The Run

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A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

Brother Sebastian grew impatient. It was cold and starting to rain. Soon it would be dark. Where were those two boys? The others had returned ages ago.

Brother Sebastian paced around the carpark. He paused and looked at his watch. He would give it another five minutes before he informed the headmaster. Where were they? He hoped they had not come to harm. Would the police have to be informed? What would their parents say?

The seconds hand on his watch crawled. Three more minutes then he would give up.

Then he saw them turning a corner in the street: two sixth-formers dressed in physical training kit; white shorts and green-and-gold singlet, the colours of St Francis Independent Grammar School.

“Come on boys!” he barked angrily; although inside he felt intense relief: not that the boys were back safely, rather that he would not have any awkward explaining to do to Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster.

It had started as just a routine physical training class. Twenty-two boys had set off on a road run; two miles around the streets of town. There was nothing to it; even the most non-sporting of the boys, and there were many of them in the sixth-form, could cope with that.

“Allison, Howard! Where have you been!” Brother Sebastian shouted across the car park as the boys passed through the school gates. But before they could answer, he shouted, “Get in the changing room now, both of you. This instance.”

Sorrowfully, the two eighteen year olds lumbered into the building.

Moments later Brother Sebastian was pacing the room while two sheepish teenagers stood arms at their side in acute embarrassment.

“Why has it taken you so long to complete the route? Where have you been? What have you been up to?”

Alan Howard, the tallest of the pair, blushed. If Brother Sebastian discovered the truth they would be in the most frightful trouble.

“Well answer me. Allison? Howard?”

But both boys stared at their feet; not daring to catch the Brother’s eye.

“Doh!” Brother Sebastian was losing his temper. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. Where have you been?”

Then, John Allison made a fatal mistake. He raised his head, looked at Brother Sebastian, and simply said, “Sorry, Brother.”

That was enough. Brother Sebastian sniffed the air. What! Beer. He could smell alcohol on the boy’s breath.

He exploded, “Have you two been drinking!” Then he answered his own question, “You have! Beer! You’ve been drinking beer. I can’t believe this.”

Brother Sebastian was a young man himself, only twenty-five years old, but when he got into a paddy he could reprimand a boy like a schoolmaster twice his age.

His open, some might say cherubic, face turned puce as he bawled the boys out. What stupidity. What irresponsibility. What would their parents say?

John Allison’s eyes moistened as he desperately tried to stop the tears from flowing. It would be bad enough to blub in front of the Brother but if his friends got to hear about him crying like a six year old because the Brother scolded him, he would never hear the end of it.

“Darn it,” the Brother’s anger was intense. “Both of you go take a shower and then when I want you to dry off and return to me wearing only your towels.”

John began to mouth a protest, but catching sight of the Brother’s fiercely-burning eyes he thought better of it. He had only recently joined the sixth-form at St Francis, but in the short time he had been a pupil he had discovered a boy must never, repeat never, argue with a master.

Miserably the two boys stripped off their shorts and singlets and stepped into the showers.

No words were spoken between the two boys. They were great friends and had shared an adventure that afternoon; when word spread around the sixth-form they would become mini-heroes.

It had been a simple plan. For weeks the sixth-formers had been daring one another to do it. It was the kind of dare adolescent boys make all the time. Mostly, though sanity prevails and they come to their senses in time.

When they were next forced on the road run, someone should stop off at the pub for a pint of beer mid-way round. It was that simple; and anyone with an ounce of sense could see it was a pretty pointless thing to do. It was not as if they were getting one over on the schoolmasters; they were not gaining an advantage. It was not as if they were stealing the answers ahead of the examinations. Now, that would be something.

So, Alan and John decided that afternoon would be when they made their names. The King’s Head pub was only one street off the route, so no major detour was needed. It was the middle of the afternoon and the bar was almost deserted.

The barman, busy drying glasses, looked up in amusement as he heard the door swing open and saw two teenagers in sports kit daring one another to enter.

“Good afternoon gents. What’ll it be?”

Trevor the barman could not give a stuff. He saw straight away from the colours of their singlets they were from the local grammar school. They might be eighteen and legally entitled to drink and then again they might not.

“Two pints of bitter please,” the taller of the two boys said with a confidence he did not really feel.

Wordlessly, Trevor pulled the pints and set them down on the bar. He had a fair idea what was going on. It was some kind of dare by the schoolboys.

“Do you want me to sign a beer mat for you?”

The puzzlement on the boys’ faces gave Trevor much joy.

“There’s no point in doing this unless you can prove to the lads that you’ve been here, is there?”

Oh. The boys understood.

It took longer to drink a pint of beer than they expected and then with bellies full of gas they found they could not run without getting a terrible stitch.

Trevor smiled to himself. They would get found out for sure. Did they still whack the kid’s              arses with a cane at the grammar school, he wondered.

Good job if they did: he hated them all.

….

Brother Sebastian paced the changing room waiting for the boys to finish their showers. What could he do with the pair? They deserved the most severe punishment. He had only been at St Francis’s since the beginning of term, but he knew it was a traditional school and that meant traditional discipline.

After five minutes, showered and dried, Allison and Howard emerged from the shower room. As instructed each boy had a large white bath towel tied around the waist.

“Stand there, both of you,” Brother Sebastian pointed to a spot in the middle of the changing room.

He paced in front of them. “You know what this means? I have to report you to the headmaster and he will flog you severely. He might even suspend you both. I can’t let this go.” He threw up his arms in exasperation.

“Please don’t do that Brother Sebastian. Our parents will find out. Please, we’re sorry!” Alan jabbered.

Brother Sebastian had some sympathy. The boys had behaved irresponsible and must be punished. But the final school examinations were not far away; did they deserve to be suspended? What could he do?

A heavy rubber plimsoll applied with great force across the backsides would be the solution.

“Ok, boys. You don’t want to be suspended?”

At last, a ray of hope. The boys brightened up. “What do we have to do, Brother Sebastian?” asked Alan.

The Brother moved a chair out into the middle of the room. Brother Sebastian had been no stranger to discipline himself when he had been younger. Even through his teen years wilful disobedience had been punished by a trip across his father’s knee for a stinging session with a flat backed hairbrush on his bared bottom. He recalled those sessions all too well. The hot sting of those spankings had taught him to behave.

“Boys; here’s the deal. You violated a very important rule. It is forbidden to visit pubs or drink alcohol. You deliberately broke the rule and you intended to make a fool of me and of the school.”

John Allison tried to interject, “Oh no Brother.” It was not true that they tried to make a fool of the Brother. That had never been the intention. They liked Brother Sebastian a lot; none of the boys would want to humiliate him.

“Quiet,” Brother Sebastian was getting into his stride. “But, if you accept my punishment, we’ll forget about this little escapade of yours.”

Brother Sebastian fell silent. Now, it was time for the boys to speak.

John went first, “How do you intend to punish us, Brother,” he asked, but he could see the chair in the middle of the floor was a clue to the answer.

Brother Sebastian felt himself begin to blush, “Both of you, right here, right now, take a good hard spanking. You drop those towels, bend over this chair and take your licking. Then we forget about this. Well, what will it be?”

Both sets of jaws dropped. Eyes grew big as saucers.

“A…a spanking, Brother Sebastian?” John Allison was shaking his head in disbelief.

“You heard me. Or, you can go to the headmaster, first thing in the morning. And then it’s a flogging and a suspension.”

For a minute they stood still, thinking it over. Alan Howard knew that if he was suspended his parents were sure to find out. They were a traditional Christian family and he would get a severe thrashing from his father. Whatever he chose: Brother Sebastian’s punishment slippering or the headmaster’s suspension, Alan would end up with a very sore backside. He knew from painful experiences the severity of his father’s beatings. However hard Brother Sebastian spanked him it would not be in the same league as a whipping from his father. And, if the Brother punished him there would be no reason for his father to know. The Brother’s offer was the best offer on the table.

Finally he spoke, “Our parents won’t find out, right?”

“That’s right. It ends here. So decide. I don’t have all night and you boys have to get home.”

The boys looked at each other. Alan turned toward Brother Sebastian and shrugged. “I’m in,” he said, lifting his chin in an act of teenage bravado. “How do you want me?”

“Alan!” John squealed.

“Oh, John, don’t be such a baby,” said Alan. “I’m ready, Brother.”

All colour drained from John’s face. It was all right for Alan, he thought, he was always getting his arse whacked at home; he was used to it. He had never been spanked in his life. Before he came to St Francis he had been at a progressive school; corporal punishment was unheard of. And, it would never occur to his father to spank him, no matter how much of a brat John could be sometimes.

It took the Brother only seconds to fetch the slipper from the cupboard. Alan’s eyes shone at the sight of the plimsoll. It must be size twelve at least. Did it belong to a giant? Did the brother intend to hit him with that? The heavy sole would smash his bare arse to pieces. Perhaps, this spanking was not going to be as easy to take as he had hope.

“Come over here stand facing the chair,” Brother Sebastian said, pointing at the chair’a wooden seat. Alan moved over with slow steps to stand at the Brother’s right. “Ok, Howard, drop the towel.”

Alan let the towel slip to the floor. Any doubts that this eighteen-year-old schoolboy was anything but a young adult were dispelled. He put both hands at his crotch. He was well-built and stood at nearly six feet tall. His chest was hairless and in the cold of the changing room his nipples hardened. He had long legs and a slender torso with slim hips, but a cute apple-cheeked bottom prominently set off from his long legs. Brother Sebastian aimed to thoroughly redden that pert bum to teach this young man a lesson.

“Over the chair,” he said.

Alan bent forward slightly and took a firm grip on both sides of the chair’s seat. “Further down, legs apart. Give me something to aim at,” Brother Sebastian seemed in a jovial mood as he pushed Alan’s shoulders lower so that the teenager’s bottom stuck out at an enticing angle to receive his spanking.

“Ready, Howard?”

“Yes, Brother,” he squeaked, tensing his body.

“You’ll be getting fifty swats with this plimsoll. It would help if you counted.”

He raised his hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a loud smack! Alan hissed with an intake of breath. Smack! the Brother spanked the other cheek and the boy lifted a leg off the floor.

“How many?” demanded Brother Sebastian. “I don’t hear counting.”

“Ow…two,” Alan gasped.

Brother Sebastian launched into a rhythmic smacking of Alan’s bouncing bottom, landing smacks on alternating cheeks at a rate of about one every two seconds or so. He carefully covered the full expanse of the teenager’s backside, working from the top of his bottom to the lush underside, not missing an inch. Sometimes he landed crisp smacks right across the divide, right on the sit spot.

John Allison stood, his eyes transfixed on his pal’s once creamy white buttocks, now rapidly turning a crimson red. He had a perfect view up the teenager’s crack and was surprised how hairy it was. Absurdly considering the circumstances, he wondered if his own bum-hole was as hairy.

Alan yipped softly but kept the count, bending his knees and stamping his feet on the ground, wincing, opening and closing his eyes, flexing his wriggling buttocks as the spanks landed. At the count of fifty, the Brother stopped. Alan’s bottom was beet red. It looked like two stoplights on a white background.

Brother Sebastian let him up.

Alan hastily grabbed his towel and covered himself, only to find he could not cover up and rub the agonising throbbing in his bottom at the same time.

“Ok, Allison. Your turn.”

Utterly humiliated in his nakedness, John took Alan’s place. He was shorter than his good friend. Where Alan Howard was tall and lean, John Allison was stockier. His legs were covered in light downy hair, but his buttocks were almost completely bare.

Brother Sebastian rested his plimsoll on the boy’s back and for a moment allowed his right palm to caress John’s cheeks: first the left and then the right. The touch was so gentle that the eighteen-year-old hardly realised it was happening.

John’s heart was racing; he could not be sure he could take fifty hard whacks with the giant’s slipper. Whatever happened, he must control himself. His pal Alan had taken his own spanking well. John must not let himself down.

In his nakedness, head down he had a perfect view of his own cock and balls dangling in front of his face. His face flushed in humiliation. Not only were his privates visible to his pal and his punisher, he knew they would also have a tremendous view up his crack

Brother Sebastian gripped the slipper tightly, raised it and brought it crashing down across the left globe. The teenager’s feet stamped on the floor, his legs fluttering. He did not have his friend’s experience of being beaten and could not take the whacking stoically.

The sharp spanks rang out, echoing off the concrete walls in the enclosed changing room. John yelped and had to be reminded several times to keep count. The Brother’s plimsoll rose and fell, splatting into the hairless mounds at a steady tempo.

Time and time again the slipper was applied to John’s seat. He wriggled, he whimpered, he yelled and finally he broke down and sobbed as he lay across his tormentor’s lap. The eighteen-year-old youth was soon reduced to a blubbering five year old.

“Youch … oh, youch, Brother! Uh, thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two … owwww!”

Finally, Brother Sebastian stopped and gently patted the scorched buttocks.

“Both of you stand in front of me and turn around.”

Both boys had been duly punished, Brother Sebastian could see as he inspected his handiwork. Two sets of glowing red bottom cheeks attested to the fact that he had meted out very thorough spankings.

“Now face me,” he said. “Never do that again, do you understand? Next time it will be a visit to the headmaster’s study. Now get dressed and go home.”

The boys gathered the towels, dressed and left in a hurry.

Whew! thought Alan Howard. I need a drink.

Twenty minutes later at home Alan slipped into the bathroom and eased down his trousers and pants. It still hurt like crazy and his bottom glowed like a cigarette in the dark. Brother Sebastian had spanked him hard; he had practically been crying at the end. He looked over his shoulder, his buttocks were still red and it burned. Still, that was better than anyone finding out. He reached for some cold cream.

