The penny drops

new story 2

z used mowing lawn cutting grass prior to spanking

I had just left my home on Saturday lunchtime to take the dog for a walk when I saw Terry, my neighbour’s son, mowing the small patch of lawn in front of his house. I’ve known him since he was knee high to a grasshopper so I stopped for a chat.

He’s a strapping young man now, as was clear for all to see. He wore no shirt and the physical work of cutting the grass emphasised the muscles in his arms and back. His jeans fitted snugly around his beefy buttocks and he needed no belt to keep them up.

“Hello Terry,” I said cheerfully. I don’t think he heard me at first. Perhaps the noise from the mower was too loud. I tried again. This time he acknowledged me. He seemed a little startled. I had heard from his mother he was doing very well at the university, so I thought I’d pay him a compliment. “Good exam results. Congratulations.”

His face flushed. He seemed embarrassed. He put his head down and continued pushing the mower. He was making a good job of it. When it was clear he wasn’t going to respond to my remark, I tried another tack. “Mowing the lawn.” I said, feeling foolish as it was obvious that’s what he was doing. “Helping your parents out. Good for you.”

Again, my pleasantry provoked no response. This was unlike Terry. Usually he was a very polite young man. Unlike so many youngsters these days, his manners were always so good. I’d always thought he was a credit to his parents. He took the mower into a corner of the lawn and then it was obvious he had completed the job.

“Nice, job,” I said. With his task finished he had no choice but the switch off the mower. “I said, you made a good job of it,” I repeated. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders. I couldn’t remember seeing him mow the lawn before. As I thought about it I realised this was something his father often did on a Sunday morning.

“Is this your job from now on?” my attempts at chatting were going nowhere. He looked over my shoulder towards his house; he seemed anxious. I supposed he wanted to get back inside and get on with his Saturday. I was about to give up on the conversation and take my dog to Widdicombe Wood when the front door of Terry’s house opened. Terry visibly shuddered. Beneath his suntan his face paled. His father stood in the doorway.

I pulled on the dog’s leash and was about to leave when I heard Terry’s Dad say fiercely, “Now, you’ve finished the lawn, get yourself into the garage.” The aggressive tone of his voice startled me. I turned to face him and got another shock. His dad was brandishing a heavy wooden spanking paddle. Terry almost died on the spot. Now, I could see why he hadn’t wanted me to hang around. His face now a deep cherry red, he sloped off to the garage. The door was already open.

His Dad watched his son trudge away. He looked at me and down at the paddle in his hand. He was entirely unself-conscious, but he did not say a word. I was silent too, but I nodded at the wood in his hand in the hope it would encourage him to explain.

“There was a whole gang of them partying at Widdicombe Wood,” he began. I needed no more detail. During the summer evenings some of the kids took their cars to the woods, which bordered The Avenue. They would play loud music from boom-boxes and drink beer. Sometimes it was so loud it disturbed the residents.

“I told him he couldn’t go, Frank,” he continued, addressing me by name. “He disobeyed me and came home well Brahms this morning,” he gripped the handle of the paddle, “What does he expect?” I didn’t answer. It was very clear to me precisely what Terry expected his Dad would do. I shrugged my shoulders and waved my arms making one of those what can you do? gestures.

“A damn good spanking,” he said, as if I hadn’t already received the message. He slapped the paddle into the palm of his left hand. I had never seen a spanking paddle close up, but I do know what they are. In so far as I’ve ever thought about it, I supposed they were something the Americans used. Can you even buy them here? He slapped some more and I could see this one looked like a miniature cricket bat – perhaps it was.

“Can’t stop chatting,” he grimaced, “Got work to do.” I watched him walk over to and then disappear inside the garage. I could hear his muffed voice from where I was standing. He was tearing Terry off a strip. I am not entirely proud of what I did next. I was fully aware what was about to happen. I could have left well alone. This should be an intimate moment between father and son.

Blow that! I thought. A garage with its door wide open into the street is hardly a private space. I edged a little closer. The Avenue is a very select street and many of the houses are hidden behind their own walls or high hedges, I don’t suppose many of my neighbours were aware what was happening. I had the spectacle to myself.

When I reached the garage the lecture was over. I arrived just in time to see Terry spread his legs wide and bend down to grab his ankles. He kept his knees straight and his head low. The muscles in his arms and back rippled. In this position his buttocks were huge, but firm and tight. I had a perfect view, rather like being behind the bowler’s arm (to continue the cricketing metaphor). Dad rubbed the paddle across his son’s bottom; he seemed ready to go. Unexpectedly, he stopped and gripped the waistband of Terry’s jeans. I thought they were tight enough but by pulling hard Dad dug the denim deep into the crack between the cheeks. It was like he had performed a wedgie; from where I stood I could see the outline of Terry’s briefs.

The young man waited submissively, his bottom raised for the swats of the paddle. He made no fuss. It was clear this little drama had been played out many times previously. Dad (I don’t know why I keep calling him that, he’s not my father, his name is Reg). So, Reg rubbed the paddle once more across the seat of Terry’s jeans, raised it high and then swung it down in an arc. The crack as wood met denim echoed around the small garage.

I saw the wood sink into the hard meat, the impact forcing Terry’s body forward a little, but he remained in position. Sweat soaked Reg’s shirt, while his son’s back seemed perfectly dry. Swat two was aimed lower so that it came from underneath and powered upwards. I imagine it left an imprint across the lower buttocks and thighs. It might make sitting down a little uncomfortable.

I don’t know what a paddling is supposed to look like. Until I saw Reg and Terry I had thought nobody spanked their kids these days. It has to be thirty years or more since the cane was banned in schools. I share my ignorance with you because I cannot “review” the spanking. I don’t know if Reg laid it on well or not. Is a spanking supposed to leave the punished boy (the spankee?) in tears? Is that how we measure a “darned good spanking”? I don’t know. I can tell you that Reg whacked what to me looked like a dozen pretty impressive stingers across Terry’s rear end before he let him stand.

