Warren’s awakening

Warren Hunter looked out the bedroom window anxiously. Any moment now his uncle would call him down to the sitting room. It would be a spanking for sure. He couldn’t complain. He knew he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Warren was in turmoil. He was so ashamed. How had things come to this?

He had been sent to stay at Uncle Alfred’s by his mother. She said it would be temporary; a “cooling off” period. But, he knew his uncle’s reputation; his arse would get a “warming up” first.

The row and the tears had been the final straw. He had been giving his mum a hard time for years. He was nineteen years old, there was no way she could control him. He didn’t have the words to explain what was going on in his head. Warren knew there was something wrong with him; but he didn’t know what. He had a crappy job in a supermarket; at home he rowed with everyone; his mum, his two older brothers and even the neighbours. Dad had walked out years ago leaving mum to cope with the kids on her own.

“Warren! Get down here!” Uncle Alfred was at the foot of the stairs. The teenager hesitated. He knew what would happen now. What choice did he have? Take a spanking or not; those were his options. If he did he could stay at his uncle’s place and try to sort out his life. If he didn’t; he’d be sleeping on the streets.

Warren was no philosopher; he wasn’t a deep thinker. If someone told him he was a “pragmatist” he wouldn’t know what they meant. He just knew he had to go through with this. He’d never been spanked before. Hell, he thought, a spanking, how bad could it be?

Slowly he padded down the stairs to find Uncle Alfred in the front room.

A dining room chair had already been placed in the centre of the room. Taking the teenager by the arm, Uncle Alfred led him to the chair and sat down, leaving Warren to stand as his uncle pushed up the sleeves of his own shirt. Then Uncle Alfred leaned forward and removed the bedroom slipper from his right foot.

A shiver went through Warren. His resolve to accept the spanking was evaporating. He wanted suddenly to hang back, to plead for mercy, promise to do better, to do anything if Uncle Alfred would just not spank him.

His uncle was not a pretty sight. He was in his forties and had a large belly that in his present sitting position flopped across his lap. His legs were fat and when his uncle parted them slightly he provided an ample platform for his nephew to drape himself over.

This might be Warren’s first-ever spanking but his uncle was a veteran. He had developed a ritual over many years. Quietly, he spoke, “Take down your jeans.” And when his nephew stared back with alarm, he added reasonably, “You won’t feel a thing with them on.”

Uncle Alfred squeezed the bedroom slipper in his fist and watched the nineteen-year-old fumble with the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t seem able to get his fingers to work. Slowly the fly buttons were opened and the denims slithered down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“Please God,” he prayed silently, “Don’t make me take down my underpants too.”

Uncle Alfred shifted his vast buttocks on the hard chair and straightened his back. He was almost ready to get on with the job.

“OK, over here,” Uncle Alfred slapped his knee to indicate Warren should bend over. It was a simple command, but one his uncle expected to be obeyed. Warren stood his ground, unable to move. Then he took a half step back, as if he intended to run away.

“Doh!” his uncle wheezed. Then, he took hold of the teenager’s arm and forcibly pulled him down across his knees. To break his fall, Warren placed both hands on the carpet in front of him. His legs were left dangling behind him.

Uncle Alfred wrapped his arm around his nephew’s waist. “Keep your legs straight, raise your bottom higher.”

z used otk white pants chair (19)

Warren twisted and turned until he was positioned to his uncle’s satisfaction: head low, bottom high. He could see his uncle’s feet and the ugly carpet. Dust tickled the back of the teenager’s throat

“Spread your legs more.”

Warren gasped as he felt Uncle Alfred grip the elasticated waist of his pants. The thought, “Oh, no! He’s going to pull them down!” flashed through his mind. But instead his uncle smoothed out the cotton of the boy’s underpants, eliminating all creases. Soon, the tight gleaming-white pants fitted the buttocks like a second skin.

“Give me your hand,” it was a final instruction. Uncle Alfred took hold of his nephew’s wrist and turned the boy’s arm up his back. No matter how hard Uncle Alfred spanked him and how much it hurt, Warren was trapped across his uncle’s knee. He wasn’t about to go anywhere until Uncle Alfred said so.

“Right young man this is going to teach you a lesson.”

Then, Uncle Alfred gripped the slipper tightly and put it to work, smacking Warren’s bum soundly and briskly. The teenager winced the moment the first slap hit home. Uncle kept up a momentum. Slap! Slap! Slap! Three on the left cheek: Slap! Slap! Slap! three on the right. With great expertise, he concentrated on the very tender spot where the bottom joins the thighs, dealing out crisp smacks.

Warren screwed his eyes closed with pain each time the slipper crashed into his bum. He was a lean lad and didn’t have much padding in the buttocks area.

One smack followed another as Uncle Alfred put the slipper to use. The pain of the whacking took the teenager’s breath away, but he resolved to remain silent. Warren wriggled as the slipper connected time and again with his buttocks. Uncle Alfred spanked him thirty times or more; then paused to get a tighter grip on the slipper in his hand and then let fly again.

Uncle Alfred hadn’t said how many strokes of the slipper Warren was to get and after a dozen or so, the boy was finding it hard going to stick to his resolve and remain silent.

He let out silent yells as the next three slaps fell in rapid succession, all landing on the same sensitive “sit spot” on the right cheek.

Uncle Alfred set about his task with a will, but he too was silent. The only sound in the room was the thud, thud, thud of his slipper as it hit Warren’s bum.

And so it went on, slap after slap. He was making a good job covering all over the target area. Some spanks went high, some low. Now on the left cheek: now on the right. Warren could feel his bum heating up with the punishment. It would be red raw by the time Uncle Alfred had finished.

Then, without warning, he took hold of the top of Warren’s pants and pulled them down, not too far, but enough to expose both cheeks. The boy grunted. Uncle Alfred resumed the slippering, perhaps twice as hard as before.

Warren raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he bit his lip so did not make a sound.

On and on he went, spanking Warren’s bare arse. His body was making involuntary movements with pain, but his uncle still had the boy’s arm pinned.

Warren’s shoulders and head jerked high as each blow from the slipper struck his bum.

His eyes were watering, but he told himself, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand much more without breaking down.

The humiliation was intense. There he was a nineteen-year-old man draped helplessly across Uncle Alfred’s knee, trousers at his feet, bare bum in the air, getting spanked like a little kid. His face was as scarlet as his battered bottom.

To Warren it seemed like an eternity, but the slippering lasted less than three minutes.

“Now, boy, you can stand up.”

In considerable pain, he rose from his uncle’s knees. Instinctively, his hands shot to rub his blistered backside. But, connecting his hands with the raw flesh only increased, the pain, it did not relieve it.

Warren was breathing hard, he was sweating badly and his eyes were full of tears, but he was not crying. His resolve had won through.

He twisted his body to inspect the damage; his buttocks were a deep cherry colour.

Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants. Uncle Alfred remained silent. He had delivered his punishment and as far as he was concerned it was all over. Until the next time.

