Encounter with the vicar

z used otk chair head sting (1)

When the vicar spanked me on my bare bottom I don’t know who enjoyed it more, me or him.

My friend Lenny and I were in our early twenties and secretly used his churchyard for our couplings. I don’t know if we were in “love” or it was simply “lust”, but our relationship gave both of us great comfort in an otherwise unkind world.

The church was secluded behind locked gates at night and people from the town kept well away after dark. There was a well-believed story that the churchyard was haunted and that its statue of King some-one-or-other had been known to walk at night.

We thought we were safe, as we’d used the churchyard before without trouble. But, one day our luck ran out.

It was autumn and we climbed the fence at eight o’clock and ran through the shadows to a spot we by now considered our own. We didn’t waste time and were soon locked in each other’s arms and kissing passionately as a prelude to removing our clothes for love-making.

We had never been disturbed before and had become too complacent. That was our downfall. We never saw him until it was too late; he was upon us before we had a chance to run.

“What the …. Who are you? What are you doing?” It was a vicar scowling over us. He knew very well what we were doing, but, I suppose, he was genuinely at a loss for words.

I don’t have the words to describe the fear we felt. It happened such a long time ago. It was in the Dark Ages, when people like us were not called “homosexuals” or “gays”; we were “queers” and “perverts” and if our true nature was discovered we would lose our jobs, our families and our friends. We could even be sent to prison.

I suppose the vicar knew this and that’s why he took advantage.

He blocked our escape route, towering above the two of us standing at 6ft 2in and weighing nearly sixteen stone he was not someone to trifle with. He was big bear of a man, much older than us, with grey hair and a grey beard, but physically fit and imposing.

I had never seen the vicar in my life, but it was clear he knew Lenny. He called him words like “disgusting” “filthy”, “sordid”, “revolting” and “repulsive”, as if he had swallowed a thesaurus.

I knew that even if we did try to make a run for it there was no escape: the vicar would be able to track us down and bring the full force of the unjust law down on our trembling bodies.

He pulled both of us by our shirt collars and dragged us into his vicarage that was tucked away behind the church. I was startled; I had never realised he lived in the churchyard and could have discovered us on any one of the many times we had made love here.

His strength was so great I had no option but to submit to his will and scurry behind him.

He deposited us in a huge room that was a cross between a library, a study and a living room.  Menacingly, he turned the key in the door, removed it and theatrically put it in his trouser pocket. He was telling us we were his prisoners.

“Stand there, both of you.” He pointed to a patterned rug in front of a large desk. He sat down behind it and I swear addressed us like we were naughty children. I didn’t realise it immediately, but that was precisely what he thought we were and he was going to treat us accordingly.

He thundered at us some more calling us “repellent”, “sickening”, “nauseating”, “horrendous” and “awful” and other words that he had forgotten earlier. In my state of terror, I didn’t see that this rage was faked. He was “putting on the style”, the way vicars do when they’re giving the brimstone and hellfire stuff on a Sunday. He didn’t really believe in any of it.

Then out of nowhere he told us, “What you need is a nice warm whipping.” And, it was clear from the self-righteous look on his face that this time he did mean it.

“You need to have the evil thrashed out of you,” he continued. Then he fumed some more. He must have been quite a literary gent because in the next few sentences he managed to get in “spank”, “whack”, “tan” and “slap”. If I hadn’t been so petrified of him and the situation I was in, I would have seen him to be the sanctimonious pervert that he really was.

Eventually, he regained a semblance of composure and pronounced the predictable: he was going to spank us. There was no negotiation, but it was immediately clear that if we took our punishment that would be the end of the matter; no police, no prison, no hurtful revelations to our employers, family and friends. The vicar’s power over us was total.

After all his fulminations I expected at the very least he intended to flog us until the skin peeled off our backs and was genuinely astonished when he picked up a bedroom slipper from near the fireplace and announced he was going to spank us with that.

So, it was almost with a sense of relief and joy that we went through our preparations to satisfy our jailer.

The vicar turned a large armless chair away from a dining table so it faced inwards to the room. He sat down, took some time to make himself comfortable, spread his huge legs wide, and pronounced, “Larry, take down your trousers and underpants and bend over my knee.”

Larry and I exchanged glances. We knew we were cornered and had no choice but to submit to this pervert. If we were obedient and allowed him his pleasure, we would be free to leave. If we did not, our lives would be totally ruined.

Faking nonchalance, Larry took off his pullover to gain access to the braces that were holding up his trousers, then released them over his shoulders. They did not fit well at the waist and of their own accord his trousers slipped over his hips down his thighs towards his knees. I could see the look in his eyes was meant to convey to the vicar Larry’s utter contempt for him.

The vicar didn’t care. He was enjoying this too much. He screwed the bedroom slipper in his fist as he scrutinised my friend, “Underwear down. Now!”

With distain Larry undid his woollen drawers revealing his uncut penis to the vicar, who studied it closely. He couldn’t help himself; he had never seen anything like it before. He was sweating a little when he instructed Larry, “Come bend across my knee.” He patted his thigh to encourage my friend, whose contempt for the vicar couldn’t have been greater.

Larry moved forward, put his hands on the vicar’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He was a small boy, we all were in those days; it was poor diet mostly. The tininess of Larry’s body contrasted with the ample frame of the vicar. Larry was so small neither his hands nor his feet reached the ground; his pert bottom rested over the thick knees of his punisher.

The vicar wrapped his arm around Larry’s middle and lifted him up, moving him further forward so that his bottom was positioned even higher to receive the attention of his slipper. He pinned Larry’s feet down with his own right leg and restrained his back with his left arm. The boy could not move and was entirely at the mercy of the vicar.

He might have been twenty-one or twenty-two at the time, I can’t remember exactly, but in this situation, Larry looked just like a small boy about to be punished by an adult. He could have been eight years old.

Content that his victim could not escape; the vicar lifted the slipper towards the ceiling and brought it crashing down across the centre of Larry’s buttocks with such force a bright red mark immediately appeared and the young man gasped in shock.

Several more blows rained down in rapid succession, echoing around the room like the rattle of machine gun fire. Larry tried to wriggle free, but the vicar seemed to be an expert spanker; he was in absolute control of the situation. He was going to spank Larry as hard and for as long as he wished and there was nothing the boy could do about it.

The slipper spanked into Larry’s buttocks, covering every part of his tight flesh, from the base of the spine through the fleshiest part of the globes to the sit-spot where the bum and the thighs meet. Sadistically, the vicar also smacked down his slipper onto the thighs themselves, causing, if Larry’s reaction was anything to go by, intense pain.

I watched from a distance unable to help my friend, conscious of the agony he was suffering, but also aware of the strange feelings in my loins. I was sure I wasn’t turned on by the pain he was suffering, but there was something about his submissiveness that made my pulse race.

I knew that Larry would not want to give his tormentor the satisfaction of knowing he was hurting him, but after what must have been one hundred or more spanks, his resolve was broken. His cries were hardly audible at first, but they became louder as the whacking intensified, until he was openly weeping as each successive slap of the slipper fell on his raw bottom, opening up new waves of pain.

Eventually, after who knows how much time, even this heartless vicar had satisfied himself. He stopped spanking, but held Larry trapped across his knees, while with the palm of his hand he gently patted the scorching buttocks.

“My, look how pink your bottom is,” and rubbing gently some more, “And how hot it is.”

Larry’s humiliation now total, the vicar released his grip and my friend jumped up, hopping from one foot to the other, rubbing at his scorched flesh while performing a kind of dance.

It was soon to be my turn to go over the vicar’s knees. My heart beat quickened with excitement and my mouth was drying up. I took deep breaths to calm my nerves. I knew this was going to be extremely painful and humiliating, but I wanted it to happen so much.

The vicar beckoned me across his knees and meekly I offered him my bared bottom. If I could have done so, I would have happily stripped myself totally naked: no better; I would have allowed the vicar to do it for me, before throwing myself across his legs in complete submission to his slipper.

The vicar pinned me down in exactly the same way he had Larry. Somehow, my realisation that this strong older man was mastering me made me feel secure. I can’t explain it. I knew by now that he was exploiting me to satisfy his own desires, but I didn’t care. I needed someone like the vicar to control me; to bring out that side of my nature that craved to be dominated.

He slippered me for as long and as hard as he had Larry, leaving my backside blistered. It would throb for hours after the spanking had finished. But, I still needed more.

I never met the vicar again. Larry and I steered clear of the churchyard and a few months later, he joined the army and I never saw him again. But, I still think about that night a lot. How it ignited appetites in me that I never knew existed. But, those passions could never be gratified; how could they, we lived our entire lives in the darkness.

Picture Credit: Sting Pictures

This story was first uploaded in September 2015.

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Henry Pottinger’s souvenirs

new story 2

Henry Pottinger let the suitcase fall onto the bed. It was lighter than he had remembered. The accumulated dust of years – no, decades – was undisturbed. It was small and battered and made of stiff carboard. They didn’t make suitcases like that anymore. Utility, they had called it. Cheap, no frills. Like so many things manufactured at the end of the war.

Henry turned the case on its side so he could get at the catches. They flicked open easily. The case had laid in the attic room since his youth. When he had first lived there; the family home. When his mother and father were still alive.

