The Prodigal Son

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Mr Craddock slumped in front of the television set watching the horse racing. A newspaper open at the racing cards was at his feet. Nearby was a mug of steaming tea. He gripped a half-eaten bacon sandwich. He was in his element. A peaceful Saturday afternoon. What could be better?

Then, his wife entered the room, wiping her hands on her pinafore as she moved. The look on her face warned Mr Craddock that his peace was about to be disturbed.

“It’s Pete,” she said, clearly agitated, “He’s just been on the phone.” Mr Craddock’s eyes shot heavenward: what now? What scrape had his son gotten himself into this time?

“What now?” he spluttered through a mouthful of sandwich. His obvious irritation did nothing to soothe his wife’s nerves.

“He wants to speak to you,” she was clearly worried.

“What is it now? Is he still on the phone?”

“No he’s coming round. He wants to see you in person.”

Mr Craddock swallowed hard. This could mean only one thing. “He wants to borrow money again. He already owes me a fortune. I’ve been paying off his debts forever.”

His wife hopped from one foot to the other. “He says he’ll come right over.”

Mr Craddock sighed, he would miss the four o’clock race at Chepstow now. He had money on a horse in that one. Pete was 24 years old and had been nothing but bother since he left school. He was in and out of jobs, in trouble with the law. Oftentimes he was drunk about the house. He seemed incapable of keeping a civil tongue in his head. Mr Craddock had all but thrown him out of the house five months ago. Pete now lived in some sweaty bedsitting room on the other side of town.

“I’ve had enough, mother,” Mr Craddock always called his wife “mother” it was some kind of family tradition. “What can I do? I’ve tried everything with him. Do you remember I even spanked his backside for him. When was that? Last year? Doesn’t seemed to have done much good.” He rested back in his chair and eyed the clock on the mantlepiece. With luck he would just have time to catch the 3.45 race at Folkestone.

He did, but he missed the four o’clock and all the rest of the racing that afternoon. Pete had something important to discuss. It was, he reckoned, a matter of life and death. His life might never be the same again.

Mr Craddock eyed his son suspiciously. The lad’s fair hair was dirty, he had bags under his eyes and his usually fresh face was grey and lined.

“Dad, Dad,” he spluttered once his mother had left the two of them alone in the living room. “I have to talk to you.” He couldn’t meet his dad’s eye and that fact alone made Mr Craddock fear the worst.

“Is it money again. Are you in debt to loan sharks?”

“No, Dad, no,” Pete tried to laugh off the suggestion but his face remained grey and solemn.

“The police, are you in trouble with the law?”

“No, Dad, no.”

“Drugs. Is it drugs?” Mr Craddock was losing patience, were they about to play a game of Twenty Questions?

Again the answer was negative.

“Oh for pity’s sake, tell me what’s going on,” Mr Craddock had a short fuse.

On the trip over Pete had rehearsed what he wanted to say but now he was confronted with his Dad the words had gone. He babbled for a while getting more and more flustered as his Dad’s temper deteriorated.

At last he managed to turn words into sentences. “Look Dad,” he said and pulled a wad of banknotes from his pocket, “Here’s the money I owe you. All of it.”

His Dad flushed, his heart beat faster, “Where did this come from? Did you steal it.”

Pete laughed weakly. “No Dad, no. I’ve got a job. A proper job. At Tilotson’s. In the office.”

His dad was not convinced. “Since when? Is it a proper job?”

“Yes, Dad I’ve been there three weeks. I got my first pay yesterday.” He handed the money over and Mr Craddock counted it, scrutinising each banknote as if it might be counterfeit.

“Thank you son,” he whispered. He was flummoxed. Never in a month of Sundays did he expect his son to hold down a proper job.

His son wriggled in his chair. Clearly he had more to say and just as clearly he wasn’t sure how to say it. So he jumped in with both feet. “Dad, I don’t know how to say this. I want you to do me a favour.”

Mr Craddock sighed. He knew this was too good to be true. There was some kind of trouble after all. He leaned forward in his chair waiting for the worst. His son collected his thoughts and continued. “Dad I’m very sorry for everything I’ve done. I’m sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused you and Mum. I’m sorry for all the debts. I’m really sorry for the trouble with the police. Things are going to change from now on.”

Mr Craddock’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “It’s alright son.”

But Pete had not finished. He apologised once more for all the heartache he had caused. All the bad things he had said to his Dad over the past years.

“It’s alright son, it’s alright.” Mr Craddock was not a man who liked to share emotions. That was another of the family traits.

“It’s not alright, Dad,” Pete wrung his hands together. “I’m not sleeping. I don’t eat. I’m making myself ill.”

Mr Craddock stared at his son. The young man’s furrowed features were testament to that. He couldn’t find words to comfort his son so he babbled, “It’s alright son. You’ve paid me back. You’ve given me the money.”

“It’s not alright, Dad,” Pete was pleading. “It’s not. I’m full of guilt. Guilt for all the things I’ve done. The way I’ve treated you and Mum. I can’t get away from the guilt.”

An uneasy silence descended between the two. Mr Craddock looked at the clock and wondered if his horse had come home at Chepstow. Eventually, Pete spoke once more, “Dad I want you to do something for me? Please Dad.”

Mr Craddock held his breath, what was troubling his son. “Yes, what can I do?” he forced himself to ask, while wishing Pete would just go home.

“Dad,” Pete spoke more clearly than he had up to this point. “Dad, I want you to help me get rid of this guilt.”

Mr Craddock winced and waited. After a pause Pete continued, “Dad I want you to spank me. Like you did those times before.”

His Dad shook his head from side to side, like a horse often does when it is trying to clear its head. “Oh come on son,” he blustered, hoping to hide his embarrassment, “There’s no need for that.”

“But there is Dad, there is,” Peter interrupted. His insistent tone unsettled Mr Craddock. “I have to get rid of this guilt. It’s the only way.”

His Dad sat bemused. He had spanked Pete many times over the years, even quite recently. The last time was shortly before he insisted his son move out and find a place of his own to live. He hadn’t liked doing it, but nothing else had worked. Not talking (arguing really) nor grounding him. There weren’t that many punishments that a dad could inflict on his son; especially not one who was in his early twenties. The over-the-knee spankings had truly been administered as a last resort. Mr Craddock was a little surprised to find that they appeared to have worked.

“Oh, I don’t know son,” he was still uncertain. The request was so unusual it could almost be called bizarre. He shook his head again.

“Please Dad. I know you love me. Please do it. Let me get rid of all this guilt. Use Mum’s hairbrush, like you did last time.”

Mr Craddock did love his son. Very much indeed, but he had no words to express that love. But he liked to think of himself as a man of action, someone who could make a decision. Well, he told himself, if that’s what Pete wanted then so be it. And if he got a move on he might still catch the last race at Folkestone.

“Right,” he said climbing from the chair. “I won’t be a minute. You’ve still got time to change your mind.” He left the room leaving Pete sitting on the couch breathing heavily.” Moments later, he returned clutching a large, heavy hairbrush.

“Are you sure,” he said, hoping that Pete had come to his senses and changed his mind.

“Yes Dad,” his son replied confidently. “I deserve this.”

Mr Craddock picked up an old straight-backed wooden chair and set it down in the middle of the room. He sat down and brandishing the brush ordered, “Come here, bend over my knee.” Pete rose from the couch, took a deep breath and then crossed the room. He stood to his Dad’s left, hesitated for a moment as if debating something in his head. Then, he rested his hands on his Dad’s right knee and eased himself down.

Pete was easily a couple of inches taller than his dad but he fitted well across the older man’s lap. He was in the classic over-the-knee spanking position. He was able to rest the palms of his hands on the floor in front of him and behind his toes just about scraped the carpet. Like that his bottom was raised at an angle to receive the swats from the hairbrush.

Mr Craddock wasted no time. He raised the brush and slapped it into the seat of Pete’s heavy trousers. Then he did the same thing again and again. They were moderate smacks; not too light and not too severe.

“No Dad,” Pete protested, “You’ve got to do it properly. Like last time.” He wriggled his hips and his dad let him get to his feet.

“Are you sure?” Mr Craddock could still not quite believe his son’s attitude.

“Yes Dad. I deserve this. I’ve got to get rid of the guilt.” Then without waiting for his dad’s response Pete unbuckled his belt. Seconds later his trousers were at his ankles and his white shorts snagged against his knees. Once more, he eased himself across his dad’s knees.

“Well,” Mr Craddock gripped the heavy hairbrush in his fist, “Just remember I’m not going to stop until I think you have been punished properly.” He caressed Pete’s left buttock with the head of the brush and then tapped gently to get an aim.

“Thank you Dad,” Pete wheezed, “I really deserve this, for the way I treated you and Mum. And for all the trouble I brought you. I am really, truly sorry.”

His dad raised the brush high, “You will be,” he said to himself as he realised the last race of the afternoon was now over. He pounded the brush into Pete’s round, firm buttock and was delighted to see the dark pink imprint left behind by the brush. The hiss of air escaping Pete’s clenched mouth was equally satisfying.

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Mr Craddock set about his task with a will. If a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. That was a motto that had run in his family for generations. In no time both buttocks glowed dark pink. Pete’s hands clutched at his dad’s legs. It was the only way he could stop himself flailing about and falling to the floor.

“Well I hope this is doing you some good,” Mr Craddock rebuked his son, “A boy of your age taken across his dad’s knees for a sound spanking with a hairbrush. And on the bare bottom too,” he intoned as he walloped the brush across Pete’s quivering cheeks. Soon no square inch of flesh was untoasted.

“Sorry. Sorry. I deserve this,” Pete almost shrieked. The pain was intense. It was far worse than the last spanking dad had delivered. “Oww, ouch, arghhh,” he grimaced. He bum felt like it was blistered. Despite his resolve to take the thoroughly-deserved spanking without fuss, Pete could not control his body’s natural reflexes. His body twisted and turned. His legs kicked out behind him. His head nodded up and down. His eyes smarted almost as much as his backside and tears soon trickled down his face.

“Thank you, thank you,” he hissed through gritted teeth. “Ouch! Owww!”

Now, Mr Craddock turned his attention away from Pete’s bottom and attacked the backs of his thighs. That sent his son into spasms of pain. Heat seemed to be rising from the naked flesh. It was so hot Mr Craddock was sure he would be able to warm his hands.

It was time to wind down. But not before he took the brush on one more circuit. He pounded the peaks of the young man’s mounds. Then he went for the topside and by now Pete was breathless, gasping for air. So his dad hammered the undercurves, on the most sensitive sit-spot. Finally, he returned to the thighs.

