Kevin’s landlord

new story 2

z used cane holding kernled (2)

Kevin stands in the middles of the sitting room, gaping at his landlord. His head is light and the room is spinning. His heart races and although he cannot see it he knows his face is flushed bright red. He can’t quite catch his breath. He has never had an out-of-body experience, but he knows this must be how it feels. The room has a dreamlike quality. All is hazy. He cannot quite find his bearings, although he has been in this room dozens of times before.

His landlord is speaking to him. Kevin cannot make out the words. He feels from the tone of voice his landlord is not happy. The landlord’s face is pasty, the lines on his forehead and cheeks are as deep as ravines. The landlord is angry. Kevin struggles to make out the words. His knees begin to buckle. Every one of his senses is in overdrive. He fears he might faint to the floor.

His landlord takes a pace across the room. It is a large room. At one end there is a large leather sofa with two heavy, matching plush armchairs. Opposite them is a dining room table, large enough to seat eight people in comfort. Against the walls are dark, mahogany bookcases full of china ornaments. There is a sizeable collection of dogs and cats in cute poses.

Kevin’s head is static, but his eyes follow his landlord on his travels. What saliva that is left in Kevin’s mouth drains. His temple start to throb and his eyes water a little. The landlord is small in stature, his shoulders slump a little. He will never see seventy again. He halts by the dining room table. Turns to Kevin says something that the teenager cannot decipher. Kevin is not listening, he is watching. His eyes stand on stalks when his landlord reaches forwards and gently picks up the long, thin whippy rattan cane that rests there. He peers at it for a moment as if he has never seen it before. As if he has no idea what it is. As if he did not know what it is used for.

Suddenly, the landlord snaps out of his spell. He turns to face Kevin. Now, the landlord has the cane in both hands. He flexes it, demonstrating to Kevin how easily it bends. Kevin stares transfixed. The cane is about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It is yellowy-brown in colour and even at a distance Kevin can see the notches that run along its length. His landlord swishes the cane through the air. It makes a terrific whooshing sound as it flies. Kevin closes his eyes and is transported back in time.

It is five minutes previously. Kevin is passing through the gate to the large detached house that for the duration of this university term will be his home. Kevin feels the gravel crunch under his feet as he makes his way to the door. He fishes in his pocket for his housekey. His attention is drawn to a large bay window to his right. He knows it is the window to the sitting room, he has passed this way many times before. Usually he would not notice it. What is there to see? It is just a window, after all.

There is something different this late afternoon. He hears the sound of voices. Kevin is not an inquisitive boy. He has no interest in other people’s conversations, especially not in their private conversations. But there is something special about this conversation. He cannot at first understand what it is that has made him stop and listen. He realises immediately that it is his landlord speaking. It is a warm day and the windows are open. Kevin cannot hear the words clearly, but there is no mistaking the tone of voice. His landlord is angry. Kevin is intrigued, but he does not understand why. Something is drawing him to take two steps closer to the window. He does not go too close. Kevin is a well brought up young man. He knows it is rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.

He stays a distance from the window. He can hear enough to get the gist of the conversations. He can see perfectly into the room. He sees his landlord and the landlord’s son Eric. Eric is wearing his school uniform. Kevin supposes he has just returned home from school. Eric is in his last year at school and Kevin knows enough about Eric to know that he is not the best behaved eighteen-year-old in the town of Brocklehurst. Kevin stands perfectly still, his conscious is troubling him. He knows he should not be there, spying. But, an instinct he does not understand makes him stay. Something is about to happen. Kevin cannot guess what that something will be, but he knows – he just knows – that it will be momentous. Things will never be the same again.

Kevin’s landlord is at least seventy but his wife Alice is closer to forty. Life can be complicated some times. Kevin has yet to learn this. He soon will. Kevin watches as his landlord delivers a lecture to his son. Eric remains impassive, head slightly bowed. The lecture is soon ended. Eric elects not to respond. Kevin watches as his landlord imperiously steps across the room. His landlord pulls open a drawer that is part of the dining room table. He reaches in. He pulls out a thin, whippy cane. It is just like the ones that are used to punish naughty boys in schools up and down the land. Kevin’s jaw drops. It literally falls an inch or two and his mouth is open.

Kevin’s landlord says something to Eric. Kevin cannot hear what he has said, but Eric does and he responds immediately. Kevin watches fascinated, unbelieving. He sees Eric shuffle a couple of steps across the room until he reaches the dining room table. He stops, hesitates for a moment and then slowly leans forward. He does not stop until his stomach and chest are laying flat across the table top. Eric stretches his arms forward and with his hands he grasps the far end of the table. In this position Eric’s buttocks are angled across the near edge of the table.

Kevin has a perfect view. Eric’s pale-grey trousers are stretched across his bottom. He is a large boy and in this position his buttock cheeks appear round and firm. He parts his legs a little and wriggles his hips. He settles. Eric is now submissive. He is waiting for his father to get on with it. Kevin has never seen anything like this before. They did not have corporal punishment at his school. He knows about canings, of course. He has seen enough comics and read countless school stories while growing up.

Kevin’s heart races as he watches his landlord tuck the cane under his right armpit and approach his prone son. With great delicacy Kevin’s landlord takes hold of the edge of Eric’s blazer and gently he pushes it up the teenager’s back. He moves it far enough that it is out of the way of his target area. Kevin sees Eric’s buttocks quiver. He assumes it must be the anticipation of what is to come that makes them do that.

Kevin’s own body is also reacting with anticipation. Kevin has urges. Desires. Wants. Needs. He has never spoken about this to a living soul. The front of his underpants suddenly become tight. Kevin’s landlord rubs the palm of his right hand gently across Eric’s left buttock. Then he does the same to the right cheek. He is smoothing out the wrinkles from the seat of Eric’s trousers. He is satisfied. He is good to go.

