On vacation ….

z used beach twosome trunks (17)

I’m off on holiday and enjoying the sights. I’ll be away some time.

Wish you were here.

Charles

 

Picture credit: Unknown

 

Here are some ‘holiday’ stories you might like

Summer holiday camp

At the Hotel Spanko

The hotel swimming pool

Hotel’s strict no-noise policy

A summer to remember

Adventure at Camp Cottage

Lazy Students Home for the Hols.

The beach house

Summer at uncle’s

 

 

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

 

Sports report

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z used drawing football The Gem (54)

Good afternoon from the Old Mill ground where this thrilling First Division match ended with a 4-3 victory for the Town over title challengers Albion.

The star of the show was once again whiz kid Stanley Mitchell, the eighteen-year-old amateur player who has burst onto the scene this season. Mitchell who is still a schoolboy displayed all the brilliance we have come to expect of him from recent matches. He scored the first goal with a quite remarkable dribble from the halfway line. I lost count of the number of Albion players he left in his wake as he charged up the field.

His second goal was a wonderful volley from the edge of the penalty area that simply flew into the top corner of the net leaving goalkeeper Hanks with no chance.

But for all Mitchell’s undoubted footballing talent he once again showed his immaturity and ill-discipline. He was dismissed from the pitch in the 75th minute when he went down after being tackled in the Albion area. He claimed a penalty which the referee denied.

Mitchell refused to accept the decision and spent some time arguing violently with the referee Mr Calderstones. The air was quite blue. Mr Calderstones quite rightly sent off Mitchell who reacted by taking off his shirt and throwing it to the ground as he left the field.

Although he is a quite brilliant player Mitchell is garnering a reputation for being a spoilt, unruly, petulant young man. Much to the annoyance of his fellow players and his manager Mr Clapman.

I am told there was a scene in the dressing room after the match. Alf Mortenson, Town’s burley captain, intervened on behalf of his club-mates. Young Mitchell soon found himself across Mortenson’s knee in the fashion of many petulant boys. His football knickers and underwear were ripped down so that his bottom was quite bare. A size-12 rubber-soled plimsoll was then used with some vigour.

Many listeners may know  from their own experiences with physical-training instructors at school that the plimsoll in the right hands is an awesome punishment tool. Mortenson, who stands well over six-foot-five and weighs fifteen-stone was well placed to deliver Mitchell’s much-deserved spanking.

Mortenson was encouraged by his clubmates who watched and cheered as he hammered the slipper across the young brat’s naked bottom. No square inch of the buttocks was left unattended. The eighteen-year-old was said to be howling and hollering long before the captain let up.

One thing is for certain it will be a very uncomfortable ride home for Mitchell on the team bus.

We shall have to see whether there is an improvement in Mitchell’s behaviour at next week’s match against Rovers. Meanwhile, the wonderkid has to return to school on Monday and it remains to be seen if his headmaster has something more to say on the matter.

This is Raymond Gladhanding returning you to the studio. Eamonn.

Picture credit: The Gem

 Other stories you might like

Footballer’s Hairbrush Treatment

Oh my papa

Smoking on the bus

 

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

Gareth learns his place

new 5

Gareth Williams, aged twenty-four, junior sales executive, gazed vaguely across the office. It was full of young men just like himself; clean shaven, closely-controlled hair, dark suits, sober shirts. It looked like they had been manufactured in packs of twelve. The office was hot and it was mid-afternoon, he was bored to distraction and there were still two hours before he could escape. The buzzing phone on his desk jolted him back to consciousness. He picked it up. He nodded in response to the terse message he received and replaced the receiver.

Jason Bragg who sat at the desk opposite smiled wearily. Gareth answered the unasked question, “Quarterly performance review?”

Jason nodded, his bright open face registered concern,  “First one?”

“Yeah,” Gareth replied nonchalantly.

“Good luck,” Marcus, the only non-white man in the office, drawled.

Gareth rose from his chair. Jason whispered something to Marcus that Gareth could not hear. The pair exchanged knowing looks. Jason mouthed the word, “Ouch.”

Gareth left the office confidently. A performance review, what possibly could go wrong. He had been at Tilotson’s for a little over two months. He wasn’t the best sales executive they had but he thought he couldn’t be the worst. He had a strong opinion of himself. He had been quite a star back at university, they tipped him for great things in the future. But jobs just now were hard to come by and a young man had to start where he could. He wouldn’t be at Tilotson’s for long, he fervently hoped.

It was a short walk to the office of Mr Wilkinson, the sales director. He passed a man about his age and dressed almost identically to him shuffling down the corridor in the opposite direction. His face was flushed and he seemed to be in some discomfort. As he drew closer Gareth saw he was close to tears. They didn’t exchange words as the young man bowed his head and quickened his pace towards the stairwell.

Miss Begg, the sales director’s secretary, was expecting him. Although she was not much older than Gareth, her severely-cut suit, the hair pulled into a bun and the grey spectacles that perched on the end of her nose made her look like a young grandmother. She didn’t greet him beyond smirking, “He is waiting for you. Knock and go straight in.”

Gareth saw no reason not to do so and he breezed to the door, rapped twice confidently and swung open the door. Mr Wilkinson was seated to attention behind a moderately-sized desk. When standing he was a tall man of about forty-five, broad and sunburned, his fair-to-blond hair was clipped close to his large but not ugly head. His steely blue eyes glazed. People meeting him for the first time often assumed he was something in the Royal Navy.

As Gareth entered Mr Wilkinson leafed through a folder of papers on his desk pretending to read although what he said later showed he had already absorbed them. Gareth looked around the office searching without success for a chair to sit on. His boss read his mind, “Stand there,” he nodded to a spot in front of the desk. Gareth edged up and stood awkwardly, he wasn’t sure where to put his arms. Should he stand like a soldier at attention, or lounge casually with them dangling by his sides? He settled for holding them behind his back while standing easy. Mr Wilkinson glared at him as Gareth made up his mind.

There was an uneasy silence. Gareth had enough sense to keep his mouth shut. Mr Wilkinson had called him to the office it was up to him to start the conversation.

Mr Wilkinson once again looked through the report, his face darkening as he went. For the first time that afternoon Gareth sensed an unease. Something – he didn’t know quite what – was wrong.

At last Mr Wilkinson put the report down. He glowered at the sales executive and said, “Your record since you started employment with us has been poor. You have failed to meet targets and your timekeeping record is very patchy indeed.” He paused expecting Gareth to deny his accusation but the young man remained silent. There was very little he could usefully say since Mr Wilkinson was correct in every particular. Gareth’s record was poor indeed.

Gareth was surprised at his boss’s attitude. It reminded him of something that might happen at a school. An idle pupil summoned to the headmaster for a wigging. A telling-off.

Unperturbed by Gareth’s silence, the sales director continued, “It is not the record that we expect at Tilotson’s. We expect our employees to work. That is why we pay them. We have very clear rules here,” he leaned forward across the desk for emphasis, “very strict rules. We expect you to obey them. If you don’t you must face the consequences.”

