The Poker School

new story 2

In February 2006 Mr R. A. F. Brightlington-Pugh, a former housemaster at the Ridgeway private boarding school in the west of England, passed away peacefully in his sleep at the age of ninety-seven. Some years later, his great-great-great-great nephew found a leather-bound travelling chest containing diaries he had written during the 1930s and 1940s. This present story The Poker Game was inspired by the diary entry for 3rd February 1938.

z used cane pyjamas up armchair school london (2)

All schoolboys like to think that they are adults and should be treated accordingly. It is the schoolmaster’s duty to disabuse them of this notion and be a constant reminder that they are indeed children who must subordinate themselves to the will of their elders.

It was for this reason that Ridgeway insisted that all its pupils wore smart short trousers as part of their school uniform until they attained the age of sixteen and entered the sixth-form. Personally, I should be very content if they continued to wear short trousers until the day they left school in their nineteenth year.

A Ridgeway boy is instantly recognisable in the locale. In additional to the dark-grey short trousers that reach to an inch above the knee, he wears a bright red woollen blazer with white edging; a red-and-white-hooped cap and grey knee socks with red tops.

Despite, all our attempts to remind the boys they are but children some continue to defy us. Thus it was that this evening I chanced upon the sixth-form poker game.

I am not in the habit of patrolling the house after lights out. There is a prefect body whose duty is to keep good order in the house. To that end they are expected to account that each boy is safely tucked up in his bed before they too retire for the night.

This evening I was feeling particularly irritable. There was nothing to listen to on the wireless save for Bandwagon, a humorous programme (or so says my copy of the Radio Times). I could bear Arthur Askey and Stinker Murdoch no longer, so decided on a tour of the house.

All was quiet, as indeed it should be at this hour. I did not venture inside the dormitories; I trust my prefects to do their jobs properly. I was certain all would be well. For no particular reason that I can recall, I ventured down the passageway that led to the senior studies. I could tell at once something was amiss. A shaft of light gleamed beneath the door of number five. As I approached my nostrils were assailed by a familiar scent. An aroma that was unwelcome in the boys’ studies. It was the smell of cigarette smoke.

I gripped the handle and twisted it. The door would not budge. It was locked. There was some illegal activity afoot. I hammered the palm of my hand against the heavy wooden panel.

Inside the study a little poker party was suddenly startled. Tracey jumped up, his hand of cards slipping from his fingers. “What the …” he exclaimed.

Wright, Amber and Prior were all on their feet. That sound could mean only one thing: a master had discovered their game.

“What dashed bad luck,” breathed Wright. “Quick get the cards out of sight.”

I banged again, somewhat louder this time. “Open up in there! Open up I say!”

“The smoke; we can’t clear the smoke,” hissed Amber, waving his arms around like a demon.

“Keep the door locked Wright,” whispered Prior. “Tell him you’ve dropped the key to make us some time.”

I continued banging.

“All right Sir,” called out Wright in a shaky voice while his chums frantically hurried cards and cigarettes out of sight. “I … I’ve dropped the key.”

I called out, “You will open this door immediately Wright. At once, or the consequences for you all will be very grave indeed.”

I heard the scraping of the key in the lock and slowly the door eased ajar; but only by an inch. I pushed it open and strode into the study.

Four ashen-faced eighteen-year-old boys stood before me. They were dressed in their regulation grey-and-white-striped pyjamas. The evidence of their crimes lay all around them. A deck of playing cards and hastily extinguished cigarettes.

There was very little to say. They had been caught in the act.

“Attend my study immediately. Wait outside for my arrival.”

Such a command could mean only one thing: a beating was imminent.

I watched four sorrowful schoolboys as they trudged down the passageway. I put the cigarettes in my pocket; I would smoke them myself later. I searched the room half-expecting to find a whisky bottle secreted somewhere, but there was none.

Minutes later I joined the four miscreants at my study. They stood in the passageway facing the wall with their hands on their heads. I had not instructed this, but it was a standard requirement of any boy sent to attend a housemaster’s study. These four knew the drill. There was not a bottom before me that I had not thrashed before.

I called the four into my study and they stood in front of my leather-topped desk. Like so many schoolboys in their situation they took an intense interest in the rug beneath their feet. I instructed them to look at me and I jawed them. I did not take too long; we all knew why we were there.

As any schoolmaster should attest, the cane is a highly efficient tool of punishment. No caned boy can be in any doubt of his schoolmaster’s disapproval. His buttocks will glow and so they should. The punishment is delivered and is then over within minutes; then we all move on with our lives.

I knew each of the four boys before me intimately. They were all similarly culpable in this evening’s crime. None of them was a leader and none the led. I could treat them all equally – and that was precisely what I did.

Hardly a day goes by without my caning a boy. My preferred method is to make him lay face down across the back of my worn armchair; his arms stretched ahead of him; his feet firmly planted eighteen inches apart on the ground and his bottom raised. The buttocks are presented at the perfect angle to receive swipes from my cane across the fleshiest part of the posterior.

I reached across to the hat stand that stood in the corner of the study. I always have at least two canes – one thick and one thin – dangling ready for action.

“Wright,” I called, “Bend over the chair.”

Wright would not catch my eye, even though this was hardly a new experience for the eighteen-year-old. He stepped forward and rather like a diver going into an icy pond he flopped forward and held on to the arms of the chair.

“Come now Wright,” I sighed, “You have been here often enough. You know the form: head low, bottom high, feet apart.” He wriggled about a bit until he was presented to my satisfaction.

I choose the thicker of the two canes, flexed it between my hands, and tapped Wright gently across the very centre of his bottom. Six strokes of the cane fell, hard, one after another.  Every one was a hefty lash; but no sound came from Wright. When I gave permission, he rose from the desk, his face pale, and his eyes glinting. He resumed his position alongside his fellow poker players.

“Amber, step forward.”

The boys were stoical, but Amber, who it must be reported had a very meaty backside, wriggled a little as each stroke fell. I do not play games when I cane a boy. Each swipe fell with great force. It was as if I were beating a carpet.

Tears were forming behind Amber’s eyes when he rose from the desk. I could see he desperately wished to rub at his fleshy behind, but such a thing is not permitted. There is some unwritten code: no rubbing until you are out of the eyesight of the schoolmaster.

Prior was next. I had last thrashed the boy only the previous week. That had been for breaking bounds. I had laid it on him with terrific force; he was a recidivist and often skipped out of school. He must have a high tolerance for pain; it was as if he had hardly felt a thing. I had considered later that perhaps he had smuggled some padding beneath his trousers. This time with only his pyjama bottoms for protection there would be no doubt.

As had his fellows, Prior positioned himself without fuss. I saw him close his eyes and shut his teeth in anticipation of the searing pain he was about to endure.

A caning is really a competition of sorts between the master giving correction and the boy accepting it. One has to inflict; one has to endure. I must lay these strokes on the boys’ bottoms with all the skill I can muster. I must be firm; I must be precise. My job is to be the agent of authority. The boy’s job is to hold fast, without crying or begging to be let off. In short, to accept the discipline.

Prior behaved admirably. I could see welts forming under the thin cotton pyjamas. The thrashing must have hurt him terribly, but he showed little outward sign. When commanded, he rose and took his position alongside the others.

Tracey was last to go. He had witnessed the stoicism of his fellows. I do not know if this adds to the intensity of the occasion. Did knowing that the others had taken their beating well put additional pressure on a boy not to let himself down?

Tracey was over the chair in a trice. It was as if he were saying, “Go ahead, do your worst. I can take it.”

I did indeed do my worst; or do I mean my best? I delivered six of my very best across the most tender part of the boy’s bottom at the point where the under-curve of the cheeks met the thigh. Tracey’s body wriggled and writhed; his hips swayed and his feet marched up and down on the carpet. I heard him cough and splutter as he successfully stifled the yells he most certainly wanted to make.

It was over. I estimate it had taken no more than three minutes to put the boys through their paces. They stood before me with four pairs of blazing buttocks. I am not a cruel man, I knew they very much wanted to be on their way down to the lavatories where they would inspect the damage, admire my handiwork, and congratulate one another on their fortitude.

I sent them on their way. Later, I lit one of the confiscated cigarettes and returned to the wireless. A musical interlude was being broadcast. I leaned back in my armchair and blew smoke rings at the ceiling and reflected on my efforts – a very contented man indeed.

Picture Credit: CP Services London

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The night porter

Caught in their underpants

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

z used cane longs adult office suit

Adrian chewed on his bottom lip and kept his eyes downcast on the carpet. He was not quite sure where to put his hands, so he let them hang loosely at his sides, then he clasped them behind his back the way a member of the royal family does. Lastly, he held his hands in front of his cock like a footballer defending a free kick. Then he started the routine all over again.

He could not get his eyelids to stop flickering; he was wracked with anxiety.

“You know why you are here young man.”

Adrian was not sure: was this a question, or a statement of fact? He decided a non-committal grunt would be enough of a response.

“Your work is sloppy. You make countless mistakes; you do not pay attention when you are working.”

It was quite a litany of complaints.

And there was more. “You are often late into work and back from lunch. You are often away from your desk for no good reason.”

Adrian listened as best he could. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it would burst through his chest. His breathing was becoming shallower and those damn eyelids would not slow down.

“I warned you before about your conduct, young man.”

Yes, Adrian silently agreed. Mr Gregory had warned him. More than once actually. There was nothing Adrian could say in mitigation. Everything his boss said was true. He was probably the worst accounts clerk in history. He had no aptitude for the job; no head for figures. Hey, he could not even add up properly.

It was a wonder to him how he ever got this job in the first place, but really he had no choice but to stick at it. Jobs were hard to come by these days and you did not readily give one up.

Mr Gregory eyed the accounts clerk. The boy’s clear skin was flushed pink; with embarrassment and also anxiety. His sparkling grey eyes were a little moist and hidden by his long curled lashes that refused to keep still.

“What did I say would happen if your work did not improve?”

Adrian’s pinkish face turned pillar-box red. He could not catch his breath.

“T..t..t…” he tried to respond but no words would form. His mouth was now as dry as the Gobi Desert.

Mr Gregory enjoyed the boy’s discomfort and his grey deeply-lined face cracked into a broad grin as he leaned forward in his chair.

“I’m sure you haven’t forgotten,” he cackled, his beaklike nose gave him the appearance of an eagle about to sweep down on the poor boy.

Adrian’s breathing, once shallow, now almost stopped completely.

“Well then young man let’s get this over with shall we.” Mr Gregory hauled himself from his padded chair and took a few steps across the room.

Adrian eyes followed the middle-aged man and his eyelids still worked overtime.

Mr Gregory sighed audibly and stooped down to reach the bottom drawer in an old-fashioned wooden chest.

Adrian closed his eyes tight: knowing instinctively what his boss would withdraw from it.

“Here,” Mr Gregory straightened himself and turned towards Adrian. “I said if your work did not improve I would cane you.”

Adrian was transfixed. His cruel ugly boss held a long yellowish-brown stick between his hands.

Mr Gregory was very proud of his cane. He fondly imagined it was just like hundreds that were used every day by schoolmasters to whack the stretched backsides of naughty schoolboys.

He wobbled it in front of Adrian’s face, hoping to intimidate him. He succeeded.

The rod was a little over three feet in length, about the thickness of a pencil and with the traditional curved handle at one end.

Through half-closed eyes Adrian watched apprehensively as Mr Gregory slashed the springy rod through thin air.

This was not the first time Adrian had seen such a cane. He had been on the receiving end of one many times at school for general laziness and misbehaviour. Adrian had been raised to believe a thrashing with a cane was a just punishment for wrongdoing. He knew he had screwed up at work and he had been warned of the consequences if he did not improve. He really did not have anything to complain about, but it was a little strange to have to show his backside to his boss. Adrian had thought he had left all that behind at school.

