Housemaster’s Double Caning

z used drawing cane master (3)

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.


“Da Silva in here now,” I heard the order barked out knowing my time had come, so I opened the door and entered the lion’s den.

I had been summoned to this room many times before. Nothing had changed since my last visit: a large bookcase stretched across the wall in front of me. To my left was a small couch where guests would sit, large stuffed chairs on either side. To my right was the housemaster’s huge mahogany desk, clean and tidy, and polished to perfection.

But, despite the abundance of furniture, all I could focus on was the prominent display behind the desk. Attached to the wall was a large wooden cabinet with a glass door. Through the glass I could see three crook-handled canes. They were light brown, slender, and slightly warped from years of use.

Mr Hill, my housemaster, was seated at his desk, dressed in his formal gown, with a dark suit under it.

“Stand there,” he pointed to a spot on the worn rug directly in front of his desk. I cannot ever remember in my seven years at the school having seen Mr Hill smile. This day was to be no exception. His steely grey-blue eyes glinted and he had a face like thunder. He was a man of few words. I was not entirely sure why I had been called to the study (I had broken a number of the school’s petty rules in recent weeks and any one of them might have resulted in a thrashing) but in no time my housemaster enlightened me.

“Well I know, even if you do not, boy. I know that you have not been concentrating on your work as an A-level student should. I know that you have been larking about with your pal Roehampton, whose work is almost as inadequate and unacceptable as yours.

“So I am going to make an example of you and give you a wake-up call. I am going to give you six of the very best – possibly the best you have ever had! Take off your blazer and hang it up over there.”

The housemaster had a reputation as a very fair but firm man and I knew better than to argue a point and anyway there was something about Mr Hill when he used that tone of voice that meant you gave him total obedience.

“Oh God! Another caning.” The thought raced through my mind as with my heart pounding in anticipation of the ordeal to come I slipped the blazer off my back and hanged it as instructed on a hook on the study door. The task completed I turned to once again face my punisher.

He had left his desk and placed the caning chair in the middle of the room. No one ever sat on this chair and there was no wear on the seat. However the varnish on the back, and on top of the front legs, was worn away by generations of boys bending over and holding on to the chair while they were caned.

“You know what to do,” he said. Yes, I remembered the procedure, even as I tried to forget what would come next. I had been in a similar position many times before. Without fuss I bent my athletic body prostrate across the chair presenting my eighteen-year-old buttocks tightly stretched inside snug fitting trousers to the housemaster.

Mr Hill rolled his sleeve up and took a springy cane from the selection in the glass-fronted cabinet. I could see him rubbing a piece of chalk up and down his cane as I waited for the first slash to cut into the taut grey trousers that were now spread over my small squatting bum.

Mr Hill flexed the cane a little and scythed it through the air. It made a fearsome noise. It reminded me of the many unhappy times I had spent in this study over the years.

I flinched as I felt him pull the end of my shirt out from under the waist-band of my trousers and all too soon the cane was tapping the middle of my buttocks. I kept telling myself that it was not going to be too bad, right up until I heard the crack then felt the fire sweep across my bum, Jesus he was going to rip my backside open.

He measured the rod out again, lower, pressing into the tight material of my trousers, before flogging it against me just as hard as the first, the retort of wood against cotton filling the air.

Even with all my experience, I could not have anticipated the pain, it was a hundred times worse than anything I had felt before. My eyes filled with tears, but I tried to remain calm, forcing myself to breathe while gripping tightly to the chair.

Then the third stroke thrashed hard into my poor bottom, I actually screamed and my body began to vibrate. The pain was intense, burning: unendurable.

“Control yourself boy. You have only had three strokes. I do not expect that racket,” Mr Hill admonished me as he raised the cane high into the air again and delivered Crack! the fourth cut. I screamed but held on as the agony built up. Then further pain as another crack announced the arrival of the fifth stroke. I was blubbering, pleading and screaming.

Despite my tormented state I could still feel the pressure of the cane pushing into the bottom of my buttocks as he lined up the sixth and last stroke. I know I was crying “No, please. No.” as the cane whistled into the allotted landing site with all the force that Mr Hill could put into it. As soon as it was done I stood up and my hands went to my bottom. I was in utter agony, tears were running everywhere, mainly due to the pain, but also as I was so ashamed that I could not have controlled myself better.

Mr Hill placed the cane back in the cabinet while I tried to check myself from giving my arse a rub, but my rear was burning and although I didn’t want to show it had hurt I knew I had failed miserably.

The housemaster was now sat at the desk filling in the punishment book, through my tears he passed the book and told me to initial it.

With no further ado he dismissed me from the study. Miserably, I hobbled towards the door, unhooked my blazer, and without waiting to get dressed properly, I left.

Mr Hill was so clinical in the way he had delivered the punishment I felt he had no heart, my backside was blazing and I could feel the welts raising on my skin but he was dismissing me as though he had just given me nothing more than directions to the railway station.

Once outside I clamped my hands onto my burning bottom and began to massage the sting. Never again I thought to myself as I headed off to my classroom. Never again; after nearly seven years at this school and countless canings I vowed it would be the last time.

I watched, as Da Silva, in obvious agony but determined not to show it, hobbled from my study. This boy was a problem. I fervently believe in corporal punishment. Beat a boy hard enough on his backside when he steps out of line and he won’t come back for more. The cane works, I know it. But, I suppose Da Silva is the exception that proves the rule: he is a recidivist, a repeat offender, and it is difficult to deal with a boy like that. The only option you have is to thrash him a little bit harder each time he bends over in front of you.

Or of course, repeat offenders can be ordered to take down their trousers to receive six across the underpants: or sometimes even across the bared buttocks. Here at St Francis Independent Grammar School, the governors only allow the headmaster to thrash a boy in such a manner, more’s the pity.

Some people say it was wrong to beat teenaged boys on their bared buttocks; some even suggest schoolmasters are “pederasts.”  Today there are “Progressives” who say we should abolish corporal punishment altogether.  What tommyrot: asking a schoolmaster to give up his cane! Where should we be then? If the cane were abolished the country should be in a state of anarchy within five years.

I was beaten on the bare myself at school. Yes, I admit it, I was a repeat offender. It did me no harm: it made me the man I am today. I was a smoker and had been given the standard Six on the trousers by my housemaster. It taught me a lesson, I can tell you, but a few weeks later I was caught puffing on a Woodbine behind the gymnasium and this time I was up in front of the Beak (as we called the headmaster, affectionately I’m sure, at my school).

I can remember it as if it had happened only this morning. It did not matter that I was a senior boy and at eighteen was due to leave the school in a matter of weeks. There was no big sermon; he and I both knew why I had been summoned to his study. It was confirmed that I had been beaten for a similar offence only weeks previously. In no time I was bent over a wing-backed armchair, my trousers and white cotton underpants at my thighs. The Beak folded back my shirt and grey short-sleeved pullover away from my buttocks until they rested on my shoulders. Then without further fuss he laid six stingers across the centre of my bare cheeks.

It hurt like hell, but schoolboys have a code of conduct and we resolved never to show our punisher that we were in pain. I tried my best, my level best, to be stoical, but after slash number two ripped my bum to shreds I was pounding my fists against the back of the armchair in agony. The heartless headmaster was not deterred and whipped the rattan cane down with great severity into my now bleeding rump.

I lost control and tears washed down my cheeks. My bum felt like I had sat in a coal fire and I left the study with the Beak’s words stinging in my ears, “If you are caught smoking again, it will be twelve strokes on the bare bottom.”

Twelve strokes? On the bare? Was he really permitted to give such a punishment, or was it just a tale he told to naughty schoolboys to stop them from re-offending?

Later as I sat in a lavatory pan of cold water, I vowed never to smoke again: and I never did. Well, not cigarettes: I took up my present tobacco habit (the gentleman’s pipe) five years later when I was up at the university.

I rose from behind my desk and replaced the caning chair to its resting place. I knew Roehampton, Da Silva’s partner in crime as it were, was even now waiting outside my study and the chair could have remained where it was for his thrashing, but I preferred to treat each boy before me equally: the ritual of placing the chair in position was part of the total caning experience (as marketing men might call it) for each boy.

I have a number of options for placing a boy when I cane him. I personally don’t favour the “traditional” position of boy bent down touching toes. It has the obvious advantage that you don’t need props (apart from the cane itself), but if you are properly to beat a boy you should always intend to cause the maximum pain possible, and in such circumstances it is only Christian to give him something to hold on to as he attempts to deal with his agony.

