The Private Tutor: 1

used paddle board of education


“I told your father that I would employ traditional teaching methods,” he said reaching into his canvas bag and withdrawing a wooden paddle.

“And, that means corporal punishment.”

He rolled the words “corporal punishment” around his mouth with some relish, enjoying every syllable.

He held the paddle by the handle and waved it close to my face. I could see some joker had printed the words “Board of Education” across one of the flat sides. I bet that gave someone a lot of laughs.

He was my private tutor and this was our first meeting. Dad hired him after I failed my A-level mock exams. It looks like if I don’t buck my ideas up a lot I’m going to fail the proper exams, and then God alone knows where I’ll be.

I’m not a stupid kid; I wouldn’t be in the Sixth Form at school if I was. But in the past few months I’ve let my studying slip a lot. I’m in a band and that takes up a lot of my time and then there are the girls of course. And, since I turned eighteen a few months back I’ve been able to get into bars and clubs legally and I’ve taken full advantage of that.

“So”, he said, walking to the couch and sitting down in the middle of it. He told me I had let myself and my family down by not working and it would cost my father a lot of money to hire him to tutor me over the coming months. I stood and watched him slapping the paddle into the palm of his hand to emphasise some of the words.

I had better think again if I thought I was going to get away with my behaviour, he told me sternly. I was to work hard from here on in and if I didn’t it was a spanking for me.

I didn’t say a word. I wasn’t sure if I was expected to say anything, so I didn’t. I wanted to tell him to “piss off”, but I knew that wasn’t going to be to my advantage.

He went on telling me about what he expected from me and how I was going to behave from now on. I was listening, but not really, if you know what I mean.

Then he dropped the bombshell. “And, I’m going to spank you now as punishment for all the laziness you have shown over the past months.”

I heard that alright. I still didn’t say anything, but the look on my face must have told him I wasn’t going to go along with his little plan.

“Come here,” he gestured at me to approach him. I didn’t.

“I said COME HERE!” He raised his voice considerably, it was a stern command, but he didn’t shout.

I hesitated. I thought about running from the room, but before I could move my feet, he reached across and grabbed me by the arm, pulling me towards him and the couch.

Before, I could protest he had me across his lap. Then he took hold of my legs and lifted them so they were resting on the couch.

We must have made an odd picture. I was lying face down stretched across the couch with my backside raised over the middle of his lap. I was quite proud of my bum and had bought my jeans especially because they showed off my prized asset to the best. But the jeans were to please the girls, not some pervert private tutor.

He sat upright with his arm curled around my waist, to make sure I was pinned tight over his lap. He was on the chubby side and I could feel his stomach against my leg. He wore an old fashioned suit; it was made of tweed or some thick itchy material like that. He was probably in his forties, but he looked a lot older than that.

I felt him pull my T-shirt up and expose my lower back. He grabbed the waist of my jeans and pulled them butt tight.

Bang! The first whack hurt a lot more than I expected. But then again I’d never been spanked before, so what would I really know about it.

Bang! The second wallop hit me on the other check. I tried to wriggle, but he had me pinned down tightly across his lap

He gave me another three spanks in quick succession. I wanted to yell, or at least go “ouch!” it hurt so much, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

He whacked me some more and then stopped. The pain was intense. I’d never felt anything remotely like it before in my life. I lay face down in the cushion of the couch breathing heavily. It seemed like he had stopped. Was it all over?

Bang! Clearly not. He must have been pausing to catch his breath. He hit me much lower now, below the buttock, just where the cheek meets the leg. I tried to lift myself off his lap, but he moved his arm from my waist to my shoulders making sure I was going nowhere.

He must have hit me another three or four times, I can’t be sure, I was in too much pain to remember.

Then he stopped. This time it really was over.

He still held me firmly across his lap. “Please be aware that if you do not obey me and work extremely hard in the coming months you will get more of this. Do you understand?”

I didn’t say a thing.

“I asked, Do you understand?” he whacked me again, very hard across the right buttock.

“Yes,” I murmured, barely able to speak.

“Yes, what?” He whacked me again, this time on the left cheek.

“Yes, I understand,” I whimpered.

“Yes, what?” Another hard whack right in the middle of my bum.

Oh, I got it. “Yes sir!”

“That’s better. And believe me if I have to I will spank you each time we meet. Is that understood?”

“Yes sir!” I was getting the hang of this now.

“Good, that is understood.” He let me get up.

I wanted to run to my room to howl and to inspect the damage, but I knew he wouldn’t let me go until he dismissed me.

My bum felt like twice its normal size and I desperately wanted to try to rub the pain away.

“Now, here’s your homework,” he said. “I want it completed by Saturday when we shall meet again.”

Saturday.  Jesus are we going to have to go through this all again in only three days’ time?

“Now, take this paddle and hang it on the hook on your bedroom door. I want it to be a constant reminder to you about what will happen if you don’t pull your socks up.”

It was Saturday and I had expected to get a spanking from my private tutor, but not two in the space of twenty minutes.

I was still in bed when he arrived at our house at 11am. Mum called me from the bottom of the stairs to say he was here. Then she was off to the shops, leaving us alone in the house.

“Come down here this instance.” This time it was the tutor calling. He might be a chubby forty-something man, but he certainly had presence. I pulled back the duvet and still in my pyjama bottoms and white vest I padded down the stairs.

“Were you still in bed?”

“No.” It was a bare-faced lie and it was going to get me a bare-arsed spanking.

“Don’t lie to me. In future you will be up and ready to start work the moment I arrive,” the tutor barked.

“Now come here.” He grabbed me by the arm and led me into the living room. As we went through the door he released his grip on me.

He sat on a yellow armchair. “Here. Now.” He pointed to a spot a couple of feet to his left.

I had hardly reached the spot before he took my left arm and guided me across his knee. It all happened so quickly I didn’t have time to resist.

My head was touching the carpet and my bottom was high over his lap. My toes were an inch or two off the ground. He tugged at the elasticated waistband of my pyjamas and pulled them down to my thighs, exposing my bare bottom.

It was still bruised from the paddle spanking he had given me on Wednesday, but that didn’t bother him. He slapped me with his open palm so hard I could have sworn he still had the wooden paddle in his hand.

And he kept on slapping. He didn’t stop between spanks and rained down a couple of dozen, and possibly more. Rapid and hard. On and on he went with each one as hard as the one before. I was gasping, but refused to let him know the pain was killing me.

“Up.” He stopped and I scrambled off his lap and quickly pulled up my pyjamas. My bum was raw. It felt like I’d been stung by a thousand wasps. I wanted to rub like mad, but wasn’t going to show it.

“Stand there.”

He delved into to his canvas bag.

“Here, I want you to put these on.” He handed me a pair of grey Terylene school short trousers, some knee socks and a striped tie.

“I’m eighteen years old, not eight, you pervert.” I didn’t say it of course; I just meekly took them from him.

He told me that he wanted me to look the part when he was teaching me. He said I was to wear a white shirt, with the clothes he had given me and then he sent me upstairs to change.

I inspected my bum in the bedroom mirror. It was salmon pink and there were finger marks where the spanks had connected with the flesh.

I pulled on the short trousers, they fitted me perfectly. They were shorter than the shorts we normally wore in summer. These were about three inches above the knee.

I admired myself in the mirror. I had to admit I looked pretty good in the grey school shorts. I’ve got a great bum – the girls are always telling me so – and these showed that to great effect. My legs are pretty good too, I thought as I pulled on the knee socks.

By the time I’d put on a white shirt, my own dark-blue school jumper (the one with the yellow braiding around the neck and cuffs) and the red and black striped tie, I have to say I looked pretty damn good.

