The selfie

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z used after selfie (1)

There! Take a look at that. Are you satisfied? It’s all your fault. I told you I didn’t want to skip Uni. You made me do it. I said if he found out, my Dad would tan my hide. You just laughed. You thought I was making a joke. Well,  just take a close look. I’m not laughing, am I?

Of course, Dad found out; he always does. One of the neighbours grassed me up. Dad was waiting for me the moment I got home. “Oh, how was university today?” he sneered at me. I knew straight away he knew. I lied of course. Jesus! Why did I do that? It only made things worse. He knew all about it. We were spotted in Widdicombe Wood. Thank God we still had our clothes on.

Well, you don’t know my Dad. I got the full lecture. It’s costing him a fortune to keep me at university. My grades aren’t good enough for me to be bunking off. He’s warned me before. It’s all true, actually.

So, he says, if I insist on acting irresponsibly, it’s a spanking for me. I bet you’re wetting yourself now. Do you know what he did? Can you even guess? Yes, he takes me by the arm and bundles me into the living room. He’s already got a chair plonked down in the middle of the room. On the table there’s Mum’s hairbrush.

He sits himself down and says to me, “Take down your trousers.” Just like that, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. I’m nearly twenty, I tell him. “It’s my house. My way or the highway,” he says. God knows where he got that from. Is it some American saying? It must be from one of those rotten sit-coms he watches on telly.

Of course, I just stand there like a fool. He leans forward and pulls me towards him. Next thing he’s got the front of my trousers open and they’re falling to my feet. I’m giving him some lip at this point, but he doesn’t care. Suddenly he pulls me forward and I topple over his knee. Face down. I really hurt my arm when it crashed against the floor as I tried to get some balance. Of course, I’m kicking and hollering, but Dad is pretty strong. It’s a lifetime working on building sites that does it. He’s got me around the waist and I’m going nowhere.

Then, God almighty I can’t believe I’m telling you this; then he takes hold of the waist of my underpants and he only pulls them down. Just like that. There’s nothing I can do about it. I’m lying there, face down, with my arse bare to the wind. Then, he reaches out, picks up Mum’s hairbrush and he wallops the living daylights out of me.

Have you ever been spanked with a hairbrush? On the bare bottom? No, I don’t suppose you have. Your dad’s far too refined to do such a thing. Well, I can tell you, it hurts like crazy. Whack-whack-whack, he goes, with no let up. Pounding away at my poor arse. I thought it was on fire. I have never felt so much pain. Not ever.

So he spanks that goddam hairbrush into every part of my bum and once there’s no square centimetre untouched, he starts all over again. I’m hollering fit to bust. Not only with the pain, which is intense, but just the sheer shock of it all. I’m being held down over an older man’s knee while he spanks my bare little bottom and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. Spanking me on and on and on.

He’d still be spanking me now, if Mum hadn’t come into the room. “What’s all that hollering,” she says. “The noise is fit to wake the dead. You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Well, if it’s that old biddy who grassed me up, he’d probably be delighted to know I got my backside blistered. I’ve seen the way he looks at me when I waltz down the street in those tight jeans I have.

So Dad stops spanking me then and I roll off his knee. I fell flat on my face (honestly, literally) when I tried to pull up my trousers and pants and run from the room at the same time.

I couldn’t resist going to the bathroom to have a look. Look at it yourself. Look how red my bum is. I cannot tell you how much it hurt. It’s died down a bit now. It was throbbing before, but it’s more of a dull ache now. I bet you I’ll have bruises in the morning.

So, don’t forget I hold you personally responsible for this. It was your idea to skip Uni. I didn’t want to do it. You made me, even though you knew what Dad would do if he found out. I get spanked; you get off scott free. Well, at least until tomorrow. Because I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to get hold of Mum’s hairbrush and I’m going to find you and I’m going to give you exactly what Dad gave me. And more besides. On your bare bottom.

Over my knee for a bare-arsed spanking from me. Think about that when you’re trying to get to sleep tonight. So, goodnight. Until tomorrow lover boy!

 

Picture credit: Unknown

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The Morning After the Night Before

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Adventure at Camp Cottage

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z used house by E.H. Davie 6

Julian thought Uncle Dick was a queer fellow. He was the most extraordinary looking man, very tall and very dark and with a rather fierce frown on his wide forehead. Julian couldn’t help shivering the very first time he saw him and it wasn’t even a cold day.

“Hello Uncle,” he said in his usual cheerful sing-song voice. But Uncle Dick just shrugged his shoulders and hurried through the house into the back garden.

“Oh don’t fret about him,” Aunt Fanny smiled, her round red face beaming. “He’s off to his shed.” She bustled off into the kitchen. Julian stood in the dark room. It was old and rather mysterious somehow, the furniture was ancient, he might have been standing in an antique shop.

Just then Uncle Dick returned into the house, his frown was even more deep set. “Where’s Timothy,” he growled.

“Oh the naughty boy, I told him to wait in the garden for you,” Aunt Fanny smiled and wringed her hands. “Now he’s gone off somewhere.”

“He needs a good spanking,” said Uncle Dick. Julian blushed to the roots of his hair. Surely Uncle Dick was joking. “Send him to me the moment he returns,” Uncle Dick’s brow furrowed some more and his dark eyes glowered as he rushed out the door striding towards his shed. Aunt Fanny stood around like she wasn’t sure what she should do and then wandered absent-mindedly into the kitchen. Julian could smell the wonderful aroma of baking bread.

Minutes passed and Julian waited unsure what he was supposed to do. His heavy suitcase rested against his bare leg. He was very excited to be staying with Uncle Dick and Aunt Fanny and his two cousins for the summer. Oh, he thought, wouldn’t it be marvellous! In the country, away from the hot and smoky city.

It had been a very long time before the train reached the little station that served Curran, but at last it was there steaming slowly and stopping at the tiny platform. He jumped out eagerly to see if anyone had come to meet him. No – the station was deserted. Suddenly, he felt so lonely. Where was Camp Cottage, the home of his aunt and uncle? He didn’t even have a proper address. Just Camp Cottage, Curran, Westmoreland. How did the postman know where to deliver his letters? Oh, Julian supposed, this was the country, perhaps everyone knew everyone else. Someone would surely know the way.

But who could he ask? The station seemed abandoned. Luckily, it was a bright sunny day. If it had been the middle of winter with fog swirling and rain teeming, poor Julian would have felt very lonely. It would be like he was in the middle of a ghost story instead of in a delightful summery tale. He sat down on his huge suitcase to have a good think. He was really hungry and more than a little thirsty. If he didn’t get to Camp Cottage soon, he might die of starvation.

Julian felt miserable. Was this holiday such a good idea after all? When his father told him he and mother were taking a trip through Europe, Julian thought it was a queer thing to do. Most of the big cities had been bombed to smithereens, what was there to see? But mother and father were very religious and thought they could spread the word of God among the peasant people.

“Sorry, Ju,” Father had said, “But you can’t come with us. It might be too dangerous.” Julian had been delighted. He didn’t want to spend summer among the ruins of Europe. And anyway, he would have the house to himself. Wouldn’t that be fun! But Father had a different idea: Uncle Dick and his family.

