Economics failure

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z used white pants paddle chair (3a)

Come in! Which one are you? Callaghan is it? I have a list. Yes, you’re on it here. You skipped my Economics 101 class and you haven’t handed in your coursework. Yes? Well, you are about to learn a very painful lesson. That’s the trouble with so many of you freshers. You don’t think you’re at school to study. It’s just fun and games for the likes of you. Well, believe me when I say it catches up with you in the end.

We have a very clear policy in the Economics Faculty. Some people would say we’re a little old fashioned. Well, I for one say I don’t mind being old-fashioned in air quotes if it delivers results. And, given time we get the results.

I don’t recognise you. Have you attended any of my classes? I suppose you sit at the back of the lecture hall, goofing around with your friends, disturbing everyone else. Why did you ever sign up for university? Your parents, I suppose. You and your kind have a sense of entitlement. You think you just have to register and we’ll give you a college degree. I don’t suppose you’ve done a hard day’s work in your life.

Well, Callaghan, I’ve got news for you. You do the work, or else! I could just flunk you and make you come back next year and do the course again. I could, but let me level with you. If I fail you that makes me look bad. Makes out I’m a bad instructor, do you see what I mean? But don’t let that make you think I’m just going to sign you off with a pass. That’s not going to happen.

What I am going to do Callaghan, is I’m going to give you a second chance. An opportunity to turn yourself around. It won’t be easy – well, not easy for you that is. You need self-discipline to succeed in life and if at your age you don’t have it in you, you need somebody older and a lot wiser to impose that discipline. Do you understand Callaghan?

Do you see what this is boy? Don’t look so blank. You’re pretty intelligent or you wouldn’t have made it here to begin with. What I’m going to do Callaghan is I’m going to paddle your rear end. Don’t pout at me. Read the university regulations. It’s clearly stated. You signed up to them when you came here.

Right. Pick up that chair and put it there by my desk.

Just do it, I don’t want any argument from you, Callaghan.

Right. Stand in front of the chair. I’m going to give you the spanking you so richly deserve. That’s six swats for cutting my class and six swats for not handing in coursework. To run consecutively. That means one after the other, Callaghan. Twelve swats in total.

Right. Take down your jeans and bend over the chair.

Yes, take down your jeans. You’re in Big School now. How old are you – eighteen, nineteen? You need more than a little boy’s spanking. If this paddling is going to turn around your life, it must be memorable. Afterwards, I want to see you hopping all the way down the corridor to the elevator. I want you to monitor the bruises on your butt over the coming week as they turn from deep purple then though all shades of mauves and yellows before they finally disappear. Do you have a girlfriend Callaghan? Better think up a few excuses not to see her. How would you explain them?

Right. Stop making a fuss and down with those jeans.

That’s better. You should learn to face the consequences of your actions like a man. You skip my classes, you don’t do coursework … this is the consequence.

Let those jeans fall all the way. Bend over the chair. Grip the seat. Legs apart. It’s best if you look straight ahead. Don’t try to see what I’m doing back here. Keep that back arched. Head low. Bottom out.

Right Callaghan, let’s see if we can rescue your university career. You might not think so right now, but one day you’ll thank me for this …

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

 

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Professor Paddle

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

Milo, the grad student

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boom-box boy

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z used short shorts outdoors 2

We had a lovely summer’s day last week and you don’t get many of those in Brocklehurst so I decided to make the most of it and lounge out in the garden, fortified by some gin-and-tonic and an ice bucket.

Imagine my annoyance when after about five minutes of catching the rays, I was assaulted by the sound of heavy rock music. No, not the sound, the noise, the racket, the din of rock music. It wasn’t that it was rock music that did my head in; I should’ve felt the same if it had been Beethoven’s Fifth or some other classical stuff. It was the intrusion into my peaceful afternoon that I objected to. Someone, somewhere close by, was playing loud music and couldn’t give a damn if he was disturbing the whole neighbourhood. I say he, without even seeing the culprit: I was certain no woman would ever be as thoughtless as this.

I could stand it no longer and went through the gate in my garden and into The Avenue. The paving stones were almost vibrating to the noise of the music and its source was immediately obvious. Just across the road, half way up a ladder painting the front of the house was a young workman. I say young; he might have been somewhere in his thirties but at my age that’s pretty young. Near the foot of the ladder was a contraption that was blaring out the music. I did a “double-take” when I saw what it was. I honestly don’t think I’ve seen such a thing in twenty years or more.

It was what we used to call a ghetto-blaster until the politically-correct folk told us we had to say “boom-box”. It was one of those combinations of a radio and cassette tape (I think CDs hadn’t been invented when they were fashionable.) I think they went on the scrapheap when the Sony Walkman came out and suddenly we were all “wired for sound” behind our own personal ear-phones.

I was about to cross the road and kick the ladder away so that the blighter fell from a height onto the accursed boom-box and (hopefully) flattened it to destruction when I had a sudden thought. Things like this often happen to me on days when the sun shines brightly. I suppose a psychiatrist might explain it better than me but I  had a flashback; that is to say I remembered something from a past summer that I hadn’t thought about in more than 40 years. It was the boom-box that did it.

I was still at college and living in the halls of residence and there was this fellow student who always – and I truly mean always – had his ghetto blaster going at full tilt. He carried it with him wherever he went. He had a room somewhere on the third floor but the cacophony he created could be heard all over the building, even where I stayed on the ground floor (just next to the entrance if you insist I pinpoint it.)

I remember him so clearly, even though this was 1974 I’m talking about. He called himself Ian C. Hirst. We thought he was a bit of a tit because of the “Ian C.” bit. Nobody used their middle initial in their name. We didn’t say, “Good morning, I’m Alan P. Taylor,” or what have you. Only Americans did that sort of thing. Perhaps, Ian C. Hirst wanted people to think he was American, although why anyone would want to do that is beyond me. [That’s meant to be a joke, please don’t write to me]. Ian C. thought a lot of himself. I remember it was a long, hot summer that year and he paraded around college wearing only a pair of white shorts and nothing else. Shorts were properly short in those days; I’ve seen underwear today longer than those shorts. He had a muscular, hairless torso and dreamy brown eyes. His hair was curled and fashionably long. He turned the heads of all the girls, and a quite a few of the boys secretly had a crush on him (I can testify to that).

So, Ian C., sexy or not, was a complete pain in the you-know-where. It was summer and exams were fast approaching but how could we expect to study with all that racket going on? Naturally, those who had rooms on the same landing asked him to turn it down. He did so and we all sighed with relief. But before too long the building was shaking once again. Back in those days people didn’t talk much about “rights” and there were no student residents’ committees and in short there was no one to complain too. Today, an Ian C. Hirst would be out on his ear, but in 1974 we were left on our own.

So what to do? I think it was my pal Edward Anthony who made the suggestion. It might plausibly have been me. Whoever it was, it was an idea conceived in drink, of that I can be certain. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And, as time would show, it was. We couldn’t do it on our own, there needed to be a gang of us. The more the merrier. There would be safety in numbers. When we discussed it again in the cold light of sobriety we began to have our doubts. It did seem to be an extreme measure. What if it didn’t work and Ian C. turned on us? He was bigger and fitter and although I’d have been happy to wrestle around with him, I didn’t fancy getting my face bashed in.

