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

Remembering Professor Price

z used drawing cane master Hot (2a)

I first encountered Professor Price when he interviewed me to be his teaching assistant. He told me his methods and asked if I agreed with them, then he took my backside off with a thick whippy school cane. It was so humiliating and painful that I cried. I was twenty-two years old and held a first-class honours degree.

He was Head of the Chemistry Department at Brocklehurst University. The year was 1974. His methods were unusual even then. In those days, we didn’t have the mass higher education we have today and most of his students, and myself, had attended elite “public schools” or upscale grammars and were well acquainted with corporal punishment. But none of us expected to be subjected to the cane when we arrived at the university.

Prof. Price taught the boys separately from the girls. The “young ladies” as he liked to call them were left unscathed; not so, the “young gentlemen.” His regime was strict. He gave regular classroom tests and a student who scored eighty percent or fewer would be required to attend the professor’s study. Then he would be instructed to bend over the back of a low “comfy” chair and Prof. Price would whip his backside with six stingers.

A young man who submitted a poor laboratory report or essay would find himself in a similar position. I have no independent scientific evidence to support this (as science researchers would demand) but his method appeared to be effective. Students thus treated would in future spend less time in the bar and more in the lab and library. He achieved excellent examination results and many of his graduates went on to enjoy highly-lucrative careers in the scientific community.

I wonder what university lecturers today would make of this. If a student commits a crime of racial aggravation or sexual harassment, he (or she) might expect expulsion. There is no punishment at all available for more “everyday” misdemeanours. Therefore, indolence is rife and cheating and plagiarism abound. Of course, there will be no introduction of corporal punishment onto the campuses, but what if it was acceptable today to use Prof. Price’s whippy canes? How different might our students be?

Those readers who attended universities in the 1970s and earlier would know that Prof. Price’s methods were unusual, not to say damn-right strange. The use of corporal punishment on students was not officially sanctioned, not even at Brocklehurst. He did not make a big song-and-dance about his methods, but they could hardly be kept entirely secret. Today, such activities would be reported all over social media (secretly-taken photographs included), but back then there were few channels of communication open.

The professor’s family were wealthy benefactors to the university; witness the Price Building that housed many science laboratories. So, the Brocklehurst University authorities turned a blind eye to Prof. Price’s methods and in time were rewarded with a second building.

Readers might think that since this happened in the 1970s, Prof. Price was guilty of so-called “historic sexual abuse.” Not so. I am certain that no “sex” ever took place. It is true that the professor would occasionally require a repeat offender to lower his trousers and bend across the chair for nine, or even twelve, swipes across the seat of his underwear, but it never went further.

His students would sometimes mutter behind their hands that Prof. Price “enjoyed” caning them; meaning, I suppose, that he got some sexual thrill from it. How can we know? As far as I saw, he never exhibited such tendencies. He never spoke about the beatings he had delivered or those he intended to give. I am not aware that he kept a record of his canings in a punishment book, so there would be nothing concrete for him to drawl over later.

Prof. Price was a relatively young man and would probably have been in his forties during this time. He was married and had two daughters, whom he adored. A framed photograph of the three of them took pride of place on his desk.

Of course, I have clear memories of my own trips across Prof. Price’s chair. I began in his department as a teaching assistant and my main job was to be in the laboratories to help students in their lab work. I had been at the university for about four weeks when I was summoned to attend his study. Prof. Price told me that he had seen a deterioration in the grades of students in the department and he accused me of not giving sufficient assistance in lab work. For this, I was to be beaten.

His “study” was a contemporary office in a new building. The furniture was mostly made of some pine-effect material that was fashionable at the time. The room was dominated by a huge desk and several smaller tables. He kept his canes in a drawer of one of these. He had several, I heard them rattling round when he put his hand in the drawer to find the one he wanted to use to beat me.

I watched as impassively as it was possible to be. He had thrashed me at our first meeting and I suspected that might only have been a “warm-up” and that any future caning would be somewhat harsher. The situation I found myself in was absurd. I was a twenty-two-year-old adult about to be caned for alleged poor performance at work. Where else in the world could such a thing happen?

I watched the professor choose a dense dark-yellow cane and swish it through the air. It made a terrific Whoosh! As it went. It was thicker than the cane he had used at my interview, but had the traditional crook handle. Prof. Price flexed the cane between his hands; he seemed to have forgotten my existence.

I could have refused to be beaten. I could have complained to the university authorities, but I knew I would not do either. Prof. Price would have known this too. Jobs such as mine in universities were as rare as hens’ teeth and I would certainly lose my post if I complained. Prof. Price had the power: I had none.

At last, after all the flexing and some more swishing, he instructed me to take hold of one of the armchairs he used for visitors and to swing it around. Its back now faced the centre of the room. I was required to wear smart suits at work and the professor instructed me to remove the jacket and place it on his desk.

“Bend over,” he tapped his cane on the back of the garish green chair. I took a deep breath, rubbed my palms together, and rather like a swimmer going into freezing water, I dived over. I was a little over five-eight in height and in those days I hardly weighed a thing. My waist was narrow, my stomach flat and you would hardly notice my buttocks under the cloth of my dark blue pinstriped trousers.

I felt my buttocks fill out the seat of my trousers as I stretched over the back of the chair. The professor would at least have something to aim at. I stared down at the seat cushion, even today, forty years later, I remember that the cushion was stained; probably by the bums of the sweaty students who sat in it for their tutorials.

More truthfully, I don’t remember the stain just from that one beating. During the next five years until I left the university I would regularly find myself in such a position.

Prof. Price had a routine when he beat me. After the flexing and the swishing and the “Bend over” instruction, he would order, “Head low, legs apart.” He would say this even on the occasions I had immediately presented myself in the required position.

Then, he would take hold of the tail of my shirt and pull it so that it was clear of the waistband of my trousers. Shirts in those days did not have long tails and there was no way it would afford me extra protection by covering my buttocks.

He was almost ready. But not quite. “I am going to beat you,” he would say (as if such wasn’t blindingly obvious). “It will hurt, it is supposed to. That is the point.”

I think that last sentence was meant to be humorous. Ironic, even. I can’t be sure, since at other times Prof. Price never revealed that he had the slightest sense of humour.

“Do not wriggle about too much and do not try to rise or in any other way obstruct me in my duty,” he continued. Then, after a pause for dramatic effect, he concluded, “Or you will receive extra strokes. Is that understood.”

