A Robust Response

I am a fair man, a man of the world. I understand the temptations of the young. I know it is a rocky road to adulthood. I have myself suffered temptations. When I was a teenager I knew desire. I knew what it was to long for the clear skin of other boys, lust over taut muscles, envy their shiny hair, their blazing eyes, ruby-red lips. Long legs, tight buttocks. Sins of the flesh.

As the young say today, “I have been there.” But I was saved. I was eighteen years old when my lusts came to light. I won’t share with you the details. They are too humiliating for me to recall, even now so many years later. But, I was saved by the priests at my school. It took some doing. A modern-day scourging of the flesh. It worked. Homosexuality is only a passing phase, all young men go through it. Yes, it is a sin, but it can be cured. I know. I was cured. And, in a few moments it will be my pleasure – no my duty – to cure a young man at this school similarly afflicted.

In my own case it took three priests, each acting separately, to make the breakthrough. I shall be eternally grateful to them for their diligence; their thoroughness. Without their intervention I should have descended into a cesspool of my own making. Adrift. Never to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. Corporal correction; corporal punishment if you will. Punishment of the flesh.  “Blessed are the pure at heart,” the priests at school would say, “Boys, if you are not pure at heart, I’ll flog you!”

In a few moments, Teddy will arrive here at my study. Teddy is a bright young man, I have had my eye on him for some years. He has all the attributes needed to enter the priesthood. But, he has lost his way. Like a lamb in the hillside. But, he is not a lost cause. He can be set back on the right path. I shall save him. He knows why he has been summoned to my study. He has already confessed his sin. He knows he must be saved. He wants to be saved. He can be saved. He will be saved.

I will talk to him so that he understands that the feelings he has are perfectly natural for a young man of eighteen. But, he is a teenager, really still an adolescent. He is going though a phase in his life. He is at a crossroads. He must decide which way to turn. Once I know he understands this we shall pray. God will give his blessing. God loves us. He will protect us. He will save us.

When that is done I shall instruct Teddy to stand behind my desk. It is a very large, heavy walnut beast. I sometimes joke that it could double up as a hockey pitch. While he does that I shall go to my special locked cupboard. Inside I have many instruments of punishment; leather straps, riding crops, whippy rattan rods, and (my favourites) heavy wooden paddles. Teddy is a tall, slim boy. He is a member of the school athletic team and he runs constantly. His body is strong and his legs are long. His buttocks are tight and from memory I calculate that one of my larger paddles would conveniently fit across both cheeks.

I will instruct Teddy to lower his trousers. He might be reluctant to be seen by an older man in his underwear but he will do as I command without question. I am the authority of God. It is His will that this scourging takes place. Once the trousers are down, in all probability the tail of his dress shirt will be so long as to cover his bottom. If this indeed proves to be the case, he must raise his shirt high so that his stomach and back are bared. The next manoeuvre might be tricky. Once I am satisfied that the shirt offers him no protection, he must “assume the position”. This can be a moment of confusion for what constitutes “the position” may vary from person to person. To some it means “bend down, grab your ankles”. Otherwise, it might mean “hands on knees”. Still again, “bend over the back of the chair”. When I say, “Assume the position” I mean stand by the edge of the desk, lean forward, place the forearms squarely on the desk top, head up, look ahead, spread the feet wide.

It can be difficult to convey all this information to the boy about to be paddled. The brighter ones get it almost immediately; not so the dumb. I have on occasion been forced to assume the position myself in order to demonstrate the correct way to present oneself for punishment. I take care in such circumstances to give the young man extra swats by way of compensation for the embarrassment he has caused me.

Once Teddy is in position, the whipping begins. As I have already indicated my paddle of choice is large and I know the blade will cover both buttocks. In preparation I have to take hold of the waistband of his underpants and pull them so tight so that the cotton caresses the bottom like a second skin. I should be able to see the outline of each cheek perfectly, and the ravine that separates them. Once that task is completed it is only a matter of resting the paddle across the target area, tapping it against the tight flesh once or twice for effect, raising the wood high and bringing it back with a resounding crash.

Let me explain what I mean by “for effect”. Such a beating as this is of course about inflicting pain. A great deal of pain (agony even) in many cases. Of course it is, otherwise what is the point of it all? But along with the actual pain comes anticipation. I remember from my own times “in position” for the priests that the preparation, the waiting, the anticipation of the pain to come, the humiliation, was almost as much punishment as the paddling itself.

So, I shall take my time with Teddy. Pat, pat here. Tap, tap there. Swat! Once the first blow has been struck I shall count to twenty (in my head, not aloud). This will add somewhat to the effect. It will give a moment for the pain of the blow to register. I well remember how one hears the whack of wood connecting with one’s own flesh maybe a second before the pain registers. That is when the body shudders or shakes as red-hot aching radiates from the rear end and travels up and down the legs. As more and more swats are delivered that agony journeys through the whole body becoming tortuous. The peak of pain of each swat lasts maybe ten seconds. When I beat a boy I make sure there is a further ten seconds for the sinner to anticipate the next blow before I deliver it.

I have a routine when spanking; a rhythm if you will. I start in the very centre of the backside, across the highest and in most cases fleshiest part of the cheeks. The second swipe goes lower; the third higher. In this way it is possible to have the entire area ablaze after only three swats: from the top near the spine, over the mounds of flesh and into the underside where the thighs meet. With the whole rear end blazing each successive stroke will land on already damaged flesh, reigniting the hurt and adding to its intensity considerably.

I shall award Teddy twelve strokes. I shall leave it to your own imagination to visualise the state of his flesh by the time I have finished. Remember also that the thin cotton underpants offer no useful protection against the paddle. If that is the case, you might think to ask, why don’t I beat my young man on the bare posterior? It is a good question and I think you would agree making Teddy remove his underwear would increase the humiliation of the occasion somewhat. Given my own head I would not hesitate to beat him “on the bare”, but if you read the lying Liberal newspapers you would know that the Church is under much scrutiny these days. I am certain all right-thinking people agree with our way of combating homosexuality among the young; but a manufactured scandal about our method would only be a distraction.

Teddy is a strong young man, I fully expect him to take his punishment stoically. He will assume the position and stay in it until I command that he may stand. I have no doubt his body will react against the agony I shall inflict and his legs will buckle, his back buck, his shoulders shake and his head will neigh like a horse. But, he will stay in place. He will offer his backside to me. He will obey.

There may be tears. This is often involuntary. Think when you hit yourself on the thumb with a hammer do your eyes not water? I keep paper tissues in a box in my drawer. I find such are useful for a number of emergencies that can take place in my study.

Teddy will dress, we shall pray once more. I shall remind him that I (and God) love him and send him on his way.

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second


A Short, Sharp Lesson

z used drawing cane hold (22)

The professor leaned forward in his chair and eyed the young student standing before him disdainfully. “So Rashford, you did not attend my seminar. Can you tell me why?”

Rashford blustered. “Well, err.” He was speechless because there really was nothing he could say. Nothing that would save him from his present predicament. He had missed the professor’s seminar because he couldn’t be bothered to go.

“Pah!” the professor exhaled. “And you haven’t submitted your essay. Are the two non-events in any way connected?”

