Commander Reynolds’ boarding house

Commander Albert Reynolds, RN (retd.) turned the volume of his wireless down low and sat back in his comfortable chair. The boys had given him a strange proposition but he was not sure he should have turned them down.

He pressed his fingers together, pursed his lips and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of Henry Hall’s dance band to drift into his consciousness.

The three boys, well they were young men really, had departed back to their rooms, leaving the old man to re-evaluate their offer.

It had started a couple of months previously. Jack, James and Arthur had come to live at the Commander’s rooming house. They were from respectable families; otherwise he would never have let them stay.

They were students, just up at the Varsity. Out in the big world on their own for the first time in their lives.

The Commander recalled Mrs Rollington; Jack’s mother. “He’s a fine God-fearing boy, Commander,” she had intoned, rather fiercely, he thought. “He has been brought up in a good Christian family. His morals are impeccable.”

The Commander laughed at that as Henry Hall’s soothing voice introduced the next dance tune. “Impeccable morals, my eye,” he thought.

That had been the problem. Three eighteen-year-old boys let loose on the big city after years cooped up in high class boarding schools. The Commander was an old naval man, he knew what young men could get up to when out on the town. There was smoking, drinking, and, yes, even possibly the occasional woman: Jack, James and Arthur had been making up for lost time.

The Commander was no hypocrite; young men had appetites, he realised that. But there were his other tenants to consider. And there had been complaints; especially from Mr Bunyan at number eight.

Mr Bunyan had called on the Commander four times now. At each visit he was a little more irritated – and, irritating. The Commander knew the type, always finding something to complain about, but maybe this time he had a point.

“It’s just too much Commander Reynolds, Sir,” Bunyan had simpered, the first time he laid down the complaint. It had been about the boys arriving back in the early hours of the morning, clearly the worse for drink.

“It’s the ladies I feel sorry for.” He meant the women tenants. Apart from the three boys and the Commander, Bunyan was the only man lodging at the house, although the Commander was not so sure the word “man” quite described the flamboyant creature that stood before him. Was that a whiff of gardenia in the air?

The Commander was a leader of men and he expected to be obeyed. He had what he described to Bunyan as “a little word” with the boys.

Things improved, but not for long. By the time Bunyan was tapping on the Commander’s door with his fourth complaint, the Commander’s patience was exhausted.

That had been last Friday and it was yesterday he gave the boys formal notice to quit the lodgings. To go, find rooms somewhere else, leave Bunyan and the Commander in peace.

“Oh my, what will my mother say?” It was Jack who spoke first. The three boys were contemplating the devastating news – chucked out of their lodgings for immoral behaviour.

James and Arthur were equally aghast. James most certainly did not want to face his father with this news. Mr Miller expected impeccable behaviour from his sons, especially in public. He was old school, with the emphasis on “school.” He would not hesitate to take his whippy dragon cane down from its hook in the study and apply it with great force across his errant son’s backside; eighteen years old or not.

Arthur had no such fear of his own father. He had never laid a finger on him in his life. There would be no thrashing, but Mr Rhodes would show a deep sense of disappointment that would cut into Arthur much more acutely than any lashes with a cane across his bared buttocks.

“The Commander is right, we have behaved pretty badly,” Arthur had been raised to have a grave sense of guilt. But, neither of the other fellows disagreed. They were guilty as charged. They were not used to freedom that was the reason. They had spent the past ten years imprisoned at one boarding school or another; their lives totally regimented. Rules governed their lives. Do this, do that! Rules that must be followed, and of course, punishments endured if they were not.

“Yes, we have been rather foolish.” It was an understatement from Arthur. Too much wine, women and song had led them to this downfall.

“What if the university finds out? Will we be sent down?” James raised the question. Expulsion for bringing the university into disrepute would be disastrous. It would be the end of James’ chances of a career in the Foreign Office.

The three boys fell silent, each contemplating their own personal disaster.

Jack eventually piped up. “If we had been caught smoking and drinking at Bridgetown, my housemaster would have thrashed us.”

He left the sentence hanging. It was true; the consequence at school for bad behaviour was a very sore backside indeed. But, every boy who ever was ordered to “bend over that chair” to offer up his buttocks to a dominant master, agreed it was worth it. Six-of-the-best meant atonement. The crime had been committed, the punishment was accepted and everybody moved on with their lives.

“It was the same at my school,” James was almost misty-eyed with nostalgia. “Mr Horridge would’ve had us across his desk. Trousers and underpants at our ankles. Even when we were seniors. My hat! We couldn’t sit down for a week after that.”

James and Jack joined in companionable laughter. Arthur’s face drained of colour. How could they find this amusing? Bare-bottomed thrashings. Not sitting down for a week. What brutes these schoolmasters were.

“What about you Arthur?” James peered through his spectacles at his young friend. “What did they do at your school? Did you get it bare?”

Startled, Arthur found himself saying, “Oh, my yes, of course, ouch! Yarroo!”

Why had he lied? Was he ashamed that he had attended a Quaker school, founded by pacifists? Corporal punishment was unheard of. He had never even seen a school cane in his life, let alone felt one across his stretched bottom.

“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” It was James who made the suggestion. It was such an obvious solution. He was sure the Commander would agree. He must have been a public school man himself. Surely, he would understand.

“Let’s offer to take a beating. Apologise, say we’ll never do it again. And we should mean it.”

Jack’s face lit up. “Yes, that’s it. He’ll understand. We could offer to go bare, if that’s what it took.”

The two boys were so taken by their proposed solution they failed to notice Arthur’s coughing fit.

So it was that the three boys stood in Commander Reynolds sitting room, hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart, eyes downcast inspecting a rather worn green-patterned carpet.

It had been James’ idea, so he was the boys’ representative.

“So you see Commander,” it was a confident address. The boys might have spent a little too much time on the town recently, but they were intelligent articulate teenagers. In time they would all make their mark on the world, but now, on this day, they had to dig themselves out of a rather big hole.

“If we behaved like this at our schools we should have been soundly beaten by our housemasters.”

Jack found himself inadvertently nodding his agreement, but still he stared at the carpet, unable to look the Commander in the eye. Cold sweat poured down Arthur’s back, he was certain he would be sick at any moment.

