Rory and Alistair Ep 2. The Junior Schoolmaster

Rory and Alistair could never conform to boarding school life. The eighteen year olds were oddities at Willadong Academy. They were required to dress like juniors and would remain in short trousers until the day they left school. They had one other characteristic that distinguished them: they were madly in lust with one another.

Alexander Macaulay the junior schoolmaster stalked the passageways of Willadong Academy, a cane tucked under his arm. He was determined it would see action before the afternoon was out.

It was Wednesday and at Willadong that was a time for compulsory sports. If Macaulay found a boy in the building that would be excuse enough. If no abstainer was to be found he could instigate a room search, seeking hidden contraband. Cigarettes and alcohol and much else besides were strictly banned at the school.

Alexander Macaulay was an unhappy young man. This was his second month at the school and things were not going well. He was twenty-four years old; and to many casual observers indistinguishable from the senior pupils. He stood no taller than five-feet-seven-inches and was lean and wiry. His smooth complexion was deeply suntanned but the thin straggly moustache he sported belied his age. He was a boy trying to be a man. He did not possess the “gravitas” required to be a schoolmaster and probably never would.

The tingling he still felt in his backside confirmed this. It had been the most humiliating moment of his life. Less than thirty minutes previously he had been in the study of Willadong’s senior master Mr. Henderson; bent across a stout desk, trousers at his ankles. Henderson swiped nine hard cuts across the junior schoolmaster’s swaying buttocks.

Henderson said it was “attitude.” Macaulay must “buck up his ideas.” He must show he was worthy of the title, junior master at Willadong Academy. Until such a time, Macaulay must expect to be treated as if he were a pupil. “Trousers down, bend over.”

Now, Alexander Macaulay was on the prowl. Somebody must pay for his humiliation.

Rory and Alistair lay naked, entwined in each other’s arms. They had had sex enthusiastically, but inexpertly. Alistair’s cock was stiff at a forty-five degree angle. It was ready for round two.

Fresh weals decorated the buttocks of the two eighteen year olds. They were the handiwork of Mr. Anderson, their housemaster. It had been six on the bare. They were repeat offenders.

The pain had gone now, but there was one deep cut across the very centre of Rory’s bum that was tender to touch. The cane had landed on the same spot twice. A slash that landed across the back of his thighs troubled Alistair. That should teach him not to wriggle about during a caning.

Some boys were not suited to boarding school life. Roy and Alistair were two of them. There were too many rules and restrictions. The two pals were not resentful. They had broken curfew – again. Rules were rules at Willadong and when they were broken a lad would expect to be showing his arse to a prefect or a master.

Rory freed himself from Alistair’s embrace and lay face down on the bed inviting his chum to inspect his wounds. The teenager licked his own index finger and gently used it to trace from one end to the other of the deep welt across Rory’s bum. It had once been a deep pink, but now was mauve. It would turn purple soon, and then over the next few days it would lighten to yellow and finally disappear.

Alistair created a spit ball in his mouth and washed his tongue with it. Then he licked Rory’s cut, sending a shiver through the teenager’s body and leaving a slime trial across the buttocks. Rory’s cock throbbed almost as much as his bottom had just after his thrashing.

In the distance the school clock struck three o’clock. The boys were missing compulsory cricket practice. Who cared? What was another spanking between friends?

Rory turned on his back and Alistair snuggled up beside him. They took hold of each other’s cocks and tugged.

….

It was Wednesday afternoon; sports and activities day at Willadong. Rory and Alistair were keen cricketers and part of the school XI team. They should have been with their fellows practising. It was a scorching hot day; like so many that summer. The cricketers were broiling so had left their whites behind in favour of the shortest cotton running shorts they could find. Some wore vests but most were bare-chested.

