Rory and Alistair – part 1

z used twosome outdoors Vanguard

Rory MacDonald eased down the handle of the dormitory door with his elbow. His arms were full of cricketing gear and he feared one of the bats was about to tumble to the ground.

He was sweltering in the ninety-degree heat. Would this heat-wave never end? In an ungainly fashion he had the door open and stepped inside. He flashed one of his trademark grins; it split his face in two. In front of him was his best friend Alistair. The eighteen-year-old lay face down on the bed snoozing. He was dead to the world – and totally naked.

Quietly so as not to wake his chum, Rory let the cricket gear fall on to his own bed. Then he sat down and gazed in admiration at Alistair’s body. He was a fine-limbed athletic boy; about five-feet-eight in height. He was hairless on his chest face and buttocks and there was merely down on his legs.

Rory shook his head in amazement. Alistair’s arse and thighs were covered in awesome blue-black bruises. Even from across the room the boy could see the distinctive oval-shaped mark left behind by the hairbrush, which clearly had been applied with some vigour.

Rory looked at his watch; it was time they both got going. He hauled himself from the bed and crossed the room so that he stood towering over his friend. Come on Alistair, he thought, we have a date in town.

Then puckering his lips and leaning forward he planted a wet kiss in the centre of Alistair’s firm left buttock.

The boy awoke like a princess in a fairy-tale.

“Ouch! That hurt,” he grinned.

“Ouch! That hurt,” his friend replied satirically, mocking Alistair’s tone. Both boys exchanged huge grins, puckered up and kissed each other on the lips.

“Pendleton?” Rory asked, nodding at his friends toasted buttocks.

“Who else?” Alistair’s grin never faded. He was not about to let his recent ordeal upset him.

Pendleton was the Head of Wilson’s House. And Pendleton had his own way of instilling discipline among his charges. All the boys who were Head of their House at Willadong Academy were allowed to inflict corporal punishment. There was no set law, but by custom and practice the rattan cane was the instrument of choice. Some Head of Houses used a rubber-soled gym shoe on the youngest of the boys.

Only Pendleton used a hairbrush, applied to a boy’s bared bottom while he was draped across the lap of the Head of House.  And, Pendleton did not care about age and seniority. He would just as easily take eighteen-year-old Alistair Crombie across his knee as the most junior fag in the school.

Alistair and Rory were oddities at the school. They were both in their final year at the school, but had never received any privileges. Although they were old enough to be in the sixth-form, they were treated by everyone, masters and fellow pupils alike, as juniors.

They were even required to dress like juniors. Only boys in the sixth-form were permitted to wear long trousers: it was seen as a badge of privilege. The two boys remained in short trousers and would do so until the day they left school. Not that they cared. Temperatures rarely fell below eighty degrees for most of the year; let the “privileged” sixth-formers swelter in their heavy flannel trousers, it was much better to be free to the wind in short trousers.

A short-sleeved white shirt completed the summer uniform at Willadong. Mostly boys did not wear ties or even socks. They would run bare-footed around the school buildings and slip into thongs when outside.

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life with its myriad rules and regulations. Get up at seven, bed at nine-thirty. Don’t do that; don’t go there. They were more suited to the life of the boys in town. They had made many friends in Woolverton and how they envied them their freedoms. None of the teenagers they knew had fathers who would order them to bend across the armchair for six stingers from a whippy cane because they were out of bed at midnight.

Alistair’s blazing bottom was the result of one such adventure. Bored and unable to sleep, he had climbed through the window and taken himself for a walk. He committed no mischief; he disturbed no boy’s sleep; all he did was to enjoy the moonlight and the clear warm air of midnight.

He was spotted and in the usual matter of course he was reported to Pendleton. Pendleton was not such a huge fellow. He probably was an inch taller than Alistair, but a little thicker set. The Head of House was a fine cricketer and could slog a cricket ball way over the boundary. He had great upper body strength which he put to good use with the hairbrush.

This was not even the first time the eighteen-year-old had been across Pendleton’s knee. The first time he had been ordered to unbuckle his belt and pull down his short trousers, he had been bewildered. He had expected the standard six-of-the-best on the seat; probably whipped in with some force; everyone knew that Pendleton was a bit of a bully. But, to be ordered to go across the prefect’s knee like he was six years old was a shock.

Alistair had no choice. The alternative would have been a visit to the headmaster’s study and a thrashing of a lifetime, almost certainly bare arsed and no doubt with the awesome Malacca cane. That could take a boy’s backside off, leaving him in considerable pain for many days.

No, unconventional though it was, Alistair had to submit himself to Pendleton.

The hairbrush had once belonged to his nanny. Pendleton had felt its sting across his own bared bottom many times until when at the age of eight he was sent off to prep school. The hairbrush was the only memento he had of nanny; he stole it from her room the day he found her dead in her bed.

The over-the-knee bare-bottom spanking hurt like crazy, but it was nothing like getting the cane; even when wearing trousers and underpants. Alistair supposed the ordeal was meant to humiliate him. If so, Pendleton had chosen the wrong boy. He dropped his short trousers and unbidden stepped out of them. Then perfecting an air of unconcern, he put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and lowered them down his thighs and let them fall to his feet, then he stepped out of them too and kicked them a few feet behind him. He now stood naked from the waist down in front of his would-be tormentor.

Alistair was very proud of his body and was not ashamed to be seen naked. His pal Rory was one of his greatest admirers and often they would compliment one another on their anatomy. Rory, for one, had a very distinctive penis; it must have been almost the only uncut specimen in the whole school.

Rory had no idea what was going through Pendleton’s mind as he draped himself across the boy’s legs, lowered his head so he was almost kissing the carpet and keeping his own knees straight, raised his taut athletic buttocks high to receive his spanking.

Wow! Pendleton was in a frenzy. Had some demon taken possession of him? Relentlessly he whacked the heavy oval hairbrush up and down into and across both buttocks. With no respite between smacks, he covered every square inch of buttocks and thighs inside thirty seconds and then he just kept on whacking and whacking.

Alistair had never been spanked like this before, so he was not sure how much it was supposed to hurt. It did considerably, but to his puzzlement he found the pain increased rapidly with the first few dozen slaps and then plateaued. He had gone through some king of pain barrier. After a time, he could feel the heavy wood crunch into his globes but each additional whack did not increase the pain.

The teenager sucked in his breath and waited as patiently as he could in the circumstances for Pendleton to complete his task.

He was beaten quite literally black-and-blue. But, even as he climbed back into his underpants and short trousers Alistair realised the pain had subsided, leaving behind a gentle throb that quickly turned to a warm glow. Some parts of his bum, especially the bit where the cheeks met the thighs were tender to the touch and he might feel the spanking for some time when he sat down on a hard surface.

Pendleton was a young man of few words and he dismissed Alistair without benefit of a lecture. As he exited the study, Alistair turned and flashing his sparking white teeth, he grinned, “Thank you Pendleton, I enjoyed that. I hope you did too.” Then he closed the door and ran down the passageway in case the Head of House had resolved to drag him back inside for a repeat performance.

Picture credit: Vanguard

 

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

Other stories about Rory and Alistair are here

 

Other stories you might like

Public Birching

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

A Robust Response

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Private Tutor — part 1

used paddle board of education

“I told your father that I would employ traditional teaching methods,” he said reaching into his canvas bag and withdrawing a wooden paddle.

“And, that means corporal punishment.”

He rolled the words “corporal punishment” around his mouth with some relish, enjoying every syllable.

He held the paddle by the handle and waved it close to my face. I could see some joker had printed the words “Board of Education” across one of the flat sides. I bet that gave someone a lot of laughs.

He was my private tutor and this was our first meeting. Dad hired him after I failed my A-level mock exams. It looks like if I don’t buck my ideas up a lot I’m going to fail the proper exams, and then God alone knows where I’ll be.

I’m not a stupid kid; I wouldn’t be in the Sixth Form at school if I was. But in the past few months I’ve let my studying slip a lot. I’m in a band and that takes up a lot of my time and then there are the girls of course. And, since I turned eighteen a few months back I’ve been able to get into bars and clubs legally and I’ve taken full advantage of that.

