Winker Wilson’s visit

Mr Walter “Winker” Wilson exited the London Underground station and blinked in the early evening sunlight.

It was September and the weather could not decide if it was yet autumn. A gusty breeze welcomed him as he joined the crowds on the High Street. It was not cold enough for an overcoat, but he had the buttons fastened on his suit jacket.

He had not been to this place before. He had been given directions, but he wasn’t entirely sure he could find the house. It didn’t matter yet, he was early. He had twenty minutes in which to complete what should be a ten minute walk.

Wilson wore a blue pin-striped suit and sported a bowler hat. He always carried a furled umbrella, come rain or shine. He would have gone unnoticed in the City of London where he had joined the Underground. But, here in the poorer eastern part of London he stuck out like a sore thumb.

But Wilson, the thirty-six-year-old stockbroker, realised none of this. He was apprehensive about the visit he was about to make. He was unsure why this was so. He, himself, had arranged the meeting. Nobody forced him to be here. He could’ve been on the commuter train to his home in Weybridge.

He partly remembered the way. It went something like this: leave the station and turn right. Cross the road at the lights and take the first turning on the left. After that the details were a bit hazy. Walk down the road for a spell, turn right and then left and the house was in that street. He couldn’t even remember the name of the street, so he couldn’t ask a passer-by for help.

He didn’t want to do that. If he asked the way, he was sure the stranger would read his mind. He would guess his ultimate destination. His secret would be out.

The lights were faulty and the rush-hour traffic was heavy. Wilson had to make an undignified dash between a Ford Anglia and a bus. Otherwise he might be left standing at the kerb all night long.

He tried to look nonchalant, but inside he was churning. He was convinced every face he passed was staring at him. Some were. They rarely saw a toff in a bowler hat in these parts.

He turned left as instructed. It was a long narrow residential road. Large houses, some damaged by wartime bombs, lined the street. Already some had been renovated; small flats and bed-sitting rooms, where large expensive houses had once stood.

The directions were excellent. He found the street without difficulty. He was nearly there. He paused and looked down the road. It was almost deserted. But not quite. Small children played hop-scotch in the road. Two women stood on a doorstep gossiping.

Wilson paused. Did he want to go through with this? Was it too late to change his mind?

He had confirmed by telephone that he was on his way. Mr Teddington was expecting him. He was preparing for his visit. Wilson couldn’t possibly back down now.

The two women roared with laughter when he passed them by. He had raised his hat and bid them “Good evening ladies.”

“Lor,” one crowed, “I’ve neffer seen nuffink loike it.”

Number 27 was his destination. He felt the stares of the women burn into his neck. Did they know where he was going? Had they watched similar gentlemen in the past make the same journey? Would they still be there on the doorstep gossiping when he departed?

The house was shabby. It shocked Wilson, but he wasn’t sure why. What had he expected in a district such as this? It was one of the poorest parts of London and heavily damaged by the Luftwaffe. He stood for a moment on the doorstep. The door was coloured green, but had peeled so badly that blue paint poked through in large patches.

Wilson lost his nerve. This was just like reporting to the headmaster’s study all those years ago at St Tom’s. No, he realised, it had been a mistake. He would go. Later he would telephone and apologise.

Suddenly, the door inched open. A small elderly man, easily in his sixties stood there. He smiled. A weak smile, most of the old man’s teeth were missing. Despite his shortness he stood erect. He had presence.

“Mr Tompkins?” he smiled again. The puzzled look on Wilson’s face did not deter him. Often his gentlemen did not give him their real name.

“Yes, indeed, yes,” Wilson blustered. He felt his face glow scarlet.

“Then please come in.”

It was a surprisingly spacious house and remarkably clean considering the shabbiness of the exterior.

“Put your hat and umbrella there,” Mr Teddington said, nodding towards a table in the hallway.

Wilson did as instructed.

“Now, stand and face the wall. Hands on head.” It was a curt command. Wilson knew that tone of voice. He had endured it many times from masters at school. It was the tone that said, “I am in charge and you will do as you are told. Or else.”

Wilson hesitated.

“You are in enough trouble as it is boy, do not make me lose my patience.”

It was astonishing. Mr Teddington could have been old Flynn, his form master at St Tom’s.

Obediently, he faced the wall and after unbuttoning his jacket so he was free to move his arms, he locked his fingers and placed them on his head. The Brylcreem in his hair felt sticky against his palms.

“You will wait there. In precisely two minutes you will knock on my study door.” He nodded to a dark brown door across the hall. “When I give instructions, you will enter.”

With that, Mr Teddington went into the study.

There was still time to escape. The front door was only yards away. He could be through it and on his way back to the Underground station before Mr Teddington knew he was gone.

He could do that. But he wouldn’t. He wanted this. No, he needed this. It had taken him years to pluck up the courage to make the appointment. He would hate himself forever if he did not go through with it.

He stared closely at the fading wallpaper. There was a faint smell of damp coming from somewhere close by. Even that reminded him of his old school.

With his hands firmly on his head Wilson was unable to access his pocket watch. He improvised. Slowly in his head he began to count. “One … two …”

This concentration helped to steady his rapid breathing but did nothing for his racing heart.

“.. one-hundred-and-nineteen … one-hundred-and-twenty.” He felt like a very small child starting a game of hide-and-seek. “Well, here I come”, he thought, “Ready or not.”

He crossed the hallway to the study. He hesitated. Suddenly and for the first time the absurdity of his situation struck him. It’s too late now he thought and rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Enter!”

It was a clear command delivered in the pompous tone of voice so beloved of schoolmasters across the land. Wilson breathed deeply, turned the handle and opened the door.

Wilson was no fan of science fiction. Had he been, he might have ascribed the scene to time travel. The room was decked out as a schoolmaster’s study. It could have been 1938 again and he could have been back at St Tom’s.

Mr Teddington sat behind a large leather-topped desk. He was resplendent in an academic gown. Like so many worn by schoolmasters, it was old and a bit tatty. On his head sat rather unsteadily a mortar-board cap. The desk itself had two columns of drawers. It probably weighed a ton. A stuffed horsehair chair with low arms and a high back dominated the middle of the room. There were four straight-backed wooden chairs and a low table. Shelves ran alongside the whole of one wall, stacked high with what appeared to Wilson to be pre-War geography textbooks.

Behind the desk attached to the wall was a glass-fronted cabinet. Wilson had never seen anything like it before. Even at St Tom’s none of the masters had such a thing. It must have been specially made. It was a cabinet containing five curve-handled school canes. They were displayed as one might show a prized stuffed fish.

“Stand there boy,” Teddington growled. He pointed to a spot two feet in front of his monumental desk. Obediently, Wilson shuffled into place. He had assumed such a position many times at St Tom’s. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head. It was a submissive posture, appropriate to his status. He was no longer a successful young stockbroker; he was a thoroughly naughty boy.

Teddington jawed him. The list of the boy’s misdeeds was long and varied. What had he to say for himself?

Not much. As all boys seem to do when confronted by such a question, Wilson mumbled, “Don’t know, Sir.”

“Don’t know boy!” Teddington ejaculated. “Don’t know! Well you’ll know what-for soon enough.”

“Look at me boy.” The schoolmaster’s glare roasted Wilson.

Miserably, Wilson raised his head and gazed back at the man who was shortly to thrash his backside. Teddington was small in stature; he was easily two inches shorter than Wilson himself. But, when he was standing he stood erect, with shoulders back. He was a military man of some experience, Wilson supposed. His face was lined and dominated by a hook nose. Untidy side whiskers stretched from under his cap to close to his chin.

“I am going to beat you,” he barked. “I am going to beat you most severely.”

With that, he rose from the desk, turned on his heels and faced the glass cabinet. The five canes were of different lengths and thicknesses. Teddington had already made his choice. He would use his favourite. It was an ashplant of about three feet in length and a little warped from use. It was as thick as a pencil and frayed at the “business end,” a consequence of landing many times with some force across the seat of stretched trousers.

Wilson watched impassively. He had been eighteen years old – a senior man at school – when he had last been beaten. That was half of his lifetime ago. He had missed the sting of the cane. Hardly a week passed by without him reminiscing fondly about St Tom’s. The schoolmasters prefects and the head beak himself strode around the buildings and grounds with a cane constantly under their arms (or so it seemed to the boys) waiting for the slightest excuse to slip it into their hand and apply it across the seat of an errant schoolboy.

