Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

new story 2

Henry Pottinger let the suitcase fall onto the bed. It was lighter than he had remembered. The accumulated dust of years – no, decades – was undisturbed. It was small and battered and made of stiff carboard. They didn’t make suitcases like that anymore. Utility, they had called it. Cheap, no frills. Like so many things manufactured at the end of the war.

Henry turned the case on its side so he could get at the catches. They flicked open easily. The case had laid in the attic room since his youth. When he had first lived there; the family home. When his mother and father were still alive.

Henry’s heart beat faster. It had been fifty years at least since he had last rummaged through the contents of the case. Part of his life was there. He paused, but only barely, since the case held no fears. It contained no hidden secrets.

He opened the lid and without looking inside he lifted the suitcase and turned it over so that its contents fell with a satisfying plop onto the heavy mattress. Carefully, almost reverentially, he placed the case on the bedroom floor. He peered at the litter on the bed with some disappointment. He had remembered it differently. This pile represented his youth. He had expected so much more. He hoped this would not turn out to be a wasted effort.

He leaned forward and carefully smoothed the jumble. He hadn’t seen this junk in more than fifty years but immediately so much looked familiar. His souvenirs. Why had he collected them? He supposed it had been the arrogance of youth. Had he believed that one day he would be famous and revered; that these pathetic artefacts would be sought out by scholars and historians. A professor at an Oxbridge college would use them as source material for his third or maybe fourth book about the importance of Henry Pottinger.

Ha! To be young again. Henry, now fast approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, often spoke about the arrogance of youth. He knew the best way to deal with that. The old-fashioned ways were still the best.

Henry had achieved some degree of fame in his life, but no scholar had wanted to write about him. Ironically perhaps, his fame (and quite a small fortune) had been made as the author of a series of history textbooks. For more than thirty years he had been required reading for every schoolchild in Britain and the Commonwealth. That was a lot of books and a great deal of royalties. That income and a legacy from his parents meant Henry had never done a day’s proper work since the age of thirty.

Henry had used the time that money bought him industriously. Henry Pottinger had constructed for himself a second life. An alternative existence. Henry Pottinger was not in fact Henry Pottinger. Henry Pottinger was an assumed name; a cipher. Henry Pottinger would never have been allowed to write and publish a textbook for schoolboys. Henry Pottinger would never have allowed near a schoolboy. Not in a million years. So, the name that adorned the history textbooks was not Henry Pottinger.

Henry Pottinger enjoyed his life. And he intended to go on enjoying it for many more years to come. He had made a great number of friends and his home, tucked away in a leafy suburb of the non-descript town of Brocklehurst, was famous among men who shared Henry’s (non-history) interests. Indeed, it was on account of these friends that Henry Pottinger was now rummaging through his souvenirs.

A seventy-fifth birthday celebration was being planned for Henry Pottinger and, as is often the case at such milestone anniversaries, his chums thought it would be a cracking wheeze to surround him with memories of his life. That had sent Henry Pottinger climbing into the far recesses of the attic.

He surveyed his early adult life spread before him. Time plays tricks on a person and had it really been about fifty years since he had last seen all this? So much of it looked familiar. The edge of a small pink-coloured box peeked between a dozen envelopes. Ha! Henry Pottinger knew what that was. He gripped it eagerly in his hand. The box had a clear transparent plastic lid. Henry Pottinger did not have to open the box, its content was clearly visible. It was a plastic key, silver in colour, attached to the numerals two and one. A twenty-first birthday memento from his parents, deliberately chosen for its tackiness.

He tossed it back onto the bed and retrieved one of the envelopes. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it contained a birthday card. Eagerly, Henry Pottinger pulled back the flap and tugged out the card. “Happy 21st birthday,” he read. “Now we are legal. Love Uncle Ricky.” Henry Pottinger chewed down on is bottom lip, an affectation that indicated his intense pleasure. “Ha! Ha! God almighty!” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Now we are legal. How much had changed since he had turned twenty-one. And “Uncle” Ricky – he was no blood relation. Gosh! Henry Pottinger giggled at how much Uncle Ricky had taught him.

Gently, he placed the card on the bedside table. It would raise a smile at his birthday party.  He returned to the bed; a formal brown envelope lay askew on top of a copy of Football Monthly. Henry Pottinger didn’t need to look at that – he knew already, it celebrated England’s victory in the World  Cup. He just as easily recognised the envelope. He couldn’t supress his excitement. With trembling hands he eased out the one sheet of flimsy paper it contained. “Ha!” He boomed and dissolved into chuckles. His final school report. He licked his lips and started to read. Even after so many decades he found he could recite the contents of the report by heart.

He is “headstrong,” his housemaster had written. “Will find it difficult to make his way in life if he continues to be unable to accept authority.” His chuckles rose to roars of laughter. “Oh, yes,” Henry Pottinger said, “I must frame this. It will take pride of place.”

Henry Pottinger (as he was not called while at school) had joined the sixth-form at St Francis Independent Grammar School when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a senior post at the local municipal council. Unable to accept authority. The eighteen-year-old Henry Pottinger had been a frequent visitor to Mr Durrant’s study. Henry Pottinger held the school report, his eyes misting. He saw himself lowering his body across the low back of the housemaster’s old leather armchair. His head low, bottom high. His pale-grey trousers pulling snugly into his stretched buttocks. The aroma of stale sweat that permeated the chair’s seat clogged his throat. Once again, Henry Pottinger felt the gentle tap-tap-tap of the thick, but whippy, rattan cane as it found its aim across the fleshiest part of his round buttock cheeks.

Henry Pottinger could never see this (of course, since his gaze was committed to the seat cushion) but he imagined Mr Durrant then flexing the cane between both hands before swishing it through the air. Henry Pottinger could feel the cane return to its target. Then the cane lifted away before returning with tremendous force to strike deep into his meaty bum before rebounding. The cane rose and fell six times. Six-of-the-best. St Francis was a traditional school after all.

Henry Pottinger read the words again: unable to accept authority. He had been beaten like that on three separate occasions in his final term. Three times! Aged eighteen. Had Durrant been a complete imbecile? Had he not realised what was going on? How Henry Pottinger had lusted for those sessions in the housemaster’s study. How he fantasied about one day being ordered by the cane-swishing Mr Durrant, “Lower your trousers. Bend over that chair.” Oh, how Henry Pottinger had wanted to take a full-six across the seat of his white cotton Y-fronts. Henry Pottinger laughed at the memory. It would not happen at his school but it did not take too long after he arrived at Oxford before he experienced that exquisite pleasure.

Oxford. University. Suddenly Henry Pottinger remembered. The photograph. Did he still have it? He delved into the pile on the eiderdown. Yes! Yes! He pulled at a yellowing envelope, hands trembling. “This is it! Oh My God!” he trilled. “I haven’t seen this since ….” His eyes misted. A young man (himself) in pyjamas standing in the corner of  room, hands on head in the traditional naughty boy pose. The pyjama bottoms are at his feet and bottom bare to the wind and red raw after a sound spanking. Henry Pottinger licked his lips. “Oh Lor!” he exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten.”

z used after corner pyjamas down study or domestic

That bonkers weekend at Brocklehurst he had spent with his pal, Gregor. That mad man (what the dickens was his name?) who turned half of his house into a replica public school, complete with classroom and headmaster’s study. The photograph showed Henry Pottinger in that study. His heart raced and his throat dried simultaneously as it all flooded back.

“You boy, stand there,” the headmaster glowered as he pointed to a place on the carpet in front of his desk. “Why have you been sent to me at this ungodly hour?” Henry Pottinger stands nervously, feeling a little conspicuous in his heavy striped pyjamas. They were made for a taller, stouter boy. Even with the drawstring tightly knotted he feared the pyjamas bottoms would slip down his thighs at any moment.

“Maitland, the head boy sent me. I was out of the dormitory after lights out.”

“Ha!” the headmaster ejaculated. “Up to no good, of course. No good comes from being out of the dormitory after lights out.”

Henry Pottinger nods his agreement. It is unsure what else he is expected to say. There is an uncomfortable silence. The headmaster breaks it with a bark, “Well, boy what have you got to say for yourself!” Henry Pottinger stares down at his bare feet. What is he supposed to say? His head is in a whirl. Frankly, he wishes the headmaster would stop all the jawing and move onto the action.

“Pah!” he headmaster rises from his chair. “So, you want to add dumb insolence to the charge list, eh?” Henry Pottinger shrugs, realising he is not very good at this. “Bah! Pah!” the headmaster is hamming it up  bit. “Well, m’lad,” he says, suddenly adopting a cod Scottish accent, “Och! w’ll see abah tat.” He opens the drawer to his desk and reaches in. Henry Pottinger’s eyes follow the headmaster’s movement closely. His heart is racing and he feels a slight clenching in his buttocks. The headmaster withdraws a leather strap. It has a handle at one end and the business end is split into three tails.