“Alan?” His mother burst in.

In the mirror Alan saw his mother staring in disbelief at his inflamed bottom.

“Alan! What have you been getting up to?” She did not wait for an answer; she knew it already. “Wait until your father gets home!”

The teenager confessed all to his father. He told him about the road run, the pub visit with John Allison; getting caught and then the incident with Brother Sebastian.

His father was insistent and wanted all the gory details and he got them; right down to the fifty whacks with the plimsoll while bent naked across the old wooden chair.

“Disgraceful! How could you behave like this? What have I said about drinking?” Alan made no reply; he knew his father’s questions were rhetorical. Nothing he said would change what was going to happen next.

His father blustered and lectured Alan for at least fifteen minutes, but the boy turned his mind off long before the diatribe was finished. Can we not just get on with this, he thought.

Eventually, his father dashed from the room, only to return moments later with a long stout, but very whippy, cane in his hand.

He swished it through the air as if testing its effectiveness. It was an unnecessary gesture; Mr Howard had whacked this very cane many times across the collective backsides of his five sons. He knew how to inflict the maximum pain possible with it.

“Up!” It was an imperious command and Alan knew better than to disobey his father. He sprung up from his seat and stood uncomfortably in front of his father while he wobbled the cane threateningly in front of his son’s face.

“Trousers, pants down!”

“But, dad, I’ve already been slippered,” Alan whimpered. But, he did not expect pity and none came.

“Over the back of the sofa and be quick about it.”

The boy obeyed and within seconds, his trousers and underpants at his knees, he was stretching his firm muscular buttocks tightly across the plush leather sofa and stretching down to grip the seat cushion on the far side.

His father eyed his son’s bared buttocks. The round cheeks were scarlet with dark crimson blotches of pain. Alan’s backside still throbbed from the earlier spanking, but he was too proud to beg his father for mercy.

The first stroke caught Alan unawares. The pain soon followed, it was excruciating! His flesh felt as if it had been blowtorched.

The second stroke followed rapidly and hurt his already scorched teenage flesh badly. The agony of the stroke reignited the pain from the fifty whacks with the plimsoll he had endured only an hour previously.

“No, Sir!! Oh God, noooooo, Sir!!”

Alan struggled to retain his composure and his submissive position. His head was spinning and he was feeling dizzy. He could not be certain he would not faint at any moment from the intense pain.

His father paused and sliced the cane through the air a few times before whipping it down with increased force across the very centre of his son’s bottom. The boy let out a scream and held on to the seat cushion as if his very life depended upon it. Never before, despite the numerous thrashings he had received from his father, had he experienced pain quite like this.

Four more sickening strokes lashed down hard across Alan’s bottom. Mr Howard was a hard, accurate caner. Although he was forty-one he had been in the military in his younger days and had kept up his physical fitness levels.

Alan yelled out in torment as each new cane stroke whipped into his agonised buttocks, now red raw and bleeding profusely from the relentless bombardment.

As soon as the last of twelve strokes had been given, Alan shot bolt upright and tried to grasp his bottom. His face was a mess, covered in snot and tears. But the mess of his face was nothing compared to his buttocks. Blood oozed from what appeared to be dozens of small cuts, giving his cheeks the appearance of raw hamburger meat.

His father stood and watched impassively as his son gingerly pulled up first his underpants and then his trousers. He struggled to get them over his throbbing buttocks. Had he imagined it, but his arse seemed to have swollen to at least twice its natural size.

Alan zipped and buttoned up as his father came back to life. The room was spinning rapidly, but Alan just about managed to stay upright as he endured another lecturer from his father. There was something about not drinking alcohol and another thing about disgracing the family, but Alan could not be sure.

At last his father dismissed him and sent him to his room. Every step was agony and he bounced out of the room and crawled up the stairs to the sanctuary of his bedroom.

Calmly, his father replaced the cane in its resting place in a drawer.

“I’m going to telephone John Allison’s father to tell him what happened at school today,” Mr Howard told his wife. “I know he’ll want to give his boy a sound thrashing.”

John’s dad had not expected the phone call. He listened impassively and made mental notes of the details of his son’s behaviour and the punishment he had received.

Struggling to control his anger, he stormed to the foot of the stairs. “John! Come down here please.”

John, was in his room. He could not stop himself crying. The pain had eased and as long as he did not press into the buttocks of his cheeks, he was all right. It was the humiliation of the naked spanking that upset him most.

John loved his father, but the evident anger in the man’s voice petrified him. What was he going to do? Alan had said he expected a thrashing from his father; was his own dad going to whip him too?

Tearfully, John descended the stairs to find his dad in the living room. He had never seen the man looking so distressed before.

“I’ve had a call from Alan’s dad. Is it true?

Uncontrollable gulps choked the boy and his father held out his arms to clutch the boy to his breast.

Yes, it was all true. Between sobs, Alan told the whole story of the pub visit and his encounter with Brother Sebastian.

The father and his almost-adult son stood together hugging. Eventually, the boy was calmed by the loving embrace of his father.

Mr Allison helped the boy settle down on the sofa, before taking a deep breath.

“Fucking pervert! Making teenage boys strip naked and then spanking their bare backsides!”

He strode into the hallway. “I’m phoning the police,” he said, picking up the telephone.

“No, dad, no!” John chased after his father. “Please dad. No! Please don’t do it!”

Other stories you might like

 

Sam’s caning

University encounter

Bend over my knee for a birching

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

new story 2

z used slipper otk white pants bed straightladsspanked (4)

Jack lay face down, his nose only centimetres from the mattress. Uncle Albert’s bony knees pressed into his stomach and chest. Jack’s pulse sped, his face burned. He had been here many times before, but he could never get used to it. Over Uncle’s knee, trousers down, bottom high.

He could feel Uncle preparing himself. He gripped Jack’s blue shirt and yanked it up his back, away from the target area. Jack’s buttocks clenched: he couldn’t help it, it was a reflex action. Uncle Albert pressed his hand into Jack’s back, steadying the teenager.

Uncle Albert studied the top of his nephew’s head. His fashionably-cut black hair reeked of gel.

Uncle gripped his bedroom slipper in his right hand. “You know you deserve this,” he spoke gently. Jack stayed silent. He knew it was a rhetorical question. There was no argument. Uncle was in charge. His house, his rules. That was clear. That was accepted.

Sheepishly, Jack lifted his eyes. They were dark brown and already watery. He breathed deeply. How he wished Uncle Albert would just get on with it.

“We know why we are here,” Uncle Albert sighed, as if he was forced to carry the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. He paused. It was Jack’s cue to speak, but the nineteen-year-old stayed tight-lipped.

“When I say curfew is eleven o’clock,” Uncle Albert sighed, “I do not mean half-past-twelve.”

Jack sucked in breath. Uncle was right. “Bah!” Uncle Albert grimaced and tapped his slipper against Jack’s right buttock cheek. The teenager’s white pants fitted snugly. He was an athletic lad, not fat and flabby like so many youngsters these days. His bottom was firm and meaty.

The room which had been on the cool side until then, suddenly seemed to warm. Jack’s temperature was rising. Sweat started to soak into his shirt.

Uncle Albert moved his nephew’s body a little. He was suddenly conscious that the opening of his own striped pyjamas was perilously close to Jack’s generously endowed manhood.

Uncle Albert was no novice in the spanking stakes. Years of administering chastisement had taught him that often “less means more”. He was not one of those uncles who take their errant nephews across the knee and then proceed to slap their bottoms a hundred times or more. Often, such “punishment” hurt his hand much more than junior’s backside.

No, a couple of minutes of hard whacks with the slipper would achieve the desired outcome. It would deliver red, raw buttocks with no pain experienced by himself.

Jack’s bottom quivered, his hole winked open and shut. His buttocks clenched, as if trying to harden like a rubber ball. All this was instinctive. Jack was not in control, it was his backside’s natural defence mechanism taking over.

During the first few times that he had been spanked, Jack couldn’t work out where he was supposed to put his head. It might have been easier if Uncle Albert sat on an armless chair. Then Jack could drape himself across the old man’s knees, head down, palms of the hands pressing firmly into the carpet. But, Uncle always sat on the bed, that meant Jack had to lay across his body, with his head and chest resting on the mattress and his legs sticking out behind him. That meant his legs sometimes just dangled over Uncle’s lap.

And, where did the head go exactly? Should he press his face into the mattress and take a mouthful of duvet cover? Or was it best to turn the head and rest the left cheek of his face in a pillow?

When Uncle gripped him around the waist, Jack knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, his buttocks tensed, although his bum was pretty hard anyway.

Uncle had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of Jack’s left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it slapped into the right one. Uncle would put six into each buttock and then take breath. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all? So, although Uncle believed his son must submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.

The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed him up nicely. Then uncle turned up the pressure, increasing the speed and walloping home a couple of dozen without let-up – like machinegun fire.

His buttocks were sore and Jack knew from old that most of his bottom was already a deep pink colour. When Uncle was finished, it would be pillar-box red.

After another pause, Uncle Albert headed for the bare spot under the curves and was rewarded with an imprint of the sole of the slipper across Jack’s flesh. Jack chomped his teeth tight; that hurt. His legs kicked. Jack had been spanked many times in the past and had a high pain threshold, but the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had him squirming. He balled up his face, chewed his bottom lip and closed his eyes.

Uncle wasn’t keeping count, but he probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps across that most tender part of Jack’s body. “Ah!” Jack felt that!  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper he could feel his bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With just two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and shook his head in pain.

It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating for Jack. Uncle rested the slipper on the small of his son’s back and with both hands free he rolled the teenager’s tight briefs over the mounds of his now-toasted buttocks until they snagged on his thighs. The bum was now completely bared. Uncle Albert allowed himself a moment of self-praise. Not one square centimetre of his nephew’s bottom had missed his attention. What a lovely rosy sheen! With renewed energy, he picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks.

Uncle’s large slipper thumped heavily down on Jack’s bottom time and time again. His bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of his left bum cheek. The next on the right. Uncle was no sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for Jack to get the message and mend his ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise him.

Those feet and legs waved about again; Jack did the scrunching thing with his face, but by the time Uncle had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” Jack was silent.

The nineteen-year-old eased himself up and using Uncle Albert’s legs as support he got to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, rather like footballers do when they try to “run off” an injury. Conscious that his dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of his Uncle’s face, Jack reached down and slipped up his briefs.

His buttocks throbbed, but even now most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. He would be tender for a while; if Jack touched the lower half of his cheeks he would reignite some of the pain. Lying on his back in bed would be awkward for a while. His bum was red and bruises would quickly form. If past experience taught him anything, they would hang around for days turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing.

Uncle hauled himself from the bed, replaced the slipper on his foot and without a word exited from the room, his duty done.

 

Picture credit: Straight Lads Spanked

Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

First day at St CIGS

The TV repairman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Gaffer of The Academy 1: Beginnings

z used gaffer use this logo

All we schoolboys despised The Gaffer: from the very first time he joined The Academy to take over as Head of Sixth Form.

And, the loathing quickly turned to hatred when he demonstrated he could beat our backsides black and blue whenever he felt the need.

He was an ugly squat man and some of the boys joked he was as wide as he was tall. We hated him especially the first time he opened his mouth and revealed to us that he was from the northeast of England. When I look back now I realise we were odious snobs, but I blame the school for that: The Academy catered for the sons of the high professional classes, and even some from the minor aristocracy, and we were taught we were superior to the lower orders.

We knew The Gaffer was definitely not “one of us” the moment we heard him speak. To us boys the northeast accent, or ‘Geordie’ as it was known, belonged to coalminers and shipbuilders. We immediately nicknamed him ‘The Gaffer’ which we supposed was what working class people called their boss.

The Gaffer joined The Academy with what today would be called ‘an agenda.’ The headmaster had told him the boys of the sixth form were slacking and that we were disregarding rules and forgetting we were schoolchildren.

He was right up to a point, we were aged eighteen and even though in those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one, we considered we had already reached that status and should be treated accordingly.

The headmaster and The Gaffer saw it differently: whatever our ages, we were schoolboys and we were expected to behave like that. More so, we were senior pupils and it was up to us to set an example to the juniors.

The Gaffer knew he had to stamp down on our behaviour and do it quickly if he were to make any impact. So, right from the start he had the school rules printed out and posted on the noticeboard in the sixth form common room. In a lecture, he told us we were expected to follow the rules to the letter and any deviation from them would result in punishment: corporal punishment.

He let that last statement hang it he air a bit. None of us were surprised by this: corporal punishment was used frequently at The Academy. There couldn’t have been a boy in the whole school who hadn’t been slippered, tawsed, paddled or caned at least once in his career. The boys who were borders, that is they slept at the school at nights and weekends, were the most vulnerable: there were so many rules that could be broken.

Imagine, you were, say, a sixteen-year-old boy in the boarding school; you were expected to be in your ‘house’ by 9pm and start preparing for bed. Failure to comply with this rule would get you three strokes on the seat of the trousers from the housemaster. How different to the ‘day boy’ who would go home to his family at the end of the afternoon. How many parents did you know who would order their teenaged son to bend over the armchair for the cane, if he wasn’t in bed at nine?

We sixth formers knew all about corporal punishment and The Academy but we supposed that by the time we reached the age of eighteen our backsides would be safe from the cane.

