Footballer’s Hairbrush Treatment

z used solo chest smoking orient (8)

The new Chief Coach knew what he would do if he could have his way. A so-called top class footballer smoking cigarettes. What was the boy thinking?

And, he still was a boy.

Chief Coach Herbertsen had only recently been appointed to lead one of the best-known football clubs in the world and he was expected to deliver great things: the championship title at least.

There were some problems at the club, and most of them had to do with the attitude of the players. The older men were trouble enough, but now he had to deal with one of the “rising stars.”

It was all over the news media and some commentators were saying it was a scandal. A professional footballer had been photographed smoking a cigarette. What a disgrace.

Chief Coach Herbertsen put down the newspaper in despair. The front page; the “story” had made the front page for chrissake. In a few moments time the young footballer in question was due to appear before him and he was expected to do something about it.

Let’s call him Bobby Dazzler, just in case any lawyers are reading this: we don’t need another scandal. You know who it is.

Dazzler had just turned eighteen and was a rising star at the club. He had just broken into the first team, but was spending most of his time on the bench. When he came off it, or when he started some of the minor matches, he’d shown himself to be a very enterprising goal scorer. But, he was just at the start of his career. He needed a lot of discipline if he were to make it in the word of football. Herbertsen had lost count of the number of talented but ill-disciplined teenagers who eventually came to nothing in their twenties.

Dazzler could go that way if he didn’t buck up his ideas.

He’d been out one night, in the street, just walking somewhere like an ordinary civilian, when he lit up a cigarette. A passing citizen on a cell phone captured him enjoying his Marlborough and this being the twenty-first century, immediately sold the image to a tabloid newspaper.

And, now it was a big deal, an athlete smoking tobacco. It had been a major item on twenty-four-hour television news all yesterday and they were still talking about it this morning. Social media had gone crazy and every sanctimonious so-and-so in cyberspace had a view. Dazzler was not coming out of this well.

Herbertsen would have laughed out loud if he hadn’t been so worried. What was he supposed to do about it? The club wanted Dazzler “disciplined” to appease all those critics and it was up to him to do it.

Herbertsen despaired. He often thought that football clubs treated their players like schoolchildren. It happened all the time; especially when they travelled to away matches or went away on tour. The players were told when to get up in the morning, what to eat, when to eat it, when to take a nap in the daytime and when to go to bed at night. Even when they were away from the club they were expected to observe a night-time curfew; to be home no later than eleven o’clock; even earlier if there was a match the next day.

It was even worse when the players were staying at a hotel; there were strict rules about behaviour; if they used their cell phones or tablets and the like they had them confiscated. It was worse than being at boarding school. No girls were allowed of course, not even wives. Coach Herbertsen or a member of his staff were expected to make what they called a “dormitory round” at night to make sure everyone was where they should be and there were no illegal visitors.

That was embarrassing for everyone concerned. Especially the one time Herbertsen stumbled across two of his players and very well-known ones at that (very well known: it would make your hair curl if you discovered their names) together pleasuring one another under the bed clothes. What could Herbertsen do? They were over the age of consent and it was legal. He just closed the door and none of them ever mentioned the matter again.

Yes, they were treated just like schoolboys. They even had their own “prefects.” The senior players ruled the roost. If you were a new member of the playing squad, especially if you had just been promoted from the junior ranks, you knew your place and you stuck to it. Only speak when spoken to; keep your opinions to yourself. The club captain was like God (or the Head Boy at least). You just did not get on his wrong side.

The cherry on the cake was the clothes the players were forced to wear. The red blazer with white braiding and grey trousers, white shirt, club tie: it really was indistinguishable from a school uniform. All it needed was the addition of grey short trousers and they would look like a bunch of little kids. As it was Dazzler was so young he was no older than a senior schoolboy; someone in the sixth-form, say. Coach Herbertsen saw real schoolboys every day in the street that looked older than some of his football squad.

Ha! Herbertsen thought we really do treat them like schoolkids. Smoking a cigarette. Well, back in the day, he knew how the school would have dealt with that. Off to the housemaster’s study; bend over; sore bum; don’t let me catch you smoking again. All over in a moment. No fuss.

Why couldn’t it be that simple, now? Herbertsen was the boss of the players, their headmaster if you want to continue the analogy, and one of his jobs was to impose discipline. There wasn’t much he could do when they broke the rules. If one of the lads missed training without an excuse or broke one of the more petty rules, he usually summoned him to his office.

There was no cane or paddle. He would give them a rollicking. The media called it “the hairdryer treatment.” Sometimes, he thought, it would do more good if he gave them the “hairbrush treatment.”

Herbertsen knew if the reports he received from the junior squad manager were true, Dazzler was in trouble for more than just smoking cigarettes. He liked a drink and his house situated just outside of town was the venue for lots of parties involving the club’s younger players, including many who were only apprentices. Dazzler should be setting them an example, not leading them astray.

Then there was the bullying: he had it on good authority that Dazzler was the leader of a gang who terrorised some of the younger players. Herbertsen could scarcely believe it but Dazzler and the others took one of the kids and put him in the clothes drier in the club’s laundry. The poor lad had some kind of fit.

Dazzler arrived for his meeting ten minutes late and was neither apologetic about his poor timekeeping nor contrite about his smoking. Herbertsen was not impressed. He tore into the boy, ranting about his bad behaviour and was rewarded with a shrug of the shoulders and a pout for his trouble.

He felt his anger rising and was about to punch the brat in the mouth when he regained control for just long enough to tell him to F-off out of his office and come back to see him after training.

Herbertsen had calmed down considerably by the time Dazzler reappeared later that day. He had consulted with the club’s chairman who confirmed that although Dazzler might yet prove to be a star, he wasn’t there yet, and if the Head Coach wanted to transfer him to another club, that was alright with him.

Good, thought Herbertsen, let’s deal with the brat once and for all. And, he hatched a plan on how to do exactly that.

Dazzler had also had time to think carefully about the newspaper reports. On the phone, his agent had warned him that he shouldn’t upset the club. It was a major world footballing power and if it let him go, the only way to go would be down. With his growing reputation as a smoker and a party-animal another top club was unlikely to move in with a contract. That would be the end of his career, the fame and the riches. And, Dazzler had already decided at the tender age of eighteen, he would do anything to achieve these.

It was imperative that he make his peace with the Head Coach.

Dazzler was on time for his second meeting of the day with Coach Herbertsen and ready to show him some remorse.

But, he didn’t get the chance. “I have discussed it with the chairman and your contract will be terminated forthwith.”

The shocking news took the wind out of Dazzler and he held on to a table to stop himself fainting to the ground.

“You have nobody to blame but yourself. You are constantly misbehaving and you show no remorse. It is best that you go.”

Remorse? Dazzler had prepared a little speech of apology, but now he had forgotten every word of it.

Tears welled in his eyes and all he could say was, “I’m sorry, boss, I’m sorry.”

Herbertsen looked at the teenager with satisfaction. That was more like it; he’s not so arrogant now.

Dazzler pleaded for one last chance. He would do better. He promised.

“You lack discipline. You behave like a spoilt child. There is nothing I can do with you,” the Head Coach said, but he knew there was something he could do and the solution was hidden in his desk drawer.

“Please,” Dazzler was begging now. “I’ll do anything, please give me a second chance.”

He had flown straight into the Head Coach’s web.

“Maybe there is something we can do. You act like a spoilt brat and you need to be taken down a peg or two.”

Dazzler looked on blankly, not comprehending his boss.

The Head Coach opened his drawer and pulled out a large oval shaped hairbrush, borrowed from one of the women office workers this afternoon for this particular purpose.

“You need a damn good spanking.”

Dazzler’s jaw almost dropped at the absurdity of the situation he now found himself in, but he had the good sense to stay silent.

“This can be your one last chance,” Herbertsen assured him as he waved the hairbrush in the footballer’s direction.

To say Dazzler couldn’t believe it was an understatement. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? The coach spanking the football player: was it even legal?

Yet, in his present circumstances it was the only solution. He would submit to his boss and be able to pursue the fame and fortune of a career at one of the world’s top clubs. Otherwise his career was as good as over.

Herberston wasn’t prepared to discuss the matter.

“I want you to lower your trousers. You can keep your underpants on. Then bend across my desk. C’mon, do it now.”

Dazzler knew he had only seconds to make the biggest decision of his life. Bend over and show the Head Coach his arse, or walk out of the door, possibly to oblivion.

When he thought about it later he couldn’t remember much of what happened next. But he did know that he unbuckled his belt, let his trousers fall to his knees and then he lent face down across the boss’s huge desk.

Dazzler didn’t know how many times Herbertsen smacked the wooden hairbrush across the seat of his boxer briefs, but later, back at home, as he nursed his raw buttocks, he could see both cheeks and this thighs down almost to the backs of his knees were covered in mauve bruises and some were turning black.

The throbbing pain had died down, but the whole area was still tender to the touch and he had difficulty sitting comfortably.  These bruises would last for days, probably weeks: how would he explain them away to the guys in the dressing room?

He couldn’t be certain but he thought he might have bawled his eyes out as he lay face down across the desk, the hairbrush raining down across his buttocks, while he gripped the edge of the desk for dear life.

By the time he reached home, his nerves were still shot to pieces. He needed something to calm himself down. In the room below he had a packet of cigarettes and there was booze in the fridge …

Picture credit: Orient

 

This story was first uploaded in October 2015.

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Footballer’s judicial caning

The smiling boy

The housemates

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Put Back Into Short Trousers

z used uniform short shorts (56)

 

Joe crossed the road to his neighbour’s house, walked up the garden path and rang the doorbell.

As he waited for the door to be opened he idly looked through the bay window into the living room. There seated at the dining table he saw Aaron, the neighbour’s eighteen-year-old son. He appeared to be busy on his school homework. But something was not quite right.

The boy was dressed in his school uniform, nothing unusual in that. Joe’s own son Ant was in the same class as Aaron; Joe was familiar with the light blue blazer, white shirt and dark blue and light blue ties the boys wore. But something was different: Aaron was dressed in mid-grey short trousers and long knee socks. They were most certainly not the uniform of Midchester School.

The door opened and Alan immediately saw the puzzled expression on his friend’s face.

“Yes,” he said without waiting to be asked, “We’ve put him back into short trousers.”

The two men went into the kitchen. “Here have a beer, while I go and fetch your power drill.”

Two minutes later Alan was back and telling his story.

“He’s been like it since Christmas. He did really badly in his A-level mock examinations.”

Joe nodded thoughtfully. Ant’s results had been pretty dire too.

“Val and I reckoned he’d been spending too much time away from his books. He would spend hours each evening hanging around the bus stops with his mates.”

Yes, Joe thought, and Ant was almost certainly one of them.