Warren bent to his ankles and recovered his jeans. His hands were shaking, but he managed to button up the fly and buckle his belt.

“Go to your room.”

Warren took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door into his bedroom. Within seconds his jeans and pants were back at his ankles. He pointed his bum at the dressing table mirror and traced the contours of his buttocks with his fingertips. The pain had mostly gone, but he found it would return if he pressed into his bony globes. He did and it felt really good. Warren had never looked at his bum before; not closely. It was almost totally bald; there were some wisps of hair in his crack that he’d never noticed before.

It was quite small. He could cup a cheek in the palm of one hand. There wasn’t much “give” either. Unlike his fat uncle, Warren was lean and wiry.

The teenager leaned forward and thrust his buttocks at the mirror. Without warning his cock stood stiff. Whoops. It always did have a mind of its own. It had embarrassed Warren on numerous occasions.

He lay on the bed and stroked it, reliving in his mind the past ten minutes. He imagined what he must have looked like draped over his uncle’s lap; bum held high. The more he pictured the more his todger ached.

Somehow, he knew this wasn’t the end of it. There’d be more spankings before he could demonstrate he was mature enough to be allowed home. Or would there? Maybe next time it would a more severe punishment.

Warren closed his eyes and saw himself bent over the back of the old worn green settee in the living room. Uncle Alfred stands behind him swishing an old-fashioned school cane. Warren’s trousers are at his feet; his pants at his knees. His bared buttocks are raised high. The teenager’s head is low, he is almost chewing the cushion.

Uncle taps the cane gently across the centre of the cheeks. They vibrate gently in anticipation of the searing pain to come.

Uncle lifts the cane high and brings it crashing down.

Back in the bedroom Warren shot a load all over his tight flat stomach.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

What strange times they were

new story 3

z used solo blazer badge cravat (1)

“Take down your trousers,” he rasped. “Underpants too.” I shuffled uncomfortably. The room was cool, even though outside it was a fine spring afternoon. “Bend over my knee,” the vicar scrunched a large leather-soled bedroom slipper in his right fist. He wriggled his buttocks on the worn wooden armless chair and parted his legs a little. “I am going to spank you on your bare bottom,” his eyes blazed.

I was one of three lodgers at the vicarage – the vicar called us “paying guests”. We were all up at the university in the nearby town. Without hesitation, but also without enthusiasm, I set about slipping the braces that held my trousers aloft over my shoulders. The trousers were loose at the waist and I hardly needed to unbutton them before they slipped easily over my thighs and down to my shins.

My underwear was the modern type with drawers that were separate from the singlet. If I had worn the traditional “combinations” I should have had to strip off all of my clothes to be able to offer the vicar my bared buttocks.

I undid the drawstring of the underpants and guided them down. I hesitated, The vicar frowned. I knew what I was expected to do. This was not the first time I had been across the vicar’s knee. It wouldn’t be the last. All we lodgers got it. This Sunday it was my turn. We were on a kind of rota. It happened as regularly as clockwork. Every week. Winter, spring and autumn. The university was closed in summer.

The vicar had rules. Lots of them. We were expected to obey. Without question. People did in those days. He used to inspect our university work as well. If an essay scored less than a B-plus, out would come his whippy rattan cane. But more of that later.

I was standing a couple of yards from the vicar, my trousers and underpants at my shins. He twisted that slipper in his hand and tapped it against his right thigh. It was his way of saying, “Get on with it young man.” And I was a Young Man. I went into the vicarage aged nineteen and left three years later when I graduated with my degree from university.

I took the hint and shuffled two small steps forward so that I towered over the seated vicar. At the time he seemed to me to be an elderly man, but thinking back he was probably only in his forties. He was tall and stocky. He had spent many years before the war as a missionary in Africa, thinking nothing of trekking tens of miles through the bush to take the word of God to the heathens.

I suppose he was what we used to call “a Muscular Christian”. He certainly had muscles, especially in his right arm and upper body, as I can attest. A spanking from the vicar was an ordeal to be endured.  I lowered myself across the vicar’s knee. His thighs were as thick as tree stumps and I was a few inches shorter than he was so my body made a good fit across him. I stretched my arms forward and planted the palms of my hands firmly into the thin rug. I could feel the heavy wooden floorboards beneath.

My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my feet did not quite reach the ground. Of course, I could not see this myself but like this my bared bottom was presented across the vicar’s right thigh at a perfect angle to receive the slipper. As usual, he slowly and gently tucked the tail of my shirt away from the target area so that I was naked from the shoulder blades to the shins. Then, with his left hand he gripped me around the waist and he lent his forearm into my back. I was pinned, face down across his knees. My head low, my bottom high, ready in the traditional spanking position.

I clenched my buttocks. I always did this. I supposed that this would toughen up my cheeks and defend me – at least a little – from the onslaught of the vicar’s slipper. It was as if my body was taking up some natural protection. I imagined my bum was as tough as rubber.

It was only many years later that I discovered this was in fact the worst stance I could take in such a situation. Tensing the muscles did not lessen the pain, indeed it did the exact opposite. I read in a reputable medical text book that the best way to endure pain is to relax the muscles, not tense them. I forget the reasoning now. Also, one should try to ignore the pain; that is think about something else.

Oh well we live and learn. I clenched my cheeks and stared at the worn red-patterned rug beneath my face. I felt the leather sole of the slipper tap not too gently across the centre of my right cheek. That was the vicar finding his aim. Seconds later it was lifted away. There was a slight pause and then Whoosh! Bang! The slipper flew through space and landed with an enormous wallop across my bottom. The sting burned furiously. It had been a hefty swat with a heavy slipper. Bedroom slippers back then were nothing like the light plastic things that fill the shops these days.

Before I regained my breath a second and a third wallop had my backside blazing. The vicar was old school. He believed in discipline. He believed in punishment. He believed in the Wrath of God. Bam! Bam! Bam! He fair took my backside apart. He showed no mercy. In his eyes I had sinned. I had failed to perform my household chores to his satisfaction. I had been late down to breakfast one morning and – in his mind at least – I had been disrespectful to Miss Frotherinsham, an elderly spinster in the village who regularly visited the vicar in search of spiritual guidance (and a free cup of tea).

So, I was in for it. The vicar had his little rituals. He would start by tanning the highest points of the cheeks and when the pounding made them as hard of leather he would turn his attention to the top of the mounds. After maybe fifty whacks he would go underneath. You know, the place where the bum cheeks meet the thighs. That’s the part that connects with the chair when you sit down. It meant that the pain would reignite for hours later whenever you sat.

Finally when there was no square inch of flesh left untoasted, the vicar would go for the back of the thighs. If you weren’t gasping in pain and praying (silently) for it all to stop already, you certainly were now.

I remember many times after a bare-bottomed slippering examining my ravaged buttocks in the bedroom mirror. The flesh was dark red and oftentimes I would see the imprint of the slipper emblazed time and again across my bum. The skin felt like leather and when I cupped my buttocks in my hand they seemed to be twice their normal size.

