A man of honour

new story 2

Mr Crosby glowered at his nineteen-year-old son, he could hardly keep his temper. “You’ve stolen from me – AGAIN.” He waved his leather wallet in the teenager’s face. “There’s a twenty gone. You’ve taken it,” his face coloured, soon it would be as red as a fine claret wine.

“No I didn’t,” the boy cowered in fear of his father’s wrath.

Mr Crosby paced the large lounge room. “Don’t add lying to your list of crimes.” He reached a cupboard and fumbled to open a door. “This isn’t the first time.”

Hank watched his father carefully, the colour draining from his own face. “I didn’t,” he protested feebly. This was going to end badly.

Mr Crosby stooped forward and reached into the cupboard. “I tanned you last time but obviously it was not enough,” he growled as he withdrew a small, but stout paddle. He straightened his back, turned and faced his son. “Well, let’s see if this will make an impact.” He brandished the paddle in his right hand. “I will not have you stealing from me.”

Hank stared glumly at the paddle. It wasn’t the first time he had seen the wood. It wouldn’t be the first time he felt it. “Now …” Mr Crosby’s eyes scanned the room. It was a large, opulent living room, dominated by two plush leather armchairs and a huge Chesterfield couch. That wasn’t what he was looking for. He needed something more compact. Standing against one wall was a heavy wooden armless chair, the kind that matched a dining table. Perfect, he thought.

Without a further word he marched across the room, grabbed it in one hand and, because of its extreme weight, struggled to manoeuvre it to the centre of the room. He plonked it down unceremoniously. He was beginning to sweat; a combination of the exertion, the warm weather and an airless room.

“Right,” he glared at Hank, “You know what to do.” Mr Crosby sat himself down on the chair, wriggled his backside,  straightened his back and parted his legs. He was ready. “Stand there,” he snapped his fingers, sending a shudder through Hank. “Now!” he roared when his son showed no inclination to move.

Generally speaking nineteen-year-olds do not get their bottoms blistered by their fathers, no matter what crime they may have committed. Indeed, spanking in the home and corporal punishment in schools had increasingly fallen into disuse in recent years. Now, would be the time for Hank to protest, “Dad, I’m too old for this!”

Hank knew better. If there was one lesson he had learned growing up it was: Dad is in charge. And now Hank was an adult it was Dad’s way or the highway. Accept Dad’s rules or take a hike. His older brother Todd had discovered that the hard way. He now lived in a sweaty room in a rooming house and had no prospects of betterment. Hank had no desire to follow in Todd’s footsteps.

He wanted to repeat, “I didn’t take the money,” but what was the point? His father wouldn’t believe him. Hank only had himself to blame, he had stolen money before; in fact more times than Mr Crosby knew. As they say, once you betray trust it is difficult to get it back.

Hank shuffled into position so that he stood a step or two to his father’s right side. “Jeans and shorts down. Pronto!” Indignantly, Hank searched for his belt buckle, loosened it and within seconds he had his jeans at his knees. He hesitated. He always hated this part: showing Dad his dick and ball sack. Mr Crosby might treat Hank as if he was still a little boy, but here was proof positive that his son was a fully-fledged man. Hank sucked in his breath, pinched the sides of his Jockey shorts and in one complete deft movement of the wrists he had them resting on top of his jeans. Without awaiting further instructions he threw himself across his father’s lap.

Hank hated Dad to see his genitals, but it was worst that he could see his crack and hole. Could there be anything more humiliating than an over-the-knee spanking on the bare buttocks? Hank stretched his arms out in front of him and rested his palms into the deep, plush carpet. Behind him his legs dangled in mid-air and his toes hovered above the floor. Like this, his backside rested at an angle across Dad’s lap. Mr Crosby was a tall man in his fifties and like many men that age he was running to fat. His well-padded thighs made a comfortable platform for Hank to rest on, but he knew what would happen next would be far from cosy.

Mr Crosby gripped the paddle tightly in his hand. As paddles went it was on the small side, no bigger than a paperback book. It was made especially for close-up over-the-knee spankings. He had a collection of larger paddles which he kept in a closet upstairs alongside a very old, worn razor strop that had been in the family for generations. He tapped the paddle against Hank’s left cheek. The nineteen-year-old’s body flinched, he closed his eyes and gritted the teeth, waiting anxiously for the first explosion of pain.

“I’m going to take your ass off with this,” Mr Crosby thought silently. “By the time I’ve finished it’ll glow in the dark. You won’t be sitting down for a week. I’ll teach you to steal money from me.” With those thoughts in mind he raised the paddle and brought it cracking down at tremendous force across Hank’s rear end.


The next morning at the office Mr Crosby’s secretary handed him a fistful of notes and coins, “Here’s your change,” she said.

“Change?” Mr Crosby wrinkled his nose in confusion.

“From yesterday. You gave me twenty to buy cakes for the girls in the typing pool. It was Jane’s birthday.” She handed over the money, puzzled as to why her boss’s face had turned crimson.

The day passed as it always did with Mr Crosby; he never had a moment to himself. Only on the train journey back home that evening did he have time to think. Hank hadn’t stolen the money. His son had told him as much and he hadn’t believed him. And, of course, he had blistered every square inch of the young man’s ass. What should he do now?

He was grateful his wife was not at home when he got back, he needed to speak to Hank alone: this was man-to-man stuff. Mr Crosby believed in high standards of behaviour: he had reared his children to be honest, truthful and to accept the consequences of their actions. Even if that meant taking a painful and humiliating spanking from time to time. Mr Crosby was an honourable man; he would have to confess to his son.

He called Hank to the lounge room, the very same place he had whopped the kid’s hide the previous night. Mr Crosby owned a large company and had many workers under him, he was never afraid to take command of a situation. He gave orders and people carried them out. He was used to that. This time it was different. He had no idea what he should do. Yes, he would apologise to Hank but then what? He couldn’t take back a spanking. Hank had probably spent a very uncomfortable night trying to sleep on his side and no doubt he had been reminded of the bruising each time he sat on a hard surface during the day. There was no undoing that.

Uncharacteristically, Mr Crosby had no plan. Instead, he decided to ask Hank what he wanted to do. Mr Crosby called the boy in and told him straight, “I spent the money on cakes for the girls in the office and I forgot. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t believe you and I’m sorry I spanked you.” He came right out with it. No beating about the bush. “And,” he continued, “I don’t know how to make amends to you. What do you want me to do?”

He was quiet after that. He had said his piece. It was up to Hank now. The boy’s eyes shone. It might have been indignation or anger, Mr Crosby could not tell. Hank’s face glowed pink. His father stood uncomfortably, he couldn’t read his son’s mind. What was he thinking? In fact, Hank had been knocked off his feet. Never in his entire life had his father apologised to him. Never had he made such an offer. For once the boy was in control. What did he want? Money? No, the family was rich, Hank never went without. What then? It didn’t take long for the penny to drop. Hank had made up his mind.

In the past he had wondered if he was the only one who thought this way. Did it make him peculiar? Was it something he would be doing for the rest of his life? Perhaps it was natural. Often he had fantasised about spanking his dad. Mostly, it came after Hank had suffered a dose of the paddle or the razor strop. Was it revenge fantasy? Maybe he could find a book about it in the library. After all those years, here was a chance for his dream to come true.

