“Finlay! MacDonald!” Colonel MacIntosh leaned through the open window and bellowed at the two youngsters practising their golfing putts on the lawn. “Come to the sitting room at once!” His ruddy complexion betrayed his fury.
Finlay gripped his golf club tightly and exchanged a doleful glance with his cousin. They had been expecting a summons; they had just hoped it wouldn’t come so soon.
“At once!” I say. Col. MacIntosh glared at his son and nephew and clenched his fist, his rage increasing with every moment.
“Coming father!” Finlay let the club fall to the immaculately-cut grass and without waiting for MacDonald he hurried towards the house. History had taught him never to keep the colonel waiting. He paused on the top stone step in front of the entrance and looked over his shoulder.
“C’mon Mac,” he whispered, “Let’s get this over with.”
MacDonald’s freckled face darkened. That blasted vicar, he left the words unspoken. Why couldn’t he mind his own business?
It wasn’t the vicar’s fault. The two eighteen year olds had nobody to blame but themselves. The Three Fishers Hotel was a notorious den of iniquity. The whole community knew that. That was why it was so popular with under-aged drinkers and good-time Charlies. Ladies (and some gentlemen too) of easy virtue were known to frequent its back bar.
Refreshed by a couple of lunchtime pints of beer, Finlay and MacDonald left the hostelry to return to MacIntosh Lodge, the family retreat. Only to, almost quite literally, bump into Rev. Macwhirter on his bicycle. They had been caught in the act. There was no mitigation to give. So, they legged it.
It was a small community, everyone knew each other’s business. They could be no escaping the consequences of the illicit pub visit. Nor, was there to be.
Col. MacIntosh paced the large drawing room. “Just wait until those scallywags get here,” he said aloud, although he was quite alone in the room. He bit deep into his bottom lip, a habit he had when angry.
Outside in the passageway, Finlay and MacDonald were faced with a closed door. What to do? Should they simply turn the handle, open the door and enter? This was their home, after all.
“Wait,” MacDonald commanded brusquely. The teenager was a frequent visitor to his headmaster’s study; he knew there was a certain etiquette with these things. “We should knock first.”
Finlay’s look of incredulity went unheeded. MacDonald balled his right hand into a fist and rapped it against the wood panelling. The silence was intense. Had his uncle not heard? He thought he had knocked pretty hard. He was debating with himself whether to knock again, when an imperious command resonated from within the room, “Enter!”
Suddenly aware that his hand was shaking, MacDonald turned the handle and pushed open the heavy door.
Col. MacIntosh was an imperious figure dressed for summer in a crumpled linen suit. He was a veteran of two Indian campaigns and his glare could fell a tiger at twenty paces. He stood straight as a ram-rod and gripped his hands behind his back.
“Stand there,” he nodded to a space close to an open window. It did not go unnoticed to the two miscreants that an armchair was conveniently placed nearby.
Finlay and MacDonald shuffled into place; eyes downcast. MacDonald could not persuade his hands to stop quivering. He gripped the legs of his trousers in a vain hope that would help. Finlay stood passively, sweat drenched his short ginger hair, it felt like someone had emptied a sponge full of water over his head. Freckles hid his beetroot face. His green eyes shone.
Col. MacIntosh was used to command. He was used to obedience and he never expected to explain himself. He spoke in short, sharp incomplete sentences. “Drinking. Three Fishers. Den of iniquity. Vicar. Warned before. Will not be tolerated.” The colonel shook his head furiously as he spat out the words.
This was not a court of law. Not even a court martial. The colonel had no wish to hear a defence. He proceeded straight to sentence.
“Finlay stand behind the chair. MacDonald face the wall.”
The colonel strode across the room towards a large wooden sideboard. Finlay stared intently; his heart pounding. Saliva drained from his mouth as he watched his uncle bend his knees so he could reach to a bottom drawer. He pulled it open and delved inside. Seconds later he was standing straight once more.
Finlay had no need to wait for his father to turn around to reveal what he had taken from the drawer. He knew well enough. It was a long thick leather strap, cut into three fingers at one end. It was a little over two-feet long and the business end was easily eighteen inches. He ran his dry tongue over cracked lips as his father tested the weight of the taws in his hand. This manoeuvre served little purpose, since the colonel was well aware of the capacities of the strap. He had had cause to use it often enough.
Col. MacIntosh sniffed the air, as if a sudden new pungent odour had entered the room. His eyes narrowed when he barked, “Trousers down. Underwear too!”
The command was not unexpected. His father always tanned on the bare, but Finlay could not stop his body reacting violently. Blood coursed through his body so that his ears hurt and his temples throbbed. His heartrate was off any scale a doctor might find acceptable. His eyes welled.