Cpt. Cameron their PT instructor and cricket coach was not a happy man. He had been absent from the school and had engaged a man called Villiars from the village to stand in. Cricket was a gentleman’s game but the sixth-formers at Willadong had been far from gentlemen to Villiars. Willadong boys considered themselves superior to the common man and were not about to be ordered about by a village oik like Villiars.

But now Cameron was back and he did not like what Villairs had told him. Not one little bit.

That was why six eighteen-year-old cricketers were lined up in the pavilion facing Cameron. The PT instructor held a dirty-white plimsoll tightly in his right hand. It was a large slipper and rather worn on the sole. It had seen much action on the running track and also across the bending backsides of errant schoolboys.

He devised a little ritual. The eighteen year olds stood in a line, backs to the wall. Then on command each one stepped forward three paces towards Cameron. They swivelled on their heels, lowered their white shorts (none were wearing underpants in that heat) and touched their toes; knees straight. Three of the six teenagers wore no shirt so were totally naked bent over obediently with their tight cotton shorts in a puddle at their feet. It was a typical schoolboy ritual; each one presenting himself submissively to his master.

Schoolboy cricketers come in many shapes and sizes. There is no requirement to have an “athletic” body; “big and meaty” could as easily fit the bill. Six sets of naked buttocks were displayed that afternoon: fat and squashy; large and firm; pert and pimply.

Cameron had the perfect view of each boy’s cock and balls and, of course, his crack. But the middle-aged ex-Army officer was not interested in any of that. Discipline and punishment were uppermost in his mind. He gripped the plimsoll tightly and whacked it down across flesh. Two spanks on the left cheek; followed by two on the right.

Then, the boy stood, pulled up his shorts and went back to the wall, to be replaced by the next boy.

And so it went on until all six teenagers had the dark pink outline of the slipper emblazoned across both buttocks.

It looked spectacular, but it didn’t really hurt. Not like four slashes from the headmaster’s special Malacca cane would have if he had learned of the boys’ discourtesy to Villiars.

….

Alexander Macaulay was despondent. Somebody must pay for his humiliation. He had searched the classrooms without success. No boy was to be found. Now, he made his way through the living quarters. Again, there was no sign of life.

He searched through the study rooms. The boys seemed to have very few personal possessions. For the sons of the wealthy they were very poor indeed, he concluded. The boys would have found the junior master’s naivety touching. They were wiser than that. No self-respecting boy would leave contraband in his room for prying eyes to find. It was secreted in cubbyholes and nooks and crannies across the school; places unknown to the likes of Alexander Macaulay.

He was close to the end of his tour. Only one passageway was left unexplored. The junior master let himself into an unlocked room. As with the others, there was not much there. He opened and closed cupboards and drawers. He was exasperated with himself: what had he expected to find?

Idly he pushed a textbook across a desk. The corner of a picture poked out from between its pages. He tugged it free. It was a page ripped from a magazine. A picture. A captivating photograph.

Two young men, in their twenties, standing side by side grinned at the camera. They had their arms around each other’s shoulders. They were sailors. At least they wore sailors’ hats on the backs of their heads, but little else besides. Only the shortest of denim shorts. The waistbands were unbuttoned and their zippers lowered, enticingly. Their chests were hairless and stomachs tight and flat.

z used Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland (2)

The boy on the right was particularly enchanting. His dark curly hair fell across his forehead emphasising his dreamy brown eyes.

Carefully, Macaulay folded the picture and tucked it into his pocket. Then, fearing he might be caught, he tip-toed from the room.

There was now only one room left unvisited.

Voices. He could hear voices from behind the door. Success. Finally. His afternoon would not be wasted.

Had the junior master been less junior; he would have recognised the room, if not necessarily the voices of its occupants. And, he would have known better than to burst open the door without warning.

Rory and Alistair lay naked. Spent. Breathing hard. Their exertions had been great. Semen covered each boy’s stomach.

