Baxter’s Beating

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Baxter stretched his limbs beneath the itchy grey blanket. The clock on the bookcase said eleven-fifteen. He clasped his hands together and put them behind his head. Too late to go to lectures now, he thought. Not that he had intended to.

He surveyed the room. His trousers were strewn over the small leather armchair. His jacket and shirt was on the solid oak table. What a night it had been. He and Marshall had taken in a show and then it was back to his pal’s room for drinks and smokes.

Baxter’s cock still ached. Marshall had been insatiable; gobbling him five times at least. What a mouth, large and round. And he knew how to keep his teeth out of the way. He hadn’t had so much pleasure since the young guardsman at Hyde Park. He had taken out his dentures so had no teeth before he went to work.

Baxter’s cock stiffened, he licked the palm of his right hand and gently massaged the tip of his manhood. He was interrupted by a heavy knock on the door. “Who is it,” he called not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

“Manners, Sir,” came a clearly enunciated reply. Baxter groaned. “Yes, what do you want, Manners?” He released his grip on his cock. “I have a message Sir, from the Tutor.” Baxter sighed, “Slip it under the door, there’s a good chap.”

A white rectangular envelope glided under the door. Baxter watched uninterested. I must tip the servant five-bob sometime, he reminded himself before with the sound of Manners’ footsteps fading into the distance on the stone stairway he returned his attention to his throbbing cock.

It was much time later that he remembered the message. It was a printed card with the time and date filled in by hand summoning him to his first meeting with his tutor; the man who would oversee his studies during the three years Baxter would be at the university. Jolly good chap, he thought, he’s inviting me for tea, he had a deserved reputation for providing a good spread.

Baxter admired his reflection in the mirror as he went about his toilet; it was 1926 and all was well in the world. He was at university and his father was paying his bills. He spent most of his time at the theatre or cinema. He wrote revue sketches that he performed wherever and whenever he could. He was a hit a parties. His was perfecting one character in a particular; a middle-aged schoolma’am irritated by a group of young gals (“Don’t do that Clarisa!”). His mother provided the frocks.

A chap only had to attend the first lecturer of term, write his name in the attendance book, and then he need never return. After three years of this there would be examinations, but Baxter did not care; three years was a lifetime.

Baxter was puzzled when he arrived at Mr. Townsend’s study to find he was to be the only visitor. There was no party. Mr. Townsend was  a senior man maybe in his fifties with a younger, vivacious wife – much loved by the students – but Townsend himself was a bit of a cold fish. He had unruly grey hair and a neatly-cut beard. His conventional double-breasted jacket fitted him too tightly. He peered down his angular nose through eyes that were a little too close together.

He was courtesy personified. “Mr. Baxter,” he sighed, at the nineteen-year-old undergraduate standing before him. “Rules permit those residing in College to be out late a maximum of three times a week. You have been late six times this week and a further five last.” He drew in breath and continued, “I have not been informed about your behaviour in the previous weeks.”

Baxter blinked furiously. Manners had ratted on him. Well he could say ta-ta to that five bob.

“Mr. Baxter, you are at the university to learn. You must attend lectures and tutorials.”

“Yes, Sir,” Baxter mumbled. It was like being back at school.

“You were at St. Tom’s were you not?” Mr. Townsend stretched his arms.

“Yes, Sir,” mumbled again for Baxter was unsure if he was expected to answer.

“A very traditional school, I believe?”

“Eh, yes, Sir.” What did his old school have to do with it?

“So you understand the meaning of discipline?”

Baxter was silent. He didn’t like where this one-sided conversation was going.

“I am sure your headmaster would have given you Six for slacking, Mr. Baxter.”

Colour rose up Baxter’s face. “But we’re not at school.”

Mr. Townsend frown and then a slight smile worked the corners of his lips. That’s what they all said, he thought. Aloud he said, “You are not an adult until your attain the age of twenty-one,” it sounded to Baxter that the Tutor was reading from a script. “I stand if you will in loco parentis. You might considered me to be your father, but that might lead to unwanted complications. Instead, you must think of me as your housemaster at school.”

He paused and peered intently at the young man’s puzzled expression struggling to understand the full import of the Tutor’s statement.

The Tutor stood, stretched his arms and walked slowly across the study. It was a small room, dominated by a walnut desk and three small leather armchairs. A bookcase filled a whole wall. He paused in front of it, but not to choose a volume. There was a tall, thin cupboard at one end and Baxter watched uncomfortably as the Tutor took a key from his pocket, inserted it into the lock and opened the door. The undergraduate could only see Mr. Townsend’s back as he reached inside, but the rattling noise he heard was unmistakable. Seconds later the Tutor turned to face the boy; in his hand was a thin, whippy rattan cane.

Mr. Townsend eyed the rod as if seeing it for the first time. Ignoring Baxter’s burning stare he first flexed it between his two hands and then swished it through empty air. Baxter gulped. It was a little shorter and quite a bit thinner than those used at St. Tom’s but he had no doubt it would sting like the blazes.

“But, Sir, can’t we talk about this?” Baxter blustered.

Mr. Townsend’s lips pursed. They all said that as well. “There is nothing to say Mr. Baxter, unless you want to be sent down for the rest of the term. What would your father think about that?”

Baxter squirmed. He knew darn well what Dad would think. There’d be no more university; he’d have to work for his living. He said none of this to the Tutor, instead he shrugged his shoulders in defeat.

Mr. Townsend busied himself turning one of the low armchairs so that its back now faced into the room. Baxter hopped from one foot to the other. There was no turning back. He would be brave. This was not the first time he had been caned.

“Please lower your bags and bend over the back of the chair.”

Baxter blanched. That was a first; a trousers-down caning. “B… b…” he started a protest but stopped himself immediately. What was the point? The tutor was in charge, Baxter had broken the rule about late nights and a few others that the Tutor did not seem to know about.

“Come on please Mr. Baxter,” the Tutor tapped his cane on the back of the hard leather chair, the noise ricocheted around the room.  “I have others to deal with this evening.”

Baxter took a deep breath. His belt unfastened easily and his loose-fitting trousers slipped over his hips. It took the slightest tug to have them at his shoes. Penguin-like he shuffled two steps closer to the chair, looked over his shoulder to give his master an imploring look, found the Tutor determined, and slid himself over the chair.

He looked down at the seat cushion inches in front of his face. It was patterned in greens and blues. Summer colours. He concentrated carefully. He needed to focus on something. Such as the large, round, greasy, indentation. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of posteriors had contributed to the dent. It was an old chair. It had seen much action. He gripped the cushion edge tightly. Waiting.

His heavy trousers were at a puddle at his feet. His grubby off-white underpants were riding up into his buttock crack. He couldn’t have felt more self-conscious. Embarrassed. Humiliated, even. A cool gust of wind brushed his naked legs. The study window was slightly ajar. He felt Mr. Townsend’s strong hand grip the tail of his shirt and roughly bundle it up his back. He did the same with the singlet. Now, there was nothing between Baxter’s cotton-covered backside and the Tutor’s cane.

He could feel it pressing into his flesh. Mr. Townsend was finding his spot. Preparing himself. It would be any moment now. Baxter waited, heart racing, teeth clenched, eyes tightly shut, while Mr. Townsend, a powerful upright man and as strong as an ox adjusted his academic gown so he could get a better swing. Then Baxter imagined, the Tutor flexing the cane.

He did not have to imagine his shudder of anticipation as the Tutor laid the cane across the centre of his buttocks and pressed it hard into the meat. He was getting his aim. The boy felt the cane move off his bum; then there was an almighty swish and it came crashing down, hitting his buttocks and sinking deep into the flesh.

“Hisssssssss.” It wasn’t a yell, it was almost silent. The sound of air being expelled. The boy tightened his grip on the seat cushion.

