Suddenly one summer

new story 2

otk jeans armchair youngsters (14)

The house was deserted and so it seemed was the entire street. The middle of the day in the middle of the week in the middle of summer in the middle of suburbia. Not a soul stirred. I was bored out of my skull.

I had finished school and was waiting for my exam results. I would be going to university in October and was treading water. The economy had tanked and there were no jobs for proper people so what chance did a nearly-university student have? These were the days long before 24-hour supermarkets and bicycle delivery services.

My friend Martin was in the same boat. We spent a lot of time together that summer. Being bored. Martin said we should take a trip up to town, maybe go swimming. Or at least hang around the town and try to meet girls.

It sounded like a great idea,  except for one problem. I was grounded. I’m not even sure we called it ‘grounded’ in those days. We adopted that horrible Americanism some years later. Anyhow, Dad had said I couldn’t go out for a week. It had to do with not helping around the house and giving Mum more than a bit of lip.

I suppose I was lucky only to be grounded. When I was younger I would have found myself across Dad’s knee, jeans at the ankles and quite possibly pants at the knees while he took my backside off with a paddle. You get the idea. Dad believed in spanking.  But now I was eighteen I was beyond all that.

Which was a pity because although a spanking hurts like crazy (otherwise what’s the point of it?) it is over quickly. Bad deed done, spanking delivered, apologies made and then we all move on with our lives. It’s got to be better than being forced to stay at home for a whole week – in the middle of summer.

I told Martin as much. His eyes widened. “Paddle?” he said, screwing up his eyes to empathise he had no idea what I was talking about. “What’s a paddle?” Another Americanism, I suppose. I had no idea if Martin’s dad ever spanked him and if he did what he used. I supposed the preferred instrument of persuasion would be the slipper. Or a hairbrush. Or that heavy, leather razor strop he inherited from Granddad. Maybe, even a thin, swishy, curve-handled rattan school-type cane.

“Look,” I said as I led him to the cupboard under the stairs. Martin did the widening of his eyes thing again when he saw hanging from a hook was a huge wooden board, probably eighteen inches long and five wide. It looked homemade. If Dad made it with his own hands it would have been about the only thing he had ever made in his life. He couldn’t even mend a fuse when the lights went out.

Martin bent his back and poked his head inside the small cupboard. “Is that a paddle?” he asked. I was about to give him a sarcastic response about his lack of observation, when he said, “I thought like a canoe or a row boat.”

I let it go. Martin peered closely at it. Then, he raised his right hand and very gently touched it. It was a delicate movement, made as if he feared he might break it. “He used to spank you with this?” He spoke softly, almost reverentially.

“Sure,” the level of pride in my voice surprised me. “Twelve swats. More sometimes.” I had no idea why I lied like that. Yes, I did get taken across Dad’s knee and I was spanked with that very paddle. Often on the underpants and sometimes on the bare. But he never gave me more than six swats. Six-of-the-best: the English way.

Martin shook his head in amazement. “Well I never,” he said softly, as if to himself. I watched as gently he took the paddle from the hook and caressed it in his hands, admiring the smooth surface. “It’s heavy,” he said backing out of the cupboard and standing erect in the hallway. He gripped the handle tightly and swished it trough the air. “Careful,” I cried. The hallway was narrow and he very nearly knocked a china ornament to the floor.

Martin’s eyes were wide and glowing when he looked at me. “What does it feel like?” He tapped the paddle’s blade it into the palm of his hand. He winced. “Blimey. It feels like it would really hurt.”

“You might well believe that, but I couldn’t possibly comment,” I laughed. Martin joined in. We both recognised it as a line from a popular political thriller on television. “Does it hurt?” Martin held the paddle gently, like it was a precious artefact.

“Well, what do you think?” I sounded more cross than I actually felt.

“Quite a bit, I suppose,” he conceded. His usually sparkling blue eyes seemed a bit vacant, as if he was not in the hallway with me. He sucked down on his bottom lip. He was thinking. I hadn’t known Martin for long, his family had only moved to The Avenue last year, but I knew him to be a quiet, thoughtful person.

“Why don’t we try it?” he suddenly blurted.

I must have gaped open-mouthed. It made the poor boy blush to his roots. “W-what do you mean?” I asked, although his question had been clear enough.

He ran his tongue around his lips. “Try it. To see what it’s like.”

I sucked down a laugh. “I already know what it feels like, thank you very much,” I tried to make light of it, but there was definitely tension in the air.

“Why not?” I thought I detected a pleading look in his eyes.

I don’t suppose I was much of a man of the world in those days (not like now of course) and I knew nothing of men’s desires. As kids we had often exchanged experiences of our spankings. At school it was the done thing after a caning to go down to the bogs to whip down your trousers and pants and show off your marks.

I asked Martin, “Have you ever been spanked?” It was a daft question. He wouldn’t want to try it out to see how it felt if he had.

Maybe it was my boredom. Perhaps it was a genuine attempt to help a fellow man gain experience in life. Whatever the reason, I said, “Okay then. Why not?”

“Where shall we do it?” Martin almost danced with excitement.

“In the lounge. There’s more room.”

Martin’s eyes blazed with gratitude. He took the paddle in both hands and handed it to me, as if it were a religious relic.

I led the way into the lounge. It was a typical living room, I suppose. There was a sofa and a couple of armchairs and cupboards. We had a separate dining room where we ate our meals. I stood in the middle of the room trying to plan my next move. When Dad spanked me he usually sat in one of the straight backed dining chairs that had no arms. These were in the other room. I was about to tell Martin we needed to go next door when he blurted out, “There! The armchair. You sit in it and I’ll bend over your knee.” He was almost licking his lips. I didn’t have the heart to argue. I could already see that the chair would be too cramped for me to get a decent swing of the paddle at his bum.

I sat in the chair and perched my own buttocks on the edge of the seat cushion. In his eagerness to be spanked, Martin didn’t give me a chance to spread my legs to create a decent platform for him to bend across. For an eighteen-year-old who had never been spanked before he knew the drill. I had hardly sat down before he stood to my right side and lowered himself across my knee. Inside a second he had his hands pressed into the carpet. His knees were straight and the toes of his trainers brushed the floor. His bum was at an angle over my thigh.

The arms of the chair boxed me in and I couldn’t get a decent swing with the paddle. This relived me a little. When I agreed to spank Martin I hadn’t given any thought to how he would react. Done properly a paddling is very painful. I know, Dad was an expert. God knows he had plenty of practice with me and my two brothers. Would Martin howl the house down?

I gripped the paddle in my right fist. Martin was about the same height as me and a bit podgy. His thighs and backside were well padded. The jeans he wore were not well fitting and his bottom was not well defined. The denim material was thick and would give him some protection from the paddle. That suited me. I didn’t want to hurt Martin. He wriggled his bottom as if to encourage me to get on with it. I took the hint and raised the paddle blade about six inches above his bum and smacked it into his left cheek. Martin didn’t react. I waited maybe ten seconds then hit the right buttock.

Martin’s sigh of disappointment could probably be heard across the street. He turned his head so he could see me as best he could. “C’mon. Not like that, do it properly.” He was right in his criticism. I had delivered love taps. The youngest, weakest kid wouldn’t feel a thing. Martin stared down at the floor again. I saw his buttocks tense in anticipation. I gripped the paddle hard. I raised it high. Then I stopped. “Bugger this for a game of soldiers,” I exhaled. “Get up. Go on, stand up.”

Martin stayed across my knee and began a protest from his prone position.

I smacked the palm of my hand into the seat of his jeans and then rubbed his left buttock. “This is no good. These jeans are too thick. You won’t feel a thing. Stand up. Take them down. Then get back over my knee.”

With eagerness, Martin sprang to his feet. He stood before me. His face was flushed and his bright blue eyes watered. “Take them down?” Martin sought confirmation. There was no hint of apprehension in his voice. He was not anxious. He couldn’t wait to get back over my knee.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “Jeans down to your ankles. Then back over.” I felt ridiculous. I had never spanked a friend before. Why should I? Who would. I remembered the stories we used to read about boarding schools where the older prefects would cane the younger boys. Perhaps it wasn’t such a strange idea after all. But Martin had done nothing to deserve a spanking.

My train of thought was interrupted. Martin had unbuckled his belt, pulled the zipper and pushed his jeans to his shins. I tried not to notice the significant bulge in the front of his bright-red Y-fronts as once more he lowered himself across my knee. The cotton underpants fitted his bum much better than the jeans. They lifted and separated each cheek and dug into his crack. I was no expert but I would say his bum was perfectly presented for the spanking I was about to give him.

“I’m going to do this hard,” I threatened, as I tapped the paddle across the fleshiest part of his left cheek. “Hard as you can,” he answered, gritting his teeth for the blow. His whole body tensed in anticipation. I saw this as a dare. I had promised full-force, now I would have to deliver. I tapped some more, marvelling at the impression the paddle made against the snug cotton pants. I also enjoyed how Martin’s buttock cheeks clenched and then hardened like a rubber ball. Tap-tap-tap. Swat! I let fly. Even in my confined space It was a whopper! The paddle struck the surface of his bum, then sank into the flesh before raising out again. Martin gasped. His hips wriggled and his head bounced up and down. There was no doubt: he felt that.