Kevin watches, transfixed. Kevin’s landlord takes a step away from his son’s submissive body. He stands to the left, slips the cane from the armpit to the hand. He taps it across the very centre of Eric’s bottom. He takes aim. Kevin sees Eric’s buttocks tense. They are a little firmer than before. The cane taps. Once. Twice. Kevin’s landlord raises the rod above shoulder height and with a slight twisting of his body he brings it crashing down across Eric’s bottom. Kevin winces as the cracking sound of rattan connecting with stretched trousers reverberates around the room. The windows are open and the noise is clearly heard in the driveway. Kevin wonders if they can hear it beyond the walls and hedges in The Avenue.

Kevin’s landlord slashes a second swipe down. The cane sinks into Eric’s bottom and almost immediately bounces back. Kevin knows it must hurt. How can it not? Kevin concentrates hard, following the direction of the cane as it takes aim, as it lifts away from Eric’s bottom, as it returns at tremendous force and leaves its mark. There are now three clear indentations across Eric’s trousers. Kevin stares at the eighteen-year-old’s quivering bottom. The pain must be intense. At least that is how Kevin always imagines it. In his fantasies. Himself stretched across the armchair in the headmaster’s study. Sometimes, but by no means always, his trousers are at his ankles and his tight, crisp, white underpants are offered to the cane.

Kevin’s landlord puts another stroke across his son’s bottom. Eric’s head raises from the table top and then he headbutts it. Kevin supposes it is his way of dealing with the pain. Wind whistles through Eric’s teeth, but apart from that he makes no sound. Kevin’s landlord delivers twelve strokes. Each one is a stinger. A swipe. These are not love-taps. Kevin’s landlord is not playing games here. Kevin is still rooted to the spot. He cannot move. All his senses are in pieces. He is unable to put into words his feelings. Meanwhile, Eric lifts himself from the table. His face is scarlet. He and Kevin’s landlord exchange no words. Clearly in great discomfort, Eric hobbles from the room.

Time is standing still for Kevin. He does not know how long he is standing there before he realises he should go into the house. His hands shake as he searches for his key. At last he gets the door open. He is still disorientated and he drops his books and they crash to the floor. It seems to Kevin that the sound they make as they fall could wake the dead. He kneels down to gather them. He sees carpet slippers. Kevin’s landlord is standing there. Kevin, still on his knees, peers up. Kevin’s landlord appears to tower over him. Kevin sucks in breath. A faint aromas of coal tar soap mingles with cigarette smoke.

Kevin’s landlord is speaking, but Kevin cannot distinguish a word. Next thing he knows Kevin is standing in the sitting room. Everything is spinning around him. Kevin’s landlord is speaking. He is telling Kevin about last night. How the student came home in the early hours. How he had missed curfew. How the house was locked up. How Kevin’s landlady had to get out of bed for him. How this was not the first time. How rules were rules. How breaking rules had consequences.

Kevin hears none of this. In his head he sees Eric stretched across the dining room table. The very same table that is only feet away from him. He sees Kevin’s landlord whipping twelve stingers across Eric’s backside. He sees the cane raising and falling. He remembers the dream he has. The dream he has had, many times. Eric is in his room. There is a small, low backed armchair. Kevin is in his pyjamas. Kevin is bent across the back of that armchair. Head low, bottom held high. Kevin’s landlord s beating Kevin’s taut backside with a whippy school cane.

Kevin has never been beaten. Never. Not caned. Not slippered. Not tawsed. Not even taken across the knee for a hand spanking. Kevin fantasises all the time. The headmaster at his school, the lecturers at the polytechnic, his father. Then there is Uncle Alan. The man who lives across the way in the same block of council flats. So much wishful thinking. Kevin thinks he will never be spanked in real life. How can such a thing happen?

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.

Kevin feels a hand caressing his buttocks. It is Kevin’s landlord smoothing away the wrinkles in Kevin’s trousers. Kevin shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. This is going to hurt. He hopes. He demands. Kevin feels the tapping of the cane on his left buttock. He hears the swish of the cane. Kevin hears the cane connect with his stretched bottom. There is a definite crack. He waits. Waits for the pain to hit. Nothing. Kevin is puzzled. He feels the cane tap against his buttocks. It is lower this time. Swish! Crack! Kevin’s disappointment is palpable. It does not hurt.

The next stroke is harder. There is a bit of a throb. What is going on? Why isn’t Kevin’s landlord laying it on the way he did with Eric? Kevin feels cheated. This is not how he imagined a caning.

The next strokes are harder. Number five makes him gasp. But only a little.  Swish six hits the spot on the crease just where the bottom reaches the top of the leg. That one definitely hurts. This is more like it. Kevin steadies himself. Now we are cooking.

Kevin hears a voice. It seems to be coming from a distance. From over the mountains and far away. Kevin’s landlord is saying, “Stand up boy.” Kevin feels blood rush to his face; his cheeks are scarlet. His buttocks tingle, but he is not in pain. Kevin’s landlord is speaking. Kevin’s head is light. He has never felt like this before. But he wants more. Kevin’s landlord swishes the cane and points it at him. Kevin hears him say, “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Is that clear young man! Now, go to your room.”

Kevin floats up the stairs. Then he is on his bed. His trousers are on the floor. His underpants are at his knees. His todger is in his fist. His palm is sticky. The words of Kevin’s landlord reverberate around his brain: If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Kevin does not quite understand but instinctively he knows this is the start of something big.