The boy’s face was scarlet and I suppose his bum was too. He looked more embarrassed than distressed. I suppose his pride might have been hurt more than his backside; how can you tell?

I could see they were ready to leave, I didn’t want to embarrass Terry more than was necessary so I tugged my dog down the street towards Widdicombe Woods. As I watched it frolic around the trees a sudden realisation struck me, the penny had dropped: now I understood why Terry was always such a polite and well-mannered boy.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

Dad, spank me please

Max of ‘The Champion’ 5. The town boss

A punch in the face

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Trousers down. Over my knee

new story 2

z used paddle hold christian dad

Richard’s knees ache against the hard floor. He has made his peace with God, he rises and straightens his back. Now, he has to face his Dad. He knows he will be waiting for him in the front room, there is a certain ritual to these things. Everything is in its place, ready to be played out. He knows what is expected. Matters must take their course.

Dad sits patiently; waiting. Patience is a virtue, he has all the time in the world. He is doing God’s will, there’s no need to hurry. He has been to his special cupboard on the top floor landing where he keeps his tools. He has quite a collection it was years in the making. There’s something for every occasion; thick and thin whippy canes (big ones, small ones). Leather straps. Tawses; some with two tails, some with three. An old worn out gym plimsoll, its sole smooth and shiny. It has never seen a running track, that’s for sure. He selected a wooden paddle this time. Small and heavy with five big holes drilled in the business end. They help it fly through the air and cut down wind resistant. It packs a punch. Just what Dad needs to help do God’s work. It is also just what Richard needs.

Richard shuffles across the passageway, he is in no hurry he can wait a moment or two more. He touches the seat of his chino trousers. It is a reflex action preparing for the ordeal ahead. It is thick material. Who is he kidding? They will be no protection, no use at all, when they are flapping around his ankles. The door is open, he sees Dad sitting on a wooden stool the paddle in his hand. He is mumbling to himself. No, not himself, he is communing with God, explaining himself, taking guidance. Suddenly, his head lifts, his blue eyes shine, he sees his son. Dad grimaces, holds the paddle in his right hand and beckons Richard forward with a finger of his left. No word is spoken. There is no need, they have both been here before, they know the script by heart.

There is no more to be said, they have already had it out. Richard has been seen in the town with boys his own age smoking cigarettes. Not Richard; he doesn’t smoke but some of the others were. That is enough; keeping bad company. There’s no point saying they are all eighteen years old and not breaking the law. Whose law? Dad would retort. Not God’s law, smoking is a sin. There is no more to be said. Poor Richard. There are so many sins: smoking, drinking, lying, swearing. And, don’t get us started on S.E.X.

Dad raises his paddle. Richard halts his progress, stops in front of Dad, looks down at him. He is probably at least fifty but looks younger with bright blue eyes, clear skin, blond hair, trim waist, thick set muscles. Every ounce a Muscular Christian. His body a temple. He frowns slightly, “Trousers down, over my knee.”

A totally expected command, but Richard’s mouth still dries. His heart beats a little faster. His stomach turns. It is his body’s way of getting ready. Preparing itself for the ordeal; for the shame, for the pain. His fingers are steady as he finds the buckle of his belt. He doesn’t need to look down, he can remove his trousers blindfolded if he has to. He’s had enough practice. The belt loosens, he pops the button at the top of his fly, then lowers the zipper. The front of his chinos open showing his gleaming white underpants; evidence of his Mother’s good housekeeping. He wriggles his hips and the chinos sliver down his thighs and bunch at the knees. He spreads his legs and the trousers puddle at his feet.

He takes a deep breath, places both palms on Dad’s right thigh and eases forward. He reaches out his hands and puts his palms flat on the carpet. Behind him his legs are short and dangle in mid-air, toes an inch or so short off the floor. His groin presses into Dad’s leg; his bottom rests at an angle.

Dad is not quite satisfied and moves Richard slightly. It gives himself a better aim at his son’s bum. Richard’s legs are further from the ground and face closer to the carpet.

Dad has his little spanking rituals; always has done. It is his job to prepare the bottom for punishment. He will be the one to take down Richard’s underpants. Dad rests his paddle on the small of the teenager’s back and with both of his hands free gently takes the elasticated waist of the pants. Slowly, carefully he eases them down over hips and across meaty (and a little chubby) cheeks. Now they are clear of the buttocks and resting at the thigh.

Richard feels a slight breeze blowing across his exposed flesh from the open window. He is breathing a little heavily. Dad is taking his time. Richard can’t see him, but feels movements in his body as he retrieves the paddle from the small of the boy’s back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then carefully he grasps the tail of Richard’s shirt and folds it once, then twice until it rests neatly at the shoulders. Richard is now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.

Dad takes the paddle in his right hand and grips it tightly at the handle. It is about six inches of hard wood. Dad hovers it above the fleshy bottom; he could easy make one smack land across the centre of both cheeks at once. Or he could go lengthwise and wallop the whole of one buttock from the very top to the very bottom.

He takes the first option and brings the wood crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. Richard gasps at the shock and screws his fingers into a claw. Dad whacks another three lower, where the curves meet the thighs. Richard yelps and kicks his legs out. A reflex to the pain that is starting in the bum then travelling down the legs.

Dad then goes for option two. Puts three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad doesn’t use much energy. He raises the paddle a foot or so away from the target area and brings it down with a mighty force.

Richard’s cheeks clench tighter. The paddle hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax again. Then the wood falls with fury, slamming another dose of intense pain into the naked bottom.

The paddle goes up and down; up and down. Richard is stoical. He never cries. No yelp escapes his lips, he has a high pain threshold. He couldn’t count the number of times he’s been spanked. The paddle sinks into his meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the paddle blade are emblazoned across both cheeks. And, the back of his legs.

Dad is not finished. He wants to make sure he does God’s work properly. He has a calling. Richard understands that. He is completely at the mercy of Dad (and God). So, the spanking goes on and on.

