Five Bar Gate

new story 2

z used cane shorts armchair school london

 

Ralph stood at the bus stop bracing himself against the wind, his thumbs gingerly traced the contours of his buttocks through the folds of his grey short trousers. The pain had almost gone now but if would reignite when he pressed against the six raised welts that ran across his bum in the pattern of a five-bar gate.

The bus wouldn’t arrive for another fifteen minute. He had already missed an important appointment. This day would all end in tears.

He pulled his smart red school blazer tight across his chest, the wind was picking up. There was nothing he could do about his bare knees. Short trousers! In winter. He still could not got get over the absurdity of it. At his age.

Why had nobody made a serious complaint when the new headmaster decreed out of nowhere that all the boys would be put back into short trousers. All of them, from the first formers to the most senior boys. It would make the school distinctive, he had said. Ralph’s widowed mother had nodded sagely when he delivered the news. She was a timid woman and never liked to make a fuss. Oh how he despised her.

So, that was that. The whole school back in short trousers. The lads in the village thought it was a hoot. He had enough trouble with them because he had won a scholarship to the posh independent grammar school. His smart red blazer gave him away wherever he went. That was bad enough, but short trousers; they never let him hear the end of it.

He rubbed his bottom some more; it felt rather good. And that was another thing, Dr Anderson had bought back the cane. No one was quite sure if corporal punishment had officially been banned, but definitely it had fallen into disuse.

Ralph had no idea if the boys’ behaviour had worsened because there was no caning; or indeed if it had improved since the good doctor had commenced swishing backsides. Naturally, the story went round the school that Anderson enjoyed beating their buttocks. Certainly, he did it all he time. He flew into the school like some occupying force. At once pronouncements were made; rules were published; a list of ‘caning offences’ drawn up.

The doctor took no prisoners. Not even the sixth-formers as Ralph could testify. Smoking cigarettes. That was top of the list of caning offences. In the school’s eyes smoking was a bigger crime than murder or rape. Looking back Ralph could see he only had himself to blame; he should have known the doctor was deadly serious.

Now Ralph understood times had really changed. Caning. Sixth-formers. For smoking. Since time immemorial it had been accepted that sixth-formers went behind the pavilion by the playing fields for a quick drag at lunchtime. Always had done; always would. Not any longer. He, along with two pals, had been caught that lunchtime puffing on Woodbines, by Mr Tompkins, the most junior of the physical ed. masters. What a sod. He dobbed them in to the head of sixth-form and he passed their case up the line. Why! They’re sixth-formers for pity’s sake. Eighteen years old. Adults. In the world outside school it was legal to smoke at sixteen. Try telling that to Dr Anderson.

“You deliberately broke the rules,” he intoned as the three boys stood uneasily, hands behind backs, eyes downcast in the headmaster’s study. “You were fully aware of my edict against smoking cigarettes,” he steepled his fingers and leaned back in his padded chair. Dr Anderson was younger than he looked. His pate was almost entirely bald, save for tusks of snowy-white hair at the temples, his nose and chin were so pointed they almost met, his cold grey eyes could pierce armour.

Ralph listened solemnly. He had never been summoned the headmaster’s study before. It was a medium sized room, dominated unsurprisingly by a large oak desk. At one end of the room were two rather decrepit armchairs and a small occasional table. Three walls were lined with shelves and glass fronted bookcases. The fourth wall almost entirely comprised mullioned windows of dark glass. In one corner an umbrella stand was unadorned except for three crook-handled rattan canes that leaned limply.

Ralph had never seen a school punishment cane before. Sure, he had seen drawings of them in comics like the Beano and he had seen an old film on television where a headmaster administered six-of-the-best. The camera stayed on the boy’s face throughout so there wasn’t much to see. Ralph wondered what a caning would feel like. Pretty painful probably. It would have to be otherwise what was the point of it all?

Dr Anderson rose from his chair interrupting Ralph’s thoughts. The headmaster was making his stately way across the study. He was a tall, upright man with broad shoulders and a torso that narrowed to the waist. He had been a keen sportsman in his younger days and still liked to keep in shape.

Three pairs of eyes followed him on his travels. He paused at the umbrella stand and reached forward. The rattling sound of the canes as he moved them seemed to Ralph to echo around the study. Dr Anderson pulled the thinnest cane free and took it in his hands. He flexed it into a perfect arc and half-heartedly swished it through the air. His face frowned; he returned it to its moorings. The doctor was well acquainted with all his canes. He had several more locked away in a cupboard but he liked to keep three on display close a hand, ready for action. He chose a second cane from the umbrella stand and repeated the flexing and swishing. He liked to take his time, he thought it intimidated any boy waiting nervously for proceedings to begin. He grimaced again and returned the cane. His shoulders heaved as he emitted a sigh so deep one might be led to believe the poor man carried the weight of the whole world on his shoulders. What a responsibility he held, he was saying, trying to guide the young along the rocky road to manhood.

He took up the third cane and turned to face the three miscreants. It was no longer than the others but was thicker and more dense. It was a little over three feet long (not counting the curved handle), yellowy-beige in colour and had notches every three or four inches along its length. Dr Anderson flexed it thoughtfully in his hands, as if he had never seen the thing before. His lips pursed, he seemed to be considering if this rod was fit for the job. He tested its weight, pointed it at the three anxious teenagers and swished it through the air. It was a vicious swipe and it made a terrific whooshing! sound as it flew. Ralph now had no doubt at all that the beating he was about to receive would be very painful indeed.

The headmaster was ready. “You boys,” he gestured to Ralph’s two pals, “turn around and face the wall.” Ralph’s face paled. He was to go first. “Rowcastle,” he glared at Ralph. “Take off your blazer, hang it there,” he waved the cane at the umbrella stand. Ralph’s knees weakened, a fear he had never experienced before in his life gripped him. This was really happening. It wasn’t a dream, he wouldn’t suddenly hear his mum’s voice, “Wake up Ralphy you’ll be late for school.”

He stood rooted. “Come on boy, I haven’t got all day!” Dr Anderson’s patience had been tested beyond its very low level of endurance. Ralph’s fingers trembled as he fumbled at the buttons of his blazer. Why couldn’t he get them to work? At last the front of the jacket was open. He slipped it off his shoulders and hung it up.

He turned to see the headmaster standing by an old, worn armchair. He pointed his cane to a spot on he grey carpet. “Stand there.” As if in a trance, Ralph shuffled forward. In years ahead, recalling this afternoon, Ralph would say he couldn’t remember too much of what happened next. His first ever caning was something of a blur. If questioned on the matter, Dr Anderson might say something similar. He might not be able to recall thrashing Ralph Rowcastle; after all, he might say in mitigation, he was one of three boys he beat at the same time and was probably the sixth or seventh boy to go across the back of the armchair that day. Certainly, a day never passed without Dr Anderson swishing his cane across a bevy of bottoms.

“Bend over the chair.”

Ralph’s pal, Paul Thompson, could stand it no longer. He had obediently set his face to the wall as instructed. He too had never been caned in his life. His heart was thumping so fast he was certain it would burst through his chest. Blood was coursing through his body. He couldn’t wait to get started. Surreptitiously, he turned his head to sneak a peek. His headmaster did not notice, he had other things on his mind. Paul watched as Ralph hesitated before moving. Paul wouldn’t know what to do either. “Bend over the chair”; what did that mean exactly? Paul watched his pal stare down at the seat of the chair. He was a tall boy and would easily fit over the back of the chair with some room to spare. Was he expected to rest his stomach on the back of the chair and with his knees bent present a jutting backside to the headmaster? Perhaps if he fell all the way forward, Paul thought, and reached over and gripped the front of the seat cushion, his back would be arched with his bottom presented round and firm.

Ralph had other ideas, he simply stooped forward and grabbed the wooden arms of the chair. He spread his legs so that his backside was hardly curved at all. A feeling that Paul could not understand struck him. His pal was hardly bent over at all. He might just as well be standing. Suddenly he felt disappointed, cheated even.

The headmaster seemed satisfied. Paul had a perfect view of Ralph’s backside. The boy’s buttocks trembled as Dr Anderson took his aim. He stood a cane’s length to Ralph’s left and tap-tap-tapped it across the eighteen-year-old’s left buttock cheek. Satisfied that he had his mark, the headmaster lifted the cane up and drew it to about shoulder height, then he brought it back with great force, making a perfect arc before it crashed across the very centre of both cheeks. Ralph stamped his feet, wriggled his hips, heaved his shoulders, raised his head. A long drawn out hissing noise escaped his lips, it sounded like a steam engine setting down.

“Keep still boy!” Dr Anderson growled. With great difficulty, Ralph regained his position. Paul’s temples throbbed as he watched intently as the headmaster made his preparations for cut number two. He swiped the cane through empty air while he waited for Ralph to compose himself. Satisfied that he was ready, he tapped the cane against Ralph’s solid backside, this time an inch or so below the first. Whoppp! It landed with an upward swing. Ralph cried out a terrific yelp! and did the stomping and twisting thing again.

