The Military Camp

z used birch for military camp

Lieutenant-Colonel Toby Masterton looked the boy straight in the eyes. “Your behaviour has been contrary to good military discipline. You will now drop your trousers, bend over and touch your toes.”

Eighteen-year-old Sapper Alan Barrett had been returning his commander’s stare impassively; but now his eyes sparkled as the seriousness of the situation sank in.

He had not expected this. Barrett knew the Lt-Col was newly appointed to command the Royal Engineers embarkation camp. What he didn’t know was that Masterton had specific instructions to tighten up discipline at the unit. And, he was going to do this in traditional military style.

The Lt-Col rose from behind his desk and picked up his swagger stick. It was a solid rod, about twenty inches long. He knew from experience this would leave an impression on the boy’s behind that he wouldn’t forget in a very long time.

“Get on with it Barrett,” it was a stern command. Masterton smacked the stick into the palm of his left hand to emphasise his impatience.

Barrett had not expected this. He had been absent from the camp without leave and knew he would have to be punished, but usually a lad was confined to camp or lost some other privileges, or even a day’s pay. But, to be ordered to take down his trousers and bend over like some schoolboy in front of the headmaster was unheard of.

Blushing scarlet, the boy began to loosen his trousers and let them drop to the top of his (not very highly polished) army boots. Then in one athletic movement he swooped over, stretching his fingers so the tips touched his steel toe caps. Barrett knew the procedure. He had been caned many times both at school and the orphanage where he had been brought up. He knew very well the sting a whippy rattan cane could make as it thwacked into his stretched backside.

The difference today was that he wasn’t at school, his trousers were at his feet and it wasn’t the headmaster about to whack him with a thin whippy cane, it was his commanding officer who was going to lay into him with a solid stick.

Masterton looked on impassively as the boy obeyed his order without question. He deserved this thrashing and it would do him a lot of good, he thought. Once word got around camp that this was how miscreants were treated, the Lt-Col expected behaviour to improve immeasurably.

Masterton took hold of the boy’s khaki shirt and moved the tail away from the target area, revealing an expanse of off-white cotton underpants. Barrett was quite small, a consequence of poor diet from an early age. Most men of his social class were the same. It was a wonder they were fit enough to undertake military service.

He placed his hand on the base of Barrett’s back to move him slightly so he could get an uninterrupted swing into his buttocks, raised the swagger stick shoulder high and brought it crashing down into the boy’s cheeks. He let out a gasp and screwed up his face tightly, but otherwise remained impassive. After a dozen strokes he was ordered to stand.

Barrett had never known such agony, it felt like his bum was a covered in welts and his pants were stuck to his skin; he was sure he was bleeding.

His face had turned from scarlet to deathly white and he was desperate to scream out with the intense pain, but he was a military man and as such he could not show he was hurt.

On command he pulled up his trousers and was dismissed. Later, he was still so sore he had to eat his lunch standing up.

Masterton was thirty-nine years old and had been brought back to England from Germany to take command of the camp. The Top Brass had decided it was going to ruin and it needed a strong disciplinarian to turn it around. Masterton was their man and they didn’t mind too much how he went about the job as long as he succeeded.

The Lt-Col soon let it be known to fellow officers and NCOs that he approved of corporal punishment above all other sanctions and he was prepared to turn a blind eye to its use.

That was how Peter Jenkins found himself, trousers and pants down, bent across the knee of Lt Allenby. Gunner Jenkins was a mess orderly and among his other duties he was expected to keep Allenby’s quarters clean and tidy. He was a jolly boy and Allenby liked having him around. He wasn’t well educated and Allenby had started helping him with his reading (many of the boys joined up especially so they could have a chance to learn to read and write). Allenby thought he had developed a good relationship with the eighteen year old and hoped the boy saw him as a bit of a father figure.

Things went very well until one day anxious to get away from camp on a forty-eight hour pass Jenkins skipped his chores and left the lieutenant’s bed unmade and his room un-cleaned.

Jenkins knew he had behaved badly and expected to be punished on his return. But he didn’t expect to find himself face down across his commander’s knees staring at the un-swept floor while the lieutenant whacked his bare arse with a gym slipper. The pain was intense and so was the humiliation of showing his crack and balls to his master.

After a couple of dozen hard whacks the boy was released. For some moments he stood hypnotized, not certain what he should do next. His rear was on fire and raw from the top of the cheeks to his thighs. The imprint of the slipper was clearly visible where the sole had branded the flesh. If you looked closely you might be able to read the trade name ‘Dunlop’ in reverse across his buttocks.

Allenby ordered him to get dressed and resume his duties. So, fighting back the urge to bawl his eyes out and with a throbbing backside, the eighteen year old held onto a broom and started to sweep the floor.

..

No boy on the base was allowed to smoke until he reached twenty-one and became a legal adult. If he did Lt-Col Masterton had ordered he should be flogged across the buttocks with a stout cane. He preferred it to be done with some ritual.

The camp’s military police soon devised a ceremony that struck fear into the hearts of all the young tobacco addicts. Tommy Alberston, a twenty-year-old serial smoker, was the first to go through the rite. The camp had a dummy gun, rather like a canon used one hundred or more years earlier, and this became the centrepiece of the proceedings. He was marched in to discover beside the gun a file of men and a corporal from the military police; he was a big, powerful fellow and he fingered a stout cane.

On command Alberson stepped forward hitched up his trousers and threw himself across the gun on his stomach; his head hanging down one side, his feet on the other. A couple of men knelt by his head and took a wrist and an ankle each and drew them together so that the trousers fitted very tightly across the young man’s firm buttocks.

