The Junior Salesman

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The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a pointon the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other books to download

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Preacher Teaches Humility

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“Hi hon, is the preacher at home?” Cheryl breezed into the church reception area ignoring the two middle-aged men who were waiting apprehensively and flashed her toothy smile at Karen, the receptionist-cum-secretary.

Karen raised her eyes from the Bible she was reading to acknowledge her fellow church-attendee.

“Not immediately, no,” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the visitors. Then soundlessly she mouthed the words, “It’s that time of the month.”

Oh, Cheryl got it. That time of the month. Of course, she had forgotten. It had nothing to do with the biological clock; it was the twenty-sixth; the day each month when Preacher Pasternauch got intimate with God.

“Oh, I forgot. Never mind I’ll come back tomorrow,” then turning to the two men, she called cheerily, “Good luck,” and departed just as breezily as she had arrived. Karen returned to studying the Bible.

On the other side of the wall, Preacher Pasternauch was listening to Luke.

“I have been lusting with my eyes, Preacher.” Luke, twenty-five and married with two lovely daughters (blessings from God), was distressed.

“Tell me all about it,” the preacher sat back in his lush padded leather armchair and closed his eyes; the better to concentrate on Luke’s tale of wickedness.

“Lusting with the eyes,” it was a common fault among male members of the preacher’s congregation. Luke had been punished by God for this offence before.

It was the young lady at the drugstore. Her big breasts bounced, seemingly uncontrolled, under her loose woollen sweater. He struggled to keep his eyes off them whenever he visited the store.

“Women are wicked, Luke,” the preacher adopted the tone of voice that he had convinced himself demonstrated that he was a caring father. Caring and loving. A father whose duty was to help his sons (whatever their ages) to grow in the image of God. He should praise them fulsomely when they did well, and punish them severely when they erred.

“What else have you been doing? Have you been touching yourself?” the preacher would need to hear all the details before he could ask God to pronounce the sentence that he should carry out.

Luke blushed, “Oh, no preacher, nothing like that.”

“Are you sure, Luke?” the preacher tried to hide his disappointment. Luke had visited the preacher three months previously to report similar stirrings. That time it had been a teenaged girl in the gas station.

“Tell me everything, boy. Don’t spare me the details.”

Preacher Pasternauch was the emissary from God. He acted for God on Earth. God was kind, but he was also stern. God directed the preacher to punish the wrong-doers in his congregation. They must learn to fight their wickedness and when they found they were failing Preacher Pasternauch would offer them encouragement.

Luke’s tale was short. He was guilty only of “lusting with the eyes,” but not masturbation or adultery.

“I think you know what must happen now, don’t you Luke,” the preacher said as he rose from his cosy chair and walked five paces across the room to the far wall, where hanging on hooks were three wooden paddles of differing lengths and thicknesses.

Luke was the preacher’s third visitor that morning and there were at least two more awaiting their turn outside. His first visitor had been Matthew the retiree. The preacher was uncertain, but thought the man was at least seventy years old. His wickedness was alcohol. On three separate days this past month he had drunk more than three beers. His drunkenness was a curse. He tried to fight it, but he was weak.

Matthew tried to fight his booze habit; but he believed himself to be a feeble man. He could not do it on his own. He visited the preacher on the twenty-sixth day of each month and had been doing so for as long as the preacher had held these sessions. The old man had left the preacher with his rear blazing and hobbled back to his dark, lonely, room.

Preacher Pasternauch was not a philosopher; he did not ask why the regular spankings could not make Matthew kick the booze habit. Even, as he replaced the heavy wood on its hook it did not enter his head why Matthew would be back in his office for a repeat performance in thirty days’ time.

The second visitor was a newcomer. He was not new to the church, he had been attending for many years; but this was his first visit to Preacher Pasternauch’s monthly “confessionals”. The preacher held open house; any one of his male congregants (aged eighteen or over) could turn up, no appointment necessary, to confess his wickedness. They would pray together and the preacher would administer a stern dose of corporal punishment. God, through the right arm of the preacher, would pardon them of their wickedness. Now, they were fit to return to their community and once again live for the glory of God.

John ran a small accounting firm, just off Main Street. It was doing very well and he made a comfortable living. Just lately his work had begun to bore him; there was no excitement in his life. His life was empty.

No, he rushed to assure the preacher, not empty of Jesus Christ, but just empty: uneventful, devoid of excitement.

So, John, for the first time in his forty-two years on this planet had taken to gambling. He knew it was wicked, but the lure of the state lottery ticket had proved too enticing. He had spent, lost, and therefore wasted, ten whole dollars each month for the past six months. Now, despite the financial losses (he was an accountant after all, so he knew the danger of losses) he found he could not give up the thrill of the chase.

He had toyed with the idea of visiting the preacher for some weeks before, but he was afraid. But, while praying hard to God he received a message; he must confess to the preacher. It was no secret that the preacher held monthly spanking sessions, so John knew what was in store for him when eventually he visited. That was the problem.

John had a great deal of experience receiving corporal punishment. His father had been a keen spanker. Well into his early twenties (the age he finally could afford to move out of the family house) John had been subjected to his dad’s discipline.

Sometimes, more than twenty years after his last thrashing, John could still feel the welts. His father had broken three switches, cut especially for the purpose from the backyard, across his bare buttocks. That would teach him to cut classes at the accountancy college.

The preacher listened sympathetically, gave a short homily on the wickedness of gambling, conducted a much longer prayer for forgiveness and then took the skin off John’s rear end. The poor man was howling by the time he was instructed to pull up his pants and leave.

It hurt like crazy. He knew it could not possibly be as painful as the switching from his father, but back in those days his backside had grown used to the lash. In the intervening twenty or so years, his buttocks had grown flabby and he felt intense agony as each whack of the wood connected.

Now it was the turn of Luke. “So Luke, let us pray.” Both men knelt on the floor of the office. The hard nylon-based carpeting cut into Luke’s knees. It was painful, but he ignored it; you were not supposed to be comfortable while praying to God.

The prayer took five minutes to conclude. God was told of all the young man’s lustful thoughts and of his history of wickedness. Then both men were silent while Preacher Pasternauch received his instructions from God.

“Yes, Lord.” The preacher rose from his kneeling position, convinced that he was about to perform the will of God.

“Pain and humility,” that was how Preacher Pasternauch would explain it later to the county judge. Not only would he spank the men hard, he would ensure that they demonstrated the right degree of humility. Not to himself, of course, but to God.