The Gaffer wanted to make an example: he didn’t mind who the victim was, but one of us would have bend over in front of the whole sixth form and be punished severely – to encourage the others.

We were on our very best behaviour: we arrived at school on time and stayed all day (lessons weren’t timetabled for the whole day so the day boys usually drifted off home early). We stayed in school during ‘play time’ and avoided the back of the gymnasium; an area which the whole school knew was reserved for sixth former smokers.

The Gaffer became quite frustrated: based on our recent performances he supposed he could catch one or other of us out and deliver the public thrashing as planned without delay.

Eventually, he went seeking his victim and picked one of the ‘teenager poets.’ Most schools have teenager poets; they are the older pupils who think they are intellectuals and spend most of their days sneering at everyone else. They grow their hair a little too long and don’t knot up their neckties correctly. And, they criticise the ‘petty rules’ of the school, while (usually) ensuring that they themselves abide by them.

McCain was such a teenager poet. I don’t know if he literally wrote verse, but he was a ‘sneerer’ and had spoken out (but not in the earshot of the man himself) against The Gaffer and his new regime.

Most of the boys in the sixth form disliked McCain: he was just too full of himself. We were after all the people he spent most of the time sneering at: especially those of us who declared an admiration of sport or the popular music of the time.

So, when The Gaffer announced all the sixth formers must meet in classroom 21at the end of the school day, we might have been delighted to hear McCain was up for a public beating: but, in the pecking order of school life, we hated The Gaffer more than we did McCain.

We entered the classroom in hushed tones, like we were at church for a funeral. In other circumstances we schoolboys would have been delighted to see one of our own beaten, observing and later criticising how well he took his whipping. A boy who showed any sign that his beating had hurt, or worse he cried, would be teased mercilessly for the rest of the term.

The room filled quickly and we waited for the stars of the show, McCain and The Gaffer to arrive. The classroom was one of the largest in the school with room for about thirty boys. We sat at light brown wooden desks; some were connected together so that pupils sat thigh to thigh on benches. Other desks were single-seaters. All of the desks sloped and could open upwards so we could stash away our schoolbooks, or any contraband we didn’t want the schoolmaster to see. Along the top of the desks ran a groove for the pupil’s pens and pencils and each had an open inkwell.

I knew from experience (my own painful experience) that a teenaged boy could bend himself across the desk, down the slope, to present his backside at a perfect angle to receive the lash of the master’s cane. Some of the desks had thin wooden legs and the pupil could grab onto these for dear life during the beating, which is what I did when Thompson, the maths master, had beaten me when I was in the fifth.

All the pupils’ desks in the front of the room were occupied so The Gaffer would have to make McCain lay across the master’s desk for his caning. It was quite small and McCain was tall for his age, so he should be able to reach across it with his stomach flat on the wooden top and his arms outstretched ahead and his hands gripping the far edge.

The door opened and The Gaffer entered, with McCain, head bowed, shuffling a couple of paces behind. We all stood to attention as the master entered, as was the custom at The Academy.

Even with his head lowered, McCain towered over the schoolmaster. He was quite a thin, wiry boy and already he had grown to at least six feet tall. Otherwise, he looked like a typical schoolboy, dressed in white shirt and grey trousers. His green and yellow stripped school tie had never been knotted so tightly in his life. McCain might have declared himself to be a ‘Bohemian,’ but his appearance belied this. He was always dressed immaculately; his mother took a great deal of pride in her son’s clothes. His shirt sparkled and a person could cut their finger on the sharp creases in his trousers and shirt. Only his scuffed black shoes gave any indication that he might not wish to be the model The Academy schoolboy.

The Gaffer stood in front of the blackboard and easel to start a prepared sermon. He recounted the rules of the school, why they were there, why they should not be broken, and the special responsibilities sixth formers had to the school. He spoke without notes, but was word perfect: he had spent a lot of time rehearsing this scene.

The sermon, nearly over, he moved on to the main event of the afternoon: the punishment. All we boys had talked about nothing else that afternoon and we expected to hear the instruction: “Bend over that desk.” McCain would do as he were ordered, The Gaffer would (with some ceremony no doubt) lash six-of-the-best into McCain’s bum. The boy would be dismissed and we could all go home.

It was only then that I realised The Gaffer did not possess a cane; surely he hadn’t forgotten to bring one with him. I scanned the room to see if one had been left out for his use. In some classrooms a demonic master might have his whippy cane on display, perhaps hanging by its curved handle from the blackboard easel, where every boy would be able to see the consequence of his bad behaviour.

One master who taught me in my first year even had a selection of canes standing in a basket in the corner of the room.

I couldn’t see a cane anywhere: but I didn’t realise The Gaffer had other ideas.

Having warned us all that corporal punishment was his preferred method of correction and that any one of us could expect such treatment in future, he stepped behind the master’s desk, picked up a large straight-backed wooden chair and manoeuvred it into the space between the pupils’ desks and the blackboard.

Then he sat down. The Gaffer was squat when he was standing and even smaller seated. He had to manipulate his academic gown so that he didn’t tread on its hem. To accomplish this he moved his buttocks from left to right and pulled his robe up his shins. Eventually, he was satisfied so he spread his feet about three feet apart and turned to look at McCain whose eyes had not left the floor from the moment he entered the classroom.

“Take down your trousers and bend over my knee,” The Gaffer said, as if it had been the most reasonable request that any schoolmaster might make of his eighteen-year-old pupil.

There was an astonished intake of breath from the class. Then you could’ve heard a pin drop. McCain’s was startled. His eyes shot from the ground to look at The Gaffer. His face was full of contempt. He was as astounded as his classmates. I could read his face as easily as any book. He was thinking: have I heard correctly? Take down your trousers. Bend over my knee.

Yes, he had heard him all right. That’s what The Gaffer had said. I could see McCain was thinking it over: should he do as instructed? What would be the consequences if he did not obey? Of course, today, if a schoolmaster tried to spank a pupil in this way the police would be called, but in those days the schoolmaster was the law and he could get away with anything – short of actually flogging a boy to death.

The Gaffer slapped his left thigh to emphasis his point. “Bend over boy.”

McCain avoided eye contact with the rest of us. He had made his decision: he had no choice: like any schoolboy he was required to do as his master dictated – without question. He was as embarrassed as hell as he unbuckled his belt and released the top button at his waistband. In no time the fly zipper was undone and he pushed his grey school trousers down to his knees, to reveal the tightly fitting gleaming white Y-front underpants he was wearing underneath; the front bulging. I wouldn’t have been the only boy in the room to have admired McCain’s package in the showers after a gym class. There was no doubting he was a young adult and not a little boy.

His face was scarlet as he turned side on to The Gaffer and obediently lowered himself across the man’s knees, placing the palms of his hands flat down into the dirty floor tiles. He kept his head high so that he could see straight ahead, but all the while avoiding eye contact with the rest of us. He seemed to be thinking: this can’t really be happening to me. I am not really bent across The Gaffer’s knee with my trousers at my knees waiting for him to spank me on the seat of my underpants.

McCain was far too tall to fit comfortably across The Gaffer’s knees, a sight that emphasised to me the absurdity of the situation. The lanky eighteen-year-old schoolboy was about to be spanked as if he were a seven year old.

The Gaffer could have chosen a more suitable target, I thought as I caught sight of Trinder sitting in the second row of the classroom. Trinder was as undersized for his age as McCain was over. Trinder had a medical condition (was it something to do with hormones?) and he looked about fourteen years old. I knew he could get away with paying the child fare on the trolleybuses. His short-back-and-sides haircut, bright brown eyes and almost completely hairless body stressed his child-like qualities.

The Gaffer should have taken Trinder across his knee: at least he would have slotted into place and the spectacle in front of me would be more visually pleasing. Perhaps, Trinder even deserved a spanking for dodging his fares.

While I was imagining that it was the delicious Trinder across the Gaffer’s knee, McCain did something I thought was extraordinary. Realising he was too tall for this spanking position he bent his knees in towards The Gaffer’s body. This had the effect of raising his bottom higher on the man’s right leg so that his buttocks pointed right up at him. He was saying: here you are, I am submissive, you can do with me what you want.

McCain closed his eyes tight and waited for the spanking to begin. But The Gaffer kept us waiting. He smoothed out the boy’s white cotton pants so they fitted across his globes like a second skin. (McCain’s mother would be so pleased at their cleanliness. In those days people would say you should change your underpants every day in case you were involved in a traffic accident. Now, at The Academy we would have to say: change every day in case you have to go over The Gaffer’s knee for a spanking.)

Then, daintily with both hands he took the tail of the boy’s crisp white shirt and moved it half way up his back. Then, without warning he slapped his hand down into the right cheek. And, then again into the left cheek.

McCain filled out his underpants very well. As each slap smacked into him I could see the fleshy globe absorb the impact. The Gaffer kept up a steady rhythm: one cheek then the other. McCain gasped a little, but I don’t suppose the spanking was hurting much. At worst he would feel a glowing tingle. A spanking by hand on the pants was never going to be too painful for an eighteen-year-old boy; not like it would be with a hairbrush, or a slipper or, say, a belt.

The Gaffer continued smacking alternate cheeks: slap, slap, slap, slap. Red marks were forming below McCain’s buttocks where some of the whacks missed his underpants and connected with bare flesh. They certainly looked raw.

The Gaffer gripped the elasticated waist of the underpants. McCain’s closed eyes popped open as he realised what was about to happen. The class held its collective breath: no that would be an indignity too far. Surely, he wouldn’t.

The Gaffer must have had second thoughts and released his grip and continued smacking into the cotton-covered buttocks. McCain seemed visibly to relax. I saw him bend his head lower so that he could see under the chair to look at his own feet as if he was trying to be both the recipient of the spanking, but also a spectator.

The Gaffer increased the strength of his spanks and the speed, until they were raining into his cheeks rapidly like machine gun fire. McCain gasped a little: he was feeling this. Soon, though The Gaffer realised his hand was hurting more than the teenager’s buttocks (probably a lot more).

He stopped, but still held on tightly to the boy at the waist: he was going nowhere. The Gaffer looked at the classroom full of boys; this was the first time he had done this since McCain went over his knee.

The Gaffer had a plan. He spotted Fanshaw, one of the day boys sitting at the front of the class. “Do you have a plimsoll in that gym bag?” He nodded to a cloth bag resting close to the boy’s feet. Did I see a slight smile cross Fanshaw’s lips as he understood the importance of the question?

Fanshaw had been observing McCain’s predicament at close range. From his vantage point in the front row he had a perfect view of the boy’s upturned bottom and sturdy legs.

A little too eagerly, I thought, Fanshaw untied the drawstring and delved into his gym bag and brought out a white rubber-soled gym plimsoll. He had the triumphant air of a diver who had just brought up treasure from the bottom of the sea.

“Bring it up to me boy.” The Gaffer had not released his grip on McCain, but the teenager managed to turn his head enough to witness his schoolfriend leave his chair and hand over the heavy slipper that would, surely, now, be used to take off his backside.

The Gaffer held the slipper tightly at the heel end and squeezed the slipper hard. His grip was so forceful his knuckles were turning white. McCain squeezed his eyes tightly shut once again and clenched his buttocks in readiness for the onslaught. I suppose McCain hoped the clamping of his cheeks would somehow lessen the pain he was about to feel, but as every naughty boy who has ever been spanked or beaten knows as a ploy this does not work.

“Relax boy,” The Gaffer meant McCain should offer up his bum as before. Instead, McCain’s whole body seemed to stiffen as the first of a dozen quick slaps of the slipper crashed without stopping into his underpants.

McCain growled audibly. Until now he had taken his smacking in silence, occasionally gasping or wheezing. There had not been too much pain: his bottom tingled a little and the hurt such as it was had turned quickly into a warm glow that was actually quite pleasant.

The blows from the plimsoll were altogether different. The pain was instant from the very first smack. By the time the first dozen had spread across his cheeks and the top of his thighs, he was wriggling his body and kicking his legs in a desperate unsuccessful attempt to dodge the slipper.

He was breathing heavily now and his face was as scarlet as I supposed his bum must be. Then came another dozen: delivered as hard and as rapidly as the others. Half way through McCain gave up all attempts at self-control and he yelped like a little puppy.

Sweat poured off The Gaffer. He might have wished he had taken off his heavy waistcoat before ordering the boy across his knee.

The schoolmaster held McCain firmly around the middle cutting off any possibility of escape and then launched into the third dozen. Pinned as he was securely facedown over his tormentor’s knees, the boy could do nothing except try to soak up the considerable pain. He pounded his hands into the floor tiles but this did not stop The Gaffer ripping up his backside.

McCain’s humiliation was completed when tears flowed down his cheeks and his little yelps turned to huge swallows and gulps. My classmates and I looked on mesmerized. When would this end?

Only The Gaffer knew that and he slapped down another dozen across the fleshiest parts of McCain’s cheeks. From where I sat it looked like his underpants had stuck to his bum. This severe over-the-knee little boy’s spanking had made his buttocks sweat.

Now, The Gaffer was gasping almost as much as his victim; the schoolmaster was not a very fit man and could not maintain such physical effort.

The final twelve slaps whacked into the underpants and it was over. Both The Gaffer and McCain were spent.

“Up boy,” The Gaffer wheezed.

McCain did not need telling a second time. He leapt to his feet and facing away from us the eighteen-year-old’s fingers probed first the uncovered portions of bare bottom and then under the thin cotton material of the white briefs, eventually he bent down to pull up his trousers, affording me a marvellous opportunity to see his tight bottom. The thighs were red raw and McCain would have difficulty sitting comfortably for some hours to come.