There was a long pause. It probably wasn’t for more than few seconds, but it felt like forever. I could see Martin’s buttocks twitching, almost impatiently, waiting for the next stinging blow. He must have been thinking about this for years, imagining how it would feel to be bent submissively across someone’s knee and spanked on his naughty little bottom.

I took aim again and landed the paddle across the other cheek. A sonic boom echoed around the room. It was so enormous. I couldn’t remember my own spanking sounding like that. For one absurd moment I feared the neighbours would hear. Luckily, the houses in The Avenue were detached from one another with sizeable gardens between them.

Martin did the wriggling thing again so I gripped him tightly around the waist. He wasn’t going anywhere; not until I said so. He had made his bed, he must lie in it. He wanted a spanking and a spanking was what he was getting. I knew by now, even after only two swats, his bum would be slowly burning. As I delivered each new swat that would morph into a sharp biting feeling. The pain would grow until it felt like I had rubbed his bare bum with a Mum’s red hot iron.

I looked down at Martin. His head was neighing from side to side. Those beautiful blue eyes were huge, nearly bulging out of his head. “Are you all right?” I asked. He gasped. “Yeah, I’m fine. Holy cow that hurt! I can’t believe it.” Tears welled in his eyes.

“Good,” I growled, “It’s supposed to hurt,” and I pounded the third swat into his tender bum.

I lifted the paddle again. It was some weight and harder to manoeuvre with one hand than I had expected. Martin was wriggling a bit, but – brave boy that he was – he kept his bottom aligned across my thigh. He was probably in agony, but Martin was determined to see this through to the bitter end. His pants had ridden up further into his crack and the lower half of his buttocks was bare. I thought about ripping down his pants so his bum was completely naked. I was wise to control my urge. I don’t think Martin could have endured that: not on his first spanking.

I grinned, remembering how much Dad’s spankings had hurt me. I felt a strange power, being in control over Martin. I realised I liked it a very great deal. I walloped him again twice in quick succession rat-a-tat, cutting across the bare part of his buttocks. I felt the firmer. meatier, deeper part of his bum as it resisted the paddle, causing the board to bounce off his bottom.

Martin’s deep-throated howl scared me. I released my grip on his waist and he rolled off my lap, he rested a second face-down on the carpet, gasping for air like a beached dolphin. Before I could stand myself he was up on his feet, his hands grasping his battered bottom. Tears flowed easily and he hopped up and down. I had never done that after a spanking. I had assumed only characters in the comics did such a thing.

I knew from my own experience the burning agony Martin was suffering would very quickly die down to become a constant throbbing. Within minutes it would be a dull ache. It would be uncomfortable for him to sit on a hard surface for an hour or two and there would be bruises for some days. Apart from that he would live.

Martin soon calmed down and stood rubbing his bum while trying to peer over his shoulder to get a good look at it. He soon realised that with his pants still up he couldn’t see a thing.

“I have to go now,” he gasped as he tugged his jeans up and buckled his belt. Before I could say a word he was at the front door and away. I stood at the window and watched as he ran down the drive towards his home. I imagined in a few moments time he would be in his bedroom with his jeans and pants down, pointing his bottom at the mirror. It didn’t occur to me at the time that he would probably also have one of the most satisfactory wanks of his young life.

Martin never asked me to spank him again. That was a pity because I had really enjoyed it. I had unexpectedly discovered an important side of my personality. When Martin came over to my house we sometimes looked wistfully at the door to the cupboard under the stairs. We didn’t need words to express what we shared.

I went to the local university and Martin went to one up North. I don’t think he got on with his parents because he never returned to Brocklehurst. We never saw each other again after that summer. I don’t know what became of Martin, but hey pal if you’re reading this, please get in touch – for old time’s sake.

Picture credit: Man’s Hand Films

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The casting couch

An acting student wants a break into the movies but must be prepared to do anything to get it


I know that to succeed as a television actor I have to make one or two sacrifices, but I don’t expect them to be at the expense of my dignity and my ass.

An international production company is casting for parts in a new teen drama. The characters will be set in a college and in the storyline they will be seventeen years old. The company wants actors who are over eighteen with a little bit of knowledge of the business, so have been asking drama colleges to send over suitably-qualified youngsters.

I am eighteen, a bit shorter than average height, with a fresh face. I can easily pass as seventeen and with my clear skin maybe even fifteen. I am slender, but I don’t work out at the gym because I don’t have to. There’s not enough spare fat on me to fry a sausage.

The cast of the new show which does not have a name yet, at least not one that has been announced, will be an ensemble. That means no one will be the star, all will have equal status. This could be a massive break for me, the show will run for an initial twenty-six episodes on a free-to-air network and the production company has an international reputation for successes in this type of show. It will almost certainly be sold overseas. It is an enormous opportunity for me as it represents fame, wealth and a big boost at the start of my career.

I go across town for an interview and an audition. Obviously, they are seeing a lot of people and I have to wait my turn. I am waiting in the hallway close to the room where the interviews are taking place when the door opens and a young man exits. He is ashen faced and it appears he may have been crying. Looks like he didn’t get the gig, I think.

I am called into the interview room. There are three people waiting for me and I immediately recognised Allen Mikelstein, from his picture in the trade papers. Mikelstein is a big hitter in this town; too big to bother introducing himself or the other people in the room. A woman with a clipboard checks my name and contact details. My credentials established, they ask what experience I have. They aren’t expecting much so I am honest and tell them I’m at drama school and I’ve been in a few stage plays and student films. Mikelstein is sweating buckets. I don’t understand why because the room is pretty cold, I think.

Am I imagining it, or can’t he keep his eyes off my legs. He speaks and asks me to stand up and turn around once or twice. Is he checking me out? I think he might be. I am only eighteen but I’ve been in this city all my life and I am not naïve.

Thank you, Mikelstein says, and hands me a piece of paper. On it is a scene that he wants me to act out with him. I mumble an apology that I haven’t had a chance to read it and I might not be very good. He flashes me a smirk and says, “Don’t worry.”

The truth is that these shows don’t necessarily want people with good acting ability, they want people who look right for the part and who they can rely on professionally. They will be churning out twenty-six episodes, one a week, so there is no room for primemadonnas. The actors will have to be obedient and do as they are told, without fuss. I’m their man, I think: clean cut and handsome, the boy next door, and I will do whatever they ask of me for a piece of this action.

We run through the script. It is a scene where the boy (me) is up before the college’s Dean of Discipline (Mikelstein).

I am startled; this cannot be a real scene from an episode of the show, the networks would never let this go to air.

Mikelstein starts off in character. He is berating me for cutting classes to head to the mall, why do I do it? I tell him the classes are boring and the teachers are hopeless.

He gets angry, says I must apologise. I tell him where to get off.

At this point he turns away from me and heads for a shelf in the corner of the room and picks up a paddle. It’s an ordinary board, the kind you would find in any school in the South.

He smacks the wood into the palm of his hand for emphasis as he scolds me some more. I can’t keep my eyes off the paddle. Is this really happening? What exactly is happening?

“Bend over grab your ankles,” Mikelstein tells me. I hesitate, my breathing is coming faster and my heart rate is quickening. I look at Mikelstein and he replies with his eyes, “Yes, you must go through with it.”

I understand what is going on now. I have to do this.

I stoop down from my waist and rest my hands on my knees.

“Grab your ankles boy!” Mikelstein seems to have come out of character. I part my legs a little and tightly grab hold of my jeans around my calves.

I feel Mikelstein move behind me, admiring the scene. I am only wearing ‘no name’ jeans but I know I look Hot! Hot! Hot! I can wear anything.

A don’t hear the paddle coming but feel an agonising pain as it connects across both buttocks, stinging each cheek equally. My eyes pop and I let out a gasp. Instinctively, I bolt upright to rub my flaming ass, but Mikelstein stops me mid-way and with a forceful shove in the shoulders, he pushes me back down, so once again I am staring at the stained floor tiles.

Whack number two hits, harder than the first, on almost the same spot. I tug at the legs of my jeans determined not to disgrace myself and try to stand up again. It hurts so much I have no words to describe it. I have never been in so much pain in my life.

Number three crashes down across the bottom of my ass, where the cheeks meet the thighs and I let out a scream, so loud, I am sure the people waiting outside the audition room must be able to hear it. Involuntary tears are forming behind my eyes and my whole body seems to be shaking. I am spent. Please, Mr Mikelstein, no more.

I didn’t say this out loud, but Mikelstein got the picture. I heard him replace the paddle on the shelf and he told me to stand.

I rise, my face bright red, from the exertions of the spanking and, probably, because my head has been upside down staring at the floor.

Mikelstein sits on a couch watching me as I furiously rub away at my tight throbbing buns. It is no use; the pain is going to be with me for a long time yet.

Mikelstein gestures that I should sit on the couch next to him. I can see he is sweating even more than before and his face is flushed. Still breathing heavily I gingerly put my butt on the couch, testing it for size to see if my raw ass can stand the pressure.

I wince as my backside takes the weight of my body on the couch. Mikelstein gives a creepy laugh. “Can someone get the boy a cushion?” Nobody moves, his two colleagues know he meant it as a joke.