“Blast!” Julian ejaculated when he heard the news. He wanted to tell Father, “Look I’m eighteen years old, practically an adult, I can look after myself.” But, he knew not to argue with his parents. They loved him and wanted the best for him. Besides, he hadn’t seen his cousins Timothy and George for simply ages. It really would be fun!

But just now, abandoned on the hot, dusty platform it didn’t seem like so much fun after all. Just then a wizened old man appeared at the end of the platform. My, Julian thought, he looks like he’s about to keel over and die. But, the teenager’s spirits bucked up. He was certain to know where Camp Cottage was.

Before Julian could ask directions, the old man spoke. “C’mon, young ’un, pick up your bag. Get moving.” My, Julian thought, what a rude old working-class man! He needs to learn some manners. The old man turned and slowly shuffled back in the direction he had come. Over his shoulder he wheezed, “Follow me.”

I suppose the queer old fellow is going to take me to Camp Cottage, Julian mused. He gripped the suitcase and pulled it along after him. Oh it was so heavy! What had mother packed? It felt like there was a dead body inside. The old fellow led him towards a small pony and trap. “Put yer bag in the back,” he growled. Julian paused for breath and stared at the small pony. It was almost as ancient as the old man. It would be a contest to see which of them expired first. Julian heaved his case onto the trap. As he was doing this a pungent odour wafted across his turned-up nose. “Oooh, poo!” he wanted to say out loud, but he was a polite boy and he kept his thought buttoned up. What a pong! Then he giggled, where was the smell coming from? Did the old man smell as awful as the pony?

Julian settled himself in the trap and off they went. It was a slow drive along narrow roads. The old man dozed in the heat. The pony seemed to know its way, it really didn’t need a driver! Julian watched the hedges slowly pass by. How beautiful! Oh he was pleased to be in the country! What fun this holiday would be! He hoped his cousins would be good sorts. Timothy was exactly his own age and George, two years older. They would have lots in common, wouldn’t they? What adventures they would have!

At last the pony and trap edged up to Camp Cottage. It was a very old house indeed. Julian’s father said it was at least three hundred years old. It wasn’t really a cottage, but quite a big house, built of old white stone. Roses climbed over the front of it and the garden was full of bushes.

Aunt Fanny had been waiting for them to arrive. She came stumbling out the old wooden door as soon as she saw the pony and trap draw up outside. “Welcome, welcome!” her red face beamed and she led Julian into the house.

Minutes went by and just as Julian thought he had been abandoned forever, a small rotund lady dressed in a wrap-around pinafore popped her head through the open doorway. “Hello, young Julian, I’m Joanne, the cook, come with me, I bet you’re hungry aren’t you?”

“Oh rather!” Julian smiled. “I could eat that pony outside!” He was a little disappointed when Joanne frowned and wrinkled her nose in disgust. “We’ll have none of that talk here Thank You Very Much.” Julian knew his face must be glowing with embarrassment and his ears felt hot as he followed the cook as she waddled to the kitchen.

Oh what a wonderful smell! A table groaned under the weight of a plate of freshly-baked buns and a great big iced cake. There was not much left after Julian had satisfied his hunger. Then he washed it all down with lashings of ginger beer.

He was working on the last crumbs when his cousin Timothy walked in. He did look flustered. “Hello,” he mumbled, looking with despair at the empty plates where the buns and cake had been. “None left for me then?” Timothy spoke softly. Julian blushed. What a greedy boy he was. He hadn’t thought to leave some buns and cake for his cousin.

“A condemned man is entitled to a last meal, isn’t he?” Timothy said mysteriously. Julian was about to ask him what he meant by that when Aunt Fanny bustled into the kitchen. “Timothy, you naughty boy! Your father is looking for you. You must report to him in the shed.”

Julian saw his cousin’s face go pale. “What now?” he blustered. “I thought I would show Julian his room and help him to get settled.”

Julian saw Aunt Fanny’s bright red face drop. “You know better than to keep your father waiting when he’s in one of his moods.”

Timothy sucked on his bottom lip, he plunged his hands into the pockets of his corduroy short trousers, and forced a determined look onto his face. Without a word, he turned on his heels and left the room.

Julian was puzzled. What was going on? He wanted to ask his Aunt Fanny but somehow he knew that would not be a good idea. He would ask Timothy later. When they were alone. Then he would discover the mystery!

Timothy walked slowly along the passageway of the house, heading for the back door and the garden. His hands made fists inside his pockets. His heart was beating just a little too fast. Suddenly, his throat was dry. How he wished he had swigged a bottle of ginger beer before he had left the kitchen.

His father’s shed was really a summer house. It was where he did his work. He hated to be in the house with his wife and children bustling around! It was even worse when they had visitors. How would he survive a whole summer with both his sons and a nephew cluttering up the place? Timothy walked slowly down the stone path. The gardener had recently mown the lawn and the scent of freshly-cut grass was everywhere. It tickled the back of his throat.

Timothy had made this journey many times before. It only took seconds to get to the shed from the house, but he tried to make the walk last as long as possible. Timothy knew what was waiting for him at the end of it! He wasn’t going to hurry.

He hesitated outside the door and slowly counted up to five in his head (one hippopotamus … two hippopotamus …). Finally, he took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles on the heavy wooden door. His father looked up from his writing at the knocking. He glanced at his watch. “About time too,” he fumed quietly. More loudly, he called, “Get in here. Now!”

He sat back and watched as slowly, the handle turned and the door inched open. “Come on in! Hurry up! I haven’t got all day!” he called irritably. Timothy stood hands deep in pockets, his head bowed. He could see the floor beneath his sandals was dusty. He waited patiently. He knew his father had a ritual at times like these. There was nothing Timothy could do. He had to let events take their course.

It started with the lecture. The summer holidays had started and that inevitably meant his school report had arrived. Timothy was a border at Albion School. His father liked it that way. It meant he did not have to see his son for weeks on end. But, the fees cost a small fortune and father wanted value for his money! Timothy was a disappointment. He was a bright boy but a little lazy and oh so full of mischief. If he spent as much time on his studies as he did playing pranks he would right now be coasting his way to the university. Instead, his father waved the school report above his head, rather like Mr Chamberlain on his way back from Munich.

“Maths, failed! History, failed! English language for pity’s sake, failed! Need I say more?” It wasn’t a question. His father could go on and on and on. Timothy stared down at the floor. “And take your hands out of your pockets!” Father roared. The eighteen-year-old removed them with tremendous haste. His palms were soaked with sweat. Without thinking, he rubbed them dry on the legs of his short trousers. The shed felt airless. Sweat soaked his scalp. His heart raced.

“This will not do. I have spent a fortune on school fees for nothing! What will become of you? You can’t get to university with this!” He waved the school report once more. “I doubt the Army will take you. Yee Gods, that just leaves the Clergy!” He hauled himself from his chair. Timothy’s eyes followed him as he stumbled across the shed to a far wall. He didn’t really need to watch for he already knew what was there. His father paused and turned to Timothy. “I have engaged a private tutor for the summer. You will retake your examinations in October and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “you will pass them.”

With that, he reached up to the wall and took down a block of wood that was hanging from a hook. It wasn’t just any block of wood. Timothy’s father had made it specially. It was about eight inches long and four wide. It was probably a quarter of an inch thick. What made it unusual was the handle that was attached to it and turned it from just a block of wood to a very effective punishment tool. It was what the American’s called a “paddle”. Timothy had laughed the first time he heard the term. A paddle! Why that was the long pole with a flipper at each end that you used to propel a canoe down the river!