Usually, I have boys bend over the back of a large green leather armchair; the small ones can bend over an arm; while the taller, over the back. The seat cushion removes to reveal stout bars that the victims hold on to. It is both comfortable and very supportive, which means that they cannot move about and escape their just deserts.

Roehampton, my next client is eighteen years old, but, this will be his first caning. He only joined the school at the beginning of the third form (he is some kind of scholarship boy, I believe) and hitherto has managed to avoid corporal punishment. I cannot say whether this is because he is an exceptionally well-behaved boy, or he has just escaped detection for his misbehaviour.

This time he is well deserving of a caning. His academic work has been deteriorating and his subject masters inform me that he will almost certainly do badly in his examinations. In my experience I find this kind of thing happens at this time every year, so I have a purge. Boys in danger of failing are sent to me and I deal with them in the time-honoured fashion.

Was it the Romans who said that a boy’s ears are in his backside? If you want them to study and they will not, then you must force the issue. I don’t suppose any of the boys thank me for it (although some of them do literally say “Thank you, sir” as they hobble from my study) but I have no doubt it was my cane that got many schoolboys through their examinations and on to a half-decent university and beyond.

“Come in Roehampton!” I called from behind my desk. The door of the study inched open, but at first nobody entered. Then, Roehampton’s head appeared around the frame, followed at a snail’s pace by the rest of his body. His face was deathly white and he appeared on the verge of tears. Obviously, he had heard the ferocity of the caning his friend Da Silva had received and I had allowed ample time for the boy to pass on a blow-by-blow account of his thrashing. Roehampton would be expecting no less an ordeal for himself.

“Stand there boy,” I indicated the spot in front of my desk. I was surprised the carpet wasn’t more worn than it was by the scuff marks made by the shuffling feet of generations of naughty schoolboys.

He stood to attention so stiffly I wondered if he were a leading light in the school’s Officer Training Corps.

I never lectured boys if I could possibly avoid it, they came in bent over and took the required strokes then they quickly got up and left leaving the next boy to enter and so on till they had all been dealt with. But, I had to make it clear to Roehampton the gravity of his offence so I began my ritual sermon about unacceptable, disgraceful behaviour – totally unexpected of sixth-form boys who had examinations forthcoming and who needed good grades to secure a place at university.

Then I pronounced sentence: Six-of-the-best. Roehampton’s face had gone rather pale and his lips were trembling as if tears were not far away. “I really am sorry Sir. Please could you let me off this time?”

I suppressed a snort. By way of reply I walked in front of my desk and moved the caning chair into position. I have caned many boys in my time and almost without exception had to position a boy for his first caning. “Right boy, take your blazer off hang it up on the door and then come and stand behind this chair.” I pointed to the green leather chair as if there could be any doubt which one I meant. “Right, now bend over the chair, holding the bars with your hands,” I ordered sternly.

Resigned to his fate and clearly not prepared to beg further for mercy, Roehampton struggled to get into the requested position, while I went to the glass-fronted cabinet and selected a long brown dragon cane. I returned, bending it and whistling it through the air in practice strokes intending to send chills through the teenage boy.

I found him looking at me as he half leaned over the back of the chair as though checking this was how it was to be done. “Head nice and low please Roehampton,” I confirmed.

He grimaced and bent right down over the back of the chair. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point I was careful to observe as I positioned myself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, boy, hollow your back, legs slightly apart.”

I knew this was the boy’s first caning and I intended it to be memorable. “Roehampton when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to flow freely before I had even cracked the first stroke against his tight backside. He was gripping the bars of the chair so tightly his knuckles must have ached.

I could see the outline of the lad’s buttocks under the trousers and his pants across the bottom nestling deep into the crack of his cheeks. I gripped the cane and took a few steps away. To calm down I took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to his left such that with my arm outstretched the cane tip lay half way across the cheek of his further buttock.

I watched him flinch slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his buttocks. I raised it slowly then, setting my face, brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the middle of his bottom.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Roehampton yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. I drew the cane back for another stroke. The teenager arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his red raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Roehampton had resolved to take the caning bravely and silently and did manage to hold in the scream for the first blow, and indeed the second, but when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet started to beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed.

He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the rails of the chair to grip on to even though his hands were now grasping them so tightly his fingernails dug deeply into his palms.

The fourth branding was met with another scream and Roehampton was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” I stood back took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Roehampton’s waiting backside with venom.

Bawling continuously, he waited for the final crack which I put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for him to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” I sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Roehampton. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Roehampton remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bottom. Nothing his pal Da Silva had said about being caned had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up boy!” I commanded. Eventually his hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing as I wrote the relevant entry in the punishment book. As I said previously I prefer a boy to take his caning and leave the study without fuss.

He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. I knew beneath them there would be six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters which would be felt every time the boy sat down for days serving as a constant reminder to study hard in future.

I offered him the punishment book to initial, which he did with great difficulty; his tears were still flowing freely.

“That will do for now,” I said quietly and correctly he took this as his cue to leave my study.


This story was first uploaded in August 2015

Picture credit: Unknown

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


Keynes College Caning Case

z used drawing canes (1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why would he confess?”

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

A Robust Response

I am a fair man, a man of the world. I understand the temptations of the young. I know it is a rocky road to adulthood. I have myself suffered temptations. When I was a teenager I knew desire. I knew what it was to long for the clear skin of other boys, lust over taut muscles, envy their shiny hair, their blazing eyes, ruby-red lips. Long legs, tight buttocks. Sins of the flesh.

As the young say today, “I have been there.” But I was saved. I was eighteen years old when my lusts came to light. I won’t share with you the details. They are too humiliating for me to recall, even now so many years later. But, I was saved by the priests at my school. It took some doing. A modern-day scourging of the flesh. It worked. Homosexuality is only a passing phase, all young men go through it. Yes, it is a sin, but it can be cured. I know. I was cured. And, in a few moments it will be my pleasure – no my duty – to cure a young man at this school similarly afflicted.

In my own case it took three priests, each acting separately, to make the breakthrough. I shall be eternally grateful to them for their diligence; their thoroughness. Without their intervention I should have descended into a cesspool of my own making. Adrift. Never to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Corporal correction; corporal punishment if you will. Punishment of the flesh.  “Blessed are the pure at heart,” the priests at school would say, “Boys, if you are not pure at heart, I’ll flog you!”

In a few moments, Teddy will arrive here at my study. Teddy is a bright young man, I have had my eye on him for some years. He has all the attributes needed to enter the priesthood. But, he has lost his way. Like a lamb in the hillside. But, he is not a lost cause. He can be set back on the right path. I shall save him. He knows why he has been summoned to my study. He has already confessed his sin. He knows he must be saved. He wants to be saved. He can be saved. He will be saved.

I will talk to him so that he understands that the feelings he has are perfectly natural for a young man of eighteen. But, he is a teenager, really still an adolescent. He is going though a phase in his life. He is at a crossroads. He must decide which way to turn. Once I know he understands this we shall pray. God will give his blessing. God loves us. He will protect us. He will save us.

When that is done I shall instruct Teddy to stand behind my desk. It is a very large, heavy walnut beast. I sometimes joke that it could double up as a hockey pitch. While he does that I shall go to my special locked cupboard. Inside I have many instruments of punishment; leather straps, riding crops, whippy rattan rods, and (my favourites) heavy wooden paddles. Teddy is a tall, slim boy. He is a member of the school athletic team and he runs constantly. His body is strong and his legs are long. His buttocks are tight and from memory I calculate that one of my larger paddles would conveniently fit across both cheeks.

I will instruct Teddy to lower his trousers. He might be reluctant to be seen by an older man in his underwear but he will do as I command without question. I am the authority of God. It is His will that this scourging takes place. Once the trousers are down, in all probability the tail of his dress shirt will be so long as to cover his bottom. If this indeed proves to be the case, he must raise his shirt high so that his stomach and back are bared. The next manoeuvre might be tricky. Once I am satisfied that the shirt offers him no protection, he must “assume the position”. This can be a moment of confusion for what constitutes “the position” may vary from person to person. To some it means “bend down, grab your ankles”. Otherwise, it might mean “hands on knees”. Still again, “bend over the back of the chair”. When I say, “Assume the position” I mean stand by the edge of the desk, lean forward, place the forearms squarely on the desk top, head up, look ahead, spread the feet wide.