Swipe number two was equally as hard and landed almost exactly on top of the first. The pain shot from the centre of his bum and sped up and down his legs. He wriggled his hips and waggled his buttocks.

Two down. The pain was excruciating; so much more than Baxter had expected. The cane was smaller and thinner than at St. Tom’s but somehow it had more whip and sting than those at school. Mr. Townsend was an expert caner. He was able to inflict maximum pain with seemingly minimal effort

The third stroke interrupted his thoughts. It landed lower, across the crease. Each swipe had been laid on with vigour. The Tutor was giving it some beef; he could have been beating a carpet. Baxter bit down into his bottom lip, stifling his desire to yell. It felt as though there were three throbbing ridges beneath his underpants.

Baxter was astonished by the severity and intensity of the strokes. He felt flushed and humiliated. Cold perspiration ran down his shoulders. After number four hit home his legs were marching up and down on the carpet. Tears flooded his eyes.

Number five hit low. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair. His feet stamped up and down but the smooth soles of his shoes could not grip the cheap carpet beneath them and his legs slid from behind him. He banged his head up and down on the chair. His temples throbbed almost as much as his backside as blood rushed through his entire body and tried to exit through his ears.

Mr. Townsend adjusted his position. Baxter’s body tensed. He knew what was coming. The Tutor laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks from the lower part of the left cheek to the top of the right. Slash! Baxter’s bum had a perfect imprint of a five-bar gate. His backside vibrated vigorously and he let out a piercing howl. For a moment he released his grip on the chair and started to stand, he wanted to dance a jig – anything to deaden the agony. He regained composure and resumed his hold on the chair tightly.

“Enough. It’s over. You may stand.” Mr. Townsend continued to talk as Baxter dressed. “I hope we do not have to repeat this Mr. Baxter, but if we do, please be aware that next time I shall double the tariff and reduce the protection of clothing.”

Baxter fastened himself up. The throbbing in his corrugated bum was intense. He might be bleeding. He nodded vigorously at the Tutor but said nothing. “Time for you to leave,” the Tutor smiled, extending his hand. They shook like gentlemen. Baxter hobbled to the door, turned the handle and opened it. He was not surprised to see Marshall standing outside, ashen faced.

Picture Credit: Kernled

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #9

z used otk pants chair (200)

Sneak housebreaker gets short, sharp shock

Special to Standard-Recorder

 

A young housebreaker got more than he expected for when he snuck into a house in East Mason Creek Thursday.

He did not know it was occupied by Art Greer, aged 29, a martial-arts expert, and his brother Harvey, 31.

Mr. Greer told the Standard-Recorder in an interview, “He came from nowhere and went into the kitchen searching in cupboards. He didn’t see us in the room next door. I think he was high. When he saw us he started talking very quickly. We couldn’t understand a word he was trying to say.”

Mr. Greer, a UPS driver, added, “It didn’t take any effort to apprehend him.”

He decided not to call the police. “It would have cost taxpayer dollars to get the cops involved. There wasn’t anything they would have done that I couldn’t do myself.

“He was a weak little guy aged about nineteen.  He didn’t put up any resistance.”

Mr. Greer added, “If my brother and I went breaking into neighbors’ homes our Pop would’ve blistered our butts.”

Harvey Greer said together the brothers stripped the intruder of his jeans. “My brother is a martial arts expert, he can handle himself. The punk didn’t stand a chance. Art had him down and across his knee and was spanking him with a clothes brush before he knew what was hitting him.”

Art Greer added, “He tried to wriggle free but I had him pinned down. I blistered him.”

The brothers do not know the identity of the intruder. They say he was dressed in blue jeans and a red coat. He had blond cropped hair. He spoke with a county accent.

“We didn’t really say much to one another. I beat his butt for about five minutes and he howled a lot. That was all.”

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan when contacted by the Standard-Recorder said he had no record of the break-in.

“The householder appears to have dealt with the situation himself. The law allows for this. The punk was lucky Mr. Greer didn’t shoot him.”

The Police Chief said his officers were always on hand to assist householders troubled by young men.

“We have a highly-trained police force, equipped with stout maple paddles and we aren’t afraid to use them,” he said.

Harvey Greer took a photograph of the spanking (pictured above) which he later uploaded to his Facebook page. As of yesterday it had received more than 500,000 views.

Picture credit: TropixxxStudiosdotcom

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Boy From Across The Street

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The boy from across the street had been staying with me for nearly six weeks and he was becoming a right pain in the neck. I say “Boy” but he had just graduated from university so he must’ve been twenty-one or twenty-two.

His widowed mother had remarried and Garry wasn’t welcome at the house. They didn’t throw him out onto the streets but you know how it is. I’d known him and his mum for more than ten years so it seemed right to offer him a room at mine. I live alone and have four bedrooms so there’s no problem with space.

I had no idea how difficult young men could be. He was bone idle and laid in bed all morning. When he was up he was surly and uncommunicative. He came and went as he pleased and sometimes came home in the early hours drunk. Well, I say “drunk” but my pal told me young people today don’t drink, they take drugs so for all I knew he might’ve been high. In my house. Breaking the law.

Something had to change. I went on the Internet to see if I could find advice. You’d be surprised how much there is out there about guiding teenagers into adult life. I hoped I hadn’t left it too late with Garry.

The main advice was about setting clear boundaries. Make sure he knows what the rules are. And, this is the difficult part, apply sanctions when they are broken. Coming up with rules would be easy enough but what about sanctions? What could I do to get him to obey me?

One website in America reckons it has the answer. Corporal correction. I had to do a double take when I first saw it. What the heck’s “Corporal correction”? It turns out they mean corporal punishment or good old spanking. They are very keen on it.  The site is run by a bunch of Christians and they believe that a good paddling works wonders. There are even husbands who spank their wives when occasion demands. And all for Jesus.

Well who am I to argue with Jesus? I shared my problem with my pal and he shook his head sadly. “Pie in the sky. It’ll never work. The lad’s hardly going to meekly bend over your knee to let you whack him with a belt or whatnot.”

He had a point. The best I could hope for would be to wildly slash my belt across his shoulders and back while having some kind of stand-up fight. It wouldn’t work. The whole point was for Garry to admit he has broken the rules and to submit himself to punishment. Then when I am satisfied he has been spanked enough, he apologies for his behaviour and promises to do better. And, if he does not, he’s back over my knee, or the armchair for another dose. Harder, this time.

I let the matter rest hoping against hope the problem would just solve itself. But a few mornings later I came out of my bedroom to go to the toilet and stepped on a sticky damp patch on the carpet. In my bare feet. The sod had sicked-up and left it there. I calmed down a little while I streamed piss into the lavatory, but not by much.

Determined to confront him, I burst open his bedroom door ready to shout the house down. My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe what I saw. To say I was astonished wouldn’t cover it. Garry was in his bed with his arm cradled around another young man. They were both stark naked and judging by the pungent odour in the air the bedsheet was awash with cum. Embarrassed, I turned on my heels. Moments later as I waited for the kettle to boil, I devised a plan. I phoned my pal and he roared with laughter, but agreed to help. Together we could make it work.

I would need to get rid of the boy first. I didn’t have much choice, I just let nature take its course. Eventually, they woke up. The boy couldn’t get out of the house fast enough. That left me alone with Garry. He gave me the merest shrug of the shoulder when I berated him about the vomit. I had already cleaned up the mess, I couldn’t stand the smell on the landing. He just couldn’t care less.

Well don’t care was made to care, as my old Mum used to say when she reached for her hairbrush. I phoned my pal; he could be at my house within minutes. That gave me time to lecture Garry. I went through the list of his misdeeds; laziness, never lifting a finger around the house, the drinking, the drug-taking. I didn’t mention the boy in the bed, I didn’t want to sound like a homophobe.