Teddington was ready.

“Please remove your jacket and place it on my desk.”

Wilson’s heart raced and hurriedly he complied with the instruction.

“Stand by the chair,” Teddington preferred not to engage in histrionics ahead of a beating, nonetheless he swished the cane at the dusty armchair to emphasise his point.

Wilson took up position.

“Lower your bags and bend over the chair.”

Wilson suppressed a smile. This was the moment he had been dreaming of for these many years. Eagerly, he unhitched his belt, unbuttoned the fly and let his heavy pin-striped trousers fall to his feet.

The armchair had a high back, far too high for even the tallest, lankiest, man-boy to put himself over and stretch out his arms to clutch the seat cushion for dear life.

Wilson knew the routine in such cases was for a boy to drape himself over one of the upholstered arms, tuck his knees into the side of the chair and thereby raise his behind high to meet the thwack of the ashplant.

He was over the chair in a jiffy. His head was down low in the dusty seat cushion and his bottom held high and at an angle; all the better to receive the stinging cuts from the schoolmaster’s whippy cane.

It was an authentic schoolboy beating. Six hard swipes delivered with vim. Each landed across the very centre of both buttocks. It was a “six” laid on with an energy and enthusiasm.

In his imagination, Walter Wilson was once more “Winker,” the incorrigible schoolboy of his youth. He was no longer in a strange house in bomb-damaged London. He was at the elegant St Tom’s school, the educational establishment for the sons of the gentry and the rising middle-classes.

He was showing his arse, but not to a paid professional “master.” In his imaginings it was Mr Flynn, his form master who was about to whip his bottom to shreds.

He shut his teeth and closed his eyes tightly and waited for the first shockwave.

It was not long in coming.

z used drawing cane Mag (37)

It was as if Teddington were beating a carpet. The cane rose and fell in a succession of swipes that sounded like pistol-shots.  As the pain seared from his buttocks and engulfed his entire body, Wilson struggled to stay calm. A chap was allowed to holler when the cane was slashed into his flesh with vigour; it was a natural thing to do; but a chap must not blub. Blubbing was completely forbidden. No matter how severe the whopping, a boy must not weep tears. He would never hear the end of it from his fellows.

It was not merely “six.”  It was as thorough a licking as Mr Teddington had ever administered; such a licking as Wilson had seldom or never experienced before. He yelped and he howled and he squirmed and he roared, and still the cane swiped and swiped.

Then, it was over.

“Stand up boy.” It was a fierce command.

Wilson eased himself to his feet. It had been a long time since he had endured so much pain. Instinctively his palms shot to cover his buttocks.

“Stop that! How dare you!” Mr Teddington thundered. Wilson bunched his hands into fists and placed them at his sides.

“Get dressed. Hurry up boy.”

The pain was excruciating. Had the cane felt so awful when he was at St Tom’s? Memory plays tricks on people; he couldn’t be certain.

The agony was subsiding by the time Wilson was once again fully dressed. He stood motionless as the schoolmaster replaced the cane carefully in his magnificent cabinet.

Teddington turned to face Wilson once more.

“I want you to go into the hallway and face the wall. Place your hands on your head once more,” he barked.

Then he added, “I don’t want to see you rubbing your bottom.”

With his buttocks still throbbing, Wilson exited the study.

He stood as instructed, reliving the events of the past few minutes in his head. It had been an eighteen year wait, but it had been worth it.

Suddenly, the study door opened and Teddington emerged, dressed once again in his “civilian” clothes.

“Come,” his broad smile cracked his rather ugly face, “Let’s have tea. The kettle should have boiled by now.”

This story was first uploaded in April 2016

Picture credit: Charles H Chapman (The Magnet)

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Warren’s awakening

Warren Hunter looked out the bedroom window anxiously. Any moment now his uncle would call him down to the sitting room. It would be a spanking for sure. He couldn’t complain. He knew he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Warren was in turmoil. He was so ashamed. How had things come to this?

He had been sent to stay at Uncle Alfred’s by his mother. She said it would be temporary; a “cooling off” period. But, he knew his uncle’s reputation; his arse would get a “warming up” first.

The row and the tears had been the final straw. He had been giving his mum a hard time for years. He was nineteen years old, there was no way she could control him. He didn’t have the words to explain what was going on in his head. Warren knew there was something wrong with him; but he didn’t know what. He had a crappy job in a supermarket; at home he rowed with everyone; his mum, his two older brothers and even the neighbours. Dad had walked out years ago leaving mum to cope with the kids on her own.

“Warren! Get down here!” Uncle Alfred was at the foot of the stairs. The teenager hesitated. He knew what would happen now. What choice did he have? Take a spanking or not; those were his options. If he did he could stay at his uncle’s place and try to sort out his life. If he didn’t; he’d be sleeping on the streets.

Warren was no philosopher; he wasn’t a deep thinker. If someone told him he was a “pragmatist” he wouldn’t know what they meant. He just knew he had to go through with this. He’d never been spanked before. Hell, he thought, a spanking, how bad could it be?

Slowly he padded down the stairs to find Uncle Alfred in the front room.

A dining room chair had already been placed in the centre of the room. Taking the teenager by the arm, Uncle Alfred led him to the chair and sat down, leaving Warren to stand as his uncle pushed up the sleeves of his own shirt. Then Uncle Alfred leaned forward and removed the bedroom slipper from his right foot.

A shiver went through Warren. His resolve to accept the spanking was evaporating. He wanted suddenly to hang back, to plead for mercy, promise to do better, to do anything if Uncle Alfred would just not spank him.

His uncle was not a pretty sight. He was in his forties and had a large belly that in his present sitting position flopped across his lap. His legs were fat and when his uncle parted them slightly he provided an ample platform for his nephew to drape himself over.

This might be Warren’s first-ever spanking but his uncle was a veteran. He had developed a ritual over many years. Quietly, he spoke, “Take down your jeans.” And when his nephew stared back with alarm, he added reasonably, “You won’t feel a thing with them on.”

Uncle Alfred squeezed the bedroom slipper in his fist and watched the nineteen-year-old fumble with the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t seem able to get his fingers to work. Slowly the fly buttons were opened and the denims slithered down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“Please God,” he prayed silently, “Don’t make me take down my underpants too.”

Uncle Alfred shifted his vast buttocks on the hard chair and straightened his back. He was almost ready to get on with the job.

“OK, over here,” Uncle Alfred slapped his knee to indicate Warren should bend over. It was a simple command, but one his uncle expected to be obeyed. Warren stood his ground, unable to move. Then he took a half step back, as if he intended to run away.

“Doh!” his uncle wheezed. Then, he took hold of the teenager’s arm and forcibly pulled him down across his knees. To break his fall, Warren placed both hands on the carpet in front of him. His legs were left dangling behind him.

Uncle Alfred wrapped his arm around his nephew’s waist. “Keep your legs straight, raise your bottom higher.”

z used otk white pants chair (19)

Warren twisted and turned until he was positioned to his uncle’s satisfaction: head low, bottom high. He could see his uncle’s feet and the ugly carpet. Dust tickled the back of the teenager’s throat

“Spread your legs more.”

Warren gasped as he felt Uncle Alfred grip the elasticated waist of his pants. The thought, “Oh, no! He’s going to pull them down!” flashed through his mind. But instead his uncle smoothed out the cotton of the boy’s underpants, eliminating all creases. Soon, the tight gleaming-white pants fitted the buttocks like a second skin.

“Give me your hand,” it was a final instruction. Uncle Alfred took hold of his nephew’s wrist and turned the boy’s arm up his back. No matter how hard Uncle Alfred spanked him and how much it hurt, Warren was trapped across his uncle’s knee. He wasn’t about to go anywhere until Uncle Alfred said so.

“Right young man this is going to teach you a lesson.”

Then, Uncle Alfred gripped the slipper tightly and put it to work, smacking Warren’s bum soundly and briskly. The teenager winced the moment the first slap hit home. Uncle kept up a momentum. Slap! Slap! Slap! Three on the left cheek: Slap! Slap! Slap! three on the right. With great expertise, he concentrated on the very tender spot where the bottom joins the thighs, dealing out crisp smacks.

Warren screwed his eyes closed with pain each time the slipper crashed into his bum. He was a lean lad and didn’t have much padding in the buttocks area.