The headmaster holds the tawse high in both hands so that Henry Pottinger gets a good look. It is as if the headmaster is making a religious offering. “Och,” the headmaster says, “yer know what to expect.” Henry Pottinger honestly does not. He knows he is to receive corporal punishment as that is the whole point of the weekend. But, he had never been beaten with a leather tawse before. His bottom has been battered with canes, slippers and hairbrushes. On one memorable occasion he received six cuts of a heavy birch rod; but a leather tawse, no.

The headmaster is now on the move. He stands in front of his desk alongside Henry Pottinger. The headmaster swipes the heavy strap through the air. Sweat trickles down Henry Pottinger’s spine. At close quarters he can see the strap is awesome. It is about a foot or fourteen inches long and maybe a quarter to half inch thick. It will pack a wallop, Henry Pottinger has no doubt about that. Especially in the hands of the headmaster who has already demonstrated his expertise with a swishy rattan cane.

“Take down your pyjama trousers and bend across my desk,” the headmaster says swiftly. In his excitement he has forgotten to speak in the Scottish accent. Henry Pottinger fumbles with the drawstring of his pyjamas, he will be glad to let them down before they fall under their own steam. His buttocks and legs are now bare and for the first time Henry Pottinger feels how cold it is in the study. There is an open fire but it hasn’t been made up.

The headmaster moves away from the desk, he places his hands behind his back and strolls purposefully across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he turns and retraces his steps. Henry Pottinger thinks he looks a lot like Groucho Marx and stifles a giggle.

“Bend over boy!” the headmaster shouts the instruction. Henry Pottinger wonders if the neighbours will hear. Then he remembers the houses in this part of The Avenue are large and detached from one another. The headmaster could commit murder and no one would hear.

Henry Pottinger is a short distance from the desk so he shuffles like a penguin until he is close enough so he can bend across. The headmaster has cleared the desk top and all that is left is a large blotter. The lower button of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket is undone and his bare flesh touches the cold walnut desk. Its coldness and the excitement of presenting his bared bottom for chastisement sends a shiver through his body.

The headmaster has stopped his pacing and from the other end of the study he admires the sight presented for him. He has become intimately acquainted with Henry Pottinger’s bottom over the past twenty-four hours. The fading lines from a swift six of the best delivered across the seat of the trousers earlier in the day bare testimony to this fact.

The headmaster stands behind Henry Pottinger and admires once more his fine round buttock cheeks. They firm up when he is stretched across the desk, but when standing they are a little more fleshy. The headmaster runs the tip of his tongue across his dry, almost chapped lips. He rests the tawse on the desk so as to free-up both hands. With those, he carefully takes hold of the end of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket and ever so carefully he folds it once, then once again so that it is quite clear of his target area. He cracks a smile, cups his right palm and then gently he caresses Henry Pottinger’s left buttock. The headmaster is delighted that Henry Pottinger shivers when he does this. The headmaster pats the left buttock and rubs the back of Henry Pottinger’s thighs. Then he gives the boy a playful smack across the fleshiest part of his right cheek.

The headmaster stands back and gently lays the three tails of the worn leather tawse across the centre of Henry Pottinger’s bottom. He licks his lips one more time, grips the handle tightly, raises the strap so it rests on his shoulder and then with all the force he is able to muster he whips it down so that it sinks into the flesh. He is rewarded with the sight of a glowing red stripe. Henry Pottinger’s hips wriggle and he grips the far edge of the desk. A second stroke whistles through the air before connecting an inch below the first. Henry Pottinger turns his head, a long drawn out whistle escapes from his half-closed mouth.

Back in the bedroom Henry Pottinger the soon-to-be seventy-five-year-old carefully replaces the photograph in the yellowing envelope. What a day this is turning out to be, he tells himself as once again he burrows among the debris in search of more memories.

Picture credit, CP Services, London

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Proud of my son

new story 2

z used after bed jeans down domestic (1)

I would be the first to tell you how proud I am of my son Tyler. He’s at university now, and I am certain he has a fine future ahead of him. Of course, like all nineteen-year-olds he is far from perfect. Often he thinks the world resolves around him. He can be self-centred and downright selfish. He’s a bit lazy and sometimes needs an “incentive” to do his chores about the house. He has been known to stay out late and when he does come home, it is obvious to me that he has been drinking alcohol.

As I said, I am proud of Tyler, but I also acknowledge that it is my duty to help him along that rocky road from childhood to adulthood. And, “duty” is not too strong a word for it. Afterall, what are fathers for?

I had to step up to the plate today. I should have spotted that trouble was looming. I could have headed it off at the pass. I took my eye off the ball. I blame myself. But, when duty called, I was not found wanting.

What happened was the mid-terms. These are the examinations students do half way through the semester to see that they have been studying hard and are on track for success. Tyler took four mid-terms. He flunked three. Three abject failures. You don’t have to be a statistician to see the pattern there. Too much time spent on the Internet and not enough with his nose in a book. Not to mention the time spent in the bar. Of course, I assume the nights he came home swaying and giggling his head off, it was drink – and not drugs. Note to self: search Tyler’s room.

I am paying a fortune for Tyler to study at university. Nothing is cheap these days. That’s one of the reasons I insisted he study at the local university. It saves on paying rent. We are lucky that the University of Brocklehurst has a fine reputation. Tyler could do a lot worst and attend one of those jumped-up technical colleges masquerading as a university.

I will not sit by idly and see Tyler fail. It is my duty to save him from himself. This is not new territory for me. In fact, it is déjà vu all over again. There is a reason why my grandfather’s old razor strop hangs from a nail in the cupboard under the stairs. From the moment the results appeared online Tyler knew what I would do. A very similar thing happened in his final year at school. You don’t want to hear about that but let me just say that the whipping bucked up his ideas. He passed the exams well enough to get a place at university.

So, here we were again. Tyler had the grace to look abashed and a little ashamed when he handed to me the printout of his grades. I frowned and shook my head gravely from side to side. It is important to express disapproval. I let him know how much he had disappointed me. “It is your fault,” I frowned, “You have nobody to blame but yourself.” Tyler, his head bowed and his face scarlet, agreed.

“Well,” I make sure I am in prefect control of myself at times such as this. There is no need for histrionics, “Well,” I repeated, “You know what must happen now son.” I shook my head as if I carried the troubles of the whole world on my shoulder. “Fetch the strap and meet me in your bedroom.” It was a clear, calm order. I knew Tyler would obey me. I am very proud of my son.

He trudged off to the cupboard under the stairs and I took up position in the bedroom. It is a small room and once the bed is in place there’s not much room for two people to move around. Tyler took his time fetching the strap (I knew he would, he always does). I didn’t allow this delay to affect my temper. At last my son appeared in the doorway. His was still blushing bright-red. Tyler has a clear open face and because he is quite thin and not very tall he looks a bit younger than he is. I joke that if he put on his old school blazer and wore a pair of short trousers he would be able to get away with paying the children’s fare on the buses. He never laughs when I say this.

I held out my hand and he passed me the strap. I held it in my hand, testing its weight. I always do this. I don’t know why, this thing had seen some action, I’d used in on my kids a few times over the years. My father used it on me and grandpa used it on him. Perhaps grandpa’s dad also used it; the strap is certainly a family heirloom.

It was a length of leather more than eighteen inches long and three inches or so wide. Back in the day men used it to sharpen their cut-throat razors. In many homes it had a secondary use. How many backsides had been blistered with one of these over the years?

I thwacked the strap into my palm. Yes, without this little incentive Tyler would never have made it to university. Now, if he doesn’t buck his ideas up and start studying hard, he’ll fail his university course and be put on the scrapheap, aged nineteen.

Tyler’s dark brown blue eyes gazed at me while I lectured him about how much money of mine he was wasting. I told him I was proud of him. I said he needed to make something of himself. I told him it was my duty to help him succeed.

All the time Tyler gawked at me, his eyes shining. I paused. Now, it was his time to speak. He croaked an apology. I couldn’t quite make out what he said. I think it was, “Sorry.” He gave no explanation for his failure. There wasn’t much he could say. He’s a bright boy – genuinely so. If he put in the effort he could ace his exams. He had demonstrated that at school. He just needed a helping hand.

I slapped the strap into my left palm. It was my way of saying, “I’m ready to go.” Colour drained from Tyler’s face. His eyes moistened. I thought he was about to burst into tears. He didn’t. He doesn’t. He never has. Well, not in a very long time.

I tightened my grip on the strap and looked around. There was almost literally no room to swing a cat. There was a small plastic chair that he could drape over, but I wouldn’t have space to swing back the leather.

We both knew the solution to the problem; we had done this before.

“Straighten that duvet on the bed. Then lay face down.” Tyler made no protest. He pulled the duvet until all the creases had disappeared. He placed a pillow at the top of the bed. I was proud of his fortitude. And, I admired his foresight. I knew the pillow would have an important part to play as our little drama unfolded.

I was calm, and so was Tyler. “Now, lower your jeans and underpants and lay across the bed.”

