The cricketer

z used drawing cricket BOP (2)

He was about twenty years old; I was old enough to be his father. I was the coach at the Brocklehurst Cricket Club Colts – a rather archaic name for the youth team. I was a big cheese at the club on account of my time playing for the county side. It made me a “gentleman”. And, in cricketing circles in those days that meant a lot.

Robbie Renaud was a dish (I know it sounds a bit girly to say that but even the boys could see that). He stood about five-feet-ten with broad shoulders and narrow waist. He played a lot of cricket (naturally) but was also something of a long-distance runner. All that fresh air and exercise gave him a delicious peaches and cream complexion, overlaid with a sun tan. He loved to smile, a cheeky impish grin. His brown eyes shone constantly and his chestnut hair flopped wildly around his forehead, but never encroached over his ears. He could have been the poster-boy for all those young cricketers schoolboys loved to read about in their storybooks.

It happened one day in late August. It had been an exceptionally hot summer and Robbie who was down from Cambridge for the long vacation spent much of his time at the club. The Colts had one of their most successful spells in their not-so long history. God was in his heaven and everything was as it should be. That’s when it happened.

Alderman, a rather useful spin bowler, had been the first to notice. Money had gone missing from his jacket pocket, which had been left hanging in the changing room. It was only coins and would probably not have been noticed, except that the few coppers represented Alderman’s bus fare home and it was all the cash he had brought with him. Of course, we said he must be mistaken, was he certain he hadn’t forgotten to put the money in his pocket when he left home? Nobody wanted to admit that there was a thief among us.

The following week more money went missing. It could not be ignored. Had a sneak thief managed to infiltrate the clubhouse while we were out in the nets? We would not countenance the possibility that one of our own was responsible. We were gentleman after all.

My cigarette lighter proved to be the final straw. It wasn’t an expensive piece, I often suspected it was made of old iron, it was so heavy and (frankly) ugly. But it was mine. It was also very conspicuous. Unlike the small amounts of cash that had been stolen this would not be so easy to dispose of.

I spoke with Porter, our head groundsman. Something had to be done. I suggested a search of the premises. Porter was a sergeant in the War and I a major. He knew his place and set about doing this without demurring.

We kept the boys out of the clubhouse and I let Porter get on with it. We sat in the late afternoon sun. Some of the boys were impatient. We had finished match practice and they wanted to be off. Many had mothers at home waiting to serve tea. One or two had dates with lady friends.

About ten minutes later Porter emerged ashen faced from the clubhouse. He took me to one side to be out of the hearing of the boys. He was as embarrassed as hell. “I don’t know what to say, Major,” he said. “Spit it out man, we haven’t got all day,” I responded.

His face sweated and his ears were pink with embarrassment. He put his hand in his trouser pocket and brought out a dark-grey object. “Is this your cigarette lighter, sir,” he asked demurely.  “Yes, by jove, it is,” I asserted, “Wherever did you find it?”

He blushed more deeply. “Well, sir,” I could see he could hardly bear to tell me, but he found fortitude and did so, “there’s the rub, it was in the jacket of Mr. Renaud.” His voice trailed off sorrowfully.

Aha! So our star player Robbie Renaud was a thief and caught red handed to boot.

“Whatever shall we do, sir?” Porter seemed genuinely concerned. There was, I told him only one thing for it, “We shall have to inform the police.”

“Oh, no sir, we couldn’t do that, think of the scandal.”

Maybe he had a point, but then again as scandals at youth sporting clubs went this was very small beer.

“I believe Master Renaud is doing well at the university,” Porter continued. I noticed but made no comment that our groundsman had demoted him from “mister” to “master” but I let the matter go. Porter continued, “He plans a career in the law, as a barrister.” I failed to see the point of all this and told Porter so.

“His career would be in ruins before it even started. He couldn’t have a criminal record,” the groundsman informed me. He had a point. So what did the fellow think we should do?

“Well in the Army days, as I’m sure you know Major,”  I noticed the emphasis he had placed on my military rank. “We had a way of dealing with matters in the barracks informally, if you know what I mean, sir.”

I truly did not and I was getting impatient, as I’m sure so were the boys in the cricket team.

“Oh spit it out man, what are you trying to say?” I let my exasperation show. Porter was miffed. He sniffed, “Well, Major if we had any trouble in the barracks; and we had one or two tea-leafs I have to admit, we would give them a damn good hiding.”

I supposed the puzzlement showed on my face because he immediately clarified. “A beating, Major. Generally we used a heavy leather belt. There in the barracks.” He could see I was intrigued by now. “Bare arsed, as it were,” he coughed politely perhaps realising it was not the “done thing” to swear in front of an officer.

“Do I understand Porter you are suggesting that we punish Renaud in such a way?” I asked although I knew damn well that’s what he was saying. He nodded gruffly.

“You had better ask Renaud to see me privately, I’ll be in the club secretary’s office. Porter scuttled off.

Moments later I luxuriated in a large soft leather chair and examined the young man standing awkwardly before me. I had said previously he had the body of a schoolboy sporting hero. That remained the case, but now also he had the demeanour of the schoolboy himself. Maybe sixteen years old, standing in the housemaster’s study for a wigging – and maybe much more beside. I told him the facts of the case. My missing  cigarette lighter had been found in his jacket pocket. He denied it. I was a little disappointed. He was an ex-St. Tom’s man, which was my old school too. If there was one thing we learned at St. Tom’s it was honour. We took our punishment, which at that very traditional English publish school meant a thrashing with a whippy ashplant cane.  I was ashamed of the young man in front of me.

“Well, you leave me no alternative,” I sneered at him, “I must inform the police.”

“Oh no sir, please, no.” I had elicited a reaction. “Not the police, sir.” I did not have to prompt him, but he gave the same explanation that Porter had. Any whiff of legal scandal would put paid to his dream of the Bar. His father, a distinguished “silk” himself would be devastated. He would discontinue paying his university fees and the boy would have to get a job. And, for someone of his class that could only mean exile to a colony. “Yes,” he conceded, he would take a beating.

Now, I don’t want to say too much about this, but it so happened that the club had a number of school canes tucked away in a cupboard in the club secretary’s office. As I had intimated many of us were ex-public school men.

“An exemplary lesson must be made,” the tone of my voice mimicked that of H. R. C. Masterton, my housemaster at St. Tom’s. I say so myself, but when I choose to show it I have a very impressive presence. Renaud blanched, genuinely fearful of my next sentence. “You will be caned in front of the entire team.”

I let that sink in. Renaud’s ears turned a cherry red and his eyes welled. I hauled myself from the huge leather chair and headed for a cupboard at the far end of the room, where as expected I found three school canes. Unlike those we suffered at St. Tom’s these were not made of local ashplant, but were of sturdy, but whippy rattan, imported from one of our colonies somewhere out East. I took hold of the thickest of the three and held it between my two hands and flexed it. It had the effect on Renaud I desired. He blanched a little and looked down at the floorboards beneath his feet. I am sure he was no stranger to the sting of the cane. What boy at St. Tom’s had not felt the rod applied with some force against his stretched buttocks? It was that kind of school. It built men.

I was anxious to get on with this and instructed Renaud to follow me across to the clubhouse. This he did following at my heels like an obedient dog. Porter, anticipating my decision had kept the cricket colts behind. I swiftly informed them of the happenings of the previous few minutes and informed them of my decision. A dozen or so faces around me brightened. An Englishman likes nothing more but to witness the discomfort of another. And, let me share with you, how much more enjoyable it is when one as distinguished as the best cricketer in the team is on the receiving end.

There was a long wooden table along the centre of the room, it would prove prefect for my needs. “I want you to climb onto the table,” I intoned, “and lay flat across it.” I had no intention of instructing him to “bend over” in the more traditional style. The room had a tall roof and I knew I should be able to swing the cane high and flog it down with maximum force into Renaud’s meaty buttocks without touching the ceiling.

What colour he still had drained from his face, but I had not yet finished. “But before you do that, I want you to lower your trousers. Right down to your shoes.” There was a gasp from some boys and I looked up to see Alderman beaming with delight. Oh, I wondered, what rivalry was it that existed between the two boys? It probably transcended cricket.