He listened quietly, nodding his head from time to time as if agreeing. “Well, what have you got to say for yourself?” I asked breathlessly. He thought for a moment, head bowed, and then whispered, “Don’t know.”

“Bah! You need to be punished, you know that don’t you?”

He looked up at me, his dark-brown eyes glistening. “How do you think you should be punished?” I asked, calmly, as if it was the most reasonable question to ask a twenty-two-year old. He stared blankly.

“It says on the Internet,” I told him, “That a spanking is the best punishment.”

He looked startled, his mouth gaped before he spoke, “You want to spank me?” he asked incredulously.

“I don’t want to spank you,” I said trying to stress how much I didn’t want this to happen. “But you must be punished.”

His nose crinkled, I could see his brain was ticking over. He seemed to be debating in his head. I watched him for some moments. He looked so much younger than his twenty-two years. Perhaps that was his problem; arrested development. He should have been having this conversation when he was sixteen, not today.

The doorbell rang and I shuffled off to let my pal in. We had a whispered conversation in the kitchen. “How exactly do you want to do this?” he asked. “Shall I hold him down while you wallop him? What will you use, your belt?”

I hadn’t quite thought through the details. For sure Garry would have to be restrained. Perhaps my pal could hold him bent across the dining room table while I whacked his arse. My belt was thin and wouldn’t make a suitable weapon. What else did I have? I don’t wear carpet slippers. My hairbrush was a cheap plastic thing. Naturally I didn’t have a school cane or a paddle about the house (who did these days?).

“Here use this,” my pal picked a large wooden spoon from the draining board, he tested its weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. “It packs quite a punch,” he said with deep satisfaction. “C’mon, let’s get on with this.”

I returned to the living room with my pal in tow. Garry caught sight of the wooden spoon in my hand, his eyes blinked furiously and his face flushed. “Well,” I started a sentence but trailed off. I wasn’t quite sure how to proceed. Garry took away what little wind I had in my sails.

“OK,” he gulped, struggling to look at me. Silence engulfed the room. I gave a quizzical look. “OK,” he repeated, “You should spank me.” Now it was my turn to look incredulous. “I have behaved badly, I deserve to be punished,” he spoke as if reading from a memorized script. “I deserve it.”

I heard my pal snort, but I ignored him. “Are you sure, Garry?” I asked. I was completely unprepared for this turn of events. He nodded shyly. He stood up and started to leave the room. He looked over his shoulder at my pal. “We should do this privately,” he said with some confidence, “in my room.” I followed him gripping the wooden spoon in my hand.

The bedroom smelt musty, Garry had removed the soiled sheet but the room needed airing. It was a small room, dominated by the bed. There was a small chair, but it was obviously not up to the task. Garry would not be able to bend over it and still leave room for me to get a swing at his backside. It would have to be an over-the-knee spanking.

I had never spanked anyone before. How exactly was this done? Of course, you relied a lot on instinct. Since Garry was submissive there would be no fisticuffs. I sat on the edge of the bed and wriggled my bum about until I felt secure. I spread my legs. This way Garry would be able to bend across one thigh and stretch out across the mattress, That should give me ample room to spank his backside.

Garry watched silently as I made my preparations. He was a shortish lad, maybe a couple of centimetres smaller than me. He had a firm waist (unlike so many of his contemporaries these days) and muscular thighs. He was wearing heavy blue jeans. Even with my lack of experience I knew these would give Garry a lot of protection against the wooden spoon. He must have read my mind. Without waiting for my command, he unbuttoned at the waist, slipped the zipper and pushed the jeans as far as his knees. He took a deep breath and leaned forward placing himself across my right thigh. Then he did something truly astonishing. He raised his bottom high, it was as if he were saying, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy, you must spank me. Good and hard.”

In this position his bottom was very firm. His black underpants clung to his cheeks, separating them. It was a terrific target. I took a deep breath and raised the spoon, his buttocks clenched in anticipation of my next move. I whacked the spoon down in the centre of Garry’s right cheek. He gasped slightly. I whacked the left cheek. I didn’t know how much a spanking would hurt a twenty-two-year-old but I made it my business to lay it on as hard as circumstances allowed. I walloped the wood up and down his left cheek leaving no spot untouched. Then I did the same with the right buttock.

Garry wriggled his bum. It was hotting up nicely, I thought. I smacked hard into the underside of his bum, where the cheeks meet the thighs. That hurt, I could tell. Garry’s legs kicked out instinctively. It was a reflex action against the pain that was travelling through his bum. At one point he raised his face off the mattress to yelp, but thought better of it and instead shielded his head with his hands. Sweat was soaking his shirt. He smelt sour, I don’t think he had showered that day.

I suppose I whacked him for about three or four minutes, I had rather lost track of time. How long should a spanking go on for? Obviously, in Garry’s case he needed (no, deserved) more than six-of-the-best. I stopped whacking him and took hold of the elasticated waist of his underpants. I was rewarded with a wailed, “No!!!” Garry thought I was pulling them down to continue his spanking on the bare buttocks. I wasn’t. I wanted to see the results of my efforts. I saw both cheeks were a rather delicious rosy red. The imprint of the bowl of the spoon had been reproduced over and over again on his flesh. Yes, I congratulated myself, a job well done.

I gave him another dozen on each cheek for good measure and released my grip on him. Garry lay across my thigh breathing heavily but making no effort to move. “Get up,” I said pushing him away. He stumbled to his feet and turned his back on me before bending down to pull up his jeans. He rubbed his bottom ruefully and stood still awaiting further instructions.

I suppose I should have lectured him about his future conduct and the dire consequences if he broke my rules again. Instead, rather tamely I stood up. This was his room after all, so it was for me to make an exit. I did so and returned to the kitchen where my pal had brewed tea. He asked me for details and I gave a blow-by-blow account.

Upstairs, Garry was admiring my handiwork in the bedroom mirror, his cock rigid. I think I must have spanked him three or four more times over the following weeks before the truth dawned on me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

It was thirty years ago

The A-level English Lit. class was restless. “Sir! Sir!” Jackson folded his newspaper, “It says in the Telegraph that corporal punishment was banned in schools thirty years ago.”

Mr. Hawkes raised his eyebrows.

“Did they have the cane here in those days, Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes suppressed a melancholy smile. “Yes, indeed St. Francis has always been a very traditional school.”

“Oooh Sir, I bet the boys were  pleased when they abolished the cane,” Jackson wriggled on his chair.

“As a matter of fact Jackson, the cane was only banned in state schools. St FIGS is an independent school,” he laid great stress on the word independent. “The cane continued to be used for another decade. It was only abolished in 1999.” And more’s the pity, he thought. Look how the county had gone to the dogs since.

“Sir,” Jackson was on a roll. “You’ve been here forever, did you ever cane a boy Sir?”

Mr. Hawkes paused and stared at the sixth-formers lounging at their desks. “Yes, Jackson, especially boys who disrupted classes with silly questions.”

He was rather pleased at the laughs that got.

“Oh, but Sir,” Jackson was not to be silenced. “Not sixth-formers, Sir,” he grinned.

Mr. Hawkes pursed his lips, “Especially sixth-formers, Jackson, especially sixth-formers. Now why do you keep asking these questions?”

“Because he’s got a boner, Sir,” Edwards chirruped from the back of the class. Every boy jeered at Jackson, but not entirely unkindly.

@

 

Some afternoons later Robbie Jackson was with Ant Edwards in his bedroom. They were supposed to be working on a history project together. “Look what I’ve got,” Ant pulled the wardrobe forward by a couple of centimetres and reached behind it. “Look!” His grin was returned by his pal.

“War …?” Robbie was speechless.

“I got it on eBay,” Ant replied to a question he had not been asked. “It’s the real deal.”

