Penalty for ‘Attitude’

new 5

z used study (73)

A cold wind whipped through the quadrangle of St Tom’s school. It was only just four in the afternoon but already the sun had disappeared below the far horizon. Coals blazed in the fireplace of Mr Stanley’s study. The housemaster himself rarely felt the cold. His heavy tweed suit and waistcoat protected him from the worst of the elements. An ancient academic gown, draped from his shoulders, acted like a shawl.

Mr Stanley sat in his heavy leather armchair, leafing through the pages of the Morning Post. The Socialists had been defeated in the recent elections, a new Tory Government was in power for another five years. All was well with the world at large.

Much, Mr Stanley mused, could also be said about the world at St Tom’s. Nothing much changed. God was in his Heaven. He folded the newspaper and hauled himself from the deep leather chair. He dropped the Post onto his desk and slowly took a gold pocket watch from his waistcoat. Any moment now …..

As if on cue there was a timid knock on his study door. He allowed a slight, almost unnoticed, smile to curve his mouth. He waited before responding. He knew who was standing outside. Mr Stanley had after all summoned the boy to his study. Let him suffer, he told himself.

Outside in the freezing passageway McAlpine, a recent arrival into the Sixth at St Tom’s, stood hopping from foot to foot. He was eighteen years old, but had only attended the school since the beginning of the term. In the few weeks he had been at St Tom’s he had developed, a reputation for precociousness, with a stubborn inability to remember to address Masters as “Sir.”

Mr Stanley was first to recognize that the good of the House would be best served if McAlpine spent a spell in the study touching his toes. It would improve his attitude somewhat.

Nothing could be more important than a boy’s “attitude”, at St Tom’s. Parents sent their sons to the school to have the attitude knocked out of them. Where would the country be if young people were permitted to display attitude? Obedience. That was what they had to learn. First, how to take orders. Later, how to give them. The British Empire was built on obedience.

“Come!” at last Mr Stanley acknowledged the wretched boy’s presence. He stared intently as the handle slowly turned and the heavy oak door creaked open. McAlpine was a slender youth with a mop of fair curly hair and finely chiseled features, with sensuous shining grey eyes.

He hesitated in the doorframe, uncertain of his next move. “Close the door, boy! Don’t let all the heat out!” Mr Stanley barked. “Right, boy,” he intoned once McAlpine had successfully done this. “Stand there,” he snapped his fingers and waved at a point in the middle of the study. He sat behind his desk and closely surveyed the sixth-former. McAlpine was clearly perplexed and very edgy. He chewed on his fat bottom lip. All bravado was gone.

“I have spoken to you before about your attitude,” Mr Stanley had prepared a short speech. “Now, it is time to deal with you.” The housemaster peered into McAlpine’s soul. The boy flinched as if an arrow had shot through him.

“Yes, Sir,” he murmured, his lips pressed tight in concentration and regret. McAlpine showed no signs that confirmed the reports of voluble dissent and disorderliness Mr Stanley had heard of him. He stood timid and fearful awaiting his fate, his eyes moistened. He shivered, although the fire was roaring. He fidgeted while Mr Stanley jawed him.

“And so, McAlpine,” the housemaster had finished his speech, “You deserve to be beaten.” The sixth-former sighed deeply, his pale face flushed. At last he forced out a whisper, “Yes, Sir.”

Mr Stanley hauled himself to his feet, steadied himself and then proceeded with a glide across his study. McAlpine’s eyes followed his master’s procession. It was a large room, made mostly gloomy by the heavy, dark furniture that dominated it. As well as the huge desk there were several heavy, straight-backed chairs. They had not been made for luxury. Towards one corner stood a much more comfortable armchair with a small, low table beside it. The walls were lined with shelves and cupboards.

It was towards one of these cupboards that the housemaster made his way. Reaching his destination, he stopped. His hand delved into a small pocket in his waistcoat. McAlpine stood, wide-eyed and uneasy. At last Mr Stanley found what he was seeking; a small gold key. He unlocked a tall thin cupboard and with his right hand reached in. The rattling sound he made was unmistakable.

Soon he had a light, whippy cane in his hand. It was perhaps three feet in length. He peered at it, tightened his lips and quickly replaced it. He cleared his dry throat with an almost unnoticeable cough and reached in again. He had a selection of canes to suit all bottoms; large, small, tough, and tender. “Aha,” he said, almost to himself. He had a thicker, longer, more dense cane in his hand.

He turned away from the cupboard and swished it through empty air. It made a tremendous swooshing sound as it flew. McAlpine’s eyes shone brightly. The housemaster held the cane close to its crook handle and flexed it between his hands. It bent easily. Mr Stanley straightened his back and peered cross the room at McAlpine. The housemaster swished the cane once more and with an air of finality said sternly, “Stand there, boy.” He pointed his cane to a point on a worn rug close to the middle of the study. “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

McAlpine might have been new to St. Tom’s but he had learned enough to know he had no say in the matter. A summons to the study was not a summit. It wasn’t a debate, a discussion. Mr Stanley was the master; he, McAlpine, was the submissive. If the housemaster ordered, “Touch your toes!” that was the end of the matter. His heartbeat raced and suddenly the palms of his hands felt very sticky as he shuffled across the rug. He reached his point of destination and hesitated.

“Bend over, boy!” Mr Stanley intoned. The cane swiped through the air once more. McAlpine took a deep breath and in one swift athletic movement bent his body double. He took it as Gospel that “toes” meant toes and not knees or shins. His fingertips brushed the caps of his shoes. It was a difficult position to attain, even for a slender, fit eighteen-year-old. There was a tremendous strain on the back of his calves.

Mr Stanley tucked the cane under his arm as he moved closer to the submissive boy. McAlpine presented a good shape, his school blazer flowed around his buttocks. The housemaster took a gentle hold of the tail end and pushed it away from the target area. Now, McAlpine presented two hard, round buttocks. The housemaster gripped the waistband of the boy’s pale-grey trousers and tugged hard. This smoothed creases from the folds of the flannels and lifted and separated each cheek.

“Touch your toes and keep those fingers there, if you move those fingertips, I shall award extra strokes,” Mr Stanley announced. He stared down at the sixth-former bent submissively before him. The back of his neck was glowing bright red. His bottom would be a similar colour very soon.

He stood about a cane’s length from McAlpine’s left and swished the cane through the air one more time. He sucked down a deep breath. His own heart raced equally as fast as the boy offering up his buttocks. The cane was about the thickness of a pencil and just under three feet long. He tapped its tip against the centre of McAlpine’s right cheek; finding his aim.

Tap, tap, tap. Mr Stanley derived satisfaction seeing McAlpine close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with some beef across McAlpine’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the rattan cane bit deep. It had not been a tap, it was a swipe. The housemaster put his full force behind the stroke.

McAlpine’s his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line formed along the boy’s tight trousers.

McAlpine’s eyes blaze, he had a close-up view of the faded red rug. He couldn’t make out the pattern. He examined it closely. Some kind of building? A farmhouse perhaps. He concentrated hard, anything to keep his thoughts from the ordeal he was experiencing.

Mr Stanley flexed his cane once more. He watched McAlpine, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment. “Yes,” he said to himself. “This will beat the ‘Attitude’ out of him.”

McAlpine felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bottom. His trousers and underpants did not protect him. Mr Stanley had really laid it on. The tapping started again. Any moment now. McAlpine braced himself. His buttocks clenched, his eyes screwed up tight. He bit down on his bottom lip.

Swish! Crack! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater force, an inch lower than the first. McAlpine hissed like a steam engine settling down, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. He was out of control, it was his body’s reflex action against the agonising pain.

Another swipe bit deep into his flesh. McAlpine’s buttocks blazed. Mr Stanley was an expert with the cane. He ought to be, he had twenty years and more of experience thrashing boys’ bottoms.

Swipe number four hit the top of his thigh. “Yarooh!” He wriggled his hips left and right. His fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet, remembering just in time, the awful penalty for such an action. He most certainly did not want extra strokes. But, the cut was low, too low. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much. It felt like Mr Stanley had pressed a red-hot poker from the fire against the back of his thighs.

Mr Stanley’s own eyes glowered. He paused, allowing himself a moment of self-congratulation. McAlpine was suffering. Good! The boy needed to be taught some manners. He had to learn his place in society. He waited upwards of thirty seconds while McAlpine settled down. He took a careful aim. The previous swipe had struck low, the next would go high. McAlpine’s buttocks were hard and round. Mr Stanley bounced the cane off the top of the mounds and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. “Good,” he told himself, “the young scoundrel deserves it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.”

