Their new house

z used hands (6)

Frankie and his boyfriend Hugo were in the sitting room surrounded by suitcases and cardboard boxes. Their first home together. What times they would have. Things would never be the same again.

They had been seeing each other for three years and now they were going to “the next level”, as Hugo put it. Frankie was fine with that. He wanted commitment; a wedding eventually. The whole nine yards.

Frankie was twenty-five and Hugo three years older. They loved each other; whatever “love” means. They were monogamous. Mostly. Frankie had once had a fling with a barman who worked in a straight pub near his parents’ house, but there was no need for Hugo to know that. Hugo didn’t stray too far; not for sex. He had other interests to consume him.

They had spent many nights together, weekends too, but they had never “lived together”. It would be a voyage of discovery.

They settled in quickly. It was a furnished house in an upscale part of town. Frankie was in advertising; Hugo, public relations. They did alright. But, The Avenue was anything but young and trendy. Their friends joked middle-age had consumed them.

But they both liked the house, even though the neighbours were a bit stand-offish. “They just lead staid, conformist lifestyles,” Frankie, who understood such advertising “demographics”, said with authority.

Hugo was preparing supper one evening when his boyfriend sauntered into the kitchen, a puzzled frown on his usually smiling face. “What’s this do you suppose, Hugo?” he asked. In his hand he held a worn strip of leather, cut into three pieces at one end.

“Oh, my word,” Hugo giggled. “Where did you find that?”

“In the cupboard under the stairs, it was hidden under some plastic sheets.”

Hugo reached forward and took the strap from his boyfriend. “You really don’t know what this is?” he enjoyed that for once he knew something more than Hugo.

“It’s a taws,” he said, and when the puzzlement on his pal’s face remained, he added, “Schoolmaster’s in Scottish schools used to use them.”

He couldn’t believe Frankie still did not understand.

“For beating,” he smiled. “Here, I’ll show you. Hold your hands out.”

“No way,” Frankie laughed nervously, he had begun to twig what Hugo meant.

Hugo saw his boyfriend’s face redden. “C’mon, I won’t really hurt you. Hold out your hand.”

“No,” Frankie pretended to pout. “Shan’t.” he shrugged his shoulders and turned his back on his partner.

“Do as you’re told boy,” Hugo’s rotten attempt at a Scottish accent made Hugo grin. “Come on, take it like a man.”

Uncertain, Frankie raised his right hand and held the palm up and to his side. Hugo grinned, “Not like that. Hold your hands out in front of you. Lay the right palm over the left,” he demonstrated. Still, unsure what would happen next, Frankie did as he was told.

Hugo fingered the worn leather strap. It was nearly two feet long and the “business end” was about three inches wide.

Hugo raised the strap and caressed Frankie’s palm with it. His boyfriend’s grey-blue eyes sparkled. “This is what happened. The schoolmaster would take the strap and whack it down across the boy’s palm.”

Frankie roared, “Owww!” as the leather hit home. “That hurt!” he roared and tucked his hand under his armpit. “Bloody hell, why did you do that!” He twisted his body as if in genuine pain.

“Don’t be a baby. I didn’t hit you that hard.”

Now, Frankie was licking the palm of his hand as if that would ease the pain. “Look,” he held up his hand to show Hugo the pale pink strip that decorated it.

“It’s not bad. The schoolmaster would have really thrashed it down. Then you’d have to change hands and by the time he was finished you would have had four, or even six strokes.” He watched his boyfriend distort his face comically. “On each hand,” Hugo laughed.

“Look at that,” Frankie grimaced and ran his index finger along the imprint the taws had left. “It hurts.”

Hugo pulled him forward, “You wimp,” he said, just before he slipped his tongue into his mouth.

Two days later, Frankie returned from work to an empty house. He went to the refrigerator for juice. As he put the carton away, he saw it from the corner of his eye. Unaccountably, his heart missed a beat. The taws hung on the wall from a plastic cup-hook.  He couldn’t resist. He leaned forward and released it. It was heavy and much of the leather was pitted and scarred. It had seen some action in its time. Whose was it, he wondered. Had a previous tenant been a Scottish schoolmaster? Surely not; they were hundreds of miles from the border, and corporal punishment had been outlawed before Frankie was born.

The weight of the taws intrigued him. If Hugo had been correct the strap would have been excruciatingly painful. He remembered the sting he felt when his boyfriend had tested it on him. He took hold of the handle, stretched out his left hand and gave himself a thwack across the palm. It hurt, but maybe not as much as when Hugo did it. He whacked it down again a little harder.

Hours later, supper eaten and glasses of wine consumed, the boys snuggled up on the couch. Frankie had been anxious to ask all evening, now would be a good time.

“The strap. On the wall. Why?” He didn’t need to speak in sentences, Hugo knew what his boyfriend meant.

“Well, young man,” Hugo cuddled Frankie more tightly. “I think we need to discuss your behaviour,” he said sweetly.

Frankie blushed. The wine and his passion for Hugo were playing havoc with his feelings. He said nothing, hoping Hugo would say more. He did. “I didn’t realise what a slut you were until we moved in together. You leave your clothes all over the place. You expect me to washup your dirty plates. What did your last slave die of?”

Hugo caressed Frankie’s cock. It rose and pressed against his tight briefs.

“So,” Hugo spoke quietly. He was serious. He needed his boyfriend to understand that. “If you don’t buck up your ideas a bit, young man, I think you know what the consequences will be.” He unzipped Frankie’s fly and inserted his fingers.

Next morning, Frankie rushed off to work, running late again. His breakfast bowl festered on the draining board; yesterday’s shirt and underpants lay on the floor by their bed. Hugo sighed and picked up his phone. His text message read: BOWL. CLOTHES. REMEMBER WHAT I SAID.

That evening, Frankie sat in the kitchen, sucking on a can of Coke, staring at the cereal bowl. His clothes remained untouched. Nervously, he paced the room. There was still thirty minutes before Hugo was due home. He sat, rubbed his palms and inspected them. All signs of his strapping had cleared. He went to the living room, slouched on the couch and surfed through satellite television.

Hugo walked into the room. They embraced. Hugo adored his boyfriend’s smell; always so fresh and boyish. He pulled away. He needed to check a thing or two. He left Frankie waiting. Frankie paced some more. Seconds passed, but it felt like hours to Frankie.

“Well don’t say you weren’t warned, young man.” Hugo let the worn leather taw dangle from his hand. He tap-tap-tapped it against his thigh as he spoke. He had been rehearsing his speech all day. The warning. Frankie’s disobedience. He only had himself to blame.

Frankie stood before his boyfriend, his eyes glistening, his heart thumping. His head was bowed. He held his hands behind his back. He couldn’t make himself look Hugo in the face.

“Do you remember how I told you to do this?” Hugo spoke reasonably, as if what was about to happen was the most natural thing in the world. Frankie’s face flushed to Hugo’s great delight. His boyfriend was adorable when embarrassed. It brought out the pigment in his skin and the colour of his eyes.

“Look at me.”

Reluctantly, Frankie raised his head.

“Hold out your hands in front of you. One palm on top of the other.”

A moustache of moisture soaked Frankie’s top lip. Then, the tip of his tongue darted in and out of his mouth, making him look like a lizard. His grey-blue eyes seemed distant to Hugo. He looked deep in thought.

Hugo held the leather strap between two hands, waiting. Perhaps, he thought, he should have ordered his boyfriend to bend over the coach and take it on the arse. That way Frankie wouldn’t face the added humiliation of looking him in the eye and showing his fear.

Then, Frankie held out his hand as instructed. He didn’t look at Hugo, instinctively his head turned away to the wall. He had stretched his arm and hand out in the required manner, directly in front of his body; one hand on top of the other. His shoulder ached from holding his arm so high.

 

He felt the strap stroke the centre of his palm. Suddenly, he panicked. What if Hugo’s aim was off and he slashed the taws into his fingers or his thumb. The pain would be excruciating and the damage would make it impossible for Frankie to use a computer or hold anything for days. How would he explain that to the people at work?

As the cold strap tapped his palm he screwed up his eyes and readied himself for the first stroke. The taws swooped down and cracked across his flesh. The burn was intense, it felt like he had accidentally leant against the glowing ring of a cooker. Some dormant schoolboy instinct stopped him withdrawing his hand and blowing air on it or wrapping it under his armpit to ease the pain.