Mikelstein sits up very close to me and our legs are touching. I am still in some distress and he puts an arm around me, drawing my head into his chest. I can smell his expensive aftershave. What will happen next? Am I going to have to let him come on to me?

The woman pipes up and says, thank you, you have passed the first part of the audition. Mikelstein lets go of me and the meeting becomes formal again.

There is a part two of the audition where I have to meet other possible cast members and TV execs and so on. She tells me they have to see if I will fit in. It seems that I have the looks and enough talent, but do I have the temperament? She writes down an address of a house in the Valley where there will be a party on Friday for everyone involved in the show. I am invited.

Friday is a sweltering hot day. I have no car so I hitch a lift to the house. I dress in a way I hope will delight Mikelstein: in short, short cut-offs. If this audition turns out to be a battle of the buns between competing wannabe cast members, I am going to give myself a head start.

z used hustler hitch hiker tom jones

I arrive on time at a huge mansion. It has large gardens and a swimming pool. Towards the far end of the garden is something that looks like a lake.

I am astounded when a waiter with a tray of drinks approaches me. He is stunning looking, in his late teens or early twenties, and he is almost entirely naked. He wears a bow tie and a jock strap that hardly covers his assets and that is that. I realise all the other waiters are similarly dressed. As I take my drink (non-alcoholic, I need to keep a clear head, for whatever happens next) I hear the slap of a hand on flesh from behind me and swing round to find Mikelstein had slapped a waiter full on his pert buttocks.

The waiter flashes Mikelstein a smile to say that was the most wonderful experience he has ever enjoyed and, hey, if he wants to do it some more, just go ahead. The boy is a marvellous actor, better than I will ever be.

Lots of people come up to say hello, they are here auditioning like me. None of us quite knows what is expected of us so we are friendly to everyone just in case they turn out to be important.

An assistant to Mikelstein tells me it is my turn to see the great man and leads me into the house and up a spiral staircase to the first floor, where he leaves me in a room on my own. Mikelstein comes in, dressed casually in dark slacks, bulging at the waist, and a white patterned formal shirt. I feel very under-dressed in my cut offs, but he cannot keep his eyes off me: a result.

He offers me a drink (alcohol this time) and I risk accepting it. I want to seem friendly, but I don’t want him to think I might be a drunkard. He calls me by my name and says how much he enjoyed our last meeting. He grins as he says this. Yes, I remember our last meeting; there are still bruises on my ass.

He talks about the show and how he has a great part for me in it and what a great success it will be and what a great career I have ahead of me. He likes the word “great”.

Then he says for it to work I have to show that I can fit in. What did I think about that? I tell him I think it is “great”.

“I’ll do anything you want of me Mr Mikelstein,” I am not subtle. I want the lot: the fame, the money and the lifestyle that goes with it and I want it now.

“Anything?” he leers at me again. I drain the whiskey from my glass.

“Do you want another?” I do, to try to settle my nerves, but I say, “No thanks.”

He sits down on a couch. “Come closer,” he grabs my arm and pulls me closer to him. “Are you a good boy?” He smirks at me. I don’t know how I am supposed to answer this, so I don’t.

“Or are you naughty?” Yet more leering. Suddenly, I know exactly where this is going.

“Naughty boys have to get their bottoms spanked.” With that he simply pulls me forward and down over his lap.

I could fight him, punch him in the face and high-tail it out of there. But, I don’t and I’m not ashamed of that. This is my ticket to stardom. And the journey starts here.

He pulls at the waist of my cut offs so the denim is even tighter across my buttocks and smacks down on my cheeks. I can’t feel I thing, but I don’t suppose I am meant to. They are more like ‘love pats’ than spanks. Mikelstein is enjoying feeling-up my pert bottom. He stops smacking for a while and gently rubs his hand around my two globes, measuring them up.

“Stand up.” He helps me up and I stand in front of him.

“Hands on head.” This is unexpected, but I do as instructed. He undoes the button of my cut-offs and they fall to my knees. Then he pulls me on top of him, so that I am stretched out across the couch with my upper body and arms resting to his left and my legs stretched out to his right. My bottom is high over his abundant thighs.

He spanks me harder this time. The first slaps connects into the centre of my left cheek and then the centre of the right and then he covers the whole circuit, from the top of the globes near the base of the spine, to the curves at the thighs. The thin cotton of my tight, white, briefs is no protection. Mikelstein is getting into his stride as he lands short, rapid spanks all over my buttocks and thighs.

My butt is warming up and as each successive swat falls across the tight cotton briefs, the pain increases. I am not in agony, the pain is nothing like the paddling he had given me, but gradually the soreness in my ass increases.

I am losing track of time, but he must have whacked on and on at my buttocks for five minutes or more, never letting up. Although I am feeling sore now and gasping a little, I don’t make a sound and nor does Mikelstein.

Suddenly, I realise I have no idea what I am supposed to do. I am an actor after all, am I meant to be playing a role here? Does he want me to holler and howl, like he is killing me? Should I plead for him to stop? “I will be a good boy Daddy, I promise.”

I am probably too late to change tack now: I am stuck with naturalism; my reactions are genuine, based on the real discomfort he is causing me. We had learnt about ‘naturalism’ in class, but I never expected this would be the first role where I would put it into practice.

Gently he pulls down my briefs to my knees, exposing my, by now very pink bottom. “What a lovely shade of pink,” Mikelstein pants. He caresses my buttocks, “and, so very hot. Ha! Ha! Ha!” He has made a joke.

He slaps on and on. Although I am now bare butt, the pain doesn’t get any worse. I am no expert, but I wonder if there is some limit to a hand spanking: the pain reaches a limit, but doesn’t go beyond it. The spanker’s hand is pretty sore too, so at this point he reaches for the hairbrush and takes the boy’s butt off with that.

Luckily for me, that isn’t Mikelstein’s plan: at least not for today, so he hand-spanks me for another few minutes until he is spent. He is breathing so heavily, I think he might be having a seizure. He holds tightly onto me, so I can’t get up. I don’t know what is happening; it may be that he is just taking a break before another onslaught.

But no, we are finished. He releases his grip and I stand before him. My buns are very tender. Remembering I am here to please Mikelstein, I perform a little dance, hopping from one foot to the other with my hands furiously rubbing my bum and my pepper bouncing up and down in front of his face.

The look on his face is a treat. He wants me. He wants me so bad.

I turn my back to him, so he gets a great view of my glory hole as I bend to my toes to retrieve my briefs. Slowly, I pull them up over my bright red buttocks, wriggling exaggeratedly as the soft cotton brushes them. Then, back to my feet again for the cut-offs.

I turn around to face Mikelstein so he can see me tucking my dick into my shorts.

His eyes pop.

“Please Mr Mikelstein, have I got the part?” I pucker.

“Oh yes boy. Yes.”


Picture credit: Tom Jones

This story was first uploaded in February 2016.

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Charles Hamilton the Second

The unexpected phone call

new story 2

Mr Cartwright gently replaced the handset into the cradle and sat silently staring at the telephone on his desk. He had every right to be furious; nobody in their right mind would complain if he were spitting mad. Who could blame him? But, rather than anger he felt  deep sense of serenity. He was calm, but calculating. The phone call had come as a total surprise, but even now only seconds after hearing the news he was entirely certain of his course of action.

He glanced at the clock, there was another hour before he could knock off work for the day. He had to take his mind off the shock and get on with business. The time went quickly; Mr Cartwright had always been good at separating one part of his life from another. There would be time enough later in the evening to get to grips with his crisis at home.

At five-thirty, he shuffled his papers together and slipped them inside a manila folder. He took this to the filing cabinet that stood in the corner by the window. He slipped it inside and then taking a small key from his waistcoat pocket he locked it securely. Now, all he needed to do was collect his jacket from the hook on the back of the door and leave.

He made his farewells to the small number of co-workers who hadn’t themselves left for home. As he walked towards the stairwell he began to piece together in his mind his course of action from here on in. He would stop off at Orwell’s bazaar in the High Street before he caught his bus back home to The Avenue. He needed to make a purchase.

It was summer and although hardly scorching weather, it was very warm. Mr Cartwright felt sticky patches forming at his armpits. He was a very proper gentleman and it would never do for him to take off his jacket and hold it causally across his shoulder as he walked down the street. He would perspire gently. It was unpleasant, but nothing more.

He knew Orwell’s did not close until six so he saw no reason to hurry. The street was busy with people decamping their offices and making towards bus stops and the train station. He noticed a steady stream of customers making their way to The Three Fishers, for a “quick one” before heading (Mr Cartwright assumed) to their lonely bedsitting rooms.

Orwell’s was one of those shops that sold everything as long as it didn’t cost more than a few pennies. Mr Cartwright was not a frequent visitor but on a previous visit he had noticed the very implement he needed to purchase this evening. The shop was nearly deserted of customers. As he entered he saw two young shop assistants take notice of his arrival. He stood inside the door and scanned the vista of the shop. If his memory served him well, what he wanted was at the far end of the shop, displayed discreetly in a corner.

Without acknowledging the shop assistants Mr Cartwright  took a leisurely stroll through the shop. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one assistant, a young man, no older than his own sons he supposed, leave his position behind the toiletries counter and slowly move towards him. The assistant halted a short distance from him.