Don’t worry, Edward Anthony said, there would be plenty of the boys ready and willing to join with us. And, indeed that turned out to be the case. There were easily a dozen in all. Poor Ian C. Hirst, he never stood a chance.

It was late afternoon and lectures had finished and we students were back at the halls of residence. In about an hour people would start to prepare meals in the communal kitchens; so this was the perfect time to pounce. Naturally, with the music blaring from his room, he never heard us coming. It took some hammering on his door before he realised he had visitors. As he opened the door, he also appeared to be buttoning up his shorts. His hair was messy (he was famous at college for using half a can of hairspray every day to keep his locks in place) and I wondered if we had interrupted him with a girl (or please God, a boy!) but his room was tiny and it was immediately obvious that he was alone.

“Grab him!” One of our gang yelled and six pairs of hands grabbed out. “Worr…!!” Ian C. bellowed in reply but he didn’t get much chance to say any more because already he was being manhandled down the corridor towards the communal kitchen. As so often during that summer, he wore only his shorts and we had very little to grip hold to as we bundled him along. He was effing and jeffing, of course, and called us all the names under the sun, but we had so effectively overpowered him he had no choice but allow himself to be carried along.

We had the kitchen to ourselves. Somebody locked the door. We were not going to be disturbed and Ian C. had no escape. I remember someone, I’m pretty certain it was Simon Aldridge, had written a charge sheet so Ian C. knew exactly why he was there. Simon sounded a bit pompous when he read it out, but it must have been good practice for him because later in life he went on to become a well-known lawyer in London.

This wasn’t a court of law and it most certainly wasn’t a democracy, so we didn’t ask Ian C. to speak in his own defence. We went straight to carrying out the sentence. It doesn’t matter how fit and strong you are, or how good a fighter, when eight people simultaneously take hold of you then you are defeated. So it was with Ian C. We had it planned. It was simple and like many simple plans it was entirely effective.

The kitchen was a large room with six laminated tables pushed together in the centre so up to sixteen students could sit down to eat at the same time. It took only seconds for us to heave him up and spread-eagle him face down on the table. He yelled blue murder, but Alan Keefe had shown the presence of mind to bring the boom-box along with him. When he switched it on it drowned out all of Ian C.’s protests. He had a boy at each corner, his wrists and ankles holding him firmly down. Ian C. wriggled and writhed, but he was going nowhere. Even though that was entirely obvious he squirmed and struggled. Another couple of boys held his legs and that settled him. We were nearly ready.

There was still one important matter to deal with before we could start properly. I delegated myself to perform this task. It was, as I joked beforehand, a difficult job but somebody had to do it. Ian C. was reasonably sedate for now, but that changed immediately I reached out beneath his body and searched for the button at the top of his shorts. It indeed proved to be a difficult job because the full weight of Ian C.’s body was resting on his stomach and he wasn’t about to raise his torso to give me clearer access to his shorts.

Eventually, after much fumbling, I got the top of his shorts open. Then, it was a fairly simple mission to get the zipper down. The shorts, as I said previously, were very short and also extremely tight fitting. I had hoped to take hold of his shorts and with some ceremony lower them down over his buttocks and then down his thighs before abandoning them somewhere near his knees. I would then, with even greater ceremony deal with his smooth cotton briefs.

Alas, the combination of his weight, the tightness of his shorts and Ian C.’s continued attempts to wriggle free meant that I had no opportunity to debag him with great ritual. His shorts and underpants slithered down his bum together and I left them at his knees. Another of our gang by the name of Patel (I blush to recall that he was universally known by the nickname “Inky”) then lowered the garments further until they settled at his feet.

I had a perfect bird’s eye view of Ian C.’s naked bottom. It was as I had imagined: smooth and hairless; meaty but firm. His cheeks were creamy white in stark contrast to the rest of his body which was a deeply tanned. I did not resist the urge to rub his mounds with the palm of my hand. I knew for certain I was not the only fellow present who desired to do this.

Obviously, there had been no possibility of rehearsing or practising what we wanted to do, but we all knew what was intended. As I had been removing Ian C.’s shorts and pants, the rest of the gang had removed their own leather belts which by now they had doubled (or trebled, depending upon their length). One boy, James Banks, had with him an authentic leather taws. It was one with two tails at one end and he later told us he had purloined it from his school near Edinburgh when he had left two years previously.

So we were set. Ian C.’s feet and wrists were firmly held, he was face-down on the table top. His bottom was bare to the breeze. He was an easy target. And we all took advantage. There were eight boys armed with straps, they took up position four on each side and to put it simply; they let him have it.

I don’t know if you have ever been belted or maybe seen another boy belted, but a heavy strap quickly leaves its mark on naked flesh. Within half a minute Ian C’.s backside was criss-crossed with deep-pink lines. It resembled an aerial shot of a railway junction. After a couple of minutes the deep-pink had turned red and soon mauve and purple blotches appeared. Ian C. fought like a trooper and I was very pleased that we had so many people in our gang that we were able to hold him down. I wouldn’t fancy our chances otherwise.

At one point we all ceased our own battering to allow James a free-range with his taws. I have to report he was something of an expert. He positioned himself to the right of Ian C. and took aim by first laying the two-tailed strap which was probably fourteen inches long so that it rested across the highest point of both cheeks. Then he adjusted his own position so that he had enough room to raise the taws and rest it over his own shoulder so that it tapped the small of his back. Then he practised to make sure he could swing the taws in an arc up and over without touching the ceiling of the kitchen and then bring it down right on target. He took two practice swings and then let rip for real. My! The CRACK! of the leather on Ian C.’s hard, naked bum echoed around the room. I think we were all relived that Alan had brought the boom-box and that the music from it drowned Ian C.’s shriek. James let fly with a half-dozen swipes before making way for some of the others to resume with their own more modest belts.

So, that was it. Ian C.’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat. He never played his boom-box in the halls again, we all studied hard, sat our exams and went our separate ways. And that happened in 1974 and I hadn’t given it a thought in more than forty years. There was one other thing I remembered: after we had finished with Ian C. I went back alone to my own room and shot my load about two feet high. I was twenty-one then; I couldn’t do that today. I know because I’ve just tried.

And, as for the young man painting the house? I didn’t kick his ladder away. I didn’t get a gang of neighbours together and tan his backside. I pointed out to him that he was causing a disturbance. He blushed prettily, apologised profusely and turned his boom-box off. He was, I mused to myself, as I poured my second gin-and-tonic in my garden, really rather sweet.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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Professor Paddle

The scavenger hunt

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A right caning

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I was on the bus the other day and there were two young men sitting behind me and one said a little loudly, “He gave him a right caning!” Naturally, my ears pricked up at this. Intrigued, I very casually turned my head to see who had spoken. They were two students. I could tell because they had ID cards hanging round their necks. They got off at the next stop leaving me bemused. He gave him a right caning: did that mean what I hoped it meant?

Of course it couldn’t, I told myself. Right caning, it must be some slang the kids use. Perhaps it means doing something to excess; like, “He gave the whiskey bottle a right caning.” But that didn’t seem to be the right answer. He gave him a right caning. That was definitely one person doing something to another.

