Charles Hamilton the Second

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The Brocklehurst Crammer (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on September 17, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, discipline, headmaster, punishment, school, underpants. 1 Comment

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Terry, Damien and Harry stood nonchalantly in front of the principal’s desk. The eighteen year olds had never met each other before, but they all had one important thing in common. They had all failed their school A-level exams and their irate fathers were paying a large fee to send them to Brocklehurst College.

The college was a “crammer.” Its job was to coach its students to pass the re-sit examinations. That meant three months of intense study; no mean feat for lazy teenagers. But Principal Tucker had one method at his disposal. It was a proven aid to learning.

Tucker eyed his new recruits with disdain. Louts, he thought, that’s what they were; uncouth yobs. He’d soon lick them into shape.

“Stand up straight, all of you!” he barked. “You boy,” he nodded at Terry, “Take your hands out of your pockets.”

Reluctantly, each boy shuffled a little. They stood straighter, but it was hardly parade-ground excellence.

“You boys have never met one another before but you know you are all here for the same reason. None of you are stupid, that’s clear. But you are lazy and you lack self-discipline.

“It’s because you lack self-discipline that here at Brocklehurst College we have a regime that imposes discipline upon you.

“Here we use corporal punishment.”

The stunned look on the boys’ faces betrayed their apparent lack of comprehension.

“Don’t look like that; you are fully aware of our methods here. More to the point, so are your parents. Indeed, it is precisely because we use corporal punishment that they have signed you up. They want you to pass your A-levels and we want you to pass. It is still to be seen whether you boys want to pass.”

“But …” Damien started to protest but the principal’s icy glare silenced him.

“You will all have signed a consent form.” Doubtless under the duress of your fathers, he thought to himself. Principal Tucker had run the crammer for seven years. He knew that fathers sent their sons to his college as a last resort. The boys would not respond to reason. They were often wilfully lazy. Well Brocklehurst College would soon put a stop to that.

“Yes,” he addressed the three crestfallen teenagers, “We use corporal punishment. The teachers will use a strap or a slipper if you are late for class or inattentive. For more serious offences, such as poor work, they might use a cane. If you are sent to me for punishment I shall administer the cane across your backside. If you repeat the transgression or are guilty of a more serious matter, that caning will be on the underpants or bare bottom. I hope I make myself clear.”

Damien blushed to his roots. Yes, he knew all about the corporal punishment regime. He had had a tremendous row with his father. Dad said he must get his A-levels and go on to university. If he did not do that he would be thrown out of the family home. Dad was not a man to carry passengers. Failure for Damien might mean a life flipping burgers.

The principal had not finished his welcoming speech. “Here you will work hard; seven days a week. As a break from your studies on Wednesday afternoons and Sunday mornings there will be physical activities that are also intended to broaden your minds. These activities are compulsory for you all.

“When I have finished with you please go to the dormitory where you will find your college uniform. You each have a blue-and-yellow-striped blazer, grey flannel short trousers and grey-and-blue knee socks. You will wear this uniform at all times, both inside and outside the college.”

All three mouthed protests. Short trousers! Even kids at primary school no longer wore short trousers.

“Silence!” Tucker feigned anger, but he expected protests from his students. Of course, eighteen-year-old boys would object to being forced back into short trousers. But, as a disciplinary tool it worked wonders. It reminded the louts that they were not yet truly adults. Adulthood came with responsibility. By failing their exams these boys had demonstrated their lack of responsibility. The short trousers would be a constant reminder of their status in the eyes of the college.

Short trousers were also a practical way to keep control. No boy would willingly want to be seen in public wearing grey short trousers and a school uniform. So, they wouldn’t truant from class or sneak out in the evening.

“You will hand in all your other clothes and these will not be returned to you until the day you are ready to leave. You will also hand in all your personal possessions, including phones and electronic gadgets. This is an alcohol, tobacco and drugs-free college so if you have any of these items in your possession please hand them in.

“You should consider this an amnesty. If you have these items and hand them in then nothing more will be said, but if you do not and later you are found in possession of any these items you will be punished with the utmost severity. Is that clear?”

Principal Tucker was not sure if the boys’ silence was a demonstration of insolence.

“Is that clear!” he barked.

Their murmurs confirmed it was.

“Good.”

Of the three teenagers standing before him, two had neat short-back-and-sides haircuts. The third sported a mop of shaggy fair hair. The principal doubted it had seen a comb let alone a barber in some considerable time.

“You boy,” he gestured at the shaggy-haired boy, “What’s your name?”

“Damien,” the teen responded sullenly.

“We use surnames only at the College. And you will always address me as, Sir. What’s your surname?”

“Wendersley,” he sneered, but noticing that Tucker’s complexion was reddening, he quickly added, “Sir.”

“Well, Wendersley, did you read the College instructions about haircuts?”

Yes, he had. He hated this college. He hated Principal Tucker and he hated his father for sending him here. He was in no mood to be cooperative.

“Well boy?” Tucker’s fingers were beginning to itch. This meeting could end in only one way.

“Yeah,” Damien Wendersley breathed.

“Yes, you did. Then you know the College rule is that hair must be cut short and not touch the neck or ears. So, why have you not followed the instruction?”

“Why do we have to have short hair?”

Veins stood out on Tucker’s neck.

“How dare you! Don’t be insolent.”

Wendersley blushed. The other two lads stood silently. Harry, for one, was rather enjoying this. He hoped the principal would give Wendersley what-for. If Harry had to have his hair cropped like a convict, why should Wendersley get away with it?

“So, you knew of the instruction, but decided to deliberately disobey it.”

Damien Wendersley stared at the plush carpet beneath his feet.

“Yes, that is about the size of it. You will wait behind after the others have been dismissed. I am going to beat you and then I shall arrange for a man to come from the town to cut your hair.”

All three gasped. “But,” Wendersley tried to protest.

“Be quiet. All of you.”

The three teenagers quietened. It was a shock. The boy was to be caned. For not having his haircut. The cane. When they had seen the clause about corporal punishment in the contract none of the boys had taken it seriously. The cane. It was unheard of. This was 2016.

But, there was a greater shock to come.

The principal rose from his desk. “Now, I want you to go and put on your uniforms and return to my office at five o’clock. Do not be a minute late. I will then give each of you six strokes of the cane.”

That set the boys off again. This time each one protested.

“Be quiet!” Tucker roared. “Pah! I will give you six-of-the-best. This is to show our dissatisfaction at your past laziness and failure at the examinations.”

“But, Sir,” Terry Reilly piped up, “That’s not fair.”

“I said be quiet. I will not allow this. You will obey my instructions to the letter.

“I will give you six-of-the-best to show our dissatisfaction at your past behaviour, but it will also be a warning for the future. If we consider you are slacking in your studies you will be beaten again. I hope I make myself clear?”

Yes, it was clear, but none of the teenagers replied. Surely it had been a rhetorical question.

“Right. You two boys go to the dormitory and change. You Wendersley. Stay behind.”

Terry and Harry sped from the room.

Principal Tucker sauntered across his office. It was a large modern space, designed mostly in walnut. Along one wall were shelves and a tall thin cabinet.

“Right let me deal with you Wendersley,” he said as he opened the cabinet door and searched inside.

Damien’s eyes widened. They almost stood out on stalks.

“Ah,” the principal smiled malevolently, “It would seem that you have never seen a rattan cane before.”

He flexed the rod between his two hands. It was just over three feet in length and as thick as the man’s little finger. It was supple and easily curved into a bow.

Damien visibly paled.

“I thought not. It is a pity. If you had been caned earlier in life you would not be the slacker you are today and you would not need to be here.”

He swiped the cane through the air, delighted at the look of real fear spread across the teenager’s face.

“Look how swishy it is. It will hurt you a very great deal. That is the point of a caning.”

“Please stand behind the chair,” Tucker wobbled his cane in the direction of a wooden Ikea armchair with a bright red cushion.

“No, please, no…” Damien wailed. He wanted to beg for mercy but his vocal chords refused to work.

“Silence, boy. You will do as you are instructed. Stand by the chair.”

The teenager stood rooted. He was gripped with such fright he literally could not move.

“Wendersley, if you do not accept your punishment I will not allow you to stay at the college. Would you like me to telephone your father and tell him I am putting you on the next train home?”

The true reality of his circumstances dawned on the wretched boy. He had no choice but to submit to this horrible man. He had to work hard at his studies and pass those A-levels. His father would throw him out of the house otherwise.

“No,” he mumbled.

“I thought not. Stand by the chair.”

Damien shuffled across the room.

“I see you are wearing thick jeans. Perhaps, you should take them down,” Principal Tucker was enjoying himself. This oafish lout had displeased him from the moment he had set his eyes on him.

“Nooo, please, nooo,” it was incoherent wailing. Already tears were welling up in the boy’s eyes.

“Wendersley, you are becoming tiresome. You will please do as I instruct. Take down your jeans.”

The boy’s now bright red face pleaded silently with his master. But it was to no avail.

“I am waiting Wendersley.”

Somehow he unbuttoned his belt, popped the buttons on his jeans and let them fall over his thighs to his knees.

“Ha!” Tucker roared with scorn. “Bright red underpants. From now on Wendersley you will be wearing white cotton Y-fronts.”

He swished the cane. “Now, bend over the chair.”

Damien had never been caned before; he had never seen anyone caned, not even in a movie. How exactly was it done?

He leaned over the back of the chair and stretched his arms in front of him, so that the lay along the hard wooden arms.

“Grip the front of the cushion boy. Keep your head low and your bottom high.”

Damien wriggled into position and stared down at the red cushion. There was a small grey stain. Someone must have spilled coffee, he thought. He concentrated on the mark. It was about two inches long. If he thought about how the stain had been made it might take his mind off the ordeal he was facing.

Principal Tucker rubbed the palm of his right hand across both of Damien’s buttocks, smoothing the cotton underpants. Satisfied that all creases had been removed, he stood back three paces, raised his cane and let fly. It flogged down right across the centre of both cheeks.

Damien roared and he flew to his feet, furiously rubbing away at his backside.

“Bend back over boy. If you stand up again, I shall give you extra strokes.”

Damien stood his ground. The pain was so great. How could he be expected to take six strokes like that?

“Back over,” Principal Tucker readied himself to force the teenager face down over the back of the chair, but the boy found a reserve of courage and offered up his backside.

Swish number two hit an inch or so lower than the first. Damien howled. He stamped his feet up and down and he wriggled his hips to the left and to the right. But this time he remained bent over.

“Doh! Keep still.” The cane rose and fell again. Damien repeated his march, thrust his backside out and waved it about. Principal Tucker despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on six.

Stroke number four was met with another spasm of physical jerks, accompanied by wailing that echoed around the bright office. A less experienced master might have taken pity on poor Damien Wendersley. Clearly, the boy was unable to take such a thrashing.

But Tucker was made of stern stuff. He knew as a matter of conviction that this beating, harsh though it might seem, was being administered for the teenager’s own good. This was the first step on the young man’s redemption. After this afternoon, Damien’s life would never be quite the same again. In time, once he had passed his examinations, succeeded at university, and enjoyed a fine career he might even look back on this caning with gratitude.

“Stop your blubbing, take it like a man,” he intoned and bought swipe number five down across the lad’s underpants; low, just where the cheeks meet the thighs. Damien’s throat was full of bile. At any moment he might vomit up the contents of his stomach. He gasped in great gulps of air like a beached whale.

Slash. The sixth and last stroke lashed down diagonally across all of the other five. The pain was searing. The red coloured underpants disguised the blood stain that was slowly creeping across the seat.

Principal Tucker had finished. Another student punished. It was all in a day’s work.

“You may stand up Wendersley.”

Gingerly, the teenager regained a standing position. He ran up and down on the spot rubbing his bottom. It was an instinctive reaction; he had no idea if it would really relieve his pain. For now, it didn’t seem to be working.

“Stop rubbing your bottom,” Principal Tucker’s disdain for the boy before him was evident.

“Pull your jeans up. Get dressed properly.”

Damien’s face was awash with tears and snot. He was in no fit state to leave the office just yet.

“Here, take this and wipe your eyes,” Tucker passed the boy a fistful of tissues.

“I hope you have learnt a lesson. At Brocklehurst College you must obey the rules. Failure to do so will result in corporal punishment. There will be no exceptions.

“Tomorrow, I shall arrange for you to have your hair cut. For now, go to the dormitory and change into your school uniform. Be sure to be back here at five o’clock with the other boys.

“You are dismissed.”

__________

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

When my uncle put me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom I don’t know which of us enjoyed it more, him or me.

I come from a strange family. Mum was one of ten children. Ten! Poor gran; she must have been exhausted the whole time. I bet granddad had a whale of a time though.

Uncle Neil was the youngest of the lot. I was eighteen and he was only twenty-eight. I was causing my mum a lot of problems. The main problem was that I was eighteen. Like so many people that age I was totally selfish, I thought the world should revolve around me. I was arrogant and you couldn’t tell me anything. I disrespected my mother at every turn.

I had left school at sixteen – the earliest possible age – and I hadn’t had anything that you could call a proper job since. I lazed about the flat all day and drove mum mad.

My dad had skedaddled after my younger brother was born and left mum on her own to raise two kids. How could she cope with me? At last mum and Uncle Neil said I needed a “time out.” They said I should go stay with him for a while, until I sorted myself out a bit.

Uncle Neil might only be twenty-five, but already he was a great success. He had an important job with an advertising agency. I’m not sure exactly what he did but it bought him a smashing apartment on the fourth floor of a block overlooking the marina. It had every conceivable gadget. He drove a flash Jeep and spent a lot of cash on his clothes and his looks.

The expensive facials, haircuts and nail jobs he paid for made him stand out in a crowd. He was gym-fit. He tried to encourage me to take exercise – he said I should go running or to go work out. He reckoned it would make me a much happier person. He said when you exercised hard chemicals in your brain changed and it made you feel really good – it was much better than taking drugs. I can’t remember what the chemical was called, but it was something like “dolphins.”

I didn’t do anything about it. I couldn’t be bothered.

He didn’t have a girlfriend. When I asked him about it he flushed scarlet and said he was too busy at work. I didn’t believe him; he would be a great catch for any girl. I reckoned there was some special lady he was trying to capture, but she was giving him a hard time. Who knew, perhaps she was already married; not that that seemed to bother people these days.

Uncle Neil wanted me to get a job. Any job, he said. I whined that there were no jobs, not for people like me who left school with no qualifications. He scoffed. He was having none of it. He said I should take any job going, even if it was only part-time. There was plenty going in burger bars and pubs. Supermarkets always wanted people to fill shelves and carry boxes.

Once I had a job, he lectured me, I could make your way up the company. Or, after a while I could get a better job somewhere else. If nothing else, I could get some “work discipline” and prove that I could get up in the morning and put in a shift – every day.

I ignored him on that too.

After a month with me lounging around the apartment in my underwear most of the time, Uncle Neil snapped. He gave me an ultimatum. It was, he said, my choice. I had to take some responsibility for myself. If I didn’t have a job by the end of the month, he would throw me out the apartment. He said my mum wouldn’t take me back, so I would be on my own.

I didn’t believe him. Yes, he would throw me out probably, but I wouldn’t be on my own. I had nine aunts and uncles – and that was just on my mother’s side. We were family; someone would take me in.

I pretended to Uncle Neil that I was looking for a job. I had to anyway to get my welfare payment each fortnight, but I wasn’t really. If I had been a more sensitive type I should have noticed that he was coming to the end of his tether.

That happened one night. I had just got my money and I went drinking with mates. I got back late and pretty high. Next day, Uncle Neil sat me down and gave me the lecture. I vaguely knew that at work he was a boss of something. From his tone, I knew he was used to being obeyed. He told you to jump; you asked how high? That was, I guess, the secret of his success. Decisive action.