Robbie had found his voice. “Give it here.” He reached forward with a shaking hand. “It’s as light as a feather,” he said weighing it in his hand.

“But, I bet it still packs a punch.”

Robbie had never seen an authentic school cane before, never mind handled one. Less still, felt the sting of one across his stretched buttocks. Tentatively, he flexed it between his hands, it curved easily.

“It’s OK,” Ant grinned, “It’s very swishy, you won’t break it.”

Robbie inspected the cane carefully. It was a little over a metre long and had four notches along its length. One end had been curved. It was very light brown, almost yellow, in colour and as thick as a pencil. He gripped it at the end near where it curved. It slipped in his sweaty hand. Then, holding it in front of his face he wobbled it. The rattan was highly flexible. He gripped the cane tightly and swished it through the air. It made a wonderful whoosh as it went. He bent it again in his hands. Yes, it was the real deal all right. Just like the ones they used in the videos he jerked off to.

“Isn’t she a beaut?” Ant’s eyes shone. He knew his mate would love it.

“Come on, let’s go downstairs.”

Robbie’s heart thumped. “Yes, let’s,” he croaked.

They went to the lounge. It was a large room dominated by a shiny leather sofa and two enormous armchairs. Along one wall was a glass-fronted cabinet and a dining table and chairs was in an alcove. Ant had a plan, he had run it through his head a hundred times since he saw the glint in Robbie’s eyes in the classroom.

Robbie stood in the middle of the room. He ought to say something. But what? Blood was coursing through his body at an alarming rate. His cock was on the march.

Ant broke the silence. He tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. Then thinking twice about it, he slipped it into his hand and pointed with it. “Jackson,” he said aiming at an “old fashioned” English accent. “Fetch that chair and place it there.” He swished the cane and pointed to a spot a metre or so in front of himself.

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed. He moved across the room and picked up a straight-backed dining chair. It was surprisingly heavy. He manhandled it across the carpet and set it down, its back facing him.

“Other way round,” Ant snarled. “Have the seat facing you.” He had seen in the old comics that a boy was supposed to stand in front of the chair and stoop forward, clutching the seat of the chair. That would tighten the buttocks sufficiently and create a perfect target for the cane.

“Now, Jackson,” Ant had cast himself as the school captain and Robbie was the lazy slacker of the House. He needed a damn good thrashing to buck up his ideas. “Bend over and grab the seat of the chair.”

Robbie’s face flushed, saliva drained from his mouth, his heart beat faster. His dick thrust into the flies of his school trousers. He took a deep breath, turned his back on his pal, spread his feet a little and leaned forward. This was not quite how he had imagined it. In the videos they usually went over the back of a chair. He had fantasised many times about being over the back of an old rather worn green armchair that starred in many movies. His head would be down in the dusty cushion, his stomach over the chair’s back and his trousers would be at his ankles. Often, but not always, it was Mr. Hawkes who wielded the cane.

Robbie looked around the room. The armchairs were too large to bend across and the sofa wasn’t much better. He might at a pinch fit over one of its arms. No, he concluded, Ant had chosen wisely. The straight-back chair is was to be. He took a deep breath, leaned forward and offered his backside to his friend.

Ant’s hand shook as he gripped the cane. How often he had dreamed about this; having someone – anyone – submit themselves to him. He had never caned a boy before, but he had seen it done often enough in the films. He took up position a half-metre to Robbie’s left and tap-tap-tapped the cane across his stretched bottom. No, this was no good, he couldn’t get a good swing like this. He took a step back. That was better; now he was a cane’s length away. He took aim again.

Robbie was a little short for an eighteen year old; he often had problems getting served in pubs. Barmen always thought his ID was forged. He was slim and wiry and didn’t have enough spare fat on his body to sizzle a sausage. His buttocks were small and sinewy. Ant “sawed” his cane across the fleshiest part (such as it was) and prepared to deliver the first stroke. He licked his lips and hesitated. He had seen young men caned countless times online, but it wasn’t always obvious just how hard the cane had struck. He suspected trick photography was used so there would be a shot of the headmaster flexing his cane and a close-up of it being steadied across the culprit’s arse, then most likely you’d get a shot over the boy’s shoulder of the cane being raised and swiping down. You’d see the painful grimace of the face, but not actually see the cane strike home.

It wasn’t always like that, of course, but even so Ant was at a loss. How hard should he hit? Robbie’s bottom wriggled with anticipation (or possibly impatience). Ant needed to make a move. He raised the cane and with a flick of the wrist send it thwacking into Robbie’s stretched trousers. His friend was unmoved. The ensuing silence was deep and embarrassing.

Robbie turned his head and called over his shoulder. “Do it harder. It’s meant to hurt. It’s a punishment.”

Ant flushed. Annoyed by the sting of his friend’s criticism, he took aim again. This time the cane rose to shoulder height and with all the strength he could muster, Ant flogged the cane down. It bounced off Robbie’s bum and the crack echoed around the room and could be heard outside in The Avenue.

Robbie gritted his teeth and gulped in air, before speaking. “Yes, that’s it. Give me six more like that.” He closed his eyes tightly and gripped the wooden seat. The second stoke cut lower than the first. Robbie could already feel a welt rising beneath his underwear. He had never experienced such pain before. How had schoolboys in the past survived six-of-the-best?

The third stroke landed on top of the first. Robbie shuddered; pain shot north, south, east and west through his entire body. His hips swayed and his knees buckled. He couldn’t help himself. It was his body’s reflex action to the assault.

Sweat soaked Ant’s collar. It was a warm afternoon but even with the window open the room felt airless. He wiped his face on the sleeve of his woollen blazer, steadied himself and aimed for the top curves of Robbie’s arse. A thick line immediately appeared across the tight polyester-cotton trousers. He knew a deep red mark was throbbing in Robbie’s flesh.

A low long-drawn out hiss escaped through Robbie’s clenched teeth. His eyes watered. He hacked a dry cough. His feet stamped up and down like a sentry on guard duty.

“Steady boy, steady.” Ant was enjoying himself enormously. “Keep still, or it’ll be extra stokes for you Jackson.”

“Yes, Edwards,” Robbie sighed, “Sorry.” He dug his feet into the ground, gripped the seat once more and waited for the agony to be reignited. It wasn’t long in coming. Ant raised the cane once more and this time swiped down two cuts one after the other: bang-bang. Robbie howled; there was no other way to describe the ear-splitting noise. He lifted the chair some centimetres from the ground and danced around, clutching it tightly.

A broad smile split Ant’s face. “OK Jackson, you may stand.” He watched with undisguised delight as his friend hopped from one foot to the other furiously rubbing  the seat of his trousers. Robbie’s face was scarlet and Ant fully expected the teenager’s backside was a similar colour.

“Ferking hell,” Robbie unbuckled his belt and whipped down his trousers and underpants. He twisted his back to get a view of his scarred buttocks. Six clear red lines traversed his hairless cheeks. He touched each gingerly reigniting the pain. The agony had gone now but his bum glowed with a throbbing pain. It felt rather good. He traced his index finger along the ridges unaware that Ant was videoing him on his phone. Later, Ant would wank off watching it.

“Come on,” Ant breezed. “My turn now.”

“You bet,” Robbie beamed. “Bend over that chair Edwards.” He stood amazed as his mate unbuckled his belt, popped the button on his trousers and let them fall to his knees. Then eagerly he bent over the chair. Robbie’s jaw slackened. Ant was wearing gleaming white Y-front underpants, just like the guys in the videos. No one wore Y-fronts these days.

Ant wriggled his bottom; the pants were tight and rode up into his crack, separating each cheek. Ant wriggled some more in a fashion he supposed to be sexy. He couldn’t wait for the first slash.

Robbie took aim. It had never occurred to him before what a terrific arse Ant had. It was round and hard. The term “buns of steel” was made for it. He raised the cane and slammed it home. He was inexperienced and his aim was off. The whippy rattan seared a mark across the back of Ant’s naked thigh. He screamed.