“Oh no Sir,” Rashford garbled. “Not at all, Sir.”

“So”, the professor wrung his hands together, “you have written the essay?”

“Oh yes, Sir,” Rashford’s palms were beginning to sweat.

“Good, then you can hand it over.” The professor reached out his hand.

The colour left Rashford’s face. “Well Sir when I say … I mean,” he trailed off in confusion.

The professor’s own face darkened. “Don’t compound your offence by lying young man,” he snarled. “You have not completed the essay have you?”

Rashford bit down on his lower lip and whispered, “No, Sir. Sorry Sir.” He stared at the red-patterned rug beneath his feet hoping the floor would open and swallow him.

“Look at me boy!” The professor scowled.  And when the eighteen-year-old reluctantly raised his head, the professor continued. “You were at St Tom’s were you not?”

“Yes, Sir,” Rashford answered, puzzled that the old man would know such a thing about him.

“A very fine school. I have had many former pupils as my students here at the university.”

There was silence. Rashford shuffled uncomfortably unsure if he was expected to speak. At last the professor continued. “You should be ashamed to besmirch the good name of your school.”

“Sorry, Sir,” Rashford whispered, feeling he should say something.

“What would your housemaster at St Tom’s do if you failed to attend class or write an essay?”

Rashford clutched his hands behind his back, “I don’t know, Sir.”

“Oh come, come, Rashford,” the professor snarled, “You really don’t know?”

“Sorry, Sir.”

“It would be Six would it not? Six for missing classes.” The professor’s stare burned into Rashford. Now, his pale face blushed profusely.

“Well, boy? It would be six-of-the best wouldn’t it?”

Rashford’s heart raced, a shiver ran down his spine. He didn’t like the way this was going. “Yes, Sir,” he answered woefully.

“Trousers up or down?” the professor snapped.

Rashford gasped. “Up Sir, trousers up, Sir,” he gabbled. A moustache of sweat formed across his upper lip.

“Well Rashford, you have moved up a division now,” the professor’s eyes shone. “I always beat my students with their trousers down.”

“B…” the student began a protest, thought better of it, and closed his mouth.

“Yes six-of-the-best trousers down for a first offence. But rest assured Rashford repeat offenders are thrashed on the bare.” The professor was delighted to see the young student’s jaw drop. “So Rashford,” he couldn’t disguise his pleasure, “That’s six for not attending my seminar; six for not handing in your essay and a further six for lying about it.” He peered intently at the young man before him, “That’s eighteen strokes in all. Shall we get on with it.”

Rashford’s heart beat faster. The cane? He had thought he’d left all that behind at St Tom’s. It was bad enough that he was to be beaten here at the university, but eighteen strokes. On the underpants. His hands shook uncontrollably.

“Hang your jacket there,” the professor nodded to a hook on the back of the door. It was a large study dominated by a walnut desk with three solid drawers. Towards the back of the room was a Chesterfield couch and two small leather armchairs. A glass-fronted bookcase ran along one wall. A second wall housed an open, as yet unlit, fireplace. A chest of drawers nestled beneath an ornate mullioned window.

With some difficulty Rashford unbuttoned his checked jacket. His fingers refused to obey the commands of his brain. The professor watched disdainfully. When the student had at last completed his task, he commanded, “Come here, stand in front of my desk.” Then, the professor rose from his chair and paced across the room. He halted by the window, bent down and opened the top drawer in the chest. It was empty except for two curve-handled rattan canes. He picked one out and leaving the drawer open he turned to face Rashford.

He flexed the cane between his two hands in the time-honoured fashion. “Just like the ones your housemaster used at St Tom’s I shouldn’t wonder Rashford.” Then he swished it through the air. The student’s eyes followed its movement, “Yes, Sir,” he croaked.

The professor sucked in a lung-full of air, “Lower your trousers Rashford and bend over my desk.” The professor stood his ground and flexed the cane. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. The professor watched intently as Rashford, visibly distressed, unbuckled his trousers. The professor admired the student’s fashionable “Oxford bags.” They were made of thick sturdy material; how could  boy expect to be allowed to retain them for a caning? Soon they slithered down Rashford’s thighs and over his knees to rest in a puddle at his feet.

The housemaster at St Tom’s had preferred to beat his pupils’ backsides while a boy lay flat down across his desk. Without seeking further clarification from the professor, Rashford leaned forward and rested his stomach on the cold, hard desktop. He folded his arms in front of himself and buried his face in them. He was a little tall for the height of the desk so Rashford bent his legs so that his stretched bottom rested at an angle over the edge of the desk.

In this position he could not see the professor nod sagely. He admired Rashford’s fortitude. There was one thing in life the professor liked more than eating a thick steak with mashed potatoes and gravy and that was caning the backsides of his younger students. He had perfected a ritual over the years and set about putting it in place. First, he took hold of the tail of Rashford’s shirt and very carefully folded it back, once and then twice so that it no longer covered the boy’s backside. He noticed Rashford’s vest was damp with sweat even though the room was quite cold. The student breathed deeply when the professor took hold of the waistband of his underpants and tugged. He felt the cotton dig deep into the crack between his buttocks. The professor paused to admire his handiwork so far. Each cheek was lifted and separated. He had created a terrific target.

Satisfied that his victim was perfectly prepared, the professor picked up the whippy rattan once more. He stood a cane’s length to Rashford’s left side and tapped it across the fleshiest part of the student’s buttocks. Rashford’s cheeks clenched. He was a thin, almost skinny, boy with no spare fat. His buttocks were now as solid as steel. The professor allowed himself a smile. Chubby or lean, it was all the same to him, although he had often wondered whether a podgy backside felt the sting of the cane more than a sinewy bottom. Were there more nerve ends under attack? One day, he promised himself, he would devise a scientific experiment to find out.

He “sawed” the cane backward and forward. Now, he had his spot, the professor was ready to go. He lifted the cane high and with a tremendous forward swing brought it down at force across Rashford’s bottom. The student shut his teeth and closed his eyes. He heard the thwack of rattan on cotton a second before the pain kicked in. It began as a searing line of fire across the very centre of both cheeks, then like ripples in a pond after a stone had landed, it moved out over his entire bottom. It hurt. A lot. He thought maybe the professor caned a little harder than his housemaster at St Tom’s. Perhaps, the lack of trousers had something to do with that. Even so, Rashford believed himself to be a trooper; he could take it.

He screwed up his face in appreciation of the intensity of the stoke. He took a deep gulp of air and settled down for the second cut. It was some time in coming. The professor and his ritual again. He placed his left hand in his trouser pocket and sauntered around the study, stopping momentarily to look out the window at the ancient quadrangle below. Then he returned to his position beside Rashford once more. This routine meant there was a delay of at least twenty to thirty seconds between strokes; the professor enjoyed giving time for the pain of one stroke to be fully felt and for the anticipation of the next to build.

He was very satisfied with the gasp of pain from the prostrate student when the second slash struck just below the first. Rashford’s feet marched up and down on the spot like a guard on sentry duty. He couldn’t help it, this was a natural reflex action against the assault on his bottom.

