Movie time

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z used bed pants laptop

Trent was holding on as if his very life depended on it. He worked his fist up and down the full length. It was as thick as a broomstick. But not as long. And not as stiff. His heels beat against the mattress every time he kicked his legs. His heartrate was off the scale. Slowly, he eased his fist up and down. He groaned when he took his balls in his hand. The tip of his tongue darted through clenched lips as he cupped the sticky shaft. Slowly. Slowly. It was a battle. He had to slow down. But the sheer joy he felt as the fingers caressed his sensitive stick compelled him to go faster. Huff. Huff. Huff.

No! He told himself not now. Hold it back. Make it last longer. Not  now! Not now! His fist slowed. Too late. He arched his back, only his shoulders and feet remained on the mattress. He swivelled his hips. Fell back; crossed his ankles. Too late! With a whoosh of energy it spurted through his shaft. He closed his eyes tightly. He didn’t see that it flew so high it almost hit the ceiling. Hot, sticky goo splashed across his bare chest and stomach.

Huff. Huff. Huff. Oh, the joy, The ecstasy. He opened his eyes and peered down at the mess, rapidly cooling. His breathing eased. His heartrate slowed close to normal. Without turning his body, so none would drip onto the bedsheet, he reached his left arm across the bed to the length of toilet paper he knew was there. He scrunched it up and quickly wiped himself off. He tossed the crumpled tissue onto the floor.

Trent was spent, but the movie continued. He turned onto his side and pulled the laptop closer. It was one of his favourites. It always made him cum. Schoolboys in the headmaster’s study. They were supposed to be sixth-formers but the actors were obviously older than that. Not by much: nineteen or twenty  maybe. This one had one of the best of the lot. A fresh faced lad with a cheeky smile. His flat stomach and cute bum were very boyish.

The Swish! movies were the best. They were so professionally done. Real experts. The stories never changed though. Trent didn’t mind. Oh, how he wished he had gone to a school like that. The movie started with a boy they called Jimmy arriving at the headmaster’s study. He is in school uniform. Black blazer, white shirt, striped tie and pale-grey trousers. This time he’s wearing long trousers but often the movies have him in nice tailored short trousers that fall to just above the knee. Trent prefers the boys in ‘longs’ – just like he wore at school.

Jimmy has been caught smoking behind the gymnasium. Smoking tobacco that is. Smoking is the greatest crime imaginable in the world of Swish! movies. Well Jimmy knows what’s going to happen next. The headmaster, who is dressed in traditional academic gown, sometimes with and sometimes without the old-fashioned mortar-board cap on his head, goes to a hat-stand or a cupboard or over to a radiator. In any case he is going to choose a cane. He has a selection, but they are all about the same. They are about a metre long, no thicker than a pencil and all have the traditional – and sexy – curved handle. It is this that makes them authentic school canes, otherwise all the headmaster has is a stick that anyone could to hold up plants in the garden.

Trent is hooked at this point. Blood gorges to his cock when the headmaster takes a cane in his hand and thoughtfully flexes it between his hands to see how far it will bend. He replaces it and takes another. He flexes that one too and swishes it through the air. It is a mighty rod. It will leave marks across poor Jimmy’s bottom for sure.

“Take off your jacket. Take that chair and put it there,” the headmaster intones and Jimmy has to put his blazer on a hook on the door and move the furniture around the study and prepare his own seat of execution. This chair is made of leather with wooden arms. It has a low back and Jimmy will fit across it perfectly as he demonstrates when the headmaster swishes the cane sharply and orders, “Bend over.”

We get a shot of Jimmy’s rascally face as he recognises the gravity of his situation. He does not argue. He does not point out that he is an eighteen-year-old senior boy. He is legally an adult. He is too old for this. Instead, meekly he approaches the chair. He looks at it for a moment while the camera lingers on his back and legs. Then slowly he eases forward. He rests his stomach on the apex of the chair and grips the front of the seat cushion. The material of his pale-grey trousers caresses the curves of his cheeks. They are round and firm. Trent sees this in close up. “Oh,” Trent thinks to himself sadly, “I wish I went to a school like this.”

The headmaster swishes his cane and then taps it across the firmest part of Jimmy’s bottom. “Legs apart. Up over,” he says quietly. Jimmy adjusts his buttocks so that more meat is exposed to the cane. The headmaster steps back. He saws the cane across the centre of both cheeks. The cane rises. It falls, striking Jimmy’s bottom firmly. A line appears in the seat of the pale-grey trousers where the rod fell. Jimmy’s lips purse. His eyes shine. He felt that.

The headmaster delivers six-of-the-best in close up. Jimmy’s face is a picture. Each successive stroke hurts more than the last one. His face glows. He bites his lip. He grimaces. This is an authentic caning. It hurts, but he lives. The headmaster stands back and admires his handiwork. A true schoolboy beating. But he has not finished. “Stand up,” the headmaster intones. “Take down your trousers, then back over.”

The headmaster tucks the cane under his arm and watches as Jimmy hauls himself to his feet. Without looking to left or right, nor even down at his waist, the boy unbuckles his leather belt. Then he pops the clasp of his trousers, pulls the zipper and pushes his trousers down. They bunch at his shins. Then, with no further ado, he goes back over the chair. Trent loves this bit.

Corporal punishment had been outlawed at schools long before Trent was born. He knows that boys regularly faced the threat of the cane across the seat of their trousers. Nobody got it on the underpants. Did they? Who cares? Swish! do not make documentaries. Whoever tossed off to Panorama? Jimmy is wearing white cotton Y-fronts (as much a part of school uniform as blazer and tie). Once he is over the chair they stretch across his buttocks so that they fit like a second skin. The headmaster, still with the cane under his arm, approaches. He hesitates for a moment as if admiring the sights and then with both hands gently takes hold of the tail of Jimmy’s crisp white shirt. The headmaster lifts it and pulls it up Jimmy’s back until it is away from the target area. He reveals an area of smooth, hairless back.

Not yet ready to resume caning, the headmaster now takes hold of the waistband of the underpants. He plays a little game. He acts as though he is going to rip them down over Jimmy’s buttocks and haul them down to his knees so the teenager’s bum is bare. Instead, he tugs the waistband so that the already smooth underpants are even tighter. This way the cotton digs right up the crack and each cheek is lifted and separated. Jimmy has a gorgeous bum. It is (naturally) his prize asset.

The headmaster steps back, slips the cane from armpit to hand and takes aim. Trent sees that the Y-fronts do not fully cover the bum and there are red marks on naked flesh where the cane previously struck. Jimmy’s bottom quivers when the headmaster taps the cane into the underpart of his cheeks, where the bum and thighs meet. The cane is lifted. It strikes. Jimmy’s face contorts. His mouth opens wide. Those beautiful blue-grey eyes sparkle. “Ouch!” he mouths the word.

Jimmy takes another six-of-the-best. Trent sees headmaster. Trent sees cane rise. Trent see tighty-whitey cotton underpants. Trent sees cane fall. Trent sees Jimmy’s startled reaction. Trent’s cock throbs. He reaches for the lube.

“Stand up boy,” the headmaster pompously paces the study. He rests and watches Jimmy sorrowfully get to his feet. Will he ever smoke cigarettes again? Who knows? Trent has long ago forgotten the reason for the punishment. “Underpants down,” the headmaster growls as if it is the most natural thing in the world for him to say.

Trent is in a parallel universe. Usual rules do not apply here. The eighteen-year-old does not tell the headmaster where to get off. He does not stride across the study and punch the headmaster in the mouth and then pummel him into jam as he falls to the floor, before kicking him in the kidneys and leaving. Instead, Jimmy hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his tight, cotton Y-fronts and with no more than a flick of the wrist he sends them south to join his trousers. He turns back to the chair and as he bends forward Trent is given a marvellous close-up shot of Jimmy’s savaged buttocks. Thick wheals run across both cheeks. They are genuinely raw.

Jimmy takes up position again. Head low, bottom high, feet apart. The headmaster does the sawing thing again with his cane and then lets fly. By now, Trent has his eyes closed tight. He concentrates on the job in hand. He can still hear the sound from the movie. The swish. The crack! The arrghhs and ouches from Jimmy, but Trent is now in his own world. How he wants to be that boy bent over the back of the chair. He remembers Mr Watney, the aging headmaster at his inner-city comprehensive school. If only Mr Watney had caned him like that. Trent would gladly have smoked ten cigarettes a day.

In the movie the caning is over. Jimmy is sent to stand to face the wall where he rubs his marked cheeks vigorously. He smiles, a little more ruefully than cheekily. The headmaster sits in the chair. He gestures to Jimmy who at first looks bemused. His confusion does not last long. “Come, stand there,” the headmaster points to a spot beside him. Jimmy understands. He has lived in this unnatural world long enough. Still rubbing his throbbing backside he slowly makes his way across the study. He stands where indicated. “Bend over,” again the headmaster’s command is obeyed without question.

Jimmy is face down across the headmaster’s knee. Trent watches with half an eye. Sometimes in these movies the headmaster makes the boy strip off all his clothes and bend across his knee totally naked. Trent has a movie where Jimmy does this. He looks terrific naked; he is slender, yet muscular. His legs go all the way up to his terrific bum. He doesn’t seem to have a single hair anywhere on his body – not even around his cock.

Sexy though Jimmy is naked, he prefers the boys to be at least partly dressed. It makes the scene more authentic. Trent lets the movie move to its conclusion. He glances at the time in the corner of the screen. It is time to go. Carefully, so none of the cum drips onto the bed, he climbs off the mattress. He picks up the soggy Kleenex from the floor and walks across the room. He drops it into the lavatory pan, has a piss and then turns on the shower.

Minutes later, towelled dry, he opens a drawer and selects the clothes he will wear that night. He has tight-white Y-fronts, a grey shirt and grey trousers. He doesn’t have a blazer, but he doesn’t think he needs one. He slips a striped tie into his trouser pocket. He is off to The Three Fishers where he is certain to meet Fat Steven. He is always there on a Friday night. Fat Steven will bring the cane.