I had said earlier that Renaud had not impressed me with his honour. I take back that criticism now. He undid his wide black belt. It must have taken tremendous fortitude to do so, knowing that all his teammates would witness his humiliation. I (seemingly) absent-mindedly swished the cane through empty air, waiting for the twenty-year-old to prepare himself. With surprisingly steady fingers (I thought) he unbuttoned his cricket whites and opened them up affording myself and his fellow teammates a fine view of his cock and balls encased in soft white cotton. Grim-faced he put his thumbs inside the trouser waistband and with a mere flick of the wrist sent his whites south where they formed a puddle on top of his shoes.

Neither looking to left or right and thereby ignoring his audience, Renaud climbed on the table. It was old and rickety and it swayed as he moved to settle himself into position that I wondered if it might collapse under his weight. Instinctively he stretched his arms in front of his head and gripped the far end of the table; the muscles in his back rippled underneath his white cotton shirt. I took a moment to drink in the sight. This was some athlete prostrated before me. His muscular body was exposed to my gaze. I leaned forward and gently took hold of the tail of his shirt and folded it up his back away from the target area. I took a deep breath and reached for the waist of his underwear. He wore modern elasticated Y-fronts. I pulled the waist a little and the cotton clung more to the contours of his bottom, creating a kind of ravine at his crack.

I moved back away from the table and picked up the cane once more. Renaud’s bottom stiffened, it was preparing to receive the first tremendous swipe. “Relax,” I told him. He didn’t seem to hear. In any case his bum stayed tight as I tapped the cane gently across the very centre of both cheeks. The flesh was solid, it felt like I was rapping my rod against a solid rubber ball. I raised the cane to ceiling height and with a slight twist of my body I brought it crashing down. A perfect hit. We all saw a welt rise beneath the tight white cotton. Renaud’s body shuddered, his head shook and his fingertips gripped the table edge more tightly.

I counted to fifteen in my head and went again. The second stripe hit an inch or so below the first. The cricketer wriggled his hips and his legs flailed behind him, but I thought he kept remarkably quiet considering the searing pain he must be enduring. I counted again in my head, while also looking at my audience. A boy called Robinson had his hands folded in front of his crotch; his eyes were damper than Renaud’s.

The third hit a little above the first. He now had three deep cuts running parallel across his backside. A spot of blood was turning his crisp white underpants pink. His face was as scarlet as I presumed his bottom to be. He bit deeply into his lower lip, stifling the howls that surely his body demanded he make in response to the agony it endured.

I slashed number four low, into the crease where the bottom meets the back of the thighs. His body shuddered and his legs flew again. His head hammered up and down as it butted the top of the table. Still, almost total silence, save for the gulps he made as he desperately drew air into his lungs.

I am not a cruel man: ask the men under my command in the war if you disbelieve me, but I do believe in doing things thoroughly. That was why for my next stroke I repositioned my own body slightly and placed the cane in such a way that it lay along a diagonal from the bottom left cheek up to the top right. The crack of the cane elicited a satisfying yowl from Renaud. I had broken him at last. He emptied his lungs, as well he might since that swipe had landed across the previous four cuts reigniting the pain in all of them. A pink stain spread over the snugly-fitting underpants.

You have probably already guessed what I did next. You would have done the same in my place. I moved myself again and this time placed the whippy rattan along the opposite diagonal. By the time the lash struck the meaty backside Renaud had a perfect “X” emblazoned across his bottom.

There was, naturally, a repeat of the howling. Tears and snot flowed down his beautiful face. His hair was soaked with sweat and his shirt stuck to his muscular back. From my close vantage point I saw welts had risen under his Y-fronts. They would be with him for many days and serve as a continuing reminder of this severe thrashing.

Six-of-the-best is the standard tariff for such a beating and I was content at that. I handed the cane to Porter who unsure what he was expected to do with it simply tucked it under his arm.

“That is it. It is over,” I said quietly. The boys from the cricket club took this as their cue to leave and the room emptied.

“Take the cane back to the secretary’s room,” I instructed Porter and he too left. I was alone with Renaud. I watched in silence as he climbed off the table and onto his feet. He was sobbing, but seemed to be regaining some control. Without looking at me he tugged up his trousers, wincing as the heavy material made contact with his scorched backside. He did up his wide leather belt and waited. The silence lasted for some seconds, before I realised he was waiting for me to speak.

“You are dismissed,” I intoned rather pompously and Renaud shuffled from the room in intense discomfort. I waited a full minute and when it was clear nobody was going to return to the clubhouse, I loosened the front of my trousers to deal with my own discomfort, not once reproaching myself for planting the cigarette lighter in Renaud’s jacket pocket.

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Footballer’s judicial caning

Missed Opportunities

Lazy students home for the hols

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

 

The choice is yours

Jason and Chris stood awkwardly, hands behind backs, eyes downcast. The principal was mad – if not, he was a pretty good actor.

“Senior boys acting like juniors!” he raged. “Fighting in the corridors!”

Jason looked at his partner in crime through the corner of his eye. “Too true,” he thought. “And if that faggot looks at me that way again, I’ll cripple him.”

Principal Golightly rose from his chair. He was an elegant man in his fifties, with premature silver hair. He was lean and fit, which is more than could be said for most of the other teachers at Rosewood College. Golightly took care of himself.

He ambled across his office and stopped by the far wall where his eyes ran along the shelves as if he had never seen his books before. Jason hopped from one foot to the other. His legs were tiring. He wished Golightly would just get on with it. What would it be? Detention? An essay? Why it is wrong to settle our differences with violence – a title like that.

Golightly turned his attention away from his book collection and faced his two eighteen-year-old students. He paused, weighing his words carefully. “I shall give each of you a choice,” he said, his voice sonorous. He paused again as if for dramatic effect. He had both teens’ attention. “You may take swats or attend Saturday morning class.” He paused once more before reiterating, “The choice is yours.”

He delighted at their shocked expressions. Jason’s eyebrows arched. Principal Golightly could read the boy’s eyes. “What the fuck?” they said, but Jason himself remained silent. Chris was the first to speak. “It’s against the law.”

I am the law at Rosewood,” Golightly drawled. He delighted in the ensuing silence as Chris’s face blushed scarlet.

“Well Manor, what’s it to be?” the principal stared intently at Chris although he already knew the answer. What eighteen-year-old would submit himself to the principal’s paddle. Taking a spanking was beneath their dignity.

“Saturday detention,” Chris croaked, and then after a beat or two, he added the obligatory, “Sir.”

Principal Golightly’s nose wrinkled. He turned his attention to Jason. “And you Taylor?”

Jason mind whirled. Saturday morning detention. No way. He had discovered a neat little bar off Main Street where the university girls went. Jason was five-feet-ten, with broad shoulders and trim waist and the most beautiful ass. The girls loved him. He could have his pick. He would be screwing some girl on Friday night and be in no fit state for school on Saturday.

His choice was not as the principal put it. For him it was not detention or the paddle; it was sex or no sex. A no brainer. Jason took a deep breath and as confidently as he could, he said, “I’ll take the swats, Principal Golightly.”

The principal hoped he didn’t look as astonished as he felt. This hunky eighteen-year-old was prepared to offer up his ass to the wood. To let a much older man blister his buttocks. Well, well, well, he thought, and he had supposed that Chris Manor was the gay boy here.

Principal Golightly straightened his shoulders. “Very well,” he intoned imperiously. “Manor, you should leave us.” He needed no second telling and within seconds Chris was on the other side of the door. Realising he was quite alone in the corridor, he put his ear to the door.

Inside the office, Jason stared ahead, determined to go through his ordeal with some dignity. He had never been paddled before; nor to his best recollection had he been smacked. Not ever. Not even as a little kid.

Principal Golightly walked slowly across the office to a long, narrow table. He delved his hand into his pants pocket and found a key. Jason watched intently as the silver-haired man unlocked the drawer, opened it, reached in and withdrew a heavy wooden paddle. It was awesome; easily eighteen inches long and maybe four wide. And drilled into its blade were a dozen holes. Jason wouldn’t know this (not yet, at least) but the holes were there to combat wind resistance and make the paddle fly faster through the air. The holes would also add to the blisters that he would carry on his backside for some time to come.