It can be difficult to convey all this information to the boy about to be paddled. The brighter ones get it almost immediately; not so the dumb. I have on occasion been forced to assume the position myself in order to demonstrate the correct way to present oneself for punishment. I take care in such circumstances to give the young man extra swats by way of compensation for the embarrassment he has caused me.

Once Teddy is in position, the whipping begins. As I have already indicated my paddle of choice is large and I know the blade will cover both buttocks. In preparation I have to take hold of the waistband of his underpants and pull them so tight so that the cotton caresses the bottom like a second skin. I should be able to see the outline of each cheek perfectly, and the ravine that separates them. Once that task is completed it is only a matter of resting the paddle across the target area, tapping it against the tight flesh once or twice for effect, raising the wood high and bringing it back with a resounding crash.

Let me explain what I mean by “for effect”. Such a beating as this is of course about inflicting pain. A great deal of pain (agony even) in many cases. Of course it is, otherwise what is the point of it all? But along with the actual pain comes anticipation. I remember from my own times “in position” for the priests that the preparation, the waiting, the anticipation of the pain to come, the humiliation, was almost as much punishment as the paddling itself.

So, I shall take my time with Teddy. Pat, pat here. Tap, tap there. Swat! Once the first blow has been struck I shall count to twenty (in my head, not aloud). This will add somewhat to the effect. It will give a moment for the pain of the blow to register. I well remember how one hears the whack of wood connecting with one’s own flesh maybe a second before the pain registers. That is when the body shudders or shakes as red-hot aching radiates from the rear end and travels up and down the legs. As more and more swats are delivered that agony journeys through the whole body becoming tortuous. The peak of pain of each swat lasts maybe ten seconds. When I beat a boy I make sure there is a further ten seconds for the sinner to anticipate the next blow before I deliver it.

I have a routine when spanking; a rhythm if you will. I start in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and in most cases fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe goes lower; the third higher. In this way it is possible to have the entire area ablaze after only three swats: from the top near the spine, over the mounds of flesh and into the underside where the thighs meet. With the whole rear end blazing each successive stroke will land on already damaged flesh, reigniting the hurt and adding to its intensity considerably.

I shall award Teddy twelve strokes. I shall leave it to your own imagination to visualise the state of his flesh by the time I have finished. Remember also that the thin cotton underpants offer no useful protection against the paddle. If that is the case, you might think to ask, why don’t I beat my young man on the bare posterior? It is a good question and I think you would agree making Teddy remove his underwear would increase the humiliation of the occasion somewhat. Given my own head I would not hesitate to beat him “on the bare”, but if you read the lying Liberal newspapers you would know that the Church is under much scrutiny these days. I am certain all right-thinking people agree with our way of combating homosexuality among the young; but a manufactured scandal about our method would only be a distraction.

Teddy is a strong young man, I fully expect him to take his punishment stoically. He will assume the position and stay in it until I command that he may stand. I have no doubt his body will react against the agony I shall inflict and his legs will buckle, his back buck, his shoulders shake and his head will neigh like a horse. But, he will stay in place. He will offer his backside to me. He will obey.

There may be tears. This is often involuntary. Think when you hit yourself on the thumb with a hammer do your eyes not water? I keep paper tissues in a box in my drawer. I find such are useful for a number of emergencies that can take place in my study.

Teddy will dress, we shall pray once more. I shall remind him that I (and God) love him and send him on his way.

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

Called to Account

adultschoolboy cane longs touch toes classroom (1)

Mr Moore turned the corner of the road and stopped. Why the hell was his heart racing. He drew in a lung full of air, conscious of other people in the street. One man wearing a black coat and carrying a furled umbrella eyed him suspiciously. “Oh for pity’s sake, man what’s the matter with you?” he silently berated himself.

The “matter” was St. Francis Independent Grammar School – known to all as St. FIGS – his old school. Former alma mater; the place where he was educated. There it stood less than fifty yards ahead of him. Why did it scare the shit out of him? He took another deep breath; he had to get this thing over with.

This thing was a summons to see Mr Trout, his former housemaster. A summons, at his age. Mr Moore wouldn’t see thirty again. He had left school at eighteen and hadn’t been back since. And that suited him just fine. He shuffled forward. Absent-mindedly he put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt the envelope. Inside was a letter. He had read it so many times he knew the words by heart. His eleven-year-old son Ronnie had been skipping classes, not doing homework, he was likely to fail his exams at the end of the year. “You are requested to attend to see me.” It was curiously archaic language. But, Mr Moore thought, how entirely typical of Trout. Never say anything clearly.

Mr Moore had reached the school gates. Although he continued to live in the town, he never made the journey back. Too many unhappy memories. Sweat prickled the back of his neck, although it was not a warm evening. He ran a finger under his collar to try to clear it. Time plays ridiculous tricks sometimes. Suddenly it was 1970, fifteen years ago. He was no longer a middle manager at the Brocklehurst Building Society, with people under him. Now, at this moment he was Moore A.J., aged fifteen, about to undergo a very awkward – and ultimately painful – encounter with his housemaster. Instinctively, he massaged the seat of his trousers with his thumbs as he entered the building. He had been instructed to meet Trout in the schoolroom. The passageway was dark and deserted. The days in February were still short. He shivered in the dankness. They said parts of the school were five hundred years old; it certainly felt like it to Moore. The school was deserted, classroom doors were locked. It added to Moore’s sense of unreality. He had stepped into the Twilight Zone. Nothing here was real.

He saw a light in a room at the end of the passageway. His final destination. He halted outside the door, rubbed his sweaty palms on the legs of his trousers. His hands were shaking. “For God’s sake,” he reproached himself silently, “What has gotten into you, man!” It was a statement of condemnation, rather than a question. He wiped his moist brow with his sleeve and tapped gently on the door.

“Come!” The voice within made him shudder. Unmistakeably Mr Trout. Haughty with a dash of self-importance.  The brass door handle was stiff, it wouldn’t turn at first. It rattled and shook and finally gave way. Moore put his shoulder to the door and it opened suddenly, spilling him into the schoolroom. He blushed; flustered he turned and pushed the door closed. He stood for a moment transfixed. The room was not too large, it contained twenty ancient wooden desks, a blackboard and easel dominated one wall, close to it behind a small wooden desk sat Mr Trout. He was unmistakable. Even sitting, he made an imposing figure. Standing, he towered above the schoolboys. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow (for a man his age). Had he aged since 1970? Moore could not be sure. To the boys at the school all the masters looked ancient. It was impossible to look youthful while wearing an academic gown and mortar board cap. Trout pursed his lips, and stared with distain. “Moore, A. J.” he intoned, his top lip curling into a scowl. He rested his hands on his desk and leaned his shoulders forward: Churchill doing his bulldog impersonation.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore babbled, hopping with embarrassment from left foot to right. He waved his hands around, unsure where to put them. Trout’s glare burned into him. He knew his face was already flushed bright red.

“Pah!” Trout spat. Silence filled the room. Moore couldn’t stop his eyes blinking furiously. Was he expected to say something? At the Building Society, he would be the first to make a decision. He was something of a rising star. Destined to go far. He glanced to left and right. He should sit down, this was a meeting of equals, two grown men coming together to discuss a matter of mutual concern. All the chairs were placed neatly behind small single desks. If Moore sat down he would not only feel like an extremely small child he would look like one as well.

Trout spoke before Moore had a chance to decide. “You know why I have summoned you, Moore,” it was a statement, not a question. Moore stared. Summoned. The word spoke volumes. Trout was in charge. Nothing had changed.

“Err, no Sir,” Moore was confused. What the hell was he supposed to say? Trout’s right arm waved. “Don’t know, don’t know Moore!” he glared. Moore wanted the ground to open up and swallow him whole. “Well Moore,” Trout’s voice rose an octave, “I’ll tell you. Your son,” he paused confused. He opened a drawer on the desk, he seemed to be searching for something. “Your son …. Moore.” He had never troubled to learn the boy’s Christian name.

“Ronnie, Sir,” Moore said apologetically.

“Yes, well, err,” it was Trout’s turn to sound confused. He drew his shoulders back and regained the advantage. “Moore Junior has not been doing his homework and he has been missing classes,” he eyed the man standing before him suspiciously. “What have you got to say for that then?”

Moore had been thinking about this. A lot. His son was a brat, he was disrespectful to his mother and even aged eleven treated the home like a hotel. Moore was out of his depth. Ronnie had been a mistake – an unplanned child – he and his wife had been far too young when they had him. Moore sometimes thought the terror was a good advertisement for contraception.

“Well, I don’t really know,” Moore said weakly.

