By far the weirdest – and the worst – Christmas I ever had was back in 1974 when I was eighteen. Rich Uncle Nick invited just about every branch of the family to his big house (a mansion, really) a couple of miles outside of the town of Brocklehurst. I hadn’t seen Uncle Nick in years, nor most of the other family members there either.
It stared badly, I was a surly teenager, often brusque and abrupt with people, especially if I didn’t know them too well. It didn’t take me long to upset half Uncle’s guests.
However, Uncle, who was rich and loved being the centre of attention, had a whale of a time. No expense was spared. There was plenty of food and drink. Except for some reason he had it in his head that I was too young to drink alcohol. Naturally, I had been frequenting pubs since I was sixteen and as a working man I felt entitled to have a beer if I wanted. I told Uncle Nick as much and got a flea in my ear for my troubles.
Uncle Nick was the life and soul of the party, he went the whole hog. He dressed himself up in the Santa gear; the red costume, the funny hat and the scruffy white beard. He was pretty fat (that’s what the rich life does for you, I suppose) so he didn’t need any padding. “Ho! Ho! Ho!” he bleats as Santa usually does, “Who’s been naughty and who’s been nice?” It was the usual stuff and nonsense. If you have been nice you get a present, if you’ve been naughty you go across Santa’s knee for a spanking.
It just so happened that it had been a bad year for me. A couple of months earlier a pal and me had got stopped by police in a car that didn’t belong to us. They called it “driving and taking away” which in the eyes of the law isn’t as serious as stealing. Since we hadn’t done any damage to the car they didn’t prosecute us and let us off with a stern warning. Dad was grumpy with me but he didn’t do anything. Like I said I was no longer at school and was an adult.
The car business was the only thing I got caught for but I used to steal from the newsagent shop where I worked; mostly cigarettes and porn magazines. Nobody ever found out. Of course news of my run in with the police soon got around the neighbours and the family. I bet they all had a high old time cackling about how out of control I was.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! Now then Richie,” Uncle Santa says to me, “Have you been naughty or nice?” He probably knew damn well the answer to that but Aunt Cath, a right stuck up cow of the first order pipes up, “Oh no he’s been a very naughty boy,” and cackles like a witch. Even though everybody at the party probably knew what I had done Aunt Cath gives them all the details.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” goes Santa. “You have been a naughty boy haven’t you.” I could feel his face beaming from under his false beard. “And we all know what happens to naughty boys don’t we,” he boomed like he was the star of a pantomime show. “Oh yes we do!” his audience chorused back. “They get their bottoms spanked.”
“Yeah right,” I can’t remember if I said that out loud, but my attitude was clear enough. “Yes, that’s right,” Uncle Santa sniggered, “They get their bottoms spanked.” He heaved himself off from the couch, picked up an armless wooden chair and set it down in front of the Christmas tree. “Come on Richie, time to go across Santa’s knee.”
There was much whopping and hollering from my family. “Of course,” Uncle gave an exaggerated wink at the ladies in the room, “It’s not a proper spanking unless it’s on the bare bottom!” There were cheers. I promise you; they cheered. “Come on Richie,” Santa reached out to grab me by the waistband of my jeans and pulled me towards him. That’s when I smelt his breath. Of course, they were all pretty drunk.
I struggled and tried to break free but to my horror (my genuine horror) suddenly I felt at least two pairs of hands take hold of my arms and pin them behind my back. Then Aunt Cath took hold of my belt and despite my wriggling and writhing she managed to get it open. Uncle Santa did the honours with the button and fly and quickly tugged the jeans to my knees. My squeals of fear were drowned out by the cheering of the audience.
“Well, take his Boxers down,” I didn’t hear exactly who said that but it was an older man’s voice. Santa obliged and in one swift movement he had me toppled across his lap. I was face-down in the classic naughty boy prepared for a spanking position. I waved my arms and kicked my legs but my face was so close to the carpet and my bum was so high over Uncle’s right knee that I couldn’t reach back to stop him.
He gripped me heavily around the waist and I was pinned down. I was mortified. Me, aged eighteen, my jeans and pants at my shins bent across the knee of my uncle with my backside bared and a dozen or more of my family watching my humiliation.
“This is what happens to boys on Santa’s naughty list,” Uncle chortled. Then he spanked me. He slapped his hand across my bare buttocks. First on the right cheek, then on the left. Then he quickened his pace and the strength of the slaps. I didn’t feel a thing. I could feel the palm of his hand connect over and over again with my bum, but there was no pain.
Of course, then it dawned on me. Uncle was wearing Santa gloves; thick soft woollen ones. It was like he was trying to spank me with a cushion. A voice piped up. It was Aunt Cath. “That’s no good,” she taunted. “He can’t feel a thing.” Uncle stopped spanking me, perhaps he had only just realised his error. “Here,” Aunt Cath reached for her handbag, delved inside and produced a large heavy hairbrush, “Use this.”
I thought my Mum or Dad would intervene. This was going too far. They’re only son should not be treated like this. Only later did I think that Dad might have been a bit guilty that he hadn’t tanned my hide after the police arrested me. He might genuinely have felt that I deserved to be spanked and to be spanked hard.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Aunt Cath handed over the brush. “Thank you my dear, Ho! Ho! Ho!” If you ask me Uncle Santa was enjoying himself way too much. The back of the wooden hairbrush felt cold across my right buttock, and then SMACK!! it was cold no more. It was hot, very hot. The spanking had begun in earnest. Have you ever been spanked on the bare bum with a wooden brush? Each slap feels like someone has pressed a hot iron into your flesh. Bang! Bang! Bang! Uncle Santa gave his full energy to the task. I yelped and I yapped. I effed and I jeffed and called him every name under the sun. It only seemed to encourage him in his task. I was in no way a fat teenager but I had a bit of natural padding in the rear area so Uncle had a lot to aim at. He whopped my bare behind good and proper. Not one square inch of flesh was left un-toasted. As I write these words more than thirty-five years after the event I find myself wriggling my buttocks on the hard chair where I am sitting. Ouch!
It was bad enough being spanked on my bare behind by Uncle but having it done in such a public fashion was humiliating. I was breathless as the pain in my bum expanded into agony. My heart raced, my head throbbed and I could hardly breath. My eyes watered but I held back the tears, I wouldn’t give Aunt Cath and the rest of them the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
My bum had swollen to about twice its natural size by the time I heard Uncle Santa burble, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Who’s been a naught boy then.” He paused, perhaps he expected me to reply “Me, Santa, I’ve been a very naughty boy.” When I stayed silent he filled in the silence, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Just a dozen more then,” and he took that goddam wooden hairbrush for one last circuit of my backside, from the peaks of the mounds, over the apex, into the undercurves and with two almighty whacks across the backs of my thighs for good measure.
Then he stopped spanking me. I lay gasping for breath like a goldfish out of water. The room seemed eerily silent. Nobody was talking but I could sense all eyes were on me and my blistered bottom. Uncle Santa released his grip on my waist and I bounded to my feet and stumbling on my jeans and pants puddled at my feet I staggered from the room.
I stayed upstairs for the rest of the day, emerging about midnight to sneak to the panty to grab some cold turkey. Along the way I found an almost full bottle of vodka. I took both back to my room and got smashed. Next day the Santa suit had been put away as had any memories of my very public spanking. Nobody has ever mentioned it to me since.
Picture credit: Alan Paul
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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website
Also writing school stories as Scholastic here
Charles Hamilton the Second
Male on male spanking stories 