“Don’t make such a fuss!” Dr Anderson stood, feet apart flexing the cane between his hands. Paul gasped. That hurt. His pal was in agony. Soon it would be Paul’s turn.

The third stroke was aimed higher and the fourth lower. Ralph was weeping openly. He threw his head back and yowled. He made no attempt to conceal it. He was a thoroughly beaten boy. Dr Anderson paced the study in irritation. He despised a boy who couldn’t take a lightly laid on Six.

Ralph settled. His humiliation was total, Paul reckoned. He watched the headmaster line up swipe number five, anxious to ignore the slight swelling inside his tight cotton underpants. Ralph’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the wooden arm of the chair for dear life. “Aggghhhhh!” The cane stuck the underside of the cheeks, just where they meet the thighs. He wouldn’t be able to sit down in comfort for many hours to come.

Ralph’s breathing was almost as rapid as Paul’s. The onlooker couldn’t control his own dick, now standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

The last one. The headmaster hadn’t announced a tariff; how many strokes he would administer, but it wouldn’t be more than six – would it? Six-of-the-best; wasn’t that what they called it?

Ralph’s brutalised bottom shook with trepidation. Paul saw the headmaster change his stance. He moved closer to his pal’s proffered posterior. Paul’s eyes widened. He realised what the good doctor was up to. He had placed the cane at an angle across both buttocks. It lay from the bottom of the left cheek across to the top of the right; it was a perfect diagonal. “The brute!” Paul thought as the cane rose and lashed across Ralph’s backside crossing each of the five previously delivered strokes and reigniting the pain in them all and then adding some.

Ralph shot to his feet, his hands clutching at his burning bum. Simultaneously, he bent forward double desperately trying to catch his breath. When that made no difference he jumped up and down on the spot, like footballers did when they were trying to run off an injury. When that didn’t work, he resorted to hopping from left foot to right. The headmaster glared at the spectacle with unconcealed distain.

“Bah!” he growled, “Stand by the wall. “Thompson take his place.” Paul shuffled forward, hands clutched in front of his groin. Eagerly, he dived over the back of the chair, head low, firm, round bottom high, feet spread, and waited.

At the bus stop, the bus had at last arrived. It would take him to his village of Aston Budleigh; but not to his home. Not quite yet. Ralph had an appointment with Rev Crick, the local vicar, when he would be expected to atone for his rudeness and disobedience to his widowed mother.

 

Picture credit: CP Services London.

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The Post Office Thief

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Expenses Fiddle

z used drawing cane hold (26)

Mr Harkaway shuffled the papers on his desk. Something did not look right. He walked over to the filing cabinet and found last month’s returns.

Stupid, stupid, stupid boy! He did not say it out loud as there was nobody in the office to say it to.

He had unearthed an expenses fraud. It was blatant; the work of an amateur. Tony Michaels, a trainee salesman, was writing his own petrol receipts. It was the oldest trick in the book and that was why it was so easy to spot.

Harkaway’s heart raced; he would have to report this; there would be trouble; the police would probably be called and there could be a court case. It would all end in tears.

Harkaway hated confrontation. It was bad for his health. Harkaway had joined Tilotson’s about two years previously. He had taught maths at a local secondary modern school for twenty years. They were tough kids who never understood the value of learning. Every day was a confrontation, but he and the other teachers had one weapon on their side: the cane. Even the toughest boys could be brought to order by a length of swishy rattan.

Then, a new ‘progressive’ headteacher arrived; with ‘ideals.’ Corporal punishment was abolished and the inmates took over the asylum. It was chaos from day one and order was never restored.

Harkaway suffered the inevitable breakdown. Now, he had a nice little job in the accounts department shuffling pieces of paper and balancing columns of figures. He did not have to meet many people in his job, especially not unruly teenagers, and he liked it just like that.

Harkaway had never heard of Tony Michaels, so he made the short journey down the corridor to see his colleague Mr MacDonald, himself another refugee from modern schooling. Within minutes, Harkaway was reading the trainee salesman’s file.

“Damn!” This time he did say it out loud.

“What’s the matter?” asked MacDonald, although he was not really interested.

“This salesman. He’s nineteen years old. Been here a year since he left St Francis Grammar School. He’s got really good reviews from his boss. Expected to go far,” Harkaway replied.

“So what?” MacDonald sensed his colleague’s distress.

Harkaway told him about the expenses fraud.

“It’s the end of his career. He could even get a criminal record. It’s such a waste.”

MacDonald had never met the teenager, but he felt sad for him. “What are you going to do?”

Harkaway was more distressed than he expected to be, “When I think of all the children at our school who never had a chance. Now, here’s this lad, with all the chances in the world and he’s throwing them away. It makes me so angry.”

Harkaway knew that he was expected to report him to his manager. Those were the rules. Let Michaels explain himself and leave it for others to make the decision.

“I’ll have to report him, of course,” Harkaway said wearily.

“Yes, of course,” MacDonald returned the file to the drawer. “What a pity there can’t be some other way to deal with it.”

Another way? Later, when Harkaway was eating his lunch the germ of an idea entered his head. It might just work, but he doubted Michaels would agree.

Back in his office, Harkaway found a ‘Girl Friday’ and instructed her to tell Michaels to report to his office at once. She was startled by the ferocity of his tone.

Harkaway had many years’ experience dealing with misbehaving schoolboys. He was used to hearing their denials and false excuses, but he would break them down in the end. He did it with facts; he presented the evidence.

Michaels was not like his secondary modern pupils. He was smart, well presented and articulate. No wonder he was doing so well as a trainee salesman. It made Harkaway furious. He thought of all those boys and girls at his former school who never had a chance. They were put on the scrapheap. Now, here was Michaels; he had every opportunity to make something of himself and he was throwing it away.

Yes, Michaels agreed under questioning; he had forged the petrol receipts. He had no choice but to confess, the evidence was undeniable. He could have kicked himself for being so obvious.

“Why did you do it Michaels?” The teenager recognised Harkaway’s tone; he had heard it many times from masters at his grammar school. He could tell he was in for a ticking off, but at school it would be followed by a caning.

He knew why he had done it but he was not about to tell Harkaway. He wanted the money. He wanted to buy things, like smokes, clothes, records and to go to discos. He wanted to take a girl out and give her a good time (and later have her give him a good time). All these things cost money: more than he earned.

Instead, in the way naughty schoolboys had done for generations, Michaels stared at his shoes and mumbled, “Don’t know, Sir.”

“Sir,” Harkaway liked that. Maybe there was some hope for this wretched boy after all.

“You don’t know!” Harkaway pretended to fume, “You took a lot of trouble to perpetrate this forgery, you must have needed the money pretty badly.”

Michaels remained silent. If this had been the United States he would have invoked the Fifth Amendment: say nothing, do not incriminate yourself.

“Doh!” Harkaway’s frustration was evident.

“You do know you will be dismissed for this. The police might be called and you could end up with a criminal record?” Harkaway barked.

Michaels blanched. He had not thought of that. He had been so stupid he did not think he would be caught. The consequences of his actions had never occurred to him.

“B… But,” he started miserably, but his famous salesman’s gift-of-the-gab eluded him. Somehow he must save his job and keep the police out of this.

Harkaway was unsure how to turn the conversation to reveal his plan.

Unsteadily, he began. “I see in your personnel file you attended St Francis Independent Grammar School.” He paused to see if there was a reaction from Michaels. There was not.

So he blundered on. “It is a school with a very fine tradition for … err … for discipline.”

Still Michaels remained silent.

“What would your headmaster think about how you have behaved? How you have let down the honour of the school.”

Michaels did not give a damn about what the school thought about his behaviour. He was very glad to be away from there. It would suit him very much indeed if he never saw the place again. Why was this lowly accounts clerk lecturing him about school and honour?

“I was myself a schoolteacher for many years. Not at such a fine school as St Francis, of course,” Harkaway was losing his thread. This was too embarrassing; why did he care about this boy? He was a thief; he deserved to be sacked and to be prosecuted. He should let events take their course.

He was about to dismiss the teenager from his office when Michaels piped up. Suddenly, he had realised what this was about: discipline … school … honour.

“I am sorry Sir. I have behaved badly,” he said. Then he took a deep breath. “I deserve to be punished severely, but could it be without losing my job. I will never do it again. I promise.”

It was a lie and Michaels knew it. He enjoyed the clothes, the clubs and the girls too much to give them up. He would lose the lot if he was sacked. But if he could stay with Tilotson’s, later when the heat had died down he would find another more successful way to steal from the company. But, for now he would have to take what was coming to him.

Harkaway flushed. Had he understood the boy correctly? “What would your headmaster have done if he found you stealing?”

It was now or never, Michaels realised. He took a deep breath. “He would have thrashed me,” and then for dramatic effect he added, “And I should have deserved it, too.” And, for good measure he added, “Sir!”

And, that was how four hours later, Tony Michaels, a nineteen-year-old trainee salesman, came to be standing in Harkaway’s living room at his home. He had had plenty of time to change his mind, but he knew he had no choice; he had to go through with it.

Harkaway flexed a long, yellow, rattan cane thoughtfully between his hands. He could not get the measure of young Michaels. He seemed impassive to his fate.

