Your last chance

new story 2

z used drawing face schoolboy Hot (1)

You sit alone in the sixth-form common room. Sun beams shine in your eyes magnified by the glass in the closed window but you can’t be bothered to move. The cushion on your “easy chair” is misshapen, one of the elasticated slates holding it in place is broken. You slump down in it and survey the room. At least half of the chairs are in some state of disrepair. A Formica-topped table is worn and chipped. A folded up page of the Daily Mirror, wedged under one leg keeps it from wobbling. The battered tea urn stands by a sink full of unwashed mugs. The rubbish bin overflows. Nothing changes in that room.

You stare at the clock on the wall. You have seen it many times. You know like a pub clock it is set a few minutes fast, an failed confidence trick to induce pupils to get to lessons on time. The words “London County Council” are engraved in large black letters across the white face. A successful deterrent against theft. It is almost four o’clock; nearly time for your appointment.

You hold a copy of George in your hand. Twenty-four pages of A4 Roneo’d paper held together by two staples. There is still a faint whiff of methylated spirits on it. The illegal school magazine; published this morning. One hundred and twenty copies distributed – free of charge. You know it will cost you three weeks wages from your Saturday job at Freeman, Hardy and Willis. You think it is worth it.

You flick through the pages; past the jokes and cartoons, through the short stories and “investigative journalism” to land at the poems. Your poem. Three verses, twenty-four lines. You don’t read it again, there is no need as you know the words off by heart. A poem? It is not poetry, more like doggerel. You don’t care. It has your initials on it; people know who wrote it. That is the point.

You think of Miss Lowenstein, the fearsome old battle-axe. You know she has been in Mr Henderson’s ear the whole day. “Something must be done. He cannot be allowed to get away with this,” she has been saying. Or something quite similar. No one at the school likes Miss Lowenstein. She really is an old crone. One of the ugliest women you’ve ever seen; hair pulled back tightly in a bun, buck teeth, blotted skin and a gammy leg, courtesy of childhood polio.

You had her for English since the fourth year. In her first class she says she is a tough disciplinarian and calls herself a “martinet” and when no one can tell her what that word means she makes you look it up in the dictionary. She sets herself apart from the other women teachers; no way can you call her “miss”; it’s “ma’am.” She has a mean streak and is a bully and vindictive. You are counting on that. Your verse doesn’t name her, but everyone knows who you mean by the “Old Crow.”

You have to go see Mr Henderson in his office at four. He’s head of Upper School. You don’t see much of him usually; your comprehensive school has about 1,600 pupils, it’s like a factory. Mr Henderson is in charge of discipline. You think the Old Crow wants him to cane you for your insolence. You wring your copy of George in your hands, twisting it into a cylinder. Yes, you think to yourself. You, eighteen years old, a prefect, just about to leave school for ever about to get the cane. God! You hope so!

You don’t know when you first started dreaming of corporal punishment. You think you have been fascinated by this forever. Sometimes you go over someone’s knee (you’re not sure whose but preferably someone big and strong). Mostly, you are in the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best from a whippy, curve handled rattan cane. You are in an elite public boarding school which is a world away from the inner city comprehensive you go to. In real life, you have never been caned, not even spanked, in your life. It is, you reckon, now or never. Your last chance.

The hand on the clock is moving too slowly. You climb out of the broken chair and pace the room. You pause by the door, your ears prick up, you listen for sounds in the corridor outside. You hear none, but to be safe you inch open the door and peek outside. You confirm you are alone. You walk back into the room, your heart beats fast. You approach the chair you were sitting on, then stand behind it. You close your eyes, a headmaster with an aged academic gown across his shoulders and a battered mortar-board cap on his head is swishing a cane through the air. He leans forward, taps the back of the chair with the tip of the cane. “Bend over, Crosby!” he intones. In the sixth-form common room you lean forward and stretch over the chair. You grasp the cheap foam filled cushion and spread your legs. You keep your bottom high and your head low. The headmaster lays the first swipe across your meaty buttocks.

When the six-of-the-best is over, you rise to your feet. You are breathless and your cock is twitching. The fantasy is great and you hope Mr Henderson has a big armchair waiting for you. It is hot but you don’t open the window; you find your blazer and climb into it. It is an ordinary black jacket with the school crest on the pocket; it’s nothing like the green and yellow ones the boys at the grammar school wear. You do up all three buttons and then pull at your necktie. Boys at the school ever do up their ties, but you want to look the part. The submissive schoolboy summoned to the headmaster’s study. Something exciting is happening to you but you can’t find the words to describe it.

The minute-hand on the clock judders to twelve. It is time. Mr Henderson’s room is along the corridor outside the sixth-form common room. In your dreams there is always a long walk to the study and you go through a cobbled quadrangle into a building with ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows. The passageway is lined with oak doors. Your real school is a concrete-and-glass monstrosity. The corridor has grey, scratched plastic floor tiles. Each door is constructed with some new-fangled artificial material. You could be at the offices of the municipal council.

You stop outside Mr Henderson’s door. You read his name typewritten on a card stuck on with Sellotape. You check your tie, pull at the hems of your blazer and check the shine on your shoes. You are wearing fashionable wet-look slip-ons with a faux silver buckles. You bought them at a discount at the shop where you work. In your mind you are at St, Alphonso’s, a fine public school for the sons of gentlemen. The time is about sixty years ago. You knock on the door. There is a faint noise from within that sounds like, “Come in,” so you press down on the door handle and push.

You are surprised to see Miss Lowenstein there. It heartens you. She is determined to make sure you get your caning and she is personally going to witness it. You have never been in the room before. It is very small. You stand as best you can in front of his tiny desk. Unlike those in your imagination it is small, functional and clearly not built from walnut. It is in a mess and piled high with files and official documents. He sits in a wooden armchair and there are two plastic chairs, purloined at some time from a classroom, in front of the desk. You see a metal filing cabinet in a corner and there are some metal shelves screwed to walls. And that is it. You see no stuffed armchairs, no ancient Chesterfield couch, no open fire, no cabinet of sports trophies, no packed bookcases with leather-bound volumes and most disappointingly of all, no umbrella stand in the corner with three or four crook-handled canes of varying thicknesses dangling from it.

You see this is not a headmaster’s study, it is the office of a middle manager. Miss Lowenstein moves to one side of you and is now out of your eyeline. Your disappointment grows when you look at Mr Henderson. You see no academic gown or cap only a middle-aged man with a beer gut man in a scruffy shirt and plain tie. His beige trousers were purchased at a cheap chain store many years ago.

You know your school has not abolished corporal punishment, but no one can remember the last time a boy was caned. That has always been a disappointment to you. You hear at the grammar the cane is swished through the air every day by enthusiastic schoolmasters. If you were a boy there you could be caned as often as you wished – you know smoking cigarettes is a caning offence. You would be on forty a day.

Now you realise your cunning plan is about to come to nothing. Mr Henderson probably doesn’t believe in the cane. He has only summoned you for a ticking off. You think maybe he will make you write a letter of apology to the Old Crow.

Mr Henderson doesn’t quite know what to say. He calls you “Crombie,” which isn’t quite your name. He mumbles something about how awful you have been. He says your behaviour is “ugly” and you suppress a laugh, thinking that word perfectly describes Miss Lowenstein. You tune out, no longer listening. You want to get out of there and go home. You know you can make this into a fantasy when you are in your bedroom. You hear words but they seem to be coming from a long way off as if drifting on the wind. You realise he has stopped speaking. He is waiting for you to say something. You are unsure if he has asked you a question. You mumble, “Sorry sir”, just to say something.

Then you hear him say, “I am going to cane you.” You wake up at that. You stare at Mr Henderson seeking confirmation that you heard correctly. He is on his feet now and your eyes follow him as he takes the short distance across his office. He reaches the filing cabinet. You have not noticed until now on top of it lies a short stick. You see it is no crook-handled whippy cane beloved of public schoolmasters. It is a  piece of bamboo, a little over two feet long. You watch him pick it up and you see it is rigid and impossible to bend. It looks like a garden cane but you are not sure as there are no gardens anywhere near where you live.

You see Mr Henderson is uncomfortable with the stick in his hand. He looks embarrassed. He does not swish the cane through the air and it is too stiff for him to flex into an arc. You hear him speak the wonderful words you have waited to hear all your life, “Bend over.” Your throat dries. You take another look around the room and you confirm there is nothing to bend over. The desk is piled high with files; the plastic chairs are too low. You look at Mr Henderson for guidance. His face is flushed. The heat in the airless office and the stress of the moment disturbs him. He points the cane at a space in between his desk and the door.

You take his hint. You shuffle a pace and a half. “Face that way,” he says, so that you have your back to the desk. You see Miss Lowenstein hobble away and flop down into Mr Henderson’s chair. She is giving herself the perfect view. Mr Henderson has not given the time-honoured command “touch your toes”. Many times at home you pretend you are one of the boys sent for “six on the bags” as the old school stories have it. Often you  dress in black blazer and grey trousers and pose in front of the full-length mirror in the hall of your council flat. You bend over touching toes and admire the tight contours of your bum. Your uniform is ordinary and so are you: standing at about five-foot-seven, a little over eight-stone in weight, and properly proportioned.

You take a deep breath and bend from the trunk. You keep your knees straight and by parting your feet a little you are able to brush your fingertips against your shiny black shoes. You feel your tight cotton briefs dig into the crack between your cheeks. You know that your buttocks are filling out the back of your trousers and presenting a marvellous target. You wait staring down at the worn industrial-strength carpet. You recall all those times in front of the mirror. You don’t mind how much this hurts, you will shut your teeth and bear it; like the boys in the stories you love so much.

There is no swish as the Head of Upper School makes his preparation. Suddenly there is a dull thud and you realise the cane has landed on your bum. You feel it but there is no agony, no intense pain, not even a throbbing ache. The second and third stoke land. What a disappointment. You hardly feel a thing. You realise Mr Henderson’s heart is not in this. You feel terribly let down.

He gives you six strokes. You have not been caned before and know of no other boy who has. You have nothing to compare it to, except your fantasies. You know that this was not “six-of-the best.” It couldn’t be. You should be howling with pain, jumping up and down from foot to foot and furiously rubbing away at your savaged backside. Instead you remain bending over, hoping that this is not all. Somehow you have learnt the etiquette is for a boy to stay in position, fingertips on toecaps until the master gives permission to stand up. In the stories failure in this respect leads to additional strokes. You would be quite content to get extras, nonetheless you continue to admire the faded blue carpet.

You hear Mr Henderson moving behind you and there is a rattling sound as he replaces the cane on the top of the filing cabinet. Then you hear him say rather absent-mindedly, “You should stand up now.” You do so. Your head feels funny but you think that is because you have been upside down and blood has rushed into your brain. You feel deep disappointment and wonder if your face shows it. If you are nonchalant and make it clear the caning did not hurt would Mr Henderson fly into a rage, sweep the files from the desk, grip you by the neck, hurl you facedown across the desk and proceed to thrash the living daylights out of you?