Principal Golightly caressed the wood, rubbing the tips of his fingers along its entire length. It was as if he had never before seen it. Then, he tested its weight and seemingly satisfied, he held it in his right hand and smacked it firmly into the palm of his left. Jason watched transfixed. It needed little imagination to conclude this was a mightily effective punishment tool.

“Put that chair in the middle of the room,” Principal Golightly nodded to an ordinary office chair. The command startled Jason and at first he was unsure what had been said. “That chair. There.” The principal waved his paddle at an area of rug. Jason fully awake now took hold of a small straight-backed chair. It was very light and he had it in place in no time.

Principal Golightly caressed the paddle some more. Jason watched him closely. The old man seemed to be contemplating. Was he having a discussion inside his head? Perhaps he was, and very soon Jason discovered the outcome of the interior dialogue.

“Stand in front of the chair.” Jason did as he was told. Why was his heart thumping? The palms of his hands were sweating too. “Now take down your jeans and bend over.”

“What the …” Jason’s mouth formed the words but no sound passed his lips, but his astonished look spoke volumes.

“Take down your jeans,” Principal Golightly repeated, slowly. “They are far too thick,” he said. “Besides, you are a senior boy and you deserve a senior boy’s punishment,” he added, but immediately regretted it. He owed this boy no explanation. He was the principal of Rosewood College, one of the most prestigious educational establishments in the state. He answered to nobody.

Jason blinked hard. Jeans down. Stand there in his underwear. And he thought Chris was the faggot.

“I am waiting,” Principal Golightly, intoned. “Or do you wish to change your mind and take Saturday School,” he sneered. He knew Jason would not back down. His pride would be hurt.

The eighteen-year-old bit his bottom lip and with fingers that trembled more than he wished, he unbuckled his belt. He felt the principal’s glare burn into him as he fumbled with the metal buttons and allowed the front of his jeans to fall open. He paused, summoning the courage to go further.

“Take them down. Right down. To your feet,” Principal Golightly waved his paddle menacingly. Jason released his hold on his waistband and the jeans slithered over his thighs and down to his knees. The weight of his belt and the denim cloth took them further south where they puddled at his feet.

Principal Golightly’s eyes shone. The teen wore rather old-fashioned white cotton briefs that were tight enough to demonstrate to him that Jason was no boy. “Bend over. Take hold of the seat of the chair. Make sure you stick your bottom out.”

If looks could kill. A mixture of contempt and defiance clouded Jason’s usually bright, open face. He turned his back on his tormentor and in one swift, athletic movement he positioned himself to perfection to receive paddle swats.

Principal Golightly took the paddle in his right hand, stood close up to the boy and tap-tap-tapped it across the centre of Jason’s rear end. The term “buns of steel” might have been invented for the boy. His muscles stretched to present a solid target. There was no “give” anywhere. The principal lifted the heavy blade away from the cotton-covered ass and with all the strength he could muster – which was considerable – he returned it at speed pounding it into the proffered buttock cheeks. The crack!! echoed around the office. Its intensity startled Chris who stood on the other side of the door. He heard Jason’s startled yelp as the pain shot through his buttocks and raced up and down his legs. Chris touched his own backside with his fingertips in an involuntary act of solidarity. His dick stiffened.

Inside the office the paddle rose and fell once more. Now, every square inch of Jason’s buttocks seemed on fire. He wriggled his hips, stomped his legs and gripped the seat of the chair as if his very life depended upon it. Principal Golightly pressed his left palm firmly into the small of Jason’s back to steady the boy. He was going nowhere; not until the principal said so. Swat three landed lower and a red mark imitating the paddle blade instantly formed on the back of Jason’s thighs. His wailing was terrific. He did the wriggling and the stomping thing again and this time wrapped his left foot around his right ankle in a desperate bid to stop himself from jumping up to rub away at the terrifying agony. It felt like Principal Golightly had poured boiling water over him.

Tears flowed with the fourth swat. Jason despised himself, but the tears and the wailing were his body’s way of coping with the enormous battering it was getting. He gripped the chair’s seat and waved his head backward and forward, rather like horses do when they neigh. Snot dribbled from his nose, his heart raced and it felt like blood would burst through his ears.

“Last one,” Principal Golightly announced quietly. He pushed his left hand firmly into Jason’s back, steadying the teen. Then he raised the paddle high and with tremendous force landed it across the underside of the cheeks. Bam!! He let go his grip and Jason shot to his feet jumping up and down rubbing furiously at the seat of his briefs, tears soaked his cheeks. He hopped from foot to foot  in the traditional spanking dance. Principal Golightly pretended not to notice Jason’s dick has swollen and was staring against the front of his tight cotton underpants.

“Get dressed.”

Jason pulled his jeans up, wincing as the heavy denim rubbed against his scorched flesh. Soon he had the belt securely fastened.

“You should leave now,” Principal Golightly spoke softly, “And no more fighting.”

Jason hobbled to the door, opened it with shaking hands and exited. The corridor was empty, he did not know it but Chris was at that moment locked in a lavatory cubicle furiously jerking off. Jason ruefully rubbed at his rear end. The agony had gone, replaced by a dull ache. Within fifteen minutes or so that would become a tender throbbing. The pain would disappear quite quickly, but Jason did not yet know that it take until after the weekend for the bruises to disappear. Friday would be devoid of sex after all.

z used paddle white pants chair office

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Remembering the Tyrant Headmaster

z used drawing cane master sil (35)

I shuffled down the passageway that led to the headmaster’s study. I was in no hurry to suffer the consequences of my actions. I still had a few seconds more before I faced that humiliation.

I stopped outside the study door and pulled from the pocket of my school blazer a blue-and-white hooped cap. I plonked it on my head and then adjusted it so it would fit neatly over my short-back-and-sides haircut to the satisfaction of the headmaster. I was in enough trouble as it was: I did not want to annoy Dr. Fortescue any further.

The fancy headgear summed up the school to me. It was so full of itself: which schools still made their pupils wear caps? I was glad I was eighteen and in the sixth form; all the younger boys were forced to wear grey flannel short trousers.

I stared for a while at the heavy oak-panelled door. This school was out of date and so damn ancient; this was 1968, everything should be fresh and new. But not St. Septimius Independent Grammar School; here it was 1968 going on 1908. St. SIGS dated from sometime in the seventeen-hundreds. It was a traditional school: traditional teaching methods, traditional sports, traditional school uniform and traditional discipline. It was a boys-only independent fee-paying grammar school with delusions that it was an elite public school.

My heart beat faster. I knew what would happen after I knocked and Dr. Fortescue bade me enter and I did not relish the prospect one little bit. How I hated St. SIGS; I wished I had never been awarded that damned scholarship last term. I nearly said “won” the scholarship, but believe me it was no prize.

Taking a deep breath, I raised his fist and with more confidence than I really felt, rapped on the door.

@

“Enter!”

I know who it is, it’s that guttersnipe Eldridge; the scholarship boy. What the hell are boys like him doing at my school?

I blame the new Socialist Government. They are forcing good schools like St. Septimius to take on boys from the working classes. They have no right to be here. No right at all. Eldridge. What does his father do? He’s a postman, and his mother cleans offices. A charwoman! What right have they to send their son here? They should know their place.

I do not care if he has the top marks for mathematics in the county examinations; he will never amount to anything. He does not have the breeding.

Now, I am supposed to deal with the brat. He is on a charge of insubordination: answering back to Mr. Jenkins, the maths master. Well I know how to deal with that, all right.

“Stand there boy! Right in front of my desk.”

@

I closed the door and took up position on the slightly worn rug, as instructed. I suppose usually a boy in this situation would stand eyes cast down at is feet, desperately trying not to catch the headmaster’s eye. Well, stuff that. I stood, hands clasped firmly behind my back and stared intently at him. What a seedy, ridiculous specimen, I thought. I could smell the peppermint on his breath from five paces. His face was ruddy and his nose glowed. Tiny veins were so raised through his skin I could have squeezed half a glass of whisky from them. Dr. Fortescue was pear-shaped and wore a waistcoat buttoned tightly across his portly stomach with a gold (or at least a gold-coloured) watch-chain tucked into a pocket. On his back he wore a rather tattered black academic gown.