“If you do anything like that again,” he said calmly, “I am going to take you across my knee and spank your bare bottom so hard it will glow in the dark.”

I stared at him. His gaze was steely. I hadn’t noticed before how piercing his blue eyes were. He meant it. He was deadly serious. If my mum had said something like that I would have laughed and told her where to go. I would have used the “F” word a lot. With Uncle Neil, I just gaped. My jaw probably quite literally dropped.

What could I say? I looked him up and down. He had the kind of body that had muscles on top of muscles. I was the opposite. I hadn’t taken any exercise since I was fifteen when we did PE classes at school. I was no match for Uncle Neil. If he wanted to haul me across his knee, he could.

I went to my room confused. I stood at the window and watched the yachts and small boats in the harbour below. Spanking? He’d give me a spanking? I had never been spanked in my life. The cane had been banned in schools long before I was born – before Uncle Neil was born too – and mum never hit us; Lord knows why not, I deserved it.

Uncle Neil was bluffing, I reckoned. He had already said he would throw me out of the apartment; surely he thought that was a bigger threat.

I obviously didn’t know Uncle Neil.

It was only two days later when he asked me to do some grocery shopping. He left a list and some cash. Even I wasn’t so lazy or so stupid as to ignore him. I got the bus to Tesco and wheeled my trolley around the store. Uncle Neil had been right about jobs. There was a notice near the entrance advertising part-time jobs. Apply within. I pretended not to see it.

After I left the checkout, I realised I had more than five pounds in change. He’d never notice. I didn’t think twice about it. It would be my tip for doing the shopping. I stopped at an off licence and spent the money on cheap beer.

I was pretty far gone by the time Uncle Neil got home. He asked about the change. I lied and told him there wasn’t any. He sighed, “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.”

Deal with me? I staggered from the room. Deal with me? Was he really serious?

Next morning was Sunday; even Uncle Neil didn’t work Sunday. I laid in bed dealing with my Morning Glory. I had just shot my load into a fistful of Kleenex when he knocked on the door. Hurriedly, I tugged up my Boxer shorts. Just in time. He didn’t wait for permission, he barged in through the door.

I think his speech had been prepared. Certainly, he was fluent, short and to the point. He had warned me about me behaviour. True. He had told me what he would do. True again. So why did I do it? Good question. The answer was probably, “Because I could.” I had been getting away with things my whole life. Nobody had stopped me. It had become a habit. My life was all me, me, me.

“Come here,” he leant forward and grabbed a hunk of my hair. I yelped as he pulled me up and out of the bed. Then without a further word he dragged me from the room and hauled me into the lounge. Even in my distressed state, I could see the furniture had been rearranged. A soft-backed, armless chair had been turned away from the dining table, so it faced into the room.

Still holding a clump of my hair he sat down and stretched his legs wide. Then, he pulled me across his left knee and immediately draped his right leg over the back of my calves. I was pinned down. Uncle Neil and I are about the same height; I was too tall to go over his knee. My elbows rested on the carpet in front of me and my knees bent behind me and still my feet rested on the ground. I couldn’t see this, but my bum was raised at a forty-five-degree angle over his knee.

I was only wearing Boxer shorts and a tee-shirt that I used for sleeping. He pushed his left hand into my shoulder so hard he winded me. While I gasped for air, I felt him grip the waistband of my shorts and he yanked them down over my buttocks and down my thighs and he left them bunched at my knees.

He mumbled something that I couldn’t quite catch. It sounded like, “You deserve this and you know it.” Then he smacked the palm of his hand into my right buttock and then the left. I don’t know what a spanking is supposed to feel like; it should hurt, naturally, otherwise what’s the point. He hit me so hard and so rapidly that within seconds my bum began to heat up. He had strong arms, but very soft hands; even so I felt each and every one of the slaps as he made his way around my globes. He concentrated on the under-curves, just under the cheeks, where they meet the thighs.

I wriggled and squirmed, but with his legs across my calves and with his hand on my shoulders he had me trapped. I was going nowhere. My bum cheeks quivered and I felt my crack open and close involuntarily. Only then did I think he might have a perfect view in my crack and up my hole. I don’t think I have ever felt so humiliated. It was worse because I knew I hadn’t showered since the last time I’d taken a dump. It would be pretty rancid back there.

The pain was building into a constant throbbing across my whole backside. It hurt a lot, but I could take it. I didn’t know how many spanks he intended to deliver, but I was pretty confident he wouldn’t do much damage. Then he stopped.

I felt his body twist and he reached behind him. When I was dragged into the room I hadn’t noticed the heavy bath brush on the table. I hadn’t seen, it but soon I felt it. The first almighty whack across the centre of both cheeks took my breath away. By the time the sixth hit home, I was on fire. By the tenth I was yelping. By number twenty I was yelling.

My heart raced and I gasped for air. I couldn’t suck air into my lungs. Blood raced through my arteries so quickly I thought my ears would pop. Then I realised with horror my cock was stiff. My soldier wasn’t fully on the march, but it was standing to attention. I wriggled and writhed over Uncle Neil’s knee. It was involuntary, it was my body’s reflex action to the pounding it was getting at my rear end. Each time I moved my dick rubbed against my uncle’s leg. In no time it throbbed almost as madly as my bum.

I could hear Uncle Neil wheezing. The effort of spanking me was taking its toll, yet, on and on he hammered the bath brush into my naked arse. I didn’t know it yet but the whole of my buttocks from the top near my spine, over the mounds and into the crease was now toasted scarlet. My bum was so hot you could probably fry an egg back there.

The more he spanked, the more my body gyrated. The more my body spun, the more my prick pulsated. Any moment now I would shoot a load. What could I do? I knew when I masturbated that the way to control an orgasm was to stop tugging for a while and let it settle. I couldn’t do that here.

Even as I thought, “No! No! No!” my whole body shook, like a dog does when it comes out of water. I must have shot a pint of cum over Uncle Neil’s already cream chinos. He let out a mild screech, released my legs and shoulders and pushed me off his knee onto the carpet, where I lay face down, desperately failing to hide my humiliation.

“You dirty bugger,” Uncle Neil snarled. “Look what you’ve done to my trousers.” He tried to sound angry, but I knew he wasn’t really. I was certain, because from my position at his feet I looked up at my handsome muscular uncle towering above me and saw that he had a boner so big and so hard that it could have been a tent pole in the front of his pants.

I gazed in wonderment. My head was the clearest it had ever been. I was glowing. Never in my life had I felt so good. Uncle Neil peered down at me, our eyes met for a brief moment. We didn’t say a word to each other. What could we say? He was my uncle. But we both knew we felt the same way.

__________

_____________

Comments welcome!

A Visit To Uncle Roy (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on June 21, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, discipline, neighbour, nephew, punishment, son, uncle. 2 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

———————-

Roy Smith was very “old school” and “school” was the appropriate word, because he kept three authentic swishy rattan school canes in a drawer in the kitchen and he wasn’t afraid to use them.

He knew they were authentic because they had the words “Birmingham Education” inscribed on them near the curved handle.

A schoolmaster pal of his had taken a bunch of canes from school when he retired. He gave them away to fathers he knew who would put them to proper use.

Roy sat in his kitchen, watching the clock. Soon, very soon, one of those canes would see some action.

Across the city, John, Roy’s nineteen-year-old nephew, trudged through the damp streets on his way to the bus stop. It was not easy to get to Uncle Roy’s by bus. Routes didn’t go across town. You had to get one bus into the city centre and then another out again. The journey would take at least forty minutes, that was plenty of time for him to contemplate his fate.

He wore his thickest and newest jeans, but it would do him no good. He knew his uncle’s reputation. He had been quite close to the man’s sons. The two eldest had long ago fled the nest leaving only twenty-year-old Bert behind, trapped by his lack of education and poverty.

John had left school four years previously and had a steady job as a corporation bin man. But, he had been caught stealing records from a department store. The police gave him a slap on the wrist but he knew he would get much worse from Uncle Roy. He could have afforded to pay for the record, but stealing from shops had become a pastime. He and a few of his mates would see what they could get away with. They dared one another. If they got caught – which wasn’t often – the police didn’t do much. They had bigger fish to fry. John’s friends didn’t feel like they had been punished. But, they didn’t have an Uncle Roy.

His mum was distraught when she found out. The shame he had brought on the family. His poor dead father would be spinning in his grave. She would have thrown him out of the house, but she couldn’t. She needed the money he brought in each week. Her pay as a char woman couldn’t keep a roof over her head and food on the table.

It had stopped raining by the time John arrived at Uncle’s Roy’s terraced house. The cobbles on the street were wet and he had to shuffle along to avoid slipping. John had been there before, but each time he visited the dankness of the place annoyed him. The houses were old and decaying. Soon, like the other slums in the city they would be bulldozed and tower blocks built in their place.

It couldn’t happen too soon for John. Who, he wondered, wanted to live in a house with an outside toilet and no bathroom? His uncle had to wash in a tin bath or else go to the municipal bathhouse.

John knocked cautiously on the door. He knew his uncle was at home. He had been summoned by him. There was no doubt his uncle was waiting for him and no doubt what would happen once he got inside the house.

Uncle Roy was a robust man, larger than life, some would say. He had huge hands and big feet. His head was as round as a football and his ruddy face made him look permanently drunk.

“Come in John,” it wasn’t an unfriendly greeting. “Go into the kitchen.”

Uncle Roy followed his nephew down the passageway. They stood awkwardly in the kitchen. It was surprisingly large for so small a house. As always a stink of cabbage water, distemper and mould hung in the air.

John knew why he was here, in this particular room. It was where Uncle Roy kept his school canes. In a drawer in the rickety wooden table.

Uncle Roy spoke first. There wasn’t much to be said. It had all been said at John’s house. His mum had told Uncle Roy about the stealing. Uncle Roy hit the roof. There was much cursing. Then, when tempers had cooled, the sentence was pronounced. “My house Saturday afternoon. Be there or else.” Uncle Roy didn’t explain the, “or else.” What, John wondered, could be worse than what Uncle Roy had in store for him?

John stared at the linoleum beneath its feet. It had once been coloured blue but decades of shuffling feet had reduced it to a worn grey. His cousin Bert appeared at the kitchen door, keen to see the fun.

“Bugger off, Bert,” Uncle Roy frowned. “Go get me a paper. Take your time.”

Bert did not hide his disappointment. He sat on the stairs, put on his outdoor shoes, and then moodily opened the front door.

Uncle Roy pulled open the ramshackle drawer of the table. It took both hands because it kept sticking. He reached inside and pulled out a cane. There were three but he didn’t have to choose; they were all the same length and thickness.

John’s eyes followed his Uncle’s movements as first he swished it through the air and seemingly satisfied with that, he then tested its flexibility in his hands. It was a standard “senior” cane. Similar ones had peppered the backsides of older schoolboys since time immemorial.

“Let’s get on with this shall we?” It was an instruction disguised as a question. John gulped loudly. He had never been caned before; nor even spanked. It wasn’t that he was a goody-doody, since clearly he was not. It was just that no one had been around to give him a good hiding when he deserved it.

“Jeans and pants down. Bend over the table.”

John had expected this, but still his body would not obey his brain. He stumbled with his belt buckle for so long an exasperated Uncle Roy cried, “Do you want me to do it for you?”

No! It was bad enough stripping half naked but the humiliation of having his uncle take down John’s trousers and pants was too much. He got his fingers to obey and soon his jeans and underpants were resting on top of his blue-and-black bumper boots.

He shielded his cock and balls with his hands. Uncle Roy smiled, but said nothing. He swished the cane and then tapped it on the table top. “Bend over.”

John leaned forward, stretched out his arms, arched his back and gripped the table’s edge.

“Not like that,” his uncle was becoming exasperated. “Lay flat down on your stomach.”

John glanced down at the dirty stained oil cloth that covered the table. It looked disgusting. Nonetheless he eased himself forward and rested his chest on the table. His stomach pressed against the edge of the table.

“Raise your bottom higher. Stretch those arms out. Hold on to the edge of the table,” Uncle Roy ordered. “That’s right,” he added, after his nephew had shuffled himself into the correct position.

Johns forehead and nose pressed into the filthy oil cloth. It felt sticky. The smell of stale cooking fat almost made him gag. He stared down onto unidentified stains.

A cold breeze brushed across his naked haunches. The kitchen window was open. What neither he nor Uncle Roy saw was Bert standing on the dustbin in the small backyard. From his unstable vantage point he had a perfect view of his nineteen-year-old cousin stretched out across the table, his jeans and pants at his feet, his naked buttocks twitching slightly as they waited for the onslaught from the cane to begin.

It wasn’t long in starting. “Brace yourself,” Uncle Roy ordered. It wasn’t much of a warning. John had no time to clench his buttocks tight before the sound of the cane whooshing through the air was followed by a loud crack as it sank into meaty flesh. John’s howl could be heard in the house next door; due to the combination of paper thin walls and one lusty screech from the injured teenager.

He marched his feet up and down, trying to stem the tide of pain that started at his now-scarred bottom and travelled up and down his legs. He gripped the table’s edge tightly, waiting for slash number two. Uncle Roy was very satisfied with the deep red line that had immediately appeared across the centre of both of his nephew’s buttocks. It had been a year or so since he had last put a cane across Bert’s backside, but he could see he had lost none of his touch.

Swish! Number two bounced off the under-curves of the cheeks and was greeted by renewed marching. John stuck his hand across his mouth to stifle the yell he wanted to make.

Outside, in the yard, Mr Drury, the next door neighbour was intrigued. “What are you doing standing on that bin, Bert?”

Bert opened his mouth to reply just as the sound of a cane’s swish and a teenager’s yell poured out of the kitchen window.

“Oh, I see,” Mr Drury laughed, “Your dad’s giving someone what for.”

“Yes, my cousin,” Bert replied.

“Here move over, let me have a look.”

He climbed up next to Bert in time to see the cane lash down for the fourth time into John’s buttocks. He was not close enough to notice that four deep lines now criss-crossed John’s naked bum. Most of his bottom glowed dark pink. Soon four purple welts would form.

John sucked on his own forearm to stop him crying out again as slice number five hit him high; on the top of his globes almost near his spine. The teenager’s breathing was heavy. The pain was beyond his endurance. His head and temples throbbed every bit as much as his savaged backside.

Outside, Mr Drury atop of the dustbin leaned forward for a better view. He saw the sixth and final cut bite deep into the very centre of John’s buttocks. It hit at an angle and crossed two previous cuts, reigniting the already considerable pain.

At that point John yelled blue murder and Mr Drury and Bert tumbled from the bin, with a resounding crash. The lid flew off and rolled down the yard.

“What the …” Uncle Roy cried out.

“I’m out of here,” Mr Drury turned on his heels and was in the safety of his own yard before Uncle Roy reached the kitchen window. All he saw was Bert stooping to pick up and replace the scattered rubbish in the bin.

Uncle Roy summed up the situation immediately. “Bert get in here, now!”

The twenty-year-old entered the kitchen in time to see his younger cousin still prostrate across the table. Tears were flowing freely down his face. He seemed to have great difficulty breathing and was gasping for air. His backside was raw. Bert knew from personal experience that John had endured one hell of a thrashing.

“Get up John, it’s over. Let that be an end to the matter, but if you get caught stealing again I’ll give you twice as many strokes and twice as hard.”

Gingerly, John rose from the table. His backside felt like it was on fire. He lightly touched the raw flesh with his fingertips and was shocked how hot his bottom was. Conscious that he was half naked in front of both his uncle and his cousin, he bent down and painfully pulled up, first his underpants and then his jeans.

“You!” Uncle Roy turned to his crestfallen son. He swished the cane menacingly. “What have I told you before about peeping through windows?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed Bert down across the table.

