Waiting my turn

I am facing the door in my uncle’s living room and in a moment he is going to take me over his knee and spank me.

I am shaking like a leaf and I am trying not to cry, but my eyes are getting wet.

Me and my cousin John were naughty at school today and now we are for it.

I can hear Uncle Sal moving a wooden chair into the middle of the carpet. Now he has sat down he has his back to me so I can turn round for a peek.

He is calling John over to him.

“I’m fed up with you; it’s time you learnt how to behave. Take your trousers down; take them down.”

John unbuckles his elastic snake belt and it goes pop. Now, he is undoing his grey short trousers and they fall down.

His face is red but he is trying to be brave. I know he has been spanked before, but I never have. I am scared that it will hurt too much.

John is standing moving his feet a bit. The white shirt of his school uniform is very long at the back and it covers his pants; it looks like he is wearing a dress.

Uncle Sal is very angry, “Come on, bend over. I am going to spank that naughtiness right out of you.”

John moves a bit so he is standing in front of him, but he is a long way away. Uncle Sal is standing up, grabbing his left arm, and dragging John around to his right. He is sitting back down and pulling him down and across his knees.

Uncle has him on his huge left leg and knee, and he is moving John around so his back is bent and he is hanging down facing the floor. John’s bottom is sticking up for punishment.

Uncle is loosening his tie and rolling up his shirt sleeves. He is so big and John is so small. John’s feet don’t touch the ground at the back and his arms are waving about at the front.

Now, uncle is taking John’s shirt and pulling it up away from his bottom, right the way up his back to near his shoulders.

Uncle is tugging at John’s white pants so they are really tight, just like he is giving him a wedgie.

I can see John’s face and he is looking down at the carpet, he is sweating a bit.

Uncle has very strong arms and he is putting his hand over one of John’s cheeks; it is so big it covers all of it. He is raising it high and smacking it into John’s bum. John screws his eyes up and I can see it hurt him a lot.

Uncle is smacking away at John’s bottom, it looks like it really aches. My heart is beating faster; I am going to be spanked like this in a minute.

Uncle is smacking John’s bottom really slowly, he is hitting one cheek then the other. I can see John must be sore, he is wriggling on Uncle Sal’s lap but he can’t get away. John is kicking his legs, but they can’t reach the floor.

“Keep still.” Uncle is slapping the back of his legs. “If you don’t keep still I’ll take your pants down and see how you like that.”

I am turning back to the wall. I don’t want to see this. I hear the smacks hitting my cousin’s bum and I can hear John saying, “Ow, ow, ow,” as the slaps hit him.

Then it goes quiet. I turn around to see what is going on.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Uncle is pulling John’s pants down over his hips, cheeks, thighs, knees, to his feet,

“No, please, no,” John is sniffing.

Uncle looks very cross and goes on smacking John.

I can see John’s bottom is very red. It must be burning hot and there are pink marks where uncle’s fingers hit him.

John is still fighting hard, twisting around and his arms are trying to reach back to stop uncle spanking him. Uncle is picking him up and moving him forward and now John’s face is nearly on the carpet and he has to put his hands down to keep steady.

Uncle is holding him tightly around the waist and is hitting him harder and faster. Smack, smack, smack, smack. I can see tears on John’s face, but he isn’t saying anything.

How long is this going on for? I haven’t counted them all but I think uncle must have smacked him a hundred times, easily, and still he is going on.

John’s face is bright red and so is his bottom. He has given up trying to escape and he has his arms around uncle’s leg, just holding on, as he goes on spanking him. John is crying louder now and I can see he is choking. He is shaking his head from side to side and there are lots of tears.

This is getting me going and I am crying almost as much as John.

Uncle is still smacking him. He is hitting him on the top of his legs and John’s bottom is really red all over his cheeks and on his legs as well.

John is punching the floor; the spanking is hurting him that much and his bottom looks like it is on fire.

I can’t stand this, I’m so scared. Uncle will spank me like this and I won’t be able to stand it. John is a year older than me and tough. If he is like this, what will I be like? I think I’m going to run away.

John is breathing in big gasps of air and uncle is still slapping his bum. I can see uncle’s face is all screwed up as he raises his hand and hits John as hard as he can.

Uncle has stopped spanking John. He is still holding his son across his lap and he is bawling his eyes out.

Now, Uncle is letting him go and lifting up the back of John’s shirt to try to get a look at his bum, but he is jumping up and down, rubbing his poor bottom, it looks really, really sore.

Uncle is letting go of him. “Shorts and pants up.”

Ouch! I can see John is in agony. His hands are shaking and he is bending down to pull up his pants and he is screwing up his face because it hurts so much when they touch his bottom.

Now, he is picking up his grey short trousers; he kicked them across the room when Uncle spanked him. He is pulling them up and is having trouble getting the buttons to work. The snake belt has come out of the loops and he can’t get it to go back in. He is still crying like a baby and I can see a lot of snot around his nose.

“Go to your room and stay there until tea time.”

Now, I can hear him running up the stairs.

“James.”

Oh no, now it’s my turn … Eighteen years old and about to go over uncle’s knee for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking. We truly are living in a parallel universe.

zused hands on head shorts

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The new office boy

z used twosome office short shorts Adam's Gay Reader (5)

Dirk was too excited to notice the stir he was making as he passed through the accounts department. It was the first day at his new job. His first job ever. After two years unemployed. Jobs were hard to come by these days.

One man leaned across the workstation to a co-worker, “Meet the new office boy; same as the old office boy.”

“Yes, Mr. Anderson likes them pert,” his companion guffawed.

Dirk found his boss’s office, knocked on the door and entered when instructed. Mr. Anderson was in his forties, lean with fair hair. He had a warm smile of greeting. “Sit down, Dirk,” he pointed to the chair in front of his desk. Dirk sat, a little embarrassed. The bright yellow shorts he wore were just a little too snug, if he wasn’t careful his balls would hang out. He thought it odd when he was given his new uniform; people hadn’t worn these kind of shorts in decades.

Mr. Anderson hovered above Dirk, pacing the office, taking in the view of the teenager’s slim legs. He liked the boy’s shock of jet black hair and the cute look of innocence his open face portrayed.

