The students’ landlord

new story 2

z used solo jeans and jumper by peter samuelson

When Roderick was given a list of rules with his rent book by the landlord at his new university digs he didn’t bother to read them. He was soon to regret this.

Nobody would accuse Roderick of being a brilliant scholar but he was a diligent worker. He attended all his lectures and tutorials; he spent hours each day in the library and he handed his essays in on time. He would graduate comfortably and his professors wished him well for the future.

He had a place at Mr Higginbottom’s boarding house where he kept his room clean, never missed a meal time and was unfailingly polite to his landlord and fellow tenants.

Unlike some of the students who roomed with Mr Higginbottom he was a pleasure to know.

Roderick had been with Mr Higginbottom for about six weeks when one evening he attended a classical music concert at the Free Trade Hall in town: the Brahms Piano Concerto No.2  and Dvorák Symphony No.7 led by the world-renowned conductor, Alphonso Romesco. As is the way with the world-renowned, Romesco had little regard for his audience and he lifted his baton about an hour late. Roderick missed the last bus to his digs.

The night was fresh, summer was turning into autumn and the three mile walk home was not arduous for a young man of twenty years. It was past midnight when he walked through the empty streets of the Brocklehurst suburb where he lived. Curtains in the houses were drawn, lights were off; The Avenue was asleep. Except at number ninety-seven where the porch light glowered.

Roderick thought nothing of this. He had never returned to the house so late, he wasn’t to know this was unusual. He rummaged in his pocket for the door key and let himself in. He was tired and ready for a wash down and to clean his teeth. He had a lecture at nine and looked forward to a good night’s rest.

Inside the house was dark and at once Roderick felt uneasy. Old houses at night could do this to a person. The boards creaked beneath his feet; it seemed to Roderick the noise his feet caused was reverberating around the hallway. “Oh dear,” he thought, “I must be careful, I don’t want to wake anybody.”

As he was a considerate young man, he squatted down and hopping on one leg and then the other, he slipped off his shoes. It was difficult for him to balance but he succeeded without mishap. A little absurdly, he tip-toed towards the staircase, his shoes in his hands. He raised his foot to climb the first step when the hall light blazed. He was blinded for a second and confused.

But not for long.

“Aha! Sneaking in late after curfew!” It was Mr Higginbottom. “Thought I wouldn’t notice.” Roderick blinked heavily. He was not yet used to the glaring light. But more than that, it was the sight of his landlord dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. He was a portly figure, a kind man would say he had a double chin, but in fact he had at least four. His hair was unkempt and with closer examination Roderick could have deduced that he had been sleeping in an armchair; he had that dishevelled air about him. He stood a little under six feet tall, and his shoulders were broad. If you could image an oblong shape with a large belly; that would be Mr Higginbottom.

Roderick had of course seen Mr Higginbottom many times before (even in his night clothes) so he not surprised at the sight that greeted him. Not entirely, that is. What did bring the young man up sharply was that in his right hand his landlord held a long, thin whippy cane. He held it gently so that it dangled alongside his leg. It was as if he himself hardly knew it was there.

“Missed curfew,” Mr Higginbottom repeated again. Roderick hardly heard him, he was transfixed by the cane. It was maybe three feet long and looked quite thick. It had a curved handle at one end. Although Roderick had never been on the receiving end of one, he knew it was a typical punishment cane that was in regular use in schools up and down the country. His brow furrowed, his mouth stopped short of gaping.

“You know the rules,” Mr Higginbottom spoke calmly. Roderick could not take his eyes from the cane as it tap, tap, tapped against his landlord’s leg. The young man’s frown deepened. He spoke no words, but his look betrayed his puzzlement.

Mr Higginbottom sighed. He wanted to get this over with so he could be off to bed. He had to be up early to cook breakfasts. “The house rules,” he said, “Curfew is at eleven on a school night,” he looked at his wrist and realising he wore no watch, he blustered, “It’s well past midnight …” he trailed off annoyed that he was unable to cite Roderick’s crime with precision.

“Yes, but,” Roderick was no more articulate than his landlord. Rules? he thought, wracking his brain for an answer to the conundrum he faced. He found none so asked politely, “Please Mr Higginbottom, What rules?”

The landlord liked the boy. He paid his rent assiduously; he never broke the rules (until now) and was in all respects the perfect lodger. Unlike Smythe in room seven he never gave a moment’s trouble.

“You signed an agreement to abide by the rules,” Mr Higginbottom explained. “When you first came to live here.”

Roderick blushed, the penny had dropped. The rules. Yes, he remembered. There were two pages of closely typed script. He had signed it, it was true. “Silly,” his inner voice told him, “You didn’t read them.”

He repeated the gist of those words aloud to his landlord, “I’m ever so sorry, Mr Higginbottom, but I never read them. I never realised.”

Mr Higginbottom stared at the young man. Roderick’s bright, open freckled face was the picture of innocence. The landlord had long ago formed an opinion of him; he was telling the truth.

“The rules state that if you miss a curfew you are to receive corporal punishment.” He looked down at the cane in his hand as if for the first time realising it was there. “A caning,” he added unnecessarily.

Roderick’s jaw did drop this time. “Oh no, please, Mr Higginbottom. I didn’t know.”

The landlord’s own jaw firmed (as much as it could when there were four chins). “The rule is quite clear,” he stated. He felt like some old magistrate somewhere in rural England laying down the law: firm, but fair.

Roderick was bright enough to see where this drama was leading. “But, I won’t do it again, I promise Mr Higginbottom,” he was beginning to plead.

The landlord frowned, the cane tapped against his leg more rapidly. He was thinking. Weighing up his options. It did not take him long to reach a verdict. “I am sure you are true to your word. I do not think you will misbehave in future,” he started on a short speech. Roderick’s hopes were rising. Only to be dashed. “But,” (there was always a “but”) “but, we cannot ignore your past behaviour. We must deal with that.”

Roderick could not quite suppress a wail, “But, Mr Higginbottom, please! I promise I won’t do it again.” He then recounted his evening, the late conductor, the missed bus, the long walk home.

The landlord’s face coloured. He was not used to being argued with. He gripped the cane tightly. “Enough!” he growled, his tone taking Roderick aback a little. “You have broken the rules, you shall be punished. All boys here must obey the rules.” He was becoming agitated, he raised the cane and wobbled it in front of himself. “I cannot make exceptions for one.” He stared at the young man, noticing his face was now almost as red as his ginger hair. “Last week I beat Harrison for a similar offence. It was his first time also.”

Mr Higginbottom stopped speaking. He had said his piece, there was no more to say. He would truck no argument. “Now,” he waved the cane ahead of him, “Come into my sitting room. Let’s get this over with.”

Roderick gazed in amazement, his mind in a spin. The landlord intended to beat him. With a cane. On the bottom. Like a mischievous schoolboy. He had beaten his pal Harrison last week? That was the first Roderick knew of it. What a to-do, he thought. He had broken the rules (albeit unintentionally) and punishment was due. What choice did he have? To refuse would mean what? Eviction almost certainly. Would he be in trouble with the university?

“Come on boy, it’s late as it is,” Mr Higginbottom stood in the doorway, brandishing the cane. With skipping heart, Roderick followed him into the sitting room. It was the first time he had been in there. He took a moment to find his bearings. It was a large room, dominated by old, but good quality furniture. A bookcase, with few actual books, ran along one side of the room. Another was dominated by an open and now extinguished fire. A Chesterfield couch was against the far wall. In the middle of the room there were two heavy, well-padded armchairs and a beaten wooden low table. A sideboard was pushed into a space below a bay window.

Roderick stood bemused and watched as Mr Higginbottom manhandled one of the armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Roderick was no expert on such matters but he read his landlord’s intentions. It was a large chair, but its back was relatively low. Even from a distance the young man could see it was the perfect height for his landlord’s purpose.

“Stand by the chair,” Mr Higginbottom pointed his cane in case there was any doubts which one he meant. Roderick, by now resigned to his fate, shuffled forward and stood a pace or two behind it. He couldn’t get his heartbeat to slow. His head was buzzing. The scene was unreal. Would he awaken at any moment to discover it was all a very strange dream?

“Closer boy,” his landlord barked, his impatience evident. Roderick snapped out of his thoughts. He looked at the chair and then at his feet, realising immediately that he had halted at too far a distance from the chair. He shuffled a pace forward and waited in trepidation.