Two Mormons walking up the path halted. Attracted by the cry they peered through the open window before making a hasty retreat.

Robbie took aim once more, a little higher this time.

z used drawing cane prefect boy Mag (2)

 

Picture credit: The Magnet

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

When Dad Got Home

z used after corner pants domestic (1)

Can this really be happening? I’m standing facing the wall in our front room in my t-shirt and underpants with my hands on my head like some naughty little boy. Behind me my Mum and the biddy from across the road are slurping coffee and talking about me.

MUM. He’s just too much. He went too far this time. He can stay like that until his father gets here. Then he’ll deal with him.

BIDDY. What did he do?

MUM. It’s these long holidays they get from university. He’s been under my feet all week. He never lifts a finger, he sulks. He’s surly. Rude. He never cleans his room. It smells like a pigsty.

BIDDY. Mine is just the same. Treats the house like a hotel. I’ve wasted so many meals when he hasn’t turned up.

MUM. It was all right until Christmas Eve. He had a job with the post office but of course that finished. I’ll be glad when he goes back to college.

BIDDY. Mine is so mouthy. You can’t tell him anything.

MUM. Then last night he comes home at God knows what time. Drunk, and is sick all over the kitchen floor. Leaves it for muggins here to clean up. When I told him off he just shrugged his shoulders. He couldn’t care. Well he’ll care when his father gets here.

BIDDY. What will he do?

MUM. We still keep a leather taws in the sideboard drawer. He’ll tan his hide good and proper.

 

He will too and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. What choice do I have? I could tell him to go to Hell and then we’d wrestle on the floor while he tries to whip me with the taws. I could rush off to my room and barricade myself in. But I’d have to come out eventually.

Dad will win. I know. A year or so back my brother Ken refused to be spanked. Dad threw him out the house. I promise you. He said he can stay out until he accepts this is Dad’s house. His house; his rules. His punishments. Ken was at university and Dad stopped sending him money and paying bills. Ken held out for about six months. Then he came home, tail between his legs. Dad belted him twice as hard and twice as long.

Lesson learned? When Dad gets home I’ll just have to offer him my backside. Like I said; no choice.

I can hear a car in the driveway. It has to be Dad. The front door is opening.

 

MUM. Henry, you have to do something about that boy.

My Mother greets Dad in the Hallway. I can’t hear all they are saying but they are talking about me. Dad makes a sort of grunting noise. He is far from pleased. Any moment now ….

DAD. Right young man. It’s about time you learned how to behave. Your mother has had enough of this … and quite frankly so have I.

 

I hear a sideboard drawer opening and closing. I don’t need to look, I know Dad has gone for the taws. It is a long, narrow leather strap cut into two tails. It old and worn. My brother once told me it had belonged to Dad’s dad and probably to Granddad’s dad too. What an heirloom to have in the family.

 

DAD. Right, turn around. Go stand by that chair.

I turn and move towards an upholstered armchair. It has a low back and I know from painful experience that my body will be able to clear the top by a comfortable distance when Dad orders me to bend over. From the corner of my eye I see the biddy from across the road move. I wait for her to leave the room, but she doesn’t. Instead, she stands a little o the side of the chair. Jesus Christ! She’s staying to watch.

Dad holds the taws in one hand and gently taps it into the palm of his left hand. The expression on his face is grim. He is a tall man, who towers some inches over me (I take after Mum’s side of the family). He plays a lot of golf and can put a lot of punch into a swing. Slowly, he rolls up the sleeve of his shirt. Is this really necessary? I suppose he thinks it adds to the drama of the occasion. I wish he would just get on with it.

DAD. Place yourself over the back of the chair.

 

Well, here we go. This isn’t my first spanking. I know this is going to hurt real bad. I learnt a long time ago it is best not to make a fuss. My job is to present my bum for Dad. His job is to whack that leather strap across my arse. I should take my punishment as meekly as I can. It’ll be over in a couple of minutes.

I ease myself over the chair and stare down at an indentation in the cushion. Moments earlier the biddy had been sitting here. I can smell her horrible cheap scent. A Christmas present from somebody who couldn’t be bothered, no doubt. I try to grip the edge of the cushion, but the material is smooth and I can’t get much of a grip. My feet are about a metre apart and since I am wearing neither shoes nor socks they slide on the dep pile carpet.

In this position my back is arched and my underpants pull snugly across my buttocks. I feel Dad take the end of my t-shirt and push it up my back: another pointless manoeuvre since the shirt is nowhere near the target area. I hear a movement behind me. Dad clears his throat and then rests the leather taws across the very centre of my buttocks. He is taking aim. I can’t help it but my buttocks clench. It is some reflex action, my bum is trying to protect itself from the onslaught. It doesn’t work. The leather moves away from my arse and returns a second later at great speed and force. It cracks across the underside of my bum. I screw my eyes tight. That hurt. A lot.

My feet slip on the carpet and Dad gives me time to steady myself before he lands number two on the higher part of my buttocks. I now have two lines of scorching pain. I chew on my bottom lip. It hurts so much. Swipes three and four land in quick succession. Dad is putting all his strength into this. All that golf is paying off.

I wriggle my hips and bend my knees as blow after blow connects with my tight bottom. The pain is rushing through my body and my temples throb almost as much as my bum. I can’t get a good grip on the seat cushion so I spread my palms and press them deep into the foam. Sweat soaks my scalp and I can smell perspiration under my armpits, even though the room is quite cold.

Dad clears his throat again but otherwise is silent as he goes about his business. My arse is on fire but thank God he didn’t make me take down my pants. I hear the biddy next door move. Then I see her out of the corner of my eye. She is looking to get a better view of my upturned arse.

 

DAD. That’s enough. Stand up.

 

I haul myself to my feet. I stare at the carpet too embarrassed to meet the eyes of the old biddy or my Mum. My bum is scorching but already the agony is dissolving. I press the palms of my hands into the seat of my underpants, holding in the pain. It doesn’t make much difference.

 

DAD. Go to your room.

 

I don’t need telling twice and I take the stairs two at a time and crash through he door into my bedroom. Gingerly I pull down my pants and poke my bum at the mirror. Dad has done a very job. To be fair he is not a brute. He hasn’t flogged me to within an inch of my life. He has given me a sound leathering. He has made his point and I have taken it. Not one square centimetre of my buttocks and the tops of my legs is untouched. The imprint of the taws has been reproduced time and again across what was once pale skin. There are some deep purple bruises across the mounds of my buttocks and lesser more yellowy ones elsewhere. It will take days for them to clear.

I hear the front door open and close and through the window I see the biddy returning to her house. I bet she can’t wait to get back tell everyone that I’ve been spanked. Soon the news will be all over the street. I won’t be able to hold my head up in the Three Fishers tonight.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My First Time

z used drawing cane hold women look on

I had just turned twenty and was a few weeks into my first “proper” job – as a trainee reporter on a local newspaper. I couldn’t believe my luck when a colleague at work told me there was a room for rent in a large detached house in one of the town’s leafiest suburbs.

I was gobsmacked the first time I saw The Avenue; what palaces! I had been brought up in a tiny council flat in inner London; what did I know about big bedrooms, conservatories and gardens? My landlord was some kind of accountant and he lived in a five bedroom house with his wife and her sister. Everything about the place said “Money”. I didn’t stop to wonder why they needed to take in a lodger. None of my business, I suppose.

I got my second shock of the day when I met my landlord for the first time. He was in his mid-forties and had thick black, greased-back hair. But his most notable feature was a black, neatly-trimmed beard. I thought he was Gerry Adams, at that time a suspected IRA terrorist. The sight of him put the fear of God into me. This fear somewhat diminished the moment he opened his mouth. For instead of ranting with a heavy Irish brogue, he spoke quietly in a very upper class English accent, as befitting a chap who had attended one of England’s more exclusive public schools.