But Father’s little paddle was no laughing matter. It had nothing to do with canoes. His father gripped the handle and brandished it at Timothy. Oh my, the colour drained from the teenager’s face. Timothy knew his father’s intention. There was to be no escape! The punishment must fit the crime! Five failed exams!

“You know what to do! Assume the position!” his father growled. Yes, Timothy knew what to do only too well. He had been here many times before! Without a word, he took hold of the buckle of his belt and with fumbling hands, he loosened it. Then he un-popped the fly buttons on his brown corduroy short trousers. They quickly slipped down his thighs and snagged at his knees. Timothy parted his feet a little and the shorts slithered down until they made a puddle on top of his sandals.

He sucked in a deep breath of air. Oh, my the room was so hot, it felt like he was boiling. He leaned forward and gripped his shins. He had a close up view of his heavy grey socks and bare knees. He had been playing in the sun a lot and they were as brown as a berry! He closed his eyes and felt his father take hold of the blue short-sleeved summer shirt and pull it away from his bottom and right up his back until it reached his shoulder blades. Then father gripped the waistband of his underwear and tugged hard so that there were no creases in his woollen drawers. The wooden blade of the paddle felt heavy as his father tap, tap, tapped it across the centre of his buttocks so that it touched both cheeks. Suddenly, Father lifted the paddle away and with a resounding thwack! he brought it crashing down!

Oh! How that hurt! Timothy scrunched up his eyes in pain. It burned so much! His body shook but valiantly Timothy clutched his shins and waited for the second wallop. Bang! It hit him a little lower than the first and the impact of the blow knocked him forward. The soles of his sandals slipped on the dusty floor and almost sent him toppling over. He stopped himself just in time and straightened up so that once more his bottom was pointing up in the air ready to take the next whack in the spanking that he so richly deserved!

“Ouch! Gosh! Yarroo!” That hurt! Timothy couldn’t help himself crying out. Father was spanking him with some vim. He swiped him so hard it was as if he was trying to beat dust out of an old carpet. Timothy’s bottom was on fire. It felt like he had accidentally sat in a bath full of scolding water. Whack! Wallop! There were no bounds in Father’s determination to punish his naughty son. No part of the teenager’s buttocks was left unbruised! The naughty lad would find it painful to sit on a hard surface for the rest of the day. But, it was a just punishment. One day Timothy would thank his father for days such as these!

Father spanked him fifteen times with the paddle, that was three whacks for each examination failed. Timothy’s bottom was well and truly toasted! When at last he was allowed to stand, the poor boy’s hands shot to his throbbing posterior. Oh how he tried to rub away the pain! It hurt like billy-oh!

At last his father sent him on his way with a flea in his ear. Bother, Timothy thought, not only was he spanked, he also had to put up with a personal tutor for the whole summer. Well, he said to himself, we’ll see about that! There was no way he was going to have his summer spoiled. Not now he had his cousin Julian to play with!

Timothy took a short walk through the village and into the woods. He couldn’t go back to his cousin quite yet. The agony in his bottom soon eased until it became only a constant throb. After a while that turned to a warm glow. It still hurt, especially the sit-upon part where the cheeks meet the thigh, but he was ready to return home. He was pleased that he hadn’t cried; he didn’t want Julian to know he had been spanked and red eyes would be give away his secret!

When Timothy returned to Camp Cottage he was surprised to see his cousin Julian still in the living room with his suitcase. Uncle Dick was beavering away in his shed and Aunt Fanny had disappeared upstairs, never to return.

“Come on Ju,” Timothy beamed. His bottom was still a little sore but he was ready for his recent spanking with the paddle to become just a distant memory. “I’ll show you where you’re sleeping. I do hope you like it!”

Julian was delighted! The room was huge and there was a magnificent bed with a wrought iron bedstead.

“This is my room,” Timothy beamed. “Isn’t it a fantastic bed! It’s easily big enough for two of us!” he giggled. “A lot of the rooms here are locked up. If you don’t want to share, I’m sure we can find a camp bed somewhere or you can sleep on a settee or something!”

Julian was delighted. “No! It’s a marvellous bed,” he pressed both his hands in to the solid mattress, “and it’s really springy!”

“That’s settled then!” Timothy threw himself onto the bed and bounced up and down just like he was on a trampoline. “Of course, George is away for a few days, so you could have his room for a while, I suppose,” Timothy said, but then he frowned, “But, I don’t know that he wants anyone to go in his room while he’s away.”

Julian remembered George as quite a queer fellow. He bet he had lots of secrets. George was a tall, lanky man, now aged twenty. Julian remembered Timothy once telling him that at Albion School the boys called him “Georgina” because he acted like a girl and had the habit of holding one hand on his hip as he walked. They might have called him Georgina, but only behind his back. George was one of the select band of senior prefects at Albion who were supplied with bendy canes with curved handles to impose discipline and he wasn’t shy about using his.

“Where is George,” Julian inquired. “Oh, he’s with a new curate in the village. Fellow named Crick,” Timothy rolled his eyes, “They’re as thick as thieves,” he smirked. “They’re running some boys’ camp on the other side of the village. Juvenile delinquents, would you believe!”

Julian beamed, it sounded like the sort of batty project his parents would be involved with.

“They’re borstal boys, or some such,” Timothy couldn’t hide the mocking tone in his voice. “What a bunch of oiks hey!” He rolled on the bed and hoped his cousin hadn’t noticed his wince as a particularly tender part of his bottom connected with the hard mattress. “Half the village are up in arms. They think they’ll be murdered in their beds. Or they’ll be robbed of the family silver! Ha! Ha! Ha!

“But, don’t worry about George,” he giggled, “there’s plenty of time to meet him. We’ve got an adventure of our own to go on.”

“Oh,” Julian beamed, “What fun!” How he was going to enjoy his summer at Camp Cottage!

To be continued ….

Picture credit: E.H. Davie

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Summer at uncle’s

The glorious summer

How Many Strokes Will it Be?

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Just an ordinary day

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z used drawing master smuggs hots (1)

“Right Brooking,” the headmaster flexed his whippy rattan cane then pointed to a spot in the centre of his study, “Bend over. You two,” he gestured to my pal Christianson and myself, “Stand there, by the wall.” He turned back to Brooking, “Right-over lad! Touch those toes.” Brooking stretched his finger further down his shins. “Keep those knees straight, boy,” the headmaster swiped his cane through the air, not trying to hide his impatience. I could see the strain in Brooking’s face; touching toes isn’t as easy as it sounds.

The headmaster stepped forward and stood behind my pal. I had the perfect view of Brooking’s backside, stretched against his pale-grey trousers. They were so tight I could just about make out the outline of his underpants. I was surprised to see he wore briefs; Boxer shorts were the fashion among we boys at the time.

The headmaster tucked the cane under his arm, it slipped down a little as he leaned forward and with both hands took hold of the tail of Brooking’s blazer. He pushed it a little way up his back so it was away from the target area. An inch or so of Brooking’s white shirt poked out from the waistband of his trousers and I saw a little flesh.

