A Robust Response

I am a fair man, a man of the world. I understand the temptations of the young. I know it is a rocky road to adulthood. I have myself suffered temptations. When I was a teenager I knew desire. I knew what it was to long for the clear skin of other boys, lust over taut muscles, envy their shiny hair, their blazing eyes, ruby-red lips. Long legs, tight buttocks. Sins of the flesh.

As the young say today, “I have been there.” But I was saved. I was eighteen years old when my lusts came to light. I won’t share with you the details. They are too humiliating for me to recall, even now so many years later. But, I was saved by the priests at my school. It took some doing. A modern-day scourging of the flesh. It worked. Homosexuality is only a passing phase, all young men go through it. Yes, it is a sin, but it can be cured. I know. I was cured. And, in a few moments it will be my pleasure – no my duty – to cure a young man at this school similarly afflicted.

In my own case it took three priests, each acting separately, to make the breakthrough. I shall be eternally grateful to them for their diligence; their thoroughness. Without their intervention I should have descended into a cesspool of my own making. Adrift. Never to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Corporal correction; corporal punishment if you will. Punishment of the flesh.  “Blessed are the pure at heart,” the priests at school would say, “Boys, if you are not pure at heart, I’ll flog you!”

In a few moments, Teddy will arrive here at my study. Teddy is a bright young man, I have had my eye on him for some years. He has all the attributes needed to enter the priesthood. But, he has lost his way. Like a lamb in the hillside. But, he is not a lost cause. He can be set back on the right path. I shall save him. He knows why he has been summoned to my study. He has already confessed his sin. He knows he must be saved. He wants to be saved. He can be saved. He will be saved.

I will talk to him so that he understands that the feelings he has are perfectly natural for a young man of eighteen. But, he is a teenager, really still an adolescent. He is going though a phase in his life. He is at a crossroads. He must decide which way to turn. Once I know he understands this we shall pray. God will give his blessing. God loves us. He will protect us. He will save us.

When that is done I shall instruct Teddy to stand behind my desk. It is a very large, heavy walnut beast. I sometimes joke that it could double up as a hockey pitch. While he does that I shall go to my special locked cupboard. Inside I have many instruments of punishment; leather straps, riding crops, whippy rattan rods, and (my favourites) heavy wooden paddles. Teddy is a tall, slim boy. He is a member of the school athletic team and he runs constantly. His body is strong and his legs are long. His buttocks are tight and from memory I calculate that one of my larger paddles would conveniently fit across both cheeks.

I will instruct Teddy to lower his trousers. He might be reluctant to be seen by an older man in his underwear but he will do as I command without question. I am the authority of God. It is His will that this scourging takes place. Once the trousers are down, in all probability the tail of his dress shirt will be so long as to cover his bottom. If this indeed proves to be the case, he must raise his shirt high so that his stomach and back are bared. The next manoeuvre might be tricky. Once I am satisfied that the shirt offers him no protection, he must “assume the position”. This can be a moment of confusion for what constitutes “the position” may vary from person to person. To some it means “bend down, grab your ankles”. Otherwise, it might mean “hands on knees”. Still again, “bend over the back of the chair”. When I say, “Assume the position” I mean stand by the edge of the desk, lean forward, place the forearms squarely on the desk top, head up, look ahead, spread the feet wide.

It can be difficult to convey all this information to the boy about to be paddled. The brighter ones get it almost immediately; not so the dumb. I have on occasion been forced to assume the position myself in order to demonstrate the correct way to present oneself for punishment. I take care in such circumstances to give the young man extra swats by way of compensation for the embarrassment he has caused me.

Once Teddy is in position, the whipping begins. As I have already indicated my paddle of choice is large and I know the blade will cover both buttocks. In preparation I have to take hold of the waistband of his underpants and pull them so tight so that the cotton caresses the bottom like a second skin. I should be able to see the outline of each cheek perfectly, and the ravine that separates them. Once that task is completed it is only a matter of resting the paddle across the target area, tapping it against the tight flesh once or twice for effect, raising the wood high and bringing it back with a resounding crash.

Let me explain what I mean by “for effect”. Such a beating as this is of course about inflicting pain. A great deal of pain (agony even) in many cases. Of course it is, otherwise what is the point of it all? But along with the actual pain comes anticipation. I remember from my own times “in position” for the priests that the preparation, the waiting, the anticipation of the pain to come, the humiliation, was almost as much punishment as the paddling itself.

So, I shall take my time with Teddy. Pat, pat here. Tap, tap there. Swat! Once the first blow has been struck I shall count to twenty (in my head, not aloud). This will add somewhat to the effect. It will give a moment for the pain of the blow to register. I well remember how one hears the whack of wood connecting with one’s own flesh maybe a second before the pain registers. That is when the body shudders or shakes as red-hot aching radiates from the rear end and travels up and down the legs. As more and more swats are delivered that agony journeys through the whole body becoming tortuous. The peak of pain of each swat lasts maybe ten seconds. When I beat a boy I make sure there is a further ten seconds for the sinner to anticipate the next blow before I deliver it.

I have a routine when spanking; a rhythm if you will. I start in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and in most cases fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe goes lower; the third higher. In this way it is possible to have the entire area ablaze after only three swats: from the top near the spine, over the mounds of flesh and into the underside where the thighs meet. With the whole rear end blazing each successive stroke will land on already damaged flesh, reigniting the hurt and adding to its intensity considerably.

I shall award Teddy twelve strokes. I shall leave it to your own imagination to visualise the state of his flesh by the time I have finished. Remember also that the thin cotton underpants offer no useful protection against the paddle. If that is the case, you might think to ask, why don’t I beat my young man on the bare posterior? It is a good question and I think you would agree making Teddy remove his underwear would increase the humiliation of the occasion somewhat. Given my own head I would not hesitate to beat him “on the bare”, but if you read the lying Liberal newspapers you would know that the Church is under much scrutiny these days. I am certain all right-thinking people agree with our way of combating homosexuality among the young; but a manufactured scandal about our method would only be a distraction.

Teddy is a strong young man, I fully expect him to take his punishment stoically. He will assume the position and stay in it until I command that he may stand. I have no doubt his body will react against the agony I shall inflict and his legs will buckle, his back buck, his shoulders shake and his head will neigh like a horse. But, he will stay in place. He will offer his backside to me. He will obey.

There may be tears. This is often involuntary. Think when you hit yourself on the thumb with a hammer do your eyes not water? I keep paper tissues in a box in my drawer. I find such are useful for a number of emergencies that can take place in my study.

Teddy will dress, we shall pray once more. I shall remind him that I (and God) love him and send him on his way.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Thieving cousins

The military kid

The paying guest


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second


How Many Strokes Will it Be?

z used cane holding (15)

Newbury wondered how many strokes it would be. He stood to attention, heart beating far too quickly, watching through rapidly blinking eyelids as the headmaster made his preparations. Dr Fortescue had been at the school less than two weeks. Already the boys had Christened him The Tyrant Headmaster.

Newbury sucked in a lung full of air. The room was stifling; not hot, but airless. Did the headmaster ever open the windows of his study? Dr Fortescue ruled the school with a rod of iron. No, that was not quite true, he ruled with rods of bamboos, Malacca, rattan and ash. Newbury stood in silence. Dr Fortescue busied himself at a cupboard. His collection of canes was extensive, he must select just the right one for the job in hand. He took one, dark yellow in colour, dense but whippy, three feet and more in length, a traditional crook handle. He swished it through the air, then flexed it between his hands. It was as if he had never met the rod’s acquaintance before. He peered at it intently, stone-faced; his white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

Newbury licked his dry lips, waiting patiently. Dr Fortescue was an elderly man dressed in an old-fashioned, untidy academic gown. He was a commanding figure, rumour was he had once played prop forward in rugby. He was a tall, grim man and as strong as an ox. The senior boys of St Septimius could testify to that.

The headmaster had made it his business to raise standards from the moment he arrived. The school was going downhill, it needed drastic action. That was what the governors had told him when they appointed him. “Clean it up man,” were his orders. So, he started at the top, with the sixth-formers. Many of them, like Newbury, might be eighteen years old but they were still school pupils, still children. And they had better not forget that.

Newbury watched intently as the headmaster replaced the cane in the cupboard and selected another. To Newbury it looked exactly like the one he had returned, but the headmaster seemed to discover new properties it. He let it fly through empty air. It made a terrific swoosh! It looked like the one Dr Fortescue had used to thrash Rodriquez on his very first day at the school. Newbury blanched at the memory. Rodriquez prone across the table in front of the entire sixth-form, trousers down, buttock cheeks stretching his tight, white underpants and the headmaster flogging that very same Dragon cane into the firm young bum. Newbury clasped his hands behind his back to stop them shaking. The memory of his pal was all too recent.

The agony of the caning was so great Rodriquez had leapt to his feet. Two sixth-formers were ordered to hold him down, then the headmaster slowly bared Rodriquez’ bottom and whipped him with all his force. He had to be half-carried from the room at the end.

