Waiting for the slipper

new story 2

z used plimsoll gym white pants sting (6)

Yes, you’re right, I am bent over a horse in the gym about to get the slipper across my arse. I know what you’re thinking, “Isn’t he a bit old for a spanking?” Well, that’s schools for you I suppose. I am eighteen and in my final year, but rules are rules. What can you say?

I’m not bothered. No, really, it won’t hurt much. It’s true that the gym master Mr Cartwright is a big, strong fellow. Not that long ago he was playing rugby for the county. He can pack a punch no doubt about that. But a gym plimsoll, even a size-twelve one, can’t do that much damage.

Well, maybe to a first year. A little one might be overwhelmed by the slipper, but not me. A slipper is no use on a boy my size. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not asking that Cartwright puts a cane across my backside. That will hurt. And may I remind you that I’m not wearing pants under those shorts.

I do feel a bit foolish, I suppose. Made to bend over the horse and present my backside so a master can pummel it. It could be worse, those shorts could be at my ankles. Actually, no they couldn’t; not at this school anyway. I can’t see, of course, but I think I’ve given Cartwright a pretty good target. It feels like it anyway. The horse is just the right height for me. I fit over it perfectly. My stomach is rested comfortable on the leather top and with my legs spread, my bum is in just right position. You can’t see but my arms are half way down the back of the horse. It’s a bit awkward because there’s nowhere to put them. There’s no handles to grip on to so I’m clasping my hands together.

So, there you see me; head low, bottom high, waiting for the slipper. I don’t resent being spanked. No, honestly. I get that I’m eighteen and supposedly an adult and therefore “too old for this”, but really what’s the school supposed to do? There are rules, everyone understands that. If you break the rules you need to be punished. I get that; otherwise why would people stick to the rules? There are other punishments, I suppose. If I didn’t get the slipper, I reckon they could put me in detention, or make me write an essay or (God forbid) lines.

No, give me the slipper any time. It’s over in seconds and we can all get on with our lives. That is if only Mr Cartwright would get on with it. It won’t hurt much. Really. I’m being honest with you. It’s not some false bravado. If you’ve ever had the slipper you’d agree with me, I’m sure.

“What did I do?” did you ask? “Why am I getting a spanking?” you want to know. Of course, in a school like this you could get corporal punishment for any number of reasons; there are that many rules. Masters here use two main methods: the cane and the slipper. That said, we have a Mr McDonald, a Scotch fellow, who uses a two-tailed leather taws. No, I didn’t know either what that was until I saw one for the first time. It’s a specially made leather strap split into two at the business end. They’re all the rage in schools in Scotland. You get it across the palms of the hand, mostly, but Old McDonald sometimes gives it to you across the bum. It hurts a lot more than the slipper, that’s for sure.

Anyway, I digress. Masters have their own preferences in their weapons of choice. With games masters, physical ed. teachers and the like it’s the plimsoll. It’s a tradition. Now I think about it I suppose its because the slipper is the most easily available implement. There are no shortages of plimsolls in a gym class.

So, it’s to be the slipper for me. What did I do to deserve it? Sorry, I will tell you. It’s a bit embarrassing to be honest. I would ask you to see if you could guess, but we haven’t got all day. I’m late for dinnertime as it is. Here goes: I got caught peeping into the girls’ changing room. I know, I know. You think I’m a perve. But, why do they leave the door ajar if they don’t want us to look inside? I am eighteen you know and the lasses round here don’t exactly give it away, if you get my meaning.

So I got caught. Bang to rights. In the act if you like. Red handed. If I had been there any longer that wouldn’t have been the only part of my body that would have been red. Sorry, that’s a bit crude isn’t it.

As I said the school has rules. I was caught red-handed, and I was red-faced and now I’m going to be red-arsed. That’s the way it is. I’ve got no complaints. I can feel Mr Cartwright standing behind me. He smells a bit sweaty to be honest. I’m ready. Get on with it. It won’t hurt. Really. He’s tapping his plimsol against my bum. Here we go. It won’t hurt. Six whacks with the slipper. Over my shorts. It won’t hurt. Honestly.

He’s lifting the slipper away from my bum.

Crack!

“Ouch!” That hurt!

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The Chamber pot incident

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Maxed-out

new story 2

“Sorry, Mate,” the spotty-faced cashier handed back the Barclaycard, “It’s been declined.”

Mr Sullivan barked back, “It can’t be, try again.” He was hot, tired and irritable. It felt like he had been standing in line for hours.

“I’ve already tried twice,” the boy at the register snapped back. “Do you have another card?”

