What would his girlfriend say?

z used after girlfriend story sting

Harrison sped down the passageway. His arse was on fire. There was nobody around so he was not embarrassed kneading his scorching flesh. Jesus H. Christ, he was on fire. Moments earlier he had been stretched across the worn leather chesterfield coach in the headmaster’s study. Nose pressing against the stinking leather. Trousers at his ankles; Y-fronts at his knees.

The headmaster laid on twelve stingers. Twelve. A dozen. On the bare arse. Was that even legal? Bloody hell, he’s eighteen years old, almost an adult.

Harrison heaved his shoulder against a door and pressed hard against the force of the overhead spring. Great. The sixth-form bogs were unoccupied. Carefully, he unbuckled his belt and let his mid-grey trousers slip over his buttocks. Then gingerly he eased down his cotton underpants. The throbbing was intense. Then, he pointed his bare bum at the mirror. Crikey! The marks will last a month, he thought.

Suddenly, the door opened. In walked his best pal Tollinson. He paused in the doorway and seeing Harrison’s corrugated flesh, let out a low soulful whistle.

“I heard you had been called to the beak,” he said, moving further into the lavatory. “Well he’s given you a good set of marks.” He licked his index finger and gently traced one of the longer, deeper cuts with it.

“Sorry,” he lied, when his friend winced as the pain was reignited. As any schoolboy would, Tollinson was greatly enjoying his pal’s distress. “It looks like a map of Clapham Junction,” he grinned.

Harrison twisted his body to get a closer view while Tollinson carefully massage his hairless bum with the palms of his hands. “It’s hot enough to fry an egg back here,” he grinned.

Harrison grimaced. “Look at those cuts,” he sashayed his bum. “It’ll take forever for them to clear.”

“A week at least,” Tollinson confirmed. “When Davis got done, there were bruises for ten days,” he added with authority, “and he only got six.”

Harrison cupped one buttock in his hand and weighed it ruefully. “I’m meeting Sandra tonight, what’s she going to say?”

“Your girlfriend?” Tollinson asked sulkily. “Do you mean you’re doing it?” He assumed like himself, every boy at the school was a virgin. There were no girl pupils. The only action the sex-starved boys got came courtesy of their right hands. Or (he supposed) the left for those so inclined.

“Of course,” Harrison straightened his shoulders. The cock of the walk. “How do I explain this?”

Tollinson stared at the ridged arse and shrugged, “Tell her the truth, why not?”

Harrison eased up his underpants and trousers. Tollinson struggled to hide his disappointment. Harrison buckled his belt furiously. “I told her I was a student at Brocklehurst Uni. How can I explain this?” He rubbed the seat of his trousers in case Tollinson didn’t understand.

Tollinson pursed his lips. “Tell her you flunked a test and your professor gave you a bowing to buck up your ideas.”

“Will she buy that?” Harrison asked.

“Yeah, right,” his pal chortled. “Come on, let’s go home.”

The two schoolboys walked down the passageway. One distressed and the other delighted there would be no nookey for Harrison that night.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A memory

z used drawing cane master Mag (53)

George Harkness hurried towards the bus-stop, late for work. A fascinating discussion about the failing economy in Venezuela on The Today programme had delayed his departure from home. If he hadn’t been late he would never have seen the young man.

He saw him as he turned out of The Avenue. He was equally in a hurry. George Harkness sucked in breath. There could be no mistaking it. The dark (almost , but not quite) black hair cut close to the scalp. The long thin drawn face, covered in acne. The gangly gait the young man had as he weaved his way through the busy pavement, his painfully thin body dodging mothers with strollers.

It was Will Rigley.

Will Rigley, as George Harkness lived and breathed. Unmistakable.

Except that this man was about twenty years old and Will Rigley, like George Harkness himself, was thirty-eight.

George Harkness watched the man disappear into the distance. It was Will Rigley. An exact likeness. How could this be? George Harkness chewed his bottom lip, his heart suddenly racing. He hadn’t seen Will Rigley in twenty years, was it possible that this man was his son?

As George Harkness waited patiently for his bus to arrive, he was transported back in time. It was 1997, Will Ridley and George Harkness stood uneasily in the headmaster’s study. Literally on the carpet.

St. Francis Independent Grammar School was fighting the tide of progress. Dr. Cuthbertson loomed over the boys, his grim, lined, grey face, a little flushed. Between his hands he flexed a stout but supple rattan cane. George Harkness watched intently as the ageing headmaster swished it through empty air. It made a terrific swooshing noise as it went.

Corporal punishment had been abolished in state schools a decade earlier and most private schools had voluntarily given it up. Not so St. FIGS. It was a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. St. FIGS was trapped in aspic, somewhere just after 1945. George Harkness and Will Rigley stood to attention in the headmaster’s oak-panelled study, weak light streaming through mullioned windows. All three buttons on their green-and-gold blazers were fastened. Striped ties were tightly knotted. School caps were perfectly positioned on their heads. They were the perfect embodiment of the post-war schoolboy. First formers at the school still wore traditional grey short trousers and knee socks.

Dr. Cuthbertson wore a gown over his tweed suit, a mortarboard cap on his head. He glowered at the two sixth-formers before him.

George Harkness shivered at the bus stop, uncertain if it was caused by the nippy autumnal air or the memory of the visit to the headmaster’s study. George Harkness and Will Ridley were eighteen years old. Legal adults. Old enough to vote. Old enough to join the military and kill people. Old enough to have sex – even with one another. The exams started in three weeks’ time and then they would be out of that place.

Dr. Cuthbertson cared about none of this. They were pupils of his school. They had broken the rules and should be (and would be) punished. He swished the cane once more. “Take off your caps and blazers and put them on my desk,” he intoned. Will Rigley, anxious to get on with proceedings, quickly unbuttoned his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. He was no stranger to this. It would be Six, he knew that. It would hurt like blazes, he knew that too, but the pain would quickly dissolve into a throbbing before turning to a dull ache.  He would live.

George Harkness knew none of this. Unlikely though it might sound in a school like St. FIGS he had never been beaten. He was relatively new to the school, having joined the sixth form when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a directorship at the borough council. Caned for the first time, aged eighteen. What the hell would they say at his former school if they ever found out?

George Harkness watched as Will Rigley put his blazer on the headmaster’s desk and then carefully placed his cap on top of it. He returned to his original spot on the carpet, clasped his hands behind his back and stared intently at the floor. He seemed very calm. Unlike, George Harkness. George Harkness couldn’t stop his hands from shaking. They would not at first obey his instruction to unbutton his coat.

“Come along boy, we haven’t all day,” Dr. Cuthbertson growled and menacingly flexed the stout curve-handled cane between his hands.

Sweat started to soak the back of his shirt as George Harkness at last slipped the blazer from his shoulders and with trembling hands he placed it next to that of Will Rigley. He too resumed his position on the carpet in time to see the headmaster stride across the study towards a low-backed armchair. He tucked his cane under his arm and in one smooth movement swivelled the chair so that its back now faced into the room. He stood by its side and slipped the cane into his hand. He thwacked it against the padded apex of the chair and barked, “Rigley, you first. Step forward.”

George Harkness held his breath. His heart pounded and his shirt was by now soaked in sweat although it was cold in the study. He watched intently as Will Rigley took three paces forward. That was enough to leave him standing behind the chair.

“Bend over.” It was a curt command. The headmaster was in charge. He gave orders and others obeyed. That went for the schoolmasters as well as the pupils. Not, of course, that he ordered his masters to bend over for a swishing. Well, there had been that one very junior English master, but Dr. Cuthbertson was certain the wretch would not have shared the details of his ordeal with others.

George Harkness had a perfect view as Will Rigley drew a deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together and went over the back of the chair. It seemed to George Harkness like Will Rigley had dived into a pool of iced water. Will Rigley gripped the soft cushion of the chair. The back of the armchair was low and there was a gap of several inches between it and Will Rigley’s stomach.

“Head low, bottom high, feet further apart.” The eighteen-year-old obeyed each command. He was now ready to receive his thrashing.

George Harkness had never had cause to think about it before, but now watching Will Rigley present himself he realised how impossibly thin he was; almost unhealthily so. Will Rigley had legs like pipe cleaners and his bottom was but two pimples, his bum looked awfully small against the headmaster’s stout whippy cane.