The walls of the study were panelled in oak. A large open unlit fire dominated one wall and two others had shelves and cabinets, including a tall thin cupboard with a smoked-glass front. A Chesterfield couch and two padded armchairs made up most of the furniture, but there were also two straight-backed chairs leaning against one wall.

I stood silently waiting for the inevitable lecture to begin.

@

I shall wipe that faint but irritating smirk from his face: is he daring me to use the cane on him?

I should lecture him about his bad behaviour and the need for good manners and how he should obey the instructions of the masters at all times. It is the lecture he should receive and I shall give it soon, but my heart will not be in it.

Nothing I say or do will turn this son of a charwoman into a gentleman. He was born and raised as an oik and he will continue to be an oik long after he has left this school to take up a job in a factory somewhere.

Why is this Socialist Government so envious of our kind of people? We have produced the leaders and the administrators that built the biggest empire the world has ever known and we did not need scholarship boys to do it.

In a few moments, when my lecture is completed I shall thrash him and send him on his way. I enjoy the sense of power I hold over him, knowing that I could give him real pain if I so desire. Let the Socialists make of that what they will.

@

I stood impassively only half listening to the headmaster. There was nothing I could do to stop the inevitable. Dr. Fortescue was dubbed “The Tyrant Headmaster” by the boys with good justification. He had arrived at St. SIGS a decade or so previously. He had been brought in by the governors to shake the school up a bit. Examination results were slipping, discipline was slack. Something must be done. The good doctor only knew one method. Legend had it that from the very first day he publicly thrashed a sixth-former and he would never stop flogging until the day he died.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

The headmaster jawed me. I had been “impertinent.” “Insolent.” “Impudent.”  All I had done was to question the maths master’s answer to a quadratic equation. The maths master was wrong, I was still sure of that, but at this school a boy never, ever, questioned a master: about anything.

The lecture over, I watched, heart now thumping, as the headmaster rose from his seat and waddled across the study to a tall, thin cupboard. I had never been in this study before, but instinctively I knew what it contained.

I stared slack-jawed into the open cabinet. The array of canes was impressive. There were nine assorted rods, some with the traditional crook-handle; most were made of rattan and two were dragon canes. Dr. Fortsecue leant into the cupboard obscuring my view, but I heard the rattle of six or seven thin canes rolling around inside the cupboard as his headmaster selected the one he would use to beat me.

Satisfied, Dr. Fortsecue closed the cupboard door and turned to face me. I had never seen such an awesome rod. It was the headmaster’s pride and joy: a Malacca cane. It was no bigger or thicker than any of the other canes in the cabinet; but it was denser. This one had notches every three inches or so along its length. I ran my tongue across my teeth, all saliva had drained from my mouth. I knew instinctively these notches would cut into my flesh and leave severe bruises and welts.

@

I have selected a rather stout, but still extremely whippy, Malacca cane. It is a bit thicker and longer than some in my collection and it will deliver a sting that this guttersnipe will feel for a long time to come. I swish the cane through the air a few times. There is no need to do this, but I hope it intimidates the boy somewhat. I want to give him time to contemplate his fate. In a few moments this fearsome rod will be whipping into your outstretched buttocks and the agony you will feel will be intense, is the message I hope to convey. And, you deserve it. Never again will you question the authority of your betters.

Eldridge’s eyes have widened. I do believe my intimidation is working.

“Take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the door!” I bark out the order, as if we were on a parade ground. I want this experience to be awesome, something that he will never forget.

Slowly, he fumbles with the buttons of the blue-and-white school blazer and pulls it off. He seems unconcerned about what is about to befall him. I suppose he is putting on a brave face, as they say.

“Cap off too boy!” It seems he may have forgotten he had it on his head.

Suitable disrobed, I order him to approach my desk. I thwack the cane down hard against it.

@

“Please lower your trousers and bend over the desk,” the headmaster says as if it is the most natural request in the world to make. An eighteen-year-old young man compelled to present himself in his underwear for a thrashing from a vile older man.

I doubt if I hid contempt I felt as the drunken old soak swished the cane through the air. I would not be intimidated, I told myself. I would submit to the beating, but only because I had no choice. If I refused I would be expelled from the school and that would give the odious snob Fortsecue far more satisfaction than he would get from simply beating me. Besides, by that age I had realised I wanted more from life than a dead-end job with low wages and no future. That was already the fate of my pals back at Gum Shoe Lane Secondary Modern. For poor kids like us the only escape was through sport or by becoming a pop star. I had no talents in those directions, but I had discovered a third way: education. I was good at exams and at St. SIGS I would ace them and go on to university.

I had never been caned before, but I had enough imagination to suppose it would hurt a very great deal indeed. That was the point, surely. But, the purpose of corporal punishment also was to ensure compliance in the beaten boy; to make certain he obeyed the rules in future. But the only rule I had broken was to question the wisdom of his maths master. Such is the injustice of corporal punishment.

I suppressed a sneer when Fortsecue ordered me to remove my blazer and cap. So, we are nearly there. Any moment now, I would be compelled to show my arse to my master. What a farce. I could not understand why my hands shook so much as I unbuttoned my blazer.

My heart raced, as I tugged at my belt buckle. Suddenly, it dawned on me that this was no picnic. However defiant I might feel inside, outwardly my body and more specifically my backside was about to be attacked by a man more than three times older than myself. Submissively, I must present myself to this man and allow him to whip my buttocks as hard as he wished; there was nothing, absolutely nothing, I could do to prevent it.

With blood racing through my body and temples throbbing, I let my trousers slither down my thighs. I took a deep gulp and lowered myself over the desk.

I lay face down across the huge walnut desk topped with green leather, the scent of my own aftershave sticking in my throat. I strained my arms ahead of me and held tightly to the edge. My mid-grey trousers were at a puddle at my feet. The headmaster neatly pulled my shirt up to my shoulders. My white Y-front underpants felt tight across my stretched buttocks. A window was slightly open and a soft breeze wafted across my bare legs.

@

He presents his bottom perfectly for the thrashing he is about to receive, but I want to make him suffer a little more.

“Bottom higher, legs further apart!”

It is all entirely unnecessary, but I enjoy watching him wriggle over the desk trying to comply with my demands.

Eventually, I decide he has been kept waiting long enough.

I give my usual lecture to boys I am about to thrash. “You must keep perfectly still. Do not wriggle or try to get up before I give you instruction to. If you do so I will award extra strokes. I trust that is clear!”

“Yes, Sir!” he responds in a clear voice. Is he daring me to whip him as hard as I wish because he can take it?

But, now Eldridge is breathing heavily. This is more like it. It is common among boys about to be beaten; even the repeat offenders fear the cane.

I slide the cane from middle to top, from top to middle and from middle to the crease between buttocks and thighs. I can hear the increased tension in the yob’s breathing before I lift the cane away, raise it to shoulder level and swipe it down, landing it with awesome accuracy across the very centre of his buttocks.

I tap again, twice actually, draw back and give the next cut lower, but not harder. This time his body flinches a little, but his head does not move. He does groan and I appreciate his mettle. The ability to stay still and not move or cry out does not come naturally to most boys, certainly not ones new to the cane. How I hate him for his fortitude.

I will not allow this wretched boy to get the better of me. I lash him harder than I have ever thrashed a schoolboy. His bottom dances under my strokes, twice I have to remind him not to struggle. The threat of extra strokes makes him comply. After the full nine strokes have been given, he lays sobbing over the desk; he is a very sorry boy. Which is how it should be.

@

I shuddered when I felt for the first time in my life the sensation of the cane being placed lightly across the seat of my pants to warn me the punishment was about to begin. I knew I had to go through with it now. I wanted it to start so that I could get it over and go home. My buttocks tensed and untensed in fear of the pain of the first stroke. It was a reflex action; I had no control over my body’s movement.