Henry’s heart beat faster. It had been fifty years at least since he had last rummaged through the contents of the case. Part of his life was there. He paused, but only barely, since the case held no fears. It contained no hidden secrets.

He opened the lid and without looking inside he lifted the suitcase and turned it over so that its contents fell with a satisfying plop onto the heavy mattress. Carefully, almost reverentially, he placed the case on the bedroom floor. He peered at the litter on the bed with some disappointment. He had remembered it differently. This pile represented his youth. He had expected so much more. He hoped this would not turn out to be a wasted effort.

He leaned forward and carefully smoothed the jumble. He hadn’t seen this junk in more than fifty years but immediately so much looked familiar. His souvenirs. Why had he collected them? He supposed it had been the arrogance of youth. Had he believed that one day he would be famous and revered; that these pathetic artefacts would be sought out by scholars and historians. A professor at an Oxbridge college would use them as source material for his third or maybe fourth book about the importance of Henry Pottinger.

Ha! To be young again. Henry, now fast approaching his seventy-fifth birthday, often spoke about the arrogance of youth. He knew the best way to deal with that. The old-fashioned ways were still the best.

Henry had achieved some degree of fame in his life, but no scholar had wanted to write about him. Ironically perhaps, his fame (and quite a small fortune) had been made as the author of a series of history textbooks. For more than thirty years he had been required reading for every schoolchild in Britain and the Commonwealth. That was a lot of books and a great deal of royalties. That income and a legacy from his parents meant Henry had never done a day’s proper work since the age of thirty.

Henry had used the time that money bought him industriously. Henry Pottinger had constructed for himself a second life. An alternative existence. Henry Pottinger was not in fact Henry Pottinger. Henry Pottinger was an assumed name; a cipher. Henry Pottinger would never have been allowed to write and publish a textbook for schoolboys. Henry Pottinger would never have allowed near a schoolboy. Not in a million years. So, the name that adorned the history textbooks was not Henry Pottinger.

Henry Pottinger enjoyed his life. And he intended to go on enjoying it for many more years to come. He had made a great number of friends and his home, tucked away in a leafy suburb of the non-descript town of Brocklehurst, was famous among men who shared Henry’s (non-history) interests. Indeed, it was on account of these friends that Henry Pottinger was now rummaging through his souvenirs.

A seventy-fifth birthday celebration was being planned for Henry Pottinger and, as is often the case at such milestone anniversaries, his chums thought it would be a cracking wheeze to surround him with memories of his life. That had sent Henry Pottinger climbing into the far recesses of the attic.

He surveyed his early adult life spread before him. Time plays tricks on a person and had it really been about fifty years since he had last seen all this? So much of it looked familiar. The edge of a small pink-coloured box peeked between a dozen envelopes. Ha! Henry Pottinger knew what that was. He gripped it eagerly in his hand. The box had a clear transparent plastic lid. Henry Pottinger did not have to open the box, its content was clearly visible. It was a plastic key, silver in colour, attached to the numerals two and one. A twenty-first birthday memento from his parents, deliberately chosen for its tackiness.

He tossed it back onto the bed and retrieved one of the envelopes. You didn’t need to be Sherlock Holmes to see it contained a birthday card. Eagerly, Henry Pottinger pulled back the flap and tugged out the card. “Happy 21st birthday,” he read. “Now we are legal. Love Uncle Ricky.” Henry Pottinger chewed down on is bottom lip, an affectation that indicated his intense pleasure. “Ha! Ha! God almighty!” he said aloud, even though there was no one in the house to hear him. Now we are legal. How much had changed since he had turned twenty-one. And “Uncle” Ricky – he was no blood relation. Gosh! Henry Pottinger giggled at how much Uncle Ricky had taught him.

Gently, he placed the card on the bedside table. It would raise a smile at his birthday party.  He returned to the bed; a formal brown envelope lay askew on top of a copy of Football Monthly. Henry Pottinger didn’t need to look at that – he knew already, it celebrated England’s victory in the World  Cup. He just as easily recognised the envelope. He couldn’t supress his excitement. With trembling hands he eased out the one sheet of flimsy paper it contained. “Ha!” He boomed and dissolved into chuckles. His final school report. He licked his lips and started to read. Even after so many decades he found he could recite the contents of the report by heart.

He is “headstrong,” his housemaster had written. “Will find it difficult to make his way in life if he continues to be unable to accept authority.” His chuckles rose to roars of laughter. “Oh, yes,” Henry Pottinger said, “I must frame this. It will take pride of place.”

Henry Pottinger (as he was not called while at school) had joined the sixth-form at St Francis Independent Grammar School when his father moved to Brocklehurst to take up a senior post at the local municipal council. Unable to accept authority. The eighteen-year-old Henry Pottinger had been a frequent visitor to Mr Durrant’s study. Henry Pottinger held the school report, his eyes misting. He saw himself lowering his body across the low back of the housemaster’s old leather armchair. His head low, bottom high. His pale-grey trousers pulling snugly into his stretched buttocks. The aroma of stale sweat that permeated the chair’s seat clogged his throat. Once again, Henry Pottinger felt the gentle tap-tap-tap of the thick, but whippy, rattan cane as it found its aim across the fleshiest part of his round buttock cheeks.

Henry Pottinger could never see this (of course, since his gaze was committed to the seat cushion) but he imagined Mr Durrant then flexing the cane between both hands before swishing it through the air. Henry Pottinger could feel the cane return to its target. Then the cane lifted away before returning with tremendous force to strike deep into his meaty bum before rebounding. The cane rose and fell six times. Six-of-the-best. St Francis was a traditional school after all.

Henry Pottinger read the words again: unable to accept authority. He had been beaten like that on three separate occasions in his final term. Three times! Aged eighteen. Had Durrant been a complete imbecile? Had he not realised what was going on? How Henry Pottinger had lusted for those sessions in the housemaster’s study. How he fantasied about one day being ordered by the cane-swishing Mr Durrant, “Lower your trousers. Bend over that chair.” Oh, how Henry Pottinger had wanted to take a full-six across the seat of his white cotton Y-fronts. Henry Pottinger laughed at the memory. It would not happen at his school but it did not take too long after he arrived at Oxford before he experienced that exquisite pleasure.

Oxford. University. Suddenly Henry Pottinger remembered. The photograph. Did he still have it? He delved into the pile on the eiderdown. Yes! Yes! He pulled at a yellowing envelope, hands trembling. “This is it! Oh My God!” he trilled. “I haven’t seen this since ….” His eyes misted. A young man (himself) in pyjamas standing in the corner of  room, hands on head in the traditional naughty boy pose. The pyjama bottoms are at his feet and bottom bare to the wind and red raw after a sound spanking. Henry Pottinger licked his lips. “Oh Lor!” he exclaimed. “I had almost forgotten.”

z used after corner pyjamas down study or domestic

That bonkers weekend at Brocklehurst he had spent with his pal, Gregor. That mad man (what the dickens was his name?) who turned half of his house into a replica public school, complete with classroom and headmaster’s study. The photograph showed Henry Pottinger in that study. His heart raced and his throat dried simultaneously as it all flooded back.

“You boy, stand there,” the headmaster glowered as he pointed to a place on the carpet in front of his desk. “Why have you been sent to me at this ungodly hour?” Henry Pottinger stands nervously, feeling a little conspicuous in his heavy striped pyjamas. They were made for a taller, stouter boy. Even with the drawstring tightly knotted he feared the pyjamas bottoms would slip down his thighs at any moment.

“Maitland, the head boy sent me. I was out of the dormitory after lights out.”

“Ha!” the headmaster ejaculated. “Up to no good, of course. No good comes from being out of the dormitory after lights out.”

Henry Pottinger nods his agreement. It is unsure what else he is expected to say. There is an uncomfortable silence. The headmaster breaks it with a bark, “Well, boy what have you got to say for yourself!” Henry Pottinger stares down at his bare feet. What is he supposed to say? His head is in a whirl. Frankly, he wishes the headmaster would stop all the jawing and move onto the action.

“Pah!” he headmaster rises from his chair. “So, you want to add dumb insolence to the charge list, eh?” Henry Pottinger shrugs, realising he is not very good at this. “Bah! Pah!” the headmaster is hamming it up  bit. “Well, m’lad,” he says, suddenly adopting a cod Scottish accent, “Och! w’ll see abah tat.” He opens the drawer to his desk and reaches in. Henry Pottinger’s eyes follow the headmaster’s movement closely. His heart is racing and he feels a slight clenching in his buttocks. The headmaster withdraws a leather strap. It has a handle at one end and the business end is split into three tails.

The headmaster holds the tawse high in both hands so that Henry Pottinger gets a good look. It is as if the headmaster is making a religious offering. “Och,” the headmaster says, “yer know what to expect.” Henry Pottinger honestly does not. He knows he is to receive corporal punishment as that is the whole point of the weekend. But, he had never been beaten with a leather tawse before. His bottom has been battered with canes, slippers and hairbrushes. On one memorable occasion he received six cuts of a heavy birch rod; but a leather tawse, no.