The Commander looked at the three boys in astonishment. Beat them, as if they were schoolboys and he was their housemaster. Who had ever heard of such an idea?

“So, we respectfully ask that you punish us with a beating and then allow us to stay on as tenants.” James finished his little speech. He had decided not to include the offer to take it trousers and underwear down.

The Commander silently counted to ten. His mother had taught him this when he was a very small boy. If you think you are going to lose your temper count to ten before you speak.

Eight, nine, ten. “No, that is not a good idea. You will all vacate your rooms as previously ordered.”

James opened his mouth, but the Commander cut him off. He would not hear argument. “That is all. You are dismissed!”

Two crestfallen (and one very relieved) teenagers trudged up the stairs to their rooms.

Now, in a darkened room, sitting in his chair, was the Commander having second thoughts? Corporal punishment, was it such a bad idea?

Heavy rain lashed against the window, almost drowning out the dance music. Suddenly, in his mind it was at least thirty years ago, he was a sub-lieutenant, young men in thin white trousers were being bound hand and foot, and forced to bend their bodies over a triangle. Handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. A chief petty officer armed with a cane lashed twelve strokes into their taut buttocks.

It happened all the time; there was nothing unusual about it. It was perfectly legal and still happened today.

There were lighter, more informal punishments. The Commander silently chuckled. There had been this boy; what was his name? He was no older than the three tenants upstairs. He was an incorrigible rogue, but not an evil sort. It soon became a ritual. Anderson was he called? Anderson would be caught smoking or absent from his post, the Commander (he was not a Commander then) would be informed. Guilt would be established. Then Anderson was given a choice: be put a charge or go across the knee.

He was a tiny fellow, this Anderson. He looked like a small child. Perhaps that was why the Commander felt he should punish him like a naughty boy. A heavy wooden clothes brush was kept in a drawer. Anderson would be ordered to fetch it while the Commander settled himself into his favourite chair. Then, without further instruction, Anderson would hand the Commander the brush before unbuckling his own belt and lowering his trousers.

Then with an air of resignation on his face he would lower himself across the Commander’s knees. He remembered it as if it had happened that morning. The underpants were a rather grubby grey-white colour. He would pull the drawers up tight so the outline of Anderson’s buttocks were clearly visible and then at a slow, rhythmic pace he would crash twenty-four hard whacks into the boy’s stringy buttocks.

It hurt the boy, probably a great deal, but he never showed his pain. It must have been a matter of pride, to be able to take a whacking stoically. The spanking over, Anderson would jump to his feet replace his trousers and stand to attention, thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers.

“Thank you Sir, I deserved that.” He always said the same thing after every spanking. Had the Commander made him say that or had he thought to do it himself?

A thunderclap woke the Commander from his dream. Heavens, he had not thought about Anderson in more than thirty years. Poor boy, he died in action before he reached his twentieth birthday.

The Commander had been on the receiving end himself. Many times; beyond the age of eighteen. He had attended a naval training ship. There had been this one time, he was with a party of about thirty boys who misbehaved themselves ashore; they had to be rounded up by the ship’s authorities. They used a birch in those days. It was not as heavy as the judicial birch that was still in use today. One by one the boys were forced to lower their trousers and go across the block. The Commander wriggled in his chair as if the scars of the birching were still troubling him.

He moved from his chair and switched on a light. Perhaps the boys had a point. They could atone for their crimes. He did not want them to get into further trouble at the university.

He had listened to the news earlier on the wireless. Mr Chamberlain had returned from Munich with a peace agreement. The Commander did not believe it for a moment. War in Europe was coming and these boys would soon be fighting for their country. The Commander himself would probably be recalled.

Damn it, let’s do it. The Commander was a man of decision. Yes, a caning. Twelve each: on the bare. It must be an exemplary thrashing, but once delivered and received that would be an end to it.

That was how the following evening the three young men stood once more before the Commander, staring down at the carpet.

The Commander had made much preparation. First, he had to purchase a cane. They are readily available in most oil shops, as any naughty boy could attest. The embarrassment of being sent by father to purchase a cane was intense. The shopkeepers never believed a boy’s tale that the cane was needed because they were “playing schools.”

The Commander wanted a special cane, a Malacca for preference. The thick dense rod was as whippy as a school’s rattan cane but it packed more of a punch and with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave deep bruises on the boys’ buttocks. They had asked for a caning and would certainly be given a caning to remember.

There was a specialist shop he knew in Earls Court that supplied just the thing.

The Commander was now armed with a suitable weapon, but he had another problem. He was not the boys’ parent or guardian and he had no legal jurisdiction over them. In short, he had no right to punish them.

He was not a legal expert, but he drew up a short contract. The boys were not yet twenty-one and so were not adults. Even so, he would make them sign to say they consented to a thrashing. Next, he needed a witness in case something went wrong. Nearly all of his tenants were women and it would not be right to ask them to see the boys bare their buttocks. Bunyan would have to be the witness. He agreed a little too eagerly when asked.

There were no speeches or ceremony. They all knew why they were there. The Commander went over to the far end of the room, swung round the large horsehair armchair that was to serve as the punishment chair and pushed it into the centre of the room. Having done that, he turned back towards a cabinet and opened the top drawer from which he took the cane.

“Right, Miller,” he swished the cane at James, “Trousers and underwear down.”

James knew he was blushing as he removed his jacket then unzipped his trousers and pulled them down. He stood behind the chair and peeled his underwear from his buttocks before letting them drop on top of his trousers.

“I assume that you know the procedure,” the Commander was still swishing the cane menacingly. “Over the chair, with your legs well apart.”

James did of course know exactly what was required. As he got over the chair, he pushed his arms out along the full length of its armrests, so that his buttocks were raised over the apex of the chair and his legs were stretched apart.

The Commander turned his shirt back and Bunyan sat upright on a sofa, ensuring a clearer view.

Unceremoniously, the Commander tapped the waiting buttocks then raised his arm to shoulder height, before with a flick of the wrist he brought the cane down hard across the exposed backside. James clenched his teeth but a groan still escaped as he absorbed the first of twelve stokes. The Commander was soon into his stride, ensuring he spread the strokes across the teenager’s bottom. Starting in the middle, he worked his way down till number six landed hard across the top of James’ thighs.