He was inordinately proud of himself when he managed to hold the palm steady, while Hugo readied himself to deliver the second cut. It fell with a deafening Crack!  Fire burned into Frankie’s delicate flesh. He scrunched his face like an ugly gargoyle. Tears pricked the back of his eyes. His palms throbbed like crazy. Never before had he felt such pain.

“Other hand.” Hugo’s instruction sounded as if it had come from a hundred miles away, Frankie could barely hear for the blood rushing through his ears. He switched hands, groaning as the weight on his untouched hand pressed into the scorching flesh of the other.

He closed his eyes shut and waited. The next stroke whipped expertly into his palm and tears fell freely. Still, he held his hand firmly for the next lash. Absurdly, he felt tremendous pride that he had not (at least not yet) howled the house down.

“Last one,” Hugo intoned. “Raise your hands higher please.”

Although every nerve in his body seemed to tremble, Frankie stretched his arm further and raised it to the required height. He was rewarded by a cracking slash into the centre of his palm. All dignity was lost, he bent double, howling with agony. He blew on the palm to no effect, so he tried rubbing his hands together. That made it worst, so, he stuck them between his knees. Still there was no relief. His palms were crimson and throbbing. They seemed to be twice their natural size. He held them out for Hugo to see. His unspoken words were, “Look what you’ve done to me.”

Hugo threw the taws onto the couch and advanced on his boyfriend. Bulges in both their trousers betrayed their true feelings. Hugo unbuckled Frankie’s belt and ripped down his zipper. When it was clear Frankie’s hands were too tortured to do the same to Hugo, he did it himself. Two steel hard cocks pointed at the ceiling. Frankie’s was about to take off like an Exocet missile. Hugo sank to his knees and took the glistening top of Hugo’s cock in his mouth.

Later, spunked out, they lay on the carpet gasping with ecstasy. It had been some time, if ever, that they had made-out like this. Hugo held his lover’s head in his arms, delighted that Frankie had been so quick to find the taws he had planted in the cupboard under the stairs.

 

 

Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

The casting couch

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Lord Bowinem’s chauffeur

used drawing suit (25)

Simmonds carefully manoeuvred the Rolls-Royce motorcar into the garage, switched off the engine and climbed out. He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and rubbed out a smear on the gleaming blue paintwork. He loved driving that car.

“Simmonds.” Lord Bowinem spoke firmly. “I wish to speak to you privately. Please go to your room, change into your pyjamas and then attend the library. Do not take longer than ten minutes.”

The twenty-four-year-old walked toward the servants’ entrance of the mansion. Life wasn’t so bad, he thought. He had a nice warm room and three square meals a day. The wages weren’t much, but there was a way to supplement them.

The mansion was huge and befitting a house that size, mostly cold and dank. Simmonds climbed the stairs and entered the back passage. His room was at the far end. There was no time to dawdle. He worked at six buttons on the jacket of his smart blue chauffer’s uniform and slipped it over the back of an old wooden chair. His trousers fitted snuggly. He unbuttoned them and since there was not much space in his room, he sat down on his bed and rolled them down his legs. It was always a struggle to get them off.

His off-white vest and knickers came off next. For a moment, he stood totally naked. He took in his view in the mirror. Not bad, he thought, and better than many who worked below stairs for his Lordship.

His pyjamas were under his pillow. He stepped into the blue-and-white-striped bottoms and pulled them up before tying the drawstring into a bow. He tested that they would not sink down to his knees as he walked and satisfied, he climbed into the jacket. He wiggled his feet into his carpet slippers and after glancing once more in the mirror, he left the room.

It was some distance from Simmonds’s room to the library and the passageways were devilishly cold. Even so, he knew his Lordship would not want him to wear a dressing gown. The chauffer knew from experience he would be warmed up after he entered the library.

There was a roaring fire in the library. It was another magnificently-sized room. Naturally, it was dominated by shelves of books and these ran from the floor to the high ceiling. A large table stood in the centre of the room overshadowing a shiny leather Chesterfield couch. Three other plush padded leather chairs stood nearby.

Simmonds had no need to take this in. He had attended the library on many previous occasions but never once to read a book.

Lord Bowinem stood and dug his hands firmly into his pockets. He wore a business suit with a waistcoat. He was one of England’s finest Peers of the Realm, but he often dressed as if he were a provincial bank manager. He had an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He removed it and vaguely scanned the room for an ashtray. When he couldn’t find one, distractedly, he put the cigar into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Simmonds watched his master intently. At last, the old man spoke. “Well Simmons, it just isn’t good enough. Is it?”

The chauffeur stood, his face impassive. What wasn’t good enough? He had no clear idea what his master was talking about. He stayed silent, hoping His Lordship would explain himself.

He did, “You were late for duty on Wednesday,” he said and then paused. Simmonds knew this to be true, but it had only been a minute or two. He knew better than to argue the case.

“Yes, Sir,” he replied in a strong voice.

“Mmm,” Lord Bowinem nodded his head fervently. “Then, you lost your route to Sir Humphrey’s.”

He said no more. There was no need, Simmonds knew what he meant. He had got lost in the narrow streets of Newcastle when driving His Lordship to meet an important industrialist.

There was silence. His Lordship seemed to have nothing more to say. Simmonds knew his place. It was not for him to say anything.

“It won’t do, Simmonds. It just won’t do.” Lord Bowinem’s face flushed. He looked as if he might have attacked the whisky. But, there had been no time for that.

“Well, you know what must happen.”

Simmonds’s eyes followed the back of his master as he shuffled the considerable length of the library before stopping in front of a tall cupboard. He fumbled in his pocket for some time before withdrawing a small ring containing keys. He found the one he needed and unlocked the door. Simmonds held his breath. His heart raced. Lord Bowinem opened the door and reached in. Even from a long distance, Simmonds could hear a distinctive rattle. He closed his eyes, he didn’t want to see. Not yet.

When he did open them again, he saw Lord Bowinem held a freshly-made birch rod in his hand. His Lordship said nothing, but tested the instrument for its weight. It was thirty or more rods, collected together at one end into a handle. Old Fletcher, His Lordship’s gardener, had tied it with twine. Lord Bowinem swished the rod around, making sure he could get a good grip on the thing. Satisfied, that he could he walked over to the far end of the huge table. Sweat soaked his bald pate, so he pulled a cloth from his pocket and wiped it dry. He returned it to his pocket, but made no attempt to remove his jacket, even though his armpits were sticky with perspiration.

“Please lower your trousers and bend across the table.” It was said with such reasonableness an onlooker might believe that Simmonds was being given a choice and that he might fairly reply, “Well thank you, Your Lordship, but I’d rather not on this occasion.”

Of course, it was not a request, it was an instruction.

The twenty-four-year-old looked down at the carpet beneath his feet and shuffled into position. His hands hardly shook as he untied the bow on the drawstring of his pyjamas. The bottoms slowly slipped down his legs and sagged at the knees. Simmonds parted them slightly and they continued their journey to his feet.

Without awaiting instruction, he lifted his jacket so that his flat stomach was uncovered and he eased himself forward. The table was far too long and far too wide for him to grip any of its edges, so he folded his arms in front of him and rested his head on them.

Lord Bowinem took a pace or two backward, the better to admire the view. The boy looked delightful, naked from the small of his back to his ankles. His Lordship had seen Simmond’s tight, naked rump many times before. It was very pale and round like a rubber ball. In His Lordship’s estimation, it was by far the best bottom that he could call upon among his servants.

He waited. His Lordship always liked to take his time. He supposed Simmonds, also, was in no hurry to get proceedings underway. He looked along the length of the birch rod in his hand. A smile flitted across his features. Then, he patted it across Simmonds’s firm bottom.

“Well, you can’t say you don’t deserve this.” He tapped the birch on the trembling rump. His eyes shone with delight. “Let it be six-of-the-best.”

Simmons screwed up his eyes and bit down into the sleeve of his pyjamas. He had long since been hardened to the ordeal of corporal punishment, but the application of a well-made birch rod wielded by an enthusiast such as Lord Bowinem would be a torment of great proportions.

With the refinement of a golfer, His Lordship swivelled his body, groaned, and then flogged the birch across Simmonds’s bottom with startling speed. Simmonds’s head rose from its place in his own arms and his mouth gaped and his face tightened, but he uttered no sound.