 

Picture credit Kernled

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A memory in the attic

new story 2

z used retro twosome one pyjamas domestic - A Weber Brams (2a)

“Granddad! Granddad!” It was Christine calling from the other room, “Look what I’ve found. It’s you I know it is!”

My heart sank. What now! Why couldn’t she just leave me alone. She hurried into the room clutching a small photograph in her hand. Another piece of treasure, or so she thought. She had taken upon herself to clear out the attic space in my house. Clutter, she called it. All the stuff I had accumulated over a lifetime. Stuff I hadn’t seen in years – decades, maybe – and frankly, had no desire ever to see again.

“Look,” she beamed handing me the picture. “It is you isn’t it.” I took it in an unsteady hand and peered intently. It showed two young men, one formally dressed in a collar and tie seated at an expensive upholstered chair. The other stood over him, dressed in pyjamas. They both were staring at something that was not in the picture but at the other end of the room.

“Is it you? It is!” Why was Christine so damned pleased to have found this picture? I wasn’t. I think it sent a shudder through my body, I can’t be certain because I get all kinds of aches and pains at my age; it could have been anything.

I recognised the setting immediately. It was a rooming house I lived in while at university. Christine was correct, it was me; but the more I stared at the picture the less certain I was which of the two young men I was: they (we) almost looked identical. We might have been brothers; twins even. We had our hair cut in a way that was fashionable among young men of our type at the time; it was smeared away from the forehead with brilliantine. The grease made our hair seem more blond than it actually was. We both had high cheekbones with clear open and healthy-looking faces. We looked (as we were) like a couple who had never had to do a day’s hard work in their lives.

At my age I can’t always remember what I ate for breakfast that morning but my memories from sixty-plus years ago are as clear as a bell. The closer I studied the photograph the clearer my memory became. I was the fellow in the pyjamas. My companion seated on the chair was Harcourt Llewelyn (how could one forget a name like that?). In the photograph we seem to look older than we were; we couldn’t have been quite twenty when it was taken.

“Who is he? Where was it taken?” Christine was full of questions. I shivered again and playing for time since I had no intention of satisfying her infernal curiosity I took the picture and first held it to the sunlight streaming from the nearby french windows then I screwed up my eyes tight and squinted at it. “No idea. Never seen it before,” I said and then to deflect attention I asked, “Where did you find it?”

I knew Christine would give me the most detailed account of the circumstances of her find: which box it was in, where the box had been stored and on and on. She duly obliged and as her piercing, and frankly extremely irritating voice whined on, my thoughts travelled back sixty or so years.

The boarding house was run by a Mrs Greening who had a long-standing relationship with the university. All her “guests” as she insisted on calling the lodgers were students. Perhaps I should explain to any readers who have been students at university at any time in the past forty years or so that these were very different times. We might have been twenty years old but we were certainly not considered adults. The college was for males only and the same of course went for the rooming house. We lived to very strict rules and were required to live lives of the utmost propriety. Chaps who frequented public houses or were known to consort with young ladies of a certain repute soon found themselves “sent down” from the university.

Mrs Greening’s husband Freeman took it upon himself to be our moral compass. He would say that since we were not yet legally adults he would act in loco parentis – which in his mind meant he took the place of our fathers. In the event, since all his guests were former public school men who had spent their formative years at elite boarding schools and away from their homes, he might better have described himself as our housemaster.

Harcourt and I became firm friends and neither of us had much interest in our studies and spent much of our time idling around town. Of course, you can only get away with this for so long. Soon, my tutor hauled me into his study for a wigging. As I recall he was an unworldly kind of a man who would never be interested in the delights of town; not even one so lacking in immorality as Brocklehurst. He cared little about my needs and desires, his only concern was that I should complete my essays and pass through the university without blemishing his own record as a teacher. He was (I think now) also a bit of a coward. Certainly, he disliked any kind of confrontation. I think that is why, rather than deal with my idleness himself, he reported my behaviour to Freeman Greening.

Greening had a high opinion of himself and his place as a leader in God’s university. This was undoubtedly encouraged by the House of the Sacred Light, a church (of sorts) that demanded the utmost obedience to its teachings. He also enjoyed the authority of the university and once my tutor referred my case to him he undoubtedly had carte blanche to deal with the matter as he saw fit.

Should I have been surprised by the course of action he took? Not really. As I have said these were different times, we lived by different standards. As I look at the photograph now I remember that it had once been larger, that is using the technical term it has been “cropped” to edit out other unwanted detail. I don’t remember if other persons have been cut out but I do know that if you follow the eyeline of Harcourt and myself we are looking towards a large glass-fronted mahogany bookcase and shelves. Chief in my memory is the cupboard with double-doors next to that. It was always kept locked and as far as I knew the only key to it resided at all times upon Mr Greening’s person.

It was one evening in March that I discovered what was kept inside. We had dined and the guests were sent to their rooms to study. As I moved away from the table to join them Mrs Greening caught my attention. “Mr Greening wishes to see you,” she said not even trying to hide the pleasure speaking the words gave her, “in the library.” Then she bustled away to give the cook and housemaid a hard time over nothing at all. The library. That was one of the couple’s many pretensions. In other houses it would be a lounge or (at a pinch) a drawing room. The only books in this library were leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare and a dictionary, the only human hands that touched them were the maids’ who dusted them.

Mr Greening stood with his back to the open, roaring fire warming his bottom. As I entered the room he placed his hands behind his back and took a stance that he imagined made him look magisterial. “Come in Hamilton,” he droned. He waggled his head and his jowls wobbled. “Stand there boy.” I had not been warned by my tutor that he would report me but at that moment as I shuffled to the spot on the rug indicated to me I knew my fate.

