Wiping the slate clean

new story 2

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I was on a downward spiral, totally out of control, about to crash and burn. Everything I did or touched turned to dust. I had no hope left. Before long I would be in the gutter, my life in ruins. Or even worse, they’d be scooping my dead body off a pavement. Then, Uncle Gavin came along and helped me to wipe the slate clean.

My Dad died when I was thirteen. I’m not blaming him for what happened next, I’m just trying to put it into context. He had a heart attack and was gone. Mum was devastated, but I’m not blaming her either. I have no excuses, I know that now.  It was down to me. I have learnt to take responsibility for my actions; Uncle Gavin taught me that.

Dad left us well provided, so mine isn’t a story a story of depravation, of a boy reduced to abject poverty. Mum had her job working in an office for the Council. We were pretty well off. There was only me and her. We didn’t go without.

I don’t know if I’m a bright lad or not. I never applied myself at school. I wasn’t interested, so I never worked. I know you’re going to say, “You must have been interested in something,” and you’d be right. I should have made the effort, but I didn’t. Some would ask, “Isn’t it the job of teachers to make kids interested in learning?” I don’t blame them, looking back I can see they tried. Some of them very hard.

So, I left school at sixteen with no qualifications. I drifted a bit and ended up bouncing from one job to another. I flipped burgers for a while, put leaflets around the doors for a double-glazing firm, and delivered pizza on a bike. I couldn’t keep any of them. Mostly I got bored and didn’t turn up for work and before long they “let me go,” which is modern-speak for “sacked me.” I resented them at the time, said they didn’t understand me. Said they should give a man his “space.” I was talking bollocks, of course. I know that now, thanks to Uncle Gavin. What “space” did I need? What was I going to do when I got it?

I ended up at the Tesco supermarket, working unloading trucks and filling shelves. That went well and I sort of enjoyed it. There were lots of lads like myself, just having a laugh and getting away with as much as we could. We spent more energy skiving work than we ever put into our jobs. A few of us would steal bottles of booze and in the evening take them over to the waste ground and get pissed. I was also smoking a lot of dope at the time. I was out of my head more often than not.

We got caught thieving the booze eventually. I now can see I was dead lucky. They could have got the police onto us and taken us to court. We were bang to rights, we’d get community service or something, I suppose. We would have just laughed, but it would mean a criminal record.

It broke Mum’s heart. Me a thief. I didn’t care. Long before that I had stopped doing what she told me. I still lived at home but I came and went as I liked. She stopped cooking for me in the end, I missed so many meals.

It was about this time, I was sweet eighteen, that I was hurtling on that downward spiral I told you about. Then, Uncle Gavin came into my life. Uncle Gavin is Mum’s brother. I didn’t see much of him as I was growing up as he worked abroad a lot. He was a teacher and he worked in Africa for years, but I don’t know why he had to come home.

Now, he was back he found out about me. Mum told him everything, I suppose, especially about how upset she was. That was when Uncle Gavin took charge. I’m surprised I let him. Why would I care what old people thought of me and my mates? He told me he knew all about me and my kind. He wasn’t angry. He didn’t put me down at all. He just said he was an “educator” and he knew about these things. I didn’t have a clue what an “educator” was but it turns out it’s a teacher. Not only a teacher, you know somebody who teaches you a subject like maths or geography, he was into the whole growth of the young person. Well, something like that.

He was very friendly with me. I can’t say we were actually “friends”, we didn’t go drinking together or smoke weed. But, he didn’t put me down at all. He said he wanted to “understand” what I was feeling. He said he wanted to help me. It sounded like bollocks.

But, it wasn’t. The first thing that happened was he said I should think carefully about what I wanted in life. He was very insistent it should be what I wanted, not anybody else. Then, I had to make a plan that would get me from where I was to where I wanted to be. He called in a “roadmap”. He said I had to take responsibility for my actions. I had to take control of my life.

He was so persuasive that I soon came round to the idea. He said I should write down a list of what he called “objectives”; when I had done that I should plan how to achieve them. He said it might take some time – years even – but to take it one step at a time.

I realised it wasn’t bollocks after all. I liked the idea. Uncle Gavin said it would be a good idea if I moved out of home. It would give me a rest from Mum and would give me some of that space I talked about. He said I could move in with him. He has a huge house in some place called Brocklehurst, which is a small town. He had plenty of room for me. He said it would get me out of my “environment” and bad influences. I could make a fresh start.

So I packed a couple of bags and away I went. Uncle found me a job. It was filling shelves. He didn’t tell them I had form for thieving. He said he trusted me not to do it again. He said I was a “good lad”, which I knew wasn’t true. I suppose he was trying to be kind.

He set me down to make that list of objectives. It was hard work. I had always moaned that I was bored and couldn’t find things to interest me. Uncle Gavin gave me some help. I decided I should try to go to college. I should try to get a trade of some sort – a plumber or electrician maybe.

Uncle Gavin reminded me I should take it one step at a time. He said I still had to learn some basics about life. He said he knew a lot about this, him being an “educator” and all. He told me I might be eighteen but I was far from being an adult. I couldn’t be an “adult” until I had learned self-discipline.  It was all about taking responsibilities for my actions. He said he could help me with this.

By now I liked Uncle Gavin. I could see he had my best interests at heart. I knew if I did what he told me I could turn my life around. I trusted him. Shortly after I moved in with him and I started on my list of “objectives” he said to me that in the school where he taught he had a way to encourage better behaviour in pupils. He said it worked a treat. Unfortunately, he told me, those ways were no longer fashionable in this country.