I was far from the perfect tenant. I came and went at all hours and was often late down for breakfast. I was untidy, inconsiderate of others and frequently came home drunk. But worse than all this; I rarely paid my rent on time. It wasn’t that I couldn’t afford to pay – although cub reporters are not paid much – it was because I couldn’t be bothered. It didn’t occur to me that the money I paid helped to keep “Mr. Adams” and his family afloat.

Things came to a head one morning. In his usual softly-spoken manner Mr. Adams told me I must pay my overdue rent by the end of the day. Did I promise to do so? I genuinely don’t remember, I really wasn’t bothered what he wanted.

I would pay later for that lack of attention because what I missed him saying was, “If you don’t pay tonight I am going to cane your backside very hard indeed.”

I was late home that day, I had covered a meeting of the local council and gone onto the pub after. I had been drinking, but I was far from drunk. I let myself into the house as I always did and was surprised when Mr. Adams glided from his magnificent lounge and stood in front of me, blocking my path to the stairs and my bedroom.

“Do you have my rent?” he whispered. I had to crane my neck forward to catch his words. He repeated himself believing that I had not heard. His face fell when I confessed I had not. I had totally forgotten his request. He sighed deeply and wrung his hands together as if he carried all the troubles of the world on his shoulders.

“Do you remember what I said would happen?” he murmured. I think I shrugged my shoulders or crinkled my face, because I simply had no idea what he was talking about. His eyes flamed behind his round spectacles, his eyebrows shot heavenwards.

“Well,” he spoke slowly and calmly. “You know what I shall do.”

I didn’t. I started to say I would go to the bank first thing in the morning and sort out his rent.

“Too late, you have made promises before,” his crisply-enunciated words made me shiver. “You need a life-lesson young man.”

I had no idea what a “life lesson” was, but I was about to find out. He glided across the passageway to a tall thin cupboard. It looked like a grandfather clock but without the dial. He opened a door and reached inside. I thought our conversation was over and started towards the stairs.

“Wait where you are,” he spoke more sternly now and I swirled around to face him. My heart skipped a beat. In his right hand he held a long, thin, crook-handled cane. I was transfixed. I had never seen anything like it before. Canes were still legal in schools but I had been to a progressive comprehensive and corporal punishment was unheard off. Parents around my way tended not to spank their children, so I was now entering uncharted territory.

Mr. Adams wobbled the cane in front of him and then sliced it through the air. It was thin and whippy but made a terrific whoosh! as it went. He waved the cane toward the lounge room. “Go in there,” he said quietly. I stood my ground, my heart was thumping. Of course, now I understood Mr. Adams’ intention. He wanted to beat me with his cane. I couldn’t understand my emotions. I seemed to be equally frightened and excited at the same time.

Up to that moment I had never given corporal punishment a thought. There was a campaign running at the time to have the cane banned from schools. I had no opinion one way or the other. I had never thought about being caned nor did I wish to cane another person.

“I said, go into the lounge room,” Mr. Adams repeated himself softly.

I suppose I could have refused to obey. It would mean leaving the house and finding other lodgings. That wouldn’t be so bad. A colleague at work knew guys who were looking for someone to join them in a house share.  I wouldn’t have to live in a cardboard box.

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

Mr. Adams followed me into the room. He had the cane tucked under his arm, looking something like a sergeant-major. I stood in the middle of the room. It was about the size of a five-a-side football pitch. One end was dominated by a dining table and chairs. The other end had a huge glass-fronted cabinet with china ornaments. As well as the sofa there was a heavy leather Chesterfield couch, two padded armchairs, what we used to call a pouffe (but probably don’t today) and a coffee table.

Mr. Adams looked around the room as if he had never seen it before. He seemed to be searching for something. At last his gaze settled on one of the padded armchairs. He slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and gripped it just below the crook handle. He pointed with it to the chair. “Stand over there.”

I hesitated. There was still time to flee. Mrs. Adams and her sister moved across the room and settled by the table. Clearly, they were going to stay to watch the fun. I wiped my sweaty palms on the legs of my trousers and walked forward and stopped a couple of paces from the chair.

“Closer, boy, closer,” Mr. Adams sounded exasperated. I shook my head silently admonishing myself, of course I wouldn’t be able to bend over the back of the chair from this distance. I shuffled forward. For the first  time that evening Mr. Adams noticed I was wearing a light-grey suit. “Take off your jacket, hand it to Mrs. Adams.”

She hurried over to me with alacrity, holding out her hand to receive my jacket. She had to wait. I couldn’t get my fingers to work. My brain told me I wanted to do this – to take off my jacket and hand it over – but my body seemed incapable of obeying. At last the task was completed. I looked down at the black leather armchair. Only then did I wonder how this was done. How did you present yourself for a caning? Where did the hands go? What about the head?

One question took my breath away. Was this done trousers up or trousers down? I would soon know.

“You need to lower your trousers,” Mr. Adams whispered, “But you may keep your underpants on,” he added, kindly. My head was buzzing as (again with fumbling fingers) I unbuckled my belt. I screwed my eyes tightly, I couldn’t believe this was happening. Me, a twenty-year-old man was about to take down my trousers, bend over a chair and offer up my backside to my forty-something landlord for a caning as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

I unzipped and the handful of coins I had in my pocket from the pub plus gravity sent my trousers hurtling to my feet. I wore white underpants “tighty-whities” which were very fashionable at the time. The fitted me snugly and I was very conscious of the bulge in the front, which was a little larger than it had been five minutes ago. I had on a smart dress shirt with a tail that covered my buttocks and the backs of my thighs.

“You should lift up your shirt please and then bend over the back of the chair, thank you,” Mr. Adams sounded almost apologetic. I gathered up the cotton shirt and pulled it chest-high so that my flat, hairless stomach and lower back was uncovered. I hesitated for a second time. I needed to gear myself up for this. It would take some bravery on my part to go through with it. I saw the two ladies move behind me (for a better view presumably) as I fell forward over the chair. The leather was cold against my naked flesh and I shivered.

The issue about where to place hands and head resolved itself. I reached forward and gripped the far end of the soft seat cushion. My face stared down at a throw coloured in browns and yellows. I waited with anticipation for the first stroke to hit. But was it eagerness or fear?

Mr. Adams was not quite ready. He tapped the end of the cane across the centre of my bum. I could feel the cotton underpants had pulled tightly over my submissive bottom. I was presenting my landlord with a terrific target. The pants lifted and separated my cheeks creating a deep ravine between the two. In those days I was still fit and healthy, this was before years of pubbing with journalists and contacts took their toll. I had a thirty-inch waist and firm round buttocks.

Mr. Adams had found his aim; he lifted the cane away from my bottom. I gripped the cushion hard and concentrated on the autumnal pattern on the throw. My bum quivered. “Relax, relax,” Mr. Adams cooed. Then came the most excruciating pain I had ever felt. The whippy rattan whistled through the air before landing on the soft underside of my rear end. Air hissed through my clenched mouth, a strip of pain throbbed across both cheeks. My shoulders shuddered in sympathy.

That was my first-ever stroke of the cane. Mr. Adams gave me five more cuts. I was due six-of-the-best. My bum wriggled and writhed. My feet stomped into the plush deep-piled carpet. I hissed and yelped. Sweat soaked the back of my neck. My ears popped as blood thundered through my body.

