That Connor Kid

z used solo defiant connor kid (2)

“War..warr’s going on?” Lars Alexanderson woke from his sleep with a start.

“What time is it?”

From the street outside his bedroom music was blaring rock-stadium loud.

“What is it?” His wife Ingrid was awake now.

“It’s that goddam Connor kid. What time is it?”

Ingrid switched on the bedside lamp.

“Nearly two o’clock. This is the third time this week.”

In at least three other houses in the street middle-aged couples were having similar conversations.

That Connor kid was out of control, they all said. Something had to be done.

Rip Connor, switched off the engine of his Chevy, silencing the music system in the car. Unsteadily, he opened the car door and staggered to his house. After a minute or two fumbling, he found his house key and after a bit more effort, he located the lock, opened the door and lurched inside.

Peace once again reigned in the street.

Rip Connor was a menace. He was way out of control. All the neighbours agreed. But what could they do?

Rip was nineteen years old, going on twenty. His father had left home for another dame years ago and his mother, a career woman, was now working in corporate finance in Hong Kong, leaving Rip alone in the family house.

And the teen loved every minute of it. In theory he was attending a business college, but in reality he was partying his life away. Most nights he hit the bars and clubs and when he wasn’t doing that he had “friends” over to the house.

The neighbours thought they lived in a quiet, respectable, street. They had experienced nothing like it before.

“Something must be done. We can’t go on living like this,” Mr Alexanderson told his next door neighbour, Mr Handsson, later that morning.

“Yes, it should,” the neighbour agreed.

“But what?” Alexanderson seemed genuinely at a loss and he trudged away to complain to more of his neighbors.

Handsson knew exactly what the boy needed. If any of his sons dared stay out late, got drunk and then woke up the neighbours; he would blister their butts. And, he had the perfect tool to do it with.

Just ask his son Soren. The boy was eighteen years old the last time his father dealt with him. It was his “attitude,” of course. Soren had forgotten his father was head of the household, not himself. Soren disobeyed the rules; did not complete his chores and then (fatally) missed his 10.30 pm curfew.

That was enough. Handsson’s house did not have an actual woodshed, but Soren was at least figuratively-speaking taken to the woodshed.

It was in fact a small storage area in the basement; just off the utility room. The Handsson’s didn’t use it for much else, except as a punishment room. An old worn razor strop (it had been in the family for generations) hung from a specially inserted hook on the wall, alongside an authentic school paddle.

Handsson had constructed a platform from wooden crates piled on top of each other and covered with canvas sheeting. It made an ideal spanking horse; its height could be adjusted with more or fewer crates to accommodate the size any one of his four sons.

Soren was a tall boy, but still growing: his poppa had to pile up four crates to create a spanking horse to fit him.

Corporal punishment was used frequently in the Handsson household. All his boys had suffered it and as far as Poppa Handsson was concerned they would all be subjected to it until the day they left his home: no matter what their age.

Soren knew he had screwed up. He didn’t know why he constantly argued with his parents. Somehow, in a way he didn’t understand, he just couldn’t help himself. The missed curfew was another matter. He did mean that. He had met this girl and he thought he was in with a chance of something. Of course, he was wrong. Dejected, he trudged home, sexually frustrated, to face his poppa’s wrath and the razor strop.

There was a ritual when Poppa Handsson spanked his boys. He would lecture them a little and they would apologise profusely and promise that they would never do it again.

Then he humiliated them. It was simple really. They had to humbly ask him to remove their pants and underwear from them and “thrash me to make me a better person.”

Soren hated that part. It was so creepy. He knew his friends were also spanked at home, but none of them had a special “punishment room” in the basement, and as far as he knew they weren’t made to beg for a thrashing. For them, it was pretty straight-forward. Their mad dad unceremoniously took them across his knee (or couch, or table) and whacked their ass with (usually) a paddle. End of story.

Soren was a very experienced receiver of corporal punishment and by the age of eighteen had a very high threshold of pain. That didn’t mean the whippings didn’t hurt: they did. But, he had developed a coping mechanism and most times he father lashed him with the leather strop he managed to stay reasonably quiet and absorb the pain.

This time he thought of Helen, the girl who had made him miss curfew. He conjured up the sight of her in his mind: her beautiful blonde hair; her clear skin and her pert breasts. He hoped by concentrating on something pleasant the agony of the lash would not be so bad.

Obediently, he bent across the punishment horse. His head and arms dangled on one side and his legs stretched on tip-toes on the other. His naked buttocks, covered by downy, almost invisible, blond hair rested submissively across the top of the chests.

He thought of Helen and what he would like her to do to him. To his horror his penis stood to attention. His face blushed scarlet and he prayed his poppa would not notice. God forbid that he should think this whipping turned him on.

Handsson stroked the heavy worn leather strap in his two hands; getting the measure of the weapon that would in a moment take his son’s butt off. He stepped back a little and rested the razor strop on the curves of the boy’s cheeks; in the centre where there was most flesh. The boy was no athlete, but he was trim, with little unnecessary body fat.

Satisfied with his aim, Handsson pulled the strop up and rested it across his own shoulder. Then the thick broad heavy leather strap curled itself viciously over the exposed buttocks.

Soren sucked in breath. It had hurt like crazy and any boy with less experience receiving corporal punishment would have yelled the basement down, leapt from the punishment horse and fled the room.

Soren’s breathing was heavy but he made no sound, even though his fingers gripped at the rough canvas covering the chests.

Stepping back his poppa struck again. Still Soren absorbed the pain. He wanted to bawl loudly but he would not give poppa the satisfaction of seeing his hurt.

Handsson was no fool. He had lost count of the number of times he had beaten his sons over the years. He was no stranger to the lash himself; his own father and grandfather were enthusiastic spankers. Handsson knew young Soren was in agony; but was too brave to show it. He rather admired his son for that.

He lashed the next stroke as hard as he could, thinking of all the wicked things his son had done. This gave Handsson the strength to apply the leather with as much strength as he could.

Soren took twelve lashes without an outward murmur. It was over. Another whipping delivered and received.

Gingerly, he lifted himself from the punishment horse; his dick was aching as much as his buttocks. Hurriedly, he turned his back away from his poppa and pulled up his pants and underwear. His buttock cheeks felt like they were made of leather. He could not be certain, but he thought he could feel blood seeping from wounds.

Later, in the privacy of his bedroom, Soren inspected the damage. His butt was fifty shades of red from just below the top of the crack to where it met the thighs. He could clearly see some of the individual strap marks.

Soren lay on his bed, face down. The thought of Helen’s hair and face and breasts haunted him. His penis refused to fall. In agony he reached into his bedside cabinet and extracted a handkerchief.

Handsson knew without a doubt that Rip Connor needed some butt pain. The boy was running wild; his father had left a long time ago and his mother seemed not to care. But, Handsson wanted to believe, because he had always liked Mrs Connor, perhaps she did not know about her son’s bad behavior.

Even if she did; there was nothing she could do about it; how would she be able to force a nineteen-year-old youth over her knee for the darned good spanking he so richly deserved?

Handsson was contemplating this when there was a knock on his door. It was three of his neighbours.

“Can we come in?” Lars Alexanderson asked, and entered without waiting for a reply.

“We’ve come about the Connor kid. We’ve all had enough.”

It seemed Lars was the spokesperson for the group. They had been talking about the boy and his bad behavior. The night-time disturbances were too much. He was selfish and destructive. Something must be done about it.

“OK,” Handsson replied, “What exactly do you think we should do?”

He rather hoped they had come to the same conclusion as he: blister the boy’s butt. But they hadn’t. Not yet at least.

“We should go over to his house together and tell him this behaviour must stop,” Lars told him.

Reluctantly, Handsson agreed to join them on a visit to the boy.

Five minutes later they were knocking at the door. It was another five minutes before Rip, bleary-eyed and unwashed, inched open the door.

What he saw was four of his neighbours, middle-aged, balding, thickening around the waist.

“Warr..?” His head ached from too much booze and partying.

The conversation was over in seconds. Lars Alexanderson tried to be polite.

“It’s about your behavior,” he stumbled, unsure how to put it. ”You are coming home too late …”

Rip Connor’s pale face pinkened slightly. What! Who were they to tell him what to do? Who did they think they were? He hated these sanctimonious Swedes, with their perfect kids, always getting high grades at school.

He said none of this out loud. Instead, he simply said, “Fuck off!” and slammed the door in their faces.

The neighbors regrouped at Handsson’s house. Over tea and much muttering about how disgraceful the lout was they hatched a plan.

It was Handsson’s idea mainly. But they all agreed. Yes, if Connor were any of their sons (or daughters even) they would do the same thing.

Rip Connor never knew a thing.

Minutes later the neighbors were back hammering on his front door. The teenager poked his head from behind the curtains of his bedroom window and recognising his tormentors he pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of sweat pants and rushed downstairs.

He flew open the door ready to give some verbal abuse to the old-timers in his front yard.

But before he had even opened his mouth Lars put a meal sack over his head. Blinded and disorientated Rip could do nothing except allow himself to be dragged twenty yards across the street and into Handsson’s house.

The sack was removed from his head when they were safely in the basement punishment room.

Rip Connor gave them a stream of abuse. He called his neighbors every name under the sun and then some.

They let him get on with it. Let him shout and scream all he wanted. Handsson knew the basement was sound proof: nobody would hear a thing.

Eventually, he paused. Spent. He had no more breath to curse them with. Then, wearily he surveyed the room. The canvas-covered crates, the paddle and strop hanging from the wall: what was this place?