The preacher sat in a large, heavy, straight-backed wooden chair. Luke had been here before; he knew what was expected. He was twenty-five years old. It was the lunch hour and he had motored from his office downtown to the church. He had left his jacket in the car so was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt with a sober tie. His trousers, part of a matching suit, were dark grey, with a hint of a blue stripe running through them. They fitted snugly; Luke was not fat; and certainly not obese like many of his fellow church attendees.

His face was bright and open and his skin clear. He had been well into his twenties before he had developed enough beard that it needed shaving daily. His hair was cut short and neat. Luke was the conventional young man any of us might see in the street and never actually notice.

The preacher sat himself down and Luke, without instruction, moved to stand a couple of feet away from the older man’s right leg. No words were spoken, but the preacher simply pointed with his index finger at the young man’s waist and with a downward movement mimed that the pants should be lowered.

Luke could feel his face flush. The last time this had been the worst part; preparing himself, taking down his pants and exposing his underwear. The preacher had kindly informed him this was about “humility.” He was showing that he was humble before the preacher and therefore before God.

It certainly was embarrassing, even this second time. But, Luke knew that this was God’s will. He would submit himself to the preacher in any way that he was instructed. Finally, he had his pants resting on his shoes.

“Lift up your shirt so that it is away from your buttocks and then please bend over my legs.” It was a kind, friendly request. The preacher knew that his congregants accepted they had behaved wickedly and were ready to pay the necessary price for redemption.

Luke lowered himself across the preacher’s lap and with his arms stretched out in front he placed his hands firmly palms down into the nylon flooring. Once again, he sensed its hardness and it felt scratchy against his skin. But, something was not quite right; his necktie had caught under his body and was pulling at this throat, if he was not careful he might choke. He lifted himself an inch or so above the preacher’s lap and with his right hand pulled the tie clear and left it dangling in front of his face. He rested once again on the preacher’s lap. He was now in a comfortable position and Luke was pleased about that, but he knew what was to happen next would be far from comfortable.

The preacher was not quite ready to start. He smoothed Luke’s maroon-colored briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hugged the contours of the young man’s globes, the preacher prepared for the onslaught.

He had chosen his middle-sized paddle. It was maybe twelve inches long and three wide and about a half-inch thick. It was the perfect size and weight to deliver a sound over-the-knee spanking. He had wrapped Scotch tape around the handle to give him an extra grip; he didn’t want the paddle to slip from his fist while he was in full flow.

Luke’s breathing was heavy, and involuntarily he clenched his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat.

“Relax, Luke,” again the preacher sounded kind and caring. “Don’t scrunch up your bottom.”

Luke tried, he wanted to satisfy God and present himself submissively, but for some reason he did not understand he did not have control of his body.

Whack! the wood crashed right across the center of both buttocks. “Please God, save me from my wickedness. Help make me a good man,” Luke did not say the words out loud but he repeated them over and over in his mind as the preacher tore his buttocks to shreds. He knew this agony and humiliation was God’s will. He knew it because the preacher had told him it was so.

It had to be a pants down, over-the-knee spanking. God wanted him to show humility and this was how it had to be done. The preacher had explained everything the first time he made the twenty-five-year-old father-of-two submit his bottom to the paddle.

Whack! Whack! Luke’s crack opened and closed each time the paddle connected with his bottom. The pain was increasing and he found his legs were kicking out. He did not mean to do it; he so wanted to show God he would submit to his will. His mind said this, but his body had other ideas; it was a natural reflex action.

The paddle was not the largest in the preacher’s collection but it was big enough to cover the area of Luke’s cheek. Vigorously the heavy wood slapped the two reddening cheeks in rapid succession, until, still unwillingly, Luke began to writhe and twist his body, bending his legs up, and ultimately swinging his right hand away from the carpet to shield his toasting buns from the stinging impact of the preacher’s frenzied attack.

Preacher Pasternauch was on a mission from God. His strong right arm increased the speed and force with which it pummeled the paddle from one cheek to the other, making Luke gasp and groan. The crashing sound of wood connecting with cotton-encased flesh echoed round the room like machinegun fire.

In the waiting room two middle aged men paid extra attention to their newspapers and pretended they could not hear the whacks and the increasing yelps coming from the preacher’s office.

The preacher was as breathless as the young man he was punishing. A dozen, then two dozen, then three dozen whacks struck Luke’s cheeks, sank into the flesh and bounced off, leaving behind deep red marks, that rapidly turned to blue.

The preacher held the young man tightly at his midriff, ensuring the poor suffering creature could not escape. On and one went the beating, and even as the pain increased to agony, Luke continued talking to God in his head. “Please help me defeat my wicked sexual thoughts!”

Luke did not know how long the spanking went on, but when the preacher stopped he lay on the floor holding his destroyed bottom and crying like a baby for at least ten minutes. The preacher returned to his plush leather armchair, closed his eyes and pressed the fingers of his two hands together as if in prayer. He could wait all afternoon if that was what it took for Luke to recover.

In time Luke pulled his pants up and withdrew a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his tear-stained face. Then, with no further word, he hobbled from the office in search of his car.

The preacher remained seated awaiting his own recovery. Once his heart rate had returned to normal, he poured a glass of water and buzzed Karen to send in the next one.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

Other stories you might like

Fr. Pat’s paddle

In the farmhouse

Fr. Christian

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Mailman Delivers

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Herb Schneider had been a postal worker for nearly twenty years and he thought he had seen it all until one day he stopped to deliver a parcel at the MacDonald residence. Even as he walked up the path he knew something was wrong; he could hear the yells of a young man coming from inside the house.

By the time he reached the front door it was obvious to him: the cries were coming from the living room. Without thinking, he peered through the window and his suspicion was confirmed.

Mr MacDonald was sat on the couch and face down, stretched across his legs, was his son. The boy was easily as tall as his father, but not as heavy and Herb could tell, not as strong. The boy lay flat on the couch; his legs bent a little at the knees behind him: in front he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. His bottom was raised over his father’s lap, in the perfect position to receive swats from a shiny wooden paddle.

The wood crashed into the seat of the boy’s jeans. He wore a wide brown leather belt which his father had gripped to tug the denim tightly across the bottom. Even at this distance Herb could see the outline of the boy’s underwear. The boy’s t-shirt had ridden up his back a little where his father held his own strong arm across the boy’s middle to hold him firmly in place.