“Bend over.” It was a clear command. Mr Higginbottom had his rituals and he expected them to be respected. Roderick looked down at the chair, unsure of his next move. Bend over? What did that mean exactly. Well, he was bright enough to understand that it meant lean over the back of the chair, but then what? Where did the arms and hands go? What about his head?

“Pah!” Mr Higginbottom recognised a novice when he saw one; but that didn’t stop him being irritated. “Bend over, grip the cushion in front of you. Legs apart. Head low. Bottom high.” They were perfect instructions and Roderick was grateful to receive them. He took a deep breath, rubbed his hands together for no apparent reason and in one smooth, athletic movement he dived forward. Within seconds he had positioned himself to his landlord’s satisfaction.

Mr Higginbottom wheezed. He couldn’t help it. He found he always did this at the moment one of his charges presented their buttocks to him for punishment. It would soon pass. He took time to review the situation. Roderick was submissive, waiting apprehensively, but in control. He would take his punishment like the honourable chap he was. His head was low and his bottom high. It was a tight bum, filling out a pair of denim jeans splendidly. His waist was slim and the cheeks round. The young man was wearing a green woollen sweater and Mr Higginbottom took hold of the end and curled it up so that an expanse of Roderick’s shirt was visible. Then he tugged the tail of that so it was clear of the waistband of the tight jeans, exposing an inch or two of bare, hairless flesh. Roderick’s hips wriggled, but he settled again without further fuss.

Mr Higginbottom was almost ready. He took a firm grip of the cane and flexed it between his hands. It was a stout rod, but also very whippy. He took its measure, even though he had used it many times previously and knew its capabilities. Then (because he liked the sound that it made, and he hoped it intimidated his boys) he swiped it through the empty air. It made a fine swooshing sound as it went.

Roderick’s buttocks clenched at that sound. He had not asked them to do this, it was simply a natural reflex. They were preparing to protect themselves for the onslaught ahead. “Relax, boy, relax,” Mr Higginbottom said as he gently tapped the cane across the centre of the student’s backside. Naturally, this made the cheeks tense even more. The already trim, tight buttocks now had the consistency of a hard rubber ball.

Mr Higginbottom allowed himself a smile. There was nothing he could do about this. He took his aim, drew the cane away and high and thwacked it down with great force across Roderick’s bum. A thin white line was immediately embossed into the tight denim. Roderick who had shut his teeth in preparation for the pain opened them wide, allowing a gasp of air to escape at top speed. He shook his head gently, but otherwise gave no reaction. It was his first ever stroke of the cane and he took it rather well.

Mr Higginbottom took aim once more. This time a little to the under-cheek. The cut it delivered would reignite when Roderick sat down at the breakfast table. Two down and four more to go. The landlord had his rules and punishments for those who broke them, but he was not a monster. He didn’t want to flog his charges with a frenzy. His duty was to help these young men into adulthood. It was a rocky journey and they would make mistakes along the way. His guidance would help them to the straight-and-narrow path.

He third stroke landed on top of the first. Roderick felt that one, he managed to stifle a yell, but his knees buckled and his legs stamped up and down. Mr Higginbottom paused and admired his own prowess. A job well done, young Roderick would never again sign a document without first reading its contents.

Roderick’s heart had not settled, now his temples throbbed and his eyes watered. He had absolutely no control over his body and it scared him. His bottom was sore but (he supposed) it might be worse. He had no idea what a caning should feel like; how much distress should he be in? It hurt terribly when the cane connected with his stretched bottom and for a second the agony was almost intolerable, sending shockwaves up and down his legs. But (and this surprised him) the intense pain subsided almost immediately into a pounding throb, only to be set off again when the next stroke cut him.

Mr Higginbottom delivered six strokes. It wasn’t “six-of-the-best” – he always kept something in reserve during a boy’s first caning. He needed some threat over them against future bad behaviour. The true recidivists, those who constantly broke the rules, would in time find themselves over the chair, bum held high with their trousers at their ankles and pants snagged at the knees. But, Mr Higginbottom was certain he would never again get such a close-up view of Roderick’s bottom.

“Up,” it was a curt command and one that Roderick was pleased to obey. He pulled himself to his feet; his bum hurt terribly, but even as he waited to be dismissed to his bedroom the worst of it was subsiding. The aching throb was dissolving and soon it would be a warm glow. Later, in the privacy of his room he would inspect the damage and be startled by the sight of six clear stripes running in parallel across his buttocks. They were dark red and when he touched his bottom gingerly it felt like corrugated carboard. He pulled on his pyjamas and climbed into bed. The pain was nearly gone but as he lay in the dark he traced his index figure along the marks, enjoying the sensation it caused reigniting the ache.

 

Picture credit: Peter Samuelson

Other stories you might like

Taming Timothy

Milo, the grad student

A teenager’s tale

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Enhanced community training

new story 2

zused paddle jeans table (1)

Jack made his way through the student union bar, careful not to spill a drop from the two pint of beers he carried; the carpet beneath his feet was sticky enough. He made it unscathed to the table occupied by his best pal Al. He sat, gulped down a throatful of lager, and delved into his jacket pocket, pulling out a letter he had recently received.

“It’s from the Registrars’ Office,”  he unfolded three pages and glanced through the top one as if to remind himself what he it said. “I’ve been put on E.C.T.”

Al grinned and swigged his own beer. “Enhanced Community Training! Who’s been a naughty boy then?”

“You know about this stuff then?” Jack was still reading the letter.

Al wrinkled his nose, suppressing further laughter. E.C.T was serious. Life was about to get very unpleasant indeed for his friend. An uneasy silence fell between them. Al was bursting to hear more, but he knew he would have to be patient. Jack would tell his story in his own time.

The glasses were nearly empty when Jack started. “I was on the Dean’s list three times. Mostly poor grades, but then there was that time when we all got high and ran round the halls naked.” He spoke clearly, without emotion, as if he were reading the nine o’clock news on television. “Now, they caught me ducking lectures.” He peered at the letter in his hand. “Enhanced Community Training; what’s that all about then?”

Al reached across the table, being careful not to catch his sleeve in the beer spills, and took the letter. “It’s that new scheme, where they team you up with some granddad type who is supposed to keep you on the straight and narrow.” He saw Jack’s puzzled expression. “Dan was put in it last semester. His arse is still sore,” suddenly he felt his face redden and he quickly swallowed more beer.

“What are you talking about?” Jack couldn’t hide his irritation. His arse is still sore.

“Yeah,” Al composed himself. “You have to go to granddad and show you can behave yourself and if you don’t,” his face blushed scarlet. “Well, you know …” he gulped beer to hide his embarrassment, “you get spanked.”

“Spanked! Yeah, Ha! Ha! Ha!,” Jack retorted cynically, “As if.”

Al handed him back the letter, “Read these terms and conditions, mate,” he showed him the densely-typed pages. “It’s all in there.”

Jack snatched them and held them close to his face. One heading “Corporal Punishment” suddenly shone out like a beacon. Colour drained from his face. “Is this even legal?” he gasped.

“You have to do it. You don’t and the uni. Will kick you out on your ear. Times they are a’changing, my friend,” Al sighed as he collected Jack’s glass and made his way to the bar.

….

Major T. E. V. Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) sipped thoughtfully at his whisky, a sheaf of computer-generated reports lay scattered on the table. The label on the buff manila folder read JOHN (JACK) HILL. Maj Manwaring-Robertson had read every page three times already, he believed in doing his homework thoroughly. The boy was twenty years old and really should know better, he thought. He suppressed a grin, “Running naked through the halls of residences,” he said aloud, although there was nobody there to hear him. “That’s a new one on me.” He leaned across to the whisky bottle and splashed a generous measure into his glass, “Must be some sort of guy-thing.” The rest of the report was more standard fare: poor grades, failed examinations, truanting from lectures, assignment deadlines missed. He had been reprimanded often; but was a serial reoffender. He was unresponsive to university discipline.

The Major leaned back in his horsehair armchair and stared towards the ceiling. Jack was not a wicked lad, he mused, he could be saved. There was still time for him to turn his life around. Apart from the nude athletics, he was no different from the others he had helped. That was the trouble with the young these days, they lacked guidance. They had no boundaries, they had never been taught right from wrong. He blamed the parents. And the schools. The Church had a lot to answer for as well. A good dose of Military Service might sort them out. Well, things were changing (thank the Lord!) and until all young men were put in uniform they would have to make do with Enhanced Community Training.