Mr Craddock was almost as breathless as his son. His shirt clung to his back with sweat. Rivers of perspiration ran from his armpits. It was definitely time to stop.

“Stand up.”

Pete did not need telling twice. He bounded to his feet and hopped about while at the same time rubbing hard at his buttocks. He didn’t care that his cock and balls were bouncing up and down close to his dad’s face.

“Get dressed.”

It took Pete longer to get his shorts and trousers back on than it had to lower them. As he reached towards his feet the flesh across his buttocks stretched sending fresh waves of pain through his body. At last he was once again fully dressed. Colour was returning to his pale face and his breathing was now more regular. The intense pain in his backside was already easing and soon would become a constant throbbing. Before long it would just be a dull ache, but the pain would return over the coming hours every time he sat on a hard surface.

Mr Craddock felt sheepish. Even now he couldn’t fully understand what had happened. “How do you feel?” he asked and immediately felt what a stupid question that was to ask. In the circumstances.

Pete rubbed the seat of his trousers ruefully. “The guilt is all gone. I am so sorry for everything. I will be good from now on. I promise.”

My story took place in 1986 and I am happy to report that Pete kept his promise and from that day on became both a model citizen and a very loving son.

Picture credit: Ken Beverley

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More stories from Charles Hamilton II are on the MMSA website

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Charles Hamilton the Second

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Duncan and Uncle Henry

Duncan wheeled his bicycle up the pathway of No. 17 The Avenue. He let himself in and parked the bike in the hallway.

“Duncan!” It was his Uncle Henry and he sounded angry.

Duncan had expected this. He was twenty-two years old and in his final year at university. Things were not going well. His grades had plummeted and he had skipped a number of classes. If he didn’t buck up his ideas, he might fail his finals.

It was a woman of course. That was the distraction. She was a mere slip of a girl. Almost boyish. Most people probably wouldn’t have given her a second glance on the street or at a club. But Duncan was smitten.

“Duncan!” It was his uncle again. His anger had risen. “In here! Now.”

“Here” was the room Uncle Henry called his “study”. In fact, it was an ordinary living room, or “reception room” as the more snobbish neighbours called their version. Duncan took a deep breath, wiped the palms of his hands against the legs of his trousers and turned the handle of the door.

It was a small room, sparsely furnished. There was a small leather-topped desk in one corner, a sideboard, a single worn blue vinyl armchair and one dining-room chair. Incongruously, in another corner stood a wicker basket. And, inside were two yellow rattan school canes.

The only window in the room overlooked the back garden. A heavy green curtain was drawn across it blocking out most of the sun. A single bulb in the ceiling, partly obscured by a shade, provided the only light in the gloomy room.

Duncan had been in this study before: many times. He probably knew every inch of the room. He definitely knew how this encounter with Uncle Henry would play out.

Uncle Henry launched into a prepared sermon. He read out the young man’s latest grades. “You have a C+ for one,” he intoned. “Is that better or worse than the previous grade?”

He already knew the answer and Duncan knew that he knew. Duncan also knew this little charade would have to be endured before Uncle Henry was ready for the finale.

The university student shuffled his feet in embarrassment and stared down at the plain carpet. He had been through this routine many times previously with Uncle Henry, but he never got used to it. It was like being up before the headmaster at school. And the outcome would be the same too.

Uncle Henry also knew about the skipped lectures. Duncan had no choice. He admitted the lot, he was guilty as charged. There was no mitigation he could offer, except for his relationship with Sheila and Duncan was certain Uncle Henry did not want to know about her.

Uncle Henry wasn’t Duncan’s real uncle. He wasn’t a blood relation. Henry was a middle-aged man Duncan had met during his first year at university. There had been trouble then too. Like so many eighteen year olds let loose at university, he had no self-discipline. He got drunk, took drugs and partied. It would be a miracle if he survived the first year. Then along came Uncle Henry. He took care of what Henry called the boy’s “moral welfare” and turned around the young man’s life.

Uncle Henry rose from the seat behind the desk and strode a couple of steps to cross the room. Duncan stood motionless but his eyes followed the rather squat man as he gripped the vinyl armchair and swivelled it so that its back was now facing into the room.

No words were spoken between the older and the younger man. None needed to be. They both knew what was going to happen now. This wasn’t the first time this scene had been played and it wouldn’t be the last before Duncan finally graduated with his degree.

Satisfied that the chair was in a suitable position, Uncle Henry continued his journey across the study and rested at the wicker basket. There were two rattan canes waiting in front of him. To an inexperienced observer they looked identical. Both were a little over three feet in length (not counting the curved handle) and as thick as a pencil. But closer inspection revealed one was denser than the other; it would pack a considerable punch when whipped down at speed across the haunches of the young man standing before him. And more so on this occasion, since Uncle Henry intended to thrash Duncan on his naked bottom.

Uncle Henry flexed the rod between his two hands. Despite its thickness and density, it was a wickedly whippy cane. Duncan was still rooted in front of the desk, but he observed the older man swish the stick through empty air. The student had felt the sting of that cane across his backside many times in the past, but the swoosh it made as it flew through the air still intimidated him.

“Are you ready?” It was a strange question from Uncle Henry. It sounded as if the young man had a real choice and might reasonably reply, “No, I don’t think that I am. May we postpone this beating for a month or so?”

Duncan knew better than to smart-mouth Uncle Henry. He swallowed a “Yes, Uncle” and awaited further instructions.

They came immediately. “Stand by the chair. Up close.” Duncan took a deep gulp of air into his lungs and took up position.

“Trousers down please.”

He was wearing rather unfashionable cheap clothes. They used to call them “leisure trousers” or “sweat pants.” They were mostly polyester and had elastic at the waist. Duncan pinched the waistband at his hips and guided the trousers down over his buttocks and let them rest on his thighs.

Uncle Henry wheezed, exasperated. “All the way down. Down to your feet.”

Duncan blushed scarlet. Uncle had seen his bare bum and his cock and balls numerous times, but this part of the ritual caning always embarrassed the young man.

Soon the trousers were at his feet. Duncan’s snug-fitting canary yellow briefs did little to disguise the size of his private parts. His penis was still soft but it bulged against the tight cotton as if struggling to escape the confinement of his briefs. The briefs also emphasised the flatness of Duncan’s stomach. He was a very lean boy. He never worked out at the gym but he cycled everywhere. His muscular torso and slim legs were a testimony to that.

“Pants down,” Uncle Henry waited patiently. He tapped the cane against his own right leg and watched the young man before him slide the pants over his hips and then down his tight buttocks until they rested at his knees. His cock stirred as fresh air wafted against it. It was awake, but not yet ready to crow.

“Bend over.”

Obediently, Duncan leaned forward over the back of the vinyl chair and gripped the seat cushion. It was old and worn and had the faint aroma of body perspiration. It was impossible to sit on this chair if the room was hot without leaving a puddle of perspiration behind.

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Uncle Henry gripped the cane in his right hand and took up position. His preferred method of caning was to stand about three feet to the young man’s left (a cane’s length) and place the rod across the centre of the bottom, with its tip resting on the furthest cheek. Then he would withdraw the cane and arc it up before returning it at great force. That way Uncle Henry could ensure that the swipe would hit both buttocks equally. It was an effective technique and ensured the lad on the receiving end endured the most painful caning. It was method borne out of much experience.

Uncle Henry took his aim. There was the tiniest nick of a razor blade on Duncan’s crack where he had shaved that morning.

Swipe! The cane rose and fell and a pink line appeared immediately across the centre of Duncan’s buttocks. He mouthed a silent groan and screwed up his eyes. That hurt. A lot. But Duncan was no stranger to the lash of the cane. It would take much more than that to make him holler.

It was not an especially warm day, but perspiration already soaked the back of Uncle Henry’s shirt. His heartbeat raced and his breathing was heavy.

Swipe number two hit a fraction below the first. Duncan bunched up his fists as the pain registered first across his bum and then travelled up and down his legs. Huff, huff, huff, he wheezed.

Uncle Henry leaned over the young man. From his vantage point he could already see two deep welts had formed across the lad’s hairless cheeks. They were turning from a snowy-white to crimson. The back of Duncan’s neck was also scarlet, but when Uncle Henry leaned over further he saw the twenty-two-year-old’s face was deathly pale.

Uncle Henry stepped back and let fly with the third stroke. Duncan choked down a cry which triggered off a dry cough. Hack, hack, hack. He cleared his throat and clung on tightly to the chair’s seat and waited for the next cut to land.

Uncle Henry admired Duncan’s tolerance. He could take an almighty thrashing and show very little reaction. That didn’t mean it was not hurting the boy. It was. The agony was terrific. Sometimes it felt like the middle-aged man had pressed a hot wire into his cheeks.

Uncle Henry fondly remembered the first time he had ordered Duncan across the back of this same chair. It was six strokes for missing his curfew. It wasn’t even six-of-the-best; the strokes were lightly laid on, but Duncan roared when the first cut hit him and jumped up from the chair dancing up and down rubbing his backside furiously. What a palaver, Uncle Henry had thought. And Duncan still had his trousers and pants on.

Uncle Henry took aim again. Duncan felt the stick touch the underside of his cheeks, just where they met the thighs. “I’d better stay perfectly still,” he thought to himself. If he jumped about there was a real possibility the slash would miss his bum altogether and crash into the back of his legs. The agony would be unendurable if that happened.

Uncle Henry was an expert and he landed his stroke right on target. It was the “sit spot.” The weal that was forming across the bottom of the cheeks would be tender for some considerable time. Duncan would feel it each time he sat down, especially on a hard surface.

Number five was aimed right at the top of the cheeks, just at the base of the spine. Duncan sucked in great draughts of air. Despite his fortitude, his feet stamped up and down. That was the most painful cut yet. Sweat poured from his body. His black wavy hair was so damp it looked as if he had stepped from the shower.

“Steady boy. Keep still.” It was a kind instruction, not a barked order. Uncle Henry had a great affection for Duncan. He didn’t despise the young man. This was not a vengeance beating. The student needed the guiding hand of an older man, one more experienced in life. This caning would do Duncan the world of good. Uncle Henry knew without a shadow of doubt that was how Duncan felt too.

The sixth and final cut struck parallel to the previous five. Duncan repeated the military dance. His arse was on fire. He wanted to get up and rub away furiously at his rear end. But, he was well versed in the caning etiquette. He must first wait for permission to rise.

Uncle Henry was in no hurry. His own breathing was returning to normal and his heartrate was slowing. Quietly, he returned the cane to its place in the basket.

“All right Duncan. That’s over. Well done. You took that well. You may stand up.”

