Fake News #2

z used fake news otk sport chair (12)

Spanking for Fighting Soccer Star

EXCLUSIVE The Daily Globe

Sam Spencer, the nineteen-year-old Premier League footballer caught on CCTV brawling outside a nightclub, has been given “an old-fashioned” spanking, we can exclusively reveal.

Spencer whose fight went viral on social media was taken across the knee of Newton Rovers manager Ron Thwistlethorp yesterday for a bare-bottom tanning.

Thwistlethorp, the no-nonsense Yorkshireman, was reportedly “livid with anger” when told news of Spencer’s late night nightclub visit. Spencer was seen on closed-circuit TV allegedly brawling with two other young men. Spencer was seen yesterday morning at club training with bruising to his face.

Now an insider tells The Daily Globe Spencer has quite a few bruises on another part of his body.

“We have high standards at the club. We expect our players to behave themselves, there is no excuse for this kind of behaviour,” the insider said.

The insider revealed that Spencer, who has scored nine goals in the Premier League this season, was summoned to the manager’s office after training.

“Ron Thwistlethorp is a hard taskmaster. He won’t put up with this kind of behaviour. It doesn’t matter if you are an international star or the lowliest apprentice. They all get treated the same.”

And that meant Spencer, who was called up to the England squad for the vital World Cup qualifying match against the Isle of Man last month, found himself over his manager’s knee staring at a rug.

The insider said, “Thwistlethorp doesn’t do things in half measures. He made the teenager remove his football shorts and underwear. It has to be on the bare, otherwise it isn’t a proper spanking.”

Thwistlethorp used a heavy wooden-backed hairbrush, borrowed especially for the purpose from his secretary.

“It packed quite a punch. Sam Spencer was squirming and yelping long before Mr. Thwistlethorp finished.

“He really let him have it. It wasn’t just some little smacked botty,” the insider said.

One source said Spencer was locked in with Thwistlethorp for at least 10 minutes.

Spencer was reportedly spotted later in the club showers with cherry-red buttocks. “It looks like he sat on a barBQ,” teammate Freddie Fiske Tweeted.

Footage of the spanking recorded on a Smartphone was uploaded to the Internet. By midnight it had received more than two million views.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

More Fake News stories here

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Love Our Lurkers

old man in tree prowler Michael Broderick (2)

Hi Guys

There are now getting on for a 600,000 views on the blog and I love you all. Even though I’ve never (knowingly) met any of you and hardly any of you leaves me messages.

I’m delighted by your interest. I must be doing something right because the number of views is increasing month on month.

Now, as part of the twelfth annual Love Our Lurkers Day, I’m asking that you leave me a comment. Just say hello or give some constructive feedback. More than 100 spanking blog sites are expected to take part in the day where we ask our readers to get in touch.

(Actually it’s running over two days – 17 and 18 November 2017)

What’s a lurker? They’re anonymous readers, who never leave comments. Is that you? It doesn’t make you a bad person. But, I’d love to hear from you.

Thanks to Hermione for organising this special day.

Waiting to hear from you.

 

Charles

Picture credit: Michael Broderick

 

LOL 12 orange

Love Our Lurkers Day is coming

LOL 12 orange

Hi Guys,

Let’s reach out to the silent majority. The twelfth Love Our Lurkers celebration is coming. And about 100 spanking blogs are expected to take part.

Once a year all bloggers join forces and encourage their silent readers to come out of hiding and introduce themselves.

Lurkers, anonymous readers, call them what you will, are the people who read blogs on a regular or occasional basis, but never leave a comment. LOL Day encourages those people to be brave and “come out”, but it’s also OK to post anonymously.

It’s coming on Friday, November 17 and Saturday, November 18 2017.

I hope to hear from you soon. And hey, if you can’t wait a couple of days, leave a comment today.

Cheers

Charles

To learn more about Love Our Lurkers Day, click here

It’s the waiting …

z used bed chest nick backes

It’s the waiting that gets me. It always does. I know it’s going to happen, there’s no doubt about that. But when? Why won’t he just get on with it.

I know I deserve it. I won’t argue with that. Rules are rules. Clear as a bell. No ambiguity. Don’t break curfew. Don’t drink alcohol. I did both. Caught bang-to-rights. No argument from me.

