Keynes College Caning Case

z used drawing canes (1)

Chief Inspector Morose gulped on his fourth pint as he studied the written report in his hand. Another killing at a college. Oxford would soon surpass those villages at Midsomer as the murder capital of the world. Just then Sergeant Lois hurried into the pub. Morose hated working with a girl but these were modern times. How he hated modern times.

“Lois,” he said gruffly. “Knock on doors, find witnesses, get Scene of Crimes to check the room where Professor Blenkinsop was found, get fingerprints, search for a weapon.”

Sgt. Lois looked on in admiration. What a terrific detective, she thought. It would never have occurred to her to do any of those things. “What will you be doing, sir?” she asked. “I’ll have another pint,” Morose said handing her his empty glass.

At Keynes College Jack stared from the window of his room onto the deserted quadrangle below. In his mind he visualised himself in Prof Blenkinsop’s room. “This essay is atrocious. You should spend more time in the library and less in the Student Guild,” the professor spoke through his bushy beard. He was a short rotund man, almost as wide as he was tall. Jack stood, feet slightly apart, head bowed. Memories flooded back of unpleasant visits to his housemaster at St. Tom’s. He watched slack-jawed as the professor waddled towards a cupboard. It was tall and thin and was part of a especially-designed glass-fronted bookcase that ran along the entire length of one wall. Prof Blenkinsop delved into his pocket and retrieved a bunch of keys. Slowly, almost as if he had never seen them before he searched for the one he needed. His breath was shallow as he unlocked the door, opened it an reached in.

Jack blinked in disbelief. Now, it really was a trip back to schooldays. The professor held a dark-yellow whippy cane. He turned and faced the student, flexing the rod as he did so. He swished it trough the air. It made a tremendous whoosh! as it went. It was thicker than the canes they used at St. Tom’s, but had the traditional crook handle.

“Bu ….” Jack began a protest but stopped himself. He wanted to say, “Sir, you can’t do this,” but he knew otherwise. The professor had all the power. He alone would decide what grade a student would get. He was the sole arbiter of success or failure. Prof Blenkinsop stopped his swishing and looked quizzically at Jack, as if only just remembering he was there. “That chair,” he nodded to a low-backed old leather armchair standing against a wall, “Turn it round.” It was heavier than it looked. “Bring it into the middle of the room.”

Jack was surprised how calm he felt. This should not be happening. But, it was, and Jack knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had been beaten at school; many times, it was that kind of place. It would hurt like hell, but he would live.

“Lower your trousers. Underpants too. Bend over the chair.” A thin line of spittle dribbled into the professor’s beard as he gave his instructions. A look of incredulity washed across Jack’s face. “Just do as you are told,” Professor Blenkinsop bent the cane again. It made a perfect arc.

Jack hesitated. This was new territory. They had always caned on the seat of the trousers at St. Tom’s. He watched the dreadful professor flexing his cane. The man’s eyes sparkled. He was enjoying himself. Jack’s heart skipped a beat as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. He supposed it was adrenaline coursing to his brain that made him so light-headed. The belt successful undone, Jack unbuttoned the fly of his heavy twill trousers. Gravity took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees and shins and into a puddle at his brogues. His hands trembled, but he was unsure if this was fear.

Professor Blenkinsop squelched two or three paces across the room. Jack could not watch him as he moved. He still had to bare his bottom. Of course he had been naked in front of men before, but he was reluctant to let this old man see his cock and balls.

“Get on with it, you have nothing that I haven’t seen before,” the professor said truthfully. Jack placed his thumbs inside the elasticated waistband of his white Y-fronts and slid them down, careful that they bunched just below his buttocks. He took a deep breath, rubbed his palms together, and rather like a swimmer going into freezing water, dived over the chair. His trousers were at his feet and his underpants at his thighs. Jack was a little over five-six in height and hardly weighed a thing. His waist was narrow, stomach flat and his buttocks when stretched resembled not much more than two pips.

Jack stared down at the worn seat. The chair had seen better days and as his nose was close to the leather he could smell the faint sweat of the generations of students (himself included) who had sat there during tutorials with the professor.

“Head low, legs apart,” the professor ordered. There was no reason to do this, since Jack was already perfected positioned to receive the cane, but it made the professor feel totally in control of the situation. Jack closed his eyes, waiting. Jack felt Professor Blenkinsop take hold of the long tail of his shirt and pull it clear of the target area. The professor was almost ready. But not quite. “I am going to beat you,” he said, slowly, as if reading from a script. “It will hurt, it is supposed to. That is the point. Do not wriggle about too much and do not try to rise or in any other way obstruct me in my duty,” he continued. Then, after a pause for dramatic effect, he concluded, “Or you will receive extra strokes. Is that understood?”

Jack’s mouth was inches from the worn leather. He croaked a response that the professor quite probably could not hear, “Yes, sir.”

Professor Blenkinsop sawed his cane across the fleshiest part of Jack’s bum; taking his aim. The first swipe caught him on the lower part of the buttocks, just above the thigh. It felt like he had seared a red-hot poker across his bum. Jack’s entire body shuddered and his backside bounced up and down, he had had absolutely no control. It was all a reflex to the intense pain that started at the bottom and ran up and down his legs.

Professor Blenkinsop was in no hurry. To Jack it felt like an eternity, but only fifteen seconds elapsed before the second cut scorched the top end of his buttocks. He shuddered some more and his mouth opened and closed, but he successfully stifled the yelp his body wanted him to make.

Number three hit half way between the previous two. Professor Blenkinsop was an expert; he should be, he had enough practice. Jack now had a red stripe about four inches wide across both cheeks. Tears itched his eyes, he snuffled them back. Number four landed on top of a previous cut. How could it not? The professor had already burned most of Jack’s backside. The agony was intense. Jack’s legs marched up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. His hips swayed from side to side. An long, low whistle escaped through Jack’s clenched lips.

The fifth hurt just as badly. Jack’s temples throbbed almost as much as his backside. His right foot wrapped around his left ankle and his buttocks rose and fell, humping the back of the chair. Jack quivered under a series of dry hacking coughs.

Professor Blenkinsop left the worst to last. Jack sensed it coming before he felt it. The professor moved the position of his cane so that it rested in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of Jack’s entire arse, then he lifted it away and brought it down with a magnificent crash so that it landed across five previous scars, igniting the agony in all of them. Jack yelled. He jumped up from the chair, but half way to his feet, some schoolboy instinct kicked in and he resumed my position. He remembered the professor’s earlier threat; he didn’t want extra strokes.

Jack lay, bottom on fire, sobbing into the chair. His head ached and his throat was sore from coughing, but his head was as clear as anything he had felt before in his life. The professor waited a moment before he intoned, “Stand up.”

Jack crawled off the back of the chair and stumbled, grabbing hold of the edge of a desk to steady himself. He doubled up to restore his trousers and pants to their rightful place, all the time gulping in lungs full of air.

At the police station Lois recapped the plot so far, “The professor was killed in his study sometime between two and four. He was hit on the head by a heavy object. A granite paperweight is missing so that’s the most likely weapon. We’ve searched the room. We found a couple of canes in a cupboard.”

Morose winced, he hated it when people used Americanisms. “Canes, you mean walking sticks, of course,” he scowled.

Lois let a slight smile curl her lips. “No, canes, as in bend over, touch your toes, it’s six-of-the-best for you m’lad,” she flexed an imaginary school punishment cane between her hands. She was delighted to see Morose flush, embarrassed. Morose wriggled in his chair, suddenly a vision of the buxom Sgt. Lois swishing a cane across Morose’s backside as he bent touching toes came to him. He coughed to hide his nervousness.

