Missed curfew

Mr Wilberforce sat in his favourite chair in the lounge reading the morning newspaper. He had left the door to the hallway open so he could catch Martin. His slipper was conveniently placed for the task he had to perform.

He heard Martin (“Marty”, if Mr Wilberforce was not displeased with him) quietly descend the stairs, as if on tip toe and intent to sneak out of the house unnoticed.

“Martin, come in here, please.”

Obediently, Martin entered the room. He knew he was for it. There was nothing he could do, except take what was coming to him.

“What time did you get in last night?”

No answer. Martin looked at the floor and twisted his hands behind his back.

“What have we said about curfew?” It wasn’t a rhetorical question, but Martin still did not answer. This was not the first time he had been on the carpet because of the curfew.

Mr Wilberforce sighed and tried again, “What did I say would happen if you missed curfew again?”

This time there was a whispered response, “A spanking.”

“Speak up, Martin.”

“A spanking,” said a little more clearly.

“Yes, a spanking. You can’t say you were not warned.”

It was true; this wasn’t the first time Martin had missed his curfew; but it was only the second time he had been caught. Yes, he had been warned of the consequences of his actions: Martin knew he only had himself to blame.

“But, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Doh! I will decide when you are too old to be spanked.”

It was true, Martin was old enough legally go to bars and buy alcohol, but that wasn’t the point.

“We have rules in this house. They are very simple rules and you are required to obey them. You know that,” Mr Wilberforce berated Martin, who had no choice but to stand quietly and accept everything that was said to him. He couldn’t look Mr Wilberforce in the eye and continued to stare down at his own bare feet.

“And,” Mr Wilberforce went on speaking in an even tone, “you know the penalty when you disobey.”

Martin nodded, apparently sorrowfully, his face downcast. There could be no doubt now about what would happen next.

“You have wilfully disobeyed me. You were told you must obey your curfew and you deliberately ignored me. Isn’t that so?”

Martin nodded his agreement.

“Speak up lad. You wilfully disobeyed me.”

“Yes, Sir,” Martin’s voice was so soft, Mr Wilberforce could hardly hear.

“Well that’s it then. You give me no alternative,” Mr Wilberforce rose from his armchair, crossed the room and pulled a straight-backed dining chair into the middle of the carpet. Then, he reached down to the shelf beneath the television set and picked up one of his slippers.

“Come on, you know the drill.”

Martin did indeed know the drill. This was not the first time he had been spanked and even though he was a veteran he still felt a surge of anxiety as he watched Mr Wilberforce take up his bedroom slipper before sitting himself down in the chair and adjusting his body to create a platform over which Martin would present his bottom for punishment.

“Stand there boy. Shorts and pants down.”

Martin moved a few paces so he was standing directly in front of Mr Wilberforce, who by now was squeezing his slipper in his right hand, demonstrating how flexible and springy an instrument it was. Martin couldn’t take his eyes of it; he knew how stingy it would be when it connected with his bared bottom.

The shorts were snug fitting and didn’t need a belt to keep them up, so Martin just had to undo a button on the waistband and they slid unaided by him first down his hips and then his buttocks to rest at his knees. Martin spread his legs by an inch and the shorts fell to his feet.

Mr Wilberforce watched as Martin then put his thumbs inside the elastic waist of his underpants and with a sharp flick of the wrist sent them down to meet his shorts.

“Yes,” he thought as Martin’s stood before him, naked from the waist down, “you are too old for a spanking, but you only have yourself to blame for this.”

His bottom was now fully prepared, but Martin knew he had to wait for Mr Wilberforce to give the next instruction; it was part of the ritual of spanking.

“Come, bend over my knee.” He had heard that command many times in the past, so many he really couldn’t count, but each time it was spoken his heart would race a little quicker and he would start panting.

Martin lowered himself across Mr Wilberforce’s lap. He was much shorter and thinner than the man who was about to spank him; Mr Wilberforce was easily tall enough to play basketball. Martin placed the palms of his hands flat down and stared into the faded carpet, then he raised his bottom as high as he could, giving his punisher a perfect view of his crack. That wasn’t the purpose of the manoeuvre; it was to give Mr Wilberforce the best-possible target to aim at.

Martin felt the man’s arm almost encircle his midriff, pinning him down hard against Mr Wilberforce’s huge thighs. Martin accepted he had deliberately broken the curfew rule and he deserved this spanking and he was prepared to submit his bared bottom to punishment. He had no intention of trying to escape his just deserts. But, he knew that sometimes in the past the agony of the spanking had been too much that despite his best intentions to be submissive he had kicked and flailed about fighting to free himself. Martin felt no resentment that Mr Wilberforce didn’t trust him to take his bare-bottom slippering with dignity.

z used drawing slipper hold otk (4)

It was a standard spanking. Mr Wilberforce usually delivered forty-eight hard whacks with his slipper, landing it all the way across the target area. By the time he finished, both cheeks would be scorching hot and bruises would already be forming. The sit-spot where the buttocks met the thighs and the thighs themselves would be imprinted with the shape of the slipper’s sole.

He spanked hard (there was no point otherwise) and from the first slap the pain seared through Martin’s body, travelling from the buttock and up his back and down his legs. After only two or three whacks the agony reached his brain, releasing endorphins and taking him on a high he could never reach with cannabis or the other drugs he sometimes took.

Forty-eight whacks with the slipper might reduce a novice to tears, but Martin was no greenhorn when it came to spanking. It hurt alright, yes, it hurt a great deal, but he could take it and besides the “high” he was on far outweighed any pain he was also experiencing.

Then it was over. Job done. Two toasted buttocks.

Martin lay motionless across Mr Wilberforce’s knees, palms still dug into the carpet, bottom raised high. He knew the spanking protocol: don’t move from the subservient position until given permission to do so.

He could feel Mr Wilberforce’s cold hand massaging the heat in his own buttocks. It felt rather nice. It was his punisher’s way of saying “Despite having injured you, I love you,” or something, he supposed.

“You may get up now. Get dressed.”

Mr Wilberforce studied Martin as he stooped down to retrieve his pants and shorts. It was as if it were the first time he had seen the wrinkles on his face or the liver spots on the backs of his hands.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The housebreaker

z used drawing cane hold (1)

He had spied on the large detached house for some time and was certain it was unoccupied; and rich for the pickings.

Making sure he wasn’t seen by anyone in The Avenue he hurried across the road and dodged behind the hedge. Now, hidden from the view of passers-by, he made a beeline for the front door and knocked loudly.

The man, let’s call him Salter, had a plan. If nobody answered it meant the house was empty and he could attempt a break-in. He waited two or three minutes: no answer, he reckoned the coast was clear.

He was pretty certain that large as the house was there was only one man who lived there, and he was probably a wealthy old git, by the looks of the place. Salter hoped he’d be able to break in and steal something valuable; he didn’t want much, cash would be preferable, just enough to pay for some booze and drugs. If there was no cash, he’d steal an ornament (these kinds of people always had ornaments) and he’d sell it.

Satisfied that no one was at home, Salter darted round the back of the house. A result: he lifted up the mat at the back door and picked up the key. Why are people so stupid? And, thank the Lord that they are.

Stealthily, just in case there was someone at home, he opened the door and entered the kitchen. It was a bright room, far too modern for a house this old. Quickly his eyes scanned around; where’s the tea-caddy; old people always hid their money in the tea-caddy. He searched through the cupboards, trying not to leave too many traces, but found no caddy, only a box of tag-less tea bags.

He opened and closed all the drawers, no money and nothing of value.

Adrenalin pumped through Salter’s veins. Out into the passageway.  Coats hanging on hooks. Search the pockets. Nothing.

This might not be as easy as he thought.

Four doors off the hallway; try this one. The lounge. There’s a huge flat-screen television; that’d be worth a few bob. No, far too conspicuous carrying it under his arm away down The Avenue. Bookshelves.  Drawers. He opened them all; just DVDs. What’s this? The Boys of St Marty’s. A picture of schoolboys on the front. They look a bit old to still be at school. The Boys of St Marty’s? Wasn’t that the one with Bing Crosby? Nobody would want to buy that. He put it back.

Salter took a deep breath; he was calming down a little. He tried another room. What’s this? This is strange. The room was gloomy, heavy curtains were drawn keeping the light out so it was like dusk even in the middle of the afternoon. Oak panelling on the four walls absorbed much of the remaining light. There was a hat stand and dangling from it was Batman’s cape.

A large old fashioned wooden desk dominated the room. Maybe this was an office or something. There must be something of value in one of the drawers. He sat in the capacious chair and opened the drawers one by one. He tried three and they were all totally empty; but not the fourth and last. Inside was a fountain pen and a hard-backed lined exercise book. Not worth a thing. Punishment Book? What’s a Punishment Book? Salter opened it and flicked through the pages. Half the book was full; he read the last two entries, which were in immaculate handwriting:

17 May. Keynes. 6. Smoking.

20 May. Keynes. 12. Insubordination.

Suddenly, he heard a faint sound. Oh, no. he knew immediately what it was. The front door was opening. There was no escape. He put the book back and closed the drawer.

“Hello. Is somebody there? Is anyone there?” It must be the owner of the house.

Salter shrank into the room, where could he hide? Nowhere; only under the desk or behind a large armchair, but that was no use. He was trapped.

The door opened cautiously. “Who the Hell are you? What are you doing here? In my house?”

Salter backed against a far wall. What choices did he have? Conceivably, he could have made a run for it. He was almost certainly quicker than the man, but he would have to get past him first. The only way out was to attack the man and leave him sprawling and then leg it.

The man, let’s call him Springer, did not seem the least bit nervous. Was he ex-military? He had a stature suggesting he would take no nonsense from anyone. Especially from Salter.

Salter knew a fight was out of the question; Springer would probably beat him to a pulp.

“I assume you are a burglar,” it seemed a stupid thing to say, but that’s all Springer could think of.

Salter said nothing.

“How did you get in?”

“Key. Back door,” Salter was unable to speak in sentences, but it was enough.

“So, I should phone for the police,” Springer put his hand in his jacket pocket to find his phone.

“Please mister. No, not the police.”

“Who are you calling ‘Mister?’” Springer’s tone put the burglar in his place. Unprompted, he said, “Sorry, Sir,”

“That’s better. Why shouldn’t I call the police?”

“I didn’t mean no harm.”

“No harm? You broke into my house. What were you after?”

Silence from Salter.

“Are you a drug addict?”

Silence from Salter for a while, and then, “Can we do this some other way?”

Springer snorted, “Be careful what you wish for.”

Salter was puzzled and he showed it.

“Look around you. You’ve broken into the wrong house, don’t you know what this room is?”

Rather theatrically, Salter slowly looked around: the oak panels, the desk, armchair, a tall thin cupboard in the corner, the hat stand and the cape. He did not quite shrug his shoulders, but the effect was the same.

Springer scowled, “It’s a headmaster’s study. And, do you know what takes place in headmasters’ studies?”

Salter gulped, again rather melodramatically.

“Come here,” and taking Salter by the arm, Springer led him to the cupboard.

“Stay there, there is no escape for you.”  He opened the door to reveal an array of punishment canes. “Do you know what these are? Look at them boy.”

Salter’s eyes widened. There were about a dozen rattan canes: some long, some short: some thick, others thin. Most had curved handles.

Springer extracted one at random and flexed it intimidatingly between his hands, then, dramatically he swished it through the air. It had the desired effect and Salter stood back in horror.

“Here’s what I am going to do. I am going to beat you with one of these canes, just as if you were a schoolboy. If you take your thrashing well, I will not involve the police.”

Nodding at the cupboard, he continued, “Which one do you want me to whip you with?”

Salter played dumbstruck. He didn’t know what to say.

“Is it to be the cane?” Springer asked.

“No, Sir.”

“Then it is to be the police?”

“No, Sir,”

Springer was becoming impatient, “It is one or the other for you my lad.”

Salter knew this without being told. He was being given a choice, but in truth, he had no choice.

“The cane, Sir.”

“Good choice lad,” Springer was visibly excited now. “Come to the cupboard, chose one of the canes.”

He walked to the hat stand and took down the headmaster’s gown and put it on while Salter took his time handling cane after cane. He could tell they were all subtly different; but without doubt they would all pack a punch.

Now, suitably attired, the headmaster took hold of the armchair and swirled it round so that its back faced the room.

“Have you decided?”

Salter had. He picked out a crook-handled, medium strength ‘senior’ cane, more than three-foot long and as thick as a pencil.