The Major closed his eyes. He had been set a difficult task, but he was up to it. It was his duty to respond to the needs of society. Hill needed disciplining and the Major was just the man to administer it. He knew this for a fact; he had a proven track record. He fancied that he might be one of the stars of Brocklehurst University’s Enhanced Community Training scheme.

Less than three months ago there had been that youngster Dan; what a bumptious individual he had been. Like all teenagers really, the Major supposed, smug, self-centred, thought the world revolved around him. He was soon taught a lesson.

It started one cold, wet November evening. It wasn’t quite Bonfire Night but the noise from a distant firework party invaded the house. It was a large, detached home, far too big for the Major to live in alone. The Avenue was full of homes shielded from prying eyes by tall hedges or walls. Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) had all the solitude he could desire. It was so well hidden that Dan had difficulty finding it on his first visit and had arrived considerably late.

“Not an auspicious start,” the Major snarled as Dan stood dumbfounded, unsure of the meaning of the word. The Major was a tall, thick set man, broadening at the waist but he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His military presence had not diminished since his army days. His slicked back hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hill,” he growled, his stare burning into the student’s soul. The miserable boy shuddered, “Yes, sir,” in reply. He had only just met the man and was already terrified.

The Major was a man of few words and those he did speak were usually commands. “You know why you have been sent here,” he thundered. Dan’s terror had not abated, fearful and confused he remained silent.

“Pah!” the Major exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, boy!”

Dan blushed to his roots, hopping from foot to foot in his confusion. What was he supposed to say? “Pah!” the Major  blasted again, air whistling through half-closed teeth. He then listed all Dan’s faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” the Major clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.”

Dan’s jaw dropped and his face blanched as he watched the aging military gentleman stride across the room. It was sizeable, but had little furniture. Army life had taught the Major to live without luxuries. There was a small table, a couple of old, dusty horsehair armchairs and a cracked leather Chesterfield couch. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom.

The Major paused when he reached the far wall. Dan swallowed hard. Only now had he noticed what was hanging from a hook. It was a block of wood. Dan was puzzled, it looked like something his mother used in her kitchen to chop vegetables. The Major reached up and in one smooth movement fetched it down and gripped it tightly. Close up it looked like a miniature cricket bat. The Major pointed it at Dan, showing it as if it were a religious offering.

“We must deal with your misbehaviour over this past year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he boomed.

The Major glared at Dan not trying to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on the table. “There, that’ll do.” In the early days of E.C.T. the Major had expected resistance. Young men were unused to discipline and the concept of punishment was totally alien. But without exception they had been submissive. Perhaps, it was the Major’s military baring, or maybe, he thought, deep down inside them they just knew they needed this. They could not travel into adulthood without a roadmap. Please, they seemed to be saying, tell me what is expected, how I should behave. What is the difference between right and wrong? And, when I get it wrong, help me.

The Major was no intellectual, he never delved into the consciousness of the students he was asked to train. There were rules, they were broken, there were set punishments, they were administered. Life could be as simple as that.

So, he knew Dan would submit to his command. The nineteen-year-old knew why he had been sent to him. Actions had consequences.

Major Manwaring-Robertson (Ret.) nodded his flushed face towards the table. “There,” he barked. The Major was incapable of speaking quietly. Dan, already pale, turned a ghostly white as the enormity of situation dawned. Never in his whole life had he been close to something like this. Who among his family or at his school would have even thought to spank his backside hard; no matter how serious his misbehaviour. This was indeed uncharted territory.

“Go to the table and bend over,” the Major waved his wooden paddle menacingly. Dan, on automatic pilot, shuffled forward. The table was low and he quite tall so he towered above it. “How exactly should this be done?” an inner voice asked him. The Major had seen this all before. Of course, a teenager sent to live under his authority had no idea how to present himself for a spanking. The basics were simple enough: jut out your backside and let an older man whack it with a paddle, slipper, belt, cane or what-not.

“You should bend forward, rest your elbows on the table. Spread your legs, arch your back and lift your bottom high.” All done with military precision. In this way Dan would present his bottom at the perfect angle to receive the Major’s paddle.

In silence, but with heart thudding, Dan shuffled forward. His instructions had been clear. Later in bed nursing his battered buttocks the teenager would puzzle over his own composure. What in the world had compelled him to obey? He could have turned on his heels, rushed out the house and been in time to catch the last bus back to the university. He did none of these things. Meekly, he took a deep breath and assumed the position, forearms on the table, head low, bottom high, feet apart. His already tight denim jeans stretched further across his buttocks and dug into the crack between his parted cheeks.

The Major tapped the paddle into the open palm of his left hand and watched passively as his victim prepared himself. Dan was a lean boy, his firm and muscular chest clearly outlined by his white t-shirt (why was it, the Major pondered that youngsters always wore t-shirts no matter how cold the weather?) The teenager’s hair was short and dark and already he had a high forehead; the first signs of premature balding. But it wasn’t Dan’s head that concerned the Major. He turned his attention to the other end. He stood close to the boy’s right side and gently caressed his wooden paddle across the fleshiest part of the rather pert buttocks. The Major knew Dan’s jeans, which were nearly new, would offer considerable protection against the paddle. He knew a bare-bottomed beating would be more severe, but the Major was a military tactician; he must not start with a thrashing across naked haunches. That might come at a later date, it was a threat to hold over the boy if he failed to improve his behaviour.

Dan felt the heavy weight of the paddle rest against his left buttock, the Major raised the wood some distance in the air, before pausing (for dramatic effect) and walloping it down against stretched denim with terrific force.  It hurt. A lot. Dan, unused to being spanked shuddered, his feet slipped on the carpet and it took a tremendous effort to stay steady. The Major noted with satisfaction how the imprint of the paddle blade was embedded in the soft stretched denim.

Encouraged, he flogged another three swats into Dan’s bum so both buttocks were toasted.

Dan raised his head in shock, his eyes popped and he swayed from the neck, his head neighing from side to side. He didn’t call out, the burning sensation under his jeans was intensifying, but he was not in agony. Whack, whack, whack. Three cracks like machinegun fire, all landing across the undercurves, made him gasp. His temples throbbed as madly as his bum, he bit down on his lower lip.

The paddle pounded the buttocks rat-a-tat-tat. Rapidly. Dan wriggled. He writhed. He bucked. He even kicked. The Major held him down forcibly across the shoulders and continued to toast the teenager’s rear end. The Major lost count after twenty swats. They came so quickly it was impossible to keep a tally. On and on the spanking continued.

Then as quickly as it had begun, it stopped. The Major rested the paddle on the table beside the distressed student. Dan wheezed. He had no experience of these things, but instinctively he knew this had been an exemplary spanking. Dan was still, getting his breath back; regaining his composure.  He didn’t notice the Major caress his stretched buttocks. Small, circular motions. Lovingly. He raised his hand high and slapped his palm into the blistered bottom just as hard as he had with the wooden paddle.

Dan whinnied like a horse. He had never before experienced such light-headedness. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. He stood, unsteady on his feet, and on command and as if floating on air, he ascended the stairs to his room.

Picture credit: TPLF Productions

 

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The broken window

At the girls’ showers

Summer holiday camp

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Craig Misses Curfew

new story 2

Craig slowly opened the front door, trying desperately not to make a sound. He was in trouble; he knew that. Big trouble. Maybe he could delay the inevitable for a little while yet.

“Is that you Craig, come into my study, this instance!” It was Reverend Crick, his landlord, calling. “Drat!” Craig breathed silently. He closed the door, dropped his bag of books onto the ground and reluctantly shuffled through the passageway to a dark oak door. He paused and wondered for a second if he should knock. Why? The vicar had clearly summoned him. With a sweaty palm, he gripped the door handle and pushed.

His jaw actually dropped at the sight. Gary the barman from the village pub was tucking his shirt into his trousers before buckling his belt. Rev. Crick stood thoughtfully bending a whippy, crook-handled school punishment cane between his hands. Gary stared at Craig with astonishment, his wide open face now as red as his bottom at the arrival of the witness.

“What time did you get back last night?” the vicar growled. It wasn’t really a question Crick knew very well it was close on one a.m. “Well boy!” Crick flexed the cane some more. Gary made a hasty exit through the half-open door.