“So”, he said, walking to the couch and sitting down in the middle of it. He told me I had let myself and my family down by not working and it would cost my father a lot of money to hire him to tutor me over the coming months. I stood and watched him slapping the paddle into the palm of his hand to emphasise some of the words.

I had better think again if I thought I was going to get away with my behaviour, he told me sternly. I was to work hard from here on in and if I didn’t it was a spanking for me.

I didn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure if I was expected to say anything, so I didn’t. I wanted to tell him to “piss off”, but I knew that wasn’t going to be to my advantage.

He went on telling me about what he expected from me and how I was going to behave from now on. I was listening, but not really, if you know what I mean.

Then he dropped the bombshell. “And, I’m going to spank you now as punishment for all the laziness you have shown over the past months.”

I heard that alright. I still didn’t say anything, but the look on my face must have told him I wasn’t going to go along with his little plan.

“Come here,” he gestured at me to approach him. I didn’t.

“I said COME HERE!” He raised his voice considerably, it was a stern command, but he didn’t shout.

I hesitated. I thought about running from the room, but before I could move my feet, he reached across and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me towards him and the couch.

Before, I could protest he had me across his lap. Then he took hold of my legs and lifted them so they were resting on the couch.

We must have made an odd picture. I was lying face down stretched across the couch with my backside raised over the middle of his lap. I was quite proud of my bum and had bought my jeans especially because they showed off my prized asset to the best. But the jeans were to please the girls, not some pervert private tutor.

He sat upright with his arm curled around my waist, to make sure I was pinned tight over his lap. He was on the chubby side and I could feel his stomach against my leg. He wore an old fashioned suit; it was made of tweed or some thick itchy material like that. He was probably in his forties, but he looked a lot older than that.

I felt him pull my T-shirt up and expose my lower back. He grabbed the waist of my jeans and pulled them butt tight.

Bang! The first whack hurt a lot more than I expected. But then again I’d never been spanked before, so what would I really know about it.

Bang! The second wallop hit me on the other check. I tried to wriggle, but he had me pinned down tightly across his lap

He gave me another three spanks in quick succession. I wanted to yell, or at least go “ouch!” it hurt so much, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

He whacked me some more and then stopped. The pain was intense. I’d never felt anything remotely like it before in my life. I lay face down in the cushion of the couch breathing heavily. It seemed like he had stopped. Was it all over?

Bang! Clearly not. He must have been pausing to catch his breath. He hit me much lower now, below the buttock, just where the cheek meets the leg. I tried to lift myself off his lap, but he moved his arm from my waist to my shoulders making sure I was going nowhere.

He must have hit me another three or four times, I can’t be sure, I was in too much pain to remember.

Then he stopped. This time it really was over.

He still held me firmly across his lap. “Please be aware that if you do not obey me and work extremely hard in the coming months you will get more of this. Do you understand?”

I didn’t say a thing.

“I asked, Do you understand?” he whacked me again, very hard across the right buttock.

“Yes,” I murmured, barely able to speak.

“Yes, what?” He whacked me again, this time on the left cheek.

“Yes, I understand,” I whimpered.

“Yes, what?” Another hard whack right in the middle of my bum.

Oh, I got it. “Yes sir!”

“That’s better. And believe me if I have to I will spank you each time we meet. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir!” I was getting the hang of this now.

“Good, that is understood.” He let me get up.

I wanted to run to my room to howl and to inspect the damage, but I knew he wouldn’t let me go until he dismissed me.

My bum felt like twice its normal size and I desperately wanted to try to rub the pain away.

“Now, here’s your homework,” he said. “I want it completed by Saturday when we shall meet again.”

Saturday.  Jesus are we going to have to go through this all again in only three days’ time?

“Now, take this paddle and hang it on the hook on your bedroom door. I want it to be a constant reminder to you about what will happen if you don’t pull your socks up.”

It was Saturday and I had expected to get a spanking from my private tutor, but not two in the space of twenty minutes.

I was still in bed when he arrived at our house at 11am. Mum called me from the bottom of the stairs to say he was here. Then she was off to the shops, leaving us alone in the house.

“Come down here this instance.” This time it was the tutor calling. He might be a chubby forty-something man, but he certainly had presence. I pulled back the duvet and still in my pyjama bottoms and white vest I padded down the stairs.

“Were you still in bed?”

“No.” It was a bare-faced lie and it was going to get me a bare-arsed spanking.

“Don’t lie to me. In future you will be up and ready to start work the moment I arrive,” the tutor barked.

“Now come here.” He grabbed me by the arm and led me into the living room. As we went through the door he released his grip on me.

He sat on a yellow armchair. “Here. Now.” He pointed to a spot a couple of feet to his left.

I had hardly reached the spot before he took my left arm and guided me across his knee. It all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to resist.

My head was touching the carpet and my bottom was high over his lap. My toes were an inch or two off the ground. He tugged at the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and pulled them down to my thighs, exposing my bare bottom.

It was still bruised from the paddle spanking he had given me on Wednesday, but that didn’t bother him. He slapped me with his open palm so hard I could have sworn he still had the wooden paddle in his hand.

And he kept on slapping. He didn’t stop between spanks and rained down a couple of dozen, and possibly more. Rapid and hard. On and on he went with each one as hard as the one before. I was gasping, but refused to let him know the pain was killing me.

“Up.” He stopped and I scrambled off his lap and quickly pulled up my pyjamas. My bum was raw. It felt like I’d been stung by a thousand wasps. I wanted to rub like mad, but wasn’t going to show it.

“Stand there.”

He delved into to his canvas bag.

“Here, I want you to put these on.” He handed me a pair of grey Terylene school short trousers, some knee socks and a striped tie.

“I’m eighteen years old, not eight, you pervert.” I didn’t say it of course; I just meekly took them from him.

He told me that he wanted me to look the part when he was teaching me. He said I was to wear a white shirt, with the clothes he had given me and then he sent me upstairs to change.

I inspected my bum in the bedroom mirror. It was salmon pink and there were finger marks where the spanks had connected with the flesh.

I pulled on the short trousers, they fitted me perfectly. They were shorter than the shorts we normally wore in summer. These were about three inches above the knee.

I admired myself in the mirror. I had to admit I looked pretty good in the grey school shorts. I’ve got a great bum – the girls are always telling me so – and these showed that to great effect. My legs are pretty good too, I thought as I pulled on the knee socks.

By the time I’d put on a white shirt, my own dark-blue school jumper (the one with the yellow braiding around the neck and cuffs) and the red and black striped tie, I have to say I looked pretty damn good.

I went down stairs to face my tutor. He was waiting patiently in the living room for my return. He had spread some books on the dining room table and was ready to start teaching.

“Show me the homework, I set you,” he said.

I didn’t reply, but the look on my face must have told its own story.

“You haven’t done it.” It was a statement, not a question.

Of course I hadn’t done it. There was band practice to do and last night we went clubbing and there was this girl and …anyway, you’re not interested in that. But you can see there was a reason why I was still in bed at eleven o’clock.

He didn’t seem to be angry, or at least he didn’t show it. Maybe he expected something like this. After all, the reason why I had to do extra tuition with him for my A-level exams was because I hadn’t been working properly up to now.

He lectured me a bit. He said the kind of things you’d expect him to say in circumstances such as these.

Then he got to the point.

“What did I say would happen if you didn’t work hard?”

It seemed like it might be a rhetorical question, but I answered nonetheless.

“A spanking.”

That was enough said. We both knew what was going to happen now.

“Go to your room and fetch the paddle from the back of your door.”

I went upstairs. I hadn’t hung up the paddle as instructed. There was no way I was going to be looking at that thing all night. Besides, how would I explain it to my friends when they saw it?

I retrieved the Board of Education from the drawer where I had hidden it and took it downstairs.

By the time I returned to the living room the tutor had placed a dining room chair with its back hard against the table. The books had been removed.

He reached out his hand and I gave him the paddle. He pointed to the chair.

“Kneel on the chair and stretch yourself right across the table.”