“Hand it here, lad.”

Salter stared at the armchair. It was obvious why it had been positioned in such a way, but he still was unsure what he was supposed to do next.

The headmaster was practising his swing with the cane, as if he were trying to get its measure. In reality though, he was very familiar with all his little toys.

“Right lad. I want you to stand behind the chair.”

Salter was rooted to the spot.

“Now!” It was a command he could not refuse.

Salter shuffled from one foot to another, showing his nerves. He seemed to be breathing heavily in anticipation of the pain that would soon consume him.

The headmaster made sure he was in the lad’s eye line before delivering the crushing order, “Take down your trousers and underwear.”

Had Salter expected this development? Who knows? But he acted as if he had not.

“Oh, Sir. Please, Sir. Not on the bare.”

Swish! Swish! went the cane through the air.

“Is it to be the police then?”

“But, Sir.”

“Then you will do as I instructed,” The headmaster knew how to appear stern; he had been doing this long enough.

Reluctantly, Salter unbuckled his belt, then he stopped, as if still considering his alternative. With a deep intake of breath, he undid the top button; pulled down the zip and let his jeans fall to his knees.

The headmaster was captivated by the sight the lad’s bright green briefs and the bulge within them, but silently professed not to be interested.

Salter had made his mind up. Come what may, no matter how great the humiliation; or the agony he would suffer; he must go through with this. With a flick of the wrists, he sent his briefs southwards to rest on top of his Levis.

The headmaster took a moment to admire the lad’s manhood before barking the order every schoolboy across history has dreaded, “Bend over that chair!”

In one athletic movement, he stepped forward and dived across the chair.

“Head low, bottom high, legs apart.”

Salter positioned his bare bottom as high as he could, affording the headmaster the perfect opportunity to inflict maximum pain into his buttocks.

The headmaster waited a full minute to let the lad stew a little. Then, Swish! he lashed down twelve hard cuts deep into Salter’s backside.

It only took thirty seconds to turn the lad’s creamy-smooth buttocks into raw meat. Springer was a master headmaster; he laid parallel stokes from the top of the backside near the spine, across the fleshy globes, into the sit-spot where the bum meets the thighs and then into the thighs themselves. For good measure, he laid the final stroke diagonally across the others so it smashed through rapidly-forming welts, making them bleed at the points of intersection.

Salter took his twelve strokes impeccably; it was as if he had been doing this all his life.

The headmaster left the lad over the back of the chair; he was not yet ready to allow him to go. He admired his handiwork; the lad’s backside was clearly on fire; it was covered in welts as thick as his finger. The throbbing pain would be excruciating, the headmaster hoped.

“You may get up, now.”

Salter eased himself off the chair; his face was almost as red as his backside.

“Get dressed,” the headmaster walked over to his desk, opened the drawer and extracted the pen and Punishment Book. While still standing, he wrote an entry in his immaculate handwriting:

3 June. Keynes. 12. Attempted theft.

He replaced the book and turned round to see Keynes, grinning wildly, bouncing up and down rubbing his buttocks exaggeratedly.

“Wow! That was a humdinger! No a bum-stinger!”

The headmaster beamed back as the lad fell to his knees, unzipped Springer’s trousers and plunged inside.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

new story 2

Henry Pottinger let the suitcase fall onto the bed. It was lighter than he had remembered. The accumulated dust of years – no, decades – was undisturbed. It was small and battered and made of stiff carboard. They didn’t make suitcases like that anymore. Utility, they had called it. Cheap, no frills. Like so many things manufactured at the end of the war.

Henry turned the case on its side so he could get at the catches. They flicked open easily. The case had laid in the attic room since his youth. When he had first lived there; the family home. When his mother and father were still alive.

Henry’s heart beat faster. It had been fifty years at least since he had last rummaged through the contents of the case. Part of his life was there. He paused, but only barely, since the case held no fears. It contained no hidden secrets.

He opened the lid and without looking inside he lifted the suitcase and turned it over so that its contents fell with a satisfying plop onto the heavy mattress. Carefully, almost reverentially, he placed the case on the bedroom floor. He peered at the litter on the bed with some disappointment. He had remembered it differently. This pile represented his youth. He had expected so much more. He hoped this would not turn out to be a wasted effort.

He leaned forward and carefully smoothed the jumble. He hadn’t seen this junk in more than fifty years but immediately so much looked familiar. His souvenirs. Why had he collected them? He supposed it had been the arrogance of youth. Had he believed that one day he would be famous and revered; that these pathetic artefacts would be sought out by scholars and historians. A professor at an Oxbridge college would use them as source material for his third or maybe fourth book about the importance of Henry Pottinger.

Ha! To be young again. Henry, now fast approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, often spoke about the arrogance of youth. He knew the best way to deal with that. The old-fashioned ways were still the best.

Henry had achieved some degree of fame in his life, but no scholar had wanted to write about him. Ironically perhaps, his fame (and quite a small fortune) had been made as the author of a series of history textbooks. For more than thirty years he had been required reading for every schoolchild in Britain and the Commonwealth. That was a lot of books and a great deal of royalties. That income and a legacy from his parents meant Henry had never done a day’s proper work since the age of thirty.

Henry had used the time that money bought him industriously. Henry Pottinger had constructed for himself a second life. An alternative existence. Henry Pottinger was not in fact Henry Pottinger. Henry Pottinger was an assumed name; a cipher. Henry Pottinger would never have been allowed to write and publish a textbook for schoolboys. Henry Pottinger would never have allowed near a schoolboy. Not in a million years. So, the name that adorned the history textbooks was not Henry Pottinger.

Henry Pottinger enjoyed his life. And he intended to go on enjoying it for many more years to come. He had made a great number of friends and his home, tucked away in a leafy suburb of the non-descript town of Brocklehurst, was famous among men who shared Henry’s (non-history) interests. Indeed, it was on account of these friends that Henry Pottinger was now rummaging through his souvenirs.

A seventy-fifth birthday celebration was being planned for Henry Pottinger and, as is often the case at such milestone anniversaries, his chums thought it would be a cracking wheeze to surround him with memories of his life. That had sent Henry Pottinger climbing into the far recesses of the attic.

He surveyed his early adult life spread before him. Time plays tricks on a person and had it really been about fifty years since he had last seen all this? So much of it looked familiar. The edge of a small pink-coloured box peeked between a dozen envelopes. Ha! Henry Pottinger knew what that was. He gripped it eagerly in his hand. The box had a clear transparent plastic lid. Henry Pottinger did not have to open the box, its content was clearly visible. It was a plastic key, silver in colour, attached to the numerals two and one. A twenty-first birthday memento from his parents, deliberately chosen for its tackiness.

He tossed it back onto the bed and retrieved one of the envelopes. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it contained a birthday card. Eagerly, Henry Pottinger pulled back the flap and tugged out the card. “Happy 21st birthday,” he read. “Now we are legal. Love Uncle Ricky.” Henry Pottinger chewed down on is bottom lip, an affectation that indicated his intense pleasure. “Ha! Ha! God almighty!” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Now we are legal. How much had changed since he had turned twenty-one. And “Uncle” Ricky – he was no blood relation. Gosh! Henry Pottinger giggled at how much Uncle Ricky had taught him.

Gently, he placed the card on the bedside table. It would raise a smile at his birthday party.  He returned to the bed; a formal brown envelope lay askew on top of a copy of Football Monthly. Henry Pottinger didn’t need to look at that – he knew already, it celebrated England’s victory in the World  Cup. He just as easily recognised the envelope. He couldn’t supress his excitement. With trembling hands he eased out the one sheet of flimsy paper it contained. “Ha!” He boomed and dissolved into chuckles. His final school report. He licked his lips and started to read. Even after so many decades he found he could recite the contents of the report by heart.

He is “headstrong,” his housemaster had written. “Will find it difficult to make his way in life if he continues to be unable to accept authority.” His chuckles rose to roars of laughter. “Oh, yes,” Henry Pottinger said, “I must frame this. It will take pride of place.”

Henry Pottinger (as he was not called while at school) had joined the sixth-form at St Francis Independent Grammar School when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a senior post at the local municipal council. Unable to accept authority. The eighteen-year-old Henry Pottinger had been a frequent visitor to Mr Durrant’s study. Henry Pottinger held the school report, his eyes misting. He saw himself lowering his body across the low back of the housemaster’s old leather armchair. His head low, bottom high. His pale-grey trousers pulling snugly into his stretched buttocks. The aroma of stale sweat that permeated the chair’s seat clogged his throat. Once again, Henry Pottinger felt the gentle tap-tap-tap of the thick, but whippy, rattan cane as it found its aim across the fleshiest part of his round buttock cheeks.

Henry Pottinger could never see this (of course, since his gaze was committed to the seat cushion) but he imagined Mr Durrant then flexing the cane between both hands before swishing it through the air. Henry Pottinger could feel the cane return to its target. Then the cane lifted away before returning with tremendous force to strike deep into his meaty bum before rebounding. The cane rose and fell six times. Six-of-the-best. St Francis was a traditional school after all.

Henry Pottinger read the words again: unable to accept authority. He had been beaten like that on three separate occasions in his final term. Three times! Aged eighteen. Had Durrant been a complete imbecile? Had he not realised what was going on? How Henry Pottinger had lusted for those sessions in the housemaster’s study. How he fantasied about one day being ordered by the cane-swishing Mr Durrant, “Lower your trousers. Bend over that chair.” Oh, how Henry Pottinger had wanted to take a full-six across the seat of his white cotton Y-fronts. Henry Pottinger laughed at the memory. It would not happen at his school but it did not take too long after he arrived at Oxford before he experienced that exquisite pleasure.

Oxford. University. Suddenly Henry Pottinger remembered. The photograph. Did he still have it? He delved into the pile on the eiderdown. Yes! Yes! He pulled at a yellowing envelope, hands trembling. “This is it! Oh My God!” he trilled. “I haven’t seen this since ….” His eyes misted. A young man (himself) in pyjamas standing in the corner of  room, hands on head in the traditional naughty boy pose. The pyjama bottoms are at his feet and bottom bare to the wind and red raw after a sound spanking. Henry Pottinger licked his lips. “Oh Lor!” he exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten.”

z used after corner pyjamas down study or domestic

That bonkers weekend at Brocklehurst he had spent with his pal, Gregor. That mad man (what the dickens was his name?) who turned half of his house into a replica public school, complete with classroom and headmaster’s study. The photograph showed Henry Pottinger in that study. His heart raced and his throat dried simultaneously as it all flooded back.

“You boy, stand there,” the headmaster glowered as he pointed to a place on the carpet in front of his desk. “Why have you been sent to me at this ungodly hour?” Henry Pottinger stands nervously, feeling a little conspicuous in his heavy striped pyjamas. They were made for a taller, stouter boy. Even with the drawstring tightly knotted he feared the pyjamas bottoms would slip down his thighs at any moment.

“Maitland, the head boy sent me. I was out of the dormitory after lights out.”

“Ha!” the headmaster ejaculated. “Up to no good, of course. No good comes from being out of the dormitory after lights out.”

Henry Pottinger nods his agreement. It is unsure what else he is expected to say. There is an uncomfortable silence. The headmaster breaks it with a bark, “Well, boy what have you got to say for yourself!” Henry Pottinger stares down at his bare feet. What is he supposed to say? His head is in a whirl. Frankly, he wishes the headmaster would stop all the jawing and move onto the action.

“Pah!” he headmaster rises from his chair. “So, you want to add dumb insolence to the charge list, eh?” Henry Pottinger shrugs, realising he is not very good at this. “Bah! Pah!” the headmaster is hamming it up  bit. “Well, m’lad,” he says, suddenly adopting a cod Scottish accent, “Och! w’ll see abah tat.” He opens the drawer to his desk and reaches in. Henry Pottinger’s eyes follow the headmaster’s movement closely. His heart is racing and he feels a slight clenching in his buttocks. The headmaster withdraws a leather strap. It has a handle at one end and the business end is split into three tails.

The headmaster holds the tawse high in both hands so that Henry Pottinger gets a good look. It is as if the headmaster is making a religious offering. “Och,” the headmaster says, “yer know what to expect.” Henry Pottinger honestly does not. He knows he is to receive corporal punishment as that is the whole point of the weekend. But, he had never been beaten with a leather tawse before. His bottom has been battered with canes, slippers and hairbrushes. On one memorable occasion he received six cuts of a heavy birch rod; but a leather tawse, no.