McAlpine breathed hard. His temples pounded. The back of his throat was raw. Waves of pain shot up and down his legs. Perspiration soaked the back of his shirt. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched trousers in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks.

He heard footsteps on the floorboards. From the corner of his eye he saw Mr Stanley adjusting his position. Now he placed the cane at a diagonal across both of McAlpine’s cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. The sixth-former tensed his whole body. His shoulders shook. Whop! The cane sailed at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bottom, intersecting the welts already weeping under the boy’s underwear. It set each of them ablaze once more.

McAlpine gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he stayed down. Like generations of schoolboys before him, he refused to reveal to his master how much he was hurt. He felt as if he had sat on a coal fire.

Mr Stanley slowly paced his office and opened the door to his cupboard. He replaced the cane before turning slowing to admire his handiwork. McAlpine was still bent double, touching toes submissively.

“Up you get,” Mr Stanley barked. Slowly, McAlpine unfolded himself. He stood unsteadily, feet apart, his moist eyes downcast. His bottom roared. His heartbeat was slowing, returning closer to normal. He desperately wanted to rub away at the pain. But, that would have to wait until he was dismissed from the housemaster’s study.

Slowly, the housemaster returned to his desk. He slumped into his chair, suddenly noticing his own tiredness. He leaned toward the inferior boy and growled. “I trust McAlpine you have learned your lesson?” He paused for dramatic effect rather than in expectation of an answer. The tip of his tongue darted through his almost closed lips. “If not and you are before me again, we shall see how much you like my cane with your trousers and underwear at your feet. Do I make myself clear?”

This time, he did expect a response. McAlpine croaked an almost inaudible: “Yes, Sir.”

“You are dismissed,” the housemaster waved his hand and watched with deep satisfaction as McAlpine hobbled to the door.

Picture credit: Charles H Chapman, The Magnet

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Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Adventure at Camp Cottage

new 5

z used house by E.H. Davie 6

Julian thought Uncle Dick was a queer fellow. He was the most extraordinary looking man, very tall and very dark and with a rather fierce frown on his wide forehead. Julian couldn’t help shivering the very first time he saw him and it wasn’t even a cold day.

“Hello Uncle,” he said in his usual cheerful sing-song voice. But Uncle Dick just shrugged his shoulders and hurried through the house into the back garden.

“Oh don’t fret about him,” Aunt Fanny smiled, her round red face beaming. “He’s off to his shed.” She bustled off into the kitchen. Julian stood in the dark room. It was old and rather mysterious somehow, the furniture was ancient, he might have been standing in an antique shop.

Just then Uncle Dick returned into the house, his frown was even more deep set. “Where’s Timothy,” he growled.

“Oh the naughty boy, I told him to wait in the garden for you,” Aunt Fanny smiled and wringed her hands. “Now he’s gone off somewhere.”

“He needs a good spanking,” said Uncle Dick. Julian blushed to the roots of his hair. Surely Uncle Dick was joking. “Send him to me the moment he returns,” Uncle Dick’s brow furrowed some more and his dark eyes glowered as he rushed out the door striding towards his shed. Aunt Fanny stood around like she wasn’t sure what she should do and then wandered absent-mindedly into the kitchen. Julian could smell the wonderful aroma of baking bread.

Minutes passed and Julian waited unsure what he was supposed to do. His heavy suitcase rested against his bare leg. He was very excited to be staying with Uncle Dick and Aunt Fanny and his two cousins for the summer. Oh, he thought, wouldn’t it be marvellous! In the country, away from the hot and smoky city.

It had been a very long time before the train reached the little station that served Curran, but at last it was there steaming slowly and stopping at the tiny platform. He jumped out eagerly to see if anyone had come to meet him. No – the station was deserted. Suddenly, he felt so lonely. Where was Camp Cottage, the home of his aunt and uncle? He didn’t even have a proper address. Just Camp Cottage, Curran, Westmoreland. How did the postman know where to deliver his letters? Oh, Julian supposed, this was the country, perhaps everyone knew everyone else. Someone would surely know the way.

But who could he ask? The station seemed abandoned. Luckily, it was a bright sunny day. If it had been the middle of winter with fog swirling and rain teeming, poor Julian would have felt very lonely. It would be like he was in the middle of a ghost story instead of in a delightful summery tale. He sat down on his huge suitcase to have a good think. He was really hungry and more than a little thirsty. If he didn’t get to Camp Cottage soon, he might die of starvation.

Julian felt miserable. Was this holiday such a good idea after all? When his father told him he and mother were taking a trip through Europe, Julian thought it was a queer thing to do. Most of the big cities had been bombed to smithereens, what was there to see? But mother and father were very religious and thought they could spread the word of God among the peasant people.

“Sorry, Ju,” Father had said, “But you can’t come with us. It might be too dangerous.” Julian had been delighted. He didn’t want to spend summer among the ruins of Europe. And anyway, he would have the house to himself. Wouldn’t that be fun! But Father had a different idea: Uncle Dick and his family.

“Blast!” Julian ejaculated when he heard the news. He wanted to tell Father, “Look I’m eighteen years old, practically an adult, I can look after myself.” But, he knew not to argue with his parents. They loved him and wanted the best for him. Besides, he hadn’t seen his cousins Timothy and George for simply ages. It really would be fun!

But just now, abandoned on the hot, dusty platform it didn’t seem like so much fun after all. Just then a wizened old man appeared at the end of the platform. My, Julian thought, he looks like he’s about to keel over and die. But, the teenager’s spirits bucked up. He was certain to know where Camp Cottage was.

Before Julian could ask directions, the old man spoke. “C’mon, young ’un, pick up your bag. Get moving.” My, Julian thought, what a rude old working-class man! He needs to learn some manners. The old man turned and slowly shuffled back in the direction he had come. Over his shoulder he wheezed, “Follow me.”

I suppose the queer old fellow is going to take me to Camp Cottage, Julian mused. He gripped the suitcase and pulled it along after him. Oh it was so heavy! What had mother packed? It felt like there was a dead body inside. The old fellow led him towards a small pony and trap. “Put yer bag in the back,” he growled. Julian paused for breath and stared at the small pony. It was almost as ancient as the old man. It would be a contest to see which of them expired first. Julian heaved his case onto the trap. As he was doing this a pungent odour wafted across his turned-up nose. “Oooh, poo!” he wanted to say out loud, but he was a polite boy and he kept his thought buttoned up. What a pong! Then he giggled, where was the smell coming from? Did the old man smell as awful as the pony?

Julian settled himself in the trap and off they went. It was a slow drive along narrow roads. The old man dozed in the heat. The pony seemed to know its way, it really didn’t need a driver! Julian watched the hedges slowly pass by. How beautiful! Oh he was pleased to be in the country! What fun this holiday would be! He hoped his cousins would be good sorts. Timothy was exactly his own age and George, two years older. They would have lots in common, wouldn’t they? What adventures they would have!

At last the pony and trap edged up to Camp Cottage. It was a very old house indeed. Julian’s father said it was at least three hundred years old. It wasn’t really a cottage, but quite a big house, built of old white stone. Roses climbed over the front of it and the garden was full of bushes.

Aunt Fanny had been waiting for them to arrive. She came stumbling out the old wooden door as soon as she saw the pony and trap draw up outside. “Welcome, welcome!” her red face beamed and she led Julian into the house.

Minutes went by and just as Julian thought he had been abandoned forever, a small rotund lady dressed in a wrap-around pinafore popped her head through the open doorway. “Hello, young Julian, I’m Joanne, the cook, come with me, I bet you’re hungry aren’t you?”

“Oh rather!” Julian smiled. “I could eat that pony outside!” He was a little disappointed when Joanne frowned and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “We’ll have none of that talk here Thank You Very Much.” Julian knew his face must be glowing with embarrassment and his ears felt hot as he followed the cook as she waddled to the kitchen.

Oh what a wonderful smell! A table groaned under the weight of a plate of freshly-baked buns and a great big iced cake. There was not much left after Julian had satisfied his hunger. Then he washed it all down with lashings of ginger beer.

He was working on the last crumbs when his cousin Timothy walked in. He did look flustered. “Hello,” he mumbled, looking with despair at the empty plates where the buns and cake had been. “None left for me then?” Timothy spoke softly. Julian blushed. What a greedy boy he was. He hadn’t thought to leave some buns and cake for his cousin.

“A condemned man is entitled to a last meal, isn’t he?” Timothy said mysteriously. Julian was about to ask him what he meant by that when Aunt Fanny bustled into the kitchen. “Timothy, you naughty boy! Your father is looking for you. You must report to him in the shed.”