I did as I was told. To my surprise my bare knees hurt quite badly against the seat of the chair. But I needn’t have worried; a different part of my body would shortly be hurting much, much more.

I stretched out across the table resting my stomach and chest on the shiny surface. I folded my arms in front of me and buried my head in them.

Although I couldn’t see this myself, I made a pretty picture. The grey short trousers were tight against my lovely little bum, which was presented at a perfect height for my tutor to swing the paddle.

The shorts stretching across my buttocks reminded me just how sore my bum already was.

My tutor stood close up against me, put his hand into my lower back to make sure I couldn’t move, and whacked the first lick into my shorts.

Yes, it hurt like anything, but I was getting a bit used to this. Until last Wednesday I’d never been spanked in my life and now I was getting my third spanking in as many days. And, I knew for sure with this tutor in control it was unlikely to be my last, until I passed those damned A-levels.

My tutor wasn’t taking huge swings with the paddle: he was able to inflict great pain by taking short swats. It was almost as if he was jabbing the paddle into me.

After the first five licks I lost my resolve not to show he was hurting me. I’d buried my head in my arms and was moaning, at first softly, almost to myself only, and then much louder. The moans soon became “ouches” and by lick six they were loud yelps.

My tutor was stronger than you might expect from a little chubby man. With his left hand he held me against the table so hard that I couldn’t make any resistance and with his right hand he paddled the arse off me.

He stopped after ten licks. I was sobbing by now and very, very sore.

He let me up.

“Go to the bathroom and tidy yourself up. Then return here and get on with your geography homework.”

Looking back, I probably should have hated that chubby forty-something tutor in his tweedy suit, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Somewhere inside me I knew this man and his corporal punishment was going to save me. If I ever passed my exams, got to university and ended up with a brilliant career, it would be because of days like this.

The paddling my tutor dished out did me the world of good. Trying to avoid another spanking was just the incentive I needed to work for my school examinations.

I’m not an evil person and I’m not even much of a rebellious teen. I’m actually quite bright and can do well in my school work, but I can be lazy and lose focus and that’s what happened here.

My private tutor knew the remedy for this, and he wasn’t afraid to use it: a very sound spanking.

Fear of another trip across the dining room table for licks from the wooden paddle on the seat of my grey school short trousers was enough to put me on the road to recovery. I made sure that I paid attention in the classes my tutor ran and I even did my homework. Hell, I’d even missed some nights when I was supposed to be rehearsing with the band.

My tutor was a very good teacher and I was learning a lot from him – and not only how to get a sore arse.

Tonight he had arranged a special session. He said I needed to do some project work and I needed a partner to do this. That was fine by me; we were always doing projects at school. He had arranged for Harry, one of the other boys he tutored, to visit me at home so we could work together.

Right on time at six o’clock the doorbell rang. I was the only one at home so opened the front door myself to find Harry. He was my age and maybe an inch or two shorter. He had a huge shock of black curly hair that looked like it had never seen a comb in his life.

There was something about his aura that told me we were going to be friends right from the start. I could see when he smiled, which he did often, he had the most beautiful teeth I had ever seen. They were like a Hollywood movie star’s.  He was quite stunningly pretty: the girl’s would have called him “cute,” but I reckoned even this early in our friendship that he probably didn’t like girls that much.

But the biggest impact he made was his clothes: he was dressed just like me, in school short trousers, a white shirt and school tie. Surely, he hadn’t walked the streets like that? Had he come by bus? What did people say when they saw him?

I didn’t have time to ask any of these questions because my tutor arrived just at that moment.

We all went into the living room where the tutor introduced us and without any further preliminaries he set us to work. He said he had something to do and would be back later and left us to it.

The two of us were in no mood to start work. Harry threw himself onto the couch and tucked his legs under himself and sat on them, taking the part of a young kid. I took the yellow armchair, the very same one that my tutor sat on to deliver me a bare bottomed spanking on our second meeting. I sat leaning back in the cushion with my bare legs spread wide.

We tried not to catch each other’s eye. Harry flashed one of his toothy smiles and we giggled. We had hardly said a word since the tutor left, but that was alright.

I looked at him sideways, trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing it and cracked up with laughter. I think the absurdity of the situation got to us both. We were two eighteen-year-old lads, dressed as eight year olds. So it wasn’t too hard for us behave like it.

I leaned across in my chair and rubbed the top of his head, mussing his hair. Then I took a handful and pulled it, before quickly moving my hands away and hugging myself with glee.

Harry yelped, gave me another of his smiles before reaching over the chair to give me one hell of a smack! on my bare thigh. That was it. I was out of the chair and on top of him. We rolled off the couch onto the carpet, wrestling each other.

It wasn’t a real fight; it’s what eight-year-olds call “pretend.” I sat on his belly; he pushed me over to my back. I tweaked his nipple. My shirt came untucked from my short trousers. His tie was around his ear. I slapped him gently on the face; he kneed me in the side.

Then the living room door opened and standing there aghast was the tutor.

“What on Earth is going on here? Stand up the both of you.”

We did.

“Dress yourself properly.” We did that too.

He demanded to know what was going on. Harry got the giggles a bit, I think, and adopting the voice of a naughty little boy said, “Nuffink, Sir.”

The tutor was having none of this and gave a speech about how we had only just met and we should behave and be friends and so on.

We took our ticking off, me mostly staring at the carpet, Harry twisting his fingers through his curls.

Then came the killer, “I’ll deal with you at the end of the class.”

He ordered us to get on with our project. In fact, we worked well on it. I said I thought we were going to be friends and we were.

About ninety minutes later we were finished. But if we thought we were going to be allowed home without very sore bottoms, we had to think again.

We sat together on the couch waiting for the tutor to deal with us.

The door opened again and in he walked, carrying a thick rattan cane with a crooked handle. Where the heck did he get that from?

“Stand up, both of you.” We did. Even though I knew what was going to happen, it still felt like I was in a bit of a dream. The two of us were dressed as schoolboys and we were about to get a naughty boy’s caning.

“Look at me.” He really believed that we were having a proper fight and gave us a lecture about how he wouldn’t tolerate it and so on and he was going to punish us severely. He rolled his tongue around those last three words so we could be certain he was going to be true to his words.

I may have been dressed as an eight-year-old, but I did see the irony of him thrashing us because he had been behaving violently, but I thought the tutor didn’t want a discussion on philosophy quite now.

He swished his cane and pointing with it, but without speaking, he signalled Harry to move further back.

I knew he would need some space to get a decent swing with the cane so wasn’t surprised when he beckoned me to stand and face the far wall.

Swish! “Bend over and touch your toes.”

I bent over grasping my shins. “OUCH!” He flicked the cane against my fingers: the sting was unbearable.

“I said toes. Now do as you are told.” I spread my legs a bit further and got into the required position. I’m very athletic, it was no problem. I could see Harry move slightly to get a better view.

“Six shorts up and then six shorts down,” he pronounced my sentence.

I waited for the first cut but it seemed an age coming. Bent over I could see him through my parted legs. The tutor was taking his time sizing up the situation. What he saw was a young man in short trousers presenting a lovely bum for a whacking with the cane.

I had time to notice that one of my grey knee socks, with the yellow edgings, had fallen down my shin. For one absurd moment I contemplated standing and pulling my socks up.

That was the moment the cane bit into the cloth stretched tightly across my buttocks. I winced. You bet I winced. The pain was so much sharper than the thud I had felt from the paddle the last time the tutor dealt with me.

I could feel a line of pain run across both buttocks, from left to right.

The second cut fell just a tiny bit below the first. I was determined not to cry out, not only because I didn’t want to give my tutor the satisfaction, but I didn’t want to show myself up in front of Harry.

The third and fourth lashes took my breath away. I struggled to keep the tips of my fingers connected with the toes of my socks, but just about managed.

The pain was searing and I could feel welts forming beneath my underpants. This was some thrashing and it wasn’t nearly half over. Soon I was going to get six shorts down.

Somehow, the final two cuts didn’t seem to hurt as badly as the others. Was I becoming immune to the pain or could my tutor see I was having difficulty coping with his beating and easing off a bit?