“Eh, yes.” Mr Sullivan flicked through the dozens of plastic rectangles in his wallet. A loyalty card for every occasion. At last he found his Mastercard.

“Try this.” Seconds later he was on his way to the carpark, going through in his mind his recent purchases. “I was close to being maxed out,” his inner voice told him, “But there should have been enough.”

He found his car, settled in the driver’s seat and took out his Smartphone. “Let’s work this out.” The signal in the shopping mall was good (for once) and he was soon into his account, working his thumbs down a list of recent purchases.

“What’s this?” that inner voice again. “Twelve pounds fifty at Tesco?” He thumbed some more. “Seven, forty-five Aldi.? These aren’t mine. I’ve not been in a supermarket in months.” He scrolled some more. Nope, there were no more unexplained entries. “I’ll have to get onto the bank, there’s obviously some mistake,” he thought. He inserted his key and was about to start the engine. “Wait a moment,” he took the Smartphone and went back into the account. The two purchases were within days of each other. “Look at the dates!”

The terrible truth dawned. They were since his bone-idle son had returned from university for the summer. Mr Sullivan sucked on his lower lip, his anger rising. “He’s been using my credit card!” Bloody hell. He gripped the steering wheel, trying to ease his temper. These new cards; you don’t need to have a PIN number, you just tap them on the reader. Anyone can use them. A thieves’ paradise. “Wait til I get my hands on him,” he shoved the key in and the engine roared into action.

At home Rory Sullivan lay on his bed, his sweatpants at his knees and his briefs pulled down just enough so he could get at his cock and balls. His greased palm worked its way up the shaft. His room was a tip (as always), dirty shirts and pants littered the floor. Empty beer bottles were stacked up in a corner. The porn on his tablet was diverting, but no more. He hadn’t been near a girl in the three weeks since he left uni. so it wouldn’t take much to make him splash.

He didn’t hear Dad’s car in the driveway. Nor, the front door open and the rapid, heavy footsteps on the stairs. His bedroom door flew open and his puce-faced middle-aged dad roared in. Startled and embarrassed, Rory grabbed his underpants and tugged them over his semi-erect cock, his face as red as Dad’s.

Mr Sullivan looked at the tablet with undisguised disgust. But, he would worry about that later. There were other crimes to deal with first. “You’ve been using my credit card!” he bellowed, clenching his fists and leaning into his son.

The nineteen-year-old cowered away, his buttocks slipped on the mattress until he could go no further; his back literally against the wall. His dad towered over him, Rory could smell the sweat in the armpits of his Dad’s shirt. “That’s thieving!” Mr Sullivan shouted. “What have I told you about that before?”

Rory’s mind was reeling. What was happening here? “It wasn’t me. I don’t know what you’re talking about?” he croaked.

“Don’t add lying to your list of crimes,” spittle flew from Mr Sullivan’s mouth. “You’ve been using my credit card.” Then, he saw the empty bottles. “You’ve been buying beer!” he waved his arms wildly. “With my money!” Rory’s complexion turned from red to white in the blink of an eye. “You should get a job. Earn some money. You bone-idle git!”

Mr Sullivan reached his hand forward and gripped his son by the wrist. “Don’t say I haven’t warned you.” He pulled hard and the boy slithered to his feet, mouthing protests “It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it!”

“Liar! Be quiet!” Mr Sullivan sat on the bed, bouncing on the soft mattress, he parted his legs and dragged his son towards him. In one movement he had the boy across one knee, with his face in the duvet. He pounded Rory’s backside with the palm of his hand. Bang-bang-bang; it sounded like machinegun fire.

“Ow!, C’mon Dad. Oww! Dad. C’mon.”

“You’re just a bloody thief.” Mr Sullivan’s hands were as big as shovels, and Rory’s bum cheeks were small and pert. The tight cotton underpants felt smooth against his heavy calloused palms. “Ow, Dad!” Rory wriggled and writhed, turning his body this way and that so it looked like he was trying to swim away across the bed. Dad held him tightly across the lower back. The brat was going nowhere, not until his backside glowed in the dark.

z used otk pants bed

Smack-smack-smack. Dad’s hand was large and heavy and his son’s bottom small and soft, but Mr Sullivan knew from experience his own palm was hurting much more than Rory’s bottom.

“Doh! This is no good,” he groaned, inwardly wishing he had not been in such a hurry to spank his son. If he had prepared he could have brought his wife’s big, ebony hairbrush. That would take the brat’s backside off.