With steady hands he unbuckled his belt, popped the rivet on his jeans and tugged at the zipper. Then he put his thumbs under the waist of his underpants and pulled down his jeans and pants together so they just reached below his buttocks. Then, he knelt onto the bed and stretched out

He wriggled a bit until his face was resting on the pillow. His buttocks and the backs of his thighs were hairless, which just emphasised how young he looked. I tested the strap by holding it over my shoulder so that it tapped against the small of my back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when I tried to lash it down. I knew from past experience it would just about clear.

Satisfied on my height, I then tested my distance. I stood three feet, then two feet from the edge of the bed. My intention was that the strap should lash Tyler in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but I soon got my eye in.

By now my son was biting down on the pillow. His arms were stretched ahead of him. It looked all the world like he was posed to dive into a swimming pool.

I don’t believe in prolonging the agony. We were here for a purpose; it was best to get on with it. I raised the leather strap across my shoulder and brought it crashing down into Tyler’s bum. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Tyler’s body buckled under the lash and he bit deep into the pillow. A tiny trickle of spit ran from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into Tyler’s backside. His body shuddered. Two scarlet stripes ran in parallel across his cheeks. He clasped his hands together, but he kept them well away from my target area. He was submitting himself to the punishment.

It took another three lashes of the razor strop to cover the entire area of his now raw buttocks. After another three purplish bruises started to form. Tyler bit deep into the pillow as I continued in my duty and snapped another six hard stingers – one after the other in quick succession – across his rock-hard bottom.

His legs flapped and his back arched and I knew this was a reflex action made by his body. It was nature’s way of dealing with the severe pain that scorched Tyler. The back of his head was soaked with perspiration and the pillow was damp with spittle.

I stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s naked curves. It lingered long enough to give me a chance to get my breath. I am no slouch, but physical exercise like this takes it out of me. Tyler knew I had not finished my discipline. He tensed, bracing himself for a further onslaught.

I got into a rhythm and spanked him harder and harder, satisfied that the lashes left imprints into bare flesh. Stepping back I snapped the leather down again as hard as I could. I was clear in my mind that I was whipping my son, whom I loved dearly. I channeled my thoughts on how I was saving Tyler from himself. After this he would return to his studies with renewed enthusiasm. He would work hard and pass those examinations.

This gave me the energy to apply the leather with as much strength as I could muster. As the thrashing continued I realized I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was heavy, but it was nowhere as bad as Tyler’s. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air as his body flailed from left to right. His face was almost as red as his backside as he struggled to retain control of himself. He buried his face into the pillow.

I dropped the strap onto the bed. “Put it back in the cupboard when you are finished,” I said softly. I quietly left the room. I don’t think I imagined it when I heard doleful sobbing from behind the door after I closed it. I went to the kitchen and made myself tea. I was in the living room reading the morning newspaper when maybe an hour later Tyler appeared. His face glowed. He had obviously been scrubbing it with a cloth. “Thanks, Dad,” he said quietly, and gave me a thumbs-up. I gulped back a sob. Before I could tell Tyler how proud I was of him, he had gone through the front door and was hurrying up the driveway.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Dean’s list

new story 2

zused paddle jeans touch toes american school

Bruce is standing with his nose centimetres from the wall. The smell of damp plaster is cloying. He thinks he is about to sneeze. The passageway is hot and humid. The mid-afternoon sun blazes but none of the windows are open. They have been stuck closed for years: no budget for maintenance Bruce stares dead ahead as instructed. To his right two other students stand obediently. To his left are a further three. All stand in silence. All Bruce can hear is rhythmic breathing. No one dares speak. All afraid of breaking more rules.

Bruce was the third to arrive. All were summoned to attend at three o’clock sharp and don’t dare be late. All arrived early. Some earlier than others. None knew that the rule was first to arrive, first to be dealt with. Bruce feels under dressed. He is in blue jeans and green t-shirt. Both of the two ahead of him in the queue are in smart business suits. The others are in smart trousers. All wear neck ties. One wears a blazer. Bruce thinks he looks like a schoolboy. Now he thinks about it, less than six months ago he was.

The heavy oak door at the end of the passageway opens. Nobody turns his head, but they all sense what is happening. A tall, thin teenager shuffles out. His face soaked in perspiration, eyes dampened by tears. His neck is scarlet. He hesitates slightly, whispers to the boy at the head of the line and then darts down the passageway, both hands clutching the seat of his trousers. The air is thick with expectation. Still nobody speaks. The boy at the head of the queue fastens the button of his suit jacket, checks his tie and sucks in a lungful of air. With absolutely no enthusiasm he knocks on the door. The boy catches the faintest sound from the other side, he turns the handle and pushes against the heavy oak.

Another day at Brocklehurst University. The same ritual is played out every afternoon at 3 p.m., Monday to Thursday. Week in and week out. The Dean of Discipline likes to spend Friday afternoons at the golf club so he brings forward the line-up to one o’clock.

This is Bruce’s first time on the Dean’s List. It is his third month at the university. It is a wonder to him he has escaped for so long. The list of rules at Brocklehurst is endless. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Be on time. Get good grades. Keep your nose clean. Don’t make waves. Or else. It’s the Dean’s List. And, that means only one thing. The door creeps open again. Another sorrowful boy limps out. “Six!” he gasps. “Bare arsed,” he says disbelievingly. “Bare arsed!” he repeats to make certain they all understand he is incredulous. “Your turn,” he nods at his companion in the suit. “Bloody hell!” He waddles down the passageway towards the staircase and freedom.

Bruce continues staring at the wall. Six. Bare arsed. He shuts his eyes. Bloody hell indeed. Corporal punishment. At university. Aged eighteen. The world is turning upside down. It started when Britain crashed out of the European Union. The government collapsed. The opposition parties were useless. There was turmoil everywhere. Food shortages. Riots on the streets. Suddenly from nowhere came the New Democratic Party to save the nation. They knew what Britain needed. A little bit of gardening. They had made that joke a lot at the time the NDP came to power. Lawn Order. Cut the grass neat and tidy. They meant law and order, of course. And they meant it too.

In the flick of an eyelid new regulations were passed. Curfews were introduced. Food was back in the shops. The immigrants were sent home. The public loved it. Especially, when the NDP went for the no-good layabout youth. That gormless politician who spoke like he had a plum in his mouth and the funny double-barrelled surname called, “bring back the birch for juvenile delinquents”. So, they did. And the cane at school. Before you knew it no fellow under the age of thirty was safe from corporal punishment. Students at university, apprentices in factories, office juniors and many more suffered.

Bruce has a tenuous grasp of all this history. It matters little to him. All he knows for sure is he flunked his mid-term examination. Too much time spent with his lips around a beer bottle and not enough with his nose in a book. He knows he has no one to blame but himself.

His heart is trying to pound through his ribcage. His head aches a little. Six. Bare arsed. This is unchartered territory. Like many eighteen year olds he has never been spanked before. The laws are that new. The door opens. Bruce gets a whiff of sour breath as the boy leans towards him and croaks, “Your turn.”

Bruce faces the door. His eyelids flicker. His heart races. His hand is unsteady. He raps his knuckles on the oak panel and waits for the call. His palm sweats as he turns the handle and pushes his way into the Dean of Discipline’s office. The room is large. A conference table runs almost its entire length. A heavy sideboard takes up one wall. A window – this one also jammed shut – faces him. Dean Cooper holds a tablet in his hand. He peers over the top of his spectacles at the screen. “Name?” he does not look up at Bruce. Bruce answers, his voice cracking. Dean Cooper uses his thumbs to find Bruce on his list. “Ah,” Dean Cooper says, still not looking at the student before him. “First time. I see.” He doesn’t give Bruce time to confirm this. “Stand there.” Dean Cooper speaks but does not say where it is Bruce must position himself. Bruce stands in a space between the conference table and the door. He is surprised he is so calm. He watches Dean Cooper, a short, dumpy man in his fifties, reach over to the top of the sideboard. Only now does Bruce see the dark-brown rectangular paddle that rests there.

Dean Cooper grips it in his right hand. It is about thirty centimetres long and maybe ten wide. Bruce has never seen a punishment paddle before but he knows instinctively that this one has been lovingly crafted. Twelve holes are neatly drilled in groups of two along its length. Sunlight reflects off its thick coating of varnish. “Face that way.” Dean Cooper nods towards the far wall. Bruce swivels on the balls of his feet. Any moment now, he will be ordered to bare his arse. He knows he has no choice. He must do as instructed. If he refuses punishment he will be expelled from the university. He won’t be able to get a job and he will end up in one of those camps for the young jobless that the NDP has just set up.

Bruce scrunches up his face, bracing himself for the humiliation. Bent over, arse bared to the wind, his crack and balls on full view to this oily old man. “Assume the position.” Bruce hesitates. Assume the position. What does that mean exactly? Take down your jeans? Underpants too? Dean Cooper snarls, unable to hide his irritation. He wants to get this over with. He doesn’t have all afternoon. There is a gin and tonic with his name on it waiting for him at the Three Fishers.

