A brush with Uncle Herbert

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“Right lad, this is what’s going to happen,” it was Uncle Herbert speaking to me, “You are going to come and stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot just to the right of where he sat, “You are going to take down your trousers and bend across my knee.”

My incomprehension must have been obvious because he went on by way of explanation, “I’m going to spank you.” And to emphasise his point he brandished a heavy, wooden utility brush with metal bristles.

I was too confused to say anything. He glowered at me and said, “You have been asking for this from the moment you arrived.”

I stood rooted to the spot, totally confused. Uncle Herbert wanted to spank me. Me, a nineteen-year-old warehouseman.

“I told you from the start I would treat you like the rest of my young employees. No exceptions.” He waved the brush at me as he spoke. I shook my head violently as if to clear it. Was I hearing this correctly? He wanted to spank me like the rest of my young employees. I stared across the room. His eyes burned into me. He was entirely serious. No, I told myself silently, this was not happening. I’ll wake up in a minute and it would have just been a weird dream.

I had been working at Uncle’s import-export business for about a month. I’d left school the year before without any qualifications to speak of and had been in and out of dead-end jobs; shelf filling, burger flipping, delivering leaflets door-to-door, that sort of thing. My mum made Uncle Herbert take me on. I suppose blood is thicker than water and he felt obliged.

I loathed my job; it was mostly loading and unloading vans or stacking shelves. Once they discovered I was the boss’s nephew, the other guys hated me. They would stop talking among themselves when I came near. They knew lots of different ways to avoid work, and I think some of them might have been stealing from the warehouse: they were afraid if I found out I’d grass on them.

I started skiving off on my own. I sometimes went around the back of the building to look at porn on my phone. I didn’t realise there was CCTV all over the place; Uncle Herbert soon found out about me. He hit the roof and threatened all sorts of things. But he didn’t say anything about spanking me! Mostly, it was, I’ll tell your mum!”

“I said, come here and bend over my knee!” Uncle Herbert growled, still waving the huge brush about. I should have told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine. And, he could do the same with his stinking job. I could have done that but Mum would’ve gone mental. She got annoyed when I lost my other jobs; what the Hell would she do if I walked out on Uncle Herbert. I couldn’t do it. He was family. Mum might have thrown me out the house and told me to go live in a cardboard box for all she cared. I know Dad couldn’t wait to see the back of me. My younger brother Nathan wouldn’t mind either; he’d get the bedroom we shared all to himself.

“Now, Lad!” Uncle Herbert snarled, “Or do I have to come over there and get you?” He half raised from the chair. I could see he meant business. “C’mon Uncle,” I whined, “You cannot be serious?” I sounded like that brat tennis player what’s his name? The one with the frizzy hair and attitude. “I’m nineteen years old, not nine,” I told him. The moment the words came out I knew I had made a big mistake.

He leapt from the chair and was across the room in a flash. He grabbed a hunk of my hair and tugged me back to the chair. I howled as my feet slipped across the shiny floor. “Eff off!” I yelled, only I used the proper F-word. That was another bad move. He let go of my hair and swiped the back of his hand across my chops. I very nearly fell to the ground with the shock. Tears prickled the backs of my eyes.

“Now, are you going to do as you’re told?” He gripped my wrist and sat himself back down on the chair. “Get those trousers down, or I’ll do it myself,” his face contorted and the end of his large, pointed nose immediately turned purple.

“I.. I…” I spluttered. The sting on my face still tingled. He reached across and grabbed the waistband of my trousers and pulled me closer to him.

“No. No,” I wailed, slapped his hand away and pulled myself back. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself. I would take down my trousers so Uncle Herbert could spank me with his brush. All I can think now is I must have thought it was preferable to having an older man strip me.

I stood uneasily in front of him. To be honest with you, Uncle Herbert is quite a weedy feller; he’s so thin he could easily fall down a drain cover. He sat in an old wooden chair and spread his legs; they looked like two pipe cleaners. I must be a head taller than him and I’m not fat (well not obese, anyway) but I am beefy. I did some boxing at school and I’ve got muscles. You know, if he tried something on with me in a dark alleyway one night I could knock the bejesus out of him.

I stood meekly in front of him. My hands hardly shook as I found the buckle of my belt and did the business. I had the front of my trousers open before it really hit me. I was going to take down my trousers for him. I mean how gay is that? Can you imagine it, a strapping nineteen-year-old willingly taking down his trousers and then bending over the knee of a much older man so that man could spank him on the seat of his underpants with a brush. You couldn’t make it up.

But that’s exactly what I was doing. I held on to my open trousers. I suppose this was my last chance to leg it. I could zip up and run and Uncle Herbert wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. But my life flashed before my eyes. At least the foreseeable future did. Would Mum really throw me out of the house? Yes. No. Maybe. I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t look at Uncle. I closed my eyes and let the trousers slip over my thighs and they snagged at my knees.

“All the way. Down to your feet,” Uncle Herbert said grimly.

My eyes were still closed, I parted my feet and the trousers slipped down my shins and made a puddle over my trainers. I stood stock still like an idiot. I really did not want to do this. Let my Uncle spank my behind with a brush. “Bend over my knee, lad,” Uncle Herbert was stern.

I opened my eyes and looked down at his puny knees. For one moment I absurdly wondered if he could take my weight across his lap. I think Uncle Herbert misunderstood my hesitation. He thought I had chickened out. “Doh!” he cried and he grabbed my left wrist and pulled me forward. I lost my balance as I toppled forward over his lap. I went too fast and my shoulder hurt as my hands hit the floor, wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Well, I exaggerate there. But I did hurtle face-down over Uncle’s knees. I had to spread my arms wide and dig my palms down into the ground to hold myself steady.

I couldn’t see myself (I was staring at the wooden floor) but I could tell my big bum was high over Uncle’s right thigh and my knees were slightly bent and the tips of my toes brushed the ground. I wore tight boxer shorts and Uncle shocked me by gripping the waistband and tugging so hard that he gave me a ‘wedgie’: they rode right up into the crack of my arse.

He paused for a long minute. I’ve no idea what he was up to. I felt a slight tapping on the fleshiest part of my left bum cheek. Then there was an almighty whack! noise. I felt the sting maybe a second later. The noise bounced around the room and it felt like he had pressed the iron Mum uses at home into my bum. It took my breath away. My mouth opened and my lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as I just about managed to stop myself yapping.

z used otk pants chair cp4men

Before I got my breath back Uncle had hammered that heavy utility brush into my other cheek. Then he pounded it across both cheeks, high, low and across the peaks without mercy. Now, I was yelping, like a little whipped puppy. My hips rose and fell, my arms flailed about and my legs kicked. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap. He seized me tightly around the waist and held onto me for grim life. I wasn’t going anywhere while he blistered each and every square centimetre of meat (and my bum had quite a lot of acreage). When he had done toasting that he went for the backs of my thighs. My shorts were just that short, so he was walloping me on the bare. I wailed like some demented banshee.

I did the swimming thing again and my head went up and down. If I’d been closer to the ground I would’ve headbutted it. I was in so much pain and my heart was racing so fast I could not breathe. I thought for a moment I’d pass out. Still Uncle Herbert battered my bum. When would he let up? It seemed the answer was Never. On and on and on he spanked me. I’m quite a big, strong guy as I’ve told you, but even I wondered how much longer I could take it.

My bum had been battered and bruised so much I swear it had gone numb. I could hear the thwack as each new whack hit me, but I couldn’t feel a thing? Does that make sense? It shouldn’t, but I tell you it’s the truth. Uncle Herbert must have got wind of this because he laid a few more over my red-raw thighs.

I lost all sense of time. I might have been across his knees for half an hour for all I know. The spanking just went on and on. At last (thank the Lord!) he stopped. Bam-Bam-Bam. “Okay. Get up!” He let go of my waist and I lay still face down for a long moment catching my breath. It was only when Uncle Herbert started to push me off his lap that I came to. I tumbled to the floor and stayed there on my hands and knees. From that position I saw Uncle get off his chair and walk over to a hook on the far wall and hang up the brush. I climbed to my feet and nearly fell back to the floor as I stumbled pulling my trousers up.