Alexander Macaulay stood in the doorway startled. Instinctively, his eyes focused on Alistair’s cock. The junior master had seen nothing like it before. It was flaccid and limp, but even relaxed it was an awesome specimen. And uncut. He had never before seen an uncut cock.

Macaulay blushed deeply. His mouth opened and closed, but he could not get words to form.

Rory raised himself to a sitting position. He stared at the intruder to his room. He only vaguely knew the identity of the stranger. The cane tucked under the junior master’s arm confirmed he was trouble.

“Wha.. wha…?” Macaulay tried again to speak, aware that he could not stop gaping at the two naked sixth-formers before him. One of them, not the one with the huge cock, reminded him of the boy in the picture.

Rory flashed a grin, his dark brown eyes sparkled, but he said nothing, silenced by the sight of the bulge now growing in the front of the visitor’s trousers.

Alistair had seen it too. The caller was quite attractive in a nerdy shy way, he thought.

The junior schoolmaster slipped the cane from his arm into his hand, as if ready for disciplinary action.

Rory roared with laughter.

Macaulay stood rooted, unsure what to do next. He watched as Alistair sat up and the two boys embraced; just like the two sailors. The throbbing in his pants was excruciating.

Alistair giggled, “Don’t stand there all day. Get your clothes off. You can squeeze between us.”

He stopped short, felled by the Macaulay’s face of thunder. The junior schoolmaster wanted revenge for his earlier humiliation. Now he was going to get it.

“No!” He had found his voice at last. He might have been a schoolmaster for only two months, but he understood and relished the power he had over the two teenagers. They must submit to his cane. The consequences of refusal would be dire: a flogging from the headmaster and possible expulsion from the school.

Macaulay swished the cane through the air. He stared Alistair in the eye and slowly and deliberately said, “Let’s have you on your feet and over that chair.” He wobbled the cane at a small straight-backed chair.

To his delight, the boys rose from the bed without question. Alistair clutched the chair and placed it in the centre of the room.

Macaulay’s heart raced. He had never felt such power before. The boys would submit to his will. He watched Alistair make the preparations and start to bend his body over the chair.

No, Macaulay thought. I’ll do the cute one first.

“You,” he pointed at Rory, realising that he didn’t know the names of either boy before him. “You first.”

Rory smiled. It nearly broke the schoolmaster’s young heart.

Rory didn’t fit in at Willadong Academy. It did not suit his personality, but he rarely resented the treatment he received at the school. He broke the rules, he got punished and life went on.

But, not this time. Rory was not a man of the world, but he understood enough. The throbbing cock beneath the schoolmaster’s trousers did not lie. Macaulay was about to beat him on the bared backside for his own sexual gratification. Later, the schoolmaster would pleasure himself while he relived this afternoon in his head.

Rory despised Macaulay for his hypocrisy. He would thrash him and his friend for fooling around. Yet, the schoolmaster so clearly wanted him.

Even before Rory gripped the hard wooden seat, he had devised a plan. Later, sometime soon, he would entice the schoolmaster to a dark secluded part of the school. He knew many such places. Macaulay wouldn’t be able to resist. It wouldn’t take long. A schoolmaster. Sex. A male pupil. There was no need to spell it out.

Rory closed his eyes, clamped his teeth shut and offered up his already corrugated buttocks to the lash of the cane.

Picture credit: Cover of Muscleboy, February-March 1964, by David of Cleveland

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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The New Coach

new story 2

z used plimsoll sports

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

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

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

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

The boys shuffled nervously. Embarrassed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“YES SIR!”

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

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

“YES SIR!” barked like Marine recruits.

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

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

“Yes Sir”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s it to be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Jonathon

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Footballer’s Judicial Caning

z used cane hold military kernled (9)

“One hundred dollar fine; two hundred and fifty dollars to be paid in damages and four lashes of the cane on the bare buttocks. Take him away. Next case.”