As I said, we took many spankings like that. Even when we were twenty-one. In those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one and we youngsters were used to being treated like children. People’s eyes pop when I tell them how we were spanked back then. “Crazy,” they say. “Why did you let him?”

The answer is: everything was different back then. We were much more deferential. You respected a vicar like he truly was God’s representative on earth. The Second World war was recently over and many men did not come home. That put enormous pressure on the mothers who had to raise boisterous boys without a father. Men of standing in the community stepped forward to lend a hand. The vicar was often called to deal with errant boys in the village, a duty he was happy to fulfil. I often returned from university just in time to see a boy hobbling down the drive, rubbing his bottom ruefully with his eyes blazing.

In the village where I grew up the local medical doctor took on this role. He often visited the homes of his patients not to offer remedies to the sick but to put his thick, wide leather belt to use.

Such was the way of life. It was how things were and we accepted it. I suppose, you could say we knew our place.

I certainly knew mine. It would never have occurred to me for a moment not to bow to the vicar’s authority. Even, when logically he had no authority over me. A case in point was in my first term at the vicarage. I was new to the university and it took me time to settle. I had attended a traditional grammar school where masters supervised every move we made. It was not like that at the university. We rarely had lectures and met with our tutors maybe once a fortnight. We were given essay titles to work on and told to go to the library and get on with it.

I don’t need to spell it out. My first essays were pretty poor. They were not failures but they would not set the world of academia alight. The vicar had already ruled that should any of we paying guests receive less than a B-plus we should be caned. Pure and simple. No discussion. No mitigation.

The vicar had a selection of crook-handled canes. He kept them in plain sight standing in an oversized vase in one corner of his parlour. You could buy these on any High Street in those days. Every classroom had one. Some schoolmasters would leave one hanging from the corner of the blackboard in easy reach should it be needed to encourage learning.

They came in all sizes and makes. The vicar’s were made of whippy rattan. Each was at least three feet long and they varied in thickness to one that was not much more than a reed to the largest that was the size of a pencil.

He asked his maid to call me to his room. She was a young woman, not much older than myself. I think she was often in the house when the vicar dealt with the village ruffians. I know for a fact she hovered outside the parlour door the time Higgins, a fellow paying guest, was beaten. Her flushed face betrayed her feelings.

She tried not to smile when she gave me the vicar’s instruction. I shrugged, affecting nonchalance, but my heart beat fast, I had by this time been spanked twice by the vicar but never caned. His beatings were legendary. I was not looking forward to this.

I had been caned before at school. Who hadn’t? It was that kind of school. My last beating happened only days before I was due to leave forever. Myself and two pals, Richardson and Jenkins, were summoned to the head’s study. The headmaster was an old stick (he and the vicar would have got on well together) and very hard on what he called “form”. To him behaviour was either good form or bad form.

The exams were over but we senior boys were expected to continue to attend school until the official leaving date. We had little useful to do and spent some of the day idly playing cricket. Oftentimes a master or two would join in. I suppose since we were eighteen and about to leave school we saw ourselves as adults. Our manners and behaviour slipped. Richardson, I know, was unabashed about smoking cigarettes behind the cricket pavilion. We joshed with the masters. Sometimes cheekily.

As I said there was good form and bad form. How the headmaster learned of our laxed behaviour I do not know. But that is as irrelevant now as it was then. So, we found ourselves standing three in a line in front of the headmaster’s desk.

I can picture it now, as if the scene was caught in a sepia photograph. Three thin, gangly senior schoolboys. Dressed in ill-fitting striped blazers and grey flannel trousers. Perched on our heads are ridiculous hooped caps. What a picture of a bygone age. If we had been first or second formers we would be dressed in grey short trousers and knee socks.

The headmaster was an ogre. A tyrant. A fiend. Boys trembled in dread as he swept through the passageways of the school, his academic gown flapping all around him. In my memory he always carried a stout curve-handled cane. Could that memory be true? Surely, not always?

We stood in terror. The headmaster was a smallish man and very wide. We had just been through a war and food and other commodities were still scarce but he appeared to eat well. His double chin had an extra chin of its own. His arms and legs were pudgy. His gown hid his hanging belly.

I can’t remember exactly what he said. It was many years ago. I do know he said it at great length. Every sentence or two he would pause so that myself, or Richardson, or Jenkins, or all three of us, could agree that we were the most disgraceful, shocking, scandalous pupils ever to set foot in his study.

The study was a large room but the headmaster’s huge desk dominated it. It seemed to me to be the size of a small paddling pool. At the other end of the room were a couple of armchairs and a low table. Several straight-backed chairs were gathered around the room. An open and unlit fireplace dominated one wall and two others had glass-fronted bookcases. Stained glass windows were on the fourth wall.

As I think I’ve made clear corporal punishment was common in those days. I think they still flogged prisoners in jail, certainly the cane was used in borstal and other institutions for juvenile delinquents. I tell you this to explain why nobody thought it strange that on one of the walls between the bookcases there was a display cabinet containing three curve-handled canes of various gradations and thicknesses. One for the junior boys, another for the middle school and so on.

The headmaster growled and heaved himself to his feet. It took some doing. Out of the corner of an eye I watched him wobble away from his desk. His destination was clear. He puffed and wheezed as he made his journey. He sucked in a lung-full of air as he reached up to the cabinet. Without hesitation he picked the longest and thickest of the three canes. My heart sank. Richardson bit down deeply on his bottom lip.

The headmaster turned. “Face me,” he growled. His breathing had eased and his authority returned. He flexed the cane menacingly between his hands. Why did all schoolmasters do this? Isn’t it the hammiest acting ever? He swiped the cane through the air to demonstrate its power. He needn’t have troubled himself. Each of us had been caned in the past by housemasters. Jenkins several times. We knew the damage a well-handled cane could inflict.

“Jenkins. Richardson. Stand and face the wall,” the headmaster barked. Relieved that they were not the first to get it my two pals hastily retreated. I breathed deeply. My heart raced, I couldn’t help it. I had no control over the inner workings of my body. I clasped my hands behind my back to steady myself. “Cap, blazer off,” he wobbled the cane as he spoke.

Despite unsteady hands I got the cap off my head and hung it on a hook on the door. Getting the buttons of my blazer undone was more trouble. “Hurry boy. We haven’t got all day,” the headmaster snarled. As far as I was concerned we did have all day. I was in no hurry to be flogged. I flushed bright red and with difficulty placed the blazer alongside the cap.

“Bend over the desk.”

It was a firm command and, of course, one I expected to be made, but I couldn’t get my legs to work. I was only three steps away from my destination but as I attempted the first of them my knees buckled. I gathered myself before I fell to the floor. The humiliation avoided, I staggered like a drunk man to the desk.

I had been ordered over the desk before. It was my form-master’s preferred positioning. My housemaster in contrast preferred a sixth-former to go over the back of his armchair. It’s all about the angle that the bum is presented, I suppose. It would depend on how tall the boy was. If you have him over the chair your swing with the cane might be in the upwards direction; if over the desk it might be downwards.