Julian saw his cousin’s face go pale. “What now?” he blustered. “I thought I would show Julian his room and help him to get settled.”

Julian saw Aunt Fanny’s bright red face drop. “You know better than to keep your father waiting when he’s in one of his moods.”

Timothy sucked on his bottom lip, he plunged his hands into the pockets of his corduroy short trousers, and forced a determined look onto his face. Without a word, he turned on his heels and left the room.

Julian was puzzled. What was going on? He wanted to ask his Aunt Fanny but somehow he knew that would not be a good idea. He would ask Timothy later. When they were alone. Then he would discover the mystery!

Timothy walked slowly along the passageway of the house, heading for the back door and the garden. His hands made fists inside his pockets. His heart was beating just a little too fast. Suddenly, his throat was dry. How he wished he had swigged a bottle of ginger beer before he had left the kitchen.

His father’s shed was really a summer house. It was where he did his work. He hated to be in the house with his wife and children bustling around! It was even worse when they had visitors. How would he survive a whole summer with both his sons and a nephew cluttering up the place? Timothy walked slowly down the stone path. The gardener had recently mown the lawn and the scent of freshly-cut grass was everywhere. It tickled the back of his throat.

Timothy had made this journey many times before. It only took seconds to get to the shed from the house, but he tried to make the walk last as long as possible. Timothy knew what was waiting for him at the end of it! He wasn’t going to hurry.

He hesitated outside the door and slowly counted up to five in his head (one hippopotamus … two hippopotamus …). Finally, he took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden door. His father looked up from his writing at the knocking. He glanced at his watch. “About time too,” he fumed quietly. More loudly, he called, “Get in here. Now!”

He sat back and watched as slowly, the handle turned and the door inched open. “Come on in! Hurry up! I haven’t got all day!” he called irritably. Timothy stood hands deep in pockets, his head bowed. He could see the floor beneath his sandals was dusty. He waited patiently. He knew his father had a ritual at times like these. There was nothing Timothy could do. He had to let events take their course.

It started with the lecture. The summer holidays had started and that inevitably meant his school report had arrived. Timothy was a border at Albion School. His father liked it that way. It meant he did not have to see his son for weeks on end. But, the fees cost a small fortune and father wanted value for his money! Timothy was a disappointment. He was a bright boy but a little lazy and oh so full of mischief. If he spent as much time on his studies as he did playing pranks he would right now be coasting his way to the university. Instead, his father waved the school report above his head, rather like Mr Chamberlain on his way back from Munich.

“Maths, failed! History, failed! English language for pity’s sake, failed! Need I say more?” It wasn’t a question. His father could go on and on and on. Timothy stared down at the floor. “And take your hands out of your pockets!” Father roared. The eighteen-year-old removed them with tremendous haste. His palms were soaked with sweat. Without thinking, he rubbed them dry on the legs of his short trousers. The shed felt airless. Sweat soaked his scalp. His heart raced.

“This will not do. I have spent a fortune on school fees for nothing! What will become of you? You can’t get to university with this!” He waved the school report once more. “I doubt the Army will take you. Yee Gods, that just leaves the Clergy!” He hauled himself from his chair. Timothy’s eyes followed him as he stumbled across the shed to a far wall. He didn’t really need to watch for he already knew what was there. His father paused and turned to Timothy. “I have engaged a private tutor for the summer. You will retake your examinations in October and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “you will pass them.”

With that, he reached up to the wall and took down a block of wood that was hanging from a hook. It wasn’t just any block of wood. Timothy’s father had made it specially. It was about eight inches long and four wide. It was probably a quarter of an inch thick. What made it unusual was the handle that was attached to it and turned it from just a block of wood to a very effective punishment tool. It was what the American’s called a “paddle”. Timothy had laughed the first time he heard the term. A paddle! Why that was the long pole with a flipper at each end that you used to propel a canoe down the river!

But Father’s little paddle was no laughing matter. It had nothing to do with canoes. His father gripped the handle and brandished it at Timothy. Oh my, the colour drained from the teenager’s face. Timothy knew his father’s intention. There was to be no escape! The punishment must fit the crime! Five failed exams!

“You know what to do! Assume the position!” his father growled. Yes, Timothy knew what to do only too well. He had been here many times before! Without a word, he took hold of the buckle of his belt and with fumbling hands, he loosened it. Then he un-popped the fly buttons on his brown corduroy short trousers. They quickly slipped down his thighs and snagged at his knees. Timothy parted his feet a little and the shorts slithered down until they made a puddle on top of his sandals.

He sucked in a deep breath of air. Oh, my the room was so hot, it felt like he was boiling. He leaned forward and gripped his shins. He had a close up view of his heavy grey socks and bare knees. He had been playing in the sun a lot and they were as brown as a berry! He closed his eyes and felt his father take hold of the blue short-sleeved summer shirt and pull it away from his bottom and right up his back until it reached his shoulder blades. Then father gripped the waistband of his underwear and tugged hard so that there were no creases in his woollen drawers. The wooden blade of the paddle felt heavy as his father tap, tap, tapped it across the centre of his buttocks so that it touched both cheeks. Suddenly, Father lifted the paddle away and with a resounding thwack! he brought it crashing down!

Oh! How that hurt! Timothy scrunched up his eyes in pain. It burned so much! His body shook but valiantly Timothy clutched his shins and waited for the second wallop. Bang! It hit him a little lower than the first and the impact of the blow knocked him forward. The soles of his sandals slipped on the dusty floor and almost sent him toppling over. He stopped himself just in time and straightened up so that once more his bottom was pointing up in the air ready to take the next whack in the spanking that he so richly deserved!

“Ouch! Gosh! Yarroo!” That hurt! Timothy couldn’t help himself crying out. Father was spanking him with some vim. He swiped him so hard it was as if he was trying to beat dust out of an old carpet. Timothy’s bottom was on fire. It felt like he had accidentally sat in a bath full of scolding water. Whack! Wallop! There were no bounds in Father’s determination to punish his naughty son. No part of the teenager’s buttocks was left unbruised! The naughty lad would find it painful to sit on a hard surface for the rest of the day. But, it was a just punishment. One day Timothy would thank his father for days such as these!

Father spanked him fifteen times with the paddle, that was three whacks for each examination failed. Timothy’s bottom was well and truly toasted! When at last he was allowed to stand, the poor boy’s hands shot to his throbbing posterior. Oh how he tried to rub away the pain! It hurt like billy-oh!

At last his father sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. Bother, Timothy thought, not only was he spanked, he also had to put up with a personal tutor for the whole summer. Well, he said to himself, we’ll see about that! There was no way he was going to have his summer spoiled. Not now he had his cousin Julian to play with!

Timothy took a short walk through the village and into the woods. He couldn’t go back to his cousin quite yet. The agony in his bottom soon eased until it became only a constant throb. After a while that turned to a warm glow. It still hurt, especially the sit-upon part where the cheeks meet the thigh, but he was ready to return home. He was pleased that he hadn’t cried; he didn’t want Julian to know he had been spanked and red eyes would be give away his secret!

When Timothy returned to Camp Cottage he was surprised to see his cousin Julian still in the living room with his suitcase. Uncle Dick was beavering away in his shed and Aunt Fanny had disappeared upstairs, never to return.

“Come on Ju,” Timothy beamed. His bottom was still a little sore but he was ready for his recent spanking with the paddle to become just a distant memory. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping. I do hope you like it!”

Julian was delighted! The room was huge and there was a magnificent bed with a wrought iron bedstead.

“This is my room,” Timothy beamed. “Isn’t it a fantastic bed! It’s easily big enough for two of us!” he giggled. “A lot of the rooms here are locked up. If you don’t want to share, I’m sure we can find a camp bed somewhere or you can sleep on a settee or something!”

Julian was delighted. “No! It’s a marvellous bed,” he pressed both his hands in to the solid mattress, “and it’s really springy!”

“That’s settled then!” Timothy threw himself onto the bed and bounced up and down just like he was on a trampoline. “Of course, George is away for a few days, so you could have his room for a while, I suppose,” Timothy said, but then he frowned, “But, I don’t know that he wants anyone to go in his room while he’s away.”

Julian remembered George as quite a queer fellow. He bet he had lots of secrets. George was a tall, lanky man, now aged twenty. Julian remembered Timothy once telling him that at Albion School the boys called him “Georgina” because he acted like a girl and had the habit of holding one hand on his hip as he walked. They might have called him Georgina, but only behind his back. George was one of the select band of senior prefects at Albion who were supplied with bendy canes with curved handles to impose discipline and he wasn’t shy about using his.

