A Double Whammy

new story 2

z used school cane pants touch toes sting

The headmaster puffed out his cheeks and frowned. His bushy white eyebrows knotted, he drew in a sharp breath and studied the two pupils standing before him. Duncan Richards and Paul Clarke shuffled their feet nervously as the Old Man jawed them.

“You are senior boys. Prefects even. You know the rules. You are expected to enforce them,” he leaned back in his chair and peered over the top of his spectacles. “You do not leave the school premises during the day. We are responsible for you at all times,” he watched closely, delighted that the two miscreants were blushing, suitably embarrassed.  “What would have happened if you were involved in an accident?” He didn’t pause for an answer, the was on a roll. “Your parents would be very worried indeed.”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the large mahogany desk. “You know the rules,” he repeated, his eyes blinking furiously. “I am a fair man. I treat every boy equally,” he steepled his fingers. “Be they first or sixth-formers.”

Paul risked a sideways glance at his pal, he didn’t like where this was going. Duncan stared at the dark blue carpet beneath his feet. “So,” the headmaster eased himself to his feet, “I am going to beat you both.” Duncan’s head shot upwards, startled by the news. “A fair man,” he thought but dared not say aloud, “I wouldn’t mind if you were unfair now.”

He watched miserably as the headmaster made his way across the study, for a man of such weight and proportions he made an unexpectedly nimble movement. He halted at a tall thin cupboard and delved into his pocket. Duncan could not meet his pal’s eye. This could not be happening. Could it?

The headmaster found a key and inserted it into the lock and opened the cupboard door. Paul was no stranger to the headmaster’s study and was very aware what it was that was making the hollow rattling sound. The headmaster sighed as he withdrew a long thin crook-handled cane. He pushed the door closed with his elbow and turned to face the two eighteen year olds. He flexed the cane between his hands taking its measure; an entirely unnecessary action since he knew the properties of this little beauty only too well. Hardly thirty minutes earlier it had left six distinct marks across the tightly stretched Teryelne-covered rear end of an habitual smoker.

“Six.” The headmaster announced if the solemnity of a judge sending a man to the gallows. The two teenagers shuffled their feet as their faces paled at the totally expected news. “Richards, face the wall. Clarke,” he pointed his cane to a spot in the centre of the study, “Stand there.” Moments later all three were in their allotted places. The headmaster swished the cane. Once, then once again. He was not quite ready to go, his eyebrows were once again knotted he appeared to be wrestling with a problem. Swish. Swish. He took a deep breath, he had made up his mind.

“Lower your trousers and bend over.”

Duncan Richards until now obediently standing with his nose an inch from the pale blue patterned wallpaper turned around aghast. He saw his pal’s mouth open and close, but no words were uttered. If he had intended to protest, he quickly thought better of it. With tremendous fortitude (Duncan thought) he unbuckled his belt and opened the front of his pale-grey trousers. The weight of the keys in his pocket sent them slithering to his ankles. He took a look around the study as if trying to find his bearings and satisfied that he truly was in the headmaster’s study and this wasn’t a dream. Then he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees.

“Right over, boy. Touch your toes,” the headmaster barked, unafraid to show his intense irritation. Duncan watched his pal separate his feet and stretch down so that his fingertips brushed the toecaps of his black lace-up shoes. His back was arched, his knees slightly bent and his bottom poked out at an angle. Duncan had never before noticed that Paul’s bum was firm and pert. His white cotton briefs clung to the contours of his cheeks.

The headmaster was nearly ready to go, but first he tucked his cane under his arm and approached the submissive teenager. Using both hands he took hold of the tail of Paul’s gleaming white shirt and rolled it along with his grey pullover up the boy’s back, exposing an inch of bare hairless flesh. He slipped the cane into his hand and took a step back, then he laid the thin whippy rattan cane across the centre of Paul’s underpants. He had a terrific target and he was taking his aim.

Paul bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish. Jesus. Fuck. Ouch. Oooooh. Hisssssss. Ow, ow, ow. With tremendous fortitude the boy kept in position, held low, bottom high, fingertips on toes. That hurt! That hurt a lot. It felt like his bum was on fire. The headmaster hadn’t laid on a sound six-of-the-best, he had pressed a white hot wire deep into his flesh. His arse was on fire.

“Stand up. Get dressed. Stand by the wall. Richards take his place.” The headmaster swished his cane and watched unable and not unwilling to show his deep satisfaction on a job well down. The boy’s bottom would be roasting. He had landed the strokes low down, the agony of the six deep cuts would reignite each time he sat down for many hours to come. Paul wriggled in pain as he pulled his trousers over his raw buttocks and pulled the belt tight. He suspected his eyes were moist and he had no desire for his pal to see him in this state so he kept his head low as he passed Duncan on his way to the wall.

Duncan had witnessed his friend’s punishment, he knew exactly what was going to happen. Even so, he stood and waited for the headmaster’s command. “Lower your trousers. bend over. Touch your toes.” Resolute not to show himself up in front of his friend, and just as determined not to give the headmaster any satisfaction, he quickly had his trousers at his feet. He bent forward and waited. Touching toes is not as easy as it looks. It put a terrible strain on he backs of Duncan’s thighs. He shivered involuntarily as the headmaster pulled his shirt up his back and then (unexpectedly) he took hold of the waistband of his white Y-fronts and pulled hard so that all creases were removed from the cloth and his pants fitted like a second skin.

“You have not been to me before Richards,” the headmaster who never forgot a bottom, stated. “Is this you first caning?” “Yes, sir,” Duncan spoke to the carpet. “Well, it will be quite an experience for you,” the headmaster sneered. “And, eighteen years old,” he added smugly.

It would be Duncan’s first caning, but he was no stranger to spanking. His father was a fervent advocate of corporal punishment; the influence of a small church he followed religiously. Duncan and his two elder brothers often felt father’s belt across their naked backsides. He sucked in his breath as he felt the tip of the cane tap against his stretched flesh.

It was over in seconds. Six almighty swipes. One after the other. Rat-tat-tat like machinegun fire. He had never experienced pain like it. Nothing his father had ever delivered prepared him for the hurt.

“Stand up. Get dressed.” Duncan rose furiously massaging his burning bum. It hurt so much, he couldn’t wait until he was properly dressed and away from the study. He needed to rub away the agony. Now, and he couldn’t care less who saw him do it. The headmaster laid the cane on his desk. “You are dismissed,” he intoned and took much pleasure as the pair sped from the room. He knew very well they would be dashing down the passageway to the senior boys’ lavatories to inspect the damage. He very much hoped they would award him the maximum ten points for the effectiveness of his beating.

….

z used jeanz down belt table (2)

Mr Richards placed the handset on the cradle and waddled out of the room in search of his wife. “Hilda!” he called and she answered him from the kitchen. “I just got off the phone from Paul Clarkes’ father, he tells me his son and Duncan were caned by the headmaster today. Playing truant. He says Duncan was the ringleader.”

“Oh dear,” his wife dried her hands on her wrapround apron. “Trouble at school …” She let her sentence trail of into silence. Both she and her husband knew what that meant.

“Call him down will you please. Well do this in the sitting room,” Mr Richards ran his thumbs across the belt holding up his trousers. It was a narrow thin affair, constructed of plastic. “That won’t do at all,” he tutted silently. “Not at all.”

He heard footsteps padding down the carpeted staircase. He looked into the hallway to see his son standing, a little dumbfounded. Clearly, his mother had not told him the reason for his summons. “Wait in the sitting room,” Mr Richards spoke clearly and calmly. He never believed in histrionics. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He ascended the stairs slowly, his immense stomach rolling as he went. Breathless, he reached his bedroom and pushed open the door. This shouldn’t take a moment. He waddled across the room and halted before a large wardrobe with double doors. He turned a key in the lock and the right hand door eased open on its own. Inside the rail was heaving with clothes. His on the right hand side, hers on the left. He reached up and felt in the dark and his hand brushed against a heavy leather strap. “Just the fellow,” he whispered. In seconds he was fingering a thick wide leather belt. “Yes, the very thing.” He knew it would pack a punch.

He doubled it up in his hand testing the weight. There was no reason to do this, it was no stranger to him. The sheen on the leather had long since worn away.  This little beauty had seen action in its time. He had successful seen three sons into adulthood. Only Duncan now remained.

He shuffled back across the room and at a snail’s pace inched his way down the stairs. Duncan’s eyes widened. Dad had his belt in his hand; it meant only one thing.

“Paul Clarke’s father rang …” His dad need say no more. Matters must take their course. His father’s eyes narrowed. “You know what to do.” Indeed he did. It was a rule of the house. Clearly stated and known by all Mr Richards’ sons. You get punished at school, you get punished again at home. Mr Richards waved his belt in the general direction of the small sitting room. “In there,” he wheezed, and added for emphasis, “Now!”

Sorrowfully, Duncan turned on his heels and slowly, as befitting a condemned man, he edged into the room. It was a small space, with the dining room table and four chairs there was little room for much else. Small it might be, but there was enough room to swing a belt. It was a small terraced house, similar to thousands, hundreds of thousands probably, in towns and cities up and down the land.

Duncan stood quietly. There was nothing to say. Dad was in control. He ruled his own castle. They had both been here before. He heard voices through the wall from the house next door. The Robinsons were settled down watching Crossroads on the television. “Come on, you know what to do. Get ready! Trousers and pants down across the table! Anybody would think this was your first time.” His father’s voice was harsh as he waved the belt through the air.

Slowly, Duncan obeyed the command. Not looking at his father, he walked slowly towards the old rickety table. This would hurt, and hurt a lot. A strapping on top of the still fresh cane marks would be agony. Each lash of the leather would reignite the welts across his backside. His black jeans fitted snugly so he had no use for a belt. He popped the rivet at the waist and tugged down the zip. Oh how he hated for his father to see his cock and balls. He turned his back slightly on him and taking a firm hold of the waistband of his Levis he quickly pulled both jeans and briefs down just far enough to expose his buttocks. Before Dad could glimpse his privates he fell forward and rested his forearms on the table top.