It continued to puzzle me and later in the day when I saw my grandson Richie who is also a student I asked him what it might have meant. He gave me that look he always gives when I have demonstrated how out of touch I am with the modern world. “Where have you been these last years?” he asked good humouredly and when I continued to look blank he told me that they had introduced corporal punishment in colleges and universities two years ago. This was after they brought back the cane in schools. Apparently, that solved a lot of the discipline problems that had been plaguing teachers for decades.

It didn’t seem to be a big deal to Richie. He told me that he and two pals had themselves been caned last semester. They got back to the halls of residence late after they had been to some club. They had to report to the office of the Dean of Discipline next morning. There were a few other students standing in line waiting their turn. He told me all about it. He wasn’t the least embarrassed.

He said the room wasn’t really an office. There was a table pushed up against one wall and some empty shelves along another, but mainly there was just an ordinary armchair stuck in the middle. It was one of those with a low back and wooden arms that you sometimes see in reception areas of big offices. The whole thing was done with little ceremony. Apparently, the Dean of Discipline reads out from a charge sheet; a bit like in the Army I imagine. So, it went something like, “You missed curfew and returned back inebriated.” Richie had to agree this was so and then sign a paper saying he consented to be punished. He’s over eighteen, so legally an adult so he can do this.

The Dean of Discipline is permitted to give up to twelve strokes of the cane. It has to be on the seat of the trousers, but apparently they are thinking of changing this so in future you could get it on the underpants or even on the bare. Blimey! Imagine that.

Once the legal document was signed, they just got on with it. Richie said, “There was a tall vase thing in the corner of the room with about six or seven canes standing in it. He’s a bit of a sod because he takes his time deciding which one to use. He took one out, studied it carefully and he swished it about a bit. Then he decided that wasn’t good enough and he took another one and did the same with that. I don’t know why he bothered,” Richie laughed, “He had used them all often enough, they were all his old friends.”

I didn’t tell him that the Dean of Discipline was trying to intimidate him; to make him fearful of what was about to happen. I have to say judging by the way Richie was opening up to me about his caning he wasn’t the least worried. But who knows, at the time he might have been bricking it.

It seems this Dean of Discipline is an older man, gone to seed a little with his belly hanging over his belt and his suit jacket straining over his shoulders. He was very formal. “In the end he got the stick he wanted. It was less than a metre long and looked quite stout, but when he flexed it between his hands it was very whippy. He swished it a couple of times and then he said, ‘Bend over that chair.’ I’d never been done before but plenty of others had so I had a good idea of what was going to happen.”

z used cane holding kernled

Richie told me went to the back of the chair, counted to three and “threw myself over.” I was trying not make my interest too obvious but I asked him, why he did it? Why did he let himself be beaten by this older man? He gave me that “What planet are you on?” look again. “I broke the rules. I got caught. I took my punishment,” he told me snootily. Well, I thought, back in my day if they tried that on we would have told them to go to hell and the entire student union body would’ve been on strike before the day had ended. My, how times have changed.

“I got six. Six strokes that is. They call it six-of-the-best,” he said as if speaking to a slightly backward child.

“Did it hurt?” I asked, feigning innocence. He laughed loudly, “What do you think! Of course, it bloody hurt. That’s the whole point!” I must say he seemed enormously relaxed about the whole thing. He certainly didn’t think he was the victim of some terrible outrage. I nodded sagely to encourage him to continue.

“I knew it would,” he said. “What you have to do,” he continued as if he were a veteran in such matters, “is try not to think about it. Just hold on tightly to the chair. Some students stare straight ahead and concentrate on the wall at the other end of the room. Me, I looked down at the seat cushion and studied the dent somebody’s arse had made in it.”

I wriggled in my chair imagining the scene in the Dean of Discipline’s office. Richie bent across the back of the chair. His head is low and his bottom is high. I suppose his legs are set apart and his knees held straight. He didn’t say but I wonder if the Dean of Discipline took some time smoothing the seat of Richie’s trousers; so there were no creases. He would have wanted them to be as tight as a drum. Did he move the tail of Richie’s jacket away from the target area? Was he wearing a jacket? Perhaps he only had on a shirt. Would it ride up away from the waist of his trousers, exposing a patch of bare flesh on his lower back.

Richie continued talking, he was almost evangelical, “You have to stay there and take it. Let him get on with it. Close your eyes and grit your teeth. Try not to jump about. Keep quiet, don’t scream and holler.”

I nodded agreement, perhaps a little too vigorously and he might have thought I was mocking him. “Of course, you’ve never been caned,” he said scathingly. I raised my hand to my mouth and covered a sly smile. “Six,” he reiterated, “Six strokes. He was a master. He got them all to land right next to each other. In a strip. It was like he pressed a red hot poker into my bum,” his eyes watered at the memory. “I didn’t yell. It was touch and go I tell you.” He was clearly inordinately proud of his fortitude.

“Couldn’t sit down for a week, I suppose,” I laughed. He was relaxed and shared in the joke. “I had these big welts right across my arse. Stayed about a week. The guys have got pictures of it somewhere.” That was the end of his story. There wasn’t much more that could be said. With my heart racing and short of breath, I made a pot of coffee and we drank in companionable silence.

Picture credit: Kernled

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

Father deals with idle student

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Simon had expected a call from his father; he knew he had met with his university tutor and words such as lazy, indolent, idle and workshy would have been used to describe the boy.

Simon was in his first year at university and things were not going well. He had failed his mid-terms and he awaited the results of his final exams with some anxiety.  It wasn’t that Simon was a stupid boy; that was far from the truth, but he did lack self-discipline.

You could blame his school for that. His father had paid a small fortune to send him to a very select boarding school and his outlay was repaid when his son had passed his A-level examinations with flying colours. His father had then laid out more money to send him to university.

That’s where the trouble started. What his father did not realise, and nor did Simon until recently, was that it was the discipline regime (or more truthfully, the punishment regime) at the school that had ensured his son’s success. Bucksbury Manor had its standards and if these were not met, the boys paid the price: with their backsides.

Simon learnt from an early age that the best way to avoid bruises on his buttocks was to work hard. He mostly succeeded in this, but there were tell-tale signs in the sixth-form when he was eighteen years old that his standards were beginning to slip and he was no longer an A-student.

His housemaster was an experienced teacher and he knew that boys of Simon’s age often became distracted from their work, especially if they discovered the delights of the nearby town, and particularly its girls.

Mr Bailey also knew the perfect remedy for this slacking. That was why Simon found himself unexpectedly summoned one afternoon to the housemaster’s study. Posner, one of the House junior boys – believe it or not they were called “fags” at the school – came to find him to deliver Mr Bailey’s instruction to report immediately.

“What’s it about?” Simon inquired innocently.

Posner claimed not to know; actually, he hadn’t been told the reason, but from experience he knew that a summons like this usually meant a boy was to get a thrashing.

Simon was ignorant of the fate that awaited him and untroubled he walked through the wood-panelled hall, past the honours boards, the school photographs, the noticeboards, the glass fronted cupboards with various trophies and the paintings of past headmasters to his housemaster’s study.

He was aware that the housemaster was very strict and any boy sent to him for breaking the rules would feel the full strength of his powerful right arm and leave the study with an aching backside.

But, he was in the sixth-form and senior boys were not caned. In any case he hadn’t done anything wrong.

