Spanking fiction

Updated 10/20/24

This section contains short fiction-stories about whipping that can be found in the vastness of the Internet. Some of them have been written by me personally. My nickname as an author is Rodsie. Please do not judge me harshly, as English is not my native language. In any case, if I make a translation, it will be reported additionally.

Dishonesty & Stealing

Author: ScubaSteve42

Illustration: Euticus

Miss Mary, the house maid was tending to her normal morning routine. Blessed and thankful for the opportunity, always diligent in her work, assisting the Lives of the Young Family, Ma-Ma Bessie, Pa-Pa Randolph and the puckish Randolph Jr. (Junior) . This very morning; she silently went about. Occasionally humming the hymns. Per chance by fate, or a blessing from the Lord. Miss Mary perceived the young charge Randolph acting quite suspiciously, rummaging through “Ma-Ma’s” town satchel, before leaving for school. Very abnormal from routine.

Later; When Mrs. Bessie Young was preparing to leave for town; “Ma-Ma” questioned her staff if she had misplaced a few coins. Financially stable, but not mistaken. While her husband was out to sea, “We must be diligent with every piece.” Miss Mary, loyal to her benefactress, confessed what she had bore witness too. Igniting a fierce gaze in Bessie. One Mary had not seen in months. “It’s not about the missing currency, it’s about the misdeed that has taken place. A LESSON needs to be learned.” Ma-Ma stated matter of factly. Through pursed lips. “Yes Mrs. Bessie.” the solemn Maid replied. Knowing from previous encounters, what a LESSON from Ma-Ma Bessie meant, having assisted with correcting misdeeds far less severe than theft.

When Randolph Junior arrived home from school, a belly full of ill gotten sweets. Spending the coins frivolously. Oblivious to the full potential reach, of his incautious thievery. (It was just a few coins anyway). Upon entering the foyer, he was greeted by his mother. Standing dutifully. “Randolph!” She stated. “It’s good to see you this fine day my lad.” 

“Hello Ma-Ma!” the boy embraced his mother. Slowly he took a step back, the embrace was not returned. Mrs. Bessie Young stood planted, with her hands placed lightly on her hips, radiating her maternal energy. Their eyes locking.

“Junior, do you know anything about missing coins?”

“What?” the lad questioned, taken aback by the abrupt directness in her tone.

“Do you know about coins? Missing from my town bag.”

The boy felt sick to his stomach. “Coins?..Coins?” He was stumbling verbally.

“Did you take coins out of my purse boy?!” Ma-Ma Bessie asked coldly, deeming through maternal instinct that her charlady maid perceptions were accurate.

“No! No Ma-Ma!” The terrified boy quivered.

“Then who took them?!!”

“No! Ma-Ma, it was not me. Did you ask Mary!?! It was Mary!!” shaking, the boy retorted, trying to escape the verbal altercation.

Mrs. Bessie Young let out a soft-gasp. “Junior, are you saying you DID NOT take the coins out of my bag?!” practically praying that the lad would admit the obvious truth.

“No, no Ma-Ma, never!!”

The benefactress of the house, soften her face. And let out a long audible sigh. 

“Miss Mary, please come into the parlor!” the Matorn Ma-Ma exclaimed. The witnessed Maid, entered the parlor and closed the door behind her, sealing the proximity. Randolph Junior began to quake with fear when he saw what Miss Mary was holding. A white towelette strip.

“No, Ma-Ma nooo” the red headed charge pleaded. Ma-Ma Bessie Young scolded her son in a fiercely soft maternal tone.

“Thievery, is one thing. My young boy, but to lie to you own mothers face so blatantly is downright sinful. It seems you have forgotten how serious it is to lie to me.“ Bessie stated matter-of-factly. “and to try and suggest sweet Miss Mary did the deed?! Aye, you might as well be begging me show you what happens again, when you lie and fib in this house.” she declared.

“No , please Ma-Ma. I’m sorry. No! No!” Randolph Jr. pleaded. Miss Mary crossed her arms, holding the towel knowingly.

“Where are the coins, Junior?” The Matriarch questioned him.

“Ma-ma, no please…no”

“WHERE are the coins?!” Bessie interrogated.

“Ma-Ma, they’re gone. I’m sorry. No please.” The boy looked at Miss Mary and then back to his mother, the desperation growing.

“This will be a LESSON, you will NEVER forget.” Mrs. Bessie Young announced coldly. Nodding at Miss Mary to proceed as trained. Miss Mary walked briskly towards Junior and both women led the shaken lad towards the couch.

“No Lesson, Ma-Ma please.” 

Taking a seat with her plump rump, Mrs. Bessie Young undid the fastens to her young sons overalls. Pulling the clothing and undergarments completely off the terrified seed. Miss Mary had been trained by Randolf Sr., The bear-sized Sea Captain, on how to tie the restraining knot, when assisting his wife Bessie with “LESSONS”. Securing Randolf Jr.’s wrists and mentally preparing for the next proceedings.

Swapping places with Bessie, Mary took a seat near the arm of the couch. The two women pulled and tugged, the mischievous thief, up and over the arm of the couch. Miss Mary took hold of his hands with her left hand, while securing Junior’s immobile position, placing her hand on his neck. Her charge was dangling obtusely Jack-knifed over the arm of the couch. Mrs. Bessie removed the stiff switch, used on these occasions, from its place next to the parlor Bakers Rack.