The headmaster is now on the move. He stands in front of his desk alongside Henry Pottinger. The headmaster swipes the heavy strap through the air. Sweat trickles down Henry Pottinger’s spine. At close quarters he can see the strap is awesome. It is about a foot or fourteen inches long and maybe a quarter to half inch thick. It will pack a wallop, Henry Pottinger has no doubt about that. Especially in the hands of the headmaster who has already demonstrated his expertise with a swishy rattan cane.

“Take down your pyjama trousers and bend across my desk,” the headmaster says swiftly. In his excitement he has forgotten to speak in the Scottish accent. Henry Pottinger fumbles with the drawstring of his pyjamas, he will be glad to let them down before they fall under their own steam. His buttocks and legs are now bare and for the first time Henry Pottinger feels how cold it is in the study. There is an open fire but it hasn’t been made up.

The headmaster moves away from the desk, he places his hands behind his back and strolls purposefully across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he turns and retraces his steps. Henry Pottinger thinks he looks a lot like Groucho Marx and stifles a giggle.

“Bend over boy!” the headmaster shouts the instruction. Henry Pottinger wonders if the neighbours will hear. Then he remembers the houses in this part of The Avenue are large and detached from one another. The headmaster could commit murder and no one would hear.

Henry Pottinger is a short distance from the desk so he shuffles like a penguin until he is close enough so he can bend across. The headmaster has cleared the desk top and all that is left is a large blotter. The lower button of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket is undone and his bare flesh touches the cold walnut desk. Its coldness and the excitement of presenting his bared bottom for chastisement sends a shiver through his body.

The headmaster has stopped his pacing and from the other end of the study he admires the sight presented for him. He has become intimately acquainted with Henry Pottinger’s bottom over the past twenty-four hours. The fading lines from a swift six of the best delivered across the seat of the trousers earlier in the day bare testimony to this fact.

The headmaster stands behind Henry Pottinger and admires once more his fine round buttock cheeks. They firm up when he is stretched across the desk, but when standing they are a little more fleshy. The headmaster runs the tip of his tongue across his dry, almost chapped lips. He rests the tawse on the desk so as to free-up both hands. With those, he carefully takes hold of the end of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket and ever so carefully he folds it once, then once again so that it is quite clear of his target area. He cracks a smile, cups his right palm and then gently he caresses Henry Pottinger’s left buttock. The headmaster is delighted that Henry Pottinger shivers when he does this. The headmaster pats the left buttock and rubs the back of Henry Pottinger’s thighs. Then he gives the boy a playful smack across the fleshiest part of his right cheek.

The headmaster stands back and gently lays the three tails of the worn leather tawse across the centre of Henry Pottinger’s bottom. He licks his lips one more time, grips the handle tightly, raises the strap so it rests on his shoulder and then with all the force he is able to muster he whips it down so that it sinks into the flesh. He is rewarded with the sight of a glowing red stripe. Henry Pottinger’s hips wriggle and he grips the far edge of the desk. A second stroke whistles through the air before connecting an inch below the first. Henry Pottinger turns his head, a long drawn out whistle escapes from his half-closed mouth.

Back in the bedroom Henry Pottinger the soon-to-be seventy-five-year-old carefully replaces the photograph in the yellowing envelope. What a day this is turning out to be, he tells himself as once again he burrows among the debris in search of more memories.

Picture credit, CP Services, London

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It is what it is

The Clumsy Waiter

The Chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Snuffy

new story 2

z used face cravat helen upton

We first met quite by accident in a crowded coffeeshop in town. I was seated at a table deep into my Guardian, he was at the other end of the room, searching with his eyes. Do you ever get that feeling someone’s watching you, even if you can’t see them? That’s how it was. I raised my head from the newspaper and caught him staring. Obviously at me. I allowed myself a little smile. I knew what his game was. I’d seen it before.

Our eyes met. That confirmed it to me. I’ve been doing this for years. I can spot a fellow enthusiast a mile away. He was definitely weighing me up. Our eyes only met for a heartbeat or two but I liked what I saw. I gestured subtly for him to join me. He pushed his way through the crowd and sat opposite me. He was easily half my age, I reckoned. His hair was fair, thick and made messy by the wind and his face was pinched by cold. He wore a heavy woollen pullover and a long scarf. If he had been five years younger he might have been a student. He grinned warmly at me. That was all the encouragement I needed.

“I saw you staring at me,” I said, “Didn’t your mother tell you it’s rude to stare?” It wasn’t much of an opening gambit but it worked. “Had to stare. Couldn’t believe it the first time,” he replied. He said it in the voice of an eight-year-old. I liked him for that. I gave an exaggerated gesture of shock, making my eyebrows shoot to the top of my head. “How dare you,” I said in my most authoritarian voice, “talk to an adult like that.”

He shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t say a word but the gesture spoke volumes. I don’t care! I leaned forward so I was in his face. “What you need young man,” I looked deep into his eyes, “is a jolly good spanking.”

And, that’s how it started. We arranged to meet that evening in a pub in town. It makes sense to be on neutral territory the first time. But there was nothing to worry about. Novices to the scene rarely realise just how many men there are out there who are into spanking. I’ve met all sorts over the past twenty years and not all of them gay. Would it surprise you to learn that “real” men, straight guys, adore to be spanked by other men. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.

He told me his name was Snuffy. I’d never heard that one before and supposed it to be a nickname, but it turned out that was his actual name: Tony Snuffy. I think I fell in love at that moment. Of course, from then on I only called him by his surname. “Stand there Snuffy. Take down your trousers Snuffy. Bend over my desk Snuffy.” I couldn’t say it often enough. We had a drink and got to know one another. We had a lot going for us. He got into spanking when he was at university and so did I (albeit twenty-five years apart). He liked different kinds of roleplay (ditto me). He was a bottom. I was a top. Within the hour we were in a taxi heading for my house.

He stays over some nights, but we don’t live together. He works in a bank and has a room in a converted house near where he works. He treats my place a bit like a hotel. One Saturday I caught him doing his laundry without asking my permission. “What a cheek!” I scolded him before ripping down his trousers and underpants and turning him over my knee right there in the utility room. He has a lovely bum and in my humble opinion it is shown at its best when upturned across my knee. His legs are thin but muscular, his waist narrow and stomach flat and combined they emphasise his buttocks. The cheeks are a bit flat when he’s standing but they round out and become as hard as a rubber ball when he’s draped at a forty-five-degree angle over my knee.

On that particular occasion because I hadn’t prepared in advance it had to be a summary spanking. That is, I scolded him, readied him and spanked him with the flat of my hand (it was all I had). It was  great fun. It made me realise that sometimes you can overprepare things. I slapped his bare arse until it shone bright pink. I think my hand probably hurt more than his bum by the time I finished but I was delighted to see the pattern of my fingers embossed into his bottom over and over again.

I have a large house and I’ve made one of the bedrooms into a kind of headmaster’s study. I haven’t overdone it. There’s no carpet, instead I’ve put in shiny floorboards and I bought a worn rug at a car boot sale. The desk is dark wood and heavy and there’s a couple of straight-backed chairs. My pride and joy is an old leather armchair that is exactly the right height. There are some bookshelves and I spent a wonderful afternoon years ago in a second-hand bookshop in a small seaside town buying lots of school textbooks from way back when. The room looks quite authentic, especially when you consider the umbrella stand I keep in one corner. My mortar-board cap and academic gown hangs there. As do five crook-handled canes of assorted lengths and thicknesses.

Snuffy loves to be a naughty schoolboy. I don’t know where he gets it from. The cane was abolished before he was born and in “real life” he has never seen a teacher in a cap and gown, but he craves to be summoned to the study. Sometimes we watch videos together before we get down to the action. You’ve probably seen some of these yourself, there’s plenty to choose from. The plots are usually the same. The boy is in the headmaster’s study. “Bend over that chair” and so on. I think Snuffy probably bases a lot of his private fantasies on these videos.

I have a collection of authentic school uniforms. I prefer Snuffy to wear long trousers, but often he likes to parade around in short trousers and knee socks. I admit he looks terrific, especially with those legs I told you about.  I like to see Snuffy as an obstreperous sixth-former; eighteen years old and well in need of a caning. Of course, whether he wears long or short trousers becomes somewhat irrelevant when I order, “Lower your trousers Snuffy. Bend over that chair Snuffy!” Snuffy bulging in tight, sparkling white Y-fronts is a sight to behold.

The strangest thing happened last week. Snuffy was stopped by police in his car. He was over the drink-drive limit. Not by much, but that’s not the point. I was livid when he told me. “You could’ve had an accident. Killed a child.” I work in Brocklehurst General Hospital and I’ve seen things I don’t want to tell you about. Snuffy will have to go to court; he’ll get a fine and a driving ban, because that’s what everyone gets.

“It’s not enough,” I told him genuinely shocked at his behaviour. “What kind of punishment is that?” He stood before me a little abashed. Then, he smiled. He thought he knew where I was headed. “A flogging,” I said calmly. “A proper flogging.” His smile faded a little into puzzlement. It was the word I used that confused him. Flogging. It’s not one we use in our games. Spanking, yes. Beating, slippering, belting, caning; even thrashing. But not flogging. Flogging is something else. It’s not really a “corporal punishment” word. It’s more S&M.

I had read recently that back in the nineteen-hundreds in England magistrates ordered offenders to be birched. What had exercised the mind of the historian who wrote the book was that this penalty was for quite minor crimes and the usual tariff handed down was twenty-four strokes. I told Snuffy about this. “Of course,” I said, “they didn’t have drink-driving back then, but if they had …” I left the sentence unfinished, it was clear where I was going.

“I am truly disappointed in you,” I told Snuffy (and I was, this was no act). “You deserve more than a fine.” Snuffy was by now shuffling from one foot to another, it was one of the poses he adopted during our games. I had no idea if he was acting now or not. He knew what I was going to say before I got the words out. “I am going to birch you. Twenty-four strokes.” And then I added, in case Snuffy hadn’t got the point, “For real.”

Unlike the summary over-the-knee hand spanking a birching requires a lot of preparation. A birch rod has to be made to measure (you can’t simply buy one off the shelf.) I told Snuffy to return to my house at eight that evening. It would give me the time I needed. He did as he was told. I watched from the window as he climbed into his battered Mini and drove away. I wondered if he would ever return. We were entering uncharted territory. This was no longer a game. This was for real. Twenty-four strokes of the birch and without a safe-word that could make me stop.

I had work to do. I had to construct a birch. At the end of the street where I live is Widdicombe Wood and I could get what I needed there. Birches aren’t necessarily made from birch twigs; oftentimes hazel makes a better rod. There were plenty of hazel trees at Widdicombe. I didn’t care one jot if I was seen cutting branches. Let the neighbours say what they want about me. I was a man on a mission and within the hour I was back home. A birch rod is simple to make. I took eight twigs and whittled them to remove buds, then I trimmed so the longest was about three-feet long. Then I tied them with twine at one end making a fine handle. A birch rod is apt to splinter when thrashed against a rock-hard backside and might not survive twenty-four strokes, so I made a second to be on the safe side.

There was still an hour before Snuffy’s deadline to return. I paced the lounge like a caged animal constructing in my mind the scene that was soon to play out. Where should the punishment take place? I had no birching block for him to kneel on and no time to build one. There was no vaulting horse available (the preferred method of so many video birchings). Should I tie Snuffy down so that he couldn’t resist? What about a gag? If he screamed would the neighbours think a murder was taking place and call the cops?

I had read somewhere that back in the days when magistrates ordered the birch sentence was carried out in the local police station. I supposed they might simply get their victim to bend over a table. Or, to lay face down on the table top. I went to my study and tested the desk for strength by myself laying across it. If it could take my weight it would have no trouble with Snuffy. My problem was solved.

I retuned to the lounge and paced some more. I wondered if Snuffy would tun up. I had proposed a drastic punishment and intended to carry it out despite any protests he might make. This was for real. What happened next rested on Snuffy. If he returned, he would be flogged. If he chose not to come back that would be the end of our relationship. It was up to him.

Just before eight I heard the chugging noise from the clapped-out engine of Snuffy’s car. He had retuned. I watched furtively from the window as he climbed out of the tiny car offering me a delightful view of his tight, pert bum as he did so. He was dressed in dark brown corduroys and a t-shirt. My heart skipped and blood rushed to my cock at the sight.