He knocked on the study and waited for the command, “Enter!” It was a dark room with wood panels around three walls, in the middle of the room was a huge oak desk, to the side was a large leather armchair, a long window and behind the desk was a wicker basket containing several swishy canes, each of them capable of leaving a boy with a throbbing backside.

Simon could not take his eyes of the wicker basket; he did not expect to be on the receiving end of one of the canes, but they were still an intimidating sight.

Mr Bailey took off his horn rimmed glasses and toyed with them while he spoke, “You are producing sloppy work and your grades are slipping. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Simon was dumbfounded; it was true his grades were poor, but he hadn’t expected to be hauled in by his housemaster about it.

He had no excuses and he knew it. His housemaster punctured the silence. “You are slacking and that is inexcusable. You have the brains to do well in your examinations and I am going to make sure you use them.”

Simon, blushed to his roots, and stared at the carpet. Mr Bailey was right he had been slacking off, spending too much time in town or, to be perfectly honest, looking at magazines and playing with himself down at the copse.

His housemaster, having discarded his gown and jacket, was pacing the study swishing a senior cane.

“I am going to beat you and I shall beat you every time you are caught slacking from now until your examinations. Is that perfectly clear?”

Quaking, Simon agreed that it was indeed perfectly clear, thank you, Sir.

“Carter remove your blazer and hang it up, please.”

Hands trembling, Simon undid the buttons, slid the blazer off his back and placed it on a hook behind the door.

“Stand in front of the desk. Drop your trousers.”

Jesus! Simon hadn’t expected this and the look on his face told his housemaster so.

“This is to be an exemplary beating Carter. It is designed to ensure you stop slacking in your school work. But, if I have to deal with you again, you will be caned on the bare.”

Simon saw he had no choice. He was guilty as charged and was to receive a sound thrashing as punishment. Schoolboys have a code of honour and it says you take your beatings like a man.

Despite his intense embarrassment, Simon undid the buttons and pushed his trousers to his knees. His white shirt was long enough to cover his buttocks.

“Lift up your shirt and then bend over the desk.” Simon’s humiliation was complete; with his shirt held high the housemaster was able to get a full view of the boy in his tight white underpants; front and back.

Mr Bailey had no interest in ogling his pupils in their underwear; his only desire was to have the target for his cane unobstructed.

Simon lowered himself across the desk, stretched his arms across and gripped the far side, pointing his backside in the air ready to take a most humiliating caning.

The housemaster with determination set to work lashing the cane hard across the waiting buttocks. Simon’s head shot up as the bite of the first stroke got to him, once again the housemaster raised the cane before lashing number two across the boy’s backside. Simon yelled out with each stroke as the thin underwear offered no protection.

z used cane pants school London

By the time Mr Bailey lashed the cane the sixth time across the pants, Simon was in utter distress. When instructed he stood up and his hands furiously clutched his stinging buttocks.

From that day, until he joined the university, Simon had knuckled down to his studies.

But, without the incentive of the threat of his housemaster’s cane across his bare buttocks, Simon had let things slip, until it was so bad that his future at the university was in jeopardy. He was grateful that his father loved him enough that he made this special visit to the university to sort out the problem.

Now, he was in a hotel suite, facing his father’s anger.

“I have spoken to your university tutor and she assures me that there I still some hope for you and you might be able to re-sit your examinations. I have agreed that I will pay the extra fees this will involve. Now, I need to give you an incentive to work harder.

“I am going to spank you and that is an end to the matter. You can submit yourself and take it with some dignity, or I can call my assistant Rodgers in and he will hold you down. Either way you are getting a spanking.”

Although, Simon was no longer a pupil at Bucksbury Manor he still abided by the code: take it like a man. His father opened his briefcase and drew out a heavy wooden brush with a short handle. Then he seized an armless chair and quickly sat down.

Mr Carter was expecting more resistance from his son and with an iron grasp on the back of Simon’s neck he hauled the university student over his lap and moved him around until his bottom was directly over his knee. To stop his son trying to scramble off his lap, he encircled his waist with his strong left arm and slid him over and down, swinging his right leg over and around Simon’s legs, locking them.

He held him in place for a minute letting him settle down and get used to this new position and rested the brush across the centre of his backside. His father patted the boy’s bottom firmly and lectured him about how upset he was with him and how it hurt him having to do this; then he was ready to start the traditional father / son discipline dance.

Simon was enormously embarrassed at having to go over his father’s knee at his age for a spanking. Why couldn’t he just have caned him instead?

Suddenly, he felt his father gripping the waist band of his sweatpants, yanking them over his bum and down his thighs, past his knees, and down his shins to his ankles. Before he could protest his tight yellow briefs quickly followed.

Simon felt his right arm pulled back and twisted up against his upper back, as he lay trapped hanging over his father’s knees. His legs were stretched so that his tip toes hardly touched the carpet.

Then he began to spank away at his son’s buttocks; twenty, forty, sixty wallops. Simon’s backside was shining, he was yelling out in fear, but Mr Carter continued to pound away at the boy’s bottom.

Simon had thought nothing could be more torture than that housemaster’s caning on his underpants, but this bare-bottomed spanking was far worst. His face screwed up in agony and he fought to be brave, but as the brush smacked and smacked on and on into his fleshy globes he started to whimper and then squeal and soon he was really howling with his legs jerking about as he bounced up and down.

His father could tell Simon was in distress, but his kept laying into him, smack after smack after smack. Then the begging started, but it fell on deaf ears. Mr Carter went on spanking.

Simon’s backside and the top of his thighs were red raw, tears were streaming down his face as he bawled like a child of eight. He just dangled there, resigned, jolting around on his father’s lap as each blazing whack sent him bouncing, rocking and twisting in unbearable pain, humiliation and disgrace.

He knew he would rather be anywhere in the world than lying upside down across his father’s knee with trousers and briefs down and that evil brush pounding away at his bare buttocks, the pain and humiliation was just not worth it. Through his tears he promised his father he had learned his lesson, hoping and praying that this will be the end.

He would study hard, if only his father would stop hitting him.

After another twenty swats, his father did stop spanking him, he was crying steadily and his bottom was as red as a tomato. Drenched with pain and perspiration, young Simon staggered to his feet and stood mortified with embarrassment as his father lifted the tail of his shirt to inspect the blazing red blisters that covered his bum and upper thighs.

Pulling himself away, his hands hovered around his burning buttocks and he stared in abject remorse at his father, tears streaming down his face. He jumped on the spot trying to make the agony go away.

His father was not a tyrant, he could see his son was defeated and left the room with the brush in his hand leaving Simon hugging his burning backside and still crying both from pain and humiliation.

Simon eventually graduated with honours from the university and in the years to come he would look back on this day and others that followed with gratitude.

Picture credit: CP Services London

 

This story was first uploaded in March 2016.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Dean’s list

new story 2

zused paddle jeans touch toes american school

Bruce is standing with his nose centimetres from the wall. The smell of damp plaster is cloying. He thinks he is about to sneeze. The passageway is hot and humid. The mid-afternoon sun blazes but none of the windows are open. They have been stuck closed for years: no budget for maintenance Bruce stares dead ahead as instructed. To his right two other students stand obediently. To his left are a further three. All stand in silence. All Bruce can hear is rhythmic breathing. No one dares speak. All afraid of breaking more rules.