“Assume the position,” he repeats. Then, mindful that Bruce is a first-timer, he adds, “Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight.” A wave of relief washes over Bruce. Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight. So it isn’t to be bare-arsed at all. Almost with gratitude, Bruce leans forward. It is harder to assume the position and keep his knees straight than he thought. He feels his jeans tighten across his buttocks. He winces when Dean Cooper places the paddle across the centre of his cheeks and pats gently. Bruce stares down at the patterned rug beneath his feet. It is brown and full of dust. Absurdly, at that moment he remembers most of the cleaning staff lost their jobs recently because of cuts in budgets. The wood feels heavy as it taps across his bottom. Dean Cooper is getting his aim.

Bruce closes his eyes tight and tenses his buttocks. The paddle raises and returns, crashing into his cheeks with tremendous speed. The force knocks him forward and it takes some doing for Bruce to stop himself falling headlong onto the floor. He grips his ankles more tightly. The paddle crashes down again. It feels like Dean Cooper has pressed a hot iron into his flesh. Within seconds Dean Cooper whacks the paddle six times into Bruce’s bum. “Stand. Go.” Dean Cooper returns the paddle to the sideboard and takes hold of his tablet waiting for the next boy.

Bruce is winded. His bottom hurts. Quite a bit. But, he is not in agony. The pain is sharp at first but quickly it turns to an intense throb. Even as he prepares to leave the room, it is becoming a dull ache. It will be gone entirely by the time Bruce reaches his room and can inspect the damage.

Bruce tugs open the heavy door and pushes himself through. He is breathing heavily and he thinks his face must be either deathly pale or bright scarlet. He nods at the next boy in the line. “Good luck,” he says as he makes his leave. “It wasn’t so bad,” he thinks to himself and wonders how long it will be before he finds out what it feels like to get it on the bare.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A memory in the attic

new story 2

z used retro twosome one pyjamas domestic - A Weber Brams (2a)

“Granddad! Granddad!” It was Christine calling from the other room, “Look what I’ve found. It’s you I know it is!”

My heart sank. What now! Why couldn’t she just leave me alone. She hurried into the room clutching a small photograph in her hand. Another piece of treasure, or so she thought. She had taken upon herself to clear out the attic space in my house. Clutter, she called it. All the stuff I had accumulated over a lifetime. Stuff I hadn’t seen in years – decades, maybe – and frankly, had no desire ever to see again.

“Look,” she beamed handing me the picture. “It is you isn’t it.” I took it in an unsteady hand and peered intently. It showed two young men, one formally dressed in a collar and tie seated at an expensive upholstered chair. The other stood over him, dressed in pyjamas. They both were staring at something that was not in the picture but at the other end of the room.

“Is it you? It is!” Why was Christine so damned pleased to have found this picture? I wasn’t. I think it sent a shudder through my body, I can’t be certain because I get all kinds of aches and pains at my age; it could have been anything.

I recognised the setting immediately. It was a rooming house I lived in while at university. Christine was correct, it was me; but the more I stared at the picture the less certain I was which of the two young men I was: they (we) almost looked identical. We might have been brothers; twins even. We had our hair cut in a way that was fashionable among young men of our type at the time; it was smeared away from the forehead with brilliantine. The grease made our hair seem more blond than it actually was. We both had high cheekbones with clear open and healthy-looking faces. We looked (as we were) like a couple who had never had to do a day’s hard work in their lives.

At my age I can’t always remember what I ate for breakfast that morning but my memories from sixty-plus years ago are as clear as a bell. The closer I studied the photograph the clearer my memory became. I was the fellow in the pyjamas. My companion seated on the chair was Harcourt Llewelyn (how could one forget a name like that?). In the photograph we seem to look older than we were; we couldn’t have been quite twenty when it was taken.

“Who is he? Where was it taken?” Christine was full of questions. I shivered again and playing for time since I had no intention of satisfying her infernal curiosity I took the picture and first held it to the sunlight streaming from the nearby french windows then I screwed up my eyes tight and squinted at it. “No idea. Never seen it before,” I said and then to deflect attention I asked, “Where did you find it?”

I knew Christine would give me the most detailed account of the circumstances of her find: which box it was in, where the box had been stored and on and on. She duly obliged and as her piercing, and frankly extremely irritating voice whined on, my thoughts travelled back sixty or so years.

The boarding house was run by a Mrs Greening who had a long-standing relationship with the university. All her “guests” as she insisted on calling the lodgers were students. Perhaps I should explain to any readers who have been students at university at any time in the past forty years or so that these were very different times. We might have been twenty years old but we were certainly not considered adults. The college was for males only and the same of course went for the rooming house. We lived to very strict rules and were required to live lives of the utmost propriety. Chaps who frequented public houses or were known to consort with young ladies of a certain repute soon found themselves “sent down” from the university.

Mrs Greening’s husband Freeman took it upon himself to be our moral compass. He would say that since we were not yet legally adults he would act in loco parentis – which in his mind meant he took the place of our fathers. In the event, since all his guests were former public school men who had spent their formative years at elite boarding schools and away from their homes, he might better have described himself as our housemaster.

Harcourt and I became firm friends and neither of us had much interest in our studies and spent much of our time idling around town. Of course, you can only get away with this for so long. Soon, my tutor hauled me into his study for a wigging. As I recall he was an unworldly kind of a man who would never be interested in the delights of town; not even one so lacking in immorality as Brocklehurst. He cared little about my needs and desires, his only concern was that I should complete my essays and pass through the university without blemishing his own record as a teacher. He was (I think now) also a bit of a coward. Certainly, he disliked any kind of confrontation. I think that is why, rather than deal with my idleness himself, he reported my behaviour to Freeman Greening.

Greening had a high opinion of himself and his place as a leader in God’s university. This was undoubtedly encouraged by the House of the Sacred Light, a church (of sorts) that demanded the utmost obedience to its teachings. He also enjoyed the authority of the university and once my tutor referred my case to him he undoubtedly had carte blanche to deal with the matter as he saw fit.

Should I have been surprised by the course of action he took? Not really. As I have said these were different times, we lived by different standards. As I look at the photograph now I remember that it had once been larger, that is using the technical term it has been “cropped” to edit out other unwanted detail. I don’t remember if other persons have been cut out but I do know that if you follow the eyeline of Harcourt and myself we are looking towards a large glass-fronted mahogany bookcase and shelves. Chief in my memory is the cupboard with double-doors next to that. It was always kept locked and as far as I knew the only key to it resided at all times upon Mr Greening’s person.

It was one evening in March that I discovered what was kept inside. We had dined and the guests were sent to their rooms to study. As I moved away from the table to join them Mrs Greening caught my attention. “Mr Greening wishes to see you,” she said not even trying to hide the pleasure speaking the words gave her, “in the library.” Then she bustled away to give the cook and housemaid a hard time over nothing at all. The library. That was one of the couple’s many pretensions. In other houses it would be a lounge or (at a pinch) a drawing room. The only books in this library were leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare and a dictionary, the only human hands that touched them were the maids’ who dusted them.

Mr Greening stood with his back to the open, roaring fire warming his bottom. As I entered the room he placed his hands behind his back and took a stance that he imagined made him look magisterial. “Come in Hamilton,” he droned. He waggled his head and his jowls wobbled. “Stand there boy.” I had not been warned by my tutor that he would report me but at that moment as I shuffled to the spot on the rug indicated to me I knew my fate.

Mr Greening confirmed it with a short lecture about my behaviour. I nodded in places that I thought appropriate. I had no intention of arguing with him. I was guilty of the crimes he outlined. I knew he had the authority of the university on his side. Mr Greening liked the sound of his own voice and extracted all that he could from my visit. He enjoyed his sense of moral superiority. I determined not to give him additional satisfaction and when the time came for me to speak I apologised. “It won’t happen again,” I added knowing that these were empty words and that Harcourt and I would be on the town the very next day.

Mr Greening grunted, “Won’t happen again.” His flabby, florid face turned a darker shade of red. “We shall most certainly ensure that it won’t happen again.” He shook his head again, his jowls trembled and his many chins wobbled. Then, unsteadily on his feet, he shambled across the room. He paused and extracting every last ounce of performance from the occasion he thrust his hand in his pocket and I saw his fist clenching and quivering. At last he found a small key on a ring and with a trembling hand he made several attempts before finally getting it into the lock. He hesitated (I believe for dramatic effect) before swinging the door open. He stood to one side ensuring that I could get an uninterrupted view of the cupboard’s contents.