Hank took after his old man in at least one important respect: when a good opportunity presented itself he took it.

“Right,” he took a deep breath and looked his father in the eye, “You unjustly gave me a spanking. You can’t take that back, but you can do the next best thing.” He was delighted that his father was clearly confused. He had no idea what was coming next. “You have to let me spank you.”

He studied his father’s face carefully. The man was shocked. His lower lip quivered, he started to form words but held himself back. The silence between father and son was embarrassing. Hank shuffled his feet. He was bursting to say, “Take down your pants and underwear,” but his nerve failed. Mr Crosby was known at the office as a quick thinker. He was not afraid to take a decision. This was to be no exception.

He had not expected his son’s proposal. Spank his own father. It was unheard of; absurd even. And, yet it was the perfect retribution. It was an eye for an eye. He had spanked his son unjustly, why shouldn’t his son spank him back? Mr Crosby was an honourable man; it was a fair proposition.

“Yes, I agree,” he said. Mr Crosby could not be certain but he thought he saw his son’s knees wobble. The teenager coughed to hide his mounting excitement. Never in a million years did he expect this. He had to take control of the situation. His mind whirled; what should he do no next? It shouldn’t be too difficult, he had been on the receiving end many times in the past.

“I want you,” Hank croaked, his mouth had drained of saliva. He coughed and tried again, “I want you to go upstairs and fetch the razor strop from your closet,” he felt his chest tighten as he fought to get the words out, “Then, bring it back here,” he added unnecessarily. It felt like his ears would burst, so much blood was rushing towards them. He gaped as his father meekly left the room.

Hank’s heartrate was hardly back to normal by the time his father returned. In his hand he held the thick leather razor strop. Without saying a word, Mr Crosby handed it over and stood head bowed, his face flushed scarlet. Hank felt the weight of the strop. He had felt it only one time across his naked buttocks. Dad had told him it was a family heirloom; generations of Crosby boys had felt it across their backsides. He did not realise this would revive memories for his father of trips to the woodshed on the farm where he was raised.

Hank cleared his throat, “Pants and underwear down. Bend over the back of the couch.” It was a surreal moment. Dad, aged fifty if he was a day, meekly stood in position and with more confidence than Hank ever felt while in the same situation, he assumed the position. He had forgotten to remove his glasses and they slid down his face and fell onto the couch. He made to retrieve them, “Leave them be, you won’t need them until I’ve finished,” Hank was astonished by his own confidence.

Hank folded the leather in his hand and studied the scene. He saw his father bent across the Chesterfield, his grey-haired head low and his flabby buttocks high. He had to give the old man credit, he was offering up his bottom at a perfect angle to receive his lashes. It was a terrific target.

Hank touched the leather across his father’s cheeks. They were soft and he saw them flinch as he began to find his aim. Mr Crosby had closed his eyes shut and seemed to be gnashing his teeth. Hank wondered if all boys did this when they anxiously awaited the first stroke (he knew he certainly did). Perhaps it was the body’s reflex action; its way of protecting itself against hurt.

Hank had no time to ponder such questions. His heartrate was up again and his temples were throbbing. He needed to get on with this before he fell with a faint to the floor. He rubbed the leather across the highest point of Dad’s buttocks. He intended to make this hurt; he was not blowing smoke here. The strop rose and fell at tremendous speed. It cracked into the soft flesh exactly where Hank had intended. He congratulated himself on a job well done as he watched a wide red mark spread across the old man’s cheeks. A perfect outline of the strop was embedded.

Hank reckoned Dad took the first dozen rather well. The buttocks were expansive and even after twelve lashes not every square inch of flesh had been blistered. Hank landed the next set of strokes across the unblemished areas. Then, he put a couple across the naked thighs. He was delighted to hear Dad’s yelps as the leather cracked home. The thighs always hurt more than the backside; Dad knew that, he had walloped Hank there often enough in the past.

And so it went on. Hank tanned Dad’s backside until it was as red as a cherry; just as the old man had spanked him the night before. Then he added some more for good measure. He was enjoying himself a great deal. Hank might have gone on all night if he hadn’t heard his mother’s car in the driveway. It was time to stop. She couldn’t know about this – it was a guy thing.

Hank and Dad never discussed it again. Not, with each other. The next morning Mr Crosby stopped by at his analyst’s office. The doctor had thought he had seen it all before; and he had, until Hank’s dad showed him the bruises from the night before.

z used after older endart (1)

Picture credit: Endart


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Charles Hamilton the Second



You, caught smoking

new story 2

z used school corner sting

You stand in the headmaster’s study facing the wall. Hands behind your back, forehead so close it almost touches. This cannot be happening. It’s bizarre. A dream. Nobody would ever believe it if you told them.

Behind you and out of sight the headmaster makes his preparations. First he must deal with Barker. Then it will be your turn. The wall smells musty, you think there must be damp somewhere close by. That wouldn’t surprise you as a lot of the school is ancient and crumbling. That’s tradition for you.

You hear the headmaster say, “Take off your blazer Barker. Put in on my desk.” There is a pause and then he says, “Hurry up boy I haven’t got all day.” All day, you think. You wouldn’t mind if they took all day about it. You are not looking forward to this. Not at all.

You hear movement. The floorboards squeak. Barker is moving about. “Stand there boy!” the headmaster barks. He seems incapable of speaking in a normal volume. You cannot see but you do imagine what is going on behind your back. This is complete madness.

A window is open and you can hear voices of dozens of pupils returning to school from lunchbreak. There is laughter. They seem very happy. Lucky them. You take a deep breath, you shuffle your feet slightly. It is surprisingly tiring standing like this. An involuntary shudder runs through your body. The headmaster is swishing his cane. Jesus Christ. This cannot be happening.

But it is and there’s nothing you can do about it. You sniff loudly, brick dust (or whatever it is was) tickles your nostril. What a morning it has been. It started at morning break. You thought it was just a normal day. You went across the playing fields to the cricket pavilion to smoke a cigarette. Nothing unusual about that. The sixth-form have always smoked at the pav. Always. Everyone knows that. Smoking is against school rules, but come on we are eighteen years old. It’s perfectly legal for us to smoke when we’re out in the real world. The masters turn a blind eye to us.

The swishing has stopped. There is a deathly silence. Then you hear heathy breathing. You can’t tell if that’s the head or Barker. There is a loud thwack. The headmaster has swiped his cane against an armchair. You suppose he is ready for action. You grimace. You still can’t believe this. So, you went for a smoke and were puffing away like always when Mr Thompson, the mathematics master ambles by. “Smoking!” he cries. “I don’t believe it!” We are puzzled and think he’s joking. He has seen sixth-formers having fags many times before. “After all the headmaster had to say.”

The headmaster is new. He’s been at the school about two months. You know he’s a bit old-fashioned, even for this school. He has been rabbiting on about standards, endeavour and attitude. He’s spoken a lot about discipline. “You know the headmaster spoke about smoking,” Mr Thompson tells us. You know what he means. The headmaster said smoking was banned throughout the school. Yes, you agree with Mr Thompson, you heard the headmaster. But, you tell him you are a sixth-former. The rule doesn’t apply to you. “Tell that to the headmaster!” Mr Thomson fumed.

