The helpful neighbour, part one is here
I gripped hold of the clothes brush and stormed up the stairs towards Oliver’s room. I had called him for breakfast twenty minutes ago, but the lazy brat was still in bed. I’d warned him about this before.
I burst through the door. I had surprise on my side. He was tucked under the duvet; only the tip of his head visible. He didn’t know what hit him. I tore the cover away. He was on his side. In one continuous movement I pushed him over on his front and knelt in his back.
He was pinned face down. He was going nowhere.
“Warrrr ….?” He had no breath to protest. The weight of my body on his back had winded him.
“When I tell you to come down for breakfast, you come down. You’ll be late for college.”
He was naked except for a pair of blushing pink Aussiebum underpants. I pulled them down to his thighs. Then, I let him have it with the brush.
It was controlled fury. I whacked down about twenty swats across his quivering cheeks. Bang. Bang. Bang. He struggled like crazy. His legs kicked out. But to no purpose. He was trapped. There was nothing he could do except let me get on with it.
“Gerrrofff.” He flailed his head to left and right. “Stop it.”
Not yet. His backside was now as shockingly pink as his underpants. It had taken me about a minute, raining down rapid hard smacks.
Then I turned my attention to the back of his thighs. A dozen or so whacks were enough to get him. “Owwww! Ouch!! Noooo!”
I stopped. I released my knee from his back and he shot to his feet. I pushed him in the shoulders and propelled him to the door.
“Get down to breakfast,” I connected a couple more whacks across his stinging bottom. “Now!”
He shot out the door and headed for the stairs.
Oliver had been staying with me for about a week. My next door neighbour Peggy, his mother, and I agreed it would be easier for me to keep an eye on him that way. We thought that the eighteen-year-old layabout needed a “disciplinary regime” and I was the one to impose it.
Part of the new broom was that Oliver would get up in the morning and go to college on time.
I followed him into the kitchen. He poured himself a bowl of cereal. He said nothing.
“Hurry, you’ll be late,” I admonished him.
He pouted. Not a good thing to do when I’m around. I had a remedy for that.
“Do you want me to fetch my cane?”
He looked at me sulkily. “No, Sir.”
“Sir.” I liked that. There might be hope for Oliver yet.
A lot had happened since I first thrashed Oliver with my cane after I had caught him trying to steal from my garden shed. It turned out that he was a serial thief. He was completely off the rails. He had stopped attending sixth-form college; he stayed out half the night and his mother could no longer control him.
The thrashing had touched a nerve in Oliver. So to speak. Of course, the pain I inflicted on him ignited many nerves in his backside. But, I what I mean is that somewhere deep inside of himself Oliver realised that he deserved the twelve stokes I had administered across his underpants. His life was out of control. Maybe, just maybe, I could get it back on track.
A few days after the caning, Peggy came round to my house. It was the first time we had met since that night. I know Oliver had returned to his home in quite a state. His buttocks had been scarred and a little bloody. He had been bawling his eyes out by the time I had finished with him.
Although she had consented to her son’s punishment, I worried that she might have changed her mind once she saw the sight of him.
I need not have worried.
“Thank you for the other day,” she said as we waited for the kettle to boil.
I stopped short of saying “It was a pleasure.” It wasn’t a “pleasure,” I did not enjoy beating the boy one little bit, but I had no doubts whatsoever, none at all, that the caning was necessary. It was definitely for his own good.
I made the tea and we sat down. Peggy had not visited to talk about the past; it was the future that concerned her much more.
She had booked an appointment to see Oliver’s “personal tutor” at the college. She wanted me to go with her. I knew quite a bit about the college. The university where I taught had an agreement with it. Any of their students who graduated with at least two A-level passes (grades immaterial) were guaranteed a place at the university. It helped keep the university’s student numbers up. Such is mass higher education today.
The students at Oliver’s college were aged sixteen to eighteen. It prided itself that they were treated like “adults.” They called lecturers by their first name and came and went as they wanted.
Of course there weren’t “adults.” Legally, the eighteen year olds were, but it takes more to being an adult than age. There were no rules or boundaries at the college. Nobody was taught how to behave or the sanctions they would face if they did not. The kids didn’t stand a chance.
I had never visited the college before. What an eye-opener it proved to be. It was lunchtime and the kids were all mingling around the building and what at a school would be called the “playground.” They were dressed as if for a trip to the mall. I lost count of the number who were smoking cigarettes (and who knows what else besides).
This was one of the new privatised colleges. I’m glad my own children missed out on that. They went to a traditional school with its own sixth-form. There wore uniforms and would never have dreamt of calling the headmaster Mr Davidson, “Arthur.”