“And we had no idea what he was doing most of the weekend. He was never at home. One thing we did know was that he wasn’t doing his schoolwork.” Alan took a slug of his beer and realising that Joe was not going to ask him a question, he carried on with his story.

“We needed to find a way to stop him going out all the time so we came up with this.”

“Making him wear short trousers?”

“Yes, it was such a simple idea. Val read about it somewhere on the Internet. We took all his clothes and we’ve locked them away. Now, he’s only allowed to wear his long trousers to school. He has to come home immediately school ends and change into his short trousers. We lock up the long trousers and don’t let him have them back until breakfast time next morning.”

Joe nodded encouragement, so Alan continued.

“Now if he wants to go out at night or at the weekend he must go wearing his short trousers and school uniform. So he stays at home. I don’t think he would want to let all his mates see him dressed like that. And they are proper short trousers; they are not the leisure shorts kids wear today. You would never mistake them for that, not even from a distance. They are trousers that are short. Properly tailored trousers. Actually, if you ask me I think he looks rather good in them.”

Joe had always been a practical man so he asked, “Where did you get them? They don’t make short trousers for eighteen year olds do they?”

“You’d be surprised. Ordinary school uniform suppliers often have them. We found them on the Internet. I think they make them large now because so many young kids are fat; obsess even. The ones we got for Aaron fit him at the waist but they are a bit short in the leg; but that’s okay, it just emphasises that he is still a child and not an adult.”

Joe was warming to the idea. “Does it work? Have his grades improved?”

“Yes,” Alan beamed, he really was pleased with himself. “So far, it’s been a total success; he stays at home and gets on with his work. We had to change the password for the wi-fi connection, so when he’s at home he can’t get on the Internet. He’s doing English Lit A-level so he should be reading books, not tossing himself off to internet porn.”

The two men sat in companionable silence taking sips of their beer.

Alan wasn’t sure he should tell Joe this; it might sound a bit odd, but he did. “Oh, and another thing; being dressed as a child reminds him that he isn’t yet an adult. That’s the trouble with teenagers today they think they are grown up when they are not. He needs to be reminded that we are his parents and it is his job to obey us. He should also obey his teachers and all other adults. All teenagers should remember that. If I had my way all boys would be kept in short trousers until they left school, even until they’re eighteen.”

They finished their beers and Joe picked up the drill and made to leave. Would this work for Ant, he wondered. “How did Aaron take it; when you told him he must wear short trousers?” Joe asked.

Alan smiled. He certainly wasn’t going to tell the whole truth. “He wailed the house down. You know the way teenagers do.”

Yes, Joe certainly did, his own son was just like that.

“But,” Alan continued, “He had no choice. We had his long trousers. It’s not like we’ve chained him to the banisters; he’s not a prisoner. He can still go out if he wants, but he has to wear the short trousers and school uniform when he does.”

Joe gave a weak smile, thanked Alan for the beer and returned home deep in thought. Ant was on the road to examination failure; that was certain. Should he put Ant back into short trousers? Would it work for him? Why not, it had worked for Aaron. Maybe he should ask Alan for the Internet address of the school uniform supplier.

Alan sat back down at the kitchen table and cracked open another can of beer. He was very pleased with himself. He and his wife had told nobody about this. They had discussed sending Aaron to school wearing his short trousers; but they knew they would have busy-body teachers (and even social workers) on their doorstep within hours. They would look odd to people in these days of political correctness.

And, they certainly did not, and would not, tell the other half of the story. Alan might tell Joe that it was the short trousers regime that had bucked up Aaron’s ideas; but he knew that wasn’t entirely true. It was the spankings that really did it.

The first time he put a clothes brush across Aaron’s bum, it had not been planned. Alan had told the truth that his son had wailed the house down. At first he flatly refused to wear the short trousers. He had no long trousers, so he lounged around the house in his underpants. Well, okay, Alan had thought, he still had to remain at home; he could not go out in his briefs.

But, Alan had been very taken by the Internet site’s insistence that teenaged boys be put in short trousers to remind them they were still children who must obey their parents. Aaron clearly had not accepted that. Alan endured hours of moaning and pouting from Aaron and then he snapped.

It had not been planned. Alan was sitting in the living room trying to read his newspaper; Alan was nearby pouting and screaming that he would not wear the short trousers. A clothes brush lay on the sideboard. In a flash, without thinking of the possible consequence, Alan grabbed the brush, took Aaron by the back of the head, gripped his hair (it was well overdue cutting) and forced the boy face down over the back of the couch. Then he pressed against the back of the wretched boy’s neck so that he was chewing on a scatter cushion.

Then he unleashed a frenzied attack on the seat of the boy’s underpants. Aaron’s attempted yells of protest were stifled by the cushion and his mouth was soon full of dust. His father’s grip was so strong the eighteen-year-old had no choice but to remain head low, bottom high, over the crown of the couch while his father whipped swat after swat into his tight buttocks.

The pain was intense, but there was no escaping it. He struggled to the left and right but the grip on his neck was too powerful. He was at the mercy of his father: but the irate man was not showing any. In one last desperate attempt to free himself, Aaron kicked out his left leg and caught his father a blow on the shin. Rather than dissuading the older man from his mission to toast his son’s buttocks it spurred him on.

With all the struggling the boy’s honeycomb-coloured pants had slid down his buttock so that the top of his curves were visible. Encouraged by the sight of bare flesh, Alan tugged at the briefs and pulled them further down until they rested bunched below the crease where the buttock meets the thigh. Then with an increasingly furious pace he pounded the clothes brush into the boy’s now naked backside.

His pain, humiliation and the dust from the cushion was taking its toll on Aaron. His breathing was fast and his blood pressure sky high. The pain in his bottom was intense; his father was raining down swat after swat without let up. He was whacking the brush into Aaron’s bum at the rate of eighty a minute.

Spit dribbled from the boy’s mouth and tears and snot cascaded down his face. His protests quickly turned to owwws, and then arghhhhs, through to yelps and finally on to full-throated yells. But, on and on Alan spanked the brush into his son’s bare bottom. Red patches quickly turned to blue and some were going purple. The imprint of the large oval head of the brush was imprinted dozens of times across the boy’s globes.

If he had the breath to do so, Aaron would have been pleading for mercy. He would wear the short trousers; he would obey his mum and dad; he would do anything they asked, so long as his father would stop hurting him.

Not one part of Aaron’s buttocks and the back of his thighs was left untouched before Alan released his grip on his son’s neck. Now free and without waiting for permission, Aaron shot up from the couch, pulled his briefs up and rushed from the room. He took the stairs two at a time, crashed into his bedroom, slammed the door behind him, threw himself face down on the bed and sobbed his guts up. He had been utterly defeated by his father.

The boy wore his short trousers after that and although he still hated his father he knew it was an opinion he had best keep to himself.

The second time Aaron was spanked was altogether different. An essay on Chaucer was graded C, with the comment from his teacher, “must make more effort”. That was enough for Alan; the boy was slipping back into old ways and needed a reminder; a maintenance spanking.

So a dining-room chair was placed in the middle of the room and the brush retrieved from the sideboard drawer. Aaron was summoned from his room. It was no surprise, he was expecting this. On command, he meekly lowered his short trousers and eighteen years old though he was, he bent across his father’s lap to receive his second buttock roasting. No matter how much he would hate this ordeal, he knew one thing was for certain: it was better to accept the inevitable than try to fight with his dad.

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

This story was first published in September 2015

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Hotel Duty Manager

do not disturb sign

The duty manager stood at his office window scanning the hotel complex for trouble. It was three days since he had any action and he was getting very tense.

Then he saw them. Yes, this would do nicely.

Two teenaged boys, obviously English judging by their pale skins, were dancing on the balcony of their rooms, dressed only in their underpants. Drunk, of course, he thought. Unless they were high on drugs.

He couldn’t hear from a distance but he was pretty sure loud music would be coming from the room, disturbing other hotel guests.

What’s this? One of the boys wriggled his bottom provocatively at his friend. What the Hell? In what the boy supposed to be a seductive dance, he lowered his bright yellow briefs and thrust out his pert little, now bare, buttocks.

The duty manager went to his computer and after a few mouse clicks the information he wanted appeared on screen. Yes, the thought so: Peter Giles, aged eighteen, and Wayne Calderwood, aged nineteen. They were part of a package group from England: arrived yesterday for ten days.

Yes, they would be ideal, he told himself, as he picked up his keys and briefcase.

Five minutes later he was hammering on their hotel door.

“Duty manager here. Please open the door.”

A few seconds elapsed before the music was turned off and the door opened.

“Duty manager,” he showed his ID card and entered the room. The boys were still in their underpants and judging by the glazed look in their eyes, they had been drinking heavily. The empty beer bottles confirmed that.

Typical English louts, the duty manager thought, away from their parents for an orgy of sun, sand, booze and sex.

“I have had complaints about the noise from this room,” he rasped sternly. Drunk though they were, the boys remained silent and heard him out.

“And, I witnessed myself, your lewd behaviour on the balcony.”

Both boys blushed scarlet at the thought their little secret was out.

“Now, I have your names here; which one of you is Wayne?”

The boy in the yellow pants raised his hand.

“So, you must be Peter?” he told the other boy.

“Right, Peter, Wayne, I want you to pack your bags and leave the hotel.”

The boys had not expected this and they sobered up pretty quickly. There was nowhere they could go. They were on a tourist deal and their flight home didn’t leave for more than a week.

Peter piped up, “We are sorry, Sir. We promise not to do it again.”

“Sir”. The duty manager liked that. This was going to be easy.

Peter and Wayne slurred their explanations. They were on a package tour. There was no way they could fly back to England now. If they were thrown out of the hotel, they would be destitute.  They would have to sleep on the beach.

What would their friends say?

God! What would their fathers say? No what would their fathers DO, when they found out.

Wayne knew what his father would do. It took weeks for the bruises and scars to completely heal after dad heard he had been driving the family car without permission and well over the drink-drive limit.

It had been the whipping of his lifetime. But, the teenager was certain the thrashing he would get when his dad heard about this would be ten times worse, especially if dad had to buy him an air ticket to rescue him from Lanzarote.

The duty hotel manager could read the hooligans like a book.

“No, you must leave. We cannot have this kind of behaviour. We are a respectable hotel.”

That wasn’t strictly true, many things happened at the hotel that were far from respectable. That’s why so many youngsters stayed there.

Peter could feel his eyes welling up. He was such a cry baby.

The duty manager let them suffer a while.

“How old are you boys?”

Peter, “Eighteen, Sir.”

Wayne, “Nineteen, nearly twenty.” And, then he added, “Sir.”

“Doh! If I were your fathers I’d give you each a damn good spanking.”

The boys were literally speechless. Who was this man? How did he know so much about their fathers?

The duty manager eyed each boy carefully, “Do you know in this country we have the law of pater familias?”

The boys looked at each other blankly; they didn’t quite shrug their shoulders to express ignorance; but the duty manager could tell they were clueless.