I thought I had got one over on Dad. Sometimes I do. I get away with it. This is what I do. About nine in the evening, I get all sleepy eyed. The family’s sat in front to the television. Usually it’s some dopey soap opera, or one of those series about midwives or doctors set in the nineteen-fifties. They’re boring enough to really send me to sleep.

Anyhow, I do the yawning and arm stretching thing. “Yawn, yawn. I’m tired. I think I’ll have an early night.” Then I make sure everyone knows I’m off to my bedroom. “Goodnight Mum. Goodnight Dad. Goodnight John Boy,” you get the idea. Then, as in the script, I go to my bedroom.

So far, so good. I turn the light off and wait about ten minutes. But I don’t go to bed. My bedroom is at the back of the house and everyone is glued to the telly so it’s easy to open up the window, climb out and leg it down to the pub.

I get away with it more often than not. I would have last night as well. But what do you know, just as I was rolling home at half past midnight, Dad had a call of nature. A what? you’re asking. All right; he got up for a piss. Just as I was quietly putting my key in the lock of the front door.

As I said, caught bang-to-rights. So there was Dad dressed in his old, baggy underwear bearing down on me. Not something one wants to see in a parent. “Where have you been?” he growls at me. “Out,” I say back, which of course, is the literal truth, but that’s not what he wants to hear. He says so and I tell him the details. Well, an edited version anyhow. “I’ve been out with my mates,” I tell him.

Still not convinced he isn’t getting only the edited highlights, he advances down the stairs. “You’ve been drinking?” He says it as if it’s a question, but really it’s a statement of fact. I smell of booze. He stands close to me so he can smell my breath. He grimaces (a bit theatrically, if you ask me). The aroma of his own stale sweat drifts between us.

He takes a deep breath and shaking his head (he would make a fine ham actor in one of those soap operas) he says his lines. To be honest with you he has said them all before. What had he told me about curfew? What had he said about drinking alcohol? What happened last time? What should he do this time?

Naturally, they were all rhetorical questions. That is he wasn’t expecting me to answer. The answers in case you’re interested would have been: curfew was eleven on a school night (even though I am eighteen and in my final year); no alcohol to be drunk, ever; last time I was caught he spanked me and what should he do this time? In my own estimation he should forget about it and go to bed.

He has other ideas. “Go to bed. I’ll deal with you in the morning.” With that he shuffles up the stairs giving me a perfect view of his shorts slipping down his hairy arse exposing the top half of his crack.

“I’ll deal with you.” I know what that means. Well I know in the abstract, as we say in our English Lit. classes at school. In the abstract I’m getting a spanking. Only the when and the how has to be revealed.

Last time – how can I forget it was less than three weeks ago – it was Dad’s bedroom slipper. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him wear slippers, but the ones he has (cloth uppers in a brown check pattern and very springy soles) are ancient and worn. I’m still in bed when he bursts into the room. It is his house and he doesn’t think he needs to knock on doors.

He towers over me, gripping the slipper in his right hand. It is a cold morning so I wear pyjama bottoms and a t-shirt with a design of Thailand on it that my mate Dean brought back from holiday. It wasn’t the only thing he brought back, but a shot or two at the clinic soon dealt with that.

Dad doesn’t make big speeches. “Out,” he says, waving the slipper at me. He means get out of bed and do it now. I don’t make a fuss. I know, I know. I’m eighteen years old. This is 2017. My Dad’s going to spank my bottom because I was at the pub and got home late. Can you imagine such a thing? I’m not a betting man but I’d wager the house (as they say) that none of my mates are going across their Dad’s knees at this moment.

I push back the sheet and wriggle my bum along the mattress until my legs dangle over the edge of the bed and I am able to pull myself to my feet. Dad scowls a little. “C’mon,” he says as he sits himself down on the bed and spreads his legs. He doesn’t have to say more. I have been here before, I know the drill.

I shuffle forward until I am standing beside Dad’s right leg. He sits at an angle, so I am expected to lower myself over his knees and stretch out the top half of my body across the mattress. This way, my bum rests perfectly across his lap and my arms are out of the target area. My legs hang over the edge of the bed and my knees bend slightly so that my toes hover a few centimetres above the carpet.

I do this and wait patiently. Dad holds me firmly at the waist. Have you ever been slippered? Well, to be honest it doesn’t hurt that much. There’s a stinging pain as the springy sole connects with the bum and it lasts a second or two, until the next swipe smacks home. But once the battering’s over the pain goes quickly although it tingles for a minute or so after. Dad likes to spank at a rapid rate, like a machinegun: rat-a-tat-tat. He puts his full effort into it.