Mr Wilkinson spoke as if making a speech and in a way he was. Gareth was not the first wayward employee he had dealt with and he wouldn’t be the last. He finished and again waited expecting Gareth to respond. When still he didn’t the boss suspected he was displaying dumb insolence.

“So what?” he told himself silently. “He will change his tune before I’ve finished with him.”

He shook his head and sighed as if some huge weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders. His face was grave, “So I intend to cane you.”

Gareth snorted, unable to contain his incredulity. “What?” he snapped.

Mr Wilkinson’s face clouded, “You heard me well enough Williams. I am going to beat you.”

Gareth struggled not to burst out laughing. Only the stern expression of the boss behind his desk stopped him. He gathered himself, he was a strong-willed young man and he showed it now. “You seem to be under the misapprehension that this is a school,” he stated boldly. “I am twenty-four years old and this is an office.”

Mr Wilkinson shook his head sadly. “I heard that you had spent much of the past few years living abroad. Studying mostly I believe?”

Gareth nodded eagerly. He had attended one of the most prestigious universities in the United States. If asked, he would frankly say that he was far too good to be working at a place like Tilotson’s. But needs must, jobs were hard to come by these days.

Mr Wilkinson had not finished talking. “What you fail to appreciate,” he said, “Is that laws have been passed while you were away that specifically allow me to take the course of action I intend. That is to cane you.”

Gareth’s mouth gaped. Could this be true? Before he could ask his question, Mr Wilkinson filled in the details. After Britain left the European Union the country had a new government. The New Democrats were elected on a landslide. High on their ticket was law and order. Especially where it related to young people. “Believe me young man, you are not the only one to come under this law. Schoolboys, students, apprentices and young people more generally can be subjected to corporal punishment for any number of reasons,” Mr Wilkinson lectured.

He paused to allow the full impact of his words to sink in. He saw Gareth’s face blanch. Yes, the twenty-four-year-old now had the full picture.

Since Gareth remained silent, Mr Wilkinson continued, “Your background prior to joining us here at Tilotson’s suggests you could become a very useful asset to the company. I have the authority to dismiss you right now, but I am going to give you a second chance. A short, sharp shock is what you need,” Mr Wilkinson’s eyes narrowed and he looked down his long, thin nose at Gareth, “A short, sharp and very painful lesson is what you need, young man.”

Gareth stood shellshocked. He was dumbfounded. Was this really happening? Could it possibly be an elaborate joke? Were there hidden cameras around him? Were they filming one of those ‘gotcha’ programmes for cable television?

“So there you have it,” Mr Wilkinson rose from his chair and walked around his desk and stood alongside Gareth. “A sound caning should do the trick.” He crossed the room and halted at a tall, narrow cupboard. Gareth watched in shock as his boss put his hand in his trouser pocket and after rummaging around for a moment withdrew a ring containing several keys. He seemed to know immediately which one he needed and he thrust it into the lock on the cupboard. The door fell open.

Gareth’s heart raced. He craned his neck to see what the cupboard contained but Mr Wilkinson’s body obstructed his view. He didn’t have long to find out. Mr Wilkinson reached inside the cupboard creating a dim rattling sound of wood against metal. The boss withdrew his hand and when he turned and faced Gareth he was brandishing a thin, whippy school-type cane.

Gareth’s eyes popped. He had never seen anything like it before. Mr Wilkinson took it in both hands and showed it to the young man, flexing it menacingly. It was about a metre long and as thick as a biro pen. It was dark yellow in colour and Gareth saw it had a number of notches along its length. One end was curved into a handle. Mr Wilkinson let go of the other end and keeping a firm grip under the handle he swiped the cane through the empty air. It made a terrific swooshing sound as it flew. Gareth’s heart skipped a beat.

Mr Wilkinson took three steps across the office and stood close to Gareth. “It’s bit stronger and whippier than the canes they use these days in the schools. It’s designed for the older boy, or young adult. I believe they use canes like this in the new youth detention centres – or whatever it is they call them these days.”

Mr Wilkinson swished the cane once more and looked sternly at the young man standing before him. “Twelve strokes, I think,” he said calmly and with authority. “That should buck your ideas up no end.”

Gareth’s mouth opened and closed like a goldfish but no words came out. What could he say? He was guilty as charged, he couldn’t deny that. Did he have any choice but to obey? Mr Wilkinson quietly reminded him of the realities. “If you do not accept your deserved punishment, you will be sacked. Think carefully about that. You will not be entitled to welfare benefits and you will find it nigh on impossible to get further employment. You will quickly become destitute. Then you will be taken into one of those youth work camps. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.”

Gareth’s legs wobbled. He steadied himself before he fainted to the floor. A beating. Twelve strokes? That wasn’t a beating, that was a flogging. How could he possibly withstand that?

Mr Wilkinson was a man of experience. Gareth was not the first young man he had encountered in such a situation. There had been many and all of them – every single one – had capitulated to his power. They had no choice. He glared at Gareth as if he was trying to burn into the young man’s soul. “Stand by there,” he pointed his cane at a small desk at the far end of the office. Gareth’s legs were jelly, he couldn’t get them to move.

Mr Wilkinson sighed noisily, “It would be better if you followed my instructions. Let us get this done and dusted with the minimum of fuss.” It took a superhuman effort for him to get his legs to obey his brain but at last Gareth stood where instructed.

“Good,” Mr Wilkinson tucked the cane under his arm, rather like a sergeant-major on parade duty. “Now I want you to take down your trousers.”

“But. No, but,” Gareth couldn’t help himself. He had to complain. He couldn’t do this. Not trousers down.

“Young man,” Mr Wilkinson made no attempt to supress his sneer. “Up and down the country people such as yourself are being ordered to drop their trousers and their underpants,” he paused to let that sink in. Then, he continued as if demonstrating his benevolence, “I do not require my lads to bare their backsides. I believe that is a little too immodest. I’m sure you would agree.”

Gareth hated his boss’s oiliness. The bastard had complete control. There was not one thing he could do to stop him. He had total power. He was the master. Gareth was the subordinate. No, more than that: Gareth was the slave.

“Take down your trousers please, Williams,” Mr Wilkinson slipped the cane into his hand and swished it through the air. “I would be so much obliged.”

Gareth’s trousers were snug fitting and needed no belt. All he needed to do was to pop the catch at the waistband and tug the zipper and they would hurtle to his feet. His hand shook beyond his control. He couldn’t get a grip.

“Would you prefer that I undid your trousers for you?” Mr Wilkinson said and before Gareth who was now in deep shock could furnish an answer, his boss had taken hold of the young man’s waist and unbuttoned him. The zip fell swiftly and the trousers slithered down Gareth’s thighs and bunched at his knees. He stood humiliated, his head buzzed and he was certain his face was on fire.