The birch struck again and the twenty-four-year-old swayed violently. His neck was as scarlet as his bottom now was. He shook his head from side to side, rather like a braying donkey. A third cut slashed open his once-pale buttocks. Simmonds sighed long and loudly. He wriggled and writhed, but he knew better than to try to stand. His heartrate doubled and the agony multiplied. He could not yet see that his buttocks were raw and that small scratches covered large parts of his pert backside.

His Lordship slashed two more into the pulsating cheeks. Whip-whip. An almighty shriek bounced around the nearly-empty library. A flock of birds resting on the lawn outside the room flew off in fright. Lord Bowinem pressed his nose to the savaged buttocks, intent on studying close-up the damage he had inflicted.

“I think you are learning your lesson, young man,” Lord Bowinem beamed.

“Yes, Sir,” Simmonds managed to croak with considerable effort.

The birch flew through the air with some vim for the last time connecting with the battered and bruised bottom. Simmonds quivered and convulsed. His legs marched up and down, his hips swayed from left to right. His bottom rose and fell so that he was humping the edge of the table. He wheezed heavily. Blood raced through is body at such speed he expected it to explode out of his ears. The pain was intense, but it was over. He had survived another six-of-the-best from His Lordship.

But it was not quite over. Lord Bowinem threw the birch to the floor and lurched forward. He cupped his right hand and caressed the bloodied buttocks. Simmonds winced, the weight of the hand against his open flesh, however gently applied, sent more shockwaves of pain through his body.

Then, a chortling Lord Bowinem wildly gripped one buttock and friskily squeezed it. Simmonds shot up from his position prostrate across the table. He took a step back from His Lordship and pulled his pyjama bottoms up.

They were almost done. Simmons straightened himself, looked his master straight in the eye and said, “Thank you sir, I deserved that. I hope I can improve my service to you in future.”

His Lordship drank down great gasps of air, before he replied, “You had better Simmonds or we shall repeat this.”

The twenty-four-year-old chauffeur hobbled through the cold passageway to his room, content that there would be an extra pound in his wage packet the following Friday.

 

Other stories you might like

Bug on the wall

Don’t bully our mum

Two brothers

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The freshman class

z used fresher students 2

Professor Patterson entered the classroom and peered over the top of his rimless spectacles, dazzled by the array of brightly-coloured shirts before him. Another year at Popper State was about to start. Twenty-five open-faced boisterous Psy. students waited excitedly. All new to the university, eager to make friends.

Prof. Patterson set his briefcase on the desk. He paused to survey the young men. If they took off their shirts, he thought, they would be identical. It was as if students came in in packs of one hundred. Just about everyone was fair haired or blond. Each had a tan from the hot summer that was just ending. Every eighteen-year-old sitting before him was slim and healthy. Everyone was a churchgoer. They all had prosperous fathers. Each of them would submit to his will. Without question.

He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen.”

The excited youngsters carried on talking.

“Gentlemen.” Louder this time, but not shouting. The buzz of conversation subsided. Heads swivelled. Buttocks shifted on chairs. Soon he had their attention.

“Thank you gentlemen and welcome to the Psychology Department. My name is Professor Patterson. Let me say right from the start that when I call you to order I expect immediate obedience.” He removed his spectacles, held them in his hand and leaned forward. “Do I make myself perfectly clear.” It wasn’t a question, it was a statement of intent. Twenty-five teenagers sat unnerved.

“We should start as we mean to go on,” Prof. Patterson paced the room. “As well as being your instructor, I am also the faculty’s Dean of Discipline.” He stopped in front of a youngster wearing an exceptionally garish yellow-and-red-patterned shirt and leaned forward menacingly. “Do you know what that means, young man?” Tony Cresswell flinched, he could feel his face burning. The professor’s breath stank.

“Eh ….” Tony stumbled. He didn’t know what a ‘dean of discipline’ was but he could make a pretty good guess.

Prof. Patterson straightened up. “It means gentlemen that I am the one who maintains discipline.” He paused for dramatic effect. Then, certain that twenty-five pairs of eyes were on him he walked slowly to the desk. He shielded the briefcase from the students’ view while he opened it and delved inside. Then, rather like a magician producing a rabbit from a top hat, he turned in a flourish brandishing a stout wooden paddle. The silence in the room was intense. There wasn’t a young man in the room who hadn’t seen a “board of education” before. Many would have felt the sting of a paddle across the backside; paddles were in common use in schools across the county. Some of their fathers still kept paddles hanging on hooks in woodsheds or in their personal dens at home.

Prof. Patterson gripped the handle tightly and tap-tap-tapped the fourteen-inch blade into the palm of his left hand. “Let me be quite clear, I will not hesitate to use this. None of you are adults until you reach the age of twenty-one. Until then think of me as a father,” he leered. “If you are late for class you will be paddled. If you are inattentive, you will be paddled.” He paused, staring at each teenager in turn; many had sweat glistening their brows.

Satisfied with the reaction so far, he continued, “If you score less than seventy in our weekly tests you will be paddled.” His nostrils flared, “You boy!” he pointed to a youngster in a grey sweater, “What did I just say?”

Al French blustered, “Er, if we get less than seventy, Sir,” he trembled and lapsed into silence.

“What then? What happens then?”

“The paddle, Sir,” Al couldn’t stop shaking, “We get the paddle, Sir.”

“That’s correct.” Prof. Patterson hid his disappointment well. He had thought the wretched student had not been listening. He was determined that at least one of the freshers seated before him would feel the sting of the paddle before the class was over. That would show them he meant business.

“Now gentlemen, for our first class I have devised a test,” he reached once more into his briefcase and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “Here,” he instructed a boy in a bright yellow shirt, “distribute these.”

He stared with delight at the young man’s buttocks encased in snug-fitting tan slacks as he leaned across chairs stretching to hand out the test papers. It was a backside crying out to be spanked.

“Now, gentlemen,” the professor continued, “This test will show which of you did the required reading ahead of this course. You have thirty minutes,” he paused and glared across the room at the heavy wooden paddle, “and remember what I said.”

Twenty-five heads went down, tops of pens were sucked. Some stared into open space, hoping to find answers. Prof. Patterson sat and watched. They really were a delightful bunch; so fresh and young. They positively glowed with health. What fun he would have this semester.

Rich Rider sat at the back of the class. From there he could see every boy in the room. Each had his head down as he beavered away at the test. One hundred questions. True-or-false? Multiple-choice. Short answers. He took a deep breath, gripped his fountain pen, closed his eyes, and scrawled his answers.

The time passed quickly. “Pens down gentlemen. Please swop your paper with your neighbour. I shall read out the answers.” Professor Patterson sniffed the trepidation that hung over the room like musk. None of his new charges could look his fellows in the eye.

“Question one. True. Question two. False,” his monotone might in other circumstances have sent a class of students to sleep. Not this afternoon. Their attention was rapt. Each question ticked for correct, crossed for wrong. The penalty for failure was immense.

“Thank you gentlemen,” Prof. Patterson’s heart raced. His palms were clammy. Surreptitiously, he rubbed them on his pants’ leg. How many of the beauties would he whack today? “Please indicate by a show of hands if the paper you have has scored less than seventy percent.” His face flushed in anticipation. No hand stirred.

Prof. Patterson flared, “Gentlemen, please do not try to protect your neighbour by withholding information from me. If I discover deceit, I shall punish the perpetrator most severely. Now, a show of hands, please.”

Vance Kearney whispered softly to Rich Rider, “Sorry.” He raised his hand.

“What?” the professor’s beady eye surveyed the room. “Only one?” The previous year he had six pairs of buttocks to deal with. Maybe word had spread. His new crop of students had an incentive to do their preparatory reading. Next year he had better make the test harder.

“Stand up the boy whose paper this is.”

Rich Rider sucked in a lungful of air and slowly rose from his chair.

“And your name is?” the professor growled, peering intently across the room.

“Rider, Sir.”

“Well, Rider, it would seem that we are to make an example of you. Please come to the front of the class.”

Twenty-four heads swivelled as he made his way forward. The tension had lifted. The new students were in the clear. They would go unscathed. Now, they could sit back and enjoy the sport.

“Stand there boy. Face the class.”