This time (he doesn’t always do this), he grips the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and tugs them over my bum until the buttocks are bared. I feel a slight cool breeze coming from the door that Dad has left slightly open. Rats. My brother Joe will be able to hear. Perhaps Dad has done this on purpose. It increases my embarrassment to know Joe might hear and it serves as a warning to my brother about the consequences of his own behaviour.

I don’t like being spanked on the bare. I don’t suppose it increases the pain much compared to the thin cotton pyjama bottoms, but I know Dad can see right into my crack and I haven’t had a shower yet. I try to remember when I last had a crap. Before I showered yesterday? Then I should be clean.

With no further ado, Dad grips the slipper tightly, hovers it over my left buttock and let’s fly. Bang-bang-bang. It hurts, a lot. But it is not agony. I’ve never discussed this with Dad, but I am pretty sure his intention is not to really hurt me. You know in the sense of whip me senseless. He’s trying to make a point. Spank-spank-spank. And he is using his slipper and my bare arse to do it.

I know he cares for me. It’s the booze thing mostly. Nobody talks about it in the family, but my Granddad (Dad’s dad) was an alcoholic and the drink killed him in the end. But not before he made his family’s life a total misery. Dad has never touched a drop in his life; afraid (I suppose) of like-father-like son.

Dad whacks me with great efficiency. My legs kick out, but this is a reflex action. I have no control, it is my body’s natural reaction to the assault being made upon it. No square centimetre of flesh is left unscathed. When I check myself in the mirror later I see the imprint of the slipper appears from the top of my buttocks, over the mounds and into the very sensitive under-curves where the bum meets the back of the thighs. Hats off to Dad, he is an expert spanker.

His job done, he releases his grip on me and taking my cue I climb off his lap. I turn my back on him (I don’t want him to see my cock and ball sack) and bend down to tug up my pyjama bottoms. He growls something that I don’t quite catch and then he says, ‘Don’t make me have to do this again.’

That was then and this is now. I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. I think back to last night. Was it worth it? My cock stiffens at the memory. Yes, it was. Definitely. I get a raging hardon. It was Shelley’s tits that did it. Do I have time? Can I risk it? My dick aches. Shit. I can’t stand this. I open my palm and hawk a couple of gobs of spit into it and start to work my sodden hand up and down my shaft.

The door swings open …

Picture credit: Nick Backes

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Fake News #1

z used paddle cop naked (2)

Juvenile Crime Stats. at Record Low

Special to Standard-Recorder

Police in Mason Creek have a unique way to cut down on juvenile crime. It is fourteen inches long by three inches wide and made of hard maple. The old fashioned paddle is making a comeback.

Police Chief Paddy Callaghan said the small community pop. 1,789 had waged war on punks. “We don’t want them here. We are sending a clear message,” he told the Standard-Recorder in an interview.

The blue-collar community was dismayed by the number of young people who visited the town from the City of Mason, fifteen miles away. “They came looking for trouble, driving fast and drinking beer. They were a huge burden on the police resources,” Chief Callaghan said. “It was costing thousands in taxpayer dollars to put these punks through the criminal justice system and that’s money better spent on local townspeople.”

Now, when juveniles get pulled over by the cops they can expect a hot time. “We don’t blow smoke. Off come their clothes and then it’s a bare-butt spanking.”

Mickey Costello (not his real name), aged 18, experienced the new regime at first hand. “Me and the guys were driving through Main Street and shot a red light. We got pulled over by the cops. We had been drinking and there were empty beer cans. A big cop went to the trunk of his car and next thing he’s waving this paddle in my face.”

Chief Callaghan explained juveniles were given a choice, they can spend the night in jail and then take their chances in front of the judge next day. That way they get a fine or some kind of community service, such as picking up litter around town. Or they can take swats.

“Most of the punks take the swats,” Callaghan said with a grin. “Word has gotten around that we take no nonsense in Mason Creek. They expect to be spanked if they break the laws.”

Costello said he was made to take off all his clothes and bend over his car. “I got six swats on the bare butt. Man, I was raw. I had to run around a while before I could sit back down in the car.”

Judge T. I. Oosthutzen III told the Standard-Recorder the townsfolk supported the police action. “We have never known the community to be so peaceful. More power to Police Chief Callaghan’s elbow,” he said.

