The performance review

Lucas Hodges stood rooted. He wanted to get his legs to move, but they would not obey the command from his brain. He knew he must submit to his boss; not to do so would be unthinkable. The wretched man had complete control over him. Lucas was powerless. He must do what Mr Riley wanted; however perverted it might be.

There was sweat beneath Lucas’s crisp white shirt; but the room was cold. Snow continued to fall and settle on the pavement five storeys below the spacious office where Mr Riley and he stood. Lucas breathed deeply: in, out. In, out. He must regain the use of his legs. With tremendous effort he got the right foot to move; then with a willpower he never knew he possessed, the left foot followed it.

Like a penguin, Lucas shuffled a few paces across the office. Slowly, he reached the spot indicated by Mr Riley and he stood, knees slightly bent. He could not stomach to see his tormentor, the ugly, pot-bellied vile creature, so he cast his eyes down and studied the plush new deep-pile carpet beneath his feet.

The sweat was oozing. The back of his neck was damp and his closely cut ginger hair was soaking, like he had just stepped out of the shower. A moustache of moisture smeared his upper lip.

Mr Riley said nothing; but he was not silent. Air escaped between his lips. That was the old man’s default position. He always wheezed; even at times like this when he was rested in a deeply-padded leather couch. Later, when he put Lucas through his paces, Mr Riley’s breathing and blood pressure would take off into orbit. But that was for the future.

Lucas could not stop his hands from trembling. He bunched his palms into fists and held then rigidly beside the side of his body. Then he clenched the two hands together, interlocking his fingers and gripped them tightly behind his back. But, however he held them, the quaking would not stop.

Mr Riley ogled the twenty-two-year-old purchasing assistant. Lucas Hodges had never been summoned before him in this way before. According to the boy’s personnel record he had been with Asperton’s for four years; ever since he left school and just before the new government-inspired apprenticeship scheme came into force. Technically, Mr Riley was not permitted to treat him as an apprentice. Technically, schmechnically, Mr Riley did not give a hoot. The boy was in no position to complain. He would submit to Mr Lucas’s authority; or he could take his chances with the millions of unemployed slowly starving to death in dark corners of the nation.

Mr Riley did not know Lucas, but he had seen him in the office canteen at lunchtimes and had admired the boy’s lithe figure when he stretched across the pool table to reach a difficult shot. The boy’s tailored suit trousers would hug the contours of his firm round buttocks, affording Mr Riley a perfect view of his adorable arse. An arse, Mr Riley fervently hoped, he would have the pleasure of enjoying at closer quarters one day in the privacy of his office.

Mr Riley shuffled through a file on his lap: Lucas Hodge’s monthly performance review. Tasks had not been completed, deadlines had been missed and invoices had been left unprocessed for days.

In the modern day, at Asperton’s such behaviour would be dealt with in only one way. No excuses; no mitigation. Events had to take their course.

It was a large padded leather armchair. As Lucas swivelled it round so that its back pointed towards him, he saw the clear indentation in the chair’s crown. In the past few years, since the new employment laws had been in force, countless young men had contributed to its making; their heavy bodies pressing down into the soft leather. The channel was so well established that each new boy instinctively rested himself into the groove. The office workers required to submit their rear ends to Mr Riley found it was surprisingly comfortable, but of course what happened once they were ready was far from that.

The chair now in place, Lucas stepped back, his quaking hands once again grasped behind his back as he awaited further instructions.

Mr Riley was not ready yet. He hauled his clammy bulk from the couch, leaving behind a patch of moisture where his flabby buttocks had seeped sweat into the seat cushion. Wheezing, he staggered across the huge office, and rested beside an enormous desk, which appeared to be made of metal and glass. Drawing great gulps of air into his lungs, Mr Riley pulled at a wide drawer running the length of the desk.

Lucas had never been in this office before, but instinctively he knew what was contained within the drawer. Mr Riley delved his hand inside and a rattling sound from within confirmed the young man’s direst suspicions. Within seconds Mr Riley had seized and withdrawn a long, thin, whippy cane. The old man’s face glowered puce as he held the instrument of punishment between his two hands and flexed it thoughtfully.

Lucas had never seen a cane before and could not tell whether the specimen before him was an especially mild or a vicious example. When his boss, still gasping for breath, swished it three or four times through the empty air, however, Lucas knew it was a mightily effective rod that would take his arse off.

For a moment, it seemed to Lucas, Mr Riley was about to have a seizure. The ugly man’s heavy puce face was suffused with blood. The veins stood out on his forehead and temples like purple roots. His noisy breathing calmed to almost nothing so that Lucas could not be sure that he was breathing at all. Spittle dribbled through his unkempt bushy beard.

z used cane hold kernled (26)

Then, as if suddenly awakening from a deep sleep, Mr Riley spun on his heels to face Lucas. Then from half way across the office, he wobbled the cane at the petrified boy, and whispered, “Stand behind the chair.”

All the while he had been in the office with Mr Riley Lucas had tried to devise a plan. He had two choices. One was to tell the pervert to shove his cane where the sun doesn’t shine and to walk out of the office. That was no choice. Before the hour was over, Lucas would be dismissed from the company. Destitution would follow; for himself and his parents and younger sisters who were forced to survive on his salary.

The second choice: the only choice really, was to submit to whatever Mr Riley demanded. If Lucas could close off his brain in some way, to block out what the revolting man was doing to him, he could get through it. He faced a dreadful ordeal, but it would not kill him.

So, Lucas shuffled back to the chair.

Mr Riley spoke in a whisper, as if each word had to be clutched from his throat. His mouth was full of saliva, “Take down your trousers and undergarments and bend over the chair.”

Lucas tried to unbuckle his belt, but his fingers at first refused to comply with the instructions of his brain. After much fumbling, it was loose. It was easier to unfasten his smart city-style suit trousers and pull the zipper. The trousers slipped down his pale legs and settled at his shins.

Lucas was not a shy man; he played a lot of sports and was very comfortable undressing in the company of men. But this time, he felt a wave of embarrassment sweep through him. It was Mr Riley’s google-eyed stare that did it. His piggy hazel eyes popped out on stalks at the sight of Lucas in his tight fitting boxer briefs. The cotton clung to the boy’s buttocks and thighs and even from a distance it was evident that Lucas’s cock and balls were an exceptional size.

“Wheeze, wheeze …. Undergarments down, wheeze, wheeze …”

Looking back on this experience, Lucas supposed he had never despised anybody in his entire life as he did Mr Riley at that moment. Would any right-minded person blame him if he took a paperknife from the desk and stabbed the revolting man through the throat? Alas, for Lucas, the law courts did not comprise reasonable people and he would soon find himself on death-row if he did.

So, Lucas sent his boxer briefs to meet his trousers. Mr Riley would have liked to see more of Lucas’s uncut penis and his dangling ball sack, but the young man took a deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together to steady his nerves and like dozens (possibly hundreds) of his fellow workers before him, he settled himself into the channel over the back of the chair.

The armchair was the perfect height for young men to prostrate themselves across to offer up their arses. He fitted rather well with his stomach comfortably resting in the groove and his arms stretched out ahead of him clutching onto the seat cushion. In this position his face rested close to his own chest and he breathed in the heavy scent of Brut 33 splash-on lotion. Behind him his legs were parted and his knees held straight, offering a wonderful target to Mr Riley and his whippy cane.

Mr Riley took hold of the tail of Lucas’s shirt and pushed it up his back, revealing an area of pale white skin. From this vantage the boss could see right into the boy’s crack. There was not a hair to be seen, it was as if Lucas’s entire body was hairless, virginal.

Lucas’s bottom was slightly raised and nothing would impede the cane, shiny and whippy in Mr Riley’s right hand. He tapped it, impatiently, against his own left hand and then placed it gently across the centre of the boy’s buttock cheeks. Lucas squirmed and instinctively turned his head. His bottom involuntarily twitched and Mr Riley, his face now a deep purple, tapped the cheeks again as if to say, keep still and let my cane do its work.

Then, the cane thwipped down across the centre of Lucas’s pale backside. It was not a vicious stroke: Mr Riley liked to see a boy’s buttocks bounce under the impact of his cane leaving a vivid red line to slowly emerge across the surface of his skin. It hurt the boy, he sucked in his breath and closed his teeth tightly. He gripped the seat cushion firmly and waited for swipe number two.

When it came, impacting the lower part of the cheeks close to where they meet with the thigh, Lucas gasped and lifted his left leg slightly as if to ease the pain but, other than that, there was no movement and there was no sound. Lucas had never been caned in his life and had no real idea how much it should hurt, but instinct told him that Mr Riley was not delivering him a whipping.

The stroke had been clean and true, but not too hard, and as it echoed around the office another clear red line painted itself across the centre of the upturned cheeks. The pulsating soreness spread across Lucas’s shapely bottom.

“Uh!” Another sharp cut, lower this time, thwacked across Lucas’s round buttocks making his entire body shudder. Lucas felt his eyes begin to moisten as another stroke cut into his bottom, higher than the others.

From his place face down over the chair, Lucas could not see Mr Riley reach into his own trouser pocket and take a large blue-and-white-spotted kerchief which he used to mop up copious amounts of perspiration from his face and neck.

The delay set Lucas’s mind racing as he wondered was happening back there. Was Mr Riley wavering; was his limited strength giving out on him?

The cloth was sopping wet when Mr Riley returned it to his pocket and took up his station to thwip another stroke across Lucas’s, by now, red and sore buttocks.

