Keynes College Caning Case

z used drawing canes (1)

Chief Inspector Morose gulped on his fourth pint as he studied the written report in his hand. Another killing at a college. Oxford would soon surpass those villages at Midsomer as the murder capital of the world. Just then Sergeant Lois hurried into the pub. Morose hated working with a girl but these were modern times. How he hated modern times.

“Lois,” he said gruffly. “Knock on doors, find witnesses, get Scene of Crimes to check the room where Professor Blenkinsop was found, get fingerprints, search for a weapon.”

Sgt. Lois looked on in admiration. What a terrific detective, she thought. It would never have occurred to her to do any of those things. “What will you be doing, sir?” she asked. “I’ll have another pint,” Morose said handing her his empty glass.

At Keynes College Jack stared from the window of his room onto the deserted quadrangle below. In his mind he visualised himself in Prof Blenkinsop’s room. “This essay is atrocious. You should spend more time in the library and less in the Student Guild,” the professor spoke through his bushy beard. He was a short rotund man, almost as wide as he was tall. Jack stood, feet slightly apart, head bowed. Memories flooded back of unpleasant visits to his housemaster at St. Tom’s. He watched slack-jawed as the professor waddled towards a cupboard. It was tall and thin and was part of a especially-designed glass-fronted bookcase that ran along the entire length of one wall. Prof Blenkinsop delved into his pocket and retrieved a bunch of keys. Slowly, almost as if he had never seen them before he searched for the one he needed. His breath was shallow as he unlocked the door, opened it an reached in.

Jack blinked in disbelief. Now, it really was a trip back to schooldays. The professor held a dark-yellow whippy cane. He turned and faced the student, flexing the rod as he did so. He swished it trough the air. It made a tremendous whoosh! as it went. It was thicker than the canes they used at St. Tom’s, but had the traditional crook handle.

“Bu ….” Jack began a protest but stopped himself. He wanted to say, “Sir, you can’t do this,” but he knew otherwise. The professor had all the power. He alone would decide what grade a student would get. He was the sole arbiter of success or failure. Prof Blenkinsop stopped his swishing and looked quizzically at Jack, as if only just remembering he was there. “That chair,” he nodded to a low-backed old leather armchair standing against a wall, “Turn it round.” It was heavier than it looked. “Bring it into the middle of the room.”

Jack was surprised how calm he felt. This should not be happening. But, it was, and Jack knew there was nothing he could do to stop it. He had been beaten at school; many times, it was that kind of place. It would hurt like hell, but he would live.

“Lower your trousers. Underpants too. Bend over the chair.” A thin line of spittle dribbled into the professor’s beard as he gave his instructions. A look of incredulity washed across Jack’s face. “Just do as you are told,” Professor Blenkinsop bent the cane again. It made a perfect arc.

Jack hesitated. This was new territory. They had always caned on the seat of the trousers at St. Tom’s. He watched the dreadful professor flexing his cane. The man’s eyes sparkled. He was enjoying himself. Jack’s heart skipped a beat as he fumbled with the buckle of his belt. He supposed it was adrenaline coursing to his brain that made him so light-headed. The belt successful undone, Jack unbuttoned the fly of his heavy twill trousers. Gravity took them slithering down his thighs, past his knees and shins and into a puddle at his brogues. His hands trembled, but he was unsure if this was fear.

Professor Blenkinsop squelched two or three paces across the room. Jack could not watch him as he moved. He still had to bare his bottom. Of course he had been naked in front of men before, but he was reluctant to let this old man see his cock and balls.

“Get on with it, you have nothing that I haven’t seen before,” the professor said truthfully. Jack placed his thumbs inside the elasticated waistband of his white Y-fronts and slid them down, careful that they bunched just below his buttocks. He took a deep breath, rubbed his palms together, and rather like a swimmer going into freezing water, dived over the chair. His trousers were at his feet and his underpants at his thighs. Jack was a little over five-six in height and hardly weighed a thing. His waist was narrow, stomach flat and his buttocks when stretched resembled not much more than two pips.