The student showing the professor his backside was expected to reply with a resounding, “Yes, Sir!”

Prof. Price would then “saw” his cane across the middle of the bum and then whack it down with terrific force. At least, when he caned me it was always with maximum effort. It was like he was beating a carpet. The pain was intense. Every time he caned me. Apparently, some people say the more times a person is caned the easier it becomes to withstand the pain. I don’t know how many of those people were ever in Prof. Price’s study, but I’m here to tell you it isn’t true.

The first swipe caught me on the lower part of the buttock, just above the thigh. It felt like he had seared a red-hot poker across my arse. My whole body shuddered and my backside bounced up and down. I had absolutely no control. It was all a reflex to the intense pain that started at my bum and ran up and down my legs.

Prof. Price never hurried a beating. To me, it felt an age, but it was probably only fifteen or twenty seconds before the second cut scorched the top end of my globes. I shuddered some more and this time my mouth opened and closed, but I stifled the yelp my body wanted me to make.

Number three hit half way between the previous two. Prof.  Price had an expert aim. I now had a red stripe about four inches wide across both cheeks. Tears prickled my eyes. I sniffed them back. I did not want to repeat the humiliation of my job interview when copious tears flooded down my face like a waterfall.

Number four landed on top of a previous cut. How could it not? The professor had already burned most of my bum. The agony was intense. My legs marched up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. My hips swayed from side to side. This time I couldn’t stop the “Aaarrrh!” escaping my throat.

The fifth hurt just as badly. My temples pulsated almost as much as my throbbing bum. My left foot wrapped around my right ankle and my buttocks rose and fell, humping the back of the chair. I didn’t yell this time, instead I convulsed under a series of dry hacking coughs.

The bastard had a plan for the sixth stroke. I saw it coming before I felt it. He moved the position of his cane so that it rested in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of my entire arse, then he lifted it away and brought it down with a magnificent crash so that it landed across five previous scars, igniting the agony in all of them. I screamed. I cannot deny it. I jumped up from the chair, but half way to my feet, some schoolboy instinct kicked in and I resumed my position. I didn’t want extra strokes. I was certain the professor would carry out his threat.

I lay, my arse on fire, sobbing into the seat cushion. My head ached and my throat was raw from yelling and coughing. The professor gave me a moment to try to calm myself and when it was clear I could not, he ordered me to, “Stand up.”

I crawled off the back of the chair and stumbled. I grabbed a nearby table to steady myself. In an upright position my buttocks pressed against my tightly-fitting underpants and I felt several welts had risen. Later, I would see some had bled. I needed to soak my pants with a wet face cloth to get them to unstick from the dried blood.

For now, in the professor’s study I was doubled up, gulping in lungs-full of air. The agony was easing quite quickly, but every square inch of my bum was sore. The pain would soon dissipate to a constant throbbing before becoming a warm glow. Within an hour, it would have gone for good, except for a strip on my lower buttock that would hurt whenever I sat down on a hard surface. It took several days for the cuts and bruises to go.

The professor dismissed me from the study and I hobbled to the dismal bed-sitting room that was my home then.

I obtained my Ph.D doctorate under Prof. Price’s supervision and then left Brocklehurst at the earliest opportunity to take a post in private industry. Prof. Price was killed in a car crash in 1982. None of his former students attended his memorial service.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The freshman class

z used fresher students 2

Professor Patterson entered the classroom and peered over the top of his rimless spectacles, dazzled by the array of brightly-coloured shirts before him. Another year at Popper State was about to start. Twenty-five open-faced boisterous Psy. students waited excitedly. All new to the university, eager to make friends.

Prof. Patterson set his briefcase on the desk. He paused to survey the young men. If they took off their shirts, he thought, they would be identical. It was as if students came in in packs of one hundred. Just about everyone was fair haired or blond. Each had a tan from the hot summer that was just ending. Every eighteen-year-old sitting before him was slim and healthy. Everyone was a churchgoer. They all had prosperous fathers. Each of them would submit to his will. Without question.

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen.”

The excited youngsters carried on talking.

“Gentlemen.” Louder this time, but not shouting. The buzz of conversation subsided. Heads swivelled. Buttocks shifted on chairs. Soon he had their attention.

“Thank you gentlemen and welcome to the Psychology Department. My name is Professor Patterson. Let me say right from the start that when I call you to order I expect immediate obedience.” He removed his spectacles, held them in his hand and leaned forward. “Do I make myself perfectly clear.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of intent. Twenty-five teenagers sat unnerved.

“We should start as we mean to go on,” Prof. Patterson paced the room. “As well as being your instructor, I am also the faculty’s Dean of Discipline.” He stopped in front of a youngster wearing an exceptionally garish yellow-and-red-patterned shirt and leaned forward menacingly. “Do you know what that means, young man?” Tony Cresswell flinched, he could feel his face burning. The professor’s breath stank.

“Eh ….” Tony stumbled. He didn’t know what a ‘dean of discipline’ was but he could make a pretty good guess.

Prof. Patterson straightened up. “It means gentlemen that I am the one who maintains discipline.” He paused for dramatic effect. Then, certain that twenty-five pairs of eyes were on him he walked slowly to the desk. He shielded the briefcase from the students’ view while he opened it and delved inside. Then, rather like a magician producing a rabbit from a top hat, he turned in a flourish brandishing a stout wooden paddle. The silence in the room was intense. There wasn’t a young man in the room who hadn’t seen a “board of education” before. Many would have felt the sting of a paddle across the backside; paddles were in common use in schools across the county. Some of their fathers still kept paddles hanging on hooks in woodsheds or in their personal dens at home.

Prof. Patterson gripped the handle tightly and tap-tap-tapped the fourteen-inch blade into the palm of his left hand. “Let me be quite clear, I will not hesitate to use this. None of you are adults until you reach the age of twenty-one. Until then think of me as a father,” he leered. “If you are late for class you will be paddled. If you are inattentive, you will be paddled.” He paused, staring at each teenager in turn; many had sweat glistening their brows.

Satisfied with the reaction so far, he continued, “If you score less than seventy in our weekly tests you will be paddled.” His nostrils flared, “You boy!” he pointed to a youngster in a grey sweater, “What did I just say?”

Al French blustered, “Er, if we get less than seventy, Sir,” he trembled and lapsed into silence.