“Eekk!” that one cut into the centre of Lucas’s tightly clad rear. He began to move a hand back towards his sore bottom then because he knew some unwritten law would not allow this he withdrew it and tucked the hand under his face.

“Eeekk!!” Again, the slender rattan cane bounced into Lucas’s by-now very tender bottom sending a dose of pain shooting across his backside and down the backs of his legs. He clung to the chair for all he was worth.  Mr Riley stared on, mesmerised by the luscious buttocks, which twitched, clenched and unclenched.

The cane met Lucas’s bare backside with a thump that swiftly transformed into a singing bite. A thin line of pain zipped across the apex of his buttocks, and the cane moved its attention to the lower section just above the top of the thighs. Another thwack hit with lightning speed. It was an even deeper, more painful bite, and its momentum pushed Lucas’s groin against the edge of the chair. The surface of the lush leather cushion clouded over with the hot breath propelled from the boy’s lungs.

Lucas fought back cries and when, eventually, gasping, groaning, heaving and writhing, he began to realise that the caning was over, that twelve strokes had been cut on his bare flesh, and that Mr Riley was admiring his work of art, he flopped over the chair and let the tears run down his face.

Mr Riley lowered his cane and rested it on his desk. The beating was over. Lucas Hodges slumped across the chair back, still gripping the rests, trying to maintain his composure. His buttocks were streaked with livid red weals. There were not twelve distinct lines because the whole of his rear end was covered with marks the colour of deep burgundy.

“You may get up.” Lucas almost missed the order Mr Riley’s voice was so shallow. The boy dragged himself up from the chair. His buttocks were aflame, but already, less than a minute after the end of his caning the pain was subsiding. Some parts of his once-creamy white buttocks would be tender to the touch for some hours to come, but mostly the worst was now over. The pain was quickly turning to a throbbing and would very soon become a warm glow.

Without waiting for permission, Lucas tugged first his boxer briefs and then his trousers over his savaged bottom. He was tightening and buckling his belt when with deep shock he realised his ordeal was not yet over. The worst was yet to come.

Mr Riley was unbuttoning his own trousers revealing baggy canary yellow-coloured boxer shorts. A vast belly hung over the waistband and even from some yards away Lucas could see a red indentation around Mr Riley’s middle where his waist should have been, caused by his tight underwear.

No words were spoken as the boss hitched his fingers into his boxers and pulled them down to his shins. The physical effort this entailed set off the abhorrent old man’s wheezing. Still without speaking, Mr Riley gestured to Lucas to step forward and take his semi-erect cock in his mouth.

Twenty minutes later Lucas was in the office lavatory. He could not be sure how much water he had forced down inside of him. Gallons and gallons, probably. But still he could not get rid of the taste of the filthy old man. In desperation he put two fingers down his throat and retched and retched.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

 

Other stories you might like

Foreign language student

The junior salesman

The headmaster and Hutchins

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rory and Alistair Ep 2. The Junior Schoolmaster

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life. The eighteen year olds were oddities at Willadong Academy. They were required to dress like juniors and would remain in short trousers until the day they left school. They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Alexander Macaulay the junior schoolmaster stalked the passageways of Willadong Academy, a cane tucked under his arm. He was determined it would see action before the afternoon was out.

It was Wednesday and at Willadong that was a time for compulsory sports. If Macaulay found a boy in the building that would be excuse enough. If no abstainer was to be found he could instigate a room search, seeking hidden contraband. Cigarettes and alcohol and much else besides were strictly banned at the school.

Alexander Macaulay was an unhappy young man. This was his second month at the school and things were not going well. He was twenty-four years old; and to many casual observers indistinguishable from the senior pupils. He stood no taller than five-feet-seven-inches and was lean and wiry. His smooth complexion was deeply suntanned but the thin straggly moustache he sported belied his age. He was a boy trying to be a man. He did not possess the “gravitas” required to be a schoolmaster and probably never would.

The tingling he still felt in his backside confirmed this. It had been the most humiliating moment of his life. Less than thirty minutes previously he had been in the study of Willadong’s senior master Mr. Henderson; bent across a stout desk, trousers at his ankles. Henderson swiped nine hard cuts across the junior schoolmaster’s swaying buttocks.

Henderson said it was “attitude.” Macaulay must “buck up his ideas.” He must show he was worthy of the title, junior master at Willadong Academy. Until such a time, Macaulay must expect to be treated as if he were a pupil. “Trousers down, bend over.”

Now, Alexander Macaulay was on the prowl. Somebody must pay for his humiliation.

Rory and Alistair lay naked, entwined in each other’s arms. They had had sex enthusiastically, but inexpertly. Alistair’s cock was stiff at a forty-five degree angle. It was ready for round two.

Fresh weals decorated the buttocks of the two eighteen year olds. They were the handiwork of Mr. Anderson, their housemaster. It had been six on the bare. They were repeat offenders.

The pain had gone now, but there was one deep cut across the very centre of Rory’s bum that was tender to touch. The cane had landed on the same spot twice. A slash that landed across the back of his thighs troubled Alistair. That should teach him not to wriggle about during a caning.

Some boys were not suited to boarding school life. Roy and Alistair were two of them. There were too many rules and restrictions. The two pals were not resentful. They had broken curfew – again. Rules were rules at Willadong and when they were broken a lad would expect to be showing his arse to a prefect or a master.

Rory freed himself from Alistair’s embrace and lay face down on the bed inviting his chum to inspect his wounds. The teenager licked his own index finger and gently used it to trace from one end to the other of the deep welt across Rory’s bum. It had once been a deep pink, but now was mauve. It would turn purple soon, and then over the next few days it would lighten to yellow and finally disappear.

Alistair created a spit ball in his mouth and washed his tongue with it. Then he licked Rory’s cut, sending a shiver through the teenager’s body and leaving a slime trial across the buttocks. Rory’s cock throbbed almost as much as his bottom had just after his thrashing.

In the distance the school clock struck three o’clock. The boys were missing compulsory cricket practice. Who cared? What was another spanking between friends?

Rory turned on his back and Alistair snuggled up beside him. They took hold of each other’s cocks and tugged.

….

It was Wednesday afternoon; sports and activities day at Willadong. Rory and Alistair were keen cricketers and part of the school XI team. They should have been with their fellows practising. It was a scorching hot day; like so many that summer. The cricketers were broiling so had left their whites behind in favour of the shortest cotton running shorts they could find. Some wore vests but most were bare-chested.

Cpt. Cameron their PT instructor and cricket coach was not a happy man. He had been absent from the school and had engaged a man called Villiars from the village to stand in. Cricket was a gentleman’s game but the sixth-formers at Willadong had been far from gentlemen to Villiars. Willadong boys considered themselves superior to the common man and were not about to be ordered about by a village oik like Villiars.

But now Cameron was back and he did not like what Villairs had told him. Not one little bit.

That was why six eighteen-year-old cricketers were lined up in the pavilion facing Cameron. The PT instructor held a dirty-white plimsoll tightly in his right hand. It was a large slipper and rather worn on the sole. It had seen much action on the running track and also across the bending backsides of errant schoolboys.

He devised a little ritual. The eighteen year olds stood in a line, backs to the wall. Then on command each one stepped forward three paces towards Cameron. They swivelled on their heels, lowered their white shorts (none were wearing underpants in that heat) and touched their toes; knees straight. Three of the six teenagers wore no shirt so were totally naked bent over obediently with their tight cotton shorts in a puddle at their feet. It was a typical schoolboy ritual; each one presenting himself submissively to his master.

Schoolboy cricketers come in many shapes and sizes. There is no requirement to have an “athletic” body; “big and meaty” could as easily fit the bill. Six sets of naked buttocks were displayed that afternoon: fat and squashy; large and firm; pert and pimply.

Cameron had the perfect view of each boy’s cock and balls and, of course, his crack. But the middle-aged ex-Army officer was not interested in any of that. Discipline and punishment were uppermost in his mind. He gripped the plimsoll tightly and whacked it down across flesh. Two spanks on the left cheek; followed by two on the right.

Then, the boy stood, pulled up his shorts and went back to the wall, to be replaced by the next boy.

And so it went on until all six teenagers had the dark pink outline of the slipper emblazoned across both buttocks.

It looked spectacular, but it didn’t really hurt. Not like four slashes from the headmaster’s special Malacca cane would have if he had learned of the boys’ discourtesy to Villiars.

….

Alexander Macaulay was despondent. Somebody must pay for his humiliation. He had searched the classrooms without success. No boy was to be found. Now, he made his way through the living quarters. Again, there was no sign of life.

He searched through the study rooms. The boys seemed to have very few personal possessions. For the sons of the wealthy they were very poor indeed, he concluded. The boys would have found the junior master’s naivety touching. They were wiser than that. No self-respecting boy would leave contraband in his room for prying eyes to find. It was secreted in cubbyholes and nooks and crannies across the school; places unknown to the likes of Alexander Macaulay.

He was close to the end of his tour. Only one passageway was left unexplored. The junior master let himself into an unlocked room. As with the others, there was not much there. He opened and closed cupboards and drawers. He was exasperated with himself: what had he expected to find?

Idly he pushed a textbook across a desk. The corner of a picture poked out from between its pages. He tugged it free. It was a page ripped from a magazine. A picture. A captivating photograph.

