That time at Uncle Ron’s

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“I’ve had enough of your behaviour. I won’t stand for it, do you hear? It has got to stop.” It was my Uncle Ron speaking. “I’ve told you before. You need to buck your ideas up my lad. Start obeying the rules around here. Or else.”

It was 1974, I was eighteen and staying with Uncle Ron and Aunt June for the summer while I worked at the car plant and before going onto university.

“Now,” Uncle’s nostrils flared, “let me make it very clear. You behave yourself. You do as Aunt June and me tell you. I shan’t tell you again. Next time it’ll be a hiding. And don’t think I won’t. If you don’t believe me just ask Alan or John.”

Alan and John were my cousins, nineteen and seventeen. Ask them, Uncle Ron had said so next chance I had, I did. Alan filled me in on the details. He was very candid. As if there wasn’t anything unusual about it. “Cane,” he said nonchalantly.

“Cane?” I queried.

“Cane,” Alan wasn’t the brightest star in the sky and I had to squeeze it out of him. It would have been easier to extract hens’ teeth. Eventually, he told me, “He keeps two canes. In the cupboard under the stairs.”

“Canes?” I frowned, still puzzled.

“Yes, canes,” I had never exactly hit it off with Alan, now I was irritating the hell out of him, as if I was the dumb one in this conversation. “You know,” he shook his head, bedazzled by my denseness. “Canes. Like at school.”

“We don’t have the cane at our school,” I told him.

“Lucky you,” he responded ruefully and fell into silence.

I waited hoping he might take the hint and continue. When he didn’t, I was forced to say, “So … your dad has two canes. And he canes you?”

“Yes,” Alan confirmed.

“Like at school? How so?”

“Like at school,” Alan rolled his eyes as if to say, Who is this moron.

“We didn’t have it at school,” I said, remembering this time to use the past tense because I had left that summer, “What does he do? How….?”

“Usual way,” Alan looked a little wistful. “Y’know,” I could see his brain ticking over as he tried to find the words, “Over the back of the chair. Settee. Bend over. Whack-whack-whack.”

I remember my heart skipped. Bent over the back of the chair. I wanted to ask more details but a natural caution kicked in. Did it hurt? How much? Did you ever get it trousers down? I concealed so many questions I didn’t want to sound eager.

“He says, he’ll give me a ‘good hiding’,” I said. “Suppose that means the cane.” I Paused hoping Alan would take the hint and spill some more details. No such luck.

“Suppose, it does,” Alan said and he walked away leaving me with a slack jaw.

So, the canes were kept in the cupboard under the stairs. I had a burning ambition to see them. To feel them. I had never seen a punishment cane before. I’d seen plenty of drawings in comics, of course. Corporal punishment hadn’t been abolished in those days. Sometimes on television you saw a schoolmaster swishing a cane and threatening some boy with it. Come to think of it none of them ever carried out their threat. More’s the pity.

It wouldn’t be too difficult to sneak a look of the canes under the stairs. But I would have to bide my time. I could think of nothing else; all day long at my mind-numbingly boring job on the production line. I was going frantic.

I knew my uncle and aunt went to Bingo on Friday nights and I expected Alan and John to be out somewhere, but not, of course, together. I would have the place to myself. I could hardly swallow my tea, I was that excited. At about 7.30, I heard the front door slam shut. That was uncle and aunt out of the way. Alan and John were unlikely to call “goodbye” as they left the flat, so I had to sneak around a bit to find out if they were still at home. When I heard no sounds of record player or radio coming from either of their rooms, I knew the coast was clear. I checked the bathroom, just in case. Empty.

I was home alone. I could raid the cupboard under the stairs undetected. I felt my heart thumping in my chest as I crept down the stairs and into the passageway. I stood for a long moment, waiting. Fearful. But, fearful of what? I couldn’t explain it to myself. What was my interest in these canes? Why did I seem to obsess over them?

My hands shook as I inched open the cupboard door. I was so fearful I might have been tackling an unexploded bomb. A broom toppled onto me when I opened the door fully. I cussed silently and pushed it to one side. I peered in. The cupboard was chock-a-block with household crap. Mops, buckets, another broom, a brush and pan. A vacuum cleaner. A slight aroma of sweat, or it might have been decomposition, drifted from near the outside wall. A dead mouse perhaps? I had no intention of trying to find out. I was searching for something much more important.