Mr Gregory whipped the cane through the air one more time. Seemingly satisfied that he now had the measure of the rod, he pointed it at his desk.

“Take off your jacket and put in there,” he swished one more time for emphasis.

Mr Gregory watched intently as Adrian with fumbling fingers undid the button of the jacket of his dark grey suit and slid it over his shoulders, uncovering his gleaming white shirt. With his dark blue striped tie and dark grey trousers he could be mistaken for a senior pupil at any of the local schools.

Mr Gregory drank in the sight of Adrian’s muscular shoulders and slim flat stomach as the boy carefully folded the jacket and placed it on the desk. He was so unlike many of the other boys in the office, still in their teens but already running to fat with middle aged spreads around their waists.

Another swish of the cane told Adrian it was time to prepare himself.

“Take that chair and turn it round so that the back is facing you.”

Although Adrian was no virgin to the sting of the rattan cane, he still did not relish the ordeal he was about to face.

Sorrowfully, he gripped the large padded leather chair and in one movement swivelled it round into position.

Another swish of the cane, this time directed at a spot on the floor.

“Stand there young man.”

Adrian shuffled forward and stopped.

“Closer!” Mr Gregory was impatiently anxious to get started. Adrian, however, was quite keen for the action to be delayed.

“Bend over the chair!” It was a curt command devoid of emotion. Mr Gregory had to perform his duty.

Adrian hesitated, gripped by the absurdity of the situation. Here he was a nineteen-year-old man expected to bend over the back of an armchair to offer up his arse for his miserable boss to whack with his cane. But there was nothing he could do about it; Mr Gregory was in charge.

For the first time that afternoon Adrian caught Mr Gregory’s eye; was his boss just a little embarrassed too? He could not tell.

Swish! “I shan’t tell you again.”

Adrian hesitated no longer; if he wanted to keep this job he had no choice. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together, took a pace forward and swiftly fell face first over the back of the chair.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart.” They were unnecessary instructions for Adrian’s bottom was already perfectly positioned to receive punishment. And what a trim bottom it was, much admired by the girls in the company and, if only Mr Gregory knew, by a surprising number of men as well.

Mr Gregory took up position about three feet from Adrian’s left buttock, before carefully rubbing the springy cane across the very centre of the boy’s globes. Tap, tap, tap, it went. Mr Gregory heard Adrian hold his breath in anticipation of the first agonising cut that would soon slice into his bottom.

Slowly, Mr Gregory raised the cane about four or five feet above the boy’s taut bottom and then with an almighty swing he slashed it down across the very centre of the target area.

A gasp of air whistled through Adrian’s clenched teeth, as a burning stripe seared into his tight cheeks. Instinctively he gripped hold of the foam padded seat cushion and let the pain course from his rear end up and down his stretched legs.

“Owww!” he could not help himself. He had determined not to show Mr Gregory any emotion, but this first stroke was worse than anything he had ever been forced to endure at St Simeone’s School.

Mr Gregory admired his handiwork. Yes, he smirked to himself that one had really hit home.

He raised the cane once more and positioned it a half an inch below the first cut. Again he gave the swing all his strength. The cut hit Adrian’s pert buttocks at speed, sank a little into what flesh there was on the boy, and bounced back with vim.

Adrian screamed like a stuck pig. Still gripping the cushion his back arched and his feet stamped up and down. Never in his entire life had he felt such agony. To say it felt like a white hot poker had been pressed against his skin would be an understatement.

The boy’s face, usually so clear and a little pale, was now puce. His beautiful grey eyes were drowned in tears.

He wanted desperately to plead for mercy. He would do anything for Mr Gregory. Anything at all. He would concentrate on his work, go to night school to learn accounting; buy himself an adding machine. He would be the best-ever accounts clerk that ever lived, if only Mr Gregory would stop hurting him.

“Yowllll! Oh my God!” The third struck diagonally across the other two, setting both on fire again. The howl that surged from his throat was so deep; Adrian thought he would vomit at any moment.

Mr Gregory spluttered and coughed. His body convulsed one way and then another.

“Urgggh” he was woken by a cold damp patch across the front of his pyjamas.

Miserably, he wriggled the pyjama bottoms over his buttocks and down his legs, before throwing them from under the bedclothes onto the floor. Then he rolled across to the empty half of his bed and tried to resurrect Adrian and those trim buttocks that still had to endure three more strokes from Mr Gregory’s cane.

The next day was Saturday so there was no work. Mr Gregory got up at eight o’clock, bundled his soiled pyjamas together with the bedsheets and the rest of his laundry into the washing machine, picked up his keys and left the house.

He was a creature of habit and just like every day, he shuffled down the street to the newsagents. It was still early and the street of small semi-detached houses was almost deserted. Couples were still snuggled together in bed, enjoying what was euphemistically called a ‘lie-in.’

It was June and the day was already heating up. There had been a heatwave for days and the forecasters said there was much more to come. At the newsagent, as he did every morning, he nodded a cursory “good morning” to the silver-haired lady behind the counter. He had been to the shop every day for ten years and still did not know the lady’s name. Somehow she knew his. Almost.

“Good morning Mr Gregson,” she smiled the way that small shopkeepers, eager to ingratiate themselves with customers, always did. He handed over some coppers and took his copy of the Daily Express. On weekdays he would then proceed on the five minutes’ walk that took him to his office, but on Saturdays and Sundays, he went in the opposite direction and made his way to Joe’s Café.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

His was a mundane life. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Unlike the wretched Adrian of his fantasies, Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

The café was not busy at this time of day. It did most of its trade during the week, servicing workshops and offices. Mr Gregory liked it that way. He sat at his usual table and ordered his usual meal (full English breakfast) and settled down with his paper.

Nobody took any notice of him and he took none of them. He scanned the paper with no real interest. It was the usual stuff; economic downturn, a murder in London’s gangland and politicians droning on about how bad members in opposition parties were. There was a General Election due and they could expect a lot more of that before polling day.

Then he turned a page and saw something that made his juices drool. He slammed shut the paper as the café owner came and set his meal down on the table. Mr Gregory hoped the man had not seen the story that had caught his eye. He would not want people to know he was interested in that sort of thing.

With the café owner safely back behind his counter, Mr Gregory surreptitiously opened the paper. He read the story through quickly, then took a mouthful of sausage from his plate and chewed contemplatively as he savoured every detail of the story once again.

There was a school in a town he had never heard of. A right posh school by the sound of it. What happened was that the boys had been complaining about the heatwave. They were sweltering in their traditional school uniform of woollen blazer and long trousers. The older boys, some were as old as eighteen, said they wanted to be allowed to wear short trousers. The younger boys were obliged by the school to wear shorts up to the age of fourteen whatever the weather.

When the older boys demanded the right to wear short trousers their headmaster told them flatly: No. But, they rebelled and a group of them turned up dressed in their smart grey flannel short trousers anyway.

The headmaster went ballistic. They had broken the rules and defied his authority. There was only one course of action. They were lined up outside the headmaster’s study and one by one they were ordered inside.

Mr Gregory read with mounting excitement, ‘One eighteen-year-old sixth-former, who did not want to give his name for fear of retribution, said: “When it was my turn to go in the headmaster instructed me to bend across his desk. He then administered six hard whacks with his cane to the seat of my trousers.

‘“It hurt like Henry.”’

‘Another boy said: “It’s not fair. We weren’t asking to wear beach shorts. We would be happy to wear the same type of grey flannel short trousers the younger boys wear all the time.”’

Oh, how Mr Gregory envied that headmaster. That was the job to have, he thought.

He gulped down more of his breakfast as he read more of the story. Later, the headmaster rounded up three of the ringleaders and he publicly thrashed them in front of the whole school, even though they had already been beaten in the privacy of his study.  And, oh glory! He gave it to them on the bare buttocks.

Mr Gregory’s heart sped. He read the story for a third time and then sipped gently on his tea. Tylesbury had its own posh school, called unimaginatively Tylesbury School. It was an independent grammar school, a kind of private school. The pupils were made to attend lessons on Saturday mornings and he often saw the older boys looking delicious in their bright blue striped blazers and long light grey trousers hanging around the shops in the afternoon after classes had finished. Some of those boys looked very dapper and eminently spankable.

The dreams he had about them would be enhanced greatly, now that he could picture them in their tailored short trousers each in turn knocking on the heavy oak door of Mr Gregory’s study, waiting for the gruff “Come!” from within as their instruction to enter.

Mr Gregory would be waiting in his oak panel-lined study, dressed in his swishing academic gown, a mortar-board cap, the one with the tassel hanging down, planted firmly on his head. To the consternation of the boys, he would be flexing his whippy cane between his hands.

There would be a curt command, “Bend over, touch your toes.” Mr Gregory would roll the boy’s blazer up his back clear of the target area and then thrash six almighty swipes into the flannel-covered buttocks. It would not matter how much the boy yelped, he would get the full six.

Then, “Stand up. Send in the next boy.” And one boy would be replaced by another as headmaster Dr Gregory did his duty and ensured the next generation of gentlemen understood the virtue of obedience.

Carefully, Mr Gregory tore the page from the newspaper. It would join his growing collection. In his spare bedroom at home, he had a tin box that he always kept locked. Inside was a sheaf of cuttings from newspapers and magazines. The box was inside a suitcase (also locked) on top of his wardrobe.

This would become one of his favourites, for sure. Others that he liked to take out and read again and again were about an approved school for juvenile offenders that was closed down the previous year after a government inquiry. They said there was inappropriate use of the cane. Inappropriate? At least no boy there got it across the bared buttocks.

Another favourite concerned two eighteen-year-old sixth formers. There were some young rabbits that were caged up ready to be used by the pupils in science lessons. The boys took the rabbits down to an open field and set them free. That cost them three strokes on the backside.

Mr Gregory wondered why that was considered newsworthy by the Daily Express, but he was grateful nonetheless to add it to his collection.

Breakfast over, Mr Gregory set off on the next part of his Saturday routine. Shopping at the new large self-service supermarket had become a pleasure in recent weeks after he discovered a young assistant called Phillip.

He knew he was called Phillip because all the staff wore name tags. He supposed it was to make customers feel they were getting personal service, as they had done before the large stores drove most of the small shops out of business.

You would not give Philip a second glance if you saw him coming towards you in the street. He was smaller than average, with a pock-marked face, developing jowls and an overbite. But if you saw him walking away you would be captivated by his exquisite buttocks. They were like two pimples inside his loosely fitting black trousers, inviting close inspection from connoisseurs of the male form.

Mr Gregory first saw him in the dry goods section of the supermarket. The old man turned from one aisle into another and quite literally stopped in his tracks. There at the end of the aisle was Philip, his back to Mr Gregory and bending down to put packaged goods on to the bottom-most shelf.

Mr Gregory’s tongue might have hung out, or his face might have blushed scarlet with desire; either way he was immensely conscious of a woman standing close by looking at him in a strange manner. He turned on his heels. He must get away and he must do it quickly.

But the temptation was too much for him. Only a few seconds had passed before he retraced his steps and stood once again at the end of the aisle admiring the vision in the black trousers before him.

Slowly, pretending to have great interest in the cornflakes and other breakfast cereal on the shelves, he inched his way down the aisle, fearful that at any moment the boy would straighten up and go away to another task.

Mr Gregory reached Philip and stood by the boy’s side. Unconscious of the stir he was causing, Philip continued to rearrange the packets on the bottom shelf. The boy’s knees were straight and his body bent. Mr Gregory was so close he could touch him. He had never been so close to a bending boy. It was as if he were submissively presenting his bottom to Mr Gregory and saying, “I’m sorry Sir, I have been a naughty boy, please spank me.”

