You’ll never believe this

z used otk professor

I don’t know why I’m even bothering to tell you this. You won’t believe me. You’ll say it’s a fantasy. I’m making it up; just to draw attention to myself. Like I always do.

Things like that don’t happen. Not anymore. Not in this day and age.

Well, if you don’t believe me I just don’t care. I’m going to tell you anyway.

For those who don’t know me, my name’s Chas. I’m eighteen getting on nineteen and I go to the Brocklehurst University. Majoring in media studies. I know, don’t you start as well. It is not a Mickey Mouse course. Definitely not. I wish we did spend all our time watching television. I might have better grades.

And then it wouldn’t have happened.

I stay during term time with Uncle Matthew. He’s not a real ‘uncle’, you know a blood relative. He’s a life-long friend of my dad’s and I’ve known him since I was a toddler. He has a swish house in The Avenue, a really upscale part of the town. I get my own room, free wi-fi, the works. Uncle Matthew lets me come and go as I please; no curfews, no set meal times. He never inquires where I’ve been or how I’m doing with my studies, or anything like that.

Things weren’t going too well as a matter of fact. I had attended a “hot-house” school, where we were harassed every minute of the day to work hard and get good A-level grades. The school wanted to be at the top of the league tables. Well, I did them proud. But when I got to BU as we call the university it didn’t take me long to discover the bars, the girls and weed and not necessarily in that order.

I never went to the library and my essays were cut and pasted from the Internet. Bad. Prof. McIntyre gave me a warning. If I didn’t get at least a B-plus on my final essay in Media and Society, I’d fail the module and my grade point average might not be good enough for me to go into the second year.

Well, I was gutted. Leave the university. Get a job. Not likely. Well, what could I do? This is where we get to the part that you won’t believe.

I talked to my pal Craig. “Prof says I’ll get chucked off the course if I don’t get at least a B-plus,” I whined. “What should I do?”

Craig’s eyes narrowed perceptively; then he grinned. “I’ve heard stories about Prof. McIntyre,” Craig rubbed his index finger down the side of his long, narrow nose. “If you know what I mean.” For some reason he affected a Cockney accent when he said this. Then he fell silent.

I didn’t know what he meant and irritated I told him so.

“You know. You do,” he dropped the Cockney and spoke in his usual voice. He could have been a younger member of the British Royal Family. “He likes young guys.”


“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes,” I squealed, “I’m rather afraid you must.”

“He’s gay.” More silence.


“Oh per-lease,” Craig waved his arms above his head. “A cute little something like you?”

“What!” I was both offended and impatient. “What are you saying?”

Craig shook his head and addressed me as if talking to a naïf. “All the guys do it. He’s quite amenable.”

Why was he talking in riddles? “Just spit it out will you!”

“Yes, that’s what Prof says too.” His shoulders shook and he roared with laughter.

“Oh, ha, ha, ha,” I said dripping sarcasm. “You really think he gets blow jobs from students.”

“Yes, but only after he’s had them across his knee for a bare-arsed spanking.” Craig did that rubbing thing with his finger again. “You’ll get you B-plus for sure.”

Well, let’s cut to the chase with this story. A spanking from the Prof, a pass grade and a secure future. Or, a fail and a life spent flipping burgers. Not much choice there.

I went away to think about it. It didn’t occur to me to do some reading in the library and actually write an essay. Of course not, I’m a student in 2017 for pity’s sake.

I lay in my bed mulling it over. A spanking. From the professor. Bare arsed. I closed my eyes tight and tried to imagine it. Me, eighteen years old, tall, muscular, and (if Craig is right) cute. Prof. who must be in his fifties, flabby, gone to seed. Me, trousers at the ankles, boxers at the knees, draped across the old man’s knees. He, whacking away at my bare bum. How did he do it? With his hand? A belt? Slipper? My cock stiffened ….

There had to be another way. And, there was. An essay mill. Another friend, Mitch, told me about it. Websites where you can buy an already written essay and pass it off as your own. It wasn’t cheap. Five pence short of fifty quid. Money that I couldn’t really afford. But it was better than a spanking.

I paid my fee, downloaded the essay, printed it out, handed it in. Job done. I might have gotten away with it. Can you guess how I was found out? Never in a million years. Mitch told me about the website. He knew about the website because he used it himself. We handed in the same essay. Word for bloody word.

So, there I was in Prof. McIntyre’s office. I don’t know who you are and if you’ve ever been to university. A modern university that is. Forget “dreaming spires” and all the flannel you see in Inspector Morse or Lewis. BU is mainly made up of concrete and glass. Prof.’s office is made of moveable walls and is furnished in fake wood. It could be an accountant’s office. It probably will be one day when the university sacks all the lecturers and we do our courses online.

Prof. doesn’t wear a gown and funny hat. He isn’t dressed in tweeds and such. On the day in question he wore a striped shirt (Marks & Spencer, most likely) and worn blue jeans. He could have been a bricklayer.

I stood on the industrial-strength dark grey carpet in front of his desk. He swivelled in his chair away from a computer screen so he faced me. Theatrically, he waved a sheaf of papers at me. My essay. “Is there anything you want to say to me?” he sighed as if he carried the burdens of all the world on his shoulders. “Think carefully,” he turned his head and nodded at the computer screen.

I could deny it. But what would be the point? I felt my face glow. I was blushing deep red. I always do when I’m embarrassed.

“We have software, you know,” he said peering at me.

So, I coughed to it. I had bought the essay online.

“OK,” he said. I was flummoxed. I expected a rant; a denunciation of my character. I was a cheat. I should be expelled from the university. And on and on.

What he said next made me buckle at the knees. “If you take a spanking, you can get a pass mark.” My mouth opened and closed silently; in a rather good goldfish impression. “B …” I wanted to say, “But a pass mark isn’t good enough, I need a B-plus.” The words would not come. He peered at me some more. Then he spoke, “We can make it so that you still pass into next semester.”

He stood from his chair and ambled around the desk so that he stood next to me. “Come over here.” Gently he took my left elbow and guided me across the office towards a battered three-seater leather couch. He eased himself down; his weight made quite an indentation in the soft seat cushion.

“Now this is what you must do,” he spoke gently. He was about to pass on instructions. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a university professor to tell his eighteen-year-old male student how to prepare himself for a spanking. “You should take down your jeans and let them drop to your ankles.”

Now, by this point in the story I have probably lost a number of you disbelieving readers. How could such a thing happen? How could he get away with such a thing? Aren’t there laws against it? To which I would answer “I don’t know,” but it did.