Although Mr Cartwright  did not shop regularly at Orwell’s he was very well aware of the practice of shop assistants. The young man, Mr Cartwright observed wore a black woollen blazer and pale-grey trousers, making him look not unlike a senior boy at a grammar school. Mr Cartwright expected the young man to wait a moment before pouncing upon him to encourage a sale.

Undeterred, Mr Cartwright stopped in front of a display. He failed to hide his sense of disappointment. This was not what he was after, not quite. No, he needed something more substantial. “Oh, bother,” he breathed.

“May I help you, sir?” Mr Cartwright turned his head slightly to acknowledge the sales assistant. He saw from a badge on lapel of the boy’s jacket he was called Aitkens.

“Well, yes, rather,” Mr Cartwright spoke clearly and confidently. He was a manager at a very important business in town. Aitkens was a junior shop assistant. They both knew their place in the social hierarchy of Brocklehurst.

“Yes,” Mr Cartwright continued. “This display of canes,” he nodded towards two large urns stuffed full of thin rods, each with a plastic handle attached, “I need something a little more substantial.” He eyed Aitkens closely, noticing for the first time the boy’s pock marked face and watery grey eyes. Aitkens smiled, revealing rotten, broken teeth that were so prevalent among the poor.

“Yes, sir,” Aitkens said, quietly, to ensure Mr Cartwright of his total discretion. “What exactly did you have in mind, sir?”

“I have to deal with two older boys,” Mr Cartwright said without embarrassment. “A pair of about your age.”

Aitkens suppressed a shudder. He was no stranger to the sting of the cane. It gave him no pleasure to be party to another boy’s punishment. “We have a further collection towards the back of the shop, if sir would care to follow me.” He led the way and continued talking as he went, “We have canes for use on senior boys, they are similar to the ones in use at the grammar school,” he sucked on his bottom lip as a not-too distant memory occurred to him. “We also have dense, Malacca-type canes such as are used in borstal institutions and such like.”

They had reached the back of the shop by this time. A tarpaulin hid a small mound. In one smooth movement Aitkens removed the canvas. Mr Cartwrights face brightened. Before him were about thirty assorted punishment canes. Each was about three feet or more long and they were of various diameters; many were thicker than the pencils he used at his office. Their curved handles gave them an awesome aspect. Any one of these monsters would pack a terrific punch.

“Would sir care to handle one?” Aitkens was moving in for his sale. Mr Cartwright sucked in a deep gasp of air. The shop was hot and stuffy and suddenly he found his own body temperature was rising fast. He took hold of a rod at random and bent it between his hands, as a school headmaster would by tradition do. It flexed easily. Mt Cartwright nodded approval and then replaced it among the others. He took out a denser stick of deep yellow and swished it through the air. Aitkens had to take evasive action to avoid receiving a swipe across his shoulder.

“A very fine choice, if I might say so sir,” Aitkens drivelled. It was one of the store’s best sellers. Quite who needed such a cane and what they did with it in the privacy of their own home, Aitkens felt, was none of his business. He watched Mr Cartwright intensely as he took one cane after another from the stock and tested them by flexing and swishing. Aitkens hoped Mr Cartwright would not be like the gentlemen who came in yesterday and asked if he might test it out on Aitkens’ own backside.

“I’ll take this one, and this one,” Mr Cartwright was a man of action. He knew how to make a decision. He handed his purchases to the shop assistant and watched the boy as he disappeared from view into an outer office. He returned a minute or so later carrying a long thing parcel wrapped with brown paper. Mr Cartwright nodded but did not speak his appreciation. He could carry the parcel home on the bus and no one would suspect its contents. He paid half a crown and thinking it was money well spent he bade Aitkens a good evening.

Mr Cartwright spent some of the bus journey recalling the telephone call he had received earlier at the office. It had been his neighbour from across the road at The Avenue. He had seen Cartwright’s two sons, Alan and David lounging around the garden at home in the middle of the afternoon. Clearly, they had truanted. David from the college where he was supposed to be learning book-keeping and Alan, from the sixth form at St Francis Independent Grammar School.

This wasn’t the first time. It wasn’t even the second. Mt Cartwright had chided the two boys previously for not attending classes. He had expressed his thoughts clearly, they could be in no doubts. It must not happen again, he had said. Or else. He had left the details of the consequences of further misbehaviour unstated. But, they were aged eighteen and twenty, they knew their father’s preferred method of punishment.

Mr Cartwright alighted from the bus and made his way down The Avenue. The street was silent. Most of the houses stood in their own grounds hidden behind walls or hedges. People liked their privacy here. It was a wonder how Mr Flynn, his neighbour, had managed to spot his sons in their own garden. Mr Cartwright preferred not to dwell on that.

As he approached the house the sound of “pop” music blared out of an open upstairs window. It was David’s bedroom; there was no doubt that at least one of his sons was at home. He tucked his parcel under his arm. Being long and thin, it was an awkward size to carry. It was as light as a feather and to the unobservant eye it might have simply been a twist of brown paper. He balanced the parcel awkwardly as he found his door key and let himself into the house.

“Turn that rubbish off!” he yelled from the foot of the stairs. The din continued unabated. He put the parcel down and slipped his jacket from his shoulders, noticing with some distaste the sticky, damp patches under his arms. As Mr Cartwright hung his jacket up his younger son Alan emerged from the kitchen.  “Go upstairs and tell your brother to turn that row off. Then stay there both of you until I come up.”

Alan’s face paled. His mouth opened but swiftly closed again; he had decided not to ask, “Why?”

“Do it now,” Mr Cartwright ordered sternly and he watched Alan’s large backside wobble as his son hurried up the stairs. “Those jeans look rather thick,” he thought idly as the boy pushed his way into his brother’s bedroom. Moments later the music was silenced.

Mr Cartwright shuffled to the kitchen. The kettle on the stove was still warm and it quickly boiled once he set a match to the gas. He poured the water into a mug over instant coffee granules, then milk straight from the bottle, and sat and waited until it was cool enough to drink. It would give Alan and David time to contemplate their fate. He sipped the hot coffee tentatively; the pair had been caught red-handed so there would be point in denials.

He opened a drawer, found a sharp knife and used it to break open his parcel. He folded the paper tidily and pushed it into the bin. He laid the two canes on the kitchen table and studied them as he drank his coffee.

Aitkens had been correct to say these canes were suitable for older boys; borstal boys even. One of the canes was thick and dense, its handle hardly curved. He picked it up and ran his fingers along its length, feeling the rough notches that appeared every eight inches or so. Without testing the cane’s companion, Mr Cartwright decided this would be his weapon of choice. He drained his coffee mug, put it in the sink and then ran cold water over it. He left it on the draining board, picked up the cane and slowly made his way from the room.

He made stately progress up the stairs and paused on the landing. It was his house and he had every right to enter any room his chose uninvited. Even so, he rapped his knuckles three times on the door, paused a couple of seconds, and then pushed it open. He was greeted by two disconsolate young men. David, his older son, now aged twenty, had golden hair down to his shoulders in the modern style of the young. He could not meet his father’s eye and stared down at the floor. Alan, eighteen, was still at school and his appearance was not yet that of a down-and-out. He too looked sheepish as his father entered.

Mr Cartwright had prepared a few words. He spoke them without interruption. He talked about the phone call he had received (but did not think it appropriate to reveal the caller’s name). He reminded his sons of their past truanting. He completed his speech this way, “Now, I am going to beat each of you quite severely.”

Alan and David exchanged glances. Mr Cartwright read the looks. They had discussed between them the possibility of this outcome. They could not complain. They had to take their punishment. Mr Cartwright admired his sons for this. They would accept the consequences of their actions. It was very admirable, he thought.

He flexed the cane between his hands. He nodded to David, “Put the chair in the middle of the room.” It was a large room as befitting the splendid (and expensive) houses in The Avenue. David brushed his long blond hair from his eyes and without a murmur of dissent he picked up the low-backed vanity chair and moved it into position.

“You,” Mr Cartwright spoke to David, “Stand by the wall.” David, still unable to face his father moved with head bowed.

“You,” he swished the cane through empty air. It made a terrific whooshing sound as it flew, “Bend over the chair.” David was tall and the chair low and there was a clearance of a foot or more between it and his stomach. “Head low. Bottom high. Spread your legs.”

David did all of these things, offering his father if not the perfect target for his cane at least one that would get the job done. Mr Cartwright watched impassively as his son manoeuvred himself. He tapped his cane across the centre of David’s meaty bum. He had been quite an athlete while at school and still retained sporty muscles. His blue denim jeans stretched across his cheeks. Mr Cartwright took hold of the waistband and tugged hard. He was rewarded with the sight of the outline of David’s underpants underneath the denim. He tapped the cane once, then twice and then for good measure a  third time. He brought it crashing down with tremendous force and was delighted to watch a thick line emboss itself across the seat of David’s jeans. The crack the cane made upon contact echoed around the room. A bird outside the open window took flight in fright.