Pater familias means the head of the household takes responsibility for all those who are aged less than twenty-one years. He acts in the place of their fathers. Do you understand?”

They didn’t, so he carried on.

“In law while you are staying at the hotel you are part of my household and I act in pater familias. I am your father.” And, then a little more sharply, “Do you understand that?”

Yes, they said, they understood that.

The duty manager had them where he wanted. They were so dumb. The products of a fine English education, he thought.

“If you solemnly promise that you will not disturb your neighbours and you will not behave in that disgusting fashion again, I am prepared to act in pater familias. Do you understand?”

Peter still did not, but a light bulb lit above Wayne’s head, “You’re going to spank us.”

The two boys exchanged glances but they said nothing.

“Yes, I am. If you swear you will behave. The alternative is for you both to leave.”

The boys could not look each other in the eyes. The duty manager took their silence as assent and went to his briefcase to extract a wooden paddle. As paddles went, it was not a vicious object; similar ones were still used in a few America schools to whack the backsides of misbehaving schoolchildren.

He held the paddle in one hand as if testing its weight. Then, pointing it towards the door of the room, he said, “Both of you stand there and put your hands on your head.”

Without question, they did as instructed. Raising their hands helped to define their bodies. The duty manager took a moment to admire the muscle tone of each boy; obviously they worked out at the gym a little, but they weren’t obsessive body builders. Each boy had very clear skin and had he taken the trouble to inspect the bathroom he would find an array of lotions that had made that possible.

The rooms in the hotel were small and the duty manager knew from experience the most effective way to swing a paddle was to have the boy over his knees. He sat on a bed and motioned Peter to step forward.

“Come here, Peter and bend over my knee.”

Silently, Peter walked forward. The duty manager could see tears forming already. If he’s like this now, what will be like once I’ve blistered his backside for him?

Peter stared vacantly at the legs of the duty manager. Was he really expected to bend over them to allow this commanding man to whip his arse?

“Come on Peter,” he held out his hand to take the teenager by the arm and gently glide him over his lap. The boy did not resist and allowed the masterful man to adjust him until his chest lay across the bed and his legs stretched out behind him so his toes just reached the carpet. His bottom, the highest part of his body, rested over the duty manager’s lap.

The duty manager rubbed his huge hand over Peter’s underpants to smooth any creases from the cotton. Peter’s breathing became irregular as he waited the first swat of the paddle.

Wallop! It hit into the left cheek. Peter gasped a little, but the pain was not too great. It tingled a little that was all.

The duty manager held the boy firmly around the waist. He could see Peter had taken too much sun today; the skin on his back would be burnt by tonight. The skin on his backside would also be sore by the time he was finished.

The spanking was sound, but not brutal. Peter was in tears by the fourth swat.

By the time the twelfth and last swat smacked home, Peter’s buttocks were raw, but the pain had already turned to stinging sensation and quickly it would become a warm, pleasant glow.

The spanking over, the duty manager sent Peter to stand by the door once more, hands on head. He faced the door, away from sight.

“Wayne, you know the procedure.”

Wayne was determined to be brave in front of Peter. In their relationship, he always was the leader; the strong one.

He put himself over the duty manager’s lap and wriggled around so his backside was in the prime spot to receive the paddle.

The duty manager was annoyed that Wayne did not seem especially anxious. Well, this should make him worry more. He took hold of the pants at the waist and pulled them down to his thighs.

“There, you seem to like showing off your bare bottom. Let’s all have a look.”

Wayne hadn’t expected this; but he knew he must try to take anything the duty manager could dish out; even bare butt.

And, he could. The duty manager whacked him twelve times with the paddle; Wayne writhed a little, but mostly stayed quiet. It hurt like hell and he was a little worried about the bruises. He wanted to show off his body on the beach, but his skimpy swimming trunks hardly covered a thing. What would the boys think when they saw he had been spanked?

His duty to his other guests completed, the duty manager packed up his paddle, and prepared to leave. Both boys were rubbing their hot buttocks to convince him it had been a job well done.

“I shall be keeping an eye on you to for the rest of the stay. I hope we don’t have to have a repeat of this afternoon,” he said, unconvincingly.

Back in his office with the blinds drawn and the door locked, the duty manager reached for the suntan lotion and unzipped his trousers.

The gullible English, he thought. There’s one born every minute.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Headmasters, Like Elephant’s, Never Forget

z used drawing cane quelch (78)

Former pupil Kevin Smith returns to St Francis only to find there is painful unfinished business with the headmaster

A St Francis Independent Grammar School story. Click here for the full series.

 

This cannot really be happening; but here I am a twenty-one-year-old newspaper reporter standing in the headmaster’s oak-panelled study about to get six-of-the-best. The very best.

My name’s Kevin Smith and I work for the Brocklehurst Bugle, a weekly newspaper in a small town on the south coast of England. I’ve only just started as a cub reporter. I think I got the job because I was born and brought up in Brocklehurst and they wanted someone who knows the area. Also, I live with my mum and dad so that means the paper doesn’t have to pay me too much. Jobs in journalism are as hard to find as hens’ teeth so I was absolutely knocked-out when I got the job. I like it a lot and I hope in time I’ll be a really good journalist.

I used to be a pupil here at St Francis Independent Grammar and after I got my A-levels I went away to university. But, now I’m back. My editor knows I used to be a pupil here and that’s why he sent me on this job. The Grammar’s just had its annual speech day and I have to pick up the names of the pupils who got prizes and so on. Pretty boring actually, but you know local papers they love stuff like that.

I was really pleased to be asked by my editor to do this job because I thought it would give me a chance to go back to my old school and maybe show off a bit, about how important I’d become.

But, I had forgotten something very important. And, now my past was about to catch up with me.

“Well Smith,” Dr Henderson-Smith, the headmaster, looked at me stone-faced; his white moustache bristled and his knitted white brows frowned.

“Before we talk about speech day, I think there’s some unfinished business we must deal with.”

“Unfinished business.” What did he mean?

And, then in a rush, I remembered. Blast! How could I have forgotten?

The headmaster, dressed in a rather old-fashioned academic gown, was seated behind his huge desk, topped in green leather. I knew from experience that when he stood up he was commanding figure, tall, grim, stiff as a ram-rod. And, he was strong as an ox, as could be testified every time he swiped down a cane across a boy’s backside.

I was standing in front of him, every inch, in his eyes, the naughty schoolboy deserving of just such a sound thrashing.

“A matter of the decomposed frog in the science laboratory, I believe.” Dr Henderson-Smith was rather pompous in the way he talked. He always had been. He still was. He strung out the word “la-bor-a-torrry” to give it full dramatic force.

Now, I was absolutely certain what he was talking about. But, he wasn’t going to leave it alone. I couldn’t look him in the face and cast my eyes down to examine the red patterned rug that I was standing on. I noticed my shoes could do with polishing.

The headmaster had centre stage and like the old ham actor he was, he was going to have his moment. He intoned the details of my crime, making sure every last detail was recorded for posterity.

In truth, there wasn’t much to tell. Three years ago when I was in the sixth-form here, I played a prank on my final day as a pupil. It was silly and very unpleasant for Mr Wilkinson, the science master, but that’s all it was, a schoolboy prank.

None of the boys much liked Mr Wilkinson. He was very strict and he thought nothing of peppering our backsides with the cane. There can’t have been many boys he taught who didn’t get a whacking from him at least once. You could get it for anything. With other science masters, pupils used to love to lark about during lessons; science does that to you, all those Bunsen Burners and test tubes. But, you never larked around with Mr Wilkinson – or, at least if you did it once, you never did it again. His cane made sure of that.

Mostly, though we got the stick for poor work. God help any boy who didn’t do his homework or did badly in a test. And, I don’t mean fail a test, if you did that, it meant death. But, Wilkinson would beat you if you got less than seventy out of a hundred in one of his classroom exercises and as you might imagine that meant a lot of boys showed him their backside over the years.

So, you can see why I thought it would be jolly good fun to play a trick on him. Here’s what I did. I took one of the frogs that we had for dissecting so we could explore the gizzards inside. You know the sort of thing; you would have done it yourself at school. So, I took one of these frogs, mashed it up a bit and put the dead body in Mr Wilkinson’s desk.

Then we all set off for our summer holidays and for me it was the last time I set foot in the school until today.

So now here I am standing in front of the headmaster listening to him recount my misdeeds. How, six weeks later the by now fully decomposed frog had been discovered in the laboratory. He told me about the stench, the bluebottles and the maggots. The headmaster seemed to be enjoying himself.

“So, Smith, what do you have to say for yourself?” I wanted to ask how he knew it was me, but I think I know the answer to that. As every schoolboy knows there’s no point in playing a trick on a master and keeping it to yourself, where’s the fun in that? So, that summer hols I was full of it. It wouldn’t have taken anyone at Brocklehurst long to find out who did it.

There was no denying it. I had done it and now I was found out.

I really didn’t have anything to say, so I just stared at the rug. I could see it was a little bit threadbare (generations of naughty boys shuffling their feet before being ordered to bend over so they could get a close up view of the pattern?).

The headmaster mistook my silence for denial. “Do-you-deny-you-did-this-thing?” he tried to get dramatic effect with every word.

“No sir,” I blurted out the response. I think this took him a bit by surprise, I think he was expecting denial and then a big argument.

“So-you-do-not-de-ny-you-per-pet-rate-ted-this villle-cer-ime?” he seemed a bit disappointed he wasn’t going to get to play another dramatic scene.

So, I coughed to it. Yes, it was me, I did it, I’m sorry, it seemed like a good idea at the time, now I know it wasn’t a good thing to do, I’m sorry.

Actually, I am sorry. I’m not in agonies of guilt about it, but I can see that the frog must have been a pretty disgusting mess by the time Wilkinson discovered it at the end of the summer vac. I also know I was just trying to show off in front of my friends.

There was silence for a moment as the headmaster seemed to weigh up his options about what he would do next.

And, unsurprisingly perhaps, he decided to do what a headmaster would do in these circumstances.

“You committed this crime while a boy at this school and you should be dealt with accordingly,” he was speaking more naturally now.

Without another word, he stood up from his plush leather chair and walked the three or four paces to a set of cupboards running the length of one wall. My eyes followed him. He pulled his academic gown to one side so he could delve into a trouser pocket to withdraw a small bunch of keys. Selecting one, he unlocked one of the cupboards.

I should have guessed. Inside were an array of punishment canes, the headmaster was blocking my sight, but I could see at least four crook-handled rattans. Dr Henderson-Smith put his hand in the cupboard and as he did so he moved his body a little and I could see it contained many, many more. He seemed to be looking for a particular stick. In no time he found it, withdrew, locked the cupboard, and turned to face me.