“You’ll be a ‘gofer’,” he explained to Dirk and when he boy looked baffled, Mr. Anderson laughed brightly. “It’s our little joke. ‘Gofer’ – you know gofer this, gofer that! You’ll be a general assistant in the office.”

Mr. Anderson took a new office boy every few months. He soon tired of them. The young guys were probably relieved to get away. They always went outwards and upwards. There were plenty of opportunities at Global Petroleum. The world was literally theirs.

Mr. Anderson sent Dirk away to his workstation, watching the pert buttocks encased in tight yellow cotton sashay as he walked.

Global was a huge company and Dirk soon met lots of guys his own age. He didn’t understand why so many of them smirked when he said Mr. Anderson was his boss. “Don’t worry,” a petite blond boy whispered in his ear while they drank coffee, “I was moved on after three months.” Dirk returned to his duties, very puzzled indeed.

All became clear the following day. Dirk had been sent across town to deliver a package. It was a fine day and he thought he might make a detour into the mall. He would only be an hour, who would find out?

“Dirk, come into my office,” Mr. Anderson called across the accounts department.

“Here we go,” one worker smiled, “Rosy red cheeks.” He turned to his co-worker. “Look, what did I tell you,” he roared with laughter. Mr. Anderson was pulling down the blinds in his office.

Dirk stood casually in front of Mr. Anderson’s desk. “Stand up straight, don’t be a lout .” Mr. Anderson’s usual sunny disposition had evaporated. Startled, Dirk straightened his back and put his arms by his side.

“One hour late. Delivering the package. I have received a complaint.”

Dirk blanched. No one had told him it was urgent.

“What did you do, sneak off to the mall?” Dirk’s blushes confirmed it was so.

“There’s a lesson you need to learn young man,” Mr. Anderson frowned. “And I have just the thing here to give it.”

Dirk’s mouth gaped. Mr. Anderson had bent down, opened a drawer to his desk and taken out a large wooden paddle. The teenager’s eyes stood on stalks. It was awesome, easily two-feet long and five inches wide. The blade had large holes cut into it.

“What’s the matter boy?” Mr. Anderson sneered. “Surely you’ve seen one of these before,” he smacked it into his left palm. “Felt it a few times as well at school, I shouldn’t doubt.”

Dirk wasn’t sure he was supposed to answer. No, he hadn’t seen a paddle close up before. And as for feeling the sting of one at school? What decade was Mr. Anderson living in?

“Come,” Mr. Anderson had walked to the front of his desk. His stare burnt a hole in Dirk’s head. The boy shuddered. His boss was serious. He really wanted to spank him with that wood. “But …” he began to speak but was cut short.

“But, nothing. You truanted from work. You screwed up with an important client. Now you’re going to pay with your butt.” All the time Mr. Anderson spoke he waved the paddle menacingly. Dirk’s eyes followed it as it swung.

“I want you to bend across my desk,” Mr. Anderson spoke calmly. He was the boss, he expected to be obeyed. All colour drained from Dirk’s usually open face, his eyes blazed with fear. He could feel his legs buckling.

Mr. Anderson had seen office boys hesitate before. He had the perfect rejoinder. “Or, we can go to human resources and have you terminated.” He tapped the paddle once more into his palm. He waited for Dirk to submit. There was a reason why Mr. Anderson always chose boys who had been unemployed for years. They knew if they were dismissed by him they would probably never work again.

Dirk breathed heavily. He had no choice. He knew he had to go through with this. He would prostrate himself across the desk. He had decided to give in, but he couldn’t seem to convince his body to agree.

“Come on,” Mr. Anderson gripped him by the elbow and propelled him forward. Now, he stood against the very edge of the desk, unsteady on his feet. He felt a shove in the small of his back and he fell forward. The desk was small and so was Dirk, and he managed to stretch his arms ahead of him to reach the far side. His legs were spread and his bottom was raised at a perfect angle to receive Mr. Anderson’s paddle.

His boss was taking his time. Dirk closed his eyes. This could not be happening to him. It was crazy. Who would believe an eighteen-year-old teenager was submissively bending across his boss’s desk to have his backside spanked with a paddle?

Mr. Anderson’s tongue darted in and out of his mouth, like a lizard. Dirk was short and wiry. His white cotton shirt had ridden up exposing some inches of hairless back. The yellow shorts clung to his buttocks and the top of his green-coloured briefs poked over the top. Mr. Anderson would have dearly loved to rip the shorts down and paddle Dirk’s bared buttocks so hard and so often until they shone in the dark. That would have to wait for another time. He knew the importance of grooming – of breaking a boy in.

Dirk barely suppressed a squeal as he felt his boss take hold of the waistband of his shorts. “He’s going to pull them down. He wants me bare-arsed,” his panicked thoughts told him. But, Mr. Anderson only wanted to pull the shorts tighter until he could see the outline of the teenager’s underwear. Now, it looked like they had been sprayed on his bottom.

Mr. Anderson took up position a little to Dirk’s left. It was a smallish office, but there was enough room to get a full swing of the paddle. He “sawed” the wood across the centre of Dirk’s rear end. The paddle was so huge and Dirk’s buttocks so pert, that the paddle almost covered both.

Mr. Anderson smiled to himself. Dirk’s cheeks were twitching. Most boys did that, especially the first time they were paddled. Crack! he brought the paddle down with some force. Dust rose from the seat of the shorts. Dirk wriggled his hips from left to right. For a moment his stomach rose from the desk. He hissed air through his lips. That hurt. A lot. But, he had survived.

The second swat landed higher, on the top of his mounds. Dirk heard the paddle’s dull thud as it connected with his stretched flesh a second before he felt the pain. It burned like the fires of Hell. He repeated the wriggling and added some foot stomping.

Mr. Anderson liked the way the paddle had left an imprint in the tight shorts, he knew from experience there would be a similar dark-pink mark embossed in Dirk’s flesh. Encouraged by his success so far, he whacked the wood lower, in the sensitive sit spot. That got Dirk yelling. The teenager’s shorts were so skimpy half the paddle had landed on the bare flesh of his thighs. It felt like someone had poured scalding water over him.