David made little response. His face was completely covered by his long blond hair and any expression he had was obscured from view. Mr Cartwright sent a second swipe across David’s bottom. It struck a little lower than the first. David’s feet slipped a bit at the impact and a line of fire blazed across the lower part of his cheeks. His younger brother Alan shuddered and tears began to form in his own eyes as he witnessed his brother’s punishment. It was not concern for David’s wellbeing that concerned him, rather the knowledge that in a few moments he too would be prostrate across the chair with his bum on fire.

The cane rose and fell. Twelve times in total. As he rose to take his place against the wall he could not resist rubbing his sore backside vigorously. He hated letting his father know he had hurt him. It was the typical pride of any boy forced to present himself for a beating.

z used cane jeans twosome CS

Alan took his brother’s place. He was no stranger to the sting of the cane. St Francis Independent Grammar was a traditional school: traditional curriculum, traditional uniform, traditional games and, of course, traditional discipline. He spread his legs wide, stared down at the seat of the chair and prepared himself for the first of his twelve strokes.

Mr Cartwright laid them on with vim. Each stroke was a swipe. Sweat poured from his forehead. The back of his shirt was soaked. He watched carefully as Alan rose from the chair. As his brother had done moment earlier, he ruefully rubbed his buttocks.  He was sore, but it wasn’t as bad as the caning he would inevitably get from his housemaster for truanting when he returned to school after the weekend.

“Pah!” Mr Cartwright surveyed his two sons. “Do you know what?” he asked, not expecting an answer and not anyway allowing time for one. “Those jeans are too thick. I don’t think you felt a thing. David,” he swiped the cane through the I and touched its tip on the seat of the chair. “Take down those jeans and let’s go again.”

Picture credit: C of Sweden


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 More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

When Dad got home

z used after pyjamas bed older Isma

I wait in my blue striped pyjamas for my father to come home from work. I have been bad-mouthing my mother all day long and now I must pay for it.

Eighteen years old or no, I am going to get one heck of a spanking.

I lay on my bed for seven o’clock to crawl around. Dad’s shift at the post office finishes at six-thirty and he is always home by then.

Without knocking first, dad opens the bedroom door. He is still dressed in his postman’s uniform: mid-grey trousers; light-blue shirt; post office tie knotted tightly at his throat. He has taken off his outdoor shoes and on his feet are his bedroom slippers.

There are no preliminaries; he goes straight to the action. I watch intently as dad picks up the chair and puts it in the centre of the room. He sits down; reaches his right hand to his left foot and removes a slipper. Then he spreads his legs wide.

“Come here Dexter,” it is a stern order, not a friendly request. “Bend over my knee.”

My heart is racing. I am a grown man for Heaven’s sake. I left school two years ago. I have a job at the supermarket. I bring home a wage. But, I know dad is in charge. We argued about this before. “It’s my way or the highway,” he said. If I don’t like his rules, then I must leave home. I don’t want to do that. I love my home comforts too much. I wouldn’t be able to afford half the things I can now.

So, I roll off the bed and onto my feet. I make no objection; there are no excuses or pleas of mitigation. It is true I have been rude and cruel to my mother. I can’t explain why, she just rubs me up the wrong way.

Dad is in his early forties and not yet middle aged; but there are some flecks of grey in his otherwise light brown hair. I stand to the right of my dad, looking down at the platform I am soon to place myself across. Dad is thick set and his legs are fleshy; he has the start of a beer belly. In a strange way he makes a comfortable platform for me to present himself. My positioning might be comfortable but what happens next will not be.

I take a deep breath; place both palms on dad’s fleshy right thigh and ease forward. I reach out my hands and place my palms flat on the carpet. Behind me my legs are short and dangle in mid-air, my toes an inch or so short off the floor. My groin presses into dad’s leg and my bottom rests at an angle.

Dad is not quite satisfied and moves me slightly to give himself a better aim at my bum. My legs are now further from the ground and my face closer to the carpet.

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

I feel a slight breeze blowing across my exposed flesh from the open bedroom window. I am breathing a little heavily. I’ve felt the full force of dad’s slipper across my bare bottom before; I know this will hurt like mad. I hope I can take it without blubbing. Last time I was spanked I wailed the house down; I don’t want to repeat that humiliation.

Dad is taking his time. I can’t see him, but I feel movements in his body as slowly he unfastens the button on his right shirt sleeve and meticulously rolls it up so that his arm is bare from the wrist to above the elbow. Then, taking as much time as he cares, he repeats the manoeuvre with the left sleeve.

He is almost ready; but not quite. He moves the slipper from the small of my back and rests it higher up, near the shoulder. Then, just as carefully as he did with his shirt sleeves, he grasps the tail of my pyjama jacket and folds it once, then twice, until it rests neatly at my shoulders. I am now naked from the shoulders to the thighs.

Dad takes the slipper in his right hand and grips it tightly at the heel. The slipper has about eight inches of flexible sole; dad hovers it above my 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 cheek from the very top to the very bottom.

He takes the first option and brings the slipper crashing down three times across the centre of both mounds. I gasp at the shock of the impact and screw my fingers into a claw.

Dad whacks another three a little lower this time; just where the curves meet the thighs. I yelp and my legs kick out behind me. It is an involuntary action; a reflex to the pain that is starting in my bum and travelling down the back of my legs.

Dad then goes for option two: putting three whacks the length of the left cheek and three into the right. Dad’s technique is not to raise the slipper high into the air and bring it crashing down; instead he raises it perhaps only a foot or so away from the target area and then brings it down with a mighty force into the flesh. It is all in the forearm action and dad has perfected this method over many years of spanking me and my brothers.

My cheeks clench tighter and the slipper hangs threateningly overhead waiting for them to relax in response to the curt command snapped out by my irritated father. The buttocks reluctantly oblige and the slipper falls with fury to slam another dose of intense pain into my naked bottom.

Up and down; up and down goes the slipper. I am failing in my resolve not to cry. I groan or yelp as each whack of the slipper sinks into my meaty bum and remerges leaving behind another deep pink mark. Soon dozens and dozens of images of the slipper are emblazoned across both cheeks and the back of my legs.

I wriggle this way and that; to the left and to the right. It looks like I am trying to swim off dad’s lap. But dad is having none of it and holds me tightly at the waist; I am going nowhere.

My legs are flailing and first I kick the pyjama bottoms down from my thighs to my ankles and then after a dozen or so more wallops they are sent flying across the floor. Dad has not finished; he wants to make sure I understand the gravity of my misbehaviour; so he wraps his right leg across both of my calves and I am trapped. I cannot twist at the waist and cannot kick my legs. I am completely at dad’s mercy.

The spanking goes on and on.

I hear floorboards creak. Someone is on the landing outside my room. I hear the handle of the door twist and it opens. My mum walks in the room and stands about two feet away from my face. She has a perfect view. What she sees is her bratty son pinned across his dad’s knee, his bare bottom toasted bright red by the continual pounding of the slipper. I am totally, utterly humiliated.

I gasp to catch my breath. I cannot see her clearly for the tears flooding my eyes. Why is she here? Has she come to gloat?

“Leave it Den,” she says to my father. “Are you sure Lil,” he replies while increasing the ferocity of the slaps into my burning bum. “I should go on for another ten minutes at least.”

She speaks to me. “Dexter, have you leant your lesson?”

“Yes, yes,” I gasp. And with big gulps and tears, I wail, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Let him go.” Dad now knows she means it and the pounding stops. He keeps a tight hold of me and I wheeze and wheeze into the carpet. My pulse is racing and I cannot be sure I won’t have a heart attack.

Then dad releases me and I leap off his knee and hop about, with my cock flopping up and down. I retrieve my pyjama bottoms and tug them on to cover up my privates from my mum’s gaze, but she is not looking. Already she has turned on her heels and is leaving the room.

“No supper for you tonight,” she says over her shoulder and goes. She is anxious to get back to her television; Emmerdale is about to start.

My dad says nothing and follows her out.

When the coast is clear I whip down my pyjamas and poke my bum in the mirror. I am not too shocked by what I see; this is not the first time dad has put his slipper across my bare arse. Both buttocks are bright red and along the outer reaches of my globes there are clear imprints of the sole of the slipper. I touch the flesh gingerly. The pain has quickly subsided, but it is tender to touch. The very centre of my bum which absorbed most of the slippering is rough and leathery. I know from painful experience that quite soon dark blue bruises will show and they will be with me for some days to come as they turn a multitude of colours before eventually disappearing.

I lay on my bed feeling very sorry for myself. The door opens and in walks Tom my twenty-year-old brother. Gently, he caresses my sore bottom with the tips of his fingers. “Not bad, not bad,” he says with genuine admiration as we compare my marks to the spanking he got from dad last night.

Picture credit: Isma



This story was first uploaded in January 2016.


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Illicit drinking


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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second


Football star taken down a peg

new story 2

Mrs Taylor spread the newspapers across the kitchen table; all of them, the posh broadsheets as well as the tabloids. “He’s on all the sports pages,” she gasped to her husband, her face glowing with pride.

“Course, he is,” Mr Taylor stood by the doorway surveying the headlines from a distance. “It’s what we worked for.”

His wife picked up the Sunday Mirror. “It says he’s the next Raheem Sterling.”

“I sincerely hope so,” Mr Taylor grinned, “We could do with the money.”