One smack followed another as Uncle Alfred put the slipper to use. The pain of the whacking took the teenager’s breath away, but he resolved to remain silent. Warren wriggled as the slipper connected time and again with his buttocks. Uncle Alfred spanked him thirty times or more; then paused to get a tighter grip on the slipper in his hand and then let fly again.

Uncle Alfred hadn’t said how many strokes of the slipper Warren was to get and after a dozen or so, the boy was finding it hard going to stick to his resolve and remain silent.

He let out silent yells as the next three slaps fell in rapid succession, all landing on the same sensitive “sit spot” on the right cheek.

Uncle Alfred set about his task with a will, but he too was silent. The only sound in the room was the thud, thud, thud of his slipper as it hit Warren’s bum.

And so it went on, slap after slap. He was making a good job covering all over the target area. Some spanks went high, some low. Now on the left cheek: now on the right. Warren could feel his bum heating up with the punishment. It would be red raw by the time Uncle Alfred had finished.

Then, without warning, he took hold of the top of Warren’s pants and pulled them down, not too far, but enough to expose both cheeks. The boy grunted. Uncle Alfred resumed the slippering, perhaps twice as hard as before.

Warren raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he bit his lip so did not make a sound.

On and on he went, spanking Warren’s bare arse. His body was making involuntary movements with pain, but his uncle still had the boy’s arm pinned.

Warren’s shoulders and head jerked high as each blow from the slipper struck his bum.

His eyes were watering, but he told himself, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand much more without breaking down.

The humiliation was intense. There he was a nineteen-year-old man draped helplessly across Uncle Alfred’s knee, trousers at his feet, bare bum in the air, getting spanked like a little kid. His face was as scarlet as his battered bottom.

To Warren it seemed like an eternity, but the slippering lasted less than three minutes.

“Now, boy, you can stand up.”

In considerable pain, he rose from his uncle’s knees. Instinctively, his hands shot to rub his blistered backside. But, connecting his hands with the raw flesh only increased, the pain, it did not relieve it.

Warren was breathing hard, he was sweating badly and his eyes were full of tears, but he was not crying. His resolve had won through.

He twisted his body to inspect the damage; his buttocks were a deep cherry colour.

Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants. Uncle Alfred remained silent. He had delivered his punishment and as far as he was concerned it was all over. Until the next time.

Warren bent to his ankles and recovered his jeans. His hands were shaking, but he managed to button up the fly and buckle his belt.

“Go to your room.”

Warren took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door into his bedroom. Within seconds his jeans and pants were back at his ankles. He pointed his bum at the dressing table mirror and traced the contours of his buttocks with his fingertips. The pain had mostly gone, but he found it would return if he pressed into his bony globes. He did and it felt really good. Warren had never looked at his bum before; not closely. It was almost totally bald; there were some wisps of hair in his crack that he’d never noticed before.

It was quite small. He could cup a cheek in the palm of one hand. There wasn’t much “give” either. Unlike his fat uncle, Warren was lean and wiry.

The teenager leaned forward and thrust his buttocks at the mirror. Without warning his cock stood stiff. Whoops. It always did have a mind of its own. It had embarrassed Warren on numerous occasions.

He lay on the bed and stroked it, reliving in his mind the past ten minutes. He imagined what he must have looked like draped over his uncle’s lap; bum held high. The more he pictured the more his todger ached.

Somehow, he knew this wasn’t the end of it. There’d be more spankings before he could demonstrate he was mature enough to be allowed home. Or would there? Maybe next time it would a more severe punishment.

Warren closed his eyes and saw himself bent over the back of the old worn green settee in the living room. Uncle Alfred stands behind him swishing an old-fashioned school cane. Warren’s trousers are at his feet; his pants at his knees. His bared buttocks are raised high. The teenager’s head is low, he is almost chewing the cushion.

Uncle taps the cane gently across the centre of the cheeks. They vibrate gently in anticipation of the searing pain to come.

Uncle lifts the cane high and brings it crashing down.

Back in the bedroom Warren shot a load all over his tight flat stomach.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Gareth learns his place

new 5

Gareth Williams, aged twenty-four, junior sales executive, gazed vaguely across the office. It was full of young men just like himself; clean shaven, closely-controlled hair, dark suits, sober shirts. It looked like they had been manufactured in packs of twelve. The office was hot and it was mid-afternoon, he was bored to distraction and there were still two hours before he could escape. The buzzing phone on his desk jolted him back to consciousness. He picked it up. He nodded in response to the terse message he received and replaced the receiver.

Jason Bragg who sat at the desk opposite smiled wearily. Gareth answered the unasked question, “Quarterly performance review?”

Jason nodded, his bright open face registered concern,  “First one?”

“Yeah,” Gareth replied nonchalantly.

“Good luck,” Marcus, the only non-white man in the office, drawled.

Gareth rose from his chair. Jason whispered something to Marcus that Gareth could not hear. The pair exchanged knowing looks. Jason mouthed the word, “Ouch.”

Gareth left the office confidently. A performance review, what possibly could go wrong. He had been at Tilotson’s for a little over two months. He wasn’t the best sales executive they had but he thought he couldn’t be the worst. He had a strong opinion of himself. He had been quite a star back at university, they tipped him for great things in the future. But jobs just now were hard to come by and a young man had to start where he could. He wouldn’t be at Tilotson’s for long, he fervently hoped.

It was a short walk to the office of Mr Wilkinson, the sales director. He passed a man about his age and dressed almost identically to him shuffling down the corridor in the opposite direction. His face was flushed and he seemed to be in some discomfort. As he drew closer Gareth saw he was close to tears. They didn’t exchange words as the young man bowed his head and quickened his pace towards the stairwell.

Miss Begg, the sales director’s secretary, was expecting him. Although she was not much older than Gareth, her severely-cut suit, the hair pulled into a bun and the grey spectacles that perched on the end of her nose made her look like a young grandmother. She didn’t greet him beyond smirking, “He is waiting for you. Knock and go straight in.”

Gareth saw no reason not to do so and he breezed to the door, rapped twice confidently and swung open the door. Mr Wilkinson was seated to attention behind a moderately-sized desk. When standing he was a tall man of about forty-five, broad and sunburned, his fair-to-blond hair was clipped close to his large but not ugly head. His steely blue eyes glazed. People meeting him for the first time often assumed he was something in the Royal Navy.

As Gareth entered Mr Wilkinson leafed through a folder of papers on his desk pretending to read although what he said later showed he had already absorbed them. Gareth looked around the office searching without success for a chair to sit on. His boss read his mind, “Stand there,” he nodded to a spot in front of the desk. Gareth edged up and stood awkwardly, he wasn’t sure where to put his arms. Should he stand like a soldier at attention, or lounge casually with them dangling by his sides? He settled for holding them behind his back while standing easy. Mr Wilkinson glared at him as Gareth made up his mind.

There was an uneasy silence. Gareth had enough sense to keep his mouth shut. Mr Wilkinson had called him to the office it was up to him to start the conversation.

Mr Wilkinson once again looked through the report, his face darkening as he went. For the first time that afternoon Gareth sensed an unease. Something – he didn’t know quite what – was wrong.

At last Mr Wilkinson put the report down. He glowered at the sales executive and said, “Your record since you started employment with us has been poor. You have failed to meet targets and your timekeeping record is very patchy indeed.” He paused expecting Gareth to deny his accusation but the young man remained silent. There was very little he could usefully say since Mr Wilkinson was correct in every particular. Gareth’s record was poor indeed.

Gareth was surprised at his boss’s attitude. It reminded him of something that might happen at a school. An idle pupil summoned to the headmaster for a wigging. A telling-off.

Unperturbed by Gareth’s silence, the sales director continued, “It is not the record that we expect at Tilotson’s. We expect our employees to work. That is why we pay them. We have very clear rules here,” he leaned forward across the desk for emphasis, “very strict rules. We expect you to obey them. If you don’t you must face the consequences.”

Mr Wilkinson spoke as if making a speech and in a way he was. Gareth was not the first wayward employee he had dealt with and he wouldn’t be the last. He finished and again waited expecting Gareth to respond. When still he didn’t the boss suspected he was displaying dumb insolence.

“So what?” he told himself silently. “He will change his tune before I’ve finished with him.”

He shook his head and sighed as if some huge weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders. His face was grave, “So I intend to cane you.”

Gareth snorted, unable to contain his incredulity. “What?” he snapped.

