Mr Hennessey’s Boys: The hotel suite

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It was all very simple. There was never anything complicated about it. Everything was organised well. All we had to do was turn up at the right place at the appointed time and let him do it.

I did it four times, then I suppose he got bored with me and he got someone else. He probably had more than one of us on the go at any one time, anyway.

I have no regrets. I’m not telling you this story because I feel outraged or injured. I’m not. I wasn’t. Well, ha! ha! I supposed I was ‘injured’ a little. If you get my meaning. I mean it’s supposed to hurt, isn’t it? Isn’t that the point of it all?

I wasn’t the only one. By the end there was quite a gang of us from Brocklehurst Sixth Form College. If you don’t know, a sixth-form college is where kids go if they leave school at sixteen. You can do A-level exams or vocational courses. It’s a lot less formal than school. There are no uniforms and you call teachers lecturers. You are students, not pupils. In some colleges lecturers let you call them by their first names. Students’ ages range from sixteen up to nineteen.

The people involved in my story were all eighteen at least. You had to be. So it was legal. A man called Mr Hennessey arranged it all. It was mostly by word of mouth. It was only boys. No girls required. I think ‘Mr Hennessey’ was his real name. Nobody thought to question him. Why bother? He seemed pretty legit.

At first he got one or two boys working for him and then they kind of recommended others. It was done very quietly. When I was dropped, I suggested a couple of other lads. I got what they called a ‘finder’s fee’ for that.

We were well paid for our trouble. Very well paid. One evening’s work was worth about a month’s pay flipping burgers or filling supermarket shelves. When I say  ‘evening’ I mostly mean a couple of hours.

We all said we did it for the money. That’s all. We said it’s a ‘gay thing’ isn’t it? None of us were gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay etc etc. But I’m not gay and that’s just a fact. So, we said, we didn’t do it for pleasure. It was just the money. And, I think, the excitement. It felt dangerous. Something you wouldn’t want your mum and dad to find out about.

Mr Hennessey arranged everything. He was most particular about your age. Eighteen and above only. I had trouble convincing him. I look a little younger than I am. To be honest I was getting away with paying the under-sixteen fare on the buses. He didn’t believe me. I didn’t have a passport or driving licence. He said the birth certificate I showed him could have been for anybody. In the end I signed up for a provisional driving licence and away I went.

He was happy then. He said I would be very welcome. “Cheeky grin. Fabulous arse,” he said. Those were the requirements. If you didn’t have the grin, you might get away with just the fabulous arse. But I had both.

Mr Hennessey wanted me for a particular client. Mr Bradshaw. I don’t know anything about him. I don’t suppose he’s name’s really Mr Bradshaw. He looked like he was made of money. He used a suite at the Excelsior Hotel. Do you know it? It’s that new luxury hotel that stands where the library and civic centre used to be.

I had to sign some legal document. It said I was doing this of my own free will. Which I was. I was up for it alright. I did have my doubts at first, of course I did. My pal Ryan had been a few times and he was the one who passed my name on. He told me what happened. What you had to do. How you earned your money.

I’d never done anything like this before. Who had? I had concerns: would it hurt (much)? Did I have to take my clothes off? Did Mr Bradshaw do anything else, like … well you know? Ryan told me it all. It helped me. “Tell you what,” he said, “Why don’t we have a run-through, a kind of rehearsal?”

It seemed a good idea. So we met up at his house after college finished and before his folks got home from work. Have you ever been spanked? No, me neither. People don’t these days do they. I must say I felt a bit of a twit when Ryan took me into his living room. He sat himself down on a dining chair, spread his legs, patted his thigh and said, “Right lad, bend over.”

I gaped a bit. I know I coloured up (in a manner of speaking). I felt my face burn. I just stopped myself from laughing. “Come on,” Ryan said, kindly, “This is the whole point. It’s what you have to do. It’s what you get paid for.” He smiled broadly and added, “A lot of money.” I still looked dubious. “Come on,” Ryan encouraged, “Bend over my knee, like a good naughty boy.”

I’d never done this before and wasn’t sure how it was done. I looked down at Ryan’s knees. He was a slim guy and they were very bony. He parted his legs a little to make a platform for me to lean across. I went on autopilot and proceeded on instinct. I leaned down and rested the palms of my hand on his right leg, bent my legs and eased myself down. “Stretch your arms out and rest your hands on the carpet,” Ryan said helpfully.

I did this and my back arched. My legs dangled behind me and the toes of my shoes just about brushed the floor. My bum was raised at an angle over his thigh. “Purr-fect, just purr-fect,” he laughed. “What a lovely little botty-wotty you have.” He started to caress, first my right buttock and then my left. He was feeling me up.

“Oi!” I exclaimed. It was an instinctive cry, I wasn’t thinking.

Ryan was calm, “It’s what he’ll do,” he told me. “Give you a good rub.” He patted the fleshiest part of my bottom. “You’ve still got your jeans on. Just wait until you’re bare-arsed over his knee.” He could see my discomfort. He laughed, “Don’t worry, you soon get used to it.”

He slapped his hand into the seat of my jeans. He hit me hard, but with the denim and my underpants I hardly felt a thing. He spanked me like this for a minute or so and then stopped. I lay face-down, unsure what I was supposed to do. Was that it? Was there nothing more? Really? It was money for jam.

Except, of course, it wasn’t. “Stand up. Take down your jeans. Back over.” He pushed me in my midriff to encourage me to stand. Once upright my embarrassment returned. Jeans down! I hesitated a little too long. Ryan grimaced, “It’s the deal. Jeans. Pants. Bare-arsed. If you’re not up to it, you need to tell Mr Hennessey. You can’t chicken out on a client.”

My pride was hurt. I knew Ryan had been through this and one or two of my other mates at college. If they could do it, well so would I. Odd though it may seem to you, it was an honour thing. Like being in a gang, but without the drugs and knives. I steadied my nerves and reached for my belt buckle.

Ryan put me through my paces. He spanked me with his hand as hard as he could. It hurt, but not much. I was a fit eighteen-year-old with buns of steel. He was never going to do me much damage. The wooden clothes brush he then used on me was something else. It was heavy and had a large oval-shaped dead. Just a couple of whacks with that had me squirming across his knees. Ryan had to grip me hard around the waist to stop me falling to the floor. I squirmed and I hollered. “Good boy,” Ryan encouraged me, “That’s the way to do it. Make a show.” He thought I was play-acting. Believe me I was not.

When he let off and I was hopping from foot to foot and rubbing away at the sting in my backside I didn’t appreciate how grateful I would later be to Ryan.  He taught me the ropes. Not that ropes were involved, there was none of that monkey business, just honest to goodness spanking (oh, and the whippy rattan cane, of course).

Despite my training I was very nervous the first time I visited Mr Bradshaw. Mr Hennessey had set it up and he told me exactly what was expected. What the limits were. I went in with my eyes wide open. No complaints. No regrets.

I was given the number of Mr Bradshaw’s suite and told to go straight there without stopping off at reception. Easier said than done. An eighteen-year-old black kid sticks out like a sore thumb in a posh hotel. The security man pounced. If he had been wearing a side arm, he would have drawn it and plugged me. But this was Brocklehurst, not Chicago. He just verbally assaulted me. I mentioned Mr Bradshaw by name. The security guard’s nose twisted like he was getting the stink of shit from off my shoe. He waved me on. It hurt him to do it, but Mr Bradshaw was a rich guest and hotels in Brocklehurst could not afford to be too choosy.

I studied my reflection in the mirror in the lift. My skin shone. Maybe I’d overdone the body lotion. Smooth skin, I had been told. That’s what Mr Bradshaw most desired. And no tattoos. I was sweating like a pig even though it was a cool evening. The lift pinged and I had reached the correct floor. The door opened. I stood rooted. I could not move. My nerve had gone. The door closed. The lift stood motionless. My heart was trying to escape through my chest. My head spun. I closed my eyes tight. I had come this far. I couldn’t back down now. I couldn’t chicken out. Ryan and the guys would never let me hear the end of it. With a hand shaking like I had a palsy, I stabbed the door-open button and hauled myself out of the lift.

Mr Bradshaw’s suite was opposite. I took two deep breaths, strode purposefully towards the door and with more strength than I intended I hammered on it. Mr Bradshaw might have thought I was the police about to raid the joint. He took some time before he opened up. Maybe he was hiding the incriminating evidence from view. Eventually the door inched open.

Mr Bradshaw was a man in his fifties. He had lost much of his hair and his face betrayed the easy life he had led. I was later to discover that his hands were as soft as a baby’s. He looked at me, failing to hide his surprise. Had Mr Hennessey not told him I was black? He recovered himself quickly and flew open the door. As I entered, Mr Bradshaw stepped into the corridor, before following me into the room.

I’d never been inside a hotel suite before, so I had nothing to compare it to. It seemed opulent. There were at least two rooms and a bathroom. The main living area seemed as big as the council flat I lived in. Mr Bradshaw stood and watched as I lay down my backpack. His tongue darted out of closed lips, “Have you brought everything?” he almost drooled. I had been given a list of requirements. Mr Hennessey was a very thorough man.

Mr Bradshaw proved to be a man of few words. In all the times I visited he never engaged in small talk. It was right down to business. “You can change in there.” He nodded towards the bedroom. I picked up my bag and hurried away. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of the room. I caught myself staring back at me. I couldn’t stop myself laughing. What a lark! I shook my head as if to say, “Who would believe this if I ever told them?”

I opened the backpack. I tugged out a pair of pyjamas. They were brand new, I never wore jim-jams in real life? Did anybody over the age of eight? I lay them on the bed. Then I took out the school blazer. I shook it to get rid of creases and held it up to the light. This was the real deal. Green-and-gold, just like the ones they wore at St Francis Academy. I took a hanger from the wardrobe and hung it up. Then I retrieved the grey-short trousers from the bag and the knee-length socks. I was nearly ready. But something was missing. I cursed myself. I had left it behind. A very important item. Damn and Blast! Mr Bradshaw would be annoyed. In my anger I took hold of the backpack and tipped it up and shook. To my relief the green-and-gold striped school tie slithered onto the bed.

I kicked off my shoes, pulled the t-shirt over my head and slipped down my jeans. I admired my physique in the mirror. I was quite a sight – a dish, even if I say so myself. Even though I was wearing old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. I slipped my thumbs into the waistband and with a flick of the wrists sent them to my feet. I stepped out of them and hesitated. Should I keep the socks on? I actually laughed out loud at myself. I sat on the bed and tugged them off. I was now as naked as the day I was born.