“Eh, well,” Craig blustered. He had no idea what time he arrived back at the vicarage, but it was way past his curfew, of that there was no doubt. He had met with friends from the university and missed the last bus from Brocklehurst to the little village of Aston Budleigh. He would have been later still if a car hadn’t stopped to give him a ride.

“Out drinking, no doubt.” The vicar’s eyes blazed. He had an angular face, with a jutting jaw line. What hair he still retained was thin and straw coloured. He had on the shabby sports jacket that he habitually wore and dark brown corduroy trousers that were a bit thin at the knees. His round glasses were perched on his nose in the centre of a florid face.

Craig stood transfixed. He had been in the vicar’s study many times since his mother had found him these lodgings, but still it took his breath away a little. His eyes could not leave the two canes hanging from hooks on the far wall. They were both something more than three feet in length; one was considerably thicker than the other and both were a little warped.

He knew the wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling with shelving. Some were stacked with books, but in the centre was a tall thin cupboard, with a smoked-glass front.

Also in the room were a huge Chesterfield couch and two armchairs to one side and the vicar’s desk. It was February but the sky was brilliant blue. It was cold in the room but Rev Crick had not set a fire in his study and the nineteen-year-old could not stop from shivering. He could not be sure if that was because of the cold or the fear he felt.

“It is not the first time, you have broken curfew,” Rev. Crick tucked the cane under his armpit and paced the room. He rather fancied he looked the part of a headmaster at an important public school. One day he promised himself he would treat himself and buy an academic gown and mortar-board cap.

Craig tore his attention away from the canes on the wall. In the few months he had been one of the vicar’s lodgers he had become very aware that Crick had a fine assortment of whippy rattan canes and many other punishment tools. The vicar stood, his feet apart and he slipped the cane into his hand. Craig had no doubt what his intentions were. His parents, his mother especially, were convinced Christians. They believed in the Bible, especially that bit about not sparing the rod. They had chosen Rev Crick to be their son’s landlord and mentor while he was at university for a purpose. They knew his reputation for dealing with young men.

Craig was no stranger to corporal punishment at home and school but he had hoped that now he was at university he had left behind that sort of thing.

Swish! The cane flew through open air. Rev. Crick was ready for action. “I think,” he said as if speaking as one reasonable man to another, “that you should remove your coat and set it down on my desk.” He watched, eyes darting and the tip of his tongue poking in and out of his mouth lizard-like as Craig slipped off his dark green parka coat.

“Stand there!” he pointed the cane at middle of the room. Craig shuffled into position and stood, arms behind back, head slightly bowed. Rev. Crick frowned, stared intently at the cane in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and hacked out a cough. Slowly, he moved across the study towards the tall thin cupboard. Deftly he opened its door and slipped the cane inside. Craig watched him move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” Crick said exasperatedly in his own English accent. Craig sucked in breath. “Here we go again,” he thought. It was at times like this he began to hate his mother. Fancy sending him to live with this oddball. He was nineteen years old and about to offer up his backside for this vicar to whack it with a heavy plank of wood. He could refuse, Crick couldn’t make him do it. He was a weedy runt of a man really who smoked and drank too much. Craig knew he could take him in a fight.

He also knew he was going to do exactly what the vicar told him to. His mother had all the power. She held the purse strings. If he didn’t do as he was told she wouldn’t hesitate to stop paying his university fees. Then what? He would have to leave and get a job. A job! Not if he could help it, he wanted a degree and a life in a top profession,not a job serving in a shop all his life.

“What are you waiting for?” Crick smacked the paddle into his left palm.  It was about five inches wide by a foot long. It was nearly an inch thick. It was a mightily impressive punishment tool. Craig frowned, took a deep breath and reached down to his ankles. He took the vicar at his word, ordinarily, if he was in the housemaster’s study back at school say, the command would be, “Touch your toes,” and toes meant toes, not shins or knees. Keeping in the touch-toes position was more difficult than it sounded, it put a terrible strain on the calves. Grabbing ankles was an altogether more comfortable position, although Craig was perfectly aware that what was about to happen next would be far from comfortable.

He looked down at the threadbare carpet and felt a movement to his left as the vicar approached. He could smell the man’s sour sweat and old tobacco smoke. The vicar pressed his left hand into the small of Craig’s back, keeping him steady. The paddle was small enough that Crick could stand right by the boys proffered bottom and whack the wood home from a short distance. It would be a very painful jab.

z used paddle jeans touch toes domestic (1)

Craig felt the paddle tap against his stretched jeans. They were a little tight and hugged his cheeks. He knew the vicar would have a delightful target. The wood moved away and a second later returned crashing into his meaty, hard bottom. He bit down on his bottom lip. That hurt. A burning sensation radiated from the point of impact and warmed his whole backside. Slam! The wood returned with great force, landing a little higher. Now his entire bum was alight. He gripped his ankles and shut his eyes tightly.

Paddle pain is quite different from the cane. The whippy rod strikes a line of fire across the cheeks and very quickly a welt forms. It throbs like mad for ages. The paddle delivers something more like a slap than a cut, the pain spreads over a wider area and leaves a pain like sitting in a too-hot bath.

Wallop! Smack! Crash! The sound of the paddle echoed around the cold study. The vicar hacked another long cough. “Stand up, drop those jeans,” he spluttered. Craig rose slowly, his bottom was toasted. His heavy denim jeans had been no protection.

“Quickly,” Crick gasped, “I haven’t got all day.”

Craig’s jeans fit snugly, he didn’t need a belt. He popped the button at the top of his Wranglers and pulled the zipper. The jeans were so snug they wouldn’t fall to the floor of their own accord so he pushed them down, first to the knees and then to the ankles. “Over!” the reverend barked. Craig morosely resumed the position.

Rev. Crick had a little ritual when he spanked on the underwear. He liked to make sure there were no creases in the cotton and that the pants fitted like a second skin. He gripped the waistband of Craig’s briefs and tugged hard. The cotton rode up into Craig’s crack and lifted and separated each cheek perfectly. Crick had no willpower and didn’t try not to rub the palm of his right hand across Craig’s rock hard buttocks. They quivered as his rubbed.

Ready once more he lifted the heavy paddle and whacked it down five more times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Craig screwed up his face, the pain was immense, his heart raced, blood pounded his ears, his arse was on fire. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to all parts of his body.

Rev. Crick waddled to his desk and slipped the paddle back into the still-open drawer. He turned and admired the sight of the teenager who was still holding his ankles. He was a very fit lad, he thought. Very fit indeed. Oh how he would enjoy working with the boy over the next three years.

“You may stand.” Gingerly, Craig stood and then bent again so he could pull his jeans up tot their rightful place. His face burned but nowhere near as much as his bum. He desperately wanted to give himself a good rub, but that would have to wait. He wouldn’t give the vicar the satisfaction knowing he had hurt him.

“You may go now,” the vicar almost whispered. Craig did not need telling twice, he sped from the study leaving his coat on the vicar’s desk. Crick tutted to himself, reached into his jacket pocket and found cigarettes and matches. Within seconds he took a deep drag of tobacco. He waddled over to an armchair and fell into it. Puffing heavily on the cigarette he recalled in his mind the past few minutes. A caning and a paddling, what a perfect afternoon, he thought as he blew smoke at the ceiling.

Picture credit: Unknown

Mores stories featuring the spanking vicar of Aston Budleigh are here

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Swish! Crack!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in August 2015

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

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

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

“Go. Fetch. A. Cane.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is this the one you want?”

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

“Or this one?”

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

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

I must have looked completely bemused.

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

Mr Martin was getting angrier by the second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And Mr Martin was having no more of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Rooming House

Roger stared at the ceiling. It was a freezing cold night but he was snug and warm under the blankets. Cautiously he ran his fingers across the welts that criss-crossed his buttocks. The pain had gone now, but one or two were still tender when he touched them.

Perce, his boyfriend, lay by Roger’s side, breathing heavily: he seemed to be dreaming. Earlier, when they had made love, Roger could see Perce’s once dark blue bruises were turning a lighter shade, almost turquoise. It would take several days, more than a week possibly, before the evidence cleared of the twelve severe strokes of the cane they had been forced to endure on their naked buttocks.

Upstairs, in the top flat, Higgins, their landlord, slept the sleep of the just; alone in his bed. Higgins had moved in after his wife left him for another man. His children were grown up and making their own ways in life. He was very content to live in the block of flats his late mother had bequeathed to him.