Mr Greening confirmed it with a short lecture about my behaviour. I nodded in places that I thought appropriate. I had no intention of arguing with him. I was guilty of the crimes he outlined. I knew he had the authority of the university on his side. Mr Greening liked the sound of his own voice and extracted all that he could from my visit. He enjoyed his sense of moral superiority. I determined not to give him additional satisfaction and when the time came for me to speak I apologised. “It won’t happen again,” I added knowing that these were empty words and that Harcourt and I would be on the town the very next day.

Mr Greening grunted, “Won’t happen again.” His flabby, florid face turned a darker shade of red. “We shall most certainly ensure that it won’t happen again.” He shook his head again, his jowls trembled and his many chins wobbled. Then, unsteadily on his feet, he shambled across the room. He paused and extracting every last ounce of performance from the occasion he thrust his hand in his pocket and I saw his fist clenching and quivering. At last he found a small key on a ring and with a trembling hand he made several attempts before finally getting it into the lock. He hesitated (I believe for dramatic effect) before swinging the door open. He stood to one side ensuring that I could get an uninterrupted view of the cupboard’s contents.

Had I been thirteen years old and new to the rigours of an English public school education I might have gasped with horror at the sight. My heart might pound with fear. Tears might flood from my eyes.  Had I been thirteen that might have happened. However, I was probably twenty years old at this time; I felt I had seen it all before. In fact, Mr Greening proved to me that I hadn’t. Even at St. Tom’s where the infliction of corporal punishment was a daily routine no master had a collection of implements quite like Mr Greening. There were several straps of differing lengths, widths and thicknesses. A taws with two fingers worn with age and use hung from a hook alongside a couple of wooden paddles. A white plimsoll lay on a shelf. But, what impressed me most was the impressive range of whippy canes; many undoubtedly made of rattan, but some (even from a distance) I discerned were the denser Malacca kind.

Mr Greening wheezed heavily when he leaned into the cupboard to inspect his toys more closely. Did saliva drip from his chin as he took up one cane after another and tested it lovingly between his hands? Surely there was no reason to do this; he would have been very well acquainted with the properties of every instrument in that cupboard. He was a connoisseur, of that I could have no doubt.

At last he decided on a traditional school-type cane. It was a little longer and maybe thicker, but with the typical crook handle, than the one my housemaster used on me as he drove me in my studies. Sweat moistened his forehead and his complexion was now puce as he turned to face me with the thing in his hand. He swiped it through the air and it travelled with menace. It would without doubt deliver a tremendous flogging. I stood my heart pounding (you have no control of it in such circumstances) but outwardly I was calm. Mr Greening would have his way with me. There was nothing I could do, not if I wished to stay at the university. Even though I cared little for my studies I knew my father expected me to come down with a degree. He already had a career lined up for me. I would not let him down.

Mr Greening wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The open fire roared but the room was always draughty and it wasn’t that warm. I saw him lick his lips and then he coughed to clear his throat. “Please bare your backside and put yourself across the back of that chair.”

So it was to be bare-arsed. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not with Mr Greening and his moral posturing. I should expect nothing less. I was (I am) an old St. Tom’s man and if there was anything I learned at school it was to take your punishment. No fuss. You get caught, the master jaws you for a bit, he orders you to bend over, over you go, he beats you, you stand up, you shake hands, you leave and the world carries on as before.

I had learned well. Students in those days dressed as Harcourt had in the photograph, we could have been young businessmen. I lowered my flannels and as I sported fashionable woollen drawers (rather than the one-piece combinations our fathers wore) I was able to bare my buttocks with ease. The chair he indicated was the very one in the photograph and its back was a very good height for a young man of my size to bend across. I took hold of my neck tie and hooked it over my shoulder before diving over. Once back at school I had almost choked myself when my tie caught between my body and the chair in such a position.

The chair was constructed mainly of soft cushions and my weight sank into them. Without awaiting instructions from Mr Greening I pushed my head low, parted my feet and raised my bottom high. This way I ensured he had a terrific target to aim at. The floorboards creaked when Mr Greening positioned himself behind me. I felt his hot breath against my naked buttocks as he leant in to take hold of my shirt tail and drag it halfway up my back and out of the way. Once that was done he gently laid the cane just below the centre of my bum where the cheeks fold into the thighs. His wheezing reached a crescendo when he sawed the rod across my bum.

The sound of the crack of cane against my taut flesh resounded off the walls. At first I felt nothing and then excruciating agony. My head rose with the shock and I had to grip hard the soft cushion to stop myself leaping from the chair and dancing across the floor. I had been caned before many (many) times but nothing had prepared me for Mr Greening’s cruelty.

He cracked the cane down so hard I thought my backside would come off. He made true the ancient schoolboy saying, “He took my arse off.” He was intense.

A second lash quickly followed and although it was stinging it was just about bearable. The third stroke changed that and it was like he had forced me sit on the open fire. The next three were the most excruciating strokes I had ever felt. I was contorting about like a cat on heat, gasping for breath as the inferno built up.

He gave me a dozen in all. The last five just had me bouncing around, screaming in pain. Tears were pouring down my face. I felt as if I was being cut to ribbons. The cane had caught me on my thigh and one had come close to catching my balls. At last I was allowed to get up. My hands flew round and I went into a panic as I felt my backside was full of crisscross welts. The flogging had hurt more than I could have imagined. My bum was raw and painful and the fire was raging fiercely.

I hopped around, stomped my feet like a soldier on sentry duty, my body doubled like a hairgrip. I couldn’t get my breath. I wanted to vomit, I hawked but nothing came up. Mr Greening smiled thinly, he was having breathing problems of his own.