 

Picture Credit: Man’s Hand Films

Fake News Story #2 is here

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

You’ll never believe this

z used otk professor

I don’t know why I’m even bothering to tell you this. You won’t believe me. You’ll say it’s a fantasy. I’m making it up; just to draw attention to myself. Like I always do.

Things like that don’t happen. Not anymore. Not in this day and age.

Well, if you don’t believe me I just don’t care. I’m going to tell you anyway.

For those who don’t know me, my name’s Chas. I’m eighteen getting on nineteen and I go to the Brocklehurst University. Majoring in media studies. I know, don’t you start as well. It is not a Mickey Mouse course. Definitely not. I wish we did spend all our time watching television. I might have better grades.

And then it wouldn’t have happened.

I stay during term time with Uncle Matthew. He’s not a real ‘uncle’, you know a blood relative. He’s a life-long friend of my dad’s and I’ve known him since I was a toddler. He has a swish house in The Avenue, a really upscale part of the town. I get my own room, free wi-fi, the works. Uncle Matthew lets me come and go as I please; no curfews, no set meal times. He never inquires where I’ve been or how I’m doing with my studies, or anything like that.

Things weren’t going too well as a matter of fact. I had attended a “hot-house” school, where we were harassed every minute of the day to work hard and get good A-level grades. The school wanted to be at the top of the league tables. Well, I did them proud. But when I got to BU as we call the university it didn’t take me long to discover the bars, the girls and weed and not necessarily in that order.

I never went to the library and my essays were cut and pasted from the Internet. Bad. Prof. McIntyre gave me a warning. If I didn’t get at least a B-plus on my final essay in Media and Society, I’d fail the module and my grade point average might not be good enough for me to go into the second year.

Well, I was gutted. Leave the university. Get a job. Not likely. Well, what could I do? This is where we get to the part that you won’t believe.

I talked to my pal Craig. “Prof says I’ll get chucked off the course if I don’t get at least a B-plus,” I whined. “What should I do?”

Craig’s eyes narrowed perceptively; then he grinned. “I’ve heard stories about Prof. McIntyre,” Craig rubbed his index finger down the side of his long, narrow nose. “If you know what I mean.” For some reason he affected a Cockney accent when he said this. Then he fell silent.

I didn’t know what he meant and irritated I told him so.

“You know. You do,” he dropped the Cockney and spoke in his usual voice. He could have been a younger member of the British Royal Family. “He likes young guys.”

“So?”

“Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“Yes,” I squealed, “I’m rather afraid you must.”

“He’s gay.” More silence.

“And?”

“Oh per-lease,” Craig waved his arms above his head. “A cute little something like you?”

“What!” I was both offended and impatient. “What are you saying?”

Craig shook his head and addressed me as if talking to a naïf. “All the guys do it. He’s quite amenable.”

Why was he talking in riddles? “Just spit it out will you!”

“Yes, that’s what Prof says too.” His shoulders shook and he roared with laughter.

“Oh, ha, ha, ha,” I said dripping sarcasm. “You really think he gets blow jobs from students.”

“Yes, but only after he’s had them across his knee for a bare-arsed spanking.” Craig did that rubbing thing with his finger again. “You’ll get you B-plus for sure.”

Well, let’s cut to the chase with this story. A spanking from the Prof, a pass grade and a secure future. Or, a fail and a life spent flipping burgers. Not much choice there.

I went away to think about it. It didn’t occur to me to do some reading in the library and actually write an essay. Of course not, I’m a student in 2017 for pity’s sake.

I lay in my bed mulling it over. A spanking. From the professor. Bare arsed. I closed my eyes tight and tried to imagine it. Me, eighteen years old, tall, muscular, and (if Craig is right) cute. Prof. who must be in his fifties, flabby, gone to seed. Me, trousers at the ankles, boxers at the knees, draped across the old man’s knees. He, whacking away at my bare bum. How did he do it? With his hand? A belt? Slipper? My cock stiffened ….

There had to be another way. And, there was. An essay mill. Another friend, Mitch, told me about it. Websites where you can buy an already written essay and pass it off as your own. It wasn’t cheap. Five pence short of fifty quid. Money that I couldn’t really afford. But it was better than a spanking.

I paid my fee, downloaded the essay, printed it out, handed it in. Job done. I might have gotten away with it. Can you guess how I was found out? Never in a million years. Mitch told me about the website. He knew about the website because he used it himself. We handed in the same essay. Word for bloody word.