“Where is George,” Julian inquired. “Oh, he’s with a new curate in the village. Fellow named Crick,” Timothy rolled his eyes, “They’re as thick as thieves,” he smirked. “They’re running some boys’ camp on the other side of the village. Juvenile delinquents, would you believe!”

Julian beamed, it sounded like the sort of batty project his parents would be involved with.

“They’re borstal boys, or some such,” Timothy couldn’t hide the mocking tone in his voice. “What a bunch of oiks hey!” He rolled on the bed and hoped his cousin hadn’t noticed his wince as a particularly tender part of his bottom connected with the hard mattress. “Half the village are up in arms. They think they’ll be murdered in their beds. Or they’ll be robbed of the family silver! Ha! Ha! Ha!

“But, don’t worry about George,” he giggled, “there’s plenty of time to meet him. We’ve got an adventure of our own to go on.”

“Oh,” Julian beamed, “What fun!” How he was going to enjoy his summer at Camp Cottage!

To be continued ….

Picture credit: E.H. Davie

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Just an ordinary day

new 5

z used drawing master smuggs hots (1)

“Right Brooking,” the headmaster flexed his whippy rattan cane then pointed to a spot in the centre of his study, “Bend over. You two,” he gestured to my pal Christianson and myself, “Stand there, by the wall.” He turned back to Brooking, “Right-over lad! Touch those toes.” Brooking stretched his finger further down his shins. “Keep those knees straight, boy,” the headmaster swiped his cane through the air, not trying to hide his impatience. I could see the strain in Brooking’s face; touching toes isn’t as easy as it sounds.

The headmaster stepped forward and stood behind my pal. I had the perfect view of Brooking’s backside, stretched against his pale-grey trousers. They were so tight I could just about make out the outline of his underpants. I was surprised to see he wore briefs; Boxer shorts were the fashion among we boys at the time.

The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm, it slipped down a little as he leaned forward and with both hands took hold of the tail of Brooking’s blazer. He pushed it a little way up his back so it was away from the target area. An inch or so of Brooking’s white shirt poked out from the waistband of his trousers and I saw a little flesh.

The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the centre of Brooking’s bum, but below the crest. It was quite a big bum, I suppose. Brooking was one of the tallest boys in our sixth-form; easily over six foot and although he was in no way fat (not like the obese schoolkids you see today) he was beefy. Meaty, you might say. The headmaster tapped the cane a couple of times and I saw Brooking close his eyes and screw up his face, ready for the ordeal. We were all eighteen years old and in our final year at school but a caning from the headmaster was still nothing to be sneezed at.

Satisfied that he had a good aim, the headmaster raised the cane and I saw it wobble as he took it above his shoulder and then return it with a terrific whoosh! so that it cracked hard into Brooking’s hard bottom. There was no time for the pain to register or for Brooking to react before the second swipe caught him on the undercurves of his bum. Six strokes swiped down rapidly. It was all over in about fifteen seconds.

“Stand up lad!. Stand over there. Christianson take his place.” Brooking stood gingerly, his face was scarlet. He always had a pale complexion and I suppose being made to bend over like that must have sent the blood rushing to his head. Apart from his colour he didn’t appear to be unduly concerned about his caning. I couldn’t be so sure about Christianson. He didn’t have Brooking’s stoicism, in fact he looked decidedly nervous as he settled himself in the middle of the study. It was a small room, dominated by a too-large desk (something to do with status I suppose) and there were two “easy” armchairs at the other end and a row of shelves. In the corner was a hat stand with no hats (they had gone out of fashion long before) but three canes dangled by their crook handles. They were of differing lengths and thicknesses but none of them was as dense or as stout as the one the headmaster had chosen to pepper our arses with. We were senior boys and so were getting the “senior” cane.

The headmaster aimed his cane across Christianson’s backside and fifteen seconds later he was back on his feet. His face was pale and his eyes were definitely moist, but I don’t think he was actually crying. Tears were not rolling down his cheeks. He rubbed his bottom ruefully as he took his place back by the wall. He went down in my estimation for that. Generations of schoolboys have abided by an unwritten law that says you never let the master know you are in pain. We would rib Christianson unmercifully later for not being able to “take it”.

It was now my turn. I strode to the spot and in one athletic movement I was peering down at the worn rug. Before I stretched my fingertips to brush the toecaps of my shoes I pushed by hands behind me and flicked the tail of my blazer away from my bum. It was my way of telling the headmaster, “Go on then. Do your worst. See if I care.” I returned my fingertips to the shoes took a deep breath and let him get on with it. Fifteen seconds later I was standing. My bum was burning but I wasn’t in any great agony.

The headmaster hadn’t flogged us, he had caned us. It was a schoolboy punishment. Six-of-the-best, we called it back in the day. The cane burns the moment it whacks down across your stretched backside and the way the headmaster laid on his canings so rapidly meant that burning sensation built up as each successive stoke hit you. So, by the time he’s through your bum is on fire, but that pain disappears pretty quickly. By the time the headmaster was ready to dismiss us from his study the pain had diminished to a throbbing and before too long was no more than a tingle. The bruising would fade over a day or two, before disappearing completely.

After we left the study we went down to the sixth-form bogs and compared our marks. That was another unwritten schoolboy law: you have to show your pals. Then, we went home and forgot about it. That happened more than forty years ago and I can’t remember what we had done to deserve that particular caning; there had been so many. It was that kind of school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional uniform, traditional discipline. I suppose it was just an ordinary day at that school.

….. Sorry. I lost my thread there…. Why am I telling you this? ……. Excuse, me I must go mix myself another gin-and-tonic.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

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Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

The shoplifter

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Dean’s list

new story 2

zused paddle jeans touch toes american school

Bruce is standing with his nose centimetres from the wall. The smell of damp plaster is cloying. He thinks he is about to sneeze. The passageway is hot and humid. The mid-afternoon sun blazes but none of the windows are open. They have been stuck closed for years: no budget for maintenance Bruce stares dead ahead as instructed. To his right two other students stand obediently. To his left are a further three. All stand in silence. All Bruce can hear is rhythmic breathing. No one dares speak. All afraid of breaking more rules.

Bruce was the third to arrive. All were summoned to attend at three o’clock sharp and don’t dare be late. All arrived early. Some earlier than others. None knew that the rule was first to arrive, first to be dealt with. Bruce feels under dressed. He is in blue jeans and green t-shirt. Both of the two ahead of him in the queue are in smart business suits. The others are in smart trousers. All wear neck ties. One wears a blazer. Bruce thinks he looks like a schoolboy. Now he thinks about it, less than six months ago he was.

The heavy oak door at the end of the passageway opens. Nobody turns his head, but they all sense what is happening. A tall, thin teenager shuffles out. His face soaked in perspiration, eyes dampened by tears. His neck is scarlet. He hesitates slightly, whispers to the boy at the head of the line and then darts down the passageway, both hands clutching the seat of his trousers. The air is thick with expectation. Still nobody speaks. The boy at the head of the queue fastens the button of his suit jacket, checks his tie and sucks in a lungful of air. With absolutely no enthusiasm he knocks on the door. The boy catches the faintest sound from the other side, he turns the handle and pushes against the heavy oak.

Another day at Brocklehurst University. The same ritual is played out every afternoon at 3 p.m., Monday to Thursday. Week in and week out. The Dean of Discipline likes to spend Friday afternoons at the golf club so he brings forward the line-up to one o’clock.

This is Bruce’s first time on the Dean’s List. It is his third month at the university. It is a wonder to him he has escaped for so long. The list of rules at Brocklehurst is endless. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Be on time. Get good grades. Keep your nose clean. Don’t make waves. Or else. It’s the Dean’s List. And, that means only one thing. The door creeps open again. Another sorrowful boy limps out. “Six!” he gasps. “Bare arsed,” he says disbelievingly. “Bare arsed!” he repeats to make certain they all understand he is incredulous. “Your turn,” he nods at his companion in the suit. “Bloody hell!” He waddles down the passageway towards the staircase and freedom.

Bruce continues staring at the wall. Six. Bare arsed. He shuts his eyes. Bloody hell indeed. Corporal punishment. At university. Aged eighteen. The world is turning upside down. It started when Britain crashed out of the European Union. The government collapsed. The opposition parties were useless. There was turmoil everywhere. Food shortages. Riots on the streets. Suddenly from nowhere came the New Democratic Party to save the nation. They knew what Britain needed. A little bit of gardening. They had made that joke a lot at the time the NDP came to power. Lawn Order. Cut the grass neat and tidy. They meant law and order, of course. And they meant it too.

