Baxter’s Beating

z used cane hold kernled (21)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A very traditional school, I believe?”

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

“So you understand the meaning of discipline?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture Credit: Kernled

Other stories you might like

It’s the waiting …

Shoplifting

Why me?

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #8

joe phillips party

The Party’s Over for Rowdy University Students

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

The party is over for rowdy students whose unruly behaviour disturbs neighbours. A new “Punishment Patrol” taskforce has been launched by Brocklehurst University.

For years residents have complained about students making noise late at night by partying, or simply playing loud music. But University authorities were powerless to act.

Until now.

A taskforce nicknamed the “Punishment Patrol” will be on hand 24/7 to respond to complaints.

Dr. Christine Thussu of the University’s Civic Service Unit, told the Brocklehurst Bugle in an interview, “The idea is to inflict instant punishment on troublemakers. New government legislation makes it possible for us to spank the backsides of students who step out of line.”

She said officers, specially-trained in the art of inflicting corporal punishment, are available to respond to complaints.

“They visit students and assess the severity of the offence. Then, they act immediately,” she said. “They are equipped with a variety of spanking implements including slippers, straps, brushes and canes.”

Dr. Thussu said in the recent past, students who range in ages from 18 to 23, had been “dealt with” by the Punishment Patrol. She added, “This could be a simple over-the-knee spanking on the seat of their trousers to a more severe whacking with a whippy rattan cane. They can also make the boy take down his trousers – and even his underpants – if they think fit.”

Mrs. Amelia Worthington, of The Avenue, Brocklehurst, who called in the Punishment Patrol to deal with a rowdy party last month, told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “There were about a dozen youngsters singing and dancing in the garden. It was well past nine o’clock, they should have been in bed.” She said she called the university and a vanload of men dressed like security guards pulled up outside the student house.

“They were carrying all sorts of things, but mostly canes.”

Mrs. Worthington added, “The guards soon got to work. My husband and I could hear the whackings from our bedroom. A lot of the students were hollering by the time they were done.”

Mr. Gerry Wiseman, President of the Brocklehurst University Students’ Union, said many students had complained about their treatment, citing violations of human rights.

However, he said, “Many students said they welcomed the new rules. It has made them spend less time partying and more studying in the library. They might even graduate with better degrees as a result.”

If you have a complaint against a student contact the Punishment Patrol at _____________

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

That Connor boy!

Mr Hennessey’s Boys 4. Timothy’s story

Untidy bathroom

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline

used-drawing-paddle-on-jeans-3

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

The Dean of Dorm Discipline regularly beats 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.

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

The Dean of Dorm Discipline is one of six corporal punishment tales from universities that appears in the my free-to-download book.

This one runs for more than 15,000 words and like the other books in this series it can be downloaded as a PDF file and read on your computer, laptop or a variety of e-book readers.

Click on the link below:

the-dean-of-dorm-discipline-by-charles-hamilton-ii

For more free-to-download books click here

 

Fake News #5

z used otk granddad 1

Adopt a Grandson Scheme Great Success

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

A new scheme that teams up seniors with Brocklehurst university students in need of discipline was launched this week.

It is the brainchild of the Civic Service Unit and aims to curb a growing problem of drunkenness, rowdyism and laziness among the university’s eighteen and nineteen year olds.

Dr. Christine Thussu who spearheads the Adopt a Grandson Scheme told the Brocklehurst Bugle, “Everyone in town knows there’s a big discipline problem with older teenagers. They have never been taught how to behave properly. They are inconsiderate to the local community and are often rude and disruptive. Drunken students in particular are frightening people.”

Dr. Thussu added, “The problem is the parents. They were misled into believing it was wrong to set boundaries for their children. As a result they simply don’t know how to behave.

“Adopt a Grandson aims to put that right. Older people were taught right from wrong. They were subjected to proper discipline. They still had the cane at school and fathers at home were not afraid to wield a slipper or a belt when necessary.”

She said she wanted to find volunteers among men, preferably aged 60 and over, who would be prepared to share their disciplinary skills with the younger students.

“The young men desperately need older role models who are prepared to put in the effort. Volunteers should be prepared to adopt an eighteen or nineteen-year-old for the duration of their time at Brocklehurst University.”

She added that contracts of proper behaviour would be drawn up between “grandpa” and “grandson”. Sanctions for breaking the contract should include spankings and other corporal punishment.