“Bend over the desk,” Mr Wilkinson spoke with great authority. He was the boss; he was in charge. He expected to be obeyed. He knew from experience he would be obeyed. No young worker in the past had dared to disobey.

Gareth stood unsteadily, the room seemed to be spinning. The floor was where the walls should be and the walls pulsated. He shook his head vigorously to try to regain some sense. Mr Wilkinson flexed the cane thoughtfully, studying the young man before him. He repeated his order, “Bend over the desk. This instance.”

Gareth looked down at the desk. It was tiny and might have been made from a kit from Ikea. It was low and he was quite a tall young man. Bend over. How was that done exactly? Should he lay flat across the top with his legs dangling over the ends? Was he supposed to rest his stomach on the edge and stretch his arms to grab the far end of the desk?

Mr Wilkinson had seen it all before. Young men called to his office for their first thrashing rarely knew the protocol; the correct procedure for presenting their bottoms submissively for the attention of his whippy cane.

“Place your elbows on the desk, arch your back and stick your bottom out. Open your knees but don’t stretch your legs too far,” Mr Wilkinson gave precise instructions and Gareth, now on some form of auto-pilot obeyed. “It helps if you grip the sides of the desk,” Mr Wilkinson said kindly, “when the beating starts,” he added softly.

Gareth was in position. Mr Wilkinson tucked the cane under his arm and walked to the far end of the office. By doing this he was able to get a full view of the young man. Gareth was thickset and had until recently been something of a soccer player. Mr Wilkinson noticed the muscles rippling beneath Gareth’s shirt. His buttocks were beefy and bent over as he was they filled out his cotton shorts. His legs were hairy and, Mr Wilkinson supposed, his buttocks were much the same.

z used cane white pants desk office sting

Gareth’s breathing was uneasy. He closed his eyes tightly in a useless attempt to pretend he was anywhere but bent submissively across the desk in his boss’s office waiting to receive his first-ever caning. He sucked down on his bottom lip. Perspiration seeped from his scalp and within moments the back of his neck was drenched.

Mr Wilkinson let the cane drop back into his hand and slowly approached Gareth, all the time watching the young man’s beefy bum twitching in anticipation of the ordeal ahead. He stood for a moment to Gareth’s left side. He could smell the young man’s fear. Gareth wore a smart dress shirt and its tail was long and hung over his bottom. Carefully, as if handling a priceless relic, Mr Wilkinson took hold of it between finger and thumb and gently raised it away from the seat of the young man’s shorts. He folded it back exposing a few centimetres of bare, hairy flesh.

Mr Wilkinson was almost ready. He took a stand a metre or so to Gareth’s left and carefully placed the cane across both buttocks, aiming at the fleshiest part of the bum. He tap-tap-tapped it softly and was delighted when Gareth’s whole body tensed. “Twelve strokes,” he announced as he lifted the cane away from the meaty cheeks. He held it at about shoulder height and let it wobble for a moment. Then, with a twist of his body – rather like a golfer taking a swing – he unleashed it at great speed and power and slashed it across Gareth’s backside. A thin line where the cane struck immediately showed across the tight underwear.

Gareth heard the crack of cane on cotton-covered flesh a mini-second before he felt the pain. “Arrrrggg,” the response to agony escaped through his teeth. It felt like his boss had laid a red hot wire across his bum. His hips wriggled and his head shot up and shook about wildly. He gripped the edges of the desk as if his life depended on it. It had been a good tip from Mr Wilkinson. Only by holding on tight did Gareth stop himself jumping to his feet and hopping around clutching his burning bottom.

“Steady.” Mr Wilkinson tapped the cane once more. This time a little lower than he first strike. It landed in the undercurve of the bottom; on the sensitive sit-spot. Gareth howled. His knees buckled and he collapsed across the desktop, whimpering like a little whipped puppy.

Mr Wilkinson stood back to admire his own handiwork. “You felt that,” he said pompously, “Good. That is the point young man. I wish to ensure that this is the first and the last time I have to do this sort of thing. I don’t expect to see you back here again. Now, lift that bottom of yours.”

Gareth forced himself back into position. Mr Wilkinson tapped the cane, took aim and let fly with slash number three. This one went high and it seemed to Gareth that the whole of his backside was ablaze. Was this what it felt like to be forced to sit in a vat of boiling water? Tears flowed uncontrollably. His throat was raw. His head ached terribly. The room continued to spin.

Pain is a strange thing. With three stokes delivered and nine still to come, Gareth, if he had any capacity for thought at that moment, might have expected the pain to increase exponentially (as the mathematicians would say) with each new lash so that it got worse and worse until the agony was beyond endurance and he fell into a dead faint.

But no. The pain seemed to reach a plateau. It was bad, terribly bad, but it got no worse. Was this what was meant by a ‘pain barrier’? Each successive stroke was landed with energy and vim. Mr Wilkinson never let up. He was a man with a mission. Gareth thought his bum had swollen to twice or three times its natural size. It ached like crazy, but after about the fifth stoke it also had gone unaccountably numb. It throbbed. The buttocks pulsated. They burnt. Thick welts weeped beneath his cotton shorts. The surface of his bum now had the consistency of leather. But, the pain did not increase.

Twelve strokes of the cane across the underpants is a severe punishment, even for a twenty-four-year-old and Gareth was a virgin to corporal punishment. He cried quietly, tears rolling down his face. He tried to suppress it but was unable to stop the sobbing.  And he couldn’t stop the sniffing nor the noise in the back of his throat as he strained to gulp in the air his lungs needed. He tried to keep as quiet as possible but his whimpering seemed to echo around the large office.

Mr Wilkinson stood impassively observing Gareth gasping for breath like a beached whale. He allowed himself a sardonic smile. A job well done, he congratulated himself silently. This young man would work harder in future. He would observe the rules. Mr Wilkinson assured himself Gareth would become a model worker. After all was said and done, the young man had very little choice.

“Stand. Get dressed. Go. And I don’t want to see you back here again.” Mr Wilkinson was sharp. He had no qualms thrashing the backsides of errant employees, but he always found the final scene of the little drama awkward. He preferred his victims to get out of the office without undue delay.

Gareth gripped the sides of the desk and using his elbows as levers he struggled to get his body into an upright position. His knees wobbled and he fell backwards landing on his savaged backside. He yelped with pain and rolled onto his side. He scrambled to his knees and then hanging onto the desk for support he climbed to his feet. He bent double his head between his knees as he swallowed down lung-fulls of air. His heartrate slowly recovered, but his head was still light. The room didn’t spin so much now. With trembling hands he found his trousers and hoisted them up. The cloth aggravated the welts across his bottom when he pulled the waistband tight and buttoned up.

Mr Wilkinson was at the other side of the office, back at the cupboard, replacing the cane. Back in its home, until the next time. Gareth wiped a gob of snot from under his nose and with great difficulty waddled towards the door. The cuts on his lower bottom chafed as he groped towards the exit.