In the flick of an eyelid new regulations were passed. Curfews were introduced. Food was back in the shops. The immigrants were sent home. The public loved it. Especially, when the NDP went for the no-good layabout youth. That gormless politician who spoke like he had a plum in his mouth and the funny double-barrelled surname called, “bring back the birch for juvenile delinquents”. So, they did. And the cane at school. Before you knew it no fellow under the age of thirty was safe from corporal punishment. Students at university, apprentices in factories, office juniors and many more suffered.

Bruce has a tenuous grasp of all this history. It matters little to him. All he knows for sure is he flunked his mid-term examination. Too much time spent with his lips around a beer bottle and not enough with his nose in a book. He knows he has no one to blame but himself.

His heart is trying to pound through his ribcage. His head aches a little. Six. Bare arsed. This is unchartered territory. Like many eighteen year olds he has never been spanked before. The laws are that new. The door opens. Bruce gets a whiff of sour breath as the boy leans towards him and croaks, “Your turn.”

Bruce faces the door. His eyelids flicker. His heart races. His hand is unsteady. He raps his knuckles on the oak panel and waits for the call. His palm sweats as he turns the handle and pushes his way into the Dean of Discipline’s office. The room is large. A conference table runs almost its entire length. A heavy sideboard takes up one wall. A window – this one also jammed shut – faces him. Dean Cooper holds a tablet in his hand. He peers over the top of his spectacles at the screen. “Name?” he does not look up at Bruce. Bruce answers, his voice cracking. Dean Cooper uses his thumbs to find Bruce on his list. “Ah,” Dean Cooper says, still not looking at the student before him. “First time. I see.” He doesn’t give Bruce time to confirm this. “Stand there.” Dean Cooper speaks but does not say where it is Bruce must position himself. Bruce stands in a space between the conference table and the door. He is surprised he is so calm. He watches Dean Cooper, a short, dumpy man in his fifties, reach over to the top of the sideboard. Only now does Bruce see the dark-brown rectangular paddle that rests there.

Dean Cooper grips it in his right hand. It is about thirty centimetres long and maybe ten wide. Bruce has never seen a punishment paddle before but he knows instinctively that this one has been lovingly crafted. Twelve holes are neatly drilled in groups of two along its length. Sunlight reflects off its thick coating of varnish. “Face that way.” Dean Cooper nods towards the far wall. Bruce swivels on the balls of his feet. Any moment now, he will be ordered to bare his arse. He knows he has no choice. He must do as instructed. If he refuses punishment he will be expelled from the university. He won’t be able to get a job and he will end up in one of those camps for the young jobless that the NDP has just set up.

Bruce scrunches up his face, bracing himself for the humiliation. Bent over, arse bared to the wind, his crack and balls on full view to this oily old man. “Assume the position.” Bruce hesitates. Assume the position. What does that mean exactly? Take down your jeans? Underpants too? Dean Cooper snarls, unable to hide his irritation. He wants to get this over with. He doesn’t have all afternoon. There is a gin and tonic with his name on it waiting for him at the Three Fishers.

“Assume the position,” he repeats. Then, mindful that Bruce is a first-timer, he adds, “Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight.” A wave of relief washes over Bruce. Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight. So it isn’t to be bare-arsed at all. Almost with gratitude, Bruce leans forward. It is harder to assume the position and keep his knees straight than he thought. He feels his jeans tighten across his buttocks. He winces when Dean Cooper places the paddle across the centre of his cheeks and pats gently. Bruce stares down at the patterned rug beneath his feet. It is brown and full of dust. Absurdly, at that moment he remembers most of the cleaning staff lost their jobs recently because of cuts in budgets. The wood feels heavy as it taps across his bottom. Dean Cooper is getting his aim.

Bruce closes his eyes tight and tenses his buttocks. The paddle raises and returns, crashing into his cheeks with tremendous speed. The force knocks him forward and it takes some doing for Bruce to stop himself falling headlong onto the floor. He grips his ankles more tightly. The paddle crashes down again. It feels like Dean Cooper has pressed a hot iron into his flesh. Within seconds Dean Cooper whacks the paddle six times into Bruce’s bum. “Stand. Go.” Dean Cooper returns the paddle to the sideboard and takes hold of his tablet waiting for the next boy.

Bruce is winded. His bottom hurts. Quite a bit. But, he is not in agony. The pain is sharp at first but quickly it turns to an intense throb. Even as he prepares to leave the room, it is becoming a dull ache. It will be gone entirely by the time Bruce reaches his room and can inspect the damage.

Bruce tugs open the heavy door and pushes himself through. He is breathing heavily and he thinks his face must be either deathly pale or bright scarlet. He nods at the next boy in the line. “Good luck,” he says as he makes his leave. “It wasn’t so bad,” he thinks to himself and wonders how long it will be before he finds out what it feels like to get it on the bare.

Picture credit: Unknown

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We need to talk about Jake

You, a dad doing his duty

The bully

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The rising star wanes

new story 2

z used adult cane longs down white pants touch toes

Stephen Spreadbury was twenty-five years old and a rising star at Ponsonby-Meredith. His clean-cut affable demeanour ready smile and his ability to flatter when necessary were a big success with the stockbrokers’ women clients (and it has to be said, quite a few of the men). He made the partnership a lot of money. He would go far.

Then things started to go wrong. The smile was less fixed, the soft-soap had less lather, accounts were not closed on time, the money was not coming in as it once had; percentages were pared. Spreadbury had lost his touch. In the language of the cricket pitch; it was considered he had taken his eye off the ball. He had let things slip. He no longer brought in the money. Some days he didn’t make it into the office until lunchtime.

Mr Algernon Ponsonby, the senior partner, had seen it all before. He had been in his chair for close to thirty years. His men had made him a pile of money in that time. He expected that to continue. Spreadbury had been a golden goose. But not so much lately. The young man needed to concentrate on his work; Mr Ponsonby wanted his percentages, he had his winter home in the Bahamas to consider.

He summoned Spreadbury to his office. Mr Ponsonby had luncheoned well. He leaned back in his overlarge leather chair and caressed his stomach. Often at this hour of the day, it gave him trouble. The pain was tolerable, this afternoon. His florid face was testimony to the bottle of vintage claret he had drunk at the club. He shook his head, sipped water from a pewter goblet and hoped his aching gut would not get worse.

His secretary, a woman even older than Mr Ponsonby himself, announced Spreadbury’s arrival. She was a tiny, bird-like spinster who often gave the appearance of being half-starved. Her shoulders hunched and her spindly legs looked incapable of holding up her body. “The boy is here,” she cackled, her long nose pointed to the door behind her, “Shall I send him in?” Her cold grey eyes sneered through spectacles.

“Yes please, Miss Alsop,” Mr Ponsonby had known the woman when man and boy but had never once been at comfort in her presence. What passed for a smile troubled her face and she turned slowly, almost painfully, to retrace her steps to the door. Back in her own room she examined the young man standing there at ease. He was tall, a little thick-set; with a shock of hair over a wide-open face. He had the look of a contented man, he oozed “entitlement”; he was destined to get whatever he wanted. Oh, how she despised him.

“Mr Ponsonby will see you now,” she said haughtily. “Go in straight away.” She did not try to hide her distain. “What did they all see in him?” she wondered as she watched him stride confidently out of her room, “They’re all the same. Just overgrown schoolboys.” She saw him knock on the office door, wait for the command “Come!” and then enter. She shuffled to the door of her own room and opened it wide so she would hear everything.

Spreadbury closed the door and stood uncertainly. He had no idea why he had been called. He might be considered by many to be “on his way up” in the hierarchy of the firm, but he was still a relatively junior member of staff. He was a little surprised that Mr Ponsonby even knew who he was. His eyes travelled around the room. It was huge, as befitting the senior partner of a moneyed firm. It was dominated by a walnut desk the size of a tennis court. A pair of luxurious padded armchairs around a heavy glass table were at the far end. A Chesterfield couch was close by. Along one wall were shelves filled with leather-bound tomes; none of which appeared ever to have been opened. An ornate cupboard (a drinks cabinet, Spreadbury guessed) was towards one side of an open, but unlit, fireplace. A chest of drawers completed the furniture as far as he could see. It was a magnificent office, all set off by the deep-pile carpet underneath his feet.

Spreadbury waited hoping his impatience would not show. The bars were open and he had a regular appointment at Harry’s. At last his boss spoke. “Spreadbury,” he intoned. “I have received reports …” he then went on to list the young man’s successes. Spreadbury’s chest puffed out. He loved to be praised.  Maybe this visit would not be a waste of his time after all.