The student hauled himself to his feet. The agony was already easing, but he could not resist kneading his cheeks with some vigour. It didn’t help. But, within seconds the pain would turn to a powerful throbbing and very soon that would become a warm glow. Some of the welts were very tender and the pain would be reignited if he touched them. But, even now, only a minute or so since the beating stopped, the worst was over.

Unbidden, Duncan pulled up his briefs and trousers. He stood before Uncle Henry, his shining eyes cast down at the floor, awaiting the next move.

Uncle Henry could not look the boy in the face. He waved his hand in the general direction of the door and said, “Go to your room.”

Seconds later, Duncan stood in front of the bedroom mirror, poking his bum at the glass. There were six deep cuts, perfectly positioned parallel to one another running from the top of his buttocks to the bottom. Uncle Henry was a craftsman.

Gingerly, Duncan rubbed the palm of his right hand across the buttocks; they were still warm to the touch. His penis saluted and stood rock hard at forty-five degrees. Duncan stepped out of his trousers and briefs, kicked off his shoes, dealt with his socks and then tugged his shirt over his head. He stood completely naked.

Outside the door he heard floorboards creak. Then he knelt on the bed, spread his legs wide and buried his face in a pillow. He was ready to receive Uncle Henry.

This story was first uploaded in June 2016

Picture credit: Unknown

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

 

Winker Wilson’s visit

Mr Walter “Winker” Wilson exited the London Underground station and blinked in the early evening sunlight.

It was September and the weather could not decide if it was yet autumn. A gusty breeze welcomed him as he joined the crowds on the High Street. It was not cold enough for an overcoat, but he had the buttons fastened on his suit jacket.

He had not been to this place before. He had been given directions, but he wasn’t entirely sure he could find the house. It didn’t matter yet, he was early. He had twenty minutes in which to complete what should be a ten minute walk.

Wilson wore a blue pin-striped suit and sported a bowler hat. He always carried a furled umbrella, come rain or shine. He would have gone unnoticed in the City of London where he had joined the Underground. But, here in the poorer eastern part of London he stuck out like a sore thumb.

But Wilson, the thirty-six-year-old stockbroker, realised none of this. He was apprehensive about the visit he was about to make. He was unsure why this was so. He, himself, had arranged the meeting. Nobody forced him to be here. He could’ve been on the commuter train to his home in Weybridge.

He partly remembered the way. It went something like this: leave the station and turn right. Cross the road at the lights and take the first turning on the left. After that the details were a bit hazy. Walk down the road for a spell, turn right and then left and the house was in that street. He couldn’t even remember the name of the street, so he couldn’t ask a passer-by for help.

He didn’t want to do that. If he asked the way, he was sure the stranger would read his mind. He would guess his ultimate destination. His secret would be out.

The lights were faulty and the rush-hour traffic was heavy. Wilson had to make an undignified dash between a Ford Anglia and a bus. Otherwise he might be left standing at the kerb all night long.

He tried to look nonchalant, but inside he was churning. He was convinced every face he passed was staring at him. Some were. They rarely saw a toff in a bowler hat in these parts.

He turned left as instructed. It was a long narrow residential road. Large houses, some damaged by wartime bombs, lined the street. Already some had been renovated; small flats and bed-sitting rooms, where large expensive houses had once stood.

The directions were excellent. He found the street without difficulty. He was nearly there. He paused and looked down the road. It was almost deserted. But not quite. Small children played hop-scotch in the road. Two women stood on a doorstep gossiping.

Wilson paused. Did he want to go through with this? Was it too late to change his mind?

He had confirmed by telephone that he was on his way. Mr Teddington was expecting him. He was preparing for his visit. Wilson couldn’t possibly back down now.

The two women roared with laughter when he passed them by. He had raised his hat and bid them “Good evening ladies.”

“Lor,” one crowed, “I’ve neffer seen nuffink loike it.”

Number 27 was his destination. He felt the stares of the women burn into his neck. Did they know where he was going? Had they watched similar gentlemen in the past make the same journey? Would they still be there on the doorstep gossiping when he departed?

The house was shabby. It shocked Wilson, but he wasn’t sure why. What had he expected in a district such as this? It was one of the poorest parts of London and heavily damaged by the Luftwaffe. He stood for a moment on the doorstep. The door was coloured green, but had peeled so badly that blue paint poked through in large patches.

Wilson lost his nerve. This was just like reporting to the headmaster’s study all those years ago at St Tom’s. No, he realised, it had been a mistake. He would go. Later he would telephone and apologise.

Suddenly, the door inched open. A small elderly man, easily in his sixties stood there. He smiled. A weak smile, most of the old man’s teeth were missing. Despite his shortness he stood erect. He had presence.

“Mr Tompkins?” he smiled again. The puzzled look on Wilson’s face did not deter him. Often his gentlemen did not give him their real name.

“Yes, indeed, yes,” Wilson blustered. He felt his face glow scarlet.

“Then please come in.”

It was a surprisingly spacious house and remarkably clean considering the shabbiness of the exterior.

“Put your hat and umbrella there,” Mr Teddington said, nodding towards a table in the hallway.

Wilson did as instructed.

“Now, stand and face the wall. Hands on head.” It was a curt command. Wilson knew that tone of voice. He had endured it many times from masters at school. It was the tone that said, “I am in charge and you will do as you are told. Or else.”

Wilson hesitated.

“You are in enough trouble as it is boy, do not make me lose my patience.”

It was astonishing. Mr Teddington could have been old Flynn, his form master at St Tom’s.

Obediently, he faced the wall and after unbuttoning his jacket so he was free to move his arms, he locked his fingers and placed them on his head. The Brylcreem in his hair felt sticky against his palms.

“You will wait there. In precisely two minutes you will knock on my study door.” He nodded to a dark brown door across the hall. “When I give instructions, you will enter.”

With that, Mr Teddington went into the study.

There was still time to escape. The front door was only yards away. He could be through it and on his way back to the Underground station before Mr Teddington knew he was gone.

He could do that. But he wouldn’t. He wanted this. No, he needed this. It had taken him years to pluck up the courage to make the appointment. He would hate himself forever if he did not go through with it.

He stared closely at the fading wallpaper. There was a faint smell of damp coming from somewhere close by. Even that reminded him of his old school.

With his hands firmly on his head Wilson was unable to access his pocket watch. He improvised. Slowly in his head he began to count. “One … two …”

This concentration helped to steady his rapid breathing but did nothing for his racing heart.

“.. one-hundred-and-nineteen … one-hundred-and-twenty.” He felt like a very small child starting a game of hide-and-seek. “Well, here I come”, he thought, “Ready or not.”

He crossed the hallway to the study. He hesitated. Suddenly and for the first time the absurdity of his situation struck him. It’s too late now he thought and rapped his knuckles on the door.

“Enter!”

It was a clear command delivered in the pompous tone of voice so beloved of schoolmasters across the land. Wilson breathed deeply, turned the handle and opened the door.

Wilson was no fan of science fiction. Had he been, he might have ascribed the scene to time travel. The room was decked out as a schoolmaster’s study. It could have been 1938 again and he could have been back at St Tom’s.

Mr Teddington sat behind a large leather-topped desk. He was resplendent in an academic gown. Like so many worn by schoolmasters, it was old and a bit tatty. On his head sat rather unsteadily a mortar-board cap. The desk itself had two columns of drawers. It probably weighed a ton. A stuffed horsehair chair with low arms and a high back dominated the middle of the room. There were four straight-backed wooden chairs and a low table. Shelves ran alongside the whole of one wall, stacked high with what appeared to Wilson to be pre-War geography textbooks.

Behind the desk attached to the wall was a glass-fronted cabinet. Wilson had never seen anything like it before. Even at St Tom’s none of the masters had such a thing. It must have been specially made. It was a cabinet containing five curve-handled school canes. They were displayed as one might show a prized stuffed fish.

“Stand there boy,” Teddington growled. He pointed to a spot two feet in front of his monumental desk. Obediently, Wilson shuffled into place. He had assumed such a position many times at St Tom’s. He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head. It was a submissive posture, appropriate to his status. He was no longer a successful young stockbroker; he was a thoroughly naughty boy.

Teddington jawed him. The list of the boy’s misdeeds was long and varied. What had he to say for himself?

Not much. As all boys seem to do when confronted by such a question, Wilson mumbled, “Don’t know, Sir.”

“Don’t know boy!” Teddington ejaculated. “Don’t know! Well you’ll know what-for soon enough.”

“Look at me boy.” The schoolmaster’s glare roasted Wilson.

Miserably, Wilson raised his head and gazed back at the man who was shortly to thrash his backside. Teddington was small in stature; he was easily two inches shorter than Wilson himself. But, when he was standing he stood erect, with shoulders back. He was a military man of some experience, Wilson supposed. His face was lined and dominated by a hook nose. Untidy side whiskers stretched from under his cap to close to his chin.

“I am going to beat you,” he barked. “I am going to beat you most severely.”

With that, he rose from the desk, turned on his heels and faced the glass cabinet. The five canes were of different lengths and thicknesses. Teddington had already made his choice. He would use his favourite. It was an ashplant of about three feet in length and a little warped from use. It was as thick as a pencil and frayed at the “business end,” a consequence of landing many times with some force across the seat of stretched trousers.

Wilson watched impassively. He had been eighteen years old – a senior man at school – when he had last been beaten. That was half of his lifetime ago. He had missed the sting of the cane. Hardly a week passed by without him reminiscing fondly about St Tom’s. The schoolmasters prefects and the head beak himself strode around the buildings and grounds with a cane constantly under their arms (or so it seemed to the boys) waiting for the slightest excuse to slip it into their hand and apply it across the seat of an errant schoolboy.

Teddington was ready.

“Please remove your jacket and place it on my desk.”

Wilson’s heart raced and hurriedly he complied with the instruction.

“Stand by the chair,” Teddington preferred not to engage in histrionics ahead of a beating, nonetheless he swished the cane at the dusty armchair to emphasise his point.

Wilson took up position.

“Lower your bags and bend over the chair.”

Wilson suppressed a smile. This was the moment he had been dreaming of for these many years. Eagerly, he unhitched his belt, unbuttoned the fly and let his heavy pin-striped trousers fall to his feet.

The armchair had a high back, far too high for even the tallest, lankiest, man-boy to put himself over and stretch out his arms to clutch the seat cushion for dear life.

Wilson knew the routine in such cases was for a boy to drape himself over one of the upholstered arms, tuck his knees into the side of the chair and thereby raise his behind high to meet the thwack of the ashplant.

He was over the chair in a jiffy. His head was down low in the dusty seat cushion and his bottom held high and at an angle; all the better to receive the stinging cuts from the schoolmaster’s whippy cane.

