Mr. Bashford takes charge

 

“I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled as he sat back in his chair to admire his handiwork.  Robert stood before him, jeans and underpants at his shins, gently patting his glowing buttocks.

“Just you stand like that, until I say you may go. Think about your behaviour,” he watched carefully as the nineteen-year-old pouted his disapproval. The teenager’s eyes glistened. There was no cause for tears, Mr. Bashford reckoned. He had delivered a sound spanking, but it had been no beating. That might come in the future if the brat dared to do it again.

Mr. Bashford gripped his wife’s large oval ebony hairbrush tightly. He felt its weight in his right hand as he smacked the business end down into his left. There was a reason that a hairbrush had a flat end, he thought with some satisfaction. It didn’t look much, but it was a mighty effective spanking tool. Generations of naughty boys (and some girls too) could testify to that.

People might think it odd that a nineteen-year-old needed to have his bare bottom spanked, but young people must be taught that there are boundaries. Mr Bashford studied Robert carefully. He was probably an inch or so taller than himself, but his body was much slighter: thin and wiry.  He would soon be a fully-grown man: an adult. But he was not yet mature; he was still a boy and sometimes, like on this day, he needed to be reminded of the fact.

Robert’s eyes widened with genuine surprise when he saw Mr. Bashford rummage in his jacket pocket and withdraw the large ebony-backed hairbrush. Without saying a word he placed it on the table to allow him to remove his jacket before laying it carefully next to it.

Then, he undid and removed his tie and started to roll up his shirt sleeves. He had very large arms and hands: as befitting a man who played rugby for his county when he was younger. His face was covered with a brown beard and the rest of his body was covered in thick hair and he still looked very fit.

Instantly, Robert was panicked and nervous, fully realizing what he intended to do, and what was about to happen. It looked very much like he was to be spanked with the hairbrush. He had never been spanked before.  He watched horrified as the old man pulled a wooden chair from the corner of the room, picked up the hairbrush and sat down.

Robert stood several feet away unsure what he was expected to do. Mr. Bashford knew his role in this little drama. The spanking had to be over the knee, but would the boy consent to draping himself across his lap to receive the full force of the heavy wooden hairbrush?

And if he didn’t comply? Would there be an unseemly fight while Mr. Bashford forcibly heaved him over? Mr. Bashford  reached across to him, took hold of his right arm and upper back, and firmly pulled him forward (the boy’s feet scooting and scuffing along) before hauling him over, and depositing him stretched out, hanging across his knees with his face pushed into the rug.

Then, swiftly without warning, he set up a snapping, cracking rhythm of the hairbrush as he peppered Robert’s rear-end with a series of bites.

Mr Bashford was pleased the nineteen-year-old had not resisted, but, Robert could afford to be impassive, with the denim of his jeans combined with the cotton of his underpants he hardly felt a thing as the old man fell into a tempo that covered all of his buttocks.

But, Mr. Bashford had a plan and Robert soon found the old man’s fingers fumbling with the elasticated waistband of his jeans, before jerking them down over the teenager’s bony hips and small, flat, but thin and muscled bottom. In a panic Robert thrashed his legs about, but rather than preventing the lowering of his jeans, the movements encouraged them to drop to his bare feet at the floor, leaving only his tight white briefs covering his mounds.

Mr. Bashford held the boy firmly around the waist and rained his hairbrush down with maximum force, covering every square inch of the cheeks, the upper thighs, and the curved area where they meet. The relatively small area of shiny polished wood which was attacking his tender buttocks delivered a level of pain well beyond its assumed potential.

The boy’s body lay flopped across Mr. Bashford’s lap as he pounded away. If Robert had felt no pain before, now the agony in his backside was intense. He gave up and gave in completely, hanging and dangling over the knees, his squalling taking over as he gasped, choked and shook. The fiery blistering on his bottom driving him to still deeper despair.

Not satisfied that an over-the-knee spanking on tight white underpants was enough indignity for the boy, Mr Bashford grabbed the waistband of the briefs and sent them the same way as Robert’s jeans.

The action encouraged renewed vigour in the boy who shook his body from left to right in a fruitless attempt to break free. Robert’s right hand involuntarily left the floor to defend his blistered bottom, only to be seized firmly and pulled up behind his back.

Robert wrestled to escape the relentless torrent of increasing pain which was setting his buttocks ablaze. He fought to escape from the very firm grip of the left arm pressing into his back. He pleaded, begged, promised, apologised endlessly between his gulps and his gasping for breath. But to no avail. The punishment pursued its unswerving path and the pattern on the rug became an indistinguishable blur.

Mr Bashford hadn’t known he possessed such strength: not only was he able to pin the nineteen-year-old brat in place across his knees, face down, bared bottom high, he continued to batter his buttocks with the hairbrush.  He pounded away at the boy for almost another five minutes, while Robert struggled and pleaded but he continued in his duty.

Finally at long last he stopped the spanking and put the brush down on the table. The boy’s buttocks were scarlet. This certainly would teach him to behave in the future. The defeated teenager was breathing convulsively as the cool air of the room contrasted starkly with the hot, red, blistered flesh of his buttocks and thighs. The surface of his bottom felt like someone had poured boiling liquid onto it.

Slowly – ever so slowly – he got up; the change of the contours of his bum cheeks seemed to make the pain worse across his rear end.

“Stand there. I hope you’ve learnt your lesson young man,” Mr. Bashford growled, as red of face and crimson of bottom, Robert shuffled into position. “And, if I catch you stealing from my shop again, beware I have a very heavy whippy cane that I won’t hesitate to use on you.”

Robert gulped audibly and continued patting his sore bottom.

 

Picture credit: Endart

Other stories you might like

Alexander’s little secret

The guy in the library

Vigilantes

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com