I wanted that grade. I wanted to stay on at the university. Damnit, I wanted to carry on with my easy life. Besides, how bad could it be?

Prof. was getting a little impatient. “Unbuckle your belt, take down your jeans,” I couldn’t look the old man in the eye. I fumbled a bit with the belt and popped the fasteners on the fly of the jeans. The front fell open and I felt a breeze against my white cotton briefs. I let go and the denims started to slide over my thighs, they bunched at my knees but it only took a slight movement in my legs to see them on their way to my feet.

Prof.’s voice cracked, “Now, come and put yourself across my lap.” He parted his legs and then reached out and took my left forearm and with extreme care he manoeuvred me forward. I did not resist. It was like a dream. This really wasn’t happening. Any moment I would awaken. His legs were hard and I felt them dig into my stomach. Without a further word, Prof. lifted me so that I was stretched across the couch with my legs and feet resting along it. My face was close to one of the couch’s arms and I gagged at a cloying aroma of stale body sweat.

In this position my chest was rested over his left thigh and my bottom was at an angle over his right. I was wearing a cheap white t-shirt and Prof. took hold of the end of this and ruffled it up my back. My briefs had ridden up my cheeks a little and it felt like someone had given me a wedgie. I felt his hand rest on my left buttock. I thought at first that he was trying to smooth out the cotton but once he had explored the contours of my meaty buttocks, he lifted his hand away. Seconds later I wriggled in protest as he gripped the waistband of my briefs and with two hefty tugs he had my arse cheeks bared.

Still he said nothing. He put his arm across my back and took hold of my hip. I was pinioned. I was going nowhere until he said so. I held my head in my hands and waited.

Have you ever been spanked? No? It was a new experience for me too. What do you expect? Well, to state the obvious, the whole point surely is to inflict pain. The general idea is this is a punishment that is so severe that it reminds you that you have done wrong and it warns you of the consequence of any further misbehaviour. Prof. slapped his rough hand over and over again across my bare buttocks. There was no pain to speak of at first but it built up as he whacked the meatiest part of my bum time and time again.

He spanked me so rapidly and so hard I could barely catch my breath. His spanks were not delivered from a great height, but were a series of short sharp blows one after another.

My cheeks were burning. I tried to wriggle free, but Prof. held me firmly in place. I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided he had punished me enough.

I was furious to be locked in place over the Prof’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Slap! Slap! Slap! It just went on and on. It hurt so much I wanted to cry out for him to stop, to say I promised not to cheat again, if only he would stop spanking me. But, I didn’t. Instinctively, I knew this was against protocol.

But I only had myself to blame. Instinctively again, I fought furiously, trying to kick my feet and legs and squirming and wriggling around on Prof.’s knees, but I couldn’t escape or halt the volley of hand-spanks heating up my behind.

I stopped wriggling and tried to take each new spank stoically; the spanking was hurting, but I wasn’t in any real pain. The hurt caused by the hand spanking had little effect on me, but the embarrassment of being forced to take down my jeans, bend over the older man’s knee to get spanked on the bare-bottom was a huge humiliation.

Prof. paused a moment, he was admiring his handiwork. He was red faced and I was red arsed. He was nearly finished. He slapped down another dozen smacks just for good measure, spanked harshly into my buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh.

I was breathless as I lay wheezing over Prof.’s lap. It was over.

He released his grip on me and I stumbled to my feet. I twisted my body and saw my arse glowed red hot. Gingerly, I rubbed it. I was still unable to look at Prof. I pulled up my briefs and then my jeans. Already most of the pain had subsided, but my buttocks tingled.

Prof. hauled himself from the couch and returned to his desk. Before he reached it and with his back to me, he said, “You should go now.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I pushed through the door and tore down the corridor where I saw an astonished Mitch. I didn’t stop to talk. I took the stairs two at a time and hurtled from the building. As the cool air of early evening hit me, I paused to take stock. I had passed the course and I would return to the university next semester. I had to be spanked to make it happen. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all.

I started toward Uncle’s house then it hit me: why hadn’t I taken the spanking in the first place? It would have saved me fifty pounds.


Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

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Charles Hamilton the Second

University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.


Picture credit: Spank This


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 Charles Hamilton the Second

Bible College

z used paddle twosome bible college

“Each of you take down your jeans and your underwear and bend yourselves across my desk.” Rev. Paisley tapped the wooden paddle into the palm of his hand and watched intently as Jackson and Manning fumbled with belt buckles. Avoiding each other’s’ eyes, the two students slipped the jeans to their thighs. Gravity took the heavy denim to the floor. Jackson pushed his white briefs to his knees, leant forward and rested his elbows on the small wooden desk. He closed his eyes, trying to pretend this was not happening. In seconds he felt his classmate Manning take up his position by his side. Two twenty-one-year-olds, buttocks bared. Ready, waiting for the sting of the paddle.

Rev. Paisley loved the end of term at Todd Carter Bible College, it gave him the opportunity to perform God’s will and guide more young men on the path to righteousness. The College had a simple rule. It was an incentive, the school principal declared. It made the young men study harder. After all, he had said, who would want their butt toasted? So, in every class, after the exams were finished the two students with the lowest test score showed Rev. Paisley their bared buttocks.

They didn’t have to fail the test – just come last. So it was that in theory (at least) they might all be A-students, but arithmetically someone had to be at the end of the line.

Rev. Paisley swiped the paddle through the air. He was nearly ready. They had said prayers together. Sought God’s guidance. Ten swats each. It was God’s will. Rev. Paisley gripped the handle tightly. As paddles went it was no monster. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide. In the right hands it would pack a punch. And, Rev. Paisley was an expert. It came with practice. Jackson and Manning owned the third pair of buttocks he had beaten that afternoon.

Jackson and Manning were typical students at Todd Carter’s; neither tall nor short. Not fat, not thin. You might say they were standard. Typical. Average. Normal, even. Rev. Paisley felt Jackson’s body tense as he rubbed the wood across the centre of the young man’s buttocks. The flesh wobbled when he pressed the paddle in. He raised it shoulder high and with a rush crashed it home. He was rewarded by a bright pink mark on the buttock and a slow hiss as Jackson emptied his lungs.

Satisfied with his work so far, Rev. Paisley reached across to Manning, placed his hand on the student’s back to steady himself and let fly. Manning’ head shot up and shook violently from left to right. That hurt. A lot.