Jack stared down at the worn seat. The chair had seen better days and as his nose was close to the leather he could smell the faint sweat of the generations of students (himself included) who had sat there during tutorials with the professor.

“Head low, legs apart,” the professor ordered. There was no reason to do this, since Jack was already perfected positioned to receive the cane, but it made the professor feel totally in control of the situation. Jack closed his eyes, waiting. Jack felt Professor Blenkinsop take hold of the long tail of his shirt and pull it clear of the target area. The professor was almost ready. But not quite. “I am going to beat you,” he said, slowly, as if reading from a script. “It will hurt, it is supposed to. That is the point. 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?”

Jack’s mouth was inches from the worn leather. He croaked a response that the professor quite probably could not hear, “Yes, sir.”

Professor Blenkinsop sawed his cane across the fleshiest part of Jack’s bum; taking his aim. The first swipe caught him on the lower part of the buttocks, just above the thigh. It felt like he had seared a red-hot poker across his bum. Jack’s entire body shuddered and his backside bounced up and down, he had had absolutely no control. It was all a reflex to the intense pain that started at the bottom and ran up and down his legs.

Professor Blenkinsop was in no hurry. To Jack it felt like an eternity, but only fifteen seconds elapsed before the second cut scorched the top end of his buttocks. He shuddered some more and his mouth opened and closed, but he successfully stifled the yelp his body wanted him to make.

Number three hit half way between the previous two. Professor Blenkinsop was an expert; he should be, he had enough practice. Jack now had a red stripe about four inches wide across both cheeks. Tears itched his eyes, he snuffled them back. Number four landed on top of a previous cut. How could it not? The professor had already burned most of Jack’s backside. The agony was intense. Jack’s legs marched up and down like a soldier on sentry duty. His hips swayed from side to side. An long, low whistle escaped through Jack’s clenched lips.

The fifth hurt just as badly. Jack’s temples throbbed almost as much as his backside. His right foot wrapped around his left ankle and his buttocks rose and fell, humping the back of the chair. Jack quivered under a series of dry hacking coughs.

Professor Blenkinsop left the worst to last. Jack sensed it coming before he felt it. The professor moved the position of his cane so that it rested in a diagonal from the bottom left to the top right of Jack’s 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. Jack yelled. He jumped up from the chair, but half way to his feet, some schoolboy instinct kicked in and he resumed my position. He remembered the professor’s earlier threat; he didn’t want extra strokes.

Jack lay, bottom on fire, sobbing into the chair. His head ached and his throat was sore from coughing, but his head was as clear as anything he had felt before in his life. The professor waited a moment before he intoned, “Stand up.”

Jack crawled off the back of the chair and stumbled, grabbing hold of the edge of a desk to steady himself. He doubled up to restore his trousers and pants to their rightful place, all the time gulping in lungs full of air.

At the police station Lois recapped the plot so far, “The professor was killed in his study sometime between two and four. He was hit on the head by a heavy object. A granite paperweight is missing so that’s the most likely weapon. We’ve searched the room. We found a couple of canes in a cupboard.”

Morose winced, he hated it when people used Americanisms. “Canes, you mean walking sticks, of course,” he scowled.

Lois let a slight smile curl her lips. “No, canes, as in bend over, touch your toes, it’s six-of-the-best for you m’lad,” she flexed an imaginary school punishment cane between her hands. She was delighted to see Morose flush, embarrassed. Morose wriggled in his chair, suddenly a vision of the buxom Sgt. Lois swishing a cane across Morose’s backside as he bent touching toes came to him. He coughed to hide his nervousness.

“We’ve interviewed colleagues, he had no enemies; he was loved by all,” Lois said.

“Clearly not everyone,” Morose growled. He hesitated, trying to make the next question seem insignificant, “What did you do with the canes?”

“They’re in the property store, logged as evidence,” she answered.