Mr Ponsonby paused and peered closely at the young man standing, hands respectfully behind his back, “But,” he rasped and after taking a sip from his goblet, he listed the junior’s many inadequacies. Spreadbury bit down on his bottom lip, he felt his face flush. His pride was hurt. Such unkind things were said.

Mr Ponsonby was not a man to waste his time. “You are slacking. It will not do Spreadbury,” he grimaced as his stomach rumbled. “Not at all. This must stop. Action must be taken.” He paused and wriggled in his chair. Spreadbury’s mouth opened to argue but just in time good sense prevailed. Mr Ponsonby had spoken the truth.

“You are an Old St. Tom’s man,” he said. Spreadbury was startled by the sudden change of topic. Was this a question or a statement? His face betrayed puzzlement. “You were schooled at St. Tom’s,” Mr Ponsonby repeated, “So you know what to expect.” Spreadbury did not. He did know both he and Mr Ponsonby had attended St. Tom’s, an elite public boarding school for the sons of gentlemen – albeit several generations apart. That was why he had been hired at the firm – the “old school tie”. He watched Mr Ponsonby struggle to his feet. He said nothing as he wobbled across the room and reached the chest of drawers. He reached down and opened the first one. He looked inside, rummaged around and within moments found what he was seeking. He turned and faced his junior employee.

Spreadbury gasped and then a broad smile crossed his face. Mr Ponsonby was holding a long, thin school cane. It even had the traditional crook handle at one end. Spreadbury laughed heartily at Mr Ponsonby’s joke. “Oh my hat! Jimmy Edwards. Whacko!” He smiled as he watched his boss swish the rattan cane through the air, it made a terrific whooshing sound as it flew. Then he saw the expression on the old man’s face. Spreadbury’s smile evaporated.

“What are you blathering about boy?” He flexed the cane between his hands as if testing its strength.

Spreadbury coughed, embarrassed, confused. “Jimmy Edwards, Whacko! From the television. Chiselbury School.” It felt like he was digging himself a hole in the deep-pile carpet. He wished it would swallow him. “He swishes a cane all the time and threatens the boys with six-of-the-best,” he trailed off, his humiliation complete.

Whereas Spreadbury was by nature affable, genial and pleasant, with a ready wit and quick to smile, his boss had none of these attributes. He was dour, haughty, conceited and self-important. He did not watch comical programmes on the television.

“Pah! Such nonsense,” Mr Ponsonby’s once florid face was now puce. “You need to pull yourself together. Stop slacking. Knuckle down to your work,” he growled, all the time flexing the cane between his hands. “I daresay your housemaster must have beaten you many times.”

Now, Spreadbury understood the St. Tom’s connection.

Mr Ponsonby considered himself a fair man. Spreadbury was a fine worker and he would one day be a credit to the firm (and  a considerable money-earner). But, like so many young men these days, he thought, he had lost his way a little. He would benefit from a guiding hand. He needed his comeuppance; to be set back on the straight and narrow. A sound beating should do the trick.

“Stand there,” he pointed with his cane to a clear space in the middle of the office. “Lower your trousers. Bend over. Touch your toes.” Mr Ponsonby was a wealthy, powerful man. It did not occur to him for one moment that Spreadbury would disobey his instruction. He was correct. St. Tom’s had trained them both well. There were rules and they had to be obeyed. Otherwise, anarchy would prevail. There were people who were in control and those who were controlled. The powerful, and the powerless. At this point in his life, Spreadbury knew his place. In time that would change. Who knew one day in the future it might be Spreadbury flexing the cane and a different junior (a St. Tom’s boy, naturally) submitting his backside.

But for now …

He looked around the room. Should he remove the jacket of his suit. Back in the day, a boy would hang his blazer on the housemaster’s hat-stand before preparing himself for a beating. It was part of the ritual. Mr Ponsonby had given no such instruction. Spreadbury would not press the point. He moved to the spot, turned his back to his boss and loosened his belt. He undid the buttons on his fly and let the trousers slip over his knees and down his shins to rest untidily over his shoes. Then, he leaned forward. It had been eight years since he left school and his once supple body had thickened since. At school “touch your toes” meant just that: “toes”. Now twenty-five years old, Spreadbury was unable to accomplish that feat. He reached down stretching his fingertips towards his toecaps, but the effort put a terrible strain on his back and his knees. He settled for a more comfortable pose with his hands firmly clutching his shins. Like that his buttocks were still raised at a convenient angle for Mr Ponsonby to do his duty.

Spreadbury felt no embarrassment, bent submissively to allow an older man to lash a thick, whippy rattan cane across his backside. St. Tom’s was what was called “a caning school”; corporal punishment was the norm. Mr Ponsonby had been correct earlier when he said Spreadbury’s housemaster would have beaten him many times. “There is one consolation,” the young man thought as he waited patiently for the punishment to begin, “at least my underpants are not at my ankles.”

He clasped his shins tightly. He looked hard at the carpet beneath his feet. It was a modern Axminister or some such, he reckoned. He tried to make out the patterns in the red, green and blue colours. He would concentrate on it; it would take his mind off his awful ordeal.

Mr Ponsonby felt no hostility to his employee. A quick dozen applied with beef across the seat of the underpants would buck his ideas up. The lesson would be learnt. Tomorrow would be another day. They would both get on with their work. The money would keep rolling in. He knew this for a fact: he had thirty years of experience to prove it.

His stomach was grumbling, his temperature was rising, the room felt unduly hot. Despite these hindrances, Mr Ponsonby set about his task with vim. He tapped the tip of the cane just below the centre of Spreadbury’s bottom. “Spread your legs, Spreadbury,” he intoned. The young man complied. The cane rose. It fell with a tremendous whoosh and crack. Spreadbury sucked in his breath and shut his eyes tight. That hurt. It had been more than eight years (not counting that little fooling around at the Varsity) since he last felt the sting of the rattan. A second and then a third stroke fell. Mr Ponsonby used all his strength; he might have been beating a carpet.

Already, Spreadbury’s bottom had three deep stripes along the underside of his bum. It hurt terrifically: had Mr Ponsonby taken a red hot poker from the fire and pressed it into his flesh? He went higher with the next set. Now, the backside glowed from the top of the mounds, and over the crowns. Spreadbury’s head ached and his temples throbbed every bit as much as his rear end. Had his housemaster’s beatings (even those on the bare) hurt so much?

Six strokes had been administered. Six-of-the-very-best. Surely, it was over. He waited, breathlessly for the command to stand. The cane whipped him again; the hardest stroke yet. Right in the underside of the cheek. He would feel that one later in the evening as he perched on the barstool at Harry’s.

“Jeez …” Spreadbury clenched his teeth. It wasn’t over. How much more of this could he take? Mr Ponsonby was not a cruel man; nor was he fit. The strain delivering the beating had sapped his energy. He was huffing and puffing more loudly than the young man under his lash. He needed to conclude this punishment. He sucked in a lung-full of air, aimed the cane, raised it and then in a flurry of action bounced the cane off the stretched backside. Whack! Whack! Whack! To Miss Alsop next door it sounded like a machinegun had been fired in Mr Ponsonby’s office. Spreadbury growled, he yelped, and some might say he even yapped as the pain increased into agony.

Mr Ponsonby stopped. This time it really was at an end. The punishment was over. Twelve strokes of the cane had been delivered (and received). He admired his handiwork. Thin lines were embossed across the white, cotton seat of Spreadbury’s underpants. He knew there would be glowing weals, each one painful to the touch. The pain would soon subside to a glowing throb, but the marks would last a few days as a reminder to work harder.

“Stand,” Mr Ponsonby commanded and he turned his back on his thrashed employee and made to return the cane to its drawer. It gave Spreadbury a moment gingerly to rub the tops of his fingers across his blazing bum. It was corrugated and felt like leather. He bent forward to retrieve the trousers at his feet, stretching the flesh across his bottom. It seemed like he had sat in a bathtub of boiling water.

Mr Ponsonby turned in time to see his junior buttoning his fly. The young man’s face was scarlet and his neck was drenched in perspiration.

“Good evening, Mr Spreadbury,” he said and collapsed into the large Chesterfield couch wheezing like a beached whale. Spreadbury stood, uncertain. It took some seconds to understand he had been dismissed. “Thank you sir,”’ he said boldly (as was the etiquette at St. Tom’s) and stiffly he left the office.

Miss Alsop was in the doorway of her room making sure he knew she had heard it all. Spreadbury smiled, tipped an imaginary hat and said, “Have a pleasant evening Miss Alsop,” omitting to add his thought, “you sad old cow!”