“Over the desk,” to my form-master meant laying flat on the stomach across the desk top. You had a choice of gripping the edge of the desk with your hands of folding your arms and burying your face. In the absence of further instructions from the headmaster, I lay flat and gripped the far edge of the desk. I turned my head so my left cheek touched the cold wood. Like this I had a clear view through the window. All I could see was blue sky and the lightest of fluffy clouds.

The floorboards creaked with the headmaster’s weight as he shuffled into position. My cock and balls were pressed hard against the desk. My trousers were tight across my buttocks. Clothes were still rationed so I had to wear them even though they no longer fitted well. I heard the headmaster move to stand by my left. The tip of his heavy cane touched the centre of my right bum cheek. He “sawed” the cane across the plumpest parts of the buttocks. It lifted away. I held my breath. I gripped the edge of the desk tightly. I closed my eyes and sucked my lips.

Swish! Crack! An almighty swipe slashed across both buttocks. It whizzed with great speed and force and sliced through the meat of my bum like that hot knife and butter everyone talks about. I heard it land across the seat of my stretched trousers but it seemed an age before the agony followed. I’ve never had a red hot rod pressed into my bum before but if such a thing were to happen it would not hurt as much as the headmaster’s first stroke.

My whole body shuddered. My hips swivelled. I humped the edge of the desk like I was servicing a chambermaid. The agony was so great I didn’t have the strength to cry out.

Then the second swipe cut. Lower than the first but equally as deep. I could feel a welt rising under my underpants. My head banged up and down into the desk. Water filled my eyes, blinding me. A yap like a little whipped puppy might make fractured my throat.

“Huh!” The headmaster behind me seemed pleased with his handiwork so far. “Keep still boy,” he hissed. That was easier said than done. All the breath had been knocked out of me, I was gasping for air.

The third swipe sliced me across the top of the buttocks. The headmaster was an expert. He had landed three cuts perfectly parallel. I had a burning stripe about four inches wide across my backside. I didn’t know because I couldn’t see but my pals were staring at my blistering bum wide-eyed with terror.

“Face the wall!” the headmaster raged. “Do you want extra cuts?” That was a rhetorical question, if ever I have heard one.

The headmaster gave me a full Six. Six-of-the-best we called it back then. I don’t think that phrase did the headmaster’s beating justice. It was the harshest thrashing I had ever received. Each stroke delivered with aplomb, landing with power and accuracy. The man was the best – literally, a master.

You might wonder why I let him do it. Looking back after several decades I wonder why too? The exams were over, we were going to leave school for good in a few days’ time. What would have happened if we had refused?

Nothing. That’s the answer. But, as I said, things were different back then. Deference. We knew our place. It did not even occur to any of us: myself, Richardson or Jenkins, to refuse. Our superior ordered us across the desk, so across the desk we went.

So, when a few months later the vicar summoned me to the parlour for a taste of his cane, I went without question. And I went on doing so for three more years. Over the desk. Over the knee. What strange times they were.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Sports report

new 5

z used drawing football The Gem (54)

Good afternoon from the Old Mill ground where this thrilling First Division match ended with a 4-3 victory for the Town over title challengers Albion.

The star of the show was once again whiz kid Stanley Mitchell, the eighteen-year-old amateur player who has burst onto the scene this season. Mitchell who is still a schoolboy displayed all the brilliance we have come to expect of him from recent matches. He scored the first goal with a quite remarkable dribble from the halfway line. I lost count of the number of Albion players he left in his wake as he charged up the field.

His second goal was a wonderful volley from the edge of the penalty area that simply flew into the top corner of the net leaving goalkeeper Hanks with no chance.

But for all Mitchell’s undoubted footballing talent he once again showed his immaturity and ill-discipline. He was dismissed from the pitch in the 75th minute when he went down after being tackled in the Albion area. He claimed a penalty which the referee denied.

Mitchell refused to accept the decision and spent some time arguing violently with the referee Mr Calderstones. The air was quite blue. Mr Calderstones quite rightly sent off Mitchell who reacted by taking off his shirt and throwing it to the ground as he left the field.

Although he is a quite brilliant player Mitchell is garnering a reputation for being a spoilt, unruly, petulant young man. Much to the annoyance of his fellow players and his manager Mr Clapman.

I am told there was a scene in the dressing room after the match. Alf Mortenson, Town’s burley captain, intervened on behalf of his club-mates. Young Mitchell soon found himself across Mortenson’s knee in the fashion of many petulant boys. His football knickers and underwear were ripped down so that his bottom was quite bare. A size-12 rubber-soled plimsoll was then used with some vigour.

Many listeners may know  from their own experiences with physical-training instructors at school that the plimsoll in the right hands is an awesome punishment tool. Mortenson, who stands well over six-foot-five and weighs fifteen-stone was well placed to deliver Mitchell’s much-deserved spanking.

Mortenson was encouraged by his clubmates who watched and cheered as he hammered the slipper across the young brat’s naked bottom. No square inch of the buttocks was left unattended. The eighteen-year-old was said to be howling and hollering long before the captain let up.

One thing is for certain it will be a very uncomfortable ride home for Mitchell on the team bus.

We shall have to see whether there is an improvement in Mitchell’s behaviour at next week’s match against Rovers. Meanwhile, the wonderkid has to return to school on Monday and it remains to be seen if his headmaster has something more to say on the matter.

This is Raymond Gladhanding returning you to the studio. Eamonn.

Picture credit: The Gem

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Strict landlords- the compilation

Many years ago when I was a student I lived in lodgings with a family who rented out three rooms in their large house. The man of the house was retired and although quite old (to my youth he may have seemed ancient) he was very distinguished. There was a small armchair in my room and many nights I would fantasise that he had me across its back while he lashed a whippy-school-type cane into my pyjama-clad bottom.

I had no idea then that decades later I would use this fantasy as the basis of a series of my stories. One of the first that I ever wrote and published was called Paul and His Landlord. In real life, one night I got back to the house so late that the front door was locked and I had to ring the bell hard and waken the household to get in. I must have inconvenienced many people that night, but nothing was ever said about it.

Not so in my story where I end up receiving a well-deserved caning.

I wrote two episodes of Paul and his Landlord and you can read them by clicking the links below. Remember, they are stories although inspired by real life.

I have written other stories about landlords that were similarly inspired by other real places that I lodged. Links to those are also below.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed fantasising and writing about them.

Charles

 Paul And His Landlord

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Picture credit: Kernled

 Where it all began. That late night home. —- It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg. Paul was mesmerised.

Paul and his landlord 2

Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.

His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.

“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

My First Time

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

My house. My rules

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.”

The broken window

Mr. Epson strode into the lounge brandishing his cane. Jerome stared, confused, unsure what he should do.

“Bend over. I’m going to beat you with this cane. With your trousers and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.” Mr. Epson thought this, but did not say it out loud.