His heart raced as the truth sank in. Paddle. Strap. It could mean only one thing.

It had been Handsson’s idea originally, but Lars Alexanderson was now in control.

Calmly, he tore into Rip Connor. Every last misdeed was recounted: the late nights, the noise the partying. All of these were bad enough, Alexanderson said. But all that misbehaviour had been topped by his foul language to them early that morning.

“So, now you little brat,” he turned to Rip face on, “We are going to teach you a lesson.”

Rip’s worst fear was confirmed. He pushed past Alexanderson, but could not make it to the door. Four of his heavily-built neighbors had him trapped. Even in his hung-over state, Rip could have taken on one, even two, of them, but not all four together.

“But…” he blustered, not sure what he wanted to say. “You can’t …”

But they could. And they did.

Handsson and Alexanderson took an arm each and pulled Rip across the crates. It was a Titanic struggle at first. Rip’s fear gave him the strength of many men. But he stumbled as he was tugged by his neighbors and once he was face down across the canvas-topped punishment horse, he could go nowhere.

The two other neighbors held the boy down firmly while Handsson and Alexanderson released their grip. They had other roles to play in the drama that was unfolding.

Handsson crossed the room, reached up to the wall and removed the heavy paddle from its moorings.

As he did this Alexanderson approached Rip from behind, grabbed at the elasticated waist of his pants and tugged them tight, so they formed a wedgie, leaving no space between the cotton pants and his butt.

“No!!!” Rip wailed and struggled fiercely, but the two men held him forcibly down. He was going nowhere until they said so.

“Pah!”  Handsson snorted at Alexanderson. “What are you doing?”

Then, without a further word, Handsson grabbed the sweatpants and underwear and in one smooth movement pulled both down until they rested at Rip Connor’s shins. The boy kicked out in fury and caught Handsson squarely on the chest.

Alright he thought if that’s how you want it. Handsson rushed into the next-door utility room and returned seconds later with a length of rope. It took thirty seconds to securely tie Connors knees together. The lout would do no more kicking this morning.

Rip was terrified. These men now had him secured and tied, face down over the crates. His pants and underwear were at his feet and his ass was high, bare and exposed for anything they might want to do.

It was like a scene from a horror movie he had once seen. The cute young boy had been strip naked, held down and raped by four members of a rival gang.

Did his four portly neighbours have similar intent? The teenager screamed for help.

“Tut, tut,” Alexanderson said, as he calmly removed from his pocket a handkerchief which he stuffed into Connor’s mouth.

“Now shut up!”

Rip Connor could only gurgle his protest.

Handsson was first to go: after all it had been his idea. The paddle was about twenty inches long, four inches wide and three-quarters of an inch thick. Handsson knew it didn’t take many whacks with this wood to give a good spanking.

He took up position behind Connor who was still struggling, but he was pinned down so effectively he had no choice but to take his whipping.

The boy had a small waist, which emphasized the perfectly-shaped hemispheres of his bubble butt. Their unblemished creamy pale skin contrasted beautifully with his suntanned legs.

The first three swats with the paddle changed all this. Handsson gripped the handle with both hands, as if it were a baseball bat, arced it back over his right shoulder and brought it down with maximum force Bang! Bang! Bang!

Rip Connor’s whole body shook and he lifted an inch or two from the crates. But the strength of his two neighbors was too much and they forced his chest back into the canvas, squeezing all his breath from his lungs.

Three more swats crashed into Rip’s buttocks: two on the left cheek and one on the right. The six swats had covered every square inch of the boy’s beefy bottom and already purplish bruises were forming.

Handsson admired the six clearly defined marks on the lout’s ass: the outline of the paddle was clearly visible embossed into the once creamy-white buttocks.

He ignored the teenager’s muffled screams. He could not see from his vantage point at the rear, Rip’s scarlet face and blazing eyes.

Whack, whack whack! Another three.

Then another three.

A dozen mighty fierce swats were whipping the boys butt to shreds. And, it had only taken thirty seconds maximum.

Sweating profusely (there was little natural air in the punishment room and the physical exertion was taking its toll) Handsson bent double and rested his hands on his knees.

Tears flooded down Rip Connor’s face and salvia dribbled from his mouth. Every nerve in his body ached. His blood pressure was through the roof and his ears popped. He sucked in air desperately. Any moment, he feared he would have a heart attack.

“Here, let me.” Lars Alexanderson reached to his waist and in a smooth movement he had his belt unbuckled, through the loops of his pants, and doubled up in his right hand ready for action.

It was a heavy strap, not too thick and not so wide; but he knew from years of experience this little beauty could pack a punch. His own sons would testify for that.

When he spanked his own kids he demanded that they lay face down on the bed; pillows heaped up under their middle with their bared asses raised high. He stood more or less on top of the boy and only had to whip the belt down to inflict maximum pain.

Rip Connor was a different proposition. Alexanderson had to approach him from the side and get the belt to crash into his mounds from below. This was more difficult than he realised.

The first lash missed the teen’s butt completely and landed on the top of his thighs. Even with his mouth gagged, Rip let out a piercing scream.

Undeterred, Alexanderson repositioned. This time the belt landed right across the very center of both cheeks: a result.

Rip’s attempted shrieks were now low moans. How he hated these men. Never in his life had he been subjected to the total control of another person. He was completely at the mercy of his angry neighbors: not that they planned to show him any.

The belt lashed again and again into the increasingly bloodied cheeks.

Loud knocking on the front door distracted them. Someone had their finger pushed into the door-bell. Who was so anxious to get in?

“Better stop,”Handsson told his neighbour. “For now. Let me see who’s at the door.”

He found two young police officers.

“Good morning officers.” Handsson hoped the guilt he felt didn’t show on his face. He wasn’t feeling guilt about thrashing Connor, but he knew he and the neighbors had taken the law into their own hands.

“We have a report of a young man being kidnapped and brought into this house.”

Handsson was an honest man and without fuss took the two cops to the punishment room.

There they saw two men holding Connor face down across a punishment horse. A third man had a belt in his hand doubled up and ready for action.

Connor was gasping for breath. His buttocks were red raw and so bloodied they looked like raw hamburger meat. The backs of his thighs were marked with sunset stipes where the belt had lashed into them.

It was obvious what had happened.

One of the cops strode into the room, ready to break up the scene and arrest the men. Then he saw who it was showing his naked ass.

“Hey! It’s Rip Connor.”

He turned to his fellow cop. “Well, well. Rip Connor.”

Rip was well known to the two officers. They had lost count of the times they had moved him and his loutish friends on from street corners. Or picked them up drunk. Rip and his friends were always abusive.

“Oink, oink!” they would laugh making exaggerated pig noises. They knew there was very little the law could do about them. They were small beer. The brass at One Police Plaza and the judges didn’t want to be bothered with the likes of them. There were much bigger criminal fish to fry.

So, Rip got away with it all.

The two officers looked at one another. No word needed to be exchanged.

Office Brady smiled, “I don’t see anything happening here; do you Joe?”

“No,” his fellow officer agreed. “I don’t see nothing.”

Officer Brady had always wanted to beat the brat Connor on the bare ass; just as his own daddy would have done if he behaved like he did.

The two cops turned. As he made his way up the stairs, Officer Brady turned to Handsson. “Give him some for us.”

So, Handsson and the neighbors who always believed in obeying the police did exactly that.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Late Home From School

z used uniform short shorts (46)

I walk the streets slowly. It is nearly six o’clock and I am late home from school. Dad told me if that happened again he would take me over his knee with my trousers at my ankles and my underpants at my knees. I believe him.

It was detention. A few of us were mucking about in class. It was nothing really: but it was enough. After detention some of us hung out and smoked cigarettes. Now, I wish I hadn’t. If dad smells it on me I’ll get extra for sure.

Sometimes when I walk these streets people look at me hard. Who can blame them? I have a really distinctive school uniform. A bright blue blazer with yellow and white verticals stripes running through it. Dad says they don’t make blazers like that any longer. I have light grey short trousers; very smart with creases down the front and back so sharp you could cut your finger on them. My long grey socks with red toppings come up to my knees, but the short trousers are properly short and there are inches of bare leg on show. This is November and almost winter so it’s not really the weather to be out at night in short trousers. My legs could turn blue if I’m not careful. My bright scarlet school cap sits tightly on my head: at least that’s warm.

I turn the corner into The Avenue. The lights are on at Number sixteen. Dad is at home: waiting.

Dad has never spanked me on the bare. I wonder what it will be like. It was bad enough last time, just on the underpants. Dad has this leather paddle that he uses. It’s not much bigger than a hairbrush really and it’s really bendy. To look at it you wouldn’t think it could do much damage; but Wow! it ripped my buttocks to shreds, I can tell you.

It could be worse. My pal Wayne has a dad who uses a thick whippy cane on him. Bare arsed. Last time he got it he showed me the damage. Thick dark red cuts right across both cheeks. It took a week for them to clear and even longer for the bruises to go.

The Avenue is deserted. It’s too cold for people to be on the streets and it’s probably tea time for the kids in most of the houses. The Mickey Mouse watch on my wrist bleeps six o’clock as I raise my hand to the doorbell. I catch a glimpse of the old biddy across the road in number forty-two peering behind lace curtains, minding everybody’s business but her own.

Within seconds the door opens. “Where have you been, do you know what time it is,” dad says and clips me around the back of the head. “Get in here,” he walks into the front room and since I know how this is going to play out, I follow him.