Junior did not dare resist, he knew the severe consequences of resisting. Junior was also trained it to submit to his maternal discipline. Knowing full well, the consequences of resistance, equal to that of lying.

Taking position behind Randolph Jr, the splitting image of her own husband. Her eyes fixated on her target as she raised the switch high above her head. “Best remember this LESSON next time you think to tell me a fib.”

Bessie swung the switch down hard across Juniors bare bottom. The boy sucked in a gasp of air as the second stroke landed squarely across both buttocks. Eliciting a loud howl from the youth. Miss Mary, gripped the boy’s hand and pushed his head down slightly, lifting his rear target, as she was trained by her benefactors. When a misdeed has been committed, it must be corrected firmly. As her charge bellowed from another firm stroke, Miss Mary bowed her head.

‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack

Mrs. Bessie Young continued to discipline her young miscreant. If only Junior had told the truth, IF only Junior hadn’t taken the coins, IF ONLY Junior hadn’t tried to blame poor Miss Mary. The robust woman in the teal and pearls, furrowed her brow and gritted her teeth. Steering her heart clear from weakness. Administering another row of firm strokes, causing a howl from her sobbing seed.

‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack! Junior was learning this LESSON. The tears were streaming down his face, BOO-HOO’ing over the guilt and pain.

‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack! Bessie paused a moment, grasping the switch in both hands. Tapping the tip lightly on her palm, as she waited for Junior to calm a bit.

“Now…Randolph , this - is for lying and…”

“Ohh no , Ma- Maaaa , please!” the boy bellowed interrupting.

“ANNNDD…Miss Mary will be administering the final strokes.”

“Ooohh hooooo! Nooo!” - the thieving liar begged, stomach rumbling from the stress and the sweets. Junior raised his head, trying to meet the eyes of his house maid. Miss Mary, stone faced, averted her eyes. She pushed down on Juniors face gently again, raising his rear. Causing more sobs from the lad. Bessie, held her arm high and brought the switch down hard, a firm pace, onto Juniors buttocks.

‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack! Bessie pressed her weight onto Juniors lower back, as she handed the switch to Miss Mary. Trading places with the maid, Ma-Ma Bessie rested her plump rump on the couch again and grasped Junior, firmly, in the same fashion. One hand on his head and neck, the other holding his tied wrists. Miss Mary, who had assisted secondarily in many of Junior’s LESSONS. Never an active participant before today. Held the switch mid height. Feeling it’s weight in her hands, she started looking to aim.

Miss Mary the Maid locked eyes with Mrs. Bessie Young. Her loving benefactress, who nodded once, encouragingly. Miss Mary brought the switch down with great speed. Cracking onto his rump. Eliciting a howl from Junior.

thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack! Junior kicked wildly , making noises and grunts of pain, sobbing as one sorry young boy. Ma-Ma Bessie held him tight as he bucked wildly.

thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-“WAAAHHHHAAAAA!! 

“thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack-‘thwip’-smack.

Junior was sobbing uncontrollably and heaving breaths, bent on the couch. Miss Mary looked at Ma-Ma Bessie and also nodded. Knowingly & thankful to be trusted. Bessie Young united her lovely Sea Captains “favorite” knot, and brought Junior to his feet. Handing the towel to Miss Mary, who was collecting Junior’s overalls from the ground, per her assisted training.

After returning the switch to it’s home next to the bakers rack. Ma-Ma stomped back to Junior who was standing and sobbing in shame.

“Now, Junior… “ Bessie raised her finger and wagged it softly at her child. “Did you learn LESSON today??”. Junior sobbed.

“ I THOUGHT I made it very clear!?!” The mother questioned menacingly.

“-sob- lying and stealing -sob-“...

“That’s right, and the next time I find out you’ve been telling fibs… Aye, you won’t sit down FOR A MONTH!!” The robust woman declared, practically radiating her maternal instincts. Miss Mary smiled lightly at the sight. Her naughty charge, rubbing his marked rear after receiving a through and just chastisement.

“As usual, NOSE to the wall, hands up. MARCH!!” - taking her wagging finger and pointing to the spot, between the two chairs. Mrs. Bessie Young, could not stand liars. Such a sinful deed. Young or old, they all deserve what they get. Her boy would not take that path. Junior placed his nose on the wall and his hands above his head. Remembering from his past, the further consequences of leaving this placement.

“Miss Mary will bring you the overalls in 15 minutes. Go to your room after and review your days school notes. I’ll visit with you and review them before bed.”

“Yes Ma-Ma! I’m sorry!! -sob-“

“Yes Dearie, it’s okay now. I’ll visit before bed..”

Bessie moved across the room and whispered to her stoic Maid. “15 minutes and then you can have the night off of duties. Thank you for your help and I’m sorry for the fuss Miss Mary.”

“Yes Miss Bessie, bless you. Looking forward to preparing for Pa-Pa Randolfs return.” smiling acknowledging to her benefactress. Junior cried quietly to himself, reflecting over his LESSON. The raised stripes on his rear, throbbed in pain. A constant reminder of his dishonesty for the next several days.

Deviant

Author: Rodsie 

(translated from rus)

Illustration: Euticus

- Great! On the very first day, he threw off the class. On the second day, he got into a fight with a classmate. And today, what happened?