Newbury coughed dryly. Dr Fortescue had selected his weapon of choice, now he was making his preparations. The teenager took close note of how the headmaster’s arm muscles tensed as he picked up a heavy straight-backed chair and set it down in the centre of the room. His shoulder muscles tensed when he gripped a second chair and manoeuvred it so it stood back-to-back with the first. Satisfied they were in the required position, he ambled across to the bookcase and selected the first volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica. It was a heavy book and several inches thick. He knew it would do the job in hand. He had no intention of reading it, he turned, walked across the study and set it down on the hard wooden seat of the first chair. Then he rested the cane on the top of his desk.

“Thieving Newbury,” Dr Fortescue snarled. “Such disgraceful behaviour.”

Newbury stared down at his shoes, embarrassed into silence. There was nothing he could say. He had been caught red-handed filching cigarettes from the corner shop. He wore his distinctive blue and white school blazer, there was no escape.

The headmaster frowned, his white whiskered quivered. “Theft is crime. You should go to court. You will have a record,” he leaned forward and Newbury recoiled. “There goes your place at university. Any hope of a decent career. You stupid, stupid boy.”

Tears formed behind Newbury’s eyes. Criminal record, a life ruined. It had never entered his head.

The headmaster paced the room slowly, tutting to himself; like so many schoolmasters he was a ham actor at heart. “But, Newbury,” he took hold of a hem of his gown and swished it across his body, rather like a magician about to complete a trick. “Help is at hand.” He straightened his back, shoved his shoulders forwards and (he liked to think) rather like his hero Winston Churchill, he barked, “Mr Scrimshaw, the shopkeeper, has agreed not to go to the police.”

Newbury’s heart skipped, this time with something approaching joy, not terror. “He will not press charges, if he is to be present at your beating.” The headmaster  strode to the door of an anteroom and with a flourish opened it. “Come in please, Mr Scrimshaw.”

A wizened man, hunchbacked, with a long sharp nose and pointed nose, shuffled into the room. His beaky eyes peered around the room as if he had transferred from a dark cave into a brightly-lit room. He stopped three feet in front of Newbury and very deliberately he examined the boy’s features as if ensuring that he was indeed the culprit who tried to make off with then Woodbines without payment.

“Please sit down Mr Scrimshaw,” the headmaster indicated a small comfortable armchair. Scrimshaw coughed a response and wheezing all the time settled himself down. He shifted his buttocks for comfort and leaned forward menacingly. He was making sure he had a perfect view of the drama about to unfold.

The headmaster picked up his cane and flexed it between his hands. “Whip him well Mr Headmaster, whip him well,” Spittle dribbled over Scrimshaw’s bottom lip. The headmaster’s eyebrows shot heavenwards, “Oh, I intend to Mr Scrimshaw, I intend to.” He turned toward Newbury and swished the cane through empty air, then pointed it at the two straight-backed chairs. “Stand there boy!”

Newbury clutched his hands behind his back, rather like the Duke of Edinburgh on a walk-about. Dr Fortescue stood close to him casting a show over the sixth-former’s body. Newbury caught the masculine aroma of stale whiskey, cigarette smoke and coal tar soap. “Lower your trousers and your underpants.” It was a simple, calm instruction. There was no need to engage in histrionics,  the headmaster was in charge, and he knew it.

Newbury turned his head slightly toward the headmaster, a look of incomprehension on his face. Dr Fortescue sneered, “Get on with it boy. Right down to the ankles, if you please.” Newbury’s head pounded, blood was rushing through his arteries to his temples. He felt unsteady on his feet. He gulped in air, afraid that he might faint to the floor. At last he got his shaking fingers to cooperate with his brain and the front of his trousers opened. He sensed Mr Scrimshaw lean forward in his chair.

Of their own accord the trousers slipped down his thighs and past his knees and settled in a puddle on top of his shoes. His white Y-front underpants were a little small and hugged the contours of his buttocks and cock. The musky aroma of the headmaster wafted into his nostrils. He gulped down saliva, slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his pants and guided them south. He had to bend his knees as he took them on their way, suddenly conscious that his bare bottom, crack and balls were on full display. A strange combination of a wheeze and a sneeze escaped Mr Scrimshaw’s mouth.

Newbury stood naked from the waist down, the long-ish tail of his shirt covering his privates and buttocks. The headmaster tapped his cane on the top of the encyclopaedia. “Lift up your shirt, kneel on the book and bend across the chairs.” Newbury stared at the cane in the headmaster’s right hand. It was about three feet in length, darkish yellow in colour and with the traditional crook handle. It was dense and had notches every three or so inches along its length. It was a terrific weapon, Newbury wondered if he might be permitted to stuff a handkerchief into his mouth.

“Over boy,” the headmaster’s patience was exhausted. He thwacked the cane across the book. Still, unsteady on his feet, Newbury gripped his shirt and hauled it up to his chest while simultaneously climbing onto the chair. The book was to rise his body so that his backside would be high, and as his body stretched across the chair backs, his buttocks would be at the correct height and angle to receive lashings into the underside (and most sensitive) part of the cheeks.

“Head down, bottom high,” Dr Fortescue intoned. Newbury wriggled into the required position and waited, conscious of his submissive position. His naked buttocks were twitching submissively, completely at the mercy of the powerful headmaster. There would be no mercy  that afternoon. Newbury was resigned to his fate.

Dr Fortescue stood a cane’s length from Newbury’s left side and began to saw the cane across the underside of the cheeks. He had beaten many buttocks in his career as an educator, the pair offered up to him now were quite typical. Newbury was well covered. He was in no way ‘fat’ but his bum has a certain amount of ‘give’ as the headmaster pressed his cane into the flesh as he took his aim. He tapped the cane smartly against a dimple that had formed under Newbury’s left cheek. The headmaster counted to five in his head, raised the cane high and with a strength nurtured over many years flogged the whippy rattan with maximum force across the centre of both cheeks. He was greeted by a thick dark pink line across the otherwise unblemished skin.

A hissing sound like a steam engine whistled through Newbury’s clenched teeth. He hands gripped the seat of the hard wooded seat. His back bucked, his head rose and fell. That hurt. That hurt a great deal. He heard the floorboards of the study creak as the headmaster paced. “Thank you Sir, may I have another,” Newbury spoke firmly. The headmaster paused pacing and glared. “What?” he did not say out loud. “I have never come across such a thing before. Such impertinence.” He took aim and the cane whistled as it flew though the air, the crack of rattan on stretched flesh bounced off the walls. Newbury repeated the buckling and the bouncing. This time a sharp yelp rang out. The headmaster paced.

“Thank you Sir. May I have another,” croaked this time. Dr Fortescue’s face, never clear at the best of times turned puce. “What!” again thought but unsaid. “Is he saying my flogging is not hurting? He can take anything I might offer?” The third lash struck across the top of the curves; there were now three livid red welts running almost parallel across Newbury’s buttocks. The headmaster had a terrific aim. He was (as it were) a master master. “Thank you Sir, may I have another.” The headmaster paced the floor, this time noticing Mr Scrimshaw was himself red of face. He was leaning forward elbows resting on knees stretching himself to get as close to Newbury’s prone body as possible without actually leaving his chair.

The headmaster tapped his cane ready for the fourth stroke. Perspiration soaked Newbury’s short hair, it looked as if he had just emerged from the swimming pool. The eighteen-year-old’s face was deathly pale. His knuckles were turning white, the muscles of his arms were taut as he gripped the chair for dear life. All saliva had drained from the headmaster’s mouth. He ran his tongue around it trying to make some moisture, tasting a tang of whisky. He took a deep breath, found his aim and whacked the cane across Newbury’s dimple. There was no yelp this time; the boy had shut his teeth together with such force he feared they might crack. The thumping at his temples had disappeared replaced with a light-headedness he had never experienced.

“Thank you Sir. Please may I have another,” his voice sounded as if had travelled from miles away. It did not sound to Newbury as if the words were his. The headmaster paced. Perplexed. Never in his life had a boy asked for more. By the fourth stroke many a boy – seniors as well as juniors – would be begging for mercy, promising to do anything if only the headmaster would stop the beating.

More pacing followed by more tapping. Swish! Crack! “Thank you Sir. Please may I have another.” The intense agony had started at the buttocks and then travelled up and down his legs; soon his whole body ached with pain. But by cut number five something unexpected happened. Newbury heard the swish, he felt the cane sink into his flesh and then … Nothing. There was no pain. The boy lay breathing heavily. Was his body now so numb that he was immune? “Thank you Sir. Please may I have another.”

The headmaster paced. Number six. Six-of-the-best. The very best. Dr Fortescue always finished on a high note. His special headmaster’s caning had already become infamous at the school. Newbury was not surprised to feel the headmaster alter his position. Now, instead of tapping the cane from left to right across the bared bum, he laid it in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. He let fly. A thick red line intersected the previously-laid five, reigniting and adding to the severe pain already inflicted. Newbury hung on. His mind was playing tricks. It was as if were floating on the ceiling looking down at himself submissively positioned across the chair, buttocks blazing. The headmaster, a little unsteady was at his cupboard replacing the cane along with his collection. Mr Scrimshaw rocked gently back and forth in his chair.