As each swat connected with his buttocks, the boy screwed up his eyes, puffed wind through his mouth and wailed.

Did fathers still spank their sons, Herb wondered. Was it even legal? Should he be calling the police or social services?

MacDonald released his son who shot up to his feet, his face as beetroot as his backside probably was. He performed the spanking dance, hopping from one foot to the other while rubbing at his buttocks. His father said something, Herb couldn’t hear and the boy raced from the room.

“I hate you!” Herb could hear that as the boy stomped up the stairs to his room.

The postal worker was embarrassed, should he say something? Was it any of his business? He rang the bell and within seconds MacDonald answered.

“Sorry about that,” Herb might have been embarrassed, but MacDonald was not. “You shouldn’t have had to witness that.”

Herb handed over the parcel. He should say something. But what?

“I didn’t think people beat their children anymore.” He regretted it immediately; it was a confrontational thing to say and probably none of his business.

MacDonald flushed. “I do not ‘beat’ my sons, I spank them. It is not the same,” he said indignantly.

Herb’s silence encouraged him to say more. “I do not flail the living daylights out of them. When it is necessary, I give them a short sharp wake-up call.”

Herb had never before engaged in a philosophical debate with a customer and he wished he had kept his mouth shut this time.

There was no stopping MacDonald, “Boys, especially teenagers, need guidance; they need to have rules explained to them. They need to know where the boundaries are.”

“But, I thought we were supposed to let our children grow and develop as they want to, so they became happy individuals,” Herb said, trying to remember where he had heard that.

“Nonsense, if you do that they spend all their time seeking pleasure. They could end up as drunks or drug takers. It is our responsibility, our duty even, to teach them how to behave.”

Herb wondered if MacDonald had a point. He wasn’t sure, but he thought his own son Ryan might be taking drugs. Would a spanking cure him of that?

“We should not try to be our sons’ friend,” MacDonald was on a roll, “We are their parents and we have to act like that. And, when necessary that must mean we have to discipline them.”

“But, spanking?” Herb was not convinced that he would have the nerve to punish Ryan like that.

MacDonald was certain in his conviction. “Not only spanking. We have to show them that we love them. We give rewards when they behave well and we discipline them when they do not. It isn’t necessary to spank them often. I’ve spanked Baz a few times but only when he knows he has overstepped the boundaries and he has been warned about the consequences.”

Herb was still not convinced. He assumed Baz was the youth he had just seen paddled. How old was he anyway? Eighteen? Nineteen? “Isn’t Baz too old to be spanked?” he asked.

“No, not if he continues to misbehave. Kids are kids and from time to time they are going to push you to see how far they can go. When Baz does that, he goes over my knee.”

MacDonald was warming to his theme. “He still needs that maintenance spanking now and again, but it wouldn’t be right to smack him on his bare bottom. I got the paddle on the Internet, it works wonders. It’s heavy enough to do the job without my having to take down his pants.”

Herb could testify to that, it certainly looked like the teenager had been in some pain after his paddling.

MacDonald lapsed into silence as if expecting the mailman to respond, but anxious to be gone Herb simply collected a signature and hurried back to his cart.

Herb couldn’t get the incident out of his mind. He wasn’t too concerned about the teenager. MacDonald had been right he hadn’t flailed the boy; it was a good old-fashioned spanking, of the kind he would have gotten from his own father if he acted up back in the day.

Herb was more concerned about MacDonald’s certainty that not only was spanking the right thing to do; it was a father’s duty to lay down boundaries for their children and to punish them, with a spanking when necessary, when they defiantly overstepped them.

It niggled at the back of his mind; his own son Ryan, who he supposed was about the same age as the MacDonald boy, was off the rails. He was hardly ever at home and he skipped school. And he was probably dabbling in drugs. Herb loved the boy and he knew he needed to help Ryan, but he had no idea how.

He had never spanked the boy ever; not even a little slap. It had never occurred to him to do such a thing. Even though his own father wasn’t shy at whacking Herb’s butt and he knew most of his friends had suffered the same punishment, but now as a father himself he didn’t know any other parents who used corporal punishment.

Driving home, he tuned into Talk Radio and was astonished that the topic of the hour was ‘Should we spank our kids?’

An eighteen-year-old kid calling himself Andy was on the air. “I have broken the school rules and will probably be suspended but when my parents find out I know they won’t punish me in the proper way,” he was saying. “I really deserve to be given a paddling instead of just a grounding which mum won’t stick to. In a day or so she will let me off and it will all be forgotten. I think my dad should deal with me the old fashioned way. A proper spanking is what I need.”

Was this kid for real? Did he really want his dad to whack his ass with a wooden paddle to make him behave?

Herb never got to find out; he turned the corner and parked outside his home, silencing the radio as he switched off the engine.

But that wasn’t the last he heard on the subject. That evening ‘spanking’ was all over the news programs. It seemed the local board of education was debating bringing back the paddle in school. If the TV news was to be believed eighty percent of parents who answered a poll wanted it. A judge who was soon coming up for election jumped on the bandwagon making a speech calling for juvenile delinquents to be “spanked”. He made it sound like hardened thugs would be taken across a warder’s knee for a slapped butt.

Later, when Herb went to the bar for a beer he found friends and co-workers looking at the story in the local newspaper and comparing experiences. If they were telling the truth they had all spanked their kids at one time or other and some still did.

Herb had been quite wrong, corporal punishment was much more widely used than he had realised. MacDonald wasn’t the only customer on the mail route who blistered the backside of his sons. Well, who would have thought it? You never knew what went on behind the drapes in respectable houses.

The discussion on spanking was short-lived. All his drinking buddies agreed; bring back the paddle. Now, what about the chances of those Patriots in the Pennant?

There was bad news waiting for Herb the following day when he returned home from work. Ryan had been suspended from school for fourteen days. He had not been attending school, so they decided to make him stay at home as a punishment. Herb never considered himself to be an intellectual, but even he could see that didn’t make sense. Maybe if they did bring back the paddle the school principal could swat the boy’s butt and that might bring him to his senses, Herb hoped.

Herb’s wife Mary was not a happy woman. She had despaired of her son’s behaviour for years and was at her wits end figuring out what to do. She had even asked the advice of the family’s pastor. Given the chance the pastor would have taken the boy to the woodshed himself and whipped a razor strop across his bare ass, but he couldn’t tell her that. In his experience mothers were always reluctant for their sons to be spanked, regardless that the Good Book said, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Was it any wonder the children grew up to be thugs, when mothers spoilt them like that?