Had I been thirteen years old and new to the rigours of an English public school education I might have gasped with horror at the sight. My heart might pound with fear. Tears might flood from my eyes.  Had I been thirteen that might have happened. However, I was probably twenty years old at this time; I felt I had seen it all before. In fact, Mr Greening proved to me that I hadn’t. Even at St. Tom’s where the infliction of corporal punishment was a daily routine no master had a collection of implements quite like Mr Greening. There were several straps of differing lengths, widths and thicknesses. A taws with two fingers worn with age and use hung from a hook alongside a couple of wooden paddles. A white plimsoll lay on a shelf. But, what impressed me most was the impressive range of whippy canes; many undoubtedly made of rattan, but some (even from a distance) I discerned were the denser Malacca kind.

Mr Greening wheezed heavily when he leaned into the cupboard to inspect his toys more closely. Did saliva drip from his chin as he took up one cane after another and tested it lovingly between his hands? Surely there was no reason to do this; he would have been very well acquainted with the properties of every instrument in that cupboard. He was a connoisseur, of that I could have no doubt.

At last he decided on a traditional school-type cane. It was a little longer and maybe thicker, but with the typical crook handle, than the one my housemaster used on me as he drove me in my studies. Sweat moistened his forehead and his complexion was now puce as he turned to face me with the thing in his hand. He swiped it through the air and it travelled with menace. It would without doubt deliver a tremendous flogging. I stood my heart pounding (you have no control of it in such circumstances) but outwardly I was calm. Mr Greening would have his way with me. There was nothing I could do, not if I wished to stay at the university. Even though I cared little for my studies I knew my father expected me to come down with a degree. He already had a career lined up for me. I would not let him down.

Mr Greening wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The open fire roared but the room was always draughty and it wasn’t that warm. I saw him lick his lips and then he coughed to clear his throat. “Please bare your backside and put yourself across the back of that chair.”

So it was to be bare-arsed. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not with Mr Greening and his moral posturing. I should expect nothing less. I was (I am) an old St. Tom’s man and if there was anything I learned at school it was to take your punishment. No fuss. You get caught, the master jaws you for a bit, he orders you to bend over, over you go, he beats you, you stand up, you shake hands, you leave and the world carries on as before.

I had learned well. Students in those days dressed as Harcourt had in the photograph, we could have been young businessmen. I lowered my flannels and as I sported fashionable woollen drawers (rather than the one-piece combinations our fathers wore) I was able to bare my buttocks with ease. The chair he indicated was the very one in the photograph and its back was a very good height for a young man of my size to bend across. I took hold of my neck tie and hooked it over my shoulder before diving over. Once back at school I had almost choked myself when my tie caught between my body and the chair in such a position.

The chair was constructed mainly of soft cushions and my weight sank into them. Without awaiting instructions from Mr Greening I pushed my head low, parted my feet and raised my bottom high. This way I ensured he had a terrific target to aim at. The floorboards creaked when Mr Greening positioned himself behind me. I felt his hot breath against my naked buttocks as he leant in to take hold of my shirt tail and drag it halfway up my back and out of the way. Once that was done he gently laid the cane just below the centre of my bum where the cheeks fold into the thighs. His wheezing reached a crescendo when he sawed the rod across my bum.

The sound of the crack of cane against my taut flesh resounded off the walls. At first I felt nothing and then excruciating agony. My head rose with the shock and I had to grip hard the soft cushion to stop myself leaping from the chair and dancing across the floor. I had been caned before many (many) times but nothing had prepared me for Mr Greening’s cruelty.

He cracked the cane down so hard I thought my backside would come off. He made true the ancient schoolboy saying, “He took my arse off.” He was intense.

A second lash quickly followed and although it was stinging it was just about bearable. The third stroke changed that and it was like he had forced me sit on the open fire. The next three were the most excruciating strokes I had ever felt. I was contorting about like a cat on heat, gasping for breath as the inferno built up.

He gave me a dozen in all. The last five just had me bouncing around, screaming in pain. Tears were pouring down my face. I felt as if I was being cut to ribbons. The cane had caught me on my thigh and one had come close to catching my balls. At last I was allowed to get up. My hands flew round and I went into a panic as I felt my backside was full of crisscross welts. The flogging had hurt more than I could have imagined. My bum was raw and painful and the fire was raging fiercely.

I hopped around, stomped my feet like a soldier on sentry duty, my body doubled like a hairgrip. I couldn’t get my breath. I wanted to vomit, I hawked but nothing came up. Mr Greening smiled thinly, he was having breathing problems of his own.

I cannot remember exactly what happened next, but moments later I was back in my room. I do remember that. Had Harcourt carried me up from the library? I was face down on the bed, my trousers and underwear nowhere to be seen. Harcourt treated my wounds. I remember much blood on his silk handkerchief. And then? Which of us instigated it? Had I made the first move? Surely I was too exhausted so it would have been Harcourt. Our bodies entwined, tongues flailed.

“Granddad!” it was Christine again. “Are you even listening to me,” she chided affectionately. “Tell me, who is it in the picture with you?”

“Sorry love,” I sighed, “I really can’t remember. How about making a nice cup of tea?”

 

Picture credit: A Weber Brams

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wishful thinking

new story 2

z used otk pants chair student sting

Dr Duncan Rawlinson, Senior Lecturer in Liberal Studies at Brocklehurst University, sits at his desk, head in hands. His temples throb, his throat is raw. Blood rushes through his arteries, he cannot catch his breath. Oh my God! he gasps, I’m having a stroke. He puts his head between his knees, breathes deeply. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out.

He can’t go on, not like this. Life is not worth living. This is not why he became a teacher. Those effing students. They treat him like he was a joke. They turn up to seminars when they feel like it and then with not a stroke of preparation done. They don’t meet deadlines for coursework. When they do, their essays are plagiarised from the Internet. They don’t want to work. They think just because they pay fees they should be given a degree. Lazy, lazy bastards!

Dr Rawlinson’s head slumps onto the desk. The room is spinning, furniture appears to be swirling through the air. He thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s going dark. A fierce wind blows through the office. There is a bang and he looks up. Jake Worthington, surely one of the laziest of his students, is standing there. He looks anxious and so he should.

“I have had enough of this, Jake,” Dr Worthington says, “I won’t stand for it any more. Do you understand me?”

Jake stands contrite, head bowed, staring down at the floor. His bottom lip trembles. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbles. Dr Rawlinson glowers. He has heard this all before. They all say “Sorry”, but only because they think it might get them off a spanking. No way. He hasn’t just fallen from a tree. The boy is to be punished. It is only right and proper.

“You know you must be disciplined don’t you Jake,” he says, leaning back in his chair and peering at the lazy student through half-rimmed spectacles.

“Yes, sir,” Jake struggles to keep composure. He wants to cry. Just like a little boy. A little naughty boy.

“Say it, then,” Dr Rawlinson does not intend to let the boy off lightly. He wants his pound of flesh.

Jake blushes. His face is usually bright and open and his skin clear; he doesn’t grow enough beard to need to take a daily shave. His hair is cut short and neat. Now, his usually smiling face is set firm; grim. He blushes profusely, enough warmth comes off him to heat a room.

“I am a lazy boy,” he begins. “I have not done my homework and I have not been attending classes.” There is quite a long list like this. He does not hand assignment in on time. He never goes to the library. He cuts-and-pastes from Wikipedia. He is as good as a cheat.

“And what else?” Dr Rawlinson is relaxing. Perhaps the boys is not so evil after all.  He is just young. Not quite nineteen years old; still a child really. Jake is losing his way. He needs adult guidance. He needs a helping hand. And, Dr Rawlinson knows precisely where that hand needs to go.

“I have been disrespectful of my tutors,” Jake goes on. “And of you, sir,” Jake cannot stop twisting his fingers behind his back. He hops from one foot to the other, his embarrassment consumes him.

“And …” Dr Rawlinson is not satisfied. He won’t be. Not until Jake reaches the logical conclusion.

Jake’s eyes glisten, he fights back tears. “And?” he gulps.

“Bah!” Dr Rawlinson snorts, “And, what do you think I should do about it, Jake?”

Colour drains from Jake’s face. “Please, no!” he thinks, “No! Don’t make me have to say it. Not out loud.”

“Well Jake,” Dr Rawlinson stretches his arms, his back is aching, “Neither of us has all day. Get on with it.”

Involuntarily Jake’s hands reach behind his back, his thumbs caress the seat of his jeans. They fit across his buttocks snugly; he is meaty, but by no means fat. He is a long way from being obese, unlike many of his fellow students. Jakes sucks in a great draught of air. His mouth is parched, he wriggles his tongue around trying to create some spit. Then, he croaks, “Please Dr Rawlinson, I deserve to be punished,” he trails off thinking his humiliation is complete.

But it isn’t, “And tell me Jake how should I punish you?”

The teenager’s voice breaks, he is almost in tears now. “But sir,” he pleads. It does no good.

“Well Jake?”

“Sir, I deserve to be spanked.”

“How so?”

“You should take down my trousers and put me across you knee,” Jake is scarcely whispering now. There is a long pause. Dr Rawlinson waits for Jake to continue and when he doesn’t the lecturer nods his head vigorously to encourage the boy to say more.

“Then, you should spank me, sir. Hard. I deserve it. I am a bad boy.”