The show finished quickly. The Gaffer dismissed McCain and he shot from the room and ran from the school. In silence the rest of us left the room and went our different ways.

The next morning at gym class we all admired McCain’s bruised buttocks. In the past I had seen a few bottoms after they had been caned, but nothing looked this bad. The red marks I had seen as he pulled up his trousers were now a blueish-black and the whole of his rear end from the top of the buttocks beneath the spine, across the fleshy globes and into the thighs had the texture of leather. It would take more than a week before the bruises cleared completely.

We told him he had taken the spanking well (although he had howled the classroom down and I shouldn’t be surprised if he could be heard all over the school) and we called The Gaffer “a Geordie bastard” and so on.

It was the first and last time The Gaffer demonstrated his power and authority by administering a public beating, but it wasn’t the last time he beat a sixth-form boy, as I can personally testify. But that’s another story.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015. For the full series of The Gaffer of The Academy, click here

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

z used cane longs adult office suit

Adrian chewed on his bottom lip and kept his eyes downcast on the carpet. He was not quite sure where to put his hands, so he let them hang loosely at his sides, then he clasped them behind his back the way a member of the royal family does. Lastly, he held his hands in front of his cock like a footballer defending a free kick. Then he started the routine all over again.

He could not get his eyelids to stop flickering; he was wracked with anxiety.

“You know why you are here young man.”

Adrian was not sure: was this a question, or a statement of fact? He decided a non-committal grunt would be enough of a response.

“Your work is sloppy. You make countless mistakes; you do not pay attention when you are working.”

It was quite a litany of complaints.

And there was more. “You are often late into work and back from lunch. You are often away from your desk for no good reason.”

Adrian listened as best he could. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst through his chest. His breathing was becoming shallower and those damn eyelids would not slow down.

“I warned you before about your conduct, young man.”

Yes, Adrian silently agreed. Mr Gregory had warned him. More than once actually. There was nothing Adrian could say in mitigation. Everything his boss said was true. He was probably the worst accounts clerk in history. He had no aptitude for the job; no head for figures. Hey, he could not even add up properly.

It was a wonder to him how he ever got this job in the first place, but really he had no choice but to stick at it. Jobs were hard to come by these days and you did not readily give one up.

Mr Gregory eyed the accounts clerk. The boy’s clear skin was flushed pink; with embarrassment and also anxiety. His sparkling grey eyes were a little moist and hidden by his long curled lashes that refused to keep still.

“What did I say would happen if your work did not improve?”

Adrian’s pinkish face turned pillar-box red. He could not catch his breath.

“T..t..t…” he tried to respond but no words would form. His mouth was now as dry as the Gobi Desert.

Mr Gregory enjoyed the boy’s discomfort and his grey deeply-lined face cracked into a broad grin as he leaned forward in his chair.

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten,” he cackled, his beaklike nose gave him the appearance of an eagle about to sweep down on the poor boy.

Adrian’s breathing, once shallow, now almost stopped completely.

“Well then young man let’s get this over with shall we.” Mr Gregory hauled himself from his padded chair and took a few steps across the room.

Adrian eyes followed the middle-aged man and his eyelids still worked overtime.

Mr Gregory sighed audibly and stooped down to reach the bottom drawer in an old-fashioned wooden chest.

Adrian closed his eyes tight: knowing instinctively what his boss would withdraw from it.

“Here,” Mr Gregory straightened himself and turned towards Adrian. “I said if your work did not improve I would cane you.”

Adrian was transfixed. His cruel ugly boss held a long yellowish-brown stick between his hands.

Mr Gregory was very proud of his cane. He fondly imagined it was just like hundreds that were used every day by schoolmasters to whack the stretched backsides of naughty schoolboys.

He wobbled it in front of Adrian’s face, hoping to intimidate him. He succeeded.

The rod was a little over three feet in length, about the thickness of a pencil and with the traditional curved handle at one end.

Through half-closed eyes Adrian watched apprehensively as Mr Gregory slashed the springy rod through thin air.

This was not the first time Adrian had seen such a cane. He had been on the receiving end of one many times at school for general laziness and misbehaviour. Adrian had been raised to believe a thrashing with a cane was a just punishment for wrongdoing. He knew he had screwed up at work and he had been warned of the consequences if he did not improve. He really did not have anything to complain about, but it was a little strange to have to show his backside to his boss. Adrian had thought he had left all that behind at school.

Mr Gregory whipped the cane through the air one more time. Seemingly satisfied that he now had the measure of the rod, he pointed it at his desk.

“Take off your jacket and put in there,” he swished one more time for emphasis.

Mr Gregory watched intently as Adrian with fumbling fingers undid the button of the jacket of his dark grey suit and slid it over his shoulders, uncovering his gleaming white shirt. With his dark blue striped tie and dark grey trousers he could be mistaken for a senior pupil at any of the local schools.

Mr Gregory drank in the sight of Adrian’s muscular shoulders and slim flat stomach as the boy carefully folded the jacket and placed it on the desk. He was so unlike many of the other boys in the office, still in their teens but already running to fat with middle aged spreads around their waists.

Another swish of the cane told Adrian it was time to prepare himself.

“Take that chair and turn it round so that the back is facing you.”

Although Adrian was no virgin to the sting of the rattan cane, he still did not relish the ordeal he was about to face.

Sorrowfully, he gripped the large padded leather chair and in one movement swivelled it round into position.

Another swish of the cane, this time directed at a spot on the floor.

“Stand there young man.”

Adrian shuffled forward and stopped.

“Closer!” Mr Gregory was impatiently anxious to get started. Adrian, however, was quite keen for the action to be delayed.

“Bend over the chair!” It was a curt command devoid of emotion. Mr Gregory had to perform his duty.

Adrian hesitated, gripped by the absurdity of the situation. Here he was a nineteen-year-old man expected to bend over the back of an armchair to offer up his arse for his miserable boss to whack with his cane. But there was nothing he could do about it; Mr Gregory was in charge.

For the first time that afternoon Adrian caught Mr Gregory’s eye; was his boss just a little embarrassed too? He could not tell.

Swish! “I shan’t tell you again.”

Adrian hesitated no longer; if he wanted to keep this job he had no choice. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together, took a pace forward and swiftly fell face first over the back of the chair.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart.” They were unnecessary instructions for Adrian’s bottom was already perfectly positioned to receive punishment. And what a trim bottom it was, much admired by the girls in the company and, if only Mr Gregory knew, by a surprising number of men as well.

Mr Gregory took up position about three feet from Adrian’s left buttock, before carefully rubbing the springy cane across the very centre of the boy’s globes. Tap, tap, tap, it went. Mr Gregory heard Adrian hold his breath in anticipation of the first agonising cut that would soon slice into his bottom.

Slowly, Mr Gregory raised the cane about four or five feet above the boy’s taut bottom and then with an almighty swing he slashed it down across the very centre of the target area.

A gasp of air whistled through Adrian’s clenched teeth, as a burning stripe seared into his tight cheeks. Instinctively he gripped hold of the foam padded seat cushion and let the pain course from his rear end up and down his stretched legs.

“Owww!” he could not help himself. He had determined not to show Mr Gregory any emotion, but this first stroke was worse than anything he had ever been forced to endure at St Simeone’s School.

Mr Gregory admired his handiwork. Yes, he smirked to himself that one had really hit home.

He raised the cane once more and positioned it a half an inch below the first cut. Again he gave the swing all his strength. The cut hit Adrian’s pert buttocks at speed, sank a little into what flesh there was on the boy, and bounced back with vim.

Adrian screamed like a stuck pig. Still gripping the cushion his back arched and his feet stamped up and down. Never in his entire life had he felt such agony. To say it felt like a white hot poker had been pressed against his skin would be an understatement.

The boy’s face, usually so clear and a little pale, was now puce. His beautiful grey eyes were drowned in tears.

He wanted desperately to plead for mercy. He would do anything for Mr Gregory. Anything at all. He would concentrate on his work, go to night school to learn accounting; buy himself an adding machine. He would be the best-ever accounts clerk that ever lived, if only Mr Gregory would stop hurting him.

“Yowllll! Oh my God!” The third struck diagonally across the other two, setting both on fire again. The howl that surged from his throat was so deep; Adrian thought he would vomit at any moment.

Mr Gregory spluttered and coughed. His body convulsed one way and then another.

“Urgggh” he was woken by a cold damp patch across the front of his pyjamas.

Miserably, he wriggled the pyjama bottoms over his buttocks and down his legs, before throwing them from under the bedclothes onto the floor. Then he rolled across to the empty half of his bed and tried to resurrect Adrian and those trim buttocks that still had to endure three more strokes from Mr Gregory’s cane.

The next day was Saturday so there was no work. Mr Gregory got up at eight o’clock, bundled his soiled pyjamas together with the bedsheets and the rest of his laundry into the washing machine, picked up his keys and left the house.

He was a creature of habit and just like every day, he shuffled down the street to the newsagents. It was still early and the street of small semi-detached houses was almost deserted. Couples were still snuggled together in bed, enjoying what was euphemistically called a ‘lie-in.’

It was June and the day was already heating up. There had been a heatwave for days and the forecasters said there was much more to come. At the newsagent, as he did every morning, he nodded a cursory “good morning” to the silver-haired lady behind the counter. He had been to the shop every day for ten years and still did not know the lady’s name. Somehow she knew his. Almost.

“Good morning Mr Gregson,” she smiled the way that small shopkeepers, eager to ingratiate themselves with customers, always did. He handed over some coppers and took his copy of the Daily Express. On weekdays he would then proceed on the five minutes’ walk that took him to his office, but on Saturdays and Sundays, he went in the opposite direction and made his way to Joe’s Café.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

His was a mundane life. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Unlike the wretched Adrian of his fantasies, Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

The café was not busy at this time of day. It did most of its trade during the week, servicing workshops and offices. Mr Gregory liked it that way. He sat at his usual table and ordered his usual meal (full English breakfast) and settled down with his paper.

Nobody took any notice of him and he took none of them. He scanned the paper with no real interest. It was the usual stuff; economic downturn, a murder in London’s gangland and politicians droning on about how bad members in opposition parties were. There was a General Election due and they could expect a lot more of that before polling day.

Then he turned a page and saw something that made his juices drool. He slammed shut the paper as the café owner came and set his meal down on the table. Mr Gregory hoped the man had not seen the story that had caught his eye. He would not want people to know he was interested in that sort of thing.

With the café owner safely back behind his counter, Mr Gregory surreptitiously opened the paper. He read the story through quickly, then took a mouthful of sausage from his plate and chewed contemplatively as he savoured every detail of the story once again.

There was a school in a town he had never heard of. A right posh school by the sound of it. What happened was that the boys had been complaining about the heatwave. They were sweltering in their traditional school uniform of woollen blazer and long trousers. The older boys, some were as old as eighteen, said they wanted to be allowed to wear short trousers. The younger boys were obliged by the school to wear shorts up to the age of fourteen whatever the weather.

When the older boys demanded the right to wear short trousers their headmaster told them flatly: No. But, they rebelled and a group of them turned up dressed in their smart grey flannel short trousers anyway.

The headmaster went ballistic. They had broken the rules and defied his authority. There was only one course of action. They were lined up outside the headmaster’s study and one by one they were ordered inside.

Mr Gregory read with mounting excitement, ‘One eighteen-year-old sixth-former, who did not want to give his name for fear of retribution, said: “When it was my turn to go in the headmaster instructed me to bend across his desk. He then administered six hard whacks with his cane to the seat of my trousers.

‘“It hurt like Henry.”’

‘Another boy said: “It’s not fair. We weren’t asking to wear beach shorts. We would be happy to wear the same type of grey flannel short trousers the younger boys wear all the time.”’

Oh, how Mr Gregory envied that headmaster. That was the job to have, he thought.

He gulped down more of his breakfast as he read more of the story. Later, the headmaster rounded up three of the ringleaders and he publicly thrashed them in front of the whole school, even though they had already been beaten in the privacy of his study.  And, oh glory! He gave it to them on the bare buttocks.

Mr Gregory’s heart sped. He read the story for a third time and then sipped gently on his tea. Tylesbury had its own posh school, called unimaginatively Tylesbury School. It was an independent grammar school, a kind of private school. The pupils were made to attend lessons on Saturday mornings and he often saw the older boys looking delicious in their bright blue striped blazers and long light grey trousers hanging around the shops in the afternoon after classes had finished. Some of those boys looked very dapper and eminently spankable.

The dreams he had about them would be enhanced greatly, now that he could picture them in their tailored short trousers each in turn knocking on the heavy oak door of Mr Gregory’s study, waiting for the gruff “Come!” from within as their instruction to enter.

Mr Gregory would be waiting in his oak panel-lined study, dressed in his swishing academic gown, a mortar-board cap, the one with the tassel hanging down, planted firmly on his head. To the consternation of the boys, he would be flexing his whippy cane between his hands.

There would be a curt command, “Bend over, touch your toes.” Mr Gregory would roll the boy’s blazer up his back clear of the target area and then thrash six almighty swipes into the flannel-covered buttocks. It would not matter how much the boy yelped, he would get the full six.

Then, “Stand up. Send in the next boy.” And one boy would be replaced by another as headmaster Dr Gregory did his duty and ensured the next generation of gentlemen understood the virtue of obedience.