Mary’s shame at her son’s behaviour and his suspension was real. What, she thought, would the neighbours say? Herb was embarrassed too, but this was mostly because he had no idea what he should do with Ryan.

“We should ground him for a month,” his wife said, “longer even.”

Those words pulled Herb up sharply. “Ground him.” That was what that kid said on Talk Radio. He had said his mother would ground him but she wouldn’t stick to it. “I think my dad should deal with me the old fashioned way. A proper spanking is what I need,” he had said.

Things could not go on like this. Ryan was wasting his life. He was lazy, disrespectful, and now he had brought disgrace to the family.  Something had to be done. But what?

“You must speak to the boy,” his wife told him.

“Yes, alright,” he replied with great irritation. Why was he the one who had to do this? “But what am I supposed to say to him?”

Herb was expected to have a man-to-man talk with his eighteen-year-old son. He must tell him he had behaved badly and needed to be punished. Should he treat him like an adult and ask Ryan what punishment he thought he deserved?

What if he agreed with that kid on the radio? Herb blushed scarlet at the thought of it. He was too embarrassed to have that kind of conversation with his son.

The ringing of the telephone interrupted his thoughts. It was Matt McMillan calling to ask a very personal question.

Matt was the father of Dwight McMillan, Ryan’s best buddy. It was news to Herb, but Dwight had also been suspended from school with Ryan. Matt told him the two boys had been skipping school and the rare times they were in classes they were a disruptive influence.

“What are you going to do to Ryan?” Matt asked. Herb understood the question, but pretended not to.

“I think Dwight needs a warm whipping, but what do you think? Is he too old? I don’t know what to do,” Matt asked, genuinely wanting help.

Herb’s mumbling was no reply at all, so Matt continued, “I’ve whopped his ass in the past. I think it worked most times. But, I’m not sure now. He’s way out of line. Maybe he needs another trip over my knee. What do you think?”

Herb did not know what he thought and he wished Matt wasn’t asking him these questions. He hardly knew the man. They met sometimes at a bar or occasionally in church, that’s all.

Matt rang off the phone, still unsure what to do.

Herb’s wife poured him a cup of coffee and went into the next room to watch her program on TV.

As he sipped the hot coffee, Herb recounted in his mind the past day or so. It had never once occurred to him to spank his son, but he was not sure why. He had supposed that nobody did that kind of thing these days and everyone thought it was unacceptable to punish children that way. He had learned a lot recently. Rather than be the norm, he now realised he was the one out of step. They all spanked their kids and they all thought it was not only acceptable, but it was their duty to make sure they grew up to become respectable adults and good citizens.

He was coming round to the idea that maybe just this once he ought to spank Ryan. He would do it too, he told himself without much conviction. But Ryan was getting to be a big boy; would he submit himself to his father’s will? If he would not and it came to a fist fight there could be only one winner: Ryan.

An hour later the telephone rang: it was Matt McMillan back again. He seemed a bit breathless as if he had been on a long run. Herb imagined sweat was pouring off the man’s body.

“I gave him a switching,” he said, still trying to regularize his breathing.

Why are you telling me this? Herb kept his thoughts to himself, but he really did not want to hear this.

Mr McMillan had cut a switch from the back yard and confronted Dwight with it. Dwight knew that what was to happen next was inevitable and he gave no resistance. That was how he came to be dressed in his pajamas, in the bedroom, kneeling on the bed with his chin on the mattress and his butt pointing to the sky.

His father would have liked to have whipped Dwight’s bare ass, but his son was clearly a man now and a degree of modesty had to be observed.

Matt McMillan’s own father had no such scruples. He knew that a bare-assed switching was a very effective punishment even for the older teen. So like father, like son. Matt had himself once been an out-of-control jock always trying to impress his friends and the girls. One night he stole his dad’s car – he didn’t even have a drivers’ license – and raced it around the town at high speed, executing handbrake turns at every corner. The inevitable happened, he was doing eighty and lost control and smashed into a tree.

He came away unscratched, but he didn’t stay that way for long. When his dad found out he cut a long switch and with the eighteen year old sprawled across the kitchen table he lashed into the boy’s naked buttocks. “You could have been killed! You could have been killed!” his father wailed as he cut into the boy’s flesh.

Matt thrashed his own son with less emotion, but he hoped the beating would be equally effective.

It took Herb another day to pluck up the courage to talk to Ryan. The boy had been away from the house for hours and had just returned from who-knew-where. They sat at the kitchen table sipping juice.

“Did you know Dwight’s father gave him a switching last night?” Herb did not know how he had plucked up enough courage to ask such a question. If the boy answered where might this conversation end?

Ryan grunted and sipped at his drink some more.

“Dwight was suspended from school with you. You were both in trouble for the same thing,” Herb looked intently at his son, hoping for some reaction from him so that he did not have to finish his sentence.

Ryan was in no mood to help out his father.

Herb’s heart was racing; he was entering unchartered territory. “If that’s how Dwight was punished. How do you think you should be punished?”

Ryan had spent much of the day with Dwight and had inspected the thin welts on his bottom. There were a dozen clear cuts; it would take weeks before the lines cleared. Ryan’s mum had only grounded him for a month: he knew he had gotten off lightly.

Ryan thought the world of Dwight. They were best buddies in the way that only teenaged boys could be. Dwight had chewed him off all day about that grounding. It was not a proper punishment and he said Ryan was scared to take a whipping.

They wrestled a bit over that, but it was only pretend fighting. It was not his fault, Ryan said, that his father never spanked him. It had always been like that. The worst Ryan got from his parents was a scolding before being sent to bed early. Ryan would like to prove himself to his buddy, but it was not his fault he father did not believe in spanking.

“So how should I punish you?” Herb asked again, trying to keep this one-sided conversation going.

He would wish that he had kept quiet.

Ryan spoke for the first time, very quietly. “I really deserve to be given a paddling instead of just grounding. A proper spanking is what I need.”

Herb spluttered into his juice. That was exactly what that kid had said on the radio. Could it be? No, Herb tried to reassure himself; Ryan never listened to anything except music radio.

“I don’t have a paddle,” Herb’s voice was a soft as his son’s.

“I could cut you a switch.”

Herb could not meet this son’s eye. Some strange reversal of roles had taken place. He should have been the one talking about switches.