The headmaster is now on the move. He stands in front of his desk alongside Henry Pottinger. The headmaster swipes the heavy strap through the air. Sweat trickles down Henry Pottinger’s spine. At close quarters he can see the strap is awesome. It is about a foot or fourteen inches long and maybe a quarter to half inch thick. It will pack a wallop, Henry Pottinger has no doubt about that. Especially in the hands of the headmaster who has already demonstrated his expertise with a swishy rattan cane.

“Take down your pyjama trousers and bend across my desk,” the headmaster says swiftly. In his excitement he has forgotten to speak in the Scottish accent. Henry Pottinger fumbles with the drawstring of his pyjamas, he will be glad to let them down before they fall under their own steam. His buttocks and legs are now bare and for the first time Henry Pottinger feels how cold it is in the study. There is an open fire but it hasn’t been made up.

The headmaster moves away from the desk, he places his hands behind his back and strolls purposefully across the room. When he gets to the far wall, he turns and retraces his steps. Henry Pottinger thinks he looks a lot like Groucho Marx and stifles a giggle.

“Bend over boy!” the headmaster shouts the instruction. Henry Pottinger wonders if the neighbours will hear. Then he remembers the houses in this part of The Avenue are large and detached from one another. The headmaster could commit murder and no one would hear.

Henry Pottinger is a short distance from the desk so he shuffles like a penguin until he is close enough so he can bend across. The headmaster has cleared the desk top and all that is left is a large blotter. The lower button of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket is undone and his bare flesh touches the cold walnut desk. Its coldness and the excitement of presenting his bared bottom for chastisement sends a shiver through his body.

The headmaster has stopped his pacing and from the other end of the study he admires the sight presented for him. He has become intimately acquainted with Henry Pottinger’s bottom over the past twenty-four hours. The fading lines from a swift six of the best delivered across the seat of the trousers earlier in the day bare testimony to this fact.

The headmaster stands behind Henry Pottinger and admires once more his fine round buttock cheeks. They firm up when he is stretched across the desk, but when standing they are a little more fleshy. The headmaster runs the tip of his tongue across his dry, almost chapped lips. He rests the tawse on the desk so as to free-up both hands. With those, he carefully takes hold of the end of Henry Pottinger’s pyjama jacket and ever so carefully he folds it once, then once again so that it is quite clear of his target area. He cracks a smile, cups his right palm and then gently he caresses Henry Pottinger’s left buttock. The headmaster is delighted that Henry Pottinger shivers when he does this. The headmaster pats the left buttock and rubs the back of Henry Pottinger’s thighs. Then he gives the boy a playful smack across the fleshiest part of his right cheek.

The headmaster stands back and gently lays the three tails of the worn leather tawse across the centre of Henry Pottinger’s bottom. He licks his lips one more time, grips the handle tightly, raises the strap so it rests on his shoulder and then with all the force he is able to muster he whips it down so that it sinks into the flesh. He is rewarded with the sight of a glowing red stripe. Henry Pottinger’s hips wriggle and he grips the far edge of the desk. A second stroke whistles through the air before connecting an inch below the first. Henry Pottinger turns his head, a long drawn out whistle escapes from his half-closed mouth.

Back in the bedroom Henry Pottinger the soon-to-be seventy-five-year-old carefully replaces the photograph in the yellowing envelope. What a day this is turning out to be, he tells himself as once again he burrows among the debris in search of more memories.

Picture credit, CP Services, London

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Proud of my son

new story 2

z used after bed jeans down domestic (1)

I would be the first to tell you how proud I am of my son Tyler. He’s at university now, and I am certain he has a fine future ahead of him. Of course, like all nineteen-year-olds he is far from perfect. Often he thinks the world resolves around him. He can be self-centred and downright selfish. He’s a bit lazy and sometimes needs an “incentive” to do his chores about the house. He has been known to stay out late and when he does come home, it is obvious to me that he has been drinking alcohol.

As I said, I am proud of Tyler, but I also acknowledge that it is my duty to help him along that rocky road from childhood to adulthood. And, “duty” is not too strong a word for it. Afterall, what are fathers for?

I had to step up to the plate today. I should have spotted that trouble was looming. I could have headed it off at the pass. I took my eye off the ball. I blame myself. But, when duty called, I was not found wanting.

What happened was the mid-terms. These are the examinations students do half way through the semester to see that they have been studying hard and are on track for success. Tyler took four mid-terms. He flunked three. Three abject failures. You don’t have to be a statistician to see the pattern there. Too much time spent on the Internet and not enough with his nose in a book. Not to mention the time spent in the bar. Of course, I assume the nights he came home swaying and giggling his head off, it was drink – and not drugs. Note to self: search Tyler’s room.

I am paying a fortune for Tyler to study at university. Nothing is cheap these days. That’s one of the reasons I insisted he study at the local university. It saves on paying rent. We are lucky that the University of Brocklehurst has a fine reputation. Tyler could do a lot worst and attend one of those jumped-up technical colleges masquerading as a university.

I will not sit by idly and see Tyler fail. It is my duty to save him from himself. This is not new territory for me. In fact, it is déjà vu all over again. There is a reason why my grandfather’s old razor strop hangs from a nail in the cupboard under the stairs. From the moment the results appeared online Tyler knew what I would do. A very similar thing happened in his final year at school. You don’t want to hear about that but let me just say that the whipping bucked up his ideas. He passed the exams well enough to get a place at university.

So, here we were again. Tyler had the grace to look abashed and a little ashamed when he handed to me the printout of his grades. I frowned and shook my head gravely from side to side. It is important to express disapproval. I let him know how much he had disappointed me. “It is your fault,” I frowned, “You have nobody to blame but yourself.” Tyler, his head bowed and his face scarlet, agreed.

“Well,” I make sure I am in prefect control of myself at times such as this. There is no need for histrionics, “Well,” I repeated, “You know what must happen now son.” I shook my head as if I carried the troubles of the whole world on my shoulder. “Fetch the strap and meet me in your bedroom.” It was a clear, calm order. I knew Tyler would obey me. I am very proud of my son.

He trudged off to the cupboard under the stairs and I took up position in the bedroom. It is a small room and once the bed is in place there’s not much room for two people to move around. Tyler took his time fetching the strap (I knew he would, he always does). I didn’t allow this delay to affect my temper. At last my son appeared in the doorway. His was still blushing bright-red. Tyler has a clear open face and because he is quite thin and not very tall he looks a bit younger than he is. I joke that if he put on his old school blazer and wore a pair of short trousers he would be able to get away with paying the children’s fare on the buses. He never laughs when I say this.

I held out my hand and he passed me the strap. I held it in my hand, testing its weight. I always do this. I don’t know why, this thing had seen some action, I’d used in on my kids a few times over the years. My father used it on me and grandpa used it on him. Perhaps grandpa’s dad also used it; the strap is certainly a family heirloom.

It was a length of leather more than eighteen inches long and three inches or so wide. Back in the day men used it to sharpen their cut-throat razors. In many homes it had a secondary use. How many backsides had been blistered with one of these over the years?

I thwacked the strap into my palm. Yes, without this little incentive Tyler would never have made it to university. Now, if he doesn’t buck his ideas up and start studying hard, he’ll fail his university course and be put on the scrapheap, aged nineteen.

Tyler’s dark brown blue eyes gazed at me while I lectured him about how much money of mine he was wasting. I told him I was proud of him. I said he needed to make something of himself. I told him it was my duty to help him succeed.

All the time Tyler gawked at me, his eyes shining. I paused. Now, it was his time to speak. He croaked an apology. I couldn’t quite make out what he said. I think it was, “Sorry.” He gave no explanation for his failure. There wasn’t much he could say. He’s a bright boy – genuinely so. If he put in the effort he could ace his exams. He had demonstrated that at school. He just needed a helping hand.

I slapped the strap into my left palm. It was my way of saying, “I’m ready to go.” Colour drained from Tyler’s face. His eyes moistened. I thought he was about to burst into tears. He didn’t. He doesn’t. He never has. Well, not in a very long time.

I tightened my grip on the strap and looked around. There was almost literally no room to swing a cat. There was a small plastic chair that he could drape over, but I wouldn’t have space to swing back the leather.

We both knew the solution to the problem; we had done this before.

“Straighten that duvet on the bed. Then lay face down.” Tyler made no protest. He pulled the duvet until all the creases had disappeared. He placed a pillow at the top of the bed. I was proud of his fortitude. And, I admired his foresight. I knew the pillow would have an important part to play as our little drama unfolded.

I was calm, and so was Tyler. “Now, lower your jeans and underpants and lay across the bed.”

With steady hands he unbuckled his belt, popped the rivet on his jeans and tugged at the zipper. Then he put his thumbs under the waist of his underpants and pulled down his jeans and pants together so they just reached below his buttocks. Then, he knelt onto the bed and stretched out

He wriggled a bit until his face was resting on the pillow. His buttocks and the backs of his thighs were hairless, which just emphasised how young he looked. I tested the strap by holding it over my shoulder so that it tapped against the small of my back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when I tried to lash it down. I knew from past experience it would just about clear.

Satisfied on my height, I then tested my distance. I stood three feet, then two feet from the edge of the bed. My intention was that the strap should lash Tyler in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but I soon got my eye in.

By now my son was biting down on the pillow. His arms were stretched ahead of him. It looked all the world like he was posed to dive into a swimming pool.