He made it through the door. Outside in the corridor he stumbled and held onto the wall. The coast was clear, nobody was about. He could not be seen. His hands gently massaged the terrible burn in his backside. He knew that sitting down would be out of the question for most of the day. He did not yet know it but by the next morning he would still be sore but the worst would be gone. The stripes would go from red to black and then yellow during the next few days but it would be almost two weeks before the marks disappeared completely.

He composed himself as best he could and slowly, agonizingly shuffled back towards his office. As he stumbled along he saw another young man almost identical to himself come from the stairwell and pass him on his way to the sales director’s office.

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

Other stories you might like

The office manager

Warren’s awakening

Caning for England

 

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

 

Strict landlords- the compilation

Many years ago when I was a student I lived in lodgings with a family who rented out three rooms in their large house. The man of the house was retired and although quite old (to my youth he may have seemed ancient) he was very distinguished. There was a small armchair in my room and many nights I would fantasise that he had me across its back while he lashed a whippy-school-type cane into my pyjama-clad bottom.

I had no idea then that decades later I would use this fantasy as the basis of a series of my stories. One of the first that I ever wrote and published was called Paul and His Landlord. In real life, one night I got back to the house so late that the front door was locked and I had to ring the bell hard and waken the household to get in. I must have inconvenienced many people that night, but nothing was ever said about it.

Not so in my story where I end up receiving a well-deserved caning.

I wrote two episodes of Paul and his Landlord and you can read them by clicking the links below. Remember, they are stories although inspired by real life.

I have written other stories about landlords that were similarly inspired by other real places that I lodged. Links to those are also below.

I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have enjoyed fantasising and writing about them.

Charles

 Paul And His Landlord

z used cane hold kernled (13)

Picture credit: Kernled

 Where it all began. That late night home. —- It was then Paul noticed his landlord was holding the cane. He wasn’t flexing it between his outstretched hands in the way drawings of headmasters did in old comics, or how Jimmy Edwards did as the eccentric headmaster in the TV show, Whacko! No, Mr Jarvis simply held the cane perpendicular to his body and was gently tapping it against his leg. Paul was mesmerised.

Paul and his landlord 2

Paul stood, his hands behind his back. Waiting. Breathing heavily. He looked down at the huge padded vinyl armchair. It was a very comfortable chair. But, this evening he would not be sitting down in comfort. Not in that chair or anywhere else.

His landlord tapped the thick crook-handled rattan cane against his right leg. Tap, tap, tap. Then, swoosh! it roared through the air as Mr Jarvis swiped it in front of the twenty-year-old’s face.

“I caned you once before for coming home late drunk and disturbing the whole household.” Mr Jarvis flexed the cane, making a perfect bow. “But evidently I didn’t cane you hard enough.”

Foreign Language Student

z used short shorts couch (2d)

Picture credit: Unknown

I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. I stood about two feet away from the arm looking across at the couch. It was so big four adults could probably have sat on it in complete comfort.

The top of the padded arm of the couch was about a metre high and maybe 75cm wide.

“Bend over the chair,” Mr Martin ordered. He was angry and I was scared. Nothing like this had ever happened to me before and I couldn’t figure out how the hell I was going to get out of this.

My First Time

What I did next profoundly changed my life. I took a deep breath to try to calm my raging heartbeat and walked into the lounge. The room was dimly lit by a standard light in one corner, I hardly saw Mrs. Adams and her sister lolling on a sofa. They stood as I come in; it seemed they were expecting me.

My house. My rules

“You will address me as ‘Mr. Shults’ and you will address my wife as ‘Mrs. Shults.’ You will be polite at all times and obey without question any instructions that either of us might give you.

“These are the rules of the house. It is my house and I make the rules. If you choose to brake one of my rules, you will be spanked. With your trousers down. I shall spank you on your underpants and if you dare to repeat your rule-breaking you will be spanked on your bared bottom.”

The broken window

Mr. Epson strode into the lounge brandishing his cane. Jerome stared, confused, unsure what he should do.

“Bend over. I’m going to beat you with this cane. With your trousers and underpants on it probably won’t hurt you much, but it will give me a considerable amount of pleasure.” Mr. Epson thought this, but did not say it out loud.

Instead, he did say, “Bend over. Touch your toes.”

No Smoking!

z used otk pants chair (12)

Picture credit: Unknown

Meekly, Steph draws in a lungful of air, takes a half a step forward, steadies his nerve, places his palms on Mr. Walter’s right leg and eases himself down. He stretches his arms forward then spreads them a little and presses his palms into the scratchy carpet. He cannot see this but his bottom rests high over Mr. Walter’s lap. If he cares to look, Steph can see under the chair to his feet where his toes don’t quite touch the floor. Steph keeps his head low and stares at the carpet. He wants to pretend he does not have an audience of fellow lodgers, but their nervous breathing is louder than the bird calls from the garden beyond the open bay window.

The spanking I thoroughly deserved

The weirdest thing happened to me last week Sunday; my landlord took me across his knee and spanked my bare bottom with a brush very hard indeed – and I let him do it.

It wasn’t a fetish thing; you know where people spank each other for sexual kicks; it was discipline – or more truthfully, punishment.

Kevin’s landlord

Kevin’s landlord is flexing the cane between his two hands. This is real enough. Kevin is confused. Kevin is over the back of the armchair; he is just the right height. The cushion soft in his hands. He feels the back of the chair sticking into his stomach. His trousers are very tight. Kevin’s landlord makes his preparations. Kevin waits in position ready for the first stroke. He does not know what to feel. It is unreal. It is absurd. A nineteen-year-old presenting his bottom to his ageing landlord so he can whack it with a school cane. It may be absurd, but it is also intensely exciting.

 

The stories Paul and His Landlord with others about troublesome tenants is also available as a free-to-download book (PDF file).  You should be able to read it on your lap top or e-book reader.

Click on the link below

paul-and-his-landlord-by-charles-hamilton-ii

Other stories involving landlords you might like:

 

The Rooming House

A memory in the attic

The boys in room 3b

The terrible twins

The troublesome lodger

Someone needs his bottom spanked

My landlord’s slipper

The domestic service agreement

Commander Reynolds’ rooming house

Home early

Donald knows his place

Paying the rent

The exhibitionist

The tenants and the headmaster

Landlord is sick of the lodger

MacTaggart’s House for Naughty Boys

You didn’t pay the rent

A spanking before bedtime

The French student

Strictly no alcohol

The students’ landlord

An old English custom

The Spanking Vicar of Aston Budleigh – the compilation

House rules

Enhanced community training

The Post Office Thief

 

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 cunning plan

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z used cane (94a)

I made a fist with my right hand, rapped on the dark-oak door and strained to listen for the imperious command from within. It came immediately for I was expected. “Ent-ter!” the headmaster boomed. I surprised myself by my own calmness. I was entering unchartered territory. I took hold of the handle and pushed. The door was heavier than I anticipated and I had to put my shoulder against it. When it gave way unexpectedly I half tumbled into the study

The headmaster glared from behind his desk. Meekly, I pushed the door shut behind me.