Clearly not, as Mr Henderson simply says, “You should go now.” You look towards Miss Lowenstein. She has a face like thunder. She too is not impressed by Mr Henderson’s lack of prowess with the cane. She wants to see you clutching your bum in agony and choking back sobs. For the first time in your life, you sympathise with her.

You turn away, open the door and you are in the corridor. In some of the stories you know at this point a boy is rubbing his backside furiously as he rushes back to his study. You do have a sneaky feel of the seat of your trousers, a quick rub with your thumb, but there is no sensation. You can go to the lavs to inspect the damage but you know you will find none. So, you return to the sixth-form common room and collect your vinyl holdall before going home seeing yourself as another victim of the failing comprehensive school system.

 

Picture credit: Hotspur

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Rock n Roll Sinner

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Executive Assistant

new story 2

z used cane longs desk office or school sting adult (71)

Kingsley Brocas-Burrows stared down glumly at the desk. His buttocks ached on the hard chair. He spent most of his working day at a desk such as this. It was empty at the moment. The sun was rapidly disappearing and soon the office would be so gloomy he would need to switch the lights on. He sat, almost motionless. He didn’t care. Let it go dark.

Kinglsey was not a young man who spent much time in reflection; and certainly not self-reflection. But on this day he might make an exception. Why did he do this? Why was he wasting his life at this job?

He sighed inwardly, shuffled his buttocks some more before standing. The office was empty, everyone had left. The working day was over. People had gone home – to their real lives. He stretched his arms, wriggled his shoulders, snaked his hips. Slowly – simply to kill some time – he ambled to the window. He was on the second floor, there was not much of a view. The High Street below; Robinson’s Department Store opposite. He let out a long weary sigh. How had it come to this?

Executive Assistant at a marketing company. What was marketing anyhow? Damned if he knew. Executive Assistant: general dogsbody more like. Office boy really. His housemaster had warned him this would happen. “Slacking again Brocas-Burrows,” the old coot would intone as Kingsley submitted himself patiently; stretched across an ancient cracked leather armchair in the study. His trousers at the ankles, underwear at the knees. Head low, bottom high, while old Mr Plumptre lashed six stripes across his naked buttocks.

Plum had warned him he would fail his examinations. Kingsley duly did. In spectacular fashion. If there were prizes for failure he would have taken all the silver cups that year. “If you fail your examinations, you cannot go up to the university,” Plum had berated him. “Then where will you be?” Where indeed?

The eccentric “crammer” college his father then arranged for him to attend so Kingsley might resit his exams was useless. He and a further ten bone-idle duffers spent four months cooped up at some backwater called Brocklehurst. The college principal made them dress in school uniform with neat grey short trousers and knee socks. Eighteen-year-old men dressed as preparatory school boys. Kingsley idleness never abated. Mr Burlington, the principal, would often order Kingsley across his knee. The size twelve gym plimsoll he crashed into the seat of the teenager’s short trousers made no impact on his studies.

So now. Kingsley peered through the dirty window pane at people in the street below. Rain was spitting. Umbrellas were raised, shop girls wrapped their coats around themselves and dashed toward bus stops. How he wished he could join them. He glanced at his wrist watch. Almost time for his appointment with Mr Wilson-Smith.

Wilson-Smith was a contemporary of his father. Like Kingsley they were all old boys of St. Tom’s. The old school tie. It was that informal network that had landed him the job. All boys together. Wilson-Smith had “found him a position” at his company. It was the least a chap could do for a fellow from St. Tom’s. Anyhow, Wilson-Smith needed a skivvy, and it might as well be somebody with a bit of breeding. God forbid he should take a lout from a council estate.

The seconds hand on Kingsley’s watch moved too quickly. Any moment now he must face Mr Wilson-Smith. “Damn and blast it!” Kingsley’s inner voice cried. “When will this ever end?” Nineteen years old, getting on for twenty and still going through this.

Across the office a door opened. Miss Winchester, a lady of at least fifty years and two hundred and fifty pounds, waddled through, clutching her handbag tightly to her bosom. “Mr. Wilson-Smith will see you now,” she said to no one in particular as she headed for the stairs and her own real life. Kingsley looked once more at his watch, willing it to allow him one more minute before the appointment. No such luck.

He stretched his arms and back once more, as if limbering up for a track event. His one success at school had been in sports. He still retained his athleticism. He sighed (yet again) and slowly moved toward Mr Wilson-Smith’s office. He paused outside. Momentarily, he had a vision of Mr Plumptre’s worn study door. He shook his head with bewilderment, balled his fingers into a fist and rapped his knuckles against a pine panel.

“Come!” Mr Wilson-Smith even sounded like Plum. Haughty, pompous; in charge. Kingsley fumbled with the door handle, it stuck in his grip. At first it would not turn. He tried once more. Still it would not budge . With his hand shaking he gripped harder, put his shoulder to the door and stumbled into the office.

Mr Wilson-Smith gaped then a frown crossed his florid, flabby face. “Stupid boy,” he muttered, almost to himself. Kingsley straightened himself, conscious of the heat in his own face. Without waiting for instruction, he turned and without difficulty closed the door.

Mr Wilson-Smith was seated behind his desk, his jacket behind him on the chair. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow; the top button was undone, his necktie was loosened. He looked every inch the “marketing” man that he was.

Kingsley stood some distance away. The office had not changed since his last visit. It was furnished in the modern style. Whereas his housemaster’s study had been constructed of dark wood panels and oak furniture, Mr Wilson-Smith’s room consisted of light-coloured walls and pine. His message to the world, “I am the future.”

Kingsley waited. He knew the part he had to play in this little drama. Mr Wilson-Smith was in charge. He would commence when he was good and ready. Wilson-Smith picked a folder from his desk, opened it and leafed through the sheaf of papers inside. He pretended to read the top two and then threw the folder down. In his “real life” he very much enjoyed amateur theatricals.

He breathed a sigh that said, “Why must I take the burdens of all the world on my shoulders?” He glanced down at the folder and then peered across the room at Kingsley. “Well, Brocas-Burrows,” he said. A very pregnant pause followed. Kingsley blanched, his redden face draining. The silence deafened him. Was he supposed to say something? Had his boss asked him a question? He sucked on his bottom lip, playing for time.

If it had been a contest, then Mr Wilson-Smith blinked first. “Your quarterly report,” he growled, again nodding at the folder. You know what it says?” Again, Kingsley was dumbfounded. Was it a rhetorical question? Was he expected to answer? Should he say truthfully, “Actually no sir I haven’t read it myself, but I have a jolly good idea what it contains.”

Would that reply be a bit too bumptious; cocky even? Indeed, the nineteen-year-old had not seen the report but he knew darn well it was not good news. “Poor timekeeping, bad attitude to authority, generally an idle sort,” would be the gist of it.

He closed his ears while Mr Wilson-Smith berated him. Kingsley had been spot on about the report, but he had left out the bit about his uselessness at adding up a column of figures. After some length Kingsley heard the words, “I gave you a position at this company because of your father. You have let him down; you have let me down and most of all you have let yourself down.” The resemblance to one of Plum’s sermons in the housemaster’s study was uncanny. Kingsley found himself murmuring, “Yes sir, sorry sir.”

Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “In other circumstances you should be dismissed. I have spoken to your father on the telephone and I must tell you he is not best pleased.” Kingsley confined his response to, “Oh.” There would be a price to pay the next time he returned to the family pile for the weekend.

“He and I are in complete agreement,” Mr Wilson-Smith had not finished. “On the action that I should take.” Kingsley’s eyes sparkled. He bit his lip once more. With no further word, Mr Wilson-Smith hauled himself to his feet and wheezing slightly he trundled across the office. Kingsley stood, hands clasped behind his back. He did not turn to watch as Mr Wilson-Smith disappeared from his sight. He heard his boss open a drawer (it stuck at first just as the door had done). Kingsley heard his wheezing increase in volume and then there was a distinct rattle from within the drawer. The teenager’s heart thumped. He knew that sound; he whirled around in time to see Mr Wilson-Smith straighten himself. His boss stared malevolently across the office; he stood aggressively and took the whippy rattan school cane between his hands and flexed it so that it made a perfect bow.

Kingsley’s eyes widened. It was just like the weapons the masters at St. Tom’s had used. It was a little under three feet long with a notch every four inches or so along its length. It was as thick as a pencil and had the authentic crook handle at one end.

Mr Wilson-Smith swiped the whippy cane through the air. The swoosh! as it flew was terrific. Then, Mr Wilson-Smith let it dangle in his hand before gently tap-tap-tapping it against his right leg. “I was head boy in my time at St. Tom’s,” he said, as if this was a perfect explanation.

It was good enough for Kingsley. Prefects at the school were permitted to beat other pupils. Mr Wilson-Smith’s present intention was obvious.

“I beat many slackers,” Mr Wilson-Smith said, almost wistfully. “There was no more serious crime. Chaps who would not play the game.” He leaned forward, craning his neck like a toad. “I good thrashing …..” he let the sentence tail off. His meaning was clear.

Kingsley sniffed. It was a reflect action; he meant nothing by it; Mr Wilson-Smith thought otherwise. “How dare you!” he bellowed, furious at the teenager’s insolence, “Get yourself across that desk.” He waved the cane towards his own desk as if there was any doubt about his instruction, “NOW!”

“B .. .” Kingsley cut short his protest. His boss’s eyes burned into him. The older man swished the cane aggressively. “Get on with it. I don’t have all night.” He tapped the cane across the edge of the desk.

Kingsley hesitated. He would comply, he would do as he was ordered. His upbringing had taught him enough to know one thing: he had no choice. None at all. But how to do it? At school the housemaster always made a chap go over an armchair. It was the right size. Little ones spread themselves across one of the padded arms; the older boys reached across the back. In either case they made the perfect fit.

But the desk? Even from a step or two’s distance Kingsley could see it was low. Should he lay with his stomach flat across the top and hang on to the far edge for dear life? Was he supposed to simply lean forward and grip the desk’s side? Where exactly did Mr Wilson-Smith want his bum to be?

“Pah!” Mr Wilson-Smith was a man on a short fuse. He swiped the cane hard against the pine desk’s top. “Stand there, feet apart, bend forward. Stick your bottom out.” The instruction was clear. Careful not to make another visible sigh that would annoy his master, Kingsley took two steps forward and in one athletic movement he positioned himself to Mr Wilson-Smith’s satisfaction. He gazed down at the pine desk, his necktie dangled in front of his face. He concentrated hard on its intricate pattern. He had never before really noticed it.