I don’t believe in prolonging the agony. We were here for a purpose; it was best to get on with it. I raised the leather strap across my shoulder and brought it crashing down into Tyler’s bum. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Tyler’s body buckled under the lash and he bit deep into the pillow. A tiny trickle of spit ran from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into Tyler’s backside. His body shuddered. Two scarlet stripes ran in parallel across his cheeks. He clasped his hands together, but he kept them well away from my target area. He was submitting himself to the punishment.

It took another three lashes of the razor strop to cover the entire area of his now raw buttocks. After another three purplish bruises started to form. Tyler bit deep into the pillow as I continued in my duty and snapped another six hard stingers – one after the other in quick succession – across his rock-hard bottom.

His legs flapped and his back arched and I knew this was a reflex action made by his body. It was nature’s way of dealing with the severe pain that scorched Tyler. The back of his head was soaked with perspiration and the pillow was damp with spittle.

I stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s naked curves. It lingered long enough to give me a chance to get my breath. I am no slouch, but physical exercise like this takes it out of me. Tyler knew I had not finished my discipline. He tensed, bracing himself for a further onslaught.

I got into a rhythm and spanked him harder and harder, satisfied that the lashes left imprints into bare flesh. Stepping back I snapped the leather down again as hard as I could. I was clear in my mind that I was whipping my son, whom I loved dearly. I channeled my thoughts on how I was saving Tyler from himself. After this he would return to his studies with renewed enthusiasm. He would work hard and pass those examinations.

This gave me the energy to apply the leather with as much strength as I could muster. As the thrashing continued I realized I was drenched in sweat. My breathing was heavy, but it was nowhere as bad as Tyler’s. He wheezed and gulped in great mouthfuls of air as his body flailed from left to right. His face was almost as red as his backside as he struggled to retain control of himself. He buried his face into the pillow.

I dropped the strap onto the bed. “Put it back in the cupboard when you are finished,” I said softly. I quietly left the room. I don’t think I imagined it when I heard doleful sobbing from behind the door after I closed it. I went to the kitchen and made myself tea. I was in the living room reading the morning newspaper when maybe an hour later Tyler appeared. His face glowed. He had obviously been scrubbing it with a cloth. “Thanks, Dad,” he said quietly, and gave me a thumbs-up. I gulped back a sob. Before I could tell Tyler how proud I was of him, he had gone through the front door and was hurrying up the driveway.

Picture credit: Unknown

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A memory in the attic

Uncle Jack

Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Will life imitate art?

new story 2

z used twosome older younger shower josman (2a) (2)

Mr and Mrs Pettit thought they had found the perfect solution to their problem. It was so simple really. What could possibly go wrong? They thanked their lucky stars. Now, they just had to convince their son Ant.

The thing was Mr Pettit had been promoted by his company to become a regional director. He and his wife were over the moon. It meant more prestige, more money, an even bigger home, a flashier car. The whole nine yards. The problem was this: the region he was going to “direct” was three hundred miles away at the other end of the country. They would have to move away.

Ant was in his final year at school with just six months to go until he took his examinations. He couldn’t change schools now. That was where Gordon Conway came in. He was a friend and neighbour. He had a spare room. He said Ant could move in with him until his exams were over and then Ant would be able to join his parents in the summer. What could be simpler?

Ant told his pal Will about it when they were sinking a couple of pints at the Three Fishers. “Oh yes, that’s a really good idea,” Will said, dripping irony.

“What’s wrong?” Ant was genuinely perplexed.

“A middle-aged man living on his own,” Will slurped beer down his throat. “Takes in a cute, blond eighteen-year-old boy as a lodger.” Will laughed and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “He’s a queen. Just make sure you keep the bathroom door locked, that’s all I can say.”

“He is not a queen,” Ant wasn’t sure if his pal was just joshing him. “He was married. She left him for another bloke.”

Will’s eyes shone. He laughed, “I rest my case, m’lud. A poofter. It’s backs to the wall boys!” They drank on into the evening.

Later that night in bed Ant gently stroked his erect cock. Was Mr Conway gay? What if he were. He thought about the many stories he had read online as he worked his fist up and down his shaft.  They usually went something like this: for some reason a teenager has to move out of his parents’ home and move in with an uncle, or grandparents, or maybe even a neighbour. Suddenly, his whole life changes. His new “guardians” won’t put up with his disrespectful and slovenly ways. There are rules. He is told: “It’s my way or the highway.”  A night time curfew is imposed. Alcohol is banned. No drugs. Do this, don’t do that. Be polite to your aunt / grandmother. And if he disobeys …..

Ant had never given Mr Conway a second thought before. He was just someone from further down The Avenue that his parents knew. Now, he couldn’t get the man out of his mind.

They are standing in lounge room. Mr Conway rests his buttocks against the edge of the dining table. In his hand he holds a single sheet of paper. He reads from it, slowly at dictation speed. “Curfew is ten-thirty on school nights and eleven-forty-five on other days. You will have homework completed and ready for my inspection at nine o’clock. You will not be allowed to use the back room or to enter the room upstairs that I call my study.”

Ant nods his assent as each new rule is read to him. Mr Conway drones through his list. “And finally,” he says, with no inflection in his voice, “You will be subjected to corporal punishment at my complete discretion should you break any of the rules. Please sign your name at the place indicated.” He hands the sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen to Ant. The eighteen-year-old takes it and signs.

Mr Conway takes back the sheet of paper and carefully folds it in two. “Right,” he says, “Let’s test you out.” He walks across the room, opens a drawer to a sideboard and slips the newly-signed contract in. Then he closes it and opens a second drawer. This time he reaches in. Ant watches him. His own heart is thumping. His head feels like church bells are clanging inside it. His eyes moisten when he sees Mr Conway take out a well-worn white plimsoll. He grips it in his right fist and turns to face Ant.

“Right,” he says. He sits himself down on a straight-backed, armless chair. When he speaks again he is quiet and unemotional. He delivers instructions clearly and concisely. He might be ordering a takeaway meal on the telephone. “Stand there.” He points to a spot a metre from his thigh. “Take down your jeans. Bend over my knee. Place your hands flat on the floor. Keep your head low. Raise your bottom as high as you can. Keep perfectly still. Keep as quiet as you can. We do not need to disturb the neighbours. Do not try to resist me. If you do I shall start the punishment all over again. Do you understand?”

Ant croaks, “Yes sir.” He is now on some sort of automatic pilot. He fumbles a bit with his belt and the jeans have buttons and they refuse at first to be undone. At last he slips the jeans down his thighs and over his knees. Gravity takes them the rest of the way to his feet. He is still a short distance from Mr Conway, so when Ant moves towards him he waddles like a penguin.

Mr Conway is not a large man, in fact he is shorter than Ant. Ant notices for the first time that Mr Conway is very muscular. He is strong for a man of his age, which Ant supposes might be forty-five or more. Mr Conway is also wearing jeans and he parts his legs to create a platform for Ant to submit his body across. For a second, Ant glances at Mr Conway’s privates which bulge against tight denim cloth.

Ant has not done this before, so he takes some deep breaths while he works out what to do exactly. He decides to rest the palms of his hands on Mr Conway’s right knee and then lower his body down so that his belly rests across the plateau made by Mr Conway’s thighs. Then, as previously instructed, Ant stretches his arms forward and presses the palms of his hands into the deep-pile carpet. He wriggles a little as he tries to get his bottom into the required position. Ant cannot see behind him so cannot be sure if his bum is pointing up at the correct angle. He supposes Mr Conway will tell him soon enough if he has got it wrong.

Prostrate like this, his knees bend and his toes hover just above the ground. Ant cannot be sure whether he ought to close his eyes tight until the spanking is over or should he stare down at the carpet. If he lifts his head a centimetre or two he can look across the room. In his eyeline there is a large painting of a bowl of fruit. Ant thinks he could concentrate on that to take his mind off the whacking that is about to come.

He decides to close his eyes tight and tries to imagine what he must look like. Here he is an eighteen-year-old schoolboy draped across the knees of his middle-aged neighbour who is grasping an old worn gym shoe that he is about to whack into Ant’s pert bottom.

Ant’s imaginings are interpupted.  He feels Mr Conway take hold of the end of his shirt and roughly he pushes it halfway up his back so it is away from the target area. Ant is sure the inside of his head is about to explode when Mr Conway takes a firm hold of the elasticated waistband of Ant’s underpants. It takes only two fierce tugs to have the small briefs up and over Ant’s neat bottom and resting at his knees. Ant is now naked from the shoulders to his knees. Totally at the mercy of his neighbour’s hard, rubber-soled slipper.

Back in the real world, in his bed Ant’s right wrist is pumping like a steam piston. He scrunches his eyes tight trying both to visualise his bared buttocks as the plimsoll hammers into his naked flesh and at the same time he tries not to ejaculate too soon.

Downstairs Mr and Mrs Pettit share a bottle of red wine and congratulate themselves on finding the perfect solution to their problem. They think how lucky they are to have such an understanding son.

 

Picture credit: Josman

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The interview

Called to Account

The glorious summer

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Celebrity encounter

new story 2

Walter’s eyes shone with excitement as he bent forward to pick the letter off the doormat. The BBC. The British Broadcasting Corporation. He had replied. He had written back. He slipped the letter into the inside pocket of his blazer and ran up the stairs back to his bedroom. He hadn’t told his parents about this. It was his secret. For now.