The headmaster sat at his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a hard-covered exercise book. He fished in the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pen. All this time Newbury lay still, trying to figure out this feeling. Was this how it felt to take drugs? The headmaster found a page in the book, wrote some words and closed it. Still seated he called to Newbury, “That’s it. Get up and get dressed.”

Newbury climbed from the chair and un-self-consciously massaged his buttocks. He swivelled his body and saw six impressive welts. Mr Scrimshaw stared at him intently as cautiously Newbury rubbed his index finger across the lines. His bum felt like corrugated cardboard. The headmaster sat back a little in his chair observing his senior pupil.

Newbury turned his back to Dr Fortescue then bent down to retrieve his underpants. It gave the headmaster an uninterrupted view of his savaged buttocks, his crack and hole and his ballsack. Newbury took a moment more than necessary to get his pants back in their rightful place. He turned and faced the headmaster’s desk. His cock was hard and fought against the already stretched cotton. He looked directly at the headmaster who could not return his gaze. Newbury pulled up his trousers and buttoned up.

And that was how Newbury came to worship Dr Fortescue with all his heart and soul.

Picture credit: Unknown


More stories involving The Tyrant Headmaster are here.


Other stories you might like

Caught in their underpants

Milo, the grad student

Two for the taws




More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second



Don’t Knock it Until You’ve Tried

zused drawing paddle hold cane cupboard (1)

Jake stared at the message on the screen of his iPhone. Finn was late but on his way. Jake hated sitting in The Three Fishers on his own. The pub was heaving. It was a bit of a sleaze ball. They had begun drinking there when they were sixteen; they weren’t particular about who they served. A group of old queens at the bar scanned the room searching for fresh meat. Jake felt their stares burning his flesh.

He concentrated on his phone, swiping through the sports news. He didn’t hear the man at first. “Sorry,” he shouted leaning forward to hear what he was saying.

“I said, do you like being spanked?”

Jake frowned, had he heard the old man correctly?

The man edged closer and put his mouth close to Jake’s ear. “Would you let me spank you? Are you in to being spanked?”

Jake’s mouth opened and closed. He had heard all right that time. What sort of question was that? Who was this man? He didn’t seem drunk. High. Crazy.

“I have a house. Lots of toys,” the man smiled.

Jake took a long draw on his drink. Playing for time. Just a little frightened. Bodies pushed past his table. He looked across to the door. Should he leave? Where was Finn?

“I can spank you. Do you like to be spanked?” the man asked again as if it was the most natural question to ask a guy in the pub. (“Do you want a peanut?”)

Jake took another gulp of beer. Dutch courage. “Wor … wor ..” he began, trying to find the right word. How to say “fuck off” without making a scene? He looked the man in the face. It was a bright, open face. Not at all sinister. The guy was no threat. Jake laughed. “Jesus. Does anybody ever say ‘yes’?”

The man’s smile was genuine. “You’d be surprised. But, not for you then?”

Jake shook his head, “No thanks.”

“Oh well, enjoy your evening. But if you ever change your mind …. ” The man disappeared into the crowd.

Five minutes later Finn put two pints on the table in front of his pal. He took a long draught, downing half of the glass.

“You’ll never guess what’s just happened to me?” Jake said and when Finn ignored him, he told the story anyway.

“I guy came up to me and asked if he could take me home and spank me. Incredible!”

Finn took another gulp. Shrugged his shoulders. “About fifty, greasy hair, going a bit bald, bit of a Welsh accent?”

“You know him?”

“Name’s Paddy Price. Least that’s what he calls himself.”

“How do you know him?”

Finn smirked, “How’d ya think?”

It took a moment for the penny to drop. “You’ve been with him?”

Finn snorted, drank some more. “He has a big place on The Avenue. Must be loaded.”

Jake stared at his friend. The room seemed to be spinning. What was happening here? “What he paid you?”

Finn’s nostrils flared, “Fuck off, what do you take me for a rent boy?”

Jake recoiled, Finn was genuinely angry. “No, but,” he paused, uncertain whether he should say this. “But isn’t it gay?”

Finn frowned, Jake could be a right dickhead sometimes. “No.” He nodded at the iphone on the table. “Go online, everybody’s into it.”

Finn was right. Later in bed Jake surfed the net. They were all at it. Guys on girls. Girls on guys. Girls on girls. Guys on guys. An entire industry of adult spanking. In one video there was a guy looked a bit like Finn. He wasn’t, of course, but he was the same height, same basic shape; not fat, but cuddly.

He was supposed to be a junior schoolboy, short trousers, knee socks. The lot. He had been found smoking a cigarette. Then he had to take down his shorts and underpants and bend over the knee of another lad who was the head boy to get a spanking on the bare bottom.

In another one the same Finn-a-like (still a schoolboy in short trousers) is caught smoking. In these videos smoking is the biggest sin a schoolboy can commit. Its shorts and trousers down again. This time he’s over the back of an armchair for a dose of a whippy rattan school cane from the headmaster.

Jake slept so fitfully the duvet was soiled. He dreamt he was back at school and Finn was head boy and Jake was that boy getting his bare arse slapped.


Nearly two weeks later Jake walked purposively through the suburban streets. The Avenue was longer than he had anticipated, if he wasn’t careful he would be late for his appointment. Paddy Price had ben most helpful when after three tries Jake had at last tracked him down at the Three Fishers. Of course, they could meet, let us make an appointment. Is an evening good for you? It was as if they were arranging to meet for tea.

At last Jake found the house. It was a modern structure hidden behind a high wall and electronic gate. Away from prying eyes. He touched the intercom button and a cheerful voice greeted him With a whir the gate moved sideways and Jake squeezed through. Paddy Price was waiting at the door, a bright welcoming smile split his face.

They chatted amiably. Did he find the house all right? All the while Jake’s heart pounded. He had been waiting for this hour. Once Finn had introduced him to the joys of spanking videos Jake could not get enough. He sweated waiting for his chance. Oh to go across the back of a chair, or over the knee for an arse-whopping. His temples ached already at the prospect.

Paddy Price led the way upstairs. “I have a special room,” he grinned opening a large wood-panelled door. “It’s sound-proofed,” he said enigmatically. It was a large room, dominated by a huge beaten-up wooden desk. Along one wall were glass-fronted bookshelves. A black leather Chesterfield couch rested against another. A wardrobe with double doors was along a third. Two padded leather armchairs made up the rest of the furniture. Paddy Price gestured to one of them, “Sit down, please.” He noticed Jake’s wide eyes drink in the contents of the room. “Sometimes I use it as a headmaster’s study,” he explained. “Some people like to do role-play, you known blazers, school caps, shirt trousers, the works.”

Jake nodded without enthusiasm. He had noticed in the videos how the “schoolboys” almost always wore short trousers. It did nothing for him personally. Paddy Price perched his ample buttocks on the edge of the desk. He smiled again. “Have you given any thought to tonight?” he asked. Jake gulped, he had thought of nothing else for days. It seemed for every waking moment (and some also while he was asleep).

Paddy Price pulled himself to his feet and ambled to the cupboard. He opened it with a flourish. Jake’s eyes popped. “Voila! My toys,” Paddy Price stepped to one side, giving his guest the full view. Dangling on hooks was an array of straps, paddles, canes and crops. “Something for everyone,” Paddy Price’s lips parted revealing yellowing teeth. “Oh and I have slippers and brushes too if you’d rather.”

The tip of Jake’s tongue poked out and he wetted his lips before clamping his top teeth over his bottom lip. He swallowed hard.

“Do you have a preference?” Paddy Price grinned, “Or would you prefer me to choose?” Jake sat and stared. Speechless. “Never mind,” Paddy Price resumed his spot on the desk, “We have plenty of time.”

They lapsed into amiable silence. Paddy Price was in no hurry. He adored breaking in “newbies”. H would go at Jake’s pace. “Of course,” he said mildly, “It is so much more fun if the discipline is a real punishment,” he noted Jake’s bafflement so continued, “Have you been naughty? Is there something you have done that is bad?” Paddy Price leaned forward hoping to entice his guest into confession.

Jake pondered. No, he thought, he hadn’t done anything that he could recall. Paddy Price flashed his smile once more, then laughed, “Oh, so we have a saint here, do we, ha, ha, ha.” Jake blushed but remained silent. “Have you taken any drugs? Smoked weed?” Paddy Price asked.

“Yes,” Jake replied unsteadily.

“Well, that’s bad. That’s against the law,” Paddy Price beamed. “You should be spanked for that.”

Jake blinked. Smoking weed, against the law? Of course, but he had honestly forgotten that. Everyone he knew smoked, all the time. The police never did anything about it.

“Right then lad,” Paddy Price’s smile had gone. He rose from the desk and paced across the room. “Stand up. Stand in front of my desk,” he barked as he sat himself down behind it. “Stand up straight. Stop slouching.”