Kingsley heard his boss wheezing as he shuffled himself into position. The old man paused momentarily, admiring the full buttocks submitted before him. They were firm and meaty and stretched the material of Kingsley’s suit trousers. Each cheek was lifted and separated. They made a terrific target.

He stood about three feet to the teenager’s left – a cane’s length – and slowly took aim. Caning a boy’s backside was a bit like riding a bike, he thought. Once one had learned the technique, it was never forgotten. He laid the tip of the cane so that it reached to the furthest cheek, aiming for the crest of Kingsley’s mounds. Satisfied that he had his eye, he brought the cane away in a perfect arc until it was about his shoulder’s height. Then he returned the cane with tremendous force so that it whacked into the meat sending a resounding sound echoing off the walls of the office. A thin white line immediately appeared across the stretched grey trousers.

Kingsley gasped, his head rose slightly and his hips swayed. He held on to the edge of the desk with all his might. A sharp pain scorched across his bum. Already a hard line was forming where the cane bit deep.

Mr Wilson-Smith paused, admiring his own prowess with the cane. The stroke had landed precisely where he intended. He awarded himself ten marks out of ten. He aimed the cane lower next time, into that part where Kingsley’s beautifully round bottom nearly met the back of his thighs. Swipe! Crack! Another perfect shot. Kingsley’s knees buckled, but he stopped his feet from marching up and down on the spot. His heart pounded and blood crashed through his arteries; his temples throbbed.

Mr Wilson-Smith’s own heart was in overdrive. He was not a fit man and his doctor had warned him he needed to take more exercise. Well, what better way than this? He tapped the cane across the top of Kingsley’s buttocks, so that he could deliver a downward swipe just below the boy’s spine. It was a difficult stroke to get right. If his aim was out he might even miss the backside entirely. Swish! Swipe! Crack! Bullseye.

Kingsley just about stifled the yelp his body demanded he make. It would be a natural reaction to the searing agony he was feeling. His bum felt like Mr Wilson-Smith had taken a white-hot poker and pressed it into his flesh. There was a strip of burning fire about four inches wide running from left to right across his bum.

Now, Mr Wilson-Smith set himself another challenge. The next stroke should connect in the space between the line at the top and the one across the mound. If he got it wrong, if he was just a fraction of an inch out in his aim, the heavy, whippy cane might land right on top of one of the three welts already throbbing across Kingsley’s rear end. Mr Wilson-Smith was not a man to duck a challenge; and heck if he got it wrong, it was no skin off his backside.

Crack!. Bingo! Mr Wilson-Smith was on fire! And so too was Kingsley’s lazy arse. The stroke whipped in right on target. Sweat poured through the nineteen-year-old’s hair. It ran from his neck in a rivulet down his spine. His body was fighting back against the pain. Kingsley shut his teeth hard, he had long ago ceased studying the pattern on his necktie; now his eyes were tightly shut.

Mr Wilson-Smith aimed low; there was still the gap between the cuts on the mounds and the thighs to find. “Hold still boy,” he said by way of encouragement, as with a little difficultly for his heart was so loud and his blood pressure so high he feared he might have a different type of stroke before the evening was out, he took his measure.

Of course, it was a perfect hit. When later, Kingsley inspected the damage in the mirror of the bathroom at his rooming house he would see five parallel lines perfectly placed. By that time the agony would have dissolved through a mere pain and then an irritating throbbing. It would then have disappeared altogether, except for when he sat on a hard surface. The cut on the under cheek was perfectly placed and could be reignited for days to come.

In the mirror Kingsley would see five stripes, but that was not all. Mr Wilson-Smith had a special finale. In some schools a “headmaster’s caning” was deemed especially awesome; a boy would be summoned to the beak for only the most serious offence (or perhaps the constant repeating of more minor infractions) and the visit to his study had to be momentous.

Mr Wilson-Smith had himself been on the receiving end of such a beating. Now, for the first time in his (extensive) history as a caner he would administer a headmaster’s caning. He bent his legs slightly so as to get proper aim. He tapped the tip of the cane at the top of Kingsley’s right buttock, then he laid it so that the other end reached the bottom of the left. It was a perfect diagonal. Kingsley froze. Oh no! he realised at once Mr Wilson-Smith’s little game. His entire body tensed, his shoulders braced, his knees locked, the knuckles on his hands turned white so hard was his grip on the desk.

Thwip! It wasn’t an especially savage cut. It didn’t need to be. Mr Wilson-Smith whipped the cane hard so that it thudded across Kingsley’s bum. He leapt to his feet, both hands clutching his savaged buttocks. The cane had bitten into each of the previous five cuts, making all blaze with such a ferocity that it felt that Kingsley had been forced to sit in a bath of boiling hot water.

He yelled fit to wake the dead. For the first time that evening Mr Wilson-Smith realised how fortuitous it was that all the staff had gone home. Kingsley howled as he danced; tears flooding down his face. It made not a jot of difference to that pain. He bent double, huffing and puffing as he did so. He gasped for air, somewhere in the back of his throat vomit was forming; desperately he swallowed the bile back.

Mr Wilson-Smith stepped back, perching his ample buttocks on the desk that had moments earlier been Kingsley’s punishment block. He watched intently as the boy rubbed the seat of his trousers so hard the boss wondered if he might leave a permanent shine on his behind.

At last Kingsley regained a semblance of control. The tears had not completely stopped, his eyes were drenched, his face flooded. He could not bring himself to look at his tormentor. Not so Mr Wilson-Smith; his self-satisfaction was undisguised. Later he would telephone his school pal “Bronco” Brocas-Burrows and share with him his triumph. But, now he must dismiss the distressed teenager.

“Go,” he growled, “That was for your own good,” he mouthed a platitude spoken by generations of schoolmasters. “Don’t make me have to do that again. If you do we’ll see how you like it with your trousers at your ankles.”

Kingsley ran from the room, glad that the door had opened first time. He flew through the outer office and down the stairs, not stopping until he was at street level. The rain was heavy and he was glad that nobody would see his tears as he hurried to his digs back to his real life.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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The house across the street

The boy band

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The cigarette box

new story 2

z used boy 16

Sanderson bounced down the narrow passageway, feet slipping, shoulders hitting first one wall and then the next. He had to get away. Nobody must see him. Not in the state he was. If he rushed he could get to his study in time. Undetected.

Victory. He gripped the handle of the heavy door, it stuck a little so he gave it a kick with the sole of his foot. It flew open. He tumbled inside. Thank God his study mate was elsewhere. This was a private matter. He stood unsteady, catching his breath, desperately holding back the tears. His face burned, almost as much as his backside. He could barely contain his fury.

The humiliation. Sanderson, eighteen years old and a senior at St. Tom’s, whipped on the arse by a prefect. Bags down. Underpants down. Six of the best. Bare. He could strangle Tomkinson, the head boy, with his bare hands.

His head throbbed almost as much as his bum. Carefully, he loosened his bags and let them slip a little. Then, oh so gingerly, he eased his cotton undershorts, away from his savaged buttocks. He grimaced, they had stuck against a weeping welt. Six thick dark red stripes decorated his rear end. Each about a quarter of an inch thick, running in perfect parallel from left to right. An objective observer would say Tomkinson was an expert; the boy knew his business.

Sanderson fastened up his bags and gripped the edge of the study table, suddenly, unexpectedly, choked-up tears washed down his face as the events of that afternoon flashed through his mind.

It had started some days earlier. Tomkinson was newly appointed as Head Boy of St. Tom’s and eager to ingratiate himself with the headmaster who had himself recently been elevated to the position. Some stand had to be taken. Tomkinson needed to exert his authority. Old Bean (as the head was affectionately known by the boys) had a strong aversion to cigarette smoking. His loathing was not for him a personal matter. Smoking was (naturally) banned among the boys; he would have stopped masters puffing as well is he had been able, but that would be an imposition too far.

So, behold the word came from on high: a boy caught smoking (or indeed merely in possession of cigarettes) could expect the severest punishment. Now, there was not much new about Old Bean’s instruction. Schoolboys had been beaten since time immemorial for the offence. Tomkinson, in his eagerness to please, went a stage further. The rule would apply to any boy – junior, or senior. The Sixth-Form had been warned.

In later life Tomkinson would become a fine administrator in a far-flung British colony. He learned some of the techniques of using power at St. Tom’s. A squad of spies, of squealers if you will, fed him titbits of information.

So it was on the afternoon in question that Tomkinson raided Sanderson’s study. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the air for the tell-tale aroma. None; the study was clear. Driven by a determination that someone must suffer, he shrieked, “Open the cupboards, Sanderson. All of them.”

“Oh for the love of God! Tomkinson,” Sanderson leaned back in his armchair. “What’s this all about?”

“Do not take the Lord’s name in vain Sanderson. You know very well. Smoking.”

The eighteen-year-old blanched.

“If you do not open these cupboards, drawers too, I shall do it myself.” Not waiting for a response, he strode to an old worn cabinet and tugged open the door. Inside was a small wooden box of cigarettes, just as his spy had reported.

“If smoking is going on in this study, there’s going to be a whopping!  Sanderson, are these cigarettes yours?”

“Certainly not!” answered Sanderson coolly. “I have no idea how they got there.”

“Very well!” said Tomkinson.  “You deny it.  The matter will have to go before the headmaster then!  It’s between you two, and the Head will sift it out.”

He turned to the door.

“Hold on, Tomkinson!’? muttered Sanderson.  His sallow face was pale.  Sanderson of the Sixth did not want to go before the Head.  Sanderson had too many shady secrets to keep, for that.  Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than smoking in the study.  A fellow who continually, and with cynical indifference broke all the rules of the school, had to be careful.

Tomkinson looked round. “Hold on? he said. “What for?”

Sanderson gasped a little. “Look here, suppose a fellow had a box of cigarettes in his study?, he muttered. “No need to make a song and a dance about it.  I daresay you could scare up a few in the Sixth, if you looked.”

“Possibly!” said Tomkinson.  “If I find any in the Sixth, there will be trouble, same as if I find them in the Fifth!  I’ve got certain duties to do, as a prefect, and I’m going to get them done. Were the cigarettes yours; yes or no?”

“Yes,” muttered Sanderson.

“That’s enough then!  I’ve whopped a junior for smoking, if I let a senior off, I should be a rotter!  Let’s cut along to my study, Sanderson.”

Stephen Sanderson stood facing him, his hands clenched.  Sanderson was a senior, a Sixth-Form man, and it was unheard of for a senior to be told to bend over like a junior! The humiliation of it was almost more than Sanderson could bear.

“You can’t whop me, Tomkinson!’, he muttered thickly.  “You know you can’t!  A Sixth-Form man …”

Tomkinson curved the cane in his hands menacingly. “Will you bend over the chair?”