On the floor, partially hidden by a pair of dirty underpants, he saw one of Rory’s leather sandals. Perfect. He released his son, who leapt to his feet, rubbing the back of his underpants. He was in no real pain, but he didn’t want Dad to know that. He massaged his bottom as if it was scorched. His antics gave Mr Sullivan time to reach across, pick up the sandal, and resume his position. He hauled his son over his knee and without word or ceremony he took hold of the elasticated waist of the striped underpants and tugged them down over his buttocks.

“No!” it was a tremendous wail! “Dad, no!” people in the street would have heard Rory’s shriek. Dad noted with satisfaction that his son’s once creamy-white cheeks were now a deep pink. He took tight hold of the leather sandal and walloped it into the centre of the boy’s left cheek. The outline of the sandal’s soul was immediately embossed in the flesh. He did the same with the right.

Dad had never spanked Rory with a sandal before. The sole was leather and solid, unlike a bedroom slipper. It was not as thick and heavy as a paddle, but it still packed a punch. Rory would not stop hollering, “I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” The lie encouraged Mr Sullivan in his task. The sandal’s outline was reproduced right across the target area. He concentrated on the meatiest part on the peak of the globes and was rewarded with mauve bruises. He turned his attention to the back of Rory’s thighs. That had the boy squealing and squirming. This was the most sensitive part of the posterior. Rory would be reminded of this spanking every time he sat on a hard surface in the hours ahead.

“I’ll teach you, you thieving brat,” Mr Sullivan’s fury was genuine. Fifty, sixty, seventy times the leather sandal whipped into Rory’s scalding backside. Now he was crying, writhing, panting, and praying the agony would soon be over. None of the spankings he had experienced before had been like this.

“Another fifty and we’re done,” Mr Sullivan’s inner voice told him as he laid into Rory’s backside with increased vigour.

Downstairs, Mrs Sullivan put on her coat, before she left the house she found her husband’s wallet and extracted his Mastercard from it before setting off for the supermarket to buy that evening’s supper.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Rock ‘n’ roll truants

You can never escape from Dad

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The New Coach

new story 2

z used plimsoll sports

“What in the name of glory just happened!!”

Eleven young men carried on stripping off their kits. The post-match banter flew around the changing room.

“I’m talking to you boys!” Louder. Angrier. Voices quietened. Silence at last.

“So answer me? Who wants to tell me what just happened?”

The boys shuffled nervously. Embarrassed.

“Gillingwater!” The coach’s face was now puce as he faced a stocky lad with his shorts half way to his knees.

“Seven-nil! Seven-nil! Unbelievable. Do you lot even now how to play football! A team of Girl Guides could do better than that.”

Gillingwater flushed. His teammates stared at the ground embarrassed.  “How long have you played together?”

The boys of the St Vincent’s Youth Club said nothing. They knew their new coach had a reputation as a hard man. Mr Townsend, their coach until the beginning of the season, had been quite the opposite, a gentle kindly man.

“Do any of you bunch of losers ever expect to play football again? After today’s disaster I am quite happy to tell the parish to throw in the towel.”

Now every eye was on the coach, teenaged faces etched with dismay.

“You ought to be ashamed! Every one of you! Ashamed!”

The changing room again went silent. A ghastly, frozen silence. Despite being a team of eighteen and nineteen year old men, many were close to blubbing.

“Do you want to be a team that this parish can be proud of? Do you actually want to play like men and not like a bunch of woofters?” Silence. “Well, do you?”

“Yes Sir,” they muttered, eyes still downcast.

The coach scowled, not trying to disguise his distain. “I said DO YOU WANT TO PLAY LIKE MEN!”

“YES SIR!”

Somewhere in the reaches of his mind he conjured up the image of a drill sergeant. In the US Marines perhaps. Someone out of a movie about Vietnam. These wimps had to be toughened up. For their own good, of course. It could save their lives.

The coach stiffened his back. “Right! From now, everything changes. From this very second. Is that understood?”

“YES SIR!” barked like Marine recruits.

“Any boy who thinks he can get away with what I saw today can get out, in fact he can get out now.” He pointed to the door, scowling, his eye ranging round the changing room, daring just one of them to move.

“Spreadbury. You’re the Captain of this shower. As Captain you are responsible for the performance and conduct of the team. Do you want to remain as captain?”

“Yes Sir”

“Do you take responsibility for today’s result?”

Spreadbury hesitated. He was not such a bright boy but even he knew the answer he gave might have grave consequences. “Y-yes. Yes, I take responsibility Sir.”

The coach turned, marched through the door of the changing room and returned brandishing a heavy white plimsoll.

“From now on failure has consequences. From now on when the team takes a beating on the pitch it also takes a beating in the changing room!”