And on.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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Changed Times 7. Pub landlord

A whopping for Warminster

The Night Before Christmas

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The morning after

new story 2

zused after bed naked messy (3)

Scott buried his head in the pillow, it still ached terribly, but the pain in his backside was easing. His stomach was churning and he feared he might be sick at any moment. His bed smelt rancid; close to his nose was a chunk of scrunched up toilet paper, soaked with his own spunk. All around him were filthy underpants, a damp bath towel, a shirt worn for three days and then dumped.

Gingerly, he reached behind him and with the tips of his fingers traced the contours of his buttocks. They were tender around the edges, but the crests of the mounds themselves had the consistency of leather.

He groaned quietly, trying to piece it together. What the hell had just happened? There was a distant memory of the student union bar. They had been smoking weed all afternoon. Then there were “snakebites”, an especially potent beer combination. Then what happened? And, how the hell did he get home?

Downstairs in the kitchen his dad struggled to raise a mug of tea to his lips; his hands trembled. He couldn’t get them to obey his brain; it was like he had Parkinson’s Disease. His wife sat opposite him at the table. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she sipped her own tea. He looked back at her doubtfully. “He’s had it coming for a long time. What did he expect?” she tried to console him.

Dad gave up his struggle and put the mug down, slopping a quarter of its contents over the laminated table top. His eyes were blazing, his heart hadn’t stopped thumping. He had only just regained his breath. He looked across at his wife, silently pleading.

“He’s been off the rails for months,” his wife rose from the table and placed her mug in the sink. “We’ve been on at him for ages,” she turned on the tap and watched it fill the washing-up bowl. “You did warn him what you’d do,” she turned around exasperated. “And if you hadn’t been a wimp for so many years, he wouldn’t have got like this,” is what she wanted to say. Of course, she stayed silent.

Dad stared at his wife’s large ebony hairbrush that was on the table, almost reproaching him. He shuddered, then shook his head violently as if trying to dislodge a memory from his brain. He had been out of control upstairs. It scared him.

“You not drinking that?” his wife picked up the mug and took it to the sink. She returned with a damp cloth in her hand and wiped up the spillage. “You did the right thing, Tony,” she brushed her hand against his shoulder as a comfort.

“I know, I know,” he whispered in reply, but he didn’t mean it. He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Look at that, nearly one and he’s still in that pit of a bed.”

His wife, at the sink, her back turned to her husband, frowned, “And you’ll do it again, the next time as well.” And, she knew there would be a next time. Her Scott had not learned his lesson just yet.

Dad stared down at the table top, his hands had stopped shaking and his heartrate was back to normal. It was over. For now. Until the next time.

It had been going on for months. Ever since Scott went to the university really. Unlike so many kids his age he hadn’t gone away to university, he wasn’t going to give up his home comforts. The university’s halls of residence couldn’t compete with that. Although he lived at home he enjoyed the life of a debauched student. A little to freely. Mum and Dad doubted that he did much actual studying; he seemed to be high or drunk most of the time. He never cleaned his room, hardly ate meals Mum had cooked and disrespected his parents like … well, like a teenager.

Dad was not a strong disciplinarian. He never raised a finger to any of his boys as they grew up. The older two had left home years ago and were making good, honest lives for themselves. It was only Scott who had fallen by the wayside.

Dad discussed it one night in the pub with a neighbour pal. He was astounded (but also comforted) to learn his pal’s son was just as bad. Or, had been just as bad. “A damn good spanking,” his pal had said. “A taste of the leather belt,” he had continued. “Across the bare arse,” he concluded. “No trouble since.”

It turned out Alan (his pal) had to belt the boy on more than one occasion, but it did the trick. Dad told his wife about it. She agreed with great enthusiasm. She had the perfect thing: her old wooden hairbrush, an heirloom from her grandmother.

They were together when they told Scott. It had been a one-sided conversation. Dad said something like, “If you don’t buck up your ideas, I’ll spank you.” Scott jeered, “Yeah, right,” and stormed from the room. That had been last weekend.

“He can’t say he wasn’t warned,” his wife dried her hands on the tea towel. “Don’t fret so much over it, Tony.”

And Scott couldn’t. He rolled in the house at two that morning and rolled was the appropriate word as he bounced off the walls and practically on hands-and-knees climbed the stairs to his room. Almost certainly he did not hear his Dad’s words following him, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Of course, he would see Scott in the morning, as he did each day. But this time see you in the morning had a different meaning. He meant, “I’ll spank the living daylights out of your bare bottom, young man.”

Dad had an uncomfortable night. Boats had been burned. He had announced to his wife, and to his son himself, his intended action. He couldn’t back down now. He would loose too much face. He was supposed to be the man of the house. His word ruled. He would be a laughing-stock. He had to go through with it. He lay awake imagining. His son was nearly nineteen; he was a drunkard but he was a fit, strong drunkard. In any kind of tussle, never mind a fight, he could knock Dad on the floor. Scott was hardly likely to meekly offer up his backside (bared or otherwise) for a spanking.

Way into the night Dad stared at the ceiling, irritated by his wife snoring beside him. But, before he drifted off into a troubled sleep, he had a plan.

It was way past midday, the brat was still in his stinking pit of a bed. Dad paced the living room. He should take the initiative. His wife vacuumed around him. The noise cut through him. She switched off the  machine and put a hand in a pocket of her apron. “Here,” she said quietly. She handed him her grandmother’s hairbrush. He took it and was surprised by its weight. It was about fourteen inches long, including the handle, and the end with the bristles was about four inches wide and oval shaped. Absent-mindedly, he tapped it against his open palm. His wife had been right, this was a marvellous spanking tool.

“Go on,” she egged him, “Better get on with it.”

“Yes,” he was timid, reluctant. “I suppose so.”