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No amount of teeth clenching could stop the loud howl that escaped from the boy’s throat. The Commander paused to admire the six thick red, almost parallel, lines across James’ once creamy white buttocks. He landed number seven higher up, before changing his stance and lashing number eight diagonally crossing the previous seven welts. James roared and his bottom gyrated. The Commander was breathing almost as heavily as the boy he was punishing as he whacked the rest of the strokes diagonally across the buttocks, from the left and from the right.

James gagged as howls and sobs were wrenched from his body and he clutched onto the horsehair sofa as if his very life depended on it.

Then it was Jack’s turn. He had been panting vigorously since the start of James’ beating and his short, sharp breaths now grew more urgent as he lay across the chair.

His bottom was well-rounded with firm and toughened muscles, but it had no protective layer of flesh. There would be no give and compression of the cheeks as the cane struck home, its impact would be imparted directly into the muscle of the suffering boy. Movement would remain agonising long after the beating had been completed and all strokes administered. The lack of absorbent meat on his buttocks meant that the knots of the Malacca cane were likely to tear the skin and cause bleeding, perhaps even with a single stroke.

With incredible speed, accuracy and force, the Commander lurched forward and delivered three rapid strokes which ricocheted off the boy’s backside, making him writhe and jerk and gasp loudly before slumping back over the chair, panting and twitching, in total subjection.

The Commander wielded the cane with stunning skill. The stinging lines of pain which sliced their way across Jack’s backside exceeded any previous canings he had received at school. He bounced up and down on the back of the chair and strained every muscle in his legs to hold them straight and apart.

The twelfth and final stroke was imminent. Jack’s clenched fists, wet with the saliva from his mouth into which they had been thrust to hold back his cries, and stinging with the imprint of his teeth, groped desperately to cling on to the chair.

The cane rose and fell. The collision was formidable. The cane cracked with unrestrained vengeance across the bare flesh of Jack’s buttocks. The sound reverberated around the room and a shudder rippled through the teenager’s body as the full impact of the stroke bit into him.

Arthur stood gazing at the sight of Jack’s striped, bruised, red and purple blotched buttocks clenching and unclenching, trembling like jelly. His own legs buckled and for a moment he feared he would fall onto the floor in a fainted heap.

“Over!” the Commander swished the cane impatiently. Arthur wanted to push past the Commander and his fearful cane, and dash from the room. He would not stop running until he had reached his mother’s arms at his home one hundred and fifty miles way.

That is what he wanted to do. But it was not what he did. His two great friends Jack and James had endured their thrashings. They had been brutal, but the two boys had behaved honourably. They had misbehaved and had accepted their due punishment. No matter how terrible the ordeal might be, Arthur resolved to take the caning. He deserved it. He would not let himself down in front of his friends.

In a trance he stepped forward towards the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and fumbled at his trousers. He could not quite get his fingers to work and it took an age before he felt the heavy cloth of his trousers slide down his thighs before travelling past his knees to rest at his shins. His underpants followed reluctantly.

The Commander’s impatience grew. “Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all day.”

Arthur felt the colour draining from his face. His legs became weak and an immovable lump came into his throat. His eyes displayed the sheer horror and despair which was consuming him. A sudden realisation that this boy was terrified brought a sneer to Bunyan’s lips.

With eyes still tightly closed, Arthur stretched himself forward and offered up his bared buttocks to his tormentor.

The boy’s apprehension was obvious, even without studying the quivering vibration of his naked and expectant bottom, the Commander knew that he was terrified of the pain of the beating to come. He was horrified that he might fail the test.

No matter, events must take their course. The Commander, surprised that his palms had suddenly begun to sweat tucked his cane under his arms so he could wipe his hands against his trousers. Bun too was sweating, but anxious to get on with the show.

The Commander slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and prepared to administer the third thrashing of the evening.

The first cut bounced into Arthur’s mounds and sank deep into the flesh, before it re-emerged leaving behind a thick red mark across the centre of both cheeks. Arthur let out a piercing scream and jumped from the chair, both hands grabbing his ferociously boiling buttocks. He stamped up and down on the carpet in a fruitless attempt to ease the agony.

James’ eyes widened at the spectacle. He had seen many boys caned in his lifetime, but none had behaved like this. What was wrong with the boy?

The Commander thought he knew. This boy had never before been on the receiving end of a caning. How could such a thing happen? Was he not eighteen years old and the product of an English public school? The public schools – which were in fact expensive independent private schools – were renowned across the British Empire for their discipline. The school cane had been one of the country’s finest exports for a hundred years or more. How could this boy be a virgin to its lash at his age?

“Back over!” it was a ferocious command. “Do not dare behave in such a disgraceful way. Take your beating like a man!”

Totally humiliated and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Arthur prepared once more to receive the kiss of the cane.

The Commander was a military man through to his inner core. This shaking, wailing boy bent over the chair, bared buttocks pointing upwards at him, might be experiencing this for the first time, but he must not be lenient.  He was as guilty as his two fellows and he must be punished in exactly the same way. It would not be fair on them. Besides, if he laid the cane on lightly, Jack and James would know and they would despise Arthur for it. No, the right thing to do would be to tear the boy’s buttocks to shreds.

And, that is precisely what the Commander did.

The Commander saw the tension taking over Arthur’s entire body and sensed the teenager holding his breath to bursting point, as the older man realigned the cane to deliver a diagonal stroke to cut across the previous one.

His arm swept down. The cane struck the springy globes with a swish and leapt away. Arthur’s body convulsed on the chair, his fingers scrabbled and wrenched, he gave a pitiful whine and then settled again, ready for the next stroke.

The next lashes fell a fraction below each other getting lower and lower with number six landing right on the crease, by now Arthur was bawling and tears had fallen from his eyes and the chair cushion was wet with teardrops. His hands were tightly gripping the chair as another stroke landed at a right angle crossing all the previous stripes. Arthur howled once more and his backside wobbled and shook as he came to terms with this latest onslaught.

When number twelve landed the Commander whipped it with a will right on top of stroke number seven on the crease, Arthur’s head shot up and he screamed in agony.

“That will do.” It was a calm, courteous statement. The punishment was over.