The table was low and Duncan quite tall so he had to arch his back and jut out his bare backside at an angle to present himself submissively to the lashing. He closed his eyes and waited. He knew Dad would take his time. He heard a low wheezing sound as Mr Richards got himself into position. “Well, these are a fine set of marks,” Dad said admiringly. “That headmaster of yours certainly knows his onions.” Duncan winced, he certainly did not need reminding of that. His buttocks quivered as his father’s hand traced the welts that ran left to right across the naked flesh. “Yes,” Mr Richards repeated, “A very fine set indeed.” He tapped his belt across his son’s bum. “This should set them alight.”

Duncan felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his tender rear end. It was on fire. Each stoke of the headmaster’s caning returned to life, aching like crazy to be joined by the new dull throbbing made by the thick, heavy leather belt.

The crack of leather on stretched bottom bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Next door, the volume of the television was lowered. Obviously the goings-on at the Richards’ house was more interesting than the Crossroads Motel.

Duncan shut his teeth. His bum hurt. More than the Robinsons might ever have imagined. Then there was a short respite as Dad took a breather. Duncan could hear him breathing heavily with his exertions. Then he was off again. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the teenager’s  buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Duncan’s dad made sure the strap toasted every square of his son’s buttocks which were by now blazing, burning, stinging mounds of flesh.

Dad twisted his own flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Duncan’s buttocks. With his son’s upturned bottom in front of him, Mr Richards could choose his target with great accuracy. The eighteen-year-old’s bare bum made a terrific target.Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed.

“Enough!” Dad wheezed. He had to stop. If the truth be told he was suffering in his own way as much as his son. If he didn’t halt now he might have a heart attack, or at least a stroke. Duncan’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived. Gingerly, he rose from the table, carefully, so his Dad could not see his half-erect penis, he pulled his jeans and briefs up before stamping one foot after the other. He desperately wanted to rub away at his scorching buttocks, but as any spanked boy would tell you there’s an etiquette to these things. No matter how much you hurt, never let your punisher know. He had let himself down earlier in the headmaster’s study, he didn’t want to do that again. The rubbing would have to wait until he was back in his bedroom.  For now, he hopped up and down, rather like football players did when they had been kicked up in the air by an opponent. It didn’t help.

“Go,” Dad gasped. “And keep out of trouble at school in future.” Duncan flew from the room, took the stairs two at a time and hurled himself through his bedroom door and face down onto his bed. He buried his face in a pillow and sobbed his guts up.

Downstairs, his mother busied herself in the kitchen. She lit a match and got the gas going. Soon they could relax with a nice cup of tea. She hoped her husband would recover his breath soon.

 

Picture credits: Sting Pictures / Unknown

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His eldest brother

Letter of Regret

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A Sting In The Tail

Federico Hernandez shuffled slowly from the elevator, took a left turn, waited for the automatic doors to slide open and headed at a snail’s pace to the professor’s office.

It had seemed like a good idea at first. He had thought it through. It would be painful, for sure. Humiliating definitively. But, if the professor agreed, it would solve all the student’s problems. And, it would all be over in five minutes.

Professor Luckhurst was tired. It was late in the day and he wanted to get away. The semester was over, the papers had been graded. All he had to do before he could take off on vacation was to wait for the faculty to clear them.

Luckhurst could have retired years ago. He had a good pension, but he kept coming back to teach classes semester after semester. The university was the only life he had.

Luckhurst almost did not hear the faint knock at the door. Later, he would reflect bitterly, it would have been best if that had been the case.

“Come in,” the professor’s irritation was evident.

Slowly, the door inched open, but nobody appeared.

“Well, come in if you’re coming!” the professor’s patience was exhausted.

Hernandez took a deep breath and forced himself over the threshold.

“Come in boy! Close the door behind you,” Luckhurst tucked his empty lunchbox into his briefcase and fumbled with the lock. “What do you want!”

Fernandez lost his nerve. For two bits he would turn and flee. That would be the sensible thing to do, he reckoned. It was a crazy scheme. Why had he thought it might work?

The professor slumped into his chair and eyed the student in front of him. Federico Hernandez, one of his Eng. Lit. students. He failed the course, if he remembered correctly.

Hernandez had a little speech prepared. He had rehearsed it in front of the bedroom mirror; last night and again that morning. He was word perfect; that was until the time came for him to deliver it.

“Well, eh, professor,” he stumbled. Luckhurst’s lined face, permanently gray despite the almost ever-present sunshine, betrayed his annoyance. Hernandez took a deep breath and launched into it. The story was simple: the student had failed the professor’s course, it was the only one he failed, his grade point average was good enough for him to graduate, but that was impossible unless the professor passed him on the course.

“So, what do you expect me to do about it?” Luckhurst growled. He already knew the answer to that.

“Could you find a way to give me a passing grade,” he hesitated, before stammering the next words. “Perhaps, there’s something you’d like me to do…” he trailed off in confusion.

“Doh!” the professor snorted, confirming to Hernandez this was not going to be easy.

The student stared down at the heavy-duty carpet beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the professor, but he must. If this plan was to work, he had to turn on his charm.

“Please, professor,” he forced a smile. Luckhurst too was suitably embarrassed.

Hernandez’s eyelids fluttered a little. He had researched the professor; he had no family, never been married. He was almost certainly a faggot, the boy deduced. Not that that was supposed to matter anymore. This was 2015; they had same-sex marriages and all that. But, if the professor did go for handsome young men that would play to Hernandez’s advantage.

“Please, professor,” he started again. “Is there anything you would like me to do?”

Luckhurst’s ire rose. Do? Like him to do? What was the boy saying? Yes, there was something he would like the boy to do for him. Get out of his office and let him go home.

The silence was overwhelming. It was the professor’s turn to speak, but he continued to fumble with the lock of his briefcase, pretending he had difficulty with it.

Hernandez had one last chance. He took a deep breath and spluttered it out. This was not how he had planned it, but unless he spoke now, his opportunity would be missed. He would be stuck with an F-grade and a ruined future. “I thought you could spank me as a punishment and then ….” But he couldn’t find the words to finish the sentence.

Prof Luckhurst’s deathly gray face for once blushed scarlet. He could feel sweat sticking to the collar of his shirt. “What the ….?” he began, but was genuinely lost for words.

Hernandez had regained some confidence. When he had said the words to himself in front of the bedroom mirror, they sounded convincing. Now, he had to put that to the test.

“Well professor, the truth is…” The student confessed his laziness to the professor; he told him that he had not worked hard; he had not respected the course; he thought it would be easy. It was entirely his own fault he had failed.

“So, you see professor. I think I should be spanked. But, please don’t fail me. I won’t be able to graduate.” Then, he added for good measure in what he imagined to be a pitiful voice, “Sir.”

Luckhurst’s blood pressure was on the rise. Spank the boy. He wants me to spank him. He snorted. There had been many students over the years who would have benefitted from a darn good spanking; that was for sure. And, he often thought about personally swatting a paddle across their asses. But, all that was the stuff of fantasy. This was the real world: well, California at least.

“Spank you?” Prof Luckhurst left the question hanging in the air.

Hernandez picked it up and ran with it. “Yes, Professor Luckhurst. It’s what I deserve.”

Luckhurst had never come across anything like it before. The boy said he deserved to be spanked. He was twenty-two years old at least. Who had heard of young adults being spanked? Was this a cultural thing?

He regained some composure. “Spanking. Is this a Spanish-American thing? Do fathers still spank their sons in your community?”

Spanish-American! What year did this man live in? But, Hernandez made no protest. The tide was turning his way.

“Oh yes Sir,” he lied. “If my father knew of my failure, he would beat me.”

“Then let him spank you. You can atone for your failure that way.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hernandez seized the advantage. “He would spank me and hard, but he couldn’t give me the grade. Only you can do that.” He looked the professor straight in the eye, his own confidence growing by the second. “You, do see that don’t you?”

The professor returned the gaze. Often, he had dreamt of spanking his students, especially the Spanish-Americans. They were so short and cute with their slim hips and tight asses.

He looked over at Hernandez, struck by his dark brown eyes, boyish face and short jet black hair gelled up. The open face: that did it for him every time.

Luckhurst leant back in his chair. He was tempted, sorely tempted. He had been puzzled by the student’s failure. He had taught him several classes in the past and he had passed with high grades. His overall GPA showed he was a very bright student; he would go far. But, something strange had happened in Eng. Lit. Without the professor’s grade Hernandez would not make it to graduate school. His entire career could be hurt. Perhaps, Hernandez was correct; he had let his own arrogance get the better of him and imagined he could ace the professor’s course without working. Perhaps a spanking would sort out the boy’s arrogance.

Hernandez watched on as the professor sat at his desk, obviously in deep thought. If he had known any thought-transference tricks, he would have willed Luckhurst to do it. Go on, professor, spank my tight ass. What have you got to lose?

“Please, professor,” Hernandez spoke gently, “Please professor, spank me. I deserve it.”

That was the moment everything changed.

Professor Luckhurst hauled himself from his chair and walked across the room. Reaching the door, he turned the catch. A loud click confirmed the two men were locked together inside the office.

He turned to face Hernandez. He towered over the young man, easily eight inches taller than the student.

“If I do this, you must promise never to tell anybody what happened.”

“Oh, no Sir; of course not Sir,” Hernandez’s heart raced.

“Promise?”

“Yes, I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Then, with more confidence than he actually possessed, the professor said, “Good boy. Come then, let’s do it.”

Luckhurst pulled a straight-backed chair from in front of his desk and placed it in the center of the office. Then, he sat down.

Hernandez stood his ground. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

“Come, boy, take down those shorts. Get across my lap.”

“But…” Not for the first time that day Hernandez was lost for words. He had asked to be spanked, but he expected swats across his ass. Maybe he would be leaning over the desk, or bent over “assuming the position,” hands on his shins. No way had he expected to be over the professor’s knee, showing him his underwear.

Professor Luckhurst sat patiently. He had longed for such a moment his entire career. A cute naughty student submissively bent across his knee, offering up his butt for punishment. Sweat poured from his body and the underarms of his shirt was drenched. His breathing was heavy and his blood pressure was reaching record levels.

