The exam results are out

Michael slumped on the couch, legs dangling over the arm. He shifted from one buttock to the other. He couldn’t get comfortable. His thumb pressed the television remote. Three hundred channels and none worth watching. It didn’t matter, he couldn’t concentrate. He pulled his phone from his pocket. Checked the time. Dad would be home soon. Michael had ten minutes maximum. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table and hauled himself to his feet.

It was a small room, but he paced it anyway. Four steps this way, then four back. He stood by the window, hidden from the view of the street by net curtains. Carefully, fearful the neighbours would see, he twitched the nylons. Now he could see the front gate. Damn. A small red hatchback pulled up. Seconds later the driver’s door swung open. A large man lumbered out. He stood and stretched his arms before looking to right and left. Certain that no vehicles were coming he slammed the door shut and locked it.

Michael stood and stared, heart thumping. He had been waiting all day. Since eight that morning when the school examination results had been released.

He let go of the curtains and paced the room once more. He stopped and drew in a deep breath. The front door opened and closed. “Michael! Where are you!” his father called. Michael’s throat dried. Before he could croak a reply his father was framed in the doorway. “Ah, here you are.”

Mr. Fairclough stood six-feet four. He was broad at the shoulders and trim at the waist. His face was lined and his hairline retreating. He stood peering at his son. Michael in contrast was small and as thin as a bird. His hair fell over his chocolate-brown eyes, his skin was clear except for a small rash of spots under his chin, the result of an attempt to shave away non-existent hairs.

“Two F’s and a D.” Mr. Fairclough spoke calmly. The silence in the room was intense. Neither father nor son needed to say more. They had said it all on the phone that morning. Both knew the importance of the statement. “Bone idle. Lazy. Feckless. Useless. Hopeless.” Mr. Fairclough sounded like he had swallowed a thesaurus.

“But Dad. It’s the new A-levels. We never had a chance to practice.” Michael’s attempt at an excuse was thrown back in his face. Dad listened to the radio news like everybody else. Yes, the Government had changed the rules and sixth-formers now had to rely only on one exam and no coursework, but that hadn’t stopped other kids getting top marks.

“Go fetch Eric.” It was a cool command. Dad didn’t need to raise his voice, he knew his son would obey.

“Ohhh Dad,” Michael groaned, but he left the room nonetheless. Matters had to take their course. Shortly he was at the cupboard under the stairs. He knew where to find Eric. It would be exactly where he had left it after the last time. He leaned into the cupboard, mover the vacuum cleaner and two winter coats hanging on hooks. On a third hook hung Eric. Eric was the pet name they gave to a solid wooden paddle. Carefully, Michael unhitched it and weighed it in his hand. He had felt it many times before. In his hands and across his buttocks. It was about fourteen inches long and four wide and maybe a quarter inch thick. Many years ago, when his eldest brother was young, he supposed, someone had taken a permanent black marker and carefully imprinted the name Eric across the blade. Who? Why?

Michael straightened his back, pushed the door shut and stood silently. His pal Charlie had flunked his exams as well. Michael knew damned well he wouldn’t be showing his dad his backside for a beating.

“Hurry up,” his father called, “Let’s get this done before your mother gets home.”

Michael’s feet dragged across the vinyl flooring.

“Give it here,” his father reached out his right hand. Avoiding eye contact Michael handed Eric over. Mr. Fairclough gripped the paddle by its handle and swiped it through the air, testing its properties as if he had never handled the wood before.

Satisfied that it would do the job, he observed his son standing before him.  It was high summer and even in the early evening the heat was intense. Michael wore a white t-shirt and cotton sport shorts. His feet were bare.

“You know what to do.”

Indeed, he did. Michael took a further pace into the room so that he was close to the far wall. Then, turning his back on his father, he put the both thumbs into the elasticated waistband of his shorts. In one continuous movement he had both shorts and underpants at his knees. He spread his legs wider and they slithered to his feet.

He sucked in a lungful of air and unbidden he bent at the waist. Keeping his knees straight, he gripped his shins. His bared buttocks jutted at a perfect angle to receive his father’s attention. Bent over like this, he was uncomfortably conscious of his bum. It seemed like a huge target, completely vulnerable to the big wooden paddle. At first he stared at his feet and the label in his football shorts. Twenty-eight inch waist. He heard a rustle behind him. He knew from experience it was Dad finding his own feet, taking up position an arm’s length from Michael’s left buttock.

The eighteen year old closed his eyes and shut his teeth as he felt the cool wood touch his bare bum. He breathed deeply. Any moment now.

Mr. Fairclough was in no hurry. There were still ten minutes before his wife was due home from work. Plenty of time. Michael’s creamy white hairless bum contrasted starkly with the rest of the boy’s nut-brown skin. He had been spending a little too much time in the sun. More’s the pity he hadn’t been in the library, his dad thought.

He sawed the blade across the centre of the two buttocks. They were small and pert. Mr. Fairclough pressed the wood into the flesh, there was no “give”. The boy had no spare fat. The term “buns of steel” could have been invented for him. Mr. Fairclough allowed himself a wry smile as the proffered buttocks twitched in anticipation of the hurt to come.

Then, he drew his arm back, twisted his body slightly and brought the paddle down with maximum force. A dark pink rectangle burnt into the white flesh. Michael’s body rocked forward and back but the teenager kept his balance. He scrunched his face, at first he felt only the force of the blow. Then the ache began to seep across his buttocks and throughout his body. He steadied himself. Ready for number two.

Mr. Fairclough sawed again. This time a little lower. Just under the cheek. The flesh that connected with the chair when Michael sat down. Wallop! Another red rectangle. Michael gasped, air expelling between his lips. He couldn’t help it. That was a scorcher. It had literally taken his breath away. The hurt was intense, it would be tender for a long time to come.

The third swat hit higher. Now the whole of Michael’s tight bum was dark pink, the outline of three paddle blades clearly visible.

Mr. Fairclough paused to admire his handiwork. From his vantage point his son’s bottom looked raw. He changed the paddle to his left hand and leaned forward and with his right palm he caressed his son’s buttocks in a circular motion.  Michael tensed. His father’s hand reignited the pain. Involuntarily, he wriggled his hips.