“Have you been caned before, Michaels?” Harkaway swished the rattan through the air to try to intimidate the boy.

“No, sir,” it was another lie. There was no reason to tell it, but Michaels seemed incapable of telling the truth. He had been caned. It hurt like crazy, but it did not kill him.

If he had thought being a caning novice would make Harkaway go easy on him, he was much mistaken.

“Then, young man this will be an awesome experience for you. I do not intend to be lenient at all. This will be a thrashing you will never forget.”

Michaels’ heart raced. Exactly what did this jumped-up accounts clerk have in mind?

Harkaway eyed the teenager. He wore a smartly-cut dark suit. His buttocks would make a perfect target in those trousers, he thought.

But, he would never find that out.

“Take off your jacket, Michaels,” he swished the cane, “and place it on the table there.”

Only now, did the magnitude of this sink in. This could turn out to be one hell of a thrashing. With trembling hands, Michaels undid the two buttons on his jacket and slipped it from his shoulders. Then he tidily folded the immaculate jacket and put it on the table.

“Now, stand behind that armchair,” the cane swished again for emphasis.

Colour was draining from Michaels’ face as he took two or three steps to cross the room.

He breathed deeply, waiting for the final instruction: bend over.

“Now lower your trousers, Michaels.”

The teenager’s mouth gaped open, but he just stopped himself voicing an objection. He had not expected this: Harkaway had not said it was to be on the pants; or God forbid on the bare.

Michaels looked pleading at Harkaway, but the ex-schoolteacher was not to be moved.

“Do it immediately, boy,” he intoned quietly, “or you will receive extra strokes.”

Michaels closed his eyes and cussed silently. Then he unbuckled his belt, and popped the buttons on his trousers before he guided them across his buttocks and down his thighs where they came to rest at his knees.

He could feel a cool breeze against his now bare legs. Please God, he prayed, please let me keep my pants on.

“Bend over the chair, Michaels.”

Oh thank you God! Michaels placed his hands together as if in prayer, rubbed the palms, took a deep breath and dived forward over the back of the ugly vinyl armchair.

His face came to rest on an old worn cushion. The odour of stale sweat filled his nostrils.

“Feet further apart boy.”

While the teenager manoeuvred himself into the required position, Harkaway approached him from behind, grabbed at the tail of his shirt and carefully rolled it up until it rested half way up his back.

Then he grabbed the waistband of the boy’s gleaming white underpants.

“Oh, no! God, you have deceived me!” Michaels would have words to say the next time he attended his church.

The pants were soon reunited with the trousers.

Harkaway did not announce the number of strokes he intended to deliver, so it came as an almighty shock to Michaels’ system when a dozen hard cuts lashed into his naked buttocks and each one laid on with the greatest force.

Harkaway had never caned a boy with such ferocity. Later, recalling the incident to his colleague Mr MacDonald, he would say he did not remember much of what happened. He did recall the anguished shrieks from the boy as lash after lash whipped into his buttocks. And, he remembered the squirming as the boy’s body thrashed from left and right and up and down as if it were being tossed about on a heavy sea.

After the boy had dressed and left the house, Harkaway found a tea towel soaked in his blood.

If Harkaway’s memory was blurred, Tony Michaels remembered every second of every minute.

My arse is tight and open, all my muscles in my legs and buttocks are tense, and I cannot flex my backside. I can also feel my cock touching the top of the chair.

I hear some swishing sounds which send tremors all through my body. Next I feel the cane touch my backside, right in the middle. It rests there, for a moment. There are a few taps, which sting.

Before I have time to think any more there is a zip sound, followed by absolute agony. I could not believe how much pain I was in. It was sharp, but then it built up like a burn going deeper and deeper into me. Just as it started to fade the next stroke landed.

I had been caned at school – many times, it was that kind of school – but I had never felt such pain in my whole life as I did under Harkaway’s cane.

I could feel burning lines across my bum, the first across the fleshiest part and each stroke that followed cut just below the last. I was screaming, sweating, gasping and gripping the chair with both hands desperately trying to stay in position. I so wanted to run away, but some schoolboy code of honour must have kicked in: I knew I must take my punishment like a man.

Mr Harkaway waited a little longer before delivering another stroke, which left me in intense agony. The bastard laid it diagonally across previous welts, raising the heat and burn in all of them again. I could feel blood oozing from the wounds which felt very deep.

Slash number eight was the same and so were the final four but they were diagonals laid on the other way round.

Throughout, I shrieked out in agony and shock, my legs kicking up automatically as a merciless shower of mighty whacks followed in unbelievably quick succession. My bum, hips, shoulders all wriggled frantically in a futile attempt to escape the flashing cane which scorched into my buttocks.

By the time he had finished, I was sobbing. My bum was burning like I had sat on a lit coal fire.

After what seemed like hours, Harkaway instructed that I should stand up. Gingerly, I did so, but this sent fresh waves of agony through my injured bottom. Harkaway was breathing heavily, gasping for breath. He seemed to be in as bad a state as I was.

As if in a trance he left the room. I was not sure what to do next, so I tried to get dressed, but the very action of pulling my pants across my flogged buttocks was enough to send shockwaves through my body. I pulled my pants down again and saw the rear was covered in large pink stains. That was when I realised my buttocks were bleeding; Harkaway had ripped me to shreds.

Still in much pain and with my pants and trousers now around my ankles, I waddled to the kitchen and found a tea towel which I soaked in water and eased the flow of blood. The cool water felt good against my throbbing arse and I let it soak for a minute or two.

Mr Harkaway was nowhere to be seen. I did not want another confrontation with him, so when the raging agony in my arse subsided a little and was reduced to a constant throbbing, I managed to pull up my pants and trousers. I collected my jacket and left.

On the way out, I glimpsed myself in the hallway mirror. I did not recognise the ghostly figure with the snot covered face and the wild staring eyes.

I walked the three miles back to my home; I could not risk taking the bus, I knew I would not be able to sit down for some considerable time to come.

At home I whipped down my trousers. The blood had dried against my underpants and I had to take a wet flannel to soak them off my skin.

My bottom was still incredibly painful. There were a dozen deep welts criss-crossed over the buttocks; they looked like Clapham Railway Junction. The cheeks were still swollen and covered in dark blue bruises.

The next day when I returned to work, my bottom was still tender to the touch and I wriggled a bit as I sat at my desk. Mr Harkaway never mentioned the forged petrol receipts and I kept my job.

That was more than four weeks ago. The wounds have healed and I lived. I submitted an honest expenses claim this month, but I am working on a new fiddle for the future. I hope I do not get caught, but if I do then please don’t let it be by Mr Harkaway.

Picture credit: Unknown

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This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

You! Come Here!

new story 2

z used brush holding (2)

“You!” he glares at me, his mouth snarling. I stand, a shiver running across my shoulders. I peer into the half-darkness. The room is small, sparsely furnished. It is cold. There’s a faint smell of damp walls. My bare feet scratch against on the threadbare carpet. My pyjama jacket hangs loosely, the coarse material itches.

“Come here!” Uncle Roy beckons me towards him with his finger. I shuffle a pace forward, hesitate and stand still. “Here!” I crane my neck forward, only now noticing the large wooden hairbrush he grips in his right hand.

He is seated on a hard, stiff-backed kitchen chair. His legs are spread. His intentions are clear. “Here!” the single word snaps in the cold air. He feels no need to explain. I know why I am here. I am no stranger to this. The word “virgin” has no meaning here.

I lumber forward until I am one step away from him. I stand, a little to his righthand side. I am close enough to touch him. But, I don’t. Not yet. Instead, I hop from one foot to another. My mouth is dry. The tip of my tongue moistens my upper lip. I begin to perspire at the temples. Uncle Roy wriggles his bottom, spreads his legs wider. His thighs are fleshy, his belly is soft, but he is far from fat. I wait for him to settle himself. Soon he is ready, he has created with his legs a perfect platform.

I am about five-seven tall, although I am eighteen years old I still have some growing to do. And thickening out. My waist is twenty-six inches, my chest thirty-four. My face, when not hot as it is tonight, is clear and bright. It has yet to feel the scrape of a razor blade.

I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment and slowly let air exhale through my pursed lips. I am readying myself. No matter how many times I do this, there is always trepidation. I should be used to it by now. I can predict precisely what is going to happen. It is after all a well-worn ritual.

I get a whiff of Uncle Roy’s body. Coal tar soap. A proper manly smell. You wouldn’t catch him splashing Brut 33 all over. My hands tremble, almost imperceptibly. I don’t know if Uncle can tell. Without lowering my head, I search for the drawstring of my pyjama bottoms. It is loosely tied, it takes only a tiny tug to open up the front. I let go and the cotton pyjamas tumble down my legs. They snag at my knees so I part them slightly and they continue the journey to my feet.

Instinctively, my hands clasp in front of my privates. I don’t know why I bother. Uncle Roy will get a close-up sight any moment now. Not to mention a bird’s eye view of my crack and hole. A cool breeze I hadn’t noticed before brushes against my naked bottom. I do the breathing thing again, preparing myself. Almost ready.