“Come on Hernandez, it is what you wanted.” Professor Luckhurst watched quietly as with trembling hands the boy undid his cloth belt and popped the button at the top of his bottle-green cargo shorts. The weight of the shorts took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees to rest at his shins. The boy’s legs were covered in thick black hair, to the professor’s evident disappointment. In his fantasies, the students had always been hairless: virginal.

Clearly distressed, Hernandez waddled a few steps so that he stood to the right of the professor. No, he couldn’t do this. He had changed his mind. Never mind the plan; forget how this little episode would insure the boy a bright trouble-free future. At the final moment he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“Doh!” Professor Luckhurst was not about to miss his opportunity of a lifetime. He reached out and took the boy’s right arm and gently pulled him forward, so that he tumbled face down across the professor’s knees.

Hernandez screwed his eyes tight. The contact of his own body against the professor’s repulsed him. This was not how it was meant to be. Now, he had two choices; he could fight his way to his feet and flee the office. It would be easy, he was much smaller than his punisher, but he was forty-five years his junior; he had the superior strength.

He could do that, or he could stick with the original plan; albeit modified. He could take the spanking, graduate the university and get on with his new life.

Professor Luckhurst looked down at Federico, now across his lap. He might be twenty-two, but with his short trim body he could have passed for fifteen. Tight yellow briefs clung to his buttocks, so firmly they separated each one, so that the cotton dug deep into his crack creating a ravine. The boy’s red and white shirt had already risen away from the target area, but the professor helped it on its way by carefully folding it up once and then twice until the whole of his back beneath the shoulder blades was exposed.

Intrigued, the professor gently brushed his hand across the hairs on the boy’s back, feeling a slight tickle against his palm, but he took care not to connect with the flesh.

Federico’s anger was rising. What was the professor up to? The fury turned to rage when the professor moved his hand lower to caress the smooth cotton briefs. This time he let his palm explore the boy’s tight flesh. Each buttock was small enough to fit into the palm of the professor’s hand. Gently and very slowly the cupped hand explored the contours of the buttocks. The underpants were so tight and so small they left the lower half of each cheek exposed. The professor stroked his hand in a circular motion across the bared flesh, rather like he was polishing a window.

Federico stared straight ahead, trying to control his disgust. His arms were stretched out ahead of him and his own palms were pressed into the heavy material of the carpet, scratching them slightly. The crucifix he wore on a chain around his neck had slipped and dangled in front of his eyes. Behind him, he kept his knees straight and his toes floated an inch or so off the ground. His buttocks, now receiving so much loving attention from the professor, rested high over the old man’s right thigh.

On and on the professor caressed Federico’s buttocks in a circular motion; he was pimping and preening them. Never before had he held such a beautiful boy close to his own flesh. He was adorable; too wonderful to hurt. The professor would be entirely satisfied simply to hold and stroke the boy all night long. Was it too late to renegotiate with the boy? Let there be no spanking, instead give me a blow-job. No, better still; let me take you up the ass.

But it was too late. Better to make the most of the moment. The professor raised his hand two or three inches away from Federico’s left cheek and tapped it down. Then he did the same to the right cheek. Then again and again.

Federico had never been spanked in his life. He was no expert, but he knew one thing about it: it was supposed to hurt. That surely was the whole point. The professor wasn’t spanking him, he was coming on to him. This wasn’t a punishment, this was foreplay: a prelude to full-on sex.

On and on, the professor tapped and smacked his way across the boy’s glorious trim buttocks. No part of the cheeks escaped his attention. Smack, smack. smack.

Federico was losing his breath, not from the pain of his spanking since there wasn’t any, but from his increasing disgust. The professor was using him for his own sexual gratification. That wasn’t the idea. The plan was to get a spanking. It was meant to be four or five swats on the shorts and then, “Thank you Sir” and goodbye.

z used drawing hand otk (7)

Right that’s it. He wriggled his body and tried to force himself off the professor’s lap. Enough already. He was out of here.

The movement might have woken Luckhurst out of a trance. It was as if he suddenly realised why he was there and what he was supposed to be doing.

“No you don’t buster,” he pushed the boy forward so that his nose could smell the dusty carpet. Then he grabbed Federico’s right arm and twisted it up his back. The boy was going nowhere until the professor said so.

Then, in one swift continuous action, he grabbed the waistband of Federico’s tight yellow briefs and tugged them over his buttocks and left them at his thighs. The student wriggled and writhed, rather like he was swimming out of water, but the professor was his master; he was pinned down powerless to resist.

The professor once again caressed the buttocks. Unlike the boy’s back and legs, they were completely hairless, even the crack and butt hole. Did the boy shave himself, the professor wondered. Or did he have a special friend who did it for him?

But this was no time for speculation. In a frenzy the professor rained down spank after spank across the student’s pert naked butt. Federico felt that alright. The professor’s hand was as large and hard as Federico’s ass cheeks were small and soft. Sweat poured from the professor’s chest as the ache in the palm of his hand increased from a tingle to real pain. He had never spanked anyone in his whole sixty-seven years and was startled at how the boy’s tanned skin turned a deeper shade of brown as his own hand connected again and again with the flesh. The outline of the professor’s open palm was embedded time and time again on the boy’s rear end.

Federico kicked and thrashed his legs about, but he could not disturb the professor. The old man had an uninterrupted access to the buttocks. He realized he rather enjoyed swiping his hand hard into Federico’s naked cheeks and watching the instant reaction of the boy as he exhaled breath and wriggled across the older man’s lap. Yes, there was a direct connection between cause and effect in this spanking motion.

Federico gasped and gaped as each smack came down harder than the one before. He shook his head so violently in his attempt to escape what had become a severe bare-butt hand spanking that his crucifix slipped over his ears and fell on the ground. He stared down at it as his ass got hotter and hotter.

The professor was an old man. He didn’t have the strength he had twenty or thirty years past. He was spent. In his younger days he might have been able to spank the cute boy across his lap all night long. But not now. Not these days. He was choking for breath and blood rushed through his arteries at jet speed. If he didn’t slow down, he might have a stroke. No, worse than that: a heart attack.

“So young man,” he wheezed. “Do you regret not working hard in my class?”

Federico was astounded. He had long ago forgotten the reason he was bent over, naked butt raised high, receiving the attention of the pervert professor.

“Well?” the professor slapped his hand down the hardest yet.

“Yes,” the student gasped. His own breathing was as difficult as that of the professor. “Oh, yes,” he whimpered.

“Do you ask forgiveness?”

The student was puzzled. What was he supposed to say?

Slap! “Beg for forgiveness.”

Beg?

Slap! “Say it. I beg you for forgiveness.”

That was it. When, I get up from here, I’m going to smash your fucking head in. The boy didn’t say it, of course, but the intent was real.

Slap! “Say it!”

The boy could not have been more humiliated. He had no choice. He had to remember that once he was released, his future was safe.

He wheezed, “I beg you to forgive me. Please forgive me.” Then for good measure, he added, “Sir.”

The professor stopped spanking. Federico lay across the old man, still staring at the crucifix. His head was spinning; he desperately needed to be standing on his own feet. So much blood had rushed to his brain; he feared he might pass out at any moment.

“Up.” It was a cold command. Despite his ordeal, Federico was still an athletic young man and he was off the man’s lap in seconds. Without waiting for permission, he pulled his underwear and shorts up. He was distressed that his hands would not obey him fully as he tried to button up and then buckle his belt. His ass was hot, but the agony was already dissipating into pain and would soon be only a throbbing.

The professor rose from his chair more slowly and turned to face the boy. He hoped Federico would not notice the bulge in front of his own pants. For several seconds the professor and the student stood facing one another in silence. Neither knew what to do next. Federico’s earlier rage had calmed. He would not beat up the professor. There was no cause to do that.

Eventually, the professor regained some of his own composure. “Nobody will hear about this, will they?”

“No,” Federico’s response was sullen.

“Promise.”

“I promise,” Federico assured him as he bent down to retrieve the fallen crucifix. Then without another word between the two men he walked to the door, unlocked it and left. With a wry smile cracking his lips he ran through the automatic doors toward the elevator.

….

Six months later Federico sat in the bar of a luxury hotel in the Caribbean, a beautiful woman by his side. In his hand he held a copy of the International New York Times. He smiled with satisfaction as for the third time today he read the story headlined: University settles $1.5 million lawsuit in student spanking case. A smaller headline ran: Professor’s career in ruins.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

Other stories you might like

Never too old

First day at St CIGS

A public service

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Trouble at the Mall

z used drawing paddle hold (6)

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Bernie always called Jeff “young man” even though he was two years his junior.

Jeff had been anticipating this since he acted up in the mall.  The shopping trip had not been a success. Bernie had wanted to buy a new suit and couldn’t find one he liked. Jeff, who hated shopping, became more and more irritated at each store, until eventually he stormed off.

“You can find me at the coffee shop when you’re ready.”

Bernie exploded with anger and to the embarrassment of some on-lookers called after Jeff’s disappearing body, “You wait till I get you home, young man!”

Back home Jeff was immediately ordered to his room to change his clothes. Sulkily, he removed his sweater, shirt and pants and dropped them onto the bed. He opened up his closet and took out a freshly-laundered gray shirt; a striped necktie was hanging nearby. He took his time putting them on making sure the tie was knotted perfectly.

He pushed aside a row of slacks on the closet rail and found what he was looking for: gray short pants. He sighed as he stepped into them, first the left leg, then the right. He pulled them on and buttoned up. He took a pair of socks from a drawer, sat on the bed and pulled them on; they were so long they came way above the knee, so he turned down the tops an inch or so.

From the back of the drawer, he fished out an English-style schoolboy’s cap and put it on top of his head. He was ready to return downstairs to face Bernie and whatever it was he had in store for him today.

Bernie always said if Jeff was determined to behave like an eight-year-old boy, he would be treated like one and that meant dressing like one and getting plenty of spankings.

Jeff had put on one of Bernie’s favourite outfits: the English school uniform. Bernie had gotten the idea from a photograph of Princess Diana and her two sons, the Princes William and Harry. The kids were about six or seven and on their way to their up-scale preparatory school. They were dressed entirely in gray: short trousers, knee socks; jacket and best of all an English school cap.