Mr Wilkinson’s face clouded, “You heard me well enough Williams. I am going to beat you.”

Gareth struggled not to burst out laughing. Only the stern expression of the boss behind his desk stopped him. He gathered himself, he was a strong-willed young man and he showed it now. “You seem to be under the misapprehension that this is a school,” he stated boldly. “I am twenty-four years old and this is an office.”

Mr Wilkinson shook his head sadly. “I heard that you had spent much of the past few years living abroad. Studying mostly I believe?”

Gareth nodded eagerly. He had attended one of the most prestigious universities in the United States. If asked, he would frankly say that he was far too good to be working at a place like Tilotson’s. But needs must, jobs were hard to come by these days.

Mr Wilkinson had not finished talking. “What you fail to appreciate,” he said, “Is that laws have been passed while you were away that specifically allow me to take the course of action I intend. That is to cane you.”

Gareth’s mouth gaped. Could this be true? Before he could ask his question, Mr Wilkinson filled in the details. After Britain left the European Union the country had a new government. The New Democrats were elected on a landslide. High on their ticket was law and order. Especially where it related to young people. “Believe me young man, you are not the only one to come under this law. Schoolboys, students, apprentices and young people more generally can be subjected to corporal punishment for any number of reasons,” Mr Wilkinson lectured.

He paused to allow the full impact of his words to sink in. He saw Gareth’s face blanch. Yes, the twenty-four-year-old now had the full picture.

Since Gareth remained silent, Mr Wilkinson continued, “Your background prior to joining us here at Tilotson’s suggests you could become a very useful asset to the company. I have the authority to dismiss you right now, but I am going to give you a second chance. A short, sharp shock is what you need,” Mr Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed and he looked down his long, thin nose at Gareth, “A short, sharp and very painful lesson is what you need, young man.”

Gareth stood shellshocked. He was dumbfounded. Was this really happening? Could it possibly be an elaborate joke? Were there hidden cameras around him? Were they filming one of those ‘gotcha’ programmes for cable television?

“So there you have it,” Mr Wilkinson rose from his chair and walked around his desk and stood alongside Gareth. “A sound caning should do the trick.” He crossed the room and halted at a tall, narrow cupboard. Gareth watched in shock as his boss put his hand in his trouser pocket and after rummaging around for a moment withdrew a ring containing several keys. He seemed to know immediately which one he needed and he thrust it into the lock on the cupboard. The door fell open.

Gareth’s heart raced. He craned his neck to see what the cupboard contained but Mr Wilkinson’s body obstructed his view. He didn’t have long to find out. Mr Wilkinson reached inside the cupboard creating a dim rattling sound of wood against metal. The boss withdrew his hand and when he turned and faced Gareth he was brandishing a thin, whippy school-type cane.

Gareth’s eyes popped. He had never seen anything like it before. Mr Wilkinson took it in both hands and showed it to the young man, flexing it menacingly. It was about a metre long and as thick as a biro pen. It was dark yellow in colour and Gareth saw it had a number of notches along its length. One end was curved into a handle. Mr Wilkinson let go of the other end and keeping a firm grip under the handle he swiped the cane through the empty air. It made a terrific swooshing sound as it flew. Gareth’s heart skipped a beat.

Mr Wilkinson took three steps across the office and stood close to Gareth. “It’s bit stronger and whippier than the canes they use these days in the schools. It’s designed for the older boy, or young adult. I believe they use canes like this in the new youth detention centres – or whatever it is they call them these days.”

Mr Wilkinson swished the cane once more and looked sternly at the young man standing before him. “Twelve strokes, I think,” he said calmly and with authority. “That should buck your ideas up no end.”

Gareth’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. What could he say? He was guilty as charged, he couldn’t deny that. Did he have any choice but to obey? Mr Wilkinson quietly reminded him of the realities. “If you do not accept your deserved punishment, you will be sacked. Think carefully about that. You will not be entitled to welfare benefits and you will find it nigh on impossible to get further employment. You will quickly become destitute. Then you will be taken into one of those youth work camps. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”

Gareth’s legs wobbled. He steadied himself before he fainted to the floor. A beating. Twelve strokes? That wasn’t a beating, that was a flogging. How could he possibly withstand that?

Mr Wilkinson was a man of experience. Gareth was not the first young man he had encountered in such a situation. There had been many and all of them – every single one – had capitulated to his power. They had no choice. He glared at Gareth as if he was trying to burn into the young man’s soul. “Stand by there,” he pointed his cane at a small desk at the far end of the office. Gareth’s legs were jelly, he couldn’t get them to move.

Mr Wilkinson sighed noisily, “It would be better if you followed my instructions. Let us get this done and dusted with the minimum of fuss.” It took a superhuman effort for him to get his legs to obey his brain but at last Gareth stood where instructed.

“Good,” Mr Wilkinson tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major on parade duty. “Now I want you to take down your trousers.”

“But. No, but,” Gareth couldn’t help himself. He had to complain. He couldn’t do this. Not trousers down.

“Young man,” Mr Wilkinson made no attempt to supress his sneer. “Up and down the country people such as yourself are being ordered to drop their trousers and their underpants,” he paused to let that sink in. Then, he continued as if demonstrating his benevolence, “I do not require my lads to bare their backsides. I believe that is a little too immodest. I’m sure you would agree.”

Gareth hated his boss’s oiliness. The bastard had complete control. There was not one thing he could do to stop him. He had total power. He was the master. Gareth was the subordinate. No, more than that: Gareth was the slave.

“Take down your trousers please, Williams,” Mr Wilkinson slipped the cane into his hand and swished it through the air. “I would be so much obliged.”

Gareth’s trousers were snug fitting and needed no belt. All he needed to do was to pop the catch at the waistband and tug the zipper and they would hurtle to his feet. His hand shook beyond his control. He couldn’t get a grip.

“Would you prefer that I undid your trousers for you?” Mr Wilkinson said and before Gareth who was now in deep shock could furnish an answer, his boss had taken hold of the young man’s waist and unbuttoned him. The zip fell swiftly and the trousers slithered down Gareth’s thighs and bunched at his knees. He stood humiliated, his head buzzed and he was certain his face was on fire.

“Bend over the desk,” Mr Wilkinson spoke with great authority. He was the boss; he was in charge. He expected to be obeyed. He knew from experience he would be obeyed. No young worker in the past had dared to disobey.

Gareth stood unsteadily, the room seemed to be spinning. The floor was where the walls should be and the walls pulsated. He shook his head vigorously to try to regain some sense. Mr Wilkinson flexed the cane thoughtfully, studying the young man before him. He repeated his order, “Bend over the desk. This instance.”

Gareth looked down at the desk. It was tiny and might have been made from a kit from Ikea. It was low and he was quite a tall young man. Bend over. How was that done exactly? Should he lay flat across the top with his legs dangling over the ends? Was he supposed to rest his stomach on the edge and stretch his arms to grab the far end of the desk?

Mr Wilkinson had seen it all before. Young men called to his office for their first thrashing rarely knew the protocol; the correct procedure for presenting their bottoms submissively for the attention of his whippy cane.

“Place your elbows on the desk, arch your back and stick your bottom out. Open your knees but don’t stretch your legs too far,” Mr Wilkinson gave precise instructions and Gareth, now on some form of auto-pilot obeyed. “It helps if you grip the sides of the desk,” Mr Wilkinson said kindly, “when the beating starts,” he added softly.

Gareth was in position. Mr Wilkinson tucked the cane under his arm and walked to the far end of the office. By doing this he was able to get a full view of the young man. Gareth was thickset and had until recently been something of a soccer player. Mr Wilkinson noticed the muscles rippling beneath Gareth’s shirt. His buttocks were beefy and bent over as he was they filled out his cotton shorts. His legs were hairy and, Mr Wilkinson supposed, his buttocks were much the same.

z used cane white pants desk office sting

Gareth’s breathing was uneasy. He closed his eyes tightly in a useless attempt to pretend he was anywhere but bent submissively across the desk in his boss’s office waiting to receive his first-ever caning. He sucked down on his bottom lip. Perspiration seeped from his scalp and within moments the back of his neck was drenched.

Mr Wilkinson let the cane drop back into his hand and slowly approached Gareth, all the time watching the young man’s beefy bum twitching in anticipation of the ordeal ahead. He stood for a moment to Gareth’s left side. He could smell the young man’s fear. Gareth wore a smart dress shirt and its tail was long and hung over his bottom. Carefully, as if handling a priceless relic, Mr Wilkinson took hold of it between finger and thumb and gently raised it away from the seat of the young man’s shorts. He folded it back exposing a few centimetres of bare, hairy flesh.