Uncle Roy’s tobacco breath is strong, his chest heaves. The muscles in his right arm tense as he tightens his grip on the brush. He is ready, it is time to go. I reach forward and rest the palms of my hands on his right thigh, his leg buckles a little as he takes the weight of my body. Safely over I stretch my arms ahead of me and plant my hands firmly into the carpet. I arch my back. My stomach digs into his strong leg. My head is low and my bottom high. I have choices, I can keep my head high and stare across the gloomy room towards the distempered wall or I can stare down at the floor. I do neither of these things. Instead, I crane my neck so that I can see under the chair for a perfect view of my own feet, sheathed by my crumpled pyjama bottoms.

Uncle Roy takes hold of my pyjama jacket and drags it halfway up my back and leaves it bunched up at my shoulders. This serves no practical purpose. The jacket is nowhere near his target area. My buttocks are entirely bared. It is of course just another of those rituals. I am now naked from the shoulders to the ankles, completely submissive. I am allowing Uncle Roy to do his duty. I have no reason for complaint. He says I deserve a sound spanking and he is right.

My bottom is angled high above Uncle Roy’s right thigh. I feel the rough palm of his hand gently caressing first my left buttock and then the right. Then he rubs the back of my thighs. Involuntarily my bottom clenches. There is very little fat back there, now my bum probably resembles a rubber ball,  tough, hard and with very little “give”. Buns of steel.

I feel a movement in Uncle Roy’s body. I cannot see but I can imagine that now he has taken hold of the heavy wooden hairbrush. Then I feel its cold back touch against my firm bum. Uncle is taking aim. Suddenly it lifts away from the surface and a split second later returns at incredible speed and force to crash down right in the middle of my left bum cheek. Before I can register the pain it rises and falls again; this time into my right buttock. I gasp at the shock. My flesh is scolding. I wriggle at the waist. It is a natural reaction; my body’s way of dealing with the pain. I have no intention of trying to escape. I deserve this spanking.

Uncle Roy believes a whacking should hurt. Otherwise, he says, what’s the point of it? He is not one of those uncles who gives his nephew one or two token slaps. Lovetaps! Not my uncle. He takes a boy’s arse off! If you’ll pardon my bad language. It takes him about ten seconds to cover my whole backside. Admittedly, it’s not that large! It stings all over. From the top of the curves just below the spine, to the very sensitive undercurves. But mostly, across the fleshiest part of the bum, the mounds. I am on fire! I wriggle and writhe but it doesn’t matter how much I squirm Uncle is in control. He grips my waist with his left arm and with his right he continues to wallop my bare backside with that hairbrush. Did I say that Uncle Roy is as bald as a coot? He has no wife or lady friend. A hairbrush has no use in his household except as a tool to inflict the severest pain to my misbehaving bottom.

I bite down on my lip, it helps to stop me crying out in anguish. I see my own feet flailing about as they instinctively react to the intense pain that is building up in my buttocks and travelling up and down my legs. Very soon the agony is moving north, south, east and west across my whole body. My temples are throbbing almost as much as the flesh on my bum. Despite the coldness of the room, perspiration is soaking my pyjama jacket.

Bang, bang, bang, bang. On and on it goes. It sounds like machinegun fire echoing around the near-empty room. My breath comes in short pants, my heart races, my body pulsates The hot-blooded spanking is going to my loins. Oh my God! My penis hardens, it is as large and as tight as a fist. Spank, spank, spank. No, no, no! I have to stop this happening!

Dring, dring, dring, dring! Somewhere in the distance a bell is ringing. What the …! It is getting closer. Dring, dring, dring, dring! Alarm bells sound. A warm patch moves across the front of my underpants. I wriggle with discomfort. Suddenly awake, I groan, reproaching myself. The mess is spreading. Next to me my wife stirs. “Your turn to make the tea,” she grunts before rolling over for a few more moments of precious sleep.

 

Picture credit: unknown

 

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My First Spanking – Aged 18!

z used drawing paddle hold (18)

I had just turned eighteen when my granddad took me across his knee to give me my first-ever spanking. He said I needed to be taken down a peg or two.

I had been living with him and gran for a few months by then and I had driven the pair of them to distraction.

I left school when I was sixteen and worked in a record shop. It was a great job which paid well (for a teenager anyway) and I had lots of money to spend on clothes and other things for myself. I lived at home and gave my mum some money for my keep and lived a selfish life.

Then my dad lost his job when the company he worked for went bust and he had to move to a town 100 miles away. Naturally, the family went with him, but I didn’t want to give up the record shop. I didn’t want to give up the home comforts, either. On my wages I would be able to rent a room somewhere, but I wouldn’t be able to afford all the new clothes and luxuries as well.

Gran and granddad didn’t want me to live with them and who could blame them. Their own kids had grown up, left home and started families. Now, it was time for gran and granddad to have a little peace and quiet: they definitely didn’t need an unruly teenager living with them.

Anyway, they took me in (the emotional blackmail that families are famous for probably had a hand in it).

I was happy; I just carried on as I had done at home. I came and went as I wanted to; I was surly and uncommunicative to my hosts and sometimes just downright rude. I made a habit of coming home in the early hours of the morning and staying in bed late. I didn’t lift a finger to help around the house and didn’t think it wrong for gran to wait on me hand and foot.

Granddad tried to get me to see sense more than once, but he was up against one of the rudest self-absorbed and selfish people he had ever met. He tried to talk to me about coming home late drunk and spending all the next day in bed, but I was not to be reasoned with.

I had always been rude to both of them, but the straw that broke granddad’s back was when I gave gran a lot of back-chat. I forget what the row was about, but gran had recently started using a hearing aid, so when in the middle of an argument, I shouted, “Are you daft as well as deaf?” she ran from the room in tears.

Granddad had no choice. Of course, he couldn’t let me get away with treating his wife like that. If I had been granddad I’d have taken me across my knee and spanked my backside good and hard as well.

So, that’s how I ended up in the sitting room, standing in front of my granddad getting a verbal roasting, prior to getting my buttocks toasted.

Looking back after all these years, I can now see gran and granddad loved me. Why else would they have let me live with them in the first place. They also wanted me to grow up to be a good person, hardworking, kind and considerate. I was none of these things: I liked to think I was a full-grown adult, but my grandparents knew I wasn’t quite there yet. Sometimes, and recently far too often, I had behaved like a spoilt little child and I needed to be taught a lesson.

Granddad could have thrown me out on my ear. He even told me I was eighteen years old now and it was high time I stood on my own two feet. But, he said, he was prepared to give me one last chance.

I hadn’t been expecting it when he leaned over to the sideboard, opened a drawer and pulled out a small shiny wooden object. He gripped it in his right hand and waved it in my direction. It was light brown and oblong (maybe eight inches by thee and half and three-quarters of an inch thick). It had a small shaped handle to hold it by. As he threatened me with it, I could see it was a purpose-built spanking paddle.

I probably blanched at the point, because he looked me in the eye and said, “You need to be taken down a peg or two.”

I’d never heard the phrase before, but I immediately knew what he meant. He was going to use that paddle on my backside.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but it was along the lines of, “You can’t do that, I’m too old to be spanked.” What I didn’t say (and should have done) was “I’m sorry. I’ll be a better person in the future.”

Granddad was not impressed. “Too old! You are not too old to move out and live on your own. You can pack your bags and go.”

He meant it too. He had tried his level best with me over the months and I had thrown all his kindness and hospitality back in his face. And, to top it all, I had been rude and incredibly cruel to gran. Who would blame them for throwing me out?

“Or,” he said, and this is where I now realise how much he loved me, “I will take this to your backside and see if I can beat some manners into you.” He waved the paddle at me in case I hadn’t followed his drift.

I stood dumbfounded. I was eighteen years old, an adult, I had been working for nearly two years and here was my granddad telling me he was going to spank me like I was an eight-year-old kid. And, to top it all, I had no choice but to let him do it.

He pulled a chair away from the dining table and set it down in the middle of the carpet. There was a three piece suite, a sideboard, the table and four chairs and a TV set crammed into the small room.

He sat down on the chair, keeping his own back straight and planting his feet three feet apart. Just because he was my granddad don’t go away with the idea that he was a shrivelled old man. He would have still been in his fifties at the time and was big and strong. He had been a manual worker all his life and after a spell in the Army, he continued to make regular visits to the gym.

I looked at him as I contemplated my fate. He was a thick-set muscular man. He was clean shaven, but much of his body was covered in hair. For the first time in my life I noticed his biceps were well-developed and his hands were the size of shovels. He would pack one hell of a wallop when the time came.

The legs over which I would soon find myself draped were powerful and from where I was standing looked to be as thick as tree trunks.

My breathing became irregular as my heart raced and my blood pressure went sky high. I could feel my temples pounding as I began to realise just what damage granddad could do to my rear end with his paddle.

“Stand there.” He pointed to a spot right in front of him. As if in a trance, I obeyed. “Hands on head.” I obeyed that command too.