The twenty-eight-year-old footballer bitterly resented being in this God-forsaken African country. Tony Jeffries was an important name in European soccer and starred in a top club, but he was still forced to tour the world to these backwaters, just because the club wanted to extend its brand across the globe.

Now, he was to get a different kind of brand across his own globes.

It had all happened so quickly. Last night he and some of the backroom boys at the club escaped their hotel to see a bit of night life. That was a big mistake, the town was a dump and there was nothing to do. They did find a rundown bar and had a few drinks, but nothing too much. Then some locals recognised who he was and muscled in. They would not leave him alone, words were exchanged, punches flew, tables got overturned, glasses were smashed, the police were called, and he ended up in the magistrates’ court.

The charges were violent conduct, criminal damage and causing a disturbance. And, for that, in this country you got your arse caned. Judicial corporal punishment was normal here, the law said men up to the age of forty could be lashed and courts routinely sentenced criminals to the cane.

Jeffries had to sit through two others cases before his own was heard. In the first a twenty-eight-year-old man got a fine and three lashes on the bare buttocks for stealing peanuts from a store. In the second, a man got five cuts for trying to snog a woman who did not welcome his advances.

Corporal punishment was a relic from colonial days when the ruling power used the cane liberally against the natives. They treated the locals as if they were children, no matter how old they really were, and believed that administering ‘spankings’ was the  way to get them to do as they were told.

Today, people believed corporal punishment was a good method of controlling the population and a sentence of lashing was cheaper than sending people to prison.

So, that’s how Jeffries came to be waiting his turn for a visit to the flogging room at the court. He had spent the night in a police cell, but he couldn’t complain. He was given a chance to call his club who contacted a lawyer and his country’s embassy and got the same response: Jeffries was guilty (he admitted that) and he had to take a whipping. It was the law and that was all that could be said about it.

A doctor had examined Jeffries to ensure he was fit to be whipped. All he did was to put a stethoscope to his chest to test his heart and, of course, Jeffries was fit; he was a world-class athlete, after all.

At one time the beatings were held in the police station’s examination room, but they were later transferred to the present room when it was found that the police station ceiling was too low to permit a full swing of the cane.

In the flogging room there were five adults. Two policemen held Jeffries bent over a table, and his trousers were pulled down.

A third policeman flogged him on his naked buttocks.

So great was the pain caused by the chastisement that a handkerchief was stuffed into his mouth to prevent those present hearing his piteous cries. It might also stop him biting off his tongue.

The policeman threw himself into a striking attitude. This was to be no child’s play.

The chief officer called “One!” His colleague raised the cane and smashed it down on the bare buttocks of the prisoner.

The first stroke had been a sort of overhead and downward cut.

The policeman was in no hurry. The second hand of the chief officer’s watch crawled. The punishment must not be hurried. After five seconds that seem like an age, he called, “Two!”

This second one – whew! –  swish! It came underhand and upwards, shattering the bruised flesh.

The doctor took note of Jeffries’s face. It was grey. But the doctor was not concerned. His function was not to stop the infliction of pain but to save the authorities the embarrassment of a man dying under punishment.

Jeffries’s entire consciousness was dominated by the thought of the next stroke – until his torture came to an end or the doctor called a halt.

“Three!” As the third stroke swished home, the footballer lost all sense of his surroundings. A symphony of pain engulfed his whole being. By now, he could no longer keep track of time.

“Four!” Whizz! — slosh! A straight forearm cut fair across the other three lines.

The men let his hands and feet go, he sprang erect with flushed face and suspiciously brilliant eyes. His arse burned as though he’d sat his bare bottom on a hot griddle.

A policeman ushered Jeffries from the room, to ready it for the next customer.

Jeffries could not sit down and was forced to lie on his stomach in the back of a people carrier for the journey back to his hotel. In the privacy of his room he gently eased down his trousers and underpants and examined the four distinct burning lines of pain that adorned his buttocks, it would be a full day before his backside became less painful to touch.