We met in the lounge. After short pleasantries I reminded him of the fate that awaited. “I am sorry for drink-driving. It was wrong. I want to repent,” he said. Snuffy had obviously rehearsed this little speech. Repent! What kind of word was that. Usually, when I played the headmaster and he the schoolboy apology was good enough. Repent! I hoped he wasn’t showing me some hidden religious side of himself.

“Snuffy,” I almost growled. “It is time we went upstairs together.” His eyes glazed and his face paled a little, but he made no objection and he led the way. I had another delightful view of his arse as slowly he climbed the stairs with me only inches behind. In different circumstances I might have leant forward to sink my teeth into the firm flesh.

We went into my study. I had taken the precaution of removing the cap and gown and canes, I did not want this to look like a school scenario. This was to be a serious judicial flogging. I had left the two birch rods soaking in a metal bucket in the middle of the room and this was the first thing Snuffy saw as he entered. I saw his shoulders stiffen but he couldn’t stop staring at the two bundles of twigs that would soon take the skin off his backside.

I didn’t have much more to say. Having no police or prison officers’ uniform I had dressed myself in dark blue trousers and white shirt with a plain tie. It looked vaguely “authoritarian” and would have to do. I lectured him a little and reminded him of his crime. “Your sentence is twenty-four strokes of the birch,” I intoned. “Take down your trousers and underwear and climb on top of the desk.” It was a straightforward instruction that I expected to be obeyed.

Snuffy is a sensible boy, he knows when his fate is sealed. With what I thought  were remarkably steady hands he unbuckled the belt to his corduroy trousers and then released the button on his waistband. It was a simple task from there to pull the metal zipper. The front of his trousers flapped open offering me the delightful vision of his semi-erect cock bulging against very tight bright-blue briefs. The weight of the corduroy and the belt and I suppose keys or whatnot in his pockets had the trousers slipping down his thighs. They snagged at the knees but Snuffy, who appeared entirely at ease, stooped and pushed them down so they fell onto his feet.

I had not ordered that Snuffy should take the trousers off completely but he took it upon himself to kick off his shoes to facilitate the smooth passage of his trousers onto the floor. He didn’t bother to pick them up and tidy them away. Instead, in one complete vigorous movement, he then hitched his thumbs inside the waist of those tight underpants and dragged them down his legs. He gave an almost contemptuous kick to send them flying across the floor. His penis was by now rock-hard. It gave him no embarrassment to see it straining upwards towards the ceiling. I had seen him erect many times before of course. Even so, saliva drained from my mouth at the sight.

Snuffy had by now taken complete control. He reached to the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head, the muscles on his stomach and chest rippled. Now he stood before me completely naked. You don’t need me to tell you that my own cock was bursting against my underpants. Snuffy threw the shirt to the ground and without even a glance in my direction, he climbed onto the desk. As he lay flat he used his left hand to maneuver his stiff cock so that it was fattened under his body. All the time I swished the birch rod gently through the air. What water drops that had clung to the twigs had by now dispersed.

Snuffy stretched his arms forward and took hold of the far side of the desk. This made the muscles in his back tense. He turned his feet so that they were splayed which in turn tightened the sinews in his legs. His bottom was flat (in the same way it was when he stood). Like this the milk-white, tight buttocks were tiny; no more than two pimples.

While Snuffy appeared calm and collected, I was not. My fists whitened as I gripped the handle of the birch rod. I could feel the sweat on my palms sticking. My heartrate was off the scale and I could not get rid of an annoying buzzing noise in my ears. I knew if I didn’t get on with this I might conceivably fall to the floor in a dead faint; or worse suffer a stroke. I positioned myself close to the table alongside Snuffy’s prostrate body. I gently brushed the birch across the highest point of his bum. I knew of course that a birch laid on with power could rip an arse to shreds. If I gave Snuffy twenty-four strokes like that his bottom would become raw, blooded meat. That was not my intention, nor, I believed, could it have been the intention of the magistrates back in the Edwardian era. There was a difference between punishment and torture.

I tapped the birch across Snuffy’s bottom. The muscles in his back tensed and his bottom quivered. He was preparing himself for the shock of the first stroke. I raised the rod about three feet above his rear end and swished it down. Snuffy gasped as pink flecks, bruises, and abrasions burst across his shapely buttocks. I saw him clamp his jaws shut. I can’t be sure if this was to stifle a yell. I thwacked down a second stroke and he made a noise like the air released from a balloon, his fists bunched tightly, and he gasped loudly.

Snuffy was not tied down so he could (had he wanted to) have jumped from the desk and danced round the room howling. He did not. Instead, after a second or two had passed, he bravely clutched hold of the desk’s edge. He was telling me he was ready for the next stroke. I very much admired his fortitude.

“Feeling this, aren’t you lad?” It was a stupid thing for me to say but it did elicit the reply, “Yes, Sir. Yes I am,” which was an equally obvious statement. I continued birching and Snuffy flailed about and moaned impotently. He twitched, sniffed and quivered as I flayed his tight bottom with much slashing and swooping.

By now the floor around me was covered in scraps of hazel twigs. I tossed it to one side and reached for the substitute. I violently shook the water from it. I could hear air rushing out of Snuffy. He was grinding his molars and his jaw probably ached, but not half as much as his arse. He wriggled and writhed but nonetheless maintained his self-discipline. Not one square inch of his buttock area was unblemished. My birch was not excessively heavy and I did not want to draw blood if I could possibly avoid it. Whiteish welts had risen and grazes and bruises covered the whole area. It was red raw as boiling blood raced beneath the skin.

Twenty-four strokes of the birch even moderately laid on can do tremendous damage. Snuffy’s rear-end was corrugated and glowered bright red. In places it looked like raw hamburger meat. I had never beaten him so severely this before. I don’t suppose anyone had. He lay gasping, twitching, still clutching the edge of the desk. His eyes glowed brightly, tears soaked his face but he was not sobbing. I suppose the tears were a natural reaction to the agony he must be feeling. A person might shed tears if he accidentally hit his thumb with a hammer.

“Sentence delivered,” I said, unsure what I was supposed to say at a time like this. He continued to twitch. “Stand up, Snuffy.” He was obviously in great pain as he slid his body off the desk and tried, and failed, to stand steadily. He gripped the desk for support and arched his back as if that somehow eased the pain. His bum, usually so beautiful, looked as if had swollen to twice its normal size. It had the appearance of rotten orange peel.

Eventually, he regained some composure and stood to face me. I fished a tube of antiseptic cream from the desk drawer but before I treated his wounds, I slumped to my knees and took his raging cock into the back of my throat.

 

Picture credit: Helen Upton

Other stories you might like

Home early

The pretty policeman

Father deals with idle student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Transformation

new story 2

z used adult schoolboy shorts cane touch toes (1)

Mr Williams was known to his neighbours as a man of habits. He left the house sharp at 08.30 hrs each morning (Monday to Friday inclusive) and walked the short distance to the railway station where he caught the 08.47 hrs to his workplace, returning home on the 17.17 hrs and depending on the efficiency of the train service he was back in his house in time for the 18.00 hrs news on the wireless.

He spent Saturday mornings in Brocklehurst town centre purchasing provisions, ensuring his tasks were completed no later than 13.00 hrs. In summer he spent Saturday afternoons working in his garden. On Sundays, whatever the season, he took his place on the end of the third pew from the back at St. Andrew’s Church.

He spoke to no one at the church and rarely to his neighbours. The best they might get from him was a mumbled “Good morning,” if severely pressed. He liked it like that and so did his neighbours; The Avenue was that kind of street.

On Sunday afternoon, like this particular day, he would retire to his back bedroom. There he would divest himself of his overly-formal custom-tailored dark-grey three-piece suit before carefully placing it upon a hanger, which he would then equally as carefully place at the back of a single-sized wardrobe, alongside the shop-bought business suits he wore during the week.

He would stand quite naked, apart from a pair of cream-coloured long johns, and for a moment or two contemplate his sagging frame in the mirror. Before opening a second much larger wardrobe. Flicking through the clothes hanging on the bar, each in a dust proof bag, he would make his selection. Then with the care that was his watchword he would remove each dust bag and lay the garments over the back of a small upholstered armchair.

First, he slipped into the heavy cotton collarless white shirt before unsteadily perching on one leg he pulled on a pair of heavy black twill trousers. He struggled to get a thick dark grey waistcoat to fully button across his rotund stomach. It had been many moons since he had managed to fasten the lower most button. Then, he took hold of a black jacket. This he pulled over his waistcoat. He stretched his arms wide and circled them like windmills; testing that there was sufficient ‘give’ in his clothes.

Almost fully dressed, he wobbled across the room to an ancient battered chest of drawers. He opened the first one and extracted a cardboard wing collar and stud. It was but a moment’s work to get each attached. He was very nearly done. A black tie, no wider than a bootlace, completed the ensemble. In the second drawer down he found a black hat. It was he admitted to himself his pride and joy. It was the authentic thing. Decades old. He had bought it from a retired schoolmaster from the local St. Francis School; a mortar-board cap, a little battered by decades of use. The tassel hanging from one corner was classic. Although both his hands were unsteady he fixed it squarely on his head. His heart thumped hard.

“Nearly there,” he told himself silently. Only one more thing to do before he could get started. He stooped low and tugged at the bottom drawer. It was often a bugger to get open. It stuck as usual. “Damn and blast! What is wrong with the damned thing!” he cursed openly although no one was there to hear. Suddenly, the drawer sprang loose, almost sending him tumbling to the floor and onto his backside.

He breathed deeply and his eyes shone. Almost reverentially he leaned forward, putting both hands into the drawer. He smacked his lips and withdrew his pride and joy. He held it high like an offering at the altar. He beamed as he held in his hands three-and-a-bit feet of whippy rattan cane. He had probably handled the school cane more times than he would like to relate, but that never diminished the thrill he experienced each time he pulled it from the drawer. At first he held it beneath the crook-handle. It was as thick as a pencil and as light as a feather.

He returned to the wardrobe and carefully, for this garment could best be described as delicate (‘tatty’ might be more honest), extracted an authentic schoolmaster’s academic gown. He eased it across his shoulder. He turned and faced the mirror. He flexed the cane between his hands; then he swished it through the open air. In the silence of the room it made a terrific swish as it flew! “Bend over boy! Touch your toes!” he scowled. He swiped the cane once more. His transformation to Dr Selwyn Gerard, Headmaster of Albion School, was complete.

….

 

Jessop stood in his bright white Y-front underpants. They were brand new and he delighted in rubbing the palm of his hands across his meaty buttocks to luxuriate in the touch of the soft cotton. He picked up his vest. It smelt as fresh as a daisy. He wriggled it over his head. It fitted well if Jessop ignored his growing tummy. He paused, looked round the room and realised there was no mirror. A trifle disheartened, he carried on and reaching over to the table once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. The shirt was laundered to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar.

Once dressed he picked up his short trousers. They were mid-grey and properly short. Collywobbles fluttered in his stomach when he athletically stepped first into the left leg and then the right. He pulled them tight and buttoned up. He could not see himself but he knew his face was glowing; blood coursed through his arteries and his fingertips tingled.

He and found his school tie. It was black-and-white diagonal stripes, the Albion School colours. Without a mirror, Jessop had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Gerard. Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

He cursed that there was no mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, then with alacrity dodged back into the room when he saw a man in the street walking a dog. Disappointed, he fell into a sumptuous leather armchair to pull up his woollen stockings. They were so very long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and short trousers. He folded over the black-and-white tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up Clarke’s shoes. Now, he was almost ready: only two more items to put on and he would be fully dressed. The school blazer was draped over a heavy wooden coat-hanger. Andrew caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb. He picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. It was a black blazer with white braiding; simple elegance, he thought. Finally, he took hold of the black-quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head.

Jessop was ready.

….

Dr Selwyn Gerard, admired his vision in the mirror. His heart beat thirteen to the dozen. He tucked his whippy rattan cane under his arm and turned to a small cupboard in the corner of the room. His secret stash! He poured himself a small measure of whisky from a chunky decanter, downed it in one, and proceeded from the room.

Moments later he was across the passageway and in his study. The room had been designed as a bedroom in a family house but Dr Gerard had no need for family. Long ago he had converted the room to a study. It was sparsely furnished. There was an ancient desk, a glass-fronted bookcase (complete with school textbooks long ago purchased from a charity shop), an umbrella stand, two hardback chairs and a splendid leather armchair.