So, there I was in Prof. McIntyre’s office. I don’t know who you are and if you’ve ever been to university. A modern university that is. Forget “dreaming spires” and all the flannel you see in Inspector Morse or Lewis. BU is mainly made up of concrete and glass. Prof.’s office is made of moveable walls and is furnished in fake wood. It could be an accountant’s office. It probably will be one day when the university sacks all the lecturers and we do our courses online.

Prof. doesn’t wear a gown and funny hat. He isn’t dressed in tweeds and such. On the day in question he wore a striped shirt (Marks & Spencer, most likely) and worn blue jeans. He could have been a bricklayer.

I stood on the industrial-strength dark grey carpet in front of his desk. He swivelled in his chair away from a computer screen so he faced me. Theatrically, he waved a sheaf of papers at me. My essay. “Is there anything you want to say to me?” he sighed as if he carried the burdens of all the world on his shoulders. “Think carefully,” he turned his head and nodded at the computer screen.

I could deny it. But what would be the point? I felt my face glow. I was blushing deep red. I always do when I’m embarrassed.

“We have software, you know,” he said peering at me.

So, I coughed to it. I had bought the essay online.

“OK,” he said. I was flummoxed. I expected a rant; a denunciation of my character. I was a cheat. I should be expelled from the university. And on and on.

What he said next made me buckle at the knees. “If you take a spanking, you can get a pass mark.” My mouth opened and closed silently; in a rather good goldfish impression. “B …” I wanted to say, “But a pass mark isn’t good enough, I need a B-plus.” The words would not come. He peered at me some more. Then he spoke, “We can make it so that you still pass into next semester.”

He stood from his chair and ambled around the desk so that he stood next to me. “Come over here.” Gently he took my left elbow and guided me across the office towards a battered three-seater leather couch. He eased himself down; his weight made quite an indentation in the soft seat cushion.

“Now this is what you must do,” he spoke gently. He was about to pass on instructions. It was as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a university professor to tell his eighteen-year-old male student how to prepare himself for a spanking. “You should take down your jeans and let them drop to your ankles.”

Now, by this point in the story I have probably lost a number of you disbelieving readers. How could such a thing happen? How could he get away with such a thing? Aren’t there laws against it? To which I would answer “I don’t know,” but it did.

I wanted that grade. I wanted to stay on at the university. Damnit, I wanted to carry on with my easy life. Besides, how bad could it be?

Prof. was getting a little impatient. “Unbuckle your belt, take down your jeans,” I couldn’t look the old man in the eye. I fumbled a bit with the belt and popped the fasteners on the fly of the jeans. The front fell open and I felt a breeze against my white cotton briefs. I let go and the denims started to slide over my thighs, they bunched at my knees but it only took a slight movement in my legs to see them on their way to my feet.

Prof.’s voice cracked, “Now, come and put yourself across my lap.” He parted his legs and then reached out and took my left forearm and with extreme care he manoeuvred me forward. I did not resist. It was like a dream. This really wasn’t happening. Any moment I would awaken. His legs were hard and I felt them dig into my stomach. Without a further word, Prof. lifted me so that I was stretched across the couch with my legs and feet resting along it. My face was close to one of the couch’s arms and I gagged at a cloying aroma of stale body sweat.

In this position my chest was rested over his left thigh and my bottom was at an angle over his right. I was wearing a cheap white t-shirt and Prof. took hold of the end of this and ruffled it up my back. My briefs had ridden up my cheeks a little and it felt like someone had given me a wedgie. I felt his hand rest on my left buttock. I thought at first that he was trying to smooth out the cotton but once he had explored the contours of my meaty buttocks, he lifted his hand away. Seconds later I wriggled in protest as he gripped the waistband of my briefs and with two hefty tugs he had my arse cheeks bared.

Still he said nothing. He put his arm across my back and took hold of my hip. I was pinioned. I was going nowhere until he said so. I held my head in my hands and waited.

Have you ever been spanked? No? It was a new experience for me too. What do you expect? Well, to state the obvious, the whole point surely is to inflict pain. The general idea is this is a punishment that is so severe that it reminds you that you have done wrong and it warns you of the consequence of any further misbehaviour. Prof. slapped his rough hand over and over again across my bare buttocks. There was no pain to speak of at first but it built up as he whacked the meatiest part of my bum time and time again.