George Harkness watched intently as Dr. Cuthbertson sawed the cane across the centre of Will Rigley’s bottom. He took careful aim, then lifted the cane away from the seat of the pale grey trousers, before whipping it back with terrific force. A tremendous crack as cane connected with backside echoed around the study. Air hissed through Will Rigley’s clenched teeth. His buttocks swayed under the sting, but he quickly settled himself for stroke number two. George Harkness watched in awe as a white line appeared across the seat of Will Rigley’s trousers. He imagined a thick red welt must be throbbing across Will Rigley’s buttocks.

Dr. Cuthbertson resumed his sawing, a little lower this time. He took his time, finding a spot on the under cheek, close to where the buttocks meet the thighs. Then he let fly. Will Rigley did the hissing and the buttock swaying again. This time he added a little knee bending. But, as before, he quickly settled, inviting the headmaster to deliver the third cut.

George Harkness’s temples throbbed. His head ached. Saliva drained from his mouth. He gave a throaty cough. The third stroke was aimed higher, near the crest of the mounds. Will Rigley now had three parallel welts, perfectly delivered. The pain was intense. Will Rigley felt his eyes welling and screwed them tight. He  wouldn’t give the old goat the satisfaction of tears.

The headmaster paused, took two steps back and then slowly paced the study. George Harkness stood fascinated. The headmaster was admiring his handiwork from every conceivable angle. He took particular care to study Will Rigley’s face and neck, which were as red as his backside undoubtedly was. George Harkness saw Dr. Cuthbertson’s tongue dart through his pursed mouth before slowly licking first his lower lip and then the upper, all the time his gaze was on Will Ripley’s tight buttocks.

It seemed like an eternity to George Harkness (and also probably to Will Rigley) before the headmaster once more took up position behind and slightly to the left of the prostrate sixth-former. Will Rigley tensed as he felt the cane tap-tap-tap against his thigh. Whack! Total agony. Will Rigley fought to suppress the yell he desperately wanted to make. The back of the thighs was the most sensitive part of the body on offer to the headmaster. Many schoolmasters would agree it was bad form to beat a boy there. A caning should only be on the buttocks; that’s what God had made them for.

George Harkness screwed his eyes tight, he could not bear to watch further. What he failed to see was the headmaster alter his stance slightly. Now, he sawed the cane from the lower left buttock to the higher right. He used every ounce of his considerable strength to lash a diagonal cut across Will Rigley’s bum. He howled. Will Rigley didn’t want to but he had no choice. It was the most natural reaction his body could make to the utter agony he felt. The cane had flogged across the previous cuts reigniting the pain in them all. Blood gently oozed at the points the cuts intersected.

Dr. Cuthbertson moved position once more. This time the cane rested from the lower right to the upper left cheek. Whoosh! When Will Rigley later inspected his bare bum in the boys’ bogs he would find a perfect “X”. For now, he clutched the soft cushion of the armchair as if his life depended on it. His hips wriggled, his buttocks swayed and his left leg entwined the right. He gulped in draughts of air like a goldfish out of water. He wanted to leap to his feet and rub away at the intense burn that engulfed him. His bum had been ripped to shreds. He knew he must not do this. It would only encourage Dr. Cuthbertson to award him extra strokes.

The headmaster resumed his stroll around the study. Will Rigley’s bottom was now still. It jutted out once more at a perfect angle to receive the headmaster’s administrations. Dr. Cuthbertson tucked the cane under his arm, approached the teenager and gently rubbed the palm of his right hand across the contours of Will Rigley’s buttocks, making circular motions as he caressed every square inch.

“You may rise. Harkness take his place.”

George Harkness felt a jolt in his back. A man in the queue behind him was pushing forward. The bus had arrived. George Harkness reached into his pocket for his pass and made to board the bus. It was full and he had to strap-hang the whole journey. He had not thought of that incident in twenty years. His first and only caning. He had not taken it well. Tears flowed at the first cut and by number three he was howling like a banshee. It embarrassed him greatly. It took more than a week for the marks to completely disappear.

He left the school a few weeks later and went away to university. Will Rigley went away too and George Harkness never heard of him again. Corporal punishment was eventually outlawed (even at St. FIGS). George Harkness quickly forgot about the school and Dr. Cuthbertson until one day in 2005 his mother sent him a cutting from the Brocklehurst Bugle. Dr. Cuthbertson had committed suicide one day after police raided his house  and found a dozen or so commercial video tapes, some depicting scenes of “headmasters” spanking “sixth-formers”.

Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Reliving old times

They both saw each other at exactly the same moment. Twenty or so yards across the almost empty new Brocklehust Shopping Centre. Anthony wasn’t sure at first. The man was a little heavier than last they met. His jowls were flabbier too. There was a little less hair and it was greyer, but there was no mistaking it. It was Mr. Durrant, his housemaster at his old school.

“Brewer. It is you, isn’t it? Brewer. No?” Mr. Durrant spoke first.

“Yes, Sir,” Anthony replied shyly, his eyes cast down at the cold grey tiles beneath his feet.

Mr. Durrant beamed and strode across to him. “I would never have recognised you with that moustache.”

Instinctively, Anthony brushed the back of his hand across his top lip. He was very proud of that tache. It had taken ages to grow.

“How long has it been, Brewer?” Mr. Durrant’s smile broadened. “It must be four or five years. You went away to university. Yes?” Mr. Durrant rocked a little on his heels with excitement. “Well, lad, tell me. Did you get your degree?”

“Yes, Sir. And my Masters too. I’m doing a doctorate, now,” Anthony barked, a little more petulantly than he had intended.

“Good lad. Good lad,” Mr. Durrant’s jowls wobbled with delight. “So, it seems all those thrashings I had to give you paid off,” he said with no rancour.

Anthony’s heart beat faster. He knew his face was flushing bright red. He really ought to say something to his former master. But what?

Mr. Durrant quickly filled the silence. “They put you on the straight-and-narrow, what? You were an irritating boy. Needed a whacking now and again. It kept you focussed. I’m glad it all worked out well for you.”

Anthony gulped in a lungful of air. His temples throbbed. In his mind’s eye he saw his own fingers stretching to touch the toes of his scuffed black shoes. The ugly, red, worn rug in Mr. Durrant’s study was once more beneath his feet. He felt the heavy whippy rattan school cane being tapped against his tight-fitting pale-grey trousers.

“Hey,” Mr. Durrant spread his arms wide. “I’m late for an appointment.” He crooked his elbow and looked at his watch as if to prove the point. “We should meet up. Come to my house. Twenty-two The Avenue. Six o’clock tonight. We can have a drink and what-not. Don’t be late, you know I can’t abide tardiness.” With that, he strode on his way, leaving a bemused Anthony to stare at Mr. Durrant’s wobbly buttocks as they and he receded into the distance.

Anthony wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans and set off to Weatherspoons in search of the cheapest pint of beer they had on offer.

Three pints and two hours later, Anthony was back in his old bedroom at his parents’ home. He spent as little time as possible ‘at home’, but it was the middle of the long summer vacation and money was tight, so needs must.

It had been years since he had thought about St. Francis Independent Grammar School. It was an old-fashioned school. They liked to think it was ‘traditional.’ Traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional school uniform. And, traditional discipline: the crook-handled cane. Mr. Durrant had been right, Anthony was no stranger to the sting of the cane across his backside. Even in the last months of school, well after his eighteenth birthday, he was a regular visitor to Mr. Durrant’s study.

“Jeez,” he wheezed to himself, “fancy meeting Old Durrant after all these years. He was old enough to be dead.” Anthony lifted himself from his bed, sat up and opened and closed drawers on his night stand. Yes, it was still here. He pulled out a green-and-gold-hooped school cap. It was a bit greasy. It was all that Brylcreem the sixth-formers used to wear in their hair. He smiled. They all thought it made them look grown-up. Yuck. He used Vitalis hair oil, these days. The natural grooming.

He plonked the cap on his head. It still fitted remarkably well. He doubted if the blazer would. He still had it tucked away in a corner of the wardrobe. He opened the door and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He grinned. A full-grown man with a moustache wearing a school cap. What a laugh.

The green-and-gold blazer was still on a coat hanger. He tugged it off and held it in both hands up to the light, as if admiring a jacket he might like to purchase in one of the trendy boutiques in town. The wool felt soft to touch. He rubbed it against his left cheek. It smelt musty as indeed it should since it hadn’t been off the hanger for five years at least.

He undid the three buttons and slipped first one arm and then the other into the sleeves. It fitted very well, even though Anthony had put on muscle since the days when he was a scrawny schoolkid. “Thanks Mum,” he grinned at his reflection in the mirror, “You always bought school uniforms so I would grow into them.”