Carefully, Mr Gregory tore the page from the newspaper. It would join his growing collection. In his spare bedroom at home, he had a tin box that he always kept locked. Inside was a sheaf of cuttings from newspapers and magazines. The box was inside a suitcase (also locked) on top of his wardrobe.

This would become one of his favourites, for sure. Others that he liked to take out and read again and again were about an approved school for juvenile offenders that was closed down the previous year after a government inquiry. They said there was inappropriate use of the cane. Inappropriate? At least no boy there got it across the bared buttocks.

Another favourite concerned two eighteen-year-old sixth formers. There were some young rabbits that were caged up ready to be used by the pupils in science lessons. The boys took the rabbits down to an open field and set them free. That cost them three strokes on the backside.

Mr Gregory wondered why that was considered newsworthy by the Daily Express, but he was grateful nonetheless to add it to his collection.

Breakfast over, Mr Gregory set off on the next part of his Saturday routine. Shopping at the new large self-service supermarket had become a pleasure in recent weeks after he discovered a young assistant called Phillip.

He knew he was called Phillip because all the staff wore name tags. He supposed it was to make customers feel they were getting personal service, as they had done before the large stores drove most of the small shops out of business.

You would not give Philip a second glance if you saw him coming towards you in the street. He was smaller than average, with a pock-marked face, developing jowls and an overbite. But if you saw him walking away you would be captivated by his exquisite buttocks. They were like two pimples inside his loosely fitting black trousers, inviting close inspection from connoisseurs of the male form.

Mr Gregory first saw him in the dry goods section of the supermarket. The old man turned from one aisle into another and quite literally stopped in his tracks. There at the end of the aisle was Philip, his back to Mr Gregory and bending down to put packaged goods on to the bottom-most shelf.

Mr Gregory’s tongue might have hung out, or his face might have blushed scarlet with desire; either way he was immensely conscious of a woman standing close by looking at him in a strange manner. He turned on his heels. He must get away and he must do it quickly.

But the temptation was too much for him. Only a few seconds had passed before he retraced his steps and stood once again at the end of the aisle admiring the vision in the black trousers before him.

Slowly, pretending to have great interest in the cornflakes and other breakfast cereal on the shelves, he inched his way down the aisle, fearful that at any moment the boy would straighten up and go away to another task.

Mr Gregory reached Philip and stood by the boy’s side. Unconscious of the stir he was causing, Philip continued to rearrange the packets on the bottom shelf. The boy’s knees were straight and his body bent. Mr Gregory was so close he could touch him. He had never been so close to a bending boy. It was as if he were submissively presenting his bottom to Mr Gregory and saying, “I’m sorry Sir, I have been a naughty boy, please spank me.”

He was so close he could put his hand in the small of Philip’s back, hold him steady and smack his palm down into the boy’s tiny, but perfectly formed buttocks. His ungainly hand was the size of a shovel and could almost fit across both buttocks at once.

The old man first approached the boy from behind, then covertly moved to the side to take in the full view of one of Philip’s curved cheeks. Mr Gregory raised his hand ready to strike.

Quickly, catching himself before he disgraced himself, he turned away ashamed and almost bolted to the other side of the store. Safe among the dairy cold counter he paused to catch his wind. The sight of Philip’s backside, seemingly offered submissively for a spanking, had literally taken his breath away.

His attempt to continue with his shopping as usual was frustrating. Did he need sugar, how many eggs did he have a home? None of this mattered any more. All he wanted to do was to return to dry goods and stand once again by the boy in the black trousers.

Trying not to be obvious he meandered around the aisles, seemingly haphazardly, but, like a marine on manoeuvres he was headed for one destination only. At last he was in the adjoining aisle. He was wheezing. Why? There had been no physical exertion. It was a sedate journey from one end of the store to the other.

But he did know why but could not admit it, not even to himself. He wanted that boy. He wanted him bent over before him touching his toes, asking, no demanding, that Mr Gregory beat his buttocks black and blue.

Then, but only when Mr Gregory gave the order, Philip would rise and very slowly and deliberately peel down his trousers, before in one fine athletic movement, once again bending forward knees straight, fingertips on his toes, offer up his bum again, this time wrapped in the soft white cotton of his underpants.

There would follow a bottom scorching whacking. Mr Gregory thought one of his old worn bedroom slippers would do the job very well. Two, no three dozen, whacks across those tight cheeks would do it.

The boy would take it bravely. There would be no howling like a hyena. Instead the punishment completed the boy would gaze into Mr Gregory’s eyes lovingly. “Thank you, Sir,” he would say, “I thoroughly deserved that.”

“Yes you did,” Mr Gregory would reply, “and if I have to deal with you again, make no mistake you will get it with your trousers and your pants at your ankles.” And then for emphasis, he would add, “On your bare bottom.”

His mouth dry and his tongue almost hanging out, Mr Gregory turned into the aisle to drink in the sight of the wonderful boy who had become his imaginary spank slave.

But, he was not there. In his place were two middle-aged ladies discussing the merits of instant porridge.

Oh no! Where could he be? In distress Mr Gregory darted from aisle to aisle, bumping into housewives going about their lawful shopping.

“Hey! Where’s the fire!”

“Will you watch where you’re going!”

No, he would not watch where he was going. All he cared about was finding Philip. He must be in another aisle, filling shelves. Somewhere on this supermarket floor, he was bent over straight knees, straight back. Showing off his perfect, spankable bum.

He searched in vain and then calming a little he completed his shopping. He must stop making a fool of himself, he admonished himself. You deserve a damn good spanking yourself, what disgraceful behaviour, and in public too.

Waiting his turn at the check-out he once again saw Reginald. Reginald was some kind of store supervisor and wore the cheap mid-blue suits the company made them wear to prove it. He could not be much more than twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, Mr Gregory had supposed.

He was tall, fair and rather chubby. Mr Gregory fell in hate with the young man the first time he had seen him, two weeks previously. It had been a small matter. A loose cap on a sauce bottle. It had not been noticed until the customer was ready to pay. Reginald intervened. A shop assistant was called, an elderly man, and directed to go fetch a replacement. You would have thought the man, who was old enough to be Reginald’s grandfather, was his personal slave.

“And be quick about it!” he ordered as the old man scuttled off.

Reginald was far too young to be a boss. He had no idea how to treat people properly. The way he spoke to the shop assistant was disgraceful; he was far too haughty. For nine pence Mr Gregory would throw the wretch face down across one of the counters and thrash his fat arse to pieces with a cane.

Right in front of ‘his’ staff; that would bring him down a peg or two.

Mr Gregory had a fitful sleep that night. Philip, oh Philip! He dreamt of him so often, He was naked and bent submissively across his knee. With his left hand Mr Gregory ruffled his hair, to let him know he was loved. His fingertips caressed his back as he followed the spine from the boy’s neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. Mr Gregory’s right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.

The boy breathed easily; he was submissive and ready for what he was about to receive. Mr Gregory raised his right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. He smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.

Then there was the time Philip was in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as Mr Gregory smacked a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. Philip was across his knee as a soccer player for a spanking on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). Then dressed only in swimming trunks (he had been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’) he was whacked (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.

Mr Gregory’s favourite was the boy in those lovely trousers bent submissively across the check-out counter for him to be thrashed with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.

There was a timid knock on the office door. Mr Gregory’s looked up from his paperwork, expecting the door to open and his unexpected visitor to enter. But, nothing happened. The old man returned to his list of figures; perhaps he had imagined it. He was finding it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate that morning. And, his temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap. No, it was definitely a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Mr Gregory was surprised how hoarse his voice sounded. It was Monday morning and he had rather overdone it the night before, demolishing one bottle of whisky and starting on a second.

The door edged open slowly and it seemed like an age later when a young head with shaggy light brown hair poked around. Beneath the shock of hair was a cherubic face. Mr Gregory took in the vision: hazel green eyes, tanned, almost glistening skin, a firm chin and the cutest button of a nose the old man had seen in many a long year.

“Come in, come in,” Mr Gregory tried joviality, but his alcohol-fuelled headache turned his intended warm smile into a threatening grimace.

He could see the young man blanch; his eyes darting down to the floor.

Someone had to break the silence. Mr Gregory assumed as he was the boss it had better be he.

“Can I help you?” Again the attempt at warmth failed dismally.

The boy startled. “I’m the new work experience boy,” he blurted in confusion and even with the deep sun tan Mr Gregory could tell the boy was blushing.

“Oh, yes of course.” Now, it was Mr Gregory’s turn to sound confused. He knew the boy was coming. Mega Fastenings took two business students each year from the polytechnics. They stayed for a year, a sandwich course they called it. He had a file on the boy somewhere; what had he done with it?

“Craig. Craig Weston” the boy’s nervous smile was really rather scrumptious, Mr Gregory thought as furtively he ran his eye over the boy. Oh, yes, he thought, a definite improvement on Ian, the intern who had just left the company to return to his college. You will do very well.

Mr Gregory was practising his small talk with the office staff. He had been on a course. Say nothing of any consequence, nod repeatedly and smile a lot: that was the gist of it.

There were two easy chairs in the office but the boy did not have the confidence to sit uninvited. Instead, he stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back.

“So this is your first morning?” Mr Gregory started on the small talk.

“Yes, Sir,” Craig replied, still not quite able to look Mr Gregory in the eye.

Sir! Yes, Mr Gregory liked that. He also very much liked the way the teenager was standing, awkwardly in front of him. He felt a fantasy coming on. It was a sweltering hot day, but Craig had dressed formally for his first day. He had left his jacket behind, but wore dark grey trousers, a plain shirt and a striped tie.

He supposed it was the kind of thing office workers wore. It was, but in Mr Gregory’s imagination it was a school uniform and Craig was a very naughty boy, sent to the headmaster’s study to be dealt with.

He could not see Craig from behind, but if what was on show in the front was a guide, he would look fabulous draped over the back of a low easy chair; or maybe even better, stood in the centre of the office, feet apart by a yard or so, bent over, knees straight, fingers stretching into the toes of his shoes.

Mr Gregory asked more inane questions but did not listen to the answers until, “So I have nowhere to live at the moment.”

Mr Gregory came back to earth. “Oh, so where did you stay last night?”

Craig gave the name of a local ‘hotel.’ Mr Gregory was not sure if the called itself a hotel, but if it did the new Trade Description Act would soon put a stop to that. It was a place for down-and-out tramps. It was entirely unsuitable for such a good-looking boy.

“But, I am looking for something else,” Craig trailed off.

It was an hour or so later that a germ of an idea lodged in Mr Gregory’s mind. It might work, he thought. Why not? He should take more initiative.

He had a spare room at his house. Craig could stay there. Why not? There might be gossip; he did not want the neighbours to get the wrong idea. Maybe, just temporarily then, to get him out of the doss house; until he found somewhere more suitable.

The heat, his self-inflicted headache and this wonderful new idea he had, was too much. He needed fresh air.

He fleshed out the plan as he slowly walked the length and breadth of the industrial estate. There would have to be rules of course; a curfew, keep the house tidy; set times for watching TV and so on.

He could see it now. It is a sweltering hot afternoon: will this damn heatwave never end? Craig is sprawled on the sofa in the living room glistening, dressed only in skimpy satin running shorts and a singlet. Mr Gregory enters.

“What are my rules about smoking in the house?”

Craig is startled; he did not know Mr Gregory was at home.

“What are my rules?”

“Eh …” Craig knows the rules and that he has broken them, but he will not give in without a fight.

“But, it was only in my room,” he says a little too defiantly.

“What are my rules?”

Craig flushes. He is in big trouble and he knows it. Mournfully, he replies, “No smoking.”

“Yes, no smoking. I’ve spoken to you about this before.”

Sorrowfully, Craig nods assent. Yes, he has been told. There is no excuse.

“And you have been told the sanctions.”

Craig gulps. No, surely not. He had not meant it, had he?

Mr Gregory strides further into the room. “You know my methods. Stand up.”

Craig flinches, trying to sink further into the padded cushion of the settee.

“Come here,” Mr Gregory reaches forward and grabs the boy by the left arm. He gives little resistance; he is scared but instinctively he knows he cannot get out of this. Matters have to take their course.

Releasing his grip on Craig’s arm, Mr Gregory snatches a clump of his unruly hair and pushes him face down over the back of the armchair. The boy’s singlet rides up his back revealing an expanse of golden tanned flesh.

Mr Gregory grabs at the elastic waist of the provocative shorts and they are soon at the boy’s knees: followed by his underpants.

Craig seems resigned to his fate. He whimpers a little, his now bared bottom twitches as he hears Mr Gregory unbuckle his belt and remove it through the loops of his trousers. Then he doubles up the wide, thick, heavy leather belt and brings it crashing down across the centre of Craig’s bottom.

In a frenzy Mr Gregory puts six sunset stripes across the boy’s cheeks.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he wails. “I’m sorry Mr Gregory. I won’t smoke again. Ow! Ow! Ow! Please let me off!”

But, Mr Gregory carries on lashing.

“Nooo! Please,” the wailings and pleading continues.

“Be quiet. You deserve this. You’ve had this coming for a very long time.” Sweat is pouring from Mr Gregory as he raises the belt again and again, swiping it down into the upturned buttocks.

“You miss curfew, your room is a disgrace, you smoke in my house.”

“Please! I’m sorry! Please,” the pleading continues, but so also does the bare-arsed leathering.

Maybe, Mr Gregory reflected that evening, as he poured himself more whisky, it was for the better that Craig had found a room with the Rev Crick at Aston Budleigh where Ian used to lodge.