Mr Wilkinson was almost ready. He took a stand a metre or so to Gareth’s left and carefully placed the cane across both buttocks, aiming at the fleshiest part of the bum. He tap-tap-tapped it softly and was delighted when Gareth’s whole body tensed. “Twelve strokes,” he announced as he lifted the cane away from the meaty cheeks. He held it at about shoulder height and let it wobble for a moment. Then, with a twist of his body – rather like a golfer taking a swing – he unleashed it at great speed and power and slashed it across Gareth’s backside. A thin line where the cane struck immediately showed across the tight underwear.

Gareth heard the crack of cane on cotton-covered flesh a mini-second before he felt the pain. “Arrrrggg,” the response to agony escaped through his teeth. It felt like his boss had laid a red hot wire across his bum. His hips wriggled and his head shot up and shook about wildly. He gripped the edges of the desk as if his life depended on it. It had been a good tip from Mr Wilkinson. Only by holding on tight did Gareth stop himself jumping to his feet and hopping around clutching his burning bottom.

“Steady.” Mr Wilkinson tapped the cane once more. This time a little lower than he first strike. It landed in the undercurve of the bottom; on the sensitive sit-spot. Gareth howled. His knees buckled and he collapsed across the desktop, whimpering like a little whipped puppy.

Mr Wilkinson stood back to admire his own handiwork. “You felt that,” he said pompously, “Good. That is the point young man. I wish to ensure that this is the first and the last time I have to do this sort of thing. I don’t expect to see you back here again. Now, lift that bottom of yours.”

Gareth forced himself back into position. Mr Wilkinson tapped the cane, took aim and let fly with slash number three. This one went high and it seemed to Gareth that the whole of his backside was ablaze. Was this what it felt like to be forced to sit in a vat of boiling water? Tears flowed uncontrollably. His throat was raw. His head ached terribly. The room continued to spin.

Pain is a strange thing. With three stokes delivered and nine still to come, Gareth, if he had any capacity for thought at that moment, might have expected the pain to increase exponentially (as the mathematicians would say) with each new lash so that it got worse and worse until the agony was beyond endurance and he fell into a dead faint.

But no. The pain seemed to reach a plateau. It was bad, terribly bad, but it got no worse. Was this what was meant by a ‘pain barrier’? Each successive stroke was landed with energy and vim. Mr Wilkinson never let up. He was a man with a mission. Gareth thought his bum had swollen to twice or three times its natural size. It ached like crazy, but after about the fifth stoke it also had gone unaccountably numb. It throbbed. The buttocks pulsated. They burnt. Thick welts weeped beneath his cotton shorts. The surface of his bum now had the consistency of leather. But, the pain did not increase.

Twelve strokes of the cane across the underpants is a severe punishment, even for a twenty-four-year-old and Gareth was a virgin to corporal punishment. He cried quietly, tears rolling down his face. He tried to suppress it but was unable to stop the sobbing.  And he couldn’t stop the sniffing nor the noise in the back of his throat as he strained to gulp in the air his lungs needed. He tried to keep as quiet as possible but his whimpering seemed to echo around the large office.

Mr Wilkinson stood impassively observing Gareth gasping for breath like a beached whale. He allowed himself a sardonic smile. A job well done, he congratulated himself silently. This young man would work harder in future. He would observe the rules. Mr Wilkinson assured himself Gareth would become a model worker. After all was said and done, the young man had very little choice.

“Stand. Get dressed. Go. And I don’t want to see you back here again.” Mr Wilkinson was sharp. He had no qualms thrashing the backsides of errant employees, but he always found the final scene of the little drama awkward. He preferred his victims to get out of the office without undue delay.

Gareth gripped the sides of the desk and using his elbows as levers he struggled to get his body into an upright position. His knees wobbled and he fell backwards landing on his savaged backside. He yelped with pain and rolled onto his side. He scrambled to his knees and then hanging onto the desk for support he climbed to his feet. He bent double his head between his knees as he swallowed down lung-fulls of air. His heartrate slowly recovered, but his head was still light. The room didn’t spin so much now. With trembling hands he found his trousers and hoisted them up. The cloth aggravated the welts across his bottom when he pulled the waistband tight and buttoned up.

Mr Wilkinson was at the other side of the office, back at the cupboard, replacing the cane. Back in its home, until the next time. Gareth wiped a gob of snot from under his nose and with great difficulty waddled towards the door. The cuts on his lower bottom chafed as he groped towards the exit.

He made it through the door. Outside in the corridor he stumbled and held onto the wall. The coast was clear, nobody was about. He could not be seen. His hands gently massaged the terrible burn in his backside. He knew that sitting down would be out of the question for most of the day. He did not yet know it but by the next morning he would still be sore but the worst would be gone. The stripes would go from red to black and then yellow during the next few days but it would be almost two weeks before the marks disappeared completely.

He composed himself as best he could and slowly, agonizingly shuffled back towards his office. As he stumbled along he saw another young man almost identical to himself come from the stairwell and pass him on his way to the sales director’s office.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The office manager

Warren’s awakening

Caning for England

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Strict landlords- the compilation

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles

 Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

Picture credit: Kernled

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

Paul and his landlord 2

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

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

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

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

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

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

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

My First Time

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

My house. My rules

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

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

The broken window

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

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

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

No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

Picture credit: Unknown

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

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

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

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

Kevin’s landlord

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

 

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

Click on the link below

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

Other stories involving landlords you might like:

 

The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The cunning plan

new 5

z used cane (94a)

I made a fist with my right hand, rapped on the dark-oak door and strained to listen for the imperious command from within. It came immediately for I was expected. “Ent-ter!” the headmaster boomed. I surprised myself by my own calmness. I was entering unchartered territory. I took hold of the handle and pushed. The door was heavier than I anticipated and I had to put my shoulder against it. When it gave way unexpectedly I half tumbled into the study

The headmaster glared from behind his desk. Meekly, I pushed the door shut behind me.

“There!” he bellowed, snapping his fingers to indicate I should stand on the rug before him. I obliged without question. Humbly, I held my hands behind my back. My gaze did not leave the old man.

Dr Butterworth was dressed in a dark suit over which he wore a formal black academic gown. He was nearing sixty years of age. He was over six foot tall and as bald as a badger. When the weather was hot and he did not wear his mortar-board cap his head was often sunburned, which caused a lot of amusement among we boys. Round rimless glasses perched on his hooked nose and his moustache gave the impression that a small bat had landed on his top lip.

I had never been summoned to the headmaster’s study before so I was entering new terrain. This was more than fifty years ago and mine was an old-fashioned Grammar. They said they could trace its history back hundreds of years. I doubt much had changed in that time. The buildings had ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows. The schoolrooms were large and draughty. This was in the days before they built the science block and multi-purpose sports hall.

The study was imposing befitting the status of the headmaster. To the rear of the desk was a mantelpiece on which stood a number of cups and trophies. Framed photos of rugby teams lined the panelled walls. It was spring and the large open fire was unlit even though there was a definite chill in the study. In one corner was a hat-stand and dangling from it ready for action was a stout crook-handled cane. It is a cliché but my heart really did skip a beat when I noticed this weapon of punishment. I had never been caned, but there was no doubt that was about to change.

Dr Butterworth did not speak, He held a sheaf of papers in his hand and affected to study them intently. He tore his attention away from the papers and glared at me. A lump formed in my throat.

His eyes returned to the file. I waited submissively. I looked what I was, a typical boy from the professional classes. We were an elite school and it showed in our uniform which was a blue blazer with gold stripes, pale-grey long trousers, black lace-up shoes, a gleaming white shirt and a striped tie. On my head was the blue-and-gold hooped cap they forced us to wear.

The headmaster examined more papers and then, very abruptly, he slapped them down on his desk. The glistening spectacles were removed, meticulously folded and placed beside the papers. His claw-like hands met and clasped each other on the polished surface of the desk, and the clear icy blue eyes fixed their penetrating gaze on me. I swallowed hard. The headmaster breathed deeply and clearly irate he moaned, “Three detentions this term.”

There was a pregnant pause. I twisted my fingers behind my back. Was that a question? Indeed I knew it to be a fact. “Yes sir,” I mumbled.