He reached over to the waistband of my trousers. In those days we wore trousers with ridiculously high waistbands. They were those ones that had about twenty-four inch flares to the legs and we wore them with platform-soled shoes that added an extra three inches to your height.

Despite all the material, they were cut tight across the buttocks area and if, like me, you had a flat stomach they showed off your bum to perfection. I was presenting to my granddad a bottom that was crying out to be spanked.

I knew I had a great bum, one of the girls I knew was always telling me so. I didn’t fancy her at all, she was chubby and reminded me a bit of a younger version of the district nurse character who appeared in one of the TV comedy shows of the time.

I was very inexperienced and naïve at the time and I didn’t understand what the girl was offering me. It was a wasted opportunity: it’s true that I didn’t lust after her, but she would have been something for me to practice on.

Granddad had trouble undoing all five buttons on my waistband, but eventually the job was done. It was easier for him to pull at the zipper at my fly and open up the front of my trousers to reveal my tight multi-coloured mini briefs.

He slipped the trousers over my bony hips and down my slim thighs until they fell in a heap on the floor at my feet.

Granddad paused. He seemed to be debating with himself about what to do next. The decision reached, he took hold of the elastic waist of my garish mini-briefs and gently pulled them down over my trim buttocks until they settled at my knees. I still had my hands on my head so the old man had every opportunity to observe that I was indeed a fully grown man and not a small boy.

I was kept standing with my trousers and pants down and my penis flopping for what seemed like hours, but I don’t suppose it was more than a minute. During that time I thought I heard voices coming from the flat next door. Absurdly, I realised the family next door would be able to hear me being spanked and that embarrassed me much more than my present predicament; standing naked from the waist down in front of my granddad.

“Come here and bend across my knee.” It was a quiet instruction, not a barked order. Once again, granddad was showing me that he loved me.

I hesitated for a split second. I had never been across someone’s knee before and I wasn’t quite sure how it was done. I took my hands from my head and turned to face granddad from the side. Looking down I could see the massive expanse of grey flannel trousers encasing his legs. Slowly, I lowered my body, first reaching out my hands so they held onto his left knee so I could then cautiously let my stomach rest across his huge thighs. Then, it was a simple matter to stretch my arms out in front of me so the palms of my hands sank into the pile of the carpet.

In this position, my legs were straight behind me, bent a little at the knees and my toes just about touched the carpet. My bared bottom lay across the centre of my granddad’s laps.

I was completely humiliated, bent across granddad’s knee offering him my naked buttocks. I knew he could see right into my crack. But, I wasn’t positioned to granddad’s satisfaction. His strength surprised me as he was able to place his arm round my middle and lift me to manoeuvre my body an inch this way and another inch that way until he had my bum just where he wanted it to receive the spanks from his paddle.

But, he wasn’t quite ready to start. As I stared into the fading pattern of the carpet: it was a dirty grey now, but had once, I think, been green, I could feel him grab the tail of my shirt and pull it up my back until it rested just below the shoulders.

There I was an eighteen-year-old man submissively bent across his granddad’s knee, trousers and underpants at his feet, shirt at the shoulders and naked between the two points. My bared backside was resting over his right thigh, pointing up at a forty-five degree angle and twitching a little in anticipation of the onslaught to come. Granddad was gripping the square black spanking paddle so tightly that his knuckles were beginning to turn white.

I remember feeling the cool wood of the paddle rest on my right buttock cheek and then without warning granddad whacked it down with maximum force; again and again and again. First on one cheek, then on the other, then right in the middle across both buttocks at once.

Then he went high, then low, high, high, low, low. Then on the crease where the bum meets the thigh, then right in the middle of my globes. On and on and on.

I howled from the very first smack and didn’t stop yelling and screaming until what seemed like half an hour (but I later discovered was closer to five minutes) he finally laid down the paddle and released me. I struggled this way and that, pounding my feet and kicking my legs about. I was astonished by my granddad’s strength: he wrapped his left arm around my middle, pinning my body to his lap while with his right hand he continued to assault my bared backside with the paddle.

I tried to reach my arm back to protect my bum from the searing slashes of the wood, but granddad had me so effectively pinned facedown that I could do nothing except flail my arms and legs about, as if I were trying to swim doggy-paddle style.

Granddad kept whacking into me. He beat at a rhythm: I was in too much agony to keep count, but it must have been about forty swats to the minute. Later I would see that dark blue bruises covered the whole of my buttock area and my inner and outer thighs. I had so little meat on my bum there was not enough padding to absorb the shockwaves from the wooden paddle.

There was no sound in the small room apart from the whack! whack! whack! of the paddle hitting my bum and my howls of agony. Not a word was exchanged between granddad and me. He gave me no sermons on changing my behaviour and I in turn made no pleas for mercy.

I wailed so much I was choking and breathing became difficult. My heartbeat was racing and I thought at any moment I would pass out. But on and one, granddad spanked me: calmly and methodically: he knew his duty was to reform me and this was how he would do it.

Satisfied that he had made a sufficient impression on me and my bum, granddad stopped the spanking. I was exhausted: the pain had started at my roasted buttocks and travelled at high speed across my whole body: my chest ached and my head throbbed almost as much as my bum.

“Get up son.” I think this was the first time granddad had ever called me son: could that be true, or am I after all these years being sentimental?

He released me and I was able to pull myself off his legs. Just as I had done so when presenting myself for the spanking, I rested my hands on his knee, but this time rather than lowering myself into a face-down position, I hauled myself up to my feet.

I couldn’t help it, but I found myself jumping up and down on the spot performing some crazy spanking dance. These days commentators in football matches on TV often say that a player who has been injured can “run off” the pain. Believe me it certainly didn’t work for me after granddad’s spanking.

Nor, did rubbing away at my toasted buttocks with my hands. Actually, contact with the by now raw nerves in my pert bottom only increased the pain.

I bent double, gasping for breath, trying to regain some composure. Tears and snot poured down my face and chin. I rubbed myself clean with the sleeve of my shirt only to find more tears and snot falling.

I actually howled in agony again when I tried to pull up my tight mini briefs. They were designed to fit snuggly against my bottom and they had the same effect on my pain level as my hands had earlier. Quickly I pulled them down and off and stood semi-naked not sure what to do next.

“Pick up your trousers and pants and go to your room.” It was the obvious solution. So, I rushed from the living room and dashed up the stairs two at a time with my naked blistered buttocks on full display. Thankfully my gran was not around to witness this.

I didn’t know at the time that she had been in the kitchen during my spanking, fully aware or what granddad was doing to me (and fully supportive that he should do so). She could have witnessed my spanking herself, but she loved me too much to make me endure that additional humiliation.

Once in my bedroom, I was able to inspect the full horror of the damage caused to my buttocks. The bruises were deep and as I twisted my body this way and that in order to get a good view in the mirror I detected what looked like dozens of squares branded into the flesh. It would take a couple of weeks before the bruises finally cleared.

The pain mostly cleared in a matter of hours, but some parts of my lower bottom and thighs remained tender for days; so that when I sat on the shop assistant’s high stool at the cash desk in the record shop I was reminded of the humiliation granddad had put me through.

I’d like to be able to report that my behaviour changed after that spanking and I became a model citizen. But “attitude adjustment” doesn’t work like that. Behaviour modification is incremental; it changes one step at a time and so although this was the first spanking I had ever received, it did not turn out to be the last.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Craig Misses Curfew

new story 2

Craig slowly opened the front door, trying desperately not to make a sound. He was in trouble; he knew that. Big trouble. Maybe he could delay the inevitable for a little while yet.

“Is that you Craig, come into my study, this instance!” It was Reverend Crick, his landlord, calling. “Drat!” Craig breathed silently. He closed the door, dropped his bag of books onto the ground and reluctantly shuffled through the passageway to a dark oak door. He paused and wondered for a second if he should knock. Why? The vicar had clearly summoned him. With a sweaty palm, he gripped the door handle and pushed.

His jaw actually dropped at the sight. Gary the barman from the village pub was tucking his shirt into his trousers before buckling his belt. Rev. Crick stood thoughtfully bending a whippy, crook-handled school punishment cane between his hands. Gary stared at Craig with astonishment, his wide open face now as red as his bottom at the arrival of the witness.

“What time did you get back last night?” the vicar growled. It wasn’t really a question Crick knew very well it was close on one a.m. “Well boy!” Crick flexed the cane some more. Gary made a hasty exit through the half-open door.

“Eh, well,” Craig blustered. He had no idea what time he arrived back at the vicarage, but it was way past his curfew, of that there was no doubt. He had met with friends from the university and missed the last bus from Brocklehurst to the little village of Aston Budleigh. He would have been later still if a car hadn’t stopped to give him a ride.

“Out drinking, no doubt.” The vicar’s eyes blazed. He had an angular face, with a jutting jaw line. What hair he still retained was thin and straw coloured. He had on the shabby sports jacket that he habitually wore and dark brown corduroy trousers that were a bit thin at the knees. His round glasses were perched on his nose in the centre of a florid face.

Craig stood transfixed. He had been in the vicar’s study many times since his mother had found him these lodgings, but still it took his breath away a little. His eyes could not leave the two canes hanging from hooks on the far wall. They were both something more than three feet in length; one was considerably thicker than the other and both were a little warped.