When dad deals with me there is a set routine. He spends ever such a long time berating me for my misdeeds. I am “irresponsible,” “undependable,” “foolish,” “thoughtless” and much else besides. He tells me he warned me before what would happen if I am late home again.

Everything he tells me is true. This is not the first time I have been late and it will not be the first time he has spanked me because of it. I tell him about the detention and he goes ballistic. I decide not to fess up to the smoking as well.

“Stand there,” he points to a corner of the room. “Put your hands on your head and think about how naughty you have been.”

I shuffle across the room and stand a couple of feet away from the wall.

“Closer,” dad barks, “Get your nose right into the corner.”

It is not easy to stand right in the corner with your nose against it and at the same time have your hands on your head; there’s nowhere for your elbows to go.

“Alright,” dad concedes, “Put your nose in the corner and your hands behind your back.”

Comfortable, at last, I stand with my nose pressed against the wallpaper. I do not think about how naughty I have been as dad instructed. I can’t help thinking about how sore I am going to be when dad spanks me bare-arsed for the first time.

I cannot see him, but I am pretty sure dad is sitting in his favourite armchair, just staring at me. I suppose it is his way of making me stew. When you are a naughty boy standing in the corner waiting to be spanked you lose track of time. I don’t know if I was there for thirty seconds or ten minutes.

Eventually, I hear a movement. It is dad getting ready. He picks up a dining room chair and I hear him put it in the centre of the carpet.

“Turn round and face me,” it is a curt command. I obey instantly. “Put your hands on your head.”

I face him and watch as he makes further preparations. In his hand he already has the leather paddle he intends to use on my bare bottom. Carefully, he sits himself on the chair and spreads his knees by two feet or so. He is not a pretty sight. He is running to fat and because of this he sweats a lot, even in the cold weather. He would be almost completely bald, except he grows what little hair he has in long strands so that he can comb it over. His face is ruddy and in need of a decent shave. I suppose he has been at work all day because he really needs a shower.

Without a further word, he reaches forward and with his right hand takes hold of the waistband of my short trousers and pulls me forward. I am off balance and stumble until I am standing close by his right leg. Then with both hands he undoes my top button and the other four that make up the flies of my short trousers. I still have my hands on my head and submissively I let him do this.

With the top of my trousers open it is easy for him to guide them over my thighs and past my knees so they make a puddle at my feet. I feel myself blushing. I know the next stage will be the removal of my white Y-front underpants. Suddenly, I panic; I do not want dad to see my private parts. But I have no choice. Unless, I am going to grab my short trousers, pull them up and flee from the room I have no choice but to let him have his way.

Slowly, ever so slowly (he appears to be enjoying himself very much), he puts his hands either side of my pants, pinches the cloth and gently guides them down over my hips until they rest at my knees. I see he pretends not to notice my privates, but he is having a good look.

I stand there still in my school blazer, but now naked from my waist to my knees. My hands remain on my head. Dad is wheezing a little and for the first time tonight I pick up the faint odour of beer on his breath.

“Right!” he slaps his right thigh, “Bend over my knee.”

The first ever time he ordered me to do this I didn’t know how to do it. It might seem simple enough, but there are many different ways to achieve this position. You can dive across both knees and land on the far side without actually touching your dad. Or, you can rest your hands on his knees and lower yourself over and then once you are staring at the carpet you adjust your bum so that it where it needs to be. Or, there are many ways between these two options.

I find it easier to stretch across dad’s knees and then lower myself down. That’s what I do now. Within seconds, I am over his lap with both of my palms pressed into the carpet, my knees bent a little and my toes an inch or so off the ground. My bum is high over his right thigh and although I have never been able to actually see what I look like in this position I do know that it gives dad all the room he needs to bring his leather paddle crashing down into my arse.

Dad doesn’t like me to make a fuss. He wants me to lie over his knee and take what he thinks I deserve. Of course, it’s not always possible to take a spanking quietly.  I have been known to gasp and yelp a little and last time, when I got it on the pants, my eyes were moist and my nose was running by the time he finished toasting me.

He tugs at my blazer and pushes it up my back by a few inches while I wait patiently for my first-ever bare-bottomed spanking from dad to begin. I can feel his rough hand tracing the contours of my globes. He rests it for a while on the undercurve of my right cheek, just where it meets with the back of the leg. Then I feel him lift his hand away and immediately bring it crashing down at some force across the centre of my buttock. Then he slaps the left cheek, then the right. He is spanking me with the palm of his hand, rapidly and with some force. It hurts much more than I expected. There is no let-up, smack, smack, smack: on and on he goes, all over both buttocks and across the back of my legs.

It hurts; in fact it hurts a great deal, but it is not agony. I have had worse. I stare down at the orange-and-yellow-patterned carpet and wonder how much longer this will go on for. Outside the window I hear a car draw up. It is the next door neighbour coming home from work. For the first time since going over dad’s knee I feel acute embarrassment: what if the neighbour can hear me being spanked.

If dad had heard the neighbour he didn’t let it deter him from his mission. The hand spanks rain down harder and faster.

Suddenly they stop. I feel a movement in his body and the pain starts again. This time it is more intense. He is whacking his leather paddle into my buttocks: over and over again on the same spot, right in the middle of the left cheek. I can’t count them all, they are coming too fast, but there must be dozens of them. Then he pauses before repeating it again, this time in the centre of my right cheek.

I am wriggling. I can’t help it. The pain is too much and my body is instinctively trying to get away from it. I thrash my legs about and turn my body from left to right as if I am trying to swim away off his lap. Dad grips me tightly around the waist with his left arm and pounds away, with even harder whacks. Will he ever tire of this?

I am gulping and although I know I am not supposed to I let out a series of “ouchs” and yelps. My lungs gulp in air and my breathing is harsh. Soon I am coughing my guts up.

On and on dad spanks me. He has not said a word since he took me over his knee and began pounding away. His breathing seems a little laboured now; perhaps we are getting near the end.

Or perhaps not. He pauses to regain his composure and then raises the leather paddle high and whacks my arse harder than he has done so far. My legs kick out behind me and without warning he smacks the paddle across the back of each leg. I scream. A real blood-curdling scream. If dad thought these slaps would stop me kicking about he was wrong. I have no control, I couldn’t stop kicking even if I wanted to.

My watch beeps six-thirty and as if on cue, dad stops spanking me. He releases his grip and I roll off his lap onto the carpet.

“Stand in the corner.” This time I don’t have to put my nose right in it. I stand panting for breath with my hands on my head and my back to dad.

I can hear him wheezing behind me. My buttocks are hot. I want to give them a rub, but I dare not do it; I don’t want to give dad the excuse to start all over again.

I wait as patiently as I can in the circumstances. Now the spanking is over I want to be out of there and quick.

Dad’s wheezing intensifies. I don’t know what he was doing behind me and instinctively reckon I don’t want to know either.

After maybe a minute the wheezing climaxes and I hear the door open and dad leave the room.

Gingerly I rub my bottom, there is no mirror in the room, but by twisting my body I get some view of my heavily bruised bottom. Both cheeks have a hard leathery coating. The back of my legs are red raw. I pull up my underpants and button up my short trousers. To my great distress I see the shorts do not cover all my injuries and everyone will see my legs have been spanked.

I hear dad run up the stairs, presumably to the bathroom. I wait a few moments before I go into the passageway and pick up the envelope he has left for me near the telephone. After checking its contents, I let myself out the front door.

It is freezing and about to rain. I must hurry back to my bedsitting room, change out of this school uniform and put on something warmer.

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 Smiling Boy

z used face by Cat Bounds (15)

Archie Louden knew the boy was trouble from the start and it would end in tears.

It was all the fault of that infatuated vicar. He had a scheme to help “deprived youngsters” and against his will and his better judgement Archie agreed to let the boy into his home.

He could do your cleaning, laundry, vacuuming and so on, the vicar had assured him. It annoyed Archie that the vicar thought he was a vulnerable person in need of the church’s assistance.

“This is Dean,” the vicar gushed, clearly smitten by the twenty-year-old man with the sparkling hazel eyes and dazzling smile he brought to Archie’s house.

“Deprived?” Archie, thought, a “villain” more like. He could smell it on the boy from a mile away. The boy, an expert manipulator, had the vicar wrapped around his little finger. It was the eyes and the smile that did it. It was a warm smile that could melt the iciest of hearts, Dean knew this: he had practised it often enough in reform school. The smile could sell a lot of toothpaste.

Archie lived in a large house; he had been alone since his divorce twenty years previously. He children were now grown up with kids of their own and Archie lived the life of a lonely bachelor.

It was not that he wanted to be alone; in fact he only went to church because of the widow across the street attended. Archie was not the least interested in religion and he did not need the church’s help in cleaning his house. If he did, he would employ a cleaning lady.

Dean worked hard on his “bubbly personality.” Unlike so many youngsters his age, he was completely free of tattoos, and kept himself clean and tidy. He had a certain working-class character that Archie recognised; he was very like the cheeky chappies who used to work at his catering business before he sold it off; they always had some scheme going on.

Right from the start, Dean came on to Archie. A rich old bachelor, he thought, ripe for the taking. Archie was no fool; he could see that Dean made every excuse to point his backside at him while he did the vacuuming and cleaning. His jeans were not tight, not even snug, but they fitted him well, Archie smiled to himself, Dean was trying a little too hard.

Later one night after dining in an expensive restaurant with the widow, Archie thumbed through the banknotes in his wallet. Something was not quite right; some money appeared to be missing, but he could not be sure. He was not a poor man and the money left in his wallet was more than enough to pay for the meals. Had he spent the money? Was he getting forgetful in his old age? He had been to the grocery store, the fishmonger and the greengrocer earlier in the day; perhaps he had spent more than he remembered.