“What then? What happens then?”

“The paddle, Sir,” Al couldn’t stop shaking, “We get the paddle, Sir.”

“That’s correct.” Prof. Patterson hid his disappointment well. He had thought the wretched student had not been listening. He was determined that at least one of the freshers seated before him would feel the sting of the paddle before the class was over. That would show them he meant business.

“Now gentlemen, for our first class I have devised a test,” he reached once more into his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Here,” he instructed a boy in a bright yellow shirt, “distribute these.”

He stared with delight at the young man’s buttocks encased in snug-fitting tan slacks as he leaned across chairs stretching to hand out the test papers. It was a backside crying out to be spanked.

“Now, gentlemen,” the professor continued, “This test will show which of you did the required reading ahead of this course. You have thirty minutes,” he paused and glared across the room at the heavy wooden paddle, “and remember what I said.”

Twenty-five heads went down, tops of pens were sucked. Some stared into open space, hoping to find answers. Prof. Patterson sat and watched. They really were a delightful bunch; so fresh and young. They positively glowed with health. What fun he would have this semester.

Rich Rider sat at the back of the class. From there he could see every boy in the room. Each had his head down as he beavered away at the test. One hundred questions. True-or-false? Multiple-choice. Short answers. He took a deep breath, gripped his fountain pen, closed his eyes, and scrawled his answers.

The time passed quickly. “Pens down gentlemen. Please swop your paper with your neighbour. I shall read out the answers.” Professor Patterson sniffed the trepidation that hung over the room like musk. None of his new charges could look his fellows in the eye.

“Question one. True. Question two. False,” his monotone might in other circumstances have sent a class of students to sleep. Not this afternoon. Their attention was rapt. Each question ticked for correct, crossed for wrong. The penalty for failure was immense.

“Thank you gentlemen,” Prof. Patterson’s heart raced. His palms were clammy. Surreptitiously, he rubbed them on his pants’ leg. How many of the beauties would he whack today? “Please indicate by a show of hands if the paper you have has scored less than seventy percent.” His face flushed in anticipation. No hand stirred.

Prof. Patterson flared, “Gentlemen, please do not try to protect your neighbour by withholding information from me. If I discover deceit, I shall punish the perpetrator most severely. Now, a show of hands, please.”

Vance Kearney whispered softly to Rich Rider, “Sorry.” He raised his hand.

“What?” the professor’s beady eye surveyed the room. “Only one?” The previous year he had six pairs of buttocks to deal with. Maybe word had spread. His new crop of students had an incentive to do their preparatory reading. Next year he had better make the test harder.

“Stand up the boy whose paper this is.”

Rich Rider sucked in a lungful of air and slowly rose from his chair.

“And your name is?” the professor growled, peering intently across the room.

“Rider, Sir.”

“Well, Rider, it would seem that we are to make an example of you. Please come to the front of the class.”

Twenty-four heads swivelled as he made his way forward. The tension had lifted. The new students were in the clear. They would go unscathed. Now, they could sit back and enjoy the sport.

“Stand there boy. Face the class.”

Rich Rider slumped his shoulders and stared intently at his tennis shoes.

“Stand up straight. Look at your fellow students.”

Rich Rider’s hazel eyes shone. Tears were on the way. Blood rushed through every artery. His heart beat so fast, quicker than when he ran on the athletics track.

“Now face me.”

Slowly Rich Rider turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. The paddle in the professor’s hand was awesome. Up close it looked an almighty weapon. In the right hands it could do terrific damage and Rich Rider had no doubt the professor was an expert paddler.

Prof. Patterson sucked in breath of his own. The eighteen-year-old student before him was quite delightful. He was shorter than average; the professor towered at least a foot above him. A frown adorned the boy’s fresh open face. He looked so adorably sad. His multi-coloured short sleeved shirt was open at the neck showing his well-developed chest. Prof. Patterson gulped down saliva; this boy was some athlete.

Prof. Patterson gripped the paddle in his right hand. It shook a little.

“Assume the position, Rider.” Rich Rider hesitated. What did that mean? Over the desk? A chair? He had presented himself so many different ways for a spanking.

“Feet apart, grab your ankles, boy.” It was a cool command, quietly spoken. Prof. Patterson knew he would be obeyed. Students at Popper State were conformists.

drawing paddle hold (20)

Twenty-four students and Prof. Patterson had a marvellous view of Rich Rider’s taut buttocks stretching against his snug-fitting pale grey slacks. Ty Spreader, a student in the front row, licked his lips in anticipation.

Prof. Patterson stood to Rich Rider’s left side. He could trace the outline of the boy’s spine through the garish shirt. There was no practical need to do this, but the professor took hold of the tail of Rich Rider’s shirt and pulled it clear from the waistband of his slacks, exposing two inches of bare suntanned flesh. The top of the teenager’s underwear poked above his waistband. From this close juncture, Rich Rider’s buttocks looked solid like two rubber balls. Each cheek was tiny, dwarfed in size by the stout wooden paddle as the professor rubbed it across the centre of the teenager’s backside.

Rich Rider sucked in breath and gripped the folds of cotton on his pants’ legs tightly, bracing himself for familiar pain. He felt the wood moving away from his bottom, then there was a tremendous crack of wood connecting at force with buttock. One, two, three; that’s how many seconds it was before the full pain hit him. It was like someone had pressed his mother’s maid’s hot iron into his flesh. Rich Rider’s mouth opened and a sound like compressed air releasing filled the room. His body shuddered and he held on to his ankles for dear life.

He waited. Then, he waited some more. Eventually, whack number two stuck. It connected on the underside of his cheeks and the force of the blow sent him rocking forward. His knees buckled. He stopped himself tumbling just in time. Behind him, Ty Spreader crossed his legs and leaned forward a little, shielding the front of his slacks from view.

Rich Rider resumed his position. Prof. Patterson stepped back, keen to admire his charge. Those buttocks were tough. There wasn’t enough spare fat to sizzle a sausage. And so small, he could cup an entire cheek in the palm of one hand. The professor sucked in another lungful of air and raised the paddle high. Rich Rider braced himself before his punisher brought it crashing down right across the centre of his mounds. God that hurt. Rich Rider wheezed. His head shook from left to right, he neighed like a horse. His knees buckled. He feet shifted. The pain travelled from his rear end and up and down his legs before spreading east, west, north, south across his whole body.