He was so close he could put his hand in the small of Philip’s back, hold him steady and smack his palm down into the boy’s tiny, but perfectly formed buttocks. His ungainly hand was the size of a shovel and could almost fit across both buttocks at once.

The old man first approached the boy from behind, then covertly moved to the side to take in the full view of one of Philip’s curved cheeks. Mr Gregory raised his hand ready to strike.

Quickly, catching himself before he disgraced himself, he turned away ashamed and almost bolted to the other side of the store. Safe among the dairy cold counter he paused to catch his wind. The sight of Philip’s backside, seemingly offered submissively for a spanking, had literally taken his breath away.

His attempt to continue with his shopping as usual was frustrating. Did he need sugar, how many eggs did he have a home? None of this mattered any more. All he wanted to do was to return to dry goods and stand once again by the boy in the black trousers.

Trying not to be obvious he meandered around the aisles, seemingly haphazardly, but, like a marine on manoeuvres he was headed for one destination only. At last he was in the adjoining aisle. He was wheezing. Why? There had been no physical exertion. It was a sedate journey from one end of the store to the other.

But he did know why but could not admit it, not even to himself. He wanted that boy. He wanted him bent over before him touching his toes, asking, no demanding, that Mr Gregory beat his buttocks black and blue.

Then, but only when Mr Gregory gave the order, Philip would rise and very slowly and deliberately peel down his trousers, before in one fine athletic movement, once again bending forward knees straight, fingertips on his toes, offer up his bum again, this time wrapped in the soft white cotton of his underpants.

There would follow a bottom scorching whacking. Mr Gregory thought one of his old worn bedroom slippers would do the job very well. Two, no three dozen, whacks across those tight cheeks would do it.

The boy would take it bravely. There would be no howling like a hyena. Instead the punishment completed the boy would gaze into Mr Gregory’s eyes lovingly. “Thank you, Sir,” he would say, “I thoroughly deserved that.”

“Yes you did,” Mr Gregory would reply, “and if I have to deal with you again, make no mistake you will get it with your trousers and your pants at your ankles.” And then for emphasis, he would add, “On your bare bottom.”

His mouth dry and his tongue almost hanging out, Mr Gregory turned into the aisle to drink in the sight of the wonderful boy who had become his imaginary spank slave.

But, he was not there. In his place were two middle-aged ladies discussing the merits of instant porridge.

Oh no! Where could he be? In distress Mr Gregory darted from aisle to aisle, bumping into housewives going about their lawful shopping.

“Hey! Where’s the fire!”

“Will you watch where you’re going!”

No, he would not watch where he was going. All he cared about was finding Philip. He must be in another aisle, filling shelves. Somewhere on this supermarket floor, he was bent over straight knees, straight back. Showing off his perfect, spankable bum.

He searched in vain and then calming a little he completed his shopping. He must stop making a fool of himself, he admonished himself. You deserve a damn good spanking yourself, what disgraceful behaviour, and in public too.

Waiting his turn at the check-out he once again saw Reginald. Reginald was some kind of store supervisor and wore the cheap mid-blue suits the company made them wear to prove it. He could not be much more than twenty-one, twenty-two maybe, Mr Gregory had supposed.

He was tall, fair and rather chubby. Mr Gregory fell in hate with the young man the first time he had seen him, two weeks previously. It had been a small matter. A loose cap on a sauce bottle. It had not been noticed until the customer was ready to pay. Reginald intervened. A shop assistant was called, an elderly man, and directed to go fetch a replacement. You would have thought the man, who was old enough to be Reginald’s grandfather, was his personal slave.

“And be quick about it!” he ordered as the old man scuttled off.

Reginald was far too young to be a boss. He had no idea how to treat people properly. The way he spoke to the shop assistant was disgraceful; he was far too haughty. For nine pence Mr Gregory would throw the wretch face down across one of the counters and thrash his fat arse to pieces with a cane.

Right in front of ‘his’ staff; that would bring him down a peg or two.

Mr Gregory had a fitful sleep that night. Philip, oh Philip! He dreamt of him so often, He was naked and bent submissively across his knee. With his left hand Mr Gregory ruffled his hair, to let him know he was loved. His fingertips caressed his back as he followed the spine from the boy’s neck to the hairless crack in his buttocks. Mr Gregory’s right palm hovered above each cheek, and then with a circling motion, massaged them gently.

The boy breathed easily; he was submissive and ready for what he was about to receive. Mr Gregory raised his right hand to shoulder height and brought it down with a hearty SMACK! into his right buttock. He felt it, it smarted, and his bottom started to glow. He smacked him twelve times, slowly, so that his creamy white bottom turned to bright, bright red.

Then there was the time Philip was in school uniform, bending over, touching toes, as Mr Gregory smacked a gym shoe into the seat of his stretched grey Terylene trousers. Philip was across his knee as a soccer player for a spanking on the shorts (in the days when they still were ‘shorts’). Then dressed only in swimming trunks (he had been in the sea beyond the ‘danger line’) he was whacked (for his own good, of course) on his soaking wet bare arse.

Mr Gregory’s favourite was the boy in those lovely trousers bent submissively across the check-out counter for him to be thrashed with a traditional whippy crook-handle rattan school cane.

There was a timid knock on the office door. Mr Gregory’s looked up from his paperwork, expecting the door to open and his unexpected visitor to enter. But, nothing happened. The old man returned to his list of figures; perhaps he had imagined it. He was finding it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate that morning. And, his temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap. No, it was definitely a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Mr Gregory was surprised how hoarse his voice sounded. It was Monday morning and he had rather overdone it the night before, demolishing one bottle of whisky and starting on a second.

The door edged open slowly and it seemed like an age later when a young head with shaggy light brown hair poked around. Beneath the shock of hair was a cherubic face. Mr Gregory took in the vision: hazel green eyes, tanned, almost glistening skin, a firm chin and the cutest button of a nose the old man had seen in many a long year.

“Come in, come in,” Mr Gregory tried joviality, but his alcohol-fuelled headache turned his intended warm smile into a threatening grimace.

He could see the young man blanch; his eyes darting down to the floor.

Someone had to break the silence. Mr Gregory assumed as he was the boss it had better be he.

“Can I help you?” Again the attempt at warmth failed dismally.

The boy startled. “I’m the new work experience boy,” he blurted in confusion and even with the deep sun tan Mr Gregory could tell the boy was blushing.

“Oh, yes of course.” Now, it was Mr Gregory’s turn to sound confused. He knew the boy was coming. Mega Fastenings took two business students each year from the polytechnics. They stayed for a year, a sandwich course they called it. He had a file on the boy somewhere; what had he done with it?

“Craig. Craig Weston” the boy’s nervous smile was really rather scrumptious, Mr Gregory thought as furtively he ran his eye over the boy. Oh, yes, he thought, a definite improvement on Ian, the intern who had just left the company to return to his college. You will do very well.

Mr Gregory was practising his small talk with the office staff. He had been on a course. Say nothing of any consequence, nod repeatedly and smile a lot: that was the gist of it.

There were two easy chairs in the office but the boy did not have the confidence to sit uninvited. Instead, he stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, his hands clasped awkwardly behind his back.

“So this is your first morning?” Mr Gregory started on the small talk.

“Yes, Sir,” Craig replied, still not quite able to look Mr Gregory in the eye.

Sir! Yes, Mr Gregory liked that. He also very much liked the way the teenager was standing, awkwardly in front of him. He felt a fantasy coming on. It was a sweltering hot day, but Craig had dressed formally for his first day. He had left his jacket behind, but wore dark grey trousers, a plain shirt and a striped tie.

He supposed it was the kind of thing office workers wore. It was, but in Mr Gregory’s imagination it was a school uniform and Craig was a very naughty boy, sent to the headmaster’s study to be dealt with.

He could not see Craig from behind, but if what was on show in the front was a guide, he would look fabulous draped over the back of a low easy chair; or maybe even better, stood in the centre of the office, feet apart by a yard or so, bent over, knees straight, fingers stretching into the toes of his shoes.

Mr Gregory asked more inane questions but did not listen to the answers until, “So I have nowhere to live at the moment.”

Mr Gregory came back to earth. “Oh, so where did you stay last night?”

Craig gave the name of a local ‘hotel.’ Mr Gregory was not sure if the called itself a hotel, but if it did the new Trade Description Act would soon put a stop to that. It was a place for down-and-out tramps. It was entirely unsuitable for such a good-looking boy.

“But, I am looking for something else,” Craig trailed off.

It was an hour or so later that a germ of an idea lodged in Mr Gregory’s mind. It might work, he thought. Why not? He should take more initiative.

He had a spare room at his house. Craig could stay there. Why not? There might be gossip; he did not want the neighbours to get the wrong idea. Maybe, just temporarily then, to get him out of the doss house; until he found somewhere more suitable.

The heat, his self-inflicted headache and this wonderful new idea he had, was too much. He needed fresh air.

He fleshed out the plan as he slowly walked the length and breadth of the industrial estate. There would have to be rules of course; a curfew, keep the house tidy; set times for watching TV and so on.

He could see it now. It is a sweltering hot afternoon: will this damn heatwave never end? Craig is sprawled on the sofa in the living room glistening, dressed only in skimpy satin running shorts and a singlet. Mr Gregory enters.

“What are my rules about smoking in the house?”

Craig is startled; he did not know Mr Gregory was at home.

“What are my rules?”

“Eh …” Craig knows the rules and that he has broken them, but he will not give in without a fight.

“But, it was only in my room,” he says a little too defiantly.

“What are my rules?”

Craig flushes. He is in big trouble and he knows it. Mournfully, he replies, “No smoking.”

“Yes, no smoking. I’ve spoken to you about this before.”

Sorrowfully, Craig nods assent. Yes, he has been told. There is no excuse.

“And you have been told the sanctions.”

Craig gulps. No, surely not. He had not meant it, had he?

Mr Gregory strides further into the room. “You know my methods. Stand up.”

Craig flinches, trying to sink further into the padded cushion of the settee.

“Come here,” Mr Gregory reaches forward and grabs the boy by the left arm. He gives little resistance; he is scared but instinctively he knows he cannot get out of this. Matters have to take their course.

Releasing his grip on Craig’s arm, Mr Gregory snatches a clump of his unruly hair and pushes him face down over the back of the armchair. The boy’s singlet rides up his back revealing an expanse of golden tanned flesh.

Mr Gregory grabs at the elastic waist of the provocative shorts and they are soon at the boy’s knees: followed by his underpants.

Craig seems resigned to his fate. He whimpers a little, his now bared bottom twitches as he hears Mr Gregory unbuckle his belt and remove it through the loops of his trousers. Then he doubles up the wide, thick, heavy leather belt and brings it crashing down across the centre of Craig’s bottom.

In a frenzy Mr Gregory puts six sunset stripes across the boy’s cheeks.

“Ow, ow, ow,” he wails. “I’m sorry Mr Gregory. I won’t smoke again. Ow! Ow! Ow! Please let me off!”

But, Mr Gregory carries on lashing.

“Nooo! Please,” the wailings and pleading continues.

“Be quiet. You deserve this. You’ve had this coming for a very long time.” Sweat is pouring from Mr Gregory as he raises the belt again and again, swiping it down into the upturned buttocks.

“You miss curfew, your room is a disgrace, you smoke in my house.”

“Please! I’m sorry! Please,” the pleading continues, but so also does the bare-arsed leathering.

Maybe, Mr Gregory reflected that evening, as he poured himself more whisky, it was for the better that Craig had found a room with the Rev Crick at Aston Budleigh where Ian used to lodge.