Archie thought no more it until the next visit from Dean. Money went missing again. He was almost certain of it. After Dean’s third visit, Archie called the vicar. He had set a trap for the boy. Archie had counted the money in his wallet before Dean arrived and marked each banknote with a small cross in pencil just below the Queen’s chin.

Archie was furious. He confronted the interfering vicar. How many times had Dean stolen from people before? Had he stolen from poor people who could not afford it? Were they going without meals or heating because of this lout?

“You must search the boy quickly before he spends the money,” Archie demanded.

An hour later the vicar phoned back to confirm what Archie already knew: Dean had the marked notes in his pocket.

“I’m calling the police,” Archie said and he meant it. He had no sympathy for the boy and this numbskull vicar.

“Oh no, please don’t do that,” the vicar was almost begging. If Archie had thought about it for a moment he would realise the vicar was more interested in his own reputation, than the smiling boy. What would people think of him allowing criminals into the homes of vulnerable people?

“If not the police, what do you intend to do about it?”

The vicar had no answer.

Then Archie had a germ of an idea. Years ago when he was about Dean’s age Archie had stolen money from his uncle’s wallet. Missing money was discovered, accusations made and after many initial denials a confession was obtained.

What happened next stayed with Archie for the rest of his life. His uncle had ordered him to strip naked and then to lay face down across the dining room table. Then he tied Archie’s wrists to the table legs.

Then a cane was produced and his uncle lashed his bare buttocks until they bled. This was not a caning; the sort schoolmasters might inflict on misbehaving pupils, this was a terrible flogging.

Archie shuddered at the recollection. Where did his bachelor uncle get that cane from?

He knew he would not be allowed to beat Dean the way his uncle had flogged him, but the boy deserved a good hiding at the very least.

When he put the idea to the vicar, Archie was very surprised that he did not argue the point.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the vicar said meekly, before putting down the telephone.

The next day Dean and the vicar stood nervously in the living room of Archie’s house. Dean still flashed his ingratiating smile, perhaps believing that even at this last minute he could still melt Archie’s ice cold heart.

But in his own heart Dean knew he had to take a spanking. He had a criminal record as long as his arm and if the police discovered the number of times he had recently stolen from pensioners in their homes he would certainly go to prison.

Archie had made preparations. He had a utility brush with sharp metal bristles that builders had left behind after they made repairs to the roof.  It was heavy and large, the wooden back would be very effective indeed.

Archie had never spanked anyone before but he reckoned Dean was a big lad and the brush would not hurt him enough so he also must be humiliated. Just as his uncle had humiliated him more than forty years ago,

“Strip naked.”

Dean was not smiling now.

“But surely Mr Louden could it not just be on the seat of his trousers?” the vicar tried to intervene.

Archie’s derisive snort put an end to any argument.

Resigned to his fate, Dean slipped his t-shirt over his head; loosened the belt of his jeans and let them fall to his feet. Then he kicked off his trainers and jeans. Now he stood in just his white socks and green and yellow striped briefs.

He hesitated and flashed that smile one more time. Archie could be an imposing figure when he chose to be and one look from him was enough. Dean pulled his socks off and then reluctantly put his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and tugged them down to his ankles and stepped out of them.

Archie waited impassively and the vicar hoped no one noticed him sneaking admiring glances.

Dean’s scarlet face spoke volumes.

“You have nothing I haven’t seen before,” Archie lied. When did he ever have the chance to see a young man naked?

The sitting room was huge and easily accommodated an expensive leather sofa. It could seat three people and Archie plonked himself in the centre. Then with a snap of his fingers he ordered Dean to lay face down across his lap.

The young man complied and within seconds he was stretched out on the sofa, his legs resting to one side of Archie and his torso and head to the other. His buttocks were raised above Archie’s lap. Instinctively, the older man parted his legs a little so Dean’s genitals slipped between them to be out of harm’s way during the blistering buttock roasting he was about to get.

Even though he was a novice Archie made an excellent job destroying Dean’s arse. The heavy brush made a fearsome weapon. Dean was a large boy with expansive buttocks. It was difficult for Archie to get a good aim at the cheek nearest to him, but it did not stop the effectiveness of the spanking.

After only a few whacks Dean was hollering so loud Archie feared his neighbours might call the police to report a murder in progress.

He stopped long enough to ask the vicar for a handkerchief – which he then stuffed in Dean’s mouth.

Archie pounded the brush into Dean’s arse. The young man struggled with all his might to break free and lifted his body off the sofa and flailed his legs about. It was like he was trying to swim away, even though Archie had him pinned down across the waist.

“Hold his shoulders down,” it was a curt command to the vicar. He took hold of Dean’s naked shoulders and held on tightly hoping that the boy would not see the bulge in the front of his trousers. Not that Dean had much chance to; his face was now buried deep into the seat cushion.

The thrashing went on and on. Every part of the buttocks and the tops of the thighs were covered in bruises, which soon seeped blood. Dean’s face was puce and with the handkerchief in his mouth and his face pressed into the cushion, he found it hard to catch his breath.

But still Archie spanked on. He was in complete control. This was not a frenzied attack, but coolly calculated, just as Dean’s thieving had been. His bawling and sobbing became emotionally unrestrained screaming and wailing – like a ten year old. The boy’s tears flowed and the sobs grew louder and louder, and higher-pitched as he trembled with each new swat.

Eventually it was over and with contempt Archie pushed the young thief off his lap and onto the floor where Dean laid, his naked body jerking like a goldfish out of water.

The vicar fearing he might be dying took the hanky out of his mouth and fondly wiped Dean’s tear-and-snot-stained face.

Archie looked on. The boy was a pitiful sight and for a second, but only a second, he felt remorse for him, but he quickly checked himself. Dean deserved all he got. The flogging Archie had received from his uncle ensured he never stole again. Perhaps someone should have done this to Dean a long time ago.

Dean was still face down on the carpet, unable to move. Unbidden, the vicar went into the kitchen where Archie could hear the sound of water running. The vicar returned with a bowl of warm water and a tea towel and tenderly washed Dean’s bloodied buttocks. The vicar’s groin was throbbing almost as much as the boy’s backside.

Eventually, Dean was able to haul himself to his feet and in intense agony with the help of the vicar he managed to dress.

No words were exchanged between Archie and the boy or the vicar. Once they had left, Archie, his hands trembling, poured a glass of whisky.

He never saw Dean or the vicar again.

Picture credit: Cat Bounds

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

My Friend Justin

z used school longs after (8)

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

Justin was the best friend anyone could ever have. We were eighteen years old at the time and had known each other all our lives. We’d grown up on the same street, played with the same children and attended the same school.

So, when I had to unburden myself of a secret, one that had been eating away at me for years, he was the one I told.

He was brilliant; he didn’t say I was queer or anything like that. He just asked me for all the details. And, then he came up with a plan.

Well, where do I start? I told him that I wanted to be spanked, but I did feel I had to make it clear I didn’t want to be spanked by him especially, which was true. I didn’t fancy him at all, still don’t actually.

I fantasied about being spanked by older men. There was one dream I kept having; it involved a teacher at school. Mr King his name was. A right old fossil; he must have been sixty if he was a day. I wanted him to cane me in front of the whole class: all my sixth-form mates. I was dressed in my school uniform; black blazer, dark grey long trousers, grey shirt, and I would, on his command, submissively undo my leather belt, pull the buttons on my trousers and let them drop to my knees.

Then, when he told me to I had to bend over a table, head to the front, legs to the back, with my bum positioned high over the top.

Then, he would pull my gleaming white underpants so tight they stretched over my buttocks and then slowly he would swish his whippy cane, the one with a curved handle, into my taut little bum. That fantasy got me every time. It’s getting me again, even as I am writing this all these years later.

I was too embarrassed to tell anyone about this; but now as I get older I realise that every adolescent male has these fantasies; the only difference between me and most others is that they were dreaming of the French mistress spanking them.

Despite my wicked fetish for spanking there was not much I could do about it. Corporal punishment had been abolished in schools years earlier, so I could not engineer a caning or a slippering. Gone were the days when I could make sure I got caught smoking a cigarette behind the bike sheds so I would end up touching my toes in the Year Master’s office. If that were only possible, I would be a twenty-a-day man believe me.

I couldn’t get spanked at home. My dad was a bit of a wimp to be honest and he pretty much let me get away with anything. Not that I was a wicked kid, I wasn’t, but maybe he could have bent me over the armchair and taken his belt to the seat of my jeans when I was cheeky, or worse insolent; which was often.

I had tried to raise spanking with my friends, but was too inept to do it. I do remember when we were very young, seven or eight maybe, the girls in the street were playing “schools” and someone talked about “getting the cane.” Even then, something inside me stirred at the mention of corporal punishment, but I was too young to understand and, of course, my fetish hadn’t really developed at that age.

I used to read lots of comics, we all did in those days, and especially went for the stories where the naughty boys (who remembers Roger the Dodger or Dirty Dick?) ended up in the last frame of the story pictured across dad’s knee for a spanking with the slipper. Come to think of it there were plenty of stories about naughty girls (Beryl the Peril, Minnie the Minx come to mind) who also ended up over dad’s knee. Try writing kids’ comics like that today: how innocent we were then.

Once when I was a bit older, Brian, a friend of a friend, and I were at my house and we acted out stories from the comics, but when it came to the smacked bottom scene we were both too timid to go through with it. Looking back, I suspect Brian was as disappointed as me that we didn’t.