Professor Patterson wiped his brow with the back of his hand and placed the paddle on the top of the desk. “That will do. You may stand.”

Rich Rider hauled himself straight. His hands shot to the seat of his tight slacks and he rubbed furiously. Ty Spreader shot from his chair and was through the door before Professor Patterson had time to say, “Resume your seat Rider.”

Gingerly, Rich Rider eased himself onto the hard chair. The pain was easing into a constant throbbing. He knew that soon it would become a warm glow. There would be bruises and they’d probably hang around for a day or two. He would feel the swat the professor landed low every time he sat down over the next few hours. That was OK, Rich Rider told himself, he could deal with that.

He was less sure what he was going to do about the raging woody that ached against the front of his tight underpants.

 

Other stories you might like

The dope smoker

Foreign language student

The junior salesman

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The guy in the library

z-used-jeans-9

Ollie was standing by the crime shelves at the local library when he first saw him. The Guy. He was over in the non-fiction section, standing on tip-toes, trying to reach the top shelf.

The Guy wasn’t short, the shelves were high. Ollie would never be able to describe in words what he saw. That was because what he saw was frankly quite ordinary. But, what he felt was extraordinary.

The Guy was maybe five-eight. The first thing Ollie noticed were his Levi jeans. They were new and as he stretched upwards, his whole body tensed. The jeans clung to The Guy’s buttocks, separating each cheek. There was nothing extraordinary about The Guy’s bum. It was neither too big, nor was it too small. Some people who made notes about such things might record that it was a bit on the flat side.

The Guy wore a beige V-neck jumper. Ollie supposed his mother must have bought it for him, for The Guy looked to be in his late teens or early twenties; he would never choose something like that for himself.

Ollie had yet to see The Guy’s face, but he was smitten. The Guy had fairish hair, it wasn’t blond, but nor was it light brown. It just about touched his collar. Ollie had no idea what to make of that. You couldn’t tell anything about a person by their hair. Not these days. But, later at home as he recalled this moment lying on his bed with his trousers and underpants at half-mast, he wondered if The Guy might be a bit of a mummy’s boy. Short hair and jumpers from Primark might be the give-away.

The Guy turned to move further down the shelving. He had a well-proportioned body. From where Ollie stood – some way across the large room – The Guy looked pretty every-day. There would be hundreds of young men in the streets outside the library who looked much the same. He wasn’t gym-honed, but he looked trim and healthy. Maybe, he ran.

The Guy found the book he was searching for and took it to a table. Ollie took a novel from the shelves and pretended to study its cover. Disguised that way, he peered at The Guy who opened his book, leafed through its pages and began to write notes in an A4 pad.

Was he a student? Ollie wondered. He had an urge to know more about The Guy. No, Ollie was tearing down his own theory. If he was a student at Brocklehurst University, why would he be in the public library? BU, as it was known, must have a better library of its own.

Ollie surveyed the room. It was early evening and the library was not busy. Ollie could have a choice of seats. He chose one behind The Guy and sat down. This way he could scrutinise The Guy’s qualities without danger of exposure. The Guy was engrossed in his book.

Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed. Ollie watched The Guy’s muscles flex and unflex as he turned pages in his book and wrote down notes. The Guy’s shoulders were broad and his waist narrow. Oh, Ollie sighed silently, how he would love to rub his hand over that strong, muscular back.

Once, and only once, The Guy paused in his work and stretched his arms. He rose a little from his chair, bent forward and shook his hips from side to side. The cramped seating had given him back ache. Ollie shuffled a little in his own chair; The Guy’s buttocks encased in the brand-new denim jeans were a sight to behold.

The Guy turned a little so for the first time Ollie saw his face. If at some point the police had demanded Ollie gave a description of The Guy, he would falter. “He was,” Ollie would have to say, “ordinary.” He had clear skin (as far as he could tell from a distance), his hair flopped a little over his forehead and his nose was where it should be (and you couldn’t say that about everybody). He would be able to say The Guy’s lips met in the right place, so his teeth were probably quite good. Ollie had no idea about the colour of The Guy’s eyes but he did see his eyebrows didn’t meet in the middle, so he must be an honest sort of fellow.

The Guy closed his book, took his anorak from the back of the chair, climbed into it, picked up his pad and without looking to left or right, headed for the exit.

Ollie’s heart raced. The Guy had left. He was gone. Forever. A surge of panic, like he had never experienced before, gripped him. No. It couldn’t end like this. There must be more. Grabbing his own coat and not pausing to put it on, Ollie pelted to the door. The library itself was some distance from the main entrance to the building. Ollie scoured the main hall, looking for a boy in jeans and anorak. There were two young men in business suits, a security guard with three stripes on his sleeve and a middle-aged lady with her long grey hair tied in a severe bun and wearing spectacles that dared you to contradict her. The Guy was nowhere.

Ollie ran (something he couldn’t remember ever doing before) to the entrance, cursed the revolving door for being so slow and landed on the pavement. The city’s rush hour was in full swing. The street heaved with bodies.

Quick. Quick. Ollie stood, panic mounting. He must find The Guy. What should he do? Turn left along the pavement? Or, go right? Damn, he cursed himself; why could he never make a decision. He chose right. Which is to say, he chose wrong. He pushed his way through the crowds, he was swimming against the tide. They were all heading to the train station, Ollie was heading into the city. He had lost The Guy.

Ollie stood still, buffeted by angry pedestrians, all intent on getting out of there as quickly as they could. Their homes, and their real lives, waited for them someplace else. Dejected, Ollie trudged his way across the street and followed a short cut to the bus station. Why, he demanded of himself, why were tears welling behind his eyes?

Later, in his bed-sitting room, he lay on his ancient lumpy mattress and stared dejectedly at the nicotine stained ceiling. What was it about The Guy? In every respect that he could list, he was no different from hundreds of people in the town. He could go to the bus or the train stations and see countless young men of the same height and build and general standing. The Guy wore Levi jeans, a beige V-neck jumper and an anorak, but Jesus H. Christ, Ollie wailed to himself, he was the sexiest thing he had seen in his life. It was as if an aura radiated around his whole body, like those kids in the Ready brek television commercials.