Back at the office Mr Gregory was on tour. He did this every day; he had been taught to do it on a management course. Be seen by the staff, stop and chat for a minute, let them know you are there. Mr Gregory was not a natural ‘talker,’ but he practiced a lot.

He loved walking through the offices of Mega Fastenings; it gave him the excuse to ogle the boys’ backsides. The office was pretty typical of its type there were upwards of 250 employees; many women with families; one or two older men; but mostly younger boys and girls in their teens and twenties.

Most days Mr Gregory would find Adrian working busily at his desk. Adrian was not an accounts clerk in real life; he was a general administrator in the order office. Mr Gregory had no idea if Adrian was good or bad at his work. He rather suspected he was good, he always seemed to be hard at it when Mr Gregory passed by.

Once, Mr Gregory had tried to talk to Adrian; to chat, just as the management course had instructed. Which of them had been the most shy? Mr Gregory reflected sullenly that evening. The boy blushed scarlet as if he had been caught in some naughtiness when his boss stumbled over an inane question.

It was not a meeting of great minds, but that night as he lay in bed his head spinning, Mr Gregory as he always did, went through the activities of his day, trying to focus on a moment that he could turn into a fantasy. He tried to conjure up Adrian, but instead got Robert and Pat.

Pat was a forty-something mother with the figure of a woman who had delivered four children. Advertisers had started saying such people had the ‘fuller figure.’ Mr Gregory arrived at the section of the open-plan office given over to purchasing in time to catch the tail end of a conversation.

Pat was cheerfully berating Robert, a twenty-something clerk.

“I should take you cross my knee, but you’d probably enjoy it!”

“Ha!” Robert replied backing off and returning to his work station, “You should be so lucky.”

What did it mean? Mr Gregory flushed and walked on pretending not to have heard.

Would she spank Robert. Across her knee? He was a burly lad, a rugby player type. She would have her work cut out forcing him face down.

But, what if he submitted himself to her.

“I’m sorry Pat. You’re right. I do deserve a spanking.” And then he prostrates himself across her lap. His chubby bum in the air and his sweaty face staring down at the hard nylon floor covering.

What would she do? Would she smack the palm of her hand into his tight bulging trousers?

No, Mr Gregory supposed, she would have a hairbrush in her drawer, that would be a perfect weapon. She could whack that with great vigour into his fat arse. Even with his trousers and pants on he would feel it.

Why had she threatened to spank Robert? Back in his office, breathing heavily, Mr Gregory cannot get the image of Robert out of his mind. What had he done? He should be told, he is the boss. It is his job to enforce discipline, not Pat’s. He should call the boy into the office right now and deal with him.

Mr Gregory sat behind his desk and stared intently at the space between it and the door. Mr Gregory is sat on a wooden straight backed chair. Robert stands in front of him, crestfallen. The boy’s hands are trembling. He knows he has done wrong. His boss has found out and now he must face the inevitable discipline.

Mr Gregory grips a stout wooden ruler. It is only twelve inches long by an inch wide, but it is half and inch thick and made of solid wood. It packs one heck of a punch when lashed down with force across a boy’s bared bottom.

Mr Gregory’s instructions are calm. “Take off your jacket and place it on my desk. Then please lower your trousers and underpants.”

Robert hesitates, but not for long. There is nothing he can do. He has broken the rules and he must be punished.

Not daring to look at Mr Gregory, sitting, legs splayed, back straight, sweat patches forming under his armpits, Robert unbuckles his belt, pops the button on his trousers and unfastens the zip. The weight of the bunch of keys in his pocket makes them hurtle to his ankles. Then he puts his thumb in the waistband of his pants and with the merest flick of the wrists he sends them to his knees.

His shirt is long and covers most of his manhood and buttocks. Mr Gregory affects a lack of interest that he does not feel.

“Lift up your shirt and bend over my knee.”

This is the first time that Robert looks at his boss. Has he noticed before how old and ugly the man is? His skin is pale grey, even in the height of the heatwave, the deep lines cut across his face; the beak of his nose reminds Robert of a witch in a fairy tale.

With his shirt lifted and buttocks and genitals duly exposed, Robert flops forward, his considerable weight taking Mr Gregory by surprise. Robert is not as lithe as Adrian and his buttocks are huge and flabby.

Mr Gregory is fascinated at the way the narrow heavy ruler sinks deep into the fleshy globes, before emerging, leaving behind deep pink stripes against the whiteness of his flesh.

Mr Gregory works methodically; no inch of the vast buttocks is left unscathed. Robert remains impassive, enduring the increasing pain. His bottom starts to tingle and this turns to real pain. His bottom is getting hotter and hotter. Ouch! This is real, not like when Pat spanks him.

The phone rings. Robert dissolves.

Adrian lumbers up the stairs towards his bedroom, the scolding words of Uncle Gregory still ringing in his ears. Already tears are welling up in his sparkling grey eyes and uncle has not even started yet.

“Hurry up, be quick about it!” Uncle Gregory is standing outside the living room. Adrian quickens his pace. Inside the bedroom, sorrowfully, Adrian looks at himself in the mirror. “You’re for it now, me lad!”

His face is wringing with sweat: the damned heatwave mingled with the boy’s fear. His deeply tanned face anxiously stares back at him. “Oh well, I’d better get on with it.”

In one movement he pulls his loose fitting shirt over his head, revealing a nut-brown chest. Then down come his shorts.

His tight bright green micro briefs hug tightly, bulging at the front. Some hair is poking out over the top. Adrian is no longer a little boy.

Should he keep his pants on? Would Uncle Gregory notice?

“Who am I kidding?” Adrian talks to himself in his head. He knows what Uncle Gregory has in store for him; underpants will not be playing a part in the action. He whips them down, releasing his cock and balls.

His pyjamas are tucked neatly under his pillow. He loves these pyjamas; he hunted in shops all over town for them. He steps into the grey-and-white striped bottoms, and pulls the long white drawstring tight before tying a perfect bow. The pyjama jacket is just a little bit too big; the sleeves reaching halfway down the palms of his hand.

Dressed, he turns once again to the mirror and sees the image of a small boy reflecting back at him. Ready, he leaves the room and trudges down the stairs to face Uncle Gregory.

Uncle Gregory has prepared a dining room chair which now dominates the centre of the room.

Adrian shuffles in and stands facing his uncle. He knows the drill; he has been through this many nights before.

Uncle Gregory loosens and then removes his tie, before taking hold of the cuff of his right shirtsleeve and slowly rolls it up to his biceps, all the while rebuking Adrian.

“I told you if I got any more complaints from school I would give you a damn good spanking.”

It was true. Many times, his uncle had made the promise, and now he would deliver.

Adrian’s eyes flicker wildly as his gaze follows his uncle across the room. He stoops and retrieves a bedroom slipper from a shelf under the television set. Fully armed, he walks over to the chair and plonks himself down.

“Come here.” Uncle reaches forward and takes Adrian by the left arm and pulls him forward. He does not need much force, Adrian is not resisting. The boy has been raised well. He knows rules are rules and if he breaks them he gets punished. And, in Uncle Gregory’s house that means a spanking.

Adrian cannot stop his eyelids fluttering. His breathing becomes laboured and he can feel the blood rushing to his face as the moment draws nearer.

Uncle places the slipper on his lap and with two free hands he sets about untying the perfect bow. Once done, the pyjama trousers fall of their own accord down to the boy’s knees.

“Bend over.”

Adrian closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath and gently eases himself into position, wriggling a little until he is comfortable. Both his palms rest flat in the deep pile carpet, his knees are straight and his toes hover an inch or so above the ground.

Silently, Uncle Gregory prepares the boy. Adrian feels him take hold of the tail of the over-large pyjama jacket and drag it half way up his back. Now, naked from the shoulders to his toes, Adrian feels a very slight breeze cooling his bare flesh.

He cannot help himself as he instinctively clenches his buttocks in protection against the expected onslaught.

“Relax boy, relax.”

Adrian tries, but fails to release the tightness in his cheeks. He tenses more when Uncle Gregory caresses his huge bony hand across the boy’s soft tender cheeks. His heartbeat races and for a moment Adrian is certain he will faint.

Adrian feels a movement in Uncle Gregory’s body as his right arm is raised and he prepares to bring the slipper crashing down into the pert naked buttocks offered up to him.

Adrian twists and turns as sweat pours from his body soaking the bedsheet beneath him, his raging hard-on ready to explode. Something is disturbing him.

An ambulance rushes by the window, siren blaring, on a mercy mission.

Picture credit: Unknown

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

Belted by the Boss

z used belt holding longs touch toes office

Shane waited outside his employer’s office, he knew that he was likely to be sacked and the police would be called: he would do anything to stop that happening.

He had stolen seven pounds from the petty-cash tin and been caught, it was as simple as that. There were no mitigating circumstances; he had wanted the money so he could go down the pub, it wasn’t as if he took it to feed his starving children or widowed mother.

Shane was eighteen years old and had worked at Ferguson’s since he left school two years previously. It’s true that he did have a widowed mother, but when his dad died a few years ago, he left behind a very good insurance policy and the family had lived very comfortably since.

No, Shane had stolen the money because he wanted it.

Mr Ferguson’s secretary opened the door, “He’ll see you now, Shane.” She flashed him a smile, she knew what was going on, but it was impossible not to like Shane, he was a charmer, many women, especially those old enough to be his mother, often thought.

Shane entered the office and stood in front of Mr Ferguson’s desk; he couldn’t help comparing it to his old headmaster’s study. He had visited that a few times, he recalled. But, this was not the headmaster, this was his boss: he wasn’t going to get the cane; he was getting the sack and a criminal record.

Mr Ferguson liked Shane too, but not in the way the women did. Even if he was only eighteen, Shane had the kind of ducking-and-diving spirit that was a good quality in a salesman. He had recently been promoted from general office assistant to a junior salesman; it might be the first rung on the ladder, but it was certainly on the ladder: Shane could climb very high with his talents.

But, now this had happened, Mr Ferguson thought: petty theft. He didn’t know it but Shane felt no remorse; sure he was sorry about being caught but not about the theft itself. He thought they were all hypocrites, the salesmen fiddled their expenses all the time and what was seven quid to a company like this?

Mr Ferguson wasn’t sure what to do. Shane was a thief, but let’s be honest, he thought, it wasn’t armed robbery and the boy’s not a thug. Actually, he’s just like a lot of kids his age, a bit selfish with no real scruples and he wanted everything on a plate, now. He just needs to learn to grow up; a short sharp lesson would be enough, he doesn’t need a criminal record.

When he first heard of Shane’s theft, Mr Ferguson thought how uncannily similar it was to his own experience thirty-odd years ago. He was eighteen years old when he and some pals stole a few bottles of beer from the local tennis club where his father worked as a steward. They took them into the fields and drank them. It was theft, of course, but also youthful high jinks. They got caught, but the police weren’t involved; he was thankful for that because a criminal record would have scuppered his successful career before it started.

Instead, his dad was informed and he dealt with it. And, how he dealt with it, Mr Ferguson could smile in retrospect, but at the time it was humiliating and painful. His dad marched him home and lectured him about how much he had embarrassed the family. And, here’s the rub, then he made him take down his trousers and underpants, bend over the arm of the settee, and he thrashed the living daylights out of him with his razor strop. He howled the house down with the agony and the indignity of it, but it taught him a lesson and he never stole again.

A bit of him wished that he could deal with Shane in the same way; a bloody good hiding would bring him to his senses and then we could all move on, but, he knew, if he told the boy’s mother he was a thief, she would die of shame and how would that help? Certainly, she wouldn’t be able to give him the punishment he so richly deserved.