He wasn’t technically crying, but Dirk’s eyes flooded. His heartbeat raced and he gulped in great draughts of air. He didn’t believe someone could inflict so much pain on another person. But Mr. Anderson could; and it wasn’t finished yet.

The fourth swat landed across two welts created by previous strokes. It reignited the pain. The whole of Dirk’s arse throbbed. He felt the pulsating ache start at the buttocks before travelling up and down his legs.

Bang! The fifth stroke landed fully across the crest of both buttocks. The terrific burning agony took his breath away. Tears flowed down his cheeks, snot dribbled from his nose. He swallowed down vomit that rose to his throat. He bounced his forehead up and down headbutting the desktop.

Then, he heard the clank as the paddle hit the desk. “That’s enough for now. Stand up.” He didn’t need telling twice. He jumped to his feet and hopped from foot to foot in the traditional spanking dance. He kneaded his cheeks, desperately trying to rub away the pain. It didn’t work.

Mr. Anderson waited for the teenager to calm. He knew the pain would be intense, but within moments it would ease to a throb and then a dull ache. Before long it would be gone completely, although the red mark on Dirk’s bare thigh would give him twinges when he sat down on a hard chair.

“Will I need to do that again?” Mr. Anderson intoned. Dirk shook his head, “No,” he said miserably and then quickly added, “Sir,” because he felt it was expected.

“Well, we’ll see about that. Wipe your face.” He offered a fistful of tissues.

Dirk limped from the office too engrossed with the pain and humiliation to see the curious stares from the accounts department. Jesus, he thought still rubbing the seat of his shorts, three more months of this. My arse won’t stand it.

Picture credit:Adam’s Gay Readers

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Not too old to be spanked by grandad

z used belt pants (2)

When would grandad stop treating him like a child? Matt wondered silently as he unbuckled his jeans and let them slip to his knees. Twenty-three years old and still getting the belt.

“C’mon grandad, is this really necessary?” he wailed, “I’m too old for this.”

Matt’s question only got a grunt from grandad as he continued to unbuckle and remove his brown leather belt.

“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.”

Grandad had doubled up his heavy belt and was ready to inflict the whipping he knew his grandson deserved.

Matt was sweating a little; he had a humdinger of a hangover from the night before.

Grandad was not a patient man. “You live in my house, you obey my rules. It’s not unreasonable to ask you not to come home drunk,” he barked.

There was no answer to that. It was true he was plastered last night, he couldn’t even remember getting home. Had one of his mates dropped him off?

Grandad stood waiting. Determined. He might have grandchildren but he was no wizened old man. He stood more than six feet tall and weighed the same as he did when he was thirty. Years of manual work could do that to a man.

Matt knew from experience he should not try to argue with grandad. 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 and the grandchildren.

Matt was defeated; he knew resistance was futile; he would have to submit to this spanking. He leaned forward across the low vaulting horse, feeling his briefs pull tightly across his buttocks.

Matt stared down at the ground as a chill draught blew across his naked legs. Blood rushed to his face, it always did when he was bent over in this position. If he stayed like this for too long he would get a head ache. Not that that concerned him now. It was the ache in his arse that worried him more.

He wriggled his waist a little to make himself more comfortable. It was a small vaulting horse. Wherever did that come from? None of the family were gymnasts. Grandad kept it in a large shed in his garden. Sometimes he joked it was his own little “woodshed”.

Matt stretched his arms ahead of him and placed his palms flat on the ground. He could hardly believe this was happening: his body was bent almost double across the horse while to the side of him he heard grandad preparing to lash his leather belt into his cotton-covered buttocks. He braced himself for a very intense session with the belt.

Grandad was in no hurry. He was satisfied that his grandson was now submissive, meekly offering up his bum for him to do with as he wished.

Now, Matt heard a soft clinking noise. He twisted his head around and saw that his grandfather was folding up his belt. He doubled it in half for control and precision, and stepped forward. Matt turned his head again – he didn’t want to look. Instead, he waited with his plump buttocks pointing up in the air while that long, agonizing moment of preparation passed. The buttocks clenched and unclenched.

He heard grandad suck in a lung-full of air before the belt splatted down across the seat of his pants. It hurt.

The first time Matt had been strapped it had been agony and he had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings, it was different. He took a pride in being able “to take it” without a fuss. He reckoned could bear the pain of the fierce strap without flinching.

Matt willed himself not to move. He stayed bent over, holding his backside in place so that his grandad could lash his buttocks over and over. And he did so, swinging the belt down hard across the lower edge of the vulnerable bottom and lashing some strokes into the bare thighs.

Matt’s resistance nearly crumbled; the pain didn’t lessen and the belt didn’t stop. For a full ten minutes grandad methodically brought the strap lashing across his grandson’s underpants, sparing not a single inch of his buttocks.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Grandad finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Matt inspected 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. His mobile phone vibrated, he reached out to see the caller ID.

“Yello,” he answered and listened intently. “Sure, I’ll come right over,” he said. It was his pal Chris calling from the pub.

 

Picture credit: Eastbourne Daddy

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Sam’s caning

z used cane white pants down table

Sam glanced at the long, thin yellow-coloured crook-handled cane lying on the table and shuddered nervously at the thought of the wretched thing curling itself around his buttocks. He hated the dreadful waiting. Not that he was eager to have his backside beaten; he knew matters had to take their course. There was no escaping the inevitable and how he wished his dad would just get on with it.

The ticking of the clock echoed around the room. Dad was doing it deliberately, he knew. As if the pain of the thrashing wasn’t enough, dad wanted to increase the punishment by making him anticipate it.

At last, the door to the sitting room edged open. Sam eyed his dad apprehensively as he entered, quietly closing the door behind him. He was a bulky man, well into middle-age. His face was set tight. Nothing would prevent him from doing his duty. The list of Sam’s misdeeds had already been intoned remorselessly by his dad while Sam stood eyes focussed on the Axminster carpet.

Dad clicked his fingers and pointed to a spot close to the dining room table. Sam blanched and shuffled into position. He waited, head bowed, for further instructions.

“You persist in playing the rebel. I think a dose of the cane will teach you some manners and it must be hard and plentiful. That’s the only way to get the message across.”