“Pah!” Trout was charging full throttle. “It is your responsibility, Moore,” his voice rose in anger. “You have failed in your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. He wanted to say, “Hang on, you’re the schoolmaster, you do something,” but his courage failed him. Instead, he whispered, “Can’t you beat him?”

Trout’s nostrils flared, his already ruddy complexion turned puce, a dribble of spittle collected at the corner of his mouth. “Beat him!” he roared. His body shook so violently, Moore took a step backwards in fear.

“Yes, Sir,” Moore gabbled. “You know, cane him. It’s what you would have done to me.” Trout’s eyes swivelled in his head, scaring Moore into adding, “Sir.” Trout rose from the desk and walked forward, approaching Moore with eyes flaring and arms swirling. “Don’t you follow the news Moore?” And then is if to answer his own question, he blurted, “You always were idle, boy. Bone idle.”

Trout stood so close to Moore he could smell the schoolmaster’s sour breath. Trout fumed, “The government outlawed corporal punishment last year, Moore. We can no longer cane.” His chin wobbled, his eyes moistened. Moore thought the aged schoolmaster might blub.

“Oh”. Suddenly, Moore realised why he had been brought into school. In his days a master would not dream of involving parents. Trout shook his shoulders and took a deep breath, he was composing himself. “I blame you Moore,” he stared unflinchingly into Moore’s eyes, “You have neglected your responsibility.”

Moore’s mouth opened and closed once more. He spoke no words, Trout was on a bit of a roll. “It is your responsibility you ensure your son attends school. You must see to it that homework is done. You have been inattentive. It is in short your fault.”

Moore shuffled his feet, embarrassed.

“You have got to pull up your socks, Boy,” Trout grimaced, “I expect an immediate improvement, do I make myself clear?”

Moore stared down at his feet, “Yes, Sir,” he mumbled. Trout fell silent. Moore did not see, but heard the schoolmaster’s footsteps as he shuffled across the room. Moore knew Trout was correct, he had neglected his son. If he were brutally honest with himself, he didn’t really care about Ronnie. Out of sight was out of mind. The boy could do as he liked, as long as he didn’t drag his father into anything.

Moore heard Trout open a door to a cupboard, it sounded like the hinge was rusty. Then a swishing whoosh rent the air. It was unmistakeable. Alarmed, Moore swivelled on his heels and faced Trout; his jaw dropped, his eyes popped. Trout was flexing between his hands a traditional whippy, curve-handled rattan cane.

Trout answered Moore’s unasked question. “They have banned the cane, but we have not disposed of out supply.” He swiped the cane through empty air. “I fervently pray that this ban is an aberration and that our betters quickly come to their senses.” He walked slowly towards Moore. “However, in the meantime …” he glared at the young manager before him. Moore recoiled, once more the fifteen-year-old miscreant summoned to the housemaster’s study for bowing.

Even before sentence was handed down, Moore began a protest, “But …” He was silenced by Trout’s icy stare. Moore’s own eyes watched intently as the schoolmaster moved and stood in front of the blackboard. He looked back at Moore, pointed the tip of the cane at a spot on the bare floorboards and said, “Stand there boy.”

Time truly plays tricks. Moore shambled across the schoolroom. There could be no doubt about Trout’s intentions. A sane man would say it was absurd. A thirty-one-year-old business manager presenting himself to an older man for a caning. But this was not rational. Hundreds of years of conditioning and tradition had led to this moment. Although he had yet to articulate it to himself Moore accepted he had erred. His son’s misbehaviour was down to him. He had been neglectful as a father. Punishment was due. Punishment was accepted.

“I want you to consider your behaviour and ensure that it improves. This,” he swished the cane again, “will give you something to think about. Bend over. Touch your toes.”

Moore’s eyelids blinked rapidly. He couldn’t get them to stop. His heart pounded. He hesitated.

“Don’t keep me waiting, Moore. You know the penalty.” Indeed he did: extra strokes. He shook his head to clear it, loosened the button on his suit jacket and bent forward. Touch your toes, meant just that to Mr Trout. Not, hands on knees or grab your shins. The tips of the fingers should touch the tops of the shoes. Knees straight. It was harder to get in this position that it sounded. Moore was absurdly proud as he presented his bottom perfectly for the administrations of Trout’s cane. In his mind he visualised the times he had been caned while still a pupil at St. FIGS. Once in the sixth-form when a bunch of them had been caught with beer. Eighteen years old, but bent over the back of a smelly old armchair in the study. How it had hurt. He remembered Jackson, a pal of those days he hadn’t seen in a decade, hopping up and down trying to rub the hurt away from his backside. “Well”, he thought, “I’m going to take this caning better than he did.”

Trout was taking his aim. Moore was far from fat but his body had naturally bulked out since his schooldays. The schoolmaster sawed his cane across the centre of the proffered buttocks. This backside was somewhat larger than those he habitually dealt with. He tapped the cane gently, Moore’s shoulders tensed, his buttocks twitched. Whack! The cane whipped down with force, dust motes rose from the trouser seat. Moore gritted his teeth and gasped. That hurt. It had been about thirteen years since he had last been “dealt with”, he was a little out of practice. He heard footsteps on the floorboards as Trout paced the schoolroom. He paused about three yards from Moore’s curved buttocks, raised the cane above shoulder height and then almost ran three paces towards the young man, flogging the cane across the backside. The rod sank into the flesh. Moore’s head rose, his back arched, his fingers flew away from the tip of his shoes. He half stood, instinctively wanting to rub away the agony in his bum. He caught himself just in time, forcing his hands back to his toes. It was a schoolboy ritual being played out. You stayed down. You took your swishing. You didn’t move. If you did: extra strokes.

Trout involuntarily licked his lips. How he had wanted the younger Moore in this position. How the boy deserved this. But it was not to be. That way led career ruin and loss of pension. This he had to console himself was the next best thing. The swiped numbers three and four in quick succession and satisfied himself that Moore’s pain was increasing. The back of the young man’s neck was equally as red as his backside. His face by contrast was a deathly white. Trout flexed the cane between his hands, playing for time. He knew that the pain would be radiating out from the buttocks and travelling up and down his legs and then going north, south, east, west, throughout his body.

Nearly over, Moore comforted himself. He concentrated on the bare floorboard beneath his feet. It looked almost new, he thought. Maybe the old one had been worn out by generations of schoolboys shuffling their feet while adopting his present position. This absurd notion tickled him but it did not assuage the agony that spread throughout his buttocks as the cane welted the underside of his bum, on the sensitive sit-spot where the buttocks meet the thighs. It would be uncomfortable to sit down for some hours to come.

Behind him Moore heard Trout wheeze and then hack a dry couch. The old schoolmaster must be showing his age after all, he supposed. The cane tapped across the higher end of his mounds. This must be the last one, he thought. Six-of-the-best. He steeled himself, closed his eyes, shut his teeth and held his breath. As he expected, Trout landed it in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of the target area. The cane hit across all five lines reigniting them all. Only by a monumental effort did he stay in position, wheezing to catch his breath, his head pounding, blood rushing through his arteries so fast he was sure it would whoosh out through his ears.

He felt the cane tap across his bottom once more. “Sweet Jesus, no more, please,” he prayed inwardly. “That’s over. You may stand.” Slowly, Moore straightened. The throbbing in his backside was intense. He had never sat on a barbecue but he imagined if he had done so it would have felt something like this. Remembering the distain he felt for Jackson he restrained himself from performing the caning dance, jumping up and down while simultaneously rubbing himself. That would have to wait until he was in private.

Trout stood before him, holding the cane he had just used to rip Moore’s backside apart. He glared. “I hope you have learnt a valuable lesson.” It was a rhetorical question and he did not allow Moore time to answer. “Here take this,” he offered the astonished Moore the cane, “take it home. I think you might find a use for it there.” Moore could not be certain but Trout might have given him a ghost of a smile, as he took hold of the whippy rod. It was astonishingly light. Who could believe such a thing could do so much damage.

Not waiting for a response, Trout shuffled towards the door and was gone. Moore put the cane down on the desk and massaged his bottom ruefully. The intense pain had gone to be replaced by a hot throbbing. Very soon, he knew from experience, it would turn to a warm glow. The welts would be tender to touch for some hours yet, but by bedtime even that would be gone. The marks would last from some days. How the hell was he going to explain that to his wife? Bitterly, he grabbed the cane, tucked it under his arm and left.