Instead, he did say, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

No Smoking!

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Picture credit: Unknown

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

Kevin’s landlord

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

 

The stories Paul and His Landlord with others about troublesome tenants is also available as a free-to-download book (PDF file).  You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Other stories involving landlords you might like:

 

The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Still spanked in short trousers

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z used otk school white pants taking down chair sting

Fred and Jim were in the Three Fishers bored out of their skulls and not talking about much when Jim suddenly piped up: You still keeping your lad in short trousers?

Which one? Fred inquired.

The eldest, Gavin.

Yeah, he’s left school now, nearly nineteen.

So it works then?

Oh yeah. He got through his exams and everything.

I thought you might have given up now.

No. It keeps him out trouble. Off the streets. He’s not going to want to go out at night dressed up like a little schoolboy. His mates would crucify him.

No, I see that.

You should try it with your Kevin. I hear he’s been seen drinking down here.

I know. But …

It’s easy. You can buy the short trousers on the internet. Proper ones, just like the boys wear at school. Even in Kevin’s size. I think it’s because even small kids today are really fat.

Well, I suppose I need to do something about Kevin.

A good hiding wouldn’t come amiss.

But he’s eighteen.

So what. I still spank Gavin.

Get away.

Yeah, why not? When he deserves it. Which is quite often, actually. D’you know what, I saw they were selling those old fashioned whippy canes on eBay like they used to use in schools back in the day. I’m thinking of getting one for Gavin if he doesn’t buck up his ideas.

I wouldn’t have the nerve.

Well … Start as you mean to go on. I still use the rubber-soled plimsoll. The one Gavin had for PE at school. A big heavy one. Works a treat. Packs a right punch.

What he lets you spank him?

Lets me? He doesn’t have much choice. My house. My rules. He knows that. It always has been, always will. He’s working now. He can leave home if he wants to. But even then, when he comes back to my place he has to behave himself.

Sounds fair enough. So you say you spanked Gavin. What, recently?

Last week. Sunday,

What’d he do?

Usual stuff. That was why I had to take him across my knee. He needed a reminder.

Reminder?

Yeah, like a wake-up call. He needs to come home for his meals. Liz cooks and he doesn’t turn up and it all gets wasted. Then, he never lifts a finger around the house. I told him it was his job to take the Hoover around the carpets every Saturday. Did he do it? Did he hell. Then last Saturday night – well Sunday morning actually – he rolls home drunk as a skunk. Couldn’t get his key in the door. Rings the bell wakes the whole house up. Well, after that what did he expect?

So what? You spanked him.

Too right. I waited until he had sobered up and I sent him off for a shit, shower and shave and I said, Get into those short trousers and then come down to the living room.

And he did?

Course, he did. No question about it.

So he comes down and he’s in the full togs. Neat grey short trousers, grey shirt, tie. The lot. He’s quite a big lad as you know, but when he’s dressed up like this it’s like he’s ten years old. That’s why I make him dress like that – he’ll never dare go out like it. What would people say?

And then what happened?

Well, I told him why he’d been a bad boy. Never doing the Hoovering, not even keeping his own room tidy. The drinking. He went red as a beetroot when I told him Liz had found a stinky wodge of tissue under the bed where he’d been wanking.

Oh my God! If it’d been me I’d have died of shame.

Ha! Ha! Well after I told him that he was putty in my hand. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He would’ve done anything I asked.

So what did you ask?

Same as always. Not asked, exactly. Told. I said, right let’s have them shorts down.

Shorts down!

Oh yeah. Those short trousers are pretty thick. They’re made to last ain’t they. Extra thick on the seat. Great for sitting down. Not so good for spanking. So down they have to come.

And he did?

Did what?

He took them down. Did as he was told?

He had to. He knew full well if he didn’t take them down, then I’d do it for him. And, he bloody well knew if I took his shorts down I’d take his pants down as well and he could get it on the bare bum.

Blimey!

Exactly. He didn’t want that did he?

No, he did not.

So, he does as he is told. Undoes the thing at the waist. Pulls the zipper and the trousers fall down.

I can’t believe this.

What’s not to believe? He’s done wrong. He has to be punished.  He knows that. If he doesn’t want to be spanked he just has to do as he’s told. So, now he’s standing their wearing old-fashioned Y-fronts.

What the white ones?

The very same. Like I say, just like a little boy. So I sit on a chair and I tell him bend over my knee.

And he does.

Without a murmur. Let’s be honest, he’s been here before. It’s not the first time. He knows what to expect. And over he goes. And I get to work with the slipper.

What is it six of the best?

Six! Nah, six wallops won’t make much impression. Six is only getting started. You wouldn’t cover all his backside with six. Not both cheeks. Takes a lot more than six.

Oh. How many then?

I’m not sure to be honest. I’ve never counted.  I start right in the middle of each bum cheek and then kind of work my way out. The middle, the top, the bottom – as it were – you know under the cheek. That sit-spot. That’s where my dad used to spank me. Hurt like mad every time I sat down for the rest of the day, know what I mean?

No, not really.

What you never spanked? Never spanked Kevin, neither?

No.

Explains a lot. Why your Kevin’s a bit of a tearaway.

Well …

Give him a good hiding. Like I do with Gavin. I roasted his backside with that slipper. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hurt like the fires of hell. Even with a big lad like Gavin. His big old bum was bucking up and down and his legs were kicking. Ha! I had to hold him really tight round the waist to stop him running away. He kicked so hard his short trousers went flying across the carpet. I hammered that slipper all over his BTM.

BTM?

BTM. His bottom. Bum. Posterior. Call it what you like.

His arse.

Well there’s no need to be crude.

Sorry.

And he’s still struggling. Kicking. Hollering the lot. He brings his hand back to try to stop me. That’s pretty hard to do because I’ve got him right over my knee. You know his face is nearly in the carpet and his bottom is pointing at the ceiling so it’s not easy to get your hand back there. But he keeps doing it and I warn him not to, but it makes no difference.

No it won’t. I suppose it’s hurting him a lot.

Yeah, of course. That’s the whole point ain’t it. A spanking is supposed to hurt, otherwise why bother.

Yeah, sorry.

So I warned him but he just kept on trying.

What did you do?

I’m coming to that. I took hold of the waist of his pants. Ha! You should have seen the way his body froze. He knew right away what I was going to go. No, no, please, not that, he yells.

Too late lad.

You took the words right out of my mouth. So I pulls them over his big butt-tocks and drag them down to his knees. Of course, he struggles all the more now.

He would. Who wouldn’t?

And that just encourages me. I grip that plimsol and I put all my effort into it. Whack!-Whack!-Whack! Fantastic! I could see the imprint of the sole glowing bright pink on his bare backside. What a sight! I toasted those butt-tocks good and proper. The spanking of a lifetime it was.

Sounds like it.

I’d still be there now, hammering away, but Liz heard all Gavin’s hollerings and she came in and made me stop. Still I made my point. He won’t want to go over my knee again anytime soon.

I don’t blame him.

