The spanking I thoroughly deserved


The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

I’m not a kid, I’ll be twenty-three next month. I’ve got a university degree and I’m a trainee with a multinational bank. I was seconded to a local branch recently. It’s in a small town, no more than a village really, in the middle of nowhere. The only place I could get to live was at Mr Mallard’s. It used to be some kind of farmhouse, I think. It’s pretty old and crumbling down in places.

He lets out ten rooms. There are lots of kids from the local agricultural college. They’re eighteen. They’re too young for me, so I don’t see much of them. I hear them a lot, though. They can be pretty boisterous at times. They come back late drunk or high and make a lot of noise. I don’t know if Mr Mallard has spanked any of them, it’s not the kind of question you ask.

I’ve had a tough time of it since I got the new placement. It’s a small branch and most people are old enough to be my parents. I think I’ve been a bit lonely. That might explain the behaviour that got me into trouble.

At first I used to phone my mum regularly and talk to my brother on Skype, but we didn’t have much to say to each other and we stopped doing it. I think I started to drink too much. I blame my behaviour on that; I never used to be like this before I arrived here.

I’d never been spanked before. The cane was abolished at schools about thirty years ago, before I was born. Fathers aren’t allowed to spank their children; if they did a ton of social workers would descend on their heads. Actually, that’s not strictly true. Social workers should stop them, but if that story in the news about the two-year-old kid who was tortured to death by his mother and her ‘’civil partner” – that’s lesbos to you and me – is anything to go by they won’t do diddly-squat about it.

Nor, will anyone do anything about Mr Mallard and the bare-bottomed spanking he gave me. I deserved it and if I behaved like that again I’d hope he would give me another good hiding.

It started on the Saturday night. I was drinking on my own at one of the many pubs in town. There’s not much to do round here but drink, there are no cinemas or clubs or anything really. I was having a cigarette in the beer garden even though it was pretty cold – you can’t smoke inside these days – and I was finishing it when I saw this bloke sitting at a table talking to his mates. He had a bald spot on the top of his head and I just walked up to him and stubbed my cigarette out on it. I don’t know why I did it; I didn’t even know him.

Of course, he yelped and jumped up, clutching his burning head. When he realised what I had done he pushed back his chair and went for me. I took a pretty weak punch to the face and hit him back and soon we were wrestling on the ground. His mates and some other customers broke us up. Neither of us was hurt much, but the manager threw me out anyway.

I walked round the corner to The Royal for another drink. The Royal is an odd place; it’s the nearest we have to a “counter culture” pub. The gays go there and also the political radicals, which around here doesn’t extend much further than the Green Party.

It was quite busy and I was standing at the bar drinking when an old queen I’d seen before called John came up and started talking to me. He is eighty if he’s a day. His claim to fame is that he once went to prison for having sex with a minor. It was a long time ago, but he won’t stop talking about it. One day he picked up an eighteen-year-old boy in a bar- the age of consent for gays was twenty-one in those days – and he took him home. They had sex and surprise, surprise – because John is an ugly geezer and wouldn’t have been much prettier when he was younger – the boy asked for money. He threatened to go to the police if he didn’t cough up. John had no money, so the kid actually went and reported him. The rest is history.

I didn’t like John; he gave me the creeps. Perhaps, I thought he would try something on me. Anyhow, to get rid of him I pushed him and shouted, “Oi, don’t touch my arse, you kiddie-fiddler.” Then I gave him a mouthful about sex and kids and the like.

In seconds half the bar had turned on me and I was surrounded. Now, you don’t want to get into a fight with a bunch of poofs; they’d scratch your eyes out. So, I thought it was time to leave. I didn’t even wait to finish my pint.

I crossed the road to The King’s Head. It was almost deserted, but a guy called Mohammed was there. I don’t know much about him, but I’ve seen him around town. You couldn’t miss him really, there aren’t many blacks in a place like this. I suppose he must have grown up around here, why else would he be here?

By now I was wired and drunk. A terribly dangerous combination. For reasons that I can’t remember – not that “reason” had much to do with it – I started calling him all the names under the sun. I’m not going to repeat the words here, but let me say that the British National Party would have been proud of me. They would want to put me on their recruiting poster.

I got thrown out of that pub too. I staggered down the street to The Hen and sat in a corner on my own to drink myself into oblivion until it was chucking out time. Somehow, I made it back to my digs and crashed out on my bed.

The following lunchtime – the Sunday – I was in my room having a wank. There’s this girl at the newsagents with really big tits. Tits do it for me every time. I wasn’t anywhere near to climaxing when my phone vibrated. It was my landlord Mr Mallard. He wanted me to meet him in his private sitting room. I was still a bit dozy after my excesses the previous night and hadn’t thought to ask him what he wanted. I would find out soon enough.

Mr Mallard was dressed in his best Sunday suit. He told me he had just returned from church and he had heard all about my exploits. All of them? I thought. I had a hazy recollection. He would probably be able to fill me in on the details.

“What the hell is going on?” He seemed genuinely concerned. “You seemed like a good lad when you first arrived here.”

I blushed bright red. I don’t think I had spoken more than two words to him in all the time I had been living under his roof. How had he formed any opinion about me?