Sometimes in the past, Mr Ferguson had hoped Shane might see him as a bit of a father figure, a role model if you like, but there was nothing to show he actually did. Perhaps, if Shane had done so, Mr Ferguson might be the one to give him a sound spanking now.

Shane expected the worse outcome from his meeting with Mr Ferguson; he had no excuses, he had stolen the money and he knew there had to be consequences for being found out.

If he realised what Mr Ferguson was thinking he would have jumped at the chance; he was no stranger to corporal punishment. He had been caned often at school for various misdemeanours such as smoking in the toilets and skiving off school at playtime: he was a naughty boy, but not a thug.

The idea that he might have to sack Shane and involve the police, upset Mr Ferguson and he really wished they could come to another arrangement. Then he had a brainwave; why not be honest with the boy, but he knew it would sound very odd if he just came out and said, “Let me spank you as a punishment.” How would that sound at an industrial tribunal?

Instead, he simply told Shane the story of the tennis club, the beer and the razor strop. When he finished there was an awkward silence between the two. Mr Ferguson could see Shane was debating with himself: should he or shouldn’t he? And, then he did.

“Could you spank me like your father did to you? he looked down at the carpet to hide his blushes.

“Well, I don’t know, Shane.” In fact, he did know, he knew very well that a leathering was the ideal solution.

“You must be quite sure Shane; it is a very unusual solution to the problem.”

Shane said he was sure, please don’t sack him, please don’t call the police.

“Well if it’s what you want, Shane.”

“If it’s what you want?” As soon as he heard the words, Shane was convinced it was exactly what he wanted.  It was the perfect answer, the schoolboy’s solution if you like. You commit the crime, you get found out, you are punished and then we move on.

Yes, Shane was certain: a spanking would be the ideal resolution.

Alright, Mr Ferguson thought, the boy had consented to his belt whipping, so we should get on with it.

“Shane, take off your jacket and leave it on my desk.” With no obvious embarrassment, the boy did as he was told. “Now, take down your trousers and pants and bend over that chair.”

In a swift movement the smart city-style trousers were down, quickly followed by his crisp new briefs. He knew matters had to take their course, so took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together and lent forward to offer his bare cheeks to Mr Ferguson’s belt.

His employer had no experience of spanking backsides, but instinctively knew the objective was to cause the punished boy considerable pain; otherwise what was the point? He doubled over the belt rested it across Shane’s buttocks to get his aim and lashed it down.

It had been two years since Shane was last caned, but he still had the schoolboy’s attitude that he should take it like a man. As the first six strokes landed across his bum he made no outward sign that he was in considerable pain. This was a tactical error, because, with his inexperience, Mr Ferguson assumed this meant his punishment was not working. So, he increased the tempo and brought the belt whacking into Shane’s bum harder and faster.

He covered both buttocks, from the top of the fleshy globes to the bottom. Shane’s resolve not to show pain did not last. His gasps turned to groans and then to whimpers. Despite himself he couldn’t stop shaking his legs as the pain built up in his bum to become agony.

Mr Ferguson remembered how his own father had thrashed him thirty years ago, it had been a rigorous beating, hard and fast, but it was not a flogging. His dad had wanted to get the point across, he had hurt his son badly, but not to the point that the boy resented his punishment or the man who punished him.

Mr Ferguson knew his father had spanked him out of love; he wanted his son to grow into a fine man (and he hoped he had fulfilled his father’s ambition). Likewise, Mr Ferguson loved Shane in a way and did not want to destroy any relationship they might have, but he did want him to learn and to mend his ways.

He whacked six more strokes across the centre of Shane’s bum and then told him to stand up.

Shane’s face was ashen and there were tears forming: how could such a thrashing not bring tears to the eyes? He rubbed gently at his bottom and then without waiting for his boss’s permission, he gingerly bent down to pull up his trousers and pants. His buttocks were tender and he felt the pain increase as his tight briefs hugged his burning bottom.

“Go home Shane: it’s over. If you mend your ways, we will not speak of this again.”

Shane picked up his jacket and limped from the office. He was relieved that Mr Ferguson’s secretary was nowhere to be seen and he left the building unobserved.

The pain turned to a glow quite quickly and it took a day or two for the bruising to go, but Shane did not feel he had been unjustly beaten. He had committed a small crime and had been properly punished for it and Mr Ferguson was right, there was no need to ever mention it again.

So long as Shane behaved in future.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in September 2015

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

The sight Paul saw through the bay window of the house pulled him up sharp.

There, laid stretched across the stout wooden dining room table with his chubby backside in the air was Charlie, the eighteen-year-old son of Paul’s landlord.

And, standing there waving a crooked-handled cane in the air was the landlord himself, Mr Jarvis.

Crack! The cane swished down into Charlie’s stretched grey Terylene. The boy jerked as the rattan hit home.

Paul stood in the courtyard transfixed. There was Charlie, dressed in his school uniform: dark blue jumper with yellow braiding around the edges, grey trousers and black shoes, laying stomach down over the table, gripping the far edge with both hands for all he was worth.

Crack! Mr Jarvis, Charlie’s father, was an elderly man, easily in his sixties, Paul reckoned, whacked the cane down again. This was no token tap, Mr Jarvis was trying his damndest to cause real pain and from what Paul could see, he was succeeding in his task.

Charlie stoically gripped the table for all he was worth. The cuts of the rattan were searing into his rump, but he wasn’t about to let his dad know this.

Swish! Crack!

Paul was a twenty-year-old second-year university student, interested in his studies and no real trouble to anyone. He had moved into the boarding house owned and run by Mrs Jarvis at the start of the academic year about five weeks ago. It was a small boarding house, in fact a large domestic house built in Edwardian times when families were larger and servants had to be accommodated. Today, it was the Jarvis family home, with three spare bedrooms let out to paying guests.

The “family” consisted of Mr Jarvis, his much younger wife, Suzanne, who was probably in her forties and the aforementioned Charlie. Paul didn’t know much about the family really. He spent his days at the university and often stayed late into the evening at the library. Apart from at breakfast he hardly ever saw any of them.

It was just before five o’clock now and Paul was rarely at the house at this time, so he couldn’t be sure if what he was witnessing was a regular occurrence or something special.

Swish! Whack! The cane cut into Charlie once more. Then it was all over. “Get up,” Mr Jarvis ordered. Charlie sprung to his feet. He didn’t need telling twice. “Get out of here.”

Paul entered the house just as Charlie sprung out of the room red-faced (and surely red-bottomed as well) before taking the stairs two at a time and bounded up to his bedroom.

Paul had to pass the open door of the lounge to make his way up the same stairs to his own room. It was then that Mr Jarvis spotted him. “Paul, come in here please, I want to speak to you about last night.”

Last night? Actually, more like early this morning. Paul immediately understood. He had come back to the house at some God-awful time, pretty drunk. He was so drunk he couldn’t quite remember how he had got back from the club and what time it was.

What he could remember was that he was locked out. Drunk as he was he was able to get his key in the lock, but it wouldn’t open the door.  Someone had put the locks and chain on the door from the inside.

To cut a long story short, Paul had to hammer on the door and ring on the bell to get attention. He probably woke the whole house up for all he knew. Maybe he did, but it was Charlie who padded down the stairs and opened the door.  He was befuddled when he saw Paul standing on the doorstep demanding admission. But in no time Charlie assessed the situation and poked a lot of fun at Paul, whom he considered to be too much of a “goody-goody,” an assessment he reached after only a day of two of Paul’s tenancy.

Mrs Jarvis, who saw to the security of the house at night, hadn’t deliberately locked Paul out. He was never out late at night; she just assumed he was tucked up in bed as he usually was. But this time, no. Paul had been to the library last evening and somehow got in with a group of other students, some of who were in his Eng. Lit. class. They went out for a “quick drink” and one thing led to another (Paul had no idea how).

Paul was never like this, but at university that day he met up with different students who had seen him and the others last night and they pulled his leg a lot about just how “out of order” he had been. Surprising himself, Paul realised he quite liked the idea that people might think he was a bit “naughty.”

“Come in here Paul,” Mr Jarvis said and without further ado, Paul obeyed. As he entered the lounge, Paul’s eye caught sight of the cane, lying on the table where it had been used to thrash Charlie only moments before.

Paul tried to avert his eyes from the cane, but they kept flickering back as Mr Jarvis started on a lecture about his bad behaviour the night before. Paul wasn’t paying that much attention. How did the old man find out? he wondered. Had he woken up the whole house or had Charlie split on him. It was beginning to finger Charlie for the deed, because Paul had seen Mr Jarvis briefly at breakfast and he hadn’t said anything about it then.

“Mrs Jarvis can’t be disturbed in her sleep; she has to be up early in the morning to deal with the guests.” Paul shook awake from his meandering thoughts. There was a pause and he realised he was supposed to say something in reply. “Sorry”, was all he could think of. And immediately realising this was probably inadequate, he added, “It won’t happen again, I promise.”

It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg.

Paul was mesmerised. Mr Jarvis was an old man, not very tall. Charlie might even be taller than his dad, Paul reckoned. He was dressed in a crumpled suit with a worn woollen waistcoat that stretched across his expansive stomach.

Tap, tap, tap, went Mr Jarvis as he continued with his lecture and Paul could not keep his eyes off the cane, something his landlord noticed.

“Sorry Mr Jarvis, it won’t happen again, I promise,” Paul said.

“I certainly hope it won’t. Do you know what Paul I think we need to give you some incentive, something to think about the next time you feel the temptation to be so thoughtless.”

It was now Mr Jarvis’s turn to look at the cane. Then he caught Paul’s eye and immediately knew the action he was going to take. He tapped the cane against his leg rhythmically.  “You know, I think you would benefit from a dose of what Charlie just had.”

Paul could feel his blood rushing and his face blushing. Clearly, Mr Jarvis was expecting him to reply, but he stayed silent. His heart was racing, but he didn’t quite understand: was this because he didn’t want a thrashing, or because he did?

He could not take his eyes off the cane as it flicked against Mr Jarvis’s legs.

Now was the time for decisive action. Mr Jarvis raised the cane and pointed with it to the far end of the room. “Go stand by that chair.” Later, recalling this moment, Paul couldn’t remember if he hesitated and thought about making a run for it. What he could remember was that meekly he did as instructed.

The armchair was standing with its back to the wall; it was quite a small affair, with a low back and with cushions and a padded back in an awful floral print pattern. Paul stood facing it, not quite sure what should happen next. Was he supposed to face the chair and clutch the cushions, or even bend over the arm? No, surely not, he was too big to fit across that.

He needn’t have worried, Mr Jarvis had it all worked out. “Turn the chair round so that the back is facing you.” That was that sorted. Paul was going over the back of the chair.

He was no expert in such things, but Paul could see that given the circumstances: a small armchair and a five-feet-eight-inches young man, this was the best modus operandi for a caning.

He did as he was told. “Stand there,” the landlord pointed with his cane to a spot behind the chair. Paul obliged. “Bend over.”

And that was that: the start of something big. Paul might not have been able to articulate clearly his thoughts at that moment but for the next two years, while he remained a student and a paying guest at the Jarvis home, he would be under the control of his landlord. And, if ever the time came to tell the truth, Paul would have to admit, he loved every swish of it.

Paul was over the chair. The cushion was soft in his hands. He could feel the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers were very tight. He was both frightened and excited.

Mr Jarvis took a couple of steps back to take in the scene. Paul was much different than Charlie. Whereas his own son was large and chubby, Paul was smaller and wiry, with not an ounce of fat on him anywhere.

Rather like the chair he was presently bent over, Paul was a bit “old-fashioned” himself. He was wearing blue trousers with a pinstripe (hardly the attire of the typical student), with a tank-top slipover jumper and a white shirt. His hair was cut in a crew cut that wouldn’t look out of place in the US Marines.