The professor went off on his tour of the study once more. He noticed Rashford’s once pale face was now scarlet, as he knew also was the boy’s backside, even though only two strokes had so far been delivered. He tap, tap, tapped the cane across the very centre of the student’s buttocks, in an area where he had at least some fleshy padding. Rashford dug his face deep into his forearms. Whoosh! The third cut lashed the middle of the cheeks squarely and at such force the cane bit deep into the meat before remerging a second later and bouncing off the tightly stretched cotton of the underpants.

Two more strokes were laid on with the same dreadful force. By the sixth Rashford was unaware of anything except the screaming agony in his bottom. He yelped as the cane made contact but stayed in position, as slowly but methodically the professor lashed the senior cane across the tender buttocks, low down in a tight band just where Rashford would have to sit down. All six strokes were a very tight band across the very base of his bottom.

Eighteen strokes is a tremendous ordeal for anyone to suffer, even one as experienced a receiver as Rashford. The professor delighted in beating students but he was not a monster. He had promised three sets of six and he was determined to make good on the undertaking.

Suddenly, in the distance Rashford heard the professor telling him to stand up and place his hands on his head. Almost unbelieving, he staggered into an upright position, he wanted to clasp his throbbing buttocks, but with tears in his eyes, and hopping about from foot to foot, he obeyed the  instructions, placed his hands on his head and waddled like a penguin to stand facing the bookcase. His backside throbbed like crazy. This was the worst caning of his life.

The professor paced his study. He knew Rashford was confused. The tariff was eighteen strokes and only six had been delivered. He revelled in the student’s confusion. At last he spoke, “Turn around Rashford.” The eighteen-year-old swivelled, hands still firmly on his head. He could not stomach to look at his tormentor.

The professor perched his backside on the edge of his desk and glared at the specimen of a student in front of him. “That was six strokes for absenting yourself from my seminar,” he growled. “You will return at the same time tomorrow for a further six for not submitting your essay. The final six will be delivered the day after, do you understood.” It was a statement rather than a question but Rashford gasped sorrowfully, “Yes, Sir.”

The professor watched intently as the student bent down to retrieve his trousers. He took down his jacket from the hook and climbed into it before still in considerable pain he shuffled through the door. The professor stood at his window; he hoped he would soon see Rashford moving through the quadrangle clutching his burning buttocks.

Picture credit: Endart


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Charles Hamilton the Second


A ritual played out

z used Three Fishers climbing fence (2)

You walk slowly across the quadrangle, hands defiantly dug deep into trouser pockets. You are taking your time. The summons was for four o’clock. You won’t be late, but you have no desire to arrive early.

A cold breeze bites. The snow has turned to slush beneath your feet. You enter the building. Legend has it that parts of it dates back to the seventeenth century. A narrow stone staircase winds upwards. You concentrate on your feet. The stairs are slippery with the snow. You don’t want to turn your ankle. The House rugby final is on Saturday, you wouldn’t want to miss taking part in that.

You halt when you reach the passageway. You check your blue-and-red hooped cap is straight on your head. You fasten the buttons on your blazer. It is coloured blue and has red braiding around the collar, cuffs and pockets. You sigh inwardly. There’s no other blazer like it. Everyone can recognise a St Tom’s boy. More’s the pity, you think.

Not far to walk now. You know the way. This isn’t the first time you’ve made this journey. You hope it will be the last. You’ve arrived. You pause in front of the heavy oak door. The letters on the notice reading “Headmaster” are fading. It is part of school tradition. The study has been here for centuries. You take a deep breath, count to ten, compose yourself. You rap your knuckles on the door with a confidence you don’t really feel.

“Come!” An imperious voice beyond the door calls. You breathe deeply again and with an unsteady hand turn the large brass handle. The door is heavy and it takes some of your strength to open it. Dr Winstanley, the headmaster, is seated at his desk. He looks up and growls at you. “Hurry up and close the door.” A fire is roaring in the grate, but the room is still deathly cold.

The headmaster waves his arm. He points to a spot on the rug  in front of him. “There boy!” You shuffle forward, stand hands clenched behind your back, head bowed. “Look at me boy!” the headmaster barks. You jerk your head upwards.

Dr Winstanley is an elderly, portly man. His head is nearly entirely bald except for a tuft at each temple. His face is florid and his jowls drop low. Depending on how he holds his head he has three or four chins. You notice his tweed suit is a little battered. A waistcoat stretches across his ample belly.

You see he is not wearing his academic gown and mortar-board cap; the very symbol of the English schoolmaster. They hang on a coat stand in a corner to the left of the headmaster’s desk.

“Baxter,” the headmaster intones. You know he is about to jaw you. You know why you have been summoned to the study. You know what is going to happen. You wish he would just get on with it. He does not. He tells you that you were spotted last evening in the public bar of the Three Fishers Hotel. What do you have to say about that?

You mumble. You accept you have been caught. You don’t tell him that you tried to make your escape undetected by climbing the rickety fence that encloses the pub’s carpark. You don’t tell him that you landed right in front of Harrison, the school captain. You don’t say that you often visit The Three Fishers as do many of the sixth-form. You are eighteen years old and you can legally enter pubs. If St Tom’s were not a boarding school the headmaster would have no right to punish you for being there.

You say none of these things. For you know there is no point doing so. None at all. You have broken the rules. You must accept punishment. You may console yourself that many times in the past you and your pals drank in the pub undetected. You are uncomplaining. You win some; you lose some.

You know that when the headmaster has finished lambasting you it will be your turn to speak. You have prepared a little speech. You accept you are in the wrong. You apologise. That is how it must be. The headmaster has all the power and you have none. You do not tell him it is absurd for the headmaster to beat you. You do not tell him you are an adult and you should be treated as one.

With all speeches over, the headmaster commands you to take off your cap and blazer and hang them on the coat stand. As you do this you see three crook-handled canes in the part of coat stand reserved for walking sticks and umbrellas. They are of slightly different lengths and thicknesses. At different times in your school career you have felt each of them across your stretched backside. Which will it be this time?

You resume your position on the faded rug in front of the headmaster’s desk. You watch as he lifts his considerably bulk from the chair and waddles across to the coat stand. You see clearly he has already made up his mind which of the canes he will use on you. It is the longest and the thickest of the three. It is dark yellow in colour and you can see it has notches every three or four inches along its length. You watch as he flexes it between his hands as if testing the rod for the every first time. Then he swishes it through the air. You can see how very dense, yet whippy, it is. It is an awesome specimen and you know it will be extremely painful.

The headmaster wobbles the cane at you. You don’t have time to reflect on the efficacy of corporal punishment in schools. If you did you would remember your father once told you that public schools such as St Tom’s existed to educate future leaders. Boys had to learn to obey orders and how to give them. They had to be taught the consequences of rule-breaking. A caning was a thoroughly painful way to remind a boy of his duty. The beating was over in moments (although the cuts and bruises might remain for weeks) and everyone was able to get on with their lives.

You watch impassively as the headmaster puts his cane down on his desk and takes hold of a small leather chair. He swivels it so that the back faces into the room. You take a deep draught of air into your lungs. You know he is almost ready. Only one further detail needs to be determined.

“Lower your trousers,” the headmaster barks. You breathe deeply again. It is to be on the underpants. You know this was not unexpected. You are a senior boy and you are not an infrequent visitor to this study; you expected a thrashing and you expected it to be exemplary. You take no comfort in the fact that until recently boys could be beaten on the bared buttocks. That practice stopped after an unfortunate court case involving a school elsewhere in the county.