I went down stairs to face my tutor. He was waiting patiently in the living room for my return. He had spread some books on the dining room table and was ready to start teaching.

“Show me the homework, I set you,” he said.

I didn’t reply, but the look on my face must have told its own story.

“You haven’t done it.” It was a statement, not a question.

Of course I hadn’t done it. There was band practice to do and last night we went clubbing and there was this girl and …anyway, you’re not interested in that. But you can see there was a reason why I was still in bed at eleven o’clock.

He didn’t seem to be angry, or at least he didn’t show it. Maybe he expected something like this. After all, the reason why I had to do extra tuition with him for my A-level exams was because I hadn’t been working properly up to now.

He lectured me a bit. He said the kind of things you’d expect him to say in circumstances such as these.

Then he got to the point.

“What did I say would happen if you didn’t work hard?”

It seemed like it might be a rhetorical question, but I answered nonetheless.

“A spanking.”

That was enough said. We both knew what was going to happen now.

“Go to your room and fetch the paddle from the back of your door.”

I went upstairs. I hadn’t hung up the paddle as instructed. There was no way I was going to be looking at that thing all night. Besides, how would I explain it to my friends when they saw it?

I retrieved the Board of Education from the drawer where I had hidden it and took it downstairs.

By the time I returned to the living room the tutor had placed a dining room chair with its back hard against the table. The books had been removed.

He reached out his hand and I gave him the paddle. He pointed to the chair.

“Kneel on the chair and stretch yourself right across the table.”

I did as I was told. To my surprise my bare knees hurt quite badly against the seat of the chair. But I needn’t have worried; a different part of my body would shortly be hurting much, much more.

I stretched out across the table resting my stomach and chest on the shiny surface. I folded my arms in front of me and buried my head in them.

Although I couldn’t see this myself, I made a pretty picture. The grey short trousers were tight against my lovely little bum, which was presented at a perfect height for my tutor to swing the paddle.

The shorts stretching across my buttocks reminded me just how sore my bum already was.

My tutor stood close up against me, put his hand into my lower back to make sure I couldn’t move, and whacked the first lick into my shorts.

Yes, it hurt like anything, but I was getting a bit used to this. Until last Wednesday I’d never been spanked in my life and now I was getting my third spanking in as many days. And, I knew for sure with this tutor in control it was unlikely to be my last, until I passed those damned A-levels.

My tutor wasn’t taking huge swings with the paddle: he was able to inflict great pain by taking short swats. It was almost as if he was jabbing the paddle into me.

After the first five licks I lost my resolve not to show he was hurting me. I’d buried my head in my arms and was moaning, at first softly, almost to myself only, and then much louder. The moans soon became “ouches” and by lick six they were loud yelps.

My tutor was stronger than you might expect from a little chubby man. With his left hand he held me against the table so hard that I couldn’t make any resistance and with his right hand he paddled the arse off me.

He stopped after ten licks. I was sobbing by now and very, very sore.

He let me up.

“Go to the bathroom and tidy yourself up. Then return here and get on with your geography homework.”

Looking back, I probably should have hated that chubby forty-something tutor in his tweedy suit, but I couldn’t bring myself to do so. Somewhere inside me I knew this man and his corporal punishment was going to save me. If I ever passed my exams, got to university and ended up with a brilliant career, it would be because of days like this.

The paddling my tutor dished out did me the world of good. Trying to avoid another spanking was just the incentive I needed to work for my school examinations.

I’m not an evil person and I’m not even much of a rebellious teen. I’m actually quite bright and can do well in my school work, but I can be lazy and lose focus and that’s what happened here.

My private tutor knew the remedy for this, and he wasn’t afraid to use it: a very sound spanking.

Fear of another trip across the dining room table for licks from the wooden paddle on the seat of my grey school short trousers was enough to put me on the road to recovery. I made sure that I paid attention in the classes my tutor ran and I even did my homework. Hell, I’d even missed some nights when I was supposed to be rehearsing with the band.

My tutor was a very good teacher and I was learning a lot from him – and not only how to get a sore arse.

Tonight he had arranged a special session. He said I needed to do some project work and I needed a partner to do this. That was fine by me; we were always doing projects at school. He had arranged for Harry, one of the other boys he tutored, to visit me at home so we could work together.

Right on time at six o’clock the doorbell rang. I was the only one at home so opened the front door myself to find Harry. He was my age and maybe an inch or two shorter. He had a huge shock of black curly hair that looked like it had never seen a comb in his life.

There was something about his aura that told me we were going to be friends right from the start. I could see when he smiled, which he did often, he had the most beautiful teeth I had ever seen. They were like a Hollywood movie star’s.  He was quite stunningly pretty: the girl’s would have called him “cute,” but I reckoned even this early in our friendship that he probably didn’t like girls that much.

But the biggest impact he made was his clothes: he was dressed just like me, in school short trousers, a white shirt and school tie. Surely, he hadn’t walked the streets like that? Had he come by bus? What did people say when they saw him?

I didn’t have time to ask any of these questions because my tutor arrived just at that moment.

We all went into the living room where the tutor introduced us and without any further preliminaries he set us to work. He said he had something to do and would be back later and left us to it.

The two of us were in no mood to start work. Harry threw himself onto the couch and tucked his legs under himself and sat on them, taking the part of a young kid. I took the yellow armchair, the very same one that my tutor sat on to deliver me a bare bottomed spanking on our second meeting. I sat leaning back in the cushion with my bare legs spread wide.

We tried not to catch each other’s eye. Harry flashed one of his toothy smiles and we giggled. We had hardly said a word since the tutor left, but that was alright.

I looked at him sideways, trying to pretend that I wasn’t doing it and cracked up with laughter. I think the absurdity of the situation got to us both. We were two eighteen-year-old lads, dressed as eight year olds. So it wasn’t too hard for us behave like it.

I leaned across in my chair and rubbed the top of his head, mussing his hair. Then I took a handful and pulled it, before quickly moving my hands away and hugging myself with glee.

Harry yelped, gave me another of his smiles before reaching over the chair to give me one hell of a smack! on my bare thigh. That was it. I was out of the chair and on top of him. We rolled off the couch onto the carpet, wrestling each other.

It wasn’t a real fight; it’s what eight-year-olds call “pretend.” I sat on his belly; he pushed me over to my back. I tweaked his nipple. My shirt came untucked from my short trousers. His tie was around his ear. I slapped him gently on the face; he kneed me in the side.

Then the living room door opened and standing there aghast was the tutor.

“What on Earth is going on here? Stand up the both of you.”

We did.

“Dress yourself properly.” We did that too.

He demanded to know what was going on. Harry got the giggles a bit, I think, and adopting the voice of a naughty little boy said, “Nuffink, Sir.”

The tutor was having none of this and gave a speech about how we had only just met and we should behave and be friends and so on.

We took our ticking off, me mostly staring at the carpet, Harry twisting his fingers through his curls.

Then came the killer, “I’ll deal with you at the end of the class.”

He ordered us to get on with our project. In fact, we worked well on it. I said I thought we were going to be friends and we were.

About ninety minutes later we were finished. But if we thought we were going to be allowed home without very sore bottoms, we had to think again.

We sat together on the couch waiting for the tutor to deal with us.

The door opened again and in he walked, carrying a thick rattan cane with a crooked handle. Where the heck did he get that from?

“Stand up, both of you.” We did. Even though I knew what was going to happen, it still felt like I was in a bit of a dream. The two of us were dressed as schoolboys and we were about to get a naughty boy’s caning.

“Look at me.” He really believed that we were having a proper fight and gave us a lecture about how he wouldn’t tolerate it and so on and he was going to punish us severely. He rolled his tongue around those last three words so we could be certain he was going to be true to his words.