Paul was absolutely the right size for the chair. Mr Jarvis saw that the chair back rested comfortably in the groove of Paul’s stomach and his arms stretched out perfectly to grasp the front of the seat cushion.

Paul lay in position ready for the first whack. He felt intense embarrassment, but somehow it was exciting. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth. This was going to hurt!

Paul was perplexed, he couldn’t be sure if he hated what was about to happen, or loved it.

He didn’t have time to reach a conclusion. He felt a light tapping of the cane against the trousers stretched across his left buttock. He turned his head back slightly to see his landlord, his master.

“Face the front. You’ll soon find out what’s going on back here.”

He could hear a cane being swished. “Here we go, we’re under starter’s orders,” Paul thought.

Swish! Crack! The first cut thudded into the seat of his trousers. Paul felt it, but it didn’t hurt so much.

Swish! Number two. Paul felt it, but with a sense of disappointment: it didn’t hurt enough.

Numbers three and four were harder. Was the landlord trying to find Paul’s level of tolerance?

Swish five! Gasp. Yes, that’s better. That one actually hurt.

Swish six! hit the spot on the crease just where the bottom reaches the top of the leg. That one definitely hurt. More like that please.

But, now the punishment was over. “Stand up boy.”

Paul could feel blood rushing to his face; his cheeks were scarlet with the effort of being face down over the chair. His buttocks tingled, but in no way could he claim to be in pain. The mild caning he had received was as nothing compared to Charlie’s thrashing. Oh, how he envied that boy.

Mr Jarvis eyed Paul thoughtfully. “Stand there.” He swished his cane at a spot in the centre of the room. “Will I need to ever do that again?”

Paul mumbled, “No, Sir.” He thought that was what was expected of him, but truly he wanted more.

Mr Jarvis misread the situation magnificently. “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Is that clear young man!”

Paul’s pulse raced: yes, it was very clear.

“Off to your room!” It was a curt command. Paul took the stairs two at a time in his haste to inspect the damage.

Back in his room, it took mere seconds to whip down his trousers and pants. Twisting his body in front of the mirror he was able to inspect his buttocks. What a disappointment, his usually white cheeks were a little pink, but he doubted that he would have any bruises to speak of.

He lay on the bed, his trousers and pants still at his ankles and relived in his mind the past twenty minutes. The landlord’s chubby son had his arse whipped with a thin rattan cane. The Paul, himself, a “goody-goody”, according to Charlie, had himself been across the chair, for his first-ever dose of corporal punishment.

As he conjured up the picture of Charlie writhing under the lash, Paul felt his cock stir. Leaning back into the pillows, he closed his eyes and imagined himself bent across the chair, tight trousers stretched across his buttocks.

His soldier stood to attention and Paul hawked a gob of spit into the palm of his hand and worked it up and down his shaft. The words of his landlord seemed to echo around the room, “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles.”

Paul gasped as his palm sped up and down; up and down.

He shot his load and gasping for breath he lay back, closed his eyes and began to devise a plan for the next time.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in August 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Padded Armchair

z used drawing armchair (1)

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

Jack Wilks stood about two feet from the padded armchair. At any moment he would be bent across its back, face in the soft cushion with his bottom high for the schoolmaster to whack it with a heavy slipper.

He deserved it, of course. He knew that: he had no argument. The rule was simple and all the boys understood it. If you got less than sixty percent in a class test you got the slipper. It was as simple as that. It didn’t matter whether you were in the first form, or like Jack the Upper Sixth. He wasn’t alone. His friend Jenks had just been dealt with and Tony Wheeler was standing outside the room in the corridor waiting his turn.

Jack wasn’t a fool. In fact he was quite bright but he hated history and nothing Mr Hendry, the history master, did would change that. If he paid attention in class and read the text book he would pass his tests with ease.

But, he didn’t so here he was about to get a sore bum: again. It wasn’t the first time he had received corporal punishment and it wouldn’t be the last, it was that sort of school.

Jack looked across at Mr Hendry and only half listened to the lecture he was delivering. “Idle, blah blah; lazy. blah, blah.”

Mr Hendry wasn’t like most of the other masters at the school. He was only twenty-five and had a round open face that naturally liked to smile. Jack had seen Mr Hendry one weekend in town at a coffee shop. He was dressed in fashionable summer shorts with a flower-patterned shirt. He was with a young lady (was it his girlfriend, or wife even?) and they were laughing and joking and having fun. They seemed very relaxed in each other’s company. No one would have guessed he was a schoolmaster at crusty old St Francis Independent Grammar School.

Mr Hendry looked very different now. He was dressed in a dowdy checked sports jacket and big baggy dark grey trousers. And of course the traditional academic gown, the schoolmasters’ uniform at St Francis. Mr Hendry had learned a long time ago that masters did not smile, and he had perfected a sour expression that fell somewhere between a man who had both a pain in his stomach and a very unpleasant smell under his nose.

“Bend over the chair Wilks.”

Jack took a pace forward and eased himself into the soft padding of the chair. It was a huge leather chair with cushions at the back, the seat and even the arms. His body sank into the padding and his face rested on the seat. He put his hands forward and held on to the edge of the cushion and noticed there were two sweat stains in the shape of palms.

From his vantage point Wilks could watch Mr Hendry make his final preparation. The slipper he was to use was a size-ten white plimsoll, the type all the boys used in physical training classes. It was rare for schoolmasters to use the slipper at St Francis, the curved-handled rattan cane was the preferred weapon of chastisement.

Herr Mueller, the German PT instructor, was the only other master Jack could think of who used the slipper: and, he used it all the time. Only yesterday in gym class he had lined all the boys up to begin physical jerks and warned. “From now on, any boy who talks gets ten swats.”

Of course, the class joker Morrissey couldn’t resist saying, “Jawoll Mein Führer!” in a stage whisper.

 

Later that day when Morrissey showed off his marks (tight cotton PT shorts are no protection), he reckoned, “Do you know I think he enjoys whacking our arses.” It could be, and, one might suspect, Morrissey enjoys giving him the excuse.

Mr Hendry gripped the slipper tightly in his right hand and gave it a few smacks down into his left palm, to get its measure. Then Jack saw the master disappear behind him. The teenager was still wearing his green school blazer and the master had to manoeuvre it up his back a little away from the area of immediate interest.

Satisfied that the target area was clear, the schoolmaster gripped Jack’s trousers at the waist and tugged them up tight so that they performed a ‘wedgie’ emphasising the shape of his buttocks and the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

Jack took a deep breath and screwed his eyes tight and waited for the pain to begin.

The boys often discussed whether the cane hurt more than the slipper; Jack always voted for the cane. In truth, it depended on who was inflicting the punishment. The cane tapped lightly into fleshy buttocks is unlikely to hurt as much as a size-ten rubber-soled plimsoll whacked in at great force.

Mr Hendry believed in corporal punishment and knew for it to be effective it had to be painful. So he was of the ‘whack it in with great force’ school of disciplinarians. And, that’s exactly what he did to Jack.

Six swipes crashed into his upturned buttocks. He pushed his face down into the vast soft cushion to stifle any yelps he might need to make and gripped onto the front of the armchair for dear life.

Every whack hurt him, but he had to admit, it did not hurt so very much. He was sore, but very quickly the throbbing would turn into a warm glow. His buttocks would be tender for a while and he would have some bruises to show off to his classmates, but they would wear off pretty quickly.

“Stand up boy.”

Jack was red faced from being bent upside down over the chair, but there were no tears. Despite the number of times he had been beaten at school, the experience always embarrassed him and he kept his head down to avoid looking at his punisher. He even avoided eye contact when the master handed him the punishment book to sign.

Then, with his bottom tingling, Jack was dismissed with the words, “Send in the next boy.”

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My Drunken Nephew

z used drawing brush hold otk (4)

 

“What that boy needs is a damn good spanking!”

That’s what the Police Constable said to me as he delivered my eighteen-year-old nephew drunk as a skunk to my doorstep the other week.

The police officer told me Denny had been out around the town with his mates and they all had a skin full of beer. That’s when the trouble started. They were running and shouting through the town centre, urinating in shop doorways and just making life as unpleasant as possible for everyone.

The police officer explained that kids like Denny were a right pain in the arse, so they should be given one in return. I got the feeling he used that line on a lot of the parents he delivered drunken kids to. He told me the problem was that there wasn’t much the law could do with louts like Denny. The youths who stole cars or beat people up could get arrested and go to court. They were proper villains. But the courts were too busy to deal with the likes of Denny and there wasn’t much they could do at the police station except give the lads a good telling off and that was no use at all. The only people who might do any good were the parents.

I wasn’t Denny’s father, but I was his guardian. Denny was the son of my brother Alan and his wife Sarah. They had moved with Alan’s work to some god-forsaken place in Africa that nobody had ever heard of, but because Denny was in his final year at school, they all thought it was better if he stayed behind.

It seemed to me like a good idea at the time, and my wife was thrilled. We have two kids of our own. Susan has left home and is working in London and my son Paul is in his second year at university. He’s staying at a small guest house run by a married couple. I met the landlord, Mr Jarvis, once when I dropped off Paul at the beginning of term. Jarvis told me Paul was a delightful tenant and he enjoyed having him at the house. Jarvis reckoned it was all down to discipline. I think he thought I must have tanned Paul’s bottom a few times as a kid.

I didn’t think much of what the policeman said to me about spanking Denny, until a couple of days ago, when I had to suffer a repeat performance. It was a different officer who brought him home this time after Denny and his pals had been up to their old tricks again. This time the officer just dumped him and left, without offering parenting advice.

Maybe they were right, maybe Denny did need a belting or something, but let’s be honest it was hardly likely to happen. Even if I wanted to teach him a lesson, he’s eighteen years old and hardly likely to let me put him across my knee.

Even so, I couldn’t get the idea out of my head. He definitely needed discipline. What could I do? I couldn’t stop his pocket money, I didn’t give him any. He had his own money from a Saturday job at the supermarket. And, I feared that if I tried to ‘ground’ him and stop him going out at night he would only defy me and where would we be then?

No, if there was to be discipline, it needed to be a spanking. But how could I do it?

I knew the basics of how to do it, of course. Who doesn’t? My dad spanked me when I was a kid, but not when I was eighteen. I loved my dad (I still do) and he loved me. I deserved the spanking and I genuinely believe it did me some good.

Just as I genuinely believe a spanking will do Denny some good. He deserved a spanking without doubt, but the problem was how could it be done?

I’ve never spanked anyone in my life. Both my children were well behaved and they were hardly ever naughty. Even as teenagers they didn’t give me and my wife a hard time. Paul was a scholarship boy at a posh grammar school, so maybe they taught him how to behave. His landlord Mr Jarvis was quite wrong to think I had too much to do with Paul’s discipline.

So, how would I go about spanking Denny? Most people know by instinct how to whack an eight-year-old, but how do you do it to a young adult?

I surfed the Internet to see if I could find an answer. You won’t believe this but there are lots of websites out there about spanking. It seems there are adults spanking each other all the time. Often they are about wives spanking their husbands for not doing the chores and such like. Some people do what they call ‘role play’ where one person dresses up as, say, a ‘headmaster’ and another is in short trousers and school uniform ready to get six-of-the-best. Who would believe it?

I didn’t get very far in my search for help with spanking Denny. The websites were for people who wanted to be spanked, not for out-of-control teenagers who definitely did not.

There was one site that gave advice on how to get someone across your knee who didn’t want to go. It seems you stun them by slapping them across the face and while they are figuring out what happened you pull them down over your knee. Alternatively, you pull them by the hair and drag them over the knee that way.