I did go on the Internet to find spanking porn. It was not quite as advanced as it is today, so you couldn’t get videos, but I did find some pictures. One set that really got me going was about a dad who found his son dressed only in his underpants reading a porn mag and dragged him into the bedroom. The boy must have been twenty years old but that didn’t stop his dad. Then, with his pants around his ankles, the boy gets a butt blistering from dad’s hairbrush. Yep! That had me squirting my jizz.

I told Justin about my spanking desires one afternoon after school when we were around his place. He was a “single parent” child and his ma worked long hours for crap pay at a factory, so he had the house to himself a lot.

“So do you want me to spank you? Is that it?”

I couldn’t believe it. He had the same desires as me. My face must have gone scarlet and my reply was mumbled incoherently.

“I’ll take that for a Yes, shall I?” he laughed.

“Only if you want to,” I eventually stuttered.

I learned over the years to come that Justin was completely unshockable. He wasn’t the least turned on by the thought of spanking me or being spanked by me. If I had said I wanted a sex change to become a woman, he would have reacted in the same cool, matter-of-fact way. He would probably have asked me what the procedure involved and how much it would cost, but he wouldn’t have judged me.

“What have you done to earn a spanking?”

I hadn’t expected this question and rushed to think of some naughtiness I had committed.

“I’ve been rude to my ma,” was the best that I could come up with.

He laughed again. Looking back he was always laughing, “So what’s new about that? No, you have to do something to earn the spanking.”

I didn’t understand at first, but then I hadn’t realised that Justin might one day make an expert psychologist.

He explained, “You want to be spanked, so you have to do something to earn it: something that you should do but wouldn’t normally do.”

I wasn’t following, so he went on.

“Say in the old days your dad might say, ‘If you don’t clean up your room, it’s my slipper for you, my lad.’ If you didn’t want a spanking you’d clean up the room; but if you did want the slipper, you wouldn’t. So, the room would not get cleaned up and you get spanked. So, you have achieved your wish, but your dad has failed in getting the room cleaned. Are you with me so far?”

Not really, so he went on.

“But, say you want to be spanked and your dad wants the room cleaned; the best thing for both of you is for him to say, ‘Clean up the room and if you do it well, I’ll take you across my knee and tan your arse with my slipper.’ Get me now?”

I was beginning to. “So I have to do something that I should do but I am not doing and if I do it then I get spanked.”

It was as clear as mud.

“Look,” Justin was on a roll and could not be stopped. “You are not a good student. It’s a fact, don’t argue. You are bright, but you don’t work, so you will fail your exams. Let’s say, if you pass your A-levels, I’ll spank you. It’ll be an incentive for you to work hard.”

Okay, I got it now, but the A-levels were months away and I told him so. I wanted my spanking now; preferably this evening before his ma came home.

But, it was not to be. Instead, we compromised. There was an essay due in this week for the English Literature course that I was failing. Justin’s plan was if I got a mark of B+ or more, I would be rewarded by him with several marks across my backside, courtesy of a large wooden clothes brush. A deal had been sealed.

I had hardly ever worked so hard on a school essay; I even read the set book, rather than the “crib” notes, that’s how keen I was to get a good grade.

Mr Archer, our English Lit teacher, made a snide comment when he returned my essay. “B+, had a little help David?” Yes, I had, but not in the way he meant.

Justin laughed.

We hadn’t spoken about our deal since the moment we made it and I wasn’t sure if he intended to stick to the bargain. Then, in the middle of the lesson, he lent across to me and whispered. “My place, four o’clock.”

I couldn’t concentrate on my work for the rest of the day; there was nothing new in that, but this time it was because of the anticipation of what was to come. In the past few days, I had fantasised about what would happen, but much as I liked Justin, I should have preferred it if my spanker were an older man. Actually, come to think of it, it would have been more pleasurable if Mr Archer really did believe I had cheated on my essay and threw me across his knee as punishment.

I was eager and arrived too early at Justin’s house and had to wait on the doorstep until he got home. He had, of course, stopped off at the library after classes ended.

Justin could see I was nervous. Was he nervous too? Looking back I can see the absurdity of it; one eighteen-year-old was about to take another across his knee and spank him. When did that ever happen in real life?

I watched as Justin rummaged through a drawer and found what he was looking for. Then he turned to me, clothes brush in hand.

“What did I say would happen if you scored a B+ in your English essay? What did I say?”

“Spanking. You said you’d give me a spanking.”

“Yes, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. Take off your blazer and put it on the table.”

While I was taking off my blazer, Justin did the same, and then he took a wooden backed chair and placed it in the middle of the room. My pulse was racing; this really was going to happen. I could feel my cock stirring in my trousers, God, I hadn’t thought about that; I am going to pop wood.

He sat down in the chair, “Come stand there,” he pointed to a spot to his right. I moved, breathing heavily. I had just realised we hadn’t discussed how he was going to spank me; do my trousers come down? If they do, he’ll see my todger is standing to attention like a soldier on sentry duty.

He snapped his fingers. “Bend over my knee.”

I hesitated. I could see Justin’s legs in front of me, they were thin and spindly, as you might expect from someone his age. In my dreams the laps of my spankers were always huge and well-padded. I wasn’t sure this was right at all.

I think Justin must have misread my hesitation. “Do you want to call it off?”

No, I did not. Without a word, I lowered myself over his knee. Again, it wasn’t quite as I expected. I was too close to the floor. In my dreams I suppose I was a little kid, not a strapping eighteen-year-old sixth-form schoolboy.

“Ouch!” I couldn’t help but cry out as the first whack hit me in the middle of my left buttock, followed almost immediately by another on the right. Then another. And another.

Jeez, it hurt! I gasped at the shock of it. I found myself wriggling involuntarily over Justin’s lap. I was in pain, but it wasn’t agony. My bum stung a lot, but quickly it turned to a warm glow.

Justin wasn’t acting, they weren’t love taps he was giving me these were proper wallops with the brush. He was crashing the wood into my trouser-covered buttocks with great force. I was gasping for air as my blood pressure rose. Blood was also surging to my cock and my hard-on was now raging.

Justin giggled, “Oh, you’re enjoying this are you?” and he carried on whacking my bum with renewed vigour, whacking three stinging spanks on one side of my bum, three on the other side and then a real hard thwack on my sit spot. Then he did it all over again.

I was losing control, my reflect movements had me bucking and kicking and struggling to get off his lap but he held on tight and kept spanking me.

And then the inevitable happened: I was beginning to orgasm; I shot my load, creaming my underpants and my trousers.

“You dirty bugger!” Justin snorted, stopped spanking me and pushed me off his lap so that I tumbled to the floor. My hands went to my arse to rub at the pain as I circled around on the carpet, kicking my legs.

“Ow! Ow! Ow!” I cried. I was in pain, but not much. Despite the intensity of Justin’s spanking, my trousers and pants had given me considerable protection. As I would learn in future, had he spanked me that hard with such a heavy brush on my bare bum, it would be ripped to shreds by now.

Justin was off the chair and doubled over with mirth. At that moment we heard a click at the front door and a cry, “Just. are you home?”

I jumped to my feet and noticed how large the stain was on the front of my trousers, just as Justin’s ma came into the room. I fled the house in embarrassment, leaving my pal to explain to his ma what was going on.

At home I admired Justin’s handiwork in the mirror. My bum was dark pink and some bluish bruises had formed at the end of my cheeks. The imprint of the brush was distinct where he had spanked my thighs. The sight of my battered bum set my todger off again and I grabbed a handful of tissues and lay on the bed.

I have a lot to thank my great friend Justin for; not least my success in my A-level exams; but that’s another story … or six.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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

A Double Whammy

new story 2

z used school cane pants touch toes sting

The headmaster puffed out his cheeks and frowned. His bushy white eyebrows knotted, he drew in a sharp breath and studied the two pupils standing before him. Duncan Richards and Paul Clarke shuffled their feet nervously as the Old Man jawed them.

“You are senior boys. Prefects even. You know the rules. You are expected to enforce them,” he leaned back in his chair and peered over the top of his spectacles. “You do not leave the school premises during the day. We are responsible for you at all times,” he watched closely, delighted that the two miscreants were blushing, suitably embarrassed.  “What would have happened if you were involved in an accident?” He didn’t pause for an answer, the was on a roll. “Your parents would be very worried indeed.”

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the large mahogany desk. “You know the rules,” he repeated, his eyes blinking furiously. “I am a fair man. I treat every boy equally,” he steepled his fingers. “Be they first or sixth-formers.”

Paul risked a sideways glance at his pal, he didn’t like where this was going. Duncan stared at the dark blue carpet beneath his feet. “So,” the headmaster eased himself to his feet, “I am going to beat you both.” Duncan’s head shot upwards, startled by the news. “A fair man,” he thought but dared not say aloud, “I wouldn’t mind if you were unfair now.”

He watched miserably as the headmaster made his way across the study, for a man of such weight and proportions he made an unexpectedly nimble movement. He halted at a tall thin cupboard and delved into his pocket. Duncan could not meet his pal’s eye. This could not be happening. Could it?

The headmaster found a key and inserted it into the lock and opened the cupboard door. Paul was no stranger to the headmaster’s study and was very aware what it was that was making the hollow rattling sound. The headmaster sighed as he withdrew a long thin crook-handled cane. He pushed the door closed with his elbow and turned to face the two eighteen year olds. He flexed the cane between his hands taking its measure; an entirely unnecessary action since he knew the properties of this little beauty only too well. Hardly thirty minutes earlier it had left six distinct marks across the tightly stretched Teryelne-covered rear end of an habitual smoker.