In the basement of the building Police Constable First held a long, thin crook-handled rattan cane in both hands, holding it up for close examination. It was thinner and lighter than the ones he had at home, he thought. But still mightily effective. They would do the job. PC First was four months off retirement, hauled into County Headquarters to see his off his last days hidden away after the rumours of his methods of policing in the sleepy villages of Oxfordshire had reached the ears of the Chief Constable.

“Eh lad,” he called across to Police Cadet Barnaby Wordsworth. “Wordsworth,” he growled. Bloody silly name. Whoever heard of a copper with a poet’s name? The eighteen year old fresh-faced youngster looked up from his Football Monthly “Get these labelled and logged.” Wordsworth continued reading. Preston North End were in with a chance of winning the league. “Now lad,” First blustered.

“All right Jock, keep your hair on.” The joke was wearing thin. Jock First was as bald as a billiard ball. Bloody kids, PC First thought. No respect for their elders and betters. He didn’t say Constable or even Mister First. He placed the cane down on the wooden top of the table. How he would like to put this across the cheeky sod’s backside. And no mistake. Teach him some manners. Just wait, he thought, once he was safely retired he would invite him out to the house. The cadet continued reading his magazine.

Two days later Cadet Wordsworth was reading the local newspaper. “Hey Jock,” he said with the mildest of interest, “It says here they’ve taken in a suspect in the professor’s murder.”

First smiled enigmatically, “Of course they have, laddie. He’ll be confessing even as we speak.”

“Why would he confess?”

“They always do laddie. It’s the only way we ever solve a crime.”

“What do you mean?”

“It stands to reason. It saves time. When you’ve seen as many shows – I mean as many cases – as I have you’ll understand.”

Two floors above in Interview Room 2 Inspector Morse and Sgt Lois sat opposite the murder suspect. No solicitor was in sight. “Let me understand this,” Lois said moving the plot along at a tremendous pace. “You say that after he beat you with a cane, he turned around and put it back in a cupboard. Then you picked up a heavy granite paperweight and you hit him on the back of the head.”

Morose studied the young student before him. His dark brown hair was unkempt and his hazel eyes were dull, but Morose knew in happier times they would sparkle. His skin was smooth, he had barely started shaving; it would be twice a week maximum, Morose knew the type. He was shorter than average and clean limbed. Quiet thin, a scholar perhaps, not a sportsman, he imagined. Although Morose couldn’t see because he was sitting on it he just knew he had the most spankable bum.

The student was becoming agitated. “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to do it.”

“You hit him three times,” Morose coughed. God, his throat was dry, he could kill a pint of Theakston’s Old n Filthy. “Once is manslaughter, self-defence, or an accident. Three times is murder.”

The student convulsed into fits of sobs. Morose licked his lips and stared away into the middle distance. “Well pretty boy, you’re going to jail for a long stretch. Getting six-of-the-best will be the least of your troubles,” he thought as a rather annoying bleeping noise sounded in his ears.

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

z used taws on kitchen table CS (2)

I saw a remarkable programme on cable television last week. It was a short film made in the nineteen-forties about the leather industry in Scotland. Did it bring back memories! Me, aged eighteen, prone across Mr MacTaggart’s kitchen table, my trousers and pants at my knees. He leathering my naked buttocks with a three-tailed strap.

Where do I begin this story?

In Scotland the preferred method of scholastic punishment was the leather strap, known locally as a tawse. It was often about eighteen inches long and cut at one end into two or three tails. The tawses made in the small town of Lochgelly were world famous. I was no stranger to corporal punishment. I had attended a very traditional independent grammar school called St Francis at the time when Dr Henderson-Smith, a notorious flogger, was headmaster. Many years after I had left he was forced into retirement after a scandal involving a public thrashing.

We learned from a very early age to obey the rules and not to make waves. We turned up to lessons on time, spoke only when the schoolmaster instructed, worked hard and handed in our homework on time. We knew the consequences if we didn’t conform. It’s a pity schools aren’t like that today. A whippy rattan cane was kept handy to encourage the slackers. Do-gooders can say what they like but it got me through my examinations and secured me a place at a prestigious university in Scotland that proved to be even more traditional than St. Francis.