Arthur let go of the seat cushion; his knuckles now bleached white. Nothing registered clearly or coherently as quickly he got up, but his hands immediately went round to feel his scalded buttocks and he could not get dressed immediately until the pain reached its peak.

The pain was so intense that in spite of his eighteen years he could hardly see for the tears which were flooding his eyes: he had taken as severe a caning as could have been delivered.

Five minutes later, the Commander was once more alone in his room. The three boys were upstairs admiring their corrugated backsides and congratulating one another on their fortitude. Mr Bunyan was lying on his bed, his trousers at his ankles. In the distance a thunderclap heralded yet another rain storm.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

 

Other stories you might like

How other people live

My landlord’s slipper

The Meter Reader

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Strict landlords- the compilation

Many years ago when I was a student I lived in lodgings with a family who rented out three rooms in their large house. The man of the house was retired and although quite old (to my youth he may have seemed ancient) he was very distinguished. There was a small armchair in my room and many nights I would fantasise that he had me across its back while he lashed a whippy-school-type cane into my pyjama-clad bottom.

I had no idea then that decades later I would use this fantasy as the basis of a series of my stories. One of the first that I ever wrote and published was called Paul and His Landlord. In real life, one night I got back to the house so late that the front door was locked and I had to ring the bell hard and waken the household to get in. I must have inconvenienced many people that night, but nothing was ever said about it.

Not so in my story where I end up receiving a well-deserved caning.

I wrote two episodes of Paul and his Landlord and you can read them by clicking the links below. Remember, they are stories although inspired by real life.

I have written other stories about landlords that were similarly inspired by other real places that I lodged. Links to those are also below.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed fantasising and writing about them.

Charles

 Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

Picture credit: Kernled

 Where it all began. That late night home. —- 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.

Paul and his landlord 2

Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.

His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.

“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

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.

My First Time

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

My house. My rules

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.”

The broken window

Mr. Epson strode into the lounge brandishing his cane. Jerome stared, confused, unsure what he should do.

“Bend over. I’m going to beat you with this cane. With your trousers and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.” Mr. Epson thought this, but did not say it out loud.

Instead, he did say, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

No Smoking!

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Picture credit: Unknown

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

Kevin’s landlord

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

 

The stories Paul and His Landlord with others about troublesome tenants is also available as a free-to-download book (PDF file).  You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Other stories involving landlords you might like:

 

The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The rental agreement

new 5

z used couch jeans down messy room

I sat alone in silence in my small rented room listening carefully for the sound of my landlord’s car. He had told me he would come around to see me about the rent I had failed to pay.

It was true I had missed my monthly payment. It was the holiday season and there were more important things to pay for then the rent. He frowned when I told him I didn’t have the money. “You did sign the rental agreement didn’t you?” he asked me sharply.

Yes I had. “Did you actually read it?” he sneered. Had I? I didn’t think I had. I remembered checking on the amount of the rent and that was about all.

“You should have read it all the way to the end,” he told me. “To the part about what happens if you don’t pay the rent on time.”

I shrugged my shoulders. That annoyed him. He rasped, “The bit about being subjected to corporal punishment.”

“Corporal punishment?” I asked, genuinely not understanding.

“Corporal punishment,” he replied as if speaking to a person of limited intelligence, “You know. Spanking.”

“Spanking!” I was incredulous. “How? I don’t understand.”

He leaned into me and we were almost nose to nose. “You signed. You agreed. I have it in all my rental agreements. I’ve had lots of people like you. You kids, you think the world owes you a living. You don’t want to pay your way.”

That wasn’t true. I wasn’t like that. I did pay my way. And I wasn’t a kid. I was nineteen years old and I’d been out in the world since I left school and home three years previously. I had a steady job at a supermarket. It didn’t pay much, but I managed to get by. It was just, as I said, the holiday season can be very expensive.

My landlord shook his head, “It’s there in black and white. Signed and agreed by you. Corporal punishment. A spanking.” Then he told me he would come by next day and I must be sure to be at home.

I waited as instructed. I checked the agreement and Mr Rachlin was not lying, I had agreed to the clause. The room I rented was in a converted house and there were ten of us in all. Most of us were in our late teens and early twenties and I suppose we were all signed up in the same way. I was a bit too embarrassed to go knocking on doors to find out.

Anyway, I had agreed to the spanking clause and I am a man of my word. I had to submit myself to him. I could’ve said I wanted to leave and find somewhere else but that would have been madness. Small cheap rooms like mine were impossible to find, especially in a town like Brocklehurst.

Right on time I heard the purr of Mr Rachlin’s car. It was a Merc; he wasn’t short of a few bob. He himself lived in a grand house in a select street called The Avenue, a million miles from my tiny bed-sit. I heard the car door slam and I waited. My heart was running fast now. I had never been spanked in my life. I had no idea what to expect. It couldn’t hurt too much – could it?

My landlord rapped on my door and I stumbled over and opened it. He stood in the doorway looking into my room. He turned his nose up in the air, “What a mess. It looks like a rubbish tip in here.”

It wasn’t that bad. It’s difficult to keep such a small room tidy. Once you put the bed, a couch, a table and a rail for hanging clothes in it there wasn’t much space for anything else.

Mr Rachlin came in and closed the door behind him. He stood for a while with his feet spread. He was about fifty years old, I guess and like men of that age he had gone to seed a bit. He made a big figure and was perhaps ten centimetres taller than me. He wore no jacket and his belly ballooned over the waistband of his trousers. He carried a plastic bag from the same supermarket where I worked.

I mumbled a greeting. I wasn’t sure how this was going to play out. Was I supposed to offer him tea or coffee like this was some social visit? I stood awkwardly waiting for him to make the first move.

“Do you have the rent?” he asked casually. He knew darned well that I hadn’t – otherwise he wouldn’t be here. I confirmed what he already knew. That was when I saw the slight smile about his lips. It was late in the day and his face was covered with stubble which made his double chins bristle menacingly. It sent a shudder through my body.

His brown eyes shone. “Let’s get on with this shall we?” He smiled broadly. That was when I began to wonder if he might be enjoying this. Without moving, he surveyed the small room. His eye rested on the small couch, he had made up his mind.

“Come over here,” he said as he walked towards the two-seater settee. “Let’s get on with this. I don’t have all night,” and he added ominously, “I have other tenants to visit.”