“Pah! Twice found smoking cigar-rettes.” He rolled the word cigarettes around his mouth with relish. “Twice!” he exploded. “And once for disrespecting Mr Albertson the maths master. What was all that about boy!”

I explained I had been cheeky to him when he caught me reading the Football Monthly at the start of his class. The headmaster gurgled. I couldn’t be sure if he was upset that I had been reading, or that my choice of magazine was the Football Monthly. I didn’t feel able to question him on the point, so still I do not know.

The headmaster grimaced as if he had accidentally sucked on a lemon. “Three detentions,” he grunted. “You know the rules.” I did but he was about to confirm them to me anyway. “A caning. Six strokes.” He hauled himself from his padded chair. I watched as he smoothed down his academic gown before slowly traversing the study to the hat-stand. He reached up and grabbed the cane, like plucking an apple from a tree. He turned to me and flexed it between his hands. Even from a distance I knew this was an awesome rod. It was dark yellow and as thick as a pencil. I guessed it to be more than three feet long, not counting the handle.

Dr Butterworth swished the cane gently through the air as if getting its measure. I saw then how worn and warped it was. This cane had seen some action. I imagined generations of boys before me. All standing on the same spot. All waiting for the headmaster’s command.

His command to me came quickly enough. “Stand in the middle of the room. Face the window. Bend over and touch your toes,” he hissed. “And toes, means toes,” he snarled. I took a deep breath. The middle of the study was devoid of furniture so there was plenty of space for me to bend and for the headmaster to swish his whippy cane through the air. I noticed at that moment how high the ceiling was.

I walked to the spot and reached for my toes. My cap hurtled to the floor. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten to take it off my head. “Leave it be,” scolded the headmaster. He took up position to my left and began to saw his cane across the centre of my buttocks.

I was fifteen years old when that happened. I think I had realised I was entranced by corporal punishment a couple of years earlier. I would dream of visits to the headmaster’s study or of being taken across the knee by my Uncle Reginald and having my pyjama bottoms taken down. For some reason I cannot explain I never imagined being spanked by my father.

Corporal punishment was not used in my family, even when my brothers and I drove mother and father to distraction. It took me a while to work out that I could engineer a visit to the headmaster’s study at school. There were so many rules it was impossible for any boy to keep to them all. There was an elaborate series of available punishments ranging from the mildest awarding of demerits through writing lines and attending detentions. At the apex of all this was corporal punishment.

Some bright spark had ordained that there would be an automatic caning for three detentions. That made my task all the much easier. After that first time I treated myself to a visit to the headmaster’s study once every term. Dr Butterworth never suspected. Or at least I assume not. If the cane was supposed to be a deterrent against bad behaviour it obviously wasn’t working in my case. Who knows? Perhaps he knew more than he let on. I’m sure I wasn’t the only boy in the school who was a repeat visitor. Did they share my interests? I wish there had been some way available back then for me to find out.

Dr Butterworth retired by the same time I was in the sixth-form and his replacement a Dr Bludginton was an equally enthusiastic caner. He also believed in what today we call ‘equal opportunities,’ by that I mean he was not averse to caning senior boys as well as juniors.

My last visit to the headmaster’s study occurred when I was eighteen and on the cusp of taking my examinations and leaving. We had a small number of formal classes and a lot of so-called study periods. I took to escaping school during these times which was strictly against the rules. Well, boo-hoo. What are you going to do? Cane me? Please!

Bludginton took the bait. The fact that I had all but given up performing my duties as a prefect would have helped his decision to beat me. He was a much younger man than Butterworth, and it was common knowledge among the boys that his right arm was somewhat stronger than his predecessor’s. I looked forward to the new experience.

Where Dr Butterworth was a touch-your-toes man, Bludginton preferred to order a chap to drape himself across an armchair. There was a marvellous padded leather effort in the study. Its arms were high enough to accommodate the junior boys while we taller seniors were ordered across its back.

I wondered whether the new headmaster would allow that the sixth-form boys were seniors and accordingly treat them more harshly. I would gladly lower my trousers and offer him my bottom clad in tight, white cotton Y-front underpants. And, if I could plot a repeat performance before it was time to leave school I’d happily take Six across the bared buttocks.

I plotted a cunning plan. After Dr Bludginton had jawed me about my rule breaking, he announced the inevitable. I was to be caned. He moved over to the low armchair at the furthest end of the study, swung it round and pushed it into the centre of the room. He picked up his cane – the same one old Butterworth had used for many years – and whacked it across the back of the leather chair. “Bend over,” he intoned.

In one smooth movement, I walked to the chair, halted about two feet from its back and swiftly took hold of the buckle of my belt. It was loosened in moments. I popped the button at the waist of my pale-grey trousers and undid the fly. The weight of the belt and some coins in a pocket helped the trousers slip swiftly to my knees. I spread my legs and they continued to my shoes. I gripped the tail of my gleaming white shirt which hung over my privates and buttocks and lifted it clear of my Y-fronts, then I dived over the back of the chair, took hold of the cushion and spread my legs.

Dr Bludginton had a perfect target. I was growing out of the pants so they clung snugly to the contours of my buttocks. At home earlier I had set up mirrors so I could observe myself bend over the armchair in the living room. If I say so myself I looked terrific.

In the study I looked down at the cushion waiting patiently for the first swipe across the underpants. Nothing happened. I heard floorboards creak, Dr Bludginton was pacing the study. Perhaps he was admiring my young, lithe body submissive in underpants. I supposed I would do something similar in his position.

He was breathing heavily, like an asthmatic without his inhaler. “No, no, no,” he gasped. “This will not do. No. Stand up boy.”

I stood my ground. I was not ready to give up quite so readily.

“Stand up, stand up,” he spluttered.

Still I did not move. If this was a contest of wills I intended to be the victor.

“Stand up!” he almost shrieked. Unnerved, I pulled myself to my feet and stood, trousers still at my feet. Dr Bludginton’s face was as scarlet as I’d hoped my bottom would be.

“No, no, no,” he was dumbfounded.

A sudden thought struck me, “But sir,” I purred, “This is how Dr Butterworth did it,” I grimaced, “Trousers down, sir.”

Dr Bludginton’s eyes popped. He suspected it was a lie. He blustered, “No. No, I don’t believe it.” His head shook violently, “That’s not true. It’s simply not true,” he protested. “Get dressed, get dressed,” he was becoming hysterical. “Now. Get those trousers up boy.”

Reluctantly, I reached down and pulled the trousers up. At a snail’s pace I tucked in my shirt and rebuttoned the fly. I still hoped he might relent and whip my backside on the pants.

Dr Bludginton watched me with fear in his eyes. I didn’t think it then, but looking back I wonder if he thought I was setting him up for blackmail. Caning a senior boy on his underpants was irregular. A schoolmaster might end up in the law court for less.

The new headmaster relaxed visibly when I was again fully dressed. I waited head bowed a little embarrassed that my trick had been uncovered. I waited for him to order me back over the chair. Maybe, I thought he would award me extra strokes for my hoax.

Dr Bludginton smiled, a broad, open grin. At that moment I knew I had been rumbled. He chortled quietly and walked across the study to return the cane to the hat-stand. When that task was completed, he turned to me. “No caning,” he said. “Not now. Not ever. Not for you.” I felt my face hot with embarrassment. My mouth opened, but I bit back the plea I wanted to make.

“Instead,” the new headmaster had not finished, “You will write me a four-page essay entitled, ‘The pitfalls of corporal punishment.’ By next Monday. You are dismissed.”

“No,” I wanted to beg. “Please don’t do this to me.”

“Go lad, now.” Dr Bludginton held open the study door. Crestfallen, my legs like lead, I shuffled from the room, never to return.

In videos these days I have seen many scenes where headmasters cane their naughty boys with trousers and pants down. Alas, that never happened in real life – or at least not at my school (worse luck!).

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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Rock ’n’ roll truants

You, called home

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Still spanked in short trousers

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z used otk school white pants taking down chair sting

Fred and Jim were in the Three Fishers bored out of their skulls and not talking about much when Jim suddenly piped up: You still keeping your lad in short trousers?

Which one? Fred inquired.

The eldest, Gavin.

Yeah, he’s left school now, nearly nineteen.

So it works then?

Oh yeah. He got through his exams and everything.

I thought you might have given up now.

