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

The debut

z used shower after a spanking sport club ivory soap

Lars clutched his savaged buttocks. The warm water of the shower turned crimson as it washed over his throbbing arse. He knew the other guys were watching him to see how he would react. He hopped from one foot to the other, rubbing his bum. He gave them a show. They couldn’t see his smile. He was happy. He was now one of the team.

It had been a boyhood dream for the eighteen-year-old. A player for C­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­___________ Soccer Club. The biggest and best in the whole country. And, now it had become reality. His first senior match was over. A victory. Not that Lars had much to do with that. Truth be told, he had been overcome with nerves. His game was off. An undistinguished debut. Except for what followed.

The team sprinted off the field into the locker room. “Well, young Lars,” it was the Club Captain Sven speaking. A broad smile creased his face. Team members gathered around. Nobody wanted to miss out on the fun.

Lars stood, waiting. At eighteen, he was the youngest in the team. His captain was not much older – just enough to be an elder brother.

“Happy Debut Day.” The team had a special song. It was like Happy Birthday. Tradition. Lars grinned. He knew what was coming. They all went through it.

Indridi, the kit man, arrived just then. A raucous cheer echoed through the locker room. The tubby man gave an audacious bow. “Thank you gentlemen; thank you.”

“Get on with it Indridi!” someone in the back of the crowd shouted. The kit man smiled, enjoying his moment in the spotlight.

“Patience gentlemen. Patience. These things cannot be hurried,” he grinned. He set his bag on a bench and with a flourish, like a magician producing a rabbit, he ostentatiously unzipped it. He paused. He knew all eyes were on him. In his head, he counted to five. The drama was intense.

“Voila!” he reached into the bag. “And, Hey Presto!” To wild cheering, he drew out a birch rod. He held it in both palms lovingly. High. Sven stepped forward. Referentially, as if it were a religious offering, Indridi bent one knee, bowed his head, and allowed the Club Captain to take it.

Lars watched transfixed. The birch was maybe fourteen inches long. It was a tight bundle of twigs, held together at one end by gaffer tape. It looked pretty heavy from where he was standing. Sven clutched it in both hands and held it high above his head. Just as he had done last season with the national soccer championship trophy. His teammates cheered as loudly as they had done that day.

Satisfied that they were ready, Sven sat on a bench. Unbidden, the team formed a semi-circle around him. Everyone would have a front row view.

“Come young lad.” It was a pleasant command. Lars knew he was blushing. He desperately wanted to be part of the team. He would do anything to make that happen.

“Take off your shorts. This has to be on the bare.” Another, kindly instruction. Lars had been naked in front of team mates many times in the past. Stripping held no terror for him. He was rather proud of his muscular body – he was an athlete after all.

The rhythmic sound of clapping echoed around the locker room.  Lars hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. He stepped out of them. Then, his white briefs hit the floor. Thinking ahead of this day, Lars had imagined that he might take hold of the underwear and like one of the strippers in the “gentlemen’s club” across the street, he would provocatively twirl his pants around his head, before teasingly throwing them for a team mate to catch.

In the event, he stood motionless. Waiting for events to take their course.

“Bend over my knee.” The roof might have risen; the cheering was now so intense.

Lars stepped forward. He was a tall teenager, easily six feet and more. He paused for a moment, looking down at the bare knees of his Captain, wondering how this was done. Sven sat on a long bench; Lars supposed the best thing to do was to lower himself across the older man’s knees and lay his chest along the wooden slats. He could stretch his arms ahead of him. His legs would have to dangle in mid-air.

Before he could decide, Sven gripped him by his left wrist and propelled him forward and face-down across his lap. Lars could not see, but he was perfectly positioned, buttocks nicely angled, to receive the lashes of the birch rod.

His Club Captain gripped the birch rod in his right hand and gently rubbed the tips of the twigs across the lower half of the eighteen-year-old’s bottom, just where the under-curves met the thighs.

“One. Two. Three!” the teammates counted. Sven took his cue and brought the birch down with tremendous force. He was rewarded by wild cheering and clapping from the team and a low sorrowful hissing from the boy across his knees. Lars’ eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wouldn’t allow a sound to pass his lips.

Swish! A second cut hit higher. Already, the whole of his smooth, white bum was criss-crossed with thin stripes. Lars heaved his bottom high, but Sven was an expert at this. He wrapped his left arm across the boy’s middle and pressed down hard. Lars was going nowhere.

The boy’s face was now as scarlet as his backside. He shut his eyes, silently vowing he could take this. He must take this. Not to do so meant shame and ignominy. Slices three and four tore into him. Never in his whole life had he felt such pain. He had been injured many times on the playing field, but nothing before had prepared him for this.

Six hard strokes ripped his arse to shreds and then it was over. Blood wept from dozens and dozens of small cuts. Lars’ buttocks resembled raw hamburger meat. The agony had numbed his bum. To frantic clapping and cheering, the boy hauled himself to his feet. Teammates crowded him, each extended a hand for him to shake. Many clapped him on the shoulders. One or two went in for a full hug.

His face glowed with pride. Teammates formed a guard of honour for him to walk through on his way to the shower.

“He took it well,” Sven beamed with pride. “I wonder if Stig will be so stoical when it’s his turn next week?”

 

Picture credit: Ivory Soap

 

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Skipping school to watch football

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Late at the office

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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.

Episode 1 is here

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 sixth-formers.

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.

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.

 

Episode three will be published Friday 19 February 2016

 

Other school-based stories you might like

The Gafffer of The Academy 2. In the chill of the night

Kevin revisits his old school

The old boys

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com