This wouldn’t work with Denny, it looks like it would be test of strength and I’m not betting man but I’m sure Denny would win that one hands down.

But, I could try I suppose. The only other thing would be to get someone strong to help me and we could drag him across a table and then beat his backside black and blue.

But supposing I do get him ‘in position,’ how would I spank him? Whacking him with my hand would be a waste of time and for it to have any chance of being effective the spanking would have to be administered on the bare.

So, I needed an implement. As I say I never used corporal punishment on my children, so I don’t have canes, tawses, paddles and so forth about the house. I would have to use something whose main purpose in life was not to put bruises on buttocks.

The belts I have to hold up my trousers are all thin and no use at all. Slippers are no good. Modern ones have plastic soles and won’t hurt a fly. These days you couldn’t even buy plimsolls, they’re all trainers or ‘sneakers’ as the Americans insist on calling them. They have thick soles and they are so big it’s impossible to get a grip on them so you can take a swing.

We had plimsolls at my school and we feared them. We were a secondary modern and teachers didn’t use the cane, but every one of the male teachers kept a plimsoll ready to whack your backside. You were likely to get it any time up until the end of your fourth year, but after that you got away with bad behaviour. Maybe the teachers were scared of trying to hit the older boys, in case they hit them back.

I think it was different in the physical education classes where the slipper was used right up until a boy left the school. I did hear tell that the sixth-form boys used to whack each other on the bare bum with the slipper as punishment if they played badly in a match: missed an open goal at football, that kind of thing, but that might just be a rumour.

So I needed to find something at home. After walking around each room of the house looking in cupboards and drawers, I found the perfect thing: a clothes brush. It’s about nine inches long, including the handle. It’s a kind of oval shape and two inches wide at its broadest point.   I picked it out of the drawer and was disappointed it didn’t feel very heavy. But, after making sure, my wife was nowhere near to see me, I tested it out by bending over and whacking my own backside with it a couple of times. Even wearing trousers and pants I could feel the thwack of the brush hit home and a warm glow appeared where it connected with my bum.

Good, it could hurt Denny a lot, even on his trousers, but only if I could get a good swing at him. I reckoned if he went across my knee I would have an excellent opportunity to give him some serious buttock-pain.

So, that was the plan, Denny across my knee for a spanking with the clothes brush.

It was only at this point I remembered Alan, my brother. He was Denny’s father, not me. Maybe, he should be the one to administer the spanking; it’s a father’s job (a duty some would say) after all. But that was physically impossible; he was on the other side of the world in Africa. Even so, it was only right that he should know what was going on with his son.

I emailed Alan and told him all about what Denny had been up to: the drunkenness, the urinating in shop doorways and the obnoxious behaviour. I told him what the policeman had said about Denny needing a damn good spanking. I stopped short of telling him I had resolved to do just that the next time there was a ring at the doorbell and it was the police with Denny in tow.

I didn’t hear from Alan for three days and then I received an email from him that astonished me.

Alan was appalled to hear my news; Denny had been in trouble like this before and had promised his dad it would never happen again. It was only because of this promise of better behaviour in the future that Denny had been allowed to stay in England and not accompany his mum and dad to Africa. This was news to me, I hadn’t realised that the family wanted Denny to go with them, but he had resisted, and was only allowed to stay with me on the strict understanding he would be a good boy.

But, it was what Alan wrote next that stopped me in my tracks. Yes, Denny most certainly needed a spanking. He, Alan, had spanked him in the past, and here’s what took my breath away, the most recent spanking was earlier this year after Denny had been drunk and obnoxious.

And, Alan, continued, would I mind awfully spanking Denny now for the past two offences. He knew I probably hated the idea and never spanked my own kids etc etc, but, obviously, Alan couldn’t do it himself.

I should, Alan, said, make Denny take down his trousers and underpants and bend across my knee. He then advised that I whack the bare backside until it was a dark shade of cherry. Don’t be worried, he advised, if Denny’s buttocks bruise, they did this quite easily, but the bruises went away after a day or two.

And, the implement I should use:  a bath brush. A bath brush? That idea hadn’t occurred to me, but I knew that the one we had was a flimsy plastic effort that would break in two the first time I whacked it across Denny’s hide.

Alan, finished his email by saying that if I consented, he would send an email to Denny instructing him to accept whatever punishment I chose without fuss, or he (Denny) would be on the next plane to Africa.

Emails flew across continents at the speed of thought and later that day Denny and I were in the lounge of my house. It’s a modern room, dominated by a picture window affording a view of a typical English garden: that is a lawn with flower beds. All very conventional, as was the room itself which had a suite made up of a Chesterfield couch and two gargantuan leather chairs, with footrests and rockers.

None of the chairs were particularly suitable for the job in hand so I brought one in from the kitchen. No arms, a straight back and just the right height for me to take Denny across my knee.

Denny stood in front of me, head bowed, choosing not to meet my eye. I hadn’t realised it until now, but I had never really looked at the boy before and it was as if I saw him for the first time. He was about five-eight or five nine, slim in build, probably a bit of an athlete since he didn’t appear to have enough spare fat on his body to fry a sausage.  With his head bowed, I had a perfect view of the top of his head. He had very dark hair, slightly waved and it looked a mess. It probably cost a small fortune at the barber to affect such a style.

Quietly I told him to look at me and I began to tell him all his misdeeds. He looked at me square in the face and told me he was sorry; he had been a bad boy; he would mend his ways. His open face was almost angelic. I wondered if the girls called him ‘cute’. Butter would not melt in this boy’s mouth. Who would not believe him? I nearly fell for it, but I knew he had probably said all of this before to his dad and the moment dad was out of the way Denny was back in the pub and causing mayhem. Either he was congenitally unable to keep a promise, or he told bare-faced lies. And as boys over the centuries have learned: bare-faced lies can lead to bare-bottomed spankings.

I let him say what he had to say, all the time looking at him standing, hands behind his back, every inch the contrite naughty schoolboy. But there was something a little odd about him. It was the way he was dressed. He wore short trousers about two inches above the knee, tight at the waist (he needed no belt to keep them up) in some kind of military green colour. He wore the shorts with long grey socks pulled up to an inch below the knee. The outfit was completed by a dark blue and light blue checked shirt, with long sleeves and unbuttoned at the neck.

It made him look younger and more boyish than he really was. It also looked like he had stepped out of the pages of history, maybe from the 1940s. He was in all probability dressed in the height of today’s fashion, what would I know?

And me? I’m not quite fifty, thickening up a bit at the waist, but not gone to seed. My hair is receding, but you couldn’t say I was bald. I was dressed as I always am when not at work in brown corduroy trousers with turn-ups; a white shirt with a military striped tie, topped off with a jacket from an old suit of mine where the trousers had long ago worn away and been discarded. Light blue socks and brown brogue shoes completed my ensemble. Come to think of it, sartorially Denny and I were probably made for each other.

The preliminaries were over. I sat in the kitchen chair back upright and feet planted firmly on the ground, just as illustrated in one of the websites I had visited.

“All right let’s get on with this,” I said calmly. I’d read you weren’t supposed to bark out orders like a sergeant-major. Denny looked up at me, with no real change of expression. He was still contrite and not seemingly in any way afraid.

“Please take down your trousers,” I said, maybe taking the website instructions a little too literally. Denny looked down at his midriff and found the clasp that was fastening the waistband of his short trousers and unhitched it. To my surprise the short trousers had a four buttoned fly rather than a zipper. The short trousers fell to his feet. He wasn’t wearing shoes and I could see that he wasn’t sure if he should step out of the short trousers altogether.

“You may leave them where they are,” I said. I noticed he was wearing white briefs, presumably part of the ‘1940s’ look. “Now come here please and bend over my knee.” Denny did as instructed without hesitation. He approached from my right took one step, put his hands forward and leaning against my left leg lowered himself over. I was surprised how heavy he was. Not that he was fat, but I suppose I had forgotten that no eighteen-year-old boy was going to be featherweight in this position.

Denny settled himself into position without instruction. He was clearly more experienced in this situation than me. He placed both palms about three feet apart on the parquet floor in front of him. He leaned forward making me lower my left leg to accommodate him. He wriggled slightly, not in an attempt to escape punishment, but in order to raise his bottom higher, with the groove below his stomach resting on my right leg. I noticed his white briefs fitted him like a second skin, there were no wrinkles. A combination of expensive designer pants and a pert and muscular bottom combined to make the perfect target for a spanking.

But we weren’t ready yet. The spanking was to be on the bare. I learned from the websites that the spanker should always be the one to bare the bottom (don’t ask the lad being punished to pull his own pants down). You had to ‘talk’ the underwear down. That is you grasp hold of the waistband and when the lad realises its bare bum time you say something like, “Oh you weren’t expecting this? Well. I hope you’re feeling ashamed,” Or, “But it’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare.”

I went for the first option. It must have sounded daft to Denny who knew all along he was going to get it on the naked bum.

I took hold of the top of his pants, but with him prone on top of me it was harder to remove them than I expected. I tugged at them until it was clear that I could move the back of the pants down a bit, but if I was going to take them down to the knees, which was my intention, I would need to pull the front of the pants down too. I was beginning to wonder if I should order him to stand up and pull down his own pants after all, when Denny came to the rescue. He lifted his body up enough from my knees to allow me to slide the pants down. Mission accomplished.

And, now I had Denny bare-bottomed across my knee. I am far from an expert on men’s bare bottoms, but I did think something was wrong here. It was just too smooth. The skin was smooth and the bottom round and there wasn’t a hair to be seen. Without thinking I placed my right hand on his right buttock and caressed it. No, I was sure there was not a hair to be felt.

As my hand moved across his bottom I moved the flesh a little and there, hardly visible at first I saw something suspicious. With my curiosity aroused by this I rubbed a little bit harder on both buttocks and it was unmistakable: there were some very faint thin lines running the width of his buttocks. Surely, only one thing could have caused such marks: Denny had been given a caning some time recently and the welts had not quite cleared away. At first thought this was probably not unexpected given Denny’s record as a naughty boy, but caning was abolished in schools here about twenty-five years ago, long before Denny was even born.

I decided now was not the time to ask questions about previous punishments, I had my own task to perform. With my left hand I reached for the tail of the boy’s shirt and pushed it four or five inches further up his back. His pants were resting at his knees and he was naked from there to almost his shoulders, I had my target.

I raised the brush and brought it down on his left buttock, then again on the right. I had learned that you should start a spanking softly and build up a momentum until the whacks were reigning down hard. I couldn’t quite remember why now. I did know that Alan had told me to beat him until he was the colour of deep cherry. WHACK! WHACK! I set about my task.

Denny held his position steady. His bum was resting high on my right leg and his back and head were sloped at a near perfect forty-five degree angle towards the floor. His buttocks were perfectly placed for my aim and I had no difficultly slapping away with the brush. Six on the left, six on the right, then one in turn on each; two at the top and two at the bottom of each buttock.

Denny was taking it magnificently, I thought. His bum was turning a darker red now and his breathing was harder. He was in some pain, I assumed, but he wasn’t about to show it to me. I’d read that once you started the spanking you had to keep on going silently until you were ready to finish. By ‘silently’ I mean you didn’t keep scolding the naughty boy, he might want to be noisy, hollering for you to stop and so on and that was to be expected, encouraged even. But apart from the breathing Denny was taking it stoically.

From my vantage point way above him I looked down at his head. His hair was flopped over his eyes, a fringe falling towards the floor. I saw a silent grimace as my brush hit his buttocks time and again. He screwed his eyes a little in pain, but no sound came from his lips and no tear from his eye.