He sat himself down behind his desk. The top was empty, save for a blotting pad and an inkwell. He rested his cane down, and waited. Moments later there was a timid knock on the door. Dr Gerard took a deep breath, his palms were sweaty so he rubbed them against his academic gown. He cleared his throat and with an authoritative air, called, “Come!” He watched as the handle twitched, the door slowly inched open, and the top of a school cap appeared, then halted.

“Come on boy!” Dr Gerard roared, “I don’t have all afternoon!” Jessop tumbled into the study, pink-faced.

“There boy!” Dr Gerard snapped, clicking his fingers and pointing to a spot on the carpet in front of his desk. Jessop shuffled forward and stood placing his hands behind his back while hopping from foot to foot. His eyes were downcast. Dr Gerard surveyed the scene before him and growled, “Stand up straight boy! Look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Jessop straightened a little. He was no star of the Officers’ Training Corp and he could no more stand to attention with thumbs in line with the seam of his trousers as fly. He stared at a photograph of the school rugby team an inch or so above the headmaster’s head.

“Jessop, Jessop, Jessop,” Dr Gerard sighed as if the boy before him represented all the troubles in the world, “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” the boy sniffled. Dr Gerrard’s eyebrows shot to the ceiling. Didn’t the boy know a rhetorical question when he heard one?

“I have reports from your housemaster. You have absconded from school twice. The first time you were punished by Mr Corlett. Now, you have absented yourself again and this time you were found at the travelling fair!” He paused for effect. “What are we to do with you?”

“Don’t know sir,” Jessop replied again.

“Don’t you,” Dr Gerard scowled, looking down at the cane on his desk, “Don’t you really?” Jessop paled. He entwined his fingers behind his back and looked down at the desk. “Oh sir,” he whimpered.

“Oh sir, indeed!” Dr Gerard was in his element. “You leave me very little choice Jessop.” He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers and glared at the boy. “None at all.” He wiped his sweaty palms once more. “Come on boy, let’s get on with it. You know what is expected.”

Jessop bit his bottom lip, his feet were rooted to the floor but he twisted his body so he could scan across the room. The headmaster read his mind. “I think we’ll have you by the door Jessop.”

“Oh sir.” Jessop was a boy of few words. He stood miserably as the headmaster hauled himself from his chair. “Stand there!” he commanded, pointing to the door. Jessop grimaced. There wasn’t anything he could say. What was the point? He had been caught bang to rights. Dr Gerard was the headmaster and he, Jessop, was the pupil. Matters must take their course.

Dr Gerard picked up the cane and delighted when colour drained from Jessop’s face. He swiped the cane through the air. “Bend over, touch your toes.” Jessop’s mouth opened and closed as if he were about to protest. “Something to say about the matter, Jessop?” the headmaster snarled.

“No sir. Sorry sir.” Jessop turned his back on his tormentor and in one athletic movement he spread his legs, bent forward and pressed his fingertips against the toes of his shoes. He knew from experience with Dr Gerard that “ touch your toes” meant just that; not shins or knees. Jessop looked down at the dark grey carpet. He breathed deeply. This would hurt. This would hurt a lot.

He felt his short trousers and Y-front underpants stretch across his buttocks; he was presenting the headmaster with a terrific target. He felt the stout whippy cane tap against the underside of his cheeks. “Let’s say twelve shall we Jessop,” Dr Gerard said calmly. There was a pause and for a moment Jessop wondered if he were expected to reply. Perhaps he was being asked to bargain, “Oh no sir,” he could say, “I think six would be quite sufficient.” Or, he might even be expected to say, “Oh for a second offence I should get eighteen. Would you prefer it if I also lowered my trousers and underpants?”

The headmaster did not expect a reply. He took his aim, lifted the cane away from the stretched buttocks so that it made an arc and brought it bouncing down with much vigour do that it bit deep into Jessop’s bottom. The boy shut his teeth and screwed his eyes tightly shut, but beyond that he made no movement.

Dr Gerard watched thoughtfully.  He admired a boy who could take a beating stoically. It made his job so much easier. He set cut number two thwacking into the very centre of both cheeks so that a dark welt immediately rose across the fleshiest part of Jessop’s bum. His knees buckled slightly with the fierce impact, but still the boy could take it. In truth, Jessop was no novice to the cane. His bottom was beaten on a regular basis. Rarely had the marks disappeared after a thrashing than he was presenting his bottom for punishment once again.

The echo of thwacks three and four delivered in quick succession echoed around the study. The headmaster paused to admire his handiwork. The marks of the cane were clearly visible embedded into the tight cloth of the short trousers. “Good aiming!” he silently congratulated himself.

Dr Gerard positioned his feet. When he had judged that the hurt was ebbing away from Jessop’s bottom: Swipe! The next cut struck home, maybe a half inch below the others; but there was still plenty of room on the boy’s bottom for lots more strokes. By the time he had finished the whole of Jessop’s bottom, from the top of the mounds, across the very apex of the cheeks and into the fleshiest underside where the bum nearly meets the thighs would be covered with perfectly parallel lines. That was only if the boy was able to maintain his position manfully under the onslaught.

Jessop rocked on the balls of his feet; his mouth opened and closed, but he made no sound. A sharp pain attacked his rear, but very quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Jessop had a high pain threshold. He could take a beating stoically. But Dr Gerard knew how to lay on a caning with some vim. The pain in Jessop’s backside mounted as each successive stroke connected with his jutting backside. His heart raced, blood coursed through his arteries, he found it difficult to catch his breath.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Dr Gerard’s heart raced, perspiration ran down his spine; he was finding it hard to catch his breath. Jessop wriggled his hips, his bum was on fire. This was one heck of a caning. He tensed, hoping he could withstand this onslaught. The cane tapped once more across his bottom. He took a deep breath.

Suddenly, the chimes of a doorbell rang out. Dr Gerard stopped mid-stoke. He harrumphed! Through his outstretched legs, Jessop watched as the headmaster shuffled to the window and ensuring he could not be seen from outside, he peered through. A man was standing at the front door, looking rather irate.

Mr Williams winced and turned to the boy who was still obediently touching his toes. “Did you park your car in front of number twenty-six again?” he groaned.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Old Boys

z used drawing master cane jonathon (2)

The headmaster always enjoyed the annual Old Boy’s Reunion; especially the canings he dished out.

It had become a ritual; two of the most revered Old Boys would not leave until they had each received ‘a proper’ six-of-the-best from the headmaster. When some years ago it had first been put to him that he should order them to his study, lecture them on their misdeeds and then command each to, “bend over that chair,” he thought he was having his leg pulled.

It was the school’s Bursar who raised it. He was one of the most venerable members of staff and had even been at the school when the Old Boys were pupils. The headmaster thought it was a bizarre idea, a bit kinky even, but had to respect the Bursar and hear him out.

“It goes on in schools across the land, you’ll be surprised,” the Bursar said. And the headmaster was.

“What harm can it do?”

Corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal at least fifteen years previously and the headmaster had never beaten a boy in anger. The two Old Boys were at least ten years older than he; it was absurd. One was a High Court Judge and the other a member of the House of Lords for pity’s sake.

“Headmaster, if you humour them I am sure we can get a new chemistry lab out of this,” the Bursar told him.

The headmaster laughed out loud at the suggestion; he had forgotten that each of the Old Boys were great benefactors of the school and had donated substantial amounts of money in the past and the Bursar was probably right; if he indulged them now they would give even more in the future. He agreed to go through with it.

The headmaster’s study needed surprisingly few alterations; it hadn’t changed much in the years since the Old Boys were pupils. The oak-panelled walls remained and the desk was surely as old as the hills; but the computer had to go.

The headmaster was embarrassed about having to go through this charade and wanted as few people as possible to know, but he had to rope in Mr Higgins, the school historian. He had set up a small school museum with mementos such as photographs of past headmasters and school rugby teams; but it also contained memorabilia including an old school desk, a blackboard and easel and, oh glory!, the tall thin cupboard that once stood in the corner of the headmaster’s study; including its contents: a dozen whippy rattan canes.

Higgins was alarmingly eager to supply the headmaster with everything he needed. He had indeed been an enthusiastic beater of boys’ bottoms when the law still allowed and he fervently hoped the legislators might someday reverse the decision. Perhaps, Lord Barnaby might be prevailed upon to raise the issue in Parliament.

Higgins had also kept the punishment books, where records of canings were kept. They dated back nearly a hundred years. He took great delight in reading them and recollecting the Good Old Days when boys showed their masters proper respect. And if they didn’t, they would soon be signing their names in the punishment book and nursing throbbing backsides.

Higgins’ name appeared many times in the book. On one day he had caned six boys for six different offences. One was Rodgers T. E.; he was in the sixth-form and thought he was immune to the rules. Higgins soon disabused him of that idea. He had been found in possession of a bottle of beer, despite the strict no-alcohol rules. Higgins confiscated the Watneys Pale Ale and took Rodgers to a classroom where he ordered him to bend across a school desk.

Try doing that today, Higgins thought, it’s all lawyers and childrens’ rights. But, back then, Rodgers knew he had no choice and despite being eighteen years old he went over the desk without complaint to show Higgins his arse for six top notch stingers from the master’s favourite ‘senior’ cane. He still had that cane. Rodgers was in some distress, the beating had been that severe, but he took it like a man and Higgins respected him for that. Later, alone in his digs, reminiscing the day’s events, Higgins enjoyed the boy’s beer.

The headmaster now had all that he needed, but he knew he had a problem. His two Old Boys were presumably very experienced receivers of the cane, but he had never even seen one, never mind used one. They would expect a proper thrashing, not just a tap on the bottom for old time’s sake.

Once more, Higgins had the solution. He was an expert caner and although it had been many years since he last lashed a rattan into a boy’s stretched trousers, it was surely like riding a bike; something you never forgot how to do. Let him be the one to administer the Old Boys beatings, he suggested, fervently hoping the headmaster would agree.

“No, I fear it has to be me, they seem to insist it is a headmaster’s caning.”

“Oh,” Higgins replied trying to hide his disappointment. But, he explained a “headmaster’s caning” did not only mean a caning from the headmaster; to schoolboys throughout history and all over the British Empire, a “headmaster’s caning” meant an exemplary severe thrashing; something to be dreaded.

The headmaster did not like the sound of this. What could he do?

“I can teach you how to use the cane to inflict maximum pain.”

The headmaster was grateful, but how could this be done? Would it be enough simply to whack the cane down into a cushion? Didn’t they need a real person to be on the receiving end?

Yes, Higgins agreed, they did, and he knew exactly the right person for the job, but it would be tricky to explain this to the headmaster.

“I have an acquaintance who might be willing to act as your guinea pig, so to speak,” Higgins did not want to say too much about Timothy Hutchins, a young man who hired out his backside to clients willing to pay for the pleasure of beating it black and blue.

The headmaster considered discretion in the matter to be paramount and was unwilling to bring a total stranger to the school for the headmaster to practice his caning technique. That’s how the headmaster met with Timothy one evening at Higgins’ dismal apartment in town.

It took the headmaster no more than an hour to progress from novice to expert caner. Timothy was a trooper, he did not object when asked to remove his trousers and underpants so the headmaster could see exactly where his cane stokes landed. At first, he was way off target, but soon he was landing them exactly where he wanted.

With accuracy sorted, the headmaster practiced severity. He was alarmed at the damage a single lash of the cane could inflict on flesh and began to doubt the wisdom of the whole enterprise. Could he really do this to the two Old Boys, even if they wanted him to?

“Don’t worry, headmaster. The bottom will not mark if the boys are wearing trousers.” Higgins knew he was telling a lie, but it was the only way to make sure the headmaster went through with it.

So, suitably prepared, the headmaster awaited the Old Boys’ Reunion.

The plan was surprisingly simple. The Old Boys wanted to be punished for committing real offences. What could be easier than to catch them smoking cigarettes? In the old days that would get them a caning from their housemaster, not the head. But, repeat offenders would find them on the list for a headmaster’s special caning. And, truly, both had been caned at school for smoking at least once.

Higgins had the pleasure of saying, “Barnaby, Bennett, report to the headmaster’s study. At once.”

The two boys walked in silence through the school quadrangle, into North Building and up the narrow staircase to the corridor leading to the headmaster’s study. They were reliving times in the past when they had last made this journey. Time can be deceptive. This wasn’t today, for them, this was thirty-five years ago.