“Stand up boy.” I did so gladly. Without thinking I put both hands around my backside and rubbed like mad, especially at the point where the buttocks meet the top of the legs.

“Leave it alone. Look at me boy.”

I faced him. I knew I was holding back tears and I probably wouldn’t be able to take my six on the pants without dissolving.

The tutor held his cane behind his back between his two hands. “Take down your shorts, boy.”

My school shorts fitted so well I didn’t need a belt. I undid the buttons around my waist and then the top two buttons in my fly and the force of gravity helped them fall to my ankles.

“What the dickens are these?” My tutor had seen by underpants, a very fashionable, skin tight pair in a lurid light mauve colour.

I could see Harry’s teeth shining.

“With school uniform we wear white cotton briefs. Do you have a pair you can change into?”

Of course not, which teenager do you know wears white Y-fronts?

He didn’t wait for an answer. “You will buy the correct underwear before we next meet. I will undertake an underwear inspection before our next class.”

I swear I heard Harry snort.

“Get back over.” He swished the cane to emphasise the words. Bending made my pants stretch across the six welts on my backside, making it throb like never before.

From my position I was able to get a close inspection of my crouch. I don’t think I’d ever looked at it so closely before. I’d felt it many times of course, but that’s another story.

The tutor must have realised the time of day; class had finished a long time back and I don’t think he was paid overtime for performing duties such as this. He swished the stick into my rear six times in quick succession without ceremony.

I howled. There really was no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise I made. Tears and snot covered my face and I gulped for air. On the sixth cut I shot up and danced first from my left foot and then to the right and back again, clutching my burning bottom.

I bent double. I was about to roll on the floor in some kind of foetal position when my tutor took me by the shoulder and led me to a corner of the room.

“Stay there.”

I did, sobbing and banging my head against the wall with the disgrace.

Then, turning, he looked across at Harry.

“Come here young man.”

Did Harry step forward a little eagerly? In one athletic movement he was at the other side of the room, bent over from the waist, finger tips touching the toecaps of his shoes. Watching on I could see, not for the first time, what a very pretty boy he was.

This was the first time I’d ever seen a boy bending over, touching toes for a whacking. I hadn’t realised how little there was of the boy’s bum for the punisher to aim at.

By stretching over to reach the floor, Harry only had a small part of his backside visible to the tutor. And, Harry’s was pert and tight, leaving even less for the cane to target. If he’d been draped over the back of the armchair or over the dining room table the tutor would have seen much more buttock on display to aim at.

Maybe that’s why a touching-toes caning could be so much more excruciating painful for the naughty boy, with so little room to connect the cane would strike again and again in the same small area, intensifying the pain as the rod hit home, sometimes striking the same spot time and time again.

But, the tutor was an expert: he knew what he was doing. He approached cane in hand. What he saw was a very lithe boy, his curls cascading down towards the floor. Harry’s back was arched and his smooth round buttocks were raised submissively ready for the tutor to do his work with the cane. Harry’s grey short trousers were so taut across his bottom the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

The tutor stood to Harry’s left, a full cane’s length from the boy’s body. He bent his own legs slightly and tapped the edge of the cane against Harry’s left buttock. Tap, tap, tap: taking aim. I saw Harry’s body stiffen slightly in anticipation of the first stroke.

The tutor pulled his cane back way over shoulder height and swished it down with great force into Harry’s trousers. The six strokes landed in quick succession.

‘Get up. Trousers down”

Harry was up in a jiffy. Eager to get on with it, he unbuckled his shorts and they fell to the ground. He hitched up his underpants making sure they were pulled tightly across both cheeks. Then pulling his own shirt up to fully expose his buttocks he bent over again, in position, craving the next six.

Unlike me, Harry was wearing regulation white underpants. Actually, they were so white they sparkled. Just like Harry’s teeth.

Both me and the tutor took in the sight. The underpants fitted Harry’s bum like a second skin. I couldn’t see the front of his pants but I wouldn’t be surprised to find a fine bulge pushing out against the cotton.

Harry’s legs were almost as white as his pants: completely hairless from where I was standing. Did he shave his legs?

Six more stingers cut into Harry. Whack! Whack! It was all over in about ten seconds.

“Up. Get dressed.”

Now, Harry’s face was as white as the pants. He pulled up his shorts. He was in pain, I could see that, the tutor could see that too, but Harry wasn’t letting it get to him. Our eyes met and then I knew: he craved the lash of the tutor. He would have gladly taken six more: and another six after that probably.

Without saying much more, the tutor packed his books and cane away. His work was over for today. He gave brief instructions about what we needed to do for homework and I followed him out the living room to the front door to see him safely on his way.

When I returned Harry had his shorts and pants around his ankles and he was twisting his body to try to get a close look at the damage. I could see a dozen red lines criss-crossing both cheeks. The tutor was an expert master and had laid the cane on with some force. Harry’s cock was standing to attention. I could see he definitely shaved himself down there.

“Show me yours”.

Not feeling the least bit self-conscious in front of Harry, I pulled down my shorts and pants. The searing pain in my backside had subsided a little into a glowing ache. Harry reached forward and ever so gently felt the welts on my backside. I couldn’t help it, but my own cock stirred, perhaps not as proudly as Harry’s own member, but it was on the march.

“Come on, let’s go to your bedroom,” Harry flashed me those goddam teeth. I didn’t need asking twice.

 

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

Episode 2 of The Private Tutor is here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The sneak thief’s caning

I was a long way from home on the other side of the world, just travelling like a lot of young people did. I was exploring how other people, different from me, lived; seeing different cultures in the raw, experiencing new things. But I got a bit more than I bargained for the day I stole a Smart phone.

I was in a crowded market, packed elbow to elbow with hundreds, thousands possibly, of people when I saw my chance. One stall completely open to the elements was stacked high with every conceivable gadget. There was the latest from Apple, Sony’s newest wizardry all within hand’s reach. Back home these things would be locked behind glass and security guards would be standing close by.

Here, on a market stall in the back of beyond they were there for the picking. They were knock-off counterfeits, I guessed that, but even so who could resist having the very latest Smart phone? I wanted one, but I could not afford it, so I decided to steal it.

I cased the joint, as criminals of the past probably never said, and saw there were only two people attending the stall and they were constantly busy dealing with customers. It would be easy. I joined a crowd of customers pushing and shoving against the stall and bided my time. Then, when I was sure the stallholders could not see me, I sneaked a phone into my pocket and casually walked away.

I surprised myself. I was coolness itself. I had no nerves at all. A snatch theft, perfectly executed. Or so I thought.

Moments later there were two policemen, one on each of my shoulders. The police station was only a couple of minutes away and I soon found myself seated on a long, hard, wooden bench outside an office with a faded sign: Inspector.

I was not so cool now. A witness had seen me stealing the phone and now I would face the full force of the law. The police station was crowded; I was not the only thief they had captured that day. Soon the bench became quite crowded. There were two boys, young men really, dressed in school uniform, looking a bit odd in their khaki short trousers and a well-dressed man somewhere in his late twenties.

The two schoolboys were engaged in animated conversation, they seemed quite agitated, but I could not speak their language so had no idea what they were saying. The man just stared at the dirty floor tiles beneath his feet.

After what seemed like hours, but was probably only five minutes, the man was called into the Inspector’s office. After a few minutes, he came out, looking shocked, and a police constable led him away.

Then it was the turn of the schoolboys. They were called in together (obviously partners in crime) and they too exited after some minutes and were led away. One of the boys appeared to be crying.

Then, it was my turn. The Inspector’s office was small and dirty. He sat behind a small ramshackle wooden desk. In front of it were two beaten up chairs, one had a ripped seat cover and dirty sponge poked out.

The Inspector was exhausted; he looked like he had not shaved for a week, and I could smell he was in dire need of a shower.

He waved to me to sit down and wearily he looked at me across the desk. He seemed surprised to see me there. He did not see many foreigners in his office, he told me. He spoke to me as if I was a half-wit, and only later did I discover that foreigners who were caught up to no good by the police generally slipped the arresting constable a couple of US dollars and they went away.