 

Picture credit: unknown

Other stories you might like

Brad, the spanking-movie star

Over the schoolmaster’s knee

The rookie deputy sheriff

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A brush with Uncle Herbert

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“Right lad, this is what’s going to happen,” it was Uncle Herbert speaking to me, “You are going to come and stand there,” he snapped his fingers and pointed to a spot just to the right of where he sat, “You are going to take down your trousers and bend across my knee.”

My incomprehension must have been obvious because he went on by way of explanation, “I’m going to spank you.” And to emphasise his point he brandished a heavy, wooden utility brush with metal bristles.

I was too confused to say anything. He glowered at me and said, “You have been asking for this from the moment you arrived.”

I stood rooted to the spot, totally confused. Uncle Herbert wanted to spank me. Me, a nineteen-year-old warehouseman.

“I told you from the start I would treat you like the rest of my young employees. No exceptions.” He waved the brush at me as he spoke. I shook my head violently as if to clear it. Was I hearing this correctly? He wanted to spank me like the rest of my young employees. I stared across the room. His eyes burned into me. He was entirely serious. No, I told myself silently, this was not happening. I’ll wake up in a minute and it would have just been a weird dream.

I had been working at Uncle’s import-export business for about a month. I’d left school the year before without any qualifications to speak of and had been in and out of dead-end jobs; shelf filling, burger flipping, delivering leaflets door-to-door, that sort of thing. My mum made Uncle Herbert take me on. I suppose blood is thicker than water and he felt obliged.

I loathed my job; it was mostly loading and unloading vans or stacking shelves. Once they discovered I was the boss’s nephew, the other guys hated me. They would stop talking among themselves when I came near. They knew lots of different ways to avoid work, and I think some of them might have been stealing from the warehouse: they were afraid if I found out I’d grass on them.

I started skiving off on my own. I sometimes went around the back of the building to look at porn on my phone. I didn’t realise there was CCTV all over the place; Uncle Herbert soon found out about me. He hit the roof and threatened all sorts of things. But he didn’t say anything about spanking me! Mostly, it was, I’ll tell your mum!”

“I said, come here and bend over my knee!” Uncle Herbert growled, still waving the huge brush about. I should have told him to shove it where the sun don’t shine. And, he could do the same with his stinking job. I could have done that but Mum would’ve gone mental. She got annoyed when I lost my other jobs; what the Hell would she do if I walked out on Uncle Herbert. I couldn’t do it. He was family. Mum might have thrown me out the house and told me to go live in a cardboard box for all she cared. I know Dad couldn’t wait to see the back of me. My younger brother Nathan wouldn’t mind either; he’d get the bedroom we shared all to himself.

“Now, Lad!” Uncle Herbert snarled, “Or do I have to come over there and get you?” He half raised from the chair. I could see he meant business. “C’mon Uncle,” I whined, “You cannot be serious?” I sounded like that brat tennis player what’s his name? The one with the frizzy hair and attitude. “I’m nineteen years old, not nine,” I told him. The moment the words came out I knew I had made a big mistake.

He leapt from the chair and was across the room in a flash. He grabbed a hunk of my hair and tugged me back to the chair. I howled as my feet slipped across the shiny floor. “Eff off!” I yelled, only I used the proper F-word. That was another bad move. He let go of my hair and swiped the back of his hand across my chops. I very nearly fell to the ground with the shock. Tears prickled the backs of my eyes.

“Now, are you going to do as you’re told?” He gripped my wrist and sat himself back down on the chair. “Get those trousers down, or I’ll do it myself,” his face contorted and the end of his large, pointed nose immediately turned purple.

“I.. I…” I spluttered. The sting on my face still tingled. He reached across and grabbed the waistband of my trousers and pulled me closer to him.

“No. No,” I wailed, slapped his hand away and pulled myself back. “I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” I couldn’t believe it when I heard myself. I would take down my trousers so Uncle Herbert could spank me with his brush. All I can think now is I must have thought it was preferable to having an older man strip me.

I stood uneasily in front of him. To be honest with you, Uncle Herbert is quite a weedy feller; he’s so thin he could easily fall down a drain cover. He sat in an old wooden chair and spread his legs; they looked like two pipe cleaners. I must be a head taller than him and I’m not fat (well not obese, anyway) but I am beefy. I did some boxing at school and I’ve got muscles. You know, if he tried something on with me in a dark alleyway one night I could knock the bejesus out of him.

I stood meekly in front of him. My hands hardly shook as I found the buckle of my belt and did the business. I had the front of my trousers open before it really hit me. I was going to take down my trousers for him. I mean how gay is that? Can you imagine it, a strapping nineteen-year-old willingly taking down his trousers and then bending over the knee of a much older man so that man could spank him on the seat of his underpants with a brush. You couldn’t make it up.

But that’s exactly what I was doing. I held on to my open trousers. I suppose this was my last chance to leg it. I could zip up and run and Uncle Herbert wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. But my life flashed before my eyes. At least the foreseeable future did. Would Mum really throw me out of the house? Yes. No. Maybe. I couldn’t take the risk. I couldn’t look at Uncle. I closed my eyes and let the trousers slip over my thighs and they snagged at my knees.

“All the way. Down to your feet,” Uncle Herbert said grimly.

My eyes were still closed, I parted my feet and the trousers slipped down my shins and made a puddle over my trainers. I stood stock still like an idiot. I really did not want to do this. Let my Uncle spank my behind with a brush. “Bend over my knee, lad,” Uncle Herbert was stern.

I opened my eyes and looked down at his puny knees. For one moment I absurdly wondered if he could take my weight across his lap. I think Uncle Herbert misunderstood my hesitation. He thought I had chickened out. “Doh!” he cried and he grabbed my left wrist and pulled me forward. I lost my balance as I toppled forward over his lap. I went too fast and my shoulder hurt as my hands hit the floor, wrenching my arms out of their sockets. Well, I exaggerate there. But I did hurtle face-down over Uncle’s knees. I had to spread my arms wide and dig my palms down into the ground to hold myself steady.

I couldn’t see myself (I was staring at the wooden floor) but I could tell my big bum was high over Uncle’s right thigh and my knees were slightly bent and the tips of my toes brushed the ground. I wore tight boxer shorts and Uncle shocked me by gripping the waistband and tugging so hard that he gave me a ‘wedgie’: they rode right up into the crack of my arse.

He paused for a long minute. I’ve no idea what he was up to. I felt a slight tapping on the fleshiest part of my left bum cheek. Then there was an almighty whack! noise. I felt the sting maybe a second later. The noise bounced around the room and it felt like he had pressed the iron Mum uses at home into my bum. It took my breath away. My mouth opened and my lips formed a perfect ‘O’ as I just about managed to stop myself yapping.

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Before I got my breath back Uncle had hammered that heavy utility brush into my other cheek. Then he pounded it across both cheeks, high, low and across the peaks without mercy. Now, I was yelping, like a little whipped puppy. My hips rose and fell, my arms flailed about and my legs kicked. It was like I was trying to swim away off his lap. He seized me tightly around the waist and held onto me for grim life. I wasn’t going anywhere while he blistered each and every square centimetre of meat (and my bum had quite a lot of acreage). When he had done toasting that he went for the backs of my thighs. My shorts were just that short, so he was walloping me on the bare. I wailed like some demented banshee.

I did the swimming thing again and my head went up and down. If I’d been closer to the ground I would’ve headbutted it. I was in so much pain and my heart was racing so fast I could not breathe. I thought for a moment I’d pass out. Still Uncle Herbert battered my bum. When would he let up? It seemed the answer was Never. On and on and on he spanked me. I’m quite a big, strong guy as I’ve told you, but even I wondered how much longer I could take it.

My bum had been battered and bruised so much I swear it had gone numb. I could hear the thwack as each new whack hit me, but I couldn’t feel a thing? Does that make sense? It shouldn’t, but I tell you it’s the truth. Uncle Herbert must have got wind of this because he laid a few more over my red-raw thighs.

I lost all sense of time. I might have been across his knees for half an hour for all I know. The spanking just went on and on. At last (thank the Lord!) he stopped. Bam-Bam-Bam. “Okay. Get up!” He let go of my waist and I lay still face down for a long moment catching my breath. It was only when Uncle Herbert started to push me off his lap that I came to. I tumbled to the floor and stayed there on my hands and knees. From that position I saw Uncle get off his chair and walk over to a hook on the far wall and hang up the brush. I climbed to my feet and nearly fell back to the floor as I stumbled pulling my trousers up.

“Get back to work, you’ve wasted enough of my time,” Uncle Herbert grumbled. I didn’t need telling twice. I stumbled through the door. Outside I saw Harry, one of my fellow workers. He had a huge grin across his face. He gave me an exaggerated wink. “Nice one, son,” he chortled. He had heard it all. My humiliation would soon be the talk of the warehouse. Without a word, I staggered down the hall. I needed to get away. I needed to calm down. I needed a smoke. I cursed myself that I wasn’t carrying any weed.

Things improved a lot after that. I didn’t work any harder and Uncle Herbert had me across his knee again before too long, but Harry and the guys now knew I wasn’t the boss’s pet and they treated me like one of the gang from there on in.

 

 

Picture credit: CP 4 Men

 

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The boys in the mailroom

Fr. Pat’s paddle

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Skipping night class

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The public bar of The Three Fishers was not too busy. Frank and his neighbour Andy liked it that way. When it was crowded you couldn’t hear yourself talk. They didn’t usually drink on a Wednesday night but their wives were out on a “hen night” with the girls, and well, while the cats’ are away.