I remembered what I’d read on the websites: start gently and work your way up to a climax (so to speak). Now was the time to move up a couple of gears. I raised the brush as far above my head as I could and with all my strength brought it crashing down.

Yeowwwwww! Victory. I repeated the move. Again, and again and again. Bruises were forming on both of Denny’s buttocks. Bang! Bang! Bang! Now it was his thighs, then the tops of his buttocks, then the fleshy bit in the middle. Denny was yelping in genuine pain. His legs were kicking out and he was wriggling from side to side across my laps like he was trying to do the crawl swimming stroke.

At last I had him. I just kept on whacking. I thought at any moment he would break free and probably run from the room. But, I hadn’t realised how much he did not want to be sent off to Africa. I whacked him and whacked him. It hurt, he hated it, he was in agony now, but he stayed in position the best that he could.

The buttocks were cherry now – all over, apart that is from the bits that were deep blue with bruises.  Whack! Whack! on and on I went.

He was sobbing now, uncontrollably and it seemed at least without shame. We were on the home straight but not at the finishing line quite yet.

I broke the Internet rule and started scolding him. Whack! That’s for all the people you insulted when you were drunk. Whack! That’s for the people who had to clean up your filth after you urinated in their doorways. Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the police you swore at. Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for bringing police to my front door and shaming us with the neighbours Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s for all the bad things you have done, that I never got to find out about.

Whack! Whack! Whack! That’s to remind you that I have permission from your father to spank you whenever I feel you need it and if you don’t obey me you’re on the next plane to Africa.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

He was gone. Sobbing into the parquet floor. Broken. I stopped, but I didn’t let him stand. I left him there across my lap, his once lily-white bottom scarred, bruised and blistered. He was still kicking his legs, I’m not sure why. I’d stopped hitting him some time ago.

I left him there a few more moments and let him up. His face was as red as his backside. Snot was running down his chin. Unsteadily on his feet he reached down and pulled up his pants and short trousers.

I sat in my chair the clothes brush still in my hand. How were you supposed to end a session? I couldn’t remember reading anything about that. My father would have walked silently from the room and next day told me he loved me.

I didn’t have to worry about this for long. As soon as he was dressed, Denny was straight out the room and I could hear him running up the stairs to his room.

I rose, picked up the chair and took it back to the kitchen where it belonged. I put the brush in the drawer of the kitchen table and put the kettle on. I needed a cup of tea.

Later, I would email Alan to tell him how it went.

But, I wasn’t sure if I’d mention the cane marks.

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

“Go to the garage, there you will find some canes, select one and fetch it back here.”

I must have looked dumbfounded, or at least confused, because he repeated the instruction; but more slowly this time.

“Go. Fetch. A. Cane.”

Then he added, “I’m going to give you an old-fashioned English six-of-the-best.”

My name’s Alain and I’m from France, near Paris. At the time I was a nineteen-year-old French student at one of the many language schools in a town on the English south coast.

I was staying with the Martins while I was learning English at the school. The idea was that as well as studying at the school you stayed with a family and improved your conversational English.

The school also said you would learn a lot about English ‘culture.’ But, I don’ think this was the kind of ‘culture’ the school had in mind.

Corporal punishment: wasn’t this what they called the “Vice Anglais”? Or was that homosexuality?

My English wasn’t so bad and I did understand what he had said. I mean I understood what the words meant. But, I didn’t understand entirely: surely he wasn’t going to beat me with a cane?

I left the room and exited the house through a side door. It was a large house with many bedrooms, standing in its own grounds. The garage which was big enough to accommodate at least two large cars was about fifteen metres from the house.

The Martin family seemed very wealthy, so I don’t know why they took in foreign students as lodgers; they certainly didn’t seem to need the money.

I got to the garage. I looked around and spotted a stack of flowerpots. Right close to them were several cane sticks, the kind that you would use to support young plants as they grow. I picked one up in my hands. It was about a metre long and very rigid. I tried to bend it, but it was impossible. I tried one or two others, but they were all the same.

Mr Martin had instructed me to choose one, so I did and made my way back to the house.

I went into the lounge room and handed the stick to Mr Martin who had been waiting impatiently for my return.

“What the Hell’s this?” he snatched the cane from me. ‘That’s not what I sent you for.”

Now, I really was confused. Hadn’t he said “cane”? Yes, he had. He said a cane so he could give me six-of-the-best. If he hadn’t said that what had he said?

“You bloody idiot!” He was going a shade of purple now. I think he was losing his temper.

“Come here!” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed me by the left ear, pulling me out of the room and towards the garage.

He moved at some pace and I was losing my footing as he dragged me across the gravel forecourt and into the garage. I protested all the way that I had done what he had instructed me: I’d fetched a cane.

“There, you fool. I said fetch a cane.” He pointed to the far wall of the garage.

Heck! How had I not noticed? You couldn’t miss them.

There hanging on separate hooks were six canes. I knew right away there was only one purpose you could put these things to – and it had nothing to do with gardening.

Each cane was hanging by its curved handle. In France they don’t use canes for punishing naughty boys, but I recognised what these were immediately. I’d seen pictures of them in dirty magazines you could buy in town. Some of the boys at school had bought some and we roared with laughter when we saw pictures of men dressed as ‘headmasters’ thrashing the bare bottoms of young (and some not so young) women dressed as schoolgirls.

Still holding me by my ear, Mr Martin marched me through the garage to the wall. Close up I could see that each of the canes was slightly different from all of the others. Some were longer or thicker or slightly darker in colour to the others.

Mr Martin let go of my ear and reached out and took one of the canes from its hook.

He swished it once or twice menacingly in front of me.

“Is this the one you want?”

He put it back on the hook and selected another, also swishing that to test its flexibility.

“Or this one?”

I didn’t know what I was expected to say, so said nothing.

“What’s the matter? The cat got your tongue?”

I must have looked completely bemused.

“That’s what we call an English idiom.”

Mr Martin was getting angrier by the second.

“OK, let me choose.” He looked along the row of canes and took, what seemed to me, a medium-sized stick – neither too thick, not too thin.

“Let’s try this.” Mr Martin said, swishing it three times.

My eyes were transfixed on the cane as he raised it way above his shoulder and swished it down with some force through the air.

“Yes, this is a beauty. You’ll certainly remember this one for a long time to come.”

With that he gripped my ear once again and we retraced our steps back to the lounge where I was to be caned like a naughty schoolboy.

“Stand there and face me.” He pointed to a spot on a rug in front of the fireplace.

I did as I was told. With my back to the fireplace I could see the whole room. It was huge; I’d seen whole apartments in France smaller than this one room.  At the far end was an expensive dining room table big enough to accommodate ten chairs. To my left were three massive padded armchairs and on the right a huge padded couch.

Mr Martin stood in front on me gripping the cane just below the handle. I tried not to look at it. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

I was completely overawed by Mr Martin. He had what they call ‘presence.’ He was probably six feet tall and well built. He must have been close to 50 years old, so was going to seed a little bit. His hair was thinning and going grey and there was thickening around the waist. But when he was in a room you noticed him.

I felt dominated by him. I’m not a tiny fellow myself. I’m probably a couple of inches shorter than Mr Martin, but I’m solidly built. If you wanted to make fun of me you might say I was the shape of an oblong. My shoulders and hips are roughly the same size and my beefy buttocks added to the illusion that I my body had no curves. But, I’m not fat, it’s all meat.

Add to that a round head and two sturdy legs and that’s me.

Mr Martin swished his cane idly as he spoke. “What have I told you about curfew?”

To cut a long story short Mr Martin was annoyed that I had been staying out late, sometimes not getting back until gone 2am.

The town had lots of language schools so during the summer months there were thousands of young people. That meant lots of bars and clubs were available to us. And, clubs and bars meant girls.

Nobody (except perhaps Mr Martin) was complaining about this. The English girls loved the foreign students and we were happy with that. Unfortunately I didn’t get much action; they preferred the Latin types, with the snake-hips and the lovely little derrieres.

Mr Martin had complained to me at least three times before about getting home late. I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. I had my own key and when I came in I was always quiet so as not to disturb anyone.

But, Mr Martin didn’t see it that way. He imposed a curfew: home by 11pm on school nights and midnight on Fridays and Saturdays.

I did try to stick to the rules, but I suppose the temptation of the bars and the girls was too much for me. Last night I had left the house at 8.30pm and hadn’t returned until nearly three.

And Mr Martin was having no more of it.

He started lecturing me about the need for discipline, but I couldn’t take it in. I had no real idea what he was talking about. It was as if I wasn’t even there.

He said something about self-discipline and if you couldn’t do that someone else would have to do it for you.

It was then he swished that cane again and pointed to the couch.

“I want you to stand by the couch.” I walked across the lounge and stood in front of the couch, just as you would if you were about to sit down.

“No, Idiot! That’s not how you do it.”

He grabbed me by the ear once again and dragged me to the side of the couch making me face one of the arms.

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

Could I have made a break for it and ran out of the house? Looking back, maybe I could have. No, maybe I should have, but I promise you I was utterly unable to fathom what was going on. It could just have easily have been someone else there instead of me that afternoon

Thwack!! He swished the cane bringing it down full force on the padded back of the couch. The noise was so loud surely Mr Martin’s neighbours would have heard it and wondered what was going on.

“I said bend over!” He put his hand on the back of my neck and pushed me and I fell forward across the arm of the chair. I could smell the leather as he pushed my face into the cushion and ordered me to stay still.

I didn’t know it but Mr Martin took some time to take in the view. What he saw was a beefy nineteen-year-old bent across the arm of the chair. My bottom was high over the arm and my knees were bent in slightly towards the couch, affording him a perfect target of my ample backside for the swing of his cane.

I was wearing very short shorts and as I bent across the arm the cotton stretched so tight Mr Martin got a perfect view of the outline of my underpants beneath. It was a hot day but I could feel a breeze across my naked legs.

And, then he thrashed me. I heard the swish and heard the cane land moments before I felt the actual pain. How do I describe it? You could say it was like having a white-hot poker placed on your bum, but I’ve never had that happen so I don’ know.

I do know that he put tremendous force into each stroke. After the second one hit I threw my head back to scream out, but Mr Martin pushed my face back down into the cushion. I could taste the leather.

“Do that again and I’ll take your shorts down and we’ll start all over again!”

I believed him. Cut three hit me somewhere below the other two and I had no control: my body wriggled from left to right across the arm, but I stayed down. I could feel welts forming across my bum and the tightness of my shorts and pants across my stretched buttocks increased the sensation.

Stroke number four was higher at the top of the buttocks and somehow didn’t seem to hurt quite so much.

Five and six came immediately one after the other. I was howling, sweat ran down my back but it was my shirt front that was soaked. Then I realised I had been bawling my eyes out and tears were everywhere.

My six-of-the-best were over, but my ordeal wasn’t. Mr Martin threw his cane down to the floor and began raining hand spanks across my bottom. He was out of control, slapping at great speed and with so much force that each time his palm connected with my bum it set the thick welts on fire.

I tried to get up, but Mr Martin used his left hand to hold me firmly over the arm of the couch, while with his right he continued to crash into my bottom.

I don’t know how long he continued with the hand spanks. I didn’t pass out, but I did lose all sense of time and place.

Eventually, he let me up and with no ceremony I rushed out of the room and taking the stairs two at a time dashed to my room and threw myself on my bed, sobbing out of control.

A few weeks later, when I was making my statement to the police, I said I couldn’t explain why I had let him beat me. I was just very confused, I said.

It seems Mr Martin did this to all his lodgers. One of the students he spanked last year mentioned it to his dad when he got home (it just came out naturally in a conversation, it wasn’t meant as a complaint) and the police were called in.

Mr Martin appears in court next week. They say he could do jail time.

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com