Grey trousers. He needed grey trousers, then the outfit would be complete. His school trousers had long ago worn out, but he had a pair of dark-grey trousers for smart. Sunday best, his Mum called them. He hardly wore them and they had a mark along the knees where they had been hanging undisturbed for so long.

He stepped into the trousers, pulled them up tightly and zipped up. The transformation was complete. He turned his back to the mirror and peered at himself over his shoulder. Yep, he thought, Anthony Brewer, twenty-four-year-old Master of Arts, was back in the sixth-form at St. Francis.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the woollen blazer. His armpits were sticky. A line of moisture dampened his moustache.

“Well, lad.” Anthony startled. It was a voice inside his head. “Let’s get on with this. I haven’t got all day.” It was Mr. Durrant speaking. “Bend over. Touch your toes. You know the drill.”

Anthony did indeed; he bent forward, knees straight, feet a little apart. The green-and-gold blazer tightened across his shoulders. It felt odd to be touching his stockinged feet, instead of his black leather shoes.

“Let’s make it six, shall we?” the voice in his head intoned clearly. “Six of the very best.”

Through his parted legs, Anthony had a perfect view of his own backside. The grey trousers clung to his meaty buttocks. He raised one hand to rub across the seat of his trousers, tracing the line of the sharp creases. Yes, he reckoned: beefy, but not fat. His bum would make a terrific target for Mr. Durrant’s cane.

@

It was nearly time to set off. He didn’t want to be late. Mr. Durrant did not tolerate tardiness, Anthony recalled from his schooldays. Being late for class once meant detention. Twice, would get you a sore arse.

He pulled on the grey trousers, they were snug and didn’t need a belt. He did up the buttons on the white shirt and admired his reflection in the mirror. A clean-shaven face smiled back at him. Intuitively, he knew Mr. Durrant would not approve of the tache.

He sat down on the bed and pulled on grey socks and black shoes. The green-and-gold blazer hung on the back of a chair. The school cap was in one pocket. A green-and-gold-striped tie in another. He fished out a C&A plastic bag from a drawer and neatly folded the blazer into it. It was a fine summer evening and too warm to wear a coat. Anyway, Anthony reckoned, a twenty-four-year-old in school uniform might get funny looks from passers-by; he would change into them just before he knocked on Mr. Durrant’s door.

It was ten after six when Anthony pressed the doorbell. Mr. Durrant’s eyes sparkled at the sight of the young adult dressed for school.

“You’re late,” he scowled.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” Anthony croaked.

“You will be,” Mr. Durrant replied under his breath.

Aloud, he said, “You’d better come in.”

Across the street, a lace curtain flickered. Mr. Albertstein ran the tip of his tongue across his cracked lips and watched the door close behind his neighbour and his young visitor.

It was a large house, far too big for one man to live on his own, Anthony thought. His parents’ house was cramped, with his Mum and Dad, his two sisters and himself, he mused irritably.

“Let me get you a drink. Is beer all right?” Mr. Durrant spoke over his shoulder as he led the way to the kitchen. “Or do you want something a little stronger?”

Anthony’s throat was parched. His heart beat fast and he was finding breathing difficult. “Beer,” he gasped. Mr. Durrant shot him a disgruntled glare. “Eh, please, Sir,” the young man added hastily.

“That’s better,” Mr. Durrant reached into the fridge and pulled out two tins of Double Diamond. “There’s a can-opener in that drawer,” he nodded across the room. “Please fetch it for me.”

Anthony sucked on his can, too aware that he was in school uniform drinking beer. Back in the day, Mr. Durrant had given him and three pals a particularly severe Six for drinking shandy in the sixth-form common room.

“Cigarette?” Mr. Durrant reached into his jacket pocket.

“No thanks, Sir. I don’t,” Anthony shuddered.

“Ha!” a broad grin split Mr. Durrant’s jowls. “You were a twenty-a-day man when you were fifteen.”

Anthony shifted uncomfortably in his chair, as if he could still feel the stripes across his backside. He knew he was blushing profusely.

“Well …” he stuttered. How could he explain himself to his housemaster?

They started with small talk. What Anthony was researching for his doctorate, whether he still kept in touch with friends from school.

Mr. Durrant listened intensely, watching Anthony’s lips dampened by the beer opening and closing. The young man’s hazel eyes shone; the housemaster suspected that might be the alcohol.

He drained his tin of beer. “I’m retired now, of course, but I still see one or two of the old boys,” he crushed the can in his hand and leaned forward towards Anthony, “They often come to this house,” he waved his arms expansively. Anthony looked around the room, thinking that Mr. Durrant was trying to show him something.

“So, tell me, lad,” Mr. Durrant was beginning to sound like the housemaster he had been for so many years, “Are you behaving yourself?”

Anthony’s ears pinkened. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Eh, well,” he stuttered. “Yes of course I am, Mr. Durrant,” then quickly he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Mr. Durrant’s florid face darkened. “Pah! Well that would make a welcome change, for you, lad.” He stood from his chair and paced the kitchen. “I have genuinely lost count of the number of times you visited my study for …” His sentence trailed off and he stared blankly at the refrigerator. “You know what I mean?”

Anthony did. He knew very well what the old man was talking about.

“So,” Mr. Durrant seemed to have regained his thought. “You haven’t been a naughty little boy.”

Anthony clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. His mind raced. Had he been misbehaving? Was there some misdeed he could confess to his master?

“I’ve been rude to my mother.” It felt lame the moment the words passed his lips, but it was the best he could do without notice.

“Well,” Mr. Durrant’s lips pursed. “That’s for your father to deal with.” They fell silent. Anthony squeezed his eyes shut, imagining his father pulling him across his knee to apply a bedroom slipper with some vigour across the seat of his pyjama bottoms. He shook the thought clear of his head. It had been some time since he had last had that vision.

“I stole a copy of Football Monthly from Mr. Jenkinson’s shop,” he blurted. “He was serving another customer and I took it from a shelf and ran off.”

Mr. Durrant’s eyes narrowed perceptively. “Did you indeed? Did you?”

“Yes, Sir honestly, Sir,” Anthony insisted.

“Well, now. Theft. That is a beating offence. You know that Brewer. Always has been. Always will be.”

“Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Anthony rubbed his hands together but he couldn’t get rid of the sweat.

“I have a room upstairs, Brewer,” Mr. Durrant straightened himself and stood with his hands clasped firmly behind his back. “A special room. A very special room, do you understand, Brewer.”

Anthony swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

“I think you and I need to repair to that room, don’t you Brewer?”

The young man nodded, silently.

“Follow me, Brewer.”

With slow deliberate steps, Mr. Durrant led the way from the kitchen, through the hallway and up the carpeted staircase. There were four doors on the landing. One was slightly ajar and Anthony could see it was a bathroom.

“This room here,” Mr. Durrant turned a brass knob and eased the door open. “Step this way.”

Anthony stood in the doorway transfixed. The room had bare floorboards, except for an old ugly worn red rug. It was dominated by an imperious wooden desk. In one corner was a hat stand, in another a tall thin cupboard.

The young man’s jaw actually dropped.

“Yes,” Mr. Durrant beamed. “It’s my old study from St. Francis, brought here lock, stock and barrel.”

Anthony’s eyes were like saucers. That rug. The same one he had stared down at so many times. It was as if he had been transported back in time.

“Stand there, lad.” Mr. Durrant snapped his fingers. Obediently, Anthony shuffled the few feet so that he stood on the rug.

Mr. Durrant shuffled across the room towards the cupboard. Anthony turned his shoulders to watch him go.

“Face the front, lad,” Mr. Durrant growled. “You’ll find out what’s going on here soon enough.”

Anthony heard a door creaking, followed by the distinct rattling of long, whippy rattan canes swirling around a confined space. Anthony couldn’t stop blinking. Time was playing tricks. It was only yesterday that he last presented his backside to Mr. Durrant for a sound thrashing.

The floorboards behind Anthony squeaked and Mr. Durrant was once more in view. He was dressed in a traditional black academic gown and on his head he wore a mortar board cap at a rakish angle. Between his hands he flexed a curve-handled punishment cane. It was darkish-yellow and as thick as a pencil. Mr. Durrant swished it through empty air. It looked to Anthony a mightily efficient rod. It looked to him a little warped; the result of constant use, he supposed.