- Today he cursed out the teacher. He told her a f*** you!

- And then?

- They’re calling you to the school.

- What about you?

- I already went. With him. To the counselor.

- And what did she say?

- Now she wants to see you. She needs to evaluate the whole family.

- Why?

- She suspects there's a lack of supervision in our family.

- What do you mean?

- The adults don’t criticize the kid’s weird behavior at all. And she thinks it’s been like that for a long time.

- She’s right. And you both think it’s my fault?

- Who else could it be? For once, take care of raising the kid. Talk to him!

- Aren't you overreacting a bit? He just started school. Besides swearing, he doesn't know how to do anything else yet. Wait until he learns how to drink, smoke, and hook up with girls, then we can talk.

- Don’t be so sarcastic!

- Should I remind you of his kindergarten days? How he bit the whole group, took toys from the other kids, and threw tantrums at the teachers? What did you say back then? "Let's hire a nanny!" And what about all the things he did outside on the playground? I won't even mention his antics at home! What did you say when I grabbed my belt? Forget? "He's not to blame! It was an accident! He's tired! He's not feeling well! Don't touch him! I'll talk to him myself!" What do you want from me now?

- Well, please, do something! - She raises her hands in prayer, and tears come to her eyes.

- Fine. Just stay out of it! Go to the bedroom, shut the door and I don’t want to see or hear you for the next half hour. Ok?

***

- Daniel, come here, - I have a leather strap from my old military outfit in my hands.

- I'm packing my schoolbag for tomorrow. You come here!

I approach. I firmly grab his forearm and lead him to the couch. I sit down and wrap my legs around my standing son. I hold his hands tightly in mine.

- What did you say to the teacher today?

- Nothing!, - he looks at me from under his brow. There’s confusion and irritation in his eyes. And not a trace of fear.

- Do you know that you shouldn’t swear?

He remains silent.

- You shouldn't swear, nowhere and never. Especially at school! And to make sure you remember this better, you'll be punished now. Do you understand?

In response, silence, and he stubbornly snorts.

I grab the elastic band of his pants and start pulling them down. He grabs my hands, slapping my arms. Then he screams ‘Aaaah!’ and leans down and tries to bite me. Grabbing him by the neck, I bend him in half over my left knee. With my right foot, I clamp his legs in a pincer. Pants and underwear down! He wriggles all over and covers his butt with his hands. Then he squeals ringingly on one note ‘Aaaaah!’ and finally calls for help, ‘Maaa-maaaah!’. With my wrists nailed to his back, I start whipping him. Hard, rhythmically, soundly.

The first stroke instantly interrupted his cry of ‘Mum’. His voice trails off, then chokes and switches to a continuous upper register shriek: ‘Aaaaaa-aaah!’. The boy manages to take a short breath only a couple of times but only with his mouth. His nose is full of snot. After counting out ten whipping and hard smacks, I get him to his feet. His face is crimson with exertion, tears streaming from his reddened eyes. There's a bunch of snot hanging under his nose.

- Do you understand why I'm punishing you? Do you understand the topic of today's lesson?

In response, he only sobs and remains silent. He looks angrily at his offender and stubbornly remains silent.

I bend him over again. His butt is all red with a scarlet stripes. I keep whipping. Harder and at the same pace. Screaming through my eardrums. Ten more. And he's back on his feet. Sobs turn to chest-shaking sobs. He's not talking! He's silent again!

Suddenly the door opens: ‘Peter! I only asked you to talk.’ Hands pleading at her chest.

- Get out!!! Get out of here!!!, - my shriek stops even the kid's sobs. He freezes, afraid to take a breath. The door slams. A prolonged sob. He keeps breathing!

- Now you see what I'm punishing you for? Have you learnt your lesson?

- Yah-ye-yea-yeah, yeah, - my son stuttered and sobbed, finally speaking like a normal child. And his look changed too. It became more meaningful, or something?

- Are you sure you understand?

He's nodding his head vigorously.

- Tell me again what you can't do?

- N-n-n-no swearing!

- One last thing. I'm warning you. From now on, I'll whip you for bad behaviour regularly! Is that clear? Or shall we continue it? I shook the strap.

- No, Daddy! No, please!! I'll behave. I really will!

I'm hugging my son. He's crying again but now on my chest.

- Go wash up and go to see your mum. I think she'll have the right words for you now!

B-flat 2nd octave

Author: Rodsie 

(translated from rus)

Illustration: Euticus

When Alexander returned from work a little later than usual, he found his wife in the kitchen preparing dinner.
- Where's Junior, playing his Xbox again?
- Well, where else would he be? He's in his room, sitting on the internet and playing some new endless game. You should be concerned about your son's health. You're the father! The kid's 11 years old and he's never been anywhere but school. He sits there, pale, lacking fresh air.
- What can I do? I'm at work all day long, sometimes I take weekends off. All the trainings are paid, you know how much money it costs!
- At least go to school, talk to the coach, try to get him on the football team.
- Ok. I'll finish work early tomorrow and go to his school. We'll come back together.
- And now I'm gonna go talk to him about tomorrow.
- Okay, dinner's in fifteen minutes. Don't be late!

As he approached his son's room, he heard the loud sounds of explosions and machine gun fire. It was useless to knock on the door. Entering his son's room, Alexander shouted:
- Hi, Junior!