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The penny drops

new story 2

z used mowing lawn cutting grass prior to spanking

I had just left my home on Saturday lunchtime to take the dog for a walk when I saw Terry, my neighbour’s son, mowing the small patch of lawn in front of his house. I’ve known him since he was knee high to a grasshopper so I stopped for a chat.

He’s a strapping young man now, as was clear for all to see. He wore no shirt and the physical work of cutting the grass emphasised the muscles in his arms and back. His jeans fitted snugly around his beefy buttocks and he needed no belt to keep them up.

“Hello Terry,” I said cheerfully. I don’t think he heard me at first. Perhaps the noise from the mower was too loud. I tried again. This time he acknowledged me. He seemed a little startled. I had heard from his mother he was doing very well at the university, so I thought I’d pay him a compliment. “Good exam results. Congratulations.”

His face flushed. He seemed embarrassed. He put his head down and continued pushing the mower. He was making a good job of it. When it was clear he wasn’t going to respond to my remark, I tried another tack. “Mowing the lawn.” I said, feeling foolish as it was obvious that’s what he was doing. “Helping your parents out. Good for you.”

Again, my pleasantry provoked no response. This was unlike Terry. Usually he was a very polite young man. Unlike so many youngsters these days, his manners were always so good. I’d always thought he was a credit to his parents. He took the mower into a corner of the lawn and then it was obvious he had completed the job.

“Nice, job,” I said. With his task finished he had no choice but the switch off the mower. “I said, you made a good job of it,” I repeated. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders. I couldn’t remember seeing him mow the lawn before. As I thought about it I realised this was something his father often did on a Sunday morning.

“Is this your job from now on?” my attempts at chatting were going nowhere. He looked over my shoulder towards his house; he seemed anxious. I supposed he wanted to get back inside and get on with his Saturday. I was about to give up on the conversation and take my dog to Widdicombe Wood when the front door of Terry’s house opened. Terry visibly shuddered. Beneath his suntan his face paled. His father stood in the doorway.

I pulled on the dog’s leash and was about to leave when I heard Terry’s Dad say fiercely, “Now, you’ve finished the lawn, get yourself into the garage.” The aggressive tone of his voice startled me. I turned to face him and got another shock. His dad was brandishing a heavy wooden spanking paddle. Terry almost died on the spot. Now, I could see why he hadn’t wanted me to hang around. His face now a deep cherry red, he sloped off to the garage. The door was already open.

His Dad watched his son trudge away. He looked at me and down at the paddle in his hand. He was entirely unself-conscious, but he did not say a word. I was silent too, but I nodded at the wood in his hand in the hope it would encourage him to explain.

“There was a whole gang of them partying at Widdicombe Wood,” he began. I needed no more detail. During the summer evenings some of the kids took their cars to the woods, which bordered The Avenue. They would play loud music from boom-boxes and drink beer. Sometimes it was so loud it disturbed the residents.

“I told him he couldn’t go, Frank,” he continued, addressing me by name. “He disobeyed me and came home well Brahms this morning,” he gripped the handle of the paddle, “What does he expect?” I didn’t answer. It was very clear to me precisely what Terry expected his Dad would do. I shrugged my shoulders and waved my arms making one of those what can you do? gestures.

“A damn good spanking,” he said, as if I hadn’t already received the message. He slapped the paddle into the palm of his left hand. I had never seen a spanking paddle close up, but I do know what they are. In so far as I’ve ever thought about it, I supposed they were something the Americans used. Can you even buy them here? He slapped some more and I could see this one looked like a miniature cricket bat – perhaps it was.

“Can’t stop chatting,” he grimaced, “Got work to do.” I watched him walk over to and then disappear inside the garage. I could hear his muffed voice from where I was standing. He was tearing Terry off a strip. I am not entirely proud of what I did next. I was fully aware what was about to happen. I could have left well alone. This should be an intimate moment between father and son.

Blow that! I thought. A garage with its door wide open into the street is hardly a private space. I edged a little closer. The Avenue is a very select street and many of the houses are hidden behind their own walls or high hedges, I don’t suppose many of my neighbours were aware what was happening. I had the spectacle to myself.

When I reached the garage the lecture was over. I arrived just in time to see Terry spread his legs wide and bend down to grab his ankles. He kept his knees straight and his head low. The muscles in his arms and back rippled. In this position his buttocks were huge, but firm and tight. I had a perfect view, rather like being behind the bowler’s arm (to continue the cricketing metaphor). Dad rubbed the paddle across his son’s bottom; he seemed ready to go. Unexpectedly, he stopped and gripped the waistband of Terry’s jeans. I thought they were tight enough but by pulling hard Dad dug the denim deep into the crack between the cheeks. It was like he had performed a wedgie; from where I stood I could see the outline of Terry’s briefs.

The young man waited submissively, his bottom raised for the swats of the paddle. He made no fuss. It was clear this little drama had been played out many times previously. Dad (I don’t know why I keep calling him that, he’s not my father, his name is Reg). So, Reg rubbed the paddle once more across the seat of Terry’s jeans, raised it high and then swung it down in an arc. The crack as wood met denim echoed around the small garage.

I saw the wood sink into the hard meat, the impact forcing Terry’s body forward a little, but he remained in position. Sweat soaked Reg’s shirt, while his son’s back seemed perfectly dry. Swat two was aimed lower so that it came from underneath and powered upwards. I imagine it left an imprint across the lower buttocks and thighs. It might make sitting down a little uncomfortable.

I don’t know what a paddling is supposed to look like. Until I saw Reg and Terry I had thought nobody spanked their kids these days. It has to be thirty years or more since the cane was banned in schools. I share my ignorance with you because I cannot “review” the spanking. I don’t know if Reg laid it on well or not. Is a spanking supposed to leave the punished boy (the spankee?) in tears? Is that how we measure a “darned good spanking”? I don’t know. I can tell you that Reg whacked what to me looked like a dozen pretty impressive stingers across Terry’s rear end before he let him stand.

The boy’s face was scarlet and I suppose his bum was too. He looked more embarrassed than distressed. I suppose his pride might have been hurt more than his backside; how can you tell?

I could see they were ready to leave, I didn’t want to embarrass Terry more than was necessary so I tugged my dog down the street towards Widdicombe Woods. As I watched it frolic around the trees a sudden realisation struck me, the penny had dropped: now I understood why Terry was always such a polite and well-mannered boy.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Dad, spank me please

Max of ‘The Champion’ 5. The town boss

A punch in the face

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Mr Gregory and the work experience boy

new story 2

z used school office longs cane touch toes sting

Mr Gregory sighed deeply, his eyelids drooped. The office was hot and stuffy. The new central heating was always turned up too high. His throat was parched, his head ached a little (but that was almost certainly last night’s whisky). He let the document in his hand slip through his fingers and flutter to the desk. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be asleep any moment.

The office was large, too big really, he didn’t need much space. He was a boss and, of course, bosses don’t do much work. If you ask a boss what he does, he’ll likely say, “I’m responsible for …” a response to make the questioner retort irritably, “Yes, but what do you actually do?”

Mr Gregory was Administration Manager. He was responsible for all the staff in Administration at Mega Fastenings. That was just about everybody who wasn’t in sales or in purchasing; from the most junior to the senior. One of the juniors was troubling him at the moment.

Ian Norman wasn’t strictly-speaking a junior, he was a student attached for a year to the company for work experience. Mr Gregory didn’t much like young people; he didn’t understand them for one thing. Their daft haircuts, the clothes they wore, the music they played. His had been a mundane life; people his age had never been young. He was born in Bethnal Green, which despite its promising name was not a rural paradise. It was a poor area of London near the docks and heavily bombed by the German Luftwaffe. He left school aged fourteen and drifted aimlessly from job to job. Kids did in those days, there was plenty of work and nobody had much care for the future.

Mr Gregory had lived in Tylesbury for more than twenty years. It was what was still called a ‘new town.’. It had been built in the 1950s to house people cleared from the slums of London. Tylesbury was full of bright little homes for people to live in and factories and offices for them to work at. It was a socialist vision for the future.

He did his National Service in the Royal Air Force. It was in the Pay Corps so there was not much glamour in that. For the first time in his life, Mr Gregory found he was good at something. Mr Gregory was well-organised and meticulous. When he was demobbed he fetched up at Mega Fastenings on the Herbert Morrison Estate in Tylesbury and he had been there ever since; making his way from general clerk to the exalted rank of Administration Manager.