Rich Rider slumped his shoulders and stared intently at his tennis shoes.

“Stand up straight. Look at your fellow students.”

Rich Rider’s hazel eyes shone. Tears were on the way. Blood rushed through every artery. His heart beat so fast, quicker than when he ran on the athletics track.

“Now face me.”

Slowly Rich Rider turned one-hundred-and-eighty degrees. The paddle in the professor’s hand was awesome. Up close it looked an almighty weapon. In the right hands it could do terrific damage and Rich Rider had no doubt the professor was an expert paddler.

Prof. Patterson sucked in breath of his own. The eighteen-year-old student before him was quite delightful. He was shorter than average; the professor towered at least a foot above him. A frown adorned the boy’s fresh open face. He looked so adorably sad. His multi-coloured short sleeved shirt was open at the neck showing his well-developed chest. Prof. Patterson gulped down saliva; this boy was some athlete.

Prof. Patterson gripped the paddle in his right hand. It shook a little.

“Assume the position, Rider.” Rich Rider hesitated. What did that mean? Over the desk? A chair? He had presented himself so many different ways for a spanking.

“Feet apart, grab your ankles, boy.” It was a cool command, quietly spoken. Prof. Patterson knew he would be obeyed. Students at Popper State were conformists.

drawing paddle hold (20)

Twenty-four students and Prof. Patterson had a marvellous view of Rich Rider’s taut buttocks stretching against his snug-fitting pale grey slacks. Ty Spreader, a student in the front row, licked his lips in anticipation.

Prof. Patterson stood to Rich Rider’s left side. He could trace the outline of the boy’s spine through the garish shirt. There was no practical need to do this, but the professor took hold of the tail of Rich Rider’s shirt and pulled it clear from the waistband of his slacks, exposing two inches of bare suntanned flesh. The top of the teenager’s underwear poked above his waistband. From this close juncture, Rich Rider’s buttocks looked solid like two rubber balls. Each cheek was tiny, dwarfed in size by the stout wooden paddle as the professor rubbed it across the centre of the teenager’s backside.

Rich Rider sucked in breath and gripped the folds of cotton on his pants’ legs tightly, bracing himself for familiar pain. He felt the wood moving away from his bottom, then there was a tremendous crack of wood connecting at force with buttock. One, two, three; that’s how many seconds it was before the full pain hit him. It was like someone had pressed his mother’s maid’s hot iron into his flesh. Rich Rider’s mouth opened and a sound like compressed air releasing filled the room. His body shuddered and he held on to his ankles for dear life.

He waited. Then, he waited some more. Eventually, whack number two stuck. It connected on the underside of his cheeks and the force of the blow sent him rocking forward. His knees buckled. He stopped himself tumbling just in time. Behind him, Ty Spreader crossed his legs and leaned forward a little, shielding the front of his slacks from view.

Rich Rider resumed his position. Prof. Patterson stepped back, keen to admire his charge. Those buttocks were tough. There wasn’t enough spare fat to sizzle a sausage. And so small, he could cup an entire cheek in the palm of one hand. The professor sucked in another lungful of air and raised the paddle high. Rich Rider braced himself before his punisher brought it crashing down right across the centre of his mounds. God that hurt. Rich Rider wheezed. His head shook from left to right, he neighed like a horse. His knees buckled. He feet shifted. The pain travelled from his rear end and up and down his legs before spreading east, west, north, south across his whole body.

Professor Patterson wiped his brow with the back of his hand and placed the paddle on the top of the desk. “That will do. You may stand.”

Rich Rider hauled himself straight. His hands shot to the seat of his tight slacks and he rubbed furiously. Ty Spreader shot from his chair and was through the door before Professor Patterson had time to say, “Resume your seat Rider.”

Gingerly, Rich Rider eased himself onto the hard chair. The pain was easing into a constant throbbing. He knew that soon it would become a warm glow. There would be bruises and they’d probably hang around for a day or two. He would feel the swat the professor landed low every time he sat down over the next few hours. That was OK, Rich Rider told himself, he could deal with that.

He was less sure what he was going to do about the raging woody that ached against the front of his tight underpants.

 

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The dope smoker

Foreign language student

The junior salesman

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

A public service

Tony stared into his Smartphone, a double cappuccino cooling by his side. He crossed his legs, glad that they were hidden beneath the table. The door spun open, the wind howled outside. Al walked across the coffee shop, leant towards him and they puckered their lips together.

“What are you reading?”

“Something from South Africa. There’s a fella who punishes people, you know canes them, for a fee.”

“Nothing unusual in that.”

“No, he does it for a service to parents. He deals with their older unruly teenagers. Twentysomethings, too.”

Al smiled. Typical Tony, searching for spanking stories on the Internet again. “Doesn’t seem very likely, does it?”

“It’s here,” Tony nodded at the tiny screen as proof. “In a paper in Johannesburg.” He slipped his fingers to scroll to the top of the news report. “They’ve banned the cane in schools, so this fella takes the place of the headmaster. He’s doing roaring trade, apparently.”

“Fake news,” Al said with great authority, and when his pal stared back blankly, he continued, “They put up fake stories on Facebook and then people share and tweet them and they go viral. There was something about it on Sky News last night. It’s all a pack of lies.”

Tony shrugged, “It could be true.”

“Yeah right.”

….

Johan shuffled the final few yards to the house. He had found it easily. Far too easily. He couldn’t believe this was happening. His father must be crazy. The sun blazed on his back. He had left his school blazer at home, but as instructed he wore the rest of the uniform. At this time of year that meant an open-necked white shirt, pale-grey short trousers and not much else.  He was a star rugby player at school; built like an ox. He reckoned he was too big, too old, for this.

They had won a famous victory. They did what rugby players always do. They went out on the lash. Too much beer had been drunk. There had been some trouble at a bar, Johan couldn’t remember too much about it. It was the final straw. There had been warnings. Ignored by Johan.

“A trip to Dr. Uys will soon sort you out,” his father had it arranged already.

Johan paused at the gate to the house. Another young man stood forlornly at the doorstep. His short trousers reached half way to his knees. He must have stood six-feet-two at least.

They shared perfunctory nods, barely acknowledging each other, before the door eased open. Johan gulped a lungful of air and followed his companion, noting his blue-and-yellow-school blazer sticking to his back with sweat.

The hallway was large and circular, five wood-panelled doors – all firmly closed – dominated the interior. A spiral staircase led to three upper storeys. The air-con blasted Artic air. Johan shuddered; it was like being in an ice box.

“Face the wall,” Dr. Uys was a small man; his victims towered above him. He was wiry and beneath a black roll-necked sweater was a firm, hard body.

The boy in the striped blazer swivelled on his heels, placed his nose two inches from the wall, locked his fingers and placed them on the top of his head in typical naughty-boy style.

“Hands on head,” Dr. Uys spoke softly. He was a calm presence. He had no need for histrionics. He knew he would be obeyed.

“Well, Christiaan, I was astonished when your father telephoned me. After the last time, I thought you would never want to see me again. This is your third visit. Parents will believe that my methods do not work.” He paused to allow the import of his words to sink in. Christiaan tensed. “So, this time we must make sure that you learn. It will be on the bare. I have cut some fresh switches.”

Johan’s beige face blanched. He stared intently at the peeling plaster in front of his nose. This was unreal. He was eighteen years old for the love of Mike. In a moment, he would be expected to present his backside to this weird man and there was nothing he could do about it. His father was adamant. Johan would certainly get a rugby scholarship to the Varsity but it wouldn’t be enough. He would still need money from the family. He had to show he was serious. Take a beating and then improve his behaviour. Or else.

The beating? Would it hurt so much? His buttocks had been bruised before. South African rugby players had a spanking ritual. It started with the national team. If a player screwed up on the field or was late for training they would get a dose of the borsel, a heavy wooden clothes brush. Only last week three teammates had held Johan stark naked over a bench while the club captain pummelled his arse black and blue. Johan wanted to believe it made him a better player.

“Let’s get on with this, shall we?” Dr. Uys’ soft voice interrupted the boy’s thoughts. “Johan, follow me.” Johan watched, heart pounding, Dr. Uys move across the hallway and opened an oak-panelled door. He paused, realising the teenager had not moved. “Now, boy,” his calmness unnerved the boy. He couldn’t quite get his legs to move. “I shan’t ask again,” Dr. Uys purred.