Jake straightened his back and let his arms hang limply by his side.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” Paddy Price’s entire demeanour had changed. “I will not tolerate one of my boys using drugs. They are dangerous. They are against the law.” Jake nodded, uncertain how he should react. His heart was racing and he could feel blood rushing to his temples. Adrenalin was kicking in.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy?” Paddy Price had a script in his head. Jake mumbled, said nothing coherent, then clasping at straws he muttered, “Sorry,” and then after a moment’s further thought, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

“Sorry!” Paddy Price’s voice rose an octave, “Sorry! You soon will be boy.” He rose from his chair and magisterially walked to the still-open cupboard. He paused, turned to Jake and barked, “Hang your jacket on the door.” He nodded to a hook. With damp palms, Jake slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He surprised himself at how much his hands shook.

He turned to face his master in tie to see Paddy Price pick out a cane from the cupboard and swish it through the air a couple of times. Then he held the two ends and flexed it gently testing it for whippiness. It curved easily. It was about a metre in length and as thick as a pencil. It looked just like the ones Jake had seen in the videos. It had notches along its length and the traditional curved handle. All saliva drained from Jake’s mouth.

“Boy when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving you a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live. You will not return for another beating and will learn from this experience,” Paddy Price was enjoying himself. “Now, I want you to stand behind that armchair,” he swished the cane in the required direction so there could be no doubt what he meant. With legs of lead, Jake shuffled the three steps needed to comply with the order.

Paddy Price stood flexing his cane thoughtfully between his hands. “Lower your trousers,” he said sternly. Jake hesitated. His head was light, Paddy Price’s voice sounded as if it was travelling from a vast distance. Paddy Price tapped the end of the cane across the back of the padded armchair, making a series of dull thuds. As if in a trance, Jake fumbled to unbuckle his belt. His hands moved more freely as he slipped the fastener and unzipped his trousers. The weight of the belt and gravity made them slither down his thighs and rest at his knees. “All the way down,” Paddy Price growled. Jake stooped forward and pushed them to his ankles.

He straightened himself in time to hear Paddy Price intone, “Now, your underpants.” There was a thundering noise in Jake’s ears, his temples throbbed, his head ached. He looked down at his gleaming white Y-fronts; he had bought them specially for the occasion; all the boys in the videos wore them. He put his fingers in the waist band and peeled them down, exposing his cock and balls. He left them bunched just below his buttocks. Instinctively, he placed both hands at his from to hide his genitals. “Pah!” Paddy Price wheezed, unimpressed.

He swished the cane through empty air once more, it made a terrific whooshing noise as it flew. “Bend over the chair,” he touched the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis. A feeling he had never felt before overwhelmed Jake; he could not be certain, was this fear? Or was it extreme excitement. He bent forward feeling his bottom tighten into a smooth curve. His bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair.

“Head nice and low please boy.”

Jake’s thigh muscles and bottom tensed as he stretched his arms grasping the armchair’s cushion at the front. Paddy Price watched quietly as the teenager slithered into position. Then he gently took a grip of Jake’s underpants and tugged them so they fell to rest on top of his trousers. He was almost ready. Paddy Price heard Jake’s heavy wheezing and smiled. He lifted the nineteen-year-old’s shirt away from his backside, exposing me, so that his body was naked from the middle of his back to his ankles. Jake shivered; not with cold but fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.”

Jake pushed himself further down into the chair, raising his bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, boy, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” Jake’s reply was muffled as his head was buried in the chair cushion.

Seconds passed. Only now did Jake realise his master had a perfect view of his crack and hole. And Finn had said there was nothing gay about this. Jake’s hole winked, opened and closed, his buttocks quivered, then clenched. Never in his life had he felt so vulnerable. Suddenly there was an enormous noise. The thwack of the cane landing on Jake’s backside echoed round the room. Jake hardly had time to recover from the shock when there was another crack which this time was immediately followed by an intense burning pain. He held his breath as the next stroke landed causing the pain to increase in a sickening wave.

Number four stuck and Jake hissed a whine. Mr Price continued, determined. Three more strokes landed each one lower than the previous, yet all in a band about three centimetres wide on the lower half of Jake’s bum. As the next stroke cracked across his poor sore seat Jake let out a roar, any restraint he may have had was gone. He could no longer see the chair for the tears filling his eyes. Jake closed his eyes and gritted his teeth and hung on to the chair, aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in his bottom.

Raising his arm high Paddy Price brought the cane down with a full swing, landing in the middle of Jake’s bottom. He cried out and tossed my head, humped the back of the chair and swayed for a few moments. The next three strokes seemed to merge together. Jake was concentrating on staying bent over, in so much pain, and trying without success to stop the tears that were by now flowing down his cheeks.

He desperately wanted to but he did not stand up. Instead he remained bent over the caning chair offering his bottom for the next stroke, completely at the mercy of Paddy Price, who could make each stroke as severe as he wished and all Jake could do was accept it and then wait for the next.

Paddy Price was in his element, he was an expert caner, a master master if you will. He swished in yet another stroke across the very centre of Jake’s bum. Although he still stayed over the chair, his feet beat a frenzied dance, his hips twisted and squirmed.

Jake thought his head might explode; blood coursed through his arteries. His bottom felt like he had been sitting on a barbecue. His arse felt corrugated; welts criss-crossed his once creamy-white buttocks. He was certain some might be weeping blood. How many strokes had it been? Jake had not thought to count. What was certain was it was more than a simple six-of-the-best. Finally, Paddy Price walked over to the cupboard to replace the cane. Jake felt a terrific sense of relief that it was over but remained across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

Paddy Price stood watching the teenager gasping for breath, like some beached dolphin. He had taken it well. “It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Jake slowly pushed himself back on his elbows and rose unsteadily. His legs felt weak and he had to lean on the desk before he got his balance. Tentatively at first, he touched then carefully clasped his raw buttocks and began kneading them, as though he could somehow squeeze the pain out. Only then did he see his rigid cock staring at a forty-five degree angle to reach the ceiling. His head was the clearest it had ever been, like an out-of-body experience. No amount of weed would ever give him a buzz like this.

Slowly, painfully, he pulled up his underpants, staining to get the soft white cotton to cover his cock. Still he massaged his injured rump as vigorously as he could.

Paddy Price slipped his arm around Jake’s shoulder for an instant, before propelling him towards the door, and out into the hallway. His eyes were still wet and blurry, but he found his way to the bathroom where he stayed for the few moments it needed for his cock to explode into a wodge of toilet paper.

“Come down, for a drink,” Paddy Price called, “When you’re quite ready of course.”


Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Late home from school

The boy in the front row

The boy band


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


Called to Account

adultschoolboy cane longs touch toes classroom (1)

Mr Moore turned the corner of the road and stopped. Why the hell was his heart racing. He drew in a lung full of air, conscious of other people in the street. One man wearing a black coat and carrying a furled umbrella eyed him suspiciously. “Oh for pity’s sake, man what’s the matter with you?” he silently berated himself.

The “matter” was St. Francis Independent Grammar School – known to all as St. FIGS – his old school. Former alma mater; the place where he was educated. There it stood less than fifty yards ahead of him. Why did it scare the shit out of him? He took another deep breath; he had to get this thing over with.

This thing was a summons to see Mr Trout, his former housemaster. A summons, at his age. Mr Moore wouldn’t see thirty again. He had left school at eighteen and hadn’t been back since. And that suited him just fine. He shuffled forward. Absent-mindedly he put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt the envelope. Inside was a letter. He had read it so many times he knew the words by heart. His eleven-year-old son Ronnie had been skipping classes, not doing homework, he was likely to fail his exams at the end of the year. “You are requested to attend to see me.” It was curiously archaic language. But, Mr Moore thought, how entirely typical of Trout. Never say anything clearly.

Mr Moore had reached the school gates. Although he continued to live in the town, he never made the journey back. Too many unhappy memories. Sweat prickled the back of his neck, although it was not a warm evening. He ran a finger under his collar to try to clear it. Time plays ridiculous tricks sometimes. Suddenly it was 1970, fifteen years ago. He was no longer a middle manager at the Brocklehurst Building Society, with people under him. Now, at this moment he was Moore A.J., aged fifteen, about to undergo a very awkward – and ultimately painful – encounter with his housemaster. Instinctively, he massaged the seat of his trousers with his thumbs as he entered the building. He had been instructed to meet Trout in the schoolroom. The passageway was dark and deserted. The days in February were still short. He shivered in the dankness. They said parts of the school were five hundred years old; it certainly felt like it to Moore. The school was deserted, classroom doors were locked. It added to Moore’s sense of unreality. He had stepped into the Twilight Zone. Nothing here was real.

He saw a light in a room at the end of the passageway. His final destination. He halted outside the door, rubbed his sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers. His hands were shaking. “For God’s sake,” he reproached himself silently, “What has gotten into you, man!” It was a statement of condemnation, rather than a question. He wiped his moist brow with his sleeve and tapped gently on the door.

