I remember when Uncle Martin first told me that if I didn’t start doing as I was told, he would take down my jeans and underpants, take me across his knee and spank my bare bottom very hard indeed, I thought he was joking.
I didn’t call him out on it and say, “You’re having a laugh. I’m nineteen years old.” I didn’t shrug my shoulders nonchalantly as if to tell him, “I don’t care.” I think I just blushed cherry red and rushed from the room.
This happened a long time ago. Nineteen-seventy-three. Things were different then. Corporal punishment was everywhere. Not like today. We got the swishy, bendy cane from the headmaster and the rubber soled plimsoll in gym class. “Bend over. Touch toes.” Swipe! Swipe! Swipe! Six-of-the-best, across the seat of the stretched trousers. Ouch! Kids today don’t know they’re born. Fathers were not afraid to whip a belt across the backsides of their misbehaving sons. Or a slipper. The dad of a schoolfriend of mine used to keep a wooden paddle hanging from a nail in the cupboard under the stairs, always ready for action.
I had just passed my school A-levels and had a place at the university in Brocklehurst. As fate would have it Uncle Martin had a house in the same town so my parents decided (I didn’t have a say in the matter) I would lodge with him and Aunt Marie. Uncle Martin was my mother’s brother and a few years older than her. His own children were grown and had flown the coop, so he had a couple of spare bedrooms doing nothing.
Looking back after all these years I see I was a bit full of myself. What teenager isn’t. I treated Uncle’s house like it was a hotel. Of course, Aunt Marie cooked my meals, did my washing and generally skivvied for me. Me, I stayed in bed most of the morning (early lectures be damned) and I came and went as I pleased. Often, I would get back from the university, eat my dinner and then – without a word to either of them – I’d go out and not return until the early hours. What did I care?
Uncle was beside himself. I was going off the rails. All I could look forward to was failure in the end of term exams. The inevitable happened. How could he explain that to his sister, my mum? He couldn’t, but he could make sure it wouldn’t happen again. His solution? A damn good spanking.
“What did I say would happen?” Uncle Martin growled at me the day the results came out. He waved the letter from college in my face. “You’ll have to do summer school and retake the exams in October!” His complexion turned from pink to various shades of red before settling on puce. “Well!” spittle flew from between his cracked lips, “I’m going to make sure you don’t screw up again. I’m going to warm that bottom of yours, to encourage you to put your intelligence to some good use. Come here!”
He grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and hauled me from the kitchen into the living room. My feet skidded across the carpet as I desperately tried to escape his cutches. “C’mon,” I wailed, “I’m too old for this. You can’t spank me!”
That was the wrong thing to say. I’m certain it only encouraged Uncle Martin. He was a man on a mission. He was going to save me. Save me, from myself. He released my neck and took a chunk of my hair in his fist. With his free arm he tugged a wooden, straight-backed chair from under the dining table. It toppled over but he soon had it upright again. I was still effing and jeffing, telling him to let me go.
I swear he sneered at me. A look of total contempt spread across his face. He didn’t say a word. He just sat himself on the chair. Now, he let go of my hair. He reached out and unzipped my jeans and down they went, then down came my underwear. He stood me there a moment with my nineteen-year-old bottom bare. I think my chin was quivering from the embarrassment of standing with my dick hanging out. I had no idea how strong a man Uncle was, but I was about to find out. He gripped my forearm and tugged me over to his right side. He spread his knees about six inches. Then came the command, “Bend over.” I stood frozen. “Bah!” he exclaimed and pulled me over his knee. I toppled over and spread my hands on the floor to break my fall. I was face down with my back slightly arched. My knees were bent and my toes hovered over the floor.
I was quite a lightweight in those days and Uncle Martin was stocky and strong. I was completely dominated. He put his arm round my waist and moved me so that my cock and balls were between his knees. I looked underneath me and could see my toes above the floor in the back. Looking to my right, I could see the side of my bare, pale bum sticking up in the air, inviting him to whack it. And that is what he did.
He started on my left cheek. An almighty slap in the centre, where I had most flesh. Not that I had much of that if truth be told. My bum was as hard as a rubber ball. Those were the days before McDonald’s really took off and my diet became mainly hamburgers. Uncle’s hands were as big as shovels and they were rough and tough. He had no need of a hairbrush or a belt. He held me down and spanked me hard. Just as he had promised to do. First on the left cheek, then five seconds later on the right. Then higher on the left, then lower on the right. In no time he had gone right round the circuit. I squirmed, kicked, yelled, pleaded, wailed and threatened. Uncle just spanked on and on: steadily, relentlessly.
“I’ll give you something to yell about,” he growled as each spank hurt more than the last. I don’t think he was spanking me harder and harder; it was the accumulation, the way the pain built up with each additional spank.
I should’ve known better than to put my hand over my bum to try to protect myself from Uncle’s onslaught. He pinned my hand half way up my back. “Don’t you dare,” he snarled and gave me ten or twelve very fast, very hard spanks.
I squirmed and kicked and tried to cover my reddening cheeks, but it didn’t help. He held me in place, face down, bottom up and didn’t miss a beat drumming on my bare backside.
That was the first time Uncle Martin spanked my bare bottom, but it wasn’t to be the last. I soon became acquainted with his wide range of ‘attitude adjusters’ that he kept in a box on top of the wardrobe in his bedroom. I wonder what became of them. I heard yesterday that my own grandson has been ‘excluded’ from school because of his disruptive behaviour. I might have put them to good use.
Picture credit Unknown
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
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