“There!” he bellowed, snapping his fingers to indicate I should stand on the rug before him. I obliged without question. Humbly, I held my hands behind my back. My gaze did not leave the old man.

Dr Butterworth was dressed in a dark suit over which he wore a formal black academic gown. He was nearing sixty years of age. He was over six foot tall and as bald as a badger. When the weather was hot and he did not wear his mortar-board cap his head was often sunburned, which caused a lot of amusement among we boys. Round rimless glasses perched on his hooked nose and his moustache gave the impression that a small bat had landed on his top lip.

I had never been summoned to the headmaster’s study before so I was entering new terrain. This was more than fifty years ago and mine was an old-fashioned Grammar. They said they could trace its history back hundreds of years. I doubt much had changed in that time. The buildings had ivy-covered walls and mullioned windows. The schoolrooms were large and draughty. This was in the days before they built the science block and multi-purpose sports hall.

The study was imposing befitting the status of the headmaster. To the rear of the desk was a mantelpiece on which stood a number of cups and trophies. Framed photos of rugby teams lined the panelled walls. It was spring and the large open fire was unlit even though there was a definite chill in the study. In one corner was a hat-stand and dangling from it ready for action was a stout crook-handled cane. It is a cliché but my heart really did skip a beat when I noticed this weapon of punishment. I had never been caned, but there was no doubt that was about to change.

Dr Butterworth did not speak, He held a sheaf of papers in his hand and affected to study them intently. He tore his attention away from the papers and glared at me. A lump formed in my throat.

His eyes returned to the file. I waited submissively. I looked what I was, a typical boy from the professional classes. We were an elite school and it showed in our uniform which was a blue blazer with gold stripes, pale-grey long trousers, black lace-up shoes, a gleaming white shirt and a striped tie. On my head was the blue-and-gold hooped cap they forced us to wear.

The headmaster examined more papers and then, very abruptly, he slapped them down on his desk. The glistening spectacles were removed, meticulously folded and placed beside the papers. His claw-like hands met and clasped each other on the polished surface of the desk, and the clear icy blue eyes fixed their penetrating gaze on me. I swallowed hard. The headmaster breathed deeply and clearly irate he moaned, “Three detentions this term.”

There was a pregnant pause. I twisted my fingers behind my back. Was that a question? Indeed I knew it to be a fact. “Yes sir,” I mumbled.

“Pah! Twice found smoking cigar-rettes.” He rolled the word cigarettes around his mouth with relish. “Twice!” he exploded. “And once for disrespecting Mr Albertson the maths master. What was all that about boy!”

I explained I had been cheeky to him when he caught me reading the Football Monthly at the start of his class. The headmaster gurgled. I couldn’t be sure if he was upset that I had been reading, or that my choice of magazine was the Football Monthly. I didn’t feel able to question him on the point, so still I do not know.

The headmaster grimaced as if he had accidentally sucked on a lemon. “Three detentions,” he grunted. “You know the rules.” I did but he was about to confirm them to me anyway. “A caning. Six strokes.” He hauled himself from his padded chair. I watched as he smoothed down his academic gown before slowly traversing the study to the hat-stand. He reached up and grabbed the cane, like plucking an apple from a tree. He turned to me and flexed it between his hands. Even from a distance I knew this was an awesome rod. It was dark yellow and as thick as a pencil. I guessed it to be more than three feet long, not counting the handle.

Dr Butterworth swished the cane gently through the air as if getting its measure. I saw then how worn and warped it was. This cane had seen some action. I imagined generations of boys before me. All standing on the same spot. All waiting for the headmaster’s command.

His command to me came quickly enough. “Stand in the middle of the room. Face the window. Bend over and touch your toes,” he hissed. “And toes, means toes,” he snarled. I took a deep breath. The middle of the study was devoid of furniture so there was plenty of space for me to bend and for the headmaster to swish his whippy cane through the air. I noticed at that moment how high the ceiling was.

I walked to the spot and reached for my toes. My cap hurtled to the floor. In my enthusiasm I had forgotten to take it off my head. “Leave it be,” scolded the headmaster. He took up position to my left and began to saw his cane across the centre of my buttocks.

I was fifteen years old when that happened. I think I had realised I was entranced by corporal punishment a couple of years earlier. I would dream of visits to the headmaster’s study or of being taken across the knee by my Uncle Reginald and having my pyjama bottoms taken down. For some reason I cannot explain I never imagined being spanked by my father.

Corporal punishment was not used in my family, even when my brothers and I drove mother and father to distraction. It took me a while to work out that I could engineer a visit to the headmaster’s study at school. There were so many rules it was impossible for any boy to keep to them all. There was an elaborate series of available punishments ranging from the mildest awarding of demerits through writing lines and attending detentions. At the apex of all this was corporal punishment.

Some bright spark had ordained that there would be an automatic caning for three detentions. That made my task all the much easier. After that first time I treated myself to a visit to the headmaster’s study once every term. Dr Butterworth never suspected. Or at least I assume not. If the cane was supposed to be a deterrent against bad behaviour it obviously wasn’t working in my case. Who knows? Perhaps he knew more than he let on. I’m sure I wasn’t the only boy in the school who was a repeat visitor. Did they share my interests? I wish there had been some way available back then for me to find out.

Dr Butterworth retired by the same time I was in the sixth-form and his replacement a Dr Bludginton was an equally enthusiastic caner. He also believed in what today we call ‘equal opportunities,’ by that I mean he was not averse to caning senior boys as well as juniors.

My last visit to the headmaster’s study occurred when I was eighteen and on the cusp of taking my examinations and leaving. We had a small number of formal classes and a lot of so-called study periods. I took to escaping school during these times which was strictly against the rules. Well, boo-hoo. What are you going to do? Cane me? Please!

Bludginton took the bait. The fact that I had all but given up performing my duties as a prefect would have helped his decision to beat me. He was a much younger man than Butterworth, and it was common knowledge among the boys that his right arm was somewhat stronger than his predecessor’s. I looked forward to the new experience.

Where Dr Butterworth was a touch-your-toes man, Bludginton preferred to order a chap to drape himself across an armchair. There was a marvellous padded leather effort in the study. Its arms were high enough to accommodate the junior boys while we taller seniors were ordered across its back.

I wondered whether the new headmaster would allow that the sixth-form boys were seniors and accordingly treat them more harshly. I would gladly lower my trousers and offer him my bottom clad in tight, white cotton Y-front underpants. And, if I could plot a repeat performance before it was time to leave school I’d happily take Six across the bared buttocks.

I plotted a cunning plan. After Dr Bludginton had jawed me about my rule breaking, he announced the inevitable. I was to be caned. He moved over to the low armchair at the furthest end of the study, swung it round and pushed it into the centre of the room. He picked up his cane – the same one old Butterworth had used for many years – and whacked it across the back of the leather chair. “Bend over,” he intoned.