All saliva drained from Anthony’s mouth. The room felt as hot as a sauna. The young man’s temples throbbed. He watched as Mr. Durrant once more flexed the cane in his hands, it bent easily into an arc.

Mr. Durrant tapped the tip of the cane gently against the rug. “Bend over, lad. Touch your toes.” It was a simple command, spoken quietly. There was no need to do otherwise. Mr. Durrant was the master, he expected to be obeyed.

And, he was. Anthony was an old hand at this; he knew the drill. He parted his feet slightly and arched his back so that the tips of his fingers touched the toes of his shoes. As had happened in his bedroom earlier, his blazer tightened cross his back. He had forgotten he had a cap on his head. It tumbled to the ground.

“Leave it, lad. Leave it,” Mr. Durrant growled. He stood away from the submissive young man. He saw Anthony was beefier than when he had last punished him. But, so were all his boys. Nonetheless, the twenty-four-year-old presented a wonderful target. The dark grey trousers were taut across the burly buttocks; he could see the outline of Anthony’s underpants.

The cane tap-tap-tapped across his bum, then Anthony felt the housemaster “saw” the rod across the very underside of his buttocks. He gulped in air and shut his teeth. Whoosh! He heard the cane fly through the air and then a resounding thwack! echoed around the study. It seemed an eternity before the agony bit. It was as if Mr. Durrant had pressed a red-hot wire into the most sensitive part of his bottom.

“Owwww!” he howled and his body shot forward. The rug slipped beneath his feet and he almost toppled over. It took an almighty effort to remain in the touch-toes position.

Twenty seconds later (exactly, since Mr. Durrant was counting the time in his head) he let fly with the second swipe. It struck home about a quarter inch above the first. Anthony felt a welt rise. The throbbing was intense; he wouldn’t be surprised later to find it weeping blood.

Eighteen, nineteen, twenty. Number three landed parallel to the first two. Anthony now had a raw band about an inch-and-a-half wide across his bum. Mr. Durrant was an expert caner. He ought to be, he had practiced enough over the years. It helped, Mr. Durrant would agree, to have a subject as submissive as Anthony. The young man hissed and yelped a little as each successive whack cut his bum to ribbons, but he remained stoically in position; back bent, knees straight, fingers touching toes waiting for the next swipe to fall.

Oh, my God, Anthony had never been thrashed like this in all his life. He thought he had been under the lash at school, he had even withstood some of the worst beatings Dr. Henderson-Smith, the one-time headmaster, had ever delivered. But, Mr. Durrant was awesome. It was as if the master was trying to lash the cane into the beefy bottom so hard that it sank into flesh, traversed muscle and exited through the front of the young man

Number six was special. Anthony knew it would be. Mr. Durrant shifted his position slightly and instead of aiming for another parallel stroke, he laid the cane so that it ran from the bottom left to the top right of the buttocks. The agony was intense, as the rod cut diagonally across the previous five strokes reigniting the pain of each of them. Blood seeped.

“You may stand.” Mr. Durrant tucked the cane under his arm and watched with ill-conceived joy as Anthony rose and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional caning dance. He heartily rubbed at the seat of his trousers in a fruitless effort to relieve the pain.

In time, Anthony settled. His eyes were damp and his body soaked in perspiration. His face and neck glowed a deep pink.

Mr. Durrant slipped the cane back into his hand. “Trousers down. Bend back over.”

The pink face blanched to a ghostly white. Anthony couldn’t catch his breath. “Bu .. bu …” he blabbered, before at last forming coherent words. “But, please, Sir. No,” he wailed.

Mr. Durrant set his face. “Yes, lad,” he swished the cane though the air.

“No, no, no, I can’t,” Anthony pleaded. Swish, the cane flew again. The housemaster was in no mood to show clemency.

“Trousers down.”

Tears were flowing freely.

“Damn it, lad. If you won’t take down your trousers I shall do it for you.”

“Nooooooo!” Anthony’s shriek could probably be heard by Mr. Albertstein across the street.

Mr. Durrant stepped forward, hands outstretched ready to grip Anthony’s waistband. The young man twisted his body trying to put his back between himself and his tormentor. Too late. Mr. Durrant undid the fastener and the zipper fell easily.

Anthony was as white as a sheet. His tormentor tugged the young man’s trousers to his knees.

“Oh my!” Mr. Durrant licked his lips. His face cracked into a beautiful smile. Anthony’s cock was so stiff and his underpants so brief, it poked its glistening head over the elasticated waist.

Mr. Durrant sank to his knees, took hold of the pants at the hips and in a frenzy ripped them down so hard the cotton tore.

Anthony gasped, took hold of his cock and thrust it in Mr. Durrant’s face.

“Suck me off!” he huffed.

The housemaster’s mouth devoured first one and then the other testicles. He licked the balls like they were an ice cream cone.

Anthony moaned as Mr. Durrant took a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffled his knees further apart so that the old man could get to more of his hard dick. Anthony gripped Mr. Durrant’s ears and pulled his florid face onto his raging cock. The man’s flabby jowls wobbled back and forth as he made his way up and down the shaft. As cocks went it wasn’t particularly long, but it was surely one of the fattest the housemaster had ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” Anthony squealed warning his master, but knowing he had left it too late. But, the old man did not heed the warning and his head rhythmically slid in and out of the back of his throat. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumped up the shaft and was immediately swallowed by Mr. Durrant’s hungry mouth.

Anthony writhed on the floor as his orgasm went on and on. Mr. Durrant continued to suck. Then, suddenly his own body convulsed. Anthony slipped his cock out of the master’s mouth and watched in fascination as Mr. Durrant twisted and turned on the bare floorboards as a flood of cum drenched the front of his trousers.

z used buxton cane longs touch toes (2)

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 9. Hawkridge in the study

z used cane white pants tyrant head 9

 

Other stories from The Tyrant Headmaster are here

 

Hawkridge stands at attention in front of the headmaster’s desk. His blue-and-white woollen school blazer is immaculate, fastened by all three buttons. His thumbs are in line with the seams of his mid-grey trousers, their creases so sharp you could cut yourself. His school cap is squarely on his head, obscuring almost all of his hair. The regulation short-back-and-sides trimmed only the previous Saturday.

Dr. Fortescue sits behind his massive walnut desk; jawing. Hawkridge does not take much of it in. He has heard it all before. He gazes intently at the headmaster. He is of indeterminate age, he might even be younger than he looks. His face is oblong, his features angular. The hook nose somehow keeps his eye glasses from falling from his face. His skin is lined and there are bags beneath his wide-staring eyes. Hawkridge detects a hint of bloodshot in them. Specks of spittle sprout from Dr. Fortscue’s mouth as he castigates the schoolboy before him. He leans forward to berate the miscreant and Hawkridge flinches a little. The stench of sour tobacco is overwhelming. Somewhere there’s also a hint of the aroma of Murray Mints.

He is wearing a crumpled three-piece tweed suit and a white shirt, held together at the collar with a bow-tie. A tattered academic robe hangs from his shoulders and a mortar-board perches precariously on his head, the tassel dangling close to his left ear.

Hawkridge has been here before. He still has three months to go before he finally leaves the school, so he’ll almost certainly be here again. He shows no fear. He is certain he knows in the minutest detail what is about to happen. There is nothing he can do about it. He must let events take their course.

St. Septimius is nothing if not traditional. Traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Yes, Hawkridge is certain he knows how this meeting of master and pupil will end.

Dr. Fortescue rocks backward and forward In his wooden armchair. Sometimes leaning back, steepling his fingers as he concentrates on admonishing the unfortunate creature before him. Then, leaning forward, arms resting on the huge desk, he glares at the boy. The desk is so big and so heavy it must have taken a dozen artisans to manhandle it into the study. A pile of, as yet uncorrected, Latin impos. are to the headmaster’s right hand side.

He glares at Hawkridge. The boy’s behaviour is “outrageous”, “shocking”, “contemptable”. In a fairer forum than this that might be debatable. As schoolboy crimes go, his is quite minor. Hawkridge did not attend school yesterday, preferring instead to queue alongside hundreds of other youngsters to obtain tickets to a forthcoming Eddie Cochran concert. The tickets are now safely tucked away in the sock drawer of his bedroom at home. But truancy is truancy and at St. SIGS, truancy is a beatable offence. Hawkridge is a sixth-former and that almost certainly means a caning on the bare.

Hawkridge knows this, but such is life. School is school. What’s a fellow to do?