Then it was over. “You may stand now,” Mr. Adams had replaced the cane under his arm by the time I stood and turned to face him. My head was light and spinning. Is it adrenalin? I had taken drugs before (and many since) but nothing compares to the high I get from a good thrashing. “You should get dressed,” Mr. Adams was kindness personified. I suppose he must have seen the erect cock pushing against the front of my tight pants. Before gingerly I pulled my trousers up I explored my sore seat with my two thumbs; my bum was corrugated. When I explored the damage later in my bedroom I found six dark welts running almost parallel across both buttocks. I had to conclude that Mr. Adams was an experienced and expert caner.

I lodged with Mr. Adams for another six months and you will not be surprised to hear I was often late with the rent. It nearly broke my heart when my work sent me to a newspaper 100 miles away to further my training and experience. But, I soon discovered The Whacko! Club, and that is a story (or stories) for another day.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Only Three Thieving Days to Christmas

used drawing cane hold (13)

“So here it is Merry Christmas, everybody’s having fun / Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.”

Ben McKenzie hated that song. You heard it everywhere in the run-up to Christmas. It was a tradition. They played it all the time at the supermarket where he worked. He couldn’t get the damn tune out of his head. It had been released more than forty years previously. Long before he was born. Before his mum and dad had been born too, probably.

Ben was pushing twenty years old. He was what he dad called “bone idle.” He meant he was lazy. It was true. Ben hadn’t had a proper job since he dropped out of school four years previously. There was work out there, even for unqualified kids. Ben preferred to spend his time playing games on his computer or staying in bed masturbating.

Then a couple of his pals told him about the supermarket where they had started working. It was a “cushy” job, especially in the goods-received department. The money wasn’t bad, and it was easy to skive off and hide from the bosses. There were lots of girls working at the supermarket and they weren’t too particular about who they went out with.

And, Toby his best friend told him there was one other big perk. Thieving.

It seemed too good to be true.

But Toby didn’t tell him about Mr Wolf. Ben had to find out for himself.

The supermarket wasn’t too choosy about who it employed. Workers came and went. Many were sixth-form school pupils or students. Others took jobs while they waited for something better to come along.

It turned out his pals were right. The work was easy; and so were the girls. Ben was a good-looking guy, in a pretty-boy kind of way. He was “cute”, rather than “hot”. In his first week, Tracey, gave him a hand job. They sneaked away and used a disused office at the back of the store. All the kids did it, but it was Ben’s first sexual encounter that involved another person in nearly a year.

It was the week before Christmas. A very expensive time of the year. Presents had to be bought and parties attended. It all cost money. Ben was on wages, but they didn’t go far. Not after his mum took her share for his keep at home.

No problem, Toby told him. Steal the presents from the supermarket. Everybody did it. It was a perk of the job. The bosses didn’t mind within reason. They called it “breakages.” They put an extra penny on the shoppers’ bills to pay for it.

When they first started in the 1950s supermarkets were a place where you went to buy fruit and vegetables and a packet of tea. But by 2015 they had become a one-stop shop for everything you might ever need. They were a thief’s paradise.

“Keep it simple,” Toby advised. “Take things you can hide in your pocket or under your coat.”

That was the first time that Ben noticed a lot of the lads at supermarket came to work in old-fashioned parka coats or beat-up Barbours. They had lots of hidden pockets.

At home one night Ben wrote his Christmas present list. Keep it simple, Toby had said. So he did. A bottle of tequila or some other expensive booze would do for each of his friends. He didn’t know at first what to get his dad, so he settled on cigars. His mum would get posh perfume.

There were only three shopping days left until Christmas. Or three thieving days in Ben’s case. The guys at the supermarket had it down to a fine art. (But, you’ll have to go somewhere else to find the details, this is a moral story you are reading.) Mum and dad’s presents were sorted first. It’s not too difficult to stuff a small bottle of Chanel into your pocket. Especially when your fellow workers pretended not to see you do it.

“Hello, Ben,” the teenager was startled. He hadn’t heard Mr Wolf his boss creep up on him. Mr Wolf wasn’t his proper name. His real name started with “Wolf,” but was long and had a “C” and a “Z” and a “H” in it somewhere. He was Polish or possibly Lithuanian, Ben wasn’t too sure. He wouldn’t know the difference. It was somewhere in eastern Europe, he did know that.

Mr Wolf spoke with a bit of an accent. So did Ben, of course. But they were different accents. English wasn’t Mr Wolf’s first language, but he made himself clear.

“This is your last chance. Don’t do it again.”

And, with that he was gone.

“Don’t worry,” Toby advised him later. “He’s the supervisor, he has to say that. It’s his job”

“So, I can still get the booze? I wanted to take it today when I go home.”

“Yes, you’ll be fine,” Toby smiled reassuringly. But, he knew from his own painful experience that he might be lying.

Mr Wolf thought he was a kind man. Live and let live was his motto. But, when he was at the supermarket, he had his job to do. He was a proud man. He had left his family behind and travelled half way across Europe to find work. He was honest too. He would never steal. God was his witness.

But England was not like home. The young people here were lazy and selfish. They wanted everything handed to them on a plate. They thought they were owed a living. They didn’t expect to work for it.

Mr Wolf didn’t know much about Ben. He was just another typical English teenager. He was one among the hundreds, possibly thousands, who had worked at the supermarket in the two years since he arrived. If the boy stole again, he would treat him exactly the same way he did the others.

It was nearly eight in the evening and Ben’s shift was coming to an end. That bloody song was oozing out of the loudspeakers. “Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.” For two pins Ben would have drowned the whole lot of the Slade pop group at birth, starting with Noddy Holder, the lead singer.

Glancing to left and right to make sure the bosses weren’t around, he skipped into the alcohol hold, grabbed a bottle of tequila and tucked it under his coat. He didn’t break sweat. Nobody cared.

He swiped his ID card at the exit. Home and free.

Not quite.

“Ben,” it was Mr Wolf, “Come into the office.”

He was an angry man. He had given the teenager fair warning. The brat had taken no notice. He had insulted him. Tried to make him look a fool. He showed no respect.

Ben stood impassively in the office as Mr Wolf told him all these things.

“Yeah, yeah, blah, blah.” He didn’t say it out loud.

But he did say, “Who cares? It’s just company property. Everyone does it.”

“Not on my watch,” it was an American idiom, Mr Wolf had learned from the movies. It meant he had standards.

A frown spread across Ben’s bright open pretty-boy face. He didn’t understand what Mr Wolf was saying.

So, his boss spelled it out. He had been warned not to thieve, but he had ignored it. Not only was he a thief, he deliberately disobeyed an order. He had tied to make a fool of him.

“But… “ Ben blustered, not sure what to say.

Mr Wolf cut him short. “I am going to call Security and they will inform the police. You will spend Christmas in jail.”

The teenager felt tears welling up in his eyes. Police. Jail. This wasn’t how Toby said it would be.

“But…” Ben tried again, but still he couldn’t form a coherent sentence.

Mr Wolf glared at the boy, his face like thunder. He had no intention of involving the police. He hated the police. They had been so cruel in his homeland.

Mr Wolf had a plan. He had used it before on young thieves. He would use it again. Back home if a boy stole, his father would thrash him. Even young men in their twenties could expect a sound caning. Of course, such action was seldom necessary. The thought of a whipping was enough to deter them from crime.

Mr Wolf leaned over to a table and opened a drawer that ran along its length. Ben’s eyes followed him as he put his hand inside the drawer and rummaged around. Seconds later he withdrew a straight yellow stick.

Ben had never seen such a thing before. It was a dark yellow and more than three feet long. Black tape had been wound around one end to form a simple handle. It was not quite straight. Constant use had warped it slightly.

The teenager’s jaw fell slightly when Mr Wolf flexed the stick between his hands. It was as thick as a man’s little finger, but it easily curved into a bow. Mr Wolf swished the cane though the air, missing Ben’s face by inches. The boy felt a breeze against his cheek as it whistled by.