Bruce was the third to arrive. All were summoned to attend at three o’clock sharp and don’t dare be late. All arrived early. Some earlier than others. None knew that the rule was first to arrive, first to be dealt with. Bruce feels under dressed. He is in blue jeans and green t-shirt. Both of the two ahead of him in the queue are in smart business suits. The others are in smart trousers. All wear neck ties. One wears a blazer. Bruce thinks he looks like a schoolboy. Now he thinks about it, less than six months ago he was.

The heavy oak door at the end of the passageway opens. Nobody turns his head, but they all sense what is happening. A tall, thin teenager shuffles out. His face soaked in perspiration, eyes dampened by tears. His neck is scarlet. He hesitates slightly, whispers to the boy at the head of the line and then darts down the passageway, both hands clutching the seat of his trousers. The air is thick with expectation. Still nobody speaks. The boy at the head of the queue fastens the button of his suit jacket, checks his tie and sucks in a lungful of air. With absolutely no enthusiasm he knocks on the door. The boy catches the faintest sound from the other side, he turns the handle and pushes against the heavy oak.

Another day at Brocklehurst University. The same ritual is played out every afternoon at 3 p.m., Monday to Thursday. Week in and week out. The Dean of Discipline likes to spend Friday afternoons at the golf club so he brings forward the line-up to one o’clock.

This is Bruce’s first time on the Dean’s List. It is his third month at the university. It is a wonder to him he has escaped for so long. The list of rules at Brocklehurst is endless. Don’t do this. Don’t do that. Be on time. Get good grades. Keep your nose clean. Don’t make waves. Or else. It’s the Dean’s List. And, that means only one thing. The door creeps open again. Another sorrowful boy limps out. “Six!” he gasps. “Bare arsed,” he says disbelievingly. “Bare arsed!” he repeats to make certain they all understand he is incredulous. “Your turn,” he nods at his companion in the suit. “Bloody hell!” He waddles down the passageway towards the staircase and freedom.

Bruce continues staring at the wall. Six. Bare arsed. He shuts his eyes. Bloody hell indeed. Corporal punishment. At university. Aged eighteen. The world is turning upside down. It started when Britain crashed out of the European Union. The government collapsed. The opposition parties were useless. There was turmoil everywhere. Food shortages. Riots on the streets. Suddenly from nowhere came the New Democratic Party to save the nation. They knew what Britain needed. A little bit of gardening. They had made that joke a lot at the time the NDP came to power. Lawn Order. Cut the grass neat and tidy. They meant law and order, of course. And they meant it too.

In the flick of an eyelid new regulations were passed. Curfews were introduced. Food was back in the shops. The immigrants were sent home. The public loved it. Especially, when the NDP went for the no-good layabout youth. That gormless politician who spoke like he had a plum in his mouth and the funny double-barrelled surname called, “bring back the birch for juvenile delinquents”. So, they did. And the cane at school. Before you knew it no fellow under the age of thirty was safe from corporal punishment. Students at university, apprentices in factories, office juniors and many more suffered.

Bruce has a tenuous grasp of all this history. It matters little to him. All he knows for sure is he flunked his mid-term examination. Too much time spent with his lips around a beer bottle and not enough with his nose in a book. He knows he has no one to blame but himself.

His heart is trying to pound through his ribcage. His head aches a little. Six. Bare arsed. This is unchartered territory. Like many eighteen year olds he has never been spanked before. The laws are that new. The door opens. Bruce gets a whiff of sour breath as the boy leans towards him and croaks, “Your turn.”

Bruce faces the door. His eyelids flicker. His heart races. His hand is unsteady. He raps his knuckles on the oak panel and waits for the call. His palm sweats as he turns the handle and pushes his way into the Dean of Discipline’s office. The room is large. A conference table runs almost its entire length. A heavy sideboard takes up one wall. A window – this one also jammed shut – faces him. Dean Cooper holds a tablet in his hand. He peers over the top of his spectacles at the screen. “Name?” he does not look up at Bruce. Bruce answers, his voice cracking. Dean Cooper uses his thumbs to find Bruce on his list. “Ah,” Dean Cooper says, still not looking at the student before him. “First time. I see.” He doesn’t give Bruce time to confirm this. “Stand there.” Dean Cooper speaks but does not say where it is Bruce must position himself. Bruce stands in a space between the conference table and the door. He is surprised he is so calm. He watches Dean Cooper, a short, dumpy man in his fifties, reach over to the top of the sideboard. Only now does Bruce see the dark-brown rectangular paddle that rests there.

Dean Cooper grips it in his right hand. It is about thirty centimetres long and maybe ten wide. Bruce has never seen a punishment paddle before but he knows instinctively that this one has been lovingly crafted. Twelve holes are neatly drilled in groups of two along its length. Sunlight reflects off its thick coating of varnish. “Face that way.” Dean Cooper nods towards the far wall. Bruce swivels on the balls of his feet. Any moment now, he will be ordered to bare his arse. He knows he has no choice. He must do as instructed. If he refuses punishment he will be expelled from the university. He won’t be able to get a job and he will end up in one of those camps for the young jobless that the NDP has just set up.

Bruce scrunches up his face, bracing himself for the humiliation. Bent over, arse bared to the wind, his crack and balls on full view to this oily old man. “Assume the position.” Bruce hesitates. Assume the position. What does that mean exactly? Take down your jeans? Underpants too? Dean Cooper snarls, unable to hide his irritation. He wants to get this over with. He doesn’t have all afternoon. There is a gin and tonic with his name on it waiting for him at the Three Fishers.

“Assume the position,” he repeats. Then, mindful that Bruce is a first-timer, he adds, “Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight.” A wave of relief washes over Bruce. Bend over. Grab your ankles. Keep your knees straight. So it isn’t to be bare-arsed at all. Almost with gratitude, Bruce leans forward. It is harder to assume the position and keep his knees straight than he thought. He feels his jeans tighten across his buttocks. He winces when Dean Cooper places the paddle across the centre of his cheeks and pats gently. Bruce stares down at the patterned rug beneath his feet. It is brown and full of dust. Absurdly, at that moment he remembers most of the cleaning staff lost their jobs recently because of cuts in budgets. The wood feels heavy as it taps across his bottom. Dean Cooper is getting his aim.

Bruce closes his eyes tight and tenses his buttocks. The paddle raises and returns, crashing into his cheeks with tremendous speed. The force knocks him forward and it takes some doing for Bruce to stop himself falling headlong onto the floor. He grips his ankles more tightly. The paddle crashes down again. It feels like Dean Cooper has pressed a hot iron into his flesh. Within seconds Dean Cooper whacks the paddle six times into Bruce’s bum. “Stand. Go.” Dean Cooper returns the paddle to the sideboard and takes hold of his tablet waiting for the next boy.

Bruce is winded. His bottom hurts. Quite a bit. But, he is not in agony. The pain is sharp at first but quickly it turns to an intense throb. Even as he prepares to leave the room, it is becoming a dull ache. It will be gone entirely by the time Bruce reaches his room and can inspect the damage.

Bruce tugs open the heavy door and pushes himself through. He is breathing heavily and he thinks his face must be either deathly pale or bright scarlet. He nods at the next boy in the line. “Good luck,” he says as he makes his leave. “It wasn’t so bad,” he thinks to himself and wonders how long it will be before he finds out what it feels like to get it on the bare.