“You can call a Prefects’ Meeting and have me up!” muttered Sanderson.  “I’ll stand for that!  But …”

“You’ll bend over that chair, and take six just as if you were a sneaking smoky little tick in the Second Form!” said Tomkinson coolly.  “And if you don’t do it, this instant, I’ll take you to the Head, and leave it to him.  If you’d rather be sacked, you’ve got the choice.”

Sanderson gave him a long look. “But, darn it Tomkinson, this isn’t right!”

“Enough. Stop right there. I have given you every opportunity. Now, lower your bags and underwear.”

White as a sheet with rage and humiliation, Sanderson’s mouth gaped open.

“You have only yourself to blame, for this,” Tomkinson swiped the heavy crook-handled cane and pointed it at the dusty armchair.

Sanderson winced. The brute! Tomkinson was drunk with power.

“Tomkinson,” he muttered.

“Nothing for you to say.” interrupted the Head Boy as he swished the cane through the air.

A gasp came from Sanderson.  In a fury he ripped down his own bags, leaving them in a heap at his feet. The ferocity of his anger blinded him as he sent his drawers in the same direction.

He dived over the back of the armchair.

Tomkinson stood his ground, waiting patiently for his fellow eighteen-year-old senior schoolboy to prepare himself. The boy’s buttocks were small and round and perfectly white. A tusk of dark hair crawled along his crack.

Tomkinson swiped the ashplant in the air.  It came down with a loud whack on Stephen Sanderson’s naked haunches. A groan came from Sanderson. A dark red line furrowed both cheeks.

z used cane prefect Mag (95)

Sanderson set his face for the second stroke. Six strokes fell; six of the best.  Sanderson remained motionless, bent over the chair, his face colourless with fury.  He tried his hardest to keep back a sound; it was too bitterly humiliating to yell like a junior under the cane!  But hard as he was by nature, he was not tough physically, and he could not bear pain. In spite of himself, he gave a yell at the fourth swipe, and a ringing howl at the fifth.

The study door opened, and Jackson, Tomkinson’s deputy, looked in. “What’s this howling row about?” asked Jackson staring.

“Why-what-what.”

“Get out!” snapped Tomkinson.

“Oh, my only hat!” gasped Jackson and he got out and went back to his study in a state of dazed amazement, to tell Potter and Greene that Tomkinson was whopping a Sixth Form man.

Whack!  The last swipe fell followed by a howl from Sanderson. Tomkinson tucked the cane under his arm.  “That’s a tip!” he said grimly.  “I’ve had my eye on you a long time, Sanderson. You’ve got off with a whopping this time – next time you’ll go before the Head, and you know what that means.”

Sanderson stood and stared at him.  Where it had once been ghostly white, his face now blazed scarlet. He dressed. He was hurt, and he wriggled painfully.  But that was not the worst.

He had been “whopped”  like a junior – he, a Sixth Form man, a senior! Jackson – that ass, Jackson – had actually witnessed the whopping, and would be talking of it up and down the passages and studies. All St. Tom’s would know about it in under an hour.

Sanderson clenched his hands with fury.  He had not dared to resist. The penalty for punching Tomkinson would be the sack, short and sharp.  Neither would it have helped him, for the stalwart Head Boy of St. Tom’s could have handled the weedy slacker almost like an infant. He dared not even think of standing up to Tomkinson in the gym with the gloves on; he could not have hoped to get the better in a scrap, and he hated getting hurt.

There was nothing he could do – nothing – but swallow his rage and humiliation, and “mind his step” in the future.

 

Picture credits: The Magnet

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Memories of Uncle Edgar

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

This is for your own good

new story 2

z used drawing cane master darrien (7)

I stood feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind my back and watched morosely as the headmaster shuffled across his study. He paused at a hat stand. It contained no hats, nor coats. Instead a single curve-handled whippy rattan school cane dangled. He coughed slightly before stretching up his right arm to unhook it.

I took a deep breath. I knew how this scene was about to play out. He grasped the cane in his fist and turned to face me. He swiped the cane through the empty air; it made a terrific swooshing sound as it flew.

He scrunched up his face and peered across the room at me. In my mind’s eye I can still see him clearly, fifty-five years after the event.

He swished the cane once more and then craning his neck forward towards me he gripped the cane between his two hands. It was a standard pose, a cliché almost. He flexed the cane. It was more than three feet long and as thick as a pencil. Even at a distance I could see many notches along its length. In the right hands this would be a terrible weapon. And, the headmaster had those hands.

His penetrating stare never left me. His receding hairline reminded me of Dracula, but without the fangs. His pasty jowls and heavy bags under the eyes gave him the air of one who carried the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. Perhaps, he felt he did. He flexed the cane thoughtfully. Then he spoke.

“This is for your own good,” he rasped. Later in my own adulthood I would recognise the cigarettes and whiskey in such a voice. He waved the cane in my direction in case I hadn’t understood the import of his words. I begged to differ, but kept my counsel and heard him out.

“You have been spoken to before,” he wobbled the cane some more. “You are lazy and do not work hard.”

He was wrong, I was not lazy I was bored; it wasn’t the same thing. I was eighteen; too old for school. I should have been somewhere else. I knew many men who remained schoolboys most of their lives, they never grappled with adulthood. I was not one of them.

“Unless you buckle down to your studies,” the headmaster intoned, “You will not pass your examinations.” He laid great stress on the word examinations, stringing it out as if it consisted of six syllables. I remained silent, I knew he didn’t want to hear what I had to say. “You will not get a university place and then where shall you be?”

University place! Nobody had asked if I wanted to go to university. Everyone, the masters at school, my parents, my brothers my pals, they all assumed I wanted to go to university. Looking back, I can’t say I can blame them. It was that kind of school, it existed to get boys to university. It had no other function. If a boy did not go “up” as we called it in those days, he was a failure. Irredeemable. Hopeless. Without worth.

“This is for your own good,” he said once more. Still I was unconvinced. Perhaps, it was for his good. I can see him now, his shoulders hunched, his sad grey eyes often with a distant, wistful look. Dandruff flaked the shoulders of his tatty academic gown. Buttons of his waistcoat strained against his paunch. His tweed trousers strained at his stomach. Today we might call his look “seedy.”

He swished that goddam cane once more. “You will thank me for this one day,” he said with no hint of irony. “This might be the saviour of you.”

Did he really believe what he said? Could he hear himself? Imagine it was today. A headmaster, a man probably well into his fifties; older possibly. Instructing an eighteen-year-old boy to prepare himself to bend over so that the headmaster might lash him across the backside with a cane. You could see the social workers, the law courts, the newspaper headlines.

But this is now; that was then. Nobody much thought it odd. I certainly didn’t. It was simply the way things were. Schoolmasters, doctors, priests, you name them, they could do what they liked. The deference to our betters was boundless.

The headmaster shuffled closer to me, I watched him conscious that my heart was racing faster than I should have liked. I wanted this over with. I was determined to make minimum fuss. To let him have his way.

“Hang up you blazer,” it was a curt command. I was annoyed that my fingers fumbled over such a simple task. At last I had it where moments before the cane had been hanging. “Lower your trousers.” It was a curt command, one the headmaster expected to be obeyed – without question.

It was not unexpected. Senior boys were always swished trousers down. I know what you’re thinking. Today, we would cry “pervert” or even worse. In those days it was to be expected. We never got it bare-arsed, like at some schools. There had been a court case around that time of a housemaster at an expensive, elite “public” school who had been up before the magistrate after he gave one of his charges a stiff six across the naked buttocks. He was cleared of all charges. “He must be acquitted,” the Beak had said, “Else we should have half the housemasters in England up before the bench.”

I was to be spared the ultimate indignity of showing the headmaster my manhood. Pants, I suppose, afforded a certain amount of modesty. I don’t suppose a caning with my Y-fronts at my ankles would have been any more painful.

I struggled with my belt, those darned fumbling fingers again. At last I had it loosened with the top button of my trousers. They were made of some heavy wool mixture (I think) which may have been why the headmaster made us remove them. Once I had undone the top two buttons of my fly, they slipped down my thighs and snagged at my knees. I spread my legs slightly and they slithered down and fell into a puddle at my feet.

“Bend over. Touch your toes,” again a bit of a cliché. I wonder how many schoolboys of my era heard those dreaded words uttered by his head or some other school master. “Head low, bottom high.” That last instruction seems to me superfluous. Surely, it is impossible for a chap to bend over and touch toes without the bottom being high. That, after all, is the object of the exercise.

I knew from painful experience that “toes” meant toes, and not knees or shins. I was quite an athlete in those days and my body was supple. I bent forward and with my knees straight, I stretched my fingers so they brushed the toecaps of my black lace-up shoes. In this position I had a perfect view of the worn rug beneath my feet. I suppose it had once contained a blue pattern; but by this time, after generations of schoolboys had shuffled their feet into position, it was a grimy grey.

It was only now with my legs bare that I felt how cool it was in the study. It would have been March or April and spring had not quite sprung. I shut my teeth firmly together and closed my eyes and waited. The floorboards in the study were as worn as the rug and they creaked loudly as the headmaster circled my body. Once he had examined my submissive body from every conceivable angle, he paused almost directly behind me. I heard him wheeze heavily and once again clear his throat. It sounded like he might be clearing phlegm from the back of his throat.

I shuddered, from the cold or nervousness I do not know, when the headmaster took hold of the tail of my white shirt. In those days shirts had proper tails and this one would have been covering my buttocks and the backs of my thighs. He gripped the cotton hard and dragged the material up my back and left it resting against my shoulders. I shuddered again when the headmaster took hold of the elasticated waist of my underpants. He did not (as I feared he would) drag them to my knees, thus exposing my bare bottom. Instead, he tugged hard so that my pants dug up into my crack and so that the white Y-fronts fitted snuggly like a second skin.

To test this was so, the headmaster circled the palm of his hand firmly around my right buttock cheek. Satisfied there were no creases there, he repeated the manoeuvre on the left. Finally, he landed the open palm of his hand across each cheek, as if to give me encouragement for my ordeal ahead.

The floorboard creaked again and now the headmaster had taken up his position a little to my left. The tip of his cane tapped against my stretched buttocks. He laid it across the centre of both cheeks and tapped some more. He was getting his aim. I closed my eyes tighter and took a deep breath and held it. The cane lifted away from my bum, there was an almighty swishing of air and a loud crack as rattan cane hit flesh. I heard it before I felt it. A split-second passed before a searing, burning sensation lit up my bum. I bit down hard on my bottom lip, my body rocked forward, my feet slipped on the worn rug. The agony was sensational. The headmaster was indeed a “master” with the cane. With many years of experience he had developed the knack of inflicting maximum pain to a boy with seemingly minimum effort.

He hacked out a cough and took his aim once more. The cane sought out the underside of my buttocks, at that most sensitive spot where the buttocks meet the thigh. It was also what we called “the sit-upon spot”, that part that connected with the chair you sat down. If the cane lashed there you would feel it for hours (at least) later, whenever you tried to sit down.