Two young men, in their twenties, standing side by side grinned at the camera. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were sailors. At least they wore sailors’ hats on the backs of their heads, but little else besides. Only the shortest of denim shorts. The waistbands were unbuttoned and their zippers lowered, enticingly. Their chests were hairless and stomachs tight and flat.

z used Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland (2)

The boy on the right was particularly enchanting. His dark curly hair fell across his forehead emphasising his dreamy brown eyes.

Carefully, Macaulay folded the picture and tucked it into his pocket. Then, fearing he might be caught, he tip-toed from the room.

There was now only one room left unvisited.

Voices. He could hear voices from behind the door. Success. Finally. His afternoon would not be wasted.

Had the junior master been less junior; he would have recognised the room, if not necessarily the voices of its occupants. And, he would have known better than to burst open the door without warning.

Rory and Alistair lay naked. Spent. Breathing hard. Their exertions had been great. Semen covered each boy’s stomach.

Alexander Macaulay stood in the doorway startled. Instinctively, his eyes focused on Alistair’s cock. The junior master had seen nothing like it before. It was flaccid and limp, but even relaxed it was an awesome specimen. And uncut. He had never before seen an uncut cock.

Macaulay blushed deeply. His mouth opened and closed, but he could not get words to form.

Rory raised himself to a sitting position. He stared at the intruder to his room. He only vaguely knew the identity of the stranger. The cane tucked under the junior master’s arm confirmed he was trouble.

“Wha.. wha…?” Macaulay tried again to speak, aware that he could not stop gaping at the two naked sixth-formers before him. One of them, not the one with the huge cock, reminded him of the boy in the picture.

Rory flashed a grin, his dark brown eyes sparkled, but he said nothing, silenced by the sight of the bulge now growing in the front of the visitor’s trousers.

Alistair had seen it too. The caller was quite attractive in a nerdy shy way, he thought.

The junior schoolmaster slipped the cane from his arm into his hand, as if ready for disciplinary action.

Rory roared with laughter.

Macaulay stood rooted, unsure what to do next. He watched as Alistair sat up and the two boys embraced; just like the two sailors. The throbbing in his pants was excruciating.

Alistair giggled, “Don’t stand there all day. Get your clothes off. You can squeeze between us.”

He stopped short, felled by the Macaulay’s face of thunder. The junior schoolmaster wanted revenge for his earlier humiliation. Now he was going to get it.

“No!” He had found his voice at last. He might have been a schoolmaster for only two months, but he understood and relished the power he had over the two teenagers. They must submit to his cane. The consequences of refusal would be dire: a flogging from the headmaster and possible expulsion from the school.

Macaulay swished the cane through the air. He stared Alistair in the eye and slowly and deliberately said, “Let’s have you on your feet and over that chair.” He wobbled the cane at a small straight-backed chair.

To his delight, the boys rose from the bed without question. Alistair clutched the chair and placed it in the centre of the room.

Macaulay’s heart raced. He had never felt such power before. The boys would submit to his will. He watched Alistair make the preparations and start to bend his body over the chair.

No, Macaulay thought. I’ll do the cute one first.

“You,” he pointed at Rory, realising that he didn’t know the names of either boy before him. “You first.”

Rory smiled. It nearly broke the schoolmaster’s young heart.

Rory didn’t fit in at Willadong Academy. It did not suit his personality, but he rarely resented the treatment he received at the school. He broke the rules, he got punished and life went on.

But, not this time. Rory was not a man of the world, but he understood enough. The throbbing cock beneath the schoolmaster’s trousers did not lie. Macaulay was about to beat him on the bared backside for his own sexual gratification. Later, the schoolmaster would pleasure himself while he relived this afternoon in his head.

Rory despised Macaulay for his hypocrisy. He would thrash him and his friend for fooling around. Yet, the schoolmaster so clearly wanted him.

Even before Rory gripped the hard wooden seat, he had devised a plan. Later, sometime soon, he would entice the schoolmaster to a dark secluded part of the school. He knew many such places. Macaulay wouldn’t be able to resist. It wouldn’t take long. A schoolmaster. Sex. A male pupil. There was no need to spell it out.

Rory closed his eyes, clamped his teeth shut and offered up his already corrugated buttocks to the lash of the cane.

Picture credit: Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

Other stories about Rory and Alistair are here

Other stories you might like

 

The Boy at the Service Station

Saturday School

The Decorator

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Private Tutor

school shorts touch toes (1)

I recently uploaded my 500th story to this website – thanks to everyone for your support.  I know it can sometimes be difficult to navigate your way around to find stories on the topics that interest you. To help you a little, back in 2016 I started to collect together stories on the same theme and upload them as free-of-charge e-books.

Here is one of the earliest: The Private Tutor

What can fathers do when their sons fail their school exams because they spend too much time out with girlfriends, clubbing and playing in a rock band?

 Call for The Private Tutor. Using traditional educational approaches, he will soon lick them into shape.

 The whippy rattan cane, the taws, the paddle and the gym slipper are some of methods he uses as he guides them towards their A-levels.

Click the link below for the book in a PDF file

 The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II

 

Picture credit: Unknown

A further episode involving The Private Tutor is here

The private tutor: 4

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Cutting College

cane (6)

Mr Braithwaite closed the car door and strode the fifty yards to his house. A neighbour had phoned him at work to tell him what was going on. He was furious. When he got hold of his son there would be hell to pay.

There was his confirmation, even before he had the front door open. He could see Arthur through the window of the sitting room. He was lolling around on the settee, drinking beer with another lad. Damn! Mr Braithwaite slammed the door behind him. The brat was cutting college again. Well: there was only one thing to do now. The boy couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.

He had been warned and more than once. Arthur was nineteen years old and on his second year at the community college. Well, he should have been on his second year. But he failed so many courses in year one, they made him retake the whole lot again.

Mr Braithwaite burst into the sitting room and the furious father let rip, “What did I say would happen if you cut classes again? What did I say?”

A startled Arthur could only mouth, “B..b..b..” before his father harangued him again.

“What did I say?” Mr Braithwaite shouted.

“Dad…” his son wailed, looking across the settee to his pal Tony. He had regained some power of speech but he did not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not in front of Tony.

“And who is this?” Mr Braithwaite waved his arm in the general direction of Tony, who blushed bright red at all the commotion.

Mr Braithwaite half knew the answer to his question. He had seen Tony once or twice at the off-licence where the boy sometimes worked. He remembered him because he thought the boy was a bit precious.

Arthur mumbled something about, “a friend from college”.

His father growled. He was determined to get an answer from his son. “What did I say would happen if you cut college again!” his voice had reached fever pitch.

Now, Arthur was equally as red in the face as his pal. He was sure he would die with the humiliation.

“But dad, please …” he implored.

“Doh!” his father answered his own question. “I said I would fetch that cane from the back of my wardrobe and I’d put it across your backside and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“But dad …” Arthur tried to reason with his dad, but the man had already left the room and was striding up the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

Arthur and Tony exchanged embarrassed stares, but no word was spoken.

Twenty seconds later, Mr Braithwaite returned to the room. His anger had not lessened. In his hand he clutched a whippy school-type cane.

Tony had never seen such a thing before. It was about three-feet-six long, as thick as a pencil and dark yellow in colour. It was curved at one end and the other end was frayed by much use. The boy’s mouth gaped as he watched Mr Braithwaite swish the rod through empty air fiercely. The cane was awesome. Where had it come from? Did they still make things like that? Maybe you could buy them on e-Bay.

Tony had so many questions, but the most important was: Did Mr Braithwaite really intend to beat Arthur with it?

“You,” Mr Braithwaite wobbled the cane in Tony’s face. “Get away from the settee,” he said before swishing the cane and pointing it at the opposite side of the room. “Go stand over there.”

Tony was transfixed by the sight of the rod slicing through the air. It looked a mightily effective cane. It would surely take any boy’s arse off.

Obediently, he moved from the couch, not daring to look at his pal, who was sweating profusely. Oh no! Arthur recoiled at the realisation; not only was dad going to cane him, he was going to do it in front of his best pal Tony.

“You,” he pointed the cane at his son. “Pick up the end of the settee and move it away from the wall.”

Arthur stared dolefully at his father. One more time he tried to make a protest. “Aww dad…” but the words would not come. His voice broke and desperately he tried to choke down a tear.

In seconds the settee was moved. Arthur stood mournfully. It needed no imagination to guess what would happen next. Please God! Arthur prayed silently, please don’t make me take down my trousers.

Twack!! Mr Braithwaite swiped the cane viciously across the back of the settee and a dust cloud rose.

“You,” he glared at his now ashen-faced son. “You, bend over that settee. You know how to do it.”

Tony stared down at the carpet, too embarrassed to witness his friend take two steps towards the settee and ease himself over.

“You,” Mr Braithwaite swished the cane at Tony, “Move over there – out of the way.”

Tony’s heart raced. Never before had he seen a cane in action and somehow he already knew the events of this day would stay with him forever.

He shuffled over to the bay window. Jesus. He realised anyone walking down the street could look in and see his nineteen-year-old pal stretched across the back of the couch his backside pointed upwards waiting for his dad to lash his backside raw with a whippy school cane.

The muscles in Arthur’s back flexed as he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. The boy spent a little too much time in the gym. His entire body was firm and across much of his torso even his muscles had muscles.