He had never met such people as his tenants. As well as the gay boys, there was Lucy who had a small baby, but no husband. Upstairs from her was Miss Alison, an aging spinster, who apparently was once a successful actress. Higgings thought she was probably very lonely. Mr Weston, who lived in the flat next to the boys, was from the West Indies. Mr Higgins had never met a West Indian before he moved in. Now, he knew many: Mr Weston was a gregarious man and had many friends.

Higgins wondered what his colleagues at school would make of it if they knew about his band of tenants. Gay boys, unmarried mothers and West Indians did not feature much at the grammar school. St Francis was a traditional school: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and traditional discipline.

Higgins believed in corporal punishment. He knew the cane applied with some force across the stretched bottom of an errant schoolboy was a great motivator for good behaviour. Even those boys who came back for more eventually discovered the errors of their ways.

Higgins had taken an awesome school cane back his flat when he was forced to deal with Sterling. The boy had the flat next to Miss Alison. The aging actress was all alone in life and vulnerable to the advances of the nineteen-year-old charmer. Sterling was not after sex, of course. He wanted the money he firmly believed she had hidden in her flat. It was easy to befriend a lonely person. In no time he was running her errands and sharing cups of tea. When her back was turned he removed her door key and later had a copy made.

One Thursday morning; it was pension day and the only time in the week Miss Alison would be certain to be out of her flat, Sterling made his move. It was a small flat and it only took minutes to search. He went under the mattress, in the tea caddy, behind the drawers in the kitchenette. There was nothing to find. Frustrated, he was half way through the circuit again in case he had missed something when the door eased open. There was nowhere to hide.

Higgins was no fool. He sized up the situation immediately. Despite his willingness to inflict severe pain on schoolboys, Higgins was a kind man. Miss Alison never discovered that Sterling’s friendship was a sham; a trick simply so that he could steal her money.

And, Sterling? Later that day he found himself in Higgins’s flat. It was a straight choice: the police or a thrashing. It was no choice at all, not with Sterling’s record. If the police got involved, he would do time, there was no doubt about that.

Sterling had been fifteen the last time he felt the cane across his backside. It had been four years ago, only weeks before he finished school forever and embarked on his life of dead-end jobs and petty crime. It had not been too bad. Bend over, whack! whack! whack! stand up. It was all over in seconds. He had a bit of a sore bum, but it was nothing to worry about.

Yes, Sterling agreed, rather too enthusiastically to Higgins’s liking, he would take the stick.

“Where do you want me?”

Higgins detected a smirk. Was the boy daring him?

The experienced schoolmaster knew how to wipe a stupid grin from a boy’s face.

Sterling stood nonchalantly, unconcerned about the events about to unfold.

With his anger rising, Higgins tugged open a drawer and pulled out the cane.

Swish! Higgins swiped the stick through the air. Then he smiled. Sterling had for the first time caught sight of the rod that was going to be used on him. It was nothing like the short rigid bamboo stick they had used at his council school.

Higgins grasped the cane which he had chosen to use to inflict the beating. It was not particularly long, thick or heavy, but what made it fearsome was the series of roughly-shaped and hardened knots which decorated every three or four inches of its length. These gave the cane its remarkable ability to bruise boys’ bottoms, leaving marks that might last for a month and making sitting down a delicate and painful business for the unlucky victim. A severe beating would usually split the skin of the suffering boy and bloody his arse as a further reminder of the penalty for misbehaviour.

Sterling’s cocky demeanour vanished instantly. His face paled and he could feel his hair dampen with sweat.

His mouth gaped open, but no words came as he realised there was nothing he could say, except beg for mercy and his pride was not about to let him do that.

Swish! the cane flew through empty air. Higgins pointed the wicked rod at a low armchair.

“Right. I want you take down your trousers and underpants and bend across the chair.”

This time, Sterling did speak. “Wha …?” was all he could say before an impatient Higgins cut him short.

“It is the police or the cane. You choose, but you must do it now.”

Tears were already forming behind the nineteen-year-old’s eyes as mournfully he unzipped his tight loon pants and helped them over his buttocks and left them to slide to his knees. His breathing was laboured as he tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his mauve underpants and sent them in the same direction to meet his loons.

Sterling’s pale face turned scarlet as he realised he was now standing half-naked in front of this old man; a man who in a moment was going to rip his arse to shreds.

“Bend over,” Higgins feigned impatience.

Sterling closed his eyes, took a deep breath and curved himself over the back of the armchair. He was too tall to fit comfortably over the chair and had to bend at the knees. In this position his creamy-white buttocks jutted out behind him, offering a wonderful target for the cane to lash into him.

Only then did it occur to Higgins: despite all his years as a schoolmaster and the countless canings he had delivered, he had never before thrashed a boy on his naked buttocks. And, rarely, had he beaten a boy as big as Sterling (although there had been a time when he had thrashed five of the first XV rugby team and they had all been exceptionally large schoolboys).

Even so, Higgins laid it on with vigour. Sterling’s arse convulsed and he lifted one foot off the floor as the pain flooded from his backside throughout his body. But, he submissively stayed in position, hands gripping the seat cushion with some strength but with his behind still offered bravely for the remainder of the beating that Higgins continued with enthusiasm.

Higgins gave his bruised and now very colourful bottom a further four cuts in rapid succession. The two after that were directed at the crease between thigh and buttock and were laid one on top of the other. Sterling was now bellowing with pain, clenching and unclenching his quivering deeply ridged backside, and working extremely hard to maintain the correct position bent over the chair.

In the nearby flat, Miss Alison turned up the volume of her wireless.

Higgins was a hard and accurate caner and he delivered twelve of his very best, leaving Sterling hugging the chair and holding on for a minute when the landlord put the cane away and sat down.

There was no lecture. There was no need for one. In his own time, Sterling rose from his submissive position. He made no attempt to hide the tears that choked him. Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants and buttoned up the loon pants and without a word he shuffled from the flat and staggered down the staircase to his own room.

Three days later Sterling moved out and Higgins never heard from him again.

2

I think the gay boys Roger and Peace are my favourite tenants. They are so full of vim and energy. I know that probably has a lot to do with the pep pills they take; I’m not naive.

I’d never met any homosexuals before (at least not that I knew of). The boys were not what I expected. I thought homosexuals were all swishy and feminine, as if they were men trapped inside women’s bodies. Roger and Perce are nothing like that; you wouldn’t know they were gay to look at them. Although they are very well groomed; so that might be a clue. They are members of the youth cult called ‘the Mods.’ They have very tidy short hair and wear sharp well-cut Italian suits. Or for ‘leisure’ they wear brightly-coloured pullovers. They also have green Parka coats and ride around on Italian motor scooters.

I don’t think the Mods are gay; but I might be wrong. But there are so many of them, it can’t be possible. The Mods have a rival cult called the ‘Rockers’ who have untidy greasy long hair and wear leather jackets and jeans and ride large motorbikes. The two groups are known to have big battles at seaside towns on holiday weekends.

I don’t think Roger and Perce go out fighting, I’d never seen them with cuts and bruises, until I laid a few of them on the pair myself.

The boys seem pretty respectable. The government decriminalised homosexual acts for men aged twenty-one and over last year so it is perfectly legal for Roger and Perce to be sleeping in the same bed together.

They are mostly good tenants, although they sometimes come home in the early hours and disturb us with their scooters; or they play their music a bit too loud. But, all young people do that; my own sons were the same.

I do have one big problem with them: they don’t pay the rent. Or more accurately, they are late payers, or sometimes they only pay part of what they owe. There is no excuse: they both have good jobs at the John Lewis department store: Roger’s in men’s out-fitting and Perce is in soft furnishings. Between them they earn more than enough to afford the rent I charge.

But, instead of paying rent, they prefer to spend their money on sharp clothes and their motor scooters. I genuinely have lost count of the number of times I have asked them to pay up and the number of broken promises they have made to me.

So, I lost patience with them. They might be twenty-one-year-old adults but they still needed to be taught a lesson in responsibility. All I was asking was that they paid the rent before they spent the rest of their money on their luxuries.

They needed a short sharp shock to pull them up a little, and I knew exactly how I was going to do that.

They are not evil like Sterling, so it would not be right to flog them with the knotted cane I used to rip his backside to shreds. Instead, I collected a stout senior rattan cane from my large collection at school. It was the same one that I used on the five eighteen-year-old rugby players who disgraced the school by getting drunk after a match one weekend. It packs a great punch, especially when I am the one wielding it.