He would never say it out loud, but he resented the hell out of the university students who did work experience. Take Ian Norman, he was close to twenty-one years old and was already made for life. Mr Gregory had checked the lad’s personnel file: posh fee-paying public school; top university. His father was probably some top dog somewhere. In a proper big company, not some backwater like Mega Fastenings.

He resented Ian even more because he was lazy and arrogant. Of course Ian never said anything out loud, but Mr Gregory could smell the scent of superiority on him. He was better than Mega Fastenings, he was here because it was a requirement for his BSc in Management Science (whatever that was, Mr Gregory certainly didn’t know). He’d go through the motions, get his degree and probably daddy would set him up somewhere. Bah!

Well, Mr Gregory’s head nodded over his desk. He would see about that. He had a way to deal with lazy juniors. A tried and tested method. All very informal, of course; nothing written down. It would do Mr Ian Norman a power of good. Take him down a peg. Put him in his place.

The air in the office was muggy, he really ought to open a window. Mr Gregory’s throat was dry. How he could kill for a glass of whisky. A half empty bottle of Bells was in his bottom drawer.

He leaned into the intercom on his desk, pushed down the middle button and sent a message to his secretary. “Get Ian Norman, the work experience boy, to come to my office at five-thirty.” His face cracked. Both his nose and chin were pointed, when he cackled he looked like a witch. “There’s no need for you to be here, Miss Prentice,” he cleared his throat. Outside Miss Prentice glowered. “Indeed not,” she said to herself, “I go home at five.”

He must have dozed off. Before he knew it there was a confident knock on the office door. Mr Gregory started and stared across the room. He found it hard to concentrate. There was a lot of noise from traffic on the estate as people hurried to escape from work. His temples were throbbing a little.

Tap, tap, the knock came again. “Come in!” Mr Gregory’s voice was crisp and clear; it oozed authority. The door was opened confidently. A youth walked in, closing the door. His eyes searched around the room, at first ignoring Mr Gregory. He was looking for a chair, but there was none. He frowned and stood in front of Mr Gregory’s desk, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Mr Gregory drank in the sight. Ian Norman was a little under six feet tall and a little on the stocky side. His hair was short, a crew cut growing out. He wore a white shirt, striped tie and pale grey trousers. If he were a couple of years younger, Mr Gregory thought, he could have passed for one of the senior sixth-formers at Tylesbury School.

Ian shuffled his feet; it was uncomfortable standing like this. In front of the desk; suddenly he had a flashback to one afternoon years ago in his housemaster’s study; it was not a pleasant memory.

Mr Gregory leaned forward; he stretched his arms wide and pressed the palms of his hands into the desk. This way his gnarled, lined face eased closer to the boy. Ian flushed, the stink of Mr Gregory’s breath repelled him. Mr Gregory had a speech prepared. He had memorised the student’s many faults. “You often arrive at work late,” he began, “You disappear for hours on end and nobody knows where you are,” he lied. “Your work is of a very poor standard,” he concluded.

Ian Norman stared in disbelief. He had no respect for his ‘boss’. What a loser. An old man stuck at some godforsaken outpost like Mega Fastenings. He resented being at the company. What could these people teach him. He just wanted the year out of the way, to get the credits on his academic record and move on.

“Not good enough, Mr Norman. Not good enough,” Mr Gregory leaned in closer. “It won’t do. Won’t do at all.” Ian blanched, the foul breath and the stare from the old man’s beady eyes unnerved him. “I intend to write to your supervisor at the university to tell him to remove you.” He sucked on his lower lip, savouring the moment. He had the brat just where he wanted him.

“But …” Ian began a protest. The accusations had shocked him. There was a grain of truth in them but he could not argue. Investigation once started might unearth other things more serious than being late for work.  His cynical indifference to the company and the little racket he had selling stolen company products might come to light.

“Indeed,” Mr Gregory grimaced. “If you return to the university in disgrace it will have a detrimental effect on your studies. I suppose you won’t be able to graduate?” He spoke as if it were a question, but it was a statement of fact.

Ian Norman stood silently. He was in deep water and he knew it. For the first time since his schooldays he was at someone else’s mercy.

Mr Gregory looked the youth up and down. He was a little podgy, and would soon run to fat. A few sessions in the gym or time on the football pitch would do him some good. “I am a fair man,” he intoned, as if he carried all the worries of the world on his shoulders, “I would not like to see a young man’s life ruined over something like this.” He was enjoying this: justice tempered with mercy. How could Ian refuse his offer. “I have my own way of dealing with wayward junior staff …”

He stood from his chair, and ambled across the room, delighting to see Ian’s eyes follow him. “Do you know what that is?” he halted at a wooden cupboard alongside a bookcase filled with lever arch files. He paused, actually expecting a response and when none came he wheezed, “Pah!” he leaned forward, opened the cupboard door and reached in. Ian Norman’s eyebrows arched. He thought he recognised the faint rattling sound.

Seconds later his suspicion was confirmed. Mr Gregory held a thin, whippy school cane. It was just like the one his housemaster used on him. Mr Gregory flexed it thoughtfully between his hands. It was about thirty inches long and as thick as a pencil; it had the traditional curved handle at one end. Mr Gregory swished it through the air.

“I think you know what happens now,” he growled. Usually at this point a junior clerk or whatnot might try a plea for mercy. “It’s the cane or the sack, it’s up to you. Choose now!” Mr Gregory would retort. Ian Norman stared at him sullenly. This was absurd. A twenty-year-old man forced to submit his backside for a caning from his boss. Whoever would imagine such a thing?

Mr Gregory felt the power of his position. “If you would stand on the rug there,” he pointed his cane to a spot in front of his desk. “And bend over and touch your toes please. All the way. Toes, not knees.” It excited him that Ian Norman stood silently. He flexed his cane and studied the young man’s face. He could read his mind. The game was up, the student had no choice. If he wanted his degree and the life he and his family had mapped out for him, he must go through with it.

Ian’s face paled, he turned his back on his tormentor, paused, psyching himself up, knowing matters had to take their course. He took a deep breath and bent forward. Despite his bulk he reached his toes with ease, his fingertips brushed against his shoes, his knees were straight, legs slightly apart. Mr Gregory watched with deep satisfaction. The boy’s bottom was round and beefy. The material of his trousers stretched across his buttocks so tightly Mr Gregory could see the outline of his underpants. He positioned himself to Ian’s side and swiped the cane through empty air one more time before tapping its tip against the centre of the boy’s right bum cheek. Tap, tap, tap. He enjoyed seeing Ian close his eyes and grit his teeth. He pulled the cane away, rose it high and brought it down with tremendous force across Ian’s buttocks. The boy flinched as the pain hit him, his face reddened, his mouth opened and a gust of wind escaped through his lips. A thin white line was embossed along the boy’s tight trousers.

Ian had a close-up view of his striped tie dangling in front of his face. He concentrated on a small stain near the tip. Mr Gregory flexed his cane once more. He looked across at Ian, bent submissively, offering up his backside for punishment.

Ian felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers once more. The first slash had burnt a welt across the centre of his bum; trousers and underpants weren’t much protection. Mr Gregory really laid it on. Any moment now. Ian knew it would hurt. A great deal. Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with even greater power, an inch lower than the first. Ian hissed, his head nodded back and forth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. There was nothing he could do about it.

Another landed. Ian’s buttocks were blazing. Mr Gregory was an expert with the cane.

Swipe number four connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. That was low. Too low, he would have a deep purple mark there. The pain seared. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much.

Mr Gregory paused, allowing Ian to settle down. He took a careful aim, he hadn’t intended to whip the boy across the thighs. That was jolly bad form. He struck the next high, on the top of the curves and was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp. Good, the young pup needs it. That’ll knock some of the arrogance out of him.

Ian breathed hard. Welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants in neat parallel lines leaving a strip about two inches wide blazing across his buttocks. It felt like Mr Gregory had pressed a red hot poker into his bum.

Mr Gregory adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both cheeks, so it went bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Ian tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound, crashing down into the boy’s bum. It connected with the welts already weeping under the boy’s pants, setting each one of them on fire again. Ian gripped his shins. He wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about, or march up and down like a sentry guard. But he managed to stay down. It was over. His bum felt like he had sat on a barbecue, but he had survived.

Mr Gregory slowly paced his office. Opened the door to his cupboard and returned the cane. He turned and looked across at Ian Norman, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively.

There was a sudden rapping sound on the door. It opened and a small, fat woman entered pushing a trolley loaded with cleaning materials. “Sorry Mr Gregory,” she chirped cheerfully, pretending not to notice the man slumped, head down on his desk. “I thought you had gone home. Can I do you now sir?”

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Mr Gregory, the Office Manager

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com