Bernie loved that school uniform and after some searching on the Internet, he found a place in England where they sold identical clothes in Jeff’s size.

Bernie often forced Jeff into children’s clothes; sometimes for days on end. The deal would be as soon as he got home from work he changed and stayed like that until it was time to go back to work next day. If he wanted to leave the house, he would have to go out in his school uniform.

One weekend, Bernie threatened to make Jeff wear his school uniform to the mall if he didn’t stop acting up. Although he didn’t let on to Bernie, Jeff quite liked the idea of parading around in public dressed as an eight-year-old English schoolboy. He had read on the Internet of some middle-aged guy in England who travelled on the London Underground all day dressed in short trousers, school blazer and cap and no passenger batted an eyelid.

“Stand in the corner, hands on head,” Jeff was told when he entered the lounge room. Bernie was seated on a couch, flicking over the pages of the newspaper. He was in no hurry; Bernie knew Jeff hated waiting for spankings: sometimes Jeff thought waiting was the worst part. Good, thought Bernie, he would let Jeff stew for a while.

After about five minutes, Bernie said, “Turn around young man and face me.” Jeff, still with his hands on his heads, obeyed immediately.

“You behaved like a brat at the mall, what have you got to say for yourself young man?”

Jeff stared at his feet in embarrassment, but said nothing.

“Speak up young man. You embarrassed me in public this afternoon. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“Sorry,” mumbled at the carpet.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man. What did you say?”

Jeff looked up but couldn’t meet Bernie’s eye. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? You will be young man. Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?”

Jeff shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

“Doh! Stand back in the corner and wait till I return.”

Jeff knew Bernie was off to find a paddle to spank him with. Bernie had quite a collection, which one would he use this time? One paddle he had recently bought was made of clear plastic and had holes drilled in it: that one hurt like hell, especially if it were applied with his pants down.

Moments later Bernie returned, not with a paddle, but with a sheaf of writing paper and a pencil.

“Turn round, young man.”

Jeff was puzzled when he saw Bernie did not have a paddle. What was happening? Was he only going to get a hand spanking?

Bernie placed the writing paper and pencil on a table.

“I want you to write out fifty times, ‘I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.’ Make sure it is in your neatest handwriting, young man, or else.”

Bernie did not need to spell out what “or else” meant Jeff could imagine the pain he was going to be in by the end of the afternoon. It was a cruel trick, Bernie knew Jeff’s handwriting was almost illegible, even when he tried his hardest and wrote very slowly indeed, it was nearly always impossible to read what he had written.

“Sit down and get started. I’ll be back in half an hour to see how you are getting on. Remember, neatest handwriting, young man. Or else.”

Jeff did try, he really tried, to write his lines neatly. He held the pencil tightly in his hand and slowly began to write, “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall.” After he had written the sentence five times, his hand ached terribly. He wasn’t used to writing by hand. His keyboard skills were magnificent, his fingers flew across the letters and he could input forty words a minute. But, he was hopeless with a pen or pencil and that was just a fact and here was nothing he could do about it.

Resigned to the bottom blistering that would inevitably follow, Jeff scrawled “I must not misbehave when I am taken to the mall,” forty-five more times.

“Completely illegible. I can’t decipher a word. If I didn’t already know what this said, I would never be able to understand it. Well, young man, you know what’s coming.”

Yes, Jeff knew what was coming and he wished Bernie would just get on with it.

“Back in the corner, young man. Hands on head.”

Jeff obliged and Bernie left the room. This time when he returned he was carrying a paddle and to Jeff’s dismay it was the heavy plastic Lexan.

“Turn and face me. Keep those hands on the head. Look at me when I’m speaking to you, young man.”

Bernie recapped all Jeff’s failings that day, especially the misbehaviour at the mall and the storming off in a temper. He added the poorly-written lines for good measure.

He picked up a chair that was tucked neatly under the dining room table, turned it round, and sat down. Bernie kept his back straight and planted his legs apart to create a platform that would soon receive Jeff’s body.

“Come here young man, I’m going to give you a spanking.”

Jeff kept his hands on his head and stepped forward so he stood immediately in front of Bernie.

“Don’t think you’re keeping these on, young man,” he said, as he unbuttoned the short pants and let them fall to the ground.

“Bend over my knee.”

Jeff hesitated.

“Doh! Come here,” Bernie took Jeff’s arm and with an expertise borne from practice, he pulled him face down across his knee.

“This is going to hurt me just as much as it hurts you, young man,” Bernie said that every time he spanked Jeff, but Jeff knew for sure it wasn’t true.

Bernie raised the paddle and brought it smacking down into the seat of Jeff’s tight underpants.

The first spanks were always mild; Bernie was just warming Jeff up for the real onslaught that was to follow.

Jeff gasped a little as the paddle landed on his left cheek, then the right, then across the middle of both at once, but he made no other sound. He knew from experience that the real spanking began the moment Bernie gripped the elasticated waist of his underwear and tugged them down over his thighs. An intense bare-bottomed blistering would always follow.

Neither of them was keeping time, but it must have been at least five minutes before Bernie bared Jeff’s buttocks. They were a deep red by this time and Bernie reckoned they must be pretty sore by now.

Undeterred, he raised his arm high and brought the paddle down hard into the naked flesh. Jeff felt that one, most definitely. He felt the next dozen as well, each one spanking into his fleshy ass with force. Jeff wanted to be a brave boy and not cry out – at least try not to cry out too soon.

His resolve broke after about twenty-five swats. The pain was intense and Jeff knew his buttocks would be turning from scarlet to mauve about now. The bruising would be intense and last for days, or even a week.

Bernie spanked on … and on. He hadn’t made up his mind how many whacks to deliver. It had to be a lot, there were two crimes here that that to be paid for: the bad behaviour at the mall and the crapily-written lines.

Jeff was sobbing by now, crying genuine tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please stop. You’re hurting me.”

“That’s the point young man. That’s the point,” and Bernie kept raising the paddle and crashing it down into Jeff’s naked cheeks.

“Please, I will be a good boy, I will behave. I’m sorry,” it sounded like genuine repentance, but Bernie had heard it all before. This wasn’t the first time they had problems at the mall, but, he reckoned, if he did his job well today, it should be the last.

Bernie spanked on oblivious to Jeff’s pleadings.

Suddenly, the sound of plastic on bare flesh and a man’s cries was broken by the distinctive ring-tone of a cell phone. Bernie stopped spanking.

“It’s the Bat Phone,” Bernie said, using the joke name they had for the emergency cell phone.

He let Jeff up from his lap and, he crossed the room, trying to rub the soreness out of his buttocks. He picked up the phone and said his name. The person at the other end had a curt message and Jeff turned off the phone.

Turning to Bernie, he said, “That was the hospital there’s been an incident and I have to give emergency surgery. I have to go.”

Not waiting to pick up his short pants from the floor where they had fallen, he rushed upstairs, changed into his outdoor clothes and was in the car on his way to the hospital inside two minutes. Sitting was extremely painful and he was grateful that he would be performing surgery standing up.

Through the window Bernie watched him go and then cleaned up. He didn’t put the paddle back with the others, instead he left it on the dining room table, thinking, “We’ll continue with this when you return, young man.”

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

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The fire-raiser

My father’s legacy

The freshman class

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The Colonel Takes Control

z used cane hold kernled (16)

“Send Master George to me!”

Colonel Thompson flexed the cane between his hands thoughtfully. It was an ideal specimen. A crook handled ashplant, fully three feet in length, and as thick as a pencil. It would do the job admirably.

Gripping the ashplant just below the handle he swished the cane up and down and then in an arc to left and right through the air.

The Colonel knew he had a duty to perform this evening and he had prepared thoroughly. His gamekeeper had secured a number of ashplant canes from a man in the village. Old Mr Hardacre was an expert in making walking sticks, but he also performed the task of producing ashplant punishment canes, which were effective at correcting any miscreant boy. Indeed, there was probably not a house in the village that did not contain one or two examples of Mr Hardacre’s handiwork.

The Colonel had dined, and he was alone now in the old, dark, oak-panelled dining-room at Thompson Lodge.  A bronzed, grim-visaged old soldier was the Colonel, and under the rugged exterior there was a man of iron.

The door of the dining-room opened, and the Colonel compressed his lips slightly as he looked at the boy who came into the room.

He was a handsome, well-built lad, finely-formed, strong and active.  He was eighteen years old and stood no taller than 5ft 7ins. His face was handsome but there was a cloud upon it and in his dark eyes was a glint of defiance.  The whole manner of the boy was one of suppressed opposition, and the Colonel realised it keenly enough without words being spoken.

“You sent for me, uncle.”

In the tones of George Thompson, too, was a half-hidden hostility and defiance, as if he knew that he had not been sent for in a friendly spirit, and was ready to meet anger with anger.

“Yes, George.”  Colonel Thompson’s voice was very mild, but it betrayed the anger that was raging inside of him.

“Stand there boy. I want to speak to you.”

George Thompson did not move.  The Colonel raised his eyebrows.

“Stand there boy.”

“I suppose you are not going to keep me long.” said the boy doggedly.  “I want to go out before dark.”

The Colonel half rose from his seat, a flush of anger darkening his cheek.

“Stand there!” he thundered.

For a moment it looked as if the order would be disobeyed, but the Colonel’s thunderous face impelled obedience.  George Thompson slowly and sullenly moved to the spot indicated by the Colonel.

“Now, George,” said the Colonel, “I want to speak to you seriously.  I am your uncle: you are the only son of my only brother, and you should understand that I have your truest interests at heart.”

The boy’s lips slightly curled, but he did not speak.

“I have come home from India,” resumed the Colonel, slightly raising his tone, “to find that you have run completely wild under the charge of my sister, and I should not be doing my duty to my dead brother if I did not take you in hand and make at least an attempt to put you on a better road.

“You have done exactly as you liked, and you have not the least idea of discipline.  During the month that I have been at home I have tried to improve you…”

“Perhaps I don’t want improving,” George interrupted the Colonel, a dangerous thing to do.