With heavy steps and heavier heart he tramped up the stairs, rehearsing in his mind his plan of action. He hesitated outside Scott’s bedroom door. There was no sound from inside, he must still be asleep. Dad took three deep breaths to steady himself. Oh, how he did not want a fist-fight with his son. He eased open the door, the stench of sour body odour overwhelmed him. He stood, gripping the brush in his right fist. His son lay face down on the bed, farting gently. Dad’s stomach turned; he couldn’t be sure if it was disgust or nerves. Scott was sound asleep and completely naked. Dad paused, inspecting the room, a slight smile might have crossed his face. This might be possible after all.

His plan had been to take Scott by surprise, somehow haul him across his knee and then batter his backside with the brush as best he could. It was a good plan, it would have worked. It needed the element of surprise.  He watched Scott’s back rise and fall in rhythm with his breathing. The teenager’s body was almost completely hairless. Dad had never noticed that before; was it natural? Did he shave himself? He shook the questions from his head. This was a chance too good to miss. Almost on tiptoes he walked further into the room until he was by the bed and towering over his son. The boy was out of it, oblivious to his surroundings. Dad would never get a better chance.

In one continuous movement, he leaned forward, stood on one leg, put his other knee across Scott’s shoulders, gripped the brush tightly, raised it high and brought it crashing down across the very centre of Scott’s left buttock. That woke the boy up. “Whaaaaa!!” it was a screech both of pain and terror. Dad pounded the buttocks with a ferocity that surprised him. “Noooo!!” Scott’s legs buckled. He tried to wriggle free but Dad’s weight on his prone body had him pinned down. His arms flailed, he tried to twist and turn so he could rain punches but each one missed by a mile. He was restrained as effectively as if he had been tied to the bed with ropes.

“Drink. Drugs. University. Mother. Meals. Hotel. Washing.” Dad was wailing himself, incoherently as he hammered the brush into Scott’s hard, meaty buttocks. The once-creamy flesh quickly turned deep pink, the brush bouncing up and down leaving imprints of the oval head behind. In no time the whole of Scott’s backside shone red.

“Waa, gerroff, waa!” Scott made no more sense than his Dad. Now fully awake he knew for certain what was going on. This was the spanking Dad had threatened last week. Later, when it was at an end and he was nursing his wounded pride, Scott would reflect that Dad wasn’t such a sucker after all. But that would have to wait. For now, he had to endure his Dad’s wrath. The agony was awesome. His bum glowed red hot. Every time the brush hammered into him a fresh ache would radiate from the cheeks and travel up and down his legs. His bum was aching even more than his head.

Dad whacked on and on, battling the strength of his son who even after fifty, sixty, seventy wallops continued his fight to escape. Sweat poured down Dad’s back, the effort was killing him, but he was a man possessed (by what, he didn’t know. It scared him). Bang, bang, bang! The brush splattered into the boy’s flesh. Dad was mesmerised by the thudding sound it made.

Then he was dimly aware of another noise. Not the sound of Scott’s howling, nor the drumming of the brush. This was coming from a distance. From behind him.

“Ok Tony, he’s had enough. You should stop now.” It was his wife. She seemed so far away. “C’mon, love, give it here.” She reached out her hand. Dad looked at the brush in his fist; dazed, mystified, wondering how it had got there. He glanced down at his son trapped beneath his knee, as if seeing him for the first time, the crimson buttocks pulsating . Shamefaced, he meekly passed over the brush.

“C’mon love,” his wife breathed quietly, “Let’s go downstairs, I’ll make a nice cup of tea.”

 

Picture credit: unknown

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Public Birching

Be Home by Eleven, Not Half-Past Twelve

The Scotch Whisky Mystery

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The liquor store

new story 2

z used otk sport shorts car outdoors northernspankingdotcom (1)

Hal hated his job at the liquor store in Snarlesville.  The hours were bad and the pay poor. The only consolation was he could take home a bottle or two under his coat from time to time – if he sneaked them from the room at the back away from the CCTV cameras.

He did the night shift which meant there was usually only himself and a junior clerk (on even a worst salary than he). The store was in an upscale strip mall and truth to tell at weekends he sold more merlot than Bud. During the summer trade was good right up to closing time at eleven. He liked it to be busy, it helped the time pass. He had a small television set behind the counter so he could watch his game shows when things got slow.

It could’ve been worst. He was in a suburb far from the inner city; there were no shootings in this territory. No one tried to hold-up the store. Drug dealing was unheard of. It was a peaceful community. The Church was big thereabouts and mainly the kids were good. They didn’t give him much trouble, except when they did.

There was a bunch of them who hung out at the strip mall. There wasn’t much else to do but it was better than being at home. Naturally, they saw the liquor store as a challenge. You had to be twenty-one to buy booze. Kids were the same all over; they just had to get their hands on it. Fake IDs were everywhere. Why did they bother, Hal thought. A cute twenty-one-year-old might pass himself off as eighteen, but not the other way round. It didn’t stop them trying. When they did, Hal sent them away with a curse in their ears.

The Church got worked up over it. Drink, the Devil and the rest of it. Pastors preached to their congregations about the evil of alcohol. It made Hal smile, but he wouldn’t let on what he knew; a liquor store was a little like a confessional sometimes. He didn’t have much schooling, he didn’t know the meaning of the word “hypocrisy”.

One day he was visited at the store by a group of women in hats. At least they’d left their tambourines at home. They had more sense than to try to get him to close down the liquor store, there wasn’t another one for miles. But, they wailed, “Save Our Children!” They meant, of course, don’t sell to their kids.

Hal was a man of God himself. He always trod the straight and narrow (except when he was in the back room of the store). It was no deal to him, the store did pretty well and it didn’t need the kids’ business. Besides, he was on a salary, so why should he care?

Not long after the small community was rocked by scandal. Well, “rocked” and “scandal” might be stretching it a bit, but it was a tiny town. One evening just after school closed for the summer a bunch of kids got hold of some booze and partied on down in the woods. There were some mighty sore behinds by the time the fathers put their paddles back in their woodsheds. Nobody blamed Hal; it wasn’t his fault, the booze hadn’t come from him. Turned out the kids snuck it out of the liquor cabinets in their homes. No wonder the dads were so mad.