John didn’t wait to see the spectacle. He was through the front door before the first swipe connected with the seat of Bert’s trousers. John shuffled along the cobbled street. It had dried and there was no danger of him slipping, but he shuffled nonetheless. Each successive step reignited the pain in his bottom as his underpants and jeans chaffed against the raw flesh.

He had two extremely uncomfortable bus rides home. He was relieved that neither conductor asked him why he was standing when so many seats were unoccupied.

__________

_____________

Comments welcome!

Milo (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on June 8, 2016

Posted in: M/M, spanking. Tagged: Charles Hamilton the Second, hairbrush, M/M, masturbation, orgasm, spanking, student. 2 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Ouch!

“Bend over my knee. I’m going to spank you. With your jeans and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.”

I still can’t believe I said that out loud. I had smoked too much weed, of course. I’m fifty years old for pity’s sake, I should have more self-control.

He was Milo, a graduate student at the university where I teach. He was half my age and what a dish. Smooth olive skin. Deep dark brown eyes. Wavy black hair, cut short and gelled. The most kissable lips imaginable. He was only about five-six tall. His slender hips and small round bum made him look much younger.

His jeans hung loosely from his hips; they rather hid his buttocks. They were far too long for him and he rolled up the ends of the legs to stop himself tripping over. His pullover, old and worn, was also made for a larger man. He was dwarfed by his clothes. It made him look sexy as hell.

We were at a house party called by the Head of the Sociology Department. Staff, students, various local activists hung out there. There was plenty of pot, cheap wine and Mexican peasant food.

I probably blushed to my roots when I made my declaration of lust to Milo. He was high too, I think, but on something a bit more radical that cannabis. He flashed his gleaming white teeth; he had such an impish smile. His face beamed, dimples formed at his cheeks. My heart skipped a beat.

He said nothing. I hoped he might be considering my proposition. Then, he puckered up his lips, leant forward towards me and pecked me on my own lips. It wasn’t a kiss exactly. His lips and mine met, they were closed. No tongues were involved.

Then, without a word or a gesture, he turned on his heels and re-joined the girl he was with. The girl he would probably sleep with before the night ended.

I next saw Milo a few days later at the university. He was seated outside the office of Dr Collins, his Ph.D. supervisor.

“Hello Milo,” I said cheerfully as I could. I wondered if he remembered my inept approach at the party. He had been as stoned as I was, there was a good chance he didn’t. I hoped so.

“Here for a tutorial?” I was trying to make small talk. “How’s your thesis coming on?”

He smiled at me. Those damn teeth and dimples. My heart raced. There was silence between us. He seemed to be weighing up his words. Then he spoke. “Not too well actually. I don’t seem to be able to concentrate on my work.”

He looked genuinely unhappy.

“I’m sorry to hear that Milo,” I said. What was I supposed to say?

“I think I need some encouragement.” He peered down at the ring-bind folder in his hand as if it might help him find the right words.

Then he said something that knocked my socks off.

“I think I need that spanking you talked about at the party.”

I know I blushed. I do it all the time. The slightest embarrassment can set me off. A spanking? Like I had offered at the party? Was he joking?

He stared down at the floor. Maybe he was a little embarrassed too. In my head I tried to compose the words I needed. I had to get this right.

Too late. Dr Collins breezed around the corner.

“Hello Milo. Sorry I’m late. Do come in.”

Milo rose from the chair and without looking at me, he followed his supervisor into the office.

I went back to my own office and locked the door. I didn’t want to be disturbed. Milo had asked me to spank him. At least, I think that’s what he said.

I had often thought about spanking students. Not the grad students, they were highly motivated and a joy to work with. The undergraduates were the problem. So many of them were at university because their parents expected it. They came from families where the children automatically went to university. It was the thing to do. The kids didn’t think much of it. They simply signed up for a course and off they went.

It meant many – possibly most – weren’t interested in studying. They expected to graduate with minimum effort. They, or their parents, paid their tuition fees; they were entitled to graduate.

Only yesterday I had a run in with one of my second year students. He had written an essay that owed much to the Wikipedia website. When I tackled him about it he was surly and argumentative. For two pins I would have grabbed the twenty-year-old brat by his long untidy hair and hauled him across my knee. But as I had said to Milo, it probably wouldn’t have hurt him. I should buy a stout wooden paddle off e-Bay. That would do the job.

A couple of days later on a Saturday I was returning from the supermarket, when I saw Milo out running. I don’t think he saw me; he was about fifty metres away. He was dressed in the skimpiest white cotton shorts imaginable. Kids these days wear shorts down to their knees. Milo was a throwback to a bygone age. The shorts hardly covered his bum and showed off the muscles in his legs. He wore a loose sleeveless singlet that flapped as he ran, giving passers-by a good look at his tight body.

A group of young women shouted something encouraging to him as he passed. He acknowledged their praises with a smile and a wriggle of his bum as he pounded the pavement towards Meadow Park.

I couldn’t help it. I let myself in my house and before I even put the groceries away I rushed to my bedroom. In seconds I had my trousers and pants off and I lay on the bed. Dreaming. Dreaming of Milo in his tight running shorts, bent submissively across my knees. I smacked his bum with my hand. Good and hard. Before I grabbed the waistband of the shorts and tugged them to his knees so I could work on his bare buttocks, I shot a load.

Many people think that only adolescent boys masturbate. It’s not true. Men do it all the time. Even married men wank. I do most days. I probably will until the day I die. I can see me now, on my death bed, with my todger in my hand dreaming that I have some young man across my knee.

Later that same day I was back on my bed having another tug. This time it was that damn student I told you about before. We were in my office at the university. He was bent across a low-backed easy chair, his jeans at his feet and his bright orange Aussibum pants at his knees. I was slashing a thick but whippy rattan cane into his bare bum. Hard. His buttocks were scarred. He was howling. I didn’t care. He deserved everything he got. I was loving it.

I had more control this time. I was not yet ready to shoot. Then, I heard a commotion outside my house. It sounded like someone was knocking over dustbins. Someone was definitely shouting and hollering.

I tried to ignore it. It was about ten o’clock, it was probably drunks. They would move on soon. They were probably on a bar crawl.

The shouting didn’t stop. Then, I heard my name being called over and over again. My God! I recognised the voice. It was Milo. I found my Boxer shorts and trousers and doing them up as I descended the stairs, I made my way to my front door.

I opened it. It was Milo and he was as drunk as a skunk. I tried to sshhh! him but he was in no mood. I looked up and down the street, hoping my neighbours were not watching. What would they make of a cute young man hollering my name outside my house?

I had no choice. It was clear he wasn’t just passing through. I grabbed his arm and pulled him inside the house. I could smell the alcohol on him. He was bleary-eyed and unstable on his feet. I guided him into the living room and he flopped down on the couch.

I stood bemused, unsure what to do. There are many myths about drunks. They say that you can sober a person up by giving them strong black coffee or feeding them mashed potato. All nonsense. The only thing you can do to sober up a drunk is to let nature take its course. He would have to sleep it off.

I looked across at Milo. Even in this disastrous state, he was sex on a stick. I thought of taking him upstairs and putting him in my bed. We could sleep together. Side by side. I nearly convinced myself that this was in Milo’s best interest. I could monitor him during the night to make sure he didn’t vomit and choke himself to death.

Who was I kidding? I came to my senses. I did not need a scandal. It was true that at the university many lecturers slept with their students, but it was always consensual. At least, so I believed. I helped Milo to lay down on the couch. He fell asleep immediately. I removed the trainers from his feet. He looked so cute. He was wearing cheap polyester trousers. They were all the fashion. Many people also wore matching polyester jackets. They were called “shell suits.” They were much in favour among the lower working classes. University students wore them as some kind of “ironic” statement.

I thought about pulling Milo’s trousers off. There was no practical reason to do this, but it would have given me considerable pleasure. Again, I came to my senses. Instead I went to the kitchen and fetched the plastic washing-up bowl. I put it on the ground near Milo’s head. If he needed to chuck up during the night, I hoped he would vomit in the bowl and not on my carpet.

I am not proud of what happened next. Milo was so peaceful. He might have been dead drunk, but he looked like a sleeping beauty. His breathing was easy and from the appearance of his delightful face, he might have been dreaming. I hoped he was dreaming about me.

I lay down on the carpet and watched the sleeping Adonis. All my pent up desires to have Milo across my knee rushed to my groin. I slipped my trousers and pants over my hips. The tips of my fingers lightly stroked along the length of my penis, making it twitch. I started to rub and my cock filled out. It ached like crazy. It moved up from between my legs, rubbing against my thigh and pointing at the ceiling. I don’t think I had been so hard for years. I made a few firm strokes. I slowly massaged my swollen cock, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again. In no time my belly was covered in warm sticky cum.

When I padded downstairs the following morning, dressed only in Boxer shorts and a floppy t-shirt, I fully expected to find Milo had woken and gone home. Instead, he was in the kitchen making himself breakfast. I was annoyed and impressed in equal measures by the boy’s cheek. The fact that he was bare chested and I was able to admire up close the clear definition of his chest and stomach muscles lightened my mood. His leisure pants had slipped down his buttocks revealing the high waistband of his Calvin Klein underpants. His tight flat stomach emphasised to me my own beer-belly.

Milo was an extremely fit young man, in at least two meanings of the word. I don’t think his body was gym-honed, he didn’t have that over-muscled look that many gym-bunnies have.

Without speaking, he poured me a cup of coffee. He seemed to have completely recovered from his drunken state. Young people do have remarkable powers of recovery after abusing themselves with drink or drugs.

“I was sick down my shirt,” he said, explaining his bare chest. “And I was sick on your carpet.” He paused, perhaps expecting me to berate him. When I remained silent, he whispered, “Sorry.”

I sipped on my coffee. Milo had helped himself to cereal. When he finished, he left the bowl and the draining board, making no attempt to wash it up.

“Can I have a shower, please,” he asked and without waiting for my consent he made his way from the room. I was mesmerised by his buttocks sashaying left and right as he climbed the stairs.

I sat at the kitchen table and finished my coffee. I still didn’t know why he had come to see me in such a drunken state. He had been sick all over my carpet, had made himself breakfast without my permission and now he was upstairs in my bathroom. It seemed Milo was taking over.

About ten minutes later he returned to the kitchen. He had a bath towel around his waist but was otherwise naked. I caught the whiff of my expensive splash-on lotion. Something else he had done without my permission.

I had been running over speeches in my head. What was I going to say to Milo, how was I going to broach his appalling behaviour? I was still uncertain.

Milo spoke first. “I am out of control. I need help.”

I sat and listened as he told me about how his life was falling apart. He had stopped working on his thesis. Dr Collins had threatened to stop supervising him. He drank too much or was high on one drug or another. He no longer had self-discipline.

He lingered over the word “discipline”. He was testing me out. I remained silent. He would have to make the running here. He carried on about needing discipline. I looked into his beautiful deep brown eyes. Was he trying to scam me? Was this a trap?

He seemed entirely genuine. I have seen websites on the Internet about “domestic discipline”. This is where adult couples, often those who are married, agree to keep a disciplinary regime. If a partner fails to keep to a rule they are punished with a spanking. They say it is not a fetish, it is genuine discipline.

Milo probably needed genuine discipline. I certainly had a spanking fetish. We were made for each other.

He did not bat an eyelid when I pronounced, “Milo you need to have your bottom spanked good and hard. Your behaviour last night was disgraceful. Follow me into the living room.”

Milo meekly did as I instructed. I could feel his eyes burning into the back of my neck as I busied myself moving a dining room chair into the centre of the room. Then I ransacked the drawers of the sideboard until I found what I was looking for. A heavy wooden clothes brush.

I turned and waved it at Milo. His eyes sparkled. It was about a foot long and four inches wide. Its heavy oval head would pack quite a punch, especially across Milo’s bared buttocks.

I sat in the chair and spread my legs a little. My Boxer shorts rode up my buttocks and I had to wriggle about until I had made sure my cock and balls were not exposed.

Milo stood a little pensively. He had been hankering for a spanking and now he was going to get one. Was he having doubts at the last minute? If he wasn’t; I was. I wanted to be sure he was willingly submitting to this.

I waved the brush once more and said, “Milo, if you genuinely believe that you deserve to have your bare backside spanked with this brush then you should come here and bend over my knees.”

He hesitated for a nanosecond but then let the towel drop from his hips. He was completely naked. He took two steps towards me and then gently lowered himself across my lap. I am about six-feet-two inches tall and Milo is hardly five-six. He fitted over my knee perfectly. His hands rested in the deep pile carpet and his toes hovered an inch or so above the floor. His buttocks rested gently against my right thigh.

I remember being surprised that Milo had olive skin all over his body. Had I thought it was like a suntan and his bum would be creamy white? His back and bottom was almost completely hairless, but he had dark hair over his legs. I suspected he might shave his upper body and bum.

I reached forward and took hold of Milo’s right arm. He didn’t resist as I twisted it up his back and pinned his wrist against his shoulders. In this position he was powerless to resist me. He would have to lay over my lap with his bare bum at my mercy. I could and I would spank him as hard and as often as I wished. There was no escape for him.

I have no way of knowing if this was Milo’s first spanking. I do know that he took it with remarkable fortitude. He was twenty-four years old and quite an athlete; I shouldn’t have been surprised that he could withstand a high level of pain.

I started slowly, slapping down my heavy brush first into the left cheek and then the right. I kept up a steady rhythm of one smack about every ten seconds. I was delighted to see the pattern of the oval head printed over and over again on his bum.

Milo’s skin didn’t redden, it turned a darker shade of olive and then brown. He kept quiet for most of his spanking, but even from my vantage point above him I could see his mouth opening and closing with each slap as he emitted silent cries. He kept his eyes tightly shut throughout.

His body twitched and shuddered. I think these were involuntary reflexes as he made no attempt to break free of my grip.

I wasn’t counting the slaps but by the time I had reached about one hundred, Milo’s bottom and the backs of his thighs were a deepening brown. He must have been very sore indeed. The boy’s breathing was more restless. He was panting. I smacked on some more and realised Milo’s cock was stiff and pressing into my own bare leg. That set my own penis off. It rose to fill out the front of my shorts.

I threw down the brush and slapped Milo’s bum with my bare hand. Then I caressed his cheeks, making circular motions, starting with his fleshy mounds and then going across the tops of the globes and then into the underside of the bum. I did this for both cheeks and was delighted to be rewarded with quiet sighs from Milo. This was turning him on.

I turned my attention to his thighs and legs, touching them so lightly his hairs tickled my palms. His sighs increased to moans. He pressed his stiff cock into my leg, trying to increase the stimulation. It was time to stop spanking. I released him and gently pushed him from my lap onto the carpet. His penis was stiff and at a forty-five-degree angle from his body.

I got off the chair, pulled down my Boxer shorts and released my own throbbing dick. I lay down beside Milo on the carpet. I felt Milo’s hand making light stroking movements, each stroke moving along the length of my penis, making it ache and throb. His hand gently tweaked the sensitive edges of my foreskin. I gasped with pleasure.

I reached across and cupped Milo’s balls, kneading them between my fingers. He wheezed with desire but continued to work on my aroused organ in his fist.

My orgasm seemed to go on and on but I continued to work away at Milo’s shaft. Suddenly the cock in my hand started to pulse and throb and white juice splashed across Milo’s flat stomach as he was overtaken by his own intense orgasm.

We lay on the carpet. Spent. Together.

__________

_____________

Comments welcome!

Bend Over. Touch Your Toes. (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on May 14, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, discipline, headmaster, punishment, school. 2 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by beloved guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Mickey Reilly stared down at the toecaps of his shoes. His fingers stretched to touch the scuff marks. He had been instructed, “Bend over. Touch your toes.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. It put a terrible strain on your calf muscles.