The tip of the good reverend’s tongue wetted his top lip.  He raised the paddle once more.


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Charles Hamilton the Second



Remembering Professor Price

z used drawing cane master Hot (2a)

I first encountered Professor Price when he interviewed me to be his teaching assistant. He told me his methods and asked if I agreed with them, then he took my backside off with a thick whippy school cane. It was so humiliating and painful that I cried. I was twenty-two years old and held a first-class honours degree.

He was Head of the Chemistry Department at Brocklehurst University. The year was 1974. His methods were unusual even then. In those days, we didn’t have the mass higher education we have today and most of his students, and myself, had attended elite “public schools” or upscale grammars and were well acquainted with corporal punishment. But none of us expected to be subjected to the cane when we arrived at the university.

Prof. Price taught the boys separately from the girls. The “young ladies” as he liked to call them were left unscathed; not so, the “young gentlemen.” His regime was strict. He gave regular classroom tests and a student who scored eighty percent or fewer would be required to attend the professor’s study. Then he would be instructed to bend over the back of a low “comfy” chair and Prof. Price would whip his backside with six stingers.

A young man who submitted a poor laboratory report or essay would find himself in a similar position. I have no independent scientific evidence to support this (as science researchers would demand) but his method appeared to be effective. Students thus treated would in future spend less time in the bar and more in the lab and library. He achieved excellent examination results and many of his graduates went on to enjoy highly-lucrative careers in the scientific community.

I wonder what university lecturers today would make of this. If a student commits a crime of racial aggravation or sexual harassment, he (or she) might expect expulsion. There is no punishment at all available for more “everyday” misdemeanours. Therefore, indolence is rife and cheating and plagiarism abound. Of course, there will be no introduction of corporal punishment onto the campuses, but what if it was acceptable today to use Prof. Price’s whippy canes? How different might our students be?

Those readers who attended universities in the 1970s and earlier would know that Prof. Price’s methods were unusual, not to say damn-right strange. The use of corporal punishment on students was not officially sanctioned, not even at Brocklehurst. He did not make a big song-and-dance about his methods, but they could hardly be kept entirely secret. Today, such activities would be reported all over social media (secretly-taken photographs included), but back then there were few channels of communication open.

The professor’s family were wealthy benefactors to the university; witness the Price Building that housed many science laboratories. So, the Brocklehurst University authorities turned a blind eye to Prof. Price’s methods and in time were rewarded with a second building.

Readers might think that since this happened in the 1970s, Prof. Price was guilty of so-called “historic sexual abuse.” Not so. I am certain that no “sex” ever took place. It is true that the professor would occasionally require a repeat offender to lower his trousers and bend across the chair for nine, or even twelve, swipes across the seat of his underwear, but it never went further.

His students would sometimes mutter behind their hands that Prof. Price “enjoyed” caning them; meaning, I suppose, that he got some sexual thrill from it. How can we know? As far as I saw, he never exhibited such tendencies. He never spoke about the beatings he had delivered or those he intended to give. I am not aware that he kept a record of his canings in a punishment book, so there would be nothing concrete for him to drawl over later.

Prof. Price was a relatively young man and would probably have been in his forties during this time. He was married and had two daughters, whom he adored. A framed photograph of the three of them took pride of place on his desk.

Of course, I have clear memories of my own trips across Prof. Price’s chair. I began in his department as a teaching assistant and my main job was to be in the laboratories to help students in their lab work. I had been at the university for about four weeks when I was summoned to attend his study. Prof. Price told me that he had seen a deterioration in the grades of students in the department and he accused me of not giving sufficient assistance in lab work. For this, I was to be beaten.

His “study” was a contemporary office in a new building. The furniture was mostly made of some pine-effect material that was fashionable at the time. The room was dominated by a huge desk and several smaller tables. He kept his canes in a drawer of one of these. He had several, I heard them rattling round when he put his hand in the drawer to find the one he wanted to use to beat me.

I watched as impassively as it was possible to be. He had thrashed me at our first meeting and I suspected that might only have been a “warm-up” and that any future caning would be somewhat harsher. The situation I found myself in was absurd. I was a twenty-two-year-old adult about to be caned for alleged poor performance at work. Where else in the world could such a thing happen?

I watched the professor choose a dense dark-yellow cane and swish it through the air. It made a terrific Whoosh! As it went. It was thicker than the cane he had used at my interview, but had the traditional crook handle. Prof. Price flexed the cane between his hands; he seemed to have forgotten my existence.

I could have refused to be beaten. I could have complained to the university authorities, but I knew I would not do either. Prof. Price would have known this too. Jobs such as mine in universities were as rare as hens’ teeth and I would certainly lose my post if I complained. Prof. Price had the power: I had none.

At last, after all the flexing and some more swishing, he instructed me to take hold of one of the armchairs he used for visitors and to swing it around. Its back now faced the centre of the room. I was required to wear smart suits at work and the professor instructed me to remove the jacket and place it on his desk.

“Bend over,” he tapped his cane on the back of the garish green chair. I took a deep breath, rubbed my palms together, and rather like a swimmer going into freezing water, I dived over. I was a little over five-eight in height and in those days I hardly weighed a thing. My waist was narrow, my stomach flat and you would hardly notice my buttocks under the cloth of my dark blue pinstriped trousers.

I felt my buttocks fill out the seat of my trousers as I stretched over the back of the chair. The professor would at least have something to aim at. I stared down at the seat cushion, even today, forty years later, I remember that the cushion was stained; probably by the bums of the sweaty students who sat in it for their tutorials.

More truthfully, I don’t remember the stain just from that one beating. During the next five years until I left the university I would regularly find myself in such a position.

Prof. Price had a routine when he beat me. After the flexing and the swishing and the “Bend over” instruction, he would order, “Head low, legs apart.” He would say this even on the occasions I had immediately presented myself in the required position.

Then, he would take hold of the tail of my shirt and pull it so that it was clear of the waistband of my trousers. Shirts in those days did not have long tails and there was no way it would afford me extra protection by covering my buttocks.

He was almost ready. But not quite. “I am going to beat you,” he would say (as if such wasn’t blindingly obvious). “It will hurt, it is supposed to. That is the point.”

I think that last sentence was meant to be humorous. Ironic, even. I can’t be sure, since at other times Prof. Price never revealed that he had the slightest sense of humour.

“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.”

The student showing the professor his backside was expected to reply with a resounding, “Yes, Sir!”