“We’ve interviewed colleagues, he had no enemies; he was loved by all,” Lois said.

“Clearly not everyone,” Morose growled. He hesitated, trying to make the next question seem insignificant, “What did you do with the canes?”

“They’re in the property store, logged as evidence,” she answered.

In the basement of the building Police Constable First held a long, thin crook-handled rattan cane in both hands, holding it up for close examination. It was thinner and lighter than the ones he had at home, he thought. But still mightily effective. They would do the job. PC First was four months off retirement, hauled into County Headquarters to see his off his last days hidden away after the rumours of his methods of policing in the sleepy villages of Oxfordshire had reached the ears of the Chief Constable.

“Eh lad,” he called across to Police Cadet Barnaby Wordsworth. “Wordsworth,” he growled. Bloody silly name. Whoever heard of a copper with a poet’s name? The eighteen year old fresh-faced youngster looked up from his Football Monthly “Get these labelled and logged.” Wordsworth continued reading. Preston North End were in with a chance of winning the league. “Now lad,” First blustered.

“All right Jock, keep your hair on.” The joke was wearing thin. Jock First was as bald as a billiard ball. Bloody kids, PC First thought. No respect for their elders and betters. He didn’t say Constable or even Mister First. He placed the cane down on the wooden top of the table. How he would like to put this across the cheeky sod’s backside. And no mistake. Teach him some manners. Just wait, he thought, once he was safely retired he would invite him out to the house. The cadet continued reading his magazine.

Two days later Cadet Wordsworth was reading the local newspaper. “Hey Jock,” he said with the mildest of interest, “It says here they’ve taken in a suspect in the professor’s murder.”

First smiled enigmatically, “Of course they have, laddie. He’ll be confessing even as we speak.”

“Why would he confess?”

“They always do laddie. It’s the only way we ever solve a crime.”

“What do you mean?”

“It stands to reason. It saves time. When you’ve seen as many shows – I mean as many cases – as I have you’ll understand.”

Two floors above in Interview Room 2 Inspector Morse and Sgt Lois sat opposite the murder suspect. No solicitor was in sight. “Let me understand this,” Lois said moving the plot along at a tremendous pace. “You say that after he beat you with a cane, he turned around and put it back in a cupboard. Then you picked up a heavy granite paperweight and you hit him on the back of the head.”

Morose studied the young student before him. His dark brown hair was unkempt and his hazel eyes were dull, but Morose knew in happier times they would sparkle. His skin was smooth, he had barely started shaving; it would be twice a week maximum, Morose knew the type. He was shorter than average and clean limbed. Quiet thin, a scholar perhaps, not a sportsman, he imagined. Although Morose couldn’t see because he was sitting on it he just knew he had the most spankable bum.

The student was becoming agitated. “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“You hit him three times,” Morose coughed. God, his throat was dry, he could kill a pint of Theakston’s Old n Filthy. “Once is manslaughter, self-defence, or an accident. Three times is murder.”

The student convulsed into fits of sobs. Morose licked his lips and stared away into the middle distance. “Well pretty boy, you’re going to jail for a long stretch. Getting six-of-the-best will be the least of your troubles,” he thought as a rather annoying bleeping noise sounded in his ears.

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

A Short, Sharp Lesson

z used drawing cane hold (22)

The professor leaned forward in his chair and eyed the young student standing before him disdainfully. “So Rashford, you did not attend my seminar. Can you tell me why?”

Rashford blustered. “Well, err.” He was speechless because there really was nothing he could say. Nothing that would save him from his present predicament. He had missed the professor’s seminar because he couldn’t be bothered to go.

“Pah!” the professor exhaled. “And you haven’t submitted your essay. Are the two non-events in any way connected?”

“Oh no Sir,” Rashford garbled. “Not at all, Sir.”

“So”, the professor wrung his hands together, “you have written the essay?”

“Oh yes, Sir,” Rashford’s palms were beginning to sweat.

“Good, then you can hand it over.” The professor reached out his hand.

The colour left Rashford’s face. “Well Sir when I say … I mean,” he trailed off in confusion.

The professor’s own face darkened. “Don’t compound your offence by lying young man,” he snarled. “You have not completed the essay have you?”

Rashford bit down on his lower lip and whispered, “No, Sir. Sorry Sir.” He stared at the red-patterned rug beneath his feet hoping the floor would open and swallow him.

“Look at me boy!” The professor scowled.  And when the eighteen-year-old reluctantly raised his head, the professor continued. “You were at St Tom’s were you not?”

“Yes, Sir,” Rashford answered, puzzled that the old man would know such a thing about him.

“A very fine school. I have had many former pupils as my students here at the university.”

There was silence. Rashford shuffled uncomfortably unsure if he was expected to speak. At last the professor continued. “You should be ashamed to besmirch the good name of your school.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Rashford whispered, feeling he should say something.

“What would your housemaster at St Tom’s do if you failed to attend class or write an essay?”

Rashford clutched his hands behind his back, “I don’t know, Sir.”

“Oh come, come, Rashford,” the professor snarled, “You really don’t know?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“It would be Six would it not? Six for missing classes.” The professor’s stare burned into Rashford. Now, his pale face blushed profusely.

“Well, boy? It would be six-of-the best wouldn’t it?”

Rashford’s heart raced, a shiver ran down his spine. He didn’t like the way this was going. “Yes, Sir,” he answered woefully.

“Trousers up or down?” the professor snapped.

Rashford gasped. “Up Sir, trousers up, Sir,” he gabbled. A moustache of sweat formed across his upper lip.

“Well Rashford, you have moved up a division now,” the professor’s eyes shone. “I always beat my students with their trousers down.”

“B…” the student began a protest, thought better of it, and closed his mouth.

“Yes six-of-the-best trousers down for a first offence. But rest assured Rashford repeat offenders are thrashed on the bare.” The professor was delighted to see the young student’s jaw drop. “So Rashford,” he couldn’t disguise his pleasure, “That’s six for not attending my seminar; six for not handing in your essay and a further six for lying about it.” He peered intently at the young man before him, “That’s eighteen strokes in all. Shall we get on with it.”

Rashford’s heart beat faster. The cane? He had thought he’d left all that behind at St Tom’s. It was bad enough that he was to be beaten here at the university, but eighteen strokes. On the underpants. His hands shook uncontrollably.

“Hang your jacket there,” the professor nodded to a hook on the back of the door. It was a large study dominated by a walnut desk with three solid drawers. Towards the back of the room was a Chesterfield couch and two small leather armchairs. A glass-fronted bookcase ran along one wall. A second wall housed an open, as yet unlit, fireplace. A chest of drawers nestled beneath an ornate mullioned window.

With some difficulty Rashford unbuttoned his checked jacket. His fingers refused to obey the commands of his brain. The professor watched disdainfully. When the student had at last completed his task, he commanded, “Come here, stand in front of my desk.” Then, the professor rose from his chair and paced across the room. He halted by the window, bent down and opened the top drawer in the chest. It was empty except for two curve-handled rattan canes. He picked one out and leaving the drawer open he turned to face Rashford.

He flexed the cane between his two hands in the time-honoured fashion. “Just like the ones your housemaster used at St Tom’s I shouldn’t wonder Rashford.” Then he swished it through the air. The student’s eyes followed its movement, “Yes, Sir,” he croaked.

The professor sucked in a lung-full of air, “Lower your trousers Rashford and bend over my desk.” The professor stood his ground and flexed the cane. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. The professor watched intently as Rashford, visibly distressed, unbuckled his trousers. The professor admired the student’s fashionable “Oxford bags.” They were made of thick sturdy material; how could  boy expect to be allowed to retain them for a caning? Soon they slithered down Rashford’s thighs and over his knees to rest in a puddle at his feet.