“Keep still,” his father barked, pushing his hand into his son’s shoulder blades and forcing him back into position.

The paddle rose and fell three time in quick succession rap-rap-rap landing on the same spot; the fleshiest part of the teenager’s rear end. Michael gripped his shins. That hurt. That hurt a lot. His head shook up and down, rather a like a horse when it neighs. His lips pursed, then his teeth bit unto the lower one.

“Ouch!” Michael couldn’t help it. Dad had deliberately landed a swipe across the back of his thighs. The boy rose on his toes then stamped his feet up and down like a solider on sentry duty.

“Back down,” his father growled. “you stand up again and we’ll start all over.”

Tears filled the boy’s eyes. Reluctantly, he resumed the position. Head low, bottom high, knees straight. From across the room the ringtone of his phone chimed. That would be Charlie, he thought, seeing if he wanted to go drinking to drown his exam failure sorrows. The paddle crashed once more across his raw, naked buttocks.

z used paddle bare touch toes domestic tropixxxstudios (1)

Picture credit Tropixx Studios

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Horny as hell

twosome metro Michael Mitchell

Jack’s arse throbbed madly. The hard metal seat on the subway train reignited the pain every time he moved. So he shifted from one buttock to the other; then back again. It felt rather pleasant.

Fifteen minutes earlier he had left Uncle Colin’s flat. Three dozen lashes with the two-tailed leather taws had battered his backside. His cock was still stiff, raging against the tightness of his underpants, craving to be set free. Demanding release.

Jack could still smell Uncle Colin’s kitchen. He lived in a small “housing association” flat on the seventeenth floor of a tower block. The lift always smelt of piss. The flat wasn’t much better. It wasn’t urine that stank the place out, it was old cooking fat. Uncle Colin made a packet of lard last a lifetime.

The kitchen was small. You could hardly swing a cat in there, but you could swipe a leather strap. It just about held a dilapidated gas cooker, a fridge that could never be silent, and a tiny Formica-topped table.

Uncle Colin was an older man, old enough to be Jack’s father. Perhaps here, I ought to explain that “Uncle” Colin wasn’t really Jack’s uncle; he was in no way related, by blood or otherwise. He was uncle in name only and then for only the few minutes they spent together in the flat, on most Sunday nights.

Jack wasn’t even certain the old man’s name was truly Colin. Uncle Colin was the name he used on boyzblazingbutts, the website where they had hooked up. Man seeks nephew for spanking sessions was the sum total of the personal ad. That and a vague location. It was a short journey on the underground from Jack’s bed-sitting room. What could be better?

Jack got off being spanked. He had just turned twenty and if there was one thing he knew without doubt it was that spanking was better than any drug he had ever taken. Ecstasy for jack wasn’t a small pill and a bottle of designer water, it was offering up his arse – preferably bare – to an older, dominant man.

The train rattled into a station, the platform was heaving with people, his carriage quickly filled. He let his eye wander, searching for the perfect cock. He was as horny as hell. He always was after Uncle Colin. In his mind’s eye he saw the old man, dressed as usual in cavalry twill trousers and a beige cardigan. He always wore a white cotton shirt (although it was clearly fraying at the collar) and a navy blue tie, tightly knotted. Jack had no idea if this was Uncle Colin dressed in his “Sunday best”. He had never seen him at any other time of the week.

Jack knocked on the front door and waited respectfully for Uncle to answer. He was getting on in years, but he was still an energetic man; he stood no more than five-eight, but his back was straight and despite the obvious paunch straining beneath the buttons of his cardigan, he cut an imposing figure.

“Go wait in the kitchen,” it was a firm instruction. Uncle was always in charge. Jack had no idea how the visit would pan out. Last time he had been whipped with a swishy rattan school cane. Two dozen bare. Bent across the back of the threadbare sofa in the sitting room. He still had faint marks.

Jack shuffled into the kitchen and waited contritely. Uncle Colin was taking his time. Jack heard him open a door to the bedroom, then creaking footsteps. Suddenly, the old man appeared in the doorway, hands hidden behind his back.

“Well, young Jack,” he intoned. “Misbehaving again.” It was a statement, not a question. “You naughty boy.” He let the word naughty roll around his mouth, stretching it out. Then, like a magician revealing a bunch of flowers, he brandished the leather taws.

Jack’s eyes widened. He had never seen such a thing before. It was about fourteen inches long and made of brown leather, worn down by use. Uncle Colin gripped the handle and let the business end dangle in mid-air. Then, once he was certain he had the young man’s full attention, he swished the two tails of leather through empty space. It was a terrific whoosh as it flew.

“So, Jack,” Uncle Colin stated grimly, “I hear you have been drinking alcohol to excess. Your mother tells me you were late up for work on Wednesday.”

Jack stood, head bowed, contrite, staring at the faded lino beneath his feet. It was all fiction. None of it was true. Uncle Colin wrote the script. Jack didn’t give a stuff, as long as he ended up with a raw bum.

“Sorry, Uncle,” he whispered, for want of any other response.

“Sorry,” the old man sneered. “You always say you’re sorry, naughty boy, but you never improve your behaviour.”

Jack held his hands behind his back and linked his fingers. He shuffled from one foot to another, still staring sheepishly at the floor. It was, he hoped, the perfect naughty boy pose.

“You leave me no choice,” Uncle Colin caressed the leather strap and then smacked it into the palm of his left hand. “I’m going to have to spank you.”

Oh good, Jack thought, he’s getting on with it. It wasn’t always the case, Uncle Colin would sometimes draw out the role play. Really, all Jack wanted was to get his trousers and pants down.

“Stand there,” Uncle Colin scowled, pointing to spot in front of the kitchen table with his taws. Heart pounding and not at all reluctantly. Jack took up position. “I want you to take down your shorts,” Uncle Colin spoke calmly. He ran his tongue across his lips as without warning they had dried.

He watched intently as the twenty-year-old hitched his thumbs into the waistband of his tight cotton sport shorts. Slowly, Jack lowered them over his crotch and buttocks until they snagged at his muscular thighs. He waited a moment before parting his legs a little to let them slither past his knees and shins to rest on his Nike shoes. Uncle Colin made some saliva in his mouth and washed his lips again.