No. It keeps him out trouble. Off the streets. He’s not going to want to go out at night dressed up like a little schoolboy. His mates would crucify him.

No, I see that.

You should try it with your Kevin. I hear he’s been seen drinking down here.

I know. But …

It’s easy. You can buy the short trousers on the internet. Proper ones, just like the boys wear at school. Even in Kevin’s size. I think it’s because even small kids today are really fat.

Well, I suppose I need to do something about Kevin.

A good hiding wouldn’t come amiss.

But he’s eighteen.

So what. I still spank Gavin.

Get away.

Yeah, why not? When he deserves it. Which is quite often, actually. D’you know what, I saw they were selling those old fashioned whippy canes on eBay like they used to use in schools back in the day. I’m thinking of getting one for Gavin if he doesn’t buck up his ideas.

I wouldn’t have the nerve.

Well … Start as you mean to go on. I still use the rubber-soled plimsoll. The one Gavin had for PE at school. A big heavy one. Works a treat. Packs a right punch.

What he lets you spank him?

Lets me? He doesn’t have much choice. My house. My rules. He knows that. It always has been, always will. He’s working now. He can leave home if he wants to. But even then, when he comes back to my place he has to behave himself.

Sounds fair enough. So you say you spanked Gavin. What, recently?

Last week. Sunday,

What’d he do?

Usual stuff. That was why I had to take him across my knee. He needed a reminder.

Reminder?

Yeah, like a wake-up call. He needs to come home for his meals. Liz cooks and he doesn’t turn up and it all gets wasted. Then, he never lifts a finger around the house. I told him it was his job to take the Hoover around the carpets every Saturday. Did he do it? Did he hell. Then last Saturday night – well Sunday morning actually – he rolls home drunk as a skunk. Couldn’t get his key in the door. Rings the bell wakes the whole house up. Well, after that what did he expect?

So what? You spanked him.

Too right. I waited until he had sobered up and I sent him off for a shit, shower and shave and I said, Get into those short trousers and then come down to the living room.

And he did?

Course, he did. No question about it.

So he comes down and he’s in the full togs. Neat grey short trousers, grey shirt, tie. The lot. He’s quite a big lad as you know, but when he’s dressed up like this it’s like he’s ten years old. That’s why I make him dress like that – he’ll never dare go out like it. What would people say?

And then what happened?

Well, I told him why he’d been a bad boy. Never doing the Hoovering, not even keeping his own room tidy. The drinking. He went red as a beetroot when I told him Liz had found a stinky wodge of tissue under the bed where he’d been wanking.

Oh my God! If it’d been me I’d have died of shame.

Ha! Ha! Well after I told him that he was putty in my hand. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He would’ve done anything I asked.

So what did you ask?

Same as always. Not asked, exactly. Told. I said, right let’s have them shorts down.

Shorts down!

Oh yeah. Those short trousers are pretty thick. They’re made to last ain’t they. Extra thick on the seat. Great for sitting down. Not so good for spanking. So down they have to come.

And he did?

Did what?

He took them down. Did as he was told?

He had to. He knew full well if he didn’t take them down, then I’d do it for him. And, he bloody well knew if I took his shorts down I’d take his pants down as well and he could get it on the bare bum.

Blimey!

Exactly. He didn’t want that did he?

No, he did not.

So, he does as he is told. Undoes the thing at the waist. Pulls the zipper and the trousers fall down.

I can’t believe this.

What’s not to believe? He’s done wrong. He has to be punished.  He knows that. If he doesn’t want to be spanked he just has to do as he’s told. So, now he’s standing their wearing old-fashioned Y-fronts.

What the white ones?

The very same. Like I say, just like a little boy. So I sit on a chair and I tell him bend over my knee.

And he does.

Without a murmur. Let’s be honest, he’s been here before. It’s not the first time. He knows what to expect. And over he goes. And I get to work with the slipper.

What is it six of the best?

Six! Nah, six wallops won’t make much impression. Six is only getting started. You wouldn’t cover all his backside with six. Not both cheeks. Takes a lot more than six.

Oh. How many then?

I’m not sure to be honest. I’ve never counted.  I start right in the middle of each bum cheek and then kind of work my way out. The middle, the top, the bottom – as it were – you know under the cheek. That sit-spot. That’s where my dad used to spank me. Hurt like mad every time I sat down for the rest of the day, know what I mean?

No, not really.

What you never spanked? Never spanked Kevin, neither?

No.

Explains a lot. Why your Kevin’s a bit of a tearaway.

Well …

Give him a good hiding. Like I do with Gavin. I roasted his backside with that slipper. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hurt like the fires of hell. Even with a big lad like Gavin. His big old bum was bucking up and down and his legs were kicking. Ha! I had to hold him really tight round the waist to stop him running away. He kicked so hard his short trousers went flying across the carpet. I hammered that slipper all over his BTM.

BTM?

BTM. His bottom. Bum. Posterior. Call it what you like.

His arse.

Well there’s no need to be crude.

Sorry.

And he’s still struggling. Kicking. Hollering the lot. He brings his hand back to try to stop me. That’s pretty hard to do because I’ve got him right over my knee. You know his face is nearly in the carpet and his bottom is pointing at the ceiling so it’s not easy to get your hand back there. But he keeps doing it and I warn him not to, but it makes no difference.

No it won’t. I suppose it’s hurting him a lot.

Yeah, of course. That’s the whole point ain’t it. A spanking is supposed to hurt, otherwise why bother.

Yeah, sorry.

So I warned him but he just kept on trying.

What did you do?

I’m coming to that. I took hold of the waist of his pants. Ha! You should have seen the way his body froze. He knew right away what I was going to go. No, no, please, not that, he yells.

Too late lad.

You took the words right out of my mouth. So I pulls them over his big butt-tocks and drag them down to his knees. Of course, he struggles all the more now.

He would. Who wouldn’t?

And that just encourages me. I grip that plimsol and I put all my effort into it. Whack!-Whack!-Whack! Fantastic! I could see the imprint of the sole glowing bright pink on his bare backside. What a sight! I toasted those butt-tocks good and proper. The spanking of a lifetime it was.

Sounds like it.

I’d still be there now, hammering away, but Liz heard all Gavin’s hollerings and she came in and made me stop. Still I made my point. He won’t want to go over my knee again anytime soon.

I don’t blame him.

Yeah, spanking works. Mark my words.

Okay, I believe you.

Oh look. There’s your Kevin just came in the bar. I thought he was supposed to be revising for his exams.

He is. Bloody hell.

Want a borrow of my plimsoll?

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Caught drinking beer

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Mr Harding parked the car in the driveway of his house. His head throbbed. It must be the flu, he feared. Better to leave the office behind, take a few aspirins and get into bed. He unlocked the front door. As he headed for the stairs he saw the door to the kitchen was ajar. The house should be empty. What was going on? Stealthily, he approached wondering if he had burglars.  He needn’t have worried. It was his nineteen-year-old son Lucas. But, why wasn’t he at college?

Mr Harding’s temper was already frayed and he let fly, “What are you doing at home during the afternoon? What the hell have you got there! Drinking. I thought we agreed no more drinking during the day. Not after you were arrested for drink-driving. I just cannot believe you.”

Lucas shrugged his shoulders and drained the bottle in his hand.

“Don’t shrug your shoulders at me. How many of those have you had? Are you drunk?” Mr Harding fumed. “Look at you. You’re nineteen years old. You’re supposed to be at college and here you are skiving off classes. You can’t be trusted. I’ve tried to treat you like an adult. To give you responsibilities. But look at you. This is how you behave.”

Lucas could not hide his indifference. It was like a red rag to a bull. His father waved his arms hysterically,  “You don’t give me much choice do you? If you can’t behave like an adult, I’ll have to carry on treating you like a child won’t I?”

It wasn’t really a question but Mr Harding paused in the hope he might get some response from his surly son. When none came Mr Harding’s temperature rose another ten degrees. “Yes. You know what that means don’t you. You’ve only got yourself to blame. God knows I’ve tried with you and this is how you repay me.”

Suddenly Lucas’s ears pricked up. He had only been half listening. Now he was getting his father’s drift. His eyes widened and his jaw sagged. “But …” he wheezed, but his father was now on a roll.

“Spanking. I thought we were done with this, but clearly we are not.”

“I’m too old for this,” Lucas had found his voice.