The housemaster at St Tom’s had preferred to beat his pupils’ backsides while a boy lay flat down across his desk. Without seeking further clarification from the professor, Rashford leaned forward and rested his stomach on the cold, hard desktop. He folded his arms in front of himself and buried his face in them. He was a little tall for the height of the desk so Rashford bent his legs so that his stretched bottom rested at an angle over the edge of the desk.

In this position he could not see the professor nod sagely. He admired Rashford’s fortitude. There was one thing in life the professor liked more than eating a thick steak with mashed potatoes and gravy and that was caning the backsides of his younger students. He had perfected a ritual over the years and set about putting it in place. First, he took hold of the tail of Rashford’s shirt and very carefully folded it back, once and then twice so that it no longer covered the boy’s backside. He noticed Rashford’s vest was damp with sweat even though the room was quite cold. The student breathed deeply when the professor took hold of the waistband of his underpants and tugged. He felt the cotton dig deep into the crack between his buttocks. The professor paused to admire his handiwork so far. Each cheek was lifted and separated. He had created a terrific target.

Satisfied that his victim was perfectly prepared, the professor picked up the whippy rattan once more. He stood a cane’s length to Rashford’s left side and tapped it across the fleshiest part of the student’s buttocks. Rashford’s cheeks clenched. He was a thin, almost skinny, boy with no spare fat. His buttocks were now as solid as steel. The professor allowed himself a smile. Chubby or lean, it was all the same to him, although he had often wondered whether a podgy backside felt the sting of the cane more than a sinewy bottom. Were there more nerve ends under attack? One day, he promised himself, he would devise a scientific experiment to find out.

He “sawed” the cane backward and forward. Now, he had his spot, the professor was ready to go. He lifted the cane high and with a tremendous forward swing brought it down at force across Rashford’s bottom. The student shut his teeth and closed his eyes. He heard the thwack of rattan on cotton a second before the pain kicked in. It began as a searing line of fire across the very centre of both cheeks, then like ripples in a pond after a stone had landed, it moved out over his entire bottom. It hurt. A lot. He thought maybe the professor caned a little harder than his housemaster at St Tom’s. Perhaps, the lack of trousers had something to do with that. Even so, Rashford believed himself to be a trooper; he could take it.

He screwed up his face in appreciation of the intensity of the stoke. He took a deep gulp of air and settled down for the second cut. It was some time in coming. The professor and his ritual again. He placed his left hand in his trouser pocket and sauntered around the study, stopping momentarily to look out the window at the ancient quadrangle below. Then he returned to his position beside Rashford once more. This routine meant there was a delay of at least twenty to thirty seconds between strokes; the professor enjoyed giving time for the pain of one stroke to be fully felt and for the anticipation of the next to build.

He was very satisfied with the gasp of pain from the prostrate student when the second slash struck just below the first. Rashford’s feet marched up and down on the spot like a guard on sentry duty. He couldn’t help it, this was a natural reflex action against the assault on his bottom.

The professor went off on his tour of the study once more. He noticed Rashford’s once pale face was now scarlet, as he knew also was the boy’s backside, even though only two strokes had so far been delivered. He tap, tap, tapped the cane across the very centre of the student’s buttocks, in an area where he had at least some fleshy padding. Rashford dug his face deep into his forearms. Whoosh! The third cut lashed the middle of the cheeks squarely and at such force the cane bit deep into the meat before remerging a second later and bouncing off the tightly stretched cotton of the underpants.

Two more strokes were laid on with the same dreadful force. By the sixth Rashford was unaware of anything except the screaming agony in his bottom. He yelped as the cane made contact but stayed in position, as slowly but methodically the professor lashed the senior cane across the tender buttocks, low down in a tight band just where Rashford would have to sit down. All six strokes were a very tight band across the very base of his bottom.

Eighteen strokes is a tremendous ordeal for anyone to suffer, even one as experienced a receiver as Rashford. The professor delighted in beating students but he was not a monster. He had promised three sets of six and he was determined to make good on the undertaking.

Suddenly, in the distance Rashford heard the professor telling him to stand up and place his hands on his head. Almost unbelieving, he staggered into an upright position, he wanted to clasp his throbbing buttocks, but with tears in his eyes, and hopping about from foot to foot, he obeyed the  instructions, placed his hands on his head and waddled like a penguin to stand facing the bookcase. His backside throbbed like crazy. This was the worst caning of his life.

The professor paced his study. He knew Rashford was confused. The tariff was eighteen strokes and only six had been delivered. He revelled in the student’s confusion. At last he spoke, “Turn around Rashford.” The eighteen-year-old swivelled, hands still firmly on his head. He could not stomach to look at his tormentor.

The professor perched his backside on the edge of his desk and glared at the specimen of a student in front of him. “That was six strokes for absenting yourself from my seminar,” he growled. “You will return at the same time tomorrow for a further six for not submitting your essay. The final six will be delivered the day after, do you understood.” It was a statement rather than a question but Rashford gasped sorrowfully, “Yes, Sir.”

The professor watched intently as the student bent down to retrieve his trousers. He took down his jacket from the hook and climbed into it before still in considerable pain he shuffled through the door. The professor stood at his window; he hoped he would soon see Rashford moving through the quadrangle clutching his burning buttocks.

Picture credit: Endart


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Dreams of spanking

z used bed solo white pants erect cody furguson (1)

Dean lays on his bed staring at the erect cock stretching the front of his cotton underpants. It happens every morning. Regular as clockwork. As day follows night. He dreams of spanking. He has never been spanked. The cane was abolished at school years ago and dads generally don’t take the belt to their sons, no matter how unruly they behave.

He is not concerned why he fantasises about spanking, but he is sad that he is too shy to tell anyone about it. Sometimes he likes to think of bad things he has really done and imagines the punishment he should suffer. Like the other week when he got so drunk at the student union bar and staggered home so out of control he lurched over a garden fence and heaved up two stomach-fulls of vomit into the flowerbed. In his imagination, Dean was bent across the dining room table, jeans and pants at the knees, while the house owner lashed his naked buttocks with a switch he cut especially.

Dean drinks a lot. The other day he rode his moped while drunk. It was a stupid, irresponsible act. Somebody could have been killed. Any magistrate worth his salt would have sentenced him to a birching. Dean sees himself stripped naked from the waist down, tied to a wooden frame. His shirt is bunched up at his shoulders. One prison officer grips a bundle of twenty-four birch twigs bound together with tape. It has been soaking overnight in a metal bucket full of brine. Droplets fall from the birch as he swishes it through the air. You can cut the tension in the room with a knife. A second prison officer holds a clipboard, studies a sheet of paper stuck to it. He licks the end of a stub of pencil. He makes a tick. “Cut number one!” he calls in a clear, steady voice.

The first officer rests the birch against Dean’s buttocks. It is so big and Dean’s bum so relatively small it covers both cheeks. The officer lifts the birch high, swirls it around his head and twists his body before delivering an almighty lash into quivering flesh. Dean screams. The prison officer sweats. He raises the birch again.

After twelve cuts Deans bottom is a mass of cuts and grazes. It looks like raw hamburger meat. Deans screams subside into sobbing gulps as two officers drag him back to his cell.

Dean likes to dream about Paddy, a guy in his English Lit. class at university. Paddy could be the biggest student alive. He is built like a brick outhouse. Dean has this scene where he and other students share a house and Paddy is in a fit of temper. He is trying to finish an essay that should have been handed in yesterday but he can’t concentrate because of the loud music coming from Dean’s “ghetto blaster.” The whole house is shaking. Paddy shouts, “Turn that music down!” He hammers on Dean’s bedroom door. But to no avail.