Jack’s shorts were so short that he could only really wear briefs beneath them. They fitted snugly and revealed the young man’s penis was uncut. “Take them down,” Uncle Colin’s instruction came as a croak.

Slowly, Jack peeled the tight cotton down. His cock was hardening, but it was far from stiff. Uncle Colin had seen Jacks cock and arse before, but nonetheless he took time to admire the long penis. “Bend over.”

Jack lifted his t-shirt so his midriff was bare and leaned forward. It was a warm evening but the hard Formica felt cold against his bare skin. It was a tiny table and Jack had to wriggle around to find comfort. He much preferred going over the back of the sofa; his body fitted perfectly. Or, of course, his personal favourite, draped over Uncle Colin’s lap, face an inch or so above the ground, feet hovering in mid-air and his bare bum delightfully positioned.

The table was low and since he wanted to lay with his stomach and chest across its top he had to bend his knees a little. He folded his arms in front of himself and buried his face in them. He was now submissively in position, arse bared and waiting for Uncle’s administrations. He was at the old man’s mercy.

Jack couldn’t see Uncle Colin make his preparations. He tested the taws by holding it over his shoulder so that the tails tapped against the small of his back. Then I arced it up and forward, making sure it would not hit the ceiling when he tried to lash it down. It cleared with a couple of inches to spare.

Satisfied on his height, he then tested his distance, standing three feet, then two feet from the edge of the Jack’s bare arse. He intended that the taws should lash the naughty boy in the very centre of his two mounds. It look a little practice, but soon he had the aim correct.

He raised the leather strap across his shoulder and brought it crashing down into Jack’s firm globes. The crack! sounded like pistol fire in the small room. Jacks body absorbed the lash and he sucked on his bare arm making trickles of salvia drip from the corner of his mouth.

With the second lash the strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks and unfurled into the meaty backside. Jack’s body jerked. His throat tightened.

It only took three or four lashes of the two-tailed taws to cover the entire area of his now reddening buttocks. Sunset stripes adorned his mounds and already purplish bruises were forming.

Jack gasped as without mercy Uncle Jack snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of his buttocks. One after the other in quick succession. Rat-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Uncle Jack stopped and rested the leather on the very apex of the boy’s bare curves. The sound of the strap against naked flesh was intense, the walls of the flat were so thin he feared his neighbour might hear. What the hell, he thought, he couldn’t stop now. Not yet.

He curled the strap over his shoulder. Jack braced himself for a further onslaught of controlled and accurate lashes. Uncle Colin found his rhythm as the lashes embedded themselves harder and harder into bare flesh.

Jack chewed his arm and rivulets of saliva dripped from his mouth. Despite Uncle’s best efforts, Jack was taking his whipping stoically. Stepping back Uncle Colin snapped the leather down again as hard as he could.

After three dozen exemplary lashes, Uncle Colin was exhausted, his face almost as red as Jack’s arse. Sweat drenched the back of his shirt and his temples ached. “It’s over. You can get up now,” Uncle Colin intoned. Jack lay still gulping in air, he knew it wasn’t yet the time to rise. Uncle Colin slowly exited the kitchen and when Jack heard the bathroom door open and close, he sprang to his feet rubbing his savaged arse furiously. His aching cock pointed at the ceiling. His head was remarkably clear. Twisting his body, Jack admired his burning buttock cheeks. Once again, Uncle Colin had done a fine job. He pressed his fingers into his flesh. The agony had gone and soon, he knew from experience, the pain would turn into a throbbing that he could reignite in the coming hours by applying pressure to his bum. He reached down and with difficulty got his tight cotton briefs over his raging cock. Then, he pulled up his shorts. They were so tight he could not disguise his erection.

He moved to the front door. It was time to go. He and Uncle never spoke after a spanking. Jack assumed he was locked in the bathroom tossing himself off. That was OK with Jack. He craved to be spanked by older men but the thought of having sex with them made his stomach churn. Sorry, but that’s how God made him.

He walked a little gingerly to the lift and made his way to the subway station.

Now, he sat in a crowded carriage, his erection still obvious through the tight cotton sport shorts. Directly in front of him stood a large muscular man, in a cut down vest and tight sweat pants. He was so close Jack couldn’t avoid looking at him, even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t because the bulge in the front of the man’s trousers was inviting.

Jack clenched his fist and sucked on it; he couldn’t stop staring. The ache inside his briefs was intense. Emboldened by the adrenaline rush from the spanking, he spread his legs wide and his cock rose like an Exocet missile. The man’s eyes glazed, he leaned towards Jack and whispered, “You got someplace where we can go?”

Picture credit: Michael Mitchell

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Thank you, Uncle Walter

z used otk grandad 3

It started more than forty years ago in nineteen-seventy-four. I was nineteen and Uncle Walter was … well I don’t know how old, but old enough to be my uncle. Dad was a milkman and Mum worked part-time in a supermarket so there was never much money at home. I managed to get a couple of indifferent A-levels and a place on a business degree at a polytechnic.

This will astound modern-day students but in those days we were given grants to study and they didn’t have to be paid back. It was like being given money from Heaven. I didn’t do much work and spent my time drinking beer and chasing (and sometimes catching) girls. Of course, I flunked most of my exams; but such were the days, the polytechnic and the local education authority let me go back and start all over again.

So, I didn’t have much incentive to learn. Until Uncle Walter arrived on the scene. Dad was very weak-willed, but Uncle Walter was strong. He had an iron will and strength in his body, as I was to experience again and again over the next years. He lived about thirty miles from the poly. and arrived unannounced one afternoon at the house I shared with three other idle layabouts.

He knew everything. “Laziness,” he called it. “Bone idle.” “Indolent.” He tore me off a strip. I probably gaped open-mouthed as on and on he went, listing my faults. He paused for breath and then he did something that truly astonished me. He pulled a straight-backed dining room chair away from the table, set it down in the middle of the room and sat down. Then, and even as I write this so many years after the event, I can’t really believe this happened. Then he gripped me by the arm and pulled me towards him. I was dumbfounded and astounded. It happened so quickly. One moment I was standing facing him, wondering what in hell he was doing; the next he had gripped my belt and unbuckled it. He popped the stud at the waistband of my jeans and pulled the zipper. The denims fell to my knees.