That first night, Ollie invented a new life. For himself and for The Guy. He named him Bill, an ordinary name for a commonplace boy. Bill and Ollie were students, but not very good ones. They preferred to spend their mornings kissing and cuddling together in bed. Of course, they missed lectures and did badly in coursework and examinations. It could not go on like that and they soon found themselves in the Dean’s study.

Ollie could never remember when he had first obsessed about corporal punishment. He had never been spanked as a child, so he couldn’t blame his parents and the cane had been banned in schools years earlier. Ollie was not a man for self-examination, so he did not have the first clue about his true needs.

Ollie wriggled his trousers and pants to his knees, he reached over to his dressing table, tugged open the drawer and removed a heavy wooden clothes brush. It was nearly a foot long and the oval head maybe four inches at its widest. Ollie turned onto his side so that he was almost face down on the mattress, then he closed his eyes and whacked the brush with some force into his own bared backside. It hurt. A lot. He wished he had someone else there to do this for him; he usually gave up after four spanks because the pain was too much.

He let the brush drop to his side. His bum throbbed and he could see dark pink patches on it. He spat into the palm of his hand, closed his eyes again and returned in his imagination to the Dean’s study.

Dean Martin (for that is the name Ollie invented for him) cut an imperious figure. He was in his fifties and wore a traditional academic gown. He had no time for lazy undergraduate students who spent too much time in the union bar and not enough in the library. But with his office came duties. It was up to him to deal with the matter. So be it.

“You,” he pointed to Bill. “You shall go first.” The two students watched quietly as Dean Martin picked up a comfortable armless cushioned chair and placed it in the middle of his study. Then, without saying a further word, he walked over to his desk, stooped down and opened the bottom drawer. He reached in and withdrew a clothes brush, identical to the one Ollie owned. He returned to the chair, sat down, wriggled his buttocks until he was comfortable, adjusted his academic gown and when he was satisfied he was ready, he looked across at Bill.

Dean Martin snapped his fingers. “Stand there.” He pointed to a spot close to his right-hand side. Meekly, Bill positioned himself as ordered.

“Lower your jeans and bend over my knee,” Dean Martin flushed a little as he spoke the command. Bill’s already pale face blanched a little more.

Ollie moved his own position slightly to get a better view of his pal as he undid the fastener on his Levis. They fitted him well and he needed no belt. With the zipper lowered the jeans slid down his hips to his thighs. Of course, he wore old-fashioned white Y-front underpants. Ollie had learnt his lover had no interest in fashion.

Bill looked down at the well-padded thighs of the Dean and hesitated. How exactly, was this done?

“Bend over boy. Quickly. Don’t try my patience.” The Dean gripped the brush, menacingly.

Bill was still unsure. Was he expected to throw himself over the knees and put his hands directly on the ground. Or, did he first rest his hands on the Dean’s thighs and then lower himself over?

“Pah!” the Dean expelled air. Bill did not have to make a choice. Dean Martin grabbed him by the left wrist and manhandled him forward until he fell forward and landed over the old man’s knees. He was now face down, his arms stretched before him with his legs dangling in mid-air. This way, Bill’s bottom was raised at an angle over the Dean’s right leg.

Dean Martin was a man of action. The heavy wooden brush rose and fell rapidly and with great force pulverised Bill’s cotton-covered buttocks again and again. And again. The astounding pain shocked the student who wriggled and shook his body this way and that, but the Dean was an expert at this. He held Bill at the midriff; he was going nowhere until the Dean said so. He did that after he had pounded three dozen whacks across every square-inch of the boy’s bum. Then he stopped. Thirty-six on the pants was the tariff for a first offence. But woe betides any student who came back for more.

Bill hopped from foot to foot while rubbing furiously at the seat of his underpants in the traditional spanking dance. His once-pale face and his neck were as scarlet as later he would discover his bottom to be.

Another snap of the fingers and Ollie was in position. He prepared himself with more aplomb than his partner. Belt, button and zipper were efficiently dealt with and he was across Dean Martin’s knees within seconds. Ollie raised his midriff a little until he was sure he presented the perfect target for his master, then he pressed the palms of his hands into the carpet, stared ahead at the far wall and waited for the punishment to begin.

His three-dozen whacks were as forceful as Bill’s. His bum throbbed all the way from the top where the cheeks meet the back and over the globes themselves and into the crease near the thighs. His heart raced and his breathing was shallow, when he too danced in front of his tormentor.

At that point Ollie was cleaning his stomach with soft toilet tissue.

He suffered a restless night. Three more times he masturbated before finally he fell into a fitful sleep.

It was an obsession. He could not get Bill out of his mind. He imagined they went to the supermarket together and prepared an ate a meal, until the time Bill declared, “It’s time to get you spanked and in bed.” Ollie was given a dose of a carpet slipper across pyjama bottoms, although in real life he owned neither of these objects.

Ollie was in a trance. He had to see The Guy again. With no expectation of success, he returned to the library that evening. The Guy was at the same desk, working away at his book. He still wore the jeans and jumper, but he had changed his shirt. Ollie might have guessed, it was plain white, the sort schoolboys would wear.

Ollie snatched a book from a shelf and took up an observation position. After nearly an hour The Guy packed up his things and headed for the door. He did not expect to have a stalker.

That policeman who had asked Ollie to describe The Guy might also demand an explanation for Ollie’s behaviour, but Ollie would be the last one to know. He had an overwhelming urge to know more about The Guy. What was his name? Where did he live? Was he really a student?

The Guy reached the street, turned left and walked on. He was easy to follow, it was obvious he was headed for the train station. He walked easily, he was in no obvious hurry. Ollie followed at a constant distance captivated by The Guy’s buttocks as gently they swayed to the left and right inside his well-fitted jeans.

They reached the station, The Guy looked up at the destination board and headed for platform four. Ollie stopped. Cut down. Devastated. He had no money for train fares, he could not follow. Distraught, he followed The Guy to the ticket barrier and watch forlornly as he stepped on a train.

Where was The Guy going? Where did he live? Ollie scrutinised the destination board. The train was headed to London. That was at least fifty miles away, surely, he didn’t live there? Why had he been at Brocklehurst Library, if he lived in London? It didn’t make sense. Then, an overwhelming despair enveloped him: he might never see The Guy again.

The train was ready to leave. A muffled announcer read out six or seven stops for the train destined for London. There was hope yet.

That night, Ollie and Bill returned to the Dean’s study. A second offence earned a sound caning: twelve swipes, on the bare. Ollie’s cock was raw next morning.