Picture credit: Unknown

For other stories about St. FIGS, click here

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Charles Hamilton the Second

A Short, Sharp Lesson

z used drawing cane hold (22)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry, Sir.”

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

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

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

“Trousers up or down?” the professor snapped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Endart


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Charles Hamilton the Second

The Moped Gang

By Charles Hamilton II and Cayenne.

The headmaster leaned forward in his chair, rested his arms on his desk, clasped his hands together and stared intently at the five sixth-formers standing before him.  His unkempt moustache bristled as he sneered, “Well, well, well, Gentlemen, welcome! I seem to have convened an impromptu meeting of the Moped Gang!”

All five eighteen year olds stared blankly, trying with varying degrees of success to look unconcerned. It would be a lecture, of course. Mr Lynch would lambast them about their behaviour and send them on their way. Maybe with an essay to write, Why I should be a credit to the school, something like that.

The headmaster shook his head wearily. “The five lads from my school who have been terrorising the neighbourhood.” Juvenile delinquents, he told himself. They were mighty fortunate not to be up before the Magistrates’ Court. Out loud he said, “You have been inflicting your loutish behaviour all over the neighbourhood.”

He paused, waiting for a reaction. When none came, he carried on. “You have been riding those infernal mopeds disturbing all and sundry.” He suppressed a smile. Mopeds; bicycles with hairdryers for engines. Hardly the Hells Angels. Nonetheless the good name of the school was at stake. “You have been smoking and drinking and,” the headmaster shuddered at the thought, “urinating in most inappropriate places. The churchyard and the gardens of the Masonic Hall, I hear. And often you are foolish enough to do this in school uniform! You are a disgrace!”

Mr Lynch hauled himself to his feet. He was a stout man, some would say he was running to fat. At six feet, he was taller than any of the boys standing in his study. Five pairs of eyes watched him intently as he shuffled across the room towards a bookcase. It ran most of the length of one wall and had glass doors. The shelves were stacked with history text books. Mr Lynch liked to keep his hand in in the classroom. A tall thin cupboard divided the bookcase. He fumbled in his pocket for barely a moment before bringing out a key. His hand trembled as he inserted it in a lock and opened the cupboard. His body obscured the boys’ view but an unmistakable rattling sound revealed its contents.

Mr Lynch turned to face the delinquents. “It’s a shame that you are all eighteen and so too old for this cane of mine.  Isn’t that so, Smith?” The headmaster held the rod between his hands and flexed it.

“Err, yes, Sir,” Smith blustered.

The headmaster swiped the cane through thin air. “Too old for this cane, Passey?”

“Yes, Sir.” Passey stared intently at the cane. It was a little over three feet long with a curved handle.

Swish! The cane flew again. “Too old, Wilkinson?”

“Yes indeed, Sir,” the lad coughed nervously, sensing some kind of trap.

Mr Lynch took a step forward, leaning into a thin, lanky boy. “And how about you, Jenkin, just turned eighteen, I believe, so too old for this cane of mine?”

“Yes, Sir, Mr. Lynch, Sir.” Jenkin returned the headmaster’s gaze. He wished he would just get on with it. An essay. A detention even. He wanted to get away, the Moped Gang had a meet that evening.

Mr Lynch swivelled on his left heel. “And finally, we get to you, Davies.”

“Yes Sir?” a short, stocky boy narrowed his eyes. He didn’t understand the tone in the headmaster’s voice.

“You’re a little bit different from the others here, aren’t you?”

“I am, Sir?” He felt his cheeks flush, what was the Old Man talking about?

“Oh yes! You may be eighteen like the others here, but I understand that your father beats you regularly. With a cane just like this!” He swiped it twice through the air for emphasis. “He told me all about it when we were at the Model Railway Club. We are both members, you see.  He’s the life and soul of the club, old ‘Deltic’ Davies, you know. He often tells us he’s had to get his cane out.”

Jenkin suppressed a snort. The cane, from his dad, he thought. Wait until he told the other sixth-formers. Davies’ face reddened with embarrassment and shame.  He felt no shame being up before the headmaster, but for the Old Man to know he was caned at home; that was unbearable.  And now, the shame that his friends had just found out about it too.

But there was more. The shame that his father played trains! Diesel trains too. And Dad was friends with headmaster. That had to be the worst! No, wait! Did the headmaster know that Davies had his trousers at his ankles and his underpants at his knees as he bent across the dining room table for lashes from Dad’s cane across his bared bottom?

What if all of that became public? It would be the end for Davies. How could he remain leader of the Moped gang? Davies stared at his scuffed shoes. He couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. Neither could he look at his mates. He knew inwardly they were smirking. He wouldn’t hear the end of it once the headmaster released them from his study.

Mr Lynch flexed his cane some more, he tapped it gently against his right leg, then he swished it through the air again. He knew he was an old ham. This was supposed to intimidate a boy. Usually it worked. But maybe not this time, he thought. Davies’ face was scarlet, but the other four seemed unconcerned.

“So we’re all agreed that you are all too old for this cane of mine?” Mr Lynch’s moustache quivered as he bared his yellow teeth in a smile. There was a murmur of agreement from the boys.  Davies sighed a little too loudly and the headmaster shot him a withering look.

“I have decided,” the headmaster continued, “that you are right. At eighteen, you are all much too old for this cane.  For this junior cane.” He swiped it through the air again. It made a terrific Whoosh! as it travelled. “No, what you lads need is the senior cane. Just right for your sturdy rumps! Jenkin! Go and ask Miss Glossop for the senior cane. Here, you can take this junior one back with you.”

Wilkinson had been right, the headmaster had been playing them for fools, and they were trapped in his game. Jenkin took hold of the cane. It was surprisingly light. He had never seen a cane up close before. Brocklehurst Grammar was a traditional school – traditional curriculum, uniform, sports, religion and above all traditional discipline. And, that meant the whippy, crook-handled rattan cane. Could there be any boy in the sixth-form who had not offered his stretched backside to a master for a stinging six-of-the-best at some time during his school career? Jenkin was an exception; he had only joined the school the previous year after his father moved to the town with his job. This would be Jenkin’s first caning; an experience he did not relish.

Miss Glossop, the headmaster’s secretary, sat in an anteroom perched over her typewriter. Her long, thin nose and shiny black hair made her look like a crow. Jenkin shuddered as he handed the cane over. “He didn’t use it then? I’m surprised!” she barked disdainfully. If she had her way all five boys would be in front of a school assembly bent across a long table while the headmaster flogged their naked buttocks. And, she, Miss Glossop, would be seated in the front row.

“He was very annoyed. Is he going to expel you?” she asked.

“No, no, nothing like that. At least I hope not. He told me to ask you for the senior cane.”

“Ah, of course!” Absent-mindedly, she ran the tip of her tongue across her bottom lip, leaving behind a trail of spittle. “That makes sense. He really is annoyed with you then. The senior one is reserved for the wickedest of the wicked. You bad lads!”

She rose from her swivel chair and sashayed to a tall metal locker at the far end of the room. Jenkin watched mesmerised as her bottom wiggled suggestively. She unlocked the locker and withdrew the cane. Just as the headmaster had done, she flexed the rod between her hands. Blood rushed to Jenkin’s cock. A sudden vision of himself bent across Miss Glossop’s desk, trousers and pants at the floor, made the cock stiffen. Hurriedly he clasped his hands together and held them in front of his balls.

“Here it is then. The senior model. Extra painful.” Miss Glossop narrowed her eyes and handed the stick over. “Be sure to tell the headmaster that there are a couple more in stock in case this one breaks.”

“Err, will do Miss Glossop,” he blustered. He took the cane, unsure how to handle it. It was a little longer and thicker than the junior cane. At first he took it be the curved handle and let it fall by his side. It was long enough to touch the ground and reminded him of a walking stick. That didn’t seem right, so then he gripped it half way down. It was a sturdy rod with notches every four inches or so along its length. It was awesome; it would pack one heck of a punch. For one absurd moment he thought of Charlie Chaplin and how the clown would twirl his cane in the silent movies.

“You’d better be getting back,” Miss Glossop said grumpily. Jenkin jerked back into life, tucked the cane under his arm rather like a sergeant-major did and returned to the headmaster’s study.

“You four,” the headmaster waved his arm, “stand and face the bookcase.” He watched as the teenagers shuffled into place, no longer unconcerned. “Jenkin,” he pointed with the cane to a worn armchair. “Bend over.” Manufacturers called these chairs “comfy” or “comfortable”  chairs but Mr Lynch was determined that Jenkin’ visit would be anything but comfortable. The chair was old and worn. The material on the apex of the back was shiny with age. How many boys had contributed to that, Jenkin wondered.