Still I had not moved. He tugged my underpants down and the next I knew I was face down over his knees and he was hammering the rough palm of his hand into my silky white buttocks. They were neither silky nor white for long.  I didn’t know what a spanking was supposed to feel like but pretty soon he had warmed up my bum. By the time he was done, it could have glowed in the dark.

I wriggled and I squirmed but Uncle Walter held me firmly at my waist. I had to grab hold of uncle’s leg to stop from toppling to the floor. Wham, bam, splat! He spanked on and on. He was a man with a mission.

At last he let me go. I sprang to my feet and pulled my jeans and pants up. My face was as red as my bum. I was mortified, that someone could just throw me across their knee and spank the living daylights out of me. The humiliation was intense. But it wasn’t to end there.

Uncle Walter had come prepared with a plan. Once I had calmed down, he pulled a document from his jacket pocket. A contract, he called it. It was typed. It looked pretty official to me. There were even spaces for his and my signatures.

It went like this. I had to promise to attend classes, work hard, spend a minimum twelve hours a week in the library and stay clear of the student union bar. I had to guarantee never to get less than B+ in an essay or assignment. If I achieved all of these things, Uncle Walter undertook not to spank me again. If I failed in any or all of the endeavours my arse would be on fire.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as each of us signed our names. Yeah, right.

I think it was less than a month before I got my next close-up view of the carpet while Uncle Walter battered my buttocks with a heavy wooden brush. Now, I knew the true meaning of pain. Not a single square inch of my admittedly small buttocks was left untouched by that horrible brush. I felt like I’d accidentally sat in scalding bath water. You could have fried an egg on my bum by the time he had finished. I wailed the house down. Thank God it was the evening and my housemates were at the bar. I would have died if they ever found out I was being spanked on my bare bottom by my uncle.

“You’ll thank me for this one day,” he said as I stood hands on knees sobbing my guts up.

Uncle Walter made a habit of visiting me once a week to check on things. Sometimes, my bum went unscathed. My grades improved and I began to discover I actually liked studying. But, I also liked the pubs, my mates and the girls. So, occasionally I found myself over the back of the armchair or sprawled across the dining room table while Uncle Walter walloped a belt or – oh my God how much it hurt! –  a whippy school cane into my bared buttocks.

Just last week I took early retirement from the large metropolitan borough council where I was finance director. After I graduated with a first class honours in business, I made a career in local government. It was well paid – well, in management it was, I’m not talking bin collecting here – and I have a house, a flash car and a place in the country. My pension is brilliant and I can look forward to a very wealthy retirement.

None of this would have been possible without my degree. If I had failed the second time I would have left the polytechnic and probably ended up flipping burgers. A life of drudgery and poverty would have followed. Uncle Walter passed on more than fifteen years ago, so I never had the chance to say, “Thank you.” Thank you for caring, thank you for realising that I had the potential for greatness. Thank you for having the courage to do something about it. And, yes, thank you for giving me the spankings I so richly deserved to guide me on my way.

But, I intend to do more than simply say “Thank you” to a man who is now dead. Later this evening I shall be visited by Kenny. Kenny is a student at the local university. His grades are failing and he is a ship tossing on a stormy sea.

Already, I have placed my heavy wooden clothes brush on the dining room table.

 

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Why me?

z used sport shorts (40)

 

Why me? Why am I always the one coach picks on to paddle when something goes wrong? I’m the one who has to “assume the position,” palms on shins, legs straight, butt sticking out. It’s me who feels the full force of coach’s 14-inch paddle across the arse.

I don’t have much padding back there and his wood leaves heavy purple bruises; right in the centre of each cheek. Coach doesn’t hold back. It’s a full swing every time. Crack! Heavy beech against my poor cotton-covered rear.

That’s when he lets me keep the shorts up. We don’t wear cycling shorts underneath like all the professional players do. Some of us wear jocks, but otherwise we’re left swinging in the breeze. Even with a jockstrap, the rear end is exposed. Five – ten swats sometimes – on the naked flesh. Can you imagine what that does to the bum of a poor boy like me?

Only today we lost two-one. Our defence was shocking. Their forwards went through it like a hot knife and butter. Who gets blamed? Me. I’m the number eight for pity’s sake; defence has got nothing to do with me.

“Chapman,” coach says as we all trudge back into the dressing room, “My office. Now.” I’m hardly through the door before he’s reaching for the paddle he has hanging from a hook on the wall. He holds it in his right hand and taps it menacingly into the palm of his left. It’s an awesome thing. I think it’s homemade, or at least not store-bought. I don’t know my oak from my willow tree, but someone said they thought it was made of beech. Is that likely? I really don’t know.

It’s maybe fourteen inches long at the blade and about three inches wide. Large holes have been drilled into it. Apparently, this decreases wind resistance and lets it swoosh through the air at speed before it lands on the tight shorts of the lad offering himself for discipline.

There is total silence from the changing room. The other lads have not gone to the showers. They are waiting to hear what is happening. Some will have placed bets on whether I holler.

“You know the drill,” coach says, without telling me what it is I’ve supposed to have done this time.

“But …” I begin to protest but bite my tongue just in time. There’s no point. Coach is the coach. He’s in charge. He’s the boss man. He. Is. The. Law. He can throw anyone off the team. For any reason. He owns me. I have a soccer scholarship to the university. If I lose my place in the squad, I lose my place here. Then I’m on the unemployment line with a few million other kids. I can say “goodbye” to any future right there.

“Assume the position,” coach growls. He is a small, squat man, almost as wide as he is tall. It’s hard to believe he was one of the top left-halves of his generation until a double leg fracture put paid to his playing career. That was in the old days before everyone was paid squillions of bucks a week just to warm the bench.

He waves the paddle in front of my face to emphasise he is ready to roll. The office is small, there’s only a table with a laminated top pushed against the wall and two rickety straight-backed wooden chairs. Sometimes he makes me spread-eagle myself across the table or bend over the back of a chair. Once – and thank the Lord it was only the once – he sat down in the chair himself and spread his legs and made me bend over his knee. He ripped down my shorts and spanked me with the palm of his hand on my bare bum. For about an hour. Or, so it seemed. It’s bad enough having to submit myself to coach for a whacking, but across his knee for a bare-arsed spanking …

This time I have to “assume the position.” That means hands on shins, legs straight, back arched and backside sticking out. I feel the blood rush to my face the moment I stare down at the dirty grey chipped floor tiles. I have the complexion of a beetroot. Pretty soon, I know, my arse will be the same colour.