If I had known the protocol I would never have had to face the ordeal that I would remember for the rest of my life.

The Inspector was in no mood for small talk. He read the charge sheet: theft of a phone. I did not deny it. He did not ask why I did it. If he had all I could say was I stole it because I wanted it and I thought I could get away with it. It was a gadget; it was not as if I had been starving and had stolen food to eat.

The Inspector looked one more time at the charge sheet and then stared me straight in the eye; I could smell his rancid breath.

“I can give you a choice,” he said, “In this city offenders can be given an ‘off the record’ caning for minor offences such as these. No records of your crime will be kept. We like it because it reduces police paperwork and court time.”

I must have looked dumbfounded and the Inspector must have felt he needed to sell the idea to me some more, “You could go to the Magistrate and possibly get a fine, or perhaps go to prison for a few days.”

I knew I could not pay a fine and the thought of prison horrified me; how would inmates treat a young foreigner like me? But, could I endure a caning as an alternative?

Before I had a chance to respond, the Inspector was talking again. “Think yourself lucky,” he smiled, but he was not joking, “In some parts of this country they would cut off your hand for stealing.”

I was silent, not knowing what to say. What would a caning be like? Corporal punishment back home had been confined to the dustbin of history. Would it be like in the olden days? Bend over touch your toes while the headmaster whacked a whippy cane into the seat of your trousers?

The Inspector was getting impatient; he had many more ‘customers’ to see before his shift would end. “You have no choice really do you?” he said, not unkindly.

No, no choice, I agreed.

A constable came and took me to another building on the police compound. He opened the door and bluntly told me to go inside. It was a big room and at the far end there was a door.

Standing there was the well-dressed man I had seen earlier, but now he was completely naked. A policeman gave me a plastic bag and ordered me to take off all my clothes.

I asked why I had to take my clothes off.

The policeman said, “Cane is on bare bottom.”

In all my imaginations, it had not occurred to me that the caning would be bare. I was wearing denim jeans cut off above the knee and I had supposed the thick material would have given me some protection against the cane and it would not hurt too much.

The policeman pushed the bag at me, forcing me to take it. “Get on with it. Do you want extra strokes?”

I took the bag and undressed. I was very embarrassed. Nobody ever saw me naked; I only took my clothes off to have a shower.

When I was naked, the outer door opened again and the two schoolboys were brought in. They also were forced to strip. Soon, there were four of us naked awaiting our punishment.

After about five minutes the other door opened and a man wearing an Inspector’s uniform came in. We were told to go through the door.

It was a small open yard with brick walls. There was a sort of a narrow bench with a leather top in the shape of upside down V. Beside it there was another policeman holding a Malacca cane. From where I stood it looked awesome. It was probably a little more than three feet long and although it was about as thick as a pencil, it was extremely supple. I felt my legs wobble at the thought of that thing slashing into my naked buttocks.

z used cane hold kernled (12)The Inspector called the man over to the bench. He had to lean right over it. It must have been very shameful for him as we could see all privates. The Inspector nodded to the policeman who walked over to the bench, raised up the cane, then whipped it across the man’s bottom.

He shrieked. The Inspector nodded and the policeman whipped him again. The man stayed quiet this time but I saw his body go tense. After the next stroke he cried out a little bit more and he did the same for the next two strokes. He was then allowed to stand up.

Then it was turn of the first of the two schoolboys. He went over the bench affecting calmness. After the first stroke he just gasped and on the second one he cried out. The third one brought tears to his eyes. The policeman waited a few seconds then gave the fourth stroke. The boy cried out something that I could not understand. He seemed to be pleading for the beating to stop.

Then a fifth stroke lashed into his buttocks and he was allowed to get up trembling and sobbing.

Then it was the turn of the other schoolboy, the smaller of the boys, the one I had seen crying earlier.  He bent over the bench but after first stroke he stood up again rubbing his bottom. The policeman ordered him to bend over again, but he was crying and refusing. The Inspector and policeman grabbed him, put handcuffs on him behind his back then bent him over the bench again. The Inspector held his shoulders down while the strokes were given. The boy screamed every time, it was terrible noise. When he got up and had the handcuffs taken away he just walked about sobbing and rubbing his bottom.

Then it was my turn. I think that going last was the worst. I bent over the bench and it felt so shameful as everybody could see my bottom and my private parts. I screwed my eyes up tight, every muscle a vice of tension awaiting the coming onslaught. The moment seemed to go on forever.

‘Yeowww!’ I shrieked out in shock and pain. The policeman raised his right arm high and brought the cane down with tremendous power again in a mighty stroke. I was panting and could hardly breathe. I tried to stand up but the policeman just pushed me back over the bench. He whipped me again, any effort I was making to maintain some self-control and dignity collapsed and I burst into floods of tears, yelling out my anguish uncontrollably, tears now pouring down my cheeks.

The fourth one was not as hard as the others, then after that I heard the policeman whispering to the Inspector and I hoped it was over. I had started to relax, then the last lash came. I screamed out and then the policeman tapped my shoulder and told me to get up.

We were sent back inside again. The schoolboys were still sobbing. We had to wait for about five minutes, still naked, before another policeman came back with our clothes. We were then allowed to get dressed and go home.

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

Picture credit: Kernled

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Two naughty boys

new story 2

z used shorts playing (17)

To Mr Naughton it seemed like a good idea – and it was for a time. His friend and neighbour came up with it. The problem started with Mr Naughton’s eighteen-year-old son, Benji; he was off the rails. He truanted from school, stayed away from home until all hours of the night and was rude and surly when he was there. Something had to be done before the lad failed his examinations and was put on the scrapheap.

Alan Thomas from across the street had the perfect solution. It was a brainwave – and so simple to put into place. He said he had tried it with his son Alfie – Benji’s classmate – and it was working a treat. He would certainly recommend it.

So Mr Naughton did. It was a stroke of generous. What he did was he bought Benji a new school uniform. It wasn’t too different from the one he wore for the comprehensive school (when he could be bothered to attend). But – and here was the stroke of genius – instead of the typical mid-grey long trousers he substituted a smart pair of short trousers. He added socks that came up to the knee and  the outfit was complete.

Then he said Benji had to wear the new school uniform, especially the short trousers and knee socks, at all times when he wasn’t at school. Given his way he would have demanded he wore them there as well, but he knew that would be going too far. For it to work, he confiscated all Benji’s long trousers, jeans, sweats and so on and locked them away in a cupboard. The eighteen-year-old had no choice.

Mr Thomas had told his friend that the benefit of doing this was at least twofold. First, it reminded his son that he wasn’t really grown-up. He might be eighteen, but it took more than that to become an adult. He needed to realise he was still a child and living under his parents’ rules and supervision. The second benefit was it stopped the kid going out at night. How could he dare be seen in public wearing school uniform with short trousers? It meant he stayed home and although he was still quiet and surly at least his parents could keep an eye on him and make sure he did his homework. Mr Thomas swore by the new regime and said his son’s grades at school had improved immeasurably. Putting the boy back into short trousers was the best move he had ever made.

So, Mr Naughton had a go. He was quietly surprised at how easily he found an outlet on the Internet that sold school short trousers large enough to fit an eighteen-year-old. Of course, Benji rejected the idea (as Mr Thomas had warned he would). But once all his clothes had been confiscated he had no choice, unless he wanted to go around in his underwear all the time.

Things went really well until about three months before the final exams were due. As part of the coursework in Geography pupils had to work in pairs on a project. What better, Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas thought, than put Alfie and Benji together. No. It went downhill from there. What did they expect? If you put two eighteen year olds together and dress them up as if they were eight they were going to revert to type.

They would meet at Benji’s house but instead of working on the project they had pretend wrestling matches all the time. Benji had an old book on origami and learnt how to make water bombs out of paper. Then, one day Alfie arrived with a new toy he had bought online. An old-fashioned catapult. It wasn’t one of those industrial-sized slingshots you can get to go hunting with. It was a silly wooden thing with a rubber band; like kids in comics used to have. Oh my, they encouraged one another, what mischief they could make with these.