He had buttocks of steel that filled out the fabric of his dark blue polyester ‘leisure pants’. They had fallen slightly down the top of his buttocks, exposing his green-and-yellow checked boxer shorts, but his father quickly dealt with that. It took one tug at the elasticated waistband and the seat of the trousers clung to the lad’s buttocks so tightly each cheek and his deep crack were clearly defined. It made a wonderful target for Mr Braithwaite to lash down his fearsome cane.

Tony watched fascinated as Mr Braithwaite positioned himself a cane’s length to the left of Arthur and very gently tapped the frayed tip of the rattan across the very centre of his son’s bottom. It was then that Tony realised this wasn’t the first time this little scenario had played out in Arthur’s sitting room.

Satisfied that he had his aim, Mr Braithwaite slowly raised the cane away from the stretched seat until it was above the height of his own shoulder then with an almighty swipe he sent it crashing down into Arthur’s rock-hard bum.

They might have been ‘buns of steel’ but that did not stop the cane penetrating deep into the boy’s nerve ends. He let out a breathless ‘whoop!’ and bit deep down into the scatter cushion to muffle the yell he really wanted to make.

Slash two followed immediately. Arthur’s legs stamped up and down in a useless attempt to stop the pain roaring from his bum across his whole body. Saliva dripped from the cushion as he stuffed it further into his mouth. No way was he going to yell out. No matter how much this thrashing hurt, he would not let himself down in front of Tony. And he wouldn’t give his dad the satisfaction of knowing he had wounded him.

Cuts three and four ripped into the lower part of his cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. They were the most painful cuts yet. The lad’s once ashen face was now bright scarlet, as was his neck. If he had eyes in his backside he would see both cheeks were scarred by four deep welts, which were already a dark pink in colour and would very quickly turn to horrible purple gashes.

Cuts five and six were aimed higher on the top of the curves. Now the boy’s buttocks had a half dozen deep welts running almost parallel from the top to bottom of the cheeks. The pain was astonishing. Blood coursed through Arthur’s body at the speed of sound and he was sure it would soon come rushing out through his nose. His breathing came in short pants, hindered by the scatter cushion that had made such an effective job in stifling his yells. Without it the boy would have screamed like a banshee: so loud that neighbours would be opening their front doors and coming onto the street to see where the murder was.

His arse felt like it was twice its normal size. Sitting down comfortably would be a big problem for some time to come and the cuts emblazoned into his backside would be visible for many days: there could be no visits to the gym for some considerable time.

But, despite his agony, he thought, he had not disgraced himself. He had taken the thrashing rather well, considering.

But it was not over yet. Mr Braithwaite misunderstood the situation. So, his son was not yelling and screaming and as yet although the lad’s face was puce and he was sweating buckets, clearly the punishment had not been severe enough.

“Well,” he growled, “Since you don’t seem to be making too much of a fuss, these should come down.” He gripped the waistband of the boy’s trousers and tugged them over his buttocks and down his thighs until the rested bunched up at his knees. Arthur closed his eyes tight and bit even deeper into the cushion.

The checked boxer shorts rose up the boy’s buttocks. Tony winced at the sight of the dark red ridges gouged across his friend’s handsome bum. What agony his poor friend must be in. Why was Arthur’s father so cruel to inflict such punishment?

Mr Braithwaite smoothed down the thin cotton material of the underwear, sending a further shockwave through his son’s body. Arthur braced himself for round two of the onslaught. Nothing he had experienced so far that afternoon could prepare him for what was to follow.

Mr Braithwaite gripped the cane just below the curved handle. His hold was so tight his knuckles started to go white. Then in a coolly calculated manoeuvre he brought the cane swiping down six times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was like machinegun fire as the sound of rattan biting deeply into tight flesh echoed around the small sitting room.

Then it was over. Mr Braithwaite stepped back from the couch to admire his handiwork. He saw his son, still prostrate across the back of the settee. His feet were stomping and he wriggled his hips from side to side. He was gulping in great gasps of air; like a beached whale, trying to force his lungs to work. His head was banging up and down head-butting the back of the settee. His face and neck were scarlet and his eyes glazed like monster’s.

“All right. That’s over. You may stand.” Mr Braithwaite was calm, almost kind.

Gingerly Arthur hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed onto the settee as he nearly toppled to the floor trying to pull up his trousers. Within seconds he was fully dressed. The intense agony he felt as each successive swipe had bitten into him had lessened. His buttocks still throbbed like crazy, but he knew very soon even that pain would ease. Much of his buttocks would be too tender to touch for a long time yet, but the worst was now over.

He stood not daring to look at either his father or his pal Tony. Involuntarily, tears welled behind his eyes and washed down his face.

“You!” Mr Braithwaite had not finished his work. He turned to face Tony. “Your turn now.”

Tony pushed past Arthur, exited the room, opened the front door and hurried up the street outside.

“Bah! Coward! You know he’s a poofter!” Mr Braithwaite sneered as he tossed the cane onto the settee. “I’m going back to work and you should get off to college.”

Seconds later he left the house. Gingerly, Arthur hobbled into the passageway and tugged down his trousers to inspect his toasted buns in the mirror. The whole of both buttocks was a deep red, with purplish bruises forming at the edges. Across the centre of his cheeks were twelve distinct cuts; some had overlapped others and droplets of blood seeped where they crossed. He was wondering where his mum kept the Germolene when the doorbell rang. Through the opaque glass Arthur could see the distinct figure of his pal Tony.

He opened the door to find a very sheepish friend hopping from one foot to the other in embarrassment.

“I thought you’d be half way to Sheffield by now,” Arthur grinned as he let his pal into the house.

For some moments the boys stood, unsure who should speak first. Eventually, Tony piped up. “Does it hurt?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Arthur’s backside.

“No, it tickles,” the boy growled but then seeing the hurt in Tony’s deep brown eyes, he relented. “No, it’s not so bad now. I’ll live.”

The two boys looked each other in the eye in companionable silence.

“C’mon, we didn’t finish the beers,” Tony said as he led the way into the sitting room.

Arthur stood shuffling his feet and Tony sat in an armchair while they slurped on their cans. Then Tony spotted the cane on the settee; he seemed transfixed by it.

“Of course, it’s all your fault,” Arthur nodded at his pal.

“What is?”

“This,” Arthur said holding both his hands against his buttocks as if trying to rub away the pain. “It was you who said we should cut college.”

Tony blushed. He had; but both boys had readily agreed to go to Arthur’s house for a bit of fun. He couldn’t be blamed for what happened next.

Arthur stooped down and picked up the cane and thoughtfully flexed it between both hands. It was very supple and he easily made it bend into an arc. Tony’s eyes followed Arthur’s hand as the boy swished the cane through the air. Tony’s mouth suddenly dried and he gulped on his beer.

“I think you should get the same as me,” Arthur stared intently at his friend to measure his reaction. Then he wobbled the cane in front of Tony. The boy’s round brown eyes shone. Arthur knew that look in his friend. He had seen him give similar looks before.

“So,” he swished the cane once more. “What do you say? Should I cane you?”

Tony knew his face had flushed. His breathing was tight as well. His heart beat faster with excitement.

“Well lad, what do you say?” It was a commanding order.

Tony stared down at the garishly-patterned carpet beneath his feet. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.

“Speak up boy. Do you want me to thrash you?” Arthur rolled the word “thrash” around his tongue.

“Oh yes, Sir,” Tony whimpered. Arthur snorted. His friend could be such a wimp sometimes.

“Have you ever been caned before?”

Tony flushed, as if embarrassed by his answer, “Oh no, Sir.”

“Then this will be an awesome experience for you, won’t it?” Arthur realised he was loving this. It would be an awesome experience for them both.

“Shall we say six on the trousers and another six on the pants? Which pants are you wearing?”

“You know; those tight dark green ones.”

Arthur tapped the worn end of the cane against the wooden surface of the dining room table. “Bend over the table, boy.” He was enjoying himself. “I am going to thrash your bottom. Very. Hard. Indeed,” he tried to sound like an old-fashioned schoolmaster about to administer six-of-the-best to some misbehaving sixth-former.

Tony’s breathing quickened and his mind flooded with contradictory thoughts. He knew he wanted his pal Arthur to cane his backside; but he wasn’t sure he could take the pain that would result.

He shuffled forward to the table and bending at the waist he gipped its far edge.

“No, it’s better if you lay flat on your stomach,” Arthur clearly had more expertise in such matters than his pal.

Obediently, Tony repositioned himself so that his belly and chest rested on the table top and his legs stretched out behind him. This way his bottom was raised over the edge of the table at just the right angle for Arthur to lash the cane across the centre of both buttock cheeks.

Tony buried his face in his folded arms and waited for the intense pain to start.

Arthur swiped the cane through the air and observed his pal’s rounded buttocks clench and unclench and then clench again. Arthur had always thought Tony’s bum was his finest asset and having it presented to him in this way confirmed that view.

“Relax. Relax; it is better if you can relax your buttocks.” Arthur tapped the cane across the centre of his target.

It was easier said than done, but Tony gave it his best shot. But, if the mind was willing, the body was not. The buttocks continued to remain clenched.

“Are you ready?” Arthur’s kind question was met with a muffled groan from Tony’s mouth which was now buried deep in his arms.

Swish! Arthur’s first stroke caught his pal in the centre of the bum. Tony gasped, his head shot up and Arthur could see his pal’s beautiful brown eyes were shining.

“Keep still, now,” stoke number two landed a centimetre lower than the first. Despite his best efforts, Tony’ buttocks lifted off the table and he swung his hips from left to right in response to the pain now shooting down his legs.