Back at the office Mr Gregory was on tour. He did this every day; he had been taught to do it on a management course. Be seen by the staff, stop and chat for a minute, let them know you are there. Mr Gregory was not a natural ‘talker,’ but he practiced a lot.

He loved walking through the offices of Mega Fastenings; it gave him the excuse to ogle the boys’ backsides. The office was pretty typical of its type there were upwards of 250 employees; many women with families; one or two older men; but mostly younger boys and girls in their teens and twenties.

Most days Mr Gregory would find Adrian working busily at his desk. Adrian was not an accounts clerk in real life; he was a general administrator in the order office. Mr Gregory had no idea if Adrian was good or bad at his work. He rather suspected he was good, he always seemed to be hard at it when Mr Gregory passed by.

Once, Mr Gregory had tried to talk to Adrian; to chat, just as the management course had instructed. Which of them had been the most shy? Mr Gregory reflected sullenly that evening. The boy blushed scarlet as if he had been caught in some naughtiness when his boss stumbled over an inane question.

It was not a meeting of great minds, but that night as he lay in bed his head spinning, Mr Gregory as he always did, went through the activities of his day, trying to focus on a moment that he could turn into a fantasy. He tried to conjure up Adrian, but instead got Robert and Pat.

Pat was a forty-something mother with the figure of a woman who had delivered four children. Advertisers had started saying such people had the ‘fuller figure.’ Mr Gregory arrived at the section of the open-plan office given over to purchasing in time to catch the tail end of a conversation.

Pat was cheerfully berating Robert, a twenty-something clerk.

“I should take you cross my knee, but you’d probably enjoy it!”

“Ha!” Robert replied backing off and returning to his work station, “You should be so lucky.”

What did it mean? Mr Gregory flushed and walked on pretending not to have heard.

Would she spank Robert. Across her knee? He was a burly lad, a rugby player type. She would have her work cut out forcing him face down.

But, what if he submitted himself to her.

“I’m sorry Pat. You’re right. I do deserve a spanking.” And then he prostrates himself across her lap. His chubby bum in the air and his sweaty face staring down at the hard nylon floor covering.

What would she do? Would she smack the palm of her hand into his tight bulging trousers?

No, Mr Gregory supposed, she would have a hairbrush in her drawer, that would be a perfect weapon. She could whack that with great vigour into his fat arse. Even with his trousers and pants on he would feel it.

Why had she threatened to spank Robert? Back in his office, breathing heavily, Mr Gregory cannot get the image of Robert out of his mind. What had he done? He should be told, he is the boss. It is his job to enforce discipline, not Pat’s. He should call the boy into the office right now and deal with him.

Mr Gregory sat behind his desk and stared intently at the space between it and the door. Mr Gregory is sat on a wooden straight backed chair. Robert stands in front of him, crestfallen. The boy’s hands are trembling. He knows he has done wrong. His boss has found out and now he must face the inevitable discipline.

Mr Gregory grips a stout wooden ruler. It is only twelve inches long by an inch wide, but it is half and inch thick and made of solid wood. It packs one heck of a punch when lashed down with force across a boy’s bared bottom.

Mr Gregory’s instructions are calm. “Take off your jacket and place it on my desk. Then please lower your trousers and underpants.”

Robert hesitates, but not for long. There is nothing he can do. He has broken the rules and he must be punished.

Not daring to look at Mr Gregory, sitting, legs splayed, back straight, sweat patches forming under his armpits, Robert unbuckles his belt, pops the button on his trousers and unfastens the zip. The weight of the bunch of keys in his pocket makes them hurtle to his ankles. Then he puts his thumb in the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them to his knees.

His shirt is long and covers most of his manhood and buttocks. Mr Gregory affects a lack of interest that he does not feel.

“Lift up your shirt and bend over my knee.”

This is the first time that Robert looks at his boss. Has he noticed before how old and ugly the man is? His skin is pale grey, even in the height of the heatwave, the deep lines cut across his face; the beak of his nose reminds Robert of a witch in a fairy tale.

With his shirt lifted and buttocks and genitals duly exposed, Robert flops forward, his considerable weight taking Mr Gregory by surprise. Robert is not as lithe as Adrian and his buttocks are huge and flabby.

Mr Gregory is fascinated at the way the narrow heavy ruler sinks deep into the fleshy globes, before emerging, leaving behind deep pink stripes against the whiteness of his flesh.

Mr Gregory works methodically; no inch of the vast buttocks is left unscathed. Robert remains impassive, enduring the increasing pain. His bottom starts to tingle and this turns to real pain. His bottom is getting hotter and hotter. Ouch! This is real, not like when Pat spanks him.

The phone rings. Robert dissolves.

Adrian lumbers up the stairs towards his bedroom, the scolding words of Uncle Gregory still ringing in his ears. Already tears are welling up in his sparkling grey eyes and uncle has not even started yet.

“Hurry up, be quick about it!” Uncle Gregory is standing outside the living room. Adrian quickens his pace. Inside the bedroom, sorrowfully, Adrian looks at himself in the mirror. “You’re for it now, me lad!”

His face is wringing with sweat: the damned heatwave mingled with the boy’s fear. His deeply tanned face anxiously stares back at him. “Oh well, I’d better get on with it.”

In one movement he pulls his loose fitting shirt over his head, revealing a nut-brown chest. Then down come his shorts.

His tight bright green micro briefs hug tightly, bulging at the front. Some hair is poking out over the top. Adrian is no longer a little boy.

Should he keep his pants on? Would Uncle Gregory notice?

“Who am I kidding?” Adrian talks to himself in his head. He knows what Uncle Gregory has in store for him; underpants will not be playing a part in the action. He whips them down, releasing his cock and balls.

His pyjamas are tucked neatly under his pillow. He loves these pyjamas; he hunted in shops all over town for them. He steps into the grey-and-white striped bottoms, and pulls the long white drawstring tight before tying a perfect bow. The pyjama jacket is just a little bit too big; the sleeves reaching halfway down the palms of his hand.

Dressed, he turns once again to the mirror and sees the image of a small boy reflecting back at him. Ready, he leaves the room and trudges down the stairs to face Uncle Gregory.

Uncle Gregory has prepared a dining room chair which now dominates the centre of the room.

Adrian shuffles in and stands facing his uncle. He knows the drill; he has been through this many nights before.

Uncle Gregory loosens and then removes his tie, before taking hold of the cuff of his right shirtsleeve and slowly rolls it up to his biceps, all the while rebuking Adrian.

“I told you if I got any more complaints from school I would give you a damn good spanking.”

It was true. Many times, his uncle had made the promise, and now he would deliver.

Adrian’s eyes flicker wildly as his gaze follows his uncle across the room. He stoops and retrieves a bedroom slipper from a shelf under the television set. Fully armed, he walks over to the chair and plonks himself down.

“Come here.” Uncle reaches forward and takes Adrian by the left arm and pulls him forward. He does not need much force, Adrian is not resisting. The boy has been raised well. He knows rules are rules and if he breaks them he gets punished. And, in Uncle Gregory’s house that means a spanking.

Adrian cannot stop his eyelids fluttering. His breathing becomes laboured and he can feel the blood rushing to his face as the moment draws nearer.

Uncle places the slipper on his lap and with two free hands he sets about untying the perfect bow. Once done, the pyjama trousers fall of their own accord down to the boy’s knees.

“Bend over.”

Adrian closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath and gently eases himself into position, wriggling a little until he is comfortable. Both his palms rest flat in the deep pile carpet, his knees are straight and his toes hover an inch or so above the ground.

Silently, Uncle Gregory prepares the boy. Adrian feels him take hold of the tail of the over-large pyjama jacket and drag it half way up his back. Now, naked from the shoulders to his toes, Adrian feels a very slight breeze cooling his bare flesh.

He cannot help himself as he instinctively clenches his buttocks in protection against the expected onslaught.

“Relax boy, relax.”

Adrian tries, but fails to release the tightness in his cheeks. He tenses more when Uncle Gregory caresses his huge bony hand across the boy’s soft tender cheeks. His heartbeat races and for a moment Adrian is certain he will faint.

Adrian feels a movement in Uncle Gregory’s body as his right arm is raised and he prepares to bring the slipper crashing down into the pert naked buttocks offered up to him.

Adrian twists and turns as sweat pours from his body soaking the bedsheet beneath him, his raging hard-on ready to explode. Something is disturbing him.

An ambulance rushes by the window, siren blaring, on a mercy mission.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Other stories you might like

Their new house

The missed curfew

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Padded Armchair

z used drawing armchair (1)

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

Jack Wilks stood about two feet from the padded armchair. At any moment he would be bent across its back, face in the soft cushion with his bottom high for the schoolmaster to whack it with a heavy slipper.

He deserved it, of course. He knew that: he had no argument. The rule was simple and all the boys understood it. If you got less than sixty percent in a class test you got the slipper. It was as simple as that. It didn’t matter whether you were in the first form, or like Jack the Upper Sixth. He wasn’t alone. His friend Jenks had just been dealt with and Tony Wheeler was standing outside the room in the corridor waiting his turn.

Jack wasn’t a fool. In fact he was quite bright but he hated history and nothing Mr Hendry, the history master, did would change that. If he paid attention in class and read the text book he would pass his tests with ease.

But, he didn’t so here he was about to get a sore bum: again. It wasn’t the first time he had received corporal punishment and it wouldn’t be the last, it was that sort of school.

Jack looked across at Mr Hendry and only half listened to the lecture he was delivering. “Idle, blah blah; lazy. blah, blah.”

Mr Hendry wasn’t like most of the other masters at the school. He was only twenty-five and had a round open face that naturally liked to smile. Jack had seen Mr Hendry one weekend in town at a coffee shop. He was dressed in fashionable summer shorts with a flower-patterned shirt. He was with a young lady (was it his girlfriend, or wife even?) and they were laughing and joking and having fun. They seemed very relaxed in each other’s company. No one would have guessed he was a schoolmaster at crusty old St Francis Independent Grammar School.

Mr Hendry looked very different now. He was dressed in a dowdy checked sports jacket and big baggy dark grey trousers. And of course the traditional academic gown, the schoolmasters’ uniform at St Francis. Mr Hendry had learned a long time ago that masters did not smile, and he had perfected a sour expression that fell somewhere between a man who had both a pain in his stomach and a very unpleasant smell under his nose.

“Bend over the chair Wilks.”

Jack took a pace forward and eased himself into the soft padding of the chair. It was a huge leather chair with cushions at the back, the seat and even the arms. His body sank into the padding and his face rested on the seat. He put his hands forward and held on to the edge of the cushion and noticed there were two sweat stains in the shape of palms.

From his vantage point Wilks could watch Mr Hendry make his final preparation. The slipper he was to use was a size-ten white plimsoll, the type all the boys used in physical training classes. It was rare for schoolmasters to use the slipper at St Francis, the curved-handled rattan cane was the preferred weapon of chastisement.

Herr Mueller, the German PT instructor, was the only other master Jack could think of who used the slipper: and, he used it all the time. Only yesterday in gym class he had lined all the boys up to begin physical jerks and warned. “From now on, any boy who talks gets ten swats.”

Of course, the class joker Morrissey couldn’t resist saying, “Jawoll Mein Führer!” in a stage whisper.

 

Later that day when Morrissey showed off his marks (tight cotton PT shorts are no protection), he reckoned, “Do you know I think he enjoys whacking our arses.” It could be, and, one might suspect, Morrissey enjoys giving him the excuse.

Mr Hendry gripped the slipper tightly in his right hand and gave it a few smacks down into his left palm, to get its measure. Then Jack saw the master disappear behind him. The teenager was still wearing his green school blazer and the master had to manoeuvre it up his back a little away from the area of immediate interest.

Satisfied that the target area was clear, the schoolmaster gripped Jack’s trousers at the waist and tugged them up tight so that they performed a ‘wedgie’ emphasising the shape of his buttocks and the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

Jack took a deep breath and screwed his eyes tight and waited for the pain to begin.

The boys often discussed whether the cane hurt more than the slipper; Jack always voted for the cane. In truth, it depended on who was inflicting the punishment. The cane tapped lightly into fleshy buttocks is unlikely to hurt as much as a size-ten rubber-soled plimsoll whacked in at great force.

Mr Hendry believed in corporal punishment and knew for it to be effective it had to be painful. So he was of the ‘whack it in with great force’ school of disciplinarians. And, that’s exactly what he did to Jack.

Six swipes crashed into his upturned buttocks. He pushed his face down into the vast soft cushion to stifle any yelps he might need to make and gripped onto the front of the armchair for dear life.

Every whack hurt him, but he had to admit, it did not hurt so very much. He was sore, but very quickly the throbbing would turn into a warm glow. His buttocks would be tender for a while and he would have some bruises to show off to his classmates, but they would wear off pretty quickly.

“Stand up boy.”

Jack was red faced from being bent upside down over the chair, but there were no tears. Despite the number of times he had been beaten at school, the experience always embarrassed him and he kept his head down to avoid looking at his punisher. He even avoided eye contact when the master handed him the punishment book to sign.

Then, with his bottom tingling, Jack was dismissed with the words, “Send in the next boy.”

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My Drunken Nephew

z used drawing brush hold otk (4)

 

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking!”

That’s what the Police Constable said to me as he delivered my eighteen-year-old nephew drunk as a skunk to my doorstep the other week.

The police officer told me Denny had been out around the town with his mates and they all had a skin full of beer. That’s when the trouble started. They were running and shouting through the town centre, urinating in shop doorways and just making life as unpleasant as possible for everyone.