Swish! It propelled a lung-full of breath out of my mouth and left me gasping and grunting inarticulately. The cane rose again and landed once more on almost the exact same spot, emptying my lungs for a second time, and making me gasp in desperation. It rose up again for the third time and swooped lower down to thwack into the crease between buttocks and thighs. That was when I cried out. Humiliated. Literally beaten.

The next three landed rat-a-tat-tat! like machinegun fire, lashing deep into my arse, around about where the cheeks meet the thighs. I yelled fit to bring the oak-paneled walls of the study crashing down. I gripped the edge of the desk for dear life my fingernails biting so deep I thought they might break.

Huff! Huff! Huff! Desperately, I tried to catch my breath. My heartbeat was racing and phlegm rose in my throat. Any second now I feared I would spew a stream of vomit across the desk. Up and down the cane rose.

The intense agony which started in my buttocks travelled through my whole body. My face and neck were as scarlet as my backside. Tears flowed down my cheeks to meet the snot dribbling from my nose.

The pain mixed with my humiliation. This awful man had forced me to submit my backside to him and he had whipped it to shreds. And, he had enjoyed every moment of it.

When I was permitted to rise from the desk, how I hated Fortsecue and his school full of snobs. I despised his whisky-soaked face and tubby beer-gut. I loathed above all his poisonous attitude.

The intense pain quickly subsided to a deep throbbing and very soon was just a warm glow. The marks on my bum lasted a week or so and the cut he had landed on my thighs made it difficult for me to sit in comfort for some hours. I hated The Tyrant Headmaster with all the passion that only a teenager can muster.

I aced my exams and went onto university and had a successful career as a mathematics professor. I never gave Fortescue a second thought until one day when I was in my twenties my mother sent me a cutting from the local newspaper. The decomposing body of Dr. Fortescue had been found in the house where he lived alone. It had laid unnoticed for six weeks. A half-empty bottle of Teachers was nearby.

 

Other stories you might like

The Tyrant Headmaster

A glint in the eye

Don’t bully our mum

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Shoplifting

I am walking down Brocklehurst High Street heading for the Pound Shop. It is late summer and college restarts the next week and I need provisions like pens and paper and such like. Not, if I am going to be particularly honest about it, that I will put them to good use, since college for me is just an opportunity to skive. I know the Pound Shop is a good place to go; not because of the low cost of their products (the clue is in the store’s name) but it is an easy place to steal things from.

I am of the opinion that there is no reason to pay for something when you can take it for free and those of you who have visited such places as the Pound Shop know they have little use for security. I take what I want and simply hide it under my coat and make my leave.

I think this day is to be no exception. I choose Saturdays because; one) it is a little busier than during the week and two) because it is staffed by “Saturday workers” who by and large are school or college kids working for the day and they really couldn’t give  a shit. About anything.

I am making my selection and heading to the sunlight uplands of the high street with a bulge under my coat when I hear a voice call out. It says, “Hey you there, stop!” I am not sure the voice – it is a gruff sound and is clearly a man and quite possibly an older guy at that – is directed at me so I just keep on going. I have a date with my girlfriend and don’t want to be late on account that her folks are visiting her gran this day and the house will be empty for some hours and as they say, “While the cat’s away …”

“You! Stop!” The old geezer shouts again and now people are looking at him and looking at me and some Good Citizen steps in front of me to block my path.

“You!” I turn around and see I was right. It is a man who will never see fifty again, he has a paunch the size of a football hanging over the waist of his cheap dark-blue polyester trousers. His matching jacket is a little too tight and he sweats like he has just run a marathon rather than walking maybe a hundred feet from the shop doorway.

He is a security guard and doesn’t he know it. Now, I know and you probably know too, that security guards are the scum of the earth. They get minimum wage, an ill-fitting suit, and the chance to beat up on ordinary citizens just going about their not-so lawful business.

“Would you please come with me sir,” he says, sneering the word “sir” because he doesn’t really mean it. What he wants to say is, “I’ve got you bang to rights sunny boy, let’s see you grovel out of this one.”

I am standing in the middle of the crowded street seeing my afternoon shag-fest melting in the hot sun. I think about running. I have no practice at athletics preferring to spend my waking hours at Tablet screens or in dark pubs. And, sometimes I do both these things at the same time. I am not fit but I can outrun the old security guard.

I get ready to leg it when the security guard speaks. He says, “I know you. You’re …” and he gives up my name. Both bits. The first name and the last. “You live at The Avenue,” he is triumphant. “I know your dad.”

Now, how old fattyboy here, who is a nobody on minimum wage and who has always been and always will be, knows my dad, who just happens to be the director of administrative affairs at the local borough council and a big cheese in town to boot, escapes me. The news makes me hesitate my flight and next thing I feel his hand on my shoulder and I am going nowhere. Nowhere, that is except back into the shop.

There is a small room close to the self-service checkouts that he takes me to. It looks like a store room, but there is a cheap plastic-looking table, so it might be an office. There is only one window high up in the wall. It is frosted glass and hardly any daylight gets in. Fatty flicks a switch and a dim bulb sparks into action.

Well, Fatty goes on at me a bit, asks me what I’ve got under my jacket, have I got receipts, the whole nine yards. I cough to it. Who cares? The total value of my swag is four pounds. It’s hardly worth the trouble calling the police. It’ll cost the store more money to prosecute people than they ever lose in theft. I know it and I pretty sure Fatty boy here knows it too.

I let him have his moment in the spotlight and I’m just getting ready to say, “Call the cops or let me go,” like we were in some two-bit drama show on cable TV, when he goes to his pocket, pulls out a dirty handkerchief and very deliberately mops his brow with it. I watch mesmerised. He is really a fat, ugly reptile of a specimen. His brownish eyes are dull and I can see he is thinking about something. He is trying out the words he is about to say out loud. It is like he is rehearsing them like an actor in that TV drama I just told you about.

Then he says, “I think I’ll call your dad, let’s see what he has to say about it.” Then he smiles and I see half his teeth are missing and those that aren’t are dirty yellow and decayed. “What do you think about that?” he says. It isn’t really a question because he damn well knows what I think about that. I don’t think much of that at all.

I wonder how he knows of my dad. But if he really knows him at all, he knows that my dad will have my hide when he finds out. Now, “have my hide” is a saying that has been about for decades and means many different things to many different people. But when I say dad will “have my hide”, I don’t mean, “no more movies for a week or two, no more running round with the usual crew”, I mean “have my hide”, as in “take the skin off my rear end”.

Fatty grins at me and my stomach turns over. It turns over; one) because Fatty is repulsive to look at and more so when he shows the inside of his mouth, and two) because I do not want to be bent across the end of my bed at home with my trousers at my ankles and underpants at the knees while dad whips me with a thick, whippy, old-fashioned school-type cane he purchased off e-Bay especially for the purpose. I’ve been there and done that and no thank you I don’t need the t-shirt.

z used after pants down bed (2)

Fatty grins at me some more and I swear licks his lips, like he is sizing me up as his next meal. I am silent. What can I say? What exactly does he want?

I find out soon enough, when he wipes that snotty handkerchief over his face again and then he speaks. He says, “I have a little something in that drawer I keep for people like you,” and he nods towards a long drawer that is part of the table as if I can’t work out for myself what it is he is talking about.

He opens the drawer and pulls out a piece of wood. I know right away what it is because I see lots of these last time I’m at the TK Maxx store. It is a chopping block like you use in a kitchen for cutting carrots and onions and what-not. Fatty holds the board by the handle and waves it at me. I realise for the first time the chopping block has another use. The  chopping end is maybe thirty-five centimetres long and fifteen wide and not at all thick. He licks those lips again and his dull eyes blaze now.

He says nothing, but I know he wants to spank me with the chopping board. I am in a jam. I can leg it out of there and go screw my girlfriend, but I know when I get home later dad will be waiting, flexing his curved-handled cane between his hands. I can do that or I can stay and let Fatty do his worst. I know that Fatty’s worst will be nothing like dad’s. I see the blade of the chopping block could pack a punch and might blister my bum, but dad’s cane will rip me to shreds and I’ll still know about it in two weeks’ time.