“Get back to work, you’ve wasted enough of my time,” Uncle Herbert grumbled. I didn’t need telling twice. I stumbled through the door. Outside I saw Harry, one of my fellow workers. He had a huge grin across his face. He gave me an exaggerated wink. “Nice one, son,” he chortled. He had heard it all. My humiliation would soon be the talk of the warehouse. Without a word, I staggered down the hall. I needed to get away. I needed to calm down. I needed a smoke. I cursed myself that I wasn’t carrying any weed.

Things improved a lot after that. I didn’t work any harder and Uncle Herbert had me across his knee again before too long, but Harry and the guys now knew I wasn’t the boss’s pet and they treated me like one of the gang from there on in.

 

 

Picture credit: CP 4 Men

 

Other stories you might like

The boys in the mailroom

Fr. Pat’s paddle

Wishful thinking

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Skipping night class

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The public bar of The Three Fishers was not too busy. Frank and his neighbour Andy liked it that way. When it was crowded you couldn’t hear yourself talk. They didn’t usually drink on a Wednesday night but their wives were out on a “hen night” with the girls, and well, while the cats’ are away.

The Three Fishers was not the classiest pub in Brocklehurst, some might even say it was a bit sleazy. But, the beer was cheap and you never got troubled by the Salvation Army selling War Cry.  “Look,” Andy said, for something to say, “How old do you thing those kids are?” He nodded to a group of youngsters playing the machines and sipping lager slowly so it would last them all night. “About fifteen, I’d reckon.”

Frank gulped some beer. “You know what they say; you know you’re getting old when policemen and kids in bars look young.” It wasn’t a very clever thing to say, but conversation between them had slowed for a time. There’s only so much you could say about Liverpool’s chances of winning the Premier League.

Each of them stared into space for a while, enjoying the company, but also the quiet. Suddenly, Frank gagged on his beer as a mouthful went down the wrong hole. In between coughing and spluttering, he nodded towards the bar, “Look that’s my Harry and your Marcus.” Andy turned to see, his face reddened. “What the ….?” He was genuinely angry. Harry and Marcus were Frank and Andy’s sons.

Andy looked at his watch, “What’s the time. Not even nine. They’re supposed to be at night school. It doesn’t finish until ten.”

Frank had recovered his composure, “What are we paying for if they’re skiving off?” The boys were apprentice plumbers. It had cost both men a pretty packet to get them signed up by a big firm. The pair would be made for life once they qualified. More so now all the Polish plumbers were being sent packing back home by the government.

So far the boys had not noticed their dads. Frank stared aggressively across the pub. He noticed the way they were chatting casually with the barman. “Damn it!” he fumed, “See that! Looks like they’re regulars in here. Do they do this every week?” Andy shook his head: how could he possibly know?

Frank drained his glass. “What are we going to do?”

“I’ll have another pint, thanks,” Andy waved his glass in the air.

“No.” Frank’s face had turned puce. “About them. What are we going to do about the boys?”

Andy smiled wryly, “Well, I think we both know the answer to that.”

Frank headed for the bar, empty glasses in hand, “I’m going to have a word.”

Harry didn’t see his dad until it was too late. Suddenly, he was standing over him. “Good evening lads,” Frank sneered. “Fancy seeing you here. Night class cancelled was it?”

It was hard to tell which of the two eighteen-year-olds blanched the paler. Marcus almost dropped his glass. He glanced across at the exit and for a second contemplated making a run for it. “You dad’s over there,” Frank pointed back at Andy who was watching the proceedings with half a smile across his face. Andy waved mockingly.

“But Dad …” Harry tried to form a sentence. He was tongue-tied. It wasn’t the drink affecting him; he’d only taken two sips from his lager. It was the confusion. His dad never came to The Three Fishers; that’s why he and Marcus used it. They’d been coming for weeks.

Frank didn’t want to make a public scene. He had no cause to. He leaned in to the two boys and menacingly said, “You are going to put down those glasses and go to my house. Wait their until we get there. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a question, it was an instruction. Frank expected it to be obeyed, and it was. Without hesitation, Harry and Marcus pushed their way to the bar, deposited their glasses among the slops there, and sorrowfully trudged to the door. Only once they were standing outside in the cold street did either utter a word. “We’re for it now,” Marcus spoke for both of them, but that didn’t stop Harry from agreeing, “Too right.”

Frank took the full glasses back to Andy and told him what he had done. “Good. Well, I know what I’m going to do. What about you?” Andy attacked the foam on his beer leaving himself with a white moustache. “I think we are in perfect agreement,” he said looking at his watch. “We shouldn’t leave it too late. Best to get it done before the girls get back.” They both sipped their beer thoughtfully.

Harry and Marcus walked the streets slowly, even though it was a cold night and the wind was bitter. “What will your dad do?” Marcus whispered.

“Same as yours, probably,” Harry replied, although he knew there was no “probably” about it.

“Bugger,” Marcus moaned. “What a life.”

The house was cool and in darkness when they arrived. The boys’ spirits were so low they made no effort to get the central heating going. They sat in the gloom. “How long do you think they’ll be?” Marcus sighed.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Harry snapped.

“Yeah, well …” Marcus paced the room. During the coming hour neither boy settled. The television stayed off and they made no effort to lighten their despair with music or other entertainment. Shortly before ten-thirty the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their fathers.

“Bloody hell, it’s like an icebox in here,” Frank shivered theatrically and headed upstairs to use the bathroom and switch on the heating. The boys stood, not daring to catch each other’s eye.

“That’s better,” Frank said, when he returned, rubbing the palms of his hands together to get his blood circulation going. “In here, you two,” he gestured to a sizeable open-plan room and led the way. Two sorrowful eighteen-year-olds followed with Andy bringing up the rear.

Frank stood, his feet apart and his hands behind his back. The two lads stared down at the expensive wooden flooring. “I’m not even going to dignify this with a lecture,” Frank spoke forcefully. He had appointed himself spokesman for the two fathers. The two boys looked sheepish. “We’ve spent a fortune on your apprenticeships and look how you repay us.”

Marcus’s eyes glazed. Frank’s words sounded like a lecture to him. “And, it’s not the first time is it?” Frank’s question went unanswered. “Is it!” he thundered. He was rewarded with muffled “Noes” from the wretched pair. “No, it’s not,” Frank confirmed. “Well, we’re not putting up with it, are we Mr Hutchins?”

Andy had not expected to be addressed by this name and missed his cue. “Are we?” Frank repeated. Andy’s response was to shake his head vigorously and intone, “No!” That proved to be his only contribution to the reprimand.

Frank was ready for action. “Pull up a stool,” he nodded at a set of low wooden seats and took hold of one himself. Andy followed his lead. Frank sat down on one. Andy did the same on his. “Right,” Frank gestured to his son Harry, “Stand by me.” Harry glanced at his pal Marcus but the boy did not see him, his eyes were transfixed at the floor.

“You too,” Andy snapped his fingers. That got Marcus’s attention. Soon both boys were in position. They made no objection. What objection could they make? They were in the wrong. Their fathers had right on their side. Matters had to take their course. That’s what made the world go round.

Frank spoke quietly but with authority, “Take down your jeans.” Harry’s eyes pleaded with his father. It was bad enough to be spanked by his dad, and worse to have it done in front of his friend, but jeans down was going too far. Embarrassment was one thing; humiliation was something else. Harry said none of this. Meekly, he fumbled with the belt of his jeans. They were baggy and the moment he un-popped the button at the waist they started to slide down his thighs, even with the zipper still fastened. They snagged at Harry’s knees which he bent slightly and this was enough to send them travelling down to his feet.

Harry stood by his dad’s side, looking down at the old man. “Bend over my knee.” Frank had a beer gut and this drooped over his lap, offering very little room for his son to present himself for a spanking. Harry eased himself down. Like father, like son, Harry was well padded himself and struggled to keep his balance. He pressed the palms of his hands into the floor and his toes rested comfortably on the ground behind him. His big bum was angled over his dad’s knee but he could feel himself slipping. Frank gripped him around the waist and this kept Harry steady.

Marcus was an altogether trimmer boy. His chino trousers clung to his slim body and once he unfastened the belt and zipper he was obliged to roll them down over his hips and thighs. He left them bundled at his knees. His dad Andy had some “middle-aged spread” but there was sufficient room for Marcus to offer his body comfortably across the lap.