I stood and admired my taut, hairless, smooth – and shining – body. My soft, uncut cock hung between my thighs.  “Come and get it girls,” I grinned. Time was passing and Mr Bradshaw was probably raring to go next door. I picked up the pyjama bottoms, stepped into them, pulled them up and tied the drawstring. I climbed into the jacket and rippled the muscles in my stomach before I buttoned up. I took another look in the mirror. Yes, I told myself, I’m good to go.

Mr Hennessey had given me instructions. There wasn’t much of what he called a “scenario”. I wasn’t expected to do much, except let Mr Bradshaw get on with it. I was expected to knock on the door and wait until told to enter. I took a final look in that mirror. God, I was tasty. I rubbed sweat from my palms, took a deep breath, counted slowly from one to five and knocked. My head buzzed, the room began to spin.

It seemed like an eternity. At last he called, “Come in!” I pushed open the door. Mr Bradshaw was sat on a straight-backed armless chair. He was formally dressed but had no jacket. He could have been your boss at work. “Come in Alexander,” he called. I had no idea who “Alexander” was, it’s certainly not my name. That wasn’t me. It made what happened next seem more surreal. “You know why you’re here,” he said. I didn’t, but it wasn’t my place to tell him.

I hesitated in the doorway. My head was light. I didn’t feel as if I was in the room. I was somewhere else. A long way off. Looking down on this scene. Like I was in a helicopter, or some such. Is this what they mean by an out-of-body experience?

Mr Bradshaw snapped his fingers. “Stand there, Alexander.” He pointed to a spot by the chair. I don’t know how I managed it, but I got my body to stand where commanded. My heart thumped so loud I was sure Mr Bradshaw could hear it. He slowly examined me with his eyes, travelling from the soles of my bare feet to the top of my shaved head. Then he lowered his eyes and lingered over the waistband of my pyjamas.

“Take down your pyjama bottoms, Alexander.”

The room was spinning. What was going on with me? I got hold of the drawstring and pulled. Rather than loosen my waistband I tightened it. My PJ’s were not coming down. Mr Bradshaw frowned; then he tut-tutted. He was loosing patience. I tugged and tugged. Did anyone have a knife? That would do it. Cut the drawstring. All kinds of absurd ideas swirled through my mind. Suddenly with a lurch, the drawstring gave. The front of my pyjama bottoms gaped open. They slid over my buttocks and held. Mr Bradshaw did that thing with his tongue poking through his mouth again as he ogled my long, thin soft cock.

I wriggled my hips and the pyjamas slithered down my thighs and bunched at my shins. Mr Bradshaw still gazed at my cock. I caught a faint aroma of some expensive aftershave or deodorant. He cleared his throat raucously, then said, “Bend over my knee, Alexander.”

Who the hell was Alexander! It worried me. Had he got the wrong boy? Was he expecting someone else? Had Mr Hennessey got his arrangements wrong? My head was in a whirl. I hesitated.

“Now, lad!” Mr Bradshaw barked. I came to. In one swift athletic move (I had practiced this with Ryan) I was across his knees. My head was low, my bottom high. My face was close to the carpet. Mr Bradshaw cupped the palm of his hand and with it gently traced the curve of my rock-hard left buttock. He was so gentle, it sent a shiver through my body. He did the same with the other cheek, making sure he traced the entire curves, across the peaks, up to the tops and into the undercurves. He lingered around my crack.

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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

The exam results

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A theatre play

Setting.

A suburban living room. It is the present. It is nearly Christmas so there could be a tree or decorations to show this. What furniture there is can be at the discretion of the theatre depending on what is available, but it must that it is the modern day the furniture etc (e.g. flat screen TV). There must at least be a couch and a set of drawers (possibly a sideboard). A Table / Smart phone and a wooden paddle are the only two essential props.

Characters.

NATE: A 19-year-old university student. Dressed in jeans and a top. He wears colourful underpants.

DAD: In his late forties / early fifties. He is dressed casually for a day spent at home.

MUM: Roughly same age as DAD and also dressed for a day at home

 

Curtain rises showing MUM and DAD in the living room. DAD is holding a Tablet. MUM stands close by watching him read from the screen

 

DAD (Peering into Tablet). I’m into Nate’s exam results here. (face drops) Jeez, look at this. Five subjects. One’s an F. That’s fail. Nothing higher than a D. They’re worse than the midterms.

MUM. (Looking over his shoulder). What are we paying all this money for to send him to university? What a waste.

DAD. (Anger showing in his face) We told him. Back in October. This is just not good enough.

MUM. It can’t go on like this. This is too bad. What’s he doing? Too much time in the bar, not enough in the library.

DAD. I know what he needs. (Pauses) I did warn him.

MUM. But he’s eighteen (let’s the sentence trail off)

DAD. That’s not too old.

MUM. Maybe.

DAD. It’s what got him through his A-levels. Remember? He failed his mocks. He soon bucked up his ideas after that. Did quite well in the end. Good enough to get to university.

MUM. Yes, that’s true. Will it work again?

DAD. I don’t see why not. He just needs a wake up call. It worked before. It’ll work again.

MUM. (Showing doubt) Well ….

DAD. Just a bit of maintenance. Put him back on the straight and narrow. To remind him that we’re keeping an eye on him.

MUM. (Frowning) I guess so. (Pause as she thinks about it some more). Yes …. OK … Right …

At that moment Nate enters. He is a bit dishevelled and it is clear he has only just got out of bed. He sees DAD with the Tablet but doesn’t realise its importance.

MUM. (Berating NATE) You just got up? Look at the time. It’s nearly eleven. Late night. (Pause) Again. You need to go out an get a job for the holidays. I don’t want you lying in bed all day.

NATE. (Showing insolence) OK Mum.

DAD. (Snapping) Don’t talk to your mother like that.

NATE. (Sulks) Ohhh.

MUM. Don’t expect me to make you breakfast.

NATE. (Snaps) Don’t want none.

DAD. What’s up with you. Got a hangover?

NATE. (Grimaces but says nothing)

DAD. (Holding up the Tablet) I’ve got your exam results.

NATE. (Taken aback) Worr…?

DAD. You heard. Exam results. What a disgrace

NATE turns away to leave the room – he does not want to have this conversation

DAD. Woah. Hold your horses. Wait a minute. You’re not going anywhere.

NATE. pauses, considers disobeying DAD, but stays waiting at the door.

DAD. One fail. Nothing higher than a D. (Pauses, expecting NATE to respond. When he doesn’t DAD’s anger shows) Well! (Pause). Well, what have you got to say.

NATE embarrassed, shrugs his shoulders but says nothing.

DAD. Well. (Pause. His anger rising) We talked about this at midterm. (He waves the Tablet to confirm what he is talking about).

NATE stands by the door contemplating whether he should make a run for it

DAD. Did you go to lectures? Do you even know where the library is? Did you do any work at all?

NATE embarrassed looks at his feet

DAD. Well? Answer me. (More silence) Bah! You know what you need don’t you.

NATE looks startled. He opens his mouth intending to respond but thinks better of it

DAD. (speaking rapidly as if he is himself embarrassed) A damn good spanking. That’s what. A good hiding. That’ll buck your ideas up. A sore backside.

NATE. (eyes wide with astonishment) Dad …. (he is lost for words) But …. I’m too old ….

DAD. (cutting NATE short) You’re not too old. I’ll tell you when you’re too old. When you start acting like a responsible adult, that’s when you’re too old.

NATE. (Struggling to find the words) But Dad. You can’t … I mean….

DAD. (Cutting NATE short) I can. (Pause for effect) And I will. (Pause) Now get back in here.

NATE. But Dad ..

DAD. Come here. (Points to the couch)

NATE. Oww Dad. C’mon Dad.

DAD. (Pointing to the couch) I won’t tell you again.

NATE (pouts). But Dad …

MUM walks across the room. NATE stops and his eyes follow MUM as she walks. NATE has a concerned look. MUM reaches a drawer and opens it. DAD and NATE watch her carefully as MUM reaches in the drawer. She searches with her hand for a moment. MUM’s expression is puzzled. It seems she cannot find what she is looking for. Then, MUM gives a half-smile. MUM turns to face DAD and NATE, she is holding a wooden punishment paddle.

NATE (Alarmed). Oh, c’mon Mum. (Pause) Dad? (Pause) No, come on. No, you can’t.

MUM (Hands the paddle to DAD. Looks at NATE). You have nobody to blame but yourself.

DAD takes paddle and weighs it in his hand, demonstrating that it is a substantial piece of wood and has some weight. NATE’s eyes pop as he watches DAD tap the blade of the paddle into the palm of his hand.

MUM. (To NATE) You were warned. You can’t say you weren’t.

NATE (Mouth opens and closes like a goldfish). But Mum.. (Looks at DAD who is now tapping thee paddle against his own thigh. Then in a plea)  Dad ….. No ….

DAD sits on the edge of the couch. Waves paddle at NATE.

DAD (To NATE). Let’s get this over with. (Pause) Come here, son.

NATE Doesn’t speak but body language says he is considering whether he should run from the room. He appears to be debating with himself in his head. He doesn’t realise the thumbs of both hands are gently caressing the seat of his jeans.

DAD (Losing patience). Don’t make me ask you twice.

NATE shows no signs of moving.

DAD (Speaks fiercely). NOW!

NATE jolts, then slowly moves towards DAD. NATE stands a metre or so away from DAD and looks sorrowfully at DAD

NATE (Pleading). Dad …

DAD (looking stern). Your fault…. Not mine. This is to make sure you work harder next semester.

NATE shuffles his feet with embarrassment, dreading DAD’s next words

DAD (Slowly looks NATE up and down, from head to feet and back again. DAD’s eyes rest on NATE’s waist). You better take those jeans down.

NATE looks astonished, silently mouths ‘But Dad’.

DAD (As if speaking to himself). They’re too thick. You won’t hardly feel a thing. Take them down.

NATE stands rooted to the spot, his face red with shame.

NATE (Pleading). C’mon Dad, please. Not jeans down. C’mon. Please.

DAD. Now. If I have to do it for you, I’ll take the pants down too.

NATE hurriedly finds the buckle of his belt and tugs it open. He looks pleadingly at DAD as if hoping DAD will relent at the last moment and let him keep the jeans up. DAD stares into the middle distance. NATE looks down at his jeans for a moment. Reluctantly NATE undoes the button on the waistband of his jeans. He pulls the zip fly. The jeans fall open showing the front of NATE’s colourful briefs. NATE closes his eyes as if to persuade himself that this is not really happening to him. Slowly he pushes the jeans down his thighs. They snag at his knees and he leaves them there. He glances pitifully at DAD.