The Guy was at the library the next evening and the next. Then it was the weekend, but he was there again on the Monday. So was Ollie, spying still. The fantasies continued. University Deans, uncles, irate fathers and elder brothers were all called upon to punish the naughty pair of students.

It couldn’t go on like this. Even Ollie knew that. He was socially inept, unable to strike up a conversation with strangers, let alone with those whom he fancied the pants off. He was in despair.

On the Monday, the library was fuller with clients. Most of the tables were occupied. Ollie could not hide; the only free chair was at The Guy’s table. He thought about leaving. The Guy would be back next day surely. Ollie would come earlier to get the best view.

That’s what he should have done, but obsessives are just that. They’re nuts. Ollie chose a book a random and sat. He buried his face in the book, the words on the pages blurred. He fought the urge to stare up at The Guy. He had never been so close to him. He saw the stubble on his chin. He smelt the horrible Old Spice deodorant he wore. Ollie’s cock was bursting against his pants.

He didn’t see The Guy was also distracted. He couldn’t take in what he was reading. He stopped taking notes.

“Hello,” The Guy said softly. Ollie raised his eyes to see the most warm, radiant smile beaming at him. His mouth drained of saliva, blood rushed to his ears. For the first time Ollie saw The Guy’s eyes were greeny-hazel. They sparkled.

“Hello, my name’s Keith,” The Guy said. Keith, an ordinary name for a commonplace man; a name not too far removed from Bill.

Ollie blushed.

“What’s yours?” Ollie croaked an inadequate response. He felt like a thirteen-year-old girl.

Keith beamed that smile again. Beatific, some people would call it. “I’ve seen you looking at me for days,” the joyful smile did not falter. He reached forward and took Ollie’s hands in his. Ollie’s body shook with desire. His dreams, no his fantasises, were about to be fulfilled. His sad life would never be the same again.

Keith beamed, “I used to be homosexual too, but I’m cured now. There’s a church I go to. You should come too. I could take you if you like.”

Bile retched at the back of Ollie’s throat. His hand shot to his mouth; his insides twisted, he gave a low moan. Any second now a stream of vomit would flow across the table.

“I … B …” Ollie gabbled. Tears flowed down his cheeks. His temples pounded.

Keith’s beam intensified. “Trust in the Lord Jesus Christ. He saves us from all our sins.”

Ollie staggered to his feet, his chair toppled behind him and to the disapproving stares of others he bounced through the library and out the door. How could the man he loved treat him like this? It had been the happiest few days of his life.

Sucking down vomit and wiping his face with the back of his hand he rushed through the building. He had to escape, he didn’t want Keith to follow. His pain and humiliation was too much. Blinded by tears he found his way to the revolving door; he pushed too hard in his desperation to escape and was flung onto the pavement into the arms of an unsuspecting passer-by.

“Are you alright?” He was a young man, about Ollie’s age, but Ollie didn’t notice. “Can I help? Do you need help?” The young man held Ollie by the shoulders for a beat too long. “Can I take you somewhere?”

Ollie shrugged the young man off, yelled something unintelligible and rushed off into the crowd. The young man watched him go. Who was that Young Guy, the young man wondered? That beautiful black curly hair. Those doleful brown eyes. Those sweetly kissable lips. And, that magnificently spankable arse. He watched Ollie disappear towards the bus station. He had only moments to decide. He was rooted, fighting and eventually resisting the urge to run after him. A conclusion he would regret for the rest of his life.

 

Other stories you might like

The military kid

The headmaster’s guests

The night porter

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

At the girls’ showers

Bob Brewer was a young man with a problem. Eighteen years old and never been laid. Never even come close. But, now he was living in the halls of residence of Brocklehurst University that would change. He fervently hoped.

There were lots of girls around, that was for sure. The halls weren’t segregated. In his section of twelve rooms there were six girls and six boys. They shared everything. The kitchen, a television lounge. Even the showers.

That was another problem. Knowing there were naked women in the hall. The individual showers had a small area where people could undress before getting under the water. Later, they could towel themselves dry before they returned to their room.

Actually, Bob discovered soon after he moved in, people preferred to undress in their room, wrap themselves up in a towel and head for the showers. When they had finished, they would maybe dry their hair a little before heading back, still damp.

Well, Bob figured, he couldn’t be blamed if just by chance he was in the hall when a dripping damsel rushed from the shower. He might still be a virgin, but he knew a sexy young thing when he saw it.

“He’s doing it on purpose. Just loitering there.” Jill was in the kitchen talking to Pam. “He’s trying to see us naked,” the twenty-two-year-old Business major sighed.

“He’s just like some twelve-year-old,” Pam giggled. “Someone should have a word with him.”

“Someone should smack his bottom. Hard.” Jenifer, a social work student, wheezed.

“No point. He’d probably enjoy it,” Alison said, poured boiling water into coffee mugs.

The door opened and Ken, Pam’s boyfriend, entered.

“Can’t Ken do something about him?” Jill asked of nobody in particular.

“About who?” Ken took a steaming mug and blew into it. The girls explained their predicament.

“You’re a senior, Ken. Can’t you do something?” Alison piped up.

“Senior? This isn’t a school. We don’t have prefects,” Ken sipped tentatively at his coffee.

“No, I suppose not,” Alison pursed her lips and shook her head so her long blonde hair no longer hung across her face. Ken watched her voluptuous breasts wobble.

“But, you are a final year. He’s a fresher. Can’t you sort him out?” Pam liked to boss her boyfriend. She usually got her way. “Be like his elder brother. Or uncle or something.”

“Uncle?” Ken sipped on his coffee. He wasn’t liking where this was going.

“Spank him,” Jenifer rose from her chair. “Good and hard.” She glared at Ken, daring him to defy her.

Ken shrugged his shoulders and stared into his mug.

“Yes, darling, please.” Pam gave him her baby-doll smile. The one she used when she was telling him she was ready to have sex. It had been nearly a week since they had made love. He was gagging.

“Yes, Ken, please do it,” Jill beamed. “And make sure we get to watch.”

Bob Brewer had his jeans at his shins and his tight briefs at his knees. In his mind he saw Alison, a towel hanging limply against her body. The outline of her large, firm breasts clearly visible. He spat on his palm and manoeuvred it up and down his throbbing shaft. “Huff, huff, huff,” he fought his urge to spray cum all over his belly. Not yet, he willed himself as his body shook with desire.