The headmaster jaws on and on. The room is stifling. The coal fire is blazing, but the day outside is mild. Sweat soaks Hawkridge’s scalp and his shirt is damp. He wishes the Beak would stop talking and just get on with it.

At last, Dr. Fortescue stops his hectoring. He hauls himself to his feet, presses both palms into his desktop and scowls. “Take your cap and blazer off. Hang them there!” He nods across the study to a hat stand. It is empty save for two long, thin yellow rattan canes that hang by their crook handles. One is a little longer than the other and both are warped. Hawkridge is sure it was the shorter one Dr. Fortescue used to beat him on his last appearance in the study.

Hawkridge is calm. He unfastens the buttons on his blazer and slips the jacket from his shoulders. The armpits of his gleaming white shirt is wringing wet. He hangs the blazer on the hat stand and turns to face his tormentor. Suddenly, he remembers the cap on his head and quickly whips it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his blazer. Instinctively, he rubs the palms of his hands across his head, to smooth down his already tidy hair.

Dr. Fortescue is walking across his study. He takes pigeon steps, like an old man who is afraid of slipping on an icy pavement. Hawkridge watches his slow progress. The headmaster is heading towards the far wall which is dominated by heavy shelving and dark brown cabinets. He reaches a narrow, tall door and steadies himself before reaching into his trouser pocket. He fumbles around for some time before at last extracting a small silver-coloured key. His hand shakes a little as he tries to line up the key with the keyhole. He succeeds at the third attempt and draws the door open. He looks inside and because he knows precisely what he is looking for within a second he is clutching a punishment cane.

Even at a distance, Hawkridge can see this is heavier and denser than the two canes dangling on the hat stand. It is a dark brown colour and has distinct notches every four inches or so across its length. Dr. Fortescue holds it in his right hand, close to the curved handle and gives it an almighty swish through the air. He smiles in response to the swooshing sound it makes as it flies. Then, absent-mindedly he holds the cane between his hands and flexes it backwards and forwards. Despite its density it is a supple rod and makes a perfect arc. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes blaze.

He suddenly realises he has company and tucks the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major. He glares across the study. “Go stand behind that chair,” he growls. There are several chairs in the capacious study and Hawkridge is unsure which he means. He glances uneasily around himself. The study is cluttered with furniture, most of it looks like it’s been there for at least fifty years. His baffled expression is met with a curt, “That one there, boy,” as Dr. Fortescue slips the cane into his hand and points to an ancient armchair.

Hawkridge takes the four paces necessary to reach the chair. He stands at its back and looks down at the seat cushion. In his many visits to the headmaster he has never before seen this particular chair at close quarters. Often, he is required to present himself across the large desk; sometimes it’s, “bend over and touch your toes.”

Dr. Fortescue approaches Hawkridge and stands a yard or to his right. Hawkridge sucks in air. He knows the Beak is about ready to go. Dr. Fortescue’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and croaks, “Lower your trousers, boy.” Hawkridge expects this instruction and reaches for the buckle of his belt. It is easily undone, as are the button at the top of his spotless mid-grey trousers and the zipper. The front of his trousers falls open and his white Y-front underpants peak through. He lets go of the trousers and they slip slowly down his thighs, where they stop. Hawkridge knows from experience this will not satisfy the headmaster so he pushes them further down until they rest in a puddle on top of his shiny black shoes. The heat from the fire irritates the bare flesh on his legs.

The headmaster flexes the cane between his hands and swishes it once more. Then he taps it across the back of the armchair. “Bend over,” he croaks once more.

So it’s not to be bare-arsed. Hawkridge is relieved. He doesn’t believe getting caned on the bare is any more painful than across the seat of the underpants, but he has never enjoyed showing his crack to the headmaster. Underpants certainly maintain a certain modesty.

Hawkridge adjusts his feet so he is just the right distance from the chair and lowers himself forward. The back is not so high and his stomach rests easily against it. It is solid and his nose presses against the seat. The dust almost makes him sneeze. He grips tightly and can tell it is stuffed with horsehair.

The headmaster waits for Hawkridge to settle himself. The eighteen-year-old’s school shirt is long and its tail has flopped over his buttocks. That will not do. Dr. Fortescue tucks the cane once more under his arm and with his two free hands he takes hold of the cotton shirt and carefully folds it once, twice and then three times up Hawkridge’s back until it is clear of his target area. In so doing he exposes an area of hairless flesh. Hawkridge’s whole body is lean and at close quarters the headmaster notices the flatness of the boy’s stomach.

Hawkridge’s buttocks are solid. The white cotton underpants are a little tight and with his bottom stretched they ride up into his crack, thereby lifting and separating the cheeks. Dr. Fortescue has been presented with a terrific target. Although this is not strictly necessary, the headmaster takes hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants and pulls until all wrinkles in the cotton have been eliminated. The pants now fit like a second skin. To make sure all creases have gone, the headmaster rubs the palm of his hand across Hawkridge’s cheeks. Then, he smacks it down hard into the posterior – to encourage the boy.

Hawkridge takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, shuts his teeth and holds onto the chair for dear life. His bottom is twitching but there is nothing he can do about that. Dr. Fortescue stands a little to the left of the buttocks, taps his cane across the fleshiest part and then in one smooth continuous movement he lifts the cane to shoulder height and returns it with considerable force to thwack into Hawkridge’s waiting buttocks. The boy suppresses a hiss. Dr. Fortescue admires his own prowess. A clear line has appeared across the tight underpants and the headmaster is certain that a deep welt is already forming under the cotton.

The headmaster sucks on his tongue. All saliva has now drained from his mouth. He wheezes as he raises the cane and swipes it down a second time, this one is a little lower than the first. The agony in Hawkridge’s backside is intense. It feels like the headmaster has taken a coal from the fire and pressed it into his bum. He wriggles his hips and tries to steady himself for the further onslaught on his poor bottom.

“Keep still,” the headmaster rasps. “If you give me concern to I’ll add extra strokes.” That was unfair since Hawkridge had hardly moved. In fact, he is taking it very well indeed. Other boys – even sixth-formers – on the receiving end of two such stingers would be howling the walls of the study down. Hawkridge tries to keep as still as a statue. He knows the headmaster means it, the Beak would like nothing more. He is at heart a bully.

Number three whips in even lower down and connects in the soft undercurve at the “sit spot” where the buttocks and thighs meet. It will be uncomfortable sitting down for some considerable time. The headmaster tucks the cane back under his arm and searches in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. The palms of his hands are soaking with sweat. He wipes them dry, all the time staring at the boy prostrate before him. He likes nothing better than to have a sixth-former bending submissively before him. This one in particular is especially delicious.

Dry once more, the headmaster grips the cane tightly. This time he “saws” it across the top of Hawkridge’s globes. Sweat is running into the headmaster’s eyes. He wipes it away with the edge of his gown. Then, he brings the cane crashing down; he swipes so hard it is as if he is beating a carpet. Hawkridge feels that all right. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, but valiantly, he does not let a sound pass his lips.

Dr. Fortescue looks on. He resents it when a boy does not holler. Well see about this, he thinks. He moves his position slightly and lays the cane diagonally across both buttocks. Hawkridge’s whole body tenses, he knows what is coming. Swipe! Jesus H. Christ. Hawkridge cannot control himself. The cane has landed atop of the four previous cuts and has reignited the pain in all of them. His bum is truly aglow. Hawkridge’s legs buckle, he stamps his feet up and down and then in a glorious attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing away at his blazing buttocks, he pins his left leg down by twisting his right led across it.

Blood courses through his arteries. His heart races, his temples throb. The headmaster places his cane across Hawkridge’s buttocks; this time along the opposite diagonal. He lets fly. Hawkridge now has a perfect “X” embossed across his backside. The agony redoubles. He grips the chair, his head thrashes up and down and then to left and right, he looks like a horse neighing.

That’s number six. Please God, Hawkridge silently prays, let that be the last stroke. The headmaster had not announced a tariff before he flogged the first stroke home. But “six-of-the-best” was the traditional number in a headmaster’s caning. Hawkridge has taken six strokes and nobody should be in any doubt they were indeed the headmaster’s best.

Dr. Fortescue is wheezing and struggling to catch his own breath. It is difficult to see which of the two is in greater distress. Hawkridge waits, still face down. He does not know if he is allowed to stand. It is better not to risk it. He waits as the throbbing in his bum intensifies. He knows it will be sore for some time yet, but it will eventually die down and become a warm glow. He will feel some pain when he sits on a hard surface but by bedtime it will all be over. The marks will stay for some considerable time. They are probably deep claret at the moment. They will become bruises and over the next few days transmute from deep purple through mauve and yellow before they finally disappear altogether.