The two dads faced each other. Frank gave a signal and they began spanking in unison. Synchronised spanking is not yet an Olympic sport but were it to become one the two dads might be in the running for Gold. They quickly got their rhythm. The stereophonic sound of two hands slapping two bums resounded around the room.

Although the two dads had eye contact, the boys did not. That saved them much embarrassment. But, Marcus realised that by looking to his right he had a perfect view of his friend’s fat bum, pointing in the air, the palm of Frank’s hand sinking into the flesh with each slap.

z used otk twosome Magic spanking factory (4)

An over-the-knee hand spanking on the underpants for eighteen-year-old boys is not much of a punishment. No matter how hard, or how rapid the slaps, after a short while it becomes apparent that Dad’s hand hurts far more than Junior’s bottom.

“Bah!” Frank wheezed. He stopped spanking. Andy did the same with Marcus. Was this the end? Andy hesitated, waiting to take his cue from Frank. He saw the tip of Frank’s tongue dart out of his mouth and wriggle around his lips. With that task completed Frank gripped the elasticated waistband of Harry’s pants. “These really don’t serve much purpose at a time like this,” he grinned as he tugged the pants over the fleshy mounds. Harry wriggled his bum in protest, “Nooooo,” he mouthed but not loud enough that his dad would hear.

Across the way Marcus saw Harry’s bottom was covered with dark-pink blotches. He could see right into his crack. But, his attention was diverted; his own father was pulling down Marcus’s pants. A cold breeze from somewhere wafted across his naked flesh.

The two dads resumed their synchronised spanking. Frank was delighted to see the imprint of his fingers reproduced time and again across Harry’s trembling buttocks. It encouraged him to wallop the boy harder and faster. Soon he was ahead of Andy. It was like a race where the horses keep together in a bunch until the final two furlongs when one of them makes a dash to the finishing line. Andy increased his speed and chased after Frank, ignoring Marcus’s gasps and yaps. He spanked with renewed vigour. He had found his second wind. He could spank all night, if need be.

So, they went on. Two sets of buttocks glowed. Smack, smack, smack. The noise from the slaps and the associated yaps and yelps filled the room. They didn’t hear the front door open. They didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway.

But, they did hear a woman’s voice, “Frank, I brought some of the girls back for a night cap.” They heard that and then the banshee-like screeches of a half-a-dozen women.

 

Picture credit: Magic Spanking Factory

Other stories you might like

Double trouble – his first time

The party’s over

Why me?

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Bring back the cane

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Scenes we’d like to see (or wishful thinking)

 

The staff lounge of Albion Academy was quiet, it was lunchtime and most of teachers were in classrooms working their way through piles of paperwork. Monthly assessments were due. Mr Whitfield, merely months away from his pension was not one of them. He sat in a battered armchair, eyelids closed, his hands serenely placed on his lap. Opposite him sit Mr Hancock, still in his twenties and restless, leafed through the Daily Telegraph. The headlines disagreed with him and he became increasingly irritated.

Suddenly, he cried, “Ha! Look at this! Says here more than seventy percent of people surveyed want to bring back the cane in schools.” Whitfield suppressed a sigh. He would not get involved. Unperturbed by the silence, Hancock continued, “Even the majority of the kids want it,” he said with a note of triumph. “Quite right too!”

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools thirty years previously, before Hancock had been born. The impending anniversary had prompted renewed discussion about the state of discipline in the land. Hancock was “old guard.” He believed in law and order and respect for elders and betters (especially schoolmasters).

“It would do this place a lot of good,” he spread his arms to encompass the room so Whitfield would understand he meant Albion Academy. “Used to be a fine school. A grammar. Best in the town. Respected. Now look at it.”

Whitfield would not be goaded. Could he pretend to be asleep? Hancock sighed as if he carried the burden of the entire universe on his shoulders. “No discipline nowadays, none at all.” He pored over the details in the news report. “Pah!” he exclaimed, “Everyone wants it except the damned politicians. Well if I had my way …”

He hesitated. Perhaps it would not be wise to share with colleagues what he would do if he had his way. Several of them would be making their way to the job centre to seek new careers; along with half the administrators and all of the politicians. School masters (as he insisted on thinking of himself, although all his colleagues were happy to be called “teachers”) were given no support these days. What discipline was there? How were they supposed to punish misbehaviour? If you wanted to put a kid in detention you had to send a note home to their parents. Then, maybe – just maybe – two days later they might condescend to turn up. Or not. Then what could a teacher do? Nothing. The next step up on the discipline ladder was “exclusion” – they used to call that suspension in the good old days. Or even expulsion. No chance today. The school didn’t want that on its record. Exclusions meant the school was failing. Well, it was bloody failing. It was churning out nothing but hooligans. He could cry. Albion Academy sold itself as a school with “standards.” It was enough to make Jesus weep, Hancock thought.

Hancock looked to the past. He knew his history. When Albion had been a grammar school, and not so very long ago, it had been a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline: the cane! Today the school had to follow the national curriculum; where was Latin and Greek? (not that Hancock himself spoke either of these dead languages). They still had a uniform but back in the day when it was an all-boys’ school they wore short trousers even in the third form until they were fourteen. Proper shorts. Neatly tailored trousers that came to just above the knee. And long socks too. They could do a lot worse than bring that uniform back. If Hancock had his way they’d all wear short trousers, right up until the day they left school. The seniors as well. They might be eighteen years old (some of them even nineteen), but they weren’t adults. Not yet. They were children and they ought to look like children. These days they were indulged to think they were adults; that they had “rights”. They had no rights, they only had responsibilities and the first of these was to do as they were damn well told by their elders and betters.

Whitfield eyes remained closed and his hands rested on his lap. He had no idea of the turmoil inside Hancock’s head. The young man’s heart was racing, anger was rising in his body. He clutched the newspaper tightly. Why, he thought, if he had his way. What he would do. The boys would wish they had never been born. And he would start with those louts in the school football team.

Albion had recently won a new (but apparently prestigious) soccer tournament among schools in the region. Hancock thought members of the team had become insufferable. They had been superior and self-centred (like all kids at the school) before but their success took this to new levels of arrogance; nobody could claim to be their equal (let along superior) and Hancock, the young teacher still making his way at the school, suffered more than many.

This was Hancock’s first appointment. He was the youngest member of staff. When he first arrived some of his older colleagues had joked injudiciously that were he to dress in a school uniform he would be indistinguishable from the senior lads. One or two of the elder ladies “mothered” him a little, to his intense irritation.

With the staff seemingly patronising him Hancock took to exerting his authority on the kids. He could succeed with the youngest; to them a man in his twenties was ancient. The older ones had no such illusions. Mostly, they ignored him; the sixth-formers – the most senior students in the school – disdained him. Students!, how Hancock hated that word. They were not students, they were school pupils.

Now, he read the newspaper story once more; carefully. Yes, bring back the cane. What he wouldn’t do then. Those sixth formers would catch it hot. Especially the players in the football team. Especially that Bagnis; the worst of the lot: arrogant, self-opinionated, cocksure. Hancock’s breathing hardened. He closed his eyes to concentrate, he could see it now.

Bagnis stands in the gymnasium changing room, he is alone. There is a faint aroma of stale sweat about the place that he hardly notices. Hancock is in the adjacent office. He peers through a connecting window, not hiding his loathing for the eighteen-year-old. Oh, how he needs taking down a peg or two. Well, now is the time. The law has been changed (no, better, it had never been passed. The cane had never been abolished. Schoolboys still knew their place.)

Hancock turns away from the window. Standing snugly in one corner of the room is a tall thin cupboard. It is unlocked. There is no need for a lock as no boy in the school will dare go near it. Hancock opens the door, he does not hurry. He has all the time in the world, Bagnis is going nowhere, not until Hancock says so. There are five whippy punishment canes hanging on a rail, of various lengths and thicknesses. Each one has the traditional curved handle. Above them on a shelf are three leather straps; two of them are traditional Lochgelly tawes, one cut with two tails, the other with three. The tawes so beloved by Scottish schoolmaster and equally loathed by their charges are ancient and worn. They belong to Mr MacTaggart, one of Hancock’s older colleagues. He alone uses them, the preferred weapon of choice among masters is the cane. That said, a huge, size twelve dirty-white, rubber-soled gym plimsoll is propped up against the back of the cupboard. The sports masters use this for instant punishments on the younger boys.