Reilly knew how to do it. He had been in this position before. Probably would be again. Spread the feet a little. That was the answer. Keep the head low and the bottom high.

Michael Reilly, aged 18, member of the Upper Sixth. He had never been made a prefect. Definitely wasn’t prefect material. In the headmaster’s study. Again. Waiting patiently for six-of-the-best.

Reilly was the kind of lad who went looking for trouble. When he couldn’t find any, trouble came looking for him. It had found him that morning. Just off the bus, minding his own business. Talking to his pal Joey about last night’s football. A bunch of oiks from Gum Shoe Lane Secondary Modern. Had things to say about the grammar school. It’s fancy green-and-gold blazers. The “Nancy” school caps the boys had to wear.

Who threw the first punch? Nobody will ever know. Fists flew, eyes were blacked.

The headmaster jawed and jawed Reilly. “Disgraceful behaviour … Brawling in the street … Letting the school down …”

No use telling the headmaster he had fought the yobs to defend the honour of the school. He wouldn’t understand it at all.

Reilly had a close-up view of the rug beneath his feet. He’d seen it many times before. Still couldn’t work out what the design on it was. Some kind of building. A palace perhaps? Or a stately home?

The headmaster flexed his cane. Three feet of rattan with a crook handle. Just like in schools up and down the country. He looked across at Reilly. A senior boy. Eighteen years old. Bent submissively, offering up his backside for chastisement. A little bit of tradition being played out in his study. It made him proud to be English.

Reilly felt the cane tap against his stretched trousers. The headmaster was finding his aim. Any moment now. Reilly knew it would hurt. A great deal. That was the point of it. No point in caning a boy’s backside unless it hurt. He understood that. A boy had to learn the error of his ways. A sore backside would make him stop and think a little.

The headmaster took hold of the tail of Reilly’s blazer and pushed it up his back. Away from the target area. Any moment now.

Swish! The cane swiped through the air and landed with great force across the middle of Reilly’s bum. He hissed. Air escaped through his clenched teeth. He couldn’t help it. It was a reflex action. Nothing he could do about it. He would probably grunt and groan a bit as the next five cuts whopped into his beefy bum. That was all right. It was allowed. “Ouch-ing” and “Ooo-ing” was permitted. But a boy mustn’t blub. If it got out that he had cried while getting the cane, he’d never hear the end of it from his schoolmates.

The second landed. Whop! Just below the first slice. Reilly’s buttocks were blazing. The headmaster was an expert with the cane. His beatings were awesome. Talked about by every boy in the school. Nobody wanted to show him his arse.

Reilly concentrated on the picture on the rug. Definitely a palace, he thought, as swipe number three connected with the top of his thigh. “Jeeeez!” He wriggled his hips left and right. Fingers left the toecaps of his shoes. He nearly jumped to his feet. Stopped himself just in time.

That was low. Too low. The headmaster wasn’t playing fair. Reilly would have a deep purple mark there. Wouldn’t clear up for days. More than a week even. He wouldn’t be able to sit down properly for some considerable time.

“Keep still boy. Fingers on toes please.”

The pain was searing. He had never had a stroke of the cane hurt him so much. He could feel perspiration running down his back. His woollen blazer was a bit tight and it made him sweat.

This was becoming one of the nastiest beatings of his life. Could be worse though. He thought of that sixth-former who was caned by his headmaster. Trousers at his ankles, underpants at his knees. Bare arsed. It had been in the newspapers that week.

The headmaster paused. Allowed Reilly to settle. Took careful aim. He hadn’t intended to slash the boy across the back of his thighs. Missed his aim a little. No excuse, really. He should do better. He had been caning boys’ backsides for nigh on thirty years. But maybe, not for much longer. The Government was talking about abolishing corporal punishment in schools. A Conservative Government, Ye Gods! Banning the cane. What was the world coming to? What was England coming to? He blamed the European Community. He always blamed the European Community.

He struck the fourth high. On the top of the curves, well away from the thighs. Was pleased to be rewarded with a clear yelp from Reilly. The headmaster was administering the strokes with some vim. He had beaten carpets with less force.

Reilly breathed hard. In. Out. In. Out. Four clearly defined welts had risen under his tightly-stretched underpants. In neat parallel lines. A strip about two inches wide blazed across his buttocks. Felt like someone had pressed hot metal into his flesh.

Number five went lower. Hit the fleshiest part of the buttocks. Where there was most padding. Sank deep into the meat before springing back. Left one heck of a line. Reilly stifled a yell. Choked a little. Felt like he might vomit. He hacked out a cough.

Last one to come. Reilly braced himself. Been here before. He knew all about the headmaster’s canings and that last stroke. Screwed his eyes up tight. Clenched his teeth. Ready and waiting.

The headmaster adjusted his position, placed the cane at a diagonal across both Reilly’s cheeks. Bottom left to top right. Tap, tap, tap. Reilly tensed his whole body. His shoulders heaved. Whop! The cane flew at the speed of sound. Crashed into the boy’s bum. Connected with the welts oozing under the boy’s pants. Set each one of them on fire again. Reilly gripped his shins. Wanted to jump up and stamp his feet about. March up and down like a sentry guard. Rub his hands into his blazing bum.

He managed to stay down. Was proud of himself. It was over. His arse felt like he had sat on a barbecue. But, he had survived. Another six-of-the-best was over. Waited. Waited for the headmaster’s permission to rise.

The headmaster slowly paced his study. Opened a door to his cupboard. Replaced the cane alongside half a dozen others. Turned, looked across at Reilly, still bent double, touching his toes. Submissively. A master and his pupil.

The headmaster returned to his desk. The sixth-former heard the drawer open and a book being removed. He still stared down at the rug. The headmaster found his page, wrote a few details.

“You may stand Reilly.”

Hot. Sweaty. Sore. The teenager wanted to rub away at his backside. Another reflex action. He knew from experience it did no good. Just had to wait for the pain to go away on its own. Already the agony had turned to a resounding throbbing. Soon, it would be a warm glow. That cut on the back of his thighs would hurt for quite some time though.

“Sign.” The headmaster slid the punishment book across the desk. Reilly hesitated. Went through his pockets. Pretended to be looking for a pen. He knew he didn’t have one.

“Pah!” The headmaster’s patience was thin. He had other things to do. He delved back into the desk drawer, rummaged around. Found a half-chewed ballpoint pen. Rolled it across the desk.

Reilly signed his name.

“You are dismissed Reilly. Send in the next boy.”

Reilly slowly opened the heavy oak door. Outside was Joey, his pal from the fight. “Six,” he mouthed silently before shuffling down the passageway towards the lavatories.

_____________

Comments welcome!

Duncan and Uncle Henry (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on May 4, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, discipline, punishment, uncle. 5 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by beloved guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Duncan wheeled his bicycle up the pathway of No. 17 The Avenue. He let himself in and parked the bike in the hallway.

“Duncan!” It was his Uncle Henry and he sounded angry.

Duncan had expected this. He was twenty-two years old and in his final year at university. Things were not going well. His grades had plummeted and he had skipped a number of classes. If he didn’t buck up his ideas, he might fail his finals.

It was a woman of course. That was the distraction. She was a mere slip of a girl. Almost boyish. Most people probably wouldn’t have given her a second glance on the street or at a club. But Duncan was smitten.

“Duncan!” It was his uncle again. His anger had risen. “In here! Now.”

“Here” was the room Uncle Henry called his “study”. In fact, it was an ordinary living room, or “reception room” as the more snobbish neighbours called their version. Duncan took a deep breath, wiped the palms of his hands against the legs of his trousers and turned the handle of the door.

It was a small room, sparsely furnished. There was a small leather-topped desk in one corner, a sideboard, a single worn blue vinyl armchair and one dining-room chair. Incongruously, in another corner stood a wicker basket. And, inside were two yellow rattan school canes.

The only window in the room overlooked the back garden. A heavy green curtain was drawn across it blocking out most natural light. A single bulb in the ceiling, partly obscured by a shade, provided the only light in the gloomy room.

Duncan had been in this study before: many times. He probably knew every inch of the room. He definitely knew how this encounter with Uncle Henry would play out.

Uncle Henry launched into a prepared sermon. He read out the young man’s latest grades. “You have a C+ for one,” he intoned. “Is that better or worse than the previous grade?”

He already knew the answer and Duncan knew that he knew. Duncan also knew this little charade would have to be endured before Uncle Henry was ready for the finale.

The university student shuffled his feet in embarrassment and stared down at the plain carpet. He had been through this routine many times previously with Uncle Henry, but he never got used to it. It was like being up before the headmaster at school. And the outcome would be the same too.

Uncle Henry also knew about the skipped lectures. Duncan had no choice. He admitted the lot, he was guilty as charged. There was no mitigation he could offer, except for his relationship with Sheila and Duncan was certain Uncle Henry did not want to know about her.

Uncle Henry wasn’t Duncan’s real uncle. He wasn’t a blood relation. Henry was a middle-aged man Duncan had met during his first year at university. There had been trouble then too. Like so many eighteen year olds let loose at university, he had no self-discipline. He got drunk, took drugs and partied. It would be a miracle if he survived the first year. Then along came Uncle Henry. He took care of what Henry called the boy’s “moral welfare” and turned around the young man’s life.

Uncle Henry rose from the seat behind the desk and strode a couple of steps to cross the room. Duncan stood motionless but his eyes followed the rather squat man as he gripped the vinyl armchair and swivelled it so that its back was now facing into the room.

No words were spoken between the older and the younger man. None needed to be. They both knew what was going to happen now. This wasn’t the first time this scene had been played and it wouldn’t be the last before Duncan finally graduated with his degree.

Satisfied that the chair was in a suitable position, Uncle Henry continued his journey across the study and rested at the wicker basket. There were two rattan canes waiting in front of him. To an inexperienced observer they looked identical. Both were a little over three feet in length (not counting the curved handle) and as thick as a pencil. But closer inspection revealed one was denser than the other; it would pack a considerable punch when whipped down at speed across the haunches of the young man standing before him. And more so on this occasion, since Uncle Henry intended to thrash Duncan on his naked bottom.

Uncle Henry flexed the rod between his two hands. Despite its thickness and density, it was a wickedly whippy cane. Duncan was still rooted in front of the desk, but he observed the older man swish the stick through empty air. The student had felt the sting of that cane across his backside many times in the past, but the swoosh it made as it flew through the air still intimidated him.

“Are you ready?” It was a strange question from Uncle Henry. It sounded as if the young man had a real choice and might reasonably reply, “No, I don’t think that I am. May we postpone this beating for a month or so?”

Duncan knew better than to smart-mouth Uncle Henry. He swallowed a “Yes, Uncle” and awaited further instructions.

They came immediately. “Stand by the chair. Up close.” Duncan took a deep gulp of air into his lungs and took up position.

“Trousers down please.”

He was wearing rather unfashionable cheap clothes. They used to call them “leisure trousers” or “sweat pants.” They were mostly polyester and had elastic at the waist. Duncan pinched the waistband at his hips and guided the trousers down over his buttocks and let them rest on his thighs.

Uncle Henry wheezed, exasperated. “All the way down. Down to your feet.”

Duncan blushed scarlet. Uncle had seen his bare bum and his cock and balls numerous times, but this part of the ritual caning always embarrassed the young man.

Soon the trousers were at his feet. Duncan’s snug-fitting canary yellow briefs did little to disguise the size of his private parts. His penis was still soft but it bulged against the tight cotton as if struggling to escape the confinement of his briefs. The briefs also emphasised the flatness of Duncan’s stomach. He was a very lean boy. He never worked out at the gym but he cycled everywhere. His muscular torso and slim legs were a testimony to that.

“Pants down,” Uncle Henry waited patiently. He tapped the cane against his own right leg and watched the young man before him slide the pants over his hips and then down his tight buttocks until they rested at his knees. His cock stirred as fresh air wafted against it. It was awake, but not yet ready to crow.

“Bend over.”

Obediently, Duncan leaned forward over the back of the vinyl chair and gripped the seat cushion. It was old and worn and had the faint aroma of body perspiration. It was impossible to sit on this chair if the room was hot without leaving a puddle of perspiration behind.

Uncle Henry gripped the cane in his right hand and took up position. His preferred method of caning was to stand about three feet to the young man’s left (a cane’s length) and place the rod across the centre of the bottom, with its tip resting on the furthest cheek. Then he would withdraw the cane and arc it up before returning it at great force. That way Uncle Henry could ensure that the swipe would hit both buttocks equally. It was an effective technique and ensured the lad on the receiving end endured the most painful caning. It was method borne out of much experience.

Uncle Henry took his aim. There was the tiniest nick of a razor blade on Duncan’s crack where he had shaved that morning.

Swipe! The cane rose and fell and a pink line appeared immediately across the centre of Duncan’s buttocks. He mouthed a silent groan and screwed up his eyes. That hurt. A lot. But Duncan was no stranger to the lash of the cane. It would take much more than that to make him holler.

It was not a warm day, but perspiration already soaked the back of Uncle Henry’s shirt. His heartbeat raced and his breathing was heavy.

Swipe number two hit a fraction below the first. Duncan bunched up his fists as the pain registered first across his bum and then travelled up and down his legs. Huff, huff, huff, he wheezed.

Uncle Henry leaned over the young man. From his vantage point he could already see two deep welts had formed across the lad’s hairless cheeks. They were turning from a snowy-white to crimson. The back of Duncan’s neck was also scarlet, but when Uncle Henry leaned over further he saw the twenty-two-year-old’s face was deathly pale.

Uncle Henry stepped back and let fly with the third stroke. Duncan choked down a cry which triggered off a dry cough. Hack, hack, hack. He cleared his throat and clung on tightly to the chair’s seat and waited for the next cut to land.

Uncle Henry admired Duncan’s tolerance. He could take an almighty thrashing and show very little reaction. That didn’t mean it was not hurting the boy. It was. The agony was terrific. Sometimes it felt like the middle-aged man had pressed a hot wire into his cheeks.

Uncle Henry fondly remembered the first time he had ordered Duncan across the back of this same chair. It was six strokes for missing his curfew. It wasn’t even six-of-the-best; the strokes were lightly laid on, but Duncan roared when the first cut hit him and jumped up from the chair dancing up and down rubbing his backside furiously. What a palaver, Uncle Henry had thought. And Duncan still had his trousers and pants on.

Uncle Henry took aim again. Duncan felt the stick touch the underside of his cheeks, just where they met the thighs. “I’d better stay perfectly still,” he thought to himself. If he jumped about there was a real possibility the slash would miss his bum altogether and crash into the back of his legs. The agony would be unendurable if that happened.

Uncle Henry was an expert and he landed his stroke right on target. It was the “sit spot.” The weal that was forming across the bottom of the cheeks would be tender for some considerable time. Duncan would feel it each time he sat down, especially on a hard surface.

Number five was aimed right at the top of the cheeks, just at the base of the spine. Duncan sucked in great draughts of air. Despite his fortitude, his feet stamped up and down. That was the most painful cut yet. Sweat poured from his body. His black wavy hair was so damp it looked as if he had stepped from the shower.

“Steady boy. Keep still.” It was a kind instruction, not a barked order. Uncle Henry had a great affection for Duncan. He didn’t despise the young man. This was not a vengeance beating. The student needed the guiding hand of an older man, one more experienced in life. This caning would do Duncan the world of good. Uncle Henry knew without a shadow of doubt that was how Duncan felt too.

The sixth and final cut struck parallel to the previous five. Duncan repeated the military dance. His arse was on fire. He wanted to get up and rub away furiously at his rear end. But, he was well versed in the caning etiquette. He must first wait for permission to rise.

Uncle Henry was in no hurry. His own breathing was returning to normal and his heartrate was slowing. Quietly, he returned the cane to its place in the basket.