Prof. Price would then “saw” his cane across the middle of the bum and then whack it down with terrific force. At least, when he caned me it was always with maximum effort. It was like he was beating a carpet. The pain was intense. Every time he caned me. Apparently, some people say the more times a person is caned the easier it becomes to withstand the pain. I don’t know how many of those people were ever in Prof. Price’s study, but I’m here to tell you it isn’t true.

The first swipe caught me on the lower part of the buttock, just above the thigh. It felt like he had seared a red-hot poker across my arse. My whole body shuddered and my backside bounced up and down. I had absolutely no control. It was all a reflex to the intense pain that started at my bum and ran up and down my legs.

Prof. Price never hurried a beating. To me, it felt an age, but it was probably only fifteen or twenty seconds before the second cut scorched the top end of my globes. I shuddered some more and this time my mouth opened and closed, but I stifled the yelp my body wanted me to make.

Number three hit half way between the previous two. Prof.  Price had an expert aim. I now had a red stripe about four inches wide across both cheeks. Tears prickled my eyes. I sniffed them back. I did not want to repeat the humiliation of my job interview when copious tears flooded down my face like a waterfall.

Number four landed on top of a previous cut. How could it not? The professor had already burned most of my bum. The agony was intense. My legs marched up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. My hips swayed from side to side. This time I couldn’t stop the “Aaarrrh!” escaping my throat.

The fifth hurt just as badly. My temples pulsated almost as much as my throbbing bum. My left foot wrapped around my right ankle and my buttocks rose and fell, humping the back of the chair. I didn’t yell this time, instead I convulsed under a series of dry hacking coughs.

The bastard had a plan for the sixth stroke. I saw it coming before I felt it. He moved the position of his cane so that it rested in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of my 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. I screamed. I cannot deny it. I jumped up from the chair, but half way to my feet, some schoolboy instinct kicked in and I resumed my position. I didn’t want extra strokes. I was certain the professor would carry out his threat.

I lay, my arse on fire, sobbing into the seat cushion. My head ached and my throat was raw from yelling and coughing. The professor gave me a moment to try to calm myself and when it was clear I could not, he ordered me to, “Stand up.”

I crawled off the back of the chair and stumbled. I grabbed a nearby table to steady myself. In an upright position my buttocks pressed against my tightly-fitting underpants and I felt several welts had risen. Later, I would see some had bled. I needed to soak my pants with a wet face cloth to get them to unstick from the dried blood.

For now, in the professor’s study I was doubled up, gulping in lungs-full of air. The agony was easing quite quickly, but every square inch of my bum was sore. The pain would soon dissipate to a constant throbbing before becoming a warm glow. Within an hour, it would have gone for good, except for a strip on my lower buttock that would hurt whenever I sat down on a hard surface. It took several days for the cuts and bruises to go.

The professor dismissed me from the study and I hobbled to the dismal bed-sitting room that was my home then.

I obtained my Ph.D doctorate under Prof. Price’s supervision and then left Brocklehurst at the earliest opportunity to take a post in private industry. Prof. Price was killed in a car crash in 1982. None of his former students attended his memorial service.


Picture credit: The Hotspur


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


The Brocklehurst crammer

used drawing cane hold (52)

Terry, Damien and Harry stood nonchalantly in front of the principal’s desk. The eighteen year olds had never met each other before, but they all had one important thing in common. They had all failed their school A-level exams and their irate fathers were paying a large fee to send them to Brocklehurst College.

The college was a “crammer.” Its job was to coach its students to pass the re-sit examinations. That meant three months of intense study; no mean feat for lazy teenagers. But Principal Tucker had one method at his disposal. It was a proven aid to learning.

Tucker eyed his new recruits with distain. Louts, he thought, that’s what they were; uncouth yobs. He’d soon lick them into shape.

“Stand up straight, all of you!” he barked. “You boy,” he nodded at Terry, “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Reluctantly, each boy shuffled a little. They stood straighter, but it was hardly parade-ground excellence.

“You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

“It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

“Here we use corporal punishment.”

The stunned look on the boys’ faces betrayed their apparent lack of comprehension.

“Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.”

“But …” Damien started to protest but the principal’s icy glare silenced him.

“You will all have signed a consent form.” Doubtless under the duress of your fathers, he thought to himself. Principal Tucker had run the crammer for seven years. He knew that fathers sent their sons to his college as a last resort. The boys would not respond to reason. They were often wilfully lazy. Well Brocklehurst College would soon put a stop to that.

“Yes,” he addressed the three crestfallen teenagers, “We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

Damien blushed to his roots. Yes, he knew all about the corporal punishment regime. He had had a tremendous row with his father. Dad said he must get his A-levels and go on to university. If he did not do that he would be thrown out of the family home. Dad was not a man to carry passengers. Failure for Damien might mean a life flipping burgers.

The principal had not finished his welcoming speech. “Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

“When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey-and-blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.”

All three mouthed protests. Short trousers! Even kids at primary school no longer wore short trousers.

“Silence!” Tucker feigned anger, but he expected protests from his students. Of course, eighteen year old boys would object to being forced back into short trousers. But, as a disciplinary tool it worked wonders. It reminded the louts that they were not yet truly adults. Adulthood came with responsibility. By failing their exams these boys had demonstrated their lack of responsibility. The short trousers would be a constant reminder of their status in the eyes of the college.

Short trousers were also a practical way to keep control. No boy would willingly want to be seen in public wearing grey short trousers and a school uniform. So, they wouldn’t truant from class or sneak out in the evening.

“You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

“You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?”

Principal Tucker was not sure if the boys’ silence was a demonstration of insolence.

“Is that clear!” he barked.

Their murmurs confirmed it was.


Of the three teenagers standing before him, two had neat short-back-and-sides haircuts. The third sported a mop of shaggy fair hair. The principal doubted it had seen a comb let alone a barber in some considerable time.

“You boy,” he gestured at the shaggy-haired boy, “What’s your name?”

“Damien,” the teen responded sullenly.

“We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir. What’s your surname?”

“Wendersley,” he sneered, but noticing that Tucker’s complexion was reddening, he quickly added, “Sir.”

“Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?”

Yes, he had. He hated this college. He hated Principal Tucker and he hated his father for sending him here. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

“Well boy?” Tucker’s fingers were beginning to itch. This meeting could end in only one way.

“Yeah,” Damien Wendersley breathed.

“Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears. So, why have you not followed the instruction?”

“Why do we have to have short hair?”

Veins stood out on Tucker’s neck.

“How dare you! Don’t be insolent.”