He delved into the plastic bag and brought out what looked to me like a block of wood. It was almost square at one end and had a small handle. It reminded me of a smaller version of the blocks people use when cutting bread. Mr Rachlin must have seen my confusion. “It’s called a paddle. It’s what our American cousins use for spanking naughty boys’ butts – bottoms that is to me and you.” He brandished it in my face so I got a closer look. It was about a half-centimetre thick and from where I stood it looked very heavy. To demonstrate this point my landlord gripped the handle with one hand and smacked the blade end into the palm of the other. “Look,” he said showing me the red mark he had made on his hand. “That’ll be your backside in a minute.”

He let that sink in for a moment and then he sat down. He beckoned me to stand in front of him. “Put your hands on your head.” It was at this point that I forcefully reminded myself that I was the one who had decided not to pay the rent and instead had used the money on fun and partying. I had to face the consequences of my action. I should do whatever my landlord asked of me. I was surprised how wet my hair was. I had not realised I was sweating profusely, even though the room was quite cool.

“I always do this part myself,” he said evenly. I flinched as with both hands he took hold of my belt and began to unbuckle it. Instinctively I wriggled my hips. “Do not resist,” he said sternly. “Your job is to take your spanking calmly. Next time you’ll pay the rent on time.”

As he said this he had opened the front of my jeans and was calmly guiding them down my legs so they bunched at my shins. He leaned forward and I could smell sour tobacco smoke mingling with some greasy hair oil. It almost made me gag.

I had never been undressed by a man before; and not often by a woman either. My face blazed with embarrassment, but that wasn’t half my problem. Without warning Mr Rachlin took a firm grip on the waistband of my boxer shorts and with a flourish like a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat he tugged them down my buttocks. I only wore a short t-shirt so my cock flapped up and down in front of his face. I was mortified. I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend this was not happening.

It couldn’t be true. Here I was a nineteen-year-old shopworker standing in his rented room in front of his landlord with his jeans and his underwear at his shins with his arse bared to the wind. Waiting to be spanked on that naked bottom with a heavy wooden paddle. You couldn’t make it up.

Because he carried so much weight in the belly department, Mr Rachlin had sank back into the cushions of the couch and had a problem getting back on his feet. He wheezed with the effort but I had no intention of helping him up. At last he stood beside me. He leaned down again and picked up the paddle. He was good to go.

Without a further word he placed a cushion on top of one arm of the couch. It wobbled and nearly toppled to the floor. He waved his paddle at it and sternly said, “Bend over the couch.” Ice ran down my back.

I looked down at the couch. It seemed very low. It wouldn’t be that easy. I was a virgin to spanking but even I could see bending across the back of the couch would have been a better proposition. I said nothing. Instead I stumbled forward and did my best to lay across the arm. I rested my stomach on it and had to bend my legs behind me so that my feet could rest on the floor. To my front I leaned on my elbows and this meant I had the choice of staring down at the dusty cushion only centimetres from my face or to stare into the distance at the far wall. My back was arched and like this I awaited Mr Rachlin’s next move.

What I couldn’t know because I couldn’t see was that my bottom was raised high at an angle and offered my landlord a terrific target. I’m a long way from being fat – not like Mr Rachlin – but my bum is well covered. I had no idea whether this was a good or a bad thing. Does the more padding a fellow has offer more protection from the paddle? Or does it mean the bum is bigger and there are therefore more nerve ends to set on fire? I didn’t know then and I still don’t.

The floorboards creaked when my landlord took up his position behind me and to my left. I could smell him. Had he showered that day? I shut my eyes tight and my bottom tightened. I braced myself for the pain I expected to start at any moment. I felt Mr Rachlin’s hand press hard into my shoulder blades. There was a pause. I felt a movement in his body. Then, CRACK! the paddle connected with my left buttock cheek. I gasped and the impact was so great my arms collapsed so that my head sank into the cushion. My lips formed a perfect “O” shape and I let out a silent “ouch.”

There was no time to do more before the paddle pounded into my other cheek. My bum was ablaze. Suddenly two more swats hammered into the underside of my cheeks. The pain was indescribable. Was this how it felt if you stood too close to an open roaring coal fire? My back bucked and my legs kicked out.

“Stay in position,” my landlord barked and paddle slammed into my bare bum again. The noise was horrific. The room echoed as though a bomb had gone off. I wondered if the young Asian guy in the next room could hear.

The paddle slammed again and again. I was really feeling it. I writhed and moaned, kicking my feet. I still had enough dignity not to beg Mr Rachlin to stop. Besides, looking back on it I know he had the right to spank me. I had not paid the rent and I had signed the contract.

My bum was hot and sweaty and the paddle was warm. My backside was roasted.

Bent over the arm of the couch like that I was uncomfortably conscious of my bare arse pointing to the ceiling. It seemed like a huge target, completely vulnerable to the big wooden paddle.

Only then did I panic: could Mr Rachlin see up my crack? The embarrassment of offering my bared-buttocks to the older man to spank was intense, but what a humiliation if he was gazing down at my hole?

My landlord couldn’t have been bothered by that because he didn’t slow down with the paddling, in fact he accelerated the assault. Every smack felt like a hot frying pan pressing against my flesh. Steamy tears ran down my face. There was a plump scatter cushion within reach, I grabbed it and buried my head, choking on the dust it held.

Other blows pushed me against the arm, crushing my penis against the couch, adding to the flow of my tears.

I lost all sense of time. Was it a minute, was it an hour? I really don’t know. The sound of the paddle connecting with naked flesh continued to travel around the room. My bum was numb. The pain had reached a plateau. It didn’t matter how many more times he swatted me I wouldn’t feel a thing.

Mr Rachlin might have known this; suddenly he stopped. “That’s it,” he wheezed, “Get up. Get dressed.”

I stumbled to my feet and ran up and down on the spot, like footballers do when they get a kick and try to run-off the pain. It didn’t work. I clutched my bare bum horrified that the flesh felt like leather. I didn’t care that my cock and balls were bouncing in front of my landlord’s face.

“Get dressed,” he repeated. I bent down to retrieve my boxers, my bum burnt some more as I stretched down. The effort of bending made me gasp for breath, I hadn’t realised how shot my body was. At last I had my jeans in place. My backside throbbed like crazy.