You resolve to take your medicine with as much dignity as the situation allows. You will obey the headmaster’s every command. You tug at your belt and loosen the buckle. There are five buttons in total keeping your trousers closed. You struggle to get a good grip on the lower two in the fly, but eventually the front of your bags flap open. You wriggle your hips and simultaneously push down with your hands and your trousers slither down your thighs and snag at the knees. You spread your legs slightly and they continue their journey and puddle on your shoes. Your white shirt covers your buttocks at the rear and your cock and bulls at the front so that your white cotton Y-front underpants are hidden from view.

You hear the headmaster intone, “Stand by the back of the chair. Lift up your shirt, bend over.” You shuffle like a penguin to the required place and grip your shirt by both sides. You lift it so that it almost reaches your chin, then you fall forward. The first thing you notice is the musty smell of the chair seat. It is a combination of dust and body odour. The second thing is the heat from the roaring fire. You are close to the open grate and your legs are scorching.

You hear the headmaster taking up position behind you. He is swishing the cane through the air. It makes a terrific sound as it flies. You bury your face in the cushion and clasp your hands together, as if in prayer. You know this is going to hurt. You feel the cane “sawing” against the underside of your buttocks. Then it stops. The headmaster grips the waistband of your underpants and tugs so hard you feel the cotton cloth ride up your crack. You know the cheeks have been separated and there is a canyon between them. The headmaster now has a terrific target.

You feel the cane tapping against your stretched flesh. Any moment now. You know this will hurt greatly, but you have been here before. You know you can take it. You suck in your breath and hold it. The cane is lifted away from your bottom, there is an almighty whoosh! as it scatters air in its path, followed by a resounding crack as it connects with your bottom. It takes a second before the astonishing agony registers. You hack out a dry cough. You know you always do this. Other boys hiss as air rushes from their lungs through half-closed teeth. Others yelp; some yell. You are very proud of your ability to take a beating. That first stroke hurt like crazy. You can feel a thick line has already formed across your bum. It feels like the headmaster has pressed a white-hot wire into your flesh.

You hold your breath once more and wait for the second lash. You correctly predict it will land a little lower than the first. When it does you scrunch your eyes shut and increase pressure on your clasped hands. Now, you have a burning stripe across the lower half of your buttocks. You know the headmaster is an expert with the cane. You rather admire him for it. His aim is impeccable. He can land six strokes in a band no wider than an inch. If he choses no stroke will land on top of another. You know a boy is well advised to keep his bottom perfectly still while the headmaster goes about his duty. If he does not, a stroke might land on top of an existing cut and the resulting agony would be excruciating.

Your bottom throbs and despite your best effort your cheeks quiver and you wriggle your hips. “Steady boy,” the headmaster’s voice seems to come from a very long distance. You dig your elbows into the back of the leather chair and brace yourself. The cane flogs deep into your flesh before bouncing off. You cough louder this time. You feel the pain mounting. It radiates across both buttocks and travels up and down your legs. Your temples pulsate.

Your knees buckle and you make a great effort to straighten them. You hips gyrate and your stomach moves up and down over the apex of the chair. You know the headmaster is waiting for you to steady yourself once more before he lets fly again. You raise your bottom high. It is as if you are saying, “Go on. Do your worst.”

The headmaster lands two strokes. Crack!-crack! The shock of the first made you lift your bum. It put the headmaster off his aim and the second has landed diagonally across three of your welts. You hiss like a steam engine. Your legs march up and down on the floorboards. You shake your head up and down, and to the left and right.

You hear the headmaster’s footsteps. He is pacing the study, waiting for you to absorb the pain. You sense he is no hurry. You are determined not to let yourself down. Your heartrate is off the scale. Sweat soaks the back of your neck. It feels as if your underpants have stuck to your bottom.  You fear your welts are bleeding. You feel like you have sat in the fire grate.

With a monumental effort you grip hold of the seat cushion, spread your legs wide, raise your bottom high over the chair and wait. You feel the cane “sawing” across the underside of the buttocks. The headmaster is finding the “sit-spot”. This is the part of the bottom that connects with the chair when you sit down. You know if he slices you there the pain will reignite each time you sit down for a week.

Whoosh! Crack! Bingo! Right on target. You do the foot stomping and the hip wriggling and the head banging all over again. You hack the dry cough, expel air from your lungs. Blood courses though your body at the speed of sound. Your bum is on fire. Your head feels like it is about to explode.

You hear the headmaster return the cane to the coat stand. “You may stand up boy.”

You heave yourself to your feet. You desperately want to clutch your scolding bottom. You have just enough self-control not to. The headmaster has thrashed you well but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing this. Gingerly, you pull up your trousers and button up. As you retrieve your cap and blazer, the headmaster opens the punishment book, finds the correct page and enters your details.

You are now fully dressed. The headmaster stands, approaches you and offers his hand. You shake. You are gentlemen. You hobble from the study and with difficulty make your way down the stone stairs. Back in the quadrangle you see it is snowing again. Ruefully, you rub your backside. The throbbing is intense. For one mad moment you consider whipping down your trousers and pants to sit down in the snow. You smile and make your way towards your study.

There is still one part of the ritual to play out. In a moment you will display your wounds to your chums and together you will discuss the headmaster’s prowess. You award him a maximum ten points.

You know that within a few hours the pain will have vanished. The marks will last for many days; some maybe for weeks. Six-of-the-best; such is the lot of the schoolboy. You hold no resentment. You broke the rules and you got caught. You also know that once the dust has settled you will be back at the Three Fishers propping up the bar.


Picture credit: The Magnet

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Charles Hamilton the Second



An old English custom

z used belt taking hook (22)

He stared through the window at the garden below. Rain drops fell plip-plop against the sill. It seemed it had rained the whole summer. English weather. He must go downstairs for breakfast. Arriving late for meals had consequences. He had learned that quickly.

When he turned eighteen he was taken from his prestigious school and sent half way across the world to an English language college at Brocklehurst: a strange place; not quite country, not quite town. His orders were to learn the language like a native. Immerse himself in the culture. He obeyed. He always obeyed: his father, his school, his Party, his Leader. Obedience had brought him a long way, it would take him much further.

He quickly learnt a lot about English culture. He knew about cricket and tennis. And a strange game they called Crown Green Bowls. And, he knew about the culture of discipline and punishment.

He had been sent to board with the Smith’s. Smith; could there be a more English name? John Smith was a Party functionary, a bureaucrat, a safe pair of hands. He too knew about obedience. The Smiths had a large house in The Avenue, an upscale part of town. Both their sons, now grown into adulthood, were in military service somewhere behind enemy lines.

He had been told to obey Mr Smith; he did so without question. He wanted to know English customs; it was important for his nation. The Leader had plans where England was concerned. He learnt quickly. From the very first moment. He hadn’t noticed it to begin with. That is he saw it easily enough. But, he didn’t register its importance. It hung in the kitchen on a hook next to Mr Smith’s flat cap and scarf (two garments he still needed in the damp summer months). It was a long, thick, wide leather belt. He saw nothing unusual in that. He had two or three of his own. That’s how he kept his trousers from falling down.