He spanked me so rapidly and so hard I could barely catch my breath. His spanks were not delivered from a great height, but were a series of short sharp blows one after another.

My cheeks were burning. I tried to wriggle free, but Prof. held me firmly in place. I wasn’t going anywhere until he decided he had punished me enough.

I was furious to be locked in place over the Prof’s lap, being spanked like a kid. Slap! Slap! Slap! It just went on and on. It hurt so much I wanted to cry out for him to stop, to say I promised not to cheat again, if only he would stop spanking me. But, I didn’t. Instinctively, I knew this was against protocol.

But I only had myself to blame. Instinctively again, I fought furiously, trying to kick my feet and legs and squirming and wriggling around on Prof.’s knees, but I couldn’t escape or halt the volley of hand-spanks heating up my behind.

I stopped wriggling and tried to take each new spank stoically; the spanking was hurting, but I wasn’t in any real pain. The hurt caused by the hand spanking had little effect on me, but the embarrassment of being forced to take down my jeans, bend over the older man’s knee to get spanked on the bare-bottom was a huge humiliation.

Prof. paused a moment, he was admiring his handiwork. He was red faced and I was red arsed. He was nearly finished. He slapped down another dozen smacks just for good measure, spanked harshly into my buttock crease; the tender part of the bottom that meets the thigh.

I was breathless as I lay wheezing over Prof.’s lap. It was over.

He released his grip on me and I stumbled to my feet. I twisted my body and saw my arse glowed red hot. Gingerly, I rubbed it. I was still unable to look at Prof. I pulled up my briefs and then my jeans. Already most of the pain had subsided, but my buttocks tingled.

Prof. hauled himself from the couch and returned to his desk. Before he reached it and with his back to me, he said, “You should go now.”

I didn’t need to be told twice. I pushed through the door and tore down the corridor where I saw an astonished Mitch. I didn’t stop to talk. I took the stairs two at a time and hurtled from the building. As the cool air of early evening hit me, I paused to take stock. I had passed the course and I would return to the university next semester. I had to be spanked to make it happen. I laughed out loud at the absurdity of it all.

I started toward Uncle’s house then it hit me: why hadn’t I taken the spanking in the first place? It would have saved me fifty pounds.

 

Picture credit: straightladsspankeddotcom

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A passing phase

z used sex on couch by sorachan and Hanatsuke

I came home unexpectedly early that afternoon. A pipe had burst and we had to evacuate the office to let the plumbers in. I’d expected the house to be empty. Colin, the only one of my kids still living at home, would have been at business college and my wife was at work. As I closed the front door I heard strange noises coming from the sitting room. They sounded human, but they weren’t exactly voices. I went to investigate.

I don’t know what I expected to see, but I’m absolutely convinced about what I didn’t expect. There on the couch naked as the day they were born was my son and a young man I did not know. They were kissing and cuddling. I think I let out a shriek, like some old maid. The other boy stared at me startled. He went pillar-box red, climbed off Colin, grabbed his clothes and dashed into the hallway.

There the boy – to this day I don’t know his name – hurriedly dressed before flying through the door, leaving me to confront my son. I was naturally dumbstruck. Literally struck dumb. Unable to speak. Colin took the opportunity of my silence to pick up his own clothes and still naked he took the stairs two at a time and I heard his bedroom door slam.

Only then did I think what to do. Father O’Kelly is our parish priest. He’d know what to do. I picked up the phone, dialled his number and put in place this train of events.

@

I’m not gay. Really, I’m not, but I am curious, I think. It was Jake who came on to me. I know him from college; he’s training to be an accountant. He came on to me, holding my hand, stroking my hair. Not that I objected. I want to make to clear that  I’m not claiming sexual harassment here, nor assault. Like I say I was curious, so I went along with it.

I’ve done it twice with Sandra, a girl at college, so I know I’m not gay. That was nothing like doing it with Jake. She was soft and cuddly; he was hard and muscular. And, of course, there’s the cock. Have you ever seen an erect dick? I mean really looked. I’ve jerked mine off many times, but I’ve never actually looked at it.

@

More young men than you might expect are homosexually inclined. They are attracted to their own genitals and to the bodies of other young men. I told this to Colin’s father when he called me. It is a sin, but it is usually only a passing phase; something that a boy must pass through. I have seen many young men through this passage of their lives. I was ready to help Colin. Together we could get him back on the straight and narrow path to God.