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A memory in the attic

new story 2

z used retro twosome one pyjamas domestic - A Weber Brams (2a)

“Granddad! Granddad!” It was Christine calling from the other room, “Look what I’ve found. It’s you I know it is!”

My heart sank. What now! Why couldn’t she just leave me alone. She hurried into the room clutching a small photograph in her hand. Another piece of treasure, or so she thought. She had taken upon herself to clear out the attic space in my house. Clutter, she called it. All the stuff I had accumulated over a lifetime. Stuff I hadn’t seen in years – decades, maybe – and frankly, had no desire ever to see again.

“Look,” she beamed handing me the picture. “It is you isn’t it.” I took it in an unsteady hand and peered intently. It showed two young men, one formally dressed in a collar and tie seated at an expensive upholstered chair. The other stood over him, dressed in pyjamas. They both were staring at something that was not in the picture but at the other end of the room.

“Is it you? It is!” Why was Christine so damned pleased to have found this picture? I wasn’t. I think it sent a shudder through my body, I can’t be certain because I get all kinds of aches and pains at my age; it could have been anything.

I recognised the setting immediately. It was a rooming house I lived in while at university. Christine was correct, it was me; but the more I stared at the picture the less certain I was which of the two young men I was: they (we) almost looked identical. We might have been brothers; twins even. We had our hair cut in a way that was fashionable among young men of our type at the time; it was smeared away from the forehead with brilliantine. The grease made our hair seem more blond than it actually was. We both had high cheekbones with clear open and healthy-looking faces. We looked (as we were) like a couple who had never had to do a day’s hard work in their lives.

At my age I can’t always remember what I ate for breakfast that morning but my memories from sixty-plus years ago are as clear as a bell. The closer I studied the photograph the clearer my memory became. I was the fellow in the pyjamas. My companion seated on the chair was Harcourt Llewelyn (how could one forget a name like that?). In the photograph we seem to look older than we were; we couldn’t have been quite twenty when it was taken.

“Who is he? Where was it taken?” Christine was full of questions. I shivered again and playing for time since I had no intention of satisfying her infernal curiosity I took the picture and first held it to the sunlight streaming from the nearby french windows then I screwed up my eyes tight and squinted at it. “No idea. Never seen it before,” I said and then to deflect attention I asked, “Where did you find it?”

I knew Christine would give me the most detailed account of the circumstances of her find: which box it was in, where the box had been stored and on and on. She duly obliged and as her piercing, and frankly extremely irritating voice whined on, my thoughts travelled back sixty or so years.

The boarding house was run by a Mrs Greening who had a long-standing relationship with the university. All her “guests” as she insisted on calling the lodgers were students. Perhaps I should explain to any readers who have been students at university at any time in the past forty years or so that these were very different times. We might have been twenty years old but we were certainly not considered adults. The college was for males only and the same of course went for the rooming house. We lived to very strict rules and were required to live lives of the utmost propriety. Chaps who frequented public houses or were known to consort with young ladies of a certain repute soon found themselves “sent down” from the university.

Mrs Greening’s husband Freeman took it upon himself to be our moral compass. He would say that since we were not yet legally adults he would act in loco parentis – which in his mind meant he took the place of our fathers. In the event, since all his guests were former public school men who had spent their formative years at elite boarding schools and away from their homes, he might better have described himself as our housemaster.

Harcourt and I became firm friends and neither of us had much interest in our studies and spent much of our time idling around town. Of course, you can only get away with this for so long. Soon, my tutor hauled me into his study for a wigging. As I recall he was an unworldly kind of a man who would never be interested in the delights of town; not even one so lacking in immorality as Brocklehurst. He cared little about my needs and desires, his only concern was that I should complete my essays and pass through the university without blemishing his own record as a teacher. He was (I think now) also a bit of a coward. Certainly, he disliked any kind of confrontation. I think that is why, rather than deal with my idleness himself, he reported my behaviour to Freeman Greening.

Greening had a high opinion of himself and his place as a leader in God’s university. This was undoubtedly encouraged by the House of the Sacred Light, a church (of sorts) that demanded the utmost obedience to its teachings. He also enjoyed the authority of the university and once my tutor referred my case to him he undoubtedly had carte blanche to deal with the matter as he saw fit.

Should I have been surprised by the course of action he took? Not really. As I have said these were different times, we lived by different standards. As I look at the photograph now I remember that it had once been larger, that is using the technical term it has been “cropped” to edit out other unwanted detail. I don’t remember if other persons have been cut out but I do know that if you follow the eyeline of Harcourt and myself we are looking towards a large glass-fronted mahogany bookcase and shelves. Chief in my memory is the cupboard with double-doors next to that. It was always kept locked and as far as I knew the only key to it resided at all times upon Mr Greening’s person.

It was one evening in March that I discovered what was kept inside. We had dined and the guests were sent to their rooms to study. As I moved away from the table to join them Mrs Greening caught my attention. “Mr Greening wishes to see you,” she said not even trying to hide the pleasure speaking the words gave her, “in the library.” Then she bustled away to give the cook and housemaid a hard time over nothing at all. The library. That was one of the couple’s many pretensions. In other houses it would be a lounge or (at a pinch) a drawing room. The only books in this library were leather-bound volumes of Shakespeare and a dictionary, the only human hands that touched them were the maids’ who dusted them.

Mr Greening stood with his back to the open, roaring fire warming his bottom. As I entered the room he placed his hands behind his back and took a stance that he imagined made him look magisterial. “Come in Hamilton,” he droned. He waggled his head and his jowls wobbled. “Stand there boy.” I had not been warned by my tutor that he would report me but at that moment as I shuffled to the spot on the rug indicated to me I knew my fate.

Mr Greening confirmed it with a short lecture about my behaviour. I nodded in places that I thought appropriate. I had no intention of arguing with him. I was guilty of the crimes he outlined. I knew he had the authority of the university on his side. Mr Greening liked the sound of his own voice and extracted all that he could from my visit. He enjoyed his sense of moral superiority. I determined not to give him additional satisfaction and when the time came for me to speak I apologised. “It won’t happen again,” I added knowing that these were empty words and that Harcourt and I would be on the town the very next day.

Mr Greening grunted, “Won’t happen again.” His flabby, florid face turned a darker shade of red. “We shall most certainly ensure that it won’t happen again.” He shook his head again, his jowls trembled and his many chins wobbled. Then, unsteadily on his feet, he shambled across the room. He paused and extracting every last ounce of performance from the occasion he thrust his hand in his pocket and I saw his fist clenching and quivering. At last he found a small key on a ring and with a trembling hand he made several attempts before finally getting it into the lock. He hesitated (I believe for dramatic effect) before swinging the door open. He stood to one side ensuring that I could get an uninterrupted view of the cupboard’s contents.

Had I been thirteen years old and new to the rigours of an English public school education I might have gasped with horror at the sight. My heart might pound with fear. Tears might flood from my eyes.  Had I been thirteen that might have happened. However, I was probably twenty years old at this time; I felt I had seen it all before. In fact, Mr Greening proved to me that I hadn’t. Even at St. Tom’s where the infliction of corporal punishment was a daily routine no master had a collection of implements quite like Mr Greening. There were several straps of differing lengths, widths and thicknesses. A taws with two fingers worn with age and use hung from a hook alongside a couple of wooden paddles. A white plimsoll lay on a shelf. But, what impressed me most was the impressive range of whippy canes; many undoubtedly made of rattan, but some (even from a distance) I discerned were the denser Malacca kind.