Wendersley blushed. The other two lads stood silently. Harry, for one, was rather enjoying this. He hoped the principal would give Wendersley what-for.  If Harry had to have his hair cropped like a convict, why should Wendersley get away with it?

“So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.”

Damien Wendersley stared at the plush carpet beneath his feet.

“Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.”

All three gasped. “But,” Wendersley tried to protest.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The three teenagers quietened. It was a shock. The boy was to be caned. For not having his haircut. The cane. When they had seen the clause about corporal punishment in the contract none of the boys had taken it seriously. The cane. It was unheard of. This was 2016.

But, there was a greater shock to come.

The principal rose from his desk. “Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.”

That set the boys off again. This time each one protested.

“Be quiet!” Tucker roared. “Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.”

“But, Sir,” Terry Reilly piped up, “That’s not fair.”

“I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

“I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?”

Yes, it was clear, but none of the teenagers replied. Surely it had been a rhetorical question.

“Right. You two boys go to the dormitory and change. You Wendersley. Stay behind.”

Terry and Harry sped from the room.

Principal Tucker sauntered across his office. It was a large modern space, designed mostly in walnut. Along one wall were shelves and a tall thin cabinet.

“Right let me deal with you Wendersley,” he said as he opened the cabinet door and searched inside.

Damien’s eyes widened. They almost stood out on stalks.

“Ah,” the principal smiled malevolently, “It would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.”

He flexed the rod between his two hands. It was just over three feet in length and as thick as the man’s little finger. It was supple and easily curved into a bow.

Damien visibly paled.

“I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.”

He swiped the cane through the air, delighted at the look of real fear spread across the teenager’s face.

“Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.”

“Please stand behind the chair,” Tucker wobbled his cane in the direction of a wooden Ikea armchair with a bright red cushion.

“No, please, no…” Damien wailed. He wanted to beg for mercy but his vocal chords refused to work.

“Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.”

The teenager stood rooted. He was gripped with such fright he literally could not move.

“Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college. Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?”

The true reality of his circumstances dawned on the wretched boy. He had no choice but to submit to this horrible man. He had to work hard at his studies and pass those A-levels. His father would throw him out of the house otherwise.

“No,” he mumbled.

“I thought not. Stand by the chair.”

Damien shuffled across the room.

“I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down,” Principal Tucker was enjoying himself. This oafish lout had displeased him from the moment he had set his eyes on him.

“Nooo, please, nooo,” it was incoherent wailing. Already tears were welling up in the boy’s eyes.

“Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.”

The boy’s now bright red face pleaded silently with his master. But it was to no avail.

“I am waiting Wendersley.”

Somehow he unbuttoned his belt, popped the buttons on his jeans and let them fall over his thighs to his knees.

“Ha!” Tucker roared with scorn. “Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.”

He swished the cane. “Now, bend over the chair.”

Damien had never been caned before; he had never seen anyone caned, not even in a movie. How exactly was it done?

He leaned over the back of the chair and stretched his arms in front of him, so that the lay along the hard wooden arms.

“Grip the front of the cushion boy. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

Damien wriggled into position and stared down at the red cushion. There was a small grey stain. Someone must have spilled coffee, he thought. He concentrated on the mark. It was about three inches long. If he thought about how the stain had been made it might take his mind off the ordeal he was facing.

Principal Tucker rubbed the palm of his right hand across both of Damien’s buttocks, smoothing the cotton underpants. Satisfied that all creases had been removed, he stood back three paces, raised his cane and let fly. It flogged down right across the centre of both cheeks.

Damien roared and he flew to his feet, furiously rubbing away at his backside.

“Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.”

Damien stood his ground. The pain was so great. How could he be expected to take six strokes like that?

“Back over,” Principal Tucker readied himself to force the teenager face down over the back of the chair, but the boy found a reserve of courage and offered up his backside.

Swish number two hit an inch or so lower than the first. Damien howled. He stamped his feet up and down and he wriggled his hips to the left and to the right. But this time he remained bent over.

“Doh! Keep still.” The cane rose and fell again. Damien repeated his march, thrust his backside out and waved it about. Principal Tucker despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on six.

Stroke number four was met with another spasm of physical jerks, accompanied by wailing that echoed around the bright office. A less experienced master might have taken pity on poor Damien Wendersley. Clearly, the boy was unable to take such a thrashing.

But Tucker was made of stern stuff. He knew as a matter of conviction that this beating, harsh though it might seem, was being administered for the teenager’s own good. This was the first step on the young man’s redemption. After this afternoon, Damien’s life would never be quite the same again. In time, once he had passed his examinations, succeeded at university, and enjoyed a fine career he might even look back on this caning with gratitude.

“Stop your blubbing, take it like a man,” he intoned and bought swipe number five down across the lad’s underpants; low, just where the cheeks meet the thighs. Damien’s throat was full of bile. At any moment he might vomit up the contents of his stomach. He gasped in great gulps of air like a beached whale.

Slash. The sixth and last stroke lashed down diagonally across all of the other five. The pain was searing. The red coloured underpants disguised the blood stain that was slowly creeping across the seat.

Principal Tucker had finished. Another student punished. It was all in a day’s work.

“You may stand up Wendersley.”

Gingerly, the teenager regained a standing position. He ran up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. It was an instinctive reaction; he had no idea if it would really relieve his pain. For now, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Stop rubbing your bottom,” Principal Tucker’s distain for the boy before him was evident.

“Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.”

Damien’s face was awash with tears and snot. He was in no fit state to leave the office just yet.

“Here, take this and wipe your eyes,” Tucker passed the boy a fistful of tissues.

“I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

“Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut.  For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

“You are dismissed.”


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The student’s first caning

Six of the best caning stories 2. Cutting college

Toby’s father visits



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

The freshman class

z used fresher students 2

Professor Patterson entered the classroom and peered over the top of his rimless spectacles, dazzled by the array of brightly-coloured shirts before him. Another year at Popper State was about to start. Twenty-five open-faced boisterous Psy. students waited excitedly. All new to the university, eager to make friends.

Prof. Patterson set his briefcase on the desk. He paused to survey the young men. If they took off their shirts, he thought, they would be identical. It was as if students came in in packs of one hundred. Just about everyone was fair haired or blond. Each had a tan from the hot summer that was just ending. Every eighteen-year-old sitting before him was slim and healthy. Everyone was a churchgoer. They all had prosperous fathers. Each of them would submit to his will. Without question.

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen.”

The excited youngsters carried on talking.