He picked up the cane. It rattled provokingly against the table top. Dad flexed the wickedly supple yard of rattan effortlessly into a half circle and then swished it through the air as if testing its weight. It was light and whippy, a novice might think it too ineffective as a punishment tool. Mr. Ramsden knew otherwise.

Without thinking, Sam put his hands behind his back and smoothed his fingers over his bottom.

“You know what to do,” Mr. Ramsden was sharp and business like. Unable to look his dad in the eye, Sam unzipped his tight pale-blue jeans and pushed them down to his ankles.

“Bend over the table.”

Pulling up his shirt, he leaned over the table, as he had done so many times in the past. The rule was you had to keep your legs together, with your feet on the ground, and your arms flat on the table. You could wiggle, writhe, and scream all you wanted, but you couldn’t get out of position. You had to stay there and suffer, accept the pain willingly and demonstrate your submission.

Sam reckoned there was pride in being able to take a caning properly. He was twenty years old, it would be shameful to make a fuss.

His underpants were snug and he felt the soft cotton dig into his crack as he stretched forward. “Oh,” he gasped when dad gripped the waistband and slowly, inch by inch, drew Sam’s Y-fronts inside out and down to his thighs. His bum was plump and round, the skin smooth and hairless.

Dad “sawed” the cane across the fleshiest part of his son’s naked buttocks. The cheeks clenched, as if this might protect Sam from the fearful thrashing that was about to start.

“Relax,” his dad, tapped the cane into the underside of Sam’s curves. Then he raised the rattan and took a fairly substantial swing back. Suddenly the tip of the cane vanished in a blur as it travelled at incredible speed with a whistling Swish! followed immediately by the satisfying (to dad) resounding Thwack! of rattan against sensitive flesh.

It landed squarely on the middle of the target area. For two or three seconds Sam felt nothing, then suddenly it seemed like a red-hot poker had been seared into his flesh. He grit his teeth and gripped the edge of the table.

Mr. Ramsden admired the imprint of the cane springing up instantly on the pale skin of his son’s bottom. He waited before delivering his next cut, he wanted the young backside to glow in agony before inflicting further punishment.

Mr. Ramsden believed that speed with which a cane strikes the buttocks was a key element in any caning, the faster the better; and Sam’s plump rump would need a lot of caning. Swishing the cane, he waited and then lashed the stick across the offered bottom. A red stripe flamed the hairless buttocks, it was angled diagonally, higher on the left buttock lower across the right.

Sam gasped; the strike of a hard cane stroke was like an electric shock. Mr. Ramsden swished the cane again and waited a few seconds, observing his buttocks carefully. The next stroke would be squarely across the ripest curve of the round cheeks. Mr. Ramsden caned often; he was an expert. He could place each blow where he wanted it.

Swish! There was a gurgling gasping yelp from Sam. The stricken bottom did a frantic dance. Sam had no control, it had a mind of its own. He settled, concentrating hard on keeping his bottom absolutely still. Despite the torrent of fire that seemed to have been poured over his arse, he managed it.

But, Sam’s bum wobbled as Mr. Ramsden’s stick struck again. Another red stripe blazed across the bottom. Sam gasped, he couldn’t get air into his lungs. He thrashed his head about, like a horse neighing. He clamped his eyes shut. His arms were rigidly extended and his fists tightly clenched.

Mr. Ramsden filled his own lungs, leaned back and thrashed an exceptionally severe stroke. Sam wheezed, another vivid bright stripe appeared across his pale skin. He grunted, gasped, wriggled. Mr. Ramsden whipped him again, and Sam yapped a high, piercing “owwww!”

His whole system leapt with the shock of the intense pain. Bolts of electricity surged through his bum and travelled up and down his legs. His body writhed and the searing pain followed his every movement. His shoulders shuddered and his hands clenched and unclenched on the table.

As if in a trance Sam waited. He was dizzy with the sensations of pain and heat, stabbing through his naked bottom in surging waves. But there was no respite and his dad administered the last four strokes in quick succession. Sam twisted and turned as if to escape the lashing pain, and the compelling pulse in his throbbing bottom. All his senses concentrated on this one aching area.

“It’s over. Stand up.”

Sam allowed himself a long relieved sigh, and he leapt upright, his flat, large palms each caressed a cheek. He rubbed them up and down vigorously, making little jumps as his long fingers kneaded his hot, rubbery buttocks.

The pain in Sam’s welted bottom quickly turned to a warm glow, it was almost quite pleasant. His heart still raced and his head seemed remarkably clear. None of the drugs he had ever taken did this to him. His soldier tingled. It wasn’t at attention yet, but it was on the march. He stood, jeans and pants still at his ankles, facing his dad. Dad’s face flushed as he realised the effect of the caning on his son.

He turned and rushed from the room, leaving Sam to stretch his pants and jeans over his flaming bottom. Still clutching the rattan cane, dad took the stairs two at a time and barged into the bathroom. He had desperate need of a damp face cloth.

 

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

University encounter

z used otk jeans bed (125)

I was eighteen, he was twenty-one. Maybe I was a little immature for my age. He told me if I insisted on behaving like that, he’d take me across his knee and spank my bottom. Hard.

I didn’t believe him. Okay, so I was naïve as well as immature.

I was a first-year student at Brocklehurst University, away from the restrictions of my parents for the first time. There was nobody to nag me, “Do this. Don’t do that.”

The university made first-years stay in their halls of residences and then got senior students to keep an eye on them. I think the idea was to be a big brother or big sister to us. I don’t know what kind of big brother Clive had, but mine never treated me like this.

He looked like any other student; he wore jeans and tee-shirts, but he was a member of the Brocklehurst Fellowship, a God-squad outfit that thought they were a cut above the rest of us and were on a mission to make sure we conformed to their standards.

I first encountered Clive one night after I returned to the halls after a session at the union bar. He was lurking outside my room. “Do you know what time it is?” he asked sternly. I was a little merry and didn’t like the tone of his voice, so I replied sarcastically, “You’ve got a watch, haven’t you?”

Wrong thing to say. “It’s nearly midnight. It’s too late for you to be out,” he told me.