The Three Fishers was not the classiest pub in Brocklehurst, some might even say it was a bit sleazy. But, the beer was cheap and you never got troubled by the Salvation Army selling War Cry.  “Look,” Andy said, for something to say, “How old do you thing those kids are?” He nodded to a group of youngsters playing the machines and sipping lager slowly so it would last them all night. “About fifteen, I’d reckon.”

Frank gulped some beer. “You know what they say; you know you’re getting old when policemen and kids in bars look young.” It wasn’t a very clever thing to say, but conversation between them had slowed for a time. There’s only so much you could say about Liverpool’s chances of winning the Premier League.

Each of them stared into space for a while, enjoying the company, but also the quiet. Suddenly, Frank gagged on his beer as a mouthful went down the wrong hole. In between coughing and spluttering, he nodded towards the bar, “Look that’s my Harry and your Marcus.” Andy turned to see, his face reddened. “What the ….?” He was genuinely angry. Harry and Marcus were Frank and Andy’s sons.

Andy looked at his watch, “What’s the time. Not even nine. They’re supposed to be at night school. It doesn’t finish until ten.”

Frank had recovered his composure, “What are we paying for if they’re skiving off?” The boys were apprentice plumbers. It had cost both men a pretty packet to get them signed up by a big firm. The pair would be made for life once they qualified. More so now all the Polish plumbers were being sent packing back home by the government.

So far the boys had not noticed their dads. Frank stared aggressively across the pub. He noticed the way they were chatting casually with the barman. “Damn it!” he fumed, “See that! Looks like they’re regulars in here. Do they do this every week?” Andy shook his head: how could he possibly know?

Frank drained his glass. “What are we going to do?”

“I’ll have another pint, thanks,” Andy waved his glass in the air.

“No.” Frank’s face had turned puce. “About them. What are we going to do about the boys?”

Andy smiled wryly, “Well, I think we both know the answer to that.”

Frank headed for the bar, empty glasses in hand, “I’m going to have a word.”

Harry didn’t see his dad until it was too late. Suddenly, he was standing over him. “Good evening lads,” Frank sneered. “Fancy seeing you here. Night class cancelled was it?”

It was hard to tell which of the two eighteen-year-olds blanched the paler. Marcus almost dropped his glass. He glanced across at the exit and for a second contemplated making a run for it. “You dad’s over there,” Frank pointed back at Andy who was watching the proceedings with half a smile across his face. Andy waved mockingly.

“But Dad …” Harry tried to form a sentence. He was tongue-tied. It wasn’t the drink affecting him; he’d only taken two sips from his lager. It was the confusion. His dad never came to The Three Fishers; that’s why he and Marcus used it. They’d been coming for weeks.

Frank didn’t want to make a public scene. He had no cause to. He leaned in to the two boys and menacingly said, “You are going to put down those glasses and go to my house. Wait their until we get there. Do you understand?”

It wasn’t a question, it was an instruction. Frank expected it to be obeyed, and it was. Without hesitation, Harry and Marcus pushed their way to the bar, deposited their glasses among the slops there, and sorrowfully trudged to the door. Only once they were standing outside in the cold street did either utter a word. “We’re for it now,” Marcus spoke for both of them, but that didn’t stop Harry from agreeing, “Too right.”

Frank took the full glasses back to Andy and told him what he had done. “Good. Well, I know what I’m going to do. What about you?” Andy attacked the foam on his beer leaving himself with a white moustache. “I think we are in perfect agreement,” he said looking at his watch. “We shouldn’t leave it too late. Best to get it done before the girls get back.” They both sipped their beer thoughtfully.

Harry and Marcus walked the streets slowly, even though it was a cold night and the wind was bitter. “What will your dad do?” Marcus whispered.

“Same as yours, probably,” Harry replied, although he knew there was no “probably” about it.

“Bugger,” Marcus moaned. “What a life.”

The house was cool and in darkness when they arrived. The boys’ spirits were so low they made no effort to get the central heating going. They sat in the gloom. “How long do you think they’ll be?” Marcus sighed.

“Don’t be in such a hurry,” Harry snapped.

“Yeah, well …” Marcus paced the room. During the coming hour neither boy settled. The television stayed off and they made no effort to lighten their despair with music or other entertainment. Shortly before ten-thirty the sound of a key scraping in the lock of the front door announced the arrival of their fathers.

“Bloody hell, it’s like an icebox in here,” Frank shivered theatrically and headed upstairs to use the bathroom and switch on the heating. The boys stood, not daring to catch each other’s eye.

“That’s better,” Frank said, when he returned, rubbing the palms of his hands together to get his blood circulation going. “In here, you two,” he gestured to a sizeable open-plan room and led the way. Two sorrowful eighteen-year-olds followed with Andy bringing up the rear.

Frank stood, his feet apart and his hands behind his back. The two lads stared down at the expensive wooden flooring. “I’m not even going to dignify this with a lecture,” Frank spoke forcefully. He had appointed himself spokesman for the two fathers. The two boys looked sheepish. “We’ve spent a fortune on your apprenticeships and look how you repay us.”

Marcus’s eyes glazed. Frank’s words sounded like a lecture to him. “And, it’s not the first time is it?” Frank’s question went unanswered. “Is it!” he thundered. He was rewarded with muffled “Noes” from the wretched pair. “No, it’s not,” Frank confirmed. “Well, we’re not putting up with it, are we Mr Hutchins?”

Andy had not expected to be addressed by this name and missed his cue. “Are we?” Frank repeated. Andy’s response was to shake his head vigorously and intone, “No!” That proved to be his only contribution to the reprimand.

Frank was ready for action. “Pull up a stool,” he nodded at a set of low wooden seats and took hold of one himself. Andy followed his lead. Frank sat down on one. Andy did the same on his. “Right,” Frank gestured to his son Harry, “Stand by me.” Harry glanced at his pal Marcus but the boy did not see him, his eyes were transfixed at the floor.

“You too,” Andy snapped his fingers. That got Marcus’s attention. Soon both boys were in position. They made no objection. What objection could they make? They were in the wrong. Their fathers had right on their side. Matters had to take their course. That’s what made the world go round.

Frank spoke quietly but with authority, “Take down your jeans.” Harry’s eyes pleaded with his father. It was bad enough to be spanked by his dad, and worse to have it done in front of his friend, but jeans down was going too far. Embarrassment was one thing; humiliation was something else. Harry said none of this. Meekly, he fumbled with the belt of his jeans. They were baggy and the moment he un-popped the button at the waist they started to slide down his thighs, even with the zipper still fastened. They snagged at Harry’s knees which he bent slightly and this was enough to send them travelling down to his feet.

Harry stood by his dad’s side, looking down at the old man. “Bend over my knee.” Frank had a beer gut and this drooped over his lap, offering very little room for his son to present himself for a spanking. Harry eased himself down. Like father, like son, Harry was well padded himself and struggled to keep his balance. He pressed the palms of his hands into the floor and his toes rested comfortably on the ground behind him. His big bum was angled over his dad’s knee but he could feel himself slipping. Frank gripped him around the waist and this kept Harry steady.

Marcus was an altogether trimmer boy. His chino trousers clung to his slim body and once he unfastened the belt and zipper he was obliged to roll them down over his hips and thighs. He left them bundled at his knees. His dad Andy had some “middle-aged spread” but there was sufficient room for Marcus to offer his body comfortably across the lap.

The two dads faced each other. Frank gave a signal and they began spanking in unison. Synchronised spanking is not yet an Olympic sport but were it to become one the two dads might be in the running for Gold. They quickly got their rhythm. The stereophonic sound of two hands slapping two bums resounded around the room.

Although the two dads had eye contact, the boys did not. That saved them much embarrassment. But, Marcus realised that by looking to his right he had a perfect view of his friend’s fat bum, pointing in the air, the palm of Frank’s hand sinking into the flesh with each slap.

z used otk twosome Magic spanking factory (4)

An over-the-knee hand spanking on the underpants for eighteen-year-old boys is not much of a punishment. No matter how hard, or how rapid the slaps, after a short while it becomes apparent that Dad’s hand hurts far more than Junior’s bottom.

“Bah!” Frank wheezed. He stopped spanking. Andy did the same with Marcus. Was this the end? Andy hesitated, waiting to take his cue from Frank. He saw the tip of Frank’s tongue dart out of his mouth and wriggle around his lips. With that task completed Frank gripped the elasticated waistband of Harry’s pants. “These really don’t serve much purpose at a time like this,” he grinned as he tugged the pants over the fleshy mounds. Harry wriggled his bum in protest, “Nooooo,” he mouthed but not loud enough that his dad would hear.

Across the way Marcus saw Harry’s bottom was covered with dark-pink blotches. He could see right into his crack. But, his attention was diverted; his own father was pulling down Marcus’s pants. A cold breeze from somewhere wafted across his naked flesh.

The two dads resumed their synchronised spanking. Frank was delighted to see the imprint of his fingers reproduced time and again across Harry’s trembling buttocks. It encouraged him to wallop the boy harder and faster. Soon he was ahead of Andy. It was like a race where the horses keep together in a bunch until the final two furlongs when one of them makes a dash to the finishing line. Andy increased his speed and chased after Frank, ignoring Marcus’s gasps and yaps. He spanked with renewed vigour. He had found his second wind. He could spank all night, if need be.

So, they went on. Two sets of buttocks glowed. Smack, smack, smack. The noise from the slaps and the associated yaps and yelps filled the room. They didn’t hear the front door open. They didn’t hear footsteps in the hallway.

But, they did hear a woman’s voice, “Frank, I brought some of the girls back for a night cap.” They heard that and then the banshee-like screeches of a half-a-dozen women.

 

Picture credit: Magic Spanking Factory

Other stories you might like

Double trouble – his first time

The party’s over

Why me?

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Bring back the cane

new 5

Scenes we’d like to see (or wishful thinking)

 

The staff lounge of Albion Academy was quiet, it was lunchtime and most of teachers were in classrooms working their way through piles of paperwork. Monthly assessments were due. Mr Whitfield, merely months away from his pension was not one of them. He sat in a battered armchair, eyelids closed, his hands serenely placed on his lap. Opposite him sit Mr Hancock, still in his twenties and restless, leafed through the Daily Telegraph. The headlines disagreed with him and he became increasingly irritated.