“Come!” The voice within made him shudder. Unmistakeably Mr Trout. Haughty with a dash of self-importance.  The brass door handle was stiff, it wouldn’t turn at first. It rattled and shook and finally gave way. Moore put his shoulder to the door and it opened suddenly, spilling him into the schoolroom. He blushed; flustered he turned and pushed the door closed. He stood for a moment transfixed. The room was not too large, it contained twenty ancient wooden desks, a blackboard and easel dominated one wall, close to it behind a small wooden desk sat Mr Trout. He was unmistakable. Even sitting, he made an imposing figure. Standing, he towered above the schoolboys. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow (for a man his age). Had he aged since 1970? Moore could not be sure. To the boys at the school all the masters looked ancient. It was impossible to look youthful while wearing an academic gown and mortar board cap. Trout pursed his lips, and stared with distain. “Moore, A. J.” he intoned, his top lip curling into a scowl. He rested his hands on his desk and leaned his shoulders forward: Churchill doing his bulldog impersonation.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore babbled, hopping with embarrassment from left foot to right. He waved his hands around, unsure where to put them. Trout’s glare burned into him. He knew his face was already flushed bright red.

“Pah!” Trout spat. Silence filled the room. Moore couldn’t stop his eyes blinking furiously. Was he expected to say something? At the Building Society, he would be the first to make a decision. He was something of a rising star. Destined to go far. He glanced to left and right. He should sit down, this was a meeting of equals, two grown men coming together to discuss a matter of mutual concern. All the chairs were placed neatly behind small single desks. If Moore sat down he would not only feel like an extremely small child he would look like one as well.

Trout spoke before Moore had a chance to decide. “You know why I have summoned you, Moore,” it was a statement, not a question. Moore stared. Summoned. The word spoke volumes. Trout was in charge. Nothing had changed.

“Err, no Sir,” Moore was confused. What the hell was he supposed to say? Trout’s right arm waved. “Don’t know, don’t know Moore!” he glared. Moore wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Well Moore,” Trout’s voice rose an octave, “I’ll tell you. Your son,” he paused confused. He opened a drawer on the desk, he seemed to be searching for something. “Your son …. Moore.” He had never troubled to learn the boy’s Christian name.

“Ronnie, Sir,” Moore said apologetically.

“Yes, well, err,” it was Trout’s turn to sound confused. He drew his shoulders back and regained the advantage. “Moore Junior has not been doing his homework and he has been missing classes,” he eyed the man standing before him suspiciously. “What have you got to say for that then?”

Moore had been thinking about this. A lot. His son was a brat, he was disrespectful to his mother and even aged eleven treated the home like a hotel. Moore was out of his depth. Ronnie had been a mistake – an unplanned child – he and his wife had been far too young when they had him. Moore sometimes thought the terror was a good advertisement for contraception.

“Well, I don’t really know,” Moore said weakly.

“Pah!” Trout was charging full throttle. “It is your responsibility, Moore,” his voice rose in anger. “You have failed in your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wanted to say, “Hang on, you’re the schoolmaster, you do something,” but his courage failed him. Instead, he whispered, “Can’t you beat him?”

Trout’s nostrils flared, his already ruddy complexion turned puce, a dribble of spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. “Beat him!” he roared. His body shook so violently, Moore took a step backwards in fear.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore gabbled. “You know, cane him. It’s what you would have done to me.” Trout’s eyes swivelled in his head, scaring Moore into adding, “Sir.” Trout rose from the desk and walked forward, approaching Moore with eyes flaring and arms swirling. “Don’t you follow the news Moore?” And then is if to answer his own question, he blurted, “You always were idle, boy. Bone idle.”

Trout stood so close to Moore he could smell the schoolmaster’s sour breath. Trout fumed, “The government outlawed corporal punishment last year, Moore. We can no longer cane.” His chin wobbled, his eyes moistened. Moore thought the aged schoolmaster might blub.

“Oh”. Suddenly, Moore realised why he had been brought into school. In his days a master would not dream of involving parents. Trout shook his shoulders and took a deep breath, he was composing himself. “I blame you Moore,” he stared unflinchingly into Moore’s eyes, “You have neglected your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed once more. He spoke no words, Trout was on a bit of a roll. “It is your responsibility you ensure your son attends school. You must see to it that homework is done. You have been inattentive. It is in short your fault.”

Moore shuffled his feet, embarrassed.

“You have got to pull up your socks, Boy,” Trout grimaced, “I expect an immediate improvement, do I make myself clear?”

Moore stared down at his feet, “Yes, Sir,” he mumbled. Trout fell silent. Moore did not see, but heard the schoolmaster’s footsteps as he shuffled across the room. Moore knew Trout was correct, he had neglected his son. If he were brutally honest with himself, he didn’t really care about Ronnie. Out of sight was out of mind. The boy could do as he liked, as long as he didn’t drag his father into anything.

Moore heard Trout open a door to a cupboard, it sounded like the hinge was rusty. Then a swishing whoosh rent the air. It was unmistakeable. Alarmed, Moore swivelled on his heels and faced Trout; his jaw dropped, his eyes popped. Trout was flexing between his hands a traditional whippy, curve-handled rattan cane.

Trout answered Moore’s unasked question. “They have banned the cane, but we have not disposed of out supply.” He swiped the cane through empty air. “I fervently pray that this ban is an aberration and that our betters quickly come to their senses.” He walked slowly towards Moore. “However, in the meantime …” he glared at the young manager before him. Moore recoiled, once more the fifteen-year-old miscreant summoned to the housemaster’s study for bowing.

Even before sentence was handed down, Moore began a protest, “But …” He was silenced by Trout’s icy stare. Moore’s own eyes watched intently as the schoolmaster moved and stood in front of the blackboard. He looked back at Moore, pointed the tip of the cane at a spot on the bare floorboards and said, “Stand there boy.”

Time truly plays tricks. Moore shambled across the schoolroom. There could be no doubt about Trout’s intentions. A sane man would say it was absurd. A thirty-one-year-old business manager presenting himself to an older man for a caning. But this was not rational. Hundreds of years of conditioning and tradition had led to this moment. Although he had yet to articulate it to himself Moore accepted he had erred. His son’s misbehaviour was down to him. He had been neglectful as a father. Punishment was due. Punishment was accepted.

“I want you to consider your behaviour and ensure that it improves. This,” he swished the cane again, “will give you something to think about. Bend over. Touch your toes.”

Moore’s eyelids blinked rapidly. He couldn’t get them to stop. His heart pounded. He hesitated.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Moore. You know the penalty.” Indeed he did: extra strokes. He shook his head to clear it, loosened the button on his suit jacket and bent forward. Touch your toes, meant just that to Mr Trout. Not, hands on knees or grab your shins. The tips of the fingers should touch the tops of the shoes. Knees straight. It was harder to get in this position that it sounded. Moore was absurdly proud as he presented his bottom perfectly for the administrations of Trout’s cane. In his mind he visualised the times he had been caned while still a pupil at St. FIGS. Once in the sixth-form when a bunch of them had been caught with beer. Eighteen years old, but bent over the back of a smelly old armchair in the study. How it had hurt. He remembered Jackson, a pal of those days he hadn’t seen in a decade, hopping up and down trying to rub the hurt away from his backside. “Well”, he thought, “I’m going to take this caning better than he did.”

Trout was taking his aim. Moore was far from fat but his body had naturally bulked out since his schooldays. The schoolmaster sawed his cane across the centre of the proffered buttocks. This backside was somewhat larger than those he habitually dealt with. He tapped the cane gently, Moore’s shoulders tensed, his buttocks twitched. Whack! The cane whipped down with force, dust motes rose from the trouser seat. Moore gritted his teeth and gasped. That hurt. It had been about thirteen years since he had last been “dealt with”, he was a little out of practice. He heard footsteps on the floorboards as Trout paced the schoolroom. He paused about three yards from Moore’s curved buttocks, raised the cane above shoulder height and then almost ran three paces towards the young man, flogging the cane across the backside. The rod sank into the flesh. Moore’s head rose, his back arched, his fingers flew away from the tip of his shoes. He half stood, instinctively wanting to rub away the agony in his bum. He caught himself just in time, forcing his hands back to his toes. It was a schoolboy ritual being played out. You stayed down. You took your swishing. You didn’t move. If you did: extra strokes.

Trout involuntarily licked his lips. How he had wanted the younger Moore in this position. How the boy deserved this. But it was not to be. That way led career ruin and loss of pension. This he had to console himself was the next best thing. The swiped numbers three and four in quick succession and satisfied himself that Moore’s pain was increasing. The back of the young man’s neck was equally as red as his backside. His face by contrast was a deathly white. Trout flexed the cane between his hands, playing for time. He knew that the pain would be radiating out from the buttocks and travelling up and down his legs and then going north, south, east, west, throughout his body.