Dr Rawlinson allows a hint of a smile to crack his lips. He hauls himself to his feet and a little unsteadily because there is not much room in the office he makes his way to the front of the desk. He feels Jake’s moist eyes burning into him; watching every move he makes. His fear growing.

Dr Rawlinson picks up a lightweight, plastic straight-backed chair and places in the small space between his desk and the door. He sits down and with a contemptuous click of his fingers he indicates that the student should stand in front of him. Jake, now as miserable as he has ever been in his life, obeys. He can’t look at Dr Rawlinson. Instead, he gazes across the office. There is a calendar on the wall produced by a publishing company and he concentrates on the list of forthcoming titles it advertises. Jake doesn’t see, but he certainly feels, Dr Rawlinson take a grip on Jake’s belt. Dr Rawlinson needs two hands to get it unbuckled. It doesn’t take long for him to lower the zipper and open the front of Jake’s jeans. When he lets go the jeans slip down and bunch at Jake’s thighs.

The student tries to concentrate on the calendar. There’s a book due out this month on cultural studies. That’s the last Jake sees because Dr Rawlinson grips him by the arm and with more strength than the boy expects he pulls him down and over his lap. Jake pushes his palms out towards the floor to break his fall. His legs dangle behind him and his bottom rests high over the lecturer’s right thigh.

Dr Rawlinson shifts his own buttocks on the hard wooden chair and slowly repositions Jake. Not much, but enough for him to adjust the boy’s bottom. Now it is a terrific target. His underwear is stretched across his bum, lifting and separating the cheeks. His legs are virtually hairless.

Jake knows his face is flushing. Could he be more embarrassed? He closes his eyes as if this will block out reality. Even like this, he still feels his master take hold of his shirt and move it up his back. A cool breeze from the window brushes against his naked flesh. Dr Rawlinson is almost ready. At this point Jake could struggle free, maybe smack his tormentor in the mouth and then make his escape.

But he doesn’t. Jake knows he deserves punishment and Dr Rawlinson is in charge. He will submit himself in any way he is instructed. His stomach digs into Dr Rawlinson’s leg, it is surprisingly bony. Jake wriggles slightly trying to get comfortable. The lecturer misinterprets this, thinking he is resisting punishment. Dr Rawlinson grips him tightly around the waist and presses his elbows into the small of Jake’s back. He is pinned down, going nowhere. Not until his master has spanked his bottom good and hard.

Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready to start. He smooths Jake’s grey-striped briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hug the contours of the young man’s buttocks, he is good to go.

Jake’s breathing is heavy, he clenches his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat. “Relax, Jake,” Dr Rawlinson is kind and caring. “Don’t squeeze up your bottom.”

Jake tries, he wants to present himself submissively, but for some reason he cannot understand he does not have control of his body. He shudders, feeling the cheeks of his bottom exposed to the lecturer’s gaze. The underpants are tight against his full buttocks; they are certainly not going to offer any protection in a spanking.

Dr Rawlinson lets the student lie still for a while over his knee, waiting. He rests his hand lightly on the boy’s backside and then began a slow, steady methodical succession of moderate whacks delivered to alternate buttocks. Jake responds only with tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if he is relaxing and making himself comfortable. If this is hurting, he gives no sign of it.

Dr Rawlinson takes his time to get the measure of Jake. He increases the pace to deliver a good, hard, old-fashioned hand spanking; not holding back. Jake jolts at the shock of the new impact. Gasps of surprise hiss through his not-quite-clenched lips, and only his master’s tight grip stops his right hand flying up to protect his now-smarting bottom. Some smacks land on the back of his bare thighs.

He is embarrassed to be locked in place over the lecturer’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Yet he is powerless to stop it or evade it. He has broken the rules, been disrespectful to Dr Rawlinson. He only has himself to blame for this. For about fifty or so spanks he wriggles and writhes, kicking his feet, squirming around on the master’s knees. But there is no escape and he can’t stop the volley of hand-spanks heating up his rear end.

Jake stops wriggling and tries to take each new whack stoically; the spanking is hurting, but he is not in any real pain. He is a young adult and his bum is pretty tough. The pain of the hand spanking has little effect on him, but the humiliation of having an older man take down his jeans and force him across his knee for a spanking should be enough to ensure his future obedience.

Dr Rawlinson looks down at Jake, prone across his knees, his face is red (and so probably is his backside). It is time to end. He hammers down another dozen smacks for good measure, spanked harshly into the young man’s buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh. A perfect spot to end a spanking, he thinks.

Jake is breathless as he lays over the lap. It is over. Now, he thinks, would you please let me get up? But, Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready. “Will you behave in future Jake?”

“Yes, Dr Rawlinson,” his reply is met by a harsh slap in the centre of his left buttock.

“Yes, sir!.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” he rubs Jakes’s buttocks gently, feeling their warmth. “Now, you may get up.”

Jake puts both hands on the floor and rolls off the doctor’s knees, stands and immediately reaches for his jeans.

“Oh, no. Keep them down,” Dr Rawlinson is enjoying dominating this young man very much indeed. “Now face the wall, hands on your head!” he snaps. “Stand there and think about your behaviour.” His humiliation now complete, Jake shuffles his feet, dragging his jeans across the dirty floor with him and stands where directed. He rests his forehead against the wall mortified, while Dr Rawlinson resumes his position behind his desk, leans back in his chair and in his imagination admires his handiwork before falling sobbing to the floor in a heap.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The scavenger hunt

new story 2

The boy was in the bushes, hidden from both the house and the road. Five minutes ago he saw an elderly grey man he knew to be the Dean of the Humanities Faculty leave. He had been told he lived alone and as far as he knew the house was empty. Now would be his chance.

It was late afternoon and still warm. The Dean had left a window of an upstairs room open. A drainpipe was conveniently adjacent. The boy was far from an athlete but he should be able to shin up it and get into the house. It should take him only a minute. He could be in and out inside another two or three. If he found what he was looking for. Now, was the time for action.

He checked over his shoulder, the road was clear. It was no more than a driveway really. It connected to a main thoroughfare with the university. Checking once more that the coast was clear he dashed across the immaculately-kept lawn. His heart raced faster than his body. In a moment he sized up the drain. He was a heavy boy, but a couple of tugs on the pipe confirmed it would take his weight. He had a good idea how to do this. Back in the day he had learned how to climb ropes. The Boy Scouts would not be amused to discover they had been teaching House Breaking 101.

It was more difficult than he thought. The pipe was narrow and connected close to the brick wall, there wasn’t much to grip on to. He made it to the top, a little breathless. With his head he pushed the window open further and on his stomach he wriggled through it, landing on his head. He was unhurt and quickly climbed to his feet. It took seconds for him to see the room was a bedroom. The bed was a bare mattress. The dressing table was empty. It must be an unused guestroom. He wanted the Dean’s bedroom.

His heart pounding from the exertion of the climb and excitement he crept towards the door. He put his ear to it and listened carefully. He had been told the Dean lived alone, but who knew he might have a houseguest. All was silent. Not even a cat stirred. Gingerly he opened the door and walking on the tips of his toes like some cartoon burglar he moved down the passageway. The door to the adjoining room was ajar. He peaked through the crack. Bingo! This bedroom was obviously lived-in. Two recently-ironed dress shirts hung on the door of the wardrobe. Using his shoulder (he suddenly remembered he mustn’t leave fingerprints) he edged the door open further. Now, his heart rate rising and sweat soaking his brow, he moved smoothly into the room; his destination a chest of drawers. Within seconds he had the first one open. Inside was his prey. He smiled broadly and reached in.

Then, he was out of the room and heading down the stairs clutching in his hand a pair of the Dean’s boxer shorts. His grin was wide, he was consumed with self-satisfaction. A pair of the Dean’s boxer shorts, purloined from his house was worth sixty points. He had won the freshman’s scavenger hunt for certain.

The scavenger hunt took place each autumn at the beginning of the academic year. New boys at the university got points for collecting various objects on a list. One year a guy stole a campus bus. This year top points went to the kid who got the shorts. He padded down the stairs, he had no wish to topple out of the window head first. He was almost whistling so great was the joy at his achievement. He was across the hallway reaching for the door handle when without his help the door opened. Standing there, with two brown bags in his arms was the Dean of the Humanities Faculty.

He was a large man in a crumpled grey suit. His shirt was formal but he wore no tie. Despite the mildness of the day a scarf hung at his neck. His fleshy face frowned, his unkempt moustache bristled. He glared at the boy standing in front of him. The Dean’s eyes looked him up and down. There was nothing unusual about the boy; he wore jeans and a checked shirt like (it seemed) everyone else his age. The Dean’s eyes shone when he saw his boxer shorts in the boys hand.

He moved into the house, quietly closing the door behind him. The boy blushed to his roots. Instinct told him to run for it but he could see the Dean blocked his path to freedom. His jaw dropped, then his mouth opened and closed but no words came out. He felt his face burn with embarrassment.