Less than a fortnight after he arrived he discovered this particular belt had a specific purpose. Mr Smith imposed rules. He had expected that; the English loved rules. They delighted in bossing people about. Do this, don’t do that. Be here, go there. There’s a times to get up, a time to come home. Meal times, bath times.

It was the fault of a girl. She had large breasts and long flowing ginger hair. Her lips were full and her eyes blazed with mischief. He was a red-blooded young man. How could he resist? Mr Smith never found out about the girl. All Mr Smith knew was that he had missed curfew twice. There could be only one consequence: corporal punishment.

There was no long lecturer, just a statement of fact. They stood in the kitchen, Mr Smith reached towards the hook and took down the belt. He sat in a large, straight-backed wooden chair, spread his legs and planted his feet firmly on the ground. The English have many rituals for corporal punishment. There are any number of implements to choose from; a brush, slipper, cane. A boy might be positioned across a desk, a chair, a vaulting horse or simply touching toes. There would be many future opportunities for him to experience all of these, but for now, this first time, it would be, “Trousers down. Over my knee.”

His hands shook as he unbuckled the belt that held up his baggy serge trousers. He stared down at the puddle of clothing at his feet. It seemed to be a very long way away.

He stared intently at the belt in Mr Smith’s hand. It was a long, thick, wide strip of leather. It looked terrifically heavy as Mr Smith folded it once and then again until he had a punishment strap about a foot long.

Mr Smith ran the tip of his tongue across his top lip; he moved, making himself more comfortable on his hard chair. “Shall we get this over with then?  Come over here and bend across my knee.”

He blinked at Mr Smith; it was as if he had never seen the man before. His hard face was set in a scowl. In middle-age, he still had a fine head of black hair cut with military-style short back and sides. His tongue was darting in and out of his mouth. His shirt was stained under the armpits and open at the neck. Mr Smith wore brown thick corduroy trousers that had almost worn smooth at the knees.

He prepared himself. His glistening white Y-front underpants clung to his flat stomach; there was not a spare ounce of fat anywhere on his body. His heartbeat quickened and perspiration began to seep through the his shirt. His trousers at his ankles inhibited movement and he wobbled three or four steps to take up position.

He stood for a second on Mr Smith’s right side. The man’s legs were parted by about three feet to provide a platform for him to lay across. He gulped, drawing in air and the stink of sour tobacco. He leaned forward. The muscles in his back rippled as he wriggled to get into place. He was some athlete. His legs were like tree trunks and his bottom was firm and round. He stretched himself across Mr Smith’s legs.

He had never been spanked before, nor had he ever seen a boy go over the knee for punishment, but instinctively he knew what was expected of him. He spread his arms ahead of him and placed the palm of each hand four feet apart and firmly into the wooden floorboards. Behind him his trousers at his feet inhibited movement so his legs were hardly more than six or seven inches apart. He kept his knees straight so that his bottom, clad in smooth cotton, rested at an angle against Mr Smith’s right knee. He was perfectly positioned for punishment. He stared down at the floor and waited. He was quite comfortable considering what was soon to happen would be far from that, but he wriggled a little because a bunch of keys Mr Smith had in his trouser pocket dug into his side.

Mr Smith felt the weight of the belt in his hand as he tap-tap-tapped it against the left cheek. Gently, he took hold of the waistband of the underpants and pulled so that the smooth white cotton kissed the buttocks. Then, he moved the increasingly damp shirt a few inches up the back, exposing hairless and suntanned flesh.

Now, he was ready. Without further warning, Mr Smith raised the weighted strap to the fullest extent of his arm and brought it down with a resounding crack into the right cheek. A startled gasp hissed across the room. It hurt. He screwed up his eyes as a second and third thwap!!! landed. The echo of leather on tight cotton bounced around the room.

He was a spanking virgin and did not know what a spanking was supposed to feel like. The belt rose and fell as Mr Smith found his rhythm. A dull pain spread across both buttocks and he stared down at the backs of his hands.

Mr Smith lashed the leather belt again and again into the muscular bottom. The  cheeks were so tight there was no “give” in the flesh. Without warning, Mr Smith stopped walloping and unceremoniously pulled once more at the waistband of the pants. This time, instead of making them tighter he dragged them down across the hips and over the round bum.

Mr Smith wrapped his arm around the midriff to hold him firmly in place, raised the leather strap to maximum height and brought it down over and over again into the firm flesh. Gasps quickly turned to little yelps and then to larger cries. He wriggled his body across Mr Smith’s lap to the left and to the right. He was strong and in a fair fight he could have knocked Mr Smith for six; but this was no fair fight. He had to obey and allow himself to be held firmly across the knees of his punisher, bare bum high to receive lash after lash from the leather belt. He must hang on for dear life and take what was coming to him.

His bottom was covered in a rash of raw marks where the short heavy belt had scorched into him. Hardly any of the buttocks and the tops of his thighs were untouched by the strap. Tiny graze marks widened into deeper scratches.

Whop! whop! whop! Mr Smith went around the circuit one more time; from the top of the cheeks, across the mounds and into and beyond the crease where the bum meets the thighs. The dull pain had long since transformed into an almighty throb only to become an agonisingly searing pain across the whole of his bottom area. The whacking had knocked the breath out of him and he lost strength. He had no power to resist and lay face down staring at the floorboards. Involuntary tears washed the backs of his eyes and soon they trickled down his cheeks.

Every square inch of his bottom had been toasted. Dozens of imprints of the belt emblazoned the buttocks and the tops of his thighs. It was a job well done. He had been well and truly spanked. Mr Smith spread his feet out in front of him so that he could lift himself clumsily off his lap. Slowly, he knelt and then stood up. His hands disappeared behind him as he rubbed away gingerly. In silence, he tugged up the underwear and trousers from the top of his shoes. He tucked in his shirt.

In silence, Mr Smith replaced the belt on the hook. Already most of the pain had gone. His bottom was still warm and in places it was tender to touch, but soon even that would disappear. The red marks would turn to bruises and he would wear them for some days to come. They would be a reminder to him of one very particular English custom.

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Through the window

z used belt pants couch spankingboysdoteu (110c)

“You’ll never guess what I saw today,” Alan blew across the top of his mug of tea, wallowing in the suspense he hoped to create in the postal distribution centre canteen. “I was in The Avenue, you know those posh houses.” His co-workers nodded assent. “So, I’m walking up the driveway and I can see through the window and what did I see?”

He paused, genuinely expecting his pals around the table to guess. When no one took the bait, he continued. “There’s this huge front room and this guy, he must have been about twenty, and he’s only wearing underpants,” he sipped his tea, to build the tension. “And he’s bent over the back of a massive settee with his arse held high. And standing over him is an old geezer,” he stared intently at his three pals waiting to gauge their reaction to his impending punchline, “and he’s got this belt and he’s whipping the kid on his arse; giving him a right good spanking.”

“Unbelievable,” a co-worker munched on a sandwich.

“I ain’t lying, why would I lie?” Alan couldn’t hide his indignation.

“No,” his pal explained, “Unbelievable. Who’d think it would happen today. It’s 2018.”