It was an authentic schoolboy beating. Six hard swipes delivered with vim. Each landed across the very centre of both buttocks. It was a “six” laid on with an energy and enthusiasm.

In his imagination, Walter Wilson was once more “Winker,” the incorrigible schoolboy of his youth. He was no longer in a strange house in bomb-damaged London. He was at the elegant St Tom’s school, the educational establishment for the sons of the gentry and the rising middle-classes.

He was showing his arse, but not to a paid professional “master.” In his imaginings it was Mr Flynn, his form master who was about to whip his bottom to shreds.

He shut his teeth and closed his eyes tightly and waited for the first shockwave.

It was not long in coming.

z used drawing cane Mag (37)

It was as if Teddington were beating a carpet. The cane rose and fell in a succession of swipes that sounded like pistol-shots.  As the pain seared from his buttocks and engulfed his entire body, Wilson struggled to stay calm. A chap was allowed to holler when the cane was slashed into his flesh with vigour; it was a natural thing to do; but a chap must not blub. Blubbing was completely forbidden. No matter how severe the whopping, a boy must not weep tears. He would never hear the end of it from his fellows.

It was not merely “six.”  It was as thorough a licking as Mr Teddington had ever administered; such a licking as Wilson had seldom or never experienced before. He yelped and he howled and he squirmed and he roared, and still the cane swiped and swiped.

Then, it was over.

“Stand up boy.” It was a fierce command.

Wilson eased himself to his feet. It had been a long time since he had endured so much pain. Instinctively his palms shot to cover his buttocks.

“Stop that! How dare you!” Mr Teddington thundered. Wilson bunched his hands into fists and placed them at his sides.

“Get dressed. Hurry up boy.”

The pain was excruciating. Had the cane felt so awful when he was at St Tom’s? Memory plays tricks on people; he couldn’t be certain.

The agony was subsiding by the time Wilson was once again fully dressed. He stood motionless as the schoolmaster replaced the cane carefully in his magnificent cabinet.

Teddington turned to face Wilson once more.

“I want you to go into the hallway and face the wall. Place your hands on your head once more,” he barked.

Then he added, “I don’t want to see you rubbing your bottom.”

With his buttocks still throbbing, Wilson exited the study.

He stood as instructed, reliving the events of the past few minutes in his head. It had been an eighteen year wait, but it had been worth it.

Suddenly, the study door opened and Teddington emerged, dressed once again in his “civilian” clothes.

“Come,” his broad smile cracked his rather ugly face, “Let’s have tea. The kettle should have boiled by now.”

This story was first uploaded in April 2016

Picture credit: Charles H Chapman (The Magnet)

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Caught in the act

new story 3

ADVISORY: This  tale is a little darker than the ones I usually tell – Charles

z used bed twosome (14a)

Mitch’s head pounded and his throat hurt but at least the room had stopped spinning. Who was the beautiful naked boy in bed beside him? He had a name. Tim? Jim? He couldn’t remember. He was sure it was something basic. The sun blazed through the window so it must be late. How was he going to get rid of this stranger?

Tim / Jim rolled on his back and gurgled. Mitch could hear his own stomach heaving. What had he taken last night. Suddenly the beautiful boy’s eyes opened. Mitch lay and stared. He really was a dish. Tim / Jim froze. Mitch smiled. He didn’t know Mitch’s name either.

“Mitch,” he introduced himself.

“Tom,” the no-longer stranger replied. Mitch nodded as if this was information he already had.

They lay in pleasant silence. Maybe, Mitch thought, there’s no need to kick Tom out of bed quite yet. He reached over and allowed Tom to roll into his arm. Two cocks crowed.

Time passed lazily. Mitch came too with a start, a car was pulling onto the drive. Shit. He sat bolt upright. “What’s up?” Tom drawled.

“Quick get up. Get dressed hurry,” Mitch panicked.

Tom grinned. “I can’t. My clothes are in the kitchen. Where you ripped them off me.”

Mitch groaned, “No really. You must go. Now. Before he finds you.”

They both heard the front door open and close. “It’s my uncle,” Mitch breathed.

“Uncle?” Tom asked.

“He’s not supposed to back until tomorrow. This is his house. The bastard’s tricked me. He’s come to check up on me.”

“Uncle?” Tom was puzzled.

“Not real uncle,” Mitch gushed, “Not flesh and blood,” he shrugged his shoulders, “You know, Uncle.”

Tom laughed a full fruity roar, “Oh Uncle. Like the guy who pays the rent, buys you clothes. Feeds you. Keeps you.”

Mitch flushed, annoyed, “I would put it quite like that. We have a very loving relationship.”

Tom sniped, “Yeah, of course. He loves you and you love his money.”

Just then a cry carried up the stairs, “Mitch, are you up there!”

Mitch pushed Tom from the bed, “You really have got to go.”

“I’ve got no clothes.”

The bedroom door flew open, “Mitch, you …” Uncle stood in the threshold stunned. “Who the fuck are you? What’s going on here? Mitch?” Tom hopped from foot to foot completely naked. Uncle roared at him, “Get the fuck out of my house!” Tom dodged through the door and hightailed it down the stairs.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Uncle turned and followed the naked boy through the house. Mitch closed his eyes tight and fell back against the pillow. Was he in for it now!

For the next minutes he listened to the angry raised voices from below. Then the front door opened and slammed shut. That would be the last he ever saw of Tom. “Mitch!” Uncle was climbing the stairs, Mitch gripped the duvet and pulled it over his head.

There was no escape. Uncle towered over him. He was tall and at forty-six he was still fit, and though he carried a little extra weight it was well-distributed. He wore straight-leg corduroy pants, lace-up shoes and a cardigan sweater with a plaid shirt. His big expressive flint-grey eyes showed his fury and at that moment his usually smooth, pale skin was turning ever redder.

“Some whore you picked up last night!” he screeched. “I’m gone two days and you’re picking up whores.”

Mitch knew better than to argue, but he couldn’t resist, “He’s not a whore. We met in the Three Fishers.”

Uncle’s face purpled, “The Three Fishers, only whores go there.”

Mitch’s mouth opened but he could find no words.

“And in my house!” Uncle’s voice rose a pitch. “In my bed!”

“Sorry,” Mitch mumbled. It was an entirely inadequate response but it was all he could think to say. It was like pouring petrol on a flame.

“Sorry!” Uncle screamed. “Sorry! Yes, you will be you little bastard. I’ll make you sorry. You wait and see.” He stormed from the room.

“Shit,” Mitch said aloud, even though he was now quite alone. He covered his head with the pillow.

Minutes later Uncle was back. Mitch stared in astonishment. His mouth gaped, his heart beat fast, gripped with fear. “No common Uncle. I’m sorry I won’t do it again. Please …”

Uncle sneered, “Too right you won’t do it again. Not after I’ve finished with you. You git.”

“But, please ….”

“I’m going to give you the hiding of your life. I’ll teach you.” He threw a heavy two-tailed leather strap and a heavy wooden paddle on the bed. “Stand up. Get that duvet off the bed. Pillows too. I want everything clear.”

Fear rooted Mitch to the bed. “Now!” Uncle barked as he grabbed the twenty-two-year-old by the wrist and began hauling him to his feet. “I’ll take the skin of your backside.”

“No please, Uncle, please ..” Mitch whimpered.

“I’m not kidding this time. Not a playful smack on the bare bum with my slipper. Or my hairbrush over your pyjama bottoms. No nawty-likkle boy needs his botty-wotty spanked. This is for real.” He stormed from the room leaving Mitch sweating profusely.

When Uncle returned Mitch nearly fell to the floor in a faint. He carried four lengths of strong rope. “On the bed, face down,” he snapped. Mitch eyed the door, could he make a dash for it? Then what. He was stark naked, where would he run? There was no place to hide. Uncle had no temper left. “I said, face down,” he grabbed a hunk of Mitch’s gelled hair and pulled, making him yell with pain and terror. He threw him onto the mattress and climbed on his back. Mitch was pinned, breathless.

From there Uncle easily took one hand and tied the wrist to the corner of the bed. Then the other. Then the feet. He had been a Boy Scout long ago; he knew his knots. Mitch was helpless. “Please, no uncle,” he blubbed.

z used bed by Paul Michael Davies restrained (1)

“You cheating, ungrateful bastard,” Uncle spoke rapidly. “Of all the things I’ve done for you. Given you.” His heart thumped and his hands shook, “I got you a job. I put a roof over your head. If it wasn’t for me you’d still be sleeping in a shop doorway. You bastard!”

He stood away from the bed to admire his handiwork. Mitch was totally naked, spread-eagled. His bouncy buttocks quivered. “I could fuck you senseless, you know that?” he scowled. “But you’d love it, wouldn’t you,” he raged. “No I’m not going to fuck your arse, I’m going to whip it. Flail the skin off it. Until there’s nothing left but raw meat. What do you think about that then?”

Mitch sobbed into the mattress, “Please, no Uncle. I’m sorry.”

Uncle fingered the leather strap. It was a specially-made two tailed taws. The business end was about thirty-five centimetres long and maybe fifty millimetres thick. He took hold of its handle and swished the strap through the air, grinning manically as he watched it fly. “Perfect,” he taunted. “Just perfect.”

Mitch wriggled and writhed. He could move his hips and buckle his knees but the ropes were tied tight. He was going nowhere. His arse would always be in Uncle’s firing line. “Right, let’s get started,” Uncle wheezed, already he was breathless. He measured the weight of the taws in his hand, then lay it across the highest peak of Mitch’s mounds. He rubbed gently, delighted with the effect it had on Mitch who tensed his back and buttock muscles. Uncle smiled as he raised the taws high. He let it hover in the air for a moment before flexing his arm muscles to bring the strap crashing down.

Mitch yelped, his body buckled, his arms pulled on the tight ropes. A dark pink strip glistened across his arse. Uncle’s nodding head signalled his satisfaction, he raised the strap once more, let it hover and brought it down just below the first. Now Mitch had a burning stripe about ten centimetres wide. He did the bucking and the pulling again, his terror mounting with the realisation that he was trapped. I’m going to whip your arse. Flail the skin off it. Until there’s nothing left but raw meat – had Uncle really meant that?

The next landed lower, into the under crease and across the most sensitive part of the arse. Mitch howled, a full-throated shriek. He gulped great sobs. His head bounced up and down on the mattress. Tears cascaded down his scarlet face. Restrained as he was, he could do nothing but bounce his bottom up and down as if he was having sex with the mattress beneath him.