I may have been dressed as an eight-year-old, but I did see the irony of him thrashing us because he had been behaving violently, but I thought the tutor didn’t want a discussion on philosophy quite now.

He swished his cane and pointing with it, but without speaking, he signalled Harry to move further back.

I knew he would need some space to get a decent swing with the cane so wasn’t surprised when he beckoned me to stand and face the far wall.

Swish! “Bend over and touch your toes.”

I bent over grasping my shins. “OUCH!” He flicked the cane against my fingers: the sting was unbearable.

“I said toes. Now do as you are told.” I spread my legs a bit further and got into the required position. I’m very athletic, it was no problem. I could see Harry move slightly to get a better view.

“Six shorts up and then six shorts down,” he pronounced my sentence.

I waited for the first cut but it seemed an age coming. Bent over I could see him through my parted legs. The tutor was taking his time sizing up the situation. What he saw was a young man in short trousers presenting a lovely bum for a whacking with the cane.

I had time to notice that one of my grey knee socks, with the yellow edgings, had fallen down my shin. For one absurd moment I contemplated standing and pulling my socks up.

That was the moment the cane bit into the cloth stretched tightly across my buttocks. I winced. You bet I winced. The pain was so much sharper than the thud I had felt from the paddle the last time the tutor dealt with me.

I could feel a line of pain run across both buttocks, from left to right.

The second cut fell just a tiny bit below the first. I was determined not to cry out, not only because I didn’t want to give my tutor the satisfaction, but I didn’t want to show myself up in front of Harry.

The third and fourth lashes took my breath away. I struggled to keep the tips of my fingers connected with the toes of my socks, but just about managed.

The pain was searing and I could feel welts forming beneath my underpants. This was some thrashing and it wasn’t nearly half over. Soon I was going to get six shorts down.

Somehow, the final two cuts didn’t seem to hurt as badly as the others. Was I becoming immune to the pain or could my tutor see I was having difficulty coping with his beating and easing off a bit?

“Stand up boy.” I did so gladly. Without thinking I put both hands around my backside and rubbed like mad, especially at the point where the buttocks meet the top of the legs.

“Leave it alone. Look at me boy.”

I faced him. I knew I was holding back tears and I probably wouldn’t be able to take my six on the pants without dissolving.

The tutor held his cane behind his back between his two hands. “Take down your shorts, boy.”

My school shorts fitted so well I didn’t need a belt. I undid the buttons around my waist and then the top two buttons in my fly and the force of gravity helped them fall to my ankles.

“What the dickens are these?” My tutor had seen by underpants, a very fashionable, skin tight pair in a lurid light mauve colour.

I could see Harry’s teeth shining.

“With school uniform we wear white cotton briefs. Do you have a pair you can change into?”

Of course not, which teenager do you know wears white Y-fronts?

He didn’t wait for an answer. “You will buy the correct underwear before we next meet. I will undertake an underwear inspection before our next class.”

I swear I heard Harry snort.

“Get back over.” He swished the cane to emphasise the words. Bending made my pants stretch across the six welts on my backside, making it throb like never before.

From my position I was able to get a close inspection of my crouch. I don’t think I’d ever looked at it so closely before. I’d felt it many times of course, but that’s another story.

The tutor must have realised the time of day; class had finished a long time back and I don’t think he was paid overtime for performing duties such as this. He swished the stick into my rear six times in quick succession without ceremony.

I howled. There really was no other way to describe it. A banshee would have been proud of the noise I made. Tears and snot covered my face and I gulped for air. On the sixth cut I shot up and danced first from my left foot and then to the right and back again, clutching my burning bottom.

I bent double. I was about to roll on the floor in some kind of foetal position when my tutor took me by the shoulder and led me to a corner of the room.

“Stay there.”

I did, sobbing and banging my head against the wall with the disgrace.

Then, turning, he looked across at Harry.

“Come here young man.”

Did Harry step forward a little eagerly? In one athletic movement he was at the other side of the room, bent over from the waist, finger tips touching the toecaps of his shoes. Watching on I could see, not for the first time, what a very pretty boy he was.

This was the first time I’d ever seen a boy bending over, touching toes for a whacking. I hadn’t realised how little there was of the boy’s bum for the punisher to aim at.

By stretching over to reach the floor, Harry only had a small part of his backside visible to the tutor. And, Harry’s was pert and tight, leaving even less for the cane to target. If he’d been draped over the back of the armchair or over the dining room table the tutor would have seen much more buttock on display to aim at.

Maybe that’s why a touching-toes caning could be so much more excruciating painful for the naughty boy, with so little room to connect the cane would strike again and again in the same small area, intensifying the pain as the rod hit home, sometimes striking the same spot time and time again.

But, the tutor was an expert: he knew what he was doing. He approached cane in hand. What he saw was a very lithe boy, his curls cascading down towards the floor. Harry’s back was arched and his smooth round buttocks were raised submissively ready for the tutor to do his work with the cane. Harry’s grey short trousers were so taut across his bottom the outline of his underpants were clearly visible.

The tutor stood to Harry’s left, a full cane’s length from the boy’s body. He bent his own legs slightly and tapped the edge of the cane against Harry’s left buttock. Tap, tap, tap: taking aim. I saw Harry’s body stiffen slightly in anticipation of the first stroke.

The tutor pulled his cane back way over shoulder height and swished it down with great force into Harry’s trousers. The six strokes landed in quick succession.

‘Get up. Trousers down”

Harry was up in a jiffy. Eager to get on with it, he unbuckled his shorts and they fell to the ground. He hitched up his underpants making sure they were pulled tightly across both cheeks. Then pulling his own shirt up to fully expose his buttocks he bent over again, in position, craving the next six.

Unlike me, Harry was wearing regulation white underpants. Actually, they were so white they sparkled. Just like Harry’s teeth.

Both me and the tutor took in the sight. The underpants fitted Harry’s bum like a second skin. I couldn’t see the front of his pants but I wouldn’t be surprised to find a fine bulge pushing out against the cotton.

Harry’s legs were almost as white as his pants: completely hairless from where I was standing. Did he shave his legs?

Six more stingers cut into Harry. Whack! Whack! It was all over in about ten seconds.

“Up. Get dressed.”

Now, Harry’s face was as white as the pants. He pulled up his shorts. He was in pain, I could see that, the tutor could see that too, but Harry wasn’t letting it get to him. Our eyes met and then I knew: he craved the lash of the tutor. He would have gladly taken six more: and another six after that probably.

Without saying much more, the tutor packed his books and cane away. His work was over for today. He gave brief instructions about what we needed to do for homework and I followed him out the living room to the front door to see him safely on his way.

When I returned Harry had his shorts and pants around his ankles and he was twisting his body to try to get a close look at the damage. I could see a dozen red lines criss-crossing both cheeks. The tutor was an expert master and had laid the cane on with some force. Harry’s cock was standing to attention. I could see he definitely shaved himself down there.

“Show me yours”.

Not feeling the least bit self-conscious in front of Harry, I pulled down my shorts and pants. The searing pain in my backside had subsided a little into a glowing ache. Harry reached forward and ever so gently felt the welts on my backside. I couldn’t help it, but my own cock stirred, perhaps not as proudly as Harry’s own member, but it was on the march.

“Come on, let’s go to your bedroom,” Harry flashed me those goddam teeth. I didn’t need asking twice.


To be continued here

 Other stories you might like.

The vicar and the gay boys

The padded armchair

The fire-raiser

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

Where’s the paddle, hon?

utility brush

“Where’s the paddle, hon?”