A second postman piped up. “Was it a kinky thing? I’ve heard all sorts of stories about what goes on in The Avenue.”

“Well,” Alan grinned. “The kid didn’t look like he was enjoying it.”

“So,” the first pal spoke again, “It was a proper spanking? Discipline. Punishment, like?”

“Alan says the kid was twenty,” the second postman interjected. “That right? Bit too old to have his bum smacked, ain’t he.”

“I don’t know,” Alan said, “I can think of a few louts round my way who could do with a bloody good spanking.”


Earlier that day.

Mr Grainger slumped on the plush leather sofa and stared at the carriage clock on the mantelpiece. Almost ten o’clock and that brat was still in bed, he fumed silently. He heard the sound of the tap running in the kitchen and hoisted himself to his feet and waddled out the room. Jack was making tea, naked, except for a pair of underpants.

“Too bone idle even to get dressed,” Mr Grainger blasted the twenty-year-old. “Look at you.”

Jack switched the kettle on, turned and gave Mr Grainger his best scornful glare.

“You’re late for college. Again.” Mr Grainger growled. “And what time did you get in last night?” Jack shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno.” Mr Grainger flared his nostrils. “Half past twelve. You know curfew is eleven o’clock on a school night.”

The kettle boiled and Jack poured water over a tea bag in a single mug.

“Pah! What did I say I would do if you didn’t pull yourself together?” Mr Grainger fumed.

Jack set his mug on the table. “Wordya mean?”

“A spanking. I said I’d give you a jolly good spanking.”

Jack let his jaw slacken, then he said, “Oh come on Gramps, I’m too old to be spanked.”

“Nonsense,” Mr Grainger waved his arms. “I was still taking a cane to your father’s backside when he was twenty-one.”

Jack stared blankly. The silence could be cut with a knife. He waited for Gramps next move.

“Come with me. Into the lounge,” Mr Grainer gripped Jack’s left ear and propelled him forward.

“Ouch! Leggo!” he cried, but was forced to allow Gramps to drag him away and pull him towards the sofa. He released his grip on the ear and with one swift movement pushed the brat forward so that he was face down over its back.

“Now stay there. Don’t move,” Mr Grainer ordered as he unbuckled his belt and drew it through the loops of his trousers. Jack gazed vacantly at the seat cushion centimetres from his face. Mr Grainger doubled the belt. It was narrow and thin and he held it between his two hands and stretched it so it make a thwacking sound. Jack’s head rose from the settee at the sound of the crack.

“Don’t say you weren’t warned,” Mr Grainger swished the leather belt through the air and took up position by the brat’s side. Jack was small and stocky and fitted comfortably across the settee. His weight pressed into the leather. With his knees slightly bent his bottom was perfectly positioned for Gramp’s purpose.

Jack’s Calvin Klein underpants were a snug fit. He was far from fat, but he carried a little bulk. “A terrific target,” Mr Grainger thought to himself. He rubbed the belt across the centre of Jack’s buttocks, delighting as the brat’s bum tensed. The twenty-year-old was steadying himself for the ordeal about to come.

Smack! The thud of leather hitting cotton-covered buttocks resounded around the room. A line creased the pants where the belt landed. Gramps raised the belt again and lashed it a centimetre or so below it. Then he whipped again and again. Within seconds there were stripes across the whole of Jack’s bum, from below the spine, over the fleshy mounds in into the under-cheeks. Jack took his whipping without a murmur. This perplexed the old man. A spanking should hurt, otherwise what was the point.

Deliberately, he landed a slash low, so that it avoided Jack’s pants altogether and landed on his naked left thigh. “Ouch!” Jack felt that one all right. Gramps watched with great satisfaction as a dark pink line formed. Then he slashed one into the brat’s right thigh.

Mr Grainger might be a senior citizen, but he had some stamina despite his old age. He returned his attention to Jack’s cotton-covered backside and spanked him with his belt for a further five minutes.

“Get up,” he ordered. Jack sprung to his feet. His face was scarlet and his untidy hair soaked in sweat. He rubbed his buttocks, even though they didn’t hurt so much. What pain there was quickly turned to a tingle before almost immediately disappearing.

Mr Grainger returned his belt to its rightful place and sat on a large leather armchair. He spread his legs wide. “Come here,” he gestured to Jack. The brat eyed Gramps cautiously. What did he want? Was he going to take him across his knee for another spanking? Gramps patted his own leg. Now Jack understood. He hurried forward and sat on the old man’s lap. Gramps put his arms around the brat and pulled him forward into a caress.

“Well,” he whispered kindly, “What did you think of that?” Jack smiled, “Not much really. It hardly hurt. Not like the paddle.”

Mr Grainger grinned and pushing Jack to his feet, said, “OK. Go fetch the paddle and we’ll go again.” With mounting excitement, he watched Jack’s beautiful buttocks sashay from the room.


Picture credit: spankingboysdoteu

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Charles Hamilton the Second


Only a glass of wine

z used pants wine glass Endymion Hill

C’mon Uncle Jack it was only a glass of wine

It wasn’t only a glass of wine, it was my wine. Wine I told you not to touch.


And judging by the state of you when I came in last night you had drunk a lot more than one glass of wine.


I told you when I took you in you had to obey my rules. I’m not a soft touch like your dad.

No, but.

But nothing. I’m gonna spank you, like I told you I would.

But Uncle, I’m nineteen.

Yeah, you are nineteen. That’s plenty old enough to be making your own way in the world. Maybe you should just pack your bags and go.

No, Uncle, no.

Then you must accept discipline.

Oh, but Uncle.

Here, look at this. Have you seen it?

What’s that?

I bought it at Aldi. They call it a serving board, but look at it, it’s exactly the same size and weight as a spanking paddle. Like the Americans use.

You’re gonna spank me with a bread board?

Thank your lucky stars I don’t use a cane on you. You can get authentic school canes on eBay. If you don’t learn to behave, I’m going online for next time.

No, Uncle, no.

Stand there, by the table. Quickly. Now take down your jeans.

No Uncle, not my jeans.

Too right. They’re so thick you’d hardly feel a thing. Now, get on with it.

No, Uncle, please.

Do you want me to come over there and do it?

Oh, Uncle.

OK have it your way. Go pack your bags, I want you out of here before ten o’clock.

No, sorry Uncle. Here.

That’s right. Get them right down to your ankles . . . Jeez those pants look lived in. When did you last change them?


Disgusting. Now, lift up your shirt and bend over the table . . . Not like that. Lay flat on the table top. Stick your bum out.

Oh, Uncle.

Right. Now don’t say I didn’t warn you. You’ve nobody to blame but yourself.

Ouch! Owww!

Oh don’t be such a baby. I’ve hardly started.

Oww! Oww! Oww!

Keep still. Hold on to the edge of the table.


Stop that! Keep your hands out of the way.


Get back down. Now! I shan’t tell you again. Do you want extra swats?

Oh Uncle.

So much fuss. And you such a big boy.


Just be thankful I don’t take down your pants and give you a few on your bare buttocks.

No Uncle, No!

Well, behave yourself. Take your punishment like a man.

Owww! Sniff, sniff

Are you crying?

No, Uncle. Owwwwwwww!