He knew the wall on the left side was lined with floor to ceiling with shelving. Some were stacked with books, but in the centre was a tall thin cupboard, with a smoked-glass front.

Also in the room were a huge Chesterfield couch and two armchairs to one side and the vicar’s desk. It was February but the sky was brilliant blue. It was cold in the room but Rev Crick had not set a fire in his study and the nineteen-year-old could not stop from shivering. He could not be sure if that was because of the cold or the fear he felt.

“It is not the first time, you have broken curfew,” Rev. Crick tucked the cane under his armpit and paced the room. He rather fancied he looked the part of a headmaster at an important public school. One day he promised himself he would treat himself and buy an academic gown and mortar-board cap.

Craig tore his attention away from the canes on the wall. In the few months he had been one of the vicar’s lodgers he had become very aware that Crick had a fine assortment of whippy rattan canes and many other punishment tools. The vicar stood, his feet apart and he slipped the cane into his hand. Craig had no doubt what his intentions were. His parents, his mother especially, were convinced Christians. They believed in the Bible, especially that bit about not sparing the rod. They had chosen Rev Crick to be their son’s landlord and mentor while he was at university for a purpose. They knew his reputation for dealing with young men.

Craig was no stranger to corporal punishment at home and school but he had hoped that now he was at university he had left behind that sort of thing.

Swish! The cane flew through open air. Rev. Crick was ready for action. “I think,” he said as if speaking as one reasonable man to another, “that you should remove your coat and set it down on my desk.” He watched, eyes darting and the tip of his tongue poking in and out of his mouth lizard-like as Craig slipped off his dark green parka coat.

“Stand there!” he pointed the cane at middle of the room. Craig shuffled into position and stood, arms behind back, head slightly bowed. Rev. Crick frowned, stared intently at the cane in his hand as if seeing it for the first time, and hacked out a cough. Slowly, he moved across the study towards the tall thin cupboard. Deftly he opened its door and slipped the cane inside. Craig watched him move towards his desk and lean down to a drawer. Crick cleared his throat and reached inside. Seconds later he removed a heavy wooden American-style paddle. He tested its weight in his hand and seemingly satisfied it was up to the job he turned to face the teenager.

“Assume the position,” Rev. Crick let a smile crack his face, pleased with his phoney American accent. That’s what they said on the other side of the pond, “Assume the position.” The kids seemed to know what they had to do then. Craig’s puzzled look spoke volumes. What did the reverend want him to do? Bend over the Chesterfield? One of the armchairs? It couldn’t be the desk his coat was there.

“Bend over and grab your ankles,” Crick said exasperatedly in his own English accent. Craig sucked in breath. “Here we go again,” he thought. It was at times like this he began to hate his mother. Fancy sending him to live with this oddball. He was nineteen years old and about to offer up his backside for this vicar to whack it with a heavy plank of wood. He could refuse, Crick couldn’t make him do it. He was a weedy runt of a man really who smoked and drank too much. Craig knew he could take him in a fight.

He also knew he was going to do exactly what the vicar told him to. His mother had all the power. She held the purse strings. If he didn’t do as he was told she wouldn’t hesitate to stop paying his university fees. Then what? He would have to leave and get a job. A job! Not if he could help it, he wanted a degree and a life in a top profession,not a job serving in a shop all his life.

“What are you waiting for?” Crick smacked the paddle into his left palm.  It was about five inches wide by a foot long. It was nearly an inch thick. It was a mightily impressive punishment tool. Craig frowned, took a deep breath and reached down to his ankles. He took the vicar at his word, ordinarily, if he was in the housemaster’s study back at school say, the command would be, “Touch your toes,” and toes meant toes, not shins or knees. Keeping in the touch-toes position was more difficult than it sounded, it put a terrible strain on the calves. Grabbing ankles was an altogether more comfortable position, although Craig was perfectly aware that what was about to happen next would be far from comfortable.

He looked down at the threadbare carpet and felt a movement to his left as the vicar approached. He could smell the man’s sour sweat and old tobacco smoke. The vicar pressed his left hand into the small of Craig’s back, keeping him steady. The paddle was small enough that Crick could stand right by the boys proffered bottom and whack the wood home from a short distance. It would be a very painful jab.

z used paddle jeans touch toes domestic (1)

Craig felt the paddle tap against his stretched jeans. They were a little tight and hugged his cheeks. He knew the vicar would have a delightful target. The wood moved away and a second later returned crashing into his meaty, hard bottom. He bit down on his bottom lip. That hurt. A burning sensation radiated from the point of impact and warmed his whole backside. Slam! The wood returned with great force, landing a little higher. Now his entire bum was alight. He gripped his ankles and shut his eyes tightly.

Paddle pain is quite different from the cane. The whippy rod strikes a line of fire across the cheeks and very quickly a welt forms. It throbs like mad for ages. The paddle delivers something more like a slap than a cut, the pain spreads over a wider area and leaves a pain like sitting in a too-hot bath.

Wallop! Smack! Crash! The sound of the paddle echoed around the cold study. The vicar hacked another long cough. “Stand up, drop those jeans,” he spluttered. Craig rose slowly, his bottom was toasted. His heavy denim jeans had been no protection.

“Quickly,” Crick gasped, “I haven’t got all day.”

Craig’s jeans fit snugly, he didn’t need a belt. He popped the button at the top of his Wranglers and pulled the zipper. The jeans were so snug they wouldn’t fall to the floor of their own accord so he pushed them down, first to the knees and then to the ankles. “Over!” the reverend barked. Craig morosely resumed the position.

Rev. Crick had a little ritual when he spanked on the underwear. He liked to make sure there were no creases in the cotton and that the pants fitted like a second skin. He gripped the waistband of Craig’s briefs and tugged hard. The cotton rode up into Craig’s crack and lifted and separated each cheek perfectly. Crick had no willpower and didn’t try not to rub the palm of his right hand across Craig’s rock hard buttocks. They quivered as his rubbed.

Ready once more he lifted the heavy paddle and whacked it down five more times without pause. Rat-a-tat-tat, it sounded like machinegun fire. Craig screwed up his face, the pain was immense, his heart raced, blood pounded his ears, his arse was on fire. Pain travelled up and down his legs and then to all parts of his body.

Rev. Crick waddled to his desk and slipped the paddle back into the still-open drawer. He turned and admired the sight of the teenager who was still holding his ankles. He was a very fit lad, he thought. Very fit indeed. Oh how he would enjoy working with the boy over the next three years.

“You may stand.” Gingerly, Craig stood and then bent again so he could pull his jeans up tot their rightful place. His face burned but nowhere near as much as his bum. He desperately wanted to give himself a good rub, but that would have to wait. He wouldn’t give the vicar the satisfaction knowing he had hurt him.

“You may go now,” the vicar almost whispered. Craig did not need telling twice, he sped from the study leaving his coat on the vicar’s desk. Crick tutted to himself, reached into his jacket pocket and found cigarettes and matches. Within seconds he took a deep drag of tobacco. He waddled over to an armchair and fell into it. Puffing heavily on the cigarette he recalled in his mind the past few minutes. A caning and a paddling, what a perfect afternoon, he thought as he blew smoke at the ceiling.

Picture credit: Unknown

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charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Toby’s Father Visits

z used drawing belt hold (1)

Toby got out of bed early; there was no need to as his father wasn’t due for another two hours, but he had found it impossible to sleep.

He hadn’t seen father since he arrived back at university more than two months ago, but now he was making a special trip to visit his son to “talk about” the mid-term results.

Toby was in the second semester of his first year and things were not going well. He had scraped through the exams last semester and was heading for failure in this.

Toby knew he had screwed up at uni. He had been distracted by his new life of independence and had spent too much time in clubs and bars, making new friends. He had completely neglected his studies and even stopped going to church. Of all the sins he had committed since coming to the university, this was the one he most definitely didn’t want his father to discover.

Independence was something so alien to Toby that he had embraced it like a caged bird set free. He had even moved out of the safety and security of the university halls of residence to share a house in a dilapidated part of town with three guys on his course. His father had not approved and had forbidden Toby to move, but the teenager defied him.

Toby set about making breakfast, but once he had poured the milk on his cornflakes, he realised he had no appetite. He looked at the clock, one-and-a-half hours to go. The house was quiet, his housemates were, he assumed, fast asleep; that is if they were in their beds at all. Yesterday was Friday and the boys had gone clubbing. Usually, Toby would have been with them, but the gloom he felt over his father’s impending visit was inescapable so he gave it a miss.

Perhaps the guys had gotten “lucky” and stayed the night with a girl. He hoped so; he didn’t want them around when father visited. It would be humiliating enough without having them as witnesses.

Toby looked around at the mess in the kitchen. The sink was piled high with unwashed pots and crockery. Father had told him he would end up living in squalor if he moved into the house. Like, in most things, Toby conceded to himself, his father was right. It had been a struggle since moving in: none of the boys were interested in keeping the house tidy.