DAD (Calmly but with authority). All the way.

NATE spreads his knees and the jeans slip further down until they rest in a puddle over his feet.

DAD grips the handle of the paddle and pushes it towards NATE. NATE recoils slightly, but stands his ground.

DAD spreads his legs to create a platform and taps his own right thigh

DAD. Bend  over my knee.

NATE looks down at DAD’s lap. NATE hesitates

DAD taps his own thigh again

DAD. Just like last time.

NATE shuffles forward and stands to the right of DAD, Slowly, NATE places the palms of his hands on DAD’s thighs and lowers himself down. Once his stomach is resting across DAD, NATE stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the ground. NATE’s legs are left to dangle in mid-air (or his toes touch the carpet, depending upon the height of the actor playing the role). NATE’s bottom is raised over DAD’s thigh at a perfect angle to receive swats of the paddle.

DAD, slowly and with great deliberation takes hold of the elasticated waistband of NATE’s briefs. NATE’s face registers fear as he thinks DAD is about to pull down his underpants and bare his backside.

DAD does not do this. DAD tugs the waistband so that the cotton briefs fit snugly across NATE’s bottom. All creases are removed and the briefs are so tight that each buttock cheek is clearly defined, offering DAD a terrific target to spank. DAD takes hold of NATE’s shirt and pulls it up NATE’s back so that the audience now has an unrestricted view of the whole buttock area. DAD places his left hand around NATE’s waist to hold him in place. NATE and DAD are now both adopting the traditional spanking posture as demonstrated by fathers and sons across the ages.

NATE’s body is tense. NATE closes his eyes and shuts his mouth tight.

DAD gently taps the blade of the paddle against the underside of NATE’s left buttock cheek. NATE’s buttocks clench as if they are firming up to protect themselves from the painful spanking that is about to start.

DAD (Still tapping to find his aim, says almost inaudibly). Relax, son. Relax.

DAD raises the paddle to above shoulder height.

NATE’s whole body tenses

DAD pauses with the paddle raised high. He counts “one, two, three,” in his head then brings the paddle pounding down into NATE’s left buttock.

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NATE winces with pain. His legs kick.

DAD raises the paddle and repeats the previous manoeuvre, this time swatting the right buttock.

NATE’s head raises up and down. NATE’s mouth forms the perfect “O” shape, but he does not make a sound.

DAD slowly hammers another two swats across each cheek, making a total of six whacks.

NATE is feeling the pain. NATE’s head shakes from side to side, like a horse bothered by a fly.

DAD quickens the momentum of the spanking. Instead of counting “one, two, three” before each swat he spanks rapidly: bang-bang-bang, like machinegun fire.

NATE’s hips swivel, his shoulders shake. NATE acts as if he is trying to swim away off DAD’s lap. DAD grips NATE harder around the waist and continues spanking, making sure that the paddle whacks the fleshiest part of NATE’s bum, as well as the tender undersides, the sit-spot, where the bum meets the thighs. DAD also swipes the peaks of the mounds, so that no square-centimetre of bum is left untoasted.

DAD (While he is spanking). There. This is just what you deserve. Maybe you’ll work harder next semester. Why do you think your mother and I are paying for you to go to university. So you get a good degree. Have a decent career.

DAD (spanks the paddle with rhythm; one spank per word). This (spank) is (spank) how (spank) you (spank) repay (spank) us (spank).

NATE reaches his hand back to try to protect his backside from the onslaught. His body is tipped at such an angle he cannot quite manage this. DAD grips NATE’s wrist and together they struggle. DAD pushes NATE’s arm half way up his back.

(At this point the theatre director has a decision to make. In real life, because NATE was causing trouble and refusing to take his punishment stoically the DAD would pull down his underpants and continue the spanking across the bared buttocks. This might not be possible during the theatrical performance. Local districts have their own laws or regulations about nudity in public places and, of course, these must be respected. Even where laws permit bared buttocks to be shown, audiences might not appreciate the sight of a young man’s naked bottom writhing across lap of a much older man. It is a matter for the theatre director, producer and management to decide. For what it is worth, it is the preference of the play’s author, that NATE’s bottom is fully bared at this point so that his spanking might be exemplary. However, the script from this point on assumes that NATE’s underpants remain in place.)

DAD (Struggling with NATE). Oh, no you don’t.

NATE (Said as spanking continues). Oww, no, please, Dad. No more. I’m sorry. I will. I’ll work harder. Promise. Owww

DAD (breathless, still spanking hard). That’s what you said last time. (DAD spanks even faster and harder). It didn’t do much good.

NATE (squirming and writhing). I will. I will. I will. I promise. I’ll go to lectures.

DAD (Spanking hard, but now showing signs of fatigue). Library (huff). More time studying (huff)

NATE. Yes, ouch! Yes Dad, Yes Dad.

DAD (Spanking). Stop partying.

NATE. Yes, yes, yes Dad,. Please stop. Please I’ve had enough.

DAD stops paddling and looks across at MUM. He speaks no words but his look says “Has he had enough? Do you think he’ll behave now?” MUM nods “Yes”

DAD hammers a further six swats across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Three on each cheek. They are the hardest swats so far. Then, he releases his hold on NATE.

NATE rolls from DAD’s lap and lays on the floor gasping for breath, like a beached dolphin.

DAD grips the paddle and tries to control his own heavy breathing.

MUM watches NATE closely as NATE struggles to his knees and then to his feet. NATE ruefully rubs the seat of his underpants. The backs of his thighs are bright red where the paddle blade struck. NATE pulls up his jeans, zips up and does up the button. He does not do up the belt. NATE stands shamefaced, looking at the floor unable to meet the eye of MUM or DAD.

MUM (Calmly). You should go to your room. Make sure it’s tidy.

NATE still not looking at MUM or DAD makes for the door.

MUM (calling after NATE). And, I want you to go out this afternoon and find a job. Lots of the shops at The Exchange are looking for staff.

NATE (Patting the seat of his jeans as he exits the room). Yes, Mum.

DAD watches NATE leave, then turns to MUM

DAD (Hands her the paddle). There, put that back. Somehow, I think we’ll need it again, next mid-term.

MUM smiles ruefully. Takes the paddle and replaces it in the drawer. Then, MUM and DAD look at one another from across the room.

DAD. Know what, I could kill for a cup of tea, love.

Curtain falls.

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Other stories you might like

A drama in one scene

His big brother is not amused

The newly wed

 

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

That time at Uncle Ron’s

new 5

“I’ve had enough of your behaviour. I won’t stand for it, do you hear? It has got to stop.” It was my Uncle Ron speaking. “I’ve told you before. You need to buck your ideas up my lad. Start obeying the rules around here. Or else.”

It was 1974, I was eighteen and staying with Uncle Ron and Aunt June for the summer while I worked at the car plant and before going onto university.

“Now,” Uncle’s nostrils flared, “let me make it very clear. You behave yourself. You do as Aunt June and me tell you. I shan’t tell you again. Next time it’ll be a hiding. And don’t think I won’t. If you don’t believe me just ask Alan or John.”

Alan and John were my cousins, nineteen and seventeen. Ask them, Uncle Ron had said so next chance I had, I did. Alan filled me in on the details. He was very candid. As if there wasn’t anything unusual about it. “Cane,” he said nonchalantly.

“Cane?” I queried.

“Cane,” Alan wasn’t the brightest star in the sky and I had to squeeze it out of him. It would have been easier to extract hens’ teeth. Eventually, he told me, “He keeps two canes. In the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Canes?” I frowned, still puzzled.

“Yes, canes,” I had never exactly hit it off with Alan, now I was irritating the hell out of him, as if I was the dumb one in this conversation. “You know,” he shook his head, bedazzled by my denseness. “Canes. Like at school.”

“We don’t have the cane at our school,” I told him.

“Lucky you,” he responded ruefully and fell into silence.

I waited hoping he might take the hint and continue. When he didn’t, I was forced to say, “So … your dad has two canes. And he canes you?”

“Yes,” Alan confirmed.

“Like at school? How so?”

“Like at school,” Alan rolled his eyes as if to say, Who is this moron.

“We didn’t have it at school,” I said, remembering this time to use the past tense because I had left that summer, “What does he do? How….?”

“Usual way,” Alan looked a little wistful. “Y’know,” I could see his brain ticking over as he tried to find the words, “Over the back of the chair. Settee. Bend over. Whack-whack-whack.”

I remember my heart skipped. Bent over the back of the chair. I wanted to ask more details but a natural caution kicked in. Did it hurt? How much? Did you ever get it trousers down? I concealed so many questions I didn’t want to sound eager.

“He says, he’ll give me a ‘good hiding’,” I said. “Suppose that means the cane.” I Paused hoping Alan would take the hint and spill some more details. No such luck.

“Suppose, it does,” Alan said and he walked away leaving me with a slack jaw.

So, the canes were kept in the cupboard under the stairs. I had a burning ambition to see them. To feel them. I had never seen a punishment cane before. I’d seen plenty of drawings in comics, of course. Corporal punishment hadn’t been abolished in those days. Sometimes on television you saw a schoolmaster swishing a cane and threatening some boy with it. Come to think of it none of them ever carried out their threat. More’s the pity.

It wouldn’t be too difficult to sneak a look of the canes under the stairs. But I would have to bide my time. I could think of nothing else; all day long at my mind-numbingly boring job on the production line. I was going frantic.

I knew my uncle and aunt went to Bingo on Friday nights and I expected Alan and John to be out somewhere, but not, of course, together. I would have the place to myself. I could hardly swallow my tea, I was that excited. At about 7.30, I heard the front door slam shut. That was uncle and aunt out of the way. Alan and John were unlikely to call “goodbye” as they left the flat, so I had to sneak around a bit to find out if they were still at home. When I heard no sounds of record player or radio coming from either of their rooms, I knew the coast was clear. I checked the bathroom, just in case. Empty.

I was home alone. I could raid the cupboard under the stairs undetected. I felt my heart thumping in my chest as I crept down the stairs and into the passageway. I stood for a long moment, waiting. Fearful. But, fearful of what? I couldn’t explain it to myself. What was my interest in these canes? Why did I seem to obsess over them?