The corporal threw himself into his striking stance, intending to inflict the maximum pain possible. Swish! Alberson stifled a scream and tried to wriggle free, but the two men gripped him firmly in position.

The corporal was in no hurry. The first stroke had been a sort of overhead and downward cut. This second one – swish! – came underhand and upwards. He wriggled on the gun, sweat now pouring from his body and his face was scarlet as one supposed were his buttocks.

Whizz! A straight forearm cut fair across the other two lines. The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes, and trotted off to his duties, but he wouldn’t be able to sit down to do them for a day or two.

..

Nobody could remember the last time a lad had been birched at the camp. The police corporal didn’t even know how to prepare the birch rods so he sought the advice of a willing retired officer. He was able to find the necessary leafless branches in a copse close to the army camp. He cut eight of them so they were three feet long and tightly bound them at the base with sticking plaster. He had been advised to soak the birch in brine for as long as possible to ensure the suppleness of the rods and the effectiveness of the sting they would inflict on bared flesh: he found a large enamel bucket and thus prepared he was ready to deal with Gunner Johnstone.

Johnstone was nineteen-years-old and something of a recidivist; he was constantly in trouble and often for similar offences which other punishments had failed to control. When sentence was passed, twelve cuts of the birch bare breech, he was impassive. He too knew no lad had been birched in living memory and when he survived the ordeal he would be something of a hero in the camp.

The sentence was set for the following morning (to allow the birch to soak overnight) and Johnstone was summoned to the camp gymnasium for nine o’clock. As with Alberston’s caning, there was a guard of honour to meet him when he arrived as instructed dressed only in a white PT vest and tight gym shorts. Johnstone was a big fit lad, standing over 6 ft tall and he was a keen football player and athlete. His body was muscular and well-toned and he fitted snugly into the vest and shorts; not that it mattered too much since the shorts would be removed and the vest pulled right back so that he was naked from nearly the shoulders down.

He was commanded to stand in front of the vaulting horse and after the charges and the punishment details were read aloud, he was instructed, “shorts down and over the horse lad.”

Johnstone wished that some of his pals were among the guard of honour to witness how well he would take the birching; after all a little bit of history was about to be made here.

The corporal and his colleagues had decided Johnstone should not be held down for his whipping, instead he would be expected to take it like a man. They fully expected that he would not be able to do so and would try to escape his punishment after the first lash landed eight supple birch twigs into his bared buttocks. Then, they would add to his humiliation by forcing him back over the horse and holding him steady while the corporal laid in the remaining eleven cuts.

Johnstone stuck his thumbs in the waistband of the tight white shorts and tugged them down to his feet. Then, not looking to left or right he swiftly dived across the back of the horse. It could have been tailor made for him. A fit young man of 6ft easily fitted across the horse and with his feet planted firmly on the ground on one side he was able to stretch over the horse’s back and grab hold of the rope handles on the side that were used for carrying the PE equipment.

The corporal had a grudging admiration for the boy, who seemed ready to take his punishment without fuss. The corporal had never birched anyone before but had been advised that the pain from such a punishment could be less than that from a traditional caning and therefore he must ensure he lashed the birch rods into the proffered fleshy buttocks at considerable force.

He withdrew the birch rod from the enamel bucket and the sound of wood against metal echoed around the gymnasium, making Johnstone crane his neck to see what was going on behind him.

“Face the front lad,” ordered the leader of the punishment detail and then after a pause. “Let the punishment commence.”

The corporal took a moment to take his aim; he admired the muscle tone of the lad and his almost completely hairless body. Johnstone flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home, the corporal took a deep breath, lifted the birch, then lashed down the first stroke.

Johnstone gasped and gripped tightly onto the rope handles, but other than that he made no reaction. Eight small scars immediately formed across the centre of his buttocks.

Number two hurt the boy even more, but he was determined not to show it. He groaned a little, but he was still in control of himself. Lash number three was directed to the lower part of the cheeks where they met the thighs and the pain was excruciating; Johnstone gagged a little and vomit rose to his throat but he managed to swallow it down and he hoped no one in the punishment detail had noticed.

Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his buttocks. There were dozens of lines across his bum, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the globes where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred.

The pain turned to agony and the boy’s face was as white as a sheet. The next swipe had him almost tearing the ropes from their moorings. He groaned at the agony and tears formed in his eyes, but he was not a broken man.

The corporal, unsure how a boy should react during a birching and thinking he might not be whipping the nineteen-year-old gunner hard enough, laid the next strokes on with renewed vigour. Johnstone wriggled his body from left to right, but with the aid of the horse’s handles he struggled to remain in position, prostrate across the wooden vaulting horse with his bared arse still pointing submissively at his punisher.

By cut number ten, blood was forming as some birch strokes landed upon those that had already marked the once white and now reddening bottom. Johnstone let out a silent cry; it was a wonder that he wasn’t howling the gymnasium down. The agony was intense and the pain had travelled from his blooded buttocks throughout his whole body. His shoulders ached with the effort of gripping at the rope and his finger nails had cut deep trenches in the palms of his hands. His head ached as his blood pressure went through the roof and tried to burst through his ears. But, he refused to cry out: he would not give them the satisfaction.

Then, cut number twelve thrashed into his flesh, Johnstone’s head rose and he bit deep into his tongue to stifle the yell he so wanted to make. His tongue would be damaged and he would have as much trouble speaking over the coming days as he would sitting down.

“Punishment over,” the leader of punishment detail intoned and unceremoniously the corporal replaced the birch rod in the bucket of brine.

Johnstone lay across the vaulting horse; a spent man. He could barely breathe and was in urgent need of medical attention, but the punishment detail being inexperienced in birching had not thought to invite a doctor to attend as witness.

“Dismissed.”