After the spankings there were the groundings and the curfews. It became like a mini police state. Booze was definitely off limits. Another batch of womenfolk paid Hal a visit. They brought family photos of their kids. “If they turn up at the store, call us,” they demanded. They had a list of phone numbers a half-mile long to keep behind the counter.

“No,” he said, no way was he going to run around after these dames. “You want to catch them you be here any Friday evening about eight. That’s when they come.” He muttered under his breath and turned back to Family Fortunes on the small screen.

They spread the word! Armistead down at the Church got to hear about it. He had no kids of his own; he’d never married. How could he with what he earned? Not that he ever found a girl. That worried him sometimes, he thought people gossiped about him. Forty-five years old and not married. You know how folks talk.

Armistead wanted to help; it was the Lord’s work! On Friday the following week, he took his car to the mall and parked up. It wasn’t busy and he got close enough so he could see the entrance to the liquor store. He was on a mission. There were souls to save. No drop of liquor had ever passed his lips, Praise The Lord! He thought of the fathers and their paddles. Spare the rod, spoil the child! Halleluiah! He sat and waited.

Tommy was driving out on the freeway and did he need to take a leak, and how. If he didn’t take drastic action he would wet his snug sport shorts. He spotted a sign up ahead: Snarlesville  – his salvation! Minutes later he pulled his battered pick-up in a strip mall where there was gas station with a restroom. He made it just in time. When he finished he checked himself out in the mirror. He liked what he saw. His torso was a temple; it ought to be he spent hours in the gym. His tailored sport shorts and t-shirts emphasised the contours of his body. His fair hair and blue eyes were complemented by his unblemished skin. He ran his tongue over his dry lips, “Some girl is going to be very happy tonight,” he told himself.

He was walking across the parking lot when he spotted the liquor store. He checked the pocket in his shirt; he had his wallet. Might as well get a six-pack for later. He made toward the store. Tommy was nineteen, a city boy and no stranger to booze. Of course his ID was fake. He knew that and the store clerks back home knew that, but who cared?

About a hundred feet away Armistead was getting very excited. He saw Tommy from behind as he strolled towards the store. He couldn’t see the boy’s face, but that worried him none. No way was he twenty-one. He followed behind. Praise the Lord! There was work to be done.

Tommy took his beer to Hal. He didn’t recognise Tommy either, but he knew a forged ID when he saw one. “No way, this is a fake,” he handed it back. Tommy shrugged his shoulders: you win some, you lose some. He tried to turn to leave but his way was blocked.

“Not so fast, bud, come here.” A strong hand gripped him by the shoulder while another tugged at his hair. In a fair fight he would have pulverised his attacker, but he was caught off guard. And, off balance. Armistead dragged him from the shop and Tommy’s feet scootered across the hot asphalt. “What the fuck!” the teen yelled but the unexpected assault left him breathless. Within seconds Armistead had him at the car. He’d left the door open especially. He sat on the backseat and dragged Tommy so that he fell forward and across his lap. He pinned him down with his left arm and pounded the teen’s tight, round bottom with his right palm.

“Worr… gerroff! Help!” Tommy was stunned. He couldn’t move in the closed space of the car. His nose was pressed against some foul smelling leather. Smack, smack, smack. Armistead spanked Tommy’s rear end with enthusiasm. His palm tingled as it smacked into the teen’s rock hard rear. The kid hollered and wriggled, but he was stuck fast. He was going nowhere.

Yards away a small crowd had gathered. Bored teens snickered and cat-called. Two aged matrons shuffled to the side of the car to get a better view of Tommy’s beautiful buttocks. The more Armistead spanked, the harder his hand hurt: only now did he think to have gotten a paddle from one of those fathers.

Armistead realised he wasn’t having much effect. His hand was hurting more than the boy’s butt. Drastic action was needed. He grabbed at the elasticated waist of Tommy’s shorts, sending the teen in a paroxysm of spasms. He fought and cursed like a trooper. Armistead nearly had the tight cotton shorts over the boy’s buttocks, but he was a strong fighter. The older man would need to lift the boy off his lap and inch or so if he was to bare Tommy’s butt. He released his grip on his back for a second. That was enough, the teen wriggled free of Armistead’s lap, hauled himself to his feet and while tugging his shorts back up to their rightful position he ran to his pick-up with the sounds of jeering voices sending him on his way.

He leapt into the cab, started the engine and sped from the parking lot, vowing never to return to Snarlesville.

Breathlessly, Armistead watched him go. The crowd dispersed and Hal returned to watching Jeopardy.

 

Picture credit: northernspankingdotcom

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The bully

new story 2

z used gym sport shorts horse waiting sting (31)

I am watching Aitkens. He seems to be waiting patiently for me to begin. He is prostrate across a gym horse, dressed in his PE kit: white shorts and vest. The horse is a little high and he is on tip-toes so he can stretch his body across it to grip the two front legs. This makes his back arch and his buttocks are pointing at me at an angle.

I am surprised how big he is but I don’t know why I should be. He is eighteen years old and one of our prefects. He’s in the rugby team and I suppose his bulk is a virtue on the pitch. The muscles in his arms and his legs are straining as he hold his position.

I can’t read his mind. Is he submissive? Certainly, he did not put up a struggle when I told him of my intentions. Nor, did he protest. Why would he? Why could he? He deserves everything that is coming to him.

The gym is empty, it is shortly after four in the afternoon and school is over for the day. I bet Aitkens wishes he was with his pals, on the bus into town, where they will hang around the shopping centre, leering at girls (or whatever it is boys his age do these days). Not this afternoon. At least not yet; he has an appointment with me first.