The following day he had to work hard not to fidget sitting in the plane as the team flew home and it took another two days before he could sit without being reminded of that God-forsaken country.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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Collection of captions

z used locker room boys life (10)

They can go to hell, see if I care. Let them admire the paddle marks on my bare ass.

 

Fancy a quick one? A hundred assorted drawings with captions supplied by Charles Hamilton II. Available as a book to download free of charge here.

z used no smoking defied by cas

What he didn’t know was that although the club had a no smoking regulation there was not a no spanking rule.

 

Picture credits: Haines (Boys’ Life) and Cas

 

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Fake News #2

z used fake news otk sport chair (12)

Spanking for Fighting Soccer Star

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe

Sam Spencer, the nineteen-year-old Premier League footballer caught on CCTV brawling outside a nightclub, has been given “an old-fashioned” spanking, we can exclusively reveal.

Spencer whose fight went viral on social media was taken across the knee of Newton Rovers manager Ron Thwistlethorp yesterday for a bare-bottom tanning.

Thwistlethorp, the no-nonsense Yorkshireman, was reportedly “livid with anger” when told news of Spencer’s late night nightclub visit. Spencer was seen on closed-circuit TV allegedly brawling with two other young men. Spencer was seen yesterday morning at club training with bruising to his face.

Now an insider tells The Daily Globe Spencer has quite a few bruises on another part of his body.

“We have high standards at the club. We expect our players to behave themselves, there is no excuse for this kind of behaviour,” the insider said.

The insider revealed that Spencer, who has scored nine goals in the Premier League this season, was summoned to the manager’s office after training.

“Ron Thwistlethorp is a hard taskmaster. He won’t put up with this kind of behaviour. It doesn’t matter if you are an international star or the lowliest apprentice. They all get treated the same.”

And that meant Spencer, who was called up to the England squad for the vital World Cup qualifying match against the Isle of Man last month, found himself over his manager’s knee staring at a rug.

The insider said, “Thwistlethorp doesn’t do things in half measures. He made the teenager remove his football shorts and underwear. It has to be on the bare, otherwise it isn’t a proper spanking.”

Thwistlethorp used a heavy wooden-backed hairbrush, borrowed especially for the purpose from his secretary.

“It packed quite a punch. Sam Spencer was squirming and yelping long before Mr. Thwistlethorp finished.

“He really let him have it. It wasn’t just some little smacked botty,” the insider said.

One source said Spencer was locked in with Thwistlethorp for at least 10 minutes.

Spencer was reportedly spotted later in the club showers with cherry-red buttocks. “It looks like he sat on a barBQ,” teammate Freddie Fiske Tweeted.

Footage of the spanking recorded on a Smartphone was uploaded to the Internet. By midnight it had received more than two million views.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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The swim coach

z used otk trunks chair (2a)

 

“I am giving you ten minutes to swim three lengths of the pool, Clark. You are bone idle and well out of condition.” It was the varsity swim coach speaking. He had been on my case all evening. I wasn’t the worst of the swim team but I was the only one he picked on. There was a reason.

“If you don’t complete on time, I’m taking you back to my office and you’re going over my knee for a damn good spanking.” He blew his whistle and I dived into the pool.

The idea of hunky Coach Kevin spanking my bottom did not encourage me to work hard. On the contrary it turned my thoughts onto his beautiful body. He was maybe thirty-years-old. I was eighteen, a fresher at Brocklehurst University. Young and open to new experiences. Kevin was definitely one of those. The first time I saw him I had furtively gazed at his muscular legs and firm, meaty arse. I had never given a damn about swimming, but from that day on I was a changed boy.

Of course, ten minutes came and went and I was still some distance from my target. Kevin blew his whistle again.

“OK, don’t say you weren’t warned. Out you get.” Kevin spoke calmly, but I was certain he was as excited as me. I swam slowly to the pool steps and pulled myself out. I stood dripping wet. My towel was in the changing room some distance away. Puddles of water formed at my feet.