I wasn’t terribly surprised. If I had been found out while I was still a pupil here I would have been beaten. Maybe, Wilkinson would have done it himself, or maybe he’d have sent me to the head. Who can be sure? But, either way my bum would be on fire.

The head placed the cane on his leather topped desk and walked to the far side of the study. There was a wooden-backed chair leaning against the wall. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He picked it up and placed it on the rug in front of his desk, just as if he was putting it there for a visitor to sit on. But, I knew I wasn’t going to be sitting down, not on this chair, and probably not anywhere comfortably, for some hours to come.

“Stand by the chair,” it was a calm instruction, not barked as if an order. I walked over and as instructed stood facing the back of the chair. “Closer boy,” Of course, I was about three feet from the wooden back of the chair, there was no way I could bend over from there.

I shuffled a couple of paces forward. Dr Henderson-Smith stood to my right hand side, I turned my head slightly to see what he was doing and for the first time I saw close up the cane he was going to use to whip me. It wasn’t like any cane I’d seen before. I’d been caned a few times before, not just by Wilkinson, it was that kind of school, so I’d seen a few sticks in my time.

This one was different, it was amber in colour and no longer than any others and no thicker, if anything it might be a bit thinner than the one Wilkinson used on me the last time. Dr Henderson-Smith held the cane at the crooked-handle end with one hand and he ran the other over the length of the rod, bending it ever so slightly as he did so. Then he let go and swished the stick through the air. That’s when I realised this cane had more power than any I had suffered before. It might be thin, but it was whippy and it was going to pack one heck of a punch.

I looked down at the trousers I was wearing thankful that they were rather fashionable and expensive. They were made of a very dense material and would provide some protection, I was sure.

The headmaster pointed the stick at the lower half of my body. “Take down your trousers and bend over the chair.”

“What the hell, no way!” I didn’t say it out loud, of course. Up to this point I wasn’t too worried about getting the cane. I’d had it a few times, I knew it would hurt, but I also knew I could take it. I’d take my Six and that would be it.

But having seen the implement he intended to use on me and now being told it’s “trousers down,” I was far from sure.

What could I do? There was a simple answer: walk out. He had no right to thrash me, even though I had been a naughty boy while at school. That was in the past and he had no jurisdiction over me now. But, I knew, or thought I knew, that if I did that Henderson-Smith would tell my editor about it and I’d be in trouble at work.

I’ve only just started at the paper and I’m on what they call ‘probation’ for six months, that means if I don’t fit in I get sacked. I didn’t want that. Jobs in journalism were hard to come by and I might not be lucky enough to get another one. I really didn’t have any choice.

“Quickly boy, do as I say,” the headmaster swished that fierce rod once again.

This is it. Deep breath. Let’s get this over with. Although in my mind I had decided to take my punishment trousers down, I couldn’t get my body to agree. My hands fumbled at the buckle of the thick black leather belt I was wearing. I couldn’t quite get that prong thing out of the hole in the belt.

“Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

There, I’ve managed it, the belt’s undone. Getting the trousers undone was just as bad. I’d never noticed before just how many buttons there are on trousers. My fumbling fingers got the two at the waistband undone.

I couldn’t see him, but I felt the eyes of the headmaster burning into the back of my head, Swish! He was practicing his strokes.

At last the waist was loose and I pulled at the fly. All undone. I let go of my trousers and the weight of the thick leather belt and the force of gravity sent them crashing to my ankles with no help from me. I felt a breeze as the thick cloth passed by my knees.

And, that I think is where you came in. I’m standing here in the headmaster’s study my trousers around my ankles in my blue-and-white striped Boxer shorts about to bend over the chair for Six.

The headmaster is still behind me. I can feel his cane tapping my behind. “Not exactly school uniform are they?” he says, almost absent-mindedly. I want to say “No they’re not and that’s because I am not one of your schoolboys, I’m a grown man.” But, I don’t. The tapping continues. Christ! Please don’t tell me to pull down my pants.

Before he can say anything else I bend over the chair. It’s quite an ordinary chair really. The back isn’t so high so I can go over it without my stomach touching it. I am putting my hands out in front of me clutching the far corners off the seat, one with each hand.

I am as ready as I am ever going to be. And, so is the headmaster.

Swipe! Jesus H. Christ! That hurt. It got me right in the centre of my bum. I can feel a welt rising and I’m pretty certain it runs across both cheeks from left to right.

Swipe! Crack. I can’t breathe. I’m clutching onto the chair for dear life. Gasping.

Swipe! No! Please no more! I’ve got three stripes, all on the fleshy part of the buttocks. I can feel where each one has landed; they’re running parallel about a quarter of an inch apart.

Swipe! Swipe! God in Heaven! I will not cry. I will not cry. These two are lower than the others. One has hit me on the crease where the fleshy bum connects with the thighs.

Swipe! Ouch! One cut lower than all the others. I can’t help it I yell out and my legs kick out behind me. I want to stand up and rub and rub at my bottom. I have gripped the chair so tightly that as I move to stand I find myself lifting the front two legs clean off the ground.

That’s it. Six-of-the best. It’s over. I’m waiting for permission to stand. I just want to get the Hell out of here. I want to run down the street clutching my bum and howling. Please let me up.

Swipe! Swipe! Yowll! No! No! No! Stop I cannot take any more. My whole body is writhing in pain. I can hear the headmaster speaking, it sounds as if he is miles away. He is instructing me to keep still.

Swipe! Swipe! Ouch! Arrrrh! I’m bleeding. I’m sure I can feel blood seeping under my Boxers. I move my lower torso from left to right and back again. Has the blood made my underwear stick to my bum?

Swipe! Yow-yow-yow!! The bastard! I can’t breathe, I’m truly gasping. He’s deliberately laid the cane diagonally across both buttocks so it landed across all the other fresh welts. I cannot, I cannot, take any more of this. There is a pause. I can feel the headmaster moving from my left hand side to my right. Oh, no, he isn’t?

Swipe! Yesss He Is!! He whipped the cane across my wounds from the other side. I can feel criss-cross cuts right the way across my buttocks, running from the top to the bottom and from left to right and back again. I am bleeding and I am beaten.

“Get up.” I stay still across the chair breathing heavily. I can stand but I cannot be sure that I will be able to walk. The throbbing pain is so severe; I have no words to describe it.

“Up boy.” I can feel his hand on my shoulder helping me to rise. He lets go of me as I stand unsteadily. Tears are flowing and sobs are coming in great big gulps. I watch as the headmaster returns to his cupboard, unlocks the door and replaces the cane that has just ripped me apart.

“Get dressed boy.” I hadn’t realised I was still standing trousers at ankles. I desperately want to touch both buttocks, to explore the extent of the damage, but I don’t want the headmaster to see.

Oh my God, how will I explain this to Cindy, my girlfriend? It will take weeks, no months, to heal.

I am bending down to grab the waist of my trousers. The pain sears as my buttocks stretch with the effort. I grab the trousers, pull them up and repeat the fumbling with buttons and belt.

I am not quite sure what will happen next.

“Tuck your shirt in boy,” the headmaster is smiling as he returns to his desk, sits down, opens a drawer and pulls out a sheaf of papers, which he is handing to me.

The speech day results.

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Cutting College

cane (6)

Mr Braithwaite closed the car door and strode the fifty yards to his house. A neighbour had phoned him at work to tell him what was going on. He was furious. When he got hold of his son there would be hell to pay.

There was his confirmation, even before he had the front door open. He could see Arthur through the window of the sitting room. He was lolling around on the settee, drinking beer with another lad. Damn! Mr Braithwaite slammed the door behind him. The brat was cutting college again. Well: there was only one thing to do now. The boy couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned.

He had been warned and more than once. Arthur was nineteen years old and on his second year at the community college. Well, he should have been on his second year. But he failed so many courses in year one, they made him retake the whole lot again.

Mr Braithwaite burst into the sitting room and the furious father let rip, “What did I say would happen if you cut classes again? What did I say?”

A startled Arthur could only mouth, “B..b..b..” before his father harangued him again.

“What did I say?” Mr Braithwaite shouted.

“Dad…” his son wailed, looking across the settee to his pal Tony. He had regained some power of speech but he did not want to have this conversation. Not now. Not in front of Tony.

“And who is this?” Mr Braithwaite waved his arm in the general direction of Tony, who blushed bright red at all the commotion.

Mr Braithwaite half knew the answer to his question. He had seen Tony once or twice at the off-licence where the boy sometimes worked. He remembered him because he thought the boy was a bit precious.

Arthur mumbled something about, “a friend from college”.

His father growled. He was determined to get an answer from his son. “What did I say would happen if you cut college again!” his voice had reached fever pitch.

Now, Arthur was equally as red in the face as his pal. He was sure he would die with the humiliation.

“But dad, please …” he implored.

“Doh!” his father answered his own question. “I said I would fetch that cane from the back of my wardrobe and I’d put it across your backside and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“But dad …” Arthur tried to reason with his dad, but the man had already left the room and was striding up the stairs two at a time to his bedroom.

Arthur and Tony exchanged embarrassed stares, but no word was spoken.

Twenty seconds later, Mr Braithwaite returned to the room. His anger had not lessened. In his hand he clutched a whippy school-type cane.

Tony had never seen such a thing before. It was about three-feet-six long, as thick as a pencil and dark yellow in colour. It was curved at one end and the other end was frayed by much use. The boy’s mouth gaped as he watched Mr Braithwaite swish the rod through empty air fiercely. The cane was awesome. Where had it come from? Did they still make things like that? Maybe you could buy them on e-Bay.

Tony had so many questions, but the most important was: Did Mr Braithwaite really intend to beat Arthur with it?

“You,” Mr Braithwaite wobbled the cane in Tony’s face. “Get away from the settee,” he said before swishing the cane and pointing it at the opposite side of the room. “Go stand over there.”

Tony was transfixed by the sight of the rod slicing through the air. It looked a mightily effective cane. It would surely take any boy’s arse off.

Obediently, he moved from the couch, not daring to look at his pal, who was sweating profusely. Oh no! Arthur recoiled at the realisation; not only was dad going to cane him, he was going to do it in front of his best pal Tony.

“You,” he pointed the cane at his son. “Pick up the end of the settee and move it away from the wall.”

Arthur stared dolefully at his father. One more time he tried to make a protest. “Aww dad…” but the words would not come. His voice broke and desperately he tried to choke down a tear.

In seconds the settee was moved. Arthur stood mournfully. It needed no imagination to guess what would happen next. Please God! Arthur prayed silently, please don’t make me take down my trousers.

Twack!! Mr Braithwaite swiped the cane viciously across the back of the settee and a dust cloud rose.

“You,” he glared at his now ashen-faced son. “You, bend over that settee. You know how to do it.”

Tony stared down at the carpet, too embarrassed to witness his friend take two steps towards the settee and ease himself over.

“You,” Mr Braithwaite swished the cane at Tony, “Move over there – out of the way.”