“Bend over, lad,” the headmaster had had his little joke with the boys, now he was anxious to get on with it; the sixth-formers less so. Jenkin stood a foot or so away from the back of the chair. How exactly was this done? He took a deep breath rubbed the palms of his hands together and reluctantly fell forward, rather like a diver going into an icy pond. Jenkin was so small and the chair so tall, that his stomach rested easily on the top of the chair’s back. He felt his pale-grey trousers ride up his buttocks. He couldn’t see himself, but he was sure the material had separated his cheeks.

“Legs further apart. Up higher.” It was a calm command and Jenkin obeyed without question and struggled to get into the requested position. “Head nice and low, please.” Now, his bottom was resting at a perfect angle to receive a thrashing from the headmaster. Jenkin gripped the seat cushion and closed his eyes. He had never been caned before and nor ever spoken to a boy who had been. His previous school had been quite liberal and corporal punishment was unheard of. His buttock cheeks clenched. He had not meant to do this, it was as if his body was trying to find a natural way to protect him from the pain ahead.

“Relax lad. Relax.” The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the underside of Jenkin’s now upturned bottom. He was finding his spot, taking his aim. Jenkin’s firm bottom stretched his now very tight grey trousers, a point the headmaster was careful to observe as he positioned himself behind him.

“Stick your bottom out more, lad, hollow your back. Mr Lynch knew this was Jenkin’s first caning and he intended it to be memorable. “Jenkin when I cane I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. I won’t lie to you, your backside will be on fire and you will be sore for a few days. The marks will last about two weeks but you will live.”

It had the desired effect and tears started to dampen Jenkin’s eyes before the first stroke had cracked against his tight backside. He gripped the chair cushion so tightly his knuckles ached.

The headmaster grasped the cane and took two steps away. To calm down he took a few “air shots” before finally returning to stand to Jenkin’s left. Then, with his arm outstretched he lay the cane tip half way across the cheek of the teenager’s further buttock. Jenkin flinched slightly as the rattan touched the middle of his bum. The headmaster raised it slowly then brought it whistling down. It landed with a satisfying thwack right across the cheeks.

“Oww! Gosh, oww!” Jenkin yelped, trying to keep his scorching bottom still after his first ever stroke of the cane.

The study was again filled with the sound of the cane swishing through the air, followed by that awful crack that signalled another searing bout of pain across his already sore bottom. The headmaster drew the cane back for another stroke. Jenkin arched his back and screwed his face up as he experienced the smarting of yet another assault to his now red-raw bottom.

Despite the shocking pain, Jenkin resolved to take the caning bravely and silently; he didn’t want to show himself up in front of his mates. But when slash number three connected with the seat of his trousers he lost all control, his feet beat a frenzied tattoo, as his hips twisted and squirmed. He desperately wanted to jump up and run from the study clutching his buttocks in both hands, but some schoolboy instinct kept him down. He was grateful that he had the chair cushion to grip, even though his hands were now grasping it so tightly his fingernails dug deeply.

The next swipe was greeted with a howl and Jenkin was now audibly muttering: “No!” and “Please!” But there was to be no mercy in the study that afternoon. Mr Lynch stood back, took aim again and the cane flashed through the air with a whoosh and the resulting blow snapped into Jenkin’s waiting backside with venom.

A river of tears cascaded down Jenkin’s face as he waited, heart thumping madly, for the final crack which the headmaster put right across the middle of his buttocks, angled, so that it crossed about three of the other cuts.

It took some time after the last stroke for Jenkin to realise the ordeal was over. “Yes,” the headmaster sighed. “That concludes your punishment, Jenkin. I hope you have learned your lesson.”

Like so many thrashed schoolboys before him, Jenkin remained slumped across the back of the chair, just trying to absorb the line of fire across his bum. Nothing had prepared him for the pain or for the feeling that his bottom had being cut into slices and then set on fire.

“Up lad!” the headmaster commanded, “We haven’t got all day.” With great difficulty, Jenkin’s hands scrabbled for the arm of the chair and he pushed himself upright, panting and sobbing. He danced on the spot, clutching the seat of his trousers. Even through the material he could feel the six vivid and very painful stripes decorating his hindquarters.

“Stand and face the bookcase,” the headmaster intoned. “Wilkinson, take his place.”


Thirty minutes later Owen Davies steered his moped through the gate of a large detached house. Home. The intense pain from his caning had dissolved into a dull ache, but the hard seat of his Honda had set the welts on his bum throbbing. He kicked the stand on his bike and left it standing by the door of the house. The Moped Gang were meeting later.

He opened the front door to find his brother Dai standing, waiting for him in the hallway. A supercilious grin slit the twenty-year-old’s face. “Who’s been a naughty little boy then?” he chirped in the sing-song voice of a child as he swished an imaginary cane through the air. Owen grimaced. This was the last thing he needed.

“I got a phone call from your headmaster,” Dai’s grin broadened. “He wanted to speak to Dad, but I told him he was at that toy train convention until Saturday.”

Owen moved towards the stairs, intent on ignoring his annoying brother. He wanted to get to his bedroom for a close look at his bum.

“So,” Dai blocked his brother’s way, “he told me all about you and your Moped Gang. Six-of-the-best, eh?” He swiped the imaginary cane again. “You naughty, naughty little boy.”

“Piss off,” Owen sneered. He hated his brother. Always had done. Owen was the bright boy in the family. Dai wasn’t clever enough to go to grammar school. He left Gumshoe Lane Secondary Modern aged sixteen. How Owen despised him. Thick as two short planks. A waste of space.

“Of course,” Dai jeered, “When Dad finds out you’ll get another caning.” His arm flew through the air again. “And,” Dai was enjoying himself and he wanted his little brother to know it. “What was it Dad said last time?” He poked the underside of his chin with an index finger, pretending that he was thinking. “Oh yes, I remember.” Owen clenched his fists, for two pins he’d sock his brother on the jaw. He knew what Dad had said.

“He said if you got into any more trouble on that phut-phut he’d confiscate it and sell it. Then where would you be little brother?” Dai reached out and ruffled Owen’s hair. “You’ll be on the bus like the rest of the kids.”

Owen stood devastated. Dai was right. That was what Dad had said. He would do it too. A bare-arsed caning and no moped. That bike was his life. He was the leader of a gang. It made him feel really important. The other guys actually looked up to him. Now what would happen? He knew only too well; no bike, no gang, no life.

“Of course,” Dai spread his arms wide like a market trader offering a bargain to passers-by, “Dad need never know.” He grinned and stared intently at his little brother. Dai had a plan. One that he would really enjoy putting into action. “What’d’ya say little brother?”

Owen sucked in air. What the hell was Dai talking about? Why did he have to behave like an idiot all the time?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he spat. He hated his brother. Owen couldn’t wait until the autumn when he could leave the house and go away to university. His imbecile brother would probably have to live at home the rest of his life.

Dai shrugged his shoulders and showed Owen the palms of his hands. “A little plan, dear brother,” he said in a mocking accent that made his brother’s skin crawl.

Owen hated himself for doing it, but he asked none-the-less, “What plan?”

“Ha,” Dai spoke in that mocking voice again. “Now, he wants to know. Now, he asks me ‘What is the plan’”?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, I want to go out,” Owen pushed past his brother and started toward the stairs. Fearful, he might have missed his chance Dai said in a rush, “I won’t tell Dad your headmaster called. I’ll cane you instead.” Owen stopped in his tracks and turned. The surprised expression on his face asked “What?”

Dai took a deep breath, “You’ll get to keep your moped.”

The room span. Owen gripped the banister rail for support. His mouth opened, but before he could tell his brother once more to “fuck off” he shut it tight. He should not be too hasty. That bike was his life. There was only one way for him to keep it. His head spun. This could not be happening. If he let his brother cane him he got to keep the bike.

Thinking about it later, Owen could hardly believe he spoke the next words, “You promise you won’t tell Dad?” Dai’s cold blue eyes blazed, “Scout’s honour,” he said and waved two fingers in the air. “All right,” Owen whispered.

“Good-oh!” Dai smiled broadly. “We must do it now, my shift at the Wimpy starts at five-thirty.” Gingerly Owen rubbed his fingertips across the seat of his trousers. His bum still ached from the headmaster’s caning. Now, he had to let his obnoxious brother beat him on the bare bottom. He would rip it to shreds. He grimaced. You couldn’t make it up, he thought.