Nearly over, Moore comforted himself. He concentrated on the bare floorboard beneath his feet. It looked almost new, he thought. Maybe the old one had been worn out by generations of schoolboys shuffling their feet while adopting his present position. This absurd notion tickled him but it did not assuage the agony that spread throughout his buttocks as the cane welted the underside of his bum, on the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs. It would be uncomfortable to sit down for some hours to come.

Behind him Moore heard Trout wheeze and then hack a dry couch. The old schoolmaster must be showing his age after all, he supposed. The cane tapped across the higher end of his mounds. This must be the last one, he thought. Six-of-the-best. He steeled himself, closed his eyes, shut his teeth and held his breath. As he expected, Trout landed it in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of the target area. The cane hit across all five lines reigniting them all. Only by a monumental effort did he stay in position, wheezing to catch his breath, his head pounding, blood rushing through his arteries so fast he was sure it would whoosh out through his ears.

He felt the cane tap across his bottom once more. “Sweet Jesus, no more, please,” he prayed inwardly. “That’s over. You may stand.” Slowly, Moore straightened. The throbbing in his backside was intense. He had never sat on a barbecue but he imagined if he had done so it would have felt something like this. Remembering the distain he felt for Jackson he restrained himself from performing the caning dance, jumping up and down while simultaneously rubbing himself. That would have to wait until he was in private.

Trout stood before him, holding the cane he had just used to rip Moore’s backside apart. He glared. “I hope you have learnt a valuable lesson.” It was a rhetorical question and he did not allow Moore time to answer. “Here take this,” he offered the astonished Moore the cane, “take it home. I think you might find a use for it there.” Moore could not be certain but Trout might have given him a ghost of a smile, as he took hold of the whippy rod. It was astonishingly light. Who could believe such a thing could do so much damage.

Not waiting for a response, Trout shuffled towards the door and was gone. Moore put the cane down on the desk and massaged his bottom ruefully. The intense pain had gone to be replaced by a hot throbbing. Very soon, he knew from experience, it would turn to a warm glow. The welts would be tender to touch for some hours yet, but by bedtime even that would be gone. The marks would last from some days. How the hell was he going to explain that to his wife? Bitterly, he grabbed the cane, tucked it under his arm and left.

Picture credit: Unknown

For other stories about St. FIGS, click here

Other stories you might like

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Fr. Pat’s paddle

Bend over my knee for a birching


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


The Moped Gang

By Charles Hamilton II and Cayenne.

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him.  His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, “Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!”

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. “The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood.” Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, “You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. “You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry.” He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. “You have been smoking and drinking and,” the headmaster shuddered at the thought, “urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!”

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. “It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine.  Isn’t that so, Smith?” The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

“Err, yes, Sir,” Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. “Too old for this cane, Passey?”

“Yes, Sir.” Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Too old, Wilkinson?”

“Yes indeed, Sir,” the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. “And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir.” Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. “And finally, we get to you, Davies.”

“Yes Sir?” a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

“You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?”

“I am, Sir?” He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

“Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this!” He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. “He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see.  He’s the life and soul of the club, old ‘Deltic’ Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.”

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame.  He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable.  And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

“So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine?” Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys.  Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

“I have decided,” the headmaster continued, “that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane.  For this junior cane.” He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. “No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.”

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. “He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised!” she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

“He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you?” she asked.

“No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.”

“Ah, of course!” Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. “That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!”

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

“Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful.” Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. “Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.”

“Err, will do Miss Glossop,” he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

“You’d better be getting back,” Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

“You four,” the headmaster waved his arm, “stand and face the bookcase.” He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. “Jenkin,” he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. “Bend over.” Manufacturers called these chairs “comfy” or “comfortable”  chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

“Bend over, lad,” the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

“Legs further apart. Up higher.” It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. “Head nice and low, please.” Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

“Relax lad. Relax.” The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. “Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” the headmaster sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up lad!” the headmaster commanded, “We haven’t got all day.” With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

“Stand and face the bookcase,” the headmaster intoned. “Wilkinson, take his place.”


Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. “Who’s been a naughty little boy then?” he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

“I got a phone call from your headmaster,” Dai’s grin broadened. “He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.”

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

“So,” Dai blocked his brother’s way, “he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh?” He swiped the imaginary cane again. “You naughty, naughty little boy.”

“Piss off,” Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

“Of course,” Dai jeered, “When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning.” His arm flew through the air again. “And,” Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. “What was it Dad said last time?” He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. “Oh yes, I remember.” Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

“He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother?” Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. “You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.”

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

“Of course,” Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, “Dad need never know.” He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. “What’d’ya say little brother?”

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. “A little plan, dear brother,” he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, “What plan?”

“Ha,” Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. “Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me ‘What is the plan’”?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out,” Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, “I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead.” Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked “What?”

Dai took a deep breath, “You’ll get to keep your moped.”

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to “fuck off” he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, “You promise you won’t tell Dad?” Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, “Scout’s honour,” he said and waved two fingers in the air. “All right,” Owen whispered.

“Good-oh!” Dai smiled broadly. “We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty.” Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. “The wardrobe’s locked.” He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, “Can we get a cane someplace else?”

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. “Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane,” he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. “All right, but there must be a way round this.”

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, “It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you.” When Owen looked doubtful, he added, “You know, over the knee, like a little boy.”

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. “You’ll get to keep the moped,” he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

“Good-oh,” Dai brightened up. “Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something.” Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. “Come here you naughty little boy.”

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. “Come on, let’s get on with this.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. “Stand there.” Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. “Trousers down, little man. Trousers down.” Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

“Ha!” Dai smirked, “White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning?” He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. “Pants down. All the way,” Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. “Bend over my knee, you naughty boy.” I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. “Woweee!” Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. “Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks.” He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. “It feels like corrugated cardboard back here.” He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. “This should set them on fire again,” he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. “No you don’t buster,” Dai gripped Owen around the waist. “You’re not going anywhere.” Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window.  They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

Other stories you might like

Don’t bully our mum

His eldest brother

Bend over. Touch your toes


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Room 414

z used otk white pants prefect youngsters sting (2)

Well Winchester, the Head Boy said to me, we can do this one of two ways. Either you can do a detention and miss going to the cup semi-final this evening or you can go across my knee for a jolly good spanking.

My heart raced and my face burned. Had I heard correctly? Taylor the Head Boy and Captain of just about every sport we played at the school was offering to take me over his knee for a spanking.

I was eighteen years old at the time and I couldn’t remember the first time I dreamed of being taken over the knee for a spanking. Mostly I fantasied about my Uncle Roy. He was married to my Mother’s sister and often visited our council flat when his lorry driving took him to our district. He was a massive man, probably six-and-a-half-feet tall. I was a dwarf beside him. He towered more than head and shoulders above me. He was thickly built with powerful arms. I would masturbate at night imagining I was in my bedroom in my pyjamas and suddenly Uncle Roy would burst into the room. I never cared what naughtiness I was supposed to have displayed. I just saw Uncle Roy rip the bedclothes off my body and then gripping me by one wrist he hauled me to my feet before sitting down on the bed and dragging me face down over his lap. I was powerless.

Then Uncle Roy would take hold of the elasticated waistband of my pyjama bottoms and quite slowly tug them down over my buttocks and leave them bunched at the thighs. Now, with my arse suitably bared and in position he would slap me with the palm of his hand. It was as big and as heavy as a shovel and in no time I was bucking across his knee. It was at about this time that in real life I would ejaculate at speed into a wodge of lavatory paper.

I was stunned when Taylor made his offer. Here was someone else who was into spanking. Had I been so naïve to think I was the only one? I blustered with embarrassment, so Taylor put his proposition to me again. He would have known how much I wanted to go to the football match. This was the first time our local team had reached the semi-final of anything. Tickets were as rare as hens’ teeth – and I had one. How could I not go to the match. No, doing a detention was out of the question.

I looked Taylor in the face as in my mind I formulated my response. I didn’t want to sound too eager. He had a bright, open face and although he was the same age as me I don’t believe he had started shaving. The term “baby-faced” fitted him perfectly. He stood stony-eyed, I couldn’t read his mind. Did he know of my inclinations? Was there something about my overall demeanour that gave me away? How had he plucked up the courage to expose his own desires?

Perhaps I should explain that corporal punishment in schools had been made illegal some years before. Mine was not one of those schools from ancient history where prefects had the power to cane or whatnot younger boys. I doubt if any dads spanked their sons at home. Corporal punishment was simply unheard of.

Taylor shuffled his feet impatiently. I couldn’t tell how desperately (or not) he wanted me to choose to go over his knee. We were standing in the corridor not far from the sixth-form common room, I swivelled on my heels to make sure we were perfectly alone and no one could hear us. I sucked in air, run my tongue over my bottom lip and croaked my reply. I’ll go for the spanking.

Taylor seemed unfazed by my answer. I’ll see you after school at three-thirty. In the common room, he said before he sauntered away. I stood rooted. My hear beat so fast I thought I might be sick. Two hours to wait. My first-ever spanking. A bell rang in the distance. Heck, how would I get through double Geography?