“The spanking paddle. Where is it? I can’t find it.”

“Did you try under the stairs?”

“Yes, and in the garage.”

Hank Betterman had looked everywhere. And he would look in some more places too. But, he would never find it. It was on the city dump site, where it was taken after his nineteen-year-old son Dylan sneaked it into the trash.

“Dylan missed curfew again. And he’d been drinking too,” Hank told his wife Julia. “When I find that paddle I’ll toast his buns with it.”

Hank and Julia were new to spanking. It was less than a year since they first put a paddle across the seat of Dylan’s pants. They had read about it on the Internet. On a site about disciplining older teens. They learnt that a lot of parents spanked their eighteen and nineteen year olds. And older kids too. Especially in Good Christian Households.

“Well I can’t think where it’s gotten too,” Julia thought hard. When had she last seen it?

“It’s no good,” her husband was beginning to realise he might never find it.

“Don’t worry, hon. We’ve got that new utility brush. That’ll pack a punch.”

Yes, Hank smiled, of course. It was a heavy wooden beast. They had bought it to scrub the rust off the bottom of the car. It would make a terrific spanking tool.

“I’ll go fetch it,” Julia started towards the garage, “You call Dylan. Let’s get on with this.”

“Oh, dad, I’m too old to be spanked,” Dylan wailed moments later when confronted by his dad.

“I’ll say when you’re too old,” he gripped the brush tightly in his hand. It was about eighteen inches long, including the handle. The manufacturers had put on a rubber grip so it wouldn’t fly out of the hand when it was used.

“Get in there,” he nodded towards the living room.

“Oh dad,” Dylan pouted, but obeyed his dad.

“Missed curfew. And you’d been drinking.” Hank Betterman summarised his son’s faults. Dylan tried to mouth a protest but was cut short.

“Don’t deny it. I saw you. It was gone midnight and you couldn’t get your key in the door.”

Dylan blushed. His dad was right on all accounts. There was no way he could deny it.

“So, young man,” his dad sat down in the middle of the couch. “I’m going to spank you. Get over here.”

“But dad!” Dylan tried again. “I’m nineteen dad. I’m at college.” Then rather pitifully, he added, “Please dad.”

Hank Betterman was stony faced. His son could moan all he wanted to. Not only had he disobeyed his father on the curfew, he had also been drinking alcohol. And that was illegal for a kid of his age. Hank Betterman had no doubt, none at all, that it was his Christian duty to whip his son’s backside.

“Take down those sweats and get across my knee.”

“Oh dad,” Dylan was not quite ready to give up.

“Don’t make me have to do it for you,” Hank reached forward and took his son by the arm pulling the teen toward him. Then, he dragged the boy face down across his lap.

He cracked an almighty whack with the brush across the boy’s left buttock.

“Keep still.”

Then he gripped the elasticated waist of the sweats and tugged them down across his son’s cheeks until they were bunched at his thighs.

Smack! Another blow landed, this time on the right cheek.

“Right, now give me your arm.”

He took Dylan’s right wrist and pulled his arm up his back in a half nelson wrestling manoeuvre.

“Right you’re not going anywhere.”

Hank Betterman looked at his son horizontal across his lap. He was a tall boy, easily two or three inches taller than his dad. The couch was a four-seater so there was plenty of room for Dylan to stretch his whole body along its length. His head rested on a cushion at one end and his legs stretched out behind him at the other. His buttocks were raised at a gentle angle across his dad’s lap.

With his son in this position, Hank Betterman had the best possible aim. The teenager was pinned down; he wouldn’t be able to get up until he said so. He was at his dad’s mercy; not that he intended to show any.

Dylan’s buttocks were full and round and filled out his Jockey shorts. There was plenty for Hank Betterman to aim at.

His dad took a deep breath to prepare himself, just as an athlete or a swimmer might. Then he raised the brush, no higher than a foot away from the boy’s flesh, and hammered it down with all his might. Again and again and again.

At first Dylan opened and closed his mouth uttering silent “owws” and “ouches,” but the pain grew quickly and within seconds his yelps and cries were audible. Then, they became full-throated yells.

Dylan might live to regret throwing the paddle in the trash. The wooden brush was heavier and packed one heck of a punch. It felt like blisters had formed on his under-curves after only six or seven swats.

Dylan wriggled and squirmed, but it was useless activity. Dad had the advantage.

“Enough dad, enough,” he cried.

“I’ll say when you’ve had enough,” Hank Betterman carried on relentlessly. Every square inch of the buttocks and a good deal of the thighs had colored dark pink.

Then Hank Betterman stopped. A relieved Dylan made to lift himself off his dad’s lap.

“Not so fast buster,” Hank Betterman took hold of the top of the Jockeys. “That was for breaking curfew. This is for the drinking.” He pulled the shorts down and left them with the sweats. He was surprised at how bruised Dylan’s cheeks were.

Undeterred he whacked on. He had his duty to perform.

A dozen swats on the left and then a dozen on the right. Dylan’s hollering was so loud, Hank Betterman didn’t hear the front doorbell.

His wife Julia opened the door. It was Delores from across the street. She always came over at this time for coffee. Her ears pricked up at the sound of Dylan’s piteous cries.

“Just a little domestic issue,” Julia said as she busied herself making the coffee.

“Missed curfew. Drinking beer,” Julia filled her friend in on the details.

Still the faint sound of wooden brush connecting with bare flesh and the considerably louder wails of Dylan in distress wafted in from the sitting room.

Then, Delores remembered. Her son Mason, a great buddy of Dylan’s, missed his curfew last night. She needed to get to the bottom of that.

“Where did we put the paddle?” she wondered to herself.


More paddle stories you might like. Click on the title.

The coach and the schoolmaster

The mailman delivers

Yellow Pages spanking


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website


Charles Hamilton the Second

When Dad got home

used slipper (5)

I wait in my red-and-white-striped pyjamas for my father to come home from work. I have been bad-mouthing my mother all day long and now I must pay for it.

Eighteen years old or no, I am going to get one heck of a spanking.

I lay on my bed for seven o’clock to crawl around. Dad’s shift at the post office finishes at six-thirty and he is always home by then.

Without knocking first, dad opens the bedroom door. He is still dressed in his postman’s uniform: mid-grey trousers; light-blue shirt; post office tie knotted tightly at his throat. He has taken off his outdoor shoes and on his feet are his bedroom slippers.

There are no preliminaries; he goes straight to the action. I watch intently as dad picks up the chair and puts it in the centre of the room. He sits down; reaches his right hand to his left foot and removes a slipper. Then he spreads his legs wide.

“Come here Dexter,” it is a stern order, not a friendly request. “Bend over my knee.”

My heart is racing. I am a grown man for Heaven’s sake. I left school two years ago. I have a job at the supermarket. I bring home a wage. But, I know dad is in charge. We argued about this before. “It’s my way or the highway,” he said. If I don’t like his rules, then I must leave home. I don’t want to do that. I love my home comforts too much. I wouldn’t be able to afford half the things I can now.

So, I roll off the bed and onto my feet. I make no objection; there are no excuses or pleas of mitigation. It is true I have been rude and cruel to my mother. I can’t explain why, she just rubs me up the wrong way.

Dad is in his early forties and not yet middle aged; but there are some flecks of grey in his otherwise light brown hair. I stand to the right of my dad, looking down at the platform I am soon to place myself across. Dad is thick set and his legs are fleshy; he has the start of a beer belly. In a strange way he makes a comfortable platform for me to present himself. My positioning might be comfortable but what happens next will not be.

I take a deep breath; place both palms on dad’s fleshy right thigh and ease forward. I reach out my hands and place my palms flat on the carpet. Behind me my legs are short and dangle in mid-air, my toes an inch or so short of the floor. My groin presses into dad’s leg and my bottom rests at an angle.