I didn’t understand him. Oh, he said to me, it’s quite simple. You have a set of rules. You keep to them and everything is hunky-dory (whatever that means). You don’t stick to them, you get punished. I understood that all right. It was what he did next that threw me. We were in the living room and he went over to a drawer in a sideboard and took out a block of wood. It was dark brown and polished to a shine. It was a rectangle with a handle at one end. I must have looked puzzled because he said, “It’s a paddle. It’s what we used at the school.”

I’d never seen such a thing before but I got what he was talking about when he said, “It’s for spanking.” He held it by the handle and tapped it against his open left palm. It looked pretty heavy from where I stood. “Do you understand what I mean?” he asked. I must have coloured up and got a bit tongue-tied because I couldn’t say anything. “Do you?” he asked again.

Then he answered his own question. “You set your objectives, we agree them. You work hard to meet them,” he looked thoughtfully at the paddle in his hand, “that’s fine. You don’t then ..” he smacked it into his palm. I remember the thwack it made against the flesh.

I can’t really explain what I thought about it. I’m not very good with words, but somehow what he was saying made sense. Work hard, get rewarded. Don’t, get punished. We talked about it and because I trusted Uncle Gavin and reckoned he had my best interests at heart we agreed that’s how we’d go.

“Good,” he said, and I knew he was genuinely pleased. “You are a good lad,” he said and then hesitated, “No,” he said, “You can be a good lad, but you haven’t been very good up to now, have you?” I knew he was talking about my stealing, not keeping a job, giving Mum a hard time. “No,” I agreed, “I haven’t.”

“D’you know what?” he said, it wasn’t really a question, “You need to atone for you past.” I didn’t know what “atone” meant and I said so. I could ask Uncle Gavin anything. “You need to be punished for your past misdeeds.” I suppose I looked unsure so he said, “That way you wipe the slate clean. Start with a new beginning.” He didn’t say, “Turn over a new leaf,” but I got his drift.

He picked up the paddle and stared down at it. “I want you to take down your trousers,” he sat down in a chair, “and then come and bend across my knee.” He gripped the paddle in his right fist. “You need to be spanked. You do understand that, don’t you?”

Again, I can’t find the words I need. Spanked. I need to be spanked. Until that day it had never entered my mind that I needed to be spanked. Uncle Gavin must have known I would be a bit dumbfounded. He said, “It will hurt a very great deal. That is the point. But you will have atoned and after you will feel very much better. Put your past behind you. Look to the future.”

Uncle Gavin was very convincing. I did want a better, brighter tomorrow. I trusted him to help me find it. If he said I needed to be spanked, then who could argue? “Take down your trousers,” he said. His voice was coming from miles away. I don’t know what came over me. It seemed the most natural thing in the world. An eighteen-year-old in need of discipline, taking down his trousers before bending over his uncle’s knee for a sound spanking with a paddle.

I remember I was wearing sweatpants and they had elastic at the waist so I just gripped hold of them and tugged them down. They bunched up at the knees. It was a warm day and I only wore a t-shirt. “Come and bend over my knee,” Uncle Gavin spoke softly; he didn’t bark an order. He wasn’t forcing me to do anything I didn’t want. I was some distance from him and with the sweats now slipping down my shins I had to waddle like a penguin across the room.

I stood a little to his right and looked down. Uncle was in jeans and a t-shirt as well. He parted his legs a little bit. He didn’t say anything at this point but I understood this was to give me a platform to drape my body over. I had never been spanked (obviously) so I was travelling on instinct. I looked down at Uncle’s lap and placing both hands on his knee I leaned forward and lowered myself down. “Put your arms in front of you. Palms on the floor. I don’t want you trying to reach back.” I followed his instructions. My legs took care of themselves and stretched behind me. My toes didn’t quite reach the floor. I couldn’t see but it felt like my bum was pointing up at an angle over Uncle Gavin’s thigh. I must have been in a perfect position because Uncle took hold of me around the waist with his left hand and began to rub the paddle over my bum.

My pants were tight and had ridden up my crack; they fitted me like a second skin. I lay in position waiting. I remember I was perfectly calm. There was no fuss. Uncle Gavin had not manhandled me across his knee. There had been no dispute, no unseemly fight. I had submitted to him. He had explained why I needed to be spanked and I agreed. Of course, I didn’t know then how much a spanking on the underpants with a paddle would hurt. If I did I might not have been so calm.

I soon found out. Uncle Gavin patted my bottom with the paddle. He took aim at the underside of the cheeks where, I suppose, there was most padding (my bum was pert and hard in those days). He lifted the wood and smacked it down with tremendous force. It knocked all the air out of me. I gasped with shock. I had no time to recover before a second, third and fourth swat pounded into my bum. My legs flailed and my body twisted left and right. It looked like I was trying to swim off his lap. Uncle Gavin gripped my waist tighter and began to take my arse off with that paddle.

I have no other words to describe it. The pain was intense. Each thwack into the stretched flesh felt as if he had pressed Mum’s hot iron into me. My bum was on fire. Uncle Gavin had promised me a severe spanking and that was what he gave. My groans and gasps turned to sobs. I was never openly crying, not bawling like a kid, but my eyes were flooded by the time he let me up.

I have no idea how long he spanked me for. Looking back, I don’t suppose it was more than a minute or two: to me it felt like hours. At last he stopped. He released his grip on my body and I slithered from his knees onto the floor. I was winded, but in seconds I had scrambled to my feet and tugged my sweats up. The agony in my bum was easing into a hard throbbing; soon it would become a warm glow. It would hurt to sit down for hours.

“Come here,” Uncle Gavin was still seated in the chair. He opened his arms to me and I stepped into them. He hugged my tightly. “Good boy,” he whispered. “Now, go to your room and think about the bright future we can create together.”

 

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

Other stories you might like

The wrong pub

The night porter

The pretty policeman

 

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

 

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

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