“All right Duncan. That’s over. Well done. You took that well. You may stand up.”

The student hauled himself to his feet. The agony was already easing, but he could not resist kneading his cheeks with some vigour. It didn’t help. But, within minutes the pain would turn to a powerful throbbing and very soon that would become a warm glow. Some of the welts were very tender and the pain would be reignited if he touched them. But, even now, only a minute or so since the beating stopped, the worst was over.

Unbidden, Duncan pulled up his briefs and trousers. He stood before Uncle Henry, his shining eyes cast down at the floor, awaiting the next move.

Uncle Henry could not look the boy in the face. He waved his hand in the general direction of the door and said, “Go to your room.”

Seconds later, Duncan stood in front of the bedroom mirror, poking his bum at the glass. There were six deep cuts, perfectly positioned parallel to one another running from the top of his buttocks to the bottom. Uncle Henry was a craftsman.

Gingerly, Duncan rubbed the palm of his right hand across the buttocks; they were still warm to the touch. His penis saluted and stood rock hard at forty-five degrees. Duncan stepped out of his trousers and briefs, kicked off his shoes, dealt with his socks and then tugged his shirt over his head. He stood completely naked.

Outside the door he heard floorboards creak. Then he knelt on the bed, spread his legs wide and buried his face in a pillow. He was ready to receive Uncle Henry.

_____________

Comments welcome!

An Encounter (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on March 18, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: briefs, cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, discipline, M/M, punishment. 5 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Thwack! The cane bit deep into Dunmore’s bared buttocks. Hisssss! That hurt. A lot. Swipe! A second cut fell. “Ouch!” Mr Pritchard might look like a wizened old man, but he could certainly pack a punch. Dunmore clenched his teeth, clutched the seat cushion of the sofa and braced himself for number three.

Twenty four hours earlier

Mr Pritchard sat idly at the Brocklehurst bus station. A coach from London had just pulled in and he watched the passengers disembark. There weren’t many. A boy holding a bag stood still, uncertain, scanning the numbers on the bus stops. Satisfied, that he had found the right one, he shuffled across and stood in the eye line of Mr Pritchard.

He was an unusual looking boy. Mr Pritchard thought of him as a boy, but he was easily in his mid-twenties. But, when you were Mr Pritchard’s age a twenty-something was a “boy.” It was a mid-summer’s afternoon and the boy was dressed for winter, in long thick corduroy trousers and a duffle coat. All the other boys were in tee-shirts and cotton shorts.

His face was pale; he hadn’t seen much sun that summer and his hair was cropped short. It didn’t suit him, Mr Pritchard thought. It should be much longer. Cropped hair emphasised the boy’s angular face and made him look sad.

Mr Pritchard noted his broad chest and shoulders; he probably worked out a lot. He had great legs and when the boy turned slightly Mr Pritchard admired his round firm bum.

Suddenly, the boy blushed. Mr Pritchard looked away sharply. It was too late, he had spotted the old man checking him out.

“Mr Pritchard?” It was a statement, posed as a question. The old man looked blank.

“Mr Pritchard. I’m Dunmore, Michael Dunmore, I was in your maths class at St Francis.” The boy spoke from a distance, making no effort to move closer, to share intimacy.

Dunmore, yes Mr Pritchard remembered Dunmore. He had been expelled after he was involved in a break-in at the school. There followed a period of unemployment and dead-end jobs. Petty crime led to the inevitable. It had been reported in the local newspaper and it was the talk of the masters’ common room at the time. Dunmore had been sent to prison. That would explain the boy’s pallor.

Just then, a number seven bus pulled up, sparing Mr Pritchard’s embarrassment. He rose from his seat.

“Do you still live in Salford Street, Mr Pritchard?”

Mr Pritchard smiled weakly and boarded his bus.

It was seven-fifteen precisely. Mr Prichard knew because the theme tune of The Archers was playing. The knock on the door was unexpected. Mr Pritchard lived alone and he didn’t get visitors. It was probably somebody selling dusters.

Without checking his security spy-hole, he opened the door. It was Dunmore standing on the doorstep. He still wore the corduroys and hoodie and carried his bag. He hopped from foot to foot like a naughty schoolboy in front of his housemaster.

“Hello, Mr Pritchard.” He seemed embarrassed, as if unsure how to say what he had come to say. Mr Pritchard pursed his lips. He hoped there wasn’t going to be a scene.

“You see Mr Pritchard,” the boy began. He smiled and his grey-blue eyes sparkled. “It’s hard to explain.” It wasn’t that difficult, he had rehearsed his lines. He had a plan.

“My mum won’t let me stay with her. I’ve got nowhere to stay, Mr Pritchard.”

Mr Pritchard gazed into the boy’s pale face, noting the smooth skin and kissable lips. Dunmore gazed back.

“Can I stay with you Mr Pritchard?” And then he added, untruthfully, “Only for tonight.”

Mr Pritchard’s heart skipped a beat. Without thinking of the consequences, he stood aside and let the boy enter.

“Do you want something to drink, have you eaten?” They were in the kitchen and Mr Pritchard twittered like a schoolgirl.

Then the overpowering stink caught him. Stale body odour. It was so strong, he thought he might gag.

He cleared his throat. “Would you like to take a shower? Do you have clean clothes?”

The boy was right out of clean clothes.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try to find you something. Top of the stairs. Go along.”

Mr Pritchard’s eyes followed the boy’s buttocks snug inside tight corduroy as they slowly ascended the stairs. The boy entered the bathroom and there was a click as the door was locked. Mr Pritchard sighed inwardly, imagining the boy naked under the warm water, rubbing soap over his buttocks and crotch.

Ten minutes later, Dunmore sashayed into the kitchen, a bath towel tied loosely at his waist. Mr Pritchard’s eyes moistened. The boy’s upper body was clear and mostly hairless, save for a small mat in the centre of the well-defined chest. It took an effort for the old man not to reach out to tickle it.

Young men learn a lot in prison and pretty boys learn more than most. Dunmore figured if he gave Mr Pritchard a little he would get a lot back in return. He had already made a reccee of the upstairs room. One was locked but the others proved Mr Pritchard was not short of a pound or two. He could do very well here.

“Here, these boxer shorts might fit,” Mr Pritchard handed them to the boy. “They’re clean.”

They belonged to Terrence, he wouldn’t mind. Terrence was also an ex-pupil at St Francis. He had enjoyed his visits to the housemaster’s study a little too much. After he left school he searched out ways to relive the experience. He stayed with Mr Pritchard some weekends. They had rigged up one of the bedrooms as a headmaster’s study. It was small but there was enough room to swing a cane.

“Thanks,” Dunmore reached for the shorts and studied the label. Thirty inch waist. They might be a bit tight. Then, making sure that Mr Pritchard had a full view, he let the towel slip to the floor. Good, the old man’s tongue was almost hanging out. Look at that cock old man, do you want some?

Slowly, he turned his back on the old man, stepped into the shorts and wriggled his buttocks provocatively as he pulled them up.

They sat watching television and talking. Dunmore wore only snug-fitting white boxers. He stretched and flexed his muscles, sneakily teasing the old man. Mr Pritchard was captivated. He hadn’t been so close to youthful flesh since he was himself young; and then only rarely. Terrence only liked to dress in school uniform to have his backside blistered. He was not interested in sitting around in his underwear.

Michael Dunmore was honest. He told Mr Pritchard all about his thieving and its consequences. He reckoned the old man probably knew already. Brocklehurst was a small town.

“Well, you’ll have to behave yourself in my house,” Dunmore’s beauty had made Mr Pritchard skittish.

“And, if I don’t?” the boy beamed, egging him on.

“Then, you’ll have to be spanked.” Mr Pritchard blushed. It had just slipped out. He hadn’t meant to admit it. He wanted that boy’s bum across his knee.

Dunmore giggled, “Well, you can try.” His eyes flashed with merriment.

Mr Pritchard stood from the sofa, lent across and took hold of the boy’s arm.

“I was joking,” he shrieked with laughter. “I was joking.”

Dunmore allowed Mr Pritchard to pull him across to the sofa, where the old man sat and pushed the boy face down across his knee.

Mr Pritchard wasn’t playing. He smacked the palm of his hand hard across the seat of the tight boxer shorts. The cheeky sod needed a damn good spanking and that’s exactly what he would get.

Dunmore stared down at the sofa cushion and let Mr Pritchard get on with it. The boy could break free at any moment and if he wished he could punch the old man’s lights out. He didn’t want to. Okay, so this was Mr Pritchard’s thing. Who would have thought it, a schoolmaster got his rocks off by spanking naughty boys.

Slaps rained down across Dunmore’s hard bum. It was a proper spanking. But, a twenty-five-year-old wasn’t going to feel much. Before long, Mr Pritchard realised his own hand was hurting a lot more than the boy’s bum.

He stopped and released Dunmore, who jumped up and down rubbing his bottom exaggeratingly. “Ow, ow, ow, that hurt,” he pouted, acting out like a small boy.

Mr Pritchard flew from the room. He needed the bathroom and quickly.

…

When he looked back on it later Mr Pritchard could see he had been a damn fool. What did he expect would happen? He had taken a convicted thief into his house. A jailbird. It was inevitable.

It was only two pounds, Mr Pritchard could afford it. If the boy had asked him for it, he would have given it to him, he was that infatuated by the boy. But, Dunmore had stolen it; from his wallet. That hurt. Mr Pritchard knew he was being taken for a chump.

There was a confrontation from Mr Pritchard. An admission from Dunmore.

“You know I could tell the police. You’ll go back to jail, probably,” Mr Pritchard didn’t know that for sure. Maybe not. Not for five pounds. But the boy would be in big trouble.

“But, I could deal with it myself,” Mr Pritchard glared at the boy.

Dunmore smiled. He was pretty sure what the old man would say next.

“I have a cane upstairs. I’ll put it across your backside.”

Well, Dunmore thought, there was no surprise there. The old man got his kicks beating boys’ bums after all. But two pounds was a cheap price for “six-of-the-best.” Rent boys probably charged their clients much more. He should have stolen five.

“And then you will have to leave my house.”

That wiped the smile off the boy’s face.

“But …” he began a protest, but was cut short.

“I don’t care if you have nowhere to go. Sleep in the street.”

He wasn’t in a mood to argue. “Wait in the living room, I’ll only be a minute.”

Mr Pritchard calmly ascended the stairs. He unlocked the headmaster’s study and entered. He knew exactly what he wanted. Dangling from a hat stand in the corner of the room by their curved handles were two rattan canes. They were authentic school canes; he had pinched them from St Francis. One was thicker and denser than the other. It was an awesome specimen. It would scar the boy’s backside terribly; especially when applied across bared buttocks.

He slipped the cane under his arm and returned downstairs. He had half expected to find the house deserted. There had been plenty of time for Dunmore to make an escape. But, the boy had not. He took the old man at his word; he didn’t want to explain himself to the police.

Mr Pritchard had been a schoolmaster for more than forty years. He knew how to “jaw” a naughty boy. He itemised Dunmore’s faults, expressed “deep disappointment” at the boy’s dishonesty and threatened the direst consequences if ever the boy erred again.

Then, he got on with it.

“Trousers and pants down. Bend over that sofa.” He swished the cane for emphasis. The forlorn look on Dunmore’s handsome face delighted him.

The boy had a bum that cried out to be beaten and Mr Pritchard would enjoy doing just that. It would be both punishment and pleasure.

“I am sorry, really I am,” Dunmore cracked a smile. He knew from the moment the old man had spotted him at the bus station that he fancied him rotten. He had let the old man smack his bottom the previous night and Mr Pritchard had popped wood strongly. The caning would probably make him cream his pants. If Dunmore played his cards right the old man would let him stay; he would not want to miss the promise of future action.

“I am sorry Mr Pritchard. I have let you down and I deserve a sound caning.” Dunmore gazed at Mr Pritchard, sparkling his beautiful blue-grey eyes as he spoke.

Without waiting for a response he tugged at his belt, loosened it and set about pulling down his heavy corduroy trousers. All the time watching Mr Pritchard’s reaction. The old schoolmaster avoided the boy’s stare.

“Underpants too,” he growled.

They followed the cords to Dunmore’s feet.

“Bend over.”

Dunmore faced his punisher and wriggled his hips a little so that his cock shook. Then, he turned on his heels and without missing a beat lowered himself over the back of the sofa. He parted his legs a little so that his crack was open and presented his buttocks for beating.

It was one of the cutest arses Mr Pritchard had ever seen; round and firm. Terrance had a bottom to die for, but this surpassed even that.

Dunmore closed his eyes. This would hurt terribly, of that he had no doubt. But, if he was going to save the situation, he must let Mr Pritchard have his way.

Slash! The cane slashed into his buttocks. Hisssss, that hurt.

Mr Pritchard admired his handiwork. A stripe across the crown of both buttocks was already turning deep red. It was a scorcher of a cut. Swipe number two fell a little lower and at an angle. The boy groaned. He felt that all right. Mr Pritchard raised the cane high and thwacked it down on the under-curve of the buttocks. It was a beauty. Dunmore clung onto the seat cushion and marched his feet up and down in a futile attempt to stamp away the pain that now shot from his bottom and up and down his legs.

Two strokes bang-bang without respite had the boy’s buttocks quivering. His stomach rose from the back of the sofa and only with a super human effort of will did he stop himself jumping up to rub furiously at his ripped bum.

Then came another two. Mr Pritchard put strength into his stokes, but not accuracy. The boy’s bum was criss-crossed with red lines; it resembled a railway map of Clapham Junction. Bang-bang: two more. Then, another two.

Michael Dunmore was a tough nut to crack. He had endured many things in jail (that was the curse of the pretty boy) but he had experienced nothing like this. The agony in his arse was searing. It felt as if someone had run a hot smoothing iron across it. Every part of his bum throbbed; it felt as if it had swollen to twice its normal size.

Mr Pritchard was relentless. Six more fell in quick succession. Dunmore’s resolve to take this thrashing quietly broke down. Gentle sobs became gulps; yelps turned to yells and then to shrieks. He was literally a beaten boy.

Then six more. Dunmore wriggled and he stamped and he twisted this way and that. He banged his head up and down against the back of the sofa.

Then it was over.

He laid face down, his bum ripped to shreds. He swallowed down great gasps of air, desperately trying to fill his lungs. His blood pressure was off the scale and his temples pulsated.

Mr Pritchard was disappointed. The thrashing was a job well done. The evidence for that was before his eyes. But he hadn’t enjoyed it. Dunmore’s gorgeous bum was just a piece of meat. It gave him no thrill.

“Stand up,” Mr Prichard hoped his voice didn’t betray his disappointment.

Dunmore was quickly regaining composure. His breathing was more normal and his heartrate steadier. The boy’s beautiful face was scarlet and his grey-blue eyes shone. Tears stained his cheeks and snot dribbled from his nose.

He stood in front of Mr Pritchard, affording him the opportunity to admire his long thick cock and balls. The old man looked away; no longer interested in the boy’s beauty.

“Get dressed,” he barked. He wanted Dunmore out of his house.

Two minutes later the boy stood on the doorstep, his bag in his hand.

Inside the house the phone rang. It was Terrance.

“Yes, of course, you naughty boy, report to my study on Saturday.”

_____________

Comments welcome

Housemate Pays The Rent (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on March 8, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, housemate, punishment. 5 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Alexander Aldridge stood dumbfounded. His mouth literally gaped open. Before him stood a figure menacingly flexing a school cane between his huge hairy hands.

“Y… you want to cane me?” It was statement as much as a question.

The sun was quickly setting and the drawing room was gloomy. Soon they would need to turn on the electric light.

“Yes. And I hope it will bring you to your senses.”

William Beaver swished the cane through the air with some force. Alexander blanched. His housemate seemed to be entirely serious.