My hands shook as I inched open the cupboard door. I was so fearful I might have been tackling an unexploded bomb. A broom toppled onto me when I opened the door fully. I cussed silently and pushed it to one side. I peered in. The cupboard was chock-a-block with household crap. Mops, buckets, another broom, a brush and pan. A vacuum cleaner. A slight aroma of sweat, or it might have been decomposition, drifted from near the outside wall. A dead mouse perhaps? I had no intention of trying to find out. I was searching for something much more important.

The cupboard was dark, I pulled the cord for the light, I heard it click but nothing happened. In the gloom I saw there was no bulb. I cussed again. I had no torch or flashlight. I was thinking of running to my room to fetch a box of matches, when in the semi-darkness I saw something. My mouth dried instantly. That heart of mine speeded up again. I couldn’t be sure. I reached in the cupboard, through the muddle of mops and brooms. I grasped it in my hand. It felt like a long pencil. Definitely made of some kind of wood, I told myself. I tugged, but it was stuck behind a box of empty beer bottles. I fell to my knees and crawled into the cupboard, excitedly pushing detergent packets and buckets to one side. I felt as excited as any explorer in an Egyptian tomb.

Oh joy. I had not one, but two school canes in my hand. Carefully, I reversed from the cupboard and into the light. In the passageway I stood upright and surveyed my catch. I might never have seen a school cane before, but these beauties were exactly as advertised in those comics and TV programmes. I let one drop to the floor and caressed the other. It was a light brown / yellow colour and about three feet long. It had the tell-tale curved handle. I clutched it in both hands as I had seen the schoolmasters in the films do. It was as thick as a pencil but surprisingly bendy.

I flexed it thoughtfully. In my imagination I was that schoolmaster from TV and standing in front of me was … Who, exactly? I can’t be sure. Was it me, standing in front of myself, expecting to be caned? It puzzled me for a moment, who was I in this little scenario. Was I the beater, or the beaten?

I didn’t spend much time in deep reflection, I was having too much fun flexing and swishing the cane. I examined it closely. It had notches every few inches along its length and the tip was fraying. It was a little warped and I had no idea at the time that this indicated the cane had been frequently used.

I let it drop to the floor and picked up the second cane. This was thinner and lighter than its brother and made one hell of a swooshing noise as I swished it through the air. My heart raced and the front of my underpants tightened.

I flexed the cane some more, again conjuring up the scene of me as the headmaster. This time the naughty boy standing there was definitely me, summoned to the study for a good old-fashioned six-of-the-best. I swished the cane some more, but I was becoming disheartened. I needed to test this out. I wanted to know how it worked. How it felt. How much would it hurt? I held one end of the cane near the handle and bent forward and took a swipe at my own bottom. What a waste of time. I hit my right buttock, but didn’t feel a thing.  I tried again, swiping harder. With huge disappointment I straightened up. It was impossible. I couldn’t get enough of a swing.

It was then I had a bright idea. I hurried into the living room. This was where Uncle Ron caned Alan. Bent over the back of the armchair or settee. It was a small room and crammed with furniture. I imagined how Uncle Ron might do it. There was hardly room to swing a cat, let alone a cane. I took an armchair and swivelled it round so the back faced into the room. Yes. That was it. I was sweating, but the room wasn’t warm. I stared at the armchair. I walked slowly towards it and stood about a foot from the back. I was about the same height as Alan and realised at once that I would fit perfectly over the chair. Just as he did when he went over for his caning.

I hadn’t planned this. I was on autopilot. I could not resist. Carefully I placed the cane on the settee. Then, returning to the chair, I stood still and imagined my uncle’s voice, “Bend over that chair.” I rubbed my sweaty palms together, took a deep breath and dived over the back. It felt surprisingly comfortable. It was an old padded chair and my stomach sank into the cushion. I imagined how it would look in real life: me bent over bottom high, head low, submitting myself to Uncle Ron’s cane.

I can still remember the sensation. Me, head low, bottom high. I opened my legs, as if I was offering Uncle Ron my bottom, perfectly positioned for punishment. I was submissive. I was saying to him, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be caned. Punish me.”

I rested my forehead on the worn, indented seat cushion; inhaling the sweat secreted by hundreds of bottoms over many years. I was lost in my imagination. I hauled myself to a standing position. My head throbbed with excitement. The room seemed to spin. I stared ahead at the dull, faded wallpaper. I fixated on the pattern of roses. As I imagined I might if Uncle Ron was in the room with me. I heard him giving me instructions. I remained silent. I did not argue. I was a naughty little boy. I deserved this.

Not looking I took hold of the buckle of my belt and released it. My hands shook but I got them to find the zip on my fly and I tugged. My jeans fell open. I took hold of the waist and slowly and deliberately guided them down to my shins.

I paused. Uncle was giving me another order. I turned and faced the chair. I was wearing a white t–shirt that had a tail that fell over my underpants. Gently I took hold of the thin cotton material and I lifted the shirt half way up my body. It cleared my flat stomach and my taut buttocks. I let go and gently eased myself back over the armchair.

This time I gripped the arms and kept my head high, looking straight ahead. I felt Uncle tap the end of his cane across the middle of my bum. He was finding his aim. I closed my eyes tight waiting – no, fearing – the first stroke. It soon came. I wriggled my hips. It hurt. I steadied myself. The next stroke was harder, it made me rise on my toes and my knees buckled. “Ouch!” I said aloud, but there was no one there to hear.

I took six strokes. I had no idea if these were ‘six-of-the-best.’ I had a vague idea that not all school canings were “six-of-the-best”. Some beatings were more ferocious than others. Perhaps, because this was my first time Uncle might have gone easy on me. He might warn me that if there was to be a next time I should expect a much harder caning.

I wasn’t finished. I was still bent over with my jeans at my ankles and my cotton-encased backside angled against the back of the chair. Uncle spoke to me again. I voiced a protest. It did no good. I was still over the chair but I imagined Uncle moving towards me, with only one intent. The next bit was tricky. I reached my right arm behind me and although I can’t see what I’m doing I managed to find the waistband of my underpants. I took a grip and simultaneously lifted my body up an inch and tugged at the briefs so that slowly they descended across my buttocks. I let them snag over my thighs. They didn’t need to fall further, my buttocks were now completely bared.

“Oh no Uncle. No, please,” I wailed. “I will be good.”

“Bah!” Uncle says back to me. He was a man of few words. He took up position again. He lifted the cane. It swished through the air and landed across my naked bottom.

“Yaroooh!” I cried. It is a word I have read in school stories. It’s what the boys shouted when they were caned, so I knew it was the what you were supposed to do.

Uncle took my backside off. This time it was undoubtedly “six-of-the-BEST”. I wriggled and writhed. “Stand up,” Uncle intoned.

I hauled myself to my feet and jumped up and down while at the same time rubbing away at my scorching buttocks. My cock is stiff and I had trouble pulling my underpants up. But, soon I am dressed again. My head was buzzing. Was this what it feels like to be on drugs?

It takes a long moment for me to get my breath back. I was enjoying this too much, I didn’t want it to end. I picked up the cane again and searching around the room with my eyes spot a scatter cushion. I had a plan. It seemed original to me. I balanced the cushion on the apex of the chair. It was not perfect, but it would do. I stood a little to the left of the chair and tapped the frayed end of my cane across the cushion. It was the stand-in for my own backside. I was now my own Uncle Ron. I tapped some more, then with mounting excitement I raised the cane high, let it hover for a moment and brought it crashing down across the cushion. The loudness of the noise alarmed me. Could the whole block of flats hear? The cushion slid from the back of the chair to the floor.

I waited to catch my breath. Then I bent down to retrieve the cushion. That was when I saw two muddy training shoes. My eyes travelled north – now there was a pair of legs. I sprung to a standing position. Alan stared at me, his eyes popping. He had a befuddled look, his mouth opened and closed. He did this twice but no sound came out. He was like a goldfish. I was just as dumbstruck. “Ba .. ba..  but …” I began, but Alan had already turned on his heels and fled from the flat. My face blazed. How much had he seen? Any of it? Oh my god, not all of it!

I swivelled the chair back to its original position and in some distress I replaced the canes in the cupboard. The shame. My secret revealed. I trudged up the stairs to my room. I fell face down on the bed and buried my face in a pillow.

after bed jeans domestic (2)

The scene of me across the chair and my uncle caning my bare backside overwhelmed me. I caressed my own backside as I might have done after a thrashing. My cock swelled until I felt like I was lying on top of a baseball bat.  I turned on my back and tugged my jeans over my buttocks. Quickly, my underpants went the same way. My dick saluted me. I slowly massaged the blood-engorged head, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again.

My hips rose and fell. I was torn between wanting to go faster and wanting the aching sensation to last forever. I cupped my balls with my other hand. My arse cheeks clenched. I wriggled the jeans and pants until they were clear of my legs, still tugging away. Huff-huff-huff. I had to be careful, any moment now I would shoot my load.

I let go of my balls and took hold of my shirt. Still, I tugged away. My eyes watered. I shrugged the shirt from my body. I was now completely naked except for my socks.

My cock twitched and I could feel sperm dribbling out. My body was tingling all over as pleasure washed through me like some tidal wave. I moaned louder than I’d ever done in my life.  I closed my eyes tightly, imagining it was someone else touching me. I ran my hands over the hard tense muscles of my chest and stomach. My hard six-inch cock was lying flat on my stomach drooling pre-cum. I felt my nuts tightening and the intensity increasing as cum started to rise through the throbbing length of my cock until the juice splashed across my stomach and I was overtaken by an own intense orgasm.

Picture credit: Unknown

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The thieving nephew

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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

You, called home

new 5

You sit glumly, as the green fields become first factories, then houses, then offices and shops. The train rattles into the station. Nearly home. Only a short bus ride before you meet up with father. The carriage is nearly empty of passengers, Saturday is not a busy day on the railway at Brocklehurst. You try to listen to your music but you can’t concentrate. The sounds blur in your ears.

An unintelligible voice crackles through the speaker. You can’t understand a word, but you know the guard is announcing the train is approaching Brocklehurst: your home town. Like a good citizen you wait until the train comes to a complete standstill before you rise from your seat and reach to the overhead shelf and take down your bag. You feel the weight of your dirty laundry as you sling it over your shoulder. At least one good thing will come from this visit: mother will do your washing.

You alight from the train and with no enthusiasm make your way down the platform. You have your ticket ready to get through the automatic barrier. In no hurry, you walk through the station, your footsteps echoing against the hard floor tiles. Ghost town. You have been away only three months, but already you have forgotten how dull this place is.