The headmaster “sawed” his cane across the centre of Brooking’s bum, but below the crest. It was quite a big bum, I suppose. Brooking was one of the tallest boys in our sixth-form; easily over six foot and although he was in no way fat (not like the obese schoolkids you see today) he was beefy. Meaty, you might say. The headmaster tapped the cane a couple of times and I saw Brooking close his eyes and screw up his face, ready for the ordeal. We were all eighteen years old and in our final year at school but a caning from the headmaster was still nothing to be sneezed at.

Satisfied that he had a good aim, the headmaster raised the cane and I saw it wobble as he took it above his shoulder and then return it with a terrific whoosh! so that it cracked hard into Brooking’s hard bottom. There was no time for the pain to register or for Brooking to react before the second swipe caught him on the undercurves of his bum. Six strokes swiped down rapidly. It was all over in about fifteen seconds.

“Stand up lad!. Stand over there. Christianson take his place.” Brooking stood gingerly, his face was scarlet. He always had a pale complexion and I suppose being made to bend over like that must have sent the blood rushing to his head. Apart from his colour he didn’t appear to be unduly concerned about his caning. I couldn’t be so sure about Christianson. He didn’t have Brooking’s stoicism, in fact he looked decidedly nervous as he settled himself in the middle of the study. It was a small room, dominated by a too-large desk (something to do with status I suppose) and there were two “easy” armchairs at the other end and a row of shelves. In the corner was a hat stand with no hats (they had gone out of fashion long before) but three canes dangled by their crook handles. They were of differing lengths and thicknesses but none of them was as dense or as stout as the one the headmaster had chosen to pepper our arses with. We were senior boys and so were getting the “senior” cane.

The headmaster aimed his cane across Christianson’s backside and fifteen seconds later he was back on his feet. His face was pale and his eyes were definitely moist, but I don’t think he was actually crying. Tears were not rolling down his cheeks. He rubbed his bottom ruefully as he took his place back by the wall. He went down in my estimation for that. Generations of schoolboys have abided by an unwritten law that says you never let the master know you are in pain. We would rib Christianson unmercifully later for not being able to “take it”.

It was now my turn. I strode to the spot and in one athletic movement I was peering down at the worn rug. Before I stretched my fingertips to brush the toecaps of my shoes I pushed by hands behind me and flicked the tail of my blazer away from my bum. It was my way of telling the headmaster, “Go on then. Do your worst. See if I care.” I returned my fingertips to the shoes took a deep breath and let him get on with it. Fifteen seconds later I was standing. My bum was burning but I wasn’t in any great agony.

The headmaster hadn’t flogged us, he had caned us. It was a schoolboy punishment. Six-of-the-best, we called it back in the day. The cane burns the moment it whacks down across your stretched backside and the way the headmaster laid on his canings so rapidly meant that burning sensation built up as each successive stoke hit you. So, by the time he’s through your bum is on fire, but that pain disappears pretty quickly. By the time the headmaster was ready to dismiss us from his study the pain had diminished to a throbbing and before too long was no more than a tingle. The bruising would fade over a day or two, before disappearing completely.

After we left the study we went down to the sixth-form bogs and compared our marks. That was another unwritten schoolboy law: you have to show your pals. Then, we went home and forgot about it. That happened more than forty years ago and I can’t remember what we had done to deserve that particular caning; there had been so many. It was that kind of school: traditional curriculum, traditional sports, traditional uniform, traditional discipline. I suppose it was just an ordinary day at that school.

….. Sorry. I lost my thread there…. Why am I telling you this? ……. Excuse, me I must go mix myself another gin-and-tonic.

 

Picture credit: The Hotspur

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Pyjama bottoms down. Bend over (again)

The shoplifter

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Noisy neighbour

new 5

I’m not particularly proud of what I did, but I’m not ashamed either. I never planned it. It just happened on the spur of the moment. If I’d thought about it beforehand I know I’d never have done it. I’m far too timid a man. I could try to blame the drink, but I’ll make no excuses.

It started with the late lunch. I arranged to meet with some pals at that new bistro in town. The one behind the library. It’s summer so we weren’t in any great hurry. The food was pretty good, if you like everything cooked in sauces (which I do) and the wine was better – and very cheap.  I was drinking the house Muscadet. Very cold. Very dry. None of us were driving so we necked it. I must have polished off a bottle or more on my own.

So, after about three hours of good company, I caught the bus home. Looking back, the state I was in it might’ve been wiser to get a cab. Well, there’s no point in being wise after the event. By the time the bus got to my suburb, I think I might have sobered up a little. I got off the bus near Widdicombe Wood, crossed the road and turned into The Avenue where I live. It was a fine afternoon; not particularly hot, but warm enough to bring people out into their gardens.

I had hardly walked twenty yards when I heard loud music coming from somewhere. Most of the houses here are large and they stand behind walls or tall hedges. Although I couldn’t see anything I knew immediately that the racket was coming from number thirty-three. The couple who owned the place were away for the summer at their villa in the south of France. They had left their son Wilson behind. He’s about twenty – maybe even older – so I suppose they thought he was a responsible adult and he’d make sure the house didn’t burn down or get burgled. Also, I think there was a cat that needed feeding involved somewhere.

Unfortunately, Wilson (what a bloody stupid name that is, if you ask me) was not quite as mature as his parents supposed. It seemed to me there had been one long party from the moment the taxi came to take them to the airport and it showed every sign of continuing until it brought them home again. The Avenue is a very sedate kind of street. Very little happens here and it is fair to say that people like to keep themselves to themselves. We are also quite an elderly community, so you don’t need me to spell out how disruptive Wilson’s partying was. I know for a fact that Mrs Richards, the widow at number thirty-one, had complained about the noise. She was given short shrift, which is a polite way of saying she was told to go to blazes (which, come to think of it is also a polite way of saying what is was they actually told her to do). I shouldn’t be surprised if other neighbours got a similar response if they complained.

On this particularly afternoon, perhaps emboldened by drink or the heat of the day, I stopped at the gate to the front drive. Unusually for around here it was open so I hung around for a moment to see if I could spot any of the louts and tell them to button it. I saw the side gate was open and the loud voices I heard left me in no doubt a party was in progress. I entered the back garden. I could see seven people, mostly young men about Wilson’s age and two slightly older women. They took no notice of me. The garden was large and like so many in The Avenue it was made beautiful by professional help. At the far end there was a trestle table with stacks of what looked like empty beer cans. There was a very distinct aroma floating in the air; it was herbal but it had no connection to any plant growing in the garden. A sliding door to a loungeroom was wide open and inside there was a music system blaring out some noise that I suppose young people call “music”.

I was inside the garden and still I had no idea what I intended to do. The obvious thing would be to ask them to turn the volume down and be more considerate to neighbours. People who know me would never say that I have unique attributes so I did the obvious. “Can you turn the music down,” I almost shouted to Wilson, and then, because I am a polite, considerate, timid neighbour, I added, “please.”

Wilson either did not hear me, or he professed not to, and he shook his head in bewilderment. I got close enough to smell the beer on his breath and the cannabis smoke in his hair and repeated my question. He grimaced the way people from a certain social class do, shrugged his shoulders and turned away to speak to a friend nearby; dismissing me. I hate people who think they are entitled to have everything they want. Sorry, but that’s the way I am and if you think that makes me a socialist, well more fool you. The fact remains that Wilson was behaving like a spoilt brat.

