Caught smoking

Bernie came in from work unexpectedly early to find Jeff in the lounge in his school uniform brazenly smoking a cigarette and reading a sports magazine.

“What the Hell!” Jeff hadn’t heard him come in and was alarmed to see Bernie framed in the doorway, his face contorted with fury. Jeff looked at his burning cigarette as if seeing it only for the first time and hurriedly dunked it out in his coffee mug. If he had thought he had stubbed it out before Bernie could see it, he was to be very sorely mistaken.

“What have I told you about smoking, young man?”

There was no answer from Jeff.

“Smoking will kill you; you of all people should know that.”

Jeff picked up the magazine and started thumbing through the pages, intent on ignoring Bernie.

“Well young man what did I say about smoking?”

“Oh man,” Jeff said sullenly, and said no more, hoping that he would just go away.

“What did I say? Put that magazine down,” Bernie was losing what little temper he still had.

Jeff slammed the magazine on the couch, “I’m old enough to smoke.”

“Not in my house, young man,” Bernie retorted, seething at the boy. “There are rules; we discussed them, you agreed.”

“I didn’t agree; you made me agree, it isn’t the same thing.”

Bernie’s face was pale, he didn’t like this attitude one little bit. The snot-nosed brat needed teaching a lesson.

“They are the rules, young man, if you don’t like them you can move out.” Of course, Jeff wasn’t about to do that, even though he knew he hated some of Bernie’s rules and the penalties for breaking them were always intensely painful.

“What did I say would happen if I ever caught you smoking again?” Jeff knew the answer very well, but he was in a sullen mood and decided to give him the silent treatment.

Bernie strode across the room to the couch and loomed over Jeff, menacingly. He poked his finger in his face to emphasise every word, “What did I say would happen, young man, if I ever caught you smoking again?”

Jeff broke, “An ass whipping.”

“What about it?” Bernie was still stabbing the finger.

“You said you’d give me an ass whipping if I smoked again.”

“Yes, young man, and that’s just what I’m going to do. Stand up!”

Jeff did as he was told, it didn’t matter how much he protested; he knew he was going to get it. Bernie always carried through on his threats of spankings and the young man had known the moment he was caught that he was going to get his butt blistered.

“Go upstairs and fetch a cane and be quick about it, young man.”

“The cane? You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I’m joking? Go quickly, or I’ll give you extra strokes.”

Jeff knew exactly what this meant and without further complaint he went to the bedroom.

In the closet he moved the outdoor coats along the rail so he could get at the three canes hidden behind them. There were old-fashioned rattan canes hanging by their curved handles. They were of different lengths and thicknesses and Jeff knew that he had to pick one for Bernie to use to beat his backside. His choice would determine how many strokes Bernie gave him and how many layers of clothing (if any) he would be allowed to keep on.

He went with caution and chose the cane in the middle: not too thick and not too thin. Bernie took the cane eagerly and immediately swished it through the air to test its suppleness. He loved these canes; he had bought them on e-Bay from England (where they used to use these things in their schools) with the express intentions of applying them to Jeff’s backside when the need arose.

It took some practice to use the cane effectively; it was easy to aim a paddle, a brush, or even a strap, at close range, but with a cane you had to stand three or four feet away (a cane’s length) and whip it into the boy’s backside and it was harder to get it right than you might imagine. The first time he used one of the whippy rattans on Jeff he had made quite a mess of it and felt the punishment had not been as intense as he intended.

Jeff stood watching, eyes glued on the cane as it whipped through the air; he knew it looked frightening, but his own experience of its lack of power left him unconcerned about the punishment he was about to receive.

What Jeff didn’t know was Bernie had been practising his swing on cushions draped over the couch and he expected to be able to deliver a much more effective thrashing this time.

After one last swish, Bernie pointed to the back of the couch, “Stand there, young man.” Jeff moved about two yards from the back of the couch.

“Closer.” He shuffled a foot or so forward. “Drop those short pants, young man.” Jeff had hoped he might be allowed to keep this grey school shorts on, but after the fiasco of his first ineffective caning, he wouldn’t be surprised if Jeff insisted he take this one on the bare.

Another tap with the cane on the couch, “Bend over, young man.”

Jeff breathed heavily, rubbed his hands together, and without further hesitation, bent over as instructed, presenting his tighty-whitey-covered ass submissively for the lash of Bernie’s cane.

He took up a position about three feet to Jeff’s left and tapped the cane gently into the stretched buttocks. Sure, that he had his aim; he bent his own knees slightly then raised the cane high and brought it down across the centre of the underpants.

Perfect.

Jeff let out a whimper as the rattan bit across both buttocks equally. Hell, this was going to be so much more painful than last time.

The second stroke landed just below the first and Jeff gasped and tears came into his eyes. The sting in his backside was intense and burned deep into the flesh.

Looking over the back of the couch Bernie could see that Jeff’s normally handsome face was contorted in agony. He was pleased with himself. He had got it just right.

There was a loud crack as the cane met the cotton underpants, followed by a genuine howl.

Jeff had been spanked many times before, and some of them had left him in agony, but he could not be sure he could take this traditional English schoolboy beating. And, worse still, he didn’t know how long it would go on; Bernie had not announced how many strokes he was going to deliver.

Jeff held his fists so tightly as slash number four hit home that his fingernails cut into his palms. He could no longer control the tears.

The final two came very quickly they were extremely hard and Bernie targeted each one at the area of the buttocks where Jeff would have to sit on later.

“That’s it, young man. That’s what the English call six-of-the-best. Stand up.”

Jeff’s buttocks felt as though someone had sliced them open and set them on fire. He leapt up and clamped his hands on his butt-cheeks, hopping from one foot to the other, rather like he did when dancing at a club. Tears were flowing freely down his cheeks and he was in considerable distress.

Bernie tucked the cane under his arm, sergeant-major style, “Will you be smoking again, young man?”

Jeff shook his head and choked by tears, whispered, “No, Sir.”

“Good, because if I catch you again, you will be over that couch again, but next time it will be twelve strokes. On the bare. Do you understand young man?”

Jeff understood only too well, “Yes, Sir.”

“Alright go upstairs and calm down.”

Jeff hurried from the room and Bernie heard him rush up the stairs and the bedroom door closing behind him.

He supposed he would now be face down on the bed, rubbing his ass and weeping his eyes out. He would give him ten minutes and then go to join him. They still had ninety minutes before Jeff had to be at work.

 

Other stories you might like.

The missed curfew

Untidy bathroom

Never too old

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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