You never expected to get a call. A note was delivered to you during double English Lit. Report to the headmaster’s study at lunchtime. The lads in class ribbed you a lot. “Better wear your rugger shorts under your trousers,” Clarke said. “No point,” was Smethwick’s rejoinder, “I hear he gives it bare-arsed.” “It’s six of the best for you m’lad. Swish. Swish. Swish.” That was your so-called “best friend” Albertson.

A caning? Don’t be daft, you told them all. You’re a sixth-former. It’ll be a wigging, nothing more. Even so you weren’t looking forward to your visit to the head’s study. You became seriously concerned when you found Barker waiting in the corridor. “Smoking?” he asks you. You confirm this and he says, “It’s to be the cane. Rooster’s just been done.” Your jaw goes slack, Rooster is a senior prefect. “B..b..b..” you don’t quite know what to say. Telling him that you’re a sixth-former won’t help.

Just then the door opens. The headmaster stands on the threshold. “What’s all this chattering!” he growls. “Don’t dawdle. Come inside.” He retreats into the study leaving the door open behind him. You exchange glances with Barker. His eyes blaze. He is seriously concerned. You both stand gormlessly. “Hurry up!” the headmaster calls, his impatience is clear. You bump into each other as you both try to get through the door at the same time.

“Stand there.” The headmaster is now seated at his desk. It is an enormous block of walnut. It is almost bare and you can see it has a green leather top. There is a large rectangle of blotting paper and an ornate holder for three fountain pens. The headmaster is wearing his academic gown over a neat dark-grey business suit. His mortar-board cap is resting on a straight-backed chair nearby.

“You know why I have sent for you,” he tells you. You want to reply, No, actually I don’t. You don’t say this because you are too scared. You could tell him about being a sixth-former and eighteen years old and how sixth-formers have always used the pavilion for smoking but what would be the point? He elaborates on his opening statement. “You have been caught smoking.” You look down at your feet, You are nervous and embarrassed at the same time. The headmaster questions you both. You confirm that you do know that smoking is against the rules. You agree that you heard him say as much during school assembly.

“So,” he intones, “Not only do you break a school rule, you deliberately ignore a direct instruction from the headmaster.” It annoys you that he refers to himself in the third person, but you have to let that pass. “That,” he growls, “is intolerable.” You try to shut out the rest of his speech. You now know where this is going. You are to get the same treatment as Rooster.

When he hauls himself from his chair and moves from behind his desk you realise he has finished. You daren’t move as he strolls across the study. For the first time you notice there is a wicket basket in the corner. Standing upright inside it are five curve handled canes. Even from a distance you see they are of different lengths and thicknesses. They are various shades of yellow. The headmaster reaches into the basket and selects a cane. His lips purse as if he is thinking very hard. He bends the cane between his two hands and, obviously finding it unsatisfactory for his purposes, he puts it back. He takes a slightly darker and thicker cane and tests that. His eyes brighten. You watch him flex it. He seems happy. Then he swipes it through the air. It makes a terrific whooshing noise as it travels. His mouth curls a little at the edges.

He points the cane at you. “You boy, stand against the wall.” He swishes the cane toward a noticeboard. Your mouth dries instantly. Your body won’t allow you to move. “Quickly boy,” he swishes the cane one more time. Now, you shuffle across the study. You stand hands behind back and get as close as you can to the wall. Absurdly, you wonder whether you are meant to put your hands on your head also. Isn’t that how it’s done? You decide to wait for further instructions but none come. The headmaster is more concerned with Barker.

Floorboards squeak and you can work out that both the headmaster and Barker are moving. Your pal has removed his blazer and is standing where instructed. “Lower your trousers and bend over the chair.” The words are spoken clearly. There can be no doubt what has been said but you can’t believe it. You turn your head away from the wall and see Barker standing behind an armchair. His face is bright red. Even from a distance you can tell his eyes are welling. “Face the wall boy!” The headmaster has spotted you. “Turn around again and it’ll be extra strokes.” You turn and place your forehead against the wall.

I hear he gives it bare-arsed. You remember what Smethwick had said earlier. Your heart races and you can feel your own face glowing red hot. You have never been caned. Not even spanked. The headmaster was correct when he said discipline was lax at the school. You can’t remember anyone being caned. The floorboards squeak some more. “Head lower boy. Bottom higher.” You don’t need to be able to see, it is clear Barker is submitting to the headmaster’s instructions.

There is a strong whistle, followed by a thud, followed by a noise sounding like a banshee’s cry. “Don’t make such a fuss boy!” Your temples throb and your throat is raw. There is a second whistle and thud. This time Barker yelps. You think he sounds exactly like a hurt puppy. You know he is not taking this well. He must be in agony. The third swipe falls. Your own eyes glisten. You know you won’t be able to take it when your turn comes. You hear three more thuds and associated groans, yelps and wails. Then, “Stand up. Pull up your trousers. You boy. Turn around and take his place.”

You are in a daze. It is all too unreal. You turn your head and are startled to find Barker standing close behind you. His face is scarlet and tears wash his cheeks. His hair is standing upright, like he has just received an electric shock.

“Blazer off.” The headmaster is talking to you. “Put it there on the desk.” He gives directions with his cane. You don’t know how you manage to shrug the jacket off your shoulders, your whole body seems to be quivering. “Stand by the chair.” You shuffle. “Closer boy.” The headmaster’s voice seems a million miles away. “Take down your trousers.” You turn your head slightly toward him. Incomprehension must be etched on your face because he says, “Get on with it boy. Right down to the ankles, if you please.” Your head pounds blood rushes through your arteries to the temples. You are unsteady on your feet. You gulp in air, afraid you might faint to the floor. At last your shaking fingers cooperate with your brain and the front of your trousers are open.

Without help from you the trousers slip down your thighs and over your knees before settling in a puddle on top of your shoes. Your white Y-front underpants are a little small and hug the contours of your buttocks and cock. “That will do,” the headmaster tells you hurriedly. “Bend over the chair please.” He touches the top of the armchair with the cane for emphasis. So it’s not to be bare-arsed after all.

In terror you bend forward; your bottom, a little wobbly when you are standing tightens into a smooth curve. You cannot see this but your buttocks are presented submissively over the back of the armchair at a perfect angle. Your thigh muscles and bottom tense as you stretch your arms out to grip the armchair’s cushion at the front. You feel the headmaster lift your shirt away from your backside. This makes  you shiver; not with cold but fearful anticipation.

“Keep very still, boy and push your head right down into the cushion.” You push yourself further down into the chair, raising your bottom well up for the cane.

“Don’t forget, don’t move around too much or you will get extra strokes.”

“Yes, Sir,” your reply is muffled as your head is in the chair cushion. You are now in the required position. Legs apart, knees straight, hands gripping the seat cushion. “Brace yourself! I shall make these hurt, boy. If you move out of position, I will give you extra strokes.”

The headmaster taps your bottom with his cane as he takes aim. You are conscious of the cane patting your bottom. It disappears and then lands, followed, after a brief interval, by an overwhelming sting. “Oww! Gosh, oww!” you gasp, trying to keep your scorching bottom still after your first-ever stroke of the cane. The cane taps again and with a swoosh! it lands in the same place as the first.