Corporal punishment had been banned years earlier, but there were still rules and punishments. And, woe betides any of mine who were caught smoking, eighteen years old or no. My whippy rattan cane was always on hand.
I doubt if Oliver’s personal tutor was older than twenty-five. He was a scruffy little oik. His hair needed cutting, but I would have accepted it if he at least put a comb through it. He obviously hadn’t shaved that day. Perhaps, he had the same problems as Oliver in the morning.
He wore a crumbled cotton shirt and, I swear this is true, the fly of his dirty cord trousers was held in place by staples.
We sat in a grimy seminar room. I let Peggy do the talking.
“Mr Lamb,” she began, but was immediately interrupted.
“Call me Richard,” he said. He then went on to call Peggy by her first name. I tried to disguise my intense irritation. It was clear Call Me Richard had no idea who Oliver was. He hadn’t even bothered to read the boy’s file.
What chance did Oliver have with this waste of space as a role model? For two pins I should have pulled the tutor across my knee and spanked his backside very hard indeed.
We left the college despondent. We were on our own. Peggy and I alone would have to find a way to turn Oliver’s life around.
He wasn’t a bad kid, not deep down. I had known him for about ten years; it was only recently that he had gone astray. Perhaps, it was all part of growing up.
Back at my house Peggy and I set about drawing up a list of rules. There was nothing special about them. Most families with older teens have rules. The only difference was we had a very painful sanction for breaking them. There was to be a curfew; regular times for getting up in the morning; restrictions on watching TV and using the Internet. As a professional educator, I would act as a “private tutor” monitoring the college wok Oliver was doing; checking on his grades and so on.
We were satisfied with our work. If Oliver would stick to these rules the problem would be solved.
I think he was genuine when he said he would obey the rules. He was an intelligent kid; he could see that he needed help. He was on the threshold of his adult life; he had to make the right choices.
It went well for a while and then things started to slip. First it was getting up late in the morning; then it was the missed curfew. His college work was OK, but I could tell he wasn’t really applying himself.
It was time for “sanctions” to be enforced. I had made it clear what would happen if he failed to abide by the rules. He had already felt the brush across his bare backside for staying in bed late. Obviously, it had not worked.
Peggy and I discussed it over coffee. She wasn’t too keen on another sound caning. Nor, was I. There wasn’t much point in forcing the boy back over the table and tying him down. What he needed now was a “maintenance spanking.” He had to accept that he had fallen short of expectations. He had failed in his part of the bargain. He needed a “wake-up” call. He had to submit himself willingly to punishment.
I left it to his mother to explain it to Oliver. She must be the one to detail his faults and to explain why he must be spanked.
While she did that, I searched through cupboards and drawers in my house. I was looking for a special belt. It had belonged to one of my sons. It was wide and thick and had been the height of fashion once. It was heavy and in the right hands it could leave a backside severely bruised. Its greatest advantage was its length. It was not much more than twenty-four inches long. Once doubled up it made a wonderful punishment tool. It was much easier to manoeuvre than one of my own much longer belts.
It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening when Oliver arrived. He was thoughtful and his usually sparkling eyes seemed a little dull.
“What have you decided, Oliver?” I asked. I wanted this to be his choice. He must accept his need to be punished and then present himself to me passively. There was to be no unseemly wrestling; only a young man submitting himself for a thoroughly deserved spanking.
He had clearly rehearsed a speech. I suspect his mother had helped him. He was on autopilot. He was sorry. He knew his mother and I had his best interests at heart.
I listened unimpressed. It was just words. I didn’t think he really meant it. Then, he truly startled me.
“Please spank me. I deserve it.”
“Yes you do, Oliver,” I stumbled.
I gazed into the teenager’s eyes. I saw honest regret. He really meant it.
We were in the lounge. I moved across the room and pulled a straight-backed chair away from the dining table. I opened a drawer in the sideboard and extracted the belt. I sat down and doubled it over, ready for use.
Oliver stood in front of me awkwardly, not quite still, moving slightly from one foot to another. He was chewing on his bottom lip.
I reached and took hold of the waist of Oliver’s trousers, just below his belly button and pulled him forward a few inches. He did not resist and shuffled into the place where I wanted him.
“Take down your trousers please, Oliver.” I spoke softly, determined that he would show contrition. He would offer up his own backside to me for punishment.
He blushed bright red. His body stiffened a little. His fingers trembled as he took hold of his belt buckle and loosened it. I am not a mind-reader, but I felt this was the moment when he truly accepted that this had to happen. Events had to take their course. He had to obey my instructions.
The fingers refused to stop shivering as he unpopped the button at his waistband and dragged down the zipper. The front of his trousers flapped open, showing he was wearing tightly-fitting sky blue briefs. I know little about the underwear young men wear these days, but he seemed to have a preference for Aussiebum.