William gently tapped the cane against his right leg. “You must pay the rent. You cannot expect to get away with it.”

At that moment their other housemate George Templeton entered the room. “Don’t start without me,” he chortled.

William began to berate Alexander. He had the self-importance befitting a former School Captain at St Tom’s.

“We haven’t seen a penny from you in two months. George and I have had to pay your share. It can’t go on.”

He swished the cane once more. He had beaten countless backsides while School Captain and he would not be averse to swiping Alexander’s right then.

“You spend too much time on racecourses. You give your rent money to bookmakers.”

Alexander blushed profusely, but remained silent.

“We can’t carry you. If you don’t pay up, you’ll have to leave.” William had never particularly liked Alexander, not even at school. He would not mind in the least if the leech moved out.

“Gerald Hawkins is looking for a place,” William intoned, “He could move in.”

Alexander screwed up his nose. “Hawkins. That nancy boy?”

“At least he’d pay the rent,” George chimed in.

“So that’s it,” William was anxious to get on with it. He swiped the cane through the air once more.

Alexander’s eyes followed its flight apprehensively. “All right. All right. I’ll ask my father to loan me the money.”

“Good,” William glared. “But don’t think that will spare you from this,” and he wobbled the crook-handled stick in his housemate’s face.

“B… but,” Alexander stammered.

“No buts chum, you know you deserve it,” George said. He was looking forward to a little sport.

“Right,” William pointed the cane towards a worn armchair. “You know what to do.”

Indeed, Alexander knew what to do. It had been six years previously at the age of eighteen that he had been last ordered to present his backside for the lash of the cane. It had been Williamson, his housemaster. “Slacking,” the old man had called it. It was a peculiarly old fashioned word for “lazy.” So, Aldridge went over the schoolmaster’s desk, his trousers and underpants at his feet for six of the hardest whops he had ever received.

It took weeks for the cuts to heal completely. It worked though. The boy knuckled down and passed his school examinations.

William’s patience was almost spent. “Bend over the chair. Quickly. I haven’t got all night.”

Alexander stood his ground, uncertain what to do. His housemates had been correct. He had not paid the rent and he took the two fellows for granted. He could not deny that. But, did it give them the right to thrash his backside with a school cane?

“Come on Alex,” George whispered, “Get on with it. Take it like a man.”

Yes, Alexander thought, a St Tom’s chap should always do the honourable thing.

Without further fuss the twenty-four-year-old shipping clerk stepped toward the chair. He hesitated momentarily to get his nerve and then slid his body over its back. He gripped the seat cushion tightly and held his head high so that he was looking frontwards.

“Feet further apart. Bottom higher.” William had administered many beatings when School Captain and always demanded a posterior should be perfectly positioned.

Alexander shuffled his body a little until his punisher was satisfied.

William brushed his cane across the centre of the young man’s buttocks. They were broad and fleshy. His housemate needed to spend less time at the racecourse and more on the running track, he thought unkindly.

Alexander stared impassively ahead, waiting patiently for the first cut to land. He had never received a caning that had not hurt considerably. This thrashing would be no different, but he would be stoic. He knew how to take six-of-the-best.

“Twelve strokes,” William barked. “Six for each missed payment.”

Alexander only had time to think, “Crikey!” before the first slash sank deep into his wobbly buttocks.

George watched in wonderment as one of his two housemates slashed his stout but springy cane across the wide buttocks of the second. Dust rose from the seat of Alexander’s pin-striped trousers. William flogged with such force it was as if he were beating a carpet.

Alexander’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. His eyes blazed, but he made no sound. The young man’s knuckles whitened as he squeezed the seat cushion.

Sweat soaked William’s shirt although the room was cold, as the cane rose and slashed; rose and slashed. He paused after delivering the first six. His breathing was heavy, betraying the considerable physical effort he had been making.

Alexander sucked huge gulps of air into his lungs. His face was scarlet and George supposed the poor man’s backside was by now the colour of a good Burgundy.

William left the most severe cuts to the end. Alexander’s cries were muted. George watched mesmerised as Alexander clenched his cheeks as the streak of pain injected by the cane fully penetrated his buttocks. George watched with an increasing sense of awe as Alexander controlled his reactions to the vicious strokes.

William aimed the final two diagonally across the proffered buttocks. The first went from bottom left to top right; the second from bottom right to top left, so that poor Alexander had a perfect “X” emblazoned across his bottom. The pain was searing and too much. Alexander’s body reacted instinctively. His shoulders heaved, his hips swung from left to right and his feet marched up and down on the carpet. Then, he steadied himself and repositioned his posterior, ready for the next cut.

“That will do Aldridge,” William’s School Captain’s pomposity was once more in evidence. “You may stand.”

Slowly, Alexander straightened. Unsteadily, he stood before his tormentor. His eyes stared blankly.

“Thank you Beaver,” he whispered, remembering the etiquette from school. He offered his right hand and William shook it.

William tucked the cane under his arm. “You had better go to your room for a while. Then you should visit your father and bring the rent money to me before lights out.”

Alexander nodded silently and shuffled from the room. An hour later Alexander stood by the side of the road waiting for the trolley-bus that would take him to his father’s home. Mechanically, he rubbed his thumbs across the seat of his trousers. The pain had turned to a warm glow and for that he was grateful. He eased into a seat on the bus and tried to look out of the window at people on the pavements. He would do anything to take his mind off the impending flogging he was to receive from his father.

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Comments welcome

You Can Never Escape Dad (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on January 20, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: brother, cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, dad, discipline, M/M, punishment. 4 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

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The ring tone of the phone played again. With trepidation Alan Hawkes glanced at the caller ID. He knew it would be his dad again. It was the third time in an hour.

He let the phone ring out. He knew he would have to face his dad sooner or later. But not just now. He wasn’t ready yet.

His dad must have seen the newspaper story. It had been in the local paper, but dad lived a hundred miles away. He probably saw it on-line. Someone must have shown it to him.

Alan Hawkes was twenty-four years old. He was a purchasing administrator for a national fast-food chain. He lived with his girlfriend. They had a child. They even had a mortgage. He was an independent adult. But, he would never be free of his dad.

The phone rang again. This time Alan answered it. Dad was mad. “Come home Saturday.” It was an order. One that must be obeyed.

As “crimes” went, Alan Hawkes’s was not big. He and some workmates had too much to drink and empty beer bottles were smashed in the street. The case at the magistrates’ court made the newspaper. A small fine; nothing much.

Saturday was a fine bright spring day. Alan Hawkes arrived at his “home” in the early afternoon. No matter how many years he would live in his own place, his parents’ house, where Alan and his two younger brothers were brought up, would always be called “home.”

He parked the car and walked up the path. He still had a door key and let himself in. His nineteen-year-old brother Jimmy came out of the kitchen to greet him. The smile that split Jimmy’s face was as good as a confession. It was he who had told dad.

“You’re for it now,” he crowed. “Dad’s mad as hell. It’s the woodshed.”

Jimmy knew that for certain. Only the previous Tuesday, he had himself been in the woodshed over dad’s knee; his jeans at his feet and his pants at the knees while the old man pounded his son’s bare buttocks with a heavy wooden utility brush. Jimmy and his pals had been out on the lash. With bladders full of beer and nowhere to relieve them they had urinated in a shop doorway. There were no police and no newspaper story. A neighbour passing by had spotted him and told his dad.

They called it the “woodshed,” but it wasn’t really. Theirs was a large suburban house. It had a big garden with a shed, but no woodshed. The “woodshed” was a small space in the basement, just off the utility room where they kept the washing machine and the chest freezer. There was a beat-up couch and a table and an old TV. It was more like dad’s “den.” This was where he would take his sons when they needed their backsides blistered.

Dad reckoned it was more private than the living room or the boy’s bedroom. The boys were never allowed in the den on their own. If they were spotted sneaking down the stairs to the basement, it could mean only one thing: a spanking was imminent.

Dad was a powerful man in his late forties. He owned his own building firm; he’d built it from scratch. He employed hundreds of men. He was the boss. He was used to getting his own way.

Dad and his twenty-four-year-old son stood in the den. Dad eyed his son from head to foot with undisguised disdain. Every square inch of Alan’s arms was covered with tattoos. There was another across most of his back that dad couldn’t see. Why did young people mutilate themselves like this, he wondered. Did they think it made them look attractive?

He wasn’t about to have an argument about “body art,” he had other business to attend to.

Alan stood, his eyes blazing as his dad ripped into him. He was determined he would not cry, but the tears were already forming.

“Irresponsible,” “immature,” “reckless,” were some of the words dad threw at his son. “You have a child of your own …” he let the sentence trail off. How could Alan ever think to discipline his own son if he couldn’t behave himself?

Alan watched passively as the colour of his father’s face moved through pink, to mauve, to purple. His old man was genuinely enraged; this was not an act.

“Why am I doing this?” Alan had wondered during the two-hour drive. Why was he travelling a hundred miles knowing that his dad would belt his backside for him when he arrived?

His dad had no control over him anymore. Alan didn’t live at home, his dad didn’t employ him in his business and he wasn’t obliged to him for anything.

All these things were true, but somewhere deep down in his soul in ways he couldn’t understand his dad was still his dad. He was the boss. When he told you to jump you replied, “How high?”

Both Alan and his dad knew how this confrontation would play out. Corporal punishment must be administered.

Satisfied that he had vented his spleen and there was no more to be said, dad strode from the woodshed into the adjoining utility room.

He returned seconds later. Alan’s mouth gaped open. “What the …”

Under his arm, dad held a long thin cane. It was like nothing Alan had seen before. It wasn’t a length of garden bamboo. It had a curved handle at one end and even in its current lifeless state, it looked extremely whippy.

“I got it on eBay,” dad said in response to the quizzical look from his son. “Especially,” he smirked.

He slipped the cane into his hand and wobbled it in front of his boy’s face. Alan’s eyes followed it as his dad made practice swishes. A “swoosh” echoed around the den every time it cut through the air.

“They used to use these in schools. Years ago,” his dad flexed the cane between two his hands.

Alan’s face paled. He had been spanked many times by dad, even as an adult. It always hurt like hell, but nothing he had experienced before would be as painful as this.

“Six-of-the-best they used to call it,” his dad continued. “But, since you are not a little boy, let’s call it twelve.”

He swiped the cane through the air to emphasise his point.

“Trousers, pants down. Bend over the couch.”

Alan’s eyes blazed. Twelve strokes with that cane. Bare arsed.

“B …” he started to mouth the words of protest, but held back. He mustn’t argue with his dad. The old man’s mind was made up. If Alan made a fuss, he would get extra strokes. That was for certain.

He took a deep breath. There was nothing for it. Events had to take their course.

Alan shuffled to the back of the couch. He pulled at the elasticated waist of his trousers sending them south. Then with the merest flick of his wrists the underpants followed. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, rubbed the palms of his hands together, and then as if diving into an icy pond, he threw himself over the back of the couch.

He had been in this position before. Last time, just before Christmas, he had taken a couple of dozen whops from an old razor strop. It was a family heirloom. At least three generations of Hawkes men had had their bare backsides tattooed by it.

Alan straightened his legs and set his feet about twenty inches apart. He kept his head low into the dusty couch cushion and raised his bum as high as he could. Submissively, he waited for the first lash from dad’s new school cane.

Dad had never caned anyone before but he reckoned it wasn’t rocket science. He stood a little to his son’s left and tapped the cane across his buttocks to get an aim. Then, he moved the cane back and whipped it down hard.

Alan’s buttocks were far from firm. He was no athlete and he spent too many hours in the pub. Like so many of his generation, he was already in his mid-twenties running to fat. The cane struck home, sank into his wobbly bum and emerged a split-second later leaving behind a distinctive red mark.

Alan sucked in his breath. It had hurt, but not as much as he had feared.

Swipe number two sank lower across the buttocks. Again the flesh quivered and the cane submerged into the pink mounds. Another line appeared; this one a little deeper than the first. A welt slowly formed.

Alan opened and closed his mouth like a goldfish, but he successfully suppressed any sound.

There was plenty of fat for dad to aim at. He went high with the third stoke, cutting across the top of the curves, just below the base of the back. His son gasped. That one was the most painful yet.

The next one he aimed low, almost across the crease where the bum and the thighs met. Alan yelped. His legs twisted at the knees and his hips swayed. “Huff, huff, huff,” he wheezed. Sweat was beginning to show under his shirt. His heart was racing.

Encouraged by the reaction to the previous stroke, dad laid three more in quick succession in the same area. Rat-tat-tat! It sounded like machinegun fire echoing around the small den.

That had Alan roaring. His face rose from the dusty cushion and he shook his head violently from left to right. Tears flowed down his cheeks.

“Steady. Keep still.” It was a curt command from his dad and Alan knew better than to disobey the order. He gulped in draughts of air.

Thwip, thwip, thwip. Three more slashes cut into the jelly-like buttocks. The flesh shuddered under the impact as the cane struck the same spot over and over. A small trickle of blood weeped from the cut.

Alan was no stranger to corporal punishment, or to its pain, but this bare-arsed caning was the worst he had experienced. He stamped his feet on the floor, bounced his head up and down against the back of the couch and twisted his torso as waves of agony shot north-to-south and east-to-west through his entire body.

“Ssssssss.”

Dad swivelled on his heels. That hissing sound had not come from Alan, his son, prostrated across the couch in front of him.

He turned to see Jimmy, his face pale and his lips parted in astonishment.

“You!” dad roared at the nineteen-year-old. He knew immediately that he had sneaked into the basement to try to witness his brother’s humiliation.

“Stand there!” he shook his cane. “Face the wall! I’ll deal with you later!”

Sorrowfully, the teenager shuffled across the room and pressed his nose against the wall. Behind him he heard the almighty swish of the cane flying through the air, followed by a dull thud as it sank into jelly. His brother’s growl was husky; all the saliva had drained from his mouth. He hacked up a dry cough.

Swish! Crack! the cane flew and landed for the twelfth and final time. Dad paused to admire his handiwork. His aim had been true. Twelve distinct marks were burned across his son’s buttocks. Most ran in a perfect parallel one to the other. Blood was seeping from a particularly deep and wide welt. The bum was red raw and he was certain he had given Alan a thrashing he would not forget in a hurry.

Dad tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might. He made an imposing sight.

“Get up and leave.”

Alan didn’t need telling twice. He pulled himself up from the couch, tugged up his trousers and pants in one movement and headed for the stairs.

Moments later he was hurrying down the street. At the time he found his parked car his brother Jimmy was loosening his trousers before bending over the couch to offer his bum for what would be the first encounter of many with dad’s new school cane.

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Comments welcome

Commander Reynolds’ Tenants (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on January 11, 2016

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, discipline, landlord, military, punishment, teen, teenager. 3 Comments

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are 18 or over.

Commander Albert Reynolds, RN (retd.) turned the volume of his wireless down low and sat back in his comfortable chair. The boys had given him a strange proposition but he was not sure he should have turned them down.

He pressed his fingers together, pursed his lips and closed his eyes, allowing the sound of Henry Hall’s dance band to drift into his consciousness.

The three boys, well they were young men really, had departed back to their rooms, leaving the old man to re-evaluate their offer.

It had started a couple of months previously. Jack, James and Arthur had come to live at the Commander’s boarding house. They were from respectable families; otherwise he would never have let them stay.

They were students, just up at the Varsity. Out in the big world on their own for the first time in their lives.

The Commander recalled Mrs Rollington; Jack’s mother. “He’s a fine God-fearing boy, Commander,” she had intoned, rather fiercely, he thought. “He has been brought up in a good Christian family. His morals are impeccable.”

The Commander laughed at that as Henry Hall’s soothing voice introduced the next dance tune. “Impeccable morals, my eye,” he thought.