The headmaster caught me a beauty and before I had time to feel it he landed a second right next to it. I now had a throbbing strip of agony about an inch wide running the entire length of my bum. I could feel the welts rising. The floorboards creaked. The headmaster was taking a walk. I was too concerned with the agony in my arse that was throbbing out in all directions through my body to pay him much attention. My hair was soaked with sweat, my heart pounded and my temples pulsated just as intensely as my backside.

It seemed an eternity before I felt the headmaster place his whippy rattan cane across my bum once more. This time, he went higher; to the top of the globs, closer to the spine. He was determined that no square inch of my rear end would escape his administrations.

Swish! Crack! Ouch!

I had been determined not to make a fuss but stroke number four knocked the wind out of me, my mouth gaped open and then closed and repeated the movement until I resembled a goldfish out of water. Air hissed through my (now no longer shut) teeth and I let out an immense groan of pain. I couldn’t help myself; it was a reflex action, my body’s natural way of coping with the pain.

Miraculously, I held my position, back arched, fingertips on toes, knees straight. Two more strokes to go.

I heard him move his position and felt the cane explore my buttocks from a different angle. Oh My God! Sweet Jesus! Before he had aimed across my cheeks from left to right, delivering four parallel lines of pain. Now he was going from the lower part of my left cheek across to the top of the right. A diagonal. The Brute! Crack, it was the hardest stroke yet. It went at a speed of a million miles a second and landed across the four throbbing welts. I shrieked and jumped to my feet, hands gripping my ripped bum. I bounded from foot to foot while simultaneously howling. I must have looked like I was doing some Red Indian (sorry, Native American) dance. I bent double, knees buckled, puffing for breath. Tears streamed down my cheeks.

The headmaster watched me from a distance, a half smile of satisfaction, cracking his heavy jowls. He flexed his cane and pointed it towards the spot where until a moment ago I had been bending. “We have not finished. Resume the position.”

If looks could kill I am certain he would have died on the spot. My bum was red raw, it felt like I had sat in a bathtub of scalding water. I couldn’t take any more. The headmaster glowered. “Bend over.”

With a superhuman determination I first straightened myself and then limped back to my position on the rug. Despite my trembling I parted my legs and bent forward. I could not believe how red the backs of my hands were. My blood pressure must have been off the scale.

I waited for the final stroke. Of course, the bastard laid his cane across the opposite diagonal, lifted it high and completed the perfect “X” across my bum. I don’t know how I managed it but I stayed down, touching toes, until the headmaster intoned, “Stand!”

I jumped to my feet. I couldn’t look the headmaster in the eye. My bum was beyond painful. The agony was so intense I could no longer feel it. I suppose that’s what athletes mean when they say they went beyond the “pain barrier.”

Without waiting for further instructions I hauled up my trousers and as best I could in the circumstances, I buttoned up.

The headmaster laid his cane down on his large walnut desk. He seemed a little unsteady on his feet. His face was deathly white when he turned to me and said, “That was for your own good. You will thank me for this one day.”

It wasn’t and I didn’t. I failed my exams and never went up to the varsity.

 

Picture credit: Darrien

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Cruel Housemaster

new story 2

z used drawing cane master (7)

Percy Westerman paced his study, halted at the wall and for a moment studied the photograph hanging there. He had seen it many times before. It was the House Rugby XV from twenty years ago: 1914. Two years before he was born. Its significance was lost on him.

He glanced across at the clock on the mantelshelf. He still had a few moments before his appointment. Silently, he cursed. How he hated this school. In a few months he would be free of the place and its petty tyrannies. It could not come a second too soon.

He stood at the window. His view was not a picturesque one. He could see one side of the quadrangle of Stockton School – a grey, smoke-grimed pile, looking even more prisonlike in the grey shades of evening. Surrounded by four buildings was the only open space that Stockton School possessed, a rectangle of cinder-covered ground, without grass and ground down by the feet of a hundred scholars.

Stockton was an old and well-known school in the heart of Cokley, a large town in the north of England. Fifty years ago the school had been on the outskirts of the town and was bounded on three sides by green fields. Since then Cokley had grown until it had swallowed its rural surroundings in a mass of factories, furnaces, slag-heaps, railway sidings, and small tenements, while Stockton School remained like an oasis of mid-Victorian architecture in a desert of unlovely bricks and mortar.

Percy drew in a deep breath, even the air smelt foul. Stockton was so unlike the boarding schools he had read about in story papers as a young boy. Greyfriars had never been like this. The big hand on the clock juddered further towards twelve. It was time to go; time to face the music.

If the exterior of Stockton had been encased by grime, its interior still resonated with the past. He passed the mullioned windows of the library, entered the clock tower, took the stairs at a pace slower than a snail’s, and reached the study door. Here he paused, took a deep breath and tapped his knuckles softly against an oak panel.

It was a typical housemaster’s study, smelling of old books, leather and pipe tobacco. There was a polished walnut desk; an old, worn dark upholstered armchair; a glass-fronted cupboard partially concealing books and trophies and other paraphernalia. Dominating one wall was a wooden rack from which hung a number of whippy, rattan canes, bent not only with old age but with the frequent use on the backsides of generations of offending schoolboys.

Mr Brewster the housemaster was in a bad temper and he was liverish. As a master Brewster was a failure. He was unsympathetic. He looked upon boys in general as great nuisances. In his opinion stern discipline was the only way to keep order, and in trying to keep order he bordered on tyranny.

He glared at Percy Westerman standing before him. He was a tall, thin boy of eighteen, dressed in a blue blazer with its red braiding around the collar, cuffs and pockets and dark grey flannel baggy trousers. He wore a grey waistcoat, orange and blue diagonally striped tie and a blue-and-white-hooped school cap.

Brewster’s thin lips snarled. His almost bald pate glistened. His cruel grey eyes narrowed. He cleared his throat and from his hard wooden chair he leaned across the desk, forcing his elbows into the hard surface.

“You have frequently been guilty of impertinence, and more frequently of egging on weaker boys to be impertinent. Of late your whole character seems to have taken a turn for the worse,” he had prepared a speech. Westerman, no stranger to the housemaster’s study let him get on with it. What was the point? Brewster would not be derailed from the journey he had begun. His voice was not loud, but it was deep. His face was inflamed with rage.

“You are a slacker. Your work is appalling,” he peered intently at the boy before him, now hopping uncomfortably from foot to foot. Brewster glared, “Under the circumstances, I must conclude that I have no alternative but to administer a punishment.”

Percy stared resolutely at the rug beneath his feet. His eyes hardly moved when Brewster hauled himself from his chair to his feet, then a little unsteadily he progressed across the study. Percy knew where the master was headed. Seconds later he heard the tell-tale rattle. It was a cane being removed from the rack. Swish! The housemaster let fly. There was no purpose to the action, he was very aware of the properties of each and every one of his collection. He had used them all often enough.

This time he had chosen his favourite “dragon” cane. This was no longer or thicker than any of the traditional whippy curve-handled rattan rods on his rack. It was however more dense. It packed a punch and would leave even a senior boy such as Westerman in severe pain. He turned to face the sixth-former. “Look at me boy,” he intoned and flexed the cane menacingly between his hands. Then, he swiped it once more through empty air. He seemed satisfied.

“Bend over that chair,” the housemaster pointed the cane at the worn armchair as if there could be any doubt in his intentions. “Bend over that chair!” he rapped out the words once more. The armchair had a high back, far too high for even the tallest, lankiest schoolboy to put himself over and stretch out his arms to clutch the seat cushion for dear life.

Westerman knew the routine. A boy was expected to drape himself over one of the upholstered arms, tuck his knees into the side of the chair and thereby raise his bottom high to greet the thwack of the rattan cane.

Percy sucked on his bottom lip, rubbed his sweaty palms together, took a couple of deep breaths and then after one flowing movement he had his face in the seat cushion. It was dusty with a faint smell of sweat where visitors had previously sat in comfort to enjoy conversation, and who knew, tea, with Mr Brewster.

Percy could be assured that after what he was about to receive he would not be able to enjoy a comfortable sit-down for some time to come. Tonight he would be taking supper standing up, that was for certain.

With his face in the cushion the eighteen-year-old couldn’t be sure of Mr Brewster’s movements, but he heard him shuffle across the hard floor of the study. He was taking up his position. He was not yet fully prepared. The room was eerily silent except for the sound of a cane being swished through the air. Instinctively Percy Westerman moved his back slightly, the better to look round to see what was going on.

“Keep perfectly still,” the housemaster growled. Percy burrowed his head in the cushion.

Up went the cane with a whiz and down it came with a fearful slash.

OUCH!

Swipe! YOW!

Mr Brewster’s cane flogged across Percy’s tight backside. He could not have struck harder if he had been beating dust from a carpet.

Swipe! YAROOOOOOH! The savage cane rang across Percy’s bottom like a crack from a pistol. He shut his teeth tightly, just keeping back another cry of pain.

Swipe! YOW-OW-OW!

Percy squirmed; he twisted. Mr Brewster didn’t care; he had a cruel streak and would have gladly cut any boy to shreds.

Swipe! HISSSSSSSSSSSSS!

The cane bounced across Percy’s seat and dust blew off his trousers.

Swipe! Arrrrgggggg!

Percy was close to choking, vomit clogged the back of his throat. Six of the best. Delivered and received. It felt like his bottom had swelled to twice its natural size. He could feel welts throbbing beneath his trousers. It had been a terrific thrashing, quite the worst he had ever received. It would hurt for ages. Sitting down would be unpleasant for some time to come. But, it was over. He had survived.

Swipe! Swipe! Brewster laid on two more fearful slashes. The housemaster’s knuckles grew white his grip on the cane was so tight.

Swipe! Swipe! Percy howled with agony as the cane rose and fell without mercy.

Swipe! Swipe! They were blows such as no master ought to ever have dealt, but Brewster was too furious to care how much he hurt the boy.

That was a dozen cuts. Percy lay limp and suffering trying his best not to blub, waiting for the master to give the command to get up. He seemed to be taking an eternity.

“That’s over,” he growled. “You may remove yourself.”

Percy staggered to his feet; his face ghostly white. Blood coursed through his arteries and his temples throbbed almost as much as his shredded buttocks. Despite every code of honour known to schoolboys he rubbed his cheeks furiously. Mr Brewster averted his eyes pretending not to notice him as he did this, but he did not suppress his smile. He was a very satisfied man.

“You may go, Westerman .”

Without a word Percy left the study. He closed the door hard – with a slam. Brewster started, his eyes sparkled and the words rose to his lips to call the boy back. It was an act of intentional disrespect and Brewster was not the master to forgive it, as a rule. But he did not call Westerman back. The senior’s punishment had already been severe and the master let him go.