“You probably think so,” said the Colonel.  “But I think otherwise, and, as your guardian, I have my duty to do.  You are obstinate and wilful, and inclined to be insolent to your elders.  All that must cease.  You have run wild too long.  That must come to an end.

“You are determined to have your way, and I am determined that you are not to have it.”

George Thompson smiled slightly.  He knew perfectly well that the old man had undertaken his reform and he had set himself against it.  The Colonel would find his reform thankless task, but he had not been quite prepared for what was to happen soon.

The smile on the boy’s face irritated the Colonel, and he had to make an effort to speak calmly and dispassionately as he went on, “You are indeed in need of discipline and this evening I shall take it upon myself to teach you a very important lesson in life.

“I shall thrash you most severely. It is the very least that you deserve for your constant insolent behaviour.”

George bristled. He had not expected this turn of events.

George had not seen the ashplant lying on top of the shiny dining table. The Colonel strode across the room and picked up the cane.

“Go and bend all the way over that chair!” The Colonel thundered pointing to a dining room chair he had previously strategically positioned.

George knew he was in for the thrashing of his life. It would be excruciatingly painful. It was to demonstrate beyond all doubt that the Colonel had complete control over him.

But, George was not going to give in. He would not show the Colonel he had won. No matter how severe the flogging, George would not give his tormentor one indication that he was suffering.

Boldly, but it was with false bravado, George marched up to the indicated chair and without hesitation put himself over its back. His lowered his head and raised his bottom high, ready for the lashing. It might look to an innocent onlooker that George’s had taken up a position of submission.

On the contrary it was a position of defiance. No words needed to be spoken, but George said to the Colonel, “Go ahead! Do your worst. I don’t care. I can take it. You’ll never break me.”

The Colonel heard the unspoken defiance. He despised the boy and the boy hated him back. The Colonel would rip the boy to shreds; he didn’t have a mind to what condition George’s backside would be in at the end of the thrashing.

The Colonel was a military man, he lived by obedience. He also lived by duty. It was the Colonel’s duty, he knew without question, to ensure that George understood the meaning of obedience.

The Colonel had never thrashed a boy before, but that did not trouble him. In the case of George there could be no such occasion as lashing too hard. It did not matter one jot to the Colonel that by the end of the punishment the boy’s backside would be torn to pieces. The boy must be broken: all hint of defiance vanquished.

The Colonel’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the cane, ready to start his task. He looked across at George draped over the chair awaiting his attention. George let out the air of one who was untroubled. That innocent bystander would not know by George’s demeanour that this was the prelude to a whipping that could leave him unable to walk in comfort for days.

George’s outward demeanour was one of calm, but inside he raged. He was outraged that the Colonel had the power to put him in such a position. His rage was such that he determined no matter how hard the lashing was to be, he would remain outwardly unconcerned. He would not let the Colonel see he was a beaten boy. He would not let the Colonel win.

Still gripping the cane tightly, the Colonel marched the five paces across the room to the chair. He raised the cane high into the air and with all the powerful force a military man possessed, he lashed it into the seat of George’s britches.

Not a murmur came from George.

The Colonel repeated the swipe. He hit George so hard it was as if he were beating a carpet.

Pain shot through George. It started at the point of contact on his buttocks and within seconds touched every nerve in his body. He wanted to yell; to scream; to shake the rafters of the huge dining room. But, something, call it stubbornness if you will, refused to let him do this.

The Colonel’s face, quite red to begin with, now turned purple. This was an outrage. The boy had shown no contrition for his crimes and now he was showing no reaction to his flogging.

The Colonel stepped forward to view George’s face. He saw the handsome young eighteen-year-old was pale, so white that even a ghost would look grey beside him. George turned his head away.

He did not want the Colonel to see his eyes, for if he did, the Colonel would have known immediately that George was indeed broken. They were the eyes of a boy whose body had been crushed, but who was fighting against odds to determine that his spirit would not also go the same way.

The Colonel was not a cruel man, but he believed in duty and as he had previously determined it mattered not at all if George was whipped to shreds.

He raised the cane high again and jumping a little from the floor slashed two swipes into George’s posterior. The boy jerked as the impact of two lashes, one immediately after the other, hit their intended target, almost exactly on the same spot.

George’s bottom was a mess of cuts, he could feel welts rising under his britches and he knew instinctively that blood was seeping from them.

Slash! Slash! Two more cuts landed and the sound echoed round the room like rifle shots.

The Colonel stood back. His heart was racing, the rage inside him, rather than subsiding as he had expected as the boy succumbed to his punishment, increased. The boy must be in agony, the Colonel knew this but he showed no sign. George was physically beaten, that was certain, but his spirit remained whole.

George, still across the back of the dining room chair was breathing heavily. Both hands gripped the seat in front of him. His fingernails had dug so deeply into the wooden chair that they were trickling blood.

But, as yet there were no tears, no vocal expressions of sorrow, or of contrition, no begging for mercy, or promises to mend ways, if only the thrashing would cease.

The boy was not yet broken.

“Stand up!” With great difficulty George tried to rise. His body did not wish to respond to his brain’s commands at movement. Eventually George was on his feet, but unsteadily. His movement had disturbed the contours of his buttocks, which rubbed gently against his underclothes and britches. It was a gentle kissing of flesh on wool, but its effect was to send waves of agony from the welts and shoot pain through his whole body.

George stared straight ahead; he could not bear to look the Colonel in the eye: he knew if he did so, he would break down and the Colonel would have won.

George heard the sound of the cane swishing through the air behind his back. The Colonel put as much effort into these practice strokes as he had done to the thrashing itself. The action was intended to intimidate George and the plan was working.

Was George’s ordeal not yet completed?

“Lower your britches.”

It was a barked order from the Colonel. He was a military man and he had the voice of command.

George hesitated, but just for a part of a second.

He was agonised by the thrashing and was broken, but he would not, could not, let the Colonel know this.

He fought hard to steady his hands and fingers as he unbuttoned his britches and their weight alone took them down as far as his knees.

“Bend over!”

A simple order. To the point.

George did as commanded. Again his fingers dug themselves into the wooden seat of the chair.

Once again George submissively offered his rear to the swish of the ashplant. The Colonel hated this boy. He hated his behaviour to his sister. He hated his insubordination. He hated his refusal to give in.

The Colonel took three steps backwards, raised the cane high above his shoulder and rushed in at George, slashing the most almighty swipe into his backside.

Again and again, the Colonel rushed and slashed into George. Blood was now freely flowing from wounds and George’s woollen drawers were stained red.

George very nearly bit off his tongue in an effort to stifle a yell. He wanted to, he wanted to express the agony he was feeling. It was a physical emotion. Any person suffering so much pain would want to howl like a banshee.

But, to yell and scream, would not seem like a natural physical reaction, it would, to George, be an admission, of defeat. He would have lost and the Colonel would have won.

The Colonel gave George six on the drawers, making twelve good cuts in total.

The Colonel could see the boy was physically beaten, but his spirit was not.

Purple with rage, the Colonel marched to the opposite end of the room. He was a military tactician and he was regrouping. He must consider his strategy. The enemy was injured, but not defeated. What should he do now?

Step up the punishment? Make one final push to see off the enemy’s defences. What should he do?

He looked across at George’s body. George lay still across the chair. The Colonel could only see him from the rear end, and the scene appeared one of quiet serenity. But had the Colonel ventured forward to see his enemy from the front, he would see from George’s face that this was a defeated enemy.

The next assault: the drawers should come down and six stingers, no a dozen lashes, should be administered with maximum severity on George’s bared buttocks.

But no, this, even the Colonel could not contemplate. He cared nothing that the lashes would rip the boy’s flesh and expose meat below. No, the baring of the buttocks would be immodest. He did not care what others said on the matter, nakedness of this sort was not godly. He did not have to be told that as a magistrate in the district he often sentenced miscreants to the birch rod, and he knew the circumstances in which a birching was administered.

No. George would be spared removal of the drawers.

The Colonel took on deep breath, and again strode towards George. The Colonel gave George twelve almighty swipes at pace, one after the other, like a machine gun.

At one point George’s body rose from the back of the chair, but his hands remained gripping the wooden seat. Lash! Lash! Lash! The Colonel’s cane bounced into George’s backside. The blows were so rapid, George had no time to react to one, before the next flayed into him.

That innocent onlooker might have supposed the Colonel was out of control. But, far from it: he knew what he was doing and he set about his task with relish. If the boy’s spirit could not be broken this evening, his body most certainly would.

At the completion of twelve lashes, the Colonel was breathless. And, so in his way was George.

Without ceremony, the Colonel commanded that George rise from the chair.

The boy tried to do so. The Colonel could see the boy could not stand on his own. The Colonel’s one regret was that he had not arranged for a servant to be present to carry George off at the end of the ordeal.

At last, George found his feet. He had to hold on to the chair to stop from toppling back to the floor.

The Colonel saw no need for ceremony now. “You are dismissed.”

He turned his back on George and returned the ashplant to a place in the cupboard. As he did this, George, clutching on to furniture as he went, made his exit from the room.

Such was the pain in his buttocks that he could not walk across the great hall to the staircase and was obliged to crawl on hands and knees to the staircase, and hang on to the bannisters as he edged up the stairs to his own bedroom.

When his rage had subsided and later after a glass or two of red wine, the Colonel relived the encounter. He could see that he had won the battle, but maybe not the war. George made a remarkable adversary and there would surely be many more encounters before the war was over.

And, the war would have to be fought to a conclusion: no amnesty could be made.

Picture credit: Kernled

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

 

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The cartoonist’s painful memory

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

His Father’s Wrath

new story 2

z used drawing white shorts by spy (2)

Tommy slammed the car door, waved goodbye to his friends and bounded up the driveway towards his house. It was seven p.m. and he knew he was late. Breathless, he pushed the front door open and entered the hallway.

“Your father is looking for you, Mr Thomas” it was Clara the cook / housekeeper, “Said you’re to see him the moment you get in.”

“Thanks Clara!” he called, intending to ignore her and hurry to his room to change out of his tennis clothes.

Then, his mother appeared from the drawing room. “Do you know what time it is?” Tommy frowned, he wanted to look at his watch in an ostentatious manner and say “It’s just gone seven mama,” but her stern frown warned him not to be flippant. “Where have you been to this hour?”