Whoa! Hold your horses, pal. There was no curfew at the halls and so long as we came and went quietly we could roll up at any hour we chose. And, I told Clive this.

Wrong again.

“I’m keeping an eye on you, Pooley,” he snarled. “Now, get off to bed with you.” I watched with disdain as he stormed down the passageway, then I let myself into my room. I crawled into bed and forgot about him. I was full of thoughts of Angela Bailey, a girl I had met in the bar, and her big breasts. I tossed one off and fell asleep.

I made pals easily. We lived on beans on toast, went to lectures, studied in the library (but not too often), hung around bars and tried with varying degrees of success to get into girls’ knickers.

Early one evening there was a knock on my door. I cursed silently. I hadn’t expected visitors and I had my jeans and pants at my knees and was tugging away over a Page Three Girl in the Sun. I called out, “Who is it?” but got no reply. Instead, the knocking continued, a little more insistently.

I pulled up my jeans and pants. My cock was still hard, but I tucked it away as best I could and hoped the bulge behind my flies wasn’t too obvious.

I opened the door to find Clive shuffling from one foot to the other, clearly irritated. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you,” I said. I assumed he was annoyed that I took so long to open the door. He scowled and uninvited brushed by me and entered the room. His nose crinkled as he looked around. It was a small room and no untidier than any of my pals’. He took particular objection at a small pile of unwashed clothes beneath my small desk. His eyes flared when he saw the newspaper open on my bed. I can’t be certain but I think he surreptitiously checked out my flies. Luckily, I had gone soft by then.

“You should tidy this place up.”

Who did he think he was, my mother?

“Get those clothes washed,” he nodded at the pile under the desk. If he were Mum, he would have just scooped them up and put them in the washing machine, returning them next day clean and ironed. I didn’t argue the point with Clive.

“I have had a complaint,” he intoned. He drew himself up to his six-foot height and frowned. Maybe he thought that gave him an air of authority. It just irritated the hell out of me. Complaint? What was he on about?

In his own time, he continued. “Loud music, coming from this room at all hours.” I stared blankly. Even as we stood together, the sound of a music centre thumped from a room on the floor above. I didn’t press the point. I just wanted the irritating little tyke out of my room.

He berated me for my supposed misdemeanours. It mustn’t happen again. I should be considerate to my neighbours. Blah, blah, blah.  “If you insist on behaving immaturely, I shall take you across my knee and spank your bottom. Hard,” he ended, before closing the door behind him.

I sat back on the bed, loosened my jeans and returned to the Sun.

I asked my pals, did they get a visit from Clive? What did they think about him? All I got in response were blank stares. “Who’s Clive?” Nobody had seen or heard of him.

The weekend after my visit, we had a bit of a party in the halls. It was a kind of belated welcome to the university for all the new students. Now, I’m not especially proud of this, but I had had a skin-full. It’s not an excuse, I accept that, but it is an accurate description of what happened. It seemed like a good idea at the time. But, not for long after.

I set off the fire alarm.

In the great scheme of things this was not such a disaster. Nobody took any notice of it. Does anybody ever? False fire alarms go off all the time. The party-goers groaned, swigged their cheap wine, shared their joints and carried on snogging. I got a blow-job from a spotty, cross-eyed girl I’d never met before.

The following day I was back in my room flicking through a copy of Whitehouse, a porn mag that was being passed around by the boys. A couple of its pages were stuck together, but the close-up pictures of ladies’ thingies did nothing for me. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the girl and the blow-job, but all I saw were her spots.

There was a hammering on the door. It was Clive. Why was I not surprised? Of course, he knew about the fire alarm. “Juvenile.” “Childish.” “Infantile.” “Immature.” Clive must have swallowed a thesaurus. He berated me on and on. His sallow face was flushed with his indignation. His eyes blazed with righteousness.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he growled. A puzzled look was my only response. “Spanking.” He let the one word hang in the air, as if it was a perfect explanation. Still no comprehension from me.

“I said I would take you over my knee and spank you. Hard,” he said with an air of triumphalism, as if somehow he had won a prize.

Then, I remembered Clive’s passing shot to me when he had left my room. I had taken no notice. I had hardly heard him at all.

Clive sat on my bed, reached out and grabbed my arm. I hadn’t realised before but he was a strong man, not obviously muscular but beneath his black tee-shirt was a powerful body. He was about six-foot tall and towered four or five inches over me. He tugged me forward, I had no strength to resist. I was over his knee with my face in the duvet cover. He tucked an arm around my waist. To my horror, I was powerless. I kicked my legs and wriggled my hips a little. Then he moved his arm and pinned my shoulders with his elbow.

Then he spanked me. A grown man of eighteen. He spanked me, just like he said he would. I was across his knee and he pounded the palm of his hand into the seat of my jeans. I gasped, infuriated at my humiliation. He whacked me about a dozen times and I sprang to my feet. My face was hot with embarrassment. I couldn’t look my tormentor in the face. My shoulders slumped and I stared down at my feet.

Of course, with my jeans on I hardly felt a thing. When I checked later there was no sign on my bare bum that I had been assaulted at all. My fury and my humiliation was that he had been able to take me across his knee at will and do whatever he wanted. There was nothing I could do about it.

At last, I had the courage to look at him. His face was flushed scarlet. It was not because of the effort he made in spanking me; it was the porn mag open on the bed by his side. He looked like he might vomit at any moment. He stood from the bed and headed for the door. Before leaving, he called over his shoulder. “Next time, I’ll bring a hairbrush and we’ll see how you like that with your jeans and pants at your ankles.”

That night, I slept badly. A vision of myself across Clive’s knee with him hammering a brush into my bare arse wouldn’t leave me. We are in the kitchen at my parents’ home (go figure!). Clive is sitting on a metal armless chair. His legs are spread wide and at angles to one another. He has already manhandled me so that I am face down over the left knee.  He has wrapped his other leg around the back of my calves and I cannot move. My face stares down at the worn floor tiles. I can see they are overdue cleaning.