I cannot remember exactly what happened next, but moments later I was back in my room. I do remember that. Had Harcourt carried me up from the library? I was face down on the bed, my trousers and underwear nowhere to be seen. Harcourt treated my wounds. I remember much blood on his silk handkerchief. And then? Which of us instigated it? Had I made the first move? Surely I was too exhausted so it would have been Harcourt. Our bodies entwined, tongues flailed.

“Granddad!” it was Christine again. “Are you even listening to me,” she chided affectionately. “Tell me, who is it in the picture with you?”

“Sorry love,” I sighed, “I really can’t remember. How about making a nice cup of tea?”

 

Picture credit: A Weber Brams

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

You didn’t pay the rent

zused paddle otk bare chair domestic straightladsspanked (1)

You are confused. Bemused. Tongue-tied. You can’t understand what’s happening. Mr Blenkinsop glares at you. “I want you to take down your trousers and get across my lap,” he says. Your eyes blink frantically. You are sure your face is burning scarlet. Your heart races. Your mouth opens and closes but you can’t make words form.

Mr Blenkinsop has no patience with you. “What part of that didn’t you understand?” he growls. You stare at him blankly. He sits on a small plastic chair. You are the only two in the kitchen. The house is otherwise empty. It is Saturday morning. You can’t take your eyes off Mr Blenkinsop. In his hand he brandishes a piece of wood. You have never seen anything like it before. It looks a bit like a spatula, or some other implement Mrs Blenkinsop might use in her cooking. But not quite; it is too big for that.

Mr Blenkinsop is losing his patience. You have never seen him like this before. He repeats his instruction. Slowly. Deliberately as if you are a foreigner who doesn’t understand English. “Take. Down. Your. Trousers.” He sounds more menacing with each word. “Bend. Over. My. Knee.” You are still dumbstruck. Uncomprehending. Your eyes stand out on stalks as Mr Blenkinsop thwacks the spatula-thing against his thigh. Suddenly you see his face brighten. It is as if he has suddenly remembered something important. “So you thought I was joking when I put in the agreement you would be spanked if you didn’t pay the rent on time.”

Your face crumples, still you don’t get it. “Ha!” Mr Blenkinsop’s laugh cracks the tension. “You didn’t read it before you signed.” Silence envelopes the room while your brain tries to catch up. You signed something when you became Mr Blenkinsop’s lodger. You didn’t read it.

“I didn’t read it,” you tell Mr Blenkinsop and as the words come out you remember something important. “I didn’t read it. My dad did,” you tell him. Now it’s Mr Blenkinsop’s turn to look puzzled. But not for long. “Your father read it,” he says to you. He smiles. He has a fleshy face and fat rolls when he does this. Then he chuckles, “He read it, but didn’t tell you what it said.” You watch his shoulders roll as he enjoys the joke. “Well, that’s something you’ll have to take up with him.” Then he laughs again.

You stand still, embarrassed. What can you say? What can you do? Should you run upstairs to your room and hide? It’s a plan, but not much of one. You can run but you can’t hide. Where is there to go? Mr Blenkinsop speaks again. “You have nobody to blame but yourself. You’ve been spending your money at that students’ union bar. Clubbing ….” He lets the sentence trail off, he can’t think of more things you could have spent money on. You know he is right. Certainly, you haven’t been buying books. You’ve hardly done a stroke of studying since you started at the university last September and here it is nearly Christmas.

Mr Blenkinsop speaks again. “You kids, you think you’re adults but your not. Life is hard. The first lesson you have to learn is always pay the rent on time. Keep a roof over your head. Nothing else matters.” You watch him tighten his grip on the spatula-thing. “You’re not the first student I’ve had here,” he tells you. He grins broadly, “That’s why I bought this paddle. To encourage you to pay the rent.”

Now, you understand what’s going on. Your landlord wants to spank you because you haven’t paid the rent. You still don’t believe it. You’ll be nineteen years old next month. Nineteen, not nine. Far too old to be spanked. Instinctively, you realise it would not be a good idea to share this thought with your landlord.

“So.” You hear Mr Blenkinsop’s command as a question. So? You think he is offering you a way out. Some way to avoid the spanking. “Well,” you tell him, “I could call my dad and ask him to send me the money.” You are irritated by his response. He does that grin again. “I don’t think so. I spoke to your father at length before I accepted you into my home. I told him my rules. He fully supports me. That’s why I made sure he read the agreement.”

Your face falls at this news. You remember his parting shot before he drove away and left you. “Make sure you work hard. Nose to the grindstone. It’s costing me a fortune to put you through uni.”

Mr Blenkinsop wriggles his buttocks on the hard plastic chair. You see he is irritated. It is Saturday; he has other things to do today. He waves the paddle at you. “Trousers down. Please don’t make me have to do it for you.” You feel your eyes well up. You might cry. You still can’t comprehend this. A spanking. Who gets spanked these days? You think of the pub last night. You know none of your mates are being told to go over their landlord’s knee this morning.

You gawp some more at Mr Blenkinsop. He is not as old as your dad and you suspect he thinks he is still young. He wears designer jeans (you couldn’t afford them) and a baggy T-shirt that hides some of his soft belly. You don’t think he looks the type to have old fashioned values. “Take down your trousers,” he says once more.

From the first time you met Mr Blenkinsop you thought there was something about him. You still can’t put your finger on it. Charisma isn’t quite it. He is a commanding presence and you’d bet he is used to people doing what he tells them. You feel that now. You can’t explain why but you know you are going to do as he says. You just need to psyche yourself up to it.

“Unbuckle your belt.” Mr Blenkinsop speaks to you in a soft but authoritative tone. You swallow hard. Your pulse is quickening. You can’t look at him. He repeats his words, “Unbuckle your belt.” It feels like your hands are no longer under your control. Some cosmic power has them. You easily undo the belt. You look down at it as if seeing it for the first time.