In one smooth movement, I walked to the chair, halted about two feet from its back and swiftly took hold of the buckle of my belt. It was loosened in moments. I popped the button at the waist of my pale-grey trousers and undid the fly. The weight of the belt and some coins in a pocket helped the trousers slip swiftly to my knees. I spread my legs and they continued to my shoes. I gripped the tail of my gleaming white shirt which hung over my privates and buttocks and lifted it clear of my Y-fronts, then I dived over the back of the chair, took hold of the cushion and spread my legs.

Dr Bludginton had a perfect target. I was growing out of the pants so they clung snugly to the contours of my buttocks. At home earlier I had set up mirrors so I could observe myself bend over the armchair in the living room. If I say so myself I looked terrific.

In the study I looked down at the cushion waiting patiently for the first swipe across the underpants. Nothing happened. I heard floorboards creak, Dr Bludginton was pacing the study. Perhaps he was admiring my young, lithe body submissive in underpants. I supposed I would do something similar in his position.

He was breathing heavily, like an asthmatic without his inhaler. “No, no, no,” he gasped. “This will not do. No. Stand up boy.”

I stood my ground. I was not ready to give up quite so readily.

“Stand up, stand up,” he spluttered.

Still I did not move. If this was a contest of wills I intended to be the victor.

“Stand up!” he almost shrieked. Unnerved, I pulled myself to my feet and stood, trousers still at my feet. Dr Bludginton’s face was as scarlet as I’d hoped my bottom would be.

“No, no, no,” he was dumbfounded.

A sudden thought struck me, “But sir,” I purred, “This is how Dr Butterworth did it,” I grimaced, “Trousers down, sir.”

Dr Bludginton’s eyes popped. He suspected it was a lie. He blustered, “No. No, I don’t believe it.” His head shook violently, “That’s not true. It’s simply not true,” he protested. “Get dressed, get dressed,” he was becoming hysterical. “Now. Get those trousers up boy.”

Reluctantly, I reached down and pulled the trousers up. At a snail’s pace I tucked in my shirt and rebuttoned the fly. I still hoped he might relent and whip my backside on the pants.

Dr Bludginton watched me with fear in his eyes. I didn’t think it then, but looking back I wonder if he thought I was setting him up for blackmail. Caning a senior boy on his underpants was irregular. A schoolmaster might end up in the law court for less.

The new headmaster relaxed visibly when I was again fully dressed. I waited head bowed a little embarrassed that my trick had been uncovered. I waited for him to order me back over the chair. Maybe, I thought he would award me extra strokes for my hoax.

Dr Bludginton smiled, a broad, open grin. At that moment I knew I had been rumbled. He chortled quietly and walked across the study to return the cane to the hat-stand. When that task was completed, he turned to me. “No caning,” he said. “Not now. Not ever. Not for you.” I felt my face hot with embarrassment. My mouth opened, but I bit back the plea I wanted to make.

“Instead,” the new headmaster had not finished, “You will write me a four-page essay entitled, ‘The pitfalls of corporal punishment.’ By next Monday. You are dismissed.”

“No,” I wanted to beg. “Please don’t do this to me.”

“Go lad, now.” Dr Bludginton held open the study door. Crestfallen, my legs like lead, I shuffled from the room, never to return.

In videos these days I have seen many scenes where headmasters cane their naughty boys with trousers and pants down. Alas, that never happened in real life – or at least not at my school (worse luck!).

Picture credit: Unknown

 

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Rock ’n’ roll truants

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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

Still spanked in short trousers

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z used otk school white pants taking down chair sting

Fred and Jim were in the Three Fishers bored out of their skulls and not talking about much when Jim suddenly piped up: You still keeping your lad in short trousers?

Which one? Fred inquired.

The eldest, Gavin.

Yeah, he’s left school now, nearly nineteen.

So it works then?

Oh yeah. He got through his exams and everything.

I thought you might have given up now.

No. It keeps him out trouble. Off the streets. He’s not going to want to go out at night dressed up like a little schoolboy. His mates would crucify him.

No, I see that.

You should try it with your Kevin. I hear he’s been seen drinking down here.

I know. But …

It’s easy. You can buy the short trousers on the internet. Proper ones, just like the boys wear at school. Even in Kevin’s size. I think it’s because even small kids today are really fat.

Well, I suppose I need to do something about Kevin.

A good hiding wouldn’t come amiss.

But he’s eighteen.

So what. I still spank Gavin.

Get away.

Yeah, why not? When he deserves it. Which is quite often, actually. D’you know what, I saw they were selling those old fashioned whippy canes on eBay like they used to use in schools back in the day. I’m thinking of getting one for Gavin if he doesn’t buck up his ideas.

I wouldn’t have the nerve.

Well … Start as you mean to go on. I still use the rubber-soled plimsoll. The one Gavin had for PE at school. A big heavy one. Works a treat. Packs a right punch.

What he lets you spank him?

Lets me? He doesn’t have much choice. My house. My rules. He knows that. It always has been, always will. He’s working now. He can leave home if he wants to. But even then, when he comes back to my place he has to behave himself.

Sounds fair enough. So you say you spanked Gavin. What, recently?

Last week. Sunday,

What’d he do?

Usual stuff. That was why I had to take him across my knee. He needed a reminder.

Reminder?

Yeah, like a wake-up call. He needs to come home for his meals. Liz cooks and he doesn’t turn up and it all gets wasted. Then, he never lifts a finger around the house. I told him it was his job to take the Hoover around the carpets every Saturday. Did he do it? Did he hell. Then last Saturday night – well Sunday morning actually – he rolls home drunk as a skunk. Couldn’t get his key in the door. Rings the bell wakes the whole house up. Well, after that what did he expect?

So what? You spanked him.

Too right. I waited until he had sobered up and I sent him off for a shit, shower and shave and I said, Get into those short trousers and then come down to the living room.

And he did?

Course, he did. No question about it.

So he comes down and he’s in the full togs. Neat grey short trousers, grey shirt, tie. The lot. He’s quite a big lad as you know, but when he’s dressed up like this it’s like he’s ten years old. That’s why I make him dress like that – he’ll never dare go out like it. What would people say?

And then what happened?

Well, I told him why he’d been a bad boy. Never doing the Hoovering, not even keeping his own room tidy. The drinking. He went red as a beetroot when I told him Liz had found a stinky wodge of tissue under the bed where he’d been wanking.

Oh my God! If it’d been me I’d have died of shame.

Ha! Ha! Well after I told him that he was putty in my hand. He couldn’t get out of there fast enough. He would’ve done anything I asked.

So what did you ask?

Same as always. Not asked, exactly. Told. I said, right let’s have them shorts down.

Shorts down!

Oh yeah. Those short trousers are pretty thick. They’re made to last ain’t they. Extra thick on the seat. Great for sitting down. Not so good for spanking. So down they have to come.