Yeah, spanking works. Mark my words.

Okay, I believe you.

Oh look. There’s your Kevin just came in the bar. I thought he was supposed to be revising for his exams.

He is. Bloody hell.

Want a borrow of my plimsoll?

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

Father deals with idle student

The fire-raiser

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

 

 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Hey neighbour! – the compilation

One of my favourite story themes is the ‘neighbour’ – the fellow next door or along the street who is only too willing to lend a hand (or some suitable implement) to put across the backside of some wayward young man.

Some years back I wrote  three-part series called The Helpful Neighbour. If you missed it first time around or want to read it again follow the links.

Further down this page there are some other stories involving neighbours. I hope you find something you like.

Charles

The helpful neighbour, part 1

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My neighbour Peggy was distraught. Tears flowed steadily down her cheeks. Her hands trembled as she tried to raise the teacup to her lips. She was at her wits end. What could she do?

I knew some of the story already. Along with most people in the street probably I had been kept up until the small hours by the noise.

Poor Peggy. Between great gulps, she filled me in on the details.

It was Oliver, her eighteen-year-old son. He was off the rails. He had stopped attending college ages ago and was sure to fail all his exams. Then what? A life of unemployment – or at best dead-end jobs.

The helpful neighbour, part 2

A lot had happened since I first thrashed Oliver with my cane after I had caught him trying to steal from my garden shed. It turned out that he was a serial thief. He was completely off the rails. He had stopped attending sixth-form college; he stayed out half the night and his mother could no longer control him.

The thrashing had touched a nerve in Oliver. So to speak. Of course, the pain I inflicted on him ignited many nerves in his backside. But, I what I mean is that somewhere deep inside of himself Oliver realised that he deserved the twelve stokes I had administered across his underpants. His life was out of control. Maybe, just maybe, I could get it back on track.

The helpful Neighbour, part 3

Oliver had been at university for nearly eight months and was living in a house he shared with other students. His mother came to me distraught. Late the previous night she had received an unwanted telephone call. It was the police. Oliver had been arrested with some fellow student. He was being charged with being a passenger in a stolen car. What should she do? She asked the question as if she didn’t already know the answer. But, I obliged none the less. She should call the boy home and if she wished I would fetch my rattan cane from upstairs and put it across his backside with some vigour.

OTHER STORIES

 

The kid across the hall

Arnold opened the front door to his apartment and gestured his friend Tony to come in. “What’s all that bloody noise?” Tony winced as he closed the door behind him. “You can even hear it in here.”
“It’s the kid across the hall. He’s always playing that music too loud.”
Well, what can you do? Tony certainly knew ….

 

Brian’s redemption

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Picture credit: Unlnown

When Mr. Bell told Brian to bend over his chair for a caning he never dreamt in a million years he would do it. But, he learnt that boys know when they have overstepped the mark and need to be punished. Brian was the boy from across the street. “Boy?” he must be nineteen or twenty years old. He’d been working for at least a couple of years to Mr. Bell’s certain knowledge.

Like so many youngsters his age Brian thought the world revolved around him. He was rude, inconsiderate and full of himself. He took no notice of his parents and came and went as he pleased. He also drank too much and was high on drugs half the time. It was the drink that pushed Mr. Bell over the edge.

 

The boy in the street

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Picture credit: Unknown

I cannot deny it, every time I saw the boy my cock stiffened. It was like I was fifteen again. Fifteen. Jesus, I’ve got grandchildren older than fifteen.

It was when I saw him the second time, a few days later, that I started to fantasise. He is too tall to go across my knees comfortably, so I have him bent across the back of an armchair in my sitting room. It is just the right height to take a lanky lad. The trousers are at his knees …

The boy in the tree

Ricky was the perfect teen. He had just graduated high school top of his class and was waiting to go on to an Ivy League university. He was an avid church attender and believed everything the elders said. But, Ricky had a problem he couldn’t understand and there was nobody he could talk to about it. It was Mr Peters, a man who had moved into the street a couple of months previously…

 

Other neighbour stories you might like:

 

The drunken neighbour

Back on the straight-and-narrow

Noisy neighbour

That Connor Kid

The sling-shot

The Dope Smoker

The Man Across the Hall

The Boy From Across The Street

Letter of Regret

The imp next door

The new neighbour

The paper boy and Candy

Changed times 2: Neighbourhood watch

The students next door

The military kid

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Sgt Trueform takes charge

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z used plimsoll in drawer sting (2)

“Freeman. Hardy. Willis. Come here lads. Now. All three of you!” Sgt Trueform barked as he strode through the playground. Three hapless sixth-formers trailed in his wake. The sergeant was a typhoon. He never stopped. He had energy to burn. He may have been discharged from the Army at the end of the war but he never gave up military discipline. Even now since his appointment as senior sports master at St Francis Independent Grammar School.

The school suited him well. Tradition. What was the Army about if it wasn’t about Tradition? St FIGS, as the school was affectionately known, was no different. It believed in tradition: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional religion and, of course, traditional discipline.

“Follow me!” Sgt Trueform led the way into the changing room adjacent to the gymnasium. The three fellows straggled after him. None was anxious to arrive at their final destination. A cold wind blew across the open, asphalt playground. Ancient buildings stood on three sides, the fourth led onto a grass playing fields where at the far end stood the school’s latest proud possession, the gymnasium.

The wind bit through the boys’ thin singlets and white cotton physical training shorts. Hardy’s legs were already turning blue. Willis could feel a cold coming on. My how all three hated sports classes. Especially in the depth of winter, when the pitches froze and the old martinet Sgt Trueform sent the boys out on a cross country run, through the town and into Widdicombe Wood.

“Get a move on lads!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. He was incapable of speaking in a normal tone of voice. He had reached the changing room and by the time the wretched threesome arrived he was unlocking the door. The sergeant stood to one side, “Get in there now,” he barked. Freeman and Hardy ducked but the sergeant caught Willis with a hefty clip on the back of his head. He rubbed it ruefully as they stood in the large, empty changing room.

“Stand there. In a row,” Sgt Trueform roared. “Stand up straight Hardy. Don’t slump Freeman.” Sgt Trueform imagined he was back on the Army parade ground. In his mind he had never left it. For him the school was merely an extension of his military days.

“So,” he paced up and down in front of the three lads. “You thought you could skive off Games did you?” He paused as if he genuinely expected a reply. When none came he blustered on. “Not in my school you don’t. Freeman,” he leaned into the eighteen-year-old, “It’s not your first time,” he glared ominously. “I suppose you were the ring leader here. You led the others on,” he narrowed his eyes and leaned into the boy so that Freeman could smell his sour tobacco breath.

“Oh no Sergeant,” Freeman moaned, “That’s not fair. It wasn’t me. They did …”

Before he could finish his sentence, Sgt Trueform growled, “I should keep quiet of I were you lad, you are in enough trouble as it.” Freeman’s jaw dropped and his face sulked.