They reached the study door and halted. As if in a dream each checked that their appearance was immaculate; shoes cleaned, ties straightened. Each was wearing the blue and yellow striped school blazer of their youth. Many of the Old Boys had these blazers and liked to dress up for the reunion day. Some secretly wished they could complete the outfit with their grey flannel short trousers, long grey knee socks and school cap, but these were not clothes that could easily be worn in public.

The two boys shuffled their feet, seemingly unwilling to take the next step.

“You knock.”

“No, you.”

“Oh come on,” Lord Barnaby, or now, plain Barnaby, C. T. E. knocked.

“Enter!”

They held their breath. Then Bennett took the handle, turned it and opened the door.

The headmaster sat behind his huge oak desk, resplendent in an old fashioned academic gown.

“Stand there, both of you,” he pointed to the carpet. The headmaster was used to hectoring misbehaved boys and his stern lectures were well rehearsed. He had giving tongue-lashings to many of them across the years. They did very little good. The truth was that it was impossible to punish a boy beyond giving impositions or lines. This was a boarding school and the pupils had very little liberty, so being placed in detention meant very little to them.

Since being introduced to the cane, and encouraged by Higgins, the headmaster had begun to believe that corporal punishment might be beneficial to his school. He could easily think of six or seven repeat offenders among his present boys who would profit from a sore backside. A cane laid on with force would soon buck their ideas up a bit. All it would need was one visit to the headmaster’s study for a ‘proper’ caning while bent across the desk, or over the back of the armchair. Six strokes whacked into their trouser seats; they wouldn’t be back in a hurry after that.

The headmaster eyed the two grown men standing before him: Barnaby and Bennett. He felt like laughing at the absurdity of it.

He picked up a piece of paper from the desk and read from it. “Smoking again. You have both been caned by your housemaster for this before. Is that true?”

Mumbled, “Yes, Sir,” from both of them.

“Barnaby, you have been caned twice before.”

“Sir,” said with real misery from his Lordship.

The headmaster gave his “cigarettes are bad for you,” lecture.

Only yesterday he had delivered a different lecture to two fifteen-year-old fifth-formers; their rudeness and arrogance to their masters had resulted in a visit to the headmaster. But, they had seemed unmoved by his words. He was certain they would be back on his carpet before too long. Oh, how he now wished it was them in front of him and he could whack some manners into them through their backsides.

Oddly, in his imagination, Barnaby became Probert and Bennett became Turner. No longer were they fifty-something middle-aged men, they really were two snotty fifteen-year-old schoolboys, deserving of a thrashing.

Yes, he would certainly give these boys the thrashing they so richly deserved.

Probert, you first, he thought, but said out loud, “Bennett you stand at the back of the chair. Barnaby, face the wall; hands on head.”

Meekly, both boys did as instructed.

The headmaster picked up a crook-handled rattan cane and thoughtfully bent it between his two hands.

“We shall see how you like the feel of this, Bennett,” without intention, the headmaster was speaking in an old-fashioned, upper class accent; like something out of a 1930s film: he had suddenly become Mr Chips.

“Bend over boy.” Bennett, expertly positioned himself; head down, bottom high, legs apart. As with Higgins, a caned boy never forgets how to present his backside to the satisfaction of the headmaster and his cane. Could it really be thirty-five years since his last headmaster’s caning?

Right Probert, you have been asking for this for a very long time. The headmaster raised the cane and brought it crashing down across Bennett’s trouser seat with great force. The boy gasped, but stayed in position.

“One Sir, thank you, Sir,” Bennett was reciting a ritual from days long past.

He thanked the headmaster for each of the five stingers that followed. The headmaster knew he had done a good job, his cane had left marks across the seat of the boy’s trousers and it was clear that the cuts had fallen neatly in a half-inch group across the centre of his buttocks. The headmaster would not know but the cane had bitten into the fleshy cheeks so deeply that welts had already risen.

It was with an extremely throbbing backside that Bennett rose from the chair and stood by his friend, hands on head, facing the wall. He desperately wanted to rub away the agony in his aching bottom, but the ancient schoolboy ritual did not allow this. Only when he was dismissed from the study would he be able to show that he was in any pain. Until then, he had to tough it out.

Turner, your turn, the headmaster thought, “Barnaby, your turn,” he said aloud.

The boy took up his position behind the chair.

The headmaster was enjoying himself. He swished the cane through the air a couple of times, before intoning the words all schoolboys once dreaded. “Bend over that chair.”

Barnaby was across the chair in an instant, eager to feel the lash of the cane. The headmaster eyed his target; he saw the backside of fifteen-year-old Geoffrey Turner, raised his cane high and let fly.

“One Sir, Thank you Sir,” his Lordship intoned.

He took his six-of-the-best like the man he was. The headmaster put all his effort into cracking his whippy rattan into the proffered buttocks.

“Phew!!!!” Barnaby thought, but could not say. This was the best thrashing he had ever had in his entire life; at school or after.

“Get up boy. Both of you stand in front of my desk.” The two punished schoolboys shuffled on the carpet, hands behind their backs, sneakily patting their raw buttocks with their thumbs.

The headmaster scolded them some more and dismissed them.

They sauntered from the study, as if they had no cares in the world. Once the door closed behind them, each boy jumped up and down on the spot, rubbing furiously at his buttocks.

“Crikey! What a whacking!” Bennett said.

“Quick let’s find the bogs. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” his friend responded.

And, that’s how it started. Every year they return to his study for six-of-the-best and each time the headmaster chooses from among the present crop, the boys he would dearly love to thrash with his cane.

Picture credit: Jonathon

This story was first uploaded in September 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The First Day of Term

z used adult schoolboy shorts cane desk (35)

Andrew picked up his short trousers from the shelf in the changing room. They were properly short shorts, the kind that just about covered his underpants with at best only two inches of leg.

They were grey flannel and immaculately laundered and pressed so that he could have cut his finger on the crease down the front if he had a mind to. School was starting again and here in front of him was the school uniform he loved to wear.

Matron was very fussy and had laid out his togs with orderly care. Everything was prepared to perfection. He was late for class and he knew he would draw the fury of Dr Bulstrode, the form master, when he eventually put in his appearance in the schoolroom, but he did not care, he wanted to savour every moment of his transformation to prep school boy at Lyncroft Court.

Carefully he scanned the room to make sure nobody could see him. Then, confident his nudity would remain undetected, he quickly stripped off down to his birthday suit.

Then, he picked up the gleaming white Aertex white briefs with interlocking fronts and wide elasticated waist band. He stepped into them, noticing at once how the thickness of the material clung to his buttocks. He wriggled a little to ease them on comfortably. It was still early in the morning and the temperature was cold, it might warm a little later, but this was the end of winter and he did not expect it to get much warmer all day.

Next, he pulled the Invicta singlet over his head; the snugness of the cotton against his flesh defined his body. In the correct fashion, he tucked the singlet into the waistband of his underpants. He wished there was a mirror close by so he could admire himself. He loved to be in traditional vest and pants but it was only at Lyncroft Court that he had the opportunity; even his mother would consider them to be a bit old fashioned.

Andrew reached over to the shelf once more and extracted a grey school shirt from a paper wrapper. Matron was so very good to the boys. The shirt was ironed to perfection and as he pulled it on he caught the faint whiff of the starch that had stiffened the collar. The creases down the sleeves might have been even sharper than those in his short trousers.

He buttoned the shirt and found his school tie. It was of light blue and dark blue diagonal stripes, the Lyncroft Court colours. Without a mirror, Andrew had to make several attempts to knot the tie to the expected satisfaction of Dr Bulstrode. He could swear his fingers were turning blue with the cold as they struggled to make the required ‘windsor knot.’ Then, the tongue of the tie had to hang down to rest comfortably on his tummy.

The doctor was a stickler for the uniform and constantly berated the boys. He insisted they be proud of the school and that meant their uniform had to be perfect. He punished all uniform infringements and sometimes the punishment was severe.

The tie eventually tied, he hoped to the doctor’s satisfaction, Andrew fingered the short trousers. A shiver ran through his body, but it was not the cold weather. He unfastened the button at the waist, and the three on the fly, opened the top of the trousers and stepped in. Within seconds he had pulled them up and was tucking in the shirt and vest. The short trousers were especially tailored and fitted him snuggly. Even though it was unnecessary, he took down the elasticated snake-belt that Matron had left on a hook and threaded it through the belt loops.

He so wanted there to be a mirror. He turned to the window hoping to see his reflection, but the light was not good enough. Disappointed, he sat on a rickety wooden chair to pull up his woollen stockings. They were so very long they reached up his thighs and there was hardly an inch of flesh left uncovered between sock and trousers. This would be ideal protection from the cold on a winter’s day such as this, but that was not how the boys wore their uniform. Andrew folded over the dark and light blue tops of the stockings until they rested just below the knees. He flinched slightly as he accidentally touched a cut he had made earlier shaving.

Soon he was in his shiny black lace-up Clarke’s shoes. Now, he was almost ready: only two more items to put on and he would be fully dressed. The school blazer was draped over a heavy wooden coat-hanger. Andrew caressed the lapel between his finger and thumb. The quality of the cloth was superb; Lyncroft Court had done a magnificent job once again. Lovingly, he picked up the garment and smelled its freshness. ‘Beautiful,’ he didn’t say the word aloud since there was nobody there to hear, but ‘beautiful’ it was. The light-and-dark blue-striped blazer had been made especially for him and fitted, if one is allowed to use an awkward simile, ‘like a glove.’ He stood to attention, once again trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the window and once again to his intense disappointment, he failed.

Finally, he took hold of the blue quartered woollen cap and carefully placed it squarely on his head. It completely covered his recently cut short-back-and-sides haircut, as it was intended to.

Andrew was ready to go to the schoolroom. Only, now in his delightful school uniform, did he remember that he was at least ten minutes late for class and he should expect anger (and possibly much more besides) from Dr Bulstrode.

The schoolroom was situated one floor below where Andrew now stood, so it was a matter of seconds before he found himself outside, wondering how he should proceed. Through the door’s window pane, he could see Dr Bulstrode in full flight, lecturing the five pupils in the schoolroom. Should he wait for the doctor to finish; or should he enter now; or should he knock on the door first and see what transpired?

The idea of the knock won. Rat-a-tat-tat! Andrew always had a heavy knock. Nobody could ever say they had not answered his call because they had not heard it.

Dr Bulstrode certainly heard the knock. He stopped in mid-sentence and positively growled. ‘Come in! Who is it?’ He knew of course who it was. Andrew’s absence had been noticed immediately form-room registration had been taken. When interrogated, none of the other boys professed to know Andrew’s whereabouts (Dr Bulstrode doubted the truthfulness of this, but what could he prove?).  Lowther would turn up eventually, the doctor supposed, and when he did he would give him what for.

Six pairs of eyes turned on the door as slowly it eased open and Andrew’s school cap appeared, followed shortly by his head and then the rest of his body.

‘Don’t dawdle boy,’ Dr Bulstrode thundered, ‘Come in at once!’

Sheepishly, Andrew walked a few steps into the schoolroom and then paused, not sure what to do next. The five boys had a jolly good idea what would happen next and perked up at the prospect of the entertainment to come.

Dr Bulstrode was a tall man in his fifties. He had once been a sportsman; it was rumoured he had played rugby for England Juniors, a long time ago in his youth. Now, he was losing his shape, and a small paunch at his belly was developing into a gut. He was dressed in the traditional schoolmaster’s gown and even inside the schoolroom he donned a mortar-board cap, under which untidy grey hairs emerged. His eyes were very searching and he had a jaw like a steel trap. His nose upon which he perched prinz nez spectacles was shaped like an eagle’s beak.

“The first thing you can do is to close the door behind you!” Dr Bulstrode said everything at the highest possible volume. He had practised for many years a character that could bring even the most rebellious schoolroom full of boys to heel. When the doctor spoke he was listened to.

Now, crimson from ear to ear, Andrew turned on his heels, and closed the door.

“Stand there Lowther!” Dr Bulstrode pointed to a spot in front of his desk. Andrew stood and surveyed the schoolroom. It had not changed since last term, and he had not expected it to. There were the same low wooden desks with sloping tops, some were paired and others stood singularly on their own. Each desk had an inkwell and a groove where the boy kept his nibbed pen. The schoolroom was decorated with a map of the world (most of the countries coloured pink), a large clock and several pictures of groups of schoolboys, all formally staring straight ahead.

To Andrew’s left was the schoolmaster’s desk, a cupboard for books and a blackboard and easel. And hanging from the easel on clear display was a crook-handled swishy cane.