It was a large dining room, with a table that ran almost its entire length. It could easily seat twenty people.

“Stand there,” Dr. Uys nodded to the head of the table, closest to the door. Johan’s eyes widened, his body shook. He had never seen a punishment cane before. It looked pretty awesome at a little over three feet in length, not counting the curved handle. It was as thick as a pencil and even from a distance Johan saw it was worn with use.

Dr. Uys had a little speech prepared. A litany of misdeeds was read; all Johan’s misbehaviours from the past months; minus some that thankfully for the boy his father had not discovered.

“Your father insists on an exemplary thrashing.”

Johan had no idea what “exemplary” meant, but could guess. His buttocks were to be ripped to shreds.

Saliva drained from his mouth as he heard the cane rattle against the walnut table when Dr. Uys picked it up. Dr. Uys swished the rod through the air at speed. Johan swallowed the last of the spit. It looked a mighty effective tool. The borsel would be nothing compared to this.

Dr. Uys rattled the cane against the desk. “Take down your trousers and bend over, please.” It sounded like a genuine request. “Please, if you feel that you’d like to, bend over for a flogging,” but the doctor expected, demanded, to be obeyed.

Tears pricked at the back of Johan’s eyes. There was no escape. No amount of pleading would save him. He had made his bed, now he must lie in it. If he wanted to be a rugby star one day, he would have to submit his backside to the cane.

Unable to look at the doctor and his wicked cane, Johan concentrated on unfastening the clasp at the top of his grey short trousers. The waistband was half elasticated and needed no belt. He fumbled with the zipper and they slithered down his thighs.

Dr. Uys watched intently. The pale-grey material fell to the floor revealing bright yellow underpants clinging to the rugby player’s meaty buttocks. The eighteen-year-old had some package, tightly secured at the front.

Johan hesitated. Was he to take down the briefs? Christiaan was due a bare-arsed thrashing. Dr. Uys sucked in breath and tapped the cane once more across the edge of the table. “Bend over.”

Johan was a tall young man, but not so much that he could reach the far edge of the huge table. He creased at the waist and stretched forward. Instinctively, he moved to grip the sides of the table, but this was futile, so he folded his arms and rested his head on them. He felt a movement and from the corner of his eye he watched his tormentor prepare himself.

He felt his shirt being lifted away from the target area up his back. A second fold took it to his shoulders. Johan’s body shuddered, partly through fear, but also because of the icy air-con.

“I shall deliver twelve strokes,” the doctor sounded like he was reading a script. “You must stay in position throughout until I instruct you to rise. If you move you will incur extra strokes. Do you understand?”

Johan had never heard the word “incur,” he was learning a lot that afternoon. He groaned. He could have said Yes; he might have said, No. Dr. Uys took it as an assent. He flexed the cane between his two hands and then “sawed” it across the centre of the teenager’s buttocks. A wry smile creased his lips when Johan’s buttocks tensed. He tapped the cane one-two-three watching Johan’s cheeks form a tight ball.

used-drawing-cane-hold-1d

Thwack! Dr. Uys saw the boy’s body shiver, his hips writhed and his head threw back. Under the tight cotton a clear line rose up.

The doctor tapped twice more, a little to the south of the first cut, he drew back his arm and gave the next cut. Johan was ready for it. His body flinched, but his head did not move. He groaned. This was way worse than anything he had endured from his rugby teammates.

At stroke five, the doctor delivered a perfect hit into the underside of Johan’s buttocks, just where they joined the thighs. A dark red line immediately glowed across bare flesh. Johan shrieked, “A-a-a-a-argh shit!” and his body bounced up and down across the shiny table top. He bit deep into his forearms. His legs kicked. His feet marched up and down on the spot, like a soldier on guard duty.

“Calm. Stay calm.” The doctor’s voice was soothing. He rather admired the teenager before him. He was taking his first-ever caning rather well, he thought. Other boys had run screaming from the room at this point.

He lined up the swishy rattan cane once more and gave a couple of light taps and waited two or three seconds. Then, Swish! This one hit the meatiest part of the globes. It sank into the flesh and bounced out again, leaving a deep cut behind. Johan howled. Tears like young rivers cascaded down his face. Vomit clogged the back of his throat. He swallowed hard just in time to stop it spewing across the table top.

Dr. Uys paused. The boy’s bright yellow underpants were spotted with orange. They clung to his firm round bottom by a combination of sweat and blood.

Johan lost count of the strokes, but Dr. Uys had not. He was a man of his word; he delivered twelve almighty stingers across the underpants of the troublemaking teenager. The final of the dozen, he placed at a diagonal so the rattan whipped into Johan’s already red-raw flesh reigniting the pain endured by all eleven previous strokes.

The boy’s bum was numb. It throbbed so badly that oddly he no longer felt the agony. It felt like his buttocks had swollen to twice their natural size. He lay face-down across the table, his arms drenched in spit and tears, sobbing quietly, unaware of his surroundings.

Dr. Uys replaced the cane on the table top. “You may rise.” When the boy made no attempt to move, he translated, “Get up. It’s over. Get dressed.”

Slowly, the eighteen-year-old hauled himself to a standing position. He stumbled and gripped the edge of the table for support. He gulped air into his lungs, bent like a hairgrip and holding onto his knees he wheezed a recovery and tugged his short trousers over his buttocks, wincing all the while.

“Wait there,” the doctor was anxious to deal with his next culprit. He ambled across the room and picked up a document and a ballpoint pen. He handed it to the boy who could not bear to look his punisher in the eye.

“It is for your father, to prove I have fulfilled my contract.” Johan’s hands shook. He scrawled something; he could not form a signature, but it would have to do.

“Follow me.”

Unsteadily, Johan shambled behind the doctor across the hall. Christiaan who still faced the wall with his hands on his head turned his body, his face deathly pale. Dr. Uys, opened the front door wide. For Johan, the day was over. Not so for Dr. Uys; he still had work to do.

 

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The cartoonist’s painful memory

A memorable night at the theatre

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

His big brother is not amused

z-used-big-brother-with-brush

“I can’t believe you’ve been so stupid, after all I’ve done for you this is how you repay me,” Frank eyed his younger brother disdainfully. “And, you might’ve ruined your whole future, you stupid little …” he trailed off, before his anger got the better of him.

Anthony (Ant to his friends, but not to his eldest brother) slumped on the worn settee. Who did Frank think he was talking to like that?

“There’ll probably be a court case, you know that.” Frank paced the room, barely controlling his temper. “It’ll be in the Clarion for everyone to read about. You stupid …” Frank’s usually placid face was puce. “You were going to get A-levels, go to university. That’s why I took you in.”

Anthony wriggled uncomfortably, his brother had touched a nerve. Frank was twenty-five years old, the eldest of four boys. Their dad had walked out years ago, and when mum found herself another bloke and got married they didn’t want Anthony around spoiling the fun. He was sixteen at the time, old enough to fly the coop and get a job.

But, Anthony was a bright boy; he did well at school, which was more than could be said for any of his brothers. Frank worked in a factory for a while and when that went to the wall, he found a job at a call centre. All not much more than minimum wage jobs, but it kept a roof over his head. He did a deal with Anthony, he should stay on at school, get his A-levels and come and live with Frank. It was tough, Anthony would have to get a weekend job at a supermarket and pay something for his keep.

It went rather well, or so Frank thought. Anthony was now just weeks away from his examinations and if his coursework and “mocks” were an indication, he would ace his A-levels. University here he comes.

But, now this.

“I cannot believe you would be so stupid.” Frank was not letting up. Anthony pouted. Why wouldn’t his brother just get off his case?

“Stealing!” Frank shrieked. “From the same supermarket where you worked …” he trailed off, unable to complete his sentence.

“Everyone does it,” Anthony shrugged.

“Everyone! You’re not everyone.” Frank clenched his fist, any moment now he would punch his stupid brother in the face. He paced up and down the small sitting room, trying to control his anger.

“Now, you’ve got the sack and the police are involved. You’ll have a criminal record. Say goodbye to university.”

Anthony sighed, “It doesn’t work like that,” he began. He stopped when he saw Frank’s eyes blazing.

“You …” Frank couldn’t find the words.