Dr. Thussu said, “We firmly believe that a firm spanking can be beneficial to a young man who has lost his way. We suggest to ‘grandpa’ that a good old-fashioned over-the-knee bare-bottomed spanking is the best way to start.”

She added that the teenagers who sign up for the scheme will be aware that they will be subjected to spankings. If a youngster continues to misbehave he can expect to feel a slipper, leather taws or even the dreaded rattan cane thwacking across his backside.

Roger Mathews, aged 19, a second year media studies student who has been on the scheme for six months so far, said, “I was sceptical to begin with. I couldn’t see how it would work. I liked to go out clubbing and I skipped some classes. But, my ‘grandpa’ quickly took me in hand.”

Roger said “grandpa” drew up a list of do’s and don’ts.

“When I broke the rules he didn’t hesitate. He was a terror,” Roger joked. “I came home with a B-minus on an essay because I hadn’t bothered to go to the library. Grandpa took me into the sitting room and I had hardly taken my jacket off before he was off.”

Within seconds, Roger said, his belt buckle was open and his jeans and underpants were at his knees.

“It was my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking, I can’t describe how much it hurt,” Roger said. “Grandpa was so strong, he had my shoulders pinned down and he hammered his rough, heavy hand across my buttocks. It was my first spanking, but I don’t think it was his.”

Roger’s “grandpa” is  Mr. RAF Buchan. “It makes me sound like a Royal Air Force station,” he jokes. He is a retired dockworker and brought up three boys of his own. He says he still has a whippy school cane in the cupboard under the stairs.

“Young men today need discipline and they know they do,” he said. “Spanking is good for them. You set boundaries and if they break them they know the consequences. I think a spanking should be delivered without any great ceremony. Putting a boy over your knee leaves him in no doubt about who’s in charge. Think what goes 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, he knows that his bottom will be bared and that he will be dissolving in tears like any naughty child.”

Volunteers who want to be grandpas or students in need of discipline should contact Brocklehurst University on _________________

Picture credit: Unknown

More Fake News stories here

 

Other stories you might like

The fire-raiser

The Private Tutor: 3

Duncan and Uncle Henry

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Book. Paul and his Landlord

used drawing cane hold (27)

Paul and His Landlord – and other troublesome tenants

Young men who are away from the parental home, often for the first time, are apt to stray from the straight and narrow. How lucky that responsible adults in the shape of landlords are on hand to show them the error of their ways, even if it means delivering sound spankings and other corporal punishment.

It might even be a life-changing experience for them – it certainly was for Paul.

Paul and his landlord and other troublesome tenants is another in a series of collections of my stories being published in book form. It runs for more than 21,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

For more free-to-download books click here

You’ll never believe this

z used otk professor

I don’t know why I’m even bothering to tell you this. You won’t believe me. You’ll say it’s a fantasy. I’m making it up; just to draw attention to myself. Like I always do.

Things like that don’t happen. Not anymore. Not in this day and age.

Well, if you don’t believe me I just don’t care. I’m going to tell you anyway.

For those who don’t know me, my name’s Chas. I’m eighteen getting on nineteen and I go to the Brocklehurst University. Majoring in media studies. I know, don’t you start as well. It is not a Mickey Mouse course. Definitely not. I wish we did spend all our time watching television. I might have better grades.

And then it wouldn’t have happened.

I stay during term time with Uncle Matthew. He’s not a real ‘uncle’, you know a blood relative. He’s a life-long friend of my dad’s and I’ve known him since I was a toddler. He has a swish house in The Avenue, a really upscale part of the town. I get my own room, free wi-fi, the works. Uncle Matthew lets me come and go as I please; no curfews, no set meal times. He never inquires where I’ve been or how I’m doing with my studies, or anything like that.

Things weren’t going too well as a matter of fact. I had attended a “hot-house” school, where we were harassed every minute of the day to work hard and get good A-level grades. The school wanted to be at the top of the league tables. Well, I did them proud. But when I got to BU as we call the university it didn’t take me long to discover the bars, the girls and weed and not necessarily in that order.

I never went to the library and my essays were cut and pasted from the Internet. Bad. Prof. McIntyre gave me a warning. If I didn’t get at least a B-plus on my final essay in Media and Society, I’d fail the module and my grade point average might not be good enough for me to go into the second year.

Well, I was gutted. Leave the university. Get a job. Not likely. Well, what could I do? This is where we get to the part that you won’t believe.

I talked to my pal Craig. “Prof says I’ll get chucked off the course if I don’t get at least a B-plus,” I whined. “What should I do?”