I flex the heavy cane between my hands. It is about three feet long and as thick as a pencil. It’s dark brown in colour with notches along it every six inches or so. As I bend the cane I can tell it is more powerful than the rattan canes we usually use. It’s called a Dragon, I believe. It’s property is that it’s denser than other canes and it packs more of a punch. Properly applied it will leave severe marks and bruising on a boy’s backside. Good. Aitkens deserves everything that is due to him. I hope by the time I am finished he won’t be able to sit for a week.

Aitkens is a bully. It is as simple as that. Pathetic, isn’t it. This big, strong sixth-form boy has made a career out of stealing dinner money from the juniors. If they don’t cough up the cash, he quite literally bashes them. I should correct myself there. I don’t believe he has bashed any of the kids, the mere threat of violence is enough to make them hand over the dosh.

I can’t be sure how long it’s been going on, but I have every reason to believe it has been a considerable time. At last we have found him out. Now, he will get his just deserts. I look at him over the horse, he is still, waiting, staring down at the wooden floor of the gym. Is he remorseful? Does he regret his shameful action? There must be some regret surely, but I suspect it might only be the regret of being found out.

I want him expelled from the school. We should chuck him and all bullies out on their ears. That would be a deterrent for other louts who think they can torment their juniors. I wanted him out but I know the headmaster would never countenance it. It will be too public a gesture. It will draw attention to the school. Parents will demand answers to awkward questions: how did we allow bullying to take place? How much is still going on?

No, it is better to keep the matter within the confines of the school. To hush it up, if you will. So, here we are this late afternoon. Me with the cane in my hand and Aitkens bent across the horse with his backside pointing out. I’m annoyed that the school rules only allow me to administer a maximum six strokes. Damn, stupid rules. Aitkens deserves to suffer badly for all the pain he has caused others.

The rule says he can only be caned on the seat “as normally clothed”. That is supposed to mean wearing trousers and pants. I would gladly thrash him on the bare buttocks. And, yes, so hard and so often that he bleeds. There, I’ve said it. He is a lout. He is not a mischievous little boy deserving a short, sharp shock. He is not a lazy bones in need of encouragement.

So, it is to be six on the seat as normally clothed. Aitkens is presenting his backside to me in tight fitting cotton gym shorts without underwear. If some blasted school governor wants to argue it out with me later I’ll tell him Aitkens is as “normally clothed”. That’s as normally clothed for a gym class. Aitkens made no protest when I instructed him to present himself to me dressed in this fashion. Perhaps, he doesn’t know the school rules. That’s his look out. I wonder if I could risk ripping down his shorts and giving him six stingers on the bare. Would he tell on me? Sadly, it’s best not to find out. The headmaster would not support me and it would be me out on the tiles, as it were, and not Aitkens.

I am only allowed six strokes so I will make them count. I discussed how best to do this in the staff room earlier and Hopkins, the Head of Mathematics, told me how the prefects caned a boy at his school back in the day. They would have the boy positioned over a desk (but any piece of furniture would suffice) and they would rub their cane across the centre of the boy’s bum to get an aim, then they would stride away for five or six paces and then raise the cane high above their shoulder and take a run up before flogging it into the waiting bum. “It would take his arse off,” Hopkins told me with great satisfaction.

I am not so sure that I can do that with Aitkens. I think it takes a great deal of skill to get the cane to land on target. So much could go wrong in the run up. I might miss the target altogether. I suppose that wouldn’t matter too much if the cane whipped him across the back of the thighs; that would be excruciatingly painful and would surpass any agony Aitkens might feel from an orthodox caning.

I suppose if I wanted to thrash him on the thighs, I could just do it. I mean I just need to stand beside the boy as I would in ordinary circumstances and whip the Dragon into him there, rather than across the backside. It is a temptation.

I decide not to go in for the athletic approach. I stand about three feet to his left (a cane’s length) and rub the heavy rod across the curves of his cheeks. At such close proximity I see that he seems entirely relaxed; unconcerned that he is about to be beaten. His backside is rather meaty and although this is not entirely necessary I allow myself to rub the palm of my right hand across his contours. I smile gently as his bottom quivers in response to my caress. I pat him twice on each cheek as if to say I am ready to go.

This message makes him wriggle his hips and shake his bottom from left to right. He grips the wooden legs of the gym horse tightly. Aha! He is not so unconcerned after all. He opens his eyes wide and seems to be taking an inordinate interest in the scratched wooden floorboards in his line of vision. I tap the cane across his shorts. I intend an uppercut. That is to say I will whip the cane from below so that it bites into the undercurves of his cheeks. I will put all my beef into it and should be rewarded with a thick welt. It will be in the exact part of his bum that connects with a chair whenever he sits. He will, I hope, feel it for some considerable time to come.

I find my aim and draw the cane back. It wobbles as it rises. I hold it high and steady for a moment and am delighted to see Aitkens’ bum clench tightly. It is now as hard as rubber. As a devoted golfer I have a superior upper body strength. I use every ounce of it as I flog the cane into the seat of his shorts. Bingo! A perfect hit. The cane sinks into his flesh and seems to remain embedded there for a second. Another second passes before “Yeow!!” Aitkens felt that all right. He grips the legs of the horse tighter. His knees buckle under the pain. His buttocks wobble.

I stand back and admire my handiwork. A clear line where the cane struck is visible across his white shorts. I can’t see it but I know there is a livid red welt forming under the cotton. Satisfied with my effort so far, I take aim again. Sometimes with a caning a master will go “round the circuit”. By that I mean he will try to strike as much of the buttocks as humanly possible, leaving not a square inch of bottom un-scorched. There are many merits in that approach. The boy is undoubtedly left sore. But I wanted Aitkens to encounter maximum agony. Since I have discounted the “run-up” approach I intend to go for Plan-B.

Plan-B is simple. For it to succeed I must lay the cane on the same spot as often as I can. This means that the welt that already throbs on his backside will be reignited if I can land the cane on top of it. You get the picture? It will double the pain. Think then how it will be if there are six strokes. I might be able to achieve my ambition of drawing blood.