Fatty might be a mind reader because he says to me, “It’s me or your dad,” and he leaves it at that. He doesn’t say more. He knows that I know what he means. Either way, I cop it. It’s him or dad. If you were in my shoes, what would you do?

“You need to take down those trousers and bend over the table,” Fatty says as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to have a nineteen-year-old kid with his jeans down bending across a table in an airless room on a Saturday lunchtime while he wallops his backside with a chopping board.

“And, you need to do it now,” he goes on, like this is something he does all the time. He licks those frigging lips again.

I close my eyes and see the sight of my bare arse when I look at it in the mirror after dad finished with me last time. Think about Clapham Junction railway lines. I open the peepers again and reach down to my belt and tug it open. Soon my zipper is lowered and my jeans slip down my thigh. Fatty has the chopping board by the handle and is thumping it into the palm of his left hand. He is trying to frighten me, but I say to myself there is nothing to worry about because no way is that piece of wood going to hurt me one little bit when I think of what dad’s cane will do.

So, I shuffles forward like a penguin until I reach the table. I am a tall guy and the table is quite low. I stop and think. How do I do this? Do I spread my legs and lean forward and grab the table and stick my bum out? That would do it. Or do I lay on the table spread-eagled with my legs splayed.

“Put your elbows on the table and stick yer arse out,” Fatty is breathing heavily, but I get what he is trying to tell me. I do as he says. I don’t see myself, but I can tell this puts me in a mightily good position. My head is low, my back arched, my legs are apart and my bum juts out at a perfect angle for Fatty to spank me.

I still have my jacket on so Fatty takes hold of the tail end and moves it away from his target area. I wear mini briefs (my girl’s favourite) and they stick to my cheeks like a second skin. Still, Fatty rubs his hand over my arse to smooth the cotton down some more. It feels like the briefs have ridden up my crack.

The table top is old and stained. It has seen much action. I think I recognise one of the stains and it has no connection to tea, coffee or other beverage. I feel Fatty move away and then I feel a kiss of wood against my stretched flesh, then Wham! The wood cracks into my arse. I get a burning sensation where it lands. Bam! Another hits, just below the first blow. Crack! and so on.

My buttocks are sizzling. The sound of the crack of wood on cotton underwear bounces off the walls of the small room and I think surely the store staff on the other side of the door can hear what is going on. Any moment someone is coming in to see what the commotion is.  I bite my bottom lip as the pain intensifies. It starts at my bum and travels up and down my legs. I keep my position well. I can stand it. Fatty spanks the chopping board across every square centimetre of my bum and wallops the back of my thighs for good measure. I hear him wheezing. Soon it becomes full out coughing.

He stops spanking me before he suffers a stroke. I stand and without looking at the fat old man who is now struggling for breath, I pull up and fasten my jeans. My bum is sore, but even now it is turning from pain to only a throb. I rub the seat of my jeans and can’t find any trace of welts, but my bum will be bruised for sure.

I pick up my pens and writing paper and without a backward glance at Fatty I leave the office. I am walking down the High Street and I think, how do I explain the bruises to my girlfriend? I think I could just tell her the truth, but honestly who would believe me?

 

Other stories you might like

Bible College

Memories of Uncle Edgar

The shoplifter

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rev. Harris does his duty

z used touch toes white pants

The Reverend Harris puffed his cheeks and wheezed. His bulky frame wasn’t suited to riding a bike but his parish was too stingy to buy him a car so he had no choice. He was nearly there now. The streets were empty as he struggled along the cobblestones.

Andrew Buckley sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Waiting. His mother was at bingo and his sister at the youth club. Usually when he had the house to himself he would sneak out his postcards hidden away in a box at the back of the wardrobe and pleasure himself. But not this evening. Not with his visitor arriving at any minute.

Rev. Harris turned his bicycle into a street of run-down terraced houses. Number seventeen, his destination, was at the far end. Sweat soaked his brow as his huffed his way closer. Two women gossiping on a doorstep watched intently as he dismounted his bike. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, before leaning down and untying a long thin rattan cane from the crossbar.

He smiled a greeting to the housewives and tucked the curve-handled cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. It was one of the Reverend’s heavier canes, taken from a collection he kept at the church youth club. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It felt as light as a feather as he carried it to the front door, but he knew from years of experience it could pack a punch. In the right hands – and Rev. Harris possessed such – it could leave a young man scarred.

Andrew paced his bedroom unaware of the Rev’s imminent appearance. The eighteen-year-old glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked devilishly anxious. His usually bright blue eyes were hooded. His open, cheerful face was glum.

He had thought about running away and hiding. If the vicar found he was not at home he would have to return to the youth club. But it would do no good, Andrew knew. Rev. Harris would only return later and he would probably get it twice as hard.

He moved to the window, attracted by a scuffling noise from the street. His heart faded. Rev. Harris stood on the doorstep, cane under his arm, ready to knock on the door. Damn. Andrew saw his two neighbours staring intently. Soon the whole street would know. He hated to think what his pals would say.

Rat-a-tat-tat. It was an insistent knock. Rev. Harris did not like to be kept waiting. Andrew ran his tongue across his dry lips and padded down the stairs.

Rev. Harris brushed past Andrew and made for the parlour. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder when he realised Andrew was rooted to the doormat. “You know why I am here.”

Indeed he did. His mother had asked the vicar to “do something” about Andrew. He was surly, curt, churlish. He had long ago stopped obeying his mother’s instructions. The vicar heard her pleas, dismayed. Rev. Harris had heard it all before. The war had left many of his parishioners widows and the poor women were driven to distraction by their teenaged sons. Rev. Harris was at hand to do his duty.

Andrew followed the portly man as instructed. He stood uneasily watching as Rev. Harris dropped the curve-handled cane onto the settee and laboriously unbuttoned his jacket and tugged it off his back. Then he let that drop beside the cane.

How Andrew hated this place. Soon he would leave school. If he could pass his exams he would escape this hovel of a house and the dingy small town. He could go to university, or if not, he would get a clerking job somewhere. In Manchester perhaps. Whatever became of him, it would be miles away from here; he promised himself.

Rev. Harris waddled across the room and picked up a heavy wooden chair, which he plonked down so that it rested against a wall with its straight back facing him. Andrew’s eyes followed him as he returned to the settee and retrieved the cane. No words were spoken. There was no need for them. Both Rev. Harris and Andrew knew how this must play out.

Rev. Harris flexed the cane between his hands. He always did this. It was part of the ritual of punishment. As was swishing the rod through the air. Andrew blanched. He couldn’t help it. At any moment that wicked cane would be slicing his backside to pieces. He stared at the worn carpet beneath his feet shamefully.

The vicar pointed at the chair. “Take down your trousers,” he intoned. “This time I shall not cane you on your bare butt-tocks,” he let the word swirl around his mouth, “But if ever I have to repeat this punishment, be assured it will be across your bare flesh.” He let the word “flesh” hang in the air.

Andrew had expected this. From the moment his mother had told him the vicar would call, he knew his bum would be toasted. But he couldn’t quite get his hands to move.

“Hurry along boy,” the vicar feigned impatience. He knew young men did not relish being caned. They would do anything to delay just discipline. But there was no way out. The power of the Church was immense in this town. The vicar was truly God’s representative on Earth. If he said, “Take down your trousers and pants and bend over,” that’s what you did.

At last Andrew’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The button fly of his grey school trousers were open and they slithered down his thighs to his knees.

“Bend over.” It was softly spoken; hardly a command. There was no need for histrionics. Andrew sucked his bottom lip and moved forward. Not daring to look at the vicar, he leaned forward and gripped the wooden seat of the chair. He parted his feet and stuck his bum out, ready to receive the kiss of the cane. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Rev. Harris was in no hurry. He had his own little ritual when caning. First, gently he tucked Andrew’s white school shirt up the teenager’s back. It was now clear of his target. Next, he gripped the waistband of the white Y-fronts and pulled so that the cotton fitted the contours of Andrews cheeks snugly.