Mr Rachlin was ready to go. Before he opened the door he turned to me and snorted, “Don’t forget you still owe me the rent. If I have to come back again next month and you haven’t paid me up, you’ll get double.”

With that he was gone. I heard footsteps as he crossed the hall and then the sound of his knuckles rapping on another door.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

My landlord’s slipper

Step-dad’s little trick

The military camp

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Strictly no alcohol

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Trent and Alex were in the students’ union bar finishing their second pint of the evening. “I’m going to make this the last one,” Trent said. “Then I have to be off home.”

His friend wrinkled his nose, “But it’s early yet, it’s not even nine.”

“I know, but I’ve got to go,” he sipped his beer ruefully. Colour drained from his face.

His close pal noticed this at once. “What’s the matter? Tell me.”

Trent wriggled in his chair as if the memory discomforted him. “You’ll never believe me if I told you. I can’t even believe it myself.”

Alex laughed. “Oh come on. You can’t leave it like that. You’ve got to tell me now.”

Trent laughed too. “Okay, but promise you won’t tell anyone else.”

“Scout’s honour.”

This is the story he told.

“You know I’ve just moved into digs with that weird fellow, the one with all the tattoos. Well, it turns out that he’s a born-again teetotaller. He used to be a wino, an alcoholic. Turns out he’s really against booze. The first day I got there he says I’m not to bring any alcohol into the house. He says I’m not to drink outside either.

“I didn’t take any notice of him. I was desperate for somewhere to stay after that trouble at my last place, so I just said ‘okay’ and left it at that. I think he must have been in a right state back in the day. Did I tell you he’s got tattoos all the way up his neck and over some of his face? I couldn’t take him seriously to be honest.

“Things were fine for a day or two. Turns out he’s quite an artist – and not only a piss artist either – he’s got an exhibition of paintings and ceramics coming up. I knew he had a bob or two in the bank, those houses in The Avenue don’t come cheap.

“Like I say, things were all right and then last Saturday I went to the gig with The Dudes – did you go? – and afterwards there was a party so I didn’t get back until gone two in the morning. I didn’t think much of it. I’ve got my own key obviously and I was going to just let myself in and go to bed. I was a bit drunk actually. I just about managed to get the key in the lock and I was on my way up the stairs when he came flying out of the living room.

“He was livid. He had stayed up until I came home. ‘What time do you call this this,’ he roared. He was really angry. I couldn’t work it out. I was drunk like I said and so I said back to him, ‘Two o’clock what’s it to you?’ He had never said anything about curfew, y’know like some landlords do.

“It just made things worse. He storms up to me and his face is like this; y’know we’re practically nose to nose. Then he smells the beer on my breath. He hits the effing roof. I can’t tell you. I’ve never seen anyone so angry before. His face goes scarlet and that made me scared. His face is pretty scary anyway. He’s jabbering away at me so fast that I can’t get what he’s saying. I’m pissed, of course, so that doesn’t help.

“Then he screams, ‘I told you! I told you!’ and I thought he was going to explode. Then you’ll never guess what happens. You promised you wouldn’t tell anyone else, remember. Then he grabs hold of me by the back of my jumper and he drags me across the floor. I’m still on my feet but they’re slipping on the polished floor of the hallway. He takes me into the sitting room. Of course, I’m hollering and calling him all the names under the sun, but he’s too far gone. He’s somewhere with the fairies.

“So we’re in the sitting room now and I see his eyes are blazing, they’re like something out of a cheap horror movie. I’ve never seen anyone with red eyes before. Red. Have you? Well, I’m thinking this guy is well out of control now and I wonder how I’m going to get away.

“He has enormous strength, like some wild animal. I can’t think of one now, a bear or something like that. He’s so strong that I can’t get away from him. He’s jabbering his gibberish again and I know he’s trying to tell me something, to explain maybe, but I haven’t a clue what he’s going on about. Then, it happened.

“I swear to God I’m not making this up. He’s still got me by the scruff of the neck and he pulls me across the sitting room. It’s quite a big room and there’s a large couch at one end. He’s still got hold of me and he sits himself down and then he pulls me down on top of him. He puts me across his knee. Honestly. He’s got me across his knee like I’m nine years old, not nineteen. I’m face down and he picks me up like I’m a rag doll and he pulls me about out so my chest and arms are flat on one side of him and my legs are stretched behind me on the couch on the other. And he’s got my bum high over his lap. He leans his arm across my body and nearly breaks my back as he pins me down. I cannot move!

“Of course, I’m yelling blue murder, but he don’t care. I still cannot move. He’s got me exactly where he wants me: face down, bum high. I feel him take hold of the waist of my jeans and he pulls them really hard. It’s like he’s giving me a wedgie. I can feel the jeans digging into my crack. I couldn’t believe it!

“Then, he spanks me. He slaps his horrible old tattooed hand all over my arse. Of course, I’m wriggling and kicking and trying to escape. It must have looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. It didn’t stop him. He’s jabbering on still, while his spanks me all over my bum. He even went on the back of my thighs. I was drunk, of course, and by now I’m feeling a bit sick and I’m thinking I’m going to throw up all over the couch any minute now. I don’t but because I was thinking that I wasn’t doing much else, so I just sort of lay there and let him spank me. Over and over again.

“Have you ever been spanked? No, of course you haven’t, who has? It’s supposed to hurt isn’t it? That’s the whole point of it surely. ‘Come her you naughty boy, get across my knee’, smack, smack, smack. Ouch! Ouch! Ouch! But I didn’t feel a thing. Nothing. I could feel his hand landing on the seat of my jeans but that’s all. Of course, the jeans are thick aren’t they. And, of course, I’m wearing pants. Boxers, actually. Never felt a thing.

“Anyway, eventually he stops spanking me and lets me go. I didn’t hang around. I stumbled up the stairs and bounced into my bedroom. I had a little look. Y’now at my bum like and it wasn’t even red. It was like nothing happened. It might have been a dream.

“So, that’s what happened. My landlord spanked me for being out drinking. It didn’t hurt a bit and – obviously, since we are in the bar – it hasn’t stopped me drinking. What was the point of it all?”