Mr Greening wheezed heavily when he leaned into the cupboard to inspect his toys more closely. Did saliva drip from his chin as he took up one cane after another and tested it lovingly between his hands? Surely there was no reason to do this; he would have been very well acquainted with the properties of every instrument in that cupboard. He was a connoisseur, of that I could have no doubt.

At last he decided on a traditional school-type cane. It was a little longer and maybe thicker, but with the typical crook handle, than the one my housemaster used on me as he drove me in my studies. Sweat moistened his forehead and his complexion was now puce as he turned to face me with the thing in his hand. He swiped it through the air and it travelled with menace. It would without doubt deliver a tremendous flogging. I stood my heart pounding (you have no control of it in such circumstances) but outwardly I was calm. Mr Greening would have his way with me. There was nothing I could do, not if I wished to stay at the university. Even though I cared little for my studies I knew my father expected me to come down with a degree. He already had a career lined up for me. I would not let him down.

Mr Greening wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. The open fire roared but the room was always draughty and it wasn’t that warm. I saw him lick his lips and then he coughed to clear his throat. “Please bare your backside and put yourself across the back of that chair.”

So it was to be bare-arsed. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Not with Mr Greening and his moral posturing. I should expect nothing less. I was (I am) an old St. Tom’s man and if there was anything I learned at school it was to take your punishment. No fuss. You get caught, the master jaws you for a bit, he orders you to bend over, over you go, he beats you, you stand up, you shake hands, you leave and the world carries on as before.

I had learned well. Students in those days dressed as Harcourt had in the photograph, we could have been young businessmen. I lowered my flannels and as I sported fashionable woollen drawers (rather than the one-piece combinations our fathers wore) I was able to bare my buttocks with ease. The chair he indicated was the very one in the photograph and its back was a very good height for a young man of my size to bend across. I took hold of my neck tie and hooked it over my shoulder before diving over. Once back at school I had almost choked myself when my tie caught between my body and the chair in such a position.

The chair was constructed mainly of soft cushions and my weight sank into them. Without awaiting instructions from Mr Greening I pushed my head low, parted my feet and raised my bottom high. This way I ensured he had a terrific target to aim at. The floorboards creaked when Mr Greening positioned himself behind me. I felt his hot breath against my naked buttocks as he leant in to take hold of my shirt tail and drag it halfway up my back and out of the way. Once that was done he gently laid the cane just below the centre of my bum where the cheeks fold into the thighs. His wheezing reached a crescendo when he sawed the rod across my bum.

The sound of the crack of cane against my taut flesh resounded off the walls. At first I felt nothing and then excruciating agony. My head rose with the shock and I had to grip hard the soft cushion to stop myself leaping from the chair and dancing across the floor. I had been caned before many (many) times but nothing had prepared me for Mr Greening’s cruelty.

He cracked the cane down so hard I thought my backside would come off. He made true the ancient schoolboy saying, “He took my arse off.” He was intense.

A second lash quickly followed and although it was stinging it was just about bearable. The third stroke changed that and it was like he had forced me sit on the open fire. The next three were the most excruciating strokes I had ever felt. I was contorting about like a cat on heat, gasping for breath as the inferno built up.

He gave me a dozen in all. The last five just had me bouncing around, screaming in pain. Tears were pouring down my face. I felt as if I was being cut to ribbons. The cane had caught me on my thigh and one had come close to catching my balls. At last I was allowed to get up. My hands flew round and I went into a panic as I felt my backside was full of crisscross welts. The flogging had hurt more than I could have imagined. My bum was raw and painful and the fire was raging fiercely.

I hopped around, stomped my feet like a soldier on sentry duty, my body doubled like a hairgrip. I couldn’t get my breath. I wanted to vomit, I hawked but nothing came up. Mr Greening smiled thinly, he was having breathing problems of his own.

I cannot remember exactly what happened next, but moments later I was back in my room. I do remember that. Had Harcourt carried me up from the library? I was face down on the bed, my trousers and underwear nowhere to be seen. Harcourt treated my wounds. I remember much blood on his silk handkerchief. And then? Which of us instigated it? Had I made the first move? Surely I was too exhausted so it would have been Harcourt. Our bodies entwined, tongues flailed.

“Granddad!” it was Christine again. “Are you even listening to me,” she chided affectionately. “Tell me, who is it in the picture with you?”

“Sorry love,” I sighed, “I really can’t remember. How about making a nice cup of tea?”

 

Picture credit: A Weber Brams

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wishful thinking

new story 2

z used otk pants chair student sting

Dr Duncan Rawlinson, Senior Lecturer in Liberal Studies at Brocklehurst University, sits at his desk, head in hands. His temples throb, his throat is raw. Blood rushes through his arteries, he cannot catch his breath. Oh my God! he gasps, I’m having a stroke. He puts his head between his knees, breathes deeply. In, out. In, out. In, out. In, out.

He can’t go on, not like this. Life is not worth living. This is not why he became a teacher. Those effing students. They treat him like he was a joke. They turn up to seminars when they feel like it and then with not a stroke of preparation done. They don’t meet deadlines for coursework. When they do, their essays are plagiarised from the Internet. They don’t want to work. They think just because they pay fees they should be given a degree. Lazy, lazy bastards!

Dr Rawlinson’s head slumps onto the desk. The room is spinning, furniture appears to be swirling through the air. He thinks he’s going to be sick. It’s going dark. A fierce wind blows through the office. There is a bang and he looks up. Jake Worthington, surely one of the laziest of his students, is standing there. He looks anxious and so he should.

“I have had enough of this, Jake,” Dr Worthington says, “I won’t stand for it any more. Do you understand me?”

Jake stands contrite, head bowed, staring down at the floor. His bottom lip trembles. “Sorry, sir,” he mumbles. Dr Rawlinson glowers. He has heard this all before. They all say “Sorry”, but only because they think it might get them off a spanking. No way. He hasn’t just fallen from a tree. The boy is to be punished. It is only right and proper.

“You know you must be disciplined don’t you Jake,” he says, leaning back in his chair and peering at the lazy student through half-rimmed spectacles.

“Yes, sir,” Jake struggles to keep composure. He wants to cry. Just like a little boy. A little naughty boy.

“Say it, then,” Dr Rawlinson does not intend to let the boy off lightly. He wants his pound of flesh.

Jake blushes. His face is usually bright and open and his skin clear; he doesn’t grow enough beard to need to take a daily shave. His hair is cut short and neat. Now, his usually smiling face is set firm; grim. He blushes profusely, enough warmth comes off him to heat a room.

“I am a lazy boy,” he begins. “I have not done my homework and I have not been attending classes.” There is quite a long list like this. He does not hand assignment in on time. He never goes to the library. He cuts-and-pastes from Wikipedia. He is as good as a cheat.

“And what else?” Dr Rawlinson is relaxing. Perhaps the boys is not so evil after all.  He is just young. Not quite nineteen years old; still a child really. Jake is losing his way. He needs adult guidance. He needs a helping hand. And, Dr Rawlinson knows precisely where that hand needs to go.