The postman didn’t know what hit him when he strolled up the drive to deliver his letters. Benji and Alfie were hidden behind the chimney stack on the roof. Benji lobbed his water bomb. “Perfect hit,” he squealed with delight as the poor man’s neck was soaked.

The two naughty boys completely forgot about their schoolwork, they were having far too much fun. The catapult was put to good use terrorising the cats in the neighbourhood. The houses in The Avenue were mostly hidden behind walls and hedges and had large gardens. It was a paradise for cats. Or it had been until the deadly duo set about stalking them. One large brown moggy got a stone smack on the side of the head. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” Alfie was beside himself with glee.

But they hadn’t reckoned on one nosey neighbour. Alfie had never liked the man, he thought he was creepy and always looked at him oddly. He would like him even less now. For the man stood at his window camera phone in hand, gathering evidence.

Mr Thomas was furious when he was shown the video. “Grrr,” he said, shaking his fist. “You know what I think?” he asked Mr Naughton.

“No, what?” he replied because he really had no idea.

“I think they need to be spanked, that’s what I think,” he said, shaking his head this time.

“But they’re eighteen years old.”

“Well it’s about time they started acting like it, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Mr Naughton replied. “Yes, I really do.”

“Shall we, then?” Mr Thomas was pacing the room.

“Yes, let’s,” Mr Naughton’s mind was easily made up. “Call the scamps in.”

The boys had been playing catch with a small rubber ball in the lounge room when they heard their names called. Innocently, they followed the sound and found their fathers both stern faced in the room Mr Naughton liked to call his study.

“So,” Mr Thomas said gravely after he had related the boys’ mischievous behaviour, “You will both be spanked.” Benji and Alfie exchanged furtive glances but before either of them had time to say, “You cannot be serious,” their fathers had already arranged two chairs close together in the centre of the room. Within seconds they were seated.

“Come on you,” Mr Thomas scowled at Alfie, “If you insist on behaving like an eight-year-old that’s how you’ll be treated. Bend over my knee.” He slapped his hand on his right thigh to make his command crystal clear. Alfie caught Benji’s eye and suppressed a giggle. He shrugged his shoulders and took two paces across the room. He stood to the right of his seated father and looked down at the old man’s knees. He was still dressed in his business suit and for one stupid moment Alfie worried that he might spoil the sharp creases in his father’s trousers with his weight.

“I’m waiting,” Mr Thomas growled. This was Alfie’s cue to lean forward, place his hands on his father’s lap and gently to lower himself so he was face down and looking at the rug. Benjie stared transfixed and  watched as his pal wriggled his body until his head was as low as he could get it and his bottom pointed up at the ceiling over his father’s right thigh.

“You too,” Mr Naughton growled at Benji. The boy, almost on autopilot, followed his friend’s example. Now there were two eighteen year olds dressed in their school uniforms with grey short trousers and long socks submissively bent across the knees of their fathers waiting to receive their first-ever spankings.

They didn’t wait long. Mr Thomas struck the first blow and Mr Naughton soon followed. Within seconds and without speaking a word the two fathers were spanking in unison, each man slapping the left buttock of his son and then the right as they went about synchronised spanking. Benji and Alfie let them do it. They put up no resistance as slap after slap connected with the seat of their short trousers.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

To be fair, they were not being brave soldiers. Wearing thick trousers with underpants beneath meant they hardly felt a thing. Mr Naughton and Mr Thomas were not experienced spankers. They didn’t realise the palms of their hands were hurting much more than the boys’ bums. After about a hundred smacks had been delivered, Mr Thomas once again took the lead. He ordered Alfie to stand. Then Mr Naughton did the same with his son.

“Right now then, act your age in future,” Mr Thomas growled. “Now get back to your schoolwork.”

The two boys rushed from the room. When they were safely out of sight of their fathers they collapsed into fits of giggles. “Didn’t feel a thing,” said Alfie as he loosened his short trousers and pulled them down to show his friend his bare bottom, “Not a mark. Look. What about you?” Without a blush Benji did the same. “Nope,” he grinned, “Not even red.”

The boys wrestled each other to the ground and rolled around on the carpet. It was their way of saying they rather liked being naughty boys and had no intention of changing any time soon.

Picture credits: Unknown / Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

His new job

new story 2

Mr Conan, the senior partner of Conan and Connelly, the well-known scholastic agency, was a large, gregarious fellow with a bulbous nose and several chins that wobbled each time he moved his head. His fleshy jowls trembled as he clutched his fountain pen and held it over a lined secretarial pad.

“Your name, sir.”

I told him.

“Oxford or Cambridge?”

I had not attended university. “Neither sir. London. By correspondence.”

He peered at me doubtfully. “By correspondence. Honours?”

“No, sir,” I squirmed in my seat. The office was as small as Mr Conan was large. I shrivelled before him. Mr Conan shook his head. I knew at that moment my chances of gaining gainful employment were zero. Vacancies for teaching posts were few and the number of applicants better qualified than I were many. But, Mr Conan was not despondent.

“I have the very thing,” he beamed. “An admirable institution. You will be well suited.”

He was not deterred by my dubious expression.

“Yes, indeed young man,” his chins and his jowls moved in unison. “You may start tomorrow if you are so inclined.”

“The salary is not so generous but there is board, lodging and washing,” his smile was infectious. I would have been hooked even if I had not been so desperate. I had not worked in weeks and shortly I would be on the streets, lacking the funds to meet my rent. I was eager to accept, but in my soul I was certain there must be a catch.

“Where is this establishment,”  asked.

“The delightful town of Brocklehurst,” he replied. “One of the finest smaller towns in the land.”

I had heard of the name but knew no more about the place. I knew roughly where it was located. It was a journey of an hour of so by train. It was by no means an isolated location. I was sure it is was as amiable place to live as any other. Why then had the vacancy not been filled by a man more qualified and experienced than myself?

“What kind of establishment is this?” I ventured to inquire. I was uncertain that I wanted to hear the reply. It must, I supposed, be a school with some fearful reputation.

Mr Conan, I later concluded, would be able to sell snow to the Eskimo. His face shone brightly as he told me, “It is one of our newer establishments. A specialist college, so to speak.”

He had my attention. “Specialist?” I asked dolefully, fearing he was going to tell me it was a college for some fundamentalist religious sect. Perhaps, Mr Conan read my mind. “No, young sir,” his face radiated honesty, “It is a small college intending to encourage students towards examination success.”

Examination success? Don’t all schools promise that. “How so?” I croaked, still not convinced. “Aha!” Mr Conan, had a ready explanation. “It delivers a curriculum for the older boy who, for whatever reason, requires an intensive period of study in a controlled environment in order to acquire the necessary qualifications to go forth and become a successful member of society.”

He sounded like he might be quoting from the college’s perspective. I suppose I still looked puzzled, so Mr Conan offered a further explanation. “They seek to take examinations by Christmas.”

My own face brightened; the penny had dropped. “Oh,” I ejaculated, “A crammer!” Mr Conan frowned, for once the jocular veneer had been pierced. “I don’t believe young man,” he said, “Such institutions like that terminology.”

Why not? The college was one of many I supposed existed across the country. They catered for the pupils who failed their school examinations. More truthfully, they existed for the fathers of the failures. It was they who insisted the boys must get qualifications and take up careers thereby freeing the fathers of future financial responsibility for their sons. There was nothing reprehensible about this. The boys were probably dunderheads or just as likely were lazy blighters who did not work with sufficient diligence at their studies.  Now, they were to be force-fed enough “learning” over a few number of months to allow them successfully to take the examinations again.

I apologised to Mr Conan, saying I had intended no offence. He accepted and his sunny nature returned. I accepted the offer of employment with alacrity and the following day with my worldly possessions only half-filling my suitcase I set off for Brocklehurst. Mr Conan told me it took a maximum of fifty boys each term and I was expecting to find the “college” consisted only of two rooms above a snooker hall. To my astonishment, the building was a massive pile. Having been recently built it was square and very ugly, standing in its own extensive grounds with a broad driveway curving towards the front entrance.