Suddenly, he cried, “Ha! Look at this! Says here more than seventy percent of people surveyed want to bring back the cane in schools.” Whitfield suppressed a sigh. He would not get involved. Unperturbed by the silence, Hancock continued, “Even the majority of the kids want it,” he said with a note of triumph. “Quite right too!”

Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools thirty years previously, before Hancock had been born. The impending anniversary had prompted renewed discussion about the state of discipline in the land. Hancock was “old guard.” He believed in law and order and respect for elders and betters (especially schoolmasters).

“It would do this place a lot of good,” he spread his arms to encompass the room so Whitfield would understand he meant Albion Academy. “Used to be a fine school. A grammar. Best in the town. Respected. Now look at it.”

Whitfield would not be goaded. Could he pretend to be asleep? Hancock sighed as if he carried the burden of the entire universe on his shoulders. “No discipline nowadays, none at all.” He pored over the details in the news report. “Pah!” he exclaimed, “Everyone wants it except the damned politicians. Well if I had my way …”

He hesitated. Perhaps it would not be wise to share with colleagues what he would do if he had his way. Several of them would be making their way to the job centre to seek new careers; along with half the administrators and all of the politicians. School masters (as he insisted on thinking of himself, although all his colleagues were happy to be called “teachers”) were given no support these days. What discipline was there? How were they supposed to punish misbehaviour? If you wanted to put a kid in detention you had to send a note home to their parents. Then, maybe – just maybe – two days later they might condescend to turn up. Or not. Then what could a teacher do? Nothing. The next step up on the discipline ladder was “exclusion” – they used to call that suspension in the good old days. Or even expulsion. No chance today. The school didn’t want that on its record. Exclusions meant the school was failing. Well, it was bloody failing. It was churning out nothing but hooligans. He could cry. Albion Academy sold itself as a school with “standards.” It was enough to make Jesus weep, Hancock thought.

Hancock looked to the past. He knew his history. When Albion had been a grammar school, and not so very long ago, it had been a traditional school; traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional sports and, of course, traditional discipline: the cane! Today the school had to follow the national curriculum; where was Latin and Greek? (not that Hancock himself spoke either of these dead languages). They still had a uniform but back in the day when it was an all-boys’ school they wore short trousers even in the third form until they were fourteen. Proper shorts. Neatly tailored trousers that came to just above the knee. And long socks too. They could do a lot worse than bring that uniform back. If Hancock had his way they’d all wear short trousers, right up until the day they left school. The seniors as well. They might be eighteen years old (some of them even nineteen), but they weren’t adults. Not yet. They were children and they ought to look like children. These days they were indulged to think they were adults; that they had “rights”. They had no rights, they only had responsibilities and the first of these was to do as they were damn well told by their elders and betters.

Whitfield eyes remained closed and his hands rested on his lap. He had no idea of the turmoil inside Hancock’s head. The young man’s heart was racing, anger was rising in his body. He clutched the newspaper tightly. Why, he thought, if he had his way. What he would do. The boys would wish they had never been born. And he would start with those louts in the school football team.

Albion had recently won a new (but apparently prestigious) soccer tournament among schools in the region. Hancock thought members of the team had become insufferable. They had been superior and self-centred (like all kids at the school) before but their success took this to new levels of arrogance; nobody could claim to be their equal (let along superior) and Hancock, the young teacher still making his way at the school, suffered more than many.

This was Hancock’s first appointment. He was the youngest member of staff. When he first arrived some of his older colleagues had joked injudiciously that were he to dress in a school uniform he would be indistinguishable from the senior lads. One or two of the elder ladies “mothered” him a little, to his intense irritation.

With the staff seemingly patronising him Hancock took to exerting his authority on the kids. He could succeed with the youngest; to them a man in his twenties was ancient. The older ones had no such illusions. Mostly, they ignored him; the sixth-formers – the most senior students in the school – disdained him. Students!, how Hancock hated that word. They were not students, they were school pupils.

Now, he read the newspaper story once more; carefully. Yes, bring back the cane. What he wouldn’t do then. Those sixth formers would catch it hot. Especially the players in the football team. Especially that Bagnis; the worst of the lot: arrogant, self-opinionated, cocksure. Hancock’s breathing hardened. He closed his eyes to concentrate, he could see it now.

Bagnis stands in the gymnasium changing room, he is alone. There is a faint aroma of stale sweat about the place that he hardly notices. Hancock is in the adjacent office. He peers through a connecting window, not hiding his loathing for the eighteen-year-old. Oh, how he needs taking down a peg or two. Well, now is the time. The law has been changed (no, better, it had never been passed. The cane had never been abolished. Schoolboys still knew their place.)

Hancock turns away from the window. Standing snugly in one corner of the room is a tall thin cupboard. It is unlocked. There is no need for a lock as no boy in the school will dare go near it. Hancock opens the door, he does not hurry. He has all the time in the world, Bagnis is going nowhere, not until Hancock says so. There are five whippy punishment canes hanging on a rail, of various lengths and thicknesses. Each one has the traditional curved handle. Above them on a shelf are three leather straps; two of them are traditional Lochgelly tawes, one cut with two tails, the other with three. The tawes so beloved by Scottish schoolmaster and equally loathed by their charges are ancient and worn. They belong to Mr MacTaggart, one of Hancock’s older colleagues. He alone uses them, the preferred weapon of choice among masters is the cane. That said, a huge, size twelve dirty-white, rubber-soled gym plimsoll is propped up against the back of the cupboard. The sports masters use this for instant punishments on the younger boys.

Hancock handles each of the whippy rattan canes in turn. He is familiar with them all, but he likes how they feel in his hand. He takes one out of the cupboard and flexes it between his hands. As always it bends easily and forms an almost perfect arc. He replaces it and takes out a second. This is a little denser than the first. It is dark-yellow and not quite three feet in length (Hancock refuses to use metric measurements). It is as thick as a pencil and his heart judders when he swishes it through the empty air. This is his favourite. Lovingly, he tucks it under his arm and quietly closes the cupboard door. He turns and once more looks through the window. Bagnis is standing, hands behind back, eyes downcast at the floor: it is, Hancock agreeably notes, the perfect naughty-boy posture.

He strides through the connecting door into the changing room. Bagnis raises his head; his face pales, thereby acknowledging that he has seen the cane under Hancock’s arm. It confirms his expectations: corporal punishment in the form of a caning is imminent. Hancock slips the cane into his hand and taps it gently against his own right leg. Tap-tap-tap. Bagnis cannot help himself, his eyes hypnotically follow the cane.

Hancock looks at Bagnis. He is the Bagnis of today; he is tall and beefy. He has a clear open face and his arrogant hazel eyes shine. He still has the tattoos down his right arm. It is Bagnis; but he is also altogether different. His hair is cut short in a conventional style. He is dressed in a traditional grey shirt and a darker-grey sleeveless pullover. He wears mid-grey, tailored short trousers. They fall to a couple of inches above the knee. Hancock smiles. The uniform gives his fantasy a nice touch. This is school uniform as it should be.

He swipes the cane through the air and then wobbles it in front of Bagnis before he turns and points across the room. Standing there is a leather vaulting horse. It is about four feet off the ground with four short and sturdy wooden legs. Hancock has no idea when it became a tradition at the school for masters to deliver beatings in the changing room. It may have been a matter of necessity. Masters do not have their own private studies and the staff lounge and classrooms are too public. The gymnasium is in a building of its own tucked away from prying eyes. Its location adds to the drama; a boy sent to wait at the gym is left in no doubt about his fate.

Bagnis is one such boy. He is to be beaten. He knows this. Mr Hancock is in charge. His word is law. When he says “bend over”, then over you bend. No questions asked; no quarter given. It is what it is. There is a reason they are called school masters.

“Stand by the horse, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. Sorrowfully, but submissively, the egotistical sixth-former takes the three steps needed to cross the room. He stands close to the horse, towering over the worn, leather top. His breathing is heavy. So is Hancock’s. Hancock swishes the cane once more and then thwacks it across the top of the horse, a thin line imprints into the leather. Hancock allows himself a slight smile. He knows Bagnis will soon have similar lines throbbing across his backside. It gives him great satisfaction to know Bagnis also knows this. “Bend over, lad, you know how it’s done.”

Indeed he does. This is not his first thrashing and although he only has a few more weeks until he takes his exams and leaves Albion for ever he knows it probably won’t be the last. He lets the tip of his tongue run over his dry, cracked lips before he leans forward. Because he is tall and the horse relatively low, Bagnis spreads his legs wide so his stomach can rest comfortably across the leather top. He grips the two legs of the horse and concentrates on the dirty carpet beneath his nose. He tries to block out his surroundings. He knows the best way to get through this ordeal is to try to ignore what is going on.

Hancock allows Bagnis to settle. The boy’s buttocks jut out at a perfect angle and height. The tail of his shirt has slipped out of the waistband of his short trousers and although there is no practical necessity to do this, Hancock takes hold of both the shirt and the pullover and pushes them further away from the short trousers. This exposes an area of naked flesh on Bagnis’s lower back. Although he tries not to notice, Bagnis feels exposed; more vulnerable.

z used gym short trousers cane horse (3)

Hancock grips the waist of the short trousers and tugs vigorously. Now, they fit snugly and each buttock cheek is clearly defined under the material. Bagnis stays still. He shuts his mouth firmly and closes his eyes. He is ready. But, Hancock is not yet. He takes up a position to the left of the boy and taps the cane across the centre of his buttocks. The cane is warped through age and use. The far tip is frayed. Hancock cannot be certain his aim will be true. He saws it across the lower part of the cheeks. The short trousers have back pockets and Hancock fears this will afford Bagnis protection from the sting of the rod. Hancock knows he must make the strokes land below these and well into the sensitive “sit spot” where the cheeks meet he thighs. If his aim is true Bagnis will reignite the welts every time he tries to sit down for many hours to come.