Hancock handles each of the whippy rattan canes in turn. He is familiar with them all, but he likes how they feel in his hand. He takes one out of the cupboard and flexes it between his hands. As always it bends easily and forms an almost perfect arc. He replaces it and takes out a second. This is a little denser than the first. It is dark-yellow and not quite three feet in length (Hancock refuses to use metric measurements). It is as thick as a pencil and his heart judders when he swishes it through the empty air. This is his favourite. Lovingly, he tucks it under his arm and quietly closes the cupboard door. He turns and once more looks through the window. Bagnis is standing, hands behind back, eyes downcast at the floor: it is, Hancock agreeably notes, the perfect naughty-boy posture.

He strides through the connecting door into the changing room. Bagnis raises his head; his face pales, thereby acknowledging that he has seen the cane under Hancock’s arm. It confirms his expectations: corporal punishment in the form of a caning is imminent. Hancock slips the cane into his hand and taps it gently against his own right leg. Tap-tap-tap. Bagnis cannot help himself, his eyes hypnotically follow the cane.

Hancock looks at Bagnis. He is the Bagnis of today; he is tall and beefy. He has a clear open face and his arrogant hazel eyes shine. He still has the tattoos down his right arm. It is Bagnis; but he is also altogether different. His hair is cut short in a conventional style. He is dressed in a traditional grey shirt and a darker-grey sleeveless pullover. He wears mid-grey, tailored short trousers. They fall to a couple of inches above the knee. Hancock smiles. The uniform gives his fantasy a nice touch. This is school uniform as it should be.

He swipes the cane through the air and then wobbles it in front of Bagnis before he turns and points across the room. Standing there is a leather vaulting horse. It is about four feet off the ground with four short and sturdy wooden legs. Hancock has no idea when it became a tradition at the school for masters to deliver beatings in the changing room. It may have been a matter of necessity. Masters do not have their own private studies and the staff lounge and classrooms are too public. The gymnasium is in a building of its own tucked away from prying eyes. Its location adds to the drama; a boy sent to wait at the gym is left in no doubt about his fate.

Bagnis is one such boy. He is to be beaten. He knows this. Mr Hancock is in charge. His word is law. When he says “bend over”, then over you bend. No questions asked; no quarter given. It is what it is. There is a reason they are called school masters.

“Stand by the horse, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. Sorrowfully, but submissively, the egotistical sixth-former takes the three steps needed to cross the room. He stands close to the horse, towering over the worn, leather top. His breathing is heavy. So is Hancock’s. Hancock swishes the cane once more and then thwacks it across the top of the horse, a thin line imprints into the leather. Hancock allows himself a slight smile. He knows Bagnis will soon have similar lines throbbing across his backside. It gives him great satisfaction to know Bagnis also knows this. “Bend over, lad, you know how it’s done.”

Indeed he does. This is not his first thrashing and although he only has a few more weeks until he takes his exams and leaves Albion for ever he knows it probably won’t be the last. He lets the tip of his tongue run over his dry, cracked lips before he leans forward. Because he is tall and the horse relatively low, Bagnis spreads his legs wide so his stomach can rest comfortably across the leather top. He grips the two legs of the horse and concentrates on the dirty carpet beneath his nose. He tries to block out his surroundings. He knows the best way to get through this ordeal is to try to ignore what is going on.

Hancock allows Bagnis to settle. The boy’s buttocks jut out at a perfect angle and height. The tail of his shirt has slipped out of the waistband of his short trousers and although there is no practical necessity to do this, Hancock takes hold of both the shirt and the pullover and pushes them further away from the short trousers. This exposes an area of naked flesh on Bagnis’s lower back. Although he tries not to notice, Bagnis feels exposed; more vulnerable.

z used gym short trousers cane horse (3)

Hancock grips the waist of the short trousers and tugs vigorously. Now, they fit snugly and each buttock cheek is clearly defined under the material. Bagnis stays still. He shuts his mouth firmly and closes his eyes. He is ready. But, Hancock is not yet. He takes up a position to the left of the boy and taps the cane across the centre of his buttocks. The cane is warped through age and use. The far tip is frayed. Hancock cannot be certain his aim will be true. He saws it across the lower part of the cheeks. The short trousers have back pockets and Hancock fears this will afford Bagnis protection from the sting of the rod. Hancock knows he must make the strokes land below these and well into the sensitive “sit spot” where the cheeks meet he thighs. If his aim is true Bagnis will reignite the welts every time he tries to sit down for many hours to come.

Hancock saws some more, then he lifts the cane away from the seat of Bagnis’s short trousers and raises it in an arc. The ceiling is high and there is plenty of room to swing a cane. He holds it for a second at its highest point and then using all the strength in his upper body, he flogs it with great force across the lower buttocks. A thick line instantly digs into the stretched material of the short trousers. Bagnis reaction is imperceptible, the merest shudder in his shoulders speaks to the intense pain he feels. He bites down on his lower lip and tries to ignore the inferno in his bottom.

Hancock grimaces. He expects more reaction. Clearly, he thinks, that stroke was not hard enough. Maybe, he tells himself, he carelessly struck the pocket. He takes careful aim, lower this time. The cane rises and falls, the noise of the thwack of rattan cane across stretched backside rolls around the room. Bagnis wriggles his hips and grips the legs of the horse. If he dared open his eyes he would see his knuckles are turning white. His once pale face is now scarlet as surely are his throbbing buttocks beneath the short trousers.

Hancock is disappointed. He wants to hear Bagnis howling, to see him wriggling and writhing across the horse. He wants him to beg for mercy. Hancock lays a third stroke across Bagnis’s by-now quivering rump. It is the hardest yet. Bagnis thinks his  head is about to burst open. His buttocks are flailed. Can he feel blood weeping from the wounds? With magnificent self-control, he stifles the yells his body demands he must make. He will not cry out, he will not give the schoolmaster the satisfaction.

Hancock delivers six of his best. Never before in his short history as a schoolmaster has he flogged a boy so well. Still, Bagnis appears unperturbed by the ordeal. Hancock’s temper rises. So, he says, the boy is so arrogant and insolent that even a caning won’t change him. “Stand up, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. With difficulty, because it feels like his backside is blazing like the fires of Hell, the boy climbs to his feet. He leans against the horse to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He fears he will not be able to walk unaided from the gym. The room swirls around him so that he hardly hears the words spoken by his master.

“Well, Bagnis,” Hancock snarls. “It seems that beating didn’t quite have the intended effect.” He wobbled the cane up and down in front of Bagnis before pointing it at the boy’s middle. “Take down those shorts, and bend back over.”

Hancock steps away from the horse and looks on at the boy from a distance. Without a murmur, but with unsteady hands, the eighteen-year-old reaches for his belt. It takes several tries before it is unfastened. The button on the waistband is even harder to deal with. “Bah!” Hancock ejaculates with genuine anger, “Get on with it. Do you want me to come over there and take them down for you?”

The threat spurs Bagnis on to success. The top of the short trousers are undone and the fly buttons burst when he tugs. They lunge to his feet. Hancock is delighted at the sight before him. Bagnis is wearing gleaming-white, cotton Y-front underpants. “Bend over, boy.” The cane wobbles some more.

Sore and aching, Bagnis turns his back and with super-human effort he flops back over the horse, once more gripping the wooden legs. Hancock notices the pink botches in the otherwise white underpants. There are also two heavy, dark-red stripes throbbing in the bare flesh below the smooth cotton. Hancock smiles. In the distance he hears a bell ringing. Afternoon school is about to start. He flexes the cane and saws it across the fleshiest part of the bum.

“Come on Hancock, wake up, are you sleeping?” It was the voice of Whitfield. “Classes are starting. You mustn’t be late. The little buggers will destroy the classroom if you’re not there.” Hancock threw down the newspaper with disgust and dragged himself to his feet.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other ‘scenes we’d like to see’ stories are here

 

Other stories you might like

“You wanted to see me sir?”

House rules

You, over the knee for the paddle from Pop

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Restrictions

new 5

solo couch by eitan

Wilf Hepplewhite took his latchkey and opened the door of his house. He stood in the hallway for a moment. His ears pricked. There was a faint, but unmistakable sound coming from the lounge. Someone was in the room. Carefully, so that he could not be heard, he closed the door. He put down his case and hung his coat on a hook, all the time craning his neck towards the sound. It was indeed unmistakable. He knew the room should be in silence. Furtively, he tip-toed towards the room. He stood outside and put his ear to the door. “Damn and blast,” he said to himself as his annoyance rose. He threw open the door.