“Hello Bob, are you in there?” Fingertips were tapping on his door. It was Ken Charlton’s voice.

“Whar ….?” Bob gasped.

“C’mon Bob, I need a word. Now.”

“Hang on!” Desperately the eighteen-year-old dragged up his briefs. His cock was so stiff, it stood like a tentpole. It wanted to poke out of the fly. He pulled up his jeans and buckled his belt. His dick ached like crazy.

“C’mon, c’mon, I haven’t got all day.” Ken wanted this over with. He desperately needed a shag.

Scarlet faced, Bob unlocked the door and opened it an inch. His puzzled expression spoke volumes.

“The girls want to see you in the kitchen,” Ken barked. “They’re fed up with you spying on them.”

Bob’s mouth gaped. No words came. He knew exactly what Ken meant. Of course, they had noticed him loitering in the hallway. They weren’t stupid.

Ken took Bob’s wrist and guided him out of the room. Then half dragging, he propelled him towards the girls and his fate.

“You want to spank me?” Bob spluttered. His heart raced. His cock had softened, but now it once more stood to attention. Which of these sexy minxes would it be? Please, he thought silently, please let it be Alison.

“No,” Pam was in control. “Ken will spank you.”

The look of disappointment was obvious.

“It’s a man’s thing; something like this.” Pam trailed off, suddenly embarrassed.

Nobody spoke. The girls lined up with their backs against the fridge-freezer. Its humming sound dominated the silent room.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Ken pulled a chair away from the table and sat down. Bob stared blankly. Was this really happening? This senior student was going to spank him? This could not be happening.

“Come here and bend over my knee.”

Alison’s wheezing drowned out the fridge’s humming.

Bob stood, uncertain, staring at Ken. His punisher spread his legs. His thighs were large.

z-used-otk-jeans-chair-37

Ken was a track athlete. Fit and strong. His muscles bulged through a tight, white tee-shirt.

“B… b …” tears welled behind Bob’s eyes. He felt Ken’s heavy grip on his wrist as he was forced forward and pulled face-down across the older student’s knees.

Bob gasped. With shock and humiliation. He pressed the palms of his hands into the worn grey floor tiles. He felt Ken’s arm push into his back, holding him in position. Then: smack! Ken’s hand hit Bob’s left buttock. Then, his right.

He hardly felt a thing. Bob had never been spanked in his life. This was 2017, who had been? He didn’t know how much it was meant to hurt. He might be a spanking virgin, but he knew it was supposed to be worse than this.

He sensed the girls move from in front of the fridge. Alison was leading the way. She wanted a better view of Bob’s tight arse. It really was magnificent, she thought. Why hadn’t she noticed before?

Ken whacked a dozen slaps into Bob’s denim-covered bum. Then, he stopped. His hand was hurting much more than Bob’s backside.

“This is useless,” he waved his hand exaggeratedly. “I’m not getting through to him”

“Wait.” Alison breathed excitedly. She did not want this end. “I have a hairbrush. I’ll go fetch it.” She darted from the room.

Ken looked down at the young man spread-eagled across his lap. Only now, did the absurdity of the situation hit him. He was spanking an eighteen-year-old student. A young man. Only three years younger than himself. Spanking him. On his bum. Across his knee.

Bob stared at the floor. Humiliated. Surely, he thought, Ken could feel his boner pushing into his thigh. Bob doubted that he had ever had such a long, stiff erection. It ached terrifically.

The door pushed open and Alison excitedly entered, a large oval-headed hairbrush in her fist.

“Here,” she handed it to Ken. “Give him what-for with that.” She stood back to regain her view of Bob’s beautiful buttocks.

Whack! Bob gasped. That hurt. That really stung. As did the next dozen that Ken hammered into the seat of his jeans. The denim was thick, but it was scant protection from Ken’s powerful spanking.

Bob wriggled and squirmed.

“Keep still,” Ken growled as he aimed the wooden brush into the underside of Bob’s bum. “Or I might miss your bum and hit the back of your thighs.” Then, deliberately, he sent the brush crashing into that very spot. He was extremely self-satisfied when Bob yelped. He sounded like a little whipped puppy.

Bob’s bum was warming up. He bounced over the older student’s knees. His stiff cock rubbed against the front of his denim jeans. Up and down he went. As if humping Ken’s legs. The tension in his cock was unbearable. Bob puffed and wheezed. Any moment now, he would shoot his load and fill the front of his underpants with sticky goo.

“Do you promise not to spy on the girls again?”

“Yes, yes, I promise. I’m sorry.” Bob would promise anything to make the spanking stop before he disgraced himself.

“I hope so, because next time we’ll see how you like it with your jeans at your ankles.” Ken smacked the brush into the centre of each of Bob’s buttocks. “Has he had enough girls?”

“Yes, let him go,” Alison was breathless. “Let him get up.”

Ken released his grip and Bob shot to his feet, desperately trying to keep his back to his tormentors. His face was scarlet.

“Looks like the naughty little boy has learned his lesson,” Pam beamed. Turning to Ken, she flashed the baby-doll smile. “C’mon, you. Let’s go.”

The left, with Jill tagging behind.

Bob stood uncertain. The bulge in the front of his pants was enormous. He desperately needed to polish one off.

Alison smiled. Held out her hand. “C’mon big boy,” she wheezed. “Let’s go to my room.”

 

Other stories you might like

The sting in the tail

The students next door

Peeping Tom

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Professor and the fresher student

used-cane-holding-46

“Go and stand by that chair,” the professor instructed the boy as he strode to a desk.

The student stood his ground, apprehensively watching as the professor pulled open a drawer and began to fish inside. In no time, he pulled out a well-waxed cane and turned to the boy.

“I said stand by the chair boy!” The professor was in a bad mood.

The pale-faced student stuttered, “Can’t we talk about this Sir?”

The boy was one of the new first year students, eighteen years old and a product of some council board school somewhere. The professor couldn’t understand it. The school had never used corporal punishment, and this was a result.

Now, he was expected to deal with students who knew nothing about discipline – they thought they could do as they pleased without consequences.

Well, the student was about to learn a very important lesson: actions do have consequences. Or, in his case inactions: he had skipped the professor’s class without an excuse and now here he was in the study about the get his just desserts.