“Right! That’s it! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Paddy bursts through the door and sees Dean flat out on his bed, still in his pyjamas although it’s nearly eleven in the morning. Paddy’s face is purple, Dean’s turns white. Dean is as small as Paddy is huge. It is no match. Paddy grips Dean by the arm, hauls him off the bed. His grip hurts Dean’s arm. But that is only the half of it. Paddy sits on the bed, his weight digs deep into the mattress. Deans struggles. It is a waste of time. Paddy pulls him across his knees. Dean is sucking the eiderdown, his legs dangle in mid-air. His bottom juts at an angle over Paddy’s right knee. Dean wriggles and writhes but Paddy’s supreme strength is too much.

Paddy says nothing. He concentrates on the task ahead. He grips the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and pulls hard, almost tearing the material. Dean’s bum is exposed. He kicks his legs. Paddy adjusts his own body so he can put his right leg across the back of Dean’s calves. He takes Dean’s right arm and twists it up his back. He is pinned down. He is going nowhere. Paddy stretches the fingers of his right hand, cups them slightly and pounds away at Dean’s naked buttocks. Paddy’s forearm is like a leg of mutton, his hand as large and as heavy as a shovel. With only a few smacks Dean’s bum is as red as a London bus. The outline of Paddy’s hand appears in scarlet over and over again across Dean’s bum.

There’s a professor at the university who reminds Dean of the headmaster at his old school. He is about fifty and always sports a hostile look on his face. Dean knows the professor wouldn’t truck any nonsense from his students.  It is late in the afternoon and Dean stands morosely in front of the desk. The study is cold and the night is drawing in. The room is in gloom. The professor holds a sheaf of paper in his hand. He reads with increasing incredulity.

“Balderdash! Poppycock!” he shakes his head. He looks as if he is forced to carry all the woes of the world on his shoulder. He waves the essay in Dean’s face. “You need to spend less time in the bar and more in the library.” His nostrils flare.

“Not good enough. Not good enough,” he mutters as he rises from his chair and walks a few steps to a table. Dean watches with mounting tension as the professor opens a drawer and extracts from it a long, whippy rattan cane. Dean stares at its crook handle. The professor flexes it between his hands. It curves easily. He swishes it through the air. A breeze travels across the room.

“Take off your jacket.” Dean does so.

“Stand by my desk.” Dean takes up position.

“Take down your trousers.” Dean is wearing Levi jeans. He fumbles with the metal buttons but soon they are at his knees. He is wearing his favourite mustard-coloured briefs. They are very snug.

“Bend over.” In his mind’s eye, Dean watches himself lean forward. He lays his stomach on the cold wooden desktop. He reaches forward with his arms and grips the edge of the desk. The professor takes his shirt and tugs it away from the target area. Dean’s buttocks twitch when the professor smooths down his pants so they fit like a second skin.

The professor taps the cane across the underside of Dean’s buttocks. Satisfied that he has his aim, he lets fly. It is to be six-of-the-very best.

There is a guy Dean saw in the student bar. He doesn’t know his name so christens him Michael. Michael has smooth skin and shiny light brown hair. Dean reckons his haircut must have cost a fortune. Michael is a trim lad and his Wrangler jeans hang over his buttocks invitingly. Michael is standing and Dean is behind him admiring his bum. Then, Michael leans forward to look at a picture in a magazine his friend wants him to see. Michael places his hands on his knees and arches his back. His feet are parted. It is the perfect “assume the position”. Dean is so close he could fondle Michael’s backside. Later Dean imagines he is holding an American-style wooden paddle. He rubs it backward and forward. “Brace yourself,” he intones as he lifts it high.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door. “Come on Dean! You’ll be late for breakfast.” It is Roger, a fellow lodger at Mr. Williams’ guesthouse. Dean hears Roger’s footfalls as he races down the stairs. Late for breakfast- again, Dean thinks. That would never do. In his imagination he sees Mr Williams take a thick leather belt from a hook on the kitchen wall. In the real world, Dean slides his hand down the front of his pants.




Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

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Charles Hamilton the Second


MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

z used taws on kitchen table CS (2)

I saw a remarkable programme on cable television last week. It was a short film made in the nineteen-forties about the leather industry in Scotland. Did it bring back memories! Me, aged eighteen, prone across Mr MacTaggart’s kitchen table, my trousers and pants at my knees. He leathering my naked buttocks with a three-tailed strap.

Where do I begin this story?

In Scotland the preferred method of scholastic punishment was the leather strap, known locally as a tawse. It was often about eighteen inches long and cut at one end into two or three tails. The tawses made in the small town of Lochgelly were world famous. I was no stranger to corporal punishment. I had attended a very traditional independent grammar school called St Francis at the time when Dr Henderson-Smith, a notorious flogger, was headmaster. Many years after I had left he was forced into retirement after a scandal involving a public thrashing.

We learned from a very early age to obey the rules and not to make waves. We turned up to lessons on time, spoke only when the schoolmaster instructed, worked hard and handed in our homework on time. We knew the consequences if we didn’t conform. It’s a pity schools aren’t like that today. A whippy rattan cane was kept handy to encourage the slackers. Do-gooders can say what they like but it got me through my examinations and secured me a place at a prestigious university in Scotland that proved to be even more traditional than St. Francis.

The problems started almost immediately I arrived. University was not like school. We were expected to study a lot without supervision. We might be sent off to the library with an essay title and told to turn in six pages the following week. I soon discovered I had no self-discipline. I was eighteen years old and away from parental supervision for the first time and I took full advantage. In those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one. The professors at university were our guardians. It would be going too far to say they were surrogate fathers, but some did perhaps see themselves as stern uncles.

I was a flop. I failed my end-of-year examinations and quite rightly should have been “sent down”, expelled back to Brocklehurst. But someone (I never found out who) saw some promise in me. If I agreed to reside with Mr and Mrs MacTaggart I would get a second chance. It was made abundantly clear to me there would be no third.

The MacTaggart’s had a small rooming house and at any one time there might be six boys from the university staying. We were all slackers of one sort or another, sent by the university to be knocked into shape. We jokingly called ourselves inmates at the MacTaggart Home for Naughty Boys. I think Mr and Mrs MacTaggart had military backgrounds; they certainly believed in rules, discipline and punishment.

I arrived on a Monday morning to be greeted at the door by Mrs MacTaggart. “You are to go right away to see Mr MacTaggart.” She nodded her head across the gloomy hallway to a dark brown door. “Leave your bag here.” She strode off to the kitchen, leaving me dumbfounded. Not much of a friendly welcome, I thought. It would not get better. I stood outside the door, it was made of heavy wood and had clearly seen better days; how on earth had it become so scratched?

I had an out-of-body experience. It was as if I were hovering at the ceiling looking down on myself, except I am no longer in Scotland. I am standing outside the headmaster’s study at St Francis and that could mean only one thing. Tentatively, I knocked on the door. “Enter!” Mr MacTaggart’s voice boomed from within. In my months at the house I never heard him speak below foghorn volume. I pushed the door and entered.

Mr MacTaggart was a tall, thick set man. Although he was in his fifties and broadening at the waist he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His slicked back greying hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hamilton,” he growled, his stare burning into my soul. I shuddered, “Yes, Sir,” in reply. I had only just met the man and already I was terrified of him.

He stood from a leather chair that was as scratched as the door. If I had expected a friendly welcoming handshake I was to be sorely disappointed. “You know why you have been sent here.” It sounded like a statement, not a question, so I remained silent. “Pah!” he exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, laddie.”