He was angry. It seemed his fellow God-botherers blamed him for my behaviour. “How could you let out a room to someone like that?” was the gist of what they told him. I thought he was going to give me notice to quit. That would be a disaster. There was nowhere else I could go. I wouldn’t have come here in the first place if there were.

Then he said something quite extraordinary. He said what I needed was a damn good hiding. When I stared back uncomprehendingly, he rephrased it, “You need a damn good spanking. That’d knock some sense into you.”

I suspect my jaw might have quite literally dropped. Of all the things I might have expected him to say at a time like this, “You need a damn good spanking” wasn’t one of them. I had suffered a bad night; it wasn’t just that I had too much to drink I was shamed by my behaviour. I couldn’t believe I had said all those cruel things to John and Mohammed. And, that guy who I didn’t even know who I stubbed my cigarette out on. Mr Mallard was right; I wasn’t like this.

I watched as Mr Mallard slipped off his jacket and carefully put it on the dining room table. That’s when I noticed the large brush. It was more than a foot long and had a very large head. I’d never seen anything like it before. I discovered later it was a bath brush. I didn’t think people still took baths. If it was no longer used for its original purpose, it certainly was able to double up as an effective spanking tool, as I was about to find out.

Mr Mallard picked up the brush and sat in the middle of a huge old, worn leather couch. Until that moment I had never really looked at the man. He was easily over six feet tall and square at the shoulder. In fact, his entire torso was shaped like an oblong. He had defined muscles in his arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. I supposed his body was the result of working most of his life out of doors.

I stood nervously in front of him. I think I knew what was going to happen next. I could have run from the room but something that I can’t explain made me stay. I was mesmerized by the huge man sitting before me holding that enormous brush.

“Let’s get on with this shall we.” It sounded like a question, but I doubt it was meant that way. I shuffled a little as my landlord reached forward and with one hand on each of my hips he gently pulled my sweats and underpants to my knees. My cock hung limply between my legs.

Mr Mallard took no notice of my privates, he simply took hold of my right arm and guided me across his lap. I allowed him to rearrange my body so that I lay across his knees. The couch was so large and I was so small that my body was stretched across it. I folded my arms and rested my chin on them.

Mr Mallard pulled my tee-shirt half way up my back and the gripped me tightly around the waist. I was startled by the pain as the first smack connected with the middle of my left buttock. It was swiftly followed by another on the right. My mouth opened and closed with each successive whack. I was gasping a little, but the pain was not yet unbearable.

I don’t suppose you’ve ever been spanked, but there is nothing to compare with this kind of arse pain. You might accidentally hurt your hand or break a finger, but you cannot “accidentally” get spanked on your bare arse. It needs somebody to deliberately intend to cause you pain. And, that’s precisely what Mr Mallard was doing.

We must have looked an odd sight. Me, twenty-two years old, laid out across an older man’s lap. My trousers and pants at my knees and my bare bum bouncing up and down as a heavy brush crashed into my naked flesh. I sucked on my arm to stop me crying out as the pain intensified. I didn’t yet know it but the whole of my buttocks from the top near the spine, over the mounds and into the under curves were bright red. Soon purple bruises would form that would stay with me for many days to come.

The heat of the bare-bottomed spanking was getting to me. I crossed and uncrossed my legs hoping that this might ease the ache. It didn’t of course. Soon I was wriggling to left and right across Mr Mallard’s knees. It was as if I was trying to swim off his lap. This just seemed to encourage him in his task of taking my arse off. The smacks rained down faster and harder.

This knocked what little breath I still had in my body clean away. I was gasping for air. I realised then that I had been sobbing for some time. Tears were cascading down my face and snot dribbled from my nose. I clamped my top lip over the lower one to stifle the yelps my brain wanted me to make.

I don’t know how long he spanked me for. It seemed to have gone on for hours. My bottom was toast. I hadn’t yet had a chance to clasp my hands across my bum, but I knew it would be radiating enough heat to warm a small room.

Suddenly, it stopped. I felt Mr Mallard place the brush on my back. Please, I thought, let it be over. It wasn’t. Mr Mallard gently caressed each cheek in turn. It felt rather good. Then he smacked me hard with the palm of his hand. I wasn’t counting but I reckon fifty or so hard slaps smacked into me, mostly at the point where the buttocks meet the thighs. It hurt almost as much as the whacks with the brush.

Then, he really did stop. He still held me tightly face down on the couch. I could hear him wheezing. The spanking had taken a lot out of him. I realised my mind was remarkably clear. Is it something to do with endorphins or adrenaline? I should look it up on Google. The pain of the spanking had cleared my thoughts. Even as I lay there waiting for Mr Mallard to release me I knew what I had to do.

I had to get a grip on my life. I should stop feeling sorry for myself. I should stop antagonising people. I should take control. I should find a girlfriend. I wondered if the girl in the newsagents had a boyfriend.

I haven’t spoken to Mr Mallard since. I didn’t know how to thank him. What do you say? He has helped me change my life. I owe him a great deal. I won’t behave like this again. But, if I do fall off the wagon, I can be certain that Mr Mallard will take me across his knee once more and beat the living daylights out of me. And for that I will be forever grateful.


Other stories you might like

Foreign language student

The rooming house

Paul and his landlord



More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

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