Hancock saws some more, then he lifts the cane away from the seat of Bagnis’s short trousers and raises it in an arc. The ceiling is high and there is plenty of room to swing a cane. He holds it for a second at its highest point and then using all the strength in his upper body, he flogs it with great force across the lower buttocks. A thick line instantly digs into the stretched material of the short trousers. Bagnis reaction is imperceptible, the merest shudder in his shoulders speaks to the intense pain he feels. He bites down on his lower lip and tries to ignore the inferno in his bottom.

Hancock grimaces. He expects more reaction. Clearly, he thinks, that stroke was not hard enough. Maybe, he tells himself, he carelessly struck the pocket. He takes careful aim, lower this time. The cane rises and falls, the noise of the thwack of rattan cane across stretched backside rolls around the room. Bagnis wriggles his hips and grips the legs of the horse. If he dared open his eyes he would see his knuckles are turning white. His once pale face is now scarlet as surely are his throbbing buttocks beneath the short trousers.

Hancock is disappointed. He wants to hear Bagnis howling, to see him wriggling and writhing across the horse. He wants him to beg for mercy. Hancock lays a third stroke across Bagnis’s by-now quivering rump. It is the hardest yet. Bagnis thinks his  head is about to burst open. His buttocks are flailed. Can he feel blood weeping from the wounds? With magnificent self-control, he stifles the yells his body demands he must make. He will not cry out, he will not give the schoolmaster the satisfaction.

Hancock delivers six of his best. Never before in his short history as a schoolmaster has he flogged a boy so well. Still, Bagnis appears unperturbed by the ordeal. Hancock’s temper rises. So, he says, the boy is so arrogant and insolent that even a caning won’t change him. “Stand up, Bagnis,” Hancock intones. With difficulty, because it feels like his backside is blazing like the fires of Hell, the boy climbs to his feet. He leans against the horse to stop himself tumbling to the ground. He fears he will not be able to walk unaided from the gym. The room swirls around him so that he hardly hears the words spoken by his master.

“Well, Bagnis,” Hancock snarls. “It seems that beating didn’t quite have the intended effect.” He wobbled the cane up and down in front of Bagnis before pointing it at the boy’s middle. “Take down those shorts, and bend back over.”

Hancock steps away from the horse and looks on at the boy from a distance. Without a murmur, but with unsteady hands, the eighteen-year-old reaches for his belt. It takes several tries before it is unfastened. The button on the waistband is even harder to deal with. “Bah!” Hancock ejaculates with genuine anger, “Get on with it. Do you want me to come over there and take them down for you?”

The threat spurs Bagnis on to success. The top of the short trousers are undone and the fly buttons burst when he tugs. They lunge to his feet. Hancock is delighted at the sight before him. Bagnis is wearing gleaming-white, cotton Y-front underpants. “Bend over, boy.” The cane wobbles some more.

Sore and aching, Bagnis turns his back and with super-human effort he flops back over the horse, once more gripping the wooden legs. Hancock notices the pink botches in the otherwise white underpants. There are also two heavy, dark-red stripes throbbing in the bare flesh below the smooth cotton. Hancock smiles. In the distance he hears a bell ringing. Afternoon school is about to start. He flexes the cane and saws it across the fleshiest part of the bum.

“Come on Hancock, wake up, are you sleeping?” It was the voice of Whitfield. “Classes are starting. You mustn’t be late. The little buggers will destroy the classroom if you’re not there.” Hancock threw down the newspaper with disgust and dragged himself to his feet.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other ‘scenes we’d like to see’ stories are here

 

Other stories you might like

“You wanted to see me sir?”

House rules

You, over the knee for the paddle from Pop

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Unexpected demonstration of affection

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Nigel Wallace, a long-since retired professor at Brocklehurst University, was at home doing nothing when the phone rang. He didn’t recognise the voice at the other end and was a little alarmed when the man said he was a lawyer and asked Wallace to confirm his identity. Was he being accused of something? Lawyers always spelled trouble.

The lawyer detected the uneasiness in the professor’s reply and sought to reassure him. “I am dealing with the estate of Mr Eric Stanhope.” That didn’t help. “I know no one of that name,” he replied, anxious to put the phone down and continue staring at the fading wallpaper in his front room.

“He was a student of yours in the early nineteen-seventies,” the lawyer continued, “I am sorry to say he has passed away. Lung cancer. I should like to invite you to a reading of the will.”

Prof Wallace wanted to retort, “Reading of the will. Is there really such a thing? I thought they only happened in crime novels. Agatha Christie. A group of strangers get called to the reading of a will at a creepy mansion and one by one they get bumped off.” He wasn’t given time to speak as the lawyer was anxious to conclude business. He gave a date, a time and a venue for the event.

“No thanks,” Prof Wallace was adamant. He had no wish to travel half way across the country on a fool’s errand. What interest was a former student of forty years ago to him? The lawyer did not press the case. He was used to such refusals. He could inform the professor of the details of his legacy at a later date. “But,” he added, “He has left a letter for you, may I forward it on to you?”

“Bah!” Prof Wallace croaked. Despite being a cantankerous old man (indeed, he had always been cantankerous) he did not add “What should I care?” The lawyer wished him good day and ended the conversation.

So it was that the next day a registered letter arrived at Prof Wallace’s home. He had to admit (to himself, since he was alone in the world) that he had become intrigued. Who was this Mr Eric Stanhope and why did he want to remember him after so many years? He pulled out a printed transcript from the envelope and settled back in his armchair. This is what he read.

“Dear Professor,

“You probably don’t remember me since so many young men have passed through your hands over the years but I have never forgotten you. There is no doubt in my mind that I owe my life to you. Please don’t think I am being over-dramatic. I don’t mean that you once dragged me from a burning building or conducted mouth-to-mouth resuscitation after I had been pulled from a river. I mean that it was the help and guidance you gave to me as a young student that made me the man I became.

“It was the sense of discipline that you instilled in me back at Brocklehurst that set me on the path to success. You almost certainly won’t know that I went on to build a great financial empire. This brought me great wealth and happiness. Believe me when I say without you I would not have a wonderful wife and three fantastic daughters.

“What I have just said probably puzzles you. You have never met my family and in all probability you think you don’t know me from Adam. Let me explain. When I arrived at Brocklehurst I was a bumptious eighteen-year-old. I was smug and conceited. I had come from humble origins. I had not studied hard at school but I had a knack for passing exams with minimal effort. I had no intention of working hard and expected to cruise through university. In the early weeks of my first term I hardly attended lectures, I spent my time in the bars of Brocklehurst and introduced myself to many young ladies of the town. I did not know it but I was heading for failure. It seemed that at Christmas time I would be put on the train to my home never to return. You saved me.

“I remember the first time you summoned me to your study as if it were only yesterday. You were not only a professor at the university, you held the post of head of department. I didn’t have the sense I was born with. I was self-satisfied and arrogant. What could you, an old man teach me? (Old man. Ha! Now I look back I see you were probably still in your thirties). Well, you soon showed me. As my memories flood back, my bottom tingles as I write this.

“Your speech was word perfect. You listed my faults and there were many. You were never a tall man, nor especially large. But you had a presence about you. Much to my surprise I found myself cowered. I clenched my hands behind my back. My feet wriggled with embarrassment. I showed an intense interest in the carpet beneath my feet. I had never experienced this before.

“What you did next was also a novelty for me. It was a shock. I had no expectation. I had never been called to your study before. I had heard no other student speak of their visits. I was completely unprepared. Your study wasn’t too big and along one wall were a series of shelves and cupboards. I forced my gaze away from my feet and my eyes followed you as you took the stately walk across the room. You stopped at a cupboard. Did you feel my eyes burning into your back as I stared? You fumbled in the pocket of your trousers and found a small key. This you used to unlock a cupboard door. You reached in.

“Your back obscured my view, but when you straightened up and turned back towards me I saw you were carrying what looked like a block of wood. No, not carrying; brandishing. You were flaunting it. It was a rectangle of wood with a handle and you were waving it at me. How naïve was I? I didn’t have the slightest idea what it was. It looked like a miniature cricket bat. I had never seen a spanking paddle. They weren’t so common in England. Schools might use a whippy rattan cane or a rubber-soled gym plimsoll, but not a paddle. I now know they were more favoured by our American cousins. I had never seen a cane close up, nor seen a plimsoll smacked across a boy’s stretched backside, my school did not use corporal punishment.

“I think you might have guessed I was a novice to this sort of thing. My behaviour might have given you a big clue that I was unpunished (as well as undisciplined) as a child. You approached me still brandishing the paddle and I had no doubt about your intention. You had me in your spell. I was rooted to the spot. My heart raced and my mouth dried. I am not much of a writer, but ‘like the Sahara Dessert’ springs to mind. Even today, I remember what you did.

“With one hand you picked up the straight-backed chair that usually stood in front of your desk and you plonked it down in the middle of the room. You gave me one of your steely glares. I blanched. I looked away. I could not compete with you in a staring contest. You nodded towards the chair. You spoke no words, but your message was clear. You tapped the paddle into the palm of your hand with menace. ‘Bend over the chair,’ was your unspoken command. I was bemused. You wanted to spank me. Could this be true? Was I dreaming? Me, an eighteen-year-old adult. I didn’t say any of this, of course. I daren’t. At that moment all my bluster and arrogance had melted. I was timid. You were my master. I would not say that I was your ‘slave’, but I was your subordinate. You were in charge. Your word was law. What could I do but obey?

“I wanted to obey. I intended to obey, but again my innocence let me down. I had never been spanked. I had never seen a boy spanked. Bend over. But, how exactly was this done? Bend over the back of the chair? Lay my stomach on the seat of the chair with my arms ahead of me and my legs dangling behind?