“Six.” The headmaster announced if the solemnity of a judge sending a man to the gallows. The two teenagers shuffled their feet as their faces paled at the totally expected news. “Richards, face the wall. Clarke,” he pointed his cane to a spot in the centre of the study, “Stand there.” Moments later all three were in their allotted places. The headmaster swished the cane. Once, then once again. He was not quite ready to go, his eyebrows were once again knotted he appeared to be wrestling with a problem. Swish. Swish. He took a deep breath, he had made up his mind.

“Lower your trousers and bend over.”

Duncan Richards until now obediently standing with his nose an inch from the pale blue patterned wallpaper turned around aghast. He saw his pal’s mouth open and close, but no words were uttered. If he had intended to protest, he quickly thought better of it. With tremendous fortitude (Duncan thought) he unbuckled his belt and opened the front of his pale-grey trousers. The weight of the keys in his pocket sent them slithering to his ankles. He took a look around the study as if trying to find his bearings and satisfied that he truly was in the headmaster’s study and this wasn’t a dream. Then he leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees.

“Right over, boy. Touch your toes,” the headmaster barked, unafraid to show his intense irritation. Duncan watched his pal separate his feet and stretch down so that his fingertips brushed the toecaps of his black lace-up shoes. His back was arched, his knees slightly bent and his bottom poked out at an angle. Duncan had never before noticed that Paul’s bum was firm and pert. His white cotton briefs clung to the contours of his cheeks.

The headmaster was nearly ready to go, but first he tucked his cane under his arm and approached the submissive teenager. Using both hands he took hold of the tail of Paul’s gleaming white shirt and rolled it along with his grey pullover up the boy’s back, exposing an inch of bare hairless flesh. He slipped the cane into his hand and took a step back, then he laid the thin whippy rattan cane across the centre of Paul’s underpants. He had a terrific target and he was taking his aim.

Paul bit his bottom lip and closed his eyes. Swish, swish, swish, swish, swish, swish. Jesus. Fuck. Ouch. Oooooh. Hisssssss. Ow, ow, ow. With tremendous fortitude the boy kept in position, held low, bottom high, fingertips on toes. That hurt! That hurt a lot. It felt like his bum was on fire. The headmaster hadn’t laid on a sound six-of-the-best, he had pressed a white hot wire deep into his flesh. His arse was on fire.

“Stand up. Get dressed. Stand by the wall. Richards take his place.” The headmaster swished his cane and watched unable and not unwilling to show his deep satisfaction on a job well down. The boy’s bottom would be roasting. He had landed the strokes low down, the agony of the six deep cuts would reignite each time he sat down for many hours to come. Paul wriggled in pain as he pulled his trousers over his raw buttocks and pulled the belt tight. He suspected his eyes were moist and he had no desire for his pal to see him in this state so he kept his head low as he passed Duncan on his way to the wall.

Duncan had witnessed his friend’s punishment, he knew exactly what was going to happen. Even so, he stood and waited for the headmaster’s command. “Lower your trousers. bend over. Touch your toes.” Resolute not to show himself up in front of his friend, and just as determined not to give the headmaster any satisfaction, he quickly had his trousers at his feet. He bent forward and waited. Touching toes is not as easy as it looks. It put a terrible strain on he backs of Duncan’s thighs. He shivered involuntarily as the headmaster pulled his shirt up his back and then (unexpectedly) he took hold of the waistband of his white Y-fronts and pulled hard so that all creases were removed from the cloth and his pants fitted like a second skin.

“You have not been to me before Richards,” the headmaster who never forgot a bottom, stated. “Is this you first caning?” “Yes, sir,” Duncan spoke to the carpet. “Well, it will be quite an experience for you,” the headmaster sneered. “And, eighteen years old,” he added smugly.

It would be Duncan’s first caning, but he was no stranger to spanking. His father was a fervent advocate of corporal punishment; the influence of a small church he followed religiously. Duncan and his two elder brothers often felt father’s belt across their naked backsides. He sucked in his breath as he felt the tip of the cane tap against his stretched flesh.

It was over in seconds. Six almighty swipes. One after the other. Rat-tat-tat like machinegun fire. He had never experienced pain like it. Nothing his father had ever delivered prepared him for the hurt.

“Stand up. Get dressed.” Duncan rose furiously massaging his burning bum. It hurt so much, he couldn’t wait until he was properly dressed and away from the study. He needed to rub away the agony. Now, and he couldn’t care less who saw him do it. The headmaster laid the cane on his desk. “You are dismissed,” he intoned and took much pleasure as the pair sped from the room. He knew very well they would be dashing down the passageway to the senior boys’ lavatories to inspect the damage. He very much hoped they would award him the maximum ten points for the effectiveness of his beating.

….

z used jeanz down belt table (2)

Mr Richards placed the handset on the cradle and waddled out of the room in search of his wife. “Hilda!” he called and she answered him from the kitchen. “I just got off the phone from Paul Clarkes’ father, he tells me his son and Duncan were caned by the headmaster today. Playing truant. He says Duncan was the ringleader.”

“Oh dear,” his wife dried her hands on her wrapround apron. “Trouble at school …” She let her sentence trail of into silence. Both she and her husband knew what that meant.

“Call him down will you please. Well do this in the sitting room,” Mr Richards ran his thumbs across the belt holding up his trousers. It was a narrow thin affair, constructed of plastic. “That won’t do at all,” he tutted silently. “Not at all.”

He heard footsteps padding down the carpeted staircase. He looked into the hallway to see his son standing, a little dumbfounded. Clearly, his mother had not told him the reason for his summons. “Wait in the sitting room,” Mr Richards spoke clearly and calmly. He never believed in histrionics. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

He ascended the stairs slowly, his immense stomach rolling as he went. Breathless, he reached his bedroom and pushed open the door. This shouldn’t take a moment. He waddled across the room and halted before a large wardrobe with double doors. He turned a key in the lock and the right hand door eased open on its own. Inside the rail was heaving with clothes. His on the right hand side, hers on the left. He reached up and felt in the dark and his hand brushed against a heavy leather strap. “Just the fellow,” he whispered. In seconds he was fingering a thick wide leather belt. “Yes, the very thing.” He knew it would pack a punch.

He doubled it up in his hand testing the weight. There was no reason to do this, it was no stranger to him. The sheen on the leather had long since worn away.  This little beauty had seen action in its time. He had successful seen three sons into adulthood. Only Duncan now remained.

He shuffled back across the room and at a snail’s pace inched his way down the stairs. Duncan’s eyes widened. Dad had his belt in his hand; it meant only one thing.

“Paul Clarke’s father rang …” His dad need say no more. Matters must take their course. His father’s eyes narrowed. “You know what to do.” Indeed he did. It was a rule of the house. Clearly stated and known by all Mr Richards’ sons. You get punished at school, you get punished again at home. Mr Richards waved his belt in the general direction of the small sitting room. “In there,” he wheezed, and added for emphasis, “Now!”

Sorrowfully, Duncan turned on his heels and slowly, as befitting a condemned man, he edged into the room. It was a small space, with the dining room table and four chairs there was little room for much else. Small it might be, but there was enough room to swing a belt. It was a small terraced house, similar to thousands, hundreds of thousands probably, in towns and cities up and down the land.

Duncan stood quietly. There was nothing to say. Dad was in control. He ruled his own castle. They had both been here before. He heard voices through the wall from the house next door. The Robinsons were settled down watching Crossroads on the television. “Come on, you know what to do. Get ready! Trousers and pants down across the table! Anybody would think this was your first time.” His father’s voice was harsh as he waved the belt through the air.

Slowly, Duncan obeyed the command. Not looking at his father, he walked slowly towards the old rickety table. This would hurt, and hurt a lot. A strapping on top of the still fresh cane marks would be agony. Each lash of the leather would reignite the welts across his backside. His black jeans fitted snugly so he had no use for a belt. He popped the rivet at the waist and tugged down the zip. Oh how he hated for his father to see his cock and balls. He turned his back slightly on him and taking a firm hold of the waistband of his Levis he quickly pulled both jeans and briefs down just far enough to expose his buttocks. Before Dad could glimpse his privates he fell forward and rested his forearms on the table top.

The table was low and Duncan quite tall so he had to arch his back and jut out his bare backside at an angle to present himself submissively to the lashing. He closed his eyes and waited. He knew Dad would take his time. He heard a low wheezing sound as Mr Richards got himself into position. “Well, these are a fine set of marks,” Dad said admiringly. “That headmaster of yours certainly knows his onions.” Duncan winced, he certainly did not need reminding of that. His buttocks quivered as his father’s hand traced the welts that ran left to right across the naked flesh. “Yes,” Mr Richards repeated, “A very fine set indeed.” He tapped his belt across his son’s bum. “This should set them alight.”

Duncan felt the belt lift away from his bottom. A split second later it returned at speed and force and caught him on the underside of both cheeks. Air hissed through his clenched lips. His mouth opened wide and a faint groan escaped. Before he could regain composure a second, then a third and a fourth cut lashed across his tender rear end. It was on fire. Each stoke of the headmaster’s caning returned to life, aching like crazy to be joined by the new dull throbbing made by the thick, heavy leather belt.

The crack of leather on stretched bottom bounced off the walls of the tiny room echoing two or three times before petering out. Next door, the volume of the television was lowered. Obviously the goings-on at the Richards’ house was more interesting than the Crossroads Motel.