“No, you are not too old for this. You’re too old for this when you demonstrate to me you can be trusted. Put that beer bottle down.”

Lucas stared at the label of the bottle in his hand as if only just realising it was there.

“Now! …. I shan’t tell you again.”

Hurriedly, the boy but the bottle on the table. He watched his father pick up a straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room.

“Right stand up. Come over here.”

“No!” Lucas protested. “What for?”

“You know what for. Now, come over here. Get across my knee.”

“No, you can’t. You can’t.”

“I can and I will.” Mr Harding gripped Lucas by his left wrist and pulled him forward. The nineteen-year-old struggled hard but his feet slipped on the shiny floor tiles as he resisted and he toppled forward. Soon he was face down over his father’s knees: head low, bottom high in the classic ‘naughty boy’ position.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. Skipping college and drinking during the afternoon. You deserve all you get.”

Mr Harding held Lucas tightly around the waist. The teenager wriggled and writhed but he was going nowhere. His bum was wide and meaty and his buttocks filled out the seat of his denims. A perfect target Mr Harding told himself as he raised his hand high and brought it down hard across his son’s left cheek. Then he raised the hand again and motored. Slap after slap rained down across Lucas’s bum. It was like machinegun fire.

Lucas did not take it well. “Stop that noise,” his father fumed. “You deserve this. A damn good spanking. I should have done this before. When you got arrested for drink-driving. I know you got fined and banned but think of what might have happened. You could have killed somebody. A child. You stupid oaf. I should have taken my belt to your backside then.”

Mr Harding slapped his hand into Lucas’s hard bottom. His palm was hurting badly. He hoped he was having some effect on the boy’s backside. Just then, the front door opened and his wife appeared. She stood, mouth gaping in the doorway to the kitchen.

z used otk jeans kitchen sting 4

“I came home early and found him at home. Skiving off college and drinking beer. After all that trouble before,” Mr Harding told her.

His wife watched her husband’s hand as it pounded into the seat of Lucas’s jeans. “You’re wasting your time with that. You’re not getting through. You’re not hurting him one little bit.”

Mr Harding paused in his efforts. “What’s that? … Yes, I think you’re right.” He looked down at his son sprawled across his knee. “You’re not really feeling this are you?” He looked over at his wife. “Hey, love can you go fetch your hairbrush. You know that big black one. The heavy one that used to be your grandma’s. That’ll make an impression.”

Mr Harding continued spanking his son’s bum as his wife hurried from the room. His hand was definitely hurting now. Lucas’s hips bucked and his hips swayed. In a moment he was likely to topple off his father’s lap and land in a heap on the floor.  Just then his wife reappeared. In her hand she brandished the hairbrush. It was a monster – easily thirty centimetres long with the handle. The head was oval shaped and measured about ten centimetres across. She held on tightly to it and tapped the head into the palm of her hand demonstrating how heavy it was. It made a fantastic spanking implement.

Mr Lucas stopped spanking. “Right you. Get up.” Sourly, Lucas climbed to his feet. He saw the mighty brush in his mother’s hand and considered making a run for it.

His father had other ideas. “Stay where you are. I’m not finished yet. Not by a long way. You’ll regret skiving off college and drinking beer before I’m through with you young man. You need to learn a lesson and by God I’m going to teach it to you.”

Mr Harding took the brush from his wife and waved it close to his son’s face. The boy blanched. He had felt the power of this brush before. He had hoped never to encounter it again.

Mr Harding smacked the brush into the palm of his hand. “Right you. Let’s have those jeans down.”

Lucas said nothing but the look on his face spoke volumes. “Yes,” his father confirmed. “Right down.”

“No, but Dad, c’mon,” Lucas had found his voice.

“Don’t you dare argue with me. Take them down. NOW! Do you want me to get your mother to take them down for you?”

Lucas’s face was already scarlet. The force of the spanking and the acute embarrassment he felt did that. He fumbled with his jeans.

“No,” his father growled, “I didn’t think so. Get them down. All the way. To the ankles.”

The jeans puddled at the teenager’s feet.

“That’s right. Good. Be thankful you’re not taking your pants down as well. I’d happily give to a bare-bottomed spanking, but we need to spare your mother’s blushes. Right. Now bend across the kitchen table. Yes. The table. Stop whining please and just do it.”

Mr Harding watched dispassionately as his son waddled the three or four steps needed to get to the table. The jeans snagged around his ankles and nearly sent him toppling face-down to the floor. Lucas stood hesitantly at the table. He looked forlornly across at his mother, his eyes appealing to her to intervene, to stop his father spanking his bottom with the heavy hairbrush. He got no joy from her. Her face was grimly set. Lucas needed his backside blistered and she was glad her husband had the courage to do his duty.

Lucas looked at his father, now brandishing the hairbrush threateningly. He was raring to go. He tested the weight of the brush in his hand. Sadly, Lucas lowered himself forward. His stomach and chest rested on the cold wood. He hesitated a moment working out in his head where he should put his arms. He decided to reach forward and grip the far edge of the table top.

His father waited for his son to settle before approaching. Lucas had submitted himself to the deserved punishment. His bottom twitched in anticipation of the pain to come. Mr Harding was almost ready, but not quite. Lucas’s body tensed when his father gripped the elasticated waistband of his cotton underpants. He gasped, fearful that his father had changed his mind and he was going to bare Lucas’s buttocks.

He needn’t have worried. His father took the waistband and pulled hard. The cotton underpants now fitted snugly against the buttocks. The cheeks were lifted and separated and the crack between them was clearly visible under the cloth. Now satisfied, Mr Harding tapped the head of the brush against the fleshiest part of the left buttock. He took his aim, raised the brush high, paused for a second or two with it in the air and hammered it down with all the force he could muster. It sank into the left cheek. Lucas opened and closed his mouth but managed to stifle the yap his body insisted he make.

The second whack – this time on the right cheek hurt just as much. Mr Harding pounded the brush across Lucas’s backside all the while scolding his son.

“That’s hurting I see. Good. It’s supposed to, otherwise we’d both be wasting our time. I hope you feel ashamed. Look at you, bent across the kitchen  table with your jeans at your ankles. With your bottom in the air. Getting a spanking, like a silly little boy. Well, young man, let me tell you, if you do not buck up your ideas and start behaving around here, I’ll have you across this table again and again. And I’ll do it until you learn. Don’t think I enjoy doing this because I don’t. I do it because I love you. We love you. Your mother and me. We want you to grow to be a good man.”

Mr Harding increased the force and the speed of the spanks. Lucas kicked his legs. He wriggled his hips. His privates humped the side of the table. His hands gripped the far edge, his knuckles turned white. His head nodded up and down until he was headbutting the tabletop. He had no breath. The pain in his backside spread across his body. His head ached. His eyes watered. He bit down on his lower lip; anything to stop himself crying out. And still, his father walloped that brush at full pelt into his bucking bum. And still, he scolded his son.

“We want you to be a credit. To yourself and to us. And if that means I have to spank your backside until it’s black and blue, well that’s just what I’m going to do. Remember, this is for your own good. If you don’t want to go through this again, all you have to do is behave yourself. Do you think you can do that?”

The doorbell rang. Mr Harding broke off his lecture. He looked quizzically at his wife. She dashed to the window. “It’s my mother. What does she want?”

Her husband frowned. “Blast. Wait a second. She can’t see this. I’d die of shame if she knew we still had to spank Lucas at his age.” He pounded the brush across the boy’s bottom one last time. “Right lad. Get up and get dressed. You’ve been saved by the bell. Get dressed quickly. It’s over. Go to your room. Stay there until we call you down to meet your grandmother. Remember it’s over this time, but I won’t hesitate to have you back over that table again. Now skedaddle!”

He turned to his wife, “Go open the door love. Your mother will wonder what’s going on.”

Lucas rushed from the room and took the stairs two at a time. He crashed through the door of his bedroom and threw himself face down on the bed. He rubbed and rubbed at his aching arse. Later he would inspect the damage in the mirror. The oval head of the heavy hairbrush was imprinted all across his buttocks and the back of his thighs. The whole area was one continuous red blotch. Mauve marks were forming at the edges. It would take days for them to clear. The pain had already turned to a dull ache but it would reignite every time he sat down on a hard surface for the rest of the day.

He buried his head in his pillow and let the tears of shame and embarrassment soak it.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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The Gaffer of The Academy 3. Caned-off

Perils of drink-driving

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com