There was a collective in-take of breath. Was he going to slipper the whole team?

“Spreadbury. For your failure to lead the team today you will get a whacking. NOW. SHORTS AND PANTS DOWN. BEND OVER.”

Spreadbury’s eyes widened, his usually pale face blushed crimson. A spanking. With a slipper. On the bare. In front of everyone. Most of the boys had attended St. Francis Independent Grammar School, they were no strangers to corporal punishment, but on the bare and in public! Even St. FIGS would draw the line at that.

“B..b..b.. but Sir,” he faltered, aware of ten pair of eyes transfixed upon him. “But, we’re not at school anymore.” He trailed off conscious of his lack of conviction.

“Pah!” The coach spat. “This is the only thing you boys understand!” He gripped the plimsoll in his right fist and waved it in the faces of the dumbfounded teenagers. It was a size fourteen. The coach had never known a person to have feet that big. It might be unsuitable as footwear but it made a terrific spanking tool. The sole was large enough to cover an entire buttock cheek. One whack delivered with vim would leave the flesh scorching.

“Well,” he smacked the slipper into his left hand. “It’s my way or the highway!” Eyes circled. The new coach was deadly serious. Things would never be the same again.

“What’s it to be?”

Spreadbury stood legs slightly apart, hands behind his back. Involuntarily his thumbs traced the contours of his buttocks. A slippering. He had touched his toes in the housemaster’s study many times for a swishing with a flexible rattan cane. That hurt like billy-oh, but he had taken his thrashings stoically. He had never been slippered. Surely, it couldn’t be as bad as the cane? These thoughts flashed through his mind at the speed of light. He would have to go through with it, what would his pals say if he chickened out.

“Come on lad,” the coach growled with impatience. “Shorts, pants down. Bend over,” he beat the plimsoll into his palm at every syllable. Sweat began to soak Spreadbury’s brow, there was a line of moisture above his top lip. “But, bare Sir …” he hated himself for pleading.

“It’s the only way,” the coach snarled. “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

Ten young footballers watched on with a mixture of anxiety and excitement. None had seen a public spanking before. Spreadbury sucked down a lungful of air, preparing himself for the ordeal. His shorts hardly covered his buttocks, he stuck his thumbs in the elasticated waistband and with a mere turn of the wrist sent them hurtling south to rest at his feet. The coach watched intently, Spreadbury had an athletic figure, his legs muscular and hairless. The outline of his cock was clearly visible under the tight white cotton of his briefs. The teenager hesitated, psyching himself up for his next action.

“Pants down, lad. C’mon, we haven’t got all day,” the coach could not hide his eagerness to get on with the job. Again, Spreadbury stuck his thumbs under an elasticated waistband, but this time without bravado. He inched the briefs down, conscious of his fellow teammates staring intently. Of course, they had all seen his naked arse and cock and balls before; they showered together after every match, but never before had he felt such the centre of attention.

At last his buttocks were exposed, but rather than letting them slip down his thighs and legs to rest above his shorts, he kept the briefs bunched up. Quickly, fearful they would fall further, he leaned forward. At St FIGS “Bend over” meant “Bend over and touch your toes” and “toes” meant “toes”, not knees or shins. Spreadbury’s fingertips brushed the canvas tops of his own plimsolls. His back was arched and his legs were taut which made the muscles in his buttocks stretch tight. There was no spare meat back there; he was as tight as a drum.

“Bah!” the exasperated coach saw Spreadbury’s little game. “Let’s get these out of the way,” he snarled as he gripped the teenager’s underpants and tugged them away from the buttocks until they bunched at his shins. “Let the dog see the rabbit.” From somewhere a cold breeze drifted against Spreadbury’s naked bottom. He stared down at the dirty splintered tiles on the changing room floor, intensely aware that his crack and hole was on full display to his pals.

The coach gripped the plimsoll tightly, the muscles in his forearm tensed. He took up position about a foot to Spreadbury’s left. He could smell the fresh sweat on the boy’s body. He rested the plimsoll on the left cheek, running from north to south so that it covered the entire buttock. He tapped gently, taking his aim, then Whack! he brought it crashing down. The teenager stumbled forward under the mighty force of the blow but immediately steadied himself. An imprint of the plimsoll’s sole immediately appeared in dark pink across the once-creamy-white flesh.

A second later the right cheek was just as pink and equally as sore. “Ah!” Spreadbury sucked in air.  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper his bottom was aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With only two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the plimsoll. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and screwed his face in pain.