Don’t ask me what the lesson was about, I don’t have the slightest idea. I was excellent at geography and ended up with an A-star at A-level but my enthusiasm for the subject paled beside my fervour to be spanked. My how the hands crawled on the clock that afternoon. At last the bell rang; the school day was over. I couldn’t get to the common room fast enough. It was crowded, of course, with boys and girls emptying their lockers. I hung back, waiting eagerly for them to leave.

But where was Taylor? Usually, he was as enthusiastic to get away as the rest of us. Why wasn’t he here. My heart skipped. Had he changed his mind? Had the enormity of what he proposed sank in? Did he regret opening himself up to me in this way? Was he scared we might get caught?

After about ten minutes I was the only one left in the room. I slouched in a chair and flicked through the pages of the Brocklehurst Bugle (could there be a more boring local rag than that?) I was about to give up and leave. I still needed to go home and change before catching the train for the match. Dejected, I packed my books in my locker and made for the door.

Outside a few yards down the corridor was Taylor. Where do you think you’re going? He frowned. I gabbled in reply that I thought he had changed his mind. He grunted, no way. A deal was a deal, he said. He held up a key he was carrying. It was for Room 414, he said. I knew this to be a classroom on the top floor of the building. Nobody would see us there.

He led the way. I truly felt like a naughty boy and kept two paces behind Taylor. This happened twenty-five years ago and I don’t remember what was going through my mind as we took the stairs. The school was deserted, that I can recall. I suppose it must have felt very unreal. We reached the classroom and Taylor unlocked the door. It was a typical classroom of its time. There were tables that seated up to six pupils and at the front was a whiteboard and a desk for the teacher. The walls were covered with brightly-coloured pictures and posters.

I stood uneasily. How was this meant to play out? I didn’t have the slightest idea. I need not have worried, Taylor took control. He fetched one of the straight-backed chairs and put it down in a space close to one wall. Without looking at me, he sat himself down. I hovered close by. In my fantasises I was sometimes beaten by a headmaster. The scenario was that I was a pupil in a posh public school some long time back in history. The headmaster wore a black academic gown and a mortar-board cap. He swished a whippy curve-handled rattan cane.

In those dreams, I would be told to take off my blazer and stand behind a large leather chair. Or sometimes it would be by the headmaster’s desk. On his curt command I would fumble with my belt and undo my trousers. I would let them down to my knees. Then on further instruction I would bend over and offer up my bottom to the cane. In those dreams I always wore white cotton Y-front pants. I wore similar underpants in real life, although they were deeply unfashionable by this time.

Taylor had settled himself and seemed ready to go. He said very little. I was still incapable of reading that beautiful face of his. Taking the initiative, I slipped off my jacket and put it on a table nearby. I stood maybe two feet to Taylor’s left waiting for his instruction. I could see that he had not brought any implement with him. It would be impossible for him to find an whippy cane, of course, but he might have been able to come up with a rubber-soled plimsoll, that other staple of schoolboy punishment from days gone by. At a pinch he might have borrowed a hairbrush from one of the girls, or, who knows?, there was always his belt.

It seemed none of these were to be used. My spanking would be by the palm of his hand alone. Clearly, he did not possess the build or the strength on my Uncle Roy, so I did not expect my punishment to be very painful. He spoke almost for the first time since we entered the classroom. Bend over my knee, he said. Oh, those words. How many times in the years since then has my heart sped at that command? To be instructed to present my backside to a dominant male, to submit to discipline.

I hesitated a moment. How was this done precisely? In my dream Uncle Roy dragged me from bed and manhandled me over his knee. With Taylor, I would have to present myself submissively. It was as if I were saying yes I have been a naughty boy and I deserve to be punished, please Taylor spank my bottom for me. I moved forward closer to his parted legs, then paused. I don’t think I had planned what happened next. It came to me on the spur of the moment. With trembling hands I unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned at the waist and pulled my zipper. The weight of my leather belt sent my pale-grey trousers hurtling to my feet. I leaned forward, stretched out my arms in front of me to break my fall and bent over Taylor’s knee.

We were much the same height and build and I fitted into his body rather well. I placed my palms flat against the floor and with my knees slightly bent the toes of my shoes reached the ground behind me. This way my bottom was positioned over his knee at a good angle for spanking. I couldn’t see Taylor’s expression. He hadn’t expected this turn of events. Me, in my underwear submissively waiting for him to spank me. I am sure his breathing got heavier the moment my trousers hit my feet.

I stared at the parquet flooring. It was scratched and worn and it hadn’t felt the sweep of a broom for some considerable time. Taylor was composing himself. I felt him take hold of the tail of my shirt and push it away from my bum, leaving an area of naked flesh on my lower back. I knew that my underpants fitted me well, but that did not deter Taylor from taking hold of the elasticated waist and pulling so that the cotton was now like a second skin. I felt the pants dig deep into my crack so that each cheek was nicely separated.

Taylor placed the palm of his hand on my left buttock, holding it there for longer than strictly necessary for him to find his aim. He put his other hand in the small of my back to prevent me moving. Then he spanked me. People say the first time is always special. The first kiss, the first sex, the first marriage. So it was with my first spanking. Taylor had some strength in his arm, he was after all one of the school’s most accomplished sportsmen. He spanked me at speed, as my bum absorbed the hurt of one slap another spank immediately followed. It was like machinegun fire.

The pain, such as it was, was not intense; a hand-spanking on an eighteen-yea-old’s bottom covered with cotton underpants could never be severe. But, Taylor warmed up my arse good and proper. My heartbeat was off the scale and my temples throbbed like crazy. On and on he slapped his hand into my tight buttocks. My cock first twitched and then stood at fall attention, like a soldier on guard duty. Taylor must have felt it digging into his thigh and this encouraged him in his efforts. He spanked harder and faster than before.

I feared at any moment I would shoot a load into my underpants. Taylor’s own pale-grey school trousers would be stained. Let him explain that to his mother at home. My breathing was strained: huff-huff-huff. Any time now.

We were both too involved in ourselves to hear the classroom door open. We did catch the strangulated gasp of the school janitor and the clang as the metal bucket fell from his grasp. Taylor released his grip on me and I shot to my feet, the tentpole in the front of my pants pointing at the janitor. He turned on his feet and leaving behind his bucket the janitor rushed down the corridor.

I pulled up my trousers. My head was remarkably clear, it felt as if I were looking down on the room from some height. Taylor remained seated. It was clear to me that his cock was raging as much as mine. The silence in the room was deafening. We could not describe to one another the pleasure we had experienced together. Nor, could we share our fear about what the janitor might say or do.

At last Taylor spoke. He told me to hurry home or I would miss the football match. I left him alone. As I made my way down a deserted corridor, I saw Alderton, a fellow sixth-former, walking toward me. He gave me a cheeky wink but said nothing as he passed. I stood and watched him enter room 414.


Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

You’ll never believe this

Rev. Harris does his duty

The autumn of 49

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second


Looking back . . .

z used cane touch toes pyjamas (15)b

Sometimes these days I rub my eyes with disbelief with much the same vigour I used to rub my backside. That’s when I remember my days at St. Tom’s. In the housemaster’s study (again). In pyjamas, touching toes for six-of-the-best .

You tell kids that today and they think you’re mad. Eighteen years old and bending over for the cane. It happened all the time back in the nineteen-sixties. St. Tom’s was a middling public school (that is a private fee-paying school) with delusions that it was among the elite. It dripped “tradition”: traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional religion and, of course, traditional discipline.

St. Tom’s was an enclosed boarding school; boys only of course. There were rules for everything: do this; don’t do that. Break the rules, touch your toes. There was a small town close to the school and it was an illegal excursion to the cinema there that got me my last caning.

Do you remember Sophia Loren? She was the Italian sex-kitten film starlet of her time. There was a film and I can’t for the life of me remember the name of it now, where she stripped off her clothes. Not all the way of course, but for we sex-starved boys of St. Tom’s a flash of thigh would have been enough to fuel self-abuse for weeks.

Naturally, we had to see it. So taking our lives (or at least our bums) in our hands three of us snuck off one Saturday. We got spotted by a master coming out the cinema. Had he been inside watching the film himself? If so he was a jolly rotter for turning us in. The cinema was out of bounds at all times, not just when steamy sex movies were showing.

Our housemaster Mr. Camden had a ritual. Looking back after fifty years it seems a pretty rum one to me. He would keep a list of boys who misbehaved during the and call them to his study at lights-out, just before bedtime. That way he ensured we arrived in our pyjamas. Naturally, a whippy rattan cane would sting much more without heavy trousers and cotton underpants as protection.

So, that night, Richard MacDonald, Brian LeFevre and myself took ourselves down to the study. Camden was a strange cove. He looked to us like he was a hundred years old at least, but he stayed on at the school for another twenty-odd years after I escaped so he must have only been in his forties. He was a stout man with a ruddy complexion (was he a drinker?) and was incapable of talking in a normal voice. He always sounded like he was addressing a parade ground full of troops.