“You may stand.” The words sound as if they are from miles away. Hawkridge lifts himself from the chair. He watches as Dr. Fortescue stumbles across his study and with shaking hands returns the cane to the cupboard. He doesn’t bother to close nor lock the door. When he turns around his eyes are red as if he is suffering with hay fever. Hawkridge is still in his underpants, waiting for permission to dress. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes stalk. “Get dressed boy,” he barks as if Hawkridge was deliberately trying to provoke him. The boy bends down, grabs the top of his trousers and pulls them up. He winces as he zips up and tightens the belt, the cloth is pressing against his raw buttocks. For the first time he is aware that he is probably bleeding.

Silently, Dr. Fortescue shuffles across to his desk and slumps in the wooded armchair. He takes a moment to recover himself and then opens the second of three drawers in his desk. He removes the punishment book, places it on his desk and struggles to find the right page. Hawkridge is climbing back into his school blazer.

“Pen, boy. Pen.” Dr. Fortescue snaps his fingers irritably. Hawkridge puts his hand in his inside pocket and finds a Biro. The headmaster snatches it from him and starts to write in the book. He notices that this is the third name he has entered this day. He writes, “Hawkridge, U6, Cane, 6.” He omits to record that it was delivered across the seat of the underpants. The headmaster swirls the book around and passes the pen back. Hawkridge knows the drill. He signs his initials in the book.

There is only one thing still to do. A ritual among gentlemen. The headmaster offers his right hand and Hawkridge shakes it.

“You are dismissed,” the headmaster clears his throat and picks up an essay from the pile on his desk. He watches surreptitiously as Hawkridge replaces his cap on his head and leaves the study. Dr. Fortescue silently counts to ten, throws the essay on the desk and dives to his bottom drawer. Within seconds he is pouring himself a large glass of gin.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Not like at school

David Busby eyed himself in the mirror, took hold of his necktie and unstraightened it so it didn’t have quite such a perfect knot. He was nearly ready. He climbed into a red-and-white-blazer. Proper wool: the real-deal, he was fond of telling people. He licked his lips; they usually dried out at this point.

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on his tailored light-grey shorts. Up to the knees. He liked to keep the short trousers until last. His cock tingled. It always did. He hopped to his feet and carefully pulled the flannel shorts over his sparkling white Y-front underpants. The new short trousers fitted perfectly. They ought to, it had cost him a fortune to have them made. The button-fly made all the difference.

He admired his view in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all. David Busby, aged forty-two, going on what? Eight? Nine? An insurance salesman transformed into a prep. school boy. Jennings and Derbyshire eat your hearts out.

He wiped the sleeve of his blazer across his brow. He was sweating badly, but the room was quite cool. It had nothing to do with the temperature, David Busby (or, more formally, “Busby” from here on in) couldn’t stop his pulse racing. Blood rushed through his body, his face flushed scarlet. His cock swelled inside his tight underpants. Any moment now he would leave the room, walk two or three steps across the landing and rap his knuckles on the door. What a thrill.

Busby had never been to prep. school. They were for the sons of the rich. His dad was a milkman, Busby had to make do with a back-street primary school and a bog-standard comprehensive. He couldn’t remember exactly, but he was pretty sure he had never worn short trousers as a kid. Not proper smart grey shorts. Definitely, not to school. They had a uniform at the comp. Just an ordinary black blazer, nothing as fanciful as the one he wore now.

He wiped his sweaty palms against the legs of his short trousers, gulped down a lung-full of air and reached for the door handle. He shuffled across the landing and stalled at his final destination. It was a plain door, eggshell in colour. He paused, hesitating, wishing that his heart would behave itself. His mouth drained of what little saliva he had left. He raised his hand and with a confidence belying his supposed age he firmly rapped three times.

Five second passed. Then an imperious command bellowed from the other side of the door. “Come!”

Busby’s hand trembled as he reached for the handle. Absurdly, considering his predicament, he noted dark finger marks on the door. Someone needs to take a J-cloth to that, he thought as he turned the handle down and pushed against the door.

It was a small room. It had once housed a bed, wardrobe and dressing table, but now it was almost empty. A small, rickety wooden desk dominated. A grey, metallic armless chair and a hat-stand were the only other furniture.

Busby stood in the open doorway. He had entered this room many times in the past. Yet, he still took a moment to sniff the atmosphere. Dr. ELT Mastertone, headmaster of this parish, sat behind the desk, his facial features gravely set. He was not an elderly man (he would be about forty-five) but he liked to act much older. Mr. Chips might have been his role model. The tattered academic gown around his shoulders and the mortar-board cap perched precariously on his head, certainly placed him in the 1930s.

He pursed his lips and sneered, “Come in boy, don’t dawdle. Close the door.” He watched the boy fumble with the door and satisfied that he had, at last, managed to close it, he snapped his fingers. “Stand there!” He pointed to the grey tiles in front of his desk.

Busby shuffled to position. His eyes flickered. He couldn’t stop blinking. His hands shook so much he clasped them behind his back. He stared down at his scuffed black shoes.

“Look at me boy when I’m talking to you!” Dr. Mastertone barked. He lived to intimidate small boys. Unenthusiastically, Busby raised his head. Ah!, the headmaster sighed with satisfaction, the boy’s dark-brown eyes were glistening. He was already half way to his goal. He wanted nothing less than tears: real tears, before he would allow the wretch to depart the study.

“Well, Busby, I have a report here from your housemaster,” Dr. Mastertone waved a single sheet of paper above his head. “It is not good boy, it is not good.”

Busby shuffled his feet. He knew what was written in the report. He took a deep breath and stared ahead of him, determined to take what was coming to him bravely.

“Bah!” the headmaster peered closely at the paper in his hand. “Disgraceful. Outrageous. Shameful. Shocking.”

The boy before him nodded his head sagely. It was all true. Every word of it. He twisted his fingers, prepared for more of Dr. Mastertone’s outpourings.

“This is criminal, Busby. Actually, criminal,” the headmaster thrust the paper at the boy standing before him. Busby winced, falling back a half-step. For this was no childish misdemeanour; this was an honest-to-goodness real adult crime.

“Drunk-driving!” spittle flew from Dr. Mastertone’s mouth. “You darn fool! You could have killed someone. You could have lost your licence. Your job!”

Busby’s knees buckled. This was the bit he loved the most; even more than the sound thrashing that was sure to follow. Being told off like a little child.

“You’re a very naughty boy!” Music to Busby’s ears.

“What have you to say for yourself, boy!”

There was nothing to say. It was Friday night, too many drinks with the lads after work, a curry; then the drive home. There was no accident, no police pulled him over. He got to his flat and crawled into bed. He would probably do it all over again next week.

“Sorry, Sir. Won’t do it again, Sir. Promise, Sir.”

“Pah!” Dr. Mastertone glared across the desk. “Sorry. Sorry. You soon will be boy!” He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and hauled himself to his feet. “Stand there boy,” he nodded across the room. “Face the wall. Hands on your head.”

Busby shambled across the study, his sore cock made it uncomfortable to walk. He stuck his nose as close to the wall as it would go, interlocked his fingers and put his hands on his head in the classic naughty-boy pose. His hair gel made his hot, sweaty hands even stickier. The headmaster watched with mounting pleasure as his pupil submitted himself to his will. Soon, pleasure would turn to ecstasy.

Dr. Mastertone took the grey kitchen chair from its place in the corner of the room and lifted it with one hand. He plonked it down with an echoing smack in the middle of the room. Busby flinched. He couldn’t see, but he knew what was being prepared. Satisfied that the chair was in its rightful place, the headmaster sauntered to the opposite corner and the hat-stand. It had no hats, nor coats. It never did have. Its sole purpose was to support the stout but whippy curve-handled rattan school cane that presently dangled from it.

The headmaster reached up and snatched it from its mooring. Eagerly, he flexed it between his hands. He had thrashed countless backsides with this stick, but even so every time he picked it up he liked to reacquaint himself with its supple power by first flexing it between his hands and then swishing it with tremendous force through the air. The terrific swooshing! noise it made as it went sent a shudder up Busby’s back. He barked a dry cough as he contemplated the agony he would endure when that awesome rod flogged across his buttocks.