The coach’s enormous large slipper thumped heavily down on his bottom over and over again. A caning was never like this. That was bend over, six swipes stand up, go. This slippering was going on forever. Spreadbury’s bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of the left bum cheek. The next on the right. Spreadbury squirmed and gasped as some wallops hit right on a spot where others had landed. Coach quickened the pace. Slap here, whack there, wallop again.

He stopped after about three minutes and took a pace backwards the better to admire his handiwork. He saw an eighteen-year-old footballer bent submissively touching his toes. His hair was drenched with sweat; his face was as scarlet as his backside. No square inch of the teenager’s buttocks and the backs of his thighs had escaped the slipper. Spreadbury blazed. The pain would by now be dissolving into a throb that would stay for some time until it turned to a warm glow. “Yes,” the new coach congratulated himself silently, “A job well done.” He studied the plimsoll in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, then glared around the changing room at the rest of his charges. Each boy stood bemused, unsure what they should make of the spectacle they had witnessed. One lad, shorter and fairer than his teammate, looked the most uncomfortable. He clasped his hands in front of his shorts.

“OK, lads,” the coach spoke quietly, “I think we understand each other now, get changed and showered.” He watched intently as still in silence they stripped themselves naked. He moved slowly to the room next door and replaced the plimsoll in his locker, conscious at how much his hand trembled.

Picture credit: Jonathon

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Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Crammer College

z used drawing classroom Hot (14)

SCENE. The principal’s office at Brocklehurst College, a “crammer” for young men who have failed their A-level school examinations. Five assorted eighteen-year-old boys are lined up ill-at-ease in front of the Principal’s desk. The Principal is speaking.

Stand up straight, all of you! You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. You failed your A-level examinations and now we have little more than two months to prepare to retake them.

None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

Here we use corporal punishment.

Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.

We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.

Good, it seems that I do.

Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey and blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.

Silence!

You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?

Is that clear!

Good.

You boy, what’s your name?

We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir.

Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?

Well boy?

Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears.

So, why have you not followed the instruction?

Sir! I have already told you that you must always address me as, Sir.

So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.

Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.

Be quiet. All of you.

Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.

Be quiet.

Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.

I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?

Right. You four boys go to the dormitory and change. You. Wendersley. Stay behind.

Right let me deal with you Wendersley. Please take that armchair there and turn it round so that its back faces into the room.

Thank you.

Ah, it would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.

I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.

Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.

Please stand behind the chair.

Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.

Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college.

Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?

No, I thought not.

Stand by the chair.

Closer boy.

I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down.

Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.

I am waiting Wendersley.

Ha! Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.

Now, bend over the chair.

Quickly.

Keep your head low and your bottom high.

That’s right. Here is the first stroke.

Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.

Back over.

Number two.

Doh! Keep still.

Three.

I shall not tell you again.

Four.

Stop your blubbing, take it like a man.

Five.

Keep those legs still.

Last stroke.

You may stand up Wendersley.

Stop rubbing your bottom.

Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.

Stand there.

Here, take this and wipe your eyes.

I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut.  For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

You are dismissed.

 

SCENE Some days later in a classroom after a geography test. The geography master and a student are alone.

Well, Hill, fifty-two percent; that’s pretty dismal don’t you think?

It’s nowhere near A-level standard, boy. You should have been able to answer these questions at GCSE, lad.

You need to buck your ideas up.

Yes, you do.

Please fetch me that plimsoll.

Hill. Fetch me that plimsoll.

Hand it here, boy. Hand it here. Thank you.

Stand there beside me.

Look, Hill. If you make me repeat everything I shall make sure I also repeat the number of stokes I give you. Do you want double?

No, I thought not.

Stand there.

Come closer.

Now, take down your shorts.

Hill!

Quickly.

That’s better.

Over my knee.

Doh! Come here.

Put you head lower.

Now, give me your arm. We don’t want you going anywhere.

Stay still. Stop wriggling.

Still boy. I am going to spank you with this slipper. Just accept the inevitable. And make sure you do better in tomorrow’s test, or you’ll be across my knee again.

Let’s have these down. Oh, you weren’t expecting that? Well, Hill, it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.

Don’t fight me boy!

Hhhhhhh, if you fight me, I’ll get one of the other boys to come in to hold you down over the desk. So help me, I’ll take your backside off.

Mmmmm. The more you struggle, the harder I’m going to spank you. I can keep it up all night if I have to.

Hill! Do you want me to send you to the Principal? Do you want his cane across your bare bottom?

No, I didn’t think so.

Stay still, take your punishment.

Twelve more, then we’re done.

 

Picture Credit: The Hotspur

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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New experiences

Letter of Regret

The casting couch

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Run

z used twosome college jocks

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