From the corner of my eye I can see coach take the few steps he needs to be directly to my left. I can smell sour sweat on his clothes. He is breathing heavily. So am I. This is going to sting like hell. My buttocks clench. They always do at this point, I don’t seem to have any control over them. Does the paddle hurt any less if the buttocks are hard? I really have no idea.

I hear coach hack a dry cough, the paddle is pressed against the very centre of both my cheeks. He is taking aim. I shut my eyes tight and suck my bottom lip with my top. Whack! The wood hammers into my bum. I am shoved forward by the force, but steady myself. The pain is searing, but I am not going to stand up. I don’t want to give coach the satisfaction of knowing he has hurt me. Besides, I don’t want extra swats.

The tariff from coach is always five whacks or ten. He never tells you at the start what you are getting. I dig my fingers hard into my shin bones and wait for the second. It lands lower than the first. Coach is aiming for the tender “sit spot” just where the buttocks and the thighs meet. It hurts like hell. He needs to be accurate and I must make sure not to move; my shorts are so tiny they hardly cover my cheeks, he could end up paddling me on the bare flesh.

The third whack goes higher. I now have a wide line of soreness running from the top of my mounds, over the crest and into the under-curve. I know when I inspect the damage later no part of my bum will be untouched.

Sweat is pouring from my head. My hair couldn’t be wetter if I had stepped into the shower. The room is sweltering, there is no window and the electric fan has not been switched on. Coach does the coughing thing again. Then he settles. Whack. Whack. Two swats in rapid succession land on exactly the same spot. Torture. Total, unmitigating agony. I suck down the yell I desperately want to make. My body twists and turns as it tries to absorb the pain. I cling onto my shins, I will not stand up. I will not. I say this in my head as a kind of mantra. I am chanting to the god of spanked boys everywhere. Please help me to withstand this.

Sweat stings my eyes but I can still see coach waddle across the room and reach up to the wall. He is replacing the paddle. There is a god. Thank you.

“Stand up.” Coach croaks the words. He desperately needs a drink. I rise slowly. My arse feels like it’s on fire. I want to rub away at the hurt, but that will have to wait until I have privacy. I know the whole surface of my buttocks will feel rough like leather. The intense pain is already easing into a hot throbbing sensation. Once I let cold water from the shower run over my bum it will become a warm glow. My “sit-spot” radiates heat. It will be a bit uncomfortable to sit for some hours.

“Go.” Coach nods towards the door of his office. I don’t need telling twice, I am through it and on my way to the changing room. I know the lads will sneer and jeer at me. It’s what they call “banter.” One or two will insist on seeing the marks. Taylor will probably want to touch my bum and trace the outlines of the paddle marks with his fingers.

Soon I shall be showered and we will all be on the bus home. Later, some of us will go to the pub and get bladdered. By tomorrow the pain will have gone completely, but the marks will stay for a few days. By next matchday my bum will be free of bruises again. Then, I’ll probably find myself back in the coach’s office, bum held high. It is what it is, I suppose.

But, I wish someone would just answer my question: Why me?

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Rev. Harris does his duty

z used touch toes white pants

The Reverend Harris puffed his cheeks and wheezed. His bulky frame wasn’t suited to riding a bike but his parish was too stingy to buy him a car so he had no choice. He was nearly there now. The streets were empty as he struggled along the cobblestones.

Andrew Buckley sat uneasily on the edge of his bed. Waiting. His mother was at bingo and his sister at the youth club. Usually when he had the house to himself he would sneak out his postcards hidden away in a box at the back of the wardrobe and pleasure himself. But not this evening. Not with his visitor arriving at any minute.

Rev. Harris turned his bicycle into a street of run-down terraced houses. Number seventeen, his destination, was at the far end. Sweat soaked his brow as his huffed his way closer. Two women gossiping on a doorstep watched intently as he dismounted his bike. He allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, before leaning down and untying a long thin rattan cane from the crossbar.

He smiled a greeting to the housewives and tucked the curve-handled cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major might with a swagger stick. It was one of the Reverend’s heavier canes, taken from a collection he kept at the church youth club. It was a little over three feet in length and as thick as a pencil. It felt as light as a feather as he carried it to the front door, but he knew from years of experience it could pack a punch. In the right hands – and Rev. Harris possessed such – it could leave a young man scarred.

Andrew paced his bedroom unaware of the Rev’s imminent appearance. The eighteen-year-old glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked devilishly anxious. His usually bright blue eyes were hooded. His open, cheerful face was glum.

He had thought about running away and hiding. If the vicar found he was not at home he would have to return to the youth club. But it would do no good, Andrew knew. Rev. Harris would only return later and he would probably get it twice as hard.

He moved to the window, attracted by a scuffling noise from the street. His heart faded. Rev. Harris stood on the doorstep, cane under his arm, ready to knock on the door. Damn. Andrew saw his two neighbours staring intently. Soon the whole street would know. He hated to think what his pals would say.

Rat-a-tat-tat. It was an insistent knock. Rev. Harris did not like to be kept waiting. Andrew ran his tongue across his dry lips and padded down the stairs.

Rev. Harris brushed past Andrew and made for the parlour. “Follow me,” he called over his shoulder when he realised Andrew was rooted to the doormat. “You know why I am here.”

Indeed he did. His mother had asked the vicar to “do something” about Andrew. He was surly, curt, churlish. He had long ago stopped obeying his mother’s instructions. The vicar heard her pleas, dismayed. Rev. Harris had heard it all before. The war had left many of his parishioners widows and the poor women were driven to distraction by their teenaged sons. Rev. Harris was at hand to do his duty.

Andrew followed the portly man as instructed. He stood uneasily watching as Rev. Harris dropped the curve-handled cane onto the settee and laboriously unbuttoned his jacket and tugged it off his back. Then he let that drop beside the cane.

How Andrew hated this place. Soon he would leave school. If he could pass his exams he would escape this hovel of a house and the dingy small town. He could go to university, or if not, he would get a clerking job somewhere. In Manchester perhaps. Whatever became of him, it would be miles away from here; he promised himself.