“Gentlemen.” Louder this time, but not shouting. The buzz of conversation subsided. Heads swivelled. Buttocks shifted on chairs. Soon he had their attention.

“Thank you gentlemen and welcome to the Psychology Department. My name is Professor Patterson. Let me say right from the start that when I call you to order I expect immediate obedience.” He removed his spectacles, held them in his hand and leaned forward. “Do I make myself perfectly clear.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of intent. Twenty-five teenagers sat unnerved.

“We should start as we mean to go on,” Prof. Patterson paced the room. “As well as being your instructor, I am also the faculty’s Dean of Discipline.” He stopped in front of a youngster wearing an exceptionally garish yellow-and-red-patterned shirt and leaned forward menacingly. “Do you know what that means, young man?” Tony Cresswell flinched, he could feel his face burning. The professor’s breath stank.

“Eh ….” Tony stumbled. He didn’t know what a ‘dean of discipline’ was but he could make a pretty good guess.

Prof. Patterson straightened up. “It means gentlemen that I am the one who maintains discipline.” He paused for dramatic effect. Then, certain that twenty-five pairs of eyes were on him he walked slowly to the desk. He shielded the briefcase from the students’ view while he opened it and delved inside. Then, rather like a magician producing a rabbit from a top hat, he turned in a flourish brandishing a stout wooden paddle. The silence in the room was intense. There wasn’t a young man in the room who hadn’t seen a “board of education” before. Many would have felt the sting of a paddle across the backside; paddles were in common use in schools across the county. Some of their fathers still kept paddles hanging on hooks in woodsheds or in their personal dens at home.

Prof. Patterson gripped the handle tightly and tap-tap-tapped the fourteen-inch blade into the palm of his left hand. “Let me be quite clear, I will not hesitate to use this. None of you are adults until you reach the age of twenty-one. Until then think of me as a father,” he leered. “If you are late for class you will be paddled. If you are inattentive, you will be paddled.” He paused, staring at each teenager in turn; many had sweat glistening their brows.

Satisfied with the reaction so far, he continued, “If you score less than seventy in our weekly tests you will be paddled.” His nostrils flared, “You boy!” he pointed to a youngster in a grey sweater, “What did I just say?”

Al French blustered, “Er, if we get less than seventy, Sir,” he trembled and lapsed into silence.

“What then? What happens then?”

“The paddle, Sir,” Al couldn’t stop shaking, “We get the paddle, Sir.”

“That’s correct.” Prof. Patterson hid his disappointment well. He had thought the wretched student had not been listening. He was determined that at least one of the freshers seated before him would feel the sting of the paddle before the class was over. That would show them he meant business.

“Now gentlemen, for our first class I have devised a test,” he reached once more into his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Here,” he instructed a boy in a bright yellow shirt, “distribute these.”

He stared with delight at the young man’s buttocks encased in snug-fitting tan slacks as he leaned across chairs stretching to hand out the test papers. It was a backside crying out to be spanked.

“Now, gentlemen,” the professor continued, “This test will show which of you did the required reading ahead of this course. You have thirty minutes,” he paused and glared across the room at the heavy wooden paddle, “and remember what I said.”

Twenty-five heads went down, tops of pens were sucked. Some stared into open space, hoping to find answers. Prof. Patterson sat and watched. They really were a delightful bunch; so fresh and young. They positively glowed with health. What fun he would have this semester.

Rich Rider sat at the back of the class. From there he could see every boy in the room. Each had his head down as he beavered away at the test. One hundred questions. True-or-false? Multiple-choice. Short answers. He took a deep breath, gripped his fountain pen, closed his eyes, and scrawled his answers.

The time passed quickly. “Pens down gentlemen. Please swop your paper with your neighbour. I shall read out the answers.” Professor Patterson sniffed the trepidation that hung over the room like musk. None of his new charges could look his fellows in the eye.

“Question one. True. Question two. False,” his monotone might in other circumstances have sent a class of students to sleep. Not this afternoon. Their attention was rapt. Each question ticked for correct, crossed for wrong. The penalty for failure was immense.

“Thank you gentlemen,” Prof. Patterson’s heart raced. His palms were clammy. Surreptitiously, he rubbed them on his pants’ leg. How many of the beauties would he whack today? “Please indicate by a show of hands if the paper you have has scored less than seventy percent.” His face flushed in anticipation. No hand stirred.

Prof. Patterson flared, “Gentlemen, please do not try to protect your neighbour by withholding information from me. If I discover deceit, I shall punish the perpetrator most severely. Now, a show of hands, please.”

Vance Kearney whispered softly to Rich Rider, “Sorry.” He raised his hand.

“What?” the professor’s beady eye surveyed the room. “Only one?” The previous year he had six pairs of buttocks to deal with. Maybe word had spread. His new crop of students had an incentive to do their preparatory reading. Next year he had better make the test harder.

“Stand up the boy whose paper this is.”

Rich Rider sucked in a lungful of air and slowly rose from his chair.

“And your name is?” the professor growled, peering intently across the room.

“Rider, Sir.”

“Well, Rider, it would seem that we are to make an example of you. Please come to the front of the class.”

Twenty-four heads swivelled as he made his way forward. The tension had lifted. The new students were in the clear. They would go unscathed. Now, they could sit back and enjoy the sport.

“Stand there boy. Face the class.”

Rich Rider slumped his shoulders and stared intently at his tennis shoes.

“Stand up straight. Look at your fellow students.”

Rich Rider’s hazel eyes shone. Tears were on the way. Blood rushed through every artery. His heart beat so fast, quicker than when he ran on the athletics track.

“Now face me.”

Slowly Rich Rider turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. The paddle in the professor’s hand was awesome. Up close it looked an almighty weapon. In the right hands it could do terrific damage and Rich Rider had no doubt the professor was an expert paddler.

Prof. Patterson sucked in breath of his own. The eighteen-year-old student before him was quite delightful. He was shorter than average; the professor towered at least a foot above him. A frown adorned the boy’s fresh open face. He looked so adorably sad. His multi-coloured short sleeved shirt was open at the neck showing his well-developed chest. Prof. Patterson gulped down saliva; this boy was some athlete.

Prof. Patterson gripped the paddle in his right hand. It shook a little.

“Assume the position, Rider.” Rich Rider hesitated. What did that mean? Over the desk? A chair? He had presented himself so many different ways for a spanking.