“Ow! Ow!” you yelp sashaying your bottom from side to side as you try to ease the sting. It takes maximum resolve for you to remain in position. It hurts horribly. The stroke cuts across your buttocks like a knife. You swear you are bleeding. Once again the cane sizzles across your upturned rear end. You cry out between gritted teeth. Your back arches, your eyes close and your face screws up with pain. Tears are starting at the back of your eyes. You close your eyes and grit your teeth and hang on to the chair. You are aware of nothing except the pain burning like a furnace in your bottom.

Then the rod whistles through the air and lands with a heavy thwack across the lower bottom where the cheeks meet the thigh. Your buttocks rock from side to side and you wiggle your hips frantically, attempting to stop the pain. Your whole body tightens as the next stinging lash cracks across the soft mounds of your backside. You wait for the final crack which is angled across the bum, crossing about three of the others. After a half dozen strokes you are amazed that there is this much pain in the world: it doesn’t seem that anything could hurt so much.

The caning seems to go on forever, but finally you hear the floorboards creak and headmaster is walking across the study. You feel a terrific sense of relief that it is over but remain across the chair, breathing heavily and in great distress.

“Stand up boy.” You draw a deep breath and exhale slowly as your head comes up just ten or twelve inches. You take another deep breath and slowly push yourself back on your elbows and rise unsteadily up. Your legs are weak and you have to lean on the chair before you really get your balance. Tentatively at first, you touch, then carefully clasp, your raw, ravaged buttocks and standing on tiptoes begin kneading them, as though you can somehow squeeze the pain out. Tears run down your nose.

“That concludes your punishment. I hope you have learned your lesson.” Your eyes are wet and blurry, but you get your trousers back up and find your blazer. You make your way to the bogs where you stay for a few minutes until you regain some composure. You cry a bit more and your bum throbs madly. The pain is killing you. You arrive at double Geography ten minutes late, but the master does not ask for an explanation and you are glad of this.

z used school cane pants armchair (7b)

Picture credits: Sting Pictures / CP Services London

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Charles Hamilton the Second


The boy on the train

new story 2

z used domestic white pants window (7)

Joey peered out the window through moist eyes. His bottom was very tender but most of the real pain had gone now. He gingerly caressed his cheeks with his thumbs and the tips of his fingers. It set the pain off again. Through his thin, cotton shorts he could feel the flesh was like leather. The room was spinning and he had to hold on to a chair to stop from fainting to the floor.

It started two weeks earlier when Joey was on a train going home. He had visited the Museum of Philately alone. It was the afternoon and the carriage was empty except for one boy. He was about the same age as Joey (late teens / early twenties) and Joey thought he looked nice. He had short black hair and Joey reckoned he had to cut it that way because if it grew it would be curly and wild. The boy had a clear, bright open face that seemed to Joey to glow. He was conservatively dressed in black chino trousers and a dark blue top with a hood. He had a cheap, white T-shirt that emphasised his muscular chest.

The boy noticed Joey staring and Joey blushed. He was a shy boy and easily got tongue-tied when speaking to people. He spent a lot of time on his own and didn’t know how to talk to strangers. The boy smiled at Joey and straight away he relaxed. He couldn’t put his finger on it but there was something almost magical about the boy. It was that glow that he radiated. Before Joey knew it the boy had started a conversation.

They spoke easily, almost as if they had known each other for years. When they reached Brocklehurst the boy suggested they had a coffee at the station buffet. They did and the boy asked Joey lots of questions about himself: where did he work? where did he live? Did he have family? Joey really liked the boy and was beside himself with delight when he suggested they meet up for coffee again.

It was at their third meeting that Joey told the boy that he was troubled. He was so confident that the boy would understand. He had this problem, Joey said. He thought he didn’t like girls and that worried him. Joey said he was afraid that he liked boys instead. He said he sometimes had these weird dreams. Joey had never told a living soul about this but he was not surprised that he told the boy. The boy was special. Joey knew the boy would understand.

And he did. The boy told Joey so. “I understand,” he said. “I was a bit like that myself.” Joey was overwhelmed with relief. Here was a boy he really liked who felt just the same as he did. Suddenly, it felt as if a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

The boy smiled sympathetically and said, “I was like that until I started going to the House of the Sacred Light . They really helped me to get over it. You should come too,” the boy said, radiating a beatific smile, “I could take you.”

Joey was uncertain. House of the Sacred Light; he thought it sounded like one of those churches darkies attended to yell and holler and speak in tongues. “No,” the boy giggled when Joey told him this, “it’s nothing like that. Come, you’ll love it.”

By this time Joey trusted the boy. He was the only friend Joey had. If he thought about it (which he didn’t) Joey would say he was the only friend he had ever had. The boy was the only person who understood his problem.

The House of the Sacred Light sounded like it should be housed in a cathedral a hundred feet high and made of stained glass but it turned out to be a single-storey prefab-type building hidden away just off the town centre. And the people there were not at all happy-clappy, in fact they were mostly very serious (dour even) older folk. The boy told Joey not to be put off by this, “They really know,” he told Joey rather enigmatically. It was at his third visit to the House that Joey found out what he meant.

They were very careful not to call what Joey had a “sin” and they did not call themselves “therapists”, but they did say that the way Joey felt was wrong and they could “cure” him – but only if he wanted them to: “no pressure,” they said. The boy told Joey it really worked. “Trust me,” the boy said and he flashed his beatific smile which made Joey’s heart skip.

They set up a group of four men from the House (including the boy) and they listened to Joey. He told them everything and everybody listened quietly and politely. Then, one of the men, who seemed to be a leader, said what needed to happen next. It seemed to Joey that all of them except himself already knew what was coming.

When they told him, he was very confused. Then, the boy explained it again and Joey thought it must be okay then if the boy said so.

“So,” the leader said quietly. He hardly ever spoke above a whisper. He was an elderly man and Joey knew nothing about him but he thought he looked respectable like an old-fashioned schoolmaster or maybe a country parson. “So,” he said, “we should do it now, don’t you think?” he peered through thick-lensed glasses at Joey. He was saying, “It’s up to you son. Only if you want to.”

Joey felt his face flushing bright red. He had never been asked such a question before. He looked across at the boy for reassurance and when he received the beatific smile he knew everything was going to be fine. Even so he couldn’t quite get the words out of his mouth and so merely nodded his agreement.

“Let’s get on with it then shall we?” the leader said and immediately the boy got off his chair and walked across the rather bare room to a beat-up cupboard attached to a wall. While he was doing this the other three all moved their chairs so they were against the wall and then they sat down again. Joey who by now was very apprehensive watched the boy open the cupboard and reach in. He saw him take out a block of wood. It looked a bit like a bread board his mother had at home, but it was a lot smaller.

The boy saw Joey’s confused look and smiled. “It’s a paddle,” he said. He held it up so Joey could see more clearly. It was a rectangle of wood about the size of a paperback book and it had a handle at one end. The boy gripped the handle and gently tapped the blade end into the palm of his left hand. It was hot in the room but even so Joey shivered when he saw this. His heartrate sped up and at the same time all the saliva in his mouth seemed to dry.

The boy went back to his chair and sat down. He looked over at Joey and said, “What you need to do now is take down your trousers.” He didn’t smile now but Joey knew he could trust the boy. The boy was his friend. Joey was a bit confused but he did as he was asked. It was a warm day and he wore polyester leisure trousers which had elastic at the waist. All he had to do was to pinch them at the hips and guide them down. He didn’t notice the three men lean forwards in their chairs when he did this.