Duncan shut his teeth. His bum hurt. More than the Robinsons might ever have imagined. Then there was a short respite as Dad took a breather. Duncan could hear him breathing heavily with his exertions. Then he was off again. Splat! The leather exploded once more across the teenager’s  buttock cheeks delivering a searing sting that took his breath away. Before he could regain his wind he felt another stinging band and he bucked frantically and his legs danced. Duncan’s dad made sure the strap toasted every square of his son’s buttocks which were by now blazing, burning, stinging mounds of flesh.

Dad twisted his own flabby body and sent the leather scorching into the underside of Duncan’s buttocks. With his son’s upturned bottom in front of him, Mr Richards could choose his target with great accuracy. The eighteen-year-old’s bare bum made a terrific target.Splat! Splat! Splat! Splat! It was a long, thorough whipping, deep and cleansing. It was slow but steady with each stroke precisely placed.

“Enough!” Dad wheezed. He had to stop. If the truth be told he was suffering in his own way as much as his son. If he didn’t halt now he might have a heart attack, or at least a stroke. Duncan’s eyes shone. His rear end throbbed. His heart raced, blood flew through his arteries. His ears felt like they would burst. His lungs were raw. His body was thoroughly beaten; but he had lived. Gingerly, he rose from the table, carefully, so his Dad could not see his half-erect penis, he pulled his jeans and briefs up before stamping one foot after the other. He desperately wanted to rub away at his scorching buttocks, but as any spanked boy would tell you there’s an etiquette to these things. No matter how much you hurt, never let your punisher know. He had let himself down earlier in the headmaster’s study, he didn’t want to do that again. The rubbing would have to wait until he was back in his bedroom.  For now, he hopped up and down, rather like football players did when they had been kicked up in the air by an opponent. It didn’t help.

“Go,” Dad gasped. “And keep out of trouble at school in future.” Duncan flew from the room, took the stairs two at a time and hurled himself through his bedroom door and face down onto his bed. He buried his face in a pillow and sobbed his guts up.

Downstairs, his mother busied herself in the kitchen. She lit a match and got the gas going. Soon they could relax with a nice cup of tea. She hoped her husband would recover his breath soon.

 

Picture credits: Sting Pictures / Unknown

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The sling-shot

z used cane marks

Jimbo stared out of the bedroom window as the grey cold drizzle ran down the pane. The twelve scolding lines of pain emblazoned across his rear end burned and throbbed.

He could hardly believe what he had done. He was in such big trouble. What an idiot he had been. The police could have been called. He might have ended up in prison.

He had not meant to hurt anyone. He just had not thought. He was so stupid. The girl was almost killed. If only he could turn back the clock.

Hidden in a drawer was the weapon he had used: an industrial strength sling-shot. He had been bored, that was the only explanation. So bored, he had gone to the back garden for target practice. He lined up a few tin cans and shot stones at them. He was not very good, to tell the truth.

So, he became even more bored, he tried shooting stones into the trees, aiming wildly at birds, but they were too quick for him. Then, he went to the garden shed. Why had he done it? He still did not know; he never would know.

He found a packet of steel ball-bearings. He had no idea how they got there or who they belonged to. Seconds later he was back in the garden, loading the heavy balls into the sling-shot. He did not aim at tin cans or at birds in the tree. He just pulled at the enormous sling and sent the balls high into the air.

Three streets away, Mr Harris was turning his car into his drive when a missile whizzed from the sky, crashed through his windscreen and missed his three-year-old niece’s head by a whisker.

Jimbo launched six of the balls into the stratosphere, before, once again becoming bored, he went back to his bedroom to flick through a pornographic magazine, oblivious to the drama he had created.

A neighbour, Mr West, out tending to his roses, witnessed some of it. Only later when word spread around the estate about Mr Harris, his car and his niece’s close escape, could he fill in the details.

It was the talk of the neighbourhood. That Anderson boy. The thug. The brat. He needs locking up.

“He needs a damn good thrashing, that’s what he needs.” This was Mr Featherstone at number twenty-four. A group of neighbours were standing in the street; talking. Gossiping. They had already fingered Jimbo for the crime.

“Someone call the police,” said Mrs Titterington, the lady who worked at the nearby newsagent. “It shouldn’t be allowed.”

“Let’s talk to his parents first. See what they have to say about it,” said Mr Rillington, the aged pensioner who did not like the police. Never had done. Not since he was a nipper.

That’s when Mr Featherstone chimed in. “He needs a bloody good hiding. A dose of the cane, that’s what he needs.” The others lapsed into an embarrassed silence.

Just the sort of thing the pervert would say, Mr Hindcroft, who was a motor engineer when he was actually in work, thought. He did not say it out loud, but he was not the only one thinking it. Hindcroft had his doubts about Featherstone. He was a bit too fancy, too lah-de-dah. Always immaculately turned out in smart suits and tightly-knotted neck ties. He was a bit of a you-know-what, if you wanted Mr Hindcroft’s opinion.

Jimbo’s dad Peter always got on with the neighbours. He sometimes worked behind the bar at the local social club; he knew all the men by name and they knew him. Many of them knew Jimbo, although they knew him as Jimmy, the name he was called since he was a toddler.

He had reinvented himself as ‘Jimbo’ at school. It made him more modern, he thought. And more like a tough lad. Jimmy was what you called a little kid; someone still in short trousers. Jimbo had left kid’s stuff and short trousers behind, a long time ago.

Peter could tell something was up when he turned his car off the main road into the suburban avenue where he lived. There were too many adults on the street and he knew that quite a few of them did not live there. He recognised ‘Harry’ Harris; he lived two or three streets away, what was he doing there?

Peter hardly had time to get out of the car and lock it before a gang of neighbours was on his doorstep.

Did he know? What was he going to do about it? The girl could have been killed. A flurry of voices all wanted to speak at once.

“What are you talking about?” Peter was irritated; he was hot and tired and he needed a cup of tea and a sit-down.

They all started talking at once.

“Stop! All of you! What’s up, what do you want?” Peter was losing his temper.

Mr Harris started. He talked about the steel ball crashing through the car’s windscreen. His daughter could have been killed.

Mr West provided the details about Jimbo. “Six balls, shot in the air. No consideration for anyone.”

Mr Featherstone stopped himself in time from saying, “He needs a good caning.”

Peter Anderson was dumb-struck. He did not believe a word of it. He did not want to believe a word of it, but the evidence was there and so was the witness.

“I’m sorry Harry,” he said to Mr Harris, “I’ll make sure he pays for the damage.”

“Is that all? He should pay a damn site more than that.” This time Mr Featherstone could not stop himself. “He needs to be …” he trailed off, fearing that he might be drawing attention to himself.

“Come inside Harry,” Peter unlocked the front door, “Let’s talk about this inside.”

He had meant just himself and Harry, but half the neighbourhood pushed their way into his house. Upstairs, oblivious to the commotion he had caused Jimbo unzipped his jeans and opened the front. His pants were soon over his thighs as he tugged away with his right hand imagining what he would do to the sexy young minx in the magazine he was holding in his left.

Calm now, the neighbours discussed what to do.

“Call the police, he needs locking up, he’s a lunatic,” Mrs Titterington had not changed her tune.

“No, not the police,” Harry Harris spoke softly.

“He needs to be punished,” somebody that Peter did not know, said.

Yes, Peter thought the boy needed to be punished and he knew just how. It was none of his neighbours’ business and he did not want to broadcast the fact, but Peter Anderson believed in corporal punishment and he was not shy of using it on his own boys.

“Do you want me to beat him?” it was a simple question, calmly asked.

Mr Harris pondered; was there an alternative?

“What do you propose to do?”

“You should cane him,” Mr Featherstone chirped. “And, I think I know where I can get you a cane to use.”

I bet you do you bloody shirt-lifter, Mr Hindcroft thought but did not say aloud.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Peter replied absent-mindedly.

“Shall we, then?” he asked Mr Harris so matter-of-factly he might have been suggesting making a cup of tea.

“Well, if you think so,” Mr Harris was embarrassed. He did not want to be the one to decide.

“That’s settled, thank you everyone we’ll take it from here”, he said and began to usher people out of the room. Reluctantly, for they really wanted to stay to enjoy the show, they drifted onto the pavement outside.

“If you want me to …”

“Thank you Mr Featherstone, I can handle it,” Peter replied, irritated by the suave gentleman’s interest.

Moments later Peter and Harry were alone.

“Let’s get this over with shall we.”

He stood at the foot of the stairs and yelled, “Jimmy come down here now!”

Startled, Jimbo released his grip, but his soldier still stood to attention.

“Now!”

Jimbo knew his dad’s tone of voice. He was in trouble, that was for certain; but he did not quite know why. Which of his many misdemeanours committed in recent times had he discovered? He hoped it was not that misunderstanding he had with Mandy Malcolm. Had she told her dad? Had he complained to his own father?

He tucked his cock back in his pants as best he could and zipped himself up. It would soften of its own accord pretty quickly he reckoned.

No, it was not to do with Mandy Malcolm, he quickly discovered. It was much worse than that.

“Another half inch to the left and the ball would have killed her. What were you thinking?” Peter’s father was genuinely distressed.

His distress was nothing compared to his son Jimbo’s. The teenager was a fool sometimes, often lazy and neglected his schoolwork and the chores he was meant to do around the house. He had all these faults, but he was not a bad lad at heart.

“I.. I..” he began but he could not find the words to express his sorrow. And it was genuine sorrow; he had meant no harm. He just had not thought.