Of course, at school I was only allowed to administer a maximum of six strokes per boy and then only on the seat of his trousers. But in my flats I make the rules, so Roger and Perce were to get twelve each on the bare buttocks.

I gave the boys one last chance to pay me what I was owed. All I got were promises in return; the same as the last time I asked and the time before.

They didn’t seem surprised when I announced I was going to cane them. Nobody in the flats had ever spoken to me about the thrashing Sterling received, but I think my tenants knew what had happened.

I launched into a prepared speech. They could get the cane or they could leave the flats; and whatever they chose to do they would still have to pay me the rent. Leaving the flat was not an option; the law on homosexual acts might have changed, but gays could still be sacked from their jobs or thrown out of their homes. If the boys left my flat they would find it almost impossible to find another place where they could be together.

But, I didn’t want that. I wanted my rent money and if putting a whippy rattan cane across their naked arse cheeks got me that, I would be satisfied.

Meekly, both boys accepted the inevitable. I sent Perce to the kitchen, while I dealt with Roger. I had no idea if either of them had been caned before and I didn’t care. I intended to lay on a sharp dozen cuts that would leave even the most experienced receiver in agony. I was not, as our American cousins are apt to say, blowing smoke here.

Roger could not take his eyes of the cane as I swished a few practice stokes through the air. His trepidation was clear. He was not looking forward to this impending thrashing one little bit. Nervously, he lowered his trousers and pants and bent over the armchair.

He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as rat-a-tat-tat I swiped six hard stingers across the crown of his buttocks. Then after a pause of twenty seconds to allow him and me to catch our breath, I whipped in another six, this time all in the under curve where the cheeks meet the thighs.

When he rose his eyes were blazing, but he successfully held back the tears. His face was deathly pale, but his neck was as scarlet as his buttocks.

I allowed him to dress and then ordered Perce to change places with him. I had always thought of Perce as a cute little mouse; he was short with dark brown eyes and sticking-out ears. Usually, he had a perpetual smile on his face; but not now.

I don’t know what was going through his head, but unbidden by me, he lowered his trousers and pants and almost threw himself across the chair in his eagerness to offer me his bottom. I had known schoolboys adopt the same attitude; they were arrogant in their belief that nothing I and my whippy cane could do would hurt them. I always disabused them of that idea.

I am pretty sure Perce had never been across a chair before for a caning. I had to instruct him to keep his head low, his bottom high and his legs apart. It took him several attempts before his body was positioned to my satisfaction.

Once he was positioned correctly, I rolled his shirt clear of his bottom. Picking up the cane I swished it a couple of times then stood to his left and gently tapped his pale buttocks. I lifted my arm to shoulder height then let the cane swish hard onto the naked cheeks. Perce gasped as the first stroke landed and he wriggled his bottom.

Perce’s compact but nicely rounded bottom had plenty of give. His chunky buttocks were first compressed by the force of the first blow before springing back as the cane was withdrawn ready for the second strike.

I was still new to the experience of beating boys on their naked bottoms, but I was beginning to see its advantages over caning on the trousers. I could see the strokes as they landed, enabling me to see where they struck, and if I was hitting too hard, or too weakly, to adjust my power.

The punishment on the bare was more painful and of course there was the added humiliation for the boy of having to lower his trousers and present his bottom submissively for the beating.

Perce was unable to contain his distress and gave out a series of loud shouts, not for mercy but simply to release the tension of the mounting agony in his beleaguered backside.

The next swipe propelled a lung-full of breath out of Perce’s mouth, and left him gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying the lad’s lungs for a second time.

“Last one, boy!” Try to take this one quietly please,” I requested with little sincerity as I cracked a deliberately extra hard stroke down, causing Perce to yell and stand up clutching at his battered bottom. I simply stared as he danced around clutching and kneading the burning flesh of his buttocks.

I brought the two tenants together and lectured them about fiscal responsibility: they must pay my rent. I did not say, but it was implied, that if the money was not forthcoming they would be back over the chair for another thrashing.

….

Roger stared at the ceiling, reliving the events from earlier in the day. If he missed a payment on his motor scooter and delayed buying that Italian suit he so craved, he should be able to pay off his rent arrears. No way did he want to go back over that chair, he thought as he caressed the scars on his buttocks.

Perce beside him was stirring. In his dream, he was in what he imagined was Mr Higgins’s oak-paneled study at the grammar school. The schoolmaster was dressed in an academic gown and he wore a mortar-board on his head. In his hand he swished a cane. Perce, was unbuckling the snake belt of his short grey flannel trousers before lowering them and then his sparkling-white underpants to his ankles, prior to bending forward to touch his toes.

3

Higgins replaced the telephone receiver in its cradle and stared through the window into the darkness outside. It was an intriguing idea and it might just work. But, he did not even know the boy; it had nothing to do with him. It was probably best to leave him alone.

The call had been from Professor Ambrose from Brocklehurst University. Higgins had known Ambrose for thirty years or more, since as a boy the professor had been a pupil at St Francis and Higgins a junior master. Higgins could not be certain but he fancied Ambrose might have been the first boy he had ever caned: the first in a very long line of proffered buttocks that stretched across three decades. The very thought of it made Higgins feel old.

Ambrose was now among other things a senior tutor at the university with responsibility for the pastoral wellbeing of students. He had a problem, he had told Higgins in the phone call and it was a problem he felt certain Higgins could solve for him.

It was Baxter, a first-year student who was going off the rails and if drastic action was not taken immediately the eighteen-year-old boy would become a train wreck.

The story was simple; Baxter had arrived at university after a successful career at a very traditional school; Higgins would know the type, Ambrose assured him. He was, of course, referring to St Francis: traditional classes, traditional sports, traditional religion and above all, traditional discipline. But, at university Baxter had let things slip; seduced by the high-life of Brocklehurst he was neglecting his studies by spending too much time in coffee bars and chasing after girls.

Back home, in his small town in Scotland, Baxter’s widowed mother continued to scrimp and save and neglect herself to pay for her son’s university education.

Baxter had one last chance, Ambrose had said. He could re-sit his examinations in two months’ time, but to be able to pass, he would need to knuckle down to some hard work. Baxter needed an incentive; the knowledge of his poor widowed mother’s sufferings would not do the trick. Baxter would not work hard on his own; he lacked self-discipline. That was where Higgins came in. Would he take the boy under his wing and impose the discipline that Baxter lacked?

Universities faced a problem when disciplining students: there was not much they could do. Young people were not legally adults until they reached the age of twenty-one, so university staff acted in ‘loco parentis,’ that is the university stood in for their parents. But, that only went so far: a professor could not give a boy a damn good hiding when he needed it. Ambrose and some of his senior colleagues lamented that the university had no regulation that permitted them to use corporal punishment. If somebody had swished a cane across Baxter’s backside the first time he skipped a tutorial or failed to hand in an essay, he would not be in this mess.

Higgins sympathized with Ambrose. He had married late to a woman twenty years his junior and his youngest son Horatio was still at university. Higgins hoped the boy’s professors would show the same concern for him if he was not performing. Indeed, if Higgins found out Horatio was slacking, he would take the boy across his knee for a bared-bottomed encounter with the hairbrush: twenty years old or not.

Higgins continued to stare through the window, rain was softly falling and soon there would be a heavy downpour. The room had darkened, but he did not switch on a light. In his mind he weighed up the possibilities.

He had an empty room since Sterling had moved out suddenly; he could easily accommodate Baxter. If the boy accepted the new regime, it would not be too difficult to draw up a kind of contract concerning curfews, deadlines for completing homework and general behaviour about drinking and smoking. The penalty for breaking the contract would be corporal punishment. Higgins knew from a lifetime’s career in school-mastering that corporal punishment worked; he had no doubts about that and it would work with Baxter.

Higgins thought about the boy’s widowed mother and the sacrifices she had made for her son. Higgins owed it to her to save the boy. The boy had lacked a father figure growing up; perhaps now, he could be the father that the boy needed.

Yes, he decided, tomorrow he would call Ambrose and say he would take on the case.

Two days later Alexander Baxter, aged eighteen, first-year university student, stood impassively in the front room of Higgins’ flat. His new landlord had just helped him move his belongings from the university hostel. Higgins noted with dismay the boy had a portable gramophone and a number of records, but no books. To Higgins that summed up the boy’s problem.