The cupboard was dark, I pulled the cord for the light, I heard it click but nothing happened. In the gloom I saw there was no bulb. I cussed again. I had no torch or flashlight. I was thinking of running to my room to fetch a box of matches, when in the semi-darkness I saw something. My mouth dried instantly. That heart of mine speeded up again. I couldn’t be sure. I reached in the cupboard, through the muddle of mops and brooms. I grasped it in my hand. It felt like a long pencil. Definitely made of some kind of wood, I told myself. I tugged, but it was stuck behind a box of empty beer bottles. I fell to my knees and crawled into the cupboard, excitedly pushing detergent packets and buckets to one side. I felt as excited as any explorer in an Egyptian tomb.

Oh joy. I had not one, but two school canes in my hand. Carefully, I reversed from the cupboard and into the light. In the passageway I stood upright and surveyed my catch. I might never have seen a school cane before, but these beauties were exactly as advertised in those comics and TV programmes. I let one drop to the floor and caressed the other. It was a light brown / yellow colour and about three feet long. It had the tell-tale curved handle. I clutched it in both hands as I had seen the schoolmasters in the films do. It was as thick as a pencil but surprisingly bendy.

I flexed it thoughtfully. In my imagination I was that schoolmaster from TV and standing in front of me was … Who, exactly? I can’t be sure. Was it me, standing in front of myself, expecting to be caned? It puzzled me for a moment, who was I in this little scenario. Was I the beater, or the beaten?

I didn’t spend much time in deep reflection, I was having too much fun flexing and swishing the cane. I examined it closely. It had notches every few inches along its length and the tip was fraying. It was a little warped and I had no idea at the time that this indicated the cane had been frequently used.

I let it drop to the floor and picked up the second cane. This was thinner and lighter than its brother and made one hell of a swooshing noise as I swished it through the air. My heart raced and the front of my underpants tightened.

I flexed the cane some more, again conjuring up the scene of me as the headmaster. This time the naughty boy standing there was definitely me, summoned to the study for a good old-fashioned six-of-the-best. I swished the cane some more, but I was becoming disheartened. I needed to test this out. I wanted to know how it worked. How it felt. How much would it hurt? I held one end of the cane near the handle and bent forward and took a swipe at my own bottom. What a waste of time. I hit my right buttock, but didn’t feel a thing.  I tried again, swiping harder. With huge disappointment I straightened up. It was impossible. I couldn’t get enough of a swing.

It was then I had a bright idea. I hurried into the living room. This was where Uncle Ron caned Alan. Bent over the back of the armchair or settee. It was a small room and crammed with furniture. I imagined how Uncle Ron might do it. There was hardly room to swing a cat, let alone a cane. I took an armchair and swivelled it round so the back faced into the room. Yes. That was it. I was sweating, but the room wasn’t warm. I stared at the armchair. I walked slowly towards it and stood about a foot from the back. I was about the same height as Alan and realised at once that I would fit perfectly over the chair. Just as he did when he went over for his caning.

I hadn’t planned this. I was on autopilot. I could not resist. Carefully I placed the cane on the settee. Then, returning to the chair, I stood still and imagined my uncle’s voice, “Bend over that chair.” I rubbed my sweaty palms together, took a deep breath and dived over the back. It felt surprisingly comfortable. It was an old padded chair and my stomach sank into the cushion. I imagined how it would look in real life: me bent over bottom high, head low, submitting myself to Uncle Ron’s cane.

I can still remember the sensation. Me, head low, bottom high. I opened my legs, as if I was offering Uncle Ron my bottom, perfectly positioned for punishment. I was submissive. I was saying to him, “Yes, I have been a naughty boy. I deserve to be caned. Punish me.”

I rested my forehead on the worn, indented seat cushion; inhaling the sweat secreted by hundreds of bottoms over many years. I was lost in my imagination. I hauled myself to a standing position. My head throbbed with excitement. The room seemed to spin. I stared ahead at the dull, faded wallpaper. I fixated on the pattern of roses. As I imagined I might if Uncle Ron was in the room with me. I heard him giving me instructions. I remained silent. I did not argue. I was a naughty little boy. I deserved this.

Not looking I took hold of the buckle of my belt and released it. My hands shook but I got them to find the zip on my fly and I tugged. My jeans fell open. I took hold of the waist and slowly and deliberately guided them down to my shins.

I paused. Uncle was giving me another order. I turned and faced the chair. I was wearing a white t–shirt that had a tail that fell over my underpants. Gently I took hold of the thin cotton material and I lifted the shirt half way up my body. It cleared my flat stomach and my taut buttocks. I let go and gently eased myself back over the armchair.

This time I gripped the arms and kept my head high, looking straight ahead. I felt Uncle tap the end of his cane across the middle of my bum. He was finding his aim. I closed my eyes tight waiting – no, fearing – the first stroke. It soon came. I wriggled my hips. It hurt. I steadied myself. The next stroke was harder, it made me rise on my toes and my knees buckled. “Ouch!” I said aloud, but there was no one there to hear.