Jake, his eighteen-year-old nephew, was slumped on a couch, feet on a table, watching television. The boy barely registered him as he entered the room and stood angrily. “What the b…” Mr Hepplewhite stammered, as he gesticulated wildly at Jake.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he found his voice at last.

The teenager merely glanced at his uncle. “Watching television,” he just managed not to add sarcastically, “what does it look like?”

His uncle’s face darkened. “You’re on restrictions. Did I say you were off restriction?”

Jake straightened himself up in the chair.

“And take your feet off the table,” Uncle Wilf growled. Reluctantly, Jake did so, silently glowering.

“And what’s this?” Uncle Wilf spotted what looked like bread crumbs. “What are my rules about eating in this room?”

Jake shrugged his shoulders and twisted his mouth. “I didn’t make a mess.”

“What. Are. My. Rules?” Uncle Wilf did not disguise his irritation. “What did I say?”

Sulkily, Jake replied, “No food.”

“Right. No food in this room.”

Uncle Wilf spotted a glass on the floor near Jake’s chair. “What’s this?” He had a clear suspicion as he swooped and grabbed it and wafted it under his nose. “I don’t believe it!” he stormed. “Whisky, you’ve been drinking my whisky,” he waved the glass in Jake’s face and repeated loudly, “I don’t believe it!”

Jake stayed slouched on the couch, trying to ignore his uncle, still with his eyes set on the television screen. “Doh!” Uncle Wilf was close to exploding. He grabbed the remote from the table and swung round to face the TV. The picture faded. He turned back to his disobedient nephew. “I cannot believe this,” he said again, struggling to find the words to match his anger.

“You’ve been nothing but trouble since I took you in.”

“Snot my fault,” Jake said sullenly. “I didn’t want to come.”

Uncle Wilf’s ire was rising. “I can’t wait until you finish school and you can join your mum and dad in their new home up north.” He paced the room, failing to control his rising temper. “I told you when you came there would be rules. It’s not much to ask to treat me and Aunt Sarah with respect. You are rude to her all the time. You treat this house like a hotel. She is not your chambermaid!”

The boy stared at the blank screen.

Uncle Wilf continued, “Your bedroom is like a pigsty and you leave a mess all over the house,” he waved his arms angrily. “Now, you don’t respect me when I punish you. Only yesterday, I said you weren’t to use the television.”

Jake grimaced, “I thought that was only for yesterday.”

“Did I say it was only for yesterday?” and when Jake remained silent, Uncle Wilf’s voice rose an octave, “Did I!”

“Well, no,” Jake reluctantly conceded.

“No,” Uncle Wilf paced the room, his heartbeat racing. “I’ve had just about all I’m going to take from you, Jake,” he raged as he walked. “What you need is a darn good spanking.”

Jake’s face fell, “A spanking?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s just what you deserve. A good old-fashioned spanking.”

“You’re joking right?”

“Do I look as if I’m joking,” Uncle Wilf stared intently at the teenager, still slumped. Then he began to unbuckle his belt.

Jake blushed, silenced for a moment by the sight of his uncle taking off his wide, thick leather belt and doubling it up. He was getting ready for action. He was not bluffing.

“B… but I’m too old to be spanked,” Jake blustered at a loss for words. “You.. you can’t.”

“Ha!” Uncle Wilf held the belt between both hands and snapped it making a loud crack! “Can’t I. We’ll see about that young man.” He glared at Jake. “Stand up.”

The boy slunk back on the couch. “No. No, you can’t,” he wailed.

“See if I can’t.” Uncle Wilf reached over Jake, gripped him by the wrist and tugged hard. The boy skidded to his feet. “Stop it. You can’t,” he wriggled and then swore hard.

“Right. That’s it.” Uncle Wilf kept his grip on Jake and sat down on the couch. It took a second to pull the still-protesting boy down so he was spread-eagled across his lap. “Stop that!” Uncle Wilf held the wriggling boy down. “I’m going to blister your backside and you are going to take it. Understand!” It was an instruction, not a question. “If not, you can pack your bags and be out tonight. I don’t care where you go. You’re not staying here.”

He did not wait for a reply. Jake was wearing “leisure pants” with an elasticated waist. Uncle Wilf took a fist full of material and tugged hard. The boy’s trousers and underpants came down together. Jake protested loudly but he was no longer wriggling so hard. Soon, his buttocks were bare. Uncle Wilf gripped the boy around the waist and hauled him so that his chest was laid out along the couch.  His legs dangled behind him with his knees straight and toes hovering above the carpet. Like this his bare cheeks were displayed at an angle across Uncle Wilf’s thigh. They were perfectly positioned for the spanking Jake was about to receive.

“You’ve been asking for this for a long time, young man,” Uncle Wilf said as he took up his belt and carefully doubled it. It was wide, thick and heavy and would make a perfect punishment tool. Jake’s bare bottom twitched and the cheeks clenched. They were firm and round and made to be spanked. Uncle Wilf took a firm grip of the boy’s waist so he was pinned down. He raised the belt high and with as much strength as he could find he lashed it across the very centre of his target. He was delighted to be rewarded with two sunset stripes. He whacked again and again and in no time Jake’s bottom resembled a plan of a railway junction.

The boy gasped as the leather lashed him. After a dozen or so more whacks he began to quietly yap.

“Good, you’re feeling that,” Uncle Wilf scoffed. “Am I getting through to you?” he asked. This time he expected an answer and when none came he lashed the belt harder, “I said, am I getting through to you?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake was breathless. “You’re hurting me please stop,” he wailed.

“I’ll stop when I’m ready to stop,” Uncle Wilf responded slashing the belt across the backs of Jake’s thighs.

“Ouch! Ooooh! Please stop. I’ve had enough!”

Uncle Wilf hammered the leather belt across Jake’s naked bottom. “You’ve had enough when I say you’ve had enough,” and he continued the thrashing. By now the whole of Jake’s bottom glowed scarlet. The outline of the belt was embossed across his cheeks and thighs. The boy’s yaps increased in volume to become yelps.

“Are you going to start behaving now?” Uncle Wilf was gasping himself.

“Yes,” Jake answered with alacrity.

“Yes, what?” Uncle Wilf landed an especially hard swipe.

“Yes, I’ll behave.”

“Yes, what?” Another swipe landed on the underside of the cheeks in the most sensitive sit-spot. “Yes, sir!” Uncle Jake roared.

“Yes, sir,” Jake mewed.

“Good, that’s what I like to hear. Have you learnt your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” Jake almost screamed. “Please stop. Please.”

Uncle Wilf’s heart was racing. His blood pressure was off the scale. If he didn’t stop spanking soon he might have a seizure.

“I’m not so sure,”’ he answered his nephew and laid another six slashes low on the boy’s left cheek. Jake was spent. He lay submissively across his uncle’s lap, stretched across the couch. Entirely at the older man’s mercy.

“If I have to do this again …” Uncle Wilf let the thought trail off and landed six more across the right cheek. The boy’s entire bottom was hot and welted. Later when Jake rubbed the palms of his hands gingerly across his buttocks the surface would feel like leather.

Uncle Wilf slashed two more across each cheek for good measure. “Okay. That’s it. Stand up.”

Jake sprang to his knees, he stumbled and held on to the table to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He hopped from one foot to the other doing the traditional spanking dance. His hair was wet with sweat. His face glowed and was as scarlet as his bottom. His eyes shone. He wriggled as he returned his trousers and pants to their rightful place. He couldn’t bear to look at his uncle.

“Will I have to do this again,” Uncle Wilf asked calmly. Jake was still rubbing his bottom, “No, sir,” he replied meekly.

“Good. Go to your room.”

Jake hobbled across the room and Uncle Wilf heard him take the stairs two at a time before there was the sound of a slamming bedroom door.

Uncle Jake threaded the belt through the loops on his trousers. The front door opened and his wife walked in. Her face fell as she caught sight of him. Then it dawned on her what had happened and she smiled. “You look like you’ve been to hell and back.”