Kevin stood twenty metres away, his legs parted. I admired the bulge in the front of his trousers, silently regretting that he like me wasn’t wearing tight-fitting swimming trunks.

“Follow me,” Kevin looked over his shoulder towards where I was standing and slowly moved away from the poolside. I waited, mouth gaping, eyes transfixed on the two mounds inside his trousers as he sashayed towards his office. I shuddered. Partly with sexual excitement, but mainly because I was trying to shake some of the surplus water from my body, rather like a dog would do after emerging from a river.

The office was small and sparsely furnished. There was a desk, two small straight-backed chairs and a locker. I knew from wonderful experience that the locker contained Kevin’s day clothes. But that wasn’t what interested me. Along with his jacket and shirt he kept a small wooden spanking paddle. It wasn’t much bigger than a paperback book with a handle attached. It was maybe three or four millimetres thick. The last time he summoned me to the office he had me “assume the position” – that is bent over hands clutching shins. The bum juts out at a perfect angle to receive swats from the paddle. Woweeee! He damn near took my arse off. I shot my load before he finished.

Kevin led the way into the room. This time he didn’t go to the locker. Instead, without speaking a word, he took hold of one of the chair and put it in the middle of the room. I stood transfixed. I shivered, although the room was airless and quite hot. He had said he would take me over his knee and that was what he intended to do. Now, blood coursed through my veins. My cock was on the move. My fingers trembled. I clasped my hands behind my back, head bowed: the classic “naughty little boy” pose.

Kevin stood by the chair, but did not sit.

“Clark come to me.”

I obeyed and stood before my hunky dominant master. I am rather small and the top of my head hardly reached his chin. I could smell the sweetness of his breath. He must have eaten mints or fresheners.

He sat on the chair and spread his legs, his cock bulged beneath the folds of his jeans. His t-shirt rode up a little exposing his flat hairless stomach. Muscles in his arms rippled.

“Bend over my knee.”

Oh, those wondrous words. Submit yourself to me, you are mine. Mine to do with as I wish.

Trembling, I moved towards Kevin and carefully placed the palms of my hands on his right leg and then slowly I reached forward, lowering my body until I lay flat. I fit well across Kevin’s knee and in no time I manoeuvred myself so that my groin rested at an angle against his leg and my bum was raised perfectly. I stretched my arms ahead of me so that the tips of my fingers hovered above the dull grey floor tiles. My body was still wet and I could feel my damp trunks clinging to my pert bum.

Kevin smoothed my cotton trunks as best he could so that no creases were visible. I must have made a terrific sight for him.

My naked flesh pressed against Kevin’s muscular thighs, his denim jeans itched a little. Once before Kevin had worn shorts and the touch of my flesh against his flesh had been electrifying. He smelt of chlorine from the pool.

Kevin wrapped his arms around my body and took hold of my waist. It was hardly a grip. His intention was to steady me should I wriggle about too much and prevent me toppling to the floor. I felt his strong fingers softly caress my bum. He made gentle circular motions. His breathing deepened. So did mine. I shut my eyes tight. I was at his mercy. My todger swelled out to a painful extent, but I had no time to notice this before a rapid succession of spanks pounded into my bottom.

Holding me firmly with his left arm Kevin spanked unmercifully. His strength was immense. My bum hotted up immediately. With an experienced master even a hand spanking can be excruciatingly painful. I gulped in air, then sucked on my bottom lip. I closed my eyes. Kevin whacked on. Very soon the pain became less acute, succeeded by a constant throbbing.

I was very aware that I still had my swimming trunks on. Would Kevin decide my misbehaviour had been so calculated that I deserved a spanking on the bare? If so, usually a spanker could easily grip the elasticated waist of a boy’s trunks or pants and tug them down clear of the buttocks. That manoeuvre would be impossible. My cock was so hard (and if I might be boastful for a moment, so large) that Kevin would never be able to get the waistband of the trunks over it.