Thwappp! Another lash, this time higher on the buttocks. Mitch yelled louder. “Pipe down, be quiet,” Uncle chided gently. “You’ll have the neighbours complaining.” Mitch convulsed with great gulps and sobbing. “There, there,” Uncle snarled. He walked to a dressing table, opened a drawer and reached in. He found a pair of balled-up socks which without warning he stuffed into Mitch’s mouth. “Put a sock in it,” Uncle mocked as he watched his young companion splutter and choke.

“Now, don’t disturb the neighbours,” Uncle taunted as he took aim and slashed down the heavy strap deliberately ensuring it landed on top of an already throbbing welt. “You’ll think twice before cheating on me again,” he hissed as Mitch’s body hovered off the mattress.

Yellow bile dribbled from the corner of Mitch’s mouth. Uncle raised and thrashed down the heavy strap. Up and down it went another six times. Mitch’s body contorted with agony, his face was a deep scarlet and his arse cheeks a dark bloodied red.

Three streets away Tom sat nonchalantly in a bus shelter. It was Sunday so he would have a long wait. His heartrate had returned to normal and he was no longer sweating. His stomach rumbled, he could murder a bacon sandwich. Already he was starting to forget Mitch.

Picture credits: Unknown and Paul Michael Davies

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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

charleshamiltonthesecond@gmail.com

Warren’s awakening

Warren Hunter looked out the bedroom window anxiously. Any moment now his uncle would call him down to the sitting room. It would be a spanking for sure. He couldn’t complain. He knew he deserved everything that was coming to him.

Warren was in turmoil. He was so ashamed. How had things come to this?

He had been sent to stay at Uncle Alfred’s by his mother. She said it would be temporary; a “cooling off” period. But, he knew his uncle’s reputation; his arse would get a “warming up” first.

The row and the tears had been the final straw. He had been giving his mum a hard time for years. He was nineteen years old, there was no way she could control him. He didn’t have the words to explain what was going on in his head. Warren knew there was something wrong with him; but he didn’t know what. He had a crappy job in a supermarket; at home he rowed with everyone; his mum, his two older brothers and even the neighbours. Dad had walked out years ago leaving mum to cope with the kids on her own.

“Warren! Get down here!” Uncle Alfred was at the foot of the stairs. The teenager hesitated. He knew what would happen now. What choice did he have? Take a spanking or not; those were his options. If he did he could stay at his uncle’s place and try to sort out his life. If he didn’t; he’d be sleeping on the streets.

Warren was no philosopher; he wasn’t a deep thinker. If someone told him he was a “pragmatist” he wouldn’t know what they meant. He just knew he had to go through with this. He’d never been spanked before. Hell, he thought, a spanking, how bad could it be?

Slowly he padded down the stairs to find Uncle Alfred in the front room.

A dining room chair had already been placed in the centre of the room. Taking the teenager by the arm, Uncle Alfred led him to the chair and sat down, leaving Warren to stand as his uncle pushed up the sleeves of his own shirt. Then Uncle Alfred leaned forward and removed the bedroom slipper from his right foot.

A shiver went through Warren. His resolve to accept the spanking was evaporating. He wanted suddenly to hang back, to plead for mercy, promise to do better, to do anything if Uncle Alfred would just not spank him.

His uncle was not a pretty sight. He was in his forties and had a large belly that in his present sitting position flopped across his lap. His legs were fat and when his uncle parted them slightly he provided an ample platform for his nephew to drape himself over.

This might be Warren’s first-ever spanking but his uncle was a veteran. He had developed a ritual over many years. Quietly, he spoke, “Take down your jeans.” And when his nephew stared back with alarm, he added reasonably, “You won’t feel a thing with them on.”

Uncle Alfred squeezed the bedroom slipper in his fist and watched the nineteen-year-old fumble with the waistband of his jeans. He didn’t seem able to get his fingers to work. Slowly the fly buttons were opened and the denims slithered down his thighs and rested at his knees.

“Please God,” he prayed silently, “Don’t make me take down my underpants too.”

Uncle Alfred shifted his vast buttocks on the hard chair and straightened his back. He was almost ready to get on with the job.

“OK, over here,” Uncle Alfred slapped his knee to indicate Warren should bend over. It was a simple command, but one his uncle expected to be obeyed. Warren stood his ground, unable to move. Then he took a half step back, as if he intended to run away.

“Doh!” his uncle wheezed. Then, he took hold of the teenager’s arm and forcibly pulled him down across his knees. To break his fall, Warren placed both hands on the carpet in front of him. His legs were left dangling behind him.

Uncle Alfred wrapped his arm around his nephew’s waist. “Keep your legs straight, raise your bottom higher.”

z used otk white pants chair (19)

Warren twisted and turned until he was positioned to his uncle’s satisfaction: head low, bottom high. He could see his uncle’s feet and the ugly carpet. Dust tickled the back of the teenager’s throat

“Spread your legs more.”

Warren gasped as he felt Uncle Alfred grip the elasticated waist of his pants. The thought, “Oh, no! He’s going to pull them down!” flashed through his mind. But instead his uncle smoothed out the cotton of the boy’s underpants, eliminating all creases. Soon, the tight gleaming-white pants fitted the buttocks like a second skin.

“Give me your hand,” it was a final instruction. Uncle Alfred took hold of his nephew’s wrist and turned the boy’s arm up his back. No matter how hard Uncle Alfred spanked him and how much it hurt, Warren was trapped across his uncle’s knee. He wasn’t about to go anywhere until Uncle Alfred said so.

“Right young man this is going to teach you a lesson.”

Then, Uncle Alfred gripped the slipper tightly and put it to work, smacking Warren’s bum soundly and briskly. The teenager winced the moment the first slap hit home. Uncle kept up a momentum. Slap! Slap! Slap! Three on the left cheek: Slap! Slap! Slap! three on the right. With great expertise, he concentrated on the very tender spot where the bottom joins the thighs, dealing out crisp smacks.

Warren screwed his eyes closed with pain each time the slipper crashed into his bum. He was a lean lad and didn’t have much padding in the buttocks area.

One smack followed another as Uncle Alfred put the slipper to use. The pain of the whacking took the teenager’s breath away, but he resolved to remain silent. Warren wriggled as the slipper connected time and again with his buttocks. Uncle Alfred spanked him thirty times or more; then paused to get a tighter grip on the slipper in his hand and then let fly again.

Uncle Alfred hadn’t said how many strokes of the slipper Warren was to get and after a dozen or so, the boy was finding it hard going to stick to his resolve and remain silent.

He let out silent yells as the next three slaps fell in rapid succession, all landing on the same sensitive “sit spot” on the right cheek.

Uncle Alfred set about his task with a will, but he too was silent. The only sound in the room was the thud, thud, thud of his slipper as it hit Warren’s bum.

And so it went on, slap after slap. He was making a good job covering all over the target area. Some spanks went high, some low. Now on the left cheek: now on the right. Warren could feel his bum heating up with the punishment. It would be red raw by the time Uncle Alfred had finished.

Then, without warning, he took hold of the top of Warren’s pants and pulled them down, not too far, but enough to expose both cheeks. The boy grunted. Uncle Alfred resumed the slippering, perhaps twice as hard as before.

Warren raised his head and flinched in pain with every blow. He could hardly catch his breath, it hurt so badly, but he bit his lip so did not make a sound.

On and on he went, spanking Warren’s bare arse. His body was making involuntary movements with pain, but his uncle still had the boy’s arm pinned.

Warren’s shoulders and head jerked high as each blow from the slipper struck his bum.

His eyes were watering, but he told himself, “I will not cry, I will not cry.” But, he knew he wasn’t going to be able to stand much more without breaking down.

The humiliation was intense. There he was a nineteen-year-old man draped helplessly across Uncle Alfred’s knee, trousers at his feet, bare bum in the air, getting spanked like a little kid. His face was as scarlet as his battered bottom.

To Warren it seemed like an eternity, but the slippering lasted less than three minutes.

“Now, boy, you can stand up.”

In considerable pain, he rose from his uncle’s knees. Instinctively, his hands shot to rub his blistered backside. But, connecting his hands with the raw flesh only increased, the pain, it did not relieve it.

Warren was breathing hard, he was sweating badly and his eyes were full of tears, but he was not crying. His resolve had won through.

He twisted his body to inspect the damage; his buttocks were a deep cherry colour.

Gingerly, he pulled up his underpants. Uncle Alfred remained silent. He had delivered his punishment and as far as he was concerned it was all over. Until the next time.

Warren bent to his ankles and recovered his jeans. His hands were shaking, but he managed to button up the fly and buckle his belt.

“Go to your room.”

Warren took the stairs two at a time and crashed through the door into his bedroom. Within seconds his jeans and pants were back at his ankles. He pointed his bum at the dressing table mirror and traced the contours of his buttocks with his fingertips. The pain had mostly gone, but he found it would return if he pressed into his bony globes. He did and it felt really good. Warren had never looked at his bum before; not closely. It was almost totally bald; there were some wisps of hair in his crack that he’d never noticed before.

It was quite small. He could cup a cheek in the palm of one hand. There wasn’t much “give” either. Unlike his fat uncle, Warren was lean and wiry.

The teenager leaned forward and thrust his buttocks at the mirror. Without warning his cock stood stiff. Whoops. It always did have a mind of its own. It had embarrassed Warren on numerous occasions.

He lay on the bed and stroked it, reliving in his mind the past ten minutes. He imagined what he must have looked like draped over his uncle’s lap; bum held high. The more he pictured the more his todger ached.

Somehow, he knew this wasn’t the end of it. There’d be more spankings before he could demonstrate he was mature enough to be allowed home. Or would there? Maybe next time it would a more severe punishment.

Warren closed his eyes and saw himself bent over the back of the old worn green settee in the living room. Uncle Alfred stands behind him swishing an old-fashioned school cane. Warren’s trousers are at his feet; his pants at his knees. His bared buttocks are raised high. The teenager’s head is low, he is almost chewing the cushion.

Uncle taps the cane gently across the centre of the cheeks. They vibrate gently in anticipation of the searing pain to come.

Uncle lifts the cane high and brings it crashing down.

Back in the bedroom Warren shot a load all over his tight flat stomach.

Picture credit: Unknown

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

 

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It is what it is

One hot summer afternoon

Dad’s despair

 

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

The headmaster’s guests

The headmaster and his two guests sat drinking tea in his study. The meeting looked to be a success. They had toured the school and they both seemed very impressed. Perhaps a deal was imminent.

There was a tap on the door. Blast, the headmaster silently cursed. He had forgotten all about Thompson.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he nodded towards the door of his study. “Something I must attend to.” Then more loudly he called, “Come!”

The door inched open slowly and stopped.

“Well come in boy! Don’t keep me waiting!”