Dad is not quite satisfied and moves me slightly to give himself a better aim at my bum. My legs are now further from the ground and my face closer to the carpet.

Dad has his little spanking rituals; he always has done. It is his job to prepare my bottom for punishment. He will be the one to take down my pyjama bottoms. Dad rests his slipper on the small of my back and with both of his hands free, gently he takes the elasticated waist of the pyjama bottoms and slowly, carefully, eases them down over my hips down across my meaty (and a little chubby) cheeks until they are clear of the buttocks and resting at my thigh.

I feel a slight breeze blowing across my exposed flesh from the open bedroom window. I am breathing a little heavily. I’ve felt the full force of dad’s slipper across my bare bottom before; I know this will hurt like mad. I hope I can take it without blubbing. Last time I was spanked I wailed the house down; I don’t want to repeat that humiliation.

Dad is taking his time. I can’t see him, but I feel movements in his body as slowly he unfastens the button on his right shirt sleeve and meticulously rolls it up so that his arm is bare from the wrist to above the elbow. Then, taking as much time as he cares, he repeats the manoeuvre with the left sleeve.

He is almost ready; but not quite. He moves the slipper from the small of my back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then, just as carefully as he did with his shirt sleeves, he grasps the tail of my pyjama jacket and folds it once, then twice, until it rests neatly at my shoulders. I am now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.

Dad takes the slipper in his right hand and grips it tightly at the heel. The slipper has about eight inches of flexible sole; dad hovers it above my fleshy bottom; he could easy make one smack land across the centre of both cheeks at once. Or he could go lengthwise and wallop the whole of one cheek from the very top to the very bottom.

He takes the first option and brings the slipper crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. I gasp at the shock of the impact and screw my fingers into a claw.

Dad whacks another three a little lower this time; just where the curves meet the thighs. I yelp and my legs kick out behind me. It is an involuntary action; a reflex to the pain that is starting in my bum and travelling down the back of my legs.

Dad then goes for option two: putting three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad’s technique is not to raise the slipper high into the air and bring it crashing down; instead he raises it perhaps only a foot or so away from the target area and then brings it down with a mighty force into the flesh. It is all in the forearm action and dad has perfected this method over many years of spanking me and my brothers.

My cheeks clench tighter and the slipper hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax in response to the curt command snapped out by my irritated father. The buttocks reluctantly oblige and the slipper falls with fury to slam another dose of intense pain into my naked bottom.

Up and down; up and down goes the slipper. I am failing in my resolve not to cry. I groan or yelp as each whack of the slipper sinks into my meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the slipper are emblazoned across both cheeks and the back of my legs.

I wriggle this way and that; to the left and to the right. It looks like I am trying to swim off dad’s lap. But dad is having none of it and holds me tightly at the waist; I am going nowhere.

My legs are flailing and first I kick the pyjama bottoms down from my thighs to my ankles and then after a dozen or so more wallops they are sent flying across the floor. Dad has not finished; he wants to make sure I understand the gravity of my misbehaviour; so he wraps his right leg across both of my calves and I am trapped. I cannot twist at the waist and cannot kick my legs. I am completely at dad’s mercy.

The spanking goes on and on.

I hear floorboards creak. Someone is on the landing outside my room. I hear the handle of the door twist and it opens. My mum walks in the room and stands about two feet away from my face. She has a perfect view. What she sees is her bratty son pinned across his dad’s knee, his bare bottom toasted bright red by the continual pounding of the slipper. I am totally, utterly humiliated.

I gasp to catch my breath. I cannot see her clearly for the tears flooding my eyes. Why is she here? Has she come to gloat?

“Leave it Den,” she says to my father. “Are you sure Lil,” he replies while increasing the ferocity of the slaps into my burning bum. “I should go on for another ten minutes at least.”

She speaks to me. “Dexter, have you leant your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” I gasp. And with big gulps and tears, I wail, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Let him go.” Dad now knows she means it and the pounding stops. He keeps a tight hold of me and I wheeze and wheeze into the carpet. My pulse is racing and I cannot be sure I won’t have a heart attack.

Then dad releases me and I leap off his knee and hop about, with my cock flopping up and down. I retrieve my pyjama bottoms and tug them on to cover up my privates from my mum’s gaze, but she is not looking. Already she has turned on her heels and is leaving the room.

“No supper for you tonight,” she says over her shoulder and goes. She is anxious to get back to her television; Emmerdale is about to start.

My dad says nothing and follows her out.

When the coast is clear I whip down my pyjamas and poke my bum in the mirror. I am not too shocked by what I see; this is not the first time dad has put his slipper across my bare arse. Both buttocks are bright red and along the outer reaches of my globes there are clear imprints of the sole of the slipper. I touch the flesh gingerly. The pain has quickly subsided, but it is tender to touch. The very centre of my bum which absorbed most of the slippering is rough and leathery. I know from painful experience that quite soon dark blue bruises will show and they will be with me for some days to come as they turn a multitude of colours before eventually disappearing.

I wait a few moments and then go to see Tom my twenty-year-old brother in the next room. We compare my marks to the spanking he got from my dad last night.


More  father and son stories that you might like. Click on the title.

Illicit drinking


Lazy students home for the hols


The fire-raiser



Commander Reynold’s Tenants

Three university students are about to be thrown out of their lodgings because of their disruptive behaviour.

Then, they devise a plan that might save their skins.

But will their landlord agree?

Commander Reynold’s Tenants is a new story from Charles Hamilton II uploaded for the first time anywhere to The Canery website.

Click here to read it.


“So you see Commander,” it was a confident address. The boys might have spent a little too much time on the town recently, but they were intelligent articulate teenagers. In time they would all make their mark on the world, but now, on this day, they had to dig themselves out of a rather big hole.

“If we behaved like this at our schools we should have been soundly beaten by our housemasters.”

 – An extract from Commander Reynold’s Tenants

COMING SOON ! The Private Tutor

Lazy eighteen-year-old schoolboys have failed their mock examinations. What can be done about it?

Send for the Private Tutor.

The Private Tutor believes in traditional teaching methods. Using paddle, cane, slipper and taws, he sets about getting the teenagers back on track.

The Private Tutor is a new three-part story, never before published. It starts on Monday 18 January 2016, continues on Wednesday 20 January and concludes Friday 22 January.


“I told your father that I would employ traditional teaching methods,” he said reaching into his canvas bag and withdrawing a wooden paddle.

“And, that means corporal punishment.”

He rolled the words “corporal punishment” around his mouth with some relish, enjoying every syllable.

He held the paddle by the handle and waved it close to my face. I could see some joker had printed the words “Board of Education” across one of the flat sides. I bet that gave someone a lot of laughs.

He was my private tutor and this was our first meeting.


An extract from Part 1 of The Private Tutor to be published on Monday 18 January 2016

One hot summer afternoon

used Taws free (2)

Simon Harmer glanced out of the bedroom window. It was hot and humid. The weather was about to break; a thunderstorm was coming.

He was in deep trouble with his dad. The old man was downstairs preparing himself. Soon, within minutes probably, he would burst through the door. Intent on doing his duty. It would be a whipping, for sure.

Simon was a first-year university student; home for the holidays. He was only nineteen years old, but he had done a lot of living in the past year.

A bolt of lightning cracked the sky. He waited, counting the seconds in his head. Nine, ten, eleven. Then came the clap of thunder. The storm was still some way off.

Simon had passed all his exams. In many ways he was a model-A student. He studied hard and didn’t party too much. He went dinking with friends, but steered clear of weed. Cannabis smoking led to heroin injection, everybody knew that.