Arthur smiled at his pal’s histrionics. He wasn’t caning the lad one-tenth as hard as his dad had beaten him. What a wimp.

The third stroke was met with a girlish shriek and “Ow, ow, ow.” Again, Tony sashayed his hips and his round bum danced across the table top.

“Keep still.” It was such an inviting target that Arthur wanted to land at least one cut with full force across the lad’s full bottom.

Swish! Thwack! Bingo: right on target Tony let out a loud yelp and jumped from the table, hopping from foot to foot and massaging his injured bum.

Arthur looked deep into his pal’s shining eyes. He couldn’t read his expression: was he loving or hating this caning.

Swish! Arthur swished the cane menacingly. “C’mon boy. Take this with some dignity can’t you. Get back over.”

Tony knew he had let himself down. His great pal Arthur had received one hell of a beating from his dad and he didn’t howl and holler. He buried his face in his arms once more and gritted his teeth.

Swipe! Swipe! Two strokes fell in quick succession. Tony’s bottom reprised its table-top dance but the boy stayed face down. The first six was over. Now, it was trousers-down time.

“Stand up. Take down your trousers.”

Tony was a ghostly white as he raised himself from the table. He smiled enigmatically, but made no effort to unbutton his trousers.

Arthur stared at his best pal. A bright smile creased his own face. Then he burst into laughter.

“Get them down,” he laughed. “At once you naughty little boy.”

“Okay, you asked for it,” Tony giggled and ripped down his trousers, revealing a massive erection straining to break free of his bottle-green briefs.

Arthur also had a tent pole in his pants. Without a word, he grabbed Tony’s pants and pulled them to his knees; then he took the lad’s cock into his own mouth.

“Wait, wait,” gasped Tony as he struggled out of his t-shirt and pulled his trousers and pants off his legs. In seconds Arthur had his own clothes on the floor and the two nineteen-year-olds entwined together fell on the carpet as naked as the day they were born.

And that was how Mr Braithwaite would have found them if earlier in the day he had arrived home five minutes later.

 

Other caning stories you might like.

My belligerent nephew

His Eldest Brother

The expenses fiddle

 

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The smoking schoolboy

z used drawing smoking (1)

“You’d better not let Perkins catch you smoking. You know what he said. It’ll be a swishing,” Templeton groaned.

Baxter, leaned back in the study armchair, drew on his cigarette and sucked the smoke into his lungs before holding it there. Then, very slowly he exhaled noisily.

Templeton was not impressed. He sniffed the fug in the air. “This study will stink of tobacco. I don’t want to get the blame for you.”

Baxter sneered. “This place is turning into a madhouse. What’s Fletch’s game?”

That was a question many boys at the school had asked since Dr. Fletcher had arrived as the new headmaster. He had told the sixth-form that he was a “new broom.”

“What on earth is that supposed to mean?” Gallagher had asked his fellows. None of them knew for sure at the time. But, they were soon to find out.

“The school has gone to the dogs,” Dr. Fletcher had announced. “Things must improve and quickly,” he decreed to Perkins, the school captain. “And,” he stubbed a finger in the eighteen-year-old’s face provocatively, “I expect you to make the changes.”

Perkins blanched. What was he expected to do?

“Start with the sixth-form and the prefects,” Dr. Fletcher poked the finger again. “Once they understand the rules are for everyone, the rest of the school will soon fall in line.”

Perkins looked dumbfounded, so his new headmaster spelled it out clearly.

“Let them know that lights out and curfew applies to them also. No smoking. No alcohol. Come on boy, you know the sort of thing.”

Perkins nodded uncertainly. He knew the sort of thing, but what was he supposed to do when his fellow prefects and sixth-formers broke the rules?

“Beat them boy. Beat them,” Dr. Fetcher growled in response to the question. “I want to see you take the lead,” the headmaster leaned into Perkins’ face provokingly. “It’s up to you Perkins. I’m relying on you.”

The school captain had never felt so threatened in his life. His arse was quite literally on the line. If he didn’t get the seniors to buck up their ideas and improve their behaviour, it would be Perkins in the head’s study offering up his backside to Dr. Fletcher.

“It’s madness,” Baxter shifted his position in the chair. “I’m eighteen damn it. Does Fletch think that when my father sees me smoking at home, he makes me bend over for six with a cane?” He snorted a derisive answer to his own question.

“If we were day boys at school, would we be taken over nanny’s knee at home for a spanking with the slipper because we weren’t tucked up in bed by nine-thirty?” His eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Why does Fletch insist on treating us like little children?”

Just then the study door opened and Gallagher entered. “My hat, Baxter,” he exclaimed, waving his arms frantically to clear the air. “Can’t you be more blatant about it? One would think you positively wanted Perky to tan your arse.”

Baxter drew more cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, creased his nose and glared disdainfully at Gallagher. “No, I leave that sort of thing to you, old bean.” His eyes sparkled and he relished in Gallagher’s discomfiture as his companion’s face took on a deep shade of beetroot.

Baxter leaned back in his armchair, one foot at rest on a wooden chair, blew smoke at the ceiling, and steadfastly ignored his chums in the study. Each of us have different talents; that is God’s gift to us all. Baxter’s talent was sneering. He was disdainful of the scholar, the boys with noses buried in books. He derided the rugger buggers who huffed and puffed across wet, muddy fields in pursuit of glory for the school. He jeered at any boy who took anything seriously. Now, he professed to scoff at Perkins, the sincere school captain forced on a mission to improve the morals of his flock.

 

@

 

Perkins paced the passageway, shoulders slumped, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his trousers. A decision had to be made; he had put it off for far too long. If matters did not improve immediately, Dr. Fletcher would be on his back. Rather, he would be on Perkins’s backside. With a stout whippy cane (or heaven forbid) a heavy birch rod. Perkins was captain of rugby. He was captain of cricket too; he knew the value of decisive leadership. He sighed as if he carried the whole world’s troubles on his young shoulders.

He had no choice in the matter: Baxter must be beaten. The decision made, Perkins shuffled towards study no. 2 where he was sure to find the culprit.

The school captain shoved open the heavy wooden door with more confidence than he really felt. Three pairs of eyes burned into him as he stood in the doorway, his fists clenched. Perkins cut an imposing stature, He was at least six-feet-two, broad at the shoulders, rounded of chest, with narrow hips. His muscles had been developed on many sporting fields. He had biceps that would make a navvy proud.

“You’re brazen, Baxter. You don’t even have the courtesy to hide it,” he snarled at the figure slumped in the armchair surrounded by a fug of cigarette smoke. Baxter flapped the wrist holding the offending cigarette and grimaced.

His unspoken message was clear, “What’s a fellow to do; these school rules are so darned tedious.”

Perkins stretched his arms wide, he made a formidable foe framed by the stout doorway.

“You know the rules Baxter. Dr. Fletcher has spoken them clearly,” Perkins face flushed.

He received another limp-wristed wave for his trouble.

Damn Baxter’s impertinence. Perkins was fuming now. “That’s it Baxter. I’m going to beat you. You give me no choice.”

“Ha!” the solitary word spat from Baxter’s mouth. He leaned forward and ostentatiously stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. “I really don’t think so, old bean,” he beamed. The matter, he had decided was at an end.

Perkins strode into the study and stood over the seated sixth-former. “Stand up. Come with me,” his voice faltered; it had not been as clear a command as he had wished. Baxter waved his arm, dismissing his superior. Perkins knew his ears were reddening. He did not like to be confronted. He did not expect it. In a school such as this there were clear understandings. Some people were the bosses; the others the bossed. Baxter should darned well know his place.

“C’mon Baxter,” Gallagher who had been observing proceedings from a seat in the corner of the study, piped up. “You know Fletch told Perky he had to clean up the Sixth. That means you. If he doesn’t he’s probably got a birching to look forward to.”

“That’s right,” Templeton joined in. “If you don’t take a punishment and mend your ways, Perky will cop it.” Templeton was a self-righteous boy and many of his fellows despised him for it, but they would have to agree he was correct on this occasion.

“Do you have no honour?” Templeton’s question stunned the occupants of Study no. 2 into silence.

Honour? A chap should never let another fellow be punished for his own misdeeds.

Gallagher stirred in his chair. “If you let Perky down, the whole school will know about it. You’ll be ostracised; sent to Coventry.”

A moral high-ground was being constructed. Perkins took his chance. “Come with me Baxter. We should visit the Punishment Room.” Baxter could not mistake the glint in the school captain’s dark brown eyes. The unspoken message was clear,

Perkins walked slowly to the study door, paused for dramatic effect and then turned the handle. He eased the door open, knowing that all eyes in the room blazed on him. “Follow me, Baxter,” he said quietly and without looking back he exited the room safe in the knowledge that Baxter would be following on his heels.

The Punishment Room was really only an ordinary classroom, set aside for a particular purpose. The room was used for detention classes. It was about ten feet by ten and contained a half dozen wooden forms and desks. A rickety wooden teacher’s desk stood at the front with an uncomfortable chair behind it. Behind that and nailed to the wall were three metal hooks. From one dangled a stout, dark-yellow, curve-handled, whippy, rattan punishment cane. The “business end” was a little more than three feet in length and it was a little thicker than a pencil. It had been delivered with some vim across a generation of young gentlemen’s backsides and was a little warped.

A diffused light entered the room through a small window high on the wall. No boy could idly gaze out into the world from this classroom. Gloom enveloped the airless room.