He was almost ready. Now, he stood a little to the teenager’s left and slowly tap-tap-tapped the cane across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. He was getting his aim. Satisfied, Rev. Harris pulled the whippy rod back and with all the force he could muster he brought it crashing down so that it sank into Andrew’s tight flesh. He was rewarded by a long, low hiss from his victim. Andrew’s bum wriggled from side to side and then up and down as the pain seared through his body. He gripped the wooden seat as if his life depended upon it.

Rev. Harris rewarded himself a smirk. Then, slowly he paced across the room. It wasn’t a large room. It took three paces to get from one side to the other. Then, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Then he made another circuit. He liked to allow time for the agony of a stroke to register before delivering the next swipe.

He took up position and took aim once more. This time a little lower than before. Swish! Crack! It landed, perhaps a quarter-inch lower than the first. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed into the flesh. Andrew now had a red-raw strip running across both buttocks. He did the wriggling again and this time added some foot stomping. Rev. Harris went on his tour of the room.

Andrew settled himself, shut his teeth firmly and increased his grip on the chair. The third stroke cut into the underpart of the cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. Part of the cane stuck bare flesh. The two women in the street outside must have heard his anguished howl. He leapt bolt upright, danced from one foot to the other and rubbed the palms of his hands furiously into the soft cotton underpants. It did nothing to dull the torture.

Rev. Harris growled. “Bend down. If you stand again I will start the punishment from the beginning. Do you understand?”

Sorrowfully, Andrew returned to the chair and with great fortitude resumed the punishment position. Slowly, methodically, three more swipes ripped Andrew’s bum to shreds. Thick dark welts rose across his once pale flesh. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he would see blood had seeped and coloured part of his underpants pink. His heart raced and he felt his eardrums bursting. His temples throbbed almost as much as his raw bottom. His eyes were awash and tears trickled down the side of his nose. Drips of snot congregated on his top lip.

“Get dressed.” Rev. Harris dropped the cane on the dining room table and struggled back into his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat. His own breathing was laboured. He had put his full energy into the thrashing. He congratulated himself on a job well down.

“Go upstairs, I shall see myself out.”

Andrew did not need telling twice. He shot from the room and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to escape the vicar.

Rev. Harris ambled to the kitchen, found a tea cup and filled it from a tap. Soon he would be ready for the exertion of a cycle ride back to the vicarage. As he made his way to his bicycle he saw the two housewives in animated conversation. As he tied the cane to the bike frame, one approached him.

“Rev. Harris,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wonder if I might trouble you. It’s about my Robert.” Rev. Harris straightened and smiled. He knew Robert of old. His cane would be put to more use before he returned to the youth club.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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Hotel duty manager

Never too old

St Francis Grammar School. Snowballs

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Tyrant Headmaster 9. Hawkridge in the study

z used cane white pants tyrant head 9

 

Other stories from The Tyrant Headmaster are here

 

Hawkridge stands at attention in front of the headmaster’s desk. His blue-and-white woollen school blazer is immaculate, fastened by all three buttons. His thumbs are in line with the seams of his mid-grey trousers, their creases so sharp you could cut yourself. His school cap is squarely on his head, obscuring almost all of his hair. The regulation short-back-and-sides trimmed only the previous Saturday.

Dr. Fortescue sits behind his massive walnut desk; jawing. Hawkridge does not take much of it in. He has heard it all before. He gazes intently at the headmaster. He is of indeterminate age, he might even be younger than he looks. His face is oblong, his features angular. The hook nose somehow keeps his eye glasses from falling from his face. His skin is lined and there are bags beneath his wide-staring eyes. Hawkridge detects a hint of bloodshot in them. Specks of spittle sprout from Dr. Fortscue’s mouth as he castigates the schoolboy before him. He leans forward to berate the miscreant and Hawkridge flinches a little. The stench of sour tobacco is overwhelming. Somewhere there’s also a hint of the aroma of Murray Mints.

He is wearing a crumpled three-piece tweed suit and a white shirt, held together at the collar with a bow-tie. A tattered academic robe hangs from his shoulders and a mortar-board perches precariously on his head, the tassel dangling close to his left ear.

Hawkridge has been here before. He still has three months to go before he finally leaves the school, so he’ll almost certainly be here again. He shows no fear. He is certain he knows in the minutest detail what is about to happen. There is nothing he can do about it. He must let events take their course.

St. Septimius is nothing if not traditional. Traditional curriculum, traditional games, traditional uniform and traditional discipline. Yes, Hawkridge is certain he knows how this meeting of master and pupil will end.

Dr. Fortescue rocks backward and forward In his wooden armchair. Sometimes leaning back, steepling his fingers as he concentrates on admonishing the unfortunate creature before him. Then, leaning forward, arms resting on the huge desk, he glares at the boy. The desk is so big and so heavy it must have taken a dozen artisans to manhandle it into the study. A pile of, as yet uncorrected, Latin impos. are to the headmaster’s right hand side.

He glares at Hawkridge. The boy’s behaviour is “outrageous”, “shocking”, “contemptable”. In a fairer forum than this that might be debatable. As schoolboy crimes go, his is quite minor. Hawkridge did not attend school yesterday, preferring instead to queue alongside hundreds of other youngsters to obtain tickets to a forthcoming Eddie Cochran concert. The tickets are now safely tucked away in the sock drawer of his bedroom at home. But truancy is truancy and at St. SIGS, truancy is a beatable offence. Hawkridge is a sixth-former and that almost certainly means a caning on the bare.

Hawkridge knows this, but such is life. School is school. What’s a fellow to do?

The headmaster jaws on and on. The room is stifling. The coal fire is blazing, but the day outside is mild. Sweat soaks Hawkridge’s scalp and his shirt is damp. He wishes the Beak would stop talking and just get on with it.

At last, Dr. Fortescue stops his hectoring. He hauls himself to his feet, presses both palms into his desktop and scowls. “Take your cap and blazer off. Hang them there!” He nods across the study to a hat stand. It is empty save for two long, thin yellow rattan canes that hang by their crook handles. One is a little longer than the other and both are warped. Hawkridge is sure it was the shorter one Dr. Fortescue used to beat him on his last appearance in the study.

Hawkridge is calm. He unfastens the buttons on his blazer and slips the jacket from his shoulders. The armpits of his gleaming white shirt is wringing wet. He hangs the blazer on the hat stand and turns to face his tormentor. Suddenly, he remembers the cap on his head and quickly whips it off and stuffs it into the pocket of his blazer. Instinctively, he rubs the palms of his hands across his head, to smooth down his already tidy hair.

Dr. Fortescue is walking across his study. He takes pigeon steps, like an old man who is afraid of slipping on an icy pavement. Hawkridge watches his slow progress. The headmaster is heading towards the far wall which is dominated by heavy shelving and dark brown cabinets. He reaches a narrow, tall door and steadies himself before reaching into his trouser pocket. He fumbles around for some time before at last extracting a small silver-coloured key. His hand shakes a little as he tries to line up the key with the keyhole. He succeeds at the third attempt and draws the door open. He looks inside and because he knows precisely what he is looking for within a second he is clutching a punishment cane.

Even at a distance, Hawkridge can see this is heavier and denser than the two canes dangling on the hat stand. It is a dark brown colour and has distinct notches every four inches or so across its length. Dr. Fortescue holds it in his right hand, close to the curved handle and gives it an almighty swish through the air. He smiles in response to the swooshing sound it makes as it flies. Then, absent-mindedly he holds the cane between his hands and flexes it backwards and forwards. Despite its density it is a supple rod and makes a perfect arc. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes blaze.

He suddenly realises he has company and tucks the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major. He glares across the study. “Go stand behind that chair,” he growls. There are several chairs in the capacious study and Hawkridge is unsure which he means. He glances uneasily around himself. The study is cluttered with furniture, most of it looks like it’s been there for at least fifty years. His baffled expression is met with a curt, “That one there, boy,” as Dr. Fortescue slips the cane into his hand and points to an ancient armchair.