“Feet apart, grab your ankles, boy.” It was a cool command, quietly spoken. Prof. Patterson knew he would be obeyed. Students at Popper State were conformists.

drawing paddle hold (20)

Twenty-four students and Prof. Patterson had a marvellous view of Rich Rider’s taut buttocks stretching against his snug-fitting pale grey slacks. Ty Spreader, a student in the front row, licked his lips in anticipation.

Prof. Patterson stood to Rich Rider’s left side. He could trace the outline of the boy’s spine through the garish shirt. There was no practical need to do this, but the professor took hold of the tail of Rich Rider’s shirt and pulled it clear from the waistband of his slacks, exposing two inches of bare suntanned flesh. The top of the teenager’s underwear poked above his waistband. From this close juncture, Rich Rider’s buttocks looked solid like two rubber balls. Each cheek was tiny, dwarfed in size by the stout wooden paddle as the professor rubbed it across the centre of the teenager’s backside.

Rich Rider sucked in breath and gripped the folds of cotton on his pants’ legs tightly, bracing himself for familiar pain. He felt the wood moving away from his bottom, then there was a tremendous crack of wood connecting at force with buttock. One, two, three; that’s how many seconds it was before the full pain hit him. It was like someone had pressed his mother’s maid’s hot iron into his flesh. Rich Rider’s mouth opened and a sound like compressed air releasing filled the room. His body shuddered and he held on to his ankles for dear life.

He waited. Then, he waited some more. Eventually, whack number two stuck. It connected on the underside of his cheeks and the force of the blow sent him rocking forward. His knees buckled. He stopped himself tumbling just in time. Behind him, Ty Spreader crossed his legs and leaned forward a little, shielding the front of his slacks from view.

Rich Rider resumed his position. Prof. Patterson stepped back, keen to admire his charge. Those buttocks were tough. There wasn’t enough spare fat to sizzle a sausage. And so small, he could cup an entire cheek in the palm of one hand. The professor sucked in another lungful of air and raised the paddle high. Rich Rider braced himself before his punisher brought it crashing down right across the centre of his mounds. God that hurt. Rich Rider wheezed. His head shook from left to right, he neighed like a horse. His knees buckled. He feet shifted. The pain travelled from his rear end and up and down his legs before spreading east, west, north, south across his whole body.

Professor Patterson wiped his brow with the back of his hand and placed the paddle on the top of the desk. “That will do. You may stand.”

Rich Rider hauled himself straight. His hands shot to the seat of his tight slacks and he rubbed furiously. Ty Spreader shot from his chair and was through the door before Professor Patterson had time to say, “Resume your seat Rider.”

Gingerly, Rich Rider eased himself onto the hard chair. The pain was easing into a constant throbbing. He knew that soon it would become a warm glow. There would be bruises and they’d probably hang around for a day or two. He would feel the swat the professor landed low every time he sat down over the next few hours. That was OK, Rich Rider told himself, he could deal with that.

He was less sure what he was going to do about the raging woody that ached against the front of his tight underpants.


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Charles Hamilton the Second


His civic duty


The two boys had been coming to my house for some weeks to work in the garden and do odd jobs before I noticed money had been stolen.

Jake and Matthew are students at Brocklehurst University. They’re on some “civics” scheme. The kids get extra credit for doing work in the community. I was dubious at first when the university contacted me. It is true that I am old, but I am not infirm. I am not as sprightly as I once was, but I can look after myself, although I confess the garden is a bit much for me.

The young girl lecturer in charge of the project was very nice; she reminded me of my daughter at that age, so I signed up.

Jake and Matthew were assigned to me. They have to work in pairs; it’s something to do with “safety” or “security”. although I can’t for the life of me see what threat I could be to them. They are two fit young lads. Now, it turns out I needed protection from them.

They worked very well when they first arrived and they had the garden looking tidy in no time. I think it was on their third visit that they told me they were a “couple”. That’s right; a boy dating another boy. They didn’t seem the least embarrassed to tell me. It just slipped out when they were drinking tea with me and telling me about their weekend.

They’re both twenty years old. When I was their age it was illegal. People were put in prison for it. Now look at it; they can get married now. Hasn’t the world changed. I don’t begrudge them it. Why should I care.

I don’t think knowing they were gay changed my opinion of them. The seemed decent enough lads to me, but I did start to notice that Jake was a little bit, how can I say this? A bit “girly”. That’s probably not the right word, but with a “couple” isn’t one of them the man and the other the woman? I might have asked them about it, but not now. I have other things I need to talk to them about.

They came to the house a lot. After they finished the garden, I set them on clearing out the garage. I haven’t had a car since before my wife died. I just use it for storing junk and the like. I was sitting reading the Daily Mail one morning when the boys came in from the garage.

“What’s this Mr. Shearer?” Jake asked and he showed me something he held in his hand. I think I must have blushed bright red, because he flashed me one of his crooked smiles and his open face beamed.

“Surely, you know what it is?” I thought he was just teasing me.

“No, really.”

“It’s a taws.”

“What’s it for?”

I blushed some more. Was this what young people called, “a wind up?”

I replied, “In the old days, it was used for spanking naughty boys.”

Old days! Was it really so long ago? Corporal punishment has been banned in schools for decades and was now illegal in the home, but back in the day misbehaviour would get you a caning at school. Lots of fathers punished their sons with slippers, belts and what-not. In my house, it was a fourteen-inch-long leather strap, cut into two tails at one end.

Jake caressed the strap in his hand almost lovingly. It was light-brown in colour and very worn. It had been in my family for generations, I believe my great-grandfather was the first to use it. It had probably laid untouched in a cardboard box alongside other memorabilia in the garage for decades.

Jake seemed satisfied with my explanation and the subject was not mentioned again.

I first noticed money was missing about three weeks ago, I was sure that a five pound note had been taken from my wallet. I leave it in the pocket of my jacket, hanging in the hallway so the boys could have taken it at any time. I let the matter rest, because I wasn’t absolutely certain that I hadn’t spent it myself, but I hardly leave the house so I don’t get through much cash.

I counted what was left in my wallet and the next week ten pounds was missing. There could be no doubt. I am not a poor man and the money meant nothing to me. Had the boys asked me to pay them for their work I would gladly have done so. I don’t believe in forcing the young to work for nothing; university “civics” courses, or no. I was disappointed and perhaps a little angry. I had trusted them. Goddam it, I liked them and this was how they treated me.

I wasn’t sure how to tackle it. I supposed I should have reported them to the university and let them deal with it. It was theft after all. And, they had stolen from somebody they were helping on the civics scheme. They would probably get expelled and end up with a criminal record. It did seem a very harsh punishment for a relatively small crime.