I am wearing blue-striped pyjamas (go figure again, I’ve not worn jim-jams since I was about eight years old and they had pictures of Fireball XL 5 all over them). Clive takes hold of the tail end of the pyjama jacket and lifts it high up my back so it bunches at the shoulders. Then, slowly and with relish he goes for the elasticated waistband of the PJ bottoms and grips them. He is taking his time. He wants me to feel the full force of this humiliating experience. He tugs the waistband slowly across the mounds that are my buttocks. He struggles a little since there is no space between my body and his knee to pull them properly down. He sighs and slaps a resounding smack across the cotton seat of the pyjamas. I take it as my instruction to raise my stomach a little so he has a gap he can ease the bottoms through. I lower myself back against his powerful knee. I feel a cool breeze from an open window gently caress my naked bottom and thighs.

Clive is not yet ready. He wants this to be a painful lesson for me. But, that does not only mean my backside must be blistered, I must also learn that he has complete control over me. He cups the palm of his right hand and gently traces the contours of my buttocks. First, he brushes the left cheek, pausing at the highest, plumpest point. There he presses two fingers into the flesh. He is testing how much “give” there is in my bum. I am trim, but I don’t quite have “buns of steel.” His hairbrush will sink into the meat and leave me battered and bruised.

He repeats the caressing and poking on the right cheek. Finally, and unexpectedly (to me), he leans forward towards my face. He raises the middle finger of his right hand and rests it against the closed lips of my mouth.

“Suck it,” he says softly. It is an order and one that I am expected to obey, but it is not barked. Obediently, I open my mouth and he gently inserts it. I work up some spit and soak his finger. He removes it from my mouth and moves it back to my buttocks. My spine shivers. He has washed my crack and inserted the fingertip into my hole.

My face is crimson. Soon my arse will be a similar colour. He is ready. He lifts the hairbrush to about a foot-and-a-half from the surface from my bum and in a frenzy he whacks the heavy wood across his target area. Whack-whack-whack. It sounds like machinegun echoing around the kitchen. Surely, my mother will hear and come running to see what is the commotion.

Clive hammers down at least three dozen whacks without let up. I don’t suppose thirty seconds has passed and my arse in on fire. I try to wriggle and writhe but the combination of his leg across mine and his strong arm against my shoulders means I am helpless. I am a perfect target. He can (and he will) continue to spank my backside black-and-blue for as long as he wishes.

Not one square inch of my buttocks and the backs of my thighs escapes the attention of his brush. The pain is awesome. Nothing I’ve experienced in the whole of my eighteen years comes close to this. Is this what it feels like to have accidentally sat down on a blazing barbecue?

On and on he spanks me. I can’t move to the left and right or forwards and backwards. The only way my body can respond to this intense onslaught is to jolt up and down. With each successive slap to my bum my body humps Clive’s knee. The heat of my bare-bottomed thrashing is travelling to my loins.

No, please God. Don’t let it end like this.

When in the early hours, I emerge from my fitful sleep the bedsheet is soaked in cum.

 

Picture credit: Spank This

 

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One hot summer afternoon

Milo, the grad student

Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Bend over my knee for a birching

z used otk birch CS (17)

Johanne stood staring down at the floor. His knees were buckling, his pulse raced. The saliva in his mouth had already drained. He could feel the heat of embarrassment in his face. He had been here many times before, but he could never get used to it.

He heard his father preparing himself. A hard wooden chair with a straight back had already been placed in the middle of the room. Now, his father was at a cabinet, opening a low cupboard. He had to stoop down to get a closer view of its contents. He had placed something there earlier in the day, ready and waiting for this moment.

He reached inside. An aroma wafted to his nostrils. A fresh, country smell. Even after so many years, the scent perked him up every time he encountered it. It felt rough in his hand, scratchy. He pulled it clear of the darkened cupboard into the daylight. It wasn’t s heavy. He had made heavier ones in the past. But, not this time. It wasn’t necessary. Not for what he had in mind.

There were about thirty twigs bound together with twine at one end to form a handle. The ‘business end’ was about eighteen inches long. Perfect, Mr Anderson, thought, even if he did say so himself.

He held the birch rod in his hand and leaving the cupboard door ajar, he took the few paces necessary to reach the chair. He settled himself down, wriggling his buttocks until he felt comfortable. He looked across at his son Johanne. How many times had he done this before? He really had no idea, it was literally countless times.

Johanne stood head bowed and fidgeting. His fair complexion now quite scarlet with embarrassment; humiliation even. Mr Anderson studied the top of his son’s head. The thick wavy blond fair hair needed cutting. Why was it so long, he pondered? He hoped some teenaged rebellion wasn’t in the air.

“Look at me.” It was a calm command. Mr Anderson did not believe in histrionics. None of his compatriots at the business he owned and ran, nor his friends (such that there were), nor his family could remember the last time he had raised his voice.

Sheepishly, Johanne lifted his eyes. They were pale blue and already watery. He set his jaw firmly, fighting against his quivering chin. He would not let himself down, he told himself. Absolutely not. Not so early in the proceedings.

“We know why we are here,” his father sighed, as if he was obliged to carry all the troubles of the world on his shoulders. He paused. It was Johanne’s cue to speak. The boy twisted his fingers behind his back and returned his attention to the carpet.

“Look at me, Johanne, I shan’t tell you again,” Mr Anderson bared his teeth.

“Sorry father,” sweat beaded Johanne’s heavy fringe. He wiped it with the back of his hand, alarmed at how much it trembled as he did so.

“The report from your tutor is very discouraging,” Mr Anderson breathed quietly as he recapped his son’s end of term report. “You seem not to be attending to your lessons.” His glare cut through his son like a hot knife.

There was really no “seem” about it. The kindest thing one might say about the nineteen-year-old was that he was idle. Lazy. A slacker. He was undoubtedly all of these things when it came to his studies. But, were the truth to be told, one would also have to include “dull” to the litany. That would be “dull” as in “not very bright”, “unacademic” or just downright “unclever.”

“We have spoken about your attitude and behaviour before, have we not?” It was a rhetorical question and Mr Anderson did not pause, but continued to berate his son.

Satisfied that the case against Johanne had been made, Mr Anderson skipped the part of the trial where the defence gets to speak. Instead, he proceeded straight to sentence.

“Take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.” It was a cold command and one that Mr Anderson expected to be obeyed. And, there was no doubt that it would be.