I shouted after him but he ignored me again. Some of the young men close by turned to look down their noses at me. Then they brayed. That might have been the final straw. The one that broke the camel’s back. I still had no clear idea what to do, but I did know I wasn’t going to meekly turn around and sneak back to my house with my tail between my legs. “Wilson, please …” I began to try again, but I wasn’t allowed to finish my sentence. He swivelled to face me, turned his nose up in the air as if he had trod in a pile of pig shit, and drawled, “Oh little man, are you still here?”

Little man. Statistically speaking, I am bigger than he is: taller and heavier. My mouth gaped open. I had never been spoken like that before; not ever. By anyone. My face flushed with embarrassment and it felt like at least seven pairs of eyes were burning into me. I turned away from him, attempting to hide my humiliation. As I did this I spotted a few yards away a wooden folding garden chair. It was unoccupied. I have no rationale for what I did next, except to say I was bloody angry with that brat Wilson.

I swear I was furious but I was also calm and collected at the same time. I took the few steps necessary to reach the chair and I picked it up. It was light to carry back to where Wilson was giggling with his pals. I plonked the chair down on the lawn and then reached out and grabbed Wilson. He was wearing a cotton jacket so I had something to hang on to. Then, in one continuous movement I sat myself down on the chair, planted my feet firmly on the ground and I pulled Wilson forward. He uttered a cry of surprise as he fell facedown across my knee. He had to spread his arms wide ahead of himself to stop hurtling to the grass.

Wilson wore those elasticated cotton shorts that they all wear. I gripped the waist and tugged hard. Before I knew it I had both the shorts and his underpants up and over his buttocks. He was bare-arsed to the wind. I suppose Wilson was drunk, or high, or conceivably both, because he just lay across my knees and stared at the grass. His stomach was leaning against my thigh so I couldn’t take the shorts and pants down further, but even where they were I had plenty of his bum to aim at. Like so many of his generation, Wilson could do with losing a few pounds. His bottom was large and flabby, but made a terrific target. I raised my hand and spanked him, good and hard. I let fly, smacking the palm of my hand across his bum at the rate of at least sixty slaps a minute. The fleshy cheeks wobbled and by now Wilson realised what was happening. He was getting his bare bottom spanked just like the disrespectful brat deserved.

z used otk shorts down chair outdoors (2)

I quickly got into my stride and the imprint of my palm and fingers was reproduced in red all over his bum. I pulled his jacket away from the target area so I could get at the very tops. I kept tugging at his shorts and finally managed to get access to his undercurves and even to the back of his naked thighs. He yelped and hollered and called me all the names under the sun. When this didn’t deter me from my mission, he yelled to his friends, “Get him off me, get him off!”

It was a quite natural request to make I suppose but his so-called friends roared with laughter. Rather than help Wilson or shout at me to stop they yelled me on to greater efforts. “Hey! Mister, you’ve missed a bit!” shouted one of the guys who I noticed had approached to get a closer look.

I had never intended to take Wilson across my knee and spank his bare bottom, so it followed I had no plan on how (or when) to stop. He squirmed and wriggled about so much I gripped him around the waist. It was amazingly easy to hold him in place. Maybe it was because I had taken him by surprise; maybe he was too stoned to struggle free. Who knows?

His bottom was a deep pink and I suppose he might have been quite sore by now. The palm of my hand certainly was. It was quite possible that it was smarting much more than his bum. If I had planned my attack on Wilson I would certainly have gone armed with a weapon – a hairbrush or a slipper, say.

My arm was aching too by now, and here I must make another confession, my bladder was full and I was in desperate need of the toilet. That’s what comes of age and drinking a bottle and a bit of wine. I had no choice I had to end the spanking. I didn’t know how to do that, so I simply stopped slapping him and pushed him off my lap so that he rolled onto the grass. He squirmed around for a while and rubbed at his bottom.

“And turn that music down,” I roared as I strode to the gate, leaving a posse of startled youngsters behind. As I reached the main gate I was delighted to hear the noise silenced. It seemed I had won the day. I hurried home and reached the loo just in time before I lay on my bed and must have dozed off. I awoke in time to hear the start of “PM” on the radio. My throat was dry and my head ached and as I looked at the ceiling and tried to follow the news report I wondered if I had just had the most remarkable dream.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Other stories you might like

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

Over the headmaster’s knee

Keynes College Caning Case

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Uncle Graham’s belt

new 5

z used drawing belt hold (25)

Uncle Graham stood feet firmly planted eighteen inches apart, his back erect, the muscles in his forearms rippling. I stood, my eyes popping, as slowly and with great deliberation he unbuckled his thick, wide leather belt. He glowered as he took hold of the buckle and tugged the belt so that it slipped majestically through the loops of his trousers. Within seconds it was free. He allowed it to dangle from his fist so that the far end almost touched the floor.

“Come here,” his voice was fierce. It was an order, not a request. He doubled up the black belt and tapped it into the palm of his left hand. I slouched forward, attempting defiance. “Now!” Uncle Graham barked. I stood for a moment. How I despised myself for allowing him to whip me.

“You know the drill,” Uncle Graham glowered. “Get on with it.”

I did. I knew the drill well. I was eighteen years old and had been here many times before. I fumbled with the buckle of my own belt, but my fingers refused to work, they were numbed by my humiliation. “Do you want me to do it for you?” Uncle Graham sneered.

At last the belt undone, I popped the clasp at the waistband of my trousers and then tugged the zipper tab until the front of my trousers were wide open. I shook my legs and gravity took them slipping down my thighs and they snagged at my knees. Uncle Graham shot me a withering look. He did not try to hide his contempt. I hooked my thumbs inside my boxer shorts and with a flick of the wrists sent them down to meet my trousers.

My bum was bare and my small, thin cock hung limply. I drew in a deep breath. I shuffled like a penguin for a couple of steps until I reached the back of the settee. I counted to five in my head, rubbed my sweaty palms together, closed my eyes and slowly fell forward. My stomach rested on the back of the settee. I opened my eyes again and stared down at the dirty seat cushion. I pushed my arms forward and took a firm grip of its far end.

“Bum higher!” Uncle Graham growled. “Get right over that settee.” I wriggled my hips a little and stood up on my toes. My face was even closer to the cushion and I could smell sour sweat where countless people had sat over many years.

I closed my eyes and waited. I heard Uncle Graham swish the belt through the air. There was an almighty crack that echoed around the small living room when he slashed the belt against the top of the settee. I couldn’t stop a shudder convulsing my body. Then, I felt the cold leather touch my naked flesh. Uncle Graham rested the belt so it covered the centre of both cheeks. He was finding his aim.

A chill draught blew across my naked legs. Blood rushed to my face, it always did when I was bent over in this position. I braced myself for a very intense session with the belt.

The first time I had been strapped it had been agony and I had been miserable for hours afterwards. Now, after so many strappings it was different. I knew I could “take it” without a fuss, but I never overcame the sense of humiliation. Eighteen years old and belted like a little kid. I  willed himself not to move. I stayed submissively bent over, holding my backside high so Uncle Graham could lash my buttocks over and over.