That had been the problem. Three eighteen-year-old boys let loose on the big city after years cooped up in high class boarding schools. The Commander was an old naval man, he knew what young men could get up to when out on the town. There was smoking, drinking, and, yes, even possibly the occasional woman: Jack, James and Arthur had been making up for lost time.

The Commander was no hypocrite; young men had appetites, he realised that. But there were his other tenants to consider. And there had been complaints; especially from Mr Bunyan at number eight.

Mr Bunyan had called on the Commander four times now. At each visit he was a little more irritated – and, irritating. The Commander knew the type, always finding something to complain about, but maybe this time he had a point.

“It’s just too much Commander Reynolds, Sir,” Bunyan had simpered, the first time he laid down the complaint. It had been about the boys arriving back in the early hours of the morning, clearly the worse for drink.

“It’s the ladies I feel sorry for.” He meant the women tenants. Apart from the three boys and the Commander, Bunyan was the only man lodging at the house, although the Commander was not so sure the word “man” quite described the flamboyant creature that stood before him. Was that a whiff of gardenia in the air?

The Commander was a leader of men and he expected to be obeyed. He had what he described to Bunyan as “a little word” with the boys.

Things improved, but not for long. By the time Bunyan was tapping on the Commander’s door with his fourth complaint, the Commander’s patience was exhausted.

That had been last Friday and it was yesterday he gave the boys formal notice to quit the lodgings. To go, find rooms somewhere else, leave Bunyan and the Commander in peace.

“Oh my, what will my mother say?” It was Jack who spoke first. The three boys were contemplating the devastating news – chucked out of their lodgings for immoral behaviour.

James and Arthur were equally aghast. James most certainly did not want to face his father with this news. Mr Miller expected impeccable behaviour from his sons, especially in public. He was old school, with the emphasis on “school.” He would not hesitate to take his whippy dragon cane down from its hook in the study and apply it with great force across his errant son’s backside; eighteen years old or not.

Arthur had no such fear of his own father. He had never laid a finger on him in his life. There would be no thrashing, but Mr Rhodes would show a deep sense of disappointment that would cut into Arthur much more acutely than any lashes with a cane across his bared buttocks.

“The Commander is right, we have behaved pretty badly,” Arthur had been raised to have a grave sense of guilt. But, neither of the other fellows disagreed. They were guilty as charged. They were not used to freedom that was the reason. They had spent the past ten years imprisoned at one boarding school or another; their lives totally regimented. Rules governed their lives. Do this, do that! Rules that must be followed, and of course, punishments endured if they were not.

“Yes, we have been rather foolish.” It was an understatement from Arthur. Too much wine, women and song had led them to this downfall.

“What if the university finds out? Will we be sent down?” James raised the question. Expulsion for bringing the university into disrepute would be disastrous. It would be the end of James’ chances of a career in the Foreign Office.

The three boys fell silent, each contemplating their own personal disaster.

Jack eventually piped up. “If we had been caught smoking and drinking at Bridgetown, my housemaster would have thrashed us.”

He left the sentence hanging. It was true; the consequence at school for bad behaviour was a very sore backside indeed. But, every boy who ever was ordered to “bend over that chair” to offer up his buttocks to a dominant master, agreed it was worth it. Six-of-the-best meant atonement. The crime had been committed, the punishment was accepted and everybody moved on with their lives.

“It was the same at my school,” James was almost misty-eyed with nostalgia. “Mr Horridge would’ve had us across his desk. Trousers and underpants at our ankles. Even when we were seniors. My hat! We couldn’t sit down for a week after that.”

James and Jacked joined in companionable laughter. Arthur’s face drained of colour. How could they find this amusing? Bare-bottomed thrashings. Not sitting down for a week. What brutes these schoolmasters were.

“What about you Arthur?” James peered through his spectacles at his young friend. “What did they do at your school? Did you get it bare?”

Startled, Arthur found himself saying, “Oh, my yes, of course, ouch! Yarroo!”

Why had he lied? Was he ashamed that he had attended a Quaker school, founded by pacifists? Corporal punishment was unheard of. He had never even seen a school cane in his life, let alone felt one across his stretched bottom.

“Hey! I’ve got an idea!” It was James who made the suggestion. It was such an obvious solution. He was sure the Commander would agree. He must have been a public school man himself. Surely, he would understand.

“Let’s offer to take a beating. Apologise, say we’ll never do it again. And we should mean it.”

Jack’s face lit up. “Yes, that’s it. He’ll understand. We could offer to go bare, if that’s what it took.”

The two boys were so taken by their proposed solution they failed to notice Arthur’s coughing fit.

So it was that the three boys stood in Commander Reynolds sitting room, hands behind their backs, feet slightly apart, eyes downcast inspecting a rather worn green-patterned carpet.

It had been James’ idea, so he was the boys’ representative.

“So you see Commander,” it was a confident address. The boys might have spent a little too much time on the town recently, but they were intelligent articulate teenagers. In time they would all make their mark on the world, but now, on this day, they had to dig themselves out of a rather big hole.

“If we behaved like this at our schools we should have been soundly beaten by our housemasters.”

Jack found himself inadvertently nodding his agreement, but still he stared at the carpet, unable to look the Commander in the eye. Cold sweat poured down Arthur’s back, he was certain he would be sick at any moment.

The Commander looked at the three boys in astonishment. Beat them, as if they were schoolboys and he was their housemaster. Who had ever heard of such an idea?

“So, we respectfully ask that you punish us with a beating and then allow us to stay on as tenants.” James finished his little speech. He had decided not to include the offer to take it trousers and underwear down.

The Commander silently counted to ten. His mother had taught him this when he was a very small boy. If you think you are going to lose your temper count to ten before you speak.

Eight, nine, ten. “No, that is not a good idea. You will all vacate your rooms as previously ordered.”

James opened his mouth, but the Commander cut him off. He would not hear argument. “That is all. You are dismissed!”

Two crestfallen (and one very relieved) teenagers trudged up the stairs to their rooms.

Now, in a darkened room, sitting in his chair, was the Commander having second thoughts? Corporal punishment, was it such a bad idea?

Heavy rain lashed against the window, almost drowning out the dance music. Suddenly, in his mind it was at least thirty years ago, he was a sub-lieutenant, young men in thin white trousers were being bound hand and foot, and forced to bend their bodies over a triangle. Handkerchiefs were stuffed into their mouths. A chief petty officer armed with a cane lashed twelve strokes into their taut buttocks.

It happened all the time; there was nothing unusual about it. It was perfectly legal and still happened today.

There were lighter, more informal punishments. The Commander silently chuckled. There had been this boy; what was his name? He was no older than the three tenants upstairs. He was an incorrigible rogue, but not an evil sort. It soon became a ritual. Anderson was he called? Anderson would be caught smoking or absent from his post, the Commander (he was not a Commander then) would be informed. Guilt would be established. Then Anderson was given a choice: be put a charge or go across the knee.

He was a tiny fellow, this Anderson. He looked like a small child. Perhaps that was why the Commander felt he should punish him like a naughty boy. A heavy wooden clothes brush was kept in a drawer. Anderson would be ordered to fetch it while the Commander settled himself into his favourite chair. Then, without further instruction, Anderson would hand the Commander the brush before unbuckling his own belt and lowering his trousers.

Then with an air of resignation on his face he would lower himself across the Commander’s knees. He remembered it as if it had happened that morning. The underpants were a rather grubby grey-white colour. He would pull the drawers up tight so the outline of Anderson’s buttocks were clearly visible and then at a slow, rhythmic pace he would crash twenty-four hard whacks into the boy’s stringy buttocks.

It hurt the boy, probably a great deal, but he never showed his pain. It must have been a matter of pride, to be able to take a whacking stoically. The spanking over, Anderson would jump to his feet replace his trousers and stand to attention, thumbs in line with the seams of his trousers.

“Thank you Sir, I deserved that.” He always said the same thing after every spanking. Had the Commander made him say that or had he thought to do it himself?

A thunderclap woke the Commander from his dream. Heavens, he had not thought about Anderson in more than thirty years. Poor boy, he died in action before he reached his twentieth birthday.

The Commander had been on the receiving end himself. Many times; beyond the age of eighteen. He had attended a naval training ship. There had been this one time, he was with a party of about thirty boys who misbehaved themselves ashore; they had to be rounded up by the ship’s authorities. They used a birch in those days. It was not as heavy as the judicial birch that was still in use today. One by one the boys were forced to lower their trousers and go across the block. The Commander wriggled in his chair as if the scars of the birching were still troubling him.

He moved from his chair and switched on a light. Perhaps the boys had a point. They could atone for their crimes. He did not want them to get into further trouble at the university.

He had listened to the news earlier on the wireless. Mr Chamberlain had returned from Munich with a peace agreement. The Commander did not believe it for a moment. War in Europe was coming and these boys would soon be fighting for their country. The Commander himself would probably be recalled.

Damn it, let’s do it. The Commander was a man of decision. Yes, a caning. Twelve each: on the bare. It must be an exemplary thrashing, but once delivered and received that would be an end to it.

That was how the following evening the three young men stood once more before the Commander, staring down at the carpet.

The Commander had made much preparation. First, he had to purchase a cane. They are readily available in most oil shops, as any naughty boy could attest. The embarrassment of being sent by father to purchase a cane was intense. The shopkeepers never believed a boy’s tale that the cane was needed because they were “playing schools.”

The Commander wanted a special cane, a Malacca for preference. The thick dense rod was as whippy as a school’s rattan cane but it packed more of a punch and with ridges every four inches or so along its length it would leave deep bruises on the boys’ buttocks. They had asked for a caning and it would certainly be given caning to remember.

There was a specialist shop he knew in Earls Court that supplied just the thing.

The Commander was now armed with a suitable weapon, but he had another problem. He was not the boys’ parent or guardian and he had no legal jurisdiction over them. In short, he had no right to punish them.

He was not a legal expert, but he drew up a short contract. The boys were not yet twenty-one and so were not adults. Even so, he would make them sign to say they consented to a thrashing. Next, he needed a witness in case something went wrong. Nearly all of his tenants were women and it would not be right to ask them to see the boys bare their buttocks. Bunyan would have to be the witness. He agreed a little too eagerly when asked.

There were no speeches or ceremony. They all knew why they were there. The Commander went over to the far end of the room, swung round the large horsehair armchair that was to serve as the punishment chair and pushed it into the centre of the room. Having done that, he turned back towards a cabinet and opened the top drawer from which he took the cane.

“Right, Miller,” he swished the cane at James, “Trousers and underwear down.”

James knew he was blushing as he removed his jacket then unzipped his trousers and pulled them down. He stood behind the chair and peeled his underwear from his buttocks before letting them drop on top of his trousers.

“I assume that you know the procedure,” the Commander was still swishing the cane menacingly. “Over the chair, with your legs well apart.”

James did of course know exactly what was required. As he got over the chair, he pushed his arms out along the full length of its armrests, so that his buttocks were raised over the apex of the chair and his legs were stretched apart.

The Commander turned his shirt back and Bunyan moved a pace or two to his left, ensuring a clearer view.

Unceremoniously, the Commander tapped the waiting buttocks then raised his arm to shoulder height, before with a flick of the wrist he brought the cane down hard across the exposed backside. James clenched his teeth but a groan still escaped as he absorbed the first of twelve stokes. The Commander was soon into his stride, ensuring he spread the strokes across the teenager’s bottom. Starting in the middle, he worked his way down till number six landed hard across the top of James’ thighs.

No amount of teeth clenching could stop the loud howl that escaped from the boy’s throat. The Commander paused to admire the six thick red, almost parallel, lines across James’ once creamy white buttocks. He landed number seven higher up, before changing his stance and lashing number eight diagonally crossing the previous seven welts. James roared and his bottom gyrated. The Commander was breathing almost as heavily as the boy he was punishing as he whacked the rest of the strokes diagonally across the buttocks, from the left and from the right.

James gagged as howls and sobs were wrenched from his body and he clutched onto the horsehair sofa as if his very life depended on it.

Then it was Jack’s turn. He had been panting vigorously since the start of James’ beating and his short, sharp breaths now grew more urgent as he lay across the chair.

His bottom was well-rounded with firm and toughened muscles, but it had no protective layer of flesh. There would be no give and compression of the cheeks as the cane struck home, its impact would be imparted directly into the muscle of the suffering boy. Movement would remain agonising long after the beating had been completed and all strokes administered. The lack of absorbent meat on his buttocks meant that the knots of the Malacca cane were likely to tear the skin and cause bleeding, perhaps even with a single stroke.

With incredible speed, accuracy and force, the Commander lurched forward and delivered three rapid strokes which ricocheted off the boy’s backside, making him writhe and jerk and gasp loudly before slumping back over the chair, panting and twitching, in total subjection.

The Commander wielded the cane with stunning skill. The stinging lines of pain which sliced their way across Jack’s backside exceeded any previous canings he had received at school. He bounced up and down on the back of the chair and strained every muscle in his legs to hold them straight and apart.

The twelfth and final stroke was imminent. Jack’s clenched fists, wet with the saliva from his mouth into which they had been thrust to hold back his cries, and stinging with the imprint of his teeth, groped desperately to cling on to the chair.

The cane rose and fell. The collision was formidable. The cane cracked with unrestrained vengeance across the bare flesh of Jack’s buttocks. The sound reverberated around the room and a shudder rippled through the teenager’s body as the full impact of the stroke bit into him.

Arthur stood gazing at the sight of Jack’s striped, bruised, red and purple blotched buttocks clenching and unclenching, trembling like jelly. His own legs buckled and for a moment he feared he would fall onto the floor in a fainted heap.

“Over!” the Commander swished the cane impatiently. Arthur wanted to push past the Commander and his fearful cane, and dash from the room. He would not stop running until he had reached his mother’s arms at his home one hundred and fifty miles way.

That is what he wanted to do. But it was not what he did. His two great friends Jack and James had endured their thrashings. They had been brutal, but the two boys had behaved honourably. They had misbehaved and had accepted their due punishment. No matter how terrible the ordeal might be, Arthur resolved to take the caning. He deserved it. He would not let himself down in front of his friends.

In a trance he stepped forward towards the chair. He clenched his eyes tightly shut and fumbled at his trousers. He could not quite get his fingers to work and it took an age before he felt the heavy cloth of his trousers slide down his thighs before travelling past his knees to rest at his shins. His underpants followed reluctantly.

The Commander’s impatience grew. “Hurry up boy, I haven’t got all day.”

Arthur felt the colour draining from his face. His legs became weak and an immovable lump came into his throat. His eyes displayed the sheer horror and despair which was consuming him. A sudden realisation that this boy was terrified brought a sneer to Bunyan’s lips.

With eyes still tightly closed, Arthur stretched himself forward and offered up his bared buttocks to his tormentor.

The boy’s apprehension was obvious, even without studying the quivering vibration of his naked and expectant bottom, the Commander knew that he was terrified of the pain of the beating to come. He was horrified that he might fail the test.

No matter, events must take their course. The Commander, surprised that his palms had suddenly begun to sweat tucked his cane under his arms so he could wipe his hands against his trousers. Bunyan too was sweating, but anxious to get on with the show.

The Commander slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and prepared to administer the third thrashing of the evening.

The first cut bounced into Arthur’s mounds and sank deep into the flesh, before it re-emerged leaving behind a thick red mark across the centre of both cheeks. Arthur let out a piercing scream and jumped from the chair, both hands grabbing his ferociously boiling buttocks. He stamped up and down on the carpet in a fruitless attempt to ease the agony.

James’ eyes widened at the spectacle. He had seen many boys caned in his lifetime, but none had behaved like this. What was wrong with the boy?