It was a curt instruction; Johnstone fell off the back of the horse but managed (just) to stay upright. He took a deep gasp, hauled his shorts up to cover his blazing bottom and staggered out the door, bouncing off the wall as soon as he was through it and out of sight of the others.

The punishment detail was dismissed and the corporal tidied way the horse before picking up the birch rods and the bucket.

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the corporal had a grudging admiration for Johnstone and the way he had taken his whipping. But the admiration was only grudging. Next time, he vowed to himself as he closed and locked the gym door, he would whip the brat to death.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Colonel and Tyler

WARNING: This  tale that is a little darker than the ones I usually tell – Charles

 

Tyler lay face down on the bed: stark naked. His bottom was raised by two pillows, pressed against his balls and he buried his face into the duvet and kept his arms, as instructed, stretched above his shoulders with his fingertips pointing at the headboard.

His body ached, not from a whipping, because that was yet to start. The pain was caused by the copious amounts of alcohol topped off with street drugs he had devoured the night before (or was it earlier that morning? He had no idea of the time and only the merest recollection of the place he was at). His tongue was glued to the roof of his mouth and he was certain sweat oozed from every pore.

He felt a slight tap of a swishy rod against his upturned buttocks: the Colonel was about to start.

The Colonel brushed the thin whippy cane across Tyler’s cheeks. The boy was very thin; unnaturally so. He had once been fit, both in the athletic sense and in the sexy way. Now, the Colonel supposed, the thinness was caused by under nourishment: drugs had a way of killing the appetite.

Nevertheless, the Colonel desired the hairless body before him. Tyler was naturally fair skinned had recently been shaved top to toe. The Colonel looked forward to creating distinctive mark on that flesh. But he was in no hurry: for now he owned Tyler.

The Colonel continued with his slow preparation. The cane in his hand was hardly two feet long. Some people would call it a nursery cane: if it had ever been used in the Real World, it would probably have been found swishing down into the outstretched hand of an eight-year-old miscreant. Or in days long gone, maybe a Nanny would use it to smack the bare bum of a particularly tiresome young gentleman as she held him face down across her lap.

The Colonel had a vast collection of canes. Today, he had two of his favourites laid out in readiness. His plan had been well thought out. No script had been written but he knew exactly how this was going to play out.

Tyler moaned softly when the Colonel brushed the cane once more across his cheeks, raised it no more than three inches and with the merest flick of the wrist smacked it into his bum.

This was what the Colonel liked to call “preparation”. He was delivering the entrée, before the main course began. Smack, smack, smack, the Colonel reddened Tyler’s buttocks; he was marking nicely, for this was indeed a rather wonderful cane.

The boy gasped as each successive swish travelled the length of his buttocks, but he kept perfectly still, allowing the Colonel to go through his paces. The rattan bounced into Tyler’s backside for the hundredth time before the Colonel paused for breath.

Tyler’s blood pressure was rising, but that was probably due the punishment he had inflicted on his own body earlier, rather than the caning he was undergoing now. Phlegm was rising in his throat and he worried he might sick up into the duvet.

The Colonel put down his cane on the bed beside Tyler. Without speaking, he walked across the room to the dressing table, opened a drawer and thrust his hand inside, extracting two neck ties. He turned and faced Tyler, admiring from this distance his own handiwork. The boy’s bum was raw with distinctive marks from his caning, and the Colonel knew from experience the lad would be in some pain. Some times by this point a boy would be sobbing gently into the mattress, but Tyler was made of sterner stuff, he was stoical and it took a lot before he would express his pain.

The Colonel was unperturbed. When round two was underway the boy would be hollering fit to wake the neighbours.

Tyler’s breathing was shallow and he really did not feel too well. He hardly noticed when the Colonel took first his right wrist and then his left and tied them securely to the bed post.

The Colonel’s own breathing was quickening a pace as he picked up his second cane: where the first had been benign, this was vicious: three feet six inches long and as thick as a man’s thumb, but with a suppleness to satisfy any disciplinarian. Whereas the first cane might be used with gentleness on a small child, this rod was meant to deliver a vicious thrashing to the most hardened juvenile delinquent or adult criminal.

In his feverish state Tyler would not see what was coming, but he would surely feel it. The Colonel repeated his brushing of the buttocks, gently rubbing the new cane over the boy’s mounds. Then without warning, it was raised high, flashed down, bit deep, lingered, and was removed, leaving a long, thick swelling welt.

There is a stunned moment of silence, followed by a long, loud, and anguished wail from Tyler. Restrained as he was, he could do little but bounce his bottom up and down as if he was having sex with the pillows beneath him. Once he had settled again, the Colonel lay on number two, which produced a deep throated roar, and then a third, which caused a piercing scream.

Bile was spilling from Tyler’s mouth, and pausing only for a second to make sure he was not actually choking to death, the Colonel raised and thrashed down the cane with his fullest force three more times. Tyler’s screams were subdued by a mouthful of vomit and he heaved hopelessly at the restraints on his wrists. Blood was seeping from six deep cuts across his buttocks.

Up and down came the cane another three times. Tyler’s whole body juddered with agony, his face was a deep scarlet and his bum cheeks a dark bloodied red.

From somewhere close by the Colonel could hear a door open; someone from a neighbouring bed sitting room must have heard the screams and was on the way to investigate.

Hurriedly the Colonel searched the room with his eyes; ah that would do nicely. Abandoned close by was a pair of his underpants, put aside for the weekly trip to the laundry. He scooped to the floor, grabbed them, balled them up and stuffed them into Tyler’s mouth. Then, believing he had only seconds before his pleasure would be interrupted by the neighbour, he thrashed down another six cuts into poor Tyler.