Baxter stood silently watching Perkins prepare himself. Baxter placed his hands behind his back, his feet were slightly apart. His kept a steady gaze on the school captain, noticing the muscles in Perkins’s back flex when he picked up the teacher’s chair to carry it across the room and place it in an open space in front of the schoolboy desks. Perkin’s striped trousers stretched across his round, meaty buttocks as he leant forward.

Baxter ran his tongue across the roof of his mouth; all saliva had dried. He wished he hadn’t smoked quite so many cigarettes that day. Perkins returned to the teacher’s desk and silently divested himself of his jacket and let it fall on the heavily-marked desktop.

Baxter’s tongue still worked hard to moisten his mouth as he watched the school captain slowly take the cuff of the right sleeve of his shirt in his left hand and slowly, meticulously, roll it up by two inches. Then he rolled it once more. Then, again. In this way, the taut muscles in Perkin’s arm were gradually exposed to the warm air.

He turned to Baxter, studying the teenager’s demeanour. His clear blue eyes were dim. In his mind, Baxter seemed to be somewhere else. Not here, in this small, hot room about to be thrashed on the backside with a stout whippy cane by a boy of his same age.

“Take off your coat, put it there,” Perkins nodded across the room to his own jacket. Baxter crinkled his nose, as if a sudden bad odour had seeped into the room. He glanced across at his tormentor, wrinkled his nose again and slowly stepped across the room. His hands shook violently as he undid the buttons and slipped the jacket from his shoulders. He laid it neatly on the desk beside the other coat lying there.

He paused, as if some thought had just struck him. He turned his body, faced Perkins full on, and with a slight arching of his eyebrow indicated the waistcoat he was wearing.

“Yes, take that off too.” It was a quiet, simple instruction. With a little more confidence than earlier, Baxter removed it and let it drop on top of his jacket.

“Stand by the chair.”

Baxter ran his tongue across dry, cracked lips. Why was his heart pounding so hard, he wondered? He had been beaten countless times in the past. It was that kind of school. A cane or ashplant laid on with power could hurt like crazy. Sometimes the marks lasted days; a week even. The agony was excruciating at the moment the rod swiped across the stretched buttocks. But, it quickly eased into a throbbing pain, to be followed by a warm glow.

Whatever his school captain had in store for him, Baxter was certain he would live through it.

He stood in front of the chair, hands behind his back and watched intently as Perkins reached up to the hook on the wall and took down the rattan cane.

He flexed it between his hands. The school captain always marvelled at how light these things were. Like, his chum Baxter, Perkins had had his buttocks blistered many times. How, he wondered, could something so light, inflict such damage?

Baxter watched as Perkins swished the rod through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing noise as it went. Perkins’s big brown eyes sparkled as he felt the power of the rod in his hands.

Then there was silence. It was time to get on with this. One eighteen-year-old schoolboy was to thrash another with a whippy cane across the backside. All in the name of school discipline. Perkins’s own heart thumped. This was not the first time he had wielded the cane; why, he wondered was he so tense this time?

“C’mon, let’s get on with this,” he croaked, swishing the cane one more time. Baxter kept a steady eye contact with his punisher and mimed unbuckling his own belt. Perkins’s flushed pink. “No, no,” he blustered. “Just bend over.”

Baxter turned his back, set his feet about a yard apart, arched his back and grasped the side of the seat of the wooden chair. To stop his eyes continuously blinking he stared intently at a gnarled knothole. He heard Pekins’s feet shuffle behind him, he was taking up his position. In his mind’s eye, Baxter pictured the imposing school captain flexing his muscles, cane in hand, finding his aim. He felt the cane tap the underside of his buttocks, just where they met the thighs. He held his breath, shut his teeth, screwed his eyes tight and waited for the first stinging swipe.

It landed with a resounding crack that echoed across the small room. Moments later, Baxter felt the pain. A rush of wind escaped his clenched teeth. Wow!! That was some cut. Already, he felt a welt was forming beneath his trousers. His buttocks shuddered and his knees bent slightly, but he held himself steady. As he waited for the next swipe. He respected the expertise of his punisher; that was quite one of the best (or, perhaps the worse) cuts he had ever been dealt.

As, he aimed the cane once more across Baxter’s buttocks (a little higher this time) Perkins admired the fortitude of his fellow sixth-former. He had taken it with stoicism. He would be in intense pain, but was determined not to let that show. Good old Baxter!

The second swipe bounced off the very centre of Baxter’s bum. The boy was no athlete and his body was covered in more than a little flesh, but when bent over the chair his raised buttocks firmed up, offering two solid meaty mounds for punishment. Perkins’s was delighted to be presented with such a target.

The third cut (high this time, just below the base of the spine) had Baxter sucking in his breath. His arse was on fire and soon he would not be able to disguise the fact from Perkins. The school captain was hurting him. A lot. All he could see was the worn wooden seat of the chair, but he was almost certain Perkins would be drained in sweat from his exertions. Or maybe not; since Perkins was some athlete, he would be used to physical strain. Baxter was unsure; which of the two images, he preferred.

Perkins paused, took a step away from the boy bent submissively before him and drank in the sight. Here was Baxter, passively offering up his bottom to him. Silently saying, “Here, do what you wish with me. In this moment, I am yours.” And, here was Perkins, anxious to take advantage. Whenever again would he get such a chance.

He gripped the cane in his right fist and positioned himself a little further to Baxter’s left, tap-tap-tapped the rod across the top of the mounds once more and let fly. The stick landed right on top of a previously-delivered cut. Baxter could not help himself. He yelped like a little whipped puppy, wriggled his bum and stamped his legs up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. He steadied himself, a little ashamed at his reaction. Two strokes to go. What more did Parkins have in store for him.

Perkins adjusted himself one more time, delighting in the pain he was causing. But, he had no animosity against Baxter. His fellow sixth-former’s behaviour had been nothing personal. It was just Baxter kicking off against the school. And, Perkins had been put in an impossible position by the headmaster.

Even so, a caning should hurt. A lot. Otherwise what was the point of it? Perkins aimed once more (from the bottom left buttock to the top right). “YOWLLLLL!!” Baxter’s scream was genuine as the cane landed diagonally across his arse, slicing into the four welts that already throbbed beneath his trousers and reigniting the pain in all of them. He would discover later that blood seeped from some of the points where the cane marks intersected.

Baxter repeated the buttock wiggling and the leg stomping and added a few heaves of the shoulders for good measure, but gamely he hung on to the seat of the chair.

“Oh, no, please,” Baxter silently whined as he felt the cane rest across his buttocks once more (from the low right to the top left). Crack!!! Now, he had a perfect “X” indented across his buttocks. His face and neck were as scarlet as his bottom as blood rushed through his body to his head. His temples pulsated as much as the meat in his bum.

Perkins tucked the cane under his arm and admired his handiwork. Baxter’s buttocks twitched. How, Perkins wished he had allowed Baxter to lower his trousers and underwear. His arse must be cut to ribbons. What a sight to behold that must be.

Seconds that seemed like minutes passed. Baxter’s was getting his breathing back under control. He blinked back tears. He could not help it, it was his body’s natural reaction to the onslaught it had suffered. Suddenly, Perkins startled, as if just realising where he was. He stepped around the still-prostrated teenager and replaced the cane on the hook.

“You can remove yourself, now,” his command was haughty. Baxter jumped up, hopping from foot to foot. Perkins grinned widely. Baxter stopped his spanking dance puzzled. His stare was as good as asking the question, “What are you laughing at?”

By way of silent reply, Perkins nodded toward the huge bulge in the front of Baxter’s trousers.

Baxter’s own grin was wider than Perkins’s.

“What the deuce …?” The two eighteen-year-olds eyes met. Instant understanding. Perkins reached forward and expertly undid the buckle of the belt, unbuttoned the flies and in a single continual movement had the trousers and underwear at Baxter’s feet. The released cock pointed in Perkins’s face, the tip already glistening.

He sank to his knees and gripped Baxter’s buttocks and pulled him forward. Baxter winced as his chum’s fingers dug into his blistered cheeks, the new pain encouraging his dick to swell further. Perkins gripped the base of his cock and energetically licked it from the ball sack, along the steel-hard shaft up to the red-raw tip. Within seconds, Perkins’s face was soaked in cum. Baxter fell on his back wheezing as if his life’s breath had deserted him.

Perkins wiped his chin clean with the back of his hand. His own cock strained against the front of his trousers, demanding to be freed. His companion lay on the dusty floor still struggling to force air into his lungs.

The pain in his trousers was too great; swift action had to be taken. In one continuous movement, Perkins bent down and gripped Baxter under the armpits. Perkins had superior strength, but he didn’t need it. Baxter gave no resistance. Perkins lifted him to his feet and dragged him towards the teacher’s desk. Within a heartbeat, Perkins had Baxter facedown across it, his savaged buttocks at his mercy. A hand in the small of his back held him firm, while with the other Perkins undid his own trousers and dragged his clothes to his knees.

“Yes, yes,” Baxter wheezed and parted his legs, offering his winking hole. Perkins could see this was not a new experience for the eighteen-year-old. He held his shaft half way down and guided his cock forward and was greeted with a satisfying screech.

Upstairs in Study No 2. Gallagher and Templeton exchanged contented looks. Perkins was giving Baxter the sound flogging he so truly deserved. Order had been restored to the school.