He snorted a laugh. “Make us some tea and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

Picture credit: Eitan

 

Other stories you might like

Uncle Graham’s belt

Clubbing

My friend Justin

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Changed Times – the compilation

z used Silhouette cane hold (14)

 

Readers in the United Kingdom don’t need me to tell them that arguments about leaving the European Union have been raging for more than three years and don’t seem to be resolved yet.

Many people who voted to leave the EU (it seemed to me) wanted to return to sometime in the past when in their eyes the world was a less complicated place. Maybe the 1930s where everybody knew their place in the world and discipline was much tighter than it is today.

That set me thinking. What if, after the exit from the EU, we did start to turn the clock back. In my imagination, corporal punishment was reintroduced into schools. This proved such a success with parents that it was soon extended to include other young people, such as university and college students and workplace apprentices. Before long any person under the age of thirty could be subjected to the cane or the birch (or any other CP implement of choice).

So, was born the series of stories that I called “Changed Times.” I have brought them all together here for those who may not have seen them before. I enjoyed writing them, but the stories and sentiments expressed are fiction and I am not asking you to join me in forming a new political party.

Click on the titles and I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: A glimpse into the near future

This story sets up the series and follows Kenny on his first day at college as an apprentice to Global Petroleum.

“Sterling fumbled with the three buttons on his company blazer. He visibly trembled as he slipped the jacket over his shoulders and pulled his arms through the sleeves. Then, without waiting for instructions, he dropped the blazer onto the top of the desk.

“Kenny and his fellow new recruits could see Sterling’s face. It was deathly pale and bathed in sweat. A moustache of moisture clung to the young man’s upper lip.

‘“Lower your trousers and underpants.”’

 

2: Neighbourhood watch

The new laws affect all aspects of society.

“Mr Scroggins was the “punishment officer” for the Neighbourhood Watch. It was a title he chose for himself. It wasn’t official; he wasn’t paid a salary. He didn’t want paying, he was glad to perform his civic duty.

“The Neighbourhood Watch had been formed in the words of its members, ‘to take back the streets.’ The Avenue was in a prosperous middle-class suburb.

“They had a ‘punishment room’ at the community hall. It was a plain functional room; windowless and lit by a single overhead light. It was quite small, but big enough for its purpose. It contained a small whipping horse which enabled the wrists, ankles and knees of the youth to be secured with straps. The horse itself had once been in the gymnasium of a local school. It had been lowered and modified so that when a young man was properly mounted and helpless the padded upper surface was quite comfortable.”

 

  1. The police station

Of course, the police play a large part in the new social control.

‘“Lift him up. On the table,” Reid dragged the prisoner by the arm and hauled him so that his whole body was forced onto the cold laminated top. Each arm and leg was gripped by a police officer.

‘“Good work, lads. Good work.” Sgt. Gould had returned. In his hand he held a heavy leather strap with a wooden handle at one end.

‘“A prison strap,” he waved it in the air. “They used them in Canada. Apparently.” He swiped it some more. The prisoner could not see it. He was held tightly face-down on the table. Reid’s left hand pressed his head into the hard surface.”

 

  1. Global Petroleum

We return to Global Petroleum.

“Mr Hodgson took his new role as Global Petroleum’s local Discipline Officer very seriously. He had attended, in his own time, a weekend course in ‘Applying Discipline in the Modern Age.’ He learnt all about the new punishment laws; about the duties of the employers and the responsibilities of the young apprentices.

“He learnt the theory; but also the practice. The workshop participants spent an afternoon acquiring caning techniques. Who would have thought it was difficult? Mr Hodgson had supposed the young man would submissively offer him his buttocks and Mr Hodgson would whack them with a cane.”

z used Silhouette paddle hold (1)

  1. At home

Emboldened by the new laws, fathers were reintroducing discipline into their own homes.

“Downstairs in the living room Mr Nightingale flexed a thick rattan cane thoughtfully in his hands. He had never held such a thing until the day he bought it in the local market. A stall specialised in all kinds of spanking instruments. It did a roaring trade in school canes and paddles. Mr Nightingale picked up a large scatter cushion and balanced it over the back of an armchair. Then, he positioned himself an arm’s length to its side. The cushion was more or less where George’s backside would be in about ten minutes’ time. Mr Nightingale rubbed the cane across the cushion, raised his arm high and brought the whippy rod crashing down. A line indented across the centre of the polyester-filled cushion.”

 

  1. Birched live on TV

The title of this story speaks for itself.

‘“Stand by everybody,” the television director whispered in his mouthpiece. ‘We’re live in twenty seconds.’ Sweat glistened on his top lip. His heartbeat raced. He couldn’t understand why. He had done countless live broadcasts in his time. But, none quite like this.

“The twenty-two-year-old prisoner heaved his body this way and that. It did no good. He was going nowhere. His wrists were secured by plastic ties. His legs were roped to the frame.

“The director breathed deeply. He knew his show would get record ratings. The first-ever broadcast of a youth flogging. The pubic had been clamouring for it. They wanted to see the thugs suffer. They demanded all of it. The screams. The blood. The works. And, live on TV. Beamed by satellite into their homes.”

  1. Pub landlord

Soon everyone was getting in on the act. A pub landlord takes control after a group of lads get rowdy and smash up chairs.

“I remember my hands shook so much I couldn’t get my belt buckle to open. I had never been naked in front of a man before. I must have been fourteen the last time I had stripped off for PE lessons at school. I was as terrified of being seen naked – and lacking in the you-know-where department – in front of my pals.

“Somehow, I managed to loosen my jeans and they fell to my knees and I left them there while I tugged my tee-shirt over my head. Tony and Bill were even slower undressing then me. At last we stood in our underwear and socks. Mortified.”

  1. Just another day

Just another day, in just another office. It could be anywhere across the UK. Three twenty-something workers face the consequences of not taking a training workshop seriously.

“Rowe stared at the cane in his boss’s hand. ‘But we already got dealt with by Mr. Richardson.’

‘“Be quite! I don’t care about Mr. Richardson.’

“Rowe blushed. It wasn’t fair. The workshop facilitator had already spanked them. Twenty-three years old and bent over Mr. Richardson’s knee, trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees while the old man hammered a heavy wooden ruler into his bared buttocks. Could you imagine such a thing?

  1. The truck

Another workplace whacking. What happens if you consistently turn up late for work?

“My legs felt like they were made of lead as I trudged out of the portable office and into the yard. The moment I was outside everything stopped and my workmates gathered around to see the fun. Some of the older ones had huge grins; they were going to enjoy the sport – me, bare-arsed across the truck. Sandy and Jake, two lads about my age, were deathly pale. They knew that it could be one of them next.

“It was a late spring morning and quite warm, but I couldn’t stop shivering. I’d never been spanked before.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

 

I have also written other “futuristic” stories along the lines of Changed Times. You can read some of them here

 

A right caning

The Dean’s list

We need to talk about Jake

Caned at college

University student late for class

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Take a very close look …

new 5

z used retro short shorts cane holding

Yes young man, take a very close look at it. It’s a Malacca cane. Feel the weight. Flex it, see how powerful it is. It’s one that we use at the young offenders’ institute. And, that’s where you’ll end up if you carry on thieving.

Can you imagine how much that is going to hurt when I put it across your backside? Your bare backside.

When I said you could stay at my house while you were at university I had no idea you would treat me like this. Your own uncle! I hope you feel thoroughly ashamed young man. You should. Stealing money from me. From my wallet. In my own house. I cannot believe it.

At least you had the good grace not to deny it when I confronted you. But you would never have owned up on your own would you?

Don’t try to deny that. You really have let yourself down. Yourself and your family. When I contacted your father and told him what you had done he readily agreed that I should give you the thrashing of your life. You might be eighteen, but so are some of the boys at the institute and that doesn’t stop them being caned.

Now, hand me the cane and go into the kitchen, let’s get on with this.

The kitchen was not huge but big enough to have a table that could seat four people. Simon stood staring at it. His hands trembled, so he clasped them behind his back. Uncle as right, Simon had stolen money, but more than Uncle realised. Simon had “owned up” when Uncle accused him of taking a ten shilling note, but he didn’t confess to the one he took last week and the handful of silver coins the week before. Stealing from Uncle had become something of a routine and subsidised his nights out in town. The government grant he received to study at Brocklehurst University didn’t go far, even though his Uncle wasn’t charging him a proper rent for his lodgings.