As predicted fists hammered against the door and a man’s angry voice could be heard. Too late; the Colonel was beyond control, sweat poured from his back as he let fly with another half dozen slices. Tyler cries turned to splutterings as in vain he tried to spit out the underpants. His mouth was full of vomit and he couldn’t breathe. The hammering at the door got louder and more frenzied.

The Colonel sent two more cuts crashing into Tyler; the pain seared through him; his body convulsed and he went limp.

“That’s it! I’m calling the police!” and the hammering stopped.

The Colonel stood cane in hand, staring at Tyler’s lifeless body.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 2. Noah’s story

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer up their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Here, Noah dresses up for Col Sanders.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys Episode 1, Howard’s story is here

 

My handler, Mr Hennessey said he would pick me up at my place at 2pm to take me on an adventure and he arrived on the dot.

He brought with me a full Boy Scout uniform; complete with khaki shorts and a wide-brimmed hat.

“Put these on before we leave. There won’t be a chance to do it later,” he handed me a paper package.

No way! I couldn’t risk people seeing me dressed like this. I was very anxious. From the first time he suggested this job, I had my doubts. Now this. Parading around my own manor dressed like a nineteen-thirties Boy Scout. No way. I might just as well walk around with a placard round my neck: ‘Boy for Sale.’

Mr Hennessey understood. He was always great like that. He was a businessman, but he never forced any of his boys to do something they didn’t want to.

“Ok, ok,” he shrugged his shoulders, “We’ll find a layby on the way. You can change there.”

Minutes later we were in his Ford Escort and on the road travelling out of town.

When Mr Hennessey first suggested this trip I said, “No. Emphatically, no.”

“Look”, he had told me. “There’s this client I have. Calls himself Col Sanders. I know! I know! I don’t think he’s even a real colonel. If he is he must be retired. He’s old enough. Lovely, man. You’ll love him.”

It was the Hennessey soft sell. His job as an agent was to match up the client and the boy. One wanted to do the spanking and the other was willing to oblige: for a fee.

This job was no different to any of the dozens of others Mr Hennessey had arranged for me in the past. Except that it was.

“He wants to watch while I spank you,” Mr Hennessey said it as if it were the most natural request in the world.

I’m not sure what my objection was. But, I didn’t want to do it.

“It’s just like those videos you do,” he flashed me a grin and flung his arms wide, “Except there are no cameras.” He laughed at the absurdity of his own argument. “A bit like the theatre, then. A live performance.”

Looking back, I think it was Mr Hennessey who was the problem. He was my business manager, not a client. I didn’t think he was interested in taking part in a spanking session. Like most of his boys he was in this for the money. It was purely business. But I loved being punished by older men. If I let him spank my arse, the ‘relationship,’ if that’s the right word for what we had, would change.

I thought he wasn’t into spanking, but I had heard reports that there was one lad that he saw to regularly. He was a well-known television actor with a big part in a soap opera. I’ve no idea if he was gay but there were rumours. Why is it that only cute good-looking boys are ‘accused’ of being gay? People never talk about the possibility that a pug-ugly fat blob is gay.

So, maybe Mr Hennessey had hidden depths himself.

No, I said, sorry, this was one gig I was turning down.

Then he told me the fee.

“How much?” My jaw probably literally dropped. Greed is a terrible emotion and it can get you into a lot of trouble. That’s how a week or so later I was sitting in the car with Mr Hennessey with a Boy Scout uniform on the back seat on my way to meet Col Sanders.

Traffic was light and we made good progress through the afternoon traffic. Then, without warning, Mr Hennessey pulled into a parade of shops. He disappeared into a green-grocer’s and emerged with a brown paper bag of fruit.

“Here,” he handed me four apples. “We’ll need these later.”

Out of town we found a secluded spot and I hid behind a hedge. In the blink of an eye I was transformed into a nineteen-thirties’ Boy Scout. The khaki shorts fell three inches high of the knee, ideally emphasising my great legs and cute bum. The greenish shirt was made of heavy cotton and when I rolled up the sleeves to my biceps it clung to my muscular gym-honed torso. There were merit badges sewn on to the shirt. They looked authentic to me, but what would I know. But the thing I adored most was the black-and-red striped neckerchief that when swirled up and tied around my neck dangled down my chest. I would love to wear this all the time. It would turn the boys’ heads in the bars.

Mr Hennessey gave me a cheeky wink and a thumbs-up when I returned to the car. “Oh yes! You never fail to deliver. You are going to make a happy man very old today.”

I cheered up considerably in my scouts’ uniform. You had to hand it to Mr Hennessey; he always knew how to dress his boys. I felt very proud to be part of his team. We delivered the best.

We drove on for a few more miles in companionable silence. Then Mr Hennessey piped up.

“This is the deal. You are the naughty boy in the village and I am your father. I have caught you scrumping, you know stealing the colonel’s apples, and I take you to him. That’s it really. Then we play it by ear. Or do I mean by ‘rear?’” He laughed at this. Mr Hennessey was a great businessman, but he had no future in stand-up comedy.

So, it was an improvised sketch. My part was to be a small kid and as in real life I had no say in what was going to happen. If my ‘father’ decided I was going to get a dose of his leather belt across the bare arse, then so be it.

“What’s with the scout uniform?” I asked lovingly fondling the neckerchief.

“I think we are re-enacting something real from his past. I’m not sure. I find it better not to ask too many questions.”

Soon, Mr Hennessey pulled up in front of a large detached house. Col Sanders certainly seemed to have a lot of money; why shouldn’t he spend some of it on me?

We got out of the car and I was approaching the front door when Mr Hennessey pulled me back.

“Wait,” he stooped down and took a small handful of dirt from a flower bed.