Now, he was standing in front of the boy wearing only a white t-shirt and very short boxer shorts that weren’t really much bigger than ordinary briefs. “Bend over my lap,” the boy said and he separated his legs to make a platform. Joey’s eyes blinked uncontrollably as the boy’s knees parted. He felt sweat pour through his long hair. He was so moist he had to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand. The boy tapped his knee to encourage Joey to bend over. Joey had never done anything like this before and he wasn’t too certain what to do. The boy must have read his mind because he smiled and reached out and took Joey’s left wrist. “Here, like this,” the boy said as both gently and firmly he pulled Joey forward. Joey had quickly to put out his hands in front of him because he thought he was going to crash into the floor but the boy had a good hold of him and he landed gently.

“Move a bit more forward,” the boy said and he continued to give instructions until Joey had his palms flat out on cheap, plastic tiles. His legs dangled behind him so his feet were off the ground. In this position his head was low and his bottom high over the boy’s right thigh. Joey felt a movement in the boy’s body. He flinched when he realised what was happening. The boy took the end of his t-shirt and gently pushed it up Joey’s back so there was now a lot of bare flesh. Then (and this made Joey shudder) the boy ever so gently rubbed the palm of his hand across Joey’s buttocks. Joey hardly felt a thing but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the man who was the group’s leader had almost toppled from his chair because he was leaning too far forward.

The boy was smoothing wrinkles out of Joey’s shorts. They were really tiny and they fitted Joey’s buttocks snugly. The boy left it so the shorts actually lifted and separated each cheek. He had given himself a beautiful target. The next thing the boy did was to put his left arm across Joey’s body around the middle so he had a firm hold of his waist. Like this Joey was pinned down. He was over the boy’s knee at such an angle that he couldn’t wriggle free and escape – even if he wanted to.

The boy didn’t say anything, he just tapped the wooden paddle against Joey’s left buttock and then against the right one. Then there was a terrific crack as the wood pounded Joey’s cotton-covered bottom. It landed dead centre of the left cheek and the noise it made echoed around the small room. It was a moment or two later that Joey felt the burn. It was like the boy had tried to iron Joey’s shorts with him still inside.  The pain was like nothing he had felt before. He opened his mouth and let out a long hiss. Ssssssssssss! He wriggled his waist but of course the boy had a firm grip and Joey was trapped. All he could do was keep looking down at the dirty, grey tiles and wait for the next swat.

It wasn’t long in coming. This one landed in the middle of the right cheek. Now it seemed to Joey that his whole bum was on fire. The boy went back to the left cheek and walloped it a little lower then he went to the right one. He kept up a steady rhythm, one cheek, then the other, and in no time at all every inch of Joey’s buttocks was scorched. Because Joey’s shorts were so small and the cotton so thin the boy could see exactly where each swat was landing. This helped him make sure first of all that he got Joey everywhere; from the top of the globes, over the crests and into the underside where the cheeks meet the thighs. The second thing the boy could do was to decide where he would swat Joey to create maximum pain. This meant he could choose to land a new swat on an area that was already throbbing.

Joey did not know what had hit him. His legs flailed, his hips and waist wriggled, he lifted his head and shook it up and down and from side to side. He gasped and then he yelped and before long he was crying full-throated yells. All this just seemed to spur the boy on. Joey wasn’t counting the number of whacks and it wasn’t sure whether the boy was either; it seemed to go on forever.

At last the boy let up and Joey was left gasping for breath. The boy still held him tightly so he had to keep staring down at the floor while his body started to recover. His buttocks pulsated and his temples throbbed, he had no spit in his mouth and he seemed to be making gentle mewing sounds, like a little lamb who had lost its mother.

After a while the boy let go of Joey and said he could stand up. As he was doing this the three men who had been watching hurriedly left the room. When Joey and the boy were left together the boy smiled that smile and told Joey this was just the start. It would take a while, but it would be worth it in the end. Then, he too left the room.

Joey bent double so his head was almost between his knees, the pain was dreadful. He rubbed his bum for a bit and then bent down again. The room seemed to be spinning and he couldn’t work out what was going on. He was very light-headed and he remembered that one time when he was drunk and he felt a bit like that, except this time was somehow better. But, he didn’t know how.

He needed air, so he staggered across the room to the window.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second



The rising star wanes

new story 2

z used adult cane longs down white pants touch toes

Stephen Spreadbury was twenty-five years old and a rising star at Ponsonby-Meredith. His clean-cut affable demeanour ready smile and his ability to flatter when necessary were a big success with the stockbrokers’ women clients (and it has to be said, quite a few of the men). He made the partnership a lot of money. He would go far.

Then things started to go wrong. The smile was less fixed, the soft-soap had less lather, accounts were not closed on time, the money was not coming in as it once had; percentages were pared. Spreadbury had lost his touch. In the language of the cricket pitch; it was considered he had taken his eye off the ball. He had let things slip. He no longer brought in the money. Some days he didn’t make it into the office until lunchtime.

Mr Algernon Ponsonby, the senior partner, had seen it all before. He had been in his chair for close to thirty years. His men had made him a pile of money in that time. He expected that to continue. Spreadbury had been a golden goose. But not so much lately. The young man needed to concentrate on his work; Mr Ponsonby wanted his percentages, he had his winter home in the Bahamas to consider.

He summoned Spreadbury to his office. Mr Ponsonby had luncheoned well. He leaned back in his overlarge leather chair and caressed his stomach. Often at this hour of the day, it gave him trouble. The pain was tolerable, this afternoon. His florid face was testimony to the bottle of vintage claret he had drunk at the club. He shook his head, sipped water from a pewter goblet and hoped his aching gut would not get worse.

His secretary, a woman even older than Mr Ponsonby himself, announced Spreadbury’s arrival. She was a tiny, bird-like spinster who often gave the appearance of being half-starved. Her shoulders hunched and her spindly legs looked incapable of holding up her body. “The boy is here,” she cackled, her long nose pointed to the door behind her, “Shall I send him in?” Her cold grey eyes sneered through spectacles.

“Yes please, Miss Alsop,” Mr Ponsonby had known the woman when man and boy but had never once been at comfort in her presence. What passed for a smile troubled her face and she turned slowly, almost painfully, to retrace her steps to the door. Back in her own room she examined the young man standing there at ease. He was tall, a little thick-set; with a shock of hair over a wide-open face. He had the look of a contented man, he oozed “entitlement”; he was destined to get whatever he wanted. Oh, how she despised him.

“Mr Ponsonby will see you now,” she said haughtily. “Go in straight away.” She did not try to hide her distain. “What did they all see in him?” she wondered as she watched him stride confidently out of her room, “They’re all the same. Just overgrown schoolboys.” She saw him knock on the office door, wait for the command “Come!” and then enter. She shuffled to the door of her own room and opened it wide so she would hear everything.