Jimbo missed most of his father’s lecture about responsibility; how he was eighteen years old now. He was an adult and he should start behaving like one. Jimbo’s mind was somewhere else. He had a vivid imagination and could see the little girl with her head smashed open, her brains oozing onto the car dashboard.

“You know you have to be punished for this, don’t you?” his dad spoke so softly that Jimbo missed what he had said.

“I said,” he almost shouted this time. Jimbo had no choice but to hear it.

Punished. Christ, he knew what that meant. The last time he could not sit down comfortably for a day and it took two weeks for the bruises to clear. He had to truant from school to avoid the PE classes; there was no way he was going to let his fellow pupils know he had been beaten black and blue with his dad’s cane.

“You are a big boy now, Jimmy. You are an adult. I cannot force you to take a caning; you must do it of your own free will.”

Jimmy blushed deeply. He did not want to take a thrashing, especially if Mr Harris, a stranger to him, was to be a witness. It would certainly be bare-arsed and the agony would be excruciating. But, he could not get the image of the smashed brains out of his head. He had screwed up royally and he needed to be punished. Perhaps, the beating would be an end to the matter; some kind of closure. He could put the girl out of his mind and move on with his life.

“OK dad, I’ll do it.”

There was no more to say.

Mr Harris looked on a little astonished at what was happening.

“Fetch the cane, you know where it is.”

Jimbo did indeed. It was always kept in the cupboard under the stairs. It felt light and innocuous as he handed it over to his father, but he knew from painful experiences that in the hands of his dad this thin, whippy curve-handled dragon cane could take his arse off.

“Err, should I?” Mr Harris indicated towards the door.

“No, Mr Harris please, you should stay. I might need you.”

It was not the answer Mr Harris had hoped for. He had instigated the teenager’s thrashing, but was now not so sure he wanted to witness it.

“Take down your trousers and pants and bend over the armchair.”

It sounded to Mr Harris as if such an order was regularly made in this house: and just as regularly obeyed.

Jimbo was relived his erection had died. It would be humiliating enough to be naked from the waist down in front of a stranger without the added embarrassment of displaying a raging hard-on.

A distraught Jimbo Anderson tugged his jeans and pants down in a single movement and he leaned forward over the back of the soft leather armchair. His nose touched the back of the chair and a faint smell of sweat invaded his nostrils.

The posture arched his teenage buttocks out to receive correction, buttocks that now quivered with the anticipation of feeling the harsh sting of the whippy cane.

“Take hold of his hands, please Mr Harris.”

How he wished he had not got involved. His daughter was fine, she had not been injured. The boy had not meant to do harm. Why had he not let it be? Now, not only was he being forced to witness this flogging, he was being made to take part.

“Please Mr Harris.”

With a very heavy heart, he walked to the front of the chair and gripped the boy’s wrists. He closed his eyes and turned his head away; he did not want to see this.

Jimbo’s father stood to the left of the waiting youth, cane in his hand. Jimbo’s bare buttocks were presented submissively over the back of the armchair. His trousers and underpants bunched around his knees and his shirt rolled clear.

Peter drew his arm back. The cane whistled. Crack!

“Owww…dad!” A red stripe appeared across the cute teenage bottom.  Again the cane struck. Crack! Another stripe matched the first.

“Yeoww…dad! Please!” He looked over his shoulder, pleading.

“You hold still and take your licking,” hissed his father.

Twelve times the stout cane whistled and cracked across Jimbo’s tender bottom. With each one, the teenager yelled in anguish and shifted from foot to foot. Mr Harris held on to the boy’s wrists like his life depended on it.

Outside on the pavement all the neighbours except Mr Featherstone had dispersed. He nodded to himself in quiet satisfaction as Jimbo’s yells echoed around the small sitting room and escaped outside through the window.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Jimbo got up, the change of the contours of his arse seem to make the pain worse as the biting strokes burned deep across his rear end, his hands went back and gently massaged the burning welts.

He stood up and hoisted his briefs and trousers back into place. The material rubbed against his injured flesh. All the same, it was a not unpleasant sensation. He felt cleansed. He smiled at Mr Harris and sighed, “I am so sorry, Sir. I deserved that, didn’t I?”

Mr Harris gasped. The teenager’s demeanour shocked him. His eyes were blazing and his face was as red as his backside. His breathing was shallow and clearly he was in considerable agony.

The thrashing was severe and Mr Harris had expected the skin to break and blood to fall, but Jimbo’s bottom remained intact, though the colour of the bruising became an ever-more spectacular display of black, purple and cobalt blue. This might have proved the old adage that a boy’s bottom gets tougher with regular punishment, and that you cannot beat a boy’s arse too often.

Mr Harris looked away from the boy across the room to his father. He was calm but breathing heavily. Sweat stained the underarms of his shirt. He had put all his energy and then some more into the strokes.

“I.. I ..” Mr Harris could not find the words to express the disgust he felt at the spectacle he had been forced to participate in, so he rushed from the room, and was through the front door before either Jimbo or his father realised he was gone.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in December 2015.

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The Skinhead

new story 2

z used solo skinhead smoking Dimitri Bitjukov

The first time I saw the boy I said to myself, “I’m having his arse before the summer is over.” He was standing by a brick wall at the block of council flats near where I lived. He wore big boots and jeans rolled so far up his legs they might’ve been shorts. His hair was cropped with a strip running down the middle. A tipped cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. His arms were folded and he affected a pout he thought spellt “menace”, but I knew said “take me I’m yours.”

He looked like a skinhead, but couldn’t be. I thought skinheads were on the scrapheap; like VHS tapes.

I knew he would fit very well over the back of the armchair in my lounge. I had a new paddle I had bought at the fetish fair in Birmingham. It was not much bigger than a paperback book. He was thin and bony. Not much meat on his arse. Yes, he would do very nicely. He was a good size to go over the dining room table. Over my knee too.

I also had a selection of thin whippy school canes from eBay ten years back. My leather two-tailed taws was more recent. My clothes brush I had since I was in short trousers (for real, as a kid).

I had a young pal named Tobias. I caned his backside raw every week. Then he moved away. He escaped the dead end of the council flats. Now, I wanted a replacement.

He told me his name was Damon which surprised me. I’ve never known anyone called Damon. Is it even a name? I looked it up online. It’s American. Now, I knew he was lying. He was not from there. His accent was rural. Somerset. Devon. Some place where they shagged sheep. Wayne was more likely his name.

I would wait my chance. I wanted to get this right. I knew what I wanted; I imagined it every day. I liked my subs to be ‘real men’. Not for me the weedy individuals who would submit themselves across your knee for a hand spanking. Love taps! What was the use of that? Even a slipper or a hairbrush couldn’t make much inroad on a proper man’s arse. No, give me a paddle, or a cane, or a birch. Of course, not many birch trees grow in the inner cities so I had to rule that last one out straight away.

No, it would be the paddle. Damon, over the couch, those heavy jeans in a heap on the floor and his underwear at his ankles. Boxers rather than briefs, I imagined. In my mind I had it all worked out. His cheeks are smooth and so is his torso. His ballsack dangles and I see it too is hairless. His flesh tautens as he stretches over the settee. His head is low and his legs apart.

The sight of the young man’s naked buttocks has me hard. I lick my dry lips, take up position a little to his left and gently tap-tap-tap the wood against his flesh. His cheeks clench a little. I raise my arm away and bring the paddle down with a resounding crack! A dark pink imprint of the blade immediately appears across Damon’s arse. It looks sore, but he makes no fuss, his face buried in a cushion. I make another mark, this time on his other buttock. The flesh wobbles.

I put the next two swats in the underside of his cheeks. His knees buckle and he hangs onto the couch as the pain mounts. By the time I pound home swat number five, some of the pink blotches are turning mauve. The imprint of the blade has been reproduced several times. No flesh remains untouched.

I love the look of Damon’s buttocks as increasingly they are battered. I delight in the fact that I am hurting him. He squirms with each successive blow and clenches his fists and shuts his teeth. Despite his best efforts he yaps like a dog when I hammer home numbers nine and ten.

I had planned to give him ten swats but I am loving this so much I whack home an extra half dozen.

“Stand up,” I croak, as my mouth is as dry as a desert. I realise the back of my shirt is soaked. My hands are shaking.

Damon bounds up, his buttocks are sore and so is his cock. It points to the ceiling as he hops from foot to foot and kneads the raw flesh. I find myself staring at his dick then I catch his eyes. I think I can read his thoughts. I am on my knees sucking his hairless balls. He spreads his legs and takes hold of the back of my head, urging me on.

“Take it all!” he screams. My mouth devours first one and then the other testicles. I lick the balls like they are an ice cream cone.

Damon moans as I take a mouthful of hot cock and he shuffles his knees further apart so that I can get to more of his hard dick. He grips my ears and pulls my face onto his raging cock. My face wobbles back and forth as I make my way up and down the shaft. As cocks goes it isn’t particularly long, but it was one of the fattest I have ever gorged.

“I’m cumming,” he squeals warning me, but knowing he has left it too late. I ignore him, and my head rhythmically slides up and down. Spurt after spurt of hot sticky cum pumps up the shaft and is swallowed by my hungry mouth. Damon writhes on the floor as his orgasm goes on and on.

I have it all planned. What could possibly go wrong?

I am writing this on a laptop from my hospital bed. My doctor says my ribs are only fractured and I should be able to walk again in a few days’ time. Unfortunately, my jaw will need to be wired for at least another week. Well, I should look on the bright side; I need to shed a few pounds.

 

Picture credit: Dimitri Bitjukov

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