And he did?

Did what?

He took them down. Did as he was told?

He had to. He knew full well if he didn’t take them down, then I’d do it for him. And, he bloody well knew if I took his shorts down I’d take his pants down as well and he could get it on the bare bum.

Blimey!

Exactly. He didn’t want that did he?

No, he did not.

So, he does as he is told. Undoes the thing at the waist. Pulls the zipper and the trousers fall down.

I can’t believe this.

What’s not to believe? He’s done wrong. He has to be punished.  He knows that. If he doesn’t want to be spanked he just has to do as he’s told. So, now he’s standing their wearing old-fashioned Y-fronts.

What the white ones?

The very same. Like I say, just like a little boy. So I sit on a chair and I tell him bend over my knee.

And he does.

Without a murmur. Let’s be honest, he’s been here before. It’s not the first time. He knows what to expect. And over he goes. And I get to work with the slipper.

What is it six of the best?

Six! Nah, six wallops won’t make much impression. Six is only getting started. You wouldn’t cover all his backside with six. Not both cheeks. Takes a lot more than six.

Oh. How many then?

I’m not sure to be honest. I’ve never counted.  I start right in the middle of each bum cheek and then kind of work my way out. The middle, the top, the bottom – as it were – you know under the cheek. That sit-spot. That’s where my dad used to spank me. Hurt like mad every time I sat down for the rest of the day, know what I mean?

No, not really.

What you never spanked? Never spanked Kevin, neither?

No.

Explains a lot. Why your Kevin’s a bit of a tearaway.

Well …

Give him a good hiding. Like I do with Gavin. I roasted his backside with that slipper. Bang. Bang. Bang. Hurt like the fires of hell. Even with a big lad like Gavin. His big old bum was bucking up and down and his legs were kicking. Ha! I had to hold him really tight round the waist to stop him running away. He kicked so hard his short trousers went flying across the carpet. I hammered that slipper all over his BTM.

BTM?

BTM. His bottom. Bum. Posterior. Call it what you like.

His arse.

Well there’s no need to be crude.

Sorry.

And he’s still struggling. Kicking. Hollering the lot. He brings his hand back to try to stop me. That’s pretty hard to do because I’ve got him right over my knee. You know his face is nearly in the carpet and his bottom is pointing at the ceiling so it’s not easy to get your hand back there. But he keeps doing it and I warn him not to, but it makes no difference.

No it won’t. I suppose it’s hurting him a lot.

Yeah, of course. That’s the whole point ain’t it. A spanking is supposed to hurt, otherwise why bother.

Yeah, sorry.

So I warned him but he just kept on trying.

What did you do?

I’m coming to that. I took hold of the waist of his pants. Ha! You should have seen the way his body froze. He knew right away what I was going to go. No, no, please, not that, he yells.

Too late lad.

You took the words right out of my mouth. So I pulls them over his big butt-tocks and drag them down to his knees. Of course, he struggles all the more now.

He would. Who wouldn’t?

And that just encourages me. I grip that plimsol and I put all my effort into it. Whack!-Whack!-Whack! Fantastic! I could see the imprint of the sole glowing bright pink on his bare backside. What a sight! I toasted those butt-tocks good and proper. The spanking of a lifetime it was.

Sounds like it.

I’d still be there now, hammering away, but Liz heard all Gavin’s hollerings and she came in and made me stop. Still I made my point. He won’t want to go over my knee again anytime soon.

I don’t blame him.

Yeah, spanking works. Mark my words.

Okay, I believe you.

Oh look. There’s your Kevin just came in the bar. I thought he was supposed to be revising for his exams.

He is. Bloody hell.

Want a borrow of my plimsoll?

 

Picture credit: Sting Pictures

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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

Rhys, 21, and the bath brush

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Rhys Foster had just finished his cup of tea and was about to get up from the table when his father walked into the breakfast room and calmly said, “Rhys, go upstairs, fetch the bath brush and then wait for me in the sitting room.”

The short, stocky fair-haired twenty-one-year-old gasped, put his hand to his mouth, and glowed scarlet. “But, F-f-f-father why? What have I done?” Seeing his father’s stern eyes, the young man turned even redder.

“Rhys,” he said patiently, “Mrs Thompson from across the road has just telephoned to tell me of your exploits yesterday evening. Do you need me to say more?”

Rhys burned scarlet. What had she seen him do? He had been out with friends, just idling around the bus stop mainly. There had been a bit of skylarking, nothing more. Suddenly he remembered Ginger had brought that cheap cider. Had she seen him drinking that?

Rhys shook his head sorrowfully, he didn’t want to know the finer details. He was in trouble, that was all he needed to know. And, it was abundantly clear what his father intended to do. He trembled, his lips quivered and his sky-blue eyes began to moisten.

“Very well. I see that you realize your faults and understand why you have to be punished. Now go and do as you are told,” his father chided.

“Y-yes, F-father,” Rhys whispered and he hurried from the room.

Sorrowfully, he trudged up the stairs. Spanked. At his age. It was absurd. But, Rhys knew very well, this was his father’s way. It always had been and always would be. At least until the day Rhys packed his bags and left to make his own way in the world. Not that there was much chance of that, for he was an extremely lazy young man. His mother fetched and carried for him, cooked his meals, washed his laundry. He was never going to give that up. Not until he found a wife to do all those things.

He was in no hurry but eventually he reached his parents’ bathroom. He knew where to find the bath brush. This was not the first time he had been sent to fetch it. It was not one of the light plastic ones they sell today. This was at least twenty-five centimetres long and the head was a good fifteen. His heart skipped when he tested its weight in his hands. A recent memory prompted him to cautiously caress his own backside.

By the time Rhys reached the sitting room his father had prepared himself on the couch. His intentions were clear. Rhys’s hands were at his sides, his fists clenched in apprehension. Awkwardly he shifted from foot to foot.

Father looked up at the unhappy young man. “I’m sorry I have to do this but you just won’t learn after all the talks we’ve had about the company you keep and hanging around street corners. What do you think the neighbours say?

“I-I’m sorry, F-father,” Rhys stammered, his eyes cast down because he dared not look at him.

“Your mother tells me that she might have a job for you next week. Is that so?”

“Y-yes, F-father. She says a Mr. Haroldson would like to interview me next week.”

“Good! I think a job is just what you need, young man. But for the moment, you’re still behaving like a naughty, thoughtless child, and I still have to punish you. It will help you remember that you are supposed to be a grownup. Do you admit that you were drinking cider at the bus stop?”

“Y-Yes, F-father. But …..” he couldn’t find the words. There was no “but” he had done all the things his father said. He was guilty as charged.

His father commanded, “Hand me the bath brush, young man!” Meekly, Rhys extended his hand and his father took it.