“Tennis, obviously,” he indicted with a flourish that he was wearing tennis shirt and shorts.

“Don’t be fresh darling,” his mother admonished him. Tommy headed towards the stairs, not wanting a confrontation.

“Your father wants to see you,” she called after him. “In his study.”

“Later,” Tommy called over his shoulder.

“No darling. Now.”

Tommy stopped in his tracks. He recognised that tone of voice.

“He’s been waiting for hours. Better not keep him any longer.”

Tommy sucked on his bottom lip, a habit he did when he was concerned. Something was up. It couldn’t just be that he was late home. What was it? Any number of possibilities went through his mind. Maybe his father had found him a job for the summer. He had threatened to find him a position working in an office with one of his clients. Blast! If that was it. He had hoped to spend the summer playing tennis and at the beach.

His father’s study was on the first floor of their mansion, tucked way at the end of a long, dark passageway. Tommy hesitated. Should he get changed first? No, better to get whatever it was out of the way first. Then he could have a cocktail and get ready for dinner. Tommy rarely visited his father’s study. It was his place of work, where he prepared the complicated cases he presented in the law courts. The passageway was dark and surprisingly cool on such a warm summer’s day. The floorboards beneath his feet creaked as he made his way towards the heavy oak door. He stopped outside, suddenly unsure how he should proceed. Was this similar to visiting the housemaster’s study? Was he to knock politely and wait for the summons “Enter!” Or would it be permissible simply to open the door and barge in?

Tommy was rarely on familiar terms with his father. They were father and son; not dad and son. There was very little bonhomie in their lives together. He knocked politely. “Come in!” his father’s call was as imperious as that from any pompous headmaster. Tommy, surprised that his hand was shaking, turned the handle and pushed against the heavy door.

His father was sat behind a large walnut desk, sheaves of official-looking documents were strewn across it. His father was dressed in his business clothes, striped trousers, black jacket and waistcoat. He had made no concessions to the weather. He raised his head, took off his glasses and held them in his right hand. “Ah, Thomas. Home at last I see.” He looked his son up and down, not attempting to hide his distain at his appearance. “An arduous day was it?” he snarled. Tommy so wished he had changed clothes first.

He pushed the door closed and stood awkwardly. There was a hardback chair and a comfortable armchair in the room, but he wasn’t sure if he was permitted to use them. He waited, shuffling from one foot to the other, for an invitation to sit. None came.

His father shuffled through his papers, tut-tutting silently to himself. Finally, he found the envelope he was looking for. “Have you seen your examination results?” Tommy’s eyes blinked uncontrollably. No, of course he hadn’t seen them. The school would have sent them directly to his father. “Failures, all of them,” he threw a sheet of paper down on the desk, “Well damn nearly all of them. Pah!”

He let his exasperation hang in the air. With shaking hands, Tommy leaned forward and picked up the paper. He scanned it for confirmation. He let it fall with a flutter onto the desk top. His father leaned back in his chair. He was a successful advocate and he knew how to compose a sentence and how to deliver it with devastating effect. He could leave a judge and a jury in no doubt what he thought (and by extension what they should think too).

“I have engaged a private tutor, he will arrive on Monday and he will work with you throughout the summer. You will retake your examinations and you will pass them.”

Tommy could not stop his eyelids fluttering. His palms were sweating and all the saliva seemed to have dried from his mouth. “Thank you father,” he croaked. He knew he had not been summoned to engage in a conversation. His father had delivered his message and that was to be an end to it. So much for the tennis club and the beach. He would have to stay indoors in a stuffy room with an even stuffier private tutor. Damn and blast!

Supposing the meeting was at an end, he turned towards the door.

“Not so fast Thomas!” the fierceness of his father’s tone surprised him. He turned to see genuine anger on the old man’s face. “We have not yet finished.” His father’s pale complexion darkened. He placed the palms of both hands on the desk and leaned forward, his steely grey eyes glaring. “You might remember that I was far more successful at school than you have manged to be,” he spoke sharply. This was no question; it was a statement of fact. “I achieved the rank of house captain. If we had a slacker like you in the house we should have known how to deal with him.” He paused for dramatic effect. It worked, Tommy sucked in a lung-full of air, he was hanging on every word. “A beating. A damn good beating. God knows why that school of yours didn’t give you a damn thrashing is beyond me.”

Tommy knew his jaw had dropped and his mouth was now wide open. He watched astonished as his father pulled himself from his chair and walked the short distance across his study. He stopped at a cupboard, opened its door and delved inside. Seconds later he was brandishing a long, thick school cane. Tommy’s mouth opened and closed, but he could form no words. His father tucked it under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major with a baton, and moved to the centre of the room. “Turn around. Face me.” Tommy swivelled on his heels. His father slipped the cane into his hand and then as schoolmasters have done throughout history he flexed it between both hands. A flicker of smile passed his lips as if he had recalled a fond memory. He swished the cane through the air. Aware that his son’s face appeared to have lost some of its tan, he pointed the tip of the cane at the boy’s chest.

“I should have done this years ago.”

Tommy’s heart told him to protest. “No! I’m eighteen, I’m not a child, I’m far too old to be caned,” he could say. His head told his otherwise. His father was in total control. In control of this moment and in control of Tommy’s entire life. He had failed his examinations, he had no opportunity to go to university and little chance of getting a half-decent job. He needed his father’s money and his influence if he was ever going to get out of this mess.

“Take down those shorts, bend over and touch your toes.”

If Tommy’s face had been pale, it was now scarlet. Shorts down! A caning on the underpants. The humiliation. The cane swished through the air. “I shall not tell you again,” he growled and the proceeded to do just that, “Shorts down, bend over and touch your toes.”

His tennis shorts fitted well and needed no belt. With fumbling fingers he undid the clasp at the waistband and allowed the weight of the cloth to send the shorts tumbling to his feet. Tommy was an athlete and was fit enough to take his father’s instruction literally. Toes meant toes, not shins or knees. He parted his feet and bent forward stretching his fingertips so they rested gently on the toecaps of his shoes. The muscles in his hairless legs and buttocks tensed so that he presented a hard, round bottom for his father’s attention. Stretched in this way his rear end was as hard as a rubber ball.

His father had not beaten a bottom in twenty five years, but he supposed it was rather like riding a bike; once you learned the technique you never forgot. As house captain, he had believed that a beating must be memorable. A caning should be laid on with some vim. He developed a reputation for beating backsides with as much energy as a maid might beat a carpet.

He stood to the left of his son’s bending body. His son had closed his eyes in anticipation of what he was about to receive. The buttocks flinched as his father laid the cane squarely across the centre of both mounds. He took careful aim, then satisfied of his target, he raised the cane high, and brought it crashing down, twisting his body slightly as he did so. His strong golf swing was much admired at the club. The cane landed where he had intended. Tommy’s eyes opened wide and he shut his teeth together to stifle the yelp that threatened to escape his lips. His knees buckled slightly and his fingertips rose an inch or so above his shoes. He steadied himself. A thick line pulsed across his backside. It hurt, but so far he could take it.

His father adjusted his swing and brought the second stroke down hard across the top of the boy’s buttocks. The cotton of the underpants was so thin he saw a clear welt develop before his eyes. The throbbing was intense. Tommy closed his eyes tight and his knees swayed from side to side, but again he managed to control his body. Two down, four to go. He was proud of himself so far.

Number three was an uppercut entering the underside of the cheeks on the tender ‘sit spot’. Tommy would be reminded of that stroke whenever he sat down over the coming day.

Sweat poured from his father; the heat of the day and his exertions were taking their toll. He rested the cane on the desk and proceeded to remove his jacket and waistcoat. As he did so he looked across the room at his son. What a world, he thought. How well it is ordered. They had the law to thank for that. His son was before him, bent over, touching toes, willingly submitting his bottom for a thrashing. He had not been coerced. He was not tied to a bench or held down against his will by burly prison guards. No, he had acknowledged his transgression, accepted he must atone and was now taking his just punishment. He rather admired his son for that.

Now, a little cooler, he returned to his task. Could any other father had delivered two swipes of the cane with such energy and intent? He rather doubted it. Bang! Bang! The strokes sank deep into the boy’s flesh. He wriggled and writhed but stayed in position (just) to the bitter end. Through the underpants his father could see six distinct lines each travelling from left to right embossed in his backside covering a distance of about two inches from top to bottom. “A good set of marks, even if I say so myself,” he congratulated himself silently.

Aloud, he said, “Stand up. Get dressed.” Tommy did not need telling twice, he gripped the waistband of his tennis shorts and bounded to his feet; kneading his raw flesh with one hand while trying to fix the clasp with the other. He stood before his father, face scarlet and eyes moist.

His father resumed his place behind the desk. “You are dismissed. Be ready to receive your tutor on Monday.” He watched his son limp from the room, gave himself a moment for his heartbeat to ease and then returned his attention to his documents.

Picture credit: Spy

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The Headmaster and Hutchins

z used drawing cane master Chums

If I don’t leave right now, I’ll be late. I have to report at Mr Gardner’s study at four. I grab my blue-and-gold school blazer from the hook and head through the door.

I run all the way and make it with a minute to spare.

He is waiting for me in his study. I know the drill. Knock on the wooden panel, wait for his call to “enter,” take a deep breath, turn the handle, open the door, enter and be prepared to get a sore arse.

….

So what’s keeping that boy? I heard him arrive outside my study door ages ago. I am sweating a little and my breath is coming in short pants. I have been waiting for about fifteen minutes. I sit at my desk surveying the room. The study is a decent size but there aren’t many furnishings. There’s my desk of course. It’s quite small and functional, but I don’t use it for punishing the boys. I have an armless black vinyl chair that’s perfect for the job. A boy goes over its back and grabs the seat at the front. He makes a perfect target.

I’ve already selected two canes from my extensive collection. I’m not sure which one I’ll use. They’re both a little longer than three feet. They have curved handles of course; they wouldn’t be school canes without the curved handles. Both are made of authentic rattan. Very supple. Very swishy. I have placed them on a small table close to my desk. I’ll make my final choice at the last minute.