“Ha, so you have never seen a cane before.” Mr Wolf was not surprised. None of the young men he had dealt with previously at the supermarket had either. That explained a lot, Mr Wolf thought. They were totally lacking in discipline. The schools had abandoned corporal punishment decades ago. Look what good that had done.

He swished the cane once more, delighted at how much it intimidated the young thief.

“The choice is yours,” Mr Wolf tapped the cane against his own right leg. “The police … or this.”

“But …” Ben had not regained his power of speech. He choked back tears.

“You cannot go unpunished,” Mr Wolf growled. He swiped the cane through the air, terrifying the teenager.

“It’s my way or the highway.” That was another phrase he had learned from the television. It meant he was in charge.

“You should take off your coat.” Mr Wolf spoke gently. He knew that young men about to be thrashed for the first time needed to be guided through the process. He would take it one step at a time.

In the days that followed Ben tried without success to remember exactly what happened in that office. Somehow, unconsciously he had erased it from his memory. What he did know for certain was that his backside had been cut to ribbons. The welts from the cane were so deep and thick it would take more than a week for them to clear. Even then, when he was in the shower and he let hot water pour across his buttocks, thin cane marks reappeared.

Obediently, Ben slipped off his coat and placed it on an old wooden chair.

“Stand by the table.” It was a cheap, topped with Formica and hardly three feet wide.

Mr Wolf studied the boy before him. He was nearly six-feet tall and lanky. His arms fell awkwardly at his side.  The teenager’s eyes shone, glistened by the tears trying to force their way through. He had a blank far-away look.

“Trousers down.” Ben was wearing dirty cream-coloured cotton chinos, held at the waist by a wide leather belt. He made no attempt to move.

“Trousers down.” It was a sterner command this time. Still Ben did not move. It was as if he had not heard.

“Pah!” Mr Wolf exhaled air through his half-clenched teeth. He stepped forward and grabbed the boy at the waist. Ben did not resist. In seconds Mr Wolf had the belt buckle loose and the chinos were at Ben’s knees.

“Bend over the table.” This time Ben did hear. As if in a trance, he gently lowered himself forward. He made no protest.

Ben was so tall and the table so narrow that his body easily fitted across the Formica top. Instinctively, for Mr Wolf gave no further instruction, the teenager reached forward and grabbed the two table legs ahead of him. One in each hand.

Mr Wolf had thrashed many of the boys at the supermarket. They came in all shapes and sizes. Some were short and squat, others tall and gangly. Many had too much body fat. The flab on their stomachs spread out beneath their body. Their buttocks were so plump they would wobble like jelly each time the cane made contact with the mounds of flesh.

Ben was leaner. He took no exercise, but was naturally thin. His bodily metabolism dealt with the hamburgers and copious amounts of beer he consumed most days.

Mr Wolf took hold of the tail of Ben’s shirt and tugged it up the small of his back. Just far enough to leave the target area clear. He was wearing loose-fitting boxer shorts, so Mr Wolf spent a moment smoothing them out. He wanted all the creases removed. It hurt a boy much more if the underwear fitted snuggly against the buttocks. It should be like a second skin.

By now, Ben had closed his eyes tightly shut. It seemed to Mr Wolf that the boy was determined to take his just punishment without a fuss. He hoped so.

He was distressed when a young man couldn’t take his beating passively. Sometimes one would refuse to bend over and there would be an unseemly fight with Mr Wolf, The boss was somewhere in his forties, but he had worked hard all his life. Youngsters were astounded when he was able to force them face-down over the table. He kept some small pieces of rope in the drawer. They could be used to tie the wrists of the boy to the table legs.

Ben’s breathing was shallow. He had remained almost entirely silent from the moment the two men had entered the office.

Mr Wolf tapped the cane across Ben’s buttocks, just to get his aim. The bum cheeks responded by tightening, as if preparing themselves to ward off an almighty battering.

Thwip! It was a wicked slash. Mr Wolf might have been beating a carpet. The cane broke through the surface of the boy’s cheeks and through the sheer force of the slash continued onwards into the meat of Ben’s bum. A thick white line appeared across the centre of Ben’s boxers where the cotton had been disturbed. Mr Wolf knew from experience that a thick red line would already have formed in the flesh.

Ben’s yelp confirmed that the cut had bitten deep. It was agony. The teenager kicked his legs back as the pain seared through his backside. He stamped his feet up and down and gripped the table legs as if his very life depended on it.

Mr Wolf was not a cruel man. He delivered punishments, not torture. But, a beating had to hurt otherwise what was the point of it all?

Ben received the second cut surprisingly well, Mr Wolf thought. It was slightly harder than the first and landed a half inch or so lower. Ben repeated his military dance and his hips wriggled from left to right. His yelp was more intense and his shallow breathing was heavier now.

Mr Wolf heard footsteps approach from outside the office. Then they stopped. The door was closed, but not locked. The visitor had hesitated. Mr Wolf’s reputation was well-known among his fellow supervisors. Rather like the shop-floor workers, they preferred to turn a blind eye.

Slashes number three and four cut the lower part of Ben’s buttocks to shreds. The yellow-coloured boxer shorts had turned orange in places. Blood was seeping from the wounds inflicted by the mightily-effective cane.

Ben bounced his forehead up and down on the table top. It was a natural reaction to the intense suffering he felt. Tears flowed freely and his throat was full of bile. He choked the vomit back down, provoking a fitting cough.

Yes, the boy was taking his thrashing rather well, Mr Wolf thought. When he had dealt with Ben’s friend Toby last month the boy howled the office down after only two strokes.

Mr Wolf gave Ben a few moments to settle. His throat was now clear and he was ready for number five.

Although the thief prostrated before him was a tall young man, his buttocks were quite small and tight. Unlike with the fat, almost obese, youngsters Mr Wolf often caned there was not much to aim at. It was inevitable that at least one cut would land on a weal, extending the already deep cut and intensifying the agony.

Mr Wolf had not meant to do it. It was a hazard of the job. Ben positively screamed. Instinctively he jumped to his feet jumping up and down on the spot while rubbing away furiously at his behind. It did nothing to relive the pain. Instead by pressing down on open wounds it intensified the soreness.

Then, Mr Wolf watched in astonishment as Ben did something that no other youngster had ever done before. Unbidden, the nineteen-year-old thief lifted his shirt clear of his underwear, before leaning forward across the desk and submissively offering himself for the sixth and final stroke.

Mr Wolf had not intended to land the fifth stoke across an existing welt. Not so the sixth.  This was what Mr Wolf thought of as his “trademark.” He repositioned his cane so that it aimed from the lower half of the left buttock across to the top half of the right. Then he let fly. The swipe landed diagonally across all previous five cuts.

Ben was on his feet again. Howling and howling. He ran on the spot, doubled up like a pocket-knife and then ran again. Nothing could extinguish the intense agony in his bankside.

There was no reason for him to compose himself and go back over the Formica top. It was over. He had taken his punishment. It was, Mr Wolf believed, what the English used to call “six-of-the-best.” That was in the days when schools still believed in discipline.

Kindly, Mr Wolf handed the punished boy a fistful of paper handkerchiefs. Ben was composing himself. The tears had eased to sobs and would quickly dry altogether. The agony in his buttocks had turned to an intense throb. He did not yet realise how scarred his buttocks were. He would find out soon enough when he returned to his home.

Mr Wolf gave Ben a few minutes to recover and sent him on his way, clearly understanding the consequences of any future thieving.

Ben had barely left the office before Mr Wolf picked up the telephone and called Ben’s dad to tell him what he had done to his son. Mr McKenzie listened impassively, thanked his caller and waited for his son to arrive home.

Ben hobbled through the goods-received section towards the exit. That flaming Christmas song was still coming through the loudspeakers.

“Look to the future now, it’s only just begun.

“Merry Christmas everybody!”

 

First published Christmas 2015

Picture credit: Unknown

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com