I probably blushed to my roots, unable (too scared) to form a coherent sentence. “Pah!” he said again, expelling air through nearly closed teeth. He then listed all my faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” he clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.” I stood rooted as he made his way across the room. It was sizeable and crammed with old furniture in dark woods. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom. He paused when he reached the far wall. I gasped and swallowed hard. Only now had I noticed the long heavy brown leather tawse hanging from a nail. Mr MacTaggart reached up and in one athletic movement fetched it down and spread it between his two hands. He showed it to me as if he were making a religious offering. It was cut into two ten-inch tails and had a handle of about six inches at the other.

“You must atone for your misbehaviour last year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he barked. I did not know at the time that in Scottish schools the taws was traditionally administered across the palms of the hands. “Put up your left hand,” Mr MacTaggart ordered. My puzzled expression angered him. “Pah!” he set the tawse down on a chair and raised his own hands as a demonstration. I was to hold my hands out in front of my body laying one (palm upward) on top of the other. In this way the lower hand supported the upper and kept it in place once the strap impacted into the flesh. I was to discover soon that this did not work in practice.

At school we were always caned on the backside. Being punished this way has distinct advantages. A chap is bent across a chair or a desk, or is perhaps touching toes of gripping ankles. In any case he has something to hold on to absorb the force of the stroke. There is the added advantage of not being able to see the master as he prepares the punishment. A chap just closes his eyes and waits for the pain to begin.

Not so with the hands. I raised my hands as instructed and watched half-fascinated, half-terrified, as Mr MacTaggart rested the tails of the tawse across my palm. My heart missed a beat when I felt the weight of the leather. Mr MacTaggart adjusted his position by shuffling backwards an inch or two. He raised the strap over his own shoulder so that it rested against the small of his back. His eyes blazed. Then whoosh! The strap arced forward at tremendous speed and crashed down into the palm of my hand. The crack of leather on flesh echoed around the room. At first I didn’t feel a thing and then, POW! I yelped. The blow was awesome; the pain shot through my hand and the force of the blow made me drop both hands to my side, blow on them, rub them together and wiggle them about as if I were dementedly waving to a crowd.

Mr MacTaggart was unimpressed. “Pah. Up laddie – get those hands up,” he growled. I come from a long line of schoolboys steeped in tradition. We took our punishment like men. I was a little flustered that I had not been able to take just one stroke of the strap. With determination I resumed the position; hands held up. I closed my eyes tight, took a deep breath and steeled myself. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one I repeated the hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other. I was not taking this well.

Mr MacTaggart did not hide his impatience. He ordered me to swap hands. Slowly and painfully I did so, noticing my right palm was crimson from the belting so far and my hand was numb.

Mr MacTaggart gave me three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. It was excruciatingly painful, and my body was shivering as I doubled up with my hands under my armpits. This was my first tawsing on the hand. I was soon to discover that with a strapping the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in. Later in my room, I poured cold water into a basin and soaked my hands. It didn’t help. The palms of both hands were blistered and I had considerable difficulty holding anything in them for the rest of the day. MacDonald, another inmate at the house for naughty boys, and himself a Scot, told me that at school a master would ask a boy which hand he used to write with and then strap him on the other one, making sure he could continue writing.

The rules of the house were not exceptional. There were mealtimes that could not be missed, a curfew at night, no smoking or alcohol. It was, I imagine, not so different from being at a boarding school. I knuckled down and got on with studying. I knew I had screwed up the previous year and was determined not to do so again. I was quite a pious young man and felt that I had let people down.

I kept my nose clean until one night I missed curfew. It was a girl of course. I thought we were getting on very well and I might get a kiss before the night was over. We were very innocent in those days. I succeeded and walked on air all the way back to the house. The last bus had gone so I was about an hour late. I was not surprised to find Mr MacTaggart fuming. I knew what was coming. There were rules, I had broken them, the consequence was clear. I would have to be punished.

I let Mr MacTaggart berate me for my lateness. I told him I had missed the bus. That was true, but I didn’t want him to know the reason why. “Pah! Laddie, you know what must happen.” I did, my palms would be blistered. “Damn!” I thought, an essay was due in the next day and I had not finished it. There was no way it would get written if I couldn’t hold a pen.

“Please, Mr. MacTaggart, I know I have done wrong and I deserve punishment,” I can hardly believe I spoke like that. I explained my predicament with the essay. “Please could you beat me on my backside.” Crazy. What eighteen-year-old today would say that? “Pah!” Mr MacTaggart snarled. “Come into the kitchen.” He led the way across the passageway and we entered a small room. Without speaking he opened a drawer to a dresser and delved inside. Seconds later he withdrew a leather strap. It was longer and heavier than the one he had used on me before. This one had three tails. As a novice I thought this thing could cause extreme damage.

Mr MacTaggart glared at me, he did not try to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on a small table. “There, that’ll do.” I immediately understood his intention. He would expect me to bend across the table to receive the strap across my backside. It was a relief. I was on familiar territory. A whacking from that strap would hurt like billy-o but I knew I could survive it.

Perhaps he sensed my indifference. “Pah!” He snarled. “Take down your trousers. Underwear too.” Any nonchalance I might have had evaporated. Pants down. On the bare. Even the despicable Henderson-Smith at school never caned me like this. “And bend over the table,” Mr MacTaggart completed his instruction.

This was uncharted territory. That three-tailed strap would take the skin off my backside, I had no doubt about that. “Pah! Hurry along laddie. It’s late we both need our beds.” I sucked on my bottom lip gearing myself for the ordeal ahead. I don’t think I was especially concerned about taking my trousers and pants down in front of the old man. My generation was used to undressing in public. I shared a bedroom with my older brother for years. At school the boys often ran around naked in the showers and no one even noticed.

“Pah!” Mr MacTaggart’s impatience was showing again. I resolved to get on with it. With steady hands I unbuckled my belt and opened the front of my trousers. The weight of the belt made them slip over my thighs and sag at the knees. I left them there and quickly pushed my underpants in the same direction. I shuffled closer to the table, took a deep breath, and lent forward. At school we were expected to lay flat on the desk top with our bottoms raised over the edge, so I took up that position. The kitchen table was considerably smaller than my housemaster’s desk and my arms dangled over the far side.

From the corner of my eye I saw Mr MacTaggart approach the desk, he leaned in so close I could smell the stink of his breath. He took hold of my shirt and tugged the tail so that it rode up my back. I was now naked from my shoulders to my knees. I folded my arms and buried my face in them. I was as ready as I ever would be. I felt the heavy weight of the tawse resting against my bare flesh. Mr MacTaggart took aim, raised the leather and walloped it with terrific force into my left buttock. It hurt. A lot. My bum, although not fat, was very meaty and the leather sank into my mound and I felt a burning sensation. He flogged another three cuts into my bum so both buttocks were scorched.

The shock made me raise my head from my arms. I didn’t yell out, I think my movement was probably just a reflex action. I had never been strapped on the bottom before (bared or otherwise) but I had taken my share of canings. If I had to make a judgement I would say the cane is much worst. A thin whippy rattan rod if swiped into the backside will cut into the flesh and leave a welt that potentially can throb for several hours. The strap (even delivered across naked flesh) does not cut, rather it slaps or slashes. The leather tails cover a greater surface than the cane but the pain is altogether less sharp. It is akin to a dull ache.

Mr MacTaggart gave me twelve stokes. Upon his command I rose from the table and although I was in pain I felt far from battered. I rubbed my buttocks contritely (I thought Mr MacTaggart would expect some such show) before replacing my pants and trousers in their proper places. Later in bed I recalled that kiss. The spanking I got was well worth it. It didn’t deter me seeing the girl again and in the fullness of time we married; however I must confess each time we met I made certain we finished our courting before the last bus left.