@

I wasn’t surprised when Dad said I must visit Fr. O’Kelly; he is a devout Catholic (Dad that is, I can’t be so sure about the priest). I go to Mass every week, but I think mainly that’s just to keep the peace at home. I do believe in God and all that and I like to think I’m a good person (most of the time).

Fr. O’Kelly asked me to see him at his home, which puzzled me. I thought we would meet at the church where the confessionals are. He has quite an ordinary home for a priest; it’s a detached house in a street called The Avenue, which is in an up-scale part of town. A very leafy suburb. I had to get two buses from our council flat.

Fr. O’Kelly was in his “civvie” clothes; black trousers and a grey roll-neck sweater. He is about fifty years old and stands a little over six feet; he has a spare tyre at his waist and his face is fleshy. His eyes always seem to me to be pink and watery. I think he had only just showered and shaved as there was a distinct whiff of Lifebuoy about him.

He directed me into a living room. I stood unsure what I was supposed to do. It’s a smallish room, with a two-seater couch, a leather armchair and a coffee table.  There’s a glass-fronted bookcase along one wall. I must have been shuffling from one foot to the other a bit impatiently waiting for the Father to join me in the room, before I saw it. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. Where had it come from? Why did a Roman Catholic priest have one?

Resting on the coffee table was what I can only describe as a school cane. These things had been banned about thirty years ago; long before I was even born. It was about a metre long and a light brown (almost yellow) colour. One end was bent to make a handle. I couldn’t resist picking it up. It was as thick as a pencil and had four notches along its length. When I held it between both hands I found it could easily bend and when I let I go it sprang back into shape.

“You should really put that back where you found it.” I’m sure I blushed as Fr. O’Kelly swept into the room. Hastily, I returned the cane to the coffee table. The priest perched himself on the edge of the couch, I stood embarrassed, unsure if I was permitted to sit. It was like being in the headmaster’s study (not that this had ever happened to me at school).

I clasped my hands behind my back and with head bowed I listened to his speech. It sounded prepared, like a sermon he might pull out of his pocket when it was necessary. He said that it was not unusual to have homosexual urges, but they were a sin. It was only a passing phase and they could be overcome. A young man’s life need not be ruined.

I was glad to hear this. Since my experiment with Jake I had worried tremendously. I didn’t want to be gay; I wanted to be normal. Like everybody else; like my Dad; like the people at church; like Fr. O’Kelly.

I don’t remember all that the priest said, but there was something about redemption. And, there was something about penitence. I missed most of this. Suddenly, there was silence. I blushed. Had he asked me a question, was I expected to answer?

“I said,” Fr. O’Kelly repeated himself, “It is necessary to beat this sin out of you.” I heard that all right. “It will cure you of your affliction and help you to live a normal, healthy life.” I watched spellbound as Fr. O’Kelly reached over to the coffee table and picked up the cane. He flexed it between his hands, rather as I had done earlier, then he swished it with terrific force through the air. It made an intimidating swoosh as it flew. My heart beat fast.

Fr. O’Kelly took two paces across the room and stood close to the leather armchair. “Come, stand with me,” he said. It was a gentle command, but a command nonetheless. The priest expected to be obeyed. I shuffled close to him; the scent of the soap tickled my nostrils and for one absurd moment I thought I was going to sneeze.

Fr. O’Kelly flexed the cane once more. “I want you to lower your trousers and underpants and bend over the chair.” He tapped the tip of the cane against the apex of the chair in case there was any doubt what he meant.

I suppose I stared in astonishment, I certainly did not move. “Trousers, pants down,” he said a little more sternly this time. Maybe my jaw dropped, I’m pretty sure my mouth opened and closed, but I couldn’t form words. He said it for the third time, “Trousers and pants down,” as if it were the most natural thing in the world for a nineteen-year-old boy to undress in front of a fifty-something priest to offer up his bare arse for a thrashing with a school cane. All to cure a homosexual trait.

I can’t fully explain what happened next. I’m not sure I will ever understand, but some power overcame me. I knew beyond any doubt whatsoever that Fr. O’Kelly was right. I had to undergo penitence; I needed to show remorse; be contrite. It would cure me of my urges and I would be able to lead a normal, happy life.