I am ready. And, now I wait.

There’s a timid knock at the door. I can hardly hear it.

“Enter.” Spoken, not shouted.

The door opens slowly and in comes Hutchins. He stands in the doorframe, unsure what to do.

“Close the door boy. Stand in front of my desk.”

He is perfect. His blue blazer with gold trimmed braiding is immaculate. He stands in front of me, not quite to attention, hands slightly behind his back. His knees bent. I take in the view. His crisply-ironed white shirt. The blue-and-gold striped tie, knotted tightly at his neck. His charcoal grey trousers have a crease so sharp you could cut your finger. His black shoes gleam.

“Hutchins, you again. This is the fourth time you have been summoned to my study since Christmas.”

“Yes, Sir,” meekly said.

“And, now we have drinking alcohol. You are a sixth-form boy. You know very well, drinking alcohol is against the rules.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Then, why did you do it?”

“I don’t know Sir.”

“Don’t know Sir. That really isn’t good enough is it Hutchins?”

“Yes Sir, I mean no Sir.”

“Not good enough. In the past weeks you have been before me for smoking and for being out of bounds.”

“Yes Sir.”

“This is not good enough. You are a senior boy; you should be setting an example.”

“Sorry Sir.”

“You will be. Now face the wall.”

Arms still behind his back, Hutchins walks to the wall. Without being instructed, he puts his hands on his head.

I stay seated. Let him stew a while. A full minute passes and by now Hutchins, unsure what is happening, turns to look over at me.

“Face the wall boy. I shall tell you when you may move.”

“Sorry Sir.”

I take this as a cue to prepare myself for the beating I am to administer to the boy.

I pick up the two canes and bring them to my desk. I test one after the other for their whippiness by swishing them through the air. A good cane should bite into a boy’s bottom and curl around as it does so. A good stripe is one that fully covers both the boy’s cheeks, so causing maximum sting.

Hutchins hears me moving about and I can see he desperately wants to turn again to see what is going on. But he resists the temptation.

Another minute passes. “Right Hutchins, let’s have you out the front here.”

The boy positions himself once again in front of my desk. Apprehensively, he eyes the two canes lying across the desk.

“Now, boy I want to make a clear example of you. Drinking alcohol and absconding from the school will not be tolerated. I shall deal with you severely. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir.”

“That will mean six on your trousers and six with them down. Do you understand?”

He swallows hard. “Yes Sir.”

“Right boy. Take your blazer off and put it on the table.”

He does as he was told, revealing his sparkling white shirt. The creases down the long sleeves are as sharp as those in his trousers.

I point to the black vinyl chair. “Now, bend over that chair.”

Hutchins is a wonderful sight. In one athletic movement his hips slide over the back of the chair and he grasps the front of the seat, a hand on the each of the corners. Blood rushes to his face, making his cheeks rosy pink. His other cheeks will be a darker pink by the time I’ve finished.

I pick up the dark yellow rattan cane and give it a few practice swishes. Hutchins turns his head to see.

“Face the front boy. You’ll find out soon enough what’s going on back here.” The headmaster had made a little joke.

I am nearly ready.

“Legs further apart boy. Up over more. Head down, bottom high.”

He pushes himself a little higher over the back of the chair, raising his backside a couple of inches more. Perfect. His grey trousers are stretched so tightly across the buttocks I can see the outline of his underpants.

I stand a cane’s length to Hutchins’ left side and lay the cane across the centre of his buttocks. Gently I tap the cotton trousers. Hutchins holds his breath as I raise the rattan cane until it is behind me, pause, and then bring it down with as much strength as I can muster across the vulnerable buttocks.

Whooop!!! A stinger. His eyes pop and he puffs out both cheeks.

I don’t believe in half measures. When I beat a boy, I do it properly. I make sure it hurts. There is no point in giving a boy a beating if it doesn’t. The rod shouldn’t just skim the top of the skin it should bite deep into the flesh. I cover the whole area, from the crown of the bum cheeks to the middle.

I wait about fifteen seconds before applying cut number two, so he feels the full effect of each stroke before the next arrives. I watch, fascinated, as the buttocks jerk in a paroxysm of pain. This stroke seems to hurt much more than the first and I can see sweat forming at the boy’s temples.

His thigh muscles and bottom are tense but Hutchins is stoical. That’s the way I like it. My schoolboys should take it like men. I don’t want them screaming and shouting and jumping up and down. Stay perfectly still. At least as still as is possible under the circumstances and let me get on with my business.

As cut number four bites home, Hutchins’ face screws up with agony and he lets out a yelp. His knuckles are turning white as he grips the chair ever more tightly. Four thin lines are clearly visible in the dark grey trousers, each in parallel with the others and no more than a half an inch apart. I am an expert caner, let nobody deny that.

By stroke six he is openly weeping.

I pause for breath. Hutchins is finding breathing a little difficult too.

“Stand up boy.”

Unsteadily he rises from the chair, still facing forward.

“Face me boy.”

He turns around and stands in front of me, but he cannot look me in the eye. His gaze is firmly fixed at the red patterned rug beneath his feet.

“I said the punishment would be severe and I meant it. Now, take down your trousers.”

With his gaze still averted, Hutchins reaches for the buckle of his belt. His hands are shaking and with some difficulty he unfastens the clasp. I watch intently as he undoes the button at the top of the trousers and then the four buttons on his fly.

The trousers slip to his thighs revealing his tight underpants, as sparking white as his shirt.

“Right boy. Back over.”

Hutchins swivels to his right and flops over the chair offering up his bottom. Unbidden he spreads his legs and raises his backside high.

His shirt has a long tail and I take a moment to pull it up. Hutchins raises his body and I am able to get the shirt over the boy’s back as far as his shoulder blades.

I tap the cane, finding my aim as Hutchins’ body visibly flexes. Swishhhhhh! Number seven has him sobbing. Number nine crashes into the centre of his bottom. Though he stays over the chair, his feet start to beat a frenzied dance, as his hips twist and squirm.

I can see blood staining his brilliant white underpants. I never set out deliberately to wound a boy, but it is a hazard of the job. But, I never give more than a dozen at a session and never on the bare, so the boy is able to recover quite quickly.

The final two strokes are exemplary. The objective is to cause as much pain as possible, but with the minimum of exertion on my part. My experience tells me if you are able to land the final two diagonally across the buttocks they will cross the existing welts and reignite the pain the boy is already suffering.

So, that’s what I do. One diagonal cut from the left and the final slash from the right.

Hutchins is howling. There is no other word to describe it. His feet are drumming on the floor, but, to his credit, he stays in position, submissive to the end.

I put the cane down on my desk and go round and stand behind Hutchins and briefly survey the twitching buttocks in front of me. Hutchins’s entire body is spasmodically jerking.

“It’s over. You can get up now. I think you have learned your lesson, haven’t you?”

Hutchins feels so sore that he doesn’t want to move.

“Hurry up! I haven’t got all day.”

Hutchins stands up and begins rubbing his glowing backside, feeling the swelling of each weal. “Stop that this instance.” Startled, he pulls his hands away. As he does this I can see a bulge in the front of his pants.

Tears are flowing down his cheeks and a little snot trickles from his nose.

“Now get dressed. You are dismissed.”

….

I closed the door of the study behind me. I was more or less in control of my feelings now, and was massaging my injured rump as vigorously as I could, trying (I suppose) to rub away the pain. It doesn’t work, I can tell you!

It was difficult to walk. My bottom throbbed like mad and I had an aching erection. I couldn’t wait to get home and rub away at the both of them. I picked up an envelope from the hall table and went to find my bicycle. I thought I was too sore to ride home so I’d have to wheel it.

After a couple of minutes the pain in my buttocks had eased a little, but not my throbbing erection. I decided to risk it, mounted my bicycle and in considerable discomfort rode home.

Back in my room I peeled off my bloodied underpants and examined the damage in the mirror. My scalded bum was corrugated with twelve distinct welts. Blood was clotting at the intersection where the two diagonal cuts had crossed the other ten. There were bruises around the edges of my buttocks where the tips of the rattan cane landed and they would probably get worse before they got better.

I was a right mess. That’s the big problem with a caning, it leaves marks and if the beating had been severe they could stay for a very long time. Spankings are best, even ones with a slipper or a hairbrush. They left bruises, but not welts or cuts, and cleared up pretty quickly.

I had a problem. I had a date to see one of my other gentlemen next Wednesday and he would not be happy if I turned up with a pre-bruised bum. They liked it to be lily-white, as it were; it was their prerogative to whack it red, black and blue. After all, that’s what they were paying for.

Picture credit: Chums

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Fare Dodger

new story 2

z used otk pants chair sting (64)

Hamilton slouched in his seat, impatiently staring ahead. The bus was filling up, St Francis had just let out. A dozen or so kids were jostling past the bored driver, flashing their passes or return tickets at him. Senior boys, he thought, prefects mainly, judging from the shiny lapel badges they wore. Nicely turned out. Fancy green-and-gold blazers, pale grey trousers. Yes, Hamilton liked that. St Francis had ceased to be a grammar school years ago, but it still had standards.

He pretended to read his newspaper, but peaked around the pages, watching the bouncing buttocks of the boys as they ran up the stairs to the top deck. One boy, slimmer than the others, strode to the window and reached toward it. “Ye Gods!” Hamilton barked to himself. “He’s going to open the window. It’s freezing.” He steadied himself ready to make an indignant protest and watched as the boy opened the window and dropped his bus ticket onto the pavement outside. Then he closed it and not bothering to look around him to see if he had been spotted, he disappeared taking the stairs two at a time.

There were only seconds for Hamilton to see another boy bend down and pick up the ticket, before the bus drove away. Hamilton huffed. What a ruse, and so simple. They must play the same trick every day. Two rides on one bus ticket. The driver was always too busy to notice, Hamilton reckoned, and if even if he did he probably wouldn’t be bothered to do anything about it. The boy, now safely upstairs and out of the way, obviously never expected a passenger to make a fuss.

Well, the aging man thought, the boy was in for a shock.