Toby set about cleaning the kitchen and the front room. He even made a valiant attempt to scrape the grime off the hand basin and shower. He didn’t want to give his father the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” It also helped to kill the time before father arrived.

With fifteen minutes to go before the dreaded time, Toby heard a key in the lock of the front door and Josh entered. He was unshaven and looked like he might have slept in a hedge last night.

“Yo! Toby!” The greeting was so effusive Toby knew immediately that Josh had “scored” last night.

“Hi! Man!” Toby tried to sound delighted to see his friend, but inside he was deflated: he had hoped he would have the house to himself.

“I’m going for a shower, then I’m having a kip.” Good, thought Toby, at least he’ll be out of the way.

Minutes later his other two housemates arrived home. Oh Christ! It’s a full house. Ravenous, they set about making breakfast, undoing all Toby’s efforts at tidiness.

Then there was a knock at the door. It has his father.

Toby had been too embarrassed about the visit to tell his housemates that his father was coming. Only now he realised that if he had confided in them they would have made themselves scarce for the duration. He wouldn’t have told them everything, of course. That would be too humiliating; he would just say that “dad” was coming and they would get the point. He never called his father “dad” but it would sound better with the guys. They didn’t talk much about their parents, but Toby supposed none of the other guys had one quite like his own.

To say his father maintained standards would be to under-state the situation. There were rules for everything; when you got up in the morning, when you went to bed at night, when you did your homework, no watching of television (not even at friends’ houses), no “pop” music. His father lived by the Bible and made sure his entire family did as well.

Toby was very well acquainted that bit about “spare the rod.” His father believed in complete obedience and the penalty for straying was always a beating. When he was very young he would find himself across his father’s knee, shorts and pants down, getting his bare bottom soundly spanked. Father soon graduated from hand spanks to the bedroom slipper. Toby learned quickly to obey father at all times.

But, as he got older, Toby found it more difficult to stick to his father’s harsh regime. Secretly, he developed a love of modern music, but he dared not bring it into his father’s house. He would sneak to friends’ houses to listen to it at full volume. He was in ecstasy. He was amazed at his friends’ parents for allowing this to happen, although sometimes they would roll their eyes and laugh, “Call this music. It doesn’t even have a tune.”

If his father had discovered Toby’s illicit pleasure, he would have thrashed the living daylights out of him.

Toby had only managed to pass his school exams and make it to university because father ordered him to do his homework each night. It had to be completed by 9pm and father would inspect to see that it was. He would also check Toby’s grades and there were beatings when they fell.

He opened the door and let his father into the house. Even before Toby could say “Hello” his father rebuked him about the house. “I told you not to move here. This place is a dump, the district is full of drug addicts and prostitutes. It is Sodom and Gomorrah!”

He made no attempt to be conciliatory with his, now adult, son. All he cared was that his own flesh and blood had disobeyed him and he wanted vengeance.

Quaking, Toby led his father into the front room. It was next to the kitchen and he knew his two friends would hear them.

For five minutes his father harangued him for his failings; the poor grades; the lifestyle; for letting his family and God down.

In truth, Toby knew this already. He was ashamed that he had let himself down since arriving at university. He knew that he had been weak-willed and spent too much time in self-indulgent pleasure-seeking when he should have been studying hard. Yes, he had disappointed his mother and father.

But, at the same time, he was also discovering himself, trying to work out who he was and what sort of person he could become. It was called growing up and he could not become an adult without making mistakes.

He knew also that father believed it was his duty to God to correct him.

His father had finished haranguing him and there was silence. Toby had hardly said a word: he knew his father did not want him to defend his actions; his part in this little drama was to accept unconditionally the word of his father.

Toby could hear the excited voices of his housemates in the kitchen; they seemed to be in exceptionally jolly moods.

“Can we please do this upstairs, father?” there was pleading in Toby’s voice. His father had also heard the voices and immediately understood his son’s predicament. He ignored the plea, said nothing, and slowly unbuckled his belt.

He looked around the small room, searching for a suitable spot. “Stand by that table.” By now he had withdrawn his thick, wide, leather belt and doubled it over.

“Take down your jeans and underwear and bend over the table.”

His father said a silent prayer as he watched the teenager disrobe and bend forward placing his elbows on the Formica-topped table.

“Right over! Flat on your stomach.” Toby shifted his position. “Now, take hold of the table legs.”

Toby obeyed.

His father took two previously prepared pieces of twine from his pocket and tied the boy’s hands to the table. Now, Toby was at his father’s mercy, but no clemency would be shown today.

“Legs further apart!” Toby wriggled a little until his father was satisfied.

Toby lay still, unable to prevent his father’s preparations. The man adjusted the boy’s shirt and pullover, rolling them up until he was naked from the shoulder blades to his ankles.

Satisfied, he raised the belt high and lashed it down with considerable force into Toby’s backside, immediately creating a sunset stripe across both cheeks.

Toby had a high tolerance of pain and remained motionless.

SNAP! Another lash fell, echoing around the small room. In the kitchen the two boys stopped laughing and stared at each other in puzzlement.

WHACK! Toby willed himself not to kick out. He stayed bent over, holding his bottom in place so that his father could lash his buttocks over and over.

WHOOSH! And his father did so, swinging the belt down hard across the top of the boy’s thighs. Involuntarily, Toby’s legs stomped the ground as the agony shot down his legs, but it didn’t relieve the pain and belt didn’t stop; it continued to strike his teenage bottom.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! His father was thrashing his son like never before.

Toby felt the force of the blows sending waves of pain flowing through his bottom, both cheeks shaking with the impact. His resolve to take the belt whipping stoically failed and he yelled.

Next door, Tom and Matt, startled, looked at each other. Without speaking they agreed they should not intervene.

In the front room his father was frenzied as the belt rose and fell, rose and fell and rose again. Toby was in pure agony as lash after lash bit deep into his fleshy globes. His knuckles had long ago turned white as he gripped the table legs for dear life.

Toby’s pain was more than anything he’d ever felt before: none of the past whippings compared. He wanted to push himself away from the table, turn around and grab his father’s arm and stop the pain, but the ties on his hands prevented this. Despite the intense agony that was pulsating through his body, he knew he had no option but to take whatever his father dished out.

Toby’s buttocks and thighs were a mass of welts, the belt had whipped into him so many times it was impossible to tell where one lash started and another finished. The boy was howling with the agony, but his father did not care, he whipped on and on: he was doing God’s work.

Toby was scarcely conscious; the throbbing in his buttocks had travelled down his legs, up his back and through his whole body. His sobbing choked him and he could hardly breathe; his heart was racing and any moment he feared it might give out.

His father raised and lowered the belt for a further onslaught on the boy’s buttocks when the door burst open and Tom and Matt rushed in. Tom made a grab for the belt and was rewarded with a slash across his face. He recoiled doubled over in pain. Toby’s father slashed the belt down across Tom’s back just as Matt, sizing up the situation, delivered a hard kick in between the man’s legs. Now, it was his turn to double up in agony.

At that moment Josh entered the room eager to see what all the commotion was. Horrified, he saw his dear friend Toby, tied across the table, half naked, with his flesh ripped to shreds.

Josh untied Toby and helped him rise from the table. Unable to stand, Toby fell into his arms.

Toby’s father was now cowering on the ground, trying to protect himself as Matt and Tom rained kicks all over his body. Distracted by Josh’s arrival, they stopped their assault allowing Toby’s father to run from the house.

The three friends helped Toby over to the couch and lay him face down. Matt winced at the sight before him. It looked like Toby had been assaulted all over his buttocks and thighs with a meat tenderiser.

Unbidden, Tom went to fetch a bowl of cold water and a flannel, then gently, affectionately, bathed the wounds.

Matt went to his room and found a tube of antiseptic cream, Un-self-consciously, he squeezed out a globule onto his fingers and massaged it gently into his friend’s throbbing arse.

Toby’s father sat in his car, his ribs ached terribly. He thought one might be broken. He realised he had left his belt at the house, but there was no way he was going to go back for it.

After a while, he felt well enough to drive away, not realising this would be the last time he would ever see Toby again.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in November 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The Decorator

new story 2

z used otk pants painter and decorator sting

Times were hard for youngsters back then. People just assumed that we were lazy dossers. There were no jobs but that was apparently our fault. They slashed the benefits as an ‘incentive’ to get back to work. There was no minimum wage either – we were paid a pittance.

But it was that or nothing. Take a job; any job. My dad knew a feller who knew a feller and I ended up as a painter and decorator’s labourer – about as unskilled as it got. It didn’t matter that I had stayed on at school and got my qualifications. I could’ve gone to university, but after Brexit and the UK left the EU the country went broke and half of them closed down.

So they stuck a paintbrush in my hand and told me to get on with it. Actually, don’t breathe a word of this t the painters and decorators federation but it doesn’t take much nous to paint a wall. I did a few other thoings as well – fetching and carrying, making the tea, you know the kind of thing.

I didn’t realise it at first but Mr Brewster (my boss, or do I mean slave owner?) loved to order people about. “Do this! Do that! Come here! Go there!” he barked commands all day long. There was no need for it really, most of the time there were only the two of us there. A little bit of civility on his part wouldn’t have come amiss.