Rev. Harris waddled across the room and picked up a heavy wooden chair, which he plonked down so that it rested against a wall with its straight back facing him. Andrew’s eyes followed him as he returned to the settee and retrieved the cane. No words were spoken. There was no need for them. Both Rev. Harris and Andrew knew how this must play out.

Rev. Harris flexed the cane between his hands. He always did this. It was part of the ritual of punishment. As was swishing the rod through the air. Andrew blanched. He couldn’t help it. At any moment that wicked cane would be slicing his backside to pieces. He stared at the worn carpet beneath his feet shamefully.

The vicar pointed at the chair. “Take down your trousers,” he intoned. “This time I shall not cane you on your bare butt-tocks,” he let the word swirl around his mouth, “But if ever I have to repeat this punishment, be assured it will be across your bare flesh.” He let the word “flesh” hang in the air.

Andrew had expected this. From the moment his mother had told him the vicar would call, he knew his bum would be toasted. But he couldn’t quite get his hands to move.

“Hurry along boy,” the vicar feigned impatience. He knew young men did not relish being caned. They would do anything to delay just discipline. But there was no way out. The power of the Church was immense in this town. The vicar was truly God’s representative on Earth. If he said, “Take down your trousers and pants and bend over,” that’s what you did.

At last Andrew’s fingers fumbled with his belt buckle. The button fly of his grey school trousers were open and they slithered down his thighs to his knees.

“Bend over.” It was softly spoken; hardly a command. There was no need for histrionics. Andrew sucked his bottom lip and moved forward. Not daring to look at the vicar, he leaned forward and gripped the wooden seat of the chair. He parted his feet and stuck his bum out, ready to receive the kiss of the cane. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

Rev. Harris was in no hurry. He had his own little ritual when caning. First, gently he tucked Andrew’s white school shirt up the teenager’s back. It was now clear of his target. Next, he gripped the waistband of the white Y-fronts and pulled so that the cotton fitted the contours of Andrews cheeks snugly.

He was almost ready. Now, he stood a little to the teenager’s left and slowly tap-tap-tapped the cane across the fleshiest part of the buttocks. He was getting his aim. Satisfied, Rev. Harris pulled the whippy rod back and with all the force he could muster he brought it crashing down so that it sank into Andrew’s tight flesh. He was rewarded by a long, low hiss from his victim. Andrew’s bum wriggled from side to side and then up and down as the pain seared through his body. He gripped the wooden seat as if his life depended upon it.

Rev. Harris rewarded himself a smirk. Then, slowly he paced across the room. It wasn’t a large room. It took three paces to get from one side to the other. Then, he turned on his heels and retraced his steps. Then he made another circuit. He liked to allow time for the agony of a stroke to register before delivering the next swipe.

He took up position and took aim once more. This time a little lower than before. Swish! Crack! It landed, perhaps a quarter-inch lower than the first. It felt like a hot iron had been pressed into the flesh. Andrew now had a red-raw strip running across both buttocks. He did the wriggling again and this time added some foot stomping. Rev. Harris went on his tour of the room.

Andrew settled himself, shut his teeth firmly and increased his grip on the chair. The third stroke cut into the underpart of the cheeks, just where they meet the thigh. Part of the cane stuck bare flesh. The two women in the street outside must have heard his anguished howl. He leapt bolt upright, danced from one foot to the other and rubbed the palms of his hands furiously into the soft cotton underpants. It did nothing to dull the torture.

Rev. Harris growled. “Bend down. If you stand again I will start the punishment from the beginning. Do you understand?”

Sorrowfully, Andrew returned to the chair and with great fortitude resumed the punishment position. Slowly, methodically, three more swipes ripped Andrew’s bum to shreds. Thick dark welts rose across his once pale flesh. Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, he would see blood had seeped and coloured part of his underpants pink. His heart raced and he felt his eardrums bursting. His temples throbbed almost as much as his raw bottom. His eyes were awash and tears trickled down the side of his nose. Drips of snot congregated on his top lip.

“Get dressed.” Rev. Harris dropped the cane on the dining room table and struggled back into his jacket. The back of his shirt was soaked in sweat. His own breathing was laboured. He had put his full energy into the thrashing. He congratulated himself on a job well down.

“Go upstairs, I shall see myself out.”

Andrew did not need telling twice. He shot from the room and took the stairs two at a time in his eagerness to escape the vicar.

Rev. Harris ambled to the kitchen, found a tea cup and filled it from a tap. Soon he would be ready for the exertion of a cycle ride back to the vicarage. As he made his way to his bicycle he saw the two housewives in animated conversation. As he tied the cane to the bike frame, one approached him.

“Rev. Harris,” she whispered hoarsely. “I wonder if I might trouble you. It’s about my Robert.” Rev. Harris straightened and smiled. He knew Robert of old. His cane would be put to more use before he returned to the youth club.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

A national sensation

z used otk white pants chair sting (22)

The newsmen licked the ends of their pencils and hovered them over notebooks. The fun was about to start. A sensation. It would be the talking point of the nation. It might even make the overseas’ news agencies.

Dr. Crumble, the headmaster of Snivelton Grammar sat forlornly in the chair reserved for the defendant. It was a hard wooden, straight-backed affair. He had one just like it in his study. Or, his former study. It would be hard for him to get used to that.

The small magistrates’ court was packed. Standing room only. Snivelton was a pin-prick on the map, it had never seen anything like this. Nothing ever happened there. The court only met twice a month and then there was only the occasional drink-drive case to hear.

Mr. Crinkle, the most notable solicitor in town, huddled with his junior. “We got them to agree to a reduced charge,” he huffed. “Just assault.”

The junior had returned from holidays late the night before. He had missed all the excitement. “What was he charged with?”

“Sexual assault.”

The junior’s eyebrows shot heavenwards. “Wor…?”

Crinkle sniffed, “He made the boy take down his trousers and then bend across his knee. He spanked him on his underwear. Who could imagine such a thing?”

The junior blushed. “Oh, I see.” He shuffled a sheaf of notes in his hand, a distant look in his eye. “And that would be sexual assault would it?” he whispered uneasily.

It was Crinkle’s turn for the eyebrows to go north. “The boy’s eighteen years old. A sixth-former. Just about to leave school and go to the university.”