“Take them down,” a voice from somewhere (it seems very far away) says. You find the button at the waistband of your Primark chinos and pop it open. The zipper glides easily and now the front of your trousers is wide open. The weight of the material makes them slip down your thighs. They snag at the knees. “All the way,” that voice says. You stoop and with both hands push the chinos down until they puddle on top of your socks. You stand self-consciously in your boxer shorts.

But not for long. “Bend over my knee.” That voice again. You have never had an out-of-body experience before. You think this might be one. You are standing close to Mr Blenkinsop and looking down at his knees. You don’t know what to do. How is this done? You have never been spanked. You have never seen anyone spanked. Mr Blenkinsop parts his legs slightly. This creates a sort of platform with his thighs. You understand the basic idea, but you don’t know how to execute it.

“Doh!” Mr Blenkinsop is exasperated. He reaches for the wrist of your left arm and forcefully pulls you forward. In the same movement he makes you topple over so that the floor appears to hurtle towards you. You put out your hands to break the fall. Now, you are face down over your landlord’s knee with a close-up view of the vinyl flooring. The room is small and your head is only centimetres away from the fridge. You can hear the motor humming.

You lose balance as Mr Blenkinsop takes you by the middle, picks you up and reorganises your body. Now, your bottom is strategically placed over his right thigh. In a very real physical sense you are too big to be taken over his knee and you don’t know what to do with your long legs. Intuitively, you tuck them in at the knees which offers Mr Blenkinsop a terrific target.

All you can see is the floor (or the fridge and nearby washing machine if you lift your head) but you know that the two of you must make a ridiculous picture: a hunky lad like you bent submissively over the knees of a flabby older man. Who could imagine such a thing? You can’t see but you can feel Mr Blenkinsop as he rests the paddle in the small of your back and with his free hands gently caresses your bottom. He is smoothing out the wrinkles in your boxers. They are large and baggy and it is an impossible task. Satisfied that he has done the best he can, he rests his arm across your back.

Your bottom twitches. It knows he is locked to go. The paddle is lifted from your back. You brace yourself. You hear the cracking sound of the wooden paddle smacking into your bum before you feel anything. When you do, it is not much. Mr Blenkinsop whacks it across both cheeks without let or hindrance. Your buttocks are warming. You have no idea what a spanking ought to be like. Should it be more painful? Isn’t that the whole point?

In no time at all you have felt the paddle strike every square centimetre of your bum. You lay submissively, head low bottom high, while the landlord spanks you. You feel a bit of a tit to be over his knee with your trousers at your ankles, but even the embarrassment is waning. You reckon you could stay like this all morning if need be. Mr Blenkinsop must have read your mind. Without warning he grips the elasticated waistband of your shorts and tugs. You panic. Your hand shoots back to protect your bottom. “No you don’t,” your landlord wheezes as he grabs you by the wrist and forces your arm forward. “Keep that out of the way,” he growls while simultaneously pulling down your underwear. It takes three tugs to get them down to your feet.

You are naked from the waist down and you feel it. A cold breeze is coming from somewhere and chills your flesh. The paddle soon warms you up. Mr Blenkinsop whacks you with the same speed and ferocity as before but without the boxers for protection it hurts much more. You groan and gasp as the pain increases.

You clench your teeth and wriggle and writhe when he smacks the wooden paddle into the backs of your thighs. You have never experienced such pain before. You can’t see but your bum and thighs are now a deep pink. Bruises are coming out on the crests of your mounds (the point where there is the least padding of fat to protect you.)

Mr Blenkinsop sees he is hurting you and whacks on with renewed vigour. Now it hurts. Now you know what a proper spanking feels like. You suck down “ouches” and “aahhs” but an innate instinct stops you from howling. Your bum bounces over Mr Blenkinsop’s knee. This is not you trying to escape, it is the reflex action of your body protecting itself.

“Ha! Ha! You haven’t paid the rent!” It is your fellow lodger. He has just returned to the house and stands in the doorway. Your head pounds up and down with frustration. It is embarrassing to be spanked by an older man but to have a witness is beyond humiliating. Mr Blenkinsop is unfazed by the new arrival. Maybe he sees it as a chance to teach both his lodgers a salient lesson about paying the rent because he pounds the paddle into your rear end as if his very life depended on it.

Your backside is roasted. No flesh is left unscorched. It is a spanking to remember. At last he stops pounding away. He releases his grip and you stumble to your feet, hurriedly dragging boxers and chinos back to their rightful places. Your fellow lodger has already made his exit. You massage your bum hoping it will relieve the sting. It doesn’t. You have yet to discover it never does.

Mr Blenkinsop gets up from his chair, opens a cupboard and puts the paddle away. “Ready and waiting for another day,” he says breathlessly. You don’t know what you are supposed to reply to that so remain silent. You want to run to your room but know you cannot go until you are formally dismissed. Mr Blenkinsop knows this too. “The spanking is over,” he says stating the obvious. You are pleased it is done. A tanning for not paying the rent. Inside you are rather pleased you took it well. You are beginning to think it was worth it.

“Don’t forget you still owe me the rent money,” are the words that follow you as you ascend the stairs.

Picture credit: straight lads spanked dot com

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House rules

new story 2

z used white pants contrite waiting domestic

Adam accepted my rules the first day he moved into my house as a lodger. They were clearly spelled out to him. He knew what they were. He knew the consequences if he broke them.

I’ve had lads staying with me for about ten years. They all accepted the rules. It was my way or the highway. They were not forced to stay with me. I was happy to have them in my house. But they could not be allowed to take it over.