The bright lights of Newcastle have seduced you. Your new home. New friends. New experiences. That’s what university is supposed to give you. And, that is the problem. That’s why father has called you home.

The buses stop right outside the station. They call this ‘Brocklehurst Parkway’, a transport hub for the 21st century. As if buses never stopped outside train stations in the past. But that’s modern life, the ordinary is branded as if it were something new.

The buses run every twenty minutes. The number 66 – your bus – pulls up at the stop the second you exit the station. You pause, consider letting it go. Waiting for the next one. Or the one after. You are in no hurry to get home. Father doesn’t know what time your train is due. You can string this out for a while yet.

A nagging voice in your head tells you, “Get on that bus. Do not deceive your father.” It is your conscience. Those nagging voices have been troubling you since the day you arrived at the university. You are eighteen years old and free from your parents for the first time in your life. Free from all kinds of authority. There are few rules at the university. At your first class you were told, “Failure is a process, not an event.” The lecturer meant it was up to you – and your fellow students – to work hard, attend lectures, do the reading, submit the assignments on time. Go the whole nine yards (or whatever). If you do, success would follow. If but you do not, you will fail. Nobody is going to stand over you with a big stick to make sure you work.

You step onto the bus, offer your credit card for the fare and take a seat near the back. A light rain begins to fall as the bus pulls away. Your mid-term exams didn’t go so well. That lecturer was right. Too much time spent at student social clubs, playing football, discovering bars. Alcohol. A drop had never passed your lips before Newcastle. You soon made up for lost time.

Your father never touched a drop. The devil’s brew. There is something about it in the Bible. You know there are a lots of things in the Bible. About how to behave and how not to behave. Nobody you know at home drinks. Everyone goes to church – the same church. That’s the House of the Sacred Light. It came as a shock when you discovered The Sacred Light doesn’t operate in Newcastle. You are a member of a select band of people. You all know the true way. The Light. You know this to be true: it’s what you are taught.

You still read your Bible; you haven’t changed that much in the time you’ve been away. It makes a lot of sense to you. It is your guiding light. You’ve just lost your way a little. You need help to get back on the straight and narrow path. You know that. That’s why father has called you home. To help you. To guide you. You shuffle your buttocks on the hard seat as the bus takes a roundabout a little too quickly.

Traffic is light and the bus soon arrives at Widdicombe Wood, which is where you get off. Your street, The Avenue, is opposite. The rain has stopped but it’s cloudy and dank, it will start again fairly soon. Saturday is usually busy in The Avenue. Cars are washed and gardens attended. Two teenagers lounge idly with their bicycles. One, a fat youth with a face scarlet with acne and pus, leers at you as you pass. Your heart misses a beat. Can he read your mind? Does he know? Do all the neighbours know? Know why you have been called home.

You pass several large detached house, each hidden in its own way from the scrutiny of neighbours. Your house is surrounded by high ivy-covered walls. The gate is closed but unlocked. You pause for a moment to allow your heartrate to slow. Then with your knee you push the gate open, but only so far that you can squeeze your body through. Once inside you back-kick the gate and it slowly creaks back to its original state.

There is a light on in the loungeroom, although it is only midday. Father is probably waiting there for you. Mother will be hidden away in her own private ‘den’ pretending to make a dress with her new state-of-the-art sewing machine. You walk up the drive – slowly. Any passing tortoise would beat you in a race. You silently curse that the drive is not longer. You arrive at the front door. You have your own key and you let yourself in.

There is an eerie silence. Usually chamber music plays from an old-fashioned record player. Not today. You close the door and plonk your bag in the hall. Mother will deal with that later. You take off your coat and hang it neatly on a coat stand. While you are doing this you make sure to move all the other coats. You are checking. You don’t know what to think. The two whippy school-type rattan punishment canes that usually dangle from their curved handles here are missing.

Just then, Mother bustles from the lounge. “I thought I heard you come in,” she says shyly. “Do you have laundry?” You point to the bag. She picks it up and hurries into the utility room where she will stay for the next several hours. You watch her go, holding back your resentment that she hasn’t even said, “Hello, how are you?”

You have no time for further thoughts on the matter as father now emerges from the lounge. He looks at you sternly. “Good. You’re here at last,” he says. Again, there s no welcome. You nod blindly as if agreeing that indeed you are here. “Come in here,” he says sternly and walks back into the lounge.

The room hasn’t changed in the past three months. It is a large room that is dominated by two couches and a set of armchairs. Small tables are dotted around the room. There is no television set. But something is out of place. Your eyes settle on a chair, it is armless and has a straight back. It belongs in the kitchen. It has been brought into the lounge for a reason. It has been placed close to a corner facing into the room. You know why it is there. A heavy wooden paddle left on a nearby table confirms your thought.

Your father gives a little cough. He is both clearing his throat and gaining your attention. You stand, hands behind your back and look at him, making clear to your father that he has your rapt attention. Father looks as he always does whatever the time of day or the day of the week. He is dressed in a sober dark suit with a white shirt and red tie. You cannot remember ever seeing him dressed otherwise.

He begins to speak and you know – almost word for word – what he is going to say. He knows you failed your midterms and he thinks he knows why. You meekly confirm his suspicions. You know you have not worked this semester. You know if you don’t buck your ideas up you will fail at Christmas. You know you have let your mother and father down. You tell father this. He nods sagely, it is what he wants to hear.

You promise him you will work harder. He is pleased to hear it, he says. You say sorry again. You know this is expected. It is a kind of ritual. You go through the motions, knowing already what comes next.

Father picks up a Bible from one of the tables and flicks through the pages, finding his place. He reads several passages at great length and solemnity. Honour your mother and father. Work hard. Spare the rod. You know this by heart, but you show you are paying attention as if hearing it all for the very first time.

Father finishes reading and replaces the Bible on the table. He closes his eyes and begins to pray aloud. He is seeking the strength of the Lord. You are obliged to join in with the Amen.

Father says no more. Now, he unbuttons his jacket and slips it from his back. Carefully, he folds it and places it on the seat of a couch. You watch him intently as he does this and then he sits in the kitchen chair. He beckons to you with a crooked finger. He wants you to stand close to him. Silently, you take the three or four paces necessary.

You are standing so close that you can smell the aroma of coal tar soap and hair oil that follows your father around. He licks his lips, gives that little cough again and says, “I think you know what to do.” You don’t need clarification. This is your cue to prepare myself. You are soberly dressed in a white shirt and black trousers. At home you are always required to dress like this. You look a bit like a senior schoolboy. Not that you ever attended school – not a proper school. Parents of The Sacred Light ‘home-schooled’ which meant they taught their children themselves. There were several of you and you had classes at the church. You wore a distinctive school uniform with a grey shirt and pale-grey short trousers – even when you were eighteen. It taught you humility; walking to and from the church dressed like that.

Today you are wearing the long grey socks from school and the unusual and unflattering grey underwear worn by all males of The Sacred Heart. You have several pairs of grey short trousers in your bedroom and you wouldn’t be surprised if father insists you go upstairs to change. But, he has not. So, you must prepare yourself now.

You take a deep breath as if preparing yourself for an ordeal. Then you take hold of the buckle of the belt keeping your trousers up and open it. There’s a button on the waistband of your trousers and your fingers shiver a little so you fumble getting it undone. From the corner of your eye you see father is silently in prayer. You tug the zip fly and the front of the trousers fall open. The material of the trousers is heavy and with the weight of the belt and some keys and coins in your pocket, the trousers tumble to your shins.

Father has stopped praying and watches you as you place each of your thumbs in the waistband of your underwear and with not much more than a flick of the wrists you sent the pants south to meet your trousers. A faint breeze wafts in from somewhere to cool your naked legs and buttocks. Father slaps his thigh with his right hand. He is becoming impatient. Which is a sin, so he stops slapping and says quietly, “Bend across my knee, son.”

As he says this he parts his knees slightly and you look down at his thighs. He has made a platform for you to present your body. Carefully, you rest the heels of your hands on his right leg and slowly ease yourself down and forward. Within seconds you are across his knee in the traditional to-be-spanked posture. You make fists with your hands and push these into the carpet. Your bottom is raised over father’s lap and your legs are stretched out behind you so that the tips of your shoes brush the ground.

You hear father’s breathing getting heavier. You wait patiently. Father takes the end of your shirt and pushes it gently up your back so that it is away from his target area. Not long now. Your buttocks clench in anticipation. Now father has cupped the palm of his right hand and he is caressing each buttock cheek. You close your eyes and shut your teeth tightly. Any moment now. Father leans his left arm across your back holding you in position.

Slap! You hear the noise of his palm spanking your left buttock a split-second before you feel the sting. It tingles, but it doesn’t really hurt. Then father slaps the right cheek. Quickly he gets into a rhythm, slapping down hard across your bum. He works enthusiastically and in no time the whole area is glowering pink. The pain is building, but you are eighteen-years-old and no matter how hard father slaps the palm of his hand into you backside – even your bare backside – it isn’t going to do you much harm.

z used otk pants down chair sting (6)

You know this and father knows this. The spanking is so far symbolic. Father is expressing his displeasure and you are submissively presenting yourself for punishment. You know your place. You are your father’s son. You father is doing his duty to God. All is well.

But, father knows there is a difference between mere discipline and punishment. You have to be punished. Without adequate punishment you will not mend your ways. You will not work harder. You will fail your exams, be excluded from university and your future will be ruined. This punishment is for your own good. Father stops slapping your bare bum. You feel a movement in his body as he reaches over to the nearby table. He grips the paddle. It is a little bigger than a paperback book or a DVD cover, but a great deal heavier. Without warning father lifts it high and whacks it down with maximum impact across the underside of your cheeks – the sensitive ‘sit-spot’.

The suddenness of the move and the pain is creates takes you by surprise and for the first time this afternoon a yelp escapes your tight lips. Father spanks with the paddle as hard and as quickly as he had with his hand. Your backside quickly roasts. You can’t help it, your hips sway and your legs kick. Father presses his arm down into your back. You are going nowhere. Not for a considerable time to come.

You lose all sense of time. It might be one minute, it might be twenty. Up and down, up and down. The paddle flies, biting into your fleshy backside. It burns. Your temples throb almost as much as your backside. Tears fill your eyes but do not fall. Your throat is tight, but that doesn’t stop a series of “Owwws” and “Ouches” escaping your mouth. You are burning.

Father has covered every square centimetre of your buttocks which are now shining bright red. So, he turns his attentions to the backs of your thighs. Whack! “Noooooo! Stop!!!!! Please!!!!” you yell for mercy, but none is forthcoming. Father is on a mission.