The problems started almost immediately I arrived. University was not like school. We were expected to study a lot without supervision. We might be sent off to the library with an essay title and told to turn in six pages the following week. I soon discovered I had no self-discipline. I was eighteen years old and away from parental supervision for the first time and I took full advantage. In those days you didn’t legally become an adult until you were twenty-one. The professors at university were our guardians. It would be going too far to say they were surrogate fathers, but some did perhaps see themselves as stern uncles.

I was a flop. I failed my end-of-year examinations and quite rightly should have been “sent down”, expelled back to Brocklehurst. But someone (I never found out who) saw some promise in me. If I agreed to reside with Mr and Mrs MacTaggart I would get a second chance. It was made abundantly clear to me there would be no third.

The MacTaggart’s had a small rooming house and at any one time there might be six boys from the university staying. We were all slackers of one sort or another, sent by the university to be knocked into shape. We jokingly called ourselves inmates at the MacTaggart Home for Naughty Boys. I think Mr and Mrs MacTaggart had military backgrounds; they certainly believed in rules, discipline and punishment.

I arrived on a Monday morning to be greeted at the door by Mrs MacTaggart. “You are to go right away to see Mr MacTaggart.” She nodded her head across the gloomy hallway to a dark brown door. “Leave your bag here.” She strode off to the kitchen, leaving me dumbfounded. Not much of a friendly welcome, I thought. It would not get better. I stood outside the door, it was made of heavy wood and had clearly seen better days; how on earth had it become so scratched?

I had an out-of-body experience. It was as if I were hovering at the ceiling looking down on myself, except I am no longer in Scotland. I am standing outside the headmaster’s study at St Francis and that could mean only one thing. Tentatively, I knocked on the door. “Enter!” Mr MacTaggart’s voice boomed from within. In my months at the house I never heard him speak below foghorn volume. I pushed the door and entered.

Mr MacTaggart was a tall, thick set man. Although he was in his fifties and broadening at the waist he still had the remains of strong hard muscles. His slicked back greying hair emphasised his stern gaze. His dark eyes were a little too close together and his mouth was stuck in a permanent frown. “So, you’re Hamilton,” he growled, his stare burning into my soul. I shuddered, “Yes, Sir,” in reply. I had only just met the man and already I was terrified of him.

He stood from a leather chair that was as scratched as the door. If I had expected a friendly welcoming handshake I was to be sorely disappointed. “You know why you have been sent here.” It sounded like a statement, not a question, so I remained silent. “Pah!” he exploded. “I’ll have no dumb insolence in my house, laddie.”

I probably blushed to my roots, unable (too scared) to form a coherent sentence. “Pah!” he said again, expelling air through nearly closed teeth. He then listed all my faults at university. They were many. “It stops now,” he glowered. “There are rules. You will find a copy in your room. Learn them. Don’t break them. Or else.” The threat in his voice was not implied; it was real.

“And, now,” he clasped his hands together as if we were about to start praying,  “We must start as we mean to go on.” I stood rooted as he made his way across the room. It was sizeable and crammed with old furniture in dark woods. Heavy curtains covered the windows and the whole effect was of gloom. He paused when he reached the far wall. I gasped and swallowed hard. Only now had I noticed the long heavy brown leather tawse hanging from a nail. Mr MacTaggart reached up and in one athletic movement fetched it down and spread it between his two hands. He showed it to me as if he were making a religious offering. It was cut into two ten-inch tails and had a handle of about six inches at the other.

“You must atone for your misbehaviour last year. Then we start with a clean slate,” he barked. I did not know at the time that in Scottish schools the taws was traditionally administered across the palms of the hands. “Put up your left hand,” Mr MacTaggart ordered. My puzzled expression angered him. “Pah!” he set the tawse down on a chair and raised his own hands as a demonstration. I was to hold my hands out in front of my body laying one (palm upward) on top of the other. In this way the lower hand supported the upper and kept it in place once the strap impacted into the flesh. I was to discover soon that this did not work in practice.