“Oh George,” his wife tittered as she picked up another newspaper to read more about her son Jason, the up-and-coming Premier League footballer. She was distracted by the sound of boiling water overflowing from a pan. Still holding a newspaper she dashed across the kitchen and turned down the gas under the potatoes.

She glanced at the clock on the wall. “I do hope he isn’t late, dinner’s nearly ready.”

“He won’t be,” her husband told her confidently. “He wouldn’t dare,” he muttered under his breath.

“It’s been weeks since he’s been home. So much has happened since we last saw him. He’s famous now,” she beamed.

“Yes,” her husband spoke quietly. “It will be good to see him …” he let the sentence trail off. So much was left unsaid.

His wife replaced the newspaper she had been studying intently back on the table with the others. “Will you talk to him,” she picked up two mugs and rinsed them under the cold tap. She wanted to be distracted. There was something she did not want to face. “You know,” she almost whispered as he busied herself with a tea towel,  “about the other thing?”

George Taylor groaned, “Of course, we can’t let it pass. I have to. I’m his father. It’s my duty.”

“Yes dear,” his wife replied softly as she replaced the two mugs on the “tree” on the worktop near the sink. “Yes, I suppose you must.”

Justice arrived on time. Not a minute early, not a second late. Now that Jason was a public figure the football club supplied a car and chauffer. Travelling by tram was now a thing of the past, a pleasure the young footballer would never again enjoy.

“Hello Ma, Pa,” he flung his arms wide and puckered his lips when his mother leaned forward to offer her left cheek. He shook his father’s hand firmly and avoided looking him in the eye.

“Look! Look!” his mother gestured towards the newspapers that still covered the kitchen table. “You’re a star!” Justin blushed prettily. He loved his mother so much.

“No, no, not a star. Not yet,” he said, but even as the words tripped from his lips he flushed deeper. He was not a young man hampered by modesty. Yes, he was a star. He had scored five goals in six matches. He was the hottest player in the league. The Player of the Month.

His father was framed in the doorway. He spread his legs and clasped his hands behind his back. He knew how to make himself an imposing figure. “Jason,” he spoke firmly. “Come with me. Into the back room. I want a little word with you.”

Jason’s heart thumped. A little word. His father never ever wanted a little word.

“But, Pa …” his protest was cut short.

“Now, son. While your mother gets dinner ready.” He turned on his heels. He didn’t need to look back to make sure his son was following. He knew he would. Star or no star.

The back room was the family’s best room. It was the one they used when the priest visited. Other than that people rarely entered, unless it was Mrs Taylor with the vacuum cleaner and duster. It had one further use. Mr Taylor knew that. So did his son.

Jason watched his father enter the room and stand feet apart, hands clasped once more behind his back. This time he was in the bay window, framed by the small back yard. Jason followed him in and stood hopping uncomfortably from one foot to the other. Then, suddenly hearing the sound of his mother preparing dinner he realised the door was still open. He turned and quickly closed it.

“So,” his father got straight to the point. “You’re the big shot now, then.” Jason bit down on his lower lip. This wasn’t a question, it was a statement and he knew his father had not finished. “What about Tuesday?” That was a question. Jason blinked uncontrollably. How could his father possibly know about Tuesday?

“Tuesday?” he bluffed. “I don’t know what you mean?” Jason’s voice cracked.

“Don’t lie to me!” his father’s anger was genuine. “Drunk as a skunk. Outside some club or other. Two in the morning,” he waved his arm through the air. “Two in the morning!”

“But ..” Jason began but let the sentence end. There was nothing he could say. His father was telling the truth. There was a club. He had been drunk. It was two in the morning. He wondered how much more his father knew. He had been lucky some witness nearby hadn’t posted pictures on Instagram.

“Well,” his father had grasped his hands behind his back again and was now leaning forward towards his son threateningly. The silence was intense. Sweat soaked Jason’s scalp even though the room was cold and a little damp.

Jason shrugged his shoulders. It was the wrong thing to do as it set his father off. Mr Taylor knew how to do “controlled rage,” he had used it many times to subdue his three sons over the years. It worked again. Slowly and precisely he listed his sons faults. “Pride,” he intoned, “You think because you are a big shot you can do precisely what you like.”

Jason stood head bowed. Heart thumping. Temperature rising. He knew where this was going: rising Premier League star or not.

“A good hiding.” His father had reached his logical destination. “That’s what I’m going to give you. A good beating.”

“I’m nineteen. I’m too old,” the words escaped Jason’s mouth before he had a chance to swallow them back. His father’s eyes glared and his nostrils flared.

“Too old! I tanned you brother’s backside that time he came home drunk and puked up all over the doorstep. He was twenty. Twenty-one!”

Jason’s head spun. He remembered well enough. It was just the sort of thing his father would do. And – and this was a relevant point – his brother submitted to the punishment without a murmur. That was how their father had brought them up.

Mr Taylor had finished his lecturer. The time for words was over; now it was time for action. Jason watched as his father slowly crossed the room towards an old mahogany sideboard. He pulled open a drawer and reached inside. He didn’t have to look, he knew what he was looking for and exactly where it would be.

The paddle he waved in Jason’s face was homemade and worn with use. It was typical of its kind: about fourteen inches long and three wide. Holes had been drilled in to the blade end so it could fly through the air more quickly. Jason looked intently at it as his father gripped the handle tightly in his right fist and smacked it with some force into his left palm. There was no need for him to give this demonstration of the paddle’s power. Jason was no stranger to this.

His father rested the paddle on the seat cushion of an armchair while he took hold of it and dragged it toward the centre of the room. “Stand there!” he pointed at a spot close to one of the chair’s arms. Jason knew the drill. He took a deep breath and slowly took up position. He was no longer the super star, the young footballer whose picture had been in every newspaper that day. The lad praised to the skies on Match of the Day. He was Mr Taylor’s son. A teenager who had gone astray. A lad who needed to be taken down a peg or two. Who needed to be taught a lesson. To be guided back onto a straight and narrow path. His father was about to beat him. Because he care. He loved him. It was a father-and-son thing.

“Take down your trousers. Underpants too.” Mr Taylor rubbed the paddle across the palm of his hand. He was quiet and commanding. There was no need for histrionics. He knew Jason would obey. He always had, he always would. Taking care not to look his father in the eye, Jason unbuttoned his trousers and let gravity take them down his thighs, past his knees to his ankles. He pushed his briefs in the same direction. He stood before his father partly naked. He felt no embarrassment. His father had seen him like this before. The guys at United saw him naked every day.

z used pants down armchair (23a)

Without waiting for further instruction, Jason leaned forward and slowly lowered himself over the arm of the chair. His face was in the seat cushion and his back arched so that his bottom pointed to the ceiling. He had to bend his legs so he could maintain his position. He may not have been too old for a spanking but he was too tall to go over the arm of a chair. He wondered why his father didn’t insist he present himself across the back of the chair. He would get a much better aim. But, Jason wasn’t about to suggest this improvement.

He closed his eyes and waited. He heard his father move so that he stood behind Jason and a little to the right. The nineteen-year-old felt the heavy wooden blade touch against his muscular buttocks. It was surprisingly cool, but he knew things would soon heat up. His father “sawed” the paddle across the centre of his bum. He was getting his aim. Suddenly, it was lifted away only to return a split-second later. It crashed into his bottom at full force, burning the surface of his bum and knocking all the wind out of his lungs. Jason’s hips wriggled and his legs flailed. He just about sucked down the yowl! he wanted to scream.

Before he caught his breath a second and third swat landed (one low, one high). Now, both buttocks throbbed madly. Thwack! Splat! Swipe! His father was a man on a mission. He looked on with deep satisfaction as his son’s backside glowed under the power of the paddle. Three more swats landed, all more or less on the same spot; on the undercurve where the cheeks meet the thighs. Then he swatted another three, this time on the crest of the mounds. Yet another three swipes bit into the top of the buttocks. Not one square inch of flesh was left untoasted.

Jason’s legs kicked and his hips swayed. He was bent across the arm and crammed into a small space and there was nothing for his hands to grab onto to and steady himself. His forehead butted up and down into the soft seat cushion. His temples throbbed and his lungs were empty of air. He felt like he had run the full length of the football field at top speed. His eyes were soaked. He thought with sweat, but it might have been tears.

His father was a man of few words when he delivered a spanking. There were no words of admonition. He did not berate his son. He did not demand from him guarantees of better behaviour. That could come later. For now, he preserved all his energies for the beating at hand. He was not a cruel man. He did not need to flog the teenager within an inch of his life. But, as the boy had said himself I’m nineteen. There was no point giving him a little boy’s spanking.

He laid on another dozen swats. Good and hard. Blisters were already beginning to form. Jason would not sit comfortably at the dinner table.

“Enough. It’s over. Stand. I trust you have learned a lesson.”

Jason jumped up from the armchair. “Oh yes,” he said, because he knew this was expected of him. He clamped his hands across both buttocks and ran up and down on the spot, rather like he would do after an opposing defender kicked him on the knee during a match. It was supposed to ease the pain (but rarely did).