Craig’s eyes narrowed perceptively; then he grinned. “I’ve heard stories about Prof. McIntyre,” Craig rubbed his index finger down the side of his long, narrow nose. “If you know what I mean.” For some reason he affected a Cockney accent when he said this. Then he fell silent.

I didn’t know what he meant and irritated I told him so.

“You know. You do,” he dropped the Cockney and spoke in his usual voice. He could have been a younger member of the British Royal Family. “He likes young guys.”

“So?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes,” I squealed, “I’m rather afraid you must.”

“He’s gay.” More silence.

“And?”

“Oh per-lease,” Craig waved his arms above his head. “A cute little something like you?”

“What!” I was both offended and impatient. “What are you saying?”

Craig shook his head and addressed me as if talking to a naïf. “All the guys do it. He’s quite amenable.”

Why was he talking in riddles? “Just spit it out will you!”

“Yes, that’s what Prof says too.” His shoulders shook and he roared with laughter.

“Oh, ha, ha, ha,” I said dripping sarcasm. “You really think he gets blow jobs from students.”

“Yes, but only after he’s had them across his knee for a bare-arsed spanking.” Craig did that rubbing thing with his finger again. “You’ll get you B-plus for sure.”

Well, let’s cut to the chase with this story. A spanking from the Prof, a pass grade and a secure future. Or, a fail and a life spent flipping burgers. Not much choice there.

I went away to think about it. It didn’t occur to me to do some reading in the library and actually write an essay. Of course not, I’m a student in 2017 for pity’s sake.

I lay in my bed mulling it over. A spanking. From the professor. Bare arsed. I closed my eyes tight and tried to imagine it. Me, eighteen years old, tall, muscular, and (if Craig is right) cute. Prof. who must be in his fifties, flabby, gone to seed. Me, trousers at the ankles, boxers at the knees, draped across the old man’s knees. He, whacking away at my bare bum. How did he do it? With his hand? A belt? Slipper? My cock stiffened ….

There had to be another way. And, there was. An essay mill. Another friend, Mitch, told me about it. Websites where you can buy an already written essay and pass it off as your own. It wasn’t cheap. Five pence short of fifty quid. Money that I couldn’t really afford. But it was better than a spanking.

I paid my fee, downloaded the essay, printed it out, handed it in. Job done. I might have gotten away with it. Can you guess how I was found out? Never in a million years. Mitch told me about the website. He knew about the website because he used it himself. We handed in the same essay. Word for bloody word.

So, there I was in Prof. McIntyre’s office. I don’t know who you are and if you’ve ever been to university. A modern university that is. Forget “dreaming spires” and all the flannel you see in Inspector Morse or Lewis. BU is mainly made up of concrete and glass. Prof.’s office is made of moveable walls and is furnished in fake wood. It could be an accountant’s office. It probably will be one day when the university sacks all the lecturers and we do our courses online.

Prof. doesn’t wear a gown and funny hat. He isn’t dressed in tweeds and such. On the day in question he wore a striped shirt (Marks & Spencer, most likely) and worn blue jeans. He could have been a bricklayer.

I stood on the industrial-strength dark grey carpet in front of his desk. He swivelled in his chair away from a computer screen so he faced me. Theatrically, he waved a sheaf of papers at me. My essay. “Is there anything you want to say to me?” he sighed as if he carried the burdens of all the world on his shoulders. “Think carefully,” he turned his head and nodded at the computer screen.

I could deny it. But what would be the point? I felt my face glow. I was blushing deep red. I always do when I’m embarrassed.

“We have software, you know,” he said peering at me.

So, I coughed to it. I had bought the essay online.

“OK,” he said. I was flummoxed. I expected a rant; a denunciation of my character. I was a cheat. I should be expelled from the university. And on and on.

What he said next made me buckle at the knees. “If you take a spanking, you can get a pass mark.” My mouth opened and closed silently; in a rather good goldfish impression. “B …” I wanted to say, “But a pass mark isn’t good enough, I need a B-plus.” The words would not come. He peered at me some more. Then he spoke, “We can make it so that you still pass into next semester.”

He stood from his chair and ambled around the desk so that he stood next to me. “Come over here.” Gently he took my left elbow and guided me across the office towards a battered three-seater leather couch. He eased himself down; his weight made quite an indentation in the soft seat cushion.