“Turn around boy,” Dr. Mastertone was ready. Slowly, the pupil turned on his heels. “Bend over the chair,” the headmaster tapped the tip of the rattan against the chair’s grey cloth seat. Busby’s tongue darted in and out through not-quite closed lips, making him look a little like a lizard.

At a snail’s pace, he edged forward, making every second count.

“Bend over boy. You know the drill!” Dr. Mastertone was eager to get on.

Busby did indeed know the drill; he had presented his backside to the headmaster for punishment on times too numerous to remember. He stood behind the chair, took a deep breath, rubbed his sticky palms together and like a diver going into an icy pond, he threw himself forward. He was the perfect height for the chair, his stomach rested comfortably over the metal back. In that position he was able to grip each side of the chair’s seat with his face about nine inches above the stained cloth seat.

“Legs further apart boy,” Dr. Mastertone said this every time, even though on this occasion there was no need as Busby’s bottom was perfectly poised to receive the headmaster’s cane.

The headmaster took up position to the boys left and slowly “sawed” his cane across the centre of his buttocks. He stopped and tucked the cane under his arm. Something was not quite right. A white lining was visible under the short trousers. He leant forward towards Busby, cupped his right hand and rubbed it across both buttocks.

“Ha!” he cried. “Well I never. Who would have thought it, eh boy!” He rubbed Busby’s bum some more, just to be certain he was not mistaken. “Who needs a book down the back of the trousers when you’ve got these!”

The short trousers were made of thick flannel and beneath that the entire insides were covered with a double lining. They were beautifully-tailored short trousers. Elegant and hard-wearing, but entirely useless for corporal punishment. Any boy wearing these for a caning wouldn’t feel a thing.

“Stand up boy!” Dr. Mastertone suppressed a smile. “This won’t do Busby. Won’t do at all. Do you take me for a fool?” Before waiting for an answer, he added, “Take down these shorts. It’ll be twelve on the underpants,” he swished his cane in anticipation of the fun to come, “Followed by another twelve on the bare, for thinking you could get away with this ruse.”

But Sir! Busby mouthed the words, but no sound came. He straightened his back and stood and hesitated, uncertain what to do next.

“C’mon boy. I haven’t got all day.”

Busby’s once scarlet complexion was now puce.

“Quickly boy,” the headmaster flexed the cane and steadily paced the room. Busby eyed him on his travels and when his back was turned, he hurriedly unbuttoned his flies, let his heavy short trousers tumble to his feet and once more bent across the chair, this time presenting an expanse of gleaming white cotton to his master.

“Ah! That’s better.” Dr. Mastertone admired the beefy buttocks on offer. They were nowhere near pert and nobody would claim they were “buns of steel” but they were far from flabby. He tapped his cane across the fleshiest part, then paused once more. It took a second to tug the waistband of the pants so that the cotton hugged Busby’s bum like a second skin.

He took a pace back, raised the cane high and like a golfer taking a swing he thudded it across the very centre of the backside. Busby shuddered and air hissed through his lips. He mouthed a silent “ouch!” A burning pain. Like someone had rested a hot poker on his bum.

Swipe! Lower this time. Swipe! Now higher. A throbbing strip of flesh two or three inches wide. Whack! One on the underside of the cheek. Nearly on the bare thigh. Busby wriggled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s natural reaction to the assault taking place. Twelve hard cuts. Dr. Mastertone admired his own handiwork. Each stroke expertly delivered.

“Keep still boy!” The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm and gripped the waist of Busby’s white Y-fronts. The boy shut his eyes tight. The pants snagged on their journey south. Busby’s rock-hard cock throbbed even more than his raw arse.

Back in position the headmaster did the sawing thing again. There wasn’t a quarter inch of the naked bum offered up submissively unmarked by the cane. Dr. Mastertone ran the tip of his tongue around his cracked lips. It is what it is, he thought. He had no alternative; slice the cane across already battered flesh.

So, that’s what he did. Thwip-twip-twhip! The springy rattan cane sank into the meaty mounds before bouncing off again. The agony was ecstasy.

The final slice fell. Two men sweating. Huffing for breath. Blood pressure off the scale.

“Stand up boy,” Dr. Mastertone croaked. Busby hauled himself up, stood erect before his master. Cock pointing at the ceiling.

“Bend over the desk boy.”

Shuffling like a penguin, short trousers at the ankles, pants at the knees. Busby stands by the edge of the desk. Lifts his red-and-white blazer half way up his back. Slowly, carefully manoeuvres himself across the bashed-up wooden desk. Puts his weight against the aching cock. Closes his eyes. Hears Dr. Mastertone open the desk drawer. Doesn’t see this, but he knows what is happening. Hears the ripping of a condom packet, a jar of Vaseline is opened. Busby buries his head in his arms. Ready. Willing. Thinking, Schooldays were never like this.

z used shorts self

Picture credit: Charles Hamilton II

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The boy in the front row

used drawing paddle hold (5)

I am quite alone. The door is locked from the outside, it will not be opened until morning. Soon the light will go out, plunging me into darkness. My eyes are awash, but tears are not yet falling. Someone seems to have put my temples in a vice.

Let me try to explain what is happening. I am (sorry, I was) the headmaster of C_______________ College, the most upscale school in this part of the world. You will have heard of it; old money and tradition.

I first saw John in my English class. He is eighteen years old and a new boy. That is not unusual. We often take brilliant young scholars for a year and prepare them for a top university. John aced every test there was in his state. He is destined for great things.

It happened in the third class of the semester. John always sits at the front of the room. He reads voraciously and answers my questions with a confidence belying his years. He has his hair cut military style but has an unusual habit of running his fingers across his scalp as if he had long, flowing locks. Perhaps his crew cut is recent; a new look to go with his new life at school.

He has the most piercing green eyes I have ever encountered. They sparkle when he thinks. They are set symmetrically either side of a button nose, which hovers above slightly crooked lips. When he smiles he exposes uneven teeth. They are not tombstones, but they reflect his family’s lower income status. John is most certainly a scholarship boy.

What is it about those damn eyes? They began to haunt me. Almost literally. I dreamed of the boy night after night. As I recall nothing much happened, but he was constantly in my thoughts, beguiling me. I have a drink problem – there I confess it – but it wasn’t the wine that drove me forward. Indeed, most unusually for me, I had not touched alcohol all day.

Don’t ask me why I did it, I still don’t know the answer to that. I could have understood it had I been rip-roaring drunk. I had asked my secretary Mrs. Crabbe to bring me Mr. McAlpine’s file – we are always so formal when referring to our students. I found the number of his room at the boys’ dormitory and set off just before lights out. My wife has already gone to her bed in her own room. When did we start sleeping apart? I can’t be certain; sometime after our only son went off to the war, I think.

It is quite a trek from the headmaster’s house, through the quadrangle, and across the playing fields to the outlying buildings that comprise the dormitories. Boys and girls are kept separate, of course. It is not usual for the headmaster to visit the boys’ dormitories, but not entirely unheard of. Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, seemed a little flustered when he saw me approaching the building, suspicious perhaps that I had come to spy on him. I don’t know what goes on in the boys’ dorms at night and it would probably be injudicious to inquire.

John’s room was on the third floor at the far end of a corridor. His door was ajar and he was alone. He lay on his bed reading a book. He wore only khaki shorts, adding to his general military appearance. He looked up from his book as if he had been expecting me.  He smiled, those eyes dancing. Quietly, I closed the door behind me.

John is short for his age, I think. Maybe five-seven or so. His waist is narrow and his chest broad. I suspect he uses the gym. His torso is hairless, but a fine down covers his legs. He wriggled to a seating position and reached over and set his book down on the nightstand. It was then that I noticed the whisky bottle. My, how I wanted to grab it and glug down its contents. John saw that I had spied the bottle. His crooked lips parted.

It is against the rules for students to have alcohol. The penalty is strict: expulsion. John knew that, but I reminded him all the same.

He ran his fingers through his almost non-existent hair. I watched the muscles on his arms tense. He gazed at me. “Oh,” he said, “Couldn’t you just paddle me instead.” My jaw must have dropped, or at least I gaped disbelief.

“Paddle me.”

I cannot explain what happened next. That is, I can describe what happened, but I am still unsure why it happened. I am the headmaster of C_______________ College, I am fifty-five years old and have been around young men my whole life and have never given their bodies a passing consideration. I pull him toward me awkwardly, clumsily, unannounced. I am about to do something that will change my life forever. It will in all inevitability be my ruin. He is in my arms and I kiss him forcefully on the mouth.