The rules were straightforward. There was a night time curfew. Meals were at set times and had to be taken. This was a home, not a hotel. Adam was to address me as Mr Castlefield and my wife as Mrs Castlefield. He was to be polite to us at all times. He was allocated a large room with his own wash basin. He could use the bathroom at set times and there was a separate lavatory that (of course) he could use as necessary. Ours was a large detached house, there were many rooms and some were private and he was not allowed into these. There was to be no cigarettes or other tobacco brought into the house and definitely no alcohol. Guests were permitted with the express permission of myself or Mrs Castlefield but they were not to enter his bedroom. It was compulsory that he attend our church with us on Sunday mornings. He was welcome at other times as well, but this was not mandatory.

I explained the rules to Adam when he arrived and I also made sure that he understood the consequences if he broke them. Adam is nineteen years old and a trainee with a High Street bank. He is in Brocklehurst on a nine month course at the local technical college. My wife and I take many of the trainees of the bank and we have a good relationship with Mr Spencer who is in effect Adam’s boss. Mr Spencer likes us to make monthly reports to him about Adam’s behaviour. This is unofficial, but Adam knows we do this. Mr Spencer believes that a successful junior banker should not only be academically gifted and hold a number of professional qualifications, he should also be of sound moral character.

Mr Spencer and I are at one on this and that was why I did not hesitate to draw up my list of rules. I also made it clear in writing that Adam could be subjected to corporal punishment at my discretion should he break the rules. He signed an undertaking to this effect and Mr Spencer was informed.

It was a little over five weeks ago that Adam joined my little family. I would say he is mostly a good boy, but like youngsters his age he needs to be reminded constantly that he is not yet an adult. He can be very mature at times and I commend him for this. But, also he can be wilfully disobedient. I believe he tries to test how far he can go and break the boundaries of acceptability. I have seen it before with other of my charges. Such behaviour is wrong and unacceptable. Adam is fully aware of the consequences when he is disobedient.

I tell you all this by way of background because today I punished him for the first time since he arrived. There have been a number of breaches of the rules. Twice now he has broken curfew and rolled home at eleven o’clock at night. This is entirely unacceptable. He is here to work, he needs his rest at night so he can perform at his best in the classroom during the day. He has also shown signs of poor attitude. I cannot pin this down completely so it is hard to describe, but he can be surly and uncommunicative at times.  I have spoken to him about his behaviour and asked for an improvement. None has been forthcoming. I also warned him explicitly of the penalty if his unacceptable behaviour continued. He cannot complain about my action.

I am pleased that when I visited his bedroom this morning he made no attempts to deny his guilt. I reminded him of the conversations we had shared over the past few days. I listed his many faults, he did not disagree when I told him he had been warned about the consequences.

Adam was still in bed when I arrived. He was startled when I loomed over his prone body but quickly regained his composure. I ordered him from his bed. Now it was my turn to be startled. I had assumed he wore pyjamas at night as all of my previous tenants did so. Not Adam, he apparently slept in his underwear. Cautiously, he stood before me dressed only in a pair of tight white trunks. They fitted very snugly and it was clear from where I stood his sizeable manhood was constrained by the smooth cotton.

He stood contritely, head bowed, hands held behind his back. I once more listed his misdeeds and they were many. Adam blushed profusely, clearly ashamed by his misdeeds, but he remained silent. “Do you have anything to say to me Adam?” I asked. I am a fair man. “Sorry, Mr Castlefield,” he said softly. I waited a little impatiently for him to say more and when it was clear he had said all he intended, I vented, “Pah! Is that the best you can do?” His face flushed some more but he remained silent.

I had already decided on my course of action. All that was left for me to do was confirm this to Adam. “Adam,” I said, “You are to be caned.” I don’t suppose this came as a surprise to him, but I let the news sink in before I added, “Stand there, until I return,” then I left the bedroom. I wasn’t away for long. I went to the cupboard under the stairs where I have a collection of curve-handled rattans, each hanging from a separate hook screwed to the wall. They were of various lengths and thicknesses and most would not have been out of place in a headmaster’s study thirty or forty years ago. The one I intended to punish Adam with was not a school cane. It was a Malay cane. It was no longer or thicker than the “senior” school rattan, but it was denser and I knew from my previous experience wielding it across the backsides of older teenagers it would be a mightily effective weapon. Gently, I took it from its hook and held it in my hand. People who handle a punishment cane for the first time often express surprise at how light it is. They do not realise that a cane, unlike a strap or an American wooden paddle for instance, is not a slapping tool. It doesn’t smack the boy’s backside, it whips into it leaving behind a thin (and often deep) welt that can throb for many hours.

I reacquainted myself with my Malay cane by flexing it between my hands. It was a little over thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil. Even so it flexed into a perfect arc with ease. It was dark yellow (almost brown) in colour and had notches spaced along it every six or seven inches. I swiped it through the air and it made a tremendous whooshing sound as it went. The noise attracted Mrs Castlefield from her kitchen. “Yes,” I replied to her unspoken question, “I am obliged to deal with Adam.” Her lips tightened but she said nothing. I could see she was in total agreement with my course of action. She returned to her kitchen and I tucked the cane under my arm and trudged slowly up the stairs.

I found Adam as I had left him, with eyes cast down and hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t raise his head when I re-entered the room but I noticed his eyes swivelled towards me. I slipped the cane into my hand and held it just under the curved handle. I wobbled the cane in the general direction of a small, low backed armchair. The bedroom was quite spacious and contained many items of high quality furniture. “Take hold of that chair and turn it so that the back faces the other way,” I said and pointed the cane so Adam was in no doubt about my instructions.