Andrew had seen that cane many times before, but his heart still beat a little faster now. There was a very real prospect that it would be connecting with his stretched backside at any moment.

“Late again Lowther! I thought we had dealt with your time-keeping problem last term! Face the wall! Place your hands on your head! I shall deal with you later!”

With the sniggers of the others boys clearly audible, Andrew moved and stood facing the map with his nose almost touching Canada.

Behind him Dr Bulstrode was in full stride. In fact, Dr Bulstrode was no more a ‘doctor’ than Andrew’s Aunt Fanny; it just added to the supposed authenticity of Lyncroft Court to give him such a title. Nobody questioned his academic credentials and why would they? It was universally acknowledged by those who paid the school fees that he gave ‘satisfaction.’

Dr Bulstrode lectured his charges about the rules of the school. Andrew had noticed that everyone in the group except one were new boys. The one boy he knew from last term was called Harry Wharton (at least at the school) and he had developed a reputation as a ‘prankster.’ He had received lots of corporal punishment for his troubles, but it did not seem to do him much good. He should be good fun, Andrew hoped.

Dr Bulstrode was extremely agitated about his rules and the consequences for any boy who deliberately broke them. He reached a climax when he spoke of “contraband.”

“No boy is to bring contraband onto the school premises,” he shrieked. “And any boy found with contraband will suffer the severest punishment! Do I make myself clear?”

He was met with silence. In part because the boys were stunned by the ferocity of his oration, but also because they were unsure what he meant by “contraband.”

Andrew, who had heard it all last term, and had suffered the direst consequences for breaking rules, knew the doctor mostly meant cigarettes and sweets. The punishment would be severe: the only matter in question would be whether the boy’s short trousers would be snugly fitted across the buttocks as he bent over or down at his ankles.

The doctor’s lecture now completed, he turned his attention to Andrew. “Turn around Lowther, face me!”

Andrew turned on his heels, still with his hands firmly on the top of his blue-quartered school cap.

“Late again, I think you know by now that I will not stand for this kind of behaviour!” Dr Bulstrode strode to the blackboard as he was speaking and reached up for the whippy rattan cane. Behind him, five boys sat up to attention.

“Bend over that desk, Lowther!” The doctor pointed to one of the single-seat wooden desks. It had been left unoccupied at the front of the schoolroom, especially to be used for such contingencies.

“But it wasn’t my fault, Sir,” Andrew started, with no expectation of winning this argument.

“Bend over that desk!” Dr Bulstrode’s impatience was clear for all to see.

“But, it wasn’t my fault the train was late.” And, then just in time he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

The doctor swished the cane fiercely. If Andrew did not obey his order immediately the consequences could be insufferable.

Swish! “Bend over!” Swish! Swish!

“But it wasn’t my fault, Sir,” Andrew continued to protest, even as he stepped forward and lent over the desk. The desk sloped forward and was the correct height and shape to take a boy’s body so that his bottom was raised at a perfect position to receive a whopping. Andrew clutched tightly onto two wooden legs and felt his Aertex briefs ride up his buttocks. He remembered how thick the material was, but he knew from painful experience the pants would be no protection from the caning he was about to get.

All the boys had a perfect view of Andrew’s bottom and legs as he stretched across the wooden desk awaiting the onslaught on his bum. No doubt, the positioning was deliberate. Dr Bulstrode liked his boys to witness corporal punishment sessions. It was a notice of what would certainly happen to them if they decided to step out of line.

He might have intended it as a deterrent, but boys can be evil creatures and at this moment they were more excited about seeing their fellow pupil thrashed than for the future safety of their own backsides.

The doctor took hold of Andrew’s blazer and moved it away from the target area. Then, he ceremonially pulled first the boy’s shirt and then his vest out from the waistband of his grey short trousers. Finally, he tugged the top of the trousers so that they fitted snuggly against the boy’s buttocks. When he could clearly see the outline of Andrew’s underwear under the material of the shorts, he was ready to go.

He swished six cuts into the boy’s buttocks, one whop after the other with no pause. As school canings went it was not a severe thrashing. It was delivered with enough force to make Andrew gasp a little after each stroke and to leave a tingle in his buttocks, but when Andrew was allowed to stand up his face was redder from the embarrassment of the public chastisement than his buttock cheeks must have been from the caning itself.

“Take your seat, Lowther and next time get an earlier train,” Bulstrode barked, unable to disguise a slight smile.

The distraction of Andrew’s caning over, the boys quickly settled down for the first lesson of the day: Sums.

“Boys!” Bulstrode intoned, “I trust you have all done your prep and you are ready for the test I am about to deliver.”

Some of the boys actually groaned aloud at these words, while others silently grumbled. None of the six boys looked forward to this. They had been instructed to prep for this test and, because the good doctor considered that eight-year-old boys at a Council school should pass it with flying colours, his own pupils were expected to obtain maximum marks.

“Any boy who fails to get at least seven out of ten in this test, will feel my leather taws across the palms of his hands!”

The news did not come as a surprise; they had been warned beforehand. Dr Bulstrode was quite right about the simplicity of the task he had set the boys: any boy who failed only had himself to blame.

The test papers duly distributed, Bulstrode gave instructions to. “turn the page over and begin.”

Andrew did so and picked up his pencil and began. The boy was a whiz at long division and multiplication, and he knew it. His pencil flew across the paper as he filled in the answers. He stopped for a second when confronted by “vulgar fractions.” Ah, vulgar fractions, how rude. He chortled to himself at the little joke.

“Is something amusing you, Lowther!” Bulstrode’s beaky eye had caught him. Andrew flushed a little and stared down at this test paper.

Within minutes Andrew had completed the test. In triumph, for he was certain none of the others in the class would have finished so soon, he plonked his pencil down on the desk and sat back in his uncomfortable wooden chair.

He glanced around the room. The intensity of concentration on the faces of the boys amused him: surely they weren’t struggling with this silly test. One boy chewed on his pencil thoughtfully, but the taste of the wood and graphite did nothing for his memory; he still did not know how to multiply fractions.

The test was over; papers collected and in no time at all Bulstrode had marked them. “Lowther, come here, distribute the papers!” Andrew rose from his desk and took the sheaf from the schoolmaster’s hand. As he handed them back to each boy, he sneaked a look at the marks: nobody had scored more than himself.

But, oh dear! one boy was for it. Five out of ten. Only five out of ten, Andrew thought scornfully, he deserves all he gets.

“Wharton, stand up! Come out to the front!” The boy was expecting this. He made no protest as he climbed out of his desk, barking his shin as he did so.

“Stand there boy. Face the class!” Bulstrode ordered as he opened his desk drawer and took out a two-tailed leather taws.

Most of the boys had never seen such an instrument before. It was made of heavy tanned leather with each tail about nine inches long and less than an inch wide. Bulstrode held it by a short wooden handle and tapped the business end against his thigh as he berated Wharton.

“You are a lazy boy, Wharton, what are you!”

The boy agreed that he was indeed a lazy boy.

“And you are very, very stupid! What are you boy!” One boy Andrew could not see towards the back of the schoolroom, suppressed a giggle. Yes, Andrew agreed silently, old Bulstrode was laying it on a bit thick.

Again, Wharton was forced to say he agreed with his master’s assessment, but he did not really agree. He was not stupid, just lazy. He had not prepared for the test and had failed it. It was his own fault that he found himself in this predicament.

Bulstrode instructed Wharton to hold out his right hand. Reluctantly, the boy did as he was told, unsure that he would be able to keep his hand in place for the beating he deserved. He had never received corporal punishment on the hand before. He had been spanked, slippered and caned many times before; but all his punishments had been delivered to his bottom. Getting it on the bum was easy; all a boy had to do was bend over in the required position (over the knee, chair, desk or what not) and let his tormentor get on with it. If the pain was too great the boy could cling on tightly until it was all over.

Getting it on the hand was altogether a different experience. A boy had to face the schoolmaster eye-to-eye and he was obliged to look on as the punisher brought down the strap or cane into his outstretched palm. The temptation to withdraw the hand at the last moment to avoid the agony of the lash would be difficult for Wharton to resist.

“Put your left hand underneath your right hand!”

Wharton’s hands trembled as he raised them into position.

Bulstrode lifted the strap straight up and behind his shoulder. Wharton screwed his eyes tightly shut, not wanting to see it.

“You shall receive two licks, one on each hand!” And with sentence pronounced, the schoolmaster smacked the taws so that it landed squarely on Wharton’s palm and fingers. He let out a yelp and bounced around a bit but stayed in position. Then, Bulstrode made him switch hands and followed with another equally hard whack.

Wharton’s hand was crimson and burning. Bulstrode never did a thing by halves. If punishment was earned it was given, as Wharton and the other pupils found that out many, many times.

By the time Bulstrode had finished, Wharton was rubbing his hands up and down against his outer thighs but it was of little comfort.

The schoolmaster returned the leather taws to the desk and moved to a cupboard from which he removed a cardboard hat in the shape of a cone. Across the front in tidy black letters was the word ‘DUNCE.’

A wave of giggles travelled around the schoolroom: the boys had never seen anything quite like this before.

Dr Bulstrode, evidently pleased with the response, handed the Dunce’s cap to Wharton.

“Take this and stand in the corner and stay there until play time! If you are going to behave like a dunce in my class, you might as well be treated like one.”

Miserably, the boy stood in the corner, still evidently in much pain from his leathering.

The cold sleet lashed against the schoolroom window; another winter’s day had set in. Even hardy schoolboys could not be expected to play out in such conditions, so Bulstrode declared a ‘wet play time.’

This meant the boys could go to the junior common room for play time. Andrew was delighted; it meant he could read comics. But, first he had to endure the free school milk. This was a ritual in schools across the nation. Every morning junior-school children were forced to drink a small bottle of milk. Joe Lane was that day’s milk monitor and he took his duties very seriously indeed. He had been allowed to carry the tiny knife that was needed to slice a hole in the metal top of the bottle so a drinking straw could be poked through. Lane was so proud of the responsibility he had been given.

With no grace at all, Andrew accepted the proffered bottle of milk and dramatically holding his nose to show his distain, he sucked up the whole third of a pint of milk in two almighty gulps. Yuck! He cried loudly and went off in search of his favourite comic.

….

Playtime was soon over but Bulstrode was nowhere to be seen and the schoolroom was getting restless. Any schoolmaster knows that you cannot leave a group of boys with the presumed age of eight alone; they cannot resist getting into mischief. So it was that morning. No one boy started it; there were no ring-leaders, but within minutes chaos ensued. Alfie Cook tore a sheet of paper from his exercise book, scrunched it up into a tight ball and using his wooden ruler flicked it across the desk. It landed squarely in the eye of Dick Durrance, who did not take the disturbance kindly. With the precision usually associated with a surgeon, he tore a corner from his blotting paper and dipped it in his inkwell. It flew across the room, but mercifully, for the matron, who would have had to spend hours trying to remove ink from the boy’s blazer, it missed Cook, its intended target.

Paper darts whistled across the form room. Joe Lane produced a catapult (how had he smuggled that into the schoolroom?) and was searching the desks for suitable projectiles to launch around the room.   Not a single boy was where he should be; sitting quietly at his desk waiting for class to begin.

The door burst open and the from-master surged in. “What!!” That was all that is was necessary for Bulstrode to bark before the boys to come to order.

The master did not have to ask; it was perfectly obvious to him and anybody else within a hundred yards of the schoolroom what had been happening.

The boys sheepishly stood still and Lane hurriedly stuffed the catapult into the pocket of his trousers, hoping he had been quick enough to escape Bulstrode’s eagle eye.

The schoolmaster hesitated for a moment; weighing up the situation. He spied the swishy rattan cane hanging from the blackboard easel. Who could doubt that each of the boys deserved a sound caning? But, the schoolmaster had a better idea.

“Stand alongside that wall, all of you.” The boys were still frisky and pushed and shoved one another until they were in some semblance of a line.

“Stand up straight! Keep still! Be quiet!” One command followed another, until eventually Bulstrode had the boys calmed to his satisfaction.

He honoured each one of them with his most steely scowl. No schoolboy could hope to return such a glare and they stared down at their own shoes.

Corporal punishment was imminent, but none of the boys could have guessed what was to happen next.

Imperiously, Bulstrode marched towards his desk, but instead of taking the cane from the blackboard easel, he reached over and picked up a wooden chair. Even though it was small and had no arms it was remarkably heavy. Six pairs of eyes watched in wonder as the schoolmaster manoeuvred the chair from behind the desk and laid it down with a heavy crash in the very centre of the schoolroom.