Then a face popped round the door. It was a shiny face, a face that liked to smile a lot. But, not that afternoon. There was nothing to smile about – not when the face’s owner had been summoned to the headmaster’s study.

“Come in boy,” the headmaster had now all but forgotten his important visitors.

A miserable sixth-form boy shuffled into the study and then stopped still: puzzled. He had been in this room many times before and he knew entirely what his fate this afternoon would be. But never before did he have an audience.

“Well Thompson,” the headmaster intoned, affecting a grave expression. Like all headmasters he could be a bit of a ham actor when the occasion demanded it. “You know why you have been sent for.” It was a statement as much as a question.

“Yes, Sir,” the eighteen-year-old prefect eyed the visitors apprehensively, still unsure what part they were to play in the little drama that was about to unfold.

“Good. Then don’t let us waste any more time. Go through into Mrs Tomkinson’s office, she has left for the day. I’ll deal with you in a moment.”

The teenager blinked, almost in gratitude. So it wasn’t going to be a public thrashing after all.

The two visitors look on in awe as the headmaster strolled to a cupboard, opened it and extracted a thick crook-handled cane. Without a further word he exited into the secretary’s office, accidentally leaving the door open a little.

Both men remained silent, at first not daring to look each other in the eye. Joshua Durnford fidgeted in his seat and crossed his legs. His companion Winker Wilson watched Durnford’s eyes shine as almost inaudible voices drifted in from the adjacent room. Then there was the sound of a cane being swished through the air a few times before it landed with a resounding crack. Four times the room was filled with the sound of the swish and crack of the cane. Twack number four was met with a loud yowl!

Sweat moistened Durnford’s brow when he heard the authoritative voice of the headmaster say, “Bend over. If you stand up again you will receive extra strokes, do you understand?” There followed a moment of silence and then two more cracks.

Still the two men stayed quiet, unwilling to acknowledge to one another what was taking place next door. Sweat trickled down Durnford’s neck and his hand shook a little as he raised the teacup to his lips.

The door opened and Dr Burnham returned, replaced the cane in the cupboard and sat down and as if nothing had happened. “Apologies gentlemen, now where were we?”

An hour or so later all three men sat in the VIP lounge of the rugby club sipping their third whiskies. Durnford seemed only to have one thing on his mind.

“Headmaster, this is 1968 I didn’t think they still used corporal punishment.”

The headmaster had not expected this to be their topic of conversation, but answered nonetheless. “It has indeed fallen into disuse in some schools, particularly, I believe, the state schools, but in high-class private schools such as ours, it is an important feature. We find the parents appreciate their sons are in a disciplined environment. It is why they send them to us and why they are willing to pay high fees.”

The headmaster was keen to impress Durnford. He was trying to sell him Draffield Independent Grammar School, of which he owned ninety percent of the shares. He knew Durnford from the rugby club as a very successful and wealthy entrepreneur. When Durnford heard the school was for sale, he had said he might buy it. A traditional (almost old-fashioned) school fitted in with his interests, he had said.

The headmaster knew the school was a robust business for now, but the socialist government had many cabinet ministers who did not support private education, so the future was less certain. If he could sell now he could retire very comfortably indeed.

“Do you use corporal punishment much, headmaster?” Dr Burnham was nothing if not perceptive and he noticed that Durnford appeared to have an unusual interest in the subject.

“No more than is necessary. I find once the boys understand the consequences of breaking the rules, they do not do so.”

Durnford leaned forward in his chair, spilling whisky from his glass. “But, headmaster, do you believe caning actually works?”

Dr Burnham noticed Durnford had referred to him as “headmaster” several times, even though they had been on first name terms for years. It was then the headmaster had the germ of an idea.

“It depends how you do it. If you do not cane a boy properly then you will have failed, he will learn nothing from it. However, if you cane him hard he will learn everything that you wish to teach him. The intense agony of the caning is short lived. I believe it to be a simple choice, a temporary sore and very bruised and painful bottom, or a lifetime of failure.”

The headmaster lapsed into silence and studied his companion who appeared to be debating with himself what to say next. So, the headmaster gave him the lead. “What do you think Thomas?”

Durnford blushed, a little, but this time it was not the effect of the whisky. “I was never caned at my school. I never went to a posh school like yours,” he trailed off regretfully, “just an ordinary Board school.”

Wilson’s ears pricked up. He had been Durnford’s business partner for many years but he never knew that. Wilson had assumed Durnford was a public school man like himself. What an oik, he hadn’t been to public school at all, just some simple council school.

He wanted to know more. “So tell me Thomas, were you thrashed at school?”

Durnford blushed and took a gulp of whisky as if distressed by the question, “No, we didn’t have the cane, nor the slipper. Nothing like that really,” he sounded disappointed and fell into an embarrassed silence.

“More drinks gentlemen” Durnford was relieved that the waiter had appeared from nowhere and they ordered another round of doubles.

“Of course,” Wilson said, enjoying his social superiority, “I was head boy at my public school, St Tom’s, and as such was allowed to cane the younger boys. This was long time ago of course. In the thirties.”

Durnford felt a surge of excitement and the whisky loosened his tongue and the words just poured out. “How did you cane them? How many strokes did you give? Was it on the trousers? I hear in some schools it was done on the bare?”

Dr Burnham’s eyebrows knotted and he smiled to himself. Now, he had the measure of this man.

Durnford, embarrassed by his outburst, swigged on his whisky; the men had not eaten and he realised he was more than a little drunk.

Winker Wilson had himself been thrashed many times at his school. All the boys had been; often by the senior boys who were prefects. Then, as they progressed up to the sixth-form and became prefects themselves, they had in turn beaten the younger boys. Such were the traditions of England’s finest – and not so finest – public schools.

Winker had loved the power that came with being head boy and he told his tale to his two drunken companions with some relish.

“At school there were several places where the chaps would go for a smoke after classes and on this day the prefects launched a co-ordinated attack. We raided all the smoking holes. We must have caught seven or eight boys.

“The worst of it was that one of the illicit smokers was a chap from the upper sixth. Charter, I think his name was. He wasn’t a prefect and so was subject to the same rules as everyone else.”

Durnford’s eyes shone in anticipation at the next part of the story and he shifted in his chair, crossing and uncrossing his legs in the vain hope that his companions would not notice his excitement.

Wilson relished increasing his embarrassment.

“So, I sent him to my wait outside my study. Poor chap, he was so embarrassed. He must have been eighteen years old, nineteen maybe, and he knew what was coming and there was nothing he could do about it,” Wilson almost giggled at the memory.

“I arrived and instructed him to enter. ‘Face the wall Charter’. I ordered as if he were one of the junior boys. He had no option but to comply. I had complete authority over him.”

He swigged more whisky, studying Durnford’s posture as he continued his story. “I began my preparations. The area in front of my desk was already clear of any obstruction so I placed a small chair about three feet away and sideways on to the front edge of my desk. I fetched a suitable cane from my small collection of five such implements in the corner cupboard and placed it on my desk.

“Charter had of course been caned previously – we all had – but it still came as a great shock when I ordered him to lower his trousers down to his ankles for six strokes across the underpants.”

Durnford was in great discomfort and would have been wise to adjourn to the Gentlemen’s lavatory to deal with his current predicament, but he was anxious to hear the rest of the story.

Wilson continued, “It is best to get it over and done with as quickly as possible, don’t you think so headmaster?”

Dr Burnham was determined not to be drawn into this discussion and remained silent.

Wilson had the floor to himself. I tapped the chair with my thick cane. ‘Bend right over the back of the chair, and put your forehead firmly down on the seat,’ I commanded. Of course, he had no choice and immediately complied. Boys did in those days. They took their canings without fuss. Is it much the same today, headmaster?’

The headmaster grunted, his response could have been Yes, or it could have been No, as far as Wilson could tell.

z used cane prefect Mag (48)

Wilson was warming to this theme, “I waited only a few seconds between strokes, delivering six in a speeded up rhythm, which allowed very little time for the sixth-former to fully absorb the impact of the previous stroke before the next one landed. He did not take it very well, if I remember correctly. He was jumping up and down before the third cut hit home. I don’t suppose his underpants were much use to him.

“But it was over in a matter of seconds. When he stood he gave me such a look of contempt I was tempted to have him take his underpants down and give him another six on the bare. I restrained myself admirably, but did make a note to find an excuse to thrash him once again the very next opportunity that presented itself.

“He might have had contempt for me, but I had won. He was rubbing his stinging bottom like mad when he left my study that day.”

There was silence as all three swigged from their glasses. “Shall we go eat gentlemen?” Dr Burnham was keen to steer the conversation back to the sale of the school.

They tucked into steak and kidney pudding and potatoes, but the stodgy food did nothing to soak up the alcohol. Now, came the headmaster’s opportunity.

Speaking directly at Durnford he said in his experience many adult men missed the certainty of their school days. They knew what the rules were and what the penalty would be if they broke them: a beating.

“It was penitence,” he said. “The crime as it were had been committed, the bad deed had been discovered and six-of-the-best was the punishment. In that way they atoned for their crime and they moved on with a clean slate … until the next time, of course.”

Dr Burnham was ready to take an enormous gamble. On it could rest the future of his school, and certainly the size of his pension.

“Some former boys of the school still see me as their headmaster, an authority figure if you will. They find it a comfort to know that when they need to atone for some misbehaviour in their everyday life, their work for example, I can be at hand to help them with their penance.”

“Yes,” Durnford slurred, “I think I know exactly what you mean.” He stopped, his eyes glazed, it was as if he had lost his trail of thought. “You see, I have this thing, this problem,” he stopped in embarrassment.

“Thomas,” the headmaster leaned forward. “You have my number; telephone me if you need my assistance.” He did not need to wink, even in his drunken state Durnford knew what he meant. “I am usually in my study between four and five o’clock each evening. Please telephone me if you wish to.”

Durnford’s eyes glistened and the headmaster was certain he would soon receive the call. The headmaster was a man of the world and he knew what Durnford wanted.

Next day, the call came and they made an appointment for five o’clock that afternoon, by which time the secretary would have left for home.

Durnford was so excited at the prospect at his visit to the headmaster’s study he succeeded in arriving too early for his appointment. Mrs Tomkinson was still in her office, but hurriedly clearing up for the day, seemingly anxious to be away.

“Oh, Mr Durnford,” she greeted him formally. “The headmaster has somebody with him, but please wait he won’t be a moment.” And with that she darted from the room.

Somebody with him: did that mean what he thought it did? He stood close to the door that separated him from the study, hoping that it did mean just that. He was not disappointed. Through the door he heard the tell-tale sounds of cane swishing through the air, then a series of cracks, followed by gasps and ouches.