The room which had been on the cool side until then, suddenly seemed to warm. Johanne’s temperature was rising rapidly. Perspiration stuck his shirt to his back, his armpits felt soaked. He rather wished he hadn’t worn a woollen pullover.

Mr Anderson shuffled his buttocks on the hard wooden chair. He gazed intently at his son as he fumbled first with the buckle of his belt and then the three buttons of his fly. It took sometime before the front of the trousers gaped open and Mr Anderson glimpsed the white cotton underpants beneath. Johanne abhorred physical activity and was no athlete, but he had the slender body of a young man. It would be some years yet before the combination of his laziness and his fondness for food would show on his waistline. For now, his stomach was flat and hairless.

Johanne allowed his grey trousers to slither down his thighs to snag at the knees. Mr Anderson eyed his son’s sparkling tight white underpants. He pondered if they were a size or two too small for him. If that was not the case, the teenager appeared to be generously endowed in the manhood department.

Johanne’s face travelled from scarlet to the colour of a good claret wine. How could he be spared the humiliation of removing his underwear in front of his father? Silently, he pleaded with his father. Non-verbal communication was not one of Mr Anderson’s strong suits. He was a man who spoke his mind. Quietly, but robustly.

He cleared his throat. “Please take down your underpants, Johanne.” When the teenager recoiled at the command, his father snarled, “Unless you should like me to remove them for you.”

Johanne’s flinch was instinctive. He took a half step backwards, steadied his nerve, hooked his thumbs into the elasticated waistband, closed his eyes, and sent the soft white cotton south to meet his trousers. Befuddled, he covered his dick and balls with his hands.

Mr Anderson grimaced. What had his son to hide? He had a cruel streak that sometimes he didn’t try to conceal. “Johanne,” he said, still speaking softly, “Please put your hands on your head.”

His son’s response, “But father,” was a mere whimper. One never argued with father. Ever. Not about anything. If the old man were ever, say, to order Johanne to run naked around town, he would do it. Not gladly, but he would do it in the knowledge that the consequence of not doing it would be awesome indeed.

He closed his eyes once more, sucked in breath and linked his fingers before placing his hands firmly on the top of his head in the classic “naughty boy” stance. Mr Anderson shuffled his buttocks once more and pursed his lips. Johanne’s dick was long and thin and his ball sack hung down by some inches. Mr Anderson was no expert in young men’s genital, but his breast swelled a little with pride at his son’s manhood.

He gripped the birchrod in his right hand and gently tapped himself on the lap with it. “Come bend over my knee.” He was a little surprised with the apparent eagerness his son showed by removing his hands from his head, stepping forward and diving across his knee.

Johanne was no novice. He settled himself quickly. His father had spread his own knees thereby offering Johanne a sizeable platform to lean across. In that position, he was able to put his arms ahead of himself and place the palms of his hands firmly into the harsh carpet.

Behind him, with his knees bent his feet hovered an inch or so from the ground. Thus positioned, his bottom was perfectly placed over his father’s right thigh to receive the administrations of the birch.

Mr Anderson too was no novice in the spanking stakes. Years of administering chastisement had taught him that often “less means more”. He was not one of those fathers who take their errant sons across the knee and then proceed to slap their bottoms a hundred times or more. Often, such “punishment” hurt dad’s hand much more than junior’s backside.

No, a couple of minutes of hard whacks with thirty birch rods tied together would impress on any young miscreant the need to mend the error of his ways. It would deliver red, raw buttocks with no pain experienced by father.

Johanne’s bottom quivered, his hole winked open and shut. His buttocks clenched, as if trying to harden like a rubber ball. All this was instinctive. Johanne was not in control, it was his backside’s natural defence mechanism taking over.

He felt his father rub the birch twigs across the entire expanse of his bottom, the twigs scratched a little, but, he knew from painful (very painful) experience that this was but a prelude to the most excruciating agony.

The birch twigs moved away from his bare flesh, there was a pause, maybe two seconds, then an almighty whooshing sound. Johanne heard the birchrods smack into his bum. He never felt a thing. And, then the most incredible burning sensation spread across the whole of his backside. He wriggled across his father’s lap. Another instinctive reaction.

The sting of the birch is like no other pain caused in corporal punishment. There are at least two types of birch. The one used in the military and the law courts in days gone by was an instrument of torture. It was heavy and wielded with such viciousness the sole intent of the whipper was to cause serious and lasting damage.

The domestic birch, if we may call it that, is something much lighter, comprising thin supple rods. The intention is not to torture, but it is to punish severely. The birchrod has about thirty twigs and once it flies through the air its business end could have a spread wide enough to connect with every square inch of the bared buttocks. Again, and again and again. The burning sensation this creates is intense, even when the birch is delivered at close quarters such as while prostrate over Mr Anderson’s knee.

The worst part of a birching, Johanne would say, was that it lasted for hours. At least it felt like that. The blows would keep coming and coming and coming, on and on and on, until he wondered, if it would ever end.

Eventually, of course, the birching would end, but not until every square inch of bared flesh was scorched with scarlet welts. From the top of the buttocks where the curves meet the spine, across the fleshly mounds and into the under-curves where the bum meets the thighs. Sometimes, if Johanne was unable to control his wriggling and writhing and his father missed his aim, the birch rods might take some skin off the thighs themselves. When that happened, Johanne could be sure, he wouldn’t be able to sit down comfortably for many days to follow.

Even without the miss-hits, the buttocks would be alive and raw for at least twenty-four hours. The marks would last for several days, though some of the worst ones would be around for a week or more.

A birching was best avoided; but it made one wonder why Johanne never seemed to learn his lesson. You could bet your house that very soon he would once again be across his father’s knees, trousers and pants at the ankles, getting his bare buttocks roasted. What is it about that boy?

 

Picture credit: C of Sweden

 

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When Dad got home

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

Vigilantes

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The porn mag

z used slipper caught wanking Jonathan 03-10a

Craig had warned his younger brother Jason he would spank his bare bottom black and blue if he ever brought a porn magazine into the house again. Craig’s girlfriend hated them, and anyhow they were demeaning to women, he had said.