I had been working with him for a couple of months when it happened. We had a job in a suburb of Brocklehurst, the town where I lived at the time. In a house in a place called The Avenue, they were right posh places; mansions most of them. We had a job to redecorate before the new owner moved in. It was quite a trek out from the flat I shared with six other kids. I had a rickety old bicycle (the public transport fares were sky high and the buses hardly ever ran) and I set off in the cold drizzle. I would’ve arrived on time (honest, guv!) but halfway down the Goldstone Road I got a puncture.

Back at the house Mr Brewster and the houseowner must have had a high old time winding each other up. “Kids today! Totally unreliable. You tell them to turn up at half-eight and look at the time now, twenty-to-nine.”

“In my day we were never late. Took pride in our work.” Etcetera, etcetera.

“What he needs is a jolly good spanking!”

I wasn’t there to overhear the conversation, of course. I was still pushing my bike in the rain, but I can accurately surmise that’s what they said, because by the time I rocked up half an hour later they were ready for action.

After all these years I can still remember the name of the guy at The Avenue, but I’ll just call him Mr Smith. So, Mr Smith and my guvnor are waiting for me, faces like thunder. “Vince,” Mr Brewster starts off, “What time do you call this!” It wasn’t really a question, so I kept my mouth shut. There was no point being a smartarse and carefully checking my watch and saying back to him “Quarter past nine, Mr Brewster.”

Mr Smith, an elderly man well into his sixties I would estimate, paced the empty room muttering to himself, while my boss went on and on about what a lazy unreliable waste of space I was. Mr Smith joined in by nodding his head vigorously. There was no doubt the pair of them were on the same page when it came to the extent of my crime.

“Not good enough Vince, not good enough …..” Mr Brewster trailed off, he had run out of insults to hurl at me.

There was an uncomfortable silence. I stared down at my crocs, every inch the naughty little boy being scolded by teacher. The silence was burst by Mr Smith, “Well get on with it Brewster!” The old man shrieked. My boss was not an imposing man even though he liked to order me about. I don’t suppose he was more than forty and he was no taller than me. He was a bit heavier and had a paunch here his waist ought to be.

He cleared his throat. “You will have to be spanked, Vince.” I don’t remember saying anything but the look of astonishment on my face must have told him what I was thinking, because he hurriedly added, “Mr Smith insists on it.”

The owner had left the room and wasn’t present to confirm my boss’s assertion. I was silent but my brain was working overtime. I could have punched Brewster in the nose and legged it, of course, but it wasn’t much of an option. I would have lost my job and in all probability ended up in court.

I said at the start that youngsters back then had it bad. That might have been an understatement. After years without it they had reintroduced corporal punishment into schools and even extended it to colleges and universities. If that wasn’t bad enough the courts could cane anyone under the age of thirty.  Hardly a week went by that you didn’t see a story in the local paper about someone or another up before the beak on some minor matter getting a fine and “six lashes on the bare buttocks”. Those words “lashes on the bare buttocks” tripped off the tongues of magistrates up and down the country, with a little too much relish if you ask me.

My thoughts were interrupted by Mr Smith’s return. I heard him wheezing before I actually saw him. He ignored me completely and addressed Mr Brewster, “Here you should use this.” In his hand he had what looked to me (in my naiveite) like a small chopping block. It was a small rectangle of wood not much bigger than a paperback book (remember those?) with a handle at one end. He handed it to Mr Brewster who proceeded to pat it against his left palm, testing its wright.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the thing. It had once been coated in varnish but that had worn off along one side of what I suppose you call the blade.

“Get on with it man!” Mr Smith was showing his impatience. No more was said between the two men and it was evident to me then that they had discussed this in advance because at that moment I noticed that in the centre of the otherwise empty room a couple of boxes had been piled together and covered over with a tarpaulin. My boss handed the wood back to Mr Smith and sat himself down. He spread his legs and looked across at me. Without quite catching my eye, he spoke quietly. “We want you to take down your trousers and bend over my knee.”

So there I was, eighteen years old, nearly nineteen come to think of it, being ordered to lower his trousers and to submit himself across the knee of an older man for a spanking while another bloke watched. Can you imagine such a thing?

Despite the new corporal punishment regime in the country I had never been spanked, nor caned or slippered. I was if you like a spanking virgin. Even so, like all virgins I had a good general idea of how this was done. It happened many years ago but I think I remember correctly that quite quickly I resigned myself to my fate. I simply had no choice.

I could feel Mr Smith’s hot breath on the back of my neck; he was wheezing harder than ever. “Quickly,” he coughed, “we haven’t got all day. You have work to do.”

Mr Brewster nodded his agreement. I closed my eyes took a deep breath and unclipped the front of my overalls. I don’t suppose decorator’s overalls have changed in a hundred years. Mine were made of heavy cotton and because I sweated a lot when I wore then I didn’t have trousers on underneath. I got them loosened and the weight sent them crashing to my feet (rather like clown’s trousers do). I stood in front of Mr Brewster; he spread his legs wide, offering me his right thigh to bend across. He wore cheap jeans that were just a bit too tight for him and they emphasised his bony legs.

My heart thumped, I couldn’t see it but I was pretty certain my face glowed bright pink. I was very conscious that I was standing with my trousers at my ankles, now wearing only my underpants and t-shirt. Mr Brewster tapped his right thigh. It was his signal to me, “Bend over,” it said. I took a deep breath. How was this done exactly? I let my instinct take over. I leaned forward putting my two arms out ahead of me and lowered myself. I rested my stomach on his thigh and placed both my palms squarely on the floor. Even after all this time I remember my face was only centimetres from the paint-splashed floor.

I waited for Mr Brewster’s next move. It seemed like an eternity. Perspiration was running down my back, my boss took hold of the end of my t-shirt and pushed it away from the target area. I could feel my tight cotton briefs clinging to my buttocks. I felt incredibly vulnerable. Well, what a stupid thing for me to say. Of course I was vulnerable, that was the whole point. I was being forced to offer up my backside to Mr Brewster so he could whack it with his wooden paddle, and all the time Mr Smith was standing by to get a close-up view of the action.

I heard Mr Smith shuffle across the bare floor. “Take down his pants, they really aren’t much use at a time like this.” Mr Brewster gipped the elasticated waist of my briefs. I wriggled my hips in protest. He slapped the palm of his hand across my right buttock. “Keep still.” I raised my head to protest and saw Mr Smith advancing. He was ready to grab by shoulders and pin me down. “Sod it!” I said to myself. I settled down, I got the picture. Come what may I was getting my arse whipped. I had no choice. I had to take it. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of wailing and howling.

Mr Brewster took hold of my pants and slowly slipped them down over my cheeks. I raised my crotch off his knee so he could slide them all the way to my ankles. It was my way of saying, “Go on! Do your worst.” I lay there bare-arsed. I had quite a good bum in those days; at least that’s what the guys at the rugby club told me in the showers after matches.

I saw Mr Smith hand over the paddle and seconds later I felt it tap-tap-tapping into my right buttock. Then, it was gone only to return at tremendous force. The whack! echoed around the empty room and so did the sound of air escaping my clenched lips. OMG! That hurt. That hurt a lot. I kicked my legs and felt my feet entangled in my overalls. Mr Brewster pushed his left hand into the small of my back; it felt clammy. He raised the paddle and brought it down with equal force on my left cheek. Now, I had two dark pink blotches across my bum. Without waiting for the pain to sink in, he set about assaulting my bum, whack-whack-whack. My head rose and fell, my hips swivelled my arms flailed. I was out of control; all reflex actions, my body’s way of trying to protect itself from the intense pain I was feeling.

My bum was on fire, the heat intensifying with every wallop that landed. My body gyrated and humped up and down on Mr Brewster’s knee. The pounding went on and on, I didn’t need to rub my fingers across it to know that it had the consistency of leather. This was one hell of a spanking.

My temples throbbed almost as much as my backside, blood was rushing though my arteries, any moment now I feared I would have a stroke. I couldn’t catch my breath. I was going to die. I couldn’t see him but I could hear Mr Smith was sounded just as bad. His wheezing had become a full out dry hacking cough.

Mr Brewster had the strength of an ox. He just kept on pounding his wooden paddle. No square centimetre of flesh was left un-roasted from the top of the curves near my spine, over the mounds themselves and into the very tender undersides where the bum meets the thighs. The heat of this bare-arsed paddling spread to my loins. My dick was raging. My body humped up and down, up and down over my boss’s knee. “No, no, no!” I shrieked. But, there was no stopping it. I shot my load. It must have taken ten seconds (It felt like a lot longer) before I lay breathless and panting across Mr Brewster’s soaked leg.

He stopped his spanking, let out a shriek and pushed me off his lap onto the floor, where I lay for some time panting, gasping for air and whimpering like a beached dolphin. Mr Brewster rushed from the room, “Look what he’s done!” Mr Smith was nowhere to be seen.

I worked for Mr Brewster for five more weeks until I found a job flipping burgers. We didn’t see each other after that. But I made sure that I saw Mr Smith every Saturday.

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