“Get dressed,” Mr Taylor slowly replaced the paddle in the sideboard. “Come, you mother will have laid the table for dinner.” Together as father and son they went to join Mrs Taylor. She pretended not to notice her son wince when gingerly he sat on the hard dining chair.

Jason waited for his father to say Grace before he tucked into his Sunday roast. His buttocks were aflame, but already the intense pain was turning to a constant throbbing. Soon it would fade altogether. He was glad of that. He would worry later about how he would explain the bruises on his bum when the team met up in the morning for training.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second

One hot summer afternoon

Simon Harmer glanced out of the bedroom window. It was hot and humid. The weather was about to break; a thunderstorm was coming.

He was in deep trouble with his dad. The old man was downstairs preparing himself. Soon, within minutes probably, he would burst through the door. Intent on doing his duty. It would be a whipping, for sure.

Simon was a first-year university student; home for the holidays. He was only nineteen years old, but he had done a lot of living in the past year.

A bolt of lightning cracked the sky. He waited, counting the seconds in his head. Nine, ten, eleven. Then came the clap of thunder. The storm was still some way off.

Simon had passed all his exams. In many ways he was a model-A student. He studied hard and didn’t party too much. He went dinking with friends, but steered clear of weed. Cannabis smoking led to heroin injection, everybody knew that.

He had been home for a few weeks and landed a job at one of the new large supermarkets that were springing up everywhere. It wasn’t much of a job; filling shelves mostly and humping boxes around. But there were lots of youngsters just like Simon working there, so he was making lots of friends.

Like Tony. Tony was a special friend.

People hardly noticed Tony. There was nothing unusual about him. A person couldn’t be more “ordinary” or more “normal” than Tony. He had long straggly, curly brown hair down to his collar. He never combed it; there was no point. “Wild,” was a good word to describe Tony’s hair. It had a mind of its own. Don’t bother trying to put a parting in it.

Simon was growing his hair too. It was the longest it had ever been in his life; but he still had some distance to go to catch up on Tony.

Tony had acne scars around his chin. He was a little self-conscious about it. But Simon didn’t even notice it. His teeth were crooked too. They weren’t as bad as the tombstones Simon’s dad had. He had huge hazel eyes; like whirlpools. They shone green when he laughed – which was often. Simon could have eaten them with a spoon.

Tony was really very thin. Not sickness thin. Just thin. Simon noticed it the first item the pair went walking together around Widdicombe Wood. It was swelteringly hot, so they took their shirts off. You could see Tony’s ribs poking through the skin.

He had spindly legs too. Simon and Tony wore fashionable snug sport shorts. They hardly covered their pants. His legs were like two matchsticks hanging down. He had the snakiest hips and no buttocks to speak of: just two pimples, really.

Simon’s dad was in the lounge. Reading his Bible. He had read it many times before. He wanted to go through a particular passage before he went upstairs to deal with his son.

Simon had been brought up on the Good Book. He could recite whole chapters. That gave his dad a great deal of satisfaction. Simon never told dad this, but he no longer believed a lot of it. There was no “Road to Damascus.” He just found that as he went through school and then to university he became more educated. More questioning. The history of how the Bible was written was well documented. How could anybody believe it was the literal word of God?

Simon wanted to call Tony. To get him on the telephone and tell him what was happening to him. He couldn’t. The phone was in the hallway and his dad wouldn’t let him, even if he tried.

If he was a character in one of those silly “teen” movies they showed at the pictures, he would climb out the window and go visit Tony. Guys were always doing that; goofing off to see their girlfriends.

But this was not a movie: this was real life. The window in his bedroom only opened a couple of inches at the bottom. Not even Tony was thin enough to climb through that.

Another lightning fork lit up the night sky. The thunder clap was closer.

Miserably, he lay down on his bed. He caught the faint whiff of Tony’s “Denim” aftershave. He always used just a splash too much. He put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes.

It had happened hardly thirty minutes before. Dad was prowling the house. He did that a lot. Opening and closing doors. Spying. When Simon had challenged his dad once about this lack of privacy, he was told, “This is my house and I’ll go where I want.”

It was masturbation. Wanking. Jerking off. Tossing.  Spanking the monkey. One off the wrist. Dad fretted that his three sons were abusing themselves. No door in the house, not even the bathroom (especially not the bathroom) could be locked. Simon and his brothers could expect their bedroom door to burst open at any hour of the night and day. Dad would be standing there, eyes popping. Checking them out.

It hadn’t been masturbation that afternoon. It was something, in dad’s mind, far worse.

Simon and Tony were in the room. They weren’t doing anything much. Listening to the radio. Talking. Hanging out. The room was small. It was hot and sticky. So were the boys.

Nothing was planned. Off came their shirts. It didn’t help. The heat was unbearable. Sweat glistened on Simon’s defined torso. A pool of perspiration soaked the top of Tony’s snug blue sport shorts. Tony grabbed his own shirt and wiped down his friend’s body; making circular motions across the chest and stomach, like he was polishing a car.

Simon squawked. It was a giggle the like he had never shrieked before.

Tony laughed. His eyes shone green. He pushed his best pal onto the bed and leapt on top of him.

Small children call it “pretend fighting.” It’s when they wrestle around on the floor, but they’re not really trying to hurt one another.

The teenagers rolled on the narrow bed. Simon, accidentally hit his head on the wall. Tony banged his knee on the bedside table. They held each other tightly. In each other’s arms.

That was when the door burst open. Simon’s dad paled. His jaw dropped. And, then his eyes exploded. The sport shorts were tight. They were snug. Soldiers stood at full salute. There was nowhere to hide the bulges.

Bile flooded to Mr Harmer’s throat. He held his hand to his mouth like an embarrassed maiden in a Victorian melodrama.

“Out!” The roar could be heard all down The Avenue. A stranger passing by stopped in his tracks, puzzled. What was that scream? Mr Harmer’s eyes protruded, a vein throbbed on the side of his neck, blood vessels on his nose were about to burst.

Tony grabbed his shirt and shoes and barged through the door; knocking Simon’s dad to the floor in his haste. In the distance, Simon heard the front door open and close.

Speechless. His dad gasped. The fury he felt was left unspoken, but the expression on his terrified face was enough. Struggling for breath, he picked himself up and staggered down the stairs.

Now, Simon waited for the inevitable retribution. Vengeance would be the Lord’s, and also his dad’s.

He didn’t understand what had happened that afternoon. He wasn’t naïve. University students knew about these things. Men going with men. Was Simon “one of them?” He didn’t think so, but so what if he was. It was legal. Well, legal if you were aged twenty-one or over. But, try telling that to dad. To him it was an “abomination.” Plain and simple. No discussion allowed.

What happened between Simon and Tony had seemed perfectly natural. Two pals having a bit of fun. Where was the harm in that?

His self-philosophising was cut short. The door burst open once more. His dad had returned.

Dad knew most of the Bible by heart. That afternoon he had the passages about men laying down with men and parents sparing the rod uppermost in his mind.

The “rod” in the Harmer household did not mean a cane or a stick. The “rod” was a magnificent three-tailed leather taws. The leather was scuffed, worn down by use. It was so old Noah might have used it himself.

There was a spanking ritual at the Harmer’s

“Take off those ridiculous shorts,” dad spat. “Pants too!”

While his son readied himself, Mr Harmer plumped up two pillows and set them down in the dead centre of the narrow bed.

“You know what to do.”

Indeed, Simon did. He knelt on the bed and gently eased himself forward so that his stomach, his cock and his balls, pressed into the duck feathers. His bare bottom was raised at an angle to greet the strap.

A three-tailed taws is an awesome weapon. When it flew, the business end could be more than ten inches from tip to tip. Mr Harmer tapped the taws across the centre of Simon’s cheeks. His shorts had covered so little of his anatomy that only a narrow strip across the teenager’s buttocks remained creamy white. The rest of his body was nut-brown, tanned by the strong sun.

z used drawing taws hold (11)

Mr Harmer set himself a challenge. By the time he was finished no square inch of the flesh would remain white. His heavy leather strap would turn it first to pink, then claret, then yellow and blue, until finally the cheeks would be bruised a deep purple.

Satisfied that he had his aim, he pulled the taws by its stiff handle in an arc over his own shoulder until the tails rested in the small of his back. He bent his knees slightly to give him momentum and then slashed the leather at great speed into the submissive buttocks.

The crack of leather connecting with flesh echoed around the room. Three dark pink marks spread from the top of the cheeks into the under-curve where bum and thighs meet. Simon closed his eyes tight and waited patiently for swipe number two.

His father’s eyes glowed with righteousness. He was so intent on doing God’s work, he failed to hear the creaking of floorboards outside the bedroom. Luke, Simon’s twenty-two-year-old brother, peaked through the partly-open door. He had the perfect view of his father’s back and his brother’s raised naked bum.

Up and down fell the strap. Still, Simon remained silent. Up, down. Up, down. Soon six sets of marks scarred his buttocks. Not one gasp escaped the teenager’s lips. He had long ago developed a high pain threshold.

Six more. Then another six.

Luke’s mouth dried. He remembered the thrashing his father had administered to him. Only last February. The pain and humiliation he had felt was often on his mind. His heartbeat sped. Sweat poured from beneath his shirt collar. He appeared to be in a worse state than his brother who was stoically enduring the wrath and the lash of their father.