“I have been disrespectful of my tutors,” Jake goes on. “And of you, sir,” Jake cannot stop twisting his fingers behind his back. He hops from one foot to the other, his embarrassment consumes him.

“And …” Dr Rawlinson is not satisfied. He won’t be. Not until Jake reaches the logical conclusion.

Jake’s eyes glisten, he fights back tears. “And?” he gulps.

“Bah!” Dr Rawlinson snorts, “And, what do you think I should do about it, Jake?”

Colour drains from Jake’s face. “Please, no!” he thinks, “No! Don’t make me have to say it. Not out loud.”

“Well Jake,” Dr Rawlinson stretches his arms, his back is aching, “Neither of us has all day. Get on with it.”

Involuntarily Jake’s hands reach behind his back, his thumbs caress the seat of his jeans. They fit across his buttocks snugly; he is meaty, but by no means fat. He is a long way from being obese, unlike many of his fellow students. Jakes sucks in a great draught of air. His mouth is parched, he wriggles his tongue around trying to create some spit. Then, he croaks, “Please Dr Rawlinson, I deserve to be punished,” he trails off thinking his humiliation is complete.

But it isn’t, “And tell me Jake how should I punish you?”

The teenager’s voice breaks, he is almost in tears now. “But sir,” he pleads. It does no good.

“Well Jake?”

“Sir, I deserve to be spanked.”

“How so?”

“You should take down my trousers and put me across you knee,” Jake is scarcely whispering now. There is a long pause. Dr Rawlinson waits for Jake to continue and when he doesn’t the lecturer nods his head vigorously to encourage the boy to say more.

“Then, you should spank me, sir. Hard. I deserve it. I am a bad boy.”

Dr Rawlinson allows a hint of a smile to crack his lips. He hauls himself to his feet and a little unsteadily because there is not much room in the office he makes his way to the front of the desk. He feels Jake’s moist eyes burning into him; watching every move he makes. His fear growing.

Dr Rawlinson picks up a lightweight, plastic straight-backed chair and places in the small space between his desk and the door. He sits down and with a contemptuous click of his fingers he indicates that the student should stand in front of him. Jake, now as miserable as he has ever been in his life, obeys. He can’t look at Dr Rawlinson. Instead, he gazes across the office. There is a calendar on the wall produced by a publishing company and he concentrates on the list of forthcoming titles it advertises. Jake doesn’t see, but he certainly feels, Dr Rawlinson take a grip on Jake’s belt. Dr Rawlinson needs two hands to get it unbuckled. It doesn’t take long for him to lower the zipper and open the front of Jake’s jeans. When he lets go the jeans slip down and bunch at Jake’s thighs.

The student tries to concentrate on the calendar. There’s a book due out this month on cultural studies. That’s the last Jake sees because Dr Rawlinson grips him by the arm and with more strength than the boy expects he pulls him down and over his lap. Jake pushes his palms out towards the floor to break his fall. His legs dangle behind him and his bottom rests high over the lecturer’s right thigh.

Dr Rawlinson shifts his own buttocks on the hard wooden chair and slowly repositions Jake. Not much, but enough for him to adjust the boy’s bottom. Now it is a terrific target. His underwear is stretched across his bum, lifting and separating the cheeks. His legs are virtually hairless.

Jake knows his face is flushing. Could he be more embarrassed? He closes his eyes as if this will block out reality. Even like this, he still feels his master take hold of his shirt and move it up his back. A cool breeze from the window brushes against his naked flesh. Dr Rawlinson is almost ready. At this point Jake could struggle free, maybe smack his tormentor in the mouth and then make his escape.

But he doesn’t. Jake knows he deserves punishment and Dr Rawlinson is in charge. He will submit himself in any way he is instructed. His stomach digs into Dr Rawlinson’s leg, it is surprisingly bony. Jake wriggles slightly trying to get comfortable. The lecturer misinterprets this, thinking he is resisting punishment. Dr Rawlinson grips him tightly around the waist and presses his elbows into the small of Jake’s back. He is pinned down, going nowhere. Not until his master has spanked his bottom good and hard.

Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready to start. He smooths Jake’s grey-striped briefs, removing any wrinkles from the cotton. Satisfied that they now hug the contours of the young man’s buttocks, he is good to go.

Jake’s breathing is heavy, he clenches his buttocks tight, ready to absorb the full impact of the first swat. “Relax, Jake,” Dr Rawlinson is kind and caring. “Don’t squeeze up your bottom.”

Jake tries, he wants to present himself submissively, but for some reason he cannot understand he does not have control of his body. He shudders, feeling the cheeks of his bottom exposed to the lecturer’s gaze. The underpants are tight against his full buttocks; they are certainly not going to offer any protection in a spanking.

Dr Rawlinson lets the student lie still for a while over his knee, waiting. He rests his hand lightly on the boy’s backside and then began a slow, steady methodical succession of moderate whacks delivered to alternate buttocks. Jake responds only with tiny, almost imperceptible movements, as if he is relaxing and making himself comfortable. If this is hurting, he gives no sign of it.

Dr Rawlinson takes his time to get the measure of Jake. He increases the pace to deliver a good, hard, old-fashioned hand spanking; not holding back. Jake jolts at the shock of the new impact. Gasps of surprise hiss through his not-quite-clenched lips, and only his master’s tight grip stops his right hand flying up to protect his now-smarting bottom. Some smacks land on the back of his bare thighs.

He is embarrassed to be locked in place over the lecturer’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Yet he is powerless to stop it or evade it. He has broken the rules, been disrespectful to Dr Rawlinson. He only has himself to blame for this. For about fifty or so spanks he wriggles and writhes, kicking his feet, squirming around on the master’s knees. But there is no escape and he can’t stop the volley of hand-spanks heating up his rear end.

Jake stops wriggling and tries to take each new whack stoically; the spanking is hurting, but he is not in any real pain. He is a young adult and his bum is pretty tough. The pain of the hand spanking has little effect on him, but the humiliation of having an older man take down his jeans and force him across his knee for a spanking should be enough to ensure his future obedience.

Dr Rawlinson looks down at Jake, prone across his knees, his face is red (and so probably is his backside). It is time to end. He hammers down another dozen smacks for good measure, spanked harshly into the young man’s buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh. A perfect spot to end a spanking, he thinks.

Jake is breathless as he lays over the lap. It is over. Now, he thinks, would you please let me get up? But, Dr Rawlinson is not quite ready. “Will you behave in future Jake?”

“Yes, Dr Rawlinson,” his reply is met by a harsh slap in the centre of his left buttock.

“Yes, sir!.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy,” he rubs Jakes’s buttocks gently, feeling their warmth. “Now, you may get up.”

Jake puts both hands on the floor and rolls off the doctor’s knees, stands and immediately reaches for his jeans.

“Oh, no. Keep them down,” Dr Rawlinson is enjoying dominating this young man very much indeed. “Now face the wall, hands on your head!” he snaps. “Stand there and think about your behaviour.” His humiliation now complete, Jake shuffles his feet, dragging his jeans across the dirty floor with him and stands where directed. He rests his forehead against the wall mortified, while Dr Rawlinson resumes his position behind his desk, leans back in his chair and in his imagination admires his handiwork before falling sobbing to the floor in a heap.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com