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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The pretty policeman

He knew the boy would be trouble

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Watch out for her brothers!

z used drawing face blond Greenleaf Classic (3)

Gwyn Jones was twenty years old and there was one thing he knew for certain; girls gagged for sex just as much as boys. And, Gwyn was very happy to take as much as they would give. He even went with the plainer girls, happy to help out a damsel in distress.

Gwyn didn’t have to try too hard. He had fashionably cut blond hair and clear healthy skin. When it caught the sun, his nut-brown complexion highlighted his dazzling white straight teeth and sparkling blue eyes. He stood at about five-nine and everything was in proper proportion. He could wear any clothes. His arse looked great in cheap Tesco Bomber jeans from the supermarket or in the most expensive designer labels.

A few of the guys at the university’s Gay Soc said they’d have him any day. He might be a year younger than the local law allowed, but they’d take the risk, they said.

Pam Cobb was a girl in his year. They were in the same faculty, but they didn’t take classes together. He met her through Audrey Henley, a rather lanky girl who was a bit of a star in the varsity netball team. He could now report with great confidence to any of his pals who doubted it that netball players were not a bunch of lesbians. Audrey had spent her childhood at a posh independent ladies’ college and was making up for lost time with the boys.

She wasn’t looking for a husband (not yet), so was pleased to pass on her “Great Shag” to her friend, Pam. Pam was twenty-years old, going on forty-five. Polite people might say she was “homely”; she favoured fluffy pink jumpers and Levi jeans that emphasised her plump behind. Her permed hair reminded folks of her mother.

Of course, Gwyn would “give her one.” Those weren’t the exact words he used when Audrey told him Pam was willing, but nobody was under any illusion. Pam lived at home with her parents in a large detached place on The Avenue. “Very nice,” Gwyn gaped when Pam parked her Mini in front of the five-bedroomed (two with en-suite bathrooms) house, resplendent with two acres of garden and a gazebo. It was a step-up from the cramped room in the student residences he usually used.

Gwyn was ready for action the moment they set foot through the door. His cock was bursting; trying to climb over the waistband of his briefs. It was like that most of the time, he couldn’t control it. It was only a little after midday, but he’d tossed off twice already that day.

“Come,” Pam took his hand and led him through the hallway and up the stairs. “Let’s use the guest bedroom.”

It was tastefully furnished in greens and blues. Some expertise had been used in its design. All Gwyn saw was the huge bed. There was so much room, four people could sleep in it and never need to brush against one another.

Pam struggled out of her fluffy jumper and wriggled down her jeans. Her naked flesh wobbled like jam. Gwyn’s eyes stalked and his todger throbbed. If he didn’t get a shift on he would cum in his underpants. Pam’s eyes resembled saucers as she watched Gwyn’s cock soar towards her, a Cruise missile couldn’t fly so fast.

They didn’t make love. They had messy sex. It was over in no time. Gwyn lay silently on his back looking at the ornate carvings on the ceiling. It had been a shag, but nothing special. Pam needed to practice more, he reckoned. Moments later, his cock pulsated again. He looked across at Pam. Yes, she nodded, “I’m ready for round two.”

Stephen and Alistair, Pam’s brothers, were puzzled when they pulled up outside the house. What was Pam’s car doing there at that time of day. She should be at university. She never came home before five.

“Something must be wrong,” Stephen said anxiously, hurrying into the house, for he loved his kid sister dearly. “Is she sick, do you think?” Alistair followed on in his brother’s wake (as he so often did). “Pam! Pam! Are you there!” Stephen bounded up the stairs, heading for his sister’s bedroom. He knocked on the door. No reply. Gingerly, he worked the door handle, eased open the door and shyly peeked inside. Empty. She wasn’t there.

“Argggg!” A grunt from the adjoining room. It sounded like a sow on heat. “Ahhh! Ahhh!” Except it was clearly a man’s noise. Heart-thumping, Stephen rushed across the hallway and threw open the door.

Gwyn had shot his second load. It was better than the first, he had made it last longer. He was face-down in the bedsheet, catching his breath. Pam saw her brother first and swiftly pulled a sheet around her nakedness.

“Worrrrrr!” her brother exploded, summing up the situation immediately. Pam fled the room.

Gwyn sat on the bed, a sheepish grin betraying his self-satisfaction.

“You bastard!” Stephen’s anger was not feigned. Gwyn recoiled. In front of him was a tall, muscular thirtysomething man, his square face blazing fury.

“No, it’s not what you think,” Gwyn panicked. “She agreed.”

Just then another, younger man wheezed into the room. His facial features and the extra pounds of lard he carried on his body confirmed he was Pam’s brother.

“You’re not getting away with this,” Stephen clenched his fists, ready to fight. Gwyn slunk back against the bed’s headboard. He was no fighter. The angry man towering above him could knock six bells out of him. No trouble.

“We have ways of dealing with your sort.” Stephen stepped back from the bed, a plan already formulated in his head.

“Ali, help me,” he leant forward and gripped Gwyn by the arm. The boy struggled but Ali joined his brother and pinned him down on the bed.

“Turn him over,” Stephen ordered. Ali would never disobey his brother. He took Gwyn’s other arm. Resistance was futile. He was face down, nose in the soiled bedsheet.

“Hold him down. Sit on his head if you have to!”

Alistair flopped his considerable weight across Gwyn’s back, winding him. The boy’s arse and legs flailed. “Ger-off,” he squealed. “I didn’t do anything.”

Stephen’s eyes ran across the room, searching for a suitable weapon. Nothing. He opened and closed drawers, not sure what he expected to find. Still zilch.

Then, the ghost of an idea flickered. There was something Stephen hadn’t seen in years. Did they still have it? He wasn’t at all sure. But, if they did, it would be in the back of the linen cupboard.

“Ali, Keep him there. Don’t let him go,” he called over his shoulder as he rushed out the door. The linen cupboard was huge and packed with bedsheets and towels and goodness only knows what else. When they were kids they used to play in this cupboard, pretending they were in a spaceship bound for Mars.

Yes, it was there. He pulled out a heavy leather razor strop. Back in the day his grandfather had used it for shaving. It had a mightily effective alternative use as well, as Stephen himself could testify. This little beauty could take a boy’s arse off.

“Hold him still,” Stephen commanded. Gwyn was terror-struck. That damn girl. Had she set him up? Was she listening at the keyhole stroking her wet pussy? Loving every moment.

Stephen stood over the bed and assessed his target. Even from a close distance Gwyn’s body looked completely hairless. It wasn’t. His bum was bald but his legs were covered in a down of fine fair hair. What little Stephen could see of the boy’s back was lean but muscular and his waist was trim. There wasn’t enough spare fat anywhere on his body to sizzle a sausage.

Gwyn’s bum was firm and meaty. The flesh was milky white, the outline of skimpy swimming trunks contrasted with the rest of his deeply-tanned body.

The strop was nearly two feet long and several inches wide. Stephen tested the weight of it in his hand before resting it across the centre of Gwyn’s bum. It covered half of the target. He saw the bottom go hard, tensing into a solid, round ball. He couldn’t see it, but the boy’s nipples hardened on his tight chest.

Stephen removed the strop, raised it high towards the ceiling, held it there for two beats and brought it crashing down across Gwyn’s naked arse. A thick dark-pink stripe three inches wide immediately flamed across the naked flesh. The boy’s bottom shuddered and he kicked his legs against the agony travelling through his body.

A second whack hammered home, landing above the first. The whole of Gwyn’s bum was crimson. He shook his head from side to side and whined, rather like a horse whinnying. The weight of Ali on his back and the agony coursing through his body took his breath away. Sweat soaked his hairline and his temples throbbed almost as much as his backside.

Stephen paused. The whole of his prisoner’s bum was cherry red; not a square inch had been left uncovered. Where should he place the next swipe? There were two choices; either he should stop the punishment now, or land another cut over the existing wounds. He wasn’t about to let up yet, so he pulled the strop high, swung it a little in the air and brought it down low. Just where the bum meets the thighs. He was rewarded with a tremendous howl from his captive. Gwyn’s body shook violently and his head butted up and down against the mattress.

His yowls were pitiful, but his pious tormentor had little pity. He bounced the strap off Gwyn’s mounds three times in rapid fire. Bang-bang-bang. The boy’s flesh was raw, a purple strip of raised flesh ran across the very centre of both cheeks.

Gwyn was weeping openly. He had never experienced anything like this in his life.

Stephen had a sadistic streak, and he relished this opportunity to indulge it. A flicker of a grin creased his lips as he rested the heavy leather strop on the back of Gwyn’s thighs. “Nooooo!” The boy kicked out, terrified. The grin broadened, the strop rose and whacked down on the back of Gwyn’s legs. The shrieks that bounced off the walls of the opulent bedroom were deeply satisfying, so Stephen repeated the action two more times.

Gwyn’s body shuddered violently for ten or more seconds and went still. Ashen-faced Ali leapt from the bed.

“He’s dead! He’s dead!” he yelled.

He wasn’t. His breathing was shallow and he was weeping copiously into the mattress.

“Leave him!” Stephen growled at his brother. “Go see if Pam’s all right.”

Obediently, Ali left the room.

Stephen stood over Gwyn’s prostrate body. The boy’s arse twitched convulsively. The flesh from the base of his spine to an inch above the back of the knees was red-raw. In places it looked like uncooked hamburger meat. The boy’s breathing was gaining strength.

Stephen looked over his shoulder, noticed the door was still open. He would need to act quickly. He shoved it shut with his foot and turned to face the bed. Gwyn’s arse was glowing like dying ambers of coal.