Percy paused in the passageway, uncontrollable hate and rage welling up in his breast. He pressed his hands against the seat of his trousers in a dismal attempt to manage the pain, but the relief was very little. The strokes had been laid on with a strong arm and the pain was aching and tingling through all his nerves.

He went down the passage. His white, drawn face attracted glances from several fellows he passed and one or two of them stopped to inquire what was the matter.

Percy did not answer them; he did not even hear them. He went straight to his room, where he knew he would be alone. In the long, lofty, shadowing room the wretched boy flung himself upon his bed, and no longer fearing observation, the hard held tears burst out in a torrential flood.

 

Picture Credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Double Whammy

new story 2

z used school cane pants touch toes sting

The headmaster puffed out his cheeks and frowned. His bushy white eyebrows knotted, he drew in a sharp breath and studied the two pupils standing before him. Duncan Richards and Paul Clarke shuffled their feet nervously as the Old Man jawed them.

“You are senior boys. Prefects even. You know the rules. You are expected to enforce them,” he leaned back in his chair and peered over the top of his spectacles. “You do not leave the school premises during the day. We are responsible for you at all times,” he watched closely, delighted that the two miscreants were blushing, suitably embarrassed.  “What would have happened if you were involved in an accident?” He didn’t pause for an answer, the was on a roll. “Your parents would be very worried indeed.”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the large mahogany desk. “You know the rules,” he repeated, his eyes blinking furiously. “I am a fair man. I treat every boy equally,” he steepled his fingers. “Be they first or sixth-formers.”

Paul risked a sideways glance at his pal, he didn’t like where this was going. Duncan stared at the dark blue carpet beneath his feet. “So,” the headmaster eased himself to his feet, “I am going to beat you both.” Duncan’s head shot upwards, startled by the news. “A fair man,” he thought but dared not say aloud, “I wouldn’t mind if you were unfair now.”

He watched miserably as the headmaster made his way across the study, for a man of such weight and proportions he made an unexpectedly nimble movement. He halted at a tall thin cupboard and delved into his pocket. Duncan could not meet his pal’s eye. This could not be happening. Could it?

The headmaster found a key and inserted it into the lock and opened the cupboard door. Paul was no stranger to the headmaster’s study and was very aware what it was that was making the hollow rattling sound. The headmaster sighed as he withdrew a long thin crook-handled cane. He pushed the door closed with his elbow and turned to face the two eighteen year olds. He flexed the cane between his hands taking its measure; an entirely unnecessary action since he knew the properties of this little beauty only too well. Hardly thirty minutes earlier it had left six distinct marks across the tightly stretched Teryelne-covered rear end of an habitual smoker.

“Six.” The headmaster announced if the solemnity of a judge sending a man to the gallows. The two teenagers shuffled their feet as their faces paled at the totally expected news. “Richards, face the wall. Clarke,” he pointed his cane to a spot in the centre of the study, “Stand there.” Moments later all three were in their allotted places. The headmaster swished the cane. Once, then once again. He was not quite ready to go, his eyebrows were once again knotted he appeared to be wrestling with a problem. Swish. Swish. He took a deep breath, he had made up his mind.

“Lower your trousers and bend over.”

Duncan Richards until now obediently standing with his nose an inch from the pale blue patterned wallpaper turned around aghast. He saw his pal’s mouth open and close, but no words were uttered. If he had intended to protest, he quickly thought better of it. With tremendous fortitude (Duncan thought) he unbuckled his belt and opened the front of his pale-grey trousers. The weight of the keys in his pocket sent them slithering to his ankles. He took a look around the study as if trying to find his bearings and satisfied that he truly was in the headmaster’s study and this wasn’t a dream. Then he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees.

“Right over, boy. Touch your toes,” the headmaster barked, unafraid to show his intense irritation. Duncan watched his pal separate his feet and stretch down so that his fingertips brushed the toecaps of his black lace-up shoes. His back was arched, his knees slightly bent and his bottom poked out at an angle. Duncan had never before noticed that Paul’s bum was firm and pert. His white cotton briefs clung to the contours of his cheeks.

The headmaster was nearly ready to go, but first he tucked his cane under his arm and approached the submissive teenager. Using both hands he took hold of the tail of Paul’s gleaming white shirt and rolled it along with his grey pullover up the boy’s back, exposing an inch of bare hairless flesh. He slipped the cane into his hand and took a step back, then he laid the thin whippy rattan cane across the centre of Paul’s underpants. He had a terrific target and he was taking his aim.

Paul bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish. Jesus. Fuck. Ouch. Oooooh. Hisssssss. Ow, ow, ow. With tremendous fortitude the boy kept in position, held low, bottom high, fingertips on toes. That hurt! That hurt a lot. It felt like his bum was on fire. The headmaster hadn’t laid on a sound six-of-the-best, he had pressed a white hot wire deep into his flesh. His arse was on fire.

“Stand up. Get dressed. Stand by the wall. Richards take his place.” The headmaster swished his cane and watched unable and not unwilling to show his deep satisfaction on a job well down. The boy’s bottom would be roasting. He had landed the strokes low down, the agony of the six deep cuts would reignite each time he sat down for many hours to come. Paul wriggled in pain as he pulled his trousers over his raw buttocks and pulled the belt tight. He suspected his eyes were moist and he had no desire for his pal to see him in this state so he kept his head low as he passed Duncan on his way to the wall.

Duncan had witnessed his friend’s punishment, he knew exactly what was going to happen. Even so, he stood and waited for the headmaster’s command. “Lower your trousers. bend over. Touch your toes.” Resolute not to show himself up in front of his friend, and just as determined not to give the headmaster any satisfaction, he quickly had his trousers at his feet. He bent forward and waited. Touching toes is not as easy as it looks. It put a terrible strain on he backs of Duncan’s thighs. He shivered involuntarily as the headmaster pulled his shirt up his back and then (unexpectedly) he took hold of the waistband of his white Y-fronts and pulled hard so that all creases were removed from the cloth and his pants fitted like a second skin.

“You have not been to me before Richards,” the headmaster who never forgot a bottom, stated. “Is this you first caning?” “Yes, sir,” Duncan spoke to the carpet. “Well, it will be quite an experience for you,” the headmaster sneered. “And, eighteen years old,” he added smugly.

It would be Duncan’s first caning, but he was no stranger to spanking. His father was a fervent advocate of corporal punishment; the influence of a small church he followed religiously. Duncan and his two elder brothers often felt father’s belt across their naked backsides. He sucked in his breath as he felt the tip of the cane tap against his stretched flesh.

It was over in seconds. Six almighty swipes. One after the other. Rat-tat-tat like machinegun fire. He had never experienced pain like it. Nothing his father had ever delivered prepared him for the hurt.

“Stand up. Get dressed.” Duncan rose furiously massaging his burning bum. It hurt so much, he couldn’t wait until he was properly dressed and away from the study. He needed to rub away the agony. Now, and he couldn’t care less who saw him do it. The headmaster laid the cane on his desk. “You are dismissed,” he intoned and took much pleasure as the pair sped from the room. He knew very well they would be dashing down the passageway to the senior boys’ lavatories to inspect the damage. He very much hoped they would award him the maximum ten points for the effectiveness of his beating.

….

z used jeanz down belt table (2)

Mr Richards placed the handset on the cradle and waddled out of the room in search of his wife. “Hilda!” he called and she answered him from the kitchen. “I just got off the phone from Paul Clarkes’ father, he tells me his son and Duncan were caned by the headmaster today. Playing truant. He says Duncan was the ringleader.”

“Oh dear,” his wife dried her hands on her wrapround apron. “Trouble at school …” She let her sentence trail of into silence. Both she and her husband knew what that meant.

“Call him down will you please. Well do this in the sitting room,” Mr Richards ran his thumbs across the belt holding up his trousers. It was a narrow thin affair, constructed of plastic. “That won’t do at all,” he tutted silently. “Not at all.”

He heard footsteps padding down the carpeted staircase. He looked into the hallway to see his son standing, a little dumbfounded. Clearly, his mother had not told him the reason for his summons. “Wait in the sitting room,” Mr Richards spoke clearly and calmly. He never believed in histrionics. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He ascended the stairs slowly, his immense stomach rolling as he went. Breathless, he reached his bedroom and pushed open the door. This shouldn’t take a moment. He waddled across the room and halted before a large wardrobe with double doors. He turned a key in the lock and the right hand door eased open on its own. Inside the rail was heaving with clothes. His on the right hand side, hers on the left. He reached up and felt in the dark and his hand brushed against a heavy leather strap. “Just the fellow,” he whispered. In seconds he was fingering a thick wide leather belt. “Yes, the very thing.” He knew it would pack a punch.

He doubled it up in his hand testing the weight. There was no reason to do this, it was no stranger to him. The sheen on the leather had long since worn away.  This little beauty had seen action in its time. He had successful seen three sons into adulthood. Only Duncan now remained.

He shuffled back across the room and at a snail’s pace inched his way down the stairs. Duncan’s eyes widened. Dad had his belt in his hand; it meant only one thing.

“Paul Clarke’s father rang …” His dad need say no more. Matters must take their course. His father’s eyes narrowed. “You know what to do.” Indeed he did. It was a rule of the house. Clearly stated and known by all Mr Richards’ sons. You get punished at school, you get punished again at home. Mr Richards waved his belt in the general direction of the small sitting room. “In there,” he wheezed, and added for emphasis, “Now!”

Sorrowfully, Duncan turned on his heels and slowly, as befitting a condemned man, he edged into the room. It was a small space, with the dining room table and four chairs there was little room for much else. Small it might be, but there was enough room to swing a belt. It was a small terraced house, similar to thousands, hundreds of thousands probably, in towns and cities up and down the land.

Duncan stood quietly. There was nothing to say. Dad was in control. He ruled his own castle. They had both been here before. He heard voices through the wall from the house next door. The Robinsons were settled down watching Crossroads on the television. “Come on, you know what to do. Get ready! Trousers and pants down across the table! Anybody would think this was your first time.” His father’s voice was harsh as he waved the belt through the air.

Slowly, Duncan obeyed the command. Not looking at his father, he walked slowly towards the old rickety table. This would hurt, and hurt a lot. A strapping on top of the still fresh cane marks would be agony. Each lash of the leather would reignite the welts across his backside. His black jeans fitted snugly so he had no use for a belt. He popped the rivet at the waist and tugged down the zip. Oh how he hated for his father to see his cock and balls. He turned his back slightly on him and taking a firm hold of the waistband of his Levis he quickly pulled both jeans and briefs down just far enough to expose his buttocks. Before Dad could glimpse his privates he fell forward and rested his forearms on the table top.