The Commander thought he knew. This boy had never before been on the receiving end of a caning. How could such a thing happen? Was he not eighteen years old and the product of an English public school? The public schools – which were in fact expensive independent private schools – were renowned across the British Empire for their discipline. The school cane had been one of the country’s finest exports for a hundred years or more. How could this boy be a virgin to its lash at his age?

“Back over!” it was a ferocious command. “Do not dare behave in such a disgraceful way. Take your beating like a man!”

Totally humiliated and with tears streaming down his cheeks, Arthur prepared once more to receive the kiss of the cane.

The Commander was a military man through to his inner core. This shaking, wailing boy bent over the chair, bared buttocks pointing upwards at him, might be experiencing this for the first time, but he must not be lenient. He was as guilty as his two fellows and he must be punished in exactly the same way. It would not be fair on them. Besides, if he laid the cane on lightly, Jack and James would know and they would despise Arthur for it. No, the right thing to do would be to tear the boy’s buttocks to shreds.

And, that is precisely what the Commander did.

The Commander saw the tension taking over Arthur’s entire body and sensed the teenager holding his breath to bursting point, as the older man realigned the cane to deliver a diagonal stroke to cut across the previous one.

His arm swept down. The cane struck the springy globes with a swish and leapt away. Arthur’s body convulsed on the chair, his fingers scrabbled and wrenched, he gave a pitiful whine and then settled again, ready for the next stroke.

The next lashes fell a fraction below each other getting lower and lower with number six landing right on the crease, by now Arthur was bawling and tears had fallen from his eyes and the chair cushion was wet with teardrops. His hands were tightly gripping the chair as another stroke landed at a right angle crossing all the previous stripes. Arthur howled once more and his backside wobbled and shook as he came to terms with this latest onslaught.

When number twelve landed the Commander whipped it with a will right on top of stroke number seven on the crease, Arthur’s head shot up and he screamed in agony.

“That will do.” It was a calm, courteous statement. The punishment was over.

Arthur let go of the seat cushion; his knuckles now bleached white. Nothing registered clearly or coherently as quickly he got up, but his hands immediately went round to feel his scalded buttocks and he could not get dressed immediately until the pain reached its peak.

The pain was so intense that in spite of his eighteen years he could hardly see for the tears which were flooding his eyes: he had taken as severe a caning as could have been delivered.

Five minutes later, the Commander was once more alone in his room. The three boys were upstairs admiring their corrugated backsides and congratulating one another on their fortitude. Mr Bunyan was lying on his bed, his trousers at his ankles. In the distance a thunderclap heralded yet another rain storm.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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The Student’s First Caning (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on November 28, 2015

Posted in: caning, M/M. Tagged: cane, caning, Charles Hamilton the Second, discipline, M/M, student, teacher, teen, teenager. 5 Comments

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“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 wore denim jeans. It was just a fashion, but if boys thought 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 a step 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.

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http://charleshamiltonthesecond.wordpress.com/

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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Canes by http://www.quality-control.co.uk/

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Comments welcome

Home Late (M/M)

Posted by Rod Cayenne on November 23, 2015

Posted in: M/M, spanking. Tagged: belt, Charles Hamilton the Second, dad, discipline, M/M, punishment, spanking, teen, teenager. 1 Comment

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Hot and brand spanking new fiction by popular guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . All the characters are 18 or over.

“C’mon dad, is this really necessary?”

Aaron’s query only got a grunt from dad as he continued to unbuckle and remove his brown leather belt.

“I’m way too old for this dad.”

“What do you expect? You come home drunk in the middle of the night waking the whole neighbourhood.”

“I didn’t wake the neighbours.”

“Don’t answer me back.”

Dad had doubled up his heavy wide belt and was ready to inflict the whipping he knew his son deserved.

Aaron was sweating a little, partly through fear, but he also had a humdinger of a hangover from the night before.

He tried one more time to reason with his dad, “I’m eighteen dad; way too old for this.”

“You’re not too old, you’re still at school.”

“I’m an adult dad. I can vote and everything.”

Aaron’s father was losing his patience. “You live in my house, you obey my rules. It’s not unreasonable to ask you not to come home drunk.”

His son had no answer to that. It was true he was plastered last night, he couldn’t even remember getting home. Had one of his pals dropped him off? Yes, he was out of order, he knew that, but that didn’t mean he should get a spanking. He wasn’t the only one plastered at the party, he couldn’t believe any of his friends were having similar conversations with their dads, and were about to being taken across their knees for a bare-bottom spanking.

Aaron’s dad was fairly large; a standard working man. His face was covered with brown stubble and most of the rest of his body was covered in thick hair. He worked in the post office and still wore his uniform which consisted of a blue shirt, dark grey trousers and stout black shoes. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal his massive forearms, covered in thick hair, and on his left arm was a fading tattoo, from his military days.

Aaron knew from experience he should not try to argue with his dad. He was of the “old school,” he was the man of the house – the head of the household – and he expected to be obeyed: by his wife and by his children. Failure in this regard would lead to the direst sanctions: he was not afraid to use corporal punishment.

Aaron and his son were at a stand-off. Aaron had not yet accepted he should be belt whipped and his father had to decide his next move.

“Take down your jeans and pants and bend over the back of the couch.”

Aaron stood frozen. He supposed he had two options: one was to meekly do as his father ordered; and two was to run like the wind from the house.

The eighteen-year-old took too long deciding so his father made up his mind for him. He tucked the belt under his left arm and approached his son. Suddenly, the belt holding up Aaron’s jeans was being unbuckled by his dad. The denims were yanked down unceremoniously, followed shortly after by the boy’s tight yellow briefs. Tears of shame were forming in the son’s eyes.

Then, his dad grabbed a hunk of Aaron’s hair, pulled him round so he was facing the couch and shoved the boy’s shoulders so that he fell across its back and his face landed in the cushion.

“I’ve had it with your backtalk. I’ve had it with your contempt for my authority. I’ve had it with your refusal to obey our rules. From now on, every time you step out of line, this is what you’re going to get. Each and every single time. Do you understand me, boy?”

Aaron was defeated; he knew resistance was futile; he would have to submit to this spanking. He wriggled his waist a little to make himself more comfortable. It was a huge soft leather couch and his stomach sank into the padding. He stretched his arms ahead of him and held tightly onto the front of the soft seat cushion. In this position his face was buried deep into the cushion and he could smell a combination of leather and sweat.

Aaron barely believed what was about to happen, here he was in the sitting room jeans and briefs round his ankles, his body bent almost double across the couch while behind him he heard dad preparing to lash his heavy leather belt into his naked buttocks. The teenager braced himself for what he knew was going to be a very intense session with the belt.

Dad was in no hurry. He was satisfied that his son was now submissive. He had opposed him earlier and refused to take his hiding: and he would pay for that with extra lashes; but now he meekly offered up his bare bum for his father to do with as he wished.

Now, Aaron heard a soft clinking noise behind him. He twisted his head around and saw that his father was folding up his belt. Dad doubled it in half for control and precision, and stepped forward. Aaron turned his head again – he couldn’t look. Instead, he waited with his exposed buttocks pointing up in the air while that long, agonizing moment of preparation passed. He tried to steel himself so that he wouldn’t cry.

Aaron heard a whistle before the belt SPLATTED down across his naked bum. Almost immediately he felt the fire in his arse begin to build, number two came from nowhere and made the lad yell.

Aaron had willed himself not to move. He stayed bent over, holding his backside in place so that his dad could lash his buttocks over and over. And his father did so, swinging the belt down hard across the lower edge of the vulnerable and naked bottom.

Aaron’s resistance crumbled all at once, and with a mournful wail, the tears poured forth. The pain didn’t lessen and the belt didn’t stop; it continued to strike his teenage bottom. Over and over these lashes were repeated, quickly joined by Aaron’s cries and wails of pain. The once-smooth skin of his buttocks was raw and blistered, covered with dozens of overlapping crimson rectangles.

For a full five minutes dad methodically brought the strop lashing across his son’s naked backside, sparing not a single inch of his buttocks and hips and even a considerable portion of the backs and sides of his legs, leaving the entire area a molten, seething, well of red hot agony.

Aaron’s body shuddered as he sobbed non-stop during the last few blows.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Dad finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks. When he let Aaron up, he’d forgotten about being too old for a spanking. He hopped around like a little boy, his penis flopping, while he tried to rub the sting out of his bare behind that had just been roasted to 350-degrees Fahrenheit.

The teenager’s bottom looked hideous; a mass of magenta welts and burgundy bruises. Some of the bruises were growing dark, almost brown.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, once he had calmed down, he went to inspect the damage done to his bottom in the mirror. His cheeks were dark red and the welts from the strap were prominent, the heat coming from his bum would be enough to warm a small room. Slowly he walked back to his bed and lay face down to allow the tears to fall, tears of pain and humiliation. How much longer would he be subject to this type of punishment? Only dad knew the answer to that.

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D I S C L A I M E R

All characters appearing in this story are over 18 and are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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M	T	W	T	F	S	S
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Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

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Story © 2016 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

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♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

Story © 2016 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

Photo © 2013 by Jonathan; Model: Rod

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Comments welcome!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

———————-

Roy Smith was very “old school” and “school” was the appropriate word, because he kept three authentic swishy rattan school canes in a drawer in the kitchen and he wasn’t afraid to use them.

He knew they were authentic because they had the words “Birmingham Education” inscribed on them near the curved handle.

A schoolmaster pal of his had taken a bunch of canes from school when he retired. He gave them away to fathers he knew who would put them to proper use.

Roy sat in his kitchen, watching the clock. Soon, very soon, one of those canes would see some action.

He wore his thickest and newest jeans, but it would do him no good. He knew his uncle’s reputation. He had been quite close to the man’s sons. The two eldest had long ago fled the nest leaving only twenty-year-old Bert behind, trapped by his lack of education and poverty.

It couldn’t happen too soon for John. Who, he wondered, wanted to live in a house with an outside toilet and no bathroom? His uncle had to wash in a tin bath or else go to the municipal bathhouse.

John knocked cautiously on the door. He knew his uncle was at home. He had been summoned by him. There was no doubt his uncle was waiting for him and no doubt what would happen once he got inside the house.

Uncle Roy was a robust man, larger than life, some would say. He had huge hands and big feet. His head was as round as a football and his ruddy face made him look permanently drunk.

“Come in John,” it wasn’t an unfriendly greeting. “Go into the kitchen.”

Uncle Roy followed his nephew down the passageway. They stood awkwardly in the kitchen. It was surprisingly large for so small a house. As always a stink of cabbage water, distemper and mould hung in the air.

John knew why he was here, in this particular room. It was where Uncle Roy kept his school canes. In a drawer in the rickety wooden table.

John stared at the linoleum beneath its feet. It had once been coloured blue but decades of shuffling feet had reduced it to a worn grey. His cousin Bert appeared at the kitchen door, keen to see the fun.

“Bugger off, Bert,” Uncle Roy frowned. “Go get me a paper. Take your time.”

Bert did not hide his disappointment. He sat on the stairs, put on his outdoor shoes, and then moodily opened the front door.

Uncle Roy pulled open the ramshackle drawer of the table. It took both hands because it kept sticking. He reached inside and pulled out a cane. There were three but he didn’t have to choose; they were all the same length and thickness.

John’s eyes followed his Uncle’s movements as first he swished it through the air and seemingly satisfied with that, he then tested its flexibility in his hands. It was a standard “senior” cane. Similar ones had peppered the backsides of older schoolboys since time immemorial.

“Jeans and pants down. Bend over the table.”

John had expected this, but still his body would not obey his brain. He stumbled with his belt buckle for so long an exasperated Uncle Roy cried, “Do you want me to do it for you?”

No! It was bad enough stripping half naked but the humiliation of having his uncle take down John’s trousers and pants was too much. He got his fingers to obey and soon his jeans and underpants were resting on top of his blue-and-black bumper boots.

He shielded his cock and balls with his hands. Uncle Roy smiled, but said nothing. He swished the cane and then tapped it on the table top. “Bend over.”

John leaned forward, stretched out his arms, arched his back and gripped the table’s edge.

“Not like that,” his uncle was becoming exasperated. “Lay flat down on your stomach.”

John glanced down at the dirty stained oil cloth that covered the table. It looked disgusting. Nonetheless he eased himself forward and rested his chest on the table. His stomach pressed against the edge of the table.

“Raise your bottom higher. Stretch those arms out. Hold on to the edge of the table,” Uncle Roy ordered. “That’s right,” he added, after his nephew had shuffled himself into the correct position.

Johns forehead and nose pressed into the filthy oil cloth. It felt sticky. The smell of stale cooking fat almost made him gag. He stared down onto unidentified stains.

Swish! Number two bounced off the under-curves of the cheeks and was greeted by renewed marching. John stuck his hand across his mouth to stifle the yell he wanted to make.

Outside, in the yard, Mr Drury, the next door neighbour was intrigued. “What are you doing standing on that bin, Bert?”

Bert opened his mouth to reply just as the sound of a cane’s swish and a teenager’s yell poured out of the kitchen window.

“Oh, I see,” Mr Drury laughed, “Your dad’s giving someone what for.”

“Yes, my cousin,” Bert replied.

“Here move over, let me have a look.”

He climbed up next to Bert in time to see the cane lash down for the fourth time into John’s buttocks. He was not close enough to notice that four deep lines now criss-crossed John’s naked bum. Most of his bottom glowed dark pink. Soon four purple welts would form.

John sucked on his own forearm to stop him crying out again as slice number five hit him high; on the top of his globes almost near his spine. The teenager’s breathing was heavy. The pain was beyond his endurance. His head and temples throbbed every bit as much as his savaged backside.

Outside, Mr Drury atop of the dustbin leaned forward for a better view. He saw the sixth and final cut bite deep into the very centre of John’s buttocks. It hit at an angle and crossed two previous cuts, reigniting the already considerable pain.

At that point John yelled blue murder and Mr Drury and Bert tumbled from the bin, with a resounding crash. The lid flew off and rolled down the yard.

“What the …” Uncle Roy cried out.

“I’m out of here,” Mr Drury turned on his heels and was in the safety of his own yard before Uncle Roy reached the kitchen window. All he saw was Bert stooping to pick up and replace the scattered rubbish in the bin.

Uncle Roy summed up the situation immediately. “Bert get in here, now!”

“Get up John, it’s over. Let that be an end to the matter, but if you get caught stealing again I’ll give you twice as many strokes and twice as hard.”

“You!” Uncle Roy turned to his crestfallen son. He swished the cane menacingly. “What have I told you before about peeping through windows?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He pushed Bert down across the table.

He had two extremely uncomfortable bus rides home. He was relieved that neither conductor asked him why he was standing when so many seats were unoccupied.

__________

More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

Story © 2016 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

____________

_____________

Comments welcome!

♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by very special guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

__________

More stories from Charles Hamilton the Second are at Male on Male Spanking Stories:

Story © 2016 by Charles Hamilton the Second, used here by very kind permission of the author.

____________

_____________

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♥ Site recommended story ♥

Hot and brand spanking new fiction by beloved guest author Charles Hamilton the Second . This story is currently exclusive to The Canery! All the characters are aged 18 or over.

Mickey Reilly stared down at the toecaps of his shoes. His fingers stretched to touch the scuff marks. He had been instructed, “Bend over. Touch your toes.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. It put a terrible strain on your calf muscles.

Reilly knew how to do it. He had been in this position before. Probably would be again. Spread the feet a little. That was the answer. Keep the head low and the bottom high.

Michael Reilly, aged 18, member of the Upper Sixth. He had never been made a prefect. Definitely wasn’t prefect material. In the headmaster’s study. Again. Waiting patiently for six-of-the-best.

Who threw the first punch? Nobody will ever know. Fists flew, eyes were blacked.

The headmaster jawed and jawed Reilly. “Disgraceful behaviour … Brawling in the street … Letting the school down …”