His hand trembled and his heart raced as he pulled open the drawer where his socks and underwear were. Hidden at the back was his penknife. At the third attempt he had the blade open. Carefully he slid it under the flap of the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside. He grasped it between finger and thumb. He held it carefully and paused. What did he say? What would happen next? He was too nervous to find out.

In the distance a civic clock struck the quarter hour. If he didn’t get a move on he would be late for school. He unfolded the paper. It was a letter. Handwritten. He had replied in person. This was no standard letter typed by a secretary. He checked the bottom of the page. The proof was there. The signature of Prosper Howard. Walter sat on his bed and unable to control his beating heart he read carefully.

Dear Master Harding, it said. I was astounded to receive your letter requesting an interview for your school magazine. The blasted impertinence. I resolved at once to write to your headmaster and demand that he administer corporal punishment upon you in the form of a severe caning.

Walter stopped reading. Crikey! He had told nobody he had written to Prosper Howard the most famous broadcasting personality in the country. His radio show What Do You Know? was listened to by millions each week. Everyone with a TV set tuned into his panel game Guess What I Am on Sunday evenings. Prosper Howard was always in the newspapers attending one swell party after another. He wrote a column in a Sunday newspaper. He was well known as a miserable curmudgeon. And, the nation loved him for it.

Walter realised he must have been mad to write to him. There would be hell to pay now. The headmaster was certain to be furious. Writing without his permission. It would be a beating for sure.

There was still more in the letter. Walter read on. However, on further reflection I considered it might be a bit of a lark to meet you. Walter paused his reading. A bit of a lark, what the dickens did that mean? He would soon find out. The letter continued, As you may know I keep a house in Brocklehurst not far from your school. You are to report to me at 57 The Avenue at 5.00 p.m. on May 23rd 1956. Do not be late.

Walter read the letter again and then for a third time. Prosper Howard had granted him the interview. What a scoop! Carefully, he put the letter back into the envelope and put the envelope with the penknife at the back of the drawer. It was an elated Walter Harding who cycled to St. Francis Independent Grammar School that morning.

To get to The Avenue Walter had to cycle through Widdicombe Woods. He knew them well. There were many dark and secret places there. On this occasion he kept to the main paths. It was a cool spring evening, the light was fading but it would not be completely dark for some time yet. The Avenue was a long street consisting of many large upscale houses, each standing hidden behind walls or hedges. There were also smaller but no less opulent homes nestling side by side disconnected by garages or open spaces. He felt sure number fifty-seven would be one of the larger more secluded places. And it was so. Walter would have missed it altogether if he had not found number fifty-one and then fifty-three until by the logic of omission, he concluded the closed gate with no number upon it must be the home of Prosper Howard.

The gate was closed but not locked. Walter dismounted his bicycle and with some difficulty he eased open the heavy wrought iron gates. He stood for a moment to catch his breath. The house was modern. The number of windows he could count suggested to Walter there were at least six large rooms at the front. He had no ide how many there would be at the back. It was enormous. He had read Prosper Howard was a bachelor. Why did he need such a large house? Walter wondered.

He pushed his bicycle along the tarmacked drive that ran through manicured lawns up to the front door. His heart was beating with excitement. And nerves. Nervous excitement. He pressed the electric bell and waited. Moments later the door opened. Walter’s jaw opened. Standing before him as large as life was Prosper Howard. A slender, somewhat dapper man with a severely clipped moustache. Walter had expected a butler, or at the very least a maid, to answer the door. Walter supposed Mr Howard had recently returned from a professional engagement as he wore an expensively-tailored dark-grey business suit.

“Ha!” Prosper Howard snorted in the rich, plumy tones so beloved by his broadcasting audiences. “On time I see!” He pulled open the door to allow Walter through. “Follow me, lad! Follow me!” Walter let his bicycle fall to the ground and entered the house. He had little time to notice the large spiral staircase, the dark wooden furniture and the general gloomy aspect of the house. Prosper Howard was already entering a room at the far end of the hallway. Walter skipped to catch up the great man.

Prosper Howard sat in a large leather armchair. Walter’s eyes examined the rest of the room. It was some kind of living room, he supposed. Did people who lived in such large houses call them living rooms? Perhaps it was a drawing room, what did he know. There was a large Chesterfield couch and several smaller armless chairs and a coffee table. At the far end of the room stood a set of dark mahogany bookcases and cupboards. Walter stood uncomfortably. He had not been invited to sit. Would Prosper Howard think him impertinent if he pulled up a chair?

Prosper Howard wriggled his bottom as he made himself comfortable in a chair. He picked up a pipe from a nearby table and with what looked like a gold cigarette lighter he reignited the tobacco in the bowl. Walter saw the craggy lines that criss-crossed Prosper Howard’s face. He hadn’t noticed them when he watched him on television. Prosper Howard leaned forward towards Walter, the boy caught a faint aroma of whisky and tobacco, mingled with coal tar soap.

“So,” Prosper Howard said with sonorous tones, “You’re in the sixth-form, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Walter replied, “I turned eighteen last Tuesday.”

“Eighteen eh,” Prosper Howard’s already rheumy eyes moistened further, “What a splendid age to be. So young. So virile.” Walter blushed unable to think of a suitable response.

“What a fine school uniform,” Prosper Howard reached out and took the lapel of Walter’s blazer between finger and thumb. I see many of you boys around the town. These colourful blazers are very distinctive. Why aren’t you wearing your cap?”

Walter spluttered, “Oh, erm, it’s in my pocket.”

“Put it on lad! Put it on,” Prosper Howard blared. “That’s better. Yes, you look very smart. A picture.” Prosper Howard let go of Walter’s lapel and slumped back in his chair, “Of course, it would be so much better if you wore short trousers.”

“Oh, the chaps only wear those in the first form,” Walter spluttered, trying to make sensible conversation.

“Pity. Pity.” Prosper Howard puffed on his pipe. He glanced at an empty glass on the table, paused as if trying to make a decision, and then said, more quietly this time, “Eighteen. What-ho! Let’s have a drink.” He hauled himself from the chair and moved swiftly crossed the room. One of the cupboard doors hid a cocktail cabinet. In seconds Prosper Howard returned to his chair grasping two tumblers of whisky. He thrust one into Walter’s hand. The boy received it gratefully. Prosper Howard was treating him like a grown-up. Like an equal.

Walter sipped the whisky. He had no experience of drinking beyond the cheap cider they took into Widdicombe Woods. It burnt his throat. He struggled to suppress a cough. Now, a little self-conscious that he was still standing, Walter transferred his weight from one leg to the other.

“Of course, I was a schoolmaster once,” Prosper Howard said unexpectedly. “Long time ago, of course. Police constable for a while too.” He fell into silence. Walter looked deep into his glass before taking another sip. This one went down a little easier.

“Discipline.” Prosper Howard was off again. “I suppose it’s about discipline. School-mastering and coppering. Both the same really, I suppose.” Walter suddenly remembered an article Prosper Howard had recently penned for the newspaper: ‘Bring back the birch for juvenile delinquents.’ It had cause quite a stir. Questions had been asked in the House of Lords.

Prosper Howard took a long, hard gulp of whisky. “What about you lad?” he waved his glass at Walter. “Do you behave yourself?”

Walter knew his face must be burning. What was Prosper Howard talking about? “Yes, sir,” Walter stumbled uncertain what he was supposed to say.

“Really? Truly? You are a paragon of virtue? Always?”

Walter sipped more whisky. Did Prosper Howard know about the filthy things he did under the bedclothes at night? Did he know about Widdicombe Woods? What he did with David McCormack. No, of course not. How could he? He took another sip.

“Drink up lad! Drink up,” Prosper Howard beamed, “We have work to do.” Walter sipped hard at his whisky. It was a warm evening and the room was airless. His head was feeling stuffy. He felt his knees buckle. How he wished Mr Howard would ask him to sit down.

He didn’t. Instead, he said rather cheerily. “Come on lad. We should go to my study. Follow me.” Prosper Howard bounded to his feet. “Come along. Come along!” he called as he made his way through the door. The study was on the first floor. The passageway was gloomy and Walter slipped on the over-polished floorboards as he tried to keep up with his host. “Upstairs! Upstairs!” Prosper Howard had boundless energy, he reminded Walter of an over zealous scoutmaster. Walter stumbled on the stairs but gripped the ornately carved bannister before he fell on his face.

“In here lad. In here!” Prosper Howard was holding open a heavy oak panelled door. “The study,” he beamed as he held the door open wide. “Get inside,” he added, as a more sinister tone entered his voice. “Quickly boy. Don’t dawdle!” Walter hurried to catch up.

The study if anything was larger than the living room. And every bit as gloomy. All four walls were panelled with heavy mahogany. There was little furniture for a room so large, but it too was mostly made of dark wood. Along one wall there were rows of bookshelves encased behind glass. A large heavy desk topped in green leather stood at one end. Opposite it across the room were two small leather armchairs with low backs. A straight backed chair leaned against a wall. An unlit fire dominated one wall.