Picture Credit: C of Sweden

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Baxter’s Beating

z used cane hold kernled (21)

Baxter stretched his limbs beneath the itchy grey blanket. The clock on the bookcase said eleven-fifteen. He clasped his hands together and put them behind his head. Too late to go to lectures now, he thought. Not that he had intended to.

He surveyed the room. His trousers were strewn over the small leather armchair. His jacket and shirt was on the solid oak table. What a night it had been. He and Marshall had taken in a show and then it was back to his pal’s room for drinks and smokes.

Baxter’s cock still ached. Marshall had been insatiable; gobbling him five times at least. What a mouth, large and round. And he knew how to keep his teeth out of the way. He hadn’t had so much pleasure since the young guardsman at Hyde Park. He had taken out his dentures so had no teeth before he went to work.

Baxter’s cock stiffened, he licked the palm of his right hand and gently massaged the tip of his manhood. He was interrupted by a heavy knock on the door. “Who is it,” he called not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

“Manners, Sir,” came a clearly enunciated reply. Baxter groaned. “Yes, what do you want, Manners?” He released his grip on his cock. “I have a message Sir, from the Tutor.” Baxter sighed, “Slip it under the door, there’s a good chap.”

A white rectangular envelope glided under the door. Baxter watched uninterested. I must tip the servant five-bob sometime, he reminded himself before with the sound of Manners’ footsteps fading into the distance on the stone stairway he returned his attention to his throbbing cock.

It was much time later that he remembered the message. It was a printed card with the time and date filled in by hand summoning him to his first meeting with his tutor; the man who would oversee his studies during the three years Baxter would be at the university. Jolly good chap, he thought, he’s inviting me for tea, he had a deserved reputation for providing a good spread.

Baxter admired his reflection in the mirror as he went about his toilet; it was 1926 and all was well in the world. He was at university and his father was paying his bills. He spent most of his time at the theatre or cinema. He wrote revue sketches that he performed wherever and whenever he could. He was a hit a parties. His was perfecting one character in a particular; a middle-aged schoolma’am irritated by a group of young gals (“Don’t do that Clarisa!”). His mother provided the frocks.

A chap only had to attend the first lecturer of term, write his name in the attendance book, and then he need never return. After three years of this there would be examinations, but Baxter did not care; three years was a lifetime.

Baxter was puzzled when he arrived at Mr. Townsend’s study to find he was to be the only visitor. There was no party. Mr. Townsend was  a senior man maybe in his fifties with a younger, vivacious wife – much loved by the students – but Townsend himself was a bit of a cold fish. He had unruly grey hair and a neatly-cut beard. His conventional double-breasted jacket fitted him too tightly. He peered down his angular nose through eyes that were a little too close together.

He was courtesy personified. “Mr. Baxter,” he sighed, at the nineteen-year-old undergraduate standing before him. “Rules permit those residing in College to be out late a maximum of three times a week. You have been late six times this week and a further five last.” He drew in breath and continued, “I have not been informed about your behaviour in the previous weeks.”

Baxter blinked furiously. Manners had ratted on him. Well he could say ta-ta to that five bob.

“Mr. Baxter, you are at the university to learn. You must attend lectures and tutorials.”

“Yes, Sir,” Baxter mumbled. It was like being back at school.

“You were at St. Tom’s were you not?” Mr. Townsend stretched his arms.

“Yes, Sir,” mumbled again for Baxter was unsure if he was expected to answer.

“A very traditional school, I believe?”

“Eh, yes, Sir.” What did his old school have to do with it?

“So you understand the meaning of discipline?”

Baxter was silent. He didn’t like where this one-sided conversation was going.

“I am sure your headmaster would have given you Six for slacking, Mr. Baxter.”

Colour rose up Baxter’s face. “But we’re not at school.”

Mr. Townsend frown and then a slight smile worked the corners of his lips. That’s what they all said, he thought. Aloud he said, “You are not an adult until your attain the age of twenty-one,” it sounded to Baxter that the Tutor was reading from a script. “I stand if you will in loco parentis. You might considered me to be your father, but that might lead to unwanted complications. Instead, you must think of me as your housemaster at school.”

He paused and peered intently at the young man’s puzzled expression struggling to understand the full import of the Tutor’s statement.

The Tutor stood, stretched his arms and walked slowly across the study. It was a small room, dominated by a walnut desk and three small leather armchairs. A bookcase filled a whole wall. He paused in front of it, but not to choose a volume. There was a tall, thin cupboard at one end and Baxter watched uncomfortably as the Tutor took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and opened the door. The undergraduate could only see Mr. Townsend’s back as he reached inside, but the rattling noise he heard was unmistakable. Seconds later the Tutor turned to face the boy; in his hand was a thin, whippy rattan cane.

Mr. Townsend eyed the rod as if seeing it for the first time. Ignoring Baxter’s burning stare he first flexed it between his two hands and then swished it through empty air. Baxter gulped. It was a little shorter and quite a bit thinner than those used at St. Tom’s but he had no doubt it would sting like the blazes.

“But, Sir, can’t we talk about this?” Baxter blustered.

Mr. Townsend’s lips pursed. They all said that as well. “There is nothing to say Mr. Baxter, unless you want to be sent down for the rest of the term. What would your father think about that?”

Baxter squirmed. He knew darn well what Dad would think. There’d be no more university; he’d have to work for his living. He said none of this to the Tutor, instead he shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

Mr. Townsend busied himself turning one of the low armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Baxter hopped from one foot to the other. There was no turning back. He would be brave. This was not the first time he had been caned.

“Please lower your bags and bend over the back of the chair.”

Baxter blanched. That was a first; a trousers-down caning. “B… b…” he started a protest but stopped himself immediately. What was the point? The tutor was in charge, Baxter had broken the rule about late nights and a few others that the Tutor did not seem to know about.

“Come on please Mr. Baxter,” the Tutor tapped his cane on the back of the hard leather chair, the noise ricocheted around the room.  “I have others to deal with this evening.”

Baxter took a deep breath. His belt unfastened easily and his loose-fitting trousers slipped over his hips. It took the slightest tug to have them at his shoes. Penguin-like he shuffled two steps closer to the chair, looked over his shoulder to give his master an imploring look, found the Tutor determined, and slid himself over the chair.

He looked down at the seat cushion inches in front of his face. It was patterned in greens and blues. Summer colours. He concentrated carefully. He needed to focus on something. Such as the large, round, greasy, indentation. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of posteriors had contributed to the dent. It was an old chair. It had seen much action. He gripped the cushion edge tightly. Waiting.

His heavy trousers were at a puddle at his feet. His grubby off-white underpants were riding up into his buttock crack. He couldn’t have felt more self-conscious. Embarrassed. Humiliated, even. A cool gust of wind brushed his naked legs. The study window was slightly ajar. He felt Mr. Townsend’s strong hand grip the tail of his shirt and roughly bundle it up his back. He did the same with the singlet. Now, there was nothing between Baxter’s cotton-covered backside and the Tutor’s cane.

He could feel it pressing into his flesh. Mr. Townsend was finding his spot. Preparing himself. It would be any moment now. Baxter waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr. Townsend, a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baxter imagined, the Tutor flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the Tutor laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

“Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being expelled. The boy tightened his grip on the seat cushion.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baxter had expected. The cane was smaller and thinner than at St. Tom’s but somehow it had more whip and sting than those at school. Mr. Townsend was an expert caner. He was able to inflict maximum pain with seemingly minimal effort

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. The Tutor was giving it some beef; he could have been beating a carpet. Baxter bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to yell. It felt as though there were three throbbing ridges beneath his underpants.

Baxter was astonished by the severity and intensity of the strokes. He felt flushed and humiliated. Cold perspiration ran down his shoulders. After number four hit home his legs were marching up and down on the carpet. Tears flooded his eyes.