“Don’t think you’re getting away with this. I don’t care if you are sixth-formers. You think you’re so grown up. Well, let me tell you, you obey the rules just like everyone else. Or else,” he threatened. All three boys stared at their own feet. Willis’s spine shook but it wasn’t the cold that made him shiver.

“Why if this happened back in the Army …” Sgt Trueform let the thought drift in the icy air. He marched across the room to an old, rickety table. Three pairs of eyes followed him. Each boy had a jolly good idea what he was up to. The sergeant tugged open the drawer on the table and reached in. There was only one object inside. His face split into a grin as he picked it up and turned towards the boys. In his hand he brandished a size twelve rubber-soled plimsoll. It was old and well used, but had not seen the inside of a gymnasium or a sports field in many years.

Sgt Trueform gripped it by the heel in his right fist. Then, with his left hand he took hold of the toe end. Menacingly, he flexed the slipper between his hands. Three pairs of eyes turned away. Sgt Trueform grinned maniacally and thwacked the rubber sole against the palm of his hand, savouring the sting it made.

“Step forward Freeman,” he barked, wringing the plimsoll between his hands. Colour drained from Harry Freeman’s face. He had been here before. He knew exactly what to expect. There was nothing he could do about it. It was that kind of school. Sgt Trueform was the master; he was in charge. The boy took a pace forward.

“Stand in the middle of the room, lad,” Sgt Trueform waved the slipper in case Freeman did not understand the instruction. Sorrowfully, the boy shuffled forward. “Since you are a recidivist, Freeman,” Sgt Trueform sneered and then stopped. The blank look on Freeman’s face told him he did not understand, “Since this is not your first time,” the sergeant scoffed, “And since I believe you were the ringleader, we’ll have those shorts down.”

Freeman’s face fell, he could not disguise his shock. “No, sergeant, no,” he protested, “I wasn’t the ring leader, honest, serge.”

Sgt Trueform’s eyes narrowed. He was a fair man (although the boys at the school might not agree) and he had no evidence for his accusation. He dismissed the case immediately, “This is your second time, Freeman. Take down those shorts.”

There was no arguing with that. It was true. It was a verifiable fact. Freeman had been done before. This was his second time. “Oh, serge,” he said piteously.

“Don’t, ‘Oh serge’ me lad. Get those shorts down,” Sgt Trueform glared, twisted the slipper in his hand and then with an almighty whack slammed it down into the palm of his hand, “Now lad!”

There was no more to be said. Nothing more to do. Freeman had skived off the cross-country run. Freeman had been caught red handed. Sgt Trueform had the authority to punish him. “But, serge,” Freeman tried to reason with the man. “We are seniors, serge. Seniors don’t get the slipper.” He started his plea with some confidence but the glare in Sgt Trueform’s eye silenced him.

“Ha!” the sergeant cackled. “What you expect a detention instead,” he sneered. “You think I’m going to sit with you lot in a room for an hour one evening watching you write out lines?” It wasn’t a question, for he carried on, “Shorts down. Bend over.”

Freeman sucked on his bottom lip. He had no choice. He had to do it. With no enthusiasm he took hold of the elasticated waist of his white cotton shorts. He wore no underpants. He would be naked from the waist down. He dismissed the thought of a further protest from his mind. He just had to get on with it.

He turned his back slightly so Sgt Trueform would not have a clear view of his cock and balls, put his thumbs inside the waistband and slowly pushed the tight shorts down until they had cleared his buttocks. He left them bunched up over his thighs.

“All the way Freeman. Let them fall to the floor,” Sgt Trueform slapped the slipper across his palm once more. He watched intently as, red-faced, the eighteen-year-old shoved them to his knees and let them slip down to his feet.

Sgt Trueform pretended not to notice Freeman’s long, thin cock, nestling in a hairy bush.

“Bend over, lad,” he snapped. “Touch toes lad. Not knees lad. Toes. All the way.”

It is not easy to take up the “touch toes” position, especially if like Freeman you were a dough boy, running to fat.

“Spread your legs, lad. Now touch toes.”

Freeman could not do it. He huffed and he puffed. He wheezed like a steam engine settling down. He could only get down as far as his knees. “Stay like that,” Sgt Trueform barked with exasperation. Freeman’s buttocks wobbled like jelly. If any boy would benefit from regular exercise it was him.

He was a tall boy when standing and bent like this he presented his bum at a perfect height to receive Sgt Trueform’s slipper. Freeman’s cock dangled in front of his upturned face emphasising to him his nakedness. Cold air wafted across his bare cheeks and suddenly he realised the sergeant and his two pals had a perfect view into his crack and hole. He shut his eyes tight.

Whap!!! The sergeant was delighted to see the sole of his size twelve plimsoll imprinted on Freeman’s left cheek. A deep pink pattern quickly emerged. The boy’s hands rose from his knees and in a panic he stopped himself just in time from jumping to his feet to rub away the sting.

“Steady lad. Stay down,” Sgt Trueform growled. He waited for Freeman to resume the position. Head down, bottom jutting out. Whap!! The rubber sole pounded into the right buttock. Now he had two identical footprints across his bum.

The next whack went higher on the left cheek. Then lower on the right. After twelve swats no square inch of Freeman’s buttocks were un-toasted. The pink was turning to red, and even mauve in some places. Sgt Trueform grinned. He rubbed the palm of his hand across Freeman’s left cheek. “I could warm my cold hands,” he said enigmatically. “Stand up lad.”

Freeman rose. He had never sat down on an open coal fire, but he imagined if he ever did, it would feel like this. His bum was blistered. “Shorts up. Stand by the wall,” Sgt Trueform ordered. As Freeman ruefully tugged up his shorts and gave his bum a couple of furtive rubs, the sergeant barked, “Hardy. Take his place.”

All colour had drained from Joe Hardy. He watched awestruck as Freeman shuffled across the room and stood by the wall. Hardy had been given a perfect view of his pal’s torment. His own legs shook as he tried to move forward. He didn’t think he could take such a slippering.

Sgt Trueform read the eighteen-year-old’s mind. “Bend over. You can keep your shorts up. But if you ever come back here again, you’ll know what to expect.” Hardy almost gasped with relief. He took a deep breath and stretched down. He was slimmer than Freeman and had little difficulty touching his toes.

Sgt Trueform watched him go. The cotton shorts were truly short – not much longer than undershorts older men wore – they clung to the contours of Hardy’s bottom. The white shorts gleamed. Evidence, if any were needed, that Hardy had not been on a muddy cross-country run that afternoon.

z used plimsoll gym white pants sting (3)

Hardy clenched his buttocks tightly, now his bum was as hard as a rubber ball, it was protecting itself from the expected onslaught. Hardy sucked down a mouthful of saliva, his heart pounded through his thin vest. He felt a slight tap-tap of the rubber sole across his stretched bottom, the sergeant was finding his aim. Hardy’s shoulders tensed. The slipper was lifted away, Hardy bit down on his lower lip. There was a pause, but not much of one and then WHACK! the sound of plimsoll against tight flesh resounded around the room. The shock pushed the teenager forward, his fingers flew from his toes, his knees buckled and he almost toppled over.