“Stand there boy.” Prosper Howard spoke gruffly, his previously pleasant demeanour now vanished. Walter’s head was aching. How he wished he hadn’t tried to look grown-up. He should have left the whisky alone. A bottle of fizzy Tizer was more to his liking.

“Now boy,” Prosper Howard paced the study, his hands behind his back. “This is what we shall do,” his spoke ominously. He paused while he carefully unbuttoned his jacket and slid it off his shoulders. He lay it down carefully on the large shiny desk. He turned to face Walter. “I will not countenance impertinence. Especially, not in one so young.”

Walter’s face darkened with puzzlement. What did Mr Howard mean? Impertinence. “How dare you write such a letter to me. To think that you might question me. Impudence. That’s what it is sheer impudence.”

He strode across the room, his heavy shoes echoing against the bare floorboards. “I won’t stand for it.”

Walter’s eyes widened. His mouth opened. Only now did he see the small umbrella stand tucked away in one corner of the room. It contained no umbrellas. It almost certainly never had. Walter gaped as Mr Howard leaned forward and took up a long, thin punishment cane. He had several to choose from, of varying lengths and thicknesses. Prosper Howard flexed the cane between his hands. “You will be familiar with one of these, of course.” He swished the curve-handled cane through the air. “I have heard many favourable reports about your school.” He bent the cane between his hands until it formed a perfect arc. “Very traditional, I hear. Traditional curriculum. Traditional uniform. Traditional sports,” he swiped the cane through the air once more. “And most of all, traditional discipline.”

z used drawing cane hold (28)

Prosper Howard grimaced. All colour had drained from Walter’s face. He hopped uncomfortably from one foot to the other in confusion. What did Prosper Howard intend to do? If Walter’s head had not been so befuddled with whisky he would have had no need to ask such a question.

Prosper Howard tucked the cane under his arm. He towered over the perplexed schoolboy. “Now lad,” Prosper Howard intoned. “This is what’s going to happen. You are going to submit to a thrashing.” The voice seemed far away. Walter shook his head trying vainly to clear his brain. It could hardly hear Prosper Howard speak.

“When I give the instruction, you are to take off your blazer and hang it on that hook on the door. Then you are to stand behind that chair.” He slipped the cane from his arm into his hand and pointed to one of the small leather armchairs. “Then, when I so order, you are to lower your trousers.” He paused to allow the enormity of this to sink in before continuing, “And then lower your underpants.” Prosper Howard peered intently at the eighteen-year-old schoolboy standing before him. He could detect no reaction. “Dumb insolence,” he thundered inwardly. “We shall see about that!”

He swiped the cane through the air to emphasise the importance of his next words. “When I give the instruction, you are to bend over the back of that chair. All the way. You will place your head low into the cushion and raise your bottom high. You will grip the front of the chair.”

Prosper Howard’s voice croaked. He coughed to clear his air passage before continuing. “You will spread your legs. You will hold that position. I shall thrash your bared buttocks. It will be extremely painful. You are permitted to shout and holler. But, you must not move out of position. If there is any attempt to obstruct punishment, either by moving about, or God Forbid, standing. I shall start the punishment again.”

Walter remined emotionless. “Bah!” Prosper Howard said aloud. “You will count each stroke and then ask me for more.” He demonstrated, “One sir; thank you sir. Please may I have another. Two sir, thank you sir. And so on.” He cleared his throat once more and gripped the cane in his hand tightly. “You will continue this until I have deemed that you have been punished sufficiently. I cannot say at this stage how many strokes I shall administer. That entirely depends on your demeanour. I shall finish when I am satisfied of your contrition.”

Still Walter gave no sign of outward emotion. His brain had registered Prosper Howard’s words, but it could not figure them. Prosper Howard, Walter’s hero, intended to thrash him. On the bare bum. There and then. Walter’s head was light, the whisky and the heat of the room made him dizzy. His heart beat faster and faster. His breath came in short pants. Fear mingled with excitement. Where did the excitement end and the fear begin?

He watched Prosper Howard step towards the armchair, cane at the ready. The door and escape was behind Walter. Within seconds he could be out of the house and running down The Avenue to safety. Walter knew he, and not Prosper Howard, was in control. Prosper Howard could not – would not –  force him to submit. What happened next was entirely in Walter’s hands. His knees buckled, the room span, somewhere a long way away he heard a bird singing. Sweat ran down his back.

Prosper Howard cleared his throat, “Hang your blazer on the hook behind the door.”

Walter’s temples throbbed. What should he do? This was his last chance to escape.

 

Picture credit: Unknown.

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The boy on the train

Neighbourhood Watch Vigilantes

The morning after

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Double trouble – his first time

new story 2

z used otk pyjamas twosome chair sting (24)

Richard watched from the window as the small police panda car chugged down the long drive towards the road. “We’re for it now, once my father finds out,” he told his cousin Adrian. His companion shrugged his shoulders with indifference. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

Richard sighed as the police car disappeared from sight. “It’ll be a spanking for sure,” he looked at his watch and wondered how long he had until his father returned home.

“What?” Adrian snapped, not able to hide the irritation he often felt with his cousin.

“A spanking,” Richard replied and left it at that.

“Ha! Ha! You’re joking, of course,” Adrian smiled but he felt no joy.

“We’re lucky PC Plodder hasn’t charged us. We’d be in big trouble then.”

“What are you talking about?” Adrian bunched his hand into a fist to try to control his temper.

“He’s in the same Lodge as my father. That’s why he didn’t book us. He knows father will take care of it.”

Adrian turned to his cousin, his face now colouring. He was beginning to understand his predicament. “You mean the copper and your father are friends?”

“Not friends exactly. Masons, you know the secret Lodge. Members look after one another.”

“So what? The copper thinks your father’s going to spank us?” Adrian failed to keep the scornful tone out of his voice.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“But, I’m eighteen,” Adrian barked with incredulity.

“Well so am I,” his cousin responded evenly. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“You cannot be serious!” Adrian stormed across the room and exited in a fury. “You’ve taken leave of your senses.” Richard watched quietly as he went. “You’ve got a lot to learn,” he said but there was nobody in the room to hear.

Richard followed his cousin out of the house into the spacious grounds. “Come on,” he said cheerfully, “Let’s go to the tennis court for a while.” They started knocking a ball back and forth half-heartedly, not speaking. After an hour they saw Maisie, one of the housemaids, exit the house and purposefully approach them. She curtseyed and spoke respectfully to Richard. “The Master says you are both to change into your pyjamas and then go to his study.” She blushed, turned on her heels and scurried back to the house.

Adrian stared open mouthed at her arse. “Quite a tart that one,” he said with admiration in her hearing. “Great arse. Nice pair of tits too. Do you shag her?” Richard blushed a scarlet rage. “Come on!,” he snapped, “We mustn’t keep my father waiting.” He hurried off leaving his cousin in his wake.

Adrian caught Richard up in the bedroom. Already he was stripping out of his clothes. “So, you’re going through with this?”

Richard sighed, “Get changed quickly. We mustn’t keep him waiting. We’ll get extra.”

Adrian looked dumbfounded, “You’re going to let him spank you?”

Richard could not hide his irritation. “Don’t blame me. It’s your fault. I didn’t want to break into that orchard.  Told you we’d get caught. I don’t even like apples.”

Adrian struggled to retain his temper. This was too much. His cousin was such a wimp.

Richard pulled on his pyjama bottoms, “C’mon, it’s just a spanking, that’s all.” He caught the embarrassed eye of his cousin. “Oh no!” he shrieked and waved his arms theatrically. “I don’t believe it. You’ve never been spanked!”

“Well …” Adrian spoke, but his words trailed off.

“You haven’t!” Richard giggled. “You cause so much trouble, I should have thought your father was always tanning your hide.” Adrian gave a crooked half smile and shrugged his shoulders in embarrassment.

Richard continued, “Your father doesn’t spank?”

“No. Never.”

“Oh well are you in for a treat. Now hurry up and change.”

Adrian was rooted to the spot. Richard by now buttoning up his pyjama jacket tried to console his cousin, “Don’t worry it won’t hurt so much.” Still Adrian made no move to change his clothes. “There’s no getting out of it, you do know that. Don’t you?”

Adrian grimaced. A spanking. At his age. His first spanking and he was eighteen years old. Reluctantly, he began to unbutton his shirt. It might have been a labour of Hercules it took him so long to change. Richard kept looking at his watch, time was disappearing fast. His father would be in a fury when they eventually arrived.

At last Adrian was ready. His face was like flint. His resentment was not hidden. “C’mon,” Richard gave him a playful slap on the bum. Adrian was not amused. “Let’s go,” Richard smiled ruefully. Adrian moved sluggishly as if he was being forced to carry the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.

Richard led the way from the room. “C’mon,” he said with mock cheerfulness, “It won’t be that bad.”

“Huh! Sez you,” Adrian struggled to control his temper as he followed his cousin from the room.

Richard despised his cousin at that moment. Adrian was the cause of all the trouble, but he refused to accept punishment. What a jerk! “Oh,” he called spitefully over his shoulder as he led the way down the stairs towards his father’s study, “Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare?” Oh how he enjoyed the look on Adrian’s fuming face.