The door was opened by an elderly lady whom I later discovered fulfilled a combined role of matron, cook and general handywoman. She greeted me warmly as if she was genuinely pleased to meet me. She took my suitcase and showed no sign of noticing that it was much lighter than she had expected. I loved her for this. “Please,” she said pointing towards a grand spiral staircase, “Mr Doyle is expecting you. The first door on the right.”

Mr Doyle was the principal of the school. By now I already knew there were three members of teaching staff, including himself. All the boys boarded at the school and one of my duties would be to supervise the dormitories at night. I had no qualms about this. They were all eighteen years old and could be expected to take care of themselves.

I mounted the stairs, noticing the expensive carpet beneath my feet. The house, despite its unprepossessing exterior, appeared well furnished and appointed. I reached the landing and saw the door to my left had a shining brass nameplate: Mr A. Doyle, Principal. I had arrived at my destination. The door was made of dark-wood panels; another example that the college did not lack money. I was about to raise my fist to rap on it when I heard voices on the other side. I am not generally an inquisitive person and it would never occur to me to peek through keyholes but for a reason I cannot explain I lowered my hand and waited.

I was rewarded by the sounds of voices. I couldn’t hear the words explicitly as the door was too heavy, but it seemed that one person was interrogating another. One voice spoke, there was a moment’s pause and the second voice replied. It went on like this for a few seconds. Then, there was silence. I expected the door to open and one of the parties to leave. This did not happen. I stood transfixed. I could not believe my ears. I was sure I must be mistaken, that I was incorrectly interpreting the sounds from within.

I heard a noise that I can only describe as a “thud”. It was as if something had been struck by I know not what. It was followed by another thud and this time there was an accompanying sound that I took to be a gasp or a yowl of some kind. My imagination raced. I thought I had recognised the noise. Surely not, I thought. I must be mistaken. I counted six thuds in total. Not each was supplemented by a gasp or yelp, but the final one was accompanied by what I can only described as a cry of pain.

There was a silence during which I moved back from the door. My mind was reeling. I was certain I was not wrong. My conclusion was confirmed when the door edged open and a young man slowly emerged. He was perhaps an inch or two taller than myself. As the door closed behind him his hands ruefully massaged his backside. I saw his eyes were wet and his face pale. Only then did he spot me. He shot me a stare of such intense hatred. His white face turned puce and he hurried down the passageway, turned a corner and was soon out of my sight.

I watched him go. It did not take much imagination to conclude the boy had just received a caning. The six thuds, gasps and yelps I had heard were proof of that. And, how the boy despised me for having been a witness. That he was a pupil at the college there was no doubt. But there was still one puzzle. The boy wore a black woollen blazer, the type any schoolboy up and down the country might wear. There was nothing unusual in that, but in addition this boy wore well-cut grey short trousers along with socks that reached to his knees. He was dressed as if he were eight years old, not eighteen.

Intrigued, I knocked on the door and when invited I entered. Mr Arthur Doyle was sitting behind a large desk. It was completely empty except for a blotter encased in leather. My eyes quickly scanned the room; I was searching for the cane I supposed he had used to beat the boy. All evidence had been removed. I noticed a chest of  drawers and at least one cupboard that could at that moment be secreting canes.

“Sit down, please,” Mr Doyle indicted a heavy straight-backed chair that was positioned in front of his desk. As I did so I wondered if the boy had moments earlier been draped across this very piece of furniture. From the corner of my eye I saw an armchair that could also have been be used. Then, again the desk I was facing was of a good height to accommodate a prostrate body.

It was difficult to get the image of Mr Doyle caning the boy from my mind. Maybe the boy had been ordered, “Bend over and touch your toes.” Had he been required to lower his short trousers for the caning? What about his underwear? Distracted in this way I am afraid I missed much of what Mr Doyle said to me. Possibly that is of no consequence because once he had finished his welcoming chat he sent me to meet Mr Percival Manners who Mr Doyle said was to show me the ropes.

Manners, “Call me Percy when the boys aren’t in earshot,” was in his mid-thirties. I immediately liked him and it wasn’t only because he brought out his gin bottled and poured us both generous measures. After he refiled our glasses I felt the courage to ask him to explain what I had witnessed. “Yes,” he sipped at his drink. “Corporal punishment is an important part of the regime here, the fathers expect it. In fact, they are prepared to pay a little extra on the fees for it.”

My eyebrow must have shot heavenwards because he hooted a raucous laugh and said, “Stranger things happen at sea.” He explained that the boys sent to Brocklehurst were not stupid; in fact they were mostly academically bright. “Just bone-idle, the lot of them,” he roared. He loved to laugh, even when sober. “So we have to persuade them to study.” His face beamed, “Three feet of whippy rattan applied with some force across the you-know-where makes a mighty-fine inducement for them to work hard.”

“Oh,” I said weakly, unsure how I was supposed to respond. Of course, corporal punishment was used in schools although not as much as it once was. It was banned in the school I had attended. I couldn’t believe colleges were using it on eighteen-year-old boys. But then again that probably explained why Brocklehurst had a devoted clientele prepared to pay a little bit extra. Would I be expected to cane the boys myself?

Percy might have read my mind. “I have a cane here for you to take.” He nodded towards a cupboard but made no move otherwise. “There’s also a list of written rules. It’s not only about studying, it’s the whole way of life.”

That prompted me to ask about the short trousers. Percy laughed again. “Blooming great brainwave. This isn’t a prison, we don’t lock the blighters up in their dorms. What’s to stop them absconding during the day or going down the pub at night?” He answered his own question. “Short trousers. We take away all their civvy clothes when they arrive. All they have is their school uniform. Short trousers.  Which of them is going to be seen dead dressed like that in public.”

I nodded my agreement. He was correct, a brainwave indeed. Percy hadn’t finished, “And it reminds then that they aren’t yet adults. They are still children and should be treated as such. Wearing short trousers keeps them in their place.”

We finished our second drink and Percy rose to refill our glasses. While he was on his feet, he opened a closet door and extracted a cane. “Ever use one of these before?” he asked passing it to me. I took it. My eyes popped. “Used one,” I said, fearing my voice might be slurred, “I’ve never seen one before today.” I held it in my hand. It felt light as a feather and I told Percy so. “Don’t be fooled. That little beauty can do a lot of damage.”

I caressed the cane, running my thumb and finger along its length. It was about three-feet long and as thick as a pencil. There were notches every six or eight inches. At one end it had been curved into handle. I held it in my hands and bent it, it flexed easily into an arc. I swished it through the air. “And,” I asked incredulously, “the boys let us beat them with this?”

Percy roared, “Let us!” He took his drink back to his seat, “Well, ‘let us’ might not be the best way to put it.  But really they don’t have a choice. Remember their fathers are paying for this. What’s a boy to do? If he refuses he gets expelled. He could run away. Either way, he’s got to face his father’s wrath at some point. No, believe me: we say, ‘Bend Over’ and over they bend.”

The room fell silent for a moment. Then Percy piped up once more. “So you’ve never seen a cane before and obviously never been caned.” We let that remark hang in the air. It was a sultry evening and Percy’s room was stifling. My head was beginning to ache (I was not much of a drinker in those days). “I thought you might benefit from a little tutorial,” Percy’s eyes shone. I blustered.

“You don’t want to make a darned fool of yourself in front of the boys,” he gestured towards the cane that was still in my grasp. “You have no idea how to use that thing.” There was nothing to be gained by denial. Until this day it had never occurred to me I might need to develop such a skill.

“Don’t worry,” Percy beamed, “Percy has it sorted.” I think like me he might be getting drunk. “I’ve asked one of the boys along. You know for a demonstration.” I must have looked incredulous. “A guinea pig, like,” he said by way of explanation. “Namby’s coming,” he put his left hand on his hip and flounced his right wrist (his idea of an effeminate man). “I think he likes it, Ha! Ha! Ha!”

As if on cue there was a knock at the door. Namby was dressed in his school uniform, complete with short trousers. He did not appear the least ill at ease as Percy gestured him to come into the room. He introduced us. He called the boy “Namby” and I assumed incorrectly as things transpired that this was a nickname of some sort. Percy and I both affected not to see the boy glance at the gin bottle. Apparently it was permissible to bring a boy into one’s room to thrash him, but not to drink alcohol.