Sgt Trueform hadn’t said but Hardy knew instinctively the punishment for standing up would be extra whacks. With something akin to a superhuman effort he forced his fingers back to the toecaps of his own plimsolls. His bum burned, his head throbbed and blood raced through his arteries.

Sgt Trueform was taking no prisoners that afternoon. He laid the second whack harder and tried not to show the enthusiasm he felt. The victim bent over submissively before him gasped with the shock of the impact. The lad’s hips twisted and his knees creased. The sergeant took aim for the third stroke.

Joe Hardy felt a certain pride after the twelfth stroke landed on the underside of his left cheek. It missed most of the thin cotton shorts and fell on naked flesh. The pain was excruciating; he would have difficulties sitting for the rest of the day, his bum was roaring hot, but it was over now. He had survived. His head was close to exploding, his face and neck were as scarlet as his backside. The back of his singlet was drenched with perspiration. His throat was parched and his temples pulsated. He was a wreck, but he had come through. His grey eyes blazed but no tear had trickled down his face.

“Stand up!” Sgt Trueform bellowed. “Back to the wall. Willis, take his place.” Hardy stretched his back and staggered to the upright position, he shocked himself when he stumbled with his first step and almost went tumbling to the ground. He was so concerned about getting himself safely to the edge of the room that he didn’t notice his pal John Willis was rooted. Tears washed all colour from his face.

“Willis!” Sgt Trueform jeered, “I’m waiting lad! Get yourself over here!”

“No sergeant, no sergeant, no. Please,” Willis begged. “No, please.”

“Now boy!” the master snorted.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman exchanged glances. Willis was a funk. He couldn’t take it. He was pleading to be let off.

“Couldn’t I do lines sir. Detention. Anything,” panic was rising in his voice and Willis wrung his hands pleading.

“Bend over lad!” Sgt Trueform squeezed the size twelve plimsoll in his hands. His muscles tensed and his face snarled. “Don’t test me boy!”

John Willis had lost it. Tears flowed down his face and his shoulders heaved. “No. No. No,” was all he could sob.

“Lads,” Sgt Trueform addressed Freeman and Hardy. “Grab him. Hold him down over the bench.” He nodded across the room to a low wooden structure.

Joe Hardy and Harry Freeman did not utter a word to each other. But they communicated nonetheless. Both were nursing sore backsides. They had taken their whackings. Freeman’s was on the bare. They had all skived the cross-country run, they had all been caught, they all deserved punishment, why should John Willis get away with it?HardyH

Without hesitation, Hardy moved forward and gripped Willis by the left elbow. Freeman took his cue from his pal and grabbed the right. Together they dragged a howling Willis across the floor. The boy’s feet slipped against the cold ground as he failed to get traction to resist.

Within seconds they were at the bench.

“Face down,” Sgt Trueform ordered. “Hold him steady.”

Two boys were always going to be stronger than one. John Willis had no chance. He was upended and dumped unceremoniously along the bench. It was about ten feet long and two wide, there was ample room to take the eighteen-year-old schoolboy.

“Shorts down?” Freeman asked a little too eagerly.

Sgt Trueform glared at the writhing Willis. What a coward the lad was. Couldn’t even take a spanking. His two pals had followed his orders and accepted their punishment. They were fine men. Fine English men. But what about this other snivelling wretch? He had known men like Willis in the Army. Weaklings, quitters, defeatists, deserters. How he hated them all. They would always let you down.

“Shorts down, serge?” Hardy was ready to rip them from the teenager’s backside. Sgt Trueform’s heart sped. Bare-arsed. Yes, he would love to whip the boy bare-arsed. That would show him. Show him who was the boss. Who was the master and who was the subordinate.

Willis wriggled and writhed, he hollered and screamed. The yells were so intense the sergeant feared he would be heard all across the playing fields and back in the main school buildings. Any moment someone might burst into the changing room attracted by the racket wondering whether a murder was being committed.

Sgt Trueform wanted dearly to beat Willis’s bare bum black and blue but he was a realist. The school allowed him a great freedom when dealing with the boys. It was a traditional school, health sports and healthy discipline were high in its priorities, but even St FIGS might baulk at the sight of two senior boys holding a third over  a bench while the sports master spanked his naked buttocks with a heavy plimsoll.

“Better leave them up lads,” he sighed and then with more gusto, he added, “This time.”

Freeman took the shoulders and Hardy the legs. That way they were clear of Willis’s torso and bottom. The sergeant had clear access to his prey. He stood towering over the prostrate boy. Willis was a smallish lad with narrow shoulders and slender hips but his bottom was round and ample. When he stood it jutted out behind him and some people said it looked like the tail of a bird. Now, with Willis flat on his stomach, the buttocks were presented as two hillocks, full and fleshy.

The sergeant took a deep breath, tensed the muscles in his forearm, laid the slipper across Willis’s left cheek, then he raised the rubber-soled plimsoll high and hammered it home. The boy’s wail outperformed a banshee. It sent a cold shiver up Harry Freeman’s spine but he pressed down harder onto Willis’s shoulder; he wasn’t letting the coward free.

“Keep him pinned down,” Sgt Trueform encouraged. Harry Freeman was so strong and Willis so weak there was no chance of escape. Harry felt the bones in the shoulder of the boy beneath him. From his vantage point he had a perfect bird’s-eye view of Willis’s buttocks.

Harry’s eyes swivelled from sports master to prostrate boy; from the hand holding the slipper, to the plump backside about to receive it. The next whack cut across the boy’s bottom raising dust from the stretched cotton of his shorts. Willis tried to kick his legs up and down and to summon the strength to lift himself free of the bench, but Hardy had a firm grip of his ankles.

Harry Freeman swallowed hard as he caught sight of the stern, impassive look on Sgt Trueform’s face, and the icy coldness of his blue eyes, as the sports master assessed the impact of each whack and took time to determine which part of Willis’s bottom would be the target of the next smack.

Willis’s entire body was quaking; his backside was quivering and wobbling; even spasmodically jerking.

The twelve whacks that Sgt Trueform pounded across Willis’s backside were no more severe that those Freeman and Hardy had received, but by the eighth stroke the boy was hollering to be let off. Screaming, and writhing and twisting as much as Harry Freeman’s heavy hands would allow.

Then, the beating over John Willis gradually ceased his screaming. Freeman and Hardy released their grips and embarrassed shuffled across to the other side of the room. They stood unsure what to do next. Had they been dismissed? Should they get dressed and go home?

Willis was crying. Quietly. Tears rolling down his cheeks. Trying to suppress any sound and unable to stop the sobbing.  Neither could he stop the sniffing nor the noise in the back of his throat as his body tried to gulp in the air his lungs needed between sobs. He was trying to keep as quiet as possible but the noise was deafening.

Picture credits: Both Sting Pictures

More stories from St FIG’s are here

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com