Higgins eyed the boy, he was only a few months older than the sixth-formers at his school, but he looked as if he had visited from another planet. His expensively-styled hair flopped over his collar and he wore the tightest multi-coloured ‘tank top’ pullover imaginable. His trousers were equally as tight at the waist and across the buttocks, but the legs flared down into ‘bell bottoms’ that left folds of cloth covering his wet-look shoes.

Higgins had a lecture prepared, but the boy was not listening. Baxter had endured an embarrassing meeting with his professor and he already knew the score. He had not been too surprised when the subject of corporal punishment was raised: he was used to feeling the sting of leather across the palms of his hands. He had last received a beating only a few months previously, when in his final week at school he had let his guard down and had been caught smoking. He was a chronic smoker, but was rarely caught. The two-tailed taws was in everyday use at his old school, but he had thought he had left it behind when he moved to university.

He also knew that punishment by leather strap across the palms was almost unheard of in England. Here the preferred method of punishment was three feet of flexible rattan administered with some force across the seat of a boy’s trousers. Baxter did not like the idea of that one little bit.

However, the boy decided, it was all academic. He was not stupid; he knew he was in danger of expulsion. He was letting himself down and, yes, his mother also. He also had a strange feeling he might be letting Prof Ambrose down as well. He did not know why it was but his senior tutor appeared to be taking a strong interest in him. Baxter was not the only slacker student in his year, but he was the only one to be given this last chance.

Higgins completed his lecture.

“Well, Alexander?”

The boy started. He had not been listening. Had the old man asked him a question?

“Were you listening to me?”

Baxter’s blush confirmed he had not.

“Doh!” Higgins was losing patience with the boy. The sooner he spanked his backside black and blue the better.

Higgins had thought about it a lot over the previous two days. The boy needed a new discipline regime to make sure he behaved well and worked hard in future. But, he could not be allowed to get away with his past slacking. He would need to be spanked immediately, so that he understood why he was here and what his failings were.

Higgins had concluded it would be a spanking and not a caning. Higgins believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment and had no compunction in caning the boys at school, but he used a different method at home.

He had always spanked his sons on their bare bottoms while they lay (or in their younger days were held forcibly) across his knees. This was the appropriate way for a loving father to discipline his sons. At school a beating was more bureaucratic; the boys broke a rule and the regulation stated they should be beaten on the bottom with a cane (“on the seat as normally clothed”, as the instruction from the Department of Education had it). In that way the punishment of the boy by the schoolmaster was quite literally at arm’s length. But, a parental spanking was more intimate. It was almost an act of love with father and son in close proximity with the boy’s bared bottom bouncing across the man’s legs.

Higgins wanted to be a father to Baxter, or Alexander as he would call him, and he would treat him like a son from the very start. He had used a very heavy hairbrush on his own sons, but his wife had taken that when she left. Undeterred, he had visited the Co-operative Retail Store that morning and purchased a large oval-shaped clothes brush that would make a very fine substitute.

“I said Alexander that you will have to be spanked. You are to take down your trousers and your underpants and bend across my knee.”

Baxter’s impassive look cracked and Higgins could see the boy had not been prepared for this.

“I thought Professor Ambrose had explained …” Higgins let the sentence tail off.

“Yes, but …” Baxter was no better at completing his sentences.

“Perhaps you need time to think it over. I do not want to make you do anything that you do not agree to. If you want to stay here with me you will have to accept that I am going to spank you on your bare bottom for all your misbehaviour since you came to Brocklehurst. You must also understand that I will use corporal punishment on you in the future if you do not abide by our contract.

“If you do not want to do this, you may leave and return to the university hostel. But, you should know that in all probability you will fail your examinations and be sent down from the university.”

Baxter was perplexed. He understood corporal punishment and had received it many times at school, every boy did, it was that kind of school. Professor Ambrose had told him he would be subjected to it if he continued to break the rules, but he had not been expecting to be punished for his past actions. But, he understood it made sense that he should be.

Yes, he concluded he deserved to be punished, but not in this way. He expected the strap on his hands, or since this was England, the cane across his bum. But, this old man expected him to take down his trousers and pants and bend across his lap so he could spank his bare buttocks like he was eight years old.

Higgins was reasonableness itself. “I can give you until tomorrow morning to make up your mind. Then, you must either take your spanking or leave.”

I spent the most fretful night. I did not know what to do and I had no one to turn to. I couldn’t go back to my pals at the varsity and tell them what was happening: I’d be a laughing stock. I’m getting my bare little botty smacked. Wah! Wah! Wah!. I’d never hear the end of it.

I stayed in my room all night. It was a great room, much bigger than at the university hostel, with its own little cooker and wash basin. Higgins was going to charge me the same rent as at the university: it was a great bargain. I’d fallen on my feet, except for the very sore bum I had to suffer.

I unpacked my things. At the bottom of my bag were the pyjamas my mother had bought me on the eve of my departure from home. She said my others were a disgrace and I couldn’t be seen dead in them. I don’t know who she thought would see me in my pyjamas. They were a cheap pair, they were all she could afford, made of flannelette with blue-and-white stripes. They could have been worse; the last ones she bought for me had designs of football players all over them. I had never worn the new pyjamas. I considered myself ‘grown up’ now and preferred to sleep in only my underpants, even on very cold nights.

As I unpacked the pyjamas I realised how much I missed my mother. She loved me so much and made so many sacrifices for me. And, how had I repaid her? I went out on the town as often as I could and neglected my studies. Soon I would be sent down from the university and the shame of that would break her heart.

It was not that I was unintelligent, I was brighter than average. When I bothered to do any studying I found it quite easy and I scored good grades. The thing was I was lazy: Professor Ambrose had spotted that. I was my own worst enemy; I had no self-discipline.

I stripped off my fashionable clothes and pulled on the pyjama bottoms. The flannelette material was thick and soft. I didn’t think they still made flannelette pyjamas; surely, the fashion was for cool cotton.  Then I put on the jacket. It was a bit too big for me and when I glanced at myself in the mirror I looked like the small child I had until recently been. I couldn’t help it and I dissolved into tears.

After that, it was an easy decision to make. I had let my mother down and I had let myself down. I was the luckiest boy alive; I was being given a second chance. The next morning, despite the intense humiliation I would suffer, I would let the old man take me over his knee and spank my bare bum.

I think Higgins was surprised when the next morning I knocked on his door and he opened it to see a remorseful pyjama-clad teenager. The jim-jams symbolised to me that I was still not an adult and I needed to be reminded of that. I also thought somehow they represented my mother; they were the kind of clothes she would expect me to wear; not the fashionable cosmopolitan clothes I wore at university.

As I prepared to knock on the door one of the neighbours came by on the stairs; he was short and mouse-like, with shiny brown eyes and sticking-out ears. He beamed at me and I swear gave a wink as he hurried on his way. Something about him intrigued me and I hoped soon we would get to know each other better.

I did not have to say much to Mr Higgins. Once I told him I accepted his terms he was ready to get down to business. He walked to a sideboard, opened a cupboard and extracted a shiny light brown brush. The look on my face must have told him I had not expected this.

“You are too old for me to spank you with my hand, you wouldn’t feel a thing.” I swear he smiled when he said this. It wasn’t an unkind snarl; he was only stating a fact as he saw it. I had no way of knowing the truth of his statement, despite my beatings at school I had never been spanked on the bottom. My father had died when I was very young and my mother never laid a finger on me; not even when on the many occasions that I was spiteful and disrespectful to her. My Uncle Gordon, exasperated at my bad manners, had once threatened to take his belt to my backside if I did not stop giving my mother grief, but although I continued my shameful behaviour he never carried out his threat. I think my mother may have had a word with him.

Mr Higgins pulled a straight-backed armless dining room chair from beneath a table and placed it heavily in the centre of the room. Then, he sat down and spread his legs by maybe two or three feet. In doing so he had created a perfect platform for me to bend across his lap.

I had been awake half the night visualising this scene. I had determined that I would not make a fuss; I would ‘take it like a man.’ But, now the moment had arrived I was not so sure that I could be brave. The thought of taking down my trousers and exposing my private parts to a stranger (to anyone, really) filled me with horror. And, then to lie across his lap and show him my bare buttocks with the crack and everything was beyond any humiliation I had ever endured in my life.

I had not even started to think about the pain I would suffer. The strap whistling down across the palm of the hand had been agonising and I doubted that a beating on the bottom could be worse.