“If they stopped people with criminal records going to university, they’d have no students,” Anthony’s heart raced. He didn’t like rowing with Frank. His brother wasn’t the brightest star in the sky, he could always beat him in an argument. “Think of all those drug convictions.”

Frank stood shaking. Oh, he thought, how he needed a drink. After all he had done for Anthony. He had been so proud when he got a place at sixth-form college. He was going to be the first person ever in the family to go to university.

“Really,” Anthony tried to calm his brother. “It won’t affect Uni. I’ll get a fine, probably.”

Frank fumed. “And, who’s going to pay that? And, how can you pay for your keep here with no job?”

“I’ll get another job.”

“Not with a criminal record, you won’t.” Frank glared at his younger brother. The brat just didn’t seem to care. He was supposed to be bright, didn’t he know his actions had consequences?

Anthony shuffled in his seat. Perhaps, Frank was right.

“Don’t think I’m letting you stay here after this,” Frank was surprised to hear himself say. “Go sponge off someone else.”

“C’mon Frank,” Anthony eyed his brother, he had never before seen him like this.

“I mean it. You’ve got to pack and go.”

Anthony blanched. His brother meant it too.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

“What!” Frank exploded. “How can you do that. You can’t turn the clock back.”

“No, I promise I’ll never do it again. I’ll be good.”

“Hah! You don’t seem the least bit concerned,” Frank sneered. “Everybody does it,” he mimicked Anthony from earlier. “It won’t stop me going to Uni.”

Anthony blushed. His brother was right, he didn’t care. He wasn’t the only Saturday lad caught stealing whisky. Someone or other did it every weekend. They’d take the bottles of booze over to the waste ground and drink them. They hadn’t realised a new manager had taken over and his underlings were trying to impress him. So, blind eyes were no longer being turned.

Suddenly, Frank stopped his pacing. Anthony watched alarmed as his brother darted from the room. What was he up to?

He found out a minute or so later when Frank returned grim-faced. “This,” he spluttered. “This is what you deserve.” He violently waved an old, heavy hairbrush.

Anthony’s jaw dropped. What the …?

“A spanking,” Frank’s eyes narrowed with determination. “That’ll buck your ideas up. That’ll make you give a damn.” He waved the brush at his brother, in case there was any doubts about his intention.

“Don’t be daft,” Anthony squirmed. “Nobody gets spanked these days.”

“We’ll now’s a good time to start,” Frank advanced towards Anthony, brandishing the hairbrush.

“No gerroff!” Anthony swatted his brother’s arm away and slunk into the settee. “Leave me alone.”

Frank towered over Anthony. He grabbed his left wrist and hauled him to his feet. Standing up, he was only an inch or two taller. Anthony struggled, but his brother’s grip was firm. Their heads were only inches apart, Anthony could smell Frank’s foul breath.

“Here’s the deal,” Frank’s face was set. He meant what he was about to say. “You can either pack your bags and go. Take your chances. Or, you can have a spanking,” His stare intensified as he tried to read Anthony’s mind. “A proper spanking. You take down your trousers. And your pants and you let me whack your arse with this.” He waved the brush menacingly.

Anthony felt tears prick the back of his eyes. Any moment they wold be flowing down his cheeks. This was not for real. It couldn’t be. How could he pack his bags and go? Where to? He’d be on the streets; in a cardboard box. That would be the end of his A-levels. He really wouldn’t get to university.

He said none of this aloud, but Frank read his thoughts. He had won. His little brother would submit himself to his will. He released his grip on Anthony. “Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

Anthony hesitated. A spanking? What did that even mean? Was Frank going to take him across his knee? And, he had said trousers and pants down; bare arsed. That would just be too humiliating.

Frank took hold of a dusty heavy armchair and edged it around until its back faced toward him. He pointed to a spot on the carpet a foot or two behind it. “Stand there.”

Anthony’s mouth opened and closed but so sound came. He wanted to protest. To make a plea for clemency. But, he knew there was no point. Matters had to take their course. He had to submit to his brother, only then could he hope to regain Frank’s approval. He would subject himself to this humiliation, take a spanking, and then, perhaps, they could both move on with their lives. He stood behind the chair.

Frank’s breathing had been tight, it eased considerably now, but his heart was still thumping so hard he thought it would burst through his chest. “Take down your jeans and your pants.” He croaked the instruction. All saliva had drained from his mouth. Oh, he reckoned, how he needed a drink.

Anthony could not look at his brother. Then, a strange thought struck him. It had been ten years or more since Frank had seen him without his trousers; it was when three brothers used to share a bedroom. The thought gave him a strange comfort. He loved his brother, he didn’t ever show it much, but it was true. And, Frank loved him too. Look at all the sacrifice he had made since mum remarried.

Even with this comforting thought, Anthony struggled to undo his belt and pop the rivets in his jeans. His god-damn hands would not obey his brain’s instructions. At last, the denims were bunched at his shins. He felt his face burn as he stood in his underpants, his fingers trembling. From the corner of his eye, he saw his brother move toward him. Anthony was too slow to stop him. In a second, Frank had gripped the waistband of Anthony’s pants and swooshed them to his brother’s thighs. The teenager’s buttocks were naked and his cock and balls dangled in the breeze.

“Get over.” The command was calmer than Frank felt. What had he been thinking? Had he ever expected Anthony to agree to be spanked? Well, it was too late now. He simply had to go through with it. He couldn’t lose face. Besides, deep down, Frank suspected a real hard spanking would do his brother good. It should stop him ever stealing again.

Slowly, Anthony eased himself over the chair. He had never been spanked in his life and had never seen anyone spanked. He couldn’t recall seeing anything like it in a movie or on TV. How was this done? He relied on instinct. The back of the chair was high enough for the eighteen-year-old to rest his stomach against it. He reached forward and gripped the far end of the seat cushion. His feet were parted by twelve inches or so. He closed his eyes. He was ready.

Anthony’s tee-shirt was short and had ridden away from the target area. There was nothing more for Frank to do except whack his heavy, wooden hairbrush into his brother’s naked bum. He stood close to his brother so that his swing approached from above. From this angle, Anthony’s buttocks looked soft and round. Frank pressed the brush into the flesh to test how much “give” there was. Anthony was nowhere near fat, but there was some padding in the boy’s bum.

Frank took a deep breath and lifted the brush high and whacked it against Anthony’s left cheek. A deep pink imprint of the hairbrush’s head immediately appeared. Anthony sucked in breath, but otherwise was immobile.

Frank hesitated, he hadn’t expected to see the outline of the brush on his brother’s otherwise white bum. It looked pretty sore. He looked across the chair at his brother’s head. The back of his neck was reddening, but Frank didn’t know if this was because of pain or just that his head was down low so blood must be rushing to it. He took aim on the right cheek and let fly. Another mark instantly appeared. Anthony sucked in air.

Frank was no expert at spanking, but he guessed that a spanking was supposed to hurt, otherwise what was the point of it? He took aim again and pounded six hard whacks across Anthony’s bum. The eighteen-year-old felt those. His knees buckled and his feet slipped against the worn carpet. Pain started at his buttocks and shot up and down his legs. It took his breath away. “Huff-huff-huff” he gasped and he hacked out a dry cough.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Frank thought to himself. He crashed another dozen all over the target, from the top of the cheeks where they meet the spine, over the hills and into the sensitive sit-spot near the thighs. Anthony’s hips wriggled and his bum rose and fell, and he gripped the cushion determined not to make a fool of himself by jumping up and rubbing away at his bum. That was what he wanted to do but no way, he promised himself, would he do it.

Anthony’s bum look blistered. The deep pink had turned to cherry in some places and bruises were already starting on the outer edges of the arse. One last assault, Frank thought. He gripped the heavy hairbrush tightly, took a step backward so he would approach the target from a different angle and bashed another dozen all over the cheeks.

Anthony did the marching on the spot thing and swung his head back. His mouth was too dry for him to yelp so his cries were silent. Tears stung his eyes. Blood rushed through his arteries at such speed he was sure it would flood out of his nose.

“Stand up,” Frank was exhausted. Who would have known that delivering a spanking could take so much out of you?

Anthony shot to his feet. His bum was aglow. He didn’t care who saw, he rubbed and he rubbed away at his busted buttocks. He was glad tears were not flowing. It was some moments before he realised his cock and balls were bouncing up and down. Frank pretended not to notice, but he was pleased that his kid brother’s prick was a lot shorter than his own.