“Authenticity,” he said, as he smeared my knees with the dirt. For good measure he dipped his finger in the soil and put the merest trace on my left cheek. The man was a pro. Now, I really looked like that naughty boy who had been climbing trees and stealing apples.

Mr Hennessey led the way to the door and rang the bell. Showtime had begun.

Col Sanders opened the door himself. Somehow, I had expected a butler or a housekeeper. I was a little disappointed. The colonel was a slight figure, with stooped shoulders. He had once been tall, strong and erect but age had taken its toll. Liver spots spread across the flesh that was visible and extended to the top of his head which was completely bald.

His once sparkling, but now dull, hazel eyes looked at me hungrily. There was definitely something very sexy about that neckerchief. His gaze lingered on the garment and I followed his eyes as they moved from my throat down my chest and came to rest at the buttons of my short trousers. Absurdly, for a moment I thought he had seen my flies were undone. He might have wished that was the case, because, even at his age, he was lusting after the contents of my pants.

“Col Sanders. Good afternoon,” Mr Hennessey broke the silence. “I don’t know if you remember me, my names Noah. I’m from the village,” the little playlet had begun.

I stood head bowed, looking suitably abashed as my ‘father’ recounted my misdeeds. Naughty Noah had climbed the wall to the colonel’s orchard and stolen apples. He was very sorry, but here are four that were saved. Bad, bad Noah had eaten the others.

Soon we were inside the house and standing in a room that might have been a living room, or maybe a study, or even a library. I had little experience of large houses having been raised in a tiny council flat. The low-ceilinged room contained a number of leather armchairs positioned around a handsome, but now never used, fireplace, a table and a couple of straight back chairs. There were two windows that looked out into an expansive garden. It was immaculately kept: the colonel must have employed a gardener full time.

Like all children I knew I must only speak when spoken to, so I stood patiently drinking in the splendour of the room while the ‘adults’ discussed my future.

“He needs a darn good spanking. That’s what he needs.” It was the colonel who brought up the idea.

“Indeed he does. Indeed he does.” I tried not to smile. Mr Hennessey sounded like an actor in a television adaptation of a Charles Dickens novel. I half expected to hear him to say, “I’m ever so ’umble Col sanders; ever so ’umble.”

Then the spotlight turned on me.

“What have you got to say for yourself Noah?”

Startled, I stumbled on my line. I really had no answer for the colonel and found myself mumbling, “Nuffink.”

“Nuffink? Nuffink?” Where did that come from? I was usually the posh upper-class schoolboy in these scenarios. That, and the blue-and-gold school blazer, was my brand so to speak. Why had I suddenly assumed the position of a working-class urchin? It must have been that bloody Charles Dickens again.

“Pah!” the colonel was not amused. “You are nothing but a thief. A despicable thief!” The colonel’s dull eyes suddenly flared as he verbally laid into me. There was real passion there. What event from his past was he recalling?

He turned to my ‘father.’ “He needs a damned good thrashing, that’s what he needs. What do you say Noah?”

Unsurprisingly, Noah agreed. It was only now that I realised we had not discussed this part of the play. A “thrashing” the colonel had said, not a spanking. What did the old man have in mind?

Suddenly, I found my eyes darting around the room, searching out a clue to his intentions. There was no obvious instrument of my punishment on display. I could see no birch rods or whippy canes. Maybe they were under wraps somewhere, but again I could see no apparent hiding places.

“Might I suggest colonel,” my ‘father’ said, “that you take the boy across your knee and give him his just desserts.”

I shuddered under the gaze of the colonel. Once, he must have been a powerful man whose stare struck terror into strong men. Now, he was a wizened old man, stripped of his physical power. But in that stare I could see lust. He didn’t want to thrash or spank me: he wanted to have me, to rip down my shorts and pants and haul me over the back of the chair and have his way with me.

Mr Hennessey saw my shudder. I was in terror of this old man. I knew he did not have the strength to fulfil his lustful desires. If he made a move for me I could sock him on the jaw and walk out the house. I knew that, but still I was rooted to the spot stunned. What if he and Mr Hennessey had arranged this specially? I could take on the old man definitely; but I might not be able to defeat the two of them together. What if they over-powered me and tied me down across the large oak table. Each of them could quench their thirst on me.

Mr Hennessey and I exchanged glances. It took only a nanosecond. Now, I understood.

“No, you are his father, Noah. You should punish him.” The colonel still appeared to be following the script.

“As you please, colonel.”

I realised Mr Hennessey had been in this house before when without instruction he left the room and returned almost immediately. In his right hand he held a small rectangle of polished wood, with a smooth, well-worn handle which he methodically slapped against his large open left hand.

I was back on familiar territory. Mr Hennessey moved to sit on an upright wooden chair and pointed to his thighs. With my best sullen expression fixed on my face, I stood and allowed my short trousers and underpants to be dropped, before lowering myself to the expected position.

It was going to be plain sailing from here, I thought. How wrong I was.

I felt the firm, cold, smooth paddle move slowly and silently across my bare curves. It was heavier than I imagined. I felt it move away as if it had identified its target and then like a bolt of lightning it returned with a smack that tore the breath from my body. So sudden and so startling was the impact that I surprised myself by letting a yell of protest burst out from the back of my throat. My whole body arched and stiffened in alarm, and my fingers clawed at the carpet pile.

Instinctively for self-preservation my buttocks clung to each other. Then I heard the colonel’s authoritative voice order me to unclench.

Slowly, I relaxed my stinging cheeks, only to be propelled once more into defence mode as the smooth polished wooden paddle landed with tremendous accuracy and force on the very same spot and delivered another slab of pain which sank deep into my backside.