Picture Credit: Endymion Hill

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The Meter Reader

z used paddle jeans chair domestic

The first time I visited the house I failed to notice the large green-and-gold school blazer hanging on a hook in the hallway, but I couldn’t miss the wooden paddle in the cupboard under the stairs.

My heart skipped a beat and my face flushed. It took a super human effort not to pick it up and caress it. It was about two feet long and four inches wide with a handle at one end. It looked all the world like a cricket bat designed for an eight-year-old.

“Ahh, you’ve found my little toy, I see.” An elderly man stood behind me, blocking the light. I can’t remember what I said in reply, but I’m pretty sure I came across as a complete idiot. I shone my torch at the gas meter’s dial, recorded some numbers in my book and made a swift exit, face burning and (frankly) my dick twitching.

I stopped outside the front gate to regain my breath. My head was dizzy and my heart racing. I sucked in a lung full of air and hurried down The Avenue to the next house.

My Uncle Clive used to paddle my backside. Good and hard. I was a difficult kid. I never liked school because I couldn’t see the point. I looked around me and saw my Mum and Dad and the neighbours all had good, steady jobs. The men mostly worked in construction, the women in shops or beauty parlours. We rented a council flat, had a family car and took holidays abroad each year. And I don’t suppose any one of them had a qualification. School, who needed it?

Of course, with an attitude like that I was uncooperative and disruptive. The school couldn’t do much about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished years before and if a teacher put me in detention, I didn’t bother to go, Really, what could they do? They suspended me from school once. Yes please, I said. Don’t you get it? I don’t want to go to school. Losers.

Uncle Clive was the exception. Where everyone else had no qualifications, he had a shedload. He had at least two college degrees and some piece of paper that made him an accountant. He believed he had bettered himself. He said I should have more ambition. There won’t always be a construction industry, he said.

I made a vital mistake. I treated him like he was a schoolteacher. I told him where to get off. Leave me alone, I said, I know best.  So I left school as soon as I was legally allowed at sixteen. Big mistake. Banks went bust and the unemployment lines grew. I was out of work for two years. To cut a long story short I went off the rails: I drank, took drugs, got involved in a little thieving. Mum and Dad despaired. After the police turned up at our house to arrest me for the third time they said “Enough”, I would have to go.

I spent a month living on the streets. I was one of those bundles in a shop doorway people hurry by through fear or embarrassment. I was cold, hungry, alone and scared. I don’t know how Uncle Clive discovered where I was living rough. Late one night as I shivered outside Tesco, I looked up wearily to see a tall, strong man towering over me.

He gave me a choice. Stay living on the streets until I die of exposure or go live with him at his nice warm bungalow. A no-brainer really. “My house. My rules.” Uncle Clive was clear from the start. “No booze, no weed. Get a job. Make something of yourself.”

Now, the thing about Uncle Clive was that somewhere along the road he had found religion. Big time. There’s a bit somewhere in the Bible about spare the rod and spoil the child. Except in Uncle’s case the “rod” was a heavy wooden paddle, identical to the one in that cupboard under the stairs. I was eighteen at this time, but as far as Uncle Clive was concerned I was still a little kid. He sat me down and drew up what he called my “Objectives.” I had to get up by eight in the morning, I had a curfew at night, chores to do around the house and I had to go looking for work. Or else.

I had never been threatened with a spanking before. Corporal punishment had been confined to the dustbin of history years since. One day when I was on my own I took Uncle’s paddle from the sideboard drawer and studied it. It looked professionally made. The “blade” end was about two feet long. It must have been a quarter inch thick. I gripped it by the handle and swished it through the air, imagining there was a backside bent across the back of the armchair. It look my breath away. What would it feel like to have this monster crashing into my backside? I held the handle tightly, leaned forward a little and smacked the wood into the seat of my jeans. Ouch! It hurt. Quite a bit actually. I couldn’t get a decent swing into my own backside. I supposed it would hurt a lot more if Uncle Clive was doing it.

I didn’t have to wait long to find out. I had been mooching around the house for too long. I was getting nowhere finding a job. “Just work at a burger bar for now,” Uncle Clive berated me. “Get something to start you off. Don’t worry about the crap pay, you can stay here with me.” He really wanted to help me and I suppose my lack of energy must have frustrated the hell out of him.

So, Uncle Clive said one night the choice was simple. Back to the cardboard box or swats from the paddle. I couldn’t understand why my heart beat so quickly when he said this. You would think it would be through fear. Perhaps it was, but wasn’t there also something exciting about his?

Uncle Clive held the paddle and whacked it into the palm of his hand. I watched transfixed, remembering how much it hurt when I tried it on myself. “Let’s not have any fuss here,” Uncle Clive’s steely-blue eyes pierced through me. “I want you to go over to that chair,” he waved the wood at a straight-backed dining room chair, “And bend over.”

My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. Looking back what was it that I wanted to say? “No way?” Or quite possibly, “Yes, please.” I shuddered. Again, fear or excitement? I couldn’t look at Uncle Clive, I shuffled towards the chair and stopped halfway. Sweat soaked the palms of my hands and I wiped them on the leg of my jeans. My mouth was suddenly dry and I ran my tongue across my lips.

“Bend over,” Uncle Clive was calm, but he did want to get a move on. I stood closer to the chair. “Turn it around so the back faces you.” I did as instructed. I remember the chair was much heavier than I expected. “Bend over,” Uncle Clive said again as he gently tapped the paddle into his palm. I leaned forward and gripped hold of the seat of the chair. My stomach cleared the top of the chair by some distance. Without thinking I spread my legs and kept my knees straight. My jeans fitted tightly and I could feel them tug against my buttocks.

Uncle Clive rested the heavy wooden paddle across the lower part of my cheeks. I felt it move away and then return with an almighty Crack! The sound of wood connecting with my tight denim-clad arse echoed around the room. My knees buckled, my hips swayed and I gripped the chair seat tightly. Ouch! That hurt. If the time I whacked myself scored two out of ten, Uncle Clive’s first attempt was way off the top of the scale.

Uncle Clive swung hard, with all of his strength which was considerable as he was a big man. Every blow hit like the kick of a horse knocking me forward over the back of the chair. At first there was a fierce stinging all the way across my bum. Then the pain increased and it seemed like my entire body ached. Then the next swat landed and the next until Uncle Clive was beating a rhythm on my poor defenceless bottom.

When it was over I performed the traditional spanking dance hopping from foot to foot and clutching the seat of my jeans. My buttocks glowed red hot but very soon the pain turned to a warm glow. Uncle Clive sent me to my room where I lowered my jeans and pants and stared in astonishment at the reflection of my battered bum in the mirror. My cock was semi-erect and my head buzzed. I can’t quite describe that feeling after my first spanking, but it was better than any drug I was taking at the time.

That was about six years ago. Eventually I got a job with the Gas Board. Uncle Clive encouraged me to find a room of my own and gradually we stopped seeing each other. I hadn’t thought much about  that paddling until my visit to the house in The Avenue. Now, I couldn’t get it out of my mind. Why was that paddle in the cupboard? What did that old man do with it? I obsessed. I lay awake at night imagining I was at that house, bent across the back of a leather armchair, my jeans at my ankles while he took my backside off with the paddle.