Spreadbury closed the door and stood uncertainly. He had no idea why he had been called. He might be considered by many to be “on his way up” in the hierarchy of the firm, but he was still a relatively junior member of staff. He was a little surprised that Mr Ponsonby even knew who he was. His eyes travelled around the room. It was huge, as befitting the senior partner of a moneyed firm. It was dominated by a walnut desk the size of a tennis court. A pair of luxurious padded armchairs around a heavy glass table were at the far end. A Chesterfield couch was close by. Along one wall were shelves filled with leather-bound tomes; none of which appeared ever to have been opened. An ornate cupboard (a drinks cabinet, Spreadbury guessed) was towards one side of an open, but unlit, fireplace. A chest of drawers completed the furniture as far as he could see. It was a magnificent office, all set off by the deep-pile carpet underneath his feet.

Spreadbury waited hoping his impatience would not show. The bars were open and he had a regular appointment at Harry’s. At last his boss spoke. “Spreadbury,” he intoned. “I have received reports …” he then went on to list the young man’s successes. Spreadbury’s chest puffed out. He loved to be praised.  Maybe this visit would not be a waste of his time after all.

Mr Ponsonby paused and peered closely at the young man standing, hands respectfully behind his back, “But,” he rasped and after taking a sip from his goblet, he listed the junior’s many inadequacies. Spreadbury bit down on his bottom lip, he felt his face flush. His pride was hurt. Such unkind things were said.

Mr Ponsonby was not a man to waste his time. “You are slacking. It will not do Spreadbury,” he grimaced as his stomach rumbled. “Not at all. This must stop. Action must be taken.” He paused and wriggled in his chair. Spreadbury’s mouth opened to argue but just in time good sense prevailed. Mr Ponsonby had spoken the truth.

“You are an Old St. Tom’s man,” he said. Spreadbury was startled by the sudden change of topic. Was this a question or a statement? His face betrayed puzzlement. “You were schooled at St. Tom’s,” Mr Ponsonby repeated, “So you know what to expect.” Spreadbury did not. He did know both he and Mr Ponsonby had attended St. Tom’s, an elite public boarding school for the sons of gentlemen – albeit several generations apart. That was why he had been hired at the firm – the “old school tie”. He watched Mr Ponsonby struggle to his feet. He said nothing as he wobbled across the room and reached the chest of drawers. He reached down and opened the first one. He looked inside, rummaged around and within moments found what he was seeking. He turned and faced his junior employee.

Spreadbury gasped and then a broad smile crossed his face. Mr Ponsonby was holding a long, thin school cane. It even had the traditional crook handle at one end. Spreadbury laughed heartily at Mr Ponsonby’s joke. “Oh my hat! Jimmy Edwards. Whacko!” He smiled as he watched his boss swish the rattan cane through the air, it made a terrific whooshing sound as it flew. Then he saw the expression on the old man’s face. Spreadbury’s smile evaporated.

“What are you blathering about boy?” He flexed the cane between his hands as if testing its strength.

Spreadbury coughed, embarrassed, confused. “Jimmy Edwards, Whacko! From the television. Chiselbury School.” It felt like he was digging himself a hole in the deep-pile carpet. He wished it would swallow him. “He swishes a cane all the time and threatens the boys with six-of-the-best,” he trailed off, his humiliation complete.

Whereas Spreadbury was by nature affable, genial and pleasant, with a ready wit and quick to smile, his boss had none of these attributes. He was dour, haughty, conceited and self-important. He did not watch comical programmes on the television.

“Pah! Such nonsense,” Mr Ponsonby’s once florid face was now puce. “You need to pull yourself together. Stop slacking. Knuckle down to your work,” he growled, all the time flexing the cane between his hands. “I daresay your housemaster must have beaten you many times.”

Now, Spreadbury understood the St. Tom’s connection.

Mr Ponsonby considered himself a fair man. Spreadbury was a fine worker and he would one day be a credit to the firm (and  a considerable money-earner). But, like so many young men these days, he thought, he had lost his way a little. He would benefit from a guiding hand. He needed his comeuppance; to be set back on the straight and narrow. A sound beating should do the trick.

“Stand there,” he pointed with his cane to a clear space in the middle of the office. “Lower your trousers. Bend over. Touch your toes.” Mr Ponsonby was a wealthy, powerful man. It did not occur to him for one moment that Spreadbury would disobey his instruction. He was correct. St. Tom’s had trained them both well. There were rules and they had to be obeyed. Otherwise, anarchy would prevail. There were people who were in control and those who were controlled. The powerful, and the powerless. At this point in his life, Spreadbury knew his place. In time that would change. Who knew one day in the future it might be Spreadbury flexing the cane and a different junior (a St. Tom’s boy, naturally) submitting his backside.

But for now …

He looked around the room. Should he remove the jacket of his suit. Back in the day, a boy would hang his blazer on the housemaster’s hat-stand before preparing himself for a beating. It was part of the ritual. Mr Ponsonby had given no such instruction. Spreadbury would not press the point. He moved to the spot, turned his back to his boss and loosened his belt. He undid the buttons on his fly and let the trousers slip over his knees and down his shins to rest untidily over his shoes. Then, he leaned forward. It had been eight years since he left school and his once supple body had thickened since. At school “touch your toes” meant just that: “toes”. Now twenty-five years old, Spreadbury was unable to accomplish that feat. He reached down stretching his fingertips towards his toecaps, but the effort put a terrible strain on his back and his knees. He settled for a more comfortable pose with his hands firmly clutching his shins. Like that his buttocks were still raised at a convenient angle for Mr Ponsonby to do his duty.

Spreadbury felt no embarrassment, bent submissively to allow an older man to lash a thick, whippy rattan cane across his backside. St. Tom’s was what was called “a caning school”; corporal punishment was the norm. Mr Ponsonby had been correct earlier when he said Spreadbury’s housemaster would have beaten him many times. “There is one consolation,” the young man thought as he waited patiently for the punishment to begin, “at least my underpants are not at my ankles.”

He clasped his shins tightly. He looked hard at the carpet beneath his feet. It was a modern Axminister or some such, he reckoned. He tried to make out the patterns in the red, green and blue colours. He would concentrate on it; it would take his mind off his awful ordeal.

Mr Ponsonby felt no hostility to his employee. A quick dozen applied with beef across the seat of the underpants would buck his ideas up. The lesson would be learnt. Tomorrow would be another day. They would both get on with their work. The money would keep rolling in. He knew this for a fact: he had thirty years of experience to prove it.

His stomach was grumbling, his temperature was rising, the room felt unduly hot. Despite these hindrances, Mr Ponsonby set about his task with vim. He tapped the tip of the cane just below the centre of Spreadbury’s bottom. “Spread your legs, Spreadbury,” he intoned. The young man complied. The cane rose. It fell with a tremendous whoosh and crack. Spreadbury sucked in his breath and shut his eyes tight. That hurt. It had been more than eight years (not counting that little fooling around at the Varsity) since he last felt the sting of the rattan. A second and then a third stroke fell. Mr Ponsonby used all his strength; he might have been beating a carpet.

Already, Spreadbury’s bottom had three deep stripes along the underside of his bum. It hurt terrifically: had Mr Ponsonby taken a red hot poker from the fire and pressed it into his flesh? He went higher with the next set. Now, the backside glowed from the top of the mounds, and over the crowns. Spreadbury’s head ached and his temples throbbed every bit as much as his rear end. Had his housemaster’s beatings (even those on the bare) hurt so much?

Six strokes had been administered. Six-of-the-very-best. Surely, it was over. He waited, breathlessly for the command to stand. The cane whipped him again; the hardest stroke yet. Right in the underside of the cheek. He would feel that one later in the evening as he perched on the barstool at Harry’s.