“Come here Alexander,” Mr Higgins’ tone was gentle and in a way that I couldn’t quite understand, this calmed me.

He reached his hand out and gently took the elbow of my right arm. Before I knew it he had guided me across his lap and I found myself face down staring at a dusty and slightly worn carpet. My feet were a little above the ground and my middle was resting on the plateau Mr Higgins had created with his open legs.

Instinctively, I tried to cover my buttocks with my hand, but found that Mr Higgins had positioned me so far forward that it was physically impossible for me to do this. I was soon to discover that Mr Higgins was an expert spanker and he knew how to place a naughty boy across his knees for maximum impact.

I was still wearing my pyjama bottoms, but any hope I retained that this would not by a spanking on the bare was dashed when he gripped the elasticated waist and slowly eased them down over my buttocks as far as my thighs. Then he raised my jacket away from the target area so that I was naked from my shoulders to almost my knees. I did not realise it at the time, but my new master had deliberately spared me the humiliation of taking down my trousers and exposing my genitals to him.

z used otk pyjamas chair sting (16)

I felt a movement in Mr Higgins’ body: he was making his final preparations. Then: I had never experienced such a concentration of pain in my life. The brush crashed down into the centre of my left buttock; I exhaled so quickly that it seemed that I had no more breath in my body. Before I could gulp fresh air into my lungs, the brush landed with equal ferocity on my right buttock. Then it hit the left cheek again; and then the right. Then the left. Over and over again, he whacked his brush into my fleshy globes. There was no let-up; he set up a steady rhythm, spanking each cheek on and on.

My legs kicked out involuntarily and I wriggled my body to the left and right. I must have looked as if I was trying to do the crawl stroke at swimming. But, I was going nowhere: Mr Higgins had me securely gripped around the waist and the angle of my upper body across his knee was so acute that I had no means of escape. I had no choice: I had to lie there face down, bared bottom high, and let Mr Higgins spank the living daylights out of me. When he was satisfied I had suffered enough, and only then, would he release me.

I don’t know how many times he whacked that heavy brush into my buttocks but when it was eventually over and, back in my room, I inspected the damage in the mirror, I could see every square inch of my buttocks from the top where the spine is, across the fleshy globes, into the under curves, where the cheeks meet the thighs and the tops of the thighs themselves, were a mass of dark blue and mauve bruises. At the edges of the cheeks I could clearly see the oval shape of the brush imprinted into my flesh.

From the first whack to a long time after the final wallop hit home I was gagging for breath. I think the fact that I was gasping for air stopped me yelling and screaming with the pain. I was crying copious tears. I had never cried when I got the strap: boys never did. We were allowed to yelp with the pain; that was something we could not control, but any boy who blubbed would have been treated badly. The boys would have called them ‘girls.’ or even something much worse.

Eventually, Mr Higgins released his grip and allowed me to stand. He averted his eyes, so as not to see my cock, as I tugged my pyjama bottoms up. The pain was intense, but even as I stood hopping from foot to foot in front of the man who had punished me, it was turning to a throb that very soon would become a warm glow. I had suffered one heck of a spanking, but Mr Higgins was not a brutal man.

He smiled as I rubbed away at my bum.

“Will I need to do that again?” It was a gentle question. He did not seem to be a demented, angry man.

“No, Sir,” I sniffed. I meant it too. The slate had been wiped clean. I had been punished for all my misdemeanours since I had arrived at Brocklehurst. It was now up to me. Once I had been given time to recover from my spanking Mr Higgins and I sat down (me, gingerly) to agree a contract of behaviour. If Mr Higgins had cause to assault my backside again, I would only have myself to blame.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

An old English custom

z used belt taking hook (22)

He stared through the window at the garden below. Rain drops fell plip-plop against the sill. It seemed it had rained the whole summer. English weather. He must go downstairs for breakfast. Arriving late for meals had consequences. He had learned that quickly.

When he turned eighteen he was taken from his prestigious school and sent half way across the world to an English language college at Brocklehurst: a strange place; not quite country, not quite town. His orders were to learn the language like a native. Immerse himself in the culture. He obeyed. He always obeyed: his father, his school, his Party, his Leader. Obedience had brought him a long way, it would take him much further.

He quickly learnt a lot about English culture. He knew about cricket and tennis. And a strange game they called Crown Green Bowls. And, he knew about the culture of discipline and punishment.

He had been sent to board with the Smith’s. Smith; could there be a more English name? John Smith was a Party functionary, a bureaucrat, a safe pair of hands. He too knew about obedience. The Smiths had a large house in The Avenue, an upscale part of town. Both their sons, now grown into adulthood, were in military service somewhere behind enemy lines.

He had been told to obey Mr Smith; he did so without question. He wanted to know English customs; it was important for his nation. The Leader had plans where England was concerned. He learnt quickly. From the very first moment. He hadn’t noticed it to begin with. That is he saw it easily enough. But, he didn’t register its importance. It hung in the kitchen on a hook next to Mr Smith’s flat cap and scarf (two garments he still needed in the damp summer months). It was a long, thick, wide leather belt. He saw nothing unusual in that. He had two or three of his own. That’s how he kept his trousers from falling down.

Less than a fortnight after he arrived he discovered this particular belt had a specific purpose. Mr Smith imposed rules. He had expected that; the English loved rules. They delighted in bossing people about. Do this, don’t do that. Be here, go there. There’s a times to get up, a time to come home. Meal times, bath times.

It was the fault of a girl. She had large breasts and long flowing ginger hair. Her lips were full and her eyes blazed with mischief. He was a red-blooded young man. How could he resist? Mr Smith never found out about the girl. All Mr Smith knew was that he had missed curfew twice. There could be only one consequence: corporal punishment.

There was no long lecturer, just a statement of fact. They stood in the kitchen, Mr Smith reached towards the hook and took down the belt. He sat in a large, straight-backed wooden chair, spread his legs and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The English have many rituals for corporal punishment. There are any number of implements to choose from; a brush, slipper, cane. A boy might be positioned across a desk, a chair, a vaulting horse or simply touching toes. There would be many future opportunities for him to experience all of these, but for now, this first time, it would be, “Trousers down. Over my knee.”

His hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. He stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away.

He stared intently at the belt in Mr Smith’s hand. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as Mr Smith folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Mr Smith ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip; he moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. “Shall we get this over with then?  Come over here and bend across my knee.”

He blinked at Mr Smith; it was as if he had never seen the man before. His hard face was set in a scowl. In middle-age, he still had a fine head of black hair cut with military-style short back and sides. His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth. His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck. Mr Smith wore brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.

He prepared himself. His glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to seep through the his shirt. His trousers at his ankles inhibited movement and he wobbled three or four steps to take up position.

He stood for a second on Mr Smith’s right side. The man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for him to lay across. He gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco. He leaned forward. The muscles in his back rippled as he wriggled to get into place. He was some athlete. His legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. He stretched himself across Mr Smith’s legs.

He had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. He kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against Mr Smith’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and waited. He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because a bunch of keys Mr Smith had in his trouser pocket dug into his side.

Mr Smith felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap-tap-tapped it against the left cheek. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the back, exposing hairless and suntanned flesh.

Now, he was ready. Without further warning, Mr Smith raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into the right cheek. A startled gasp hissed across the room. It hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.

He was a spanking virgin and did not know what a spanking was supposed to feel like. The belt rose and fell as Mr Smith found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and he stared down at the backs of his hands.

Mr Smith lashed the leather belt again and again into the muscular bottom. The  cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh. Without warning, Mr Smith stopped walloping and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down across the hips and over the round bum.

Mr Smith wrapped his arm around the midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across Mr Smith’s lap to the left and to the right. He was strong and in a fair fight he could have knocked Mr Smith for six; but this was no fair fight. He had to obey and allow himself to be held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.

His bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. Hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs were untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks widened into deeper scratches.

Whop! whop! whop! Mr Smith went around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs. The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. The whacking had knocked the breath out of him and he lost strength. He had no power to resist and lay face down staring at the floorboards. Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Every square inch of his bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. It was a job well done. He had been well and truly spanked. Mr Smith spread his feet out in front of him so that he could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In silence, he tugged up the underwear and trousers from the top of his shoes. He tucked in his shirt.

In silence, Mr Smith replaced the belt on the hook. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of one very particular English custom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com