You kick and wriggle and squirm and yell. It does no good. It never does. Father will spank you for as long as it takes. Until he is satisfied you have learned a lesson. Your head is buzzing. You hear the sound of wood connecting with naked flesh, but you feel no more pain. You have reached a plateau. A literal pain barrier.

Perhaps father realises this, because he eases off. The paddle continues to pound into your bottom but the whacks are not so heavy and less frequent. Then – at last – they stop completely. You lay face down staring at the carpet, your heartbeat races, your blood pressure is off the scale. Your backside feels like you have sat in a bathtub of boiling water. You hear your father’s uneven breathing. The spanking has taking it out of him as well.

At last he croaks, “Get up.” You scramble to your feet and instinctively your hands go to your naked buttocks. Your flesh feels like leather. The pain is already easing but both cheeks throb like mad. You are unconcerned that you are standing half-naked in front of father exposing your privates. Father hauls himself from the chair and reaches for his jacket. You take this cue and get dressed yourself, gingerly puling your underwear over your scorching buttocks. You bend down and retrieve your trousers. Pain reignites when you pull them over your bum. You zip up but leave the belt undone.

Father reaches for the Bible. Your head spins. You feel high. It must be the adrenaline, or something. You know father is reading to you but you can’t make out the words. This goes on for a long minute before father intones, “Amen.” Hurriedly, you echo that.

“Go to your room,” father says quietly. You hobble away. As you walk towards the staircase you hear the sound of a washing machine and catch the smell of detergent. Mother is washing your clothes. You wonder how long you will have to wait before you can get the train back to university.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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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

The boy in pink

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If the cat hadn’t jumped from the kitchen table and landed on the draining board by the sink disturbing the plates that were drying there, Mr Shankly would never have looked up from his newspaper.

“Oh, Suki,” he chortled, “daft cat, getouttaway.” Then he walked over to the sink. He meant to put the crockery from breakfast in a cupboard. Out of harm’s way. So the stupid cat wouldn’t break things. That was what he meant to do. But, he didn’t.

The window by the sink looked out into The Avenue. It was always quiet in the morning, after the crowd had hurried off to the railway station and gone away to their offices. After that exodus was over, Mr Shankly would be lucky if he saw a soul until they all returned on the 6.16 train in the evening. The boy he saw now only yards away was definitely – without a shadow of doubt – not an office worker. Mr Shankly leaned over the sink to get a better view. He was pretty sure he hadn’t seen the boy before. He would have remembered him for sure. No doubt about that.

“Hey Suki,” he often spoke out loud to the cat, “What do you think of this?” Suki, being a cat, slinked from the room, her tail high. Mr Shankly shook his head vigorously from side to side for no obvious reason other than perhaps to reassure himself he was not dreaming. The boy was certainly a vision. And, Mr Shankly, told himself ruefully, the boy knows it too.

So, he was about nineteen or twenty. Mr Shankly was a bit of a connoisseur of these things. He had to be. Get a kid’s age wrong and there’d be more than Hell to pay. For sure, this was no child. He must have been six feet tall (Mr Shankly was most definitely pre-metric) and no more than thirty-two round the waist. He had a shock of fairish, almost blond, hair, so unkempt it must have cost him a small fortune at the barbershop to get it that way.

“A dish,” he said aloud, although Suki had long departed and there was no human in the house to hear his assessment. Mr Shankly licked his lips. It was an unpleasant sight. He didn’t know he did it, but he did it a lot. It betrayed his thoughts. “A dish.”

The boy was alone in the street. Walking casually. Towards Widdicombe Wood. Mr Shankly bit down on his bottom lip. He broke into a smile. The boy could only have one intention. Widdicombe Wood. “He’s not very subtle,” Mr Shankly told his own reflection in the window, “Up to no good. Widdicombe Wood. That’s for sure. Look at him.” Mr Shankly strained to catch a final look as the boy disappeared from view. “Look at him.” The boy wore pale pink shorts and a darker pink top. No socks. Just those flip-flop shoes the youngsters wear these days. “Not very subtle. He might as well hang a for-sale sign round his neck,” Mr Shankly chuckled. “No belt. Probably no underpants.” Amused, he shook his head. “Great arse,” he told the breakfast plates as he slid them into the cupboard.

The boy, who was called Tom, had no idea he was being spied on. He had other matters on his mind. He took his phone from his pocket and checked the time. He was early for his appointment. He slowed his pace. He had no intention of arriving before the prearranged hour. No way. He dare not be late. He knew the consequence for bad timekeeping. That didn’t mean he would be early. No way. Just on time. Not early, not late. On time. On the dot.

Tom hated The Avenue. It only held bad memories for him. He lived across Brocklehurst with his mum. Just the two of them in the council flat. It had been like that for years. Since his miserable dad had run off with a younger woman. Just him and his mum. How he hated that. What he would do to get away. To get enough money to get a place of his own. Not a big detached house with double garage, like the ones he was passing in The Avenue. A room in a house-share, with people like himself. A bed-sitting room would do. Anything would be better than that stinking council flat with his mum.

Tom was no different from most kids his age. He thought the world revolved around him. No, he was the centre of the universe. He should have whatever he wanted. Here. Now. Everything, he wanted without the effort. Who cared if he didn’t have a job. He was too good to flip burgers or stack supermarket shelves. Let the burgers flip themselves. He had told his boss that. He said much the same to the manager at the supermarket. Two jobs lost inside a month. The rows at home got longer and louder. His mum was driven to distraction.

Tom checked his phone: 9.29. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment. He crossed the street and with more confidence than he really felt he pushed open the gate to number eighty-six. He let it swing. He ambled up the drive. Halted on the doorstep. The phone clicked to 9.30 and he rang the bell.

The door opened almost immediately. He had been expected. No words were exchanged as the man stood to one side to let Tom enter. Tom stood in the hallway, trying to control his racing heart. The man closed the door. Then, he stood and with his eyes, he examined Tom closely. He made a mental note of the pink shorts, the absence of a belt, the looseness of the cloth against Tom’s firm body. He was making plans.

“In there,” he nodded to a door at  the farthest end of the hallway. Tom led the way. He had visited before. The man watched him go. Once Tom was in the lounge room the man waddled up the stairs, headed for the bathroom. He needed to empty his bladder before he got down to business.

Five minutes later he was back. Tom stood sheepishly. He remembered his last visit. This would not end well. The man once again scanned his eye over Tom’s body, registering the teenager’s nervousness. The silence in the room was deafening.

The man broke it. “Well, Tom.” Tom’s open suntanned face flushed. More silence. The man tried again, “Well, Tom.”

Tom knew his eyelids were blinking uncontrollably. Blink-blink-blink. His mouth was so dry he could hardly croak, “Well, Uncle Ernest?” Yet more silence.

Uncle Ernest sucked in air, he was a man of short temper. His nephew was trying what little patience he had. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself!” he roared. Tom blushed a tomato red. His mind was blank. What was he supposed to say?

Uncle Ernest paced the room. “Your mother is beside herself. Sick with worry,” he growled as he reached the window. He stared into the garden beyond. He could not bear to face Tom with his accusation. “Those vile things you said to her. Your own mother. Disgusting. Disgraceful.” He paused, anger spreading through his body. “Well!” he turned on his heels and faced his nephew. “Well! What do you have to say!”

Tom blustered. “Well, Uncle, I.. that is …” Eventually, he trailed off. He had nothing to say. Uncle Ernest was right. Tom had driven his mother to distraction. But, and he knew better than to try to argue this with Uncle Ernest, she was partly to blame too. Always winding him up. Getting on his nerves. The things she said. Her very presence in the flat. She was driving him insane.

He said none of these things. What was the point? Uncle Ernest didn’t want to hear. He hadn’t summoned Tom to his house to have a discussion. This wasn’t a therapy session.  Uncle Ernest had only one thing on his mind. Retribution. This was a reckoning. Tom must pay for the way he had treated his mother – Uncle Ernest’s kid sister.

“You’re a brat. You need taking down a peg or two. You need to learn how adults behave. Get a job. Be responsible. You’re nineteen-years-old god-damn-it,” Uncle Ernest was slow and methodical in his condemnation. “Your mother loves you. Heck I love you. Like my own son. Do you think I like doing this?”

The pause took Tom by surprise. Was that a real question? Was he expected to answer? Did Uncle Ernest enjoy doing this to him? Tom shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment. Did he? Did he enjoy this?

“Bah!” Uncle Ernest’s temper popped. “You waste of space.” Tom watched him walk to the centre of the room and pick up a chair from under the dining table. Then he carried it across the room and set it down in an empty space. Tom’s head throbbed with tension. Uncle Ernest crossed the room again, stopped at a cupboard and opened it. Tom watched his uncle carefully, although he knew with certainty what would happen next. The same thing that had happened the last two times he visited. Sure enough, Uncle reached his arm inside it and quickly emerged with a large, heavy wooden clothes brush in his fist.

Uncle Ernest glared at Tom, his unspoken words said, “You know what’s going to happen now.” Tom knew his own blood pressure was off the scale. His breathing quickened while he watched Uncle Ernest take the brush to the chair. There, he sat down, wriggled his buttocks and straightened his back. He parted his legs, planting his feet firmly into the wooden floor.

“Come here,” he gestured with the brush, “Bend over my knee.”

Tom had expected this, since the moment he had received the phone call instructing him to present himself at Uncle Ernest’s house. It was never in any doubt A spanking. Over Uncle’s knee like a naughty little boy. And, he had told himself, they wanted him to act like an adult – when they treated him like a nine-year-old.

Tom looked across the room at his uncle. He was so much older than his mother. Uncle Ernest had been a company director, a man who gave orders and expected them to be obeyed. Invariably, they were. He had the power. It was the same in the family. He was the boss, the master. Tom was not exactly the slave, but certainly the underling. The minion. The subordinate. Tom could refuse. Then what? Would his mother throw him out the flat? In her distress, she had threatened this. If he didn’t obey Uncle Ernest, would he insist he left. With no job, no money, all he could look forward too was a life on the streets. No, it was clear Uncle Ernest had all the power.

Tom shuffled across the room. He stood by his uncle’s side, towering over the old man. Tom peered at Uncle Ernest’s fat thighs encased in chino trousers. Uncle’s gut flopped over his waist, straining against a pink-patterned shirt. Uncle parted his knees further, presenting Tom with a platform of flesh to prostrate himself across. He took a deep breath and slowly lowered himself. He had done this before, he knew how it was done. Within seconds he was face down, the palms of his hands pressed firmly into the ground. His bottom was high over Uncle’s lap and his feet dangled in mid-air. His flip-flops tumbled to the floor.