I felt him tap the belt across my bottom and then raise it away. He must have taken it over his shoulder and then he brought it whipping down into me. The crack! sounded like gunfire in the tiny room. My body buckled under the lash and I bit into my lower lip; trickles of spit dribbled from my mouth.

The second lash curled itself viciously over my exposed buttocks and unfurled. My backside quivered with the force. My body jolted and I clenched the fingers of both hands together.  My throat tightened. After three or four strokes the heavy, wide thick belt had whacked all my buttocks; from the soft undercurve where the globes meet the back of the thighs, over the meaty mounds and across the tops of the globes. Every square inch was toasted. He snapped another six hard stingers across the very centre of my buttocks. One after the other in rapid succession.

The aching in my bum was growing. It had started as a tingle, turned to a throb and then became pounding pain. Not one square inch of my buttocks was untouched by the leather belt. I clung onto the seat cushion valiantly. When you have been under the lash as often as I have you develop a high pain threshold. A less experienced boy would be hollering, howling and begging for mercy. Not me. My buttocks quivered, my hips wriggled and from time to time my knees bent, but that was just my body’s natural reaction. A reflex, if you like, a way for my body to protect itself against the pain.

Uncle Graham was no novice to spanking. He knew his job. Satisfied that he had whipped my buttocks red and raw he then turned his attention to the back of my thighs. If you’ve been spanked yourself you’ll know that it the most sensitive part of the target area. I stamped my feet, then wrapped one foot around the other. My heart raced and my temples throbbed almost as much as my bum. But I didn’t cry out. I refused to give Uncle Graham the satisfaction.

He paused the onslaught for five seconds while he took hold of the belt and adjusted it so the buckle was uppermost. This meant not only did he have the weight of the leather strap to flog me, but a heavy piece of metal with a sharp point that could take my arse off. After a dozen strokes of this small cuts ran across my mounds and the flesh looked like raw hamburger meat in places.

Then, it was over. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson.” Uncle Graham finished his spanking with three extra-hard licks. When he told me to get up, I forgot about being too old for a spanking. I hopped around doing the famous spanking dance with my penis flopping, while I tried to rub the sting out of my bare behind that had just been roasted to 350-degrees Fahrenheit.

My bum was hideous; a mass of magenta marks and burgundy bruises. Already some of the bruises were growing dark, almost brown. I could feel the welts from the strap and the heat glowing off my bum could have heated a greenhouse.

Uncle Graham let me get dressed and he sent me off to my room. Only then did I allow the tears of pain and humiliation to flow.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

My first spanking — aged 18!

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The Helpful Neighbour Part 1

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

The French student

new 5

z used otk head bare

Back in the day I was a great defender of the English way of life. This was long before we got mixed up in the European Union and lost our national identity.

Every summer for years I took into my home students from France who were in town to learn English. Also, the college that paid me asked me teach them something about our ‘culture’. A pleasure, I said. I meant it too.

The kids were eighteen or nineteen. They’d finished school and were often waiting to go off to university back home. In those days you didn’t become a legal adult until you turned twenty-one, so my houseguests were still children in my mind. That meant I was responsible for them, a bit like I was their father.

I took my responsibilities seriously. With the help of the college I drew up a contract of behaviour that I insisted all students who stayed with me signed. It wasn’t complicated. There was something about night time curfews (they were here to learn, they were not on vacation); meal times and so on. I have a huge house with three different ‘reception’ rooms and I told them which were out of bounds.

The college praised me for my foresight in having such a contract. I beamed with pleasure when they said that. Only later did I add the paragraph about the use of corporal punishment.

Being an Englishman that meant the whippy, rattan cane. There was a sixpenny bazaar in the High Street that sold traditional ‘school-type’ canes. They came in a variety of lengths and thicknesses and I stocked up with half a dozen (“Six of the best,” I joked to the young salesman who served me). Some came with crook handles and others had twine wrapped around one end to make a handle.

I cleared out a cupboard in one of my lounge rooms and deposited the canes inside. I also collected together some other items from around the house that might come in useful. I still had a heavy rubber-soled gym shoe from when I was at school. That went in the cupboard. Also, a heavy ebony hairbrush that I once bought at a junk shop in the Portobello Road in London. I added to that an ancient leather razor strop that had been in my family for generations. A shaving razor had not been near it in decades.

By the time I was finished I had quite a collection. I was ready for any eventuality.

The students were all surprisingly similar. Mostly they came from small towns or villages and had been kept on tight reins by their parents and schoolmasters. Now, as they saw it, out in the free world they thought they could run wild. I have to say that our town of Brocklehurst is hardly a den of iniquity but we can boast a sizeable university so even in those days there were clubs and bars to entice them.

My guests were only too willing to be tested, hence the need for that contract. I was a stickler for curfew. Home by ten every night. In bed, lights out by eleven on a college night. I let them stay up until eleven-thirty at other times. I always believed in the old adage “early to bed, early to rise …” I didn’t see why my routine should be disturbed by a noisy teenager.

I think the kids signed my contract without reading it too closely (English wasn’t their first language after all). They didn’t always take note of the section headed: Corporal punishment (administration of). Not, until it was too late.

Pierre was one of the first kids who boarded with me. He was eighteen and was on some kind of ‘gap year’ between finishing school and going on to university. I was to learn he was a typical boy let loose away from his parents. Brocklehurst in those days was a staid place but some people knew they could make a few quid out of the students so they set up places like coffee bars and dance halls where they could relieve them of their money. Pierre was only too willing to go anywhere that offered the chance of ‘fun’, especially if that included the chance to meet girls.

Need I say that the possibility to meet girls far outweighed his obligation to return to my home before curfew. I am not a hard man, but I believe in rules. I believe in order. I believe in being in charge. I warned Pierre of the consequences if he stayed out late. I showed him the contents of my cupboard. He was left in no doubts. He could only blame himself.

So I lectured him on responsibility, self-discipline, consideration for others. It was quite a speech. He looked bemused half the time. I suppose his English wasn’t up to it. He might not have understood all I was saying but he got it when I said, “Now I am going to spank you.” His face blanched, despite the deep suntan. He blustered. Now it was my turn not to understand. I suppose for some things there’s a universal language. His tone of voice told me he was saying, “No, but, you can’t,” and so on. He might even have said, “I’m too old to be spanked.” Certainly, that was something many of them told me over the years. Too old Bah! Eighteen and nineteen is not too old to be spanked.

I had no intention of flogging him into a pulp, but he needed a wakeup call, that was for sure. I had a choice: a cane, a heavy strap, a plimsoll, hairbrush, you name it. But no, what Pierre needed was a good old-fashioned spanking. Do they say fessee in France? Trousers and pants down and over my knee. Bare bottomed. Spanked until his cheeks burnt red hot. Spanked until they glowed in the dark.

Back in the day I hadn’t yet run to fat. I was no athlete, but I still had some strength. Pierre, was probably an inch or so taller than myself and as thin as most kids were in those days. Despite his constant rule-breaking he was a pretty conventional kid. I have no idea if his father ever spanked him, or an uncle or some other adult in his life. Certainly, he understood the concept of  the instruction, “bend over my knee.”