My cheeks tightened into hard muscle. The air escaping through my closed teeth made a high-pitched whine and my feet rose up from the carpeted floor.

Then nothing happened. Mr Hennessey was waiting.  Very slowly and painfully, my buttocks regained their softened form. Then for the third time the sound of the wooden paddle bouncing into my soft flesh resounded around the room. This was where I lost it.

My throaty cries merged with my tears. Snot poured from my nose. My body heaved across Mr Hennessey’s lap. My arms flailed, my legs kicked. Every part of my body attempted escape, but Mr Hennessey possessed a strength I had never before knew he had. He held me forcibly face down across his lap. I was going nowhere; not until the colonel had been given his money’s worth.

I don’t remember how many times that paddle was flogged into my arse but my previously creamy-white buttocks were transformed into two twitching, flaming red mounds of flesh.

It was over. The colonel’s eyes were almost as moist as mine. He watched intently as I performed the dance of the spanked naughty boy, hopping from foot to foot to try to make the pain go away. It didn’t work.

His bony hand caressed my stinging buttock cheeks. Only then did I notice how paper thin his skin was. The agony in my arse was turning into a glowing pain and soon that would become a hot glow. Every square inch of my buttocks and some of my thighs was blistered and the outline of the paddle was clearly visible in many places. The whole area was the colour of deep burgundy and blood vessels had broken in one or two places. When I got home I would have to use a wet sponge to soak off my underpants where the blood had dried and stuck them to my body.

“Stand and face the wall. Hands on your head.” It was an unexpected command from the colonel. I thought we were done, but evidently not. I was fully dressed now and ready to leave, but what did I know, perhaps this was part of the show.

The two adults left me in the room for at least ten minutes. I had plenty of time to reflect on the day. I had taken one hell of a spanking and I was very proud of myself. I had not known that Mr Hennessey could pack such a punch; clearly he did have more experience at this than I had credited him with.

Mr Hennessey returned to the room alone and we left the house. We drove home in silence, but it was not companionable.

That night, I masturbated furiously as I wriggled my sore bottom against the bed sheets and recounted how Mr Hennessey had torn my arse to shreds. The red and black neckerchief hung on the back of a chair and an envelope stuffed with banknotes was tucked away safely in a drawer.

It had been a successful day, but I vowed I would never see the creepy colonel again. And I didn’t. Two days later Mr Hennessey told me the colonel’s body had been found by his daily cleaning woman. He had died moments after we left. I consoled myself that he had died a very happy man.

Mr Hennessey’s Boys episode 3, Ethan’s story is here.

 

Other stories you might like

Winker Wilson’s visit

The Private Tutor: 1

In the farmhouse

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

COMING SOON: Mr Hennessey’s boys

Mr Hennessey has a stable of young men who for a price are willing to offer up their backsides to corporal punishment enthusiasts. Meet Howard, Noah, Ethan and Timothy.

Starting on Friday 3 June and continuing for the next three Fridays, follow their adventures as they provide their unique service across town.

 

He stood hand firmly on top of his green-and-black school cap, nose almost touching the wall. He could feel the beautifully tailored mid-grey short trousers hugging the contours of his buttocks. He caught a whiff of dry-cleaning fluid on the crisp green-and-black striped school blazer. He reckoned he looked every inch a prep school boy in his grey shirt, green-and-black striped tie, a grey V-neck jumper with green-and-black trimming and long grey socks with a green hoops around the tops.

  • Extract from Howard’s story

 

I felt the firm, cold, smooth paddle move slowly and silently across my bare curves. It was heavier than I imagined. I felt it move away as if it had identified its target and then like a bolt of lightning it returned with a smack that tore the breath from my body. So sudden and so startling was the impact that I surprised myself by letting a yell of protest burst out from the back of my throat. My whole body arched and stiffened in alarm, and my fingers clawed at the carpet pile.

  • Extract from Noah’s story

 

I picked up his bedroom slipper from next to the fireplace where it had been left to warm and handed it to him.

 “You have been a very naughty boy, haven’t you, Peter?”

 I agreed that I had.

 “I am going to spank your bottom with my slipper, Peter.”                           

 I tried to look suitably alarmed.

 “Go and stand by the arm of the settee.”

 I did as I was told, while he smacked the slipper into the palm of his hand.

 Extract from Ethan’s story

 

I climbed on one chair and bent over the combined backs and placed my hands palms down on the seat of the other. I’d never seen this position before, but it turned out it was all the fashion eighty or more years ago. It certainly placed my bum at the perfect angle for him to slash his cane into the seat of my trousers. Which he then proceeded to do.

 

  • Extract from Timothy’s story

 

Mr Hennessey’s Boys starts Friday 3 June 2016

 

Other series of stories you might like

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

The Private Tutor, episode 1

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The military camp

Lieutenant-Colonel Toby Masterton looked the boy straight in the eyes. “Your behaviour has been contrary to good military discipline. You will now drop your trousers, bend over and touch your toes.”

Eighteen-year-old Sapper Alan Barrett had been returning his commander’s stare impassively; but now his eyes sparkled as the seriousness of the situation sank in.

He had not expected this. Barrett knew the Lt-Col was newly appointed to command the Royal Engineers embarkation camp. What he didn’t know was that Masterton had specific instructions to tighten up discipline at the unit. And, he was going to do this in traditional military style.

The Lt-Col rose from behind his desk and picked up his swagger stick. It was a solid rod, about twenty inches long. He knew from experience this would leave an impression on the boy’s behind that he wouldn’t forget in a very long time.

“Get on with it Barrett,” it was a stern command. Masterton smacked the stick into the palm of his left hand to emphasise his impatience.