Tom closed his eyes shut. He felt his Uncle’s arm rest across his back and grip him around the waist. He was in the classic spanking position. Like how many naughty boys across the years?. He felt Uncle Ernest’s movement. Tom’s buttocks clenched, tightening the flesh. Uncle Ernest gripped the brush, raised his hand, paused, and brought it crashing down into the seat on Tom’s shorts. The whack! noise resounded across the room. Five seconds later the action was repeated. Tom now had two stinging marks, one on each cheek.

z used otk pink JM

Uncle kept up a steady rhythm. Whack-raise-hand-pause-whack-raise-hand-pause. Tom’s buttocks  were warming up. He lay, bottom high, head low and let his Uncle get on with it. Nineteen-year-old boys are resilient creatures. A spanking – even one with a heavy brush – across the seat of summer shorts and cotton underpants was easily endurable. Tom knew that. But, so too did Uncle Ernest.

He was only getting started.

“Stand up,” he commanded. Tom hauled himself to his feet and stood in front of his uncle. “Hands on head.” The teenager complied without fuss. Again, he closed his eyes. It did him no good, he couldn’t pretend he was anywhere other than in Uncle Ernest’s loungeroom getting his naughty bottom spanked. Tom felt Uncle Ernest grip the waistband of his shorts. It took the old man a moment to fumble with the button there. At last, he had it open. It was a moment’s work to locate the zipper and quickly pull it. The law of gravity took the shorts down Tom’s thighs and they snagged at his legs.

“Back over,” Uncle Ernest unceremoniously dripped Tom’s left elbow and guided him back over his knees. “Right,” Uncle Ernest spoke to himself as he smoothed the creases from Tom’s bright-blue underpants. They already fitted snugly, but by the time Uncle had caressed each buttock and pulled the elasticated waistband tight, they fitted like a second skin.

Tap-tap-tap. Uncle Ernest took his aim. Whack! “Owww,” Tom mouthed silently. That hurt. Unhindered by the summer shorts, the brush could do its work. It cracked against Tom’s hard bottom. The boy’s leg flailed. They were beyond his control. His hips heaved to the left and right. “Steady, steady boy,” Uncle Ernest said through clenched teeth. “Keep still now.” He pounded half a dozen whacks into the underside of the buttocks. Tom’s pants only covered half the flesh, red, oval-shaped marks scorched the naked flesh. “Owwww, owwwww,” Tom was yapping. The spanking was hurting now. Encouraged by this, Uncle Ernest slammed the brush around the circuit, paying especial attention to the meatiest parts of the mounds. But, not forgetting the tender sit-spots, nor the higher reaches of the buttocks. No square centimetre of Tom’s bum was left un-toasted.

He wriggled. He writhed. He hollered. But Uncle Ernest was no slouch in the spanking stakes. He gripped the boy tightly around the waist. The brat was going nowhere – not until Uncle Ernest was certain he had learned his lesson.

“Oww. Oww. Oww.” Tom’s cries covered up the sound of letters plopping onto the doormat. The postman stood puzzled by the front door. Did he recognise that noise? He wondered. He checked he could not be seen from the street before leaning forward and pressing his ear to the door.

“Whack-whack-whack. Ow, ow, ow,” The postman smiled broadly. Yes, he was right. Someone was getting what he deserved. If only more parents did the same. Why the kids of today, they got away with murder. He nearly skipped down the drive. The sun shone more brightly. There was still hope for the world.

Uncle Ernest was an old man, but he could always find reserves of energy when he needed them. Nobody was timing, but Tom’s phone registered 9.47 by the time Uncle Ernest set the brush down. “Up,” he commanded. Tom didn’t need telling twice. He was off Uncle’s lap and hopping up and down massaging his baked buttocks.

“Get dressed,” Uncle Ernest replaced the chair under the dining table. “And don’t you dare disrespect your mother again. Now, go home”

Unhappily, Tom gave his buttocks a rueful rub before heading to the door.

Mr Shankly was back at his kitchen sink, filling the electric kettle for tea when he saw the boy in pink again. This time he was hurrying down The Avenue. “I bet he’s had a lot of fun, don’t you Suki,” he said as he pushed the switch. “Lucky blighter.”

 

Picture credit: Just Magic (Magic Spanking Factory)

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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

Perils of drink-driving

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Angela Davis’ face was ashen and her hands shook as she prepared her husband’s bacon and egg breakfast. Her bottom lip trembled, “He came home late again last night. He’d taken his car. He’d been drinking.”

“He” was their nineteen-year-old son Michael, who was sleeping it off upstairs.

“John,” Angela choked back tears, “I’m terrified. He’ll kill someone one day. He’ll kill himself.”

John took the plate of food from his wife’s quaking hands and put it safely on the table. “I know love. It scares me too. We’ve told him,” he breathed, struggling to control his own terror. “We’ve told him often enough,” he cut a piece of bacon and dipped it into egg yolk and with it precariously balanced on his fork, slid it into his mouth.

He chewed thoughtfully. “I’ll have a word with him tonight. I’ll sort it,” he said doubtfully.

“You need to do more than talk to him John. I’m at my wits’ end, it can’t go on like this. It just can’t.”

John chewed on in silence. He finished his breakfast and quietly lay the knife and fork down. He reached for his jacket. “I’ll sort it out tonight love. Promise.” He pecked her on the cheek and left the house. As he opened the door he saw Michael had left his car parked with one wheel on the pavement. “Just how drunk was he?” he muttered to himself as he put the key in the lock of his Ford.

It was six-thirty that evening when John finally had his “word”. Angela was in the kitchen preparing tea. The father and son had the lounge to themselves. It had been on John’s mind all day. What was he to say? What was he to do?

“Look son,” he started cordially. “Your mother is beside herself with worry about you?”

Michael flushed with confusion. He had no idea what Dad was talking about so he let him go on. “You were drinking again last night,” he said calmly. It was not an accusation, it was a statement of fact. “You were driving your car …” he let the sentence trail off. His meaning was obvious.

Michael stood awkwardly. What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t deny it. He felt the temperature in his face rise. He blushed easily. There was no way he could bluff his way out of this. His father continued, “We’ve spoken to you about this before son. You know we have.”

Michael nodded sagely as if the pair of them were having an intelligent discussion about some abstract matter of public importance. His father leaned against the back of an armchair and took a deep breath. He was determined to stay calm and reasonable. He loved his son to pieces and he was genuinely terrified that the lad would end up in a hospital ward. Or worse still in the cemetery. “You know it’s against the law,” he said weakly. He paused and stared at his son’s blank expression. Did he realise how serious this was? He was nineteen years old; at that age where kids have no fear of death. They think they’re immortal.

“Look son,” John tried a different tack. “You could have an accident. You could cause an accident. What if you ran someone over,” he garbled. “What if you killed someone. What if you killed a child.” John’s blood pressure was rising. Why wouldn’t Michael say something? “What if you killed yourself,” he snapped.

Michael suddenly found the sight of his feet very interesting. He stared intently at the toecaps of his shoes. Dad was right of course. But somehow he couldn’t explain – not to his dad, nor even to himself – he never thought of things like that. It hadn’t happened to him. No one he knew ever had a car accident, drunk or sober. These were things that happened to other people.

“It can’t go on,” his father insisted. “You’re driving your mum into an early grave,” he caught himself just in time so that he didn’t snort at the unintended pun he had made.

Michael’s eyes stayed rooted, a stance that fuelled his father’s indignation. “Bah!” he struggled to keep his temper. “I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve told you about this,” he began to wave his hands angrily. “I took your car keys away. It didn’t make any difference.”

It was a statement not a question and Michael elected not to argue the point. How could he? Everything Dad said was the God’s honest truth.

His father took a series of slow breaths to prepare himself. His right hand quivered, he could feel his temperature rising. “It can’t go on like this Michael. You know it can’t,” he wheezed. “It’s got to stop. Stop right now.”

Michael nodded his head slowly in agreement because he thought that’s what he was supposed to do.

“Good,” his father had regained control of his breathing. “I’m glad you agree, son,” he spoke mildly. “Because your mum and I have decided you need to be punished.”

Michael’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. Punished. What did he mean punished? He looked quizzically across the room and saw his father walk slowly across the lounge. He reached the settee and sank to his knees before reaching for something hidden under it. He took hold and rose back to his feet.

“Wh…? Wh…?” Michael gasped. The question he was trying to ask might have been What? or it might have been Why?

The What? was the thin, whippy school cane his father now held between his hands. The Why? was pretty obvious. Nothing else had worked, now drastic measures were needed.

His father flexed the cane between his hands and looked at it closely as if he had never seen it before. It was a typical school punishment cane; about three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It was dark yellow and had a curved handle at one end. It was old and worn, it had seen much action over the years.

Michael gaped and his father answered his unspoken question. “Your Uncle Ernie brought it from his school.” Uncle Ernie was a master at St Francis Independent Grammar School. Although corporal punishment was being phased out across the country St FIGS stuck to its traditions. It’s reputation as the premier caning school in Brocklehurst was renowned.

His father tucked the cane under his arm and looked intently at his son. “We’ve tried everything else son. It’s because we love you. We don’t want you to kill yourself. This is for your own good. Believe me.”

Michael had at last found his voice, but not his power of speech, “But Dad,” he spluttered, “C’mon. Y’know. Really?”

“Yes, really.” His father shook his head sorrowfully. “It’s come to this. We’ve tried everything else. You’ve left us no choice.”

Michael flushed, “Sorry. I promise I won’t drink and drive again. There. Satisfied?”

His father sucked in his cheek, “You’ve said that before, Michael. Nothing came of it. Perhaps, you mean it when you say it, but you don’t have the self-discipline to see it through. What you need is someone to impose that discipline on you.” He winced inwardly at the corny line he had spoken and lapsed into silence.

“But, Dad ….” Michael faltered. Again, Dad was absolutely correct. Michael had made promises; lots of them. He hadn’t kept any. His father slipped the cane from under his arm and into his hand. He let it dangle and mechanically tapped it gently against his right leg. “Next time you think about drinking and driving you’ll remember this evening,” he chided.

Michael stared at the cane, his heartbeat raced. Dad was serious. He was determined to cane him. His Dad! The man who hadn’t ever raised a finger to him. He was overcome with remorse. His jaw shuddered.