Mr Jennings was a very angry man. His youngest son Richard and his nephew Adrian had disgraced the family. Common thieves. Guttersnipes! He was lucky PC Plodder had been the one to find them, otherwise the news would be all over the town. He grinded his teeth as he paced the room and waited for the pair to present themselves, his patience long ago evaporated.

“About time too,” he growled when the two eighteen-year-old boys at last stood in the doorway to his study. “What kept you?” Richard glowered at his cousin. They would get extra whacks for sure. He mumbled something or nothing in reply, but his father wasn’t interested.

“A disgrace,” he fumed. “Thieving. I don’t believe it.” The pair had the good grace to stare down at their feet shamefaced. There was nothing they could say. They had been caught, apples in hand. Bang-to-rights, as they said in the cheaper detective novels.

“Pah!” Mr Jennings let rip. He tore into them. His words were harsh. At last, exhausted he finished his verbal tirade. There was silence. Richard looked up from his carpet slippers and caught a glimpse of his father’s florid face. He saw genuine anger. He was not hamming it up. Things did not look good.

“You,” he barked at Adrian. The boy did not react. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!” reluctantly, Adrian straightened up. Did I tell you he spanks us on the bare? He had been unable to get Richard’s words out of his confused brain. This could not be happening. If he told his friends back home about this (not that he would dare) they would never believe him.

Mr Jennings now had his nephew’s full attention. “When I allowed you to stay with us while your parents were in India I promised your father I would treat you like a son,” he said, a wry smile on his lips. “I’d rather you didn’t,” Adrian thought but could not say. It would never have occurred to his own father to spank his bare backside, no matter how heinous was his crime. “I assume Richard has informed you of my standards,” Mr Jennings continued. Adrian in misery bit his bottom lip.

“Speak up boy!” Mr Jennings leaned into Adrian. “What have you got to say?” Adrian, usually a very confident, not to say cocky youngster, could only shrug his shoulders. “Spanking!” Mr Jennings barked. “In this house thieves get a spanking.” Adrian could not see it but he knew his face was on fire. Indignity mixed with embarrassment and just a touch of fear.

“Bah! Let’s get on with this. You,” he waved towards the far wall, “stand over there.” With trepidation Adrian shuffled the few paces necessary to cross the room. “Face the wall.” Mr Jennings sounded like an irate schoolmaster but he fell short of also instructing, “Hands on head.”

“Right,” Mr Jennings busied himself moving furniture. It was small room that he like to call his study but in fact it was an office he used for his business. It was dominated by a large desk and in the space between that and the door stood two armless leather chairs and a small coffee table. He moved the table with his leg and lifted one of the chairs and swivelled it so it faced into the room. It gave him enough room for his purpose. “Hand me one of your slippers,” his instruction was terse. He expected to be obeyed (he always was). Richard hopped on one leg and trying not to fall flat on his face he dislodged the slipper from his left foot. He handed it to his father, trying hard not to catch the old man’s eyes.

Richard was no stranger to corporal punishment as he had made plain to Adrian. Even so, he liked it to be over and down with. His father had other ideas. Although he had never consciously thought about it Mr Jennings believed there ought to be ritual involved in a spanking. He was not a man to grab his victim by the scruff of the neck and haul him across a desk, a chair or indeed his knee. Mr Jennings was calm and collected, as he was in all aspects of his life.

Now that he had the instrument of punishment in his hand he sat himself down on the chair. He wriggled his bottom until he was comfortable and pressed his knees together. “Take down your pyjama bottoms and bend over my knee,” he commanded. At that point Adrian who had stood, his heart pounding and his nose inches from the dusty wall, spun his head round and stared with astonishment at the two. He had never been spanked in his life, nor had he seen anyone else so punished. His throat dried and his breathing quickened as he watched his cousin with steady hands untie the drawstring to his pyjamas. Then he let them tumble to his ankles. He stood naked from the waist down.  Adrian’s eyes popped. He had never seen a cock quite so long. He had given up physical education classes at school when he was sixteen and was not a sportsman so had never seen a fully-grown man naked.

His awaking was short lived since Richard stoically placed the palms of his hands on his father’s right thigh and slowly lowered himself until he lay across his knee. Mr Jennings was an expert disciplinarian; he knew the perfect position for his son. He had not spread his legs to create a platform for Richard to drape across. Instead, Mr Jennings’ knees were so close together they formed a pinnacle which meant Richard’s bottom was raised high. Like this his head was low and he could have kissed the hard wooden floor had he wished. Behind him his knees were bent so that his toes hardly brushed the ground.

Adrian had never seen a man’s cock before, nor had he seen a bare bottom. He stared with fascination. Richard’s buttocks were smooth and hairless. Adrian had never inspected his own bum but he was sure it was not as beautiful as his cousin’s. Richard’s buttocks were round and meaty, but Adrian could see there was not an ounce of spare fat.

Although it was not necessary for any practical purpose, Mr Jennings took hold of his son’s pyjama jacket and carefully rolled it up his back. It was part of the ritual of spanking. Adrian saw Richard’s back was as hairless as his bottom. Adrian saw his uncle grip the slipper in his left hand while with his right palm he carefully caressed Richard’s buttocks. It was as if he were trying to smooth away wrinkles. Richard stared blankly at the floorboards and pressed both palms down into the ground, he was preparing himself for the ordeal about to start.

His father was not quite ready. He traced his palm across Richard’s buttocks, stroking each cheek. He patted the undersides where they meet the thighs and gave him a couple of almost friendly slaps across the peak of the mounds.

What little spit that was in Adrian’s mouth dried as he watched Mr Jennings transfer the slipper from his left to his right hand. Without further ado he raised it high above his shoulder and brought it down with a resounding crack across Richard’s tight bottom. The noise it made echoed around the small room, startling Adrian. Richard blinked hard but otherwise gave no sigh that his left buttock was throbbing. Mr Jennings hammered the slipped across every available inch of creamy-white flesh. Within seconds the imprint of the sole of the slipper had been embossed over and over and over across Richard’s bottom.

Adrian watched in fascination. Richard’s bum was glowing. It looked very hot. It must be incredibly painful. “Face the wall. I shan’t tell you again.” Mr Jennings roared. Adrian pressed his nose against the wall. He could no longer see his cousin being spanked but the sound of slipper connecting with flesh rapidly and with force reminded Adrian that before too long he and Richard would be changing positions. He rubbed his palms across his own bottom in anticipation.

Richard was a veteran. He took his spanking well. That meant he gave little resistance. He kept his bottom high and his head low and submitted himself to punishment. His bum was sore and his heartrate quickened. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His eyes blinked ferociously. When his father pounded the slipper across Richard’s naked thighs the pain intensified. Richard’s legs flailed and his waist wriggled. There was nothing Richard could do about any of this, it was his body’s natural reflex action as it tried to deal with the pain. Mr Jennings tightened his grip around his son’s waist and carried on. He was a long way yet from the finishing line.

In the hall outside the study Maisie, the housemaid, tea things at the ready, waited patiently. The door was ajar so she peeked inside. She was pleased nobody was around so she was able to crack a broad smile and enjoy the spectacle when Adrian dropped his pyjamas and offered up his bare bottom to Mr Jennings’ slipper.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Kevin’s landlord

new story 2

z used cane holding kernled (2)

Kevin stands in the middles of the sitting room, gaping at his landlord. His head is light and the room is spinning. His heart races and although he cannot see it he knows his face is flushed bright red. He can’t quite catch his breath. He has never had an out-of-body experience, but he knows this must be how it feels. The room has a dreamlike quality. All is hazy. He cannot quite find his bearings, although he has been in this room dozens of times before.

His landlord is speaking to him. Kevin cannot make out the words. He feels from the tone of voice his landlord is not happy. The landlord’s face is pasty, the lines on his forehead and cheeks are as deep as ravines. The landlord is angry. Kevin struggles to make out the words. His knees begin to buckle. Every one of his senses is in overdrive. He fears he might faint to the floor.

His landlord takes a pace across the room. It is a large room. At one end there is a large leather sofa with two heavy, matching plush armchairs. Opposite them is a dining room table, large enough to seat eight people in comfort. Against the walls are dark, mahogany bookcases full of china ornaments. There is a sizeable collection of dogs and cats in cute poses.

Kevin’s head is static, but his eyes follow his landlord on his travels. What saliva that is left in Kevin’s mouth drains. His temple start to throb and his eyes water a little. The landlord is small in stature, his shoulders slump a little. He will never see seventy again. He halts by the dining room table. Turns to Kevin says something that the teenager cannot decipher. Kevin is not listening, he is watching. His eyes stand on stalks when his landlord reaches forwards and gently picks up the long, thin whippy rattan cane that rests there. He peers at it for a moment as if he has never seen it before. As if he has no idea what it is. As if he did not know what it is used for.

Suddenly, the landlord snaps out of his spell. He turns to face Kevin. Now, the landlord has the cane in both hands. He flexes it, demonstrating to Kevin how easily it bends. Kevin stares transfixed. The cane is about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It is yellowy-brown in colour and even at a distance Kevin can see the notches that run along its length. His landlord swishes the cane through the air. It makes a terrific whooshing sound as it flies. Kevin closes his eyes and is transported back in time.