We were in the room I called my lounge. There were a couple of armchairs and a sofa. Against the wall stood a straight-backed chair. I pulled it into the centre of the room. Pierre’s eyes popped. If he hadn’t believed it before, he did now: I was deadly serious. I sat down and spread my legs. I wriggled my buttocks to get comfortable. Pierre gaped, the tip of his tongue poked through his lips. He was silent but the apprehension was clear in his face. He was standing some distance from me. “Come here,” I ordered. He flinched and started to turn his back on me.

“Pah!” I exclaimed and reached forward, took him by the forearm and pulled him towards me. He may have been too astonished to resist. I was done lecturing, now was the time for action. He wore fashionable loon pants trousers that had no waistband. They were held up with a single button. It took two seconds to release it and tug his zipper down. The loons slid down his bony thighs. I took hold of his wrist and pulled him so that unbalanced he toppled face down across my knee.

I suppose I had the element of surprise because Pierre did not struggle. He waved his arms about but that was so he could keep his balance and not tumble to the floor. He wore tight maroon-coloured briefs. They fitted his tight cheeks perfectly; like a second skin almost. I did not hesitate. “These serve little purpose at a time like this,” I told him as I dug my fingers under the elasticated waistband and with three tugs I had them clear of his bottom.

That’s when he began to struggle. But he was too late. His head was low and his bottom high. At this angle it was impossible for him to reach back with his hands to protect his bottom. I pressed my left arm hard against his shoulders. He was pinned down, going nowhere until I said so. He called out in French, obviously protesting about the indignity of his position.

I peeled up the end of his t-shirt so it was well clear of his bottom. I took a second to observe my target. Two small, round unblemished cheeks rested against my thigh, perfectly positioned for the task I had to perform. I curved the palm of my hand and slapped him hard. Again, and again and again. The sound of my palm against his rock-hard bottom resounded around the small room. The rapid spanks sounded like machinegun fire; I landed eighty or more slaps in the first minute. I was rewarded with an extended hissing from Pierre as he exhaled all the air from his lungs. His head rose and fell. Then he shook it from left to right. His arms flailed about, and his hips swerved. It was like he was trying to swim off my lap. Fat chance.

I was spanking him too quickly to be able to count how many slaps I delivered. I was delighted to see the outline of my palm reproduced in red all across his buttocks; from the peaks of his mounds, over the crests and into the soft spot where the crease meets the thighs. Satisfied that every square inch of his bum was now red hot, I went for the back of his thighs.

“Ouch! Ouch! Ouch!” I didn’t need a translator to understand that. Pierre was in pain. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but the back of his neck was as scarlet as his backside. His shirt was soaked with perspiration. The eighteen-year-old foreign language student was feeling this spanking.

By now my hand was smarting almost as much as Pierre’s bum. I didn’t care. It was a small price to pay. It was my duty to punish Pierre. And to teach him; teach him a little about the English way of life. I would happily have kept up the bare-bottomed spanking for half an hour or more, but suddenly I was aware of an urgent tapping on the window. Without pausing my onslaught on Pierre’s writhing bum, I looked up. Peering through the window was a man in uniform and wearing a peaked cap. He was holding up a parcel at the window for me to see. Startled, I momentarily relaxed my grip on Pierre and taking his chance he wriggled off my lap and fell to the floor where in one athletic movement he rolled over, leapt to his feet and while still tugging up his pants and trousers, fled from the room.

I went to the front door. The postman handed me a long, thin parcel and walked back down the path without a word. I glanced at the postmark: Lochgelly. Eagerly, I took it into the kitchen. I lit the gas under the kettle before ripping open the brown paper. A lovely two-tailed leather taws slipped into my hands. I caressed it and lovingly lifted it to my face to savour the aroma of fresh leather. A new toy for my collection. The kettle whistled and I made myself tea which I sipped slowly wondering how long I would have to wait before I had Pierre across the kitchen table.

Picture credit: Franco

Other stories you might like

The TV repairman

A visit to Uncle Roy’s

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

The boom-box boy

new 5

z used short shorts outdoors 2

We had a lovely summer’s day last week and you don’t get many of those in Brocklehurst so I decided to make the most of it and lounge out in the garden, fortified by some gin-and-tonic and an ice bucket.

Imagine my annoyance when after about five minutes of catching the rays, I was assaulted by the sound of heavy rock music. No, not the sound, the noise, the racket, the din of rock music. It wasn’t that it was rock music that did my head in; I should’ve felt the same if it had been Beethoven’s Fifth or some other classical stuff. It was the intrusion into my peaceful afternoon that I objected to. Someone, somewhere close by, was playing loud music and couldn’t give a damn if he was disturbing the whole neighbourhood. I say he, without even seeing the culprit: I was certain no woman would ever be as thoughtless as this.

I could stand it no longer and went through the gate in my garden and into The Avenue. The paving stones were almost vibrating to the noise of the music and its source was immediately obvious. Just across the road, half way up a ladder painting the front of the house was a young workman. I say young; he might have been somewhere in his thirties but at my age that’s pretty young. Near the foot of the ladder was a contraption that was blaring out the music. I did a “double-take” when I saw what it was. I honestly don’t think I’ve seen such a thing in twenty years or more.

It was what we used to call a ghetto-blaster until the politically-correct folk told us we had to say “boom-box”. It was one of those combinations of a radio and cassette tape (I think CDs hadn’t been invented when they were fashionable.) I think they went on the scrapheap when the Sony Walkman came out and suddenly we were all “wired for sound” behind our own personal ear-phones.

I was about to cross the road and kick the ladder away so that the blighter fell from a height onto the accursed boom-box and (hopefully) flattened it to destruction when I had a sudden thought. Things like this often happen to me on days when the sun shines brightly. I suppose a psychiatrist might explain it better than me but I  had a flashback; that is to say I remembered something from a past summer that I hadn’t thought about in more than 40 years. It was the boom-box that did it.

I was still at college and living in the halls of residence and there was this fellow student who always – and I truly mean always – had his ghetto blaster going at full tilt. He carried it with him wherever he went. He had a room somewhere on the third floor but the cacophony he created could be heard all over the building, even where I stayed on the ground floor (just next to the entrance if you insist I pinpoint it.)

I remember him so clearly, even though this was 1974 I’m talking about. He called himself Ian C. Hirst. We thought he was a bit of a tit because of the “Ian C.” bit. Nobody used their middle initial in their name. We didn’t say, “Good morning, I’m Alan P. Taylor,” or what have you. Only Americans did that sort of thing. Perhaps, Ian C. Hirst wanted people to think he was American, although why anyone would want to do that is beyond me. [That’s meant to be a joke, please don’t write to me]. Ian C. thought a lot of himself. I remember it was a long, hot summer that year and he paraded around college wearing only a pair of white shorts and nothing else. Shorts were properly short in those days; I’ve seen underwear today longer than those shorts. He had a muscular, hairless torso and dreamy brown eyes. His hair was curled and fashionably long. He turned the heads of all the girls, and a quite a few of the boys secretly had a crush on him (I can testify to that).

So, Ian C., sexy or not, was a complete pain in the you-know-where. It was summer and exams were fast approaching but how could we expect to study with all that racket going on? Naturally, those who had rooms on the same landing asked him to turn it down. He did so and we all sighed with relief. But before too long the building was shaking once again. Back in those days people didn’t talk much about “rights” and there were no student residents’ committees and in short there was no one to complain too. Today, an Ian C. Hirst would be out on his ear, but in 1974 we were left on our own.