At last the Dean spoke. “A burglar I see. Breaking and entering.” He put the bags of groceries on the floor at his feet and reached into his pocket. “I should call the campus police.”

“No!” he boy wailed and waved his arms as if the try to impede the Dean’s movement. The Dean kept the phone in his pocket. The boy was too distressed to see the twinkle in the old man’s eye. “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” he demanded ferociously.

The boy blustered, “I’m Mike McManus. A student. A fresher.”

“Show me your ID,” the Dean’s eyes narrowed and he frowned. He made great play at examining the plastic card. He held it up against Mike’s face to compare the photograph with the real thing. Satisfied the boy was who he claimed to be he handed it back.

“The scavenger hunt,” Mike’s explanation was brusquely cut short by the Dean. He knew all about scavenger hunts and boxer shorts. He had been a member of faculty for more than thirty years, he had seen it all before.

“Get in there,” he ordered and pointed to a door at the far end of the hallway. When the boy stood rooted to the spot the Dean gripped him by the left year and half pulling the boy along the highly-polished floor he directed him forcefully into his study. He let go of the ear and Mike stood sheepishly rubbing it while examining his own feet.

“I know all about the scavenger hunt,” the Dean confirmed. “I also know that breaking and entering is a crime. You will go to court. Maybe even do time in juvie. At the very least you will be expelled from the university.” It came out like a rehearsed speech. In a few words the Dean had summed up Mike’s predicament. A silly freshman’s prank had dire consequences. The Dean watched as Mike’s jaw wobbled. Any second now and he would be in a flood of tears.

“I know the scavenger hunt is a tradition. I am all in favour of the college traditions,” he said in a firm but not unfriendly voice. “You boys have your traditions and I too have mine.” Mike looked up from the floor, his puzzlement now etched on his face. He saw the Dean walk to an old battered desk. He bent forward and opened a drawer. When he stood again he had an aged wooden paddle in his fist. Mike stared open-eyed. He knew about paddles, of course, but he had never before seen one.

The Dean slapped the blade of the paddle into his hand. It was a traditional school-type affair about fourteen inches long and four wide and half-inch thick at least. As is also traditional it had a series of holes drilled in it (to counter wind-resistance). The Dean did not speak, there was no reason to, Mike instinctively knew the old man’s intention. The student could not keep from staring at the wood. “He’s never going to spank me. I’m eighteen years old. This is two-thousand-and-nineteen. Things like that don’t happen anymore.” That is what he thought but all he could say aloud was, “B.. b… b …”

“So, Mr Michael McManus,” the Dean stretched his shoulders and swung the paddle through the air as he spoke, “What happens next is up to you. I can call the cops or I can deal with it myself.” He smacked the paddle into the palm of his hand so there was no doubt as to his meaning. “What’s it to be?”

A student confronted this way should call for a lawyer. The ensuing litigation might take years. He might have graduated by the time the case was decided. A bright student would do that. Mike must have been one sandwich short of a picnic; he didn’t get lawyered up. He muttered, almost inaudibly, “Your way.”

The Dean responded with a smile. “Smart choice,” he said and waved the paddle once more. “Right stand there.” He pointed to a space between his desk and the door. “Jeans and underwear down. Assume the position.” Mike went bright red and he began to protest.

“It’s entirely your choice,” the Dean put his hand in his pocket, making to search for his phone. Mike, now in a daze of confusion, blurted, “No, wait. Don’t.” His protest defeated and with severely trembling hands he reached for the waistband of his jeans.

“They always come round in the end,” the Dean told himself silently as he watched Mike fumble with the buttons on his fly. The boy seemed to be on auto-piolet, his eyes were glazed into a strange faraway look. Once he had the front open, the jeans slithered to his knees of their own accord. The Dean noticed with a wry smile Mike was wearing boxer shorts. “Those too,” the Dean barked. They went south to join the jeans.

“Assume the position.”

Mike was unsure what this meant exactly. Assume the position. It must mean: Bend over. Still in a dreamworld, he arched his back and placed his hands on his knees. The Dean stood behind him, paddle in his hand. “Emm,” he mused silently, “Much more padding on the hind quarters than the boy yesterday.” Of course Mike was not the first student to attempt to steal the Dean’s boxer shorts. Adam, a sweet boy, had also been caught red-handed. His luscious little bottom was hard and round. The term “Buns of steel” had been invented for boys like Adam. Mike’s backside was fleshy, almost flabby. He wasn’t quite fat but if he didn’t hold up on the burgers and beer pretty soon he would be joining the ranks of the obese, like so many of his fellow students.

z used paddle trousers down office kernled (1)

The Dean placed the paddle against Mike’s left buttock and pressed it down. It sank and the flesh wobbled like jelly on a plate. The student’s shoulder flinched at the touch; he was preparing himself for the onslaught soon to start. The Dean was in no particular hurry. He tapped the paddle down; one, two, three, getting his aim. Then he lifted it and brought it down with maximum force. It hit the flesh with a dull thud that echoed around the small study. There was a pause of a second or three before the pain registered in Mike’s brain. His lips pursed and created a perfect “O” shape, then he hissed like an old steam engine. He wanted to jump to his feet and rub away at his scorched buttocks. He didn’t. Instinct kicked in. He knew to do so was against tradition. A guy took his paddling, come what may. He let his hands slip from his knees and he clutched his shins tightly waiting for the impact of the next swat.

It was a while coming. The Dean had been paddling the butts of students for the best part of twenty years, he was an expert at this. He knew that it took some seconds after the swat landed for the pain to connect. Then it took a few more for it to make its way through the boy’s body. It started at the cheeks and then usually travelled up and down the legs before sending messages to the brain about how much it hurt. The Dean allowed time for all that to happen before landing the next whack.

In no time at all every square inch of Mike’s buttocks glowed pink. The Dean admired his own handiwork awarding himself extra credit for the way the outline of the paddle was embossed again and again in the flesh. He especially liked the patterns the holes made.

For a boy virgin to corporal punishment, Mike took his paddling with great stoicism. The first swats hurt like hell and he winced, screwed up his face and gripped his shins for dear life. But soon his buttocks numbed and while each additional whack hurt they registered low down on the barometer of pain.

The Dean let up at eighteen. From where he was standing, Dean’s butt looked thoroughly toasted. It would hurt the boy when he sat on a hard surface for some time to come.  The blisters would let up after a day or so but the bruises would be around for a week or more. It amused the Dean that it would curb the boy’s love life for a while.

“Up.” It was a clear command and Mike did not need telling twice. He straightened and hopped from one foot to another and stomped his feet, rather like a soldier on sentry duty. He hoped it would ease the pain. It didn’t; it never does. He retuned his shorts and jeans to their correct places and buttoned up. He stood awaiting further instructions unable to comprehend what had just happened. His head was dizzy, the study seemed to spin around him. He was so light-headed he feared he would giggle in the Dean’s face. No drug he had taken ever gave him this kind of high.

Seconds later he was gingerly walking across the lawn back to his dorm. He was glad his roommate was out. Had he known that at that moment he was secreted in the bushes outside the Dean’s house he would not have given him a word of warning. Mike lowered his jeans and underwear and pointed his butt at the mirror. It surprised him how sore and red it was. His dick jutted out towards the ceiling. He spat on the palm of his hand. It took no more than four tugs before he shot a load across the glass. With his jeans and pants at his ankles he waddled across the room to his nightstand and grabbed a handful of tissue. Once he had cleaned away the mess he found his phone and took a selfie.

Well, he thought, if he can’t get points for the Dean’s boxer shorts, the old man’s spanking should be worth something.

Picture credit: Kernled

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

You didn’t pay the rent

zused paddle otk bare chair domestic straightladsspanked (1)

You are confused. Bemused. Tongue-tied. You can’t understand what’s happening. Mr Blenkinsop glares at you. “I want you to take down your trousers and get across my lap,” he says. Your eyes blink frantically. You are sure your face is burning scarlet. Your heart races. Your mouth opens and closes but you can’t make words form.

Mr Blenkinsop has no patience with you. “What part of that didn’t you understand?” he growls. You stare at him blankly. He sits on a small plastic chair. You are the only two in the kitchen. The house is otherwise empty. It is Saturday morning. You can’t take your eyes off Mr Blenkinsop. In his hand he brandishes a piece of wood. You have never seen anything like it before. It looks a bit like a spatula, or some other implement Mrs Blenkinsop might use in her cooking. But not quite; it is too big for that.

Mr Blenkinsop is losing his patience. You have never seen him like this before. He repeats his instruction. Slowly. Deliberately as if you are a foreigner who doesn’t understand English. “Take. Down. Your. Trousers.” He sounds more menacing with each word. “Bend. Over. My. Knee.” You are still dumbstruck. Uncomprehending. Your eyes stand out on stalks as Mr Blenkinsop thwacks the spatula-thing against his thigh. Suddenly you see his face brighten. It is as if he has suddenly remembered something important. “So you thought I was joking when I put in the agreement you would be spanked if you didn’t pay the rent on time.”