Tony’s heart raced. Never before had he seen a cane in action and somehow he already knew the events of this day would stay with him forever.

He shuffled over to the bay window. Jesus. He realised anyone walking down the street could look in and see his nineteen-year-old pal stretched across the back of the couch his backside pointed upwards waiting for his dad to lash his backside raw with a whippy school cane.

The muscles in Arthur’s back flexed as he clutched a scatter cushion to his chest. The boy spent a little too much time in the gym. His entire body was firm and across much of his torso even his muscles had muscles.

He had buttocks of steel that filled out the fabric of his dark blue polyester ‘leisure pants’. They had fallen slightly down the top of his buttocks, exposing his green-and-yellow checked boxer shorts, but his father quickly dealt with that. It took one tug at the elasticated waistband and the seat of the trousers clung to the lad’s buttocks so tightly each cheek and his deep crack were clearly defined. It made a wonderful target for Mr Braithwaite to lash down his fearsome cane.

Tony watched fascinated as Mr Braithwaite positioned himself a cane’s length to the left of Arthur and very gently tapped the frayed tip of the rattan across the very centre of his son’s bottom. It was then that Tony realised this wasn’t the first time this little scenario had played out in Arthur’s sitting room.

Satisfied that he had his aim, Mr Braithwaite slowly raised the cane away from the stretched seat until it was above the height of his own shoulder then with an almighty swipe he sent it crashing down into Arthur’s rock-hard bum.

They might have been ‘buns of steel’ but that did not stop the cane penetrating deep into the boy’s nerve ends. He let out a breathless ‘whoop!’ and bit deep down into the scatter cushion to muffle the yell he really wanted to make.

Slash two followed immediately. Arthur’s legs stamped up and down in a useless attempt to stop the pain roaring from his bum across his whole body. Saliva dripped from the cushion as he stuffed it further into his mouth. No way was he going to yell out. No matter how much this thrashing hurt, he would not let himself down in front of Tony. And he wouldn’t give his dad the satisfaction of knowing he had wounded him.

Cuts three and four ripped into the lower part of his cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. They were the most painful cuts yet. The lad’s once ashen face was now bright scarlet, as was his neck. If he had eyes in his backside he would see both cheeks were scarred by four deep welts, which were already a dark pink in colour and would very quickly turn to horrible purple gashes.

Cuts five and six were aimed higher on the top of the curves. Now the boy’s buttocks had a half dozen deep welts running almost parallel from the top to bottom of the cheeks. The pain was astonishing. Blood coursed through Arthur’s body at the speed of sound and he was sure it would soon come rushing out through his nose. His breathing came in short pants, hindered by the scatter cushion that had made such an effective job in stifling his yells. Without it the boy would have screamed like a banshee: so loud that neighbours would be opening their front doors and coming onto the street to see where the murder was.

His arse felt like it was twice its normal size. Sitting down comfortably would be a big problem for some time to come and the cuts emblazoned into his backside would be visible for many days: there could be no visits to the gym for some considerable time.

But, despite his agony, he thought, he had not disgraced himself. He had taken the thrashing rather well, considering.

But it was not over yet. Mr Braithwaite misunderstood the situation. So, his son was not yelling and screaming and as yet although the lad’s face was puce and he was sweating buckets, clearly the punishment had not been severe enough.

“Well,” he growled, “Since you don’t seem to be making too much of a fuss, these should come down.” He gripped the waistband of the boy’s trousers and tugged them over his buttocks and down his thighs until the rested bunched up at his knees. Arthur closed his eyes tight and bit even deeper into the cushion.

The checked boxer shorts rose up the boy’s buttocks. Tony winced at the sight of the dark red ridges gouged across his friend’s handsome bum. What agony his poor friend must be in. Why was Arthur’s father so cruel to inflict such punishment?

Mr Braithwaite smoothed down the thin cotton material of the underwear, sending a further shockwave through his son’s body. Arthur braced himself for round two of the onslaught. Nothing he had experienced so far that afternoon could prepare him for what was to follow.

Mr Braithwaite gripped the cane just below the curved handle. His hold was so tight his knuckles started to go white. Then in a coolly calculated manoeuvre he brought the cane swiping down six times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat. It was like machinegun fire as the sound of rattan biting deeply into tight flesh echoed around the small sitting room.

Then it was over. Mr Braithwaite stepped back from the couch to admire his handiwork. He saw his son, still prostrate across the back of the settee. His feet were stomping and he wriggled his hips from side to side. He was gulping in great gasps of air; like a beached whale, trying to force his lungs to work. His head was banging up and down head-butting the back of the settee. His face and neck were scarlet and his eyes glazed like monster’s.

“All right. That’s over. You may stand.” Mr Braithwaite was calm, almost kind.

Gingerly Arthur hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed onto the settee as he nearly toppled to the floor trying to pull up his trousers. Within seconds he was fully dressed. The intense agony he felt as each successive swipe had bitten into him had lessened. His buttocks still throbbed like crazy, but he knew very soon even that pain would ease. Much of his buttocks would be too tender to touch for a long time yet, but the worst was now over.

He stood not daring to look at either his father or his pal Tony. Involuntarily, tears welled behind his eyes and washed down his face.

“You!” Mr Braithwaite had not finished his work. He turned to face Tony. “Your turn now.”

Tony pushed past Arthur, exited the room, opened the front door and hurried up the street outside.

“Bah! Coward! You know he’s a poofter!” Mr Braithwaite sneered as he tossed the cane onto the settee. “I’m going back to work and you should get off to college.”

Seconds later he left the house. Gingerly, Arthur hobbled into the passageway and tugged down his trousers to inspect his toasted buns in the mirror. The whole of both buttocks was a deep red, with purplish bruises forming at the edges. Across the centre of his cheeks were twelve distinct cuts; some had overlapped others and droplets of blood seeped where they crossed. He was wondering where his mum kept the Germolene when the doorbell rang. Through the opaque glass Arthur could see the distinct figure of his pal Tony.

He opened the door to find a very sheepish friend hopping from one foot to the other in embarrassment.

“I thought you’d be half way to Sheffield by now,” Arthur grinned as he let his pal into the house.

For some moments the boys stood, unsure who should speak first. Eventually, Tony piped up. “Does it hurt?” he asked, nodding in the direction of Arthur’s backside.

“No, it tickles,” the boy growled but then seeing the hurt in Tony’s deep brown eyes, he relented. “No, it’s not so bad now. I’ll live.”

The two boys looked each other in the eye in companionable silence.

“C’mon, we didn’t finish the beers,” Tony said as he led the way into the sitting room.

Arthur stood shuffling his feet and Tony sat in an armchair while they slurped on their cans. Then Tony spotted the cane on the settee; he seemed transfixed by it.

“Of course, it’s all your fault,” Arthur nodded at his pal.

“What is?”

“This,” Arthur said holding both his hands against his buttocks as if trying to rub away the pain. “It was you who said we should cut college.”

Tony blushed. He had; but both boys had readily agreed to go to Arthur’s house for a bit of fun. He couldn’t be blamed for what happened next.

Arthur stooped down and picked up the cane and thoughtfully flexed it between both hands. It was very supple and he easily made it bend into an arc. Tony’s eyes followed Arthur’s hand as the boy swished the cane through the air. Tony’s mouth suddenly dried and he gulped on his beer.

“I think you should get the same as me,” Arthur stared intently at his friend to measure his reaction. Then he wobbled the cane in front of Tony. The boy’s round brown eyes shone. Arthur knew that look in his friend. He had seen him give similar looks before.

“So,” he swished the cane once more. “What do you say? Should I cane you?”

Tony knew his face had flushed. His breathing was tight as well. His heart beat faster with excitement.

“Well lad, what do you say?” It was a commanding order.

Tony stared down at the garishly-patterned carpet beneath his feet. “Yes, Sir,” he whispered.

“Speak up boy. Do you want me to thrash you?” Arthur rolled the word “thrash” around his tongue.

“Oh yes, Sir,” Tony whimpered. Arthur snorted. His friend could be such a wimp sometimes.

“Have you ever been caned before?”

Tony flushed, as if embarrassed by his answer, “Oh no, Sir.”

“Then this will be an awesome experience for you, won’t it?” Arthur realised he was loving this. It would be an awesome experience for them both.

“Shall we say six on the trousers and another six on the pants? Which pants are you wearing?”

“You know; those tight dark green ones.”

Arthur tapped the worn end of the cane against the wooden surface of the dining room table. “Bend over the table, boy.” He was enjoying himself. “I am going to thrash your bottom. Very. Hard. Indeed,” he tried to sound like an old-fashioned schoolmaster about to administer six-of-the-best to some misbehaving sixth-former.

Tony’s breathing quickened and his mind flooded with contradictory thoughts. He knew he wanted his pal Arthur to cane his backside; but he wasn’t sure he could take the pain that would result.

He shuffled forward to the table and bending at the waist he gipped its far edge.

“No, it’s better if you lay flat on your stomach,” Arthur clearly had more expertise in such matters than his pal.

Obediently, Tony repositioned himself so that his belly and chest rested on the table top and his legs stretched out behind him. This way his bottom was raised over the edge of the table at just the right angle for Arthur to lash the cane across the centre of both buttock cheeks.

Tony buried his face in his folded arms and waited for the intense pain to start.

Arthur swiped the cane through the air and observed his pal’s rounded buttocks clench and unclench and then clench again. Arthur had always thought Tony’s bum was his finest asset and having it presented to him in this way confirmed that view.

“Relax. Relax; it is better if you can relax your buttocks.” Arthur tapped the cane across the centre of his target.

It was easier said than done, but Tony gave it his best shot. But, if the mind was willing, the body was not. The buttocks continued to remain clenched.

“Are you ready?” Arthur’s kind question was met with a muffled groan from Tony’s mouth which was now buried deep in his arms.

Swish! Arthur’s first stroke caught his pal in the centre of the bum. Tony gasped, his head shot up and Arthur could see his pal’s beautiful brown eyes were shining.

“Keep still, now,” stoke number two landed a centimetre lower than the first. Despite his best efforts, Tony’ buttocks lifted off the table and he swung his hips from left to right in response to the pain now shooting down his legs.

Arthur smiled at his pal’s histrionics. He wasn’t caning the lad one-tenth as hard as his dad had beaten him. What a wimp.

The third stroke was met with a girlish shriek and “Ow, ow, ow.” Again, Tony sashayed his hips and his round bum danced across the table top.

“Keep still.” It was such an inviting target that Arthur wanted to land at least one cut with full force across the lad’s full bottom.

Swish! Thwack! Bingo: right on target Tony let out a loud yelp and jumped from the table, hopping from foot to foot and massaging his injured bum.

Arthur looked deep into his pal’s shining eyes. He couldn’t read his expression: was he loving or hating this caning.