He breathed deeply and awaited further instruction. I noticed the cotton briefs fitted Oliver a little too snugly against his private parts.
“Please take down your trousers.” It was another calm instruction.
He wriggled his hips and with gravity and the weight of the trousers they were soon at his ankles.
“Now your pants please.”
His eyes began to well. He gulped in a lungful of air. He stared over my right shoulder, careful not to catch my eye but by taking hold of both sides of his briefs, he pulled them down slowly; over his hips and across the buttocks until they rested at his knees. He spread his legs an inch or two and the briefs slivered down to join his trousers.
I held the belt tightly. Now was the moment of truth. Would he submit himself to this spanking?
“Bend over my knee Oliver.”
I hope I didn’t show my relief. Oliver was obedient. He shuffled forward a little, leant down and resting his hands on my left leg, he gently eased himself over.
Then he put both his palms flat on the floor ahead of him. His legs were straight behind him and his bottom rested snugly over my right leg. It was the perfect position to receive a spanking. The eighteen-year-old had never been across a knee for a spanking and I suppose he had never seen anyone else do it, yet he conducted himself like an expert.
He stared down at the deep pile carpet while I made final preparations. I pushed his shoulders so that his head was closer to the floor. Then I took hold of his yellow-and-green tee-shirt and pushed it as far up his back as it would go, until it was bunched over his shoulder blades.
His back was hairless. On his shoulder was a small tattoo. It looked like a lizard, but I am no expert. I wondered if Peggy knew about this.
Then he did something extraordinary. He raised his bottom a little higher. He was saying “I know I have been a bad boy. I deserve this spanking.”
The window was open and I worried that the neighbours might hear. Last time, when I caned Oliver I had stuffed a handkerchief in his mouth to stifle his yells. I hadn’t thought to do that this time. But, I hoped it would not be necessary. A spanking with a belt was nowhere near as painful as a whipping with a cane. It should hurt Oliver a lot, but it would be a different kind of pain; he should be able to absorb it without too much fuss.
I gripped the belt in my right hand and tapped it gently over the centre of Oliver’s buttocks, trying to test my aim.
Oliver felt the movement in my body and immediately sucked in air, expecting the first wave of pain.
I raised my arm ready to let fly; Oliver’s buttocks clenched. It was a natural reflex.
Crack! The sound of a thick leather belt connecting with bare flesh resounded around the room. I could see Oliver’s eyes widen as the hurt sank in. But, it was not too painful and he kept steady, bottom still raised high waiting for number two.
It was not long in coming. I like to keep up a rhythm and at a rate of about one whack every ten seconds or so I brought the belt down again and again and again: until every part of Oliver’s buttocks was coloured sunset red.
Oliver was feeling it. He had not cried out, but his face creased in agony each time the short strap connected across his backside. He was breathing heavily, the accumulated pain growing. Crimson marks run at angles across his bottom and the once-soft flesh looked leathery.
I was impressed by Oliver’s stoicism. He was taking this spanking submissively and rather well. I gripped him tighter at the waist. I wanted to finish with an almighty onslaught. I wasn’t counting, but maybe thirty lashes connected. Oliver’s legs kicked out behind him and he buckled at the knees.
His trousers and pants were at his feet and they restricted his legs from thrashing about too much. If he was not wearing shoes he would have kicked his clothes half way across the room by now.
My pounding was relentless. Oliver began to crack. He yelped like a little whipped puppy. His arms flapped and his body swayed from side to side.
Without letting up on the downward strokes, I grabbed Oliver’s right arm and roughly shoved it up his back and pinned it against his shoulder blades. He was going nowhere until I said so. He was at my complete mercy. He had no choice but to lay face down, bare bottom high to receive this severe spanking.
The belt was going up and down; up and down; at some considerable speed. Oliver tried to gulp in air, but he could not fill his lungs. Tears flowed freely.
I stopped. It was never my intention to cause the boy medical injury. He was gasping and wheezing. He was still across my knees, but I had released my grip. Oliver’s breathing was more even now and he was calmer.
Oliver’s buttocks were scorched. He had had enough.
“Get up. Slowly.” I was impressed by Oliver. He had taken a severe belting from me and he had taken it well. He lifted his body from my knees and then in a sideways movement he fell onto the carpet. His whole body was shaking.
He lifted himself onto his knees. His forehead bounced against the carpet as he gasped and wheezed until he regained enough composure to stand. With tears trickling down his face Oliver tugged up his trousers and pants and silently shuffled from the room.
I made myself some tea and settled down to flick through 350 television channels in search of something worth watching.
Five minutes later, my phone vibrated. I had an incoming text message. It was from Oliver. “Thank U” was all it said.
The Helpful neighbour, part 3 is here
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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