The police officer explained that kids like Denny were a right pain in the arse, so they should be given one in return. I got the feeling he used that line on a lot of the parents he delivered drunken kids to. He told me the problem was that there wasn’t much the law could do with louts like Denny. The youths who stole cars or beat people up could get arrested and go to court. They were proper villains. But the courts were too busy to deal with the likes of Denny and there wasn’t much they could do at the police station except give the lads a good telling off and that was no use at all. The only people who might do any good were the parents.

I wasn’t Denny’s father, but I was his guardian. Denny was the son of my brother Alan and his wife Sarah. They had moved with Alan’s work to some god-forsaken place in Africa that nobody had ever heard of, but because Denny was in his final year at school, they all thought it was better if he stayed behind.

It seemed to me like a good idea at the time, and my wife was thrilled. We have two kids of our own. Susan has left home and is working in London and my son Paul is in his second year at university. He’s staying at a small guest house run by a married couple. I met the landlord, Mr Jarvis, once when I dropped off Paul at the beginning of term. Jarvis told me Paul was a delightful tenant and he enjoyed having him at the house. Jarvis reckoned it was all down to discipline. I think he thought I must have tanned Paul’s bottom a few times as a kid.

I didn’t think much of what the policeman said to me about spanking Denny, until a couple of days ago, when I had to suffer a repeat performance. It was a different officer who brought him home this time after Denny and his pals had been up to their old tricks again. This time the officer just dumped him and left, without offering parenting advice.

Maybe they were right, maybe Denny did need a belting or something, but let’s be honest it was hardly likely to happen. Even if I wanted to teach him a lesson, he’s eighteen years old and hardly likely to let me put him across my knee.

Even so, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. He definitely needed discipline. What could I do? I couldn’t stop his pocket money, I didn’t give him any. He had his own money from a Saturday job at the supermarket. And, I feared that if I tried to ‘ground’ him and stop him going out at night he would only defy me and where would we be then?

No, if there was to be discipline, it needed to be a spanking. But how could I do it?

I knew the basics of how to do it, of course. Who doesn’t? My dad spanked me when I was a kid, but not when I was eighteen. I loved my dad (I still do) and he loved me. I deserved the spanking and I genuinely believe it did me some good.

Just as I genuinely believe a spanking will do Denny some good. He deserved a spanking without doubt, but the problem was how could it be done?

I’ve never spanked anyone in my life. Both my children were well behaved and they were hardly ever naughty. Even as teenagers they didn’t give me and my wife a hard time. Paul was a scholarship boy at a posh grammar school, so maybe they taught him how to behave. His landlord Mr Jarvis was quite wrong to think I had too much to do with Paul’s discipline.

So, how would I go about spanking Denny? Most people know by instinct how to whack an eight-year-old, but how do you do it to a young adult?

I surfed the Internet to see if I could find an answer. You won’t believe this but there are lots of websites out there about spanking. It seems there are adults spanking each other all the time. Often they are about wives spanking their husbands for not doing the chores and such like. Some people do what they call ‘role play’ where one person dresses up as, say, a ‘headmaster’ and another is in short trousers and school uniform ready to get six-of-the-best. Who would believe it?

I didn’t get very far in my search for help with spanking Denny. The websites were for people who wanted to be spanked, not for out-of-control teenagers who definitely did not.

There was one site that gave advice on how to get someone across your knee who didn’t want to go. It seems you stun them by slapping them across the face and while they are figuring out what happened you pull them down over your knee. Alternatively, you pull them by the hair and drag them over the knee that way.

This wouldn’t work with Denny, it looks like it would be test of strength and I’m not betting man but I’m sure Denny would win that one hands down.

But, I could try I suppose. The only other thing would be to get someone strong to help me and we could drag him across a table and then beat his backside black and blue.

But supposing I do get him ‘in position,’ how would I spank him? Whacking him with my hand would be a waste of time and for it to have any chance of being effective the spanking would have to be administered on the bare.

So, I needed an implement. As I say I never used corporal punishment on my children, so I don’t have canes, tawses, paddles and so forth about the house. I would have to use something whose main purpose in life was not to put bruises on buttocks.

The belts I have to hold up my trousers are all thin and no use at all. Slippers are no good. Modern ones have plastic soles and won’t hurt a fly. These days you couldn’t even buy plimsolls, they’re all trainers or ‘sneakers’ as the Americans insist on calling them. They have thick soles and they are so big it’s impossible to get a grip on them so you can take a swing.

We had plimsolls at my school and we feared them. We were a secondary modern and teachers didn’t use the cane, but every one of the male teachers kept a plimsoll ready to whack your backside. You were likely to get it any time up until the end of your fourth year, but after that you got away with bad behaviour. Maybe the teachers were scared of trying to hit the older boys, in case they hit them back.

I think it was different in the physical education classes where the slipper was used right up until a boy left the school. I did hear tell that the sixth-form boys used to whack each other on the bare bum with the slipper as punishment if they played badly in a match: missed an open goal at football, that kind of thing, but that might just be a rumour.

So I needed to find something at home. After walking around each room of the house looking in cupboards and drawers, I found the perfect thing: a clothes brush. It’s about nine inches long, including the handle. It’s a kind of oval shape and two inches wide at its broadest point.   I picked it out of the drawer and was disappointed it didn’t feel very heavy. But, after making sure, my wife was nowhere near to see me, I tested it out by bending over and whacking my own backside with it a couple of times. Even wearing trousers and pants I could feel the thwack of the brush hit home and a warm glow appeared where it connected with my bum.

Good, it could hurt Denny a lot, even on his trousers, but only if I could get a good swing at him. I reckoned if he went across my knee I would have an excellent opportunity to give him some serious buttock-pain.

So, that was the plan, Denny across my knee for a spanking with the clothes brush.

It was only at this point I remembered Alan, my brother. He was Denny’s father, not me. Maybe, he should be the one to administer the spanking; it’s a father’s job (a duty some would say) after all. But that was physically impossible; he was on the other side of the world in Africa. Even so, it was only right that he should know what was going on with his son.

I emailed Alan and told him all about what Denny had been up to: the drunkenness, the urinating in shop doorways and the obnoxious behaviour. I told him what the policeman had said about Denny needing a damn good spanking. I stopped short of telling him I had resolved to do just that the next time there was a ring at the doorbell and it was the police with Denny in tow.

I didn’t hear from Alan for three days and then I received an email from him that astonished me.

Alan was appalled to hear my news; Denny had been in trouble like this before and had promised his dad it would never happen again. It was only because of this promise of better behaviour in the future that Denny had been allowed to stay in England and not accompany his mum and dad to Africa. This was news to me, I hadn’t realised that the family wanted Denny to go with them, but he had resisted, and was only allowed to stay with me on the strict understanding he would be a good boy.

But, it was what Alan wrote next that stopped me in my tracks. Yes, Denny most certainly needed a spanking. He, Alan, had spanked him in the past, and here’s what took my breath away, the most recent spanking was earlier this year after Denny had been drunk and obnoxious.

And, Alan, continued, would I mind awfully spanking Denny now for the past two offences. He knew I probably hated the idea and never spanked my own kids etc etc, but, obviously, Alan couldn’t do it himself.

I should, Alan, said, make Denny take down his trousers and underpants and bend across my knee. He then advised that I whack the bare backside until it was a dark shade of cherry. Don’t be worried, he advised, if Denny’s buttocks bruise, they did this quite easily, but the bruises went away after a day or two.

And, the implement I should use:  a bath brush. A bath brush? That idea hadn’t occurred to me, but I knew that the one we had was a flimsy plastic effort that would break in two the first time I whacked it across Denny’s hide.

Alan, finished his email by saying that if I consented, he would send an email to Denny instructing him to accept whatever punishment I chose without fuss, or he (Denny) would be on the next plane to Africa.

Emails flew across continents at the speed of thought and later that day Denny and I were in the lounge of my house. It’s a modern room, dominated by a picture window affording a view of a typical English garden: that is a lawn with flower beds. All very conventional, as was the room itself which had a suite made up of a Chesterfield couch and two gargantuan leather chairs, with footrests and rockers.

None of the chairs were particularly suitable for the job in hand so I brought one in from the kitchen. No arms, a straight back and just the right height for me to take Denny across my knee.

Denny stood in front of me, head bowed, choosing not to meet my eye. I hadn’t realised it until now, but I had never really looked at the boy before and it was as if I saw him for the first time. He was about five-eight or five nine, slim in build, probably a bit of an athlete since he didn’t appear to have enough spare fat on his body to fry a sausage.  With his head bowed, I had a perfect view of the top of his head. He had very dark hair, slightly waved and it looked a mess. It probably cost a small fortune at the barber to affect such a style.

Quietly I told him to look at me and I began to tell him all his misdeeds. He looked at me square in the face and told me he was sorry; he had been a bad boy; he would mend his ways. His open face was almost angelic. I wondered if the girls called him ‘cute’. Butter would not melt in this boy’s mouth. Who would not believe him? I nearly fell for it, but I knew he had probably said all of this before to his dad and the moment dad was out of the way Denny was back in the pub and causing mayhem. Either he was congenitally unable to keep a promise, or he told bare-faced lies. And as boys over the centuries have learned: bare-faced lies can lead to bare-bottomed spankings.

I let him say what he had to say, all the time looking at him standing, hands behind his back, every inch the contrite naughty schoolboy. But there was something a little odd about him. It was the way he was dressed. He wore short trousers about two inches above the knee, tight at the waist (he needed no belt to keep them up) in some kind of military green colour. He wore the shorts with long grey socks pulled up to an inch below the knee. The outfit was completed by a dark blue and light blue checked shirt, with long sleeves and unbuttoned at the neck.

It made him look younger and more boyish than he really was. It also looked like he had stepped out of the pages of history, maybe from the 1940s. He was in all probability dressed in the height of today’s fashion, what would I know?

And me? I’m not quite fifty, thickening up a bit at the waist, but not gone to seed. My hair is receding, but you couldn’t say I was bald. I was dressed as I always am when not at work in brown corduroy trousers with turn-ups; a white shirt with a military striped tie, topped off with a jacket from an old suit of mine where the trousers had long ago worn away and been discarded. Light blue socks and brown brogue shoes completed my ensemble. Come to think of it, sartorially Denny and I were probably made for each other.

The preliminaries were over. I sat in the kitchen chair back upright and feet planted firmly on the ground, just as illustrated in one of the websites I had visited.

“All right let’s get on with this,” I said calmly. I’d read you weren’t supposed to bark out orders like a sergeant-major. Denny looked up at me, with no real change of expression. He was still contrite and not seemingly in any way afraid.

“Please take down your trousers,” I said, maybe taking the website instructions a little too literally. Denny looked down at his midriff and found the clasp that was fastening the waistband of his short trousers and unhitched it. To my surprise the short trousers had a four buttoned fly rather than a zipper. The short trousers fell to his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes and I could see that he wasn’t sure if he should step out of the short trousers altogether.

“You may leave them where they are,” I said. I noticed he was wearing white briefs, presumably part of the ‘1940s’ look. “Now come here please and bend over my knee.” Denny did as instructed without hesitation. He approached from my right took one step, put his hands forward and leaning against my left leg lowered himself over. I was surprised how heavy he was. Not that he was fat, but I suppose I had forgotten that no eighteen-year-old boy was going to be featherweight in this position.

Denny settled himself into position without instruction. He was clearly more experienced in this situation than me. He placed both palms about three feet apart on the parquet floor in front of him. He leaned forward making me lower my left leg to accommodate him. He wriggled slightly, not in an attempt to escape punishment, but in order to raise his bottom higher, with the groove below his stomach resting on my right leg. I noticed his white briefs fitted him like a second skin, there were no wrinkles. A combination of expensive designer pants and a pert and muscular bottom combined to make the perfect target for a spanking.

But we weren’t ready yet. The spanking was to be on the bare. I learned from the websites that the spanker should always be the one to bare the bottom (don’t ask the lad being punished to pull his own pants down). You had to ‘talk’ the underwear down. That is you grasp hold of the waistband and when the lad realises its bare bum time you say something like, “Oh you weren’t expecting this? Well. I hope you’re feeling ashamed,” Or, “But it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

I went for the first option. It must have sounded daft to Denny who knew all along he was going to get it on the naked bum.

I took hold of the top of his pants, but with him prone on top of me it was harder to remove them than I expected. I tugged at them until it was clear that I could move the back of the pants down a bit, but if I was going to take them down to the knees, which was my intention, I would need to pull the front of the pants down too. I was beginning to wonder if I should order him to stand up and pull down his own pants after all, when Denny came to the rescue. He lifted his body up enough from my knees to allow me to slide the pants down. Mission accomplished.

And, now I had Denny bare-bottomed across my knee. I am far from an expert on men’s bare bottoms, but I did think something was wrong here. It was just too smooth. The skin was smooth and the bottom round and there wasn’t a hair to be seen. Without thinking I placed my right hand on his right buttock and caressed it. No, I was sure there was not a hair to be felt.

As my hand moved across his bottom I moved the flesh a little and there, hardly visible at first I saw something suspicious. With my curiosity aroused by this I rubbed a little bit harder on both buttocks and it was unmistakable: there were some very faint thin lines running the width of his buttocks. Surely, only one thing could have caused such marks: Denny had been given a caning some time recently and the welts had not quite cleared away. At first thought this was probably not unexpected given Denny’s record as a naughty boy, but caning was abolished in schools here about twenty-five years ago, long before Denny was even born.