So what to do? I think it was my pal Edward Anthony who made the suggestion. It might plausibly have been me. Whoever it was, it was an idea conceived in drink, of that I can be certain. It seemed like a good idea at the time. And, as time would show, it was. We couldn’t do it on our own, there needed to be a gang of us. The more the merrier. There would be safety in numbers. When we discussed it again in the cold light of sobriety we began to have our doubts. It did seem to be an extreme measure. What if it didn’t work and Ian C. turned on us? He was bigger and fitter and although I’d have been happy to wrestle around with him, I didn’t fancy getting my face bashed in.

Don’t worry, Edward Anthony said, there would be plenty of the boys ready and willing to join with us. And, indeed that turned out to be the case. There were easily a dozen in all. Poor Ian C. Hirst, he never stood a chance.

It was late afternoon and lectures had finished and we students were back at the halls of residence. In about an hour people would start to prepare meals in the communal kitchens; so this was the perfect time to pounce. Naturally, with the music blaring from his room, he never heard us coming. It took some hammering on his door before he realised he had visitors. As he opened the door, he also appeared to be buttoning up his shorts. His hair was messy (he was famous at college for using half a can of hairspray every day to keep his locks in place) and I wondered if we had interrupted him with a girl (or please God, a boy!) but his room was tiny and it was immediately obvious that he was alone.

“Grab him!” One of our gang yelled and six pairs of hands grabbed out. “Worr…!!” Ian C. bellowed in reply but he didn’t get much chance to say any more because already he was being manhandled down the corridor towards the communal kitchen. As so often during that summer, he wore only his shorts and we had very little to grip hold to as we bundled him along. He was effing and jeffing, of course, and called us all the names under the sun, but we had so effectively overpowered him he had no choice but allow himself to be carried along.

We had the kitchen to ourselves. Somebody locked the door. We were not going to be disturbed and Ian C. had no escape. I remember someone, I’m pretty certain it was Simon Aldridge, had written a charge sheet so Ian C. knew exactly why he was there. Simon sounded a bit pompous when he read it out, but it must have been good practice for him because later in life he went on to become a well-known lawyer in London.

This wasn’t a court of law and it most certainly wasn’t a democracy, so we didn’t ask Ian C. to speak in his own defence. We went straight to carrying out the sentence. It doesn’t matter how fit and strong you are, or how good a fighter, when eight people simultaneously take hold of you then you are defeated. So it was with Ian C. We had it planned. It was simple and like many simple plans it was entirely effective.

The kitchen was a large room with six laminated tables pushed together in the centre so up to sixteen students could sit down to eat at the same time. It took only seconds for us to heave him up and spread-eagle him face down on the table. He yelled blue murder, but Alan Keefe had shown the presence of mind to bring the boom-box along with him. When he switched it on it drowned out all of Ian C.’s protests. He had a boy at each corner, his wrists and ankles holding him firmly down. Ian C. wriggled and writhed, but he was going nowhere. Even though that was entirely obvious he squirmed and struggled. Another couple of boys held his legs and that settled him. We were nearly ready.

There was still one important matter to deal with before we could start properly. I delegated myself to perform this task. It was, as I joked beforehand, a difficult job but somebody had to do it. Ian C. was reasonably sedate for now, but that changed immediately I reached out beneath his body and searched for the button at the top of his shorts. It indeed proved to be a difficult job because the full weight of Ian C.’s body was resting on his stomach and he wasn’t about to raise his torso to give me clearer access to his shorts.

Eventually, after much fumbling, I got the top of his shorts open. Then, it was a fairly simple mission to get the zipper down. The shorts, as I said previously, were very short and also extremely tight fitting. I had hoped to take hold of his shorts and with some ceremony lower them down over his buttocks and then down his thighs before abandoning them somewhere near his knees. I would then, with even greater ceremony deal with his smooth cotton briefs.

Alas, the combination of his weight, the tightness of his shorts and Ian C.’s continued attempts to wriggle free meant that I had no opportunity to debag him with great ritual. His shorts and underpants slithered down his bum together and I left them at his knees. Another of our gang by the name of Patel (I blush to recall that he was universally known by the nickname “Inky”) then lowered the garments further until they settled at his feet.

I had a perfect bird’s eye view of Ian C.’s naked bottom. It was as I had imagined: smooth and hairless; meaty but firm. His cheeks were creamy white in stark contrast to the rest of his body which was a deeply tanned. I did not resist the urge to rub his mounds with the palm of my hand. I knew for certain I was not the only fellow present who desired to do this.

Obviously, there had been no possibility of rehearsing or practising what we wanted to do, but we all knew what was intended. As I had been removing Ian C.’s shorts and pants, the rest of the gang had removed their own leather belts which by now they had doubled (or trebled, depending upon their length). One boy, James Banks, had with him an authentic leather taws. It was one with two tails at one end and he later told us he had purloined it from his school near Edinburgh when he had left two years previously.

So we were set. Ian C.’s feet and wrists were firmly held, he was face-down on the table top. His bottom was bare to the breeze. He was an easy target. And we all took advantage. There were eight boys armed with straps, they took up position four on each side and to put it simply; they let him have it.

I don’t know if you have ever been belted or maybe seen another boy belted, but a heavy strap quickly leaves its mark on naked flesh. Within half a minute Ian C’.s backside was criss-crossed with deep-pink lines. It resembled an aerial shot of a railway junction. After a couple of minutes the deep-pink had turned red and soon mauve and purple blotches appeared. Ian C. fought like a trooper and I was very pleased that we had so many people in our gang that we were able to hold him down. I wouldn’t fancy our chances otherwise.

At one point we all ceased our own battering to allow James a free-range with his taws. I have to report he was something of an expert. He positioned himself to the right of Ian C. and took aim by first laying the two-tailed strap which was probably fourteen inches long so that it rested across the highest point of both cheeks. Then he adjusted his own position so that he had enough room to raise the taws and rest it over his own shoulder so that it tapped the small of his back. Then he practised to make sure he could swing the taws in an arc up and over without touching the ceiling of the kitchen and then bring it down right on target. He took two practice swings and then let rip for real. My! The CRACK! of the leather on Ian C.’s hard, naked bum echoed around the room. I think we were all relived that Alan had brought the boom-box and that the music from it drowned Ian C.’s shriek. James let fly with a half-dozen swipes before making way for some of the others to resume with their own more modest belts.

So, that was it. Ian C.’s bum looked like raw hamburger meat. He never played his boom-box in the halls again, we all studied hard, sat our exams and went our separate ways. And that happened in 1974 and I hadn’t given it a thought in more than forty years. There was one other thing I remembered: after we had finished with Ian C. I went back alone to my own room and shot my load about two feet high. I was twenty-one then; I couldn’t do that today. I know because I’ve just tried.

And, as for the young man painting the house? I didn’t kick his ladder away. I didn’t get a gang of neighbours together and tan his backside. I pointed out to him that he was causing a disturbance. He blushed prettily, apologised profusely and turned his boom-box off. He was, I mused to myself, as I poured my second gin-and-tonic in my garden, really rather sweet.

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com