“You may prepare!” his father ordered. Rhys was no stranger to his father’s spankings. He knew the rituals. He sucked on his bottom lip as if this would aid his concentration and he slowly unbuckled his belt. Gradually, he undid his trousers and tugged the zip fly. The front of the trousers flapped open. Rhys knew his face was burning brightly but there was nothing he could do. Events must take their course. He pushed the trousers down over his thighs and they tricked down his legs and bunched at his shins.

His father noticed that the brief white underpants pants hardly covered his son’s private parts. He reached forward. Rhys’s body stiffened.

“I hope this lesson will be effective,” his father said dryly as he reached for Rhys’s pants, inserted his fingers under the waistband and slowly began to work them down. Rhys’s penis flopped. His father left the pants at his son’s knees. Then suddenly with both his hands he grasped Rhys’s upper waist.

“Stretch out on the couch over my lap, now,” he admonished.

He had put the bath brush over to his right side and behind him and he saw that Rhys’s tear-blurred big blue eyes were anxiously fixed on the menacing weapon of chastisement.

Rhys at once pillowed his head in his arms and closed his eyes. He kept his long legs clenched tightly together. Calmly his father shoved Rhys’s shirt almost up to his armpits, then twisted the tight pants so that they would act as an effective restraint when Rhys began to kick, as he certainly was going to do very shortly, once the brush began its work.

Then, his left arm tucking Rhys’s waist, he reached for the brush with his right hand and began the spanking. As he usually did, he started with about twenty light taps, alternating on the cheeks from the tops of Rhys’s hips to the base of his upturned, creamy-white bottom.

Apart from a few groans and gasps, Rhys took this part of the spanking very well, not lifting his head. Only an occasional squirming and shivering reaction, and sometimes a stifled “Ohh!” escaped as the flat back of the brush made impact with the bouncy, resilient bare flesh.

Pausing now, his father readjusted his grip around the slim waist, and then resumed the spanking. Now the crisp “Smack!” and “Thwack!” became more audible, and so were Rhys’s gasps and sobs. His body began to jerk and stiffen each time the bath brush landed, decorating his squirming naked bottom with a brighter pink than before.

Now his father paused again, contemplating his handiwork. Once again he shifted his arm which curved round the culprit’s waist, and Rhys groaned, now looking back, his elbows pressed hard against the couch and his fists clenched and his wide eyes blurred.

“Oh please, F-father, I’ll be good, I promise I will, please don’t spank so hard!” he begged.

“You big crybaby, you know perfectly well I haven’t given you half your spanking yet. Now stay still and keep in position, young man.”

Then the bath brush came down with a hard “Thwack!” and at once both Rhys’s legs kicked up, though they were hampered by his twisted, clinging pants. His feet waved in the air, and now he glanced back almost every time as the brush fell, producing a wail of “Ahrrr, I’ll be good, oh don’t spank so hard, I’ll be good, please, Father”. But his father continued relentlessly.

After about twenty of these vigorously hard spanks, Rhys was twisting and struggling frantically. His bottom was a flaming red from the top of the mounds, over the peaks and into the undercurves. His father hadn’t touched the thighs yet.

Now pausing, pressing the flat back of the brush over the crease of those plump cheeks, his father demanded, “Are you going to be hanging round street corners drinking cider again?”

“Oh no Father. No. I won’t really. Truthfully.”

His father stopped spanking. “Very well, young man. That is the first part of your punishment. But just stay where you are, because I have something else to discuss with you. Now then, I want the truth!” His father raised the bath brush and brought it down with a quick little smack on the upper right thigh.

“Oww! That hurts! Oh please, no more, please no more!” Rhys wailed.

His father could see that the young man’s hands were just dying to reach back and protect his pink cheeks, but he also knew that Rhys, understood perfectly well that if he tried such a trick he would get a good deal of extras.

z used otk brush pants down couch bbfc (1)

“Now pay attention and tell me the truth. Yesterday morning, when your mother made up your bed, she noticed that there was a wet spot. Also, you had a wad of tissues stuffed under your pillow. Now I want to know what’s going on?”

“Ohhh!” Rhys’s face was a furious scarlet. Then he buried his face in his hands and began to sob with humiliation.

“I want an explanation, young man, and quickly! Did you hear me? Did you —  did you?” Each time, the bath brush punctuated the question with a stinging whack which made poor Rhys’s bottom bound and twist and squirm frantically. Now he couldn’t control himself and he plunged his hands back to cover up his burning bottom.

“The very idea!” his father scolded. “Take those hands away at once. Now I want the truth, or I’m going to start all over again, and I’ll use the bristled side if I have to!”

“Oh please, F-father, I’m so ashamed, please-please try to understand — I didn’t — oh Father, please!” Rhys blubbered.

Smack — Thwack — Crack — the bath brush fell three stinging, noisy times, right over the crease and pinching the inner edges of the buttocks.

Rhys screamed and kicked his legs, once again he tried to put his hands back, but this time, his father caught the struggling wrists in his left hand and pinned them at the small of the young man’s back.

“That’s no answer! Are you going to tell or do I have to use the bristles on your bottom, young man?” This time, reversing the brush, he gave a light little tap with the bristled side of the bath brush right down the sensitive buttock crease, and Rhys gave up.

“Owwahrrr!! Oh don’t, not there, not with the bristles, Father! Oh please, please, I’m so ashamed, I want to die! Please don’t sp-sp-spank anymore, I’ll tell, F-father!” Rhys wailed.

During this part of the spanking, he had wriggled and twisted herself so frantically over his father’s lap that his father had to pull his body back, abandoning Rhys’s wrists and, his left arm around the bare waist, forcing Rhys’s trembling body back closer to his. “Tell, then!” he warned as he added another light smack with the bristled side in the very same place.

“Owweeeyeoww!! I’ll tell, I’m going to tell, only please let up, Father, oh you’re killing me!” Rhys wailed.

“I-I was thinking about D-Doreen, and I guess I couldn’t help it, honest I couldn’t.”

“I’m glad you told me the truth. Then you did play with yourself, Rhys?”

In a dying voice, his shoulders heaving with sobs, the culprit faintly confessed his sin of masturbation.

“All right. I’m not going to blame you too much for that, young man, because I understand what your needs probably are. Only don’t you do it again from now on, do you understand? The next time I find any Kleenex or wet spots on the couch, you’ll get your entire spanking with the bristled side of this brush, is that clearly understood?”

“Y-yes, Father,” Rhys sobbed.

“You may get off now, and I’ll pull your pants up first. And don’t forget to thank me for the spanking!” his father said sarcastically as he began to tug up the twisted little white pants till they covered the flaming backside.

Slowly Rhys slipped down to the floor, and then at once plunged his hands back to his burning behind and rubbed, the tears streaming down his face.

“Th-thank- thank you for sp-sp-spanking m-me, F-father,” he blubbered, head hanging, his shoulders heaving with his sobs.

“Not at all,” his father replied, “After all, I am only a loving father who is doing his duty.”

Picture credit: British Boys Fetish Club

 

Other stories you might like:

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Hotel duty manager

Bring back the cane

 

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