“You read my mind. ‘Stand to the front. Bend over, place your hands on the seat of the chair,’ you commanded. Of course. It was that simple. I did not stop to think that now was my last chance to flee the room, to run helter-skelter back to my digs and lock the door behind me. I did not contemplate what the consequences might be if I refused to obey. Refusal was not an option. I stepped up to the chair, then hesitated for a moment before leaning forward as you had instructed.

“It felt mighty strange, bent over a chair, offering up my backside to an older man to spank with a wooden paddle. I don’t suppose I had ever felt so vulnerable. I didn’t know it at the time, but realised later that you took account of my lack of experience in such matters. I wore heavy jeans. They fitted snugly and showed my buttocks. But, denim is a thick material and offers quite a protection against any spanking. You allowed me to keep my jeans on. I am thankful. I think on that first time a spanking on my underpants – or God forbid, on the bare! – would have been an embarrassment (no, a humiliation too far).

zused paddle jeans touch toes domestic (1)

“You delivered six, very hard swats across the lower part of my buttocks. I suppose that’s what was known as six-of-the-best back in those days. Each one landed on top of the previous swipe. My bum was on fire. You got me right on the ‘sit-spot’ and I couldn’t sit comfortably for the rest of the day. Only later, was I to realise what an expert spanker you were.

“My bottom wriggled and writhed as the paddle hammered across the seat of my jeans. Your strong left arm pushed into my shoulders and forced me to remain bent over. Otherwise, I would have been jumping up and down, rubbing my bum, hopping about like some demented Red Indian.

“I don’t think I cried, but my eyes would have been pretty moist by the time you finished. You let me stand and then you lectured me some more about my future behaviour and the consequences I faced should I be summoned back to your study.

“It took the better part of a week for the bruises to clear completely. Each time I went to the shower I was reminded of the penalty for bad behaviour. I resented you. I could go so far as to say I hated you. How dare you treat me like a little kid. I was eighteen, legally an adult. I fumed a lot, but I didn’t miss any of your lectures for the rest of the term. But, I was young and stupid and I liked my beer. And, the girls. Although I was afraid to upset you again I had less concerns about my other lecturers. That’s what got me in trouble again.

“Looking back, Mr Lowry had every right to report me when I failed to complete his essay, even after he had granted an extension on submission. I didn’t think so at the time. How I hated you when I received that second summons to your study. I knew what to expect. You had made it clear enough. Of course, I only had myself to blame. I was going to wear my football shorts and swimming trunks and a couple of pairs of underpants under my jeans. My jeans were always tight and when I tried it was a battle to get the zipper to close. When I looked in the mirror my bum was massive. Just as well I abandoned that ruse, considering what you made me do in your study.

“You gave me a right telling off, but – and I’ll never forget this – you said you thought I was bright and intelligent and could make something of myself. But I had to pull my finger out (my words, you were too eloquent to speak like that) and concentrate on my work. Nobody had ever said that to me before. No one at school, and certainly not my parents. It gave me something to think about.

“Naturally, you didn’t leave it there. You made a return visit to that cupboard. This time the paddle you choose was larger and heavier. It was some kind of dark wood and it was so highly polished it reflected the light from the ceiling. I can still see the way you held it in your hand, demonstrating its power. How many holes were drilled into it: six or eight? I can’t quite remember.

“Then, you had me take down my jeans and spread-eagle myself across your desk. Oh boy! Luckily, I was only wearing one pair of pants. We wore tiny briefs in those days and they hardly covered my buttocks. Most of the underside of the cheeks were bare to the wind. You exploited that. I don’t suppose you could have left me in any greater pain if you’d made me take my briefs down.

“Twelve swats with that paddle across the half-naked bum. Oh how I howled. I just about absorbed the first two, but by the third I was gripping the edge of the desk for dear life. My head butted the desktop. My legs kicked. My hips swivelled and swerved. I almost bit through my bottom lip in my failed attempts to stop myself yowling. They must have heard me down in the street below. I’m surprised someone didn’t burst into the study to see who was being murdered.

“By the time you let me climb back into my jeans my bum was throbbing raw. It felt like it had swollen to twice its natural size. I have never sat down on top of a blazing coal fire, but if I ever did it would not hurt as much as that paddling.

“You gave me time to calm down and before you sent me on my way you told me again how talented I was. That you had confidence in me. That you wanted me to achieve. That night as I lay on my side in my bed, trying not let my savaged buttocks brush against the mattress, I thought about what you had said. As I said nobody had shown such faith. I realised then that you were not a bully. You had power over me, but you didn’t exploit it. You spanked me for my own good.

“I worked hard that term and passed the exams and was doing well. It looked like the paddling had worked. Then, I fell off the wagon. It was a girl, of course. Or more truthfully, girls. I was a good looking lad back then with an easy charm and a sexual appetite. I spent too much time in bed (but not alone) and not enough in the library. I failed a couple of mock exams.

“I remember how you shook your head with disappointment. I can’t explain how that stabbed at my heart. You told me how proud you had been when I bucked up my ideas and passed my exams the previous term. You said you had hoped I had turned a corner. I was on the straight-and-narrow path to success. Alas, no! I had veered to the side of the road and broken down. I needed maintenance. A maintenance spanking!

“You were no longer my professor. Is it too fanciful to say you were a father figure? You certainly showed you cared more than my real dad. What you did next confirmed this. You were back at that goddam cupboard and this time you brandished a small block of wood that was no bigger than a paperback book. I blinked in disbelief. Compared to the whopping paddle you used to take my backside off last time, this was puny. I almost smiled with relief. This one wouldn’t do much damage. I had forgotten what an expert you were.

“You had finished lecturing me and without a further word you took that chair I had been ordered to bend across on my first visit and once more you placed it in the centre of the room. I was waiting for your command ‘Bend over’, but you had other ideas. You sat on the chair and made yourself comfortable before with an imperious click of the finger you instructed that I should come and stand beside you. I did so. You peered at my feet and then ran your eyes up my legs, stopping when you reached the fly of my jeans. ‘Take them down,’ you said. My heart skipped. Only then did your intention become clear to me.

“This was not to be a professor-student spanking, something delivered at arm’s length. At a distance. Dare I say this was to be more personal, more intimate? It was to be like a loving father with his erring son.  My hands shook so much I fumbled with the clasp at the top of my jeans and I couldn’t get a grip on the zipper. At last the front of my jeans were open. They fitted so tightly that they would not easily fall to my feet and I had to roll them down my legs. I was now standing by you wearing only a shirt and underpants. I did not feel shame, nor embarrassment and certainly not humiliation. I felt respect. My respect for you – and dare I say it, your respect for me? You had my best interest at heart. I deserved this spanking. It would pull me up sharp. As you had already told me, it would put me back on the straight-and-narrow path to success.

“I had never been across the knee of an older man. It is a more submissive position than being across a chair or spread across a desk. My body was close you yours. I could feel your breathing. My stomach dug into your thigh and my chest rested against your legs. I didn’t have a view of myself but I sensed that our bodies fitted together perfectly. I spread my arms ahead of me and rested my palms in the harsh carpet. My nose was inches from the ground. My bottom was raised at an angle of about forty-five degrees which allowed my legs to dangle behind me with my toes hovering above the floor. When I moved my head I could see under the chair and look at my own feet encased in denim.

“I felt your body move. You had taken hold of my shirt and gently pushed it up my back until it was scrunched at my shoulders. By now you must have had a perfect target. I braced myself for the heat of the paddle. But, you were not quite ready. You rested the paddle on the small of my back. With both hands you gripped the elasticated waist of my underpants. Ha! I’ve read in books where a character was said to have ‘gasped with surprise’. I had always thought that was a stupid expression. Not anymore. I gasped. I inhaled a great mouthful of air and I held it there. What were you doing? Of course, I knew full well what you were doing; that was what made me wheeze so!

“Slowly, with some ceremony, you peeled down my underpants. My stomach was resting on your thigh and you struggled to get them over my buttocks. I lifted myself slightly and soon they were on their way to rest at my knees. ‘Ha!’ you said, ‘You weren’t expecting that! I hope you realise how seriously I take this.’ I did not reply. I think my body tensed. Did my buttocks clench? Did they harden like two rubber balls? You picked up the paddle and I felt you tap it against the highest point of my bum cheeks. You took your aim and you let fly.

“You had to take a firm grip of my waist to keep me in place. It wasn’t that I didn’t understand why I was being spanked. I deserved it. I needed it. I was prepared to submit to you, but my body had other ideas. My head was low and my bottom high and you had positioned me so that I couldn’t get my hands behind me to protect my poor, exposed bottom. There was nothing I could do but wriggle and kick. It did me no good. Did my protests spur to on to greater deeds? Did you spank me harder and longer because of it?

“That was the last time you spanked me. There was no further need. You had transformed me. I worked hard for you. It wasn’t that I feared further paddlings. I certainly did not welcome them. But, the spankings were incidental. What drove me was that you had faith in me. You cared. You wanted me to do well. The spankings were supplementary.”

At this point Prof Wallace let the letter drop onto a nearby coffee table. He hauled himself from his chair and edged his way into the kitchen where he flipped a switch and waited for the kettle to boil. He busied himself finding tea bags and sugar. He opened the fridge and carefully tested the milk for freshness. Then, with his tea he returned to the front room and picked up the letter once more. He stared at it intently as if it could answer the question on his mind. Who was this Eric Stanhope? Which one had he been? The professor didn’t have the least recollection of these events.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The Dean’s list

 First day at St CIGS

Late home from a date

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

z used drawing hand otk vicar (7)

When I was a young man I got a new job and needed somewhere to live. Simon, a co-worker of about my age, told me about a clergyman in a nearby village who let out rooms. Ian, the guy who I replaced at the office, had lived there.