Jason tried. He tried very hard, but he was an eighteen-year-old boy with needs and there was only one way to satisfy them. He was a good-looking blond guy with a lean, well-proportioned body and a cute bum. He should have no trouble getting a girl. But poor Jason was a social misfit. He’d just spent seven years at St. Tom’s, a boys-only boarding school and he didn’t have the first idea of how to talk to a girl, never mind getting into her knickers.

Jason thought he was alone in the house and the coast was clear. Craig and Janice were at the shopping mall. She was looking for a new dress; they’d be hours. Jason pulled a copy of Big and Bouncy from under the mattress in his room. It was a hot afternoon, so he took off his shirt and stepped out of his jeans. His cock was already swelling at the thought of the delights to come. He threw his underpants on the bed and dived into the bedside table for a box of tissues.

“Huff-huff-huff,” he tugged away at his cock. He had never seen a girl naked (not in the flesh, as it were), but he’d seen many boys and he knew that as todgers went, his was quite special. When he compared it with the boys in the dorm, his was by far the longest and the thickest. Even Niblet couldn’t get it into his mouth properly and it was reputed he had tasted every cock in the sixth-form.

Jason settled down into a rhythm. He had no body lotion so he gobbed spit on his palm and used that to work his fist up and down the shaft. “Huff-huff-huff,” his heart sped and his eyes were popping. Any moment now. Whoosh! Half a pint or more of cum splashed over his fist and belly.

“Jason, are you in?” Craig’s shout echoed up the stairs. “Jason, come and see Janice’s new dress.” Jason panicked. Desperately, he wiped the sticky goo from his hands. He shot to his feet ready to grab his clothes. There were only seconds until he was discovered.

Too late, the door burst open and Craig stood, mouth gaping. “You little ….” He began and stopped himself using a dirty word. Jason stood holding the offending magazine so that it covered his disgrace. His face blushed cherry red. Caught in the act.

Craig scowled. “What did I tell you would happen?” his eyes darted around the room. Jason stood silently. Was he supposed to answer? Was it a rhetorical question?

“Well …” Craig started a sentence and paused. Under the bed he saw a carpet slipper. He stooped and picked it up and holding it in his right hand he tapped it gently into the left. “A spanking,” he grinned. “Black and blue.”

“No man. C’mon,” Jason protested. His elder brother couldn’t be serious. A spanking?

But he was. Craig didn’t really care one way or the other about porno mags but Janice did and he wanted to keep the peace with her. Craig was also a bully. He would love to take his kid brother across his knee and spank his bare bum with a slipper. Not necessarily because he deserved it, but because he could. He had all the power and Jason had none.

Jason was staying with Craig during the summer until it was time to go up to university. There was nowhere else for him to go. Mum and dad lived in the States now and had left the boys to their own devises. If Craig chucked Jason out the house, the teenager would have nowhere to go. He would be homeless. It was a spanking or a cardboard box; the choice was Jason’s.

Some choice.

“C’mon, let’s get this done.” Craig picked up Jason’s clothes from the bed and threw them on the floor. “Euwww” he groaned at the sight of a wodge of sticky tissue. “You disgusting little boy.” He sat down on the edge of the bed and brandished the slipper. “C’mon little boy, bend over my knee.”

Jason stood transfixed. “Please …” he wailed. “No …” Craig leaned forward and ripped the magazine from his brother’s grasp and threw it to the ground. The teenager was now totally naked. Craig hoped Jason didn’t notice him staring at his brother’s huge cock.

“Get here,” he growled and took Jason’s right arm and pulled him towards him. Jason fell face down across Craig’s lap.

Craig wore tight cycling shorts and was only too aware that the outline of his own, much smaller cock, was visible through the Lycra.

Jason’s face pressed into the duvet. “This cannot be happening. It’s all a nightmare,” he told himself. “Any moment now I’ll wake up.”

But, it was no dream. Craig took his brother’s arm and held it up the teenager’s back. Jason wriggled his hips, trying desperately to escape. He was pinned down. He was going nowhere. Not until Craig had toasted his bared buttocks.

Craig tapped the springy-soled slipper against Jason’s right cheek, enjoying the way the flesh wobbled. Tap-tap, he took his aim and then whacked a stinger in the centre of his brother’s left cheek. A deep pink imprint of the slipper was immediately embossed on the pale skin.

“Ow.” It was more of a gasp then a yell, but Jason hated himself for making a sound. At that moment he hated his brother with a passion. He didn’t want the brute to know he had hurt him.

Craig was no expert at spanking; but there had been a girl before Janice who liked him to warm her up a little. So, he knew it was possible to work up a kind of brightly polished surface on a bottom if you put the effort into it. It took about fifty whacks to get Jason’s bum to glow with a red sheen. His brother was biting into the pillow and the contortions of his body told Craig he was in some pain. Good. Craig stopped hammering with the slipper and gave himself the pleasure of letting his hand caress the heated flesh stretched across his lap. He felt his cock stir.

He gripped the slipper once more and went round the circuit of Jason’s buttocks a few more times: across the top, over the crest of the mounds and into the soft, tender undercurve at the sit-spot.

Craig!” Janice was calling. “Where are you?” She paused at the open door. In a single sweep of the room she appraised the porn mag, the spanked teenager and her sweating boyfriend. She had never seen such a rosy arse.

Embarrassed by the presence of his girlfriend, Craig let go of his brother’s arm. Jason shot to his feet and jumped up and down, his cock and balls swinging freely. Janice’s eyes stalked. Jason covered himself with his hands and then with a face now much redder than his bum, he uncovered them again while he danced from foot to foot trying to get into his underpants.

Janice tore her gaze away from Jason to her boyfriend still sitting on the bed. Craig couldn’t read the gleam in her eyes. “Come Craig,” she reached out her hand to help him from the bed. “Let’s go.” She held him by the hand like a mother with a small child.

“Come,” she said sternly and pulled him toward the door. Then abruptly she stopped and released her hold on her boyfriend. “Craig, you’d better bring the slipper with you,” she said as she headed for their own bedroom.

 

Picture credit: Jonathan

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Where’s the paddle, hon?

Fr. Pat’s paddle

The chamber pot incident

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com