The table was low and Duncan quite tall so he had to arch his back and jut out his bare backside at an angle to present himself submissively to the lashing. He closed his eyes and waited. He knew Dad would take his time. He heard a low wheezing sound as Mr Richards got himself into position. “Well, these are a fine set of marks,” Dad said admiringly. “That headmaster of yours certainly knows his onions.” Duncan winced, he certainly did not need reminding of that. His buttocks quivered as his father’s hand traced the welts that ran left to right across the naked flesh. “Yes,” Mr Richards repeated, “A very fine set indeed.” He tapped his belt across his son’s bum. “This should set them alight.”

Duncan felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his tender rear end. It was on fire. Each stoke of the headmaster’s caning returned to life, aching like crazy to be joined by the new dull throbbing made by the thick, heavy leather belt.

The crack of leather on stretched bottom bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Next door, the volume of the television was lowered. Obviously the goings-on at the Richards’ house was more interesting than the Crossroads Motel.

Duncan shut his teeth. His bum hurt. More than the Robinsons might ever have imagined. Then there was a short respite as Dad took a breather. Duncan could hear him breathing heavily with his exertions. Then he was off again. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the teenager’s  buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Duncan’s dad made sure the strap toasted every square of his son’s buttocks which were by now blazing, burning, stinging mounds of flesh.

Dad twisted his own flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Duncan’s buttocks. With his son’s upturned bottom in front of him, Mr Richards could choose his target with great accuracy. The eighteen-year-old’s bare bum made a terrific target.Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed.

“Enough!” Dad wheezed. He had to stop. If the truth be told he was suffering in his own way as much as his son. If he didn’t halt now he might have a heart attack, or at least a stroke. Duncan’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived. Gingerly, he rose from the table, carefully, so his Dad could not see his half-erect penis, he pulled his jeans and briefs up before stamping one foot after the other. He desperately wanted to rub away at his scorching buttocks, but as any spanked boy would tell you there’s an etiquette to these things. No matter how much you hurt, never let your punisher know. He had let himself down earlier in the headmaster’s study, he didn’t want to do that again. The rubbing would have to wait until he was back in his bedroom.  For now, he hopped up and down, rather like football players did when they had been kicked up in the air by an opponent. It didn’t help.

“Go,” Dad gasped. “And keep out of trouble at school in future.” Duncan flew from the room, took the stairs two at a time and hurled himself through his bedroom door and face down onto his bed. He buried his face in a pillow and sobbed his guts up.

Downstairs, his mother busied herself in the kitchen. She lit a match and got the gas going. Soon they could relax with a nice cup of tea. She hoped her husband would recover his breath soon.

 

Picture credits: Sting Pictures / Unknown

Other stories you might like

Expelled from school

His eldest brother

Letter of Regret

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

In the Dead of the Night

Clint Chapman woke up with a start and an aching bladder. If he did not get to a toilet very soon he would have an embarrassing accident.

Geoff Dawson lay beside him; breathing heavily; in a deep sleep. This would be tricky, Clint was pinned against the wall; Geoff blocked his way. It was a single bed; no more than a child’s size really. There was no alternative; he would have to climb over the sleeping boy.

“War… war … what’s up,” Geoff woke with a start.

“Sorry, I’ve got to have a whiz,” Clint was already climbing over the boy’s body.

Geoff switched on the table lamp. It was three in the morning.

Clint was out of the bed. “Where are my pants?” He was stark naked.

Geoff ducked under the bedclothes to search for them.

“Don’t worry. Too late, no time,” and without a stitch of clothing on his body, Clint dashed through the door to the bathroom.

With his bladder emptied and his penis dutiful rinsed, Clint felt much calmer. Now, he could return to the fifteen-year-old schoolboy tucked up in bed. Clint’s penis perked at the prospect of another round of hot sex with the blond boy who waited for him.

He opened the bathroom door.

“Who the hell are you? What are you doing in my house?” There was a commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff-backed, wrapped in a woollen dressing gown, standing on the landing.

Clint blinked in the poor light at the man who was now blocking his pathway. The man’s moustache bristled as his steely-grey eyes burned into Clint’s body.

Clint’s face brightened to the colour of beetroot and he placed his hands strategically in front of his dangling privates.

“Are you a burglar?”

Clint’s grinned sardonically and shrugged his shoulders as if to say: “A burglar? Naked like this?”

“I’m a friend of Geoff’s, from school,” he said unconvincingly. He was no schoolboy.

The man in the dressing gown, realising his own urgent need to answer a call of nature, pushed his way into the bathroom.

Moments later, Clint back in the bedroom, recounted his chance meeting in the hallway.

“Shit! That’s my father. What did you say?”

“I told him I was a school friend.”

“Do you think he believed you?”

Clint wanted to ask: “Would you?” but knew this would upset the boy.

There was no chance of more sex that night; Clint was certain of that. He delved under the bedclothes, retrieved his mauve bikini briefs and wriggled into them.

“It’s freezing!” He shuddered to emphasise the point, as if Geoff would not believe him. Then he climbed over the boy and resumed his place in the narrow bed, squashed up between the eighteen-year-old and the wall.

The light was off and they were both snuggling under the blankets, when the door swung open. The man in the dressing table, his jaw set in a fierce scowl, thundered into the room.

He switched on the light. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “Who the hell are you?” his purple face betraying the fury he felt.

Clint smiled wanly and waved hello.

“Who is this?” the furious father stormed across the small room to stand by the bed. It looked like at any moment he might drag Clint from beneath the blankets.

Geoff was breathlessly trying to remain calm. His whizzing heartbeat was sending blood coursing through his veins. He desperately hoped he did not look as guilty as he felt.

“This is Clint, he’s a friend from school,” even as the words escaped his lips, he knew his lie would not be believed.

Geoff’s father knew how to intimidate a boy. He had many years of practice as the headmaster of King Egbert’s Grammar School. If he chose to do so he could reduce the most unruly teenager to jelly. He leaned into the bed, “Get out now! You are going home!”

Terrified by this imposing man, Clint pulled the blankets tight across his chest and tried to hide behind the slender body of his companion.

“But father,” Geoff had never called him dad, “it’s the middle of the night, the buses have stopped running.”

“Pah!” Mr Dawson’s explosion sent shudders through both boys.

“Get out of bed now. At once. This instance,” he directed his anger at Clint.

Relieved that he was now wearing his underpants and his penis was once again soft, Clint rose from the bed, climbed across Geoff, and stood alongside Dawson.

“Here put this on,” he scooped up a shirt discarded earlier in haste on the carpet and thrust it at Clint. “Come here!”

Geoff was transfixed with terror. His father was a strong man and there was no telling what he might do.

Taking Clint by the hair he marched him from the room on to the landing, and still holding a tight grip on the hapless intruder, Mr Dawson opened an airing cupboard and took out two blankets.

Then he trudged Clint down the stairs to the lounge.

“Here take these,” he stabbed the blankets into Clint’s chest. “You are sleeping on the sofa. And don’t you dare leave this house until I have dealt with you in the morning!”

Clint, shivering with more than the cold of the early winter’s morning, watched eyes blazing as the man in the dressing gown, stormed from the room and ascended the stairs two at a time in his determination to sort out his son.

Geoff, who had been standing on the top landing while his father berated his lover, dashed back into bed at the sound of his father’s furious footsteps.

The door burst open once again. Geoff fully expected his father to be brandishing one of his school canes.

“Now tell me what’s going on!” he thundered.

Geoff, although relieved that his backside was spared imminent assault, sat terrified on the bed.

“He … he … he’s a friend from school,” he could hardly get the words out. He was not a dishonest boy by nature and the deception he was playing was tearing him apart.

“He missed his last bus, so he was staying the night,” he trailed off, before adding as an afterthought, “That’s all. Really.”

Then, feeling an urgent need not to lapse into silence, he said, “We were sleeping top to tail.”

His father exploded. “Don’t you dare lie to me! I know what’s going on.” Mr Dawson was as terrified as his son, but for entirely different reasons.

“I’m not lying. Honestly, I’m not,” tears were welling up in Geoff’s eyes.

His father’s eyes blazed. He was barely in control.

“Do you want me to come over there and inspect the sheets for stains!”

Even as the words left his lips, Mr Dawson despised his own crudity.

Geoff’s breathing hardened. That would be a humiliation too far. He manoeuvred his bottom slightly to move it away from a damp patch.

Mr Dawson, realising he was losing control, stormed towards the door, but he saw Clint’s jeans on the floor, so scooped them up: that would prevent any escape during the night, he thought.

From the door he thundered back at Geoff. “It’s late; I’ll deal with you in the morning!”

Tears flowed freely. “Deal with” him. His father was a headmaster; Geoff knew exactly what “deal with” him meant. King Egbert’s was a traditional school: traditional lessons, traditional sports and traditional discipline.

The next morning Dawson’s anger had not lessened. He followed his usual morning routine and by seven o’clock, showered and shaved and unannounced, he burst through the lounge room door to confront Clint.

The young man had not slept, his mind in turmoil imagining the ordeal that awaited him. He played out every possible scenario and before breakfast time was over he expected to be locked away in a police cell.

“Tell me: who are you?” Dawson barked.

“A friend of Geoff’s. From school.”

“Nonsense,” Dawson had expected the lie. “I saw your ID in your jeans.”

Clint blanched. The truth was out. He could already feel the handcuffs on his wrists.

“You are a civil servant. You’re twenty-six. Nearly twenty-seven,” Dawson’s eyes darkened.

“My son is eighteen years old …” he let the sentence trail off, unable to finish it. But the meaning was clear enough. Clint the older man had seduced his child and had his wicked way with him. The age of consent for homosexuals was twenty-one and Clint was in deep trouble.

The room fell silent. Clint knew it was useless to argue. Dawson would never believe that Geoff had been a more than willing partner. He would not want to know that Geoff had come on to him outside Barnaby’s, a well-known gay haunt in town. And, he certainly would not want to hear that his sweet innocent son Geoffrey was gaining a reputation around Hazeldene as a great lay. He loved to suck cock and he was very good at it.

All of this was left unsaid. Clint had no choice. When the police heard what had happened, he would be the perpetrator, the sex-fiend, the older man who had sexually assaulted a child. He vaguely knew it was statutory rape or something. He was on his way to jail and for a very long time.

“I should call the police!” Dawson still found it impossible to speak at a normal volume. But he made no movement towards the telephone.

Clint stared impassively from beneath his blankets.

It was a bluff. Dawson had no intention of calling the police. He hated this handsome man who had slept with his son, but if the police were involved the events of last night would become a public scandal. It would ruin Geoff’s life and the headmaster would become a laughing stock among the boys at school.

Another course of action was required, and Dawson knew exactly what he wanted to do.

“I should call the police, but I am not entirely sure that is the best solution,” Dawson was starting to sound like the headmaster that he was.

Clint’s sense of relief was pictured in the young man’s bright open face. He was to be spared the law, but he knew this was not yet over.

“Stand up!” It was a command.