It is five minutes previously. Kevin is passing through the gate to the large detached house that for the duration of this university term will be his home. Kevin feels the gravel crunch under his feet as he makes his way to the door. He fishes in his pocket for his housekey. His attention is drawn to a large bay window to his right. He knows it is the window to the sitting room, he has passed this way many times before. Usually he would not notice it. What is there to see? It is just a window, after all.

There is something different this late afternoon. He hears the sound of voices. Kevin is not an inquisitive boy. He has no interest in other people’s conversations, especially not in their private conversations. But there is something special about this conversation. He cannot at first understand what it is that has made him stop and listen. He realises immediately that it is his landlord speaking. It is a warm day and the windows are open. Kevin cannot hear the words clearly, but there is no mistaking the tone of voice. His landlord is angry. Kevin is intrigued, but he does not understand why. Something is drawing him to take two steps closer to the window. He does not go too close. Kevin is a well brought up young man. He knows it is rude to eavesdrop on other people’s conversations.

He stays a distance from the window. He can hear enough to get the gist of the conversations. He can see perfectly into the room. He sees his landlord and the landlord’s son Eric. Eric is wearing his school uniform. Kevin supposes he has just returned home from school. Eric is in his last year at school and Kevin knows enough about Eric to know that he is not the best behaved eighteen-year-old in the town of Brocklehurst. Kevin stands perfectly still, his conscious is troubling him. He knows he should not be there, spying. But, an instinct he does not understand makes him stay. Something is about to happen. Kevin cannot guess what that something will be, but he knows – he just knows – that it will be momentous. Things will never be the same again.

Kevin’s landlord is at least seventy but his wife Alice is closer to forty. Life can be complicated some times. Kevin has yet to learn this. He soon will. Kevin watches as his landlord delivers a lecture to his son. Eric remains impassive, head slightly bowed. The lecture is soon ended. Eric elects not to respond. Kevin watches as his landlord imperiously steps across the room. His landlord pulls open a drawer that is part of the dining room table. He reaches in. He pulls out a thin, whippy cane. It is just like the ones that are used to punish naughty boys in schools up and down the land. Kevin’s jaw drops. It literally falls an inch or two and his mouth is open.

Kevin’s landlord says something to Eric. Kevin cannot hear what he has said, but Eric does and he responds immediately. Kevin watches fascinated, unbelieving. He sees Eric shuffle a couple of steps across the room until he reaches the dining room table. He stops, hesitates for a moment and then slowly leans forward. He does not stop until his stomach and chest are laying flat across the table top. Eric stretches his arms forward and with his hands he grasps the far end of the table. In this position Eric’s buttocks are angled across the near edge of the table.

Kevin has a perfect view. Eric’s pale-grey trousers are stretched across his bottom. He is a large boy and in this position his buttock cheeks appear round and firm. He parts his legs a little and wriggles his hips. He settles. Eric is now submissive. He is waiting for his father to get on with it. Kevin has never seen anything like this before. They did not have corporal punishment at his school. He knows about canings, of course. He has seen enough comics and read countless school stories while growing up.

Kevin’s heart races as he watches his landlord tuck the cane under his right armpit and approach his prone son. With great delicacy Kevin’s landlord takes hold of the edge of Eric’s blazer and gently he pushes it up the teenager’s back. He moves it far enough that it is out of the way of his target area. Kevin sees Eric’s buttocks quiver. He assumes it must be the anticipation of what is to come that makes them do that.

Kevin’s own body is also reacting with anticipation. Kevin has urges. Desires. Wants. Needs. He has never spoken about this to a living soul. The front of his underpants suddenly become tight. Kevin’s landlord rubs the palm of his right hand gently across Eric’s left buttock. Then he does the same to the right cheek. He is smoothing out the wrinkles from the seat of Eric’s trousers. He is satisfied. He is good to go.

Kevin watches, transfixed. Kevin’s landlord takes a step away from his son’s submissive body. He stands to the left, slips the cane from the armpit to the hand. He taps it across the very centre of Eric’s bottom. He takes aim. Kevin sees Eric’s buttocks tense. They are a little firmer than before. The cane taps. Once. Twice. Kevin’s landlord raises the rod above shoulder height and with a slight twisting of his body he brings it crashing down across Eric’s bottom. Kevin winces as the cracking sound of rattan connecting with stretched trousers reverberates around the room. The windows are open and the noise is clearly heard in the driveway. Kevin wonders if they can hear it beyond the walls and hedges in The Avenue.

Kevin’s landlord slashes a second swipe down. The cane sinks into Eric’s bottom and almost immediately bounces back. Kevin knows it must hurt. How can it not? Kevin concentrates hard, following the direction of the cane as it takes aim, as it lifts away from Eric’s bottom, as it returns at tremendous force and leaves its mark. There are now three clear indentations across Eric’s trousers. Kevin stares at the eighteen-year-old’s quivering bottom. The pain must be intense. At least that is how Kevin always imagines it. In his fantasies. Himself stretched across the armchair in the headmaster’s study. Sometimes, but by no means always, his trousers are at his ankles and his tight, crisp, white underpants are offered to the cane.

Kevin’s landlord puts another stroke across his son’s bottom. Eric’s head raises from the table top and then he headbutts it. Kevin supposes it is his way of dealing with the pain. Wind whistles through Eric’s teeth, but apart from that he makes no sound. Kevin’s landlord delivers twelve strokes. Each one is a stinger. A swipe. These are not love-taps. Kevin’s landlord is not playing games here. Kevin is still rooted to the spot. He cannot move. All his senses are in pieces. He is unable to put into words his feelings. Meanwhile, Eric lifts himself from the table. His face is scarlet. He and Kevin’s landlord exchange no words. Clearly in great discomfort, Eric hobbles from the room.

Time is standing still for Kevin. He does not know how long he is standing there before he realises he should go into the house. His hands shake as he searches for his key. At last he gets the door open. He is still disorientated and he drops his books and they crash to the floor. It seems to Kevin that the sound they make as they fall could wake the dead. He kneels down to gather them. He sees carpet slippers. Kevin’s landlord is standing there. Kevin, still on his knees, peers up. Kevin’s landlord appears to tower over him. Kevin sucks in breath. A faint aromas of coal tar soap mingles with cigarette smoke.

Kevin’s landlord is speaking, but Kevin cannot distinguish a word. Next thing he knows Kevin is standing in the sitting room. Everything is spinning around him. Kevin’s landlord is speaking. He is telling Kevin about last night. How the student came home in the early hours. How he had missed curfew. How the house was locked up. How Kevin’s landlady had to get out of bed for him. How this was not the first time. How rules were rules. How breaking rules had consequences.

Kevin hears none of this. In his head he sees Eric stretched across the dining room table. The very same table that is only feet away from him. He sees Kevin’s landlord whipping twelve stingers across Eric’s backside. He sees the cane raising and falling. He remembers the dream he has. The dream he has had, many times. Eric is in his room. There is a small, low backed armchair. Kevin is in his pyjamas. Kevin is bent across the back of that armchair. Head low, bottom held high. Kevin’s landlord s beating Kevin’s taut backside with a whippy school cane.

Kevin has never been beaten. Never. Not caned. Not slippered. Not tawsed. Not even taken across the knee for a hand spanking. Kevin fantasises all the time. The headmaster at his school, the lecturers at the polytechnic, his father. Then there is Uncle Alan. The man who lives across the way in the same block of council flats. So much wishful thinking. Kevin thinks he will never be spanked in real life. How can such a thing happen?

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

Kevin feels a hand caressing his buttocks. It is Kevin’s landlord smoothing away the wrinkles in Kevin’s trousers. Kevin shuts his eyes and grits his teeth. This is going to hurt. He hopes. He demands. Kevin feels the tapping of the cane on his left buttock. He hears the swish of the cane. Kevin hears the cane connect with his stretched bottom. There is a definite crack. He waits. Waits for the pain to hit. Nothing. Kevin is puzzled. He feels the cane tap against his buttocks. It is lower this time. Swish! Crack! Kevin’s disappointment is palpable. It does not hurt.

The next stroke is harder. There is a bit of a throb. What is going on? Why isn’t Kevin’s landlord laying it on the way he did with Eric? Kevin feels cheated. This is not how he imagined a caning.

The next strokes are harder. Number five makes him gasp. But only a little.  Swish six hits the spot on the crease just where the bottom reaches the top of the leg. That one definitely hurts. This is more like it. Kevin steadies himself. Now we are cooking.

Kevin hears a voice. It seems to be coming from a distance. From over the mountains and far away. Kevin’s landlord is saying, “Stand up boy.” Kevin feels blood rush to his face; his cheeks are scarlet. His buttocks tingle, but he is not in pain. Kevin’s landlord is speaking. Kevin’s head is light. He has never felt like this before. But he wants more. Kevin’s landlord swishes the cane and points it at him. Kevin hears him say, “If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Is that clear young man! Now, go to your room.”

Kevin floats up the stairs. Then he is on his bed. His trousers are on the floor. His underpants are at his knees. His todger is in his fist. His palm is sticky. The words of Kevin’s landlord reverberate around his brain: If I have to do this again, you will have your trousers and underpants at your ankles. Kevin does not quite understand but instinctively he knows this is the start of something big.

 

Picture credit Kernled

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Nothing ventured, nothing gained

Uncle David has a plan

The students’ landlord

 

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com