Simon drove me out into the countryside. The vicarage was old and a bit dilapidated. I’ll call the vicar Rev Jones (it’s not his real name) although I don’t think we need to be too careful. He was ancient even then. Or at least he seemed so to my twenty-year-old self. He must have shuffled off to meet his maker many years ago.

Rev Jones showed us into his study and then left to busy himself with who-knows-what? I’ve always been a bit nosey, so I took a look at his bookshelves. My eyes immediately fell on a book called something like The History of Corporal Punishment. I had already developed an interest in spanking, but I was young and naïve and had never had the chance to do anything about it.

I showed Simon the book. “Oh,” Simon said too glibly, “He must be interested in history.” I’m sure Simon knew more than he was letting on.

I didn’t take the room, I found somewhere closer and more convenient to where I worked. I never saw or heard about Rev Jones again. But, the memory of that August afternoon never quite left me. Even after many years I wondered if I had missed an opportunity. Simon left the company shortly after and I was never able to find out what he really knew.

I have invented many fantasies about what might have happened to me had I taken lodgings at the vicarage.  The stories of the Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh are inspired by them. I have no way of knowing if Rev Jones was a spanko. The stories are from my imagination. Rev Crick is not Rev Jones. Like everything I write they are entirely fictional.

Much later – after I thought I had done with writing about the Spanking Vicar – I returned and wrote a story called “Remembering the Spanking Vicar” in which I imagine what might have happened if I had taken that room …

I have put all the stories together here. Click on the title.

I hope you enjoy reading them.

Charles

 

1: The new tenant

Craig’s mother who is a convinced Christian has arranged for the nineteen-year-old to stay with Rev Crick while he studies at university. “He has no self-discipline,” Craig’s mother tells the vicar. Not to worry! The vicar has two canes hanging from hooks in his study.

“Rev Crick was nearly finished. Only two more strokes to go; then it would be over: a traditional six-of-the-best. He rested the cane across the by-now raw cheeks from the top left corner to the bottom right. Craig’s whole body tensed as he recognised what the vicar was up to. Crick raised the cane high and lashed it down so that the stoke cut across the previous four, slicing across them and reigniting their agony.”

2: The Reckoning

It is Sunday and Craig and the two other young men who lodge with Rev Crick must face the weekly reckoning. It’s time for him to go through their week. Have they done all our chores? How are their grades at the university?

“It was eight o’clock precisely and the three young men stood in the study shuffling their feet in front of Rev Crick’s magnificent leather-topped desk. It reminded Craig of his visits to the housemaster at school. They were always extremely painful. Would this be the same? Was he in for a spanking?”

  1. House call

Rev Crick takes his pastoral duties very seriously and often makes house calls. Donald Blewitt has been giving his widowed mother a hard time. Send for The Spanking Vicar!

“The boy watched impassively as Rev Crick pulled a chair away from the dining table and placed in the centre of the room. Then he sat down, straightened his back and spread his legs.

‘“I want you to take down your jeans and your underpants, Donald.”

  1. Missed curfew

Bob has missed his curfew and Rev Crick paces his study in silence. He genuinely fears the boy has come to harm. But no. It was a woman of course who made him late. Rev Crick shows his relief in the only way he knows.

“Bob stretched over the arm of the couch, secretly relieved that he hadn’t been ordered to drop his trousers: or worse yet, his trousers and his pants.

‘“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” Bob pushed himself further down into the couch, raising his bottom well up for the cane. His firm bottom stretched his now very tight trousers.”

  1. Reefer madness

While the cat’s away the mice do play. Rev Crick goes off to a conference and leaves the boys at the vicarage unsupervised. But, he returns unexpectedly early.

“Crick had both presence and a reputation. He had hardly stepped through his front door before the party-goers headed for the hills, leaving Craig and Tommy alone in the kitchen. Bob had long-since disappeared with Sally Hargreaves; a young lady with a reputation of her own.

“Crick’s anger was real, but it was outmatched by his astonishment. For Craig and Tommy were dressed only in their underpants. Tommy’s were traditional white Y-fronts, but his nineteen-year-old partner-in-crime sported rather fashionable sky blue briefs. The two lodgers stared sheepishly at one another, as if realising only for the first time that they were in their underwear.”

  1. Village fete

A case of ginger beer goes missing at the village fete.

“Will and Olly might be sixth-form pupils, but they were not the brightest stars in the firmament. They had been caught in possession of their stolen goods. They were, as hardened criminals say in B-pictures, “Bang to rights.”

‘“You will both go to the vicarage and wait outside until I return. I am going to give each of you a thoroughly-deserved thrashing,’ he growled.”

z used drawing taws hold (8)

  1. One off the wrist

Tommy is addicted to self-abuse.

‘“What did I tell you would happen if I caught you playing with yourself again?” the Reverend demanded.

‘“Mmmm”

‘“Answer me boy, what did I say?”

“The Reverend’s demand was met by another indistinct response. The last time Crick caught Tommy playing with himself he had delivered a summary spanking on his bare bottom: very hard indeed. Obviously, it did not have the effect the Reverend desired.’

  1. The sixth-former

Sam Ramsden is a sixth-former, prefect and incorrigible nuisance at the church youth club.

“Rev Crick sucked a final drag on his cigarette before stubbing it out in an ashtray alongside seven or eight other butts. Then, he tipped the whole lot into the swing bin before leaving his bread to bake in the kitchen to go to his study where he had left the schoolboy he was going to thrash.”

“School had just finished for the day and the wretched boy was still in his uniform. He had made an effort at least, the vicar supposed. His blue-and-green-striped tie was tied tightly at his neck; the white shirt was tucked neatly into his mid-grey trousers.”

  1. The Scout leader

“Rev Crick stared ferociously at the Boy Scout standing before him. He had a great shock of fair wavy hair and the ruddiest cheeks he had seen on a young man in a long time. His buttocks would be just as red by the time I’ve finished with him, he thought. Those short trousers would have to come down too: the material’s far too thick.

“Leon Hawkes was a scout leader, of sorts. At nineteen years old, almost twenty, he was supposed to be a responsible young man. He was expected to set an example; to give guidance to the younger boys.

“He shuffled from one foot to the other; embarrassed, but not ashamed, as Rev Crick berated him. He had been “irresponsible”, “reckless”, “careless”, “unconcerned,” “negligent” and “inconsiderate”. The vicar was throwing the book at him.”

  1. The cricketer

Terry Miller, a milkman and the star player in the village cricket team, goes missing before a vital match.

“The buttocks were creamy white, in stark contrast with the young man’s sun-tanned body. They were also surprisingly devoid of hair. O’Dowd gripped the cricket stump and took his aim. Miller was not especially tall but he was still a little large to fit comfortably across the older man’s lap. O’Dowd could not easily get the stump to cover both cheeks simultaneously without himself leaning so far back in his chair that the body across his lap might slip to the floor.”

  1. Tram lines

Craig is caught travelling on the tram without a ticket. Bad luck for him the ticket inspector recognises him as one of Rev Crick’s boys.

“Rev Crick admired the man standing before him. Craig’s hazel green eyes shone and despite the cold weather his pale skin glistened. But, it was the boy’s cutest button nose that always got the vicar’s heart skipping. That and the sweep of his buttocks that looked gorgeous no matter what he wore (or did not).

“The underpants were the briefest briefs; they clung to the contours of Craig’s buttocks and held his cock and ball sack snugly at the front. In all his years spanking young men, the vicar had never seen such unsuitable underwear. The boy was a slave to fashion, the tightness of the fit meant the pants rode up his crack all the time and there was no escape for the penis when it was time to go to the toilet. The only way to pee was to unbutton your trousers, pull them down a little and then poke your cock over the top of the pants, taking great care not to urinate all over your trousers.”

  1. Put back into short trousers

Byron Jones, aged 18, always attends church service in his “Sunday Best”, but this time he is wearing smart, tailored short trousers, just like a small boy.

“Rev Crick remembered the pitiful sight of Byron, humiliated at the church, his dark, hooded eyes staring blankly ahead. Putting him in short trousers was not the best way to get the boy to behave. The vicar had the solution to the problem; the two whippy school canes that were hanging on hooks on his study wall.

“Rev Crick rose from his desk and slowly walked to the canes. He turned his back to Byron but could feel the teenager’s eyes burning into the back of his neck. He picked up the thinner of the two canes and flexed it thoughtfully in his hands. It was as if he had never handled the whippy rod before and was trying to get its measure. He turned on his heels and wobbled the cane menacingly a few feet away from Byron’s face.”

  1. Craig misses curfew

Craig missed curfew last night. Now, he must face the consequences.

“Craig watched Rev Crick move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

‘“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.”

 

Bonus story: Remembering the Spanking Vicar

Where I imagine what might have happened if I had lodged with Rev Jones.

“He reached forward and expertly unbuckled the wide leather belt around my waist. We wore enormously-flared trousers with high waistbands in those days. He had to undo six buttons before the front of my trousers flapped open. This gave me more than enough time to punch him in the mouth and make my escape.

“I did no such thing. I stared over his left shoulder at the bookcase behind him. I felt a draught against my thighs when the vicar pulled my trousers to my knees. The weight of the belt and gravity took them to nestle in a puddle over my platform shoes. Still, I gazed at the bookcase. I had no courage to look my punisher in the face.”

 

Picture credits: Unknown

There is also a prequel of The Spanking Vicar here

Max of the ‘Champion’ 4. The Clergyman

Other stories you might like

The vicar delivers

Encounter with the vicar

The expenses fiddle

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

More in sorrow …

new 5

z used skateboard jeans cut offs shorts contrite

Roger Eastern’s wife Sally was in some distress. She had managed to stop the tears flowing, but nothing, it seemed, could calm her. “I’m just so frightened,” she wept, allowing a damp, crumpled tissue to fall on the cushion beside her. “I have this dream that our Wayne’s in hospital connected to all those wires With his head bashed in. And he’ll be a vegetable for the rest of his life.”