“Alright then, son.”

Ryan scrapped back his stool and still not daring to look at is father, he slowly walked the length of the kitchen. He had made his decision hours ago; nothing now should make him change his mind. He opened the door and went into the back yard.

A couple of minutes later he returned with a freshly-cut switch in his hand. Herb could see it was about three feet long and quite thin. His heart rate quickened and his mouth was drying.

Ryan walked through the kitchen and out into the living room next door. Herb took this as his cue to follow.

Still without speaking Ryan handed his father the switch. Herb’s hand shook slightly as he took hold of it, immediately noticing both its suppleness and whippiness.

Ryan face was flushed. If Herb had been a more astute man he would read his son’s inner turmoil. Ryan knew he had to do this for the sake of his friendship with Wayne, but he was not sure, now at the last minute, that he could go through with it. He too had noticed the springiness of the switch. As he was cutting and shaving it, he got the measure of the little beast. It might not look much, he thought as he had swished it through the air, testing its suitability, but it would leave an impressive cut. Wayne’s sliced buttocks had been testimony to that.

Ryan took a deep breath. “You should give me twelve,” said as he unbuckled his belt, before unfastening his jeans and dropping them to his knees. Then, turning his back on his father, Ryan bent across the back of the couch presenting his ass to his father for his first-ever spanking.

If Ryan had passed his point of no return, Herb had not. There was still time to call this off. He ran his fingers across the length of the switch at the same time observing how his son’s tight briefs highlighted the round curves of his buttocks.

Herb was not sure what was happening here. His son on his own initiative was offering up his backside for severe punishment. He wanted, no probably needed, to make penitence for his misbehaviour. Did Herb have any right to deny him this?

Ryan’s buttocks twitched nervously, waiting for the first cut. He had never been beaten before, but he expected the pain to be awesome. Years of fingering Wayne’s wounds had taught him that.

Herb was not sure he could go through with this. Perhaps, he should call Matt McMillan and ask his advice.

But ask his advice on what exactly?

Damn it Herb, be a man, he told himself. Get on with it.

He had never whipped a boy with a switch before, but how difficult could it be? He stood to Ryan’s left and tapped the rod across Ryan’s two buttocks. Instinctively he knew that if he was going to beat the boy, he needed to do it with some force. He raised the switch and slashed it down right across the centre of Ryan’s bottom. The teenager let out a gasp and stamped his legs. Yes, Herb recorded, that one had stung.

He lashed down again and again until twelve thin stripes ranged across Ryan’s globes. Mercifully, for both of them, Ryan managed to stay reasonably calm and steady throughout, so no strokes missed the target by too much. A slash across the back of the boy’s naked thighs could have put him in hospital.

As soon as number twelve landed, Ryan removed himself from the back of the couch. Herb could see he was breathing heavily and he must be in considerable pain. His eyes were moist, but no tears were flowing.

He pulled up his jeans and tightened the belt, clearly in much discomfort. Ryan clenched and unclenched his fists in an attempt to manage the pain that was coursing through his body. He desperately wanted to rub his buttocks, but not in front of his father. It was obvious to him that welts had formed and he suspected some of them might be bleeding.

Neither man knew what they were supposed to say now. “Thank you,” Ryan whispered, it seemed the right thing to say.

Herb mumbled something that could have been, “OK.”

Ryan took that as a cue to go to his room. Once upstairs, he inspected he damage. There were twelve clear lines criss-crossing the buttocks. Herb’s aim had not been so good after all. Some were turning from cherry red to blue. There were spots of blood where cuts intersected, but a damp facecloth dealt with those. The agony had receded, but they were very painful to the touch. Soon the throbbing would turn to a warm glow, but the marks would stay for many days to come. Ha! Ryan exclaimed, now he would have something to show off to his buddy Wayne.

Downstairs, Herb stood alone in the living room, still holding the switch, unsure what to do next. Five minutes must have passed before he went and threw it in the trash can.

The motion to reintroduce paddling in school was passed by a huge majority: public opinion had won. The next time Ryan and Wayne acted up at school, the principal could whop them himself and for that Herb was extremely grateful.

 

Picture credit: Spank This / Helix

 

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

Other stories you might like

The freshman class

It’s the waiting …

Caught in their underpants

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Dreams of spanking

z used bed solo white pants erect cody furguson (1)

Dean lays on his bed staring at the erect cock stretching the front of his cotton underpants. It happens every morning. Regular as clockwork. As day follows night. He dreams of spanking. He has never been spanked. The cane was abolished at school years ago and dads generally don’t take the belt to their sons, no matter how unruly they behave.

He is not concerned why he fantasises about spanking, but he is sad that he is too shy to tell anyone about it. Sometimes he likes to think of bad things he has really done and imagines the punishment he should suffer. Like the other week when he got so drunk at the student union bar and staggered home so out of control he lurched over a garden fence and heaved up two stomach-fulls of vomit into the flowerbed. In his imagination, Dean was bent across the dining room table, jeans and pants at the knees, while the house owner lashed his naked buttocks with a switch he cut especially.

Dean drinks a lot. The other day he rode his moped while drunk. It was a stupid, irresponsible act. Somebody could have been killed. Any magistrate worth his salt would have sentenced him to a birching. Dean sees himself stripped naked from the waist down, tied to a wooden frame. His shirt is bunched up at his shoulders. One prison officer grips a bundle of twenty-four birch twigs bound together with tape. It has been soaking overnight in a metal bucket full of brine. Droplets fall from the birch as he swishes it through the air. You can cut the tension in the room with a knife. A second prison officer holds a clipboard, studies a sheet of paper stuck to it. He licks the end of a stub of pencil. He makes a tick. “Cut number one!” he calls in a clear, steady voice.

The first officer rests the birch against Dean’s buttocks. It is so big and Dean’s bum so relatively small it covers both cheeks. The officer lifts the birch high, swirls it around his head and twists his body before delivering an almighty lash into quivering flesh. Dean screams. The prison officer sweats. He raises the birch again.

After twelve cuts Deans bottom is a mass of cuts and grazes. It looks like raw hamburger meat. Deans screams subside into sobbing gulps as two officers drag him back to his cell.

Dean likes to dream about Paddy, a guy in his English Lit. class at university. Paddy could be the biggest student alive. He is built like a brick outhouse. Dean has this scene where he and other students share a house and Paddy is in a fit of temper. He is trying to finish an essay that should have been handed in yesterday but he can’t concentrate because of the loud music coming from Dean’s “ghetto blaster.” The whole house is shaking. Paddy shouts, “Turn that music down!” He hammers on Dean’s bedroom door. But to no avail.