Slowly, Anthony dressed himself. There wasn’t much more to say, so he shuffled off to his bedroom, where he threw himself face-down onto the bed, pulled a pillow into his face and sobbed his guts up.

The two brothers never spoke of the spanking again. But, three years later, on the day of Anthony’s graduation from university, Frank was surprised to receive a gift in the mail. A hairbrush.

 

Other stories you might like

 

The coach and the schoolmaster

The sneak thief

That Connor boy!

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

 

The imp next door

z used imp on rooftop

Tommy Tompkins was nineteen years old, going on thirteen, and his neighbour in the house next door thought he was a pain in the arse.

He had complained to Tommy’s father, of course. Many times, but his dad just said, “What can you do? He’s nineteen.”

“I’ll tell you what you can do,” Mr. Alderson was at the end of his tether. “If he insists on behaving like a little boy, you should deal with him like one.”

Mr. Tompkins’ puzzled face irked Alderson and he snapped, “A damn good hiding, that’s what he needs.”

Mr. Tompkins’ blank stare hadn’t changed. “Damn it man, if you won’t do it, I shall!” Mr. Alderson roared.

Still, Tommy’s dad was impassive.

“I mean it! I really mean it!” Mr. Alderson boomed as he stormed back into his house.

The problem was Tommy Tompkins had an impish sense of fun and his neighbours in The Avenue were fed up to the back teeth with him. Only that morning the teenager had taken his catapult and stalked the chaffinches in the garden. Well, Tommy was no hot-shot and a large pebble sailed through Mr. Alderson’s window. The problem was it was closed at the time. Smash! Broken glass was everywhere.

Tommy high-tailed it out of the garden pronto. He hid, as he often liked to do, on the roof of his house; behind the chimney. He was there when he overheard Mr. Alderson threaten to give him “a good hiding.” Well, Tommy thought, we’ll see about that. He would make a plan. A jolly jape. Just like the boys did in the storybooks he devoured.

“Sticky Willy” in The Rover was a special favourite. Willy had a special glue that worked in an instant and once two things were stuck together nothing on earth could pull them apart.  If only he could find glue like that, Tommy would smear it on the handle and stick old Mr. Alderson to his front door.

They didn’t sell the glue in the shops in the High Street. When Tommy asked at the ironmonger’s, Mr. Wilson laughed out loud and sent him on his way. “Stop wasting my time young ’un. Sticky Willy indeed,” he chuckled.

Tommy would not be deterred.  He would still have his revenge. What could he do? Then he had an idea. He had seen it done in The Hotspur. It was devilishly simple. His father was at work and mother was at the Women’s Institute so he had the house to himself. Even though he knew there was nobody at home, he nonetheless tiptoed through the hallway to the cupboard under the stairs, just in case he was heard. His heart thumped. In his mind, he was a British Commando on a mission behind enemy lines. If he were discovered the consequences for the whole country would be dire. The war might even be lost.

Stealthily, he opened the door. It was dark inside, but he knew where it was kept. It hadn’t seen the light of day for some months and was buried under a pile of old cushions. He reached in and took hold of a greasy wooden handle. Then he tugged. It came free easily. He was holding a long thin broom to sweep a chimney.

Careful, not to leave a tell-tale line of soot for Jerry to follow, he moved slowly into the sitting room. It shouldn’t be a difficult task, he convinced himself. He had seen father do this many times before. You had to put the brush end of the stick up the chimney and wriggle it about. Then, a cascade of soot would fall into the fire grate.

Tommy supposed he must have wriggled a little too hard. The soot fell with a whoosh! And landed in a pile at the foot of the chimney. But, it didn’t stay there. An almighty black cloud hovered over the unlit fire before moving across the room and settling in a thin dust on the sitting room carpet. Tommy knelt and stared. Only then, did he remember father always laid an old blanket on the floor before sticking the brush up the chimney.

Time was short, he couldn’t be delayed on his mission. Jerry would be here at any moment. He had to act quickly. Ignoring the soot on the ground and oblivious that he was treading it into the deep pile of the carpet, he walked across the room to the dining table. There he picked up two brown paper bags he had left earlier.

Tommy’s hands were as black as the soot itself by the time he filled the bags. Now, he was ready. Soot bombs. He trudged through the room out into the hallway and up the stairs, into the attic and through the window that took him onto the roof. All concern that Jerry would follow his trail was forgotten; Tommy’s footprints were throughout the house.

The nineteen-year-old sat behind the chimney stack and waited. He was swiftly rewarded.  He heard the back door of Mr. Alderton’s house open and the miserable neighbour shuffled into the garden. He was wearing old, baggy grey flannel trousers and a worn shirt. On his feet, he wore his bedroom slippers. In his hand, he held secateurs. Unaware of the interest he was creating on the rooftop next door, Mr. Alderton set about deadheading his roses.

The first bag of soot hit him on the shin, before splitting and falling to the grass.

“What the …?” he looked up startled, just as the second bomb flew through the air and hit him squarely in the face.

Mr. Alderson peered in the direction the missile had flown. “Grrrr!!” spluttering, he shook his fist at Tommy. His impish next door neighbour had made no attempt to hide. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” he roared.

The teenager stood perplexed. He stared at Mr. Alderson and his neighbour glared back. What is he wearing? Mr. Alderson couldn’t understand it. Tommy was dressed in a red football jersey and white shorts. What kind of fellow wears a football shirt when not actually playing football? What was going on in that boy’s tiny mind, he fumed.

He waved his fist at the stupid boy. “Get down here this instant,” he growled. “At once,” he continued, in case his instruction had not been clear. He wiped soot from his face and mouth while Tommy disappeared from view.

“Pah,” Mr. Alderson said aloud, although there was nobody there to hear, “He’s probably run away. Well, just wait until I get my hands on the little nuisance.”

He was wiping his face on the sleeve of his shirt when Tommy came through the side gate. Mr. Alderson stood startled. So, he hadn’t legged it after all. Tommy’s usually blank expression was as uncomprehending as ever. A wave of fury overtook Mr. Alderson. He moved forward five steps at pace, reached out and grabbed Tommy by a clump of his hair.

Mr. Alderson dragged the boy through the garden. He had no definite plan, but he was determined in the outcome. He glanced around the garden. He was familiar with its layout. There wasn’t much there; a lawn area and flower beds. The garden table and chairs were locked away in the shed. How would he do this?

Inspiration struck. Still tearing the teenager’s hair, Mr. Alderson frogmarched him to the low wooden fence that separated his garden from the one next door. He still had the element of surprise, Tommy did not yet understand his fate. Releasing the boy’s hair, Mr. Alderson took him by the scruff of the neck and manhandled him until he was bent across the fence.

Tommy was a small fellow, but his body still cleared the height of the fence. He was bent double with the palms of his hand planted in next door’s flower bed. Time was of the essence, Mr. Alderson reckoned. In no time Tommy would break free and run away. Mr. Alderson wrapped his left arm around the boy’s waist and with his right hand he gripped the waistband of the boy’s shorts, tugging them and his pants to the thighs.

Tommy’s protests were vocal and physical. “Gerroff! Leggo!” he wailed and he wriggled his hips and kicked his legs. Mr. Alderson held him firm. The naughty neighbour was going nowhere. Mr. Alderson nearly toppled when he stood on one leg and pulled a slipper off his foot. He gripped it tightly by the heel, raised his arm and brought it crashing down on Tommy’s naked left buttock.

His creamy white bum, now had a dark pink outline of the slipper imprinted on one cheek. Mr. Alderson noted how the buttock wobbled like jelly with the impact of his leather-soled slipper. He whacked it down again; this time on the right cheek. Another delightful imprint appeared.

“Oww! Oww! Oww! Leggo! Leggo!” Tommy wriggled and roared. He made far more noise than the pain from the spanking so far warranted. Mr. Alderson walloped the slipper across the boy’s bare bum another four times. The wailing reached a crescendo. Tommy kicked his legs and wriggled some more. But, for now, Mr. Alderson held him still enough to inflict another dozen whacks.

Oww! Oww! Oww!” Tommy screamed blue murder.