Owen watched Dai rush up the stairs and fling open the door to Dad’s bedroom and enter. Moments later he came out crestfallen. “The wardrobe’s locked.” He let the importance of his message hang in the air. Owen needed no explanation. Dad kept his canes in that wardrobe, if they couldn’t get it open there was nothing to beat him with. He would lose his moped after all.

Owen sighed, “Can we get a cane someplace else?”

Dai snapped his fingers to indicate a thought had come to him. “Of course, let’s go round the neighbours and ask if anyone can lend us a cane,” he said sarcastically.

Owen sneered. “All right, but there must be a way round this.”

Dai did the snapping of the fingers thing again. This time he was serious, “It doesn’t have to be a cane. I can spank you.” When Owen looked doubtful, he added, “You know, over the knee, like a little boy.”

Owen blanched. It would have been mortifying enough to go over the dining room table for a caning, but over-the-knee to have his bare bottom spanked; that was too much. Dai read his brother’s mind. He wasn’t about to let this chance to thoroughly humiliate his brother pass. “You’ll get to keep the moped,” he reminded him.

That was enough. It was the only way. With his heart pounding and temples throbbing, Owen nodded his assent.

“Good-oh,” Dai brightened up. “Go wait in the sitting room. I’ll fetch something.” Sorrowfully, Owen trudged across the hallway. Seconds later Dai bounded down the stairs brandishing a heavy wooden clothes brush. He bounced into the sitting room, noting with delight the gloomy expression on his kid brother’s face. He picked up a large armless chair that lay against a wall and plonked it down in the centre of the room. He sat down, spread his legs wide and, waving the brush wildly, called across to Owen. “Come here you naughty little boy.”

Owen grimaced. How he would like to smash his fist into Dai’s smug face. He stood and glared. Dai’s smirk was undisguised. “Come on, let’s get on with this.” He snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot on the carpet close to his right knee. “Stand there.” Owen refused to look at his brother as he shuffled the three paces it needed to take up the position.

Dai sucked in a lungful of air. His eyes sparkled. “Trousers down, little man. Trousers down.” Owen avoided his brother’s gaze and instead concentrated his attention on the far wall. He had never really noticed the painting that hung there before. Some modern art thing. All oranges and reds. It looked like the artist was having a fit when he painted it. Owen stared hard at the picture as he reached for his belt buckle. He was surprised how little his fingers fumbled as they loosened the belt, popped the button at the waistband and pulled the zipper. His pale-grey trousers slid down his thighs unaided and snagged at his knees.

“Ha!” Dai smirked, “White Y-fronts, I forgot your snob school made you wear those. Do they do a pants inspection every morning?” He laughed aloud. Owen sucked on his cheek, determined not to raise to his brother’s bait. “Pants down. All the way,” Dai pointed at Owen’s feet. The eighteen-year-old closed his eyes tight. Think about the moped, he said to himself. If you let him do this you keep the bike. He tucked his thumbs under the elasticated waistband of his pants and guided them south.

Dai tapped the brush against the palm of his left hand. “Bend over my knee, you naughty boy.” I’ll get you for this one day you bastard, Owen told himself as he guided himself across his brother’s lap. Owen was short and squat while Dai was tall and lanky and the boy fitted perfectly. He spread his arms wide and placed his palms flat into the deep-pile carpet. Behind him his toes merely brushed the ground. His bottom was raised against Dai’s right thigh, at a perfect angle for the brush. A cool breeze from the open window behind him caressed his naked legs.

Owen felt his brother pull the tail of his shirt up the small of his back until it bunched at his shoulders. “Woweee!” Dai exploded with glee. Implanted across his brother’s bared buttocks were six distinct welts. “Your headmaster has given you a good set of marks.” He put the index finger of his right hand into his mouth and soaked it in saliva. Then, carefully he traced along each cut with the fingertip. Owen shuddered as the pain in each welt reignited. Dai cupped his hand and roughly rubbed it first across the left buttock and then the right. “It feels like corrugated cardboard back here.” He didn’t try to hide the fun he was having.

Owen shut his eyes. He couldn’t see, but he guessed his brother had a perfect view of his crack and could even see up his hole. He could die from embarrassment. This will soon be over, he reassured himself. Then I can go out on my moped and lead a gang who respect me.

Dai tested the brush in his hand for weight. It was about a foot long with an oval-shaped head three inches wide. It’s primary purpose was to keep clothes clean but it also made a splendid spanking implement. Dai tapped the brush against the centre of Owen’s left buttock so that it fell across three of the cane marks. “This should set them on fire again,” he grinned as he smacked the wood down hard. There was a dull thud as the brush connected with Owen’s firm flesh, followed by an elongated hiss of air escaping through pursed lips; it sounded like a steam train settling down. Owen’s body shook; he raised himself an inch off his brother’s lap and his legs flailed. “No you don’t buster,” Dai gripped Owen around the waist. “You’re not going anywhere.” Satisfied his younger brother was firmly secured he hammered the brush across Owen’s bum. It was like machine gun fire. Rat-a-tat-tat; rat-a-tat-tat. Within seconds every square inch of Owen’s bottom was on fire, from the top of the curves, across the mounds themselves and into the ultra-sensitive underside, the part of the bum that connected with the chair when you sat down.

Even without the cane wounds this would have been a severe spanking. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood attacked his tender buttocks. Owen wriggled and writhed; he waved his arms around; he kicked his legs; his head flailed to left and right and then up and down (just like a horse does when he neighs) as his brother pounded away. The agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over his brother’s knees, his squalling taking over, as he gasped, choked, sobbed, and shook. He felt the fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper wailing and weeping.

This encouraged Dai to renewed vigour. Owen’s legs thrashed about so much he kicked his trousers across the room and the struggle continued so greatly that long before his brother had finished the bare-bottomed spanking the white briefs dangled from his left ankle.

Owen wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain that had set his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of his brother’s left arm around his waist. He pleaded, begged, promised and threatened endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail.

Dai hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin his rowdy eighteen-year-old brother in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the brush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, Owen struggled and pleaded but his brother continued; he was having too much fun to stop just yet.

He was so engrossed in his task and Owen so overcome with pain and indignity that neither heard the gentle burr outside in the drive. Four moped riders stared in astonishment through the open window.  They saw that their gang leader had just had his second humiliating beating of the day.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

A ritual played out

z used Three Fishers climbing fence (2)

You walk slowly across the quadrangle, hands defiantly dug deep into trouser pockets. You are taking your time. The summons was for four o’clock. You won’t be late, but you have no desire to arrive early.

A cold breeze bites. The snow has turned to slush beneath your feet. You enter the building. Legend has it that parts of it dates back to the seventeenth century. A narrow stone staircase winds upwards. You concentrate on your feet. The stairs are slippery with the snow. You don’t want to turn your ankle. The House rugby final is on Saturday, you wouldn’t want to miss taking part in that.

You halt when you reach the passageway. You check your blue-and-red hooped cap is straight on your head. You fasten the buttons on your blazer. It is coloured blue and has red braiding around the collar, cuffs and pockets. You sigh inwardly. There’s no other blazer like it. Everyone can recognise a St Tom’s boy. More’s the pity, you think.

Not far to walk now. You know the way. This isn’t the first time you’ve made this journey. You hope it will be the last. You’ve arrived. You pause in front of the heavy oak door. The letters on the notice reading “Headmaster” are fading. It is part of school tradition. The study has been here for centuries. You take a deep breath, count to ten, compose yourself. You rap your knuckles on the door with a confidence you don’t really feel.

“Come!” An imperious voice beyond the door calls. You breathe deeply again and with an unsteady hand turn the large brass handle. The door is heavy and it takes some of your strength to open it. Dr Winstanley, the headmaster, is seated at his desk. He looks up and growls at you. “Hurry up and close the door.” A fire is roaring in the grate, but the room is still deathly cold.

The headmaster waves his arm. He points to a spot on the rug  in front of him. “There boy!” You shuffle forward, stand hands clenched behind your back, head bowed. “Look at me boy!” the headmaster barks. You jerk your head upwards.

Dr Winstanley is an elderly, portly man. His head is nearly entirely bald except for a tuft at each temple. His face is florid and his jowls drop low. Depending on how he holds his head he has three or four chins. You notice his tweed suit is a little battered. A waistcoat stretches across his ample belly.

You see he is not wearing his academic gown and mortar-board cap; the very symbol of the English schoolmaster. They hang on a coat stand in a corner to the left of the headmaster’s desk.