Barrett had not expected this. He had been absent from the camp without leave and knew he would have to be punished, but usually a lad was confined to camp or lost some other privileges, or even a day’s pay. But, to be ordered to take down his trousers and bend over like some schoolboy in front of the headmaster was unheard of.

Blushing scarlet, the boy began to loosen his trousers and let them drop to the top of his (not very highly polished) army boots. Then in one athletic movement he swooped over, stretching his fingers so the tips touched his steel toe caps. Barrett knew the procedure. He had been caned many times both at school and the orphanage where he had been brought up. He knew very well the sting a whippy rattan cane could make as it thwacked into his stretched backside.

The difference today was that he wasn’t at school, his trousers were at his feet and it wasn’t the headmaster about to whack him with a thin whippy cane, it was his commanding officer who was going to lay into him with a solid stick.

Masterton looked on impassively as the boy obeyed his order without question. He deserved this thrashing and it would do him a lot of good, he thought. Once word got around camp that this was how miscreants were treated, the Lt-Col expected behaviour to improve immeasurably.

Masterton took hold of the boy’s khaki shirt and moved the tail away from the target area, revealing an expanse of off-white cotton underpants. Barrett was quite small, a consequence of poor diet from an early age. Most men of his social class were the same. It was a wonder they were fit enough to undertake military service.

He placed his hand on the base of Barrett’s back to move him slightly so he could get an uninterrupted swing into his buttocks, raised the swagger stick shoulder high and brought it crashing down into the boy’s cheeks. He let out a gasp and screwed up his face tightly, but otherwise remained impassive. After a dozen strokes he was ordered to stand.

Barrett had never known such agony, it felt like his bum was a covered in welts and his pants were stuck to his skin; he was sure he was bleeding.

His face had turned from scarlet to deathly white and he was desperate to scream out with the intense pain, but he was a military man and as such he could not show he was hurt.

On command he pulled up his trousers and was dismissed. Later, he was still so sore he had to eat his lunch standing up.

Masterton was thirty-nine years old and had been brought back to England from Germany to take command of the camp. The Top Brass had decided it was going to ruin and it needed a strong disciplinarian to turn it around. Masterton was their man and they didn’t mind too much how he went about the job as long as he succeeded.

The Lt-Col soon let it be known to fellow officers and NCOs that he approved of corporal punishment above all other sanctions and he was prepared to turn a blind eye to its use.

That was how Peter Jenkins found himself, trousers and pants down, bent across the knee of Lt Allenby. Gunner Jenkins was a mess orderly and among his other duties he was expected to keep Allenby’s quarters clean and tidy. He was a jolly boy and Allenby liked having him around. He wasn’t well educated and Allenby had started helping him with his reading (many of the boys joined up especially so they could have a chance to learn to read and write). Allenby thought he had developed a good relationship with the eighteen year old and hoped the boy saw him as a bit of a father figure.

Things went very well until one day anxious to get away from camp on a forty-eight hour pass Jenkins skipped his chores and left the lieutenant’s bed unmade and his room un-cleaned.

Jenkins knew he had behaved badly and expected to be punished on his return. But he didn’t expect to find himself face down across his commander’s knees staring at the un-swept floor while the lieutenant whacked his bare arse with a gym slipper. The pain was intense and so was the humiliation of showing his crack and balls to his master.

After a couple of dozen hard whacks the boy was released. For some moments he stood hypnotized, not certain what he should do next. His rear was on fire and raw from the top of the cheeks to his thighs. The imprint of the slipper was clearly visible where the sole had branded the flesh. If you looked closely you might be able to read the trade name ‘Dunlop’ in reverse across his buttocks.

Allenby ordered him to get dressed and resume his duties. So, fighting back the urge to bawl his eyes out and with a throbbing backside, the eighteen year old held onto a broom and started to sweep the floor.

..

No boy on the base was allowed to smoke until he reached twenty-one and became a legal adult. If he did Lt-Col Masterton had ordered he should be flogged across the buttocks with a stout cane. He preferred it to be done with some ritual.

The camp’s military police soon devised a ceremony that struck fear into the hearts of all the young tobacco addicts. Tommy Alberston, a twenty-year-old serial smoker, was the first to go through the rite. The camp had a dummy gun, rather like a canon used one hundred or more years earlier, and this became the centrepiece of the proceedings. He was marched in to discover beside the gun a file of men and a corporal from the military police; he was a big, powerful fellow and he fingered a stout cane.

On command Alberson stepped forward hitched up his trousers and threw himself across the gun on his stomach; his head hanging down one side, his feet on the other. A couple of men knelt by his head and took a wrist and an ankle each and drew them together so that the trousers fitted very tightly across the young man’s firm buttocks.

The corporal threw himself into his striking stance, intending to inflict the maximum pain possible. Swish! Alberson stifled a scream and tried to wriggle free, but the two men gripped him firmly in position.

The corporal was in no hurry. The first stroke had been a sort of overhead and downward cut. This second one – swish! – came underhand and upwards. He wriggled on the gun, sweat now pouring from his body and his face was scarlet as one supposed were his buttocks.

Whizz! A straight forearm cut fair across the other two lines. The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes, and trotted off to his duties, but he wouldn’t be able to sit down to do them for a day or two.

..

Nobody could remember the last time a lad had been birched at the camp. The police corporal didn’t even know how to prepare the birch rods so he sought the advice of a willing retired officer. He was able to find the necessary leafless branches in a copse close to the army camp. He cut eight of them so they were three feet long and tightly bound them at the base with sticking plaster. He had been advised to soak the birch in brine for as long as possible to ensure the suppleness of the rods and the effectiveness of the sting they would inflict on bared flesh: he found a large enamel bucket and thus prepared he was ready to deal with Gunner Johnstone.