Number five hit low. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair. His feet stamped up and down but the smooth soles of his shoes could not grip the cheap carpet beneath them and his legs slid from behind him. He banged his head up and down on the chair. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside as blood rushed through his entire body and tried to exit through his ears.

Mr. Townsend adjusted his position. Baxter’s body tensed. He knew what was coming. The Tutor laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks from the lower part of the left cheek to the top of the right. Slash! Baxter’s bum had a perfect imprint of a five-bar gate. His backside vibrated vigorously and he let out a piercing howl. For a moment he released his grip on the chair and started to stand, he wanted to dance a jig – anything to deaden the agony. He regained composure and resumed his hold on the chair tightly.

“Enough. It’s over. You may stand.” Mr. Townsend continued to talk as Baxter dressed. “I hope we do not have to repeat this Mr. Baxter, but if we do, please be aware that next time I shall double the tariff and reduce the protection of clothing.”

Baxter fastened himself up. The throbbing in his corrugated bum was intense. He might be bleeding. He nodded vigorously at the Tutor but said nothing. “Time for you to leave,” the Tutor smiled, extending his hand. They shook like gentlemen. Baxter hobbled to the door, turned the handle and opened it. He was not surprised to see Marshall standing outside, ashen faced.

Picture Credit: Kernled

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Letter

z used otk pyjamas down chair domestic mancspank (1c) (2)

Mr. Rouke stared down at the letter as he fingered buttered toast into his mouth. Brocklehurst University, Registrar’s Office. Addressed to his son. He didn’t need X-ray eyes to tell its contents. The Christmas vacation was here. Examinations had been taken, results released.

He licked a drop of butter from his lips and picked up his tea cup. Why would they be writing to Jimmy, he wondered. The results would have been put online ages ago, before the students set off for their homes.

It could only mean one thing. Trouble. He looked at the carriage clock. Nearly eight o’clock, he must leave for work soon. He really didn’t want this hanging over him all day. He strode to the bottom of the stairs. “Jimmy!!” he called.

His wife’s face appeared over the upstairs banister. “He’ll still be in bed. Asleep most likely.”

“Mr. Rouke’s face contorted. “What time did he get in last night? Or do I mean this morning?”

His wife shrugged her shoulders; she knew her husband didn’t really want an answer.

“Doh. Wake him up. Tell him to get down here straight away.” He returned to the dining room, poured a second cup of tea and waited. From a distance he heard voices. Jimmy was resisting.

“James! Get down here now!” he called from the stairs . “Don’t make me have to come up!”

James. That’s what did it. Dad only called him James when he was angry with him. Better not make matters worse. The bedroom door opened and with bleary eyes Jimmy appeared. He wrapped the jacket of his pyjamas around his body. There was a nip in the air. “Wossup!” he called from the top of the stairs.

“Get down here, you’ll find out soon enough,” his Dad said sullenly. “Hurry up about it. Some of us have got work to go to.”

Jimmy padded down the carpeted stairs. The pile felt warm beneath his bare feet. He entered the room, “Wossup,” he said a little more softly this time, sensing trouble.

“That,” Mr. Rouke nodded at the letter on the table. “Why’s the university writing to you?”

“Oh, um, nothing, everyone gets one,” Jimmy blustered, his face blanching. He reached over to pick it up. “Not so fast, open it,” Dad grabbed the letter and handed it across to the eighteen-year-old. He didn’t need to be a detective to know the envelope contained bad news.

They had argued at midterm. Jimmy’s results had been appalling. He was headed for failure. Too much time spent at the Student Union, not enough in the lecture hall and library.

Jimmy’s hands shook as he tried to get a corner of the envelope’s flap to rip the letter open. There would be no escaping the consequence. At last, the envelope open, he withdrew the single sheet. His pale face darkened as he scanned the heading.

“Give it here,” his Dad snatched it from his grasp. “What’s it say?” he read swiftly. There were not many words. The heading summed it up perfectly. “Notice of Impending Failure.” A grade-point-average of less than two: courses would have to be resit.

Mr. Rouke sucked in breath. He wasn’t trying to quell his anger. He was angry. He wanted to be angry. It was costing a fortune to send his layabout son to university. What a waste. He looked up at his son. Jimmy cowered. His father stood between himself and the door. There was no escape.

“Right.” Mr. Rouke strode forward, picked up an armless dining chair and turned it towards him. Then, he reached across and gripped Jimmy by the wrist. “No Dad, no,” his son moaned.

“Pah!” Mr. Rouke ejected a puff of wind through almost clenched teeth. He sat on the chair and tugged his son face down across his lap. “No, Dad, no,” Jimmy wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

The teenager wriggled from left to right as his Dad gripped the elasticated waist of his pyjama bottoms and with two tugs had Jimmy’s buttocks exposed. “You’ll be too old when you have learned to be a responsible adult,” he growled as he spanked his rough palm across the boy’s bare bottom.

“No, no, no,” Jimmy writhed, kicking his legs, head bucking. Dad had a firm grip of the boy and he was going nowhere. Not until Dad had purged his annoyance. After a few dozen spanks, Jimmy’s bottom had turned a deep pink. “Ha!” his Dad stopped hammering his palm into the boy’s bum.

“This is no good,” Dad’s hand was hurting much more than his son’s bottom. “Get up.” He released his grip and Jimmy shot to his feet and bent down to pull up his pyjamas. “Leave them!” The intensity of the command startled Jimmy. “Leave them. Stand there. Don’t you dare move,” Dad  snarled and hurriedly left the room.

Jimmy stood, pyjamas at his feet, his cock and balls dangling, and watched Dad’s departing figure. What had he gone to fetch? His slipper? Mum’s hairbrush perhaps? He didn’t have to wait long to find out. Almost immediately, Dad returned. Jimmy blinked in disbelief and took a step backwards as Mr. Rouke re-entered the room.

“B.. b..” Jimmy was dumbfounded. Under his arm, Dad held an thick, whippy authentic crook-handled rattan school cane. “B.. b..” Jimmy tried again but no words would come.

Dad smiled sardonically, “I bought it on eBay, after out little talk at midterm. I thought it might be needed.” He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it at Jimmy. Then he swiped it through the air. Jimmy who had never seen a cane before – they had been banned from schools thirty years ago – watched transfixed. Then Dad took the cane between his hands and flexed it. It was extremely flexible. Then, as a final flourish, Dad swished it once more. Jimmy’s throat dried. It was a mightily effective rod and there was no doubt what Dad intended to do with it.

Dad moved forward, gripped Jimmy by the arm and propelled him across the room. With the pyjamas at his ankles, the eighteen-year-old shuffled like a penguin. They reached the table where Dad released his grip and simultaneously pushed his son in the back. He fell face down across the table. It was oblong-shaped and Jimmy’s torso fitted it snugly. Dad pushed his arm into the small of the boy’s back. “Don’t you dare move.” Still holding his son, Dad raised the cane and whipped it across the centre of his buttocks. A dark pink line immediately appeared. Jimmy howled.

What followed wasn’t pretty. This was not a scene with a boy submitting himself like a gentleman for a caning. He did not hold his bottom high for deserved lashes from the rod. There was no ritual; no shake of the hand at the end between punished and punisher. No “thank-yous” from a boy who knew he had done wrong and deserved his punishment.