My hands trembled, but I got them to unbuckle my belt. My brown chinos hung loosely at my waist and they started slipping over my hips. I unbuttoned at the waist and they hurtled down my legs, passed my knees and flopped at my ankles. I was wearing micro-briefs and as I lifted up my shirt and pullover and looked down my flat hairless stomach, I saw they were so small and so tight they hardly encased my cock and balls. Tufts of pubic hair sprang out the sides. I put my two thumbs either side of the waistband and guided the briefs down my legs, abandoning them just below the knees.

I was once again aware that I was not alone. Fr. O’Kelly tapped his cane against the back of the chair and spoke, “Bend over.” I had never been caned; I had never been spanked. I don’t think I had ever even been slapped as a very small child. I was entering uncharted territory. I was determined to cooperate. This was for my own good. I would emerge from the experience a better person.

I lifted up my shirt and pullover so they were completely clear of my buttocks and leaned forward. The soft leather felt cold against my bare stomach. I rested my palms in the seat cushion and spread my fingers. The seat back was quite low and my torso sank into the soft leather. Instinctively I parted my legs, but I was restricted by the trousers at my ankles. Over the edge of the chair seat I could see a red-and-beige-patterned rug. I was facing a bay window and when I lifted my head I realised it was open. Had it not been for lace curtains I would have been able to see into the garden.

Fr. O’Kelly pressed the cane into my stretched bum. First he went to the top of the crown, then he “sawed” the stick across the fleshiest part of the buttocks, before turning his attention to the “sit-spot”, the underside of the curves. He seemed to be taking an inordinate time setting up his aim. I did not object to this; I would have been quite content if he delayed a lot longer.

At last he was ready. I felt the cane lifting away from my bum, there were a few moments silence followed by a tremendous whoosh and the rod bit deep into the very centre of both buttocks. I heard the thwack as rattan connected with meat a second or so before I felt the agony. It was as if Fr. O’Kelly had pressed a white-hot wire into my bum.

My knees buckled. The palms of my hands slid on the smooth leather seats. I wanted to grip hold of something tightly to help me absorb the pain but there was nothing, so I bunched my hands into fists and dug my nails deep into my palms. I shut my eyes tight and opened them almost immediately. My ears stung as blood flooded into them.

I had no time to recover from the shock before Fr. O’Kelly flogged the second cut into my under-curves. My top teeth bit deep into my bottom lip and I tasted blood. My head flailed left and right and up and down. I wanted to twist one foot over the other to stop the pain but my trousers prevented this.

The third and fourth strokes came in immediate succession. Bam! Bam! That was when I lost it. I coughed up bile and swallowed it down again. I howled. There really is no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise. I could no longer see the pattern on the rug, my vision was blurred by tears.

By now I had lost all sense of time and space, but I am pretty certain there was a delay before the fifth swipe was delivered. What I do know is that I felt the cane being once more “sawed” across my buttocks as the priest found his spot. This time the cane lay in a diagonal from the bottom of my left cheek to the top of the right. When Father O’Kelly let fly the whippy rattan flogged across the four previously delivered cuts, reigniting the agony in them all. I lifted my feet off the floor, wrapped my arms around my head, gasping, desperately sucking in air.

My heart very nearly gave out at that point. My blood pressure must have been off the scale. I was aware of arteries throbbing. My temples pounded. Any moment now I might have a stroke.

I wasn’t aware of such things at the time, but the “traditional” tariff for schoolboy beatings was “Six-of-the-best”. Fr O’Kelly was nothing if not a traditionalist. He took his aim for the sixth and last time. Now, he had the cane resting along the opposite diagonal. My bum was so toasted and my nerve ends so frayed that I could not feel this. I felt the resultant swipe right enough. When I inspected the damage later I saw he had imprinted a perfect “X” on my arse.

He had finished, but he left me heaving over the back of the leather armchair.  My nose was so close to the soft cushion I could smell the leather and the sweat of countless backsides. My bum felt like I had sat on a barbecue, the agony was intense. But even as I lay there waiting for permission to stand, the pain was already easing into an intense throb. Soon it would be merely sore and then just a tingle. I had problems sitting on a hard surface for some hours and it was days before the bruises disappeared.

Fr. O’Kelly let me stand and dress and he said a little prayer. I was on the path to salvation, he said. I was cured of my homosexual inclinations; of that I was certain. What puzzled me was why I had a raging hardon that night in bed when in my mind I recounted my bare-arsed flogging.

 

Picture credit: Sorachan

Other stories you might like

The night porter

Old Dud and the wrought iron gate

University encounter

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com