I struggled against Kevin’s constant pounding of my bum. I wriggled and writhed, my cock humping Kevin’s thigh. I was in a frenzy, almost delirious. None of the drugs I was experimenting with at university gave me so much pleasure.

At last Kevin stopped his pounding. I lay across his knees breathless. Contemptuously, he pushed me away and I fell to the floor. As I rose before Kevin the front of my trunks appeared to conceal a tentpole. My prick convulsed.

Kevin stared, licked his licks and broke into a broad grin. I hopped from one leg to the other while simultaneously rubbing the seat of my trunks: the typical spanking dance. Kevin continued to stare, flushing scarlet, at my raging cock for some moments.

Then, he rose from the chair. Only then was it clear to me that Kevin was as excited as me. He said nothing. Instead, he whipped down his jeans and stepped out of them. His shorts quickly followed. I gasped at the sight of his weapon, a deep-blue, thick vein ran the length of the missile, the tip glistened.

He leaned forward and with both hands he grabbed my ears and pulled my face forward. I gagged as  his cock penetrated my mouth.

 

Picture credit: straightladspankeddotcom

 

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Watch out for her brothers!

Brocklehurst Crammer

The man across the hall

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Why me?

z used sport shorts (40)

 

Why me? Why am I always the one coach picks on to paddle when something goes wrong? I’m the one who has to “assume the position,” palms on shins, legs straight, butt sticking out. It’s me who feels the full force of coach’s 14-inch paddle across the arse.

I don’t have much padding back there and his wood leaves heavy purple bruises; right in the centre of each cheek. Coach doesn’t hold back. It’s a full swing every time. Crack! Heavy beech against my poor cotton-covered rear.

That’s when he lets me keep the shorts up. We don’t wear cycling shorts underneath like all the professional players do. Some of us wear jocks, but otherwise we’re left swinging in the breeze. Even with a jockstrap, the rear end is exposed. Five – ten swats sometimes – on the naked flesh. Can you imagine what that does to the bum of a poor boy like me?

Only today we lost two-one. Our defence was shocking. Their forwards went through it like a hot knife and butter. Who gets blamed? Me. I’m the number eight for pity’s sake; defence has got nothing to do with me.

“Chapman,” coach says as we all trudge back into the dressing room, “My office. Now.” I’m hardly through the door before he’s reaching for the paddle he has hanging from a hook on the wall. He holds it in his right hand and taps it menacingly into the palm of his left. It’s an awesome thing. I think it’s homemade, or at least not store-bought. I don’t know my oak from my willow tree, but someone said they thought it was made of beech. Is that likely? I really don’t know.

It’s maybe fourteen inches long at the blade and about three inches wide. Large holes have been drilled into it. Apparently, this decreases wind resistance and lets it swoosh through the air at speed before it lands on the tight shorts of the lad offering himself for discipline.

There is total silence from the changing room. The other lads have not gone to the showers. They are waiting to hear what is happening. Some will have placed bets on whether I holler.

“You know the drill,” coach says, without telling me what it is I’ve supposed to have done this time.

“But …” I begin to protest but bite my tongue just in time. There’s no point. Coach is the coach. He’s in charge. He’s the boss man. He. Is. The. Law. He can throw anyone off the team. For any reason. He owns me. I have a soccer scholarship to the university. If I lose my place in the squad, I lose my place here. Then I’m on the unemployment line with a few million other kids. I can say “goodbye” to any future right there.

“Assume the position,” coach growls. He is a small, squat man, almost as wide as he is tall. It’s hard to believe he was one of the top left-halves of his generation until a double leg fracture put paid to his playing career. That was in the old days before everyone was paid squillions of bucks a week just to warm the bench.