Instead, we had one stroppy teenager, howling, fighting, swearing as his furious father lashed the cane at the struggling buttocks in the best way he could. Most swipes met their intended target; a few did not. That was why Jimmy had so many red marks across the back of his naked thighs. The pain there was excruciating; for this is a far more sensitive area than the buttocks. Ironically, had Jimmy been a more experienced receiver of the cane, he would know the best way to endure a beating is through stoicism: offer up your bum, let the master do his business and take it as best you can. Six evenly delivered strokes across proffered buttocks (clothed or naked) will hurt (a lot), but that pain is as nothing compared to the agony of lashes delivered to all parts of the legs and body. Who was it said that God made the buttocks for spanking?

Jimmy’s howls were awesome. He would live to regret not taking his punishment quietly, like a man. As Dad whipped and Jimmy hollered, Dan, an ex-school pal of the boy’s, pulled up outside in a delivery van. Christmas was a busy time, and there was none to waste. He took his package and skipped up the garden path. As he opened the door to the porch he heard the yelling. And who could not? Intrigued, he followed the noise. He didn’t have far to go. The window was two metres away.

He stared, possibly open-mouth. A grin split his face. What joy. For this was Jimmy Rouke, a boy at school who had made his life a torment. Queer this, poofter that. He never let off. Dan reached for his phone, found the right app and held it close to the window.

That night the video was shared countless times by Jimmy’s pals. After Dan uploaded it to boyzblazingbuttz it clocked up 250,000 views before Christmas.

Revenge, they say is a dish best served cold.


Picture credit: Mancspank

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Charles Hamilton the Second

When Dad Got Home

z used after corner pants domestic (1)

Can this really be happening? I’m standing facing the wall in our front room in my t-shirt and underpants with my hands on my head like some naughty little boy. Behind me my Mum and the biddy from across the road are slurping coffee and talking about me.

MUM. He’s just too much. He went too far this time. He can stay like that until his father gets here. Then he’ll deal with him.

BIDDY. What did he do?

MUM. It’s these long holidays they get from university. He’s been under my feet all week. He never lifts a finger, he sulks. He’s surly. Rude. He never cleans his room. It smells like a pigsty.

BIDDY. Mine is just the same. Treats the house like a hotel. I’ve wasted so many meals when he hasn’t turned up.

MUM. It was all right until Christmas Eve. He had a job with the post office but of course that finished. I’ll be glad when he goes back to college.

BIDDY. Mine is so mouthy. You can’t tell him anything.

MUM. Then last night he comes home at God knows what time. Drunk, and is sick all over the kitchen floor. Leaves it for muggins here to clean up. When I told him off he just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t care. Well he’ll care when his father gets here.

BIDDY. What will he do?

MUM. We still keep a leather taws in the sideboard drawer. He’ll tan his hide good and proper.


He will too and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. What choice do I have? I could tell him to go to Hell and then we’d wrestle on the floor while he tries to whip me with the taws. I could rush off to my room and barricade myself in. But I’d have to come out eventually.

Dad will win. I know. A year or so back my brother Ken refused to be spanked. Dad threw him out the house. I promise you. He said he can stay out until he accepts this is Dad’s house. His house; his rules. His punishments. Ken was at university and Dad stopped sending him money and paying bills. Ken held out for about six months. Then he came home, tail between his legs. Dad belted him twice as hard and twice as long.

Lesson learned? When Dad gets home I’ll just have to offer him my backside. Like I said; no choice.

I can hear a car in the driveway. It has to be Dad. The front door is opening.


MUM. Henry, you have to do something about that boy.

My Mother greets Dad in the Hallway. I can’t hear all they are saying but they are talking about me. Dad makes a sort of grunting noise. He is far from pleased. Any moment now ….

DAD. Right young man. It’s about time you learned how to behave. Your mother has had enough of this … and quite frankly so have I.


I hear a sideboard drawer opening and closing. I don’t need to look, I know Dad has gone for the taws. It is a long, narrow leather strap cut into two tails. It old and worn. My brother once told me it had belonged to Dad’s dad and probably to Granddad’s dad too. What an heirloom to have in the family.


DAD. Right, turn around. Go stand by that chair.

I turn and move towards an upholstered armchair. It has a low back and I know from painful experience that my body will be able to clear the top by a comfortable distance when Dad orders me to bend over. From the corner of my eye I see the biddy from across the road move. I wait for her to leave the room, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands a little o the side of the chair. Jesus Christ! She’s staying to watch.

Dad holds the taws in one hand and gently taps it into the palm of his left hand. The expression on his face is grim. He is a tall man, who towers some inches over me (I take after Mum’s side of the family). He plays a lot of golf and can put a lot of punch into a swing. Slowly, he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Is this really necessary? I suppose he thinks it adds to the drama of the occasion. I wish he would just get on with it.

DAD. Place yourself over the back of the chair.


Well, here we go. This isn’t my first spanking. I know this is going to hurt real bad. I learnt a long time ago it is best not to make a fuss. My job is to present my bum for Dad. His job is to whack that leather strap across my arse. I should take my punishment as meekly as I can. It’ll be over in a couple of minutes.

I ease myself over the chair and stare down at an indentation in the cushion. Moments earlier the biddy had been sitting here. I can smell her horrible cheap scent. A Christmas present from somebody who couldn’t be bothered, no doubt. I try to grip the edge of the cushion, but the material is smooth and I can’t get much of a grip. My feet are about a metre apart and since I am wearing neither shoes nor socks they slide on the dep pile carpet.

In this position my back is arched and my underpants pull snugly across my buttocks. I feel Dad take the end of my t-shirt and push it up my back: another pointless manoeuvre since the shirt is nowhere near the target area. I hear a movement behind me. Dad clears his throat and then rests the leather taws across the very centre of my buttocks. He is taking aim. I can’t help it but my buttocks clench. It is some reflex action, my bum is trying to protect itself from the onslaught. It doesn’t work. The leather moves away from my arse and returns a second later at great speed and force. It cracks across the underside of my bum. I screw my eyes tight. That hurt. A lot.

My feet slip on the carpet and Dad gives me time to steady myself before he lands number two on the higher part of my buttocks. I now have two lines of scorching pain. I chew on my bottom lip. It hurts so much. Swipes three and four land in quick succession. Dad is putting all his strength into this. All that golf is paying off.

I wriggle my hips and bend my knees as blow after blow connects with my tight bottom. The pain is rushing through my body and my temples throb almost as much as my bum. I can’t get a good grip on the seat cushion so I spread my palms and press them deep into the foam. Sweat soaks my scalp and I can smell perspiration under my armpits, even though the room is quite cold.

Dad clears his throat again but otherwise is silent as he goes about his business. My arse is on fire but thank God he didn’t make me take down my pants. I hear the biddy next door move. Then I see her out of the corner of my eye. She is looking to get a better view of my upturned arse.


DAD. That’s enough. Stand up.


I haul myself to my feet. I stare at the carpet too embarrassed to meet the eyes of the old biddy or my Mum. My bum is scorching but already the agony is dissolving. I press the palms of my hands into the seat of my underpants, holding in the pain. It doesn’t make much difference.


DAD. Go to your room.


I don’t need telling twice and I take the stairs two at a time and crash through he door into my bedroom. Gingerly I pull down my pants and poke my bum at the mirror. Dad has done a very job. To be fair he is not a brute. He hasn’t flogged me to within an inch of my life. He has given me a sound leathering. He has made his point and I have taken it. Not one square centimetre of my buttocks and the tops of my legs is untouched. The imprint of the taws has been reproduced time and again across what was once pale skin. There are some deep purple bruises across the mounds of my buttocks and lesser more yellowy ones elsewhere. It will take days for them to clear.

I hear the front door open and close and through the window I see the biddy returning to her house. I bet she can’t wait to get back tell everyone that I’ve been spanked. Soon the news will be all over the street. I won’t be able to hold my head up in the Three Fishers tonight.


Picture credit: Unknown


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Charles Hamilton the Second