Hamilton closed his eyes, all the better for him to plot his scheme. The boy hadn’t noticed Hamilton. If he had seen him half hidden behind his copy of the Metro, the boy would have recognised him immediately. Hamilton certainly knew the boy. His name was Jack and he lived on the other side of the street from Hamilton, a few doors down. About ten minutes later the boy danced down the stairs and clung to the strap handle waiting for the bus to stop. Hamilton dropped his newspaper to the floor, rose from his seat and as the doors swung open he quietly followed Jack. The boy walked at some pace. Hamilton followed more sedately, there was no need to hurry. He knew where Jack lived. The boy was neither tall nor short, not fat like so many teenagers these days. His dark hair was not short, but not so long as to raise the ire of a St Francis schoolmaster. His green-and-gold jacket fitted snugly as did the pale-grey trousers. The boy would be leaving school for good in a few months, obviously his mother didn’t see the need for new clothes. He carried a bag on his back, it hung low. It often annoyed Hamilton that young men had such bags, it was impossible to get a clear view of the line of their buttocks.

They were nearly at Jack’s home. Hamilton quickened his pace. Just as he boy moved through the garden gate and approached the front door Hamilton called out, “Good afternoon Jack!” The boy stopped in his tracks turning slightly to see who was speaking. “Oh hullo Mr Hamilton,” he said, not trying to hide his irritation at having to talk to the old man.

Hamilton smiled, rather like a shark might when it spots its prey. “Good trick with the bus ticket,” he spoke evenly, trying not to betray his annoyance. There would be time later for that. Jack found a key from his pocket determined to escape inside. “I said,” Hamilton spoke a little louder, “Nice trick.”

Jack pushed the door open and stepped inside. Hamilton pushed forward and stood in the hallway before Jack had a chance to protest. “I assume you play the same trick every day.” Jack wriggled the pack from his back and set it down at his feet. His face flushed slightly, Hamilton could see the boy was trying to compose a reply. Jack slipped out of his blazer and hung it on a hook. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was the best he could do, even as the words formed on his lips he knew how inadequate they were.

Hamilton sneered. “Don’t give me that. I saw you. You and your pal had it all planned out. Nice trick.” He paused pleased to see Jack’s face was now glowing red. “It is, of course, against the law. Fare dodging. You could go to court. Get a fine.”

Jack’s eyes watered. He was generally a quiet lad. He was no good at confrontation. How, he wondered silently, was he going to get rid of this interfering old man.

Hamilton waved his right hand towards the school blazer. “What would they say at school?” He peered at a red lapel badge, “And you the head boy too.” He grimaced, “They don’t cane you anymore do they?” He delighted at Jack’s look of astonishment. “More’s the pity,” Hamilton added to rub the point home.

“It’s the first time we did it,” Jack blustered, desperately feeling that he must say something to make this end.

“Oh per-lease!” Hamilton scoffed. “I bet you’ve been doing this for years. You must have swindled the bus company out of hundreds, no thousands, of pounds.” He lent forwards and pointed at Jack’s chest. “Just wait until the magistrate hears about that.”

Jack’s mouth opened and closed, but no words came. Magistrate. Fines. It had never occurred to him they were doing anything wrong. Not really wrong. Not criminal. It was just dodging a bus fare. Who would pay a fare if they didn’t have to?

Hamilton pressed home his advantage. “A criminal record. You can kiss goodbye to a decent job. Were you hoping to go to university? Would they let you in with a criminal record?”

Sweat glistened Jack’s brow. He could feel his palms perspiring. He rubbed them against his trouser leg. “I won’t do it again,” his voice croaked, his throat was terrifically dry. “Honest, I won’t.”

The corner of Hamilton’s mouth turned up. “Oh I’m certain of that,” he sneered.

Jack’s brown eyes sparkled. “Will you let me off then?” He paused, then pleaded, “Please Mr Hamilton.”

Hamilton shuffled his feet and counted to ten in his head. Let the boy sweat a little, he thought. Make it look like you are genuinely considering it. Then pounce. “No, I don’t think I can do that,” he spoke with authority, sounding, he hoped, a little like an old-fashioned headmaster. “No, no, no,” he shook his head for emphasise, sounding as if he was carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. “No, no, no,” he repeated. “I can’t let you off,” Hamilton’s eyes narrowed. “You must be punished.”

Jack’s look of puzzlement delighted Hamilton. He could almost see cogs moving inside the boy’s head as he tried to compose a response. “Punished?” The word was drawn out, as if it was composed of three syllables.

Hamilton tried not to gloat. “Yes, I could punish you. There’d be no need to trouble the magistrates.”

Jack’s face contorted, he didn’t understand.  “You?” he paused, trying to comprehend. “How?”

Hamilton beamed. “Oh a good old-fashioned spanking should do the trick, don’t you think?” Jack’s jaw dropped. “Spanking,” he said incredulously. “Yes,” Hamilton said and taking the initiative, added, “Do you have some kind of brush? A clothes brush or some such. Something heavy. Made of wood.” He brushed past Jack and entered the lounge room, looking around him hoping to spot a suitable spanking instrument. Jack stared disbelieving as Hamilton opened and closed drawers. “Well,” Hamilton said over his shoulder, as be rummaged inside a small cupboard, “help me out here.”

“There’s one in the hallway cupboard,” Jack blurted, unable to believe he had spoken the words. Hamilton left the room returning seconds later brandishing a shiny wooden oval-headed brush at the bewildered teenager. “Right then, lad let’s get on with this.” Hamilton picked up a straight-backed wooden chair and deceived by its weight, manhandled it unsteadily into the middle of the room. He sat down, wriggled his buttocks to get comfortable and spread his legs wide.

Jack watched motionless. This was not happening, he told himself. It was like an out-of-body experience. He wasn’t really here. “Come on, trousers down,” the cold command shook Jack awake. Yes, this really was happening. The old man from across the street wanted to spank him. “Quickly, or do you want me to take them down for you.”

“B … “ Jack’s mouth opened and closed. “It’s up to you,” Hamilton interrupted Jack’s protest. “A spanking or the magistrates’ court. What’s it to be?” He waved the brush for emphasis. It felt to Jack as if someone else’s fingers were unbuckling his belt and unzipping his trousers. Soon they snagged at his knees. Hamilton smacked his hand against his own leg and commanded, “Right lad, bend over my knee.”

Submissively Jack peered down at Hamilton’s legs. He was a small man and his thighs were thin, but with his legs parted he offered a perfect platform for any naughty boy to present himself for deserved punishment. Jack took a deep breath and first resting his hands against Hamilton’s right thigh, he gently lowered himself. Instinctively, for he had never been in this position before, nor had he seen anyone else like this (not even in a photograph or video), he angled his body across Hamilton’s legs so that his bottom was raised at a forty-five degree angle. He placed the palms of his hands flat against the carpet and let his legs dangle behind him so his toes hovered barely a centimetre above the ground.

Hamilton took a moment to appraise the situation. Jack’s bottom filled out a pair of white cotton underpants. White cotton, Hamilton licked his bottom lip, it wouldn’t have occurred to him that schoolboys still wore such pants. Stretched across Hamilton’s knee, Jack’s bum was taut. Gently Hamilton caressed the warm, smooth cotton. The buttocks were rock hard. Buns of steel! The tip of Hamilton’s tongue darted in and out through pursed lips. He placed the brush on the floor by his feet. Slowly his right palm patted and preened Jack’s bottom, in a trice all wrinkles were removed from the smooth cotton. Hamilton gently lifted the tail of Jack’s dazzling white shirt and pushed it up the teenager’s back and away from the target area. He stifled a gasp at the sight of smooth, hairless, tanned flesh. He raised his right arm and let it hang there. Jack’s body stiffened in anticipation. The buttocks clenched. Hamilton counted to five and brought the palm of his hand crashing down. Without pausing it rose and fell, rose and fell, hammering into Jack’s taut flesh. Over and over, rapidly. Like machinegun fire. A long drawn out hiss escaped Jack’s lips. He wriggled this way and that. Hamilton pushed his left hand into Jack’s shoulders. The boy was going nowhere. Not for some considerable time.

Jack’s bum rose and fell and his legs kicked out. “Eighteen years old and never been spanked,” a voice inside his head told Hamilton. “No wonder he can’t stay still for a moment. If he’s like this now, wait til you pick up the clothes brush.”

Nobody was counting, but if the smarting in Hamilton’s hand was any measure he must have walloped that rock-hard bum a thousand times. “I think,” that voice in his head spoke again, “Your palm must be hurting more than his backside.” Hamilton stopped his assault and, still gripping Jack with one arm he leant down and retrieved the wooden brush.

“No Mr Hamilton,” there was genuine pleading in Jack’s voice, “Please I’ve had enough.”

“Ha!” it was a derisive snort. “Enough! We haven’t even started.” With that Hamilton hammered the brush a dozen times across the back of Jack’s bare thighs. That got the boy hollering. Real yells. “Owww, ouch, owwww,” Jack had never felt such pain. Satisfied he was making an impact, Hamilton whacked the brush across Jack’s underpants. The teenager’s buttocks were small and firm. It took no time for the brush to leave its marks on every square centimetre of by-now scorching flesh. “I don’t think you’ll be dodging bus fares again, my lad,” Hamilton delighted as Jack’s legs kicked behind him. The boy’s trousers were slipping down his legs, soon he would be sending them flying across the room.

Jack’s lungs were bursting. Yelling, pleading, screaming almost. “Such a fuss over a little spanking,” the voice in Hamilton’s head was off again, this time warning him, “Be careful, the neighbours might hear. They’ll think a murder is taking place.

“Enough! Enough! Please Mr Hamilton!” Tears flowed down Jack’s face.

“It’ll be enough when I say so,” Hamilton snarled and gripped the elasticated waist of the underpants and tugged them down.

“No!!!”Jack wailed.

……

The bus pulled to the side of the road and the doors hissed open. Hamilton stumbled through the bus and stepped down onto the pavement. He pulled his woollen hat down over his ears and bent into the wind. Shortly, he would be in his dingy council flat with a large warming whisky in his fist. Then, he could imagine just how battered the boy’s bum was when the underpants fell to his ankles.

 

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

(Story inspired by a real incident).

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com