Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

new story 2

z used slipper otk white pants bed straightladsspanked (4)

Jack lay face down, his nose only centimetres from the mattress. Uncle Albert’s bony knees pressed into his stomach and chest. Jack’s pulse sped, his face burned. He had been here many times before, but he could never get used to it. Over Uncle’s knee, trousers down, bottom high.

He could feel Uncle preparing himself. He gripped Jack’s blue shirt and yanked it up his back, away from the target area. Jack’s buttocks clenched: he couldn’t help it, it was a reflex action. Uncle Albert pressed his hand into Jack’s back, steadying the teenager.

Uncle Albert studied the top of his nephew’s head. His fashionably-cut black hair reeked of gel.

Uncle gripped his bedroom slipper in his right hand. “You know you deserve this,” he spoke gently. Jack stayed silent. He knew it was a rhetorical question. There was no argument. Uncle was in charge. His house, his rules. That was clear. That was accepted.

Sheepishly, Jack lifted his eyes. They were dark brown and already watery. He breathed deeply. How he wished Uncle Albert would just get on with it.

“We know why we are here,” Uncle Albert sighed, as if he was forced to carry the troubles of the whole world on his shoulders. He paused. It was Jack’s cue to speak, but the nineteen-year-old stayed tight-lipped.

“When I say curfew is eleven o’clock,” Uncle Albert sighed, “I do not mean half-past-twelve.”

Jack sucked in breath. Uncle was right. “Bah!” Uncle Albert grimaced and tapped his slipper against Jack’s right buttock cheek. The teenager’s white pants fitted snugly. He was an athletic lad, not fat and flabby like so many youngsters these days. His bottom was firm and meaty.

The room which had been on the cool side until then, suddenly seemed to warm. Jack’s temperature was rising. Sweat started to soak into his shirt.

Uncle Albert moved his nephew’s body a little. He was suddenly conscious that the opening of his own striped pyjamas was perilously close to Jack’s generously endowed manhood.

Uncle Albert was no novice in the spanking stakes. Years of administering chastisement had taught him that often “less means more”. He was not one of those uncles who take their errant nephews across the knee and then proceed to slap their bottoms a hundred times or more. Often, such “punishment” hurt his hand much more than junior’s backside.

No, a couple of minutes of hard whacks with the slipper would achieve the desired outcome. It would deliver red, raw buttocks with no pain experienced by himself.

Jack’s bottom quivered, his hole winked open and shut. His buttocks clenched, as if trying to harden like a rubber ball. All this was instinctive. Jack was not in control, it was his backside’s natural defence mechanism taking over.

During the first few times that he had been spanked, Jack couldn’t work out where he was supposed to put his head. It might have been easier if Uncle Albert sat on an armless chair. Then Jack could drape himself across the old man’s knees, head down, palms of the hands pressing firmly into the carpet. But, Uncle always sat on the bed, that meant Jack had to lay across his body, with his head and chest resting on the mattress and his legs sticking out behind him. That meant his legs sometimes just dangled over Uncle’s lap.

And, where did the head go exactly? Should he press his face into the mattress and take a mouthful of duvet cover? Or was it best to turn the head and rest the left cheek of his face in a pillow?

When Uncle gripped him around the waist, Jack knew the action was about to start. Involuntarily, his buttocks tensed, although his bum was pretty hard anyway.

Uncle had a rhythm when he spanked. The first whack would slam into the centre of Jack’s left cheek and then after a pause of maybe ten seconds, it slapped into the right one. Uncle would put six into each buttock and then take breath. A spanking should be a spanking, otherwise what was the point of it all? So, although Uncle believed his son must submit himself to his authority, he also wanted the spanking to hurt.

The first dozen whacks with the slipper warmed him up nicely. Then uncle turned up the pressure, increasing the speed and walloping home a couple of dozen without let-up – like machinegun fire.

His buttocks were sore and Jack knew from old that most of his bottom was already a deep pink colour. When Uncle was finished, it would be pillar-box red.

After another pause, Uncle Albert headed for the bare spot under the curves and was rewarded with an imprint of the sole of the slipper across Jack’s flesh. Jack chomped his teeth tight; that hurt. His legs kicked. Jack had been spanked many times in the past and had a high pain threshold, but the whacks on the undercurve and bare thigh had him squirming. He balled up his face, chewed his bottom lip and closed his eyes.

Uncle wasn’t keeping count, but he probably put a dozen or fourteen slaps across that most tender part of Jack’s body. “Ah!” Jack felt that!  After just two more weighty blows from the large slipper he could feel his bottom aflame with a smarting soreness that hurt and stung. With just two or three seconds between each smack, the spanking quickly developed into a slow steady rhythmic rising and falling of the slipper. Each time it contacted forcefully with his once pale creamy white bottom, he grimaced and shook his head in pain.

It was nearly over. Only one more part of the ritual still to come and it would be the most humiliating for Jack. Uncle rested the slipper on the small of his son’s back and with both hands free he rolled the teenager’s tight briefs over the mounds of his now-toasted buttocks until they snagged on his thighs. The bum was now completely bared. Uncle Albert allowed himself a moment of self-praise. Not one square centimetre of his nephew’s bottom had missed his attention. What a lovely rosy sheen! With renewed energy, he picked up the slipper, gripped it tightly, took a deep breath and hammered twelve almighty whacks into the naked buttocks.

Uncle’s large slipper thumped heavily down on Jack’s bottom time and time again. His bum was really very sore now. One whack hit him squarely in the middle of his left bum cheek. The next on the right. Uncle was no sadist, when he gave spankings he intended for Jack to get the message and mend his ways, but he didn’t want to brutalise him.

Those feet and legs waved about again; Jack did the scrunching thing with his face, but by the time Uncle had finished and said, “That’s it. Stand up,” Jack was silent.

The nineteen-year-old eased himself up and using Uncle Albert’s legs as support he got to his feet. He hopped from one foot to another, rather like footballers do when they try to “run off” an injury. Conscious that his dick and balls were bouncing up and down in front of his Uncle’s face, Jack reached down and slipped up his briefs.

His buttocks throbbed, but even now most of the pain was going. In moments, it would turn to a warm glow before disappearing altogether. He would be tender for a while; if Jack touched the lower half of his cheeks he would reignite some of the pain. Lying on his back in bed would be awkward for a while. His bum was red and bruises would quickly form. If past experience taught him anything, they would hang around for days turning from purple through shades of yellow until finally disappearing.

Uncle hauled himself from the bed, replaced the slipper on his foot and without a word exited from the room, his duty done.

 

Picture credit: Straight Lads Spanked

Other stories you might like

The drunken neighbour

First day at St CIGS

The TV repairman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

2 thoughts on “Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s