Junior reacted calmly to his parent's sudden appearance:
- Dad, don't shout, I'll pause it now.

Sitting down on the edge of the couch by the computer, Alexander decided to come in from afar:
- How's school going?
- Fine.
- Well, yes! If it was abnormal, my mother would have already reported to me.
- Then why do you ask?
- I was just curious. Did you have a rest after school? Go play outside!
- I can't! I have an important team tournament in DOOM Eternal.
- Maybe I send you to football or boxing? You're sitting in front of the computer for hours, chasing bots around.
- Dad, I'm gonna be a computer programmer.
- And to do that, you have to play games all day long?
- No, I'm not just playing, I'm learning how things work, where to go and what to do. And when I’ll know that, I'm gonna figure out how to program it.
- Oh, it's a long story. While you're figuring it out, your mother and I have decided to put you in a school club or something stuff so that you can get away from the computer two or three times a week and do something useful. Tomorrow I'll come to you after your classes and we'll decide where we'll go. Deal? Anyway, no objections! Let's go to dinner. Mom's waiting.

To be continued...

Well-behaved Boy

Author: Charles Hamilton the Second

My friends and neighbours often compliment me about how well behaved my son Nathan is. He’s not like other teenagers, they tell me, he’s not rude and boorish, he’s always polite to his elders. He doesn’t drink alcohol and he doesn’t smoke weed. He is, they say, a fine young man.

I lap up the praise but I never tell them just why he is so well behaved. I don’t think they’d accept it, if I told them. In fact, they’d probably make quite a fuss and then try to get me in trouble.

Call me old fashioned if you want to but I believe in bringing up kids to be hard-working, well-disciplined and to respect people. Nathan has learnt to be a good boy. He doesn’t break curfew, he studies hard at High School, he does his chores around the house. And, if he doesn’t do any of these things he knows what is coming.

Sometimes, if he commits just a minor infraction, I might ground him or cut his allowance, and if that doesn’t work he knows what to expect. I keep a specially made maple paddle tucked away in the hallway cupboard for just such occurrences.

There are some misbehaviours however that don’t incur minor punishments. There are some that are quite simply unnegotiable. He breaks those rules and I go straight to the cupboard. One such is bad-mothing his mother. In fact, any kind of disrespect to her is a no-go area. No questions asked. I am sorry to say that Nathan incurred my wrath this evening. I had arrived home from work as usual and my wife was getting my meal ready and I could immediately tell that all was not well.

I questioned her and she was near to tears. I won’t embarrass myself by giving you the details, but suffice is to say that Nathan had refused a simple request to take out the trash and then when his mother remonstrated with him, he told her in quite simple language that he was not going to listen to her. Then he stormed upstairs to his room.

Well, I wasn’t going to allow that. Not in my house. ‘Nathan,’ I called up the stairs, ‘Get yourself down here right away.’ He knows better than to disobey me, or to keep me waiting, so immediately I heard his door open and the sound of footsteps on floorboards. He must have been expecting my call; he knows he can’t get away with speaking to his mother like that.

I see straight away from the look on his face that he knows he has behaved badly and he is sorry. Or it might be he just knows that he is in deep trouble. He may be regretful or he may just be scared that he is going to get a whuppin’.

‘In here,’ I say indicating the living room. My wife has left the table clear of meal things; it will be used for a different purpose before I get to sit down to supper. Nathan stands meekly before me. He is as always soberly dressed in jeans and a tee-shirt; he isn’t one of these wild teenagers who tattoo their bodies and wear outrageous clothes. His eyes are downcast as I report back to him the complaint his mother has made. He says very little, simply murmuring his assent: yes, he did say those things. Yes, he is sorry.

Sorry. Yes, he will be sorry, very sorry by the time I’m through with him. He might be eighteen years old but he’s not too old to feel the blade end of my paddle. Heck, if he was thirty and spoke to his mother that way, I’d put the paddle across the seat of those jeans. There isn’t too much to be said. I tell him that I will not allow him to talk to his mother like that. Then, I tell him something that he already knows.

His face falls. He thinks about protesting. It’s no good him saying, ‘But I’m too old.’ Nor does he say that none of his friends gets spanked by their fathers. That is undoubtedly true and that is why they are all running wild on booze and drugs. It is also why my friends and neighbours admire Nathan’s behaviour so much.

‘Go fetch the paddle,’ I command and without any gesture of protest he leaves the room. The paddle hangs on a hook in the hallway cupboard. There was a time when we used to hang it on the wall in the kitchen. That was until one day a neighbour who was visiting my wife for coffee one morning saw it and wondered what it was. Her embarrassment made my wife pretend that it was a chopping block for vegetables. She wasn’t sure that the neighbour bought that, so since then we became more discreet and hid it away.

Nathan returned moments later holding the paddle, his face – never flushed in good times – had paled significantly. He sucked on his lower lip showing anticipation over what was about to happen. I took the paddle from him; it’s a rectangular blade of maybe 12 inches by four with a comfortable handle attached. I made it myself and I’m proud to say I made a good job and it has served me well over many years and three sons.