But, I wasn’t about to let the matter drop. On their next scheduled visit, Matthew came alone. He told me Jake had the flu and was ill in bed. The lad’s a terrible liar, I think Jake was probably nursing a hangover, or whatever you call it when you’re coming down from drugs.

I confronted Matthew about the missing money. He was ashen-faced, and it wasn’t through guilt. He insisted he knew nothing about it and I believed him. I don’t think he could tell a lie to save his life.

Three days later, I received a phone call. Could the boys come over to see me? I am always at home, so it was no inconvenience. They had hardly set foot in the lounge before Matthew put his hand in his pocket and withdrew fifteen pounds. “I took it out of my savings account. I’m very sorry,” he said.

But, he had nothing to reproach himself about. Unbeknown to Matthew, his boyfriend had stolen the money. There were more apologies, but mostly from Matthew; Jake was rather silent. I questioned Jake about his motives. He had taken the money because he wanted it. Pure and simple. Like all people his age, he expected something for nothing. What he couldn’t earn, he simply took.

Now it was all in the open, I had a problem. If I informed the university, Jake would get a criminal record and “sent down” from university. I didn’t want that to happen. The stupid boy deserved a second chance. I had devised a plan of action, but it was unorthodox. In fact, it was downright strange. It would not be acceptable in 2017.

Nonetheless, I pressed on. I told Jake of his bleak future. Then, I said, “You have returned the money. I think you deserve a thorough hiding with that leather taws. Then, I don’t want to see you ever again.” My face flushed and my breathing was heavy. I was extremely worked up about this.

Jake’s effeminate face blanched.  I don’t think he had expected this turn of events. He turned to Matthew and they exchanged glances. Some kind of “non-verbal communication” took place. I couldn’t tell what they were saying, but they understood each other perfectly.

“No, Mr. Shearer.” It was Matthew, not Jake who spoke. My face must have betrayed my thoughts. I didn’t want so much trouble for Jake. In times gone by a sound thrashing on his bare backside would have put an end to the problem. He would have paid his price and everybody could move on with their lives.

I had misunderstood Matthew. “No, Mr. Shearer, you can’t do it. No offence, but you haven’t got the strength.” He flashed me a wan smile. “Let me do it. I can tan his arse good and proper.” Then, he added mysteriously, “But, you can come and watch.”

My eyes widened, but before I could respond, Matthew had left the room to go to the garage. He knew precisely where to find the taws and returned within seconds. Jake sat and stared at his expensive boots. No wonder he felt the need to steal money from me. Matthew held the strap in his right hand and let it dangle against his leg. He spoke quietly and Jake obeyed without question.

Jake removed his denim jacket and put it on the dining room table. He wore a tan roll-neck jumper underneath. It seemed to me that he expected the next order and had already decided to do as instructed without fuss. He unbuckled his belt and worked at the fastener and zipper of his designer jeans. They were tight against his leg and he had to roll them down his thighs to his knees. He was calm while he did this, as if this was an everyday occurrence for him.

He shuffled penguin-like over to the couch and on further instruction he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and with a sharp flick of the wrists, he sent them south to meet his jeans. I had a terrific view of his privates. He was uncut and his member was long and thin. What I noticed most was he was totally hairless.

He paused for a second before leaning forward over the back of the couch. He was a tallish boy and the couch was rather low so his body cleared its back by some distance. His thin, flat bottom was hairless too; even the inside of the crack. He wriggled a little as if to make himself comfortable. He gripped the front of the couch’s cushion at the front and parted his legs a little. His crack opened and his ball sack dangled between his legs. I did fear if he moved about a bit during the thrashing, Matthew might miss his aim and strike his boyfriend on the balls.

It felt unreal. I was standing in the middle of my own front room watching a twenty-year-old university student meekly offer up his naked buttocks to his boyfriend so he could thrash him severely with a heavy leather two-tailed taws.

Matthew gave me a weak smile, as if he were having much the same thoughts as me. Then, he moved closer to his pal, laid the leather across the very centre of his naked haunches, pulled it back to some height and sent it whipping into the flesh. A broad scarlet stripe about two inches wide scorched into the creamy-white flesh. Jake’s mouth opened and closed. He screwed his eyes tight, but otherwise made no outward sign that his arse felt like it was on fire.

Matthew stepped forward and with the tips of the fingers of his left hand he traced the outline of the stripe, as if he couldn’t quite believe he had just created it. Satisfied with his handiwork, he retook his position and smacked a second stinger a little lower than the first. From where I stood it looked like the whole of Jake’s bottom was now blazing crimson. It had been some decades since I had myself been spanked, had my own beatings been so severe? I rather think not.

Jake repeated the mouth and the eyes things, but once again remained still. He breathed deeply in and out and waited for lash number three. It was not slow in coming. It landed on top of a previous hit. That got Jake’s feet stomping up and down. His boots lost their grip on the deep-pile carpet and his feet slithered behind him, his knees buckling as they went. He wriggled his buttocks from left to right and then up and down before he gripped the seat cushion tightly.

Sweat soaked Matthew’s tee-shirt; his breathing was uneasy. His exertions were taking their toll. Apart from the obvious raw backside, his boyfriend was calmer. He waited, teeth firmly clenched, eyes tightly shut, for Matthew to continue his punishment.

Matthew’s eyes saucered. He whipped down three savage blows at speed. Bang-bang-bang. Jake’s bum was blistered. Welts rose across the lower half of his cheeks and blood oozed. Another three fell at speed. Now, Jake’s buttocks resembled hamburger meat.

“That’s enough!” I called and rose to my feet ready to pull Matthew away. It wasn’t necessary. He stared at me through glazed eyes as if seeing me for the first time. Jake took his chance and hauled himself to his feet. His cock and balls bounced as he hopped from foot to foot and lent forward and back in a futile attempt to ease the pain.

I looked toward the door and he took that as a cue to depart. He gripped the waist of his underwear and jeans but his backside was too roasted for him to pull them up over his buttocks. Instead, with them still in his hands, he half ran, half waddled, up the stairs. I heard a door upstairs open and close.

Matthew sat winded in a small armchair, his body bent double. Five minutes passed and then ten. Matthew’s condition had not improved and Jake had not returned.

“I’d better see how he’s doing?” Matthew jumped from his seat and took the stairs two at a time. I heard the same door open and close once more.

After thirty minutes, they had still not come downstairs but I thought it prudent not to go see what they were doing.


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second