Without question, Clint pushed the blankets to one side and rose from the sofa. Dawson eyed the young man up and down. In his time he had seen many naughty boys stand before him, but none were dressed only in a yellow t-shirt and mauve bikini briefs.

“Fold up those blankets. Neatly!” Clint had started to bunch them up but stopped and took care to fold them into four quarters of equal length.

Satisfied at Clint’s obedience, Dawson was ready to move on.

“Stand there, boy!” he pointed to a spot on the carpet in the middle of the room.

Clint did as instructed.

Dawson lectured the twenty-six-year-old. He was a headmaster of many years’ experience and he had many sermons prepared, suitable for any occasion.

Clint stood motionless, like generations of naughty schoolboys before him staring down at the floor, unwilling to meet the eye of his persecutor.

On and on, Dawson preached. He talked about responsibility, cleanliness and manliness. He told Clint he was irresponsible. He needed to control himself. He needed to set an example.

It was a new sensation for Clint, who sometimes believed he had been around the block a few times. He felt his cock stir as the dressing-down from the powerful, commanding, older man went on and on.

Still staring at his feet, Clint swiftly moved his hands in front of his crotch, hoping the headmaster had not seen his stirrings. The bikini briefs fitted so snuggly nothing could be hidden.

Dawson had not noticed. He did not have the slightest interest in this young man’s private parts; he had a different part of Clint’s anatomy in his sights.

At last, the sermon was over.

Clint had not been expecting what happened next.

Dawson walked through the door and returned within seconds. In his hand was a large school cane. He swished it through the air to demonstrate its whippiness and then he wobbled it in front of Clint’s face.

z used cane holding sting (3)

The teenager had never seen a school cane before. This one was more than three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. Close up he could see how the yellow colour deepened at one end. If he had a mind to, he could have counted the ridges along the length of the rattan rod. For some reason that he could not understand, he was transfixed by the cane’s crook handle.

The front of his bikini briefs tightened further.

Dawson had beaten many backsides over the years. He had his own rituals for such occasions. Usually, once he had completed the sermon, he went straight to the action. The boy was ordered to bend over and the thrashing commenced.

That morning was to be no different. Dawson had the arrogance of all headmasters. It did not occur to him that there might be something unusual about the situation he had engineered. He had decided to beat the boy’s backside and the boy’s backside would be beaten.

Clint’s heart was racing. It was obvious where this was leading. The headmaster was going to cane his bottom as if he were one of his thirteen-year-old grammar schoolboys: and Clint wanted him to.

The young man had never been interested in corporal punishment. He knew it turned on some of his friends and he had heard that Geoff was not averse to taking money to go across the knees of an older man for a bare-bottomed spanking. But not Clint. Yet, now, at the point that this older, dominant man was wobbling a cane in his face, he could not wait to show him his arse. He was, quite literally, bursting for it to happen.

Dawson knew none of this. In his world a boy about to be caned awaited his fate with trepidation. Even the boys who made regular trips across the back of his study armchair or desk feared the sting of the rod. No matter how stoical they tried to appear on the outside, inside they were in turmoil.

That was how he imagined Clint was at the moment he barked his order, “Bend over that sofa boy!”

Unnecessarily, since there was only one in the room, he swished the cane in the direction of the sofa.

Clint blushed deep red. Did this middle-aged man really intend to whip him with a school cane?

“Quickly, I have other things to attend to this morning!”

Yes, he did indeed intend to beat his backside, Clint concluded. And, as he walked forward and placed himself face down over the back of the sofa, he conceded, he wanted to let him do it.

This was a new experience for the headmaster. Usually, his target was contained within smart grey flannels: short trousers for the younger boys and long ones for the seniors. Very occasionally the trousers would be bunched at the boy’s ankles and he was offered buttocks enclosed in tight white underpants.

This was the first time Dawson had whipped his cane into mauve bikini briefs.

“Legs further apart, boy. Keep your head low down in the cushion!”

Dawson noticed for the first time that Clint’s body was muscular and gym-honed. Stretched as they were across the sofa, his buttocks appeared to be completely devoid of fat: they were buns of steel. The briefs hardly covered the young man’s cheeks and Dawson could see they were completely hairless, as were his legs.

Dawson saw all this, but was not interested in the boy’s beauty. Dawson had a duty to perform and he was going to do it.

A cane had never been close to Clint’s buttocks before and nor had any other instrument of corporal punishment. Now, his buttocks were offered up to this older, powerful man to do with as he wished. Clint had offered his arse up before, sometimes to a complete stranger, but Dawson had no desire to part Clint’s cheeks and enter him. He wanted to rip them to shreds. And he did.

He had never thrashed a boy so savagely in his entire career in school-mastering. The bikini briefs were useless. Within seconds twelve deep red lines criss-crossed his arse cheeks. Clint howled as the first cut bit deep into his muscular arse and he did not stop yelling and screaming until long after the headmaster laid down his cane.

Upstairs, in his bedroom Geoff buried his head under the bedclothes, unsuccessfully trying to hide away from the events taking place in the lounge. Clint was being put through it. And in a few moments, it would be Geoff’s turn.

At school, once a thrashing was over, another of the rituals took place. Ceremoniously, an entry would be written in the punishment book, the beaten boy would sign his name, and with that done, he would be dismissed, often still in great distress, from the study.

There was no punishment book to be signed this time, but the headmaster wanted the boy out of his sight and out of his house quickly.

Leaving Clint still jumping up and down on the spot trying fruitlessly to rub away the agony from his throbbing bottom, Dawson went to his own bedroom to fetch the man’s jeans. Then he burst into Geoff’s room (he was incapable ever of entering his son’s room quietly) and gathered up the rest of Clint’s clothes.

“I want you dressed and in my study in five minutes,” it was a stern command.

When Dawson reappeared downstairs, Clint had regained some of his composure. His face glistened with tears, but he had wiped most of the snot from his face. His was breathing more evenly and his heart rate had reduced nearly to normal.

“Get dressed,” Dawson threw the clothes on the floor. “Get out of my house!”

Clint did not need to be told a second time. He was through the front door inside a minute. The ache in his arse was intense as he hobbled down the street towards the bus stop. He was grateful the bus driver did not ask why he was standing when so many empty seats were available.

Mr Dawson’s study at home was nothing like the one at St Edgar’s Grammar School. That was wood panelled with a huge oak desk and padded armchairs. His study at home was more modest; it was a spare bedroom with a modern metal desk and a low-backed bucket chair. It was a small room, but quite large enough for Mr Dawson to swing his cane.

Geoff was quick out of bed on his father’s order. He was in enough trouble over last night he did not want to compound that by disobeying his father.

Although it was Saturday, Geoff still had to be at school. He did not attend the grammar school where his father was headmaster. He had won a scholarship to the much grander The Academy, a private school. He was a “day boy” although most of the pupils were boarders. Geoff resented that he had to return home to his parents at the end of each day: the opportunities for sex at night with the boarders must be awesome, he imagined.

In readiness for the classes he would attend later, Geoff began to dress himself in his school uniform. He was buttoning up his grey shirt when he was struck by an idea. Until two years previously when he entered the sixth-form at The Academy he was obliged to wear short trousers. He still had them tucked away in a drawer. If he presented himself to his father dressed in them it might convince him that Geoff was a sweet innocent child who was led astray by an older man.

He stepped into the grey flannel short trousers and pulled them up. He had to wriggle a little to get the waistband button to fasten, but they still fitted him, if a little snugly. He admired his reflection in the mirror: he saw a shortish, blond-haired boy with an arse to die for. He should wear these short trousers one night at The Village, the old queens would blow their fuses, he thought.

Minutes later he was stood contrite in his father’s study. The headmaster was well into his prepared sermon; but it was not the same one he had inflicted on Clint.

“How long have you had these feelings?” he intoned.

Geoff blushed and kept his eyes downcast at the carpet. “Dunno.”

“There are some things you might not quite understand. This friendship you have with Clint,” he said. “It is not, it cannot be a good thing. Do you understand?”

Geoff’s embarrassment was mounting. What was his father talking about?

“Yes, father,” he mumbled, realising that the question had not been rhetorical.

“Feelings such as these are often a by-product of growing up. That is not to say they are not wrong. You are going through a phase, but this is a serious matter and it must be nipped in the bud. Six strokes of the cane, I think should sort you out. You understand don’t you Geoffrey?”

Geoff clenched his jaws tight to stop them gaping. His father’s naivety left him gasping. Did he really believe what he was saying? Perhaps his father was not after all the font of all knowledge, Geoff had supposed him to be.

When instructed, Geoff bent himself over the low bucket chair. He could feel the seat of his short trousers tighten further; his buttocks making the perfect target for his father’s cane.

The eighteen-year-old scrunched his eyes shut, gritted his teeth and clenched his cheeks in anticipation of the terrible pain to come.

His father was not quite ready. Many headmasters are drama queens and he was no exception. To heighten the tension, Dawson took the tail of the boy’s grey shirt and tugged at it until it was clear of the trousers and part way up the boy’s back. It was a freezing morning and Geoff shuddered as cold air connected with his bare skin.

He heard the swish, swish, of the cane as his father took up his position and found his aim.

Six strokes of the cane fell, hard, one after another.  Every one was a hefty lash; but no sound came from Geoff.  He rose from the chair, his face pale, and his eyes glinting. His father pointed to the door.

“You may go!” he said harshly.

And in silence, Geoff went.

That evening Clint lay on his bed. Downstairs his mother and father were engrossed in a soap opera on the television. In his mind, Clint played out his own drama. He was in the headmaster’s study at St Edgars’s School. In front of him stood Mr Dawson, dressed in a formal academic gown with a mortar-board cap on his head. In his hand he flexed a stout, but very supple, crook-handled cane.

He is fifteen years old, he thinks. He has been caught wanking with other boys behind the bike sheds. The headmaster berates him for his wickedness. He is a dirty, dirty, little boy, Dawson scolds wobbling his cane in Clint’s face.

And, we all know what happens to dirty little boys who cannot keep their hands to themselves, the headmaster preaches.

Clint is wearing a distinctive green and yellow school blazer and his even more distinctive grey short trousers are in a puddle at his feet. On the headmaster’s command, Clint bends over and touches his toes.

Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Swipe!

The headmaster lays on the cane with all the strength of his arm, which is considerable. Six terrible swipes bring a succession of fearful yells from Clint.

At about the same time Clint reached for a fistful of tissues, Geoff was also at home, on his own bed.

Certain that the coast was clear and he would not be disturbed, he flicked with some melancholy through a porn magazine. He wanted to be in The Village, parading outside of Barnaby’s in his short trousers. For now, it would have to remain a fantasy. He needed to be careful for a while, now his father knew his secrets.

He wriggled a little. The six deep welts across his buttocks were still tender to the touch. He made himself comfortable and unzipped the front of his jeans.

Downstairs in the kitchen his father stared forlornly through the window into the darkened garden beyond.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com