“Baxter,” the headmaster intones. You know he is about to jaw you. You know why you have been summoned to the study. You know what is going to happen. You wish he would just get on with it. He does not. He tells you that you were spotted last evening in the public bar of the Three Fishers Hotel. What do you have to say about that?

You mumble. You accept you have been caught. You don’t tell him that you tried to make your escape undetected by climbing the rickety fence that encloses the pub’s carpark. You don’t tell him that you landed right in front of Harrison, the school captain. You don’t say that you often visit The Three Fishers as do many of the sixth-form. You are eighteen years old and you can legally enter pubs. If St Tom’s were not a boarding school the headmaster would have no right to punish you for being there.

You say none of these things. For you know there is no point doing so. None at all. You have broken the rules. You must accept punishment. You may console yourself that many times in the past you and your pals drank in the pub undetected. You are uncomplaining. You win some; you lose some.

You know that when the headmaster has finished lambasting you it will be your turn to speak. You have prepared a little speech. You accept you are in the wrong. You apologise. That is how it must be. The headmaster has all the power and you have none. You do not tell him it is absurd for the headmaster to beat you. You do not tell him you are an adult and you should be treated as one.

With all speeches over, the headmaster commands you to take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the coat stand. As you do this you see three crook-handled canes in the part of coat stand reserved for walking sticks and umbrellas. They are of slightly different lengths and thicknesses. At different times in your school career you have felt each of them across your stretched backside. Which will it be this time?

You resume your position on the faded rug in front of the headmaster’s desk. You watch as he lifts his considerably bulk from the chair and waddles across to the coat stand. You see clearly he has already made up his mind which of the canes he will use on you. It is the longest and the thickest of the three. It is dark yellow in colour and you can see it has notches every three or four inches along its length. You watch as he flexes it between his hands as if testing the rod for the every first time. Then he swishes it through the air. You can see how very dense, yet whippy, it is. It is an awesome specimen and you know it will be extremely painful.

The headmaster wobbles the cane at you. You don’t have time to reflect on the efficacy of corporal punishment in schools. If you did you would remember your father once told you that public schools such as St Tom’s existed to educate future leaders. Boys had to learn to obey orders and how to give them. They had to be taught the consequences of rule-breaking. A caning was a thoroughly painful way to remind a boy of his duty. The beating was over in moments (although the cuts and bruises might remain for weeks) and everyone was able to get on with their lives.

You watch impassively as the headmaster puts his cane down on his desk and takes hold of a small leather chair. He swivels it so that the back faces into the room. You take a deep draught of air into your lungs. You know he is almost ready. Only one further detail needs to be determined.

“Lower your trousers,” the headmaster barks. You breathe deeply again. It is to be on the underpants. You know this was not unexpected. You are a senior boy and you are not an infrequent visitor to this study; you expected a thrashing and you expected it to be exemplary. You take no comfort in the fact that until recently boys could be beaten on the bared buttocks. That practice stopped after an unfortunate court case involving a school elsewhere in the county.

You resolve to take your medicine with as much dignity as the situation allows. You will obey the headmaster’s every command. You tug at your belt and loosen the buckle. There are five buttons in total keeping your trousers closed. You struggle to get a good grip on the lower two in the fly, but eventually the front of your bags flap open. You wriggle your hips and simultaneously push down with your hands and your trousers slither down your thighs and snag at the knees. You spread your legs slightly and they continue their journey and puddle on your shoes. Your white shirt covers your buttocks at the rear and your cock and bulls at the front so that your white cotton Y-front underpants are hidden from view.

You hear the headmaster intone, “Stand by the back of the chair. Lift up your shirt, bend over.” You shuffle like a penguin to the required place and grip your shirt by both sides. You lift it so that it almost reaches your chin, then you fall forward. The first thing you notice is the musty smell of the chair seat. It is a combination of dust and body odour. The second thing is the heat from the roaring fire. You are close to the open grate and your legs are scorching.

You hear the headmaster taking up position behind you. He is swishing the cane through the air. It makes a terrific sound as it flies. You bury your face in the cushion and clasp your hands together, as if in prayer. You know this is going to hurt. You feel the cane “sawing” against the underside of your buttocks. Then it stops. The headmaster grips the waistband of your underpants and tugs so hard you feel the cotton cloth ride up your crack. You know the cheeks have been separated and there is a canyon between them. The headmaster now has a terrific target.

You feel the cane tapping against your stretched flesh. Any moment now. You know this will hurt greatly, but you have been here before. You know you can take it. You suck in your breath and hold it. The cane is lifted away from your bottom, there is an almighty whoosh! as it scatters air in its path, followed by a resounding crack as it connects with your bottom. It takes a second before the astonishing agony registers. You hack out a dry cough. You know you always do this. Other boys hiss as air rushes from their lungs through half-closed teeth. Others yelp; some yell. You are very proud of your ability to take a beating. That first stroke hurt like crazy. You can feel a thick line has already formed across your bum. It feels like the headmaster has pressed a white-hot wire into your flesh.

You hold your breath once more and wait for the second lash. You correctly predict it will land a little lower than the first. When it does you scrunch your eyes shut and increase pressure on your clasped hands. Now, you have a burning stripe across the lower half of your buttocks. You know the headmaster is an expert with the cane. You rather admire him for it. His aim is impeccable. He can land six strokes in a band no wider than an inch. If he choses no stroke will land on top of another. You know a boy is well advised to keep his bottom perfectly still while the headmaster goes about his duty. If he does not, a stroke might land on top of an existing cut and the resulting agony would be excruciating.

Your bottom throbs and despite your best effort your cheeks quiver and you wriggle your hips. “Steady boy,” the headmaster’s voice seems to come from a very long distance. You dig your elbows into the back of the leather chair and brace yourself. The cane flogs deep into your flesh before bouncing off. You cough louder this time. You feel the pain mounting. It radiates across both buttocks and travels up and down your legs. Your temples pulsate.

Your knees buckle and you make a great effort to straighten them. You hips gyrate and your stomach moves up and down over the apex of the chair. You know the headmaster is waiting for you to steady yourself once more before he lets fly again. You raise your bottom high. It is as if you are saying, “Go on. Do your worst.”

The headmaster lands two strokes. Crack!-crack! The shock of the first made you lift your bum. It put the headmaster off his aim and the second has landed diagonally across three of your welts. You hiss like a steam engine. Your legs march up and down on the floorboards. You shake your head up and down, and to the left and right.

You hear the headmaster’s footsteps. He is pacing the study, waiting for you to absorb the pain. You sense he is no hurry. You are determined not to let yourself down. Your heartrate is off the scale. Sweat soaks the back of your neck. It feels as if your underpants have stuck to your bottom.  You fear your welts are bleeding. You feel like you have sat in the fire grate.

With a monumental effort you grip hold of the seat cushion, spread your legs wide, raise your bottom high over the chair and wait. You feel the cane “sawing” across the underside of the buttocks. The headmaster is finding the “sit-spot”. This is the part of the bottom that connects with the chair when you sit down. You know if he slices you there the pain will reignite each time you sit down for a week.

Whoosh! Crack! Bingo! Right on target. You do the foot stomping and the hip wriggling and the head banging all over again. You hack the dry cough, expel air from your lungs. Blood courses though your body at the speed of sound. Your bum is on fire. Your head feels like it is about to explode.

You hear the headmaster return the cane to the coat stand. “You may stand up boy.”

You heave yourself to your feet. You desperately want to clutch your scolding bottom. You have just enough self-control not to. The headmaster has thrashed you well but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing this. Gingerly, you pull up your trousers and button up. As you retrieve your cap and blazer, the headmaster opens the punishment book, finds the correct page and enters your details.

You are now fully dressed. The headmaster stands, approaches you and offers his hand. You shake. You are gentlemen. You hobble from the study and with difficulty make your way down the stone stairs. Back in the quadrangle you see it is snowing again. Ruefully, you rub your backside. The throbbing is intense. For one mad moment you consider whipping down your trousers and pants to sit down in the snow. You smile and make your way towards your study.

There is still one part of the ritual to play out. In a moment you will display your wounds to your chums and together you will discuss the headmaster’s prowess. You award him a maximum ten points.

You know that within a few hours the pain will have vanished. The marks will last for many days; some maybe for weeks. Six-of-the-best; such is the lot of the schoolboy. You hold no resentment. You broke the rules and you got caught. You also know that once the dust has settled you will be back at the Three Fishers propping up the bar.


Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second