He had been home for a few weeks and landed a job at one of the new large supermarkets that were springing up everywhere. It wasn’t much of a job; filling shelves mostly and humping boxes around. But there were lots of youngsters just like Simon working there, so he was making lots of friends.

Like Tony. Tony was a special friend.

People hardly noticed Tony. There was nothing unusual about him. A person couldn’t be more “ordinary” or more “normal” than Tony. He had long straggly, curly brown hair down to his collar. He never combed it; there was no point. “Wild,” was a good word to describe Tony’s hair. It had a mind of its own. Don’t bother trying to put a parting in it.

Simon was growing his hair too. It was the longest it had ever been in his life; but he still had a long way to go to catch up on Tony.

Tony had acne scars around his chin. He was a little self-conscious about it. But Simon didn’t even notice it. His teeth were crooked too. They weren’t as bad as the tombstones Simon’s dad had. He had huge hazel eyes; like whirlpools. They shone green when he laughed – which was often. Simon could have eaten them with a spoon.

Tony was really very thin. Not sickness thin. Just thin. Simon noticed it the first item the pair went walking together around Gideon’s Meadow. It was swelteringly hot, so they took their shirts off. You could see Tony’s ribs poking through the skin.

He had spindly legs too. Simon and Tony wore fashionable snug sport shorts. They hardly covered their pants. His legs were like two matchsticks hanging down. He had the snakiest hips and no buttocks to speak of: just two pimples, really.

Simon’s dad was in the lounge. Reading his Bible. He had read it many times before. He wanted to go through a particular passage before he went upstairs to deal with his son.

Simon had been brought up on the Good Book. He could recite whole chapters. That gave his dad a great deal of satisfaction. Simon never told dad this, but he no longer believed a lot of it. There was no “Road to Damascus.” He just found that as he went through school and then to university he became more educated. More questioning. The history of how the Bible was written was well documented. How could anybody believe it was the literal word of God?

Simon wanted to call Tony. To get him on the telephone and tell him what was happening to him. He couldn’t. The phone was in the hallway and his dad wouldn’t let him, even if he tried.

If he was a character in one of those silly “teen” movies they showed at the pictures, he would climb out the window and go visit Tony. Guys were always doing that; goofing off to see their girlfriends.

But this was not a movie: this was real life. The window in his bedroom only opened a couple of inches at the bottom. Not even Tony was thin enough to climb through that.

Another lightning fork lit up the night sky. The thunder clap was closer.

Miserably, he lay down on his bed. He caught the faint whiff of Tony’s “Denim” aftershave. He always used just a splash too much. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

It had happened hardly thirty minutes before. Dad was prowling the house. He did that a lot. Opening and closing doors. Spying. When Simon had challenged his dad once about this lack of privacy, he was told, “This is my house and I’ll go where I want.”

It was masturbation. Wanking. Jerking off. Tossing.  Spanking the monkey. One off the wrist. Dad fretted that his three sons were abusing themselves. No door in the house, not even the bathroom (especially not the bathroom) could be locked. Simon and his brothers could expect their bedroom door to burst open at any hour of the night and day. Dad would be standing there, eyes popping. Checking them out.

It hadn’t been masturbation that afternoon. It was something, in dad’s mind, far worse.

Simon and Tony were in the room. They weren’t doing anything much. Listening to the radio. Talking. Hanging out. The room was small. It was hot and sticky. So were the boys.

Nothing was planned. Off came their shirts. It didn’t help. The heat was unbearable. Sweat glistened on Simon’s defined torso. A pool of perspiration soaked the top of Tony’s snug blue sport shorts. Tony grabbed his own shirt and wiped down his friend’s body; making circular motions across the chest and stomach, like he was polishing a car.

Simon squawked. It was a giggle the like he had never shrieked before.

Tony laughed. His eyes shone green. He pushed his best pal onto the bed and leapt on top of him.

Small children call it “pretend fighting.” It’s when they wrestle around on the floor, but they’re not really trying to hurt one another.

The teenagers rolled on the narrow bed. Simon, accidentally hit his head on the wall. Tony banged his knee on the bedside table. They held each other tightly. In each other’s arms.

That was when the door burst open. Simon’s dad paled. His jaw dropped. And, then his eyes exploded. The sport shorts were tight. They were snug. Soldiers stood at full salute. There was nowhere to hide the bulges.

Bile flooded to Mr Harmer’s throat. He held his hand to his mouth like an embarrassed maiden in a Victorian melodrama.

“Out!” The roar could be heard in the street outside. A stranger passing by stopped in his tracks, puzzled. What was that scream? Mr Harmer’s eyes protruded, a vein throbbed on the side of his neck, blood vessels on his nose were about to burst.

Tony grabbed his shirt and shoes and barged through the door; knocking Simon’s dad to the floor in his haste. In the distance, Simon heard the front door open and close.

Speechless. His dad gasped. The fury he felt was left unspoken, but the expression on his terrified face was enough. Struggling for breath, he picked himself up and staggered down the stairs.

Now, Simon waited for the inevitable retribution. Vengeance would be the Lord’s, and also his dad’s.

He didn’t understand what had happened that afternoon. He wasn’t naïve. University students knew about these things. Men going with men. Was Simon “one of them?” He didn’t think so, but so what if he was. It was legal. Well, legal if you were aged twenty-one or over. But, try telling that to dad. To him it was an “abomination.” Plain and simple. No discussion allowed.

What happened between Simon and Tony had seemed perfectly natural. Two pals having a bit of fun. Where was the harm in that?

His philosophising was cut short. The door burst open once more. His dad had returned.

Dad knew most of the Bible by heart. That afternoon he had the passages about men laying down with men and parents sparing the rod uppermost in his mind.

The “rod” in the Harmer household did not mean a cane or a stick. The “rod” was a magnificent three-tailed leather taws. The leather was scuffed, worn down by use. It was so old Noah might have used it himself.

There was a spanking ritual at the Harmer’s

“Take off those ridiculous shorts,” dad spat. “Pants too!”

While his son readied himself, Mr Harmer plumped up two pillows and set them down in the dead centre of the narrow bed.

“You know the drill.”

Indeed, Simon did. He knelt on the bed and gently eased himself forward so that his stomach, his cock and his balls, pressed into the duck feathers. His bare bottom was raised at an angle to greet the strap.

A three-tailed taws is an awesome weapon. When it flew, the business end could be more than ten inches from tip to tip. Mr Harmer tapped the taws across the centre of Simon’s cheeks. His shorts had covered so little of his anatomy that only a narrow strip across the teenager’s buttocks remained creamy white. The rest of his body was nut-brown, tanned by the strong sun.

Mr Harmer set himself a challenge. By the time he was finished no square inch of the flesh would remain white. His heavy leather strap would turn it first to pink, then claret, then yellow and blue, until finally the cheeks would be bruised a deep purple.

Satisfied that he had his aim, he pulled the taws by its stiff handle in an arc over his own shoulder until the tails rested in the small of his back. He bent his knees slightly to give him momentum and then slashed the leather at great speed into the submissive buttocks.

The crack of leather connecting with flesh echoed around the room. Three dark pink marks spread from the top of the cheeks into the under-curve where bum and thighs meet. Simon closed his eyes tight and waited patiently for swipe number two.

His father’s eyes glowed with righteousness. He was so intent on doing God’s work, he failed to hear the creaking of floorboards outside the bedroom. Luke, Simon’s twenty-two-year-old brother, peaked through the partly-open door. He had the perfect view of his father’s back and his brother’s raised naked bum.