At school we were always caned on the backside. Being punished this way has distinct advantages. A chap is bent across a chair or a desk, or is perhaps touching toes of gripping ankles. In any case he has something to hold on to absorb the force of the stroke. There is the added advantage of not being able to see the master as he prepares the punishment. A chap just closes his eyes and waits for the pain to begin.

Not so with the hands. I raised my hands as instructed and watched half-fascinated, half-terrified, as Mr MacTaggart rested the tails of the tawse across my palm. My heart missed a beat when I felt the weight of the leather. Mr MacTaggart adjusted his position by shuffling backwards an inch or two. He raised the strap over his own shoulder so that it rested against the small of his back. His eyes blazed. Then whoosh! The strap arced forward at tremendous speed and crashed down into the palm of my hand. The crack of leather on flesh echoed around the room. At first I didn’t feel a thing and then, POW! I yelped. The blow was awesome; the pain shot through my hand and the force of the blow made me drop both hands to my side, blow on them, rub them together and wiggle them about as if I were dementedly waving to a crowd.

Mr MacTaggart was unimpressed. “Pah. Up laddie – get those hands up,” he growled. I come from a long line of schoolboys steeped in tradition. We took our punishment like men. I was a little flustered that I had not been able to take just one stroke of the strap. With determination I resumed the position; hands held up. I closed my eyes tight, took a deep breath and steeled myself. Another two blows came swiftly – on each one I repeated the hand waving and palm blowing, this time accompanied by a little dance from one foot to the other. I was not taking this well.

Mr MacTaggart did not hide his impatience. He ordered me to swap hands. Slowly and painfully I did so, noticing my right palm was crimson from the belting so far and my hand was numb.

Mr MacTaggart gave me three strokes on the left hand in rapid succession. It was excruciatingly painful, and my body was shivering as I doubled up with my hands under my armpits. This was my first tawsing on the hand. I was soon to discover that with a strapping the immediate effect was one of numbness; it would take a few minutes yet for the pain to fully kick in. Later in my room, I poured cold water into a basin and soaked my hands. It didn’t help. The palms of both hands were blistered and I had considerable difficulty holding anything in them for the rest of the day. MacDonald, another inmate at the house for naughty boys, and himself a Scot, told me that at school a master would ask a boy which hand he used to write with and then strap him on the other one, making sure he could continue writing.

The rules of the house were not exceptional. There were mealtimes that could not be missed, a curfew at night, no smoking or alcohol. It was, I imagine, not so different from being at a boarding school. I knuckled down and got on with studying. I knew I had screwed up the previous year and was determined not to do so again. I was quite a pious young man and felt that I had let people down.

I kept my nose clean until one night I missed curfew. It was a girl of course. I thought we were getting on very well and I might get a kiss before the night was over. We were very innocent in those days. I succeeded and walked on air all the way back to the house. The last bus had gone so I was about an hour late. I was not surprised to find Mr MacTaggart fuming. I knew what was coming. There were rules, I had broken them, the consequence was clear. I would have to be punished.

I let Mr MacTaggart berate me for my lateness. I told him I had missed the bus. That was true, but I didn’t want him to know the reason why. “Pah! Laddie, you know what must happen.” I did, my palms would be blistered. “Damn!” I thought, an essay was due in the next day and I had not finished it. There was no way it would get written if I couldn’t hold a pen.

“Please, Mr. MacTaggart, I know I have done wrong and I deserve punishment,” I can hardly believe I spoke like that. I explained my predicament with the essay. “Please could you beat me on my backside.” Crazy. What eighteen-year-old today would say that? “Pah!” Mr MacTaggart snarled. “Come into the kitchen.” He led the way across the passageway and we entered a small room. Without speaking he opened a drawer to a dresser and delved inside. Seconds later he withdrew a leather strap. It was longer and heavier than the one he had used on me before. This one had three tails. As a novice I thought this thing could cause extreme damage.

