Ramsey was a pretty boy and he had endured many humiliations as a result at Lansbury, but he wasn’t prepared to sell his body. Instead, he became a footpad. He robbed at knifepoint.

It was ridiculously easy. They were too scared to resist his blade and none would report him to the police. They would have to explain to the constables why they were walking alone in that part of the Heath after dark. Of course, the police already knew the answer to that.

But one night the tables were turned. Ramsey held his blade to the face of a middle-aged man and was waiting for his wallet to be handed over when he was attacked from behind. His victims had decided to fight back. They left him bloodied and unconscious.

That was how thirty minutes later Bob found him. He knew nothing of the boy’s circumstances. All he saw was a remarkably beautiful body sullied by bruises. Do men have maternal instincts? If so, they were to the fore that night. Bob wiped the blood from Ramsey’s face as gently as a mother washing her new born.

The taxi driver pretended not to notice the boy’s state. He was reassured by Bob’s upper class accent. He knew his fare would be paid and he expected a large tip as well. For he understood the reputation of that area of the Heath and now he also had the home address of one of its users. His discretion would be worth a pound at least.

There was only one bed. They shared it. It was not thought unusual. People of the same sex often did. If the bed was large enough three men could fit in together. At Bob’s school, expensive though the fees were, the juniors had been forced to sleep four-up.

Ramsey knew he was on to a good thing. A regular roof over his head for the first time since he was thrown out of Lansbury. But there was to be a price to pay. He hadn’t thought much about it when he first arrived. It was quite a common thing to see in a home. His own father had one hanging from a nail in the kitchen. It brought back unpleasant memories. Once, when Bob was out the room, Ramsey had taken it down and held it between his hands. An old worn leather razor strop. It even smelt like the one his father had.

But, Bob did not have a cut-throat blade, he used one of the new-fangled ‘safety razors’. How very modern, Ramsey thought. And it saved a fellow from walking around with pieces of damp newspaper stuck to his chin.

It was seven in the evening. Summer was turning to autumn. Ramsey could tell Bob was restless. He paced the room, looking at his watch. Then, he moved to the window, twitched the curtain and peered out into the street below. Then he paced some more.

“What’s the matter,” Ramsey snapped, his nerves jangling. “Are you expecting a rozzer?” He smiled at his own joke. The police, indeed. Could there be anyone in London more honest that Bob?

“I’m waiting for somebody,” Bob rasped. His hands shook as he reached into his trouser pocket for cigarettes.

“Oh,” Ramsey nodded sagely. A woman. He was waiting for a woman. “Do you want me to go for a walk?” he grinned. Bob stood puzzled. “What? No. You must stay.”

In the distance a doorbell rang. Bob darted to the window. “He’s here.” He dashed to the door, turning to Ramsey as he opened it. “Wait here. Don’t move.”

It was some distance from the top room to the street door. Ramsey lay back on the bed, his arms behind his head, waiting. Who was this mysterious visitor? A man, not a woman. Bob never had visitors at the room.

The door creaked open. “Oh yes. Delightful.” It was a man somewhat older than Ramsey, perhaps in his forties. He wore a formal business suit, expensively cut. “My word, yes.” The man beamed. His ruddy complexion shone. Ramsey smelt gin.

Bob closed the door, looked around the room furtively. He locked the door and popped the key in his pocket.

“Wonderful. Oh, yes.” The man ran the tip of his tongue around his lips as if clearing them of salt. “Perfect.”

Ramsey hauled himself off his back and sat with his legs dangling over the edge of the mattress. “Charming.” The man’s cobalt blue eyes bore into the teenager. “Exquisite.”

Bob shuffled from one foot to the other. Unsure. Ramsey sat silently, watching. The man slipped his jacket from his back, held it in his hand and peered around the small room. “Here.” Bob took it and hung it on a nail on the door.

Without taking his eyes off Ramsey, the man unbuttoned the cuff on his shirt sleeve and slowly, neatly, folded it up until his forearm and elbow were bare. Ramsey’s pulse quickened. Who was this man? He returned the man’s blazing stare. He would not be intimidated. Years in the Approved School had taught him; do not show fear.

He did not notice his roommate move to a cupboard, open it, and reach inside.

Satisfied that his shirt was perfectly folded, the man turned to Bob. “Yes, that will do nicely,” he drooled. Alarmed, Ramsey turned in time to see Bob approach. It was all over in seconds. With two of them, it was really quite easy. Ramsey did not know what hit him.

His struggle was in vain. They had him face down. His wrists tied to the iron bedstead. He kicked and wriggled. He hollered.

“The neighbours!” Bob cried.

“Yes, of course.” The man pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket. Ramsey nearly choked. “It is best if you do not resist.” The man’s voice was dry.

Sweat ran through Ramsey’s hair. The back of his shirt was damp. His temples pulsated. His face was crimson. The man looked across at Bob. His eyes gave the instruction. Together they reached under Ramsey’s body, unbuckled the nineteen-year-old’s belt and tugged his trousers and underwear to his knees.

“All the way,” it was a quiet command. Bob obeyed. He took Ramsey’s trousers and smart white shorts down to the boy’s feet. Avoiding flailing legs, he ripped them from his body. Contemptuously, he threw them onto the floor.

Another look from the man. It told Bob he was ready. Bob glanced toward the hand basin. “Perfect,” the man croaked. He reached forward and took down the razor strop. He weighed it in his hands. “A wonderful specimen.” He swished the heavy leather strap through the air, getting its measure.

“Hold his legs.”

Ramsey was pinned down. There was no escape. His hands bound by rope. His feet held tightly against the mattress. His naked backside exposed. The man could do anything he wished.

The first slash whipped into his buttocks with great speed and strength. Ramsey munched down on the silk handkerchief. His hips gyrated. It was a reflex action. Six cuts fell rapidly. Bang-bang-bang. His once creamy-white buttocks were scarlet, the outline of the razor strop clearly visible across his cheeks.

Ramsey chewed on to the silk handkerchief. He wouldn’t let himself down. He wouldn’t give the bastards the satisfaction. Years in approved school had made him stubborn. He had endured pains and humiliations. That was the curse of the pretty boy.

The man wheezed and gasped as he turned Ramsey’s buttocks and the backs of his legs from white, through fifty shades of pink, to a deep crimson. Exhausted, he dropped the razor strop to the floor. Bob, his own breathing quite calm, stood waiting for the signal. It came. It was no more than a flicker of the eyelids.

Bob moved forward, took the buckle of the man’s belt in his hand. It was undone in seconds. Trousers and underwear tumbled. Bob fell to his knees. He took an almighty deep breath, parted his lips, and made a perfect “O”. He took the throbbing cock in his mouth, gagging as the old man thrust his hips forward and back.

The man in the room below heard the scream of ecstasy.


Other stories you might like.

Dad’s despair

The office manager

The dope smoker


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second