In the house next door, Mr. Waite, rushed to the bedroom window attracted by the commotion. He had a bird’s-eye view of the silly boy next door, bent over Mr. Waite’s garden fence, his arms waving hysterically and his legs kicking wildly. His arse was bare to the wind and Mr. Waite’s good friend was pounding away with a heavy slipper.

Mr. Waite leaned out the window, the better to enjoy the fun. Why, he wondered silently to himself, had he not thought to do this himself?

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Picture credits: The Champion; Rover

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Donald knows his place

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Donald knows his place. Oftentimes, it’s across my knees stark naked with his nose close to the linoleum, his legs splayed and his bared buttocks resting against my thigh, with me hammering into his cheeks with my small wooden paddle.

Donald is a lout. My church sent him to stay with me. It is my civic duty to keep him straight and I use any means necessary. The magistrates gave him an ASBO. I’d never heard of it, but it means ‘Anti-Social Behaviour Order’. He and a gang of other louts had been hanging around bus stops, drinking, taking drugs and terrorising the general public. In the past they would have been fined or even sent to youth detention. The Church said in the good old days louts like Donald would have been lashed on their bared buttocks with birch rods. But, not today, more’s the pity. Now, they just get a slap on the wrist. Well, maybe not all of them, as Donald is finding out.

I live on my own so there’s plenty of room for Donald. I was a bit uneasy taking him at first, but lots of the congregants have been doing this for years. There’s a healthy support network. I realised Donald was going to be tricky from Day One. The Church had found him a job at a big supermarket, one of those ungodly ones that stays open all day and only closes for a few hours on Sundays. Donald was on the early shift. I knew he was going to be late if he didn’t get a move on, so I went to his bedroom. I knocked first, of course, just in case he was … well, you know what. But he wasn’t: he wouldn’t dare. Not in my house.

He was stretched out under the duvet. “Get up Donald, you don’t want to be late for work on your first day,” I said encouragingly. He had the perpetual sneer of the young. Sometimes I just want to slap his face. Hard.

“F… off, Mr. H.,” he snarled, “It’s too f……. early.” (You probably know he didn’t say “F”, he used the full words, but I cannot bring myself to write such filth.)

Donald didn’t know what hit him. I did. I didn’t even think about it. I ripped the duvet from the bed, grabbed his arm and pulled him over so he was face down in the pillow. I tore his underpants down and walloped the palm of my hand into his bare bottom. Hard and quick. The cheeks quickly turned a delightful shade of pink and I could see the outline of my hand printed time and time all over his buttocks.

I don’t suppose it gave him much pain, he is twenty years old after all. But, it had an effect. The moment I released him, he shot from the room and into the bathroom. He was showered and dressed in minutes. He didn’t even wait to eat the breakfast I had made.

I told the Church about him. Nobody was surprised. “It is to be expected,” Mr. Sayers, who lives in the next street from me, said. “I’ve had the same treatment. Don’t forget they are louts. They don’t know how to behave,” he told me, then added almost under his breath, “Yet.”

He gave me a small wooden paddle. I had never seen such a thing before. It is about the size of a DVD cover; the same thickness too. It has a handle with sticky tape wrapped around it so you can get a good grip. “It works a treat,” he said and Mr. Sayers should know. He has hosted many young men in the past. His great success was Alex. Alex was a drunk and a drug taker when he was sent by the Church. Now, Alex is a qualified plumber and doing very well for himself, apparently. But, he didn’t get there without a loving guiding hand. And, countless sessions across Mr. Sayers’ knee with the paddle.

“There are rules and guidelines,” Mr. Sayers told me, offering me a well-thumbed paperback book. “Read that,” he nodded at the scruffy pages, “Treat it like your Bible. Trust its every word.”

It was all quite straightforward. Rules were to be applied. There was to be no alcohol or drugs. No dirty pictures. A curfew of ten o’clock on worknights and eleven at other times. He was to do all the household chores; vacuuming, the laundry and whatnot. He must do this all with good grace. The penalty for failure: corporal correction. “Corporal correction,” that’s what Mr. Sayers’ book called it. I was on chapter three before I realised it meant “spanking”. Why on earth couldn’t the writer call a spade a spade?

At the insistence of the church, Donald signed a piece of paper saying he agreed to the rules and the sanctions. It makes it legal, apparently. Perhaps, he genuinely believed he could abide by the new regime. He couldn’t of course. The first weekend at my house he missed the Friday curfew by nearly three hours and as soon as he lurched through the door, I could see he was drunk. A double-whammy, I think they call it: missed curfew and drinking alcohol.

I let him go to his bed. Any punishment I chose to deliver would be more effective on a clear head. The next day I prepared myself. I reread the chapter on delivering corporal correction. It had to be on the bare flesh. Mr. Sayers had told me that he makes his present lout Jonathon work around the house in the nude. It is not sinful to be naked, he assured me. God’s work should be treasured, not hidden.

I thought I would have my work cut out getting Donald to bare his bottom without demanding he do the Full Monty as well. I walked around my kitchen and my sitting room wondering how best a spanking could be delivered. The back of the armchair is quite high and a boy of Donald’s shortness might not be able easily to bend across it. He would be too tall to go over the arm. One of the wooden dining chairs would be an ideal height as would the dining table itself. I considered going to his room and taking him by surprise as I had done the other day, but the book was clear on this: the boy must present himself submissively for chastisement. There were to be no unseemly wrestling matches.

Donald was not surprised when I told him he was to be spanked. Such punishments were detailed in the rulebook and besides he had been talking to fellow louts who had been farmed out to good decent Christians like myself. I have to admit I was somewhat surprised that he followed my instructions without a murmur of dissent. He stood contrite staring down at the floor tiles beneath his feet while I catalogued his misdeeds. Satisfied, that he clearly knew why he was being punished, I got on with it.

I turned a kitchen chair around so the back was level with the table. “Take down your jeans, kneel on the chair and stretch across.” I waved my paddle at the laminated top of the table so there could be no misunderstanding of my intent. He unbuckled the belt of his tight pale-blue jeans and tugged the zipper. They fitted so snugly that he had to roll them down his thighs and past his knees until they bunched at his shins.

Then, he climbed onto the chair. What he did next astonished me. With no instruction from me, he rolled down his blue-and-white checkered briefs until his bottom was bared. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered that his private parts were hanging down or that his naked buttocks were displayed for my attention. Once prepared, he leaned forward resting his torso on the tabletop. He wriggled this way and that trying to find a comfortable place to put his head. Eventually, he decided to rest his right cheek on the cool Formica. This meant he had a prefect view of myself as I administered his spanking.

There was no practical need to do this, but I took hold of the end of his tee-shirt and pulled it halfway up his back. I might have blushed when I realized I now had a terrific view into the crack between his cheeks. My hand trembled as I gripped the small paddle. I stood close to Donald and pressed my left hand into the small of his back, pinning him against the table. I rose my right hand so that it was about three feet away from his fleshy bottom and whacked it into him with some force. A dark pink square formed immediately. Donald’s body shook, but I had him overpowered. He was going nowhere.

Slowly, at ten or fifteen second intervals, I covered the whole of his bottom; from the top where it meets the spine, across his wobbly mounds and into the under cheeks where the buttocks meet the thighs. Donald twisted and turned. I think this was a natural reflex action. My paddle was burning the boy. I am sure had he chosen to he could have forced himself free. I have no doubt that if it ever came to such a thing, he would be able to knock me flat on my back with a single punch.

I gave him twenty-four swats. The guidebook had emphasised that a spanking should be harsh. Love taps were not the order of the day. My small paddle proved to be a mighty effective punishment tool. Donald’s once smooth bottom was ridged with red welts. The surface of his buttocks had taken on the consistency of leather. I congratulated myself on a job well done.

He whipped his briefs and jeans up at breakneck speed when I released him. His face was as scarlet as his bottom. His tee-shirt was soaked in sweat. I dismissed him and he raced up the stairs two at a time. I heard the bathroom door open and slam shut.

That was the first time I spanked Donald, but it wasn’t to be the last. I took advice from Mr. Sayers and now I make Donald work in the kitchen naked, except for an apron. It preserves his modesty at the front and the opening gives me easy access to his bare buttocks should I feel the need to deliver a summary spanking with a wooden spoon when his conduct fails to meet my expectations. Which, I have to report, is very often indeed.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com