I think it was Richard who knocked on the door. We waited for the customary order to “enter” and shuffled to stand in front of Camden’s desk. It was a ramshackle affair, not too big and always covered in piles of exercise books. He must have spent half his waking hours marking. I remember the room was cold although it was early summer. Parts of the school supposedly dated back three or four hundred years so it was a draughty hole.

We stood hands behind backs, eyes downcast at our slippered feet, in the classic naughty-boy pose. We knew how to play our role in the drama that was about to unfold. We also knew how it would end.

I had been caned countless times (who hadn’t?) it was that kind of school. It always hurt; that was after all the point of the exercise and I never really got used to it. I think the embarrassment of bending over and offering my backside to a master much larger than me was as bad as the pain. I wasn’t like some of my pals (Richard was one) who took it entirely in their stride. Some actually welcomed the cane. It was some kind of badge of honour. I know when we were lower down the school we would make marks with ink on our snake belts, one for each time we were caned. Some years later I met an old school pal who had formed a club where men dressed in school uniform and relived their canings.

Camden jawed us a bit. Did we know the cinema was out of bounds? Yes, we did. That was it really. We coughed to the crime and all that was left was the punishment.

Camden had a tall thin cupboard in one corner of the room. I have never seen these cupboards anywhere but in a school study. What possible use could they have except to house an array of punishment canes? He had several of different lengths, thicknesses and densities. His pride and joy was a Malacca which was no longer or thicker than the plain rattans but it had a powerful density. It was as springy and whippy as the others but with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave a boy’s backside heavily bruised. If a master chose to put an extra bit of beef into a swipe he could easily cut flesh.

The Malacca was for recidivists, those for whom a “normal” caning had proved ineffectual. It was also reserved for senior boys like ourselves, Camden supposing that we were too tough even for the thickest rattan or dragon. We watched impassively, but with pulses racing, while Camden fished a key from his trouser pocket, unlocked the cupboard and reached inside. The rattling of several canes seemed to echo around the room. He turned to face us holding the Malacca between two hands.

Another of Camden’s rituals was to flex and swish the cane through the air. He was testing its effectiveness as if he had never encountered it before. He was also trying to intimidate the boy standing before him, demonstrating just how much damage the rod could do to a boy’s stretched buttocks. I wasn’t intimidated and I doubt if my two fellows were either; we just wanted to get it over with.

Camden soon obliged. “Stand there,” he waved towards a wall dominated by bookshelves. We did as instructed. “Hands on head” (another ritual) “Face the bookcase.” The only uncertainty was how he would cane us. Sometimes it was the traditional “touch your toes”; otherwise we would drape ourselves over a piece of furniture. The desk was always too cluttered to be used but on occasion I had presented my bum over the back of an armchair or by gripping the seat of a hard straight-backed chair.

“Stand out LeFevre,” Camden hollered. I supposed the chaps back in the dormitory would have heard. Not that it would matter. It was no secret that we had been summoned to the study and every boy at the school knew that could mean only one thing.

Brian turned on his heels and with hands still on his head, he lumbered into the centre of the study. Richard and I turned to watch. There was nothing so fascinating as watching a fellow get a bowing. Brian’s face was pale. It was difficult to control such things, the body makes natural reactions in times of stress. Camden flexed his cane and then pointed to a spot in the middle of the carpet, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

Brian sucked down a lung-full of air and slumped forward. He was a thin, wiry boy and when he bent over his pyjama bottoms rode up across his buttocks. Camden swished his cane and gently sawed it across the centre of Brian’s bum. Suddenly he stopped. “What’s this?” he shouted. “Padding?”

I exchanged glances with Richard. Padding? A chap never put padding down the back of his trousers. It was cheating. Not the done thing. A bad show. Besides it was bloody impractical if a boy was only in pyjamas. “You are wearing underpants, LeFevre. Stand up boy.”

Underpants. Hardly “padding”. But to Camden they were both the same. Brian straightened up, his pale face now quite red. “Take down your pyjama bottoms.” It was a straightforward command. I noticed Brian’s eyes watered. He chewed on his bottom lip. I thought for a moment he would protest, perhaps he wanted to but thought better of it. There would be no point. Camden was in charge and we all knew that well.

Brian’s fingers trembled as he stumbled with the drawstring of his pyjamas. He had trouble undoing the knot but eventually succeeded. He let go and the bottoms hurtled to his feet, rather like clown’s trousers do. He started to bend forward once more. “Not so fast,” Camden barked. “Since you have attempted to deceive me. Let us have the underpants down as well.”

I saw Richard’s eyes blaze. Bare arsed. That was unheard of. And it was so jolly unfair. Brian hadn’t tried to use padding. Most of the chaps wore underpants under their pyjama bottoms. Matron might not think it very hygienic but it was immensely practical: it stopped our erect cocks from poking through the fly of the pyjamas. And believe me when we were eighteen it was impossible to stop our dicks saluting at the least provocation.

If looks could kill. Brian shot Camden a dirty scowl, but still he did not complain. I watched him hitch his thumbs into the waistband  of the pants and slowly guide them over his buttocks until he released them at the thighs and let them slither to his ankles at their own speed. I tried not to gape. There were lots of times at the school when we saw one another naked, but we went around pretending not to notice. It was impossible now not to see Brian’s long, thin cock. It was awesome, quite the largest I had seen in my life until them.

Feigning nonchalance Brian bent down once more. I had a side-on view so was unable to see his crack or hole but, of course, this would have been in Camden’s view. How utterly humiliating it must have been for Brian. The housemaster took his aim, raised the cane to above shoulder height and with a slight turn of his body swiped it across Brian’s buttocks. The boy gasped and his body shook under the impact, his balls bounced up and down. Almost immediately a deep pink line emerged across the pale flesh where the cane had landed.

Number two fell a little lower than the first and the next a little higher. Camden was an expert caner. The Malacca landed precisely where he intended. It helped that Brian was also an expert canee (if indeed that is the correct word). He took his lashes as stoically as circumstances allowed and did not move around unduly.

After three strokes Brian had a band of hurt roughly two inches wide across the centre of both buttocks. Camden slashed another three into that patch. Six welts throbbed across Brian’s bum. It had been an exemplary thrashing. Brian opened and closed his mouth silently. The agony would have been intense, but he managed to utter not one sound. On command he rose, pulled up his pants and pyjamas and resumed his position by the bookcase. His eyes were damp but he wasn’t blubbing. A chap never blubbed during a caning, he would never hear the end of it from his pals.

Camden called my name. I walked forward and when instructed I bent over. It is more difficult to touch your toes than perhaps people imagine. It puts a tremendous strain on the calf muscles. I grabbed my ankles instead and with my knees bent slightly my bottom jutted out at a decent angle to receive the caning. I felt Camden take hold of my pyjama jacket and move it an inch or so up my back and away from the target area. I shuddered; not from fear (as I said I had been in this position before) but from a cold draught that came from I know not where. I had a close up view of the pale blue carpet beneath my feet. It was new, a modern concession. Not so long previously the floor had been bare boards with a tatty rug.

I closed my eyes and shut my teeth as I felt the cane tap against my stretched pyjamas. The housemaster was finding his aim. I knew it would hurt. A great deal. That was the point of it. No point in caning a boy’s backside unless it hurt. I understood that. I heard the cane swish through the air and the crack as it connected with my hard bum. It seemed like ages before I felt the burning pain. Air escaped through my clenched teeth.

As with Brian’s caning, the second landed. Whop! Just below the first slice. My buttocks were blazing. Camden was such an expert with the cane. His beatings were awesome. I tried to ignore the pain searing from my arse up and down my legs. From somewhere outside the study I heard the sound of footsteps on creaking boards. Then they stopped. Some one was outside the door. Probably, another boy waiting his turn.

Number three connected with the top of my thigh. I must have yelped, it would be impossible not to. Camden had missed his aim, maybe he wasn’t such an expert after all. I stopped myself leaping to my feet and rubbing away.

“Keep still boy.”

I was soaked with sweat. My temples throbbed every bit as much as my bum. My blood pressure was off the scale. The housemaster paused, allowing me to settle. He took better aim this time. The fourth went high, on the top of the curves, well away from the thighs. My bum felt like it was on fire. Camden was putting all his beef into this, he had beaten carpets with less force.

Bang-Bang! The final two cut deep into my meaty bum, in quick succession. I had no time to absorb the first until the second landed, almost on the same spot. It was over. I stared down at the carpet, already the intense pain was dissolving. I knew that soon it would become an awesome throb before turning to a scorching glow. I waited for permission to stand. I had no time to reflect on the incongruity of an eighteen-year-old allowing himself to be thrashed in such a way by a schoolmaster. In those days one didn’t legally become an adult until twenty-one, maybe we were still conditioned to think of ourselves as children.

I rose and resumed my place at the bookcase. MacDonald offered Camden his arse and a couple of minutes later we were on our way back to the dorm. to display our wounds to an admiring crowd.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

My house. My rules

Remembering the Tyrant Headmaster

Horny as hell


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second