Trent had stopped speaking. There was silence before Alex realised his pal had asked him a genuine question. “What was the point of it?” he mused, “None at all. Unless, of course, we come to the inevitable conclusion that he got a great deal of pleasure spanking your gorgeous arse. Come on, have another drink, what’s the worst that could happen?”

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Picture credits: Bad-lads dot com

Other stories you might like

 

The French student

The rent collector

Bend over my knee for a birching

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7)

When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

z used drawing taws hold (8)

  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.

‘“Mmmm”

‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

“The Reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the Reverend desired.’

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

“Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.”

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

“Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

“He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

“The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick 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.”

 

Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

“He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The French student

new 5

z used otk head bare

Back in the day I was a great defender of the English way of life. This was long before we got mixed up in the European Union and lost our national identity.

Every summer for years I took into my home students from France who were in town to learn English. Also, the college that paid me asked me teach them something about our ‘culture’. A pleasure, I said. I meant it too.

The kids were eighteen or nineteen. They’d finished school and were often waiting to go off to university back home. In those days you didn’t become a legal adult until you turned twenty-one, so my houseguests were still children in my mind. That meant I was responsible for them, a bit like I was their father.

I took my responsibilities seriously. With the help of the college I drew up a contract of behaviour that I insisted all students who stayed with me signed. It wasn’t complicated. There was something about night time curfews (they were here to learn, they were not on vacation); meal times and so on. I have a huge house with three different ‘reception’ rooms and I told them which were out of bounds.

The college praised me for my foresight in having such a contract. I beamed with pleasure when they said that. Only later did I add the paragraph about the use of corporal punishment.

Being an Englishman that meant the whippy, rattan cane. There was a sixpenny bazaar in the High Street that sold traditional ‘school-type’ canes. They came in a variety of lengths and thicknesses and I stocked up with half a dozen (“Six of the best,” I joked to the young salesman who served me). Some came with crook handles and others had twine wrapped around one end to make a handle.

I cleared out a cupboard in one of my lounge rooms and deposited the canes inside. I also collected together some other items from around the house that might come in useful. I still had a heavy rubber-soled gym shoe from when I was at school. That went in the cupboard. Also, a heavy ebony hairbrush that I once bought at a junk shop in the Portobello Road in London. I added to that an ancient leather razor strop that had been in my family for generations. A shaving razor had not been near it in decades.

By the time I was finished I had quite a collection. I was ready for any eventuality.

The students were all surprisingly similar. Mostly they came from small towns or villages and had been kept on tight reins by their parents and schoolmasters. Now, as they saw it, out in the free world they thought they could run wild. I have to say that our town of Brocklehurst is hardly a den of iniquity but we can boast a sizeable university so even in those days there were clubs and bars to entice them.

My guests were only too willing to be tested, hence the need for that contract. I was a stickler for curfew. Home by ten every night. In bed, lights out by eleven on a college night. I let them stay up until eleven-thirty at other times. I always believed in the old adage “early to bed, early to rise …” I didn’t see why my routine should be disturbed by a noisy teenager.

I think the kids signed my contract without reading it too closely (English wasn’t their first language after all). They didn’t always take note of the section headed: Corporal punishment (administration of). Not, until it was too late.

Pierre was one of the first kids who boarded with me. He was eighteen and was on some kind of ‘gap year’ between finishing school and going on to university. I was to learn he was a typical boy let loose away from his parents. Brocklehurst in those days was a staid place but some people knew they could make a few quid out of the students so they set up places like coffee bars and dance halls where they could relieve them of their money. Pierre was only too willing to go anywhere that offered the chance of ‘fun’, especially if that included the chance to meet girls.

Need I say that the possibility to meet girls far outweighed his obligation to return to my home before curfew. I am not a hard man, but I believe in rules. I believe in order. I believe in being in charge. I warned Pierre of the consequences if he stayed out late. I showed him the contents of my cupboard. He was left in no doubts. He could only blame himself.

So I lectured him on responsibility, self-discipline, consideration for others. It was quite a speech. He looked bemused half the time. I suppose his English wasn’t up to it. He might not have understood all I was saying but he got it when I said, “Now I am going to spank you.” His face blanched, despite the deep suntan. He blustered. Now it was my turn not to understand. I suppose for some things there’s a universal language. His tone of voice told me he was saying, “No, but, you can’t,” and so on. He might even have said, “I’m too old to be spanked.” Certainly, that was something many of them told me over the years. Too old Bah! Eighteen and nineteen is not too old to be spanked.

I had no intention of flogging him into a pulp, but he needed a wakeup call, that was for sure. I had a choice: a cane, a heavy strap, a plimsoll, hairbrush, you name it. But no, what Pierre needed was a good old-fashioned spanking. Do they say fessee in France? Trousers and pants down and over my knee. Bare bottomed. Spanked until his cheeks burnt red hot. Spanked until they glowed in the dark.

Back in the day I hadn’t yet run to fat. I was no athlete, but I still had some strength. Pierre, was probably an inch or so taller than myself and as thin as most kids were in those days. Despite his constant rule-breaking he was a pretty conventional kid. I have no idea if his father ever spanked him, or an uncle or some other adult in his life. Certainly, he understood the concept of  the instruction, “bend over my knee.”

We were in the room I called my lounge. There were a couple of armchairs and a sofa. Against the wall stood a straight-backed chair. I pulled it into the centre of the room. Pierre’s eyes popped. If he hadn’t believed it before, he did now: I was deadly serious. I sat down and spread my legs. I wriggled my buttocks to get comfortable. Pierre gaped, the tip of his tongue poked through his lips. He was silent but the apprehension was clear in his face. He was standing some distance from me. “Come here,” I ordered. He flinched and started to turn his back on me.

“Pah!” I exclaimed and reached forward, took him by the forearm and pulled him towards me. He may have been too astonished to resist. I was done lecturing, now was the time for action. He wore fashionable loon pants trousers that had no waistband. They were held up with a single button. It took two seconds to release it and tug his zipper down. The loons slid down his bony thighs. I took hold of his wrist and pulled him so that unbalanced he toppled face down across my knee.