Your face crumples, still you don’t get it. “Ha!” Mr Blenkinsop’s laugh cracks the tension. “You didn’t read it before you signed.” Silence envelopes the room while your brain tries to catch up. You signed something when you became Mr Blenkinsop’s lodger. You didn’t read it.

“I didn’t read it,” you tell Mr Blenkinsop and as the words come out you remember something important. “I didn’t read it. My dad did,” you tell him. Now it’s Mr Blenkinsop’s turn to look puzzled. But not for long. “Your father read it,” he says to you. He smiles. He has a fleshy face and fat rolls when he does this. Then he chuckles, “He read it, but didn’t tell you what it said.” You watch his shoulders roll as he enjoys the joke. “Well, that’s something you’ll have to take up with him.” Then he laughs again.

You stand still, embarrassed. What can you say? What can you do? Should you run upstairs to your room and hide? It’s a plan, but not much of one. You can run but you can’t hide. Where is there to go? Mr Blenkinsop speaks again. “You have nobody to blame but yourself. You’ve been spending your money at that students’ union bar. Clubbing ….” He lets the sentence trail off, he can’t think of more things you could have spent money on. You know he is right. Certainly, you haven’t been buying books. You’ve hardly done a stroke of studying since you started at the university last September and here it is nearly Christmas.

Mr Blenkinsop speaks again. “You kids, you think you’re adults but your not. Life is hard. The first lesson you have to learn is always pay the rent on time. Keep a roof over your head. Nothing else matters.” You watch him tighten his grip on the spatula-thing. “You’re not the first student I’ve had here,” he tells you. He grins broadly, “That’s why I bought this paddle. To encourage you to pay the rent.”

Now, you understand what’s going on. Your landlord wants to spank you because you haven’t paid the rent. You still don’t believe it. You’ll be nineteen years old next month. Nineteen, not nine. Far too old to be spanked. Instinctively, you realise it would not be a good idea to share this thought with your landlord.

“So.” You hear Mr Blenkinsop’s command as a question. So? You think he is offering you a way out. Some way to avoid the spanking. “Well,” you tell him, “I could call my dad and ask him to send me the money.” You are irritated by his response. He does that grin again. “I don’t think so. I spoke to your father at length before I accepted you into my home. I told him my rules. He fully supports me. That’s why I made sure he read the agreement.”

Your face falls at this news. You remember his parting shot before he drove away and left you. “Make sure you work hard. Nose to the grindstone. It’s costing me a fortune to put you through uni.”

Mr Blenkinsop wriggles his buttocks on the hard plastic chair. You see he is irritated. It is Saturday; he has other things to do today. He waves the paddle at you. “Trousers down. Please don’t make me have to do it for you.” You feel your eyes well up. You might cry. You still can’t comprehend this. A spanking. Who gets spanked these days? You think of the pub last night. You know none of your mates are being told to go over their landlord’s knee this morning.

You gawp some more at Mr Blenkinsop. He is not as old as your dad and you suspect he thinks he is still young. He wears designer jeans (you couldn’t afford them) and a baggy T-shirt that hides some of his soft belly. You don’t think he looks the type to have old fashioned values. “Take down your trousers,” he says once more.

From the first time you met Mr Blenkinsop you thought there was something about him. You still can’t put your finger on it. Charisma isn’t quite it. He is a commanding presence and you’d bet he is used to people doing what he tells them. You feel that now. You can’t explain why but you know you are going to do as he says. You just need to psyche yourself up to it.

“Unbuckle your belt.” Mr Blenkinsop speaks to you in a soft but authoritative tone. You swallow hard. Your pulse is quickening. You can’t look at him. He repeats his words, “Unbuckle your belt.” It feels like your hands are no longer under your control. Some cosmic power has them. You easily undo the belt. You look down at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“Take them down,” a voice from somewhere (it seems very far away) says. You find the button at the waistband of your Primark chinos and pop it open. The zipper glides easily and now the front of your trousers is wide open. The weight of the material makes them slip down your thighs. They snag at the knees. “All the way,” that voice says. You stoop and with both hands push the chinos down until they puddle on top of your socks. You stand self-consciously in your boxer shorts.

But not for long. “Bend over my knee.” That voice again. You have never had an out-of-body experience before. You think this might be one. You are standing close to Mr Blenkinsop and looking down at his knees. You don’t know what to do. How is this done? You have never been spanked. You have never seen anyone spanked. Mr Blenkinsop parts his legs slightly. This creates a sort of platform with his thighs. You understand the basic idea, but you don’t know how to execute it.

“Doh!” Mr Blenkinsop is exasperated. He reaches for the wrist of your left arm and forcefully pulls you forward. In the same movement he makes you topple over so that the floor appears to hurtle towards you. You put out your hands to break the fall. Now, you are face down over your landlord’s knee with a close-up view of the vinyl flooring. The room is small and your head is only centimetres away from the fridge. You can hear the motor humming.

You lose balance as Mr Blenkinsop takes you by the middle, picks you up and reorganises your body. Now, your bottom is strategically placed over his right thigh. In a very real physical sense you are too big to be taken over his knee and you don’t know what to do with your long legs. Intuitively, you tuck them in at the knees which offers Mr Blenkinsop a terrific target.

All you can see is the floor (or the fridge and nearby washing machine if you lift your head) but you know that the two of you must make a ridiculous picture: a hunky lad like you bent submissively over the knees of a flabby older man. Who could imagine such a thing? You can’t see but you can feel Mr Blenkinsop as he rests the paddle in the small of your back and with his free hands gently caresses your bottom. He is smoothing out the wrinkles in your boxers. They are large and baggy and it is an impossible task. Satisfied that he has done the best he can, he rests his arm across your back.

Your bottom twitches. It knows he is locked to go. The paddle is lifted from your back. You brace yourself. You hear the cracking sound of the wooden paddle smacking into your bum before you feel anything. When you do, it is not much. Mr Blenkinsop whacks it across both cheeks without let or hindrance. Your buttocks are warming. You have no idea what a spanking ought to be like. Should it be more painful? Isn’t that the whole point?

In no time at all you have felt the paddle strike every square centimetre of your bum. You lay submissively, head low bottom high, while the landlord spanks you. You feel a bit of a tit to be over his knee with your trousers at your ankles, but even the embarrassment is waning. You reckon you could stay like this all morning if need be. Mr Blenkinsop must have read your mind. Without warning he grips the elasticated waistband of your shorts and tugs. You panic. Your hand shoots back to protect your bottom. “No you don’t,” your landlord wheezes as he grabs you by the wrist and forces your arm forward. “Keep that out of the way,” he growls while simultaneously pulling down your underwear. It takes three tugs to get them down to your feet.

You are naked from the waist down and you feel it. A cold breeze is coming from somewhere and chills your flesh. The paddle soon warms you up. Mr Blenkinsop whacks you with the same speed and ferocity as before but without the boxers for protection it hurts much more. You groan and gasp as the pain increases.

You clench your teeth and wriggle and writhe when he smacks the wooden paddle into the backs of your thighs. You have never experienced such pain before. You can’t see but your bum and thighs are now a deep pink. Bruises are coming out on the crests of your mounds (the point where there is the least padding of fat to protect you.)

Mr Blenkinsop sees he is hurting you and whacks on with renewed vigour. Now it hurts. Now you know what a proper spanking feels like. You suck down “ouches” and “aahhs” but an innate instinct stops you from howling. Your bum bounces over Mr Blenkinsop’s knee. This is not you trying to escape, it is the reflex action of your body protecting itself.

“Ha! Ha! You haven’t paid the rent!” It is your fellow lodger. He has just returned to the house and stands in the doorway. Your head pounds up and down with frustration. It is embarrassing to be spanked by an older man but to have a witness is beyond humiliating. Mr Blenkinsop is unfazed by the new arrival. Maybe he sees it as a chance to teach both his lodgers a salient lesson about paying the rent because he pounds the paddle into your rear end as if his very life depended on it.

Your backside is roasted. No flesh is left unscorched. It is a spanking to remember. At last he stops pounding away. He releases his grip and you stumble to your feet, hurriedly dragging boxers and chinos back to their rightful places. Your fellow lodger has already made his exit. You massage your bum hoping it will relieve the sting. It doesn’t. You have yet to discover it never does.

Mr Blenkinsop gets up from his chair, opens a cupboard and puts the paddle away. “Ready and waiting for another day,” he says breathlessly. You don’t know what you are supposed to reply to that so remain silent. You want to run to your room but know you cannot go until you are formally dismissed. Mr Blenkinsop knows this too. “The spanking is over,” he says stating the obvious. You are pleased it is done. A tanning for not paying the rent. Inside you are rather pleased you took it well. You are beginning to think it was worth it.

“Don’t forget you still owe me the rent money,” are the words that follow you as you ascend the stairs.

Picture credit: straight lads spanked dot com

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com