“Right then,” Percy took immediate control. I wondered at that moment if this was not the first time he had instructed a colleague in the use of the cane. He manoeuvred a sofa so that it was in the middle of the room. Then, he took up the cane and swished it through the air. I could not see Namby’s face but by his general demeanour I calculated that he was not troubled by this scenario. Certainly when Percy instructed, “Bend over the sofa,” the boy did not hesitate to assume the required position.

The back of the sofa was quite high. Namby rested his stomach on the apex and reached forward with his arms and gripped the seat cushion. He spread his legs and bent his knees. “Well done, lad,” Percy encouraged him. Then to me he said, “Always have the head low and the bottom high. See,” he touched the tip of the cane against the crown of Namby’s buttocks, “Perfect.”

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He continued speaking as he moved the cane across Namby’s buttocks making a sawing motion, “Ideally, you want to get all the strokes to land as close together as possible. Get one to land on top of another. That’s really painful.” He tapped the cane harder, “Isn’t that so Namby.”

“Yes sir, Mr Manners, sir,” he replied, speaking into the seat cushion.

“Right,” Percy stood to the left of his target. “Stand about three feet away. A cane’s length, then lay the tip across the crest of the furthest buttock.” He demonstrated what he meant. “That way when you whack the cane down it’s sure to hit both cheeks evenly and not just the nearest.” He wobbled the cane, laid it across the seat of the teenager’s short trousers and tapped it with some vigour into Namby’s bum.” Percy looked across at me, “That’s all there is to it really. It’s more craft than science. You just need to practice. It’s all in the arm and wrist. Bring your am back, bring it forward and then at the last moment reverse the wrist so that the cane snaps into his backside.”

I looked on intently as he demonstrated. There was an almighty “Crack!” as the cane whacked into Namby’s tight buttocks. The boy gasped. “Felt that didn’t you lad.” The boy replied, “Yes sir, Mr Manners, sir,” but from where I stood he appeared sanguine. Here,” Percy handed the cane to me, “You have a go.”

My palm was sticky as I received it from him. I held it by the handle and realised immediately this gave me no control over it. “Hold it further down. Here,” Percy took my hand and guided it. I wriggled my wrist trying to get the measure of the thing. From the wobble it made I could see that the cane would be a more powerful weapon than I first supposed. I swiped it through the air and the whoosh it made as it flew sent a small shudder through my body. I stood to the boy’s left, laid the tip of the cane on his far buttock and lifted my arm as instructed. I took one, then two practice strokes. Unaccountably, my heartbeat raced. I raised the cane and then trying to get the correct wrist action I brought it down across the seat of the short trousers.

I was very pleased that it landed where I had intended. “How was that lad?” Percy sipped on his gin. “Sorry Mr Manners, sir,” he said, “I didn’t feel that one.” Percy put down his glass. “Here,” he stood behind me, “Let me help.” He instructed me to lay the cane across Namby’s bottom. Then, he leaned across my body bringing his mouth so close to my face I could smell the gin on his breath. He held my hand in his and directed the cane so it made an arc. Then he guided my wrist so that it made the final snap. “There,” he said. “Try again.” He was very patient with me and I could tell he was an excellent teacher. I would bet the boys loved him.

I took my aim once more. This time I put more beef into the final delivery. It landed with more power. “Better Mr Manners, sir,” Namby said without being asked. I allowed myself a small smile and tried again. This one elicited a gasp from the boy. I wasn’t sure if he truly was in some pain or it was only meant as a gesture of encouragement. Either way, I laid on another and then another. My aim each time was true and each landed with increased force.

“Good,” Percy beamed encouragingly. “Right, Namby brace yourself.” Percy winked at me and said, “Go on. Give him a real six-of-the-best. Make him feel it.” I noticed Namby’s body stiffen, his legs straightened a little and he gripped the seat cushion. He at least had the confidence that I could deliver. I took a deep breath. For the first time I noticed the shape of Namby’s bottom. It was well rounded when stretched across the sofa. His legs were not muscular. This and the short trousers emphasised the buttocks as a target. Trying to remember my instructions, I put the cane across his bottom, taking a horizontal aim. Satisfied by this, I drew the cane back slowly in an arc and keeping my eye on the target I whipped the forearm and wrist. Bingo! Bang on target. Namby’s shoulders stiffened, but he made no sound. I was certain he had felt that one.

I gave myself perhaps twenty seconds to settle and repeated the manoeuvre. The stroke landed about a quarter inch below the first. The third stroke cut between the two. That made Namby gasp. Now, he had three cuts and a throbbing strip of flesh about an inch wide across both cheeks. He wriggled his hips. He was not faking this. My confidence was sky high. I allowed myself to believe I was good at this. A natural even. Whack! Number four landed on top of one (or possible more) of the previous cuts. Namby’s legs flinched. Air hissed through his pursed lips.

The next I landed with full force. I hit so hard I might have been beating a carpet. Namby yelped. I heard Percy speak, “Steady on man.” His voice seemed to be coming from a long distance. My heartbeat was racing and blood rushed to my ears. The room was hotter than ever. I lay the cane across Namby’s bottom. This was to be the final stroke. I wanted it to be memorable. I touched it low down just below where the buttock cheek meets the thigh. It was in fact touching the back of his thigh. The area was still covered by his trousers. I raised the cane, brought it forward, snapped my wrist and left the boy with a red-hot line of fire. His head rose, he let out a yelp, but just in time he managed to prevent his feet from stomping up and down with the agony.

I admired my handiwork. There were thin lines embossed into the tight material of his short trousers where the cane had landed. I was no expert but I presumed his bottom was welted. That’s how it should be, I thought. A caning should be awesome, otherwise both Namby and I should be wasting our time. He remained bent over the sofa, bottom still held high and his head low. His breathing was regular, I am sure he felt pain, but he was not in any agony. Next time, I thought, I would lay it on with more vigour. The boys in my charge must learn I am not a man to be trifled with.

“Stand up lad,” Percy gave the command. I was too engrossed in my own thoughts. The boy scrambled to his feet. His face was scarlet but I could see his eyes were dry. I should concede that perhaps Namby was a more practised receiver of a caning than I was a giver. I had no way of knowing if a less experienced boy would have reacted differently.

I could feel Percy’s eyes burning into me. “You should go now Namby,” he said.

“Yes sir, Mr Manners. Thank you sir,” he said and he offered me his hand to shake. I, my face burning with confusion, shook it. After the door closed behind him I stood in the middle of the room dumbfounded. I still held the cane in my hand and looked at it as if only now seeing it for the first time. I was light-headed and I blamed this on the gin. “You did very well. You learned a good lesson there,” he said. I mumbled some kind of agreement. I hardly heard him, my senses were somewhere else; I was at a place where I had never been.

Percy smiled at me and moved across the room. He held out his hand so I could return the cane to him. As I did so our eyes met. He smiled. “You passed the first test. You know how to deliver a caning.” He paused for an exceedingly long time. I felt my throat tighten. My temples throbbed. He glanced at the cane in his hands, then looked at me straight in the eye. “Do you think you should also learn how it feels to take a caning.”

“Oh yes please Mr Manners, sir,” I wheezed before I stepped forward and dived over the back of the sofa. Then, I wriggled about a bit making certain that my head was low and bottom high.

 

Picture credit: unknown

Other stories you might like

The Tyrant Headmaster 7: The field trip

The helpful Neighbour 3

Boy at the photocopier

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

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

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

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

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

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

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

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“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking.” It was a policeman speaking about my drunken nephew. He was right, of course. But the police can’t use corporal punishment. So it is up to the family to instil discipline. These tales demonstrate that up and down the land fathers, uncles, granddad’s – and even older brothers – don’t shirk their duty.

In another free-of-charge book offering, the cane, the brush and the paddle are much in evidence as young men learn the painful way how to behave.

The book runs for more than 17,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

all-in-the-family-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

Another book to download

The Private Tutor

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com