Up and down fell the strap. Still, Simon remained silent. Up, down. Up, down. Soon six sets of marks scarred his buttocks. Not one gasp escaped the teenager’s lips. He had long ago developed a high pain threshold.

Six more. Then another six.

Luke’s mouth dried. He remembered the thrashing his father had administered to him. Only last February. The pain and humiliation he had felt was often on his mind. His heartbeat sped. Sweat poured from beneath his shirt collar. He appeared to be in a worse state than his brother who was stoically enduring the wrath and the lash of their father.

“Oh, please God! No, not again.” It was a silent prayer. Luke was having thoughts again. He gazed on as his father renewed his efforts. The thwack and the splat as leather bit deep into Simon’s bottom had an unwelcome effect on Luke. “Please, no!”

Too late. Nearly. He rushed into his own bedroom, pulling at his shorts as he went. He dived onto the bed and wriggled out of his underpants. A load shot over his belly after only two strokes.

Mr Hamer was nearly done. The once-creamy white backside was now fifty shades of spanked. He had succeeded in his task. The boy’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat.

Another half-dozen. Just to finish the boy off.

Then, it was over. Mr Harmer tucked the taws under his armpit, tuned on his heels and exited, making sure to leave the bedroom door wide open.

Simon lay face down. The agony in his arse was already subsiding, but he knew from experience the pain would stay for a considerable time.

All seemed still. The house was silent. Even his noisy brother Luke wasn’t playing his records.

Simon rolled off the pillows and hauled himself from the bed. Quickly he pulled on his pants and shorts. He didn’t want to inspect the damage in the dresser mirror. He had seen it all before. It did no good. There was no point dwelling on the intense damage his father caused him.

He picked by his shoes and padded down the carpeted stairs to the front door. He slipped into them and made his way down the garden path. He knew inside the house his father would be on his knees, praying to God for Simon’s salvation.

Simon would leave him to it. He needed to find Tony.

Overhead, a lightning bolt flashed. Thunder struck. The heavens opened.


Other domestic spanking stories you might enjoy. Click on the title.

A teenager’s tale

The pub visit

Rules of the house



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

The drunken neighbour

It was at least nine o’clock at night, but it was still light. I was standing at the bedroom window and I watched him stagger down the street. He was drunk. Or on drugs. He lurched against my front gate leant over the low fence and vomited into my flowerbed.

He was the boy from next door. I say “boy” but he was easily in his mid-twenties. There were three of them in the house. Sharing. People move about a lot at that age. They certainly did in the house next door. I think the boy might have lived there for a few weeks before our encounter.

Next morning I went to inspect my roses. The vomit was gone. Dogs or urban foxes probably ate it. I wasn’t sure what I should do about the boy next door. Should I make a fuss?

My friend Geoffrey was clear. I call Geoffrey my “friend”. I’m pushing sixty years old and from an older more reticent generation. Today’s youngsters would say “partner”. You can get married now so some of them would be “husbands”. I can’t see myself ever calling Geoffrey my “husband”.

Geoffrey said the boy next door needed a good spanking. Geoffrey would say that. That’s how we first got together. Geoffrey is about twenty years younger than me. He was a post-grad student at the university where I taught. Heaven knows how he got such a good first degree; he was pretty feckless. He had no self-discipline.

That’s where I came in. There was some older-younger man chemistry. He needed a mentor to take him under his wing. To give him a guiding hand, as it were. And that’s what he got. My guiding hand across his backside.

Geoffrey was in his twenties at the time, about the same age as the boy next door now. Mostly I kept Geoffrey on the straight and narrow by regular use of a heavy wooden bath brush applied with some energy across his bare buttocks. I would sit on a straight-backed chair, make him take down his trousers and underpants and put himself across my lap. He would always be submissive.

It wasn’t a sexual fetish. It was genuine punishment, applied to correct the misbehaviour of an errant young man. It worked. I haven’t had to spank Geoffrey for ten years or more.

The boy next door certainly needed his backside toasted, but I wasn’t so sure he would see it that way.

I didn’t know much about the boy. I knew he worked as a “community policeman.” What exactly is a “community policeman?” In my day we had “special constables,” who were volunteer policeman. Are community policemen like that, only paid?

Whatever they were, surely they were supposed to be responsible people. They shouldn’t be getting drunk (or worse, high) and puking into the neighbour’s garden.

I made it my business to be pottering in the garden the next afternoon so I could “accidently” meet the boy. I knew it was no use in the morning. He would still be in bed.

It was the height of summer and a hot sticky day. When he eventually left the house he was wearing running shorts and nothing else but a pair of training shoes. He looked very sheepish when I called a cheery “hello”. How much of his behaviour last night could he remember?

I watched him run down the road. He was taller than average and clearly physically very fit. He was also “fit” in the way youngsters use the word these days. I couldn’t see enough spare fat anywhere on his body to fry a sausage. He was so unlike most of the flabby obese youngsters you see hanging around the shopping centres today.

It was three days later, a Friday night, when we had a repeat performance. This time there was no vomit in my garden, but I watched the boy bounce down the street. When he got to his house, he stumbled for his key and was so out of it he couldn’t get it into the lock. I expected one of his housemates to open the door and let him in, but after a few minutes it was clear to me that there was no one at home.

So, I did the neighbourly thing. I went down and I let him in. He staggered up the stairs and I heard the door to the bathroom crash open. It was time to vomit again.

I was about to leave the key on the hall table and go home when I had a thought. Instead I pocketed it. He would have to come to me for it. There would be a price to pay for its return.

I spoke with Geoffrey about it. Yes, he agreed the boy needed a damn good spanking. Geoffrey was utterly convinced of it. He said the spankings I gave him at university turned his life around. He would have been a waster without me. Instead, he got a doctoral degree and went on to become one of the most respected economists in the country.

We agreed the boy needed a spanking, but for it to be effective he had to accept he had erred and needed correction. He had to take his punishment submissively. There was little likelihood of that happening. Corporal punishment was no longer in use. The cane had been abandoned in schools thirty years ago. The boy was not going to put himself over my knee.

It was conceivable that together Geoffrey and I could force him across the dining room table and tie him down. But what would be the point of that?

Anyway, if we did, the moment he was released he would call the police. Then where would we be? Two queens assaulting their cute next door neighbour. We’d get jail time.

Next day the boy appeared on my doorstep. It was a cooler day and he was dressed in a t-shirt and the enormous baggy pants the kids wear. He was not gracious.

“You got my key,” he snarled. It was an accusation disguised as a question.

I have worked with surly teenagers most of my life and I know how to intimidate them. The boy next door was easy to handle. Before he had realised it he was inside my house and the door was closed behind him.

He pouted when I demanded an explanation for the previous night’s behaviour. I could read his mind. Who did I think I was? It was none of my business.

“Give me my key,” his eyes glared. He wasn’t going to take lecturers from an old poof.

“What will you do? Call the police?”

“Ba..” he started to say something, but stopped himself just in time.

I told him I knew he was a community policeman. I lectured him on role models and setting an example. Then I played my ace card. “What will they say at the police headquarters when I report your drunken behaviour?”

I had expected him to get angry. Youngsters today are full of themselves. They think they are the centre of the universe. They are not about to take lecturers from anyone about anything.

But, he didn’t. He seemed stumped for an answer. He was silent. His blue-grey eyes told me I had hit a sensitive spot.

I knew from experience youngsters often bottled up their worries. A small problem was allowed to grow. In time it became a crisis. It was better to get things out into the open. I was sure the boy had something to tell me.

So, I said, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

So, he said he was in trouble at work and was on what they called “probation.” If there were any more problems he would be out of a job. He was drinking too much, but that was because of the job.