I weighed the paddle in my hand, it’s not so heavy but it certainly packs a punch, particularly when I’m in control. Nathan stood his eyes glued on me; his expression was blank but I knew he was apprehensive. I was hungry for my supper and didn’t want to prolong matters more than I had to. ‘Assume the position,’ I said cooly as I waved the paddle in the direction of the table. Nathan knew what ‘the position’ was and needed no further instruction. He turned his back to me and took the three or four steps necessary to cross the room and face the table. He took a deep breath, spread his legs and then leaned forward, resting the palms of his hands on the table top.

From my position at the other end of the room I watched as his buttocks clenched. The jeans fitted him well and in his stooped position his taut cheeks filled out the seat of the denims. He offered me a perfect target. I am not a cruel man, I believe in discipline and I believe in punishment, I do not believe in torture. I could quite easily have ordered Nathan to lower his jeans and his underwear too so that he offered me his bare butt for punishment. That would be too humiliating, for him and for me. I know my own strength and so know that even with the jeans for ‘protection’ I can inflict as severe a paddling as Nathan deserves.

I say nothing and swipe the paddle through the air. The muscles in Nathan’s legs and butt tense as his body tries to protect him against the onslaught that is about to begin. ‘Stay steady,’ I warn, even though he hasn’t made any attempt to move. I raise the paddle up above my shoulder and with increasing pace I take one step, two steps, three steps and bring the paddle crashing down across the centre of Nathan’s backside. His body folds on the impact, his knees buckle and his waist sways. But he returns to the position and then he moves his hands to grip the edge of the table to give him something to cling to for stability.

I return to my starting place. Even at a distance I see the mark the paddle has made scorching into the seat of the denim jeans. I know that there will be a red blotch sweating on his buttocks. I slowly count to five in my head before setting off on another run-up. This time I get him an inch or so below the first one. He does the folding and writhing thing again only this time he also lets out a long wheezing sigh through clenched lips. That hurt.

Bravely he settles down for number three. I wait five seconds to let the pain of the two swats so far sink in and also to build up the tension before letting fly. The sound of wood against tight denim bounces of the walls of the small room. Nathan’s hisses also add to the noise. I wonder if the folk next door can hear what’s going on; the walls in these cheap houses are pretty thin. If they could hear perhaps they would better understand how it is that Nathan has grown into the fine young man they believe him to be.

Slowly and deliberately, I run down the room. My heart is racing and sweat is building up under my shirt, I am not as young or as fit as I once was, but I’ve got enough left to give me the strength to land ten high octane swats across Nathan’s butt. He’s pretty distressed as well when I allow him to stand. His face is aglow and he is just about managing to stave off the tears. I can see he desperately wants to rub away the pain from his rear end but he doesn’t want me to know how much I’ve hurt him. There is some kind of pride in this, I suppose. I stand watching him for a few moments, saying nothing. What is there to say? He disrespected his mother and he has been punished. There’s no need for me to remind him what will happen if he does it again.

At last, I let him out of his agony. ‘Take this. Put it back in the cupboard. Go to your room and get on with your homework. I’ll be up later to check on it,’ I say and he snatches the paddle from my hand and rushes from the room.

My wife enters the room carrying cutlery and is ready to lay the table. We do not speak of Nathan’s spanking. We are loving parents and proud to know that we are raising a well-behaved boy.

Skipping college for the beach

Author: Charles Hamilton the Second

It started with an unwelcome phone call. Mr. Knight was at his office and as busy as hell when he was interrupted by his secretary. A Mrs. Blighter was calling, she told him. She said she had some news that he would want to hear. He sighed but took the call. Mrs. Blighter was the nosy neighbour across the street from his house. He already knew what she was going to tell him. She seemed a little too pleased with herself as she breathlessly informed him that his son Charlie, who he knew had left home at 8.30 that morning and should now be sitting in lectures at college, had just arrived home. She thought he would like to know.

Mr. Knight gave a silent curse. Yes, he did want to know. He was sick and tired with his son’s behaviour. There had been warnings before and now this was the final straw. He told his secretary he’d be away for an hour and went to find his car. The drive took twenty minutes, it was the first real warm day of the year and it looked like people were headed for the beach, even though it wasn’t the weekend. He wouldn’t admit (not even to himself) a pang of jealousy: he wouldn’t mind cooling off in the sea himself.

He parked in the driveway and as he approached his house he saw the net curtain across the street twitch. He let himself into his house and immediately heard two voices. Charlie and his best pal Alfie were in the lounge. The two nineteen-year-olds were dressed in shorts and colourful shirts. Teenagers didn’t dress like that to go to lectures.

‘Off to the beach,’ he said. The two students were startled. They hadn’t heard him come in. It wasn’t a question it was a statement of fact.

‘Oh, er, Dad, I ….’ Charlie stuttered in his embarrassment. He hadn’t expected his dad to be home. ‘Hello Mr Knight,’ Alfie, smiled. Alfie and Charlie had been thick as thieves since they first met at secondary school when they were eleven. They had gotten into a few scrapes since then, and Mr Knight knew Alfie was always the leader, as he almost certainly was in this day’s escapade.

Mr Knight was a man on a mission and he didn’t have much time so he got straight down to it. ‘What did I say would happen if I caught you skipping college again?’ This time it was a question, but Charlie treated it as a statement. He and his dad both knew what had been said and what had been threatened.