Hawkridge takes the four paces necessary to reach the chair. He stands at its back and looks down at the seat cushion. In his many visits to the headmaster he has never before seen this particular chair at close quarters. Often, he is required to present himself across the large desk; sometimes it’s, “bend over and touch your toes.”

Dr. Fortescue approaches Hawkridge and stands a yard or to his right. Hawkridge sucks in air. He knows the Beak is about ready to go. Dr. Fortescue’s mouth is dry. He licks his lips and croaks, “Lower your trousers, boy.” Hawkridge expects this instruction and reaches for the buckle of his belt. It is easily undone, as are the button at the top of his spotless mid-grey trousers and the zipper. The front of his trousers falls open and his white Y-front underpants peak through. He lets go of the trousers and they slip slowly down his thighs, where they stop. Hawkridge knows from experience this will not satisfy the headmaster so he pushes them further down until they rest in a puddle on top of his shiny black shoes. The heat from the fire irritates the bare flesh on his legs.

The headmaster flexes the cane between his hands and swishes it once more. Then he taps it across the back of the armchair. “Bend over,” he croaks once more.

So it’s not to be bare-arsed. Hawkridge is relieved. He doesn’t believe getting caned on the bare is any more painful than across the seat of the underpants, but he has never enjoyed showing his crack to the headmaster. Underpants certainly maintain a certain modesty.

Hawkridge adjusts his feet so he is just the right distance from the chair and lowers himself forward. The back is not so high and his stomach rests easily against it. It is solid and his nose presses against the seat. The dust almost makes him sneeze. He grips tightly and can tell it is stuffed with horsehair.

The headmaster waits for Hawkridge to settle himself. The eighteen-year-old’s school shirt is long and its tail has flopped over his buttocks. That will not do. Dr. Fortescue tucks the cane once more under his arm and with his two free hands he takes hold of the cotton shirt and carefully folds it once, twice and then three times up Hawkridge’s back until it is clear of his target area. In so doing he exposes an area of hairless flesh. Hawkridge’s whole body is lean and at close quarters the headmaster notices the flatness of the boy’s stomach.

Hawkridge’s buttocks are solid. The white cotton underpants are a little tight and with his bottom stretched they ride up into his crack, thereby lifting and separating the cheeks. Dr. Fortescue has been presented with a terrific target. Although this is not strictly necessary, the headmaster takes hold of the elasticated waist of the underpants and pulls until all wrinkles in the cotton have been eliminated. The pants now fit like a second skin. To make sure all creases have gone, the headmaster rubs the palm of his hand across Hawkridge’s cheeks. Then, he smacks it down hard into the posterior – to encourage the boy.

Hawkridge takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, shuts his teeth and holds onto the chair for dear life. His bottom is twitching but there is nothing he can do about that. Dr. Fortescue stands a little to the left of the buttocks, taps his cane across the fleshiest part and then in one smooth continuous movement he lifts the cane to shoulder height and returns it with considerable force to thwack into Hawkridge’s waiting buttocks. The boy suppresses a hiss. Dr. Fortescue admires his own prowess. A clear line has appeared across the tight underpants and the headmaster is certain that a deep welt is already forming under the cotton.

The headmaster sucks on his tongue. All saliva has now drained from his mouth. He wheezes as he raises the cane and swipes it down a second time, this one is a little lower than the first. The agony in Hawkridge’s backside is intense. It feels like the headmaster has taken a coal from the fire and pressed it into his bum. He wriggles his hips and tries to steady himself for the further onslaught on his poor bottom.

“Keep still,” the headmaster rasps. “If you give me concern to I’ll add extra strokes.” That was unfair since Hawkridge had hardly moved. In fact, he is taking it very well indeed. Other boys – even sixth-formers – on the receiving end of two such stingers would be howling the walls of the study down. Hawkridge tries to keep as still as a statue. He knows the headmaster means it, the Beak would like nothing more. He is at heart a bully.

Number three whips in even lower down and connects in the soft undercurve at the “sit spot” where the buttocks and thighs meet. It will be uncomfortable sitting down for some considerable time. The headmaster tucks the cane back under his arm and searches in his trouser pocket for a handkerchief. The palms of his hands are soaking with sweat. He wipes them dry, all the time staring at the boy prostrate before him. He likes nothing better than to have a sixth-former bending submissively before him. This one in particular is especially delicious.

Dry once more, the headmaster grips the cane tightly. This time he “saws” it across the top of Hawkridge’s globes. Sweat is running into the headmaster’s eyes. He wipes it away with the edge of his gown. Then, he brings the cane crashing down; he swipes so hard it is as if he is beating a carpet. Hawkridge feels that all right. His mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, but valiantly, he does not let a sound pass his lips.

Dr. Fortescue looks on. He resents it when a boy does not holler. Well see about this, he thinks. He moves his position slightly and lays the cane diagonally across both buttocks. Hawkridge’s whole body tenses, he knows what is coming. Swipe! Jesus H. Christ. Hawkridge cannot control himself. The cane has landed atop of the four previous cuts and has reignited the pain in all of them. His bum is truly aglow. Hawkridge’s legs buckle, he stamps his feet up and down and then in a glorious attempt to stop himself from jumping up and rubbing away at his blazing buttocks, he pins his left leg down by twisting his right led across it.

Blood courses through his arteries. His heart races, his temples throb. The headmaster places his cane across Hawkridge’s buttocks; this time along the opposite diagonal. He lets fly. Hawkridge now has a perfect “X” embossed across his backside. The agony redoubles. He grips the chair, his head thrashes up and down and then to left and right, he looks like a horse neighing.

That’s number six. Please God, Hawkridge silently prays, let that be the last stroke. The headmaster had not announced a tariff before he flogged the first stroke home. But “six-of-the-best” was the traditional number in a headmaster’s caning. Hawkridge has taken six strokes and nobody should be in any doubt they were indeed the headmaster’s best.

Dr. Fortescue is wheezing and struggling to catch his own breath. It is difficult to see which of the two is in greater distress. Hawkridge waits, still face down. He does not know if he is allowed to stand. It is better not to risk it. He waits as the throbbing in his bum intensifies. He knows it will be sore for some time yet, but it will eventually die down and become a warm glow. He will feel some pain when he sits on a hard surface but by bedtime it will all be over. The marks will stay for some considerable time. They are probably deep claret at the moment. They will become bruises and over the next few days transmute from deep purple through mauve and yellow before they finally disappear altogether.

“You may stand.” The words sound as if they are from miles away. Hawkridge lifts himself from the chair. He watches as Dr. Fortescue stumbles across his study and with shaking hands returns the cane to the cupboard. He doesn’t bother to close nor lock the door. When he turns around his eyes are red as if he is suffering with hay fever. Hawkridge is still in his underpants, waiting for permission to dress. Dr. Fortescue’s eyes stalk. “Get dressed boy,” he barks as if Hawkridge was deliberately trying to provoke him. The boy bends down, grabs the top of his trousers and pulls them up. He winces as he zips up and tightens the belt, the cloth is pressing against his raw buttocks. For the first time he is aware that he is probably bleeding.

Silently, Dr. Fortescue shuffles across to his desk and slumps in the wooded armchair. He takes a moment to recover himself and then opens the second of three drawers in his desk. He removes the punishment book, places it on his desk and struggles to find the right page. Hawkridge is climbing back into his school blazer.

“Pen, boy. Pen.” Dr. Fortescue snaps his fingers irritably. Hawkridge puts his hand in his inside pocket and finds a Biro. The headmaster snatches it from him and starts to write in the book. He notices that this is the third name he has entered this day. He writes, “Hawkridge, U6, Cane, 6.” He omits to record that it was delivered across the seat of the underpants. The headmaster swirls the book around and passes the pen back. Hawkridge knows the drill. He signs his initials in the book.

There is only one thing still to do. A ritual among gentlemen. The headmaster offers his right hand and Hawkridge shakes it.

“You are dismissed,” the headmaster clears his throat and picks up an essay from the pile on his desk. He watches surreptitiously as Hawkridge replaces his cap on his head and leaves the study. Dr. Fortescue silently counts to ten, throws the essay on the desk and dives to his bottom drawer. Within seconds he is pouring himself a large glass of gin.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com