I suppose I had the element of surprise because Pierre did not struggle. He waved his arms about but that was so he could keep his balance and not tumble to the floor. He wore tight maroon-coloured briefs. They fitted his tight cheeks perfectly; like a second skin almost. I did not hesitate. “These serve little purpose at a time like this,” I told him as I dug my fingers under the elasticated waistband and with three tugs I had them clear of his bottom.

That’s when he began to struggle. But he was too late. His head was low and his bottom high. At this angle it was impossible for him to reach back with his hands to protect his bottom. I pressed my left arm hard against his shoulders. He was pinned down, going nowhere until I said so. He called out in French, obviously protesting about the indignity of his position.

I peeled up the end of his t-shirt so it was well clear of his bottom. I took a second to observe my target. Two small, round unblemished cheeks rested against my thigh, perfectly positioned for the task I had to perform. I curved the palm of my hand and slapped him hard. Again, and again and again. The sound of my palm against his rock-hard bottom resounded around the small room. The rapid spanks sounded like machinegun fire; I landed eighty or more slaps in the first minute. I was rewarded with an extended hissing from Pierre as he exhaled all the air from his lungs. His head rose and fell. Then he shook it from left to right. His arms flailed about, and his hips swerved. It was like he was trying to swim off my lap. Fat chance.

I was spanking him too quickly to be able to count how many slaps I delivered. I was delighted to see the outline of my palm reproduced in red all across his buttocks; from the peaks of his mounds, over the crests and into the soft spot where the crease meets the thighs. Satisfied that every square inch of his bum was now red hot, I went for the back of his thighs.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I didn’t need a translator to understand that. Pierre was in pain. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the back of his neck was as scarlet as his backside. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. The eighteen-year-old foreign language student was feeling this spanking.

By now my hand was smarting almost as much as Pierre’s bum. I didn’t care. It was a small price to pay. It was my duty to punish Pierre. And to teach him; teach him a little about the English way of life. I would happily have kept up the bare-bottomed spanking for half an hour or more, but suddenly I was aware of an urgent tapping on the window. Without pausing my onslaught on Pierre’s writhing bum, I looked up. Peering through the window was a man in uniform and wearing a peaked cap. He was holding up a parcel at the window for me to see. Startled, I momentarily relaxed my grip on Pierre and taking his chance he wriggled off my lap and fell to the floor where in one athletic movement he rolled over, leapt to his feet and while still tugging up his pants and trousers, fled from the room.

I went to the front door. The postman handed me a long, thin parcel and walked back down the path without a word. I glanced at the postmark: Lochgelly. Eagerly, I took it into the kitchen. I lit the gas under the kettle before ripping open the brown paper. A lovely two-tailed leather taws slipped into my hands. I caressed it and lovingly lifted it to my face to savour the aroma of fresh leather. A new toy for my collection. The kettle whistled and I made myself tea which I sipped slowly wondering how long I would have to wait before I had Pierre across the kitchen table.

Picture credit: Franco

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The TV repairman

A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A spanking before bedtime

new 5

z used slipper pyjamas bare chair sting (2)

Go to your room, get changed into you pyjamas and meet me in the lounge. You’re getting a spanking before bedtime.

…….

Come in, stand there. Don’t slouch. Look at me when I’m talking to you. When I took you out of that half-way house for young offenders and gave you a room in my own house, you made certain promises to me. You agreed to abide by my rules. They are not onerous, but a lad like yourself needs guidelines. You need boundaries. You cannot be relied upon to always know the difference between right and wrong. That’s why we have rules. You even signed a contract with me about your behaviour.

Yes, you might look sheepish. They weren’t that strict. Ordinary, decent people wouldn’t think twice about keeping them. I asked that you were polite and respectful at all times to myself and Mrs Burlington. My wife informs me that you are often abrupt and surly with her. You agreed to hold down a job and I am pleased that you have secured a position at Robinson’s store, but I have received reports that you are often late back from lunch and there is a cloud over you and two other employees regarding the disappearance of a bottle of whisky from the off-licence department.

I asked that you attend all meals on time and that you do not stay out later than ten-thirty in the evenings. Last Saturday, you may remember you did not return until close to midnight. My wife informs me that you appear to have been inebriated at the time. I gave you strict instructions that the front room of the house was Mrs Burlington’s private domain and it was out of bounds to you. Mary, our maid, tells me that she saw you sneaking out – her words – of the room one morning last week.

I don’t consider you a wicked or evil lad. I am aware that you had an unfortunate upbringing and at an early age you ceased to be under the control of your parents. You have paid the price for your crimes. They were in the great scheme of things relatively petty, but I don’t suppose the people you stole from think the same.

When I took you into my house I was sure you were a reformed character. I still have great faith in you. If I did not we would not be here this evening. You know that under the terms of the licence that brought you here you can be returned to the half-way house at my discretion. I do not want to do that. I believe in giving people a chance, especially those less fortunate than myself. I want to help you. I believe you can make something of yourself. I have great hopes for you.

That is why I am going to give you a dose of my slipper. I know you are nineteen, going on twenty, and you might think you are too old for such punishment. I don’t agree. You need to be pulled up sharp lad. A short-sharp-shock. Many might say a slippering is a very childish punishment and a lad as big and strong as you deserves something far more severe. They have a case. If your behaviour does not improve after this evening I might have to resort to administering a flogging. Certainly, I am in possession of a very stout, Malacca cane, the type, so I am told, that was once used on unruly boys at borstal institutions. Please don’t make me have to use it on you.

Let’s get on with it. Stand over there, in front of that chair. No, please don’t try to argue. My mind is made up. You deserve a jolly good spanking and that’s just what you are going to get. This is for your own good. You might not believe me now, but one day you will almost certainly thank me for nights like this. I have your best interests at heart.

Right, now take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over. Rest your hands on the seat of the chair. Yes! The slipper on your bare bottom. I hope you feel ashamed. I want you to think very carefully about your behaviour. I want to see a very marked improvement from you. Now, please do as I ask; don’t make me have to come over there and take them down for you.

Good. Now, keep those knees straight. Arch your back. Please stick out your bottom a little more. Let’s get this pyjama jacket out of the way. Hold still, don’t wriggle about. You must learn to take your spankings with some dignity.

Right, remember lad, I’m doing this for your own good ….

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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The paying guest

 The Spanking Vicar Part 1  

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com