Mr MacTaggart glared at me, he did not try to hide his distain. He looked around the room as if trying to decide his next move. His eyes settled on a small table. “There, that’ll do.” I immediately understood his intention. He would expect me to bend across the table to receive the strap across my backside. It was a relief. I was on familiar territory. A whacking from that strap would hurt like billy-o but I knew I could survive it.

Perhaps he sensed my indifference. “Pah!” He snarled. “Take down your trousers. Underwear too.” Any nonchalance I might have had evaporated. Pants down. On the bare. Even the despicable Henderson-Smith at school never caned me like this. “And bend over the table,” Mr MacTaggart completed his instruction.

This was uncharted territory. That three-tailed strap would take the skin off my backside, I had no doubt about that. “Pah! Hurry along laddie. It’s late we both need our beds.” I sucked on my bottom lip gearing myself for the ordeal ahead. I don’t think I was especially concerned about taking my trousers and pants down in front of the old man. My generation was used to undressing in public. I shared a bedroom with my older brother for years. At school the boys often ran around naked in the showers and no one even noticed.

“Pah!” Mr MacTaggart’s impatience was showing again. I resolved to get on with it. With steady hands I unbuckled my belt and opened the front of my trousers. The weight of the belt made them slip over my thighs and sag at the knees. I left them there and quickly pushed my underpants in the same direction. I shuffled closer to the table, took a deep breath, and lent forward. At school we were expected to lay flat on the desk top with our bottoms raised over the edge, so I took up that position. The kitchen table was considerably smaller than my housemaster’s desk and my arms dangled over the far side.

From the corner of my eye I saw Mr MacTaggart approach the desk, he leaned in so close I could smell the stink of his breath. He took hold of my shirt and tugged the tail so that it rode up my back. I was now naked from my shoulders to my knees. I folded my arms and buried my face in them. I was as ready as I ever would be. I felt the heavy weight of the tawse resting against my bare flesh. Mr MacTaggart took aim, raised the leather and walloped it with terrific force into my left buttock. It hurt. A lot. My bum, although not fat, was very meaty and the leather sank into my mound and I felt a burning sensation. He flogged another three cuts into my bum so both buttocks were scorched.

The shock made me raise my head from my arms. I didn’t yell out, I think my movement was probably just a reflex action. I had never been strapped on the bottom before (bared or otherwise) but I had taken my share of canings. If I had to make a judgement I would say the cane is much worst. A thin whippy rattan rod if swiped into the backside will cut into the flesh and leave a welt that potentially can throb for several hours. The strap (even delivered across naked flesh) does not cut, rather it slaps or slashes. The leather tails cover a greater surface than the cane but the pain is altogether less sharp. It is akin to a dull ache.

Mr MacTaggart gave me twelve stokes. Upon his command I rose from the table and although I was in pain I felt far from battered. I rubbed my buttocks contritely (I thought Mr MacTaggart would expect some such show) before replacing my pants and trousers in their proper places. Later in bed I recalled that kiss. The spanking I got was well worth it. It didn’t deter me seeing the girl again and in the fullness of time we married; however I must confess each time we met I made certain we finished our courting before the last bus left.

Picture Credit: C of Sweden

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Baxter’s Beating

z used cane hold kernled (21)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A very traditional school, I believe?”

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

“So you understand the meaning of discipline?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture Credit: Kernled

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Fake News #8

joe phillips party

The Party’s Over for Rowdy University Students

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

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

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

Until now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Joe Phillips

More Fake News stories here


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Charles Hamilton the Second

Book. The Dean of Dormitory Discipline


The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

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

Now, Mitch must pay for his missed curfew …

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

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

Click on the link below:


For more free-to-download books click here


Fake News #5

z used otk granddad 1

Adopt a Grandson Scheme Great Success

EXCLUSIVE Brocklehurst Bugle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

Book. Paul and his Landlord

used drawing cane hold (27)

Paul and His Landlord – and other troublesome tenants

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

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

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

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



Picture credit: Unknown


For more free-to-download books click here