“Oh, please God! No, not again.” It was a silent prayer. Luke was having thoughts again. He gazed on as his father renewed his efforts. The thwack and the splat as leather bit deep into Simon’s bottom had an unwelcome effect on Luke. “Please, no!”

Too late. Nearly. He rushed into his own bedroom, pulling at his shorts as he went. He dived onto the bed and wriggled out of his underpants. A load shot over his belly after only two strokes.

Mr Hamer was nearly done. The once-creamy white backside was now fifty shades of spanked. He had succeeded in his task. The boy’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat.

Another half-dozen. Just to finish the boy off.

Then, it was over. Mr Harmer tucked the taws under his armpit, tuned on his heels and exited, making sure to leave the bedroom door wide open.

Simon lay face down. The agony in his arse was already subsiding, but he knew from experience the pain would stay for a considerable time.

All seemed still. The house was silent. Even his noisy brother Luke wasn’t playing his records.

Simon rolled off the pillows and hauled himself from the bed. Quickly he pulled on his pants and shorts. He didn’t want to inspect the damage in the dresser mirror. He had seen it all before. It did no good. There was no point dwelling on the intense damage his father caused him.

He picked by his shoes and padded down the carpeted stairs to the front door. He slipped into them and made his way down the garden path. He knew inside the house his father would be on his knees, praying to God for Simon’s salvation.

Simon would leave him to it. He needed to find Tony.

Overhead, a lightning bolt flashed. Thunder struck. The heavens opened.

This story was first uploaded in January 2016.

Picture credit: Unknown

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 Charles Hamilton the Second

You, over the knee for the paddle from Pop

new story 2

z used paddle holding (8)

You stand in the front room of your home, it is a broiling hot day and sweat runs down your back. The room is airless, even though all the windows are as wide open as they can be. The weather is oppressive and it isn’t quite nine in the morning. You are wearing nothing but skimpy running shorts.

Your father paces the room. He is mad. He mutters under his breath words that you can’t quite catch. You know better than to ask him to repeat himself. He stops pacing and turns on his heel dramatically and heads for a small sideboard. Your heart misses a beat. You know what’s in that cupboard. You guessed all along how this meeting with Pop would pan out and his sudden movement confirms your worst fears.

You watch carefully as Pop leans forward and reaches into the sideboard, a large patch of perspiration soaks the back of his shirt. He is feeling the heat too. You wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

Pop straightens up and turns to face you. He is brandishing a heavy wooden paddle in his right hand. He speaks, “Alright Alan, this is the second time in two or three weeks that you have been caught drinking alcohol and you got a spanking the last time and obviously it was not enough.”

He grips the handle of the paddle and smacks the blade into his left palm, “So, this time it’s time you got a GOOD spanking.”

He emphasises the word “good.” You know what he means. Last time – and it wasn’t quite two weeks ago – he had you across his knee for a bare-bottomed spanking. He just used his hand that time. You remember it hurt. But you’re eighteen years old and a hand spanking is never going to make much of an impression. So, this time the stakes are being raised.

Pop made the paddle himself. He’s no handyman and it must be the only thing he has ever made with his own hands. It’s a typical spanking board. The business end is a rectangle of wood about ten inches by four and maybe a quarter inch thick. Pop drilled holes along the blade. The paddles at school are the same. Your science teacher once told the class it was to reduce wind resistance and it added to the efficiency of the swat. He then proceeded to demonstrate the principle across the seat of the tight jeans of two of your classmates.

Pop waves the paddle at you, “I’m not going to put up with that. Come here.”

You know better than to resist, Pop is in charge, It is his house. It is his way or the highway. You get it. You watch Pop as he grabs a straight-back wooden chair and places it carefully in the middle of the room.

Without a murmur of dissent you obediently walk to a spot about a foot away from him. He carries on scolding you, recapping your misbehaviour. You and some friends managed to get hold of a few six packs of beer and had taken them to Johnny’s home. His parents were away for the day, so you knew the coast was clear. But, they returned home unexpectedly early and you got caught. In this town it’s illegal to drink alcohol until you’re twenty-one, so not only had you all done something your parents disapproved of, you’d broken the law.

While Pop continues to scold you, he puts the paddle on his lap and using his two hands he gently tugs at both sides of your shorts lowering them to the floor.

You are completely naked, but you don’t feel embarrassment or shame. Pop always spanks on the bare so he has seen your glory many times before. Indeed, you might say that over the years he has had an unusual way of monitoring your growth to manhood.

Johnny’s parents made a few telephone calls and you reckon in this part of town there are five other guys also having confrontations with their fathers. Bottoms will be blistered, for sure. You live in that sort of community.

“You’re too old for this kind of thing,” Pop says, as he sits back in his chair and lifts the paddle from his lap and waves it at you.

“You should know better, and I think it’s time you and the Board had a little discussion about this drinking business. Now, get across my knee.”

You do as instructed without question. You are totally naked. You are probably about the same height as Pop, but much leaner and lighter. You stretch your arms in front and place your hands palm down on the floor. Your bare bottom is raised above Pop’s left knee and your legs are bent slightly so that your toes rest on the floor behind you.

Pop puts his right arm across your back. He wants to make sure you stay in position, face down staring at the floor.

“This is something you have deserved for a long time. It’s time you got your little bottom blistered.”

Six swats hit you squarely in the middle of your tough round bottom, hitting both cheeks equally. They aren’t vicious swipes, but they hit their target. You let out a quiet almost breathless yelp as each whack! strikes home.

You want to take your punishment without fuss. You know you have broken the law. You have been found out. You deserve to be punished. You are a big boy now, you should be able to submit stoically to a spanking. You want to be submissive but as each successive blow hots up your bare cheeks you find yourself involuntarily wriggling across Pop’s knee.

He carries on whacking you with the heavy wooden paddle across the centre of your buttocks. Pop keeps up a steady rhythm. You hear his wheezes; the stiflingly hot day and the effort Pop is making swinging the paddle is taking its toll on him. But he carries on gamely. He is a long way from the finishing line.

You are losing control and now you are writhing across Pop’s legs and you kick your legs behind you. You can’t help yourself, it seems to be your body’s natural reaction as it tries to defend itself from the awful pain.

Pop is undeterred. Whack! Whack! One every three seconds or so. Whack! Whack! Whack!

You aren’t crying (you never do) but your bottom is heating up fast and the pain is increasing. You keep your palms flat on the floor, but your shoulders and back are writhing with the blows. It looks like you are trying to swim off Pop’s knees and away to safety.

“Keep still.” Whack! Whack! Whack!

“You’re getting what you deserve,” Pop is breathless.

Pop is right. You deserve this spanking. You have disobeyed him about drinking. You’ve been caught before with beer and you got a sound hand spanking then. You’d promised never to drink alcohol again, but you’d gone back on your word. You are a liar and a cheat.

Whack! Whack! Whack!

“I’m sorry,” you whimper. You know all boys say this if they think it will stop them being spanked. Pop is not impressed. He just carries on with the rhythmic blows. You are losing breath as each successive blow winds you just a little bit more.

Pop’s next dozen or so whacks are a little harder than before. The pain grows in your bottom, and travels down your legs. You know the cheeks must be bright red by now. Soon they will start to turn yellow and then mauve as bruises break through.

Pop grips you around the waist more tightly as you struggle to break free. You are pinned down, you are going nowhere. Not until Pop says so.

Whack! Whack!

“Ouch! Aaah!” You can’t help it. You have to let out the cries of pain.

Whack! Whack!

“You’ve needed this for a long time.”

Whack! Whack!

“I’m sorry. Ouch! Owww!”

The blows came harder still and you are losing more control. “Owwwwwwwww! I’m sorry,” you whimper.

But, Pop has heard it all before. Last time he spanked you for drinking beer, you’d said exactly the same thing. You probably meant it too: at least at the time.

Another six whacks: some on the left cheek; some on the right.

“OK, OK, Please. I’m sorry.” You still struggle to break free but Pop is winning that little battle.

Whack! Whack!

“Have you learned something from this experience?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Are you going to drink alcohol again?”

“No, Sir!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Sir!”

But, Pop isn’t convinced because he just keeps on whacking your bare bottom with that goddam paddle.

“You’d – better –  not,” he carries on talking while still whacking, one blow falling in time to  every word he speaks.

His blows are harder and your “ouchs!” are louder. You still try to free yourself. Later, looking back on your spanking you will be a bit ashamed of this. You know you deserve the spanking and ought to be taking your licking like a man.

“Alright. Stand up.” You don’t need telling twice. You are on your feet in a heartbeat. Your cheeks are on fire. You know it. Pop knows it. That’s what a spanking is supposed to do: make the naughty boy very sore, so that he learns his lesson and he will think twice about breaking the rules again.

You turn around to inspect the damage: your bottom is red raw. With your fingertips you gingerly caress your cheeks; they feel like leather.

“Get dressed.” You find your shorts and pull them on. The nylon feels cool against your raw flesh.

“OK, go to your room. And no more beer.”

OK, Pop, you think, you won’t drink again. And you mean it, of course – until the next time.


Picture credit: Unknown

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Charles Hamilton the Second