“Jeez …” Spreadbury clenched his teeth. It wasn’t over. How much more of this could he take? Mr Ponsonby was not a cruel man; nor was he fit. The strain delivering the beating had sapped his energy. He was huffing and puffing more loudly than the young man under his lash. He needed to conclude this punishment. He sucked in a lung-full of air, aimed the cane, raised it and then in a flurry of action bounced the cane off the stretched backside. Whack! Whack! Whack! To Miss Alsop next door it sounded like a machinegun had been fired in Mr Ponsonby’s office. Spreadbury growled, he yelped, and some might say he even yapped as the pain increased into agony.

Mr Ponsonby stopped. This time it really was at an end. The punishment was over. Twelve strokes of the cane had been delivered (and received). He admired his handiwork. Thin lines were embossed across the white, cotton seat of Spreadbury’s underpants. He knew there would be glowing weals, each one painful to the touch. The pain would soon subside to a glowing throb, but the marks would last a few days as a reminder to work harder.

“Stand,” Mr Ponsonby commanded and he turned his back on his thrashed employee and made to return the cane to its drawer. It gave Spreadbury a moment gingerly to rub the tops of his fingers across his blazing bum. It was corrugated and felt like leather. He bent forward to retrieve the trousers at his feet, stretching the flesh across his bottom. It seemed like he had sat in a bathtub of boiling water.

Mr Ponsonby turned in time to see his junior buttoning his fly. The young man’s face was scarlet and his neck was drenched in perspiration.

“Good evening, Mr Spreadbury,” he said and collapsed into the large Chesterfield couch wheezing like a beached whale. Spreadbury stood, uncertain. It took some seconds to understand he had been dismissed. “Thank you sir,”’ he said boldly (as was the etiquette at St. Tom’s) and stiffly he left the office.

Miss Alsop was in the doorway of her room making sure he knew she had heard it all. Spreadbury smiled, tipped an imaginary hat and said, “Have a pleasant evening Miss Alsop,” omitting to add his thought, “you sad old cow!”


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second


We need to talk about Jake

new story 2

zused otk paddle jake story spankingstraightboysdotcom

Wayne and Sharon Grimethorpe were watching Newsnight on television in the front room of their terraced house in Brocklehurst. “Jake’s late again,” Sharon said to her husband. He didn’t hear her. He was too engrossed in an item about the birching of juvenile delinquents at the new Short, Sharp Shock detention centres. They were going to put them on YouTube to prove to taxpayers they were getting value for money.

Sharon sighed, “I said Jake’s late again. That’s the third time this month.”

“Fourth, actually,” Wayne was paying attention now. Newsnight had moved on to an item about budget cuts for regional theatres.

“Well, you know what you’ll have to do when he comes in. He knows what time curfew is.”

“Yes, I know,” Wayne hesitated and then said, “It’s not like it’s the first time.”

“No,” Sharon said with great irritation, “It’s not. You know you’ll have to spank him when he gets in don’t you.”

“Yes, I know. The paddle’s in the drawer.”

Jake was their twenty-year-old son.

They watched the television some more. Wayne had a question he wanted to ask his wife. A difficult question. Probably an embarrassing question. He didn’t know how to ask it. They didn’t talk much. Not to each other. They never had really. Wayne wriggled his buttocks on the sofa; movement hid his embarrassment.

“Yes,” he said. “He knows he has to be home by half-ten. That’s the curfew. If he’s late he gets spanked. That’s the rule.” Sharon stretched her legs. Why was her husband telling her things she already knew? “So?” she didn’t try to hide her annoyance.

Wayne cowered. “Well, it’s just …” He couldn’t find the words to finish his sentence. The silence was far from comfortable. Sharon glowered, “What is it! Tell me what you want to say.” Wayne knew he was blushing, deep to his roots. Inwardly, he cursed himself for bringing up the subject.

“This spanking lark,” he said. “Does it work?” He turned his head to avoid his wife’s glare. “I mean four times this month.”

“Maybe you’re not doing it properly,” she retorted. She thought Wayne was a wimp. He should wallop Jake properly, that’d put an end to it. Wayne’s mouth opened and closed but no words came. That’s unfair, he thought. He had watched several of the instructional videos online. They were very explicit. He had purchased a heavy, square wooden paddle. One of the authorised ones stamped with the approval of the Department of Juvenile Corrections.

“What does Mike from across the road do?” his wife did not intend to stay silent on the matter.

“He got one of those tawses,” Wayne felt more confident when talking about other people. “You know those leather things with the two tails. He’s hung it on a hook in the passage. It’s the first thing you see when you go in the house.”

“And does he use it?” his wife was determined to find fault in her husband. “Does he spank David four times a month?”

“No, he says he’s never had to use it. David’s as good as gold.”

“Well bully for him,” Sharon snorted. She envied her colleagues at work and the neighbours who had no discipline trouble with their kids, even the older ones. They knew how to control them, not like her poor excuse for a husband.

“Maybe you need to be more assertive. Whack Jake a bit harder or something,” she peered across the tiny room at her husband.

Wayne frowned. Why couldn’t he pluck up the courage to tell her what he was thinking? “I do everything I’m supposed to,” he said defensively. “Like they say in the videos. You’ve seen them,” he added trying to get his wife to share some of the blame for their failure. “I tell him what he’s done wrong. Then I send him upstairs to change into his pyjamas. When he comes down again I tell him to bend over my knee. Then, I whack him on the you-know-where with the paddle. Hard,” his eyes narrowed as if he were concentrating, “Very hard. Lots of times.” He sighed, “What more am I supposed to do?”

His wife picked up the remote control and flicked through channels: two-hundred-and-seventy-five and nothing worth watching. “Well,” she said, “It’s not doing much good is it?”

At that moment they heard the sound of a key in the front door. “He’s here at last,” Sharon threw the remote onto the settee and stood up. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said leaving the room. Wayne heard her voice in the passage, “Late again! Your father’s waiting for you.”

Wayne scratched his head and rose from his chair, “What time do you call this?” he growled as his son entered the room. The boy shrugged his shoulders, peered across the room at a clock and replied, “Eleven-fifteen.”

“Don’t get smart with me, you know what I mean.”

Jake, stood unconcerned. He was late. He’d missed curfew. There was no mystery about what would happen next. He had seen it all before.

“You missed curfew,” his father said, stating the obvious. Jake stood watching his father’s complexion gradually darken. Jake thought Dad was no great intellectual; he rarely had much of interest to say. Tonight would be no different. Or, so he supposed.

Wayne was flustered. How he wished he had asked his wife that burning question. He told his son something else he already knew, “That’s four times this month.” It didn’t occur to Wayne to ask where the boy had been. Who was he with? What were they doing?

“Sorry, Dad,” Jake told his father, but the tone of his voice suggested otherwise. He had been late that evening, he would be late again. Sorry had nothing to do with it.

Wayne was flustered, he stood hopping from one foot to another, gripped by indecision. What was he to do about Jake?

“Dad, shall I go upstairs and get changed into my pyjamas?”

Wayne’s jaw dropped. His heart missed a beat with fear. The nerve of the boy. Who did he think he was? What did he think he was doing? There were so many questions and Wayne had none of the answers.