I take my aim and whack him as hard as I would if beating a carpet. Spot on! His head rises and falls and he stamps his legs up and down. “Huff, huff, huff.” I can’t quite describe the sound he makes, but wind is whistling through his lips. The back of his neck is scarlet, as I suppose is his once-creamy backside.

I take a third swipe. It lands just below the other two. Aitkens yells. Oh how I wish I had been able to give the bully a public thrashing. How the youngsters he bullied for so long would enjoy seeing him reduced to this. I stand back to take in the scene. His knuckles are white, he is holding the horse so tightly. His short, fairish hair is soaked in sweat. It looks like he has just stepped out of the shower. I take a gentle stroll so that I can now see Aitkens from the front. I am delighted to observe his once-open and rather handsome face is now distorted like that of a gargoyle. Good, I hope he is suffering.

Number four hits right on target. He does the wriggling and the stomping and the yelling once more. I congratulate myself. I am on fire. And so is Aitkens’ backside. Tears are flowing freely. I did not expect this. Senior boys do not as a rule cry during a caning. That is something we expect from a junior boy, subjecting himself to corporal punishment for the first time. Again, I rue the fact that Aitkens’ victims cannot see this.

I stand close to Aitkens. His shorts are tight and I can clearly see the effects of my caning. His under-cheeks are corrugated. I want to know if there is blood. I can’t see any so I press my hand into Aitkens’ flayed bottom. Of course, he roars with the pain. The cotton of his shorts is pressing into the welts and I hope to see traces of blood. Alas, there is none. Disappointed, I take up my position once more, determined to rectify this.

I surprise myself with the ferocity of stroke number five. I have found reserves of strength I did not know I had. It was another uppercut and as it whizzes through the air and cracks into his buttocks I am sure it slices them open. That one should have taken his arse off, to use Hopkins’ very apt phrase. Aitkens is in deep distress. Manfully, he keeps his position, head low, bottom high, despite the tears and the snot flowing down his face. I ought to admire his fortitude but I can only hope the humiliation he feels outweighs his all too obvious agony.

One final stroke to go. I hesitate. I dearly want to know what his savaged backside looks like. I have a last chance to achieve my ambition. Shall I rip down his shorts so I can examine the naked flesh beneath? I know I am not permitted to beat him on the bare, but am I also not allowed to do this? I will allow him to pull them up before I deliver the final lash.

I take the coward’s way out. I do not want the aggravation that will come if Aitkens sneaks on me to the headmaster. So for the last time, I take aim. I go for the middle of the red, throbbing stripe of flesh. By now it must feel to Aitkens like he has been sitting on the glowing bar of an electric fire.

Whoop! Bulls Eye! I stand back only now realising that I gripped the cane so tightly that my fingernails dug into my palms. My pulse is racing and I am suddenly aware of the cold sweat soaking the back of my shirt. I stare disinterestedly at the eighteen-year-old writhing over the top of the horse. Yes, he is crying but I despise him because he is not more hurt. Given my way they would be calling for a medic at this point.

I do not want to let him go but really what choice do I have? Six strokes is the maximum I am allowed to give. It is no consolation that I delivered six-of-the-very-best. Aitkens, nor any other boy at this school, would have suffered such a caning before. But, that is no comfort.

“Get up. Go!” I rasp and Aitkens hauls himself to his feet. He dares not look at me and unsteadily he sashays across the gym towards the exit. I watch him as he goes. I tuck the cane under my arm and prepare to leave, a dark cloud of dissatisfaction over my head.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

First thing in the morning

new story 2

z used bed pants (1)

I woke this morning with a bit of a thick head. I’d had too much beer last night watching football on the telly. Manchester United, as if that’s relevant. Champions League. At home. They lost. Ha! Ha! When I’ve had a skin-full I get this dream and I wake up with a raging hard on. Of course, I have to toss one off, but it doesn’t do much good. I just get another stiffy and before I know it an hour’s gone by.

There’s a man in our street, I see him in the morning pass by our house. He’s on his way to the station. I call him Mr Black, because he’s always dressed in a dark suit. He carries a furled umbrella, come rain or shine. I sometimes imagine him in a bowler hat, although people don’t wear them anymore. I think he’s something in the City. A manager somewhere.

He’s old. Not real old; about as old as my dad I suppose. But that’s old enough. I like to imagine that I work at the same place as Mr Black and he’s my boss. Not in the office, I’m not clever enough to work in an office. We’re somewhere else, the stores or warehouse maybe. Mr Black is the big boss, not just the stores’ manager.

He’s come down from his office to find me. And he’s not happy. I’ve been bad. Not real bad, I haven’t been in a fight or stolen something. I’ve been late back from dinner hour, again. Or, I’ve been late into work in the morning too many times. Or, maybe I’ve been caught having a crafty fag in the bogs during the afternoon.

He calls me out. Everyone can see what’s happening. He’s in the middle of the shop floor (or whatever) and he’s standing there with his finger crooked and he signals for me to come towards him. I get all nervous, because I know I’ve been a naughty boy.

He has a moan about my lateness and I go “Yes sir. No sir. Sorry sir,” like you do, but I don’t really mean it. Then he says, “Right, let’s get on with it.” He finds a chair and he puts in down in the middle of the floor. Of course, everyone’s stopped working by now. They want to see the fun. And Mr Black sits down. He’s quite a size is Mr Black. He’s way taller than me and really broad at the shoulders. He’s not fat, but he does have a bit of a belly on him. But, too me at least, he looks really powerful.

He makes me stand right in front of him. “Hands on head,” he commands. I put my fingers together and do as I am told. I’m like a naughty boy at primary school. He doesn’t say anything, he just takes hold of the belt keeping up my jeans and he struggles a bit to get the buckle undone. He can’t quite work out how it fastens. I could give him a hand, but I like it more when someone else does it. At last he gets the belt undone. In my dream I’m getting turned on by this, especially when he takes that button on the waistband and opens it. Slowly, he is never in a rush, he slips down the zipper of my fly.