Charlie blushed. His hair was blond and his skin fair and when his face flushed it would go a cherry colour. ‘Well,’ Mr. Knight said, ‘Let’s not waste any time. Go upstairs and fetch the cane.’ He turned to the other boy, ‘Alfie, you’d better get back to college. This is nothing to do with you. Your dad will have to decide what he wants to do with you.’

Alfie was much the same height and build as his friend but he had black hair and a darker complexion, his mouth turned down and he often looked glum, even when he was in fact quite happy. He frowned, uncomprehending: the cane? A cane. Like the ones they used in schools?

Stooped with embarrassment, Charlie left the room. ‘You need to leave, now,’ Mr. Knight told Alfie and clouded with confusion the teenager shuffled from the room. He stood outside the house, still not understanding. The cane. Mr. Knight keeps a cane at his house, which means he must have used it on Charlie before. How many times? Alfie recalled some of the scraps he and Charlie had got into. Stealing from the newsagent, drinking cider in the woods when they were fifteen, smoking dope last Christmas. Had Charlie been caned after each of then?

His head was still befuddled and he couldn’t just go away. The house stood in a huge garden and there was a large set of windows in the lounge room. Alfie would have a perfect view, undetected, if he stood behind the apple tree. He was in position just in time to see Charlie enter the room carrying a cane. It was just like the ones they used at school. He had been a reluctant visitor to the headmaster’s study several times, but not since he was sixteen. The cane Charlie held was like the one that had bruised Alfie’s backside back then: it was about three feet long, as thick as a pencil, a light brown in colour and had a curved handle at one end.

Charlie handed the cane to his dad. From his distance and with the windows closed, Alfie could not hear the conversation but he could see perfectly what was going on. Charlie handed his dad the cane who then flexed it between his hands as if testing it. This was exactly how Dr. Henderson-Smith at school had acted. Then Mr. Knight swished it through the air a few times. Again, just like a headmaster; perhaps Mr. Knight had made a visit or two to the study himself when he was lad, Alfie thought. How else could he have learnt this caning ritual?

Charlie stood forlorn, hands contritely held behind his back and head bowed as his dad reminded him of his previous threat. ‘This is the third time,’ Mr. Knight started and then corrected himself, ‘at least the third time that I know of. I made it perfectly clear last time what would happen.’ He ended his lecture there. There was no need to say more, except, ‘You only have yourself to blame.’

He swished the cane one more time and pointed it towards one of the two couches in the room. ‘Stand there.’ Charlie obeyed without question. From his vantage point behind the tree Alfie watched, literally open mouthed, as his best pal on instruction from his dad, unbuckled his belt. Then he fumbled with the button on the waist of his beige shorts and let them fall to his feet. He was wearing lurid bright blue swimming trunks underneath. Even from a distance and in the sunshine Alfie believed he could feel the heat of embarrassment burning in Charlie’s face. Alfie knew he himself would die of shame if he were standing before his own dad with his shorts at his feet. But there was more to come.

Another curt command from Mr. Knight and Charlie was sticking his thumbs into the elasticated waist of the swimming trunks and with a couple of flicks they were sent trickling down his thighs until they rested at his knees. Instinctively, Charlie parted his legs to allow them to travel further down and come to rest on top of his shorts. Charlie cupped his hands in front of himself to try to preserve his modesty.

Another swish of the cane and then it was gently tapped on the back of the couch. ‘Bend over.’ Alfie watched in astonishment and a little admiration, as without fuss his pal presented himself for punishment. The boy was tall and the couch low so his body easily cleared the back. Charlie placed his hands flat on the seat cushion of the couch and stared down at it, then he spread his legs. Even at a distance Alfie could see Charlie’s sizeable privates dangling in mid-air. The couch was sideways on to the window and Alfie saw the profile of his pal’s buttocks and muscular legs. He watched as Mr. Knight approached Charlie and in one well practised move took hold of the nineteen-year-old’s shirt and tugged it up his back until there were about three inches of bare flesh above the top of his buttocks.

Mr. Knight seemed to be ready. He took up position a couple of feet to Charlie’s left and then gently tapped the cane on the highest point of the lad’s hairless mounds. He tapped three or four times before lifting the cane high into the air and with a vicious swipe brought it crashing down across the centre of his son’s naked bottom. Alfie could not hear the swoosh or the thwack as the cane travelled and connected with the flesh but he saw Charlie’s immediate reaction. His head rose from the seat of the couch, his knees buckles and his hips swayed.

Alfie’s heart jumped. He watched the second and third swipe land and his pal was clearly in some distress. Alfie was a teenager and like most of that breed he was self-centred and cared very little about anything else than his own comfort. But Charlie and he had been best buddies for years and it worried him to see his pal in such distress. Alfie’s conscience began to prick. The idea to skip college had been Alfie’s, Charlie hadn’t wanted to go to the beach. Now, Alfie understood why. But Alfie’s constant cajoling broke his pal down and eventually he relented. And this was Charlie’s reward.

Mr. Knight had said Alfie’s dad would have to decide what to do with him. Was he going to rat on him? Even if he did, there’s not much Alfie’s dad would do about it. There certainly was no cane kept in a cupboard, nor would there be any discipline at all. Alfie’s dad had never spanked the lad in his life (not even after the shoplifting, boozing and the weed) and he wasn’t about to start now.