He retreated from the study door just as it opened and out came a young man he recognised. It was Johnstone, a young rugby player from the club where he and the headmaster were members. He knew Johnstone because he had been sent off during a match the previous Saturday for punching an opponent.

Was Johnstone a pupil at the school, he wondered. He rather thought he was a bit too old for that and did not expect to see him here. It was all the more surprising because the burly lad had tears streaming down his face and was rubbing his rugby-shorts-clad buttocks in obvious agony as he peered over his shoulder to try and inspect the damage. He had not seen Durnford in the room and drew up the hem of his shorts, revealing a tightly-packed cluster of livid weals along the under-side of his bottom. He had clearly been beaten very severely.

Suddenly, he realised the presence of another man in the room. “Ohhh, Christ!” he wailed, and with his face now as red as his buttocks, he fled from the office.

Durnford paced the secretary’s room, staring at the clock on the wall, waiting and waiting for the minute hand to crawl to twelve. On the dot of five o’clock he tapped on the study door.

The study was lined with books; on the mantelpiece stood two large silver trophies and above it a framed portrait of the Queen. In the centre of the study was a large mahogany desk which had been cleared but for three canes of varying lengths and thicknesses and the headmaster’s mortar-board cap. Two armchairs of well-worn leather were to the left of the desk and to the right french windows looked out onto the playing fields. Framed in the windows was the tall figure of the headmaster standing erect with an air of imperious authority.

He was tall and solid, as befitted a former county rugby player. He wore a dark grey suit with a tattered, academic gown over his shoulders.

“Stand there boy,” the headmaster pointed to a spot in front of his desk. “Tell me why you are here?”

As arranged previously Durnford listed the many misdeeds that had brought him before the headmaster. Dr Burnham listened patiently, but was anxious to get this over with.

“What punishment do you think you deserve?”

“Twelve strokes, trousers down, thank you headmaster,” Durnford replied too eagerly.

The headmaster should have expected such a reply, but did not. A proper twelve strokes on the pants would be unendurable by even the most hardened receiver of the cane.

“No, this is your first offence and I intend to be lenient with you,” he said.

The look of sheer disappointment on Durnford’s face unnerved the headmaster.

“But,” he hurried to regain the situation, “If you are sent to me again, it most certainly will be twelve cuts with your trousers at your ankles.”

“Thank you headmaster.”

“Take off your jacket, boy, and put it over the back of that chair!”

Durnford was surprised at his own calmness. With no difficulty he undid the buttons of his suit jacket, slipped it from his shoulders and folded it neatly on the seat of a straight-backed chair.

“Good, now pull that chair over here,” the headmaster ordered pointing to a medium-sized leather armchair.

Durnford submissively obeyed his master and moved one of the ancient worn chairs until the head was happy with its position.

“Good. I am now going to beat you and it will be six of the very best,” and so saying he walked to his desk and inspected his canes. He selected one and looked at it carefully and seemed to realise something about it. He replaced it on the desk and exchanged it for another one. The new one was slightly longer, a bit thicker and completely smooth with the traditional crooked handle of the school cane.

While he did this Durnford waited, the tension of excitement mixed with anxiety swelling inside of him.

Satisfied with his selection, Dr Burnham took a deep breath, as if gearing himself up to perform an unpleasant task.

“Stand there boy. Face me.” He pointed to a spot a foot or two from the back of the armchair.

Durnford stood; his head bowed a little, hands clasped behind his back.

“You are about to receive six strokes of the cane, and I promise you, young man, that I am really going to cane you as hard as you deserve to be caned.”

Then he spoke the words Durnford had dreamed off all his life, “Now, bend over that chair.”

His heart raced and the blood rushed at speed through his arteries so quickly that he feared it would flood out of his body through his ears. Breaths came in short gasps and suddenly his back was drenched in sweat.

The time had come; he had been dreaming of this moment, it seemed, for the whole of his life. He mustn’t spoil the event by collapsing in a heap on the carpet.

He gulped in two lungs-full of air to steady his nerves, then by rubbing his hands together he composed himself. In a continuous movement he leaned over the chair thrusting his bottom firmly upwards for what would be for him the thrashing of a lifetime.

“Further!” There was no reason for the middle-aged man to move; instinctively he had presented his buttocks perfectly to receive the cane, but the headmaster acknowledged Durnford wanted to experience the full drama of a headmaster’s caning.

By the time the good doctor was satisfied his companion’s large bottom was sticking out ideally, presenting the maximum surface for the application of the cane. The chair had accommodated so many boys in a similar posture over the years and Durnford fitted perfectly into the folds of the chair back.

The first thing Durnford realised was that he could not see himself draped over the chair awaiting his first-ever punishment. Nor could he see the headmaster swishing his cane and cracking it into his own upturned buttocks. That was how he pictured this event in his fantasies. Instead, all he could see was the seat cushion that his face was pressed into.

He did however know that his bottom was taut and in the air. He felt the headmaster grab the tail of his shirt and remove it from the waistband of his trousers and push it up an inch or two so that his lower back was bare.  He was truly helpless, just like a vulnerable sixth-form schoolboy in position submissively waiting for a caning. He was trapped and he suddenly became very conscious of the tightness of his trousers around his buttocks.

He clutched the seat cushion awaiting his punishment. He could not help it: his vulnerable buttocks quivered in anticipation.

Dr Burnham was an experienced and very expert caner. He knew how to inflict the right severity of punishment to fit an individual boy’s personality and the crime he had committed, but he was unsure about Durnford. He was a mature adult and could probably endure much more pain that the average schoolboy, but he was also a novice and even a mild caning would for him be “the thrashing of a lifetime”.

He was still unsure how hard to lay it on as he flexed the cane between his hands and contemplated the pair of buttocks presented to him. Durnford might be a middle-aged gentleman but he was still very fit. That was when he decided: Oh damn it! I’ll give it to him in the same way I gave it to Johnstone.

The headmaster took up his position and for the first time in his life Durnford felt a cane tapping his buttock cheeks, He tensed as the doctor raised the cane then struck it hard across the waiting target. Durnford heard the sickening swish then the fire exploded across his bum. He groaned as the stinging pain took control of him.

The head took aim a second time and swung the cane to land crisply on the crown of the buttocks opening up a fresh line of stinging pain, which made Durnford’s fists uncurl and grasp at the coarse fabric of the chair’s seat cushion.

Each stroke was laid on with the same dreadful force. By the third Durnford was unaware of anything except the screaming agony in his bottom. He yelped as the cane made contact but stayed in position, as slowly but methodically the headmaster lashed the senior cane a further three times across the tender buttocks, low down in a tight band just where he would have to sit down. All six strokes were a very narrow strip across the very base of his bottom.

Durnford did not take it well. The caning came with alarming accuracy and devastating pain. His buttocks clenched and unclenched, his legs shook, his feet beat a tattoo on the floor and a strangulated cry echoed around the room. Patiently, after each stroke Dr Burnham waited for him to subside once more, measured the cane across the lower part of the cheeks and struck again with penetrating force.

It was over in a matter of seconds. In the distance Durnford heard the headmaster telling him to stand up and place his hands on his head. Almost unbelieving, Durnford staggered into an upright position, he wanted to clasp his throbbing buttocks, but with tears in his eyes, and hopping about from foot to foot, he obeyed the headmaster’s instructions, placed his hands on his head and moved to stand facing the wall.

The headmaster stared at the back of the ‘boy,’ unsure how this was supposed to end. Durnford had calmed a little, but he still fidgeted in some discomfort. The headmaster avoided looking for a tell-tale bulge.

In time, he decided to dismiss Durnford in the time-honoured fashion of headmaster and punished schoolboy.

“Turn around.” Durnford did so. “Keep your hands on your head. Look at me when I am speaking to you.” The headmaster wobbled the flexible cane he had used for the thrashing close to Durnford’s face. “Remember next time it will be double the strokes and trousers down. Is that clear, boy?”

“Yes, Sir, headmaster Sir. Thank you headmaster,” the endorphins had kicked in and Durnford was on a high.

“If that is understood then please leave my study.”

Durnford did not need telling twice. The second he was through the door, his hands clasped his buttocks and he rubbed away furiously.

The headmaster replaced the chair to its rightful position and then gathered up the canes and put them in the cupboard. Then he sat down in the same chair that minutes before had held Durnford’s prostrate body, wishing a bottle of whisky was close at hand.

He stared through the french windows into the playing fields beyond where senior boys were engaged in rugby practice. How many more times would he have to do this before Durnsford agreed to buy, he pondered silently.

This story was first uploaded in May 2016

Picture credit: The Magnet

 

More stories you might like

Housemaster’s double caning

The Gaffer of the Academy: 1. Beginnings

The Tyrant Headmaster Episode 1

 

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

 

A snapshot from my Mind’s Eye

new story 3

otk pyjamas bed sting (72a)

This isn’t a real photograph, it’s a snapshot from my Mind’s Eye. A memory I can see in my head of something that really happened, quite a long time ago. The boy with his pyjama bottoms at his knees and his bare bum pointing at the ceiling is my cousin Mark. He’s over the knees of his father – my Uncle David – and, quite obviously, getting his backside spanked.

I’m not in the picture, but I am in the room. I suppose I must be standing where the camera is. I’m waiting my turn. It’s me next. Once he’s tanned Mark’s rear end until it’s the colour of a tomato, Uncle’s taking me over his knee.

Mark wears pyjamas. Even back then that was deeply unfashionable. I’m eighteen and Mark’s even older; no older teenage boy would be seen dead in jim-jams. Still, I suppose that’s Uncle David for you.

“Go upstairs and get changed for bed,” Uncle David barked before sending us up. So, Mark’s in pyjamas. Not me, I’m stripped down to my underpants. Very small briefs, if memory serves. Yellow – or possibly red – cut so tiny they hardly hold my cock and balls. My buttocks were small and soft back then, but I’d bet the lower cheeks were bare to the wind.

I was staying with Rich Uncle David for the end part of the summer. We called him “Rich” because, well he was rich. If not rich exactly, then certainly wealthy. He was my mum’s brother and he lived in a huge house in a suburb of Brocklehurst. He ran an import-export business. Correction: he owned an import-export business. Yes, he was seriously wealthy.

He was a man of action. What he said, happened. Not just in his successful business but at home as well. He had quite old-fashioned attitudes, even for the times. I vaguely knew that he was an advocate of corporal punishment and that he was not adverse to taking any one of his sons over his knee; even Kevin, the eldest who was knocking on twenty-three.

My dad was nothing like that. He was quite easy-going. I genuinely think it would never have occurred to him to have my pyjama bottoms down. Looking back, compared to Mark me and my brothers got away with murder. Dad was away at work a lot so Mum bore the brunt of our misbehaviour. We must have driven her to distraction.