The front of my jeans are open and I feel a little breeze. Somewhere close by there must be a window open. The jeans are loose and begin to trickle down over my bum. I don’t have anything in the pockets so they aren’t heavy enough to slip down my legs. So, Mr Black grips each side of the waist and roughly pulls them down and they end up bunched over my trainers.

I am wearing snug-fitting glowing white Y-front underpants. I don’t have any in real life, but they are always in my dreams. Don’t ask me why. No one my age would ever buy them (although often I quite fancy them when I’m in Marks & Spencer’s with Mum).

“Bend over my knee,” Mr Black says. He is very quiet. He just says it, he’s not like some sergeant-major on a parade ground. He doesn’t bark out orders. With the jeans at my ankles I have to shuffle about like a penguin until I am standing just to the right of Mr Black. He’s thighs are strong and he is sitting with his back straight as a ramrod. He parts his knees just a little so he makes a platform for me to go across.

I never make a fuss. I have broken the rules and I must be punished. If Mr Black says I deserve a right good spanking I am not going to argue with him. I feel my heart beating hard under my blue t-shirt. It fits a bit too well and I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr Black sees my chest going in and out. I swipe the back of my hand across my nose. I don’t know why I do this, I am not about to sneeze or (God help us!) cry, so it must just be nerves or something.

I look down at Mr Black’s lap and I lean forward slowly. I rest my hands on his left thigh and ease myself down so that my stomach rests across him. Then, I stretch my arms out in front of me. The chair is quite tall but I can rest the palms of my hands on the floor. I have a close-up view of the old, dirty scratched tiles. I move my head a bit so I can see under the chair. There are my legs, dangling so that my toes hover just off the ground. My jeans cover my shoes and I can read words on the label: 30W 30L.

I wait. I am meek and submissive. Every pair of eyes in the storeroom are on me and I am loving it. I feel Mr Black take hold of my t-shirt and pull it up my back. He takes it as far as possible so it is almost at my neck. I shudder and it’s not because of the draught. In my dream I have a bird’s eye view. I can see myself draped over Mr Black’s knees. My head is low and my body is at an angle so my bum rests over his right thigh. My cock and balls are squashed against his leg. I have quite a nice bum (in real life, as well) and my waist is firm. The cheeks are round and tight. They’re small enough for Mr Black to cover a whole one with his hand. He is testing this out now. He caresses first the left and then the right buttock, smoothing down the cotton of my underpants as he goes. For good measure, he then rubs the back of my bare thighs. I squeal with pleasure.

He is ready now. He lifts his hand away from my bum a metre or so and then cracks his palm into the middle of my right cheek. The smack! as it connects is loud and sends an echo across the storeroom. I feel it, but to be honest it doesn’t hurt much. He spanks me on the other cheek. He always starts slowly. I suppose he is warming himself up (and of course warming me up). He keeps up a slow tempo and I stare down at the ground, occasionally I will look under the chair at my feet. They are still dangling. I am not wriggling or writhing or anything like that; there is no need to. I’m not one of those who thinks he has to put on a bit of a show while he’s being spanked. I don’t go in for the “ooh, ahhhs” that some people do. If it genuinely hurts, I’ll soon let you know.

Mr Black ups the rhythm and now he is hammering his hand all over my buttocks at great pace. That does hurt and I find myself twisting and turning over his knee. He presses his left hand into my shoulder blades to keep me a bit steady. I love being pinned down. He whacks me like this for a minute or so. I lose sense of time when I’m spanked. I suppose it doesn’t go on for too long. Just until I soil the bedsheet.

Mr Black takes a rest. Maybe his hand is hurting more than my bum. He hasn’t finished though. I wait with great anticipation. I know what’s coming next (it’ll soon be me!). He takes hold of the waistband of my pants and starts to pull. He gets them over my mounds but can’t tug them right down because they are stuck at the front. Without being told, I lift my body off his lap just enough to let him yank them down. He leaves them bunched up at my knees. I hear murmurs of approval from my audience. They have seen just how red my cheeks are. They might not hurt much but they do show the signs of a sound spanking.

I am now naked from my neck to my knees. I continue to stare down at the floor. Mr Black puts his left arm around my waist and gathers my body closer to him. Then he wallops my arse. He puts all his strength into it and his palm crashes in and out of my flesh so quickly the echoes around the room sound like machinegun fire. This does hurt. I am truly and genuinely in pain. It is good that Mr Black has a firm grip on me because at this point I could try to roll off his knees onto the floor and escape.

I wouldn’t want to do that; I am enjoying this too much. Mr Black only ever spanks me with the palm of his hand. I never get him to use a belt or a brush or slipper. I don’t go in for the cane either. I have no desire to be sent to the headmaster’s study for six-of-the-best. For me it is as much the humiliation of being spanked in front of my fellow workers on my bare little bottom by an older, powerful man while held down firmly across his knee, that turns me on.

So he keeps whacking me on my bare bum and he’s covered all there is of it, from the top of the curves, over the mounds themselves and into the underside. I am well and truly toasted, so then he starts on the back of my thighs. That’s agony. I don’t know why being spanked on the thighs hurts more than the bum; is it something about nerve ends, or maybe there’s not so much padding there. I suppose I should Google it.

Now, my knees are buckling and my legs are kicking about. I almost lose my jeans but they are caught up in my trainers so they aren’t going anywhere. “Ouch, ouch, ouch!”

It’s about this time that I wake up with a boner so stiff it looks like there’s a tentpole in my duvet. Remember how that used to feel? Oh to be nineteen again, eh? Well I think that’s more or less where you came in. Me tossing myself off. Telling you this story has set me off again, so I’m going to lay back here and have another one. I know it will make me late for work again – hey, ho, what a pity Mr Black isn’t pacing up an down his office waiting for me.

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com