“If only I could sort myself out,” he trailed off rather miserably.

“I can help you,” I said and moved from the hallway into one of the large “reception” rooms in the house. The boy meekly followed.

Geoffrey used to tell me that I had a “powerful presence,” and that I was “masterful.” This was especially so when he was younger and saw me as an older authority figure. I had never recognised this in myself before. I was, I thought, just “myself.”

I told the boy he needed help. Structure. He must sort out his priorities. Set objectives. He should strive to meet them. If he failed through lack of endeavour, laziness, slothfulness, he must be punished.

He listened attentively. Those expressive blue-grey eyes confirmed Geoffrey’s opinion of me. I was masterful.

The boy opened up. We spoke for several minutes. But, it was mostly him. He said he had never thought of it before, but everything I had said was true. It all applied to him. He had never been given boundaries. He had done poorly at school because nobody – his parents, his teachers – seemed to care. He had been left – and this was his exact word – “rudderless.”

Geoffrey who had been listening from the shadows piped up. “Mr Hamilton here can help you with that.”

The boy looked at him disbelievingly.

Then Geoffrey smiled, “Believe me. I know.”

The dam had been breached.

I had never heard Geoffrey talk before to anyone about our discipline arrangements. He told the boy everything and with great enthusiasm. To my astonishment, he finished, “You should let Mr Hamilton take care of you.”

“You mean…” the boy couldn’t quite find the words.

“Yes,” Geoffrey confirmed. “You should start right now.” Then he turned to me, “Isn’t that right, Mr Hamilton.”

I too was lost for words. This wasn’t how I expected my meeting with the boy to have been. I managed to nod.

Geoffrey took this as a cue to leave us. I heard him running up the stairs. I had a good idea where he was heading.

He returned a minute later holding a large heavy wooden bath brush. It wasn’t the same one I had used to blister Geoffrey’s backside all those years ago, but it was petty similar. It would make a mightily effective spanking tool.

Geoffrey made great play of testing the brush’s weight by smacking it into the palm of his hand. Then he passed it over to me.

The boy’s deeply suntanned face blanched. I could tell from his eyes he was having second thoughts.

I gave him a lifeline. This would only work if he consented; if he understood that this spanking was to be for his own good.

“It is your decision. You can stay and be spanked or you can take your key and go home.”

I couldn’t have been any clearer. The boy was equally clear in his response.

“I want to stay.” Then he added pleadingly. “Please.”

Geoffrey had been very explicit in his description of my methods so the boy knew exactly what he was letting himself in for.

I cleared some newspapers from our large couch and sat down in its centre. The boy’s breathing had become shallower. I suspected his heartbeat was racing.

“Come here,” I stretched out my arm and took him by the wrist, pulling him closer to me.

“I think you understand the drill,” I said quietly. It was important to stay calm. This spanking was to be part of a well-organised structured disciplinary process. It wasn’t a wild uncontrolled beating given on the spur of the moment in anger.

“You must take down your trousers,” I said, in case he had forgotten.

By now, I am sure the boy had convinced himself that he must go through with this. Geoffrey had sold him on it benefits.

I believe his hands shook a little as he undid the drawstring that fastened his trousers at the waist and let them fall to his feet.

“Come lay across my lap.”

The couch was long enough to fit the boy. His legs were stretched out behind him on the seat cushion and his chest, head and arms were ahead of him. His stomach and bottom rested over my lap.

He wasn’t quite in the perfect position. Willingly, he moved back and forth until I was satisfied that his bum was at the exact angle I required.

Spankings should be about punishment and not humiliation. However, to be truly effective a spanking must be delivered to the bare buttocks. Spankings should be painful; clothing, even just cotton underpants, gets in the way.

To be naked in public can be a humiliating experience for many, especially young men who are asked to display their private parts. To reduce the embarrassment, I never asked Geoffrey to bare his backside prior to going over my knee. I always allowed him to keep on his underwear. When he was securely in position, head low, bum high, I would then myself pull down his drawers.

That was how I treated the boy. He wore loose-fitting Calvin Klein’s.  I caught hold of the waist and tugged at it, but because so much of the boy’s body was across my lap I couldn’t get his underwear over his buttocks and down to his thighs.

The boy then did something that reassured me that we had made the right decision to spank him. Without my instruction, he lifted his body an inch or so off my lap to allow me to bare his backside. He was telling me that he accepted this spanking. He deserved it. Maybe even he wanted it.

The twenty-something young man lay expressionless across my lap, waiting. I took a grip around his waist to hold him in place and let fly with the bath brush. The boy’s buttocks were surprisingly springy. The heavy wooden head of the brush was about the size of my palm; it covered almost the whole of one bum cheek. It struck home, sank into the flesh and emerged a second later leaving behind a dark pink mark, a perfect imprint of the brush’s oval head.

I whacked six or seven smacks into his bum in quick succession, not letting up for a second. Then I paused to admire my handiwork. The whole of both buttocks was now deep pink. Later I would turn my attention to the thighs.

The boy wriggled from the moment the first blow struck. Involuntarily, I think, he clenched and unclenched his buttocks to try to ward off the blows. It was useless as any spanked boy would tell you. Indeed, it is best to keep the bum as relaxed as possible during a tanning. There will be fewer lasting bruises that way.

I battered the boy’s behind for about a minute: maybe ninety seconds, I wasn’t keeping time. By now the whole area from the top of his cheeks near the spine, across the centre of his mounds, into the crease at the bottom end and right down the back of his thighs was bright red and raw.

I had always supposed this was the boy’s first spanking. If it truly was, he took it very well. Of course, he struggled. How could he not? The pain would be intense, even for an experienced spankee. But, he mostly kept his cool. He gasped every time the heavy wood met with his flesh and he mouthed silent “owws” and “owches” throughout. His blue-grey eyes were moist, but he stopped himself short of actually crying.

He held on tightly to a scatter cushion, rather as a young child does with a cuddly toy.

It was never my intention to “break” the boy. I did not need to see him wailing and begging for mercy. I did need to feel that he had been sufficiently punished for his drunkenness and vomiting in my garden.

I whacked on for a further minute. The slaps were rapid, like machinegun fire. By the time I was finished I had probably laid two hundred or more whacks into the boy.

One technique I had developed with Geoffrey was to smack three or four times one after another in the same spot. The pain it caused was incredible and it left severe bruises. The boy’s bum must have been softer than Geoffrey’s, or it had not been toughened up by repeated spankings. The rapid same-spot spanks opened up the skin and blood rose to the surface. His bottom reminded me of raw hamburger meat.

That decided me. It was time to stop. I still held the boy face down. He was breathing heavily into the dusty cushion. Tears flowed down his cheeks, but he was not sobbing uncontrollably. He had taken the spanking well. It remained to be seen if it would have any effect on his future behaviour.

I released my grip and the boy rolled off my lap onto the floor. From a kneeling position he looked me straight in the eye. I do not think I am deceiving myself here: it was a look of gratitude. He got to his feet and pulled up his shorts and trousers and tied them up.

I wasn’t sure how to end the session. I supposed a lecture was in order. But, I had no time to deliver it. Geoffrey wrapped his arm around the boy’s shoulder and guided him into the kitchen.

It was five minutes or more before I heard the front door close.

Geoffrey came into the reception room. “We’ll be seeing a lot more of him. He wants you to be his mentor.”

I blushed and reached over to the cocktail cabinet and poured us each a whisky.

I was going to change his life for him. I would be the most important person in his world so far.

I sipped at my drink. It was at that moment I realised I didn’t know the boy’s name.



More stories about neighbours who take action that you might like. Click on the title.

That Connor boy!

The dope smoker

The man across the hall



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second