I took six strokes. I had no idea if these were ‘six-of-the-best.’ I had a vague idea that not all school canings were “six-of-the-best”. Some beatings were more ferocious than others. Perhaps, because this was my first time Uncle might have gone easy on me. He might warn me that if there was to be a next time I should expect a much harder caning.

I wasn’t finished. I was still bent over with my jeans at my ankles and my cotton-encased backside angled against the back of the chair. Uncle spoke to me again. I voiced a protest. It did no good. I was still over the chair but I imagined Uncle moving towards me, with only one intent. The next bit was tricky. I reached my right arm behind me and although I can’t see what I’m doing I managed to find the waistband of my underpants. I took a grip and simultaneously lifted my body up an inch and tugged at the briefs so that slowly they descended across my buttocks. I let them snag over my thighs. They didn’t need to fall further, my buttocks were now completely bared.

“Oh no Uncle. No, please,” I wailed. “I will be good.”

“Bah!” Uncle says back to me. He was a man of few words. He took up position again. He lifted the cane. It swished through the air and landed across my naked bottom.

“Yaroooh!” I cried. It is a word I have read in school stories. It’s what the boys shouted when they were caned, so I knew it was the what you were supposed to do.

Uncle took my backside off. This time it was undoubtedly “six-of-the-BEST”. I wriggled and writhed. “Stand up,” Uncle intoned.

I hauled myself to my feet and jumped up and down while at the same time rubbing away at my scorching buttocks. My cock is stiff and I had trouble pulling my underpants up. But, soon I am dressed again. My head was buzzing. Was this what it feels like to be on drugs?

It takes a long moment for me to get my breath back. I was enjoying this too much, I didn’t want it to end. I picked up the cane again and searching around the room with my eyes spot a scatter cushion. I had a plan. It seemed original to me. I balanced the cushion on the apex of the chair. It was not perfect, but it would do. I stood a little to the left of the chair and tapped the frayed end of my cane across the cushion. It was the stand-in for my own backside. I was now my own Uncle Ron. I tapped some more, then with mounting excitement I raised the cane high, let it hover for a moment and brought it crashing down across the cushion. The loudness of the noise alarmed me. Could the whole block of flats hear? The cushion slid from the back of the chair to the floor.

I waited to catch my breath. Then I bent down to retrieve the cushion. That was when I saw two muddy training shoes. My eyes travelled north – now there was a pair of legs. I sprung to a standing position. Alan stared at me, his eyes popping. He had a befuddled look, his mouth opened and closed. He did this twice but no sound came out. He was like a goldfish. I was just as dumbstruck. “Ba .. ba..  but …” I began, but Alan had already turned on his heels and fled from the flat. My face blazed. How much had he seen? Any of it? Oh my god, not all of it!

I swivelled the chair back to its original position and in some distress I replaced the canes in the cupboard. The shame. My secret revealed. I trudged up the stairs to my room. I fell face down on the bed and buried my face in a pillow.

after bed jeans domestic (2)

The scene of me across the chair and my uncle caning my bare backside overwhelmed me. I caressed my own backside as I might have done after a thrashing. My cock swelled until I felt like I was lying on top of a baseball bat.  I turned on my back and tugged my jeans over my buttocks. Quickly, my underpants went the same way. My dick saluted me. I slowly massaged the blood-engorged head, stroking along the full length from base to head, then letting go and returning to the base again.

My hips rose and fell. I was torn between wanting to go faster and wanting the aching sensation to last forever. I cupped my balls with my other hand. My arse cheeks clenched. I wriggled the jeans and pants until they were clear of my legs, still tugging away. Huff-huff-huff. I had to be careful, any moment now I would shoot my load.

I let go of my balls and took hold of my shirt. Still, I tugged away. My eyes watered. I shrugged the shirt from my body. I was now completely naked except for my socks.

My cock twitched and I could feel sperm dribbling out. My body was tingling all over as pleasure washed through me like some tidal wave. I moaned louder than I’d ever done in my life.  I closed my eyes tightly, imagining it was someone else touching me. I ran my hands over the hard tense muscles of my chest and stomach. My hard six-inch cock was lying flat on my stomach drooling pre-cum. I felt my nuts tightening and the intensity increasing as cum started to rise through the throbbing length of my cock until the juice splashed across my stomach and I was overtaken by an own intense orgasm.

Picture credit: Unknown

Other stories you might like

The thieving nephew

His new job

Winker Wilson’s visit

 

More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

Also writing school stories as Scholastic here

Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

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