Simon stared at the table ahead of him. It was one of the modern kind with an artificial laminated top. He heard Uncle approach from behind and heard him bark, “Stand closer to the table, boy.” He heard the heavy cane swish through the air. It made a terrific noise as it travelled. Uncle had been correct when he said the cane was heavy and powerful. Simon had never been caned before: not at school and certainly not at home. Dad had never spanked him either; even though Simon recognised there were times when he had deserved a damn good hiding. He had no way of knowing just how much the caning he was about to endure would hurt.

Uncle was deputy governor at Brocklehurst Young Offenders’ Institution and one of his duties was to inflict corporal punishment. He believed in the power of the cane, he knew first hand how it kept unruly youth on the straight-and-narrow path. He was not sentimental, Simon would benefit from a good bare-bottomed thrashing. He wouldn’t steal again, not after Uncle had finished with him.

He flexed the cane thoughtfully. It wasn’t like the school canes that many people recognise. It had no curved handle, instead there was a leather grip at one end. It was roughly the same length as a school cane, around three feet, but it wasn’t as thin and whippy. The school cane was usually made of swishy rattan, but the cane he now held was made of more dense Malacca. It was thicker and had notches along its length, but it still was flexible enough to bend into an arc. It packed a more powerful punch than the rattan and was ideally designed for the older youth. It would take Simon’s backside off, especially when applied with some strength across his naked bottom. The lad wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for some time to come and the marks and bruises would probably hang around for a week or more.

Uncle stood behind Simon and ran his eye up and down his tiny frame. He was eighteen years old, but slightly built. He reckoned if he dressed him up in school uniform he might be able to sneak on the buses and get away with the children’s fare. The tight beige shorts he was wearing added to his youthful appearance. They were very short as was the fashion and showed off his bony legs. His waist was slim and from where Uncle was standing Simon’s bottom looked puny inside them. Not more than two pips, Uncle thought. At the Young Offenders’ Institute he was more used to thrashing more burly teenagers.

“Lower your shorts and your underpants,” Uncle spoke clearly. He was used to giving orders and always expected to be obeyed. The youth under his supervision had no choice but to obey and today neither did Simon. Uncle observed his nephew shudder. It ran through his whole body. He was terrified. Uncle expected this; most boys were in this situation, especially those enduring the cane for the first time. Uncle waited ten seconds and when it looked like Simon was not about to loosen his trousers, he barked, “Shorts, underpants down. Now!”

The angry tone in Uncle’s voice spurred Simon to action. Although his fingers nearly refused to move, the teenager managed to get them to tackle the buckle of the wide leather belt that held his shorts in place. The shorts fitted him snugly and the belt served no practical purpose, but Simon thought it drew attention to the bulge in his pants. After several tries he had the belt undone. It took more effort to get the top button open and to pull the metal zipper. The weight of the belt and the power of gravity made the shorts slide to his feet.

“Step out of them,” Uncle intoned. Simon wore no shoes so this was no difficulty. A slight breeze from somewhere tickled his bare legs. He looked down at his own body and saw that bulge in his pants close-up. “Get them down,” Uncle said evenly. Simon turned to make sure Uncle would not see his cock and balls once the pants were lowered. Uncle amused himself by swishing the cane through the air and affected not to look as Simon hitched his thumbs in the elasticated waistband of the pants and with the merest flick of the wrists sent them down to the floor. “Step out,” Uncle swished the cane once more. Simon now stood naked from the waist down. “Bend over the table.”

The table seated four people but it was still quite small. When he lay his stomach on the cold laminated top and stretched his arms ahead of him they dangled over the far edge. Even though Simon had no personal knowledge of such things, this didn’t feel right, so he spread his arms and gripped each side to his left and to his right. He decided spread-eagled like this was more comfortable. “Legs further apart, jut that bottom out further.” Simon followed Uncle’s instructions to the letter and now he was perfectly positioned to Uncle’s satisfaction.

Uncle wasn’t yet ready. Although Simon’s t-shirt was not very long its hem rested over the top part of his buttocks. In one swift practiced movement Uncle took hold of it and tugged it up Simon’s back. He was now bare from the shoulders all the way down to the soles of his feet. Now, Uncle was good to go. All he needed to do now was to take up position to the left of Simon’s prone, submissive body. He tapped the cane across the centre of the teenager’s furthest buttock, then he bent his own legs slightly. He tapped the tip of the cane gently to get his aim. Then, in one fast, complete movement, he raised, it brought it up and then along the same arc he swiped it with all the force he could muster across the very centre of both of Simon’s cheeks. An ugly red, raw line immediately appeared and maybe half a second later a tremendous howl echoed around the room. The boy’s body buckled, his head nodded up and down, his legs kicked, but somehow, through some resolve that Simon did not know he possessed, he managed not to leap to his feet and clasp his burning backside while dancing around the room.

Uncle let him settle. It took fully half a minute. Then, he rubbed the cane in a sawing motion across the lower part of Simon’s bum. The next stroke was equally as vicious as the first. It provoked the same response, and in addition this time tears flooded down Simon’s face. He gripped the edges of the table as if his very life depended on it. He wanted to beg for mercy, to tell Uncle that if he would only stop the caning now Simon would never, ever, steal again. But, some inborn instinct told him not to do this. There is some unwritten law that has been followed across the centuries that says a boy or young man under the lash (whether in the headmaster’s study at school, or the governor’s office at borstal or across the back of the sofa in the family home) must take his medicine with as little fuss as he may muster. Simon was not doing too well, but he vowed not to humiliate himself by pleading for mercy. Besides, he knew very well he would get none from Uncle.

So, the flogging continued. It was hell. By the time Uncle was done Simon had six deep cuts throbbing across his rear end. Already each had risen to a welt. The pain was intense, Simon had no idea what a caning was supposed to feel like, but by instinct he knew Uncle’s beating was classic. This had been no ordinary schoolboy’s six-of-the-best. Every square inch of his bum throbbed like crazy. His heart raced and he could feel the blood coursing at one hundred miles an hour through his arteries. His temples throbbed, almost as much as his poor savaged bottom. He could hardly see for the water in his eyes. The back of his throat was raw from his screeching. He could taste vomit inside his mouth.

Uncle tucked the cane under his arm. “Stand up!” he ordered, just as he would with any of the young offenders at the institute. Uncle watched with deep satisfaction as his nephew struggled to raise himself. Simon got to his feet but had to quickly clutch at the table’s edge to stop himself slipping to the floor. His legs didn’t seem to work. His bottom felt like he had been forced to sit in a bucket of boiling water. Gingerly, he reached behind him and to his shock he felt heat rising from his bum. Was that his imagination? He let the tip of his fingers brush his battered behind, even the slightest touch sent further shockwaves of pain streaming through his body. He resolved not to try to massage the pain away.

His head was clearing a little and after he wiped tears and snot away from his face he could see more clearly. He daren’t look at Uncle. Simon stood unsteadily breathing deeply, forcing down great lung-fulls of air. It seemed to him like hours before Uncle spoke again. “Pick up your shorts and pants. I wouldn’t try to put them on if I were you. Go up to your room.” He said this kindly. Despite appearances, Uncle was not a tyrant. Simon was a thief. He had been caught and now he had been punished. That should be an end to the matter. And if Simon did not repeat the offence, it would be. Punishment had been severe; but the lad deserved everything he got. Now, it was over: they could both move on with their lives.

Uncle watched unmoved as his nephew hobbled from the room and began the long and intensely painful journey up the stairs to his bedroom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A housemaster muses

new 5

Without doubt the most annoying thing about being housemaster at a boarding school is I am never off duty. There is not a moment of the day I can truly call my own. By the nature of my work I have responsibility for a house full of schoolboys. During the day I am one of a number of masters who teach them; by evening and night we live under the same roof and I must account for their safety and general welfare.

It can be very wearisome. My wife would prefer it if I went to teach at an adult college or preferably a university where we could have a home we could call our own. I think she also finds the company of adults more agreeable.

This evening has been a case in point. We had settled down after supper to enjoy a glass of whisky (one each that is not one between two) and listen to a concert on the BBC Third Programme on the wireless when we were interrupted by Blair, the school porter. He had a message he felt he must convey to me with the utmost urgency.

I cursed under my breath when he arrived on my doorstep, but propriety requires that I treat such visits with the utmost seriousness. I allowed him to enter into the hallway, but, keen to get rid of him at the earliest opportunity, I did not invite him further into the house. I had no wish to antagonise my wife further.