Wayne was their eighteen-year-old son and he was turning his parents’ life upside down.

Roger wriggled uncomfortably in his armchair. He wanted to comfort his wife, but he knew kind words would not heal her wounds. He had tried that and it didn’t work. Some kind of action was needed.

“It’s that skateboard,” she plucked another Kleenex from a box on the coffee table. “He’s out on it at all hours. Doing all kinds of tricks. Flying through the air. One day he’s going to have a terrible accident. I’ve told him. How many times have I told him?”

Roger nodded sagely. Yes, Sally had told Wayne. He, Roger, had told Wayne. But, Wayne refused to listen. He needed saving from himself.

The problem was – and it had been an argument in the house for a very long while – Wayne simply refused to take any safety precautions. Sensible skateboarders wore special crash helmets on their heads and pads on their knees and elbows so if they took a tumble they were not hurt. But not Wayne. No. He would wear only a shirt and shorts. Sally wondered how he managed not to scrape all the skin off his bones.

“I tell him he mustn’t go skateboarding without protection,” Sally sobbed. “He just ignores me. He disobeys me Roger.”

“Me too,” Roger thought, but didn’t care to admit it out loud. His teenage son was out of control.

“You’ve got to do something Roger,” Sally crumpled another tissue. Her tears had started again.

Damn, Roger thought, why was he the one who always had to do something? “Like what?” he asked petulantly.

“Well, like you used to do. In the old days,” Sally stood up and moved from the room into the kitchen. Roger called after her as she went, “Like what?”

She stopped and over her shoulder replied, “You know Roger. A spanking. Give him a damn good spanking.”

Roger frowned, “A spanking? Isn’t he too old to be spanked?”

“Isn’t he too old to be playing on skateboards?” and having decided that was the last word on the matter, Sally set about making tea.

Ten minutes later they sat together at the kitchen table. Both were calm now – a cup of tea has that effect in a crisis. “It would be for his own good, wouldn’t it?” Roger needed reassurance. A crooked smile cut across Sally’s face, “A sore bottom would be preferable to a bashed-in brain,” she said. Roger frowned at the inevitable, “I’ll speak to him when he comes home.”

Sally sneered, “Make sure you do more than just speak to him! I can’t take much more of this.”

Roger nodded, his wife was correct. Wayne needed to be pulled up. A short, sharp shock might knock some sense into him. It was for his own good. It was Roger’s job – no, his duty – as a father to sort this problem out. He was resolute. “Do you still have that hairbrush? Y’know the big one with the heavy wooden head? That one of your grandmother’s?”

“You know I do. It’s still on the top of the wardrobe, where you left it after the last time.”

That had been nearly three years ago. It hadn’t been the first time Roger had put the hairbrush across Wayne’s rear end, but now the boy was at college it should have been the last.

Without a further word Sally shuffled up the stairs to the bedroom. She returned to the kitchen just as the door opened. Wayne stood there, skateboard tucked under his arm. As usual, he ignored his parents and was about to run up the stairs when he noticed the heavy wooden brush in his mother’s hand. He startled, it brought back bad memories.

“You father wants to speak to you,” she intoned and when Wayne disregarded her, she added forcefully, “Now.”

Alerted by voices Roger appeared. “Come in here, Wayne,” he spoke gently and when the teenager stood his ground, Roger took him by the elbow and led him into the sitting room. The boy did not resist. Something was up, but he wasn’t quite sure what. The reappearance of the heavy, wooden hairbrush after some years did not bode well.

“Put that down,” Roger nodded at the skateboard. His tone was severe. Wayne looked around the room for a safe place and decided to let the board rest on the couch. “Stand there,” his father pointed to a space in the middle of the small, crowded room. “I want a word with you.”

Wayne blinked hard. A word. His father wanted a word. That phrase had unpleasant connotations. His suspicions were confirmed when his mother appeared and with barely a glance at her son, she handed the hairbrush to her husband. Wayne’s mouth dried. He wondered should he protest? He stayed quiet. Silence might be the best tactic for now.

Roger had had no time to prepare a speech. He fumbled and mumbled his words but Wayne understood the gist of them. Skateboarding. No helmet. No pads. Dangerous. Hospital. Head bashed in. Live like a vegetable. How many times must you be told? Roger said all this while holding the brush threateningly in his right hand. Wayne’s grey eyes glazed, his face paled under his sun-tan. He chewed his bottom lip and looked down at his feet.

“This is more in sorrow than anger,” Roger said as he smacked the head of the brush into his left palm. Wayne remained silent, although his mind whirled. Could this really be happening? Eighteen years old and about to be spanked by his dad? What should he do about it? What could he do? He could storm off to his room. He could wrestle with his father, he was younger, fitter and stronger; Dad wouldn’t stand a chance. But then what? What would happen next? Today, tomorrow. Things could never be the same again. What if they said, “If you won’t accept our discipline, you must leave home, find a place of your own. See how you like that.”

While he pondered this Wayne’s father had picked up a straight-backed chair and set it down in front of the boy. Roger sat down, wriggled his bottom to get comfortable and rested with his spine hard against the back of the chair. He knew the boy would be some weight; he didn’t want the pair of them toppling to the floor.

Roger reached forward and took hold of his son’s left wrist and tugged him a pace forward. It was a warm day, but not hot, and the boy wore a light sweater over a t-shirt. His shorts were roughly cut-off jeans. Roger saw a scab on Wayne’s right knee, proof, he reckoned, of the need for protective pads. What happened next, Roger and Sally later told each other, was an act of parental love. The boy needed guidance. It was for his own good. His own safety. Wayne was not yet a mature adult. What were parents for?

Roger rested the brush on his lap and with his two free hands he lifted the sweater and shirt so he had an unimpeded access to the waistband of the boy’s shorts. Wayne was motionless. It felt like he was in a dream, was this what an out-of-body experience felt like? It could have been some other teenager standing there, not Wayne.

The shorts fitted snugly and needed no belt. Roger had the top button open and the zipper down in two seconds. The jeans clung to Wayne’s hips so his father tugged them down his thighs, over his knees and let them fall onto the top of his dirty gym shoes. Still Wayne did not move. Roger hesitated before making his next move. He had not expected to be spanking his son this evening. He had no plan. Wayne wore multi-coloured briefs, they were so tight they emphasised the contours of his manhood. In the spur of the moment, Roger decided to leave them where they were. He retrieved the brush from his lap, gripped the boy’s left arm and in one smooth, continuous movement he guided Wayne across his knee. Still, uncomplaining, the boy flopped forward.

Roger had been wise to sit well back in the chair. Wayne was a tall lad and his constant skateboarding had developed his muscles. He was quite a weight. He lay submissively. Wayne had been in this position before, he understood the rules. He stretched his arms ahead of him and placed the palms of his hands flat into the carpet. Behind him, with his knees bent, the tips of his toes brushed the floor. His body was at such an angle across his dad’s thigh that the buttocks jutted out  affording Roger a perfect target.

It had been three years since Roger last spanked his son. The boy had grown considerably since then. As he pushed the sweater and shirt up Wayne’s back and away from the action area, he noticed rippling muscles in his back and arms. He pulled the waist of the pants and saw Wayne’s bottom was larger than before. When he cupped his hand and gently ran his palm across the contours of his son’s bum, the buttocks clenched and hardened. The phrase “buns of steel” might have been made for him.

Wayne closed his eyes and sucked his bottom lip. His father gently rubbed the heavy wooden hairbrush across the peaks of his buttocks. Then, he caressed the underside of the cheeks where they met the thighs. Lastly, he tapped the head gently on the crest of the mounds. Then he let fly! The resounding whack of heavy brush against hard meat echoed around the small room. Once, twice, three times the brush struck home. Rat-a-tat-tat. Wayne’s knees stiffened and his legs raised from the floor. After another three whacks he was twisting his left foot over his right ankle in a not-too-successful effort to stop his legs flailing.

By the time his dad had spanked him a dozen times, his bottom was on fire. How it hurt. Had his other spankings been so painful? Roger spanked and spanked. He kept up a steady rhythm. Not one square centimetre of the bottom was unblistered. Wayne lifted his hands from the floor and waved them in a fruitless attempt to cover his bottom. His head was too low and bottom too high and he couldn’t reach so he wrapped his arms around his father’s legs. This served no useful purpose, but Wayne was not thinking straight. The heat under his pants was intense. It was as if he had accidentally sat in a bath tub full of boiling water.

At first he gasped as the pain mounted, then he yapped like a little whipped puppy. Yaps grew to yelps and became full-throated yells. Wayne could not help himself, it was his body’s way of dealing with the agony. Roger put a half dozen whacks across the backs of his son’s thighs and immediately regretted it; Wayne’s shrieks would have outshouted a banshee and Roger feared his nosey neighbours might hear him and think a murder was taking place.

The back of Roger’s shirt was soaked with sweat. Wayne’s hair was wet and perspiration trickled down his spine. His neck was scarlet and Roger supposed so were his buttocks under those pants. The backs of Wayne’s legs had dark-pink blotches shaped like the head of the hairbrush. Roger was exhausted. Blood rushed through Wayne’s arteries and his temples throbbed. His bottom was raw and the pain travelled up and down his legs. His eyes stung and were moist, but no tears flowed.

And, that’s nearly the end of the story. Wayne was a thoroughly spanked teenager. His father released the boy who then did the spanking dance, hopping from foot to foot while rubbing his sore buttocks. Roger stood, smiled and opened his arms. “Come here, son,” his own eyes were moist. “I hope you understand why I had to do that. I hated it, but it might even save your life. Promise me, you won’t go skateboarding again without a helmet and pads.”

Wayne picked up his shorts. “Yes, Dad,” he blubbed, and gave the Old Man a hug.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Late for breakfast

I remember like it was yesterday

Don’t borrow dad’s car

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com