“No!” Wayne said with more authority than he actually felt. “No. Not this time. Just stay where you are.”

Jake hid his puzzlement well. What was going on? Dad always had his routine. Get changed into pyjamas, come downstairs, bend over his knee. Get a sound paddling. It was always like that. He watched as his father moved to a sideboard and opened a drawer. Jake relaxed. He knew what was happening now. Dad was going for the paddle. They were back on track.

It was a small paddle, it had been especially designed and endorsed by the Department of Juvenile Corrections to be used at close quarters. It was no bigger than a table tennis bat and about three centimetres thick. It was constructed of hard wood with a small handle at one end. It was recommended for over-the-knee spankings. Jake could testified to its effectiveness.

Wayne gripped the paddle tightly and brandished it at his son. He had an idea. There would be change tonight. He would do things differently. He needed an answer to his question. Please God! he thought, let it be the right one.

Jake’s eyes followed the paddle. Sweat moistened his brow and his round, open face flushed. He always went like this when Dad was getting ready to spank him. Dad picked up a small chair and plonked it down in a space by the window. This confirmed to Jake that a spanking was imminent.

“No pyjamas this time,” Dad croaked. His mouth was dry so he poked his tongue out and ran the tip around his lips. It didn’t do much good. Jake had also gone dry. That usually happened, he wasn’t worried. Dad sat on the chair. It looked like Dad was ready for business. “Take down your trousers.”

Jake’s eyes glistened. Take down my trousers. His heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t how it usually went. What was Dad up to? “B-b-but,” he started a protest but Dad cut him short. “Just get on with it. It’s late we should both be in bed.”

Jake was surprised how much his hand shook as he undid his belt. He was entering unchartered territory. Dad was a creature of habit. This wasn’t how he spanked. What was different this time? Why had he changed?

With the belt loosened, Jake popped the button on the waist of his jeans, pulled the zipper and with his hands helped them fall to his knees. Then he placed the hands in front of his crutch. His boxers were tight and he was afraid Dad might see the outline of his cock and balls.

“Bend over my knee,” it was not a confident command. Wayne’s question had still to be answered. Jake shuffled a step and stood to his Dad’s right. He had been here before, he knew the drill. He was back on familiar territory. He gauged the distance between himself and Dad’s knees and slowly lowered himself down. He used Dad’s thighs as a ledge to hold on to as he manoeuvred himself into position. As was his custom he placed the palms of his hands flat against the floor and kept his knees straight behind him. Doing this left his bottom pointing up at an angle and his crotch pressing into Dad’s thigh.

Jake was about the same height as his Dad and suited the over-the-knee position. His bottom made a terrific target for Dad’s paddle. The bum itself was round and fleshy. Like so many boys of his age Jake could benefit from time in the gym. Jake felt his Dad’s arm take him around the waist and his body tensed. Soon he would feel the paddle caress the peaks of his mounds as Dad found his aim. Then the first whack would burn into his buttocks. Jake closed his eyes.

That’s how it always was. That’s how his Dad spanked him. Not this time. Dad rested the paddle on Jake’s back. Jake’s eyes opened. What was this? Dad had taken hold of the waistband of the pants. “Nooooo! Dad,” Jake wailed. It was an involuntary act. He hadn’t planned to protest. “Be quiet!” Dad scolded as he tugged the thin cotton shorts over Jake’s plump behind. “There: let the dog see the rabbit.” He left the underwear bunched at Jake’s thighs.

“No!!!” the twenty-year-old repeated the protest to no avail. The paddle pounded first his left cheek, then the right. Jake’s buttocks clenched tight as the burning began. The paddle flew across the naked bottom at great speed and Dad pulverised his son. In no time its outline was embossed as deep-pink rectangles across the whole target area.

Jake wailed. It was the surprise of it all as much as the pain. Dad always spanked with vitality; that’s what the instructional videos said to do. It’s punishment. Make it hurt, that’s the point. Deter them from future misbehaviour. The bare-bottomed paddling hurt – a lot! – but not much more than it did when applied across the thin cottoned seat of his pyjamas. Jake realised he was frightened (close to real terror) of being naked from the waist down in front of his Dad. Oh the humiliation!

This was a first for Dad as well. He had never seen at close hand the effects of the paddle. The scorched flesh and the vivid welts caused by its edge were intense. He admired the way the paddle sank into the flesh on Jake’s bottom. And the way it wobbled as he withdrew it to lift it high so he could crash it down again. The video instructor would be proud of him.

He whacked another half dozen swats. There wasn’t a square-centimetre that didn’t throb red hot. Jake (as he always did) lay across his knee, almost impassively. His eyes were closed tight, his mouth opened from time to time to allow air to hiss through his lips. The spanking hurt, Dad was certain of that but Jake seemed to have a high pain threshold.

But now the teenager was wriggling and writhing across his knee. His body was heaving up and down. Jake covered his face with his hands. Was he crying? If so, it would be the first time. “No. No.” Jake was moaning softly. “Noooooo.”

Dad stopped paddling with a jolt. A warm gooey liquid was spreading across his thigh. “What the ….!” He exclaimed and with great dread released the grip on his son’s waist. Jake took his chance. He scrambled off Dad’s knee, jerked his pants back to their rightful place and with jeans still at his ankles he stumbled from the room.

Wayne sat still. Exhausted. His heart beat so fast he felt blood rush to his ears. The liquid soaking his own jeans was starting to solidify. The stench was appalling. Then he realised. He jumped from the chair and skipped from foot to foot as if in some way that would clean his trousers. He felt sick. He bent double as vomit flew to the back of his throat. He needed the toilet. Too late, no time. Instead he bounced off the walls and into the kitchen. He leaned across the sink and retched up the contents of his stomach.

Minutes later after he had peeled off his jeans and stuffed them in the washing machine he opened the fridge and found a beer. He needed something stronger, but this would have to do. He downed half a bottle in one swig. He felt no better. What was he to do? What should he tell his wife? What did the future hold? There were so many more questions to ask now that he knew the answer to why spankings did not improve Jake’s behaviour.



Picture credit: spanking straight boys dot com

Other stories you might like

The Tyrant Headmaster 3. The prefects’ reckoning

After school

The milk bottle thief


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


The Junior Salesman

used drawing cane hold (4)

The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings

THE TWENTY-YEAR-old junior salesman slowly unclasped his belt and unbuttoned his trousers. He pushed them over his hips and let go. From there they slithered slowly down his legs.

A breeze from the nearby open window brushed against his naked legs as he awaited the next command.

Tyler looked over at his boss; in his hands was a wicked-looking school cane, around three feet in length and with a curved handle.  Mr. Davenport’s huge grin exposed his decaying teeth as he tapped a pointon the floor in front of him with the cane, “Please bend over and touch your toes.”

 The Junior Salesman and other workplace whackings is another collection of my stories published in book form. It runs for more than 19,000 words and has many illustrations. You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below to download it free-of-charge.


Picture credit: Unknown


Other books to download


The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales

Charles’ Picture Album

The Private Tutor

All in the Family. Tales of Domestic discipline


More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


The Dean of Dormitory Discipline and other university tales — update

Some readers may have had a problem downloading the free e-book Dean of Dormitory Discipline.

This link should work.


Here are also new links to the other three recently uploaded books

The Private Tutor by Charles Hamilton II