Swish! Arthur swished the cane menacingly. “C’mon boy. Take this with some dignity can’t you. Get back over.”

Tony knew he had let himself down. His great pal Arthur had received one hell of a beating from his dad and he didn’t howl and holler. He buried his face in his arms once more and gritted his teeth.

Swipe! Swipe! Two strokes fell in quick succession. Tony’s bottom reprised its table-top dance but the boy stayed face down. The first six was over. Now, it was trousers-down time.

“Stand up. Take down your trousers.”

Tony was a ghostly white as he raised himself from the table. He smiled enigmatically, but made no effort to unbutton his trousers.

Arthur stared at his best pal. A bright smile creased his own face. Then he burst into laughter.

“Get them down,” he laughed. “At once you naughty little boy.”

“Okay, you asked for it,” Tony giggled and ripped down his trousers, revealing a massive erection straining to break free of his bottle-green briefs.

Arthur also had a tent pole in his pants. Without a word, he grabbed Tony’s pants and pulled them to his knees; then he took the lad’s cock into his own mouth.

“Wait, wait,” gasped Tony as he struggled out of his t-shirt and pulled his trousers and pants off his legs. In seconds Arthur had his own clothes on the floor and the two nineteen-year-olds entwined together fell on the carpet as naked as the day they were born.

And that was how Mr Braithwaite would have found them if earlier in the day he had arrived home five minutes later.

 

Other caning stories you might like.

My belligerent nephew

His Eldest Brother

The expenses fiddle

 

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A Teen’s Tale

Was I a typical teenager? I think so. Certainly I was no different from my friends. We couldn’t stand adults; our parents, schoolmasters, the vicar at church. We didn’t think they had much to tell us.

We spent a lot of our time just hanging around in groups “having a laugh.” There was a particular bus stop just outside of town that was our meeting place. Buses didn’t run much after about seven o’clock so we weren’t usually disturbed. We’d buy (or sometimes steal) bottles of cheap cider and get rowdy drunk. If a passer-by complained, we’d soon chase them off: law-abiding citizens are easily cowed by drunken teenagers.

I had just turned eighteen and was close to leaving school. My dad had just been promoted at work and was now a factory manager, but it meant he had to move to a town about a hundred miles away. I didn’t want to go; I’d have to leave all my mates and I hated my parents so much I was pleased to see the back of them. But, I still had a few months left at school so I couldn’t get a job and find a place of my own to live.

My Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice stepped in and said I could stay with them until I left school. I hated them us much as my mum and dad, but I had no choice. She was such a stuck up cow who always thought she was a cut above the rest of us. Her father worked in an office, while my family were mostly factory workers. Uncle Alistair was a jobbing builder, so I don’t know she had much to crow about. They only lived a couple of streets away, so I wouldn’t lose my friends and my life wouldn’t change much: worse thing.

I went to the local grammar school, so that suited her social pretensions. I didn’t like school much, but had a knack for passing examinations without doing much work and my parents made me stay on into the sixth form. Another reason I hated them. I didn’t like being bossed around, and if you don’t like being bossed around, you should not be at grammar school.

There are so many useless, pointless, rules. I loathed wearing school uniform; you could see us coming from a mile off in our pink blazers. We even had to wear short trousers until the end of the third form: fourteen-year-old boys in short trousers, no other school in town humiliated their pupils like that. And, don’t get me started on the stupid school caps they forced us to wear.

I hated the “masters” as we had to call them. Most of them had been at the school since Adam was a lad and had never done a proper day’s work in their lives. They wouldn’t last an hour at dad’s factory. They thought they were proper Christian gentlemen and decided the boys at the school should be too. Nobody ever asked me. I skipped chapel once; I was eighteen and decided I could make my own mind up about God and Jesus and all that. There was Hell to pay.

I was found out of course, I knew I would be. We were always answering to roll calls, having our names taken, masters checking that we hadn’t absconded. It was a caning offence, but I reckoned that sixth-formers were immune from the stick, even at that school.

My headmaster soon corrected me on that idea. I didn’t get thrashed that time, but he told me if I skipped chapel again he would whop me himself. I had to write a two thousand word essay on why Jesus was important in my life. Two thousand words! Believe me I would have preferred the cane to that any day: trousers down; pants down, six strokes, twelve: anything but that essay.

One thing I did like about being in the sixth-form was the power it gave me over the younger boys. They were terrified of me. It was only a few years earlier that the headmaster had taken away the prefect’s power to spank the younger boys. I would have loved to parade around the school, gym plimsoll in hand, able to whack the arse of any boy I fancied.

In my time the best we could do was to hand out ‘punishment slips’ which the boy took to his form master. When the boy collected three slips he was beaten. It wasn’t the same as the plimsoll, but the boys knew I scattered slips like confetti so it came pretty close.

You didn’t have to be in the sixth to be a bully. One thing I loved to do when I was about fifteen or sixteen was to beat up on the sissies; those boys who were a little bit different from the rest of us. They were easy targets, scared of their own shadows most of them. They would never defend themselves. There was one lad (I forget his name now: Kevin? Keith? Karl?) who I loved to push around. You only had to touch him and he would fall to the ground and curl up into a little ball. He was crying before I ever got the first kick in. I took his lunch money most days – it helped to pay for the cider and my smokes.

With my parents out of the way I tried it on a lot with my aunt and uncle. I skimped on my homework, lazed around in my bedroom most of the day; that was when I wasn’t out with my friends hanging round the bus stop and haranguing old folk going about their business.

The final straw for pious Aunt Alice was that I stopped going to church. It’s not that I refused to go: there was no argument, no discussion even, I just stopped going and that for me was the end of the matter. Not so for my aunt and uncle. Aunt Alice in particular berated me for non-attendance and was rewarded by my most hostile indifference.

Maybe that was the point at which they decided I needed a damned good hiding, but if it was, they put it off for another week or so.

I finally found myself with a red backside one Wednesday in June. It was a school night and as had become my habit, I would return from school, get out of that horrid uniform and wait in my bedroom playing records at full volume until it was time to eat. My aunt often implored me to turn down the noise, but the more she showed her dislike, the more determined I became to annoy her.

Meal times were always strenuous times. Looking back on it I wonder if my aunt and uncle weren’t going through a difficult patch in their lives: surely, I thought at the time they must have been bored to tears with their pathetic mundane lives. They definitely found it difficult to communicate with one another and impossible to do so with me. I made no concessions to them: any question they asked me would be returned with a one word answer, or just a grunt.

When tea was over I would almost immediately disappear out the door, never telling them where I was going, who I would be with and what time I would be back.

Eventually, Aunt Alice imposed a curfew: I should be home by nine-thirty at the latest on school nights and ten at the weekend.

Yeah right, I thought. I didn’t say it out loud, there was no need to. I had no intention of sticking to her stupid new rules. To Hell with the both of them, what right did they have to order me about!

The very same night I rolled home drunk at past eleven o’clock. Nobody was up. Emboldened by this, two days later I missed curfew again.

At breakfast the morning after I skipped curfew for the third time, Uncle Alastair simply informed me that he had been keeping watch and if I was late ever again there would be “dire consequences.”

So, naturally, I took this as a challenge and even though it was a quiet night at the bus stop and most of my mates returned to their homes early, that night I walked the streets alone for another hour to make sure I wouldn’t get back home before eleven.

I could see the lights were on in the living room as I approached the house. As I turned the key in the lock I heard Uncle Alastair call.

“In here. Now!”

Sullenly, I slouched into the room, with the most disrespectful expression on my face that I could assemble. My uncle was alone, he looked very tired indeed, of course it was way past his bedtime. I can’t be sure if he had prepared a little speech for me, but if he had he muffed his lines. He was incoherent with anger but “brazen”, “audacious” “insolent”, “disrespectful” and “rude” were some of the words that faltered from his mouth.

He was impatient for me to respond but I said nothing. Who cared what he thought, the miserable little man.

His lecture at an end, Uncle Alistair commanded, “Go upstairs, have a wash, clean your teeth, put on your pyjamas and then come back down here, and be quick about it.”

Corporal punishment was imminent: I knew the tell-tale signs; I’d been spanked often enough at home by my father. I trudged upstairs and as I spread the Pepsodent on my toothbrush I wondered what uncle would do to me. My dad’s preferred method of torture was the razor strop. He would make me take down my trousers to my ankles and I would have to lay face down on the bed with two pillows under my stomach so my bum was high to meet the lash of the leather. I kept my hands well clear of the target while he raised the strop back over his own shoulder, took aim and whipped it down into the seat of my underpants. The pain was immense, but I soon learned not to wriggle about. If he missed my bum and hit the bare flesh at the back of my thighs I wouldn’t be able to stand for a week, let alone sit down.

“Hurry up!” It was uncle, as impatient as ever.

I rubbed a wet cloth across my face and hurried into the bedroom, quickly stripped off my clothes and stepped into my pyjamas. I was still tying up the drawstring of the bottoms as I descended the stairs.

Uncle Alistair and Aunt Alice were waiting for me in the living room. I gave her my most disrespectful stare. So the snooty mare was going to witness my spanking was she?

I quickly glanced around the room but could see no obvious implement of punishment. Uncle was wearing no belt. Did my aunt have a hairbrush in her apron pocket? Was he going to smack me with his hand?

He gave me a short sermon about manners and disobedience and even managed to bring God into it. Then he hopped on one leg, bent down and removed one of his bedroom slippers.

It was all over in a flash. He grabbed me by the left arm, quickly untied the string on my pyjama trousers and they easily fell to my knees. Then, unceremoniously he took me by the scruff of the neck and pushed me over the back of the worn-out sofa. Then there was a frenzied attack with the slipper on my bare bottom.

I was indignant. The sod didn’t believe I would present myself for a spanking. Who did he think I was? Corporal punishment was common in those days and we boys had an unspoken code of conduct. We often misbehaved and sometimes we were very bad indeed. We got away with it a lot, but when we were caught we accepted it. So we would submissively sprawl across a knee, bend over a chair or sofa or spread ourselves across the dining room table. We would be on the painful receiving end of the slipper, belt, razor strop, hairbrush, hand or cane. And we would take it like troopers.

Next day we would report back to our mates; often displaying the cuts and bruises to our admiring friends. Then, like film critics, we would award ‘stars’ for the best performances. My father always got the top five stars for the deep welts on my poor bum.

Uncle Alistair loosened his grip on my neck and I struggled to my feet. My buttocks were a little sore, but it was nothing compared to my father’s beatings. I said nothing, but I hoped my look of utter contempt told its own story.

I didn’t wait to be dismissed; I pulled up my pyjamas and went to my room. My bum wasn’t very sore, but there was a tingle that soon disappeared. There would be no marks to show the next day, not that I would tell the others. We were eighteen years old now and I doubted if their dads were still spanking their bottoms at that age.