The junior sighed. Sweat glistened on his brow. The room was becoming unbearably hot.

Crinkle filled the silence. “It could have been worse, I suppose.”

“How so?”

“Oh come lad.” He let a smile spread across his face. “At least he kept his Y-fronts on.”

A door opened and closed. They looked up but it wasn’t the magistrate so they carried on whispering.

“What happened exactly?”

Crinkle grimaced. “Stuff and nonsense really. Some old biddy saw the boy having a kiss behind the bike sheds and ratted on him to the headmaster.”

The junior’s brow knotted. Puzzled, he said, “With another boy?”

“God no. A girl.”

The junior twisted his notes in his hands. His heart was pounding. “Did she get a spanking too? Like, on the knickers?”

“No there’s the rub. The biddy recognised the boy, but not the girl. He refused to give the headmaster her name,” Crinkle sniffed and reached into his jacket pocket for a handkerchief, “Well, you know the rest.”

The junior shuffled his buttocks, suddenly finding his hard chair uncomfortable. “Why didn’t he just cane him?”

Crinkle snorted so loudly some people turned to see what was happening. “Per-lease!”

The junior felt his ears glow with embarrassment. “Oh, I see,” he stumbled over the words, because actually he didn’t.

Crinkle sighed. “C’mon, it was hardly likely to have been the first time he had done something like this.”

“Spanking sixth-formers on their underwear?”

“Whatever.”

“Didn’t the police inquire?”

“Dear God!” Crinkle exhaled. “You know this place. Crumble’s on every committee in the town. He’s the headmaster of the local grammar school. A big cheese.”

The junior wriggled.

“The boy is new to town. His parents aren’t impressed by that sort of thing. I guess in the past others just let it go. Here,” he handed the junior a folder, “read his statement while we wait for things to start.”

With quivering fingers, the junior found his reading spectacles and peered through them.

“I was summoned to the headmaster’s study,” he read, “He told me my hair was too long and needed cutting, which had nothing to do with anything. He said I had been reported for kissing a girl. I didn’t know it was against the rules. I haven’t been at the school for long but already I knew there were rules against everything. He asked me the name of the girl and when I refused his face went purple.

“‘You refuse to obey a direct order from your headmaster!’ he shouted. I was really scared. I knew now I was in deep trouble. Dr. Crumble has a reputation. I thought it would be a caning.

“He jawed me a bit and told me I was a disgrace to the school. I didn’t say anything. What was there to say? At last he rose from his chair and walked around his desk. I expected him to go to the hat stand where he had three curved-handled canes hanging. But he didn’t. He picked up a chair and put it down in the middle of the study.’’

‘“Take off your blazer. Put it on my desk,” he said. I was scared stiff. Something was going to happen, but I didn’t know what. I took off my jacket as instructed. Then he sat in the chair and with his index finger he beckoned me to stand beside him.

“I don’t remember what happened next too clearly. My heart was thumping so much and the blood was rushing to my ears. I thought I would faint on the spot.

“I stood beside him. Then he said, ‘Take down your trousers and bend over my knee.’ I was speechless. I do remember thinking, ‘He’s going to spank me. I’ve never ben spanked. Not even as a very little kid.’

“He got angry because I hadn’t obeyed him. He said something like, ‘If you don’t bend over my knee this instance. I shall suspend you from school. You won’t be able to do your exams and you can say goodbye to university.’”

“I think I was on some kind of autopilot. I remember my hands shaking as I undid my trousers and let them slip. I held on to them so they wouldn’t fall to my ankles. They were just below my bum cheeks.

‘“Bend over.’  He was really gruff. I felt so ridiculous. I must be three or four inches taller than Dr. Crumble. He had spread his legs but they looked thin and bony. How was I supposed to fit over them? ‘Bend over,’ he said again. I wasn’t sure how this was done. How you were supposed to present yourself for a spanking. So I put my hands on his legs and eased myself down.

“I felt totally humiliated. My face was staring at the carpet and my backside was high in the air waiting to be spanked. My head ached like crazy. I could feel my temples throbbing like mad. I felt the headmaster pull my shirt away from my bottom and then he gripped the waist of my underpants. ‘God no,’ I remember thinking, ‘He’s going to pull them down. He’s going to smack me on my bare bottom.’

“But he wasn’t. Instead, he pulled my pants tight so they fitted snugly across my buttocks. Then I felt the palm of his hand rub against my bottom. He went in circles all over both cheeks and across my thighs. Then he started to pinch my bum with the palm of his hand as if he was trying to work out how much fat there was.

“I was terrified. I shut my eyes tight. Then, Smack! He hit me in the middle of one cheek and then he did the same to the other. I started to wriggle and he held me tightly around the waist and slapped me hard and fast. I couldn’t get my breath. It didn’t hurt much at first but as he kept pounding the palm of his hand into my bum at a very rapid pace I hotted up.

“I know my legs were kicking out. I couldn’t help it I was totally out of control. He held me so tightly I couldn’t escape. All I could do was lay there struggling while he spanked me on and on. My temples throbbed so much I thought I was going to pass out. I don’t remember him saying anything while he spanked me. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself pleading for him to stop. To let me go.

“He did stop and I thought it was all over. But no. I felt him grip my pants and he pulled them so tight that I just knew my buttock cheeks were exposed. Bare. Then he smacked my even harder and even quicker on the naked flesh. I think I was shouting and kicking by now. I can’t remember. I do remember the pain was intense. It was like I had sat in a bath of hot water.

“At last. After I don’t know how long. Maybe five minutes. He let me go. I staggered to my feet. I was like a drunk man. I couldn’t keep steady. My head was light. It was as if I wasn’t really there. This wasn’t really happening. I didn’t wait. I pulled up my trousers, grabbed my blazer and ran from the room.”

The junior was so engrossed in the statement he failed to hear the magistrate arrive. Mr. Crinkle nudged him hard and he stumbled to his feet, hoping the raging erection beneath his trousers would not be noticed by his boss.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Wait til your father gets home

z used pyjamas otk (4e)

Danny pulls up his pyjama bottoms and sits on the edge of his bed. Waiting. He doesn’t realise he is chewing his fingernails to the quick. “Go to your room, put your pyjamas on and wait til your father gets home,” his mother had told him, so that’s what he is doing.