“Now this is what you must do,” he spoke gently. He was about to pass on instructions. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a university professor to tell his eighteen-year-old male student how to prepare himself for a spanking. “You should take down your jeans and let them drop to your ankles.”

Now, by this point in the story I have probably lost a number of you disbelieving readers. How could such a thing happen? How could he get away with such a thing? Aren’t there laws against it? To which I would answer “I don’t know,” but it did.

I wanted that grade. I wanted to stay on at the university. Damnit, I wanted to carry on with my easy life. Besides, how bad could it be?

Prof. was getting a little impatient. “Unbuckle your belt, take down your jeans,” I couldn’t look the old man in the eye. I fumbled a bit with the belt and popped the fasteners on the fly of the jeans. The front fell open and I felt a breeze against my white cotton briefs. I let go and the denims started to slide over my thighs, they bunched at my knees but it only took a slight movement in my legs to see them on their way to my feet.

Prof.’s voice cracked, “Now, come and put yourself across my lap.” He parted his legs and then reached out and took my left forearm and with extreme care he manoeuvred me forward. I did not resist. It was like a dream. This really wasn’t happening. Any moment I would awaken. His legs were hard and I felt them dig into my stomach. Without a further word, Prof. lifted me so that I was stretched across the couch with my legs and feet resting along it. My face was close to one of the couch’s arms and I gagged at a cloying aroma of stale body sweat.

In this position my chest was rested over his left thigh and my bottom was at an angle over his right. I was wearing a cheap white t-shirt and Prof. took hold of the end of this and ruffled it up my back. My briefs had ridden up my cheeks a little and it felt like someone had given me a wedgie. I felt his hand rest on my left buttock. I thought at first that he was trying to smooth out the cotton but once he had explored the contours of my meaty buttocks, he lifted his hand away. Seconds later I wriggled in protest as he gripped the waistband of my briefs and with two hefty tugs he had my arse cheeks bared.

Still he said nothing. He put his arm across my back and took hold of my hip. I was pinioned. I was going nowhere until he said so. I held my head in my hands and waited.

Have you ever been spanked? No? It was a new experience for me too. What do you expect? Well, to state the obvious, the whole point surely is to inflict pain. The general idea is this is a punishment that is so severe that it reminds you that you have done wrong and it warns you of the consequence of any further misbehaviour. Prof. slapped his rough hand over and over again across my bare buttocks. There was no pain to speak of at first but it built up as he whacked the meatiest part of my bum time and time again.

He spanked me so rapidly and so hard I could barely catch my breath. His spanks were not delivered from a great height, but were a series of short sharp blows one after another.

My cheeks were burning. I tried to wriggle free, but Prof. held me firmly in place. I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided he had punished me enough.

I was furious to be locked in place over the Prof’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Slap! Slap! Slap! It just went on and on. It hurt so much I wanted to cry out for him to stop, to say I promised not to cheat again, if only he would stop spanking me. But, I didn’t. Instinctively, I knew this was against protocol.

But I only had myself to blame. Instinctively again, I fought furiously, trying to kick my feet and legs and squirming and wriggling around on Prof.’s knees, but I couldn’t escape or halt the volley of hand-spanks heating up my behind.

I stopped wriggling and tried to take each new spank stoically; the spanking was hurting, but I wasn’t in any real pain. The hurt caused by the hand spanking had little effect on me, but the embarrassment of being forced to take down my jeans, bend over the older man’s knee to get spanked on the bare-bottom was a huge humiliation.

Prof. paused a moment, he was admiring his handiwork. He was red faced and I was red arsed. He was nearly finished. He slapped down another dozen smacks just for good measure, spanked harshly into my buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh.

I was breathless as I lay wheezing over Prof.’s lap. It was over.

He released his grip on me and I stumbled to my feet. I twisted my body and saw my arse glowed red hot. Gingerly, I rubbed it. I was still unable to look at Prof. I pulled up my briefs and then my jeans. Already most of the pain had subsided, but my buttocks tingled.

Prof. hauled himself from the couch and returned to his desk. Before he reached it and with his back to me, he said, “You should go now.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I pushed through the door and tore down the corridor where I saw an astonished Mitch. I didn’t stop to talk. I took the stairs two at a time and hurtled from the building. As the cool air of early evening hit me, I paused to take stock. I had passed the course and I would return to the university next semester. I had to be spanked to make it happen. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all.

I started toward Uncle’s house then it hit me: why hadn’t I taken the spanking in the first place? It would have saved me fifty pounds.

 

Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com