Then turning to the boys, he confirmed to them the actions he was about to take.

“If you insist on behaving like kindergarten children that is precisely how I will treat you!”

With that, he sat down in the chair, straightened his back and set his legs apart by about three feet.

He clicked his fingers angrily.  “You first, Durrance! Step forward!”

Dick Durrance knew they were all going to get it, but why did he have to be the first? Maybe if he was second, he would know what it was that was in store for him.

Even, if he did not know the details, the basic premise was clear for all. The doctor intended to take each of the boys across his knees for a traditional spanking.

Bulstrode had not taken himself a weapon. Boys knew from past history that the schoolmaster delivered corporal punishment enthusiastically and he had a number of instruments of persuasion (as he liked to call them) to choose from. That day the boys had already witnessed the cane and the taws in use, but had he a mind to, Bulstrode could call upon a large rubber-soled plimsoll, a selection of light- and heavyweight spanking paddles and a heavy ebony-backed hairbrush that had once belonged to his mother and he could recall (not altogether fondly) being used across his own bared bottom when he was the age of the boys now standing in front of him.

None of these instruments of torture (as the boys called them) were evident.

Durrance had been spanked many times before, corporal punishment played a large part in his life, but that did not mean that he did not have butterflies in his tummy as he stepped forward as instructed.

Bulstrode clicked his fingers again to indicate the boy should stand directly in front of him.

“Hands on head, Durrance.”

The boy was unable to meet the master’s eye, so when he clasped his fingers together and placed them on his head he intently looked over Bulstrode’s shoulder to the window beyond, in a vain attempt to imagine that this might not really be happening.

But it was. Bulstrode undid the snake belt that held up the boy’s short trousers and let them slide into a puddle around his feet. Alfie Cook blushed to his roots as it dawned on him what was about to happen to his pal Dick and what would shortly to happen to him.

Bulstrode placed his thumbs inside the wide waistband of the boy’s Aertex briefs and lowered them first over his buttocks, then down his thighs until the rested at the boy’s knees. Dick still stared out of the window at the falling sleet.  He shuffled a little as a cold breeze brushed against his naked skin and the underpants continued their journey south until they rested on top of his shorts. He blushed profusely. He had been spanked many times in the past, but this was the first time he had travelled across the lap in full public view.

Soon he was across Bulstrode’s knee, affording his witnesses a perfect view of his chubby pink buttocks as they pointed towards the ceiling. Anxious not to let himself down in front of his fellow form-mates, Dick Durrance raised his bottom high, as if to say to his punisher, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, I deserve to be punished and I will take my spanking like a man.”

Dick placed the palms of both hands flat on the dusty wooden floorboards and looked directly ahead: he was ready for anything the good doctor had in store for him.

There were no hidden weapons. Bulstrode smacked his hand into the boy’s buttocks with some force and at rapid speed. In seconds he had covered the whole area from the top near the base of the spine, across the fleshy globes, down to the very sensitive spot where the bum meets the thighs. Then he covered the area again and again. Durrance gasped as the heat of his bare-bottomed spanking intensified. It started as nothing more than a warm glow, but it grew to a scorching pain as Dr Bulstrode spanked on and on. He had never known an over-the-knee hand spanking hurt so much.

His bottom and thighs were the colour of a good Burgundy by the time Bulstrode released him and ordered him back into line.

“Don’t you dare rub that bottom, or I’ll put you back over my knee!” Durrance’s hands had started to drift toward his very sore backside.

“Keep those shorts and pants at your feet, until I tell you that you may take them up!”

Durrance shuffled back in line. He was a little proud that he had withstood the severe spanking in front of his pals without too much fuss, but he was not at all comfortable standing in line naked from the waist down. He slipped his hands in front of his private parts.

Dr Bulstrode noticed the boy’s discomfort and demonstrated his mean streak. “Hands on head, Durrance!”

Miserably, his face blushing even redder than his bottom, the wretched boy obeyed the command.

‘You next Lowther!’ Bulstrode snapped his fingers again and Andrew walked forward to the point of execution.

And so, one after another, the boys went across Bulstrode’s knees for a forceful bare-bottomed spanking. A disinterested observer would have admired the schoolmaster for his strength and determination as his palms hammered into the fleshy globes of his charges. He spanked at such pace and with such force that surely by the time that Harry Wharton, the sixth and final boy, had been dealt with Bulstode’s palms must have been throbbing with more pain than any of his charge’s backsides.

But, even as Wharton rose from Bulstrode’s knees, that was not the end of the punishment session. Joe Lane might have succeeded in hiding his catapult when the form-master had entered the room earlier, but it was detected in the boy’s pocket the moment the good doctor started to unbutton his short trousers.

Lane was spanked like the rest of the class for his unruly behaviour, but he now must endure an additional six-of-the-best for bringing a prohibited item into school.

His form-master pointed with the cane to the chair he had just sat on.
“Bend over that chair, Lane!”

 

The boy’s short trousers and underpants were still at his feet, but silently, doggedly, he bent over. He shut his teeth hard as the swipes came down. Bulstrode handed out six of the very best, and though Lane went through it in silence, he had to keep his teeth clamped to keep back yells of anguish.

Bulstrode put beef into every swipe! Lane’s face was deathly pale when he had finished, but his bottom was scarlet and crossed with six deep crimson lines.

His eyes shone as he pulled up his clothes, dressed and limped back to his desk.

Despite his physical exertions, Bulstrode was calmness personified. Beating boys’ backsides was all in a day’s work.

Once the boys were settled at their desks, all except Lane, who wriggled like an eel, Bulstrode arranged himself in front of the class.

“Boys I was delayed returning to the class after playtime because I had to go to the headmaster’s study!”

Andrew suppressed a chortle at the image of Bulstrode bent over touching his toes while Dr Manners, the headmaster, delivered six stinging swipes into the seat of his trousers.

“I have a message for Herries! Stand up Herries!”

Andrew swivelled at his desk as a boy behind him slowly raised himself from his seat. He was a tall, gangly boy, with an unusually long neck. He reminded Andrew of a giraffe.

“Herries, during the first period this morning a search was made of the changing rooms and in the pocket of your outer coat there was found a packet of five Player’s Weights cigarettes!” Bulstrode intoned this in the way a hanging judge might pass sentence of the noose.

All eyes were on Herries. He was for it, now. Breaking the cardinal rule about ‘contraband.’

“And,” the good doctor had not finished, “two of the cigarettes were missing.” Then he added further, rather unnecessarily, “Presumably they had been smoked.”

“But, S..s..sir,” Tom Herries stuttered.

“Silence, boy! Leave your excuses for the headmaster. You are to attend his study immediately after this class has completed.”

Then, Bulstrode launched into a geography lesson.

Andrew sat puzzled. If the headmaster had discovered cigarettes in Herries’s pockets, why had be not found the packet of cigarettes in his own coat?

Tom Herries spent the next hour in fevered anticipation. Summoned to the headmaster’s study; there could be only one outcome.

….

The door of the headmaster’s study was made of heavy oak. Shaking a little in nervous anticipation, Tom Herries balled a fist and rapped his knuckles against the dense wood.

“Enter!” It was a loud, clear command. Tom took a deep breath, turned the handle and opened the door.

The study was larger than he expected it to be and more antique in style. Facing him was a large oak desk with two chairs in front.  The headmaster Dr Manners was standing stiff-backed behind his desk, dressed in a schoolmaster’s black gown over tweed jacket and striped trousers, with a mortar-board on his head.

Dr Manners stared at the boy. He was more than six feet tall and looked a little absurd in his school uniform. He had long ago grown too tall to be wearing short trousers.

Manners knew his boys very well; their present-day characters and their past histories of conduct. He knew Tom was one of those in-between boys as far as behaviour was concerned; not bad, though far from being a goodie-goodie. He had racked up a few detentions and had been spanked on his bare bottom only that morning, but until that day he had never felt the cane.

Tom stood and watched as the headmaster went to the corner of the room. The wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling shelving from the door right across to the window. The centre section of this opened when he touched something at the edge, to reveal a cupboard, in which Tom could see a selection of canes. Most had curved handles, and were lying on shelves, though the headmaster selected one that was straight. This was about four feet long, maybe a quarter of an inch thick, and had ridges every four inches or so along its length.

Tom watched him as he put it back and took out another cane and flexed the wicked looking rod and swished it down before placing it back and selecting another cane. He flexed that cane three times and swished it down twice.

Waiting for his punishment, Tom had a mixture of fear and excitement as the headmaster selected yet another cane which he could almost bend tip to crook handle. He repeated the procedure with the cane before putting it back and taking out another cane and flexing it, he put that cane back and seemingly took out the cane he had selected before.

Apparently at last satisfied with his selection, Dr Manners turned to the boy and delivered a sermon. “Corporal punishment is painful, but if you want to improve your life, I’m afraid it is a necessity. Believe me young man, nothing will help you learn to obey the rules than the burning memory of the last good caning you got and the realization that another one is coming if you don’t shape up.”

Tom stood hands behind his back and feet about a foot apart as the headmaster swivelled an armchair round so that its back faced into the room. Tom could not help but look at the cane on his desk.

“Your punishment will be six of the best strokes of the cane,” he informed Tom.  “Take your blazer off and put it on my desk and then bend over the chair in front of you and place your hands on the seat.” Tom’s stomach churned as he barely managed to stutter, “Yes, Sir,” before removing his blazer and resting It on the leather top of the headmaster’s desk. Then, with a deep breath he launched himself across the back of the chair and manoeuvred into place. He was very tall and thin and his stomach easy cleared the chair’s back.

In his bent-over position Tom’s pants had sank between each buttock, clinging to the soft curves. The boy was entering for him unchartered territory: his first-ever caning. The muscles in his thighs and calves tightened in anticipation of the imminent cascade of pain. He screwed his eyes shut, held tightly on to the seat cushion and braced himself.

He could hear the headmaster breathing, then the rustle of his gown as he took up position behind him.

The first stroke was a beauty. The cane slid over the crown of the tightened buttocks, moved away, and with a rush of demonic enthusiasm, struck on the precise spot it had selected. Tom’s teeth ground together in a determined effort to control any audible or physical reaction.

The headmaster lifted the cane high into the air a second time before bringing it down again with a will. The boy heard the swish then felt the line of fire, the pain was ten times worse than he expected it to be. Tom jumped and only just managed to hold his position, as the third stroke landed just below the first right in the lower part of his buttocks.

The cane tapped across his bottom again, and then cut in slightly lower. Whack! Although his buttocks jerked, this time the pain was stingy but not agonisingly so.

Dr Manners raised the cane high, had second thoughts and raised it higher and then had third thoughts and raised it higher again. Tom’s bottom tautened. The cane stayed up. Tom’s bottom relaxed. The cane came down.

After a few seconds wait, the headmaster raised the cane for the final time and placed the last searing stroke across the centre of Tom’s bottom. The effect was as expected, with Tom’s head lurching backwards when the cane impacted and the pain exploded across his bottom like a red hot poker had been placed on it.  Tom, gasping for breath, fought to remain bent over the chair.

It was over. Tom had taken his first caning and it had been quite a “six-of-the-best.”

“Stand up Herries,” Dr Manners ordered imperiously. Clearly in some pain, the boy hauled himself to an upright position. Instinctively his hands shot to rub at his tenderized buttocks. Tom’s face was scarlet and his eyes moist.

“I can see that you didn’t enjoy that,” the headmaster remarked matter-of-factly, for he had no sympathy for the boy.

Tom could only sniff his response.

“Well that’s good. I think I woke you up and I believe you will be obeying instructions in future. Am I right?”

“Yes, Sir!” it was a muffled reply.

“Well, just keep in mind that this cane is here waiting for you if you don’t. And next time it will be six strokes with your trousers down.”

And with that Dr Manners dismissed Tom from his study and the boy shuffled off in great discomfort to join the other fellows for school dinners.

….

It was five-thirty; school had ended more than an hour ago and six “boys” and their “schoolmaster” relaxed in the bar of the George Hotel. Most were on their second gin-and-tonics.

Tom Herries wriggled a little in his hard leather chair. Harry Wharton was surprised that the palm of his hand tingled as he held onto his glass. And, Andrew Lowther wondered what chance he had of getting Dick Durrance into one of hotel’s bedrooms and taking him up his chubby arse.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com