Any minute now dad will walk through the door, hairbrush in hand. It won’t be the first time, it won’t be the last. Eighteen years old and still being spanked by his dad. Danny stands, crosses the small bedroom and closes the window. He doesn’t want the neighbours to hear. If his pal Kenneth next door ever found out, Danny would be a laughing stock.

He paces the room. Three steps one way and then he reaches the wall, turns round. Then six paces to the other wall. Why does dad do this to him, he wonders. Danny is an adult. He’s been working for two years. He’s too old to be spanked. He knows the answer. Dad’s house; dad’s rules. His way or the highway. Danny’s big mouth got him into trouble. Sassing his mother. Again. This time she has had enough of it. So, “Go to your room. Wait til your father gets home.”

The door bursts open. Dad stands in the threshold, brandishing mum’s hairbrush. There is no polite knocking at the door. This is his house, he’ll go where he pleases. Dad snarls. Mum has told him all about it. Danny steps back. His dad is huge, easily six-four. He towers over Danny. Poor lad s hardly five-six. He takes after his mother’s side of the family.

Danny opens and closes his mouth, wanting to plead mitigation. But, he has no excuses. He is guilty as charged. Rude. Offensive. Insolent. Dad bares his teeth. His face a picture of fury. His dark bushy eyebrows and thick moustache give him more than a hint of menace. Dad doesn’t say much. What is there to say? He waves the brush in Danny’s face, the teenager retreats. Fearful. He has his back to the wall . There is no escape.

“That chair. Here.” Dad nods towards a worn wooden chair. Danny knows what he is expected to do. He carries the heavy chair and plonks it down so that its back rests against the wall. There is just enough space in the room for dad to do his duty. Dad sits on the chair and peers at his son. The boy can’t meet his father’s gaze. He studies his bare feet, noticing his toenails need cutting.

Dad clutches the hairbrush tightly. Its large head is heavy, almost circular. It is as if it was made for spanking. Dad is nearly ready. It might be 2017 but dad lives by traditional values. It is the duty of fathers to guide their sons through the choppy seas of life to adulthood. Too many parents these days fail their children. They let them run wild. Give them no boundaries. And, look how they turn out. Not, Danny. Mr. Knight will not allow that.

“Bend over,” he slaps his thighs for emphasis. Danny looks from the ground and stares wide-eyed. His father is huge and he is small. The old man’s legs are as thick as tree trunks. He has parted them wide to give his son the perfect platform for submission. The muscles in dad’s arms are huge, they ripple as he holds the brush.

All saliva drains from Danny’s mouth. The room is hot now the window is closed. His knees tremble a little. Dad slaps his thigh once more. Impatiently. Danny draws in breath. It won’t do to keep dad waiting. He step forward and hurls himself across dad’s legs, like a diver going into an icy pool. His arms hardly stretch beyond dad’s left knee, his legs dangle in the air behind him. His bottom rests in the gap between dad’s knees.

Danny stares ahead of him, his shock of blond hair failing into his eyes. He concentrates on the poster of Manchester United that is stuck to his wall. He closes his eyes. Then opens them again. Then closes them. Contemplating the agony to come. He feels dad grip the elasticated waistband of his pyjama bottoms. He knows dad always does this this but still a shockwave travels his body. This is too humiliating, he thinks. But, the baring of the bottom is one of dad’s rituals. “There,” he seems to be saying, “Don’t you feel ashamed of yourself? Having your bare bottom spanked.”

Dad pulls the pyjamas down just enough that two buttocks are exposed. He is nearly ready, but not quite. Gently, he takes the end of Danny’s pyjama jacket and pushes it half way up the eighteen-year-old’s back. He is presented with an area of hairless flesh. Danny’s cheeks are round and fleshy, but firm. They were made to be spanked. They clench and unclench. They always do. Dad grips his son across the back with his left arm. Danny turns his head, trying to look over his shoulder at his dad, but the old man has him locked tightly.

Smack! The brush hammers into the centre of Danny’s left cheek. Then another strikes the right. Dad admires his handiwork. Two deep-pink circular marks are imprinted in his son’s bum. Danny’s fair skin reddens easily. Whack-whack-whack. The heavy hairbrush rises and falls. Danny’s legs kick. It is a reflex action, he can’t control himself. As more swipes rain down into his unprotected buttocks, Danny’s body weaves left and right. He holds on to his dad’s legs to stop himself tumbling to the floor.

Dad continues to snarl as he whacks the brush on and on. Deliberately he smacks Danny across the back of the bare thighs. Hard. That gets his son howling. Good! dad thinks; a spanking is supposed to hurt otherwise what’s the point? Danny is yelping with every whack that hammers into his bare bum, but he is not crying. He used to shed bucket loads when dad spanked him. Now, he has a higher level of self-control. It took a lot of practice. He will not let dad see him cry, not today, not ever.

Dad is strong, he can go on spanking all night long. Every square inch of Danny’s buttocks and thighs has been toasted. There is no virgin flesh for dad to attack. So he goes round the circuit again, slapping his brush into already tender flesh. The top of the buttocks, the crest of the mounds, the tender under-curves and the thighs; none of it is missed. Satisfied that he has whacked it all, dad goes round one more time.

Danny holds on to dad’s leg or dear life. He can’t breathe too well and his temples throb almost as much as his backside. Sweat is soaking his pyjama jacket. He can’t take much more of this.

Suddenly, the door opens. Mum is standing watching her husband tan the tail of her son. She thinks dad is doing a good job. That will teach the brat not to be sassy in future.

“Your programme is about to start,” she tells her husband. It is an ordinary conversation, you would not know Danny was lying face down across his dad’s knees having his bottom blistered.

“Alright, I’m coming,” dad says. He whacks the hairbrush at maximum force six more times across the very centres of both cheeks. Then he releases his grip on Danny, who stumbles from his dad’s knees and lies on the floor gasping for wind, like a beached dolphin. Dad steps over him and with his wife leaves the room.

Danny struggles to his knees and then is fully standing. He dives onto his bed, buries his face in the pillow and sobs his guts up.

 

Picture credit: Does anyone know this artist? I see his work all over the Internet, but have never discovered his name

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com