I was pleased to see that without demurring he shuffled three or four paces across the room. The chair was light in weight and he quickly had it in position. He still could not look directly at me and hovered by the chair uncertain what to do next. I had never beaten Adam and I had no idea if he had been caned elsewhere before but he must have realised my intention. “Stand behind the chair,”’ I ordered curtly. I think it is best to get on with the job in hand. “Closer boy, closer,” I complained when he moved forward but stopped a full yard away. He took a couple of pigeon steps. Now, he was in position. I took a moment to appraise the teenager who stood submissively waiting for my next instruction. I had not seen him in anyway but fully clothed before and had not noticed he had a muscular physique. His chest was broad, his stomach ripped and his legs powerful. I imagine he must visit the gymnasium often. He stood about my height but dressed in only his underwear he seemed considerably shorter. I couldn’t see his face but I knew he had brown eyes with black lashes. His hair was thick and curly and he was overdue a visit to the barber.

I flexed the cane once more between my hands and gave the final command. “Bend over that chair.” I noticed a muscle in Adam’s back twitch. Was this a sign of his apprehension? If it was he overcame it admirably because he took deep breath, rubbed the palms of his hands together and dived over the back of the chair. He reached forward and gripped the front edge of the seat cushion and he parted his legs so that the overall effect was that his head was low and his bottom high. I have already said his trunks were tight fitting and now stretched as he was over the back of the low armchair the cotton clung tightly to his meaty bottom. Each buttock cheek was lifted and separated and I had a perfect view of the ravine that ran between them.

I moved my own position slightly so that I could try to see Adam’s face. This was impossible as he kept it close to the sponge-filled cushion. His neck had turned red but I knew this was quite typical when a boy was in this upside down position as blood rushed towards his head. Adam’s buttocks were round and firm and stretched in this way unusually large. Submissively, he presented a perfect target to me. This was to be Adam’s first beating from me and fair man that I am I intended it to exemplary but not brutal. By that I mean he should know that he had been caned but there was no need for him to be bloodied. Six of the very best strokes with this dense Malay cane would leave him in no doubt that his future behaviour must improve.

I took up position to Adam’s left and placed the cane across the very centre and meatiest part of his buttocks. I “sawed” the cane as I found my aim and was delighted to see Adam’s bottom tense considerably. It was tightening up in anticipation of the onslaught that was about to follow, the two cheeks pulled tightly together trying to reduce their size so the cane would not have so much to whip down upon. Most boys do this, I assume it is a natural reaction from the buttocks. I tapped the cane across his bum maybe three times before I removed it and raised it high before with just the slightest twist of my body I brought it back down at terrific speed. It made a very agreeable (to me) crack as it hit and then sank into Adam’s bottom.

The nineteen-year-old squealed. There is no other word to describe it. It was a combination of air hissing through his clenched lips and a cry of pain. His bottom wobbled from side to side, his head rose from the cushion and his legs stamped up and down. A line appeared across the cotton of Adam’s underwear where the cane had struck and although I couldn’t see it I knew a significant welt was throbbing across his rear end.

I get on with it when I beat a boy. I see no point in cussing him between swipes or making reference to his misdeeds or demands for better behaviour in future. I count up to twenty in my head, make sure that he is steady in position and then swipe again. I put all my beef into each stroke, I couldn’t strike any harder if I were beating a carpet. Number two landed exactly where I intended, just below the first. Now he had a burning stripe across the width of his bum and it glowed white hot. Adam did the squealing and the stomping again but after a few seconds he resumed his position as quietly as possible and waited for the next stroke. I have no idea if this was Adam’s first-ever beating, but I would say he appeared to be taking it like a trooper. The next cut dug deep into the under-cheek, near where the buttocks and thighs connect. Adam let out and almighty yell and his back arched as he sprung to his feet, both hands clutching his scorched backside. I grabbed hold of his shoulder and manhandled him back over the chair placing my hand in the small of his back to keep him there. His flesh was clammy, sweat poured down his spine, although the room itself was quite cool. Adam gripped the seat cushion until his knuckles turned white.

I counted to twenty in my head then there was a brief but awesome whoosh of air preceded the wooden crack that appeared to echo round the room as Adam jerked his head up in response to the cutting pain that spread quickly across his bottom like wildfire. He breathed out noisily, drew air in and breathed it noisily out again. “Ouch!” he cried, sucking air into his lungs so sharply he must have felt his flesh tight against his cheek bones.

Another strokes rained down in parallel with the others, which worked their way up to the top of his buttocks which ultimately shook, twisted, swayed and clenched in a frantic attempt to swamp the unbelievable legacy of pain left by the cane. Adam’s chest heaved as he gasped in great gulps of breath. His thighs rubbed together as he wrestled with the demons which were chewing up his bottom.

I played the cane over the entire surface of Adam’s buttocks before raising it one last time and slicing a devastatingly accurate, forceful stroke just above his thighs. A startled yelp flew out of the boy’s mouth and bounced off the wall. His legs buckled as he fought against the savage line of pain which was charging into him. His hands dug into the cushion and his eyes watered as another cry burst from his throat.

It was over. “Stand,” I growled, determined that Adam should be fully aware of my displeasure. I knew pain was shooting from his thrashed buttocks up and down his legs as he prised himself away from the back of the chair and stood unsteadily and struggled to regain his balance with his hands hovering around, but not daring to touch, his inflamed cheeks. He staggered away and stood unsure what he was expected to do next.

With six swipes expertly delivered, I tucked the cane under my armpit, walked across the room and left. When I arrived downstairs at the breakfast room I noticed that Mrs Castlefield had thoughtfully left a soft cushion on one of the hard dining chairs.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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

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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

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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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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com