….

z used drawing cane master (18)

I was counting the days until I could leave school. The examinations were a little over a month away and then I would be free. I had all but given up on my studies. I still attended school (there were many opportunities to bully the younger boys), but took no interest and did as little homework as possible.

I was idling around the sixth-form common room one day, shortly after my run-in with Uncle Alistair, when the sixth-form form master approached.

“See me in my study immediately after school,” he was a man of few words and he swept away, the tail of his tattered schoolmaster’s gown flapping, before I could ask what it was all about.

It could have been about anything. If there was a rule to break, I was likely to break it. Even as I sat pondering, I knew I had in my pocket a packet of illicit cigarettes, paid for with money I had extorted from an eleven-year-old first-former who was desperate not to get his third punishment slip and the beating that would come with it.

I had more than an hour before I had to obey the summons. I cursed; I had no lessons at this time and was intending to bunk off early. Wearily, I picked up a football magazine that one of the other boys had left behind, sat down and flicked through the pages.

I didn’t want to delay this longer than was absolute necessary. Two minutes after the bell had stopped ringing for end of school my knock on the study door received a haughty response.

“Come!”

It wasn’t so much a schoolmaster’s study as a functioning office. There was a desk and a large padded chair behind, where the form master was seated. A couple of low back chairs were ranged in front of the desk for visitors and apart from that there was a sideboard affair consisting of some cupboards and bookshelves.

I stood facing the desk a foot or two back from the chairs. From this position I could see that they were the ideal height for a boy to bend across. Doubtless, they had been chosen with this purpose in mind.

I still did not know why I had been summoned by the form master. I didn’t have long to wait as he got straight to the point. “slacking”, he called it: a peculiarly old fashioned word for “lazy.” I had not been working hard enough in his classes. I had not submitted homework on time. My marks were falling. He didn’t ask me to respond, but if he had I could only agree with him. I despised my form master. He taught the sixth form poetry and he was lousy at it. I couldn’t understand the point of it (and to this day still can’t). He could not, as we say these days, “motivate” me.

He was a decaying old man and I scorned him for being so old. His liver spots spread from his neck to his face and it had been many years since he stood erect and his stooped shoulders reminded me of a bird. A shock of untidy white hair stuck out from beneath his mortar board and his moustache and beard were as white as his hair. He was the image of the schoolmaster in that film Goodbye, Mr Chips.

Old though he might be, my Mr Chips could still pack a punch with his right arm as I was about to find out.

Once he had read out my crime sheet, he moved straight to sentencing. I swear I heard his bones creak as he slowly raised himself from the chair and shuffled over to the sideboard. Only then did I notice that one of the cupboards was an unusual shape: tall and thin. He opened it and even though his body obscured my view, I could see inside were a number of crook-handled rattan canes. There must have been six or seven of them in varying thicknesses and lengths. I could hear the canes rattling around the cupboard as he searched for the implement he intended to use on me.

Within seconds he had extracted his preferred model and turned to face me. He flexed the cane between his left and his right hand as he gave a little lecture about the need for me to study hard. If I did not have the self-discipline to do this on my own, then he had the perfect remedy: he would impose discipline on me.

I couldn’t take my eyes of that cane. I still don’t know why I was so transfixed by it. I had seen canes before; indeed I had felt them across my backside a few times. This one was deep yellow in colour and was as thick as one of Mr Chips’ bony fingers. It must have been three feet (maybe more) long and flexed easily in the form-master’s hands.

He swished it through the air for effect, if he intended this to intimidate me, he failed. It just made me hate him all the more. This pathetic old man, who couldn’t teach for toffee, was going to beat me because I was not doing well in his class. I was eighteen years old and in a few weeks I would be away from that goddam school forever, but here I was expected to submit myself to Mr Chips so he could whop me with his cane.

I had a choice, of course. Even as I stood watching the cane swish through the air I knew I could refuse to take a beating. I could tell him to stuff it and swagger out of the study. I could do that, but it would be a direct defiance of his authority. The headmaster would be involved and I could rest assured that he wouldn’t be on my side. There would be no two-thousand-word essay (“Why the cane is not an effective punishment for slacking schoolboys”) as an alternative. All I could look forward to was expulsion from the school and the bastards probably wouldn’t let me take my exams.

I only had five more weeks left at this school and I didn’t want to throw away the past two years of misery now.

Mr Chips pointed with his cane to a spot in the middle of the room.

“Bend over and touch your toes.”

I hesitated and he must have read the contempt I had for him in my face because he almost bellowed, “Bend over and touch your toes, this instance!”

I moved to the spot, took a deep breath and placing the palms of my hands on my knees I offered Mr Chips my backside.

Swish!

“Ouch!” I yelled and stood bolt upright, squeezing my hand under my armpit. Mr Chips had lashed his cane across my knuckles.

“When I say touch your toes boy, I mean touch your toes. Now, bend right down.”

I blew on my knuckles, parted my legs a little, bent at the waist, and stretched my fingers so that the tips rested against the toe caps of my shoes. A thick stripe across the back of my left hand was turning blue.

I was quite a fit lad at the time and was able to keep in place without much effort, but there was pressure against the back of my knees.

Looking through my parted legs I saw Mr Chips approach me and then I could feel him take hold of my pink blazer and push it up my back away from the target area. Then he rolled up my jumper a little, giving him an unobscured view of the grey trousers, now stretched across my buttocks. Still not satisfied, he took hold of my shirt and pulled it so that the tail came away from the waistband, then he did the same thing with my vest. I felt a cool breeze blow across the inch or so of now bare flesh at the base of my back.

Finally, he grabbed the waistband of my trousers and tugged so that any wrinkles were smoothed from the cloth.

Then he took my arse off.

He had the strength of an ox. With no interval between cuts, he lashed down six stingers across the very centre of my buttocks each one landing very close to, and sometimes right on top of, others already delivered.

It took my breath away. Quite literally. I was gasping and stifling yells at the same time. It was all over in about twenty seconds, six whacks crashing down one after the other. I buckled a little, but just about managed to stay in position. No matter the agony I was suffering, I was not going to stand up and give him the pleasure of inflicting extra strokes.

It was over. I stayed looking at my scuffed shoes awaiting his permission to stand. My backside was throbbing. It must have been red raw and I could feel welts had formed across my bum. I had been caned before, but this beating was not like anything I had endured previously. I so much wanted to run away to the bogs, sit down on a lavatory pan and pull the flush so the cold water could soothe my aching buttocks.

Eventually he said, “Stand up, boy. Stand there.” I rose and moved to a spot in front of the form-master’s desk. I could not look him in the eyes. I had despised him when I entered the study and I hated him even more now, but my contempt was mixed with the intense pain in my arse. I did not want him to know he had hurt me.

He wrote some words in the punishment book and handed it to me to sign.

Then to add to my fury, he said, “If you fail to get at least an Alpha-minus in the essay I set the form today, you will be back here for another thrashing. Is that clear?”

It was, and I was. No number of beatings could make me good at poetry.

Picture Credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

Other stories you might like

 

 

When Dad got home

One hot summer afternoon

The drunken neighbour

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Dean of Dorm Discipline

z used jeans chair (2)

The sunshine beamed through the window awakening Mitch from his slumbers. Blearily he turned to look at his watch. He had better get a move on, he daren’t miss his appointment.

He stretched a little and yawned before pulling the sheet from his body. His mauve and yellow pants bulged and for a few moments he lay admiring himself. The pants were too tight so he pulled them down to his thighs liberating his Morning Glory. No time to handle that now, he thought as he kicked off the pants.

Seconds later he was on his knees down on the floor ready for his morning exercises. Mitch was a fit lad and had no problem executing twelve push-ups at some speed. Then he turned on his back for the twelve sit-ups that completed his daily routine.

He was sweating a little by now, but not because of the exercises; it was probably the belly full of beer he had drunk before falling into bed in the early hours.

He really should take a shower but there was no time so Midge picked up a flannel and soaked it under a tap. His soldier was still pointing to the sky and aching like crazy. It only took five or six strokes before the nineteen-year-old shot his load into the hand basin.

He cleaned himself down with the cloth and then rubbed it over the rest of his body. He needed a shave, but that would have to wait. He also noticed one or two hairs on his chest: he would deal with them sometime over the weekend.

He only had five minutes before he was due at his meeting, he had better hurry. He looked around the room; he had no clean clothes (that would be another task for the weekend he thought.)

He picked the pants off the bed, checked them for skid marks, and decided they would have to do. He grabbed a t-shirt that had only been worn twice since its last trip to the laundry and tugged that over his head, sniffing his armpits as he did so. A can of deodorant lay nearby and Mitch sprayed a liberal quantity all over his shirt.

He picked up some old sweats and pulled them over his pants. It didn’t matter which trousers he wore, they wouldn’t be staying on for very long.

Picking up his keys, the teenager left the room and hurried to the top floor of the dorm block to meet the Dean of Dormitory Discipline.

….

Frank looked down at the grubby brown carpet, his hands on his knees and his bottom jutting out slightly. He was sweating a little and his breathing was shallow. Despite his best efforts his buttocks remained clenched in anticipation.

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline looked on at the young student. The boy was wearing dark grey short trousers. It was a hot day, even at this early hour, and shorts were certainly the best clothes to wear. But, Frank wasn’t wearing summer shorts, his were short trousers like children wore as part of their school uniform. In his a grey short-sleeve shirt, he was perfectly dressed for a day in the classroom: if he were about eight years old.

What was going on in the student’s head, the Dean wondered as he selected a paddle; he was building quite a collection. This was Frank’s first appearance before him, so he selected a stout wooden specimen about fourteen inches long and four inches wide. Unlike some of his others, this paddle was solid without holes (manufacturers put holes in the heavier paddles so they could fly through the air towards their target with minimum wind resistance).

The Dean had devised a tariff for his punishments, he believed it was fairer to treat everyone equally, and the students knew exactly where they stood if they broke the rules. He gave first offenders twelve hard whacks on the seat of their trousers. For a second offence they got twelve on the underpants, swiftly followed by another twelve on the bare. In the six months since his job had been created, the Dean had never had to deal with a boy for a third time.

Frank was wondering why his punishment had not yet begun and craned his neck to look behind him at the Dean.

“Face the front boy, you’ll find out what’s going on back here soon enough.” It was a little joke the Dean liked to make every time a student made such a move.

He stepped forward and placed his hand into Frank’s shoulder blades pushing the teenager’s face a little closer to the carpet. Then he pulled the boy’s shirt out from the waistband of his short trousers exposing the skin of his lower back. Shirt tails are never long enough to cover a boy’s buttocks, so they don’t afford him extra protection. So, pulling the shirt clear is a wasted effort, but the Dean liked to do this as a ritual, believing it added something extra to the drama of the occasion.