“Get ready because here I come,” Stephen trilled merrily and unbuckled his belt. Puzzled, Gwyn looked over his own shoulder to see his tormentor ripping down his trousers and pants. Stephen’s cock crowed. Gwyn’s eyes blazed. He turned face-down on the bed once more, raised himself to his knees, spread his legs and bit on the pillow.

Picture Credit: Greenleaf Classics

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Breath-taking

z used hustler by Josman (1)

Danny only had a split-second to decide. Should he drive off to Maureen’s Peak with the sexy stranger and shag him senseless, or should he return the car to dad on time as he had promised.

It was a no-brainer. He opened the car door and let him in. He would face the consequences with dad later.

They didn’t shag; that is go all the way. Instead, Danny sucked the stranger’s eight-inch cock until he shot a load in his mouth. Then he had a second decision to make. The wine taster’s dilemma: should he spit or should he swallow? He swallowed. He couldn’t risk staining the seats in dad’s car. He knew from experience cum stains were impossible to wash off.

Dad was exasperated. He paced the sitting room, looking at his watch every ten seconds. Danny was fifteen minutes late. Then, he was thirty. Dad stood at the front gate peering down the quiet suburban street. No sign of his son. He looked at his watch again. He would never admit it, but he was scared. Had Danny been in a traffic accident? Was his shiny new car damaged? Had his son been hurt?

He’d damn well hurt him when he did get home. It wasn’t that dad wanted to go anywhere in the car; he didn’t. It was his irresponsible nineteen-year-old son that was the problem. Danny had disobeyed dad. Again. It wasn’t just the car, it was everything. He was surly around the house, he wouldn’t do his chores unless his mother nagged him. He came and went as he pleased, treating the house like a hotel. It had to stop and dad was quite sure how to make it.

At last, dad saw the car turn the corner of The Avenue. It looked intact. His son was safe. He hurried back into the house. He didn’t want Danny to know he had been anxious.

Danny parked the car and checked the time. Ninety minutes late. Dad would be mad. Oh well, he thought, it had been worth it. The memory of the stranger’s huge cock was fresh. He felt his own dick tingle. Danny’s usually cobalt blue eyes shone. He put his key in the front door lock and prepared to face the consequences.

“In here. Now.” The fury in his dad’s voice seemed genuine. Danny closed the door, put his cap on a coat hook and went to meet his fate.

Danny’s face was flushed and his eyes sparkling. “You’ve been drinking!” Dad’s own eyes widened. “I can see it from here.”

Danny bristled. He hadn’t been drinking, but he could hardly tell dad what he had been doing. “No, I’ve not,” he pouted instead.

“Come here. Now.” Dad snapped his fingers. Reluctantly, Danny moved further into the sitting room. “Breathe out, let me smell your breath.”

Danny’s face reddened.

“I thought so. Drinking. And driving!”

“No, no ..” Danny wasn’t sure what to say.

“Let me smell your breath.”

Danny sucked in air as if somehow that would take the stink away.

“Breathe in my face.”

“Huff..”

Dad’s nose wrinkled. What was that smell? He knew what it was, but  he couldn’t quite place it. The aroma was sweet and a little sickly.

“Again.” Dad leaned forward towards his son to get the full blast. Danny heaved into dad’s face.

No, dad still couldn’t quite name it. He didn’t know what it was, but it certainly wasn’t alcohol.

“OK,” he conceded reluctantly, “You haven’t been drinking. What was it, some girl?” Dad roared with genuine mirth when Danny’s face went the colour of beetroot.

“I might have known,” dad’s smile was fading. “But it doesn’t excuse your disobeying my instruction and coming home late. I’ve lost count the number of times you’ve disobeyed me or your mother. Well, it’s going to stop and it’s going to stop right now, understand.”

Dad was a master at the upscale St. Francis Independent Grammar School in town. He knew all about discipline – and everything about punishment. St. FIGS was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, most of all, traditional discipline. Dad knew the effectiveness of corporal punishment. At school his weapon of choice was the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. It certainly made its point when whipped across stretched buttocks.

But, that was school and this was home. At school he was the master, at home he was a loving dad. Caning was an impersonal punishment; something delivered quite literally at arm’s length. There was a necessary distance between the punisher and the punished.

At home it was quite different. The father-son relationship was based on love. Dad loved his son and as part of that loving he knew he must punish him. The punishment should not be remote or distant, it should be close. That was why he intended to take Danny across his knee.

“I think you know what must happen now,” dad might be a loving father, but even at home he had the air of the schoolmaster. He would stand no nonsense from the teenager.

Danny stared at the carpet. Of course he knew what was coming. He had lived his whole life under dad’s domination. He had no choice: he must grin and bare it. One day when his studying was over and he had a job and could afford to move out he would begin an independent life. Until then it was dad’s house, dad’s rules.

Danny was transfixed by the grey-patterned Axminster so did not see his dad rummage through the sideboard drawer. He heard the rattle of dinner mats being moved, he knew what dad was searching for.

At last he found it.

“Come stand over here.” Dad was already seating himself in the centre of a long leather Chesterfield couch. Danny’s cobalt blue eyes blinked rapidly. They always did at times like this. His father clutched a large wooden clothes brush. He waved it through the air. “Trousers. Underpants down. Come lay across my lap.”

They were clear instructions. Dad knew they would be obeyed. And, they were. Danny’s cargo shorts had no belt, they hugged his waist beautifully. With the button unfastened and the zip lowered they hurtled to his feet. Danny stood in his gaily-patterned briefs. A sudden panic. They must be stained with his cum. With alacrity he hitched his thumbs in the waistband and with the merest flick of the wrists he sent them south the land on top of his shorts.

Dad tapped the brush against his thigh with impatience. Danny looked on curiously, his father was a tall man and as befitting someone his age he was running to fat.  His lap was large and offered a substantial platform for the teenager to present himself for a spanking. Dad’s arms were surprisingly well-developed; he built his strength through the constant gardening he did at weekends. Dad’s face was grey and lined and his hair thinning, but he insisted in having a combover to disguise his baldness.

Danny took a deep breath and lowered himself over his dad’s knees. He knew the drill. He raised his legs so they stretched out behind him and along the couch. He rested his elbows on the couch so that his head was raised and he could see ahead of him. “Bugger,” he thought. He could see through the open window into the street outside. A passer-by might easily see in.

His cock dug into dad’s thigh so he wriggled his body until he was comfortable; although, of course, what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

Danny was shorter than average and slim so he fitted this spanking position perfectly. He noticed the curtain sway gently in the breeze. Then, he felt the excruciating pain of a heavy wooden brush crash into the centre of his left buttock. There was very little flesh to absorb the impact. He cupped his hands together and covered his mouth.

Bang-bang-bang. Dad kept up a steady rhythm. Danny blew hard into his hands, suddenly so overwhelmed by the stink of his own breath it made him gag a little.

Danny’s bum was small and dad’s brush so large that the whole of the target area was a mass of dark-pink marks within seconds. Dad always marvelled at how the shape of the oval head of the brush could be reproduced again and again across creamy-white buttocks.

Danny’s bum rose and fell against dad’s legs. The nineteen-year-old had no control of this, it was his body’s natural reaction to the pounding it was taking. Dad gripped him across the shoulders. He was going nowhere – not until dad said so. At first Danny’s bum stung with each successive blow but soon the whole of his arse throbbed. As dad whacked on and on the throbbing grew to an intense ache. His backside was on fire, it felt like he had sat in a bucket of boiling water.

Oh, no! Danny saw a figure he recognised standing in his front garden peering through the window. It was Alan, a pal from down the road. They often tossed each other off when Alan’s parents were at work. Alan grinned so wide his teeth might fall out. He pulled his phone from his pocket and held it high. He would wank himself dry later viewing and reviewing the video.

Dad was not a cruel man, he believed in chastisement not torture, but years of schoolmastering had taught him that for corporal punishment to be effective it had to hurt. Otherwise, what was the point of it?

Satisfied that he had scorched every square-inch of his son’s posterior dad tuned his attention to the back of Danny’s thighs. Whack-whack-whack. That had the teenager writhing and kicking. A dark-blue bruise appeared almost immediately.

Dad took one more circuit around the target area and then landed six more into the fleshiest part of Danny’s cheeks. Then he was done.

He released his hold on Danny’s shoulders and before he could give the instruction, “Stand up,” the teenager was on his feet hopping up and down rubbing away at his burnt flesh. His cock and balls waved around in front of his dad’s face.

“Get dressed. Quickly.” A look, something close to horror invaded dad’s face. Dad watched, his heart thumping as his son struggled into his tight pants and pulled up his cargo shorts.

“Go, go,” dad waved his arms frantically, “Go to your room.” Danny didn’t need telling twice, he took the stairs two at a time and hurtled into his bedroom. Dad gaped open mouthed into the middle distance; staring, but seeing nothing. A rush of vomit touched the back of his throat, but he swallowed it down.

Unsteady on his feet he rose from the couch and walked to the cocktail cabinet. With shaking hands he poured a large gin and drank half of it in a single gulp. It did nothing for his nerves. He took the glass and stood at the open window, looking disconsolately at his beloved garden.

“What is to become of us all,” he wailed. Life would never be the same again. Not now he had identified the smell on Danny’s breath.

 

Picture credit: Josman

 

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First day at St CIGS

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

A public service

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com