“Right! That’s it! Don’t say I didn’t warn you!” Paddy bursts through the door and sees Dean flat out on his bed, still in his pyjamas although it’s nearly eleven in the morning. Paddy’s face is purple, Dean’s turns white. Dean is as small as Paddy is huge. It is no match. Paddy grips Dean by the arm, hauls him off the bed. His grip hurts Dean’s arm. But that is only the half of it. Paddy sits on the bed, his weight digs deep into the mattress. Deans struggles. It is a waste of time. Paddy pulls him across his knees. Dean is sucking the eiderdown, his legs dangle in mid-air. His bottom juts at an angle over Paddy’s right knee. Dean wriggles and writhes but Paddy’s supreme strength is too much.

Paddy says nothing. He concentrates on the task ahead. He grips the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and pulls hard, almost tearing the material. Dean’s bum is exposed. He kicks his legs. Paddy adjusts his own body so he can put his right leg across the back of Dean’s calves. He takes Dean’s right arm and twists it up his back. He is pinned down. He is going nowhere. Paddy stretches the fingers of his right hand, cups them slightly and pounds away at Dean’s naked buttocks. Paddy’s forearm is like a leg of mutton, his hand as large and as heavy as a shovel. With only a few smacks Dean’s bum is as red as a London bus. The outline of Paddy’s hand appears in scarlet over and over again across Dean’s bum.

There’s a professor at the university who reminds Dean of the headmaster at his old school. He is about fifty and always sports a hostile look on his face. Dean knows the professor wouldn’t truck any nonsense from his students.  It is late in the afternoon and Dean stands morosely in front of the desk. The study is cold and the night is drawing in. The room is in gloom. The professor holds a sheaf of paper in his hand. He reads with increasing incredulity.

“Balderdash! Poppycock!” he shakes his head. He looks as if he is forced to carry all the woes of the world on his shoulder. He waves the essay in Dean’s face. “You need to spend less time in the bar and more in the library.” His nostrils flare.

“Not good enough. Not good enough,” he mutters as he rises from his chair and walks a few steps to a table. Dean watches with mounting tension as the professor opens a drawer and extracts from it a long, whippy rattan cane. Dean stares at its crook handle. The professor flexes it between his hands. It curves easily. He swishes it through the air. A breeze travels across the room.

“Take off your jacket.” Dean does so.

“Stand by my desk.” Dean takes up position.

“Take down your trousers.” Dean is wearing Levi jeans. He fumbles with the metal buttons but soon they are at his knees. He is wearing his favourite mustard-coloured briefs. They are very snug.

“Bend over.” In his mind’s eye, Dean watches himself lean forward. He lays his stomach on the cold wooden desktop. He reaches forward with his arms and grips the edge of the desk. The professor takes his shirt and tugs it away from the target area. Dean’s buttocks twitch when the professor smooths down his pants so they fit like a second skin.

The professor taps the cane across the underside of Dean’s buttocks. Satisfied that he has his aim, he lets fly. It is to be six-of-the-very best.

There is a guy Dean saw in the student bar. He doesn’t know his name so christens him Michael. Michael has smooth skin and shiny light brown hair. Dean reckons his haircut must have cost a fortune. Michael is a trim lad and his Wrangler jeans hang over his buttocks invitingly. Michael is standing and Dean is behind him admiring his bum. Then, Michael leans forward to look at a picture in a magazine his friend wants him to see. Michael places his hands on his knees and arches his back. His feet are parted. It is the perfect “assume the position”. Dean is so close he could fondle Michael’s backside. Later Dean imagines he is holding an American-style wooden paddle. He rubs it backward and forward. “Brace yourself,” he intones as he lifts it high.

There’s a knock on his bedroom door. “Come on Dean! You’ll be late for breakfast.” It is Roger, a fellow lodger at Mr. Williams’ guesthouse. Dean hears Roger’s footfalls as he races down the stairs. Late for breakfast- again, Dean thinks. That would never do. In his imagination he sees Mr Williams take a thick leather belt from a hook on the kitchen wall. In the real world, Dean slides his hand down the front of his pants.

 

 

 

Picture credit: Cody Ferguson

Other stories you might like

Horny as hell

New boy at Albion

A memorable night at the theatre

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Book. Troublesome Teens

troublesome-teens-book-cover-pic

Troublesome Teens

They might think they are adults, but older teens are not. They are still children and they need to act like it. They should respect their parents and obey adults. Without question. And if they don’t? These stories will remind them of the consequences of bad behaviour. A very sore backside indeed.

 

The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

– Extract from Put Back in Short Trousers

 

The book runs for more than 16,000 words and can be downloaded by clicking the link below. The PDF file can be read on computers, laptops and a variety of e-book readers.

troublesome-teens-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

BOOK. The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a point
on the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

the-junior-salesman-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Picture credit: Unknown

For more free-to-download books click here

Home early

z used boy smoking on armchair front of shorts open (100)

Patrick didn’t know I was coming home early, otherwise he wouldn’t have been lounging on the armchair with his shirt off, a joint in one hand and examining a porn magazine with the front of his shorts wide open.

He should have been at work at the supermarket. Earning the money to pay off the rent arrears he owed me.

I don’t think he heard my car pull up in the drive, nor the front door open and close. He had no idea I was in the house. Even so, by the time I poked my head into the lounge room he had at least let go of his cock.

“Oh, eh, um ….” He was speechless, his face crimson. He tugged up the zipper of his shorts and looked sheepish. I stood in the doorway, my genuine disapproval writ large across my face. He jumped from the armchair and looked at the joint in his left hand the porn mag in his right as if he had no idea how on earth they had come to be there.

He was still shamefaced, but he had recovered the power of speech. “I, eh, didn’t expect you home so soon.”

I frowned. Patrick’s shaggy hair fell across his eyes hiding his dark-brown eyes. He knew he was in trouble with me. Big trouble. There could be only one course of action.

Patrick had been with me for nearly three months at that point. I had literally taken him from the gutter. I was walking home from the church hall one evening about nine o’clock. It was filthy weather; the rain fell in stair-rods and the wind howled a gale. I had just turned into The Avenue where my house is, when I almost fell over his body. Literally is a most overused word, but that is the appropriate word here. He was slumped on the pavement, face down. He wore only a light shirt and jeans. The rain had soaked him so he looked like he had been in a shower fully clothed. I noticed how the drenched jeans hugged the curves of his bottom.