Blair told me in the breathless way he has that he had intercepted Wilson, a senior pupil in my house, as he climbed over the exterior wall of the school. He had been out of school illicitly. Blair did not have the sense to ignore this and allow the boy a safe passage to his dormitory. The dunderhead decided he had to come to inform me.

There are many rules at boarding schools; too many some would say. Boys break them all the time, but logic suggests that a rule can only be noticed to have been broken if the boy is caught. Put another way, if I did not know that Wilson had been breaking bounds then I need not do anything about it. Now, that I did know, I was required to act, thereby disturbing my cosy night at home with my wife.

Blair was without doubt exceedingly pleased that he had intercepted Wilson. I knew he would not allow me to turn a blind eye and he would expect me to fulfil my duty as a housemaster. Of course, I had to act. Now, that Wilson had been caught he would expect nothing less of me. If I failed to do so word would soon spread among the boys and my credibility would be ruined. I would become a “soft touch” and they need never heed my word again. No, my hands were tied. I had no choice.

I might have left this problem until the morning but since my evening had already been disturbed I reasoned I might as well get it over with now. Blair was inordinately pleased when I asked him to seek Wilson out in the dormitory and instruct him to visit me in my study. “He’ll be in his pyjamas,” he said, his mouth widening into a cruel snarl. “It is a warm evening,” I responded evenly, “Tell him not to get dressed.” The snarl became a broad grin and Blair darted off enthusiastically.

I popped my head around the drawing room door to appraise my wife of developments. She did not speak but her icy stare said enough. I went across the passageway and awaited Wilson’s arrival. I know enough about the senior boys here to know he had probably been visiting The Three Fishers which is a run-down hostelry a short distance from the school. It is a disreputable establishment where they think nothing of serving pints of mild beer to our boys. I also knew without doubt that Wilson would not have been alone. Blair would be disappointed to know that although he had snared Wilson there were others who had evaded his capture. I also decided that I would not make it my business to try to get Blair to give me the names of his companions. The schoolboy code of honour runs deep and I did not want to spend more time on this than I absolutely had.

No more than two minutes later there was a knock on the study door. I called for Wilson to enter. He waited hesitantly in the doorway. “Come in. Stand there.” I pointed to a spot in the middle of the room and Wilson went there, his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back and head bowed. He knew what to expect; he had been a pupil at the school for long enough.

Indeed, he was eighteen years old and in less than a month would be leaving us for good. I walked to the corner of the study where several whippy, rattan canes dangled from a rail by their crook handles. I took down the thickest cane from my collection. Wilson continued to stare at his bare feet. I flexed the cane between my hands; this serves no practical purpose and I suspect I do this by habit.

“Look at me Wilson,” I intoned and he did so. I continued bending the cane. It was less than three feet long and dark-brown in colour.  It was denser than the other canes and most suitable for a senior boy. It had notches every six inches or so along its length and I knew from experience it would deliver a satisfactorily sound beating.

Boarding schools are unusual places; they are their own little world. I wonder how many people realise just what goes on here. I was about to cane an eighteen-year-old pupil for staying out late. Is there a father in the entire land who would do the same to his son of similar age? Would such a boy submit himself to punishment if called upon? I don’t need to answer those questions.

But at boarding school we have our rituals and one was about to play itself out here. I read Wilson the charge sheet. Did he know being out after lights out was against the rules? (An unnecessarily question, but one needs the miscreant to acknowledge same.) Did he have anything to say in mitigation? (Of course not, what could he say?). So, the verdict was guilty as charged. Let punishment commence.

I swished the cane through the empty air and pointed it at a somewhat worn armchair that I had already strategically placed. “Stand behind the chair,” I instructed. In my years as a housemaster I have never had a boy refuse my instructions. One or two of the younger ones, and therefore with less experience of corporal punishment, might plead for clemency. I have known them shed tears before the first stroke has landed. But, none, ever, has refused to comply.

Wilson positioned himself to my satisfaction. He placed his steady hands on the back of the chair and waited further instruction. “Take down your pyjama bottoms. Bend over.” A flicker of his grey eyes and a slight colouring of his cheeks revealed to me that he had not expected that order. His hands were less steady when he took hold of the drawstring on his pyjamas and undid it. Once the front of his pyjamas were open all he had to do was to let go and the bottoms hurled to his ankles.

He turned his body slightly to conceal his privates from my view then after taking a deep breath he slumped across the chair.

z used cane pyjamas armchair london CPS

Wilson was the prefect height to fit across it. His stomach rested easily on the back’s apex. He reached his arms forward and gripped the seat cushion tightly. He kept his head low and stared down at the rather soiled material. Without my requesting, he spread his feet and raised his bottom high. He presented me with a perfect target.

All I had to do was take hold of the tail of his pyjama jacket and pull it away from the buttocks. I could hear he was breathing heavily and saw a trail of moisture forming down the centre of his back. As if to remind me that this was a senior boy submitting his backside for discipline, his bottom and legs were covered with fine hair and two testicles hung below his cheeks and between his legs.

There are some people who object to the corporal punishment of schoolboys. I can only say they have probably never taught; and certainly not in boarding school. A caning is an effective discipline and unlike a detention or the imposition of lines or an essay it is takes up no time. It is over in minutes. The boy has committed a misdemeanour, he has been found out, he admits his guilt and he submits to a beating. Then he and the schoolmaster get back to work. I have no doubt whatsoever that if the school decided to abolish the cane in favour of some other punishment the boys themselves would lead the complaints.

So it was that Wilson submitted himself to my cane. He tried to be stoic but his bottom quivered the moment I sawed my cane across the centre of his cheeks. I took my aim, raised the cane high and twisting my torso slightly (as a golfer does when taking a swing) I slashed the whippy rattan down. It hit him exactly where I intended and a glowing red line immediately appeared. A hissing noise like a steam engine setting down whistled through his clenched lips, but otherwise he made no sound. He gripped the seat cushion harder and pursed his lips.

I know (because I was beaten often enough myself as a boy) that the agony as the cane impacts is intense. Almost immediately that pain dissipates and becomes a throbbing ache. For maximum effect the master should wait a few seconds before delivering the next stoke. I have my own ritual whereby I hold the cane behind my back and gently stroll the length of the study. It is not a big room but by the time I have circumnavigated it and returned to stand behind the boy sufficient time has elapsed for me to continue.

I put the second swipe an inch below the first. Wilson’s knees wobbled but he showed great fortitude and otherwise remained motionless. I went for my walk and then laid the third cut high. Now, he had three parallel lines and a band of throbbing, red flesh three inches wide to contend with. My method of caning is quite typical. When presented with a boy’s bottom there isn’t much more one can do. I believe that a good master should put six strokes one beside the others across the posterior and that is a sound enough caning. Some of my colleagues try to get a stroke to land on top of one previously delivered, thereby re-opening the cut and intensifying the pain. I am sure the boys agree with me that that this is not cricket. Let punishment be appropriate to the misdeed committed; there is no need to resort to torture.

That can be left to our headmaster; his preferred method is to deliver four parallel strokes and then place two diagonals across them so the boy has a perfect “X” embossed across his bottom. Now, that really is not cricket; but I, a humble housemaster, will keep further comment on this to myself.

So, I put six parallel strokes across Wilson’s bare bottom. He took them well. They hurt and I could see his buttocks were glowing. I had roasted his posterior well. I toured the study for the last time giving my beating time to fully sink in. Wilson’s pyjama jacket was soaked with perspiration and the back of his neck was almost (but not quite) as scarlet as his bottom. In contrast, his face was a deathly white. I instructed him to stand and quickly he pulled up the pyjama bottoms and tied himself up. I could see he desperately wanted to rub away at his buttocks, but in the etiquette of these things, that is not allowed. A boy must never let his master know he is in pain.

I let him out of his misery and dismissed him. I am sure the moment the study door had closed behind him he massaged  his rump vigorously. He certainly would have dashed to the lavatories to inspect my handiwork in the mirrors there before belatedly going to bed.

I replaced the cane with the others and went to re-join my wife. She poured us both whiskies and we settled down to enjoy the final movement of the concert on the wireless.

 

Picture credit: CP Services, London

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Housemaster’s double caning

The rookie deputy sheriff

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com