This could not go on. I had to go back to The Avenue. But, I couldn’t just knock on his door and ask to be spanked. Even so I took a bus and walked up and down the street. It’s a long road with lots of upscale, expensive houses. I felt very conspicuous. How would I explain myself if someone called the police? I don’t know what I expected to happen. Maybe I would bump into the man as he left home to go to the shops.

Nothing happened, of course. Nor did it on the next three times I walked up and down The Avenue. Then it was Saturday. I passed by his house for the third time that morning when the front door opened. I blushed profusely at the sight of the man standing in his doorway. He was about sixty I suppose and showing his age. His waist had long ago disappeared as had most of his hair. His face was fleshy but he still managed to flash me the most beguiling smile.

“Are you spying on me?” he called cheerfully. Oh how I wished the pavement could swallow me up right there. He called me over to him. I could hardly dare to look as I shuffled up his garden path. “I’ve seen you several times, walking past my house,” he still smiled. “Did you want me for something?”

How could I tell him? What could I say? “Yes, please, I want you to spank me,” would sum up my thought succinctly, but I was too bashful to say it out loud. At that point he recognised me. “You’re the chap who came to read my meter,” he paused as if trying to compute. “The one who liked my toy so much!” At this he burst into cackling laughter.

The glint in my eye probably gave him his answer because I certainly did not confirm his supposition with words. “Do come in dear boy,” he moved away from the door to make room for me to enter. I stood uncertainly, shuffling from foot to foot. Then I noticed the green-and-gold blazer on the coat hook. Alongside it was a matching school cap and – oh glory – on the hook next door dangled two curve-handled whippy rattan school canes. My eyes darted away from them, fearful that the man would register my interest.

He had. “I have many toys. Come inside, I’ll show you some if you wish.” His smile was so warm I had no fear as he led me into a large living room. It was dominated by a leather Chesterfield couch and two enormous armchairs. At the far end covering almost an entire wall was a glass-fronted display case containing a collection of expensive-looking china ornaments. “You are a very naughty boy, spying on my house like that,” the man said. The smile had vanished, but his words held no fear for me. “And you know what happens to naughty boys, don’t you?”

My head ached. The room was hot and stuffy and I couldn’t breathe properly. I think I shrugged my shoulders in reply to his statement. “What’s up boy, the cat got your tongue?” The man spoke more sternly now. He paced the room in front of me. I stood, hands behind my back, eyes cast down at the expensive wooden flooring beneath my feet.

“I know what you need boy,” the man folded his arms across his chest. My soldier stirred but it was not yet on the march. The man grunted and we lapsed into an oppressive silence. I knew I needed to say something as he needed only the slightest encouragement. I couldn’t find the words. I shrugged my shoulders. “Pah!” The man expelled air through pursed lips. “Such insolence.” He rocked back on his heels and unfolded his arms. He glared at me down a long, angular nose. “Well boy, I know how to deal with that.”

He waved his hand in the general direction of the Chesterfield couch. “Stand there. Put your hands on your head.” My mouth drained of saliva and my hands trembled, but I did as he commanded. With my fingers interlocked I placed my hands on my head in the classic naughty-boy pose. My hair was soaked with sweat. From the corner of my eye I saw the man stride from the room. He returned seconds later. Under his right arm was a thick, whippy school cane. My eyes saucered. I had never seen a school cane before.

“Never seen a school cane before,” the man said. It was a statement, not a question. “Well boy, today will also be the first time you feel a school cane.” He placed great emphasis on the word “feel”. I felt my cock press into the front of my pants. The man walked to the front of me and slipped the cane from under his arm into his hand. He wobbled it in front of my face. My eyes followed it as it travelled through the air. My heart was already racing but sped more when the man flexed the cane between two hands so that effortlessly it made an arc. Then he swiped the cane across the back of the Chesterfield couch, leaving a thin indentation in the rich black leather.

“In a moment that will be your backside boy.” The man’s smile was now malevolent. I closed my eyes tight. “Now,” the man spoke calmly and evenly. “I want you to lower your trousers and bend over the couch.” The blood was rushing so quickly through my body and pounding my ears that I didn’t fully catch his words. I stood trembling but made no other movement.

“Pah!” The man exhaled. “Take down your trousers.” The command was sterner. This was a man who expected to be obeyed. I felt his eyes burn into my soul as I fumbled with the button of my chino trousers. It took an inordinate length of time. I wanted to do this very much but I could not persuade my fingers to obey me. At last the waistband was loose. I had less trouble with the zipper but was alarmed to see the bulge in the front of my green underpants. They fitted tightly in ordinary circumstances and my tentpole was straining the cotton. The man professed not to notice.

The chinos slid down my highs and bunched at my knees. I parted my legs a little and they continued their journey to my feet. I think I could feel pre-cum oozing from my cock but it might have been my imagination. I eased myself forward over the back of the couch. It was an expensive piece of furniture and judging by the aroma of rich leather that assaulted my nostrils it was almost brand new.

I was tall enough that my body cleared the apex of the couch. Just as well as I am sure the friction of my body on the back of the Chesterfield would have made me shoot my load. My eyes were closed so I could not see the man but I felt him take hold of my shirt and roughly move it further up my back. Very daintily, he smoothed the cotton underpants so they fitted my stretched buttocks so well that I felt them dig into my crack. My buttock cheeks must have been beautifully separated.

The man sawed the cane across the underside of my bum, taking his aim. A second later I heard a swoosh and there was a tremendous crack as the cane swiped deep into my flesh. It was another second before the pain registered. It was as if the man had pressed a white-hot wire into me. My legs stamped up and down and my hips swirled. I bit down deeply on my bottom lip to silence the wail my body desperately wanted me to make. I was certain my bum had been sliced open. Surely it was bleeding? A thin weal, puffy and swelling rose.

The speed at which the cane swished through the air both fascinated and terrified me. Swish-crack! It was all I could do not to scream. The line of fire bored into my bum and I wiggled frantically.

“Keep still!” the man scolded. I tried to stay calm. My eyes stung with tears but they had not yet started to flow down my face. Swish-crack! Swish-crack! Swish-crack! The agony was too much. I jumped to my feet and clutched my burning backside, hopping around the room. The tears flowed freely now. I had no control whatsoever of my body. My lungs were empty and desperately I tried to suck in air.

The man stood impassively, cane once more tucked under his arm as I humiliated myself before him. Once I had stopped my dancing, he ordered me back over the couch. I obeyed without question. The man was in charge. It was his duty to beat me. It was my role to offer up my bottom for discipline. Only when my master was satisfied I had been punished enough would the caning end.

He was not a cruel man. He knew I was a novice at this. He gave me six hard swipes. Six-of-the-best they used to call it back in the day. He left me there prostrate across the couch for a full minute while I regained my breathing. “Stand up,” the man’s tone was gentle. My bum was on fire, my cock throbbed like crazy but my head was as clear as a bell. It was the euphoria you can only get with a severe beating. Without waiting for permission, I tugged up my trousers and with great difficulty zipped them up over my pulsating penis. I wasn’t the least embarrassed that the man could see my predicament.

“Do you need the lavatory?” the man asked, his face once more cracked by a smile. Of course I did.

Picture credit: Unknown

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