Johnstone was nineteen-years-old and something of a recidivist; he was constantly in trouble and often for similar offences which other punishments had failed to control. When sentence was passed, twelve cuts of the birch bare breech, he was impassive. He too knew no lad had been birched in living memory and when he survived the ordeal he would be something of a hero in the camp.

The sentence was set for the following morning (to allow the birch to soak overnight) and Johnstone was summoned to the camp gymnasium for nine o’clock. As with Alberston’s caning, there was a guard of honour to meet him when he arrived as instructed dressed only in a white PT vest and tight gym shorts. Johnstone was a big fit lad, standing over 6 ft tall and he was a keen football player and athlete. His body was muscular and well-toned and he fitted snugly into the vest and shorts; not that it mattered too much since the shorts would be removed and the vest pulled right back so that he was naked from nearly the shoulders down.

He was commanded to stand in front of the vaulting horse and after the charges and the punishment details were read aloud, he was instructed, “shorts down and over the horse lad.”

Johnstone wished that some of his pals were among the guard of honour to witness how well he would take the birching; after all a little bit of history was about to be made here.

The corporal and his colleagues had decided Johnstone should not be held down for his whipping, instead he would be expected to take it like a man. They fully expected that he would not be able to do so and would try to escape his punishment after the first lash landed eight supple birch twigs into his bared buttocks. Then, they would add to his humiliation by forcing him back over the horse and holding him steady while the corporal laid in the remaining eleven cuts.

Johnstone stuck his thumbs in the waistband of the tight white shorts and tugged them down to his feet. Then, not looking to left or right he swiftly dived across the back of the horse. It could have been tailor made for him. A fit young man of 6ft easily fitted across the horse and with his feet planted firmly on the ground on one side he was able to stretch over the horse’s back and grab hold of the rope handles on the side that were used for carrying the PE equipment.

The corporal had a grudging admiration for the boy, who seemed ready to take his punishment without fuss. The corporal had never birched anyone before but had been advised that the pain from such a punishment could be less than that from a traditional caning and therefore he must ensure he lashed the birch rods into the proffered fleshy buttocks at considerable force.

He withdrew the birch rod from the enamel bucket and the sound of wood against metal echoed around the gymnasium, making Johnstone crane his neck to see what was going on behind him.

“Face the front lad,” ordered the leader of the punishment detail and then after a pause. “Let the punishment commence.”

The corporal took a moment to take his aim; he admired the muscle tone of the lad and his almost completely hairless body. Johnstone flexed his buttocks a little in anticipation of the agony he expected as the rods struck home, the corporal took a deep breath, lifted the birch, then lashed down the first stroke.

Johnstone gasped and gripped tightly onto the rope handles, but other than that he made no reaction. Eight small scars immediately formed across the centre of his buttocks.

Number two hurt the boy even more, but he was determined not to show it. He groaned a little, but he was still in control of himself. Lash number three was directed to the lower part of the cheeks where they met the thighs and the pain was excruciating; Johnstone gagged a little and vomit rose to his throat but he managed to swallow it down and he hoped no one in the punishment detail had noticed.

Sweat poured from his body, down his half-naked back and into the crack between his buttocks. There were dozens of lines across his bum, arranged neatly from left to right and from the top of the globes where they meet the spine to under the curves close to the thighs. Every square inch of his rear end was scarred.

The pain turned to agony and the boy’s face was as white as a sheet. The next swipe had him almost tearing the ropes from their moorings. He groaned at the agony and tears formed in his eyes, but he was not a broken man.

The corporal, unsure how a boy should react during a birching and thinking he might not be whipping the nineteen-year-old gunner hard enough, laid the next strokes on with renewed vigour. Johnstone wriggled his body from left to right, but with the aid of the horse’s handles he struggled to remain in position, prostrate across the wooden vaulting horse with his bared arse still pointing submissively at his punisher.

By cut number ten, blood was forming as some birch strokes landed upon those that had already marked the once white and now reddening bottom. Johnstone let out a silent cry; it was a wonder that he wasn’t howling the gymnasium down. The agony was intense and the pain had travelled from his blooded buttocks throughout his whole body. His shoulders ached with the effort of gripping at the rope and his finger nails had cut deep trenches in the palms of his hands. His head ached as his blood pressure went through the roof and tried to burst through his ears. But, he refused to cry out: he would not give them the satisfaction.

Then, cut number twelve thrashed into his flesh, Johnstone’s head rose and he bit deep into his tongue to stifle the yell he so wanted to make. His tongue would be damaged and he would have as much trouble speaking over the coming days as he would sitting down.

“Punishment over,” the leader of punishment detail intoned and unceremoniously the corporal replaced the birch rod in the bucket of brine.

Johnstone lay across the vaulting horse; a spent man. He could barely breathe and was in urgent need of medical attention, but the punishment detail being inexperienced in birching had not thought to invite a doctor to attend as witness.

“Dismissed.”

It was a curt instruction; Johnstone fell off the back of the horse but managed (just) to stay upright. He took a deep gasp, hauled his shorts up to cover his blazing bottom and staggered out the door, bouncing off the wall as soon as he was through it and out of sight of the others.

The punishment detail was dismissed and the corporal tidied way the horse before picking up the birch rods and the bucket.

He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, but the corporal had a grudging admiration for Johnstone and the way he had taken his whipping. But the admiration was only grudging. Next time, he vowed to himself as he closed and locked the gym door, he would whip the brat to death.

Author’s note: part of this story was inspired by a news report in Daily News, London, 10 August 1903.

 

Other stories you might like.

Where’s the paddle, hon?

When Dad got home

One hot summer afternoon

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com