“I said stand by that chair. Do it now!” The order was barked out and the student reluctantly turned to face the armchair. It was old and a bit shabby. It had obviously seen better days and was worn across the back and on the seat cushion. The student wasn’t to know, but generations before him bending over to receive beatings had contributed to this.

The professor stood behind the boy making a few practice swishes with the cane.  The student was a good three feet away from the chair. “Closer boy,” the professor ordered. The student turned to remonstrate one more time. “But, Sir.”

The professor swished the cane one more time. Calmly he said, “You will bend over the chair this instant. If you delay you will get double the number of strokes.”

That was it. The boy may never have been in this position before, but he knew when he was beaten. Or more truthfully, when he was about to be beaten.

He took a deep breath. He knew his number was up and events had to take their course. In one almost athletic movement he bent across the chair – like diving into a pool of ice cold water. He clutched onto the seat cushion as if his life depended on it.

“Legs further apart boy,” the professor ordered, giving the cane one more swish.

For a moment he stood and observed the boy. He was a typical student of the day. No more than five-feet-seven, slim, but not muscular, dressed in Wrangler jeans and a god-awful multi-checked jacket that was all the rage with young men at the time. He stepped forward and raised the back of the jacket, its two vents making it easy to expose a denim-clad backside. He took time to take in the information on the label on the waistband of the jeans: twenty-eight-inch waist and thirty-inch leg.

The professor could see the boy was breathing heavily. Of course, he’d never been across a headmaster’s chair for Six before. This was entirely unchartered territory for him.

Not so for the professor. He was of the old school. And here ‘school’ was the operative word. He knew that his students (well, most of them anyway) had just left independent private schools where they were subjected to discipline and if they stepped out of line, they expected punishment. And they got it from him: in the form of a caning.

University was to be no different for them. The professor had rules and you obeyed them. If you didn’t you would expect to receive a summons to the study. And, as this student was about to find out what happened next would be very painful indeed.

The professor grabbed the boy’s jeans by the waist and pulled them up tight. The denim formed a second skin across the most pert of buttocks and made a perfect target for the thrashing.

Most of the students those days wore denim jeans. It was just a fashion, but if boys thought the denim cloth gave them more protection against the whippy cane, than, say, the trousers they would have worn at school, they were to be sorely mistaken.

There was one type of jeans that did cause problems. These were called Falmers and they had big pockets across the backside. They had folds of cloth and definitely were a hindrance to the punisher.

The professor had found a simple remedy to this. Once a boy had attended for punishment in such jeans, he was ordered to drop them to his ankles. Then it was over the chair for a swishing on the underpants. A rather fetching pair of bright red briefs, the professor reminisced fondly. Once word got around about this nobody tried that trick again.

So, here was the student, over the chair, in his Wranglers ready to take the first stroke.

The professor believed in the efficacy of corporal punishment. It wasn’t used as a ‘last resort,’ for him it was the first. If a student disobeyed the rules, he was over the chair and the cane would be sent bouncing down across his stretched backside.

As was to happen now. The professor took up position to the left of the boy and tapped the cane against his nearest buttock. Finding his spot, the professor bent his own knees slightly drew the cane up to beyond shoulder height and sent it crashing against the boy’s tight backside.

The student gasped, but managed to muffle the yell he desperately wanted to make. His legs shook slightly and his hands grabbed the cushion of the armchair tightly.

The professor observed a clear mark had formed in the denim, extending across both cheeks in a thin line.

The second stroke came crashing down, a quarter of an inch below the first. The professor had an expert aim. After all, he had plenty of experience in this.

The third and fourth cut bit into the boy’s backside in rapid succession. By now he was losing control. The gasps became yelps.

The professor paused before stroke five, knowing that the pain would be searing across the boy’s backside and through his legs. The student’s breathing was uneven. The professor looked over the chair to see tears flowing down the boy’s face.

Swish! Whack! Number five hit home. The boy made a move to rise himself from the back of the chair. But at the last moment he forced himself back. This might be his first beating, but some schoolboy instinct told him to stay in position: he didn’t want extra strokes.

The boy lay waiting for what he hoped was the last stroke. The professor hadn’t announced it was to be six-of-the-best. But surely that was the tariff. Six was more than enough, Sir. This was a first offence after all.

The student could feel welts forming under his pants where five parallel strokes had hit home. No, they had done more than hit home, they had been struck with such force they had gone through the flesh in search of bone.

Number six was the worst of all. The professor paused, took three steps backward, raised the cane in the air and then rushed forward and struck.

The sixth stroke was laid diagonally across the previous five, creating a five-bar gate, cutting each welt and creating searing pain. Surely, later when he inspected the damage, the student would find blood seeping from the wounds.

The boy was gone, tears came in huge gulps, he wanted the pain to end, to curl up in the foetal position and die.

The professor watched him writhing across the back of the chair, satisfied with his own handiwork.

“Stand up boy,” the instruction was gentle, no longer an order. The punishment had been delivered and although the student had taken it, if not well, he had not resisted. He now belonged to the professor.

The eighteen-year-old boy rose from the chair, unsure where to go first. To try to wipe his tears and the snot that was coming from his nose, or to send both hands to clutch his buttocks in an attempt to rub away the agony.

But he didn’t have time. “Turn and stand in front of me,” the professor said. He complied, his eyes firmly fixed on the carpet in front of his feet.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you boy.” He raised his eyes. “Will I need to do this again?” The student hardly had the breath to give the required response.

“Good. Because if I do we shall see how you like it with your trousers and your underpants around your ankles.”

No response, except gulps and sobs from the student.

“You are dismissed.”

The professor watched the student hobble to the door in considerable discomfort. He turned the handle, opened it and was gone.

The professor replaced the cane in the desk drawer, alongside the seven or eight others there.

 

Other university-based stories you might enjoy.

Professor Paddle

The Senior Tutor

The sting in the tail

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Dean of Dorm Discipline book

used-drawing-paddle-on-jeans-3

 

The Dean of Dormitory Discipline regularly beat misbehaving students and there was never a weekend when his paddle did not fly through the air. This gave them ample opportunity to swap stories about their spankings and their bruises became badges of honour when displayed in the communal showers.

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 latest free-to-download book from Charles Hamilton II.

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

 

Another free-to-download book you might like

ALL IN THE FAMILY. TALES OF DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com