The cane rose and fell once more and Charlie’s howl could just be heard through the closed windows. His backside was as red as his face and tears flowed down his cheeks. The teenager was not taking this caning well. Alfie looked on, his mind racing. It wasn’t fair. Charlie shouldn’t suffer like this and Alfie get off scot-free, especially when it had all been Alfie’s idea. Perhaps, Alfie thought for a second, he ought to go tell Mr. Knight it was his fault. And then what? Did he want to be bent across that couch with his shorts and pants at his ankles and let Charlie’s dad cut his bare backside to ribbons. That was not an attractive option. He could still remember the pain when Henderson-Smith caned him and that had only been three strokes with his trousers and underpants firmly in place.

The caning was over, Charlie was jumping from foot to foot hugging his blazing backside unaware (or not caring) that his huge tackle was bouncing up and down for all to see. Mr. Knight tucked the cane under his arm and spoke to Charlie. The boy obeyed the instruction and in obvious agony bent down to retrieve his swimming trunks. He winced visibly as the cotton connected with his ravaged bottom. Then, a little unsteady, he bent again and got his shorts back into their rightful place. His convulsive sobs had eased.

Alfie watched as Mr. Knight left the room. He guessed he would be coming out the front door at any moment. He must decide now: was he going to confess to Charlie’s dad. He ducked out from behind the apple tree and was making his way to the drive when he noticed something from the corner of his eye. He swirled around in time to see a figure scurrying away from beside the greenhouse. It was Mrs. Blighter and she seemed wildly excited.

Mr. Knight approached his car and opened the door as Alfie stood, still undecided.

Smoke Signals

Author: Charles Hamilton the Second

It was a bitterly cold autumn morning but the chill didn’t stop Henderson and Peters from hiding out at the bike sheds during lunchtime for a crafty smoke. Their thin blazers and very short trousers were no defence against the chill and light drizzle. They were eighteen, and senior boys, but they had both been ‘put back into short trousers’ the previous term. This was a ploy of their new headmaster who believed that if senior boys did not behave with maturity they would lose privileges and be treated like juniors. That meant dressing like the juniors as well.

Henderson and Peters huddled together, puffing away, and sharing their grievances against the school and the new headmaster Dr. Thompson. What they didn’t know, but should have guessed, because this wasn’t their first trip to the bike shed, smoke signals were snaking their way into the crisp autumn air. The pair had barely taken a few drags when the ominous figure of Mr. Hargreaves, the strict and unforgiving mathematics teacher, appeared like a spectre out of the thinning mist. The ever-present whippy cane was tucked under his arm. His sharp eyes narrowed as he spotted the culprits, and his voice boomed through the cold air. ‘What do we have here, gentlemen?’ he asked, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

The master’s eyes bore into theirs, his disapproval palpable. He slipped the rattan cane from under his arm into his hand, ready to meet out instant justice. Then, he hesitated. Henderson and Peters were recidivists, repeat offenders, they were constantly breaking the rules. Mr. Hargreaves had intended to give each lad three or four cuts of the cane across the hand, but, he reckoned, malevolently, that the sixth-formers continual breaking of the rules warranted a stiffer punishment.

‘Follow me,’ he ordered, turning on his heel and heading back towards the main building. The boys exchanged glances before reluctantly trailing behind him. The short journey felt like an eternity, each step heavier than the last. They knew what awaited them at the end of this walk: the headmaster’s study.

It was a dimly lit room decked with leather-bound books, polished wood furniture, and stern portraits of former headmasters. ‘Stand there,’ Mr. Hargreaves growled, pointing to a spot in front of the headmaster’s enormous mahogany desk. The two boys shuffled into position. The headmaster, Dr. Thompson, a man in his sixties with a stern countenance and a reputation for upholding discipline, entered the room with a deliberate pace. His eyes, framed by a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, regarded the two boys disapprovingly. He waited with mounting displeasure while Mr. Hargreaves filled him in on the morning’s activities.

‘Thank you, Mr. Hargreaves,’ the headmaster said sternly peering through his spectacles. ‘You have done the right thing bringing this pair to me. I shall take the matter from here. You may return to your duties.’

Mr. Hargreaves left, trying without total success to hide the disappointment he felt that he wouldn’t be witnessing the punishment of the two boys who he had learnt through bitter experience to detest.

‘Henderson and Peters,’ the headmaster began, his voice a mixture of disappointment and authority, ‘Smoking is strictly forbidden on school property,’ he intoned, his voice like thunder. ‘And you both have shown a blatant disregard for the rules and for the reputation of this school.’

The headmaster, like many of his breed throughout the country rather liked the sound of his own voice. He lectured when words were largely unnecessary. The boys had been caught smoking; smoking was against the rules and rule-breaking was punished. Everyone; boys, parents, masters, knew that to be true. Here were two rule breakers and all that was necessary was to get on with the job. Dr. Thompson had more to say on the matter. His word, though possibly eloquently expressed, largely fell on deaf ears. Henderson and Peters listened with distain. They loathed the headmaster and they didn’t think any better about the school. They would have happily left school two years previously to go into the exciting world of work but for their parents who had ambitions of university and professional careers for their sons.