He waves the paddle in front of my face to emphasise he is ready to roll. The office is small, there’s only a table with a laminated top pushed against the wall and two rickety straight-backed wooden chairs. Sometimes he makes me spread-eagle myself across the table or bend over the back of a chair. Once – and thank the Lord it was only the once – he sat down in the chair himself and spread his legs and made me bend over his knee. He ripped down my shorts and spanked me with the palm of his hand on my bare bum. For about an hour. Or, so it seemed. It’s bad enough having to submit myself to coach for a whacking, but across his knee for a bare-arsed spanking …

This time I have to “assume the position.” That means hands on shins, legs straight, back arched and backside sticking out. I feel the blood rush to my face the moment I stare down at the dirty grey chipped floor tiles. I have the complexion of a beetroot. Pretty soon, I know, my arse will be the same colour.

From the corner of my eye I can see coach take the few steps he needs to be directly to my left. I can smell sour sweat on his clothes. He is breathing heavily. So am I. This is going to sting like hell. My buttocks clench. They always do at this point, I don’t seem to have any control over them. Does the paddle hurt any less if the buttocks are hard? I really have no idea.

I hear coach hack a dry cough, the paddle is pressed against the very centre of both my cheeks. He is taking aim. I shut my eyes tight and suck my bottom lip with my top. Whack! The wood hammers into my bum. I am shoved forward by the force, but steady myself. The pain is searing, but I am not going to stand up. I don’t want to give coach the satisfaction of knowing he has hurt me. Besides, I don’t want extra swats.

The tariff from coach is always five whacks or ten. He never tells you at the start what you are getting. I dig my fingers hard into my shin bones and wait for the second. It lands lower than the first. Coach is aiming for the tender “sit spot” just where the buttocks and the thighs meet. It hurts like hell. He needs to be accurate and I must make sure not to move; my shorts are so tiny they hardly cover my cheeks, he could end up paddling me on the bare flesh.

The third whack goes higher. I now have a wide line of soreness running from the top of my mounds, over the crest and into the under-curve. I know when I inspect the damage later no part of my bum will be untouched.

Sweat is pouring from my head. My hair couldn’t be wetter if I had stepped into the shower. The room is sweltering, there is no window and the electric fan has not been switched on. Coach does the coughing thing again. Then he settles. Whack. Whack. Two swats in rapid succession land on exactly the same spot. Torture. Total, unmitigating agony. I suck down the yell I desperately want to make. My body twists and turns as it tries to absorb the pain. I cling onto my shins, I will not stand up. I will not. I say this in my head as a kind of mantra. I am chanting to the god of spanked boys everywhere. Please help me to withstand this.

Sweat stings my eyes but I can still see coach waddle across the room and reach up to the wall. He is replacing the paddle. There is a god. Thank you.

“Stand up.” Coach croaks the words. He desperately needs a drink. I rise slowly. My arse feels like it’s on fire. I want to rub away at the hurt, but that will have to wait until I have privacy. I know the whole surface of my buttocks will feel rough like leather. The intense pain is already easing into a hot throbbing sensation. Once I let cold water from the shower run over my bum it will become a warm glow. My “sit-spot” radiates heat. It will be a bit uncomfortable to sit for some hours.

“Go.” Coach nods towards the door of his office. I don’t need telling twice, I am through it and on my way to the changing room. I know the lads will sneer and jeer at me. It’s what they call “banter.” One or two will insist on seeing the marks. Taylor will probably want to touch my bum and trace the outlines of the paddle marks with his fingers.

Soon I shall be showered and we will all be on the bus home. Later, some of us will go to the pub and get bladdered. By tomorrow the pain will have gone completely, but the marks will stay for a few days. By next matchday my bum will be free of bruises again. Then, I’ll probably find myself back in the coach’s office, bum held high. It is what it is, I suppose.

But, I wish someone would just answer my question: Why me?

 

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The fire-raiser

Max of the ‘Champion’ 1. The policeman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com