His belt was wide and heavy and at times like this difficult to loosen. Col. MacIntosh pah’d and bah’d as he waited impatiently for his son to obey his command. At last the trousers were open and the weight of the leather belt took the grey flannels to Finlay’s knee. He unbuttoned his woollen drawers and helped them down to meet his bags.
He stood naked from the waist down, conscious of a slight breeze from the open window cooling his cock and balls. The colonel swished the leather taws through the air; taking its measure. Finlay drew in breath; he wished the old man would just get on with it.
At last, the words he waited for were spoken, “Bend yourself over the chair.”
Finlay shuffled two or three steps to the chair. He paused and then in one athletic movement he dived over the back of the chair, his trousers and underwear slithered to his feet when he spread his legs. The eighteen-year-old gripped the seat. It was an ugly armchair. Finlay had always though so and he had seen it like this at close quarters many times. It was covered in the same material as the curtains. He doubted it had ever been cleaned. The material was worn and greying where so many pairs of buttocks had rested.
He felt his father take hold of his white cotton shirt and tug it forcefully up his back, ensuring that he was now naked from his shoulders to his ankles. The colonel stood back to admire his charge. Finlay was a short lad, no more than five-feet-seven. His build was athletic, he ran cross country for the school and was a keen golfer. Parts of his body were ruddy from the fierce Scottish winds that blew, even in summer.
“Legs further apart.”
Finlay shuffled his compliance. His crack widened and his hole was clearly visible. The colonel’s brow furrowed. It should not look like that. But, the colonel was a man of the world, he knew well enough what went on in school dormitories and army barracks.
He rested the three fingers of leather across his son’s buttocks. They were firm, pert cheeks. The taws covered most of them. He drew his arm back, twisted his body and crashed the taws across Finlay’s backside. He was rewarded by three livid pink stripes and a hissing sound that sounded like a steam engine settling down.
The colonel was a keen golfer and he knew how to put maximum force into a swing. The leather struck home again; this time a little lower. Already, after only two swipes, the whole of Finlay’s bum was glowing red hot.
MacDonald watched, his own heart thumping against his chest. The tanning looked severe, but his cousin seemed to be taking it well. He doubted he could be so stoical under the colonel’s lash. It was a cute bum, MacDonald had often admired it, especially now, naked and stretched over the back of an armchair.
A third and a fourth cut flogged across Finlay’s buttocks, welts started to appear where one stroke landed on top of a previous one. The teenager wriggled and stamped his feet up and down. His flesh was scalded, it felt like someone had poured the contents of a teapot over his bum.
Col. MacIntosh paused in his efforts. The room was close and muggy and sweat built up under the armpits of his linen jacket. In one athletic movement he had it off his shoulders and resting on a table. Thus, loosened up he prepared to continue with his duty. Twelve lashes fell in total. No part of Finlay’s buttocks was left unpunished. Vivid red stripes criss-crossed his cheeks and one burned into the back of his thigh. That would teach him to keep still for his whipping.
The teenager’s eyes blazed. This had been some whopping. His father had swiped his leather strap across his cheeks with so much force it was like he was beating a carpet. The wind had been knocked out of Finlay, he gasped air into his lungs and hacked a dry cough.
MacDonald stood transfixed. Finlay’s beautiful bum had been savaged by the beating. From where he was it seemed to glow like a lantern. He watched his cousin slowly rise from the chair. As Finlay bent to retrieve his drawers, his crack and hole widened. In seconds he was fully dressed and shuffling across the room to stand beside his pal.
“Your turn MacDonald,” Col. MacIntosh swished the leather through the air, pointing it in the general direction of the chair.
“B…” the teenager started to protest, but stopped himself short. There was nothing he could say. He must submit himself for punishment. He clenched his eyes shut tightly. This would be too mortifying. He was aware of Finlay behind him, still hopping from one foot to the other as the agony in his buttocks turned to a constant throbbing.
This was too humiliating. What would Col. MacIntosh think? Jesus what would Finlay think?
“Quickly, boy,” Col. MacIntosh’s glare stunned the teenager. He stepped forward uneasily and stood behind the garish armchair. Col. MacIntosh huffed his displeasure at being kept waiting. Scarlet of face, MacDonald unfastened his trousers.
At first Finlay gasped, then he cackled laughter. His cousin’s cock stood at fall salute. A deep-blue vein ran along the shaft from the balls to the tip and cum dribbled onto his underwear.
Picture credit: J. C. Leyendecker
Other stories you might like
More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Charles Hamilton the Second