The boys were no strangers to the discipline of the school; they had been up before the new beak many times. They had when called upon offered up their backsides for punishment and when that had been duly received they shared special moments in the boys’ lavatories comparing their marks. But the canings did nothing to deter them from rule breaking. In fact, they rather liked annoying authority. They broke rules, sometimes they got away with it and on other times they did not. A caning was, for them, an occupational hazard. At last, the headmaster had said his fill. He rose (he attempted to do this majestically) from his chair and with a slow death-march crossed the study to the far wall where he opened a cabinet and reached inside.

‘We’re under starter’s orders,’ Henderson who was a horse racing fan said to himself. His thought was confirmed by a rattling sound from within the cabinet. Moments later the headmaster turned to face the two boys revealing a slender, rattan cane in his hands.

‘Blazers off,’ Dr. Thomson barked as he swished the cane through the air. When that task was completed, he continued, ‘Henderson stand in front of my desk. Peters, face the wall.’

Henderson stood some distance from the vast mahogany desk, displaying an air or arrogance that did not go unnoticed by the headmaster who swiped his cane with vigour through the air. ‘Stand closer,’ he grimaced, and then he paused for dramatic effect since he knew the effect his next words would have on the boy, ‘Take down your trousers and bend across the desk.’

The colour drained from Henderson’s face, his eyes glistened with fury as much as with humiliation. Trousers down. That was unheard of, no boy (as far as Henderson knew) had been caned trousers down before. Was it even allowed, he wondered. Now, was not the time to argue the point. The headmaster was in control; that as the way of the world, it always had been and it always would. Henderson could refuse, he could walk out of the study, but then what? Expulsion from school. Personally, he wouldn’t mind that one bit but his parents would go crazy. Life at home would not be worth living. No, Henderson didn’t need to think too deeply, he had to obey the headmaster’s orders no matter how much the boy despised the man.

The short trousers needed no belt, so with quivering fingers the eighteen-year-old unfastened the clip on the elasticated waistband. The weight of cigarettes and keys in his pockets sent the trousers hurtling down his legs to land in a puddle on top of his shoes. He stood damping down the urge to fight with the headmaster.

‘Bend over the desk Henderson,’ the headmaster was enjoying himself and he didn’t care if the two senior pupils in his study knew it. Henderson sucked on his lower lip and in a single athletic movement he bent over, gripping the edge of the desk, his teeth gritted. Dr. Thompson took a step back to admire the figure prostrated across his desk. Henderson was tall and slim and when he could be bothered was quite a star on the running track and the muscles in his legs and buttocks showed this.

His pullover and the tail of the lad’s shirt covered much of his white cotton underpants. The headmaster slipped his cane under his arm and with both hands he carefully slid first the pullover and then the shirt up the boy’s back and away from the target area. The white Y-fronts fitted Henderson’s bottom snugly, riding up his crack and separating each cheek. The headmaster took a moment to admire the sight before, again seeking maximum dramatic effect, he gripped hold of the elasticated waist of the pants. He smiled when he heard the gasp of shock that whistled through Henderson’s lips. The boy suddenly realised the importance of the headmaster’s actions. Dr. Thompson delayed his next action by counting to three in his head. Then, rather in the way a magician might whip off a cloth to show an audience the drinking glasses beneath had disappeared, he tugged the underpants over the boy’s buttocks and left them tangled up at his thighs. Henderson’s bottom was now completely bared for the trashing Dr. Thompson intended to inflict.

Peters, from his vantage point at the wall gasped in horror. He saw his pal bury his head in his arms in anticipation of the humiliation and the agony that he was about to feel. Dr. Thompson, again in no hurry, first tapped the cane across the crowns of the buttocks and then gently ‘sawed’ the cane across the crease where cheeks and thighs meet. He was finding his aim. Then suddenly, without further hesitation, the cane swished through the air, landing with a sharp crack on Henderson’s backside. A wave of pain shot through him, but he refused to cry out, determined to show some appearance of bravery. A thick dark-pink line quickly appeared where the cane had connected with the flesh.

As the cane fell again, Henderson couldn’t suppress a yelp of pain, tears welled up in his eyes, and he bit his lip to stifle further cries. With the expertise of years of practice, Dr. Thompson administered the punishment with each stroke met with a yelp of pain and the humiliation was as painful as the physical pain.

Six times the cane rose and six times it swiped with tremendous force into Henderson’s naked bottom. Each stoke left behind a throbbing welt. Despite the agony he felt, Henderson kept his body still and his backside raised to receive the next cut. His bottom was on fire, his temples throbbed and he could feel the blood coursing through his body. He had never felt so much pain before nor had he experienced such fury against anyone in his life. He hated the headmaster and if by chance he had a gun to hand he would have gladly shot the man dead in his study.

‘You may stand. Get dressed,’ the pomposity of the headmaster rankled. Henderson gripped the side of the desk and slowly got himself to a standing position. His bottom felt like he had sat on hot coals. Unsteadily and fearful that he might tumble to the floor, Henderson managed to grip his underpants and with great pain get them over his scorched buttocks. The short trousers were soon back in their rightful position.

‘Change places with Peters. Peters, trousers down, bend over the desk.’ Peters tumbled to the floor in a faint.

Five minutes later the boys left the study, each with backsides aflame, each detesting the headmaster and the school a little more than they had before they entered the study. ‘Come on,’ Henderson pulled a cigarette packet from his pocket, I need a fag,’ and together they hobbled through the school gates to make their way to the relative seclusion of Widdicombe Woods.