When Uncle David came to pick me to take me to his home, Mum made a big production number telling him, “If he causes trouble, you have my permission to spank him.” He nodded sagely. Did I see them share a secret smile?

“Ha! Ha!” I laughed uneasily. “Spanked? Me, at my age. You’re joking of course. Nice one. Ha! Ha!” I didn’t say that last bit out loud. Deep down I wasn’t so sure.

When we arrived at The Avenue, his posh street in Brocklehurst, Uncle David was quick to tell me his rules. They weren’t so bad to be fair. I wasn’t allowed to go in the back room which was kept for ‘special’ and what he called his ‘study’ was out of bounds. I assumed this was some office that he used for his business.

There was other stuff about being on time for meals but since I had no intention of going hungry during my holiday I had no worries about this. Also on the list was something about no alcohol or smoking. Before then I hadn’t known he was zealous about these things.

It was a few days after I arrived – a Saturday – when me and Mark went on the town. Brocklehurst was far from Sin City but there were some pubs and at least one half-decent ‘disco.’ By chance we met a couple of Mark’s old school pals in the High Street and together we went of to some dive of a pub. I still remember its name: The Three Fishers. What a stupid name for a pub. What exactly are ‘Fishers’? Fishermen, I understand.

But I digress. We had a couple of pints of larger and checked out the local talent. This being The Three Fishers, the talent came at a price. We passed on that and slowly made our way home. Uncle David was waiting for us. It wasn’t late, but he was the only one still up in the house. We were nowhere near drunk but Uncle David could not be fooled. His nostrils flared. He could smell alcohol and tobacco at a hundred paces.

“Drinking. Smoking,” he announced. It wasn’t meant as a question and it wasn’t even an accusation, it was a matter of fact. I had completely forgotten Uncle David’s prohibition. It came back to me in a rush. “Shit!” I didn’t say that verbally, I’m not that stupid. Mark flushed bright pink and mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

Uncle David scowled, “I don’t believe it.” In my nervousness I stifled a giggle, he sounded exactly like Victor Meldrew, a grumpy fellow in a tv comedy who had that as his catchphrase. Uncle David chided, “Did I not make myself perfectly clear?” he leaned into me. I could smell his breath; definitely no illegal smells there. I was as incoherent as Mark. The correct answer, of course, was: Yes, you could not have been plainer.

“Bah!” Yes, he actually said, “Bah!” like he was some character in a children’s comic like the Beano. At least he didn’t wave his fist and go, “Grrrrr!” What he did do was to say, “Go upstairs and get ready for bed, I’ll be up in five minutes. Make sure you’re ready.”

In silence, we trudged upstairs. In the bedroom Mark quickly pulled his t-shirt over his head. Then he unbuckled his belt. He noticed that I was not undressing. “Hurry up,” he exclaimed, “We don’t have much time, he’ll be up soon.”

I stood my ground, bemused. What was happening? What was Uncle David going to do? I suspected I knew the answer to that but my brain would not compute.

“Quickly,” he snapped, “You don’t want to upset him.” He stepped out of his jeans as he spoke, “We’ll get extras, for sure.”

I gaped, “What exactly is he going to do?” Mark stared as if a moron had just spoken.

“A spanking,” he breathed, and in case I hadn’t understood, he repeated, “He’s going to spank us.”

“Don’t be so …” I started to tell him not to be an idiot before the expression on Mark’s face cut me short. We had been in the sun most of the day but the tan that was developing could not disguise the blanche. “Get undressed,” he hissed as he pulled on his pyjama bottoms and knotted the drawstring.

I wanted to argue, to tell Mark, “No way am I getting spanked. You have got to be kidding. I’m eighteen. You’re nearly twenty for Christ’s sake.” I didn’t say a thing. The look of complete resignation on my cousin’s face warned me to be silent. He knew what he was talking about. Uncle David had decided. Nothing we said, nothing we did could alter the course of events. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped out of it.

I was folding my jeans to put them neatly on a chair when the door slowly opened and Uncle David stood in the threshold. He was dressed – as he nearly always was – in trousers that were part of a business suit, and a white shirt and tie. It could have been Monday morning at the office, not late on Saturday night. At first he didn’t come into the room, he glared at Mark, surveying him from the top of his unkempt dark hair down to the bare toes of his feet. Mark squirmed under the gaze. Then it was my turn for his fierce stare.

I was about the same height as Mark, but much fairer. Where his body was beefy and stocky, I was wiry and thin as a rake. When you saw us together you wouldn’t immediately take us for blood relations. My body shivered although it was a humid summer’s night. Instinctively I cupped my hands and held them in front of my privates. As I did this a corner of Uncle David’s mouth rose.

He came into the room and without a word, he took hold of my elbow and steered me across the floor. “Stand by that wall,” he grunted. I stood sullenly. “You,” he clicked his fingers at Mark, “Come here.”

Uncle David sat on the bed. It was even for those days an old-fashioned thing with metal springs and frame. He leaned back as far as he could, “Bend across my knee,” he ordered. I could see Mark was no novice to this. Immediately he loosened the drawstring of his pyjamas and let them slip. Then, in a single continuous movement, he placed one knee on the bed and spread himself across Uncle David’s lap so that his whole body was stretched on the mattress. He found the single pillow and buried his head in it.

I had a ringside seat and watched Uncle David carefully take hold of Mark’s pyjama bottoms and gently guide them further down my cousin’s legs. He left them around the knees. Then he brushed the pyjama jacket up Mark’s back so that it was well away from the target area. Mark was bare from the lower back to the knees. His bottom was raised at an angle over Uncle David’s lap so that it pointed towards the ceiling. Uncle David rested his left hand in Mark’s back to hold him steady: now he was good to go.

And away he went. I’d never seen a boy spanked before, I had no idea what should happen. Instinctively I could see Uncle David knew his business. The imprint of his palm was reproduced time and again across Mark’s bare bum. The red palm prints merged into one continuous dark-pink blotch. That quickly deepened to red. That bottom was on fire. If I leaned forward I could probably feel the heat lifting off the scorched flesh.

Each cheek of Mark’s bottom was a little bigger than Uncle David’s spread hand. The cheeks were well-defined with a nice overhang and there was nothing extreme about their curved shape. He was a normal, healthy, teenager: his bottom was as firm as only a teen’s could be yet had a degree of puppy fat.

Smack after hard smack kept coming for at least five minutes until suddenly Uncle David stopped. Mark lay breathing heavily. His bottom glowed. I thought he must be in great pain. My stomach turned. It looked like Uncle had finished with Mark. Now, it was my turn.

“Up,” Uncle David grunted. “Stand by the wall.” I watched Mark roll himself off his dad’s knees until he toppled onto the floor. He sprang to his feet, tugging his pyjama bottoms up as he steadied himself. “Leave them be,” Uncle David barked. “They can stay at your feet for a while. To remind you what a naughty boy you’ve been.”

Mark deliberately avoided my eye as sulkily he shuffled, penguin-like, across the room. As he passed me I saw his eyes blazed. “You’re next,” Uncle David gestured at me. “Come here. Take his place.”

Even now after so many years if I close my eyes I can see it like it’s happening right now. I hesitate, my heart is thumping and I imagine I can see a lump in my bare chest go in and out. Uncle David taps his right knee, he is encouraging me to bend over it. I remember how Mark climbed on top of Uncle David. He pulled down his own pyjamas. I am too, too what? Shy? Embarrassed? Ashamed? I don’t want Uncle David or Mark to see my cock and balls. I cannot pull down my pants. I just stretch myself across Uncle David with my face down in the scratchy Army-surplus blanket.

I cannot see, but I guess my bum is angled over Uncle David’s knee in the perfect position for his hand. My cotton briefs are so tight they dig into my crack. I feel a movement in Uncle David’s body and his right hand slowly caresses my right buttock. Gently. It feels as if he is smoothing any creases out of my pants.

Fool! Of course, he’s not doing this. He preens for a moment or two and then firmly grips the elasticated waist of the pants. I wriggle my hips in protest but he takes no notice. It takes maybe three tugs to have them over my buttocks and at my knees. I am now face down almost totally naked. I close my eyes tight. I cannot believe this is happening. I tell myself it isn’t. I’m just having one of my weird dreams.

Uncle David speaks, “Your mother tells me you have been needing this for quite some time.” He is caressing my now-bare bum. “You’ve had this coming.”

I think, but do not say, this is unfair. It was Mark’s friends who wanted to go to the pub. I only went because Mark wanted to. It’s not my fault. Don’t blame me. I keep quiet. It’s not my place to argue. Uncle David is in total control.  I feel muscles in his body tighten. My buttocks clench, trying to protect themselves.

He slaps his calloused hand cross my backside. Slowly at first. One slap on the left cheek, another on the right. It stings. Then he does it again – and again. Gradually he builds a head of steam. His hand whacks my behind with great force. Quickly. Hard. I gasp. My hips sway. My bum bucks. He grips me tightly at the waist. All the time the slaps rain down. No not rain, thunderstorm – they thunderstorm down. Or do I mean hail?

My bum hots up. I grab the pillow and chew on it. This is the first spanking I have received but obviously it is not the first Uncle David has administered. He is an expert. His hand pounds my mounds. The noise of palm across naked flesh echoes around the almost empty bedroom, like machinegun fire.

The heat in my bottom rises, from hot to something near boiling. My body is twisting and turning and my legs kick out, it’s like I’m trying to swim off Uncle David’s knees. He holds me tighter. “No, you don’t,” he growls. “You’re going nowhere. Not till I say so.”

I can’t see because I’ve still got my face in the pillow but I can feel every square inch of my buttocks has been toasted. All the way from the base of the spine, over the hillocks and into the undercurves. The ache is terrific. I can’t take much more of this. Then he starts on the back of my thighs. That hurts twice as much, no three times; no more. This is agony. I bite down into the pillow. Now, I can’t breathe. I raise my head and gasp for air. I’m starting to choke. Uncle David’s spanks harder still. I’m yapping like a little dog.

Uncle David scolds me, “I hope I’m getting through to you. This is how it’s going to be from now on in.” My eyes moisten. My head butts the pillow. Uncle David grips my waist even tighter and the pounding of my posterior continues.

You might wonder if this really happened. It could be a dream, a fantasy perhaps. A fetish fantasy. Naughty eighteen-year-old boy has his underpants taken down by Uncle before he is held across the old man’s knees for a bare-bottomed spanking. That might be some person’s fantasy, but not mine. This happened. This was for real. I think.

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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Uncle Graham’s belt

Put back into short trousers, aged 18

 

 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