He was now ready to deliver the swats. Although this was Frank’s first appearance in front of the Dean of Dormitory Discipline, it was not his first ever spanking. Like a lot of youngsters around his age, Frank had been caught out by the sudden change in the law, that not only reintroduced corporal punishment in schools, but permitted it to be also used on students up to the age of twenty-five and to young people more generally for certain criminal offences.

Frank was like most people of his age: he was self-centred, lacking much direction, a bit lazy and he rarely accepted the authority of his elders. In the six months since the law came into effect, Frank had been spanked twice; once to his great horror at the university for arriving at class late; and once at home by his father for what dad called his “insolence.”

Both spankings had been humiliating for Frank, but he soon discovered from his university friends that he wasn’t the only one getting his buttocks toasted. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

Frank waited for the Dean to begin. He didn’t feel ashamed or humiliated, this was his third spanking in a few months and he was becoming used to them. Nor was he resentful. He had been caught smoking a cigarette in the university grounds. Smoking was now strictly forbidden and the punishment for transgression was widely advertised. Frank only had himself to blame for his situation. He promised himself he would take the spanking with whatever dignity he could and he wouldn’t cry or yell out.

The Dean loomed above him, the paddle gripped tightly in his hand. He was an expert: he swatted twelve stokes into his tight behind, making sure he wore out every inch of Frank’s backside. The teen grunted with each strike and had difficulty keeping in his ‘grab-the-knees’ position as the force of the paddle knocked him forward.

It hurt like Hell, much worse than the spanking his university lecturer had given him. That time it had been the palm of the hand on his bottom. Even his dad’s clothes brush didn’t have the impact of this paddle.

Frank grimaced and gasped a little as each swat connected with his dark grey short trousers. His buttocks quivered from side to side but the pain wasn’t too bad at first, but it grew as each successive blow fell on top of a previous strike, until he was roasting. He wanted to jump up and rub his burning bottom, but the fear of what the consequences of such behaviour might have been were too terrible to contemplate.

Frank’s shirt clung to his back with sweat and the teen’s underpants also seemed to be dripping wet. His eyes were damp, but he had successfully kept his promise and stopped himself from crying.

Frank knew there would be only twelve swats to endure, so after number ten landed low, almost on his bare thighs, he hoped the worst was over. But, the Dean had other ideas. He slashed down the final two at maximum force on the same spot right on the curves across the centre of both cheeks. The boy howled and stood upright, his hands clutching at his raw bottom; the agony was like nothing he had felt before, not even that time as a kid when he fell off his bike and broke his arm.

Realising his error in standing up he immediately resumed his position, fearful of what additional punishment he might receive.

But, the Dean was no sadist. He had promised twelve swats and he had delivered the twelve. The punishment was over. There would be no more today, but woe betide the boy if he were ever caught smoking again.

“Stand up. It’s over.”

Frank did as instructed. His eyes were moist, but he was not yet crying: that would wait for later once he had been dismissed by the Dean. His bottom felt like he had sat in a fire.

“If you are back here again, it will be twelve on the underwear followed by twelve on the bare. Do you understand?”

Frank nodded; he would not be making a return visit. The short trousers and underpants had not been much protection this time, the agony that twenty-four swats with twelve on the bare would cause him was beyond his comprehension. He made that promise that all recently spanked boys make: he would never do it again – and that’s a promise.

“Ok you can go.” And with his backside throbbing Frank left the Dean of Dormitory Discipline to deal with the other four students on his list that morning.

When Mitch arrived at the Dean’s room he wasn’t surprised to find three other students already waiting; it didn’t take long to discover all four were to be spanked for the same offence: breaking curfew.

Mitch had read in a newspaper somewhere that since the new regime had begun, breaking curfew was the most common reason why students were punished. He knew that even as he stood awaiting punishment there could be dozens, hundreds possibly, of students up and down the country also queuing to have their bottoms blistered.

Mitch was a pragmatist, like many students at his university. The rule was you had to be in the dorm by eleven at night. If you were caught breaking curfew you were paddled. All the students knew that: but you could only get paddled if you were caught.

It was like a cat and mouse game between the students and the university authorities. Mitch had broken curfew the previous two times he went out and wasn’t caught. Last night he wasn’t so lucky, but next time, who knew? For him the lure of the town’s nightlife and the girls was too good to miss (especially the girls) and if it meant getting a sore backside from time to time that was a price he was prepared to pay.

The students had a simple plan to avoid curfew. One of the lads who wasn’t going out would leave a window in the common room unlocked so it would be easy for a late arrival to climb in. But, you had to avoid the Dean. He wasn’t a fool and he would patrol after curfew, but he had a life too, so he wasn’t always on duty to catch the latecomers. And, the later the boy was in coming back, the better his chances of going undetected: the Dean needed his sleep just like anyone else.

Last night, the Dean had trouble sleeping so was still on patrol at three in the morning just in time to catch Mitch in the act of climbing through the window. He was caught red-handed, there was no excuse, he had broken the rules and now fully expected to be red-arsed by the time the Dean had finished with him.

All four boys had similar experiences and although none were great supporters of the new corporal punishment law, they all accepted the consequences if they were caught breaking the rules.

They waited outside the Dean’s door. On the other side it was obvious someone was getting his whacking. The knowledge that it would soon be his turn did little to settle his nerves. For Mitch, this was a second offence and he knew it would be twelve swats pants up and twelve down: an entirely new experience for him.

Soon, the door opened, and a youngster Mitch did not recognise hobbled out. He was close to tears and could not look at the four boys as he passed on his way back to his room where, no doubt, he would bawl his eyes out.

A moment later, the door opened again and the Dean of Dormitory Discipline beckoned Mitch to enter the room.

The Dean was in his mid-forties and had been a university lecturer for twenty years or more. He still was: his disciplinary role was an extra duty on top of his teaching. He had never expected to be the beater of boys’ backsides, but when the new law came in the university advertised the job and he was asked to apply. No one quite knew what experience a Dean of Dormitory Discipline could be expected to have. Corporal punishment had been banned for thirty years at least, so no one would have practical experience in administering it. The best the university could hope for was for a Dean who would take the job seriously.

In his twenty years on the job, the Dean had seen many youngsters waste their opportunity at the university; they were often lazy or distracted and ended up failing courses altogether or getting poorer degrees than necessary. He genuinely believed that with clear rules supported by corporal punishment when necessary the current crop of undergraduates would excel in their studies. He took his job very seriously indeed.

The Dean had a little sermon prepared. He used it often with the curfew breakers. It was about the need to obey rules for their own safety. The town was dangerous at night. They had to be punished for their own good. Mitch nodded at what he thought were appropriate points. He knew nothing he said would change the inevitable outcome.

Then the Dean got on to the second offence. The previous punishment obviously had not worked. Now, a more serious spanking was needed. Mitch still made no reply. He knew what was going to have to happen and he just wished the Dean would get on with it.

When he was ready, the Dean walked to the small cupboard attached to the wall and explored inside to retrieve a small wooden paddle, with the business end no bigger than a paperback book.

Mitch was confused. He had expected one of the largest and heaviest paddles would be used to take his backside off.

But, the Dean had a plan: he always had a plan.

Silently, he took hold of a small plastic armless chair and placed it in the centre of the room. Now, Mitch thought he knew what was going to happen.

His suspicion was confirmed when the Dean sat down in the chair and spread his legs. Mitch had not expected this and did not like it one little bit. The Dean expected him to bend himself across the old man’s knees as if he were a ten-year-old boy for a spanking. Worse than that, he would have to raise his bared bottom for the gaze of the Dean who would see into his crack and everything.

The Dean knew boys hated being spanked, that was the point of the exercise. He reckoned these big strapping students would hate it even more if they were reduced to little boys. Just think what thoughts race through the young man’s mind as he is ignominiously guided, bottom up, across the knee. He knows that he is being treated like a naughty child, no differently than when he was ten. He knows that his bottom will soon be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any naughty child when he is spanked.

The Dean sat in the upright chair, as Mitch stood, still hoping this was not going to happen. When the Dean was ready, he nodded at the student and almost in a trance he put his thumbs into the elasticated waist of his sweat pants and pulled them down off his hips, down, and down until they dropped of their own accord to his ankles. His white t-shirt, though, covered all but the lowest inch of his snug mauve and yellow pants.

Until recently, the Dean had very little experience spanking bottoms, but he was learning on the job. Experience had taught most spankers to favour the over-the-lap position in which the offending bottom can be elevated above the spanker’s right thigh or knee with both legs dangling down to the right. He had learnt that it was crucial that the bottom be as high and as far forward as possible, with maximum accessibility to the target area.

The paddle had already been placed close at hand, readily available for spanking without the Dean having to loosen his grip around Mitch’s waist.

So, the Dean gripped the teen by the arm and guided him over his knee. Once he was there he raised his shirt up his back then grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them tightly against his firm, flat, muscled backside.

The deafening splat with each paddle contact brought a gasp of pain from Mitch.

Mitch, now face down across the older man’s knees, grabbed the Dean’s ankle and held on tight, he gritted his teeth but he couldn’t stop himself from howling every now and then at a particularly hard and well placed swat. The Dean spanked into the taut cotton pants, spanking the bottom all the way from the lower back to below the crease on the upper thighs. The student struggled not to squirm or kick his legs, but the spanking went on and on and on.

Mitch lost count of the number of swats raining into his upturned bum, but the Dean had not. After twelve whacks he paused. Mitch was gasping and the pain was intense, but he still managed to keep his composure. Despite the agony, he thought he was taking this rather well.

The Dean paused only to slide the tight underpants down so they rested at the teenager’s thighs, then he renewed the onslaught, this time a little harder and into bare flesh.

Mitch howled and kicked like a child, begging the Dean to stop hurting him. The distressed boy was now writhing on his lap, vainly trying to protect his right buttock with a convulsively trembling hand.

Four more whacks followed with the Dean allowing a break between them for the sting of each to be fully appreciated. Mitch sobbed and yelped as each stroke landed on his bottom.

He accelerated and intensified the smacks from his paddle against the bare, upended behind. Mitch was bawling unashamedly, but the Dean seemed not to notice. A bawling boy was the expected result when it came to any bare-bottom spanking he administered.

Tears filled the student’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks as he squirmed and struggled to escape the relentless spanking being inflicted on him.

Then the Dean stopped and Mitch gulped for air like a goldfish out of water, thinking about how close to the edge of complete collapse he had come.

The Dean released his grip on the teen, who stumbled to his feet. His bottom was throbbing in protest at the indignities it had just received. His face was as red as the scorched flesh on his bottom. Quickly, Mitch tugged his underpants over his buttocks to hide his manhood from the man who had just roasted his naked backside.

Soon, the sweats were also in position and the Dean, who was a kindly man at heart, offered the boy a handful of tissues. When Mitch had regained some composure, he was dismissed with the words. “Send in the next boy.” The Dean’s work for the day was not yet over.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first published in September 2015

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com