At first I thought he might be dead. But, his clothes were soaked to the contours of his body and I could see he was breathing. So, he must have had a medical attack, I thought. I knew it wouldn’t have been street robbers. We simply do not have such people in The Avenue. It is far too up-scale. Besides, I have no doubt whatsoever that anyone caught doing such a thing would face vigilante justice. The robber would never, ever, again try such a thing. You have my personal guarantee on that.

I was ready to dash home to phone 999, but first I leant across his body to see if I could give immediate attention. I had no need of a phone. There would be no ambulance. The stink about his body was unmistakable. Patrick was not dead, but he was dead drunk.

I stood over him wondering what to do. Technically, he was committing a criminal offence. He was “drunk and incapable.” I could call the police, but I doubted they would want to be dragged out on a night like this to deal with a drunken teenager. I grabbed him by the collar and got him into a seated position. Now, I was as soaked as Patrick and my usually sunny disposition had clouded somewhat.

I didn’t recognise him. I was pretty certain he didn’t reside in The Avenue. There were a few youngsters his age living here; I had confronted one or two over the years. I had once been a schoolmaster at St. Francis Independent Grammar School until an unfortunate misunderstanding. You might say I still had a professional interest in the moral welfare of young people.

I knew I couldn’t leave him. If he wasn’t dead yet, he soon would be – of pneumonia. I was contemplating what I should do next, when he opened his eyes. He spoke words I could not hear. I was just about to lean closer to his face in the hope of hearing more clearly, when his body lurched and he let out an almighty cry. A stream of vomit hit the ground, much of it splashing against my trousers.

That did it. I couldn’t let the brat get away with that. Patrick wiped the hair from his eyes and the sick from his chin. He had “come around.”

“Right you.” I stood over him and from a considerable height I berated him for his disgusting behaviour. He blinked back at me uncomprehending through bleary eyes.

“Stand up boy,” I growled. He understood that all right. Unsteadily, he hauled himself to his feet. “Now get over to that house,” I pointed to number twenty-nine where I lived. “March!”

A schoolmaster never loses his touch. Patrick never thought to disobey. He staggered across the street and leaned against the wall while he waited for me to find my key.

That was when I began to oversee Patrick’s moral welfare. He was not sufficiently capable of undressing himself, so I made it my duty to ensure he was stripped naked and wiped down. He must not be allowed to go to bed damp. As I rubbed the rough towel over his soft skin, I was taken by how thin he was. Had I misjudged? Was he in fact a street urchin, like those youngsters one sees sleeping in cardboard boxes at night in town?

He slept as I undertook my nanny duties; getting the child ready for bed. I don’t know why I just called him a “child” for when it was necessary to dry off his undercarriage (so to speak) it became perfectly clear to me that he was no such thing. His long, thin cock twitched and became semi-erect as I worked the towel across it.

I fetched a clean pair of my pyjamas from the airing cupboard and poured him into them. They were a little too big for his willowy body, but I pulled the drawstring tight and they were serviceable. Thus attired I put him to bed.

Young people have the most remarkable powers of recovery from excessive drinking. By nine the following morning, Patrick was as right as rain (if you’ll pardon my little play on words). He sat in my kitchen while I fed him breakfast. The rain had stopped long ago, it was only an early summer storm and it was already becoming a fine June day. We waited for his clothes to complete a full cycle in the washing machine, then it would take an hour or so for them to dry off. There would be ample time for me to impress upon Patrick that his behaviour the previous night had been unacceptable and that I expected retribution. It would be the devil’s job to get the smell of sick out of my trousers.

I rather liked having the young man around me. He was articulate and as far as I could tell, honest. He had been visiting his friend from school David Spreadbury in a house further along The Avenue. They had drunk too much and had some minor disagreement over a girl and Patrick had been thrown out. I knew young Spreadbury and resolved to have a word with his father when he returned from the “second honeymoon” he had taken with his wife. I doubt that Mr. Spreadbury would approve of his son’s partying in his absence. I would, if necessary, offer my own expert services should Mr. Spreadbury wish to avail himself of them.

Patrick told me he was nineteen and until last year he had attended a rather select boarding school in Basingstoke, which was 100 miles or so from where we sat. He told his father he wished to become a writer and not surprisingly the old man, who had invested a significant amount of the family money in his son’s education, had objected. There ensued an argument. An ultimatum was delivered.

“Go be a writer, but do not expect any support from me,” was his father’s final word on the matter. So, Patrick wrapped his worldly belongings in a handkerchief and set off to make his fortune. So far, it had eluded him.

I poured him a second cup of tea and went out into my back garden. I had a task that I wanted to complete without delay. It took no more than ten minutes and when I returned to the kitchen, Patrick had helped himself to a second helping of cereal without asking permission. The boy’s manners left something to be desired.

I made a point of closing the back door nosily as I wanted to attract Patrick’s attention. It worked. His eyes widened and a frown darkened his usually open, fresh face. Of course, he had seen what I carried in my hand. For dramatic effect (another schoolmasterly trait, I’m afraid), I lay my produce on the kitchen table. There could be no doubt what they were. But, what, Patrick wondered, were they to be used for?

There were four straight, whippy switches, cut by my own hand from the bushes in my garden. Each was a little over two feet in length and about as thick as a pencil. They were not as stout, nor as robust as the rattan canes we used at school, but I could attest from experience they would make a mightily effective alternative.

The same thought appeared to cross Patrick’s mind. His face paled. His expressive eyes asked the unspoken question, “What are those for?”

I always followed a certain ritual in my study at St. Francis. First, I would confront the boy with his misdeeds, then I would hear his mitigation, then I would pronounce sentence before finally taking his backside off with a cane. I saw no reason why I should not afford Patrick the same courtesies.

His misdeeds were obvious. He admitted he had been drunk and incapable, but he did not remember being sick over me.

“I’m sorry,” he said, brushing his hair from his forehead and rolling his big brown cow eyes at me. If he thought he could wind me round his little finger that way, he had another think coming.

“Yes, you should be,” I remarked brusquely. That perplexed him. This was more serious than he had thought.

I had already heard his mitigation, so there was nothing more to do than to pass and then carry out sentence.