His father wobbled the cane and pointed at a small dining table. “Stand over there,” he exclaimed with more confidence than he really felt. What if Michael refused? Then what? It was too humiliating to contemplate. He hoped his face didn’t betray his sense of relief when his son meekly crossed the room.

He studied his son. He was nineteen years old and clearly a young man. He stood an inch or more taller than his Dad and was heavily built. He still regularly turned out for a football team on Sunday mornings (if he could shake off the hangover in time). He couldn’t see his son’s usually clear, open face; now clouded by a frown.

Michaels’s head was filled with the memory of school. He had been caned by his housemaster on two occasions (not that he ever let mum or dad know). St FIGS was that kind of school, was there any boy there who hadn’t presented his bottom for the cane at least once? It had hurt. A lot. The pain was searing, but he had lived through it. He would survive Dad’s caning, but he wondered, would his lovable Dad? What torments the poor man must be going through.

His father took deep breaths to steady his nerves. Michael wore a cheap cotton t-shirt and denim jeans. As John feared, the jeans were thick and heavy. They gave too much protection against the cane. They would have to come down.

He steeled himself to give the instruction. He coughed. “Those jeans will have to come down,” he said too meekly. Michael smiled to himself. “Yes, Dad’s right again. Jesus. The cane on the pants!” He said nothing aloud. Instead, with steady hands he unbuckled the wide, leather belt that held his jeans in place. They were loose-fitting and started to slither over his hips even before he popped the button on the waist and tugged the zipper. With that done they hurtled to his feet.

Michael stared ahead. He was standing in front of his Dad dressed only in pants and t-shirt. He was mortified for sure, but he felt even more embarrassed for his Dad. The poor man must want the ground to open and swallow him up.

“Bend over,” his father croaked. Michael was tall and the table low, so he had to bend his knees so his body could rest comfortably across the table top. There wasn’t much room so he folded his arms in front of him. The table was against a window and the teenager stared ahead into the back garden, grateful that the room didn’t face the front of the house in full view of neighbours and passers-by.

z used cane pants table (1)

His father stood back to take in the scene. He admired his son’s fortitude. He lay across the table submissively. His firm bottom filled out his blue cotton underpants and rested on the edge of the table. It was presented at a perfect height for a caning. He had never beaten a boy in his life so his brother Ernie had given some tips when he came to deliver the cane. It was quite straightforward so long as the boy stayed still. If not, it could prove to be a disaster.

As instructed, he stood about three feet to Michael’s left (a cane’s length). He patted the boy’s bottom with the whippy rattan rod and tapped the end across the centre of the far cheek. The idea, Ernie had told him, was to raise the cane back in an arc until it was about shoulder height and then using the strength of the forearm bring it crashing down with maximum force across Michael’s backside. If done correctly, the cane should strike both buttocks equally. Ernie had held a seat cushion from the armchair in place while he practised.

Now for real, he “sawed” the cane across the centre of his son’s bottom. It surprised him how firm it was; he had never had reason to notice before. The buttocks clenched and became harder, like a rubber ball. He tap-tap-tapped trying to get his confidence. He couldn’t chicken out now. He had to go through with it. It was for Michael’s own good. It might even save his life. He had to beat his darling son. He had to do it. It was his responsibility. He had to cane his backside – and cane it hard.

He pulled the cane back in an arc, held it so high the tip nearly hit the ceiling, then as instructed he whipped it across Michael’s backside with terrific force. A crack like a pistol shot rang around the small room. A thick line immediately appeared in the stretched cotton across the plumpest part of the buttocks. Michael’s shoulders heaved, his already bent legs buckled further. His mouth opened and closed but no sound come through.

His father sucked in a deep breath. Bingo! Right on target. That gave him confidence. His son stayed bent across the table, ready to take swipe number two.

His father was a novice at caning and took his time. He wasn’t to know this was a good move. The most effective canings are delivered with plenty of time between the stokes. That allows the boy to register the pain completely. If delivered efficiently the cane will bite deep into the flesh and feel like a hot wire has been pressed into the bum. That penetrating pain lasts only seconds before it becomes an intense throb. Soon even that dies down into a powerful ache. That is the time to land the next stroke, then the agony cycle starts all over again.

He landed the second one lower. “Ouch!” Michael couldn’t help it. He had told himself he wouldn’t holler. Usually a boy being punished wouldn’t want the master to know he had been hurt. It was a kind of contest between schoolmaster and boy. The boy wouldn’t give the master the satisfaction. But this was different. Michael didn’t want Dad to know he had caused him great pain – it would break the Old Man’s heart.

Michael shut his teeth and braced himself for the next stroke. It landed above the first one and now he had a roaring pain about two inches wide across the centre of his cheeks. His head shook from side to side and butted up and down on the table top. He stared through the window. A squirrel dodged across the lawn, halted and chewed a nut before rushing off again, all the time oblivious to the teenager spread-eagled across the dining table with his backside on fire.

Father was no expert and with three cuts already turning to welts under Michael’s underpants it was inevitable that the next stroke would land across one or other of them. It did and it reignited the pain. Michael was sure a welt across his bum was weeping. He bit down into his bare arm to silence the yell his body demanded he make, leaving deep teeth marks behind.

Father’s own blood pressure was off the scale. His head throbbed and his ears were so full of blood he was almost deaf. Determined, he tapped the cane higher than before, on the highest point of the boy’s bum, close to his back. He let fly, the pistol crack bounced around the room again. Michael’s hips swayed, his legs kicked, his head bounced. Never before, in his short experience of such things, had a caning hurt so much. It felt like Dad had forced him to sit in a bathtub of scalding water.

Last one. He hoped. Dad hadn’t said “Six of the best”, but it was always six. Wasn’t it? Please sweet Jesus, Michael prayed silently, no more than six. Swipe! Crack! Intense agony. The floorboards squeaked. He could hear footsteps. He couldn’t see, but he was sure Dad was walking away. It was over.

His father stood silently noting from a distance his handiwork. The boy was in some distress. His breathing was uneven. The back of his neck was as scarlet as he supposed Michael’s bottom was at this moment. The boy was fighting it. He didn’t want to show it. But, he had definitely felt it. A job well done, he hoped.

“You should stand up now, son,” he said soothingly. “It’s over. Pull up your jeans.” He let the cane drop on to the settee and stood awkwardly, uncertain how this should end. He watched Michael struggle into his jeans and grimace as he pulled them over his scorched buttocks. Michael’s eyes shone and what looked like tears dampened his usually bright, cheerful face. It broke his father’s heart.

“Sorry Dad,” Michael sniffled. “Sorry.”

“No, my lovely son, I’m the one who’s sorry,” his father wanted to say, but knew he must not. This was a punishment that Michael deserved. The teenager must think that he would be prepared to beat him again should he drink and drive.

Instead, he said, “Go to your room. Don’t let your mum see you like this.”

“No Dad, sorry Dad,” Michael said again as ruefully he hobbled from the room, touching the seat of his jeans gingerly.

Moments later Angela entered he room carrying a tray with teacups. “You did the right thing John, I’m very proud of you.” She offered him a cup. He took it and sipped slowly, tears welling in his eyes.

 

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

 

Birching in school hall

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birch at school Mag (6)

Adapted from stories in The Magnet

 

The hushed school hall was packed with boys. Every fellow of every form was there, from sixth-form seniors down to fags of the second form. The prefects were in their places, canes under their arms: the masters, with grave faces: the hapless culprit, quiet and subdued, but with a hint of defiance in his glinting eyes. The Headmaster’s voice was deep and stern.

Hargreaves, his face very pale, stood. The eyes of the boys followed. There were two grinning faces. They seemed to think there was something amusing in a public flogging.

A public flogging was a rare occasion at St Tom’s. The hard old days were long gone when that ancient hall had often echoed to the swishing of the birch in the hands of grim old head-masters and to the painful howls of the victims. St Tom’s men were “whopped” when they required the same, but “six on the bags” in a study was the usual limit. Only on very rare

Occasions – very rare indeed – was there a public “execution”: with the school assembled in the Hall, masters and boys all present, and the culprit “hoisted” in the old fashioned way – and no doubt it was all the more impressive for that reason.

“Hargreaves” – the Head’s stern voice was audible throughout Big Hall.  “You have a disobeyed my commands, and committed what was apparently an unprovoked assault upon a boy belonging to a Highcliffe School. You have not been able to offer the slightest excuse in extenuation of your conduct. I am about to flog you, and I trust the punishment will be a warning to you in the future!”

Hargreaves did not speak. The Head made a sign to Gosling, who advanced to “hoist” the eighteen-year-old. Hargreaves clenched his fists for a moment, and unclenched them again. Apparently the thought of resistance had passed through his mind, only to be dismissed at once. He submitted quietly. Gosling took him up.

Through the silence of Big Hall the lashes of the birch sounded clearly and distinctly. It was a severe flogging, but no sound came from Hargreaves’s lips. His face was pale, his teeth hard set, his eyes gleaming. If the punishment had been doubly as severe, he was determined that no cry should be wrung from his lips. Hardly a sound was heard in the crowded hall.

It was a severe infliction. There was nothing of the grim old Bushy type about the Headmaster, but he had his duty to do, and he did it. And kind old gentleman as the Head seemed at happier moments, there was no doubt that he could whop! Skinner whispered to Snoop that he wondered where the old boy packed the muscle, and Snoop grinned, and Taylor giggled. But most of the fellows were grave and quiet. Hargreaves had asked for it – and more – Hargreaves was tough all through, hard as hickory, and he would have disdained to allow a single cry to leave his lips. But very few fellows could have gone through that castigation in silence.

The last blow delivered, Hargreaves was lowered from Gosling’s back. He slipped to his feet, and stood a little hesitantly, his face white as chalk, his eyes burning. The Head’s glance was compassionate. He had done his duty, and it had been a painful duty to him. “You may go!” he said quietly.  Hargreaves went without a word.

The Head made a sign, and the assembled school in silence, crowded out of Hall. Tom Spencer slipped his arm through Hargreaves’s and led him away. Some fellows would have spoken to him – but the look on Hargreaves’s face did not encourage them. It was pale, set, with eyes smouldering like live coals. Spencer led him away in silence, and the door of No. 4 Study closed on them. Hargreaves leaned on the study table, breathing in gasps. He had succeeded in keeping up an aspect of iron endurance and indifference while many eyes were upon him. But it had fallen from him now like a cloak.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

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

 

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