But, John does not retreat from me; he kisses me back. Passionately. My hands run across his scalp, it feels like petting a hedgehog. Our teeth meet, tongues grope for each other. I run my hand over his warm, smooth naked flesh. My erection presses against the front of my underpants.

Then the lights go out and we plunge into darkness. The boys’ dorm can be like a prison. It is ten-thirty and all must be in bed. John gently pushes me away. I must leave. It would be unseemly for the headmaster to be caught in the dark in the bedroom of an eighteen-year-old male student.

I fumble for the door and as I leave I whisper, “My study, after school tomorrow evening.” It is a rendezvous with the paddle.

We haven’t used corporal punishment at the college since my father was headmaster. He was a devotee of the paddle, but once he retired it fell into disuse. Times, I suppose, have changed. The boys in the athletics clubs continue to use it. I believe the rowers especially paddle each other’s rear ends when they lose a race, which, now I come to think of it, is very often.

We still have my father’s paddles in storage and it is no problem for me to blow the dust off one of them. I have a fretful day. The college governors are in town and I am forced to sit through interminable committee meetings when all I want to do was stroll through the campus in the hope of catching a glimpse of my beloved John.

At last, the afternoon draws to a close. Mrs. Crabbe is tidying her desk when he arrives. She passes me a quizzical look, when she announces Mr. McAlpine is here to see me. Mrs. Crabbe keeps my diary and nobody, not even the chairman of the governors himself, gets to see me without her say-so. Why do I feel like a naughty boy found out in some misdeed? I croak that she should leave; her services are no longer needed.

I wait until from my study window I see Mrs. Crabbe pass through the quadrangle and then I order John into my study. It is a huge room befitting a man of my status at the school. At one end is my desk and cupboards for my official paperwork. At the far end are leather armchairs, a small table and bookcases. I order John to stand close to a chair. He does so without a murmur.

He is dressed in a blue jacket and cream chinos which passes for the school uniform here. His white shirt is immaculate and a wine-coloured tie is tightly knotted at his neck. His face shines. I imagine he is having second thoughts. But, it is his idea to be here. He could face expulsion and disgrace. I am sure his impoverished parents are extremely proud of him. They would die of shame.

I had placed the paddle in a drawer. I didn’t want it to attract attention, not with Mrs. Crabbe snooping around. I remind John of why we are here. He chews his bottom lip. My heart skips a beat. I want to pull him towards me and put my tongue down his throat. Instead, calmly I open the drawer and pull out the paddle. John’s eyes widen.

And, so they might. It is an awesome specimen. It is more than two feet in length and maybe four wide. Large holes have been drilled into the blade to reduce wind resistance during the swing. John appears to be sweating. His eyes follow my movements when I hold the paddle by its handle and smack the blade into my left palm. I have never spanked a boy before, but I know that this wood is capable of inflicting great pain.

“Take off your jacket, put it on the table,” I have decided he should put himself across the back of one of the leather armchairs. It is low and his buttocks will be presented perfectly. He slips the coat from his shoulders and folds it neatly on the table. The tail of his shirt is poking out of his chinos. I see they fit him tightly at the waist and a fold of cotton covers his buttocks snugly, separating each cheek.

I tap the paddle against the back of the chair. “Bend over.” I say this calmly although my heart is racing and my palms sweat. He gazes at me with those intense green eyes. I flinch a little. Then he does something truly remarkable. He moves into position behind the chair, unfastens his trousers and sends them to his ankles. He is wearing sparkling white boxer shorts. His fingers pinch the cloth at his hips and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them south to meet his chinos. He swallows hard and bends over.

I have never seen a man’s bare arse so close. His cheeks are smooth and as bald as his torso. His ballsack dangles and I see it too is hairless. His flesh tautens as he stretches over the leather chair. He keeps his head low and his legs apart. I feel that this is not the first time he has submitted himself for a spanking.

I had been dreaming of this moment all day. Except in my version I am paddling the seat of John’s chinos. That in itself is an erotic vision that has my cock tingling. The sight of the eighteen-year-old’s naked buttocks has me hard. I lick my dry lips, take up position a little to John’s left and gently tap-tap-tap the wood against his flesh. His cheeks clench a little. I raise my arm away and bring the paddle down with a resounding crack! I am please Mrs. Crabbe has departed for the day since surely she would have heard the noise and come running.

A dark pink imprint of the blade immediately appears across John’s bottom. It looks sore, but John makes no fuss, his face buried in a cushion. I make another mark, this time on his other buttock. The flesh wobbles. He feels that.

I put the next two swats in the underside of John’s cheeks. His knees buckle and he hangs on to the chair as the pain mounts. I admire the aesthetic effect the paddle has on his once creamy white flesh. By the time I pound home swat number five, some of the pink blotches are turning mauve. The imprint of the blade has been reproduced several times. No square inch of flesh remains untouched.

I appreciate the look of the teenager’s buttocks as increasingly they are battered, but (and I am very nervous to discover this) I also relish the fact that I am hurting him. He squirms with each successive blow and clenches his fists and shuts his teeth. Despite his best efforts he yaps like a dog when I hammer home numbers nine and ten.

I had planned to give him ten swats but I am loving this so much I whack home an additional two.

“Stand up,” I croak, as my mouth is as dry as a desert. I realise the back of my shirt is soaked. My hands are shaking.

John bounds up, his buttocks are sore and so is his cock. It points to the ceiling as he hops from foot to foot and kneads the raw flesh. I find myself staring at his dick and look away fearfully, catching John’s eyes. I think I can read his thoughts. I am on my knees sucking his hairless balls. He spreads his legs and takes hold of the back of my head, urging me on.

“Take it all,” he cries.

Then I have John’s entire shaft in my mouth and throat, squeezing my lips tightly around the base of the eighteen-year-old’s cock.

“Argh, that is so good.’’ John’s fingers dig deep into my scalp. The scratches will be sore for hours.

John gives a low groan, “I’m cumming,” he gasps. I don’t heed the warning. My head continues the  rhythmic up and down motion on John’s rock solid cock. It throbs and I feel spurt after spurt of sticky cum being pumped up his shaft into my hungry mouth.

John pulls away. I don’t see what happens next as I am lying on the floor in the foetal position choking. Should I spit or swallow? I have visions of Mrs. Crabbe’s disapproval as she inspects the stained carpet. That is a humiliation too far; I swallow.

When I look up John has his underwear and chinos back on. He picks up his jacket and without uttering a word, he leaves my study.

I do not see John for three days. The absence is agony. I crave for his body. I need to understand what is going on. He misses my next English class. Is he punishing me? I need to know.

In despair and with half a bottle of whisky inside me, once more I go to his dorm room. He is on the bed wearing the same shorts as before. He looks up from his book as I enter, his look of distain is profound. I mumble incoherently. I am more drunk than I realise. I think I say something about love, or at least lust.

He sneers. Yes, really sneers. He an eighteen-year-old student and me the headmaster of one of the most prestigious schools in the land. But, the humiliation has only just begun.

“It’s a list,” he says, trying to explain what is happening. “Things I want to do once,” he is still lying on the bed but rests on one arm. “Get sucked off by an old man.” His eyes shrug. That is all there is to it, they are saying.

Cry me a river. Tears course down my cheeks. Great sobs rage from my body. The arrogance of the beauty of youth. I stagger forward. I take him by surprise. I roll him so that he is now face down on the bed. He struggles, but even in my drunken stupor I am too strong for him. I dig my knee into his shoulders. He wriggles his hips and waist and flails his legs, but he is going nowhere. Not until I say so.

I tug at the waist of his khaki shorts. He resists but I inch them down over the mounds of his buttocks. His cheeks are bare. I see bruises from the paddling are still to heal completely. I wish I had a paddle. I don’t, so I smack the palm of my hand across his buttocks.

“Gerroff! Leave me alone!” he yells as I pound away at his backside. The flesh feels soft and warm. Soon my palm begins to tingle. It is probably hurting more than John’s rear end. I don’t care. I hate him so much. If I had a knife I would probably plunge it into his heart.

My cock is rock hard. My heart races. My temples throb. I loosen my trousers and find my dick. I climb on his back. John squeals with terror.

“Headmaster, headmaster!” Mr. Albertson, the dorm master, stands in the doorway, ashen-faced. I climb from the bed and without fastening my trousers, I push past him and stagger down the corridor, leaving John convulsing on the bed.

Picture credit: Endart

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com