“What would your housemaster at school have done if you behaved in such a way?” It was by way of a rhetorical question, for no self-respecting schoolmaster could act in any other way.

He tried the eye rolling thing again. Had the technique worked at school? Had his housemaster been a little sweet on him?

“Pah!”  I thundered. He trembled at the ferocity of my response. Was he reliving memories of his school days? “If he were any man at all, he would have thrashed you.” I leaned across the kitchen table, my face now inches from his. He blanched and fell backwards, so he almost toppled from his chair.

“Stand up!” I ordered. I knew he would submit. He had attended that kind of school. That was what his father had paid good money for. The boy might not obey his father, but he would never dare defy a schoolmaster.

“Up, I said. Stand up,” the fierceness of my tone did the trick. Patrick jumped up from his chair. In a panic, he gripped the waist of his pyjamas. The bottoms were far too lose, the cord was ineffective. If he let go they would hurtle to his feet like clown’s trousers.

I gathered up the four switches from the table and headed for the door. “Follow me into the lounge,” I instructed before setting off for the adjoining room. I didn’t need to look behind me, I knew he would follow unquestioningly.

The lounge was large, but minimally furnished. The pride of place was a three-piece suite, consisting of a padded sofa and two armchairs. I knew any one of the armchairs would be perfect for the task I intended. Patrick stood inside the door, his hand still clutching the waist of his pyjamas. His face was pale and sweat dripped from his temples, although it was not yet a hot day.

I rested three of the switches on the sofa seat and took the fourth in my right hand. I studied Patrick’s reaction as I swished it through the air, testing both its strength and its suppleness. It would make a mightily effective punishment cane. I could see Patrick had reached the same conclusion. He bowed his head and his shaggy-dog fringe covered his eyes, so I could not gauge his reaction when I tapped the apex of the back of one of the armchairs and intoned the words that have filled generations of schoolboys with dread, “Bend over that chair, boy.”

Patrick shuffled forward. It was a struggle to both walk and keep his PJ bottoms up. He reached the chair and stood about four feet away from its back. “Closer boy,” I swished the switch. “You can’t bend over it from there.”

Nor could he. He took two paces forward, pulled his jim-jam bottoms taut over his buttocks and fell forward into the padded armchair. This was not his first trip over a chair. He knew the drill. He stretched his arms forward and took hold of the far edge of the seat cushion with his hands. He parted his legs slightly, making sure his knees were straight and wriggled his bottom so it was at the highest point over the crown of the chair. He presented me with a perfect, submissive bottom. I have to say it was a terrific target.

Patrick shuddered when I took hold of the waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He had no cause. I believe in punishment, not torture. I am not a sadist, I am a traditional schoolmaster (albeit one who has been reluctantly retired). I had no intention of baring his backside. Instead, I tugged the oversized pyjamas until the bottoms fitted Patrick like a second skin. I heard him wheeze (was it a sigh of relief?)

I stood behind and a little to the left of the nineteen-year-old boy and tapped my rod against his stretched buttocks. He reeked of a mixture of sour sweat and rancid beer. As I had observed the previous evening, there was very little flesh on Patrick’s body. His bum was round and hard, rather like a rubber ball. I “sawed” the switch across the very centre of his cheeks, raised it to above shoulder height and let fly. I was rewarded by a loud hissing sound. It came from between Patrick’s clenched lips and reminded me a little of an old-fashioned steam train settling down.

I aimed a little higher and landed cut number two about an inch above the first. It didn’t seem to me to be any fiercer than the first stroke, but it had Patrick dancing over the back of the chair. His bum writhed from side to side and he wrapped his left foot over the right in a valiant attempt to ease the pain. It didn’t seem to work because Patrick simultaneously yelped a cry so piteous it might have made a less experienced master than myself show mercy.

I had decided on six strokes and six I intended to deliver. And, they would be six of my very best. I had already decided that Patrick needed saving. From himself, mostly. He needed to get his life back on track. His ambition to be a writer could come later. For now, it was my duty to bring him to his senses.

Cut three sliced just on the underside of his cheeks. The power of the stroke and the density of Patrick’s hard bottom combined to split the switch. No matter. I had cut four to meet such eventualities. I tossed the broken stick onto the sofa and selected another. It also gave me a chance to observe Patrick from the front. His eyes were still covered by his fringe (I resolved to send him to the barbershop at the first opportunity) so I could not tell if he was crying. His face and the back of his neck were as scarlet as I supposed his buttocks to be. Certainly, I had no fear that this was an extremely painful thrashing. We were not wasting our time here.

I bounced four and five in quick succession, so there was no time for the pain of one stroke to be absorbed before the next arrived. This technique had the effect of doubling the agony of a single stroke. It had the desired effect. Patrick wriggled and writhed and did the one foot over the other thing again. It didn’t stop the pain so he stomped his feet up and down into the deep-pile carpet.

I had arrived at the sixth and final stroke. Some schoolmasters (and I have done this myself often enough) like to make the last stroke something special: a diagonal cut from the bottom left to the top right of the target area slashes across the five cuts already throbbing there and reignites the pain in all of them. It leaves the scarred bum resembling a five-bar gate. It is excruciatingly agonising and should only be used in extreme cases; for recidivist repeat offenders, for example.

I considered Patrick to be a “first offender.” I had no doubt he had been dealt with many times at his former school, but this was his first time before me and I wanted to leave open opportunities to increase the severity of the punishment should I have cause to discipline him again.

So, I stood back, aimed my switch at the plumpest part of his buttocks and let fly. It landed more or less parallel to the previous cuts. Patrick buckled his knees waved his bum to left and right and wheezed all over again. But, it was over. He had survived his first caning from me. We could now get on with our lives.

I walked across the room and observed the nineteen-year-old from a distance. He was in some distress. I think tears might have been flowing now.

“Stand up,” I intoned.  With some difficulty he hauled himself to his feet. He stumbled and his pyjama bottoms slipped down affording me the delightful sight of his marked buttocks. If I say so myself, I had delivered a wonderful set of cuts. I was proud of my continuing expertise with the rod.

Patrick’s face blushed scarlet as he struggled to keep his trousers up. He succeeded, but not until I saw his raging erection pointing toward the ceiling.

“You had better visit the bathroom,” I smiled. And to save his blushes, I added, “You are rather in need of a shower.”

z used cane marks pyjamas (2)

Other stories you might like

The Young Conservative

The thieving window cleaner

The sting in the tail

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com