I decided now was not the time to ask questions about previous punishments, I had my own task to perform. With my left hand I reached for the tail of the boy’s shirt and pushed it four or five inches further up his back. His pants were resting at his knees and he was naked from there to almost his shoulders, I had my target.

I raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. I had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard. I couldn’t quite remember why now. I did know that Alan had told me to beat him until he was the colour of deep cherry. WHACK! WHACK! I set about my task.

Denny held his position steady. His bum was resting high on my right leg and his back and head were sloped at a near perfect forty-five degree angle towards the floor. His buttocks were perfectly placed for my aim and I had no difficultly slapping away with the brush. Six on the left, six on the right, then one in turn on each; two at the top and two at the bottom of each buttock.

Denny was taking it magnificently, I thought. His bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, I assumed, but he wasn’t about to show it to me. I’d read that once you started the spanking you had to keep on going silently until you were ready to finish. By ‘silently’ I mean you didn’t keep scolding the naughty boy, he might want to be noisy, hollering for you to stop and so on and that was to be expected, encouraged even. But apart from the breathing Denny was taking it stoically.

From my vantage point way above him I looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. I saw a silent grimace as my brush hit his buttocks time and again. He screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

I remembered what I’d read on the websites: start gently and work your way up to a climax (so to speak). Now was the time to move up a couple of gears. I raised the brush as far above my head as I could and with all my strength brought it crashing down.

Yeowwwwww! Victory. I repeated the move. Again, and again and again. Bruises were forming on both of Denny’s buttocks. Bang! Bang! Bang! Now it was his thighs, then the tops of his buttocks, then the fleshy bit in the middle. Denny was yelping in genuine pain. His legs were kicking out and he was wriggling from side to side across my laps like he was trying to do the crawl swimming stroke.

At last I had him. I just kept on whacking. I thought at any moment he would break free and probably run from the room. But, I hadn’t realised how much he did not want to be sent off to Africa. I whacked him and whacked him. It hurt, he hated it, he was in agony now, but he stayed in position the best that he could.

The buttocks were cherry now – all over, apart that is from the bits that were deep blue with bruises.  Whack! Whack! on and on I went.

He was sobbing now, uncontrollably and it seemed at least without shame. We were on the home straight but not at the finishing line quite yet.

I broke the Internet rule and started scolding him. Whack! That’s for all the people you insulted when you were drunk. Whack! That’s for the people who had to clean up your filth after you urinated in their doorways. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the police you swore at. Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for bringing police to my front door and shaming us with the neighbours Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the bad things you have done, that I never got to find out about.

Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s to remind you that I have permission from your father to spank you whenever I feel you need it and if you don’t obey me you’re on the next plane to Africa.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

He was gone. Sobbing into the parquet floor. Broken. I stopped, but I didn’t let him stand. I left him there across my lap, his once lily-white bottom scarred, bruised and blistered. He was still kicking his legs, I’m not sure why. I’d stopped hitting him some time ago.

I left him there a few more moments and let him up. His face was as red as his backside. Snot was running down his chin. Unsteadily on his feet he reached down and pulled up his pants and short trousers.

I sat in my chair the clothes brush still in my hand. How were you supposed to end a session? I couldn’t remember reading anything about that. My father would have walked silently from the room and next day told me he loved me.

I didn’t have to worry about this for long. As soon as he was dressed, Denny was straight out the room and I could hear him running up the stairs to his room.

I rose, picked up the chair and took it back to the kitchen where it belonged. I put the brush in the drawer of the kitchen table and put the kettle on. I needed a cup of tea.

Later, I would email Alan to tell him how it went.

But, I wasn’t sure if I’d mention the cane marks.

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Pub Visit

z used cane touch toes pyjama (14)b2

It was six o’clock in the evening as Jim and his friends from work settled down for their second pint of beer in the pub.

He glanced at the clock behind the bar; it was getting dangerously late. If Jim wasn’t careful his father would arrive home first and discover the young man was not at home.

Although he was twenty years old, he still lived with his parents in the suburbs of a small industrial town. His father was a strict Methodist and never touched a drop of alcohol; many times he had warned Jim about the dangers of drink and the punishment he would receive if alcohol ever touched his lips.

Jim regularly disobeyed his father. His co-workers at the bank usually went to the pub after work for “a quick one” as they liked to call it. Most only did have one pint and that suited Jim just fine. He could have his beer and get home before his father returned from his own job.

But this night was different. Carol, a new cashier at the bank, joined the gang. Jim could not admit it, even to himself, but he had a mad crush on Carol. Her eyes, her smile, her smell, her physical bits: they were all capable of touching Jim’s buttons.

Not that Jim had any “buttons” to touch. His father’s strict religious views extended far from alcohol. Sex before marriage was a taboo and, reluctantly, at the age of twenty, Jim was still a virgin.

The hands of the clock edged to 6.30 and glasses were drained.

“Who’s for another?” Jim’s friend Bill asked.

“Not me,” Carol reached for her bag, “I’ve got to go.” And, not expecting anyone to argue, she swept out of the pub, hurrying home to her boyfriend.

Jim was crestfallen; he was so shy around women he hadn’t even had the chance to strike up a conversation. With Carol gone there was no point in staying. If he were lucky, he might still get home before his father. If he failed, his father would find out about his drinking and his disobedience and there could be only one consequence.

Jim’s days dragged endlessly at the bank, where his job was inputting data into a computer. There was always plenty of time to think about other things. Often, he day-dreamed about quitting his job, leaving home, travelling to the city and starting a life on his own with new friends who knew how to enjoy themselves.

But, it was always only that: a day-dream. Jim was stuck in a rut. His job paid badly so he could not afford to move out of his parents’ house. Even if he went, he had no friends away from the tiny miserable little town where he lived, and would probably find it hard to make new ones. Worse of all, Jim knew, he was a coward: he did not have the courage to strike out on his own.

The truth was he had to carry on his life as always: following his father’s rules.

His father smelled the ale on his breath the moment his son arrived home.

“Have you been drinking?” it was a statement rather than a question.

Jim would not deny the obvious. “Yes father, sorry father. I’m sorry father, it won’t happen again.” He desperately wanted his father to know he felt remorse. He was ashamed of his actions. It really would not happen again.

His father’s face went puce. “Go to your room. Don’t say you haven’t been warned. We shall discuss this later.” Jim knew that was the end of the matter for now. His father always got the last word.

He also knew that there would be nothing to “discuss” later that day. His father had already decided on his course of action.

Jim obediently trotted up the stairs, leaving his father to stride into the living room in search of his Bible. In his room he had hardly removed his tie when: “Jim!” It was the call from his father he had dreaded.

He opened his bedroom door and shouted back, “In a moment father I’m changing.”

“Good. Change into your pyjamas and get down here immediately.”

Pyjamas? His father would not even give him the protection of his jeans. He must be in a fury.

“Hurry up!”

Jim was scared by the impatience of his father’s tone. Quickly, he stripped off his clothes and climbed into his pyjamas. He knew better than to keep his father waiting when he was angry: he didn’t want extra stokes.

Jim was still tying the drawstring to his pyjama bottoms as he reached the bottom step of the stairs and heard his father call, “Come to the living room.” He obeyed and found his father, dressed in black, like a funeral director, standing near the middle of the room with a new cane in his hand.

Jim had never seen this cane before. His father already had quite a collection, but had he been out to purchase a new rod of correction? It looked fearsome. Perhaps it was the way his father was slashing the cane through the air with malicious intent. He swished it a few times before slamming it down on the sofa next to the phone. It made a wicked and frightening crack as it made impact.

His father was a man of few words. There was nothing to talk about now. Jim had disobeyed his father and the word of God. There was only one course of action. His father swished the cane one more time before pronouncing, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

It was the command Jim had been expecting with dread and he obeyed without protest, as if he were on auto-pilot.

He was a grown adult of twenty, being treated like a ten year old. He didn’t know of any other man his age that had to submit himself to such humiliations. Surely most people would think it absurd that his father was about to cane him.

But, it didn’t matter what other people thought. His father’s word was law in his own house and Jim accepted that.

His father read Jim’s thoughts. “If you didn’t disobey me then you wouldn’t find yourself in this position young man.”

Jim knew that when his father commanded “touch toes” he meant exactly that: do not grasp the knees or the shins, toes meant toes.

Jim was a supple young man, but even for him to touch toes was a struggle. He leaned forward from the waist, spread his legs wide, kept his knees straight and with the tips of his fingers managed to reach his toes. He could feel the pyjama bottoms tightening across his backside, presenting a magnificent target for his father.

Perspiration formed under his pyjama jacket and soon a rivulet of sweat would be running down his back. His breathing was even but he knew once the first cut slashed into his stretched bottom his heart rate would soar and he would have to gasp for breath.

His father continued his own preparations, lifting Jim’s jacket away from his backside to expose his hairless back. Then, by tugging at the waistband of the pyjama bottoms, he smoothed the cotton tight across Jim’s buttocks. He never beat his son on the bare buttocks; the pyjama bottoms or underpants preserved the necessary degree of modesty.

He tapped Jim’s clenched buttocks with the tip of the cane, and the young man took a deep breath. Those damn taps with the cane: he almost feared them more than the strokes themselves. They were always so excruciatingly nerve-wracking. He never knew if the tap would immediately be followed by the swish, then the crack, then the searing stripe, or if it was just one of many slight taps while he measured his distance, readied himself, took aim.

The way to survive a caning, Jim believed, was to think about something else. He concentrated on his bare feet; they were really quite ugly, both of his little toes were deformed, probably caused by wearing ill-fitting shoes as a young boy.

His toe nails definitely needed cutting. He was wondering where the clippers might be, when a searing pain flashed across his buttocks. Father was showing no mercy.

No matter how much Jim wanted to think about something else, by the time the third cane stroke slashed into his taut buttocks, the agony was all-consuming. Pain shot from his cheeks through his thighs and down to his knees. His bum felt like a red-hot wire had been pressed deeply into the flesh.

“I’m sorry father. I won’t do it again,” Jim meant it, but his father knew (as all fathers know) that a boy will make all kinds of promises if it he thinks it will stop the punishment early.

“I very much hope you are. But, you will be a lot sorrier by the time this is over,” he lashed another stroke into Jim’s blue-and-white-striped pyjamas.

Jim’s jacket stuck to his back as sweat poured off the young man. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside as his blood pressure flew off the top of the scale.

His legs were beginning to feel the strain of staying rigidly apart. His father tapped the cane across his bottom once more; then twice, and then there was a pause. A moment later the sound of the swish of the cane echoed around the room, followed almost instantly by another fierce burning pain as the whippy rod cut into Jim’s backside, making him cry out.

“I’m sorry, really, really sorry,” Jim’s sobs were almost uncontrollable. He really was sorry. He so wanted to please his father. He was a good man; he provided for his family and wanted his sons to follow in his footsteps. Jim wanted to be like his father, but deep down knew this was not possible. He had drifted away from the church and wanted a life full of energy and joy and his father could not provide this.

Three more whacks crashed into his bottom, so hard, so unbelievably hard, they made Jim yell. His father had never beaten him like this before. Welts had formed under Jim’s pyjamas and he was sure blood was seeping from his wounds.

He took eighteen strokes that night, each one delivered with force from a man who knew without a shadow of doubt that righteousness was on his side.

Jim’s buttocks were sliced to ribbons, the thin cotton pyjama bottoms were no protection. The cheeks could be not be any more brutalized if he had taken the whipping on the bare flesh.

He remained in position waiting for his father’s permission to stand. He just wanted to get up clutch at his burning bottom with both hands and rush to the bathroom to sit in a bath of cold water.

But, his father was not quite finished. While still staring at his ugly toes, Jim had to endure a sermon from his father. It took an age for him to read his chosen Bible passage. But it was wasted on Jim. All he could concentrate on was his throbbing buttocks and the welts he knew had formed under his thin PJs. When he was eventually allowed to inspect the damage he was certain he would find blood seeping from his weals.

At last, satisfied by his own smugness, his father commanded Jim to rise. The tears had stopped flowing, but his face was stained. He bowed his head in remorse as his father once more lectured him about his behaviour and the consequences of disobedience.

Jim desperately wanted to rub away at his blistered backside, but knew from experience this was not allowed by his father. Once, two years ago, after a caning, he had disobeyed his father and continued kneading his buttocks. In a heartbeat, he was dragged across the man’s knee for a couple of dozen hard slaps with his bedroom slipper. Jim remembered the agony of the slippering on top of the initial caning stayed with him for days, reigniting every time he sat down on a hard surface. Ever since Jim always waited until he was dismissed by his father before he began to take curative action.

Eventually, he was allowed to leave and in the privacy of his own room he gently rubbed antiseptic ointment into his ripped backside. Face down on his bed, his pyjama bottoms discarded on the floor; he recounted in his mind the events of that day.

He had been severely thrashed for disobeying his father and drinking in the pub. He deserved it, he knew. There had been many times in the recent past that he had been in the King’s Head and not been discovered. Yes, he was long overdue a caning.

He knew his father’s rules and he had deliberately broken them; he had no complaints. He vowed not to go to the pub ever again.

But, then as he softly caressed the cuts that criss-crossed his tender bottom, he saw in his imagination Carol sitting in the pub with her hair, her smell and most of all her pert breasts. Unbidden, his penis rose to attention. It ached even more than his poor backside. Maybe it would not be easy to avoid the pub tomorrow.

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in August 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com